Footprints of Thunder

by James F. David

  “Because,” Dr. Piltcher began with forced slowness, “they’ve been extinct since the Cretaceous age,”

  “Wasn’t that prehistoric times?” Colter asked Dr. Piltcher. “Then what’s it doing here?”

  With that one question Colter cut right through the fog of excitement that had clouded their thinking. What was it doing here?

  Dr. Coombs and Dr. Piltcher retreated to the front of the RV and sat in the bucket seats. Colter and Petra followed, Colter a little put out that they hadn’t answered his question directly. Despite his naiveté, however, he had learned how to fit into the group, and knew it was time for him to fade into the background.

  The others assumed their reflective poses and took turns looking at each other, waiting for someone to say what they were all thinking. All except Colter, who stood impatiently waiting. As usual Dr. Piltcher finger-combed his hair, and then spoke first.

  “Well, we knew something was going to happen, but I admit I hadn’t considered this.”

  “What has happened?” Petra asked.

  Dr. Piltcher turned and smiled at Petra. In Dr. Piltcher’s eyes she could do no wrong, and he treated even her simplest questions with the same consideration that he gave to scholarly discussions.

  “We must investigate further, of course. But from the primitive nature of the flowering plants in the meadow, and of course our friend the psittacosaurus, we seem to be sitting in a piece of the Cretaceous period. We anticipated some temporal dislocation, that fits with the theory, but I rather expected massive amounts of material falling out of the sky. Instead, we seem to have sitting all around us a piece of the past somehow transported to the present.”

  “There is another possibility,” Dr. Coombs added. “We could be in a section of our present that has been transported to the past.”

  Dr. Piltcher raised his eyebrows but didn’t say anything for a full minute. Then he spoke with thoughtful deliberation.

  “If we were transported, then a huge portion of land was transported with us. We drove through miles of it, not to mention the radio reports from afar. If that much has been transported to the past, then it makes little difference to us practically. The same would be true if this piece of the Cretaceous period is extensive, but again the radio reports suggest otherwise.”

  “True enough, Chester, but it raises other interesting questions. If we are sitting on a piece of the Cretaceous period, complete with wildlife, then where is the land that it replaced? In the Cretaceous period? And more important, where are Mrs. Wayne and Ernie Powell?”

  Dr. Piltcher was about to respond when a loud crunching sound broke up the conversation. Petra immediately turned and ran to the mattress barrier, motioning for the others to join her. They crowded together just in time to see the psittacosaurus bite down again on the peach pit. Nothing else of the peach remained. The pit broke in two.

  “Sid’s got quite a bite,” Colter noted.

  “Good thing he didn’t get hold of one of your fingers,” Petra said and then retrieved another peach from the refrigerator. “Here, Sid, knock yourself out,” she said, and tossed it to him.

  Sid ran from the peach, trying to hide in a corner. He looked around fearfully, then defecated, leaving a wet gray pile of solids on the floor, then ran over to the peach. Sid sank his jaws into it and then carried it to a clean corner and began systematically biting off chunks while leaning back on his tail and holding the peach with his forearms. Deftly he rotated it between bites, working efficiently to pick the pit clean. Then, as before, used his jaws to break the pit in two. After breaking the pit into smaller pieces Sid tasted two, then ignored them. Though he remained in his corner he seemed less fearful now and watched his captors with his black eyes. Colter pulled a piece of bread from the bag, tore off the crust, and threw it to Sid, but the animal hesitated, looking around fearfully. Seeing no sudden movement in his captors he snatched up the crust, opened his beak and snapped it up. He didn’t hesitate to snatch up the second piece Colter gave him.

  “See there, Chester,” Dr. Coombs said, “he’s blending into the brown of the background.”

  “I do believe you’re right, George. I wonder how many species of the Cretaceous period had this ability?”

  “Man, those turds stink,” Colter complained. “We should’ve put some paper down.”

  Flinching, Dr. Piltcher opened his mouth to speak, but Petra cut him off.

  “Outside! Something just ran by.”

  They all piled out of the RV, scanning the meadow.

  “There, that way!” Dr. Coombs shouted, pointing toward the hedge in the distance.

  Bobbing up and down in the grass was a greenish, dome-shaped, seemingly disembodied head. They watched it moving closer to the tall bushes in the distance, when suddenly something ran between Dr. Coombs’s legs. It was Sid. Colter started after him but Dr. Piltcher called him back.

  “Never mind, Colter. I wasn’t thinking clearly before. This isn’t about one psittacosaurus. This is about a whole new world.” Dr. Piltcher waved his arm at the jungle before him. “We need to explore it systematically.”

  “And look for Mrs. Wayne and Ernie?” Petra asked, timidly.

  “Of course, Petra. I didn’t mean to sound insensitive.”

  Petra hugged his arm in response. Reddening, he quickly changed the subject. “Let’s make camp here. It’s not safe to move into the jungle until we know more about what’s out there, and there seem to be animals much larger than Sid.”

  They jockeyed the RV around until it was level, and set up the canopy, a portable picnic table and lawn chairs. For shade they set up a tarp on poles and anchored it securely with ropes and stakes. Colter and Petra spread out looking for a supply of firewood; there was little wood in the desert, so they walked through the tall jungle grasses picking up branches.

  “Hey, Petra, give me a hand with this.”

  Petra turned to see Colter pushing a large limb up out of the grass. It seemed to be attached to a bigger limb. Colter was rocking it back and forth, judging its weight. If the two of them could move it back to camp, it would supply enough wood for a couple of days. Colter rocked it low and then pulled it up high again, putting his shoulder under the limb. When he pushed up hard, they heard a loud cracking sound, and Colter dropped the limb and dove into the grass.

  “Colter? What are you doing?” Petra shouted.

  “Here, look at this.”

  Colter stood up holding something by its tail. Petra approached slowly. It was some kind of lizard, dark green and about eight inches long. Its tail was a third of the body, thick and stubby. It had four long limbs, the front and back pairs about the same length. The neck looked very thin and insubstantial, the head elongated with two large slits at the tip for nostrils. When it opened its mouth it revealed no teeth but white ridges, which it was trying to use on Colter.

  “Is this one a baby or what?”

  “Maybe it’s just a small dinosaur. Let’s take it to Dr. Piltcher.”

  Colter carried the animal by its tail back to the camp, Petra trotting ahead to alert the others. Excited all over again, Dr. Piltcher set the mattresses back up to trap the new find in the back of the RV. As soon as Colter gently set the little dinosaur on the floor, it was off scampering around the enclosure looking for a way out.

  “Well, Chester, this one has me beat. It’s clearly not local fauna but I don’t recognize it.”

  “Nor I, George. You don’t suppose it’s a mussaurus?”

  “I have to admit I’m not familiar with the species. Would this be a full-grown mussaurus?”

  “If that’s what it is, yes. They didn’t get much longer than eight or ten inches.”

  “Moose, kind of a funny name for a lizard this small,” Colter said. “I like it.”

  Dr. Piltcher shook his head, taxed almost to the limit by Colter’s juvenile attitude and his need to nickname each new species. But he kept silent. The mussaurus continued to scramble around looking for a way out. Then it stopped
and turned to face them. Dr. Piltcher could see its sides heaving. Suddenly it shot forward and scrambled up the mattresses in three quick leaps and onto Petra’s jeans. As Petra screamed, Dr. Coombs and Colter grabbed for the dinosaur. But it was too quick and darted under and up Petra’s shirt. Petra gasped as the clawed feet worked its way up her stomach. She clamped her hand down, trying to stop the mussaurus, but gently so not to hurt it.

  “Aah! It hurts, help me get it out! It’s going around to my back!”

  Dr. Coombs shoved his hand up the back of Petra’s shirt, embarrassed by the feel of her bare skin and bra strap. Petra kept gasping and flinching at the scratches from the scrambling claws.

  “It’s going up to my shoulder! Look out everyone!” Petra shouted, and pushed the hands away. Then she reached down, pulling the shirt up and over her head. Suddenly exposed, the lizard froze, and then darted down the front. Now Dr. Piltcher’s hand shot out and pinned the dinosaur between the cups of Petra’s bra. He flushed but seized the animal. Immediately, Petra pulled her shirt back over her head, noticing the only one without a red face was Colter.

  As the dinosaur clamped its jaws on Dr. Piltcher’s thumb, the professor dropped it. Free again, the dinosaur scrambled up a wall and onto the small space on top of the cabinets.

  “Old Moose is a handful,” Colter said. “Copped “a feel of Petra and then took on someone a hundred times his size. Want me to get him down out of there?”

  “No.” Dr. Piltcher said. “It’s not worth the risk. Let’s just wait outside with the door open. He’ll leave on his own accord.”

  “Don’t you want to study him some more?” Colter asked with a smirk.

  They worked outside for the rest of the afternoon. When supper time approached they found Moose still on top of the cabinet. They tried catching him again, but this time Dr. Coombs ended up with a nipped finger. Finally they gave up.

  They agreed they might attract too many unknown animals by cooking outside, so Dr. Coombs prepared spaghetti and meatballs in the camper. When dinner was ready, they settled down in the cramped RV, but halfway through dinner, some thing banged against the door. Petra got up and looked out the window but could see nothing. Then it banged again. Petra opened the door slowly, all of them watching curiously. She was about to close the door again when a small dinosaur trotted into view, then out again, and then back. Then another one trotted into view behind the first. One of the dinosaurs was Sid. He had come for dinner, and he had brought a friend.

  23. Mountain Mystery

  As I approached the Lang farm I could see my friend David working in his field. His family was near the house and waved in greeting. When David turned toward me he suddenly disappeared. The Lang family joined me in the field to search but we found no trace of him.

  —Judge August Peck, September 23, 1880

  North of Grant’s Pass, Oregon

  PostQuilt: Sunday, 10:30 A.M. PST

  It was a mountain all right, Terry conceded to himself. Even if the word might be a bit grandiose for the pile of rocks in front of him. Rather than towering snow-capped peaks rising above the timberline, Terry was staring at a huge pile of boulders that looked as if they had been poured into the middle of the interstate. It could have been the result of an avalanche, except the pile towered above the nearest hill. Then there was the problem of the vegetation. Leading up to the towering rock pile was a carpet of sparse clump grass, but it didn’t match the surrounding vegetation. Would an avalanche have deposited a green carpet of scrawny grass?

  Terry and Ellen had been skeptical when they left the parking lot at the Oregon Caves, even as the CB reports of the mountain were confirmed by other motorists with CBs. But still it was hard to believe. They’d driven only a few miles north of Grant’s Pass before they realized the traffic in the southbound lanes was very light. The farther north they drove, the lighter it became until the traffic stopped completely. Shortly after that they came to a traffic jam.

  The traffic was at a dead stop, and northbound drivers were abandoning their cars and walking forward through the extemporaneous parking lot. Terry and Ellen had to walk nearly a mile before they saw the mountain. It was set a little to the east of the interstate with the mountain tumbled down to the west. A hundred people were milling around in front of it. Many of them were taking pictures or videos. Parents posed their children on boulders or in the clearing, trying to get as much of the mountain in their shot as possible. Other children chased around the clearing or climbed rocks.

  Terry and Ellen joined the crowd of happy gawkers, but Terry couldn’t share their partying mood. Only here and there were other concerned faces like Terry’s. This mountain wasn’t just a road hazard that prevented tourists from logging their four hundred miles a day. It represented something far larger, something Terry did not understand. Something impossible.

  Terry squatted at the end of the interstate and examined the edge. It was a nice sharp break. On one side you had a four-lane freeway and on the other side coarse grass leading up to the mountain. Terry began looking for a way around the mountain. He certainly couldn’t drive around it, but he was curious how big a blockage this was. He was about to suggest a walk to Ellen when he heard a familiar voice, and he looked up to see the towering figure of Bill Conrad.

  “If you’re wondering if the road continues on the other side, it does. I just don’t know how far you have to go. The CB channels are buzzing with southbound truckers and travelers talking about the landslide blocking I-5.”

  “You read my mind correctly on that one. Now try the next question.”

  “I don’t have any idea where this came from or what is going on.”

  Terry laughed and nodded. It was reassuring to know Bill was as confused as he was. Bill Conrad had been in his element in the cave, prepared for his role by his training. But out here on the road, standing in front of a mountain that magically appeared on an interstate highway, Bill wasn’t any more competent than Terry or anyone else. Terry spotted Ellen talking to Angie. They were laughing and smiling, as if they were old friends.

  “It makes you wonder about that kid in the cave, doesn’t it?” Bill said. “I mean I wonder if this is what he was talking about?”

  Until Bill Conrad had suggested it, Terry had never connected the kid in the cave with the mountain. Now, he was having trouble relating them.

  “I don’t know, Bill, the kid was delusional, and he was pretty specific about what was going to happen. The world was supposed to end.”

  “The sister said something about things falling from the sky.”

  “This couldn’t have fallen … impossible.”

  Bill made a noncommittal murmur, but his mind was working. Asserting himself, Terry decided to demonstrate his own specialty.

  “I’d guess that kid was paranoid schizophrenic. He exhibited the classic symptoms, the secret knowledge that only he could understand, the certainty that no one would believe him. These types are often pretty successful at fitting into society. They’re delusional, though, and their worldview only makes sense to themselves.”

  Bill was singularly unimpressed by Terry’s diagnosis.

  “Are you a psychiatrist?”

  “Psychologist.”

  “Mmmm. If someone believes the world is going to end and it doesn’t, he’s delusional. What if he thinks the world is going to end and it does? That’s not delusion, that’s prophecy.”

  “But the world didn’t end.”

  “But something sure as hell happened. How do you explain that, doc?” Bill said jerking his head toward the mountain.

  Terry conceded Bill had a good point. “I’m not saying I know what has happened,” Terry responded. “I’m only suggesting the two events are not necessarily related.”

  “Mmmm. Peculiar coincidence.”

  Bill walked over to Ellen and Angie, who were still talking animatedly. The three of them laughed together for a while before the conversation turned serious. Then they approached Terry.

&n
bsp; Bill began. “We’re thinking of heading back to Medford and finding that kid from the cave. It may be he knows more than people are giving him credit for.”

  “I told you, Bill, that kid is delusional, and even if he did know something it will be difficult for him to communicate it.”

  “No problem. We’ve got a psychiatrist to go with us.” Bill winked and grinned cynically.

  “Psychologist,” Terry answered curtly.

  “Whatever.”

  “If he gives us any trouble,” Terry offered more genially, “we’ve got a marine to shoot him.”

  “Air force.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Come on, Terry, let’s go with them,” Ellen said. “We can’t get through this way anyway, and we’ll have to find another way around.”

  Ellen was right. There really was no reason to stay where they were, and they could hardly backtrack. Terry relented and Bill and Angie fed the way back to the cars. Bill, more resourceful than Terry, had driven up the median close to the mountain. They all climbed in for a ride to Terry’s car.

  Bill Conrad’s demeanor worked its magic again at the sheriffs department. The receptionist/dispatcher turned out to be a woman named Karon, who would only say the suspect’s name was Kenny Randall, a student at Oregon Institute of Technology, and he had not been taken to the police station. She was reluctant to give any information about Kenny’s current whereabouts, but then Bill flashed his military ID, spoke in a clipped, brisk manner, and found out that Kenny was at the community hospital.

  The hospital staff buckled just as easily under Bill’s demeanor, and the two couples found themselves outside Kenny’s door talking to the sheriff and a doctor.

  The sheriff turned out to be a refugee from the big city. He had migrated from the Chicago police force to Portland and then to Medford. Well-educated, professional, and not intimidated by big, loud, black air force officers, at six feet two he could almost look Bill in the eye.