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That’s when I heard the strange sound: a kind of forlorn mewing, like the note of a horn being drug out too long, coming from just around the corner, just beyond the liquor store—and paused, holding up my hand. “What? What’s going on?” I waved her into silence, dropping the rein, then hustled to the edge of the building—where, after peeking around the corner, I saw a juvenile sauropod of the Diplodocus family (meaning it was the size of a typical school bus) collapsed in the middle of the street—its right front leg stuck in a manhole. “What is it? What do you see?” I looked from the sauropod to the corner of a nearby building, where something had moved, then across the street to an overgrown alley. Yes, I thought. There. And there. Between the tattoo parlor and the marijuana dispensary … “Allosaurs,” I said, gravely. “An entire pack of them. In desert camouflage. They—they’ve got something trapped.” “Omigod. It—it’s not your dog, is it?” I returned and picked up the rein, began leading Blucifer forward, into the intersection. “No.” “Wait … what are you—” “We’re going through,” I said. “But what if those things—” “They don’t care about us; they want the bigger game. For now. Just hold on.” The horse’s hooves went clip-clop, clip-clop as we passed, the bluish-gray sauropod coming into full view ... A moment later she said, “It—it’s stuck. In the manhole. Do you see that?” I eyed the predators warily, continuing to lead. “There’s nothing we can do about it.” “But she’ll be helpless against—” “That is the way of it,” I insisted. “The way of the—” “Look, would you stop with the Indian clap-trap? I’m not even sure—" There was a thwomp as the allosaur by the building leapt into the road—not by us but about fifty feet away, near the sauropod. “Jesus, can’t you do anything? What about your bow?” “And risk bringing them down on us?” I intensified our pace, sprinting toward the Stratosphere. “No!” And then they were coming—the allosaurs from across the street—passing so close we could smell the meat on their breath; closing in on the frightened herbivore … until we passed the scene completely and sought refuge in a nearby gas station (its storefront had long since collapsed) and gathered there trembling as the sauropod cried out—for it wouldn’t be long now until they fell upon her. “Jesus,” said Essie, listening. “What a world.” “Yes,” I said, remembering. “My father used to say it had a demonic sublime; every tree and every rock, every animal, including man, down to the lowest insect.” I listened as the sauropod moaned, seeming already to give up, to resign its fate. “And yet.” “What do you mean?” “What?” “You said, ‘and yet.’ What did you mean?” I un-shouldered the compound bow—rubbing my aching deltoid, stretching my arm. “Nothing. It’s just that … maybe it doesn’t have to be this way.” When she didn’t respond I looked at her—found her already looking at me: calmly, meditatively, her eyes seeming to glimmer. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” “I mean … that I could end it. Her confusion and terror. That I—could prevent her from suffering.” I looked at the bow and the dark, poisoned bolts attached to it. “That it’s in my hands to do so.”
Welcome to the Big Empty, the world after the Flashback, a world in which most the population has vanished and where dinosaurs roam freely. You can survive here, if you're lucky, and if you're not in the wrong place at the wrong time--which is everywhere and all the time. But what you'll never do is remain the same, for this is a world whose very purpose is to change you: for better or for worse. So take a deep dive into these loosely connected tales of the Dinosaur Apocalypse (each of which can be read individually or as a part of the greater saga): tales of wonder and terror, death and survival, blood and beauty. Do it today, before the apocalypse comes. He hesitated before peeling off a wedge and placing it in his mouth, at which he closed his eyes and seemed to melt, hanging back his head, working his jaw in a circular motion, reopening his eyes—pausing suddenly. “What?” I asked. “What is it?” He tilted his head, peering into the branches. “Isn’t that strange?” I followed his gaze into the tree but, alas, saw nothing. Which, of course, was precisely the problem; there was nothing—no oranges, no leaves, no uppermost branches, it was as though someone or something had picked the treetop clean. “Someone has a helluva reach,” said Maldano. I looked around the lot: at the lichen-covered Public Market and the Jersey Mike’s Subs with the Prius in its window, at the Vietnamese Nail Salon and the El Buzo Peruvian Restaurant. “We should split up, canvas the area. Make sure—there’s nothing else.” “Yeah,” said Maldano. “I think you’re right.” I headed for the Public Market. “Make a sweep of the strip mall. I’m going to check out that grocery store.” He laughed a little at that—which caused me to pause. “Orders—Hooper?” I half-turned, but didn’t make eye contact. “Sorry?” “I mean, in all this? This Big Empty? This ‘world tenanted by willows … and the souls of willows?’” There was something in his voice. Something subtle, something contentious. “Call it what you like,” I said, and continued toward the market.
By the time I’d established a camp in the covered breezeway of the Luxor obelisk—“Cleopatra’s Needle” it was called, at least according to a bronze placard on its wall—and bound her hands and feet, the sun had set and a slight rain had started to fall; something I fully welcomed after so much time in the desert. As to whether the girl welcomed it also, who could say. For even though I set her near the opening (as well as the fire) and provided her my own bedroll to sit on, she only continued to glare—probably due to us eating in front of her; for I had decided, though you might think it cruel, that I would starve her into speaking, if necessary. Which, of course, she finally did—speak, that is—although only after a considerable time, saying, hoarsely, yet clearly, assertively, “Is this some kind of torture? I mean, don’t you have to feed prisoners before killing them? Isn’t that what the Geneva Convention says?” I looked at her through the flames, saying nothing, even as Kesabe snarled. At length I carved a piece of meat from the spit and dropped it on a paper plate, which I carried around to her—but didn’t hand over. Instead, I knelt and sliced off a single bite-sized morsel—then held it close to her nose. “Trade,” I said, matter-of-factly. “One bite per something about you. It can be your name. Where you’re from. How you’ve survived ... Just talk.”
We are currently facing the sixth mass extinction of species in the history of life on Earth, biologists claim—the first one caused by humans. Heise argues that understanding these stories and symbols is indispensable for any effective advocacy on behalf of endangered species. More than that, she shows how biodiversity conservation, even and especially in its scientific and legal dimensions, is shaped by cultural assumptions about what is valuable in nature and what is not.
The current crisis in thinking the “human” raises questions not only about who or what may come after the human, but also about what happened before. What dark secrets lie in our ancestral past that may be stopping us from becoming human “otherwise”?
Roadkill ... A funny thing happened to Roger and Savanna Aldiss on the Interstate--they hit a dinosaur. But that's nothing compared to what awaits them down the road. For something is at work to reverse time itself, something which makes the clouds boil, glowing with strange lights, and ancient trees to appear out of nowhere. Something against which Roger, Savanna, a motorcycle gang, and others will make their final stand. Prehistory lives as ferocious dinosaurs run amok! Science-fiction and horror fans (and especially B-movie lovers) will enjoy this gory, action-packed thriller in the tradition of Roger Corman and George Romero.
Story of cinema -- How movies are made -- Movie genres -- World cinema -- A-Z directors -- Must-see movies.
The ultimate sourcebook for players wishing to explore the world of Eberron, the "Explorer's Handbook" showcases the multi-continental aspect of the Eberron setting. This handbook encourages players to explore the entire world rather than remain fixed in one region.
Scenes and Interludes ... from an Improbable End | A new series in the Flashback/Dinosaur Apocalypse Universe I looked to see Nigel and Ewan entering the shop from the left, the latter seeming like an utterly new man—his hair no longer mussed; his clothes no longer a catastrophic mess. “Apologies, apologies, a thousand apologies,” he said, before pausing to admire Gargantua. “But a maiden voyage such as this requires a fresh change of clothes.” He looked on a moment longer and then dropped to one knee—began ruffling through his over-packed bags. “Ah, yes, here it is. It’s—I opened it with Nigel.” He withdrew a corked bottle—which glinted darkly in the light from a high window. “Voila! One of eight bottles of Dom Perignon Rose champagne, Vintage 1959, served in Persepolis in 1971 by the then-Shaw of Iran.” He looked at us with a face flushed with excitement, and we looked back. “To—to celebrate the 2500th anniversary of the founding of the Persian Empire ... by Cyrus the Great.” Disappointment stole over his face like a shadow. “It’s—it’s to break over the bow, as it were. To christen Gargantua.” Nobody said anything. “Yeah—well. Waste of liquor, anyway. Especially when I’ve got so much celebrating to do. I’ll, ah—I’ll just get the door. Over there.” He moved up the ramp toward the garage door. That’s when I thought of Lazaro’s admonition, I don’t know why: You heard Roman—carnotauruses, heading this way. “Wait, Ewan,” I said. But he was already there, triggering the great door with his fist, turning to look at us as it rattled upward, pulling the cork from the champagne. “Life is for the living,” he said, and toasted us with the bottle. “And this stuff …” He poured champagne into his mouth and down the sides, soaking his clean, white shirt, splattering the floor with foam. “This is for howl—” But then the door was open and they were there, the carnotauruses, and one closed its jaws about his scalp while another laid wide his abdomen (and another took up his legs) so that, howling, he was opened like a pizza being groped by eager hands. And then they themselves howled and piled over his body, and all we could do was to run—everyone save Nigel, who had his trimmer, which he started with a sputter—because our weapons were already in the rover.
Why economists' attempts to help poorer countries improve their economic well-being have failed. Since the end of World War II, economists have tried to figure out how poor countries in the tropics could attain standards of living approaching those of countries in Europe and North America. Attempted remedies have included providing foreign aid, investing in machines, fostering education, controlling population growth, and making aid loans as well as forgiving those loans on condition of reforms. None of these solutions has delivered as promised. The problem is not the failure of economics, William Easterly argues, but the failure to apply economic principles to practical policy work. In this book Easterly shows how these solutions all violate the basic principle of economics, that people—private individuals and businesses, government officials, even aid donors—respond to incentives. Easterly first discusses the importance of growth. He then analyzes the development solutions that have failed. Finally, he suggests alternative approaches to the problem. Written in an accessible, at times irreverent, style, Easterly's book combines modern growth theory with anecdotes from his fieldwork for the World Bank.