by Dan Alatorre
The grass was just as tangling as before. It tugged on his cast and stuck to it, covering his legs with briers and stickers from local flora. Gratefully, no sand spurs had appeared yet, but it was probably only a matter of time.
He made his way to the place where he’d left the time machine, craning his neck to see over the large ferns and palmettos.
It was still there.
The grass was matted down under it, like a steam valve had opened and flattened everything in a ten-foot diameter.
“Minnie!” Barry hopped to the big bronze egg and hugged it. “You didn’t leave without me!”
He stepped back, admiring his luck – but only for a moment.
“Why didn’t you leave without me?”
He inspected the flattened grass all around the machine. “You build up all that energy for a trip, and when none happened, you had to let it go, didn’t you? Must be a venting system underneath.”
Scanning the dials, nothing appeared to be out of place. Then he checked the fuel gauge: empty. His heart sank. He placed his forearms onto the frame and dropped his forehead against them. “Why didn’t I learn how to refuel you when I had the chance!”
He slung the backpack into the machine. It bounced a little from the spring in the seat.
Barry felt a shock go through him. “The dead man switch.” He smiled, wiping the sweat from his brow. “Minnie, you little devil, you have a safety switch in the seat. You never fly solo, do you? No driver, no trip.”
He pushed the backpack aside and sat in front of the control panel, feeling the springiness of the seat. He nodded. “Yeah, brilliant. You can’t get stranded.”
Barry sat back and exhaled. “Except, I did get stranded.” His fingers drifted over the console. “Minnie, you have my apology for ever doubting you. You’ve had us covered from the get go.” Leaning forward, Barry rested his cheek on the control panel. “Now tell me, dear. How do I fuel you back up so we can go home?”
Easing himself outside the machine, he stood and inspected it. For every time they had needed an answer, the designer of the machine had provided one.
There was always going to be a need to refuel; now I just need to figure out what it is.
He rubbed his chin and stared at Minnie. “Actually, I don’t need to figure it out, do I? Your designers have already done that. I just need to find what it is they set up.”
Everything’s been pretty simple so far. Why not this?
Simple, he reminded himself, was a relative term. He leaned on the frame and checked over the hardware. The machine wasn’t obviously a time machine at first; he needed Findlay to figure that out. And Findlay needed some of the deans from other disciplines. Math, specifically, and experts in physics and mechanical engineering. There was an underlying mechanical side to everything about this strange contraption; the levers, the dials.
What haven’t we used yet?
When he stood up, the answer was staring him in the face.
The large turbine just behind the passenger seat was the last remaining mystery. So far, it hadn’t done anything. First, it didn’t move because it was caked with mud from the mine. Later, when they had cleaned it up, it moved freely, but seemingly without purpose.
He put his hand on the little handle.
It slipped forward an inch, then engaged with a gear, becoming very hard to move. It wasn’t weight. It was resistance.
Barry inspected the turbine. It was moving. A slight scraping noise came from inside.
He walked around to the fuel gauge. There, the slight glow of the iridescent paint pulsed in rhythm with the scraping noise.
I’ll be damned.
He went back to the flywheel and grabbed the handle, cranking it faster. The scraping noise increased its rhythm. He turned the wheel several times, hoping that cranking it would start an engine somehow, like a model T Ford or an old lawnmower, but the scraping sound remained consistent.
Let’s rev this thing up and see what happens.
He grabbed the turbine handle again and spun it hard, hoping to really get the wheel moving fast.
Instead, halfway around the first strong push, it stopped. The wheel seized up, jamming his hand and sending a shock wave up his arm.
Barry stepped back, rubbing his hand and inspecting the machine. The rhythm was consistent. It hadn’t sped up or slowed down. He checked the fuel gauge. It was pulsing rhythmically with the turbine.
Speed isn’t the important factor here, for this part of the machine. Whatever it’s doing, it’s doing it the way it was built to do it.
At this speed; no faster, no slower.
He massaged his wrist. Okay, Minnie; we’ll do it your way.
Checking the gauge every few minutes, Barry hoped to see the bar rise. There was no discernible movement. The scraping inside the machine continued at its pace, however, and despite several attempts, the handle would not be moved again—so whatever was happening, it seemed like it was happening correctly.
Minnie just needs a little time.
He gave it to her. He cleaned the briers off his clothes and inventoried the scant contents of the back pack. The cell phone was waterlogged—a dip in the stream had seen to that—and the peanut butter crackers had become soggy. The rest of the items, a bottle opener and some miscellaneous pens, tampons, and CDs, had gotten soaked to varying degrees.
He toyed with the pen, debating on writing a note in case he was unable to return to the present day, but decided that was too bleak a decision for this early in the journey. He also kept an eye out for saber tooth tigers. After killing time for an hour or so, he checked the gauge.
His hopes evaporated as a twinge of fear rippled through him. The gauge had moved, but it had moved insignificantly. An hour’s time had barely budged it. To fully charge it would take weeks; to get enough fuel for a return trip would probably take a day or more.
He did the math. A quarter of a tank had been enough to allow him to take a trip of 10,000 years, so about an eighth of a tank might be enough to return him. The rough estimation of how far the gauge had increased in an hour, divided into the amount needed was… about a day and a half. Maybe two.
Two days. Barry glanced around.
That’s a long time to spend in saber toothed tiger land.
* * * * *
Resting in the time machine, Barry listened as the turbine continued its rhythmic scraping noise behind him.
Why does it scrape? What’s happening in there?
He didn’t know if the machine had been damaged from all the activity over the past few days. It hadn’t been shot—he checked—but it might have been broken somehow when it went into the mine way back when. In any case, he wasn’t sure it was actually refueling itself, either. The fuel for all the trips so far had been there when they found it; they had only used what was in the tank.
It might not refuel at all.
A sad thing to consider. He envisioned Melissa, returning to the motel room and not finding him there, the machine gone and him with it. Would she think he’d taken it for himself?
Hadn’t I?
His gaze drifted to the stream. Eventually, animals would make their way down game trails to the water. At dusk, he might see the mammoths. At night, different species would come to drink.
At night.
He bolted upright.
Mosquitoes are one thing. I need a fire to ward off anything bigger. That tiger’s going to return eventually.
He pulled at his shirt again.
I’m almost as bloody as I was before, and I haven’t started a shelter or a fire or even found a good stick for a crutch! Time to get busy.
He glanced at the sky and mentally noted the position of the sun. Several hours would pass before nightfall, but there wasn’t a moment to spare. First things first; a weapon, and a fire. The smoke would keep the mosquitoes away and the fire would keep any animals away—no matter how hungry they were.
Then, if there was time, a shelter.
He got up,
looking around for the nearest tree. A hundred yards away, a thick pine tree stood.
Throwing the backpack over his shoulder, he started toward it.
Two hours later, Barry had a small fire going. The TV show Survivor had taught him how—rub two sticks together, pushing one into the other, and don’t give up. A flint works better but flint wasn’t available. He knew from TV that getting fire from two sticks and no matches required an inordinate amount of time, patience and effort. By the time the wood finally began to smolder, he had a new layer of blisters.
The pine cones and evergreen needles burned nicely once they got going. Pine sticks burn fast and hot, but pine bark smolders. Laying grasses onto the fire dried them out enough to make smoke without allowing the fire to burn too quickly.
With his fire and a fallen limb for a makeshift crutch, he was ready to start a shelter, but by then the sun was setting.
It would be a long night of huddling close to a small fire by the time machine.
And hoping that nothing came along to eat him.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Barry leaned against the machine and faced the fire, feeding sticks to the flames while listening to odd animal noises as they echoed across the forest. It was a scary and unnerving way to spend the night. The fire would keep animals away, but that didn’t let him relax enough to really sleep. Each snap of a twig was a saber toothed tiger. Each gust of wind was the breath of a hungry bear. As scared as he was, though, he still drifted off here and there. Exhaustion simply overruled any other plans.
When the sun finally rose, he took it in with a throbbing ankle and sore, red eyes.
He was stiff. His neck hurt, his back hurt—everything hurt. The humid night air made him cold and sore, giving him an indication of what his elder years might be like if he lived to see them. He grabbed a handful of mud and slathered it on for more protection against the next round of mosquitoes.
With a grunt, he stood and checked the fuel gauge. The amount of charging that had taken place overnight was barely half what he thought he’d need for the return trip. But the rhythmic scratching of the turbine continued, and the handle would not allow additional cranking, so he let it do its thing.
He put his hands on his back and stretched. “Minnie, it looks like we’ll be spending another -”
The sound of breaking branches cut through the air, coming from the forest. Snorts and loud huffs. Barry crouched behind the machine and strained to see.
The nearby stream widened out as it moved along, becoming shallow and slow. In the orange glow of the dawn, a mass of gray-brown shapes emerged from a distant tree line.
The herd of mastodons ambled toward the water as sunrise washed in over the meadow. They were majestic, walking slow and sure. Leading the pack, a huge male with long tusks took to the water’s edge, lazily dropping his trunk into the water and then holding it to his open mouth. He sprayed, swallowed, smacked his lips and tossed the trunk in for another round.
Behind him, mothers and babies drew their turn. They lined the side of the shallow stream and drank.
Though he picked this location because it was a well known site for mastodons, Barry watched, mouth agape, at actually seeing them in the flesh.
He smiled. “I should have taken a poetry class, Minnie. These animals are too beautiful to be described in my poor, flat words.”
There were about a dozen that he could plainly see; some large, some small. Behind the first herd, farther away and harder to see in the morning mist, a second group emerged. He saw a few Key deer and dozens of large cranes flying in from the distance. He admired the view, letting the sun burn off the light fog and expose more animals further downstream.
If the water is safe enough for the mastodons to bring their babies to, the big cat probably isn’t around.
It would be safe for him to get a closer look. He stood up, getting his bearings. Everything ached, but this was the chance of a lifetime. He wouldn’t miss it.
“Minnie, we’ve hit the jackpot. I need to go check this out. Be back soon.” He took a few steps, then turned back to the machine. “Gather some firewood while I’m gone, would you?”
Picking up his makeshift wooden crutch, Barry tucked it under his arm and grabbed the backpack. Leaving the bag was only an invitation for a raccoon or bird to make off with it. He stuffed its random collection of items back into it. The phone probably wouldn’t work, but if it had dried out enough to take a picture… he didn’t let the thoughts run away with him. There was a long walk ahead.
Wet and tired, hungry and sore, Barry limped off for a closer view of the mastodons.
It was a difficult trek. The grass was wet once again from the overnight dew. Before long, the skies would cloud up, turn gray, and dump torrents of rain everywhere, the same as they did every afternoon in summertime.
Some things never change.
He slogged his way along, using his crutch as best he could, trying not to re-blister too many of the same spots on his hands.
When he was about a hundred yards away from the herd, he slowed his pace. Moving through the grass allowed Barry to be relatively quiet. Its long strands made for good grazing for the mastodons, who pulled it up in clumps with their long trunks and tossed it into their ready mouths.
Just like elephants.
The tall grass helped hide him as he crouched, but it also meant that he could easily get snagged in it and fall, potentially exposing himself to the herd.
The humid morning air was almost absent of any breeze, but what there was blew directly into his face, bringing the musky stench of the large beasts to him.
It was a combination of hay and… poop.
The animals grunted as they stuffed their mouths, snorted as they drank. There was no need to be quiet, and they didn’t seem to try. Limbs snapped as they walked by a tree; the ground turned to mud under their massive feet.
They were beautiful, though. They had always been sketches, artists’ renderings and stuffed mockups with bad hair—until now. What a difference flesh and blood made. There was purpose in their movements. Dirt stuck to their toes; leaves clung to their coats. Two females grappled at the same berry bush. Their long tusks were yellowed and scratched, with chips missing here and there from a long life of rough grazing. A large male kept the members of the herd in line with a nudge or a look, but he was massive enough to enforce the rules at any time.
From his new vantage point, Barry could observe mothers watching over their babies. Large adults on the perimeter of the herd were on the lookout to keep them all safe from any would-be predators.
It would not be unusual for a pack of female saber tooth tigers to attack a baby Mastodon, or an elderly one, or any smaller animal that was too sick or too slow to keep up with the pack. Key deer, sand hill cranes; anything would do for the big hungry cats.
Barry watched as the herd managed itself. After a while, some of the bigger ones began splitting themselves off, disappearing back to the tree line to take advantage of the leaves, a favorite of elephants and probably a favorite of mastodons, too. They reached up with their powerful trunks and grabbed whole limbs, shoving them into their massive mouths and crushing them into pulp. Their dung reflected their eating habits—it was a mass of grass fibers and undigested wood fragments. Elephant dung made for good kindling once it dried out—if the smell could be tolerated.
The stream was shallow enough to cross. Barry moved quickly, waiting until the wind was in his face so the noisy mastodons would not pick up his scent, and found a place near a lone oak tree. He checked the wind again. The mastodons’ large noses made them even better at detecting a foreign presence than the tiger.
Entering the tree line a hundred or so yards west of the herd, he could weave his way through the trees and get a better view.
It was not fast or easy to move through the forest. There were few game trails, and it was better for him to stay off them until he was more familiar with the inhabitants of the area. Easy walking could mean eas
y pickings for a predator. The patches of thick brush required him to constantly push them aside with his makeshift crutch just to see where to place his next footstep. Stray tree limbs snagged the backpack; one nearly yanked him backward. The mastodons, meanwhile, simply pushed their way through. The humid forest was a dank combination of slender trees fighting for sunlight around a few larger trees. Occasionally, a large limestone boulder rose up between them. There was a smattering of sugar maples on the higher ground, and a wall of cypress trees closer to the low, swampy area. Mostly it was pines and oaks that dominated this part of the woods, with palmettos and ferns below.
The mastodons ate all of it. They reached and pulled at anything green, grabbing masses of leaves with their trunks and defoliating everything in their path. A herd of twenty or thirty adults could easily wipe out a small forest in a few days, but they fed on enough lush grasses that it wasn't necessary.
It was, however, always obvious when they had made their way through an area. The trees were broken and stripped bare to a height of about twenty feet—the maximum reach of the adults’ trunks—and the ground was trampled into slop. Barry would have no problem following them if he wanted to visit them again.
He moved a little closer, about 75 yards away from the nearest adult mastodon. She thrashed about, pulling on limb after limb of a eucalyptus. The minty aroma filled the air as the subtle breeze carried it to him, along with the musky scent of the animal’s backside, and maybe a hint of bad breath.
He held back a cough.
Better have another bite of eucalyptus, big girl.
Squatting behind a big tree, Barry set his crutch down and rummaged through the backpack. He pulled out the cell phone and looked it over. A stone’s throw away, the mastodon noisily continued her breakfast, breaking branches and snorting.
The phone had drained and dried out after yesterday's swimming adventure. It seemed good to go. That didn't mean it would work, but it was worth a try. Fresh water was much more forgiving on modern cell phones than salt water was. When he dropped his old phone in the live bait tank while deep sea fishing, it was ruined almost instantly. The one he dropped in his mother’s pool fared much better. After a quick rinse and a lot of time in the sun, it lasted almost six more months.