Read Online The Dinosaur Chronicles by Joseph Erhardt - Free Book Online
Authors: Joseph Erhardt
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ankle, and I changed direction once more, drawing my way a new tangle of white hellfire even as the first worms finally fell off the pace.
Jeremy yelled, “You think I’m gonna let you kill the industry, Mr. Smarty? And kill my farm? My farm? I earned it! After my brothers and sisters left, who was there to take care of Pa and the farm? Me . And you’re not gonna take away what’s mine!”
My legs began to shake even as I pumped my arms harder. I puffed, “So you’re going to kill me—in front of all these witnesses?”
Around the edges of the field, workers had stopped to watch the spectacle. A few were crossing themselves. Others hid their eyes.
“Who’re they going to tell?” Jeremy shouted. “I nmigración ?”
The word had an electrifying effect. As I ran, I saw more of the workers turn their backs.
So most, or all, were illegals. That didn’t surprise me. And I doubted that few, if any, would tell a story about a man in a gray summer suit burned to death by parasites the world knew nothing about and would certainly not believe.
I looked over my shoulder. Jeremy was leisurely dogging my steps. Because I was the closest source of noise, the released vipers followed me and not him. Whatever they were, they were simple organisms with simple reflexes. But that didn’t help me now.
“Pa did have a stroke,” Jeremy yelled as he followed. “It fried some of his brain cells and it’s the reason he can’t keep his yap shut when he ought to.”
Another shot. Another pumpkin obliterated, and I had to turn again. It was obvious Jeremy was a practiced marksman. And playing with me. He could have killed me a dozen times already.
And I was running out of steam. Air came into my lungs in hot, dry blasts and my ears pounded with a pulse like knocking pipes. Sweat ran into my eyes, blinding me, and I stepped into a depression I didn’t see.
I fell, nearly putting my fist through a pumpkin and landing with my nose pressed against the vegetable’s fat surface. I gulped. If my hand had penetrated that mass ...
“Stay right there,” Jeremy’s voice called, “face to the pumpkin, and it’ll be over real quick.” He laughed, and my adrenalin-laced senses picked up the click as he fed the rifle. I scrambled on hands and knees as he fired again, and a shower of orange pulp spattered my back. I took a quick look. I didn’t see any white. The pumpkin must have been one of the uninfected ones.
I heard Jeremy curse. In his anger, I knew the time for playing was over. His next target wouldn’t be a pumpkin.
And then I saw a chance—a small chance.
Among the rows of swollen gourds there lay one runt pumpkin. I ran to it and picked it up. The skin of the orb writhed in my hands. It was loaded with worms.
I’d played soccer in high school. That was a long time ago. But I still knew how to effect a throw-in. Over my head, with both hands, I launched the honeydew-sized runt into a high arc. Even I was amazed at the loft.
But if I was amazed, Jeremy was surprised. Resistance was something he hadn’t expected, and he reacted instinctively.
He took his rifle and fired.
I may be a city slicker, but I’m also a physicist. The bullet split the pumpkin into pieces, but the momentum of the pumpkin couldn’t be stopped by one mere bullet.
And, just before the rain of orange pulp and wriggling white engulfed him, Jeremy let out this long plaintive wail:
“Paaaaa—”
I turned and hustled to the edge of the field. Shrieks of torment echoed through the valley, followed by rasps like the spitting of a wounded animal. But I kept running; I had no wish to gaze on the result of Jeremy’s error. No, Jeremy would never be welcomed as an Elvis lookalike again; perhaps, if he survived at all, he could usher at a Nightmare on Elm Street revival.
I crossed the burn path once more. Behind me, the shrieks had become guttural, rolling sobs. Ahead of me, at last, was my sedan.
I started the car, punched the transmission
Jeremy yelled, “You think I’m gonna let you kill the industry, Mr. Smarty? And kill my farm? My farm? I earned it! After my brothers and sisters left, who was there to take care of Pa and the farm? Me . And you’re not gonna take away what’s mine!”
My legs began to shake even as I pumped my arms harder. I puffed, “So you’re going to kill me—in front of all these witnesses?”
Around the edges of the field, workers had stopped to watch the spectacle. A few were crossing themselves. Others hid their eyes.
“Who’re they going to tell?” Jeremy shouted. “I nmigración ?”
The word had an electrifying effect. As I ran, I saw more of the workers turn their backs.
So most, or all, were illegals. That didn’t surprise me. And I doubted that few, if any, would tell a story about a man in a gray summer suit burned to death by parasites the world knew nothing about and would certainly not believe.
I looked over my shoulder. Jeremy was leisurely dogging my steps. Because I was the closest source of noise, the released vipers followed me and not him. Whatever they were, they were simple organisms with simple reflexes. But that didn’t help me now.
“Pa did have a stroke,” Jeremy yelled as he followed. “It fried some of his brain cells and it’s the reason he can’t keep his yap shut when he ought to.”
Another shot. Another pumpkin obliterated, and I had to turn again. It was obvious Jeremy was a practiced marksman. And playing with me. He could have killed me a dozen times already.
And I was running out of steam. Air came into my lungs in hot, dry blasts and my ears pounded with a pulse like knocking pipes. Sweat ran into my eyes, blinding me, and I stepped into a depression I didn’t see.
I fell, nearly putting my fist through a pumpkin and landing with my nose pressed against the vegetable’s fat surface. I gulped. If my hand had penetrated that mass ...
“Stay right there,” Jeremy’s voice called, “face to the pumpkin, and it’ll be over real quick.” He laughed, and my adrenalin-laced senses picked up the click as he fed the rifle. I scrambled on hands and knees as he fired again, and a shower of orange pulp spattered my back. I took a quick look. I didn’t see any white. The pumpkin must have been one of the uninfected ones.
I heard Jeremy curse. In his anger, I knew the time for playing was over. His next target wouldn’t be a pumpkin.
And then I saw a chance—a small chance.
Among the rows of swollen gourds there lay one runt pumpkin. I ran to it and picked it up. The skin of the orb writhed in my hands. It was loaded with worms.
I’d played soccer in high school. That was a long time ago. But I still knew how to effect a throw-in. Over my head, with both hands, I launched the honeydew-sized runt into a high arc. Even I was amazed at the loft.
But if I was amazed, Jeremy was surprised. Resistance was something he hadn’t expected, and he reacted instinctively.
He took his rifle and fired.
I may be a city slicker, but I’m also a physicist. The bullet split the pumpkin into pieces, but the momentum of the pumpkin couldn’t be stopped by one mere bullet.
And, just before the rain of orange pulp and wriggling white engulfed him, Jeremy let out this long plaintive wail:
“Paaaaa—”
I turned and hustled to the edge of the field. Shrieks of torment echoed through the valley, followed by rasps like the spitting of a wounded animal. But I kept running; I had no wish to gaze on the result of Jeremy’s error. No, Jeremy would never be welcomed as an Elvis lookalike again; perhaps, if he survived at all, he could usher at a Nightmare on Elm Street revival.
I crossed the burn path once more. Behind me, the shrieks had become guttural, rolling sobs. Ahead of me, at last, was my sedan.
I started the car, punched the transmission
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