Throwback

by Edward J. McFadden III

  35

  The next day dawned sunny and clear and the glare of the beacon blended into the brightness of the day. Hawk and his friends searched the entire area, but found nothing new. The red light on the control panel beeped, its display screen showing gibberish, and the opal within the giant crystal glowed. They’d made camp at the edge of the clearing under a large tree with wide spreading branches and green leaves with yellow tips. They ate some fresh roasted meat Svet had killed the day before with her bolas.

  What should they do now? This was the question that dominated Hawk’s thoughts. He drank the last of his water and tossed his bamboo cup onto the pile of bowls that needed to be cleaned. “What do you guys think? What’s our move here?”

  Svet sighed and rolled her shoulders and cracked her neck, but said nothing.

  Enyo said, “Well, I guess it depends on what we think this thing is. Are we in agreement it’s a monitoring device?”

  “Maybe, but what is it monitoring? The extinction event?” Hawk said.

  “Who knows. That makes the most sense, but is that relevant?”

  “I’d think so,” Hawk said. “The event could be tomorrow or a million years from now.”

  “True,” Enyo said. “But what could we do about it?”

  To that, Hawk had no response. He said, “What if we disable the beacon so that whoever placed it here sends a repair team to investigate why it isn’t transmitting?”

  Svet perked up. Hawk had voiced this idea before, but sitting a hundred yards from the massive beacon the statement had taken on a new meaning. Svet said, “Unless whoever placed beacon lives close, it could take years for them to travel to Earth and investigate.”

  “Yes, and they might not even bother,” Enyo said.

  “Why wouldn’t they?” Hawk asked.

  Enyo said, “It’s that time thing again. If they placed the monitoring device to record the event, that implies they had some knowledge of when that event would occur. If they can’t make it here in time, why bother?”

  “True,” Hawk said.

  “Or, if the event is still years off the investigation of the outage might not be the highest priority. They might not come to repair the beacon for a long time.”

  “All true,” Hawk said. “I guess my question is what do we have to lose? Also, we have no clue what this mystery race that placed the device and monuments are capable of. For all we know they can travel faster than light and might zip here in five minutes.”

  “Maybe they have transporter like Star Trek?” Svet said.

  Enyo sighed. “You guys are reaching for shit.”

  Hawk and Svet said nothing.

  The debate over for the moment, Hawk got up and stretched his back. A dinosaur roared in the distance, but Hawk barely noticed. It was like having an annoying dog next-door that never stopped barking. You eventually tuned it out and didn’t hear it anymore.

  Hawk walked to the beacon and slid his hand over the smooth crystal surface. It was somewhat warm to the touch, and vibrated slightly. Was this his decision to make? He eyed the control panel, the red flashing light, the rhythmic thrum of the beacon’s energy pulsing through the crystal. Was he still Commander? He didn’t feel like it. So much had happened he thought the old hierarchy was a distant memory, and now they were equals in all ways.

  The day wore on as Hawk’s thoughts tormented him, poking and prodding for action. Prior planning helps support strong performance. That was the military motto he’d lived most of his life by, but what planning could be done? This was the end of the road, one way or another, and if tampering with the beacon caused some type of catastrophe, then so be it. What did they have to lose? That was really the question.

  The companions spent most of the day on their own. Svet wandered off, but Enyo sat in camp, his head in his hands. When dinner rolled around Hawk thought they’d had enough time. He said, “Do we vote?”

  “What are choices?” Svet said.

  “Unless I missed something, it’s a thumbs up or down on disabling the beacon,” Hawk said.

  “How would you do this?” Svet asked.

  Hawk chuckled. “With a rock.”

  “You think that will work?” Enyo said.

  “Only one way to find out, but yeah, I think it will work.”

  “I think destroying anything at this point is premature,” Enyo said.

  “So that’s one thumbs down,” Hawk said.

  “What’s the rush? Other than an event that may or may not be coming in our lifetime? Why not study the thing a little? See if we can make sense of the symbols. Maybe go back to the temple and see if we missed—”

  “I’m not going back there,” Svet said.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

  “I know,” Svet said.

  “Svet, where do you stand?” Enyo said.

  “I not sure,” Svet said. She stalked around camp, running her fingers through her greasy blonde hair. Her face was smeared with dirt, her eyes hollow, her once muscular arms skin and bones.

  “You have to vote,” Hawk said.

  “You decide,” Svet said.

  “No. We must decide this together. That’s the only way I’ll be comfortable with our decision.”

  Svet stopped pacing, raised her head, and a smile spread across her emaciated face. “I vote to disable,” she said.

  Hawk laughed. “Well played. Well played.”

  They had a tie. He was the deciding vote and the decision ended up being his after all. He thought he knew what needed to be done, but he wasn’t a hundred percent sure and he didn’t like the feeling. Usually his decisions were clear in his mind before they needed to be made, but this, perhaps the most important decision of his life, floated in his mind like a noxious cloud of confused ideas and thoughts that wouldn’t stop twisting his judgment.

  Night came on and the light from the giant crystal polyhedron filled the clearing and forest like a giant strobe light. The party ate under its glare in silence. Enyo and Svet hadn’t asked what Hawk planned to do, which Hawk was thankful for. He knew what to do, he just needed to bring himself to the final decision.

  After they’d eaten, Hawk said, “It’s time.” He walked around camp, looking for a rock, and when he didn’t find one he strayed into the forest. White light cast long intermittent shadows, and the night symphony seemed strangely out of tune. He found a black rock the size of a football and he picked it up, turning it over in his hands. Having determined the rock should be sufficient, he headed for the crystal. Enyo and Svet fell in behind him.

  Hawk stood before the panel for a long time, staring at the blinking red light, listening to the beeping sound and the hum of the power within. Enyo and Svet said nothing, but simply waited for Hawk to do what he had come to do.

  Hawk slammed the rock into the panel, throwing it as hard as he could. The rock bounced off the steel and fell to the ground. The light was still red, the beeping sound continued, and the energy hum remained. He picked up the rock and pounded the panel, over and over, letting out all his frustration and hatred that had built up over the past nine months. He heaved the rock with such fury and abandon, Svet and Enyo took a step back.

  After what seemed like an hour, but was only a few minutes, the control panel sparked. Hawk dropped the stone and stepped back.

  The red light went solid, then went out and the beeping sound shifted to a steady, unbroken beep that went up in volume before sputtering out with a burst of static. The opal stone at the center of the beacon dulled, the pulsing stopped, and it winked out. The great crystal blinked, sizzled, and went out. The area fell into a deep darkness.

  What he’d done might make things worse, but Hawk didn’t care. He felt as though a great burden had been lifted from him. Perhaps what he was feeling was false hope, but it was hope.

  The party decided not to live at the edge of the beacon clearing because there were no good trees to build the treehouse Hawk dreamed of. They picked a large conifer about half a mile from the beacon.
If any green men came calling they were close enough, and it might not be a bad idea to be hidden when they arrived.

  Construction on the treehouse was underway. It would have three bedrooms, a common kitchen area, and a recreational space that would eventually have bamboo chairs and tables. The rec room didn’t have walls, and had a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view of the jungle. At its center Hawk and Enyo had constructed a bar from dried wood and bamboo, along with five stools, the fourth and fifth being symbolic empty seats for Max and Michel.

  Centered on the bar was the empty vodka bottle, which Svet had turned into a flower vase. The bottle was scratched and worn from its travels, but it brought back memories of home, for better or worse. Several chess pieces were also lined up on the bar. They’d lost the board, but a new one would be made and soon they’d be able to pass the time playing chess.

  Another reason they’d moved away from the beacon was the cessation of the light had brought inquisitive animals to investigate, and the dinosaur traffic around the polyhedron crystal had grown ten-fold.

  As with any life, whether it be in the past or the future, it simply rolled on. Time didn’t care about your losses, your struggles. She was a fickle bitch that Hawk had come to respect. He would never forget his wife and kids, but he had come to terms with the idea of never seeing them again. They were in his mind, pictures of the past indelibly etched into his brain, and part of his mental picture album, and he would refer to them as needed, hoping his family had found peace, no matter what fate had tossed their way.

  Nightly drinks at Hawk’s bar had quickly become a ritual. Svet took a walk alone each night, as did Hawk, but they always found their way back home in time for a cocktail. They talked of old times, the memories of their former lives that had become their current lives. They’d stare up at the stars and try to find the International Space Station gliding around Earth, waiting for a time when people would again call it home.

  The sun fell below the horizon and darkness settled over the land. A blackness so thick Hawk barely saw his hand in front of his face. On this night the two astronauts and one cosmonaut sidled up to the bar and took their seats. A gentle breeze stole across the jungle, bringing the scent of flowers and earth. Hawk sighed. His new world wasn’t that bad once you got to know her, as long as you respected her children.

  “We’re going to have to figure out how to make some real alcohol,” Hawk said.

  “Da,” Svet said. “You think we can?”

  “I do.”

  Svet smiled, picked up her ukulele and strummed a mournful tune.

  Hawk mixed them some imaginary drinks, and settled in to wait.

  The End

  Read on for a free sample of Written In Stone: A Dinosaur Thriller

  Chapter 1

  The End

  He stopped. To move another inch, to even blink an eye, could mean a sudden, horrible death. He breathed slowly, in and out through his open mouth. The nasal passages were small and the air would make noise if he breathed through the nose. He controlled the exhale so he did not breathe out all the air and then have to gasp. But this air was different; it was hard to breathe, seemed heavier. Though it was humid, it made his throat feel dry and his breathing raspy. Still, he had to be quiet.

  He listened carefully, straining for even the smallest noise, but all he could hear above the constant noise of the insects was his own heart beating, pounding loud enough he thought that they might hear. He could feel the needles of fear starting to rise up his spine and he fought to keep it down, down where it would not affect his reasoning. Emotions got in the way of logic and right now he had to stay focused. He forced himself to stay in control so he would not betray himself with a sudden, panicked movement. Panic meant death. He took another slow breath. He had to remain in control.

  As he slowly pushed the fear out of his mind, he could again hear the swiftly running stream flowing over rocks and fallen trees just a few short yards away. The noise of the stream helped to cover any noise he made, but it masked their movements too. It was shallow and fast, no more than twenty or twenty-five feet across. He had found it right where they said it would be on his first fearful day out of the cave. That was less than two weeks ago, but it seemed much longer. It was six lives ago anyway. Six short lives. He knew the stream would not grow to be much larger and that the swampy, vegetation-choked ground where he was standing would be of great interest to others, including himself. That was why he kept coming back, because he already knew.

  He was hidden under a small fern tree, no more than four feet tall with thick, droopy, wide leaves that hung all the way to the ground. These trees were good for concealment, though every once in a while as he parted the leafy curtain to hide, he startled another animal that was already there. So far they had always run away but he hated being that close to them even for a second. These thick leaves would hide him from view for a while, but the hunters were thorough, always moving, always watching. Even if you didn’t move, sooner or later they would find you. He had watched them hunt; he had even been their prey. He had heard the screams of their victims and knew he was the lucky one, the only one who got away. He also knew it was only a matter of time before he was taken. He only hoped that when he felt the terrible clutch of their powerful claws, and the rending of their teeth, it would be quick.

  Waiting only increased the chance that he would be discovered but he knew he could not move, not yet. He knelt down slowly, his knees sinking noiselessly into the wet, muddy ground and continued to wait. Though over six feet tall, he could get very small when he had too, even with the backpack on. His once new khaki clothing was now dirty and torn and actually appeared to be disintegrating right off his body. It had been their “safari” uniform. They had complemented each other on how they looked but hadn’t really thought about if it was practical or not. He wished now for a long sleeve shirt and long pants. Then maybe he wouldn’t have the rash on the back of his left leg and on both arms. It was getting worse and he knew it would probably slowly kill him. But slow or fast, he was dead anyway.

  All exposed metal on the backpack was covered with tape. They no longer made any noise as loose strap ends bounced into each other. It was simple, if you made noise, something would hear you or you would miss an important sound. A reflection of light from a metal clasp would show your location as surely as if you just stood up and shouted, “Here I am.”

  You also had to stop, look, and listen every few moments or you would miss something. And you did not want to miss anything. It reminded him of the prairie dogs from his grandfather’s farm when he was a kid. They constantly checked for predators, hunters, and now he understood why. You had to be able to sort out the noises and movements, some made by insects and smaller animals moving furtively through the thick vegetation. Their quick movements would startle him and he was always afraid the noise would bring something bigger to investigate the movement. Other noises were made by the hunted, some small, about waist high, but others were large, huge in fact. Like watching a building walk through a forest. All were wary though, constantly watching for the hunters. When the jungle grew still, when it seemed the world was holding its breath, you knew they were stalking and you prayed it was not you they were after.

  The hunters were always there, always watching, always listening, always hungry. Fortunately, most of them were small, afraid of him because of his size. But the bigger ones, they feared nothing, they owned this swampy morass, it was their world after all, not his. If only it was raining like it had been for the last three days and nights, then he could move about more easily. Not that they minded the rain and the deep mud it produced, but a hard, driving rain and the crash of thunder covered the sounds of movement. You needed every edge. Of course, it masked their sounds too.

  Fog was a friend also. But he was even more afraid when it was foggy and he couldn’t see two feet in front of himself. It was because you could still hear the sounds but weren’t sure where they were coming from. Leaves rustling,
twigs snapping, or sudden running footsteps would send waves of fear through him. Once, as he froze in his tracks because of a sound, a shape had rushed past him, missing him by only a few feet. Fog was a friend, but he hated it also.

  From under the darkness of the fern leaves, he became aware that it was a bright, moonlit night. Too bright he realized suddenly. It had been raining when he set out but it had stopped about an hour ago. He should have gone back and waited for the rain to start again but he couldn’t make himself do it. He had to stay, had to continue.

  He slowly took off the night vision goggles and looked up between the fern leaves at the night sky. He remembered the first time he had looked up at that sky, it was just after they arrived, how bright the moon had been then too, closer than he could have imagined. So huge, he felt he could have reached up and touched it. So many stars filled the night sky with no bright city lights to hide them. The moon and the stars were still there, but now instead of beauty all he saw was that there were no clouds in the sky, no hope for a hiding storm. Now the moonlit night was threatening to expose him. He wished he had never seen this sky.

  He should have stayed in the cave he thought, and waited for the rain to come again. It always rained, why had he taken the chance? The days after their arrival and the sudden terrible deaths were a waking nightmare, leaving no hope of any kind. For three days, he laid in the cave, venturing out only as far as the site and then running back to the cave. He was doomed to die alone. His ammunition was down to just a handful of shells, the wait for death bitter, leaving him depressed and angry.

  Then, in the depth of his deepest despair, when he had all but given up, he had suddenly realized he might be able to change things, to stop the horror before it began. Quickly, he had developed a plan and after he had decided what to do, it had brought back his drive and determination. Every day, no, every minute since death could come all too suddenly, he was driven to carry out his plan as quickly as possible. His future, no - all of their futures, depended on it. Everything depended on his being able to make it to this stream as often as possible. He came every night, terrified of what might happen. Risking his life with every minute he was away from the cave. But then he would remember he was dead anyway. It was just a matter of time. So every night he returned to this small, seemingly inconsequential stream. Maybe it would change what happened. Maybe it would stop the screaming in his nightmares. It had to.