Cadillacs — And Dinosaurs

“One hell of a tow bill, Mechanic,” Hannah said, nodding at the Caddy. The car’s side panel was dented, the paint scratched down to bare metal.

At the last second, Jack yanked the wheel left. The Carnotaurus lunged, its jaws snapping shut on empty air where the driver’s door had been. The Caddy’s bumper clipped its ankle, sending the beast into a skidding, furious tumble.

Jack climbed back into the Cadillac, shut the door with a solid, vault-like thunk, and let the engine idle. The dashboard glowed green. The fins caught the last light. In a world of teeth and claws, he had a V8 engine, a full tank of gas, and the only law that mattered: the one written in tire tracks and harpoon scars. He put the car in gear and drove toward the sound of screaming, the future melting away behind him like a bad dream. Cadillacs And Dinosaurs

Jack dove back into the driver’s seat. The Caddy’s V8 roared to life, a sound the dinosaur had never heard but instinctively hated. He slammed the gas. The rear wheels spun, kicking up gravel, then caught. The Cadillac shot forward, straight at the charging monster.

“Mechanic,” said Hannah, Dundee’s voice crackling from the dashboard radio. “We got a trail. Fresh. Something big pulled a tanker off the road near the old refinery.” “One hell of a tow bill, Mechanic,” Hannah

It recovered quickly, whipping around with a tail that smashed a lamppost to scrap. Jack didn’t wait. He circled the plaza, kicking up a dust storm. The dinosaur lunged again, and this time Jack let it come. At the apex of its charge, he hit the nitrous. The Cadillac leaped forward like a launched rocket, swerved under the beast’s snapping jaws, and sent the trailing harpoon cable wrapping around a concrete pylon.

He found the beast in a collapsed plaza, snout deep in the ruptured tanker, lapping up the last dregs of synthetic gasoline. Its hide was a mosaic of leathery brown and angry red. Twin horns jutted above its eyes. It was beautiful, in the way a hurricane is beautiful. The Carnotaurus lunged, its jaws snapping shut on

Jack ran a hand over the scar. “She’ll heal,” he said. He popped the trunk, revealing a rack of fresh harpoons, a crate of ammo, and a bottle of pre-war whiskey. He took a long pull, then poured a splash onto the hot asphalt. An offering to the ghosts of Detroit.

The Carnotaurus hit the end of the line. The pylon cracked, but held. The dinosaur crashed onto its side, legs kicking, tangled in a web of its own momentum and high-tension steel. It bellowed in confusion and rage, but it wasn't going anywhere.

Jack followed the trail into the rusting skeleton of the city. The skyscrapers leaned together, their windows long since shattered, vines and ferns bursting from every crevice. A humid, prehistoric stink hung in the air.

“Easy, girl,” Jack whispered to the Caddy, cutting the engine. He climbed onto the hood, balancing the harpoon gun on the roof. The Carnotaurus ’s head snapped up. A vertical pupil narrowed. It let out a guttural hiss that smelled of primordial swamp and petrochemicals.