Tomko smiled. “See, I told you.”
“Now, let me take a better look at your midsection.”
Complying with the request, Tomko unclasped his war-belt and pulled up his shirt, enough to expose the pale skin beneath. Large gashes burrowed into his abdomen. But the injuries were superficial, and the cuts didn’t penetrate his insides.
Peterson grunted with relief. “Guess you’ll survive this one. Your shins must be ripped to shreds, though.”
Another young marine knelt by Tomko, and he began to apply first-aid treatment.
“What the hell were those things?” said Private Davidson.
“Raptors. Very dangerous.”
“Thought those things were as big as a mule, and extinct.”
“Raptors are only that big in the dime store comic books. But the blasted things sure know how to kill, and they sure as hell should be extinct. But clearly some have survived.”
“What’s next, sir?” Private Davidson said.
The question caught Peterson off guard, but he knew what the kid meant. A shot had given away their position, and the jungle was full of dangers far beyond enemy soldiers. He needed to come up with a plan.
He considered the fact that the commanding officer had changed plans and his unit wasn’t even required to be in this remote location. Everyone else had landed on the main beach. They were the only unit on this side of the island. He could lead them back to the boat, paddle along the coastline, and meet up with the others. He also considered the distinct advantage of a small special operations unit working under the cloak of darkness, far behind enemy lines. Such a tactic was consistent with the creation of the Marine Raider Battalions. But the thought of more dinosaurs gave him the dithers.
“Sir?” Davidson repeated.
“We’ll continue to move inland,” Peterson finally said.
“Right, sir.” The marine sounded meek.
An unsettling feeling crept over Peterson along with the brewing tropical storm. Something ominous awaited them in the jungle, and he could feel the dread in his dampened bones, a gut-wrenching fear of the fate that awaited them.
Twelve
Dawson watched the headlights of a transport cut through the jungle. The beams bobbed and darted into the distance, as though the vehicle backed away. A pause, then the truck jostled ahead, moving slowly over the desolate lane, and then the lights disappeared from view.
Ominous yellow orbs inched forward from the trees and shrubs, tilting from side to side as if inspecting the American defensive line.
Some marines rose to standing positions, stretching out their backs after a long battle in the cramped fighting holes. They seemed oblivious to a possible threat. Dawson wanted to call to them, warn of the danger, but he couldn’t think of what to say. He didn’t know what exactly lurked in the jungle.
Don’t they see the creatures? He wondered.
He’d told Staff Sergeant Williams about the lizard with the large teeth. Maybe he would alert them.
When the grinding from the truck engine dissipated, the creatures stepped from the leafy tree line onto the sandy beach. They stood a few feet tall, moving forward, birdlike, with heads twitching back and forth, and tails outstretched, frozen in position. Sharp fangs protruded from snarling muzzles.
Now, he recognized them from schoolbooks: Procompsognathus.
Dawson scanned for Staff Sergeant Williams. His superior leaned against a fighting hole, with his helmet off and neck resting on the berm, looking away from the encroaching creatures. Without any means for Williams to spot the beasts approaching from his rear, Dawson again considered calling out a warning.
Suddenly, the dinosaurs broke into a trot, making a move toward their prey.
All of them stood about three feet tall, and ran swiftly across the beachhead towards the Raiders, who focused on their weapons, unawares.
Dawson shook his head, unable to explain the threat. Instead, he raised his rifle and fired at the Procompsognathus in the lead. The dinosaur staggered but kept advancing. Aggressive. Simultaneously, a shot rang out from the jungle. A Sanpachi rifle blast.
Raiders moved into action. Everyone hunkered down in their fighting holes, as the chambering of rounds echoed across the dark beach. Dawson fired again, striking the same beast, then the wounded dinosaur lost its footing and fell, chin first into the sand.
A fusillade of automatic machinegun fire riddled the tree line. Grenades exploded, hurling sand and appendages into the air. The cacophony rung Dawson’s ears. Dinosaurs yowled in pain. Some dropped dead, and others writhed in the sand, while a wave of fierce beasts continued to mark their pursuit towards awaiting spoils.
Some marines focused their firing on the jungle, probably thinking the Japanese had returned to the fight. Approaching creatures were obscured by the darkness and smoke. Most of the rounds flew over the heads of charging dinosaurs, riddling leaves to no avail.
Dawson continued to target dinosaurs in the front, taking them down one at a time. But the creatures were fast and soon reached the forward positions. Marines screamed in fear and surprise. Small arms fire ignited the darkness. Now, pistol and rifle fire blasted in a sundry of directions, no longer trained at the tree line. A bullet whizzed past Dawson’s right ear.
Ferocious eyes and menacing teeth shone in the glimmering light. Snarling and tearing resounded from the front lines. And the omnipresent cries of pain and agony lent to confusion and hysteria among the troops. Everyone appeared slow to register the actual threat.
A dark streak gushed into the air as a dinosaur found purchase on a marine’s jugular vein. Dawson crawled from his hole, intent on joining the fray, with many already in hand-to-claw combat against the ravenous beasts. But something knocked him back into the foxhole. A set of menacing eyes peered down at him, and the thing twitched its foot, resting on the berm.
Massive claws protruded from its limbs, and the foot glimmered with sanguine fluid. Dawson’s chest ached from striations the creature had gouged through his shirt. The damn thing had trounced him back into the fighting hole with a swift kick. Now, it meant to tear him to shreds and feast upon the remains.
The dinosaur eyed him for a moment, as though sizing him up before lunging for a kill strike to the neck. Dawson’s rifle lay to his left, where it had fallen after the blow.
He contemplated the timing to reach for the Garand compared with the distance from the dinosaur. It would pounce as soon as he moved, and the creature would be upon him, making the rifle ineffective, except to ward off the beast by gripping the stock like a staff.
Sensing the fight instinct rising to the surface, the dinosaur bared its mouth, full of sharp teeth. Bits of bloodied uniform were stuck between them. It snarled. Dawson gulped and wondered how he could outmatch the creature that had already killed a fierce commando. He reached for his stiletto shaped fighting knife, crafted from a version used by the British marines.
The movement caused the dinosaur to leap into the fighting hole.
Its long muzzle shot towards his neck with lightning speed. Dawson shifted right, and the creature bit into his left shoulder. Tasting fabric, it reeled back and hissed, tongue oscillating.
He latched onto the handle of the fighting knife and yanked it from the sheath. The dinosaur lunged in attack. Dawson pressed his heels into the earth and slid upward.
The creature bit a scrap of flesh loose from his upper chest.
Dawson plunged the blade into its side. The dinosaur pulled back, screeched and snapped, then lunged at him.
He yanked the knife free and sent it home again.