And Dinosaurs — Cadillacs

Jack dove back into the driver’s seat. The Caddy’s V8 roared to life, a sound the dinosaur had never heard but instinctively hated. He slammed the gas. The rear wheels spun, kicking up gravel, then caught. The Cadillac shot forward, straight at the charging monster.

Jack fired.

Jack climbed back into the Cadillac, shut the door with a solid, vault-like thunk, and let the engine idle. The dashboard glowed green. The fins caught the last light. In a world of teeth and claws, he had a V8 engine, a full tank of gas, and the only law that mattered: the one written in tire tracks and harpoon scars. He put the car in gear and drove toward the sound of screaming, the future melting away behind him like a bad dream. Cadillacs And Dinosaurs

He found the beast in a collapsed plaza, snout deep in the ruptured tanker, lapping up the last dregs of synthetic gasoline. Its hide was a mosaic of leathery brown and angry red. Twin horns jutted above its eyes. It was beautiful, in the way a hurricane is beautiful. Jack dove back into the driver’s seat