by David Boyle
An off-color curve in the mud was actually a bottle cap, which Mark rinsed before sticking in his pocket, the chill on realizing what it was changing to dread when he realized that the parallel grooves in the bank were the gouges made by fingers digging for purchase. There were traces of blood in many of the slots, a few with shattered bits of fingernails. “Holy shit….”
Ron hit the clearing, spotted Hayden, and raced toward the landing. “I need one of the throw ropes.” Hayden was slumped on the edge of the Tripper, shocked most likely and staring as Mark hauled himself over the edge. Ron slowed, glancing in the boat. “Where the hell’s the pack?”
Mark started over. “What happ….” He staggered back, staring at the legs, and a step later spotted part of an arm. There was horror in his eyes, then revulsion, and Ron watched as Mark stumbled into the trees and puked.
“Hayden, listen to me. I need those ropes, and I need water.” Ron waited for a second, Mark in the grips of the dry heaves. “Prentler, you with me?”
Hayden nodded. “I knew it could happen, but I somehow thought—”
“Stop! We don’t have time for this. Wheajo just told me Charlie’s alive. The bitch tore part of his fucking leg off, and while I haven’t a clue why he’s alive, if we don’t get him out of that tree, we could lose him too.”
Hayden got to his feet, dazed but functional. “You said water?”
“Water to clean him up, and one of the throw ropes. Once he’s down, we’re going to need a litter to get him back to camp.”
“Got it,” Hayden said, and trotted off.
Ron followed as far as Charlie's tent. “Hold up a second.” He ducked inside, grabbed Tony's blanket and sleeping bag, then shoved the blanket at Hayden—“Drop this off on your way”—and hurried back to the landing. He laid out the sleeping bag, and, gritting his teeth, placed the legs one beside the other, then got the arm from the bushes and placed it on top. “You need to be done, Bennett,” he said, covering Tony's remains with the flap.
“Ron, I can’t…. We were just bullshitting this morning.”
“Mark, I’m not doing this twice. I need you to cut me a log, two feet… maybe two and a half long, and six to eight inches in diameter.”
“You want me to what?”
“You know what a bosun’s chair is?”
“Not really, but I think I know where you’re going,” Mark said, desperate for anything to replace the horrors swirling in his head.
“Split it, and shave away the splinters. I don’t know how hard it’ll be getting Charlie in, so if you know where the tape is, might be good to have so the rope doesn’t slip off.” Ron looked him in the eyes. “You know what to do?”
“Yeah, I was just using the axe yesterday.” Mark swallowed. “She finally did it, didn’t she?”
Ron clenched his jaw. “Don’t take long with that seat. And bring the axe. We’re going to need poles for a litter.”
Mark glanced at the sleeping bag. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“Just drop it,” Hayden said, and caught the yaltok, the sound of chopping coming from well back in the forest. Ron pulled Charlie over, shifting his weight so Wheajo could slip the plank under his leg. It was awkward, working so close together in the tree, and it took time before they had their impromptu bosun’s chair close enough to his body that Charlie wouldn’t fall.
Ron took the slack out, and after looping the rope around a branch supporting the cúpaq, fed it down to Hayden. “Where’s Bennett?”
Hayden took hold. “Just come down. Between the three of us, we can do this without him.”
“I told him to wait.”
“And he needed something to wrap his brain around,” Hayden said, holding firm as Ron and Wheajo eased Charlie away from the trunk.
Wheajo checked the belt they’d wrapped around Charlie’s chest and the junction with the ropes of the bosun’s chair. “Go,” he said. “I will follow him down.” Ron glanced when the clacks started up again, the sounds from a new direction.
“Forget it, McClure. Just get down here.”
Once they were ready, Wheajo slipped Charlie off the platform. The rope went taut, though manageably so, and they let it play slowly through their fingers, lowering Charlie while Wheajo climbed beside him and made sure he didn’t slip. Hayden could see slivers of bone poking through the meat, and looked away when they got Charlie to the ground.
Ron undid his belt. “Where’s that other jug?”
“And the yaltok,” Wheajo said, working the lift chair along Charlie’s legs, careful not to disturb the tourniquet.
Hayden tossed Ron the water jug and Wheajo the yaltok, then stripped the throw rope from the tree. The clacking had stopped, and he knew Mark would be back soon. “What else do you want me to do?”
“You said you could do this with a knife?”
“I believe so,” Wheajo said.
Ron pulled his hunting knife. “I’m not sure where this was last. Make sure it’s clean.”
Hayden went to work on the knife, at the same time spotting movement in the woods. The blade didn’t need much work. “It’s here when you need it,” Hayden said, and laid the knife on the blanket. “I’ll give Mark a hand with the poles.”
Directing the yaltok, Ron tapped the control as Wheajo carved at the softened edges of the bone. “Again?” he asked.
“No. From this point, our primary objective will be to keep the wounds clean. If he survives the next few hours, he should recover without long term effects.” Wheajo’s treatments had stopped the bleeding, the stump of Charlie’s leg a sticky blue-black mass that was apparently considered normal, if there could be such a thing.
“No stitches this time?”
“The prior wounds required closure to prevent shifting and contamination. As he will not be walking for a time, immobilization as was required earlier will not be necessary.” Hayden and Mark were approaching through the trees. “If, however, you believe such will not be the case, either I or Mark can more fully close the wound.”
Charlie groaned, and Ron reached for the jug. “Just asking is all. Of the accidents I attended, I only saw a few that were similar to this. Where I come from, losing an arm or a leg, or even a part of one, require a huge amount of effort. The yaltok changes all that, and I’m still coming up to speed.”
Just then, Mark and Hayden came pounding along the trail carrying a pair of logs.
“I hope these are good,” Mark panted, and laid them on the ground. “They long enough?”
“They’re fine,” Ron said, glancing. “If you could get them evened up would be good. And these ends might be tough to hold, so if you could whittle them down some, that would be good too.”
“Done,” Mark said, glancing before darting away.
Another groan, Ron there to drizzle water across Charlie’s lips. And his mouth opened, greedily lapping at the wetness. “Easy there,” Ron said, holding off. Charlie’s eyes fluttered, trying to focus, the arms reaching when Ron dripped water into his mouth. Charlie grabbed hold, gulping.
Wheajo shoved the jug back. “Slowly….”
Ron was nodding. “Not so fast, okay?”
Charlie drank, three long swallows, and finally took a breath. “Where’s… where’s Mike?” he gasped, and tipped the jug again. Hayden swept the forest, frantic, only now realizing who else was missing. “Where’s… Mike?” said a still groggy Charlie, momentarily sated, his arms slumping to his chest.
“I didn’t know he was missing. And after seeing Tony… I thought she must have….” Hayden cringed when he realized what he was saying.
Mark hurried back with a piece of a log. “What now?’ he asked, the three huddled beside Charlie.
“Your friend has inquired about Mike.”
Mark blinked, as stunned as was Hayden.
“I was halfway up when I heard him yelling, and when I looked, him and Sabrefang were staring back that way. So I’m guessing that’s where he ran.”
“No,” Charlie s
aid with grimace. “He didn’t… run.” He sucked in a breath, his back arching off the ground, then settling. “Mike… tried to stop her…. But he wouldn’t… listen. And she reached down… and she threw him!”
“Where?” Ron asked. “Where did she throw him?”
“Into the woods… She threw him…!”
Ron eased his head down. “It’s okay. We’ll find him.”
“Promise?” Charlie whispered.
“However long it takes, we’ll find him.” Ron turned to Hayden, Mark. “Go. We’ll work on the litter.”
Between the trees and the cover, finding an animal the size of Mike was proving more difficult than Hayden anticipated. “This isn’t working,” he said, slapping twigs from the trees. “There has to be a better way of doing this.”
“You think of one, let me know,” Mark said. “Keep looking. I’ll see if I can figure out where she hit him.” He went back to the trail, Ron and Wheajo binding the blanket to the poles as he searched for scuff marks. Sabrefang’s tracks were easy enough to spot, though it took more than a glance to determine which way they were going. He searched the ground, and was still wondering what for when he noticed a cluster of prints near the bend in the trail, a few turned sideways where Sabrefang had stopped and started. He panned in a circle, and trotted off-trail when he spotted a feather. Blue-green, with a tinge of yellow, the feather was from Mike’s lower chest. Mark reached with a stick and knocked it from the branch.
“Move on over a ways. You’re too far up.”
Hayden looked, then started over. “You find something?”
“Yeah, a feather.” Mark got a bearing on the trail, then ducked under a limb and went back to searching. “And if she tagged him where I’m thinking, he should be out here somewhere.” He squeezed between a bloom of ferns. “And keep an eye on the trees. If he flew through the….”
Crunching sounded in Hayden’s direction. “If he what?”
“It’s another feather!” Mark eased forward, searching, and spotted more in the branches ahead. “Yep, he’s in here alright. Keep moving the way we are, and we’ll find him. He’s here somewhere.”
Hayden caught a splash of color—“I think… Yeah, I see feathers too!”—and a few steps later said: “Shit…! Is that blood?”
Mark swiped at the ferns. “I’ll tell you in a second.” The fronds ahead were streaked with a shiny dark wetness, Mark busy ripping when a feathery head darted forward, jaws snapping. He stumbled back, blinking. Hissssss!! The dinosaur’s arm was broken, its right side a tangled matt of feathers, pine needles, and blood. Mark sucked in a breath, swallowed. “Found him!”
Hayden poked his head up. “He alive?”
“Oh yeah. Little shit’s busted up some, but he’s alive alright.”
“Thank God!” Hayden said, turning. “McClure?!”
“Yeah?”
“Van Dyke comes to again, tell him we found Mike. And he’s alive!”
*****
The last rays of daylight were skimming the ridge atop the meadow. The river slipped past, the big rapid thundering, mist curling up from the drop. The winds were down. Birds sang as they flitted across the river.
“He really loved this spot,” Ron said, gazing downriver. The ground was too rocky to bury Tony here, his remains entombed farther back in the forest and deep enough so they wouldn’t draw predators. Nearby was a pile of rocks with a few of his belongings and a small cross set to overlook the river. Mark and Hayden were sitting with their legs dangling over the ledge; Hayden too shocked to talk, Mark sobbing quietly.
Ron looked back briefly, then stared blankly ahead. Wheajo stepped from the forest. “Thanks for your help. I gather he finally settled down.”
“Yes,” Wheajo said, not immune to the site and the memories of the long hours he and Tony had spent here together. “I am sorry about your friend.”
“Except for the lake, I doubt there’s a prettier spot around,” Ron said, the river churning in the deepening shadow of the forest, a tinge of twilight on the few clouds drifting across the sky. He looked to the marker. “Tony shouldn’t have died like that…. Nobody should.”
“Il sera en effet manqué,” Wheajo said. “Au revoir, mon ami.”
44
There were thunderheads building to the northwest, and after all the false starts for going on nearly two weeks, even Charlie wasn’t buying. A few booms, then an hour or two of rain: the place was beginning to remind him of Florida in summer. At least he was mobile again, though still struggling with the notion he was a cripple. Wheajo had yesterday spotted Sabrefang prowling the forest opposite camp, and despite the fact that she’d made no attempt to gain access to the island, Charlie was certain she eventually would. Tony was dead, and he was a cripple, and the next time he wasn’t going to make it to the cúpaqs in time.
The trail barriers had been rebuilt within days of the attack and the cúpaqs fortified with better, flatter, and far more comfortable platforms. More water as well, the many used beer cans sealed by way of the plastic baggies long buried under the tarps. The steps had been deepened to provide better footing; and planks hammered into the bank so that never again would anyone be caught by the river. They’d considered establishing a perimeter of pikes around the campsite, but the task was impractical given that no one had a viable means of preventing access from the river.
The fishing had been unproductive since the storm of three days ago, though if patterns held, it would improve as the river level dropped to a more normal level. With the exception of Charlie, they’d all made forays west of the channel to forage edible plants, and at Wheajo’s suggestion to search for a site to possibly set up an outpost that would overlook the island. The few trails discovered were rarely used, with the steepness of the hillside ranking high as a contributing factor. And while off-island treks were now an almost daily occurrence, they had encountered dinosaurs on the hillside only twice, one brilliantly patterned member of the most recent group becoming the centerpiece of the evening’s meal.
The effective amputation of Charlie’s leg had necessitated the use of techniques not previously required, and it was during his search of the yaltok’s database that Wheajo discovered a process that everyone likened to wood welding. So long as the pieces were fresh, and carved to provide good interfacial contact, the yaltok facilitated bonding of even different species of wood through the melding of cellulose within the fibers. Created initially to aid grafting, when applied to well-fitted pieces of the local forestry, the process was astonishing in its ability to create bonds at least as structurally sound as the best epoxies. Mark and Charlie had most recently applied time and effort to the manufacture of furniture, both separately and together. As Hayden had observed, gone were the days of Mark’s creaky chairs.
Despite the improved living conditions, Tony’s death had sensitized everyone to the risks they were facing and brought to the fore the always-lingering question whether any of them would ever make it home. Storms had come and gone, none of any consequence, everyone knowing that minute by minute the dawzon was bleeding power. They’d confirmed, too, that they were in either late winter or spring, stirring speculation about whether they were at the beginning or end of a wet or dry season. In under two weeks the dawzon’s power reserves would be exhausted, the effect being to reduce their chances of a strike immensely. And with the prospect of losing the gains provided by the dawzon, they had agreed that if a storm of consequence did not occur within the next six days, they would return to the lake and reduce the dawzon’s output in order to extend its operation.
It was noon or thereabouts, according to the sun, and Mark and Hayden were headed in from their latest tour of the island. Ron was working through yesterday’s batch of roots, scraping the skin and being not in the least particular. “Anything?”
“Nope,” Mark said, picking a bit of vine from around the holster. “And if whatever we heard did get on the island, which I doubt, it didn’t make it across dry. We checked every line from t
he landing to damn near half way to the end, and not a one of them was broke.”
“Probably just kept going then.” While a rarity for animals to forage the hillside, they’d been hearing movements for nearly a week, and just in case had strung trip lines across every deadfall they could use to gain access to the island. Mike was a bit problematic, now that he was up and about again, but they knew his tracks well enough to eliminate them if a thread happened to be broken. So long as they kept the ground clear on both ends of the deadfalls bridging the channel, there was little likelihood an animal could cross without being detected. And so far, none had.
“You might want to take down what you’ve got on the line fellas,” Hayden said, dropping the gather sack beside the table. “The clouds north were looking pretty serious, so we’re probably going to get wet.”
Ron dropped a fistful of roots in the pan. “I’ll wait until it gets here. If it’s like the one the other day, I’m not going to bother.”
The sky became darker and more unsettled, and within the hour thunder was rumbling in the distance. Charlie hobbled from the landing, Mike trotting alongside.
“Been wondering if you’d head in before the rain started,” Ron said, stirring. “Got a few poppers left. Want some?”
“You stop where I told ya? Or’d ya burn ‘em again?”
“You want them or not, Bull?”
“Then ditch ‘em if you were gonna,” Charlie said, and racked his fishing pole. “I’ll grab some jerky later if I get hungry.”
A gust rattled the trees. “It’s about to get wet,” Mark said. “So you get what you want now, or you’re not going to eat at all. You know you can’t open the pack when it’s raining.”
Charlie shrugged. “Then I’ll eat when it fuckin’ stops.”
There wasn’t a lot anyone could do for him. Charlie had gotten to where he simply didn’t care. Not about eating, or anything else. Hayden sighed. “I take it nothing was biting.”
