Window In Time

by David Boyle

  Charlie hit the ground and backed out to where he could get a look at his boat. “You gotta admit, that’s pretty cool. I mean, when’s the last time you saw a canoe in a tree?”

  “The Pike, two years ago,” Ron said, working the knots on the lowermost rescue line. “The one was fiberglass, the other aluminum. Along the curve below Scrounge Canyon.”

  “I was talkin’ intact, but yeah, I remember. That’s the time we met up with those other guys. And what’s-his-face… Jim Oakly? Somethin’ like that. Always out front like he was some kinda hotshot paddler.”

  Ron snugged the rope to the lightning rod, then gave it a tug and watched it twirl its way into the evergreen. “Good ole Jimokes,” he said, settling in for however long Hayden and Wheajo would take to finish up on the canoe. “Got to wonder about a guy like that.”

  “I was just glad we didn’t end up needin’ the fucker.”

  “You mean like for a rescue?”

  “Yeah. What a dickhead.” The canoe clunked overhead. Charlie shaded his eyes. “Talkin’ about Jimokes… how’d we end up with Prentler in charge of tyin’ up the boat?”

  Ron yawned. “Simple, he’s a better climber than us.” The ground was warm, the leaf litter soft and comfy. He rolled onto his side. “Wake me when they get here.”

  “That mean you’re not worried, or you don’t give a shit?”

  “Neither,” said Ron, snuggling an arm. “With Wheajo looking over Hayden’s shoulder, neither one of them will be coming down until every knot is perfect.”

  “Yeah maybe. Only how many times has Wheajo had to—”

  “Ron! Bull! You need to get off the island! We got company.”

  “What kind?” Charlie asked.

  “I can’t tell,” Hayden shouted. “Thing’s still too far away. Big, whatever it is.” Ron scrambled across the clearing and got the rifle while Charlie scanned the trees.

  “Anything?”

  Charlie shook his head. “Just the ducks.”

  They hurried away, careful to avoid plants tall enough to potentially signal their position. Grunts filtered above the whispered rustling, Charlie trailing Ron by a step as they wound through the thicket toward shore. The conversation didn’t seem to have changed any, the duckbills still munching away at the evergreen boughs. “If this is Prentler’s idea of a joke, I sure as fuck ain’t laughin’,” said Charlie, craning to see. “I got enough to worry about without gettin’ hyped up for nothin’.”

  The Tripper sat waiting along the bank, the red of its hull ablaze in the sunshine, a section of lakeshore sandwiched between the skinny out island and the trees opposite the channel. Ron leaned over the bank, and not far past the cove spotted what looked like part of a tree near the waterline. He pulled back, frowning.

  “What’s the matter?”

  Ron touched a finger to his lips and, after handing Charlie the rifle, slipped quietly over the edge to shore. He straightened up and was swiping the dirt from his shirt when he jerked against the bank. “Tree hell!”

  Charlie caught himself glancing. “What’s down there?”

  Ron reached up and wiggled his fingers. “I’m going to do this slow and easy,” he said, taking the rifle back and checking the path to the canoe for hang-ups. “And when I’m ready, I want you to get in and start paddling. Don’t look. Just get in and go.”

  “You’re pissin’ me off, you know that don’t cha?”

  “Be ready,” Ron said, a cold pallor about his face as he skulked away, bits of earth tumbling from the bank at the barest of touches. He stopped beside the Tripper, put the rifle in, then slid the canoe into the water, Charlie scrambling down the bank while he got the paddles from under the thwarts.

  “Oh my God…!”

  “Forget him and get over here.”

  Ron was ready with a paddle when he got to the boat. “Where the hell did he come from?”

  “Who the fuck cares?” Ron said, and shoved off. “Just get that paddle in the water!”

  The Tripper streaked across the channel, the water changing from light tan to green as they powered toward the gap between the out islands.

  There was no missing the hunter stalking the shoreline; the duckbills falling astern, two of the animals watching casually from along the sandbar. “We’re good, Bull,” said Ron, marveling at the predator as the bottom rose to greet them, the Tripper cutting the gap between the islands. “He’s after way bigger fish than us.”

  The dinosaur was a twin to the one that had confronted Sabrefang, and possibly even bigger: with the same enormous head; the slate gray body splotched with maroon; tiny arms; and long cantilevered tail. Just now rounding a bend in the shoreline, the tyrannosaur hadn’t once glanced in their direction, its focus centered squarely on the unsuspecting duckbills.

  Charlie scooped up a handful of lake and tossed it over his head. “That’s some spooky shit.”

  Ron eased the canoe around. “How so?”

  “Thing’s way too big to be movin’ like that. All quiet like. Pokin’ along like a cat.” Charlie shivered. “I just think it’s spooky.”

  “Fucker’s good at what he does,” said Ron the hunter, both unnerved and impressed. “Set himself up the perfect ambush. Trees and shit for cover, wind in his face.”

  Charlie looked to the duckbills. “Bastards don’t have a prayer, do they?”

  Ron looked from predator to prey. “Not a one.”

  *****

  The treetops shimmied in the breeze, the air heavy with the scent of its prey. The watering place was but a small part of its vast and seldom contested domain, though not since the last passing of the great herds had the long faces been so foolish as to chance taking sustenance on the dry. A mistake in happenstance the likes of which the hunter had long practice in using to advantage.

  Holding to the shadows, the tyrannosaur was nonetheless wary, slowly shifting its weight, stepping. For the long-faces were quick and agile, skilled at detecting movement, and after many missed attempts it had learned how easily an inadvertent gesture could provide them an opening for escape.

  A broken-limbed giant stood towering at the corner entrance to the cove, a last opportunity for solid cover before the forest ended and the shoreline curved away.

  The big head rose as squeals spilled from around the curve, ripples fanning past the vine-encrusted guardian and into the channel. A slow lean, talons brushing sand, the massive foot easing down. Gaps in the foliage were evident, and vague patterns of changing light. An opposite lean, and a shortened step forward. Now pieces of a weed-fringed shoreline, cycads, and dense forest beyond. Another step, shorter still. And at last the fluted outline of a scaly hip, thick legs and upraised tails… and a flat-billed face, staring back.

  Yet without recognition. Without seeing.

  And so the predator stood firm. Patient and immobile.

  Waiting.

  The anatosaurs milled about the sandbar; some pawing among the scattered boughs, others grooming, a few sprawled along the waterline, half in and half out, lazing in the warm glow of the noonday sun. The always rambunctious calves scampering about under the watchful eyes of their gossiping mothers. Under tails, around jittery legs… squealing and chasing, one skinny-limbed youngster after another.

  A yearling broke from the ongoing melee and plopped abruptly on her side, a hind leg up and scratching at the hazy patch on her neck. The little hooves scraped. Dried bits flaked away, the skin below all shiny and new. A day or so more and the shedding would be complete, though soon that too would turn dull, and, in a matter of weeks, undergo the same itchy transformation.

  A cousin waddled over, and she rolled upright, bills clattering as they bobbed their heads in ritual greeting. The little dinosaur drooped onto her elbows, tail high and wagging as her twin nestled alongside. They bumped and nuzzled, rubbing necks, each enjoying the other’s company. Their affections caught the attention of a striking young male who, tilting his head, strutted from amongst the nearby adults. He stepped awkwardly aro
und the paired females, head low and sniffing in a most inappropriate way.

  The twins sprang squalling to their feet, snapping indignantly, the male fleeing as flat-billed mouths nipped its flank, the noisy females still in pursuit when he piled into the cove. The cove erupted with the hoots of squalling youngsters, the male quickly out the opposite side, the females slapping their tails as they pelted the retreating male with insults. They wiggled their chests into the water, dunking their heads like long-tailed birds, one, then the other jerking upright to let the cool wetness spill across their faces and down their necks.

  Again they dipped below the surface…

  A shriek issued from a spoon-billed lookout. Heads craned up, necks twisting as the lake’s resident executioner came pounding around the bend, its talons tearing holes in the sand. The calves popped to the surface, honks blaring as terrified adults crushed one atop the other in a frenzied rush for the lake, the shoreline churned to a froth by a slew of legs.

  The herd leader bellowed from the shallows, but there was no turning the oncoming killer, muck splattering from its feet. Wide-eyed calves struggled in the too-deep water. And the cove exploded in a wave of liquefied sand and weeds as the predator crashed atop the nearest calf, its tail quivering while the monster lunged for her sister, fangs raking flesh as the calf bawled amid the surge.

  Tumbled and bloodied, the calf scrambled across the denuded branches, the dominant bull quick to follow as she splashed squalling into the lake.

  The tyrannosaur rose to stare for a moment, huffing toward the receding herd, then nosed into the water to retrieve its prize. The calf was alive, barely, writhing in its jaws, a point of shattered bone poking from its thigh. The predator bit down as it strode onto the sandbar, sinking its teeth again and again, crushing the animal in its jaws. Blood spurted from myriad holes. The jaws opened, and the shattered youngster crumpled to the ground.

  The hunter swept its kill indifferently, sniffing along the tiny anatosaur, licking the blood. A trivial meal for so huge an animal, the tyrannosaur pinned the still quivering animal, and with an effortless twist ripped away the head and neck. The boxy head nodded as the jaws worked the bloody morsel back and into its gullet, the folds along its throat swelling as it swallowed.

  Honks drifted from the lake as if a reminder that soon it would need to kill again. Bloodied jaws tore loose a gangly leg. The enormous head rose upright, gulping. And until then its hunger would be at least partially sated.

  *****

  Hayden peered through the boughs. He could see the tail wagging over the cove, most of a leg—big deal—but none of the good stuff. And not so much as a hint of the little dork that had managed to get itself killed. All the big guy had to do was stay put. “You’d think that being this close you’d be able to see something.” The tail went up, jiggled for a second, then dropped with an accompanying gooey sounding rip. Then the distinctive crunch of teeth shattering bone. “Nuts.” He craned out and stared along the canoe. “You see anything?”

  Wheajo answered simply, “Yes.”

  “So… what’s he doing?”

  “The beast is consuming its prey.”

  From an engineering standpoint, Wheajo knew his stuff. But as a play by play announcer…. “That’s great. Now tell me something I didn’t know. Like how much is left?” Again the slithery ripping sound.

  “I cannot see the prey,” Wheajo said, stretching. “Though I would estimate less than half remains.”

  “Already? Damn.” Hayden reached into the branches, caught one with an elbow and tried wedging it aside. He had to work fast or the dinosaur would be finished and gone. Opening a window in the leaves, he was able to get a decent look at the monster’s head. But the bark was all sharp edges, and soon he could no longer stand the pressure. He jerked back, the branches swishing as he rubbed his elbows.

  The hunter stilled.

  Hayden checked beside the canoe, but there wasn’t any room. Too wobbly too, what with the boat and Wheajo hanging on at the tip. No, if he wanted to see anything, he’d have to find an opening farther down.

  He climbed the trunk lower, peering at every step to see what he could of the cove. The limb spacing was better, but go too far and the stupid palms would be in the way! Choices, choices. Even now, trying to get a look at one dinosaur eating another.

  Finally the branches were situated just right, the limbs growing at just the right angle. And through the leafy gap….

  Big, big, big, he thought in absolute awe. Best of all, the tyrannosaur hadn’t finished. He could see the red splotch on the beach, a hazy red cloud yet swirling in the cove. This is perfect.

  Now to find a seat.

  Hayden ducked between the branches, and while trying to put a leg over snagged his cuff. The big head nosed to the ground. “Come on, come on…,” he said, tugging. The branch let loose—Finally!—and he came around to the startling realization that the predator was staring back, the duckbill’s tail dangling from the side of its mouth!

  He remembered Charlie saying how blind deer were when it came to things that weren’t moving. He swallowed. Okay, so no need to panic. Just stay put and he’ll forget about you. Seconds became minutes, the minutes dragging on for what seemed hours as Hayden held to the evergreen, unmoving. Not a leg. Not a finger. Staring eye to eye with the predator, barely breathing.

  The dinosaur stepped forward, jerking its head, the jaws working the bony tail deeper. But not as fast as before. Not this time. Hayden saw the head cock to the side, its eyes examining the evergreen.

  The canoe… Wheajo…. Yeah, he can see them too.

  A few last gulps and the tail disappeared, a bulge distending the folds on its throat. The head rocked on its thick neck, the eyes never leaving the evergreen. Focused as if—Hayden felt a chill tickling his spine—the thing was scrutinizing its next meal. He shook the thought away as too ridiculous to consider.

  Nerves was all.

  The head drooped to its chest and a two-fingered hand clawed away a bloody strand stuck to the side of its face. Then up again, staring, a flutter ruffling the folds of its throat as the dinosaur stepped through the reeds lining the cove.

  On the near shoreline Hayden reminded, his heartbeat shifting to overdrive when the dinosaur charged into the cycads—talons shredding fronds, feet thudding down in between—sandy plumes arching past the tail, the massive body swaying with every beat of the thing’s monstrously powerful legs.

  The tyrannosaur was heading for the evergreen.

  For him, and gaining speed!

  Shit!

  Soot puffed from their old fire pit, the growl in the dinosaur’s throat rumbling like rocks in a pipe as it stormed past the abandoned campsite and into the forest; treetops churning like bubbles in the wake of a torpedo, the dinosaur charging through foliage where he could barely walk. Nothing seemed able to stand in its way.

  But he was too high and the evergreen too strong, and he knew in his heart the dinosaur couldn’t do a thing to him. He watched as it vanished beneath the layered branches, trees and bushes swishing like surf on a beach. Trunks splintered. Branches snapped like firecrackers. The footfalls crunching, ever louder….

  Crump!

  Hayden barely had time to frown when the evergreen stung his hands and the limb jerked from under his feet. He jolted down on his arms. “Holy shit!” A gong sounded overhead. And another sound. Something falling. Dangling there, groping with his feet, Hayden glimpsed a shape tumbling through the branches. He blinked at what he was seeing, his mind refusing to believe until the shape became a bluish silhouette with arms….

  A roar blistered from below.

  “Wheajo!” he screamed, reaching out, horrified as the alien plummeted past, twirling, down and down and into the boughs below.

  *****

  The flutter had Charlie’s undivided attention, and he realized it was Wheajo falling when he saw the predator’s snout go up. “Shoot ‘im, McClure! Shoot!” his screams lost in the ensuing roar.

>   Ron got the rifle up—Wheajo hooked a branch—and tried sighting on the dinosaur. But there were too many trees. His gaze shifted to Wheajo, who’d lost his grip but managed to snag another limb.

  “Shoot already!”

  “Damn it, there’s nothing to shoot!” Ron watched as Wheajo swung a leg over the branch, the tyrannosaur wrenching itself through the tangled vegetation. The head came up, the roar reaching his ears an instant later. Ron sighted on the dark spot of its ear, holding steady… his finger poised on the trigger.

  Then let down.

  “What are ya doin’? Shoot while you got the chance!”

  “And what, drop him at the base of our tree? You’ve seen the predators here. By morning….” The dinosaur’s roar drowned what he was saying. Damn, the bastard was loud. “By morning the place would be crawling with scavengers! Big fuckers most likely. And they wouldn’t be so easy to get rid of.” The tyrannosaur raged about the evergreen, intent on rearranging their work site. It turned its head and rammed the tree, though less vigorously than before.

  “So what are we going to do?” Charlie asked, cringing at the latest roar while Wheajo wormed his way to the trunk.

  “We wait,” Ron said, cradling the rifle.

  “Wait…?” A blind man could see that the dinosaur was pissed, but what worried Charlie most was the possibility of it settling across the channel from their campsite. At the moment the tyrannosaur wasn’t paying them any attention. But how long would that last? “And what if the fucker decides to stay put? Or maybe take a swim?”

  From where they were, Ron couldn’t see the tent, though surely the tyrannosaur could. He shivered at the prospect of having the predator for a neighbor. He’d never spent a night in a canoe before, but the way things were going….

  “I knew we shoulda gotten them the hell off the island.”

  Ron blinked. “What are you talking about?”