T-Rex Bone Dust

The air inside this T-Rex suit is basically ninety percent my own carbon dioxide and ten percent whatever cheap plastic smells like when it’s being baked by the sun. It is supposed to be fun. That is what the flyer said back at the student union. 'Annual Dino-Spring Parade: Bring Your Best Scales!' I look like a giant, neon-orange mistake.

Wanda is about ten feet ahead of me, her Triceratops head bobbing with every step. She looks like a highlighter exploded in the shape of a prehistoric herbivore. The sun is doing that thing where it’s too bright for April, turning the whole street into a high-contrast fever dream. The cherry blossoms are shedding like crazy, mixing with this weirdly thick yellow pollen that hangs in the air like static. It sticks to everything. It’s coating my visor, turning the world into a blurry, golden mess.

"Jay, you good?" Wanda’s voice comes through the internal comms we rigged up. She sounds tinny, like she’s talking through a tin can filled with cotton. "You’re lagging. Keep the pace, man. The Grand Hippo is right behind us."

I wipe the inside of my visor with my sleeve, but it just smears the condensation. "It’s hot, Wan. Like, dangerously hot. I think the fan in my suit is dying. It’s not blowing air anymore, it’s just... humming."

"Just push through. We’re almost at the first snack station," she says. I can hear her breathing. It’s heavy. Rhythmic. She’s not even trying to sound normal anymore. There’s a weird lilt to her voice, a kind of floaty quality that makes me think she’s already been hitting the 'maple syrup' cups they’re handing out at the checkpoints.

I reach down to find the emergency release zipper on my chest. I need a breath of actual air, even if it’s full of that suffocating pollen. My gloved hand fumbles over the front of the T-Rex’s belly. Nothing. I feel again, harder this time. The zipper should be right there, a thick plastic track running from my neck to my waist. But my fingers just slide over a smooth, warm surface.

I look down. The orange plastic isn't crinkling. It’s not folding like nylon should. It’s taut. It’s stretched over my ribcage like a second skin. I press my thumb into it. The material doesn't resist with the stiffness of polyester. It gives. It’s soft. It feels like pressing into a forearm. My own forearm. I try to pinch the fabric to pull it away from my chest, but there is no fabric to pinch. The orange 'skin' of the T-Rex is just... me now.

"Wanda?" I say, my voice cracking. "Wanda, something’s wrong with the suit."

"Everything’s fine, Jay. Look at the hippos. Aren't they cute?"

I look. The 'House Hippos' were the big marketing push for the parade this year. Small, bread-loaf-sized creatures that look like they were sewn together from grey velvet and prayer. They’re supposed to be animatronic, or maybe just really well-trained dogs in costumes. But as I watch one trot alongside my left leg, I realize it doesn't have a costume on. It doesn't have seams. It doesn't have eyes, either—just two damp, dark indentations where eyes should be. It stops, its little snout twitching in the air. Then, it lunges. It doesn't bite me. It licks the side of my T-Rex leg.

It’s licking the pollen.

The yellow dust has built up on the 'scales' of my suit, forming a thick, glowing crust. The hippo’s tongue is long and grey, and as it swipes across the orange material, I feel a jolt of electricity shoot up my leg. It’s not a sting. It’s a pulse. A deep, vibrating thrum that makes my muscles twitch in sync with the hippo’s tongue.

"Stop it," I hiss, kicking out at the thing. My leg doesn't move the way I want it to. It feels heavy, like it’s filled with wet sand. The kick is slow, a graceful, sweeping motion that looks more like a dance move than a defense.

"Don't be mean to them," Wanda says. She’s stopped at the first snack station. A volunteer in a generic park ranger outfit is handing her a small paper cup. Wanda knocks it back like a shot. "The syrup is so good, Jay. It makes everything... quiet."

I stumble toward her, my T-Rex tail dragging behind me. It doesn't feel like I’m pulling a weight anymore. I can feel the pavement through the tip of the tail. I can feel the grit of the asphalt, the heat of the sun-baked road. It’s like having an extra limb I never asked for.

"Wanda, look at your arms," I say, reaching for her.

She holds up her neon-green Triceratops limbs. The fabric is pulsing. I can see the outline of her actual veins through the green plastic. The material is thinning, becoming translucent, merging with her pores. The bright green color isn't a dye anymore; it’s a pigment.

"I’m green," she whispers, and she sounds delighted. "I’ve always wanted to be this bright. You’re so dull, Jay. You need more pollen."

She reaches out and grabs a handful of the yellow dust from the air, smearing it onto my orange chest. Where the pollen hits, the plastic bubbles. It sizzles softly, like grease in a pan. The smell is overwhelming now—not plastic, but something floral and rotting. Like a bouquet left in a vase for a month.

I look back at the House Hippos. There are dozens of them now. They’re congregating around the dinosaur marchers, their little bodies vibrating. They aren't squeaking. They’re making a sound like stones grinding together in a riverbed. A low, tectonic chatter.

"They’re hungry," a voice says.

I turn. It’s the Grand Hippo. It’s not small like the others. It’s the size of a Smart car, draped in a heavy, velvet cape that looks like it’s made of moss. It sits atop a float made of woven branches and wilting tulips. It doesn't have a face, just a massive, circular maw lined with what look like blunt, wooden pegs.

"Eat," the Grand Hippo grinds. The sound doesn't come from a throat. It comes from the air itself.

The hippos on the ground begin to grow. As they lick the pollen off our transforming bodies, they swell. Their grey skin stretches, turning a sickly, bruised purple. They aren't bread-loaf-sized anymore. They’re the size of pit bulls, then Great Danes. Their legs get longer, their bodies leaner.

"Wanda, we have to go. We have to get out of these suits."

"I can't," she says, her voice a dreamy sigh. "The suit is me. I’m the Triceratops. Can't you feel the rhythm?"

She starts to move. It’s not walking. It’s a slow, rhythmic sway. Left, right, step, pause. Around us, the hundred other dinosaurs are doing the same. It’s a synchronized march, a biological clockwork. My own legs join in. I try to stop them, try to plant my feet, but the orange skin is pulling the muscles, forcing the stride.

"The syrup," I mutter, looking at the snack station. I grab a cup from the ranger’s hand. He doesn't even look at me. His eyes are glazed, his skin a pale, waxy yellow. I sniff the cup. It doesn't smell like maple. It smells like hospital corridors and old pennies.

"It’s a sedative," I scream, but the word is drowned out by the grinding of the hippos.

The parade route is changing. We aren't heading toward the town square anymore. The hippos are nudging us, nipping at our heels, herding us toward the old tulip garden on the edge of town. The garden has been closed for years—a massive, hollowed-out pit where the prize-winning bulbs used to grow.

I look down at my hands. Or where my hands should be. The T-Rex claws are no longer empty mittens. I can move the three blunt fingers. I can feel the air on them. I look at my reflection in a shop window as we shuffle past. I don't see a guy in a suit. I see a creature with orange, pebbled skin, a heavy tail, and a face that is half-human, half-beast, frozen in a permanent, toothy grin.

"We’re almost there," Wanda sings. She’s leading the line now, her green scales glowing with a sickly light. The hippos are pacing us, their bodies now massive, muscular, and terrifyingly silent. They’ve finished the pollen. Now, they’re looking at the meat underneath.

The Grand Hippo’s float creaks as it enters the garden gates. The tulips here aren't normal. They’re huge, their petals the size of car doors, all of them a deep, bruised black. They’re open, waiting.

I try to scream, but my throat is full of yellow dust. I try to run, but my orange legs only know the dance. We are stepping into the pit, a line of neon monsters marching into the dark, and the hippos are closing the gate behind us.