Jurassic Pork

In the distance, the T. rex roared like a man stubbing his toe on the coffee table after getting up to pee at night.

Marsh Buckley’s gut dropped, a Jeep falling from a tree. Unlike a few unfortunate souls in their party, they’d scraped through the last encounter. Who knew toilets could be so dangerous? Marsh wrapped his arms around the kids’ shoulders. ‘Now, don’t you worry, kiddos. I recognise that roar, I learned it in dinosaur school. What he’s saying is, “I am sufficiently full for the foreseeable future. I wouldn’t even contemplate chowing down on a couple of children.”’

The kids did not return his smile. Johnny Wintringham, the youngest, frowned up at him, disbelieving. The boy seemed to look right through his disguise. Bridget, meanwhile, continued to stare straight ahead with wide, unseeing eyes. She looked like a Vietnam vet suffering war flashbacks. Bridget moved, zombie-like, through the prehistoric undergrowth wherever Marsh and Johnny directed her. But she hadn’t uttered a syllable since the rex bit that poor chap in two whilst he was going number two.

Marsh chewed his lower lip. Hm. This dilemma was a tricky one. He’d gone from sharing a ride with them to becoming their guardian by proxy during the carnage. He’d even started to like them. And now, here they were, survivors one day later. They struggled with the previous day’s events – what with all the dinosaurs and death. Marsh had gotten their bodies through it. But what would Grandpa say if he returned the kids in a dissociated state? No, Marsh had to get their minds through it, too. He cast his thoughts back to his childhood to try to recall how being a kid feels. What would have helped him? All he remembered was rough-housing and—

That was it!

The best way to help kids during traumatic events was to prank them and make them laugh. All would be well if the kids were chipper when they returned to the lodge. Marsh grinned as he pulled back the leathery fronds of a tree to make way for Bridget.

Johnny guided her through the branches, pausing to wipe the spittle that had pooled on her chin. ‘C’mon, this way, Bridge. You’ll see that once we get back to the lodge, everything will be all right. Why, I’m sure Grandpa has already sellotaped that nice man back together.’

Marsh debated letting go of the branch and letting it swing back to swat the siblings right in their faces. That would be a laugh. But no, they were already banged up, with cuts, scrapes, and bruises adorning their bodies. He let the idea go instead of the branch. There had to be a funnier prank to lift their spirits – no physical pain. It wouldn’t be proper at a time like this. But he had to do something before they returned, and he had to do it soon. If his calculations were correct, the lodge was beyond this hill. Marsh let the children pass and followed them, allowing the branch to swish behind him.

They fought through the ancient foliage for a few more minutes before the trees opened onto a field. Johnny – in the lead – froze in place, blocking the way. ‘Uh oh.’

Marsh’s fried nerves crackled. What now? He pushed past Bridget, rejecting the hilarious idea of shoving her into the bushes. He came up alongside the boy. ‘What? What is—’

There stood a huge beast, but not of the saurischian variety. The electric fences towered 24 feet high. The thick, metal posts had high-tensile wires strung out between them. The gaps in the wires made the structure look like the skeleton of some mechanical dinosaur. The cold, utilitarian design contrasted with the surrounding green jungles. The air here held the lingering notes of ozone, which danced above the forest’s perfumes.

Marsh paused, mouth open, brow creased. He should’ve thought about this, but he hadn’t. During the chaotic events, it had slipped his mind. Seeing that the fences failing had started this mess, he should have remembered them. Their tour of the park from the comfort of their Jeeps had turned into a nightmare because of those damn fences. Why, the very image of the T. rex snapping his enclosure’s cables had seared itself right into Marsh’s—

Wait a second.

The power for the electric fences had gone down during the storm; they posed no danger whatsoever. But, given little Johnny’s reaction, the boy hadn’t put two and two together yet. And Bridget was, at the moment, unable to tie her shoelaces. A plan began to form in Marsh’s mind. A grin crept onto his face, and he fought to suppress it. ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘you kids wait here. I’m going to go check it out. If it’s safe, I’ll call you up.’

Bridget stared ahead, eyes glazed over, jaw slack like a cow chewing the cud. Johnny looked alarmed but didn’t stop him. The boy only said, ‘Please be careful, Mr Buckley.’

Marsh turned from the children and allowed the smirk to find its home on his face. Crouching, casting well-acted furtive glances from side to side, he approached the fences. ‘Oh man,’ he chuckled under his breath. ‘This is gonna be great.’

A black-and-red warning sign dangled from the fence. It read: ‘DANGER 10,000 VOLTS’. Next to it was a symbol of a human hand with a lightning bolt passing through it.

Marsh was so excited that his hair was prickling up. The humming chatter in his head grew in volume. He reached for one of the cables with two open hands. He glanced one final time over his shoulder. ‘Don’t try this at home, kids.’

Johnny’s eyes widened. He jumped forward, flapping his hand like a kid gone mad. ‘WAIT—’

But Marsh didn’t. He was already getting into character to play the part of the electrocuted man. And so, Marsh made the final mistake of his life. He grabbed the wire in both fists instead of testing the fence with the back of his hand.

In the background, Johnny continued to scream. ‘—LIGHT’S STILL ON, THE LIGHT’S STILL ON!’

Marsh gasped as his fleshy human frame completed the circuit. A freight train of electricity shot up his arms, burning his flesh and making his nerves scream. Every muscle in his body seized up – glueing him to the fence. His hands started to cook, melting like cheese on a burger. He tried to scream, but his chest muscles had tightened too much to let air escape.

There was a loud snap like God clicking his fingers, followed by a steady fizzing sound. Sparks jumped from the fence, offering sharp, staccato cracks of miniature lightning.

Marsh wanted to let go, but he couldn’t. The muscles in his hands had responded to the stimulation, locking him in a death grip with the fence. Shock immobilised him, scrambling his thoughts. Marsh shook, boogied, and jived as 10,000 volts raced through him. His hair caught fire. His eyes exploded like cherry bombs filled with red jelly. His heart beat its face against its cell bars until it had a black eye, a broken nose, missing teeth, and a concussion. His insides barbecued.

Nearby, Johnny shrieked. Bridget, shocked out of her comatose state, joined him. The kids’ screams harmonised, and – not too far away – the rex joined with a lovely bass melody. The crackling of human skin offered a syncopated rhythm.

Marsh whined as he fried. Here, in the end, he realised there were times when jokes were inappropriate. And if you insisted on being a jokester despite the poor timing, you ought to expect a roasting. He struggled with every fibre of his being – which was now on fire – to let go. Marsh tried and failed; his muscles were too contracted to fight.

The reek of burning hair and flesh overwhelmed the forest’s floral aroma. Marsh’s boiling fluids added an acrid odour. It was like overcooked pork mixed with an electrical fire at a wig factory.

Marsh, who’d survived both T. rexes and falling Jeeps, died as the fence microwaved his brain into soup.