Vision

by N. D. Hansen-Hill

  The truck came tearing in, balanced on two wheels again, then settled to the ground, the motor still racing. Erik flung open the door and bellowed, "Time to go!" When James squatted there still, his hand on Dustin's head, Erik jumped out and did a crouched run toward the plane. "Move it!" he yelled. “They're coming!"

  There were two trucks coming up fast, and one of the gunmen hanging out the window had a sniper's scope, much like the dead man's on the slope. The first of the bullets plunged through the wing. “What's the holdup?" Erik asked desperately. “Oh, shit!" he said, seeing Dusty's face, and the blood pouring out his ear.

  “If I let go—” James warned.

  When Dusty suddenly stood up, it took James by surprise. Dusty was standing there foolishly now, his hands clinging to a gun.

  “Get down!" Jamie yelped.

  “What's he doing?!" Valterzar's voice rang out.

  * * * *

  Dusty gripped the gun with shaking hands, and narrowed his concentration to this. This moment. This one chance to see things through.

  I'm a murderer. It's not self-defence till after the fact. I'm taking him out because of what he's going to do...

  Were there choices? Chances for him to change, like the chance I'm taking? Could it be that the sniper would change his mind, at the last moment?

  Dustin would have grasped at it, if he'd thought there was a chance. Anything other than levelling the gun and taking him out.

  The door popped open, and the moment for thinking, for choices, was gone. There was only the glint of that gun in the distance, and Josh's feet, just visible where he'd fallen. For an instant, Dustin thought the deed had been done, and that he'd missed it. Then he heard Josh mutter a complaint.

  Josh would lift his head now, for the last time...

  No more thinking. Dustin squeezed the trigger.

  * * * *

  It had never occurred to him that the man would see him, in that same instant. That his aim would shift from Josh to himself.

  * * * *

  "Get him down!" Erik was shouting, lunging to yank him out of the doorway.

  * * * *

  In a sudden gunburst that sent blood splashing across the sacks of rice, Dustin was blasted back, out of sight.

  "James!" Valterzar yelled. James was staring blankly at the spot where Dusty had been, a bemused look on his face. In that last moment, as he'd grasped Dusty's leg, he'd experienced a loss of equilibrium that he couldn't explain—as though he'd suddenly seen some altered vision of events past—and present. He still didn't know quite where he was, and after that momentary glimpse of bloodshed and loss, he wasn't sure he wanted to know.

  "Jamie! Wake up!" It was Erik, shaking him; pushing him aside so he could get to Dusty. James looked up, and saw Merrie and Valterzar dive out of the truck and head his way.

  “Up to you, James!” Valterzar was saying. James focussed on him. "Stop them!"

  The words penetrated. James’ vision was still overlain with that horrific vision of Josh and Ren lying in bits and pieces—the victims of a gun, much like the one that was aiming now, at Meredith's back. In that moment, it was all one. James Wickham focussed on the not-so-distant truck, and lifted his hand.

  He was the truck. Melded metal and synthetic rubber; plastic and glass. A metal frame, garbed and decked out—rolling forward in hot cycles of pump and grind.

  Only now, he was rolling backwards. Crunching back, into what was now a squashed Persian visage of his metallic counterpart. As the second truck ground to a jarring halt, Jamie concentrated on getting undressed.

  Valterzar grabbed Dustin's rifle, and hovered next to James as the first truck shuddered to a halt, then began, literally, to come apart at the seams. Bits and pieces when flying: nuts and bolts, bedliner and tyres, glass and gauges. It was smashing, cascading, pelting the truck to the rear.

  And, everywhere, panic. The would-be assault team disbanded in a scurrying run, chased by the pieces of their own vehicle. Tyres mowed them down; windshield wipers came at them like lances. The worst of it was the engine, that flung itself off its motor mounts and did a churningly loud slide—cylinders pumping and exhaust streaming—across the sand.

  Zar dropped his guard now and dove into the cabin, where Merrie and Erik hovered over Dustin. “I need Jamie!” Erik said tensely.

  Zar climbed back out and touched James’ arm. The next instant, he was tossed back, against the fuselage.

  Erik heard the thunk from inside the cabin. “Forgot to warn him,” he grunted, flinching. “That's gotta hurt.”

  Merrie ran outside. Zar was rubbing the back of his head, but he nodded to her. She stooped down, next to James. "Jamie!" she whispered in his ear. “Jamie!”

  James blinked, then blinked again. Abruptly, the rolling tyres exhausted their spin, did a final spiral, then dropped onto the sand. There was a distant clank and bang as the dissected pickup lost its momentum. Jamie's eyes cleared.

  “It's Dusty, James,” Merrie told him. “Erik needs you.” Then she reached out a hand, to help Zar to his feet.

  "I'm losing him!" Erik yelled a warning.

  James wiped sweat off his brow. He alone knew what Dustin had gone through to salvage this little group—and he suspected there was a lot more he didn't, but that he'd eventually coerce Dusty into telling him. He'd be damned if he'd let Dusty sacrifice himself, after doing so much else to help everyone else. He joined Erik, and now Zar, at Dustin's side.

  “I'll be damned if you're going anywhere, Dusty,” James told his limp form firmly. “Not if I have anything to say about it.”

  Erik was looking frustrated. “Something's wrong. He's not coming back!”

  Jamie touched Dustin's arm. “He's still there,” he mumbled. “On the plane.” He looked at Valterzar. “He's supposed to be gone. Or it could change things again.”

  “Do something, Zar!” Merrie urged. “Stop it—before it kills him!”

  Erik looked at Valterzar curiously, as Zar reached out a hand, and rested it on Dusty's head. “He's one of us?” he asked.

  Valterzar froze, startled by Erik's words. He'd suspected it, of course, even used it, but never openly acknowledged it.

  “Get on with it!” James urged. Valterzar noticed he didn't seem in the least surprised by Erik's question.

  “Hurry it up!” Erik said.

  Valterzar laid his hand against Dustin's head and felt that churning of power in his gut. Only, this time, it was going to be a struggle. Because he wasn't battling James’ rockshower or Merrie's rapacious ghost—things they wanted to stop but couldn't—he was battling Dusty's determination to hang on, and see his job through. “He's fighting me!” Zar told them. In that moment, he knew Dusty was afraid to let go. Zar forced some part of himself in, deeper—trying to break Dustin's mindset before he inadvertently ended his life. He'd gripped the past so firmly, and held on so hard, that he didn't know how to let it go.

  In an array of blood-spattered visions, Zar saw what Dusty had. He nearly lost it when he witnessed Merrie sprawled, across the sand, entangled with his own lifeless body. A frisson of gooseflesh rode his skin as he viewed Erik entombed in the truck, and Ren and Josh splaying their brains and hearts across the plane's fuselage. No wonder he doesn't want to come back! Zar realised. He doesn't know what he'll find. The bullet in his side wasn't something he'd anticipated. He doesn't know what's next—and as long as he stays there, in the past, he can still have hope...

  Dustin had been through too much. Battle fatigued. Weary, but unwilling to surrender. It was as though an artery had been severed, somewhere in Dustin's soul. No—more like a transfusion gone bad. Dusty refused to stop the bleeding, even though it was leaching his own life away. "Enough, Dusty!” Zar grunted, concentrating harder—but this time, he wasn't following the events that were running through Dusty's head: he was applying pressure; constricting the blood flow—slowing it, slowing it ... stopped.

  Zar gasped, and there was sweat on his brow. As he lifted his hand off Dustin's h
ead, Merrie threw her arms around him. “You did it!”

  Zar nodded, but didn't voice his worry: that if Dusty hadn't been in such bad shape, he might not have stood a chance. Almost automatically, he reached out to monitor Dusty's pulse. It felt stronger now, but his own head felt oddly woozy.

  Erik glanced at him. “You okay?” he asked. At his nod, Erik added, “You're next.”

  Zar gave a shuddery sigh and sat back, a little weakly, against the nearest sack of rice. “It can wait,” he said. “Till you've revamped yourself.”

  “Uh-uh,” Erik told him. “Have you looked at yourself?”

  Zar became aware that Merrie was doing something to his arm, and he suddenly realised his shirt and pants were soaked with blood. He looked confused.

  James explained it to him. “When you were getting Dusty to shut down? You were spurting blood all over the place. We were beginning to wonder which of you would die first.”

  * * * *

  “You should have worn a long-sleeved shirt,” Josh said. “I warned you—”

  Ren was fried. Her skin was magenta, and her face puffy; her eyes swollen. “I never want to see the sun again,” she groaned. There were already blisters on her shoulders and the top of her nose was so burnt it was starting to scab. “I feel sick,” she complained.

  “Heat exhaustion. Here, have some water.”

  “Josh!” she warned. They were slowly passing the spot where Josh's overly friendly pig had paid him multiple visits a couple of days before.

  “Don't tell me,” Josh complained. “It's that damned pig again, isn't it?”

  “It's a pig, all right, but—”

  But it was too late. Josh heard a snort at his rear. He brought back his heel, and gave the pig a sharp tap in the teeth.

  The pig squealed angrily—and loudly. Josh stiffened. That wasn't the alarmed squeal of an annoying little porker; that was the deep, husky, full-throated squeal of a massive, adult, full-sized boar.

  Josh chanced a glance over his shoulder. Two big, partially-trimmed tusks, beady little angry eyes, and a body that must have weighed as much as his car. The fucker was two metres long and nearly a metre high. Josh guessed he hadn't gone over the fence—he'd gone through it.

  Nothing that big and heavy could make good time. Josh backed slowly away, but he could see it in his opponent's eyes: he was the enemy. Mr. Boar was about to charge. "Run, Ren!" Josh yelped, and took off at a sprint.

  Ren had no precognitive powers, but she could picture it all now: death by boar. He was going to chomp Josh in half like a Great White Shark. The bloody thing was as big as a rhino, and probably just as heavy. Mass in motion.

  Josh leaped a short wall, and nearly wet himself when massive Mr. Boar leaped it after him. In the background he could hear Ren screaming and yelling, and then he saw her: she had Mr. Boar by the tail and was trying to hold him back.

  It was about as effective as a bunny trying to stymie a race horse. When the pig leapt the fence, Ren went flying over it, too—and onto her face.

  Josh, meanwhile, knew he was losing it in his panic. Pigs can't jump! Pigs can't jump! It was beating a refrain in his brain. What a way to go—savaged by a pig.

  While his brain dwelt on the probable outcome, his body was working on remote. Without even knowing what he was doing, he dodged one way, then another. His brain came out of hibernation long enough to note the smart way Mr. Boar was trying to corner him.

  Josh grabbed the spiked top of the rough wood fence, and hoisted his feet off the ground. It didn't discourage Mr. Boar. He went for the nearest leg.

  Ren was back on her feet. There was a loose fence post—a thick chunk of wood that came away heavy in her hands. Ren slammed it across the pig's rear end.

  The Big Guy froze, grunted, then turned to face her. Ren wielded her wood like a broadsword, slamming it down onto Mr. Boar's snout.

  That's gotta hurt. No one can get hit in the nose and not get...

  Her thoughts froze right there. Right as Mr. Boar looked at her with evil little eyes, opened his mouth, and bit off the end of her wooden weapon.

  Ren knew she was screaming then. She couldn't recall opening her mouth, but she could hear the screeches in her ears. She stood there, frozen in horror. Josh was yelling something, but she couldn't hear it, over the sound of her own squeals.

  For, Mr. Boar was checking her out. Her telepathy was working overtime, and telling her something she didn't want to know. She was reading him, and it was obvious the pig had already made up his mind.

  His enormous snout lifted in the air and he sniffed excitedly. She could swear his nipped-off tusks rose in a smile as he trotted toward her.

  Grunt-grunt-grunt, grunt-grunt-grunt.

  There was no mistaking the amorous gleam in his eyes. He'd forgotten that Josh even existed. No, he was strutting his stuff for her now—all three hundred kilos of it—and he was determined to share it with her. Ren's eyes widened in horror.

  Just when she thought she was doomed, Mr. Boar suddenly squealed, and he spun in anger. But by that time, Josh was already halfway over the fence. “Got him in the huevos!” Josh bellowed.

  Ren dove over the wall and raced for the truck. Josh, running a parallel path, was soon right at her heels. He looked back only once, to see the would-be stud come ploughing right through the rough fence, like so much balsa wood.

  Josh and Ren ran flat out.

  He was almost on them now. No time for opening doors. “Up on the roof!” Josh panted, and he sensed, rather than saw, Ren's nod. He took her arm, and the two of them did a nearly synchronised bumper, trunk, roof manoeuvre that got them just barely out of reach.

  But, Mr. Boar wasn't through. He prowled in circles around the truck, grunting and prodding at the metal. His girlfriend and his rival had somehow managed to make a getaway, and his adrenaline was still pumping thoughts of malice through his head.

  “He's still mad,” Ren whispered.

  “Reading his mind?” Josh hissed, then gripped her arm to keep his balance. Mr. Boar was trying a new tactic now: putting his snout under the bumper, he was lifting the truck off the ground then dropping it, as he tried to dislodge them from the top.

  “A lot like reading yours—”

  Thud, jar. Thud, jar.

  “What're we going to do?”

  “He'll give up,” Josh told her confidently.

  Five minutes later, Ren remarked, “He's not giving up.”

  “Your fault for being such a ‘dish'.” Josh grinned.

  “Oh, shit!” Ren muttered.

  “What?” Josh asked.

  “Company,” she said dismally. “We'll never live this down.” The next moment, two trucks came tearing up the road in a cloud of dust. To Ren's dismay, Dustin hopped out just as James slammed on the brakes. He went down on one knee, then pushed himself up and did a kind of weaving run in their direction.

  "Get the hell back!" Josh started shouting. "You can't take him on!" At the same time Josh was trying to hang on to Ren. She was all for tossing herself off on the far side—sacrificing herself to Mr. Boar's sexual proclivities in order to save Dusty.

  Jamie had climbed out and was standing in front of his vehicle, desperately trying to focus his energies on the pig in hopes of tripping it, or slamming its eyelids closed, or—or something. Merrie was jumping and shouting to attract the pig's attention, and was all for going after Dustin—who, in turn, was still determinedly heading toward Ren. A bloodied Valterzar had pulled out a rifle, and was looking slightly crazed. He was trying to place himself between the pig and any would-be pig victims—especially Merrie—but none of the victims would hold still. He finally gave up and just took aim at the pig.

  A little girl of about six came skipping down the road, looking at them curiously. The strangers were all yelling and flapping at her now, "Get back! Vaya! Peligro! Run for your life!"

  The little girl glared at the giant boar through narrowed eyes. She put her hands on her hips and shouted, her voice lost in
the clamour of the others. “Pepito! Puerco malo!”

  Pepito heard her. He lowered the bumper with a solid thud, and his tail lost its curl. His head went down and he cowered—three hundred kilos of blubbering baby.

  “Puerco malo!! Vaya!” As Pepito went trotting past her, still cowering, the little girl waved at them and smiled, “Hasta luego!”

  They all stared as, humming, she went skipping back down the road.

  Chapter Nine

  Surprisingly enough, it was Erik who arranged the flight home. He chartered a plane and made sure it came with a well-stocked bar. “Just to replenish fluids,” he said cheerfully, “after our sojourn in the desert.”

  “I would've preferred to take a train,” James told him ungratefully. “Or a boat.”

  “You should have ordered him a kayak,” Josh said. “More of a challenge. Dug up any good rocks lately, Jimmy Boy?”

  “I've been too busy avoiding all these nasty little dino artefacts that get in the way. All the good stuff seems to be underneath ‘em.” James sighed dramatically. “Been chucking ‘em right and left.”

  “Dusty verified a suspicion I had, about a possible Drepanosaurus relative. Might be some interesting geological specimens out there, too,” Josh hinted.

  “If he's calling them ‘geological specimens', it means he wants your department to come up with—” Ren began.

  “I know,” Jamie told her disgustedly, “and I don't even read minds. Try ‘half the funding’ for his lousy dig.”

  “Not half. Besides, who says it's going to be lousy?” Josh asked. “I haven't even organised it yet.”

  “Like hell,” Jamie snorted. “I'm gonna be too busy to waste time on dead stuff—excuse the reference, Merrie.”

  She grinned, and said quietly, “I'd rather waste my time on the living, too.” She looked with loving eyes at Zar, whose head was resting on her shoulder. He'd fallen sound asleep as soon as they were in the air—head against hers, and hand possessively on her lap.

  “Besides,” Jamie continued, “Dusty and I are being sent to some island, to check out volcanoes.”

  “No,” Zar interrupted. He punctuated it with a big yawn.