by David Boyle
The sun had dropped below the hillside, and what little wind they’d had earlier was dying, the hiss of the receding rapid yet lingering in the air. Tony could feel the afterglow on his shoulders and arms, and was ready to be out of the sun. He knew too that he’d feel even better once they were again on solid ground.
If only the island would cooperate.
The river jogged—first left, then right around a bump in the island. And maybe it was reflection off the trees, but the rapids seemed definitely louder. The river straightened again past the curve, and kept going for what seemed nearly a quarter of a mile before making a sharp left, the near third in shadow, the rest in full sun. Tony cocked an ear. “No way that’s a reflection.”
Ron heard them too. Rapids. “That one sounds bigger. Class II… and maybe higher.”
“You’re the one with the ear,” Tony said, scanning the bank with renewed urgency. “However we’re going to do this, we need a way up that bank.”
“We got time,” Ron said. “We’ll find something. And I could be wrong, but I’m guessing the island ends where the sun hits the water.” Tony craned up, nodded. “So we’ve got between here and there… or we turn around and—”
“Go back? I don’t think so. And I didn’t mean to cut you off, but all of what’s behind us is higher than this. The trees are denser too. And I’d hate to find out later that we stopped too soon.”
“Yeah, we’ve done that before. We’ll drift for a bit. Eyeball the shoreline.” Ron looked back. “Give them a chance to catch up.” Presently, Ron started to laugh.
“If there’s something funny, I’d really like to hear it.”
“Just thinking about Bennett. Him and that fucking alien.” A sunlit haze was on the river ahead, mist billowing up from the rapid. “Mark’s going to have a heart attack when he sees this.”
The comment struck Tony as cruel. “And that’s supposed to be funny?”
“Careful you don’t lose your sense of humor,” Ron said, his smile taking a morbid edge. “Until we find a way out of here, and by that I mean home, we’re all going to need it.”
7
They were joined up again, a tiny three canoe flotilla on a river to nowhere. The willow thickets were finally behind them, the forest slipping past a mix of hardwoods that now and again offered glimpses into the interior, the bank for its part continuing into the distance with not a hint of a break.
“How the hell much farther we goin’?” Charlie asked, glancing downstream toward the source of the rumble. “The sun sure ain’t gettin’ any higher.”
“Cool your jets,” Ron said. “We’re getting there.”
“Ya coulda fooled me.”
The bank was a good six feet high, roots curling from beneath the huge oaks crowded along the precipice. “Tony, head for the eddy behind that log.”
“You talking about the stump?”
“Log… stump, what’s the difference? Just watch we don’t hang up on any of that crap in the eddy.”
They angled to shore and, after pivoting the boat around, pushed through the debris and grounded the Tripper. Ron poled the stern over, then hopped out and grabbed the rifle. Driftwood littered the shoreline, the few tracks discernible mere fractions the size of the ones they’d found upriver. Ron stretched and peered into the forest—birds flitted chirping from most every direction—and was still searching when the other canoes arrived. “Stay put while I check the place out.”
Ferns and weird shrubs clustered along the bank, vines as big around as a man’s thigh curling into the trees. Tony swallowed. “Good idea.”
“And I’ve had it with surprises. So keep your voices down. You need to take a leak? Be quiet about it.” Ron wasn’t asking. Heads nodded. “Good.”
Rifle slung, and using roots for hand holds, Ron hoisted himself high enough to get a look at the forest. He paused, scanning, then elbowed his way over the lip, and once on his knees peeled the sling off his shoulder. “I’ll circle around and see what I can find.”
Charlie was pacing. “How long?”
Hayden shoved another branch away from shore. “Like five minutes since last time,” he said, watching to make sure the thing cleared the eddy.
Charlie gave Tony a try. “How about it…?”
Tony glanced at his watch. “A little over four minutes.” He reached a shaky hand to his lips and took a long drag on his cigarette. “I don’t know about you guys, but I could use a drink.”
“We get set up, and I’ll join you.” Mark frowned at a cluster of ferns above the bank, a splash of blue showing through the greenery. It was more curve than a line, the color somehow different above and below. The shape shifted, and he jerked back when he realized he was staring at a dinosaur. “Bull! Behind you… Ten o’clock!”
Pretty as pheasant and hissing when Charlie reached for the handgun, the dinosaur pranced forward and leaped from the bank. Tony gasped as the animal sailed past, legs clawing the air, tail twirling, barely a second passing when it belly-flopped into the river.
The dinosaur snaked smoothly away, the yellow head and neck cutting across the water like a mini periscope.
“You catch the eyes?” Hayden chortled. “That little guy was scared shitless!”
The head never once looked back, the dinosaur nearing the center of the river when Mark noticed the V on the surface. “Uh-oh… he’s in trouble now.”
The wake sped toward its target, swirls and splashes bursting when the thing intercepted the dinosaur. Legs and arms clawed the surface, the dinosaur still squealing when the finny whatever dragged it under. Bubbles swirled in circles as a tangle of whirlpools drifted downstream.
“Holy…! It’s not just the dinosaurs we gotta worry about, it’s the fish too!”
“Come on, Charlie. Get a grip, okay?”
“I’m gonna put my fist through the next face that says that. You saw what happened. We’re gonna get our asses chewed if we don’t find a way the hell outta here!”
“We’ll figure it out. Only it’s not gonna happen today. Or tomorrow. Or the next most likely. And in the meantime we need to keep our heads.” Mark plucked his hat off and swiped at his forehead. “I’m tired. I’m hungry. And all this bullshit is giving me a headache.” He looked at Hayden. “How about you take a look and see if you can spot numb-nuts?”
Ron strolled to the edge of the bank. “You yapping about me again, or you find someone else to bitch about?”
“Nope, you’re the one.”
Ron cradled the rifle across his elbow. “Nice to know who your friends are.”
“Glad you’re back,” Hayden said. “Didn’t hear any fireworks, so I take it the place is clean.”
“Clean enough. Did kick something up a while ago. Didn’t see much. Just a glimpse when the thing took off.” Ron chuckled. “I don’t know who jumped higher. Him or me!”
“Three, four feet long? Yellow head with a blue stripe down the back?”
“That’s the one.” Ron paused, frowning. “Guess he was headed in this direction. Which way’d he go?”
Mark hiked a thumb at the river. “He decided to take a swim. Bad decision, too.”
“Why’s that?”
“I’ll tell ya why! Cause a fish got ‘im! Thing barely made it half way across the damn river!”
“Son of a bitch. I always miss the good parts.”
“You hear what I said? We turn a boat over in here and the same’ll happen to us.”
Ron shrugged. “So don’t. Think of it as incentive.”
Charlie glared at the river. “Yeah, right.”
“So what’s it like up there?” Mark asked. “We good with camp?”
“Yeah, I think so. Lots of trees and crap to clear, but this section behind the oaks should work alright.”
Long shadows reached across the river. “Then how about we get the boats up? We sure as hell ain’t gonna leave ‘em here.”
“Yep, that I can agree with. Question is, do we need to unpack them?”
/> “They’re all pretty damn heavy,” Hayden said. “But if you don’t mind getting muddy, I guess we could give it a shot.”
“Yours maybe. But the Grumman? No way am I riskin’ bendin’ the fucker.”
“None of us would,” Ron assured him. “We’ll do mine first. Tony, come on up. You guys watch that we don’t lose anything.”
The shoreline was only slightly wider than the width of the Tripper, feet carving slots in the mud as they pushed and shoved the canoe up the bank, Ron and Tony latching on as soon as the bow was within reach. Something heavy banged down under the tarp. “What was that?” Hayden grunted.
“Doesn’t matter,” Mark said through his teeth, straining. “We should have listened to you, Bull. Be a frickin’ miracle if—”
“Push more, talk less,” said Ron, pulling for all he was worth despite the thwart carving into his fingers. Tony was opposite, Charlie just below him, veins bulging along their foreheads. The canoe inched higher—“More on your end Prentler… that’s good”—and started over, Ron and Tony at last wrangling the thing onto its belly.
Hayden slumped panting as the Tripper disappeared into the ferns. “That’s one.”
Mark was gasping, catching his breath. Even Wheajo seemed winded. “Uh huh. And the Discovery is even heavier.” He glanced at the incline, near wheezing. “We’re not going to do that again, are we?”
“Better not,” Charlie said, sweat drizzling down the side of his face. “Try it and we’ll bust that patch of yours for sure.”
“Been living with it so long that I forgot about that.” Mark swallowed, still catching his breath. “Yep, these two are going up the old way.”
Tony, if not Ron, readily agreed. “It doesn’t all have to come out. Get the heavy stuff up—the beer, the food… the water jugs—and the rest maybe we can leave in the boats.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Hayden said, gulping air.
“Makes no difference to me either way,” Ron said. “Just remember that once they’re up we’ve still got a shitload of work to do before we can even think about setting up the tents.”
They worked for the better part of an hour getting everything off the river. The last tarps were removed, the whole of the gear they’d brought then either set aside for later or piled in personalized clumps to await eventual storage in one tent or another. A flap soon opened on a still cool case of beer.
“Shouldn’t take all that long,” Hayden said, taking a swig. “You think about how dense the forest is at the other end, I’d say we lucked out.”
“Just give me a chance to get this stuff off. Talk about ripe! Damn, I can barely stand myself.” Ron peeled his long johns off, then fished a dry pair of underwear from his pack.
Mark plunked his boots alongside the Discovery, Wheajo struggling nearby with a sapling. “Wheajo, stop busting your ass with that.”
“I was simply attempting—”
“I see what you’re doing, and you can do it faster with a knife.” Mark pointed. “Check in that dump bag…. Yeah, the green one. There’s a knife in a sheath that’ll take that down without you having to tear up your hands.”
Ron slipped on a shirt with a picture of a rapid and ‘I survived Gilmore’s Mistake’ emblazoned across the back. “So you did bring your butcher knife.”
“You don’t use a fucking butcher knife to go diving,” Mark said, fluffing a pair levis still damp from yesterday. “I think he says that just to aggravate me.”
Tony was picking through his clothes. “That’s because you rise to the occasion every time.”
Charlie finished buttoning his shirt. “That’s better,” he said, attired finally in shoulder-to-toe camouflage.
“I don’t remember seeing those before,” Tony said. “If I ever decide to take up hunting, that’s what I’d buy. What’s that stuff called anyway?”
“Autumn something. It’s not too dark, is it?”
“Trust me, Bull, you’re fine.”
Hayden shook the last drops from the can. “So how much of this do we need to take out?”
“With the kind of critters stompin’ these woods? The more the better, you ask me.”
“You can think big all you want. Just remember that all we’ve got to work with is an axe, a hatchet, and a handful of sheath knives. Get more specific and we can talk.”
Charlie grabbed the axe and started walking. “See all this brushy stuff? We leave it where it is and take out everything between them and these oaks, from back there by the boats to those trees.”
“The bigger ones, you mean.”
“Yeah, those.”
The area Charlie had laid out was nearly forty yards long by just under twenty wide, with hundreds of ferns and scores of small trees to take down. “I like the idea, Charlie, but damn… that’s a whole lot of cutting to do,” Mark said, a growl rumbling in his stomach.
“Be great if we could pull it off,” Hayden said. “But all this? Sounds a little ambitious.”
“Who knows how long we’ll be here. And it would give us room to spread out.” Ron tried imagining the place without the chest high ferns and spindly trees. “I don’t know how far back they go, but the bushes would act almost like a fence. The oaks on this side, and whatever those are on the ends. I guess I’m with you, Bennett. Do this right and we could end up with a really nice campsite.” Ron strode through the ferns to a spot beneath the branches of an immense oak overlooking the river. “We space the tents beneath these branches, like here, here, and here….”
Hayden backed off, picturing the tents in relation to Ron’s chosen oak. “Yeah, and dig a fire pit somewhere about here so the light can shine in. Be nice to be able to see what we’re doing when it comes time to bed down.”
“Even you now, huh?”
“I didn’t say I wasn’t willing, Bull. And it’s still going to be a whole lot of work.”
“Like McClure said, or maybe it was Mark, we ain’t goin’ anywhere. So we get started now and finish up tomorrow. And if it’s the day after, so the fuck what? Me, I care more about seein’ what’s nearby than I do about how much work it takes gettin’ there.”
Mark sighed. “Let’s settle this okay? You guys want to cut the forest down, I’m in so long as I can get something to eat. I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.”
Mark wasn’t alone.
“I can fix that,” Tony said, slogging through the ferns with his camera. “We get a fire going, I’ll get to work on lunch, or dinner, whatever it is. But first I need a picture before the scenery changes.”
“Uh huh. Like anybody’s ever gonna see it.”
“Think positive, okay? We just got here.” Tony snapped the shutter, then shifted some and shot another. “Thanks, fellas. Go ahead and have at it.”
Mark peeled the cover off the hatchet. “Got a preference on where to start?”
“How about where we’re standing? We clear spots for the tents, then the fire pit,” Ron said. “After that, we just work our way out.
“The three of us can work on the ferns if you’ll start on the woody stuff.”
“Not a problem,” Charlie said, studying the trees as if relishing the task, the majority ranging from three to six inches in diameter, the bigger ones numbering under a dozen.
“And now that I’m thinking about it,” said Ron, “leave this big one. Save you work for one thing, and if it gets as hot here as on the river, it’ll be nice to have the shade.”
“Make a good place to hang my bow, too. I like it, McClure. Good idea.”
“And Bull?”
“Yeah?”
“Try not to leave too many stumps. Be a pain to have to feel our way around in the dark.”
Charlie ran the toe of his boot through the soil. “You want ‘em below grade?” He spat in his hands. “You got it.”
Removing the ferns and getting a start on the trees had dramatic effects on both the woodland and their state of mind. A hole was opening in the forest, and with improving visibility came th
e satisfaction of knowing they were finally taking what control they could of an otherwise frightening situation. Cut ferns were sorted and stacked, the softest saved for padding under the tents, the rest dragged or carried to their point of access and disposed of in the river, Charlie all the while clacking away at the trees occupying their ever expanding campsite.
Tony and Wheajo focused on creating clearings adjacent to the landing, one to store the canoes and another for gear and supplies. Boxes and bags, the cookbox, tents and personal belongings were placed in separate piles on a tarp, their whitewater gear staged for later disposition by its owner. Wary of being too forthright, Wheajo suggested that special attention be paid to whatever foodstuffs they’d brought to cover the chance that dinosaurs might yet inhabit the island. Whatever the possibility, Tony realized at once that items not canned or sealed could be at risk. With few exceptions, their meals had been segregated before they left home, and as opposed to undoing the many separate packages, all were loaded in knapsacks and hoisted by way of a throw rope into a nearby tree. Whether to keep the raft or get rid of it was an open question until Wheajo suggested they use it for ground cover and to cushion their supplies.
In but a hours their piece of the island was transformed from an area of lush confinement into an airy, even welcoming expanse. The tents went up in due course, each owner taking care to erect the enclosure properly. A shallow pit was dug for the fire, and what rocks they could find on short notice jammed around the periphery. The only one of the three canoes to possess a flat and unobstructed bottom, the Tripper was soon situated upside down on logs stacked near the fire pit, with shortened splits positioned alongside for seats.
Clothes lines were strung, and quickly filled. The lone tree left standing was trimmed and pruned, with a handful of branches stubbed to create ready hangers for Prentler’s single burner lantern, McClure’s rifle, and Van Dyke’s compound bow and its quiver full of arrows.
