by David Boyle
“And exactly what was it you saw this morning?”
Mark reached out, stroking to counter when the wind nudged the bow sideways. “Like I told Prentler, I caught a patch of orange in the trees.”
“That’s it? A splotch of color? Sure it couldn’t have been a bird? Or sunlight reflecting off a leaf?”
“I guess that’s possible. But that orange? And in the same woods where she’s been?”
“I’m not big on coincidence either, but nothing you can hang that hat of yours on? No raggedy outline? No stripes?”
Undergoing the third degree was not unusual, and Mark tried hard to remember exactly what he’d seen. Like every morning of late, he’d been up before dawn and out to time the sunrise when he happened a glance at the forest. The sun was below the horizon and the sky on fire, and well back in the forest was a tiny, yet distinctive patch of orange. Sabrefang had come immediately to mind, and as if to confirm his suspicions, when next he’d looked, the splotch was gone. But was it her, or had he made an assumption? He hadn’t seen wings, but the flash of color could very well have belonged to a bird.
“No, nothing like that. Nothing positive.”
“Good.”
Paddles dipped silently as they cruised upriver, eyes and ears searching the trees, the east bank a twiggy patchwork of newly exposed mud flats and a stark reminder of just how far the river had fallen. The silt-free water reflected the ever darkening sky.
Ron craned up from his seat.
The river spilled over the rocks of what Mark had taken to calling Pussy Cat Rapids, the half dozen canoeable slots they’d had to choose from earlier down to just three. The foamy white line was mostly intact, water curling at the base of the rocks. Lots of rocks… and logs, the better part of a tree grounded at mid-river and hanging half out into space.
“Head for the break at eleven o’clock. Looks like we can drag across there without getting too wet.”
There were far more rocks showing than when they’d arrived, the rapid a series of flimsy curtains spilling noisily along the drop. Mark nosed the Tripper across the swirls, then ditched his paddle, waiting, and hopped out when the canoe made contact. The drop in the river was painfully apparent, the lead-in to the rapid choked with boulders.
“I knew the bastard was down. But damn… this is way more than I expected.” Ron stepped out and looked to the curve upriver. “When Wheajo said you’d gotten those roots near the end of the island, I figured you had to be somewhere near here. Didn’t you guys look at this?”
“Why would we?” Mark said, tired of the questions. “Rapid doesn’t sound any different…. Okay, so maybe a little.” The clouds were beginning to spit, the oncoming dinosaurs sounding little closer than before. Mark looped the painter around his wrist. “Grab on,” he said, snugging the rope. “If we’re lucky, we can pop one before the sky really opens up.”
Ron didn’t budge, and instead stood surveying the river, the next hundred or so yards looking to have almost as many rocks as water, with a sprinkling of driftwood for flavor. “You’re sure we can make it through there? Water’s damn shallow.”
“We’ll pole our way if we have to. That’s not anything new.” An ominous rumble rolled across the landscape from the northwest.
“Yeah. But normally we’re going downriver, not up.”
“We can do this. I mean, what the shit? Who knows when we’ll have another chance?” Ron stared off. There were dinosaurs upriver and around the bend, but for how long? Mark gave the rope a tug. “My fingers are about to fall off,” he said, hoping that an upbeat tone would break the deadlock. “You gonna help? Or do I have to haul this clunker of yours up by myself?”
Ron scuffed at the moss covering the slab, then went to a knee. The river poured like smoky crystal between the rocks, pulsating darkly as it spilled intact over the ledge beside the canoe. “Try not to get me too fucking wet, okay?” he said, propped on one hand, reaching with the other. “Start pulling, and I’ll try to… snag….”
Mark stared along Ron’s line of sight, searching the jumbled tree trunks piled atop the boulders at the head of the island. “See something?”
“Yeah,” Ron said, exchanging glances between the river and the island, first swiveling his head, then only his eyes. A calm settled across his face as if he’d reached a decision.
“You’re not thinking about giving up are you?” An almost French horn-sounding series of calls echoed softly from around the bend, eerily beautiful, and definitely closer. The honks of Corythosaurs.
“To tell the truth, I’m thinking about Plan B.”
“With dinner just around the corner? What, are you crazy? We don’t have time for Plan B. They’ll be here in—”
“You just said it Mark. They will be here. And I mean right the fuck across the river where we can nail one at our leisure.”
“Uh huh. And right in our back yard.” Mark didn’t like what he was hearing. “You all of a sudden forget about scavengers?”
“I didn’t forget. We’ll just have to be a little more choosy.” The wind was dragging tufts across the water. The rain coming in faint if ever-increasing sheets.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Calves is what. Little fuckers. Little enough that we can drag whatever we don’t use of the carcass into the river.”
“That’s Plan B? And what if—”
“Forget it, Mark. The river’s too low, and there’s too many damn rocks to deal with. And yeah, we can bust our asses and head up. And maybe get the shot. And then bust our asses all over again coming back.” He paused. “Or we sit tight here and let the fuckers come to us.” Ron knew his case was solid when Mark didn’t answer immediately. “Get in,” he said, the rain pelting their faces in earnest. “Let’s see if we can get settled before this shit really kicks in.”
The rain wasn’t helping his mood any, or the dinosaurs, or the view for that matter. From the bend north and including a wide sweep of the eastern side of the river, the landscape extended into the haze in a nearly flat expanse of shoulder high reeds, patchwork forests, and scattered clusters of bushes and trees. If the sun had stayed put there would at least have been color. Now the trees, the river, the sky… hell, everything was gray. Trusting the wind was an iffy proposition, yet based on where the honks seemed to be coming from, the dinosaurs were bottled up somewhere near the bend at the outer fringes of the tree line, maybe an eighth of a mile away.
A distant bolt lit the gloom, the clouds flickering a strange greenish blue before settling again to gray. The rain slanted into the trees, the wind sending needles of wetness through the seams of his rain gear as they huddled like rats in the crevices of the huge boulders at the head of the island. An hour had passed, though it seemed like ten, and only within the last few minutes had they caught even a glimpse of the pussyfooting corythosaurs.
Honks drifted along the river.
Ron poked his head up and tried dialing on the source.
Mark didn’t bother. Not this time. There’d been too many false alarms already. He’d have to move eventually, but was determined to stay put until he could hear the dinosaurs slopping through the shallows across the river.
At the moment Mark was thinking about his thermodynamics class, and about surface area to volume ratios, and how spheres had the lowest ratios, and how hot spheres in a convective environment cooled slower than any other shape. All reasons why Mark was currently balled in his best imitation fetal position, shivering regardless, and wishing he’d never taken Charlie’s advice. Wear it on the inside. What a swell idea that wasn’t! He snugged the soggy camouflage tight to his chest, its formerly excellent insulative properties now exactly zero. Hell, he might as well have been wearing a sponge.
“Any closer?” Mark sounded miserable, and he was.
Ron adjusted his cap to fend off the rain. “A little. There’s six… no seven of them coming out of the trees.”
“Anything shootable?”
Three additional h
eads appeared. “Not yet,” Ron said, and dropped the binoculars. The place had the looks of a bridge collapse, tree trunks and logs jutting in every direction, their every rain-darkened inch weathered to bare wood. The clouds so low they seemed in places to touch the ground. “Fucking sky looks like the head liner in the ‘75 Ford I used to own.”
Mark managed a chuckle. “You owned a beater too, huh? Mine was a Falcon,” he said, rubbing his hands.
“Stick or auto?” Ron asked, his gaze focused solidly on the river.
“I did say beater, didn’t I? Mine was a three speed. You remember. With the shifter on the column?”
“On the column… wow, they don’t make them like that anymore.”
Mark cupped his hands. “Yeah,” he blew through his fingers, “and they shouldn’t have then either.” He looked to Ron, still wondering if being here was the right thing to do. “Funny how three speeds disappeared and the auto manufacturers jumped to fives.”
“And along the way added electronic ignitions.” The lightning was getting closer, and Ron straightened a bit when the latest bolt flickered across the sky.
“Even better,” Mark agreed, the boom pounding like an invisible fist through the trees. “Course the changeover trashed most everything I knew about engines. Not that I enjoyed dicking around adjusting points and all that. But at least—”
“Hellooo, Sally.”
“Please tell me it’s something good,” Mark said, squeezing out from between the rocks. Ron was draped across the boulder, peering through the binoculars.
“I’ve got two so far. No… make that three.”
“Yeah well…. Took long enough.” Mark squinted into the rain, scanning upriver. The curved outline of a crest showed between the trees. And all at once, there they were: a disjointed line of dinosaurs parading slowly out from the tree line. Corys, and all adults. “McClure?”
“Yeah?” Thunder rumbled in the distance.
“You are talking little ones? Cause I can’t see—”
“I know the drill, Bennett. And yeah, the ones I’m talking about are little. Least ways they don’t have crests.” It wasn’t surprising Mark couldn’t see them. Even through the binoculars the smallest animals were just heads, their bodies mostly hidden by the tall reeds and scrub. “Give me a sec and you can….”
A big head rose sharply, its snout jerking toward the sky. Ron started counting. “One thousand, two thou—” The mournful honk carried into the trees. “Three hundred yards, give or take. Gives us plenty of time.”
Ron offered Mark the binoculars. “Here, look for yourself.”
“Forget it. How ‘bout we just get moving? We’re lucky, maybe we’ll finish before it gets dark.”
“You mean darker, don’t you?”
Mark nodded. “And what’s the deal with Sally? I haven’t heard that one before.”
Ron cased the binoculars. “Sleepers,” he explained, and buttoned the lid. “You know, like in bowling?”
“Oh,” Mark said, frowning. “And the connection…?”
“I never told you about Sally?”
Mark shook his head. “Nope.”
“Sally was a girlfriend of mine a couple of years back. High school actually,” he said, turning his back on the rock. “Damn, that is a long time ago…” He thought for a second. “Yeah, fourth period history. Mr. Turner’s class. And what a knockout. Five foot five. Blond hair down past her shoulders. A complexion you just wanted to touch, you know, real gentle like?”
“Uh huh,” Mark said, a smile creeping across his face. “And…?”
“And green eyes that made your dick hard just looking at her. Really beautiful. Sweet.” Ron sighed. “And the I.Q. of a potato…. Anyway, she never struck me as having tits. Always wore fluffy blouses or sweaters. Crossed her arms whenever she walked. You know the story: budding womanhood, self-conscious? Had good reason too. Cause Sally wasn’t just budding. Under all those baggy clothes were the most… how can I put it?”
“Voluptuous,” Mark offered.
“Fucking A, voluptuous. The nicest pair of knockers you ever did a brumski in. Creamy smooth… warm. Little puckered up nipples to roll around with your tongue.” Ron brushed at his arms. “Damn they were something. Made me realize why some girls always cross their arms. I mean hell, if I was built like that… I’d be cuddling them all the time too….
“Real sleepers,” Ron said wistfully. “Genuine Sallys.”
Mark had to chuckle. “Sleeper Sallys. I’ll remember that next time I hit the lanes.” Mark slouched against the rock, which was neither warm nor soft and cuddly, and peeked up river. The lead dinosaurs were finally picking up the pace. “So what ever happened to her?”
Ron shrugged. “She thought I was a jerk.”
Ron indexed the cylinder, verifying that all six primers were clean. Mark was checking the rifle. “Careful there. I’ve got one in the chamber.”
Mark latched the bolt. “And that makes how many?”
“Five,” Ron said. “It’s a small magazine.”
Mark tried snapping the rifle to his shoulder, but the stock caught the camouflage. Again and again he went through the motions until his face hit the cheek plate at the same instant his eye aligned with the sights. He looked to the dinosaurs, then snapped the rifle up, the sights settled squarely on a shoulder. He squeezed the trigger. “Bang, mother fucker. You’re dead.”
“Another time,” said Ron.
“I can dream, can’t I?” Mark had handled very few high caliber rifles, and then only at the range. “Weighted different than my shotgun. Still, it’s got a nice feel. Had it long?”
“You could say that. Took it over when my dad died.”
“That’s cool. The rifle I mean.” Except for the new scrapes, the checkering was in near mint condition, the raindrops beading like gems on the meticulously blued barrel. Mark read the engraving: Remington Model 700 BDL. “How people take care of their weapons says a lot about them. And by the looks of this, your old man knew what he was doing.”
Ron burped the dump bag and rolled down the end. “Taught me everything I know about hunting,” he said, a quiet longing in his voice. “That and how to build a decent duck blind. Fishing. Which end of a wrench to use….” He buckled the snap. “Too bad you never got a chance to meet him.”
“I would have liked that,” Mark said, trading the rifle for the dump bag. “Could have maybe taught you guys a little something about archery.”
Ron shot him a look. “My dad? Yeah right,” he said, searching the forest. Their trail was out there, buried under a leafy jumble of bushes and ferns. And for all the trees, not a one stood out as a memorable trail mark. “I don’t know what I hate more, the rain or these weeds. You remember how to get out of here?”
“No sweat,” Mark said. “This skinny shit runs the center of the better part of the island. Too many trees and not enough sunlight, something like that. Follow the bean poles, and you’ll end up in camp. From here we head out fifty, maybe sixty yards… hang a left. Should put us right on top of the boat.”
Ron cinched the rifle to his shoulder. “Lead on then. I’m right behind you. Just watch we don’t get bottled up in this shit.”
Mark glanced across the river, then headed off into the ferns.
The wind whispered through the forest, the accumulated rain falling straight down through the trees, drops splattering the fronds like fingers on the keys of a vast gray-green piano. The ground oozed with the smell of decay, twigs and branches crunching softly underfoot as they beat a path through the scratchy vegetation.
Mark swiped at the fronds, cursing, then gave up and started slashing with his knife, muted honks sounding in the distance.
“Fuck that. Just use your shoulder.”
“What do you think I’ve been doing? Cool it, alright? I’m doing the best I can.”
Which maybe he was, only the dinosaurs were doing better. And ahead was more of the same: more trees and bushes to go around, the same tangled fronds.
They’d passed the worst of the deadfalls, and toward the river Ron could see flecks of daylight showing through the overhangs. “Tell you what, Bennett, cut over. I’ll take longer over more of this crap.”
“But all we’ve got to do is get around—”
“Just do it, alright? We’re wasting time.”
Mark picked a direction, hurrying through the bushes and around the deadfalls piled across their path. It was faster, and soon they were burrowing through the willow thickets crowding the bank. Mark probed to the edge, did a quick scan of the drop, and backed off.
“Problem?”
“The lip is undercut. I tried to warn you. But no, you wouldn’t listen.” Mark peered through the branches hanging above the bank. “We’ve got to find another way down.”
A gust ruffled the stringy overhang, distant grunts mingling with the shimmying of leaves. “Can’t we just jump?”
“It’s an eight-foot drop, McClure. You feel like risking an ankle, be my guest.” Mark circled back, weaving in a crouch through the willows, a maze of limbs scraping their backs. He stopped a couple minutes later and went to a knee. “Like I said, we cut in too soon. The scuff marks on the other side of these trees…? That’s where we came in.”
Ron pulled up. “Save the bitching for later. We still need a way down to the boat.” The river glistened through chinks in the willows, the embankment tantalizingly close. Mark leaned to the ground, tipped his hat off, and stared under the branches. “We make it?”
“I think so. Give me a minute and I’ll check.” Mark bellied ahead, ripping at the branches and shoving the bigger ones out over the edge. “Yep, we’re good here,” he said, peeling an opening in the overhangs. “Still got an undercut. But there’s more than enough roots to climb.” He searched for the dinosaurs, but the willows along the bank were too thick. At that he had an elevated view of the far side of the rapid, the trees nearby, the routes they’d likely take, and where to set up an ambush. Froth pulsated below the rocks, a maze of dark fingers swirling upstream. Lots of eddies, but which one to—
