Kingdom of Monsters by John Schneider (microsoft ebook reader .TXT) 📗

shooting the poor stubborn beast as it lay in a broken heap on the rocks below, just to put it out of its misery.

Naturally, that was what Junior had seen – lone survivor of Rexy's most recent nesting, hatched right there in the mountains.

Mark didn't know what passed for a mind in T. rex, but they clearly followed their noses, and he knew the little beast had imprinted his scent early on.

Out of misplaced sympathy, he hadn't shot the thing at the time, and he'd already lived to regret it.

The little sonofabitch had latched onto him like Hook and the crocodile – except that was just a crocodile.  A big rex might grow up to nine tons or better.

It had been Mark's intention to find a working vehicle, a stretch of open road, and put some distance behind him – hopefully out of range of that friggin' T. rex nose.

Until then, he'd keep his pistol ready.

He felt bad for the little critter, but he'd still shoot the little sonofabitch if he had to.

Of course, that just left his own species to worry about.

Even in a world of monsters, Mark might still lay odds that if he died prematurely, it would be at human hands.

In his time on the road, he had been shot at – he never saw by who – there had been attempted robberies on two occasions, and that was not to mention the scattered encampments of survivalist cult-types.

That had happened fast, and they didn't always look it.

It turned out people got nutty in an apocalypse.

Mark had met a few religious nuts, but they were easy to spot, mostly because it was all they talked about – Judgment and Last Times.

Not that it was a point Mark was particularly inclined to argue.

Of course, some folks started out nuts, and just got nuttier.

Perhaps predictably, Mark had already encountered 'dragon-worship'.

Mark had grown up in Oregon and had known the odd Wiccan – he'd even had nodding acquaintance with more than one self-proclaimed witch.  But just during his recent short travels in the mountains, he'd spent the night in a small encampment with a young lady – a sprightly woodland nymph, who called herself Lily – who, along with her troop of 'sisters', had taken the occasion of the apocalypse to not only embrace full on cauldron-bubbling, coven-style black-magic – but to adapt their theology around it.

“Easy enough transition,” Mark had remarked mildly.  “Devil worship to dragon.”

“Witches,” Lily cautioned, “are not, by definition, Satanists.”

Mark had been lectured on the difference before, by both Wiccans and witches back home.

“But you are,” he clarified.  “Right?”

That relationship had ended after she and her sisters attempted to offer him up as a human-sacrifice to the 'dragon' that had been chasing him.

That was a break-up story he never thought he'd have to tell.

When Mark told Lily and her sisters about Rexy – especially the part about the plundered-nest – they promptly laid him out as bait.

Lily compared it to making friends with a wild dog, by giving it treats.

Unfortunately – or fortunately for Mark – Rexy had also drawn the attention of the military.  Several gunships that had been tracking the big rex ended up crashing the ceremony with machine guns – a situation that escalated upon unexpected return-fire from the outraged Coven.

Ironically, Rexy actually had no interest in the ensuing battle – Mark was her priority, and she had dogged him right to her very last breath – right up to that last tumble down into the ravine.

In the general chaos, Mark himself had managed to slip away.

The last he saw of the Coven, they were surrounded by soldiers, their inexperienced gun-handlers quickly subdued by the trained troops.

On the other hand, Mark had a feeling he wasn't the first fellow that particular cat-crew had fed to a dragon.  Lily had made passing reference to their 'men-folk', who were apparently no longer with us.

And now this troop – Coven – was surrounded by the inherent dominance-structure of the military.

Pop.  Bubble.  Fizz.

As good a reason as any to get the hell out of the territory.  Rampaging dinosaurs be damned.

But then that stupid chopper had to crash.  Didn't they know pterosaurs went after choppers?

Cursing himself for a fool, Mark worked his way through the forest.

For all the good it might do – a plume of smoke indicated something had burned.  He would be rescuing charred dead bodies.

He hadn't gone twenty minutes when he again heard the familiar rush of bushes and the sound of skittering feet.

The little SOB wasn't done for the day.  Junior had apparently flanked him.  Mark drew his pistol.

But this time he was caught by surprise.  The dog-sized head burst from the bushes almost right behind him, with snapping jaws zeroing in on his leg.  A bite would be crippling or fatal.

Mark twisted quickly, turning his pistol, getting off a single shot – but then a larger shadow rose up behind him.

Junior skidded to a stop in mid-attack, hissing balefully.  In a flash, he turned and disappeared into the brush.

Mark turned as the shadow continued to rise, blocking out the sun.

The creature pushed two massive trees aside – a giant gorilla – over twenty feet tall.

Mark looked at the diminutive nine-millimeter in his hand.  Backing up slowly, he pocketed the pistol and pulled the rifle from his shoulder.

The big ape saw the gun and snarled, making motions with its hands.

Mark pulled the trigger.  There was an outraged roar as the beast brought up its massive arms, covering its face, taking the shot in the shoulder.  Mark fired again, eliciting another outraged howl.

The ape lowered its arms, glowering down purposefully at Mark.

Well, that pissed him off, Mark thought.

There was, however, one little trick that had worked on Rexy.

Pulling a tin canister from his bag, Mark pulled the seal and pitched it into the giant ape's face.

There was the stench of tear-gas, and before the ape's agonized howl even sounded in his ear, Mark turned and ran like hell.

Chapter 8

Tomorrow would be one year since