Tastes Like Chicken – Containment Protocol-Part 10

In Vino Veritas. Fiction. 1800 words, 9-minute read.

Booker, Muñoz, & Mulroney have reserved seating on the VIP log at the big dino cookout & dance bash. Fiction. 1800 words, 9-minute read.

Find the rest of the Containment Protocol tale here: https://raytabler.substack.com/s/containment-protocol-serial

Part 1 (the beginning), ... Part 9 (last episode), Part 11 (next episode)

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Tastes Like Chicken – Containment Protocol-Part 10

By Ray Tabler

“What the hell is Gonzalez doing?” Booker asked Mulroney.

“Uh, if I had to guess, I’d say it’s a combination of the moonwalk and the funky chicken.”

Muñoz laughed so hard he snorted the local wine all over the ground in front of him. “Sergeant Mulroney, you oughta be a stand-up comedian! I think I read about the moonwalk in a history book. But what the hell is the funky chicken?”

Mulroney just smiled and sipped at his drink. Booker shook his head, feeling the strong tug of the alcoholic haze beginning to envelope the tribe, and his men as well. A woman came by and refilled his drinking horn before he could object.

Booker, Muñoz, and Mulroney sat on a log bench around the big fire pit in the center of the village. It was evidently the prominent seating reserved for honored visitors, situated immediately to the right of the chief’s log. On which were arranged the elders and the shaman, and the shaman’s deputy. Apprentice shaman? The precise translation wasn’t clear when Muñoz made introductions.

With the setting of the sun, Zunta and Nohfa had escorted the tankers from their lager to the communal area of the village. The entire tribe waited there for the guests. A festival atmosphere floated above the assemblage. After a mercifully brief series of speeches and invocation of the gods, the alcohol started flowing.

Then, the meat was ready, and portions were served. Tribespeople distributed generous portions of hot, drippy flesh, impaled on sticks. As the leaders of the guests of honor, Booker, Muñoz, and Mulroney were served first. Muñoz kept up a running commentary of the ensuing order of meat distribution, as well as the serving sizes. This, he quietly advised, was as good an indication as any of current status within the tribe. Booker tried to keep up, but soon became confused. The complexity of social ranking within even a stone age community proving too much for his slowly-inebriating brain.

As it turned out, roasted T-Rex tail did indeed taste, more or less, like chicken. Gamey, juicy, not all that tender chicken, but definitely as much like poultry as anything. At least, the flavor strongly reminded Booker of chicken. Muñoz and Mulroney debated the subtleties of the taste, having had more experience with exotic meats than their commanding officer.

“Is that Thibodaux helping with the carving?” Booker asked Mulroney.

Mulroney looked up from gnawing on a hunk of meat to where Betty’s gunner was slicing off a pumpkin-sized mass of T-Rex with a sharp, stone blade. “Yes sir. He snuck off while you were delivering the foreign aid package.” Mulroney wiped the dino juice from his chin with the sleeve of his Nomex coveralls. “Before I knew it. He was helping the local ladies with the cooking.”

“What’s he know about cooking dinosaurs?”

‘Well sir, Thibodeaux’s Cajun. And I can attest from personal experience, Cajuns can cook anything. And make it delicious.” Mulroney held up his half-eaten helping of meat as proof positive of the assertion.

“But he doesn’t even know the language.”

“I don’t think that was much of an issue.”

Sometime after the second skewer of roasted dino, the toasts had started. Vinzi stood, and joyfully pronounced a few lines. Muñoz translated the words as an elaborate compliment of Booker and his men. Then everyone at the VIP logs raised and emptied their drinking horns. The horns were voluminous. Booker had no idea what kind of dino supplied the horn. It was big, and shiny, and smelled slightly of old leather. Booker tried not to worry about what kind of microscopic life was growing in its interior. Vinzi rammed the pointy end of his drinking horn into the dirt at his feet. Relieved, Booker and his men did the same, having been wondering what to do with the things when empty.

Like clockwork, women appeared with bulging wineskins to top off the planted drinking horns. Booker, almost at peace with the bacteria in the horns, frowned at the probably much more porous wineskins, and the microbial utopia they likely provided. With a start, Booker realized everyone was looking at him.

“You have to return the toast.” Muñoz whispered. “It’s expected.”

“What do I say? I don’t want to accidentally insult him.”

“Uh, just say something. I’ll fill in the appropriate sentiment.”

“Thanks.”

“No problem. Part of the job.” Muñoz grinned.

After a moment’s thought, Booker cut loose with as much of the Gettysburg Address as he could remember. A horn-draining followed. The women filled the horns. Vinzi rose and delivered another toast. Draining and filling. This time, Booker recited selected lines from The Charge of the Light Brigade.

Much to Booker’s relief, that was the extent of oratory ping pong as he and Vinzi were expected to play. The obligation moved on to each elder in turn. Who parried back and forth with Muñoz and Mulroney. Who seemed to handle the job well enough. Of course, everyone had to down a round with each toast. Which had the effect of improving the mood and loosening the inhibitions of all involved.

A collection of drums, sonorous horns, and high-pitched flutes commenced playing somewhere nearby. A generous percentage of the tribe flooded into the large open area on the far side of the fire pit, dancing and singing. Booker was not all that surprised that most of his men joined in the festivities, inadvertently introducing some new dance moves to the tribe in the process. The crowd opened up around Gonzalez, giving him room to strut his stuff. The tribe imitated the disco-inspired steps, incorporating the moves into their more traditional dances, a stone-age/post-modern cultural fusion.

Booker smiled and shook his head at Gonzalez’s antics. His drinking horn was full again. How did that happen?

“Wow!” Mulroney marveled fuzzily. “Would you look at that sky?”

Booker leaned back to encounter a king’s ransom of stars splashed across the heavens. Orion stood out against the bright swath of the milky way. The fire pit had burned down to a broad, glowing mat of hot coals at this point, allowing better viewing of the sky.

Memories of navigational lectures from his survival training told him that they were in the northern hemisphere. In winter? The balmy weather seemed to argue against that. Different universe; he supposed. Oddly, the star Betelgeuse seemed to be absent from Orion’s shoulder. Wasn’t that star supposed to go supernova soon? Maybe it already had here. Exploded, and faded faded from view. How long would that have taken? The loss of the familiar star brought home to Booker the otherness of the surroundings in a way the dinos didn’t. He shivered despite the heat.

“You look like you’re draggin’ some heavy thoughts around, El-tee.” Mulroney prompted, taking a long swallow from his drinking horn.

Booker sighed. “This place doesn’t make sense, sergeant.”

“How so? From the looks of it, we might as well be in Kansas, or north Texas.” Mulroney said.

“Not dusty enough for Texas.” Muñoz disagreed.

Booker frowned. “Look, I’m not a paleontologist, or whatever the right expert is, but I know that all of the dinosaurs were dead and gone millions of years before the first human appeared. How can both people and dinos be living around here?”

“Well, there was a comet, or something. Hit the Earth and wiped out the dinosaurs back home.” Mulroney speculated. “Maybe the comet missed here. And the dinos survived.”

“But mammals were all just like rodents then.” Booker argued. “I saw it on a TV documentary. How could we evolve from prehistoric rats if the dinos were still in the way? Doesn’t make sense, even if the comet missed.”

Mulroney wrinkled his nose in puzzlement. “I thought we were supposed to have evolved from monkeys, not rats.”

“We did.” Muñoz explained. “The rats came first.”

“You sure about that?” Mulroney eyed the green beret with suspicion.

“Yeah. I read it on the internet.”

“I don’t believe it.” Mulroney shook his head. “I’m okay with a monkey or two up my family tree. But I draw the line at rats.”

Muñoz pondered continuing the argument with Mulroney, then decided it wasn’t worth it. He turned to Booker instead. “I don’t think it’s that simple. From what the technical people on the project say, these aren’t alternate universes we open gates to. They’re other universes. Can’t draw logical timelines back to some point of departure like that. Whether a comet missed us or not.”

Booker stared at Muñoz. “Then, what are dinos or people doing here?”

Muñoz shrugged. “Beats me. I just work here.”

Mulroney thought that was hilarious.

Booker rolled his eyes and cursed under his breath. “And what about those rusty, German tanks we ran across on our way here? How do you explain those?”

“I can’t.” Muñoz conceded. “Does raise some troubling questions.”

“Yeah. It does.” Booker snatched up his drinking horn and swallowed a mouthful of wine. “This is one crazy place. And, I’ll be happy to get back home tomorrow.”

“I’ll drink to that, El-tee.” Mulroney raised his horn, then drained it.

Movement caught Booker’s eye. Zunta and Nohfa danced nearby. Zunta held his arms high, strutting as if he were some hulking beast. Nohfa’s moves were sensual, swaying and rolling her hips. She locked eyes with Booker, smiling passionately.

A woman refilled his drinking horn. Orion wheeled above, bereft of his prominent, blood-red shoulder star. The tribe’s drums pounded a complex, driving rhythm.

***

Someone was pounding on Booker’s head with a sledgehammer, from the inside out. His mouth tasted of ashes and foul milk. An attempt to open his eyes resulted in a flash of blinding light. Having experienced hangovers before, the rational part of Booker’s mind informed him that he was in that boat again. The rest of his consciousness just wanted to die.

Not capable of anything more ambitious at the moment, Booker lay on his back, waiting for the world to stop spinning. The spinning didn’t stop but it did slow down enough for Booker to begin receiving input from his compromised senses. He felt naked...He was naked.

Furthermore, someone lay molded sinuously to his side. Warm. Soft. Female. Naked!

Booker’s eyes snapped open. Nohfa cuddled him. She smiled from where her chin snuggled into his chest, and whispered something in her own language. Followed by a giggle.

“Uh.” Booker stammered. “Did we...uh, boom boom?”

“Boom boom!” Nohfa grinned and rose to straddle Booker, in all her early morning glory. She triumphantly patted her bare abdomen. “Brown brown bay-bee!”

END.

Tune in next week for part 11 – Fraternization

Find the rest of the Containment Protocol tale here: https://raytabler.substack.com/s/containment-protocol-serial

Part 1 (the beginning), ... Part 9 (last episode), Part 11 (next episode)

Check out my novels at Novus Mundi Publishing, or just order them directly from Amazon:

• A Grand Imperial War

• A Grand Imperial Heir (sequel to A Grand Imperial War)

• Fool’s Paradise

And visit my website, https://raytabler.com/, for Science Fiction You Can Enjoy!