by Al Macy
Waiting on the south side of the channel, I looked out to sea. Three spouts blossomed halfway to the horizon. Whales.
I turned back to Boonie and froze. Damn! Two juvenile crocs stalked him from behind. How had I failed to see them come out of the water? They must have slipped out upstream and lumbered down behind him. They would try to herd him into the river, but it wouldn’t be easy. Was there another creature waiting? I clenched my fists. I could not lose Boonie, too.
Once again, I had the problem of alerting Boonie to the danger behind him. All of his attention was focused on me.
I’d been unable to teach him what pointing meant, but I’d found another solution. I’d trained him to spin around in a 360-degree turn. I stood on my side of the channel, yelled, “Turn,” and made the swirling signal, like a cowboy spinning a lariat. He obeyed but did it so quickly he didn’t notice the crocs. They were lumbering closer to him, dropping to the ground whenever he moved.
“Turn!”
He did it again, and again, too fast. He was too hyped up—too focused on his pack leader, me, being across the river.
Third time was the charm. Mid turn his hackles popped up, and he charged one of the hated creatures. On land, they couldn’t match his speed, but they’d boxed him in. I wanted to swim over and help, but there was no time. I wasn’t close enough to throw my spear.
Boonie dashed toward the ocean, apparently looking to make an end run around their defense. The surge from the waves was only a foot deep, and he bounded through it. It would have worked, but an especially large wave flooded in, and with the backwash, the sand collapsed below his paws. He tumbled and flopped out into the surf, which was running at ten feet.
I watched helplessly, waiting for the crocs to slide in and finish him off. But they didn’t. They flopped down just above the wave slope and waited. Could saltwater be toxic to them? Was there something in the ocean they were scared of?
Since I’d done my share of surfing, I could have negotiated the big waves. Without a wetsuit, however, I’d soon be useless in the cold water. Back in my world, owners often entered the surf to rescue their dogs, only to drown while the dogs made it back to the beach on their own.
I watched for Boonie in the waves but also checked behind me. The smaller croc had crossed the channel to my side and was trying to put me between himself and the river. I hated those things. I charged him, feinted right, went left, and smashed my spearhead deep into the side of his neck. Fuck you! He flopped over and convulsed. I yanked out my spear. Who says revenge is bad for your soul?
Back to searching the waves. C’mon, Boonie. Where are you? My heartbeat pounded in my ears and nausea crept up my guts.
There. Boonie had almost made it to shore on my side of the river. I waded in and pulled him to the beach by the scruff of his neck. He was too tired to even shake off the water. I picked him up and carried him to high ground.
After some sneezing, vomiting, and peeing, he shook off the water and was back to his normal self. Dogs are great at living in the present moment. I gave him a roo femur bone from the pack and sat back against a tree while he gnawed it. We were on our way, now. A job, once begun, is a job half done. I must have gotten that from Marie.
One river down, about four to go. For the others, maybe I’d take the time to build a raft, but unless it was huge, it wouldn’t offer much protection.
* * *
After two days of easy hiking, following the coastline, we reached the Eel River. The redwoods’ thick canopy sucked up most of the sun’s rays, so there was little undergrowth.
I’d dreaded the Eel River, and when it came into sight my worst fears were realized. It was wide and deep. We’d never survive a crossing. We hiked several miles inland, searching for a safe place to cross.
This river was different from the one in my world. Here, the water ran clear and the wide gravel bars were missing.
At noon we found it. A huge redwood had fallen across a narrow channel, forming a perfect bridge. We crossed over in seconds. I’d wasted so much mental energy worrying about something that, in the end, was a non-issue.
Thick undergrowth in the Lost Coast region, on the other hand, was a problem I hadn’t foreseen. I often had to resort to crawling through thickets, with my pack getting hung up in the dense brambles. Twice. I had to remove it and slide it in front of me as I slithered along the muddy ground, gritting my teeth. Our progress was pitiful.
We tried hiking along the beach but sometimes came up against unclimbable rock outcroppings that stretched into the ocean. They forced us to backtrack for miles.
But the snowy plover eggs made the beach worth our while. Conservationists would have boiled over, but in this world, those birds were abundant, not endangered. Once I got the hang of spotting the nests, hidden in plain sight, I could easily gather thirty of the spotted eggs. No tree climbing required.
Boonie learned to break the eggs in his mouth rather than on the ground, with the fatty yolks going down his throat instead of into the sand. He’d pick up an egg gently, tip his snout up, and crunch.
The steep hills came right down to the coast, and I recognized the Dark Sands Beach overlook. We’d come here on a day trip a year ago. So easy then. A short hike from the trailhead. Brie and tomato sandwiches on Charli’s special low-carb bread. A bologna sandwich for Sophia. Ice-cold craft beer.
No picnic table now, of course. Boonie and I sat in the crisp air and warm sunshine. I pulled out some dried roo meat. A paleo diet was a snap here. The only option, really.
Had I appreciated my life in that world? Absolutely. Should I accept that I might never return to it? That Charli and Sophia would have to live out their lives without me? No, not yet. I was going back, even if it turned out the civilization here had nothing to do with what had happened. Somehow, I’d find a way.
And when I got back, I’d never complain about getting together with friends.
CHAPTER FIVE
Three days after crossing the Eel River, a twig snapped behind us. My gut tightened. Boonie and I both looked back.
I’d developed a mystical caveman danger detector, and it jumped into full alert mode. Had we finally stumbled across a land predator? I brought my hand to the Leatherman tool on my belt. With the knife folded out, the roo-skin sheath held it securely, and I could pull it out in an instant.
Since the Lost Coast, we’d traveled in redwood forests along animal paths. The knocking of woodpeckers echoed down from the towering redwoods above us. The earthy scent reminded me of the soil amendments sold at a nursery.
Using my spear as a walking stick, pointy end up, I hiked at a good pace. Boonie trotted along with his tongue out and his tail wagging. A man and his dog on walkabout.
I used an old Boy Scout trick to estimate direction. Point the hour hand at the sun, then bisect the angle between the hour hand and twelve o’clock to find south. Sure, I had a digital watch, but I knew where the hour hand would be.
As long as we traveled due south and turned eastward whenever we came to the coast, we’d hit San Francisco at some point. The bay was a natural location for a city, and I hoped it was the source of the aircraft I’d seen.
The snap of that twig could have been benign, but my inner caveman disagreed. I gave Boonie the hand signal for sit, and I stopped to listen. I held my breath and moved my jaw, clearing my Eustachian tubes, optimizing my sense of hearing. I scanned the forest behind us. Nothing.
We resumed walking, every rustle or birdcall from the forest amplified in my mind.
When we passed a fallen giant of a tree, the size of a school bus but longer, I gave Boonie the hand signal for close heeling. We continued forward, then looped back, and hid behind the trunk. I put Boonie into down-stay, and I lay down, too, almost under the tree. After only three minutes, footfalls sounded on the other side of our hideaway. They stopped, then resumed, and a dinosaur appeared on the trail. I held my breath.
Under five feet tall, it had the standard tyrannosaur shape but with bi
rdlike legs. Its forelegs resembled long, muscular human arms, ending with fingerlike claws. Covered in scales, its color matched the yellowish tint of a chicken’s legs. The head was smaller than mine but shaped just like a tyrannosaur’s. The pointy ears, bigger than Boonie’s, shifted as it stopped and scanned the forest.
The left hand gripped a longbow. A pack hung below its body, and a strap extended around its back, just below the arms. Intelligent life. Just what I was seeking, although I’d rather have come across a high-tech farmer than a low-tech hunter.
It sniffed the air with jerky movements. Did it sense us?
It favored the left leg when it continued along our false trail. I filed that information away.
Friend or foe? Was it hunting us, or did it want to make contact?
Longbows and spaceships didn’t go together. Could it belong to the space-faring race but be out here on a hunting trip? On our home world, recreational bow hunters existed.
Enough hypothesizing. I wasn’t schooled in forest craft, but dealing with someone tailing me? That was a skill I’d learned during FBI training. Turning the tables was step one.
We now followed the dino, waiting until it was out of sight and then sneaking forward. Arrows could travel a lot farther than spears.
Boonie kept his eyes on me, watching for the command that would let him attack. After months of hunting together, we were on the same wavelength in a way I’d never experienced with anyone.
The dino padded along the trail as it stretched across a wide meadow. Perhaps it assumed we’d stay on the trail, or maybe it had forgotten all about us. As soon as it was past the meadow, we rushed to catch up. But after we reentered the woods, it was nowhere to be seen.
Something whistled past my ear and thwacked into a redwood. Shit! It had come from my left. An arrow. I grabbed a mental snapshot of it and sprinted off to my right, away from the archer.
I jinked and juked through the trees with Boonie on my heels. My back itched with the premonition of an arrow burrowing into my spinal cord. Another shaft whizzed past us, flying off into the distance. Boonie stayed at my side, even though he could have traveled much faster on his own.
Turning this into a marathon was to my advantage. I’d read reptiles have poor stamina. True? I’d never seen a croc-monster run very far. How fast could this dino run on those chicken legs?
As I ran, I did some thinking. I didn’t want to be looking over my shoulder all the time, so I needed to kill this creature. Could I get it before it reported my presence? Its longbow could come in handy. Okay, maybe I just wanted revenge—no one likes being hunted like a rabbit.
After thirty minutes, we passed a good ambush spot. A redwood on a small rise had toppled over, and the root ball extended up over ten feet. We went behind it, and I held my breath, listening for running sounds.
Months of daily hunting and hiking had put me in prime shape for this. The only fat I carried was the drumstick I’d eaten for breakfast.
I examined the mental snapshot I’d taken of the arrow. I don’t have a photographic memory, but being shot at tends to focus one’s perceptions. Well-made, but primitive, with a stone arrowhead buried partway into the bark. This was no weekend warrior with equipment from an outdoor store. Here was a primal creature, and it wasn’t out to make a friend request.
I watched Boonie. He’d detect the creature before I would. Ten minutes passed. I pulled the roo-stomach pouch from my pack and had a few swallows of water. I poured some into the small ceramic dog bowl I’d brought.
I’d just gotten things stowed when Boonie’s head popped up. Showtime. The dino emerged from the trees, limping and breathing hard. It slowed as it passed our hiding place.
Before it emerged from the other side of the root ball, Boonie rose up slowly, looking like a wolf creeping up on a fawn. His eyes focused on the spot in the trail where the creature would reappear, but he was also watching for my signal. I raised my spear and held my breath.
The instant the dino came into view, I gave Boonie a soft “Go!” and jumped out.
Damn! It stood on the far side of the path with its bow drawn and the arrow aimed at the center of my mass.
With a deadly twang, it released the bowstring. But at the last instant it had tried to retarget to the canine rocket streaking toward it, and the arrow whiffed past Boonie’s tail.
The lizard moved to pull a new arrow from the quiver. Boonie jumped and got his jaws around its right elbow. Boonie’s momentum spun the creature to one side but didn’t knock it over.
The fight might have been finished if not for the dino’s mouth, now on a collision course with Boonie’s head. The sharklike teeth glistened with dino saliva.
Only a step away, I stabbed my spear at its cranium. The obsidian spearhead sliced through the pinna of the dino’s ear but skittered off the side of its skull. I tried to lever it away from Boonie, but the ear flap ripped away, and it got its teeth onto part of Boonie’s head.
Boonie yelped, released his grip, and pulled away. No quitter, he jumped and clamped on to the creature’s neck. His hind legs barely reaching the ground, Boonie yanked to one side, and the dinosaur stumbled. I stabbed my spear at its mouth. The dinosaur jerked out of the way, going with the force of Boonie’s tugs.
The dino lost its balance, falling onto its back. I fell on top of it, and before I could recover, its claw wrapped itself around the back of my neck. While Boonie tugged back, growling, the lizard pulled my face toward its mouth. Everything happened in slow motion. I pulled back with all my strength. Aargh! My muscles shook.
Its putrid breath washed over me, and the moment seemed to go on forever. Closer and closer.
Boonie, with his teeth still firmly embedded in the dino’s neck, gave a huge heave, shaking as he pulled. That gave me the break I needed. I went with the pull and smashed the creature’s snout with my forehead. It was like hitting a rock, but its claw released me.
I pulled my head back, but its jaws snapped shut on my beard, and I couldn’t rip free. We were back to a tug of war, and it was stronger than I was.
But now I had one hand on its forehead. I dug my thumb into its eye socket. The beast grabbed at my hand, but Boonie’s bite had taken its toll, and the arm was weak. Useless.
Finally, my right arm was free. I pulled the Leatherman knife from the sheath and plunged it into the dinosaur’s soft belly. I followed through, sinking in up to my elbow, and pulled up, slicing through his guts as if cutting through a vat of cold chicken livers.
It focused on me, and the ridges above its eyes popped up. Bright red blood poured from its mouth accompanied by spasmodic choking noises. Birdlike stools flowed from below its tail, and a terrible smell, like the odor of a poorly maintained reptile house, hit me.
I looked around. Were there any other predators waiting for the outcome of the battle? No. I let out a victorious yell. Boonie barked then started tearing open the beast, pulling out the liver and other offal. I let him know what a good dog he was. I egged him on. “Get it, Boonie. Good dog!” This was his reward.
Once Boonie had settled down, I examined him. He’d lost most of one ear, just like me, and blood oozed from several puncture wounds. He shook his head, so I knew it hurt. Of course it hurt. But he wagged his tail.
I picked up the longbow and ran my hand along it. It was crude, but functional, as we’d seen. The stock was sanded but not stained. I pulled out one of the ten remaining arrows from the quiver and examined it.
Some leaves rustled, and I spun around, nocked the arrow, and pulled back. Nothing but a bird. Good thing, since I only got the string back a foot. The weapon wouldn’t work for me until I could reduce the tension somehow.
I looked around again. Nope, no other dinos nearby.
Its pack wasn’t leather—more like snakeskin. Good quality but not machine made. I tilted it up, dumping the contents onto the ground. No watch or flashlight. No radio. No metal.
An animal-gut cord fastened together an assortment of jerky, not so d
ifferent from mine. A stone knife with a wooden handle sat among some carvings. I picked one up. It was shaped like a dinosaur, but with a parrotlike head. A religious figure?
I moved a coil of rope, and something orange fell out. I picked it up and examined it closely. A cylinder, like a thick straw, about three inches long. It was some kind of plastic and had gold contacts at one end.
I dragged the carcass away from the trail and found a good campsite. The sun had gone down too far to use my reading glasses lenses, so I got a fire going with my small bow and drill. I’d perfected the technique and, using my ball of dried grass, had a good fire going in thirty minutes.
Boonie had gotten most of the liver, but I roasted the heart of our foe.
It was delicious.
* * *
We took a day off from hiking toward our goal. I worked to reduce the tension of the bow by cutting away at the stock. I got it down to a manageable level and began practicing. I hadn’t shot an arrow since I was ten.
I would need a lot of practice. I started to improve, and then the bow snapped. The bow would have been cumbersome to take, anyway. I stowed the string in my pocket and put the plastic cylinder in my pack.
For Boonie, I packed a few bones from our adversary and gave the carcass one more kick. No respect for the dead, I guess. We headed south.
Invigorated by our success and the lizard’s protein, we made good time. Boonie often shook his head or stopped to scratch it. He’d been cut before, during our hunting, so I expected a full recovery. My ear was a different story. Months since the injury, it was still a lumpy mess.
I’d packed some extra meat in a clay bowl and tied the lid on. There was no easy way to preserve meat on the go, but it would last till lunchtime. I now understood why lizard meat is a delicacy in some parts of my world. It tasted great. Supply is apparently a problem back there. Not here.
