Thunder Road and Other Stories

4 | Wolves of the Jurassic

4 Wolves of the Jurassic

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I looked around: at the Les Schwab Tire Center and its sun-bleached ads (FREE BEEF WITH ANY TIRE PURCHASE!), and its block walls covered with vines; at a crusty, two-tone mobile home (beige and peapod-green) and a ruined café; a partially-collapsed house. It wasn’t just that we felt like we were being watched; it was that we felt like we were being watched from every direction.

“I got a bad feeling,” said Jesse—as the Talon continued to glow, to tremble. “We should—we should take cover.”

“Yeah,” I mumbled, warily. I resealed the Thermos and swung it around to my back. “I think you’re ri—”

“That Les Schwab,” said Quint. “How about that?”

I looked at its bay doors—one of which was open. “And become the free beef? Dude ... it’s wide open. The market’s right—”

Something rustled and we jumped—but it was just a tumbleweed, skittering across the road.

“Better think again,” said Quint. “Look. Its roof is collapsed.”

I looked. “It’d keep the raptors out, though. Don’t you think? Maybe.”

“Maybe. But it might not be raptors. It might be one of those things from Granger. Or a whole pack.”

“The café,” said Jesse, suddenly. He indicated the overgrown—but intact—building: The Alienated Heifer, whatever that meant. “It’ll have food—canned stuff, bottled water—if we have to hole up. Plus they’ll be a walk-in—one of those big industrial freezers—in case anything gets in. Like a panic room.”

We both just looked at him. The dude definitely had a knack.

“Okay,” I said. “We’re splitting for the diner. We are not gonna pass GO; we’re not collecting 200 dollars. We’re just gonna—”

“Oh, f**k,” said Quint, stiffening like a board.

And we followed his gaze.

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It’s never easy; coming face to face with a predatory dinosaur—even one as far away as this one—especially when it just stands there like a psycho killer with its dark tail swishing slowly and its white face c****d; coldly, dispassionately—like Michael f*****g Meyers. Hal says it’s because they release a pheromone that causes panic and disorientation in their prey, but I think it’s the eyes—which gleam like the Flashback itself (or at least the weird borealis the Flashback left behind) and can give you the heebie-jeebies. Regardless, I knew once we’d seen the Nano-A (or Nanoallosaurus, for I remembered its wide skull and narrow snout from Mr. Jones’ science class) that we were in serious trouble; for it was, or had been, or was again, amongst the deadliest of predators: a smart, lithe species Jones had referred to as—because of its sophisticated pack behavior—“the Wolves of the Jurassic.”

“Nobody move,” I said. “Just—don’t even breathe.” I reached for the Thermos and brought it around. “There’s something about this. Something—”

“Forget it,” said Quint. He indicated the Nano-A. “I don’t want to get close to that thing. Besides, we don’t even know if it’ll work—the Talon, I mean. It could have been a fluke. No way, man. We need to run, now.”

I opened the canister and took out the Talon, which glowed, fiercely.

“He’s right,” said Jesse. “You’re putting too much faith in that.” He shielded his eyes and looked at the diner. “We can make it but only if we get a head start. And that means getting a move on it; like, right—”

He jumped as something cried out—we all did—like a fisher cat at night; or a drunken woman shouting unintelligibly.

“Jesus,” said Quint. “What the hell was that?”

“It came from the other side of the market,” said Jesse. “Whatever it was.”

I put the Talon around my neck. “It’s what I’m trying to tell you, there isn’t just ...” I trailed off, suddenly, looking for the Nano-A. “Where’d it go?”

We all just looked at the spot.

“Okay, f**k this,” said Quint—and dumped his bike.

“Yeah,” said Jesse—doing the same. “For once we agree.”

“But don’t you see, running might be just exactly—”

And then Jesse was grabbing my arm and I was dumping my bike (as well as the thermos) and we were all of us breaking into a sprint—just bolting toward the diner like lunatics, like frightened children, which I guess we were, leaping across the pavement in bounds—even as I glanced at a nearby fence and saw the tumbleweed from earlier pushed right up against it—rocking and vibrating and shaking, as though it were alive—deposited there by the wind; trapped.

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