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.
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
John K. Patterson 
