The Beast of Cretacea (25 page)

“You guys sure about this?” Gwen asks uncertainly. From where they stand to the crown of the peak is about forty feet of steep bare rock. A fall could spell death.

Billy nods determinedly. Ishmael wishes he shared his crewmate’s confidence.

“We’ll keep a lookout for the flyer,” Gwen says.

“Good luck, friends,” Queequeg adds somberly.

Billy and Ishmael begin to climb. It’s slow, painstaking toil, and they’re not even halfway to the peak when there’s a sudden loud flapping of wings. Gwen shouts a warning and Thistle screams from above. Billy and Ishmael look up just in time to see huge, outstretched claws diving toward them.

Crash!
The creature slams into the rocks where, at the very last instant, Billy and Ishmael have squeezed into tight crevices. The flyer gives a shrill cry and flaps back into the air, kicking up dust as it prepares for another strike.

Heart thudding in his ears, Ishmael crams himself deeper into the shadows and braces himself.

But the second strike doesn’t come. Instead, the creature flaps higher. Thistle screams again.

Everything goes still. In his shadowy crevice, Ishmael presses a cheek against cool rock and waits for his heart to slow down.

“You guys okay?” Queequeg calls from below.

“Yeah,” Billy calls back, hidden in a cranny. “Thistle? You okay?”

Silence. There’s no way to know. Ishmael leans out from between the rocks to try to see.

Snap!
A beak filled with rows of needle-sharp teeth spears down, missing him by inches. Ishmael jerks back into the rocks, his pulse galloping. Had he been a second slower, the creature would have had his head.

“Billy?” he whispers. “Any ideas?”

“Not yet” comes the reply.

Across the river valley, the cliffs are beginning to glow a golden hue; the sun will be setting soon. Once it’s dark, it will be almost impossible to climb back down from this rocky peak. And what are the chances that Thistle will still be there in the morning? They don’t even know if she’s okay now.

A loud rustle of leaves comes from the canopy below when some unseen creature leaps from one branch to another. On the sun-bathed peak across the river, Ishmael catches a quick movement of shadow when the huge flyer above them turns in the direction of the sound.

He has an idea, and calls down to Queequeg and Gwen: “Climb up a tree, but stay out of sight.”

A few minutes later, when Queequeg and Gwen are in position, Ishmael tells them to rattle some branches. They do so, and once again, the shadow on the sun-bathed peak turns in the direction of the sound.

“See that?” Ishmael whispers to Billy.

“Yeah.”

“Get ready to climb fast.”

“Gotcha.”

Ishmael whistles, and Queequeg and Gwen shake the branches again.

While the flyer is distracted, Billy and Ishmael slip out of their hiding places and scramble up to higher crevices. A minute later, they do it again. Soon, they’ve reached a spot just below the ledge.

Ishmael lets out a long, low whistle, the signal for Gwen and Queequeg to start thrashing branches like crazy.

“Now!” Ishmael whispers to Billy, and they both pull themselves onto the ledge.

Before them is a large, rocky nest. Ishmael’s spirits are buoyed when he sees Thistle on her hands and knees beside one of the creature’s huge clawed feet. Thistle’s mouth falls open, and Ishmael quickly presses a finger to his lips. Now he sees a new problem: The enormous flyer is standing on her long black hair to keep her from escaping.

Gwen and Queequeg are still rattling branches, but it’s hard to know how long they can keep the flyer distracted. Ishmael inches deeper into the nest, careful not to make a sound. Soon he’s close enough to feel the warmth of the creature’s body over him. At last, he’s on his hands and knees beside Thistle, sliding his knife from its sheath and gesturing to her hair. But Ishmael quickly discovers that it is not easy to cut hair with a knife. Locks slide and pull away. He must regather them again and again, and it is impossible to cut without pulling painfully against Thistle’s scalp.

As soon as he’s able to free her, Thistle immediately skitters away, determined to crawl over the ledge and clamber down by herself. When Ishmael tries to grab and stop her, the knife clatters out of his hand.

Above them, the flyer starts, swinging its long neck around until its eye — the size of a large treestone — is staring unblinking at the two humans crouched at its feet. Ishmael can feel its breath on his face.

Snap!
The huge bill darts down, but Ishmael nimbly rolls out of reach.

Thistle cries out when the flyer closes one claw around her and starts to flap its wings. Quickly Ishmael unties the rope from his waist and loops it around the creature’s free leg.

A cloud of dirt and dust rises as the flyer begins to take flight.

But an instant later, the line from its leg to the tree below goes taut.

The flyer lets out a bellowing caw and crashes back into the nest.

The last thing Ishmael hears is Thistle scream.

Then everything goes black.

Hands are dragging him across rough, jagged rocks. Close by, the flyer shrieks and convulses as it snaps at the rope around its leg. Ishmael is pulled over the ledge, then bumped down through the rocks to the loose stones and gravel, where he slides into the underbrush and thuds into the trunk of a tree.

Dazed, the edges of his vision going dark, he lies on the ground, barely aware of the commotion on the ledge above. Then Queequeg’s blurred face comes into view, blood running from a deep gash on his chin. “Come on, beautiful.” Ishmael feels hands dragging him farther down the hill. “We’re not out of the woods yet.”

Is he making a joke?
Ishmael wonders groggily as they struggle through the underbrush. “What about . . . uh . . . ?” He can’t retrieve her name.

“Thistle? Billy’s got her.”

“And Gwen?”

“She’s okay.”

As Queequeg half drags and half carries him through the thickening brush and trees, Ishmael’s thoughts slowly begin to clear, despite the painful throbbing in his skull. “I think I can walk.”

Queequeg helps him to his feet. The gash on his friend’s chin isn’t bleeding anymore, but damp blood sticks to the wound.

Ishmael tries to take a step — and starts to list like a sinking ship.

“Whoa!” Queequeg catches him and hoists him onto his shoulders. “Nice try, Twinkle Toes.”

With Queequeg carrying him, the way down to the riverbank is treacherous. Queequeg teeters under branches and around tree trunks. Several times he almost loses his footing. Ishmael can hear branches snapping and rocks crunching as the others struggle to descend as well.

Soon there’s another sound: the rushing of water. The air becomes warm and moist. When they reach the shore, Queequeg has Ishmael sit on a rock. The taste of iron is in Ishmael’s mouth — blood.

Billy comes through the trees, carrying Thistle, her face dirty and a patch of her black hair chopped short. When Gwen arrives, Billy orders everyone into the boat. Even in his wobbly state, Ishmael finds it hard to believe that this is the same boy who cried himself to sleep in the men’s berth not so long ago.

Gwen helps Ishmael into the boat, then smirks at him. “Next time you want to break rocks, try using a hammer, not your skull.”

Ishmael’s head continues to throb painfully. He must have really been hit hard before he blacked out. “I think I’m lucky I still
have
a skull,” he mumbles.

It’s nearly sunset now, and the river is deep in the shadows. Instead of starting the engine — and possibly alerting other dangerous creatures to their presence — Billy uses a long branch to pole the boat from shore, then takes the wheel and steers with the current, which catches the chase boat and takes it on a rapid, bumpy ride downstream. They dip and splash around boulders, tepid white water soaking them. Ishmael feels Gwen’s hands on his shoulders, pressing him down to the floor, where he’ll be less likely to tumble out.

Gradually the current slows and the ride becomes smoother. Despite the pain in his head, Ishmael slowly props himself up on his elbows, wondering why Billy hasn’t powered up the RTG. It takes his eyes a moment to adjust to the deep twilight shadows, but when they do, what he sees is enough to make his heart stop: Along the riverbanks, scores of creatures have come to drink — in groups, in pairs, and sometimes alone. They vary in size from smaller than a man to much,
much
larger.

“Amazing!” whispers Gwen. “Thistle, have you ever seen these creatures before?”

Thistle shakes her head. “There art only flyers and smaller creatures where we —” She stops short and draws a sharp breath.

Up ahead, an enormous greenish-brown beast lumbers along the shore, the very ground seeming to shake with each step. The creature’s head alone is the size of a boulder and it has thick legs and powerful-looking thighs, but its arms are surprisingly slight. It bends forward and tips its huge head into the river, its jaws working as it laps up water. Ishmael is astounded that anything so large walks on land.

They’re all staring in silent fascination when suddenly Thistle looks skyward and screams. Out of the deep-blue evening, the huge flyer is swooping down on them with claws extended.

“Jump!” Queequeg shouts.

Billy scoops up Thistle and plunges overboard, followed by Gwen. Queequeg grabs Ishmael, and together they topple over the side a split second before the creature’s claws clack shut where their heads just were. Ishmael strokes to the surface and spits out a mouthful of murky liquid. The boat floats a dozen feet away. Billy clings to the gunwale, helping a soaked and trembling Thistle to climb back in. For the moment, the flyer has banked high. Treading water, Ishmael is relieved to see Queequeg bobbing near him, then remembers that Gwen had stubbornly refused to learn to swim while they were on the island. He looks anxiously around, but before he can find her, something strange happens. Back in the boat, Billy lunges for the machine gun. Ishmael assumes he’s going to fire at the flyer, but instead he swings the weapon around until Ishmael can see the dark mouth of the barrel aimed at
him and Queequeg!

Orange and yellow flames burst from the machine gun, and the
RAT-A-TAT-TAT
is impossibly, painfully loud in Ishmael’s ears. He ducks underwater. Why is Billy shooting at them?

A moment later the shooting stops. Ishmael lifts his head. Smoke drifts from the machine gun’s barrel, and his soggy ears still ring with the harsh report.

“Swim! Hurry!” Billy waves frantically. But a second later he starts to aim the machine gun again.

RAT-A-TAT-TAT!
The blasting weapon is deafening. At any moment Ishmael expects to feel the savage jab of a bullet. But somehow — even at such close range — Billy misses him.

What about Queequeg? Ishmael swivels around and sees his friend stroking away toward Gwen, who is splashing and gurgling in the water, struggling to keep from drowning. Just a few feet from her are several of the huge aquatic beasts they saw earlier, their bumpy nostrils and eyes drawing nearer and nearer.

Now Ishmael understands: Billy hasn’t been shooting at
them,
but at something very close behind them.

RAT-A-TAT-TAT!

One of the beasts erupts in spasms, kicking up sprays of reddish foam. But the others keep coming. By now, Queequeg has reached Gwen, who’s latched on so tightly to him that they’re both struggling not to drown. Ishmael splashes toward them.

RAT-A-TAT-TAT!

Close by, another river beast starts to writhe.

At last Ishmael gets to his friends, and together he and Queequeg pull Gwen toward the boat.

RAT-A-TAT-TAT!
Billy fires one more volley and then reaches over the side to help them climb aboard.

Moments later, they lie drenched and panting in the bottom of the chase boat. Billy, taking the controls again, presses the throttle forward and powers out toward the ocean.

The night sky is a star-speckled dome. When the chase boat passes through the gap in the reef, several outriggers with torches are waiting to guide them to shore. Gabriel is in one, and when he sees his daughter, he joyfully holds his arms out. Billy steers the chase boat close enough for Thistle to climb into her father’s arms. In the light of the torches, tracks of thankful tears glisten on his cheeks.

Despite the late hour, a great celebration ensues, during which Gabriel embraces and thanks each member of the chase-boat crew for saving his daughter’s life. Seeing the lump on Ishmael’s skull and hearing that his head still throbs painfully, Gabriel takes him to the healing hut and has him lie on a mat. In the fluttering light, Ishmael leans on an elbow and watches the islander sort through the vials filled with various shades of green liquid.

“What’s the difference?” Ishmael asks.

“’Tis much diluted.” Gabriel holds up the vial with the palest solution. “For minor injuries and mild pain.”

“So that’s not what you put on the darts you shot us with when we first arrived?” Ishmael guesses.

Gabriel shakes his head. “’Twas stronger. Mixed with herbs t’ cause sleep.”