by David Boyle
“You’re probably right.” Mark punched the dump bag to shift whatever was poking him in the butt. “And not a bad patch job, Bull. Thing is losing air, but a lot less than I thought it would.”
They were rounding the latest bend in the river, Charlie leaning to get a look at what was ahead. “Uh-oh,” he muttered.
The upcoming section swung into view, the triceratops trooping across the river a shade under a mile ahead. “Okay, so that answers that question,” said Hayden, tracing animals into the distance. “Yeah, looks like we’re going to be here awhile.” There were two other herds grazing the foothills to the west, bipeds of some type that showed as little more than dots against the foliage. Weeks earlier, and they’d all have been gawking, their attention now focused squarely on the herd of triply horned dinosaurs blocking their path.
Triceratops. Hundreds of them.
“What I’d give for a machine gun about now,” Mark said, seething at the sight of them. “I always thought hating a particular kind of animal was lame. But after what they did to Wheajo, I understand.”
The shorelines slipped past, the bottom all but obscured by swirling clouds of silt and fresh dung. And parade aside, the terrain was looking more and more like the open flats they’d encountered on their first day, pockets of trees scattered across the plains to the west. Mike paced about the boat, staring overboard and into the water, watching the shorelines.
“It’s happening, Bull. Not tomorrow, or the day after. But right this very minute. A mile or two more and we’ll be headed home.”
“Been a long time gettin’ here, that’s fer sure. The shit we did. The critters.” Charlie skipped a stroke when Mike poked his head under his elbow. “Yeah, you too, shithead. But it is time to go, and I’ve been soooo waitin’ for this day.
“Is good we got away when we did. Should have way enough daylight to make it to the car.”
“Be careful there. Even if there is an hour by hour equivalence, which I doubt, we hit the Powderhorn and it can just as easily be the middle of the night as day.” Mark stared ahead, knowing that the flesh and blood animals he was looking at would very soon be nothing more than topics in books and cased bones in dusty museums. The triceratops galloped into the river, splashing across and up the opposite side, a seemingly endless stream of multi-ton animals. He remembered seeing footprints on the bottom that first day with Wheajo, so very long ago. “You guys were right about where we are,” he said, a distant snarl catching his ear. “That’s the crossing.”
Charlie lifted his paddle. “Yeah, I remember now. Fuck…!” He twisted around. “Think we’re close enough?”
“To use the brizva?” Hayden said, taken aback. “You heard what Wheajo said. If you want to see Donita again, and get back to our world, don’t even think about hitting the go button until I tell you.” A snarl echoed along the river as he spoke.
Mark stared downriver. “It’s her I tell you. It’s Sabrefang.” Again the snarl sounded, and this time there was no mistaking the gurgling cough at the end.
“How could she? She doesn’t even know we’re gone.”
A sliver of red crept around the curve. Mark gasped. “It’s McClure!”
Hayden sat speechless as Charlie nosed the Discovery around. “You said he was dead, Bennett!” Ron was hugging the shoreline, Sabrefang pacing him atop the opposite bank. “Keep paddlin’ man!” he shouted, waving him on while the Triceratops splashed and grunted across the river upstream.
Mark crawled to the front of the raft and pulled in enough line to put slack in the painter.
“What are you doing?”
“I should have checked.” Mark ripped at the knot. “But those other fuckers showed up, and Wheajo shoved me into the bushes—”
“Mark, you can’t. She’ll kill you.”
“I left him there, Hayden. He was alive, and I left him there!” Mark gave up on the knot. “Toss me one of the canteens and unclip me.”
“Keep paddlin’, McClure!”
Hayden flipped the canteen back, his hands shaking when he unclipped the carabineer. “You’re sure you want—”
“Yeah. Now let me loose.” The rope went slack, the raft at once drifting on the current. A crush of jittery triceratops were bunched alongshore, snorting and bumping as the herd funneled into the crossing. “Close up on these guys. The closer the better,” Mark said, stroking the raft around. “Even she’s not crazy enough to mess with them.”
A snarl sizzled along the river, and Mike hissed when he spotted the black and orange killer. Charlie corralled his pet with a comforting arm. “Easy there. Settle down.” A panicked triceratops tumbled over the bank and into the river. “We’re not really gonna get closer, are we? I mean, look at ‘em. They’re freakin’ out.”
“It’s them or her,” said Hayden, already shifting gears. “Leave him be and get moving. With her coming, you really think they’ll give a fuck about us?”
“No I… I guess not….”
“It makes you feel any better, we’ll play it by ear. Anybody looks at us cross eyed… we’ll head back and bring them to her.”
Charlie stroked ahead, grunts and hoof beats drifting across the water. “This is like outta the fuckin’ movies,” he said, the Discovery on its way to the future. “I mean… can you believe it? McClure’s alive!”
Mark unhooked the bungee cords, then clipped the canteen to the dump bag. For however long she’d been following him, he was certain that Ron wouldn’t have stopped for a drink. It was amazing the guy was here at all. The miles he’d paddled, upstream and alone. He remembered the dinosaur and the overturned Tripper, and couldn’t imagine how Ron had survived. That he was alive was all that mattered, and Mark was determined to keep him that way.
Sabrefang was down on a paw, panting, catching her breath. Good for the short haul, after ripping the island apart and the miles-long pursuit, even she had to be running on empty. Mark thought back to the shot he’d taken, and the ones he hadn’t. Big mistake. Damn.
Mark wasn’t sure of much anymore, but by her actions knew that she had no idea how shallow the river was. He knew, too, that if Ron slowed, even once, she’d put aside her fears and fly off the bank as she had the day he’d taken refuge in the reeds. He let the raft drift, the distance between them closing, and started paddling again, initially to cancel the current, then faster to match the Tripper’s speed as Ron stroked the boat nearer. The Tripper was running stern forward, which indicated more than anything that she’d spotted him sometime after he’d passed Pussy Cat.
Mark switched sides as the Tripper approached. “Watch the sticks.” Ron nodded wearily, steering toward the raft, and just before contact leaned the Tripper in order to snag the frame with the gunnel. Mark tossed the dump bag and scrambled across. “Go!” he said, the confused predator snarling as the Tripper pulled quickly away from the raft.
“It’s like I’m looking at a ghost,” Mark said, stroking hard in reverse. “I swear to God I thought you were dead.”
“Yeah… and you… you weren’t the only one,” Ron said, long past running on fumes. “All I knew… was that… I had to catch you.”
“And you did. You did fantastic.” Mark glanced at Sabrefang. “I don’t know how she’s gonna react to this, but we need to get the boat turned around. You got enough left to do that?”
Ron was wheezing, near gasping for breath. “I’ll give it… my best shot.”
“Ready then,” Mark said, thrusting. “On two. One… two…!” They reached out, each drawing his end of the boat around, Mark shifting gradually to forward and Ron to reverse, Sabrefang lashing her tail and snarling as the Tripper spun end-for-end. “I got it,” Mark said, stroking. “Give it up, Ron. I can take it from here.” Ron thumped his paddle across the gunnels, his arms and fingers curling after the hours of near continuous paddling.
The gunnel and center thwart were fractured, the loss in rigidity apparent the moment he’d stepped in the boat. The rifle was filmed over, the checkering flec
ked with mud. The day bag with the jerky they’d packed just yesterday clipped with the bota to the thwart. “When’s the last time you had a drink?”
“Before the landing,” Ron said, wincing, working his fingers.
Mark checked on Sabrefang, careful not to make eye contact, stroking, then toed his clothes bag along the bilge. “Have at it, McClure. That one should be nearly full.” He tried once, but couldn’t undo the buckle, then dragged the bag into his lap, clawed the cap off, and started gulping. “Easy now, okay? The ‘not all at once’ rule goes for you too.”
Ron let down, nodding, a puny grin on his lips. His arms started cramping, and he hooked his hands around a knee. “Son of a bitch…!”
Mark glanced when Sabrefang snarled. “How long will they last?”
“Oh shit! Ow! Haven’t a clue…. Never had them this bad before.” Sabrefang was pacing the bank. “Think she’d figure out the river if the water… damn it… wasn’t so fucked up?”
“I’d like to think not, but maybe,” Mark said, staring at a former dead man. “Gods, Ron. I can’t tell you how sorry I am. I mean, really. But the way the boat folded and sent you flying… the fucker right there, snapping. We figured the bastard got you. And then the other ones came—”
Ron waved him off. “That I got,” he said, and took another swallow. “What I don’t is all this. I worked my ass getting back to the island, but not anything like I would have if I’d known the damn brizva was charged. So what the fuck? Did the dawzon explode, or didn’t it?”
“Yeah, it did. And I know you’re angry, but—”
“Angry? God damn it, Bennett, if I’d have taken the break I was thinking about, you guys would have gotten away without me!”
“I’m sorry, man. If I had it to do over, I’d have said we found the brizva, and, oh by the way, the dawzon exploded. I guess maybe I was still in shock. When the dawzon went off, it vaporized the canoe and blew away a good part of the island. It was the next thing to a nuke going off. So I had dawzon on the mind instead of the transporter, which I would have gotten to except for the thing that attacked you.”
“Like a nuke? Really?”
“You should have seen the place. Took down damn near every tree on the island. That evergreen of yours? Thing’s nothing but a thirty-foot stump.”
“Another timing fuck-up.”
“Yeah, unfortunately.” Mark switched sides, glancing at Sabrefang. “I’d love to go back and do it over. But I can’t. And now all I can say is, I’m sorry. And that I’m really fucking glad to see you.”
Ron managed a smile. “So we’re actually on our way home.”
“Yep, the pieces finally came together. Except that your shit is in camp, the Discovery is packed, and once the parade is over… we’re outta here.”
Ron still couldn’t get his fingers to work. “Hard to believe is what it is. We catch up, I’m going to kiss that slit-eyed son of an alligator….” There was a distinct change in Mark’s expression. “What’s the matter?” Three triceratops had broken from the herd and were on their way to greet Sabrefang.
“I guess there’s no easy way to say this.”
“Wheajo too…?”
Mark clenched his jaw, glancing at the dinosaur atop the bank. “Happened on our way back. The trail was the only way we were getting home before dark, and when we got to where the main part veers into the woods, three of these guys jumped us. Long story short, one of the bastards ran Wheajo down and gored him.” Mark switched sides, forcing down the lump in his throat. “Bastard did a number on him. The guy we kidnapped and who put together the plan to get us home again died in my arms in a tangled piece of shit part of the forest.”
Ron shook his head. “That had to suck. And here we’ve been worried about her.”
“Yeah, it did. Big time.” Mark stared ahead. “How are your hands?”
“I remember by the lake when Charlie nailed him with that rock. Then in the rapid, Tony trying to rip the brizva out of his hands. And him shooting that—”
“McClure, listen to me. Your hands working?”
Ron shook away the memories. “Should be. Why?” he said, and upended the canteen.
“Cause I was thinking now would be a good time to empty that rifle of yours.”
Ron let down and wiped his mouth, Sabrefang watching their every move from above the bank. A tiny change in angle and he’d be in position to take the perfect shot. “Couldn’t risk it earlier.” He smiled. “But yeah, I like that idea.”
“Just a little payback for services rendered.” The triceratops were closing, young and brash and spoiling for a fight; McClure trying to work his fingers around the fore stock. “You don’t have a lot of time.”
Ron noticed Mark staring, and twisted on his seat as a spiked bulwark of bobbing heads closed on Sabrefang, their wickedly hooked beaks popping. “You needed to warn me earlier.”
“So they’re faster than I realized. Just get the shot.”
Ron hooked his elbow through the strap and was about to shoulder the rifle when Sabrefang pulled up snarling. “These idiots had better not fuck this up.” His left hand finally had a decent grip, but his right kept curling. He propped the rifle against his chest. “God damn it, not now!” he grumbled, slapping his thigh to get the circulation in his hand going. Sabrefang slouched into attack mode, watching as the shielded greeters approached.
“I’m not stopping, Ron. I lose my momentum, this is not a good place to work at getting it back.”
“And I’m not asking you to,” Ron said, forcing his hand open. “Just keep going. Once we’re in front, I’ll have the perfect angle on her.” He got his fingers straightened, then felt them curl again as soon as he reached for the trigger. “What the…? Come on already….”
Mark watched as the triceratops galloped past, then searched ahead for the end of the herd. Hayden was on his feet, apparently with similar ideas. Mark waved his paddle when he turned, Hayden at once motioning him ahead.
The triceratops had slowed to a trot. Sabrefang was snarling. Ron shouldered the rifle, then let down again. “I can’t… I can’t get my damn fingers to work!”
“Sorry to hear,” said Mark, fighting the current. “And so you know. The parade’s about to end.” A snarl sounded, and he switched sides, stroking, glancing back.
The trio charged, heads low, the tigress waiting until the last second before stepping back and, as they ran past, biting the closest attacker across the shoulders. Blood began spewing from the triceratops’ beak, its legs pawing air as she wrenched the animal to the edge of the bank, chunks of earth sent crumbling when the dinosaur splashed bleeding into the river.
“You see that?! Fuck, that’s enough of this shit!” Mark yelped, stroking in earnest, Ron reaching to catch himself when the Tripper lurched forward.
Another charge, and again the deftly executed parry, long arms dragging the closer of the triceratops onto its side, fangs at once ripping at its belly. The animal struggled to its feet, its intestines spilling as the predator turned on the last of the herd’s defenders. The dinosaur bolted, but too late, its pursuer charging after it and carving gashes in its hindquarters. Sabrefang padded to a stop, chest heaving, and watched as the wounded warrior galloped away. In the distance, stragglers were pushing and shoving, the terrified outsiders leaping from the bank in a panicked rush to escape.
Mark could feel the burn starting, his arms repeating the same motion over and over, the river looking more like diluted chocolate, the air ripe with the scent of terrified herbivores. “What’s she doing?”
“Same as by the rapids,” Ron said, sparks shooting along his fingers when he tried to straighten them. “Taunting the fucker.”
Sabrefang was circling the crippled triceratops, the animal struggling to face her, its entrails wrapped around its feet. She darted forward and knocked the thing over, then pinned the struggling animal with a taloned foot. She bent down… then raised her head, gulping, the triceratops squealing all the while.
Mark turned away. “Disgusting how she does that.”
Ron had the rifle across his lap. The head went down, then turned for a second to stare upriver, then down again, the big jaws tearing into the still squirming triceratops. Without a rest, the shot was already too long. “Yeah, and she likes it,” he said, staring past Mark as his final opportunity to kill the bitch slipped literally through his fingers.
Hayden and Charlie were edging slowly upriver, eager no doubt to be ready when the last of the herd finished crossing the river.
Ron slid the rifle under the thwart. “So we’ll have come and gone,” he said, taking up his paddle, “and she’ll still be here, terrorizing the locals.” He stepped around and over the seat, and again facing forward, got to paddling.
“Were you switching earlier?”
“Once she calmed down I did. But after the tingles started, I was worried I’d lose my grip if I kept changing hands. So I guess I’d have to say, not very often.” A triceratops charged across the river, spray shearing along the edges of its frill.
“That’s all history now. You feel any twitches, go ahead and change sides. And once we catch up, you can leave the paddling to me until we hit the Powderhorn.”
Hayden and Charlie were moving again, the last of the stragglers splashing across the river not far beyond the canoe. “You know how that sounds, don’t you?”
“Yeah, I do. About as fantastic as us being here in the first place.”
The Tripper slid across the water. The shoreline slipped by. And yet they were gaining not an inch on the Discovery. “What the hell are they doing?” Ron said, the novelty of having a second paddle in the water forgotten. “I see them paddling, and I’m wondering, if the brizva is charged, why the hell aren’t you guys already gone?”
“And we would be, except for Wheajo’s instructions,” Mark said, staring ahead as the wounded triceratops splashed across the river. “I’d play it for you, except that we left the yaltok behind. He said that had we—”
