by David Boyle
Charlie stabbed a finger at the duckbills. “Those idiots! The ones who got us into this mess.”
The duckbills were well into the lake opposite the big island, cruising like cormorants with only their heads above water. There was a bloody splotch on the sandbar, but no meaty scraps. No bones. Nothing like the skeleton Prentler had found. That animal had been bigger. Much bigger.
“You know, I’d be willing to bet that son-of-a-bitch is territorial.” Ron propped his rifle against the thwart. “Swing her around, Charlie,” he said, taking up his paddle. “We still might be able to pull this off.”
“Pull what off? What are—”
Ron poked his paddle overboard. “Just do it,” he said, shoving against the bottom and shifting the stern. “I’ll explain on the way.”
They held to the outside of their island, paddling hard and fast, hugging the shadows. Twice they spotted the tyrannosaur, glimpses at best, but enough to verify that it was too busy rearranging the forest to bother with them. They angled across the channel and past the end of the big island. The duckbills were already most of the way across the lake, their heads little more than bobbing dots in the distance.
“We’re never gonna make it. Not with that lead.”
Ron called “Switch,” paddles changing sides without missing a beat. “Maybe so,” he said, already sweating. “But we’ve got to try.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Unless you don’t mind sleeping in the canoe.”
Charlie kept digging. “How close do we need to get?”
“Just paddle.”
The duckbills were swimming as they had for the last five minutes, the leaders closing to what looked like a hundred yards of shore. “We're gettin' close,” Charlie panted. “And too long or not, you’re gonna need to shoot pretty soon.”
Sprints didn’t normally last this long, and there was no ignoring the burn in his arms. “Just keep going.” The duckbills were roughly 300 yards out, and to have any chance at all, Ron needed to cut that by at least a third. “How about it? Got enough juice left to give me another—”
A honk blared from one of the duckbills, heads turning to stare, water swirling as a jittery chorus rippled through the herd. A dinosaur was lumbering along the beach, low slung with an arm tucked to its chest. A predator sure as hell. “That’s great,” Charlie grumbled, the panicked duckbills stampeding toward shore.
“Could be we just got lucky.”
“How ya figure?”
“If dumbshit takes one down, I might not have to shoot after all.”
“I doubt that,” Charlie said. “He’s not any faster than we are, and if he does take one down, what’s the odds he’ll do it where our friend can see him?”
Ron did a quick estimate. “Damn, and here I thought we were good.” The duckbills were running out of lake, and they out of time. “We’re screwed. No way can I make a shot this long.”
Charlie missed a stroke. “How ‘bout if you’re prone? If there’s room enough for you to slide your ass around, you could maybe try shooting off your end of the boat.”
Ron checked the gap between the thwart and his seat. “Keep paddling and I’ll give that a try.” He slid his legs forward, then twisted onto his belly and plunked an elbow on the Styrofoam block behind his seat. “You know, this might actually work.” He got to his knees, the herd leaders already hitting the beach. “Let’s give it a try. Whatever side suits you.” Charlie drew his end around, the canoe turning sharply when Ron started stroking in the opposite direction, water slapping both ends of the boat as the Tripper went from bow- to stern-forward.
“You get a gold star for this one,” Ron said, digging hard to salvage their momentum while Charlie scrambled over what now served as the stern seat. “Remind me when we get to camp.”
“Just make the shot,” Charlie said, on his knees, stroking. The shore ahead was a blur of dinosaurs and froth; the predator fast closing on the reedy shallows. “And forget paddling… I can handle the boat.”
Ron grabbed the rifle and wrapped the sling around his elbow. “Watch the trailers. Once they start touching bottom, we’re there,” he said, leaning across the seat. “After that all I’ll need is for you to hold her steady.”
Charlie switched sides. “Copy that.”
Ron tracked on a duckbill, his sights making but brief contact as the animal charged from the shallows and into the forest. The canoe would quit bouncing once Charlie stopped paddling, yet he knew that at this range he couldn’t let his target reach the beach. Once out of the water, the duckbills were just too fast. If only the predator hadn’t shown up!
Ron set his jaw and concentrated on the trailing group. Safety off.
“We hafta be close ‘cause I don’t… oh man… know how much longer I can keep this up.” Charlie’s arms were on fire, his paddle growing heavier by the stroke. Two more ‘bills disappeared into the forest, with one starting to splash in the shallows and another waddling along the beach. There were only five left. “Do it, McClure. Take the shot before it’s too late!”
Ron held on target as the predator padded around the corner of the lake. A calf started bawling, then another, the closest adult hurrying to join them. The last of the duckbills surged ashore, their leader baying at the one-armed predator as the mother and her calves ran squalling from the shallows.
“That old fuck’s buyin’ time for those little guys!”
“Rudder right,” Ron said, tracking. “That’s good… hold it…..”
Charlie locked his paddle to the side of the boat, the canoe settling as it coasted forward.
The predator slowed when the big hadrosaur charged past the female, honking, snapping its bill. The female led the calves into the forest, the old bull turning to follow when, Kablam! a thunderclap boomed across the lake, a splash of red blooming behind the hadrosaur’s foreleg. The predator flinched; the big duckbill curled around, nipping at its side. The ejected cartridge twirled into the lake.
“Nice shot, McClure! You got ‘im good…!”
Still confused, but no longer hesitant, the predator raced forward and leaped onto the big anatosaur, sinking its talons deep into the animal’s flesh, biting, blood spurting as the duckbill tumbled to the ground. Struggling under its attacker, legs and tail flailing, the prostrate bull couldn’t shake the thirty-foot killer. Jaws clamped on the hadrosaur’s back, the hunter unfazed by the agonized calls of its wide-eyed victim. Claws and talons held it in place as the predator wrenched its boxy head side to side. A muffled crunch, and the duckbill’s tail and hind legs went limp.
Charlie caught the missing foreleg. “That’s the son-of-a-bitch that nearly got Prentler! No arm… it’s gotta be him.” The jaws clamped shut, the duckbill’s head jerking back when the predator ripped a meaty chunk from along its spine. A shrill hoot filled the air. “Holy Christ! The bastard’s eatin’ ‘im alive!” Charlie couldn’t watch, and he couldn’t turn away, his stomach churning as the once magnificent, now bloodied duckbill twisted and nipped at the talons buried in its side.
The predator nosed down, sniffing. The jaws opened.
“Don’t just watch. Shoot the fucker! Finish him off already!” A red mist sprayed from the duckbill’s mouth, and again the agonized scream. “McClure, please….”
“I… I can’t.”
“But you have to! You gotta!” Charlie pleaded, the wheezy honks, like fingernails on a blackboard, chilling his very soul.
Ron slammed the gunnel with his fist. “Don’t you get it?” he howled, twisting to glare at his partner. “I’m low on ammo. And by the looks of it, we’re going to need every round that’s left to have any chance of staying alive long enough to get out of this shit hole!” He looked to shore. The duckbill was still alive, somehow, bloody drool dripping from its mouth while the predator casually ripped flesh from bone. “Stupid fuck,” he growled, then slammed his rifle into the boat, refurbished checkering be damned. “Just die already!”
The predator swallowed, and Ron turned away with the bl
eakest expression Charlie had ever seen. He shuddered as it bent and ripped yet another mouthful from its victim, then turned the canoe and began the long paddle back. A quick 180 swing around and the world was new again. The islands green and vibrant against a powder blue sky; the lake shimmering in the breeze. Gems of stark beauty in a land of utter cruelty. The big evergreen poked above the adjacent trees, topped by a length of gray. And near the mainland, the big tyrannosaur fording the channel.
“It worked, McClure. Your idea…? The son-of-a-bitch is leavin’.”
Ron said not a word, his head buried in his hands. By his actions a magnificent animal had been condemned to a terrifying end. He told himself it was just a dumb animal, his moments by the cove still fresh in his mind.
A dumb animal. Yeah… like Duchess.
He’d done what was needed, and their camp was safe again. He knew too that visions of the peaceful giant being torn to pieces would haunt him the rest of his life.
34
Hayden held tight while Wheajo finished tying, then gave the lightning rod a shake. “Looks like that’s got it,” he said, Mickey Mouse waving overhead. “No way that thing’s going to loosen up in a storm.”
“Nevertheless, the tie points will need to be reexamined prior to our departure.”
“That mean you’re not going to turn the dawzon on?”
“Affirmative,” Wheajo said, checking tension on the ropes holding the canoe. “The longer we delay—”
“The longer the field will last. Makes sense.” The welt across Wheajo’s face was a chilling reminder of how close they’d come to disaster, the alien likely harboring other injuries he wouldn’t acknowledge. Hayden felt certain the real pain and stiffness would come later. “While I’m thinking about it, how about showing me what to do in case you’re not up to climbing come morning.”
“I assure you I am qite functional.”
“Uh huh.” A gust rustled the nearby treetops and presently swayed the evergreen. “Sounds like what Mark said. And not to cast aspersions… but you’re no Superman. That was a hell of a spill you took, and while you might feel okay now….”
Wheajo flexed his arm. “Very well. Come, and I will instruct you.”
A small victory. Hayden started down. There was scant room to maneuver, and he yelped when his arm brushed the hull. “Gads, that sucker’s hot! You sure this thing’s going to be okay after days inside an oven?”
“The temperatures achieved will in no way approach the dawzon’s operational limits, I can assure you.” Hayden climbed alongside, after which Wheajo ran through the dawzon’s activation routine.
“Piece’a cake…. And to turn it off?”
“Apply simultaneous pressure here… and here.”
A distant growl carried from across the lake. “Got it. And thanks, Wheajo. I know it’s you who’s going to be doing this, but I feel better knowing we’ve got the option.”
“Indeed, there are instances when hatchways are best left ajar.” Ron and Charlie were already halfway across the lake. “Come, our work here is complete,” Wheajo said, beginning the long climb to the ground.
“Not so fast,” Hayden said, spotting the tyrannosaur alongshore. “Van Dyke and McClure aren’t in any hurry. And in a minute here we’re going to see some serious fisticuffs.”
“I am unfamiliar…. Fisticuffs?”
“You know… a fight?” Hayden snapped a limb out of his way. “Should be interesting.”
Wheajo leaned around the trunk. “I doubt there will be a major confrontation.”
“You think so, huh? My last brorange says you’re wrong.”
Wheajo cocked his head. “I fail to understand how an inanimate object can voice an opinion.”
“I keep forgetting…,” said Hayden, sounding frustrated. “It’s not about whether broranges can talk. It’s a bet. I’m saying those two will fight, and you’re saying they won’t. You get how that works?”
“Ah, a wager,” Wheajo said, a rare smile creasing the welt across his cheek. “What would be an appropriate… bet?”
The tyrannosaur was fast approaching the curve, its soon-to-be rival crouched and waiting. Then too, Hayden saw a golden opportunity. “How about, if I’m right, you fix dinner?”
Wheajo considered the suggestion. “I fail to see the equivalence. However… I accept.”
“Great. Oh, and Wheajo?”
“Yes?”
“I like my dinosaur medium well.”
The tyrannosaur splashed around the curve. The jaws opened. And two seconds later, the roar reverberated across the lake. The one-armed hunter countered with a roar of its own as it hopped from the kill.
While standing atop the duckbill, the dinosaur had appeared almost equal in size to the tyrannosaur. Not anymore. Even from nearly half a mile away, Hayden was quick to realize his mistake. “This is not good,” he sighed, wilting as the tyrannosaur drew nearer the kill. A feigned charge on the part of the smaller was countered immediately by a roar from the larger. The big tyrannosaur was not the least intimidated.
One-arm backed off as the tyrannosaur claimed its bloody prize.
“You chicken-shit,” Hayden moaned, watching as the dinosaurs changed places, the smaller one snarling twice before stealing into the forest. Then the thunderous roar. “Looks like I owe you a brorange.”
Wheajo savored the moment. “Perhaps you prefer to make dinner?”
Hayden stared alongside the boiling hot canoe. “Actually, I would,” he smiled. “So, who taught you poker?”
Again an alien smile. “Come, we must depart.”
“Good plan,” Hayden said, careful to steer clear of the canoe. “I stay here any longer and I’ll end up having to build the raft myself.”
“Considering our recent accomplishments,” Wheajo said, “that too, as you say, should be a piece of meat.”
Hayden and Wheajo picked their way through the devastated thicket and past their original campsite, cycads laying strewn beyond like barrels in a junkyard. The Tripper had been dragged across the sandbar, and Charlie was busy poking around the kill site with a stick.
“What a mess,” Hayden said. There seemed not a square inch of undisturbed ground; tracks overlaying tracks, denuded tree limbs, and piles of still shiny dung scattered everywhere along the sandbar, the air redolent with the pungent odor of urine and half-digested gore. “There anything left?”
Charlie flipped a bloodied clump of sand. “Bits is about all.”
Across the lake the tyrannosaur was feasting on its latest acquisition. “I know I’m going to say this again, but thanks for getting that thing off the island.”
“I was just the driver. The diversion thing was Ron’s idea.” Wheajo crouched at the water’s edge, measuring track sizes, the rescue lines coiled diagonally across his shoulder. “How many ropes you got there? Two or three?”
“Two,” Wheajo answered. “Is there a problem?”
“Nope. Just makin’ sure you left one on account it’s a bitch gettin’ up without it. And what all’d ya use to tie my boat with?”
“Your two painters and a couple of tie downs.” Hayden smiled. “Not to worry. The only way that thing is coming down is if somebody climbs up and unties her.”
Charlie squinted up. “So long as she’s safe,” he said, then noticing the swelling on Wheajo’s face. “Sorry you got banged up. That hurt as much as it looks?”
“The injury is tolerable,” Wheajo said, making an entry in the yaltok.
“So where’s McClure off to? With everything that’s gone on, I expected him to be here celebrating.”
“He’s around back somewhere. He needs some time alone.”
“You guys get into it again?”
“I wish,” said Charlie, glancing across the lake. “It’s just… well, things didn’t go anywhere near like we planned.”
“Whatever the difficulty, your efforts had the desired effect.”
“Yeah, that they did.”
Birds were gathering in the
trees, a bold few swooping within feet of where Charlie stood, snatching bloody bits from the sand. Most of the evergreen boughs had been picked pretty well clean, though enough remained to possibly invite additional visitors. Charlie suggested they burn what was left, and Wheajo agreed. “Prentler, how ‘bout givin’….” A quick sweep found Hayden knee-deep in the lake. “I wasn’t kiddin’. Don’t go fuckin’ with him. The guy needs time to unwind.”
Hayden shaded his eyes. The driftwood littered shoreline went on for nearly an eighth of a mile, the trees facing the lake providing a million nooks and crannies. Hayden kicked at the sand—Ron could be anywhere—and reluctantly headed back. “So what all happened?”
They combed the sandbar and piled the branches atop the kill site before setting them afire, all while Charlie related the events leading to the duckbill’s gruesome end. Wheajo noted, as had Ron, that Charlie had neglected to pack the handgun, and with the fire underway and the possibility that dinosaurs would follow the scent trail to the island, suggested they postpone further discussion until after reaching camp.
Hayden wasn’t keen about leaving Ron behind, even with the rifle, though his absence did make the trip back easier. He leaned back when the canoe grounded. “Eaten alive,” he shuddered, stepping out and pulling the bow ashore. “Watching from here I didn’t realize what was happening. Now I’m glad I missed it.”
“Creatures live, and creatures die. The how is irrelevant.”
“Uh huh,” Charlie said, following Wheajo onto the beach. “Maybe for you. Just don’t go talkin’ like that in front of McClure. Not today,” he warned, stalking toward the tent. “And prob’ly not ever.”
“He’s right, Wheajo. You downplay what happened, or say the wrong thing, and McClure could…. Well, you know how he can get. Not a good thing under the circumstances.”
“As you wish,” Wheajo said, waving his hand above the ash pit, checking for warmth.
“I hear a ‘but’ lingering in the background. You got one, now’s the time to spit it out.”
