“Something different. Some kind of change. Something that would support my model. Dr. Paulson wasn’t very specific.”
“Maybe you could ask someone to help you?” Carrollee suggested.
“I suppose you will be busy with your babies.”
“Nothing to do now but wait. I don’t enjoy staring at sand.”
Emmett knew Carrollee was as hooked as he was on the project. But she wanted to know he wanted her help.
“Carrollee, would you help me examine the photos?” Emmett asked it politely and seriously, although it came out sounding a little forced.
Carrollee stifled a smile and then said, “Oui.”
53. Modern Death
It wasn’t the wheel that gave man dominance over other species, nor any other implement, save one; the weapon.
—Sir John Hammond, A Philosophy of History, 1872
Warm Springs Indian Reservation, Oregon
PostQuilt: Tuesday, 10:30 P.M. PST
Colter’s survival instinct barely saved him from drowning. Already physically exhausted, he dove repeatedly, searching for any sign of Petra, but when he found none, he finally splashed to shore and collapsed. He meant to rest briefly and then search again for Petra, but his good intentions faded with his consciousness. While his body struggled to renew itself, he was near comatose. Badly chilled and without food to replenish his resources, he woke to find himself still near exhaustion.
It was nearly too much for him. The loss of Ernie and Mrs. Wayne scarcely crossed his mind because he hadn’t witnessed it. The losses of Dr. Coombs and Dr. Piltcher were painful, but manageable. He had liked the people in the group. Sure they were kooks, but they were nice kooks. Kind of interesting, if you didn’t take them too seriously. He was sad to know how they died. But the death of Petra caused personal pain, something Colter had never experienced. He’d never been as close to anyone as to Petra. He’d never told her, but he loved her. Now she was gone.
They were all gone. And it was because of the monsters, the dinosaurs, whatever Dr. Piltcher called them. These animals came, they terrorized, they maimed, they killed.
Well, I can kill too, Colter thought. I’m a human, and humans kill better than any animal ever could.
He got to his feet and ran recklessly through the brush toward the RV, feeling invulnerable, even though he was nearly naked, exhausted, and unarmed. He defied any dinosaur to cross his path. He’d be an easy target, of course, but now he didn’t care. He was going to kill, or be killed.
When he burst in the door Moose scrambled to the cabinet, and Sarah waddled to the back and buried herself under a pile of clothes. Colter flared when he saw them. But he only cursed at them and then began digging in the piles looking for a pair of jeans. Still angry and reckless, Colter threw things violently to the side, working his way toward the back. When he spotted his jeans in the bottom of a mound he jerked at them, eliciting a squeal of pain from Sarah.
The painful cry melted some of the ice from Colter’s heart. Gently, he pulled the clothes off the pile one by one to uncover Sarah. She had one back foot stuck in his jean’s pocket, and when he pulled on it, it twisted her leg up and back. Sarah flinched when he reached down, but didn’t snap. Slowly, Colter untangled her back leg, and she limped away to another pile and tried burying herself again.
Feeling guilty, Colter dug around in the cabinets until he found a package of raisins. He tore it open and dumped about half of it in front of Sarah’s clothes pile,, and after only half a minute her head and neck collar emerged from under the clothes to sniff at the raisins. Something pink and lacy was dangling from her collar. Colter smiled at the sight, but then frowned when he realized it was a pair of Petra’s panties. When he reached down to retrieve them Sarah cringed, but didn’t run away. He threw the underwear out the shattered window. Sarah looked up briefly, then started nibbling on her raisins.
He was surprised at how much pain a piece of Petra’s clothing could bring. The look and the touch triggered memories of what had been and would never be again. Now Colter sorted through the pile, pulling out whatever pieces of Petra’s clothes he could find, and threw them out the window. It was crazy, he knew, but it was also therapeutic.
When he was done, he thought about starting on the belongings of the others, but he had something else to do. Something to do with killing. He pulled on a sweatshirt to finish covering himself, and then put on his old Nikes. When he was done he looked up to see Moose staring longingly at the raisin pile Sarah was devouring. While Moose cringed against the wall, Colter pulled another handful of raisins from the package and dropped them on top of the cabinet. The animal was on the food as soon as Colter stepped away.
It took over an hour to hammer the crushed metal of the wheel wells away from the tires. Colter worked by flashlight, bending, prying, and hammering. When he was sure he had enough clearance to turn without cutting the tires, he climbed into the driver’s seat to start the engine. The egg they had found in the clearing was still wrapped in a towel on the dash. Colter placed it into a lower cabinet and then tried starting up the RV, which roared to life on the second crank. Pulling forward, he turned away from the prehistoric world toward what he hoped was still civilization. When he adjusted the rearview mirror he spotted Moose on top of the cabinet.
“All ashore who’s going ashore. Let’s go, guys! Last stop! End of the line!”
Moose stared at him from the top of the cabinet, but didn’t move. Colter swore, set the brake, and walked back to grab Moose and throw him out. Moose skittered away to the back of the RV and disappeared behind a pile of debris on the bed. Instead of chasing Moose, Colter reached for Sarah, but when she ran to avoid his reach he noticed her slight limp. He felt a sharp pang of guilt.
“Okay, guys,” he said resignedly. “You had your chance. Let’s go to town.”
He put a handful of raisins on top of the counter and then dumped the rest into a pile on the floor of the RV. The two little dinosaurs were eating again by the time he reached the driver’s seat. As Colter rumbled down the road toward town, he shouted back to his little passengers.
“If either of you has to take a crap, you hold it until we get to town, or no more raisins.”
The dinosaurs looked up but then returned to their snack. A few minutes later Moose lifted his tail and left a little pile on the top of the cabinet.
Colter found the town with only a thin veneer of civilization left. Refugees and trapped tourists were everywhere, trying to buy everything. Panic was setting in. Colter was only interested in getting a gun, but he nonetheless picked up pieces of information. The town’s people didn’t want to believe the information that was trickling in, but Colter knew the terrible truth. Whatever put those dinosaurs in Oregon had done things all over the country. The people in town weren’t just terrified of what was now roaming just outside their town, they were terrified of the unknown. Colter had little sympathy for them. Why couldn’t they take what was and live with it? To him, this endless search for understanding was a mystery. But not death. Death could be understood, and death of a friend—a lover—demanded response.
Colter tried two sporting goods stores looking for a rifle. It was late, but every store had a light on. The owners weren’t taking any chances on losing their stock. The first store he tried still had some rifles, but the owner wasn’t selling them for paper money. Colter begged, pleaded, and threatened, but came away without a rifle. At the second store, he got the same reaction. Then he drove to a garage and managed to rent some time with a torch, telling the owner he wanted to work on his vehicle. Colter blamed the hole on an accident, but the owner was suspicious. Still, Colter could weld the hole in the side at least roughly, then took the torch into the RV. In one of the lower cabinets Dr. Coombs and Dr. Piltcher had bolted a small cheap safe to the floor. It wouldn’t stop a professional thief, but it would stop the ordinary jockey-boxer looking for tape players and loose change. Colter cut the combination lock out, careful not to set the contents on
fire. As he expected the safe was full of money—several thousand dollars in currency, and six thou-sand in traveler’s checks. Behind the paper money Colter found two heavy wooden boxes. Colter opened one to find a long row of gold coins lined up like mints—twenty coins. Colter took six of them and put the rest back in place and welded the door closed.
He tried the first sporting goods store again. The owner was belligerent until Colter held out his hand with two gold coins. The owner looked over the coins and even bit one to make sure they were real. Then the negotiation started. While interested, the dealer wouldn’t sell Colter the rifle he wanted for only two of the coins. Colter mournfully told the man he had only four coins and a family back in Ashland and wasn’t sure he could go back without protection.
“Boy,” he said, “you could kill an elephant with a rifle like that. Now if you want personal protection I’ve got an assault rifle here that will give you the rapid-fire capability you need. I might even be able to get you a banana clip to go with it, if you don’t say where you got it. They’re not legal, you know.”
Colter held his ground and the negotiation continued. Colter didn’t want to give him four gold pieces—but there was no way to make change. Colter now understood why pirate treasure was often pieces of eight—breaking his gold coins into eighths would make the negotiation simpler. Finally, Colter thanked the man and said he’d try the shop down the street. That’s where he got the deal he wanted—the rifle, three spare eight-round clips, and three boxes of ammunition for three gold coins. Then Colter went looking for supplies.
The only open grocery was guarded by six police officers, and the people going in were coming out with only small quantities of food. Colter drove to one of the closed stores and banged on the glass door until a thin middle-aged man came from the back waving a pistol and hollering to Colter. Colter put the gold coin against the window and held it there with his finger. The man stared at it, then walked forward and put his nose right up against the glass. Then he put on a pair of glasses and Colter watched the guy’s eyes light up. The man motioned Colter around back, through the delivery entrance, where he traded his coin for groceries, propane, bottled juice and water, and raisins and other fruit for Sarah and Moose.
54. The Den
We were recovering our net by reeling in on our drum, when one of the hands yells ‘lookit there.’ Well, I looked and sure enough there was a head… sitting on a neck as thick as a good-sized cargo boom. But it wos the eyes that held me; they were large, but sort of deadlike…. In all my years of working drift nets… I ain’t never come across the likes of that… But that animal was big indeed.
—Captain Mario Lapona, in Sea Monsters and Other Dangerous Marine Life
Warm Springs Indian Reservation, Oregon
PostQuilt: Wednesday, 1:10 A.M. PST
Petra woke in darkness, her body aching from head to toe. When she tried to lift her head, the agony threatened to drive her back into unconsciousness, so she lowered her head gingerly until it met the wet surface. When the pain subsided a little, she was able to localize her injuries. Her head was the worst, but her left foot and ankle throbbed and pain kept her from bending her ankle more than a fraction of an inch. Petra lay still again, and when the pain in her ankle subsided she became aware of her other senses. It was almost pitch black, so her eyes were nearly useless, but there was a terrible stench in the air. Some of the smell was familiar—and Petra realized she was lying in her own vomit. Still, when she tried to scoot away, the pain was worse than the smell, so instead she lay still and tried to remember what happened.
The first memory to return was Colter’s face. She could see it through a murky gloom. He was moving away, pawing at the air. No, not pawing. He was swimming, and it wasn’t Colter who was moving away, it was Petra.
Then it all came back. That strange fish. The one that came out of the water, walking on its flippers and then grabbing her ankle. It had pulled her under the water, and she had drowned. But she hadn’t drowned, not unless this was hell. It sure wasn’t heaven. But where was she, and why wasn’t she dead?
Petra kept her head as still as possible and reached out slowly with her right hand, sliding it across the wet surface. The bottom was clearly rock. Then her hand touched something slimy and scaly. She jerked her hand back and froze. It was the fish.
Her heart pounded so loudly, she feared the fish would hear. But nothing happened. It didn’t move and made no sounds. When Petra’s panic subsided, she began to think more clearly. The fish she’d touched couldn’t have been the one that grabbed her; that one was covered with hard scales. This fish was slimy. Petra forced her hand back out to the fish and touched it again, poking it with a fingernail. It didn’t move. She ran her hand along its length. It was four feet long with a long fin on one end. She couldn’t bring herself to explore its head, after she discovered that the fish was well decayed. She went to wipe her hands on her pants but found she wasn’t wearing any. In fact she wasn’t wearing much at all.
She reached out above her head and found something covered with smooth skin, not scaly, with a long thin neck and at least two well-muscled back legs. Petra realized she was in a den. She was part of the food supply of that walking fish that snatched her. Somewhere on the trip to the den she had passed out, but she hadn’t drowned. At least not quite. Her head told her she had been without oxygen for a while. She worried briefly about brain damage but realized there was a more immediate problem. She was part of some prehistoric fish’s larder, and she didn’t want to be its main course at the next meal.
Petra lay still, listening as hard as she could, but heard nothing. She was pretty sure the fish wasn’t in the den with her. There were no sounds that weren’t her own. She reasoned that if the fish could walk out of water, and snatch her and other land animals, that it must be an air breather. The only sounds of breathing were her own. No, this den was filled with death and rot, not life. Except her life.
Petra lifted her head slowly, pausing frequently to let the stars clear from her eyes. The pain kept her at the edge of tears, but she was almost to a sitting position when her head, with a dizzying pain, hit the ceiling. It seemed to be made of sticks and mud. There was air in here, she realized, stale putrid air, but air. She must be near the surface of the lake. She thought about digging through the roof but didn’t know what was above. Could this part be under the lake? Surely not, if it was made of mud.
She sat semireclined, holding her body up with her hands, and looked around. It seemed brighter now. But where was the light coming from? Petra looked above and behind, seeing nothing but the gloom. Then she spread her knees apart and looked between. There was a soft glow on the floor of the den. It took her a minute to realize she was looking at a pool of water, and the pool was glowing softly. That was the way out. But even if she could stay conscious, could she swim far, weakened as she was and with a crushed ankle? She was debating whether to try it when the light suddenly disappeared and the water began to ripple. Something was swimming up the tunnel.
She flopped back down and froze, trying to remember the position she had been in. The water of the pool sloshed violently enough to splash her ankles. She began to tremble with fear and bit her lip, trying to stop the shaking. Suddenly there was a loud splash and the wet sound of blowing air—she could feel the walking fish behind her. It puffed and blew a couple of more breaths, tasting the air of its den as if to make sure it had not been disturbed. Petra knew her only chance was to play dead, but reflexively she wanted to run or fight.
Still, she suppressed her instincts as the fish pulled its body from the water. She heard its flipper-feet pad across the wet surface, its body or tail dragging across the floor of the den.
Then something pushed her in the back. Petra tried to remain limp, but she panicked again. Rigor mortis. She should be stiff, shouldn’t she? Too late. She couldn’t change her act now. It pushed her again, this time higher in the back. Petra rocked gently again, acting limp. She’d play stiff later
. Then the fish walked forward and began rummaging around in the back of the den. Soon Petra heard the sounds of chomping and eating. Relief swept her body. She was too big for an after-dinner snack, so unless it planned to taste her, she didn’t think she was on tonight’s menu. From the smell of the cave this prehistoric fish liked its food well decomposed.
When the fish finished its meal it rummaged around a bit longer, then padded back toward Petra. She held perfectly still when it approached, but then to her horror, it plopped down behind her, its back pressed against hers. She waited for it to move, but it didn’t. After a few minutes she heard rhythmic breathing. It was asleep, its back against Petra. Now she couldn’t move. She was trapped.
55. Pat and Patty
The killer whale has no peer; it fears nothing in its domain and has no qualms about attacking any other beast it makes contact with, even the true whale. Would it kill a man? Probably yes.
—James B. Sweney, Sea Monsters and Other Dangerous Marine Life
West of Naples, Florida
PostQuilt: Wednesday, 7:12 A.M. EST
Hey look, a fin!” Chris yelled. Ron woke to see a black fin break the surface, and then disappear again. Another fin appeared farther out and then another.
“Are they sharks?” Carmen asked.
“No,” Rosa answered. “They’re too big.”
“They’re over here too,” Chris said excitedly.
Ron looked right to see two more fins. Then one of the animals leapt out of the water. It was black on the top but white on the bottom, the clear markings of orca. It was a pack of killer whales—there were at least ten.
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