by David Boyle
Maybe you’re overreacting, Tony thought on reflection. And maybe they were simply all going mad. Tony broke the awkward silence by asking Hayden if he was hungry.
“That I am,” was Prentler’s weary reply. “Starving,”
Opened and situated on rocks by the fire, their last remaining cans of stew were then summarily forgotten. Doing anything was a chore, and the stew would have burned to a crisp except that the fire started sputtering when one eventually boiled over. Tony was there to pull it back, staring but not seeing, stirring for the most part because he alone was willing to make the effort.
He dished out a plateful to Hayden, then Ron, and offered some to Charlie, who didn’t respond one way or the other. Normally he would have insisted, if for no other reason than when people sat across the fire from one another, they typically got to talking. But tonight was different, the fire crackling on its own with not one of them saying a word. Even stranger, Charlie was the lucky one. Off somewhere in his private Never-Never land, Charlie knew nothing of the despair pervading the campsite.
Had Tony’s preparations not proceeded beyond the point of opening the cans, the meal would have been bypassed altogether. Even Hayden realized that he wasn’t hungry after all, and he and everyone else ate for no reason other than to make use of their ever-diminishing resources. Yet it felt disrespectful, to do a thing that only the living could do. To share a meal without Mark. No one spoke of his absence, or of anything else, and none save Ron gave Wheajo’s belated appearance any notice at all, his a cold hateful stare.
The smoked strips hadn’t been touched by anyone other than Wheajo, who seemed content to nibble while they finished eating and one after another tossed their plates in the fire. Wheajo waited patiently for their activities to cease and for them to settle around the fire.
As usual, the alien was not one for pleasantries. “Your friend asked me—”
“You mean Mr. Expendable?”
“Give it a rest, McClure,” Hayden said with a bone-weary sigh. “What’s done is done, alright? Let Wheajo have his say.” Ron swallowed the last of his beer and flung the can away before melting into the darkness.
Wheajo started again. “Your friend asked me to consider whether it would be possible to reenergize the brizva. This I had already discounted due to the requisite power, but your friend was insistent. I must caution that my calculations are preliminary, but there does appear merit in his suggestion. To accomplish the task will require, shall I say, special circumstances, and in this there is no guarantee.” The alien went on to explain that the brizva could be reconfigured to absorb the high current pulse of electricity such as would occur with a lightning strike.
“Uh huh,” Ron grumped from the shadows. “And how the fuck do you propose to do that?” He stepped into the light. “Have you seen any trees struck by lightning? Even one…? We might as well be in a valley for Christ sake! And even if we weren’t… say we find the best place in the whole fucking world… the odds have to be a million to one for lightning to hit a particular spot.”
“Indeed… if,” Wheajo emphasized, “we were to rely strictly on probability. There are, however, ways to significantly increase our chances.”
“Like what?” Ron drawled. “Paint a bull’s eye on it? Or how ‘bout we build a kite? You know, like Ole Benny did.” He fished in a pocket. “Must be in my other pants, but I know I brought my keys.” The firelight danced across his teeth. “Or better yet—”
“Damn it, McClure, let him finish!”
“What’s with you, Prentler? Why are you even listening to this BS?”
“Because,” Tony offered, “he knows the situation and his equipment better than you or I, or any of us do. We’ve… no, I’ve heard about as much of your negative attitude as I can stand. I’m sorry to be so blunt. But it’s time to listen to what Wheajo has to say. After that, and if you have something better to offer, I’m sure Wheajo will listen. We’ll all listen for that matter. Until then, please…?” Tony gestured Ron to his seat.
It was as diplomatic a gesture as one could expect, but a put-down was still a put-down. “Whatever,” Ron said, and popped the can open.
“You were saying?”
The alien considered Ron with a coolly unemotional stare. “You have further comments?”
“Na, go ahead,” he said, taking a swallow. “It’s your show. And I love clowns.”
Wheajo explained that the dawzon was an integral part of the equation, and that it too would have to be modified, though to a lesser extent than the brizva. By modifying resident algorithms, the dawzon could be configured to generate a focused electromagnetic field that could, in theory, localize atmospheric discharges.
“Let me see if I got this,” Hayden said. “This field you’re talking about—and this is what I want to get straight—would operate sort of like a magnetic lens.”
“And the focus is where the transporter thing would go,” Tony both said and asked.
“Yes, though the details are far less, shall I say, linear.” Wheajo went on to explain the inverse relationship field strength had with distance, and that it could be varied on a logarithmic scale, though at the expense of time.
“You’re losing me,” Tony said. “That last part means what exactly?”
“The dawzon can be configured to operate at maximum power for an extremely short period, and lower levels for far longer, with range varying in direct proportion to power. Location, as your friend so eloquently noted, is critically important.” While admitting there were variables yet to be included, Wheajo made clear that the limiting factor was the power resident within the dawzon. “Be aware also that a threshold exists below which the errcot would be useless.” The field being postulated, the errcot in Wheajo’s vernacular, required a minimum rate of power consumption. That rate in turn established the maximum time of operation.
“Okay, so for this to work,” Hayden said, “we first need to figure out where lightning is likely to strike. And once we know that, then figure out how to set it up so your time shifter thing won’t get stepped on or broken while bleeding power at the slowest possible rate.”
“In essence, yes.”
“Don’t get me wrong,” Tony said, “I love the charging idea. But like Ron said, we’re essentially in a valley. And to meet the ‘likely to strike criteria’ means leaving the island and setting up camp… out there somewhere, on a hill.”
“Not a great prospect, eh, Tony?”
“You got a better idea, McClure?”
“Height is an important consideration, but by no means is preeminent,” Wheajo said, elaborating on topographical factors and their influence on storm probability statistics, a discussion that Tony was quick to point out was missing the most salient point.
“Forgive the interruption, Wheajo. But how long can the dawzon operate under the minimum output setting you mentioned?”
Wheajo had a ready answer. “Operating continually in ideal conditions: forty two days.”
Even Ron seemed ready to admit that a month was a reasonable time span. Surely storms would occur at least that frequently.
“And if they’re not ideal?” Hayden asked.
“Every condition outside the theoretical minimum is by definition ‘not ideal’. The question you intended to ask is?”
“Just so you know, I hated professors that did that,” Hayden said, irritated at having been caught asking a question that technically had an infinite number of answers. “How about most likely? Say we hike up the hill behind us and find there’s another hill past it that’s a little bit taller. Better than here, but not necessarily better than there.
“Maybe I should just have said typical.”
Wheajo retrieved the yaltok from the tent and ran a quick update. “Useful operation can be reduced by perhaps one part in five,” he answered.
“Okay, call it a little over four weeks,” Tony said, squirming. “I don’t know how comfortable I should be, but if that’s what the numbers say, then so be
it.
“How about this? Use the same conditions, only this time reduce the starting point by whatever amount of power you’d have used if you shot the dinosaur this morning.”
“Fuck that! You want to start playing games with the numbers, we—”
“Shut up, McClure,” Hayden said. “How about you try listening for a change?”
Wheajo ran the necessary calculations. “I must caution that direct correlations are not possible given the unknowns. Using existing power reserves and output settings, the reduction in operational lifetime translates to four days. Twelve under ideal conditions. I caution you not to too literally interpret this number as it is highly subjective and based solely on the information presently available.”
“I’m interested in the trend more than the numbers,” Tony said. “A days-per-shot equivalence if you will.
“The drop in that case would be from forty-two days to, say, thirty-five. And unless I’m missing something, the energy needed to kill animals the size of our gate keeper is relatively fixed, so every shot thereafter, and forced or otherwise, would reduce our timeline by an even greater percent,” said Tony, his emphasis directed specifically at Ron. “All that in about the right neighborhood?”
“With modification, yes,” Wheajo said, sounding exasperated by the use of numbers more fiction than fact. “The percentages are irrelevant. Suffice to say that the power loss will be proportionally larger with each discharge.”
“Now do you understand?”
“Don’t sound so damn smug, Delgado. Mark is dead because Wheajo didn’t shoot the cocksucker when he had the chance. That’s not an unknown. Not some fucking statistic. That’s a fact!”
“You want to play games, McClure? Fine,” Hayden said. “Only quit with pawning your opinion off as fact. You say Mark is dead, and I’m saying you’re wrong. And just for the hell of it, let’s say Wheajo had fired. Then what?
“We’d have fished Mark out of the river. Gone through the same crap with Charlie, though maybe not. And we’d have gotten back and all slapped Wheajo on the back and told him what a great job he did. And when we got to this conservation the starting point would have been like thirty-five days and not Wheajo’s best case forty-two. And the chances of any of us making it out of here alive would have been slimmer. Five days. Two. Hell, it could be one day less and we could end up dead because of it.
“I know Mark, and if he knew the choice Wheajo had to make, I’d bet my life even he would have told Wheajo not to shoot.”
It was a sucky choice: Mark’s life for theirs. And to say Mark was dead wasn’t the damn half of it. He hadn’t drowned or broken his neck. His friend and sometimes paddling partner, the guy he’d come to love like a brother had been eaten because Wheajo chose to conserve power as opposed to saving a friend’s life!
The fear was there, hiding in the shadows, the thought that one by one they’d end up dead in the jaws of a predator. Hayden was too much of an optimist to admit that Mark was dead, but in a race where no one wanted to finish first, Ron had to accept that Mark’s sacrifice could eventually lead to a way out of this hell hole. A way that Wheajo may already have discovered.
“Alright,” said Ron after a long silence. “Maybe Wheajo didn’t have much of a choice. All I can say is, I hope that decision was the right one, because chances are, it cost Mark his life.”
“Mark is not dead!” Hayden insisted. “I don’t know how I know, but he’s alive I tell you. For all we know… hell, he might have been working his way back here all afternoon.”
Ron stepped away from the fire, pale flickers licking the spires of trees silhouetted against an even darker sky. Frogs croaked from their swampy ghetto; crickets chirped; a snarl rippling far downriver as moonlight shimmered across the clouds. His eyes slowly adjusted to the light, and Ron could see his own shadow dancing on the trees.
“That was the right word, Prentler. Might.”
22
The thing bellowed again. “Keep running, Mark! Faster!” Hayden screamed, stroking toward shore, frantic. But there was no way Mark was going to outrun her, and he watched in dread as the tigress plowed effortlessly through the forest, the big fangs dripping in anticipation. Mark tore at the underbrush, the monster quickly gaining. He scrambled over a deadfall, then along a limb. “Come on, you’re almost there! Just don’t look back!” He gasped when his friend tripped on a vine and pitched screaming into the ferns.
Hayden drove the canoe forward; Mark struggling to untangle himself; the boat suddenly mired in quicksand. A grotesque flaming orange head burst above the trees. “Leave him alone!” Hayden heard himself scream, waving his paddle to get the thing’s attention. The beast sizzled through the trees like a shimmering mountain of fire, its roar a hideous laugh.
His partner broke free… and a second later a monstrous foot pinned him to the ground. The thing leaned close, tongue out, licking; Mark gagging on a mouthful of blood when he reached up, frantic. “Don’t… don’t leave me!”
And the jaws closed, and the beast ripped him in half….
“You bitch!” Hayden yelled, his voice echoing as if in a cavern.
He sat up, shaking, gasping for breath. The tent was there, the walls fluffing in the breeze, the vision lingering.
Whatever the chances of finding him alive, Hayden knew what he had to do. For Mark certainly, and for his own piece of mind. He slipped his glasses on. The trees stood silhouetted against a gray horizon, black and still, like prison bars. Prison bars through which he could walk, but from which he knew there was no escape. Dinosaurs squabbled in the distance. Beyond the mosquito netting he could see Charlie curled beside the hanger tree. And nearby, Mark’s half-ass attempt at a chair….
Hayden hurried away toward the tarps. “And don’t take too long.”
Ron nodded, squeezing the last drops of sleep from his eyes. First Van Dyke… now Prentler…. He squinted out the back of the tent. Hell, the sun wasn’t even up yet.
There were trips you just never wanted to take. What could they find, anyway? A mangled boat? A life jacket? Hopefully one or the other and not some part of Bennett’s body. And if by some miracle the guy managed to give the bitch the slip, how do you survive an entire night in a woods full of dinosaurs? There came the point where no matter how good you were… it just wasn’t enough.
“Tony, wake up.” Ron tucked in the sling and zipped the case closed.
Tony rolled onto his side. “I’d have to actually have gotten to sleep for that to happen. What time is it anyway?”
“O’dark thirty for what it’s worth.” Ron draped the case over his shoulder. “Me and Prentler are headed downriver to look for Bennett, and I thought I’d better let somebody know.”
Tony knuckled the crud from his eyes. “I was thinking somebody should. You need any help?”
“I appreciate the offer, and Mark would too if he’s not already chewing the good Lord’s ear off. But two in a boat is plenty. And don’t take this personal, but Charlie needs you more than we do.” However long the rain had lasted, Charlie apparently hadn’t noticed. “He’s going to need help getting his head on straight.”
“Yeah, I’ve been thinking about him most of the night. Him and Bennett.” A canoe thudded by the landing.
Ron waved, then turned to Tony, “Gotta go,” he said, and took off.
Tony sat blinking at the wall as the footsteps faded. “Just bring Mark with you when you head home. And alive, okay?”
Hayden had packed a small duffle with a day’s worth of supplies; Ron his rifle and a pocketful of ammunition. They talked briefly about who should go where, and while the Discovery would end up a tad nose heavy, decided the shooter needed to be up front.
“I hope you’re ready for what we might find,” Ron said, tossing in his life jacket with a glance downstream.
“Just get in.”
The river was down almost a foot. “Makes you wonder what the flood plain is like for the thing to drop as fast as it has. Would have been w
orse yesterday, but the way back is still going to be a ball buster.”
“Let’s just hope we don’t have far to go.”
Ron bungee-corded the case to the thwart while Hayden got the boat out and started paddling. It took but minutes before they got to the rapids, Hayden on his feet to study the chutes available. “This one to the right looks okay,” he shouted above the din, settling. “After this first drop there’s a hard right, then a left.” He knelt and pinned his thighs under the thwart. “You ready?”
“I was born ready, Prentler.”
They let the current take the boat, then jockeyed it through the rocks, the river dropping a solid four feet along the rocky cascade before curling into a healthy set of haystacks. Ron drew the bow around a boulder and, spying clean water ahead, braced the Discovery through the standers, waves splashing his lap.
“That’s a nice run,” he said, twisting to get a look from a downstream perspective. The rapid stretched like a band of white thunder across the river, the splendor of the scene quickly losing its allure when he caught Hayden’s sullen expression. Ron slipped back around and started paddling.
Running with the current, they figured to cover ten miles before nine o’clock.
*****
“Go way,” Charlie mumbled, swiping, then again nuzzling his arm. A raspy something lifted his hand, and he jerked away. “What the…?” Drops splattered down. “Mike! You’re back!”
The dinosaur pranced away.
“Ooo… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare ya.” The dinosaur stopped, the long neck twisting. “That’s a goo’ boy,” Charlie said, wondering if it was a boy. He glanced about the clearing, then got to his feet. “Never slept out like this before,” he chuckled, untangling a twig from his hair. “Kinda funny, huh?” The dinosaur stretched forward, sniffing. “You little beggar. Okay, now I gotcha.” He reached to his mouth, and the dinosaur strutted forward, bobbing its head. “Yeah, I thought that’s what you’re after.”