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Chapter Text

It was one of those rare still nights in camp, where even the crickets seemed tired and the breeze ran out of things to say. The fire crackled soft and low, casting lazy shadows against the tents and the backs of the people winding down for the night. Most of the gang was settled-some already asleep, others lingering near the fire with cups of coffee or half-smoked cigarettes in hand. Night watch was posted with Charles up near the eastern ridge, Bill by the horses, and everything else had fallen into a soft hush.

Then the sky changed.

It began like moonlight through fog, subtle and slow, and Arthur barely lifted his head when he first noticed it. But then came the colors .

Ribbons of light-greens, purples, blues so deep they made the stars themselves look dull-began to ripple across the sky in unnatural waves, like the night had split open just to show them something from another world.

“Good heavens,” Miss Grimshaw murmured, her voice quiet, reverent.

Jack gasped so loud everyone could hear it. “Mama, look! The sky’s alive!”

Abigail, her arm around him, blinked up with wide, stunned eyes. “I-I don’t… I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Around the camp, every neck craned upward. Karen and Tilly stared with their mouths slightly parted. Susan crossed herself. Javier muttered something in Spanish under his breath that Arthur didn’t catch. Dutch, of course, stepped forward with his arms open wide like the heavens were sending down a personal invitation.

“Now this,” Dutch said, grinning with all his teeth, “this is what I’ve been saying all along! We are blessed, my friends! This is a sign. This is the universe reminding us of our destiny!”

Hosea raised an eyebrow, standing beside Molly. “You ever heard of anything like this?” she asked him.

“No,” Hosea replied, slowly. “Maybe some kind of aurora… but not this far south, and not like this. It’s… unnatural.”

That was the word that stuck in Arthur’s gut. Unnatural . He watched the lights twist and shimmer, not quite trusting what he was seeing. It was beautiful, sure. But not right. Like watching a fire flicker in reverse, or hearing a bird sing in a man’s voice.

He didn’t say anything. Just stared, arms crossed, jaw tight, and that odd crawling sensation creeping up his spine. Something ancient stirred inside him, something that didn’t like how the sky looked.

It went on for nearly half an hour-long enough for the awe to wear down and be replaced with confusion, then unease. Eventually, the lights dimmed and the stars returned to their usual place, blinking as if nothing had ever happened at all.

People murmured among themselves as they settled back in. Dutch kept rambling on about signs and omens. Mary-Beth said it reminded her of a fairy tale she’d once read. Jack asked if the angels were dancing.

Arthur didn’t say a word. But when he finally turned away from the sky and went to bed, the hair on the back of his neck refused to lie flat. He pulled the blanket over his chest, felt the weight of his gun belt resting nearby, and thought that weren’t no damn northern lights.

The sun hadn’t been up for more than an hour when Arthur rode out toward Emerald Ranch, dust trailing behind him and sleep still clinging to the corners of his eyes. The strange lights from the night before were still fresh in his mind, but the sky had returned to its usual dull, bright blue-no ribbons, no colors, just the plain, indifferent stretch of summer sky.

Emerald Ranch was usually quiet. Predictable. A good place to find work when things were slow. Bounty posters, the occasional stagecoach schedule, maybe even some under-the-table requests if you knew who to talk to. Arthur had expected routine.

What he found instead was chaos.

The fences around the livestock pens were splintered, posts snapped like toothpicks and wire curled up like it’d been chewed through. Cattle lay dead and half-picked across the yard, some missing limbs, others looking like they’d been clawed open by something far too strong. Blood streaked across the dirt and mud, drying in black patches beneath bootprints and hooves. One of the wagons had crashed clean through the side of the fence, and no one had even bothered to clean it up.

Arthur reined in his horse, narrowing his eyes.

“Hello?” he called out.

Movement above-he looked up and spotted three men crouched on the roof of the barn, rifles in hand and eyes wide with fear. Another man was on top of the chicken coop, gripping a pitchfork like it was going to do something.

“The hell’s goin’ on here?” Arthur shouted.

One of the roof men, a boy, maybe twenty, face pale and smeared with sweat, answered, “There’s a monster in the barn!”

Arthur blinked. “A what ?”

“I ain’t jokin’! It-it came outta nowhere last night! Killed the horses! Killed Rick ! We shot it, I think, but it’s still movin’-it’s hangin’ in there, I swear!”

Arthur felt something cold settle in his chest. “Monster,” he repeated, and nudged his horse forward. “Right. Bet it’s just a sick wolf. Maybe a mountain lion.”

“Don’t go in there!” another man called. “We seen its claws-it ain’t no mountain lion!”

Arthur sighed. He’d seen enough fear to know when men were exaggerating and when they were genuinely about to piss themselves. These boys were closer to the latter.

He dismounted, cocked his shotgun, and made his way toward the barn, eyes narrowing with every step.

The barn doors were cracked open. Inside was dim and hot, heavy with the stench of blood, manure, and something else-something sharp, unfamiliar. Like wet iron and burnt feathers. He stepped closer.

That’s when he heard it.

A low, terrible hissing , like steam escaping a kettle but deep, guttural, alive. Then the sound of something wet dragging across wood, followed by the creak of a board under something far too heavy to be a man.

Arthur’s jaw tightened.

Then he saw the shadow.

It moved like a bird, but it was too large-taller than him, broad-shouldered, shaped all wrong. Feathers bristled along its back, dark and iridescent. Its tail swayed like a whip. It stood on two legs, talons curling into the floorboards, and as it stepped into the light-

Arthur saw its face.

Hooked, predatory eyes, set forward like a hawk’s-but deeper, more calculating. A long snout full of teeth, wet with blood. Its arms-arms, not wings-hung forward, clawed and twitching.

It stood above a man’s body. What was left of it.

Arthur took one slow step back.

The thing snapped its head toward him.

“Shit-!”

It screamed. A piercing, animal screech that split through Arthur’s skull, and in a blink it charged .

He barely had time to raise the shotgun. Fired once– caught the thing in the chest-and it staggered but kept coming. Second shot–he aimed for the head. The slug ripped through bone and brain and it finally collapsed, skidding across the hay in a heap.

Silence returned, thick and dreadful.

Arthur stood in the doorway, breath heavy, shotgun trembling just slightly in his hands. The monster twitched once, then stilled. He looked down at it-feathers matted with blood, claws longer than his hand, and that awful open mouth lined with far too many teeth.

No cougar. No wolf. No sick dog.

“What in the ever-lovin’ hell are you ?” he whispered.

The same cold chill from the night before crept back up his spine.

And this time, he didn’t think it was going away anytime soon.

The ranchers didn’t even argue when Arthur dragged the corpse out of the barn, blood still steaming on the hay. They just gawked from their rooftops like he’d wrestled the Devil himself to the ground. Eventually, one of them came down, shakily handed him a satchel of cash, and said something about "worth every damn penny."

Arthur took the money, but his mind wasn’t on it.

He crouched beside the carcass, watching as flies started to circle. It didn’t make any more sense dead than it had alive. The damn thing looked like someone had put a hawk, a lizard, and a bear through a meat grinder and told it to walk like a man. He’d hunted cougars, wolves, even a panther once. This? This thing didn’t belong here.

He pulled out his journal and, with hands still slick with adrenaline, sketched the creature. Broad chest. Long tail. Claws that could gut a man like a fish. Feathers bristling from the arms and neck. Big, mean eyes. The teeth were hardest-too many of them, like a nightmare grinning.

Underneath the drawing, he wrote: Giant murder bird I saw and killed. Never seen nothin’ like it. Don’t want to again.

Then, because he needed proof that wouldn't smudge if it rained, he set about skinning it. The hide came off tough and sinewy, layered with thick muscle beneath the feathers. He took a few patches of the plumage-deep black and red with a strange shimmer to them. The teeth came next, sharp as razors. And then the claw.

That claw.

He had to use both hands just to pry it loose, and even then it felt wrong holding it. Like it still wanted to be attached to something dangerous. He wrapped it in cloth and packed the rest.

The ride back to camp was long, quiet. Not a single animal crossed his path, not even a bird. The woods felt empty.

When he finally crested the hill overlooking camp, he let out a slow breath. Home, for what little that meant anymore.

The moment he dismounted, Hosea was already walking up to meet him, brows furrowed. “Arthur,” he said, voice cautious, “what the hell happened to you?”

Arthur didn’t say anything. Just pulled the claw out of his satchel and handed it over. Then the teeth. Then the feathers. Finally, he opened his journal and showed the sketch.

Hosea stared at the drawing, lips slightly parted.

“I found it up at Emerald Ranch,” Arthur said, voice low. “It was killin’ livestock. Had a man in its claws when I got there. I shot it twice. Barely slowed it down. Thing was fast. Smart, too. I don’t know what it was, Hosea, but it weren’t no animal I’ve ever seen. Weren’t natural.”

Hosea looked at the feathers, ran his fingers over one thoughtfully.

“Don’t suppose,” he murmured, “it looked… anything like that ?”

Arthur turned.

Near the fire, someone had dragged out a wooden crate and hastily reinforced it with metal bars. Inside, something thrashed and hissed-a smaller version of what Arthur had just killed. Not even knee-high, but built the same: feathers, claws, toothy grin and all.

It lunged at the side of the cage with a shriek, mouth gaping. Arthur instinctively reached for his gun.

John, sitting nearby, poked it with a stick. “Damn thing was sneakin’ into Pearson’s wagon. Kept stealin’ meat. Caught it this morning.”

Sean looked up from where he was sitting by the fire, gnawing on something. “There were four of the little bastards. We ate the others.” He held up a bone.

Arthur stared, wide-eyed, as Sean crunched into it.

The thing in the cage hissed again, furious and pathetic all at once.

Mary-Beth giggled nervously. “It’s sort of cute… y’know, in a horrifying, deadly sort of way.”

Charles was crouched nearby, watching it closely. “We shouldn’t keep it in a cage,” he said. “It’s scared. Probably hungry.”

Dutch finally strolled up, hands behind his back like he was inspecting a new horse. “I reckon,” he said thoughtfully, “maybe it escaped from a circus. Or a government experiment. Let’s head into Valentine, check if anyone there lost an ugly chicken.”

Arthur’s eyes didn’t leave the smaller creature as it hissed and snapped its jaws.

He didn’t say a word, but the shiver returned. Stronger this time.

Valentine came into view by early afternoon, the sun bearing down hard on the dry dirt road. The town looked as it always did at first glance-horses tied outside the saloon, townsfolk moving about, dust in the air. But as Arthur and Dutch got closer, things started to feel… off.

There was noise. A lot of it. Not just the usual ruckus of livestock and drinkers either-no, this was different. High-pitched screeching, shouts, the sound of something being knocked over.

Arthur shifted the weight slung over his shoulder-his burden still squirming and making muffled chirps through the thick rope bundle. The damn thing had been fighting the whole way, twisting and hissing like a sack of knives. He’d tied it up best he could, wrapped it in canvas and rope like a rolled-up rug, claws bundled tight, but it still writhed and scratched like hell.

Dutch stepped forward first, boots clicking smart against the wood of the walkway, his usual grin in place despite the chaos. “Now, what in the world-”

Something darted between his feet.

Arthur blinked.

“Was that a… lizard ?”

It was the size of a cat, green-brown and quick, with big yellow eyes and arms that flailed comically as it ran, chirping wildly. Another one scurried after it. Then another. Six more came tumbling out from behind the gunsmith’s door, scattering like marbles.

“Jesus Christ,” Arthur muttered.

“Damn things been at it all day!” someone yelled.

The Sheriff came barreling out of the general store with a revolver in hand, red-faced and cussing like a man possessed. “You little sons’a-GET OFF MY TOWN!” he fired at one of the small lizards, missed, and nearly hit a wagon wheel. The creature squeaked and zipped under a barrel.

“What in the hell’s goin’ on?” Arthur asked, stepping around another little bastard as it leapt up and tried to bite a chicken, which promptly kicked it in the face and ran off.

Dutch raised both hands, stepping toward the Sheriff. “Now, sir, perhaps we can help-my friend and I recently encountered something rather unusual.” He gestured over to Arthur, who lifted the tied bundle slightly in demonstration. The velociraptor, muzzled with rope and growling, gave a violent wiggle and snarled. “Any chance your troubles are the result of a lost circus shipment? We happened upon this peculiar creature-”

“A circus?!” the Sheriff barked, eyes wild. “Hell no! You think a circus dropped off a hundred of these goddamn swamp rats to destroy my town?! Look around you! They’re everywhere ! Tearing up crates, chasin’ livestock, bit a preacher’s nose clean off this morning!”

As if to emphasize his point, one of the compies leapt onto a crate of apples nearby and immediately began gorging itself, chirping victoriously. Another one slipped into the saloon, followed by a scream and the distinct crash of glass.

Dutch opened his mouth, then thought better of it. “...Right.”

Arthur grunted. “So no one else around here knows what any of ‘em are either.”

Before the Sheriff could answer, Arthur felt the bundle on his back shift. Then twist. Then suddenly lighten.

“Oh, goddammit-”

With a loud tear of canvas and a sharp SNAP of twine, the velociraptor wriggled free. It hit the ground in a tangle of rope, rolled once, and sprang up onto its claws, tail whipping behind it. In a blink, it was off-chasing after the compies with a high-pitched shriek, scaring chickens and children alike.

People scattered. A dog barked and ran. The velociraptor chomped one of the tiny lizards mid-leap, snapped it in half like a twig, and spun to go after another.

Dutch sighed deeply, as though he'd just been told they'd lost two banks.

“Arthur,” he said.

Arthur groaned.

“Go fetch the damn thing. I’ll see you back at camp.”

By the time Arthur caught up to the creature-after it had eaten three compies, broken a hitching post, and tried to steal a loaf of bread from a cart-it was panting and covered in lizard gore. He roped it again, grumbling the entire time, and walked it out of town like a man returning an unruly toddler to its mother.

That night, by the fire, Arthur opened his journal again.

He sketched the velociraptor first, all sharp angles and smug posture, still smug even after being tied up a second time. Beneath it, he wrote:

Smaller murderbird. Kinda cute. Significantly faster and more annoying.

Then he drew one of the compies-bulbous eyes, skinny tail, the annoying little smirk it seemed to have even in death.

Weird lil rat lizards.

He closed the journal with a sigh, rubbed at the back of his neck, and stared into the fire.

Chapter Text

It was well past midnight when Arthur, still sore from chasing murderbirds through Valentine, finally laid himself down by the fire and closed his eyes.

He didn’t expect peace-not with that damn thing in the cage still screaming its fool head off. The little raptor had been shrieking on and off since sundown, pacing back and forth behind the bars like it had a bone to pick with the entire world. The gang had tried everything-blanket over the cage, throwing it bits of salted pork, even Sadie threatening to become the next predator in its food chain-but nothing worked. It just screeched .

Arthur groaned, turning over in his bedroll and muttering, “I’m gonna kill it. I swear, I’ll kill it in the mornin’. Turn it into boots and stew.”

And then, just as suddenly as it had started, the noise stopped.

Arthur blinked. Lifted his head slightly. The silence that followed was worse than the screeching.

No wind. No crickets. No nightbirds.

The horses were shifting restlessly, hooves stamping against the ground, the low whinnying of panic rising through the dark. One of them gave a sharp, startled neigh and yanked at the hitch post.

Arthur sat up slowly, heart already crawling its way up into his throat. He reached for his gun-but before he could get a grip on it, Charles was suddenly crouched beside him, face pale even in the firelight.

“ Arthur ,” he whispered, barely loud enough to be heard, an obvious shake underneath it that immediately told him something was horribly wrong. “ Don’t make a sound. And don’t panic .” Arthur froze. That was the kind of tone Charles used when he was about to gut a bear. Or fight a ghost. “…Grab your gun.”

Arthur didn’t ask questions. Just moved, slow and quiet, taking the shotgun beside him and checking the shells, the hairs on the back of his neck were already standing.

Then he saw it.

At first, it was just a shape in the trees, a large, unnatural bulge in the shadows of the forest beyond the camp. Then, as his eyes adjusted, he saw the glint of yellow eyes low to the ground, staring straight into camp. Not moving. Watching.

Arthur’s breath caught in his throat.

The thing crouched in the brush was massive. Muscled. Covered in leathery, mottled skin, not feathers like the others, and the silhouette of two jagged, horn-like protrusions jutted from its skull. Its body was shaped like a bull’s, but wrong, off-kilter. Sleek and predatory.

Its head tilted slightly as it looked toward the tethered horses. Its tail flicked.

It was waiting.

“…The hell is that,” Arthur murmured.

“Don’t know,” Charles whispered. 

Across the camp, Arthur spotted movement-John, Javier, Micah, and Sadie, all crouched behind crates and supply barrels, rifles and pistols drawn. Javier and Micah looked like cats about to jump up at the slightest noise. John had his teeth gritted and his eyebrows furrowed, though whether it was from confusion, fear or determination, he had no ideaHe caught Sadie’s eye. She nodded once. Slowly. The kind of nod you only gave when something was about to go straight to hell.

Arthur raised his shotgun.

The seconds that passed were unbearable-sweat beading on foreheads, hearts thudding hard, nobody daring to breathe.

And then, like someone hit a silent cue-

All five of them fired.

The camp exploded in noise.

Gunshots rang out. The fire roared. The thing in the trees screamed .

It wasn’t just a roar, it was a blast . A guttural, terrible sound that shook the dirt and rattled Arthur’s skull. Horses tore loose from their tethers, galloping into the night in a frenzy of hooves and foam.The thing staggered back from the volley of bullets. Not dead. Not even close. But hurt. Furious .

Its massive body spun, tail whipping trees out of its way like matchsticks, and then it ran. The ground boomed with each step it took, like thunder slamming into the earth. It crashed through the tree line and vanished into the dark, knocking down a pine like it was a twig.

The camp was left in stunned silence-save for the distant thundering of its retreat.

Arthur lowered his shotgun, breath coming fast. His heart was trying to punch a hole through his ribs.

Sadie stood slowly, rifle still in hand. “What in God’s name was that ?”

Javier looked ready to puke. John just shook his head.

Micah muttered, “That thing looked like the devil himself fucked a bull and left the baby in the woods.”

Dutch came stumbling out of his tent, hair wild, pistol in hand and eyes wide. “What-what the hell is going on out here?!”

Arthur exhaled, slow and shaky. “Somethin’ worse than a murderbird,” he muttered. “A hell of a lot worse.”

And somewhere, behind them, the raptor in the cage gave one long, low, frightened chirp-quiet for the first time in hours.

Needless to say, camp didn’t sleep much after that.

The fire was stoked twice over, everyone wide awake and half expecting another roar to cut through the trees at any moment. The raptor in the cage had gone deathly quiet, pressed into the corner with its feathers puffed up and eyes darting wildly-maybe the first time anyone had seen it afraid .

Dutch stood by the fire, jaw clenched and eyes hard. “We’re doubling night watch from now on,” he said. “Two people. Always. No exceptions.” His voice left no room for argument.

Charles nodded once, arms crossed, still staring out toward the dark where the carnotaurus had vanished. Dutch turned to him.

“You saw it first?”

Charles gave a short nod. “It was quiet, surprisingly quiet for something that big. The animals heard it before I did. I figured if I shot too early, I’d only piss it off. So I woke and told the others to hold fire and wait until it was just close enough for all of us to shoot together.”

Dutch studied him for a moment, then gave a firm nod. “Smart man. Could’ve lost half the camp if you hadn’t kept your head.”

Charles didn’t smile. He didn’t even blink. “It was watching us,” he said. “It wasn’t just looking for food. It was thinking . Waiting. Like it wanted to know which one of us would run first.”

That shut everyone up.

Dutch gave him a pat on the shoulder, but there was something in the older man’s eyes now-something they didn’t often see in Dutch. Not fear. Not quite. But the tremble of something close enough that it might as well have been.

Abigail had wrapped Jack in her arms, sitting stiff as a board on a crate, her rifle nearby. “We can’t stay here,” she said. “That thing might come back. What if it’s hunting us? What if it hurts Jack?”

“We don’t know what it wants,” Hosea said gently. “We don’t even know what it is .”

“Well it ain’t natural,” Abigail snapped, panic rising in her voice. “And we can’t sit around hopin’ it doesn’t come back just ‘cause it might not!”

Dutch opened his mouth, maybe to reassure her, maybe to tell her the plan-but he was cut off by a shout.

“H-hey…you guys might want to see this.”

It was Javier, standing near the edge of the camp’s overlook, the rocky cliffside that dipped down toward the grassy fields beyond. He had one hand shielding his eyes, the other holding his rifle loose at his side.

Arthur moved first, then Charles, then the rest of the gang trickled over, uneasy and quiet. Javier didn’t speak again. He just pointed.

They all followed his gaze.

Out there, just beyond the low hills and moonlit meadows, were shapes .

Gigantic shapes.

At first it looked like a forest moving, shadows swaying slow and strange under the starlight. Then one of them lifted its head, and the moon caught the arch of a neck that seemed to go on forever. Long tails. Big bodies. Skin that shimmered gray and green in the dark. Some of them moved in pairs, some in threes. One had a young one trailing behind it like a foal. T

heir calls were low, mournful, and loud -a kind of bellow that rattled in the chest and echoed off the cliffside.

One of the animals reared its head to the sky and let out another sound, deep and sonorous, like a horn being blown from the belly of the earth.

The entire gang just stared.

“My God…Are those…?” Dutch started, voice thin.

“ Dinosaurs ?” Hosea finished.

The word hung in the air, heavy, unreal.

The silence that followed felt like the land itself had stopped to listen.

Arthur’s throat was dry. “You’re tellin’ me those things… them bones they dig up? That’s…them? That’s what they used to be?”

“No,” Hosea muttered. “That’s what they are . They’re back .”

Dutch rubbed at his face like a man trying to wake himself up from a dream. “I’ll be damned…”

Out in the field, the giant creatures kept moving-slow, unbothered, titans from another world just wandering through the one they should never have seen again.

Nobody said a word for a long time.

Morning came, but the sun didn’t bring much warmth-not the kind that could shake off the chill of the night before. The camp had been rattled to its core, and even the most stubborn among them couldn’t pretend nothing had changed.

People moved quickly. Tents came down, supplies were packed, rifles were checked and re-checked. Even Micah was quiet for once, focused on cleaning his revolvers with a stiffness in his shoulders Arthur hadn’t seen before.

Near the wagons, Arthur stood with Dutch and Hosea, watching the gang prepare to move. The three of them were speaking in low tones, their voices laced with disbelief and worry.

“It ain’t just one creature,” Arthur was saying, shaking his head. “First it was that big feathered bastard at Emerald Ranch, then the little one we caught, then that horned devil from last night... and now the ones out in the field.” He looked at them both. “That ain’t coincidence.”

Dutch crossed his arms, his brow furrowed, the brim of his hat pulled low. “It’s like the whole damn world’s shifted. Like God’s dropped us in the wrong place.”

Hosea rubbed his temple with two fingers. “Or like something else pulled them here. Those things out in the field... the way they moved, like they’ve been here forever and we’re the strangers.”

Arthur’s jaw tightened. “You remember that weird light show in the sky, a few nights back? Before all this started?”

They both nodded.

“I think that’s when it happened,” Arthur said. “All this... maybe those lights opened some door. Or tore somethin’ open. Like they came from the past through it, somehow. I don’t know.” He looked down. “It sounds crazy sayin’ it out loud.”

Dutch didn’t scoff, didn’t laugh. He looked toward the treeline, serious as stone. “If this is what we’re dealin’ with now... we’ve got to stay ready. Always armed. More ammo. More eyes. Bigger guns, if we can find ‘em.” He turned to Arthur and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “You and Charles ride ahead. Find us someplace safer. No trees, no cliffs. Open space where we can see somethin’ comin’. These things... they hide too well.”

Arthur nodded. “I’ll get on it.”

Dutch started to turn away, but Arthur paused, jerking a thumb toward the cage near the fire. “And what about that tiny little bastard?” he asked, motioning toward the velociraptor. The thing sat curled in the straw, bound again after its little escape, hissing low at anyone who got too close.

Dutch glanced at it, then waved a dismissive hand. “Let it go. It’s learned its lesson.”

“Y’think it’ll run off?”

“Let’s hope it runs the other way.”

Arthur raised an eyebrow but didn’t argue. He walked over, crouched by the cage, and unlatched the door. The raptor didn’t bolt-just tilted its head at him, suspicious. Arthur grunted. “Go on then. Go bother someone else.”

It watched him for a few more seconds, then darted out, disappearing into the brush in a blur of feathers and claws.

Arthur stood, brushed his hands off, and called for Charles.

The woods eventually gave way to the kind of country Arthur preferred-open, wide, where nothing could sneak up on you. Still, the quiet gnawed at his nerves. It wasn’t peaceful the way it should’ve been. Not anymore.

Arthur rode beside Charles in silence, both men on edge, their eyes scanning the tree line and distant ridges out of habit now, not caution. Not anymore. Caution had become survival.

Finally, Arthur broke the silence.

“Dinosaurs,” he said flatly. “Goddamn dinosaurs , Charles.”

Charles glanced at him, but Arthur wasn’t smiling.

“I mean… the law is one thing. O’Driscolls, sure. Even Pinkertons-those bastards make sense, in their way. But this ?” Arthur gave a bitter chuckle. “Dinosaurs? Reckon I lived to see it all.”

Charles snorted, the sound short and humorless. “You and me both.”

They lapsed back into silence, the rhythmic clop of their horses the only sound for a moment-until it wasn’t.

A strange, low bellow echoed across the fields. Not quite a roar, but deep, resonant. Mournful. It came again-then again. And it wasn’t alone.

Charles slowed his horse. “You hear that?”

Arthur nodded. “What the hell now?”

They crested a ridge-and there, below them, in a wide open meadow, was a herd.

At least a dozen of them. Towering, long-tailed, thick-legged, with strange, backward-sweeping crests on their heads like half-melted horns. They were moving slow, their massive bodies heaving with each step. And they were singing-if you could call it that-deep, hollow calls from their throats, harmonizing, the sound almost vibrating through the ground beneath Arthur’s boots.

He blinked, jaw slack.

The two of them sat and watched the herd for a long while. The dinosaurs-whatever they were-moved with a slow, heavy grace. Calves tucked close to their mothers’ sides. A few lowered their heads to drink from a stream cutting through the grass.

It was a strange moment. They were massive, yes, alien even-but somehow not terrifying. Just... out of place.

“Maybe,” Charles said, voice quiet, “we shouldn’t write them off just because we don’t understand them.”

Arthur looked over.

“They’re probably just as confused and lost as we are.”

Arthur gave a slow nod. “Yeah. Maybe.”

They stayed a minute longer, then turned their horses away from the ridge and rode on. The crests' song followed them a while, haunting and beautiful and impossible.

Neither of them said much after that. They didn’t need to.

They crested the hill above the inlet as the sun dipped westward, painting the lake in hues of deep amber and gold. Arthur slowed his horse to a trot, eyes scanning the area. Clements Point.

It wasn’t perfect-hell, nothing was these days-but it wasn’t bad either. A long bluff overlooking the water, sloped forest behind them, and enough open grassland between the trees and the camp to give early warning if something big came storming in.

Arthur looked at Charles, who gave a nod. “We can make this work.”

“You go on,” Arthur said, swinging his leg over and hopping down. “Tell Dutch this spot ain’t cursed yet.”

Charles hesitated. “You sure?”

Arthur was already leading his horse toward the edge of the bluff. “Yeah. I’ll hold down the fort ‘til y’all get back.”

Charles didn’t argue. He turned and rode off, leaving Arthur alone in the hush of approaching dusk.

He unsaddled his horse and gave it a brief rub down, whispering calm reassurances when the animal jerked at a rustle from the treeline. No roaring, no shrieking, no birds from hell-just the steady hum of summer insects and the lap of water down below.

Arthur settled himself beneath a gnarled old tree. The bark flaked beneath his shoulder blades as he leaned back, pulling out his journal with a slow exhale. His pencil found his hand like it always did. He flipped past earlier sketches-rifles, birds, faces, maps-until he hit the page with the claw.

He opened to a fresh sheet.

The drawing came easy, too easy, as if his hand remembered better than he did. The horned devil loomed across the page in rough, angry strokes. Muscles bunched like a charging bull’s, stubby arms, hide like hellfire. He scratched out a note beneath it.

God damned Horned Lizard. If the devil was an animal, it’d look like this for sure.

He flipped to another page and started again, slower this time. Softer lines, less fury. He drew one of the long-crest ones from the meadow. The shape of the crest, the thick legs, the odd, cow-like eyes. And below it:

Not all of them are bad, I suppose. These ones sound pretty. Mournful, in a way. They remind me of cattle.

The light was dying now, fireflies blinking into view around the tree. Arthur sat back, thumb smudging pencil dust from the paper. He looked out toward the lake, toward the shadowed treetops swaying gently in the wind.

Then he wrote:

I guess we livin’ in a world with dinosaurs in it. Never thought I’d say or write these words down. World was already changin’ before this. Reckon it’s gonna change even more now, even more brutally than we expected.

He let the journal fall shut with a quiet clap and leaned his head back against the tree, listening to the wind. For now, it was peaceful.

But he kept his gun within reach.

Chapter Text

Clemens Point wasn’t paradise before, and it sure as hell wasn’t now, not with half the gang half-expecting to be eaten in their sleep. They set up camp more carefully this time. More distance between the trees and the wagons, watch shifts drawn up proper. Even Micah got handed a rifle and a time slot, and for once, he didn’t complain. Not much, anyway.

Arthur noticed the shift in people. Sadie kept her shotgun within reach even while washing clothes. Javier had gone quiet, spending long stretches staring off into the woods like he was daring something to come out. Charles checked the horses every few hours like they were glass statues waiting to be knocked over. Jack stuck close to Abigail. Everyone was a little on edge.

Arthur tried not to be, but that didn’t stop him from jolting awake at every hoot, crack, or branch snap.

It was early morning when it showed up again.

He was crouched near the water, cleaning his coffee tin and thinking over where the hell to even start with trapping game in a world where half the animals might bite back twice as hard when he heard a rustle. Then the low, snorting chirp he hadn’t expected to hear again.

He turned and there it was.

The damn lil' murderbird.

It trotted toward him slow, head low and tilted like a curious bird, and Arthur instinctively reached for his pistol.

It didn’t lunge, didn’t hiss. Just looked up at him, blinking with those slitted golden eyes. It sniffed his boots, gave a soft grunt, then sat on its haunches beside him like it had decided that, out of everyone in the world, he was the one it would bother from now on.

“…you again,” Arthur muttered, more baffled than angry. “Thought we cut you loose.”

A sharp whistle blew behind him.

“Oh hell , not this thing again!” Sean shouted, stomping down from the trail with a half-eaten biscuit in hand. “Shoo! We ate the rest o’ ya friends, we’ll eat ya too!” He waved his arms in wide circles, trying to chase it off.

The raptor didn’t budge. In fact, it inched closer to Arthur, almost hiding behind his leg.

Arthur raised an eyebrow. “…You got some nerve, I’ll give you that.”

The shouting brought more attention. Dutch strolled over with Hosea and Jack not far behind, frowning at the scene.

“It followed you?” Dutch asked, arms folded. “That the same one?”

“Near as I can tell,” Arthur muttered. “Looks like it’s taken a likin’ to me.”

Jack crouched near it, wide-eyed. “It’s not trying to bite anyone?”

“Not yet,” Arthur said warily. “Don’t mean it won’t.”

Dutch circled it slowly, examining it like he was eyeing a prize horse at auction. “Hmm. Think it can be trained?”

“Think you wanna be the one to find out?” Arthur shot back.

Jack brightened. “Can I name it?”

“No,” Abigail said from the cookfire, not even looking up.

Jack grinned. “I’m callin’ him Chicken !”

The lil' murderbird chirped, almost like it agreed. Or maybe just hungry.

“ Chicken ?” Arthur repeated flatly, staring at the creature now half-curled beside him like some overgrown, scaly dog. “Really?”

“Yep! He’s got feathers like a chicken!”

“And claws like a goddamn demon.”

“Still a chicken!” Jack beamed.

Arthur sighed and looked up at the sky as if asking it why him, specifically.

Dutch smirked. “Well, Arthur, congratulations. Looks like you’ve got yourself a pet.”

“I ain’t feeding it.”

“It’s already feeding itself,” Sean said grimly, kicking at some scattered feathers left behind from a missing hen.

Arthur stared down at the little murderbird, which was now grooming itself with surprising daintiness. He could already feel it, this was going to be a problem.

A few days passed.

No one officially said it, but somehow, the lil' murderbird was part of the gang now.

It followed Jack around like a weird, dangerous puppy, occasionally stole food from Pearson’s table, and hissed at anyone who got too close to Arthur while he was eating. At first, everyone tried shooing it off, until Chicken snapped at Micah and left him yelping and bleeding from a shallow ankle wound.

After that, they gave it a wide berth.

“I swear it likes you,” Sadie muttered one morning, watching the creature circle Arthur like a guard dog before curling up near the fire with a low purring trill.

“I don’t like it ,” Arthur muttered back.

“You sure about that?”

“…shut up.”

They had bigger problems anyway. Dinosaurs were still being spotted. The occasional pterodactyl-like thing flew overhead at a distance. The horses remained on edge. And Arthur kept finding fresh tracks at the edge of the woods, big ones.

He brought them to Dutch after breakfast.

“So,” Arthur said, tilting his hat back, “what now? We gonna sit here and hope a prehistoric gator don’t come drag us into the lake? Or maybe let Chicken here lead us to its nest and we raise a whole damn pack?”

Dutch didn’t smile.

He leaned on the fence rail, watching the fog roll out over the water, jaw tense in a way Arthur recognized-he was worried, but trying real hard not to show it.

“We can’t stand around,” Dutch said. “We’re still outlaws. Still need money. Ammo. Food. If we’re going to survive this, whatever the hell this is, we’ll need more than just a good hiding spot and a friendly lizard.”

“Didn’t figure you for the type to fear reptiles,” Arthur said, lifting an eyebrow. “You always did get jumpy around snakes. Now there’s just bigger ones with feathers.”

Dutch turned, frowning like a man whose pride had just been poked by a stick.

“I don’t fear reptiles, Arthur,” he replied stiffly. “I just respect them. And I sure as hell ain’t going to underestimate a thing that eats its prey whole and still manages to look at you like you’re the one out of place.”

“Sounds like you’re afraid.”

“Careful, Arthur.”

Hosea chuckled from his horse, already saddled and waiting.

“Boys,” he cut in, “if you’re both done measuring whose fear of lizards is more dignified, maybe we can get on the road?”

Dutch huffed, climbed into his saddle, and muttered, “Fine. Let’s ride to Rhodes. See what the situation’s like down there. Maybe they’ve got fewer prehistoric problems.”

Arthur mounted up, glancing once more at the lake. “You’re hoping for a town without dinosaurs?”

Dutch set off with a click of his tongue. “Stranger things have happened.”

Chicken chirped from where it sat near Jack, tilting its head at the departing horses like it wasn’t sure whether to follow or go back to gnawing on Pearson’s laundry line.

Arthur gave it one last look before turning his horse and riding out. If this was their new normal, he figured he’d best get used to it.

At least the dinosaurs didn’t lie, cheat, or try to start fistfights at the poker table. Not yet , anyway.

Rhodes had always been strange in its own quiet, tense way-divided down the middle by feuding families and stifled politeness. But what Arthur saw when they rode into town made him sit back in his saddle and blink hard, like maybe he’d finally gone off the deep end.

There were dinosaurs in the streets.

Not just roaming wild, no no no, they was being herded.

A group of ranchers was driving three massive hadrosaurs through the center of town, hollering and waving wide-brimmed hats, trying to steer the creatures toward the corral behind the saloon. The hadrosaurs lumbered along like sleepy cattle, squawking and snorting, their duck-like faces twitching at every loud noise.

A wagon rolled by with two of those smaller feathered nuisances locked in a mesh cage. They were making such a racket Arthur had to resist the urge to shoot out the tires and put everyone out of their misery.

Dutch reined in his horse, jaw slack.

“What the hell…?”

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Hosea said, already grinning. “They’re adapting.”

As they dismounted, Arthur noticed something new pinned up alongside the usual wanted posters.

DINOSAUR BOUNTIES.

Large, rough sketches of creatures pinned up with reward tags. Some with big red stamps-KILL ON SIGHT -others labeled LIVE CAPTURE ONLY. One, circled in bold and hung higher than the rest, showed the unmistakable snub-nosed, horned profile of the beast from that awful night.

“The hell?” Arthur muttered, walking closer. “They’re…issuing bounties for the damn things?”

Dutch looked absolutely scandalized. “They’re monetizing the apocalypse.”

“Seems smart to me,” Hosea said, tapping the edge of his cigar on the post. “These ranchers? They’re looking at a walking meat supply. And scientists? You know some professor up north’s already wetting himself over the thought of studying one of these.”

Arthur scanned the posters. Several of the smaller creatures, the “rat lizards” as he’d written, were listed under PEST CONTROL – ANY CONDITION ACCEPTED. There was even a note offering a small bonus for delivery of dead ones by the dozen.

“Looks like someone’s setting up a side hustle,” Arthur muttered.

“Dinosaur bounties seem to pay a little more than regular ones,” Hosea noted, already mentally calculating something. “You might want to keep an eye on that, Arthur.”

“Sure,” Arthur replied, deadpan. “Because tracking prehistoric killing machines through the brush sounds like a real nice way to earn a living.”

Dutch, ever the romantic, stepped back and looked at the bustling town, at the cowboys wrangling thunder-lizards, and let out a soft, low whistle.

“I’ll be damned,” he said. “We’re living in a whole new world. And Rhodes might just be ahead of the curve.”

“Guess civilization’s more stubborn than I gave it credit for,” Arthur muttered.

One of the hadrosaurs gave a sudden, echoing honk and kicked over a crate of apples outside the general store. No one screamed. The shopkeeper just leaned out and waved a broom like it was a misbehaving mule.

Arthur shook his head and glanced once more at the bounties.

“Well,” he muttered, “ain’t this a sight.”

When the trio returned to camp at Clemens Point, the whole gang stirred. Not just out of curiosity-but from the need to know if the world was still in one piece beyond the trees and the terrifying sounds that sometimes drifted in from the forest at night.

Dutch dismounted with a dramatic flair, sweeping his arms as if he were returning from the promised land itself. “Well,” he declared, “civilization hasn’t crumbled just yet.”

Micah, seated on a crate and half-asleep in the sun, groaned loudly. “Oh, wonderful. Thought maybe we’d get to watch the whole thing burn down for once.”

Arthur rolled his eyes and handed his reins off to Javier, who’d approached the returning party with a furrowed brow and cautious steps.

“Wouldn’t get your hopes up, Micah,” Arthur muttered. “Rhodes is still standing. Though it ain’t quite the same.”

“Tell me,” Sean said, bounding over with an apple in hand. “What kind of dino trouble they got down there? Some kinda fire-breathin’ lizard horse?”

“No,” Arthur said, rummaging in his satchel, “but they got bounties. ” He pulled out a few weathered posters, unfolding them onto the table like a poker hand.

Lenny leaned in, eyebrows rising. “ Dinosaur bounties ? You’re serious?” He laughed in disbelief. 

Javier let out a breathy laugh, half disbelief, half dread. “They’re treating it like... like pest control?”

“Exactly that,” Hosea said, walking up behind them with a small smile and a shake of his head. “Turns out butchers, ranchers, and saddlers are paying top dollar for these things. Whole system’s getting built around it already. Bring in a dead lizard rat, get a buck. Bring in one of the loud honkers alive, and that’s ten times as much. Hell, they’re even trying to herd some of ’em like cattle.”

Lenny leaned over the posters, scanning the crude sketches. One showed a feathery little raptor with a note: Alive preferred – Scientists want ‘em . Another was stamped in red: KILL ON SIGHT – Large. Horned. Aggressive. Arthur didn’t need to say it-that was the devil they'd seen in the woods.

Sean whistled. “Well, I’ll be damned. Civilization didn’t just survive. It’s thriving. Turned the apocalypse into a business plan.”

“That fast, too,” Hosea muttered. “We thought the world might fall apart. Turns out, it just found a new way to make money.”

“Course it did,” Arthur grunted. “Wouldn’t be the world otherwise.”

Dutch took a seat near the fire, thoughtful, fingers steepled beneath his chin. “We need to stay sharp,” he said. “If Rhodes is turning profit, others will follow. There’s opportunity in that. And risk.”

Javier took one of the posters, holding it up toward the firelight. “You really think we could catch one of these? The little ones maybe, but these big ones…”

“You don’t have to catch ’em,” Arthur said, “just shoot fast and aim better. But yeah, I ain’t too keen on goin’ after the big horned bastard again.”

“Maybe we sic Micah on one of ‘em,” Sean offered brightly. “Use him as bait.”

Micah gave him a deadly look, but Dutch just chuckled.

“Get some rest, boys,” he said. “The world’s changing. Again. We’ll need to be ready for whatever comes next-be it bullets, bounty hunters, or beasts.”

Chicken, the raptor, trotted by with Jack close behind. The creature stopped in front of the group, chirped, then hopped up onto a crate with unsettling ease. Arthur eyed it for a moment, then looked back at the posters.

“Y’know,” he muttered, “we might already have our foot in the door.”

By day three at Clemens Point, the gang had unanimously agreed on two things: the new camp was safer than the old one-and Chicken was a problem.

It wasn’t that the lil' murderbird was violent. Quite the opposite, in fact. It was endearing . Infuriatingly so. It followed Jack around like a dog, nuzzled at Sadie’s boots when she sharpened her knife, and had taken to sleeping under the supply wagon like it was a kennel. It was smaller than most of the other lizards they’d seen, maybe the size of a hound, but it could eat like Pearson and Bill combined, and twice as fast.

"Goddamn thing got into my dried venison again ," Pearson growled one morning, flapping a mostly empty sack in Dutch’s direction. "I had it salted and everything! Put it up on a damn shelf!"

"It climbed up there?" Dutch raised an eyebrow.

"No! Worse-it dragged the crate down and took the whole sack like a raccoon possessed!"

From nearby, Chicken chirped sweetly and flipped over onto its back, doing a clumsy roll that ended with its legs splayed in the air. Jack laughed and ran over to scratch its belly.

"See? She’s just playin’. She ain’t mean," Jack said.

"She ain’t playin’ , son, she’s stealin’ ."

"Well maybe she’s hungry."

"She’s always hungry!" Pearson snapped. "She ate half a string of sausages and then tried to bite the wheel off my damn wagon."

Sadie stifled a snort. "What’d you expect? She’s a little meat thief. Ain’t like we can feed her grass."

They were interrupted by the sound of crunching. Everyone turned. Chicken had disappeared beneath the wagon again, tail sticking out and twitching. Pearson gave chase with a wooden spoon, muttering curses as Jack giggled and ran after them both.

Arthur stood nearby with Charles, arms folded. He watched the chaos unfold in tired silence.

“…she mimicked Tilly this morning,” Arthur muttered.

Charles looked over. “What?”

"Yeah. Tilly was cooing to Jack, you know, soft-voiced like she does. Thing did the same pitch right back at her. She near jumped out her skin.”

Charles let out a small breath of disbelief. “You think she’s… learning ?”

“I think she’s a goddamn nuisance,” Arthur said.

That afternoon, Pearson cornered Arthur and Charles both, hands on his hips, gut puffed with indignation.

“We’re outta meat,” he said plainly.

“You sure?” Arthur asked.

Pearson just stared at him.

Arthur sighed. “Right.”

Charles raised a brow. “So, deer, elk-what are we looking for?”

Pearson cleared his throat and gestured vaguely behind him. “I was thinkin’, maybe…one of the new ones.”

Arthur blinked. “The dinosaurs ?”

“They’re big,” Pearson said. “One of those long-necked ones could feed us for a month. Hell, even a smaller one would keep us stocked for a while. You saw how much meat they got on ‘em.”

Charles’ face soured immediately. “I don’t like it.”

“It’s just an idea!” Pearson threw up his hands. “Look, all I’m sayin’ is maybe it’s worth trying. Folk in Rhodes are already butchering ‘em for market. Might be smart to get ahead of the curve.”

Arthur looked to Charles. “You really that opposed?”

“I don’t know what I’m feeling,” Charles admitted. “They’re animals, sure. But they’re not just… animals . They don’t belong here. We don’t know how they think. We don’t know what happens if we start killing them off.”

Arthur scratched his chin, quiet. “Just one,” He finally said. “One we pick careful. Maybe a loner. Something that’s already limping or off. We’ll make it quick.”

Charles looked uneasy, but he nodded. “Alright. Just one.”

They saddled up, rode out as the sun dipped behind the trees, and headed toward the open stretch near Scarlet Meadows. Arthur didn’t say much as they rode. His rifle hung heavy on his back, and despite his earlier confidence, there was a quiet knot in his gut.

The air was thick with summer heat and buzzing insects as Arthur and Charles made their way further into the meadows south of Clemens Point. The trees thinned the farther they went, opening into golden fields dotted with shrubs and the occasional stump where someone had once tried to tame the land. It was quiet-unnervingly so.

Arthur shifted in his saddle, one hand resting lazily on the reins, the other dangling near his revolver. Charles rode beside him, bow across his back, scanning the horizon like he expected something sharp-toothed and ancient to come lunging out of the grass.

After a long stretch of silence, Charles finally spoke.

“Kinda…weird how fast this all became normal.”

Arthur glanced over at him. “Wouldn’t call it normal. Ain’t had a proper night’s sleep since that horned devil came crashin’ through the trees. I see it every time I close my eyes.”

Charles nodded, slow. “Still. A few weeks ago, the strangest thing in our lives was Micah. Now there’s a…whatever Chicken is, sleeping under the wagon like a damn dog.”

Arthur let out a dry snort. “Weird times.”

They fell quiet again, but not uncomfortably so. The kind of silence born of too much to say, too many things that didn’t make sense. They rode further into the open, sunlight streaming down through broken clouds, when a sound caught both of their attention-a rhythmic thudding, like drumming hooves or distant thunder.

Arthur reined his horse in. “You hear that?”

“Yeah,” Charles said, already dismounting. “Get down.”

They tied their horses and crouched low in the grass, moving carefully toward the rise of a shallow hill. Arthur peered over the edge-and froze.

Below them, in a wide natural clearing, was a herd of creatures unlike anything they’d yet seen. Dozens of them, moving in loose, chaotic patterns like birds startled from a roost. They were freakishly tall, even taller than the long-necked ones they’d seen by the lake, but thinner, wirier. They had powerful hind legs built for speed, long tails for balance, and necks like coiled springs. Most striking of all was their plumage -feathers in mottled browns and oranges, bristling in the sun like the coats of wild turkeys. And they were fast -when one sprinted, the rest followed, darting across the clearing in a blur of limbs and noise.

“What the hell are those?” Arthur breathed. “Big turkey lookin’ things.”

Charles stared, transfixed. “I don’t know. But they’re fast. Real fast.”

“Too fast?”

Charles was quiet for a moment, then said, “Maybe. But they look…frail. I bet if you could hit one square in the side, it’d drop fast.”

Arthur raised his brow. “Big if.”

One of the Tall Birds-he didn’t know what else to call it-let out a strange honk-like call, its long neck craning as it darted past another. Arthur watched how their herd moved, fluid and unpredictable, legs like pistons.

“Damn things run like they stole something,” he muttered.

Charles pointed toward a group straggling along the edge of the herd. “There. That one’s limping.”

Arthur followed his gaze. One of the birds was trailing behind the others, favoring a leg. It stopped now and then to puff its feathers and look around, nervous.

“We circle wide. Get it isolated.” Charles was already reaching for his bow.

Arthur nodded, slipping the rifle off his shoulder. “One shot.”

They moved quietly, cutting through the tall grass and brush like hunters stalking elk. It took time-careful steps, patience, coordination-but eventually, they had the animal in range, separated from the herd.

Arthur exhaled slowly, braced his rifle, and pulled the trigger.

The crack echoed through the field. The Tall Birds shrieked, flailed, and crumpled sideways into the grass.

The rest of the herd scattered like leaves in the wind, sprinting off so fast it made Arthur’s head spin.

Charles approached the downed creature, knelt by it. It was still breathing, struggling weakly, feathers stained red.

Arthur stepped forward, silent. One clean shot to end it.

The body stilled.

“Big,” Arthur muttered. “Should keep Pearson happy.”

Charles ran a hand through the feathers. “It’s warm. Real warm. Like a bird.”

Arthur crouched beside him, watching blood seep into the ground. He didn’t feel triumphant. Just…tired.

“Reckon it’s the first time I’ve shot a bird the size of a horse.”

Charles managed a small smile. “First time for everything.”

By the time Arthur and Charles neared the camp again both of their horses were sluggish under the load-Charles’ steed bearing the long, heavy tail and gangly legs of the creature, Arthur’s carrying the feather-covered bulk of its torso strapped down with ropes and canvas.

They’d had to cut the thing clean in half just to manage the haul.

“Feels like we’re haulin’ a damn parade float,” Arthur grunted as his horse whinnied in protest.

Charles, riding just behind, grunted in agreement. “Never thought I’d have to field dress something with feathers and teeth.”

As they crested the last hill, the familiar smoke trails of campfires curled into the sky, and soon enough they saw the shapes of tents and wagons coming into view. Just past the trees, someone shouted.

“Ho! They’re back!”

The camp stirred. One by one, gang members rose from where they sat or milled about, walking toward the returning hunters. By the time Arthur and Charles reached the clearing, they had a full audience.

“What in the hell is that?” Sean called, half-laughing, half-shocked.

“Ain’t no turkey I’ve ever seen,” Lenny added, eyebrows up.

“It’s ugly as sin,” Micah said, squinting at the load. “But I’ll be damned if it don’t smell like dinner already.”

Arthur dismounted stiffly, stretching his legs. “Reckon it’ll fit in the stewpot?”

He barely finished the joke before having to swat Chicken away from the carcass. The little raptor had emerged like a bolt from beneath a wagon, chirping with excitement and snapping its jaws like it was trying to help.

“Shoo! Git!” Arthur waved a hand. “This ain’t for you.”

Chicken dodged him with a series of sprightly hops, then zipped behind Jack, tail twitching. The boy laughed and crouched to shield his pet.

“I think he likes the feathers,” he said, as Chicken nosed at one of the discarded bundles of plumage.

“He better like the scraps,” Pearson muttered, emerging from behind the cook wagon with a dirty rag over one shoulder. He whistled low at the sight. “Lord above. That’s enough meat to feed us three days, maybe more. Might have to get creative, though.”

Arthur raised an eyebrow. “Creative how?”

“Well, ain’t exactly a beef shank. Gotta figure out how to butcher it first. And that plumage…” He walked over and pinched a fan of feathers between two fingers. “This is some strange stuff. Can’t tell if it’ll make good stuffing or good kindling.”

Miss Grimshaw, always lurking where things needed doing, stepped forward too. “If it’s feathers, maybe Mary-Beth or Tilly can figure something out. Fans or hats or…hell, I don’t know. Seems a shame to waste it.”

Javier approached, arms crossed and an amused smile on his face. “What’d you call it?”

Arthur blinked. “What?”

“The animal. You name it?”

“No. Not yet.”

“Well,” Sean grinned, “I vote we call it a turkey horse. ”

“Very descriptive,” Arthur deadpanned.

As Charles and Arthur began unstrapping the meat from the horses, Pearson and Grimshaw moved in to help, and even Uncle shuffled forward, drawn by the promise of a full belly. Chicken attempted another raid on the bloody tail before Abigail grabbed him by the scruff and dumped him in Jack’s arms with a stern look.

The camp bustled with motion, laughter, speculation, and minor chaos, like it always did when something new and strange entered their orbit.

Only now, strange meant dinosaur meat and prehistoric plumes.

Pearson, to his credit, did what he always did when presented with something he couldn’t quite understand-he chopped it up, threw it in a pot, added every seasoning he could scrounge up, and called it stew.

By the time night fell over Clements Point, the scent drifting through the air was surprisingly… normal. Rich. Savory. It smelled like any other stew night, like beef or venison or even rabbit, depending on who'd gone out last and how lucky they’d been. No one could quite believe that the meat swimming in the broth had come from a dinosaur the size of a wagon.

Arthur sat by the fire with a tin bowl in hand, blowing lightly on the steam. He glanced at Charles beside him.

“Well?”

Charles spooned some into his mouth, chewed thoughtfully, then gave a small shrug. “It’s fine.”

“Just fine ?”

“Tastes like chicken.”

Arthur raised an eyebrow and finally took a bite himself.

It did taste like chicken. A little gamier, maybe, but familiar. Comforting. Disappointingly mundane.

Sean let out a loud groan from across the fire. “Aw, come on! I was hopin’ it’d taste like-hell, I don’t know-lightnin’! Spice! Somethin’ with personality! ”

“You’re eatin’ a seven-foot turkey, Sean,” Javier called from his own seat. “Be grateful it didn’t taste like lizard .”

Lenny chuckled. “Kind of a letdown, isn’t it?”

“Maybe,” Arthur said, “but a letdown that don’t kill us or poison us is a win in my book.”

Micah slurped his stew with theatrical disinterest. “Figures. Whole world’s upside down and Pearson still finds a way to make it boring.”

“I heard that,” Pearson barked from the stew pot. “You can make your own damn dinner next time!”

Despite the bickering, the mood was good. Full bellies tended to buy peace, and for the first time in days, the camp settled into something close to ease.

Chicken, meanwhile, had launched its nightly campaign of manipulation. It zigzagged through the fireside crowd, chirping in a high, adorable pitch and nudging its snout at boots and knees. When that failed, it executed its latest trick: flopping dramatically onto its side, paws tucked close, tail twitching as it let out a soft, pitiful peep.

“Oh for heaven’s sake,” Tilly muttered, tossing a small chunk of meat toward it.

“You’re rewardin’ that?” Grimshaw snapped. “It knows what it’s doing!”

“It’s cute,” Mary-Beth shrugged. “Let it have one.”

Chicken swallowed the offering, blinked up at her, and let out another winning trill.

Arthur watched all this with a shake of his head. “Little bastard’s a menace.”

“He’s smart,” Jack corrected, petting Chicken as it skittered over to sit beside him like a loyal dog.

Dutch approached the fire with a bowl in hand, chewing slowly, thoughtfully. He swallowed, then nodded. “Surprisingly tender. I’ll give it to Pearson.”

“Don’t encourage him,” Hosea muttered without looking up from his journal.

Dutch ignored him, sweeping his eyes over the camp. “We should hold onto those feathers. Could be useful. Bedding, maybe. Pillows. We all deserve a little comfort.”

Arthur glanced sideways. “We?”

Dutch gave him a pointed look. “You ever sleep on a feather pillow, Arthur?”

“Can’t say I have.”

“You should. You’d dream better.”

Pearson groaned. “If I gotta start plucking these bastards for bedding, I want hazard pay.”

“You are hazard pay,” Dutch shot back with a grin.

As the laughter rose again, Chicken made another round, this time targeting Uncle-who quickly folded under the pressure and handed over a spoonful from his bowl.

Arthur leaned back on his log, gazing out past the firelight toward the dark tree line.

The stew was ordinary. Chicken was irritating. The feathers might just make a halfway decent pillow.

But it didn’t escape him that they were talking, eating, laughing. For all the chaos these last days had brought… maybe they were starting to find a rhythm again. A strange one. But still.

A rhythm.

Even if a lil' murderbird had to be part of it.

Arthur woke to the kind of quiet that meant something was wrong.

It wasn’t peace and it wasn’t calm-it was the kind of silence you get right before someone does something stupid, or just after someone already has.

He sat up slowly in his bedroll, blinking blearily. The morning light was still low, mist curling in lazy fingers over the grass and river. It could’ve been a peaceful morning, save for the subtle, frantic shuffling nearby. Not running. Not yelling. Just… a lot of people moving in a very particular way. The kind of way that said don’t make a sound unless you want to get eaten.

Arthur got to his feet, boots barely crunching the dirt as he stepped out from under the tree he'd slept beside. What he saw nearly made him sit right back down again.

In the center of camp, just beyond the firepit, stood what could only be described as a walking tank covered in mud and bone. It was wide, low to the ground, its legs stumpy and thick, its skin leathery and dappled with dust and green. Its massive head, shaped like a shield, was crowned with an absurd number of horns. Not sharp ones, not like the devil-horned carnivore from before-these were rounder, blunter, but no less intimidating. The whole thing looked like a cross between a wagon, a hog, and a medieval battering ram.

Arthur let out a breath and muttered to himself, " What the hell is that. "

“Shh!” hissed Mary-Beth from where she crouched behind the water barrel. “Don’t scare it! It might panic! ”

“I might panic,” Arthur muttered back, now ducking behind a crate as he made his way to Charles, who was crouched near the wagon, bow uselessly in hand.

“You see this?” Charles whispered.

“Yeah, I see it. How long’s it been here?”

“Came in about fifteen minutes ago. Walked right through the west trail like it owned the place.”

“Why’s nobody shootin’?”

“Because it’s not doin’ anything! And it doesn’t seem aggressive.” Charles nodded toward the beast, which was currently sniffing at the stewpot from last night, its gigantic nostrils flaring.

Arthur squinted. “You sure it ain’t just thinkin’ about bein’ aggressive?”

“It wagged its tail once. Like a dog.”

“That’s not a dog, Charles. That’s a thousand-pound horned meat boulder.”

“I know.”

Nearby, Pearson was clinging to a tree, sweating bullets, whispering, “If it steps on the stewpot, I swear to God-”

“ Shut up! ” Grimshaw snarled. “We’re not losing another pot to a dinosaur, Pearson!”

Micah, inexplicably perched up on a wagon like a buzzard, was muttering, “I say we shoot it and be done with it. Hang the head on a pole. Send a message to the rest of ‘em.”

Dutch-standing unusually still just a few feet from the animal, arms held out like he was trying to commune with it-spoke softly. “Micah, if you so much as breathe in the wrong direction right now, I’ll feed you to it myself.”

The animal grunted-a low, guttural snort that shook the air like a thunderclap. A few folks yelped. It blinked slowly, snuffled again at the stewpot, then took a single heavy step toward the fire. Everyone froze.

Then, to everyone’s confusion, it sat down.

Or whatever sitting was to a creature that size and shape. It plopped down like a collapsing tent, tail curled around its chunky rear, and let out a satisfied, rumbling sigh.

Arthur blinked. “You gotta be kiddin’ me.”

Jack, of course, took this as his cue to emerge from the tent. “What’s goin’ on- WOAH! ”

Chicken, sensing Jack, came skittering out from behind a barrel, chirping madly.

The ceratopsid turned its head slowly toward the noise.

Everyone held their breath.

Chicken chirped again, rolled over, then waddled over to Jack. The big horned thing watched the little raptor closely. And then-

It made a noise. Not a roar. Not a bellow.

It honked.

A big, fat, echoing honk that bounced off the trees and made everyone flinch.

Jack stared. “I think it likes Chicken.”

“You sure it don’t want to eat Chicken?” Sean called from his hiding spot.

“It’s an herbivore,” Charles muttered. “I think. ”

The beast honked again. Then, with a great grunt, it got back on its feet and-utterly unfazed by the chaos it had caused-began to trundle back toward the woods, its tail swaying like a lazy ox’s. Chicken, for no discernible reason, chased after it for a few paces, chirping, then gave up and scurried back to camp like it’d just taken a victory lap.

Everyone stared after it for a long while.

“…What the hell was that?” Arthur finally asked.

“Something new,” Charles muttered.

“Again.”

Arthur sat besides the giant tree in the middle of camp, not finding it in himself to swat Chicken away when it laid beside him like a lost puppy, pulled out his journal and pen, and started scribbling.

Sketch of a tall, feathered biped - long legs, a blunt beak, and exaggerated tail feathers.

Tall bird.
"Tall turkey-looking bastard. Big but skittish, taste like chicken. Ran faster than anything I’ve ever seen. Took both me and Charles to bring one down. Fed the camp good. Pearson’s stew still could’ve used more salt."

Beneath it, a second sketch - much rounder. A stocky, tank-like animal with a wide frill and lumpy horns. Little Jack and Chicken are drawn standing beside it for scale. Chicken is drawn mid-chirp.

"Weird, wagon-sized lookin’ thing strutted into camp like it owned the damn place. Didn’t do much - just scared everyone half to death. Stared at the stewpot a while, honked at Chicken, then wandered off again. Scared Micah shitless though, so that was worth it."

On another page, a sketch of Clements Point itself, with Chicken strutting through the view like it belonged there.

"Been a few days now since we set up at Clemens Point. Camp's mostly settled - tents up, boats tied down, water’s good, view’s better. Folks are more on edge though. We’ve got watches now, real ones. Even Micah’s doing a turn, which tells you everything. Guess being half-eaten by something with six-inch teeth puts things in perspective.

And yet, Dutch still wants to press on. Says we can’t stop working just because the world’s turned prehistoric. He’s not wrong, but I still catch him watching the treeline sometimes like he expects something bigger to come stomping through. Can’t say I blame him. I do it too.

Rhodes hasn’t collapsed, somehow. Instead of falling apart, it’s started posting dinosaur bounties. Some folk want the meat, some want the hide. Others just want ‘em gone. Feels like the world’s rearranged itself in a way that don’t make sense, but it ain’t gonna wait around for us to catch up.

I reckon we’ve still got time before something real bad shows up again. But the woods are louder than they used to be. Not just wolves and birds anymore.

Can’t shake the feeling that whatever brought all this here… it ain’t done yet."

The little animal besides him chirped and raised it's head, pressing it's snoot against the pages of his journal, as if curious. Arthur huffed "You know I usually threaten folk who snoop around in my journal." It only stared at him, chirped again, and curled up onto itself, cuddling up against Arthur's leg.

Chapter Text

John Marston had a gleam in his eye that Arthur didn’t like.

“There’s money in this,” John said, pacing near the edge of camp with his hands waving like that’d somehow sell the idea better. “Sheriff down in Rhodes said they’d pay good for any of them long-faced bastards brought in alive.”

Arthur leaned back against the wagon, arms crossed. “You mean the ones bigger’n a wagon? The ones that bellow so loud they spook the horses two counties over?”

“Exactly those ones,” John said, like it was a compliment.

Arthur sighed, slow and deliberate. “You wanna herd dinosaurs.”

“They’re not carnivores,” John said. “That’s the important part. Just big dumb cows with duck bills.”

“‘Cept cows don’t knock over trees by breathin’ too hard.”

“I already got ropes, and Sadie said we could borrow the reinforced harness off the pack mule.”

“That thing barely holds the pack mule.”

John squinted. “You got a better idea?”

Arthur rubbed his face, already exhausted. “You ain’t gonna let this go, are you?”

“Nope.”

Arthur exhaled through his nose. He already knew what this was. If he said no, John would just go on his own-or worse, take Sean. Or Bill . Or someone equally dumb in an entirely different way.

“Fine,” Arthur muttered, standing up straight. “But if I get flattened by a goddamn lizard-cow, I’m haunting you.”

John grinned like he’d just won a bet. “Aw, come on. What’s the worst that could happen?”

Arthur gave him a long look. “You want that listed alphabetically, or chronologically?”

They saddled up, Arthur loading extra rope and ammo just in case things went south, and in his experience, they always went south. John was already too chipper, humming something off-key and fiddling with the reins.

“Y’know,” John said as they rode out toward the open plains, “we could corner one easy if we find ‘em by the creek. Long legs, sure, but I bet they don’t like mud.”

“I’m sure they’ll appreciate you herdin’ them toward a damn swamp,” Arthur muttered.

“Better than tryin’ to chase them across the fields.”

Arthur didn’t respond. He was too busy scanning the horizon, half-hoping they’d find nothing and have to turn back.

Instead, the wind shifted.

And off in the distance, across the tall grass shimmering gold under the sun, they heard it-long, warbling cries that rolled over the hills like fog.

“There they are,” John said, standing in his stirrups. “Right where I said they’d be.”

“Yeah,” Arthur muttered. “Big, dumb, loud, and real easy to piss off.”

He adjusted his hat, tightened the grip on his reins, and sighed again.

“Let’s go wrangle some prehistoric nightmares.”

They were massive creatures, taller than any horse, with long, thick tails and high, arching backs that bobbed as they ran. Despite their size, they spooked easy. One good whistle and a raised rifle had gotten them moving, and Arthur and John were now galloping behind a half-dozen of the duck-billed dinosaurs, kicking up dust and praying they didn’t get trampled if the things changed direction.

“Alright, just ease ‘em toward the creek!” John yelled over the rumble of hooves-well, not hooves exactly, but whatever the hell a parasaur stomped around on. “They’re way faster than cattle, that’s for sure!” 

“Yeah,” Arthur muttered under his breath, “and about twenty times more likely to crush you if you fall off your horse.”

Despite the chaos, it was going… weirdly well. The parasaurs stuck together in a tight group, running in the same general direction-like any good herd animal might. Arthur started to think this might actually work. They had ropes. They had a clear route. They even had a big, flat clearing ahead near the water where they could maybe try corralling the beasts.

And then the treeline behind them cracked.

Arthur heard it before he saw it: trees rustling, the heavy thud of something moving through the brush, the kind of rhythmic, ground-shaking footfalls that didn’t belong to anything born in this century.

“Oh hell,” Arthur hissed, yanking his horse to the side.

John pulled up beside him, brows furrowed. “What?”

Then they saw it.

The horned bastard was back.

Bursting through the tree line like a nightmare made of leather and hate, the carnotaurus let out a throaty roar. Its blunt horns caught the sunlight as it barreled straight into the panicked herd like it had been waiting for this moment all week.

“Shit! Shit, shit!” John wheeled his horse around. “Go! Go, go, go!”

Arthur didn’t need convincing. He was already spurring his horse into a full gallop, heart pounding as the ground shook behind them. The parasaurs scattered immediately, screaming in their eerie, mournful voices. One poor bastard wasn’t quick enough and got snatched by the neck mid-stride and slammed into the dirt, squealing as the carnotaurus dug in.

Arthur and John rode hard until the trees came up again, not stopping until the heavy crashing and snarling faded into the distance. Only when they reached a small rise in the terrain did they finally pull their horses to a panting halt.

For a long moment, they sat in silence, catching their breath, staring out over the field now empty except for the bloody remnants of the hunt.

“That son of a bitch,” John muttered, incredulous. “We did all the damn work.”

Arthur, still staring, wiped the sweat off his brow. “And he just came in and took his damn pick. Like a goddamn train robber.”

“Dinosaur train robber.”

“Worse than the O’Driscolls,” Arthur added darkly.

John shook his head, still panting. “You think we can get bounty credit if we tell the Sheriff we almost brought some in?”

Arthur gave him a sideways look. “You really wanna explain to that man how we got outsmarted by a lizard with horns and a death wish?”

John sighed and looked back toward the open field, where the horned devil had grabbed it’s prize by the neck and was dragging it back to the treeline to eat in peace.

“Well,” he said eventually. “Guess we’re eatin’ beans again tonight.”

“Long as we ain’t the ones gettin’ eaten,” Arthur muttered. “I’ll take the beans.”

The ride back was long, dusty, and heavy with mutual silence.

Arthur and John slumped forward in their saddles, defeated and grimy, a miserable cloud of failure hanging over them like bad stew smoke. Their horses plodded along as if sharing in the mood, and for a while the only sound was the soft thunk of hooves and the occasional sigh.

John finally broke the quiet. “Whole damn day. Herdin’ dinosaurs. And we got nothing to show for it.”

Arthur, jaw tight, didn’t respond at first. Then: “We showed restraint. That bastard showed up and we got out alive. That counts for somethin’.”

“Oh, sure,” John huffed. “Let’s just tell Dutch, ‘Hey, we almost had a herd! But then a devil-lizard ate it!’ See how well that goes over.”

Arthur shook his head. “Ain’t our fault nature’s got it out for us. Again.”

They rounded a bend and started following a small creek downhill. It ran clear and lazy alongside the trees, the sunlight catching on the ripples just right.

That was when Arthur pulled his horse short with a quiet, “Whoa.”

John slowed beside him. “What now?”

“Look.”

Down by the water, half-submerged in the shallows, stood another one.

It was tall-not as tall as the carnotaurus, but still towering over a man. Long snout, hooked claws, hunched posture. It stood still, eyes on the water. A faint ripple of tension coiled along its spine as it hovered one claw over the stream.

It looked… peaceful.

A giant lizard, sure. A hungry one, maybe. But not hostile. It was just fishing.

The creature suddenly snapped its head forward, snatched a fish midstream, and tossed it back into its throat with a wet gulp. Then it stood still again.

Arthur blinked. “Well I’ll be…”

“Think that’s a…crocodile-somethin’?” John muttered. “Looks like a toothier version of that tall bird we shot.”

Arthur narrowed his eyes. “No. This one’s different. Looks more… patient. Fishin’, of all things…”

Before Arthur could say another word, a rifle cracked.

The creature jerked back with a guttural scream. A geyser of blood burst from its skull, right between the eyes. It staggered in the water, shrieked once more, and then collapsed sideways into the creek, splashing violently as it died.

“JOHN!” Arthur barked, spinning in his saddle. “HELL’S YOUR PROBLEM?!”

John had already dismounted, halfway down the embankment with his rifle slung over his shoulder and a proud look on his stupid face.

“What?” he called back, as though Arthur were being unreasonable. “We can’t come back with nothin’! Least this one ain’t torn to bits already. Might even make a decent rug!”

“You shot it in the eye!”

“Good shot, right?”

Arthur slid off his horse, marching halfway down after him. “It was fishin’! Mindin’ its own damn business! We don’t even know what it was! ”

“Well, now it’s dinner! ” John declared proudly, planting a foot on the creature’s tail and hauling out his knife.

Arthur ran a hand down his face. “Goddamn it…”

The alligator-like lizard was still bleeding into the water, its long body slumped like a felled tree, mouth open in a final fishless gape. It had a kind of ancient elegance to it, Arthur thought-now ruined by John's big mouth and itchy trigger finger.

He stood there watching John eagerly carve into its side, muttering about hide thickness and “what a weird damn smell” while blood pooled around his boots.

Arthur sighed heavily.

“Well,” he muttered, “we sure as hell got somethin’ to show now.”

Even if it wasn’t pride.

By the time they were done carving, gutting, and sorting through the thick, rubbery hide of the creature, the creek had turned the color of rust. John wiped his hands on the grass with a satisfied huff. Arthur, meanwhile, crouched beside what remained of the body, frowning.

“Shame to leave half of it,” he muttered, not to John, but more to the corpse, as though it might understand. “Feels like a waste.”

“It’s a dinosaur, Arthur,” John grunted, hauling a hefty claw up onto Old Boy’s saddle. “Not like it’s endangered or nothin’. Plenty more runnin’ around, trust me.”

“Still,” Arthur said, grabbing the foot and the set of long teeth he’d pried loose. “Didn’t need to die.”

John snorted. “You’re gettin’ sentimental.”

“I’m gettin’ practical. Thing was fishin’. We could’ve brought it in alive, maybe even learned somethin’ from it.”

“Learned what? How to fish better?” John slapped the tail across the back of his horse with a grin.

Arthur didn’t respond. He tied the last bundle of hide to his own horse’s saddle, careful not to overload the animal, which was already looking at him like it was reconsidering this whole “trust” arrangement.

The two of them stared at what was left in the creek-half a torso, too heavy and too blood-soaked to be worth dragging. Arthur sighed.

“Maybe we should start lookin’ into taming one of these things,” John said as they mounted up again. “You know. For carryin’ other dinosaurs.”

Arthur gave him a slow, sideways look. “John. That may be the dumbest idea you’ve ever had.”

John shrugged, amused. “I’m just sayin’. Chicken seems trainable. Bet there's a big ol’ dino out there we could stick a saddle on.”

Arthur didn’t dignify that with an answer.

It took them the better part of the day to get back to Rhodes, each horse groaning under the weight of prehistoric cargo. But when they finally trotted into town, people noticed.

Shopkeeps came out onto their porches. Ranchers stared. The butcher rubbed his hands together like he’d just seen a Christmas goose the size of a horse.

Arthur and John dismounted in front of the general store, tying up their tired mounts.

“You boys been huntin’ buffalo?” a man called.

“Somethin’ like that,” Arthur muttered.

The meat and hide sold fast. Real fast. Turns out, even when civilization’s being slowly overtaken by animals from another era, people still love a novelty roast and a good thick pelt. Arthur counted out the earnings with a grumble as John beamed.

“See?” John said, jabbing a finger at the coin. “Worth it. Got somethin’ for our trouble. And no one’s complainin’.”

Arthur gave him a flat look. “You gonna tell Charles you shot that thing while it was fishin’?”

John blinked, then rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “...Maybe not in those exact words.”

Arthur folded the bills and tucked them away. “You tell him it was just mindin’ it’s own business fishin’ and he’ll throw your ass in the creek right after it. Say it charged us or somethin’. Make yourself the victim, for once.”

“I was the victim,” John said, mock-offended. “Of hunger. And humiliation. That horned devil made a damn fool of me.”

Arthur didn’t even humor that with a response. He simply turned, whistled for his horse, and muttered under his breath, “Stupid, cold-blooded nonsense…”

As they headed back toward camp, with coin in their pockets and fish-smelling blood on their boots, Arthur tried to push down the lingering guilt. It wasn’t like he’d pulled the trigger.

But somehow, it still felt like he’d done wrong.

John rode ahead with the coins tucked in his vest and a spring in his step that Arthur found mildly irritating. His horse was still hauling blood-soaked claws and teeth, but John whistled like it’d been a successful fishing trip.

Arthur let him go, needing a breath and maybe a moment without being asked if he’d ever considered lassoing a dinosaur.

He turned his horse toward the treeline instead, cutting down through a narrow trail near a creek that led toward a clearing. It was quiet there-eerily so, save for the occasional flutter of birds and the low drone of insects. But then-

Click.

Arthur’s brow furrowed.

Another click followed. And then a very familiar voice:

“Come on…come on …don’t be shy, you magnificent beast…”

Arthur exhaled through his nose. Of course.

He tied his horse to a branch and stepped forward, boots crunching against leaves. Just ahead, in the dappled sunlight, a cumbersome wooden camera stood perched on a tripod-far too big, far too expensive, and far too unprotected. And behind it, kneeling in the grass, adjusting the lens like it was a pistol, was Albert Mason.

Arthur didn’t even have to speak. His mere presence was enough to make the man jump a foot in the air.

“Oh-OH GOODNESS!” Albert clutched his chest and spun, eyes wide behind his spectacles. “Mr. Morgan! You absolute rogue ! You nearly scared the life out of me!”

Arthur raised a hand. “Didn’t mean to. Just didn’t want you gettin’ yourself eaten.”

Albert huffed, visibly trying to slow his breathing. “Well. Thank you, I suppose. But I assure you, I’m being very cautious this time.”

Arthur gave the camera a dubious glance. “That so?”

“I am acutely aware that there is a large, very horned , very angry creature roaming these parts,” Albert said, adjusting his tie with a nervous tug. “I saw it just yesterday. It strolled through this very meadow like it was heading to market.”

Arthur raised a brow. “And you stayed ?”

“Well, I backed away, naturally. But then I came back.”

“Albert…”

“It’s the greatest photographic opportunity of a lifetime! ” Albert gestured to the brush, as if it might produce something beautiful at any second. “These creatures-these dinosaurs! They’ve redefined the entire idea of what is natural. Just imagine the publications! The acclaim!”

Arthur crossed his arms. “And what happens when your acclaim tramples you to death?”

Albert chuckled awkwardly. “Well, let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. I am taking precautions this time.”

Arthur glanced around.

There were no weapons.

No lookout.

The “precaution,” he realized, was that Albert had moved the camera closer to a rock to possibly duck behind.

He sighed. “You always like this, or just when I show up?”

Albert looked sheepish. “Well... you do have a way of catching me at my more precarious moments.”

Arthur shook his head and stepped up beside the camera, squinting at the horizon. “You see anything worth shootin’?”

“I spotted a herd of those feathered ones-Gallimimus, I believe-yesterday morning. They sprint like the wind. Too fast to catch clearly, but I got a few blurred frames. And then there’s that horned one. Short legs, terrible posture, head like a demon’s mailbox.”

Arthur nodded. “Yeah. That bastard’s bad news. Been lurkin’ around since yesterday. Picked off a big one while we were herdin’. Ain’t afraid of people.”

Albert blanched a little, his grip tightening on the camera.

Arthur glanced at him. “You sure you’re not that stupid?”

Albert straightened his back in a feeble attempt at dignity. “I’m not brave. Nor foolish. I’m simply…driven.”

Arthur smirked. “That what they call it now?”

Albert gave a frustrated but fond sigh. “I’ve said it before, Mr. Morgan, and I’ll say it again-I appreciate your concern. But I must try. The world needs to see this. Not just hear tall tales from drunkards and bounty hunters.”

Arthur looked out toward the trees again, the sun cutting gold through the leaves.

“All right. But if you get eaten, I ain’t draggin’ your bones back.”

Albert smiled thinly. “Noted.”

Arthur turned, but paused. “Stay near the rocks. Keep that camera steady. And if you see somethin’ big, don’t try to name it. Just run. ”

Albert gave him a two-finger salute, already adjusting the lens again. “Good hunting, Mr. Morgan.”

Arthur muttered, “Ain’t the one huntin’,” and left him to it.

By the time Arthur rode back into camp the scent of stew and sweat and burning firewood lingered in the air, familiar and half-comforting-until a shrill chirp echoed out from the trees, and something feathered and fleet-footed launched itself toward him at a full sprint.

Arthur barely had time to dismount before it skidded to a stop in front of him, legs kicking up dust. It stood proud and puffed up, flapping its ridiculous little wings like it was trying to fan him.

“Chicken,” Arthur muttered.

And Chicken, in all its absurd prehistoric glory, dropped a limp, freshly-killed raccoon at Arthur’s feet.

Arthur stared.

The raccoon flopped onto its side with a dull thump, dead as hell, one eye glassy, the other half-squished. Its guts hadn’t spilled, which was something, but it clearly hadn’t gone peacefully. One of Chicken’s claws still had tufts of fur stuck to it.

Chicken bobbed its head enthusiastically, letting out a high-pitched coo like it had just delivered a golden goose.

Arthur blinked once. Then twice. Then looked around camp to see if anyone else had witnessed it.

Nobody seemed to notice-Hosea was reading, Sadie was cleaning her knife, Javier was singing softly to himself, and Dutch was standing off by the edge of camp pontificating to Charles about destiny again.

Arthur sighed.

“Well… thanks,” he muttered, reaching down to grab the damn thing by the scruff. It hung from his grip, limp and a little damp. “Real thoughtful of you.”

Chicken chirped again and pranced in a circle like it was showing off for a prize ribbon at the county fair.

Arthur rolled his eyes, but-glancing around once more-he gave in and gave the little bastard a quick scratch behind the head feathers. Chicken cooed louder, blinking up at him like a happy dog.

“You keep that up,” Arthur warned, “you’re gonna start expectin’ biscuits.”

Chicken tilted its head.

Arthur hoisted the raccoon up a little higher, shrugged, and started toward Pearson’s wagon.

“Hey Pearson!” he called, already preparing himself for whatever complaint was about to come out of the cook’s mouth. “Chicken got somethin’ for ya!”

From behind a curtain of hanging meats, Pearson’s voice called back, “What, more of them feather things? I can’t use no more feathers, Arthur, I’ve got piles -”

“It ain’t feathers,” Arthur said, tossing the raccoon onto the cutting block. “It’s meat.”

Pearson stuck his head out, squinting. “That a… raccoon ?”

“Yup.”

Pearson stared. “You bring me dinosaur meat yesterday , and today, you bring me this?”

Arthur gave a nonchalant shrug. “Ain’t from me. Chicken wanted to pitch in.”

Pearson looked past Arthur. Chicken was still standing there proudly, chest puffed like a goddamn war hero.

Pearson blinked. “Well. Hell. I guess if it’s huntin’ now, I better make room in the damn pantry.”

Arthur smirked, patted the top of the raccoon, and walked off toward his tent, Chicken trailing proudly behind him like it had just claimed a major bounty.

From the edge of camp, Dutch glanced over.

“That bird… thing… is growing on me, ” he said.

Arthur didn’t look back.

“God help us all.”

That night, in his journal, a drawing of the tall, long, crocodilian looking lizard was drawn into Arthur's journal, fishing by the creek with it's mouth open like a trapper.

"Tried to herd them big, duck-billed ones like they're cattle today, ain't go well, that damned bull-lizard showed up again and stole our hard work. Saw another one of the big, two legged, lizard ones, but this one didn't look as devilish as that horned monster. Was just minding it's business, fishing, until that fool MARSTON shot it in the eye. Poor bastard."

Chapter Text

It was a good day for a strut, and Javier Escuella knew it. The sun was out but not punishing, the trail was dry, and Boaz was in a good mood, ears flicking calmly as they trotted along the road toward Rhodes. Javier leaned back in the saddle, one hand lazily on the reins, the other resting against his belt, humming to himself. Maybe he’d get a drink. Maybe he’d buy that red shirt he’d been eyeing for a week now. Maybe both, if Dutch hadn’t mysteriously moved their funds again .

But then he slowed Boaz to a halt.

At the far end of the road, something was coming toward him.

A man-dark-haired, sun-browned, dressed in a poncho and wide-brimmed sombrero-was riding. Not a horse. No.

He was riding one of those tall turkey bastards.

Javier squinted hard. He rubbed his eyes with the back of his glove. Still there.

The creature was unmistakable: one of the feathered long-legged beasts Arthur and Charles had brought down days ago. The same kind Chicken seemed to be a smaller, stupider cousin of. This one was much bigger, with a long neck and curious eyes, its bird-like feet kicking up dust as it trotted lightly along, looking... oddly pleased.

And the man atop it? Looked perfectly relaxed. Legs slung over the sides, one hand holding a loosely-tied rope halter, the other lifting in greeting as he approached.

“¡Buenas tardes, amigo!” the man called out cheerfully in Spanish, tipping his hat. “¿Sabes dónde está la ciudad más cercana?”

Javier just stared at him.

“...Perdón?” he managed after a beat, blinking.

The man laughed-a warm, good-natured sound that bounced along the road. “La ciudad,” he repeated, patting the creature beneath him like it was just a trusty mule. “Rhodes, creo que se llama. ¿Voy bien?”

Javier, still slack-jawed, nodded slowly and pointed down the trail. “Sí... sigue derecho y vas a verla en unos veinte minutos. Más o menos.”

“Gracias, hermano,” the man said. “Me llamo Mateo, por cierto.”

He gestured down to the dinosaur, whose long, plumed tail swished behind it like a flag.

“La encontré con una pata rota cerca del río,” he explained. “La cuidé, le hice un vendaje... y desde entonces no me deja en paz. Parece que ahora somos socios.”

Javier blinked again. “You tamed it?”

Mateo grinned. “More like she tamed me .” He patted the creature again. “Se llama Milagro. Milagro, di hola.”

The gallimimus-Milagro-chirped. Loudly.

Javier looked like he had just seen God. And God was a tall bird.

Mateo tipped his hat again, gave Boaz a respectful nod, and trotted on ahead, Milagro’s claws clicking rhythmically against the dirt. The creature moved with surprising grace, tall neck bobbing as it carried him away. It would’ve been ridiculous if it wasn’t also... kind of majestic.

Once they disappeared around the bend, Javier finally found his voice again.

He looked down at Boaz.

“Well,” he muttered in disbelief, “now I’ve seen everything. ”

Boaz snorted.

Javier nudged him forward, resuming the ride-but now, all thoughts of shirts and whiskey were secondary to whatever the hell that was.

He was going to have to tell Arthur about this. He was going to have to tell everyone about this.

Arthur hadn’t even gotten his boots fully on when Dutch found him.

“Well, good mornin’, son,” came the familiar drawl, too slick for this early in the day.

Arthur didn’t bother looking up. “What do you want.”

Dutch clapped a hand on his shoulder like they were about to embark on a damn picnic. “Now, now, Arthur. That’s no way to greet your fearless leader. Especially not when I bring opportunity.”

Arthur finished tugging on the second boot and stood slowly, rolling his shoulders. “Last time you said that, we ended up runnin’ from angry ranchers, three wolves, and a man with no pants.”

Dutch waved him off. “Ancient history. Today’s problem is far more... refined.”

Arthur turned and squinted at him, unimpressed. “Go on.”

Dutch’s grin widened. “Sheriff Gray came to me this morning, all huff and puff. Claims the Braithwaites are up to something-strange even by their standards. Said they’ve been stocking up creatures. Big ones. Exotic. Dinosauric, if you will.”

Arthur blinked. “What, the Braithwaites got a zoo now?”

“Hell if I know,” Dutch said, voice dropping low with a conspiratorial tone. “But Gray’s got a stick up his ass about it. Says they’re offerin’ more money for live captures than he’s offering for protection. Dinosaurs. Tamed. Trained. Like they’re buildin’ an army or a goddamn carnival.”

Arthur muttered something under his breath that sounded an awful lot like “Jesus Christ,” but Dutch kept going.

“He wants someone to take a look. Discreetly, of course. Someone who ain’t tied to the law, but also someone who ain’t tied to him. Someone smart. Capable. Reliable.”

Arthur straightened, jaw already tight. “It’s me, ain’t it.”

Dutch gave him a wide, completely unapologetic smile. “Of course it’s you.”

Arthur rubbed a hand over his face and sighed. “You know, just once, I’d like to start a day without bein’ dragged into some backwoods, prehistoric mess.”

Dutch chuckled. “Well, then you’re in the wrong timeline, son.”

Arthur gave him a look that could have killed a lesser man, but Dutch had built up immunity by now. He simply patted Arthur on the back and sauntered off, probably to go not investigate anything himself.

“Sheriff says they’ve been haulin’ strange crates up to the big house,” Dutch called over his shoulder. “See what you can find, and remember: you’re an observer. Not a hero.”

Arthur grunted. “I’ll try not to get eaten.”

He grabbed his rifle, holstered his sidearm, and whistled for his horse. Chicken chirped at him from behind a wagon wheel, but he ignored it. He didn’t need moral support from a miniature dinosaur today.

Arthur approached the Braithwaite plantation with the kind of caution that came from years of knowing just how batshit crazy the family was-and that was before dinosaurs became involved.

The sun was just starting to dip below the trees, long shadows stretching across the worn gravel paths. Arthur ditched his horse near the treeline, keeping to the cover of the overgrown hedges as he crept toward the stables.

The big, fancy manor loomed in the distance, all pristine columns and rotting secrets. But Arthur wasn’t aiming for that mess. He figured Dutch could go poke around the Braithwaite parlor and talk poetry with whatever beastly matron still haunted the place. Arthur’s interest lay in what they were hiding -and from what Sheriff Gray had said, the stables were the best bet.

He slipped inside the wide barn doors as quiet as he could, sticking close to the walls. The air hit him immediately-hot, foul, and full of something far worse than horse piss.

And then he saw them.

Dinosaurs.

Big ones. Small ones. Tied up, crated, some drugged or unconscious, breathing in slow, heavy huffs. There were at least four-two with long, duck-bill faces like the ones he and John tried herding, another with a thick hide and spikes along its tail, and something long-necked curled up and wheezing like an asthmatic elephant.

Arthur’s jaw clenched. This wasn’t just some rich family showing off. This was a business.

From deeper in the barn came voices-two men, speaking low but loud enough that the sound echoed along the wooden beams.

“God, these things shit like there’s no tomorrow,” one muttered, sounding exhausted and thoroughly disgusted.

“Yeah, I know , but they also sell well to the right man,” the second replied.

“The right man bein’…?”

“You know. Rich. Crazy. Scientists. I heard there’s a professor who pays top dollar for ‘em. The government too. They wanna know why they’re here, what they’re eatin’, how they’re breedin’... all that nonsense.”

There was a pause, then the first man added, “Heard one feller wanted one for a personal pet. Imagine that. You come home from the saloon and there’s a lizard the size of your wagon sittin’ on your porch.”

They both laughed like it wasn’t horrifying, and Arthur, from the shadows, grimaced.

Black market. Plain and simple.

Creatures wrangled and sold off to whoever had the coin-no thought about what they were, where they came from, or the damage they might do in the wrong hands, just another product to these bastards. Like opium or slaves or guns.

Arthur took one last look at the pitiful creatures-some groaning softly, others too still-and backed out the way he came. No sense in picking a fight here. Not yet.

He mounted up where he’d left his horse, and without even glancing back at the stables, he kicked it into a trot.

The ride back to camp was quiet, but heavy.

He wasn’t sure what pissed him off more, that the Braithwaites were profiting off this mess, or that the government might be buying from them.

He sighed. "Goddamn lizard apocalypse and it still comes down to greed."

Back at camp, Arthur didn’t waste time. He stormed straight for Dutch’s tent, dust still on his coat, horse sweat clinging to his boots, and aggravation simmering just below his ribs.

Dutch, naturally, was pouring himself a drink like it was a slow Sunday afternoon and not the eve of some prehistoric arms race.

Arthur didn’t wait for a greeting. “They’re runnin’ a black market, Dutch,” he snapped. “Got dinosaurs tied up in their stables like circus animals. Some of ‘em knocked out cold. Heard two guards talkin’, they’re sellin’ ‘em to rich lunatics and the government. That’s what the Braithwaites are up to.”

Dutch hummed, unbothered, as he swirled his drink. “Braithwaites. Always were short-sighted, greedy sons of bitches. A shame, really, when nature’s so much grander than any scheme they could cook up in that moldy plantation of theirs…”

Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose. “Dutch.”

“I’m hearin’ you, son.” Dutch turned, and now he had that look , that gleam in his eye that meant either brilliance or disaster, or most likely both. “Way I see it… if the Braithwaites suddenly lost their cargo , they’d be forced to crawl back to Sheriff Gray, or us, that if they’re not forced to spend all their forces on fixing up all their stuff. The balance tips in our favor.”

Arthur’s eyes narrowed. “So what…you want us to steal twenty-ton dinosaurs now? These ain’t horses, Dutch.”

Dutch grinned wide, proud of himself. “Not steal , Arthur. Free. It’s not theft when it’s mercy.”

Arthur let out a low, exasperated noise, but before he could argue further, a voice cut in behind him.

“They’re selling them?” Charles asked, his tone calm, but in that sharp, dangerous way that meant someone was about to have a very, very bad day.

Arthur turned to see him standing just outside the tent, arms crossed, brow furrowed like a thunderhead.

“Yep,” Arthur muttered. “Selling ‘em to the highest bidder. Scientists, maybe the government too.”

Charles didn’t raise his voice, but there was a tightness in his jaw that made it clear he was furious. “They’re not cattle. They’re not things to own.”

“That’s what I said,” Arthur replied. “Dutch wants us to go back there and set ‘em loose.”

“I do, ” Dutch confirmed, now walking toward them with his arms spread wide, like he was offering salvation on a silver platter. “A message, boys. A statement. Let nature take back what the Braithwaites tried to chain. Charles, I trust you to handle this delicately. Get in. Get out. No blood, unless there has to be.”

Charles nodded once. “When?”

“Tonight.”

Arthur rubbed his face. “Christ. Why is it always me when there’s a suicide mission?”

“Because,” Dutch said smoothly, “I trust you not to get eaten.”

Arthur shot him a flat look. “That’s not a skill, Dutch. That’s luck. ”

Dutch laughed. “Then may you be the luckiest man alive.”

Arthur glanced over at Charles, who was already checking his weapons, eyes dark with purpose. He sighed again-he was doing that a lot lately-and pulled out his rifle to clean it.

“Alright,” he muttered. “We’ll set your damn dinosaurs free.”

But as he did, he couldn’t help but mutter under his breath: “And when this goes south, you better have a plan for when one of those things decides we’re the cattle.”

The road toward the Braithwaite manor was dim under the stars, lit only by the moon and the quiet burning of lanterns swinging from their saddles. Arthur rode with his shoulders hunched and his jaw tight, reins loose in one hand, rifle slung behind his back. Charles, as usual, was quiet-until he wasn’t.

“I still can’t believe people see somethin’ like this,” Charles muttered, voice low but sharp, “and the first thing they think is profit. Meat, hide, trophies. Or just shootin’ them for the hell of it.”

Arthur huffed. “You’re surprised?” he asked, not unkindly. “Look at the damn world, Charles. That’s the way people are. Ain’t never been a thing folks didn’t try to stuff, sell, or shoot full’a holes.”

Charles shook his head. “Yeah, well. Doesn’t make it any less sick. These animals… they’re confused. Lost. Ain’t never seen this place before and already half of ‘em are chained or mounted on someone’s wall.”

Arthur shrugged slightly. “Yeah. I get that. But this world- our world-it ain’t made for ‘em. They don’t belong here no more than we belong on the moon. You let 'em roam free and they'll either get hunted or get someone killed.”

“That’s the same thing people say about us,” Charles said quietly.

Arthur turned to glance at him.

“I mean it,” Charles continued, looking ahead. “Outlaws. Raiders. Bandits. People say we don’t belong anymore, that there ain’t room in this new world for the way we live. That we’re just dangerous, wandering relics. Same as them.”

Arthur was quiet a moment. He shifted in the saddle, uncertain how to argue with that. Because it wasn’t wrong .

“They're not here by choice,” Charles added. “They didn’t ask to be dragged into this world.”

“Neither did we,” Arthur said after a while. “Hell, maybe that’s the problem.”

For a while, the only sounds were their horses’ hooves and the hum of insects in the trees. The Braithwaite manor loomed distant in the dark, lights in the windows like eyes watching from far away.

Then Charles broke the quiet again.

“Saw John riding in earlier,” he said, tone casually pointed. “Whistling like a fool. Had a bag slung over his saddle. Rattling.”

Arthur frowned. “Yeah?”

“Full of teeth,” Charles said. “Big ones. Some still bloody.”

Arthur cleared his throat, eyes front. “Huh.”

“You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

Arthur didn’t miss a beat. “Nope.”

Charles gave him a long, skeptical look. Arthur didn’t meet it.

“Uh-huh.”

Arthur scratched his neck. “He probably found ‘em. You know John. Real lucky when it comes to… teeth.”

Charles let out a dry, unamused snort. “Uh-huh.”

Arthur could feel the weight of judgment from Charles radiating across the trail. He shifted in his saddle and muttered, “We got more important things to worry about right now.”

“Like the part where we try to sneak past a dozen hired guns and free a stable full of pissed-off lizards?” Charles asked, with a small grin.

Arthur grunted. “Yeah. Like that.”

They rode on in silence after that, both men tense, braced for the storm that was sure to follow.

The Braithwaite manor stood quiet in the distance, its soft golden lights glowing through the trees like the eyes of some dozing beast. But it was the barns and fields behind the house that held the real monsters.

Arthur and Charles crept through the shadows, crouched low behind a fence as the faint snorting and rustling of massive bodies filled the air. The smell was awful-sweat, dung, and something sharp and earthy, like old ferns rotting under the summer heat.

“They’re keepin’ ‘em all over,” Arthur whispered, peering through the slats. “Like horses. Except, y’know. Not.”

Charles reached into his satchel and pulled out two small canvas pouches, each tied tight at the top. He handed one to Arthur.

Arthur squinted at it, sniffed it, recoiled. “What the hell is this ?”

“You said some of them were sedated,” Charles muttered, watching a pair of guards loiter by the far stable doors. “This’ll wake them up.”

Arthur raised an eyebrow. “And what’s it gonna do to ‘em?”

“Wake them up,” Charles said simply. Then added, with mild guilt: “Maybe a little hyper , too.”

Arthur groaned. “Charles…”

“Only way we’re getting them out. I’ll take the ones on the field-you handle the barn. Some of those ceratopsids you mentioned should be in there. You get ‘em up and moving, cut the ropes on the others. I’ll do the same.”

Arthur sighed, tying the pouch to his belt. “This is a stupid plan.”

“I know,” Charles said, already ducking into the shadows of the tall grass. “But it’s Dutch’s stupid plan. Let’s make it work.”

They parted ways like ghosts.

The barn creaked as Arthur nudged the side door open just enough to slip inside. Warm air hit him immediately-thick and humid, full of animal breath and the stink of hay that had long since lost its freshness. Moonlight filtered through the slats, casting striped shadows over mounds of flesh and scales.

A pair of gigantic animals with backs filled all over by deadly looking plates and a tail that looked less animal and more medieval lay collapsed on the straw-covered ground, their wide bodies rising and falling slowly. Arthur paused, brows furrowing.

“…What in the name’a God is that ?” he muttered under his breath, eyeing the plated ridges and massive swinging tails. One of them snorted in its sleep, and a plate along its back twitched.

A ceratopsid nearby blinked at him-awake, restrained with thick ropes at the legs and muzzle. Its eyes were big and brown, oddly gentle, and Arthur felt a little twist in his gut when it made a low, mournful sound.

“Alright, alright,” he murmured, approaching slowly. “Ain’t gonna hurt ya. I’m helpin’, far as I can tell.”

He crouched by one of the stegosaurids, fumbled open the mouth-harder than he expected-and worked the pouch into the back of its throat as best he could. It smelled like licorice and hell, and the animal stirred with a groggy twitch even as he pulled back.

Arthur quickly moved to the second, repeating the process. Sweat beaded down his neck.

“You better wake up nice,” he muttered. “Don’t go swingin’ that tail my way.”

The ceratopsid was watching him the whole time, still as a stone. He cut the ropes on that one next, and then another, moving fast now. He could hear distant movement-maybe Charles already working the fields-and a shout, maybe a surprised guard.

“Time to move,” Arthur muttered, stepping back just as one of the stegosaurs gave a sudden snort and lurched upright.

It staggered, stumbled-then flung its head back and let out a deep, thunderous groan . The sound was enough to shake the rafters. The others followed quickly, muscles rippling beneath leathery skin, tails dragging through the straw as they righted themselves with alarming speed.

Arthur backed toward the door. “Ohhh, yep. That mix works.”

Behind him, another sleepy ceratopsid snorted itself awake and let out a confused bellow -loud enough to be heard across the fields.

Then all hell broke loose.

The moment the ceratopsid trampled the outer fence and the stegosaur swung its tail through a hay cart, all hell erupted like a lit stick of dynamite. Guards spilled out from the manor house, whooping and yelling, shots cracking into the air-most of them too scared or too dumb to aim. The animals panicked, crashing into each other, shrieking in confusion and rage. One of the sedated stegosaurs plowed straight through a side wall, and a juvenile ceratopsid started bucking like a wild bull in the middle of the barnyard.

There was shouting. There were crashing fences. There were guards yelling, guns firing wildly into the night, and the sound of something very large and very angry trampling through the barns. Arthur ducked as one of the stegosaurs bulldozed through a stall door and sent splinters flying, mooing in confusion and fury.

He sprinted for the exit, vaulted over a fallen rake, and stumbled back into the open night just in time to see a terrified guard get yeeted ten feet through the air by a confused ankylosaur’s tail.

From the direction of the fields came Charles’ voice “ Told you! ”

Arthur didn’t bother answering. He was too busy trying not to get trampled.

“Shit! Shit! Where are the horses?!” Arthur shouted, ducking a flying plank of wood that had once been a door.

“ Hopefully far away from here! ” Charles hollered back, breath ragged as he took off in a dead sprint toward the back fence.

Arthur had no better plan, so he ran after him.

Gunshots barked behind them. A tall, long-necked creature with a strange, curved crest on its head-darted through the trees ahead of them, making a low, confused sound like a foghorn in a canyon. A half-dozen more followed, scattering wildly.

Charles skidded to a halt near a splintered fence, grabbing two discarded lengths of rope. He tossed one to Arthur, then eyed a nearby shack that still had its roof intact. “Up there!”

“What the hell are you planning?” Arthur barked as they climbed, but Charles didn’t answer. He just got up, looked down at the chaos of massive beasts below, and said it like it was perfectly normal:

“Pick one and jump.”

Arthur blinked at him. “ What?! ”

But Charles had already taken his own advice. With a swift, practiced leap, he landed squarely on the back of a passing parasaur, gripping the rope tightly as he swung it around the creature’s snout and neck like a bridle. The parasaur bellowed, startled, but didn’t try to shake him off-instead it picked up speed, carrying him through the trees with great, bouncing strides.

“Come on, Arthur!” Charles shouted, vanishing into the dark like a damn legend from a fever dream.

Arthur stared down at the mass of writhing tails, horns, and confusion. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

A parasaur loped past below. Arthur gritted his teeth, muttered something under his breath he hoped God wouldn’t take personally, and jumped .

The impact jolted through his legs like he’d landed on a wagon full of springs. The beast screeched, jerking its head to the side, but Arthur was already moving, fumbling with the rope, wrangling it around the long snout as gently as he could manage.

“Easy, easy! Damn it, I’m not tryin’ to hurt ya!”

He clung to the thing’s back, low and tight like he would on a bronco, steering it in Charles’ direction through sheer will and curse words. Trees whipped past them in flashes of moonlight and shadow, branches snapping in their wake.

Behind them, Braithwaite guards kept shooting and shouting, but the chaos had grown too large to control. The dinosaurs stampeded in all directions, leaving nothing but upturned carts, broken fences, and trampled pride in their wake.

They didn’t stop riding until the manor lights had long disappeared behind the trees and only the sounds of the swamp night surrounded them. The parasaur beneath Arthur finally slowed, huffing great wet breaths through its nostrils, foam curling at the edge of its beak. Charles’ mount stepped beside his, equally winded.

Arthur let himself slide off the creature’s side, legs buckling a little when he hit the ground. He grabbed a tree for support, wiped the sweat and dirt from his brow, then looked at Charles.

Charles looked back, chest heaving, grinning like a madman. Arthur opened his mouth, closed it, then said the only thing that could possibly make sense in that moment:

“We rode a dinosaur. A goddamn dinosaur , Charles.”

Charles broke first, and Arthur followed suit. They laughed until their ribs hurt, the tension and adrenaline pouring out of them in wave after wave of wheezing hysteria.

They leaned on their dinosaurs like drunk men on bar stools, doubled over with breathless cackling under the stars.

Finally, Arthur straightened, wiped his nose on his sleeve, and muttered, “Dutch owes me more than a damn drink for this one.” Then, almost fondly, he added, “Ain’t even the dumbest thing I’ve done this week.”

Charles looked at the parasaur, then back at Arthur. “We should name them.”

Arthur blinked. “Don’t get attached, Charles.”

Charles grinned. “Too late.”

It was nearing dawn when Arthur and Charles finally crested the ridge above campThe two parasaurs plodded down the hill with long, steady strides, each carrying a very tired, very sore outlaw. Behind them, their actual horses followed at a distance, ears flicking nervously, clearly trying to make sense of what the hell their owners were doing.

The camp was quiet at first, early risers just beginning to stir-Pearson grumbling over the fire, Mary-Beth stretching beside the laundry line-but when the heavy thuds of dinosaur footsteps reached their ears, heads started to turn. Conversations dropped. Coffee mugs froze mid-air. Someone dropped a tin plate.

Arthur slowed his parasaur to a halt just inside the edge of camp, swung his leg off with a wince, and gave the animal a solid pat on the shoulder. “Dutch,” he called out, like it was just any other Tuesday. “We freed those dinosaurs for ya. And as a bonus, we got ya some, uh… funny lookin’ horses.”

Charles pulled up beside him, his face the picture of calm satisfaction. His parasaur grunted quietly, tail swishing like it was just happy to be part of things.

Dutch stepped out from his tent with his hair half-done and mouth open wide enough to catch flies. Hosea emerged a second later, blinking blearily, then stopped dead in his tracks.

“Dear Lord…” Hosea muttered, his voice dry. “First Chicken, now this? You might’ve found your calling as a dinosaur whisperer, Arthur.”

Arthur opened his mouth to argue, but… yeah. Fair.

By then, the rest of the gang had gathered, drawn by the thunderous sound and the sheer absurdity of what they were seeing. Javier came up behind Hosea, squinting at the tall beasts with raised eyebrows. “I saw a man ridin’ one of those Tall Turkeys the other day,” he muttered, rubbing his jaw. “But this? This is somethin’ else.”

One of the parasaurs let out a long, resonant honk, and Karen yelped, ducking behind Tilly. Jack poked his head out from behind Abigail, eyes wide with wonder. “Are those dinosaurs?” he whispered. “Can I ride one?”

“No,” Abigail said automatically, but the firmness in her voice was already cracking.

Bill just stared like he’d walked into the middle of someone else’s dream. “What in the goddamn…”

Dutch finally found his voice, stepping forward slowly, eyes wide, hands spread as if approaching a miracle. “Boys,” he said, gaze flitting between the two massive creatures, “this is… this is vision. This is possibility. This is the future.”

Arthur gave him a long look, deadpan. “Dutch, they eat tree bark and shit like cannonballs.”

Dutch blinked, then recovered with a laugh, clasping Arthur’s shoulder. “Well! Even the future comes with… complications.”

“Complications,” Arthur echoed, flatly, rubbing his lower back. “That’s what we’re callin’ this now.”

The parasaurs shifted, noses dipping toward the fire pit, curious and not at all bothered by the crowd. Charles slid off his with ease, stroking its neck fondly. “We should let ‘em rest somewhere quiet,” he said, already glancing toward the trees. “Maybe up by the creek.”

“You keep ‘em away from my stewpot,” Pearson grumbled, backing away protectively from his kettle. “I just got this fire goin’!”

“They don’t even eat meat,” Charles muttered, shaking his head.

“That ain’t the point!” Pearson snapped. “You try cleanin’ dino piss off your pantry one day, see how you feel about it!”

Arthur sighed, catching the eye of one of the horses trailing behind them. It was looking at him with an expression that could only be described as deeply, deeply offended.

He pointed a finger at it. “Don’t start. You ran off, remember?”

The horse snorted indignantly.

The parasaurs snorted too, in a much deeper octave.

And then, as if sensing the shift, Chicken strutted into the circle like a little general inspecting his troops, looked up at the massive parasaurs towering above him… and gave a single, triumphant cluck.

Arthur stared. “Oh no. Don’t you start trainin’ them.”

Chicken clucked again, sharper this time, and one of the parasaurs tilted its head like it was listening.

Hosea groaned into his hands. “We’re gonna have a dinosaur army by Christmas.”

Dutch smiled. “Gentlemen,” he said grandly, arms wide. “Our herd has expanded.”

That night, a drawing of a large reptile with a small head, spiky plates on it's back and even deadlier spikes on it's tail appeared on Arthur's journal.

"Goddamn Braithwaites really went and started trying to make a dinosaur Black Market. You got prehistoric animals getting brought back from the dead and the first thing some folk in this world think of is profit. Me and Charles set 'em loose, Charles in his usual wisdom said somethin' that got me thinking, too. These animals ain't too different from us, from me.

Creatures from the past lost in a world that's long since moved on from them, I reckon it won't take long for the same fate to befall us."

Chapter Text

Arthur woke to raised voices outside his tent and the unmistakable tone of Strauss arguing with someone. He sat up groggily, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, just in time to hear:

“I am telling you, Herr Matthews, it is a legitimate offer. The rancher has cattle and these creatures are upsetting his entire operation. He is willing to pay handsomely for their safe removal.”

“You mean exploitation,” Hosea’s voice shot back, dry and unimpressed. “They’re just lost animals, Strauss, not walking banknotes.”

“Well, the banknote comes from the walking animal,” Strauss said, in a tone that suggested he thought this was a very clever thing to say.

Arthur sighed and pushed out of the tent. The rest of the camp had gathered in vague interest around the two. Dutch stood between them, arms folded, face contemplative.

“Alright,” Dutch finally said, clapping his hands once. “Arthur. Bill. Javier. Go see what’s going on. Calm the locals, move the animals. If it’s an easy job, we take the money. If not, well, we’ll learn something.”

“Always a lesson,” Arthur muttered under his breath, grabbing his hat.

By the time they rode up the slope overlooking the edge of Valentine, the racket was unmistakable: cattle braying in distress, ranch dogs barking, and the shrill, honking cries of something that did not belong.

“Jesus Christ,” Bill said, jaw slack.

Below, half a dozen massive duck-billed dinosaurs meandered in a slow, agitated loop through a series of open pastures. One had somehow managed to wedge its head into a hay trough and was now dragging the entire thing across the field. Another bumped lazily into a water tower, which groaned under the weight before creaking sideways a few inches. The creature honked proudly at its accomplishment.

“They’re even dumber than I remember,” Javier said under his breath.

Arthur spat into the dirt. “Let’s just get this done. Keep your eyes open while we herd. Last time I tried this, John and I damn near got trampled by one of those horned bastards-the ugly ones with the shield-heads and the temper.”

Bill snorted. “Alright, cowboys. Let’s go push the duck parade.”

They rode down slowly, not wanting to startle the creatures, and Arthur couldn’t help but shake his head. One of the hadrosaurs turned its wide, stupid face to look at them, blinking slowly, a string of hay draped over its snout like a sad mustache.

“Why,” Arthur muttered to himself, “is it always me?”

The hadrosaur honked again.

For once, things were going alright. Almost too alright.

Arthur rode up and down the flanks of the herd like he’d done for cattle a hundred times over, hollering low and steady to keep the creatures calm and moving. It helped that they seemed food-motivated-Javier had the bright idea of tossing apples from his saddlebag whenever one started to wander, and they’d lumber after the fruit like oversized, waddling bloodhounds.

The sun was high, the hadrosaurs were-if not cooperative, then at least stupid enough to herd-and for once, Arthur felt marginally optimistic.

Up the hill, a few Valentine locals stood slack-jawed, watching the procession of massive, honking dinosaurs like they weren’t sure if they were awake.

“Is that a duck with legs? ” one woman whispered, holding her bonnet like it might fly off at the sheer absurdity.

A man next to her fainted dead away in the dust. Another, panicked, drew his revolver with trembling hands-until Bill, already scowling, pointed a finger at him.

“Put that away,” Bill snapped. “They’re just dumb animals.”

“Like you,” Javier added, grinning, before spurring his horse around to steer a straggler back into line.

Arthur let out a soft snort of amusement. Then, just ahead, one of the hadrosaurs nudged a low-hanging apple tree-accidentally or otherwise-and the whole branch dumped over its head, showering it in red fruit. The beast honked triumphantly, shook its head, and chomped into the bounty like it had won a prizefight.

Arthur chuckled. “Y’know, maybe Chicken could learn somethin’ from you.”

But of course, peace never lasted long.

As they made their way across the tracks east of Citadel Rock, still a fair ride from the canyon where Dutch wanted the pen built, Javier’s head jerked up. He slowed his horse, gaze narrowing down the long length of iron rails.

“Tell me that ain’t-” he started.

It was.

A train whistle screamed in the distance.

Arthur looked up just in time to see the herd freeze, nostrils flaring. The whistle sounded again, louder now, and before he could say a word, everything exploded.

Three of the hadrosaurs bolted straight into the path of the oncoming train, Arthur’s heart stopped, but the locomotive missed them by inches , shrieking past in a blur of metal and noise. Another two turned tail and crashed through the brush, flattening a fence line and nearly trampling Bill’s horse in the process. The rest spun in place, honking, flailing, tails whipping like battering rams, completely forgetting whatever sense of direction they had.

“Shit!” Arthur growled, already turning his horse. “Fan out! We’re losin’ ‘em!”

“I told you we should’ve gone west!” Bill shouted from somewhere in the chaos.

Javier cursed in Spanish and took off after two stragglers running in opposite directions.

The duck parade had become a goddamn stampede.

The moment the train disappeared down the bend, Arthur and the others split off like bullets from a barrel.

Javier rode hard along the treeline, trying to keep the panicked remainder from charging off into the hills. “ ¡Vamos! ¡Calma, calma! ” he shouted, waving his hat in wide arcs to keep their attention. Somehow, miraculously, it worked for some of them.

Arthur grit his teeth and spurred forward, spotting one of the hadrosaurs bellyflopping into a shallow creek. It thrashed in the water, flinging up mud, honking like it’d been mortally insulted. Another blasted through a split-rail fence and vanished into a cornfield, the crops swaying violently behind it like a shark fin through water.

“Goddamn oversized geese!” Arthur snapped, wheeling around after the creekside casualty first.

It took a good minute and a half of floundering and splashing to guide it back to dry land-he ended up pushing from the saddle with one boot while waving a piece of half-soggy jerky like bait. It finally lurched free and plodded after him, grumbling low like it blamed him for the whole ordeal.

But the real fun came with the last two stragglers. Arthur rode like hell, catching up just as they barreled up a ridge and threatened to scatter entirely.

“No, no you don’t -” he hissed, lasso swinging. The rope snapped out and snagged around the neck of the closer one. It honked in protest and nearly yanked him clean out of the saddle. Arthur dug his heels in, guiding his horse in a wide arc until the creature relented and slowed.

The other hadrosaur stopped to look back-just in time for Bill to gallop up from one side and Javier from the other, boxing it in. It tried to turn but found itself pinned between two boulders and a shouting Javier.

“¡A tu casa, idiota con patas de pato!”

With much coaxing and more than a little shouting, they regrouped. The sun dipped low, setting fire to the sky with streaks of orange and rose, and the tired herd finally stumbled into the narrow canyon Dutch had set up for them. Dutch and two hired hands slammed the gate shut just as the last hadrosaur waddled in.

Arthur dropped his reins and leaned forward in the saddle, every muscle in his body aching.

“Next time Strauss wants dinosaurs moved,” he muttered through clenched teeth, “he can do it himself. ”

Dutch didn’t hear him. He was too busy clutching a wad of bills from a red-faced rancher and staring at the herd like a man seeing oil spring from the ground.

“We could scale this…” he murmured. “Even develop classifications. Work charts. Training methods…”

Javier gave Arthur a sideways glance. “He’s gonna lose his damn mind.”

Arthur closed his eyes and sighed. “Too late.”

A few days passed since the hadrosaur fiasco, and Arthur was still sore in places he didn’t know he could be sore. He'd just gotten back from brushing down his horse when Lenny found him by the fire, arms crossed and face tight like he’d been practicing how to ask for help without making it sound like begging.

“Arthur,” Lenny started, a little too casual.

“No,” Arthur said automatically.

“You didn’t even let me say -”

“If it’s dinosaur-related, I’m not interested.”

Lenny sighed. “It’s not .”

Arthur raised an eyebrow.

Lenny leaned in, lowering his voice. “Military train. Heading out from Cumberland Falls day after tomorrow. Word is it’s got payroll. Gold, maybe. Couple crates of something locked up real tight too.”

Arthur grunted, his interest piqued despite himself. “And Dutch knows about this?”

“He does. He’s all for it.” Lenny scratched the back of his neck. “Said we should plan something clean. Quiet. Efficient.”

Arthur narrowed his eyes. “So why you lookin’ at me like you need a babysitter?”

Lenny winced. “Because Sean’s comin’ with me.”

There was a beat of silence. Arthur let out a long breath and pressed his fingers into his eyes like that might push away the incoming headache.

“I’m asking you to come,” Lenny added, a little desperate now. “I like Sean, I do. But he’s got the subtlety of a cannon and the attention span of a gnat on fire. He’s already talkin’ about throwing dynamite on the engine .”

“Jesus,” Arthur muttered. “Alright, fine. Fine. I’ll come. Long as no one’s tryin’ to wrangle a stegosaur into a boxcar halfway through.”

Lenny gave him a grateful smile. “You have no idea how much I appreciate that.”

Arthur stood and grabbed his gear. “Let’s get this over with before someone tries to bring a dinosaur on the train.”

Naturally, Sean was already waiting with a bag full of loose ammunition, two sticks of dynamite, and a grin that screamed mistake waiting to happen . He slapped Arthur on the back so hard it made his spine click.

“There he is! The Duck Whisperer! Ready for a bit o’ proper outlawin’? And no funny critters this time-just guns, gold, and maybe a few terrified soldiers.”

Arthur exhaled through his nose. “God help me.”

And with that, the three of them mounted up and rode out toward Cumberland Falls-one man hopeful, one man smug, and one man already deeply regretting every life choice that had led him to this moment.

The train rolled into view just as the last rays of sunlight bled into the plains. Arthur, Lenny, and Sean crouched behind a rocky outcrop, watching the military engine thunder past, its black and brass frame gleaming like a warning. They exchanged nods, mounted up, and spurred their horses into motion, hooves pounding against dry earth as they chased after the last wagon.

“Back car’s got minimal guards,” Lenny called over the wind. “We get in quiet, we don’t need a shootout.”

“Don’t say that out loud,” Arthur grunted. “It’s like callin’ rain when the roof’s already leakin’.”

Sean just whooped in delight as he pulled alongside the final wagon and leapt up with all the grace of a startled goat. “In we go, boys!”

Arthur followed next, hauling himself onto the back platform and pulling Lenny up after him. The train rattled beneath their boots, the wind screaming past their ears. They drew their weapons and crept in, moving silent as shadows.

The first two guards barely made a sound, Arthur dropped one with a chokehold while Lenny knocked the other unconscious with the butt of his pistol. Sean, remarkably, managed not to make a mess of things.

They pushed forward, car by car, ducking behind crates and crates of what looked like munitions and supply goods. Then came the strange wagon, metal reinforced, heavy padlocks on both doors. Arthur raised a brow. “That look like payroll to you?”

“Nope,” Lenny said, brow furrowed. “But I bet Strauss would still sell it.”

Arthur gave the door a push. Locked. He kicked hard near the hinge and the whole thing shuddered. Arthur and Lenny stepped in, and immediately, their breath hitched.

Inside the car were dinosaurs , not massive, but small, maybe three feet tall at the shoulder. Scaly hides, wide blinking eyes, and narrow snouts peeking through the bars of cramped metal crates. All babies. Maybe hadrosaurids or something similar, though one looked horned and two legged. And between two crates was a straw-filled incubator, holding eggs . One was already wobbling.

“Jesus,” Lenny murmured. “They were takin’ the babies…? ”

Arthur’s jaw clenched. “From their nests. From their mothers.”

“ Babes ?! What kind of bastard looks at these little things and sees profit?” Sean asked, unusually solemn, before squinting out the wagon door. “Also, uh…lads? We might have ourselves a big angry problem.”

Arthur and Lenny rushed to the door, peering out across the open plains and what they saw nearly made their hearts seize.

Charging after the train, fast and deadly and horrifyingly determined, was the Horned Devil . Lean and muscular, built like a predator in overdrive, its crimson body surged forward with alarming speed. Each footfall pounded the dirt like thunder, closing the gap faster than any natural beast had a right to.

“Holy shit! ” Arthur bellowed.

“That’s the goddamn devil bull!” Sean shouted. 

“It’s after the babies,” Lenny said grimly, taking a look over his shoulder at the only horned one and realizing, dreadfully, that the resemblance was uncanny. “Uh oh…uhh, shit, I think it wants its own back.”

The Horned Devil shrieked, a guttural, bone-deep sound that rattled the very frame of the wagon. Its jaws snapped at the rear wheels, metal denting under its teeth. The train jolted violently.

“We need to stop this train, now! ” Arthur yelled. “Or get these little things outta here before that thing rips them apart!”

“Great!” Sean called, already fumbling with a bundle of dynamite. “Now we can blow it up!”

Arthur swatted the dynamite away. “ Not the train! ”

As the Horned Devil closed in again, its breath hot and feral, the three outlaws stood over a cargo full of stolen prehistoric babies, a furious mother bearing down on them, and a train full of soldiers likely to catch on at any second.

Arthur sighed, long and low. “I knew I shoulda stayed in bed.”

“I dunno what to do,” Sean said, flattening himself against the wall of the dinosaur crate as the train rocked from another impact. “If we jump, she’s gonna chase us down and eat our bones! ”

“If we stop, she might flip the damn train tryin’ to get her kids back,” Arthur snapped, clutching the wall as another shudder rippled through the car. The sound of metal screeching under strain came from the rear-jaws on steel.

Lenny’s face was pale. “If we keep going, she’s gonna follow us all the way to Saint Denis.”

The carno shrieked again, somewhere between a roar and a furious hiss, biting at the wheels, the platform, the very back of the train. One of the baby dinosaurs responded with a high-pitched whine, headbutting the inside of its crate.

“They’re callin’ to her,” Arthur muttered.

“Could ya blame ‘em?” Sean shouted. “I’d cry too if I was stuck in a metal box while me mum chased a damn military train!”

Then came the worst sound yet– voices .

“Back here! I heard something!” a soldier shouted from the car ahead. Boots were pounding toward them. Arthur barely had time to swear before the door burst open and chaos exploded into the wagon.

Gunfire rang out. Arthur fired first, a clean shot that dropped the first guard before he fully stepped in. Lenny pushed a crate over as cover while Sean let out a frantic whoop and opened fire.

A baby ceratopsid shrieked in alarm, its voice almost drowned by the clang of the Horned Devil colliding with the side of the train, nearly tipping the last car off the track. The floor lurched. Lenny fell, cursing. One of the crates tipped sideways, and a baby hadrosaur tumbled halfway out, chirping in terror.

Arthur grabbed the little thing by the scruff-if you could call rough scales a scruff-and shoved it gently back in. “Stay put , dammit, we’re workin’ on it!”

Sean hollered from the other side, “They just keep comin’! We gotta move forward!”

Arthur looked toward the front. “We get to the engine. Stop the train before we derail and get eaten.”

“You think she’ll stop once the train stops?” Lenny asked.

“No,” Arthur grunted. 

They pushed forward. More guards met them in the next car-this one filled with boxes labeled RESTRICTED – BIOLOGICAL CARGO . Whatever the hell that meant, Arthur didn’t like it. He shot his way through the first two men and shoulder-checked the door open.

The whole train groaned again, and outside the window, the blur of the Horned Devil remained constant, fast, unrelenting, the mother’s yellow eyes fixed on the car holding her young.

“Lenny, you and Sean keep ‘em off us!” Arthur shouted, kicking through another locked door. “I’ll get us to the engine!”

He ran up the center aisle as more bullets tore overhead. Somewhere behind him, a baby dinosaur screamed. Somewhere ahead of him, steam hissed from the boiler.

There was no clean answer. The train was moving too fast, the carno too furious, and the guards too many.

But Arthur had made a career out of bad odds-and this was just another goddamn Thursday.

Arthur slammed both fists into the brake lever and pulled . Steel shrieked under the pressure, wheels locking up and dragging sparks in their wake. The whole train jolted, nearly throwing him forward into the boiler. He staggered, cursed, and leaned hard on the lever until the momentum finally ground down, the world coming to a rattling, groaning halt .

For a moment, there was only the sound of the wind-and then the thunder of footsteps. He looked out the side window, just in time to see the Horned Devil veer suddenly, her powerful legs digging deep into the earth as she turned her attention from the locomotive to the rear wagon.

She roared , a deep, echoing, blood-curdling sound that Arthur felt all the way through his ribs.

“ SHIT! ” he yelled, scrambling back through the connecting cars.

The guards had chosen the worst possible response-they were shooting at her. Muzzle flashes lit up the doorway, and two of the soldiers didn’t even get to scream before jaws the size of a wagon snapped shut around them and tossed what was left like a dog with a rabbit. The others threw their rifles and ran .

“ GIVE HER THE GODDAMN BABY! ” Arthur shouted from the gangway as he climbed back into the animal car, voice nearly cracking.

Sean was frozen. “I-Wh-You give it to her!”

But Lenny was already scrambling for the latch on the tipped crate. His hands were shaking but quick. He unlatched it, crouched, and gently scooped the chirping, squirming baby into his arms.

“Easy,” he whispered, as if that would help either of them. “You want Mama, yeah? You want Mama.”

He stepped out the open wagon door, boots crunching on gravel. The Horned Devil towered just twenty feet away, panting hard, sides heaving, tail twitching with rage. Blood dripped down her flank where bullets had grazed her, but it barely seemed to register.

Lenny dropped the baby into the ground as gently as one could drop something that was near the size of a cougar, raised with both arms and skittered back to the wagon. “Here! I’m not-I’m not a threat, alright?”

The infant let out a high, soft trill. The mother froze.

Arthur held his breath. Sean physically hid behind a crate.

The Horned Devil tilted her massive head, nostrils flaring. And then, slowly, she stepped forward-one, two, three impossibly heavy thuds-until her snout hovered just above the baby.

She didn’t eat it.

Instead, she lowered her head, huffed warm breath over the trembling baby, and licked it once across the side. The little thing chirped and kicked its feet.

Then, with a softness none of them could’ve predicted, the massive predator leaned down, gripped the baby by the scruff of its neck, and lifted it like it weighed nothing. The baby dangled, content. The Horned Devil turned without another sound and thundered off across the field, her baby held tight.

The three outlaws just stood there, wide-eyed, mouths agape.

Sean was the first to speak. “...You know, I was almost brave that whole time.”

Arthur groaned and leaned against the wall. “We are never robbin’ another train again.”

Lenny let out a breathless laugh. “At least not one full of babies.”

“Or their mothers,” Arthur muttered. “Especially not them.”

Sean jogged off toward the front wagons, rifle slung over his shoulder, grinning like the damn fool he was. “I’ll go find our bloody payday, since you two are busy babysittin’!”

Arthur didn’t even spare him a glance. He stared at the crates, still rattling slightly from the commotion. The air in the wagon stank of hay, sweat, and something oddly earthy, like damp moss. Inside one of the larger crates, a little crest-headed baby let out a chirping honk and bumped the wood again, clearly trying to get out.

“Here I was,” Arthur muttered, dragging the crowbar from his satchel and jamming it under the crate lid, “thinkin’ I could go one goddamn job without dinosaurs.”

“Sorry, Arthur, I–I didn’t know.” Lenny said, not even trying to hide the apologetic smile. “Still worth it, though. Probably.”

The crate popped open with a creak. The little creature inside blinked up at him, startled, then clumsily scrambled out and stood on wobbly legs. Arthur sighed and moved on to the next, and the next after that. One by one, the babies spilled out: tiny hadrosaurs, a little ceratopsid with a crooked frill, even what might’ve been a juvenile stegosaurid.

Lenny crouched beside a crate holding several large, leathery eggs cushioned in straw. He ran a careful hand along one. “Still warm.”

“Great,” Arthur deadpanned. “Maybe they’ll hatch and chase us too.”

He was only half joking.

Then he heard it, a deep, low bellow rolling across the plains like a distant thunderclap. Not fast like the carno’s roars, but long, resonant. Calling .

Arthur turned toward the open wagon door, stepping up to the edge just as the wind shifted and carried another sound to them, more calls. 

Across the field, a shape crested the rise. Then another. And another.

A small herd. Duck bills mostly, but also some Tall Turkeys and a pair of massive horned dinosaurs leading from the front, all moving at a steady, purposeful pace. Not charging like the Devil, but coming . The mothers, by the look of it. 

Their heavy feet sank deep into the earth, one of them let out a long, echoing cry, and the little babies on the ground responded . They honked, squealed, and sprinted forward as fast as their stubby legs would carry them.

Arthur folded his arms and watched in silence as one baby tripped, rolled, and was immediately scooped up by a long-beaked snout. Another practically leapt in between the legs of a horned one. The reunion was... weirdly moving.

“Reckon that big devil weren’t the only one who knew her kids’d been taken,” Arthur murmured, tipping his hat back. “She was just the fastest.”

Lenny stood beside him, watching as a juvenile stegosaurid, with it’s tiny plates wriggling on it’s back, waddled past and slammed joyfully into the plated side of its mother. “They came all this way.”

Behind them, Sean returned, grinning ear to ear and waving a sack full of notes. “Would y’look at this! Gentlemen, we got ourselves a payday after all!”

He stopped short when he saw the slow, lumbering procession across the plains.

“Oh. They came for the wee ones, huh?”

Arthur didn’t answer. His gaze had drifted back to the eggs. Still warm. Still unhatched.

The herd was beginning to move off, parents now reunited with their young. But they’d left no gap in their ranks. If the eggs didn’t go now , they’d be left behind.

“What’re we supposed to do with 'em?” Lenny asked quietly. “We can’t raise 'em. And we sure as hell can’t just leave ‘em here.”

Arthur rubbed his face. “Hell if I know.”

The eggs sat in their straw, silent. But the moment felt heavy, like a choice was waiting to be made.

And it wasn’t going to be easy.

Chapter Text

By the time they made it back to camp, dusk had slipped into full-blown night. The sky above was quiet, stars just beginning to glint through the dark haze left by the train’s soot and the scent of gunpowder still clinging to their coats.

The trio rode in slow, Arthur slumped forward in his saddle like a man who’d aged ten years on a single job, Lenny looking like he’d just seen God, and Sean… well, Sean was humming. Badly.

A few heads turned as they passed the first wagons. Charles gave them a once-over from his place by the fire. Tilly, who’d been laughing with Karen, went silent. Even Pearson lowered his pan.

Dutch stood near the money box, a cigar lit and jacket pristine. “...Hell of a train robbery, huh?” he drawled.

Arthur just stared at him.

Dutch’s smirk faltered. “What?”

Lenny slid down from his horse with a groan, pulling the sack of payroll from his satchel. He walked over, dropped it with a heavy thunk into the money box, then turned to face the rest of the gang, who were now gathering fast.

“I’m gonna say something,” Lenny began, “and I need y’all to not laugh, scream, or panic.”

Sean, still on his horse, grinned wide. “Yeh might want to leave that bit out next time if you want people to do that.”

Arthur dismounted next, more slowly, his coat stained with dust, his expression unreadable. He followed Lenny’s lead and unlatched his satchel. The gathered gang leaned in-waiting for money, or guns, or something exciting.

What Arthur pulled out was round. Speckled. And leathery.

Abigail’s eyes widened. “Is that-?”

“Oh, Lord,” Reverend Swanson said, already backing away.

“We didn’t know what else to do with ’em,” Lenny admitted, reaching into his own bag and pulling out a second egg. “Train was smuggling babies. And eggs. Horned Devil came tearing after us, nearly derailed the whole thing.”

“They were crying for their mothers,” Arthur added, deadpan. “Screaming. Hell, one of them jumped into her mouth like it was a warm bed.”

“You’re lyin’,” Micah said, tone almost annoyed, though his boots had shuffled back half a step.

“Wish I was,” Arthur said.

Dutch stepped closer and bent to inspect one of the eggs. “You mean to tell me y’all brought these things back with you?”

Sean, finally dismounting, pulled out his own offering-a small, vibrantly blue egg with faint stripes. “We waited a wee bit but no other dinosaurs came, figured the bastards either killed the mothers or the mothers thought it weren’t worth the effort. Couldn’t just leave the rest, now could we?”

Dutch was silent a long moment, puffing thoughtfully on his cigar as the fire cracked behind him.

Then he said, “We’re going to need a nest.”

“What?” Arthur and Lenny said in unison.

“We’ll need to keep them warm, rotate 'em,” Dutch said, suddenly energized. “Maybe that little canyon corral? Hell, if they hatch, we could have ridable stock in a few years. Imagine-train-robbin’ on dinosaurs. Get Strauss in here, have him figure the incubation. Pearson! Start boilin’ up extra eggs-we’ll need to test what these critters eat…”

Arthur turned slowly to Lenny. “I think I preferred the part where we almost died.”

“I know I did,” Lenny said.

Sean set his egg down next to the others, arms crossed. “I’ll raise mine. You’ll see.”

“God help us,” Arthur muttered.

By morning, camp was buzzing like a kicked beehive.

The eggs had been nestled in a pile of warm blankets near the fire, watched over by a rotating crew of curious, deeply unsettled gang members. Jack had tried to name one before Abigail yanked him back by the collar and muttered something about disease, parasites, or “some prehistoric curse.”

Dutch stood near the fire, arms folded, his face the picture of smug possibility. “We’re sitting on a goldmine,” he said, nodding at the little leathery ovals like a man who’d just invented the printing press. “A goldmine with legs. And teeth, perhaps, but we can work with that.”

That was when Hosea finally had enough.

“I’m going to say something,” he said, tone clipped, striding into the center of camp with a face like thunder, “and I need you to listen to me, Dutch.”

Dutch turned with the faintest frown, as if he were the one being inconvenienced. “Now, Hosea-”

“No,” Hosea cut him off. “No, I let you entertain this nonsense long enough. You want to herd duck-lizards, fine. You want to chase after skeleton horses or ride a featherless turkey the size of a barn, be my guest. But this?” He pointed at the eggs. “This is stupid. ”

“They’re harmless,” Dutch began, but Hosea held up a hand.

“You don’t know that. None of us do. Those mothers chased a moving train to get their babies back-ran across half the goddamn Heartlands. What happens when they figure out we have the rest of their brood?” Hosea's voice dropped. “We’re not talking about cows, Dutch. We’re talking about creatures we can’t predict. Can’t tame. And have no idea how big they’ll grow. That little blue one could hatch into a ten-ton murder bird for all we know.”

Across the fire, Strauss adjusted his spectacles and said mildly, “We could always sell them. Wealthy collectors, scientists, men with land-”

Arthur, passing behind him, made an audible grunt and turned a long, cold glare on him that could have split stone.

Strauss coughed. “Or we could donate them to a-reputable-conservation authority.”

“Uh-huh,” Arthur muttered.

Sean, sitting nearby with one of the parasaurs Charles and Arthur brought back chewing on his sleeve, piped up: “I say we keep one! Just one! What’s the worst that could happen?”

Hosea pinched the bridge of his nose.

“We already got three dinosaurs in camp!” Sean added. “This one don’t even got teeth, look at him-just gums and honks!”

As if on cue, the parasaur sneezed wetly all over Sean’s lap.

Dutch looked contemplative, watching the eggs like they might hatch into bars of gold. “I hear what you’re saying, Hosea,” he said, which, Arthur knew, meant he was absolutely not listening. “But this could be an opportunity. We don’t have to be reckless. Just... smart.”

Arthur, who had been silent through most of this, finally cinched his saddlebag closed and slung himself up onto his horse.

“Where are you goin’?” Lenny asked.

Arthur adjusted his hat, expression grim, and grabbed the eggs from Dutch one by one, putting them in his saddle bag as gently and carefully as he could. “Think I know someone who might know what the hell to do with 'em.”

Dutch raised an eyebrow. “This someone trustworthy?”

“No,” Arthur said flatly. “But she’s probably alive, which is more than I can say for most folks who tangle with things like this. Plus she prolly knows more about this than any o’ us.”

“I’ll be back,” he said, and spurred his mount toward the rising sun.

Arthur’s ride through Cumberland Forest was quiet, which only made it stranger. No birdsong. No distant wolf howls. Just wind through the pine and the low rumble of something heavy moving far off, unseen, as if the forest itself was shifting in its sleep.

He crested the hill toward Firwood Rise near noon. The homestead was barely visible through the trees, but the first thing he saw wasn’t the house. It was movement .

Three Tall Turkeys darted through the tall grass at the edge of the clearing, pecking at the ground and peering up with twitchy, birdlike heads. A Duck Bill grazed lazily near the well, huffing mist through its nostrils. And off to the side, almost blending with the tree line, a baby stegosaurid dozed beneath a swaying clothesline, tail thumping against a half-empty basket of laundry. Not ten feet from the front porch, a torosaurus -clearly nesting-sat calmly, blinking at him with a look of weary indifference.

Arthur rode in slow, careful not to spook anything. The Tall Turkey barely glanced at him. The torosaurus gave a low, warning groan when he dismounted, but didn’t rise.

He knocked on the door. Or tried to. The door was already open.

Inside, Deborah MacGuiness stood surrounded by papers, sketches, overturned crates, and what looked to be a very fragile-looking incubator fashioned out of a potbelly stove and tin plates. She was mid-rant, arms waving like someone trying to fly.

“Feathers!” she shouted before she even turned around. “ Feathers! I can’t believe it! Not just scaly, swamp-dwelling beasts, no! I saw one preen this morning! Preen! Like a bird!”

Arthur took his hat off out of instinct. “Miss MacGuiness.”

She spun to face him, flushed with excitement, a pair of cracked spectacles hanging crookedly from her nose. “I told them, I told them, and they laughed! They all laughed! Said it was madness, said it was nonsense-well who’s laughing now, you arrogant ivory tower jackasses?”

Arthur cleared his throat.

She blinked, finally noticing him. “Oh! It’s you! The nincompoop! The bone finder”

He glanced to the side. “I think we’ve graduated past bones.”

She let out a laugh that was half shriek, half cackle. “You’re damn right we have! Dinosaurs, Mr. Morgan! Alive! Here! Walking among us!” She flung a window open wide, gesturing grandly at the torosaurus outside, who snorted and sneezed into a flowerpot. “We are standing at the edge of a new scientific epoch! And admittedly- admittedly -some of our reconstructions over the years may have been... creatively interpreted. I mean, feathers? Of all things! I never would’ve guessed! But oh, what a gift this is!”

Arthur nodded slowly. “Uh-huh. So... look, I came here ‘cause I got something that might interest you. Some eggs. Didn’t know where else to take ‘em.”

That shut her up for half a second.

“Eggs,” she echoed. “ Eggs? ”

“From a train job,” Arthur said, stepping forward. “Some bastards were tryin’ to smuggle baby dinosaurs west. We stopped the train. But the eggs… didn’t feel right leavin’ ‘em behind.”

She surged forward, grabbing his arm with more strength than he’d expected. “You brought them here? Where are they? Are they warm? Are they cracked? Are they viable?!”

Arthur blinked. “I got ‘em packed in wool in my saddlebag, calm down-”

But she was already out the door, rushing toward his horse like a woman possessed.

Arthur followed, holding his hat down against the wind.

She cooed over the satchel like it held crown jewels, gently pulling each egg out, inspecting the texture, the weight, the faint movement in one. Her hands trembled. Her eyes were wide.

“This one... this one’s close. You can feel it, the heartbeat. Oh, oh this is extraordinary…”

“Yeah,” Arthur said dryly, “glad you’re excited. Any idea what’s inside?”

She held one up to the light. “Could be a raptorid... or an early ceratopsid... the shell thickness suggests a theropod, but the color’s unusual. Honestly, we’ll only know when they hatch!”

“That’s what I was afraid of,” Arthur muttered.

She didn’t even hear him. “Bring them in. I’ll prepare proper containment. Controlled heat, damp nesting material, minimal handling.”

Arthur looked around at the baby stegosaur waddling toward the porch with a sock in its mouth. “Yeah. You sure seem real... controlled out here.”

She turned to him suddenly, more serious. “Thank you, Mr. Morgan. Truly. These eggs... they could teach us more about the history of this Earth than any museum ever could. I’ll take care of them. I swear it.”

Arthur gave her a long look, then nodded. “Alright. Just... don’t let ‘em eat ya.”

She laughed again. “Oh, I never get that lucky.”

Arthur didn’t ask.

He mounted back up, tipped his hat, and turned toward camp. Behind him, Deborah was already cooing at the eggs again, muttering measurements and theories under her breath. The Tall Turkey sprinted past him on the way out, startled by something-or nothing.

He didn’t stop until he was halfway back to Horseshoe Overlook.

Arthur had just returned from Firwood Rise, dust on his coat and feathers in his damn hair and all he wanted was a cup of coffee and a few hours of peace. Maybe a card game. Maybe not another ancient lizard surprise.

But as soon as he stepped into camp, he knew something was off. Everyone was standing in a loose circle near Dutch’s tent, whispering. Some were giggling. Some looked concerned. Sadie had her arms crossed and was shaking her head in a way that usually meant “somebody’s about to lose a limb.”

Arthur groaned and walked over. “What now?”

Dutch stepped out from the tent like a proud rooster, grinning like he’d just invented fire. “Arthur, my boy! Just in time. I have something... wondrous to show you.”

Arthur stared. “Please tell me it ain’t what I think it is.”

Dutch didn’t even hesitate. He pulled back the flap of his tent and gestured dramatically toward his bedroll. “Behold.”

There, tucked neatly inside the folds of Dutch’s blanket-cushioned with what looked like stolen laundry, someone's scarf, and at least three of Pearson’s wool socks-was a dinosaur egg. A wriggling dinosaur egg.

Arthur stared for a long moment, then said, very loudly, “ Oh, come on! ”

Dutch spread his arms. “It was nearly hatching when you left. What was I supposed to do? Leave it to freeze? I’m sure your contact is trustworthy, Arthur, but she doesn’t have my... nurturing instincts.”

“You hid it from me!” Arthur snapped. “We’re supposed to give those to the scientist, Dutch!”

“She would’ve understood,” Dutch said with a wave of his hand. “And besides, we need something–something young, pure, innocent– to remind us what we’re fighting for.”

“We got Jack for that!”

“Jack doesn’t chirp when he’s happy, and he’s not gonna grow into something that can be trained to bite.” Dutch muttered.

“He might,” Abigail muttered “Considering he’s John’s son.”

Hosea walked up, rubbing his temples. “Dutch, this is insanity. You don’t know what’s in that egg. It could be a harmless herbivore, sure, or it could be something with teeth. Big ones.”

“Exactly,” Dutch said, oddly serene. “We are redefining the frontier, Hosea. We’re not just surviving anymore. We’re evolving. ”

“You put an egg in your bedroll, Dutch.”

“To hatch it.”

Arthur’s face looked like he wanted to walk directly into the nearest ravine.

Charles, who had been standing quietly with a hand on his hip, finally muttered, “They’re not pets, Dutch. They’re wild animals. They belong out there. You don’t- keep them.”

Dutch turned on him, finger raised. “And you, Charles? You and Arthur both rode back into camp mounted on Duck Bills not two weeks ago. So forgive me if I don’t take lectures from the ceratopsian cavalry !”

Charles opened his mouth, then closed it. “…That’s fair,” he admitted, quietly.

The egg wriggled again, this time harder. A soft crack echoed in the silence that followed. Everyone turned to look.

“Oh, no,” Arthur muttered.

“Oh, yes, ” Dutch whispered.

The egg jerked, and a line split across its surface. Something inside squealed-high-pitched and warbly, like a kettle full of angry birds. The top popped off with a wet sound, and a tiny snout poked out. A beady eye blinked into the light.

“ It’s hatching! ” Dutch gasped.

Pearson screamed. Karen screamed louder.

Uncle tripped over a stool trying to get away. Sadie yanked her knife out on instinct. Tilly ran up with a towel. Why she had a towel, no one could say.

The egg shattered fully now, and the creature within flopped out in a gooey, wriggling heap. It claws that were seriously way too long for how small it was, a long tail, and a longer neck. Like a swan-reptile hybrid from hell. It gave a croaky chirrup and immediately tried to bite Dutch’s finger.

“Oh, my son. I love him,” Dutch said, beaming.

Arthur took one look and dragged a hand down his face. “This is how we die,” he muttered. “This. Right here.”

The baby dinosaur gave another squeak, and Dutch, still crouched like he was cradling the Messiah, wrapped it up gently in his scarf.

“Someone get me a bowl of warm water and a washcloth,” he said grandly. “And a name! Something noble. Something bold!”

“Trouble,” Arthur said. “Name it Trouble, ‘cause that’s all it’s gonna bring.”

But Dutch just kept smiling. “We are building a future, Arthur. A new world. And this little fella? He’s part of it.”

The hatchling sneezed goo onto Dutch’s coat.

Arthur turned on his heel and walked straight to the coffee pot. “I give it two days before it bites someone’s nose off,” he muttered.

“ Three, ” Hosea corrected. “Dutch is unusually smug today.”

“Put me down for one and a half,” Sadie grunted. “And I got money on Uncle being first.”

Behind them, Dutch was cooing, “Who’s a revolutionary creature, hm? You are! Yes you are!”

Camp was doomed. That much was certain.

But for now… at least it was entertaining.

The sun had barely risen over the sky when Micah Bell decided to ruin his day by merely existing. “Hey Morgan, wanna go huntin’?”

“You don’t hunt,” Arthur said flatly.

Micah leaned against a fencepost like he was lounging in the parlor of a Saint Denis hotel, grinning like he’d just struck oil. “I do now, apparently.”

“No, you don’t,” Arthur repeated. “You steal. You lie. You scheme. Sometimes you shoot things that move. That ain’t huntin’.”

Micah laughed and clapped him on the shoulder, Arthur immediately brushed it off, because if he didn’t, someone was going to die. “Well, this here’s more like a bounty than a hunt anyhow. Just… with a few more teeth involved. Town up near Cumberland Falls is offering a real fine purse for anyone who brings in this thing that’s been tearin’ up their woods. Some sorta lizard, big claws. Real fast. Mean. Been snatching livestock and hunting dogs off their leashes.”

Arthur raised an eyebrow. “That right?”

“Yessir. Fella in town swears it came straight outta hell. Or the sky. One of those. Said he saw it climb a tree like a goddamn squirrel and then jump clean across a ravine.”

“Sounds made up,” Arthur muttered, tightening his saddlebag.

“Sure,” Micah said, already mounting his horse. “And so did the last dozen things we thought were made up, right up until they started breathin’ fire or chewin’ on Pearson’s pants.”

Arthur gave a long-suffering sigh. “Fine. Let’s go find your tree squirrel lizard demon.”

“I knew you’d see reason.” Micah kicked his horse into motion. “It’s always a pleasure workin’ with you, Morgan.”

Arthur muttered something distinctly unholy and followed.

The ride to Cumberland was uneventful, save for Micah telling increasingly exaggerated versions of the creature’s description.

“Ten feet tall.”

“ Twelve, ” he corrected ten minutes later. “With teeth like machetes.”

Arthur glanced at him. “You’re makin’ that up.”

“Am not. Locals call it the Devil Claw. ”

“They don’t.”

“They do, ” Micah insisted. “Or they should.”

By the time they reached the edge of the forest, it was late afternoon. The trees here were thick, moss hanging off the branches like curtains, and everything smelled like wet pine and fear.

“Alright,” Arthur muttered, sliding off his horse and checking his rifle. “Where’d they last see it?”

“Some trapper said it was nosin’ around an elk carcass by the old logging road. Left claw marks in the tree bark five feet up.”

Arthur nodded. “Great. Big claws. Jumps like a cat. Smells blood. You bring any bait?”

Micah pulled out what looked suspiciously like a mostly-eaten haunch of salted pork.

“…That’s your lunch.”

“Multitaskin’, Morgan.”

Arthur stared at him. “You’re gonna get us both killed.”

“Then you better shoot straight.”

They set the bait near the road and climbed up into the trees themselves, Arthur begrudgingly admitted it was a decent idea, at least until he saw how smug Micah looked about it.

They waited. And waited.

Just as Arthur was about to say something sarcastic, he heard a snap in the underbrush.

Then another.

A third.

Arthur raised his rifle. Micah did the same, though his grip looked a little too excited for Arthur’s taste. Something moved through the ferns, low, fast, too fast, and vanished again.

Arthur held his breath.

Then he saw it.

Not twelve feet tall, no. But tall enough. A wiry, scaled body, yellow slitted eyes, and arms tipped in massive hooked claws that made it look more like a demon than a dinosaur. It moved almost silently, bobbing its head like a bird of prey, sniffing the air.

The bait was gone in a blink. The creature snatched it up and leapt straight into the air, landing in a nearby tree with a hiss that echoed through the woods.

“Holy shit,” Micah whispered. “It can climb.”

“Yeah,” Arthur muttered. “And it’s looking right at us.”

The Devil Claw made a clicking sound with its teeth. Arthur didn’t think it was friendly.

Then it leapt.

Micah screamed .

Arthur fired. The shot clipped the creature’s side, throwing it off-course, but not before it slammed into their tree and shook it like hell. Micah nearly fell out of it and Arthur had to grab the back of his coat to keep him from tumbling.

“Shoot it again, dammit!” Micah shrieked, dangling like a cat who regretted everything.

“I am! ” Arthur snapped.

The thing hit the ground, staggered, hissed again, and ran. Arthur jumped down and gave chase, behind him, Micah scrambled down the tree in a flurry of curses and pine needles. They tracked it through the woods until they found it bleeding near a creek. Arthur lifted his rifle, but Micah stepped in front of him.

“Wait. We take it alive. That’s worth triple.”

Arthur blinked. “You wanna capture that thing?”

Micah grinned. “Hell yes I do.”

Arthur stared at him. Then, very slowly, holstered his rifle and rubbed his temples.

“You are gonna get us both killed.”

But damn it all, he followed anyway.

The creature was still hunched by the creek, bleeding from its flank, panting in short, sharp bursts. Its feathers were slick with mud and blood now, but its eyes were still alert-watchful. Too smart for something without language.

“Alright,” Micah whispered, coiling the rope in his hands. “We just sneak up on it, get a rope around its legs. Tie the snout if we can. Real quick. Easy.”

Arthur stared at him like he’d grown an extra head.

“You want to hogtie a dinosaur .”

“It ain’t so different from wrangling a mean steer,” Micah said, crouched low. “Just got more claws. And brains. And a temper. But hell, you got those too and we put up with you just fine.”

Arthur gave him a long, unimpressed look. “If it rips your head off, I ain’t gettin’ blamed for it.”

“You shoot it if it does,” Micah said confidently.

Arthur snorted. “That’s your backup plan?”

“Don’t be a coward.”

Arthur sighed, drew his rope, and started moving.

They crept in opposite directions-Arthur flanking left, Micah keeping low to the right, trying to box it in between them. The dinosaur watched them both, tense, muscles twitching like it was preparing to bolt-or worse.

Then Micah made his move.

With a triumphant yell, he tossed the rope. It looped around the creature’s front legs.

For a second, it looked like it might work.

Then the Devil Claw let out a shriek so loud it split the forest in two, thrashed its body hard, and lunged straight for Micah.

“OH SHIT-!”

It hit him like a runaway wagon. Claws raked down his arm and chest, teeth snapping inches from his face. Micah screamed, tried to wriggle away, kicked, cursed, begged. Blood splattered the ground.

Arthur didn’t hesitate, he drew his rifle and shot the thing square in the neck. It let out a gurgling screech, flailed one last time-and collapsed.

Micah lay in the dirt, wheezing, torn up bad. His coat was shredded, and there was a gash across his shoulder that looked deep enough to see bone.

Arthur stood over him, rifle still smoking. “Well,” he said dryly. “We got the bounty.”

Micah turned his head, blood and mud on his face.“ SHUT THE FUCK UP, ARTHUR! ”

Arthur knelt beside him and started pulling out his bandages, not even bothering to hide the smirk on his face.“Reckon that’s your last dinosaur hunt for a while.”

Micah groaned. “I hate this fuckin’ timeline.”

Arthur rode into camp as the sun dipped low behind the trees, casting everything in a long orange glow. His horse was splattered with blood that wasn’t his, with the giant hands and a few teeth tied on his saddle as trophies, and slumped in the saddle beside him, half-conscious and cursing, was Micah Bell, who looked like he'd tried to fistfight God and lost.

The gang gathered quick. Not every day someone rolled in with a dinosaur bounty and a half-dead idiot bragging about it.

“What in the hell happened to you ?” Bill asked, gaping at Micah’s shredded coat and claw marks.

“Oh, just fought off a devil-beast with my bare hands, ” Micah muttered heroically, before wincing as his torso tensed wrong. “Came at me like a damn freight train, but I held my ground. Fought like a man. Ain’t that right, Arthur?”

Arthur slid off his horse, brow cocked. “You screamed like a piglet and nearly got your arm ripped off.”

“You shot it before I could finish the job!” Micah shouted, then yelped as Miss Grimshaw approached with a bottle of whiskey and a rag.

“Oh quit whining,” she snapped, dousing the wound without mercy. “If you’ve got the lungs to talk that much, you’re not dying.”

Micah howled loud enough to scare off birds three trees over.

Dutch strolled over as the others crowded around the kill to get a look at what kind of nightmare they’d caught this time. The thing’s long claws still twitched a little.

“Now that looks like it belonged to quite a beast,” Dutch said approvingly. “What do they call this one?”

“Dead,” Arthur grumbled, tossing the bounty envelope toward the money box. “Some fool in Cumberland said it was makin’ trouble in the woods. I’d say it was just defendin’ its territory.”

Dutch didn’t seem to be listening. He was leaning against a crate, cooing softly.

Arthur stared, and groaned. Loudly.

Wrapped delicately in a blue handkerchief, like it was a newborn kitten, was Dutch’s secret dinosaur. Nestled in the cloth, blinking at him with curious little eyes, was a wrinkled, feathered hatchling the size of a loaf of bread, and claws that looked bigger than itself.

“You kept it,” Arthur muttered.

Dutch grinned proudly. “Look at it, Arthur. The miracle of life. The future. Imagine what this means for science, for progress!”

“It shit in your handkerchief,” Arthur said.

Dutch paused. Looked down. Grimaced. “All great things start messy.”

The baby let out a shrill, ridiculous chirp.

Micah, from the ground, half-drunk on pain and whiskey, groaned. “If that thing eats me in my sleep, I swear to God- ”

“You’ll deserve it,” Grimshaw said flatly.

Arthur just walked off to get a drink. 

Before he knew it, Arthur's journal had more entries than he'd initially thought he'd be putting in it. On one page, a sketch of the giant Horned Devil that tried to eat them and their horses gently leaning down and nuzzling it's offspring.

"Went to hit a train with Sean and Lenny in the foolish hope that there would be no dinosaur business. What a goddamn fool I am. Military train with a wagon was full of babies and eggs, it's none of my business, but I got a bad feeling about that. The Horned Devil chased us nearly halfway across the state after her offspring, reckon mothers are mothers regardless of whether they're prehistoric or modern. The rest of the babies were fine, but we ended up taking the eggs with us."

On another, a sketch of a baby dinosaur with fingers longer than they have any right to be and the ugly, tree-climbin' bastard that Micah wanted to hunt appears on the journal. 

"Feels like the world gets weirder and weirder, and worst of all, smaller and smaller for us. I gave away most of the eggs to that paleontologist I met in the Heartlands, Deborah, but Dutch hid one of them. Dutch has it in his mind to raise one of the dinosaurs, guess he thinks they're like dogs that can be trained or something. On a cheerier note Micah got his ass handed to him by a nightmare lizard with big hands."

Chapter Text

It was Charles who first noticed.

He was doing a patrol around the edge of camp that morning when he passed the Reverend’s tent and saw that it was still empty, bedroll neatly made, flask untouched, not even a note left behind. Now, ordinarily, that wouldn’t mean much, Reverend had a habit of wandering off to nearby towns to “spread the word,” which usually meant drinking in peace until someone found him sleeping in a ditch or halfway to Blackwater without pants.

But now… now there were dinosaurs.

“Anyone seen Swanson?” Charles asked, stepping into the center of camp, voice calm but clearly concerned.

A few heads shook. Sadie looked up from oiling her gun, frowning. “Ain’t seen him since yesterday mornin’. Didn’t come back for stew.”

“That ain’t right,” Javier muttered, straightening up from the fire. “He always comes back for stew. Even when it tastes like Pearson boiled a boot.”

Arthur, who’d just come out of his tent with a tin cup of lukewarm coffee and an already-foul expression, sighed hard. “Don’t tell me he wandered off again.”

Dutch, who was sunning himself with his ridiculous baby dinosaur perched on his knee like it was royalty, looked up. “He’ll turn up. He always does.”

“He always used to turn up before there were man-eatin’ beasts with claws the size of shovels in the goddamn woods,” Arthur growled.

Lenny stepped over, eyebrows raised. “We should start lookin’. If he went toward the forest, and that’s a big if , he might be in real trouble.”

“Or drunk on top of a tree stump preachin’ to a family of armadillos,” Sean offered. “Either way, he’s gonna get himself killed.”

“No offense,” Hosea muttered, rising to his feet with a groan, “but the last time he vanished, we found him two towns over in a chicken coop covered in feathers and crying about the rapture.”

“ This time ,” Arthur said darkly, “the rapture might actually show up and eat him. ”

Even Dutch’s face twitched at that.

Grimshaw had already begun barking orders. “If we’re looking, we’re doing it smart. Pairs. Rifles. No wandering off alone.”

“What if he was eaten?” Micah asked, half-bandaged and still sore from his own encounter. “I mean, might save us some trouble.”

Arthur threw a rock at him.

As the gang fanned out to start the search, Arthur muttered under his breath, “All I wanted was one normal week. Just one. No ancient lizards, no mutated chickens, and no tracking a half-sober preacher through predator-infested woods.”

“Be careful what you wish for,” Hosea said, checking his revolver. “God’s got a sense of humor lately.”

Arthur didn’t like the silence. It wasn’t just quiet-it was that wrong kind of quiet. The kind that settled in the bones like a bad omen, thick and oppressive, like even the wind didn’t want to make a sound.

He crouched low over the dirt, John right beside him, and lifted the tattered scrap of fabric they’d just found snagged on a bush. Reverend Swanson’s jacket, no question. Same cheap brown wool, same lining. Only now, it was ripped, dirtied, and-most concerningly- stained red.

John hovered nearby, one hand on his revolver, the other pushing foliage out of the way as he tried to make out a trail. “You think he’s dead?”

Arthur glanced over his shoulder. “He’s a drunk, not an idiot. If somethin’ grabbed him, it either caught him off guard… or he wandered right into its mouth.”

“Goddammit,” John muttered. “I told him not to go near the forest alone. Especially after that mess with that Horned Devil back in Horseshoe.”

Arthur glared.

They pressed deeper into the underbrush, stepping over snapped branches and strange claw marks gouged into bark. The trail was there, uneven but real, splotches of blood in the leaves. Something had been dragged, though not far.

And then came the whistle.

It was short, sharp, friendly. Arthur and John froze.

“Arthur?” a voice called.

It was Charles. He and Javier stepped out from behind a thicket, faces tense and weapons already drawn.

“We thought we might run into you,” Charles said. “We’ve been following a different trail.”

Javier held up a shoe, dangling by two fingers. “Found this half a mile back. Same direction you’re headin’. Pretty sure it’s the Reverend’s. Size matches.”

Arthur took it, turned it in his hand, and grimaced. “Blood on the heel. Not fresh.”

John exhaled sharply through his nose, his grip tightening on his sidearm. “So, what, he got dragged ? That thing from Micah’s bounty? Another one like it?”

“No tracks like that,” Charles said, crouching near a strange gouge in the ground. “But I don’t think it was the Honed Devil, not by a long shot. Tracks aren’t big enough. These… they’re long, thin. Almost like-”

He trailed off.

“Like what?” Arthur demanded.

Charles stood, unease flickering in his eyes. “Murderbirds, smaller than the one Arthur fought, significantly bigger than Chicken, though. Maybe a different species. And there’s definitely more than one.”

There was a silence between them, one that pressed hard on all their shoulders.

“You think it might be a pack?” John asked flatly.

Javier sighed. “Oh good. I missed being hunted by smart lizards.”

Arthur looked out toward the trees ahead. The brush was denser here, but something glinted deeper in, another scrap of cloth, maybe, or a broken flask, maybe even a boot.

He raised his rifle. “Then we’d best find the Reverend fast , before somethin’ clever decides to finish lunch.”

Charles and Javier flanked them, the four of them slowly pressing forward into the dark woods, weapons drawn, eyes sharp, breath quiet.

The stench hit them first; iron and rot and something animal , something old and raw. It clung to the air like damp cloth, made Charles wrinkle his nose and Arthur tighten his grip on his rifle.

They pushed past a fallen log slick with moss and there it was-hidden in a hollow where the forest dipped into a natural bowl, shaded by high trees and a mess of vines.

A nest .

Not one of those delicate things birds made, this was a heap of brambles, torn hide, broken branches, and bone. Lots of bone.

“Jesus…” John muttered, eyes narrowing.

There were six of them.

Murderbirds, just like Charles said. Smaller than the bastard in the barn in Emerald Ranch, much bigger than Chicken, leaner, meaner–almost like wolves . And their eyes-they didn’t blink, they just watched . They looked intelligent.

One was gnawing on something. 

No, someone .

A limp arm, shredded at the elbow, blood still wet in the grass. Reverend’s sleeve, unmistakable. The small silver cufflink clung to the tattered edge like a grim confirmation.

Arthur exhaled slowly, the rifle steady in his hand. He didn’t dare raise it.

“Is that…” Javier trailed off, eyes fixed.

Arthur didn’t answer.

The Wolfbird pack didn’t pounce, not yet. They hissed-long, low sounds-muscles tensing, claws clicking on stone and wood, defending the nest.

“Six of ‘em,” Charles murmured. “Maybe more. Eggs in the back.”

“Fuck that,” John said under his breath. “We can’t take six.”

“Not like this,” Arthur agreed. “We’d get maybe two shots off before they tore our guts out.”

Javier was already stepping back slowly. “We ain’t equipped. Not for a pack.”

Charles didn’t move. He was watching one of them, the biggest, feathers dark and eyes sharp as broken glass. It tilted its head like it was curious .

“We come back later,” Charles said at last. “Smarter. More firepower. Maybe even bait.”

Arthur nodded once. “Ain’t no saving Swanson now. But we can put him to rest proper.”

“Assuming they leave anything left,” John muttered.

Arthur led the retreat, slow and quiet, until the nest was out of sight. Not one of them spoke till they were clear of the ridge and back under the dappled trees.

“That,” Javier said grimly, “was a goddamn problem .”

They rode back into camp slower than they should have, but none of them wanted to be the one to speak first. Arthur’s jaw was tight. John looked like he’d swallowed something bitter. Charles and Javier just kept glancing around, watching the treeline even as the camp came into view.

Dutch was the first to notice their expressions. He stood near the fire, the baby dinosaur still bundled in his cot like some overgrown housecat. He grinned at first, ready with some clever line.

It died in his throat when he saw their faces.

“What happened?” he asked, low and sharp.

Arthur dismounted, heavy boots hitting the dirt. “It’s Swanson.”

That was all it took. The mood shifted instantly, like a chill sweeping through the whole clearing.

“What about him?” Dutch asked, voice harder now.

“Gone,” Charles said. “Taken.”

“By what?” Grimshaw asked from her washbasin, though she already looked pale.

“A nest,” Arthur said. “Pack of dinosaurs. Six of ‘em. Close.”

“ Close ?” Hosea echoed. “You’re telling me a nest of goddamn murder-lizards is this close to camp?”

John gave a grim nod. “And they got Swanson. We saw his sleeve. His cufflink. Arm too.”

The silence that followed was thick and awful.Lenny looked down, lips pressed thin. Sean muttered a curse and kicked a stone. Tilly crossed herself. Mary-Beth covered her mouth with one hand, eyes wide.

Dutch’s face slowly twisted into something between rage and disbelief. “One of ours,” he muttered. “Eaten. Eaten here . On our own land.”

“We need to hit ‘em,” Arthur said. “Hard. Before they decide they want seconds.”

“And what about the eggs?” Hosea asked quietly. 

Dutch stood still for a long beat, then turned to the rest of camp. “We end it,” he said coldly. “ Tonight . Bring guns. Bring fire. Bring hell.”

The camp erupted into motion.

Bill started checking his shotgun shells. Sadie was already loading her revolvers before Dutch even finished the sentence. Lenny and Sean argued over who would get the dynamite. Javier and Charles gathered rope, just in case, Arthur didn’t ask why . Maybe they still held out hope of dragging Swanson’s remains back. Maybe they wanted trophies.

And Dutch? Dutch stood in the middle of it all, eyes burning with the kind of righteous fury that made men follow him. “They want to prey on us?” he snarled under his breath. “We’ll show them what prey looks like when it’s cornered .”

Nine of them rode out.

Arthur, Dutch, Charles, Javier, John, Bill, Lenny, Sean, and Sadie.

They left the camp behind them armed to the teeth and silent.

They weren’t just going to kill a nest of dinosaurs.

They were going to make an example .

They reached the nest by twilight, just as the light began to die behind the trees and the forest dipped into deep golds and heavy shadow.

The silence was unnatural. No birds. No insects. Not even wind rustling the trees.

Just the nest, half-built out of sticks and moss and carcass remnants, and the scattered cluster of eggs, unguarded.

Too unguarded.

Arthur dismounted first, rifle up and eyes scanning the clearing. The others followed, slow, wary. They fanned out across the area, boots crunching leaves and broken bones.

“Somethin’ don’t feel right,” Javier muttered.

Arthur grunted his agreement. “Where are they?”

Dutch strode forward like he owned the place, revolver in hand. “Maybe they fled. Knew we were coming.”

“I don’t think they flee,” Sadie said, knelt low by a large claw print in the dirt. “They stalk.”

It was Charles who noticed the tracks. He crouched, tracing them with two fingers.

“They were here,” he said, voice quiet. “Very recently. Real recent.”

Then he stood, eyes narrowing.

“They circled.”

“What?” John asked, but Charles didn’t look at him, he turned, slowly, to the shadows behind them.

A soft hiss slithered through the air. Another. Then a guttural click, like claws tapping stone.

Then a cough-like call-sharp, raspy, guttural, answered by three more.

Arthur raised his rifle.

The first one stepped out from the brush, lean and low to the ground, sickle-clawed feet placing each step with terrible care. Yellow eyes gleamed like lanterns in its narrow head.

Then another. And another. From the trees. The rocks. The brush behind the wagon.

They were surrounded .

All six. No bigger than a man, but faster, smarter, closer to wolves than lizards in how they moved, how they watched. Coordinated .

“They knew we were coming,” Charles murmured, voice tight.

“And they set up a trap,” Lenny finished beside him, not even bothering to hide the edge of fear in his voice.

A long moment passed. Neither side moved.

The gang formed a rough circle, backs to one another, weapons raised, fingers tense on triggers. Dutch took the center, gun out, eyes burning.

Across from him, one of the Wolfbird tilted its head and gave a soft, almost curious chirp.

Standoff.

Gunpowder against muscle. Firearms against bone and claw.

Nobody moved.

Even Sadie didn’t speak. She just aimed and waited.

Bill shifted nervously, his shotgun twitching in his grip. “What do we do?” he hissed through clenched teeth.

Arthur didn’t answer.

Because if one man fired, all would.

And if one dinosaur lunged, the rest would follow.

The only sound was the hiss of breath from mouths and snouts, the creak of fingers on metal, and the slow tick of time dragging itself to the edge of hell.

The pack circled tighter, tighter, driving the gang slowly inward until their backs were nearly touching, every man and woman with a weapon drawn, sweat beading down their brows despite the chill in the air.

They didn’t move like animals, not quite. They moved like things that thought— planned —in that same terrible, ancient way a wolf might eye an injured deer, or a man might stalk a rival. Intelligent. Patient. Predatory.

Arthur counted six. Still six.

The smallest one, runt of the litter, by the way it jittered and paced too fast, breathless and anxious, crept just a little too close to Sadie Adler.

She didn’t hesitate.

The bullet hit it square in the face, bone shattered, jaw split. It let out a gurgling squeal and dropped like a sack of meat.

That’s when hell broke.

The raptors screamed , earsplitting, rattling, the kind of scream that belonged in no modern world. They lunged, three shapes at once, silent until impact, and the gang didn’t scatter.

They held. They had to.

Backs to each other, surrounded, Arthur yelling, “Hold the line!”

Gunfire lit the trees like lightning. Yellow eyes darted in and out of the underbrush. Shapes moved so fast it was impossible to aim. Just react.

John ducked a snapping maw and put two shots into its ribcage. The thing shrieked and staggered—

“DOWN!” he barked, and Charles stepped forward and buried his hatchet in its skull.

It twitched once. Died quiet.

Another came in low at Lenny, but Dutch caught it mid-leap and shot it clean through the eye. It dropped hard and fast, skidding into the leaves at Lenny’s feet.

Three down.

Three left.

The three biggest .

One had a long scar across its shoulder, clearly the alpha. It didn’t attack, not yet. It paced, screaming orders with its hellish calls, keeping the other two moving in tight arcs, darting in and out of range.

The “chunky” one, probably the oldest, was stockier than the others. Heavier, probably male. Powerful legs and a brutal jaw. It crashed into Bill, sent him reeling, but before it could follow through, Hosea shot it in the gut. It hissed and stumbled back into the trees, limping, but not dead.

“Everyone still breathin’?!” Dutch barked.

“Mostly!” Sean shouted back, dragging Bill upright.

Sadie was reloading, hair wild, grinning like she was born for this. “Come on, you bastards,” she muttered. “Come on .”

Arthur was panting, eyes darting to each shadow, each sound.

They’d killed three. Only three of them left now, but somehow, that made it worse. The air was thick with the iron stink of blood, gunpowder, and something older, feral , like wet feathers and rot.

The circling had grown tighter again.

Then, one of the bastards darted in close-too close-just enough to make Sean snarl and step forward with his rifle.

“Got you now, y-”

The real attack came from behind.

The alpha male dropped from the trees, claws outstretched like some devilish bird of prey, and sank its curved, sickle-like claw deep into Sean’s face.

He screamed.

The whole world narrowed to that sound-raw, high, wrong.

“SEAN!” Lenny yelled, but before anyone could reach him, two shots cracked out from the right-John and Javier-both putting lead into the alpha’s ribcage.

Javier barely had time to kick the dead animal away from Sean before the big one, bruised and bleeding, barreled out of the brush and tackled him. Both went down in a tangle of snarls and shouts. The creature’s jaws snapped inches from his face, claws sunk onto his sides, weight nearly crushing his ribs. Javier screamed, grappling with its scaly weight, fingers scrabbling for anything-until his hand found his knife.

With a guttural yell, he plunged it into the creature’s neck.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Hot blood gushed over his hands as the beast thrashed wildly, trying to dislodge him-then finally collapsed in a heap on top of him.

Arthur and Charles rushed over to shove it off, dragging a barely-conscious Javier out from underneath. He was breathing, but only just. Bleeding bad.

Then came the hiss .

The last one.

The alpha female.

She stood on the ridge above the nest, feathers bristling, body coiled like a spring, her tail twitching. Yellow eyes locked onto them, but she didn’t move forward.

She was guarding the nest.

A mother, same as any other.

The gang stood in silence.

Some were bleeding. Some standing only because of adrenaline. John still had blood on his face. Sadie’s shirt was torn and burned from muzzle flash. Charles’s hand was trembling. Bill held onto Lenny to stay upright.

But they all raised their guns, one by one.

All except Arthur, who lowered his.

Dutch stepped forward.

His hat was gone. His face was scratched. He was holding Sean’s rifle now, because Sean was unconscious, maybe worse.

The alpha female hissed again. Loud. Final.

A warning.

A plea, maybe.

Dutch didn’t say anything, he just pulled the trigger.

The shot echoed through the trees, the raptor gave one last cry-and fell over her own eggs, still trying to protect them.

The silence afterward was deafening.

Then Arthur muttered, low and bitter:

“Hell of a way to lose a preacher.”

And nobody disagreed.

Minutes of heavy breathing passed.

The forest was still again. Almost insultingly calm.

Birdsong resumed far too soon, like the massacre hadn’t just happened, like the trees weren’t still painted with blood and feathers and viscera. Smoke rose from spent rifles, and no one moved for a long while, no one wanted to be the first to break whatever strange truce now hung in the air.

Lenny knelt by Sean, gently tapping his cheek. “C’mon, you with me? Hey. Sean?”

Sean stirred with a groan, blinking sluggishly. One eye was swollen shut and streaked with blood-torn open down the side and leaking something too thick to be just tears.

“I can’t-I can’t see,” Sean muttered, voice hoarse and strange, like it was coming from underwater. “Goddamn… is my whole face gone?”

“No,” Lenny said quietly. “Just your good looks.”

It was the worst joke either of them had ever made, but Sean managed a wheezy laugh. Lenny helped him sit up slowly, murmuring assurances that didn’t mean much, but filled the silence.

Not far off, John was crouched beside Javier. The man’s coat was ripped to hell, chest heaving with shallow breaths. His arms were streaked with blood, both his and the raptor’s. John's hand hovered at his side, unsure of what to touch without hurting him more.

“You holdin’ together?” John asked.

Javier gave a faint nod. “Feels like I got kicked by a horse… then stabbed by it.”

“That’s ‘cause you did,” John muttered, glancing around for something clean to press to a wound. “You did good, alright? Don’t go dying now. We’ll get you back.”

In the center of it all, Dutch stood over the nest.

It looked… peaceful, in a grotesque sort of way. The alpha female lay draped across her eggs like a protective blanket, dead eyes staring into nothing. Dutch leaned down and gently pushed her corpse aside with the barrel of his rifle.

And there he saw it.

Underneath the remains of her guard, beneath the eggs, was what was left of Reverend Swanson.

Just his face, pale and slack, barely attached to anything. The rest-his robes, his limbs, his body-was a shredded, gnawed mess of pulp and bone. Nothing dignified about it.

Dutch recoiled.

He turned, gagging, and spat into the dirt.

Arthur and Charles saw his reaction and hurried over. They didn’t need to ask.

Arthur knelt, jaw clenched tight. “Jesus, Revs…”

Charles said nothing, only helped him gather what few parts were still recognizable. A hand, a rosary. A piece of a collar. Enough to bury, maybe. Enough to say goodbye.

They worked quietly, while behind them, John knelt beside Javier and began patching him up with fast, angry hands with whatever cloth they had lying about. Bill stood silently off to the side, blood on his face and hands, twitchy with leftover rage.

Then, without a word, he stepped forward, raised his boot, and smashed one of the eggs.

Yolk and red splattered out, something half-formed inside curled and twitched before going still.

No one moved.

Smash.

Another.

Smash.

Bill brought his boot down again and again until all that was left was wet shells and gore, no one stopped him.

Not Dutch. Not Arthur. Not even Charles.

When he was done, he just stood there, chest heaving, face unreadable.

There would be no new monsters born from this nest.

They had already taken enough.

The sun had dipped low by the time they reached the outskirts of camp.

The forest behind them felt heavier than it ever had, like the air still held onto the death they'd left behind. Arthur and Charles came in first, carrying a tarp-wrapped bundle between them, reverent and silent. The gang knew before a word was said.

Tilly was the first to gasp. Karen clutched her stomach and turned away. Abigail froze in place, her hands shaking, before she reached out and grabbed Jack, pulling him tight against her chest and covering his eyes.

“Don’t look, baby,” she whispered into his hair. “Don’t look.”

Behind them, John limped in, one arm around Javier’s shoulder, the other steadying his step. Javier looked half-dead, leaning hard into him, pale and bloodstreaked but alive. Lenny followed close behind with Sean, who was cursing under his breath with every step, one eye patched crudely and the other dazed with pain. Grimshaw was already reaching for her whiskey bottle, lips tight with fury and fear.

Dutch came in last.

The look on his face made every heart sink, thunder behind his eyes, jaw clenched tight, a scowl that promised blood. He scanned the camp slowly, then locked eyes with Grimshaw.

“See that the Reverend gets a proper burial,” he said, voice low but biting. “Pearson’ll help you.”

Grimshaw only nodded and took the bundle with her usual hard efficiency, but her hands trembled at the corners. Pearson moved slower, for once not cracking a joke, eyes glassy.

Abigail finally broke the silence. “It could’ve been Jack.” Her voice cracked. “It could’ve been any of us.”

“Jesus,” Karen murmured, and then, “We’ve got kids here, Dutch.”

“I know,” he growled.

Strauss pushed his spectacles higher and frowned. “But how did they get him? The Reverend was always around. None of us saw it.”

“They’re smart,” Charles said, lowering himself onto a crate with a tired grunt. “They’re hunting in packs. Setting traps. Waiting until we’re looking the other way.”

“They took him right out from under us,” Arthur muttered. “Doubt he even knew it was coming.”

Dutch stood there, motionless. Then Hosea cleared his throat, quiet but firm.

“Dutch… maybe it’s time we think about moving. Somewhere more fortified. Something we can defend. These animals—whatever they are—they’re getting bolder. Closer.”

Dutch didn’t answer right away. He just stared out into the trees, the same ones the Reverend had disappeared into.

Then he took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and nodded.

“Alright,” he said. “You’re right. This place ain’t safe no more.”

“I know a place,” Lenny said. “An old plantation house in the swamps. Shady Belle. It’s falling apart, but it’s stone and wood. Thick walls. Defensible. Only problem is…”

“What?” Dutch asked.

“It’s full of Lemoyne Raiders,” Lenny said. “Last I heard, they were using it to smuggle guns and moonshine.”

Dutch’s eyes narrowed. “Then we make it ours.”

He turned to Arthur. “You good to go, son?”

Arthur rolled his sore shoulder but nodded. “Yeah. Let’s do it now before anything else crawls into this place.”

“Take Charles and Mrs. Adler,” Dutch said. “The rest of us will start packing. And see to Sean and Javier. I want everyone ready to ride if things go south.”

Sadie, already loading her rifle, gave a short nod. 

Charles stood, ignoring the way his ribs groaned in protest. “Let’s go then. Before it gets dark.”

As the trio mounted up and rode out toward the swamps, camp slowly came back to life, but there was no joy in it. No music. No laughter. Just the quiet rustle of bags being packed and tents being rolled.

And behind the supply wagon, a fresh grave being dug.

Chapter Text

The ride south felt longer than it was.

The air turned heavy with swamp mist and gnats, the thick scent of waterlogged earth rising with each hoofbeat. Spanish moss hung from gnarled trees like old curtains, swaying gently in the heat. But the silence between the three riders weighed heavier than the humidity ever could.

Arthur kept his eyes ahead. Sadie was to his right, Charles to his left, both quiet. It wasn’t until they crossed the old bridge over the Kamassa that Sadie finally spoke.

“It really could’ve been any of us.”

No one replied.

Arthur clenched his jaw and looked away. Charles only gave a faint nod, like he’d been thinking the same thing the whole time.

The Reverend hadn’t been a bad man, compared to the rest of them- killers, thieves, bandits. He was a crooked man of faith, certainly, and he had his mistakes, but he hadn’t deserved that. Maybe no one did.

By the time they reached the moss-choked trees surrounding Shady Belle, the sun was starting to sink, turning the fog gold and pink. The house came into view through the trees, two stories of crumbling grandeur, half-covered in ivy and rot, shutters falling off, porch sunken in places. Still, the stone bones of the place stood strong. It was a fortress compared to what they had now.

And of course, it wasn’t empty.

Voices carried from the porch. Men with long coats and rifles, leaning lazy in rocking chairs like they owned the world. One spotted them and stood. “Now what in the hell—?”

No one waited for him to finish.

Arthur’s rifle was already up. Sadie drew both pistols. Charles slid off his horse and loosed an arrow through the first man’s neck before his boots even hit the ground.

The Raiders never stood a chance, none of them were ready for a fight. One tried to run, but Sadie put a bullet in his back with cold precision. Another got a shot off that cracked wood near Charles’s head, but Arthur answered with two in the chest. It was messy, fast, and over before the birds even stopped fleeing from the gunshots.

Then came the stillness again.

“Didn’t even feel good,” Sadie muttered, reloading anyway.

“Didn’t need to,” Arthur said, stepping over a body and heading up the porch.

They searched the house, cleared the bedrooms, checked the back corridors, even the half-flooded cellar. Nothing but mildew and a few crates of shine. It reeked of mold and gunpowder and piss, but the bones of the place were good.

Charles stood at the base of the staircase, looking up at the cracked bannister, the narrow windows, the high ceilings. “Could be worse,” he said. “Could be a lot worse.”

“It’ll keep the women and the kids safe,” Arthur agreed, tugging a curtain open and peering into the dusky swamp beyond. “Walls thick, front porch’s a good bottleneck. Lotta sightlines. We set up someone with a rifle in the upstairs hall and we’ll know if anything’s comin’ for miles.”

Sadie pushed a body over with her boot and made a face. “It smells like hell.”

“Better hell than being eaten in your sleep,” Arthur muttered.

They all went quiet again.

One by one, they started dragging the bodies outside. No talk, no jokes, not even curses. Just three people with blood on their boots, scraping the floorboards clean, preparing a house that wasn’t theirs to become the last hope of survival.

When they were done, the sun had dipped beneath the tree line and the frogs had started singing.

By noon the next day, the caravan arrived.

Wagons creaked over the muddy ground, horses waded through the shallow swamp trails, and the gang came spilling into the clearing like a weary tide. The house stood waiting for them, darker now in the daylight, the peeling paint and boarded-up windows less romantic and more grim. But it was shelter, and right now, shelter was salvation.

Charles and Arthur stepped forward first to guide them in, helping women and children off wagons, pointing out where things should go. Karen looked around with wide eyes and muttered, “Place smells like someone died in it.” Pearson grunted. 

Sean, laid out in the back of a wagon with a bloodstained cloth over his eye, managed a weak grin. “Well. Ain’t it charming.”

Javier, sitting upright but pale, winced when the cart bumped a tree root. John helped him down, careful with the bandages still wrapped around his arm and shoulder. The pain was obvious in his face, but Javier didn’t say a word.

Grimshaw immediately took charge, barking orders to get bedding and supplies inside. Abigail was already ushering Jack toward the staircase. Hosea limped behind them, keeping a hand on the wall for balance, glancing warily at every creak and moan the old house gave off.

Tilly found a windowless corner for the children, and Charles dragged in the old benches and crates for makeshift furniture. Even Strauss, for once, kept his mouth shut. They were all shaken. Haunted.

Swanson’s face still hovered in the backs of their minds.

By the time the sun began to set over the treetops, the camp had reshaped itself to fit within Shady Belle. Firelight flickered in the parlor. Pots boiled in the gutted kitchen. A few lanterns swung from nails driven into soft wood.

And then Dutch stepped forward.

He stood at the bottom of the staircase, one hand on the banister, his voice low but clear as it echoed through the halls.

“I know,” he began, and the room quieted instantly. “I know these past few days have been… hard. And I know we all feel the weight of it.”

His eyes passed across them all, Sadie leaning against the doorframe, blood still on her collar. John standing behind Javier with a stiff shoulder. Arthur near the fire, arms crossed, face unreadable. Jack curled up by Abigail’s side, silent.

“We’ve lost someone dear to us. Someone who, in his own strange way, was a part of this family. And we avenged him. We made sure those creatures paid.” He paused. “But that doesn’t fix what’s happened. Doesn’t bring Reverend back. Doesn’t give Sean his eye, or Javier his blood. What it does give us, is clarity. ”

He let the word hang, like it meant more than it did.

“This world’s changed, my friends, in ways that…perhaps we can’t fight. We can fight governments, injustice, law…but we can’t…fight nature, especially not nature that’s older than us, older than our legacies. These creatures, we still don’t know what they are, or why they’re here. But they are. And they’re not going away anytime soon. They’re stronger than us. Smarter than we expected. Meaner than anything we’ve ever dealt with. But I believe, we can endure this. I believe we can survive. ”

He stepped down slowly, one foot at a time, toward the flickering hearth.

“We’ve made it through wolves, through bears, through Pinkertons and lawmen and betrayal. We’ve made it through famine and freezing nights and blood. We’ve made it this far because we adapt. That’s who we are.”

He raised his voice slightly now, like he wanted it to reach every floorboard, every dark corner of the house.

“From now on, we live smarter. We ride in pairs. We watch the skies and we watch the trees. We build traps, we take shifts, and we keep that front gate locked every damn night. This place will keep us safe, I will keep us safe. I promise you that.”

A hush followed. A weight.

Dutch bowed his head.

“Swanson was the last one to die. There will be no more. Not while I draw breath.”

They stood in silence.

Then Hosea, grim and tired, gave the faintest nod. Charles followed. Arthur didn’t say anything, but his expression softened just a bit. Sean managed a chuckle, half delirious from pain. “Well. ‘Cept the bastards we shoot first.”

A murmur of dark amusement rippled through the room.

Dutch stepped away from the fire and laid a hand on Jack’s shoulder. “It’s a cruel world, son. But we ain’t gonna let it swallow us.”

And that night, as the stars crept over the swamp and the crickets sang, Shady Belle stood firm. Not just a house.

A last stand.

Dutch, Hosea, and Arthur rode east out of Shady Belle in a line. They didn’t speak much. Not out of tension, at least not the old kind, but out of a creeping realization they all shared in silence: the world beyond their gang might be just as fractured as the one within.

Saint Denis rose in the distance by early afternoon, its smokestacks visible long before its rooftops. But something was off. Even from miles away, they could see it, black dots along the bridgeways, figures marching, rifles glinting. The city wasn’t breathing. It was bristling.

They slowed at the edge of the swamps, peering at the blockade from a thicket of cypress.

“Look at that,” Arthur muttered.

The bridge was lined with men, some in uniforms, some in plainclothes, all armed to the teeth. Sandbags stacked in rows, mounted guns pointed toward the water, like they expected an army to rise out of the bayou itself. The heavy thud of boots echoed faintly, a patrol shifting every few minutes.

“Well,” Hosea said after a moment, “that answers that. No one’s getting in.”

Dutch narrowed his eyes. “A full lockdown… just like that?”

“Looks like the army to me,” Arthur said. “Mixed with local police.”

Dutch clicked his tongue, frustrated. “We could’ve found contacts in that damn city. We needed supplies. Ammo.”

“Guess th ey’re on their own now,” Arthur replied. “If they’re still breathin’.”

Dutch didn’t respond. He just turned his horse and said, “Let’s ride north. There’s a little village by the swamps, called Lagras, I think they might have some clue as to what’s happening.”

Lagras was quiet, as it often was, half-sunken shacks, lily pads stretching across the water, frogs croaking somewhere just out of sight. The swamp village felt unchanged, as though the chaos of the world hadn’t touched it. But there were more eyes watching them this time. Men leaning against porches with rifles. Women holding children back behind doorways. Tension lived in the air here too.

They dismounted slow. Dutch did most of the talking.

They were pointed to an old woman sitting in a rocking chair, bones sharp beneath her skin and eyes sharp enough to cut through lies.

“We don’t mean trouble,” Dutch said with his hands up, the charm in his voice a little less smooth than usual. “Just looking for information. About Saint Denis.”

The woman squinted at him, then gestured for him to come closer.

“You ain’t gettin’ in,” she said plainly. “Ain’t no one been in or outta that place for a week. Since them lights. ”

Arthur stepped closer, brow furrowed. “Lights…”

The woman sniffed. “The ones in the sky from a couple a’ weeks back. Looked like the end o’ days. Blue and red, like the heavens themselves was openin’ up. Ever since then, people been disappearin’. Things started… crawlin’ in from the sea and the rivers. Big things. Lizards. Not gators. Big. ”

Hosea glanced at Dutch, and Dutch’s face was grim.

“And now there’s a flyin’ one,” the woman went on. “Wings wide enough to blot the sun. Comes down at night. Snatches folks right off their porches.”

Arthur exhaled slowly. “Christ…”

“We tried warnin’ the city,” she said. “They didn’t listen. Now they got soldiers in every alley and men shootin’ shadows. Somethin’s wrong in that city, mister. Somethin’ wrong. ”

Dutch looked back toward the east, toward the shuttered skyline of Saint Denis. The glint of metal, the haze of distant smoke.

“We need to be careful,” Hosea said.

“No,” Dutch replied. “We need to be smart. There’s something real happening out there. And I get the feeling… we’ve only seen the beginning.”

They turned their horses and rode back to the gang.

The world was shrinking.

And the monsters were growing.

Night had fallen over Shady Belle. The trees rustled with the soft movements of insects and birds settling down, but for once, just once, it wasn’t the sound of death or the heavy wings of something prehistoric above. Just wind and frogs and the crackling of the fire.

The gang had gathered around it again, stew bowls in hand, a bottle of something stronger being passed around in loose turns. Laughter bubbled up in tired, scratchy voices. A story from Sean, a quip from Lenny. Dutch even smiled, for the first time since they’d buried Reverend Swanson.

Chicken curled up like a loyal dog at Javier’s feet, snoozing contentedly with its snout tucked under its wing. No matter how many times they moved or shooed it, it kept coming back to him like a bad habit, or maybe like a good one. Javier said nothing, just absently reached down now and then to nudge it with the toe of his boot, like he didn’t quite trust it, but he wasn’t about to push it away either.

At the edge of camp, the two parasaurs stood close together, occasionally grooming each other with those long, careful snouts. One made a soft chirping sound when another leaned against her side, and nobody paid them any mind anymore. Just another part of camp.

And then there was the little one, Dutch's little one, technically. The dinosaur that had hatched from the egg he kept hidden. No one quite knew what species it was, but it didn’t matter anymore. It was barely knee-high, all fuzzy down and oversized eyes, and it followed Molly around like she was its mother. She talked to it in soft tones, bent down to feed it bits of stew meat, and shooed away Bill when he tried to name it "Lunch."

Arthur sat near Hosea, quiet and content for once, his bowl resting on his knee, steam rising into the humid night. Hosea had his hat tilted back and was nursing his drink like a man who had seen too much but refused to let it harden him entirely.

"You think this peace'll last?" Arthur asked eventually, voice low.

Hosea gave a noncommittal hum. "Long as the wind lets us have it. That’s all you can ask for, these days.”

Arthur nodded. That was about right.

Maybe tomorrow would be worse.

But tonight?

Tonight was good.

It didn’t last. Of course it didn’t.

The night split open like the sky itself had screamed.

A long, deep trumpet echoed through the swamp, louder than any train, stranger than any thunder. It wasn’t natural. It wasn’t right. It made the frogs go quiet, made the fire flicker like it wanted to die, and made the laughter around the campfire dry up in an instant. Even Chicken snapped upright like someone had poured cold water down its back, feathers bristling.

Arthur stood before he even thought to, his stew forgotten and already cooling. Dutch and Hosea were moving too, fast for their age, and the three of them headed up the creaking stairs of Shady Belle, through the dusty rooms and onto the upper balcony that faced east.

From there, they could see the glow of Saint Denis in the far distance, the electric lights of the city now blinking like candles before a storm. But that wasn’t what drew their eyes.

It was the thing above it.

A shadow moved across the sky, blotting out parts of the city, a shape so massive it shouldn’t be in the air at all. Yet it hovered, no flapping wings, no clear shape, just the enormous silhouette of something that seemed to move more like a ship than a creature. But then it let out another sound–that horrid, vibrating trumpet again, like metal screaming in pain, and Arthur flinched, hands instinctively covering his ears.

“What…in God’s name is that thing.” Dutch whispered, voice hollow, breath caught in his chest.

It looked… almost like a manta ray, if a manta ray had grown to the size of a warship and floated on unseen currents. Every so often, it let out that awful call again, and each time, the lights in Saint Denis seemed to flicker. Gunfire echoed faintly from the city, rapid, urgent, futile.

Hosea grabbed the railing, knuckles white. “They’re trying to bring it down,” he murmured. “And it’s not working.”

Arthur didn’t speak for a long moment. He was too busy trying to wrap his mind around what he was looking at. This wasn’t like the duck bills, or the murderbirds, or even the oversized lizard-things they’d seen in the woods. This was something else. Something that didn’t belong on the ground, or in the air, or anywhere near humans.

“…It’s not even flappin’ its wings,” Arthur said finally, voice low.

“It’s floatin’. Floatin’, Hosea.” Dutch replied, and there was a tremor there, something almost like awe, almost like fear. 

Below them, the gang was starting to gather again, confused and scared. Jack clutched at Abigail’s skirt, pointing up at the sky. The parasaurs were making worried warbling noises. Even Chicken was backing slowly toward the house, eyes locked on the distant shadow like it knew, instinctively, that whatever was up there wasn’t another animal.

It was a force.

The floating horror let out one final cry, this one drawn out, lower than before. The sound shook the windows. Somewhere deep in the swamp, a gator bellowed in response, and then fell silent again.

They stood there for a long time after, watching the shape as it slowly began to drift back, away from the city and into the clouds, leaving only silence and the memory of its presence.

Dutch finally broke it.

“We ain’t seen the worst of it,” he said, eyes still locked on the horizon. “Not by a damn sight.”

Morning came, but the sunlight didn’t do a damn thing to lift the weight in the air.

Dutch paced. Not strutted, not paraded like he usually did, paced , like a man cornered. His boots scuffed the old floorboards of the second floor hallway of Shady Belle, and every few turns he’d mutter something under his breath, rub his forehead, or stop dead just to stare out the cracked window like he was waiting for that thing to come screaming back out of the clouds.

Arthur leaned against the wall with a tin cup of lukewarm coffee, watching him quietly.

“You’re gonna wear a hole in the floor,” he muttered.

Dutch didn’t even smile at the joke. That was the most unsettling part of it.

“I keep thinkin’,” Dutch said, almost like he hadn’t heard Arthur, “about what Hosea said. About adaptation. That we gotta change with the world.” He turned, slowly. “But how do you change for that , Arthur? What the hell kind of life do you build with that flying over your head?”

Arthur didn’t answer. He didn’t know. That thing hadn’t just been big. It had felt wrong, like it didn’t belong in their world, or worse, like they didn’t belong in its.

Down the hall, Hosea stepped out of one of the rooms, fastening the buttons of his vest. He looked tired, but composed, and in the way Hosea always did, he came between Dutch and his own mind before Dutch spun himself into some new brand of madness.

“Dutch,” Hosea said gently, “you need to breathe. We’re safe. We got the high ground, thick walls, rifles, supplies. No one’s gonna go walkin’ into that sky beast’s mouth.”

Dutch let out a sound, half scoff, half laugh, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Still, he nodded, even if it was just to look like he’d listened.

Arthur headed downstairs, leaving the two old men to their spiraling.

John was in the main room, seated beside Abigail on the bench beneath the window. Her arms were tight around Jack, rocking slightly as she whispered something to him. Jack looked smaller than usual, all curled into her side, peeking up at his father with wide, shellshocked eyes.

Arthur paused in the doorway.

John’s hand was on Abigail’s shoulder. Gentle. That in itself was a surprise. But it was his voice that really caught Arthur off guard, low, soft, almost comforting.

“Nothin’s gonna happen to him,” John was saying. “We’re all here. You saw that thing last night, sure, but it ain’t lookin’ for us. Not in the swamp. Not while we’re inside. We just stay put. We’re safe.”

Abigail nodded, clutching Jack tighter. “That’s what I said before Swanson went out for a walk,” she said bitterly.

John winced, but didn’t argue. He just kept his hand there, steady.

Arthur turned away before they saw him watching.

On the couch in the parlor, Sean lay half-propped up by pillows, a rag over the side of his face where his eye used to be. Karen sat beside him, checking the stitches again with a deepening frown.

“Well, I hate to break it to ya, Irish,” she said, voice trying for cheer, “but that eye’s not comin’ back. Lucky you didn’t lose more than that.”

Sean chuckled weakly, lifting his good hand to feel at the bandage. “Y’mean to tell me I’m not more handsome now? I always figured I’d look dashing in an eyepatch. Ladies love a man with mystery.”

His voice cracked a little near the end. Karen caught it. So did Arthur, lingering near the stairs.

She leaned in and patted his shoulder gently. “You’ll be the most charming pirate in the swamp.”

Sean snorted, then winced. “Damn lizard. Should’ve bit my arse instead. That’s where my brains are anyway.”

Arthur finally stepped in, squatting down near the arm of the couch. “You got lucky,” he said simply.

Sean looked at him sideways, the good eye glinting. “You call this lucky? ”

Arthur shrugged. “You’re alive. Javier too. That’s lucky these days.”

Sean didn’t answer right away. Just let out a breath and leaned his head back against the couch.

“Still doesn’t feel like it,” he murmured.

Arthur took a slow walk around Shady Belle’s grounds, checking the perimeter and, more importantly, checking on folks. Dutch always made the speeches, but it was Arthur who kept the bones of this family from snapping.

Micah was perched on an upturned crate near the back, sharpening one of his knives. His shirt was half-open, bandages still wrapped around his shoulder where the Devil Claw had clawed through him like tissue. The bruises had turned a nasty green, but he was sitting cocky and whistling like he hadn’t almost been turned into carrion.

Arthur didn’t say anything. Micah didn’t deserve attention for surviving his own stupidity.

He moved on.

Near the steps of the veranda, Javier sat slumped on a stool, one arm bandaged from elbow to wrist and bruises blotched up along his ribs. He had a basket beside him and was poorly shelling peas for Pearson, too slowly to be helpful, but too stubborn to admit he should be in bed.

Arthur stopped nearby and leaned against a post, arms crossed.

“You’re not foolin’ anybody, y’know,” he said.

Javier didn’t look up. “Didn’t ask to fool anybody.”

Arthur watched the tension in his jaw as he winced again. Even lifting a handful of peas looked like it took effort.

“You got torn up real bad, Javier. You don’t need to act like that didn’t happen.”

Javier gave a small shrug and a half-laugh, low and dry. “What do you want me to do, Arthur? Lie in bed and think about how close I came to being lizard food? If I don’t do somethin’, I’ll go mad.”

Arthur didn’t press. He understood. But he also noticed how every few minutes, Javier's hand trembled, and he had to stop and let it settle.

In the back, Strauss sat stiffly at a small table with Miss Grimshaw and Pearson. There were no books, no accounting, just coffee gone cold and a shared silence.

Pearson’s hands were idle for once, and his face looked hollow, like the fire that kept him barking orders had burned low.

“Reverend was…” Grimshaw started, then stopped, jaw working. “...he was an idiot, but he was ours.”

Strauss nodded once. “May he find peace in whatever afterlife he believed in. I only wish he’d been smart enough to stay put.”

Arthur didn’t interrupt. Some things, you had to let people process on their own.

Out by the edge of the trees, Charles was splitting logs. No real need for firewood in the middle of the day, but he was cutting slow, deliberate, like he needed the rhythm to keep his mind clear. Each swing was clean, precise.

Arthur came up beside him, quiet for a while, just watching the axe come down.

Finally, he spoke.

“I been thinkin’. About those eggs.”

Charles paused, the axe still in his hands.

Arthur continued, voice low, unsure. “You let Bill crush ‘em. After we’d seen what those raptors did. And I–well, I didn’t stop him either.”

Charles rested the axe against the stump and turned toward him, not accusatory, just tired.

“You didn’t.”

Arthur met his gaze. “That bother you?”

Should it?”

Arthur frowned. “They were just eggs. Unhatched. And I ain’t saying I feel sorry for ‘em, not after what happened to Swanson. But... I don’t know. Didn’t feel good.”

Charles looked off into the trees for a moment before speaking. “Those things killed a man we cared about. They hunted us. They set a trap . That wasn’t just instinct, that was intention. ” He picked the axe back up, slow and thoughtful. “I don’t want more of ‘em growing up thinking humans are food.”

Arthur nodded, solemn. “But it didn’t feel right. It felt like revenge.”

Charles glanced over. “What’s the difference, these days?”

Arthur didn’t answer. He just stood there, listening to the buzz of insects in the swamp, and the far-off creak of the old house behind them.

"You got a plan, Dutch?" Arthur asked, arms crossed, shoulders stiff, though his voice stayed level.

Dutch sat on the creaky veranda of Shady Belle, his elbows on his knees and his cigarette dangling limply from two fingers. His hat was off for once, resting beside him on a crate. He looked tired. Older. More tired than Arthur had seen him in a long while. A few days ago, Dutch had looked furious enough to kill a goddamn dinosaur with his bare hands. Now he just looked... lost.

“Well,” Dutch muttered, rubbing at the corner of his eye with a thumb, “the plan was to make enough money to get far away from the law as we could. Start over once and for all.”

Arthur waited. Dutch rarely stopped there.

But this time he did, if only for a breath. Then he let out a sharp, bitter exhale and shook his head.

“But where the hell do we start over,” he continued, voice rising just slightly, “with all these damn things running about? Underground?” His voice cracked with something dangerously close to desperation. “Do we run to Mexico? Canada? Don’t matter if we get there and there’s some godforsaken lizard already squattin’ on our dreams.”

He fell quiet again, then looked out over the front lawn of Shady Belle. The house was barely holding together. They’d done what they could with it, boarded windows, cleared out the worst of the rot and mold. But it wasn’t the Pinkertons or the government pressing down on them now. It was the whole world coming apart at the seams.

Arthur sat down beside him with a grunt. He didn’t have answers either.

A moment later, Hosea stepped out the front door and eased it shut behind him. He had a cup of coffee in one hand and a letter in the other, folded and slightly creased like he’d read it five times already.

“I sent Strauss into Saint Denis this morning,” Hosea said, joining them with little ceremony. “Figured he’s the best suited to pass through without raising alarm. Told him to keep his head down, check for news, mail, any kind of useful information. See if the post still runs, see if anyone’s still sending out telegrams.”

Arthur raised a brow. “You really trust Strauss to blend in?”

“He looks like a walking skeleton in a suit,” Hosea said dryly. “If anyone can pass as some harmless doctor or accountant these days, it’s him.”

Dutch gave a small grunt of agreement but said nothing else.

“I told him to be back before nightfall,” Hosea added, glancing up toward the swampy horizon. “That flying thing, whatever the hell it is, no telling what it’ll do when the sun goes down. Can’t risk him getting caught outside.”

They all went quiet at that. The memory of last night, that sound , that impossible shape flying over Saint Denis, blotting out stars, lingered heavy.

Dutch finally muttered, “I keep thinkin’ about those birds.”

Arthur turned his head. “Yeah?”

“The audacity of it,” Dutch muttered, voice grim. “They weren’t just passing through. They nested . Right near us. Close to the camp.” His fingers twitched against the wood of the crate. “Means they figured this place was a good food source. We were prey to them. A pantry they could pluck from.”

Arthur swallowed, jaw tense.

“They got Swanson,” Dutch went on, voice low and tight. “But they were waitin’. Lurkin’. Hell, maybe they were watchin’ us longer than we knew. Maybe Swanson was just the first one stupid enough to get close.”

“This world’s changed,” he said. “And we’re still out here actin’ like it hasn’t. Like we can live the same way we always did. Rob a train. Hide in the woods. Keep movin’.”

“Can’t outrun this,” Arthur said quietly.

“No,” Dutch replied. “But maybe we can survive it. If we’re smart. If we stay together .”

Silence settled again. Outside, in the humid air of the swamp, one of the parasaurolophuses let out a gentle honk.

And then Dutch stood, dusted off his pants, and grabbed his hat.

“I’m gonna check on Jack,” he said. “Make sure Abigail don’t need anything.”

He walked off with a purposeful stride, but Arthur could see the tension in his shoulders.

Strauss returned just before dusk, dust on his boots and his collar crooked like he'd been in a scuffle, or a hurry. But he wasn't alone.

Trelawney was with him.

The man looked far more worn than Arthur had ever seen him, his cravat wrinkled, his hat bent at the brim, but he was unmistakably alive and, somehow, still walking with that same old flair.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Dutch muttered, striding down from the porch of Shady Belle as the others gathered near the gate. “Thought you’d been eaten, hung, or charmed a lady sheriff into hiding you away somewhere. Glad to see I was wrong.”

Trelawney gave a tired smile, brushing imaginary dust off his jacket. “I’ve survived worse, Dutch. Though I’ll admit, I very nearly didn’t.”

Arthur crossed his arms, skeptical. “What hole’d you crawl out of?”

“I was in the city,” Trelawney said, glancing back toward the distant Saint Denis skyline, what little of it was still visible behind haze and smoke. “Running a small scheme, if you must know, nothing terribly exciting. Until those lights came. Green and gold, blinding, and then...everything fell apart.”

He looked tired then, truly tired, not just worn but haunted.

“At first, it was confusion,” he went on. “Then came the screams. Streets full of them. Dinosaurs, real, flesh-and-blood prehistoric monsters, wandering the roads like stray dogs. I saw a horned one charge through a fruit stand. People fled to rooftops. Horses were the first to go, killed and gorged on in the middle of the roads. Then came the fliers.”

His voice lowered.

“One of them— showed up over the city. Wings like sails, bigger than any bird should be. It flew low, almost like it enjoyed watching people scatter. When it landed near the port, half the pier collapsed. They’re calling it Quetzalcoatl now.”

Arthur and Hosea exchanged glances. Dutch said nothing, jaw tight.

Trelawney continued, “The military rolled in after that. Locked the place down, tried to regain control, set up perimeter walls and armed guards. Saint Denis is a fortress now, or trying to be one. No one in, no one out. I had to climb out through an old sewage tunnel. Got lucky.”

Strauss gave a curt nod. “He was quite literally in the gutter.”

“Charming,” Trelawney muttered.

Karen, hovering near the porch, asked, “And the...big flying thing? Is it still there?”

“Off and on,” Trelawney said. “Mostly circles the skies at night. Sometimes vanishes for days. There’s a theory that it’s nesting somewhere inland. Or maybe at sea–oh, and speaking of which...there are rumors now.”

He turned to Dutch. “The oceans. They’re not safe either. Stories of ships pulled under in seconds. Long, serpentine shapes. Whale sized lizards with massive fins and bigger teeth. No one's sure. Fishermen say they saw a creature the size of a riverboat near the mouth of the Kamassa. No one went back to check.”

For a long while, no one spoke. The camp, which had been feeling safer, seemed to still again, the air cold and uneasy.

Dutch took a breath, slow and controlled. “So the skies are death, the roads are crawling with lizards, and now the damn oceans are off limits too.”

Arthur muttered, “We’re runnin’ outta directions, Dutch.”

Trelawney chuckled dryly. “Not quite. But I’ll tell you this, there’s no law anymore. No sheriffs, no marshals, barely any bounty hunters not. Just soldiers and policemen trying to keep cities from falling to beasts they can’t control.”

“That ain’t comfortin’,” Arthur replied.

“No,” Trelawney agreed. “But it’s opportunity. In chaos, gentlemen...lies reinvention. We just have to be clever enough to survive it.”

Dutch gave him a long, unreadable look before turning toward Hosea.

“Well...guess our vacation’s over.”

Arthur sat down like his whole body suddenly doubled in weight, his body making the cot under him creak miserably. He let out a loud, long sigh, looking around the room, and then peeking outside the window, as if hoping- or rather, expecting, something big and mean to come out of the woods. Nothing did.

He took out his journal, tried to draw the Reverend from memory as a form of tribute, 'RS +' at the bottom of the page.

"We lost the Reverend to a pack of them; those murderbirds with sickles for toenails. They weren't much bigger than wolves, but were certainly way smarter, set up a trap for us...ain't never seen no animal act like that before. I don't know how they caught him, but I hope they at least had the basic decency to make it quick. He was a fool of a man, drunk and loud and sometimes annoying, but he weren't bad, not nearly as bad as most of us, just confused and scared, and he sure as hell ain't deserve that, I don't think anyone does.

We killed the lot of them, even crushed their eggs, didn't feel right, didn't even feel satisfying, and now Javier is wounded and Sean's missin' an eye. We moved camp immediately, too, to a place called Shady Belle, hopefully the walls keep 'em away.

Dutch is shaken in a way I ain't seen since he lost Annabelle. Ain't just about losing one of us, we've lost folk in the past, it's about how fast the world's changing now, faster than before, in a way none of us could've predicted. Maybe in a way none of us are ready to survive."

In the page next to it, a drawing of the wolfbirds, all six of them, and the nest, glaring forward with eyes glowing. 

In the next page, Saint Dennis in the distance, while a gigantic, nearly imcomprehensible creature soars in the sky above it.

"Giant flying animal that's floatin' around Saint Dennis. No clue what it is, feels like it shouldn't even exist. I hope I never have to see that thing up close."

Chapter Text

By morning, the mood had shifted. Not with cheer or peace, those things had become luxuries, but with grim determination. The gang had spent weeks on the run before, always trying to stay ahead of the law or their own mistakes. But this? This was different. This wasn’t just another failed robbery or a town turned sour. This might be the end of the world as they knew it. And if they wanted to live through it, they needed walls.

Dutch stood on the porch of Shady Belle, arms crossed, watching his people get to work. No orders needed, not now. Everyone understood what needed to be done.

Arthur and Charles were already down near the treeline, the two Duck bills, now lovingly dubbed Whiskey and Plum, strapped with makeshift harnesses. With a little coaxing and a lot of improvisation, the beasts were guided to pull down trees, their bulk and power finally put to use beyond scaring the neighbors or chewing on laundry.

“Damn things are more useful than half the people I’ve known,” Arthur muttered, wiping sweat from his brow as another tree cracked and toppled with a thunderous crash, Plum snorted like it agreed.

Bill, unusually focused, paced along the edge of the property, muttering about angles and line of sight. He eventually turned to Dutch, hat in hand, for once not trying to impress but actually offering something real.

“If we can spare the lumber, we oughta try building towers. High ones. With ladders. Hell, a feller could keep watch and shoot down if anything comes outta the trees or that goddamn swamp. Don’t matter how many teeth it’s got if we see it first.”

Dutch nodded. “Do it.”

That was all the permission Bill needed. He took off, barking out to Pearson and Lenny to help haul supplies, starting to sketch ideas in the dirt with a stick. Even Micah, grumbling but not arguing, helped drag thorned branches from the woods to string up along the eastern side.

Sadie and Karen were layering sharpened poles at the back marsh gate, “The Bastard Hole,” they’d started calling it, ever since something with a crocodile mouth and bird legs tried to crawl through it in the dark two nights ago. They weren’t taking any chances, not after they already lost one person to the damn things, they’d wrapped the entire low edge in barbed wire scavenged from an abandoned farm two miles out.

Strauss, useless for lifting but still clever, kept a log of where they placed traps, makeshift punji pits, rusted metal spikes, even broken glass buried shallow around the perimeter.

“Feels like we’re not a gang anymore,” Hosea murmured, standing beside Dutch, watching as Abigail and Mary-Beth hammered nails like seasoned builders. “We’re a town under siege.”

Dutch didn’t respond right away. He looked at his people-his family -covered in sweat, bruised, stitched-up and worn down, building walls not for freedom, not to build a new life, but to keep monsters they could barely comprehend at bay. The weight of it settled on his shoulders, heavier than any heist or betrayal ever had.

“No,” he said finally. “We’re survivors now.”

And so they worked, through heat and mud and fatigue. They built barriers with stolen wood and stubborn will, raised spikes like the jaws of some great beast, and turned Shady Belle from a manor into a fortress.

This wasn’t about getting rich. This wasn’t about some promised land.

This was about making damn sure they saw another sunrise.

It was Pearson who found the basement.

The door was half-rotted, wedged beneath a pile of warped floorboards and mossy debris. Arthur nearly missed it, only catching the corner of rusted iron when the sunlight hit it just right. He knelt down, pulled the boards aside, and gave the ring a sharp tug. The door groaned open, releasing a stench that sent him coughing back against the wall.

“Well,” he muttered, wiping at his nose and nearly gagging. “That ain’t stew.”

Charles climbed down beside him, grimacing. “Something died down there. Maybe a lot of somethings.”

Arthur handed him a lantern. “Only one way to find out.”

The basement beneath Shady Belle was worse than expected. The air was heavy and humid, thick with mildew, old rot, and something sharper-metallic, like dried blood. The stone walls were lined with moss and rusted hooks, and the far end of the room was filled with shackles still bolted into the brick. None of them wanted to ask why they were there, or who had last worn them. 

“I’ve seen worse,” Charles said finally, his voice echoing in the stone chamber.

Arthur raised an eyebrow. “You say that like it’s a good thing.”

“It is. Because it means we can use it.” Charles turned slowly, examining the foundation. “This stone’s thick. If something big enough comes through here to take down the house, it’d still have trouble getting through this.”

Arthur nodded, slowly. “Could hold the gang. Or at least the ones that can’t fight.”

“And the food,” Charles added. “Keep it down here, sealed up. Less scent, less risk.”

“Fewer people sniffin’ around, too.” Arthur gave a short grunt. “Alright. We clean it up.”

They got to work fast. 

The next day, the gang was hauling buckets of filthy water, scrubbing down stone with vinegar and soap, dragging out moldy crates and smashed barrels. Pearson directed it all with military efficiency, while Grimshaw took over the sanitation effort with her usual iron discipline. Arthur and Charles moved shelves and secured beams, while even Javier-limping, but stubborn-helped ferry supplies down the stairs. Every floorboard they pulled out seemed to creak like it was protesting.

The stink never fully left, but by the time the sun dipped below the trees, it was livable. Blankets were rolled out, lanterns lit, and a few crates of food were already stored near the far wall. Chicken, who had attempted to follow Javier down the stairs, was unceremoniously pushed back up by Grimshaw and pecked the wood in protest before sulking by the door.

Outside, the rest of the gang worked fast. Charles, Sadie, Bill, John, and Arthur took shifts raising wooden platforms for watchtowers around the edges of the property. They used what trees were close enough to anchor beams, and dragged fresh-cut lumber into place with ropes and brute strength. Sweat poured, tempers flared, but progress was fast.

Sean and Lenny took to a different kind of work: wrangling the duck bills in the place of Charles and Arthur. This time, with bridles made from stitched tarp and rope, they figured out how to gently guide them toward felled trees, tie one end of the harness to the logs, and let the dinosaurs do the heavy hauling. The duck bills snorted and huffed, occasionally turning in the wrong direction, but with Sean waving his arms and yelling wild encouragements, they got the job done.

“Who needs a goddamn wagon when ye’ve got a dinosaur?” Sean called out proudly as Whiskey dragged a log twice the size of a man across the muddy clearing.

“Don’t let Dutch hear you,” Lenny muttered, adjusting the makeshift reins. “He’ll be askin’ us to build a whole lumber business.”

By dusk, a rough wall had been erected around half the perimeter of the house. It wasn’t perfect, what, with logs bound with rope and mud, reinforced with leftover furniture, but it was something. A warning to anything out there that they weren’t easy prey.

Arthur stood on one of the new watch platforms as the last light of day slipped through the swamp trees. From up high, he could see the treetops shift in the breeze and the murky waters reflect slivers of fading gold. Shady Belle, for all its rot and horror, was becoming a fortress.

He lit a cigarette and watched the sky turn from orange to purple. No signs of murderbirds, or the floating leviathan they’d seen above Saint Denis. But the quiet didn’t bring comfort.

He thought of the basement, of the shackles in the wall. Of Swanson in the dirt. Of Strauss’s haunted expression when he came back from the city.

They had shelter now. Walls. Plans. Even beasts to help them work.

But Arthur had the gnawing sense it wasn’t going to be enough.

Night had settled heavy over Shady Belle, the swamp steamed in places, faint mist curling over black water and the muddy ground. Every so often, a distant honking echoed across the sky - something flying low over Saint Denis, its massive shadow sometimes blotting out the stars. Whatever it was had wings too big and a voice too loud to be anything natural. Arthur tried not to think about it.

Closer to camp, something bellowed out in the marsh, deep, throaty, and impossibly huge. Everyone went quiet for a moment when they heard it. Even the duck bills froze, heads raised, nostrils flaring toward the trees. The sound faded, swallowed by the dark.

But nothing came crashing through the trees. No eyes glinted in the distance. Just swamp, steam, and night.

Arthur sat on the back porch with a cup of coffee and his rifle across his lap. For once, the gang had done something right, the perimeter was solid. Watchtowers had gone up fast, one on each corner and one in between, tall enough to give a clear view over the brush and tangled undergrowth. They weren’t fancy, just platforms with lanterns, ropes, and something that jingled and made noise in case anything needed raising hell about. But it made people feel safer. That was worth something.

Lenny was on front watch tonight, up in the northern tower with a lantern swinging gently beside him. He liked the quiet shifts, said they helped him think. Arthur believed it. Lenny had one of the sharper minds in the group, and sometimes Arthur wondered what he might’ve been if life had gone a little different, professor, maybe, or a writer.

The peace didn’t last.

“ Riders !” Lenny’s voice called out from the front tower, sharp and clear. “Coming down the road! Looks like... government!”

That got everyone moving.

Dutch stepped out onto the front porch, coat buttoned, pistol tucked neat in his belt. Arthur stood, already slinging his rifle over his shoulder as the rest of the gang stirred from the house and yard.

A line of dark shapes emerged from the road through the swamp, torches flickering. Not just any riders. Uniforms. Hats. Even from a distance, they had that stiff, self-important posture Arthur hated so much.

And at the head of them, two faces Arthur recognized instantly.

Agent Ross. Agent Milton.

The Pinkertons .

Arthur swore under his breath, already checking the rifle’s chamber. “You’ve gotta be kidding,” he muttered. “ Now ?”

The agents pulled up just outside the perimeter. Lantern light glinted off polished boots and smug, familiar faces. Milton cupped a hand to his mouth and called out.

“Dutch van der Linde! We know you’re in there!”

Arthur raised his gun a little higher, but Dutch raised a hand, stopping him.

Then he stepped down onto the porch and, with all the casualness of a man greeting neighbors at a barbecue, he called back:

“Mr. Milton! With all due respect, the world is quite literally tearing at the seams. Are you sure you ought to be spending your energy chasing outlaws ?”

The Pinkertons didn’t move. Neither did Dutch.

Milton laughed once, short and dry. “Funny. Last I checked, end of the world doesn’t change the law, Dutch.”

Ross called out next, voice oily and smooth. “We’re offering you a deal. Come out, turn yourself in, and maybe we’ll forget this place exists. We know you’ve got people in there. You don’t want this getting ugly.”

Arthur saw Sadie and Charles move into position behind the windows. Bill ducked behind the wall. Javier stayed seated on the porch rail, a pistol in his lap, expression unreadable. Chicken made a soft chirring noise from under the steps, alert but quiet.

Dutch’s face twitched, not with fear, but amusement. “You bring backup? Or did you come all this way through dinosaur-infested country on a hunch?” he asked, voice rising just enough to carry. “You see anything out there lately, gentlemen? Flying lizards? Giant birds? The sky bleeding open ?”

Milton didn’t answer. But Ross muttered something to him, low.

“I’m not coming out,” Dutch said. “And you’re not coming in. Not without a fight. Now, unless you’ve got a herd of your own to throw at us... I suggest you ride back to your little office and start thinking about survival.”

Another pause.

Then Milton turned his horse.

“This isn’t over,” he said, cold. “You’re not special, Dutch. The world’s falling apart, sure. But we’ll still be there when it settles.”

Ross lingered long enough to add, “We’ll be seeing you, boys.”

Then they rode off, torches bobbing through the dark.

Arthur didn’t lower his rifle until they were out of sight.

Dutch turned, his smile fading as he watched them go.

“Pinkertons,” he muttered. “Worse than the goddamn lizards.”

No one disagreed.

The lanterns around Shady Belle still burned when the Pinkertons vanished into the swamp, their flickering light casting long shadows against the house and watchtowers. No one went back to sleep. Not right away.

Arthur leaned against the porch railing, arms crossed, eyes still trained on the trees where the agents had disappeared.

“Well,” he finally said, voice low, “they know we’re here now. You reckon we oughta move? Before they send something worse next time?”

Dutch didn’t answer right away. He sat down on the steps, one hand on his knee, looking more thoughtful than tense now that the immediate threat had passed. His eyes were tired, but the fire behind them hadn’t dimmed.

“We can’t,” he said simply.

Arthur turned to look at him.

“We put up walls,” Dutch went on, “we dug out a basement, put together a whole goddamn watchtower system, got water, supplies, dinosaur deterrents . We leave now, and what? Go back to camping out in the open? Let the Pinkertons chase us through swamps while a flying horror tries to eat our horses?”

He shook his head.

“We’ve got something rare here, Arthur. Ground that holds. We give this up, we might never find it again.”

Arthur didn’t like it, but he couldn’t deny it. A swamp full of nightmares was still better than no shelter at all.

They were both quiet for a while, until the sound of hooves on mud echoed faintly from the north.

Arthur stood up straight, hand on his rifle. “We expecting company?”

Dutch rose too, slower. “Not unless the devil himself got curious.”

Lenny, still up in the tower, called out: “One rider! No uniform!”

The figure came into view, not Pinkerton, not gang, but a woman. Older, bundled in mismatched layers, with a face hardened by swamp wind and years. She rode a scrawny mare, and her saddle was loaded with sacks and rope. She didn’t carry a rifle, but she had a knife at her hip.

She stopped just outside the gate, squinting up at the lights.

“I ain’t here to fight,” she called up. “I’m from Lagras.”

That got a few looks exchanged between the gang. Arthur stayed near the porch, watching carefully. Charles came out from the side of the house, hand near his belt but calm.

The woman cleared her throat, voice rasped from disuse or smoke.

“I heard tell y’all were hired guns. Or close enough.”

She shifted in her saddle, scanning the perimeter like someone used to watching for gators.

“We got a problem,” she continued. “Big bastard’s been lurking in the swamp near our traps. Scared off the kids, tore apart one of our boats. Looks like a lizard but moves like a shark. We don’t got the firepower to deal with it.”

She looked around at the gang, the house, the torches and guns and walls.

“But you might.”

Dutch stepped forward now, smoothing his coat like he was greeting royalty.

“And what exactly are you offering, ma’am?”

“Gold, if you want it. Or bullets. Or food, clean water, anything we can spare. Hell, I got some moonshine I wouldn’t cry over if it got traded.”

Dutch smiled faintly. “You got a name?”

“Miss Eloise June Baptiste,” she replied. “Most just call me June.”

“Well, Miss June,” Dutch said, “you’ve come to the right place.”

He turned to the rest of the gang, then back to her.

“We’ll go tomorrow.”

Chapter Text

Lagras looked much the same as it always had, half-sinking, half-standing, the docks gray with mold and time, and the air thick with mosquitoes and woodsmoke. The morning sun bled red through the mist as Dutch, Arthur, Charles, and John rode in behind Miss June, the muddy water lapping at the stilts of the cabins.

People were out, but quiet, a few fishermen dragging up empty nets, a child clinging to his mother’s skirts while watching the newcomers with wide eyes. A man with a missing hand was patching a hole in his boat, muttering to himself.

The group dismounted near the center dock, where a small crowd waited. One of the women stepped forward, bare feet, skirts rolled up, sleeves pushed back, and eyes sharp. Same one that told ‘em about Saint Dennis some time back.

“You’re the ones June went and fetched?” she asked, folding her arms.

“We are,” Dutch said smoothly. “I don’t reckon we ever caught your name, miss…?”

“Clara Baptiste. I handle most things around here, including monsters.”

Arthur raised an eyebrow. “Seems like you might have one too big for the usual routine.”

Clara’s expression didn’t change. “Used to be it wasn’t so bad. Big thing in the water. Scared off the gators. Ate swamp birds and the occasional sickly deer. We didn’t complain, it mostly kept to itself…” She glanced out at the water, where something made a slow, wide ripple. “Hell, we were grateful. Less people gettin’ caught by gators, we figured we was just too tiny for it.”

John leaned over to Arthur. “Grateful for a man-eatin’ dinosaur. I’ve heard everything now.”

Clara kept talking.

“But it’s gotten bold. Comes close now, too damn  close, fish are gone from the north pools. And last night...”

She gestured toward the end of the dock, where a bundle of tarp lay beside an overturned boat.

“We found what was left of Everett.”

Dutch walked over and flipped the tarp back, Arthur followed. There lay a man’s boot, mostly intact. Still laced. Inside, sticking out,- what was unmistakably a human foot, severed at the ankle, clean bite through bone.

Arthur grimaced, Charles just let out a breath through his nose.

“We used to swim here,” Clara said. “Not anymore.” She gestured out to the water again. “Thing's got a sail. Big one, like a crocodile with a damn fin. Some folks say they seen it walk, too, half-out the water. Others say it just glides through the muck. Either way... we want it gone.”

John scratched at his chin. “You think it’s nesting nearby?”

“Don’t know,” Clara replied. “It vanishes for hours, then shows up like a ghost. When it wants to be seen, you’ll see it. When it don’t, you won’t.”

Dutch turned back to the group, thoughtful.

“Well, gentlemen. What do you think?”

Arthur looked out across the swamp, at the heavy fog rolling off the cypress roots, at the dark water still rippling from something unseen.

“I think we’ve found something worse than a gator.”

The plan was ugly, but it was the best they had.

As the sun bled low into the horizon and the air thickened with swamp steam and the drone of bugs, Dutch, Arthur, and Charles pushed off from the dock in a narrow wooden skiff, its sides patched with old tin and leather. John remained behind, rifle slung and perched on a rise overlooking the water.

“Just in case y’all get eaten,” he called after them. “I’ll let Hosea know you died heroically. Or stupidly. Depends how I’m feelin’.”

Arthur waved him off, then muttered, “Can’t swim, but talks like he’s Neptune.”

They brought with them the grim bait: a gutted gator, half the size it should’ve been for this region, and one of the barnyard rat lizards that had been getting too bold near the stewpot. Dead weight, tied together with rope and smelling like blood and bile.

“Feels wrong,” Charles muttered, watching the gator slide limply in the boat.

Arthur nodded. “Yeah. But this one ain’t part of the balance, is it?”

Charles stared out across the still, black water. “No. It’s breaking it. Ain’t seen a single alligator, it’s scaring them all off…or maybe it’s eaten all of them.”

They found the spot Clara had described, a half-sunken cypress tree jutting out crooked near a wide-open channel, a perfect place for something big to come cruising through. They tied the bait to a low-hanging branch, letting it dangle above the water, swaying slowly like some rotten fruit.

Then, oars dipped, they glided the boat back into a sheltered pocket of reeds and tangled vines. From there, they waited. Sunlight turned gold, then red, then a bruise-colored purple, the noise of birds quieted, even the bugs went still.

They sat in silence as the last light died.

Then the water moved.

It wasn’t sudden. It was subtle, a deep ripple, far off at first. Then another, closer. Something massive displacing the swamp from below.

Arthur raised his gun slowly. Charles followed suit. Dutch stared, unblinking.

The bait swayed once, twice.

Then it vanished in a violent splash.

Water surged up in a great whoosh of foam and teeth, the creature breached halfway out the murky depths, longer than two horses head-to-tail. Its jaws clamped around the gator and bird both with a wet crunch that echoed through the trees. That sail along its back rose out of the water like a scythe.

Even in the dark, they saw the gleam of its yellow eyes.

Dutch whispered, “Now.”

Rifles cracked. The bullet struck the thing’s neck, it recoiled, snarled, rolled, and vanished beneath the water in a violent swirl of motion, sending waves crashing against the trees.

Then silence.

No movement. No sound. Not even a ripple .

Charles muttered, “I don’t like that.”

Neither did Arthur.

They waited. The swamp held its breath.

And then from up the bank, where John was stationed, came a single gunshot.

And John yelling, “It’s headed for me!”

Chaos hit like a hammer.

The moment John’s warning shot rang out, Arthur and Charles moved without hesitation, they dove from the skiff, rifles slung tight, boots hitting the water with a splash that sent frogs leaping and ripples dancing across the moonlit swamp.

“Stay on the boat!” Arthur barked at Dutch as he surfaced, already swimming hard. “Keep its attention if you can!”

Dutch did not argue –though whether it was cowardice or strategy, Arthur didn’t care right now. The old man turned the skiff with quick oar strokes, trying to line up another shot from the water.

The creature, the sail-alligator-like thing, was already halfway up the bank, its long body cutting through the shallows like a warship. Each thunderous step turned water to steam and mud to paste. It didn’t walk; it stalked, with a hissing bellow that sent birds shrieking from the trees.

John sprinted through the marsh grass, legs kicking up muck, shotgun booming as he looked back in terror. “I DON’T WANNA BE DINOSAUR SHIT!” He veered into the trees, skidding behind a half-fallen trunk as the massive beast followed.

Arthur and Charles reached the shallows, hauling themselves onto land with water dripping from their coats and guns already up.

“God damn!” Arthur cursed, eyes wide.

It was the carnivore thing they’d seen so far. Bigger than the horned devil. The sailed-aligator was like some nightmare crocodile pulled from Hell itself, tall as a boxcar at the shoulder, that enormous sail slicing the sky behind it like the fin of some devil-shark, long jaws like a snout full of kitchen knives, eyes glowing pale in the moonlight.

Charles was already firing. “We need to drive it off!”

“Or piss it off worse!” Arthur grunted, taking aim and squeezing the trigger. His bullet struck near the base of the sail, and the creature reared with a deafening, wet screech, maw flaring open wide enough to swallow a man whole.

John scrambled behind a thicker tree, breath coming hard and panicked. “YOU GETTIN’ IT YET?!”

“We’re tryin’!” Arthur called.

From behind them, the crack of Dutch’s rifle rang out, followed by another. The shots struck true but did little more than irritate the monster, it swung around, tail lashing, and turned back toward the water, then changed its mind and lunged toward the trees again.

“Split up!” Charles ordered. “Make it pick!”

Arthur ran left. Charles darted right. Gunfire lit up the swamp like lightning bugs, and the dinosaur roared again.

The sailed-aligator charged back and forth, lashing its tail, jaws snapping at shadows, blood streaking its sail from a dozen shallow wounds that only seemed to make it angrier. Every time a bullet hit, it shrieked, and the sound made Arthur’s teeth ache, like the whole damn world had been dunked underwater.

It let out a roar-an actual, godforsaken roar-and everything went still for half a second. Trees shook. Water jumped. Arthur felt it in his ribs, a low vibration like thunder trapped inside his lungs. Charles winced. Even John, crouched behind his tree with the shotgun ready, momentarily ducked his head like it might knock him out of the world altogether.

Arthur ducked behind a knotted tree, breathing hard, drenched in swampwater and sweat. His hand fumbled in his satchel. Bullets, jerky, cigarettes, sketchbook-

Dynamite.

Just one stick.

He stared at it for a heartbeat. Then looked up at Charles, who was trying to reload while staying behind a half-submerged log. Looked back at the stick. Then at the monster stomping toward John’s tree with murderous intent.

“Oh, to hell with it.”

He pulled a match with shaking fingers, struck it on his belt, and lit the fuse.

“SCATTER!” he yelled, loud enough to carry through the swamp. “NOW!”

He hurled the stick with all the strength he had left, straight into the mud at the creature’s feet.

The animal paused, eyes narrowing at the sudden movement. It turned toward the sputtering stick, head cocking just slightly. Then it stepped forward-curious, unaware, sniffing at the strange hissing noise like a dog with a snake.

The blast hit like the wrath of God.

Smoke. Mud. Bone.

The water erupted, and the dinosaur reared back in pure, agonized fury, a gaping wound smoking across the side of its snout. Its roar this time was more of a scream, high and sharp, and full of pain. It twisted to flee, panicked now, dragging itself toward the water in a half-blind stagger.

From the boat, Dutch stood tall for the first time, rifle to shoulder.

The shot rang out.

Clean. Precise. Right between the eyes.

The sailed-aligator shuddered, wobbled.

Then collapsed into the shallows with a great, final crash, water sloshing around its limp, bloodied bulk. 

For a moment that stretched too long, no one moved.

Arthur stared, blinking slowly, John finally stood up from behind the tree, Charles lowered his rifle, letting out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d held.

Dutch sat back down in the boat, finally exhaling. “Well,” he said, “that…could’ve gone a little smoother.”

John crawled out from behind the tree the second his knees stopped knocking together, and he forward a few steps before planting his hands on his thighs, trying to catch his breath. “We are never, ever, EVER, doing that again,” he rasped.

Arthur, still wringing swamp water out of his sleeve, raised a brow. “C’mon now, wasn’t that fun? Bit of exercise, bit of screamin’.”

John shot him a glare like he wanted to throw him back to the dinosaur.

Charles didn’t say anything. He was crouched in the mud, just breathing, steady and slow, eyes on the still body of the sailed-aligator. Arthur knew the look-he wore it too, sometimes-half prayer, half apology. Killin’ something ancient and angry like that…it left a mark.

Dutch stood with one boot braced on the edge of the boat, looking at the creature like it had crawled straight from a myth. “My God,” he said quietly, more to himself than anyone. “The size of it…”

The corpse was immense, a mountain of teeth and sail and blood soaking into dark water. Its body still twitched now and again with the remnants of death spasms, but the threat was gone. For now, at least.

From the foggy edges of the swamp, the people of Lagras began to emerge.

First two. Then five. Then more.

They came slowly, warily, armed with lanterns and rifles, but their faces shifted from suspicion to shock the moment they saw what lay across the water. The woman who’d first come to Shady Belle gasped, hands over her mouth.

Arthur lifted a hand. “It’s dead,” he called. “Ain’t gonna bother anyone no more.”

There was a beat of stunned silence.

Then someone let out a whoop, and the rest followed suit.

A man in a ragged coat shouted, “Meat for a whole damn month or more!”. Another laughed, saying something about stew so thick it’d clog your lungs. One of the younger women ran up and actually slapped Dutch on the shoulder, grinning. “Didn’t think y’all could really do it!”

Dutch smiled with a politician’s grace, still catching his breath. “Never doubt the spirit of man, my dear.”

Arthur gave John a look. “Still never doin’ it again?”

John made a face. “I didn’t say we shouldn’t enjoy the kill. Just no more swimmin’ with ancient hell-lizards.”

The townsfolk wasted no time gathering ropes, knives, and even a couple old wagons. It was a celebration, messy and full of laughter. There were practical matters to settle, but right now the swamp had given them something rare: a win.

The older woman pressed a small bag of coins into Dutch’s hand, murmuring something about gold, bullets, and the promise of fresh supplies. “Take your share from the meat, too,” she added. “You’ve earned it.”

Charles finally stood. “Let’s help ‘em carve it up. Would be a shame to waste any of it.”

Arthur looked at the size of the carcass again. “You sure we won’t be cursed for eatin’ somethin’ that old?”

Charles gave him a tired smirk. “Only one way to find out.”

The horses were wheezing by the time they reached Shady Belle. Even the strongest of them, Arthur’s, Taima and Old Boy, were damp with sweat, their sides heaving with effort under the weight of the haul. Rumps packed with bundled meat, thick, strange hide rolled tight, and sacks heavy with bones and teeth that clinked like old tools in a toolbox.

Arthur rode at the front, reins loose in one hand, the other gripping one of the sailed-aligator teeth he'd pocketed, a monstrous, curved thing as long as his palm, serrated at the edge. He kept turning it over in the light. Sharp enough to slice skin, heavy enough to club someone with, the kind of souvenir you didn’t forget.

As they pulled up to the crumbling front of the plantation house, the rest of the gang began to stir.

Sean, perched on one of the watch platforms, let out a shout. “They're back! And they look like they crawled outta a tomb!”

Within seconds, folk were gathering-Javier, Bill, Lenny, Tilly, Sadie, Hosea, even little Jack peeking out from behind Abigail’s skirt.

“What the hell happened to y’all?” Lenny asked, eyes wide as he looked at the blood-spattered clothes and swamp mud.

Sadie let out a sharp whistle when she caught sight of the haul. “That all meat?”

“Oh, this isn’t even a quarter of it,” Dutch said, sliding off his horse with a laugh, almost delirious from adrenaline and the ride. “The rest of it’s still sittin’ in the swamp. Damn thing was the size of a barn. Or bigger.”

Arthur dropped down behind him, holding up the tooth. “Took several rounds of bullets, one stick of dynamite, and Dutch landin’ the shot of a lifetime to bring it down.”

John slid off his horse last, still scowling from the memory. “I nearly got eaten, by the way.”

“John nearly pissed himself,” Arthur added with a sly grin, casually tossing the massive tooth from hand to hand.

“I did not-!” John started, before thinking better of it. “It was big , alright?”

“Big doesn’t cover it,” Charles said quietly. He hadn’t said much the entire ride back, but his voice had that thoughtful edge again, the kind that made people pause. “That thing ruled the swamp.”

Javier reached for one of the hide bundles, tugged it loose, and ran his hand along the scaly texture. “Feels tougher than gator leather,” he said. “Think we could make somethin’ outta this?”

“Boots, maybe,” Bill said, already grinning at the idea. “Dino boots.”

Arthur kept running his thumb along the edge of the tooth. “Might carve somethin’ outta this,” he murmured. “Knife handle, maybe. Or a whistle to scare the piss outta John.”

“Oh, go to hell,” John muttered, but the fight was already gone from him. He flopped down on the stairs of the porch, shoulders sagging. “I need a drink. Or several.”

Hosea chuckled as he looked over the haul, his eyes lighting up. “Well, boys, looks like we’re eatin’ good for the next month.”

“Let’s just make sure we cook it proper,” Tilly said with a grimace. “I don’t want any damn ancient disease from the Jurassic or whatever.”

Jack tugged at Arthur’s coat. “Did it really have a sail on its back?”

Arthur crouched down, showing him the tooth. “Bigger than a horse. Head like a croc, back like a sailboat.”

Jack’s eyes went wide, half frightened and half thrilled. “Cool.”

And for a moment-brief, ridiculous, and a little bit wonderful-Shady Belle was full of something like celebration.

The smell wafting from it was strange-not bad, just different. Like gator meat mixed with something muskier, more metallic. The sailed-aligator steaks, thick as Arthur’s forearm, sizzled over the grill plate Pearson had dragged out from the storage crates, Lenny stood beside him, holding skewers with smaller slices, while Bill handled seasoning with all the finesse of a man trying to salt a snowbank.

“No idea if it’ll kill us,” Pearson declared, voice gleeful. “But dammit, it’ll be memorable!”

Sadie took a swig of whiskey and smirked. “If I die, I wanna go full and pissed drunk. So keep passin’ that bottle.”

The gang lounged around the fire with plates and tin cups, conversation bubbling with rare, easy laughter. Even Dutch looked relaxed, though the look in his eyes as he watched the flames was unreadable. He hadn’t spoken much since returning, but every so often he’d glance toward the hide bundle lying near the supply cart-the severed sail of the beast they’d killed. It looked like the spine of some demon’s shipwrecked vessel.

Arthur stood at the edge of the firelight, crouched over his journal, tongue sticking out slightly as he sketched the silhouette of the sailed-aligator. His lines were rougher than usual, he was still shaky from the fight, if he was honest-but it helped to pin it to paper. Made it feel a little more manageable.

Then something moved behind him.

Arthur spun fast, hand going to his pistol, already muttering, “Oh for the love of-”

“Hi, Mister Morgan,” came a sheepish voice behind him.

Arthur damn near dropped his revolver. “Jesus CHRIST–Kieran?!”

The younger man flinched. “Sorry! Sorry! I didn’t mean to scare you!”

Arthur clutched his chest, staggering upright. “I forgot you were even with us, you little bastard!”

Kieran blinked. “I been here the whole time.”

“Whole time?”

“Yeah! I’ve been takin’ care of the horses, and-well, uh-Whiskey and Plum, mostly. Chicken too, though he bit me when I tried to brush his tail feathers.” Kieran held up a finger wrapped in a dirty bandage. “It’s fine. Not deep.”

Arthur squinted. “You mean to tell me you been hidin’ behind the stables like some damn ghost while we’ve been killin’ God’s own lizard out in the swamp?”

Kieran shrugged, a little sheepish. “Didn’t want to get in the way.”

Arthur sighed and shook his head, but there was no heat in it. “You’re lucky I didn’t shoot you.”

“I get that a lot,” Kieran muttered.

“Come on,” Arthur said, jerking his head toward the fire. “We’re tryin’ the meat. You’ve earned a bite, ghost-boy.”

As Kieran joined the circle, Pearson handed him a slab of meat on a plate, grinning ear to ear. “Best mystery meat this side of the apocalypse!”

Kieran sniffed it, looked unsure, then took a bite. He chewed thoughtfully, eyes going wide. “...That’s not bad.”

“See?” Bill said, mouth half-full. “Tastes kinda like gator, but richer. Like gator that got into a fight and came out with an attitude.”

Arthur bit into his own, chewing slowly. It was tough, no denying that, and gamey in a way he wasn’t used to-but there was something oddly satisfying about it. Maybe it was just the pride of knowing they’d survived the thing that had tried to eat them. Maybe it was the adrenaline still simmering in their blood.

Or maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t half bad.

As the gang passed around the bottle and swapped increasingly exaggerated retellings of the swamp hunt, Arthur leaned back on his log, letting the heat of the fire soak into his legs.

A rare moment of peace.

“We went and turned Shady Belle into a goddamn military perimeter. Got watch towers and a bunk in case everything goes to shit. Goddamn Pinkertons showed up, too. End of the goddamn world and those bastards still find it in ‘em to chase us. I’m hopin’ they get snatched up by a flying dinosaur or a gator sometime soon, to be frank.’

He looked down at his journal and scrawled one last sentence beneath the sketch of the sailed-aligator:

“Biggest damn thing I’ve ever seen. Nearly ate John. Tasted better than expected. Not doing that again.”

Chapter Text

The mood shifted the moment Trelawney and Strauss rode into Shady Belle, their horses mud-caked and heaving, their clothes travel-worn and dust-streaked. It was the kind of entrance that shut down a conversation before it even started. Trelawney didn’t even bother with a flourish or a tip of the hat, just slid down from his saddle and handed off his reins to Kieran, whose face fell the moment he saw the grim lines etched into the man’s normally smug expression.

Dutch called everyone in before Trelawney even opened his mouth. They gathered in the main room of the old plantation house-half the walls missing, a few windows boarded, but it still offered some semblance of privacy.

“What news?” Dutch asked, voice tight.

Trelawney dusted off his coat but didn’t sit. “We went as far east as Saint Denis. The city is still holding, but the military presence has doubled. Barricades. Floodlights. Checkpoints.”

“So they’re scared,” Sadie muttered.

“They should be.” Trelawney nodded. “And not just them.”

He looked to Arthur, then Charles, then the rest. “Rhodes fell, or, crumbled , I should say. Shortly after we left Clements Point, the Braithwaites and whoever else was trying to sell those herbivores, well, they learned the hard way that large prey tends to attract large predators.”

Arthur’s brows furrowed. “Carnivores, huh.”

“Big ones,” Trelawney said. “Something that left...nothing behind. The bodies were half gone when the first survivors got to Saint Denis. They’re being kept behind the city walls for now, what’s left of them.”

Dutch’s lips thinned. “Anything about Emerald Ranch?”

Strauss spoke for the first time, his voice clipped. “Overrun. murder birds, and the large ones with tiny heads and back plates. The ‘turkey-horses’ and those...creatures with three horns on their heads.”

“Whatever they are, they trampled the ranch to splinters. The fence couldn’t hold, and neither could the people,” Strauss said.

Trelawney added, “And Valentine is no better. Still crawling with the little ones. The…little rat lizards, is the colloquial name.”

Arthur sighed, rubbing his temple. “Jesus.”

“They’re scavenging everything,” Trelawney continued. “People can’t move through the streets without a pack of them nipping at their heels. And the murderbirds are running the saloons.”

Someone let out a nervous laugh. Arthur didn’t.

“So…” John said, leaning against the wall with crossed arms. “Everywhere’s fucked, is what you’re saying?”

Trelawney gave a tight-lipped smile. “Well, in colloquial terms… yes, dear boy. Quite thoroughly.”

A long, heavy silence settled over the room.

Dutch rubbed his temples, then looked out the busted window toward the swamps. “Then we hold here. We stay quiet. We survive. Let the world burn, if it must-we’ll keep our own fire going.”

No one argued.

Arthur looked around the room at the faces of his family. Some tired, some frightened, some trying to smile through it. All of them knew now that there was no going back to normal, whatever that even meant anymore.

He stepped out onto the porch, letting the humid night air fill his lungs. Somewhere, not too far off in the swamp, something let out a low, gurgling growl. 

He reached into his satchel for his journal and pencil.

“They’re still out there. Cities falling like dominos. We’re holding for now, but this ain’t safety. This is a pause.

And I don’t know what comes after.”

The sun had just begun to sink behind the trees when Javier spotted movement near the front gate. His hand went to his rifle out of habit, these days, every shadow could be claws, every shape something with teeth. But as the two figures came into view, walking calm and proud through the muck, he lowered his weapon.

“Arthur,” he called quietly over his shoulder, “you’re gonna want to see this.”

By the time Arthur and Charles arrived, the two men were already standing just outside the ruined fencing: one tall and older, with deep lines in his face and calm in his eyes, the other younger, sharper in build and gaze, his arms folded tightly across his chest. They didn’t carry weapons in hand, but it was clear they weren’t defenseless.

“Natives.” Charles murmured in disbelief.

Arthur blinked, stepping closer. “...same ones we saw when we were heading for Horseshoe Overlook…what are they doing here?”

The chief offered a tired nod and a slow wave of a hand. “Good evening. We come not to fight,” he said, voice low and even. “I am Rains Fall, this is my son…Eagle Flies. We were on our way to Saint Denis, to speak with the mayor or…anyone who would listen. But they would not let us past the gates. We rode for days. We’ve had no rest.”

Dutch, having been alerted, came sauntering up from the house. He eyed them for a moment and then nodded. “You’re welcome here,” he said, his voice carrying the warmth of old alliances and the thrill of relevance. “Of course you are. We’re not so callous as the city folk. Come in. Rest.”

The two men were guided inside. Dutch gave them a place at the fire, Sadie fetched them water, and Uncle stirred the stewpot while trying not to burn it. By the time night fully fell, the campfire had become the center of gravity once more, embers spitting skyward, meat sizzling, the faint roar of distant predators a constant undertone.

Charles sat near Rains Fall, watching the older man’s face. “How’s the situation on the reservation?” he asked, carefully.

Rains Fall exhaled slowly, glancing at the flames. “At first… it was bearable. We were fortunate, we thought. Only a few of the creatures came our way. And they were slow, gentle, mostly confused.” He paused. “But they kept coming, new ones kept appearing, and the ones that were already there started nesting. The land cannot hold the herbivores, and the carnivores are dangerous..”

“Dangerous how?” Arthur asked, brow furrowing.

“The ones near us now… they are covered in feathers, they run like wolves, they hunt in packs. Intelligent, coordinated.”

“Murder birds,” Charles muttered, rubbing his jaw.

Eagle Flies leaned forward. “The animals around the reservation- deer, elk, rabbits, even the bison- they don’t stand a chance against the meat eaters, and the herbivores trample and eat everything in their path. They’re pushing the local wildlife out.”

“We tried to seek help,” Rains Fall added, eyes darkening. “But the city will not open its gates. They have their own beasts to fight, we were turned away at riflepoint.”

John scoffed from across the fire. “Sounds about right.”

“Didn’t even let you in to talk ?” Arthur said, incredulous.

“They told us they had no food, no room, no help. That we should return and pray.” The chief’s voice held no bitterness, only the weight of a long, familiar truth.

Silence fell over the fire, thick with understanding.

“I’m sorry,” Charles said, softly. “I’ll help however we can.”

Dutch stood, ever the performer, silhouetted by the firelight. “You’ve got a place here for as long as you need it. These are dark days, my friends, but we won’t turn anyone away.”

Eagle Flies only nodded, eyes still scanning the treeline. Rains Fall leaned back and let the heat wash over his bones. They were tired, all of them, but it was the kind of tired that ran deeper than muscle or bone. The kind that settled in your spirit.

The mist was still rising off the marshes when Charles mounted up beside Rains Fall and Eagle Flies. The three of them moved out in silence, their figures fading into the trees like ghosts. Arthur watched them go from the porch of Shady Belle, thumb brushing against the edge of a chipped coffee mug.

“You trust he’ll be alright?” Dutch asked, coming to stand beside him.

Arthur gave a short nod. “Charles can take care of himself. And Rains Fall ain’t someone who moves without reason.”

Dutch hummed in agreement, then sat down heavily on the step, hat tilted back. He looked older today, the adrenaline from the last few days giving way to weariness. “Ain’t just the cities anymore,” he muttered. “Ain’t just the army or the Pinkertons or the damn federal government. You see what we’re up against, Arthur?”

Arthur sipped his coffee. “I’ve been seein’ it.”

Dutch looked out toward the swamp. “We thought civilization was the beast. That it would swallow everything in its path. But now the damn thing’s choking on something worse. You’ve got the city folk behind their walls, shootin’ anything that moves. Farmers run off their land. Outlaws hiding in the trees. And even the native tribes-”

He shook his head.

“They’ve been through hell enough already,” Arthur said, voice low. “And now this ?”

Dutch ran a hand through his beard. “It’s like the whole damn world is being reset. Like... we ain’t the top no more.”

Arthur stared into his mug for a long moment before setting it down. “That’s what’s got me thinkin’.”

Dutch looked up.

Arthur leaned against the porch railing, arms crossed. “What if we ain’t the top of the food chain anymore? What if this whole thing-the shootin’, the runnin’, the schemin’-what if none of it matters? If we’re just... tryin’ to hold on to something that’s already gone?”

Dutch raised an eyebrow. “You losin’ your fire, son?”

“I’m sayin’ I’m tired of fightin’ the wrong war.”

Dutch’s eyes narrowed, not in anger, but thought. The silence between them stretched as the morning sun began to burn through the mist, painting the world gold.

“We adapt,” Dutch finally said. “We always have.”

Arthur nodded slowly. “We’d better. ‘Cause them things out there? They ain’t waitin’ for us to figure it out.”

The rain came down in thick sheets, wind howling through the trees like some ancient ghost disturbed from its grave. Shady Belle groaned under the weight of the storm, the shutters rattling, the floorboards creaking, the swamps outside churning like a restless sea. The fire in the main room had long since died to embers, but no one slept.

They were here.

Figures in the dark, shifting between trees, bootsteps muffled in mud and wet grass. Arthur spotted the glint of metal, rifles, pistols, a long and terrible shape that could only be a mounted gatling gun being hauled through the marsh. Lanterns flickered in the distance, and the sound of a shouted order cracked through the air like a bullet.

“ Pinkertons ,” Arthur growled, voice tight.

John was already loading his shotgun. “Son of a bitch brought a goddamn army this time.”

“They know this ain’t just a job no more,” Arthur said.

Dutch stepped out onto the porch, rain plastering his coat and hair to his body. Thunder cracked overhead, and for a moment he looked almost mythic; tall and broad and burning with fury. He stood with arms open, shouting into the downpour.

“You think this matters?! You think the law still means something?! The world’s burning around us!”

A voice came from the treeline, amplified by the wind but cold as ice. “Come down, Van der Linde. You or your corpse. That’s the deal.”

Agent Milton.

Dutch raised his voice, defiant. “You’re hunting shadows! Cornwall’s money won’t mean a goddamn thing when there’s nothing left but teeth in the dark and blood in the dirt!”

No reply came, just the rattling clank of the gatling gun’s tripod settling into the muck.

Dutch stepped back inside. “They ain’t listenin’.”

Susan Grimshaw was already ushering the women and elderly down into the basement. “You stay with me, now–quickly! And quiet!”

Tilly helped Mary-Beth carry Hosea’s old cot down the stairs. Karen pulled Jack close, shielding him with her body as they vanished into the dark below.

Arthur’s jaw clenched. “We ain’t got numbers, Dutch.”

“We don’t need numbers,” Dutch said, eyes blazing. “We’ve got nothing to lose.”

The lightning flared, just long enough to show men in the trees, rifles drawn, crouched behind the old columns and hedges. A whistle blew.

The first bullet shattered a window.

Arthur ducked, rolled, came up firing. John was already crouched behind an overturned table, his rifle barking with every pull. Bill whooped as he hurled dynamite out the front door, and the blast lit up the swamp in a brief hellish glow.

A low thrum began to build, metal spinning fast, too fast.

The gatling was spinning up.

Charles wasn’t here. Charles was miles away.

Arthur reloaded, slid across the floor to cover Sadie, who was already bleeding from a graze to the shoulder. She didn’t even flinch. “Told you the bastards wouldn’t stop,” she growled.

“Guess now we make ‘em,” Arthur muttered, raising his pistol.

Outside, thunder roared again.

And gunfire lit up the night like lightning.

Rounds tore through windows and shutters, and the porch had been reduced to a splintered graveyard of wood and spent shells. Arthur was pinned near the stairs, rifle empty, smoke thick in the air. Somewhere above, someone screamed. John was dragging Sean to cover. Dutch had just slammed the front door shut with all his might, a bullet grazing the frame inches from his head. Even poor Kieran was by the window, shooting at whoever he could aim at.

And then, the air changed.

The storm stuttered, the wind shifted.

And the sound came again.

A blast of noise so deep, so unholy, it felt less like sound and more like the world itself groaning beneath the weight of something it was never meant to hold.

It was a trumpet-but not of any church or band. It was the sound of something older than bones, shrieking its dominion across the sky.

It made Arthur's teeth hurt. It made John nearly drop his rifle. The fighting as a whole came to a sudden halt.

Through the open window, Arthur could see them scattered in the trees, guns half-lowered, their eyes lifting skyward.

Then the lightning struck again.

And they saw it.

A shadow blotted out the stars-massive wings stretched open and allowing it to hover over the house, a long serpent-like neck ending in a head that looked less like an animal and more like a monstrosity. Tiny body, gigantic wings and head.

It didn’t fly like a bird. It floated , like it owned gravity, like the air itself bent to carry it. Every beat of its wings stirred the storm like a pot about to boil over.

Trelawney’s words echoed in his head like a prophecy. They’re calling it Quetzalcoatl now.

Arthur had no words. His breath caught in his throat as he stared through the cracks in the boards.

The beast didn’t even roar-it just descended , slow and ominous, wings spreading wider than the Belle’s roof. Each gust of wind it brought down uprooted mud and snapped thin branches in half.

Dutch turned to the others. “ Back. Inside. Now. ”

The Van der Linde gang scrambled deeper into the house, crouching low, guns forgotten for the moment, Micah muttered something unholy under his breath, Kieran couldn’t take his eyes off the damn thing, even Javier crossed himself.

But the Pinkertons…

Some ran. Broke formation and bolted into the swamp, the mud swallowing their boots, their shouts turning to screams. Some stood paralyzed, staring up in awe or terror, their weapons falling useless from their hands. 

And some-fools or zealots-pointed their rifles at the descending monster and opened fire.

It hissed, it roared, furious.

Bullets snapped against its hide. And then it dropped lower, close enough for Arthur to see the long beak, and the strange intelligence behind its golden eyes.

It was watching.

It was hunting .

The air seemed to hold its breath.

And the monster touched down.

There was no wrath in it, no fire-and-brimstone judgment like the preachers barked about in Valentine or Saint Denis. There was no hate in its movements, no malice. Only hunger , vast, ancient, and as impersonal as the tides.

It let out another bellow, not quite a scream, not quite a trumpet, but a sound that lived in the marrow. Shady Belle shuddered under the weight of it. Floorboards rattled, plaster cracked, and every outlaw inside the house flinched like children caught in a thunderstorm.

Arthur's heart thudded wildly against his ribs. He ducked lower beneath the broken window. “We’re gonna die in this goddamn house,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone.

Out front, the Pinkertons scrambled like ants.

The first three were plucked clean from the mud- scooped by the beast’s long, narrow beak and thrown back, swallowed whole like scraps. Their rifles clattered uselessly to the earth. A fourth ran straight into the path of a wing sweep and was sent sailing through the dark, hitting a tree with a sickening crack.

The Gatling gun screeched in protest as the Quetzalcoatlus stepped over it. One heavy foot crushed the tripod mount like it was made of twigs. The wing, trailing leathery skin like worn sails, swatted the whole assembly aside-and with it, the men trying desperately to reload it.

Crunch.

The Quetzel only looked down at it, tilted it’s head, curious and confused, as if it had stepped on a rock and not a deadly weapon.

“Oh my God,” Kieran whispered, peeking through a knothole in the wall. “It just-just walked over them.”

Milton was shouting something–orders or curses, it wasn’t clear. He had his revolver out, firing round after round at the monster’s flank. The shots might as well have been thrown pebbles. The pterosaur turned its long, stabbing face toward the sound.

Dutch leaned forward slightly, as if hypnotized by the spectacle. “ Don’t do it. Don’t be stupid…”

Milton fired again .

The Quetzalcoatlus struck like lightning. Its beak drove forward, and in a blink, Milton was gone-lifted from the muck and held flailing in the jaws of a creature tall enough to see in through the second-story windows. He screamed once.

Then silence.

Then gulp.

The body vanished down the creature’s long, rippling throat.

Inside the house, no one moved.

Javier’s face was pale, praying and holding the rifle he wasn’t aiming anymore like a makeshift rosary. “Ay, Dios mío. Ay, Dios mío, todos vamos a morir aqui y ahora. Ayúdame.”

John sat against the wall, shaking, muttering, “Nope. Nope. Nope. I didn’t sign up for this.”

Dutch exhaled a shaky breath. “This... This is the death of order. The law can’t tame this. No badge, no bank, no bullet-”

“Shut up, Dutch,” Sadie hissed, her eyes never leaving the broken window.

The creature stalked closer, beak swinging side to side, wings half, spread like it was ready to launch back into the sky, or crush the house beneath them.

Then it stopped.

For a long moment, it looked at the house. At them. One golden eye, round and cold and alien, blinked once. It tilted it’s head, poked the side of the house with it’s beak, like it was a curious critter and not a prehistoric abomination that picked officemen off the ground like an anteater in an ant’s nest.

Arthur didn’t breathe. No one did.

They all waited for the final blow.

But it never came.

With a gust of wind that sent shutters flying and trees bending, the Quetzalcoatlus stretched its wings, unfurled the sails of its back, and with a thunderous whomp of wind and rain, launched into the sky once more.

Up into the dark clouds. Up into the storm.

Gone.

Morning came slow and bitter.

Rain still fell in scattered bursts, soaking the earth and dripping from the broken eaves of Shady Belle. Smoke curled from bullet-pocked walls, a windowpane groaned and slid out of its frame with a soft crash. The once-elegant house was a ruin now, cracked and bleeding and sagging on its haunches like a wounded animal.

Arthur stepped out through the splintered front door, boots squelching in the churned-up mud. The air stank of black powder, blood, and something far older-the musky, sour reek of the thing that had come in the night. It still clung to the trees like fog.

Corpses dotted the grass.

Pinkertons. Scattered in pieces, some trampled, others slumped over shattered rifles or mangled under crushed limbs. The Gatling gun lay like a twisted carcass, barrel bent and half-buried in the mire.

And then there was Milton-his hat floating in a puddle, his body nowhere to be found.

Arthur exhaled slowly, eyes sweeping the horizon. The sky was quiet. For now.

Behind him, the gang began to filter out, one by one. Lenny holding a shotgun like it weighed a thousand pounds, Grimshaw pale, jaw tight, a revolver clutched in her apron pocket, Jack peeked out from Abigail’s arms, face tear-streaked, whispering: “Is it gone?”

No one answered.

John stepped up beside Arthur, brushing hair from his wet forehead. “Ain’t never seen anything like that,” he muttered. “Not even in my worst dreams.”

“Wasn’t a dream,” Arthur said. He looked down at the mud-streaked teeth still clenched in his fist from the night before. “This is real.”

Dutch emerged last.

He stood in the broken doorway a long moment, staring out over the mess, and said nothing. His face looked drawn-eyes sunken, mustache dripping rain, hair stuck to his scalp in limp black strips. The fire was still there, somewhere, but dimmer.

“Took ‘em all,” he murmured. “Ain’t even sure how many. Pinkertons, soldiers… Milton.”

Sadie was pacing the yard, boots kicking through the remains. “Ain’t like there’s gonna be a second wave,” she said. “They’ll think we’re cursed now.”

“They ain’t wrong,” Bill muttered.

“No,” Dutch said, his voice grim. “They’ll stay away. Maybe forever. But we didn’t win. That wasn’t a victory.”

They looked around. At the snapped trees. At the shattered shutters and the blood in the grass. At the silence.

No one said anything for a while.

Eventually, Arthur turned back toward the house. “We’ll need to move. This place’s finished.”

“Where?” Javier asked. “The forest’s full of murder birds. The swamps are worse. Cities are closed off. Where the hell are we supposed to go?”

“Don’t know,” Arthur said. “Somewhere they ain’t.”

Dutch turned away, back toward the porch. He looked older than Arthur had ever seen him.

“No more chasing,” he said softly. “The world’s gone mad, and the law’s buried under its boots. All we can do now… is try to live.”

And for once, no one argued.

Charles had returned just before dawn, just in time to see the last of the Pinkerton’s bodies being hauled off to the swamp water far from camp. He looked tired, worn, didn’t even ask what had happened. “The reservation’s situation is grim. They got big animals there, not as smart as the murderbirds but…bigger, meaner, stronger. They’re tearing through their food sources.” He’d said grimly, as he helped Arthur with the last body

By noon, the clearing was cleared and most of the windows were boarded, though it hadn’t done much to keep the rain out, nor the stink of the dead. Still, it was shelter. And shelter counted for something.

Dutch stood near the center of the room, coat slung over a chair, sleeves rolled to the elbows. His voice was calm, but not confident.

“We stay,” he said.

Nobody moved.

He looked at them one by one-Arthur, Hosea, John, Charles, Javier, Sadie, the rest-his hands braced against the table like it might steady him.

“It’s a house. With walls. A place to fall back into when the world turns upside down, which-if you ain’t noticed-has already happened.” His mouth twitched in something like a smirk. “We got rooms, we got an attic, a basement... hell, we even got a view.”

“You sure?” Arthur asked, brow furrowed. “It ain’t exactly stable , Dutch.”

Dutch didn’t answer right away. “I ain’t sure of anything anymore. But it’s what we got.”

John shifted where he stood, arms crossed. “Still think we oughta head for the mountains. It’s cold, yeah, but there ain’t no flyers up that high. Less people too.”

Charles shook his head. “I’ve been up there,” he said. “Passed by on my trip with Rains Fall. Something’s moved in. Big. Feathered. They stalk like cougars, but they don’t wait to pounce. They come in packs. Ripped through a hunting camp near Calumet Ravine.”

John blinked. “Why are the feathered ones always the meanest…”

“They move like they’ve always been there. Like we’re the trespassers now.” Charles murmured.

A grim silence settled.

“Cities are out, too, according to Trelawney,” Hosea added after a moment. “Saint Denis, Blackwater, Annesburg... packed to the gills the flyin’ bastards treat ‘em like buffets. Tall buildings, noise, smoke... Might as well light a beacon sayin’ ‘come eat us.’ It’s an all-you-can-devour special.”

Arthur exhaled slowly. “So the mountains are full of beasts. The plains are crawling with ‘em. Forests ain’t safe, and cities are worse. What does that leave?”

“Not the sea,” said Tilly, from near the window. “I heard stories from the sailors hidin’ out in the Saint Denis docks. Said something’s been draggin ships under. Big things, with big flippers and bigger teeth.”

“Oh, great ,” Sean muttered. “So what, the fish’ve gone mad too?”

Dutch’s eyes swept across the room. “Then there’s no choice.” He spoke quieter now, with something closer to resolve. “We hold. We survive. And we kill anything and anyone who tries to set foot on this land.”

He looked around like a preacher giving the last sermon before the end of days. There was no firebrand promise of glory, no grand talk of freedom or paradise. Just the cold facts of it. Survival.

Arthur didn’t say anything. He just nodded, jaw tight.

They had nowhere else to go.

Chapter Text

Shady Belle had seen blood, fire, flying terrors and Pinkertons and beasts that shouldn’t exist. But what it hadn’t seen-until now-was Dutch van der Linde being hissed at by something knee-high and covered in fluff.

The argument had started the way it usually did these days: quietly at first, then louder, sharp and cutting like broken glass. Molly had wanted to speak to Dutch, to try and get him to open up to her, and of course, as it usually did, it derailed into another argument.

“You treat me like I’m disposable, Dutch! I’m not! ”

“I’m tryin’ to keep us alive, woman,” he snapped back, arms flung wide. “You think I got time for relationship drama when I’ve got the weight of twenty people on my back?!”

“Maybe if you actually spoke to me -!”

“You think I got time to—!” Dutch stepped forward, finger pointed, voice rising, when something stirred by the steps.

A low, guttural hiss sliced through the air and all heads turned.

There, standing between Dutch and Molly with feathers puffed and claws half-raised, was the baby murder fingers.

Or, well- not quite a baby anymore. It reached Dutch’s knee now, legs long and gangly, head tipped slightly to the side in warning, its sickle-like claws gleamed faintly in the lantern light, and it let out a vibrating chirp-hiss that made Dutch instinctively step back.

“What the hell…” Dutch murmured, blinking.

The dinosaur took another step toward him.

“Molly,” Arthur said from the corner, coffee cup frozen mid-sip, “did that thing just…?”

“...protect me?” Molly’s mouth twitched into a grin. 

Dutch blinked a few times, face contorting into one of unimaginable betrayal. “I hatched you!”

The murder fingers hissed again.

“I let you sleep in my sheets! ” Dutch said, incredulous now. “I hand-fed you stew! ”

The dinosaur bobbed its head once, puffed up its feathers, then-deciding it had made its point-turned with a flounce and walked back to hide behind Molly’s legs, still throwing Dutch a nasty glare. She bent slightly and gave it a scratch under its fuzzy jaw, smug as anything.

The room broke into laughter.

Even Hosea, who had spent the morning trying to reinforce the attic beams, leaned against the wall and chuckled. “Looks like she’s got a new bodyguard.”

“You’ve been replaced, Dutch,” Sadie said dryly.

Dutch huffed, adjusting his vest. “This camp has no respect for its founder.”

“Oh, we’ve got respect,” Javier said, biting back a grin. “Just… maybe not from the chicken-lizard.”

“She’s not a chicken-lizard,” Molly corrected. “She’s my little angel.”

“Wasn’ it a he?”

“Well, I don’t actually know…dun’ matter.”

The murder fingers squeaked and flopped on its side dramatically, feet twitching, thoroughly enjoying the attention.

Arthur leaned over to Charles and muttered, “I give it three days before it’s in Molly’s bed.”

Charles whispered back, “You think it hasn’t already been?”

Dutch stalked off with a defeated mutter of, “Ungrateful little bastard…”

It was early-mist still hung thick over the trees, and the swamp was quiet in that eerie, unsettled way it sometimes got after something big had passed through. Shady Belle stood like a crooked monument behind Arthur as he walked toward the fences where the horses were kept. The air smelled of wet moss, dung, and old leather. One of the duck bills honked sleepily nearby.

Arthur wasn’t expecting much when he stepped around the corner of the shed, maybe just to check on the feed, make sure the murder fingers hadn’t started nesting in the hay again. What he didn’t expect was to see Kieran crouched awkwardly beside one of the Duck bill’s flanks, holding up a saddle like a man trying to dress a cow.

“...What the hell are you doin’?”

Kieran yelped.

He almost dropped the saddle, stumbling back into the mud. The Duck bill twitched but didn’t move much beyond a sleepy tail-swish. It had gotten used to Kieran by now, tolerated his poking and muttering like a particularly polite mule.

“I-uh-I was just-” Kieran rubbed the back of his neck, blushing. “Just tryin’ something.”

Arthur crossed his arms. “Didn’t mean to scare you, but that looks a lot like you’re trying to saddle a dinosaur.”

Kieran looked sheepish. “Well... yeah. I mean-ain’t no one else tryin’, and Dutch keeps saying we gotta adapt, right? And Javier saw that fella riding one of them tall turkeys and you rode Whiskey and Plum back from Braithwaite Manor, so I thought-why not try and make somethin’ proper?”

Arthur stepped closer, curious despite himself. The saddle-well, it wasn’t on the Duck bill, more just draped awkwardly across its broad back like a too-small blanket. Straps dangled uselessly at the sides.

Kieran gestured at the mess of buckles and padding. “See, I know it’s too small for ‘em. Ain’t no regular horse saddle gonna work. But if we could widen the base here, reinforce the belly straps…maybe even use some of that sailed-aligator hide from the one Charles brought down last week. Tough stuff. Could give it some grip.”

Arthur gave a low whistle. “You plannin’ on ridin’ it or starting a cavalry?”

Kieran chuckled nervously. “Just thinkin’ ahead. If we can saddle ‘em, we can haul more supplies. Maybe even outrun those big carnivores if we get ambushed again.”

Arthur ran a hand down the Duck bill’s scaled flank. It snorted softly but didn’t move. “You think it’d let you ride it?”

Kieran paused. “Maybe. She’s been real calm lately. Lets me brush her. I think she likes me.”

Arthur raised a brow. “She or he ?”

“Eh. I don’t think they care.”

They stood there a moment in silence, the Duck bill swaying slightly, chewing some half-rotten reeds. The sky was starting to clear up, dull sunlight filtering through the moss-laden trees.

“Guess it ain’t the dumbest idea,” Arthur finally muttered. “But if you fall off and break your neck, I ain’t the one buryin’ you.”

Kieran grinned. “Wouldn’t be the first dumb thing I tried, but… I figure it’s better than sittin’ around waitin’ to be someone’s dinner.”

Arthur gave him a half-smile and clapped his shoulder. “Just don’t try to put reins on Chicken. That little bastard’ll eat your face.”

“Already learned that the hard way,” Kieran muttered, flexing a finger wrapped in a bandage.

They both laughed, and for a moment-just a moment-the chaos of the world didn’t feel so heavy.

They’d gotten used to the taste of dinosaur meat by now-stringy, greasy, sometimes bitter like old boar. But the vegetables were gone. The fruits, too. And you could only pretend so long that swamp water was anything but a stomachache waiting to happen.

It started as a throwaway comment.

John was sitting near the fire, half-dozing with Jack in his lap, when someone brought up the lack of carrots, and someone else mentioned they hadn’t had beans in weeks.

“Maybe we oughta start plantin’ stuff,” John mumbled, picking at his boot. “God knows we’ve got enough manure to last three lifetimes.”

He didn’t mean it seriously. But the silence that followed said the rest of them were.

Dutch sat up, thoughtful. Hosea leaned in. Even Arthur, cleaning his rifle, paused.

“Actually,” Hosea said slowly, “it’s not the worst idea.”

“Now hold on,” Arthur muttered. “We’re in the middle of a goddamn swamp.”

“Plenty of people grow crops in swampy soil,” Hosea argued. “You just gotta know how . And we’ve got all the fertilizer we could ever want.”

“Too much,” Javier added. “One of the Duck bills let loose by the firepit the other night. I thought I was gonna pass out.”

“I’m just sayin’,” John shrugged, suddenly on the defensive, “beats scrounging through rotten leaves for half a carrot.”

Sadie, arms crossed, squinted at the mucky ground. “We could try them raised-bed things. My ma did ‘em back when the creek used to flood our old place. Wood walls, fill it with dry dirt if we can find some.”

“We ain’t exactly got anywhere good for buyin’ seeds nearby,” Bill said.

“No,” Abigail said from the side, voice tired but sharp, “but we do have an entire ruined manor with busted doors and splintered beams. Plenty of wood. If someone stops using it for campfire fuel.”

There was a grumble from the fire. Charles, who had been quiet, finally spoke.

“I’ve seen some wild tubers out by the tree line. Might be edible. And there’s cattails, too. Not tasty, but they won’t kill you.”

“I’ll take not kill you over swamp jerky again,” Sean groaned.

“It’s not jerky,” Pearson growled, offended. “It’s smoked tyrant meat. And it’s resourceful.”

“It’s like chewin’ on a tire that screamed before it died,” Arthur muttered.

Dutch rose, rubbing his chin as if he’d just had the idea himself. “Alright. If the future of man is to survive in this new world… we must adapt. Rebuild. Replant. This place may be cursed, but it is ours . And I say we put it to work. We did originally have the dream of becoming ranchers somewhere eventually, this is just…an adaptation of that.”

Kieran perked up, hopeful. “I can start drawing up the beds. Maybe carve out some markers.”

“See if we can find any seeds in the stuff we brought from Clemens,” Hosea added. “Might be something usable.”

“Hell,” John muttered with a crooked grin, “if this all goes belly-up, we can always eat you , Kieran.”

“I’d be stringy,” Kieran said brightly. “And I bite.”

That actually got a laugh.

It was midmorning when Charles and Javier set out into the foggy woods, the light still slanting low and golden through the mangroves. The air was thick with gnats and the occasional distant shriek, and even after all these weeks, the shadows still made Arthur tense. But the two of them-quiet, patient, focused-were the best suited for foraging, and Javier’s wounds had finally healed well enough. 

They took rifles, machetes, and canvas bags, and slipped into the brush like ghosts.

Back at Shady Belle, the rest of the gang turned their attention to the task at hand: transforming the swamp-ruined manor into something that could maybe, just maybe, be properly lived in.

Arthur nailed shutters back onto windows. Hosea and John cleared a room to store supplies. Sadie dragged the broken remains of an armoire out into the yard and declared she’d be turning it into planter boxes if no one stopped her. Pearson and Abigail argued over whether or not onion bulbs could still grow if they’d gone soft.

But the real star of the day was Penelope . The murderfingers tickle chicken. 

Molly, who had mostly taken to sitting quietly with her arms folded and muttering under her breath since they had to flee from Horseshoe, had perked up considerably once the baby murder fingers began following her around like a grotesque, half-feathered half-scaly puppy. She had named it Penelope after one of her favorite romance novels-though the connection between a gentle-hearted Victorian debutante and a rapidly-growing, plant eating murder bird was questionable at best.

Still, Penelope was smart.

Smarter than it had any right to be.

“Molly,” Dutch called out skeptically as he watched the beast paw at the mud, “why’s the creature clawing holes in the yard?”

“It’s tilling,” Molly said coolly, tossing Penelope a scrap of pickles. “Aren’t you, sweetheart?”

Penelope let out a soft, wheezing chirp and continued raking deep trenches into the muck with her scythe-like claws. It stopped now and then to sniff the air or glare at anyone who got too close-particularly Dutch. Dutch wisely kept a good ten feet between them.

Arthur wandered over with a bucket of ash and bark mulch. “Well I’ll be damned,” he muttered. “That thing’s actually useful.”

“It likes being told what to do. As long as I’m the one doin’ it,” Molly said, not quite smug but close. “It doesn’t listen to anyone else.”

“I tried,” Bill said, limping by with a plank of wood. “Told her to help carry stuff and she tried to turn me into a kebab with them damn claws.”

“She’s a good girl–boy— well, whatever~” Molly cooed.

Penelope warbled and sat down directly on a patch of freshly cleared earth, tail twitching like a contented cat.

“I’m tellin’ you,” John murmured,  “that thing’s gonna gut someone one day.”

“Probably Dutch,” Sadie had said dryly. “And I for one think that’s fine.”

By late afternoon, they had three long trenches dug-muddy, uneven, but usable. Dutch ordered planks nailed around the edges to keep the swamp water from flooding them. It wouldn’t hold forever, but it was a start. Pearson declared that if nothing else, they could grow wild onions, maybe some yams. Hosea found some moldy potatoes from the last supply run and triumphantly announced they could probably be planted too.

Arthur sat back on his heels, wiped the sweat off his brow, and looked at the scene: the gang moving like ants in a half-destroyed hive, clawed lizard flopped in the dirt, sun high above and heavy with storm-light.

It wasn’t the life he imagined.

But it was life.

The hammering had quickly started to get on Arthur’s nerves.

He’d been chopping wood for the better part of an hour, sweat clinging to his back, bugs buzzing in his ears, and the relentless bang-bang-bang of Dutch trying-and failing-to build something that resembled a doorframe out of swamp-rotted planks. It was admirable, in a grim sort of way. But it was loud. And Arthur was beginning to wonder if anyone else remembered how to shut up.

So he took a walk. Not far-just enough to catch his breath.

Chicken wasn’t far, as always. She’d taken up residence near the collapsed north-facing side of the mansion, where the sun hit warm on the cracked stones. A patch of creeping vines had grown over some of the fallen beams, and the little murder bird had nested there like she owned the place.

Arthur found her exactly where he expected: curled in a lumpy little heap in the sunlight, claws twitching, tongue flicking in and out as she dozed.

“Hey, girl,” he said softly, crouching down beside her. “Just came to say howdy.”

She blinked open a gold eye, gave a soft squeak of greeting, and went right back to pretending she was asleep.

Arthur tilted his head.

There was something... off.

She was perched weirdly-tense, legs tucked in too tight, tail wrapped almost protectively around something. Arthur raised an eyebrow. “What are you sittin’ on, huh?”

Chicken gave a low growl as he reached toward her, but didn’t bite. She never bit him anymore, unless she was trying to make a point.

“Move, girl,” he murmured, nudging her flank gently. “Come on. Let’s see what you got under there.”

Reluctantly, she stood, flaring her feathers and letting out an indignant huff . And there, nestled in a rough bed of moss, bark, and some kind of stolen shirt sleeve, sat three small, speckled eggs. Each one was roughly the size of a clenched fist, cream-colored with little rust-colored flecks.

Arthur stared.

Then exhaled, long and low.

“Oh, you gotta be jokin’,” he muttered, reaching down and picking one up gently. Chicken watched him like a hawk, head tilted, claws twitching.

He held the egg up toward the sunlight, the way he’d seen Hosea check bird eggs. No veins. No dark spot. No movement.

“Huh.”

He picked up the second one. Then the third. Same results.

Arthur let out a chuckle that came from deep in his chest, soft and incredulous.

“Well,” he said, crouching beside her again, “guess you’re good for more than catchin’ rats and being emergency food after all, girl.”

Chicken nuzzled his hand, then immediately tried to steal one of the eggs back.

Arthur gave it to her. She nestled it under her belly like it was the crown jewels.

He stayed there a while longer, watching her fuss over them with surprising delicacy. It was the quietest he’d felt in days. No gunfire. No screeching in the skies. Just the wind through the trees, the creak of old wood, and one stubborn little monster doing her damndest to play mother.

Charles crouched near the base of a tree half-swallowed by moss and vine, a small smile tugging at his lips as he pointed out a cluster of tall green stalks growing from the mud.

“Cattails,” he murmured. “Plenty of ‘em.”

Javier gave a low whistle, kneeling beside him. “Ain’t tasty, but better than nothing.”

They’d already filled two makeshift sacks with roots, leaves, and strange green tubers Charles said might be edible. Whether or not they were safe was another question-but beggars couldn’t be choosers, and these days, every belly in camp was starting to rumble.

The real surprise came in the form of the woman.

She appeared just as twilight began to roll in, standing in the shallows beside a crooked cypress tree like she’d been waiting for them. Her hair was tangled, her dress threadbare and stained, and her eyes as sharp and black as a bird’s. She didn’t give a name-only pointed at their bundles and said, “Don’t go boilin’ those wrong. That starch’ll poison ya if ya don’t soak it first. Ye want the root, not the skin. Peel it. Slice it thin. Toast it if you got fire, boil it if you got time.”

Charles and Javier exchanged a glance, wary but grateful. She didn’t seem dangerous. Just...strange.

She offered no shelter, no further help. Just turned and disappeared into the mossy dark before either of them could offer thanks.

“I feel like we just saw some kinda forest spirit,” Javier muttered, glancing over his shoulder as they kept walking.

Charles grunted. “If a forest spirit smells like pond water and chews with her mouth open, yeah. Maybe.”

By the time night truly settled in, they were picking their way back through the dark, fireflies flitting between trees, frogs croaking in the distance. The path was murky, but they’d marked it well enough with pieces of fabric and broken branches. The load was heavy, but not unbearable.

That was when they heard it.

A scream.

High-pitched and desperate. A woman’s voice.

“Please! Please, someone! Help me! I’m stuck!”

Javier jolted, nearly dropping his sack. “Jesus-did you hear that?!”

“Yeah.” Charles was already on alert, squinting into the trees. “That came from just over-”

“Please-help me! It’s coming back! I can’t-I can’t move!”

They exchanged a quick glance and moved towards it, trying to find the source of the screaming, going further and further into the foliage, nearly getting swallowed whole by the green and black, with only the moonlight to help them see what was in front of them.

“...Please! Please, someone! Help me! I’m stuck!”

Javier unslung his rifle, heart pounding. “We have to do something. That sounds-”

But Charles didn’t move forward. He frowned, eyes narrowing, listening hard. This time the voice sounded closer. Same pitch. Same cadence . Word for word.

“...Please! Please, someone! Help me! I’m stuck!”

It repeated again. Identical .

Javier went still.

“That’s the same scream,” Charles said softly. “The same exact words. The same tone. Over and over.”

It played again. “Please-help me! It’s coming back! I can’t-I can’t move!”

The exact same tremble, the same break in the voice, as though someone had pressed a needle to a broken record.

Charles grabbed Javier’s arm and yanked him behind a thick, moss-covered log, crouching low. He pressed a finger to his lips.

They waited.

Silence.

Then, just beyond the tree line, the scream came again.

But this time, something was off.

There was a clicking sound underneath it. A dry, rattling hiss. And the scream shifted -too fast, like it was being corrected mid-play. The “help me” came out a second too slow, like the speaker had forgotten the word and had to recall it.

Charles stared into the dark, barely breathing.

“...That wasn’t a person.” Charles whispered.

They didn’t speak.

They just waited, backs to the bark, until the swamp went quiet again.

“Get in the log,” Charles whispered, voice barely audible above the distant crickets. “Now.”

Javier hesitated just long enough to look at him in alarm before he slipped around and crawled into the hollow of the fallen tree. It was wide enough for him to move quick and curl his legs under himself, though the moss inside was damp and sour with rot.

Charles followed, but it was a tight squeeze, he had to hunch down, shoulders scraping the inner bark. His boots caught on the lip of the log before he yanked them in, muffling a curse. The bark creaked around them.

Then, silence.

Time stretched.

They sat, pressed shoulder to shoulder in the dark, the smell of wet wood and alcohol heavy around them. Outside, the frogs had gone quiet. Even the bugs seemed to have retreated.

And then… Crunch.

Footsteps. Slow . Heavy.

Javier tensed beside him.

Another step. Then a deep inhale, snorting, like something testing the air.

A dry clicking sound echoed across the trees, not quite like claws, not quite like teeth. It was wet and precise and deeply, deeply wrong.

Then the voice came again.

“...Please! Please, someone! Help me! I’m stuck!”

It was louder now, closer. And this time it stumbled slightly on the word someone , dragging the “s” like it didn’t quite know what the word meant, like it was guessing, like it was just repeating what it’d heard before.

Javier pressed his hand over his mouth, eyes wide in the dark. He looked at Charles.

Charles shook his head once, sharply. No sound.

The footsteps circled, slower now. 

There was a sniffing noise, then a faint rasp, like something breathing through its teeth.

“Please…” it croaked, then repeated, “Help me…”

The last word came out twisted, guttural, like it didn’t belong in a throat like that.

Javier swallowed hard, heart hammering against his ribs, hand over his own mouth to muffle even his own breathing, if possible. Charles didn’t move, not even to blink, he stayed perfectly still.

The thing outside moved again, this time faster. It let out a sharp exhale and something long scraped against the outer bark of the log. A claw?

Then...nothing.

No footsteps.

No voice.

Just the dark.

They waited.

And waited.

Then the silence shattered with a thud as something landed on top of the log.

The hollow beneath them groaned with the weight, dust and flakes of old bark rained down over their heads. Charles tensed, pistol drawn, his arm across Javier’s chest instinctively, holding him back.

The voice came again.

But not the same voice.

“Is anyone there?” it called out, this time deep and male. Rough, like a local ranch hand. “Hello? Is anyone there? Hello?”

It said it again and again.

Each repetition was just a hair off, the rhythm too regular, the inflection wrong, like someone reading words they’d only heard once.

“Hello? Is anyone there? Hello?”

Then-

Scrrraaaaaape.

Long claws dragged across the outer shell of the log. A deliberate sound. A warning-or a taunt.

Charles looked to Javier in the dim, his eyes wide and cold. He didn’t speak, he mouthed the words slowly: It knows we’re here.

Javier’s hand was already on his pistol, his knuckles were white, sweat clung to his temple.

They didn’t move.

Outside, the scratching stopped and for a moment there was just the sound of breathing-low and steady.

And then from the dark behind them, the entrance they’d crawled through…

Something massive and angular pushed its way into the mouth of the log. Wide eyes, too many teeth, feathers like tangled reeds across the back of its head, and dark red around it’s lips. A great clawed hand braced against the outer bark as it leaned down to look in.

A face.

And it was staring right at them.

Charles didn’t hesitate, his pistol fired, the sound deafening in the confined space. The bullet struck the murder bird square in the snout.

It reared back with a violent screech, more offended than truly hurt, flailing its limbs as it crashed away from the log and into the trees. Bark flew in all directions as it retreated, tripping over roots, shrieking in frustration.

Charles didn’t wait. He grabbed Javier’s shoulder.

“Now! Move! ”

They bolted out of the log, weapons raised, and into the dark of the swamp, hearts hammering in their chests.

They didn’t look back.

They stumbled back into camp at dawn, soaked to the bone, faces pale, clothes caked with mud and swamp muck. Javier’s hat was gone, and Charles looked pale. They were dragging a bundle of cattails, roots, and a rough satchel of seeds, but all eyes went straight to their faces.

Arthur was the first to his feet, gun still strapped to his hip, brow furrowing as he saw them limp in. “What the hell happened to you two?”

Javier tried to answer, but he was still gasping, bent forward with his hands on his knees. He waved his hand vaguely, like give me a second , but the look in his eyes said more than enough.

Charles, behind him, dropped the satchel and straightened slowly. His voice was hoarse when he spoke. “I think they’re getting smarter.”

A ripple of silence passed through the camp.

He met Dutch’s gaze across the firepit. “The ones that set up the trap back in Clements Point? That wasn’t just dumb luck. Wasn’t instinct. And worst of all, it was nothing .”

Javier finally found his breath. “It talked ,” he said, voice tight and trembling. “It talked . It mimicked a scream. Like a woman was beggin’ for help.” He ran a hand through his hair. “We almost ran right toward it. Thought it was real. Till it started repeating . Word for word.”

Someone cursed under their breath. Sadie’s jaw was tight. Hosea stood without saying anything, as if seeing it all play out in his head.

“It tried to bait us, and it almost succeeded,” Charles added. “Would’ve gutted us if we hadn’t figured it out.”

Dutch’s expression was unreadable. He looked toward the swamp. Toward the silence that now sat like fog over the trees. Then he looked back to the camp, his voice quiet but sharp.

“New rule.”

Everyone looked at him.

“If you hear screamers in the night-pleads, cries for help-you ignore them. Don’t leave your bedroll. Don’t answer. Don’t even look .”

He stared at each of them in turn.

“We help each other. But we do it smart. If we start running out every time some creature yells help , we’re gonna be picking up more bodies than cattails.”

No one argued.

Javier sat down hard on a crate and stared into the fire. Charles stayed standing, arms crossed, jaw tight.

The swamp crackled faintly beyond the trees, as if in approval.

Chapter Text

Trelawney rode back into camp with a dust-coated jacket and a smile too carefully placed to be sincere. He always looked untouched by the wild, even now, even in this strange age of monsters and sky-splitting horrors. Like the dirt of the world never quite stuck to him. Like the world didn’t dare.

He dismounted with a flourish and offered a lazy wave as Molly and Sean moved to take stock of his saddlebag.

“Didn’t get eaten,” he said lightly. “Which I think qualifies as a rousing success.”

Arthur was crouched by the stewpot, stirring in bits of something Penelope had helpfully clawed out of the muck. He barely looked up until Trelawney added, more seriously this time, “I have mail.”

That got his attention.

He stood and dusted his hands off on his pants, already expecting it to be some useless note from a fence, or worse, a letter with nothing inside, just a blank sheet, scavenged for paper value alone. But when Trelawney pulled a single envelope from his coat and handed it to him wordlessly, Arthur felt the ground shift under him.

His name was on the front. Just his name.

He recognized the handwriting immediately.

Mary.

For a moment, all he could do was stare.

He didn’t know whether to be relieved or afraid.

No one said anything as he turned from the fire and stepped a few paces away toward a cluster of cypress roots, settling on one like it was a church pew, his hands trembling faintly as he tore the envelope open.

The paper inside was smudged. Torn on one edge. But her words were still clear.

“My dear Arthur,

I do not know if you are alive. I do not know where you are, or if this letter will ever find its way to your hands. But I saw one of the men in your gang –Mr. Trelawney, if I’m not mistaken– in Saint Denis, and dared to hope for the best. So I am writing this in hopes, foolish hopes, perhaps, that it finds its way.

I am still in the city. What’s left of it. Parts of Saint Denis are… unrecognizable. The government has closed off the ports. There are barricades made from carriages and boats pulled into the streets. The sky goes strange at night, and we do not ask questions anymore.

I am alive, somehow, and I am with others who are trying to stay that way. We barter with whatever we can. Some of us pray. Others just drink. Oh, Arthur, I think of you often. I’ve thought of you every night since this all began. I don’t know what I expected, perhaps I thought you’d come riding out of the smoke on one of those strange new beasts, laughing like the world hadn’t ended.

But I am not writing to ask you to save me.

I know better than that now.

I am writing to tell you I’m sorry. Not for surviving, but for not going with you when I had the chance. For not saying yes. For letting fear and comfort win.

We always danced around a life we never lived, Arthur. I know you tried. I think I did, too. But the world we kept reaching for always stayed just a little too far, didn’t it?

I see it clearly now. In this awful new world, where death has teeth and wings, I see how foolish I was to think love would wait politely. You offered me your hand, and I turned my face away. And now, there are no more dances. Just regrets.

I do not expect you to come for me. I would never ask that. I do not even expect you to write back. But I wanted you to know… you were loved. You still are.

Take care of yourself, Arthur Morgan.

And please, do not answer any cries in the dark.

Yours,
Mary.”

Arthur read it once. Then again.

The letter shook slightly in his hands. Whether it was from the breeze or his grip, he didn’t know.

He didn’t cry. Not exactly. He just sat there with a terrible weight pressing against his chest, like her words had knocked the breath clean out of him.

He wanted to be angry. At her. At himself. At the world.

But mostly, he just felt tired. Like something inside him had caved in. A memory, maybe. A version of himself that had once believed in something soft and safe. In a porch and a sunrise and a woman who smiled at him like he wasn’t broken.

He folded the letter with care and tucked it into his coat.

When he returned to the fire, he said nothing. No one asked, but Charles gave him a long, knowing look from across the camp, and Arthur nodded, just once, like he’d heard everything the man hadn’t said.

The swamp hummed with its usual chorus, buzzing wings, unseen frogs croaking from deep pools, the distant splash of something too large to be just a fish. Mist clung low to the water, and the trees looked like ghosts of themselves in the early morning haze.

Arthur stood at the edge of it all, boots sinking half an inch into the wet earth, arms crossed tight over his chest like he was holding something in. He wasn’t on watch. He hadn’t been assigned patrol. He’d just… walked out here, letter still heavy in his coat pocket, and stared at the horizon until he forgot what he was trying to find out there.

He didn’t hear Hosea approach, but he felt him. The old man moved quiet these days, like his joints had learned to make peace with the ground.

Hosea didn’t say a word. He just lowered himself with a slow grunt onto a mossy root beside him, shoulders close but not pressing, eyes forward.

They sat in silence for a long time.

Eventually, Arthur exhaled, shaky and worn, and spoke like he’d been holding the words in so long they hurt to say.

“Mary wrote me.”

Hosea didn’t react with surprise. He just nodded a little, like he’d been expecting it in one form or another.

“She’s in Saint Denis. What’s left of it, anyway,” Arthur went on. His voice was rough around the edges, like it had been scraped against the inside of his throat. “Said she’s with other survivors. Said not to come for her.”

“But you want to,” Hosea said, simply.

Arthur looked away. His jaw tightened. “Dutch won’t have it. Said we ain’t supposed to go near the cities anymore. And hell, who knows how long that mail’s been sitting at the station. Might’ve been written weeks ago. Months. She might already be dead.”

“Perhaps,” Hosea murmured, resting his hands on the knob of his cane. “But if you don’t go, if you don’t find out , it’ll eat you alive, Arthur. You know it will.”

Arthur didn’t respond. He just stared ahead, eyes dry but shining in the low morning light.

“You loved her,” Hosea said. “Maybe you still do. That ain’t something a man can bury with any success.”

Arthur made a quiet sound, part scoff, part breath, part something that nearly broke.

“I don’t even know what I’d say,” he muttered. “What can you say, when the whole world’s gone to hell and all you ever did was disappoint someone good?”

“You say what you can,” Hosea said, his voice gentle but unwavering. “You go and you find out if she’s still breathing. That’s it. The rest… you’ll figure out.”

Arthur leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands steepled under his chin. He looked so much younger like that, like the lost, angry boy they’d found back in the mountains two decades ago, fists up against the world and nothing to call his own but pride and pain.

“You really think it’s worth it?” Arthur asked.

Hosea didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice was soft.

“I think letting her memory fester in your chest like rot’ll be worse. You’re not the kind of man who forgets. I’ve always known that about you.”

Arthur swallowed. The swamp mist curled around their feet like smoke.

“Take someone with you,” Hosea said, reaching out to pat his back once, firm and fatherly. “In and out. No delays, no heroics. Just go see if she’s alive. And I’ll stay here. Take the blunt of Dutch’s fury when he finds out, and remind him, gently, that he’s not always right.”

That managed to coax the barest trace of a smile from Arthur, the kind that faded before it even fully arrived.

“Thanks,” he said hoarsely.

Hosea nodded. “Go at night. Less eyes. Take someone quick. Charles, maybe. Or Javier.”

Arthur nodded slowly, not committing, but already planning.

They both fell quiet again, listening to the buzzing life around them, too loud, too ancient, too big to ever feel truly safe again.

But for now, in the fog and the mud, there was a decision being made. One last ride into a dying city. One more thread he had to follow, no matter what waited at the end.

Arthur found Charles near the edge of camp, crouched beside a massive, spiked footprint half-filled with rainwater. He was squinting at it, tracking its direction, brow furrowed in thought.

“Need a word,” Arthur said quietly.

Charles stood slowly, brushing mud off his palms. One look at Arthur’s face, and he straightened up fully. “What’s going on?”

Arthur glanced around to make sure no one else was close enough to overhear. “I’m going to Saint Denis. Tonight.”

Charles didn’t flinch, didn’t even blink. “You need help?”

“I do.” Arthur looked at him steadily. “Mary’s alive. Or was, when she sent that letter. She’s holed up with some others in the city. I just... will you ride with me, Charles.”

Charles nodded once. “Always.”

Arthur let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He clapped Charles on the shoulder. “Thank you.”

They found Trelawney reclining in his usual pompous sprawl near the campfire, sipping tea from a cracked porcelain cup like he was in some salon in Paris instead of a mosquito-infested swamp. He spotted them approaching and raised an eyebrow, as if he’d already taken the liberty of assuming their business.

“I was wondering when you'd come ask,” he said, setting his cup down with a clink. “Saint Denis, I presume?”

Arthur grunted. “You know a way in. One you use regular. You and Strauss.”

“I do indeed. It’s unpleasant, it smells like the end of the world, and it’s probably crawling with creatures that don’t belong in this century. But yes, it works.”

Charles folded his arms. “We’ll need to move fast.”

Trelawney stood, dusting imaginary lint from his jacket. “Come then, gentlemen. I’ll show you the path.”

The route twisted through thick reeds and along forgotten paths, half-submerged under brackish water. It wasn’t far from where the gang had once smuggled goods in quieter days. Trelawney led them along the muddy banks, past sunken fences and rotting carts, until they reached the crumbling edge of a broken aqueduct that led to a corroded sewer grate.

“There,” he said, gesturing with a theatrical flourish. “Saint Denis’ underbelly. We used to slip through here to avoid bounty hunters. Now it’s just... less crowded. Most people fear the city, and not without reason.”

Arthur eyed the grate, already smelling the foul air seeping from within. The metal bars had been pulled back, twisted enough to allow a man to slip through.

“You’ll want to burn your clothes after,” Trelawney added with a grin. “And for heaven’s sake, take a bath. The last time Strauss came out of there, I nearly fainted.”

Arthur snorted and crouched down to inspect the opening. “You sure this still comes out near the station?”

“More or less. The last exit runs beneath the western quarter. It’ll put you near the church ruins. From there, you’re on your own.”

Charles stepped in behind him without hesitation. “Let’s go.”

Trelawney offered a little wave. “Do send my regards to Mary, if she’s still among the living. And remember, don’t linger. The city has eyes. And claws.”

Arthur gave him a final nod, then ducked into the pipe. The darkness swallowed him almost instantly. Charles followed, and the two disappeared into the rot and shadow of Saint Denis’ forgotten veins.

Behind them, the swamp exhaled, and the world moved on, unaware, or uncaring, of what they might find in the ruined city beyond.

The sewer let them out behind a collapsed stone culvert, where algae coated the bricks and the stench of rot gave way to the strange, sour air of the city. Arthur crawled out first, mud-caked and sore, and offered a hand to help Charles up behind him. They crouched in silence, catching their breath beneath the shadow of a broken trolley line.

Saint Denis had always been loud—hustling, overpopulated, full of smoke and shouts and the clatter of machinery. Now it felt... paused. The streets were nearly silent, save for the occasional echo of boots or the clink of weapons. Posters hung in tatters on the walls. Boards covered most windows. And above, far above, faint shapes occasionally drifted in the clouds, wings too large to belong to birds.

“I hate this already,” Arthur muttered.

“Me too,” Charles said, and they moved into the shadows.

They stuck close to alleys and abandoned carts, slipping past shuttered shops and sagging porches. A few scattered souls wandered the streets: a policeman with a long rifle and a metal whistle clutched in his fist, a woman dragging a sack of something unidentifiable, two barefoot boys picking through a toppled fruit stand. A haggard man sat in a doorway muttering nonsense, rocking back and forth like he’d forgotten how to sleep.

The world hadn’t ended here, not entirely. But it had frayed at the edges. Arthur could feel it in his teeth.

At a crumbling stone arch that once led to the theater district, Charles stopped. “We’ll cover more ground if we split up.”

“You sure?”

Charles nodded. “You know what she looks like. I’ll check near the university quarter. Meet at the trolley station in an hour.”

“Alright.” Arthur clapped his shoulder. “Don’t do anything stupid, and don’t get eaten.”

Charles grinned faintly. “You too.”

Arthur headed deeper into the city, past half-toppled balconies and signs half-eaten by mold. Eventually, he came to a saloon he remembered, now weather-beaten and quiet. Inside, it smelled of old rum and desperation.

The door creaked open and shut behind him. The floor was sticky, the oil lamps dim. One man lay passed out at the bar, drooling into a bowl of peanuts. The bartender, a lean fellow with bags under his eyes, barely looked up from scrubbing a glass that already looked clean.

“If you’re here to drink,” he said, voice rough and dry, “all I got in stock is rum.”

Arthur approached slowly, resting his hand on the counter. “Ain’t here to drink. Lookin’ for someone. You ever hear of a Mr. Gilles? Or a Mary Linton?”

The bartender’s hands stilled. He looked up then, searching Arthur’s face with the dull wariness of someone who’d seen too much and knew better than to care too deeply.

“Mary Linton,” he echoed, then looked past Arthur toward the closed windows, like the name might draw attention from above. “No miss by that name here recently. But I did hear about a Mr. Gilles.”

Arthur tensed. “Yeah?”

The bartender set down the glass. “Couple weeks back. Fella by that name was pulled right off his own balcony by a flyer. Big one. Clawed up his chest, carried him screamin’ through the clouds.”

Arthur’s throat dried. “You saw it?”

“Didn’t see it. But his name went up on the wall.”

Arthur blinked. “What wall ?”

“The obituary wall,” the bartender said, like it was the most normal thing in the world. “People round here got tired of askin’ and not knowin’. So they started writin’ names. Anyone seen taken. Or eaten. Or both. Whole slab full of 'em now. It’s by the mayor’s house. On the garden wall.”

Arthur stared for a long moment. “Obituary…” he repeated.

The man shrugged. “That’s what they call it. Nobody’s buryin’ anybody these days.”

Arthur swallowed hard. “Thanks.”

He turned and left, the sound of the man scrubbing the same glass following him out.

Outside, the wind had picked up. A single screech echoed high above the rooftops, long and sharp, followed by a fluttering shadow that passed across the sun.

Arthur adjusted his hat and headed toward the mayor’s house, toward the wall.

The mayor’s estate was fenced in with wrought iron and barbed wire now, flanked by sandbags and guarded by men in military coats who didn’t speak or move unless something flew overhead. Arthur circled wide, keeping to the shade of the palm trees until he reached the garden wall. It was no garden anymore.

The “Orbituary Wall” stretched across the length of a long retaining wall once covered in ivy. The ivy had been stripped away, the bricks scraped smooth. In its place were papers nailed and pasted up with wax, charcoal inscriptions scrawled directly onto the brick, bloodstained flyers, and even broken planks with names carved into them. It was a mosaic of grief.

Dozens, no, hundreds , of names.

Arthur stopped in his tracks. A soft wind rustled the papers like dry leaves. Many of the notes included short explanations. "Snatched while fetching water," "Fell through a roof, not recovered," "Attacked while fleeing market square." Some were just names, blackened and cracked by rain. Others had photographs, ink already fading.

Arthur’s jaw tightened as he stepped closer.

He didn’t notice Charles until the man shifted beside him, arms crossed tightly against his chest, eyes glazed over. Arthur blinked, startled.

“You beat me here?”

Charles didn’t look at him. “People told me to check the wall. Said most come here first.”

Arthur nodded slowly, and then they both looked back at the names.

It was like watching the aftermath of a massacre that hadn’t yet ended. Names and faces, ages scribbled in the margins. Notes written by loved ones, "Come home, if you see this," and "We buried your dog, we love you, please be safe."

Arthur scanned through row after row. His heart thudded louder with each passing section. Please not her. Please not yet.

And then, he found it. A hand-scrawled name on yellowed paper, pinned crooked under a rock that had once been a doorknob.

"Mr. Gilles – Taken by unidentified flying reptile. Not seen since."

Arthur’s shoulders sagged. He shut his eyes. He didn’t much care for the man, never had. But Mary… Mary would’ve cared. That was enough.

He opened his eyes and kept looking. Kept reading. Mary Linton. Mary Linton. Mary…

Nothing.

His heart fluttered. A small, selfish seed of hope took root. She wasn’t there.

Then a small voice beside him broke the moment: “Wall ain’t been updated in a while.”

Arthur turned. A boy, maybe ten, was dragging a stick along the base of the wall, barefoot and muddy. He didn’t look up as he spoke. “Lady who kept track of it, she got taken three nights ago. Some folks’ve been addin’ names themselves, but it’s all outta order now.”

Arthur felt that hope twist into something colder. “When was it last updated?”

The boy shrugged. “Maybe a week. Maybe more. No one really knows.”

Charles glanced at Arthur, but said nothing.

Arthur stared at the wall again, now with new dread gnawing at his gut. No name didn’t mean anything. People vanished every day. If the city had stopped keeping track…

He forced a slow breath, steadying himself. “Alright,” he said, more to himself than anyone else. “Alright.”

She might still be out there. Lost, hiding, waiting. That was enough.

He wouldn’t let the hope die. Not yet.

Saint Denis was a city of ghosts now. The further Arthur and Charles went, the more silence followed. The brick streets were littered with windblown trash, torn up newspaper scraps warning of government lockdowns and flight advisories, warnings to stay inside after dusk. Windows were boarded, some with thick planks, others simply nailed shut with curtains still fluttering behind the glass.

A dog barked somewhere in the distance, and no one answered it.

Arthur asked whoever he could find, ragged men crouched behind old barrels, women huddled in alleyways, eyes bloodshot from fear and lack of sleep. Most just shook their heads. Some muttered apologies, shrinking away as if even being noticed might bring death from above.

Charles had the same luck, or lack thereof.

“She was in town just a few weeks ago,” Arthur muttered as they turned a corner, boots echoing across the cobblestone. “Left me a damn letter. She wouldn’t just up and leave, not without checkin’ if I was alive.”

“Maybe she tried to,” Charles said quietly. “We don’t know how many letters got delivered. Or how long they sat in a bin.”

Arthur didn’t answer. His jaw was set, expression pulled tight.

Then they heard it, a crash, followed by a scream. A sudden gust of wind sent leaves and grit flying down the alley. The two of them looked up just in time to see a shape descend like a hammer from the sky.

A woman was screaming, clawing at the porch railing of a sagging house just across the street. Her heels scraped wood as she tried to hold on while a massive pterosaur thrashed its claws around her waist, flapping madly and lifting her inches off the ground.

“Shit!” Arthur raised his gun without thinking. Charles did the same.

One shot, bang! , tore through the creature’s chest. It let out a shriek, flailed mid-air, then dropped like a stone onto the steps, crushing a wooden rocking chair beneath it. The woman screamed again but fell back onto the porch with a heavy thump , scrabbling away on her elbows until she hit the wall.

She curled in on herself, breathing raggedly. Then she looked up.

“Oh, oh god, thank you!” she shouted hoarsely.

Arthur stepped into view, lowering his gun but not holstering it. “You alright, ma’am?”

“Yes, yes, I think so… oh God,” she gasped, voice cracking. Her dress was torn, shoulder bleeding. “.. ., I was just trying to get some water, I thought it was safe for once, ”

“You know anyone by the name of Mary Linton?” Arthur called over the porch rail.

The woman paused, blinking fast, trying to come back to the moment. “Mrs. Linton?”

Arthur took a step closer. “You know her?”

“Yes! Yes, she… she lent me food and medicine maybe two weeks back, I think. Kind woman. Stayed calm when the rest of us were losing our minds.” The woman nodded frantically, almost smiling through her shaken breath. “She lives, or lived, three streets down from here. Toward the police station. I haven’t seen her in some time, though. Thought maybe she got out.”

Arthur’s heart beat hard in his chest. He tipped his hat. “Thank you. Get inside now, ma’am.”

She didn’t need to be told twice.

As she disappeared into the house and slammed the door, Charles stepped up beside Arthur, quietly reloading.

“That’s the best lead we’ve had,” he murmured.

Arthur nodded once. “Then let’s go.”

And with that, the two outlaws made their way toward the heart of a dying city, where hope still flickered like a match in the dark.

The streets grew quieter the closer they got to the police station. Not calm, there was no such thing as calm in Saint Denis anymore, but hollow. Like the city itself had given up making noise.

Just the scrape of boots and the distant creak of broken shutters in the wind.

Arthur didn’t say much, he walked like he knew exactly where he was going, like his feet had memorized the map even if his brain hadn’t caught up. Charles followed close behind, wary of shadows, of rooftops, of the wide sky above.

Then they saw it.

Three streets down from the station, what used to be a house.

Now it was just a pile of blackened wood and collapsed stone. Smoke no longer rose from it, but the scent still lingered, ash and something worse beneath it. It had burned hot and fast, and the whole structure had come down with it.

Arthur stopped so suddenly Charles nearly ran into him.

He just stood there, staring at it. Not moving. Not breathing, far as Charles could tell.

“…Arthur,” Charles said softly.

But Arthur was already moving. His boots hit the rubble in long, uneven strides as he half-stumbled, half-sprinted into the collapsed wreck of the house. He dropped to his knees and started pulling things apart, ash-covered beams, shattered bricks, the skeleton of a scorched chair.

“Arthur, Arthur, wait,” Charles called, stepping forward, but the look on Arthur’s face made him stop. He was digging like a man possessed, coughing through the dust, ignoring the splinters slicing into his palms.

Charles glanced around, heart in his throat. They were exposed here, too exposed. But he couldn’t pull Arthur away, not yet.

A small scuff of movement caught his eye.

A boy, no more than fourteen, face hollow with hunger, sat crouched by the edge of the street watching them. He had on two different shoes and a coat two sizes too big, sleeves fraying around his fingers.

Charles jogged over and crouched down. “Hey, hey, kid.”

The boy flinched, ready to run, but Charles kept his voice gentle. “We’re not here to hurt you. We’re looking for someone. A woman who lived here, Mary Linton.”

The boy blinked. “The one with the braid? Gave out soup sometimes?”

Charles nodded quickly. “Yeah. That her house?”

“Yeah, but I dunno if she made it,” the boy said. “The big flyer came down here one night. It landed right in the street and started picking people up, grabbing 'em off porches and rooftops. The house... it just collapsed when it landed on it.”

Charles’s blood went cold. “The Quetzalcoatlus… ”

The boy shrugged. “I don’t know its name. Just know it screamed real loud and flew off with somethin’ in its mouth.”

Back in the rubble, Arthur was still digging. His hands were black to the wrist, face drawn in a kind of desperate silence that made Charles’ chest hurt to watch.

Then Arthur stopped.

Charles turned, heart lurching.

Arthur was crouched low, one hand frozen mid-air, the other held something small, something unmoving. He’d pulled a heavy stone aside and underneath it, 

A hand.

A woman’s hand. Ash-pale, delicate even in death. The fingers were curled tight into a fist, as if they’d closed around something precious in the last second.

Arthur stared at it for a long time.

Then, with the gentleness of a man holding glass, he reached down and pried open the fist.

Inside, nestled against her palm, was a ring. A simple gold band with a red stone. The same one he’d offered her all those years ago, back when the world still made sense.

It hadn’t been worn. But it had been kept.

Arthur didn’t move.

Charles didn’t speak.

The wind blew softly across the ruined street.

And Saint Denis stayed silent.

Chapter Text

Arthur cleared the rubble with bare hands and bleeding knuckles, uncaring of the pain. 

His breath had gone shallow and fast, and he barely seemed to realize Charles was still there. Piece by piece, he moved what remained of the house, half-burned floorboards, scorched plaster, broken beams, until he uncovered the shape lying beneath it all.

Mary.

She was still. Too still. Her dress was torn, stained with soot, dust clinging to every inch of her. Her hair, once always so neatly braided or pinned up with care, was loose and matted. Blood had dried in a rust-colored trail from her forehead, curling down her temple. Her eyes stared upward, glassy and lifeless.

Arthur stopped moving.

He didn’t breathe for a second. His knees gave out, and he sank down beside her, legs folding under him like his bones had disappeared. His hand hovered, trembling, before he finally reached out and brushed her cheek with the back of his fingers. 

Cold . 

Cold as the stone around her.

For a moment that felt like it would never end, Arthur just stared. “No...” he choked, the word leaving his mouth as barely more than breath.

Then it hit him, all at once.

“God, no. No, no, no... Mary...”

His voice cracked. He folded over her and pulled her into his arms, holding her like he thought maybe he could bring her back if he just held her tight enough . His sobs came in waves, ragged, hoarse, and helpless. 

Not loud. Not dramatic. Just broken.

Charles stood several feet away, gaze turned toward the sky.

He didn’t look at them, didn’t speak, he watched the rooftops, the clouds, the glint of wings overhead in case something came near.

He kept the danger away so Arthur could cry.

Let him mourn this. Let him fall apart, just this once. For Mary, for everything that could’ve been and never was.

Charles stood sentinel, silent and solemn, while Arthur held her and wept into the ash and the ruin of what was once a home.

Time passed, but Arthur didn’t move. He sat in the dirt and ash, knees drawn in, Mary’s head cradled to his chest, his fingers buried in the folds of her scorched dress. Every so often, a tremor would rack through him, shoulders shaking, breath hitching, but the sobs were quieter now. Hollowed out. Like there was nothing left inside to fuel them.

He didn’t speak again for a long time.

The sky was beginning to turn a bruised gray, dusk threatening, and with it came danger, both the kind with badges and the kind with wings. Charles kept watch, waiting with the patience of someone who understood what it meant to lose something you weren’t ready to let go of.

But eventually, even grief had to yield to survival.

Charles approached slowly, footsteps light on the ash-covered stone, and stopped just behind Arthur. He crouched down beside him and rested a steady hand on Arthur’s shoulder.

Arthur flinched a little at first, then leaned into it.

“No one came for her, Charles,” Arthur murmured, his voice raw. “God knows how long she’s been here. No one even came to look for her.”

Charles didn’t rush to answer. His hand stayed where it was, warm and grounded.

“You did,” he said simply.

Arthur’s breath caught again. He closed his eyes, and for a moment he just held her one last time, his forehead resting against hers.

Then, with a terrible reluctance, he eased her down.

“We can’t leave her like this,” Arthur said, wiping his face with the back of his sleeve, eyes red-rimmed and exhausted. “Not here.”

“No,” Charles agreed. “We’ll find somewhere quiet. Somewhere decent.”

Arthur nodded, swallowing hard. “A nicer place. Somewhere away from this... city.”

With the gentleness one might reserve for a fawn, Arthur picked her up in his arms. She weighed almost nothing at all, what the fire hadn’t taken, the time had. But they carried her with reverence, heads bowed not from fear now, but from love. On their way out, Charles picked up a shovel that laid out on the streets.

The city had gone quiet again. Whatever souls were still left in Saint Denis stayed hidden, behind bolted doors and curtained windows. No one came out to ask what they were doing. No one offered help.

But no one tried to stop them, either.

They slipped back through the broken alleyways and side streets. Back toward the tunnels. Toward the world that had changed, and the little, human rituals they still fought to hold on to.

They rode in silence.

Arthur cradled Mary’s wrapped form across the saddle, holding her as gently as if she could still feel it. Charles kept pace beside him, eyes scanning the horizon, saying nothing. There was a reverence to it, the kind usually reserved for funerals, except this was the West now, torn apart and half-swallowed by creatures out of time, and there were no more churches, no more priests, no more hymnals or black suits.

Just two men and a body.

They passed out of the suffocating ruins of Saint Denis and into the open breath of the Heartlands, where the hills still rolled, and the wildflowers still swayed in the wind like they didn’t know anything had changed. The sky was soft, pink and gold bleeding into the clouds as the sun crawled westward.

Arthur spotted the hill before he said a word. A quiet place, far from camp, far from town. Just grass and wind and silence. The air smelled like lilac and fresh dirt.

“This’ll do,” he said.

Charles helped him dismount, helped him lay Mary down on the grass. Then, without being asked, he stepped back.

“I’ll give you space,” Charles said, gently. “I’ll stay nearby. Just holler if you need me.”

Arthur looked up at him, eyes bloodshot but steady. “Thanks, Charles.”

Charles gave a single nod and walked off, just far enough to be respectful. He sat on a stone and watched the clouds. A herd of crested hadrosaurs passed in the distance, slow and undisturbed, casting long shadows as the sun dipped.

Arthur rolled up his sleeves, took a shovel from the saddle, and began to dig.

He didn’t rush. His hands in the earth, his sweat mixing with the dust. Every scoop of soil was a breath, every minute a memory. He remembered the quiet afternoons with Mary, the way she smiled when she wasn’t pretending not to. He remembered the ring and her letter and her eyes full of fire when she argued with her father.

He dug until the grave was deep and the sweat clung cold to his back. Then he laid her in the ground with care, arranging the fabric over her face one last time, fingers lingering.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I should’ve come sooner. I should’ve done more. I just—”

His voice cracked. He didn’t finish.

He covered the grave slowly. Marked it with stone. He picked wildflowers from around the hill and laid them at the base. White and yellow, purple and red.

When he stood, the sun was almost gone, sinking low and orange behind the hills. The grave cast a long shadow behind him.

He stayed a little while longer, just standing there. Then, finally, he turned back down the hill.

Charles was waiting beside the horses. He didn’t ask anything, just looked at Arthur once and gave a small nod.

Arthur looked tired in a way Charles had never seen before. 

“Let’s go,” Arthur said, voice quiet.

And they rode away, leaving the flowers to sway in the wind, and the grave to face the dying light of the day.

The sound of hooves on wet earth drew the camp’s attention.

Evening had just begun to settle over the broken remains of Shady Belle, so when the two horses emerged from the trees, all eyes turned.

“Arthur’s back!” Lenny called, springing to his feet from his spot on the steps. “And Charles!”

The others stirred. Karen stood halfway from her crate. Jack peeked from behind Abigail’s skirts. Javier and Bill both stepped forward, calling greetings and curious questions that trailed off when they got a better look at Arthur.

He looked like a ghost.

Covered in dried sweat and dirt, his face pale beneath the grime, his eyes bloodshot and sunken like he hadn’t slept in days. He didn’t look at anyone. Didn’t say a word. Just kept his horse at a steady trot straight through camp.

Charles rode beside him, his expression calm but firm. As soon as someone tried to approach, Charles gently held out a hand and shook his head.

Not now.

Arthur dismounted without speaking, left his horse at the hitching post, and walked straight toward the front of the manor. And there, waiting like he knew he’d be needed, was Hosea.

The old man stood by the door, arms crossed. He didn’t ask questions. Just nodded once, slow and soft.

“Come on inside, son,” Hosea said.

Arthur didn’t argue. He just walked past him into the shadows of the ruined hall, and Hosea followed behind, closing the door gently.

The rest of the gang lingered outside, quiet now.

“What happened?” Javier whispered.

No one answered.

Dutch was on the porch, arms folded, leaning against a beam. He watched the whole thing with a tight jaw, his brow furrowed deep. He didn’t speak. Didn’t welcome Arthur back. Just clicked his tongue, sharp and annoyed, and turned his back to the rest of them.

“Damn fool.” he muttered, mostly to himself, and disappeared into the house.

But nobody followed him.

They stayed outside instead, Charles, Lenny, Tilly, Javier, the others, keeping their voices low and their questions unspoken, all of them glancing every now and then at the closed door, wondering what Arthur had found.

The manor was mostly hollow now, rooms stripped down to beams and shadows. 

But somehow, Hosea had managed to keep the little front parlor intact, what was left of it. The couch sagged. The wallpaper peeled. The windows were half-boarded up, the wind hissing softly through the cracks. And yet, on the coffee table sat a teapot, still steaming, with two chipped cups beside it. Like it was just any other night.

Arthur didn’t sit right away. He stood by the doorway, hunched like a man too tall for the world he was trapped in, fingers flexing at his sides as if unsure what to do. He didn’t look at Hosea. He didn’t look at the tea. He just stood there, trembling faintly, like something in him was shaking loose.

Hosea waited.

And then, slowly, Arthur lowered himself onto the couch. He didn’t speak for a long time. The fire in the nearby hearth crackled low, barely enough to warm the room. His hands sat useless in his lap, dirty and scraped from digging. His eyes were rimmed red.

Eventually, he rasped it out.

“She’s dead, Hosea.”

The words barely had breath behind them. They just fell from his lips like something broken. Hosea didn’t answer right away. He just poured a cup, pushed it gently toward Arthur across the table, and leaned back with his own.

Arthur didn’t pick it up.

“She’s dead,” he said again, staring at nothing. “Mary. I found her.”

His voice cracked at the edges. Hosea didn’t press him. Just let the silence hold him, gave him the space to fall apart on his own terms.

“I got there too late.” Arthur went on, after a moment, his jaw clenched.

And then it all poured out, the obituary wall with its endless rows of names, the child who told them the list hadn’t been updated, the house that had collapsed in on itself like a tomb. How he’d torn through the rubble like a madman. How a kid had stood there watching and told them what happened, like it was just another night in hell.

“She was holdin’ it,” Arthur whispered. “That ring. The one I gave her, years back. When I thought maybe we still had a chance.”

He looked at Hosea, finally. His face was hollowed out by grief. “S-she had it in her hand, Hosea.”

Hosea nodded, slow and grave. His expression didn’t shift much, but his eyes were kind.

“Where did you bury her?” he asked softly.

“High up,” Arthur said. “Back in the Heartlands. Flowers all around. Facing the sunset. She deserved that much.”

The silence stretched again.

Arthur scrubbed a hand down his face, but it didn’t stop the tears. He didn’t sob, not like before, but the shaking came back. Quiet and terrible, like something barely held in check. Hosea reached forward and rested a hand on Arthur’s forearm, firm and grounding.

“She died alone, Hosea,” Arthur whispered, his voice splintering. “No one came for her. She helped people, and they left her behind. Like she was nothin’.”

“You didn’t,” Hosea said, low and sure. “You came.”

Arthur swallowed hard. “I was too late.”

Hosea’s hand gave a soft squeeze.

“We’re all too late, one way or another,” he said. “But you still came. You gave her a proper burial, didn’t let her rot away like so many others these days. That’s something, son.”

Arthur didn’t speak again. Just stared down at the tea he hadn’t touched, hands clenched in his lap. And Hosea stayed there with him, silent, steady, the kind of presence that didn’t try to fix anything, only made it bearable to break.

Night settled over Shady Belle like a wet cloth, heavy, quiet, and oppressive. 

Outside, the swamp murmured with its strange, prehistoric life: croaks too deep to be frogs, wings too vast to belong to birds, the occasional distant shriek of something ancient moving through the trees. But inside the house, it was still.

Arthur lay on the sagging couch, curled slightly onto his side, boots still on. His hat was missing, forgotten somewhere. His coat was draped over the back of a nearby chair, shoulders stained with dirt and dried tears. And even asleep, his face was tense. His brow furrowed, mouth pressed into a near-frown. Not even dreams could offer him peace.

Hosea sat beside him, unmoving except for the slow motion of his hand gently rubbing Arthur’s shoulder. The rhythm was quiet, almost meditative. He didn’t speak. Didn’t try to wake him. Just stayed, anchoring the moment with quiet presence. His gaze was soft but heavy, lined with pity, and something deeper. 

Grief, perhaps. Or guilt.

He could remember a hundred times when Arthur had been a boy, falling asleep in the corner of their camp, dirt on his cheeks, arms around his knees. Back then, Hosea would throw a blanket over him, sit nearby with a book or a pipe. Now, decades later, nothing had changed, and at the same time, everything had.

One by one, the gang began to come in. The front door creaked open slowly, carefully. Lenny stepped in first, his eyes falling on the two figures in the parlor. He nodded to Hosea in silent understanding, then slipped away toward the upstairs rooms.

Sean and Bill followed soon after, talking in low tones that died the moment they stepped inside. They saw Arthur on the couch and paused, uneasy, unsure whether to ask or speak. Hosea gave them a look that told them everything they needed to know.

Javier was the last to return, still pulling off his gloves, dirt on his boots. He crossed the room slowly, eyes flickering to Arthur, then settling on him. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to. Just gently unfolded a blanket he’d been carrying from outside and draped it over Arthur with careful hands, tugging it up to his shoulders.

Arthur didn’t stir.

Hosea gave Javier a nod of quiet gratitude. Javier returned it with a small, tired glance before moving on, heading to the kitchen without another word.

Now it was just the fire again, crackling softly. Just the hush of the gang settling into a haunted house, made more haunted by the weight Arthur brought back with him.

And Hosea, ever patient, ever constant, sat beside the broken man he’d helped raise, his hand never leaving Arthur’s shoulder.

The house groaned gently in the night, old bones settling. From within the shadows of the hall, Charles rose from a chair by the wall. He said nothing, he just gave Hosea a look, asking without words.

Hosea nodded faintly. “He shouldn’t be alone.”

Charles inclined his head. “I’ll sit with him.”

With a final glance at the motionless figure under the blanket, Hosea stepped away, boots quiet on the old wood floors. 

The lanterns cast gloomy shadows along the walls, and the stairs creaked as he made his way up. When he reached the upper landing, he saw Dutch through the open door, standing just outside on the upper porch.

Dutch wasn’t smoking, wasn’t drinking. Just brooding. His hands were braced against the railing, shoulders hunched, his silhouette framed by the murky glow of swamp mist and moonlight. The sounds of insects buzzed faintly in the air, but even the wildlife seemed quieter now, as if it, too, was listening for what came next.

Hosea stepped out, pulling the door half-shut behind him.

“Dutch,” he said softly.

Dutch didn’t turn.

“We… you’ re gonna have to be patient with him.”

Dutch’s hands tensed on the railing. “The fool brought this on himself, Hosea.”

Hosea’s jaw clenched.

Dutch finally turned to face him, eyes hard, gleaming faintly with a frustrated fire. “Had he stayed put, stayed focused, he never would’ve even known. We need him here. Now more than ever.”

Hosea met that fire with something gentler, but no less steady. “And if he had stayed,” he said, “he’d have spiraled anyway. Guilt eats a man alive just as surely as grief does. And Arthur… Arthur’s not like you. He doesn’t compartmentalize so well.”

Dutch’s nostrils flared. “That’s not what this is about.”

“No?” Hosea tilted his head. “He loved that girl, Dutch. Like I loved my Bessie. Like you loved Annabelle .”

Something flickered behind Dutch’s eyes. He looked away.

“It wasn’t about loyalty. Not to us. Not to the gang. You know that. It’s never been about choosing one or the other. He just... needed to know. And now he does.”

Dutch was silent. The weight of the night pressed against them both, thick and humid and full of unspoken memories.

“I’m not asking you to make it easier for him,” Hosea added, after a moment. “I’m asking you not to make it worse.”

Dutch closed his eyes briefly, his jaw tight. For a long stretch of seconds, neither man moved. Then, without looking at Hosea, Dutch muttered, “You always had a way with words, old girl.”

Hosea sighed, not grateful, but accepting. “Sometimes...though I rarely manage to get said words to get to you.”

The sun was barely up, light trickling in through the warped glass windows of Shady Belle. Dust floated in the stillness, and for once, no one was shouting, no one rushing out the door for some errand or patrol. 

Just the sound of distant swamp frogs and the faint clink of someone opening a can downstairs.

Arthur blinked his eyes open slowly, the weight of sleep still dragging on his limbs. He half expected to see Hosea still beside him, but instead it was Charles, perched in a chair, arms crossed, gaze steady.

"You awake?" Charles asked gently.

Arthur grunted. "Think so."

Without a word, Charles set a tin plate in Arthur’s lap, fried eggs, still warm. Beside it, a chipped mug of black coffee that smelled stronger than sin. Arthur sat up with a groan, every joint protesting. His eyes flicked down to the food, then back up.

“These eggs,” he asked warily, “they ain’t from Chicken, are they?”

Charles gave a tight smile. “Just pretend they’re not.”

Arthur stared at him a moment, then slowly started eating, chewing with caution like the yolks might explode and betray him. After a few quiet bites, he spoke around the rim of his coffee cup. “Thanks. But I oughta be— ”

“You’ve got the day off.”

Arthur paused mid-sip, eyebrows lowering. “Charles, there’s a bunch of shit needs doin’, I ain’t about to sit on my ass while—”

“Day off,” Charles repeated firmly. “Hosea’s orders.”

Arthur opened his mouth, but Charles added with a hint of wry finality, “ And Grimshaw’s.”

Arthur slumped back against the couch cushion, plate in his lap, scowling into his coffee. “I ain’t some dainty thing that needs coddlin’.”

“No,” Charles said simply. “You’re a grieving man who buried someone yesterday. You’re allowed to sit still for a day.”

Arthur didn’t reply to that. He stared at the eggs a little longer, expression unreadable, then stabbed at them half-heartedly with a fork. Charles settled into silence beside him again, not watching him exactly, just keeping watch.

Outside, the gang moved more slowly than usual, as if the quiet that had settled over the house had stretched out across the whole camp.

Arthur chewed another bite and muttered, low, “Just don’t tell anyone I cried.”

Charles smiled faintly, not looking at him. “Didn’t see a thing.”

“Figured you’d want this back,” Charles said, and handed over the battered leather journal.

Arthur stared at it. His fingers didn’t reach for it right away.

“I didn’t read anything,” Charles added, quiet but sure. “Just kept it safe.”

Arthur took it with a nod and a tired breath. The journal felt heavier than usual in his hands, as if it knew what was coming. He set the coffee aside and opened the cover. The familiar scratches of old entries and half-finished drawings stared back at him, a window into who he’d been just days ago. Just yesterday.

A different man.

He picked up his pen but paused again. Where the hell was he supposed to start?

For a while he just sat there, eyes flicking between the blank page and the open window beside him. The sky outside was bright and still, a quiet morning pretending everything was fine. Arthur finally drew in a breath, turned to a new page, and began.

He didn’t start with words.

Instead, the pen moved on its own, as it often did, slow lines sketching the curve of her jaw, the soft braid pinned over one shoulder, the little smile that used to undo him when she wasn’t even trying. The lines were tentative at first, then more confident. Not perfect. But it was her.

Not the way he’d found her, cold, broken, covered in soot and blood, but the way she had been the day she held his hand by the lake. The way she laughed when he showed up to dinner with his shirt still half-covered in horse manure. The way she used to roll her eyes at his bad jokes, but never stopped coming back.

He shaded the curls of her hair and finally put the pen down. Then, beneath the drawing, he wrote.

“I found her today. What’s left of her. I reckon she’d hate the way I’m writing that, like she was just debris. She weren’t. She was Mary. She was all warmth and sharp wit and that fierce stubborn streak I couldn’t never shake.

She kept the ring. All these years, and she still had it in her hand like she didn’t want to let go, even when the sky turned on her.

I buried her on a hill with flowers and the sun and all the peace I could offer her. I don’t know if it’s enough. I don’t know if anything I ever did for her was.

But I remember her like this, smilin’, giving me hell, making me better just by being near. That’s what I’ll keep..”

Arthur closed the journal slowly and let it rest against his chest. He exhaled a long, shaky breath and let his head fall back against the wall behind the couch.

Charles said nothing. He didn’t have to.

Arthur tried .

He really did.

He got as far as pulling the blanket off his shoulders once, both feet planted like he meant to stand. But the thought of doing anything, walking outside, feeding the horses, even just making coffee, slid right off him like water off a slick rock. His limbs felt like they’d turned to stone. His mind wandered too far, and too often. Every time he blinked, he saw that broken house again. The debris. Her hand.

So the blanket stayed.

He settled back into the couch and stared out at nothing in particular, his coffee gone cold on the table beside him. The day crept forward without him.

People came and went. Lenny stopped by with a folded newspaper and a kind look, leaving it on the table without asking any questions. Tilly brought him a small tin of sweets, peppermints and butterscotch, and pressed one into his hand, gently squeezing his fingers closed around it. “For later,” she said softly. Arthur gave a stiff nod.

Even Bill made an appearance, hovering awkwardly in the doorway before grunting something about stew and then disappearing again. Arthur didn’t answer. He barely moved.

Javier passed through humming under his breath, but quieted the moment he caught sight of Arthur still curled on the couch. He gave a small, almost bashful nod and left behind a plate of eggs and beans, which Arthur didn’t touch.

It was late afternoon when Chicken wandered in.

The little raptor sniffed around the floorboards for a minute, then hopped up onto the couch like she owned the place. Arthur didn’t protest. Just shifted a little to make room.

Chicken turned twice, settled down on top of Arthur’s chest with a familiar weight, and let out a slow, wheezy chuff. She didn’t leave. Didn't so much as twitch after that, just rested her head against Arthur’s shoulder, blinking slowly like a cat that somehow grew claws, feathers, and a slight problem with authority.

Arthur sighed and scratched the side of Chicken’s neck with mechanical fingers. He didn’t speak. Didn’t smile. But the contact helped, even if only a little.

For a long time, that was it. The sun moved across the sky. Camp voices rose and fell in the distance. And Arthur lay still, wrapped in his blanket, pinned by a dinosaur the size of a large dog, and let the world move without him.

The bottle was right there.

Half-full. Whiskey. The kind that burned going down and dulled everything after. It sat on the windowsill in a patch of late-day sunlight, almost glowing golden like it was offering mercy. Arthur’s eyes had been fixed on it for a while now, since Chicken finally slid off his chest and padded to the other side of the room, chasing dust motes or a fly or something else inconsequential.

Arthur shifted the blanket aside, slow and quiet, as if trying not to disturb himself. His boots touched the floor. The ache in his chest tightened with every breath. His hand closed around the bottle, 

"Don't," Hosea said, voice calm but firm from behind him.

Arthur jumped slightly, startled. He hadn’t even noticed Hosea come in. The old man stood in the doorway, arms crossed, gaze sharp.

"You're not the first man I've seen try to drink grief away," Hosea went on, stepping in, shutting the door behind him. "God knows I tried it myself after Bessie. Every night. For weeks. And it damn near hollowed me out.”

Arthur frowned, but didn’t let go of the bottle just yet. “What else am I s’posed to do, then?”

“Feel it,” Hosea said simply, walking over and gently prying the bottle from Arthur’s fingers. He didn’t snatch it, he didn’t need to. Arthur let go without a fight.

“Feelin’ it ain’t doing me any favors,” Arthur muttered, voice frayed and low. “It hurts like hell.”

“I know it does,” Hosea said. He set the bottle aside, far out of reach. “That’s the price we pay for loving someone. Doesn’t make it fair. Doesn’t make it right. But numbing it, trust me, son, it only delays the pain. It doesn't make it go away.”

Arthur stared at the floorboards, jaw clenched. He looked like he might break again. “So what then? What the hell am I supposed to do?”

“Whatever gets you through the next day,” Hosea said. “You want to cry? You cry. You want to scream into the woods? I’ll make sure nobody follows you. If distracting yourself works better, then distract yourself. Help Charles wrangle those duck bills. Go draw. Go carve. But don’t lie to yourself and don’t bury it under booze. It always digs back up.”

Arthur leaned forward, elbows on knees, scrubbing a hand down his face. “Feels like I can’t even breathe right.”

“You will again,” Hosea said gently. “Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But you will.”

Arthur didn’t answer. Not right away. But he gave a small nod, barely visible. That was enough for Hosea, for now.

He placed a quiet hand on Arthur’s back, warm and steady, and stayed with him while the sun slid further down the sky.

Chapter Text

Out by the edge of camp, where the ground had been cleared and fenced, Charles pressed his boot into the soil. It was dry in places, damp in others, better than nothing, but far from ideal. Still, they had a few rows planted now. Corn, beans, potatoes, whatever Mrs. Grimshaw could scrounge up or bully from nearby towns. Whether anything would actually grow in a world now crawling with thunder-lizards and sky-demons was another matter entirely.

At least the fences were holding. High wooden stakes, strung with rope and sharpened tips. Not enough to stop a determined raptor or god forbid a horned devil, but good enough to keep the parasaurs and horses from munching on the crops. Whiskey had already tried once and got her nose smacked with a shovel for it. She hadn’t forgiven anyone since.

Charles straightened, brushing dirt off his hands. The sun was high, sweat clinging to his neck, but he didn’t mind the work. It kept his hands busy. Kept his mind from drifting too far back to the look on Arthur’s face when he pulled Mary from the rubble.

A few of the others worked alongside him, Pearson was struggling with a hoe like it owed him money, and Lenny was building another section of fence, shirt tied around his waist. Every now and then someone would glance toward the main house, toward the couch Arthur still hadn’t left.

“What happened to him?” Lenny asked finally, low and uncertain. “He look like that when y’all found the girl?”

Charles didn’t answer. He kept digging, planting, patting the dirt down.

Pearson, to his credit, noticed the stiffness in Charles’ shoulders and didn’t press.

Later, as the sun tilted westward, Trelawney approached quietly, arms crossed, posture less flamboyant than usual. He lingered near the fence until Charles acknowledged him with a nod.

“I, ” Trelawney started, then cleared his throat. “I shouldn’t have given him that letter.”

Charles shook his head, not angry but resolute. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“I knew what it might do to him,” Trelawney said softly, eyes cast downward. “And I did it anyway. Out of...I don’t know. Sentiment. Curiosity. Habit.”

“He would've found out one way or another,” Charles said. “At least this way he got to say goodbye. Not many of us get that chance anymore.”

Trelawney looked back toward the house. “He hasn’t eaten.”

“He will,” Charles replied. “When he’s ready.”

They stood there a moment longer in silence, the distant sounds of camp life echoing behind them, the clatter of tools, the low murmur of voices, the distant honk of a parasaur.

And from the house, nothing at all.

Two days passed before Arthur finally pulled himself up from the couch. His legs were stiff, his head thick, his chest still sore from the weight of it all, but he forced himself to stand. Forced himself to shrug off the blanket and get back to the rhythm of survival. Mary wasn’t coming back. The hole she left behind wasn’t going to fill itself, but there were others depending on him, and wallowing wouldn’t put food on the table or keep the monsters out of their throats.

He washed his face with the cold water Pearson had hauled in that morning, pulled on his boots, and stepped outside. The air was heavy, swamp-damp and buzzing with insects, but it was something—movement, sound, proof of life. Camp was awake, the younger ones hammering on planks, Grimshaw barking orders, Javier humming while he sharpened a blade. The smell of something cooking drifted from the firepit, sharp and greasy. It almost felt normal.

Almost.

On the porch of Shady Belle, Dutch and Hosea were in the middle of a heated argument. Their voices cut across camp, sharper than any saw blade. Charles stood a ways off, leaning on his shovel, watching carefully but not intervening. Even Lenny paused in his work to glance their way.

“You’re not thinking straight,” Hosea said, his voice weary but firm. “We can’t just dig in and pretend the world isn’t crumbling around us.”

“We are thinking straight!” Dutch snapped, his hand slicing through the air. “We hold. We fortify. We keep what’s ours. That is the only way forward, Hosea.”

Hosea shook his head. “Dutch, this obsession with control—”

“That’s the plan, Hosea!” Dutch suddenly bellowed, his voice booming across camp like a cannon shot. “That is the damn plan!”

“THE PLAN!”

A chirp. A familiar, high-pitched little chirp, followed by a perfect imitation:

Every single head turned toward the source. There, standing right by Dutch’s boots, was Chicken, the little raptor, tilting her head back with big, unblinking eyes.

She chirped again, louder this time, mimicking Dutch’s exact cadence.

“THE PLAN! THE PLAN!”

Silence hung in the air for a moment. Dutch blinked down at her, stunned into stillness, as if his authority had just been challenged by a knee-high dinosaur. Hosea’s lips twitched. Javier choked back a laugh. Even Pearson covered his mouth with a hand.

And then—Arthur broke.

For the first time in days, he doubled over in a full-bellied laugh, rough and ragged, the sound tumbling out of him until he could barely catch his breath. “Hah! Oh Lord—!” He wiped at his eyes, still laughing. “She–she’s got you pegged, Dutch. Hah…!The Plan!”

Chicken, delighted by the attention, kept going.

“THE PLAN, THE PLAN!”

Dutch tried to wave her off, scolding in his low, commanding voice. “That’s enough out of you, you little…!”

But the little raptor only hissed and chirped louder, repeating the words with perfect mimicry.

“THE PLAN!”

Now half the camp was laughing, Arthur the loudest of all, clutching his side as he stumbled against the porch rail. Each time Dutch tried to shush the raptor, she barked the words right back at him.

“THE PLAN!”

Arthur’s laugh broke into wheezing gasps, the sound of it raw but good, like a man shaking rust off his soul. He hadn’t thought he’d ever laugh again, not like this. But here he was, bent over, eyes streaming, while the camp roared and Dutch fumed at a feathered mimic with too much personality.

Even Hosea cracked a smile, watching Arthur’s shoulders shake with life again.

And Chicken, proud as a preacher at Sunday service, strutted across the porch, repeating her new favorite phrase until the sun dipped lower in the sky.

“THE PLAN! THE PLAN! THE PLAN!”

Arthur’s laugh lingered in the air even after he managed to wipe his face dry. It was contagious. Sean slapped his knee, wheezing. Pearson bent over his pot, chuckling hard enough that he nearly spilled stew. Even Karen, who hadn’t cracked a smile all morning, let out a sharp laugh, leaning against Mary-Beth for balance.

Javier, strumming idly at his guitar a few yards away, pointed at the raptor like he’d just won an argument. “¡¿See?! I told you some of them know how to speak! Didn’t I say it? Didn’t I?” He grinned ear to ear, proud as anything.

Chicken puffed up her little chest and strutted in a circle, repeating, “THE PLAN! THE PLAN!” as though she knew she was the star of the show. Each repetition sent Arthur into another fit of laughter, until he had to lean on the porch post to steady himself.

Lenny wandered closer, fascinated. “It’s just like a parrot,” he said, crouching low to study her. “Same trick of the throat, copying pitch and tone. Except—hell, I think she might be sharper than a parrot. Listen to her, she’s got the intonation down. She knows when to say it.”

Chicken tilted her head at Lenny, gave a soft hiss, then mimicked Arthur’s half-choked laugh. It was uncanny, high-pitched and broken, and that set the whole camp off again.

Dutch, meanwhile, stood stiff as a board, his face stormy red beneath the brim of his hat. He glanced from Chicken to Arthur to the crowd of his people doubled over in laughter. His jaw tightened, teeth grinding. Without a word, he threw up a hand and turned on his heel, striding off the porch with all the grace of a general retreating from the field.

The sound of laughter followed him as he went, punctuated by one last shrill mimicry:

“THE PLAN!”

Arthur wheezed, dragging in air between his gasps of laughter. It didn’t erase the ache gnawing inside him, didn’t fill the hole Mary left behind—but for the first time in days, the heaviness wasn’t winning. For a moment, life felt almost normal again.

The laughter from the day before hadn’t cured Arthur—not by a long shot—but it left something in its wake, a faint reminder that the world hadn’t stopped turning. By the next morning, he forced himself to rise with the others, rubbing sleep from his eyes as if dragging himself out of tar.

He moved slow, still feeling the weight in his chest, but he made a point of checking in. Jack was running about the yard with Chicken clinging to his shoulder, both of them squeaking at one another. Abigail was folding laundry, humming something tuneless. Grimshaw barked at Sean to fetch more wood. Even the little garden Charles had been tending to showed the promise of green shoots pushing up through dirt.

Arthur said little, but he nodded to folks, lending a hand here and there, touching the work with his presence if nothing else. It wasn’t enough to silence the memory of Mary—her hand beneath the rubble, the cold ring pressed in her palm—but it gave his restless energy somewhere to go.

Toward the far end of camp, he spotted movement near the treeline. Two figures bent low, fussing over leather straps. Arthur furrowed his brow, recognizing the pair: Sean and Kieran, of all people, crouched at the flank of the parasaurs. Whiskey snorted impatiently, flicking her tail, while Plum chewed absently on a bush just out of reach.

Arthur approached, curiosity pulling him closer. “What in God’s name are you two doin’?”

Sean glanced up, face split in a grin. “Final adjustments, Arthur. Can’t have our big lizard-horses droppin’ folk in the middle o’ nowhere, eh? Thought I’d give Kieran here a chance to prove he’s not all thumbs.”

Kieran flushed, fumbling with a strap buckle. “I’m—I’m just trying to make sure it don’t slip again, Arthur. Saddle nearly came loose yesterday. Can’t risk that if we’re gonna ride ’em proper.”

Arthur folded his arms, watching them work. There was something almost comical about the two of them, one blustering, the other nervy, both of them trying to wrangle beasts that weren’t meant to be saddled at all. For a moment, against his better judgment, Arthur felt the corner of his mouth twitch.

The parasaurs shifted, their crests catching the morning light. Strange creatures, and yet—like the rest of the gang—they were adapting.

Arthur stepped closer, crouching down beside them. “Alright then,” he muttered, reaching for the leather. “Show me what you’ve done, and I’ll tell you if it’s worth a damn.”

Arthur ran his hands over the leather straps, checking the knots Kieran had tied. They were decent—better than he’d expected—but not quite right. He grunted, loosening one, tugging another. Sean crouched nearby, chin propped on his fist, grinning like he was watching a stage show.

“See now, Arthur’s got the touch,” Sean said. “Horse, lizard, woman—don’t matter, eh? He knows where to pull and tighten.”

Arthur shot him a flat look. “You shut your damn mouth, or I’ll tighten this strap round your throat instead.”

That got Kieran snickering under his breath. He straightened quickly when Arthur glanced his way, hands folded awkwardly in front of him. “Sorry—it’s just… you’re good at this, Arthur. I-I thought it was just me not knowin’ what I was doin’, but you really make it look simple.”

“Practice, that’s all.” Arthur checked the girth one last time, giving Whiskey a firm pat on her side. The parasaur let out a low, resonant call—something between a bellow and a trumpet—but didn’t flinch. If anything, she leaned into his touch.

Arthur narrowed his eyes at her. “You don’t seem half as mean as a horse, do ya, girl?”

“Mean?” Sean barked a laugh. “She’s a bloody giant lizard-cow with legs, Arthur. Go on, then. Mount the thing. Let’s see if you get thrown on your arse.”

Arthur considered him, then considered Whiskey. He hadn’t planned on it, not really—but there was a stubborn itch inside him, the same that had pushed him back to his feet these past days. Without another word, he grabbed the saddle horn, hauled himself up, and swung into place.

Whiskey shifted her weight, tail flicking, but she didn’t buck. Didn’t even complain. Her stride adjusted beneath him as though she’d carried a rider all her life. Arthur settled in, hands firm on the reins they’d rigged up from spare tack.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he muttered.

Kieran’s face lit up. “Does it—uh—does it feel stable? Not too loose? Is the seat comfortable? Should I adjust the stirrups more?” He hovered close, eyes darting to every strap.

Arthur tested his balance, bouncing once in the saddle. “Not bad. Bit high off the ground, but she don’t seem to mind me none. Reckon you did alright, Kieran.”

The lad’s chest puffed just a little, though he ducked his head to hide it.

Sean let out a piercing whistle. “Look at you, Arthur Morgan—dinosaur cowboy! Can’t wait to see you gallopin’ into battle on that thing. Be the stuff o’ legend!”

Arthur gave him a slow, unimpressed stare from atop Whiskey’s broad back. “Sean, if you don’t stop flappin’ your gums, I’ll make sure you’re the first poor bastard she steps on.”

Whiskey huffed, almost as if agreeing, and Arthur—despite himself—smirked.

Arthur eased Whiskey into a careful trot, steering her away from the edge of camp. Her long strides carried him smoother than a horse’s gait, her head bobbing gently as she adjusted to the weight on her back. He tested the reins, pulling lightly left. She turned, obedient but slow. A firmer tug earned a quicker response, her crest swinging wide.

“Alright,” Arthur murmured. “So that’s how it is.”

He nudged her sides with his heels, and Whiskey let out a hollow bellow before breaking into a loping run. The ground thundered beneath her heavy steps, each stride eating more distance than Arthur was used to on horseback. Wind rushed against his face, his coat snapping behind him, and for the first time in days, something almost like joy surged in his chest.

“Easy, girl,” he called, pulling gently back. Whiskey slowed, nostrils flaring, powerful legs shifting back into a steady trot. She was strong—stronger than any horse he’d ever ridden—but steady, too, not wild, not skittish.

Arthur tested her stamina, keeping her moving along the outskirts of camp, circling trees and fences. He leaned into turns, tugged the reins this way and that, learning how much pressure she needed to listen. Whiskey responded every time, as if eager to prove herself.

By the time Arthur rounded back toward camp, voices had begun to rise.

“What in the hell…?” Bill’s bellow carried across the clearing. He wasn’t alone. A handful of the gang had gathered near the fences, staring wide-eyed.

“Arthur!” Sean crowed, running up with his arms flailing like a madman. “He’s bloody ridin’ her! Like a knight on his war steed!”

Kieran trailed close behind, wringing his hands nervously. “Does she look alright? She’s not limping, is she? Arthur, is the saddle holding—?”

Arthur ignored them, urging Whiskey into another run. Laughter and shouts followed him now, camp buzzing with awe and disbelief. Chicken, Jack and even some of the women pressed forward, pointing, their faces alight.

“Mira eso!” Javier whooped, strumming a quick flourish on his guitar as though to soundtrack the moment. “I told you it was possible, and now mí compadre proves it!”

Arthur slowed Whiskey to a walk, tipping his hat as he passed the crowd. Their eyes followed him like he’d pulled a miracle out of thin air. He kept his face flat, though inside, pride stirred.

“Not bad for a first ride,” he muttered under his breath, patting Whiskey’s neck. She answered with a low, contented rumble.

Dutch emerged from the manor porch like a man drawn by destiny’s trumpet. His black coat caught the light, his boots clicking sharp on the steps as the camp’s excited chatter swelled. He squinted against the sun, eyes locking on Arthur astride Whiskey, the parasaur lumbering with steady grace around the yard.

For a long moment, Dutch simply watched. Then a slow grin spread across his face.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he said, loud enough for all to hear. “Arthur Morgan, pioneer of the future.”

Arthur rolled his eyes but said nothing, tugging Whiskey to a halt near the porch. Dutch descended the last steps, his gaze raking over the animal like a general surveying a new piece of artillery.

“Look at her,” Dutch marveled. “Tall, strong, obedient… a beast out of time, yet here she stands, beneath our saddle. Not just surviving, gentlemen, but thriving. This—” he gestured grandly toward Arthur and Whiskey, “—is what separates us from the sheep of the world. They cower in their homes, waiting for death to fall from the skies. But we? We adapt. We master what others fear.”

A murmur of agreement rippled through the gang. Sean whooped again. Bill crossed his arms, still looking skeptical, but even he couldn’t hide the flicker of curiosity in his eyes.

Arthur, ever wary of Dutch’s theatrics, tipped his hat and dismounted. “She’s ridable enough,” he said simply, patting Whiskey’s flank. “Strong as hell, too. Could carry more weight than a horse without strainin’.”

Dutch seized on the words like they were scripture. “More weight. More speed. Imagine the possibilities, Arthur! Supply runs, raids, long hauls across open country—we would be untouchable. Picture a dozen of us, mounted high on these magnificent creatures, storming through whatever stands in our way. Who would dare oppose us then?”

The gang stirred with excitement at the image, murmurs rising. Arthur, though, just gave a grunt. He wasn’t blind to the usefulness, but he knew Dutch’s voice when it turned dreamy, when every practical discovery became another brick in the man’s tower of grand designs.

Still, Dutch clapped him on the shoulder, beaming. “You’ve done well, son. Very well indeed. This is more than just survival. This is progress.”

Arthur only muttered, “We’ll see about that,” but for once, he didn’t shake off Dutch’s hand.

With Whiskey cooling off and happily crunching on a bucket of swamp reeds, it wasn’t long before eyes turned toward Plum. If one parasaur could be ridden, then surely the other could too. Kieran adjusted the straps on her makeshift saddle, his hands careful, whispering to the creature all the while like he would a skittish horse. Plum huffed softly, craning her long neck down to sniff him, then flared her nostrils with something between suspicion and affection.

“All right then,” Sean declared, rolling up his sleeves, swagger turned up to eleven. “Let me show you lads how it’s done. First proper dinosaur rider this side of the Mississippi.”

Before anyone could object, he scrambled up onto Plum’s flank, grunting and swearing until he managed to swing a leg over the saddle. For one glorious second, he sat upright, both arms raised like a victorious knight.

And then Plum screamed—a deep, trumpeting bellow that rattled teeth—and reared back on her hind legs. Sean yelped, flailing, before she tossed him off like a sack of potatoes. He landed flat on his back in the mud with a thud, groaning as the gang erupted into laughter.

“Looks like she don’t fancy Irish,” Arthur muttered, smirking.

“Ah, shut it, Arthur,” Sean wheezed, clutching his side as Karen doubled over laughing nearby.

Not to be outdone, Lenny stepped forward. “Can’t be that hard. She just don’t like fools.” He mounted more carefully, whispering to Plum as he eased into the saddle. For a moment, it seemed to work—until Plum shifted, shook herself, and sent him tumbling headfirst into the dirt with even less ceremony than Sean.

“Guess she don’t like college boys either,” Bill snorted.

Javier, ever smooth, cracked his neck and sauntered forward. “You boys are doin’ it all wrong. You gotta show her confidence. She wants someone steady.” He vaulted onto Plum’s back in one swift move, grinning as the gang clapped and whooped. “See? Easy as—”

Plum bucked once, hard, and Javier was airborne, hitting the ground with a spectacular splash in a nearby puddle. His guitar-playing hand flailed pitifully above the water before he dragged himself up, drenched and cursing in Spanish.

By now the gang was roaring with laughter. Even Arthur let out a rough chuckle, though he tried to hide it behind his hand.

That was when Dutch, chest puffed out, raised a hand for silence. “Enough of this foolishness. The poor animal isn’t stubborn—she’s waiting for the right rider. Horses, dinosaurs, it doesn’t matter. They respect authority.”

He strode forward like a man heading to his coronation, hat tipped just so, confidence dripping off every step. He placed a hand on Plum’s neck, murmured something smooth and steady, then mounted with the grace of a practiced horseman. For a breath, everyone held still. Maybe Dutch was right. Maybe Plum had just been testing them.

Then, without hesitation, Plum screeched and twisted her long neck around, snapping her jaws inches from Dutch’s boot before jerking hard. Dutch was launched clean off the saddle, sprawling unceremoniously into the dirt.

The camp went dead silent. Then Sean—still rubbing his back—exploded into laughter so loud it echoed through the swamp. The others followed suit, some trying and failing to stifle themselves. Dutch climbed to his feet, dusting his coat with stiff, deliberate motions, jaw tight, eyes blazing.

“She’s… temperamental,” he growled.

But before he could launch into a speech, Charles stepped forward. Quiet, steady. He placed a hand on Plum’s flank, whispered low, and mounted with care. To everyone’s amazement, Plum didn’t move an inch—just shifted her weight, let out a soft rumble, and stood tall.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Arthur said under his breath.

Then Kieran, timid but determined, gave it a try. With Charles already sitting easy, he clambered up behind him. Again, Plum remained calm, merely flicking her tail and huffing warm breath through her nostrils.

Everyone stared.

“So… she’s choosy,” Javier muttered, wringing swamp water from his shirt. “She got her favorites.”

Sean scowled, pointing at Plum. “Bloody beast’s got no taste, is what it is.”

Dutch said nothing, his face thunderous, but the faintest twitch in his jaw suggested that being bested by Plum had stung worse than he’d admit.

Arthur, watching it all unfold, felt a laugh bubbling in his chest again—something rare these days. “Guess the dinosaur knows who she trusts. And it ain’t the rest of us.”

The camp settled into a strange, thoughtful quiet. For all the comedy of it, there was something unnerving about Plum’s choice—like the animal knew more than she ought to.

By the time the saddles were pulled off Whiskey and Plum, the camp had shifted into a low buzz of chatter. Sean rubbed his back and swore vengeance on Plum under his breath, while Javier muttered that the creature must’ve had “a personal vendetta against Mexico itself.” Kieran, for once, held his head high, looking almost proud of the bruises on his arms from all the trial and error.

Arthur unslung the saddle from Whiskey’s back with a grunt, giving the gentle creature a pat on her side. She flicked her tail lazily and lowered her head for another mouthful of reeds, content as ever. “Least one of ‘em’s reliable,” he said, half to himself.

But the mutters carried through the camp:

“What if we could ride more of ’em?”
“Imagine a whole herd, tamed and saddled.”
“Stronger than horses… bigger, too.”
“Dinosaurs against Pinkertons…”

It was dangerous talk, half dream and half madness, but it caught like fire.

Arthur saw it in Dutch’s eyes when he came striding back from his tent, coat newly brushed, hat squared on his head like the fall into the mud had never happened. The spark was there again, the dangerous glint that always came when Dutch saw possibility where others only saw struggle.

“Do you hear it, boys? Girls?” Dutch’s voice rose over the muttering, smooth as honey. “Do you hear what we’re saying?” He gestured wide to Whiskey and Plum, grazing peacefully in the muddy grass. “The world ain’t ending—it’s beginning anew. Civilization falls, and we… we adapt. These creatures, they’re not our doom. They are our opportunity.”

The gang watched him, some rapt, some wary. Arthur leaned back against a fencepost, jaw tight, not yet ready to put his faith in Dutch’s vision again. But he couldn’t deny it—there was something about the way Dutch spoke, something that even stirred through the heavy fog of grief hanging over him. For just a moment, his chest eased.

“We’ll ride higher than kings, mark my words,” Dutch went on, voice booming. “The Pinkertons, the army, Cornwall’s money—they’re relics. Dust. But us? We’ll be the future. Outlaws riding beasts taller than houses, stronger than trains!”

The camp erupted into scattered cheers, laughter, disbelief. Sean was already boasting about how he’d “tame one of the feathered devils and ride it like a bloody dragon,” while Karen snorted that he couldn’t even stay on Plum. Even Hosea, watching from the porch, shook his head with a faint smile.

For Arthur, though, the moment felt strange. Mary’s face still hovered at the back of his mind, the ache in his chest still fresh—but for the first time in days, he wasn’t drowning in it. He found himself smirking faintly as he watched Sean and Bill argue about whether or not a raptor could be saddled without it taking your leg off.

Just for a heartbeat, life felt like more than just mourning.

Dutch stood there, basking in it all, that gleam in his eyes as sharp as ever. Fearless, dangerous, visionary.

Arthur’s smirk faded as he thought: And that’s when he’s most dangerous of all.

That night, in his bed, he carefully, slowly added two more pages to his journal. One of Whiskey, riding calm and elegant, and another of Plum, bucking off Dutch like he was a particularly annoying raccoon, with some shitty doodles of Sean, Lenny and Javier scattered on the ground around it.

“Don’t rightly know what to make of it, but we put saddles on those two duck-bills today. Kieran did the hard work of fixing the straps so they’d fit, while Sean mostly stood around running his mouth. First thing, I figured it’d be a disaster. Truth be told, it weren’t half bad.

Whiskey took me without a fuss. Big, lumbering, but steady. Stomps heavy as an ox and near twice as strong. Steering her was strange. Pull too hard on the reins and she just shakes her head like she’s laughing at me. But once I got the hang of it, she moved where I wanted. Almost felt natural. Almost.

Plum, on the other hand, don’t seem to care for fools. Bucked Sean so hard he landed in the muck. Did the same to Lenny and Javier. Even Dutch had a go, and Plum threw him down flat on his back. That did us all some good, seeing him covered in grass. Charles and Kieran are the only ones she’ll suffer. Not sure what that means, but it’s something.

The camp’s all riled up about it. Talking like we might saddle a whole herd one day, use ’em against the Pinkertons. Dutch is over the moon with the idea. Can see it in his eyes—he thinks he’s found our salvation. Maybe he has. Maybe it’ll just be another dream.”

Chapter Text

Arthur had been wandering toward the edge of camp, still heavy-eyed but pushing himself to keep moving, when the sight stopped him cold. Three horses stood saddled, stomping impatiently, and beside them Lenny, Karen, and Sean were fussing with gear—mostly coils upon coils of rope slung over their saddles like they were fixing to hogtie the entire county.

Arthur narrowed his eyes. “What in the hell are you three up to?”

Lenny froze with his boot in the stirrup, wincing like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. He shot Sean a sharp look. “Told you we’d get caught.”

Karen, on the other hand, crossed her arms and smirked with shameless pride. “We’re gonna go get ourselves more dinosaurs.”

Arthur just stared, jaw tightening. “Dinosaurs.”

Sean grinned wide, leaning on his saddle horn. “Aye. Not just any dinosaurs, either. The tall turkeys. The big runners. Quick as the devil, they are.”

Arthur dragged a hand down his face. “We ain’t got food for the ones we already got.”

“Thank you!” Lenny said, throwing his hands up. “That’s exactly what I said!” He pointed at Sean. “But somebody here insists—”

“They’ll be rideable, Arthur!” Sean cut in. “Rideable! Like them duck-bills, only faster. You imagine it? A whole bloody herd of ‘em tearing down the road with us on their backs? No lawman alive could catch us!”

Karen hopped lightly into her saddle, grinning down at Arthur. “And Lenny swears he saw them lay eggs. Could be food, could be trade. Either way, worth the trouble.”

Arthur let out a long, exhausted sigh, shoulders sagging. “Goddamn fools.” He rubbed his temple, then turned toward the parasaurs. Whiskey had been grazing by the fence, and when Arthur whistled, she lumbered over, placid and calm as ever. He set a hand on her neck, muttering under his breath. “Looks like you and me gotta babysit now.”

Karen beamed. “So you’re in?”

Arthur swung up into Whiskey’s saddle, settling into the higher perch with a scowl. “I’m goin’ along to make sure none of you die bein’ a fool. Don’t mean I’m encouragin’ this madness.”

Sean let out a whoop, spurring his horse forward. “That’s the spirit, Arthur!”

Lenny just shook his head, muttering. “This is a bad idea.”

Arthur tugged on Whiskey’s reins, guiding her alongside the trio. “Only question is, how bad’s it gonna get?”

With that, the four of them set off toward the horizon, ropes swaying at their sides and the faintest glimmer of reckless hope in their eyes.

The four of them rode quiet into the open meadows of the Heartlands, hooves muffled against the tall grass. Arthur pulled Whiskey to a stop on the ridge, shading his eyes against the sun. Below them, the clearing was alive.

“Jesus,” Sean whispered, leaning forward in his saddle.

Dozens of the tall, gawky dinosaurs milled about, their feathers catching the light in dazzling shades of red, blue, and gold. They strutted and chirped and craned their long necks with such swagger it was like they owned the whole damn prairie. The ground was pockmarked with wide, shallow nests—rings of sticks and grass, each with a clutch of pale eggs glinting inside.

Arthur tilted his head. “They’re buildin’ ‘em.”

Sure enough, one lanky galli plucked twigs from the grass and carefully arranged them into the rim of its nest. Another darted past and, quick as a thief, snatched a stick right out of its neighbor’s mouth before dropping it into its own nest.

Karen burst into laughter, pointing down at the scene. “Did you see that? Damn thing’s a cheat! Took it right out from under him!”

Arthur grunted. “Figures. Nothin’ in nature’s fair.”

Lenny adjusted his hat, squinting. “Females got duller colors. Browns, greys, maybe a stripe or two. They’re the ones we want—less territorial, and they’re the ones layin’.”

Arthur turned his eyes on him. “You sound like you studied ‘em.”

Lenny shrugged. “Been watchin’ ‘em some while I was out huntin’. Figured it might come in handy.”

Sean slapped his thigh. “Well, thank God you did, lad! We’ll bag ourselves a fine brood mare of a bird yet!”

Arthur groaned. “We ain’t baggin’ nothin’. If this goes wrong, it’s a damn stampede.”

“Then it can’t go wrong,” Sean said with a grin. “Simple as that.”

Arthur ignored him and looked over the meadow again. The tall turkeys strutted in loose groups, but the bigger males kept to the center, feathers flaring and throats rumbling in challenge. The dull-colored hens skirted around the edges, busier with their nests than with showing off.

“Alright,” Arthur muttered, rubbing his jaw. “We’re lookin’ for one of the hens. Gotta pick one that ain’t too close to the big bastards. Need a rope around the neck, or the leg. Once she’s down, we’ll calm her, try to mount. But we spook the whole herd, they’ll run us down.”

Karen smirked, twirling her lasso. “So we just gotta be quick.”

Arthur shot her a flat look. “Quick, careful, and quiet. Can you manage that?”

She winked. “No promises.”

Arthur sighed, staring out over the meadow like a man already regretting his life choices. He gave Whiskey a soft nudge, guiding her downhill while the others fanned out, ropes already in hand.

“There,” Lenny whispered, pointing at a dull-feathered hen nosing through the grass at the far edge. She was smaller than the males, her feathers muted in shades of clay and ash, and she seemed far more interested in fussing over her nest than in the rest of the flock.

“Alright,” Arthur muttered. “We do this clean. No yellin’, no—”

Before he could finish, Sean swung his rope overhead and let it fly.

The loop landed square around the hen’s neck, and the bird let out an earsplitting screech that echoed across the meadow. She thrashed, wings beating, long legs kicking dust. The entire herd froze in unison, necks snapping toward the source of the commotion.

“Oh no…” Lenny muttered.

In a ripple of color, the gallis closed ranks around the outlaws. They lowered their heads, feathers bristling, talons clicking against the dirt as they began to circle.

Sean yanked at his rope, eyes wide. “I thought they’d scatter!”

Arthur barked back, hauling his own pistol free. “Well they didn’t! Hold steady!”

The ring of dinosaurs pressed tighter, chirps rising in pitch until it was almost deafening. Arthur fired a shot into the air. The sound cracked across the meadow, but the gallis only jerked back for a heartbeat before closing in again, braver than before.

“Son of a—” Arthur fired again, louder, meaner this time.

That did it. The flock’s courage shattered in an instant. With a chorus of squawks, the males bolted, wings flaring as they tore across the meadow. The hens followed in a storm of feathers and dust, though a few stayed behind, fiercely guarding the nests.

Karen grinned wickedly. “My turn!”

Before Arthur could stop her, she flung her rope, catching one of the lingering hens by the leg. The bird stumbled, hissing and thrashing, too distracted to notice Karen vaulting down from her horse.

“Karen!” Arthur roared.

But she was already scrambling onto the dinosaur’s back. The hen squawked and bolted like a rocket, Karen clinging to its feathers with both hands.

Her laughter rang wild across the prairie as the bird tore off into the distance, leaving a trail of churned-up earth and furious shrieks behind.

Arthur buried his face in his hands. “I swear to God…”

Sean whooped after her, half proud, half horrified. Lenny just shook his head like a man watching the world end in slow motion.

The meadow erupted into chaos as Karen’s galli darted off like a bullet. Its legs were a blur, wings flapping for balance as it weaved and leapt through the grass, shrieking the whole way. Karen clung to its neck with both arms, hair whipping around her face, laughter and curses spilling from her mouth in equal measure.

“Goddammit—mount up!” Arthur barked.

Sean and Lenny kicked their horses forward, hooves pounding the earth, while Arthur swung onto Whiskey, who trumpeted with a startled honk at all the commotion. With a hard tug of the reins, Arthur urged her on. The parasaur’s long strides carried him forward in great bounds, quickly gaining on the horses, but even she struggled to keep pace with the galli.

“Jesus Christ, look at it go!” Sean hollered, half panicked, half thrilled. His horse was already lathered with sweat, straining to keep up.

Karen’s galli cut left, then right, sprinting with a wild zigzag that sent Karen shrieking. Somehow, she managed to stay mounted, bouncing and swaying like a ragdoll. Then—slowly, almost unbelievably—her death grip turned to a firm hold. She shifted her weight, tugging the feathers near its neck, kicking at its side the way she would a horse.

The tall turkey screeched but didn’t buck her off. Its gallop smoothed out, its panic easing with each tug of her hands, until at last it slowed to a steady run.

“Whoa there, big girl… easy, easy…” Karen cooed, stroking its neck feathers. The galli let out a low honk, almost… uncertain.

Arthur reined Whiskey in, breathless from the chase, sweat glistening on his brow. Lenny pulled up alongside him, still wide-eyed, while Sean nearly toppled out of the saddle from laughing too hard.

Karen grinned like a devil, patting the dinosaur’s neck again. “See? She loves me already. Smart bird, smarter than any damn horse. Ain’t that right, sweetheart?”

The galli fluffed its feathers and gave a short, sharp honk, as though answering her.

“Oh no…” Arthur muttered, dragging a hand down his face.

Karen just leaned forward, already thinking aloud. “Now, what am I gonna call you, hm? Feather? Speedy? Nah, needs somethin’ with style…”

Sean whooped. “You’ve gone and done it now, Karen! Got yourself a damn turkey-horse!”

Arthur sighed, staring skyward like he was waiting for lightning to strike him down. “…Dutch is gonna have my head.”

Karen was still whooping and crowing on the back of her galli, half petting it, half wrestling it, when Sean tugged his reins and slowed his horse. He twisted around in the saddle, eyes glinting with mischief.

“Y’know,” he said, loud enough for all to hear, “we’d be bloody fools if we didn’t go back for some o’ them eggs. Big as pumpkins, they were! Imagine Pearson’s stew with a few o’ those cracked in!”

Arthur groaned immediately. “Sean…”

But Sean was already wheeling his horse around, spurring it toward the abandoned nests before anyone could stop him.

“Don’t you dare—!” Arthur shouted after him, but it was too late.

Karen, still bouncing on the galli, laughed. “Well, least if he dies, we’ll have a good story out of it!”

“Hell of a story for Dutch,” Arthur muttered grimly, tugging Whiskey around to follow. Lenny was right on his heels, face tight with worry.

By the time they reached the nests, Sean was already off his horse, crouched over one of the woven stick mounds. He let out a low whistle, hefting up an egg that looked like it could’ve belonged to an ostrich on steroids. “Would ya look at that? Enough to make an omelet for the whole gang!”

“Sean, put it down.” Arthur’s voice was iron.

Sean just grinned, hugging the egg to his chest like a prized treasure. “Oh, c’mon, Morgan, don’t be such a spoilsport. It’s just sittin’ here—”

A shriek cut him off, the kind that rattled bone.

Out from the tree line stormed three of the brightly feathered gallis, males with crimson necks and wide, furious eyes. They flared their arms, feathers standing on end, and stomped the ground like soldiers. Another joined from the far side, charging across the meadow with a shrill, trumpeting cry.

Lenny swore. “You idiot, you just stole their children!”

Sean paled, still clutching the egg. “…Ah. Bollocks.”

The gallis shrieked again and broke into a dead sprint straight at them.

They thundered closer, feathers flaring, shrieks piercing the meadow. Sean stumbled backward with the egg still in his arms, eyes wide, while Karen fought to keep her own mount from bolting.

Arthur was already raising his pistol when a crack split the air—Lenny’s rifle. The bullet caught one of the gallis square in the chest, sending the beast sprawling in a mess of feathers and blood.

The others skidded, let out furious cries, and for a moment Arthur thought they might come on anyway. But then, as if some unspoken knowledge passed between them, the remaining birds wheeled around and bolted, disappearing into the tall grass with their cries fading into the distance.

Sean exhaled loudly, face flushed with adrenaline, then grinned like a maniac. “Now that, my friends, is what I call a bloody triumph! Look at us! One new mount, one giant egg, and dinner flappin’ about on the ground. I’d say we’ve had a right profitable outing.”

Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose. “Profitable, my ass. We nearly got trampled, you daft bastard.”

Karen was doubled over laughing atop her galli, petting its neck as it huffed and stomped. “You gotta admit, he’s got a point, Arthur. We came out ahead.”

Arthur shot her a glare, then turned to the carcass bleeding out in the grass. He sighed long and low, shoulders sagging. “Lenny, help me get this damn thing on Whiskey, I don’t need Pearson throwin’ a fit about wasted meat.”

Lenny grimaced but nodded, hopping down from his horse. “Least it’ll feed everyone for a while.”

Sean cradled the egg like it was the most precious treasure in the world, his grin never wavering. “Told ya! Rousin’ success, lads and lady. We’re heroes!”

Arthur only muttered under his breath as he and Lenny hauled the dead dinosaur up onto Whiskey’s broad back, the parasaur groaning under the extra weight. “More like damned fools.”

By the time the ragtag party rode back into Shady Belle, the sun was slanting low, painting the swamp gold. Bill, perched half-asleep on watch with a bottle at his side, nearly fell out of his chair when he caught sight of them.

“Holy hell…what in God’s name—?!” He scrambled upright, jaw dropping as Karen came prancing in, straddling a tall-feathered beast that looked half turkey, half ostrich, all menace. Behind her, Whiskey bore the dead galli slung across his back like a sack of flour, blood dripping into the dirt.

Sean puffed his chest and bellowed before anyone else could speak. “Success, boys! Bloody success! One prize mount, one feast for Pearson, and… ” he hoisted the egg above his head like a trophy, “...the biggest breakfast omelet you ever laid your eyes on!”

A few folks came spilling out of the house at the racket, jaws slack, laughter and disbelief mingling in the air.

Dutch himself strode out onto the porch, coat swaying, eyes narrowed. “Now what sort of fool’s errand have you four gone and dragged yourselves into this time?”

Arthur opened his mouth, but Lenny beat him to it, raising a hand quick. “Sir, it ain’t just foolishness. These ones lay eggs. We thought it might… help. For food.”

At that, Dutch’s expression softened, suspicion curdling into thoughtfulness. He rubbed his jaw, then gave a slow, approving nod. “Eggs, you say. Hm. Now that… that could be useful indeed.”

Sean grinned like he’d just won a medal. Karen, meanwhile, was still patting her new mount’s neck, beaming wide. “Ain’t she beautiful? Strong, too. Just need to figure out what to call her…” She tapped her chin, whispering half-formed names to herself as the beast huffed and sidestepped, its long legs twitching with restless energy.

Arthur slid down off Whiskey, rolling his shoulders, exhaustion hanging off him like a wet coat. “Call her whatever you damn well please,” he muttered, eyeing the bloody carcass Pearson’s way. “Just so long as you keep her from kickin’ anyone’s head clean off.”

The fire had burned down to a low, steady glow, throwing orange shadows across the courtyard of Shady Belle. Most of the meat was already gone—roasted, salted, or packed away for Pearson to fret over come morning. The heavy stink of dinosaur fat still clung to the air, though, mixing with swamp rot and woodsmoke. Past midnight now, clouds smothered the moon, and most of camp had gone quiet. Snores drifted from tents pitched on the damp ground. Those lucky enough to claim corners inside the house were tucked away, the creak of old boards giving them away whenever someone shifted in their sleep.

Arthur sat near the fire, whetstone rasping steady along the edge of his knife. The sound was methodical, more for his own restless nerves than the blade. Across the way, Dutch leaned against a chair tilted on two legs, book in hand, another re-read of Evelyn Miller’s nonsense, Arthur figured. Hosea sat beside him, pipe clamped between his teeth, eyes tired but alert in that way Arthur had come to know meant his mind was busy turning.

The peace fractured in an instant.

A sound ripped through the night. Deep, booming, and far too close. 

It wasn’t thunder, though the sky looked fit to burst. It was sharper, like the earth itself had split under something massive, and worst of all, it was familiar. Every muscle in Arthur’s back went tight, his knife sliding off the whetstone. He looked up at once, eyes snapping toward the dark swamp.

Dutch lowered his book. Hosea took his pipe from his mouth, frowning. The three men locked eyes, unspoken recognition passing between them.

Charles and Sadie were silhouettes near the edge of the clearing, rifles in hand. The second the sound came again, Charles tilted his head to the sky. His jaw hardened. He leaned toward Sadie, murmured something Arthur couldn’t catch, and then, in a rare break of composure, started back from his post at a near run.

Sadie followed quick, glancing behind her as if expecting something to swoop down.

“What is it?” Dutch demanded, his voice low but urgent as he stood, his chair legs clattering against the porch.

Charles strode into the firelight, shoulders tense, rifle still at the ready. “Get everyone inside the house. Now.”

Arthur felt the fire’s warmth vanish from his skin, even though he hadn’t moved an inch.

Chapter Text

Charles didn’t waste another breath. He and Sadie fanned out, moving from tent to tent, their voices low but urgent as they shook people awake.

“Up. Inside the house, now.”

Bill jerked awake with a snarl, hand going to the revolver at his side, only to find Charles looming over him. “What the hell—”

“No time,” Charles snapped. “Get inside.”

Javier sat up next, blinking blearily, one hand over his chest as if the echo of that booming cry still rattled through his bones. “What was that?”

“Not now,” Sadie barked, already dragging Strauss up by the elbow. She pointed him toward the house with a shove. “You. Basement. You too, Pearson. Trelawney, Miss Grimshaw, Mrs. Adler’ll take you down. Move.”

One by one, they stirred into motion, confusion thick in their movements, but the sharp edge in Charles’ tone left no room for argument. Lenny and Sean stumbled out from the shadows of their tent, rifles half-ready even in their grogginess. Micah had already snatched up a repeater and was glaring at the swamp, muttering under his breath.

Arthur stood by the fire, watching the camp dissolve into tense, frantic action. He saw Kieran come running up from the far edge of the property, hair mussed from sleep, a pistol bouncing at his side. “What’s happening? I heard—”

Arthur cut him off with a sharp look. “Dinosaurs,” he said, already glancing toward the corral where the horses and the parasaurs shifted nervously, ears flicking, tails swishing. Chicken darted in and out of the shadows, feathers puffed, hissing at the sky like it already knew.

“What the hell do we do with them?” Arthur demanded. “Can’t keep ‘em here.”

Kieran hesitated, lips pressed tight. Then he shook his head hard. “Safer to make ‘em run. They stay penned in, they’ll be slaughtered. Other than Chicken, they’ll fend for themselves better out there.”

Arthur nodded once, then strode toward the fidgeting animals. “Go on, then,” he muttered, grabbing at reins, smacking rumps with the flat of his palm. Charles joined him, and together they sent the horses and parasaurs bolting into the darkness. Chicken refused to budge, leaping up onto the porch rail and glaring upward as if daring the threat to come closer.

The night split again.

Not one sound this time, but two—high, shrill, like the call of some massive, alien trumpet. The second overlapped the first, echoing back and forth until it rattled in the ribs of every man and woman in Shady Belle.

Arthur’s eyes snapped upward, heart crawling into his throat.

There, just above the roofline, shadows moved against the clouds. Immense shapes, wings beating slow and steady. For a moment, it looked like the sky itself had come alive, unfolding into something too big, too heavy to belong.

Quetzalcoatlus. 

Two of them. 

Circling low, hovering above Shady Belle with wingspans that blotted out whole patches of the heavens. Their long, spear-like beaks glinted in what little firelight reached that high, and their trumpet-cries rolled again, shaking the swamp and the bones of everyone watching.

Dutch had gone still the second those vast wings cut across the moonlight, his book forgotten. Now, as the two monstrous shapes dipped lower, nearer, nearly close enough to shake the air with each wingbeat, he barked out sharp and steady:

“Lights. Out. Now.”

The gang moved quick—lanterns snuffed, candles pinched, the soft orange glow bleeding away until the house and the swamp around it sank into shadow. Only the faint shimmer of the cloud-smeared moon gave them enough to see.

From the back hallway came the sound of a door opening. John stepped out, hair mussed, shirt hanging open, eyes squinting in the dark. “What the hell’s all the—”

Hosea was there before Dutch could snap. He touched John’s arm, voice low but iron-firm. “Take Abigail. Take Jack. Down to the basement, now.”

John looked like he wanted to argue—he always did—but then another cry ripped through the night, so piercing and alien that Jack stirred in the next room with a muffled whimper. John swallowed, nodded once, and vanished back down the hallway, Abigail’s anxious voice floating up as she gathered their boy. Kieran followed after them, Chicken in his arms, struggling like a cursed lap dog. 

The trapdoor creaked, then shut, the basement swallowing them whole.

The rest of the gang spread out through the house, rifles in hand, moving like shadows to the windows. Micah and Bill crouched by the front parlor, Lenny and Sean upstairs at the corners, Charles and Sadie covering the back. Dutch and Hosea by the porch, Javier close by for cover. Arthur slid into place by the dining room window every muscle taut, watching the black outline of wings stretch impossibly wide against the swamp.

Then, with a heavy thoomp that rattled the glass panes, one of them landed on the front lawn. Its talons dug into the mud, crushing the wall they’d built like it was a bundle of sticks, neck craning high, head tilting from side to side with eerie, birdlike jerks.

The second landed out back, shaking the ground, making the walls groan faintly in protest.

Arthur’s breath caught as he watched the thing move, each honk of its throat reverberating through the timbers of the house. They weren’t attacking. Not yet. Just… investigating. Curious.

“Dios mio,” Javier whispered from somewhere in the dark, crossing himself.

“Quiet,” Dutch hissed, eyes fixed out the window. His hand hovered near the curtain as though he wanted to shove it aside for a better look, but didn’t dare.

The gang held their breath. No one moved. Only the sound of those great wings shifting, talons scraping wood and earth, the low, trumpeting honks echoing like horns of judgment over Shady Belle.

Two monsters, one on either side of the house, circling, sniffing, like carrion birds who hadn’t yet decided if the thing before them was alive or dead.

For a long, unbearable stretch, nothing moved. The house seemed to hold its own breath, every board groaning faintly under the weight of silence. Arthur could feel his pulse hammering in his neck, eyes straining into the dark, waiting for something—anything—to happen.

Then one the windows rattled. A long, narrow shadow pushed close, and with a sudden lunge, the Quetzel’s enormous beak punched through the wooden shutters. Glass cracked, splinters flew, and its horned tip scraped the floorboards just inches from Lenny, who rolled back with a sharp gasp.

The sound of that enormous beak dragging across the wood was like nails across steel, shrill and piercing, making Arthur’s teeth ache.

On the other side of the house, there was a deafening CRACK as the second Quetzel rammed its head against the parlor windows. Its beak burst through like a spear, missing Bill by a hair and pinning his coat to the wall. He shouted without meaning to, yanking himself free, the sound echoing up through the house.

That one mistake was enough.

The creatures outside honked, earsplitting, overlapping cries that shook the walls. Their long necks bobbed as they jabbed again, again, beaks darting inside the windows like spears probing an ant’s nest. Curtains ripped. Glass rained down. Furniture splintered.

“Shit—! Shite, they’re comin’ in!” Sean yelled from upstairs, voice breaking as he fired a panicked warning shot past one of the gaping holes.

“Hold your fire!” Dutch barked back, though even his voice carried a tremor.

Arthur pressed against the wall, shotgun tight in his hands, eyes darting between the quivering curtain and the long shadows shifting outside.

The house shook as the Quetzals pressed harder, their wings beating the swamp air like thunder. Each probing strike rattled shutters, shattered panes, splintered wood. Bits of Shady Belle rained down on the gang inside as they scrambled out of the way—Sean diving behind a table, Bill cursing as a beak punched through where his chest had been a second before.

“Goddamn it, they’re tearin’ the whole place down!” Javier yelled.

The walls groaned under the assault. Plaster cracked and fell in chunks, dust clouding the air. One of the great heads forced its way farther inside, the beak splitting the window frame wide, until the creature’s entire skull was wedged in. Its glassy eye rolled, huge and wet and unblinking, catching the lantern light.

Arthur froze. 

For a moment, all the chaos around him dulled to a hum. He was staring straight into that eye, big as his palm, bloodshot and alien. The breath caught in his throat. His jaw clenched.

Mary.

The image of her hand, curled tight around that ring, slammed into his mind. The rubble. The blood on her face. Quetzelcoatlus.

It was this. This towering, prehistoric bastard was the reason she’d died alone in the ashes of her home.

Arthur’s breath hitched. His vision blurred with rage.

He lifted his shotgun and jammed it close enough for the muzzle to press against the edge of that glaring orb. For a single heartbeat, the thing stared back, uncomprehending. Then Arthur pulled the trigger.

The blast went off like cannon fire inside the room. The eye burst in a wet explosion of gore and vitreous fluid, spraying Arthur’s face and chest. The Quetzel shrieked, the sound so loud it rattled every bone in his body. It jerked its head back violently, ripping more of the window frame with it, staggering outside in a flailing panic.

The whole house rang with the creature’s agony as it flapped madly, crashing into the swamp trees, blood streaking down its long neck. Everyone inside was left reeling, stunned by the blast and the terrible noise.

Arthur’s chest heaved, his face twisted in fury and grief, shotgun still smoking in his hands.

And outside, the second Quetzel honked in alarm, angrier, louder, and now bearing down on the house with twice the force.

Gunfire immediately cracked through the night, all guns on deck after Arthur fired the first shot, the swamp lighting up with muzzle flashes. The Quetzals, enraged now, screamed in unearthly trumpets that shook the very walls of Shady Belle. Their wings hammered the air, slamming against the house with gusts so strong they blew lanterns from their hooks and sent papers and curtains whipping madly.

“Keep firin’!” Dutch bellowed, blasting through a broken window. “Bring the damn things down!”

The house was giving way, floorboards trembling, plaster crumbling, the roof groaning under the strain of those giant wings. Bill and Lenny fired from one end, Sean yelling curses as he reloaded, Sadie and Charles steadying their shots with cold precision. But every bullet seemed to only enrage the beasts further.

Arthur barely had time to reload before the second Quetzel lunged, its spear-like beak darting through the broken wall. He stumbled back, the wind knocked out of him as its jaws snapped shut—catching him, not flesh and bone, but by the back of his shirt.

“Arthur!” Hosea’s voice tore, desperate and disbelieving from inside the house.

The world whirled sickeningly as the monster jerked upward, lifting him from the ground like he weighed nothing. His boots kicked uselessly, dirt and wood splinters falling away beneath him, arms flailing as he attempted to hold on to something, anything at all. Dutch and Charles locked their sights onto him, horrified, and fired wildly, shouting his name, but Arthur’s ears were ringing too loud to hear anything clearly.

The air grew colder the higher he was dragged, the house shrinking below. His shirt tore against the creature’s teeth, threads pulling one by one.

And in that suspended moment, dangling helplessly in the beak of the thing that killed Mary, Arthur thought so this is it. This thing is gonna kill me and her both. It’s over.

The Quetzel growled again, triumphant, carrying him higher into the dark sky.

Arthur dangled in the air, the beast’s beak clamped down on his shirt. Then—CRACK! A loud gunshot split the night. The Quetzel shrieked in pain, its grip loosening. Another shot followed, and another, tearing into the thick column of its neck.

“You better drop my brother right now, you prehistoric piece of shit!”

On the stairs of porch, smoke curling from his shotgun, John Marston stood with his jaw set and his eyes burning. He fired a fourth shot straight into the wound, then hissed through his teeth and lowered his arm, chest heaving as he reloaded.

Above, the Quetzel wheeled and screeched, blood spraying in arcs from the punctures in its neck.

Arthur felt the world drop out from under him as the fabric tore free. He plummeted, flailing, the air rushing past his ears before he hit the murky swamp water below. It was a bruising, breathless landing, muck and weeds tangling around him as the cold seeped in, he inhaled instinctively from the impact, swallowing a whole lot of the disgusting water, straight to his lungs. Panicked, he immediately started flailing.

Inside the house chaos still reigned, everyone firing at the creature for daring to touch one of their own through splintered windows, but Charles didn’t hesitate. He vaulted from the doorway, boots pounding against the mud, rifle slung over his shoulder as he sprinted toward the water. Without breaking stride, he dove, the swamp swallowing him whole.

Arthur struggled to right himself, spitting out filthy water, vision blurred. His lungs screamed, his chest ached, and for a terrifying instant, he couldn’t find which way was up. Then a hand seized his arm, firm and unyielding.

“Got you!” Charles’s voice was muffled through the water, but Arthur heard it all the same.

They broke the surface together, Arthur gasping for air, clinging to Charles as gunfire and trumpeting cries echoed around them.

Charles hauled Arthur through the muck with raw determination, each step heavy as the swamp clung to them both. Arthur sputtered and coughed, trying to shake the water from his lungs, fighting Charles’s grip even as his legs refused to obey him.

“Quit thrashin’, you’ll drown us both!” Charles growled, dragging him by the collar until his boots found mud beneath them.

Behind them, the night split with a cry like metal tearing. The wounded Quetzel staggered, wings beating uselessly as blood pumped from the hole John had made in its neck. It reeled and screamed, lurching about in agony, its shadow stretching over the water like the arm of death itself.

But worse still was its companion.

The blinded Quetzel smashed itself against Shady Belle with terrible persistence, its enormous beak battering through shutters, snapping the wooden frame, gouging trenches through the walls. Its fury was mindless, unrelenting.

Arthur and Charles had just reached the bank when another screech pierced the air—a different pitch, not beast, but man. Both men froze. They turned in time to see the creature rear back from one of the windows, something pale clamped in its bloodied beak.

An arm. A human arm, limp and lifeless.

Arthur’s stomach lurched as the beast tipped its head back and swallowed the thing whole. The limb vanished down its throat with a wet, sickening gulp.

He couldn’t tell whose it had been. Not from this distance. The uncertainty was worse than any certainty could have been.

“God almighty,” Arthur rasped, staring up at the black silhouette of the monster against the cloudy sky. His fists clenched helplessly, water dripping down his sleeves. “Who the hell—”

Charles cut him off, gripping his shoulder hard. “We don’t know. Not yet. Don’t lose yourself now..”

The walls of Shady Belle groaned like the bones of a dying beast. Every strike from the Quetzal’s monstrous head made the whole house shudder; plaster rained from the ceiling in chalky clouds, and timbers split with the sound of gunfire. The once-grand plantation was reduced to little more than tinder under the weight of the prehistoric fury outside.

“Get out! Get out before it comes down on us!” Dutch’s voice rang over the din, sharp, commanding, threaded with the terror he tried not to show. He waved his arm toward the doors as if he could push the gang through by sheer force of will. “Move, damn you, before you’re buried alive!”

Lenny fired another useless shot at the blind Quetzal’s massive shadow as it rammed the roof. “It’s comin’ down no matter what we do!” he shouted, ducking as the ceiling sagged.

A horrible crash reverberated through the hall as another window gave way, shards of glass and splinters of wood flying across the parlor like shrapnel.

“Abigail! Jack!” John’s voice cracked raw as he stumbled into the corridor, looking ready to claw through the floorboards with his bare hands. His face was pale, his shotgun useless in his grip, eyes wild with panic. “They’re down there…I gotta get them out—!”

“Basement’s holdin’!” Dutch snapped, catching him by the shoulder with an iron grip. “That’s the safest place they can be, John! You go draggin’ them out now, you’ll only kill them and yourself quicker!”

John tore free, chest heaving, but even in his desperation he faltered—because Dutch wasn’t wrong. The thought of Abigail and Jack huddled under stone and earth made bile rise in his throat, but he knew if he opened that basement door, the beasts would have an easier path. He pressed a fist against the wall, shuddering, every nerve in him screaming to run downstairs.

“Trust me, son,” Hosea rasped from where he leaned by the stairwell, his face grey in the lamplight. “Basement’ll keep ‘em safe. You just worry about stayin’ alive so you can go back to ‘em.”

Another blow shook the house. Rafters creaked overhead.

One by one, the shooters began pulling back from the windows, their shots spent, their courage stripped raw. The house was no longer a fort, it was a coffin waiting to collapse.

Bill stumbled into the hall, his face streaked with soot and blood. Across his broad back, slumped like a rag doll, was Micah, limp and unconscious. His blond hair was caked in red, his revolvers gone.

“Move!” Dutch barked again, gesturing toward the swamp. “Everyone out the back, to the water! Keep low, let the bastards tear this place apart if they want to!”

The house groaned louder still, wood cracking, plaster falling in sheets.

Arthur and Charles, dripping swamp water, simply watched as the house cracked and snapped, ready to give in, watching helplessly and counting each person that came out, just to make sure no one was left behind.

The gang scrambled, coughing through dust, ducking falling plaster, carrying guns, dragging bodies. Behind them, the shrieks of the Quetzals pierced the night, vibrating through the swamp, a sound of hunger and rage so old and vast it didn’t belong in their world at all. And still, beneath all the chaos, Arthur couldn’t shake the image of that swallowed arm, disappearing down the monster’s throat.

The Quetzel with the torn-open neck staggered back from the ruins of the house, its massive wings beating clumsily at the air as though it could drag its body skyward on sheer desperation alone. Mud splashed in waves as it lurched forward, lifted, then—miraculously—caught air. Its wings carved great currents through the night as it drifted upward, leaving the gang breathless in the shadows below.

Arthur, dripping and filthy, watched from where Charles had shoved him against the safety of the tree line. His lungs burned, but his eyes never left the beast. It flew ragged, each wingbeat weaker than the last. And then, a mile or so away, its honk turned strangled. The creature faltered. The night swallowed its silhouette, and with a muffled crash that sent birds scattering, it fell into the distant cypress forest.

Dead.

The other remained. The one Arthur had blinded. Its calls rang out in harsh, broken tones, lost, furious, aching. It tilted its head side to side as if searching for its fallen kin, its great eye a dull, useless orb.

The gang held their breath.

Then, with a final thunderous cry, the wounded titan spread its wings. Each beat sent shockwaves through the swamp, gusts of wind flattening reeds and rippling the black water. The air smelled of mud and rot and splinters of plaster. And then, with one last furious thrust, the Quetzel lifted itself skyward, leaving ruin in its wake.

The downdraft hit Shady Belle like a hammer, the wind hitting it like a hurricane. Already broken, the house gave up at last. The roof buckled inward, walls folded, and the whole structure collapsed into itself with a sound like thunder, a great coughing bloom of dust and swamp mold erupting into the night.

Arthur flinched at the sight—Shady Belle, their fortress, gone in a single heartbeat.

The enormous flyer disappeared into the dark, heading southward, its silhouette swallowed by clouds.

All that remained was the ringing in their ears, the settling dust, and the wreckage of everything they had built here.

Chapter Text

John didn’t wait for Dutch’s order or Hosea’s voice of reason. 

The second the dust began to settle, he was already sprinting across the churned swamp mud toward what had been Shady Belle. His boots slipped on planks and broken shingles, but he didn’t slow down—he tore through the smoke and debris, coughing, his voice cracking as he shouted:

“Abigail! Jack! Where the hell are you?!”

He found the trapdoor half-buried beneath timbers, the earth around it caved in. His hands dug into the wreck, heaving pieces aside, throwing them anywhere they would go. His breath hitched with every scrape of wood, every muffled groan of shifting rubble.

“C’mon… c’mon, damnit!”

Javier appeared through the haze, face grim, rifle still in one hand. Without a word he slung it aside and fell to his knees beside John, hauling planks off the wreck with wild strength. Sweat streaked his face, dust turning it into paste, but he didn’t falter.

“We’ll get ‘em out,” Javier rasped, though his eyes betrayed his own fear.

Behind them, Arthur finally gave way. The fight, the water, the weight of being nearly carried off to die—all of it crashed through him at once. His knees buckled, and he dropped into the muck by the tree line, chest heaving as he tried to force air into lungs that wouldn’t obey. The world swam; the edges of his vision darkened.

He dragged his eyes sideways, past the haze of splintered wood and smoke, and saw Bill hunched in the mud with Micah sprawled across his lap.

For a moment, Arthur couldn’t make sense of what he saw. Just a pale, slack figure, mud-caked and still. Then he saw the blood and the twisted, horrifying absence. Micah’s arm was gone. Torn away at the shoulder as though bitten clean off.

Bill’s face was set in a look of sheer panic, hands shaking as he tried to press his own coat tight against the wound. He cursed under his breath, over and over, voice breaking, eyes darting between the ruin of Micah’s body and the rest of the gang.

Arthur just stared, too spent to speak. Too numb to feel anything but the hollow echo of disbelief.

At last, with a final heave, John and Javier pulled the wreckage clear from the trapdoor. John nearly tore the hinges off in his desperation, and when the door swung open, a wave of stale, dusty air rolled out.

The first figure to emerge was Jack—eyes red, coughing, his little hands clutching the air as he scrambled upward. John caught him instantly, pulling him tight against his chest, relief breaking out of him in a shuddering sigh.

“Jesus… you’re all right, boy. You’re all right…Jesus,” John muttered, half into Jack’s hair as he rocked him, as though to convince himself.

Abigail came next, dirt streaking her dress and face, her cough harsh and wet from the dust. She steadied herself against the ruined frame, but her eyes locked on John and Jack at once, softening only when she saw them both breathing, she stumbled towards them, John pulling her into the embrace. Behind her came Mrs. Grimshaw, Tilly, Mary-Beth, Molly and Swanson, all blinking against the night air, trembling, their faces pale as ghosts as they finally took in the sight around them—Shady Belle, their home, reduced to splinters and rubble.

No one spoke for a long moment. The enormity of it sat heavy in their chests.

Then Bill’s voice cracked through the night. “Grimshaw! Over here—damn it, hurry!”

Everyone’s eyes turned, following his shout. Bill was on his knees in the muck, Micah still sprawled pale and limp in his arms. The coat Bill had wrapped around his shoulder was already soaked through, the makeshift bandage doing little to stem the bleeding.

Grimshaw dropped to the ground beside them without hesitation, shoving Bill aside. She pressed her hands hard over the wound, her jaw set, but even she couldn’t mask the flicker of horror in her eyes.

The rest of the gang grimaced as one, the sight of Micah—always so proud, so loud, so smug—now ghost-pale, slack-jawed, and trembling on the edge of death, was something none of them had ever imagined they’d see.

Arthur forced himself to look, his chest still heaving. He saw the truth in Grimshaw’s eyes, and the shameful thought came unbidden: maybe this was the price Micah had coming. But the pale figure in the mud was no longer a devil in their midst—just a broken man, bleeding out fast, and part of their family whether Arthur liked it or not.

Sudden as a gunshot, the strength in Arthur’s body gave out all at once, black dots dancing around in the corners of his sight, and he toppled sideways, the firelight blurring into darkness.

“Arthur!” Lenny was at his side in an instant, rolling him onto his back, pressing his hand close to Arthur’s mouth. Relief poured through him when he felt the ragged pull of breath against his palm. “He’s breathin’! Just knocked out!”

Charles crouched low beside him, his steady hand pressed against Arthur’s chest, feeling the shallow rhythm. He nodded once, calm but tense. “He’s spent… he won’t be getting up again tonight.”

On the other side of the ruins, Grimshaw’s voice cracked through the chaos like a whip.
“Mary-Beth, fetch me clean rags! Tilly, stoke a fire—big as you can manage, now!”

Her hands never left Micah’s ruined shoulder, blood seeping between her fingers. Her voice was hard, but her eyes were sharp with fear. “We’ll cauterize if we have to. But the arm…it’s gone. Gone for good. I can’t conjure miracles.”

Mary-Beth scrambled at once, eyes wide with horror, while Tilly stumbled to her knees, piling wood into the embers until sparks leapt high into the night.

All around, the camp was a whirlwind of movement, shouts, sobs, scraping wood, the snap of cloth tearing for bandages. 

But in the middle of it all stood Dutch, motionless.

He hadn’t lifted a hand.

He stood with his coat hanging loose from one shoulder, hair usually so proper sticking out from all sides, his eyes fixed on nothing and everything all at once. His chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths. Behind his eyes, a storm brewed—not fury this time, but something quiet and strange. 

Panic had once again taken root where certainty once briefly lived.

His home was gone. His family was breaking in front of him. And for the first time, he had no speech to give, no grand promise to soothe the ruin around them.

The swamp was alive with the echoes of battle, the stench of blood, the smoldering ruin of Shady Belle—and Dutch van der Linde stood frozen in the middle of it, unable to move.

Arthur woke with a start, his chest jerking as though he’d been dragged out of the depths of a nightmare. 

His eyes darted up at the canvas overhead, the light seeping through it dim and gray. For a moment, he had no idea where he was—until the aches in his body settled in, until the smell of damp earth and smoke hit him, until the memory of enormous wings and a snapping beak rushed back.

He sat up too fast, groaning as the world tilted. A hand reached into his vision, offering a tin cup of water.

“Easy,” Hosea mumbled, uncharacteristically soft, seated on a crate beside him, voice steady, eyes watching him carefully.

Arthur took the cup, drained half of it in one go, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His throat still burned raw. “How long was I out?” he rasped.

“Nearly an entire day.” Hosea leaned back slightly, folding his hands atop his knees. When Arthur turned to look at him, eyes wide in indignation and shame, Hosea shook his head with a weak smile. “You almost got raptured by an evil, flying lizard from hell and survived, son. Don’t be harsh on yourself.”

Arthur’s shoulders sank. He let out a humorless laugh, low and bitter. “So that did happen… was really hopin’ it was just a nightmare.” He set the cup aside and glanced around the cramped tent. “…Is Micah alive?”

“Yes.”

“Damn it.”

Hosea didn’t flinch at the answer, just sighed. “He’s out, too. We had a good amount of medical supplies, thankfully, but…” His gaze grew heavy. “…well, can’t save the arm that was swallowed.”

Arthur rubbed at his jaw, staring at nothing. “Anything else…?”

“Kieran and Lenny went out looking for the animals,” Hosea said gently. “They’re all safe. Everyone’s shook. Shady Belle’s in ruins and…” He hesitated, letting the silence stretch before finishing, “…well, we don’t know where to go. Dutch doesn’t know, either. We’re at a loss.”

Arthur dropped his head into his hands, his hair falling loose around his face. The weight of it all pressed down on him—the destruction, the blood, the image of wings tearing through the sky. A nightmare come alive, and no waking from it this time.

He stayed sitting on the cot, elbows on his knees, staring down at the dirt floor of the tent as if it might give him an answer. The water he’d just drunk sat heavy in his stomach, and his chest still ached where the thing’s claws had raked him. He finally lifted his eyes to Hosea, voice low and uneven.

“What are we gonna do with all these folk, Hosea… with ourselves?” He shook his head, mouth pulling tight, voice weak and shaky like he was that 16 year old boy being pulled from the streets all over again. “I mean, we lived through a lot, you and me, Dutch, even that fool Marston these past years, but… but this? These animals, all this destruction, this chaos? It just—” His voice cracked, and he let out a sharp breath. “This feels like the end.”

Hosea’s expression softened in a way Arthur rarely saw. He leaned forward, his voice quiet but steady.

“It does, son. It’s terrifying.” He let out a long sigh, his eyes dropping for a moment before meeting Arthur’s again. “I’m scared. Dutch…” His words trailed, his brow furrowing as though he couldn’t quite believe what he was about to say. “Dutch is scared, too. I’ve never seen that look on his face before. It’s like… he’s at a complete loss. Can’t even bullshit his way into a speech no more.”

Arthur gave a bitter, humorless huff of air, though his eyes betrayed how rattled he was.

“But,” Hosea continued, laying a hand over Arthur’s forearm, grounding him, “we don’t give up. We keep going. Keep… surviving, best we can, long as we can. That’s all there is left.”

Arthur glanced at the hand, then back at Hosea, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard.

“I reckon,” Hosea went on, his voice heavier now, “we’re gonna have to move. No doubt about it. Where to, I’ve no idea… but that thing attacked this place like it was pokin’ at a bug’s nest. And now we killed its kin and blinded it… it’s gonna come back. We have to leave.”

Arthur stared down again, fists curling over his knees, the thought of packing up what little they had left tightening in his chest. Leaving meant more running. More hiding. More blood. But Hosea’s words rang true, and the silence that followed was as heavy as any verdict.

When Arthur finally stepped out of the tent, the morning light hit him like a weight. The swamp air was heavy, thick with the stink of mud, smoke, and splintered timber. What had been Shady Belle now sat in heaps of broken boards and collapsed walls, the proud house reduced to little more than rubble.

The camp was scattered around the ruins, each person moving with a grim, unspoken urgency. John knelt in the grass near the trees, holding Jack tight against his chest while Abigail smoothed her son’s hair with a trembling hand, her own eyes wet and wild. Arthur could hear John murmuring low, desperate reassurances, words as much for himself as for them.

The women, even Molly—always the one to complain and preen—were gathered close together, sitting in a tight cluster as if afraid that spreading apart might invite disaster. They were pale, frightened, whispering to one another, and staring at what was left of their shelter.

Javier, Charles, Sean, and Sadie picked through the wreckage, hauling out splintered boards and digging into piles of ash and plaster, searching for anything that might still be of use. Now and then, Arthur heard a muttered curse or the sharp clatter of some broken thing thrown aside.

Bill and Lenny were crouched by what little remained of the small garden they’d managed to coax out of the soil. Arthur watched as Lenny carefully dug up the few plants that had actually sprouted—clutching them like fragile treasures—while Bill bundled them into a sack with a grunt, his face set in grim determination.

Near the road, Kieran was busy with the animals. He worked quietly, saddling horses, checking reins, whispering calming words as he tightened straps. The parasaurs shifted uneasily, their great heads swinging, sensing the tension and ruin around them.

Pearson and Grimshaw moved methodically through the scattered belongings that had survived outside the house, packing crates, tying bundles, sorting what little could be salvaged into neat piles. Grimshaw’s jaw was tight, her commands sharper than usual, while Pearson sweated and muttered as he hefted sacks onto the wagon bed. Tucked away in a dusty bedroll, pale and still in a way that was almost disturbing laid Micah- still out, the wound on where once laid his arm hidden by bloody bandages.

Even the animals- horses and dinosaurs alike- seemed somber. Chicken was curled up against Penelope, the duck-bills staring at the tree line as if expecting something to come rushing in, the horses hidden behind the dinosaurs, ears flat, hooves scraping the ground.

Arthur took it all in, the ruined house, the shaken faces, the sheer mess of it all—and noticed the one absence. Dutch was nowhere to be seen. Not in the rubble, not by the wagons, not among the folk. Just gone.

He couldn’t stand there any longer. The weight of it all—the broken house, the frightened faces, the silent accusation hanging in the air—pressed down on him until his chest felt tight. He turned and walked away from the wreckage, away from the low murmurs and the sound of salvage, slipping into the trees at the edge of the swamp.

He kept walking. Through the mud, through the roots twisting out of the earth, through the clinging mist that clutched at his boots. His mind wouldn’t still. Every image of the past week reeled through his head like a fever: the roar in the night, the gleam of teeth and horns, the house coming apart under the strike of something too big to fight, of Mary’s pale face under the rubble and then under the dirt. The sound of Jack’s crying, of Abigail’s screams, of the gang trying to hold the world together with bare hands.

And above all, those lights in the sky—that damned shattering of the heavens that had brought it all down on them.

It felt like he’d been walking for hours before the trees parted and he stopped dead in his tracks.

There, sprawled in the mud like some monster out of a nightmare, was the corpse of the quetzal that had fallen the night before. 

Its wings stretched wide and broken, longer than any wagon Arthur had ever seen. Its beak, jagged and cruel, lay cracked against the earth, and even in death it looked like a thing meant to swallow men whole. Its thin feathers, slick with rain and blood, shimmered faintly in the pale morning light.

And Dutch stood before it.

He wasn’t moving, wasn’t talking. Just staring at the carcass with an expression Arthur had never seen on his face before: blank, hollow, like the fire inside him had been smothered. For a long moment Arthur said nothing, only stepped closer, the wet ground sucking at his boots.

“Arthur… “ When Dutch finally spoke, his voice was low, almost fragile. “Do you have my back?”

Arthur stood there, watching him, the silence hanging heavy between them, until he let out a long, weary breath.

“…Always, Dutch.”

The silence stretched on, heavy as the swamp air. Dutch’s gaze lingered on the beast’s corpse, like if he stared long enough he might divine some answer in its hollow eyes. Arthur shifted, waiting for that spark—that familiar Dutchian fire, some speech about destiny or resilience—but it didn’t come. Not at first.

Finally, Dutch drew a long breath through his nose, shoulders rising, then sagging.

“We’ll have to move,” he said, his voice low and even, stripped bare of its usual rhythm. “And quick. This place is gone, Arthur. Gone. There’s no patchin’ it back together, no diggin’ ourselves out of this mire.”

Arthur just nodded, jaw tight. He knew it, had known it the moment the roof gave way and the sky poured fire into their living room.

Dutch went on, still not looking at him. “Take Charles. Look for someplace decent, not perfect, just enough to get us out from under this shadow. We can keep searchin’ for somethin’ better later. Just… find me somethin’ we can breathe in.”

“Alright,” Arthur said quietly. “I’ll see to it.” He turned, ready to leave Dutch to his brooding and the carcass at his feet, but then a hand closed firm around his arm.

Arthur glanced back, startled. Dutch’s grip was strong, but his eyes… his eyes wavered. His mouth opened, then shut again, words lost somewhere between his chest and his throat. For a man who could spin a sermon out of any scrap of circumstance, it was jarring to see him stammer, searching for something and finding nothing.

At last, he forced it out, almost a whisper.

“Be careful, son.”

Arthur froze, staring at him, caught off guard by the naked edge in his tone. Then, slowly, he nodded once more.

“…I will.”

Dutch let go, and Arthur walked back into the trees, the weight of those three words heavy on his shoulders.

Arthur trudged back into the wreck of camp, every step dragging heavier than the last. 

The gang was scattered among the ruins, moving like shadows, their voices hushed or absent altogether. He found Charles near the treeline, crouched with his bow strung across his knees, eyes scanning the edges of the swamp like he half-expected another monster to come tearing through.

Arthur didn’t waste words. “Dutch wants us out lookin’,” he said flatly. “Somethin’ temporary, just so we ain’t sittin’ ducks here. We’ll keep lookin’ for better after.”

Charles gave a slow nod, as if he’d expected nothing else. Then he reached beside him, pulling out a leather satchel caked with soot and mud. “I managed to dig this out of the rubble,” he said quietly, holding it out. “Thought you’d want it.”

Arthur blinked, taking it from him. The familiar weight settled against his hands, heavier than it had ever felt before. His fingers worked through the flap and found his things—the scraps, his journal, the sketches, the little tokens he’d clung to. And there, nestled among them, was the ring. The one Mary had been clutching when he’d last seen her, when everything had gone to hell.

Arthur stared at it, his chest tight. For a long moment, neither of them said anything. Charles only rested a hand on his shoulder, solid and steady, no words needed.

It might’ve stayed that way if Javier hadn’t wandered up, arms full of half-burnt blankets. He stopped short, eyeing the two of them, then raised his brows with a smirk.

“Maybe save the exchange of vows for when we’re at a house that isn’t dust, hermanos?”

Arthur shut the satchel with a sharp snap, glowering at him. Charles just shook his head with the faintest smile, the corner of his mouth twitching despite himself.

“Go to hell,” Arthur muttered.

Javier only chuckled, heading back toward the wreckage with his load.

Arthur slung his leg over Whiskey’s back with a grunt, the parasaur grumbling low in her throat as if she shared his mood. Charles was already astride Plum, the big hadrosaur shifting her weight restlessly, tail swishing at flies in the damp morning air. 

The two of them started out, guiding their mounts through the shallow muck. Whiskey’s footsteps sent ripples through the swamp water, the reeds hissing as frogs and snakes darted out of the way. Above them, a shadow passed, and both men froze, until they realized it was only a vulture circling the corpse of the fallen quetzel in the distance.

“Too close,” Charles said grimly, his voice low. “That other one’s still out there. Could come back any time.”

Arthur nodded, tugging Whiskey forward. “Then we go somewhere it can’t follow easy. Somewhere we ain’t sittin’ under wings that big. I was thinkin’…maybe north. See how Annesburg’s holdin’ up.”

Charles’s brows knit. “That’s Murfree territory.”

“I know.” Arthur let out a long sigh, pulling at his collar as if it might ease the weight pressing on him. “Ain’t like we got a lotta choices, Charles. Swamps are death. Saint Denis is worse. We don’t even know if Rhodes is still standin’. Figure it’s either we risk the Murfrees or we sit around waitin’ for another monster to finish the job that one started.”

For a moment, Charles was quiet, just listening to Plum’s steady breathing and the distant drip of water from the cypress trees. Finally, he gave a single, resigned nod. “All right. Annesburg.”

Arthur clicked his tongue and nudged Whiskey on, the two great reptiles pushing through the murky water side by side. The forest loomed ahead, tangled and dark, and the sound of their passing was swallowed up in the hush of the swamp.

The ride north carried them out of the waterlogged cypress and into thicker, harsher woods. Whiskey and Plum kept up a steady pace, though both beasts lifted their heads often, uneasy, sniffing the air in a way that made Arthur’s hand keep straying toward his rifle.

For a long while, the forest was eerily quiet. No birdcall, no frogsong, just the crunch of undergrowth under their mounts’ broad feet. The silence was wrong, though, and Arthur found himself glancing over his shoulder more than once.

“Feels like ridin’ into a graveyard,” he muttered.

Charles gave a low hum of agreement. “The Murfrees don’t like visitors. But this quiet… that’s not just them.”

The first sign came at a clearing where the trees opened to reveal a mess of bones—elk, deer, something larger Arthur couldn’t place. Picked clean, scattered across the grass, some broken open like twigs. Whiskey grumbled uneasily and wouldn’t step closer.

“Not Murfrees,” Charles said, kneeling to examine one of the larger skulls. He tapped a puncture hole in the bone with his knife. “Teeth too big.”

Arthur spat into the dirt. “Wonderful.”

Further north, they found the other kind of sign. A tree hacked at until it toppled, left to rot. A lean-to made of sticks, crude handprints in dried blood across the bark, and the sour reek of rotgut whiskey spilled in the dirt. Murfrees.

The woods closed in tighter as they went, the path nothing more than a thin break in the brush. Once, Plum balked and refused to move until Charles coaxed her forward again, and Arthur caught sight of what made her nervous: a length of rope dangling from a tree, swinging gently in the breeze. A noose. Below it, the ground was freshly disturbed.

“Dinosaurs and Murfrees both,” Arthur muttered. “Hell of a mix.”

Charles’s jaw tightened, eyes scanning the shadows between the trees. “We’ll need to keep sharp. If the beasts don’t get us, the Murfrees will.”

They pressed on, the silence broken only by the occasional crack of branches under their mounts, every step deeper into a land that felt watched from all sides.

The forest tightened around them until Arthur’s shoulders ached from keeping tense, his eyes cutting left and right at every shadow. The air was heavy, still damp from the swamp, and each breath tasted of rot and mold.

He didn’t notice the first Murfree until it was nearly too late—just a pale shape slipping between the trees. Then another. Then two more.

“Charles,” Arthur muttered low.

“I see them.”

Figures emerged from the brush, some with axes, some with rusted pistols and rifles, faces smeared with mud and blood like war paint. One let out a high, shrill whoop, and in seconds, they were ringed in by a half-dozen of the bastards, slipping out of the dark like coyotes.

Whiskey reared, huffing deep in his chest, and Arthur fought to steady him. Charles already had his bow in hand, arrow notched, eyes sharp and calm despite the madness creeping closer.

One of the Murfrees slurred, “Lookit them fat lizards they got… think I’ll take me a bite.”

Arthur raised his revolver, voice like gravel. “Try it, and you won’t live to chew.”

The stand-off stretched, a tense circle of eyes and teeth and steel in the dim light. Then, all at once, every Murfree head turned—not toward Arthur, not toward Charles, but deeper into the woods.

A sound rolled through the trees. A low, rumbling bellow, like thunder dragging across the earth. Then came the crack of branches snapping, heavy footfalls thundering closer, closer.

The Murfrees, for all their lunacy, went still as prey. One dropped his axe outright. Another muttered something broken, eyes wide and shining in the dark.

Then it came.

The trees burst apart, saplings snapping like twigs, and out charged the beast—red hide streaked with dark stripes, horns jutting from its brow, maw lined with dagger teeth. Not as big as the horned devil Arthur had seen before, smaller, leaner, but no less terrifying. And worst of all, he recognized it. That baby he, Lenny and Sean had given back to its mother on the train, now a teenager, and already letting hell break loose wherever it ran.

The Murfrees broke instantly. Their screeches turned to panicked wails as they scrambled over each other, bolting into the trees. One fired a shot wild into the air before disappearing, the others vanishing with him.

Arthur’s gut twisted. “Hell—Charles, ride!”

No argument. Charles dug his heels into Plum’s flanks and she leapt forward, Arthur urging Whiskey after her. Branches whipped at their faces, swamp muck splashed underfoot, but the sound behind them was worse—the thunder of claws, the rasp of breath, the predator roaring.

Arthur didn’t look back. He didn’t need to. He could feel it, close as death itself, barreling through the woods behind them.

“Faster, boy, faster!” Arthur hissed to Whiskey, clinging tight to the reins as the parasaur stretched into a gallop.

The world became nothing but pounding hearts and thunderous feet, the desperate flight through a forest that felt ready to collapse on top of them.

The sounds of pursuit cut off so suddenly it was almost worse than the chase itself. Arthur pulled Whiskey up short just past the treeline, chest heaving, heart hammering in his throat. For a long, awful moment, the forest behind them seemed to breathe with its own lungs. Then came the snapping of bone, the wet crunch of teeth working, the high, strangled wails of what was left of the Murfrees.

Arthur shut his eyes and exhaled through his nose, shoulders dropping. “Son of a bitch…”

Charles pulled Plum to a halt alongside him, bow still clutched in his hand. Sweat ran down his brow, and his chest heaved, but his eyes stayed sharp, scanning the woods. “It’s eating. That’s the only reason we’re alive.”

Arthur let out a humorless snort, trying to shake the tremor in his hands. “Can’t say I’m inclined to thank the Murfrees for sacrificin’ themselves.”

“Neither am I.” Charles looked back over his shoulder, face tight. “But it does mean we can’t go any farther north. Not with that thing prowling these woods.”

Arthur followed his gaze—dark pines, thick undergrowth, the stink of death in the air. He knew Charles was right. They’d been fools to even think of Annesburg.

“No,” Arthur muttered, gripping the reins tighter. “That town’s a death trap. Be a miracle if anyone’s still alive there.”

Charles frowned, thoughtful. “Then we head east? The lands closer to the coast might be safer. Fewer places for things to hide.”

Arthur shook his head grimly. “East’ll take us right into the mountains. You really think we can lead the whole gang across that with kids, elders, and wounded? It’s gonna be Colter all over again. And we don’t even know what kinda nightmare is lying in the snow.”

Charles didn’t argue—he didn’t have to. They both knew it was suicide.

Arthur looked back south, toward where the swamps lay hidden under a haze of mist, and beyond them, the places they’d already bled to hold. “Only real choices left are the Grizzlies… or back toward the Heartlands.”

Charles raised his chin. “Heartlands are wide open. Easier to spot predators, but no cover if they spot you first. Grizzlies are harsher, but maybe too harsh for most of those things.”

Arthur grimaced. “One way or another, we’re runnin’ outta places to run.” He tugged at Whiskey’s reins, turning him back toward camp. “Best we take this back to Dutch. He’ll have to make the call.”

Charles kept his silence, Plum’s heavy steps crunching against the dirt. But Arthur caught the look on his face out the corner of his eye—the same thought gnawing at him too. Dutch might not have a call left to make.

Charles was the first to break the heavy silence between them. “We could… check Ambarino. Just for a look. Close to the reservation.”

Arthur glanced at him, brow furrowed. “You mean near Wapiti?”

Charles nodded once. “If there’s anywhere worth a chance, it’s there. I know the land, and the people there… they’ll have noticed if anything strange has been happening.”

Arthur grumbled, shifting in Whiskey’s saddle. “Hell, reckon everywhere’s strange these days. But fine. Let’s go take a look.” He tugged the reins, steering north.

The ride was long, the trail winding through pines and rough stone, the air sharp and colder the higher they climbed. 

For a while neither spoke, just the sound of hooves and the occasional birdcall. Eventually Arthur muttered, half to himself, “Y’know… we’ve seen all sorts of beasts now. Horned bastards, murderbirds, the flyers, them big turkey things… but not a single long-neck since the first day all this started.”

Charles hummed in quiet thought. “Maybe they don’t come this far. Or maybe they’re gone.”

Arthur didn’t answer. He didn’t much like either possibility.

It was only when the ground leveled, opening into a broad valley framed by snow-dusted ridges, that Arthur pulled Whiskey to a halt. His breath caught in his throat, and he heard Charles do the same beside him.

Below, the valley was littered with hulking shapes—great bodies collapsed in tangled heaps, stretching out as far as the eye could see. Sauropods. A dozen at least. Long necks bent and twisted, tails sprawled across the ground, eyes clouded, skin stretched tight where it had already started to rot.

There were no wounds. No bite marks. No arrows or bullets. No blood. Just silence, and the slow creep of decay.

Arthur’s mouth went dry. “What the hell…” he breathed.

The wind carried the faint stench up to them—sour, heavy, unnatural. Whiskey shifted uneasily beneath him, ears pinned back.

Charles said nothing. His eyes narrowed as he scanned the bodies below, jaw tight, expression unreadable.

For the first time since the sky had cracked open, Arthur felt something worse than fear crawling up his spine.