by David Boyle
Hayden felt the hesitation in his partner’s strokes. After the months they’d spent together in canoes, Hayden was accustomed to reading his friend’s thoughts and emotions through the vibrations in the hull. “That, my friend, was an ‘Atta Boy’,” he offered. “In case you were wondering.”
Mark snorted. “Uh huh. And if that’s supposed to make me feel better… guess what? It doesn’t.” Paddles dipped in synchrony as the Tripper slipped silently across the void. “And Wheajo, how about a little feedback every once in a while?”
“As you wish.”
Going from guessing to knowing with certainty where he was, was a step in the right direction, though how Wheajo did it, he couldn’t care less. Mark had his feedback—finally—and that was all that mattered: a whispered set of fives that told him he was on target and paralleling shore at a distance of roughly five boat lengths.
With growing confidence that they weren’t about to pile into shore, Mark picked up the pace. Paddles dipped silently, not many minutes passing before the river-wide hiss of churning water stretched across the darkness. Mark feathered his paddle at an estimated fifty yards from the ledge. “Range?”
“Eight and closing,” came the reply.
“Right about where I figured.” Mark looked to starboard, presumably toward shore. It was just so damn black. He really needed to have his head examined. “You picking up any sign of the bitch?”
“None whatsoever,” Wheajo said.
“Yeah, well, don’t be bashful if you do. And give me a heads up when we get within four lengths or so. I’d like to be ready before the current gets swirly.”
“Understood.”
“And Prentler… ready with the brakes in case I’m wrong.”
“Thanks for the warning.”
They edged forward, the rush of the rapid's many cascades growing ever louder in the darkness. Wheajo made the call; Mark and Hayden down shifting to dead slow. A bubbly hiss filled the air. Invisible swirls started jostling the boat.
“All stop,” said Mark, smoothly switching to figure eights. “I’m locked on this end, Prentler. You?”
“Yeah I… I think so,” Hayden said, stroking just enough to cancel the current. He listened to the water pouring over the ledge. “Sounds bony. Any rocks I should know about?”
“Not that I remember,” Mark said, leaning overboard and working the water. “I assume you can see the clearing. Any sign of the carcass?”
“No. The remains have apparently been moved to a more secluded location. The animal was killed where?”
“Quartering out from where the rapids hit shore, twenty five… maybe thirty yards.” Mark caught himself. “Sorry, make that five or six boat lengths. She was in a crouch, came up at the shot, and tossed the arm off to the right somewhere.”
“Distance?”
“If I have to guess… A boat length? Two? Seems to me I remember staring down Sabrefang’s throat at the time.”
“Understood,” Wheajo said, panning the clearing. “I will establish an appropriate search pattern.”
Mark and Hayden held the canoe in position, treading water in effect, while Wheajo made a thorough search of the forest. Was Sabrefang nearby? And if not, were others lurking in the darkness, ready to take her place? The thoughts swirled as the minutes passed. The encounters they’d experienced. The near misses. Charlie’s brush with death. Wheajo wasn’t in any hurry, and considering the possibilities, neither were they.
“I can detect nothing to indicate animals in the vicinity,” Wheajo announced long minutes later. “We can proceed.”
Mark and Hayden ferried slowly across the blackness.
“Five forward, two,” Wheajo said, calling their position. “Four forward, one and a half….
“Four forward, one….
“One half….”
Mark felt his paddle hit bottom. “We’re there,” he whispered, then leaned out on his paddle and, pulling, grounded the canoe. The blackness smelled of vegetation and the cattle-like scent of fresh dung. Churning water sounded off the bow and extended to port across the river; to starboard the damp shimmy of leaves rustling about an expansive gap in the trees.
The boat quivered momentarily, and a tiny splash sounded when someone stepped out. Staring into the darkness, Mark flinched when the alien took his hand. The grip was firm, and so very strange; a hand with two thumbs. He swallowed. “I’m good here, Wheajo. You keep an eye out.” He twisted around. “Prentler, you got those flashlights?”
“Lights will not be necessary,” Wheajo said.
Mark felt overboard with his foot. “That’s where you’re wrong. And no, I’m not going to use them like you think.” He unzipped his whitewater boots. “However good you think you can see, you haven’t ever done a search in crap like this”—he peeled off a sock—“but I have. We’re going to have to skirt ferns, bushes, and who knows what else? And take it from me, following a straight line after zigzagging back and forth isn’t easy. Not in daylight, and sure as hell not when it’s pitch black.”
He snugged on his boots. “Prentler?”
“Right here,” Hayden said, feeling along the gunnel and frowning when he heard zippers. “What are you up to?”
Mark got a flashlight and, after slipping it in a sock, flipped the switch, the light showing as a flat blue disk. “Forgot I wasn’t wearing white… Anyway, it doesn’t throw a beam this way. The inside guy, which I’m assuming is you Wheajo, pokes this in the ground at the start of our search pattern, and the other one at the end. We all shift, and the guy on the outside of the returning leg uses the first light to guide his way back. We move the flashlights at the end of each sweep. It’ll take longer, sure. But we won’t miss sections.”
“Nor will we search sections twice.”
“Yep,” Mark said in a hush, filling sock number two. “That’s the idea.”
“A good one too,” said Hayden. “Yeah, I like that.”
They dragged the Tripper onto the mud. There were oddly-shaped depressions everywhere, footprints left by the hadrosaurs. Hayden unhooked the stern painter. “Wheajo, loop this around your waste. There’s a carabineer on the end, so you don’t have to tie it.
“Mark, you want the middle or the end?”
“Middle’s good. It’s safer.”
“You shithead.”
“Hey, I’m here because of you.” Mark snugged the rope under his life jacket. “And this is the last time. No more exploring in the dark bullshit.”
“Uh huh,” Hayden said, tying off. He was scared too. “And if you’d have put your foot down harder, we wouldn’t be here at all.”
“You’re talking about McClure, aren’t you? I told you—”
“Discussion over,” Wheajo said sharply. “Do you know your location?”
Mark got himself oriented in relation to the rapid. “Follow my arm,” Mark said, pointing. “This way about four should put us well outside where we need to start.”
“Acknowledged,” Wheajo said, starting at once across the clearing, Mark and Hayden stumbling behind as if blind men on a leash.
The blackness was absolute, the ground a mass of leaves and branches, their footfalls lost in the rapid’s nearby hiss. Fingers reached from the darkness, the touch of a twig enough to send shivers along their spines. “How much further?” Hayden asked, feeling with his feet, groping.
“Another two,” Wheajo said crisply. When pressed, he also confirmed that Sabrefang had indeed moved her kill. Had in fact carried it off, a feat that even Wheajo found hard to believe. But how far? Tens of yards? A hundred? And after filling her belly, would she leave the carcass, or linger nearby to protect it?
A fine mist was falling, the air swirling with an acrid combination of dung and urine. And now a new smell… blood. The kill site was close, as was the spot where Sabrefang had stood just hours ago, every whispered rustle drawing Mark and Hayden’s immediate attention. It was difficult to imagine even Sabrefang being able to see in such inky blackness. But then,
they’d had the same thoughts about Wheajo, without whom simply finding their way to the boat would be very difficult.
“I’m beginning to think this wasn’t such a swell idea,” Hayden whispered.
“You should have thought about….” The rope had gone slack. “Wheajo?”
“We will begin here,” said an alien voice, stepping silently and physically positioning them in a line. “Be aware there are moderate to dense clusters of vegetation throughout our search area. If the rope retards our progress, we may have to abandon its use. At present, try to maintain contact as we proceed forward.”
“We’ll do our best,” Mark said, taking a fix when Wheajo set the flashlight.
They headed slowly toward the sound of rapids reflecting from the tree line, shifting positions when saplings or thick clumps of vegetation blocked someone’s passage. The first sweep covered what felt to Mark like thirty yards. After reassuring Wheajo that the distance was adequate, Mark, on second thought, suggested they do an end-around as opposed to shifting the line. “I’d rather have a smidge more coverage than less.”
The line came around, the three shifting a few steps before Hayden marked his position with the flashlight. That task complete, they marched a path opposite and parallel to the direction they’d come. For Mark and Hayden it was tedious going, arms outstretched, groping about the darkness; feet probing the ground and at times stumbling in dinosaur tracks or over piled dung. Ears focused on the rapid, the trees, and the whispered rustle of their own feet.
A clearing for dinosaurs maybe. For them each thirty-yard sweep was a struggle.
They swept around for pass number three.
Then a forth.
“You were right about the flashlights,” Hayden said, wedging himself between an exceptionally sticky pair of bushes. “Without them I don’t know how we’d ever find our—”
Mark caught the muffled thump, the rope jiggling at his waist. “Hayden? Hayden, you okay?”
“Yeah. I just tripped over….” Hayden reached out, patting. “Oh, that’s pretty gross. But yeah, I think I found it.” More patting. “Yeah, this is it. Wheajo, are you anywhere—”
“Yes,” Wheajo replied. “And please lower your voice. Drawing the predator’s attention now would be most unfortunate.”
“Sorry about that,” Hayden said, this time in a whisper. “Check it out, guys. There’s way more here than just the arm.” Hayden felt Mark’s hand on his shoulder, then felt it slip away. “Find it?”
“Yeah, I got it now. And I see what you mean. Just the arm and it’s probably as long as I am tall. Hope it weighs less.” They heard whispered shuffling as Wheajo settled beside them.
“Yes indeed. A substantial mass,” said the disembodied voice. “Much will need to be discarded; the skeletal components, the skin. Portions of contaminated flesh.”
Hayden couldn’t stifle the chuckle. “I like to think I’m pretty analytical, but come on, Wheajo. We just accomplished the impossible. How about a wow? Or ‘great job, guys’…? Something with a little enthusiasm?”
“I regret my comments do not meet with your approval,” the alien said stiffly. “Our mission objective can only be considered complete, however, once we return to our encampment. Perhaps then we can more adequately celebrate our good fortune. At present, we must depart.”
“Think he’ll ever really catch on?”
“Probably not.” Mark turned, hopefully to Wheajo. “If you get the flashlights, Hayden and I will try to get a handle on this leg.”
“Agreed,” Wheajo said. A faint metallic click sounded, and the rope went limp. Wheajo hurried off, Mark feeling about the darkness as he wrapped and knotted the rope around the unfortunate dinosaur’s arm.
Hayden was surprised that even with the rain, the limb was still slightly warm. “You said this would be longer than you. Hell, it’s longer than me!”
Mark got up and tugged on the rope. “Just let’s hope it isn’t all strings. Nice to have, but definitely not the cut I was hoping for. Forelimbs, and no matter how big, have a tendency to lots of tendons.” He cocked an ear to the darkness, trying to judge how far to the river. “You about ready?”
“Oh yeah. And I know you’re in a hurry, but shouldn’t we wait for Wheajo?”
“Maybe, maybe not. All I know is, I’m starving.”
*****
Charlie was sitting on the bank above the landing when Mike rose snarling to his feet. Charlie reached out, listening. “It’s okay, fella,” he cooed softly, stroking the dinosaur’s quivering flank. “Easy now… easy.” Mike turned and licked his face. “Uh huh, I love you to. Just settle down already.”
He’d been waiting for what seemed forever, staring into the darkness and growing more nervous by the minute. And maybe that’s what it was, Mike feeding off his nerves. But then, Mike always got a little twitchy when Sabrefang was in the neighborhood. His being here was a good sign. Maybe she really had left. Charlie hoped so. Having Sabrefang around could drive anybody crazy.
A faint bump sounded upriver. The dinosaur’s head came around, hissing.
“That’s enough, okay? I can’t hear with you—” Another bump. The sound of a paddle grazing a gunnel. That’s gotta be Prentler. “Tony… Ron,” Charlie called into camp. “Sounds like they’re back.”
“Finally,” Tony said, jumping up from beside the tarp and squishing toward the landing.
“Anybody home?” The voice echoed in the darkness.
“You assholes,” Charlie said to the darkness. “What took you so long?”
“Hey,” said a voice, “is that any way to greet guys with gifts?”
Tony pulled up, panting. “They’re back?”
“Can’t see ‘em yet, but they’re there.”
Tony sighed. “Thank God!”
A beam of light appeared, a fuzzy cone sweeping the shoreline. “Turn in here,” someone said.
“I see it,” said another.
Tony blew smoke at the darkness. “Was it scary?” he asked, flicking the ash from his cigarette.
“You have no fucking idea,” Mark said, eddying behind the stump. “Paddling without being able to see your hands is not an activity I’d recommend.”
“And… did you find it?”
Mark took a stroke. “I’ll put it this way: we got good news, and bad news.” The Tripper grounded, a surge sloshing along an invisible shoreline.
“I’ll bite,” Ron said. “So what’s the bad news?”
“Figures you’d start there…. The bad news is we’re going to work our asses off getting the boat up.”
“Why’s that?” Tony asked.
Hayden turned on the flashlight, the beam illuminating Wheajo astride a scaly arm nearly half the length of the boat. “Because—and this is the good news—we got enough here to feed us all for a week!”
It took longer than they expected to get the Tripper to the top of the landing. The limb was still relatively clean, and with no desire to contaminate if further, they were forced to leave it in the canoe. Between the hours-long rain and the Tripper’s previous trip up and down the bank, finding secure footing was difficult, and it took their combined efforts to haul the canoe and its precious cargo up the slippery incline. But spirits were high, and the effort served well as a means of wiping the slate clean of the day’s earlier tensions.
The limb was severed from the shoulder blade, which, after being stuffed in doubled garbage bags, was summarily hoisted into a tree to await curing come tomorrow. ‘Y’d branches and a practice spear served as a roasting rack, juicy slivers disappearing from the hadrosaur’s left foreleg whenever Tony turned his back.
The rain had ended, at least temporarily, and Mark especially was more than ready for a set of dry clothes. He came out of his tent, smiling broadly. “I feel like a new man.”
“Here,” Tony said, handing him the brandy. “You earned this today.”
Mark swirled the half empty bottle, frowning skeptically. “I didn’t think we had this much lef
t. What, were you holding out? Or’d you brew more?”
“Neither,” Hayden said, lounging beside the fire. “Go ahead, take a swig.”
He did, then looked to Tony, “You cut it, didn’t you?”
“Just a little.”
“That’s okay. It’s still got a bite. Not much, but enough to know I’m not drinking Kool-Aid.”
Charlie carved a hunk off the limb. “Mark?”
Mark stuck out his hand. “Thanks.”
“No sign of the carcass, huh?” Ron asked.
“We didn’t exactly go over and look,” Hayden said. “But Wheajo didn’t see anything, and I believe him.”
“The carcass was gone,” Wheajo confirmed.
Hayden chocked down his last bite. “Don’t stop there, Wheajo. Tell him the rest.” Ron looked over, waiting.
“I could find no trace of drag marks. The carcass was apparently carried.”
“No shit? Damn.” Ron shook his head. “If that doesn’t talk to how strong that bitch is, I don’t know what will.”
Charlie cut a morsel for Mike. “Not the fingers. Okay, that’s better.” He turned to Ron. “Makes ya wonder if you did make a hit.”
“I hit her, alright. She’s just one very tough bitch.” Until the Big One hit, there were likely few occasions where they’d ever again allow themselves a whole can of beer, and Ron was taking full advantage. He took a luxuriant sip. “I was wrong about you guys going over there. Wheajo,” Ron held up the can, “this one’s for you. Good plan.”
Wheajo returned the gesture with a formal nod. “And I must thank my companions, for their bravery, and their confidence. You were at a distinct disadvantage, yet you chose to follow. I could not ask more of my shipmates.”
“Can’t say it was a pleasure,” Mark admitted. “You know, the paddling part, and the stomping around in the woods? But hey, we’re in this together. Someday, maybe you can be my bowman.”
