Free Z. Rex by Steve Cole Page B

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    “You must be so tired,” Adam went on nervously. “I mean, to put yourself through this kind of strain, night after night . . . how do you do it?” He hesitated, as curiosity got the better of fear. “It’s almost as if you were made for this kind of life. What were you made for?”
    But Zed kept staring out over the horizon, and Adam’s only answer was the foam and crash of the dark sea.

11
    HOMECOMING
    F or Adam, the days that followed became a numbing blur of ocean and sky, of flight and fitful sleep. Adam dreamed of soft beds, hot food and as much cool water as he could drink.
    As sunlight ebbed from the eighth long day, Adam watched land resolve itself slowly out of wreaths of low cloud. If they were on track, then this could be the west coast of Ireland. Adam felt a sense of growing excitement. He’d actually managed to live through this insane odyssey.
    But any happiness was wiped out by growing nerves about what he was going to do when they got to Edinburgh.
    Or rather, what Zed was going to do.

    Finally, without fanfare, the long voyage ended a little after three the next morning.
    As Zed powered toward the misty glow of the city lights, Adam ripped off his gas mask with numb fingers and hurled it away with a whoop of exhilaration. He stared down over the moonlit roofs and hills and spires of the home he’d thought he’d never see again and could have cried with relief.
    Zed slowly descended over the dark wildness of Holyrood Park, that massive sprawl of hills, lochs and crags right in the center of the city. Though his mouth was sore and dry and his stomach growling like a grizzly, Adam’s spirits rose ever higher the lower they flew.
    “We did it!” he yelled. “Zed, you actually got us here! You can put us down there—that big mound thing. It’s Arthur’s Seat, an extinct volcano, super old. From there you can see out over the whole city. . . .”
    Zed seemed to be heading for it already, regardless of Adam’s recommendation. He landed heavily on a grassy slope with a grunt of pain and effort, and sank to the ground. Adam scrambled out of his hazard-suit harness and tumbled to the wet springy turf. He pressed his face against it, licking up the dew and muttering prayers of thanks to anyone who’d listen. “I never thought I’d get back in one piece. . . .”
    He realized Zed had keeled over and was doing the same, desperately lapping at the dew-soaked grass. Somehow, with one wing folded and the other hanging limp by his side, the dinosaur looked not so much frightening as pitiful. How much water must a dinosaur need? Loads, surely. Adam felt a moment’s fleeting guilt at draining the last of their supply the day before.
    No, stuff that, he told himself. I’m not feeling sorry for that thing after all he’s put me through.
    Wiping his chapped lips, Adam scrambled up. He hurt just about everywhere, with some wicked pressure sores from clamping his legs around the dinosaur’s back, but right now even the pain felt like his body celebrating its survival. It was fantastic feeling solid ground under his feet—ground that wasn’t going to shift. And he reveled in the sight of the old familiar city skyline. Before him were the high-rise shoe-box shadows of the Pollock Halls, looming guardians of the straight lines and slopes of the estates beyond. He looked farther, to the floodlit castle standing massive on the mound and the ghostly edges of the rugged, indomitable city skyline. How many times had he stood here, untroubled, gazing out over it all?
    And now he’d come in the company of a killer.
    After spending more than a week up close and personal with a real-life mutant dinosaur, Adam realized he’d grown almost accustomed to Zed’s huge, menacing presence. Almost. But now they stood in a small city of half a million people—during Festival month, no less. The streets would be overloaded with tourists and weirdos up for the Fringe—writers, filmmakers, people handing out