“The Big Drum is a very good drum,” Gray Beard said in Green Turtle hand sign, directing his comments to our ship’s captain, Paul. “Is it a good floating house? Is it safe?”
Paul confidently chopped his hand in the affirmative. He has this launch mapped out to the second. He says we’ll put in with a skeleton crew for the canoe’s trial run, utilizing a few folks to tend the rollers and the rest to line the point with poles in case there are problems. We’ll anchor in a quiet eddy about a half-mile downstream and load the remaining members of the crew and provisions there–once we have knocked down a pair of mausoleums and 97 redwood grave markers. I wonder what we’ll find inside the little temples of Franz and Tamashiro.
Gray Beard listened to the plan then volunteered to lead the pole men. “I have done this duty before,” he said. “We must ask the people now. The Hunter is near, do you feel him?”
There was no need to answer, he could tell by the looks on our faces.
“Bald-zano, you must help me explain this to the Green Turtles and Fish Eaters. Come.”
I thought I had my mind made up on the matter, but now find myself hoping they all sign on.
TRANSMISSION:
Kaikane: “Tell me again, why do we have to tear ‘em all down?”
Duarte: “Team rules; it’s the ‘right’ thing to do; I’m obsessed; or all of the above. Take your pick.”
Kaikane: “Won’t be easy. Those things are set deep and tight.”
From the log of Paul Kaikane
Recreation Specialist
Maria’s building up a sweat trying to rock at least one redwood grave marker out of the stony ground before we go. Little Rhino’s right there by her side, helping push when she tells him to. On his head he wears a crown of yellow and purple flower stems she wove this morning on the way over. The little guy’s probably hindering more than helping, but Maria’s in teaching mode and doesn’t mind.
Too bad their efforts will be wasted. I spent a good three hours before throwing in the towel. We tried lifting the posts, knocking them down and even burning them. They’re too well anchored–half the damn post must be underground–and so wet it would take months to burn them all. The stone mausoleums? Forget it. Those nuts made cement to bind their stones together! Short of importing a crane or bulldozer from the future, it would take years. We don’t have years.
A shaft of sunlight slants down through the last of the forest’s morning fog to highlight my wife and child. The backlighting burnishes their hair copper against the rows of lichen-covered graves. Watching them makes my heart swell with something far greater than any love I knew before. Now they’re going at the grave like grunting maniacs. Mud’s flying and they’ve made it wiggle another inch, which isn’t nearly enough.
Maria’s about to leave a job unfinished, one of the things she hates most in this world. I’d go over and help again, but that would just prolong the agony. I need to save my energy. This launch has me worried. With a veteran crew, one that knew what it was doing, it wouldn’t be so hairy. But this bunch, I don’t know what to expect. If we screw it up, our voyage will be finished before it starts.
What a shame it would be to see the canoe smashed on the rocks. She was built to travel the world. A Hawaiian sailing canoe! How cool is that? I can’t wait to get her out on the ocean to feel how she carves the waves. If I were betting, I’d bet she sails like a dream. It’s like Franz and Tamashiro stole the design right out of my brain. If I’m honest, though, they built a helluva lot better canoe than I could have done.
Now it’s up to me to take the next step. I’ve got so many details rolling through my brain, including stupid stuff like how many fishing lines I’ll use to troll for ahi, or who I’m going to pair together on watch shifts, that even though this launch might turn out to be a disaster, I can’t wait to get it over with already.
Maria had to give this cemetery thing a shot. Know she tried to do the right thing. Me, I’m not sure what qualifies as the “right” thing. Knocking over graves doesn’t strike me as making the list. I understand her point about not introducing modern ways to ancient people. I get that, but once we pull the old couple and girl out of this valley, I doubt it’ll see another human until long after the next ice age has come and gone. At least that’s what I’m telling Maria to cheer her up.
I wonder what kind of funerals they had here. Caretaker Man and Woman won’t talk about this place, and Berry Juice is too young to have known the two big chiefs. We’re left to imagine things for ourselves. I was picturing big fires and dances–chanting, fighting and fucking, the usual Cro-Magnon wingding. Maria sees things more churchlike with Franz and Tamashiro in charge. Lots of praying and kneeling. I can picture that too.
One thing I do know, they worked their people hard. It’s tough to imagine all the stuff they built. Stonehenge alone must have taken a decade. Did they really think there would be a rescue crew sent back? One that would take them home? How many times have I wondered the same thing?
It looks like the boss has finally given up. She and Rhino are headed to the creek that runs past Franz’s place to wash the mud off their arms and faces. Time to wolf down this picnic and split.
TRANSMISSION:
Hunter: “If I were you, darling, I’d watch my bloody purse around this felon with a hand in your skirt.”
Bolzano: “Father! You, you...live.”
Hunter: “What a guilty face. Salvatore, before I flay you alive, would you care to introduce me to your new girlfriend? Ah, there she goes. Such screaming. Now everybody runs, the fools. Do they really imagine they can escape me?”
Bolzano: “Father, I...yeow!”
Hunter: “Sit your fucking ass down. Now!”
From the log of The Hunter
(aka – Giovanni Bolzano, Dr. Mitchell Simmons)
Ethics Specialist
Although the Martinellists released their bio-plague to thin the human population, the bug laid waste to many species. Cats were first to succumb, followed quickly by dogs, then horses. Man’s four-legged friends seemed most susceptible to the fast-mutating virus.
Long after the dying was done, alone on my estate and encamped in the caretaker’s stone cottage, I followed a strange noise from outside the leaded window to see the rare sight of two hens rooting in the weeds. Perhaps they were as lonely as I was, or maybe they sought protection from the weasels and raptors that had survived. Whatever the case, we became good friends.
Without a soul to speak to, or even call on the web, I had been unaware of how much I craved company. I named the hens Red and Gray and entertained them with grand lectures as they accompanied me on my daily rounds. The hens provided fresh eggs, but nary a chick, and in return I helped them scavenge bugs by overturning boards and scraps of polymer planking lying in the dust.
The chickens popped to mind as the native numbskulls shrieked and scrambled to gather their belongings and flee into the brush. They reminded me of the cockroaches that used to scatter when I overturned polymer planks. Very few roaches got away. The hens were quite adept at spearing the insects with their beaks and gobbling them down, swiftly shifting to the next moving target.
Watching the natives bolt excited my security field, caused it to shimmer with anticipation. It so loves the chase. “How disrespectful they are!” The thought pulsed unbidden through my consciousness. “They can’t treat us in such a manner. They owe us respect!”
Fighting back an incredibly strong urge to pull my two guns and fry the runners in their tracks, I ordered a halt, first in Green Turtle dialect, then Trade and what I could remember of Fish Eater. The Fish Eater language is a garbled mush, a mouth full of marbles.
Despite my alerts, the people continued to flee. I issued a warning shock before putting the entire lot to sleep with a max wallop of knockout sauce.
TRANSMISSION:
Kaikane: “Whoa, you feel that?”
Duarte: “Quick, grab the baby! Sit with him!”
From the log of Dr. Maria Duart
e
Chief Botanist
Pinned by gravity, too fatigued to move, I awoke face down in muddy ferns. As clarity slowly returned, the ringing in my ears became the distant, amplified shouts of Dr. Mitchell Simmons echoing off the valley walls.
“Duarte! Kaikane! Where are you? Come out, come out wherever you are! I shan’t hurt you.”
Willing my body onto its side, I managed to find a view through the ferns to see Paul flat on his back. The baby was on his chest, wrapped in his arms. Paul looked to be flexing the fingers of his right hand.
“Paul, can you hear me?”
“Shhhhh, not so loud, babe.”
“Is he OK?”
“Still out, but breathing’s normal. You checked these vultures in the tree?”
Rolling to my back, I saw there were seven of the ugly birds in the limbs of an overhanging pine, and more on the way. Was it the smoke curling into the air from a scorched but barely damaged grave that held them at bay?
“Can you stand?”
“I’ve got to,” I replied, straining to reach a sitting position.
“Stay down, stay down. Just give it a minute. They’re not sure if we’re dying or playing possum.”
“But....”
“Don’t worry, babe, I got my club right here and I’m startin’ to wake up.”
“What will we do?”
“Soon as we can, we’re gonna put that damn fire out and run.”
Vultures fidgeting, Mitch’s calls growing ever more dark and threatening, ants crawling down my neck, each minute felt like an hour. Finally, there was Paul, standing above me, reaching down with his powerful hand.
“Come on, we gotta go.”
Slipping an arm around my waist, he led me over the creek bank and into the chilly, knee-deep water. Using the current to mask our scent and tracks and the banks to screen us from view, we started off tentatively, but slowly began picking up the pace as we approached the main river. It was good old Jones who pointed out the techniques the Sons used to sneak behind the Hunter’s back. Keeping close to the ground and screened by cover, using nature’s sounds to mask their own, they sure gave our helmets and visors a run for their money.
We stayed low and kept our helmets turned off, though I wasn’t sure that was enough. Didn’t Mitch say his belt was designed to control the jumpsuits, to find and recover them? The baby woke halfway down the creek. He fussed a little, so Paul handed him over to me. It didn’t take long to calm him in my arms. Rhino has learned his Green Turtle manners and self-control. I only had to make the “be quiet” hand sign once for him to understand. No doubt, the worry on our faces reinforced the point.
Reaching the river fork, we crawled silently from the stream to rest with our backs against the moss-covered trunk of a fallen beech.
“Paul, I’m so sorry.” If we had left when he wanted we would already be sailing the Atlantic.
“No worries, babe, we’ve got this.”
The blare of Mitch’s voice made us both jump.
“Ta da! Now I have you!”
“Paul, our helmets, I think he’s tracking them.”
Paul’s reply was drowned by the snorts of a crash of hornless rhino rumbling to its giant feet. Turning around, I found myself nose to nose with a massive female. Her nostrils flared as she inhaled our scent. I didn’t know what to do, just stood frozen in place as she studied Rhino and me with brown eyes flecked orange and yellow. My shock doubled as Rhino reached out with his chubby little hand to seize a clump of gray whiskers hanging from the point of her chin. Giggling as he tugged, Rhino ignored my quiet, desperate pleas to let go.
If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I wouldn’t believe it. Perhaps it was motherly instincts, or just a reaction to the sound of an infant’s laughter. The female not only allowed the baby to touch her face, she used her body to shield us from the rest of the crash, whipped her tail back and forth to hold the others off. Once I managed to pry the baby’s fingers loose, we slipped down the riverbank and continued upriver upon a narrow, muddy path.
Rhino whispered the Green Turtle words for “Goodbye” in my ear as we left his new friend behind. The helmets had to go. We ditched them in an abandoned badger den, wedging them deep into the hole. Quiet walking at a 90 degree angle away from the amplified threats and curses, we followed the riverbank east, toward the Fish Eaters’ camp.
Mitch reached the river as we were scooting sideways along the narrow trail leading to the original village.
“Getting close now!” he roared, only to be matched in volume by the trumpets and bellows of an angry crash of rhinos scrambling to defend their territory. It sounded like a war. Stunner blasts, trees falling, rhinos braying then howling in pain.
“They are too big!” Mitch cried out in a tone so pitiful and frightened it was impossible to tell if he was being serious or mocking. “Help me. They’re killing me! Help!”
We never looked back, just began sprinting for the canoe. Gray Beard and the Sisters were stumbling around camp trying to clear their heads. The rest of the gang was just starting to rouse. They must have taken a full dose, while we were shielded by distance. Getting everybody moving in the same direction was like herding zombies or drunks. Paul and I did most of the work loading the canoe and prepping for launch.
Salvatore was last to revive. “I need a drink,” he slurred as Berry Juice walked him up the plank and wrapped his arms around the forward mast. I thought Caretaker Man and Caretaker Woman were going to opt out at the last moment, but after a bit of coaxing from the others, they made their shaky way up the plank to sit at Salvatore’s feet.
Paul was about to descend the plank to give his final instructions to the roller and pole crew–Gray Beard, Fralista, Lucy, Pearl and the Drummers–when the tips of my fingers sparked with static discharge. A spear lashed to the mast next to Salvatore suddenly jerked into the air and snapped in two, its halves clattering to the deck. Several natives began to moan their death songs.
Mitch let us swing in the breeze for 15 seconds before appearing on the deck beside me. In his hand he held two muddy helmets.
“Did somebody lose these?”
Tossing them into the port hull, he strolled the deck like a victorious pirate captain inspecting his prize. Utterly defeated, we kept our eyes low, refused to answer his jabs and insults.
“Nice of you wankers to load the bloody boat for me.”
The last thing I remember is Mitch calling out in trade dialect, “Ladies and gentlemen have a seat.”
TRANSMISSION:
Jones: “She’s gonna flip!”
Hunter: “Don’t you dare leave me!”
From the log of Capt. Juniper Jones
Security Detail II
Planned to beach upstream of camp, do a little recon, but current was running so fast it almost swept me around the bend. Dragged out right in front of canoe, into scene out of some old movie where everybody’s been gassed by the machines. Bodies lying all over the place.
Hunter spotted me and started bitching right from the start.
“I will brook no compromises, no new deals. Understood?”
What was I gonna say?
“Good then. You have five minutes to look around, see if I’m leaving anything useful behind.”
“Besides these people, you mean?”
“Remember, no compromises.”
Spotted my atlatl and bolts leaned up next to a tree, but not my pack or computer. Turned out, those were already stowed on board. Studying the faces as I policed camp, I said my goodbyes to friends, traveling companions and a woman I may have loved once. Wish there was a way to express my appreciation–should have told them back when I could. More regrets in my life.
“Let’s go! Up in the boat.”
On way to canoe, I stopped to drape a leather blanket over the sleeping baby to keep the ravens off, at least for a while. Kid was wedged between snoring Lucy and Pearl. Walked up Kaikane’s ramp to the back of the boat and got my first close-up look at
the thing. Impressive. Would’ve taken us years to build.
“What do you know about steering a boat?” the Hunter asked from the mast before climbing down the rigging like a spider. He was hyped up as he gave me a quick rundown on how to use a rudder. I told him I had it and he told me to get ready as he pulled out his guns and started blazing at the ropes holding the boat in place. Seen operations like this in the Army when the officer in charge has more balls than brains. He cut one of the main lines up close to the boat and the rest just snapped. Canoe started sliding on rollers like Kaikane must have planned, and things were looking good until trailing lines tangled on roots and yanked us to a stop that almost turned the whole fucker over. Right hull lifted 10 feet in air, slammed back down so hard I couldn’t believe it didn’t bust.
Kaikane would have been shittin’ his pants if he had seen this. He and Duarte were out cold, strapped inside one of the forward sleeping bins. Close call cooled Hunter’s jets. He walked around the tilted deck, looking for damage, studying the mess of ropes and how the right hull was off the rollers. Could tell he was thinking about ordering me down to try and cut the lines free, but I guess he figured if he got us into the mess, he should get us out of it.
“If you enter the current before I am able to take the rudder, steer for the river’s center.” He pulled a flint blade from a leather sheath tied to the mast and jumped the 12 feet to the ground like it was nothing. Watching him make that jump sure made me wish I had a suit and guns. Scanning the deck, I saw he had Salvatore strapped in one of the bunks, and it looked like there was one more passenger, but I couldn’t tell for sure.
Kinda weird with all the crap going on and me feeling better than I had in a long time. Hunter may be a stupid, overconfident prick, but whatever he did to me with that belt of his back at the big river cut my depression off at the knees. Feel like I shed a 100-pound weight I’ve been carrying around.
Galway Page 36
