Their presence has been tolerated in Australia, considerably more than for other carnivores like Allosaurus or Tyrannosaurus.

Surprisingly, this prehistoric predator is actually addressing the continent’s severe problem with cane toads, aka marine toads. The amphibians were imported from Costa Rica to control insect pests in Aussie sugar cane fields. Not only is it an invasive species that bred out of control even before the impact of the Queensland Rock, but the toad’s high toxicity is a death sentence to local predators.

In an ironic twist, amphibians are a favored food source for Carnotaurus, and these dinosaurs can metabolize cane toad toxin. MRI scans of Carnotaurus brains show their neurons lighting up in similar ways to a human experiencing a drug high.

However, prolonged consumption of cane toad toxin carries a price. The cumulative effect of ingesting the toads over several years makes these theropods prone to apparent hallucinations and paranoia, thereby rendering their behavior considerably more unpredictable than other theropods. They almost never consume humans, but the risk of an attack goes up with older individuals.

Carnotaurus become increasingly reckless and aggressive due to their deteriorating population health as a result of this toxin’s effects, and some dino-hunters outright refuse to take them on as an assignment. Hunter Control will do what it can to curb their population, but with their efforts already stretched thin, Carnotaurus growth has been allowed to grow largely unchecked.

If possible, avoid direct confrontation, and be prepared for erratic and aggressive behavior.

Welcome back to the lore of Queensland Crater! Today’s lore entry has not been featured in the published stories, but the series is just getting started. Read on to find out how this feathered fiend has earned the nickname of “Echo”.

Among the predatory dinosaurs infesting the New Outback in 2080s Australia, the Dakotaraptor is one of the most feared. It is nearly as large as Utahraptor, but sleeker and faster. Whereas Utahraptors are built more like heavy-duty bruisers, Dakotas are geared more toward speed and ambush predation.

When they were first cloned, the greatest surprise of all was their highly specialized syrinx, giving them the ability to mimic sounds with uncanny accuracy like a Lyrebird. Given Dakotaraptor’s status as a nocturnal pack hunter, their tactics combine pursuit with surprise. High intelligence enables them to distinguish their prey’s cries of pain and distress from other sounds. They watch potential victims from a distance to see how they respond.

When they have chosen a target, Dakotas mimic whichever sound they think will draw the prey closer. They can keep at it for hours, hiding in the dark until something wanders close enough for them to pounce and employ a hit-and-run strategy. When the prey is cornered, it will be wounded repeatedly until it collapses from blood loss.

Dakotas tend to close in and start feeding while the prey is alive but too weak to fight back. The nickname “Echo” stuck as they stalked human victims by imitating their cries of distress, even imitating simple language like “help” or “save me.”

Recently, famed dino-hunter Clyde Marshall brought down a solitary rogue Dakotaraptor which mimicked the cries of a human baby. It doesn’t take much of a leap to speculate how the Dakota had learned that sound.

Australian Parliament has a standing order to shoot feral Dakotas on sight due to their rapacious appetite, their effectiveness at killing native species, and the psychological effects of their calls near human settlements. A substantial bounty accompanies the order to kill, but they are so reclusive, tracking can be quite difficult even for an experienced hunter. Even other large raptors and terror birds steer clear of them.

Threat assessment: Extreme. Shoot on sight, if feasible.

I highly recommend the whole book, not because I’m published in it, but for its array of legendary creatures and authors who know how to tell a great story. Bigfoot, Mothman, Nessie, and loads of other cryptids are featured! Plenty of laughs, tears, and amazement wait between those pages.

TREADING EGGSHELLS, by John K. Patterson

Flaming Cliffs, Mongolia - 460 km southwest from Ulaanbaatar

Dr. Dominic Alderidge kept one hand on the Delica’s steering wheel and pounded back his last energy drink, driving up to the fossil dig site at the base of the cliff. His standard diet of steamed mutton and dumplings wouldn’t be enough for a night like this, and that was normally the best fuel he could get on the edge of the Gobi Desert. He’d been saving the fluorescent green can for an emergency.

Tonight qualified. Someone had shot one of the bears he’d been tracking. And he needed to rescue her cub if he could.

A scattered crew of locals and sunburned grad students chipped away at rocks or navigated the grid of stakes set up over the site, only a few approaching to greet Dominic as he pulled up the 4x4 minivan alongside their pickup trucks. He crushed the now-empty can, grabbing a thermos of hot water for his daily peppermint tea. He’d splurged on a good thermos, so it would still be hot when night fell.

The nearest figure came up to greet him, a Black man in his fifties or sixties with close-cropped white hair. His cargo pants and black shirt had been officially baptized in the dust of the Gobi.

“You’re head of operations, I presume?” Dominic asked.

“Correct,” the man said as he extended a hand. They shook. “Kirk Berg, paleoecologist. Your bear is a hundred yards north from the site. I’ll take you.”

They passed a trio of folding tables where some fossils were collected, many of them encased in plaster and aluminum foil. Bones and teeth were set around a large centerpiece: a clutch of white eggs, still set in reddish sandstone as if prepared for a museum exhibit.

“Thanks for calling me,” Dominic said. “Are those dinosaur eggs?”

Berg nodded. “Protoceratops. Like a Triceratops but with no horns, about the size of a German Shepherd. We’ve found thousands of eggs! Even more than Andrews found here back in the 1920s—”

“I’d love to hear more about it later, but we’re running out of time.”

“Just excited, is all,” Berg said with a grin. “At least you were close by, thank God. I expected you’d be in the capital, not in the field.”

“I’ve been tracking this bear’s mother to the south.” By now, Dominic was well acquainted with Ursus arctos gobiensis, the Gobi Brown Bear. The subspecies was the only bear adapted for life in the deep desert, not to mention the rarest in the world, with only thirty-one known individuals. Though their population was recovering, each death was a steep step backward.

Dr. Berg led him to a furry brown shape rising above the dry bushes. The mother.

Dominic tucked his thermos under his arm, bending down to examine the body. Aside from the three bullet holes and accompanying blood, there was nothing out of the ordinary.

Now that this was more than just a phone call, now that the animal lay dead at his feet, his knees wobbled, and his eyes misted over.

One step closer to extinction. But at least you had a child. He made a silent promise to her that he would protect her cub.

“Cub’s still out there?” he asked.

“Yes,” Dr. Berg said. “One of our guides had to shoot the mother. The cub was following her at a distance. It took off before we could grab it.”

The sun raced to the horizon. Dominic couldn’t spare much time, but he could conduct an autopsy in the morning. “How was she acting?” he asked. “You told me over the phone it was self-defense. She was aggressive?”

“Extremely. Snarling and twitching like someone hit her with a cattle prod.” He paused, closing his eyes for a moment. “We could tell she was in pain. Maybe poisoned. Got way too close to one of my students. Then bang.” Berg used his hands to mimic holding a rifle.

Dominic scratched his beard. “Poisoned? That rules out poachers.” Mongolia had few cases of bear poaching, none of which involved poison.

“You’re thinking a wild source, then?” Berg asked, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief. “Ate something that didn’t agree with her?”

“Could be. Or brain damage, or an infection. But that can wait.” The orphaned cub would be only a few months old, defenseless against hungry snow leopards or golden eagles. “You got a tracker?”

“Our shooter volunteered,” Dr. Berg said. He waved up a figure in a green windbreaker who had been standing next to the dig site, leaning on a dirt bike painted red and blue. “Baatar’s a good man. Best English speaker in the group. Ready when you are.”

Nodding, Dominic stepped forward as Baatar came up to meet them. The Mongolian man looked to be in his midthirties, about five years younger than Dominic and a few inches taller. He’d cut his hair shorter than most of the other locals helping at the dig site.

Dominic noted the Mosin-Nagant rifle strapped over his back. Baatar looked down at the bear, full of regret.

“I can use my bike,” he said with a strong accent. “Faster than horses. Faster than your Delica.” He aimed an accusatory finger toward the minivan.

Dominic nodded. “I don’t doubt it. But we’re going to need the van to transport the cub back, so we’ll have to bring both.”

“We’ll have a cot set up for when you get back,” Dr. Berg said.

#

Within an hour, the setting sun burned the clouds in the kind of spectacular display Dominic lived for. This was the unfiltered wild, out in the arid purity of Mongolia.

It took less than an hour for Baatar to track down the cub, and another ten minutes for Dominic to get the little guy calm enough to place him in a pet carrier, which now rode shotgun next to him. A little anticlimactic for his sense of adventure, but with the rarest bear on Earth, an uneventful rescue was always a cause for relief.

Hardly bigger than a terrier, the tiny bear called for its mother plaintively, but there was little Dominic could do until they got him to the shelter in Ulaanbaatar.

“Hang in there, little guy,” he said, gently patting the top of the carrier. “We’ll take care of you.”

Baatar accompanied him on his bike, heading back toward the fossil dig.

Without warning, Baatar veered off-course.

Frowning, Dominic turned the van to follow him. After ten seconds or so, Baatar stuck out a hand to wave him down and skidded his bike to a halt.

Putting the van in park, Dominic looked through the front of the carrier at the little cub. “Stay here, buddy.” He was getting cold, so he grabbed his thermos and took it with him.

“What’s wrong?” he asked Baatar.

The man crouched low to the ground. “I wondered,” he said quietly to himself. “Yes, here. I’m seeing the mother’s path.” He stepped forward, rifle slung over his shoulder.

Dominic could see many of the same faint details, having spent time with these bears before. The pattern of dry plants pressed or crushed by a heavy foot, a loose scattering of stones, a fingernail-sized clump of fur on a twig; if you didn’t know what to look for, it would be easy to miss. They must have been only a few minutes from the dig site now.

“You saw this from your bike?”

“I saw a hole in the ground—up there.” Baatar pointed. “Had a hunch she’d been through here. There might be a clue about what poisoned her.”

“Assuming she was poisoned.”

He followed Baatar, rocks tripping him up. The desert quickly lost its heat, and Dominic grew nervous. He didn’t want to be here for the nighttime winds.

The dry desert plants had concealed a small hole in the ground, about a meter in diameter. Dominic was impressed that Baatar had seen it from his motorbike. They were about twenty meters away from it when Baatar skidded to a halt, falling backward. Dominic helped him back to his feet.

The man shouted something in Mongolian. “We have to leave. I shouldn’t have checked! We have to go.”

“Baatar? What are you panicked about?”

“Olgoi-khorkhoi! Now I know what happened to the mother!”

“Olgoi—” Dominic started to repeat the name, then it registered. He had heard of it, and though he’d only met Baatar today, he still felt a deep exasperation rise in his gut. The man should have known better. Olgoi-khorkhoi loosely translated as “intestine worm,” a fabled wormlike creature so deadly, even looking at it could be fatal. The wide-eyed and credulous had even ascribed to it the cheesiest name of all: the Mongolian Death Worm, the final nail in the proverbial coffin for such a creature to ever be taken seriously.

And now Baatar had gone from a grounded, intelligent man to someone fearing a glimpse of the worm. Their effort to secure an endangered cub had hit a snag on local mythology.

“Don’t tell me you believe that crap,” Dominic said.

“We have not seen it for years,” Baatar said, having regained some of his composure. “But I remember my grandmother speaking of it.”

“Maybe she ran into a pit viper. Come on, there’s no such thing as a Death Worm.”

Baatar licked his lips, eyes wild. Good grief, he really believed in it.

Dominic glanced back at the van. The cub wasn’t going anywhere. Checking the ground for snakes or insects, he approached the hole.

Baatar snapped out of his fearful gaze, and he rushed forward as if to grab him.

Dominic glared at him, lifting the thermos up. “Get back, all right? Just back up. Look, there’s no worms, see?”

He turned around to look at the depression in the ground. Curiosity and confusion were dual chains, fastening him to the spot.

Sure enough, no worms awaited him in the curious meter-deep void in the ground. But it held something else: a cluster of seven or eight whitish round objects the size of his fist, nestled together in a small chamber. They glistened with a coating of liquid or mucus with dark particles of sand clinging to them, and their surfaces were depressed, appearing to have a soft and leathery texture like reptile eggs.

When Dominic had been nine years old, his family had gone on vacation to Costa Rica to watch sea turtles come ashore to dig their nests. The similarity to a turtle nest was so strong he could practically hear the surf lapping at the shore and feel it sweep between his toes. Mongolia’s dry wind screamed like the shorebirds that waited for the turtles to go back to the sea, so they could descend like harpies on the countless nests and raid them for an easy meal.

Dominic, however, was thousands of miles from the coast, and any turtle big enough to lay eggs like this had been extinct for millions of years. What was he looking at? He tried not to contemplate how eerily similar they were to the Protoceratops eggs from the dig site.

These couldn’t be eggs. He would already know of any animal big enough to lay them. Could they be some sort of fungal growth?

He stepped around to the other side of the hole, where a smear of dried mucus crusted the dirt. One of the white objects had been dragged out, and something had taken a bite. He noted the telltale bear prints next to it.

Gobi bears were omnivores and always on the lookout for a little extra protein, sometimes digging rodents out of their burrows. But if eating one of these white objects had poisoned the bear, he’d have to treat them with caution. Dr. Berg and his students could give them a proper examination.

Dominic fished a penlight out of his pocket and turned it on as the light of dusk diminished.

“Sir!” Baatar said, as if from a hundred miles away. “Don’t touch them.”

“Not going to. We gotta get Berg out here.”

Dominic wrinkled his nose at an unpleasant smell, traces of hydrogen sulfide and rotting meat. Maybe this was some way Mongolian shepherds fermented food, or Chinese poachers had some new method of storing animal organs to be collected later. But the white objects looked too natural for that.

The white sphere’s contents had spilled out in something like a red, slimy mass. Admittedly his mental picture was of some large worm, but when he got a closer look at where the bear had bitten it in half, he could see white bone.

Vertebrae? What on God’s green Earth …?

Movement drew his gaze back to the hole. A few of the white orbs twitched or rattled against the others. One orb broke open, and something lashed out at his ankle. He yelped at a sharp pain and kicked out of reflex. He tried to step back, but loose gravel gave way under his shoe and he fell on his backside.

A red worm had fastened to his sock like a disgusting lamprey. He tried to shake it off, but the thing held on tight, flopping around. He had to keep whatever it was from breaking the skin in case it was venomous, so he risked a firm grip on its slimy body just behind the head. He could see two small eyes, almost vestigial and covered in a thin layer of skin.

Carefully, he worked to pry the mouth off the fabric of his sock. Translucent fangs snagged on the threads until he pulled it away. Keeping a grip behind its head, he jammed the creature sharply against a stone, shattering its head with a wet smack.

He’d killed it.

Fangs? On a worm?

The brief observation vanished as an electric spasm of agony shot up his arm, like someone had jammed a taser into his entire nervous system. The pain hit him so hard, Dominic couldn’t even scream. He fell back, his body locking up. His brain allowed him no more motion, not even to get away from the creature. The dead thing slipped out of his hand.

Was he having a heart attack? No. The creature that could not—should not—exist must have been toxic through its skin as well, like a poison dart frog. He heard something metal and heavy hit the ground with a clunk. His thermos of hot water for his tea.

“Sir!” Baatar came running to Dominic, giving the dead worm a wide berth.

It took effort to push the words out through his locked teeth. “Don’t touch. Toxin … in skin.” Whatever it was, Dominic expected his heart to stop at any moment. Every sound became louder, rattling in his ears. Even his own stilted breathing sounded like nails on a chalkboard.

With careful hands, Baatar grabbed Dominic under his arms and dragged him away from the hole. His foot bumped the metal thermos, and that noise cut into Dominic’s mind like a knife.

Wait. The thermos. Hot water could denature toxic proteins. It worked for jellyfish stings, at least. He had no idea if it would work. But he had to try. Maybe he would at least live a little longer.

“Hot water!” he said. Or at least tried to say. “Thermos! Open it!”

“What, sir?” Baatar said.

“Hot water. On … hand!” Was the man able to understand him? Dominic’s own voice was painful to hear. But Baatar picked up the thermos, came back to stand over him, and unscrewed the lid. Maybe Dominic spoke more clearly than his own ears implied.

Intense heat spilled over his hand, and Dominic cried out. The flow stopped. “No! Keep pouring! Don’t waste it!”

Baatar did so, and as the stream of hot water resumed, Dominic could feel the electric pain ebbing away. He could breathe a little easier. The effort to speak sapped him harder than expected. The world pulled away from him, Bataar’s shouts dwindling to a faint echo, then all fell to darkness.

#

Searing bright light drove through Dominic’s retinas. He shut his eyes. Sullen soreness weighed down every cubic inch of his body. But it surprised him that he still had a body.

That creature, that impossible worm with vertebrae and fangs, had tried to bite him. Had anything gotten into his bloodstream?

He lay atop taut fabric. A cot. Folding tables loaded with fossils stood next to him. Overhead, spectacular stars filled the night sky. A couple of portable lanterns lit up the area. Dr. Berg stood over him, shining a flashlight into his eyes, with Baatar looking over Berg’s shoulder.

As if from miles away, he heard the yowls and grunts of a bear cub.

“Your furry little friend is okay,” Dr. Berg said. “Baatar here saved your life. We can’t tell for sure, but it looks like you got a light dose of that toxin. Seems to hit humans differently than bears.”

Baatar leaned forward, a cigarette dangling from his lips. “How’s that for a myth?” he said with a sardonic laugh.

Trying to move his head, Dominic got another stab of pain through his temples.

“Easy there,” Dr. Berg said. “I think the toxin is working its way out of your system. My best guess is the creature wasn’t fully awake, and it just reacted to protect itself. Minor abrasions on your ankle, but the teeth didn’t break through.”

Nodding gingerly, Dominic forced himself to speak through the headache. “Yeah. They looked like your fossil eggs. Or cocoons of some type.”

“My money’s on cocoons,” Berg said. “I got a look at that nest, too, just a few minutes ago. They kinda reminded me of lungfish. Those can secrete a mucus cocoon to lock moisture in, and they stay underground for years.”

Dominic fixed him with a stare. “Did you know about these things?”

Berg shook his head. “We got the one you killed in a plastic bag. Soon as we can find some ethanol, we’ll preserve it. Don’t worry, I’m not taking credit for the discovery. It’s all yours.”

Baatar flicked the cigarette away. “This lucky idiot. Only man I know who’s survived Olgoi-khorkhoi.”

“Go easy on him, Baatar. I thought it was just a myth too. Just hadn’t seen one until now.”

Dominic’s right arm struggled to reach the edge of the cot. There was a tremor, but he tested his hand by touching his thumb to all his other fingers. “My phone. I need my phone.”

Baatar nodded and reached into Dominic’s shirt pocket, handing over his smartphone.

Sitting up, Dominic groaned as his head throbbed. “We need pictures of that animal.”

“Take it easy.” Baatar put a hand on his shoulder. “You’re not ready to walk. Here.” He moved somewhere Dominic couldn’t see, and returned with a large plastic bag containing what looked like a red intestine, well over a foot long. The creature looked even more repulsive up close. The head was half smashed, but Dominic could see the broken jaws poking through shredded tissue, and sharp needlelike teeth straight out of a monster movie. He hadn’t been hallucinating. And there were those fading eyes, as if the creature was evolving away from needing sight. Two sensory appendages on the muzzle looked like short versions of catfish whiskers.

Dominic turned on the flashlight on his phone and held it up to the bag, looking at every detail he could. The eyes and teeth, the vertebrae he’d seen on the other creature half-eaten by their dead bear …

The animal seemed familiar to him. “It’s definitely not a worm,” Dominic said. Wrong clade. It’s a vertebrate.”

“I wondered about a legless lizard at first,” Berg said, “but it doesn’t have external ear openings.”

“I know a guy who can give us something more specific.” He tapped the phone, going into his contacts to find the right name: Dr. Nolan Douglas, Herpetologist, UW. One of his colleagues at the University of Washington.

After Baatar helped him take some photos, Dominic painstakingly typed a text, trying to be as specific as possible:

ID? Burrowing creature at Flaming Cliffs. Emerged from cocoon like lungfish. Legless lizard? Venomous. Toxin absorbed through skin, denatured with hot water. I’ll send coordinates when we can talk.

He hit the Send button, hoping Nolan would get back to him soon.

“If your contact cannot help us, who do you want me to call?” Baatar’s leathery hands folded together, and he sat down in a camping chair with a quiet heaviness.

“Next of kin would be a good idea,” Dr. Berg said. “Just in case.”

“I’m not dying,” Dominic said. “We’ve still got a bear to take care of.”

Baatar nodded. “I’m caring for it too. I orphaned him.”

“Don’t blame yourself, Bataar,” Dominic said. “I should’ve listened to you. You saved my life.”

Shrugging, Bataar pointed at his hands. “Fast thinking, to try the hot water. Other men died quick. That’s what my grandmother said.”

The phone rang. That was fast, Dominic thought, accepting the call.

Nolan Douglas’s deep voice thundered all the way from Washington. “What is this, Dom? Some kind of prank? I’m flying out to Cameroon in the morning, so this better not be some—”

“No.” He coughed. “No, it’s real. Here, I’ll put you on speaker.” He tapped the phone so Baatar and Dr. Berg could hear him. Berg filled Nolan in, Dominic adding details as he could.

Dr. Douglas cleared his throat. “All right. Good news and bad news. Which do you want first?”

Dominic coughed again. “Good first. I’ve had a rough night.”

“Sounds like it.” Nolan took a deep breath. “Okay, good news. I know what this is. The small sensory tentacles on the snout give it away.”

Nolan spoke a name, but in his torpor, Dominic didn’t quite catch it. It sounded like Sicilian. “It came from Sicily?” he said, fighting the desire to fall asleep and maybe, just maybe, never wake up.

“No,” Nolan said, “the name’s phonetically similar. The technical term is caecilian. It’s a type of amphibian.”

At last, his toxin-fatigued brain latched onto the title. “That’s the term. Rings a bell, but from way back in college.” He heard the weariness in his own voice, and willpower was the one resource he could draw on to keep his body from sliding back to unconsciousness.

“They’re pretty obscure,” Nolan said, a tremor of worry straining his words. “Dom, are you okay? Can you get to a hospital where you are?”

“Just tell me,” Dominic said, clutching the phone tight. “Are caecilians toxic?”

“Yeah, they can be. That’s the bad news. That was discovered only a few years ago. Nasty teeth, too. If it bit you, I’d check for anticoagulants in your blood.”

“Almost got me. But no. I didn’t get bitten. The problem was skin absorption.” He glanced at Baatar. “A local guide saved my life with hot water, after I’d grabbed this … caecilian to get it off me. So wear gloves if you get to examine one.”

“Once I get back from Africa. Sounds like a plan.”

Dominic noticed Nolan’s voice sounded hollow and somehow farther away. But he clung all the tighter to hope. How warranted was that hope? “These caecilians—are any of them desert-dwellers?”

“No, all of the known species are tropical. Something like that in the Gobi Desert could burrow deep where there’s more moisture, but it would still need to evolve a water-retentive skin. First time for everything, I guess.”

“This thing was in a mucus cocoon. There were a cluster of them in some kind of lair. I think we should collect them for study. We recently had a flash flood, so I’m thinking they’re emerging to mate.” Amphibians were not his specialty, but he knew African bullfrogs would lie dormant in deserts or savannas to wait for the rains.

A brief silence on the other end. Dominic could practically hear the gears turn in Dr. Douglas’s head. “Speculation, but we’ll go with that. I remember hearing rumors about some kind of Death Worm in the Gobi.”

“You said these are obscure,” Dominic said. “But there’s gotta be something about this thing in the literature, right? Something other than legends, I mean.” Dominic could hardly accept the notion that such a creature spent all this time evading discovery, no matter how deep it normally burrowed.

“Nope,” Nolan said. “Not a thing, Dom. You’ve found a new species. I think congratulations are in order. We’ll make it official later. Just focus on getting better so you can enjoy it, okay?”

Dominic managed a faint laugh. “I’ll give it my very best shot. I’ll send coordinates and message you tomorrow.” And he promised himself he would be alive tomorrow to make that call. “It’s a lot to take in, but at least I can help give a bear cub a new home.”

He gazed up at the glittering stars, which seemed oddly brighter and closer, as if his eyesight had sharpened. Perhaps the world still held a couple of surprises after all.

About the Author

John K. Patterson is the creator of the Arrivers and Queensland Crater universes. A self-trained author and artist who takes his monsters way too seriously, he can usually be found haunting the local coffee shop while working on his novels. He lives at the roots of Pikes Peak in Colorado Springs, Colorado.

My first Queensland Crater novel will soon be done. Here’s the prologue for your reading pleasure. I hope you enjoy it!

October 21, 2084

Queensland, Australia - Crater Rim Visitor Center

Fog roiled in Queensland Crater like steam in a giant witch’s cauldron. Dark silhouettes of pterosaurs glided over the curling mist as Clyde Marshall stepped back and forth along the edge of the visitor center’s overlook. A railing of painted green steel was all that guarded him from a hundred-meter drop. He cradled a new K75 rifle against his side, the other hand holding an infrared scope to his eye.

Through the scope, the crater’s normal retinue of winged reptiles continued their nighttime mating acrobatics, elegant-crested Pteranodons and swift little Rhamphorhynchus. His quarry, a female Quetzalcoatlus, would dwarf the other fliers, but no such giant shared the skies with them now.

He glanced behind him and gave a quick shake of his head to the center’s security chief. The man’s nametag read “Daniels” on a blue shirt that stretched to accommodate his belly.

The predawn chill put an ache into Clyde’s joints, and the stars overhead faded as the horizon brightened. Clyde coveted a hot breakfast and a coffee strong enough to reanimate the dead, but work took priority. The visitor center wouldn’t open for two hours.

“I don’t understand,” Daniels said in a thick Aussie accent, scratching a scalp vacant of all but a few blonde hairs. “Quetzes are supposed to be active now.”

“Normally they are,” Clyde said. “Your neighbors changed its feeding schedule.” He shot a glare toward Edge Estates, the upscale neighborhood about a kilometer north along the rim.

Boxlike houses with panoramic windows were built into tiers on the slope of the crater wall itself, privacy trees filling every space between. In warmer weather the rich neighborhood would have a spectacular view of the lake, where the visitor center would drive tourists to watch duckbills and sauropods cooling off in the heat of the day.

“Nobody protested,” Daniels explained. “A couple of residents just fed it some fish here, a chicken there. It was like a community pet. I would’ve alerted Hunter Control if I’d known it was that bad.”

Clyde inhaled through his nose, quelled an urge to knock some teeth out of the man’s doughy face. “They’re wild animals. They associate humans with food when you start feeding them. Same thing happens with bears. Gators. Lions. Take your pick. You should’ve called Hunter Control before that jogger got hurt.”

A long, heavy silence slithered past. The morning runner in Edge Estates had been mauled when the Quetzalcoatlus pinned her and tried to feed. Residential security had shot a couple of flares and startled the animal into retreating, but she’d lost two pints of blood and a chunk of flesh on her leg.

Even in the New Outback, there were more naive fools than Clyde would have thought possible, people who assumed animal attacks wouldn’t happen to them, that this time it would be different.

Even Clyde’s stomach had turned when he saw the photos in the report. He was no stranger to violence, but it sickened him when people still assumed animal attacks would only happen to someone else. After decades of experience to tell them otherwise, too many people still hoped animals cloned out of extinction would somehow live by different rules than modern ones. Dinosaurs and pterosaurs and mammoths were still beasts, still following instinct and trying to survive in a hostile world.

At last, Clyde picked up a silhouette with shorter wings and a straight stork’s beak, reaching like a blade ahead of its lengthy neck. Even from here he could tell it was far bigger than the largest Pteranodons, circling over the dissipating mist.

There she is. Showtime. Flying dragons were no myth. They’d just been safely buried in prehistory, until human hubris and curiosity worked their usual mayhem.

Daniels started to approach him. Clyde put up a warning hand to stop him. “You’ll want to cover your ears when I take the shot.”

He set up his rifle on the railing, looking through the scope and switching to its infrared setting. The wings on a Quetz spread out almost forty feet, and looked too small to keep it airborne. Yet it was so lightly built, the reptile had no trouble riding updrafts and catching currents as smoothly as a manta ray gliding in the ocean. One of the largest flying creatures to ever exist, the Quetz was a marvel of engineering and natural aerodynamics.

Whatever sense of wonder hadn’t yet atrophied in Clyde now bloomed, eliciting a smile. In spite of his mission, he found himself relishing the chance to watch the giant creature in action.

“Can you make the shot from here?” Daniels said.

“She’s too far. But she’s downwind, and that’s in our favor. Open the cooler, will you? We’ll draw her closer.”

Daniels opened a green cooler Clyde had set next to the railing, recoiling from the smell. “Bloody hell.”

Clyde endured the same stench. “They prefer fish when it smells a little ripe. Like how we appreciate a quality cheese. Give it a few minutes. We’ll let the scent drift.”

The man sighed resignedly, stepping farther away from the cooler and its stench.

The visitor center security supervisor must’ve been appointed out of a government office, or brought in by nepotism. He clearly had no field experience, no appreciation for wild animals or what it took to deal with them and prevent harm to humans. That was the part most people didn’t consider when hunters were slandered and called murderers.

Always needed, never wanted, Clyde thought. He let his breath out slowly, brought his finger with practiced care inside the trigger guard. All he had to do was wait. Once the Quetz got within range…

One minute dragged on, then two, and the creature swept in circles over the crater and the immense lake that had pooled at its base. Queensland Crater was over five miles in diameter, its depth equal to the height of the Empire State Building. That was a lot of territory to cover.

Daniels fractured Clyde’s concentration with another sigh. “What I wouldn’t give for one of those auto lasers to come to us. But Parliament doesn’t fund us very well.”

“Too damn unstable,” Clyde said, gritting his teeth at the interruption. Granted, a laser was useful. The more powerful models would bring down even a Quetz with ease. But they were also liable to overheat and burn through their own safety rigging, or simply explode outright. Clyde found the job safer with his eye behind the scope of a good gun. It was the right tool for the job.

Another minute ticked past. Still the Quetz circled around the center of the lake. Clyde frowned.

“What’s taking so long?” Daniels said.

Clyde squinted. “She’s not searching anymore. She’s going for prey. I bet some poor animal is taking a drink at Lake Terri.” He tilted his head away from the scope and looked at Daniels. “Your safari truck is operational?”

“Battery’s mostly charged. It’s ready enough if we need it.”

Clyde tilted the rifle back up. “She’s not coming to us anytime soon, even with the rotten fish.” He put his gun down and closed the cooler. He got close enough for the stench to sear a couple of nose hairs away. Okay, he has a point about the smell.

Just then, the alarm light on Daniels’s walkie-talkie flashed with an irritating beep. Clyde frowned.

Now what? It was bad enough they’d be heading into the crater, beneath his quarry. He didn’t want to be a potential target for the Quetz. That usually didn’t end well with hunters.

“Terri Outpost here, mate,” said a nasal male voice over the speaker. “Motion sensor alarms.”

Daniels hit the talk button. “Yeah, there’s a Quetz circling overhead. Probably just that.”

“No sir. People.”

Daniels’s eyes widened. “What?”

Clyde went rigid. A deep terror frosted his veins. “You told me all your crew had been brought in for the night.”

“They were.” Daniels pressed the button again. “Say again, Terri outpost, why are people down there?”

“Three students from Melbourne heading down to the lake. Morning wildlife observation, I think. I’m sorry, sir, their itinerary should’ve been updated.”

Shit. Clyde was pretty sure what the Quetz was tracking down at the lake. “Can we contact them?”

Daniels held up a pudgy hand and pressed the call button. “Have you reached them?”

“Negative,” the voice replied. “We think they’re radio silent, to avoid scaring animals.”

And Quetzes aren’t regulars here, Clyde thought. They weren’t expecting anything dangerous to show up.

“Outpost,” Daniels said, “broadcast the alarm.”

“That won’t scare off a Quetz,” Clyde said.

“But it might alert the kids.”

“Whatever the hell it takes, get them out of there. We need that truck now.” He kicked the cooler aside and snatched up the rifle. “Yesterday, Daniels!”

He sped past the observation deck, through the entrance tunnel, and made a beeline to the squat silhouette of a safari truck plugged into a recharging port next to the main building.

“You’ll need my handprint to start it,” Daniels wheezed, his ample belly bouncing as he held up a hand and struggled to follow.

“Those kids are going to die. Move your ass!”

Daniels hurriedly disconnected the truck and breached into the driver’s seat. The security chief pressed a clammy hand to the activation panel as Clyde got in next to him.

The truck roared off. To Daniels’s credit, he crashed right through the hazard-striped bar reaching across the road before it could lift away.

Going down the slope of the crater felt like the initial dip of a roller coaster. Clyde’s stomach jumped, and the vehicle bounced along the road and its numerous little canyons and potholes. He could almost be back in the war, crashing helter-skelter through the smoke of bombs and grenades.

“We gotta get her attention,” Clyde said. “You got flare guns?”

“In the back. Look at the orange kit.”

Clyde scrambled to the backseat, ignoring the protest of his aging joints or the 3D-printed knees he’d gotten years ago. He found the orange plastic box and tore it open. Among some basic survival tools, there was a fluorescent green flare gun. A bright flare might distract a Quetz, even startle it enough to break off an attack, but at this point it was a Hail Mary.

Grabbing the bar of the roll cage, Clyde raised the gun and squeezed the trigger. Nothing. No bright glare of magnesium to illuminate the dark.

A dud. He chambered another one, and shot it off.

Still nothing.

“When was the last time you replaced these flares?”

“They were good two years ago.”

Clyde put aside the temptation to strangle his driver, willing his calm to restore itself as he loaded a third charge. Finally, an angry glare of red streaked out from the barrel. The light startled smaller reptiles and birds, and they scattered from the trees.

The brush thinned out and cleared until they rolled over mud and short grass, stomped flat by huge herbivores. As he plugged a headset into his ear to keep communicating with Daniels, fading fog just barely allowed him a view of the dark expanse of the lake ahead. Somewhere behind the veil, the loudspeakers on Terri Outpost’s survey tower broadcast a shrill alarm meant to deter animals.

Daniels slammed the brakes, and Clyde gripped the roll cage to brace for the halt. Just as he jumped out of the back, a girl’s high-pitched scream came from past a crowd of trees near the lake’s edge.

Snatching his rifle out of the front seat, he took off. His printed knee and hip joints allowed him the speed of a younger man, but the dense woods fought him at every step. Trunks and undergrowth crowded in, grasping at his ankles.

Another scream from a male voice drew his focus down to a laser’s precision. Then came a sound like a leather curtain caught in the wind. He recognized a cavernous screech from the giant pterosaur, so loud he was sure it lay just ahead. He couldn’t see a damn thing through the leaves.

He reached a gap in the trees. Clyde took in the scene right away: a young woman sitting on the ground, clad in denim and a vest, sobbing with her arms wrapped around the torso of a man about her age. Blood rushed from a deep wound in his shoulder, but he was still conscious, and he pressed a hand against the wound.

The Quetz must have strafed him. The girl looked at Clyde with frightened eyes. “Please help! I don’t know where Esther went! She was just behind us.”

Deep shadow darkened the predawn sky. Clyde’s glare turned upward. The Quetz’s wings were spread out like a descending fighter jet, until it drew them in and slipped through a narrow opening in the canopy. It touched down on all fours, wings folded neatly up and away from the trio of clawed fingers on each hand.

Both college kids screamed. Clyde watched the animal close in on the two teens, its limbs flexing like those of a bear or tiger chasing a victim. His rifle stock jammed into his shoulder. Muscle memory lined up the shot for him.

No time to tell the girl and boy to take cover. Decades of practice pressed his finger to the trigger. The gun boomed. Its shockwave hit him painfully hard.

A fountain of red gushed from the reptile’s back. The Quetzalcoatlus’s immense head swiveled around on that long neck, its beak swinging open to screech at him. But his shot had done its damage, and he barely heard a faint, gurgling version of the animal’s cry.

Clyde put another three rounds through its torso, the bullets shattering hollow bones and punching through tough muscle like it was made of Styrofoam. The animal tottered on its folded wings and slender hind legs, collapsing like a massive tent.

The wrinkled pelican pouch behind its sword-like beak looked strangely heavy and distended. Keeping his rifle up, Clyde took a cautious half-step forward, then another.

He only noticed the hiking boot then, sticking out at the back of the opened beak. A human foot.

He sprang forward, rifle cast aside as he yanked his knife from its sheath. A well-honed KA-BAR, handed down from his grandfather. It glided through the velvety material of the Quetz’s throat pouch.

The other girl fell out, her clothes painted in blood and saliva. Clyde couldn’t tell how much blood was from the Quetz and how much was hers, coming from a long cut on her neck which no longer bled.

Too late. She had already asphyxiated. Her body looked and felt so much smaller than it should have. The lifeless eyes were still open, looking through matted black hair, until Clyde reached up and closed them.

He tapped the headset. “You reading me, Daniels?”

“Yeah, Mate. What the hell’s going on?”

Eternity passed before Clyde could open his mouth again. “A casualty. She was already gone. You got a wounded man down here. And another girl. She doesn’t appear injured.” The effort to speak was so great he couldn’t do anything except sit there. Useless.

Time did not flow, but hovered around him like smoke, slowly dispersing. Eventually a gleaming white Hunter Control extraction chopper touched down next to the Quetz’s carcass. Two security officers hopped out, and Clyde eased the girl’s body aside as reverently as he could, before he rose to his feet.

Training took over, and he answered their questions robotically. He filed reports, let the officers inspect his rifle, delivered verbal testimony, all with the cold detachment of a machine.

Somewhere distant, on the other side of the stormlands in his head, a younger and greener version of him wept for the first time in years.

This horned carnivore of Jurassic North America is a species often overlooked by Hunter Control or tourism companies, thanks to its reclusive nature and stealthy hunting habits. But it is one of the deadlier killers in the New Outback.

Nocturnal, solitary, and a masterful swimmer, this dinosaur prioritizes silence and ambush hunting. It conserves most of its energy for bursts of speed or violence to subdue its prey.

For a medium-size theropod, they are excellent jumpers. Specimens killed in the wild show damage to their foot and ankle bones consistent with frequent jumping, which can result from ambush hunting or even play.

Far from a picky eater, Ceratosaurus is known to go after kangaroos, Dryosaurs, fish, monitor lizards, snakes, younger duckbills and Stegosaurs, and even saltwater crocodiles. I personally witnessed a mated pair of Ceratos tear a full-grown croc in half while it was still alive and thrashing.

They have such a knack for stealth, raw firepower and bait are rarely enough to bring these dinosaurs down. They require patience, cunning, and an adaptable mind. Solo efforts and amateur teams will either get eaten or the Cerato will slip through their fingers.

On a curious note, cigarette smoke has a surprising effect similar to catnip. Ceratosaurus can be drawn in when they catch its scent, but they will still approach with caution and bolt at the slightest sense that something is hunting them.

My sincerest thanks to Sgt. Clyde Marshall, USMC, for providing these dispatches from the New Outback. Many blessings to him as he hunts invasive dinosaurs and other fauna.

~

Many people consider Triceratops a gentle giant, and have selected it as their favorite. So long as they admire it from a distance or through photographs, they can maintain that image. Experienced hunters offer a different story.

After years of experience with the Triceratops roaming the New Outback, we can confidently state it is one of the most dangerous invasive species. They congregate in mobs of two dozen or more, though reliable reports circulate of herds a hundred animals strong, concentrated in the central Outback.

Foul-tempered and territorial in the extreme, Triceratops has the personality of a rhinoceros with anger management issues. No wonder, since it lived in the same ecosystem as predators like Dakotaraptor and Tyrannosaurus. If anything, they are more dangerous than carnivores. Predators just want to eat. Triceratops want to protect their herd, eggs, and juveniles at any cost, and eliminate any potential threats. As such, it is equipped both for offense and defense.

Strangely, they seem to calm down a great deal more when isolated from others of their kind. Rather than being agitated and needing to travel together, some can even become almost docile when alone.

The iconic three horns, a frill of solid bone to protect its neck and shoulders, and instantly recognizable silhouette make this elephant-sized Ceratopsian stand out among its peers. As one of the most common dinosaur fossils in North America, it was also one of the first and least difficult to be cloned.

Males have startling coloration on their frills, of green and yellow and red, with blue or black bodies. They will compete in pushing competitions for their harems, until one of them draws first blood. The sound of their horns clacking together sounds like gunshots, and can be startling for novice tourists or hunters to hear.

I strongly advise keeping far away and downwind from these dinosaurs. They are indeed beautiful, but best admired from a distance.

Under NO circumstances should you take a selfie with these beasts.

I have experimented in one artistic medium after another. But one that has by far gotten the most attention is coffee.

That’s right. Coffee.

As it turns out, that most essential drink makes a versatile watercolor paint. The sepia tone is astounding. I’m still learning it and mostly doing so by experiment, but here’s a mini portfolio of some of my better coffee paleoart (art depicting prehistoric life, whether dinosaurs or other ancient creatures).

That’s enough for now. I’ve got more dinosaur and cryptid-related news coming soon, plus there will be tons more art to share.

I’m also scheduled to be on Martin L. Shoemaker’s Instant Story Hour this Thursday evening (September 19)! Martin has been one of my greatest encouragers as I have become an author. Not only does he write great sci-fi like Today I am Carey, but he helps other authors find new readers and improve their craft.

I’ll be reading from Midnight Chase: A Queensland Crater Story and the recording will be available on Youtube.

f dinosaurs, criminal cartels, and the struggles that people encounter in trying to resettle the continent. Ideally without getting eaten.

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For today’s lesson, we are focusing on the infamous Tyrant Lizard King, Tyrannosaurus rex. Not only is T. rex one of the most recognizable dinosaurs, but also one of the more notorious in the New Outback. They’re hard to kill, hard to avoid as they roam for prey, and hard to not notice.

How does one avoid the jaws of a Rex?

Here’s the first step: Stay in your %@*&ing vehicle.

Seriously. This is why our safari companies make you sign waivers.

But even the most prepared visitors to the New Outback can be caught unprepared. So let’s assume through no fault of your own, you have attracted the attention of an irate (or hungry) Rex. Hope is not lost…necessarily.

Unlike black bears or mountain lions, you cannot scare the Rex off by trying to look bigger. You are simply in a different category of size for this animal. If a New York Strip tried to look bigger, would you find it less appetizing? Exactly.

Contrary to old estimates prior to their cloning, the adult Rex is surprisingly fast. They can run up to 25 mph (40 km) when properly motivated. But that body weighs 8-9 tons, and requires WAY more calories than contained in the human body, so you don't qualify as proper motivation for a prolonged chase.

The trick is to make yourself more trouble than your mouthful of calories are worth.

The best thing you can do is run for cover. Run as fast as adrenaline can carry you. (Don't bother with a zigzag pattern - unlike most carnivorous dinosaurs, T. rex has quick-response muscles to turn around fast, and you'll slow down every time you turn)

Rexes can swim rather well, so diving into water is not much of a deterrent. Even if you get away from the Rex, a hungry Dunkleosteus or Mosasaur can swim faster than you. This gambit is not advised.

If there are trees nearby, run as deep as you can into the thickest areas. Since you're not a 3-ton Hadrosaur, Rex won't bash trees aside to reach you. Then you can activate one of your safari company’s complimentary emergency beacons.

[Side note: if you're being chased by a female with chicks to feed, she'll be much more reluctant to give up, in which case you should say your prayers.]

Weapons, even the ones used by seasoned Rex hunters, are NOT recommended at close range. The kinds of weapons that would hurt the dinosaur are likely to hurt you as well. You might irritate the Rex and provoke an attack response. Plus Tyrannosaurs are MUCH harder to kill than other meat-eating dinosaurs.

We hope this information proves helpful. But for heaven's sake...if it can be helped, stay in the vehicle.

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