They're Not.

That's the thing. They're not dinosaurs. They never were, dinosaurs went extinct sixty-five million years before anyone could even start to imagine their majesty, and long for them to shake the earth once more. These things, they are pale copies, imitation meat trussed up in the ill-fitting clothes of their ancestors and set free to adapt to a world that has no place for them.

Don't worry, they're making a place for themselves wether we like it or not.

But I digress, these creatures look like dinosaurs. Probably for another ten years or so, maybe more. They glide across the land on sure feet, arms and backs bedecked in bright plumage, hunting stealthily through the trees. The big ones lumbering across the plains, leather-skinned and whip tailed. And in a few short years they'll be obsolete, as our understanding of a world an eternity passed comes more clear. But these won't change. Because they're not dinosaurs.

They're what we think dinosaurs were. Cobbled together from bits and pieces of modern day animals and a pitifully basic understanding of the process of evolution's effect on a creatures genome.

Sigh.

The knowledge of the great lie sits under my skin like sandpaper. It grates on me every day, distracts me, keeps me from enjoying the essential grandeur that is before me.

They're not dinosaurs.

But god damn, do they play the part. An allosaurus rumbles past, sniffing the air, looking for me. Or maybe dinner. Probably both. The corner of my lip rebels into a slight smile before I can convince it otherwise. The allosaur heads off into the forest, dissappearing into the foliage.

I shoulder my rifle, adjust my bag and slip out of my blind. There's work to do.

Al came up from the south, and didn't smell like he'd had much luck. Probably nothing to worry about there then. And I'm sure as shit not heading north after the big lad. So east or west?

I have the GPS. I could pull it out, fiddle with it for a while and get a precise location on damn near every critter in the sanctuary. Theoretically. Unless they changed my password again. Every three months? When was the last time I changed it?

"Fuck it." I shrug, and head off eastward. I'll run into something.

The air is thick and heavy, hot. The sun's heading down, it'll cool out in a few hours. I push my way through the underbrush, sweat streaming off me, careful where I step. East was a good idea. Hit the plains. Get out of the trees, they're trapping the heat. The gun catches on a branch, and I stop to carefully extract it. A soft hooting filters through the trees, and I freeze. My eyes scan the area slowly. Nothing. I slip slowly against the trunk of the tree, turning to face the darkening forest. Where is it?

My heart starts to pound, I have to focus. Don't let it get to you. Don't lose your edge. Find it. Find the sound.

There is silence, save for the blood rushing through my ears.

I get the rifle free from the branch, and shoulder it. My heart slows a little.

Hoot.

Son of a bitch. I roll my eyes. The lyre bird hops from branch to branch, tilting it's head at me. Its beak opens, and a perfect immitation of a Phoruschasid. A Terror Bird. Three metres of muscle and hate, topped by almost twenty pounds of thick, bony, sharply pointed beak and skull for smashing prey.

"You're a dick." I shout at the lyre bird. It hoots back angrily.

I continue on through the cooling forest. I feel a breeze wind its way through the trees. I'm getting close.

I break through the tree line at last, just as the sun is starting to set. The plain stretches out before me like an ocean of grasses dotted with islands of trees. And working its way across it is a small herd of sauropods, thick elephantine bodies ponderously plodding along, preceeded by long elegant necks and followed by even longer, whiplike tails. It's a beautiful sight.

But something tugs at my attention. Something's out of place here. And when it hits me my stomach sinks like a stone. I grip my rifle tightly, as the fear takes hold. What I see mulling through the herd much worse than the Terror bird. Worse than the Allosaur.

It's people.

I hate people.

Hunter/Hunted

     Andrew sat motionless in the tree he had chosen, watching the huge bird thrash about in the snare he had placed six hours ago.  It was only a matter of time now. Thank god, his legs thought angrily.  The creature continued to thrash. It wasn’t giving up without a fight, but Andrew knew it was pointless.  The snare had cinched tight around its throat, so even if it snapped the line keeping the trap in place the thing would die before long.  Part of him wanted to climb down and put the bird out of its misery with his knife, but he wasn’t going to take any chances.  Not here. 

     It didn’t help that the bird was almost five feet long, and he was pretty sure the things beak would tear through his ribcage like tissue paper.  Not to mention the claws. So he waited.  His eyes scanned the shore, checking to see if anything was noticing the commotion, anything looking to steal his kill.  So far the thrashing bird hadn’t attracted any undue attention.  He was glad the thing couldn’t squawk. The scavengers here were fierce and outclassed him in pretty much every respect save intelligence.  When the bastards figure out how to make traps he would be well and truly doomed, he thought.

     The bird looked like a sort of cross between a giant heron and a penguin, if he had to guess.  It was flopping on its side now, passing out.  Andrew started climbing out of the tree, his legs shooting pins and needles angrily into his brain.  By the time he reached the bird the only thing twitching was the tiny excuse for a wing sticking out of its side, no bigger than a baby’s hand.  The creature was pitiable, reclined in unconsciousness before him, unlucky enough to have been caught in his trap.  Andrew knelt before it, and paused.  He ran a hand gingerly along its head, down its neck and back, tenderly.  He whispered something to the creature.

     Then he plunged his knife into its neck, severing its spine and killing it instantly. 

     He breathed deeply, wiping his face with the back of his knife hand.  He scanned the area quickly as he sliced through the snare, freeing the corpse of the bird.  Still nothing coming. 

     He grunted as he hefted the creature onto his shoulders, the damn thing must weigh a hundred and fifty pounds.  His legs were even less pleased with him now.  The others would be ecstatic when they saw it he knew, but Andrew would just be happy to see a bed again.  He’d been hunting for three days now, and he had yet to discover a comfortable tree. He began trudging his way back to camp.

Imagining the faces of the group all lit up with joy, sitting around the fire eating until they get too full to move, laughing and relaxed... Andrew was lost in the daydream he’d conjured to forget about the mile hike back to camp carrying a giant dead bird.  Suddenly he froze in his tracks.

     It was the smell.  An unforgettable, piercing aroma.  The reek of death and decay mixed with power and fear.  He knelt close to the ground, and let the bird slide off his back silently onto the forest floor.  Please don’t let it be them. His hand slipped the knife out of its sheath, and he gripped it tight as he knelt.  He tried to make himself as small as possible, as slowly as possible. They were close.  Too close.  He should have been more careful.  Please let it be something else.

     His mind was racing. He was kneeling in the middle of a small clearing, no tree to hide behind, no bush to slide under.  Just the foot-high underbrush to provide cover, and not much at that.  Just him, his head and torso completely exposed, and the bird.  Not a bad meal. 

     His eyes slowly scanned the area around him, trying to be as still as possible.  He watched the undergrowth sway in the light breeze, and he tried to match it gingerly.  Anything to not stand out.  Then he saw them. 

     They could be damned quiet when they wanted to be.  They walked toe-first, slowly rolling their immense weight backwards on their foot.  It was slow, but it was quiet.  He guessed they were headed to the lake for a drink and a snack.  Something on the edge of the water was about to have a really, really bad day.

     Andrew hoped it wasn’t going to be him. 

     There were three, an adult and two juveniles about the same size.  Andrew stopped breathing.  Partly to hide, partly to avoid the smell.  Black gunk dripped from the mouth of one of the juveniles.  He didn’t want to think about what that would do to you if that got into you.

     They were passing close to him now, as close as they would get if they were headed for the lake.  They were just on the other side of the small trees in front of him, no more than three metres ahead.  His knuckles were white on the knife, not that it would do him any good if they noticed him.  The big one passed beyond him, then the first juvenile.  The second stopped.

     So did Andrew’s heart.

     It put its foot down, and turned its head to face the tiny clearing Andrew was in.  It sniffed quietly.  It sniffed again. 

     There was a low, quiet rumble from the adult.  Andrew didn’t dare turn his head to see how far it had gone in the eternity since it passed.  The juvenile sniffed again, impudently, but moved on. 

     Andrew closed his eyes, and breathed again.  He could wait a few minutes, and then get on the move again.

     He turned to watch the T-rex family slide through the forest.  He hated them.  He hated them so, so much.