BY JOHN-PAUL COTE
Copyright is held by the author.
THE PTERODACTYL circled overhead, surveying the scene. It looked hungry as if this was a tasty morsel.
Don looked to Reggie. “You’d better get the rifle out. We’ll likely need it.”
Don and Reggie had worked together for a year. Don was a veteran of the temporal service industry, with 25 years of experience, 15 of which were with CTTA (the Canadian Time Travel Association). He was a little overweight, a little slower, and sometimes a little sorer than he was at 30 but he still loved his job. Every service call was different. Every one was an adventure.
Reggie had two years on his resume. Just a kid compared to Don, but an eager learner. For him, every call was still a learning experience.
“So, what seems to be the problem?” Don asked, approaching the client. Reggie was grabbing the tools as well as the rifle. It was getting late in their shift, but a service call was a service call.
The kid looked nervous. He and his girlfriend probably weren’t even 20 and here they were out with Dad’s ride. “We were on our way to a Late Bronze Age party in the Indus Valley when POW! we ended up here. Now it won’t even start.”
Of course, the Late Bronze age . . . dinosaurs are no fun, Don thought, remembering taking his parent’s ride out to impress a date.
“OK. Can I see your CTTA card, sir? Excellent, thank you,” Don said. He got into the cab of the temporal vehicle, a Dodge Cronos. Reggie put down the tools, waiting for his orders.
Pushing the engage button made a whirring sound. “You can hear it wants to turn over. Reggie, check the battery.”
Reggie held a gauge to the battery. “It checks out fine.”
“How about the fuel? It reads half a tank here.”
Reggie checked the fuel. “Half a load of verfuevulent. The magnetic field is intact.”
“Meyerhoff dichronic exchanger?”
“Good.”
The pterodactyl was quietly, slowly circling down. The Early Cretaceous Period was always a danger. “Reggie, you’ve got the rifle? Keep an eye on him.” Don looked at the client. “OK, let’s take a look underneath.”
Reggie loaded the TASER rifle and fired a shot. It hit the pterodactyl. The creature cried out and gained altitude but didn’t move on. They could keep it at bay, but Reggie knew this one would be persistent. Reggie then looked out to the plain.
“Don, how much more time?” He asked. “I’ve got a T-rex or something getting interested . . . about a half a klick out.”
Don was under the hood, shaking his head. “Sir, you’ve got a least two spurving bearings burned out, the turbo-encabulator is fried, you’re leaking revtronic coolant, and the prefabulated amulite casing is cracked. And that’s just what I can see.”
“Can you do anything about it . . . here?” The kid, James, asked. The Cronos wasn’t his. He wasn’t even supposed to have it out tonight. But Mom and Dad were out of town. Who would know?
“We’ll have to take it back home or to a service station of your choice.” Don added, “Regular servicing and keeping your time travel vehicle within the proper temporal limits are essential, sir.” The Dodge Cronos was a decent enough vehicle, but heading back 135 million years in one jump was too much for this model.
Reggie fired the TASER again as the pterodactyl got too close. He could also see the other carnivore was still creeping up. “Don, we should get going.”
Poor kid, Don thought looking at the boy. Daddy was going to find out about this one. He closed the hood. The girlfriend, Kathy, did not look impressed.
“Don, the T-rex thing is getting closer.”
“It’s a carnotaurus, Reggie. T-Rex is Late Cretaceous. Late Cretaceous. The carnotaurus likes to surprise, sneak up from behind. So it won’t attack as long as you watch it.”
The carnotaurus started to flank the group.
“Don . . .”
“Are you sure we can’t just take care of this here?” James asked, hoping for a miracle.
“Sorry, but, as I said, we’ll have to take it to a shop and call the owner.”
“Don . . .”
The dinosaur was circling and getting closer. Reggie thought he could see it smile at him.
“Just keep watching him, Reggie, and fire off a shot if you need to. He’s just a big coward.”
Don heard the rifle fire and then a tremendous roar. Reggie was getting jumpy. Time to go. Don pulled the lever on his service vehicle to extend the connecting arm for temporal transit.
Another shot and another roar. “Keep it together, Reggie.”
Don hooked up the arm. He blocked off the Gehring transnebulators so that the Cronos wouldn’t move on its own and they were ready to go.
“OK, everyone get in.”
They all got in the CTTA service vehicle. The carnotaurus made its move. The radio in the vehicle began to flash. Much to Reggie’s horror, Don picked it up.
“Hello, Don speaking . . . we’re just finishing up this call . . . sure, give us about 20 minutes and we can go.”
The carnotaurus was on them. The teeth still glistened from a previous kill with flesh stuck in between them. It bit down on the Cronos.
Reggie screamed. Kathy screamed. James screamed. Don put the vehicle in gear.
Then there were swirling purple clouds like they were in a colourful tornado. And then they were home. James’ home, that is.
Reggie walked around the carnotaurus head that was stuck to the car and unhooked the Cronos. The head tipped the vehicle over onto its side.
“I’m sure that will buff right out.”
Don got out the clipboard and paperwork. James looked pale. A dinosaur almost ate him and his Dad would finish the job. And, standing in the blood and veins and gore from the head, what would he do with the head? Did it go in the organics or was it a large item pick up or a new ornament for his Mom’s gardens?
Don handed him a pen.
“So, I just need your initial here and your signature here.”
James followed what he was told to do.
“Thank you, sir, and I hope you have a good night,” Don said with a smile and a wave. He looked to Reggie. “We’ve got one more. Sounds like a ruptured electrodensinator coil in early Medieval England. Let’s ramble, ramblers!”
Don patted him on the back. Reggie groaned.
***
John-Paul lives in St. Catharines, Ontario with his wife and two children. He’s been writing for years but only started submitting his work recently. His stories have appeared in the Niagara-On-The-Lakes’ Writers Circle’s anthologies Beginnings and Endings and Journeys as well as on sites such as DarkWinterLit, The Writer’s Journal, and Jerry Jazz Musician. “A Winter’s Dance” and other stories have already been featured on CommuterLit. He is a person of few words, so he enjoys writing short stories and novellas the most.