Rayguns Over Texas

  Kirby threw himself into a chair and snapped into its landing harness.

  Noor released the useless control stick and followed his lead. She strapped on the harness and dug her nails into the seat’s padded arms. The drop wrung her stomach like a wet sponge.

  She closed her eyes and prayed.

  Then a bounce. A feeling of upward momentum, as if the Carpathia’s reverse thrusters had fired, breaking the fall.

  Noor opened her eyes.

  Rusty pillars of rock jutted into view onscreen. The ship hung a few hundred feet over the surface, but its drop had slowed.

  Touchdown was gentle, delicate, as if she and Xiu had been at the controls.

  Dust cleared and the Carpathia’s exterior cameras flickered the surface image onto the view screen. Delicate stone spires, fifty or more feet high, circled the ship.

  “Those can’t have pulled us down from space,” Kirby said. “They’re not big enough.”

  The stone spires stared back from the screen, looking down in silent judgment. A chill of recognition crept into Noor’s bones.

  “They didn’t pull us down,” she said. “The whole planet did.”

  “What the hell does it want?” Kirby asked. “We gave back the stupid rock.”

  “No, we vivisected it and shot it into space. We’re not just kidnappers, we’re murderers. We tortured and killed its child.”

  Bolts clattered to the floor, and metal panels popped from the walls. The bridge’s main screen exploded, showering diamonds of shattered plastic.

  “I’m sorry, we didn’t know,” Noor said. She touched her Quran. “‘Whoever kills an innocent soul…it is as if he killed the whole of mankind.’”

  The cabin’s support beams groaned and the Carpathia closed around her like a cold metal fist.

  Take a Left at the Cretaceous

  Mark Finn

  In a Texas where dinosaurs roam, Baxter and his dog

  traverse dangerous terrain to deliver packages in Mark Finn’s

  wild science fiction adventure, littered with guns, bikers, and lots of action.

  The last seven miles of Mexico Highway 85, right outside of the New Larado border crossing, are the worst. Everyone calls it “the gauntlet” because of the high number of dinos that like to suddenly dart in front of you on the road, or worse, decide that you’re just the right size for a meal. I’m not talking about the big suckers, mind you. Mostly, it’s the runners and the egg-eaters who get lost off of the game trails while coming out of the low hills in Nuevo Leon. The biggest of them can get up to eight feet, at the shoulder, and that’s more than enough to screw up your ride if you plow into one going forty miles an hour.

  I don’t have that problem, not really. Cee Cee is one of those surplus Humvees that was just lying around after the Gulf War. Armored everywhere but up top. A good-sized chomper could step on any given Hummer and bite right down into the driver’s seat, like peeling open a can of sardines. I fixed all of those problems on Cee Cee. Kept the front armor package and added a Turtle Shell on the back for more cargo space. I don’t know what they were originally used for, but it makes for some damn fine protection against a ripper pack. I changed the power plant, stripped out the unnecessary armor on the bottom, and now she can get up to about seventy five miles per hour on an open stretch--more than enough to outrun the stompers and chompers.

  Where was I? Right, on the road to New Larado. On this particular run, I was hauling six cases of medicine to Texas, for a private citizen with deep pockets. Well, as deep as Texas pockets get these days. There was also a case of mescal, under a tarp, but right up front, for the inevitable bribes I’d need to clear the border. Truthfully, the rangers weren’t going to care one whit for the cheap painkillers and rubbing alcohol, but I’d been stopped before and detained longer, for less. A case of mescal was a small price to pay to ensure a smooth border crossing.

  Right now, the rangers at the checkpoint were the least of my worries. Highway 85 wasn’t particularly pristine before the gate opened, but now it had thoroughly gone to shit. Somehow a herd of runners--carrion eaters or maybe eggers, from the looks of it--were all bunched up and picking the roadside clean. Some other driver had startled them and they were now in full flight mode, darting left and right as they ran down the road in the same direction as me. I couldn’t shoot any of them because they’d fall right in my path and make the road a bloody mess to get over, which would make me even later than I already was. It was getting dark, and even seven miles out, no one hung around after the sun went down. All I could do was honk at the bastards, which only aggravated them further. So I’m literally driving in the middle of a flock of these things, at about twenty miles per hour. I can’t get them to move out of my way, and they keep banging into my left and right side panels, squawking that I won’t give them the road. To them, I’m just another runner. Stupid dinosaurs.

  Steve was going nuts. He stood, rigid as a statue, in the front seat, his nose trembling with indignation as he barked wildly at the runners who were in his space. If he’d had a tail, it would have been wagging like a windshield wiper. I was tempted to let him out, but these things were a little big for him (not that it would have stopped him in the slightest) and he didn’t have his armor on. No fear, that dog. He was part pit bull, part dogo, and part something else…probably Rottweiler, from the size of him. That would also explain the lung capacity. His barks were deafening in the cab, and I was sick of hearing it. We were both miserable at this point; something had to give.

  And give it did. The runners abruptly made a sharp right turn, and suddenly, I was free of them. I hit the brakes and cut the engine. Steve was still barking, and so I grabbed him and scratched his ears as I searched for the predator. How a Rex can be so big, and yet so hard to spot, is one of the most irritating things on a long list of irritating things about dinos.

  Steve had just settled down when I felt the footsteps up through the floorboards and saw it, trotting across the road about a hundred yards in front of us. The Rex gave Cee Cee a passing glance, but was much more interested in the bite-sized snacks that were actively running away from it, at that moment. It broke into a gallop, and Steve strained against his collar, but only somewhat. He knew I’d never let him out to chase a tyrannosaur. Damn fool dog. I think if I ever let him, he’d actually take a run at one.

  Steve relaxed and licked my face. “Okay, boy,” I said. “Thanks for scaring them off for me.” He panted and grinned, in that way that bulldogs do. I fished around for a dog biscuit and gave him one. As an afterthought, I had one myself. Mexican made. All natural. They don’t use cows anymore. Cows are extinct.

  When the tremors subsided, I put Cee Cee back in gear, and we slapped leather for the border.

  #

  It was pitch black when I rolled into the queue behind a couple of crawlers, carrying military supplies from the looks of them. They were waved over by a group of rangers that promptly swarmed over the vehicles in their haste to unload them. Then it was my turn. I pulled up between the concrete pylons and rolled down my window. As an afterthought, I rolled Steve’s down, as well, and he happily stuck his head outside to sniff the air.

  Ramirez was on duty and he smiled as he saw me. “Baxter, ain’t nothing eaten you yet?”

  “Close,” I said, handing him my manifest and passport. “I was all the way down in Victoria.”

  Ramirez nodded as he looked the manifest over. “I heard it’s crazy right now. Storms are brutal.”

  The wind and debris pouring out of the gate was straight from the cretaceous, and it regularly played merry hell with the Gulf Stream. “It’s never so much the storms as it is the dinos they churn up. They had a stampede the day I left. Goddamn bloodbath.” He didn’t say anything, so I added, “And you probably already know this, but you’ve got a young adult Rex about seven clicks out, not far from the ro
ad.”

  “What do you want, a fucking reward?” Ramirez thumped his clipboard. “Lucky sonofabitch, Baxter. You left.” He paused and asked, “Anything on this sheet I don’t want to know about?”

  “Not this time. Medical supplies. I’m traveling light. I need the speed.”

  He smiled, not believing me. “So, no iridium bricks in the sidewalls?”

  “Ramirez, you wound me. The only other thing back there is a case of mescal that I traded especially for you and Carlton. Three bottles each.” Ramirez didn’t react to Carlton’s name, but it had the desired effect. He handed me back my paperwork and said, “Fine, go. But let me grab the case, first.”

  “Of course,” I said, thumbing the release on the back hatch. Ramirez disappeared behind Cee Cee, and I held my breath for thirty seconds. Then the back hatch slammed shut, and he appeared with the case under his arm. He waved me through. I pulled in and around to the Texas Ranger station, now back on Texas soil.

  It was the mirror image of the bunkhouse on the other side of the border. A low, dull pillbox of a building that was jammed full of communications equipment. There were barracks off to the left and an armory beside that. It looked less like a border crossing and more like a military base, which it was, technically.

  Steve jumped out of the cab and immediately ran into the nearby bushes to relieve himself. I waited for him to finish and, when he’d rejoined me, I went inside to see Carlton. Steve led the way, pushing past me and the other surprised officers who gave him the lane. He was a dog with a mission. I followed along behind.

  Steve trotted into Carlton’s office and jumped into Carlton’s arms, rocking him back in his chair. “Hey, Buddy,” he said, as Steve licked his face. “Dammit, Baxter, are you using him for smuggling now? He’s friggin’ huge.”

  “He eats better’n me. How you doing, Carl?” I asked, taking the chair on the other side of his desk.

  “Get down, boy,” said Carlton, and Steve obligingly sat and looked at the man with clear adoration. “Food shortage, my ass.” To Steve, he said, “I got something for ya.” He pulled open a desk drawer and brought out a package of beef jerky. He opened it and Steve made a warbling sound in his throat. “Can you sing for me?” The warble became a throaty yowling noise. Carlton laughed and flipped the beef jerky into the air. Steve leapt up and caught it, then retired to the beat-up couch to masticate his reward.

  “You’re going to spoil him rotten,” I said.

  “Says the guy who brought me a case of furniture polish.”

  I spread my hands. “I’m merely expressing my appreciation for all of the good work you do, keeping us safe at night.”

  Carlton blew air out through his cheeks. “You’re about the only one who thinks that right now.”

  “What’s going on?”

  He picked up a sheaf of papers and handed them to me. “There’s an infestation, is what’s going on. Therapods. The big ones. All over the state. The army’s having a hell of a time with them. They’ve killed two so far, but it’s cost them.”

  I studied the reports. It was mostly incident alerts, up and down the central part of the state. “Any civilian casualties?”

  “Eighteen and counting,” said Carlton.

  I gave him his papers back. “How’s the perimeter holding up?”

  Carlton lit a cigarette. “Same as ever,” he said. “We’ve got infrared all over it, satellite tracking, all that shit. But these fuckers are somehow bypassing all of that.”

  “How?”

  “You tell me.”

  I rocked back in my chair, lifting the front two legs up. “I got no idea. They’re big, they’re striped, and they’re pretty dumb, once you figure them out.”

  Carlton ignored my oversimplification and tried again. “Did you see anything weird on the Mexico side?”

  “The storms are moving the dinos around, but that’s about it.” I added, “Nothing out of the ordinary.”

  “I hate that word, ‘ordinary.’ I’m old enough to remember a time before the gate opened up and turned the world into a dinosaur refugee camp.”

  I was old enough, too, but I didn’t feel like bringing it up. Twenty years ago, the Yucatan Peninsula literally erupted in wind and fire and ash and a shitload of dinosaurs. Tidal waves and earthquakes followed. The weather was insane for months. When everyone could get close enough to the blast site, they found a tear in the fabric of reality. That’s what the physicists called it. Eventually, someone came online and explained that the asteroid that had struck the Earth during the cretaceous period—which eventually caused the destruction of the dinosaurs—had also punched a hole in time. A hole in time that just happened to open up on our end of things. Two weeks later, three more holes had opened up. Fallout from the same asteroids. After the oxygen levels stabilized and the flash fires were under control, Martial Law was declared, and we never really got the civilian government back. Texas seceded and, using its position as the gateway to Mexico, guaranteed some economic sanctions, in return for agreeing to stop the dinos and the big ass insects before they made it up into the rest of the country. It was a boomtown all over again. All over the state. The wild pig population dried up, virtually overnight. A lot of stupid rednecks got eaten. My father and mother disappeared. I tried to find them, but either the army or roaming bandits had forced them out of their home with no forwarding address.

  Carlton snapped his fingers. “You still with us?”

  “Yeah,” I said, grateful for the distraction. “I’m just tired.”

  “I need you to do some scouting for me. If you don’t mind,” Carlton said.

  I looked away. “I’m in the middle of a run, man,” I said.

  “So do it on the way,” Carlton said. “This is a big deal. The bounty is up. I can offer you fifteen percent. Can you still tag and paint?”

  “My uplink is on the fritz at the moment. But I’ll get it fixed, if you make it twenty percent.” Carlton called me a name, and I smiled. “You’re only asking me because you know that Cee Cee’s the fastest Hummer around. I can get in and get out fast. And you know I’m accurate.”

  “Fine, okay, twenty percent. But I expect you to find me some carnos, Bax. No fucking around. Every city-state is on high alert.” He handed me a magnetic sticker. “Consider yourself deputized. Welcome back,” he added.

  I stood up. Steve jumped off the couch and joined me, his stump tail wagging. I could just rest my fist on top of his stubby, broad head. “Great. Another goddamn turkey shoot. This is why I left, you know.”

  #

  Outside, I affixed the magnetic sticker to the outside of my windshield, over the driver’s side visor. It would allow me to breeze in and out of the cities without being detained at the gates. That’s mostly why I took the job, along with the money. It was eight hours straight through to Dallas. If I had to stop in San Antonio, Austin, and Waco, it would be a two-day trip.

  So what if I had to keep my eyes peeled for dinos along the way? I was going to have to do that anyway. This way, I could use the tracking system in my roof turret to lock onto any big monsters that I saw. Then I’d just send the coordinates up to the satellite and back down to the rangers, who would share those coordinates with the army, who would send out a squadron of men with very big guns to blow the shit out of it. Best of all, I got a finder’s fee for any dinos that were harvested after the fact. It was a win-win.

  But first, I had to get my gun turret fixed. I left the ranger station and drove out to Cooter Kahn’s.

  Originally, Cooter Kahn’s had been a Seven-Eleven, a Super 8 Motel, and a Jiffy Lube, all clumped together in a row on the edge of town. Cooter Kahn loved to tell the story of how he “acquired” each piece of property in a poker game, a knife fight, and one protracted standoff with a biker gang. It was all bullshit. After Larado was overrun, the abandoned stores
and shops were there for the taking. Cooter Kahn had enough sense, and enough cousins, to lay a claim to the whole lot and slowly, over the course of several years, tied the businesses together so that it was a one-stop shop for anyone traveling cross-country.

  Personally, I hated the sonofabitch, but Cooter Kahn was the only guy in three hundred miles who could fix my gun sights and my uplink. He gave me a big smile when he saw me drive in. Steve growled, but kept his seat. I rolled down the window.

  “Cooter Kahn,” I said. “How’s business?”

  “Baxter, you sour-faced bastard,” he said. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

  “Naw, I’ve just been taking jobs far and wide, out of necessity.”

  “I got a cousin, saw you in Matamoros last month, playing cards with a bunch of pirates.”

  At my last running count, Cooter Kahn was up to twenty-five cousins. I shrugged and said, “I don’t have a choice, man. I have to go where the job takes me. But I’m glad I stopped here, because I really need your help.”

  He preened, stood back, and gestured into an open bay in what was once the Jiffy Lube. I drove slowly in and let Steve out. “Stay,” I said. He sat down, but didn’t look happy about it.

  Cooter Kahn came around Cee Cee, saying, “So, what you need, a better paint job than this shitty—” He stopped short when he saw Steve. “You keep that bow-legged cannibal away from me, Baxter.”

  “Steve’s fine,” I said. “Stay,” I said again, and Steve laid down with a harrumph. I handed the keys to Cooter Kahn and said, “I need fresh tires, fresh oil, and a tune-up. But more importantly, that goddamn Soviet surplus targeting system you sold me last year is acting up again. When it works, it’s a champ. When it doesn’t work, it’s a waste of ammo. I need the uplink fixed, too. I’ve got targets to paint.”

  “No problem,” he said, all smiles again. “You need ammo?”

  “Yeah, top me off, and give me an extra belt, too.”