The Asset in the Canyon

Hello everyone! First, thank you for your patience; it has been well over a month since I last posted a story. Secondly, if you follow me on TikTok, I made an update on how busy I have been with work and overall life. I appreciate the patience, and I hope you enjoy this story; I plan on returning to this setting in the future, perhaps making a series of shorts revolving around this premise. Let me know what you think about that, if you would like to see that in the future.

Allosaurus in Panhandle-Plains Historical Museum

The Asset in the Canyon

I

Rebecca pandiculated outside her tent and rubbed her eyes. It took a moment for her vision to adjust; dawn had just begun. She checked her smartwatch; it read 6:04 a.m. She could hear her father faintly snoring in the other tent. She took a moment to appreciate the stillness of dawn, looking around the canyon valley, the uneven and towering cliffs in the distance, the mesa walls, and the plateaus the further on she looked. 

Her and her father’s tents were the only ones in the ‘remote’ site of the state park. As they drove to the designated parking spot the day prior, many of the campers that Rebecca saw were choosing the more luxurious spots with electrical outlet amps, premade fire pits with grills, and wooden picnic tables. ‘Glamping’ was the term Rebecca had learned that people liked to call it; she thought it was dumb and defeated the whole purpose of what camping is. 

She grew up in the country, learning from her father how to hunt, fish, and be an outdoorswoman. When she went on her first girls' outdoor college trip to Big Bend National Park, she was disappointed in herself for expecting that the city girls she had become friends with actually knew anything about camping or starting a fire. They just wanted to sleep in the coziest dome bubbles and wear the tightest athletic wear they could fit into for the multitude of pictures they wanted to upload on their social media profiles. From then on, she vowed that she would only camp with her father. 

The twilight started to bloom as the sun’s rays barely peeked through the cliffs. Rebecca smiled as she saw the visible stars and Venus. It was peaceful and silent. No nocturnal insects sang their songs, and no owls or bats fluttered around. There was no smoldering from the campfire wood, and the summer morning air was crisp. She would have to hike a mile on the jagged red dirt trail to return to the trailhead and use the restroom stalls. She did not feel like walking that far to use the restroom unless she or her dad had forgotten something in the vehicle. This was the great outdoors, and the canyon was her oyster. She decided to hike a few meters through the mesquite trees and sideoats to find a comfortable spot to relieve herself. 

Rebecca rummaged through her backpack for her flashlight and toilet paper and checked her phone. As she left the campsite, she thought about the day’s excursions. Visiting Palo Duro Canyon was one of her and her father’s bucket list things to do since the state park was unique and well-known for its musical production titled Texas and the rock formations that made up the canyon. The seven-hour road trip was worth it, and now she only had to visit Caprock Canyon, Cleburne, and Dinosaur Valley to say that she had visited every state park in Texas. 

She was ready to hike the trails that led to the famous ‘lighthouse’ rock formation. She was excited for some bird watching, and later in the evening, she would get to watch the musical Texas. The following days were filled with more hiking and horseback riding through the canyon. She was amazed at the history surrounding the state park; she had learned about the early peoples settling in the canyon, possibly hunting mammoths. The documentation of Vasquez de Coronado’s expedition through the canyon and how it got its name. The way the Comanches would use the steep cliffs to drive bison off them and slaughter them for a bountiful hunt, and the fearsome battles of the US Army against the Comanches and Cheyennes over who would dominate the High Plains. She had told her father that she hoped to find an arrowhead or some archeological find to take home, even though it was illegal. What park ranger would check her pockets, she thought. 

The joyful thoughts and excitement in her heart clouded her senses as she was maneuvering through the mesquite and juniper brush. Her mind quickly became mindful of her present moment.

The initial idea of wading quietly, looking for a spot to relieve herself, was in motion, but her heart started to flutter. Her breathing became short and rapid, and at the same time, her nose caught a faint whiff of something awful. A foul odor moved with the wind, hitting Rebecca in the face excessively. She became still, and a cold shiver moved through her spine. She was unsure why, but now she was hyper-aware of where she was. She felt uncomfortable and eerie as if she were being watched. The smell was very real as she tried to focus on it. Her initial thoughts were a dead animal since she could only relate the stench to carrion, but something else was mixed in there. Skunk? Petrol? She thought. 

The flashlight beam swiveled in the ground, leading Rebecca through the long grasses and soft dirt. Softly crunching beneath her hiking shoes, the faint crunching of her steps now seemed loud to her ears; she stood still for a bit and tried to be as quiet as possible. Twilight was entering its nautical phase, and still, no birds were singing or summer bugs buzzing annoyingly. Her mind panicked momentarily, realizing that the silence had been there since she had left her tent. The inescapable feeling of being watched made her squirm, and she quickly turned around, wanting to sprint back to the campsite. A loud yelp came from her mouth when she heard a clicking sound followed by what sounded like a voice trying to say ‘hello’ softly. 

Her panicked bodily and flashlight movements startled a flock of birds as she saw them scatter from a nearby hackberry tree. The silent ambiance heightened the flurry of their wings as they flew away. When she followed the birds with her flashlight, she caught a glimpse of the multitude of birds perched within the branches of the hackberry trees. They were silent; Rebecca expected there to be chirping and singing this early in the morning. The clicking sound continued, and for a moment, she felt relieved; her ears were able to correlate that the clicking was a beak sound. She could relate it to some videos she had seen of storks snapping their beaks or making thumping sounds with their throats. The birds were still; some continued to fly away when the light was shown on them, but she figured one was more active than the others.

*click, *click, *click

That would explain the smell, she thought. Some deer carcass is around here, and these birds are eating it. 

Her relief was short, for her mind quickly painted a picture of where the bird noises were coming from. The frequencies did not come from the treetops. The crescendo of the putrid odor made Rebecca think that perhaps the dead animal was right in front of her, behind some of the juniper and mesquite thicket, and some birds were feasting while others perched up above. She could not see it with her flashlight. 

What surprised her was the ‘hel-ro’ that followed some of the beak clicking. She had learned that crows can mimic human speech, but she had never heard it in real life. Crows were the first birds to come to her mind because she was unaware of the Texas panhandle being home to parrots. It could be a starling, she thought. My dad would get a kick from seeing a starling trying to talk. 

*thunk

Rebecca felt a low thunk sound vibrating through her. 

*click

‘ty—mm' 

*thunk

Whatever bird was mimicking and making those sounds was close by. Rebecca felt uneasy. She knew she was being watched, but even though birds were watching her, something in her gut told her it was not right. The restroom break could wait. When she turned around to leave the area, her gut sank, and her bladder relaxed, causing her to urinate herself. 

She stood frozen, her hands quivering, the flashlight's beam unable to stay steady as it danced around the face of what was watching her.

*thunk *thunk *thunk *thunk *thunk *thunk

The low bass rumble moved through her body; it was quiet to her ears, but her body felt every bit of it now that she was aware of what was making it. Its large head with part of its upper body peeked behind the thicket of trees. Was this shadow here just staring the whole time? Rebecca thought. She could see its flaccid wattle and dewlap shake with every throat thump.

*thunk *thunk *thunk

And then *click. Rebecca was not mistaken about the clicking sound coming from a bird, but this ‘large bird,’ if she could call it that, had no beak. It clicked from its tongue as it opened its mouth, revealing dagger-shaped teeth. The dark, doll-like pupils reflexed from the shaky light; Rebecca was terrified of the reptilian appearance of what she was seeing. Bumpy skin around the nostrils and lizard-like mouth with feathering around the cheeks and on top of the head. The head, shaped like a dragon’s, was moving like when a crow hears a sound, but this head stood about fifteen feet from the ground. It was held up by a strong, thick neck resembling an oak. Rebecca made out two crests adorned the monster’s head right on top of where the eyes were, like bent, dull horns. The body that was hiding behind the trees revealed itself. Rebecca only made out what looked like feather-covered arms, but she was quickly distracted by the thing’s thick legs that made no sound as one leg moved in front of the other in a stalking position.

The monster sniffed the air while thumping its neck. Rebecca understood now that every thunk and click was a readout of the surroundings being bounced back to the beast. The carrion rancid smell was the monster's scent as it inched closer with curiosity to the whimpering shaky light. 

Rebecca started to hyperventilate, but she couldn’t force herself to move. This thing stalked and stood still, one leg underneath itself, doing a flamingo pose before bringing the leg down and bellowing a low rumble while sniffing the fear and urine in the air. 

The light from the sunrise was a glimpse of hell from God in Rebecca’s mind because now she could make out more details of the dark brown striped pattern wyvern, with its sharp-looking claws on its small arms and three-toed feet. In a desperate attempt to outrun the thing, Rebecca did not change her mind, thinking this was her damnation. Perhaps it would have been better if God damned Rebecca in darkness and kept the sun from rising that day. Only then would she not have had to see the reddish color of her insides or the sheer fear in her father’s hopeless face as he ran and responded to his daughter’s screams of agony. She would have never gotten to see how far she walked from the campsite that dreadful morning while being hoisted up in the monster’s jaws by just her head. 

God did not send death to execute his duties quickly that morning. 

II

The cold, long laminate table was covered with greasy fingerprints and dried water marks in perfect circles, a result of people neglecting to use the coasters from the small desk in the corner meeting room. The men and women seated around the table conversed superciliously and patronizingly. Dr. Bakshi listened with disgust as he had to sit there and suffer their foolishness. Their words were meaningless, and their personas were phony. Part of him wished that the Secretary of the Department of Defense would come in in person and shut the whole project down so that he could watch them struggle to try and keep their careers afloat. They would be nothing without me, thought the doctor.

“What if someone finds out? Could this be getting out of hand?"

“All it takes is one fucker from the University of Kansas to pick up a sample and figure out what we have done."

"We could forget about it and let it die on its own."

“Are you insane?! That is two! TWO point fucking five million dollars out there, and you want us to let it die."

"More field tests need to be made before we can produce a batch."

“The press is going to find out sooner or later."

“No, they won’t; quit being a bitch.”

“We need to act fast; it has maybe what? Two, three weeks or so."

"It got a good supplement of methionine and lysine; it should last about two months in the wild. Right doctor?” 

The ramblings of the doctors continued while Dr. Bakshi sat back on his chair, observing and listening to his subordinates. Dr. Bakshi responded to Dr. Ropp’s question with a nod, watching him sit up straight and smirk like a dog that had just been told, ‘Good boy.’ The very idea that Dr. Ropp and the rest get satisfaction from the sour feeling of approval from their superiors automatically made Dr. Bakshi judge them with contempt. Dr. Ropp was wrong, though; the asset did not get any methionine, lysine, or other protein supplements like it was used to and ordered to before release. The asset would have to obtain the amino acids from the wild. Only Dr. Bakshi knew about this. This was his design, and to Dr. Bakshi’s surprise, the asset’s readings were extremely well.

Dr. Bakshi stood up and adjusted his lab coat, waiting for his subordinates to quiet down. His glasses glimmered from the fluorescent bulbs, obscuring the dull demeanor in his sunken eyes. “No one will know; the DOD has already dispatched someone to make contact and is working with the staff at Palo Duro Canyon and the Texas game wardens. The story will be that a rogue jaguar mauled campers, and the narrative will state that more jaguars are migrating from Arizona through New Mexico into the panhandle of Texas,” Dr. Bakshi said, looking around the room and watching the others nod in agreement. “With a successful field test, we can analyze the areas we need to improve on genetically. Soon, we will incubate more and deliver a dozen, fulfilling our contract.

The scrawny arm of Dr. Vernon shot straight up in the air, “What if someone videotapes it or shoots it?” Said Dr. Vernon, not waiting to be called on.

"The DOD,” responded Dr. Bakshi. “Has a team in conjunction with other agencies that would help us spread outlandish conspiracies to social media sites and online forums. They would make it difficult for anyone's narrative to stick and arrive at us as the reason for what is happening."

Silence fell into the room; the only sound was the faint hum of the air conditioning system running. “If…” paused Dr. Bakshi, adjusting his glasses. “Crichton Genetics Ingenuity Lab is found among conspiracy forums or anyone on the outside knows what we are up to. Then the rat will be dealt with swiftly.” The other doctors nodded acquiescently. “Good!” Said Dr. Bakshi. “In the meantime, we will continue to conduct our business as usual.”

III

The cool, refreshing mornings were the best part of the shift. Scott loved driving to different points of the canyon to do his rounds and watch the bison trot to the feeding circle troughs. Six months in the job as a park ranger, he had yet to get used to the size of the beasts. He had learned the personalities of a few bison and picked up on which territories some like to cover across the canyon. Not every bison interacted with one another; some were more reclusive than others, preferring the thick brush of the canyon as opposed to the open fields in the canyon's entrance. 

My sister was driving while I took this picture in Caprock

Even though it was a task that had to be done, Scott felt like it was a perk to replenish the troughs with fresh hay and ensure the water hoses were pumping correctly. He always waited a few minutes to see some of the bison that had been conditioned to know that breakfast was ready when they heard the pickup's V8 engine. They would come to the clearings and bellow excitedly to see the white aluminum machine bring them food. 

The last trough was toward the northwest of the canyon on the same road that leads to the trailhead that those hiking toward the fern cave would take. The narrow, winding road was peaceful as Scott loved to see the glistening lines of gypsum running horizontally in contrast to the burnt orange canyon walls of Caprock Canyon.

After Scott loaded and spread the hay around the trough, he sat in the pickup and waited patiently. He went through the computer pad to mark off his morning tasks and checked the map to see from where the other rangers had pinged their locations. 

Fifteen minutes had passed before Scott realized that no bison had shown up. He had the window rolled down, and he noticed that it was quiet, not even faint bellows in the distance or movement through the mesquite treeline. He did not mind since he thought the ones usually in this part of the canyon must have wondered elsewhere for food, or they did not hear the pickup driving through the dirt trail. Scott moved the gear shift to reverse when something caught his attention through his rearview mirror. About fifty meters from the pickup, through the mesquite brush, he saw what he automatically thought was the hairy hump of a bison. 

He put the pickup on park and got out with his binoculars. It looked like a dark brown boulder among the rest of the light brown rocks and greenery of the shrubs. Asleep, I see, thought Scott, smirking while he adjusted the view a bit more. It took him a moment to think about how most bison were pretty active during this time of day and did not lie around until after they had their breakfast. Scott quickly feared the worst after also rationalizing that that brown hairy hump was the only one lying around; there was no herd to be seen.

Another bison I saw at Caprock

He grabbed his radio and started power walking toward the object in the distance. He did not want to frighten the bison if it was asleep or injured. Much of his training about the massive beasts was about keeping one’s distance. “It will charge at me if it gets spooked alright,” mumbled Scott quietly. The closer he got, he was able to tell that it was a bison, it was lying on its side, but its hump was not propped up like when they typically curl themselves. The closer he got, the more he started to whistle and holler to alert the animal of his presence. “Here now! Aye boy now! Get get!"

There was no movement from the animal, bellows, or glopping of hooves from any other animals scurrying away in the vicinity. As Scott got closer, his fears had been realized; the animal was dead. A few flies hovered over the body; the death had been recent, as Scott was not appalled by any smell. He walked around the animal, radioing in the code to alert the other staff. “Shit! What the,” Scott said, covering his mouth and crouching in disbelief. The abdomen was a hollow cavity with a few intestines splayed like dirt-covered snakes. 

The radio was busy with traffic, and Scott paid no attention to it. He was confused and shocked; he rubbed the corners of his mouth up and down with his index finger and thumb, thinking about what could have caused this. Coyotes were his first thought. He figured the bison had died of some natural cause, and the coyotes had scavenged it. He checked the ear tag on the animal and took a picture of it with his phone. He would have to report the number later so the park could know which bison to document as deceased.

Scott was no coroner, but his attention turned to the animal’s throat. He was able to make out a bite mark, a very wide bite mark. He gently ran his fingertips across the coarse fur of the animal and felt the congealed blood. He traced a few spots, making an arch across the side of the animal’s neck. The head of the beast was too heavy to lift, so Scott could not see the rest of the bite mark, but he estimated that it covered the bison’s whole throat.

The hell, thought Scott. Was it killed? This ain’t no coyote bite. He stood up and looked around the vicinity. The radio traffic let him know that a few rangers were on the way to assist. As he walked around trying to find evidence of what must have killed the beast. He saw a distinct imprint on the soft, loose dirt. It was a V-shaped outlined thick bird print; Scott made out the three toes with claw scratches at the end of them. The toes were not slender like he was used to seeing with turkey and vulture prints. The print indicated a lot of padding underneath the foot of whatever creature had made it or them; as Scott followed with his gaze, more prints led away from the dead bison, further onto the mesquite tree line.

He took various pictures of the scene around him and tried to look further on with his binoculars. There was nothing that stood out as unusual or moved beyond the trees. A faint whiff of carrion caught his attention; he thought it was the dead animal, but the smell did not get stronger when he got closer to the bison. Scott lifted his head in the air, catching a strange scent; it almost reminded him of skunk, but with a putrid tinge that he could feel in the back of his throat. He looked around the treeline again with his binoculars; a sudden tingle in his spine made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up; he felt like he was being watched. He would not be alone much longer, which made him forget about the sensation he had just felt because he heard the faint humming noises in the distance that he quickly recognized as pickups. When he looked up at the sky, he saw two vultures flying in circles right above him.

* * *

Scott squeezed the pen tightly, covering it with his greasy and sweaty oils, while he read the NDA form.

"Just initial here, Mr. Holloway,” said the man in the dark navy suit, pointing to a small line beside a large paragraph. He tapped his finger aggressively. “And here, and here, and sign here,” he moved his hand quickly, turning the pages of the long form, distracting Scott from reading the whole form. Scott looked into the man's cold gaze and looked around the room at his supervisor and the other two men—who were also dressed in dark navy suits. “B-But it-it wasn’t-"

"Just initial here, and here-,” continued the man in the navy suit, not letting Scott get the words out of his mouth. 

Scott’s heart raced, and his breathing was short and rapid. He did not understand why this was happening. All he did was follow the protocols of his job. Not long after reporting the dead bison, all the park rangers were called back into the visitor’s center and told to forget about what they saw. They were told that the park had an agreement with some third-party company that knew how to dispose of the carcass. A meeting was held, and all the park rangers were advised to warn the visitors only if they asked about any dangers. The park rangers were instructed to tell only those visitors about roaming jaguars throughout the park. Scott was pulled aside by his supervisor and was asked if he had taken any pictures or saw anything ‘strange.’ Like an idiot, Scott thought this was his time to be useful and help in any way he could. Now, he sat in a meeting room, confused about why he was pressured to keep quiet. 

These men in suits had kept asking him if he had seen the jaguar that killed the bison. Every time Scott answered that he was unaware of jaguars in the area, they responded by attacking his negligence in his job and his ignorance of the mass immigration of wildcats into the high plains. They kept asking if he had seen signs or heard any noises that would indicate anything out of the ordinary. When Scott did not give answers correlating to signs of a big cat, he was hushed and told to repeat that it was a jaguar, a cougar, a bobcat, or a group of wildcats mentioned beforehand.

"Mr. Holloway, it is possible that vultures may have scavenged the carcass, but please do not waste our team's time. The bite mark and prints you describe are from a wildcat, and that is what we are after." 

Scott was confident that the bite mark was too big to be a wildcat, and he knew that wildcats did not roam the canyon. He also knew that the large bird-shaped prints were not mere vultures. The Texas Park and Wildlife Department would have been the first to arrive if anyone reported any jaguars or other big animals in the area. The rangers at Caprock Canyon were not negligent of their duties, but these strangers were adamant that Scott was. And now they wanted him to sign a form stating that he saw nothing, that he was not there, that a bison was found dead by someone else, that a large wildcat mauled it. His report did not exist, his phone was confiscated, and all photos of that day were deleted. If he did not comply, he would be fired without the option of severance or getting unemployment. If he mentioned to anyone that he found the bison or that he thought anything was peculiar around the carcass of the bison, he would be subjected to legal action. Scott frantically stared at the forms before him, clutching the pen even tighter. He did not care to read the forms to their entirety; his mind was racing, and all he could think about was how he could not afford to lose his job.

After minutes of the man in the navy suit pressuring him to sign the NDA, Scott reluctantly initialed and signed where he needed to. His phone was returned to him, and his supervisor instructed that he would no longer refill the feeding troughs in the mornings. He would have other duties instead, mainly in the visitor’s center. If he were caught talking to other rangers of this day, he would be fired without warnings or write-ups. Scott swallowed his saliva and clenched his jaw; all he could think about was nodding in agreement. He was escorted out of the office and waited for his supervisor as he was told to do so. He waited to see what new role he would be doing around the visitor’s center.

IV

“You have to be careful, sweety. Please, please, please."

"Yes, I know,” sighed Scott, rubbing his chin and then moving his hand frantically up and down the back of his head."

"What have they told y'all if y'all encounter any while out in the trails?"

Scott took a deep breath and replied, “Basically, just shoot them." 

"I don’t like that, but please be careful."

"Yeah, I know, Mom,” Scott stared at the screen of his laptop, looking at the forum pages he liked to frequent, wishing his mom would change the subject. 

After signing the NDA forms from the strange men, work had been dull and stressful. For the last four months, it was nothing but menial tasks and tense micromanaging by his supervisor. Many things he was doing around the visitor’s center, even though Scott did exactly what he was asked to do, were sometimes questioned to the point where he was told to do the same thing over again. Once a job he enjoyed doing, now was filled with dread. He knew he was always under a watchful eye, ears dropping eaves around every corner. He knew what he saw, the pictures he took. He hated that he no longer had proof of them. He disliked that he felt uncomfortable discussing work with his mother. She and his father did not know what was going on. What would he tell them? Would anybody believe me? Thought Scott while his mom talked away in his ear. Would they believe that the footprints I saw belong to an animal that is supposed to be extinct? 

“Your father wants to try that new Blackstone we bought, so if you come over this weekend, he’ll definitely throw some burgers on it."

Scott perked up from his wandering thoughts and returned to the conversation at the mention of his father’s burgers: “Huh? Oh, ok, yeah! Well, yeah, I’ll uh visit this weekend then.” He smiled, thinking about if there had ever been a time when his parents questioned his sanity, but his answer was never. Yet he did not know why he was afraid to tell them what he had been going through.

After a few more minutes of conversing with his mother, Scott hung up the phone and continued scrolling through the online forums to pass the time. Since the day that he found that dead bison, Scott had joined various conspiracy groups online. He never considered himself a conspiracy theorist, but three weeks after he signed the NDA forms and right when work was starting to feel like a prison. There was a meeting and training to make a push to ensure all visitors that their safety was the park's number one priority. Park rangers started to talk about incidents that began to occur around Palo Duro Canyon. There was a girl who was found gored and half-eaten along with her father on one of the remote campsites of the canyon. A few horses were found dead and eaten, and a hiker’s tattered bloody clothes were found along with only a leg. The news of what had happened was circulating in the local networks, and online articles were being written about the increasing dangers of wildcats moving into the panhandle of Texas. 

Scott learned through online articles that even a few ranchers in the area had supposedly reported dead cattle a few months back but were just recompensated for their losses. Scott had to learn and bite his tongue at work through this push of warning people about wildcats. He started to see articles about why jaguars were moving into this area and the numerous reports from ranchers and wildlife experts on the increase of sightings in Arizona and New Mexico. 

He vividly remembered the prints of that day, and no matter what manipulation tactics were used to make him think otherwise, he was adamant about finding out what animal formed those prints. Over time, he became convinced that it had to be a prehistoric animal; the drawings he saw online and the photos of fossils convinced him it had to be a carnivore of that magnitude. He felt crazy thinking that some dinosaur was surviving out in the high plains, traveling from canyon to canyon. For months, he scoured the internet, learning about mokele-mbembe and the possibility of a lost world, places where time forgot. But those legends were miles away, belonging to primitive peoples on other continents, nowhere near the panhandle of Texas.

Scott joined a local group forum of primarily farmers and ranchers that listed farm equipment for sale and posted things relating to almanacs and weather updates. One day, he reluctantly wrote:

Hey! This is my first time posting here; I’ve lurked on this forum for some time. I’m curious and have built up the courage to ask. Have any of y'all seen any strange creatures around the area or in your land? Primarily close to the Canyon, Tulia, Silverton, and Quitaque farmlands. Or have any cattle gone missing or mauled to death? I want to know; I’m following up on some reports. Feel free to DM me.

Thanks!

A week passed, and only a few people liked his post, but no one commented or messaged him directly. What stood out to him was that about two weeks after he posted his questions, someone posted about some ‘firmament around the dome,’ which was why farmers were not getting enough rain this season. Another post appeared talking about weather manipulation and chemtrails. Those posts started to be deleted by moderators of the forum, but over time, more appeared, asking weird questions unrelated to farming or ranching. 

“Wampus cat sightings and reportings have increased over the last five years. Could the wampus cat be real?"

"I believe aliens have abducted my cattle."

"It's the new government tunnels they’re building; that's why they don’t want us digging deeper for more water.” 

The ridiculousness gave Scott a good chuckle, as he did not expect local farmers to be nut jobs. He was curious, though, scrolling through posts from months back and even two years further; he noticed these posts were not being made. Eventually, his own post was taken down, but it had reached fifty likes, just below the median likes each post in the forum got. He also scrolled through paleontology forums, trying to find exact matches of what he remembered that day. People would post lots of fossilized teeth and marine fossil clusters but no prints. 

Weeks passed, and Scott would see the signs at the visitor’s center that they had to install about what to do if you spot a wildcat and what to carry to fend it off. He played along with the jaguar story with coworkers, but when he got home, he would lurk non-stop in local forums about wildlife and outdoor activities. I can’t be the only one, right? An obsession grew for a straight answer to appear. Then, one evening, to Scott’s surprise, his prayer was answered; he received a direct message from a user who stated:

Hey, I saw your post a while back in which you asked about any missing cattle. I run this account for my dad since he likes to see what others are up to but doesn’t care to learn the app's user interface. I also help him around the farm. Yeah, we’ve seen things. Are you a reporter?

Scott was hesitant to tell the truth; he did not know how it would seem to others if he let these strangers know that he was an enthusiast of strange finds. He lied and answered back, stating he was an Amarillo Globe-News journalist. Scott had a back-and-forth conversation with the user, who eventually revealed they wanted to be called Ed.

Ed shared that his father owned farmland in Umbarger— a small German Catholic settlement on US Highway 60 close to a wildlife refuge, where, over the years, many locals started to be suspicious of. The wildlife refuge helped the settlement with tourism and researchers. Until tourists were no longer permitted by long periods of supposed maintenance and big game tagging. Many farmers started to notice mysterious black SVU caravans passing through. Over the last year, Ed stated that many farmers found toppled fences and cattle torn apart all over their properties. 

Scott played the part of a journalist very well; it was not every day that Ed replied to his questions. Scott had to lie about covering other stories when he could not reply when he was at work. Eventually, Ed mentioned that his dad had some cam trails set up on the property that he installed after nights of hearing women crying in the distance. 

My father says it's cougars, but cougars have never been native to these parts, Ed wrote. 

With some patience, Scott persuaded Ed to share those photos with him.

When Scott saw the files appear in the chat log, his heart felt like it skipped a beat. He was straining his eyes, not knowing what to expect once he opened the zip folder full of photos. He felt a rush trickling down his spine like he was about to embark on something illegal. Seeing the photos, Scott could not make out what he saw at first. He had to rely on the vague descriptions that Ed wrote to him. All Scott could make out at first were tall grasses and thick foliage. He saw coyotes, opossums, and skunks in most of them. But there were a few that started to show animals that he did not recognize. Feathers, large-looking birds sniffing the ground, then the next photo would be nothing. Scott went through multiple photos of this pattern where nothing was present, and then those large bird-looking silhouettes would appear. He kept clicking each one until he found something his brain could draw the picture in a way he understood.

Three bipedal feathered large cassowaries, but Scott quickly knew they weren’t cassowaries. Even if cassowaries were brought to the United States and escaped a wildlife refuge, the large sickle claw each one had in each foot gave them away. The long, sturdy tails, formidable feathered covered arms with sharp claws protruding from their slender fingers. The ominous look of their beady eyes reflected the night vision camera, the sleek bird of prey head with sharp teeth showing right below the upper lip. Scott gasped and froze, unable to wrap his head around the fact that a group of dromaeosaurs could be roaming among men. 

V

The room was quiet. The noise from the rapping of papers being adjusted and coughs from the other participants were the only noises present before any of the gentlemen spoke words. Dr. Bakshi stared at the forms and then at the gentlemen seated before him. He adjusted his glasses and closed his eyes for a bit.

"So, the new asset,” said a tall gentleman in a navy suit. “Can, uh, camouflage like a chameleon and protrude spikes like a porcupine?" 

Dr. Bakshi opened his eyes and looked at the man, “yes, that is correct,” answered Dr. Bakshi. The gentleman lifted his eyebrows and then continued looking at the forms of data. The data to the new asset, the new baby to Dr. Bakshi’s experiments, a camouflaging spike protruding ceratosaurus. He smirked, thinking about his success with the new asset. Its human voice-mimicking skills were more advanced than the allosaurus. The allosaurus was savage and bloodthirsty, but the new ceratosaurs had shown higher intelligence in problem-solving.

A few minutes of silence passed until Dr. Bakshi opened his eyes again to the voice of another gentleman, this one much older with grey hair and a visible bald spot. “We’ve been impressed, doctor. We believe what you have made will suit us well. Out intelligence groups tell us that they have tested their bot software and have used accounts to post “stuff” far out there. Of course, the wildcat narrative seems to be working,” said the man. 

"We can produce multiple assets for every continent,” smirked Dr. Bakshi. “Along with the cloned cattle.” The gentlemen in navy suits all nodded and smiled. “This…this will keep people busy,” said the old man. “New local boogeyman tales to distract them. How does one hundred and seventy million sound?"

Dr. Bakshi grinned, placing a hand on his chest. “One hundred and seventy million would greatly help." 

"Good! The NDAA will handle everything on the books. One hundred and seventy million will then go to the program,” said the older gentleman. “So, which one is out there right now? You know,” the older man waved his arm, not knowing which direction he was pointing. “In the canyons or whatever."

"The allosaurus,” responded Dr. Bakshi.

"Can you make us another one?"

Dr. Bakshi bowed his head and responded, “Of course!” 

"Can you imagine a dinosaur here!"