The Footprint
Page 2
no longer complying for Samuel’s sake. The two boys turned and shuffled back down the trail toward the cabin. Chip stood facing Samuel. After a few moments, he turned and trotted after the others.
Samuel stood alone facing the forest. A dinosaur, he thought. It wasn’t likely. They were in Michigan, after all. This might be possible in the deep rainforests of Africa or the Amazon, he thought, but not here. But still … He looked down at the footprint. Two toes. He looked back down the trail. The others were far out of sight. Samuel took a deep breath, and stepped into the forest.
As he scanned the forest floor for footprints, he continued to ponder how is discovery might be true. There certainly weren’t any birds that big in Michigan, and it did look a lot like the tracks he had seen in his dinosaur books.
Maybe the creature had been genetically engineered in a secret laboratory. If so, then the it must have escaped. Whoever had lost such a specimen would certainly be grateful for its return. Who knew what sort of benefits might come from such gratitude? Samuel considered that he might be granted unparalleled access to the specimen, and possibly others like it, for the rest of his life.
Then he remembered the earthquake. Of course, he thought. Just like in Jules Vern’s Journey to the Center of the Earth. The quake must have opened some ancient underground cavern, and the dromaeosaur somehow found its way out.
Samuel whistled as he continued down the trail, scanning for signs. He felt like a real explorer. Maybe even like Mr. Wallace. All that he needed would be the hat, he thought. The thought of needing a rifle did not even cross his mind.
Samuel stopped. He looked down at the remains of what was once a large deer. Something had torn the animal apart from the neck to the abdomen, and had consumed most of the internal organs including the entrails. The thick cover of leaves on the forest floor left no trace of footprints. A thin trail of blood led through the undergrowth and into an opening of towering maples and oaks. Samuel followed.
He may very well be eaten. He knew that now. At the beginning of his expedition, the thought that he might be eaten by his own discovery had never occurred to him. Not only did he not have a rifle, he didn’t even have a camera. If he were eaten, no one would ever know. No one would know what happened to him. No one would know about his discovery.
He considered going back for Mr. Wallace, and maybe a camera. Then something moved in the brush up ahead. Samuel reached into his pocket. He knew that his small knife would be useless against such a deadly predator, but it was all that he had. He snatched up a hardwood branch and, slicing as he walked, removed the smaller stems and crudely sharpened the point. At least if he was eaten, he thought, he would be found with a spear in his hand, like the Vikings of old. Of course, that was assuming that there would be enough of him left to find. For all he knew, the creature may eat him bones and all. He tried not to imagine this in too much detail. Facts about dinosaurs suddenly flooded his brain. He tried to ignore it. As he pushed a thought away, another would take its place. He was suddenly being overwhelmed by his own knowledge of the creatures he loved.
Samuel took a deep breath.
“Think,” he whispered, “use what you know.”
Dromaeosaurs were pack hunters. Pack hunters, such as wolves, lions, and hyenas, use their numbers to surround their prey. They sometimes use a diversion to drive their prey into an ambush. He doubted that he was pursuing an entire pack of prehistoric hunters. He considered that most lone predators hunted by stealth, stalking as close as possible to their prey before a swift pounce. Samuel was relieved to find himself surrounded by tall, scattered trees and short undergrowth.
To his left lay an immense thicket, which he gave a wide berth. The tall trees may have provided him with a good view, but their height also made them difficult to climb. For anyone else an attempt would be hopeless, but not for Samuel, he knew that with the right motivation, such as an imminent violent death, he could scramble up a trunk with no branches at all for assistance. His arms would be scratched and he would probably tear his pants. He considered being grounded for tearing his pants a considerable alternative to being eaten.
The short undergrowth was gradually filled with ferns. The blood trail disappeared. Samuel continued to sweep the forest floor for any signs. A cicada buzzed overhead. Samuel jumped. He wondered if he would even hear the creature before it pounced on him. He tried to control his shivering as he scanned the forest for any sign of movement.
A low growl rumbled nearby. Samuel cowered before realizing that the growl was coming from his own stomach. His mouth started to water as he thought of Aunt Nancy’s pancakes, which he would probably never have again. A stick snapped some distance away. After a panicked gasp, Samuel realized that no stealthy predator would make such a noise. Only humans were that clumsy. Still, he doubted that any person, other than himself, would venture this far into the forest alone, but he dared not call out.
“Must be a deer,” he muttered to himself, then recoiled in horror as he realized that he had just spoken the words aloud. He stood frozen for several moments, awaiting his imminent death.
When it did not come, his horror gave way to embarrassment, and he was grateful that his audience was limited to the buzzing cicadas overhead. Samuel stooped to a crouch, almost invisible, among the ferns. A two-toed track lay in the dirt at his feet. The track pointed to his left, straight toward the thicket. The thicket was not the typical cluster of thorn bushes. It stretched for hundreds of yards in either direction, and Samuel had no way of telling how deep it might be. The brush would tower over a grownup, let alone Samuel. The dark, thorny branches twisted overhead to form a tangled canopy. A small opening revealed a tunnel into the thicket. Samuel followed the tracks as they led him straight toward the gnarled gate, and disappeared into the shadows of the thicket.
As Samuel surveyed the labyrinth that lay ahead of him, a drop fell on his forehead, then another. More drops began to agitate the canopy overhead, and then pattered down onto the leaves and ferns that surrounded him. A gentle breeze whispered through the forest and the tall trees began to sway and creak. At first the change in the weather came as a comfort to Samuel. It would cover the sound of his movement. Then he realized that this would work both ways. He also realized that it could quickly remove what little trail he had left to follow. He approached with caution, still crouched, pausing at each step to look around, bracing himself for what might be lurking just over his shoulder.
Samuel stepped into the mouth of the thicket. He shuddered as the gentle breeze grew into a strong summer wind. The trees swayed in protest. The wind whipped the fallen leaves into his face. The ferns danced and grabbed at his bare knees. He stopped. From inside the thicket came a strange, mournful cry. Samuel knew then that he didn’t stand a chance. He couldn’t see, he couldn’t hear. Whatever was waiting for him inside the thicket would eat him without the slightest struggle. Everything within him told him to turn, to run, as fast as he could, to the safety of his friends, Mr. Wallace, and Aunt Nancy and her pancakes.
The wind howled and the cry grew louder. Samuel listened curiously as he realized that the sound may simply have been the wind moving through the tangled thicket. The wind returned to its gentle whisper, and Samuel breathed a sigh of relief. In the silence, another cry pierced the thicket. The cry was answered by the crack of thunder overhead, and a brilliant flash split the gray sky.
Samuel began to run. This did not surprise him, for it was what he wanted to do. He was surprised to find himself running, as fast as he could, into the thicket. He was crouched like a goblin, pointed stick in hand, running headlong through the tunnel of thorns. The rain was falling harder, and the breeze whistled and whimpered in the canopy far above. The ghastly cry reached out to him from within the thicket. He was
close. He could see the vague light of a clearing not far ahead. He slowed, stopped, and lowered to a crawl.
Samuel dug his hands and knees into the black earth and pulled himself toward the clearing. Something moved off to his left. He turned to see movement in the brush not fifty feet away. Then something crashed through the brush to his right. There was a pack, after all. He was trapped, surrounded, and he knew it would be only moments before he was ambushed. Samuel inched himself toward the clearing, and then he saw it. In the shadows across the clearing, Samuel could see a yellow eye, and it was looking straight at him.
He heard movement off to his side. It was the ambush. Too terrified to run, Samuel lay frozen in terror. He pressed his face into the ground, as though that would somehow make him invisible. Slowly, he mustered the courage to look up and into the shadows. The yellow eye narrowed at the helpless boy lying in the mud. The creature screeched and thrashed violently in the confines of the thicket. It was trapped, tangled in a web of thorns and vines. The air around it filled with a cloud of small grey feathers.
As the creature struggled for freedom, Samuel could see its