Footprints of Thunder

by James F. David

“Do it again, Doc! Just keep turning tight circles, it’s too big to get you that way.”

  As he did, the dinosaur turned after him again. Dr. Coombs prepared to run right again around the back of the dinosaur. But then it happened.

  In midmove, the dinosaur swung back the other way just as Dr. Coombs jumped its tail. As he landed he saw the head coming toward him. He turned to race the other way, but it smacked him in the back and sent him tumbling across the clearing. As soon as he stopped rolling he struggled to his feet, moving his bruised body as fast as he could. It wasn’t fast enough. Dr. Coombs turned just in time to take the dinosaur’s charge full in the chest.

  Miraculously, Dr. Coombs struggled to his feet again. Now the dinosaur lowered its head, took two steps, and brought its head up into Dr. Coombs’s stomach, tossing him up and impaling him on the two horns protruding from its crest. Petra froze in horror, then turned away in disbelief. It took all her willpower to look back. When she did the horror was still there.

  Dr. Coombs’s limp form was impaled on the upper horns. One of the horns was buried in his thigh and one somewhere in his back, and he was held across the head of the dinosaur. The confused animal shook its head trying to dislodge Dr. Coombs’s limp body. Petra watched helplessly as the dinosaur’s efforts became more violent, but still the body hung on the curved horns. Petra saw no way she could help. She spotted Colter doing something in the grass. Then he stood, holding a long stick in his hand.

  The dinosaur was still struggling with Dr. Coombs’s body when Colter approached stealthily, keeping slightly behind the head of the dinosaur. Then, out of the corner of her eye, Petra saw Dr. Coombs move. It was just his arm, but it moved up, and then dropped again. He’s alive, Petra thought. Then she ran forward to draw the dinosaur’s attention away from Colter.

  Colter was getting close now, so Petra shouted and waved her arms. This time the dinosaur turned toward her. Its huge eyes flamed with anger, but it only stared at Petra defiantly. As soon as Petra had it distracted Colter broke into a sprint.

  Colter ran the last few steps to the dinosaur and plunged the sharpened stick into one of the wounds in its neck. To Petra it looked as if the stick barely penetrated, but the dinosaur screamed in pain. It shook its massive head, forgetting about Dr. Coombs’s still-impaled body. Colter, shaken loose by the dinosaur, grabbed the stick again, then plunged it back into the beast. This time the dinosaur began to run. Colter tried to keep up but soon stumbled and was left behind. Petra followed the retreating dinosaur toward the tall brush. Just as it disappeared, Dr. Coombs raised his head again and opened his eyes. Then the dinosaur crashed through the brush and out of sight. Petra stumbled to a halt at the hedgerow. The grass was sticky with a mixture of human and dinosaur blood. Colter came up next to her, and behind him she could see Dr. Piltcher walking through the grass, his face pale and drawn.

  “He’s alive, Dr. Piltcher,” Petra said.

  Dr. Piltcher shook his head.

  “Petra, I know you want him to be …”

  “He is, Dr. Piltcher. I saw him move.”

  “Petra …” Dr. Piltcher began, but Colter cut him off.

  “I saw him move too.”

  Dr. Piltcher’s eyes went wide and some color returned to his cheeks. Then he turned to the forest and shouted.

  “George, we’re coming. Don’t you die on me, George!”

  Dr. Piltcher turned to follow the blood trail, but Colter’s hand on his arm stopped him.

  “Without a weapon?’!

  “You can go to town for a gun if you want, Colter. George will be dead by the time you get back. I’m going after him. He’s my friend.”

  Colter looked past Dr. Piltcher to Petra for help, but she looked as determined as Dr. Piltcher. Colter dropped his eyes and shook his head.

  “All right, all right. Just give me a minute, will ya?”

  Colter trotted off toward the mangled RV, pausing long enough to retrieve the stick he used on the dinosaur. Dr. Piltcher watched him briefly and then started to follow the dinosaur’s trail. But Petra stopped him, and the look in her eyes persuaded him to give Colter a few minutes. Dr. Piltcher paced anxiously looking vainly for signs of Dr. Coombs in the brush ahead.

  Colter returned with a knife securely wired to the bloody end of his pole. To Petra it seemed a flimsy weapon to use on a dinosaur, but Colter led off confidently.

  Crushed grass, broken limbs, and sticky red smears showed them the way. A short distance into the brush, a four-foot bipedal dinosaur turned down the trail ahead of them. Colter signaled a halt, and they watched its mottled green tail disappear down the trail. Colter was about to move off again when a dinosaur, walking on all fours, moved through the grass and down the trail. Colter waited again to give the smaller one some space. They followed the trail only a short distance when once again something moved through the grass toward the trail—a dinosaur similar to the first one, trotting upright down the trail. Colter turned in frustration.

  “It’s like rush hour on the freeway. They’re scavengers, you know.”

  They were about to strike out again, but something moved through the grass ahead of them. Too small to see, it too was following the scent of the blood.

  Petra stood defiantly and walked back the way they had come. When the others caught up, she said simply, “I know where the dinosaur’s going. She’s going home.”

  Petra led them back to the clearing and then back into the brush toward the nest of eggs. After a short distance Colter turned and whispered to the others.

  “You hear something weird?”

  Petra and Dr. Piltcher heard only the wind rustling the leaves. Still Colter hesitated and only led off after Dr. Piltcher threatened to. Colter crept forward, his pace slow and deliberate. He paused often to listen and his eyes moved constantly. Dr. Piltcher became impatient and tried to push past Colter, who pulled him to the ground.

  “Listen! Don’t you hear it?”

  Dr. Piltcher pushed Colter’s hands away, but looked to see Petra squatting, her head tilted back, listening intently. She turned to Dr. Piltcher, her forehead creased.

  “Listen, there is something,” she whispered.

  At first Dr. Piltcher could hear only the wind, but slowly his ears filtered it out. New sounds came: a mixture of tearing, slurping, and crunching.

  When Dr. Piltcher realized he was listening to tearing flesh and crunching bones, he sagged to his knees and began to sob. “Oh, George, what have I done to you?”

  42. The President and Gogh

  The rhythm of civilizations is written in the fabric of the universe by the gods. But that rhythm speaks of an age when the fabric will be torn.

  —Zorastrus, Prophet of Babylon

  The developed countries, self-absorbed with their own suffering, offered little to the Third World. With only basic transportation and communication networks, Third World countries were thought to have suffered less, but what they had was essential, and the loss of dams, power generators, phones, bridges, and population was devastating. Life on the farms went on virtually, untouched, but the overcrowded and undercivilized cities that suffered from the effect were plunged into darkness and anarchy. Separatists, liberation armies, and the politically disaffected seized the opportunity, and war spread. Ethnic cleansing quickly became a norm, as peace-keeping forces were withdrawn to see to the needs of their home countries.

  Without the support and resources of their patrons in the developed world, governments fell and civil war spread like wildfire. Soon, even the cities and regions untouched by the effect were infected with the spreading disorder.

  War would kill the most for a while, but without facilities for exports, medicines, and imported food, disease and famine would soon displace war. Peoples dependent on U.N. feeding stations would soon find them empty, and regions battling famine would face new horrors. A new order would eventually displace chaos—political maps would be drastically rewritten. But the new order would be different, for it would include the
new wildlife.

  Washington, D.C.

  PostQuilt: Tuesday, 10:35 A.M. EST

  The President put down his reading and leaned back, staring at the ceiling. So many bizarre reports had left him numb to new horrors. The report on his lap summarized the situation in South America. Elizabeth kept insisting a worldwide catastrophe opened possibilities a President couldn’t ignore, but his interest was in the domestic situation. Agreeing finally to read the summaries, he read with one part of his mind while the rest worried about Sandy. The Secret Service had lost touch with the first lady’s escorts, and although he knew they were working frantically to reestablish contact, every second without word turned his hope to despair.

  The President turned back to the report. It described an incident in Argentina near La Plata where a herd of cattle was attacked by an “unknown carnivore.” A rancher and his son were killed trying to drive off the beast—killed and eaten. The locals fled, and the army was called in to kill the animal, which so far had eluded them.

  There were dozens of detailed stories like that one, as well as general descriptions of disappearing dams, avalanches, and missing cities. Power outages were widespread in Argentina, Chile, and Brazil, and virtually no news was coming from the rest of the continent. The reports were identical to what had happened in his own country and only reinforced his feelings of helplessness.

  Arnie Gogh knocked at the open door.

  “Hello, Arnie. Come on in. I need the relief from these reports. It’s as bad everywhere else as it is in our country. None of our allies escaped.”

  “I know, Scotty. I’m afraid I didn’t come to make things easier for you.”

  “Sit down. Let’s get it over with.”

  “First, we have an unusual request. Are you familiar with our antarctic research station? There are about two hundred personnel at the site. When the … it happened, they found their camp sitting next to a tropical jungle. It’s a familiar story, but it had to be particularly stunning in a barren landscape like Antarctica. They went exploring, naturally, and soon ran into something pretty nasty. They lost a couple of personnel. They retreated to camp to prepare themselves better, but it turned out to be unnecessary. The dinosaurs—which we can assume they are—were sluggish and stuporous. They were freezing to death and soon most of them slipped into a state like hibernation. Being enterprising scientists, and not knowing the same thing had happened all over the world, they began capturing the dinosaurs and dragged them to their port. They want to ship them to a warmer climate.”

  The President was exhausted from worry over his wife, and the survival of his country, and had little patience for a group of eggheads trying to save dinosaurs.

  “Arnie, we don’t need any more dinosaurs. If half of these reports are true …” the President said without finishing.

  “I know. I know. But it’s a bit more complicated than it seems. There’s a political side to this. What if things turn out to be better than we thought? What if we can reverse this? Then what will people think if we let these dinosaurs die?”

  “Arnie, do we need dinosaurs?”

  “No. There’s no niche for them in the ecosystem. I can’t imagine any of the developing countries will want to deal with them, and I have no idea where they could be kept in our country. But that’s not the point. If we let the dinosaurs in Antarctica die, and they could have been mating pairs for dinosaurs elsewhere, then the environmental lobby will blame us. Better to let the antarctic scientists risk their lives trying to save them. We can always shoot them later.”

  The President hated politics and political thinking, but Arnie Gogh was good at it, and he always found his judgment reliable.

  “What’s the downside of this decision, Arnie?”

  “When those dinosaurs warm up on that ship they could be uncontrollable. There could be personnel losses, Scotty. But given the losses nationwide the losses on the ship would be insignificant.”

  Amie’s cold analysis was disturbing, but correct. The President had little to lose by letting them try to save the dinosaurs, and there was some potential for political gain. “These dinosaurs could be vegetarians, right?”

  “They could be. They didn’t specify. That’s quite useful, now that I think about it. If something does go wrong then we can always claim we didn’t know they were going to move carnivores.”

  “All right. Give them permission, but don’t bring them here.”

  “I already have a port in Panama picked out. It’s a good climate for dinosaurs.”

  The President watched Gogh as he made a notation on the outside of the folder he was carrying. When he was done he sat silently. The President appreciated his old friend’s company. The two of them had been friends since their first university days, and even when Arnie had been forced to resign the President had retained his respect for him. But Arnie wasn’t sitting there for the company; there was something else on his mind.

  “What is it, Arnie? News about Sandy.”

  Amie averted his eyes when he spoke, “Atlanta is gone, and Sandy with it. We haven’t given up yet, but there’s no place to look for her—the city isn’t there.”

  The President turned and looked out the window, and twirled a paper clip crank. After a minute he turned back and said, “What did you think of Dr. Paulson’s theory?”

  “Highly improbable—no foundation.”

  “What else do we have, Arnie? I want Sandy back—I need Sandy back. Will you look at his idea, for my sake?”

  “I’ve looked at it.”

  “I mean really look at it.” The President leaned forward and put the paper clip down. “Arnie, I know how badly it hurt to lose your position here. You and I—we worked half our lives to get here. It wasn’t fair to you to lose it all just because of one mistake.” The President paused as Arnie shifted in his chair uncomfortably. “Arnie, look at the theory. See if you can find some way to get Sandy back. If you’ll do this, I’ll name you science advisor again—or any job you want.”

  Arnie’s face was impassive, but his pupils dilated.

  “I can’t promise—” he began.

  “Just do your best.”

  “Yes.”

  The President picked up his report and then dropped it and reached for a new paper clip. Quickly absorbed, he never saw his friend leave.

  43. Unfinished Business

  This is what the sovereign Lord says: When I make you a desolate city, like cities no longer inhabited, and when I bring the ocean depths over you and its vast waters cover you, then I will bring you down with those who go down to the pit, to the people of long ago … You will be sought, but you will never again be found.

  —Ezekial 26:19-21

  Washington, D.C.

  PostQuilt: Tuesday, 11:15 A.M. EST

  Speaking to the Security Council had terrified Terry. He considered himself a good counselor on a one-to-one basis, and good with small groups of parents or teachers, but he was never comfortable as a public speaker. And nothing in his experience had prepared him to speak to the movers and the shakers of government. Now he realized he’d made the last meaningful contribution he could make in Washington, It was time to call in Bill’s promise and get to his son.

  As they left the White House in the van, Terry turned to Bill and said simply, “It’s time.” Bill turned his face to the window and watched the buildings race by, then leaned forward to whisper in the driver’s ear.

  Terry sank back into his seat and reexamined his decisions. He had been only minimally helpful with Kenny Randall. Of course he couldn’t have known that when he decided to come, but in retrospect, Ellen had been right.

  Nick was exchanging information on the PresNet when Elizabeth Hawthorne appeared at his door. It wasn’t like Elizabeth to show up without an appointment. She was carrying a bright blue file folder filled to overflowing and leaned against the doorway trying to act casual. Unfortunately, “casual” was not in her vocabulary of body language. However, she spoke with characteristic bluntness
.

  “They’re going to blame the Russians for this.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You said that it takes bombs of a certain megatonnage to produce the effect. They’re putting together a press release claiming only the old Soviet Union detonated enough of these bombs often enough to produce the effect.”

  Nick didn’t know how to respond. Politicians specialized in covering their asses, so why should this case be any different, and why would Elizabeth bring this piece of news to him? Did Elizabeth care who got blamed for the disaster? Did she think Nick could do something about it?

  “It’s not true, Elizabeth. Either everyone involved in nuclear testing is to blame, or no one is.”

  Elizabeth nodded and finally entered the room, walking closer to Nick and watching the messages scrolling across his computer screen.

  After another full minute she stopped reading the messages and turned to leave.

  “Oh, is that psychologist still around?”

  “Dr. Roberts? No, he left with Colonel Conrad after the meeting.”

  Elizabeth’s face showed just a hint of disappointment. Then she took the blue folder out from under her arm and handed it to Nick.

  “These are the satellite photos you wanted.”

  As she walked out the door Nick began to understand what had happened. The satellite photos normally would have been delivered by a staff member. Elizabeth, Nick realized, had actually come to ask about Dr. Roberts. Why would Elizabeth Hawthorne want a psychologist? It seemed so unlikely. Elizabeth Hawthorne’s life had focused on getting and exercising power. She thrived on crisis management. But if Elizabeth did not want to see the psychologist for herself, then who? The President? Nick thought back to the Security Council meeting. He had noted a change in the President. He still functioned, he ran the meeting, with Elizabeth’s whispered help, but he seemed uncharacteristically single-minded. He wanted to know what had happened and what could be done about it. Still, wouldn’t any President respond the same way?