Carnosaur Crimes

by Christine Gentry

  “You won’t get away, Lady,” Cyrus yelled, his voice sounding near panic. “I’ll find you.” There was the sound of a shotgun being cocked, then a gun blast explosion as Cyrus angrily fired at the boulder. He seemed to go crazy and fired two more shots at the unmovable stone barrier.

  Ansel covered her ears as the ammunition slammed into the other side of the rock. Parker suddenly rushed Dixie, who had momentarily squeezed her eyes shut and dropped the gun’s barrel toward the ground. She recovered in an instant and the Magnum spit fire.

  Another blast filled the tiny three-foot wide ravine before a bullet thumped into Parker’s left thigh. He grunted and went down like a pollaxed bull, rolled on the ground, and clutched his leg. Blood darkened his jeans as a frightful scarlet plume.

  “I warned you,” Dixie sputtered.

  Ansel didn’t even think, simply rushed to Parker while Dixie stood surveying her handiwork. The wound was bad. Parker sat up, trying to staunch the blood flow with his hands. He didn’t seem to be in too much pain, but his eyes were wide black spheres. She took off her windbreaker and twisted it tightly into a nylon tourniquet before tying it above Parker’s wound.

  “It’s going to be all right,” she said, not believing it. “This will help stop the bleeding.”

  Parker looked into her eyes and smiled. “Don’t worry. It doesn’t hurt that much.”

  He’s going into shock, Ansel thought. Her icy gaze fell upon Dixie, who was gathering all the bags together. “At least leave us some clothes. The temperatures drop at night. I’ve got to keep him warm.”

  “I’ll be all right,” Parker insisted, even as blood continued to stain his pants leg and he began to shake a bit. Pain was slowly creeping into his consciousness.

  Dixie gathered one duffel and the briefcase in one hand, the gun still poised in the other. She kicked the other tote toward Ansel. “You follow me and you’re dead.” Seconds later she backed down the ravine and disappeared around a brush-strewn bend.

  Ansel could care less as she dug through the duffel and found another of Parker’s long-sleeved shirts. She helped him put it on. “I’m got to dress the wound. Lean against the wall and rest.”

  Parker did as she instructed and said nothing as she pulled the medical kit from her purse and opened it. With great difficulty, she used the dull scissors to cut away a large hole in his jeans. Even that little bit of activity caused blood to gurgle from his thigh despite the tourniquet. She used one of Dixie’s tees to clean away most of the blood around the wound, then took a couple antiseptic wipes to clean it as carefully as possible. More blood surged out and Parker winced.

  “Sorry I got us into this mess, Ansel,” He whispered with great effort. “Bandage me up and get out of here. Just keep away from Dixie.”

  Ansel smeared the whole tube of double antibiotic ointment over the leaking wound. “I’m not leaving you.” Three large, non adhesive, sterile dressing pads went on next.

  “Get help. We need water or we’re history.” Parker gritted his teeth against some unseen agony.

  She unwound a spool of elastic bandage. “Don’t argue with me. I’ve got to get this around your leg and keep some pressure on it. Ready?”

  “Hard-headed Indian,” he cursed but lifted the leg by pushing down on his boot heel just enough for her to start wrapping the bandage tightly under and over his thigh. Despite his grunts, Ansel didn’t stop. Blood colored the bandages crimson, soaking through to the elastic wrap. Ansel loosened the tourniquet but left it on.

  “Swallow these,”she instructed, pulling two Tylenol tablets out of a foil pack.

  Parker took them and gagged as they went down. He gazed at her sheepishly, eyes droopy. “No spit.”

  “How do you feel?”

  “Like I’m in the Badlands with a cap in my leg. Get out of here Ansel, please.”

  Ansel said nothing, but packed up what was left of the sparse medical supplies. She looked through the duffel bag again. A pair of Dixie’s jeans caught her eye and one of Parker’s belts. “I’m going to change into these instead of this damn skirt. No gawking.”

  “Killjoy.”

  She took off her knee-length boots, unbuttoned her skirt front, and pulled the dust-stained black fabric off. She neatly folded it and placed it back inside the bag. The hot air swirling around her underwear and sweat-drenched legs felt wonderful. Parker watched for only a moment, then closed his eyes. He was losing consciousness, and she worried that the bullet had clipped an artery.

  Dixie’s jeans were two long and two wide, but she adjusted the cuffs and scrunched up the belt line with his belt, which was too long and flopped in front of her like a calf’s tongue. The boots went back on. This getup was much better for the climbing and bushwhacking.

  “Sounds quiet on the other side,” Ansel said. Her head bobbed toward the boulder.

  “So what. You’re headed the other way.” Parker’s eyes were still closed.

  “Wrong. I’m going back to the box canyon.”

  His eyes sprung open. “Are you nuts?”

  “What I need is the other way.” Ansel left the medical kit on the ground next to Parker, but situated her purse strap diagonally across her chest. She took one of the yellow ponchos from the duffel before positioning the ladder more firmly on the boulder. She hoped fervently that Rusty had left the ravine as she got on it.

  Parker started to get up when he saw her, then groaned and sat back down, clutching his leg in agony. “God dammit,” he fumed. “Get off that ladder, Ansel.”

  She couldn’t look at him so she went quickly up the rungs. At the top, she peered over the boulder very carefully, mindful of Rusty’s shotgun. “He’s gone. I’ll be back in an hour.” She got on the boulder, gauze strip to the top rung in hand, and pulled up the ladder.

  Parker watched, eyes hard brown stones of anger. “What the hell are you after?”

  “Medicine for your leg.” Ansel let the ladder down on the other side and descended before he could say anything.

  “Ansel, be careful,” Parker yelled a moment later.

  The boulder had been badly pockmarked by lead shot, some of which littered the ground. The tree limbs they hadn’t used for the ladder were thrown all over, and the indigenous vegetation torn into pieces. Rusty’s rage had been directed at everything in his path. She found Parker’s walking stick and picked it up. It was a weapon of sorts.

  Ansel stepped over the wreckage, grabbed the forgotten walking stick, and moved along the ravine, her senses attuned for any unusual sound or movement that meant Rusty was near. She made good time and the previously cleared path gave her a long line of sight. Nobody could ambush her.

  Suddenly a stabbing pain shot through her abdomen, and she almost buckled on the trail. Heat cramps. The excessive heat without water was messing with her body salts. She should be resting in the shade not walking an eighth of a mile. Gasping deeply, she waited a minute until the knot in her lower body eased before continuing again. Sweat coursed down her chest and back from the passing pain and yet more valuable body salts and liquids seeped out of her body. The light-headedness she now felt was not a good sign.

  Ansel poured all of her concentration into seeing the open prairie and the closer she got to the exit point, the more she was sure that Rusty had returned to the black copter. By the time she finally neared the exit between the bluffs, her thirst was all encompassing. She willed herself to keep her eyes only on the swatch of brown prairie now visible between the craggy ravine walls and her feet shambling forward without passing out.

  “Please help me find water,” she said aloud before she realized it. As she reached the slotted entranceway, she noticed a shotgun lying on the ground amidst a pile of brush and halted immediately. Rusty’s gun.

  Ansel approached it on her toes, Indian style, and carefully picked it up. A quick check of the weapon’s chamber proved that it was fully loaded with two cartridges. She tossed her walking stick aside. Where was Rusty and why had he left the shotgun?

>   Her answer came when she moved through the brushy, dead fall of the entranceway. To her left, where the canyon wall made its turn along to bluff’s inner rim, she saw Rusty’s body. He was face down in the prairie grass, long, scraggly red hair splayed across the ground. He was either unconscious or dead. There was no sign of the black copter.

  Ansel cocked the trigger and walked toward him. Her mind was set that if he was alive and tried to hurt her, she’d shoot him on the spot. However, six feet away, she could see his chest expanding and collapsing. Her eyes immediately riveted to the round camo-cloth canteen lying beside him. Water. Her finger in the trigger guard was sweaty with apprehension and adrenalin. Damn, she didn’t need this. She had to get back to Parker, but she wanted that canteen more than anything else at the moment.

  “It’s Ansel Phoenix. Turn over, Rusty.” The barrel of the gun was aimed at his head. There was no response. “Don’t play possum with me, you bastard. Look at me.”

  Still nothing. Ansel kicked him hard in the ribs with her right boot and his body shifted. He didn’t make a sound. He had to be out cold to ignore that blow to his side. Her finger eased on the trigger but never left it as she mover closer, edged her boot under his ribs, and used all her leg strength to lift and kick him over onto his back.

  Cyrus’ face was deathly pale and blotchy. Garish brown freckles stood out against his bleached out skin tones. His powder blue ranch shirt, the same one he’d worn in Billings, had ridden up his chest, and she saw the nickel-sized, hemorrhagic spots beneath the skin of his stomach. She remembered the smell of vomit on his breath when he grabbed her at the hotel, and he’d told Dixie that he was sick. Maybe he’d been delirious and dropped his gun and canteen, she reasoned.

  A moment later, Ansel’s blood turned to ice as it dawned on her that Rusty had the classic symptoms of radiation sickness.

  The intellectual revelation both stunned and horrified her. Even more chilling was the fact that she didn’t know how she felt about Rusty’s condition on a personal level. What was she feeling right now, knowing that the man who had roamed through her psyche for years was dying an unimaginably horrible death? Did she feel vindicated or cheated? Was she happy or unhappy? Glad or ashamed? Those questions were too complicated for her now.

  Ansel snatched up the canteen and paced backwards where she could set down the shotgun and open the container in relative safety. It was half full and an almost primal frenzy possessed her as she unscrewed the cap. She didn’t spill a drop as she tilted the canteen against her cracked lips and took three healthy swallows.

  The cool, sweet, purity of the liquid shocked her senses but left her wanting more, even as she gulped a few mouthfuls. It was exquisite on her tongue, and she tore the canteen from her lips in order to prevent guzzling it all down in one fell swoop. If she did, she’d really get sick, and Parker needed the water more than her. Ansel capped the spout and placed the canister over her shoulder as she had the purse. Then she picked up the shotgun and left Rusty. He could wait.

  She walked directly to the dead fall where the eight-inch wide puffballs grew. The fungi circle was still intact. Some were solid white, others brown with tiny holes beginning to open on the topsides. There were four of these.

  She used one finger to gently poke through the first puffball, and a smoky wiff of thousands of spores flew upwards. Perfect. After opening her saddle purse flap, she yanked the collapsible puffball from it’s stem, folded it up as best she could, and carefully pushed it into her bag. The three other puffballs followed. As she worked, she noticed that the air around her had become cooler and the sun wasn’t as bright. A brisk wind jetted against her back, causing her long hair to flap angrily in her face.

  Ansel turned to stare into the prairie. Above the north rim of the canyon, a strange creamy-white haze filled half the sky. Not clouds or the predicted edge of a squall line supposed to hit that afternoon. This was something more solid, like a wall of churning smoke stretching from west to east across the horizon with just the top part evident above the canyon walls. The slowly setting sun wasn’t even visible through the haze. The creamy mass shifted within itself, eddied, and turned smutty brown. The cloud traveled quickly and spanned thousands of feet high.

  Ansel stood as a sandy gust of air scoured her face and every hair on her body rose in atavistic alarm. Black blizzard, her mind screamed.

  A dust storm.

  Chapter 34

  “The pathway to glory is rough and many gloomy hours obscure it.”

  Chief Black Hawk

  The dilemma of what to do with Rusty pounded in Ansel’s skull. Leave him to the dust storm or drag him with her, if she could, back to the shelter of the ravine? He might tell her where Cullen was.

  However, the child inside her wailed for revenge. Let him rot as Dixie had decided the nearly drowned little girl deep inside her brain screamed. But there was a grown woman inside there, too. She heard her mother’s voice as if her words of Blackfoot wisdom were being carried on the escalating prairie winds. Ansel wished she was wearing her Iniskim and listened.

  “Obey the teachings of iit-tsi-pa-tah-pii-op, The Source of Life and the source of the teachings of the Grandfather and Grandmother Spirit. Love one another and help one another in all matters.”

  Decision made, Ansel got the shotgun and ran toward Rusty, bent down, and shook him roughly. “Wake up. You’ve got to move. Now.”

  To her surprise, Rusty’s eyes opened, and he groaned angrily. “You. Leave me alone. I’m sick.”

  “You’ll be dead if you don’t. There’s a dust storm coming, and you’ve got radiation poisoning. Some of those fossils you handled were full of uranium. You need a doctor.” She rose and stepped back, gun pointed at him. “Stand up or I’ll leave you.”

  Rusty’s eyes had widened into fearful emerald orbs. He looked at the far horizon and then down at the horrible blotches on his body. “You’re lying. I’ve got the flu.”

  Ansel shook her head. “I don’t have time to convince you. If you can walk, get up. Try to hurt me, and you’ll never reach a hospital, Rusty. I promise you that. You lead.”

  He winced profusely as he managed to stand with a wobbly effort. “You stole my gun and my water,” he said, eyes dazed.

  Ansel cocked the trigger. “Shut up and walk.”

  Rusty shuffled slowly to the ravine entrance and Ansel glanced behind her. The immense sand cloud was closer and larger, but hadn’t yet rolled over the tops of the box canyon. At this rate, they’d never get back to Parker before the storm hit and dumped tons of blinding, stinging sand on them. She couldn’t warn Parker or make an impromptu shelter if she didn’t get back in time. They all might succumb if that were the case.

  “Hurry it up,” she ordered as they entered the ravine.

  Rusty continued to be slow, not because he was stalling, but because he was truly weak and unsteady on his feet. As Ansel followed, the vision of this pathetic excuse for a man whittled away at her icy, unsympathetic resolve to keep him alive only for Reid to deal with later. She was actually beginning to feel sorry for him with every dragging step, feverish back glance, and grunt of pain.

  Ansel couldn’t imagine what was happening inside his irradiated body. What she knew about radiation sickness was minimal. It could cause damage to the intestines and lungs, as well as mess with white blood cells. In severe cases, it caused cancer. How long Cyrus had been exposed, how acutely, and how long ago would determine his rate of death. Combine the radiation with his drug-wracked body and the terminal possibilities were endless.

  Suddenly Rusty collapsed to his hands and knees between the craggy bluff walls and began vomiting up bile and blood. Ansel stood back watching, her heart bucking in her chest. She was afraid to get too close. If he tried to jump her in the close confines, her ability to manipulate the gun effectively would be impossible. Still, the urge to rush to his aid was there, but she couldn’t give into it.

  When he was done gagging, Rusty laid on the ground panting. “I c
an’t move,”he said in a hoarse whisper. “Help me.” He looked back at her, sallow death-face imploring. “I don’t want to die in this ass crack. Those fuckers did this to me,” he wailed.

  Even now, he’d take no responsibility for his own actions, Ansel thought. She released the shotgun trigger and leaned the weapon against the wall, then pulled the pre-packaged yellow poncho out of the purse from behind the folded puff balls.

  “Rusty, you can’t go on, but I have to. I’m going to leave you this poncho and hood. It will help keep the dust out of your face so your tongue and jaws won’t get parched by hot air. Otherwise let the sand cover you. It will keep you cooler. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  “Man, don’t leave me here alone. I never meant to hurt you. I was just joking at the pond. Don’t do this to me.”

  Strangely enough, the mention of the stock pond didn’t upset her. She walked toward him and tossed the poncho pack. “It’s not personal, Rusty. I just can’t drag you all the way. I’m not feeling good either and I’ve got to hurry. You’ll be all right between these bluff walls. Do you want some water before I leave?”

  Rusty shook his head. “I can’t keep it down. You take it.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yeah,” he whimpered, head on the ground. “Just get out.”

  Ansel stared down at him. “Before I go, I want to know what happened to Cullen.”

  Cyrus looked up at her, bright, greasy red hair flopping away from his once boyishly handsome features. He looked a hundred years old. “I killed him,” he said. “At my house.”

  A lump fell into Ansel’s nauseous stomach like a boulder. Her father had been right. “Where’s his body?”

  “Put him in the steel room at my house with the bones I’ve been watching for months.”

  “You killed your uncle because he found the bones?”

  “Nah, he saw the dinosaur claw,” Rusty babbled feverishly. “With the numbers.”

  Confusion danced through Ansel’s heat-exhausted brain. “What dinosaur claw?”