DINO EATER (IT'S NOT OVER YET)

[Shroom Man 777]

Somewhere near the Venezuelan-Brazilian border...

The rickety old Cessna buckled as its engine sputtered and its rotors stuttered. After a brief moment of coughing, the engine finally died very abruptly. The rotor blade stalled, sending the aircraft into a quick and unceremonious descent of some several dozen meters, plummeting through the clouds like a brick, hard and fast, before its engine finally roared back to life at the last possible moment. Slowly, the Cessna regained altitude, putting it a safe distance above the jungle canopy.

Both the pilot and co-pilot simultaneously sighed in relief, looked at each other, and laughed out loud. Both wore baseball caps and aviator sunglasses, and looked practically identical.

Do these pantywaists know what they’re doing? Fidel asked himself. He sighed inwardly, knowing fully well that this was all what Cuban intelligence could afford within its means.

“That was close, wasn’t it Fidel?” the co-pilot laughed as he unfolded a map. “Now, where were we supposed to drop you again?”

Fidel pointed at map, the part he had previous marked with a red pen.

“Ah!” the co-pilot nodded as he showed the location to his partner, who released his hold on the controls and took the map.

“It’s not too far, the plane can probably make it there alright,” the pilot nodded, handing the map back as he resumed piloting the plane.

Fidel shook his head in disbelief, almost not noticing his vibrating micro-radio. He flicked it on. “Major Muerte, what is it?”

“Are you there yet, Fidel?”

“We’re close.”

“Good. Remember, this is a covert airdrop, meaning the enemy isn’t supposed to see your incursion. You’re to fly low, in order to evade radar, and circle the area to see if it is clear. If the area isn’t clear, then abort and re-try later at one of the secondary locations, preferably where you can’t be seen,” just like the last time, the Major thoroughly repeated the mission parameters over and over again.

“Wouldn’t it help if we weren’t doing this during the middle of the day, maybe if we did this during the middle of the night instead?” Fidel asked, a hint of sarcasm in his voice.

“No.”

“…Why?”

“Because you’ll get lost in the jungle at night,” the Major stated simply. “Haven’t you learned anything from Camp Mantanzas? The jungle is extremely dangerous at night, no matter how good you are. Besides, it’s noon, most people would be having their siesta.”

“…”

“Let’s go over the objectives one more time, shall we?”

“Sure.”

“You infiltrate the jungle. This is where you work best, so you do what you normally do. Gather whatever information you can on what’s going on here, specifically what our Ms. D is doing in the middle of the Amazon and what she has to do with dinosaurs. If you can, disguise yourself and get inside their operation, get whatever you can – documents, photographs, computer files, anything. If possible, sabotage their operations. And, of course, avoid capture and detection at all costs.

“Remember, every single operation Cuban intelligence has performed for the last two decades has been done under the veil of plausible deniability, we cannot be taken into account for our actions. And one last thing, survival is tantamount to a successful mission. You must return alive, Fidel. Got it?”

“Got it,” Fidel nodded his head.

“Weapons check.”

Fidel sifted through his gear.

“One silenced .45 Colt M1911 pistol,” the Major stated.

“Check.”

“It’s not a standard Cuban weapon, but it is the standard for American special forces,” the Major commented. “If people blame our actions today on the Americans, then good.”

“Heh.”

“Next on the list, modified AKM with silencer and 40mm grenade launcher.”

“Check.”

”Normally we’d issue you an AK-74, but the new caliber ammunition lacks stopping power, and you’ll need all the stopping power you can get when taking on dinosaurs. That explains the grenade launcher too.”

“Understood.”

“Next, moldable-adhesive plastic explosives with remote detonators, timers, and ball bearings. For all your sabotage needs and shrapnel. They’re waterproofed too.”

“How considerate of you, Major,” Fidel commented. “Normally you can’t afford to equip me with these.”

“This mission is far from normal, Fidel,” the Major retorted. “You’ve also got your standard-issue combat knife. You’re active sonar, motion detector, binoculars with night-sight capacity, and a camera. And, as always, you have your Subsistence suit.”

“I’ve been using this ever since the 80s.”

Interrupting their conversation, the co-pilot tapped Fidel’s shoulder. “Fidel, we’re near the river.”

“Okay, let’s wrap this up then, Fidel,” the Major said. “Any items I missed?”

“One GenInc. standard-issue airgun with tranquilizer darts.”

“What? I never issued that.”

“I got it from Isla Norte,” Fidel explained. “I thought it’d come in handy.”

“Good idea,” the Major commented. “Remember, you can contact the Enrique brothers if you have problems with the terrain. Aside from piloting, they know this place like the back of their hands. And you can contact L if you run into any dinosaurs, her expertise in them might come in handy.”

“Right. What about our inside man?”

“He won’t contact you unless if it’s very important, unless you’re in dire need of help.”

The Cessna’s engine sputtered and whined loudly as the aircraft pitched downwards and descended at a steep angle. The indiscernible green grew larger and larger until Fidel could make out the individual trees, bushes and shrubs, and when they were just about to fly dead-on into the underbrush, the Cessna leveled off mere feet from certain death. For a moment, the landing gear brushed against branches and treetops until they flew past the vast expanse of jungle.

Fidel looked down the window, surveying the sheer brown-yellow depth of the seemingly endless Amazon River.

“X marks the spot, amigo!” laughed Enrique. “You’re one crazy hombre, if you’re not taking a parachute, then at least take this!”

Fidel accepted the cigarettes and placed them in a waterproof pocket.

“Sure about this?”

“Not really,” Fidel muttered, kicking the door open and jumping off the plane.



The impact was hard as Fidel was literally smashed through the water. But the instant of pain disappeared quickly as the current sucked him down under, enveloping him in an overwhelming sensation of wetness and blindness. As he struggled to breathe and surface, he flailed around blindly and inhaled water.



The room was monitored by black-and-white CCTV cameras. It was bare, with two chairs and a steel table. Almost like the ones they used to cleanly interrogate captives. Emphasis in cleanly.

“We haven’t been successful in finding anything in the jungle. Here, look at the satellite images.”

“Major, since when did we ever have satellites?”

“Since never. Some of our friends lent it to us.”

“What ‘friends’?”

“It’s on a need-to-know basis, Fidel.”

“Hrm. These pictures, they don’t show anything. It’s just jungle. The Venezuelans must be wrong, unless D’s just taking a hike through the jungle.”

“Still, they think there’s something big going on, and the General Intelligence Directorate is inclined to believe them.”

“Havana really wants us to do something, huh?”

“I’m afraid they’re being hasty, but whether we like it or not, we’re doing this mission.”

“And by we, you mean me.”

“Don’t worry, we’ll plan this mission together. I’ve gathered some people to help us out.”

“Who?”

“Our first contacts will arrange the transportation. They’ll also help you in navigation, as they are intimately familiar with the terrain.”

“They?”

“Yes, there’s two of them. Here’s the file.”

“Hrm. Looks like a couple of…”

“I know. But I’ve been told that they’re good.”

“Who’s the other contact?”

“To compensate for the last mission’s lack of information, we’ve managed to recruit a leading paleontologist to aid you.”

“Really?”

“Her name’s Doctor Ellie Settler, she’s actually one of the consultants GenInc brought over to the islands during the opening of their dinosaur park. So she has intimate knowledge on the dinosaurs in the Uprising. Here’s the file.”

“Hm, she looks good. I wonder how you managed to recruit an American. If her government knows anything about her involvement with us, she’ll be in trouble. You didn’t recruit her by force, did you?”

“No, all she knows is that there may be escaped dinosaurs in the Amazon and, as conservationists, we might need information about these ‘endangered species’.”

“Heh. Conservationists.”

“To preserve her identity, you’ll have to address her by codename when you talk to her in the radio. Her codename will be L.”

“I get it. Where did you find her, anyway?”

“She was on a survey in Argentina with Paul Sereno, some person working for the National Geographic. Anyway, we have one last contact.”

“What’s his name?”

“He doesn’t have a name. Nor a codename, for that matter. He’s an inside man and he’s the one who provided us with the location…”

“The location that turns up nothing in the satellite images?”

“We have reason to believe whatever’s in the jungle has been camouflaged quite well. Maybe it’s underground. Which means-”

“Which means I’ll have to find it myself...just great.”

“Don’t worry, if you find nothing, then that’ll be the end of this whole dinosaur business until something else turns up.”

“…”

“Is there anything wrong?”

“Major…how’s the President?”

“President Castro will be alright. The assassin didn’t hit anything vital, thank goodness for that.”

“Do we know who planned it?”

“Probably the Americans, or the traitors who’ve left Cuba for America. They think killing the Commandante will cause our country to implode and…they’re probably right.”

“…”

“Don’t worry Fidel, I’m sure the President will outlive the both of us.”

“Heh.”

“He’s expected to make a full recovery and will give out a national address. I’ll tape it for you.”

“Thanks, Major.”



Fidel erupted out of the water, gasping and choking as he reached out for something to hold onto. He opened his eyes, and painful midday light filled his vision. He grabbed on to a tree root and pulled himself up a riverbank. Afterwards, he laid facedown on the mud and, having nearly drowned, coughed out copious amounts of water.

After a minute of labored breathing, Fidel turned himself over and calmly surveyed his surroundings.

Greener pastures. Despite rampant deforestation, some parts of the jungle still maintained that look of primordial un-despoiled sanctity, but for how long that sanctity will remain, Fidel couldn’t tell. But for the moment, Fidel could see, hear, and taste what remained of the Amazon. Directly overhead were flocking birds, brightly colored parrots flying to the other side of the river. As Fidel propped himself up against a tree, he noticed a family of giant otters playing in the water as a caiman watched on silently – like a crocodilian log with teeth. The midday sun glistened on the water’s surface.

Fidel took out a cigarette, placed it in his mouth, and searched his pockets for a lighter.

Without any specific destination or directions, searching for whatever’s hidden in the jungle could take a while. If the mission was complete, or if he was absolutely certain there was nothing to be found, then all he needed to do was follow the river downstream and radio the Enriques to pick him up. Exfiltration.

Fidel realized that he didn’t have a lighter. He grunted as he got up to a crouch. He pulled up his left sleeve and opened his camouflage index. A few minor calibrations and his suit’s pre-set camo-pattern made slight adjustments to better blend in with the surroundings. He would have to do this whenever the surroundings changed drastically, switching pre-set patterns, or he could set the index to active chameleonic blending – but that would require too much bio-energy and the suit would drain stamina.

Fidel flicked his radio on.

“Good to hear that you haven’t drowned.”

“Thanks,” Fidel muttered.

“Alright, you know what to do. But before you begin, you should check your radio contacts.”

“Right,” Fidel nodded as he tuned into different frequencies. “Hello?”

“Hey Fidel, you okay amigo?” it was one of the Enriques. Fidel wasn’t sure which.

“Just a bit shaken, not stirred.”

“Haha, you sure got cojones, friend.”

“Hrm, Enrique, you know the jungle well, right?”

“Righ. Me and my brother used to be rangers, stopping illegal logging and poaching and stuff. We got tired and took up a job offer from some gringos as security guards for their businesses in Brazil. We got the job, but when we got our first paycheck, we bailed and bought our airplane. Cool, huh?”

“Yeah,” Fidel replied. “Hrm, I’m looking for something in the jungle. Do you have any idea where to start?”

“I dunno. Maybe you should head upstream. If you head further downstream, the jungle gets pretty dense, I don’t think anything’s there.”

“Thanks.”

“Oh, and if you don’t find anything, maybe after we pick you up, we can go get some drinks, get it on with some girls, eh?”

“Sure,” Fidel answered, clearly amused as he switched channels. “Hello?”

“Yes, who is it?” the voice was clearly female, and spoke in English.

“Castro, Fidel Castro.”

There was a laugh. “Funny name. Are you the conservationist, Mr. Castro, Fidel Castro?”

“Yeah.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Castro. My name’s L. You’re friends insisted I use a codename on the radio.”

“Heh,” Fidel himself thought the Major’s insistence on aliases was silly. “You can call me Fidel. Oh, and I know you’re real name.”

“Too bad you can’t say it out loud, then. Anyway, I’m supposed to help you identify dinosaur species. My specialization’s paleobotany, but I’m thoroughly familiar with GenInc’s species and I know enough from working with actual paleonzoologists. If you ever do find a dinosaur in the jungle, describe it and I’ll tell you all I know about it.”

“When I was on Isla Norte,” Fidel knew the Major would kill him for mentioning details like that. “I ran into a couple of dinosaurs.”

“You were at Isla?”

“Yeah, just a few days ago,” Fidel replied. “The dinosaurs I ‘met’ were…well, two-legged, with big claws on their feet. About six-feet tall, twelve-feet long. Velociraptors, I think.”

“Velociraptors. GenInc. resurrected species popular with the general public, like the velociraptors from the Jurassic Park movies. But they found out that the raptors were actually rather small, no bigger than dogs.”

“Really? Then what were those I saw on the island?”

“Well, velociraptors have relatives that can grow to those sizes, like deinonychus and utahraptor. But GenInc didn’t have any deinonychus or utahraptor DNA, so they decided to pump growth hormones and steroids into their velociraptors instead. It made the raptors bigger, but it also made them badder – more aggressive, violent, maybe even smarter. The park’s gamekeeper wasn’t frightened of the T-rexes, but he had an arsenal of guns just in case if the raptors escaped!”

“Ah, so that explains it…” Fidel rubbed his left forearm; it was still a bit sore from blocking the raptor’s jaws from his face. “That was very interesting.”

“Thanks. My colleague, Doctor Grant, keeps a velociraptor claw he uses to frighten children. He thinks they’re nature’s worst killing machines, and from what I saw, I think he’s right.”

“Hrm.” Fidel thought. “From what I saw, I’d agree with him too. Doc, I’ve gotta go.”

“Okay. And that’s Doc L, to you.”

“Heh,” he killed the radio and got up. To no one in particular, he said: “Commencing the mission…now.”



The base was littered with undisciplined Brazilian mercenaries and stoic henchmen in hardhats and light-grey jumpsuits. However, as of early morning, they were now accompanied by a new, far more militaristic presence. Patrolling the base and acclimating themselves to their new surroundings were sentinels clad in obsidian armor and reflective visors, armed to the teeth with modern weapons like HK G-36 assault rifles. EVIL Elites.

Leading them was yet another clad in their black armor. He removed his helmet and exposed himself, his pale pigmentless skin and colorless hair, and an albinic visage utterly devoid of human emotion. Ever since the bankers of the EVIL Corporation found his cryogenic stasis pod in a Swiss vault and revived him, whatever real name he once had was forfeit. He was simply known by the number that designated his cryo-pod. The Number 13.

“What are the security measures of the structures themselves?” he coldly asked the female EVIL engineer in a yellow hardhat who was walking beside him.

“I have begun installing defensive countermeasures and surveillance equipment,” she replied with a slight European accent. “But you will find that the buildings themselves are rather quite resilient.”

“How?”

“We found that the reinforce concrete was further impregnated by countless small pellets of an unknown metallic alloy,” she said, offering a report-sheet to Number 13. He declined. “This increases the structural integrity, but to what degree, we don’t know. A sample will be taken and sent to EVIL laboratories for further testing. Whoever it was who built these facilities certainly knew how to design buildings.”

13 nodded and motioned her away as he neared his destination. It was a large futuristic bus-like trailer with communications equipment protruding from its roof. He opened the door and strode in.

“Afternoon,” Dementieva greeted him with a slight smile. “No jet-lag, I hope.”

“None,” he replied tersely as he neared her. He looked down at the console that she and an EVIL operator were tending to. He looked at the operator with his cold blue eyes. “Report.”

“Sir-” the techie stuttered. Dementieva smiled at this. “We’ve sighted a small aircraft in the radar.”

Number 13 turned to Dementieva, giving her a slightly questioning look.

“It’s probably nothing,” she responded. “Colombians usually evade authorities and smuggle their drugs by flying planes over the jungle.”

Number 13 turned to the radio operator. “You. Alert the men, low-level. Dispatch patrols. Inform half the Elites to split into fire-teams and accompany the Brazilian patrols.”

Dementieva raised an eyebrow.

“My Elites need to familiarize themselves with the jungle. The Brazilians know the terrain best. It will be good practice.”

A merc with a brown bandana entered the trailer, brandishing an AK-47. “What’s going on?”

“You,” 13 said to the merc. “What’s your name?”

“Eduardo, sir.”

“You’re coming with me,” 13 said. Immediately as he exited the trailer, he was met by four of his EVIL Elites. They stood straight and saluted him. “You will be our guide.”

[Sidewinder]

A good chapter, but I'm wondering... Will we see some dino-on-dino action between EVIL's dinosaurs and those of the Dinosaur Uprising? (I want to see blood, damn it!)

And why didn't Fidel inflate a rubber raft as he jumped out of the plane? I believe the Mythbusters proved it would reduce your terminal velocity to survivable levels. After he "lands," Fidel could've slashed the raft with a knife and buried it somewhere out of sight.

[Shroom Man 777]

A good chapter, but I'm wondering... Will we see some dino-on-dino action between EVIL's dinosaurs and those of the Dinosaur Uprising? (I want to see blood, damn it!)

Yes.

And why didn't Fidel inflate a rubber raft as he jumped out of the plane? I believe the Mythbusters proved it would reduce your terminal velocity to survivable levels. After he "lands," Fidel could've slashed the raft with a knife and buried it somewhere out of sight.

No.

Because, come on, jumping off a flying airplane and landing in the piranha-infested rivers of the Amazon on your face is awesome. And maybe they didn't have enough money to buy a rubber raft.

[Big Orange]

This would make a good video game: keep up with the good work Shroom!

[Sidewinder]

This would make a good video game: keep up with the good work Shroom!

It would be if Turok wasn't coming out, thus dooming a game based on 'Fidel Castro: Dinosaur Eater' to a reputation as a rip-off. Oh, well. I guess we can still make our own 'Dinosaur Eater' levels based on 'Quake 4'.

[Shroom Man 777]

Well, Turok doesn't have the dinosaurs as the primary antagonist. And neither is it set in the post-Cold War. Nor does it have James Bond villains, Jurassic Park, or Naked Snake. Nor is it a Tactical Espionage Action game.

Hrm, should Dino Eater be a FPS or have a system based on the MGS games?

[Sidewinder]

Well, Turok doesn't have the dinosaurs as the primary antagonist. And neither is it set in the post-Cold War. Nor does it have James Bond villains, Jurassic Park, or Naked Snake. Nor is it a Tactical Espionage Action game.

Well, as Turok: Evolution proved, having cyborg dinosaurs is NOT enough to make a game awesome. Fidel might make a game based on 'Dinosaur Eater' worth playing; just don't forget the handlebar mustache or other features to distinguish him from Solid Snake.

Hrm, should Dino Eater be a FPS or have a system based on the MGS games?

Base it on 'Metal Gear Solid 3: Subsistence', with the modified camera so aiming weapons wouldn't be such a pain in the ass.

[Shroom Man 777]

Overhead, the slithering boa constrictor made its silent descent down the tree trunk, its mottled brown scales blending with the bark. Though almost invisible, it could perceive things camouflaged near-invisibly like itself. Hypnotically, its tongue flicked out, ends splitting before returning to its mouth. It tasted the air and, with its forked tongue, could acutely follow the direction of the scent trail. Its head swayed to the left, and the rest of its body followed.

The snake slithered on downwards and ‘saw’ its prey. The jungle rat was hidden in foliage and shadow, but like any warm-blooded mammal, its body radiated heat, and to the sensitive pits on the constrictor’s face, the scurrying rodent was a burning red-orange blur amidst a backdrop of cold blue.

The snake coiled its muscular frame and then, like a whip, lashed out. In a split second, countless razor-sharp fangs bit down hard on the squealing rat, and then, in a quick motion, the poor rodent was brought up from the ground as the boa began its midair constriction. The hanging snake was anchored to the tree, allowing it to dine unbound by gravity. As its tail tightened on the branch, so too did the rest of its body constrict – squeezing harder whenever the rat exhaled. Soon the rodent would be literally out of breath, and when the constrictor sensed the mammal’s heart stop, it would then unhinge its jaws to savor its prey whole.



The culmination of the cycle of predation, the struggle of predator and prey, went largely unnoticed by Fidel Castro as he brushed past overhanging vines and branches, swept away leaves that blocked his way, and maneuvered around other more impassable obstacles.

For the last hour, nothing of any significance had turned up. No sign that D, or anyone for that matter, had been in this part of the jungle. No sign of anything suspicious going on in the jungle. Even if there was something big going on in the jungle, without any directions or guide, searching for it would be harder than finding a needle in a haystack, it could take forever. Fidel sighed, the day was still young.

The sound of rustling leaves made Fidel draw his rifle. He checked to find the grenade launcher loaded.

He waited for whatever it was to come out. Though wary, he maintained trigger discipline, but readied to fire the grenade if a velociraptor were to explode out of the bush.

A feline head poked out between some leaves, looked Fidel in the eye, and hissed. It was an ocelot, a common rainforest cat.

Fidel sighed. After the ocelot disappeared back into the bush, he turned on the safeties and sat down on a nearby rock. He grabbed an overhanging vine, sliced it with his knife, and let the sap dribble into his open mouth. The jungle was hot and humid, he had to keep hydrated in order to continue his mission, in order to survive.

Fidel remembered his time in Camp Mantanzas, a camp that specialized in jungle warfare, so-called ‘Vietnamese tactics training’, along with Cuba’s best and brightest, they also trained foreign revolutionaries.

Fidel’s missions were almost always in the jungle, but it wasn’t because he had much love for it, but because he was the only one capable of operating in it extensively. He learned well early on, back in ‘The Camp’: ”In combat, the jungle serves as an all-encompassing cover, so use it wisely. But when not in combat with the enemy, always remember that you’re waging an all-out war of survival against the jungle itself.”

He squeezed the last of the sap out of the vine and discarded it.

“Hrm,” Fidel noticed that the knife was still in his left hand. “Why not?”

In one swift motion, he got up and, with his right hand, upholstered his silenced .45. Then he brought both hands together, the one with the gun on top, the one with the knife underneath, to support the weight of the gun and help in aiming and shooting. Close-Quarters-Combat, CQC. In this stance, he could fire his handgun with modest accuracy – though he wasn’t holding it with both hands, he wouldn’t be firing it one-handed either. Then, if the enemy got close, he could easily switch to knife fighting and pistol-whipping.

Fidel struck an invisible foe with both hands, knife-first. With his right hand (holding the pistol) on top of his knife-hand, the weight and impact of the knife-strike would be increased, along with the damage. Then Fidel could move to either further injure his opponent by pistol-whipping him or perform an execution with a point-blank shot, or move on to other foes with either his gun, his knife, or both weapons on one target, or on two different opponents simultaneously.

Fidel counterbalanced the knife, struck, and then retracted. He repeated the motions again and again, like an exercise, a ritual. Counterbalance, strike, retract. Counterbalance, strike, retract. In knife fighting, the objective wasn’t to slash your opponent, but to stab him, to cause maximum damage to his organs and, if not outright kill him, then bleed him like a stuck pig.

Fidel sheathed his knife. Then he held his pistol in both hands, removed the magazine, detached the silencer, re-attached the silencer and replaced the magazine, while checking altogether for any signs of dirt getting into the firing mechanisms, chambered a round, turned the safeties on, and then holstered the weapon.

Rested, and finished with the motions of CQC, Fidel scanned the jungle and continued his search, careful not to go back to where he just came from.



The screen was filled with the face of Marcus Elliot Hunt, a high-ranking representative of the Corporation. Arrayed in front of the screen were the topmost-ranking men and women of the EVIL Corporation’s jungle base, seated in view of the screen’s teleconference-camera.

“How is the construction going?” he asked cordially.

“Very well,” answered Oktavia Boyer, the head engineer of the EVIL jungle base, holding her yellow hardhat underneath an arm. “Everything necessary has been set up and operational. The infrastructure, power grids, defenses, habitations….”

“And the operations themselves?”

Doctor Thornier answered that. “Everything is as going as planned, sir. In fact, we’ll have the newest product ready within a few days.”

“Good, good,” nodded Mr. Hunt. “And the prototypes that have already been completed?”

“They are undergoing field tests as we speak, sir. In fact, they’re helping with base security.”

“Good, good. I trust that there have been no difficulties… Where is Number 13?”

“He’s off on patrol with his men,” Dementieva replied.

The corporate man considered this briefly and then continued. “In any case, as both you and him are charged with security details, order the men to begin preparations.”

Dementieva raised an eyebrow. “Preparations for what?”

“For my arrival, of course,” Hunt explained simply.

“You’re coming here?” legal-expert Donald Dennaro clearly wasn’t expecting an inspection, or a visit.

“Yes. I want to get a first-hand perspective on things,” he smiled. “Reading your situation reports get tiresome after a while, Donald. Besides, there are important things to be discussed.”

“Then we will prepare for your arrival, sir,” Thornier said, looking like he was almost about to bow his head down. He looked at both Dennaro and Dementieva. “In every way we can.”

“Good,” Marcus smiled. And with that, the screen went blank.



Fidel was careful to avoid the light that bled from the jungle canopy’s wounds. Aside from revealing him despite his camouflage, the light was bright and blinding, so he opted to scurry about amidst the cool shadows of the trees instead. When there was a gap in the treetops, he’d carefully avoid the well-lit clearings, just to be sure.

It was afternoon, and in a few hours, daylight would no longer be a concern. Fidel wondered how he could search the jungle for whatever it was he was looking for in the middle of the night.

There was a high pitched shriek as something amidst the canopy took flight. Fidel nearly jumped, unsheathing his blade and upholstering his sidearm.

“Hrm…only a bird,” Fidel leaned on a tree and got down to a crouch.

Ahead of him was yet more expanse of shaded jungle, with beams of sickly yellow light piercing through holes in the treetops, stabbing through the darkness. Maybe it was the sun changing position, or clouds moving through the sky, but light and shade seemed to shift, interlacing themselves, perhaps in a strange optical illusion granted by the humidity of jungle air. It seemed to beckon at Fidel, and as he watched on, the noise of the jungle seemed to die, replaced by skittering, intricate clicking sounds unlike those made by any animal.

Maybe the sun disappeared underneath the cloud cover, as the dancing beams of light then faded, replaced by total shade, and cool air.

Fidel tightened his grip on his pistol and his knife and rushed on, not noticing that the tree he leaned on was marked by deep cuts and dangling strands of animal skins.

As Fidel entered the deeper shade, his footfalls were met with the noise of dried leaves breaking into tiny pieces. He scowled. This was not good for sneaking.

The sick yellow sunlight returned, lancing down in tendrils that brushed by Fidel. One of the beams of light stabbed him in the eyes, causing him to cover them with a hand.

“Hrm,” he grunted, stepping to the side and -

There was a snapping sound as cleverly placed branches and leaves gave way, sending Fidel down a deep dugout pit. He yelped and stabbed at the lip of the pit with his knife, burying it in the firm ground like an anchor, a climbing piton. He grunted in momentary pain as his arm joints were brutally jerked by the weight of his entire body hanging on, and then the burden was on his fingers to maintain their grip on his knife.

Fidel holstered his pistol and, with his now-free right hand, gripped on the knife. Grunting, he pulled himself up with both hands and arms. He sat himself down on the ground and looked down at the bottom of the pitfall, liberally covered in spikes – spikes that were themselves probably liberally covered in excrement.

Fidel turned on his radio and adjusted the frequency.

“Major Muerte, this is Fidel.”

“I read you. What’s going on? Have you found anything?”

“Yeah, I found something…”

“What?”

“A trap. A punji pit. I don’t think it was set up by D or any cyborg dinosaurs, though,” Fidel remarked dryly.

“Hrm…” the Major sounded like he was thinking this over. “Maybe you’re getting warm. Keep on searching, you might find…”

“More traps?”

“Well, the trap obviously didn’t set itself. Someone must be there setting up those up. Maybe they know something…still, you should be careful.”

“Yeah…” Fidel changed frequency. “Enrique, this is Fidel.”

“Yeah, you’re readin’ loud and clear, amigo. What’s up?”

“I nearly fell down a hole.”

“A hole, huh?”

“Yeah. It was disguised, and had spikes in it.”

“Oh-” there were sounds of scuffling, probably the other Fidel letting go of the airplane’s controls to grab the radio. “So, you’re wondering who would dig a hole in the middle of the jungle for you to fall in?”

“Yeah, pretty much.”

“It’s probably just the local Indians, they have all these traps to catch tapirs and stuff. Recently, they’re using those traps to ward off outsiders, people who do nasty shit to them.”

“Hrm…would their villages be anywhere near a trap they’ve set up?”

“I dunno…some of their tribes like to move around a lot, but then if that trap’s not too old, then chances are, they’re probably nearby. If the place is marked…”

“Marked?”

“They usually mark their territory with signs on trees, skins, knife marks, sometimes paint…to tell people that that place is occupado.”

“Right,” Fidel got himself up and upholstered his .45.



The village was located in a small clearing. There were around ten huts, all empty. Flies and carnivorous bees buzzed around, attracted to the stench of dead meat. In the middle of the clearing was a reed mat, and on the mat was the disemboweled remains of a tapir. They were probably preparing it when they all disappeared.

Fidel raised his pistol to chest-level, extending his arm on a slightly downwards angle, his gun-hand supported by his knife-hand. He went low and fast, scanning the perimeter at first before moving in on the huts, searching for any sign of inhabitants. Nothing. No remains, no signs of struggle, not even footprints. They didn’t leave anything behind, either. Just the tapir.

He thumbed the safeties of his pistol and holstered it, got down to a crouch and sliced a piece of the skinless animal. He sniffed the chunk of meat and bit off a small part.

He chewed it for a while before making a face. He spat it out and threw the meat away. “Disgusting.”

He radioed the Major and gave him a sit-rep. An abandoned Indian village, inhabitants all but disappeared, suspicious and definitely something. Then he consulted the Enriques. They had nothing.

“Great,” carrion and harsh sunlight was a perfect combination. Fidel could now see maggots festering on the orifices of the desecrated viscera.

Fidel tore off a leaf and used it to wipe the blood off his blade. He sheathed his knife and holstered his pistol, only to draw then again when a deafening noise blasted through the wind, echoing through the jungle recesses. It was definitely a roar, a concrete-shattering bellow louder than a jet engine on full blast.

The roar was accompanied by wind, gusts that lifted dust and leaves into the air, whirling and making wailing sounds like that of a howling banshee.

Fidel ducked behind a hut, spilling a jar of water placed beside the hut. The water pooled into a nearby depression on the ground, forming a puddle.

The wind subsided, and the echo of the roar died down, replaced once more by the buzzing of flies and bees feasting on desecrated carrion.

The puddle of water jumped, violent ripples breaking its surface before it returned to its previous placid state. It rippled again, this time followed by a dull rumbling sound that Fidel was sure he didn’t hear in the air, but felt in the ground.

Something was coming. Fidel holstered his pistol and sheathed his knife, and brought out his AKM. He switched it to full-automatic and checked the grenade launcher. High-explosive armor-piercing 40mm grenades. Good.

He looked around and found the tree line less than twenty meters away from him.

The puddle of water jumped once more, rippling far more violently than it did before. Fidel heard the booming in the ground, no doubt footfalls of something massie.

Fidel ran for the jungle.

[Sidewinder]

A good chapter. By the way, will Fidel face the Carnotaurus from 'The Lost World', which can camouflage itself like a chameleon? Or do you plan to send a full-grown T-rex after the Cuban?

And how long can the Enrique brothers patrol over the jungle before the plane runs low on fuel and they have to leave?

[Ford Prefect]

And how long can the Enrique brothers patrol over the jungle before the plane runs low on fuel and they have to leave?

If the Cubans weren't so comically strapped for cash, they could potentially do it for days, with the power of Mr. Fusion, or or even longer with an electromagnetic drive. Of course, this is Cuba, not America or Britain or Russia.

[Shroom Man 777]

Well, maybe the Enriques have replaced the passenger seats with extra drum barrels of oil. Or they're That Damn Good. It'll be answered later on in FIDEL CASTRO: DINO EATER.

And no, the chameleonic Carnotaurs will yet appear in the thrilling later-parts of FIDEL CASTRO: DINO EATER! The parts where shit-hits-the-fan.

[Sidewinder]

Well, maybe the Enriques have replaced the passenger seats with extra drum barrels of oil. Or they're That Damn Good. It'll be answered later on in FIDEL CASTRO: DINO EATER.

I think a WW2-era fighter like the P-51 Mustang had about eight hours of endurance, but I'll have to do research to confirm this-- the Cessna might be able to match this if it flies like a damn glider, seeking warm air currents to keep it up.

And no, the chameleonic Carnotaurs will yet appear in the thrilling later-parts of FIDEL CASTRO: DINO EATER! The parts where shit-hits-the-fan.

Being stalked by invisible dinosaurs really sucks. You might be able to smell them, but you can barely see them and you can't hear them (they're stalking you, thus, they're moving slowly to avoid alerting you). Thus, I'd very much like to see how Fidel deals with the Carnotaurs.

[Shroom Man 777]

Hopefully these CODEC convos don't get too annoying. Action soon, me promise! Scout's honor!




The abandoned hut was smashed into a heap by a massive hydraulically reinforced leg, as a clawed therapod foot made its way through the air and slammed down on the ground with enough force to kill a man. The ground gave way, crushed under the immense weight, forming a meter-wide footprint.

Cold reptilian eyes, enhanced by ocular-pseudonic implantations, surveyed the abandoned village. Cartography lacked any files on this particular location’s odd features, and the routine patrol subroutines were replaced by a new command. Search-and-destroy.

Its maw, filled with jagged teeth framed with sharpened titanium bands, emitted a guttural sound. Then there was a whining noise as its hydraulic jaws opened and closed shut.

It switched from infrared to the ultraviolet spectrums as it scanned its environs, sweeping its head from one side to the other. Then it went back to the visual spectrum, initializing pattern-recognition modes as its ocular implants scanned everything within the village in a zigzag pattern before going further out into the tree line. The infrared scan had revealed too much heat sources, in the form of animals and areas warmed by the heat of the sun, but perhaps a motion-sensitive pattern-scan would reveal something – the silhouette of a hiding observer, the repetitive sets of tracks and footprints, maybe evidence of some recent presence.

Nothing came up.

The neural net processor gave out another command, one the creature’s reptilian brain and primordial instincts found more agreeable and comprehensible. It raised its massive head, nose high, and took several long sniffs – massive quantities of air siphoning into its large slits for nostrils. As its lungs, gene-engineered for modern post-Mesozoic atmospheres, inflated itself with oxygen, olfactory processors began processing the smells, a totally organic and instinctual procedure that was relayed to the inorganic CPU for molecular dissection.

A scent was found, and for a brief moment, dead binary algorithmic software was overridden by a primordial drive that had been repressed for millions of years. The predatory instinct.

The dinosaur moved quickly to the source of this distinct smell with a speed that betrayed its gargantuan size, so fast that had its prey opted to flee, it wouldn’t have gone too far.

By the time the neural CPU reasserted its cold calculations and subroutines, regaining control of the tiny reptilian brain, it was too late. Flesh and bone was crunched and hyper-masticated underneath titanium-reinforced teeth and jaw, as glistening steel claws maintained grip on the bloodied corpse of the long-dead ceremonially disemboweled tapir.

Primitive reptilian base-desires satisfied, the neural net went back to its original objectives, as dictated by its faraway masters, who were as of now watching its every actions.

New commands were inputted to supplement the initial objectives, the neural net CPU reassessed its arranged goals, forming a hierarchical chart of priority-based abstractions. There was a nanosecond’s worth of rearrangement, a reassessment of new inputs compared with obsolete instructions.

Immediately afterwards, it emitted a deafening roar and stamped both feet and tail firmly on the ground, as if anchoring itself in place. Then, the armored weapons pod installed on its right dorsal side opened up, the armoring sliding off to reveal many re-integrating metallic component, a few of them quite large but more of them rather small and intricate. There were sparks and clicks and hisses and hums as clockwork-based mechanical systems interlocked, tesla-magnetic connections activated, and power supply systems initiated. From the dinosaur’s backside, a stubby barrel made a sudden telescopic extension into a long, sharp and sleek object – obviously a formidable weapon of sorts.

The dinosaur roared once more, the loudest roar it could muster, but the noise was inaudible. Inaudible under the deafening air-rippling blast of the recoilless railgun’s firing mechanism. Air blurred and, instantaneously, a straight laser-like contrail of blue materialized from the railgun barrel as the hypersonic projectile streaked through the air. The contrail continued on, high into the sky, higher and higher until it finally arced downwards – disappearing beyond the horizon.

The carnosaur shifted its footing as dust – blown off its hide by the recoil and shock of the blast – began settling down on the ground. Internal systems began rerouting power, which had massive amounts diverted to the railgun launch, while internal systems compensated for the electromagnetic interference of the railgun launch. It moved its arm mechanisms, checking for any potential shock-damage, a process that forced it to drop the tapir carcass it was still holding.

The weapon pod re-opened and the railgun began disassembling itself, retracting its mechanisms back within.


TEST-FIRING COMPLETED. EXPERIMENTAL WEAPONS SYSTEM PERFORMED WITHIN EXPECTED PARAMETERS. NO COMPLICATIONS SUSTAINED OR DETECTED. PATROL COMPLETED. RETURN TO BASE.


With another roar, the dinosaur turned around and left the village, smashing a couple abandoned huts on its way out.



Fidel placed his binoculars back into the pouch. He had seen everything, from the dinosaur’s entrance, to the unveiling of its terrifying weapon, to its abrupt exit. At first, he was afraid the thing would find him in the bushes when it was apparently scanning the village for observers, but now he had worse problems. Namely, the fact that there was in fact something very bad going on in the jungle.

Chances are, he wouldn’t be leaving the jungle tonight, not like he planned, not with what had just happened. It just couldn’t have been a short walk in the park. Something very bad had to happen. Fidel sighed and cursed inwardly.

He checked his motion detector, just to make sure the thing was gone. Then he turned on his radio.

“Major Muerte.”

“Fidel. What’s your status?”

“I found something.”

“Hm? What did you find?”

“I was taking a walk in the jungle when I nearly bumped into a cyborg weaponized dinosaur.”

“What kind of dinosaur was it?”

“Does it matter? It was big, two legs, one of those meat-eating types, like a T-rex.”

“Of course it matters. What was it doing?”

“It activated a big gun out of its back and fired into the air,” Fidel thought the incident over. “It was probably a weapons test.”

“A weapons test? Hrm…what was its weapon?”

“It looked like a high-velocity railgun, really advanced stuff. It transformed out of a weapons pod, probably used compression-space technology, or advanced miniturization.”

“Oh dear…the Dinosaur Uprising is getting really dangerous, and they’re hiding in the jungle. Havana won’t like this…”

“Major…the thing is, I don’t think that dinosaur was with the Uprising.”

“What? What makes you say that?”

“It was trademarked property, sir.”

“Trademarked property?”

“It had the company logo of the EVIL Corporation.”

“What the -” the Major sputtered. “Those damned capitalists! So, that’s what Dementieva stole from us! Schematics for weaponized dinosaurs!”

“Major, this is bad. What am I supposed to do now?”

“You obviously can’t engage the dinosaur, that’d be insane. Hrm… you have to gather information. How they’re making these things, what they’re planning to do with these things. You have to find its weaknesses. This is really bad, Fidel…”

“How bad?”

“Cyborg dinosaurs can be a very potent weapons system, Fidel. If those profit-hungry corporates proliferate them…it could mean the destabilization of the whole of Latin America…it could be very bad for Cuba and her allies. This is worse than any of us feared…”

“Hrm…” a new battle plan had to be formulated, Fidel realized. “Their dinosaurs are still in testing phase, if we let them develop their weapons, there’ll be no stopping them when they start exporting cyborg dinosaurs…”

“You have to stop them, Fidel. Stop them while whatever it is they’re planning is still in the starting stages, before they get everything going. The security of Cuba depends on it.”

“I’ll do my best, Major.”

“You must consult L on this matter, Fidel.”

“L? With all due respect, Major, but what does she know about railgun-armed rexes? Paleontology doesn’t mean-”

“Fidel,” the Major cautioned. “Just because paleontology doesn’t encompass modern weaponry doesn’t mean you should disregard it entirely. Remember your training in Vietnamese tactics?”

“What about it?”

“Do you remember how the Vietnamese won the Vietnam War? I was in ‘Nam, and I thought the Vietnamese had no chance against the Americans and their superior weapons. It was true, they couldn’t stand against American weaponry, most of them were just jungle people who didn’t even understand how the American technology worked.”

“So, how did they beat them?”

“They attacked the people who used the weapons, not the weapon systems themselves. They disregarded the technology and focused their tactics on natural human-weaknesses. Just like them, you must disregard those cybernetic weapons and attack the natural weaknesses of the dinosaurs.”

“I get it…even dinosaurs must have natural weak spots that technology can’t compensate for, and I can exploit these weaknesses to cause maximum damage.”

“That’s correct, Fidel.”

“Alright, Major, I’ll contact L.”

“That’s a good soldier. Meanwhile, I have to convince Havana to warn the Venezuelans.”

“Right,” Fidel nodded. “Switching frequencies. L, do you read me?”

“Loud and clear, Mr. Castro.”

“L, listen, this is very important. I found a dinosaur in the jungle.”

“A dinosaur? In the Amazon? How could they have gotten there? That’s some distance from the Caribbean…”

“It doesn’t matter…” Fidel had to lie. “There’s some evidence to suggest that these dinosaurs weren’t escapees from Isla Norte. I think they’re native to the Amazon.”

“Really? That’s...unexpected. Do you think they’re man-made or…natural?”

“I think they’re man-made,” the best lies were half-truths, Fidel thought. After all, he should know from experience.

“Still, this is really surprising. How many dinosaurs did you see? Were they herbivores or carnivores? Did they come in a group, a herd or pack? What were they doing?”

“Ease up on the questions, Doc, I’m supposed to be doing the asking,” Fidel shook his head. Scientists. “I only saw one, it was a carnivore.”

“Right…” she sounded like she was trying to maintain her composure. She was probably in a hotel room, bored sitting in front of a radio receiver for hours, doing it for whatever cash prize the Major promised (read: lied) to her, funding for her scientific projects and everything. Fidel felt sorry for her. “What did the dinosaur look like?”

“It was big, as in real big. It had two legs…it looked like a T-rex. But different.”

“Different?”

“Yeah…it had long arms.”

“Hm…anything else?”

“Well…it had…blunt horns over its eyes.”

“How big were those horns?”

“Not really big…”

“Its arms…how many claws did it have?”

“Three claws in each hand.”

“When you said ‘big’, do you have any exact dimensions?”

“Urm…” Fidel wasn’t new to measuring distances or gauging the dimensions of enemy vehicles, but with dinosaurs… “No longer than ten meters.”

“I think you’ve got yourself an Allosaurus, Fidel. Which is surprising, since GenInc. didn’t have any Allos.”

“Why not?”

“Because T-rex is more popular, of course,” she sounded slightly amused, and Fidel didn’t get it.

“Right.”

“What was the Allosaurus doing?”

Test-launching a top-secret weapon, Fidel was seriously tempted to say, but he couldn’t. The Major would kill him. “Feeding on a tapir carcass…”

“Allosaurus, like T-rex other major predators, are equal opportunity carnivores. That means they’ll hunt if they have to, but will happily eat any piece of unspoiled carrion they happen on.”

“Hrm…”

“Mr. Castro?”

“Please, just Fidel.”

“What else do you need to know, Fidel?”

The best way was to be direct, Fidel decided. “I need to know the weak spots of the Allosaurus.”

“Weak spots?”

“Vulnerabilities, places that can make killing them faster-”

“Why would you need to know that?!” Fidel winced and, for a brief moment, considered pulling out his earpiece. She sounded positively outraged. “What kind of ‘conservationist’ are you?!”

“A dangerous one,” Fidel didn’t have time to make up a smart reply.

“…” there was a frustrated…groan, sigh, Fidel couldn’t tell. “I’m going to assume you’re asking me this in order to help ‘conserve’ these endangered species, so that when you handle these rare animals, you’ll know what to do to in order to avoid seriously injuring them.”

“That’s a smart assumption,” Fidel grinned.

There was that frustrated sound of exhaled breath. “Alright…large predatory dinosaurs have a few natural…vulnerabilities…that are often exploited by herbivorous species, particularly in defense against predation. Triceratops is a dinosaur almost as famous as T-rex, with its three horns and frills. It uses its horns like a bull; in defense it tries to impale the soft underbelly of predatory dinosaurs.”

“Soft underbelly, got it,” Fidel nodded. But what if the underbelly is protected by advanced carbon nanotube armor?

“Another famous dinosaur is stegosaurus, with its spiked tail. The principle is similar to triceratops, but more relevantly, an Allosaurus fossil was found with its leg severely injured by stegosaurus spikes. There were signs of infection, probably what killed the Allo. So, another weak spot is the leg.”

“Legs?” even with those hydraulics, they were still exposed and vulnerable. That’s why combat walkers and mechs, even those armed with advanced weapons, still compared unfavorably against more conventional designs – like the tank. “I guess that makes sense.”

“Ankylosaurus is an armored herbivore with a bony club on the tip of its tail, one swing with that and a T-rex could break its leg. To a predatory dinosaur, a broken leg is an injury that almost guarantees death. They can’t move properly, which means that they can’t hunt. They’ll be forced to scavenge and, in the worst case, starve. Unless if they’re helped by their fellow predators, some dinosaurs are social creatures, but not all of them are…

The biggest problem predatory dinosaurs face, though, aren’t defensive herbivores, but others of their own kind. One of the biggest rexes ever, Sue, had countless injuries and bite marks that matched the teeth of other T-rexes, she probably died because of her own kind. As for Allosaurus, there have been mass graves with evidence of feeding frenzies, where the Allos were feeding on animals caught in landslides, including other Allosaurs.”

“Red-on-red,” Fidel muttered.

“What?”

“Nothing,” in military jargon, red-on-red meant when two enemy forces attacked each other; most often these were friendly fire mishaps, sometimes they were worse. Fidel once saw a bunch of Contras fight American commandos after a dispute regarding what to do with a captive. The Contras wanted to disembowel him alive, skin him, and hang him, and the gringos wouldn’t have any of that. Eventually, they killed one another and the captive escaped. An experience Fidel would rather not reenact in this particular situation. “Thanks for the information, L.”

“No problem,” she sighed.

“It means a lot, honestly,” and he meant it.

“Really?”

“More than you can imagine. I have to go.”

“Alright…take care.”

Fidel killed the radio and got up, drawing his AKM. He’d have to follow the tracks left by the Allosaurus, at least up to a point. He wasn’t insane, he wasn’t going to follow the thing right back to its den. After a certain distance was covered, he’d have to alter his path if he wanted to avoid becoming dinosaur dinner, but hopefully he’d find something in the vicinity, like a large camouflaged base. Or else there’d be no choice but to follow the cyborg dinosaur, right back to wherever it came from.

It’d be nightfall in a few hours.

[Shroom Man 777]

Updates, by the way, all the way!

[Sidewinder]

A good chapter, but be careful with the technobabble. The fact that the dinosaur had to brace itself before firing the rail gun suggests the rail gun was NOT "recoilless," as you described.

[Ford Prefect]

A good chapter, but be careful with the technobabble. The fact that the dinosaur had to brace itself before firing the rail gun suggests the rail gun was NOT "recoilless," as you described.

'Recoilless' in this situation might simply mean 'less recoil', as opposed to 'the complete abscence of recoil'. It is a hypersonic cannon, after all. Also, the bracing may also have simply been to lock where the Allo is targetting; it might be cybernetic, but they haven't removed all its animal traits.

[Shroom Man 777]

There was a list of military oxymorons I read, and one of 'em was "recoilless guns aren't"

[Shroom Man 777]

Late afternoon. There was an orange tint to the air as the sun made its way west, nearing its submersion beneath the horizon. Despite its fading, light still seeped through the permeable jungle canopy to play and dance with the shadows. There were new sounds to the jungle now, to correspond with the time of day, that time before day turned to twilight and then night. Crickets chirped a chorus that, due to their sheer numbers, filled the entire jungle with noise. Slightly less numerous, but no less noisy, where the howler monkeys, howling their loud barking whoops that echoed through the rainforest over considerable amounts of kilometers.

Leaves rustled and branches cracked as a dark figure made way through the jungle with haste. Night would come soon, and when it came, the search would have to continue the next day, and that was bad.

Fidel stopped and leaned on a tree, to catch his breath and check his bearings. He wiped his brow and pulled out his map, the only significant marking on it were the ones he made with the red pen, marking the landing zones and the exfiltration points. He pulled up his left sleeve and checked his compass. He kept his map, pulled down his sleeve and pulled out a canteen. A few sips later, he placed it back.

“Hrm,” Fidel muttered to himself, wondering what to do next. “Dinner.”



Aside from some fruits of questionable edibility, the best he could find was a modest emerald tree boa. He didn’t bother skinning it, instead, he sank his teeth into its scaly hide and peeled off a mouthful of snake. He chewed it thoroughly, masticating the meat and organs, grinding the soft bones with his teeth, all the while considering its taste. He fancied himself a connoisseur of sorts.

“Hmm…not too bad,” he said to himself, mouth still full of ‘food’. Then he paired the snake with a bite of fruit. It made for an interesting combination of flavors.

He wiped the serpent’s blood and bile off his mouth. Some of the Vietnamese he worked with liked to drink the snake blood, mixing it with liquor, but that wasn’t him. They said the blood, along with snake meat, was healthy and increased virility. To Fidel, snakes were just food, along with a lot of other things. If it weren’t for what the Treatment had done to his digestive system, eating dirty animals, especially raw dirty animals, would’ve made him a very sick person.

Contrary to popular opinion, Fidel very much preferred ‘people-food’. This was why he always brought along a pack of combat rations on every mission. For years now, he brought with him the exact same tins and cans of long-lasting c-rations, they didn’t taste as good as the American MREs, in fact they tasted horrible, but they were still remotely edible. Now, the c-rations were in a pouch hanging from his belt. He never touched them, ever. The reason behind that, naturally, was to conserve them so that if and when he’d get truly stuck in the jungle, he’d have something good to eat. It wouldn’t do to eat all his rations in the first couple of weeks in the jungle, that would be just wasteful.

As the reptilian viscera and sweet-and-sour fruit were mixed together inside his mouth by his tongue, Fidel realized that the way he ‘conserved’ his rations was in fact rather silly. Tonight, he resolved, he’d open one of the cans, just one, to finally have a taste of its contents.

Finished with his snake, Fidel pocketed the remaining fruit for future consumption and got up. He re-checked his bearings and soldiered on.



A little while later, Fidel found a part of the jungle that went uphill. Not quite a hill, but not exactly flat either. The elevated ground wasn’t too difficult to navigate and while he could’ve easily gone around it, Fidel hoped to reach the top and climb up something to get a vantage point with a view before everything went dark.

Unfortunately, the elevation wasn’t high enough to provide a good vantage point. There was a large tree, though, but it was uprooted completely. Probably by the Allosaurus, Fidel guessed, though the tree could’ve always been felled by other more conventional means.

There was an unnaturally deep ditch ahead, and the felled tree bridged its gap like…a bridge.

“How convenient,” Fidel muttered as he cautiously made his way towards the ditch and the felled tree. As he neared it, he lowered his stance, and checked the area for mines and booby-traps. If there was a more convenient location to place a trap or spring an ambush…

The rooted part, Fidel’s end, seemed clear of any tampering. Despite the ever-fading light, Fidel could see that everything from his end to the middle of the tree trunk was clean, though he couldn’t make out the further parts. He climbed on the tree and made his way very carefully, balancing himself with his arms. Though the bark was rough, mold and dirty could make it slippery, and Fidel didn’t want to fall some twenty feet down. He concentrated on looking forward, mostly to make sure that the rest of the tree was trap-free, and noticed that on the other side, the tree had, in its fall, halved another tree.

“Man, all this walking around in the jungle, it’s bullshit. I hope we get paid good for this.”

Fidel froze. The sounds of rustling leaves, branches breaking. People. Coming towards his position.



Patrols were always done with at least four-man squads. Walking around the middle of the jungle alone, all by your self, was a sure way to get lost and get killed, especially if you were doing it for the entire day, and even more especially if you were doing it during the evening or the night and with no idea where you were going. Teams of four ensured that at least one of them had a map, or a clue as to where they were, and made killing the men off one-by-one a slightly more difficult task.

The four Brazilian mercenaries wandered the jungle aimlessly. The gringos were on alert-level, told them to be careful and look for any intruders in the jungle. Intruders in the jungle?

“What’s that about?” one of them asked.

“I dunno,” Raul shrugged. “It’s not like they’re making drugs or anything, right?”

“Right,” another agreed.

“But they’re making monsters!” protested yet another. “They’d want to hide that crazy stuff, wouldn’t they?”

“Chelo,” one of them sighed. “Nowadays, there are monsters and mutants and aliens and superheroes everywhere. My auntie got eaten by a giant flying squid. Besides, there’s that place in the Caribbean, something-something Mountains, Mount Muerte or something, and they’re making dinosaurs there too, like a zoo.”

“Maybe our bosses don’t want anyone to find out that they’re copying those Mount Muerte dinosaurs? Maybe they’re pirating dinosaurs, just like cheap DVDs?”

“It’s Mesozoic Mountains, not ‘Mount Muerte’. ‘Mount Muerte’ is a stupid name.”

The four of them walked over to a felled tree and soon that particular tree became the subject of their discussion. “It’s like a bridge, but be careful, the bark can get slippery. You don’t want to fall twenty feet and break your head.”

“’Cause if you do, then we’re leaving you. ‘Cause then the gringos get one less of us to pay, which means more money gets split between the rest of us.”

“Maybe when you’re stuck down there, a Mesozoic Monster will come and eat you,” Raul laughed as he crossed the bridge and hopped to the other side.

At the bottom side of the tree, Fidel hugged the slippery branch, hugged it harder and tighter than a long lost lover. As the bickering chatter of the mercenaries disappeared off the distance, Fidel somehow managed to climb back to the topside of the tree and quickly made his way to the other side, opposite to where the mercs were going. He disappeared in the underbrush.



Fidel followed the footprints left behind by the patrol squad. No doubt they’d lead back to their base camp. The tracks told Fidel a lot about the mercs. For one, they were moving in a disorderly fanned out formation, which suggested inexperience or carelessness. Fidel didn’t get a good look on them before, but now by their footprints he could tell that there were four of them. If they had moved in single-file, then Fidel wouldn’t have been able to count their footprints as easily.

Fidel noticed that their shoe and boot prints all had uniform patterns, which told him that they weren’t quite a ragtag group. Fidel bent down to examine one particularly well-preserved footprint, engraved deep in the mud, and saw that it had the logo of the EVIL Corporation.

“Not surprising,” Fidel muttered to himself as he got up and carried on. He had a feeling it wouldn’t take him long to find something more.

It didn’t. He found a fence made out of barbed razor wire. It wasn’t rusted or anything, so it was probably a new addition to the jungle.

Fidel picked up a branch and tossed it at the fence. Sparks shot out as the branch briefly caught fire. Its charred remains fell to the ground, a few feet from Fidel’s feet.

The best way to deal with this obstacle was to go around it, Fidel decided.

The fence turned out to be quite longer than Fidel imagined. There weren’t any gaps or anything, no holes. The only thing of note was the Tesla coil with the wires coming out of its coils. It’d be dark soon.

Wire cutters. Fidel opened his utility pouches and began searching for them. He’d need wire cutters with rubber-coated or polymer handles. He’d have to do it discreetly, so no one would find the hole he made. He’d have to make a hole large enough for him to crawl through, but small enough not to be noticed.

He had no wire cutters.

“This is Fidel. Do you read me?” Fidel grumbled to his radio.

“What is it, Fidel?”

“Major…I’ve found an electric fence attached to a Tesla coil.”

“Tesla coils aren’t too unusual nowadays, it’s no doubt part of a larger establishment. You’re close to whatever’s going on, Fidel. There’s probably a base out there somewhere.”

“I know…it’s just that…”

“What? Are you under attack? Are the dinosaurs after you?”

“No…”

“Are you injured?”

“No.”

“Then what’s wrong?”

“I forgot to bring wire cutters.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t worry, you can always go around the fence and find an entrance.”

“I’ve tried that. The fence is long, and if there is an entrance, it’s probably going to be guarded.”

“Hrm…have you tried looking for holes?”

“Yeah, the fence is brand new, it’s not even rusted. There aren’t any holes.”

“Not on the fence, on the ground.”

“On the ground? Like tunnels? Why would there be tunnels?”

“Not tunnels, just small ditches and trenches. In the jungle, fences disturb the natural movements of animals. If the animals can’t get break the fence because it’s too strong or if it’s electrified, then they’ll try crawling under it. Larger animals like boars and dogs accommodate themselves by digging out the ground beneath the fences. If you try, you could find one such passage and try to fit, or dig one yourself.”

“Right,” Fidel nodded as he killed the radio.

It took him a while, but he found it. Not some kind of tunnel, but an actual entrance. There was a small gate, more like a door, manned by a single sentry dressed in camouflage, with a red bandana. It made him stick out of the jungle.

With such an easy target, Fidel was severely tempted to pull out his silenced pistol and shoot the guy in the head.

Fidel pulled out his silenced pistol, aimed, and shot.

The .45 ACP round disintegrated the beehive, and from its scattering remains, an entire swarm of upset insects literally descended upon the unwitting sentry. Africanized bees were far more aggressive than the natural bees of the Amazon, as the sentry now learned as he flailed his arms around. Barbed stingers were impaled on skin and left behind, along with still-pumping venom sacks, and at this onslaught of pain the sentry screamed and ran into the woods.

Fidel chuckled to himself as he watched the angry cloud of stinging insects pursue the subject of its fury. As the bees dispersed, he made his way to the gate-door. There was a rubber-coated lever and a locking mechanism, thankfully it was turned off. Fidel pulled the lever, went in, closed the door, and locked it.

“Hey, what the hell is going on?” asked a distant voice.

Fidel cursed and leapt into a nearby bush, and then he switched his camouflage index to active chameleonic blending. He felt a tingling sensation on his skin as the suit obtained the necessary bio-energy to mimic its surroundings impeccably. The only part of Fidel’s body not going chameleonic was his head, but he had face paint on to mitigate that.

The mercenary sentry approached and cursed. “Aw Jano, you can’t just disappear like this, the gate opens from the inside,” he shouted. “If you get locked out and I’m not here, you’re gonna have to dig a ditch and crawl under the fence! Jano! Hey puta, can you hear me?!”

Jano screamed an incoherent and obviously pain-ridden response.

“Shit,” the sentry cursed as he unlocked the gate, opened it, and ran to the aid of his comrade.

Once more, Fidel closed the door and locked it.



“We should go back, it’s getting dark. Besides, there’s nothing here,” Raul said, yawning shortly afterwards to emphasize his point.

“Look at this,” Chelo offered. “A fruit, but only the seed is left. Hrm…looks like something tried to gnaw at the seed as well…”

“Monkeys like to eat fruits, Chelo,” Raul replied.

“Well…have you seen any monkeys?”

“No, but I can hear them.”

“From miles away, but-”

“Man, those crickets sure are loud,” one of the others interrupted. “And when the tree frogs join in, it’ll be unbearable.”

“Hey guys, I found something. It looks like a footprint.”

Despite the dim light, Chelo bent down to take a look. “You sure those aren’t our own footprints? Looks like a boot made it.”

“Yeah, but it’s going the other way…”

“Then we’ll head back,” Raul concluded, holding up his rifle. “If it’s nothing, then at least we’re still heading back to camp.”



The cabin rocked and buckled wildly. This, combined with the shitty seats, made for an entirely shitty ride. It wasn’t helped by the fact that, for some unknowable reason, the cabin was bathed in dim red light, deafening engine noise, and obnoxiously loud music.

“So yeah,” the man in the crimson-black ninja mask asked. “I did try to kill Banner in Sea World. You know how I tried to kill him?”

The blonde rolled her eyes. “No.”

“How?” the unremarkable-looking guy asked.

“I made the aquarium explode and a walrus fell on him.”

“Did it work?”

“No, he was wearing body armor, so he wasn’t blubber-crushed. And I couldn’t stab him or shoot him either, the walrus was on top of him. That’d be cruel. Sticking swords into a poor animal like that.”

“So, what’d you do?”

“I shot them with an RPG.”

“And then?”

“The walrus exploded!”

Over at the cabin’s darkest sulkiest corner, a young man in a baseball cap brooded and muttered some rude but inaudible remark.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought too,” the red-and-black ninja agreed and clapped the sulker in the shoulder appreciatively. “Good times, man. Should’ve been there.”

Over at the other corner, a man wearing a flexsuit and a spymask shook his head. So random, he thought.

“Hrm…since we’re gonna be together for a while, in the middle of nowhere, why don’t we all get accommodated and friendly?” the ninja asked. He squeezed the cap-wearing brooder’s shoulder. “What’s your name, man?”

The young man muttered something profane as the cabin shook once more.

“What was that? I didn’t catch it…”

He sighed. “Name’s Ted.”

“And how ‘bout you, pretty lady?” in a swift snapping motion, he pointed two fingers at the blonde.

“Mya…” she said. “Mya Lilly.”

“Right,” the unremarkable guy said amusedly. “You just made that up.”

“And how about your name?” the blonde challenged.

“John Doe,” he said.

“Hah! Yeah right.”

“And how ‘bout you?” the ninja asked the flexsuited guy with the spymask.

His voice was artificially altered, probably due to his spymask. “I’m…The Reckoner.”

The ninja clapped his hands. “Right. Nothin’ more reckoning than a low down dirty…Reckoner.”

The masked man nodded his head.

The unremarkable guy placed his booted feet on a kitbag filled with sharp, pointy, shooty, poisonous, explosive, flammable, inflammable and dangerous things. “We’re gonna be on the move for a while. Anyone have a deck of cards or something?”

“I do,” sulky baseball cap removed his hat and pulled out a deck from a pocket.

“Great,” exclaimed the ninja as he cracked his knuckles by breaking, snapping, twisting and dislocating all his fingers before slowly going about re-setting the splintered and jutting bone-bits.

“That’s a real nasty habit you got there,” unremarkable quipped as he got the cards and shuffled them.

“I’m good at this game,” red ninja shrugged.

“Me too,” the artificial voice of spymask replied. “What are the odds?”



Fidel got out his binoculars and spied on what was before him. The dimming twilight was no problem to the image and light intensifier of the binoculars, it could be used as night vision goggles after all, and what he was looking at wasn’t too far away.

A number of guards, still mercs by the looks of it. There were several tents, camouflage pattern with meshing and netting, that’s why they weren’t visible from up above. That and the jungle canopy. In the middle of all the tents was a metallic…thing, sticking out of the ground. It looked like a hatch of some sort.

He withdrew his binoculars and turned on his radio.

“Major, come in.”

“Yes, Fidel?”

“I found a camp. Probably part of a larger complex spread over the jungle for concealment purposes. The EVIL Corporation has recruited mercenaries, they’re using camouflaged tents, that’s why we couldn’t see them from above.”

“No doubt there’s more of them in the jungle. How big is the camp?”

“Not too big. But there’s something in the middle of the camp, a metal hatch sticking out of the ground.”

“Underground base?”

“I don’t think so, if there was an underground base, the hatch would be much bigger. Looks like it can fit only one person at a time.”

“Maybe it’s a maintenance hatch for something underground.”

“Maybe…” Fidel agreed. “What do you suggest, Major?”

“Can you get any closer? Examine the hatch?”

“I can,” Fidel nodded. To get closer, he’d have to lure one of the mercs out, tranquilize him, and steal his clothes. He smirked. “I just need better camouflage.”

He killed the radio and –

“Freeze!” someone barked from behind him. “Who are you?”

“I’m Fidel Castro.”

“Wha-”

CQC. Close-Quarters-Combat. With lightning speed, before the trigger-disciplined merc could even insert his finger into the trigger guard, Fidel unsheathed his knife and spun around, stabbing his blade between the barrel and the gas tube. Just as the merc tried to fire his weapon, Fidel shoved the gun aside, letting it discharge into an unfortunate tree. The sound of gunfire echoed through the jungle, alerting all of the struggle. Then Fidel slammed the back of his right elbow into the merc’s face, breaking his jaw and twisting his head in an odd angle, putting him down.

Another approached from the side and Fidel lunged at him. With a swift motion of his left hand, he brought his knife across the merc’s face. The man screamed, or tried to, as the blade bisected his mouth, sending blood and bits of torn cheek, tongue and broken teeth into the air. He dropped his gun and clutched his mouth, screaming wordlessly. Fidel punched him in the face.

There were two more, Fidel knew that now. They were the ones he nearly encountered on the fallen tree, and they somehow followed him back.

Fidel drew the tranquilizer gun, not the .45, and fired. The first dart landed right between the merc’s eyes, downing him instantly. He worked the weapon’s slide rapidly, it wasn’t even semi-automatic, and fired out three shots in a second. The merc missed him, spraying wildly, but Fidel didn’t, and the tranqs found their mark – one dart in the throat, another in the upper chest, one in the arm, in descending order. Fidel then hid behind a tree, avoiding the gunfire, but he didn’t have to hide for long. Those darts were designed to take down dinosaurs, or that’s what Fidel assumed, and they worked fast. The merc stopped firing and began staggering around, like a drunk.

Four down. There were more mercs coming from the camp, they had no idea of what was going on, but they were armed nonetheless.

“What’s going on here?!” shouted the head merc, a burly Brazilian. He saw the three sprawled bodies, one of them with a badly bleeding mouth, and saw the wildly staggering merc fall to the ground. “Did you all get drunk? I’m gonna have to report thi-”

He didn’t get to finish his reprimand. Fidel came out of the trees.

He brought out his sidearm, but Fidel wrapped his left arm around his right, popping noise marking the dislocation of a joint and the dropping of a handgun. Then Fidel brought up his right knee, hard, into the man’s solar plexus – causing his ribcage to smash into his lungs. Then he struck the man’s face with an open palm, grabbed the man’s hair, and used him as a shield. He ran towards the rest of the mercs, half-lifting and half-pushing their chief, maintaining head control on the subdued man, using his head like a steering wheel, slamming his palm on the man’s face and cranium like honking a horn in traffic. It made him backpedal faster.

The two nearest gunmen hesitated for a second, and that’s all it took.

Fidel threw the chief on the leftmost gunman, slamming him against a tree, and then he went for the one at the right. The merc tried to fire his rifle, but Fidel grabbed it and twisted it hard, once more causing fingers to snap like twigs. The merc nonetheless tried his best and squeezed his broken fingers, firing off a burst.

Fidel gritted his teeth, he was holding the gun by its barrel, and the discharge was burning his fingers.

He slammed his right hand into the man’s face and broke his nose real ugly, knuckles of the pointing and middle fingers crushing bone and cartilage, sending sticky blood flying. Then Fidel made an open-palm thrust, once more at the nose, causing it to cave into his face.

Another merc, not far ahead, opened fire with a pair of SMGs, Fidel couldn’t tell what make or model. Skorpions? MACs? It didn’t matter. Fidel used the very badly nosebleeding merc as a human shield and repeated his maneuver with the chief, running forward while the subdued body absorbed the bullets. Fidel could feel the impacts, causing his dance partner to jerk and spasm wildly while nose and mouth spurted out copious amounts of blood.

Fidel dropped his merc and ran to the next one, the one double-wielding Uzis. Despite the point-blank range, he missed badly, way off mark, and Fidel slapped both guns away with each hand and then delivered a hard thrust into the man’s throat. His eyes shot wide and he was about to grab his neck when Fidel kicked him hard in the face, sending him down.

There was another one behind the one with Uzis. He staggered and slowly made his way backwards, away from Fidel. He picked up his radio. “HQ this is camp, HQ please respond!”

Fidel quick-drew his .45 and…

“This is HQ-”

…the radio exploded, blasting the radioman with sparks. He screamed and pulled out his sidearm, but Fidel was on him and he went down without a fight.

The merc Fidel left behind, the leftmost one crushed between the chief and the tree, got up and opened fire on Fidel.

He missed, but there was enough distance that Fidel couldn’t simply walk up to him and subdue him. Instead, Fidel ran into the jungle.

Two other mercs joined in, firing at the jungle Fidel ran into.

“Go!” the first merc screamed. “He’s in there, find him and kill him!”

The two others fixed bayonets on their AK-47s and ran into the jungle after Fidel.

“Shit,” he cursed, pulling out his radio.

“Camp, please respond. I repeat-”

“HQ, this is camp-”

Fidel came out from the trees to his left, near where the knocked out chief was. He ran to the merc and slapped the radio off his hand. The gunman tried to go for his gun, but Fidel slapped that away too, and then delivered a chop right above the man’s nose bridge while sweeping his legs from beneath him.

He fell back, head first, and then Fidel stomped hard. On his face.

The sound of rustling leaves and cracking branches signaled the return of one of the mercs from the jungle. Fidel pulled out his knife and threw it with marksman accuracy, impaling the man’s neck.

His throat spurted blood, but he didn’t fall. Instead, he just stood there, somehow perfectly balanced.

His partner, the other who accompanied him in the jungle, was far behind him, but he managed to catch up.

“That puta’s a sneaky fucker, we lost him. Hey, why’d you stop moving?”

The answer came behind him and snapped his neck.

Fidel pulled his knife out of the still-standing merc’s throat and wiped the blood off the leaf, then sheathed it.



The camp’s occupants, all eleven or so of them, were now all dead or incapacitated, so Fidel began inspecting the camp itself.

It had basic amenities, tents, sleeping bags, cookers and heaters and mosquito nets, electric fans, cans of food, bottles of mineral water, water purifiers, a first-aid kit, guns and ammunition. The tents themselves were made out of solar-absorbing cloth and had netting on them with fake leaves and such. From a distance, like say from air or space, it would look like nothing but a large bush.

Fidel had to move fast. No doubt reinforcements were coming, or at least another squad, to check on camp incommunicado.

The camp had no information of value, so Fidel went on to the hatch. It was made out of metal, without anything to hold on to. Whatever it was, it was meant to be opened from the inside, or not at all. It probably led to a tunnel or shaft, deep, accessible only by ladder. Who knows what was down there.

The ground around the hatch looked like it was recently excavated, and the hatch itself looked untampered. No one had opened it for quite some time. There were no markings, no serial numbers or anything that gave out useful information, save for an emblem. A ring with symmetrically shaped lines within it…a sort of twelve-armed variety of swastika.

Fidel touched the emblem, hoping to activate something. Nothing happened. He pounded the hatch, but only hurt his hand.

“Hrm…” Fidel flicked on his radio. “This is Fidel, Major do you read me?”



Dusk. Fidel did find something useful, a mercenary’s map. It would help him navigate in the dark, or so he hoped. He got his bearings and headed for the enemy base. Or what he hoped stood for the enemy base in the map.

Fidel considered setting up camp for the night, but dismissed the idea immediately. He was in enemy territory, and unless he found a particularly inaccessible spot where he could sleep without fear of waking up dead. No, there would be no sleep for him tonight.

Soon, he’d have to resort to using his night vision goggles.

Crickets were chirping now, a very rapid, very loud chirp. In some places, Fidel heard that it was possible to gauge the temperature in Fahrenheit by counting how many chirps a cricket made in fifteen seconds. Right now, that would be hard to do.

The end of day didn’t change a thing, the jungle was still noisy, but it was a different kind of noise. The frogs joined the cricket-chorus, adding their croaks to the chirps. Fidel could hear the sonar clicking of bats, eating airborne insects and swooping down to snatch particularly noisy frogs.

The jungle never sleeps. Neither did he.

There was a rustling sound up ahead, but Fidel had no time to react.

In front of him was a surprised mercenary. A second later, Fidel realized that he wasn’t alone. The mercenary was accompanied by four…soldiers, garbed in all black armor and enclosed helmets, no doubt with some kind of image intensifier or night vision.

Fidel moved to draw his knife and .45, but stopped, seeing that the merc and the four soldiers were pointing an AKM and four G-36 rifles at him. Laser targetters painted dots on his chest.

From behind the five emerged another figure, this was armored in black, but his face was not helmeted. No, his face stood out in the darkening dusk, for it was white, pale like a bleached skull, with equally pigment-less hair. He looked at Fidel coldly, analytically.

“Incapacitate,” he said tersely.

Just as those words escaped his mouth, Fidel drew his .45 and unsheathed his pistol. Before the merc could blink, he was on him, stabbing him in the arm, causing him to drop his gun, before pistol-whipping the side of his head.

As the merc fell, the four black soldiers, who Fidel didn’t know were EVIL Elites, strapped their rifles to their backs and pulled out other weapons. Shock-prods, telescopic staves that terminated in bulb-like Tesla apparatuses. There was a crackling sound as the electrostaves activated, and from their tips humming electric blue light filled the jungle night.

In combat, it was unwise for a group to attack a target one-by-one. Even if the group individually possessed superior combat skill, the fight would be ended in the quickest and easiest manner if the group simply overwhelmed the target – not giving him, her or it the opportunity to engage the group one-by-one.

That was what the Elites were about to do, had Fidel not denied them. He drew his pistol and six shots, two for each Elite’s chest, good enough for three of them. They wore armor, but the impact nonetheless fazed them.

With the three distracted, Fidel lunged at the one closest. The obsidian warrior tried to stab the oncoming Cuban with his teslaspear but Fidel merely sidestepped and parried it with his .45. The gun’s polymer silencer couldn’t conduct electricity, and it only touched the staff below its coiled ‘spearhead’.

Then Fidel struck, his left knife-hand delivering an uppercut to the helmeted head. Fidel winced, feeling his fist smashing against hard polymer, and then retracted his blade, bringing it down and, in one smooth and near-graceful motion, up again, into the unarmored armpit of the Elite. The blade punched through fabric, skin and flesh, sliding between the ribs and slicing a gash through multiple internal organs.

Fidel withdrew the blade, the blood invisible in the low light conditions, against the black armor of the dropping trooper.

This lasted a split second, and in that split second, the other Elites had recovered and were now pouncing on their prey.

Fidel fired the last two of his rounds at the second-nearest of the Elites. There was a muffled scream as both the gunman’s big toes were obliterated by the hollowpoints.

Fidel turned to the next two armors, parrying another electrostaff and lunging at the offending armor. The gun clicked empty, but he still had his knife and –

Pain. Cold, and numb pain, electricity coursed through his body and his muscles contracted. He gritted his teeth and tried to soldier on, like a soldier.

More pain. The Elite in front of him jabbed him hard in the gut with a crackling staff, causing Fidel to have a microsecond convulsion. Wild muscle spasms and contractions made him jerk up and then down, uncontrolled movements as his nerves were scrambled. He couldn’t feel anything.

He gritted his teeth, this time a voluntary action. Drool dripped from the corners of his mouth, shock-induced salivation. Another electrostaff struck him, this time at the back of his neck, and he screamed. Or at least tried to. Involuntary jaw spasms, contracting, while he tried his best to scream out loud, or at least prevent his teeth from severing his limp tongue. There was a popping noise in his jaw joint. All he could see and hear and feel was the sound of the electrostaff, the whirring.

He fell to his knees.

The Elite in front of him lowered his guard, went for his pouch, probably for restraints.

Fidel exploded. In a blink of an eye his fist smashed against the Elite’s face. Blood, both from Fidel’s fist and the Elite’s face, splattered flying shards of broken glass as the Elite fell to the ground, nose broken and face cut by glass fragments.

Fidel turned around, barely in time to dodge the thrust of the remaining black trooper. This wasn’t to incapacitate him, the staff was aimed at his head, barely missed. It seared Fidel’s moustache.

He growled and attacked the Elite, slapping away the crackling spearhead with his right hand and then slashing with his left knife hand.

There was a scream and the electrostaff fell to the ground. The Elite brought his hands up to look at his amputated fingers. With his burnt and bleeding right hand, Fidel smashed the visor and took him down.

Fidel picked up his .45 and turned to the last of his problems. The albino. Fidel growled.

“Impressive,” the albino coolly noted. He upholstered his pistols.

Fidel assumed his combat stance, knife hand below gun hand, steadying his expended pistol. He bent his buckling knees, lowering his position.

Number 13 looked on. Interesting stance. He inverted his grip on his pistols.

Fidel narrowed his eyes. The albino assumed an oriental fighting stance, and inconceivably held his pistols by their barrels as opposed to their grips, turning the handguns into blunt-force hatchets. From the bottom of the grips and the magazines, stubs snapped out, no doubt to increase damage.

Crickets chirped, frogs croaked, bats clicked.

Fidel charged at the albino, bringing down his combat knife, but the albino blocked by slamming a pistol butt against Fidel’s wrist. It hurt bad, but Fidel soldiered on and made for a pistol whip with his own .45. That move was countered, the albino’s pistol once more striking his wrist. Fidel gritted his teeth and nearly dropped his gun.

He grunted in pain as the albino brought the first pistol, the one that blocked his knife, to the side of his abdomen, striking his kidneys repeatedly. Fidel tried to defend himself against the blows, but then the other pistol struck him across his face. Bloodied, Fidel ignored this and grabbed one of the albino’s arms, going for a lock when he spun around and delivered a swift kick to Fidel’s chest.

13 sneered and approached the staggering infiltrator, moving to strike him in the head. The blow connected and the man was sent reeling feebly. 13 moved for another strike. And another. And-

Fidel blocked the incoming blow with his knife hand and moved to pistol-whip the bastard, but then, again, he was intercepted. With surprising speed, the albino then brought both of his inverted pistols and caught Fidel’s gun-hand in a painful scissor lock, forcing him to finally drop his weapon.

13 then hammered the infiltrator’s forearm with the butt of his pistol. The infiltrator screamed, his bone no doubt fractured. Again, 13 struck the infiltrator in the face, repeatedly.

Fidel kneed the albino in the groin and swept his feet from underneath him, but not before blocking the last of his damned pistol-whips. Fidel painfully pried the handgun from the man’s pale white fingers, and as the albino rolled on the ground and got up, Fidel struck him in the face.

Fidel growled as he smacked the albino with the handgun and moved to stab his pale white throat with his bloody knife.

13 blocked the stab with his last gun and punched the infiltrator in the face, causing him to spit out a broken tooth.

Fidel staggered backwards and then, finally, resolved to point the gun at the albino. He had enough of this, as he aimed for the albino’s pale colorless head that showed up so brightly in the night. Fidel thumbed the safeties off and squeezed the trigger.

Click.

Something was wrong. The safeties were off, Fidel could feel the weight of the full magazine, but the gun wasn’t firing.

The albino lunged at him and grabbed the gun while slamming the butt of his pistol on the part of Fidel where his neck and collar met. Then, with incredible speed, he spun around and delivered a spinning heel kick to Fidel’s chest, sending him backwards. He fell against a tree.

Fidel gripped his knife and prepared to strike.

The electrostaves struck him. The mercenary and one of the surviving black troopers struck him repeatedly, sending coursing electric pain throughout his body. Fidel tried to scream, but no words came out. He tried to block the blows, but he couldn’t. He tried to lunge at them, to stab at them, but he couldn’t because his muscles wouldn’t work. His body had finally given up.

He fell to the ground, numb coldness and the blackness of night encroaching his body and his vision.

“Restrain him,” 13 said to the mercenary.



The landing craft touched down with but a sound. Its sleek, rounded yet angular black hull nigh invisible in the night. Another craft landed, but before it did, it hovered slightly and made a quick scan of the environs.

Figures emerged from the foremost craft, dark figures in an even darker night.

The smallest of the figures spread her wings wide. Though Methodical and the others advised the both of us to work together as peers, you are still subservient to the will of the Dinosaur Uprising, and I am part of the ruling order of the Uprising, Aryannosaur. Do not forget that.

“I won’t,” Adolph muttered in dinosaur-accented Deutsch. He would’ve rather had Methodical with him right now, at least she was more pleasant to deal with than this arboreal psychopath.

You are here in a purely advisory role. What do you have to report?

“The map we uncovered was not detailed, it had unspecific coordinates. A lot of the data was encoded in indecipherable language, but we know that this area is within the vicinity of our objective,” Adolph replied. “Nonetheless, none of the facilities are visible from high above. Perhaps they have been concealed, deliberately or through the natural processes of the rainforest.”

Then we will send scouts, Aggressive thought-spoke. Why the council had opted to send these Aryannosaurs to advise her in this simple mission, she had no idea. Was it punishment for her previous failure? These…Aryannosaurs, she did not like them, to say the least. They were mongrels – filthy with the taint of human filth upon their flesh.

“I suggest you disperse the compsognathids in a radial pattern, their small size and chameleonic camouflage will make them excellent in surveying the surrounding environs discreely. When they find traces of anything, then organize our core forces and a vanguard and make a slow and quiet advance towards the most promising direction the compsognathids uncover. When they finally find the facilities, then we will move in quick to establish a forward base.”

And if hostiles are encountered, what would you propose?

“A simple solution, one I am sure you would find it agreeable. We will bury them.”

I find it an acceptable proposal, Aryannosaur. But should your advices prove unwise…

“They won’t.”

For your sake, I hope not. For New Pangaea!

Adolph saluted with his bionic arms. “For New Pangaea.”

[Sidewinder]

Just as those words escaped his mouth, Fidel drew his .45 and unsheathed his pistol.

I think you mean, "Fidel drew his .45 and unsheathed his knife."

Overall, I enjoyed the latest chapter. The hand-to-hand combat scenes were well written.

By the way, does EVIL regularly encode their firearms so they can only be fired by authorized personnel, e.g., by scanning for an IFF transmitter implanted in the authorized person's hand? (I'm assuming this was the reason Fidel couldn't fire 13's pistol.)

[Big Orange]

I really liked that last chapter, the mysterious hatchway in a jungle clearing is an obvious nod to the DHARMA Initiative complex and does the EVIL Corp. have access to it (ie a possible tunnel system to quickly move troops about, without tramping through the jungle)? And I vividly imagine Agent 13 to sound like Look Around You's Peter Serafinowicz (he overdubbed Darth Maul ).

[Ford Prefect]

By the way, does EVIL regularly encode their firearms so they can only be fired by authorized personnel, e.g., by scanning for an IFF transmitter implanted in the authorized person's hand? (I'm assuming this was the reason Fidel couldn't fire 13's pistol.)

Number 13 and the EVIL Elites probably use more advanced electrothermal-chemical weapons, much like the handweapons of first world companies and big PMCs. They'd be very easy to rig up like that, and I'd not be surprised if they did.

[Sidewinder]

By the way, does EVIL regularly encode their firearms so they can only be fired by authorized personnel, e.g., by scanning for an IFF transmitter implanted in the authorized person's hand? (I'm assuming this was the reason Fidel couldn't fire 13's pistol.)

Number 13 and the EVIL Elites probably use more advanced electrothermal-chemical weapons, much like the handweapons of first world companies and big PMCs. They'd be very easy to rig up like that, and I'd not be surprised if they did.

Please explain what you mean by electrothermal-chemical weapons. Do they use an electrical charge to set off the primer in a round of ammunition, like the M230 chain gun? (I believe Colt was developing a handgun like this for their Smart Gun project, because it would prevent unauthorized people from physically dismantling the safety systems to fire the weapon.)

[Ford Prefect]

Please explain what you mean by electrothermal-chemical weapons. Do they use an electrical charge to set off the primer in a round of ammunition, like the M230 chain gun? (I believe Colt was developing a handgun like this for their Smart Gun project, because it would prevent unauthorized people from physically dismantling the safety systems to fire the weapon.)

I mean guns that fire based on electrothermal-chemical principles. Wikipedia is useful here.

[Big Orange]

Evil Corporation seems more like a privately owned NATO army with it's own extensive R&D division that possibly outstrips the American military-industrial complex (rather than a arms dealing crime syndicate) so Evil guards, soldiers and operatives would have access to the best hardware out there.

[Ford Prefect]

Evil Corporation seems more like a privately owned NATO army with it's own extensive R&D division that possibly outstrips the American military-industrial complex (rather than a arms dealing crime syndicate) so Evil guards, soldiers and operatives would have access to the best hardware out there.

It doesn't really. America has access to guns which have essentially unlimited ammunition and plasma cannons for squad support. It's more advanced weapon systems include anti-gravity equipped F-22Xs with hundreds of missiles bound up into a transdimensional missile bay, designed by the world's greatest genius. Their special forces are all given a special serum which allows them to reach the peak of human phyical capability, derived from the greatest soldier in history (the aptly named Soldier). American SWAT has access to powered armour that is designed to be able to take hits from high level superhumans and actually not die. I mean, the kind that throw battleships.

EVIL Corp is really impressive in terms of the real world, but OZ Comix! is a world of total nuttery. To give an idea, the world's largest PMC, Saintly Concerns, spends a million dollars on the armoured muscle-fibre suits used by its mercenaries. Each. EVIL Corp is best known for selling volcano lairs and silly methods for destroying the earth (which never seem to work - all in the name of business) than for having the best equipment available.

EDIT: There are other groups as well who outstrip EVIL Corp who aren't first world militaries or organisations thereof. The secret society known as the Technotheocracy, for example, has electromagnetic weapons as standard on their soldiers and tanks armed with inertial accelerators. Hell, thinking about it further, the British have honest-to-God Martian heat rays, and invaded Mars back in the sixties.