Free Queensland Crater Story: “Outback Attack”

Welcome, everyone!

I have a freebie to share with you! This was originally published in Murderbirds: An Avian Anthology. And here’s the illustration I painted for the same story to help set the mood.

Would you like some bonus content? Read to the end, and you’ll find an alternate painting for the same anthology!

Enjoy this tale from the world of Queensland Crater, and remember: if you’re on safari, stay in the car and don’t go alone.

And don’t forget to check out my other Queensland Crater stories, Midnight Chase and River Trap. There’s more to come, so stay tuned!

Outback Attack: A Queensland Crater Story

Photographer Dennis Longmire has always managed to get the exciting shots without getting too close for comfort. But in a near-future Australia infested with cloned prehistoric animals, trouble catches up to him in the form of a giant Terror Bird that should have stayed extinct.

The Murderbird from “Outback Attack”, Kelenken guillermoi (currently extinct)

August 21, 2084

Queensland, Australia – 18 km from Queensland Crater

Dennis Longmire cast a nervous glance at the surrounding acacia trees and tall grass, wondering if anything was sizing him up for a meal. With the sun plummeting toward the horizon he would have to stay watchful, and not only for chances to take a solid photo.

Stubbornness alone convinced him to press the dashboard panel once more and check the electric car’s battery. Still no juice. Had the safari company even plugged it in last night?

Dennis shoved open the armored door and climbed out. He threw open the hood to check the connection. The battery looked fine, though seemingly a relic from the 2050s. Overhead, he heard the chittering calls of small Pterosaurs, leaving their nests to feast on insects.

The 2067 GhostCat Terrain Vehicle met some people’s definitions of a tank, reinforced in sheets of carbon-laced ceramic paneling that surely weighed it down. No wonder the battery quit too soon. Kicking one of the wheels, he silently berated himself for cheaping out on electric. He could have splurged on a gas-powered rental, but who needed one of those on a quick drive away from the normal tourist traps?

Not that the New Outback was big on tourism. Everyone was too busy surviving a post-impact landscape where cloned prehistoric fauna had come to dominate. The Land Down Under did have a silver lining, however: it was a gold mine for photographers who didn’t mind a little risk.

What was he worried about, anyway? He could run, and he’d made it most of the way to the Archaeopteryx nests. So long as he kept a step ahead of any dinosaurs, he’d be fine.

Dennis took his camera pack out of the trunk. One of the car’s unfamiliar alarms beeped, and the dashboard screen returned to life. Had some emergency power kicked in? Dennis’s hopes rushed back, but the full display was still blank, save for a small phone icon blinking in the dashboard’s center. He tapped it, leaning over the driver seat.

“Auto Seven, we received a power outage alert.” The sultry female voice had a light Aussie accent, crisp and professional. “We’ve got your location. Is Dennis Longmire there?”

“Speaking,” Dennis said. “Nothing’s chomping on the car, thank God.”

“Glad to hear that, sir. But I couldn’t find a phone number registered with us.”

“Left it at the hotel,” he said with a shrug, though she couldn’t see him. “I wanted some time away from gadgets. Except my camera.”

“I understand, sir. There’s a backup reserve for us to stay in touch. The main power is unresponsive, but I can send an armed man with a recharge truck in two hours.”

“Two hours?”

“Rolling blackouts. Truck needs to recharge, too, I’m afraid.”

Dennis pressed his hands to his face, holding back more pointed words.

“Mister Longmire?” said the operator after a moment.

He took a deep breath. “No. I’m not waiting until night. I’d rather walk.”

“I wouldn’t advise that, sir.”

“I run hundred-meter dashes for fun. Ten klicks is easy for me.” He glanced over his shoulder. About a hundred yards back, he saw the green road sign with white letters spelling out New Winton 10 km, Queensland Crater Visitor Center 18 km. Someone had helpfully added in pink spray paint: Asteroid-free since 2043.

“Sir, I urge you to not leave the vehicle,” the woman said, her pitch slightly heightened. “Some predators are nocturnal, and a family of Gorgosaurus have been stalking the duckbills east of your location.”

“Good thing I’m not here to take pictures of those,” he said. “Just the Archaeopteryx nests. They roost in safe areas, and I’m just half a mile away.” Dennis scanned the tall grass, kneeling to pull his socks over his pant legs to prevent bugs and snakes from crawling inside. If he was going to reach the nests, he’d have to go before dusk.

“We’ll be happy to bring you to the nests tomorrow,” the lady said.

“I fly back to the States tomorrow,” he snapped. “I haven’t had a proper vacation in a year. I spent all week at the sabertooth shelter in Cairns.”

“We’d prefer you stay in the GhostCat, sir.” 

“Well, your people should’ve plugged it in longer. I’ll be back soon.” Dennis tapped the screen to hang up before she could respond. Predictably, the call icon returned, but he didn’t answer. At least they couldn’t lock him inside. People should be allowed to take risks. That was how anything worthwhile was accomplished.

The sun’s disk had just started to fall behind the hills, lighting the clouds on fire. Dennis could make the best of this, so he fished his camera from its pack and snapped a few photos of the clouds. It was a few decades old, but it would still upload pictures to his private digital drive, where he could tinker with them at his leisure after flying back. For now, all he had to do was enjoy the moment.

Dark silhouettes of acacias formed a breathtaking contrast. Here and there, a few of those small Pterosaurs darted about like bats, catching bugs and showing off their impressive acrobatics to rival any diving falcon.

Dennis pocketed the camera and jogged around the patches of taller grass. Archaeopteryx made communal nests in the acacias growing on hilltops and would start hunting to feed their young at dusk. Dennis hoped he could stay quiet enough to not scare the bizarre little dino-birds.

Some part of him wished he had come armed, or with one of the dino-hunters, who spent their days going after bothersome carnivores. But he didn’t have the spare cash to hire one.

Besides, he thought, Dad was right. You don’t have a warrior in you. Dennis knew well enough to avoid circumstances where he’d have to fight. Combat was simply not his forte. Keeping his distance, on the other hand, was a skill he’d cultivated. He’d be fine. Just a quick ten or twenty minutes at the nests, and back to the car for a nap before the truck picked him up. Stretching his legs would do him some good. No wildlife had shown up yet, except for the flying reptiles circling overhead, emitting those odd clicking calls that didn’t belong in the Outback.

He wondered how those calls, voices from a world long vanished, sounded to the first geneticists who made these animals. Cloning long-extinct life had been thought impossible. But once the process was figured out, someone had suggested a prehistoric preserve in Australia, largely as a publicity stunt to raise funds for the main project: restoring the Outback’s wildlife, making it as if the asteroid that formed Queensland Crater had never wiped the slate clean.

Naturally, the “publicity stunts” had gotten loose, and the kangaroos and koalas now risked being outcompeted by ancient species. But that was someone else’s problem to solve. Dennis could ride the wave and get a couple of gorgeous shots along the way.

He followed a dry riverbed uphill, where he could see trees crowning a gentle swell of earth. Wind carried the whispered echoes of bird calls. Who cared if the rental service was wringing their hands? If they slapped him with a penalty fine, so be it. Dennis didn’t go home empty-handed. He wasn’t a warrior, but the new Australia was not going to beat him.

This was one of the few places where the Outback still looked like its pre-impact self. Most other locations were smothered in imported plants, another misguided effort to speed along Australia’s recovery.

His gaze reflexively snagged on something he thought was a blackened tree trunk, standing about a hundred yards distant and stripped of all branches. He’d read that brush fires would scorch the acacias here and leave their trunks standing tall as the grass regrew beneath them. Except this trunk stood at the edge of a grove, where all of the other trees were quite untouched.

He could have sworn the lone burnt trunk had moved. Just slightly.

Dennis stopped and squinted through the zoom function of his camera, trying to see it in the fading light. Sure enough, it was the curved neck of an animal. A large bird, judging by the eagle-like beak which glimmered against the sunset. A crown of feathers adorned the top of its head, and the animal seemed to be watching him. It remained stone-still except to twitch that large head.

Wasn’t there a huge flightless bird in these parts? By now there were more cloned animals than he could keep track of, but a name bubbled up from the fringes of memory. Gastornis, he thought. Wasn’t that the name?

He kept an eye on the bird, nodding to himself. Yeah, must be one of those. Gastornis was a member of the so-called “terror birds,” but it had turned out to be an herbivore. Carnivorous birds from the same family were confined to southern Australia, thankfully. Still, even herbivores could have quite the mean streak when defending territory or young, so he’d give the bird a wide berth.

Dennis started up the dry riverbed again, passing another cluster of the ever-present acacias. The nesting grounds were less than a quarter mile away. Already he could clearly hear the Archaeopteryx, noting how similar their calls were to the nattering of magpies.

He glanced back where he expected the Gastornis to be. And froze.

The giant bird was closer now. Much closer.

It must have approached when he couldn’t see it through the trees, and now it stood still again. It watched Dennis, rigid as a statue. The posture and bulk reminded him of a shoebill, an African bird with a similarly unsettling gaze. But this creature must have stood ten feet tall, twice the height of a shoebill.

How far was it? Fifty yards, maybe sixty? Dennis slowly cursed. He had only looked away for a few seconds. To cover that much ground…

Maybe the Archaeopteryx could wait.

Don’t run. Don’t give it a reason to chase you. Fear slowly overtook his initial confusion. Dennis backed away, keeping the bird in sight and looking over his shoulder as he turned around. It didn’t move, except for the head tracking him.

  He had been face-to-face with the sabertooth cats in Cairns, but always with them behind bars. The violence of nature seemed so distant before now. Animal attacks happened to other people, but not him.

Stupid. You stupid idiot. You should’ve stayed in the car. The bird’s head kept following Dennis as he backed up far enough for the grove to come between them again.

Hell with it, Dennis thought. The bird couldn’t see him now, and he decided getting a headstart with running outweighed the risk of provoking it to chase him. Gastornis ate plants. He’d probably just wandered too close to its nest. Still, that giant beak could do some damage. Dennis had seen photos of hikers’ remains, after they met the variety of terror birds that ate meat. There wasn’t much of a body left.

He broke into a dead sprint, gravel slipping under his feet and nearly toppling him. The huge bird gave chase, its shadow lengthened by the sunset and crossing his own.

Dennis’s heart went into overdrive, pumping adrenaline-laced blood. He kicked his legs hard to buy some distance. Other than the bird’s heavy feet slamming the earth, it pursued him in silence.

Get to the car. But would even the car be safe? Could it stand up to that beak? Something told him he wouldn’t live long enough to find out. A loud clack sounded behind him once, twice. Was the bird snapping that giant pickaxe of a beak after him?

Dennis dashed through tall grass, straight to the car. He could see its shape just through the stalks.

The towering form of a second terror bird loomed over the dead vehicle.

Waiting for him.

Dennis glimpsed black feathers shining in the fading light, and harsh gold eyes tracking him behind a bright beak. He spun around at the edge of the dirt road, nearly falling. The second bird strode toward him on gigantic black legs, but Dennis was already back on his feet, blurring past the car and running back up the road.

Now he heard two sets of clawed feet pounding after him.

Ten kilometers to town. Six miles. No way he could make that distance. 

A bridge. He’d crossed a metal bridge that spanned a ravine, just a little ways past that graffiti-stained road sign. The bridges here had metal grating, to try and discourage wildlife from crossing. That could buy him some time. If he could get across, he could slow the birds down. Then he could double back to the car and lock himself inside.

Were terror birds supposed to be marathon runners? Maybe they couldn’t run as fast as emus or ostriches. Some silent warning gently poked at conscious thought: the birds weren’t catching up or falling behind. They kept pace with Dennis. Like they wanted him to run.

He passed the road sign, coming to a bend in the road. Dennis’s drumming heart leapt. He was almost at the bridge. He barreled on, ignoring the fire in his spent lungs and fatigued muscles.

Vegetation gave way and showed the bridge, almost before he realized it was there. Dennis shot across to the other side, heard his pursuers’ footsteps fall behind, slow, and stop.

Tall metal posts to either side of the bridge sported weak LED lights, and moths had started to flutter around them. A huge broken branch lay next to the road, nearly as long as he was tall. Dennis decided it was better than nothing, skidding to a halt to grab it.

Turning around, he finally got a good look at the terror birds. Their black feathers shimmered with a hint of iridescence. Those bright yellow beaks were as long as his arm, sharp as axe blades. The coloration suggested an absurd image of giant toucans. Their legs looked too powerful even for beasts of that size, wrapped in exaggerated muscles. Four great yellow eyes glared at him with pitiless hunger.

One bird planted a cautious foot on the bridge, its body jostling as it adjusted its stance. The vestigial wings unfolded from its bulky torso, flapping up and down. Blue-and-white feathers emerged from under the black as the plumage spread out. The animal took another deliberate step forward, and its companion followed.

Both animals raised their beaks skyward, not vocalizing but snapping with that same unsettling clack he’d heard earlier.

They were coming. That burst of exertion left his lungs and muscles burning. Town was miles away, and help wasn’t coming for hours. He had a multitool in his pocket, but the knife blade was laughably insufficient to gut a terror bird.

He held the branch up in case the birds charged, brandishing it like a knight gripping a trusted sword. Or maybe a caveman with a club. At least he had a chance to go down fighting, warrior or not.

Foliage rustled, just to his left. Something kicked him hard in his side, throwing him clear to the road’s opposite edge. His head struck the ground, and he rolled as lights burst in his vision. He coughed, trying to get wind back in his lungs. Lightning seemed to have struck his flank, and he realized ribs must have cracked.

The shape of a third terror bird strode out of the brush next to him, silent as death. He folded into the fetal position, closing around his fractured bones. He’d lost the branch.

The first two birds stepped off the bridge, opening their beaks to give off a sinister hiss. They circled him, framed against the fiery clouds overhead. They had set a trap for him, had herded him into a killing zone like some panicking prey animal.

He couldn’t force his body to rise. Dennis was a helpless kid again, paralyzed in a nightmare as monsters clawed through the closet door.

Where was the branch? All Dennis had was the multitool and his camera, still in his pocket. The third terror bird and its companions surrounded him, each one about five yards away. They stood there for a moment, the three heads lowered and evaluating him.

Every breath hurt as he reminded his arm to move, and time itself crawled slower. Could he at least snap a picture of his killers, and show what happened to him? With a trembling grip he drew the camera from his pocket and pressed the shutter release.

The resulting white flash seemed so feeble, but the birds faltered in their steps. With his fingers shaking, he had to try several times to activate the flash again. Then he pressed it a third time. A fourth. Each of the birds took a step back, shaking their heads. When Dennis could see the pupils, they had contracted to pinpoints.

They hadn’t closed in yet. Now was his chance. Back on his feet, he broke into a clumsy run along the road’s edge, faltering as his boots snagged on roots or stones. He could still try to get back across the bridge, into the car, and hope he could get in touch with the rental service.

Except he was going the wrong way. He’d gotten turned around when the bird kicked him. Dennis tried to double back and collided with a wall of muscle and feathers. The camera tumbled out of his hand.

He heard fabric ripping, felt molten metal pour down his back. One of the beaks had hooked into his flesh. Dennis screamed as he collapsed backward, scrambling away from the giant bird.

His fingers found something rough and jagged in the grass. It was the branch he’d picked up earlier. Anger welled up from somewhere deep inside Dennis, washing over the fire in his ribs, the pain in his shoulder, dampening both.

Not without a fight.

Tightening his grip on the branch, Dennis launched back to his feet and whipped around. He attacked the creature that had bitten him, slamming the limb against the top of its head. That bloodstained beak opened in an agonized screech as the monster jumped back.

He swung his improvised club again, connecting with the thick neck of another bird. The wood shattered against iron-hard muscle. He’d knocked a few black feathers loose, and his target stumbled back from the impact.

The bird he hadn’t hit took a half-step back, cold and cautious as it sized him up.  The other two glared. Some distant piece of him knew he was just gripping half a branch now, and they hadn’t retreated.

Dennis was going to die.

Under the enraged hissing built another noise. It sounded like a revving engine, racing up from behind. The acacias around him lit up with unsteady white light. Something heavy crashed along the road, headlights jumping and throwing shadows through the darkening forest.

A truck.

One terror bird, the one he’d hit on the neck, darted its head forward. The beak struck his pained side, hitting the cracked ribs. New fire ripped into him. A high-pitched cry tore from Dennis’s lips as he spilled on the ground.

The bird rushed him, pinned Dennis with a heavy foot over his thigh, pressing down with so much force he was sure his femur would snap.

Dennis didn’t know how the multitool got into his grip, but there it was, his hands working to pry out the knife blade. He screamed through the agony of leaning up far enough to reach that black demon’s foot, and drove the blade in between the long, clawed toes.

It was the bird’s turn to scream, that anvil of a foot lifting away and taking the knife with it. The other birds lowered their giant heads and screeched at the approaching vehicle, as if to challenge it.

A cloud of thick dust billowed ahead of the truck as the driver hit its brakes, just before the bumper slammed one of the birds. The impact toppled the giant avian backward. It rolled with the momentum and stood back up with uncanny agility, before it sped off into the forest. The leader’s two cohorts shot off after, disappearing into the dark.

Only now did Dennis start to realize how much it hurt just to breathe. He lay there on the ground as someone leapt from the truck’s driver side door, a tall man in a coat that reached his ankles, gripping a massive rifle.

“Better cover your ears,” the driver said. “Stay down.”

Dennis obeyed, trying not to faint from the lightning shredding his nerves as a gunshot boomed across the forest. He could feel the shock wave jolt through the ground. Another two reports from the rifle, and then he felt the frightened silence of the forest afterward.

“Did you get them?” said a female voice from inside the truck.

“Not a chance. They’re too fast. But it’ll scare ‘em away for a minute. Get him in before they come back.”

In spite of the agony, Dennis fought to rise, feeling gentle hands help lift him under the shoulders. He gasped as the motion tugged at the wound on his back. Someone opened a door for him, and he clambered into the back seat, gritting his teeth as warm blood soaked his shirt, fighting to hold back his tears.

Once the door shut, the truck lunged off, speeding down the road toward New Winton.

“All in a day’s work,” the man muttered. Only now did Dennis notice the American accent.

Dennis held his side, trying to minimize the hurt of breathing with cracked ribs. The woman had climbed into the back next to him, a blonde in her early twenties. Pretty, but too young for him.

The burly American had set his rifle in the passenger seat. He might have been in his late fifties or early sixties. With his hair still dark, it was hard to tell. He slapped the steering wheel with a callused hand. “I told them the Kelenken were encroaching north. Why the hell does nobody listen to me?” With a shake of his head, he glanced back at Dennis. “You must be Mister Longmire, right?”

Dennis coughed, tasting dust in his mouth. “I’m the moron, yes.”

“Well, at least you’re admitting it,” the girl said, flashing a bright grin at him. “Marie Larkwood.”

“Good to meet you. What did he call those things? Kelenken?”

She nodded. “Kelenken guillermoi is the full name. Biggest bloody terror birds we know of. Not supposed to be this far north, but…well, looks like that info’s out of date.”

“So, not Gastornis?” Dennis said.

He regretted asking. The girl’s smile disappeared into a stare of withering contempt. “Someone needs to hit you up the head with a field guide, mate. Gastornis has white and green feathers. Doesn’t look anything like Satan’s Toucans back there.”

The truck lurched, and a new stab of pain accompanied every bump. Dennis was just glad to be alive. “Noted. Are you guys the New Winton rescue crew, or something?” he said, clenching his teeth.

The man barked a harsh laugh. “Kinda. We’re the volunteers who got out here fastest. Marie here’s a vet assistant. She and her mom can patch you up at the field hospital.” Without looking away from the road, the man reached over his seat, extending a hand toward Dennis. “Clyde Marshall, freelance hunter.”

Dennis shook his hand, surprised Clyde kept a gentle grip. “I bet you’ve gotten a lot of dumb tourists out of scrapes before.”

“A few. It’s part of the gig. Hell of a lot better than finding a corpse when I get there.”

“Did the rental service call you guys?”

Grinning, Clyde looked back at him. “Oh, that reminds me. They’ll retrieve the GhostCat tomorrow. If we found you alive, I was supposed to give you a message. They said it kinda colorful, but…”

“I’m not getting back my security deposit, am I?”

“Nope,” Clyde said.

“That’s fair. Just wish I’d held onto my camera. You think the photos will upload from here?”

Marie laughed. “Still not much signal out here. Sorry, mate.”

Figures. They came to a smoother stretch of the road, almost a straight shot back to town. 

“I saw you fighting those birds when we drove up,” Clyde said. “Most of the time, folks just curl up, and the birds pick at ‘em until they’re dead. But not you. You put up a hell of a fight, Mister Longmire. That’s something to be proud of.”

Dennis tried to shrug, wincing as his motion tugged on the laceration along his back. “Looks like I can be a warrior, after all.” Even through his pain, that alone was worth a smile.

The End

Alternate painting of the Kelenken, and more paleontologically accurate. Done in watercolor.

Return to the Blog, Murderbirds, River Trap

Back in business, and ready to go.

Some new publications have already been released. Thanks for bearing with me. More stories are on the way, and here are a couple to whet your appetite.

I have now been published in a new anthology. (You can go to the Amazon links by clicking on the images)

Murderbirds! Unhelpful Encyclopedia, vol. 1 is now available on Amazon. Just click the link on the cover art below. Mike Jack Stuombos is a terrific and generous editor, and he has put together a stellar collection of killer bird stories. “Outback Attack: A Queensland Crater Story” is published alongside works by Wulf Moon, Jody Lynn Nye, Martin L. Shoemaker, and many other talented and accomplished writers. It’s an honor to have my story included alongside them.

My next Queensland Crater story “River Trap” is out and was a #1 bestseller in the 1-hour Short Reads for Sci-Fi and Fantasy! This one was fun to write, with a cranky Spinosaurus named Sobek, and Helen Larkwood and Clyde Marshall are back to fend off cranky Cretaceous Carnivores.

More is on the way, writing and art-wise! I can’t wait to share it with all of you!

Murderbirds: Unhelpful Encyclopedia vol. 1
River Trap: A Queensland Crater Story

Free Dinosaur Art Lessons, Part 2

Dinosaurs are some of the coolest things anyone can draw. I’ve already posted some of the art lessons I made as handouts for events, and now I have more to give!

Feel free to print and copy these, for kids and kids at heart. Just follow the 1-2-3 instructions, and you’re all set!

For this batch, we have Tyrannosaurus rex, Triceratops, Spinosaurus, Carnotaurus, and Parasaurolophus. Enjoy!

Painting With Coffee

I’ve recently taken to trying a new medium with painting: espresso. Turns out you can use it like watercolor paint. Along with it being the elixir of life, now it can be used to capture scenes from life.

Here are two of my more recent projects, with both of the originals going to a good home:

Howling Jackalope

Mokele-Mbembe encounter

Both of these are on 4×6 inch watercolor paper. More pieces will come soon. I’m going to play around with this medium a little and see what can be done with it.

More Fiction! “Arrivers” and “Queensland Crater”

Long time no see, everyone! Hope you’re all having a blessed day.

I have been spending much time toiling away on new fiction projects. I’m currently waiting to hear back on a couple of stories, and am finishing a few others to go direct to Kindle.

In addition to “Descent,” the long-awaited fifth installment of the Arrivers serial (Due out June 30th) I am starting up another Kindle sci-fi serial for your reading pleasure: Queensland Crater.

Basic premise: right around the time we figure out how to clone dinosaurs in the early 2030s (and everyone wants them alive again without much thought for the implications), a small asteroid just so happens to hit the Outback, and wipes out most of the local ecology. Since Australia is actually large enough to support these animals in a self-functioning ecosystem (unlike a tiny Costa Rican island resort), the advances in genetic engineering enable us to make some very poor decisions, and rewild the Land Down Under with plants, big bugs, Pterosaurs, mammoths, and of course more dinos than you can shake a shotgun at.

Because when the general public clamors for something, it’s always wise to give them what they want.

Queensland1

Don’t worry, we don’t lose koalas and kangaroos forever. When you can rebuild a Stegosaurus from scratch, a wombat is not going to be much of a challenge.

After the law of unintended consequences hits Australia like a ton of bricks, hunters are called in to try and keep the new wildlife populations in check. So if you ever wanted to pick up a high-powered rifle and go T. rex hunting, you finally have a chance to learn what a terrible idea it is. The story follows hunter Tom Wells and his grandfather Clyde, trying to stay alive and make some money while cleaning up someone else’s mess.

[About hunting Tyrannosaurs: no, seriously, the bone pathology on Rex skeletons shows they were extremely hard to kill. They have injuries that should have been fatal, but show signs of healing. Kind of like Wolverine, but without the metal claws or Hugh Jackman’s roguish demeanor.]

So if this sounds like your cup of tea, I look forward to sharing it with you. The first chapter, Queensland Crater, comes out July 7, and the second, Welcome to the Hunt, should be out July 14.

See you at the Crater. Happy hunting!

Screwtape Writes a Response to Rod Dreher’s “The Benedict Option”

I’m not sure if I’m supposed to enjoy writing more Screwtape Letters.

If you have heard of a book called The Benedict Option… well, you could say it “inspired” me to write a shot across its bow.

My Dear Wormwood,

Your continued involvement with your Patient’s fretting and worrying has provided me with some encouragement. I am even entertaining the notion that you are starting to learn from your previous incompetence. A few millennia behind the curve, perhaps, but this change is welcome all the same.

I shall here expound on some material we have covered before, mainly to show you why your efforts have paid off. This will serve in case you have succeeded by mere accident, and I hope it shall be a reminder for the future. You have bungled enough assignments in the past that I must take such precautions.

Your man is a professional worrywort, ever “concerned with preserving God’s kingdom,” never mind that he has mislabeled the Enemy’s kingdom by treating it as one and the same with what it has wrought upon Earth. He conflates the effect with the cause (perhaps not consciously), and treats the preservation of his preferred culture with the same priority as spreading their so-called “Gospel.”

Your Patient is plainly interested in safeguarding what he mistakes for the kingdom as if it had become a dusty relic, one that would crumble to powder at the lightest breath. Perfectly laughable, of course. Has the Enemy placed the keys to His realm in the hand of this tiny mortal? Hardly! The Enemy admittedly has erected a fortress that can spread and adapt and convert at frightening speed, if we become complacent in our work. That fortress must be fought constantly, for it neither crumbles nor retreats.

Additionally, I am gratified to hear of your Patient’s daily paralysis, even to the point of publishing a book, allowing his paralysis to become a contagion. Even if the book contains much of what the Enemy claims to be “Truth,” Our Father Below knows well that poison works best when smuggled inside something nourishing.

You did well in coaxing your patient to accept calamity and defeat before they have even come knocking! He has gone from asking, “What kind of world will my children inhabit, if the world continues to go on its present course?” to stating that the world WILL manifest his every personal nightmare. Not only a general deterioration, but the worst of everything he, in particular, envisions. In most regards, you have ably stopped up the Enemy’s little words from having noticeable effect. “Take up your sword.” “Be salt and light to the world.” “The gates of Hell will not withstand your assault.”

Given our subterfuge, even the Enemy’s whispers need not take effect, if worry is there to shield the Patient’s mind. But the application extends beyond mere dulling of your Patient’s senses. Worry is one of the great forces of rot. Its main effect lies in the spirit world of course, but it also carries over to the mental domain, and finally begins to deteriorate the body as well. We must not forget the lesser effects, for if worry is sufficiently fed, it can cascade into a cycle of atrophy. The mind and body begin to suffer its effects, and soon every trend of persecution and slander will make his little world seem like it is unraveling as surely as his body.

That being said, here stands the great danger to you. At every cost, we must ensure the Patient continues to deflect the Enemy’s encouragement. If the Enemy steals past our barriers, and the antidote to inner defeat sinks in, where there once crouched a gaunt man, timid and trembling, you will see there now strides a mighty warrior. And the likes of such warriors are among the greatest threats to our cause at this point in human history.

But continue your work. Your patient has even come to view retreat and huddling in dark corners as some noble, preservative strategy. That was, I confess, masterful on your part. For if you can convince even the most imposing of soldiers that his side is already on the retreat, often he will drop his sword without need of you to pry it off his corpse.

Your affectionate Uncle,

Screwtape

Fisking a Critique of “Jurassic World: Fallen Kingdom”

You occasionally come across someone’s effort to correct an error, but the correction itself is more wrongheaded than Ronald McDonald with the face of Pennywise the Dancing Clown.

Science Insider/Tech Insider decided to try and make some noise about the fifth installment in the Jurassic Park series, under the guise of promoting scientific literacy.

For the most part, they fail spectacularly. Here’s the video:

https://youtu.be/JE6a_ebBaos

I don’t know, Blue doesn’t look amused. Copyright Universal.

How does this video’s content manage to bungle the already-questionable science of Jurassic World? Well, we’re about to find out.

After twice seeing “Jurassic World: Fallen Kingdom” and loving it, I think it’s time for a thorough, old-fashioned fisking.

Fair warning, this goes on for a while. The video’s words will be in bold. For the sake of logic and scientific literacy, here goes:

The newest Jurassic World installment is upon us like a hungry T. rex, who doesn’t have any feathers for some reason.
[Cue obnoxious question marks]

Apart from the ongoing debate about feathers in the lineage of Tyrannosaurs that included T. rex, there’s a very simple reason for this: it’s the same car-stomping, Raptor-tossing, lawyer-eating Tyrannosaurus rex from the original Jurassic Park.

Were you expecting her to sprout plumage in her old age? A fashionable feather boa for a night on the town, perhaps? No. She’s bare and proud.

Some paleontologists have given lip service to the need of maintaining continuity, then complain anyway. But if you’re a storyteller, continuity is going to be one of the biggest concerns. If you’re depicting the same animal, you cannot ignore continuity without shattering that whole “suspension of disbelief” thing.

The case for feathers on T. rex isn’t a very solid one, by the way. At the moment, most of what we’re getting is excuses about why we haven’t found Rex feathers yet. “The soil wasn’t right to preserve them,” “the scale impressions we’ve found were not on parts of the body where you’d expect feathers,” etc. But if we find a Rex (or close cousin) with feathers, then I’ll eat crow with some humble pie a la mode.

1. Many dinosaurs had feathers.

Yes, this has been established, and pointed out ad nauseum. Thank you.

In fact, the point has been so belabored, that the previous movie had Dr. Wu point out what was obvious since Crichton published Jurassic Park in 1990:

Nothing in Jurassic World is natural! We have always filled gaps in the genome with the DNA of other animals, and if their genetic code was pure, many of them would look quite different. But you didn’t ask for reality. You asked for more teeth!”

That right there should have ended paleontologists taking offense at inaccurate dinosaurs in the Jurassic Park universe. Not only is their DNA fragmented and necessarily patched up with other species, but InGen built a theme park with designer animals, crafted to match market expectations of what a dinosaur “ought to” look like.

It doesn’t match reality, but more people still find a scaly raptor more appealing. You’ll draw a bigger crowd with a Mosasaurus the size of a blue whale, rather than the genuine article, which was “only” the length of a tractor trailer.

2. Genetics doesn’t work that way.

This is Jurassic Park 5, and you’re just now figuring that out?

Actually, the video entirely misses the real issue with genetics. They can’t even correct the right inaccuracy:

Sure, some species can breed. That’s how you get a Liger. But the Indoraptor isn’t like a liger. It’s a mix of a type of Tyrannosaur and Raptor, two very different kinds of animals!

Well, that’s kind of right. It’s a hybrid between a Raptor and the Indominus (HENCE THE NAME INDORAPTOR), but the Indominus’ base genome was a T. rex. Close enough.

It would be more like if you tried to breed a lion with a wolf instead. It’s just not going to happen. The DNA isn’t compatible.

Do I really have to say it?

I have to say it, don’t I? [Sigh] Fine!

Tech Insider is playing the part of the investor of questionable intelligence from the first Jurassic World, asking how they got two different kinds of dinosaurs to mate and produce the Indominus.

Just one problem: InGen was not engaging in selective breeding! I thought that had been thoroughly established once we saw DNA being extracted from amber-entombed mosquitos, but someone didn’t get the memo.

To quote Dr. Wu again:

Oh, the Indominus wasn’t bred. She was designed.

InGen adopted the other way to create a hybrid: combine DNA from different types of animals and integrate them into a new whole: the Indoraptor. That’s how they patched up dino-DNA enough to get any animals in the first place.

Ironically, that is much more difficult than selective breeding, since DNA is such a complicated and finicky molecule. And genetic barriers between different types of animals are going to place a huge limit on artificial hybridization for many years to come.

But part of the movies’ whole premise is that InGen somehow figured out how to get around those barriers. Dinosaurs get frog DNA, and now they can change sex and reproduce. The Indominus uses its cuttlefish DNA to camouflage and tree frog DNA to hide from thermal cameras.

Pretty laughable if you’re a geneticist, but when it comes to suspension of disbelief, you’re either on board with that or not. If you go to a Star Wars movie, you know there will be sound in space. You either accept that or you do not.

3. Dinosaurs didn’t roar….their voice box was probably similar to a bird’s.

Where to even start? This all stems from one voice box that resembled a duck’s, recovered from a small dinosaur that actually was kind of birdlike.

But fossils do not preserve everything that goes into animal vocalizations. All those soft, squishy parts are way more likely to rot than fossilize. Go figure.

We can find some clues, but little to nothing that is conclusive. Did T. rex roar? Maybe.

Plus, to state the obvious, dinosaurs were an incredibly diverse group of animals. This is just as irrational as saying all mammals sound alike.

4. Raptors had wings.

Yes, it seems that was the case. Dakotaraptor and Velociraptor do seem to have bumps on their arm bones that would serve as anchoring points for large quill-like feathers. But see Dr. Wu’s point above. These are InGen’s designer raptors, patched together and reassembled into a different organism.

5. Dinosaurs were colorful. Yeah, Jurassic World’s dinosaurs are way too dull.

Ah, I see someone got their hands on a DeLorean and went on a little Jurassic Safari. Now they can confidently state that the species in the film are not even colored right. Glad we got that cleared up.

Sure, earth tones like green and brown are common in today’s reptiles, but paleontologists have found that dinosaurs came in a kaleidoscope of bright colors, just like today’s birds.

Now they’re generalizing two groups of diverse animals, not just one. Plenty of birds have dull or earthen tones, like sparrows and partridges. Not everything is going to be a peacock or macaw. And plenty of reptiles have spectacular colors, like rainbow boas and agamas and chameleons. It’s not just alligators and Komodo dragons.

In living animals, even the same species can exhibit stark differences in coloration, depending on sex, stage of life, environment, etc.

We have to also keep in mind the fact that in larger animals, there is a higher prevalence of dull or uniform colors. Elephants, rhinos, tapirs, hippos, gorillas, etc. But there are exceptions as well, like giraffes. And in Jurassic World, most of the dinosaurs are huge. I tend toward thinking the same prevalence of dull colors occurred in the big ones, but I’ve never seen one alive.

Point being, the animal world is complicated.

—–

If you have gotten all the way through this, thank you. It is much appreciated.

For a long rant, there’s a very simple lesson here: Don’t get your science education from Hollywood blockbusters! Enjoy the ride, but remember to pick up a book or go to a science website if you have a question.

Second lesson: if you’re going to nitpick a movie like it’s supposed to be a museum exhibit in some quest to make yourself hip and relevant, have at it. But be careful to not make mistakes of your own, and make your audience doubly misinformed!

Blog Tour: A.K. Preston’s “The Gevaudan Project”

Author and friend Alexander Preston is launching his new book The Gevaudan Project on Amazon. Included in this post is “The Watcher,” a prequel short story for your reading pleasure.

Be sure to check the book out on Amazon!

THE GEVAUDAN PROJECT

A team of naturalists find themselves facing a nightmare beyond anything they have ever known – and the product of unspeakable evil.

Philip Caster, a former Green Beret now working as a zoologist, leads an international team in Indonesia whose revolutionary new program may spell salvation for the endangered Sumatran tiger. They will release six artificially-conceived cubs into the wild, accompanied by their surrogate mothers. The effort will prove the feasibility of in vitro breeding as a new tool against extinction. But its success is overshadowed by the sudden emergence of a horror beyond reckoning. Something has been unleashed in the forests of Sumatra. A life-form never meant to walk the earth. One that claims humanity as its only prey. 

As death unfolds around them, Caster and his circle of friends must uncover the truth behind an abomination: the instrument of dark and all-too-human forces pursuing a twisted ideological vision. Their creation has killed already – and their plans will consume millions more.

Gevaudan Eye

The Watcher

“I have set watchmen upon thy walls, O Jerusalem, which shall never hold their peace day nor night: ye that make mention of the Lord, keep not silence.”

Isaiah 62:6

August 15, 2007

Iraq

There were blossoms on the wind. He knew that omens were a lie, but it brought him comfort nonetheless.

He was in danger here. The desert roads were natural hunting grounds for the insurgents who had replaced the robbers and Army deserters of earlier days. The hill itself had once carried the omnipresent threat from the old regime’s security garrison. None of them had molested him once.

He set his staff and lowered himself at the foot of the hill, having walked two hours. His muscles burned, and a dry tongue clung to the roof his mouth. He had brought neither bread nor water with him. The Brethren always joined him in fasting before the journey. He felt their sustenance even now. Nevertheless, each had their calling within the Body, and this one fell to him alone.

A vulture circled overhead. He had spotted bird when he began the journey, and it seemed to have followed him. He watched it in silence, brow furrowed against the sun. His fingers tightened around the staff.

He paid no heed to soothsayers and would do no more to unto the fowls of the air. But the Devil too had his agents upon the earth.

The rest ended. He rose and climbed. The hill was barely worthy of the name, but the slope burned at his calves.

He reached the top and spread the blanket beneath a cluster of trees. Only one other item had made the journey with him. He knelt and opened the book upon the blanket, a Testament far older than the Prophet his countrymen revered.

Our Father which art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name…

A single finger traced the script of his own beloved tongue upon the page, the letters flowing as mellifluously as the words.

The first of his devotions complete, he gently closed the book and leaned back to sit upon his heels. He looked over the parched grounds of the valley, his own resting place shaded by the palm leaves that thrived with other hardy vegetation in the desert clime. It reflected, he thought, upon the whole of this great yet unhappy land, to which he was both son and stranger.

His eyes coursed across the landscape, resting at last upon the ruins directly beneath the hill. Crumbled, sun-bleached brick was still visible amidst more recent construction – recreations of what had vanished centuries before. The walls surrounded a larger, rectangular building at the center. Spaced battlements stood silent and empty of the sentinels who had once watched over the city gates. Ghosts of the days when a king still ruled from Babylon.

In the ages since, many had come and gone. Persians, Greeks, Parthians, Romans, Sassanians. His own kindred had poured upon the land like an endless sea and paved the way for yet more ephemeral conquerors. Umayyads, Abbasids, Ayyubids, Mongols, Safavids, Afsharids and Ottomans, briefly replaced in their turn by the British, who had granted the land a Kingdom. Then came the Republic. Saddam.

Now the Americans.

The local garrison had observed his pilgrimages with apprehension at first. This gave way to curiosity, then amusement, fascination and, over time, respect. The commander himself had requested an audience. They had asked one another many questions, learned many things and parted with abiding friendship. The commander and his soldiers were departed now, most to their own homeland, the others redeployed to quell the uprisings in Anbar. He prayed for all of them each day. He too was at war.

He closed his eyes, breathing inward as the Vision came to him again. There were six now. Three architects. Three builders. The German had completed the circle.

Still self-blinded, he shifted the direction of his body. The Evil came out of the West. But it would rise in the East. It gathered there even now, awaiting its own birth.

Images unfolded before his mind’s eye. A green, verdant pasture, endless yet bounded by a forest. Within the grass, a flock stood grazing. Ewe lambs, white, unblemished, yet seemingly newly born. They wandered free within the open air, and he saw neither fence nor shepherd.

Then they came.

The forest itself became darker, viscous, the shadows themselves transforming into mist. Black, hooded figures emerged from the edge, scythe-armed, tall as the trees that should have towered over them. Three groups advanced of as many reapers, blades held high. The lambs were cut down in a swift, systematic slaughter, some silent, some bleating out their final cries of fear. The scythes descended in repeated strokes upon the dying, unleashing blood that flowed in streams.

The last victim fell, and the streams joined into a single river that cut across the pasture in angry scarlet. Their bloody task complete, the reapers knelt before it.

And drank.

It was a very mockery of Gideon. Of the nine, six cast aside their weapon and descended to the knee, plunging their face into the bloody flow. The remaining three grasped their scythes and with the other hand dipped and lapped.

Of these three, one alone drank its fill. The head turned, and he beheld a face beneath the hood, staring back at him with golden, pitiless eyes. The likeness of a man – and a beast.

He opened his eyes and beheld the sun once more. The Vision – and all the others that had come and would again – held no terror for him. The futures he saw were not his own.

He took another breath, inhaling the scent of blossoms and of trees.

Like Daniel before him, he would pray three times today. But his face was not towards Jerusalem. Daniel had been a mediator, interceding for the sins of his people when there was yet no Covenant of Grace. He was a warrior, avenging the sufferings of Man. His prayers were his swords, rebuking the seat of Babel and all that it had brought into the world.

Thy Cross, O Lord, deliver us from the gods of this latter age…

Thus he warred for the innocent, the righteous, and the lost.

Finis

“And these signs shall follow them that believe; In my name shall they cast out devils; they shall speak with new tongues; They shall take up serpents; and if they drink any deadly thing, it shall not hurt them; they shall lay hands on the sick, and they shall recover.”

Mark 16:17-18

Merry Rexmas

After a long absence, I am returning. Santa Claws, equipped with a giant grabbing claw, would like to wish everyone a Merry Christmas and a prosperous New Year. Unless he decides you look like food.

He sees you when you’re sleeping

He knows when you’re awake

You taste the same if you’re bad or good

So just run for goodness sake


Screwtape on Fantasy: A Response to Todd Friel

Todd Friel of the ministry called “Wretched” and others have come out against fantasy fiction having any place in the life of a Christian. You can find his video on Youtube, concerning “wizard fiction.”

In response, I wrote my idea of a possible “Screwtape Letter.” I do hope it does no dishonor to C.S. Lewis.

—-

My dear Wormwood,

I am writing to address your inquiry in your most recent letter, regarding the use of the fantastic in the Patient’s reading habits.

In truth, the subject in and of itself is of little use to Our Father Below, and I expected better even from the likes of you. I must once again indulge the holding of your hand through this matter.

When fiction is the reader’s chosen subject, he ventures into a cinema or into the pages of a book, knowing full well the story’s author is not presenting a documentary or a statement of belief. It is what one might call a neutered lie. All the sinister pleasures of deception have been defanged, because almost all Patients will not take the story as descriptive of reality. Since our goal is to cast illusions and phantoms across the face of real life, attempts to harness fiction to our Father’s cause are severely hampered before we’re even out of the gate.

It is true that a human’s worldview influences their process of artistic creation, and therefore influences those who partake in it. But the medium itself, as a neutered lie, in most cases can only impart a watered-down influence. Even here, however, there can be some meager potential, which I shall explain in a moment.

The human art of pretend storytelling (including the more fantastical varieties) is comparable to any of their other artistic endeavors. Art is not a den of sin by nature. Whatever use fiction has against the Enemy, it cannot give of itself, any more than a bucket can provide water of its own accord. It has to be filled with whatever you wish to provide.

But even then, the best use we have for fiction is not to drag them to our Father’s house, but to reinforce a dragging that is already underway. For instance, Pullman’s Dark Materials trilogy does carry a note of delicious subversion, and has in a tiny handful of cases been helpful in bringing humans before our Father’s leering grin. The key is that it is helpful, not foundational. Pullman needed to be guided and coaxed before he could instill his anti-Enemy worldview into a single paragraph. And as with the author, so with the reader. You will notice that a large majority of his devoted admirers already held the Enemy in healthy contempt, or were well on their way to doing so.

Thus, we can see fiction for what it is: a sort of “working out” of a Patient’s heart, with an influence that has to supplement whatever is already present. It is spice, not entree.

Of course, you were mainly interested in fantastic fiction, particularly with magical figures in the story, who commune with spirits and turn into animals, and the like. I am afraid that even these are of use that is as limited as it is dependent.

It might be a different story if High Command did not have the standing order to (in your Patient’s culture, at least) conceal our presence unless otherwise necessary. Magicians are much more charismatic when they are taken seriously, not laughed off as charlatans or fringe lunatics. Rank materialism is closer now to being hybridized with belief in the supernatural than it was a century ago, but for now most of the links are still tenuous. The best of both worlds is still just beyond our grasp, and we must give it time to mature.

Therefore, as always, your Patient’s particular vulnerabilities will decide the angle of attack. If he is one of the precious few in his culture who regard real Magicians as commanding authentic power, you might be able to work some favorable influence. With the right kind of fiction, that is.

Fiction that subverts the Enemy’s declarations – whether overtly or with subtlety – can sometimes make all the difference. You can often see our own whispers into an author’s mind, filtering through the pages. In that case, I reiterate that this fiction has value, but only as a means of reinforcing whatever else we have encouraged and cultivated. Otherwise, a novel that has reinforced one soul’s journey to Hell might disastrously be used by the Enemy to wake another Patient to that same journey, whereupon the human is in great danger of reversing course and wandering into the Enemy’s embrace.

That explosion can be ignited by a thousand short fuses. Perhaps the Patient is awakened to the need for a transcendent reality and, unless promptly guided to one of the many decoy religions we have established, will be on a fast track to Heaven. Or the beauty and gravity of the fictional world might rekindle a hunger that will have him asking all the wrong sorts of questions, which of course the Enemy will be delighted to barge in and answer.

As for fiction that is not subversive of the Enemy, those varieties of fantastic fiction and characters hardly ever were of use for our Father’s cause, except perhaps as idle entertainment that distracts instead of edifies. Be sure your Patient avoids any and all fiction that the Enemy has encouraged in humans. He is crafty, and you stand to only make half-hearted and ham-fisted attempts of subversion against a foundation He has already laid.

As always, if you find yourself in the enemy’s camp, see if you can exploit the legalism inherent in a pharisaical teacher, who commands or coaxes other believers to regard every variety of fantastic fiction as an encouragement to the Occult.

Such humans are eminently amusing, spreading strife where it need not occur, and souring the seeds of the Enemy’s will for many a budding storyteller, all because they lack (or have not exercised) the insight, or craftiness, or creativity of the very God they endlessly claim to speak for. Alexandria never lost so many books to fire as we have successfully suppressed in Christians who were convinced by such teachers to withhold their stories from the world.

Your affectionate uncle,

Screwtape