“To which I would’ve, once again, said, Duh.”
“Right, moving past that…” Pulling another set of clothes out of her bag and putting on her glassnoculars, Freddie pressed the button on them and continued, "They are upright, more humanoid, and those quads are definitely tyrannosaurus in origin. At least as much as I can see below the frayed hems of those hand-me-down cut-off camos."
“Yep, I’ll give you that,” Bright readily agreed. "And the arms are definitely iguanodon. Longer than a Rex, way more muscular. So, where the crap did all that thick, brown hair come from?"
“I’m getting there,” Freddie murmured. "First, and it's right on the edge of my brain, those pinchers, the ones coming out of either side of their snouts… I've seen them… I know, I've seen… That's it!" Fist pumping the air, she whooped, “In Scientific Phenomena Magazine, a couple of months ago, there was an article about that dude that found a dinosaur-era spider. Those little sons of bitches had pincher-fangs just like those, but how… Whoa, what the hell?"
Shocked into silence, unable to move, she watched as the now twenty dino mega soldiers stripped off their shirts in a ripple motion that would've made every group of football fans all over the world really, really jealous. Staring, eyes wide, hands clenched into tight fists at her side, Freddie gasped, “And they’ve got the fucking armor?”
“They’ve got what now?” Bright yelped. "That's the what of the what?"
“The armor of the dino-spider, natural, hard, calcified armor.”
"That looks like a fucking tortoise's shell in black and gray?"
“Yep.”
Then it hit her—the missing piece of the puzzle. There was only one thing that would explain the fur—not hair—on their arms and legs and the snout sticking out of their faces, the home of their venomous pincher-fangs.
“There’s mane wolf mixed in with everything else.”
“Are you fucking kidding?” Bright spat then, in a tiny bit gentler tone, asked, “And what the hell is a mane wolf?”
“New species, not really a wolf, not really a dog, stupid name, lives only in Brazil. They’re meaner than a pissed-off black snake and eat everything they catch. Wonder where the… the… mad fucking scientist… deranged idiot… evil genius…. some or all of the above"—she shrugged—“who created them got that DNA.”
"But you don't wonder where he got it from the prehistoric dino-spider with venomous pincher-fangs? What have I told you about priorities, Freddie? Wait! Where are we— Are we even gonna talk about the machine guns and swords they're carrying?"
Not taking the time to answer her alter ego's questions, figuring the winged tree frog would get the picture and/or just pick it out of her mind, Freddie did a spinning one-eighty. Sprinting to her compact, super light, magnificent jet that she was more thankful for than she would ever admit aloud because it would sound like she had a big head and nobody wanted people to think you were a snot, she was in the pilot's seat and ready to take off in record time.
Flipping the toggle switches and hitting the buttons, she grabbed ahold of the yoke with both hands and pulled back.
And nothing happened.
Over and over, again and again, Freddie tried, but not even the light on the radio would flicker. Back out of the cockpit with her handy-dandy toolbox, the more-than-capable, holding ten doctorates, and having more practical experience than most, Dr. Lightfoot stopped midstride.
Eyes glued to the enormous puddle of iridescent fluid running the entire length of her plane, she was just about to break the bad news to Bright when the winged tree frog growled through gritted teeth, “If that’s all our fuel, I’m disowning you for the rest of forever.”
“Well, you better call the Goddess and get the paperwork started, ’cause we’re gonna be here for a while.”
5
After the shortest strategy session in history, with Buck counting every damned second as the others discussed the next steps and how to locate Freddie, the “troops” were dispatched. Miranda and Chase headed back to FUC headquarters to head up the team there. Abe and Shauna headed to the Dragon Protection Agency to meet with other DPA Agents who were monitoring the coffee field fires, and apparently, Matt Firestone was on the way, too.
Abe said the dragon’s experience with explosives would be invaluable. Buck thought it was just a way for his brother-in-law and his professor to talk shit about him. “But if it gets Freddie home safe, let ’em talk.”
Pacing from one side of the bar to the other, the honey badger stopped on his fourth pass, pulled the phone out of his back pocket, and dialed the main switchboard at FUCN'A. Hitting the buttons to bypass the automated welcome BS, he hit number six for the infirmary/clinic and prayed.
Quicker than he could've ever guessed, the harsh, clipped voice of Nurse Hetty Thomas barked, "Clinic. Speak."
Clearing his throat, trying to sound official while praying that she didn’t ask his name, Buck requested, “Dr. Weathersbee, please?”
“Who’s calling?”
Well, fuck! In for a penny, in for a pound…
Barking his words just like he’d done when training troops in some of the hottest pits of hell on earth for way too many years, Buck clipped, “This is Captain Blackthorne, Division Six, and when I want to be questioned, I will tell you so, Nurse Thomas. Is that clear?”
“Sir. Yes, sir,” came the crow’s immediate reply. “I’ll get her right now, sir.”
“See that you do.”
The longer it took for the doctor to get on the phone, the more Buck was sure a dressing-down was in his very near future. Not only had he used his rank from before he retired but he'd given the name of the super classified, never-to-be-spoken-to-a-civvie Division Six.
"Fuck it. I'll tell them it was a matter of life or death and drastic measures were needed," he mumbled under his breath, still pacing a trench in the floor of the Sundowner.
Ready to hang up and find another way, a very high, obviously drunk, silly-as-the-day-is-long voice singsonged in his ear. "Hellllloooooooo, Dr. Weathers… Weathers… Weathers…" Overtaken by a bout of the giggles, the physician gasped then, with her words falling over each other, replied in one single breath. "This is me, the doctor, the person in charge of this clinic. The name's Delilah, or it was. We've had an accident with the nitrous oxide, and I can't talk right now. Call back tomorrow." Click.
Jerking the phone from his ear and staring at the dark screen, Buck was dumbfounded. Had the world gone mad? Was he in an episode of The Twilight Zone? “Nope, Candid Camera,” he growled. “That’s it, and this shit sucks.”
Grabbing his leather jacket and keys, he hollered over his shoulder, "Talk to ya later, Mom," as he hit the doors of the Sundowner, stalking away at top speed.
After crossing the parking lot, the sound of gravel crunching under the heels of his boots, his leg was over the seat of his Harley, and the engine was rumbling when his mom's voice sounded in his head. “I wondered what the hell you were waitin’ on. Holler if you need us. I love you, son.”