“I thought of that. But I’m thinking the huge beast running through there might have scared the smaller ones away.” Dawson released his magazine and reloaded. “We could get a clear pass through the jungle or risk the road and something jumping out at us.”
“At least Wilson’s unit would be nearby.”
“Not for long.” Dawson trotted to the path. “Let’s go. We’re losing time.”
“Don’t like the feel of this,” Bishop muttered, plodding after him.
Simmons caught up, as Dawson stepped into the undergrowth. Private Fuller followed him carrying a BAR, while Private Meserve pulled up the rear with an M1 Garand. They ended up with rifles on point and at the tail end of the column, and BARs next to each rifleman. Simmons was dead center in the procession toting a .45 caliber Thompson submachine gun.
Drizzle trickled from the jungle canopy and the palm fronds were sopping wet. Mud caked on Dawson’s boots, applying resistance to the march. He muscled through each step. Maybe this wasn’t the best idea, he pondered.
Trekking through the jungle, he thought back to his training. Boot camp had seemed like a thrust into a different world. Shock set in immediately. Arriving at Parris Island in the middle of a rainy night, the recruits were kept up for days. The Marines Corps shaved their heads bald. Recruits were belittled, stressed, and physically challenged. Sleep deprivation continued, often with only four to five hours rest a night. Rising early and training seven days a week, the process was meant to weed out the weak and leave the remaining few.
Marching became a way of life. They marched to chow, and out to the rifle range. Drilled on the parade deck in the sun, wind, rain, and cold. Drilling in the barracks with the racks moved aside late at night. Initially, he had trouble adjusting to the marching, walking in cadence. To the rear march, forward march, right oblique march.
Eventually they threw in the rifles. Port arms march. Right shoulder march. Dropping the rifles into position, checking the chamber, lowering it to an at ease stance with the butt resting on the deck.
As punishment for not performing in unison, the drill instructors would make them hold the rifles by the end of the barrels, with arm extended. They would hold it and hold it, until eventually muscles in the shoulder would tire. Lowering the rifle out of position without a command to do so resulted in further punishment. Dawson made this mistake once and was rewarded by the senior drill instructor snatching his rifle and bashing him in the sternum. The blow was so hard, it knocked the wind out of him and pushed him out of formation. Falling out of formation earned him another blow of the rifle butt in the back of his head. Knocked into a dizzy spell, he suffered for hours, barely keeping it together the rest of the day.
Progress was slow, impeded by the mud and their soaked uniforms. A pungent scent of decayed vegetable matter wafted through the air. Then, the ground became dense.
“This is god-awful going,” Bishop griped. “We’re not making headway.”
“Gets better further in.” Dawson plied through the brush.
Eventually, the way became less discernible and he realized the dinosaur had broken off a path that animals used to get to the lagoon and forged its own route. The ground was solid, but the way forward became obscured, a dismal situation.
He paused to get a bearing. Something moaned, almost a wailing tenor that drifted over the underbrush from nearby.
As first, he didn’t see anything. Then, a mound became apparent, rising from the ground like a slight hillside. Dawson faced the back of the Tyrannosaurus, fallen in the jungle after decimating the smaller bull and laying waste to numerous enemy troops.
Such a gentle lament of suffering, he almost felt sorry for the creature.
Glimpsing into the dense jungle behind the dying T-Rex, he searched for a way forward. The muddy lane couldn’t be much further inland.
Something moved on the other side of the Tyrannosaurus. Distinctive black stripes covered the reddish hide of the creature gorging itself on the T-Rex’s innards. The beast froze, then slowly raised its head and peered over the back of the fallen predator.
Bull horns protruded from the top of its head. It rose up from a stooped feeding position. A massive Carnotaurus stared at him, unblinking.
“You sure did pick a terrible route,” Bishop yammered. “At least there aren’t any Japs—”
“Quiet.” Dawson shushed him, waving a hand intently.
“What?” Bishop reached into a pocket and pulled out his smokes.
Dawson turned to him, cringing. “Keep it down.”
The jarhead didn’t catch on. Slipping a cigarette into his mouth, he shook his head in dismay. “Many of you guys have too much respect for the enemy. Getting all fussy over what we call them.”
Simmons tapped the squawker on the shoulder and pointed.
Bishop finally registered the Carnotaurus and the butt dropped to the ground. Mouth agape, he fumbled to bring the Browning around. Then, he shouldered the weapon. Locking onto the beast, he was prepared to shoot, when Dawson stepped into the line of fire.
Waving for the private to lower his machinegun, Dawson didn’t want to engage the creature and advertise their approach to the Imperial troops.
“Just settle down a moment,” he said to the entire team.
Bishop stared at him, puzzled.
“It might not attack…”
“Huh?”
“The creature has a much larger meal than us,” Dawson whispered. “And it’s still warm. It probably will only attack us if we provoke it.”
“Or if it thinks we’re going to steal it’s food.” This from Simmons.
While they discussed the situation, the Carnotaurus merely eyeballed them, as though trying to make up its mind whether to feast upon its spoils or pursue another kill.
Dawson told them to hush. A silence fell over the jungle, except for the occasional sprinkles landing upon palm fronds. The scent of blood drifted from the carcass. Remaining steadfast, they watched the beast glare back at them. Both the marines and beast were locked in a stare down, with either side ready to engage in a moment’s notice.
“Let’s ease back,” Dawson said. “Maybe it will relax, seeing we’re not after its prize.”
“Good idea.” Bishop was the first to move. “Make it think we’re leaving.”
Dawson backpedaled, keeping an eye on the dinosaur.
A branch snapped behind him. Bishop.
The beast canted its head and snorted. It stepped away from viscera of the fallen dinosaur, stomping the ground with enormous feet and crimping decayed vegetation with sharp claws. Sniffing the air, it appeared to savor the fresh meat.
“Run!” Dawson commanded and turned to bolt.
Chasing after them, the dinosaur stretched its massive legs and was among the marines in a few strides. It lowered its head and knocked Meserve to the ground.
Then, it rushed after Bishop and swung its horns into his back, sending him hurling through the air. He impacted with a tree and slid into leafy underbrush. Rotating around, the Carnotaurus watched the rest of the marines fleeing in various directions. It snorted and pounded the ground with its right foot. A warning that meant it didn’t mean to pursue them.
Dawson slowed to a walk. He waited for the dinosaur to return to its fare.
Another threatening snort, and the large bull turned away. Its massive tail extended from a gargantuan rump, and it swung from side to side, decimating the foliage. When it reached the Tyrannosaurus, it growled a final warning, then plunged into the split abdomen and culled the remaining entrails from the vanquished beast.