The Rabid Brigadier

by Craig Sargent

  Stone felt a sense of awe fill his heart as he walked around the thing, examining it closely, trying to feel what it had been like to have lived back then. Excaliber grabbed a piece of rib that had fallen to the dirt and took a deep grinding chew on the thing. Then with an expression of unmistakable revulsion it spat the primeval meal out again, coughing and sputtering like it’d just eaten a mouthful of dust. Which it had. For the bones, although still maintaining their basic shape, were already starting to decompose upon exposure to the air. They had been buried for eons, uncovered just weeks before by a severe windstorm. And now they waited to disappear into the acidic oxygen atmosphere of the earth forever.

  Stone felt tears welling in his eyes, which was just about the most ridiculous thing he could imagine. Crying over something that had died before the first monkey was born. But it wasn’t the creature itself, it was… memories. Memories of going to the museum with his father, Major Clayton, when he was just a child. How he had loved the giant lizards, as all children do, feeling an inexplicable, almost mystical attraction to the impossible creatures. And now that was all gone—gone forever most likely. Museums, his father, children with wide excited eyes carrying balloons. All gone, as this thing was. Dead, buried, extinct. And perhaps the most frightening thought—which he would barely allow himself to think—that the human race was heading down the same road, the highway to non-existence. And soon all that would be left of the entire species would be little rises in the desert containing the ivory bones of the homo sapiens.

  Knowing the thing would completely vanish before the winter was over, Stone broke off a little fragment from the top of the horn in the center of the dinosaur’s head. He looked down into the empty eye sockets, behind which was just blackness, and issued an apology.

  “Sorry, pal, don’t mean to mutilate you or anything, but it’s done out of love, I swear. Besides, no doubt I’ll be joining you soon enough and you can give me a piece of your mind.” He tucked the three-inch fragment inside his camouflage jacket pocket and turned back to the bike. Excaliber, who had been poking his face around the rib cage—to see if there was anything worth chewing—nearly caught his head and had to pull frantically to get free. After about ten seconds of growling struggle he gave an extra hard pull and two of the six-foot-long curved rib bones snapped like wishbones as the pitbull fell backwards to the ground. Stone, who hadn’t even seen the little drama, just sat back on the bike and glanced around to see the fighting dog leaping onto the seat, coated with the white chalky dust of another age. He started up.

  If it was possible, the sky seemed to be growing ever darker as if the entire heavens were falling onto the earth, ready to bury them all. And as if the sky was reading his thoughts Stone heard a deep rumble from above that seemed to pass across the entire horizon with such a powerful subsonic vibration that its echo was felt through his bones.

  Then the first drop fell, landing square on his nose. Then another. And within seconds the deluge began. Rain poured from the skies like it had never rained before. Sheets and torrents of liquid ripping down with such velocity that it stung his face like little darts slapping against his skin. He had never seen so much water fall so suddenly. It was more like a waterfall had opened up over them than a rain storm. It was as if the clouds wanted to destroy what lay below them, and the curtains of silver liquid slammed down, punching a million little craters into the hard ground.

  Stone kept the bike going but had to slow to about twenty mph since he could only see about ten yards ahead. The dog let out a howl of unhappiness and Stone looked around to see a waterlogged mop of a creature staring at him with consternation.

  “Hang on, pal,” he yelled back from the corner of his mouth, almost gagging as the falling rain rushed into his mouth. “Can’t get any worse, right?” But he was wrong about that too; the storm was just starting to feel its oats.

  The sky just ignited with streaks of yellow and white, spider webs of jagged million-volt fire spreading out across the sky and down to the earth. The landscape all around him seemed to take a hundred hits, as if bombs were being dropped by a hidden armada. Cacti, trees, boulders—all took jolts of the electric bombardment and were no more. Stone could hardly hear the drone of the bike as the thunder was constant now, like a hydrogen bomb going off forever, and the striking lightning sent out its own deafening roars as it decimated everything that it touched.

  There was nothing to do except hang on, and keep the Harley going. He prayed the bike wouldn’t take a direct hit, or it would be all over. But though the bolts of white seemed to hit everywhere around the Electraglide, they didn’t make contact with the machine. The rain continued unabated, growing in intensity as Stone headed the bike across the flatlands like a waterlogged turtle. And as the falling rain collected in dips and gulleys in the ground, the bike seemed to sink down every few seconds as if it were fording rivers rather than crossing the usually parched terrain. The thick wheels of the bike sent out a spray of mud behind them and sometimes up onto them. A low howl emitted from Excaliber’s wet throat and wouldn’t stop. Long and drawn and quite unhappy. And mixed in with the thunder, the lightning, the whistling roar of the rain, it all made for quite a cacophonous chorus.

  “Fuck!” Stone screamed into the wind, deciding to join in with his own contribution. This was ridiculous. But as there was no turning back and he didn’t feel like lying in the dirt and drowning at that moment, he just kept on, hunched over the front of the bike, his thick jacket pulled up around his shoulders and neck as high as it would go. The image of the warmth and comfort of the bunker that his father had built, where Martin and his family had spent the last five years, suddenly filled his mind like a vision of paradise. The idea of sleeping on a warm dry bed felt akin to entering heaven, and he kept it in the forefront of his consciousness like a kind of carrot to lure him on.

  Suddenly they hit something, he didn’t know what, and he didn’t have much time to think about it, for the Harley lurched violently and shot into the air, turning sideways. Stone felt himself flying right off the seat and into the air like some kind of wingless bird. The only thing he could think was not to let the bike fall on him, or it would all be over. He somehow managed to twist his body so he took off away from the bike, which was going all the way over just to his left, upside down. He hit the ground hard, but the water cover and his instinctive reactions helped him hit on a roll. He felt himself somersaulting over and over through the rain and then skidded another few yards, almost hydroplaning along the surface. He stopped and lay there for a second, not moving, to make sure nothing was broken. But aside from feeling bruised as hell, he felt more or less intact. He slowly rose, dripping mud and water like a swamp creature, and looked around, suddenly alarmed that the dog might have been crushed.

  “Excaliber? Hey dog, where the fuck are you?” Stone screamed through the rain, cupping his hands over his grime-coated mouth. An angry bark came from beneath the swirls of rain and Stone walked a few yards to the dog, which was standing in a puddle that came up to its shoulders glaring at him.

  It stomped out of the mini-lake, walked over to him until it stood at his feet and shook itself violently, sending out a spray of mist into the air. Stone let out a watery laugh. The two of them looked about as pitiful as two living creatures could get. The pitbull didn’t seem to see the humor of the situation and squinted its almond-shaped eyes. If looks could kill Stone was dead.

  “Come on, dog, you needed a bath anyway,” he said and walked over to the bike. It lay on its side, lodged halfway through a small brown cactus that it had nearly severed. He got down on his knees and peered anxiously at the wheels. But they were unbent. Thank God the engine was totally enclosed, virtually watertight. His father had foreseen that the going might be a little rough in the new America and had had the Harley especially designed to withstand just about everything except a direct artillery hit. Heaving with all his strength, Stone pulled the Electraglide up out of the slime. It seemed to be stuck at first, but as
he reached down inside him and pulled with everything in him, it came free of the mud with a loud sucking sound. It had turned off automatically—part of its design—but when he sat back in the driver’s seat and hit the instant start button, the rhino-sized motorcycle started up again as if nothing had happened.

  “Come on, pal,” Stone shouted at the bull terrier, which stood to the side of the bike looking up at him as if getting back on the black machine was about the last thing in the world it had in mind. “Suit yourself,” Stone said, starting slowly ahead. “But don’t forget to write, okay.” He turned his head forward and shifted into gear but had gone only a few yards when he felt the weight of the animal land squarely on the seat behind him. This time it sat up, rested its paws on the back of his shoulders and peered over his shoulder, keeping an intent eye on his driving maneuvers. Every now and then it would let out with a bark when they came to a puddle or got too close to a rock or cactus. For better or worse, Stone had created the world’s first canine backseat driver.

  CHAPTER

  Four

  STONE HAD no idea how long they drove. In the midst of the black curtains of cold rain, he felt almost as if he were in a dream. It just seemed to go on forever and he fell into a kind of trance where all there was was keeping the bike upright and concentrating on the next few yards. But at last the rains seemed to diminish, and then, as if the heavenly water supply had run dry, stopped completely.

  It was wet! As if the entire world had taken a bath. But the prairie had been through these things a million times before, and the members of the ecosystem that depended on water to give them life came out of their watery holes to gather the pickings. It was like the day after an immense and debauched party. Everything was wet, groundhogs were slicked back, their fur flat against their bodies so they looked like they’d just gotten some kind of punk hair styling, the bisons’ thick hanging hides all matted together. But they started munching away at the droplet-covered vegetation as if nothing had happened.

  Then he heard it. A low rumbling sound almost like a kettle drum far off, but seeming to come from every direction. Stone built up speed a little and when he felt comfortable that the bike wasn’t going to take another tumble, increased until they were moving at about forty mph. But the dog was nervous, more so than when they had been in the thick of it. And by now Stone knew enough to trust the animal’s instincts. It let out a high-pitched growl and half bit at his neck as if trying to tell him something. Stone stopped the bike and stood up on the seat.

  With the engine turned off, he could hear the rumbling growing louder now and as he scanned the horizon and the base of the mountains about ten miles ahead of them, he saw what was causing it. And his face turned white as a sheet. For there was a wall coming at them from all sides. A tidal wave would be a better word. It was hard to judge just how far off it was, but even from some distance the wall had size, and that meant—he knew—that it was huge.

  “Jesus Christ,” he spat out angrily, looking up at the sky for a moment as if to say it was all a little too much. What the hell did God or nature or whoever ran things in this fucked up wet tub called earth have in store for him anyway. But nothing answered his curse, except the rising sound of the waterfall that coursed across the plain like a blob of living matter. The runoff from the rain, millions of gallons of it, cascading down the mountains. It had all melted together—drop joining drop, rivulet joining rivulet—until a monster had been created, a death-dealing tsunami.

  He turned on the seat, almost slipping, and looked behind. But it was the same. The flood seemed to be coming from everywhere as if they were in the middle of the Red Sea and Moses had already split the scene. Excaliber whined even louder and stared up at Stone, his oriental-shaped eyes growing wide as silver dollars on that pushed-in white face, as if to ask, you do know what to do, right?

  “Let’s get the fuck out of here,” Stone blurted out and dropped back down hard onto the black leather. It hardly seemed possible that they could escape. There was nothing higher than a few rises that came up a yard or so above the flat prairie. But perhaps the greatest ability—and madness—of man is that he never gives up no matter how bad things look. They could hardly have looked worse than this.

  Stone opened the Harley up, tearing across the wet plains straight for the mountain range ahead. He didn’t even care if they fell over now; it hardly mattered. But the plan had a certain flaw because the faster they went, the closer the tidal wave came toward them. And it was growing in height now so that Stone could see the extent of the flood about to inundate them. The wall must have reached up a good twenty-five feet and seemed of even height across his entire line of view. The thunderous roar it let out as it rushed forward was quite disconcerting. There wasn’t a chance in a million that they could ride through that.

  He searched his brain frantically for options but came up with nothing. What would the major have done, Stone wondered, the pit of his stomach tight as a vise grip. The old man had seemed to have had an answer for everything. How the hell would he have gotten out of this one? He visualized his dead father’s face, as if seeing his features clearly would somehow give him an answer. He remembered the major describing all the hardware of the Harley.

  Wait! The old man had said something about a raft, a built-in job at the bottom of the bike. Stone had never gone through the machine’s entire inventory, other than the weaponry. There hadn’t been a need. But now…

  He screeched to a halt, nearly throwing Excaliber from the seat and scanned the digital dashboard. There—EMERGENCY RAFT—a small lever. But was he supposed to set the bike in a certain position? How could… Fuck it, Stone decided suddenly as the tidal wave came to within a mile of them, bearing down like something out of a biblical prophecy. There was no time for heavy theoretical analysis. He took a deep breath and flipped the lever to the RELEASE position.

  There was a loud clicking sound from the bottom of the Harley and a steel panel slid sideways. A bright orange raft shot out below his feet and instantly began inflating from a carbon dioxide canister built into it with a loud whooshing sound. The raft spread out like a mound of Jello and filled with the gas at a rapid rate. The sound seemed to frighten Excaliber, who set to walling again, deciding in his canine brain that all things considered, this had been just about the worst day of his life. As it filled, the edges of the raft spread out in all directions so it quickly contained the entire Harley, raising it up slightly. Within sixty seconds, they and the bike were sitting in the center of the fully inflated flotation device that spread out for about eight feet around them.

  “I’ll be damned,” Stone muttered to himself, the traces of a smile arching his face. The damned thing worked. He’d have to check out all the features that the Harley possessed—if he lived that long. For the wall of dark brown water was almost upon them. It was impossibly large, foaming at the top, cresting toward them as if reaching to suck the bike and its occupants down to a watery grave. At the forefront of the turning waves were trees, animals, cacti, all pulled along like twigs as the flash flood ripped everything it encountered into its dark guts. The pitbull sank back onto the seat and closed its eyes. Stone stared dead on into the rushing flood. If he was going to die he wanted to see it all. He said a silent prayer to unknown gods and waited. There was nothing to do but let it happen.

  The tidal wave slammed into them with a deafening roar. Stone felt the impact of the water like a kick to the guts and then as if every cell in his body was being torn apart. His eyes shut involuntarily, not wanting to see the end even if he did. Then everything was spinning, the world flashing by around them like a top, and a tornado of liquid seemed to engulf them, taking them down. All Stone could see was water and then they went under. He took a deep breath and waited to die.

  But he didn’t. After a few seconds Stone opened his drenched lids and to his amazement they were floating along on the surface of the river of dark water, the lead waves already past them and heading on to see what else they coul
d claim. The raft continued to turn at a dizzying rate and Stone wondered if he was going to puke. But after another minute, the raft slowed to a near crawl. It bobbed up and down like a cork on the now vast lake that filled the plains. Stone could see the unfortunate victims of the flood floating all around him. Carcasses of buffalo and deer, lizards and snakes, all twisting in the currents as if a burial ground of nature’s creatures had been opened up. The bodies were already bloated, the tongues of the animals hanging out of their mouths, swollen and dark. Far overhead vultures began circling patiently. There was going to be some feasting done when the waters receded.

  Stone sat back on the seat of the Harley, dead center of the thick plastic raft, which rode over the swells, drifting aimlessly about like a leaf in the ocean. Now that it was fully sure it was actually going to survive the latest installment of life with Martin Stone, the pitbull seemed to relax a little. It jumped down from the seat and made a full circumference of the raft, which extended several feet in each direction and then rose at the edges like an immense rubber doughnut. The Harley weighed half a ton plus with all its military hardware, but though the center of the float was pushed in several feet it didn’t seem in any imminent danger of sinking. Excaliber headed to the front of the thing and put both its paws up on the raised round edge and stared forward like some sort of living figurehead.

  Something moved in the black rushing foam just ahead of them and the pitbull barked loud and snapped at it. But it was just a snake, a long black one, swimming frantically by. It glanced at the raft with glowing red eyes, thinking for a split second that it might be safety, but when it saw the snapping jaws of the pitbull thought better of it and headed past them, whipping through the water like an eel.