Window In Time

by David Boyle

  “I do. All of us actually. Even Wheajo was happy when we walked out of the woods with him. Not like he smiled or anything, but I could see it in his eyes.” A big log tumbled past, the water fast but less muddied than yesterday. There were buzzards circling well inland, the forest across the way peacefully quiet, a light breeze rustling the treetops.

  “Nobody can walk in your shoes, but we are all pulling for you.”

  Charlie sighed. “Ron still pissed at me?”

  “No, and he wasn’t to begin with. Him and Wheajo—and who would have thought they could ever be on the same side?—were just trying to tamp down your expectations. I don’t know which has come farther seeing the other’s point of view, but when it comes to the practicalities, the two of them are close. At least Ron admitted there’s a chance the brizva is charged; unless he’s staring at the readout, Wheajo never would.

  “I’d probably give him a D minus for bedside manner, but as far as good intentions are concerned, I think I’d give McClure a B+.”

  “Guess I’m wore out, Hayden, and I just want it all to be over.”

  Charlie was definitely going to need work if they ever made it home. No, Hayden thought. Not if… when. “You interested or not? Whatever doesn’t get eaten is probably going to end up in the river.”

  Mike trotted over, got a pat on the head, and scampered back into the bushes. “See how he did that? We start talkin’ food, and Mike comes snooping. I got a feelin’ he’s tryin’ to tell me somethin’.”

  “You coming?”

  “Sure. Go ahead and whack me off a chunk. The fire gets going, I’ll be over.”

  Hayden turned to leave. “White meat or dark?”

  “Either one, just not green.”

  Hayden chuckled. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Charlie had lost a good ten pounds in the last week alone, and all that was left was muscle. Muscle that had been sliced and diced, and stitched together again, and with a heart as fragile as glass. Hayden loosened the cord and let the pack down. Hopefully the worst was over for Charlie.

  The pack was reasonably cool. Wetting the outside and letting the water evaporate was good for a while, though it did require that someone remembered. Forget that little detail, especially when the sun was out, and it took no time at all for fresh meat to spoil. It never had gotten exactly green, but then he hadn’t actually looked. On the few occasions when the meat had gone bad, getting close was enough.

  Hayden gave the pack a sniff. Not too bad, though a rare steak was probably out of the question.

  Mark was fanning the coals with his hat. Wheajo was chipping wood. Ron was watching and making comments, like he did at the restaurant and just close enough to be aggravating. The difference here being that neither Mark or Wheajo were listening.

  45

  The river had dropped another five inches, which was higher than they wanted, but below the level where they’d have no choice but to spend another day staring at the water. In an hour or two, the rain would stop, and if recent trends held, the sun would make an appearance before they reached the big deadfall. Finding shade thereafter would mean hugging one shoreline or the other, which today was not a particularly inviting proposition given the ongoing bump in activity.

  Last evening’s dinner was a muted affair, and while they were hungry, no one was in the mood for eating. But their latest acquisition was nearing the stage where it would spoil, and Wheajo had insisted they roast whatever remained for their trip. They’d loaded the backpack with the leftovers, a throw rope, and a partial roll of duct tape, as Charlie said, ‘just in case’. As always, Ron would be armed with the rifle and an extra pocket full of ammo; Mark the revolver and a gun belt full of ammunition. Mark insisted that Wheajo carry a spear, with circumstances at the creek left to determine if he’d actually take it.

  Expectations varied tremendously, and most had not slept well. The conversation last night had turned inevitably to what they would find at the lake, and with Wheajo abstaining, the group had divided three to one in favor that the brizva had been charged by the storm. Ron had wagered Illinois and Wisconsin against, Hayden countering with Iowa, Missouri, and Arkansas despite Charlie’s grousing that making bets could jinx their efforts.

  Up before dawn to have coffee ready before they left, Hayden was sitting beside the fire, pondering their future while Mike patrolled the nearby forest, his eyes glimmering now and then from the darkness. The rain whispered through and across the canopy, big drops splattering the campsite. Calls echoed in the distance, one set from animals he hadn’t heard before, and from an entirely new direction. Whatever it was that had fired up the locals, the effects were still at work. He’d spent a lot of hours listening and worrying, and he was certain that today the dinosaurs would be out in numbers.

  They started the Tripper into the woods, the backpack secured, a canteen, the bota, and a lone spear bungee-corded to the thwarts. A path too often traveled, the trail to the channel carried unbearable memories, and Charlie stopped after going barely ten yards into the forest. “I can’t do this, guys.”

  “Give us minute,” Ron said to Wheajo, he and Mark then starting back. Charlie was scratching the chin of his feathered shadow, the tents but gray silhouettes in the mist behind him.

  “I wanted to see you guys off, but all of this,” Charlie glanced about the gloom, “it… it just brings it all back, you know? I’m sorry, but I can’t go any farther.”

  “Not a problem, Charlie.”

  “I know the feeling,” Ron said. “Since that day I can’t walk the trail without thinking about her.”

  “It’s like the place is haunted.” Charlie paused. “Either her or Tony.” He stuck a hand out to Mark. “Watch yourself, okay?”

  “Always.” Mark smiled. “And good to see you without the yaltok.”

  “Comin’ along I guess. And I saw lotsa movement in the meadow yesterday, so keep your eyes peeled. You too, Wheajo.”

  Ron and Mark got settled. “Keep the fires burning, fellas. See you when we get back.”

  “We’ll be waitin’,” said Charlie, watching as they and the Tripper melted into the mist. “And bring back a present, would ya?”

  “Will do,” said a fading voice. “For all of us.”

  Hayden watched anxiously as they boarded the canoe. He’d made his case for being the one to accompany Wheajo, and had lost out to his partner. For all the unknowns, one way or another, by the end of the day it was possible they’d know their fate. Whether he ever again was able to sleep through the night, he knew already that this day would be one of the longest of his life.

  Ron strapped down the rifle while Wheajo got settled amidships. Mark ticked off every item in the boat. “You’re sure we don’t need the hatchet?”

  “Just get the fuck in already. And Prentler, quit with the look. You can worry all you want after we leave.” Ron dipped his paddle and rinsed off the mud. “Lighten up already. I’m the heavy here, remember?”

  “I’m sure there’s a witty comment to go with that, but my head’s just not there this morning.”

  “Whatever happened at the lake, this is not over. Worst case, Wheajo resets the dawzon and we start over.”

  “If you recall, we had previously discussed the possibility of powering back, I believe was the term. While somewhat delayed, today’s journey does fall within the agreed upon parameters.”

  “There you go,” Ron said, and pushed off.

  “I’ve got my fingers crossed just the same,” Hayden said, falling apart on the inside and hoping it didn’t show. “Good luck, fellas. And pace yourselves. The paddle back isn’t going to be fun.”

  Mark stroked the canoe forward. “Don’t remind me.”

  The eastern portion of Boulder was pushing Class IV, the rock garden directly ahead easily at a boat-battering Class II+, the rocks for the most part hidden in a mass of white froth. However long they’d be gone, Mark and Ron were hoping the river would drop fast enough that they wouldn’t be faced with t
he same water coming as going. They maneuvered through the rapids, Wheajo seeing water similar to what he’d previously experienced on his back. Rocks thumped the hull, water sloshed in, yet in under a minute they were through.

  “Better sitting up, isn’t it?” Mark said over his shoulder, drawing the boat into the faster current at river center.

  Water sloshed at Wheajo’s feet. “Indeed, qite exhilarating.”

  The current was fast, and they paddled fast, the river’s clarity still improving, the water yet carrying the occasional logs, branches, and other detritus; the forests on both sides showing ample evidence of the storm’s fury.

  *****

  They’d seen more animals in the last two hours than on their two previous runs combined. The sun had long since burned away the mist, the forests alive with the calls of animals and birds alike. “I deer hunted a day like this once,” Mark said, a flock of pterosaurs heading west. “Never did figure out why, but that morning it was like someone had turned on a switch. The birds were chattering; the squirrels yapping. Whatever was in the woods that morning, if it had a voice, it was out and making a racket.” A dip of his paddle started the Tripper around. “About like they’re doing right now.”

  “A curious phenomenon. We will need to be especially cautious.”

  Ron could see a pair of long-necked dinosaurs browsing the hillside. He drew the stern over. “You sure you wouldn’t rather take the rifle?”

  Even the formerly dry creek bed was active, the burble of running water bleeding through the trees. “Thanks, but no,” Mark said, stroking toward the eddy. “From what I remember of that raft you guys put together, it and your rifle wouldn’t be a terrific mix. So long as I keep the trigger guard buckled, I know I won’t lose it.”

  They peered through the shifting vegetation, listening, for all the good it would do. “Wow,” Ron said. “Sounds like a damn aviary.”

  “Perhaps the creatures were unable to feed during the storm.”

  Mark slipped the canoe sideways, then tucked the paddle under the thwarts while Ron maneuvered the Tripper into the eddy. The bow grounded. Mark hopped out. A quick survey and he splashed up the incline. “Just the yellow-heads,” he whispered.

  Wheajo stepped out with the backpack, Mark out with a hand. “How about I take it this time?”

  “Humans,” Wheajo said, and slipped his arms through the straps.

  Ron handed over Charlie’s T-shirt. “Up and back. What, three… four hours?”

  “If the wind kicks up? At least that,” Mark said, fluffing the camouflage before draping it over the backpack. Wheajo was next to swimming in the thing, Ron frowning until they snugged the shirt tight with the belt.

  “That’s better.” Ron unhooked the bungee cords before slipping the spear out from under the thwarts. “This isn’t a race guys,” he said, and handed it to Wheajo. “Take your time and figure out what happened. With the weather changing like it’s been, we’ll get another chance. Do what you need to. However long it takes, I’ll be waiting when you get back.”

  Ron extended a hand to Wheajo. “Careful in there.” Then Mark. “You too.”

  “Try not to fall asleep while we’re gone.”

  “Yeah right.”

  Mark motioned Wheajo into the lead. “Let’s do this.”

  Ron picked up his paddle as they climbed the cobbles. “Lots of critters out today, fellas. Watch your six.”

  “Will do,” Mark said, pausing to look back. “Same for you.”

  *****

  There was no guessing this time, no searching for the right path. This time all they needed was to follow the blazes. They stopped where water bubbled up through the rocks, the water so cool and clear that they emptied the canteen and refilled it on the spot. Birds sang throughout the forest, hopeful indicators that it held no surprises by way of predators. The path of least resistance left the creek bed before the dinosaur highway, and once off the rocks they moved with barely a sound, the moistened mulch muffling their passing like a sponge.

  There were two groups of dinosaurs visible near the highway, both north of their position, one below it, and one after. Watching always for evidence of animals, they approached with caution, and as if the real thing, checked in both directions before dashing across the forest highway. They moved quietly up the hillside, monitoring the nearby group of browsers. And fifty yards thereafter, encountered yet another.

  “I’m not sure I like the looks of these guys,” Mark said, stopping his headcount at fifteen. Unquestionably plants eaters, at well over twenty feet, the animals were also capable of doing plenty of damage if they chose to do so.

  “If past experience can be relied upon, and we avoid movements that could be interpreted as those of a predator, the animals will ignore us, correct?”

  Mark looked to the dinosaurs, and saw no easy way around them. “Who was it that said that?”

  “Unless I am mistaken, you did.”

  Mark popped the clasp on the handgun. “Guess we get to find out if I’m right.” He paused. “And in case they take notice, don’t make eye contact. It’s one of those times when you want the other guy to think he’s in control.” They trotted ahead, winding between the trees. If the dinosaurs ever noticed, they gave no indication.

  The hoots of duckbills were soon drifting through the trees, the forest increasingly littered with recently fallen limbs, the path they’d marked on their previous visit so thoroughly encumbered that they were forced to reconnoiter a new route to the top. Apparently part of an established routine, a small group of long-necked sauropods was again browsing the ridgeline, the bigger of the animals ripping limbs from the trees Mark had spent the night in and sharing them with their thirty-foot offspring.

  “Who was it talked about storms hitting here differently than by the island? Bad as it was by us, looks like that storm hit this place even harder.”

  “Indeed,” Wheajo said, noticing too that the fronds of every cycad within sight had likewise been severely damaged. “Strange that plants in so protected an environment were so devastated by winds moving generally west to east.” A limb crashed in the distance, helped down by one of the monster sauropods a short hundred yards farther along the ridge.

  “Yeah, there’s something not right here.” Mark checked on the big sauropods, and hurried off through the cycads. Broken midway along the stem on the plants nearest the forest, the big fronds were increasingly fractured closer to the top of the cycads’ barrel shaped bodies as they neared the lake. Soon, broken seed cones joined the mix of shredded leaves.

  “What the hell could possibly….” Mark stumbled clear of the cycads, his jaw dropping as he stared dumbfounded across the lake. Wheajo ran up beside him, the big sauropods all but forgotten.

  The islands were in ruins, the big one especially, fractured stumps all that remained of the once magnificent forest. The evergreen was gone, as was the canoe, the trees on the main and out islands felled in a radiating pattern from the site of a tremendous explosion. Shattered trees choked the channels, a huge raft of pulverized timber drifting slowly south on the downwind side of the formerly luxurious chain of islands.

  Mark slumped in a heap, shocked and horrified, unable to believe his eyes.

  Wheajo needed no time whatever to recognize the what, though understood that time would be needed to formulate the why. “The dawzon exploded,” he said flatly.

  “Exploded?” Mark jumped to his feet. “What do you mean, exploded!? You never said a word about it possibly doing that!” He stabbed a finger at the lake. “How could it do that?” He just couldn’t let go. “It can’t have exploded. It just can’t!”

  “The circumstances were clearly unique. Indeed,” Wheajo said, perplexed, “such an explosive event should not have been possible.” Mark was stamping in circles, holding his head. “Perhaps the shaft holding the brizva was damaged. If a subsequent strike were to have occurred, the current may then have been shunted to the dawzon, which in turn—”

  “Didn
’t you think of that?!”

  “One can make but reasonable predictions about future events.”

  “You want a prediction?! We’re dead without that transporter, and we’re not going back without it.”

  “Your conclusion is correct. However, there is no possibility the brizva could have survived such an event.”

  Mark fixed the alien with a very cold stare. “Let me put it this way,” he said, tapping the holster. “You may be willing to die here. Me and Ron, Hayden, Charlie… We’re not.” Mark paused, his gaze never wavering. “Have I made myself perfectly clear?”

  “Am I to assume that as a threat?”

  “Assume what you want. We’ve spent a lot of time together, and I’ve come to think of you as a friend. But this is our life we’re talking about. Yours, mine, all of ours, and I don’t care if all we find is pieces, we’re not leaving until we search that island.”

  “If you insist.”

  The raft had been turned 90 degrees from where they’d left it, the after-effect of the surge that had swept the beach. They dug away the sand, then used logs to lever the thing into the lake, the big sauropods feeding nearby while a raucous group of birds and pterosaurs picked at a bloated carcass beached on the south end of the lake.

  They retrieved the paddles, one found washed alongshore not far up the beach, then began the long journey across the lake. Paddling the lopsided assemblage was an arduous task, and they spent long minutes just getting their strokes coordinated. The water was murky, dark shapes rising occasionally from the depths to investigate as they moved toward the islands. The raft was clearly in need of repairs, the time on the beach having taken a toll on the bindings, the gentle swells now working to tear them apart.

  The outermost island was essentially untouched by the blast, the nesting site spared annihilation by the moderating effects of the mammoth trees that had so recently dominated the main island.