The Cutthroat Cannibals (6 page)

As he gathered his fallen walking stick, Stone saw that it was happening even faster than he had feared. A little wave of
water came right across the ground from the river, sweeping toward them like an ocean. The dog jumped around in the inch-deep
puddles that were quickly created. Stone made his way the fifty feet or so through the tree grove. He could see instantly
as it came into view that the river was much rougher and higher than yesterday. Rains, snows further north, an old dam suddenly
burst: something had happened. For the river was positively frothing today, foaming at the bit, like a horse, ten thousand
horses, all galloping along, their heady white manes tossed back, their bubbling hooves pounding along with a thundering wet
roar. And it was absolutely filled with debris—the corpses of numerous wildlife, birds, fish no longer swimming, and countless
bushes and trees of every size, from tiny seedlings to great seventy- and eighty-foot giants that must have stood at the edges
of the banks and had their roots weakened and undercut by the rushing currents. An armada of dead things.

“Great,” Stone spat out through clenched teeth. The pain kept stabbing into him though he tried not to pay attention. There
wasn’t a hell of a lot he could do except grit his teeth. In the unlikely event that he got out of all this he sure as hell
was going to need a good orthodontist. But Stone knew the horrible truth was that his body would go way before his teeth would.
They’d last a thousand years. If hundred-million-year-old dinosaur teeth had been dug up, it seemed likely that Martin Stone’s
own jaws might well find their way into the far future. Perhaps they would end up in a museum on some distant planet. The
thought didn’t give him much comfort, and he unconsciously felt around his choppers with his tongue to make sure they were
still there.

Stone’s brain whirred like a malfunctioning computer as he tried to figure out what the hell to do. He and the dog could stay
here and climb the tallest tree they could find. But even then there were some giants coming downriver, and Stone had no guarantee
that his particular tree would withstand them. And with the sky turning a dead silvery color and huge clouds rampaging down
from Canada, it looked like there was going to be even more rain. As if the very skies were listening in on his most private
fears, the clouds right above the long river canyon lit up with multiple volleys of lightning.

Then the sky opened up. It just poured down as if the pipes of heaven had exploded. Within seconds Stone could hardly see.
And it didn’t take a hell of a long time for the additional drops to add their power to the river. Within two minutes the
water had swollen two inches. Within another minute another six. The cold liquid rushed in around Stone’s ankles and knees
as he stood about twenty-five feet from the churning rapids of the river, already over a hundred and fifty feet wide and getting
bigger and meaner by the minute.

He heard a growl to his side and looked down to see that the pit bull had managed to snag an errant rainbow that had swum
too close. He held it up toward Stone looking hopeful that perhaps they could stop and snack awhile.

“Dog, you don’t have much sense for natural disasters, do you?” Stone said with a look of infinite disgust. “Spit it out,”
he commanded as he made a sudden decision and started walking toward the river’s edge. “Because not only are you not eating,
but we’re about to go for a little swim.” The dog spat out the fishy breakfast and trotted along at Stone’s heels. The water
was up to its lower chest now so it moved in great jumping strides more like a kangaroo than a canine. Stone knew that he
was insane, walking toward the inferno of raging water instead of away from it. But he also knew he didn’t have a chance if
he stayed. Once he was cut off, up a tree, the waters would close in on him. This whole section of shoreline would be completely
under in minutes at most. No, he was going to have to jump into the watery volcano, try to make his way downriver to a shallower
slope that he could manage to climb up or at least sit it out on. And pray real hard.

Stone cupped his hand over his eyes to try to keep out the sheets of rain and sighted out along the river as it rushed by
him with all its multitudinous broken baggage. Even as he stood on the rocky shore the water rose, inch by inevitable inch.
The rains—or the immediate cloudburst overhead at any rate—seemed to abate momentarily though upriver it poured down, adding
tons of liquid to the flood every second. It was now or never. He could see a little better now that the downpour dropped
to a mist. He searched frantically for any possible makeshift vessel he might take a little cruise on.

There! Coming from around a bend in the river about a quarter mile up, an immense tree a good seventy feet long, perhaps six
feet thick, covered with thick-leaved cushioned branches. It was perfect. Something that big would push its way right through
other debris, maybe even be able to take any rapids. Maybe.

“Come on, dog, I got us reservations on the
Queen Mary
,” Stone said with a twisted smirk. He started into the water as the pit bull yowled and looked at him incredulously as if
to say, “Wasn’t it just yesterday that I saved your damned ass and pulled you right up on this very shore—and now you want
to dive back in again?” But Stone wasn’t arguing, just swimming. He was suddenly in it-in the thick of the flood. And it was
a hell of a lot different being in it than it looked from the waterlogged shore. For one thing, he was going completely in
the wrong direction from the fucking tree. The currents were unbelievable. For about ten seconds Stone found himself whirled
around like a top looking for a rock wall to crash into.

At last he found his bearings and managed to paddle back through the current at an angle heading toward the tree, now about
twenty-five feet away but tearing by him. If he didn’t get there soon the sucker would be gone. Suddenly he saw the pit bull
thirty feet downriver, paddling like a beaver on speed toward the great fallen spruce. If the little ball of overgrown teeth
could make it, Martin Stone was not going to let down the human race. He clenched his jaw and swam with everything he had,
churning away in the water with his lean muscled arms toward the tree. Stone’s wounded leg was almost useless, dragging in
the water like an anchor of flesh. But he had been the captain of the swimming team when in college and his arms were strong.
With his arms and his left leg, which could still kick, he was staying afloat.

Okay asshole, this is the National Finals and you got ten feet to go to get the gold. So move it, boy
, Stone commanded himself, remembering the way coach Williamson had screamed at him. He surged forward, his arms feeling as
if they were cast of molten lead. And just as the log swept past him, just as it lunged forward on its unstoppable path downriver
disappearing like the caboose on a rickety old train, Stone grabbed hold of a branch with his right arm. His hand tightened
like a vise around it and though it bent slightly, being only about six feet long, it held. The momentum of the huge tree
barreling by at a good twenty miles per hour caught him and snapped him suddenly along with it, nearly breaking his grip.
Stone careened through the water as if he were waterskiing on his face, his body creating a furrow behind the thing. Reaching
deep inside Stone found a scrap of energy to pull his other arm around and up, and after a few seconds he was able to reach
forward and latch on to another small branch.

It wasn’t too difficult after that to pull himself up and onto the huge nature-made boat. Once up on the leafy body of the
log, Stone pushed his way through the thick branches for about ten feet, searching for the dog. Then he saw the pit bull standing
dead center on the log, balancing itself as the thing buffeted it back and forth. As big as the damned tree was, the currents
were so powerful they were shaking the thing around like it was just a big cork floating free.

The pit bull barked when it spotted Stone—it had thought maybe he hadn’t made it and wasn’t feeling too happy about that fact.
And being the happy-go-lucky creature that it was the fighting canine surged forward, forgetting that it was on a floating
log in the middle of a maelstrom—and nearly lost its balance. Suddenly it was scampering away at the dark wet bark like a
test subject on a treadmill. Just as the animal started sliding right down the side of the tree Stone moved forward fast and
threw out an arm, grabbing the creature by one of its front legs. With one great heave he pulled the dog up and onto the log,
where it squealed with sudden fear and had to do everything to control its own body not to twist around and jump into the
air in corkscrew motions as it often did to release tension. But even a dog knows when to cool it—when the fucking Red Sea
is slamming in from every side.

S
TONE had thought he and the pit bull were alone on their little river ride. But he had scarcely settled into a vaguely balanced
position dead center on the tree when he heard a sound emerging from the far end of the rising and dropping tree as it sped
through what felt like increasingly rough waters. It was hard to hear at first, like a whine, then like a buzz saw. And then
as it emerged from the spiderweb of branches and its feline face came into view it made a screeching sound that sent fingernails
clawing along Stone’s backbone.

It was a mountain lion, one of the biggest sons of bitches Stone had ever seen, a good two hundred pounds if it weighed an
ounce. And the animal had apparently never heard of sharing its toys when just a cub. No, this one seemed to want the whole
fucking log to itself. And maybe, Stone saw as the golden-furred creature prowled slowly forward, moving low on its shoulders
so the blades stuck up, its thick padded paws easily getting good traction on the slippery log, maybe it would get its way.
It eyed the two recent arrivals from about thirty feet off and they eyed it back. Three different species all doing their
own macho thing.

Excaliber suddenly let loose with a growl of challenge and went into his hunting point, lining up his body like a missile
ready to launch itself straight at the predator’s chest. The dog was not one to take any bullshit, from man or mountain lion.

“Easy, dog,” Stone whispered out of the side of his mouth, not making any sudden movements. He knew the cat could be on them
in the flash of an eye if it felt like it. It was playing with them. Cat and mouse, probably waiting to see if he had any
weapons. But seeing no flash of steel that it knew could kill as its mate had been hunted down years before, the cougar came
forward even more aggressively, picking up speed as if it was about to break into full charge.

Stone’s eyes swept the tree around him for even the most primitive of weapons. There was nothing. “Son of a fucking—” Suddenly
everything was a blur. Excaliber, sensing something in the killer’s eyes, sprang right over Stone’s head. The instant the
pit bull shot into the air, the cat did the same, snarling and hissing. Stone was so hypnotized by the two balls of murderous
fur flying toward each other that he froze in place, his mind numb as a rabbit looking into the headlights of an oncoming
car. As it flew, its body stretched out to full magnificent length like a pelt about to be mounted on a trophy hunter’s wall,
the mountain cat opened its huge claws to take off the head of the animal that dared challenge it.

But though Excaliber was brave, it wasn’t a fool. The first thing the animal ever did when confronted with another beast was
to size the fucker up: give it a once-over and seek out its strengths and weaknesses. Having been in countless battles with
countless kinds of creatures ranging from scorpion to gunslinger, the pit bull knew that in this particular fight it was outclassed
as far as it came to brute strength. But not when it came to street smarts. For the dog had its own brand of martial arts
when it came to meeting charging carnivores in midair.

Just as the claws of the big cat came swiping down out of the wet air like a fork searching for dinner, the pit bull somehow
altered its flight path just inches from the mountain killer and dropped straight down onto the tree, landing on all fours.
The cat sailed right over its prey and flew by, hissing and scratching at the air. Excaliber slammed its head back up, pushing
at the same time with all four legs. The effect was as if the mountain lion had been propelled from a slingshot. It shot forward
clawing at air and sailed right off the side of the tree and into the boiling waters. The furious predator splashed around
in the frothing river in a rage of screeches and slashing claws. But by the time the killer got itself turned around and started
toward the floating tree it was too late. Excaliber and Stone watched as the mountain cat paddled frantically behind them
with an angry and forlorn look on its whiskered face—its fucking tree had not only been taken over by invaders, but it as
well had been unceremoniously booted out. Just as the creature disappeared in the mists that rose above the river, Stone saw
that it managed to crawl onto a smaller but nonetheless seaworthy log.

“Good dog,” Stone said, staring back at the pit bull, which had turned and was looking at him with a most contented expression
on its face, its tail wagging around like a cobra on acid.

“Son of a bitch, but you know how to fight, don’t you, dog?” Stone said, leaning over and giving the sopping wet head a hard
rub. “If this was the old days you could open a chain of self-defense franchises for dogs and make millions. Too bad you’ll
have to be resigned to a life of poverty like your traveling companion here.” But if the animal had any monetary worries it
kept them to itself, and just stared back at Stone with its unfathomable dark eyes, wagging its tail back and forth in simple
but total zen joy at the defeat of its enemy.

Stone got to savor the removal of the mountain cat for only about thirty seconds, for suddenly they were in the midst of churning
rapids that made the rough waters they had already been through look like a pond. Everywhere around them the world was white
with foam and spitting funnels of water that smashed together rising ten, twenty feet into the air then crashing back down
right on top of them. It was as if they were going through a car wash—one that was trying to kill them. Stone did all he could
to hang on to the wet tree trunk as sheets of water came cascading over him. The tree rocked and jumped and flew around like
a piece of balsa wood as even its tremendous weight was really just a tiny speck when it came to an angry mother nature and
the power that flowed from even the merest of her temper tantrums.