Age of Monsters by John Schneider (books to read for self improvement .TXT) 📗

The pilot smiled winningly.

“Lieutenant Lucas Walker, US Navy, at your service.”

He pulled the clip from his handgun and tossed it over the side.

“I hope you ladies are friendly.  Those were my last bullets.”

He tapped the raised hatch.  “I don't suppose you could help me out here?  My foot's stuck.”

Climbing underneath the fuselage, Rosa and Julie began pushing where the nose of the jet had been pinched, trapping the man's leg.

Rosa wedged her ax handle between the plane and the broken concrete, and both women – who together didn't weigh more than two-hundred and fifty pounds – jumped up and down, trying to rock the weight of the jet just enough.

The mangled metal groaned, matched immediately by Lucas inside the cockpit.

“Just so you ladies know, that really fuckin' hurts.”

Rosa had patched a lot of field injuries – ignoring Lucas, as soon as she felt the first give, she leaned harder.  She and Julie were now matching Lucas' strained curses as the fuselage finally moved.

'Ohhhhh you BASTARD!” Lucas blurted as the metal groaned again.

But then his foot pulled free.

And like an animal released from a snare, he hiked himself out of the cockpit, his easy air belying the hollows in his eyes after two days spent trapped.  With a nearly imperceptible shudder, Lucas planted both his feet out onto the semi-solid pile of broken concrete.

His left foot was swollen and purple – as if to spite it, he stomped hard on the rubble.

Rosa saw the bolt of pain flash through his eyes, and the squirt of a tear dotted his cheek.

He flicked the tear away, with an affirmative nod.  “Yep.  That's gonna smart for a while.”

With that, he turned to the two of them with a formal salute.

“My thanks to you, ladies.  I'm in your debt.”

And with that, he began to root around his crashed plane, pulling open a compartment below the cockpit – walking on his wounded leg in utter deliberate defiance.

“Here,” Rosa said, moving forward, “let me take a look at that foot.”

Lucas smiled reassuringly, as he tossed bags from the compartment – supplies and weapons – and extra bullets.  He popped a fresh clip into his pistol.

“I'm fine, Ma'am,” he said.

“It's 'Doctor',” Rosa said, irritated.  “Now sit down and let me look at it.”

With an indulgent sigh, tossing his last bag out on the crushed concrete, Lucas acquiesced, taking a seat on the wing of his downed plane.

“So,” Rosa said, in by-rote bed-side manner, “you're a pilot.  I suppose you have one of those 'call-signs'.  Like Maverick?”

Lucas nodded mildly.  “I do.”

“What is it?”

He smiled innocently.  “It's the name I go by when I fly.”

Rosa took a patent breath, as she poked at his swelling, purple ankle – making sure to highlight the spots she knew would hurt.

Her prodding produced the barest twitch in Lucas' brow, and an even broader, more deliberate smile.

“Well,” she said, somewhat begrudgingly, “it's not broken – just kind of crushed.  You've probably got some pressure fractures – especially in the smaller bones.”  She looked up.  “It's good and purple, too.  That means you're hurt.”

Lucas nodded.  “I knew that much.”

And with that, he pulled his boot back on, and hopped back to his feet.

“That must hurt,” Rosa said, deliberately unimpressed.

'Oh yeah, it does,” he said, but loaded up his heavy packs on both shoulders anyway, apparently determined to experience as much discomfort as possible.  “Back in high-school, my wrestling coach used to call it an 'owie'.”

“That's a bit more than an 'owie',” Rosa said.

“Well,” Lucas said, again stomping his foot experimentally, grimacing at each bolt of pain, “you may be right.  But we gotta suck it up anyway, don't we?”

With that, he turned and began climbing up over the ridge of rubble where the sickle claws had appeared.

Glancing at each other, Rosa and Julie followed.

Once he reached the top, he pulled out his own binoculars and scanned the broken skyline.

He settled quickly on the stuporous giants poised on the horizon.

“They've just been standing there like that,” Rosa said.  “It's like they're asleep.”

“It's mental deterioration,” Lucas replied.  “Whatever makes them giants, it also eats their brains.”

Rosa shook her head.  “It's... a dinosaur, isn't it?  Like a T. rex?”

“Actually,” Lucas said, “that one's a Carcharodont – probably Giganotosaurus – a carnosaur – kind of a big allosaur.”

He tipped a sage, informed eye over his binoculars.

“They gave us a list of what we were shooting at,” he said.  “Apparently, these guys don't get along with T. rex at all – in fact, they seem to have driven the tyrannosaurs out of this area.

“In fact,” he said, “that's what was mostly going on here – the city was gone in two-days – they were just fighting over it.”  Lucas shrugged.  “We were shootin' at 'em, but I don't know how much they cared.”

“But they're... so big,” Rosa said.  “I mean there's never been anything like that – not ever.”

“Yeah,” Lucas said, “about that.”

He handed his binoculars over – military-issue with zoom capabilities.

“This might shine a light,” he said.

He directed her towards one of the carcasses, where packs of the smaller creatures – carnosaurs and sickle-claws alike – were devouring the fallen giant.

“They're really going to town, aren't they?” Lucas said.  “Take a closer look.”

Rosa zoomed in, focusing in on a single sickle-claw as it perched upon the massive carcass.

In the high resolution, she could see the blood on its lips.

She could also see its eyes.

They glowed emerald green.

Chapter 8

There was one man who saw it all.

From a vantage point two-hundred and twenty miles above the Earth, staring down from orbit, Major Tom Corbett had heard all the nicknames – 'Buck Rogers'  'Rocket Man – burning out his