by David Boyle
Hayden checked, but there wasn’t any blood on his hand. “No,” he said in a loud voice. “You scared the fuck out of us yesterday, I hope you know that.” Hayden stared at his partner. “Is good to see you. You okay?”
Mark nodded, his legs dangling in the river. “Been better. But I’m getting there.”
That first one was big, but this one was bigger. Not a whole lot—a thousand pounds maybe. And a predator this time! Ron stepped cautiously through the trees, watching for movement. There weren’t any exit holes, which he didn’t expect. The chest wasn’t moving. Thing looked dead enough. Yeah maybe. But how about making sure?
There was blood everywhere: on the ground, in the trees… still dripping even, at least in spots. The dinosaur’s throes had opened a gap in the trees, Mark’s fire sending up sparks beside an old blowdown with a pile of color off to the side that he’d need to check on later. The forest had better visibility than he expected, and a studied sweep uncovered nothing more in the way of surprises.
The dinosaur’s mix of browns were a good match for the surroundings, the tightly packed scales accorded an almost semi-gloss sheen. The blood on its chest was starting to dry, sticky bubbles capping two of the holes, the third likely hidden by the arm. At an easy twenty-five feet long by four feet through the belly, the block-headed predator was the kind of trophy that back home would make headlines across the country. And here he was without a fucking camera! “Damn…”
Foamy pink drool dangled along the jaw, a big eye staring from beneath a prominent brow when he poked it with the rifle. The eyelid closed… and he jerked back, the muzzle shifting to the ear hole. “You son-of-a-bitch…!” He counted to ten, then cautiously tried again. And this time the eyelid didn’t move.
He sucked in a breath, and exhaled slowly. “That’s better,” he said, and clicked the safety. “All clear, guys,” he shouted, his heart rate dropping toward normal. “You can come on up whenever you’re ready.”
Ron was surprised by how many teeth were loose. He found one that seemed ready to come out, and after wiggling and almost cutting his fingers, knocked it free with his rifle. “Now that’s a souvenir!” He slipped the tooth in his pocket, and was back to poking when Hayden and Mark came strolling through the trees, the latter with a noticeable limp. “I see you found your hat.”
“Yeah. Definitely never expected to see it again.” Still dripping, his hair hanging in strands, Mark stuck a hand out. “Nice shooting. Now I owe you one.” He and Ron clasped hands.
“You didn’t have any doubts, did you?”
“A few.” Mark glanced at the bloodied meat eater sprawled across the ground. “Staring down the barrel of a loaded rifle isn’t something I’ve done before.”
“You know I don’t miss.” Ron gave Mark a once over. “You’re back to looking like shit, Bennett. And what? You hit something in the water?”
“You could say that… only not today. I’ll tell you about it later.”
Ron looked to Hayden, then Mark. “Never thought I’d say this, but it’s good to see your scraggly face again. The way Delgado told the story, I was positive the bitch got you. Me and Hayden have been knocking heads ever since, and for once in my life I am very, I mean very happy to see I was wrong.”
“Did have its moments, that’s for sure.
“Speaking of which, what was the deal with Bull? And how did you guys manage to get by me? Gads… I got a million questions.”
Hayden pinched his shoulder. “We’ve got a few for you too,” he said, nudging Mark toward the fire. “You ready for lunch?”
“I will be, once we check this S.O.B. out.”
They mulled about the predator, examining the muscle-bound head and the fuzzy tuffs on the inside edge of the lower jaw and along the backs of its arms, the smoothly curved talons, and the twin fingers, which Mark very much wanted to bring home.
“The claws are nice and all, Bennett, but you’ll have better luck with the teeth. Some of these are loose.”
“You’re kidding.” Hayden found a stick to poke them with. “I’ll be… Yeah, here’s one… And here’s another one.” He frowned. “Kind of strange isn’t it? I mean, for an animal so healthy?” Except for the minutes old scratches, there weren’t any wounds or obvious signs of distress. “Doesn’t look that old either.” Mark was watching, clearly amused. “Okay, so what am I missing?”
“I don’t know about missing. More the wrong mindset. You’ve got mammal on the brain, which this guy isn’t. You and I go through, at the very most, three sets of teeth in our lives. Dinosaurs go through maybe dozens. They’re a bit like sharks in that respect, with new ones growing in continuously to replace old ones. How else do you think they stay so sharp?”
“He goes to the dentist regularly…? Come on…. Who knows shit like that except for guys like you?”
Ron had the rifle draped across his shoulder. “All I know is, if I was going to be biting through bones all my life, I’d like to switch my teeth out too.”
“There you go,” Mark said, searching the ground. “See there? Who says evolution is hard to understand?” He found a branch stout enough to wedge the thing’s mouth open. Hayden found one too, only his wasn’t for wedging.
“Will this help?”
Mark chuckled. “Hell yeah. That’s the perfect persuader! Just watch you don’t hit me with it.” Mark worked the branch over the tongue and out the other side. “Yep, these’ll make great keepsakes.” And I wouldn’t want Scotty and Eric to think dad forgot about them.
Ron found a spot beside the hastily arranged fire, then snapped a branch across his knee and tossed on the pieces. They wouldn’t be staying long, but what the hell? It was already going, so might as well have a good one.
Sitting cross-legged with his back against a trunk, Ron watched as Hayden bashed away at the thing’s face. He saw too that the colored mound he’d spotted earlier was the dismembered body of a feathered dinosaur the size of Mike. Must be what Hayden meant by lunch. And how the hell did he…? Ron shrugged. Guess we’ve all got stories to tell.
Ron ran his thumb along the tooth, listening while his friends struggled to further spread the dinosaur’s jaws. Hope we’ve got enough beer, because this is going to be a very long night.
*****
Wheajo had formulated a series of plans to recharge the brizva, and while significant unknowns existed, each necessitated use of the dawzon. Weapons use on exploratory missions was seldom unrestricted, and in ordinary circumstances, discharge limitations had little effect on mission execution. But the appearance of two major predators, especially over so short a time span, had altered that particular calculus.
The yaltok’s biologic database defined two primary types of predators: the nomadics, which typically comprised a mere fraction of the populous; and the sedentaries, which hunted and often aggressively defended clearly established domains. Further, hierarchies within types were posited to exist wherein the highest echelon predators required access to large numbers of equally large prey, followed by a succession of smaller, less capable predators reliant for their survival on ever smaller prey, with domain extent dependent upon population density and predator-prey thermoregulatory physiology.
While the number and types resident within the nearby surroundings was unknown and unknowable, the presence of so many animals both seen and heard near the island made encounters with additional predators a virtual certainty. That the river effectively isolated the island had already been demonstrated, the unknown being how quickly and to what extent the depth varied and how long it could be expected to stay at or above the level needed to impede creature travel.
An analysis of the river had provided a partial answer. The river’s width and speed had been measured, and its volumetric flow calculated based on estimates of depth. Next, the flow rate of change was determined based on the river’s observed one day drop, the combined results used to create a probability distribution for animal intrusions as the river level fell. Few of the plans
so far devised necessitated use of all the humans, the leading scenarios instead requiring that some be left behind, vulnerable and essentially defenseless. Unavoidable logistically, intolerable ethically, Wheajo as a consequence had surveyed the island for a means of enhancing their survival.
And in this there were few alternatives.
He’d scanned the forest within running distance of camp and uploaded the data into an algorithm created specifically for his purpose. Next, he entered location-specific requirements, including height, limb structure, and other features pertinent to the function of the structures he had in mind. An onsite examination of the trees identified by the program verified that both met the required criteria.
Wheajo walked a circuitous route back to camp, one that maximized speed of retreat and at the same time retained visual nuances that had the potential to confuse or delay pursuers, the trees occupying the path marked individually to ensure that even the humans would perform the work properly.
“Those limbs are to be removed,” the alien said of the interferences in the towering oaks, “and platforms constructed to support at least three individuals. These will be our cúpaq.”
Tony was already sweating, and he hadn’t even started. “Aren’t you going a little overboard with this?”
“Overboard?”
Tony didn’t bother with an explanation. “It just seems… well… a little extreme. You actually think we’ll need them?”
“You have apparently not taken note of the river. Should its level continue to fall at its present rate, predators of even moderate size will be able to walk to the island within five days.” Taken literally, the statement was true, and also unlikely. Without major storms, the river would drop ever more gradually to a steady state level governed by seepage, with changes thereafter occurring in response to fluctuations in the upstream water tables. A theoretical projection, five days was sufficiently brief that the humans would be properly motivated. “Elevated places of safety—cúpaqs—are required. You will begin by clearing the trail I have marked.” The alien awaited comments or questions.
Tony and Bull considered the pine thicket, the numbers of trees to be felled ranging easily into the dozens between here and camp. The biggest were at most six inches in diameter, but there were so, so many of them! A bitch for sure, especially this far into the woods where the air could be stifling, the effort yet seemed a reasonable precaution given who the neighbors were.
Watching his master from the safety of the forest, Mike drooped hissing into a tail-high posture when Wheajo turned to leave. The alien stood for a moment, and Charlie’s none-too-subtle laughter quickly stopped when Wheajo issued a frightening hiss of his own, Mike fairly squealing as he scampered into the forest.
“Mike…! Get back here, stupid…!”
Wheajo glanced at Tony with an upturned lip, then continued on toward camp, the clack of steel against wood ringing even before he reentered the clearing.
The meat harvested earlier would eventually be exhausted, as would the consumables brought by the humans unless supplemented by local foodstuffs. Wheajo checked the tents, and in Charlie’s found a carrying device that met his needs. The clothes were removed and placed in a pile, the straps on the frame then adjusted to fit his far smaller physique.
The sky was graying with the possibility of rain, the wind buffeting the trees when Wheajo headed north into the forest.
*****
They’d been paddling for over an hour, the boats bungee-corded together to maximize their strengths and at the same time allow anyone to take a leak overboard without losing ground to the current. At a guessed rate of two to three miles an hour, they were eagerly awaiting the rumble that would finally signal they were nearing home. The clouds seemed ready to kiss the treetops, the wind and rain an old constant that made the long paddle back almost tolerable.
Mark had gone over the major events of the last twenty-four hours, the conversation at a momentary lull when Ron caught the whisper. “Took long enough. Listen up… rapids.”
A hundred yards further and the hiss was undeniable, the current streaming around the bend growing stiffer and more unsettled. They hugged the shoreline until the eddies disappeared, then ferried across to the west side of the river. The rapid roared, the river pulsating from one shore to the other, the trees at the end of the island fluttering like flags at the finish line.
Find kinks in the shoreline, log jams, or other obstructions, and avoiding the worst of the current downstream was doable, if seldom easy. No longer. Choppy, raw, and ever less blended, the river above the bend was a mass of swirly bubbles and currents, many traceable all the way to the foot of the rapids. They jockeyed upriver like a three-headed snake, feeling for soft spots, their target a series of black water tongues winding through the rocks below the island.
They worked furiously to drive the canoes against the mounting current, digging, scraping the rocks, the point eventually reached where they could no longer make headway. They caught the closest thing to an eddy. Mark stepped out, then the others, the canoes jostling in the rush while the bungee cords were unhooked. Hayden looped the Discovery’s forward painter around his wrist.
“You think you can make it up, great!” Ron shouted above the roar. “Otherwise, stay put until we get this tub of yours up!”
Mark nodded. “We’ll be waiting!” he hollered, patting Charlie’s battered if still trusty canoe. “Besides, where else can you get a view like this?”
The rock garden extended for a solid eighty yards, Ron and Hayden for a time able to pole and paddle the Discovery higher by jumping the boat from behind one rock to another. A workable, if limited approach, both were soon drenched and stumbling waist deep against the current, long minutes passing before they had the Discovery topside and floating in calm water.
Ron looked wearily along the bank, the canoe thumping beside him. “I can tie off and give you a hand if you want,” he said above the roar.
“Wouldn’t you rather we get this thing higher? It’s a big boat to be paddling solo this close to the drop.”
“No, that’s okay. I can take it. There’s enough shoreline here to where I can get away from the current.”
“Make sure you do, ‘cause I’d really hate to have to do this all over again.”
“Need a hand?” Hayden said, slogging back, minutes later.
“Two would be better,” Mark shouted, wobbling in the fast flowing current while holding firm to the canoe. “My back is killing me… and my legs aren’t doing all that great either.” Hayden splashed over and grabbed the port gunnel. Mark drew circles in the air; Hayden nodding ‘Understood’ and helping him tip the canoe on its side, then lifting and draining it completely.
They guided, they pushed, and sometimes even carried Charlie’s bent and battered canoe up the long and treacherous set of rapids. “Too bad about the trees,” said Mark, on nearing the top.
Hayden considered the channel, deadfalls littering the waterway as far into the forest as he could see. “Yeah. Would have been a fun way to get to the bay.” They carried the Rockfinder around the point, boot prints leading up the bank at the spot where he’d once sat munching a brorange, he and Mark at last taking a seat for the short hop to camp.
Mark looked to the stump below the landing, Ron relaxing there and waiting beside the Discovery. “I’ll say it again, Prentler. Thanks for coming to get me. It’s nice to be home.”
The axe hammered into the trunk, the stocky pine teetering indecisively before a shove from Charlie sent the thing crashing. He wiped his forehead, staring along the trail. “Tony, they’re back!” he yipped, and took off running.
Tony fell in behind, his breath catching when he didn’t see Mark.
“What are you working on?” Ron said, curious about all the downed trees.
Charlie was startled by the blood on their clothes, the two still wet and drippy. “Fuck! What happened to you guys?” he said, his eyes skipping past them and flitting about camp. “And…
and where’s Mark?”
“Easy Bull. Everything’s fine,” Hayden said, motioning with his hands. “Slow down okay? And yes, we found Mark. He’s in his tent, changing.”
“Thank God!” Charlie said, the weight of the world seemingly lifting from his soul. “As late as it is, I was beginnin’ to think you guys weren’t comin’ back either.”
“How far did you end up going?” Tony asked. “With how early you left, I was expecting you back hours ago.”
“And we would have, except for a detour,” Ron said wearily.
Hayden waved at the trees. “What’s the deforestation project?”
“Tell ‘em,” Charlie said, and hustled down the trail. “I’ve got to see Mark.”
“Likewise,” Tony said, eager to follow. “All this is Wheajo’s idea. You want details…? He’s the guy.” Tony trotted off, hollering something to Charlie.
Ron and Hayden stayed to study their progress, walking the newly blazed trail to where it ended. Two big oaks stood with footholds cut at regular intervals partially up the trunks. “It’s a stairway, but I’m not sure to where.”
“It’s a piss poor place to put a tree stand, much less two, so why Wheajo has them screwing around here doesn’t make a whole lot of sense. Whatever it’s about, they’re nowhere near finished,” Ron said, glancing about the not-yet-cleared clearing.
“Does smell nice back here.”
“I guess,” Ron said with a dog tired shrug. “Come on. We get some dry clothes on, I’ll buy you a beer.”
“Mark!” Charlie yelled, chugging toward the tent. “Bennett, you in there?” Clothes were piled in a filthy heap just outside the door.
“Almost there guys.” Mark winced as he stepped out, tugging on a fresh pair of Levi’s. “Hi guys, how—” Charlie swallowed him with a hug. “Easy, Charlie. Oooo… oww,” he yelped. “I’m glad to see you too.”
