by David Boyle
Sabrefang stood crouched in the trees, watching.
“It is them!”
Mark scrambled down the bank despite the snarls from across the river. After all the waiting, Team One was home! They’d tied the canoes together, and someone, Hayden perhaps, was standing knee deep in the rapids, bent over and working to untie the one from the other. “You need help?” Mark shouted, waving to get their attention.
Wheajo tapped Ron on the arm, who came around and immediately motioned him over.
As happy as he was to see them, a drag in the dark was not high on his fun-things-to-do list. But they had just finished a long paddle. Mark waved back. “I’ll be right there!” he shouted, checking for driftwood. “All I need is a stick without a broadhead so I don’t break my neck getting there.”
“Prentler, hang tight with the boat. We get to the channel, I’ll send Mark back.”
“I could tie up and help.”
“No, we’ll be good.” Ron waved to get Mark’s attention. “Quit messing around and get over here.”
“It’s good to see you too. And I’m trying not to break my ankle in case you’re interested. You might not….” Mark slowed to a stop when he saw they were a man short. “Where’s Charlie?”
“In the boat,” Ron said, he and Wheajo holding the Tripper steady in the current. “He’s hurt, and the faster we get him to camp the faster we can work on him.”
Mark felt his way down the rapid, the current tugging at his knees. Already darker than just minutes ago, he could yet see Charlie laying semi-conscious in a pool of blood. “Jesus! What the fuck happened?”
“Just grab on. And careful on these rocks, Wheajo. Like the man said, it takes all of a second to snap an ankle in here.” While roughly knee deep to the humans, the current hit the diminutive alien mid-thigh.
“Understood,” he said, and to Mark, “Please proceed.”
*****
“There they are,” Tony said, spying the glimmer a ways off along the channel.
Ron waved the flashlight, the light in the distance shifting in return. “Wheajo, take this and do what you can to light the way. It has to be a pain shining while trying to paddle at the same time.”
“The offer is appreciated. And also unnecessary,” Wheajo said, hurrying away.
“I keep forgetting.” Ron slumped against the bank, the barest of rustles fading as Wheajo vanished into the darkness. Tony was crouched beside the Tripper, tending to Charlie. “I was going to say be careful with that, but you probably can’t give him too much water.”
Tony nodded as he screwed the cap back onto the canteen. “You sure we can’t get this up?”
“Yeah, I am. Between Charlie and the boat, we’re looking at better than 300 pounds, and there’s no way the two of us are handling that.”
A cone of light showed trees fading in the distance along the channel, the rippled water like oil. The light shifted. “I’m glad you made it back, Ron.”
“So am I. I just wish we’d started a little sooner.”
Mark stepped from the Discovery and wrenched it alongshore. “We need any of these right away?”
“Just the backpack. It’s got the tent,” Hayden said, then turning to Wheajo, “Unless you can take a couple.”
“I can. Tend to your friend, and I will bring the supplies.”
Mark looped the painter around a root and hurried to the Tripper. “He as bad off as he looks?”
Ron flipped aside the rain gear covering Charlie’s leg. “You tell me.”
Tony stumbled against the bank; Mark’s face went pale. “Oh my god!”
“Which is why we need to get moving. And either of you needs to barf… wait until later.” It was nearly three feet to the top of the bank. “Wheajo, don’t go anywhere. We need you to help slide this onto the bank. And after that, if you could light the way?”
“Understood.”
“Prentler, get next to me. Mark, Tony, lift and turn, okay?”
Mark shifted between gripping the gunnel and the thwart. “I’m good.”
“Okay then. Altogether,” Ron said. “Go…!”
Feet slipping on the mud, they raised the bow to where Wheajo could get a grip and slip the Tripper onto the bank. The fore and aft painters were tied to the forward thwart, a horribly bloodied Charlie groaning as they repositioned the canoe.
“Hang in there,” Tony said. “You’re almost home.”
They pushed and pulled, feeling their way, sliding the Tripper where the trees allowed and carrying when they didn’t. Even with markers to guide their path, it took them a good fifteen minutes to wrench the canoe through the forest and into the clearing beneath the cúpaqs. Then along the trail and under the barricades, and finally out of the forest and into the feeble glow of the campfire.
“You can’t just leave him out here,” Tony panted on entering camp. “He needs to be in his tent.”
Ron rested his hands on his knees. “Okay,” he said, catching his breath. “So we put him in the tent. How’s he supposed to take a leak? Or shit?” Ron looked wearily to Mark. “You got a better idea, I’d like to hear it.”
“Hey, don’t look at me,” Mark said, twisting his shoulders. “I’m with you on this one.”
Tony snorted, “That figures.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?”
“Quit it, guys,” said Hayden. “Charlie’s the issue here. And like Ron says, he’ll be better off outside until he’s mobile again.”
Tony knew better than to bother asking Wheajo. “Will it be alright if I get his air mattress?”
“Good idea,” Hayden said, and to Mark. “We’re going to need the tarps too.” Mark said he’d get them, then tapped Ron, and the two hurried into the forest. Wheajo was already digging through the woodpile. “Let me get some dry clothes on and I’ll give you a hand. And Tony…?”
“What?” came a disgruntled reply.
“While you’re in there, grab whatever pain killers and clean T-shirts you can find.”
Within the hour the campfire was back to where they could see again without having to rely on a flashlight. An area had been cleared opposite the tents along the bushes, stake-downs located, and the big tarp readied for an eventual lean-to. The smaller tarp was laid out, then an air mattress, and finally Charlie, groaning pitifully as he was moved from the canoe. And whether by instinct or the sound of his master’s voice, Mike was back too, the dinosaur settling beside his master after a rambunctious reunion.
They were huddled in front of the tents, one decision yet needing resolution.
“Yeah, okay,” Ron admitted wearily. “I’ve seen it done. Even held a guy’s face together while my partner—a screwball name of Harvey Benson—threw stitches in over my arm. This while the asshole’s car was still wrapped around a tree.” Ron took a slug from the canteen. “You could say I got a really good look. And no question… his sewing job wasn’t anywhere near as good as yours.”
Mark frowned.… “Wait a minute. No. No way. That’s nothing like this.”
“Bullshit it isn’t.” Ron looked momentarily when Tony stepped from around the fire. “Stitching deer skin or stitching people, skin is skin, Bennett.”
“You stuffed the animals you have on your walls?” Tony said. “I didn’t know you’re a taxidermist.”
“First, the word is mounted, not stuffed. And second, was a taxidermist. Past tense. And a hell of a long time ago at that.” Mark didn’t like where this was going. “Animals are one thing. But sew Charlie’s leg together?” Mark shivered. “No way,” he said, brushing the goose flesh pimpling his arms. “I… I just couldn’t.” He scanned their faces, desperate. “How about it, Wheajo? This should be a snap for you.”
The request was apparently not unanticipated. “The procedure you describe is archaic, if fundamentally trivial,” Wheajo remarked with cool detachment. “I presume the necessary implements are available?”
“Should be needles and thread in the first aid kit,” Mark said. “And
if not, I’ve got a little sewing kit of my own.” A smug grin crept across Ron’s face. “That’s strictly for replacing buttons and stuff.”
“Uh huh.”
“Really,” Mark said, turning to Hayden. “Wheajo will be lots better…”
Tony stood apart from the conversation, listening to Ron wash his hands of any possible involvement while Mark tried to weasel out of helping Charlie; watching Hayden, who seemed bent on not saying anything lest he be drawn into consideration for the job; knowing too that Wheajo, for all his intellectual superiority, was likely to possess the bedside manner of Dr. Karl Gebhardt, whose skills with a scalpel had been honed to perfection under the watchful tutelage of Der Fuehrer.
Yet could he not be counted among them?
Tony had known Charlie longer than any of them, knew his wife and kids, and had even had cookouts in each other’s yards. Most haunting was his last conversation with Donita: ‘You boys be careful,’ she’d said sweetly over the phone. ‘Wear your life jackets; don’t forget to eat; and take care of my Chucky if he gets into trouble.’
Which clearly her husband and the father of her children was now.
How could he live with himself if he simply stood by and watched? The short answer was: he couldn’t. Tony set his jaw, stepped forward, and raised his hand.
“Quit with the hand thing, Delgado. You got something to say… say it.”
Tony cleared his throat. “I’ll do it,” he said with a swallow. “I may not be very good, but I can sew.” An uneasy silence fell about the campsite, the hiss of Boulder rapid whispering through the darkness.
“Let me get this straight,” said Ron, ripples crinkling his brow. “You’re volunteering?”
Charlie moaned opposite the fire.
“I am. Charlie’s not only my friend, he’s my responsibility.” Tony looked over. “Besides, I gave Donita my word I’d watch out for him.”
Ron was still skeptical, minutes later, when he pulled his hunting knife from its sheath. “You’re sure you can handle this?”
Tony drew in a breath. “I’ll try,” he said, bracing. Hayden was ready with the water; Mark and Wheajo with the lights; a pile of scrounged T-shirts and strips stacked on the tarp. Mike was tethered a few feet beyond the mattress, a rope secured around an ankle, just in case.
Ron checked the edge—“Spill a little water on this, Prentler”—then wiped the blade on his pants. “Try?” he said, and started cutting. “I guarantee you’ll need to do better than try.” The shirts they’d used for bandages were stuck together, the stripes and plaid cross-hatching obscured by crinkled patches of congealed blood. Ron sawed through the outer wraps, pulled loose the analyzer, and stuck out his hand… waiting. “Cut the crap, Prentler. You know the drill. Get this cleaned up.
“And let’s everybody get this straight. We do this by the numbers. No questions. No hesitation. I ask for anything, or Delgado here, and you guys jump. Is that understood?” They nodded. “Good.”
The sodden inner wraps glared hideously red in the glare of the lantern, a line of black blood pooled along the underlying crease. Ron worked his fingers under the edge. Charlie groaned. The dinosaur strained against the rope, hissing. Ron waited for Hayden to finish rinsing the yaltok. “Hold him,” Ron said, resuming the cut once Hayden and Wheajo clamped the leg.
“Ah…!”
“Hang on, Bull. We’ve got you wrapped pretty tight.”
Charlie nodded and gritted his teeth. Unhappy snarls sounded nearby. “It’s okay… Mike,” he said, wincing as he extended his hand to the dinosaur. “Easy boy. They’re only… tryin’ to help.”
Blood welled between his fingers as Ron guided the blade tip through the shirts. Mark staggered back a step, pale and shaky, Tony cringing as Ron laid aside the wraps. “You can let go, Prentler,” he said, picking at the camouflage.
Hayden got to his feet. “This is where it gets ugly.”
There was the smell of raw meat. And sticky tape sounds as Ron gingerly peeled away the material. Tony’s jaw sagged when he saw the tear, the swollen flesh, and the purple discoloration that extended all the way to the ankle. “Oh my…!” Tony threw his hands across his mouth, and his cheeks started puffing, a creamy liquid spurting between his fingers. He lurched sideways, stumbling, and vomited into the fire.
Ron glanced over his shoulder, sparks and steam billowing toward the landing, and to Wheajo said, “Lucky thing we’re upwind.
“Okay, Bennett. You’re up.”
“Me…? No way, McClure. I’m serious. I can’t—”
“Shut up and get over here. Prentler, take his flashlight. And grab me one of those shirts.” Ron looked to Wheajo, or more the point, his analyzer. “Can you set that to numb the stitch sites?”
Wheajo said, “I can.”
“I’m telling you, I’m gonna end up just like—”
“I said shut up…. Prentler, lay that shirt across.” Hayden did as he was told, and Ron positioned it so that only the lower edge of the gash in Charlie’s leg would show. Wheajo handed Mark the recently bent needle. “Get started.”
Covering the worst of the gore made the wound somewhat more tolerable to look at. Still, Mark was queasy. He swallowed the lump in his throat. “I need a drink.”
“Sorry, Bennett,” Ron said. “But we’re out.”
Tony was coughing behind them. “Not… not exactly,” he sputtered, wiping his face, spitting. “I do have some brandy.”
Hayden twisted on his heel. “You do?”
Mark looked to Ron. “One shot,” he pleaded.
“Okay,” Ron said, knowing the extent of Charlie’s injuries and the effort that lay ahead. “Yeah, I could use one too. Go, Tony. And don’t take all night.”
The first stitch was the hardest: piercing someone else’s skin with a needle; the sticky warmth when he squeezed the tear together and ran the needle through the opposite edge. Mark looped the threads together then drew the wound closed, watching anxiously to see whether he’d placed the needle too far out, or worse, too near the edge. The edges pulled together properly, and there was no sign of tearing. “Hold your fingers on both sides… like this.”
Ron reached across and squeezed.
“Not so hard…. Yeah, that’s better.” Mark tightened the threads, then looped them a second time to double the knot. The knot held. “That’s one,” he sighed, and reached for the scissors.
“Don’t bother with that. Not yet anyway. Just string them all together.”
“That’s not how it’s done.”
“And when I said no questions, I meant it, Bennett. Now do like I said.”
Mark slumped defiantly on his heels. “Because you say so?” They glared at one another. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t tie these off individually, or I fucking do this my way.”
Ron looked to Hayden, who nodded and started unbuttoning his shirt. “You’re being obstinate.”
“Damn straight I am.”
“Your reluctance is understandable. However, what you apparently perceive as normal protocol is invalid.”
“Bullshit invalid. I’ll grant you I’m nothing but a fucking neophyte taxidermist, but I do know how to sew skin together.”
Hayden stripped off his shirt. “Actually,” he said, twisting his shoulder, “you don’t.” Mark looked, then looked again when he saw the pinkish welts. “These a good enough reason?” Tony stepped over from the fire.
“Oh my God… How’d you get those?”
“We’ll get there. What you need to know now is that these were pretty well sealed up only hours after Wheajo treated me with his analyzer.”
Tony blinked. “Hours?”
“Yeah, hours. And mostly healed overnight,” Hayden said, turning again to Mark. “Point is, the sooner you get Charlie sewn up, the sooner Wheajo can treat him as well.”
“How’s that… how’s that even possible?”
“Forget the how already,” Ron said. “Quit being an engineer for once in your life and do like
we’re telling you.”
“Proceed as your friend suggested, and I will explain the relevant fundamentals.”
Mark put aside the scissors. Overnight? “Okay,” he said, grateful for the distraction. “You talk; I’ll listen.”
Mark plunged the needle a quarter inch farther along the wound as Wheajo proceeded with a cursory explanation of the physiological changes initiated within Charlie’s body as a result of the treatments begun shortly after the attack. The discourse progressed through a stream of interrelated biological processes, from microwave induced plasmatic regeneration, though systemic protein transforms, and on to nucleic pooling, none of which he understood. His view of the world was primarily mechanistic, and Mark had always prided himself on being able to grasp the fundamentals of how things worked. Yet now he found that even the precepts governing operation of the yaltok were beyond him, a tool that Wheajo considered ‘functionally limited’ and had modified to address the present situation. That a Grotky-inspired device could accelerate cellular reconstruction in an alien species—namely his—was yet another humbling demonstration of exactly how far his own 20th century’s technology had to go before it could legitimately be called advanced.
The gaping hole in Charlie’s thigh was gradually closed, the blood, between stitches, wiped away. And as long dormant skills resurfaced, the purely physical act of sewing became almost second nature. Not so the bloody warmth and the smell of exposed flesh. Or Charlie’s tortured groans. Or the revolting fact he was closing a laceration inflicted by a dinosaur. Mark traded needles as the thread was consumed, his mind focused throughout on Wheajo’s discourse.
Mark felt a bit like a 3rd grader, posing questions to the teacher, the answers to which were so patently enigmatic as to render them essentially meaningless, each yet portraying the depth and interconnectivity of the processes set in motion through use of the analyzer. Wheajo clearly would not go over well at S&M Industries design briefings, where questions were assumed answerable in twenty five words or less, for fear, he suspected, of confusing managers who seldom had the background to comprehend the detailed workings of their own business….
