Yesterday. It seems like it’s been a week already since I saw Dad standing at the bottom of the stairs, and another week since Mom arrived. Everything has gone completely crazy.
Dad and Matt return. They found a shallow wide spot. We go there and cross easily, and then proceed up along a hillside and gradually turn east, toward the waypoint marked P6 on the GPS. Dad wanders off course and I bring him back on. My arrow points the way.
Chapter 47
Zach
I walk away thirty or forty yards and then judge our handiwork. I can see the Rhino only because I know it is there. If I were someone passing by would I wonder why there’s a big pile of brush up under the trees when all around it is fairly clear? I’m sure no one would question it unless they were actually looking for it, like Vandermill’s chopper, which is more what we are concerned about.
“Looks fine,” I yell, and then join them at the so-called trailhead to our final destination. I hope Tanya can make it. She says her feet are fine but I’m not believing it. Becky steps into the lead, followed by Matt and then Tanya and me. Despite the occasional appearance of a cat or two on our tail, none of us are all that concerned about them. If they haven’t made a move on us by now then they certainly are under Aileen’s control. The sabre-toothed mistress. The queen of the feline. The Spirit of Smilodon. With my strange psychic talents I should be the last one to ask how she came about her ability. As with me, it just is. At least Becky can say she got it from me. But, really, what happened to Aileen that she can talk to the animals? What happened that she can not only talk to them but control them? She stood there in front of her house and wailed into the fading light, and suddenly they were all around us; like Roman sentries. It was fairly quick so they had to have been nearby already, pacing the woods, standing ready to receive her commands. Is she like a vampire? When she was bit by a sabre-toothed cat did she then became one of them? A feline zombie? Does she change form during a full moon and become an actual cat with a furry pelt, long sabre teeth and night-vision eyes? Does she have a tail?
I pull my imagination under control. Tanya is slowing down. It’s not her feet that are bothering her. It’s her back. I can tell be the way she is tilted to one side. “You’re not looking too good. Give me your purse.” I hook my finger around the strap and she lets it fall off her shoulder. It’s not all that heavy, yet she straightens up a bit. “Can I do anything for you?” I ask.
She stops and looks at me. If it was anyone else I would expect a wiseass comment like shoot me and put me out of my misery. If she were to say that I’d become scared because she’d be serious. She never jokes when she’s in pain. “A good Chiropractor would be nice about now,” she says, “or a hot tub.” That’s about as close to joking as she’s going to get. She is truly praying that one or both of those turn up at the end of this last mile.
Aileen was right. The terrain here isn’t bad, but there was no way the ATV would make it. The trees are extremely dense most of the way. As a matter-of-fact, Becky says that she lost satellite fifteen or twenty minutes ago and that we are now dependent on the compass reading, just as Aileen had predicted.
We’re following an animal trail that’s holding a relatively straight line in the direction we want to go. The air is cool, much cooler than it’s been all day. I would think rain forest if we were not in Montana. Throw out the horrendous previous twenty-four hours, and this would be a pleasant hike. Except for our heavy breathing and occasional snap of twig, it is hush quiet, until we start hearing the sound of water, lots of water, dropping fast. We keep going until we’re looking down at the raging current.
“Don’t tell me we have to cross that,” Tanya says.
But of course we do. It is very much like the one we crossed in the dark with a miniature flashlight. There is one log lying across, the only one within sight up or down. Down I see that after about twenty yards, the creek disappears. We all walk toward that and look. There is about a fifteen foot drop where the water slams against some rocks and then rushes on toward some far distant destination. We return to the log, the thickness of which is such that it would hold a person’s weight, but not so much that one would feel comfortable doing the tightrope number. If you tried to straddle it and scoot across, your feet would dangle in the water.
“I think I’d rather get wet,” Tanya says.
“The current is too fast,” I say.
Becky steps up onto it, checks her balance and then walks across. “No big deal,” she says from the other side. Not to be outdone, Matt steps up and tries to do the same thing. Halfway across he loses his balance and then leaps the rest of the way to the opposite bank. The water is just a little too deep and moving too fast to step in and wade, yet it is no more than six feet across. I could do it with a running jump, but Tanya, in the shape she is in now, couldn’t come close.
“Straddle and let your feet get wet,” I say, and then throw Tanya’s purse to Becky.
Tanya steps up close to the log and for a long time just looks down at it. “Shit!” She eases herself down onto the log with her feet still planted on firm ground. She then leans way forward and plants her hands firmly. She stays there for a few seconds, takes a deep breath and pushes her bottom as far forward as she can, bringing her body up straight. Her feet do not touch the water because she has them bent up at the knees, the water rushing and inch or two below them. She’s only a quarter way across. She rests and then bends forward to reach again. “This actually doesn’t feel as bad on my back as I thought it would,” she declares above the rushing water. She doesn’t have the luxury this time of being able to push her bottom forward with her feet, so she tries pulling with her hands. That doesn’t work. She then brings her hands back closer to her and starts the scoot, a few inches at a time. Reach, lift and scoot; reach, lift and scoot. And then . . .
“Careful!” I yell, but it is too late. All her weight is on her arms in the lift and scoot portion when she lets her feet drop too low. The rushing water whips her legs to the right, fills her boots and dumps her over on the up-stream side. The current drags her under and all I see of her is the one leg still hooked around the log.
“Let loose!” I yell but of course she can’t hear me. Becky is screaming and trying to get to her. “Get below her!” I holler and then drop into the water to attempt to free her leg. “Don’t let her get past you!” In the position she is in, she is face down and no way to bring herself up. The current is strong and pushes me right up against the log and her leg. My cracked rib screams with pain. I stabilize myself and then grab her foot and pull. “Okay!” Becky yells. Okay or not, she is on her way. I slip under the log and let the current send me after her.
Chapter 48
Reba
The water is ice cold and I’m barely starting to breathe before Mom hits me. I mean hits me because even though I think I’m well braced the combination of her and the current drives a good 200 pounds of force straight into me, and I go over backwards. I have absolutely no fear of water, having practically grown up in it, but the current in a competition pool is flat-out nonexistent and the water hazards amount to getting tangled in the lane lines when you’re five years old. Banging into things hidden under the water right now, though, is a minor concern compared to the rocks I know are waiting at the bottom of the waterfall. I grab a root for all I’m worth with one hand and hook onto some part of Mom’s clothing with the other. She is reaching and grabbing, and then gasping for a breath as she surfaces. And then suddenly there’s Dad, and he plows into me. I lose my grip on the root and try to visualize the picture at the bottom of the waterfall. Is there a decent landing spot? Will I have enough control to direct myself toward it? I’m sure I can do nothing for Mom, but I still have a good hold on her.
But we don’t go over. One second I’m thinking all these thoughts and the next Dad’s arm is around me and he’s anchored to the same root that I was. My head is momentarily under water. I find a foot hold and get myself upright in time to see that Matt is
hanging off the edge and has Mom’s hand. I hold on until I’m sure he has her secure, then let loose. My headache is back but now it engulfs my entire body; the pain of ice-cold water. Dad pulls me up close and says, “Are you okay?”
I’m not sure because the aching cold would probably mask an injury. As far as I can tell, all my limbs move just fine. “I think so.”
“Can you climb out?”
There is nothing but grass to grab a hold of. I start to say no and then there is Matt again, reaching down. We grab wrists, and with Dad pushing I flop onto the bank like a landed fish. Seconds later Dad is crawling up beside me, and then continues to where Mom is lying. I scramble over as well. At first it appears she is unconscious but as dad wipes hair from her face she opens her eyes. “Are you okay?” Dad asks.
She closes, then opens her eyes again, tries to grab control of her rapid breathing by taking a long, slow breath. She says nothing. Her breathing is a tad less rapid.
“Tanya?”
“Mom! What’s the matter?” I know she’s broken her back again. I just know it.
She looks at me and then puts her hand on my arm. “I just need to lie here for a few minutes,” she says.
“How’s your back? Can you feel your feet?” She’s paralyzed and can’t feel anything, and she doesn’t even know it yet. I’m so certain of it my guts are twisting into knots.
“Tanya! Are you hurt?”
Mom looks back and forth between us as though we are crazy. “I’m okay; all right? I just need to rest a minute and get my breath back. My back is fine. As a matter-of-fact, it feels even better than it did before I started across on that damned log.”
“Are you sure?” I ask. “Move your legs.”
“Settle down, Sweetie. I’m fine.” She lifts both of her legs. “See. Help me sit up.” We get her up. “We need some sun or we’re going to get a chill.”
“Then let's get moving,” Dad says.
Mom gets to her feet and except for the drowned rat look, she appears fine. “I’m ready to go. Anything to get warmed up.”
Matt shows up with Mom’s purse and my backpack. I had dropped both of them before I jumped into the water. He doesn’t hand me the GPS, which I had dropped as well. I look at him and then back at the device clutched in his hand. I want it! I don’t care if it is his. I’m the one who got us this far; I deserve to take us the rest of the way. Whether he understands my demanding, pleading look or not doesn’t seem to make any difference. He turns away and says, “A half mile to go,” the only words I’ve heard him speak since Mom’s roll off the log, actually since before the tree explosion. He takes off after Mom who is already moving faster than she has all day, her own internal GPS honing device at full power. I flip my backpack over my shoulder and fall in behind Dad. I’ve moved from leader to caboose and I don’t like it.
The pace is grueling and I’m now pissed off at Mom. We’ve been babying her since we ran out of the house and now from somewhere she gets some energy and doesn’t give a damn about us, and she’s got my boots and I’m stuck in her shoes and my feet are starting to kill me.
And I nearly killed myself saving her goddamned life. Where’s the appreciation?
I can’t see her. The trees are too thick and she is far enough ahead that all I can see is Matt, and sometimes I lose him. Dad is twenty feet in front of me and I suddenly realize that we are becoming too complacent about the sabre-toothed cats. At the same time I think about that, the hairs on the back of my neck rise and a chill runs down my spine. It’s my imagination I try to tell myself because there is nothing behind me because Sam has control of the cats. They won’t attack us.
But . . . we don’t know that for sure, do we?
I press forward a little harder to try to catch up to Dad, surprised that he would let me fall this far behind. Maybe he’s struggling to keep up as well. I’m sure he has to be tired. How much damned farther is it? Damn you Matt for taking the GPS!
The hairs on my neck stand up again. This time I stop and look behind me. Nothing. I’m breathing heavy but I stop it long enough to listen. Still nothing; not even the calling of a bird or the chatter of a squirrel. I take off after Dad again. Now he’s the only one I can see and I’m really afraid I’m going to lose him. I want to call out to him but then everyone would think I’m a wuss and until now I’ve been anything but. I rush over two fallen trees. My toe hooks the second and I fall flat.
Shit to hell!
I waste no time getting to my feet and again rush after Dad. My legs are becoming fatigued and for that reason I have to be even more careful about where and how I step, but the developing panic, which I’m well aware of, is starting to take over, and I’m losing my focus. The area ahead of me is suddenly clear; that is there is no deadwood or restrictive ground cover. I run as fast as I can, taking care of my foot-plant, but something catches my foot anyway and I pitch forward. I catch myself on a sapling of a tree and I recover to a stumble. I hear something, a pounding, and immediately realize it is my heart slamming against my chest wall.
Stop it, Reba. Stop it. This is stupid. I hang onto the tree and continue to try and convince myself that my panic is crazy. Breathe and recover. Relax. Shake it out. Okay. Okay. I’m feeling better now. Another deep breath and my muscle tension fades a bit and my heart slows a little. One more deep breath and I look to see how far ahead Dad is.
I don’t see him.
I don’t see anyone.
Maybe I’m looking in the wrong direction. Maybe I got turned around. I look behind me.
Shit to hell! Shit all the way to Hell and back is the only thing I can think as I look into the huge eyes of a sabre-toothed cat.
My reaction is to step back and the next thing I know I’m sitting on my butt. I scramble backwards while trying to get to my feet. I can’t get all the way up. It’s like my legs have completely forgotten how to work. I come up against a tree and stop.
Think! Think! Stop the panic. He hasn’t attacked. Why not? Maybe I surprised him by turning around. He doesn’t like my face. Why isn’t he turning away? I’m looking right at him. He doesn’t look mean or threatening. He looks curious.
He also looks small.
He’s a baby.
Well, maybe not a baby, but certainly not an adult. Possibly a teenager in sabre-toothed years. He has no fear of my face. Is that good or bad? Maybe the younger generation hasn’t the same fears as the parents, adapting to the new world.
I look away. To look him in the eye is to challenge him. I look at his paws, then his tail. His tail isn’t moving. A cat—domesticated cat that is—swishes its tail when it’s thinking about attacking something, or is that only when it’s playing? I’ve never had a cat. How do those rules work with big wild cats, more specifically, sabre-toothed cats? I look at its teeth, the only two that are visible, the sabres. They aren’t terribly long, maybe three or four inches away from being fully mature, if my memory of those I saw yesterday is correct.
Why is this one out by itself? I thought they hunted in pairs. Where is its mother, or is she close by, watching, waiting to see what junior will do with me? I look around. There are no other big-muscled animals.
Slowly, I get up. He doesn’t move. I want to call out for Dad but I don’t want to startle this guy into doing something one of us might regret. What should I do? Turn and run away? Walk away? I consider my options and then step forward, toward him. There is a shift in his posture; not aggressive. It seems like he is preparing for flight. I step forward again. He backs up.
Okay. He’s as scared of me as I am of him. I don’t want to push it in case momma cat is nearby. I don’t need her jumping in to save her kitten from what she would perceive is an attacking human. I step back and turn my head this way and that to be sure its mother or its hunting partner aren’t nearby. I then get a little scared because I suddenly remember how they hunt. One gets your attention while the other jumps you from behind. How stupid can I get? I look to see if there is one coming up from behind me.
There isn’t. I breathe a sigh of relief and back up against the tree. No point in taking any chances.
Do I dare turn my back on him and try to walk away? He doesn’t seem to be in the hunting mode. There is no visible partner. I look around the tree on both sides again. We are still alone. I’ll start walking and stop every few steps and look back. If he follows, that’s fine, as long as he doesn’t get any closer. And so I inch around the tree and turn my back to him. Three steps and I look around. He hasn’t moved. Three more steps and he is now following. He stops. I take four steps. He stops when I do. I continue and he continues. As I had hoped, he gets no closer. I’m taking eight steps and he is still holding his distance. We continue in this manner for five or six minutes until suddenly when I turn he is much closer. His head is down and his eyes are open wide. I back up a step and he moves forward in a manner not unlike a cat sneaking up on a bird. Except that it appears I’m the bird.
Pepper spray. It’s in my backpack. Or will that only make him mad? I’m dead either way. I start slipping the pack off one shoulder. I do it slowly so as not to give him the idea that I’m becoming aggressive. My arm comes free and the pack slides to my other side and then hangs off my right arm. I reach across with my left to bring it around in front of me. My hand is shaking. How am I going to handle the mace without dropping it or spraying myself? My entire body is shaking. I get to the little side zipper compartment and am fumbling with the pull thingy when he suddenly runs at me. I bring my pack up in front of me and hold it out like a shield as though he would bounce off it and fall dead at my feet. I brace and scream and close my eyes.
Sabre-Toothed Cat Trilogy Page 66