by David Boyle
Charlie snorted. “Yeah, well, I’m back aren’t I?”
Hayden caught up to Tony. “I’ll take it from—” Hayden blinked at Tony. “Damn, this thing is heavy.”
“Mark said whenever we left camp not to come back empty-handed.”
“I’ve heard that, though I don’t think he was talking about entire trees.” They stumbled along, Tony’s latest find carving a furrow all the way to the woodpile. “Next time, bring the axe.”
“I don’t think so. I cook, remember? I just got carried away is all.” Tony twisted and rubbed the small of his back. “The water jugs filled?”
“Sorry, Tony, I plum forgot. I’ll get to them.”
“That’s okay. I have to wash up anyway.” Tony scratched his cheek. “Think maybe I’ll shave while I’m at it. Drop a line in the water.” Tony went to find his fishing tackle while Hayden gathered up the water containers.
“Oh boy,” Charlie said, massaging his leg. “Fish for dinner. Now there’s a surprise.”
Hayden gave the water jugs to Tony, who traipsed away with his pole. “It’s that or go hungry.”
“All is not lost, Charlie,” Tony said, skipping backward on his way to the landing. “However you missed him, Ron’s back here poking around the swamp.”
“Okay, so that answers that question,” said Hayden. “I’ll take a walk and see how he’s doing. Anything I can get you before I take off?”
Charlie adjusted the analyzer. “Yeah, I need my leg to stop aching and these stitches to stop itchin’! And I’d like to be able to use my hand again!” His shadow cringed at the tone of his voice. “Sorry, Mike, I wasn’t yellin’ at you.” He looked to Hayden, frustrated. “How about a burger and fries?”
“I’ll stop if I run across any arches.”
Muck splattered when the thing flapped its tail. Ron reached along the shaft. “Stop squirming, you son-of-a-bitch.”
“Just flip him,” Hayden said, pressing the bushes flat. “I’ll make sure he doesn’t slide back.”
“You better,” Ron said, grunting as he dragged the spear through the mud, weeds and all and tossed the amphibian. Hayden pounced. “You got him?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
Ron slogged through the reeds. “Don’t give me you think so. That thing gets away—”
“I got him, okay?” Hayden said, the amphibian’s breath issuing like stale air from a tire when he pinned the thing with his knee. “There any more in here?”
“A couple maybe. The smart ones.” Ron dug through the bushes and found kill number one. “Not much of a meal, is it?.”
Hayden shrugged. “Been meaning to ask: You get a chance to try that throwing stick?”
“Once,” Ron said, slumping into the bushes. “All these branches and shit…? It’s hard to find enough room to swing your arm. Does put some oomph into your throw, though I’m a long ways from giving Mark a run for his money. Downside is, you can’t afford to miss ‘cause getting it out again can be a real pain.”
“Doubling the length of your throwing arm will do that.”
Ron looked over. “He dead yet?”
“Still squirming, but I think so.”
“Good, cause I’m ready to head back.” Ron swiped at the mud on his pants. “Yuk… Probably never going to get this stink out.”
“A tumble overnight in the rapid should take care of that.” Hayden checked the trees to get a bearing on the trail. “Me, I’d be more concerned about spreading that slime around. You remember what Wheajo said.”
Ron cringed, then jammed the spear and wiped mud from the amphibian’s face. The spots were there, and further back, the blood-red coloration. “Damn.... Once the water got stirred up, all I was interested in were eyeballs.”
“Uh huh. And now you know better,” said Hayden. "Just make sure you stay clear of the tent until you change pants.”
Hayden held a bundle of ferns over his head. “These okay?”
The cycads by the lake would work so much better. What he really needed was a Sunday copy of the Chicago Tribune. “Those the best you can find?”
“Give me a break, McClure. You want them or not?”
“Yeah, sure. Bring what you've got. I'll just have to be careful.”
Charlie hobbled over and leaned on his crutch. “So, how many’d you get?”
“Two,” Ron said, glancing about the campsite. “I know they were….” He frowned. “Where’d the water jugs go?”
“Tony took ‘em. Should be over by the landing.”
Ron started off, then stopped and stared at his hands. “Yeah right.”
“Problem?”
“I can’t go touching anything with this shit on my hands. Cross contamination and all that.” Mike came trotting over, rubber necking and eyeing the salamanders. “Better keep an eye on him. One bite and he’s—”
Charlie raised a hand, watching with a father’s confidence as his unlikely offspring sniffed to within inches… then pulled back and snorted. “Mike’s no dummy.” A pat on his thigh, and the dinosaur came strutting. “You know not to eat them, don’t cha?” he said, man and dinosaur nuzzling the other’s ear. “You’re such a good boy.”
Hayden shouldered through the brush and into the clearing. “I missing something?”
“Just Charlie losing his marbles,” said Ron. “Ferns go next to the dead guys. And now that I realize you’ve been yanking our chain, how about you grab one of the water bottles?”
Charlie looked to the landing. “From way over there?”
“That’s okay,” Hayden said. “I can get them.”
“And you’ve got slime on your hands, same as me.” Ron jacked his thumb. “Get going, Van Dyke. You’ve been faking it long enough.”
Charlie hung his head. “Slave driver,” he mumbled, hunching across the clearing with his long-tailed pet waddling alongside like a shadow.
“Slave driver, my ass.” Ron snorted. “Consider it exercise.”
“Can’t put my finger on it, but something’s different.”
Charlie winced as he shifted the crutch. “Good or bad?”
“I don’t know,” Hayden said, glancing when the wind ruffled the trees. “Something in the air… a smell maybe?”
Ron drizzled the last remnants of a package of Kool-Aid into the canteen. “There’s something in the air alright. What is that stuff, Tony?”
“Would you believe greens?”
“I can see that. Now how about answering the question?”
“What we have here,” Tony said, stirring the pot, “is a delectable mix of what Wheajo assures me are the most nutritious plants both on and off the island.” He looked to Ron. “You did know he’s made a few excursions across the channel?”
“Yeah… him and Mark both,” Ron said, sounding not at all pleased. “I’m not crazy about it either.”
Tony shrugged. “I suppose I feel the same way. But on the practical side, we’re getting to the point where we really don’t have a choice. I haven’t checked lately—haven’t wanted to, to be honest—but I’d be surprised if we had more than a can or two of vegetables left. Fish and these what… overgrown newts? don’t exactly constitute a balanced meal.”
Ron could see where he was going. “You’re worried about scurvy.”
“Scurvy?” Charlie squirmed. The dinosaur raised its head from his lap. “You mean like what the sailors used to get? The stuff Mrs. Livingston talked about in history class?”
“That’s right,” Tony said. “Sailors got it in the 1700s because they were isolated, just like we are. People then didn’t understand the importance of a balanced diet. But it’s not just an old disease. Scurvy is caused by a vitamin C deficiency. And if we’re not careful, and restrict our diet only to meat, we could end up having the same problems.”
“Great,” Charlie said, stroking his pet’s feathery neck. He already had enough of them to deal with, and here was another one.
“Don’t look so glum,” Ron said. “Tony’s got a handle on t
he situation, so it’s not like your teeth are going to start falling out.” Ron eyed the concoction bubbling in the pot. “Though I have to admit, the cure isn’t all that appetizing.”
“You always eat with your eyes?” Hayden asked. “My mom would have slapped me upside the head if….”
Mike was on his feet, hissing, the lips peeled back as the dinosaur padded warily toward the forest.
Shafts of sunlight slanted through the canopy. A sapling quivered beyond the clearing, then a spray of ferns, the disturbance moving steadily in their direction. Mike continued forward, still hissing, then slowed to a tail-wagging stop. Leaves parted a moment later to reveal the sweaty brim of a hat.
“It’s about time you two got back,” Tony said. “A few more minutes and—”
“Did you hear them?” Mark said, shoving his way into the clearing. He and Wheajo were muddy up to their elbows, both with a rolled up frond pinned to their chests.
“Heard what?” Ron said, laying aside the rifle. “We’ve been busy too.” The dinosaur trotted over to Mark, stretching, sniffing, and mostly getting under foot. Ron chuckled at both the dinosaur and them. “Been digging foxholes?”
“No, roots… Okay goofy, out of the way. You know, like underground?” Mark dropped his bundle beside the lean-to. Mike nosed in, the little arms clawing. “You’re like a little old lady at the grocery store. Go away already,” he scolded, tapping the dinosaur’s snout. “Go on, there’s nothing in there for you.” The head shifted, the always alert yellow eyes focused on Wheajo. “And stop with the hissing.”
Mark pointed to the dinosaur. “I could use a little help here, Charlie.” His master called, and the frisky dinosaur scampered off. “Just dump that on top, Wheajo. We can sort all this out later.”
“You were saying?” Hayden said.
“According to my buddy here, there’s a whole bunch of dinosaurs upriver.”
“A bunch more aptly applies to fruits,” Wheajo countered. “My actual reference was to a herd.”
“Go ahead and get technical,” Mark said, panning the campsite for something to wipe his hands. “See if I care.”
“Sounds like a good sign,” Ron said. “I take it you couldn’t hear them.”
Mark shook his head. “Nope, too far.”
“Comin’ or goin’?” Charlie asked. “And what kind?” Ron looked to Mark and rolled his eyes. “What?”
“Think about it,” Ron said, “and the first part should be pretty obvious. And they didn’t come running in here yelling ‘Take cover!’ did they?”
“Well… no.”
“That’s okay, Bull,” Hayden said. “I’ve been known to have my mouth going without my brain engaged too.”
“Yeah,” said Mark with a snicker. “Like that time with the Ops Director, Lindmeyer I think, the purchasing guys, Quality, and a half dozen Design Engineering schmucks. They’re bitching back and forth. And Lindmeyer points to Prentler, asks a question. Prentler’s half asleep, and I can see he hasn’t a clue what they’re talking about. But he starts up anyway, going on about a new circuit card that’s got nothing to do—”
“Not now, Bennett,” Ron said. “And especially if it’s got anything to do with that idiot Lindmeyer.”
Tony, stirring the pot, said: “You saying you didn’t see eye to eye with the Operations Director?” A cloud bathed the campsite in shadow.
“I’ll put it this way: that asshole was one of the reasons I left S&M.”
“It’s a sore subject,” Hayden offered.
Tony nodded. “I got that impression.”
“Okay,” Hayden said, returning to the issue at hand. “So we’ve got dinosaurs in the neighborhood. What’s our next step?”
“Eating would be good,” Tony suggested. “I’ve spent a lot of time on this, and I have no intention of letting it go to waste.”
Wheajo leaned over the fire pit. “An intriguing aroma. A recent acquisition?”
“Very,” Tony said, rearranging the pieces sizzling in the pan. “And unless you like carbonized newt, I suggest we eat sooner rather than later. But not until you wash up.” He jabbed the fork at the landing. “The river, gentlemen, is that way.”
Ron grabbed his rifle, “Any idea how far they are?” and started walking.
“Perhaps seven to twelve kurocs.”
Mark cursed when he stubbed his toe. “There’s one you missed, Charlie. And as far as distance, call it something over a mile.”
Charlie sat staring into the fire. Hayden beside him.
“Go on,” Tony said, a gust rustling the treetops.. “I know you both want to hear all about the dinosaurs.”
“Thanks, Tony…. Charlie, you coming?”
“I ain’t goin’ anywhere, so why the fuck bother? I’d just be gettin’ in the way.”
Hayden shrugged. There was no comforting Charlie, now or any time soon. Mike, for his part, seemed well aware of the general upswing in mood, like a puppy with too many toys, prancing in circles and not knowing which way to go. “Come on, shithead,” Hayden said, patting his thigh. “Let’s see if we can find you some fish.”
Their sojourn at the river’s edge was brief, Ron grilling Wheajo about what he did and didn’t know about the dinosaurs. Too, he was confident the answers weren’t embellished because Wheajo, unlike the management dicks at S&M, had the gonads to say ‘I don’t know’ as opposed to making shit up as he went along. He was certain, for example, that the animals approaching were hadrosaurs, though he couldn’t identify the type, because, in his words, “the vocalizations were too discordant and indistinct.”
With an unlimited supply of rifle ammunition, the size and type of animal wouldn’t have been an issue. But Ron had already burned through nearly a third of what he’d brought, and he was no longer interested in using the rifle for anything other than defense. Which left the s.s. Ruger Blackhawk .44 Magnum to bring down animals potentially weighing a thousand pounds or more—babies on the one hand, and juveniles the other—their parents’ reactions dependent largely on species. The long-horned Parasaurs were particularly ornery, and best left alone except under the most favorable conditions.
They’d had ample examples of how far the calls of the duckbills carried, and with Wheajo able to hear them, and Mark not, guesses at how far they were ranged from one to two miles. So long as the animals kept to the river, they’d make an identification eventually and know whether a hunt was even feasible. Head inland, and the hunt was off regardless.
They were cautiously optimistic in spite of the weather, the sun in a span of ten minutes having been banished from the sky, the clouds churning ever darker by the time they started eating.
Much to Tony’s relief.
Set up initially to house Charlie during his first days’ recuperation, the lean-to was fine for rainy day or night discussions, though nowhere near big enough to fit everyone when it came to mealtime. Lucky them, they didn’t need it.
Not yet anyway.
While Tony’s combination of amphibian parts and recently acquired veggies was an unqualified success, their afternoon brunch was brought to an abrupt if not totally unexpected end with the onset of the first clearly audible honks.
The temperature was dropping and the wind gusting as Ron and Mark got settled in the Tripper. “Hang on to them just the same,” Hayden insisted from atop the landing, a rumble drumming in the distance. “You don’t know how long you’ll be out there. And hypothermia just isn’t something you want to mess with.”
“He’s gotcha there, Bennett,” Charlie said.
“Yeah but….”
“But what?”
“It’s noisy. You know, like crinkly? Animals can spook when they hear that kinda shit.”
Ron finished strapping in the rifle. “Okay Bennett, get us out of here.” He stared upriver. “And if this sky keeps up like it is, we’re not going to have to worry about noise.” Mark kicked the rain gear under his seat, then jabbed his paddle overboard and shoved the canoe into the current.
“Do like I do if it starts rainin’,” Charlie said. “Wear it under. The camo acts like a muffler, and you can still move around.”
The camouflage was on loan, and, especially in Mark’s case, almost big enough to swim in. “Guess that could work. Thanks. Could be I’ll give that a try.”
“Careful, fellas. And good hunting. Oh, and try to remember… tender pieces.”
Ron nixed the canoe’s drift while Mark swung the bow into the current. “No promises, Delgado, but we will try.” Paddles hit the water and quickly synchronized once the Tripper gained momentum. “Wheajo, you’ve got the com.”
The alien searched for a translation, his studious expression quick to catch Hayden’s eye. “It’s military slang that’s short for saying you’re in command.”
A crease wrinkled the 2nd Armund to the Science Officer’s cheek. “Proper deportment will be maintained.”
39
They were meat hunters, plain and simple, the A-team component of what had in effect become a band of hunter-gatherers, their earlier romantic notions of exotic trophies quashed by their rapidly dwindling supplies to mere subsistence. Their quarry was a well enough known commodity, and both suspected their ‘hunt’ would feel more like jack-lighting cows in a pasture. Big and dumb, and while protective of their young, totally unsuspecting of two gun-toting dopes in a canoe.
Their plan was simple: portage the rapid at the head of the island, continue up river until they located the duckbills, set up an ambush, and pop the first target of opportunity. Preferably without having to leave the river. Yet even now thunder was booming in the distance, the sullen sky growing increasingly ugly as they hurried up river. Trees along the banks shimmied in bowed submission, the forest closing ranks in an all too familiar conspiracy to funnel the quickening wind squarely into their faces.
A flurry of honks sounded in the distance, the ‘stay close’ warble of duckbills feeding in a group. Windblown and distorted, the voices were beginning to sound more like Corys than their bigger, more contentious cousins, the Parasaurs. However that went, they didn’t have a choice in the matter, and they’d have to wait until they got past the rapids and paddled upstream to know for sure which kind they were dealing with.
