by David Boyle
“I could be wrong,” Tony said, settling on one of Mark’s chairs. “But I get the impression you two didn’t get along.”
“Wasn’t just me. Him and my dad especially. Carl had a couple of run-ins with the law. Nothing major, but enough to push my dad over the line. I never figured out if he left, or was thrown out. What I do remember is not being all that broken up about it.” Ron kicked a stub into the fire. “So now big brother Carl drives a truck for an outfit in Portland. Long haul stuff if I remember right, mostly along the coast.” Ron shook his head.
“What?”
“I say that like I can get in my car and head west and find the truck stop where he has breakfast on his way to L.A. Then I look… and see all this.”
Tony’s gaze drifted about the campsite. “Even now, it is still hard to believe.”
“I doubt this trip will amount to anything, but it has got me thinking.”
“How’s that?” Tony said, stuffing strips in a well-used paper bag.
“We’re overdue, right? There’s your wife, and Mark’s, all of them will have been calling the police.”
“I’ve stayed away from that kind of detail. But they’ll be on the phone alright.”
“And however long it takes to find either Mark’s wagon or the Blazer, the cops will probably have towed the damn things away.” Ron presently started chuckling.
“And that’s funny?”
“Probably not. But end up dying in the boondocks because the cops impounded the car? Be kind of weird, don’t you think?”
“You’re the one who’s weird.”
They packed the duffle with the latest batch of smoked dinosaur and raised it into the tree across from the tarps, after which they drifted into camp.
“What position does he play?” Ron asked, stopping at the woodpile.
“Load me up,” Tony said, and stuck out his arms. “Last year was mostly second base. Which I guess was okay.” Ron dropped a couple of branches in his arms, Tony nodding to add a couple more. “I still don’t understand the tryouts nonsense, but Wes has his eye on playing either second base, or pitching.” A burst of snarls issued from across the river.
“Never did Little League. In my neighborhood, your dad had to be connected, and mine wasn’t.” Ron dropped a limb over his arm to the sound of high pitched screeching.
“They’re really going at it today,” Tony said, peering off and across the river. “It always makes me nervous when scavengers are around.”
Ron finished stacking and got his arms situated. “Personally, I’d rather hear them than not,” he said, and started to the fire pit.
“So the racket’s a good thing?”
“We know where the bad guys are, and know Sabrefang isn’t on the kill to protect it.”
“And that’s because….”
“She had a big meal, and if she’s anything like most predators, she’s in the woods somewhere sleeping it off.” Ron dumped the firewood. “Right on top, Tony.” The last of the bunch went clattering. “I think we’re pretty much caught up. Anything else we need to do?”
Tony looked back. “I don’t think…. Okay, one more thing.”
“Which is?”
“We’re nearly out of water, and with the rain last night, it’s going to need time to settle.”
“I can help with that.”
“That’s okay, I can handle it. And if the river is clear enough, I might even try wetting a line.”
“They’re still biting after I get some shut-eye… I might even join you. And watch going down. With all the dragging we did with the boat yesterday, the steps will be slippery.”
“I’ll be careful,” Tony assured him, and grabbed the water jugs. “And if fishing isn’t a go, you up for some two-handed poker?”
“Sure,” Ron said, slumping to his knees at the doorway. “So long as you’re up to losing.”
Ron fluffed his sleeping bag before collapsing on top. It wasn’t all that often he and Tony had the place to themselves. Or that most every chore was done so early in the day. The tent was a mess, and maybe later he’d do some straightening. Get Prentler’s shit put away. Maybe sweep out the mud. They’d be cutting it close, but there was still a chance they’d get a batch or two more through the smoker before what was left of the meat got too ripe to risk curing.
He closed his eyes and listened. There were two factions arguing over the kill. A good ways back too, which was amazing considering Sabrefang had to have either carried or dragged it there. The scavengers were too far off to identify, and whatever they were, he was hoping they’d figure out soon who was boss and shut the hell up. As confident as he was that Mark and Wheajo would be coming home empty, he was also hoping they’d prove him wrong.
A tree swished faintly in the forest, and a voice called out. “McClure!”
“So much for having the place to ourselves,” Ron mumbled to the tent.
“McClure!”
Ron came around and poked his head out. “I heard you the first time, Charlie. What’s up?” Charlie hurried across the clearing, Mike trotting with his feathers puffed up and craning at the river. Ron got nervously to his feet. “What is it?”
“Where’s Delgado?” Charlie panted, almost wheezing, a wild expression on his face.
“You just missed him. He’s down by the landing getting….” Ron turned when he heard splashing upriver.
“It’s her,” Charlie said, trembling, staring past his tent. “It’s Sabrefang.” The splashes came with a rhythmic cadence, each louder than the last.
“Go, Charlie! Get to the stands! I’ll get Tony.”
Tony’s voice carried from the landing: “Help, McClure! You up there?” Mike hissed.
“You heard me!” Ron said, sprinting away. “Get moving!”
The splashes were closing, the footfalls barely a second apart. “I’m coming, Tony!”
“Hurry!” A hand showed above the bank. “She’s coming, Ron, she’s coming! For God sakes, hurry!”
Ron raced past the Discovery and skidded to his knees at the landing. “Here, grab my hand!”
Tony leaped up, their fingers touching for but an instant. “Oh my God!”
“Forget her!” Ron snapped, dropping nearly to his chest. “Give me that hand of yours!” Tony threw himself at the bank. Their fingers locked. “I’ve got you. Just don’t let go!” Tony was in a panic, digging, scraping, and was gaining ground when Ron clamped his wrist. He felt the sticky warmth, Tony’s fingers bleeding from where his nails had been.
Muddy smacks closed on the landing.
“Hurry, Ron! Hurry…!”
Ron dragged him over the lip. “Almost there!” he yelled, tugging as the beast splashed from behind the trees. Tony clawed at the ground, kicking. Sabrefang marched forward, and Ron was struggling to yank Tony to his feet when the tigress lunged and bit him across the chest. Ron could feel Tony's ribs snapping, and he saw the tortured look on his friend's face when his head jerked back with a shriek of pure agony, blood spraying as daggers plunged into his body. Ron’s grip failed when the dinosaur raised her head. He hit the ground and scuttled away, his mind screaming it was only a nightmare as Sabrefang stepped effortlessly onto the bank.
The dinosaur stared down as if at a bug, legs dangling from the side of her face, fangs jutting, blood gurgling from Tony’s lips when he tried to scream. The jaws worked, an arm and a leg flinching before Tony went limp, the eyes staring when an arm thumped to the ground. Ron could feel his stomach churning as he skittered beside the overturned canoe.
The predator stood watching, her jaws working as she shifted Tony’s body. Her head turned, and a clawed arm reached to rip the gangly legs away, blood spurting when they hit the ground. She tossed her head back, and Ron got to his feet and ran when the jaws went to work. He spotted the spears, and angled toward the hanger tree, never slowing as he raked a hand through the neatly arranged shafts, snagging two and sending the rest clattering as he sprinted toward the trail.
She snarled viciously
as he made the turn, the grove of densely packed pines flashing past as if in a dream. He saw the jaws clamp down, and the agony on Tony’s face. And heard him talking about Wesley and baseball tryouts, and the chirpy excitement in his voice when he recounted his first ever drive and how close the duckbill had gotten.
And now Tony was dead. Eaten!
His vision was blurred, his feet carrying him forward as if in another time and place. It simply couldn’t be. No way, he couldn’t be dead….
A snarl blared amid the thump of approaching footfalls.
A snarl blared amid the thump of approaching footfalls. The trail swerved left, and so did Ron, the first of the barricades a long fifteen yards further on. The forest rushed past, his thoughts a blur of images when he threw himself to the ground, feet shy of the spikes. The spears went under, Ron following on hands and knees when the whole of the barricade surged forward, the adjacent pines crashing against their neighbors, the poles stacked across the trail crackling with the strain of the monster’s impact. Ron got the spears and jumped to his feet, Sabrefang snarling in a rage as she nipped and clawed at the prickly barrier.
“You bitch!” he hollered, and cranked his arm back, waiting. The big head slewed in his direction, the eyes glaring as he launched the spear. On target until it nicked a spike, the spear caught the beast high in the shoulder, a metallic click sounding when the broadhead struck bone. Sabrefang snarled, claws swiping away the shaft before she turned to the barricade, and, biting between the spikes, began tearing away the poles.
Ron raced through the pines, grateful for the barricades, yet knowing now that the next one would likely fall even faster than the first. Another jog in the trail, and he turned sharply, noticing too that the spear in his hand was made for practice. Fire-hardened to help it endure repeated impacts, the shaft in his hand was useless as a weapon!
He sprinted toward the last of the barricades, defenseless, an infuriated dinosaur storming in his wake.
There was no sign of Mike, and from this high Charlie couldn’t see anything through the trees past the turn. The snarls were close. He’d heard Ron, but so far nothing more from Tony, and he was focused on the trail when he finally spotted movement.
Ron sprinted around the curve, the forest in his wake thrashing as Sabrefang ripped the last of their wooden barricades apart. “Hurry, McClure! And… and where’s Tony?” Slashes of yellow orange winked through the trees. “Faster, man… You need to get climbin’ already!” Another movement, this one below, Mike slinking along the trail. “Mike, get back here!”
A bloodied Sabrefang lumbered around the turn, a snarl sizzling from between her teeth when she caught sight of Ron. She strode forward, head down, and didn't notice the feathered defender racing after until it nipped her foot. The predator stopped, the eyes searching, Ron hurrying up the tree when Mike shot between the monster’s legs and snapped at an ankle before scampering away. Sabrefang turned when her tiny attacker came again, her tail slamming the trees, Mike racing clear of the bushes when a long arm swiped him off his feet and into the forest.
“Mike…!” Charlie screamed, reaching as if to soften his pet’s fall.
The muscled neck twisted, golden eyes searching the trees.
Ron hesitated just shy of the platform. “Shut up, Charlie!” But Charlie wasn’t listening.
“Mike, why would you do that?”
Sabrefang ran in a crouch, Charlie stretched against the safety line when she leaped. The tigress was far more agile than Ron thought possible. The long arms snagged the trunk, and the jaws clamped shut on the platform’s outermost supports. The branches snapped when she fell, and Charlie jolted down, the safety line pinching his ribs. He reached up, twisting, and got an arm over the limb, his feet scraping air when Sabrefang leaped again, snapping.
Charlie jolted down, then struggled onto the remaining limbs of the platform.
Ron gasped when he saw the blood spurting, and realized Sabrefang had torn part of his leg off.
*****
“…And you’re doing this why?”
Mark checked that he had a round chambered. “Practice,” he said, and latched the bolt.
The hike back had been as uneventful as the one going. Their gear was secure. They were back on the river. The trip, however, was not quite over. The yellow-heads were still in the area, and Hayden was now closing on the bank.
Knowing how hard the raft was to paddle, Hayden had known the instant he’d spotted Mark and Wheajo that the trip had been a bust. After dreaming about home and how close they actually were to getting there, knowing that tomorrow wasn’t the day was a very hard pill to swallow.
“Wasn’t a total waste,” Mark said, putting the day’s efforts in perspective. “We got the trail marked, verified that the flag is where you left it, and made sure the raft is in good shape. Got a slew of pictures, too.”
“He was most insistent.”
“I bet he was,” Hayden sighed, disappointed about home, yet relieved to see them. “Place as pretty as you remember?”
“Oh yeah. Not as many critters, but just as pretty. The Kings especially.”
“The Kings?”
“The trees where I spent the night.” Hayden nodded. “Except that I knew Wheajo would blow a gasket, I would have taken some time to get my feet wet.”
Hayden angled toward shore when he spotted movement in the woods. “I know the feeling.”
“A long lens would have been nice. Still, I think Tony will be happy. Got one or two that might even have a shot at making the cover of Tony’s issue of National Geographic.”
Hayden grounded the Tripper. Mark stepped out, then grabbed the rifle and steadied the canoe for Wheajo, who carried the handgun primarily to administer the coup de grâce if needed. The browsers showed but minor interest as Mark and Wheajo climbed the bank. They were a little over twice the size of Mike. Big enough to supplement their stores and small enough to present a meaningful target.
Mark found a tree that provided a comfortable rest.
Hayden nosed the canoe from shore, checking alongshore both upstream and down while Mark waited. “Nothing moving that I can see.”
Mark parked his shoulder against the tree. Of all the animals nearby, he had a clear shot at any of eight. They were all pretty, the males with a black stripe running down the back of an otherwise all yellow head and neck, though whether that was true was presently a guess. They were close to the same size, and Mark saw no need to be particular. At around thirty yards, the shot was only a little shy of his maximum if he'd been using his bow. He flipped off the safety. Took a deep breath. The sights steadied— Kablam!—and the back of the dinosaur’s head pretty much exploded. The dinosaur collapsed, then flopped on the ground while its companions scattered into the forest.
They watched and waited, and once the thrashing stopped hurried over to a very pretty, very dead dinosaur. Mark went to a knee and stroked the animal’s flank. For him, the thrill just wasn’t there. “That was easy.”
Wheajo considered the animal laying in the weeds. “If your practice session is over, please proceed with processing so we can begin our journey.”
Mark had come to recognize the alien’s subtleties well enough to know that Wheajo did not approve of his using live animals for target practice. Which was fine. “Take the picture, Wheajo. And don’t mess it up. This here is my first ever kill with a high powered rifle.”
*****
They’d made good time, trading places every hour or so to allow everyone a break from paddling. Shadows stretched across the river, the sun yet high enough that they’d be settled long before sundown.
The water level was holding, the rock garden, as always, a long and difficult haul, the hull thunking rocks as they wrenched the Tripper up the slippery cascade. It was a fifteen-minute hike through the rapids, and they were wet, weary, and looking forward to a good meal by the time the canoe was back in the channel.
“There’s just no excuse for it,” Mark said, stroking t
he canoe between the deadfalls littering the waterway. “A gust alongshore can maybe blow one into the river. But lose both water jugs? That’s just careless.”
“I’m not going to make excuses,” Hayden said wearily. “But we found them, okay? They’re filled, and we have water. So leave it already.”
Hayden and Mark had been griping at each other since finding the water jugs floating downriver. The trip had been a tiring disappointment, and Hayden didn’t want to hear any more about who had lost them. Even more disturbing was the question Wheajo had raised about how such a loss could have occurred. They’d have the answers soon enough, and that would hopefully be the end of it. A good meal was what he needed. And right after, a soft place to get horizontal. Hayden swung the stern around a log.
Mark poked his head up, sniffing. “What is that?” He twisted around. “You guys can’t smell that?”
Hayden took a stroke. “I don’t smell anything.” Another turn and their paddling for the day would be over.
“Nor I,” Wheajo said.
“How about that? The human side of the ledger finally has a checkmark!”
“I was unaware that a competition existed.”
They maneuvered the Tripper around the latest curve. “I thought this looked familiar,” said Hayden, glad to be home when he grounded the canoe, minutes later. Mark got out, then Wheajo, and after off-loading the backpack, the rifle, and the recently rescued water jugs, they snugged the Tripper tight to the bank. Mark untied the painter. “We’re not taking your dinosaur back?”
“Not until after I get something to eat,” Mark said, wrapping the painter around a convenient branch. “I get some dry clothes on, I’m hoping I can persuade McClure to give us a hand with that.”
Hayden climbed out and waited while they got to the top of the bank, then handed the water bottles to Wheajo. “And try holding off about these until we find out what happened.”
Mark was still simmering. “We’ll see.”
