Warren Murphy: The Last Dragon

"It is?"

"The track of one."

King came closer. "Are you sure?"

"Rear tracks have five digits with claws on three. That's according to the fossil record. These are exactly the same."

She expected him to shout something macho. Instead, he gulped, "It's bigger than I thought."

She looked up. "Afraid?"

King squared his padded shoulders. "Honey, I'm fueled by testosterone. Fear isn't in me."

"Then you won't cry over your broken umbrella, will you?" And she pushed ahead.

Skip King went pale and started after her calling, "Hey! What are you doing taking the point? That's a man's job!"

The earthquake had felled trees all over the Kanda Tract.

Mighty kapok trees had toppled, so thick around that they flattened smaller saplings to juicy splinters. Here and there, thin-boled bamboo had splintered at their bases, their fall interrupted by the creeper-festooned forest canopy.

There were splits and fissures in the earth, great red-brown wounds that had already-two months after the quakebecome green again with new plant life.

In some places the ground was as soft as peat moss poured from a plastic sack. The smell was about the same-heady, almost sweet.

The trail had petered out to a narrow path the rain forest was swiftly reclaiming. The hot air grew heavy in their lungs. The rain forest seemed to press in on them like a green, leafy stomach.

The first unusual event was the dragonflies.

Flying in arrow formation, they zipped across a break in the trees, their doubled wings flashing like iridescent vanes.

"Those can't be dragonflies," Skip muttered, freezing in his tracks.

Nancy had her Leica up and clicking.

"Fabulous."

King looked at her. "Dragonflies? Fabulous?"

"Modern dragonflies are not known to grow that big."

"Do African dragonflies behave like American dragonflies?"

"How do you mean?"

"Do they-do they sew up people's mouths?" King gulped.

"You must be joking!"

"This is my first time in Africa. You can't expect me to know every little thing."

"American dragonflies don't sew mouths. That's an old wives' tale."

"You sure?"

"Positive."

"Can't be too careful." He called over his shoulder. "Who's got the Black Flag?"

"Don't you dare!"

"What's the problem? We're not here for dragonflies."

"If we can catch one, it will be just as important as capturing the beast."

"Not to Burger Triumph, Incorporated."

"Need I remind you that I'm the scientific leader on this mission?"

"Yeah, but I'm the bankroll. What I say goes. We push on."

King shoved past Nancy Derringer and took the lead. He walked with one hand rubbing his jaw absently, but Nancy knew that was a precaution. If the dragonflies got close, he was going to cover his big mouth. Nancy prayed for dragonflies in the thousands.

But the dragonflies flashed away in three different directions, like prehistoric helicopters.

The giant frogs were the next surprise.

They had been squatting, sides throbbing, in the rank grass of a small pond of standing water.

As one approached, it hopped once, landing in the middle of the road. It rotated nervously until it faced them with its unblinking bulgy eyes. Its throat pulsed like a great green heart torn out of a monster's chest.

"What the fuck is that!" King said hoarsely.

Ralph Thorpe came up, rifle in hand.

"Hah! It's an effing Goliath bullfrog!"

"It looks like the effing mother of all toads," King groaned.

"Aw, don't get your knickers tangled up, Mr. King. It's only a bleedin' frog."

"I don't like the way it's staring at me. Shoot it."

"No need to go to all that bother." Thorpe hefted a smooth flat stone in the frog's direction and it bounded away with a spastic kicking of its hind legs.

"See? There. Nothing to it, what?"

"I hope you'll be able to hold yourself together when we locate our quarry," Nancy said pointedly.

King said through his uplifted hand. "Hey, I had a bad experience with frogs when I was little."

"Oh? Did one eat your fly collection?"

King frowned. "The girls on my staff don't talk to me like that."

"Hire women next time."

King's frown deepened. They trudged on. Further along, he snapped his fingers and said, "PMS! Am I right?"

And it was all Nancy Derringer could do to keep from wheeling and slapping him silly.

The hurrunk cannonading through the green trees dispelled her anger like a breaking fever.

"What was that?" King muttered.

Nancy closed her eyes and seemed to be beseeching lurking jungle gods. "Oh, God! Could it be? Oh, please let it be what I think it is."

King's dark eyes went wide. "You think that's the sound it would make?"

"No one knows. There is no fossil record of natural sounds."

"Thorpe! Fetch that native guide."

The Bantu guide came padding up. He was tall and lean with a narrow wise face that looked ageless. Except for his Burger Triumph T-shirt, he might have been the genus loci of the rain forest.

"Ask Slim if that's the sound N'yamala makes," King demanded. Thorpe addressed the native in his own tongue. The man gesticulated and ended up pointing at King, while spitting out a sparse sentence.

"What'd he say?" King asked excitedly.

"He asked that you not call him Slim," Thorpe translated.

"Why not? It's only a nickname."

"Slim is what the city blacks call in English, AIDS. Tyrone doesn't savvy American-style English very well, but he recognizes the word. He doesn't like it."

"Is everybody having a bad day?" King muttered darkly. "Okay, tell him I'm sorry. Then get me my answer. "

Thorpe and the native fell into a low exchange. At the end, the British guide said, "He says the sound we heard is the cry of N'yamala."

King cupped hands to his mouth. "Okay, look sharp everybody. This is it. We're going to make history. Somebody hand me a trank gun."

"I don't think that's wise, Mr. King," Thorpe warned. "These rifles are not toys."

King pulled the rifle out of Thorpe's hand and said, "You're in charge of policing this ragtag group of natives. I suggest you set the proper example for instant obedience."

And King turned on his heel, rifle at the ready.

Watching him tramp forward, Nancy told Thorpe, "Everything he knows about Africa, he learned from watching Jungle Jim reruns."

Thorpe scowled. "A wanker what would call a fine rifle a gun should be shot with an elephant gun."

The column resumed its march.

The undergrowth became thicker. There was no trail and no way to hack one out. They had to squeeze between boles and hand packs across the narrow passages by hand.

The smell of standing water came into the air and it was rank as dishwater in a heat wave.

"Watch him fall into the bleedin' water," Thorpe muttered for Nancy's benefit.

Then the cry went up. This time it seemed to shake the impossibly green leaves, and frightened monkeys flashed from treetops.

HARRUNK!

Skip King's voice volleyed back, high and excited.

"It's just ahead!"

And he went plunging into the brush. They lost sight of him before anyone could react.

"That idiot!" Nancy hissed.

The boom of the rifle echoed back like a cannon blast.

"Oh no!"

King's voice seemed to be all round them in its exultant joy. "I nailed it! I nailed it!"

"That colossal idiot!"

They almost collided with him. King was threshing back the way he had gone. His foxy eyes were bright and wide.

"I bagged it! I bagged it!"

"Not bloody likely," Thorpe spat.

"Did it go down?" Nancy demanded.

"I didn't wait to see," King said excitedly. "Isn't this great? I'm the first man ever to bring down a dinosaur."

They pushed past him.

The ground became mushy. The bush grew thicker, more impenetrable, and rank as swamp grass.