by David Boyle
They followed the path of broken ferns. The air was cool, the forest in full shade, the leaves high above rustled by the occasional gust. They moved quietly through the forest, Hayden busy watching his feet when Wheajo grabbed his arm, and motioned him not to speak. The alien put down the jug, staring off. Mark followed his gaze, then peeled the rifle from his shoulder.
They stood listening, the silence suddenly overpowering. The hiss was there, the sounds of the rapid now so familiar that they normally went unnoticed, the whispering trees absent the songs of the typically ubiquitous birds. They peered about the lush quilt of greens and browns. Mark stepped quietly to Hayden, then curled his hands in front of his glasses. Hayden nodded, and slipped the backpack to the ground. Mark fished out the binoculars, then pocketed his glasses and scanned the forest. He stopped, and for long seconds stared at what seemed a particular tree. “See anything?” Hayden asked in a hush.
“I’m not sure.” Mark shifted position, adjusting the focus, and flinched when he recognized what he was seeing. “There’s someone on one of the platforms.”
Hayden frowned. “Why would….” The blood drained from his face, his eyes darting about the forest. “But that would mean—”
“Shhhh,” Mark warned, a finger to his lips.
Hayden swallowed. “Jesus.”
Mark directed Wheajo to a spot in the trees, then stepped cautiously forward and looked again. There was too much clutter to get a clear view, but enough that Mark knew who was in the tree. He scanned lower, and could see blood on the trunk. “It’s Bull,” he whispered, handing Wheajo the binoculars. “Too much shit in the way to see the other platform, but Bull is definitely hurt.”
A gust rustled the trees, the air suddenly ripe with the stench of rotting meat.
Wheajo stepped quietly to a nearby deadfall and climbed a limb onto the trunk. He scanned the trees, then the forest floor, pausing for long seconds before retracing his steps.
“It’s her, isn’t it?” Hayden whispered.
Wheajo nodded. “Mr. McClure occupies the adjacent cúpaq.” That he didn’t mention Tony showed immediately on Hayden’s face.
“It’s a big island, Prentler. He’s out here somewhere.”
“Whatever their status, we must leave immediately.”
“Leave?” Hayden whispered. “And pass up the chance to shoot her? Wasn’t that the point of you practicing?”
“That place wasn’t near the jungle this is,” Mark argued. “We all want her dead, but even if Wheajo and I hit her perfectly, big as she is, there’s nothing to say she wouldn’t be able to run us all down.” He glanced nervously about the forest. “Might not get us all, at least not right away. But unless every round were to hit vitals, I doubt ‘right away’ would matter.”
“A frontal attack here would be unwise. There is an alternate approach, however.”
“We’re all ears, Wheajo.”
“Come, and I will explain.”
They withdrew to the channel, and after discussing their options, left the backpack and water jugs alongshore and paddled the Tripper back to Boulder Rapid.
43
Remote and noisy, the end of the island seemed the safest place to discuss what to do about Sabrefang. Considering how massive she was, killing her was not a viable option. With scavengers close and apex predators clearly able to reach the island, there was no realistic means of disposing of her remains quickly enough to avoid drawing other predators to the island. Wheajo’s was a daring plan that covered all the bases so long as she reacted on instinct.
Mark was skeptical. Hayden was more direct. “I don’t like it. Not one little bit. I’ve got no problem with the boat, and if what I saw happen to that dinosaur’s head is any indication, Mark is good to go with the rifle. You on the other hand have no fallback whatever.”
“I will observe due caution.”
“This isn’t like climbing the evergreen. Or like fighting those things on the hillside. There you could at least move around. And I know you’re fast, but if you’re not fast enough, or if she takes more of an interest in you than me, you have no way out. None. And I hate putting it like this, but of all of us, the one person we cannot lose, is you. If she catches you, we’re dead no matter what happens after. You see where I’m coming from?”
“Most assuredly.”
“Good, then that means I….”
Wheajo waited while Hayden did the mental gymnastics, confident in the conclusion Hayden would come to.
“We’ve each got a role to play here, Prentler. Roles that aren’t interchangeable. Put any one of us in a different position, and the plan you already don’t like ends up looking even worse.”
“But there’s got to be another way,” Hayden said, searching for the option he was certain had to be there. “Just think about it. This is way too risky.”
“You are indubitably correct in supposing that a better approach exists. And, given time, I have no doubt we would find it. Consider, however, that your friend is wounded, and if judged by the loss of blood I observed, severely. If he yet lives, he is in need of our help. And that help must arrive soon.”
“Wheajo’s right. The longer we wait, the worse off it is for Charlie.”
Hayden stood with his eyes flitting. “Alright.” he said finally. “We’ll do it your way. Just don’t get yourself killed.”
“I will exercise the utmost caution.”
They dropped off the carcass, then walked the Tripper around the point before paddling upstream in search of a spot for Mark. Hayden nosed to shore fifty yards short of the landing. Mark got out and untangled the painter while Wheajo settled in at the bow.
“This is for all the marbles guys. Wheajo….” Mark swallowed, trying to regain his composure. “Just watch her, okay? You too. Close enough to keep her interested is all you need.”
Hayden nodded. “I’ll try to remember.”
“I’m serious. Same goes for the drop.”
Hayden jammed his paddle overboard. “Any time, Wheajo.” They eased the Tripper into the current. “Good luck, Mark. And don’t miss.”
They were a dozen yards shy of the landing.
“This is insane, Wheajo. At least put the camouflage on.”
Wheajo hesitated, and took the shirt more to calm the human’s nerves. “You are to hold your position as long as possible.”
“Will do,” Hayden said, watching as Wheajo crept alongshore.
There were gouges in the mud: shoeprints from someone struggling to climb to the top, and a single three-toed print where the bank met the shore. Clearly, this was where the beast had gained access, a single step all that was required for the animal to top the bank. Wheajo located a piece of driftwood, and after freshening the steps carved earlier in the bank, started up.
He paused near the top and scanned the campsite. Body parts lay scattered past the lip, two legs and an arm. All Tony’s.
“Don’t be a hero,” Hayden whispered from the boat.
“Nor you,” the alien said before slipping over the bank.
*****
Ron had never seriously believed that Wheajo’s cúpaqs would ever be used. The platform was hard and uneven, and after what had to be nearly half the day, he was achy, thirsty, and still very much in shock. Twice he’d started dozing, and each time he’d seen Tony being eaten, and he’d worked hard to keep his eyes open ever since, his gaze inevitably drifting to Charlie, slumped on the other platform barely twenty yards away. He couldn’t imagine how, but Charlie had managed to tourniquet his leg. For all the good it had done. Tony was dead, and now, so was Charlie.
Ron tried for the hundredth time to remember if he’d seen or heard anything that would have saved Tony’s life. Five seconds earlier and maybe he could have gotten there in time. Five lousy seconds. Five.
But he hadn’t, and now Tony was dead.
The thoughts wouldn’t go away. Somehow, some way, he should have been there, or been faster. Or taken the rifle yesterday instead of the revolver s
o Bennett wouldn’t have panicked and he could have pumped every round he had into the bitch like he’d wanted. Yesterday. Not even. The whole thing with the duckbills hadn’t happened twenty-four hours ago… and now everything had changed.
His leg was falling asleep, and he glanced at the bitch to make sure she wasn’t watching before moving his foot. Sabrefang didn’t like when things moved, and after seeing how high she could jump, Ron wasn’t about to aggravate her any more than she already was. To look at her now made his stomach churn, knowing that Tony at this very moment was being… digested.
Ron rolled his shoulder and tipped his head, staring along the trail toward camp. He’d finished the stored water hours ago, and wasn’t surprised that his eyes were playing tricks. A couple of hours and already signs of dehydration.
And it was still early. The round trip paddle was a minimum five hours. Add to that however long the hike would take, and he had a good amount of time to go before anyone would be back. And when they did, they’d be tired… and maybe not careful enough, and come busting through the damn woods… and straight into Sabrefang… which he wasn't about to let happen. Risky sure, but in another hour he’d start pelting the bitch with branches. Get the cocksucker moving, and before they even started up the channel his friends would know she’d made it onto the island.
Another movement. Ron peered through the pines. Once, and maybe it was his imagination. Twice? No, there’s something out there. Mike? A shifting pattern, like a shadow almost, winked on and off in the distance, something moving slowly along the trail. A hint of blue glinted through the trees….
“He wouldn’t,” Ron mumbled, righting himself and sending bits of bark clattering to the ground. He cringed as the big head turned slowly. Sleepy eyes flicked open. The jaws parted, though more on reflex, the huge fangs forcing an image of an enormous snake as the head settled slowly to the ground.
There was no seeing clearly past where the trail jogged right, the movement barely more than shifting glimpses of color seen momentarily through the trees. The color was there, that distinctive blue, and Ron was still trying to come up with what else it could be when Wheajo made the turn.
The alien stood there looking as if everything was just fucking peachy. Ron waved—Look up, damn it!—the platform creaking with the tiny shifts in weight. And still Wheajo ignored him, though not so Sabrefang. The eyes fluttered open, a ripple of recognition coursing along her body. The legs tensed, and she rose to her feet, head back, a threatening gurgle in her throat.
Damn.
Ron was certain Wheajo had to have heard her. Yet there he was, watching from the center of the trail!
“Wheajo, you idiot! Get out of here!”
The human’s reaction was not unexpected, the beast still unaware of his presence. Charlie was slumped across the shattered cúpaq, the lower part of one leg shredded and missing a foot. Blood had splashed along the trunk, the bark flayed by Sabrefang’s repeated attempts to reach him. The man was not moving, and there were no signs of his ever-present pet, a void that implied the man’s feathered companion was dead as well.
The predator snarled into the tree.
Wheajo strode forward along the trail, an action that got Ron waving his arms and up onto his feet. “Are you out of your fucking mind!” he screamed above the snarls.
Wheajo stopped. “Kuchi kara!” The big head swung around, searching. “Kuchi kara… para tuchu!” he shouted, extending an arm.
The predator drooped forward and onto one paw, a rumble burbling in her throat. The eyes locked on. The long tail stilled.
“God damn it, Wheajo. Get your ass out of here!”
The alien turned and sprinted away, glancing as he made the turn to be certain she was following. A snarl rippled through the trees, Ron screaming to hurry as the predator thudded after him.
Wheajo raced past the shattered barricades, heading for camp, and turned hard right on entering the clearing. Footfalls pounded along the trail, the enraged predator fast approaching when he slipped beneath the Discovery, the camp-facing side of the canoe thumping softly to the ground seconds later.
*****
Sabrefang lumbered into the clearing, the sweep of her tail tearing loose the hold downs and sending the lean-to fluttering. The lair reeked of uprights, and she strode slowly forward, a gurgle in her throat as she followed the scents across the clearing. She pulled up, searching, and noticed the smooth red slumbering beside the bushes. A clawed arm reached to the ground, and she nosed forward, sniffing….
“Over here, dumbass!”
Sabrefang rose with a snarl.
“You heard me!” An upright was in the water trail, a flattened paw above its head. “Come and get me!”
Sabrefang charged across the clearing and leaped from the bank, smacking the river, waves spreading as she bobbed to the surface, focused on her overconfident prey.
The man thing in the red was so very close. She kicked forward.
“That’s right… keep coming.”
Sabrefang snarled.
*****
There were times when it was okay to hotdog, and times when a single missed stroke meant a long swim beside an overturned boat. Mark was tracking the head, but the barrel kept snagging branches. At that Hayden was barely beyond her reach, and until that changed he couldn’t risk taking the shot. Mark wished he could tell him that, but there was still the chance she could make it back to the island. Hayden was doing a bang up job of holding her attention. Keep at it, and not only wouldn’t she be able to get to the island, she wouldn’t make it out of the river at all before being carried into the rapids.
The Tripper cleared the bushes, Sabrefang closing while Mark tried sighting on her head. Unlike with the yellow-head, this shot wouldn’t be for practice, and Mark could feel the old demons returning as the rush of adrenaline kicked in. His hands were shaking, his already elevated heart rate still climbing. Mark was in the grips of Buck Fever, and he hoped for once in his life that he’d be able to control it.
Hayden was all of ten feet from her nose; every piece of the beast showing—the head, the ridged back, an occasional sweep of the tail—the parts above water shiny black as she struggled toward the canoe. Mark couldn’t steady the rifle, and he shifted from her head to her back, the sights twitching to the beat of his heart…. Kablam! Water shot up, two feet past her back. Hayden flinched, birds scattered from the trees, the imperturbable predator yet fixed on the ever-so-close canoe, the pair slipping ever farther downstream.
The separation between Hayden and Sabrefang was shrinking by the second. Good job and all. He just didn’t know it was over.
“Get away from her…! Damn it, Prentler, move!” Hayden looked up. “Get outta the way!” Mark shouted, waving. Hayden swung the boat, stroking and gaining speed as he moved to separate himself from the course-altering dinosaur. Mark held off, waiting until Hayden cleared his line of fire. Then too, Sabrefang had either seen or heard the rapid and was angling the opposite way toward shore. Kablam! Water kicked up, this time five feet past. Round ejected. Kablam! A plate above her shoulder shattered.
Mark had never taken such long shots, not even at the range, and he could literally see the delay between the shot and the impact. He imagined the bullet’s travel and how much it would drop in the time it took to get there. All distractions he inwardly hoped would help him concentrate on making the next one count.
Sabrefang staggered upright when her foot contacted bottom.
Mark stared along the still quivering barrel, his shoulder bunched against a tree. She stepped clear of the river, chest heaving as she sloshed through the shallows to shore. And she stood there, breathing hard and staring at the retreating canoe. The hunter in him admired her magnificence, standing there, panting, with the rapids exploding just downstream. A gigantic dinosaurian tiger, the wavy orange fingers reaching along her flanks like fire licking into an inky black sky. An awe-inspiring predator that Mark was about to put out of their misery.
The shakes subsided. The sights settled on her chest.
Mark squeezed…. Click.
*****
“I still can’t believe it,” Mark said, focused on the rifle in his lap while his partner grounded the Tripper.
Hayden stared at the bank. “I was wondering what I was seeing before.” There were footprints below the landing, and from around the point tracks in the mud spaced far enough apart that even he could see that Sabrefang had been on the run before scaling the bank, the last of the three-toed impressions overlaying either Ron or Tony’s, with Wheajo’s prints in two instances overlaying them both.
Mark stepped out, then Hayden, the two studying the shoreline. “How much time between them?”
The tracks Mark was interested in were but hours old. “If there’s any separation between them, I’d say it was only minutes.” A stick poked from the bank, small if not quite human footprints marking the hastily carved divots in the incline. “Wait here and I'll take a look.”
“Don't you think we should get the boat out of sight first?”
“Son-of-a-bitch,” Mark said, and started for the boat. “Screwing up really messes with my head.” He grabbed the rifle. “Here, you can reach higher than me. Slide this out of the way so we won't step on it. And careful not to get mud on the bolt.”
Mark shoved the stern out, waiting, and with Hayden's help hauled the canoe from the river and wrestled it against the bank.
“You got it?”
Mark tried wiggling his feet. “Yeah, I'm solid.”
Hayden shinnied up the bank, got an arm over, and seemed about to continue when he jerked to a stop.
“What’s the matter?” Mark waited. “Talk to me, man. What do you see?”
He took a breath, and once over the top took hold of the gunnel. “Shove your end up here,” he said, a strange lilt to his voice when he started pulling. Mark lifted and pushed, the Tripper soon tilting onto its belly before sliding away.
