“About The Dinosaur in the Cage:

“That’s it,” the man urged. “Come on … Come on …”

He backed away slowly, his hands opening and closing on the prod. Napoleon emerged into the storm-light, pausing at the start of the run. He shook himself as though offended by the cold. His color was a dull gray.

The man cursed; so long as the animal remained in the doorway, he couldn’t trigger the doors. He would have to lure it further in. “Come on, killer! Fresh meat!” he shouted, and retreated along the fence, raking the prod over the amply-spaced steel mesh, making a tat … tat … tat sound.

Napoleon padded into the run cautiously, his feet squishing in the mud. He sniffed the air, and stretched his limbs. He was painted in gridiron shadows from the mesh-work.

The man halted by the control box, but didn’t hit the doors yet. Napoleon was fast—if he triggered the gates too soon, the spring-heeled devil might dash forward into the paddock (God knows, it’d tried last night). Instead the man maneuvered the tip of the prod through a square gap in the mesh and waited.

Napoleon cocked his head, hesitating. He snorted, and clouds of pale breath billowed from his nostrils. Then he moved forward, looking from side to side. His footprints exposed the run’s concrete floor.

The act didn’t fool the man for one minute. That’s how the bastard had nearly gotten him the first time, by pretending not to see him. Never again, he thought determinedly.

Napoleon stepped in front of him, and paused.

The rain came down in waves, back-lit by the harsh glare of the security lights, and the man squinted. It was hard to see the animal this close to the paddock. Not impossible, but hard. He could make out the profile of its head and neck, but the details were a wash. And the nylon wasn’t helping.

Lightning flashed above them, and thunder cracked. It was a sharp, ragged sound—like the crunch of a busting tree trunk. The man flinched, and Napoleon turned to face him. The two of them stared at each other through the rain and the steel mesh.

“So, we meet again,” the man joked, though his intentions were no laughing matter. He expected the sound of his voice would set the animal off.

But nothing happened.

The man swallowed.

“I know you can see me,” he said at last, and found he had to holler just to pierce the storm’s din. “I know you can see me—because I can see you!”

The Nano-T didn’t move.

The man laughed brusquely, and shook his head. “What’s the matter—forget about last night?”

Rain pounded on metal and roared down the gutter. The T remained still.

The man was confused. Why wasn’t it attacking? Was it wary of the shock prod? Was it sick? He readied his thumb over the prod’s switch. There was only one way to find out …

The Nano-T dipped its head to the ground suddenly, sniffing the mud, and the man hesitated. He withdrew the prod and shuffled forward, peering through the mesh …

It wasn’t mud the animal was sniffing. It was its own—

Something wet and foul hit the fence, splattering, and the man jerked away. The T’s narrow muzzle darted between the bars—and slammed to a stop. Its teeth gnashed; the fence shook. Its eyes stared out at him from its wide head, their golden coronas close to the mesh.

The man fumed; it had flung its shit at him! He hit the LADDER DOORS plunger and the PADDOCK plunger simultaneously.

Steel pulleys whirred, and iron doors slammed into the mud. Napoleon pulled back from the mesh, bleeding. He looked at the closed gates, owlish eyes blinking, and brushed at his lacerated snout with a fore-claw.

The man closed the control box and jabbed him in the hip with the prod. The Nano-T jumped, squealing, and banged its head on a crossbeam. Hot orange sparks rained down in the mud. The man laughed, his mouth hung wide, and struck the animal again.

Napoleon howled at the sky.

Targeted Age Group: teenagers, adults
Written by: Wayne Kyle Spitzer

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