by David Boyle
The column of dinosaurs was breaking up, the stragglers plodding in groups. Trailing the main herd, the animals were smaller than before, their horns shorter. There were more calves too. Terrified youngsters, wheezy and wide-eyed, one with three deep gashes spewing blood on its side.
Ron didn’t like the implication. “Wheajo… you catch that?”
“Indeed,” he said, monitoring the changing mix of animals. The ground throbbed in intermittent waves, the one-horns determined not to stray from the trail, and if the predators hadn’t managed to turn them….
“You think they’ll spook if we try to cross?”
“Unlikely,” Wheajo said.
“Alright then, lead’s yours.” Ron turned and trotted back through the bushes. “On your feet guys,” he said, grunts peppering the air. “We’re leaving.”
“You can’t be serious. What about—”
“You heard me, Prentler. Move!”
Hayden hurried over and grabbed the drag line, Charlie the loop opposite, and they started running, Ron shoving at the stern. They cut the distance to the trail in half, then in half again while groups of dinosaurs pounded along the trail.
“This is it,” Charlie said, dropping to a knee when a passing head turned and glanced in their direction. “You wanna get closer? You’re doin’ it on your own.”
“Damn it, Bull! A little closer and we can make a break for it!”
Between the grunts and the hoof beats, Hayden was certain he couldn’t have heard that right. “You’re not thinking about crossing now, are you?” Wheajo raised his hand, staring off as hook-beaked dinosaurs trundled past, drool slopping from their mouths.
“You bet I am!” Ron yelled above the commotion. “Haven’t you seen the wounds these guys are carrying? We’re not safe here, Prentler. Don’t you get it?”
“And you’re out of your mind if you thi—”
“Cu chiyu!”
A dinosaur had crested the rise, the squashed-in face quickly around and snarling when it spotted prey. The thing loped forward, the arms reaching as it dodged through the foliage. Turning, Charlie had the revolver nearly knocked from his fist when the predator slammed him to the ground, a talon piercing his thigh. He swung the magnum, blood and teeth flying as the head snapped sideways. The dinosaur shook its head, stunned. The hammer clicked back…
“There’s another one!” Ron shouted.
…the barrel partially down the thing’s throat when Pow! the back of the thing’s head exploded, its teeth raking Charlie’s hand when it fell.
Kablam! “Watch your back, Prentler!” Ron tracked a shifting hulk, Kablam! and the animal tumbled squalling into the underbrush. A voice screamed—“Get it off! Get it off!”—when Ron fired again, spray bursting from the predator’s chest as their tiny piece of the forest erupted in a fearsome melee. Ron worked the bolt, tracking… Kablam!
Now other pack members were homing on the chaos.
Hayden hauled back—“Wheajo, behind you!”—and threw. Too slow to its target, the spear caught the animal mid-way along its stiff yellow tail. The carnosaur curled around snapping, at the same time taking Wheajo’s spear high in the shoulder, the point punching a hole in its belly. The predator staggered in circles, blood spurting, and piled into the bushes. Wheajo ran and retrieved the spears, Hayden batting at a predator with his paddle when Wheajo jammed a spear through its chest.
Charlie was screaming. Dinosaurs crashed through the trees. Ron tracked a shape… Kablam! The animal squalled, an arm pawing at the blood spewing from its chest as it crashed blindly toward the trail where pounding hooves crushed it to death. Charlie wailed in agony, struggling to dislodge the talon. “Prentler, get the axe!”
A still-defiant predator loped toward Charlie, wounded prey, a snarl fluttering its lips.
Ron sighted on the short-faced killer. Click. “Shoot, Charlie, shoot!” he yelled, digging in his pocket, the dinosaur’s charge unaltered even as a spear drove through its left haunch.
Charlie two-handed the revolver around—Pow!— missed, and fired again. At barely five feet, the shot tore away the animal’s lower jaw, then through its chest and out its back. The killer went tumbling. The hammer ratcheted back. Pow! Chunks of bone and muscle splattered the leaves. Shaky thumbs clawed at the hammer, but Ron was there, on his knees.
“You got him,” said Ron, seeing too that the talon of first predator was still firmly embedded in his leg. “He’s dead, okay? You got the—”
The gun dropped from his fist. “Get it out!” Charlie screamed, pounding the ground. “Jesus Christ! Get the bastard outta me…!”
Ron flipped Wheajo the rifle, “Three shots. Make them count,” then pointed Hayden to the pistol. “Be ready with that,” he said, and reached for his knife. The handgun was bloody, as was the still twitchy predator, Charlie too… a stunned Hayden staring in disbelief at the carnage. “You’ll be okay,” Ron said, his voice betraying the lie. The dinosaur was far too large to move, and the way it had fallen had wedged open a hole that went clear through Charlie’s leg. “I have to cut the foot off. Then we can—”
“Just do it!” Charlie screamed, grinding his head in agony.
Ron sawed at the dinosaur’s ankle, Charlie wincing at every tiny release of the cord-like Achilles tendon. Hayden jammed the pistol under his belt, then held the leg steady. “I need you to keep watc—”
“And Charlie needs me more! Keep going.”
Ron carved through the tendon and hacked away at the sinew binding the joint. Wheajo rolled the carcass the moment Ron made the final cut, he and Hayden holding Charlie while Wheajo worked the wickedly hooked talon out from his leg. “Ah…!”
“It’s out, Charlie. It’s out…. Just try not to move, okay?” Ron turned to Hayden. “Give me your belt! And we need to clean this. Check the boat and see if there’s any water in there.” Hayden nodded as he stripped the belt from his waist. “And if they’re not buried, find a shirt to tie this leg together.”
“Will do.” The last of the ceratopsians, three males, galloped past.
Ron worked the strap under Charlie’s leg. “Wheajo, we’re going to need that machine of yours. And bad as it is, you’re lucky this is a puncture and not a bite.”
Charlie gritted his teeth. “That’s me… Mr. Fuckin’ Lucky.”
“You can halt the bleeding?” Wheajo asked.
Ron slipped the belt through the buckle. “I can slow it down, but I can’t stop it,” he said, pulling the strap and applying as much tension as he dared before cinching it off. “Best I can do, Bull. Once we get you—”
“I can,” Wheajo said, propping the rifle across the predator’s body.
Ron glanced over. “Can what?”
“Stop the bleeding.” Wheajo slipped the yaltok from his uniform. “I can assure you also that to do so will not be pleasant.”
“Anything,” Charlie groaned, pale and suddenly lethargic. “Just don’t… let me….” His body went limp. Ron felt for a pulse.
“He lives?”
“Yeah, barely. And go ahead if you can do that.” Wheajo made the necessary entries. “Prentler, I need that water. And now, not later!”
Hayden came at a trot. “I couldn’t find….” His jaw fell open. “Is he…?”
Ron snatched the canteen from his hand. “Where first?” he asked, spinning off the cap. Wheajo indicated a zone of injury over which Ron drizzled water before mopping with a hankie. Wheajo directed a series of short bursts from the yaltok, cauterizing the direst wounds. Hayden turned away, choking on the stench of seared flesh. “No kidding unpleasant.”
“Please continue.”
Ron and Wheajo repeated the procedure, sealing the worst of the damaged arteries and veins. The wound was far too severe for any hope of stopping the flow, but eventually, and even with the tourniquet loosened, blood loss was reduced to a less threatening rate. “I have done what I can,” Wheajo said finally. “To fuse additional tissue would but impede healing.”
Charli
e’s wounds were bound with the shirts from their backs and strips torn from the discarded section of his jeans. Wheajo next treated Charlie’s forearm, and after adjusting the yaltok’s settings, secured the device to his thigh.
Hayden wanted no part of the revolver, leaving Ron little choice but to take the handgun and leave Wheajo in possession of the rifle. The canoe was dragged over, and the packs were rearranged, Charlie at last loaded clumsily aboard. They secured one of the painters to the stern seat, then added loops to the ropes both fore and aft.
“Prentler, make sure he stays put,” Ron said, taking the lead. “And watch the damn forest. We can’t afford to get into any more fights.”
Even with Charlie weighing down the bilge, the drag went well so long as the slope wasn’t too steep, the Tripper at times picking up enough speed to where controlling the thing became difficult, at one point jerking so violently on hitting a log that the canoe nearly overturned.
“I said slow down!” Ron snarled, teeth clenched, jerking at the stern to keep the boat pointed in the right direction. “And Wheajo, get out in front and warn us if you see any more like that.”
They drifted north and eventually located the creek, and not long after spotted the Discovery, the canoe on its side and dangling in the current. Flooded by the storm, the weight of the accumulated water had snapped one of the roots.
“A fortunate redundancy,” Wheajo said of the twin ties when they slid the Tripper down the rocks fanning into the river.
“No shit,” said Ron, unbuckling the dump bags while Hayden worked on the paddles. The backpack, dump bags, and tools were quickly offloaded onto the rocks. “Guess I should have asked earlier, but you do know how to use this, right?” he asked of the rifle.
“Yes,” Wheajo said tersely.
“Good. Cause you’re standing guard.” Ron waited for Hayden to clear the rocks before climbing in at the stern. “Keep an eye open. Hopefully we’ll be done and out of here before anything else shows up.”
Charlie lay in a pool of blood as Ron nosed the Tripper to shore. Hayden snagged the Discovery, a bailer yet tied to a thwart. “There’s not enough here to bother with,” he said, reaching for the knots. “I get her untied, you can take off.”
“Good. And I’m thinking I should keep Wheajo with me. You okay taking everything else?”
“Yeah, no problem. And if you wait, we can tie the boats together. For how far we’re going, we’ll make better time with all of us paddling.” Hayden glanced at Charlie, loosening the knots. “How’s he doing?”
“He’s in shock. Which is amazing when you consider he’d already be dead without Wheajo. I am concerned about how long this is going to take.”
The Discovery splashed into the river, Hayden first jamming his paddle in the mud before carefully stepping aboard. Ron started back. “Wheajo’s call whether you wait or not. I’ll catch up, either way.”
*****
On sunny days Mark was able to get a reasonable lock on what time it was based on how high the shadows were on the meadow. And on days like this on his too-fast wrist watch, so long as he’d remembered to reset it within the last two days.
Whatever the hell time it actually was, it would be dark in an hour, and Mark was rethinking the whole ‘start the clock as late as possible’ thing. Why Wheajo would turn the dawzon on today and leave tomorrow he couldn’t imagine, but even with as far away as the lake was and paddling against the current, they should all have been back hours ago.
He dialed the focus, scanning. Mike nudged his arm. “Would you stop already?” he said, swiping at the dinosaur’s snout. “Go on… beat it. Go bug Tony for a change.” Mike had been acting flaky most of the day, snooping around the campsite and for no apparent reason jerking his head up to stare across the river. Or the bend maybe. Mark was never sure which. What he did know was that he was in a rotten mood, and having to put up with a jumpy dinosaur wasn’t helping.
He peered through the binoculars. “I know you’re in there, bitch,” he grumbled, sweeping the trees.
“I’m not telling you again,” Tony hollered, stirring the pot tucked against the fire. “You wait any longer and I’m not going to be responsible for how this tastes.”
Mark relented, and got up and strolled past where Ron’s tent was supposed to be, and plopped dejectedly in his chair.
“Any sign of her?”
“No.”
“And no sign of the boats either I presume.” Mark just stared at the fire. “They’ll be back tomorrow. You’ll see. You have to be patient,” Tony said, dipping into the kettle. “Here… have some of this while you can still see what you’re eating.”
Mark took the can—“Yeow!”—and fumbled it onto the table. “That baby’s hot!”
“You want my glove?”
“Very funny…. Humph. Fish soup served in a recycled stew can. How swell is that?” Mark took a tentative sniff. “You added something new. Do I want to know what?”
“Ask me again after you taste it.” Tony watched the spoon into his mouth, waiting to see how Mark would react. “Meet with your approval?”
“Actually, it’s not bad.” Mark slurped another spoonful. “Those nuts you got roasting. That what’s in here?”
“Adds a nice crunch, don’t you think? Almost al dente.”
“Better than that last batch, that’s for sure.” Mark blew across the spoon. “No offense,” he grumped, “but that other stuff sucked.”
“You know the food situation,” Tony said in a huff. “I’m doing my best with what we have.”
Which was true. Tony had managed to stretch what supplies they’d brought well beyond what they’d planned. And okay, that was good resource management. But deserving of a gold star? Sure as hell no more than any of the rest of them. Good job, Tony. Only don’t let it go to your head. Hell, things were going to get worse, not better. And when the day came when that last Noodle Roni wrapper hit the fire, they’d just have to find something else to eat.
Mark stirred the chunks around. He’d flunked Sensitivity Training, and maybe he’d opened his mouth for a sentence or two too many, but he was in no mood to watch what the hell ever he said.
Besides… that first batch really did suck.
The birds that had been making such a racket across the river for the last hour burst from the trees and scattered into darkening skies to the east. Tony glanced about the campsite. Their pesky dinosaur was gone too, an unusual occurrence at dinner time. “First Mike… now them,” Tony said, feeling suddenly uneasy. “I know I’m getting paranoid, but isn’t it a little late for birds to be looking for a place to call home?”
Mark frowned. It was late, the greens of the world transitioning to gray. “Now that you mention it….” As they listened, they both heard the faint rustling in the forest opposite camp. Mark grabbed the binoculars off the table.
Dusk was not Tony’s favorite, the going from daylight to darkness, the time when the mind played tricks and the eyes saw every shadowy bundle of leaves as somehow either alive or hiding something that was. “It’s her, isn’t it?” he said, following Mark past the tents.
“We’ll know in a minute.”
“I hate it when she gets to creeping around. Especially at night.” His next step caught Mark’s heel. “I’m…”
“Use your own feet, okay?”
Trees thrashed across the river, bits of orange winking through the leaves. Mark ran the last yards to the landing, listening as the noise faded. Then a few seconds of silence before they spotted Sabrefang pounding across the meadow. A snarl spilled from the gloom. “What… what’s she doing?” Tony asked, a quiver in his voice.
“Pacing,” Mark said, staring through the binoculars.
“Which means?”
“I’m not sure,” Mark said, and bolted for the hanger tree. “But there’s something in the river.”
“That’s good isn’t it? Maybe it’s them. Maybe—”
“It’s not.” Mark snatched two spears from the rack
and hurried back. “Ron would never have started back so late.” He swept the campsite, a snarl mixing with the hiss of the rapid, their dinosaur nowhere to be seen. “Little shit’s never around when you need him.
“Probably nothing, but just in case”—Mark shoved a spear at Tony—“hang on to this.” A last look, and he sprinted into the forest. “I won’t be gone long.”
Tony stood there trembling, the spear in his fist. “What… what am I supposed to do with this?”
“Pray you don’t have to use it.”
37
By now Mark had gotten to know the island about as well as his own yard, the location of the bog, the thickets and deadfalls, and most every break in cover. He’d chipped bark from trees all over the island so anyone with a smidge of daylight could find their way to camp, markers that now went unnoticed as he hurried through the forest, straining to locate Sabrefang with his ears.
He climbed the last deadfall. Slipped to the ground.
Splintered gray was showing through the trees, the river rumbling over the rocks where once he’d stood face to face with Sabrefang. The bitch was still snarling, though less than before; settling down and apparently taking stock of the situation. And with the change in pitch he imagined the hateful eyes staring down from the riverbank, that sickeningly vile breath whispering between her teeth. Then too—a chill tickled his spine—whatever had gotten her attention was being exceptionally quiet.
Mark peered through the leaves to the rapid, a spear in his fist, then stepped forward and peeled away a spray of vegetation. Bits of tree line came into view, whiteness swirling behind the rocks. It was getting almost too dark to see, but against the oily sheen of the river he caught the outline of a pair of strapped-together canoes!
