by Chuck Dixon
“And some streamers to catch their eye.” Chaz held up some strips of orange cloth torn from a cargo tarp.
“What do you hope to catch?” Shan said.
“Something huge.” Boats’ grin broadened. All his teeth showed through the forest of his red beard.
“May I help?” Shan said. “My family have been fishermen for many years back.”
“Sure. We might need another hand,” Chaz said.
“Only this might be a whole new fishing experience for you, brother.” Boats racked a rifled slug into a shotgun.
The winch lifted the stinking tangle of rotten poultry and tackle out over the water. With the long orange streamers fluttering in the wind, it looked like the world’s ugliest kite. Boats released the winch to allow the lure to plunge deep into the wake of the ship. It vanished into the churning water.
Boats put the brake on the winch, and they attached an empty aluminum beer keg to the cable with heavy duty carabiners. The keg was painted bright yellow. They hooked on a keg or oil drum every fifty feet of cable until a long row of kegs and drums bobbed in the water behind the Raj. At two hundred yards, Boats braked the winch. The three men went to the aft rail to watch for signs of interest.
Chaz eyed the following sea through a pair of binoculars. He focused on the water beyond the last lemon-colored float, rising and falling far out in the wake. The morning sun dappled the wave caps with silver light. Nothing cut the surface. Not a fin or tail or snout.
“Won’t be long. The water here is loaded with predator fish,” Boats said.
He was right. They’d seen their share of shiny monsters breaking the surface around the Raj. Long-necked beasts with heads like snakes. Sea turtles the size of yachts. Nasty scaled monsters leaping into wavefronts in pods like dolphins.
The yellow keg jerked, once, twice. The impact was transmitted back up the line. The cable hummed above their heads, throbbing with tension as something out there pulled it taut. “We got a strike!” Boats jumped back to the winch controls to let out more line.
“Can you see it?” Shan said. “No. Yes!” Chaz shouted.
A torpedo-shaped fish leaped clear of the chop, gar-mouthed and flashing pewter scales in the sunlight before crashing back down into the foam.
“He take the bait?” Boats called.
“Hold on!” Chaz scanned the water. The first float was yanked out of sight only to explode out of the water again.
Behind it, the big fish flung itself into the air, the line looping from its jaws. The hooks were stuck fast.
“He took all of it!” Chaz hollered.
“I’m reeling him in,” Boats said. The winch motor torqued up, and the cable reeled back toward the crane head.
“May I?” Shan held a hand out for the binoculars, and Chaz gave them up.
“How big?” Boats called.
“Biggest fish I have ever seen,” Shan said. “Four meters or more.”
“That’s like fifteen feet! What kind is it?” Boats sounded like a kid, shading his eyes to peer at the open water.
“I’m looking! I’m looking!” Chaz was flipping through a large children’s picture book titled My First Book of Dinosaurs. The Rangers, along with everyone else on the Raj, had all become weekend paleontologists. The collection of books gathered before their second trip back to prehistoric Nevada could be found scattered all across the ship in the break room, galley, and cabin rooms.
“It’s a zip-uh-fact-anus.”
“Anus?” Boats said.
“I’m doin’ my best here,” Chaz said.
The three fishermen turned to see Jimmy Smalls joining them. Up on the ship’s superstructure, other crewmen stood, leaning on railings and pointing sternward. The Pima’s reading went beyond the picture books to more serious studies of life in the past. His interest had been piqued further by their recent experiences ashore.
“More like twenty feet,” Jimbo said after a glance through the binoculars.
“Whoopee shit!” Boats shouted, followed by a wolf howl.
The big fish fought like a demon, though it was stuck hard on the barbed hooks. It rose clear of the water in high arcs, body twisting to free itself from the barbs holding it fast to the line. More crewmen came down to the stern to join the fishing party. They helped unhook drums and kegs as the line came in. Even Taan’s bodyguards lent a hand, anxious to see the creature that was making the steel cable sing like a harp string.
“It’s still fighting!” Chaz shouted to Boats.
The SEAL handed off the winch controls to a crewman named Eskinder. He snatched up the pump shotgun and stepped to the rear rail.
“Slow it down!” Boats called back to Eskinder.
The winch slowed. The lemon-colored keg, battered with dents now, rose out of the water. Below, they could see the water swirling with the fury of the fish invisible in the tumbling foam of the wake. With a sudden force, the fish broke the surface, leaping high up the stern hull. As one, the men retreated from the aft rail at the sight of bloody teeth champing in a gate mouth and rushing toward them.
“We need to cap that son of a bitch,” Chaz said. He returned to the rail to take a peek at the roiling water below.
“You damned sure don’t want to pull that in alive,” Jimbo said.
Boats leaned out, the Remington pump to his shoulder, and the bead trained along the steel line to where the big fish vanished into the water.
The winch groaned. The yellow keg banged hard against the hull. The line thrummed under the weight as the winch motor screamed.
“Shit. Is it hung up on something?” Boats said.
“Maybe your line is tangled in the screws,” Shan said. “Naw. The lines still angled away. It’s holding the hook down somehow. One last hurrah,” the SEAL said. He shifted the business end of the shotgun, looking for sign of the fish to come leaping out of the spray.
The line strained in the roller atop the crane. It went slack and jerked taut again. A second jerk pulled the line hard enough to pop paint flakes off the crane arm. Rangers and crewmen looked from the crane to the water, wondering what would give first, the catch or the crane or the cable?
“Punch that winch! The line will hold. We’re bringing this fucker up!” Boats waved a hand back to Eskinder who pushed the throttle lever forward.
The winch motor whined higher. The line made a whip crack noise, and the vibrations from it rose an octave. Foot by foot, the line came back to the winch. A second crewman used a mallet to hammer the hot cable in place on the drum reel. The water below humped and creamed from the force of the animal struggling just out of sight below the surface. They unhooked the yellow keg as it rose above the rail. It dropped to the deck with a hollow bang, crushed like a beer can at a jock picnic.
Only fifty feet of line remained. Foot by foot the line rose toward them. The rhythmic hum of the motor, the wavering note off the cable and the tap-tap of the steel mallet cranked up the anticipation. Almost the entire crew was either at the rails or seated atop the stacks of containers, enjoying the party feel of the shared experience. Morris Tauber, Lee Hammond, and Byrus stood on the deck above. Even Taan came to see what all the noise was about.
“Where the fuck’s my zippycactus?” Boats said.
Jimbo didn’t correct him. The SEAL could call this fish anything he liked.
Eyes dead above its horrible mouth, the xiphactinus’ head broached the foam. It was followed by the massive jaws and very much alive eyes of a larger animal. The twenty-foot length of their catch was well down the gullet of a tylosaurus. No one on board needed to check a book for the name of this mosasaur. It was the unquestioned king of the sea, and they’d spotted plenty of them in the days since they’d arrived in the era.
But never this close.
The line jerked and hummed as new strain came on the cable. The new arrival had fifteen tons of weight on it in combination with the six tons of the fish it was trying without success to swallow. The winch and line were tested to well above that
tolerance. But the cargo they were trying to haul in was live weight. Big, angry, powerful live weight. And it was halfway out of the water.
The huge saurian flippers beat at the water. Its tail hammered against the hull. Sprays of blood flew from its nostrils and between its teeth clamped firmly in the scales of the fish trapped between its jaws.
“It’s going to break the line!” Jimbo called.
“Or tear the crane free,” Shan said.
“Why won’t it just let go?” Chaz said.
“Because it’s hooked!” Boats shouted over the din of the combat between animal and machine. He motioned back to Eskinder to cut the winch motor. It died with a stuttering wheeze.
The SEAL was right. The blood turning the foam crimson was from the larger beast. Barbs from the tackle swallowed by the xiphactinus were now lodged in the throat of the saurian. The hooks had pierced the fish’s flesh when its carcass was crushed in the muscles of the tylosaurus’ bull neck.
Boats fired a slug into the saurian’s skull. The beast reacted by increasing the ferocity of its effort to free itself. The sharply pointed serpent’s head thrashed side to side. A gurgling roar bubbled out around the dead fish now slowly strangling it.
“Fuck this.” Boats worked the pump on the Remmy, emptying the extended tube magazine into the broad skull rising and falling below. Five more heavy rifled slugs the size of a thumb. The Raj was leaving a red wake now as the long body of the saurian reacted to the damage done to its fist-sized brain. The mad rage burning in the monster’s eyes died away while its tail slashed free of the water with feebler and feebler exertions.
“It’s as dead as it’s ever gonna be,” Boats said after a bit.
“Better haul it in before something bigger takes a bite,”
Chaz said.
The winch barked to life again. Predator and prey rose free of the water. The crew wasn’t so certain of Chaz’s declaration. They retreated forward as the crane was slung to lay the full sixty-foot length of the combined beasts onto the deck.
“Surf and Turf,” Jimbo said.
The others looked at him.
“The fish is a fish. But the bigger one’s warm-blooded. Red meat.” The Pima smiled.
25
Cold Pursuit
Dwayne had a choice, and he waited too late to make it.
He could keep moving and create some distance between him and the men hunting him. Or he could hole up and let them pass by. He was on rocky ground now, following a dry wash that sloped down off the plateau. No tracks led to his current position.
Twin booms, like a double clap of distant thunder, echoed through the rocks. He looked back to see drifts of yellow smoke whipped skyward on the wind. He couldn’t see the shooters, but they’d seen him. Where the lead balls went, he could not guess.
The shooters would be atop camels. A small force sent out ahead of the hunting force in a broad screen to search for sign. If he could drop a couple of them, he might slow down their pursuit long enough for him to slip away into the rocks at the base of the slope. Beyond the rocks, it was all table-flat open country. On camelback or foot, they’d run him down. If not today then tomorrow.
Dwayne settled down in a cleft between two rocks. He stretched prone to sight up the slope with the needle gun. This was the only practical way down from the top of the escarpment. If they wanted to flank him, they’d have to move along the edge of the plateau to another slope to the north or south. That could take them the best part of the rest of the day. They’d come right for him, he was sure. He’d stolen from the temple, and they’d be worked up about that. Never mind that it was his own stuff he took.
Two riders sky-lined themselves for a moment. He watched them pick their way down the slope with care. The camels were more sure-footed than a horse would be on a decline this steep. Still, the riders moved cautiously; their heads raised to search the foot of the wash for any signs of movement.
Uncertain of the effective range of the needle gun, Dwayne allowed them to reach within fifty feet. He settled on the one to the rear through the rectangular front sight. The man cradled a bulky matchlock in his arms. He had the smoking fuse clamped in his teeth. His head turned left and right to sweep the rocks below him. The reins hung slack on the camel’s neck, allowing the animal to find its own way down.
A long squeeze sent three steel darts into the rider’s torso. Though lethal, the needles lacked a bullet’s blunt force impact. The man simply slumped forward to spill to the ground off the camel’s hump, hands to his abdomen. He let out a keening cry all the way to where his tumble down the slope caught him up against a rock.
His partner turned, touching the fuse from his mouth to the fuse on the matchlock. Dwayne stood to send a stream of needles that climbed the man’s spine. The last one drilled into the back of the man’s skull. He dropped, unmoving to the rocks. The camel, spooked, took a few gangly strides away before coming to a stop, blinking in the sun. The other camel stepped past, continuing its progress downhill.
Dwayne ducked when the second rider’s matchlock went off where it lay on the ground. A lead ball struck a rock behind him and whined off into the infinite. He rose and moved past the rider lying face down next to his smoking matchlock.
A nasty line of keyhole punctures was visible on his naked back.
He found the other rider lying among some rocks. The man was clutching his belly to cover a wound bubbling blood between his fingers. It was Snaggletooth. The man glared up at Dwayne with the purest venom in his eyes. He hissed curses or insults or something vile.
Dwayne shot him through the face, and the slaver lay still. The Ranger spent a few futile moments trying to catch the camels. They didn’t break into a run at his approach as a horse might. Instead, even more frustrating, they gamboled off just out of reach each time he neared close enough to grab for the rein lines. It was maddening. He wasn’t as interested in hitching a ride as he was in the water chagals hanging from the saddle rigs. He was in for a long, long desert crossing and he’d need every ounce of liquid he could scrounge. “Fuck both y’all,” Dwayne said.
He walked back to where Snaggletooth lay and pulled a flint knife from the girdle of the man’s loincloth. Dwayne stuck the broad flat blade under his belt. He hoisted the water gourds on his shoulder and set out for the empty expanse that stretched to the east.
A walk-trot carried him into the desert, a mile-eating pace. The shadows grew longer before him, the sun settling down over the escarpment behind him. He looked forward to the evening when the sun would be gone. But he knew that comfort would be short-lived as the biting arid chill would take over. He’d need to find some kind of shelter to conserve warmth as best he could. A few hours’ sleep and he’d move on again while it was still dark. He could steal another ten or more miles or so that way.
The Aztecs didn’t seem to like moving around after dark. But they’d make up the miles by moving on camelback. It was going to be a near thing in any case. Dwayne had days of close pursuit ahead of him. He was certain they wouldn’t give up the hunt for him. He turned now and then to look for dust rising behind him against the cloudless sky. The horizon remained clear.
The land had looked flat as he came down off the plateau but, as Dwayne crossed it, he found it was cut by shallow rifts that were often choked with cholla. It took time to either maneuver around them or find his way through the stabbing spines. His arms and legs were crisscrossed with fresh cuts that drew biting flies to him. He rubbed sand on the wounds to dry them and mask the scent of blood.
The sky went from pink to gray overhead. The sweat dried on his face and neck. The wind was kicking up, air drawn through the cacti toward the higher ground he left behind.
He found a place under a tilted slab of rock where the sand was still warm from the sun. After making sure it was free of snakes and scorpions, the Ranger curled up as far under the granite shelf as he could manage. He would be invisible to anyone walking even within a few feet of his hiding place.
While there was still enough light to see by, Dwayne examined the silver bracelet on his wrist. The strip that served as a read-out, or so he guessed, was still dead. No red symbols appeared there as before. No iridescent blue field to let him know it was still powered. He touched the nearly invisible control tabs in various combinations, and nothing happened. He had no idea how the fucking thing worked. He remembered his grandfather’s confusion when the old man got a cellphone for Christmas one year. What Dwayne needed was a smartass ten-year-old to show him how the bracelet worked.
And what if he got it to work? His position under this slab of rock was not optimal. Wherever or whenever he manifested to, he might find himself under twenty feet of sand and rock or in the middle of a six-lane Mexican highway at rush hour.
He took a drink from a gourd, swishing it around before swallowing to clear the dust from his teeth. His stomach clenched. He wished he had found a snake in his hidey-hole. He’d eaten raw snake before. Setting the gourds aside, he nestled into the sand. He soaked up its remaining warmth even as his exposed flesh began to feel the evening chill. Dwayne set his internal clock for three hours of sleep and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he was being dragged from his bolt hole by both ankles. Two buck-naked guys with wild manes of hair hauled him clear. Two more dropped on him to pull his arms wide. They placed knees either side of his elbows. The first two knelt on his legs above the thighs, pinning him firmly.
More men came into view out of the cholla. Flint axes in their fists and a couple of wooden clubs studded with shards of obsidian. They were all naked, and all wore the same crazy bush-cut. One other similarity among the men made Dwayne wonder if it were all a vivid dream.
Their skin shone a deep, unnatural crimson in the moonlight, like devils.
26
The Pests
“I’m surprised Boats knows how to use that thing,” Jimbo said.
“I’m surprised he has one,” Chaz said.
