He concentrated on writing the words into the dark, slick mud over and over again. The more he wrote, the better his chance to never come to this stream, ever. He looked in the direction of the low cliff where the cave was and was pleased to see how far he had come. Though he had stopped several times to hide, he had probably covered another one hundred and fifty yards with his writing.
As he looked down at the mud, he caught his reflection in a small pool of water near his knee. He had not shaved or even had a chance to clean himself. Sleep was only in short, interrupted intervals. How old he looked, so changed. Then he quickly looked up again in shock and disbelief. It was dawn, it was getting light fast, and he was no longer hidden in the dark. In a land where even the smallest hunter was a mortal danger, to be completely exposed to them was sure death. In the dark, though they could see well, he could hide from them in the forest, trusting in his hearing and watching them through the night vision. In the day he could not hide, all eyes could see in the light. Then the stalking would begin and the victim never knew until it was too late. He had watched it many times from the safety of the cave.
Dawson started to get up too quickly and slipped in the mud and went down to his hands and knees. He pushed his hands down to lift himself and his fingers sunk deep into the slimy ooze. He pulled them out with a squishy, popping noise and as he slowly stood up he realized there was no other sound. It was quiet, deadly still. Fear ran up his spine and he had trouble catching his breath. His heart was pounding. He knew the feeling, something was watching him. It was his turn to be hunted.
To turn around, for he knew the attack would come from behind, would invite a sudden charge that he might not be able to stop. He was too close to the vegetation running alongside the stream. He had not noticed that the jungle crept closer to the stream, a perfect spot for an ambush. A rifle or a shotgun might have done the job, but all they had decided to bring were pistols. Not a lot of stopping power against one of the killing machines that would cover the distance from the vegetation to him in just a few seconds.
Instead, he stood up slowly and with all his will power forced himself to walk slowly across the stream. He didn’t want to make it seem as if he was getting away, he didn’t want to provoke a charge. Sudden movements would trigger an attack response. Slowly putting some distance between him and the attacker was the key. He had to have reaction time if there was a charge.
The water was shallow and clear, no deeper than his ankles and he could easily see where to step without falling. The cool water felt good as it washed over the tops of his boots. He pulled the pistol from the holster but the far bank was steeper here and he would have to pull himself up on some exposed roots. If the charge did not come before then he would have to put the gun back in the holster, he knew if it was in his hands he would not be able to climb up the bank. If there was a sudden charge after he holstered then he would have to be able to enter the jungle before the animal crossed the stream. Then he would have to hope the animal could not get through the densely packed tree trunks. Even then it was over three hundred or so yards to the cave, he had to stay in control, he could not panic.
Dawson reached the far bank and reluctantly holstered the gun. Still no attack. Slowly he made his way up into the dense undergrowth that would help hide his movements. There were many trees but there were no branches to climb, the trunks ran straight up like the mast of a sailboat and disappeared into crowns of wide droopy leaves with serrated edges. Besides, he did not know how big this hunter was, or how high it could jump…or if it would wait for him at the bottom of the tree. No, it had to be the cave; he ducked under some hanging moss and began to walk faster. Every step he was closer to safety, to living one more day.
Behind him he heard the ferns on the other side of the stream violently thrust apart and quick, loud splashing steps in the water. The hunter had realized its prey was getting away. It was coming, fast. He bent over to stay under the thick ropey vines and heavy leaves and began running as fast as he could. Still, he didn't panic, he knew the way and he was moving quickly through the dense undergrowth. It was not the first time he had run for the cave.
The hunter would have problems; it would be slowed by the thick vegetation. Still, it would move fast, unbelievably quick leaps and claws that moved faster than the eye could follow. It wanted the prey in the open where its speed could be used with deadly efficiency. It was getting closer.
He could hear the hunter crashing through the trees to his left, cutting off his escape to the cave. For a brief second, he wondered if it was doing so on purpose, that it knew where he lived. A loud roar, much too close, broke his thought though and he realized he had to change direction. But he had been in this area several times and he knew just exactly what he wanted to do. There were paths made by animals coming to the stream to drink, and one branched off to a sink hole that was filled with plants and vines.
He abruptly turned right and cut past a small mound of dirt and several short stumpy trees then turned left again. He broke through some waist high vegetation that marked the edge of the sink hole and immediately ran down a slope that dropped quickly ten feet below the mound of dirt. He was just on the edge of the deeper area that was overgrown with a tangled web of plants and vines. He bent down and picked up a small branch and threw it high into the air then shrunk back into a small depression at the base of the mound so he was hidden by several small ferns. Dawson pulled out the pistol; if this didn’t work it would not take long for the hunter to find him.
The animal broke through the vegetation thirty feet in front of him and stopped just short of the sinkhole. It was about six feet tall and stood on two legs. Its black and gray mottled skin glistened in the sun. He always thought the skin looked like it was the texture of a basketball. Its tail whipped furiously from side to side like a snake and its mouth was open, exposing razor sharp teeth. At that moment, the branch crashed into the limbs and vines at the bottom of the sink hole and the noise drew the attention of the hunter. It did not pause; in the blink of an eye it launched itself into the morass. Several smaller animals broke from the cover with loud cries of fear and ran for their lives. It snapped at several and missed but one broke from cover in its panic right at the hunter’s feet and was quickly caught in powerful jaws. The frightened animal squealed in pain and uselessly bit at the air. With a sudden crushing shake of the hunter’s jaws, the smaller animal went limp and the feeding began.
Dawson realized he was not breathing and took in a slow silent breath, no sense reminding the feeding hunter that he was still around. Better to move off silently. His hands started trembling; the adrenaline burn, but he felt relief. He breathed out slowly and as he turned to leave found that his backpack had caught on a small bush. He pulled quietly to free it but was startled by a loud crashing noise came from across the sink hole. Something else was coming; something had heard the death struggle, something bigger. Now panic was taking over, he could not stop it; he could not take his eyes off of the dark forest where the noise was coming from. He did not think to step back into the depression until it was too late.
And it was too late. It broke from the forest directly across from him with an explosion of trees and a roar that seemed to shake the ground. It was about a foot taller than the first hunter and was stockier, broader. Though its forelegs were small, it stood on two muscular hind legs and its thick tail did not whip back and forth as the other hunter’s, it stayed straight with just a little movement at the tip. Its skin shimmered in the light with colors of black, brown, red, and yellow. He had seen it before. He had seen it kill.
The first hunter let out a loud cry and dropped a chunk of flesh from its mouth. It roared at the larger hunter as if hoping to scare it away but another loud roar from the larger animal caused it to shrink back. With blinding speed, it turned and leaped all the way out of the sinkhole right towards the small dirt mound. Dawson shrunk back and twisted to the left as the hunter landed right beside him, and as the strap broke free fr
om the branch, he fell hard to the ground. The frightened animal paid him no attention though and with another leap was gone.
Again it was silent. Dawson realized he could still hear the loud breathing of the hunter and the pounding of his own heart. Slowly, he looked up from the ground and saw the hunter was not looking at the dead beast that had been left behind, it was looking at him. It was only across the pit, less than twenty-five feet away. Dawson looked into the eyes of the hunter and knew it scavenged only when it had to; it lived to hunt, to kill. It needed to feel the struggle of the prey and the hot blood flowing from its meal. In those eyes he saw his death.
White teeth flashed in the early morning sun as the hunter roared again and Dawson jumped to his feet. That was a mistake. The quick movement excited the hunter. Its eyes seemed to change shape as if it were calculating the best way to catch him. He started to step left towards the cave but the sink hole ended less than fifty feet in that direction. He would be caught before he could get back into the vegetation. He would have to walk back slowly the way he came. Fortunately, this hunter was no jumper, its legs were thick to hold up its stocky, muscular body, and as long as it was on the other side of the sinkhole; it would be unable to cross.
Thinking fast, Dawson saw this was an opportunity. To the right, the sinkhole was long, and though narrow, it was still too wide for the hunter to cross. It would have to go all the way to the end before it could reach his side. He thought it was about one hundred feet. He was surprised at his calmness, and didn’t know if it was good or bad.
He began to slowly back up the path towards the rim of the sinkhole, never taking his eyes off the hunter. If it didn’t go to the shorter end there was a chance. It paced him, its eyes never leaving him, never blinking. It was working, he was moving it towards the longer part of the sink hole. He reached the side of the dirt mound and turned his head slightly to make sure the way was clear. Keeping himself under control he paused, and then jumped to his right and out of view.
There was a loud roar and he could hear the monster running along the sink hole in the direction it last saw him go, the longer way. It was working; it was running away from the cave. He quickly dropped down low and reversed his direction, back towards the cave and safety. The hunter would keep running in the same direction, too late it would find its prey was not where it was supposed to be. But would it give him the time he needed?
He stayed low, where the smaller animals ran under concealing plants, getting closer to the cave with every step. Behind him he could hear the roars of the beast and the noise of it crashing through the forest, but it was not getting any closer. It had worked. He kept moving quickly and quietly, a noise would alert the hunter to his position. Hopefully the dung pouch would keep it from smelling him.
Just as he started to breathe easier though, the backpack snagged on some vegetation and spun him hard to the left and his momentum threw him down a small slope. It was slick from the constant rain and he could not catch himself to stop. He continued to slide until suddenly there was nothing beneath him and he dropped from the mass of vegetation five feet into the stream with a loud splash. The landing knocked the wind out of him but he kept his senses and struggled quickly to his feet. He knew he only had a few seconds to get back into the cover.
The bank in front of him was too high to get back up; he took several splashing steps until he saw a lower bank with some vines to climb. He grabbed a vine and slowly began pulling himself up and into the safety of the forest. About fifty feet to his right, the trees suddenly exploded as the hunter burst into view. It ran into the stream kicking up large splashes of water as it stopped and turned to face him. It slipped for a moment on the mud and rocks but it had seen him and with quick steps it closed in. It was almost on him when with a last pull Dawson was back in the thick forest and the beast was stopped. It roared and lashed out and bit at the trees but it could not get through them or up the bank that was too steep for it to climb.
He ran for the cave as fast as he could, noise did not matter now. He could hear the beast running in the water towards a lower bank that it could climb, it was still tracking him. The stream made a sharp bend though as it approached the cave which again would lead the hunter away. Dawson was not thinking about being quiet now. Knowing the cave was close, all he could think of was getting to it as fast as he could. The hunter was still intent on the kill and he had to run fast.
Suddenly Dawson broke free from the clinging vegetation and into the open space that led to the cliff wall. To his dismay, he saw that the chase had also taken him off his line to the cave, he was farther away than he thought he would be. It was another two hundred feet, it might as well have been two hundred miles, but he did not give up. With an extra effort, his lungs burning, he ran faster, then faster still, as he ran past the landing area where everyone had died. Every step brought him closer to safety, to staying alive for one more day.
Behind him he heard the hunter crashing through the forest again then heard it break through the last line of trees and into the clearing. Nothing separated them now but maybe a hundred feet of space, he knew he was about to die. But now he was at the base of the rock wall, just a few more feet and he would be inside. Hope rose as he moved through the loose rocks leading to the thin opening in the sheer rock face, then hope was lost as he slipped on one of the rocks and pitched forward. The hunter was on him before he could rise; he felt a crushing weight and realized the hunter had stepped on him with one of its large legs. He heard the sound of its snapping jaws and he felt its hot breath. But it fell too in the loose stones as its momentum carried it over him. He felt his backpack ripped off his back as he jumped quickly to his feet.
The hunter slid past him, unable to regain its balance on the loose, sliding rocks. It snapped at him again as he dodged the bite and ran for the cave. Up the slope he sped, rocks gave way and tumbled behind him but now he was at the entrance to the cave. Dawson ran through the thin metal shield that he had put up to keep small animals out and as he threw himself into the tight opening he was aware of footsteps getting closer. With one final thrust, he squeezed through just as razor sharp claws slammed into the cave wall beside his head. Then he fell onto the floor of the cave and crawled away from the enraged hunter. It was roaring and snapping but he was safe.
With a great deal of effort, he slowly got control of himself, and as his breathing slowed to long drawn out gasps, he realized he was sobbing. The hunter was still at the entrance trying to get in but the narrow entrance had saved him again. Just like it had saved him on the very first night. He threw up once, then again, as he gasped for air. As he closed his eyes, the roaring of the hunter grew dimmer and darkness overcame him. Then the nightmare came again as he relived it all over.
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Extinction Page 9
