by David Boyle
Hayden scratched his chest, blinking. “We alone?”
“It’s just you and me, bunky,” Tony called back, two steps later adding: “Oh right, and Wheajo.”
The alien was propped in Mark’s tent like a weird sci-fi figurine. Hayden wasn’t sure which part was harder to get used to, his head or his hands. Then again, the alien’s eyes were pretty strange too. “Where is everybody?”
“Ron’s out scouting, and Mark and Charlie are off trying to retrieve that big branch with the broranges we passed up.” Tony jiggled the door of their makeshift smoker closed. “How long do you think we can keep that meat before it spoils?”
“You’ll have to ask Mr. Snails & Tails when he gets back. Smoke-aged beef is one of his big hitter specialties.” Hayden got the bota and sat down beside the fire. “You want to take a walk later and help me open the trail to the rapids?”
“Give me a couple of minutes and I’ll see how the salvage effort is going. If you’re not in a hurry, we can wait for Mark and Charlie to get back and make a work detail out of it.”
Hayden let down the bota. “That’ll work.”
*****
There just wasn’t another way. He couldn’t go left, wouldn’t dare go right, and no matter how good a start he got, wasn’t a good enough swimmer to get away fast enough before drawing Her Bitchiness offside. The only option was up, and that was impossible. How’s that go? ‘The difficult we do immediately, the impossible takes a little longer’. Whoever came up with that line had to be in a similar situation.
The rock had a couple of ridges, but they were really shallow. He felt with the other foot, scraping at the algae with his shoe. That feels… yeah, that’s pretty solid.
With his weight transferred to his toes, he felt along the crack. Wider, if barely, he hooked on with his fingers and dragged himself up, then found a spot for a toe. Another shift, and another few inches higher. He spotted a ridge running diagonally across the boulder almost directly overhead. Don’t fucking miss. And stay in the eddy if you do… He shifted slightly, and pushing up on his toes, snapped an arm forward, a snarl blistering his shoulder as he scraped at the rock face and eventually snagged the offset. He held on for a second to let his heart rate slow, grateful he wasn’t swimming. Pulling with one hand, then the other, always with his chest pressed against the boulder, Mark wormed his way clear of the river. A chin-up gained him five inches, and with the aid of a higher toe-hold, quickly another six. Inch by nerve-wracking inch, Mark moved from the torrent toward the ever widening sky.
The one-sided rumble expanded into an all-encompassing roar, the ever watchful predator pacing the jumbled boulders and searching for a way past the rushing water. Irrational certainly, Mark was pleased that his sloth-like ascent seemed to really be pissing her off. Glad too that his toothy shadow was a quick learner and knew better than to mess with the flood-charged rapid twice in the same day.
A crack crossed the boulder, its irregularly fractured surface warm beneath his sodden shirt; and Mark paused for moment to enjoy it, at the same time staring into the face of the always attentive predator, her wide snout and fangs reminding him of the fossilized sabre-tooth tiger he’d seen at the Field Museum.
Piercing eyes stared coolly back.
Spent, sore, and with bloodied knuckles, Mark collapsed on the boulder’s summit the moment he passed the point where he wouldn’t fall off.
Tic.
Hardly more than a whisper, Mark wouldn’t have heard it at all if it hadn’t sounded right next to his ear. He raised his head. Reached back. Thin, straight… and enclosed in a soggy wrapper…. Mark scrambled onto his knees and grabbed the ear pieces, the predator snarling as he stretched the cord and stared at his glasses. “Thank God!”
The beast was snarling somewhere to his right. Mark didn’t care. Not about her, or where he was, or about anything or anyone. He had his glasses, and for a long, glorious moment, that was all that mattered. “Whoever made that checklist was a genius!” He tugged the Croakie around, shifting the flat part back where it belonged and marveling at how the spongy cord had held onto his glasses, and that they’d been dangling around his neck since the eddy!
That’s better! he thought, glasses on, spirits soaring. Okay, bitch, so what’s the deal here?
There were damp patches along the now mostly dry bank, a series of faint streaks running across it and holes showing where rocks had been knocked lose. He twisted to see past the water spots. “Fuck no. That can’t be….” He pulled out his handkerchief, and after squeezing the water out and wiping his glasses, looked again. “Holy shit!” he gasped, and sprang to his feet. “What the hell are—?”
The snarl spun him on his heels, the dinosaur looking for any excuse to jump, the tail lashing, the long arms reaching as if for his throat. Stop with the invitations already…! Think about what you’re doing, you idiot!
Charlie was plastered against the bank as if he was invisible. And okay, maybe the camo would confuse her at first glance. But after a closer look?
At some point Charlie would realize that his camouflage wasn’t anywhere near as good as he thought it was, only by then it’d be too late. And he’d take off running, or dive into the river. Either way, she’d be right behind him. And the jaws would open….
Mark swallowed. Sickening is what it was. Or would be if he didn’t change the situation. But how to wake Charlie the fuck up and not draw her attention? The dinosaur swaggered at the edge of the boulders, a low grade snarl simmering in her throat, blood streaming from scrapes on her thigh.
Too bad that wasn’t your head!
She tested the air, the breeze carrying his scent to her. He had an abrasion on his ankle, and his knuckles were a mess—no white showing, which is good—so her having his scent was already a done deal. But change the wind direction to where she could catch a whiff of Charlie and it was game over all over again.
A look to the island revealed smoke but no people, which kind of made sense considering that the bitch wasn’t the loud-mouth the tyrannosaur had been. They’d find out eventually that he and Charlie were in trouble, the question then being whether Wheajo would willingly expend some of his precious power doing away with the bitch.
The canoe was bobbing ten long yards away on the opposite side of the next chute over. The currents were way too squirrely for it to be sitting in an eddy, so the painter that had almost tangled his legs was probably snagged. Seeing past the froth was impossible, but given that the bungee cords hadn’t come loose, the branch and Charlie’s compound should still be in there. The hull was dented a third of the way back along the water line, with a smaller one farther forward, near the keel. No splits or fractures were showing, though even they wouldn’t matter so long as the thing floated.
At most there were two spots opposite the adjacent chute where he could land and not break an ankle, and he was leaning out to decide which to try for when he caught the dinosaurian tiger padding down the boulders to shore. Luck and coincidence seldom fell in his favor, and her switch in location while he just so happened to be looking in the opposite direction made Mark uneasy. She was back to where she was when he’d first caught the eddy, out and probing the water, sniffing, her jagged silhouette starkly black against the sunlit bank. The jump required his full concentration, but between her, the rapids, and Charlie with his head up his ass, doing so was proving damn near impossible.
The first of a series of haystacks rose up spitting only a boat-length past the canoe, waves stacked one after the other for another forty yards before the turbulence blended with the current. It was a good eighth of a mile to where the river turned east, the western bank even taller than along the island, trees hanging out, some with half their roots showing. Between the current and the high banks walling the river, he wouldn’t be getting out any time soon. And getting back?
That you worry about later.
The bigger of the rocks was mostly awash, but was more angular and had a tiny raised ridge that could second as a
handhold if he missed his jump. Higher and drier, and a good couple of feet farther away, the other offered no second chances. Either he landed perfectly, or he’d end up downriver.
Her Bitchiness took another probing step from shore.
The decision was pretty clear cut.
Two deep breaths and he rocked back on his heels, “You can do this,” then quick stepped twice and threw himself forward—into the misty air, feet flailing, the water rushing below. His feet slipped on contact and he jolted hard onto his wrists, snarls ripping the air as he groped for anything resembling hand or footholds. Water sloshed across his back when he snagged the boulder. He hung on, working his wrists, then crawled onto the boulder.
“Okay,” he said, wincing, “now for the fun part.”
The chute was close enough that he could reach down and touch it, the boulder too small to provide anything more than a one-step takeoff. Hit the water there, hug the rocks, and you’ll be carried right to the boat. The Rockfinder wobbled on the swells—bump bump… bump—the one painter snapping, the other swirling to the surface near the standers. Miss the boat, and he’d have to catch it. Miss the painter and he’d be in for a very long swim. “Consider it an incentive,” he could hear McClure say.
Mark glanced at his ever watchful shadow. Uh huh… like I need another one.
He considered the gap; the speed of the water; where he had to be in order to snag the boat. Landing alongside the rocks would be perfect, and while long was okay, short was definitely not. He checked his footing. Picked a direction.
The river charged past, the upraised keel wagging like a finger: No no… stay away!
His heart was pounding, and he wanted to flip her the bird and scream every obscenity he’d ever heard. But he didn’t. Couldn’t actually. Because Mark Bennett was more frightened at this moment than he'd ever been in his life. The world grew quiet, and he leaned slowly back…
To die was one thing. What’s it like to be eaten?
…then launched himself from the boulder and into the chute.
*****
“Charlie… Charlie, over here!” Tony shouted, waving his paddle and staring anxiously along the bank. “Charlie!”
“Don’t waste your breath,” Hayden said, swinging the Discovery into the current. “I doubt if I could hear you from here.” With little to gain by getting any closer, Hayden grounded the canoe thirty or so yards upstream of Charlie and a safe distance from the rapid. “Go get him. And be quick about it.”
Tony trotted off, hugging the incline when room allowed and splashing through the shallows when it didn’t. With the bank three feet over his head and the rapids so loud he couldn’t hear himself think, he didn’t need encouragement to hurry.
He stopped and yanked a still damp sleeve. “Time to leave, Bull.” Tony waited a second, then stepped into the shallows with a quick glance along the bank. “Charlie? Come on guy. You in there?” The eyes staring back were like those of a mannequin, cloudy, dry—That has to be painful—and absolutely unresponsive. He recognized the symptoms, or thought he did, and from there had only the vaguest notions about how to proceed. Tony was certain his friend’s catatonia was temporary, if for no other reason than it had to be.
He stepped away, waving. “Prentler!” The arms went up. “Yeah, yeah, I know. Just get over here.”
Charlie was crushed against the bank, his stringy hair raked neatly back, his fingers wrapped around a gnarly pair of roots. The soil nearby was dark where water had splashed the bank, Charlie’s outline imprinted like an old negative when Hayden came splashing over.
“He needs a little coaxing,” Tony said, tapping the side of his head.
“I think we can manage that,” Hayden said brightly, pulling up. “I know we should have gotten here sooner, Charlie, but she’s gone okay? Miles probably. So how about coming with us so we can get back to the island?” Hayden looked close, then waved a hand across the big man’s face. “You catching any of what I’m saying?” The eyes didn’t blink, didn’t waver.
Prentler slumped against the bank. “This is more serious than I thought. Any ideas?”
Tony had nothing to give. “Not at the moment.” And Charlie wasn’t their only problem. Ron stood glaring from among the branches of a big deadfall. “I’m glad you asked McClure to keep watch. Him being there eliminates one thing to worry about.”
Hayden looked to the island. “What thing is that?”
“Him putting a bullet in Wheajo.”
*****
While the situation wasn’t great, it did have its good points. He was alive, first and foremost; the branch and most of the broranges, along with Charlie’s compound were still in the boat; and the shoreline past the bend had gotten thick enough that the predator was back in the forest where she belonged. She hadn’t left, which was worrisome, but after however the hell long it had been, she had calmed down enough to be content following at a distance.
Mark nudged his paddle.
Technically, the canoe was still afloat, though with water slopping over the gunnels it was more like paddling a submarine. Nearly impossible to turn, and wobbly as a tubful of Jell-O, the flooded Grumman required ongoing attention simply to keep the thing upright.
However far he’d drifted, Mark was finally settled, and with a better feel for his water filled barge he was able finally to pay attention to landmarks. The west shore hadn’t gotten any easier to climb, reeds shimming in pockets of muddied green at the base of the incline, and with twitchy Ms. Priss watching, the thought of struggling up the bank seemed an unhealthy thing to do.
Mark had early on given thought to emptying the canoe through use of a technique his whitewater book had made sound easy. ‘Grasp gunnel firmly; tip boat and allow water to drain; shove canoe forcefully sideways and roll upright. Enough freeboard can be gained to allow bailing from the side, and eventual access by crawling over an end. Once aboard, you can, at your leisure, bail whatever water remains.’ Simple really, and in another situation Mark would have tried it already.
The book acknowledged there could be complications.
His stood close to two stories tall and was painted nightmare-black over orange.
Threading her way silently through the sunlit vegetation, the predator had become a fixture in the forest, always there, always watching. Having twice drawn her snarling attention when forced to avoid strainers, Mark had since relegated blatant moves like trying to empty the canoe to the unthinkable. Especially now, with the river calm and of unknown depth, an attack could be disastrous. He seldom balanced with his paddle, and instead shifted his weight, though ever so carefully. Nudged by upwelling currents, the canoe was allowed to drift, sideways at times, even backwards, and he made corrections only when the current promised to carry him into strainers.
He’d recently rounded a corner, and ahead was another, a whispered hiss echoing softly from around the curve. He curled forward, straining to look. Something had the water churning.
A rapid? Here? No way. Can’t be.
The canoe drifted toward the curve, the hiss ratcheting up his already acutely tuned anxiety.
*****
The thing with no tail was moving less than before, and she would kill it when the creature crawled from the water. She followed the concourse bordering her domain, her home, and knew its every bend and tree. Pursuing at the pace of her prey, she padded quietly and unimpeded along the trail that, for a thousand millennia, had followed the river.
The pathway extended for a hundred miles north to the swamps, and twice that to the south and east where it met the Great Sea. Forests had nurtured and protected it, and had given way to savannas before rising again with the mountains that were now mere infants. The trees that were the forest lived, died, and frequently fell across it. Never truly blocked, bypasses would be created, and one would become the main. Years would pass, decades, often more, and over time even the largest would weather and rot. And once trampled to dust, the trail would again resume its long march to th
e sea.
She followed it now, stalking in quick step, leaves brushing lightly along the plates protecting her spine. Stopping in the sun-dappled shadows, ever watchful, she listened for the sound of hunters like her. Few would be foolish enough to confront her, and fewer still could stop her. The man-thing was in the river, and she would not resign the hunt until it was dead.
*****
The Rockfinder drifted around the bend, Mark searching for the source of the hiss as the way forward swung into view. Stretched across almost the entire width of the river was a deadfall, its limbs holding the trunk clear of the water. The upstream branches were clogged with logs and shattered branches, some old, some new, the whole of the accumulated detritus and an enormous spray of still leafy branches slopping in the current, clumps of dingy brown foam caking the innards of the toppled giant.
Mark was relieved, and also impressed. Wow, that would have been something to see come down. He estimated the river’s width at sixty yards, with the tree covering easily three quarters of that. The lip of the bank had gotten hammered, a maze of crushed limbs and broken trees jutting along the trunk for as far back as he could see. However far back it extended, it took one hell of a piece of timber to reach better than halfway across the river. Tony would have loved the contrast: the light green on one side of the river, the darker green of the reeds on the other.
Only the upper portions of the reeds were showing, every one of the billion-or-so shafts tiring of the high water, the reeds leaning gracefully beside the bank like a band of ripening wheat. Nice to see something special like that, every shaft pointing in the same direction. How often does that happen on a flooded river?