Red Sand
Page 21
Not that it mattered. The balloon made a dive for the island like an albatross after a fish. The sudden downward movement sucked the wind out of him, and his stomach hid behind his throat. They would crash in seconds.
At the fringes of the beach, Mason saw figures running toward them. Dozens of dark shapes converged from two directions. The silent swiftness of those deadly shadows tightened Mason’s body. Savages!
If the balloon fell short of the beach, he would drown under the very sackcloth that kept them aloft. If it overshot, they would tumble down a cliff face like rag dolls. Marinated or tenderized, the savages would have their meal.
All reason left Mason. He abandoned any thought of action and held fast to the basket. That black island swept toward them at incredible speed as they bobbed on a string like a wild marionette.
With irrational relief, Mason realized they would make the beach, but it would be a hard landing. The basket swung like a pendulum back and up even as the balloon descended. Mason calculated that the next swing downward would dash them on the sand. There was nothing he could do but watch in horror as the matte grey land flung itself toward them. “Hold on to something!” he screamed.
The earth interrupted their flight with a vengeance. Mason’s head smacked the surface, knocking out eight teeth and filling those cavities with grit. The bonds that tied him to his companions broke. He curled up instinctively, rolling across the beach, limp and dazed. Oblivion sought him, but he fought it. Pulling himself to a crouch, he glanced back at the wreckage.
The acetylene tanks still spit fire into the growing darkness. In their light, he made out the remains of the craft. The balloon deflated over them like a putrid vapor.
Amy lay still in the basket. The aluminum frame skewered her heart. Her wet hair dripped into the sand. Mason worried about those drips hitting the sand.
Paul moaned from somewhere underneath the deflating balloon. The gale took hold of the whole mess, bodies and balloon, and dragged it several meters across the sand. The surf surged over them. Mason coughed for air and crawled back out of the tide toward Amy. She hadn’t moved. He’d lost her. He would have cried, but he didn’t get the chance. The savages were upon them.
Mason expected them to fall on the trio immediately, but they halted at the fringe, perhaps wary of the drifting fabric. In the failing light, they were merely shadows against an azure sky, wild and wooly, constantly shifting with animal adrenaline.
Or perhaps they were afraid of the fire.
Mason crawled back to the craft. He rolled into the basket, between Amy and the tanks. He couldn’t stop himself from reaching out to push the hair out of her face. Her skin slackened in repose. She looked as gentle and at ease as when he first saw her a lifetime ago. In all this madness, she found peace.
Turning his attention back toward that seething, murderous mass of humans, he reached one hand up to the valve, giving it a quick twist. The tank erupted in flame, jetting out across the beach toward his attackers. They stepped back out of reach.
“Stay away!” Mason tried to shout, but the blood and teeth turned the phrase into an unintelligible slur. He turned the valve down, and the creatures sank back into darkness.
Too late! That arc of light had seared an image in Mason’s retina that danced in front of him, phase shifting from red to blue to green. The horror of it shook him.
He had expected men out of a storybook, clothed in animal skins bearing spears and stone axes. In his mind, savages could only be a race of men departed from that civilized line which cultivated men like Mason. To be threatened by humans not one step above the animal kingdom made sense. It was nature’s way.
What he actually saw, he could not reconcile.
Yes, they were shirtless, their clothing ragged and sparse. Long beards stood stiffly from their chins. Wooly hair massed on their heads in complete disarray. They carried pointed implements which augured menace and death.
But those ragged clothes were slacks and jeans and tennis shoes. Those beards hid Western faces. Their tools were broken shards of industry. They were unmistakably his people! Americans!
Taking his shock as a sign of weakness, they advanced. A wrench of the knob sent them kicking backward. This time he shut his eyes to what the light would bring. He left the tanks burning on full.
From beyond the circle of light, he heard them shuffling, shouting and murmuring. Even now he heard one shout out, “Get the rocks!”, and three forms jogged back down the beach the way they’d come. He understood their language. It was English.
“Why!?” he shouted, but no one answered. There was a menacing tension in this silence. A civilized race would have come to his aid. They would have asked, “Are you all right?” They would have reassured him they meant no harm, asked if there was something they could do, expressed sorrow over his mournful predicament. Instead, nothing. Not one word. They waited in the dark the way vultures wait for a calf to die, separated from the herd, sniffing the steak.
Something clicked in Mason’s mind. Even if all the rumors of Tuk’s clan were true, they had never stooped to this level of savagery. All that talk of ascendance almost made sense. Tuk made rational thought the guiding principle of a creature who could just as easily turn the opposite direction. Here was proof!
Mason laughed. He couldn’t help himself. It welled up in him like a hysterical fountain. He laughed out loud, and in his laughing he was too weak to defend himself in any way. They advanced, but he didn’t care. His chest convulsed in stronger laughter until his stomach hurt. He heard running on the beach, discussions and commotion.
The first rock struck him across the face. It stopped his laughter for a moment, as he brushed his cheek with the back of his hand. His hand came away wet, warm. He started to laugh again, but three more rocks pelted him in the chest, bruising his sternum and knocking the wind out of him. They were not small rocks. He closed his eyes. A maniacal smile stretched his lips. He heard the rocks falling all around him, hissing when they hit the sand, cracking when they struck the basket, thudding when they impacted the poor remains of Amy. He didn’t even feel them anymore. Bruised, broken and battered, he knew he only had moments to live. He had time for one, last, sad thought.
Tuk was right.
A rock smashed across his forehead.
Life isn’t worth dying for.
The End
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Thank you for reading Red Sand! Don’t stop now!
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Cheers!
Ronan Cray
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