Memories of a Dinosaur Hunter

I walked the twenty feet back to the tree, the plate held jut below my nose, the enticing aroma and anticipation of biting into the first real piece of meat in months, forcing my feet into a little skip. I backed up against the ladder and slid my ass down its length, plopping onto the ground, never taking my eyes from my heaping plate.

That first bite was even better than I imagined. It was moist and tender and hot enough to burn the roof of my mouth, making me toss it back and forth between the inside of my cheeks, while I desperately sucked in air to cool it off.

I’d like to say that it tasted like chicken -- but it didn’t. I’m not sure just what it did taste like – nothing I had ever tasted before, but good, damn good. Perhaps a little like lamb, but more exotic, a bit more gamy.

By the second bite, my stomach was growling, little spasms that rolled from side to side and from back to front. Not painful, more like a question, "What the hell are you sending down here?" It may have been because it was something it had never seen before, or maybe it was just because it had been empty for too long and was simply saying, "It’s about damn time!" At any rate, it didn’t hurt, and it didn’t feel that it was going to toss it back up again. I continued on, faster and faster, as the meat began to cool.

By the end of the first piece I had juices all over my face and dripping down my chin. My hands were soaked with it. I could feel it running down both arms beneath my shirtsleeves (I hadn’t bothered with utensils). Not caring a wit about manners or cleanliness, I simply wiped my hands on my pants, my face with my shirtfront and dug into the second hunk.

I was halfway through it when it happened.

They came out from the heavy woods that surrounded the clearing, attracted by the smell of the roasting meat. I saw their eyes first, red, sparkling, like rubies in the reflection of the fire. As they came out of the shadows, into the firelight, their features became distinct. Long rows of dagger-like teeth reflected back the light, mouths agape, dark tongues flicking out, pulling back in.

Hissing noises came from each of them, almost in turn, as if communicating in some unrecognizable language. An occasional growl, almost a loud purr, came from deep down in the throat, like an exclamation point, punctuating the important parts of the conversation. They moved cautiously, but aggressively, nudging one another, taking little nips at the heads and necks of whichever one was closest.

As they moved closer, the light from the fire revealed their terrifying detail. They were small, no more than three, three and a half feet high, six feet from the nose to the tail. They were slender, but sinewy, thick muscles in the thighs and neck – strong and fast. Their jaws were huge for their size, as were their heads – disproportionately large brain pans – indicative of their intelligence. They wore feathers – tiny, closely woven ones along their sides – longer, more sparse across their backs – a regal plumage atop their heads. Their coloring was startling – mustard yellow across the breast and abdomen, darkening toward the back and head – a fist full of long curled red feathers atop their heads. They were colored in stark contrast to their surroundings. They were vicious predators. They didn’t need the advantage of camouflage. They were only seventy or eighty pounds, but they were deadly, either in pack or alone.

They continued to move closer, their eyes aimed toward the flames – unsure steps – wary of the heat. They hadn’t yet spotted me. The overpowering aroma of the cooking Gallimimus disguised whatever smell was emanating from me – the intense light of the fire diverted their vision. They approached within five feet of the fire, ducking their heads against the threatening flames. As they strode forward, their feet came out of the shadows, placing them in plain view. On the middle toe of each, protruded a huge sickle-like claw, six or seven inches long, curved into a murderous point, capable of disemboweling a much larger animal -- or a man.

The claw was the dead giveaway. These were not the animals of Jurassic Park. They were half the size, a quarter of the weight of the movie monsters. Their skin was not roughly pebbled, and was not green or dark gray like the average cinematic creature. And they looked nothing like smaller versions of T-rex -- except for their killer jaws and teeth, which were designed to destroy, to bite through flesh and bone, to annihilate. The feathers had fooled me, disguised their looks completely. But I knew what they were. They were pint-sized, feathered killing machines. They were Velociraptors.