Window In Time

by David Boyle

  Trees rustled across the river. Movement too far off to worry about.

  He worked the knots loose and freed the spare paddle. “Been a while since you got a workout,” Ron remarked, and flipped it against the bank. He lifted the gunnel, spilling out the ton or more of water until the Tripper was empty, then stepped back as it smacked the mud.

  The port gunnel and forward thwart were fractured, neither of which would affect how well the thing paddled so long as he could straighten it. Spend some time, and both were likely fixable with splints. The innermost layer of the hull was creased along the better part of the dent, but a close look found nothing in the way of a through-and-through break. Get back on the water and he’d know whether it would stay that way.

  Ron rolled the Tripper onto its side—“That’s one way to sign it,” he said of the parallel scratches—and settled the canoe dented-side down alongshore. He took hold of the gunnel, then stepped in and applied his weight. The kink flexed outward… then in again when he let off. He’d seen canoes straightened before, but until now had personally never unfolded a boat. He stepped in, feeling the springiness of the plastic, then gradually applied more and more force, and he was nearly jumping when—Bonk!—the hull snapped very nearly into its original shape.

  He knelt and ran his fingers along the earlier fracture. “Alright, so…?” he wondered aloud. The hull looked okay, and he tugged on the thwart to get it mostly realigned. Get to the creek and he’d find a branch to splint it. He slid the Tripper into the river, then got in and pushed away from shore. Stroking to match the current, he checked the fold line for leaks, and, pleased to see none, nosed back to shore. He undid the carabineer and got the bota. “Try doing that with your boat Charlie,” he snorted, and took a long drink.

  The river carried into the distance. This side or that, it didn’t matter, his main hope being that he wouldn’t have to do too much traversing to find slower water. However far he’d drifted, Ron knew exactly where his next stop was.

  Dinosaurs grunted from somewhere past the bank.

  Ron stroked into the current. He’d been drifting for close to an hour, and unless something else went south he’d be back in less than half that. And how long to find the rifle?

  He found his rhythm. “However the fuck long it takes.”

  *****

  Wheajo had slowed to where the fire in his legs was at least bearable, the trees slipping past like the sand in an hour glass. Whether an accident of fate or the inevitable consequence of being here too long, Ron’s death was heartbreaking, his passing made all the more tragic by the knowledge that in twenty-four hours, maybe less, they’d be home again. Back to calling wives and sons and daughters. To having a salad with a meal. And enjoying popcorn and beer. Back to doing the things that made life worth living, and doing it without some of the friends who had worked so long and hard to make it all a reality.

  They’d passed at least four groups of dinosaurs in the last two miles. Seeing them, and seeing how they acted made thinking of the trail as a highway all the more appropriate, the animals in the forest paying them no more attention than did cows to passing cars. Heads craned up in the distance, jaws worked, mouthfuls of leaves spiraling while he and Wheajo trotted past.

  Wheajo slowed further, and Mark closed the gap as the nearby animals turned and moved away.

  “They haven’t done that before.” Mark noticed what sounded like a distant rumble, or maybe a hum. He cocked an ear. “You hear that?”

  “Yes,” Wheajo said, scanning the forest. First heard, now felt, even the ground seemed to be quivering. “Come qickly!” he said, searching the thicket bordering the trail before hurrying behind the trunk of an ancient blowdown.

  Mark glanced to the source of the approaching rumble before doing a sweep of the hillside. There were climbable trees, but nowhere near close enough. The sound of grunts soon mixed with the throb of hoof beats, and shortly thereafter a storm of triceratops thundered past, huge and black, hooked bills drooling, horns jutting from above the eyes, the bony shields sweeping eight feet and more over the animal’s shoulders. The leaders were easily the length of a bull elephant, and far more agile, galloping past, grunting, the outsize heads bobbing to the beat of their feet a very short five yards from where they huddled, watching in awe as the herd lumbered along the forest highway.

  Minutes passed, and still the dinosaurs rumbled past. Mark stretched up along the trunk and peeked over, backs bobbing three and four abreast into the distance. Wheajo was taking careful note of how the dinosaurs near the river were themselves keeping watch on the herd. Mark slipped alongside him, amazed by the number of animals comprising the herd. “I think I finally have it figured out. This many animals, and all headed north, I’d be willing to bet serious odds that it’s springtime.”

  The triply horned dinosaurs were clearly not worried about predators.

  “You are rested?”

  Mark nodded. “I am now.”

  The air swirled with the smell of herbivores, thick and musty if not particularly unpleasant. Polished horns and shields glinted in the dappled sunshine as animals with stubby horns and curiously shaped shields trundled past, and babies with only the hints of either, tucked alongside their clearly protective mothers. Wheajo peeked around the trunk, a steady stream of gray-black bodies lumbering nearly as fast as a man could run.

  “Be ready when the last of the animals pass.”

  “You can’t be serious,” Mark said, at the same time checking the clasp on the handgun.

  Gaps began showing as the parade of animals shifted ever more to mothers and their calves. Then gangs of young bulls and sporadic individuals, some with fractured and missing horns. And finally a group of weary bulls determined to maintain pace with the herd.

  Wheajo stepped from the trees seconds after the animals passed, Mark following with his heart in his throat when the alien fell in behind the fast moving triceratops.

  Careful always to maintain a respectable distance, they monitored the animals in the forest as well, a group at one point moving uphill while two others loped along the river. Yet they were the exceptions, most animals simply continuing about their business as the triceratops thundered through the forest. The trail followed the curves of the hillside, the river glinting through the trees below as the three-horned dinosaurs charged ahead, never slowing. The forest rushed past, green and luxuriant where dead trees or blow-downs let the sunlight play across the fern-carpeted ground. Trees and limbs too numerous to count lay crushed and splintered along the trail, all destined eventually to be pounded to dust by the splayed feet of countless dinosaurs.

  Mile on mile they ran, the hazy sunbeams slanting ever more deeply through the trees as the sun slipped toward the horizon.

  The hillside curved away, the herd following the trail northeast through the valley while its lesser fork continued along the river. The triceratops were good at clearing away the riff-raff, and though they hadn’t seen another dinosaur in the last half hour, Mark was happy to be away from them and have the forest to themselves. His stomach would be acting up as soon as it realized he was no longer racing, and until then he was hoping to walk off the oxygen debt he’d been generating for the last however the hell many miles he and Wheajo had covered keeping up with the herd. There was too little river visible to be certain, but it seemed a reasonable guess they were within a few miles of camp.

  Wheajo was leading again, though ‘still’ was more accurate considering he’d allowed Mark to take point exactly twice in the last three hours. Never tired, always with the backpack and spear—which he’d gotten very good with—Wheajo had become quite the woodsman since they’d arrived. He had managed to lose Charlie’s paddle, though it was possible he’d intentionally gotten rid of the thing when Ron was attacked, an extra paddle at that point having little redeeming value.

  He hustled along, visions of McClure’s attack swirling when Wheajo came to an abrupt halt. Raspy grunts issued from the forest where the trails split, W
heajo standing firm when he spied the edge of a frill through the trees. Mark laid his paddle down, watching warily as the animal’s belligerent companions came snorting around.

  Reinforcements.

  Mark stepped beside Wheajo and pulled the revolver. Three bulls stood side-by-side not forty yards down the trail, snapping their bills, a frightening array of horns pointed in their direction. He cranked the hammer back.

  “A frontal assault is useless,” Wheajo said, watching as a forepaw scuffed the ground.

  “Probably,” Mark said, taking aim. “Then again, you never know.” The dinosaurs stepped forward, bills popping. “Get moving, Wheajo!” He stepped back when the dinosaurs charged— Pow!—a spray of bony splinters sent showering the leader’s back. “Run!” He sprinted after Wheajo, each taking a separate route around a deadfall.

  They slashed through the tangle, searching for cover, limbs and small trees snapping as the triceratops bulldozed the forest. Mark went left around an oak, Wheajo right, the crashing ever louder. High stepping, swiping at the leaves, Mark spied a glimmer downhill. “Head for the river!” The banks this near the island were a good ten feet high, a drop the ceratopsians wouldn’t dare go over.

  Mark glanced back, vines and shredded vegetation dragging from the horns of the dinosaurs. He jinxed sideways, vaulted a log, and two steps later found his path blocked by a fallen tree. Left… right? “Pick one!” he scowled amid the din of crashing trees and grunting ceratopsians. Trees jostled and snapped. Leaves rained down. Mark clambered atop a rotted deadfall and, spotting horns, leveled the revolver, waiting….

  Pow! The head jerked with the impact, pink foam burping midway up the animal’s chest as the three-horned dinosaur turned in his direction. Wheajo called out with a parody snarl, the trio pausing to locate the predator as he quick-stepped forward and launched his spear… the shaft flying true… the steel blade sinking deep into the nearest animal’s chest.

  The dinosaur reared up, squealing, crimson drool spraying from its nostrils when it hit the ground and lumbered in Wheajo’s direction. Mark was ready—Pow! Pow!—both shots cleanly into its chest, the reports still echoing when he swung on its companion—Pow! The animal hesitated, blood pulsing from behind its foreleg while the smallest of the trio galloped toward the trail.

  The ground cover was maddeningly thick, and Wheajo was struggling to make headway. “Hurry, Wheajo! He’s gaining on you!” Mark picked a spot in the ever thickening vegetation… Pow! He fired again, but the hammer fell on a spent round. He hit the cylinder release, frantic, bushes quivering mere yards ahead of the lumbering triceratops. “Hurry!” he screamed, ejecting the rounds as the triceratops lowered its head. “He’s right on top—”

  The head snapped back, and Wheajo arched through the air before tumbling into the underbrush.

  “Wheajo…!” The triceratops staggered through the trees, stumbled once, twice, and finally collapsed beside a overgrown deadfall, Mark already reloading as he pressed through the tangle. “Wheajo…? Talk to me, Wheajo! Where are you?” Vines twisted through the bushes, snagging his feet, and he knew now why Wheajo hadn’t been able to get through it. He holstered the pistol, and angling right, located the path torn by the triceratops, gobs of blood smeared along the leaves. He stopped where deep gouges were carved in the soil when the triceratops had started its death run.

  He searched the walled vegetation. “I know you’re hurt. But you have to give me a sign.” He listened, but no reply. Mark looked to where he’d fired his last shot, hoping to get a bearing, and immediately spotted wetness on a leaf. He swiped it, rubbed his fingers. Not red exactly, he yet had no doubt it was blood. Alien blood. He slashed at the bramble. Another smear. “I’m coming, Wheajo! I’m coming!” Mark shouted, ripping at the leaves. “Wherever you are, I’ll find you. Hang on, you hear me? Hang on until I get there, ‘cause I’m not leaving….” The bushes thinned toward a pocket of big ferns. Blood was smeared on the fronds. And poking from beneath a nearby cluster, a pair of smallish blue boots.

  Mark rushed over, his stomach churning when he saw the grotesquely bent leg and the gaping hole in Wheajo’s back. “Oh fuck!” he gasped, rushing over and crumbling to his knees. “No, no… not you too!” There was a gash across Wheajo’s throat, the blood coming in faint but unmistakable waves. Mark pulled out his handkerchief and pressed it across the wound before lifting Wheajo’s head gently onto his lap. “Don’t you die on me, Wheajo! You hear me?” he said, his voice cracking. “I’ll get you patched up. You just need to hang on while I figure out what to do.”

  A feeble wince. Wheajo opened his eyes. “Ec kar tava bria,” he whispered, blood trickling from his lips. “Utar ur mynr cabok…”

  “Don’t try to talk,” Mark said, softly stroking the alien’s forehead. “I’m sorry, Wheajo. You have to believe me. We never meant to hurt you.”

  Wheajo inched his fingers along Mark’s arm. “Cabok… hu fen vakentor yabok.”

  “I don’t understand!” Wheajo’s grip tightened on his arm, his face contorted in a spasm. Mark could feel his alien companion slipping away, and there was nothing he could do to save him. “Please don’t die. Please don’t—” Another pained spasm, the life draining from Wheajo’s eyes as his body went limp. Mark pulled the alien tight to his chest. “No!” he screamed, over and over, rocking on his knees, heartbroken, the world in ruins around him, and now so desperately alone.

  Mark slipped the paddle over the edge, then walked back to the hurriedly assembled grave. Shadows stretched past the bank, the upper reaches of the hillside yet bathed in sunshine, the splendor of the forest in stark contrast to the blackness in his heart.

  “You didn’t deserve this,” he sniffed, staring morosely at the mounded logs. “All of us, even Tony, had an agenda. You were just doing your job.” Mark picked up the bloodied backpack and slipped the straps over his shoulder. After all the pain and misery, he was now in possession of a fully charged transporter that no one knew how to use. Still water in the bota, Mark took a drink, then drizzled some across the logs with a fervent prayer that whatever gods Wheajo believed in would treat him kindly.

  Mark turned sharply when a growl sounded not far up the hillside. “You were one of the good guys.” He stood for a moment, just shaking his head, then turned and hurried into the forest.

  *****

  Ron drew back, feeling the bottom and listening to the forest. During all the runs they’d made downriver, never once had he seen so many dinosaurs, and he'd gotten to regard the west side as safer than the east, a failing that had come close to costing him his life. Lucky? No shit. Put two good eyes in the thing that had jumped him and the bastard's teeth wouldn’t simply have grazed his arm. Another half step. He reached out and let the blade hit bottom, then dragged the paddle along the mud, past his feet and all the way to shore. So long as the rifle wasn’t too far out, and he didn’t get antsy, finding it was only a matter of time.

  Step after step, he probed the bottom, each time carving slots in the mud with the blade. He’d jabbed sticks alongshore to mark the boundaries, the first at the farthest possible point downstream where the rifle could have fallen, the other beside the spot where he’d been waiting. Away from shore, waist deep and struggling with the current, Ron knew he was vulnerable. But the low probability stuff was behind him, and with every sweep his chances were increasing that he’d hit the rifle.

  Another step. Another slice of bottom.

  The whole paddle thing was still swirling. Mark and Wheajo hurrying down the hill, then the bombshell: “The dawzon exploded!” And as stunning as that was, the realization that both had been carrying a paddle struck him as making no sense. If the dawzon had taken the island out, why would they have—

  Dink.

  He flinched… then slid the paddle back and forth across the bottom. Dink… dink.

  “There you are!” He stepped out and he worked his feet into the mud, then swapped paddle ends and scraped the bottom with the handle. He probed until h
e felt the ‘T’ finally catch and, lifting carefully, snagged the barrel when it broke the surface. “Finally,” he said, carefully working his shoes loose from the stickiness before heading to shore.

  Ron slipped the paddle quietly into the Tripper, then tore away the rest of his shredded sleeve and used the piece to wipe down the rifle. The checkering pretty much everywhere was loaded with mud. The barrel too, not surprisingly, every speck of which needed to come out. He reached for the bota, and right off knew he needed more than he had. The cap came off, and he took a long slug, staring as he did so at the cobbles across the river. Hiking with a fucked up rifle was not a fun thought, but he knew that somewhere up and along the creek he’d find the clean water he needed.

  Wash the rifle. Top off the bota. And afterward think about gathering something in the way of bedding to line the Tripper before heading upriver. The dinosaurs that had rumbled through the forest earlier had ended any misgivings about pulling an overnighter like Mark. There were spots alongshore that offered enough seclusion to not have to worry about the locals, the where exactly to be decided upon come sundown.

  Thing was, the clock was broken, and unless Bennett was flat out bullshitting, there was no longer any need to hurry ever again.

  *****

  The trees slipped past in a haze of nightmarish images, the whole of recent events swirling when Mark gradually became aware of the all-pervasive hiss. He slowed, listening, and ahead saw the trail sweep right around the hillside. Too tired to recognize what little of the river was visible through the trees, Mark shifted the backpack and trotted ahead.

  Approaching the turn, still wondering where the trail was headed, Mark was surprised to see the river curving as well. A few paces more and the distant hiss became a rumble, sounds that would forever signify home. He hurried on, the hole at the end of the highway widening to expose ever more of the meadow. There was pleasure and pride to be taken in having traversed such a long stretch of forest. Yet Mark felt only sadness.