by David Boyle
Catching his paddle before it rattled overboard, Tony stabbed into the mud. “You know better than to get out like that!” Charlie scrambled away, up the bank and past McClure without so much as a glance over his shoulder.
“Get back here and give me a hand with this boat!”
“Let him go, McClure,” Hayden sighed wearily. “And if you give us a second, we can take care of the boat.”
“That’s not how it’s done. And I don’t want to hear you making excuses for him. Not after what happened to Bennett.”
Tony slid his paddle under the thwart. “It’s not an excuse,” he said, stepping out and holding the canoe for Hayden. “You needed to be there. I mean seriously, the guy was scared out of his mind.”
“He’s not exaggerating,” said Hayden. “You’ve heard of people looking like statues? That was Charlie. His eyes were glazed over, and with the grip he had on those roots you would have thought—”
“Shut up and get that boat up here!”
Tony followed Ron’s gaze to the dinosaur trotting across the meadow. “That’s a pretty one….”
“Pretty hell! That’s the dinosaur that wanted to kill us!” said Hayden, dragging the bow across the mud. “Grab on!” They wrenched the canoe out of the water, Ron waiting as they shoved the Discovery up the incline, Tony reaching the moment Ron dragged it out of sight.
“Get up there already!” Hayden said, glancing anxiously as the predator scanned the rapids.
“I’m trying, okay?! I just need—”
“Grab on…!” Ron shouted, extending a hand and nearly dragging Tony to the top. Hayden was up only seconds later, Tony nearing the tents when he slumped beside Ron at the foot of an oak bordering the clearing.
“I’m getting too old for this shit,” Hayden panted.
With one paw down and the other held cocked, the predator gave the impression of a tiger on point. The big head turned, her gaze sweeping the island, long seconds passing before she padded across the meadow and into the forest.
“In case you haven’t already gathered, Charlie’s going to be a problem.”
Ron had the binoculars on her. “So what the hell happened that it took you more than an hour to get back here?”
“Is that all it was? An hour…? Felt way longer than that.” Hayden walked Ron through the pertinent details: Charlie’s state, how close the predator had gotten, the ruse about Mike. “You happen to see him while you were out?”
“No, and after how he reacted I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s gone for good.” Ron let down the binoculars. “Which wouldn’t hurt my feelings any….
“And as far as Charlie goes, he’s shit out of luck if he needs a shrink. And he better not ever freeze up on me like that, ‘cause I’ll fucking leave him.”
Hayden peered through the leaves to the forest. “Then you need to watch. She gets as close to me as she did to him? Hell, I’d probably freak out too. And he’s shit out of luck? Try we’re shit out of luck.”
For so striking an animal, the bitch had an uncanny way of disappearing. Ron spotted her eventually, but only after she moved, a failing that thoroughly annoyed him. Stopped behind a clump of palms, the dinosaur was nosing the ground. The head came up as if to study the island, then her back trail.
“You tricked me!”
Hayden and Ron jumped like triggered mouse traps. “Get down, you idiot!” Charlie didn’t budge.
“I looked, and Mike isn’t here! You guys lied to me, didn’t you?”
Hayden got to his feet. “You can’t do this, Bull,” he said with a swallow, and kept moving. “Let’s go by the fire and we can talk.”
“But you said you saw Mike, and I can’t find him anywhere.”
There was still that faraway look in his eyes, and Hayden realized the guy wasn’t hearing a word. Ron was glaring, waving at him to keep going. “Mike was over this way last time I saw him.” Hayden sighed. “How about we see if we can find him?”
“It’s not his fault. I mean, Jesus, the guy was traumatized.”
“I got it, okay?” Ron bit down. “First Mark. Now him…. I need a beer. You want one?”
“No thanks. I’m depressed enough as it is.”
Ron started off, glancing at the tents, then across the river. To the tarps and back took barely a minute. “Where is he anyway?”
Tony frowned, and Ron jacked a thumb at Mark’s tent. “You should know better than me. Before all this happened Wheajo was talking about doing some scouting. Said he’d spotted some plants while you guys were out that we might be able to use.”
Ron plopped himself on a pile of wood stacked beside the fire, the embers yet showing signs of life. He cracked the can open and took a slug. “Him scouting? Fuck, he’d be lucky to find his way from one side of the island to the other.” Another gulp. “I’ll tell you this much. That son-of-a-bitch ever passes on a shot at her again, I’m going to wring his fucking neck.”
21
It was more than a little ironic that the reason he was here in the first place had become such a lifesaver. He’d had two opportunities to get out of the river, and in both instances had decided to keep going when the forest just hadn’t felt right. The river was fast enough that the only time he paddled now was when he needed to slow down to get a better look at the forest, and until he found a place where the thought of spending the night didn’t send chills along his spine he’d just have to pay whatever toll showed up on the meter when eventually he stopped. And in the meantime he was going to make the most of the broranges. Wonderful for a snack, Hayden’s fuzzy fruits were downright unbelievable when near starving.
The river seemed finally to have settled on a direction, the curves more often than not canceling themselves out and increasing in separation. The hill to the west had gotten progressively lower, the vibrancy of colors and lack of big trees as seen on river left endowing the forest with a look of immaturity. Reeds and horsetails were still commonplace, if not altogether common. And in the last few minutes there had been a noticeable increase in the number of birds and pterosaurs heading east, the latter of which Mark found endlessly fascinating.
A leafy patch rustled in the forest just ahead…
Mark feathered his paddle.
…and a second later a pair of mottled green heads popped from amid a spray of ferns. Ten-footers maybe, which put them squarely in the ‘little shits’ category when compared to animals like the bitch. He was still in calibration mode, and still coming to grips with how little time it had taken to upset his notions of what a ‘big’ animal was. That’s why they call it the malleable mind!
Seeing animals at all was an encouraging sign. With the bitch around, he hadn’t seen a thing, though he really hadn’t been looking. Even so, it seemed unlikely that predators and prey would occupy the same patch of forest without everyone being a little jumpy. The dinosaurs nearby blended with the foliage, but by keeping track of heads he guessed there were upwards of a dozen animals in the group. The strange part was how few had bothered to pay him even a passing glance, a dicey proposition given how small they were. Maybe they were just stupid. And maybe his hunch about predators was right.
Nice thought, but how to be sure?
Ron’s ‘experiment’ came to mind. How’d that go? ‘In the name of observation?’ Mark finished his brorange and tossed the husk overboard, then rinsed his knife and returned it to its sheath.
He got to his feet. “So what is it?” he said in a loud voice. “You guys know something I don’t?” The dinosaurs bolted, and Mark was about to congratulate himself when thrashing across the river spun him around. The thing charging through the trees was a one-horned wrecking machine, and Mark was quickly back on his seat and stroking as it barged to the bank, its nearby companions content to let their leader show off while the animal pawed the ground, its hooked beak popping, debris showering the nearby trees.
Convinced that the river this far from home was no place for experimentation, Mark was halfway around the next curve
before he checked to see if he was being followed. Which he wasn’t, of course. Why would he? “They’re not her, okay? So relax already.”
On guard and more eager than ever to end his journey, Mark was back to studying the trees when the eerie screech of pterosaurs sounded overhead. He looked and spotted two separate formations winging their way east. Coincidence? “Huh… I wonder what that’s about.”
A hundred yards farther and he spotted the upraised necks of two purple-brown dinosaurs poking above the leafy cover. The animals were bigger than the ones upstream, and Mark angled the canoe across the river to get a better look. The dinosaurs stood watching, Mark able to glimpse the blue along the backs of their necks when they turned and retreated deeper into the forest, tails bobbing. Blue and purple dinosaurs? Now that’s pretty cool.
Drifting on the current only minutes later, he spied another head, this one black with scarlet spots that blended to all red half way down the animal's neck. Funny shape, but beautiful. And a distinctly different type of dinosaur altogether!
Wishing he’d packed a notepad, Mark was back to studying trees when a dinosaur with a yellow head teetered upright, then quickly five more, leaves twirling at the sides of their faces. The animals had squashed looking faces, two with a streak of turquoise trailing back from the eyes and down their necks, possibly to the ends of their tails. So slim they looked almost dainty, the animals with the seductively sinuous necks were easily longer than the canoe, two possibly approaching twenty feet long. Heads went up, then down again; the process repeated as individuals snatched glimpses of him and the boat.
Mark backstroked to a stop not far from shore, and still no reaction. “What is it with you guys? Can’t you see I could be a threat?” He nudged the canoe around and took a swipe at the river, the spray pelting the shoreline. A few heads turned, though not for long, the rest more interested in browsing. The behavior struck him as perplexing until he realized that he’d encountered animals that hadn’t seen people before. He remembered reading about the dodos and how Dutch sailors had simply clubbed them to extinction, and could see now there was truth to the notion that animals needed to be taught to fear man.
“Be glad you’re here, fellas. You lived where I come from…? You’d already be dead.”
Still pondering the inscrutable dinosaurs, Mark spotted logs floating along the bank not a hundred yards farther down. He looked again, and realized they extended into the river. He stroked ahead, squinting. Could be they were grounded on a sandbar. But at that angle?
He upped his stroke rate.
The logs were definitely grounded, and not on sand, but on rocks. Nearly swamped by the high water, the cobbles spilling from the bank were the outwash of a creek! Active or not he couldn’t tell, but unless there was something very wrong with the forest, he realized he’d just found his place for the night! He drifted ahead, and beyond the bank could see all kinds of trees to climb. Big ones, little ones. “Ha! Got my pick!”
He rode the current past the logs and into the lee of the outwash, his focus on the forest as he swung the canoe around and nosed it onto the rocks, right off spotting one, two… at least three trees with branches both low and large enough to climb. He stepped out, paddle in hand. “This is frickin’ perfect!” The yellow-heads would need some keeping an eye on, and once inside he’d know if there were others. The dinosaurs lately hadn’t paid him much attention, though he was certain they wouldn’t be near as apathetic when it came to predators. “Yep, this I can handle.”
He dragged the canoe onto the rocks, then got Charlie’s compound and knocked an arrow. It was good to be off the water, but also unnerving. Dopey or not, the yellow-heads were substantial animals and he was hoping they’d hold off getting any closer until he’d finished exploring and gotten himself settled. Yesterday had taught him enough about the insides of a dinosaur that he was confident a well-placed arrow could kill one. And in another situation he’d meander on over and skewer one, for the thrill certainly, and also for the pleasure of wagging a piece in Ron’s face to show what an arrow could do. A fun thought, if totally unrealistic; he was here in part because yesterday’s kill had drawn a crowd, and to kill an animal the size of the yellow-heads would surely do the same.
And if poking one with an arrow is so damn unrealistic, what’s with the compound in your hand?
It wasn’t going to happen. Couldn’t actually. Put an arrow through the heart of a dinosaur bigger than Mike, and chances were it would run him down and kill him long before it collapsed. And the bow in his hand wasn’t even his! With everything he disliked about Charlie’s bow, he’d be more likely to wound whatever was attacking him than kill it. The grip was wrong; the thing was too heavy, and the magnesium riser was way too cold and impersonal.
He checked the sights—Least they didn’t get dinged—then yanked the string over the hump to full draw. Charlie’s two-wheeler pulled a good ten pounds more than he was used to, and that by itself would take some getting used to. The bigger issue was the anchor point. His bow put the string at the corner of his mouth; Charlie’s at just shy of his ear. He held tight so the string wouldn’t jerk from his fingers, and let down, trying to remember the last time he’d shot instinctive. He took a breath, then drew back and sighted along the arrow, the big broadhead poking past his fist. He was good for ten yards, possibly twenty. More if it was a big target. He let down, the thought bringing to mind a scene from Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. “Yeah, forget the anchor point,” he said, glancing about the forest. “If it’s that big a target you’ve got way more to worry about than accuracy.”
The sun was a fuzzy spot in the sky, dark clouds rolling in. Maybe, just maybe it wouldn’t start raining until after he got settled.
Mark gazed along the creekbed. And where exactly would that be?
Though the forest appeared uniformly dense, the thickest parts grew in a band near shore where the sunlight penetrated from the side as well as above. Get past it and the forest was thinner, the trees a patchwork of types and sizes, the leafy overhead canopy essentially unbroken. Finding a place to roost was not going to be a problem.
Mark smiled. And the whole place was his—a slew of yellows-heads bobbed a good nine, or a crappy eight-iron shot away. “Okay, maybe not. So how about we share?”
In the span of two days he’d learned more about dinosaurs than he had in the previous two decades, the sobering part being that he knew even less than he thought. And while there was no chance whatever of something floating or swimming by that would mess with the canoe, the thought of multi-ton locals plodding by to slake their thirst gave Mark the willies. A waste of time probably, he wasn’t going anywhere until his ticket home was hidden.
He found a place for the compound, then the broranges, then hiked the canoe onto his shoulders and carried it up the cobbles and into the densest patch of ferns he could find. The life jacket stayed, the painters did not, the ropes coiled into his fanny pack. A patch of nearby ferns fell to his knife, the canoe at length hidden beneath armloads of big fronds. So impressed was he by the time he’d finished that he retrieved the broranges and hid all but four under the boat. The yellow-heads were a ways off, one or another of them, on occasion, staring in his direction. He cinched his belt, and with two broranges in his shirt and the others in his fanny pack started into the forest.
The easy route was along the old streambed, and he was delighted to find water trickling down the rocks not eighty yards into the woods. He worked a few of the rocks loose, and in under a minute had a tiny pool from which to take a long, refreshing drink. Laced with minerals, the water was as delicious as it was cool and thirst-quenching. He splashed his face, rinsing the grime from his hair and beard. He gazed about the forest and was giving thought to rinsing his shirt when calls akin to chirps carried from along the river.
The yellow-heads were closer.
He glanced from the dinosaurs to the little pool he’d created. Under the canoe the broranges could be discovered. Underwater, mo
st likely not.
The river sped past the gap, and seeing it from the inside had Mark thinking about his friends. He stood where the creek exited the forest, staring upriver. “Na… they wouldn’t.” But then, what would he do?
The creek was easily the best take-out anywhere along the river, but without the canoe there was nothing to tell anyone searching that he’d actually used it. “Better to not risk it.” Something to catch the eye… But what? His shirt maybe? A smile creased his cheek. No. That I’ll leave to the Tarzan types. Markers, markers. He snapped his fingers—“Oww! Don’t do that again!”—then slipped his fanny pack around and pulled out a squashed roll of blaze orange surveyor’s tape he’d used occasionally to highlight the path to his deer stand. The obvious choice was the tree beside the streambed where it met the river, and around it he tied a length of tape, with the loose ends left dangling. Mark stepped back and slipped the knife in its sheath. Blaze orange wasn’t an exaggeration. “On a windy day and in a rainstorm, even Tony would know this is where I stopped.”
Mark hurried along the old creek bed, the broranges from under the canoe flopping in his shirt. He enlarged the puddle, and with the help of a stick pried loose what rocks he could to deepen the hole to where he was able to hide the fruits that had nearly cost him his life. Pleased that only the nosiest of dinosaurs could find them, he flagged his cache with a length of ribbon. He rinsed the film from Charlie’s compound while he was at it, the arrow rest and eccentrics especially, the yellow-heads croaking strangely and gawking at him from the forest.
There were easy-to-climb trees nearby, and more farther up. And the creek. Where did it go?
Unable to resist, Mark continued up and along the creek bed with a combination of apprehension and excitement, Charlie’s compound in one hand and a brorange in the other.
