Quarry woke up before dawn and immediately started watching videos from the Talking Buffalo Special Preservation Area at Yellowstone. He wasn’t quite fluent in the bizarre English-Mandarin-Spanish-French pidgin that the gigantic mutated creatures spoke, but he thought he had a strong enough grasp of the language to get a few amused snorts if he ever met one.
Quarry had been begging his parents for a trip to Yellowstone since he was six-years-old, but they always told him that they couldn’t afford it, and so summer vacations were always to nearby Lake Galena or the giant museums in downtown Chicago. The Field Museum his favorite because they had an interactive holographic talking bison range and an immersive underground exhibit on the supervolcano that rumbled beneath the hooves of those mythical behemoths.
When he tired of watching videos from Yellowstone that other, luckier kids had shared, Quarry pulled up his language app and began conversing with the hologram of a massive cartoon buffalo head that he had named Jerome.
“Nihao, friemigo!” Jerome’s voice was deep but disarmingly playful.
“Nihao,” Quarry answered, immediately bored with the simulation.
His bedroom door slid open, and dad leaned in, a knowing grin on his face. “How’s Jerome today, buddy?”
Quarry shrugged. “Still just as boring as ever.”
The cartoon buffalo head frowned, thick black lips curving down exaggeratedly.
Dad walked in, still in pajamas, and sat next to Quarry.
“Have you thought about what you want for your birthday this year, champ?”
Quarry took a deep breath, held it for a long time before blurting out, “Yellowstone!”
This was an annual ritual between the two that usually ended with dad gazing off into the distance, an expression on his face like he was watching someone he loved walk off into a cold, misty morning. His sad gaze usually preceded a lecture about how expensive Yellowstone would be; that they hadn’t won the lottery for low-income tickets (again), and on and on and on.
This time, dad just smiled at him, blinking.
Quarry’s eyes went wide, and he jumped up on his bed, leaning in toward dad’s face.
“We hit the ticket lottery? For this year? For my… Birthday?” Quarry was nearly breathless, skin suddenly damp and cold.
Dad nodded slowly, a proud smile blooming on his face.
For a few seconds, Quarry couldn’t seem to do anything but blink. When his muscles finally began cooperating, he wrapped his arms around his father. “You’re the best dad in the whole multiverse!”
They couldn’t afford to stay in one of the National Park Corporation’s fancy hotels, so they had booked a motel near Yellowstone’s north entrance. As their shared electric minibus piloted its way through the streets of Gardiner, it had to stop several times to wait for roaming buffalo to move out of the way. The self-driving AI cursed at the buffalo in Mandarin and made irritated little hissing noises that the buffalo ignored.
When they finally checked-in to their motel, mom complained about how stiff the mattress was, and how threadbare the covers. “I bet this place hasn’t been remodeled since 2020.”
“A lot of these tourist places never really recovered from the pandemic,” dad answered.
Quarry jumped in. “I can’t believe we’re finally so close to meeting the Shuineo!”
Mom’s smile wavered, flickering like a weak radio signal. “Why do they call themselves that?”
Quarry cleared his throat dramatically. “They prefer the Mandarin word for buffalo because they think it sounds more noble. After the mutations started, they learned to speak by eavesdropping on tourists. Shuineoese is a mix of Mandarin, English, and Spanish, with a little bit of French.”
His mom’s smile returned. “And just how smart are these talking buffalo, honey?”
Quarry touched his chin and feigned deep thought. “An adult Shuineo is about as smart as a five-year-old human.”
They spent the next three days exploring the park with the other tourists, zipping around on the high-speed electric trams that spiderwebbed the park. The days blurred into a collage of geysers, bubbling mud pots, waterfalls, and rivers, all peppered with thrilling wildlife sightings.
Quarry woke up before dawn on the morning of their appointment to visit the Shuineo. He interrogated their tickets for the millionth time, examining every component, even reading the historical narrative about how the Shuineo had come to exist after being infected with a mysterious manmade virus that affected their brains.
Some people suspected American military black-ops, others a Chinese bioweapon that had gone terribly wrong. The true origin of the Shuineo virus was one of the most persistent mysteries of the twenty-first century and a favorite topic for conspiracy theorists. Quarry spent the rest of the morning watching videos of other kids’ encounters with the Shuineo until mom and dad were up and had their morning coffees.
The electric tram arrived at the Yellowstone Corporation’s Talking Buffalo Special Preservation Area an hour before their appointment. They had to loiter outside, watching suborbital hoppers arcing up into the stratosphere. Quarry was so excited that he was trembling. He couldn’t control himself and had been rambling nonstop about the Shuineo, occasionally even lapsing into speaking in Shuineoese.
Mom interrupted him. “Zapatos? Isn’t that Spanish for shoes?”
He blinked, looking up at her. “Yeah.”
Her face scrunched up. “Shuineo wear shoes?”
“No. The language isn’t…” Quarry strained, rummaging through his nine-year-old memory. “What’s the word? Literal? The language isn’t literal. Zapatos means any Spanish speaking human.”
Mom blinked a few times, then narrowed her eyes. “That doesn’t make sense.”
“No, it doesn’t. Nobody knows why they call Spanish speakers ‘shoes,’ or English speakers ‘cameras,’ or Mandarin speakers ‘teeth.’”
Mom shook her head, looking more frightened than amused.
Their tickets started vibrating, summoning them to the history center. Quarry nearly bolted into a sprint, but dad grabbed his shoulder, laughing. “Load a chill app, buddy! We’re already assigned a place in the queue.”
Quarry took a deep breath and steadied himself. He couldn’t believe it was finally happening. He was about to meet the Shuineo.
They walked through the immersive hologram tunnels that told the strange history of the Shuineo. The technology was showing its age, Quarry thought, but it was still pretty well done.
As they exited the holograph tunnels, they arrived in the pre-visit orientation room. The room had a sharp, earthy, unwholesome smell. Quarry saw that mom’s face had gone pale, and her hand was cold when he took it. “What’s wrong, mom?”
“The smell,” she said.
Quarry shrugged. “Yeah. They… Well… They don’t quite have the same hygiene standards that we do.”
She put her hand over her nose. “Dear God,” she whispered.
Quarry frowned. “You’ll get used to it.”
There hadn’t been any smell at the Field Museum’s simulations back home.
They were herded onto metal benches with about fifty other families and given a final set of instructions for interacting with the Shuineo. It was all standard stuff that he had heard before. Keep two feet from the fence, no touching, the list of banned words and hand gestures, no eye contact, and on and on. It was a daunting list.
Finally, a large double-door at one end of the room opened, and a woman directed them out into the encounter habitat. A wide matrix of thin red lines formed the electric fence separating the humans and the Shuineo. When Quarry saw them, his heart started fluttering in his chest like a bird in a bottle. He thought he might fall over.
Next to him, mom retched. “My God, that smell.”
One of the nearby Shuineo, a grandfather from the looks of him, shot one big eye at mom, then let loose with a long, exaggerated fart that turned heads.
“I’ll leave you boys in here. I’m just going to wait outside.” She fast-walked away without waiting for a reply.
Dad looked down at Quarry and grinned. “It really is quite a smell, isn’t it?”
Quarry didn’t answer. Instead, he ran over to the nearest Shuineo calf. He introduced himself in perfect Shuineo, including what he thought was a respectful Shuineo-style bowing of his head, with the obligatory little triple nod.
The Shuineo snorted and let out a rapid string of Mandarin, sounding agitated. Quarry had a difficult time translating the rant, but he was able to make out a few of the words. Foreigner. Arrogant. Filthy. Human.
Quarry stumbled back from the fence, shocked.
The Shuineo snorted, then spat on the ground. Quarry stood staring, blinking in stunned silence.
Dad laughed. “That didn’t sound very polite. What did he say, Quarry?”
The Shuineo turned its big head up to dad, black eyes eerie with an unnatural intelligence. It said, “Is this shi vous hijo?”
Dad laughed again. “What was that, little guy?”
Quarry blanched. “Dad!” The buffalo snorted and spat at dad, covering him in gelatinous buffalo goo. Dad stumbled backward, looking down at himself, arms raised defensively, mouth wide with shock.
Quarry stumbled back, too. “Dad! You can’t call a Shuineo little – that’s the worst Shuineoese insult there is! They just told us that in the orientation!”
Dad shook his head and tried to brush off some of the buffalo snot. The Shuineo was staring at him, a smug look on his giant, meaty face.
Dad snarled at the Shuineo. “You little bisonburger. I could have you for dinner if I wanted to!”
The fence went opaque, blocking their view. A National Park Corporation ranger trudged up to them, looking unamused.
“You folks will have to leave now. Interspecies treaty prevents us from allowing harassment of the Shuineo.”
Dad gently gripped Quarry’s shoulder. “Come on, son. Let’s get out of here.”
Mom was waiting outside, looking much relieved to see them.
“Well?” she asked.
Quarry shook his head. “It wasn’t what I expected. The Shuineo are kind of disgusting. Nothing like the simulations.”
Mom smiled knowingly. “Sometimes, we build things up so much in our minds that when we finally get them, the reality doesn’t measure up to our expectations.”
Quarry shrugged. His face felt hot, and inside of him was a raging vortex of disappointment, regret, anger, and sadness. It was like that time on the playground when he fell and had the wind knocked out of his lungs.
“Those things should all be delivered straight to a slaughterhouse as far as I’m concerned,” dad said, trying to remove the film of buffalo snot from his shirt and pants.
As they walked away from the preserve, a vague idea began to form in Quarry’s mind that built into a question as they walked past a majestic bronze statue of a Shuineo looking noble and wise. He looked up at it, then rolled his eyes.
“Hey, dad,” Quarry said. “Can we try a bison burger for dinner tonight?”
Dad gave Quarry a mischievous grin and a nod as he flicked a chunk of dried Shuineo crust from his shirt.