All hell let out for recess.
The saber-tooth screamed and started for me, going from zero to oh-my-god in one bound. I jerked the gun to my shoulder and let off both barrels. It felt like I’d been on the catching end of a Bruce Lee side kick. The world narrowed to a tunnel with the tiger in the center heading straight for me. The animal leaped, all snarling maw and claws and I decided I didn’t want to be there when he landed. In one spasmodic jerk, I went over the door and slammed into the ground with the grace of a bag of cement. The car sat high off the ground and I rolled under it. The car bounced on its springs and banged into me as it got a new occupant. I kept rolling, came up on all fours and sprinted for the cage, trying to suck air into my lungs.
By the time I was on the other side of the cage, everybody was in motion. Steve Bremmer, one of the cowboys, ran up in long johns, boots, hat and lever-action rifle, closely followed by Lathan Kohler wearing just boots, hat and pistol. Someone threw a bundle of sticks on the fire and we had light. The truckers came on the trot.
“Horses,” Bremmer said. The horses were adding to the racket, whinnying in panic.
“Got it,” said Kohler, the one without the long johns, and he was gone.
The mammoths’ trumpeting escalated the noise level several decibels. Bremmer yelled to the elephant wrangler. “Byrne, see to your animals!”
The Model T was a dim bulk in the shadow of the truck, its top bulging and the chassis creaking and swaying. Pieces of leather, canvas and foam rubber flew in the air and landed around us as the saber-tooth tore at the car, snarling all the while. Then he bounded free, tearing off the canvas top, and landed twenty feet away, still wrapped in black canvas. He shook his head and poked it out one side, like the world’s ugliest grandmother in a shawl.
I realized that my rifle and I had parted company a while back.
I looked into the face of this primeval killer, with his fierce daggered incisors, and was struck by his expression; this thing was dumb as a bag of hammers. That figured. He was a shark on land, an appetite strapped in muscle. Brains would have been as unnecessary as frosting on a filet mignon.
Bremmer raised his rifle and fired just as the tiger sprang. Bremmer went left and I went right. I kept going until I was on the far side of the car, got my feet tangled and went down, slid, and ended up on top of my rifle. I scrambled back to my feet and remembered the rifle was empty. I groped for the spare rounds in my pocket, broke the weapon open, dumped the empties and closed it on two live rounds.
The tiger crouched on top of the cage, batting at the bars and trying to get in. I was lining up a shot when the mammoths showed up.
It had been amazingly easy to capture the mammoths, despite their size. The male stood 14 feet tall at the shoulder with great curved tusks and small round ears. The female was 12 feet tall. Both were covered with russet-brown hair. They’d been alone on the plain with their calf when we’d driven up in our caravan of cars, trucks and horses and had shown neither surprise nor dismay. Byrne had walked up to the six-foot-tall baby, slipped a rope around its neck and led it away. Mama and Daddy had followed. We fed them bales of hay and they seemed happy to go along. At night, they let our elephant handler put hawsers around their necks and stake them to the ground. The calf ran among us while we traveled, weaving between the vehicles and the horses. It took an effort not to hit him. At night, we put him in a metal cage.
Bremmer had spotted the saber-tooth around noon, pacing us and watching, too far away to shoot. The animal was the same tan as the grass and if he wasn’t in motion, he was invisible.
Byrne had told me the hawsers and stakes would moor a small ocean liner. He was wrong. The male mammoth padded into the clearing surrounding the cage still trailing the rope. He reached out with his trunk, grabbed the saber-tooth by a back leg and slammed him on the ground like he was swatting a fly. A great puff of dust billowed out. The tiger was game and tried to get at the mammoth. The bull picked him up again, swung him in an arc over his head and slammed him into the ground a second time. He got into a rhythm, wham on one side, wham on the other, and repeat. Clouds of dust rose into the air and started drifting away on the gentle breeze. After the first dozen body slams, the saber-tooth lost coordination and started hitting the ground hard. After a few more, he looked like a rag doll.
Byrne ran up, holding a pair of jeans and his boots. He started dressing. “They were already loose when I got there,” he said.
The female mammoth walked up to the cage and the calf squealed in greeting. We backed off to give her some room. She put a foot on the corner of the steel cage and it turned from a cube to a trapezoid to a pile of junk. Mama and baby wrapped their trunks together.
The bull was just about done with the saber-tooth. The tiger was still alive but all his zip was gone. The mammoth dragged him toward the edge of the camp, flailing him from side to side to build some momentum, then took a couple of steps on the backswing and smacked the tiger into the bole of a tree.
If a field goal is getting the ball between the uprights, the mammoth performed an inverse field goal on the tiger: the saber-tooth got the upright between the balls. The predator curled over himself and made a high keening sound. The bull let him go and shuffled closer. He wrapped his trunk around one of the oversized canines and dragged the tiger across to the trunk of a tree lying beside the camp. He slammed the saber-tooth’s giant incisors against the trunk, put a foot on the back of his head and, by a combination of tapping and pushing, drove the teeth several inches into the wood.
Dad, mama and junior held a brief conversation of trumpets and grunts. Then, with some prodding and pushing from mama, junior ran to our woodpile, selected a branch and trotted over to the saber-tooth. Baby gave him a shot. The big cat grunted. It must have been like taking a baseball bat shot from Ted Williams. After a few more whacks with the stick, the calf dropped it, stepped on the predator’s back and peed on him. Then he ran back to mama.
The adults conferred while pulling off each other’s halters and removing the baby’s. As they started away, junior picked up his leash, waving it like a blue ribbon he’d won at the county fair.
Dad stopped to look at us, shook his head and followed his family into the darkness. Apparently we weren’t the kind of playmates he wanted for his son. Then they were gone.
The saber-tooth lay limp on the ground. I raised the rifle and drew a bead on him. Bremmer put his hand on the barrel and pushed it down.
“Wouldn’t be sporting,” he said. “Let’s see how he takes it.”
The animal worked his head from side to side, pushing on the log with his front paws, occasionally stopping to rest. Finally he tore his fangs loose and laid his head on the log, breathing hard. After a minute, he rolled in the dirt, probably to get rid of the piss smell, got up and began a very slow, knock-kneed shuffle out of the camp. Before he passed out of the light, he turned and gave us a heads-up stare. I swear he wanted our agreement never to speak of this moment again. Then he was gone. I think I heard him fall down again before he was out of earshot.
“Yeah,” I agreed. “He had a tough enough day without somebody shooting him. Come on.” I moved my shoulder and poked at it with a finger. I made a noise.
“Rifle butt catch you wrong?” asked Bremmer.
“Yeah.”
“You’re gonna stiffen up before morning and I ain’t wiping your butt. I got some liniment that might help, though.”
We walked over to one of the trucks and he pulled a brown bottle out of his saddlebags. “Rub this on it. Stings like crazy and smells like crap, but you’ll be able to move in the morning. Right now, I’m going to bed. Looks like I gotta catch another mammoth tomorrow. ‘Night.” He climbed into the truck and stretched out on a blanket with his head on his saddle.
“Good night.” I started away. His voice came after me.
“You sure are one crummy shot, that’s for sure.”
~~~
ROBERT J. SULLIVAN worked for an insurance company f
or 14 years (proving he can tolerate anything) before becoming a computer programmer in a language so obscure system recruiters have never heard of it. He has a list of interests so varied it’s easier to list what he isn’t interested in, and follows the Red Sox at a safe distance. He is an obsessive reader of science fiction, detective stories and thrillers, and is very much taken with Neal Stephenson and John Sandford. He lives in Connecticut with his wife, and has two grown children who show amazing tolerance for his behavior.
George thought Stinson’s window office would surely be his after making a momentous discovery while on holiday. When the distractions get too much, however, his wife cooks up a surprise to remind him love is always worth sacrificing for.
Distractions
by Peter Dudley
“Remember sunscreen, George.” Not ten minutes in Bora Bora, and she’s already at me about melanoma. “You know you spend far too much time in that dungeon of yours.”
“It’s not a dungeon, Mabel. It’s my office.”
“Well, I still say it’s outrageous that the maths professors have top story windows and the ornithologists get buried in the basement. Stinson stacks his texts right in front of the window, for goodness sake, because the drapes don’t block the light enough.”
She huffs a sigh and pulls a long, taupe cloth from her suitcase, which lies open on the bed. “Oh! These control tops get wrapped around everything.”
As she extracts the threadbare hose from their stranglehold on a rumpled pair of flowered shorts, my eyes wander to the open doorway. It’s a rectangle of beautiful, nut-brown wood framing an intense blue-on-blue horizon. Mabel had insisted on the last bungalow on the pier, so we’d have some privacy. I consider dropping my shorts and enjoying our sundeck au naturel.
I imagine Mabel will insist that I lather Mister Floppy up with sunscreen. Or, dear Lord, she might insist on doing it for me. There are only two things in this room that sag more than her jowls, and oh-my-god she’s about to expose them as she changes into her swimsuit.
I rush out the door into the blinding afternoon.
“Sunscreen, George!”
The warm Pacific breeze flows over me as I flop into one of the chaise lounges and shove dark glasses over my eyes. From here we can see nothing but ocean and sky. Some Gygis alba and a pair of Fregata minor dot the blue. But dammit I’m on holiday. From now on, they’re merely terns and frigates.
The only birds I’ll let distract me this week will be wearing thong bikinis. There are plenty of beautiful specimens in the other bungalows to help me hone my keen powers of scientific observation. Perhaps I can find a mating pair and separate them, handing the male over to Mabel for her amusement while I examine the female with minute precision.
I breathe deeply of the salt-scented air in order to loosen the knots forming in my shoulders. Years ago, before we had kids, Mabel used to make other parts of me stiff. Now, she only stiffens my neck with her constant chirping and innuendo. She bore my children, and now I suppose I’m worried that my inability to perform will bore her.
As if summoned by subconscious devilry, Mabel waddles from the hut. In a one-piece, thank God. I don’t have to scratch my eyes out. The suit’s faux new-age modern-art pattern looks like it was made from drapery stolen from a cheap motel in Leeds. At least it covers the parts that must be covered.
“Now, dear,” Mabel croons, a lime green tube clutched in her talons, “you’ve not put on sunscreen. Here. Let me do you.”
I pop up and away, out of the chair, using it as a barrier between us. “That’s all right, dear.” I must get away. Any excuse. My mind races. At home, I’d claim work on a paper, or the need to meet with a student after hours. Just as her hopeful coyness is darkening to a frown, I hit on it.
“Beer. We have no beer in the bungalow, dear, and a man in this environment can’t be fully relaxed, and … well … properly lubricated, if you know what I mean, if he hasn’t had a decent pint.”
She’s unconvinced, and her expression is growing more stormy by the second.
“All that time in airplanes has put me in need of a brisk walk. I promise I won’t be gone long. You saw that store near the check-in. I’m sure they have something.” I slip around the chair and dart past her, back inside. She does not move.
I grab the yellow tee-shirt I’d only just removed, and as I slip it on I call to her, “Can I get you anything, love?” A nice sedative, perhaps? A bottle of sleeping pills?
She mumbles something I can’t make out that sounds suspiciously like muscled young stud.
“What’s that, love?”
“Oh, nothing.” She’s facing away, looking out over the water. “Take your time. I’ll occupy myself.”
I try hard not to visualize her self-occupation. When we were packing, she was overly conspicuous in the way she secretly slipped a pocket “vibrating massager” into her bag. I’m glad she brought it. Means I can get my beer, take a walk on the beach, and come back to spend the evening unmolested.
“Oh, dear, before you go?” Her voice has a bit of urgency to it.
“Um, yes?”
“You should come see this. There’s a bird out here, in the water. It looks hurt.”
“I’m on holiday, Mabel.” Let the damn fishes eat the bugger.
“But it’s looking at me, George. It wants help. Oh, do come help the poor dear.”
I sigh and stomp back out onto the deck to peer over the edge.
“It’s just a ruddy sandpiper, Mabel. They’re supposed to be food for something else. Let it serve its purpose in life.” As I turn, though, something stops me. “Hang on.” The words fall from my mouth unbidden as my professional mind jolts from its holiday coma.
I look back at the bird. Remove my sunglasses. Peer down at it and squint against the sun’s dazzling glitter rolling on the water. “Can’t be.”
“Can’t be what? George? Can’t be what?”
“Help me get it,” I say. “Here, sit on my legs.” I lie on my stomach on the deck and lean out as far over the water as I dare. Mabel’s bulk settles onto my ankles and anchors me like shackles in concrete. I reach down and whisper sweet nothings to the bird, luring it closer.
I grasp it, pull it up.
My heart races. “It is. Dear God, I think it is.” I’ll have to go look it up, though. I need an Internet connection to be sure.
“Is what? George, what is it?”
I stand up and hold the bird in trembling hands, feel its quivering heartbeat.
“Extinct,” I whisper.
“What? Of course it’s not extinct. You just said it’s a ruddy sandpiper.”
“No, no. A Tahitian Sandpiper. Extinct for 200 years. Or, thought to be so, anyway.” I turn it over in my hands. It’s got an injured wing, but I believe I could mend it. “Mabel, do you know what this means?”
Her glassy stare is all the answer I need, but she says anyway, “Our holiday is ruined? It’s a working affair after all?”
“Oh, Mabel, don’t be so dour.” But she’s right. This is all the excuse I really need to keep her at bay the rest of the week. I almost can’t hide my glee. “It means publication. It means grant money. It means, in short, that this holiday has just paid for itself.”
She seems unimpressed, but I’ve got work to do. I rush the bird inside, grab a hand towel and make it a cozy nest. I set the bird gently on the dressing table, and it seems content.
“It’s hurt. I need to do some research on the Internet at the check-in. Oh! To be credited with finding a specimen like this!” I grab a wide-brimmed hat and shove it down upon my head, slip my feet into flip-flops and exit quickly.
I hurry down the long, wooden pier between the rows of huts, heading for shore. It will be magical, later, to fall asleep to the sound of the waves rolling underneath us. Most of the huts appear empty. Everyone must be at the beach, or parasailing or whatever it is young honeymooners do.
Only a few huts from where I am, the door slaps open. A young man, tanned and unshav
en, his sunglasses not quite straight and his black hair mussed, staggers from the hut. A black rollaway suitcase clatters after him. A woman appears in the doorway, her finger pointed with malice at his chest. I can’t hear her exact words, but their meaning is not lost on the young man, or on me.
She yanks something from her own hand — ah, a wedding ring — and makes to throw it at him. He cringes — get some backbone, lad, it’s only a ring! — but she thinks better of it and clenches it in her hand. Must be worth a fair lot, I suppose.
The man grabs his bag in anger and stomps off toward the check-out. I continue to stroll along, hoping to get a sustained look at the beauty that just threw him to the watery curb. For a moment I consider catching up to the lad and convincing him to go let Mabel slather him with sunscreen, but he’s already had a bad enough day as it is.
The girl leans on the doorframe, turning the ring over and over in her hand. My God. Her golden hair glints with heaven in the sunlight, framing her perfectly smooth, tanned skin. She wears a red bikini which uses only enough cloth to cover exactly those things that the law wants covered, exposing all the curves that want to be revealed.
My eyes soak her up. In years gone by, I’d have had to go into deep breathing to get Mister Floppy to stand down. She sniffs and wipes at her eye, then gasps a little when she notices my approach.
“Is everything all right, Miss?” I know it’s the stupidest of questions, but if I don’t talk to her she’ll scuttle back inside and shut her door. I wouldn’t mind watching her walk away, but I’m not ready for that just yet.
She sniffs again, and it’s plain to see she’s been crying. I’ve seen Mabel blubbering at her soaps, and it’s not a pretty sight. This girl weeps so delicately, with such tragic beauty, that I want only to comfort her.
Almost without realizing I’m doing it, I reach out and take her hands in mine. “There, there, love. I’m sure you’re better off without him.” Her slender fingers are velvet on my rough skin. She smells of coconut and vanilla.
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