Footprints of Thunder (52 page)

“It almost did. I stuffed my Levi’s into its mouth. It tore them up something bad, but while it was wasting its time I took off.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t stop to help you.”

Colter turned when she said that, anger flashing across his face.

“Don’t be sorry. Petra, everything I’ve done, I’ve done for you. Dr. Piltcher is right … was right. I’m not that smart, not like you. I didn’t really belong in the group. I was only there for you. Now all I want is to get you out of here.”

“Get
us
out of here,” Petra corrected. “Let’s get out of here and see if my dorm room is still there.”

Pushing herself out of the water as she spoke, she stood in her soaking bra and panties, holding out her arms. Colter, nearly naked himself and covered with wounds, stepped into her arms. They hugged, enjoying the warmth of each other’s bodies, and rocked gently against each other, their eyes closed, lest something distract them from their internal sensations. The released libido warmed them slightly, giving them comfort and pleasure.

Then Petra pushed her hips against Colter and leaned her head back. Colter bent his head to kiss her, but never got the chance. When Colter moved to kiss Petra he saw something coming out of the water behind her. It was the fish.

This was like no fish he had ever seen. It had a fish shape, but it was armored from head to tail, with four flippers it used like legs to run along the lake bottom. Colter started to push Petra aside, but it was too late. The fish hit her from behind, clamping its jaws down on her left leg. The blow knocked Petra into Colter and he stumbled back, falling into the shallows. Screaming from the shock and the pain, Petra’s leg was jerked out from under her as the killer fish pulled her toward the depths. In vain, Colter charged after them.

“Kick at it, Petra,” he shouted in desperation.

Petra mouthed something Colter never heard and then her head was pulled beneath the surface. Diving into the water, Colter saw Petra pulled deeper into the lake, her arms outstretched, reaching for him. He stroked and kicked after her, reaching out to grab her retreating hands, but it was no use. He watched her pleading eyes and reaching hands fade into the murky depths, until she was gone.

50. Rescue

You have confessed your prognostications of doom. Have you forgotten I am a god? Would not I know the future if it was to be known?

—
King of Babylon to Zorastrus

Forest, former site of Portland, Oregon

PostQuilt: Tuesday, 5:20
P.M.
PST

T
hey were running through the trees away from the camp. Ripman led the way, moving through the forest with a familiarity that was natural, not acquired, and Ellen and Angie struggled to keep up. Both women still had on their shoes and pants, but Angie’s blouse was completely gone and Ellen’s had no buttons. Branches and tall grasses scratched tender skin unaccustomed to exposure.

When they first followed Ripman into the forest, Carl and the guys fired recklessly. Ripman had darted from one giant tree to the next, Angie and Ellen mimicking his moves. The crack of gunshots and the whine of bullets—sometimes slamming into nearby trees—covered the sounds of their movements. Ripman angled them up the hill and away from the guys, and soon the gunfire became distant thunder.

He kept the pace long after the gunfire ended. Ellen’s fear was diminishing as was her adrenalin-fed strength. Exhaustion filled her body. The sun was gone now and the forest had become one unending shadow. Their eyes adapted to the dark but Ripman’s pace meant stumbles and falls. Ellen was about to ask him for a rest when his hand came up, signaling for them to stop.

They were near the crest of the hill by a rocky outcrop. A huge fallen tree lay there and disappeared into the forest in a tangle of broken limbs. Ripman circled the tree, climbing toward the massive exposed roots. When he disappeared over the rocks, suddenly Ellen’s fear returned. Ripman had been their savior and protector. Though no older than her son, John, his competence was evident in every move he made.

He soon reappeared at the top of the outcrop, motioned them up and then signaled for quiet. Angie and Ellen pushed and pulled each other up the rocks. Around the exposed root of the tree, they could see fresh dirt, as if the tree had fallen that morning. Ripman led them down and under the overhanging roots, into a hollow.

Ellen and Angie collapsed against the dirt walls, enjoying the womblike security. Temporarily safe, Ellen began to think about what had happened to Angie and was plagued by doubt and guilt. Angie’s friendship, which had made it possible to look for John, had resulted in disaster. She had no idea how far the rape had gone before Ripman interrupted it. She also knew she would never ask and doubted whether Angie would ever say.

Now Ellen and Angie were hiding in a hole, in a forest that couldn’t possibly exist, and being hunted. Ellen thought about the forest around her and hoped she had been wrong about the possibility of other dinosaurs. But why would two dinosaurs be more impossible than one?

Perhaps if they had found John their situation would be easier to accept, but it was hopeless. Portland was gone. Their home was gone, and her son. With that admission Ellen began her grieving. She cried softly in the darkness, muffling the sounds with her hands. After a few minutes she felt Angie’s arm around her shoulders. Then she remembered that John’s friend Ripman was sitting in the hole with them. “Ripman! You’re here! Is John here? Is he alive?” Moonlight filtered into the hole, and Ellen could see Rip-man’s face. He looked uncomfortable and turned away, visibly ashamed.

“I don’t know. Last time I saw him he was alive.”

“When was that? Why didn’t you stick together?”

“We did stick together at first. We were out in Newberg when it happened. John and Cubby wanted to find their moms and dads … you … so we headed into the forest to look.” Ripman paused and looked down again. “I couldn’t believe those two … complete assholes. They were clueless about what to do. Made every mistake possible. They talked, stumbled, wandered off the trail. Didn’t know when to be quiet and when not. If it hadn’t been for me they would have been dead a hundred yards in.” Ripman brought his eyes up to meet Ellen’s. “Finally I had to ditch them. They were stumbling along be-hind me making a racket I couldn’t believe. Some dinosaurs heard it and came after us. We took off running. I was leading, but when I looked back they were running off on their own with the dinosaurs right behind them. I couldn’t do nothing so I just kept running.”

“Oh no!” Ellen gasped. Angie pulled her closer.

“Those dinosaurs didn’t get them. I heard them calling my name later. Walking through the forest yelling my name. So stupid. I knew they would only get me killed so I just let them keep looking. They’re still looking as far as I know.”

“You should have stuck together.”

“What for? They almost got me killed. If I stuck with them I’d be dead now. It’s every man for himself in here. They needed me. I didn’t need them, I can take care of myself. I don’t need anybody.”

Angie, whose arm was still around Ellen’s shoulder, had been listening to the conversation, watching Ripman’s eyes.

“So why did you help us?” Angie asked.

“For the fun of it. I didn’t like what they did to that dinosaur. They didn’t kill it for food, they did it for fun. I decided to have the same kind of fun.”

“You could’ve left us.”

“I may still.”

“And you don’t need anybody?”

“Nobody.”

“Then why do you keep looking at my breasts?” Angie challenged him.

It was too dark to make out colors, but Ellen was sure Ripman’s face reddened. He turned away and didn’t say anything. . Angie obviously knew what men needed—especially teenage men. Suddenly self-conscious, Ellen pulled her blouse together in front. The absurdity of her sudden modesty struck her: one minute running through the forest dodging bullets, and the next minute embarrassed that a teenager was peeking at her bosom.

Then she realized Angle was naked from the waist up.

“Ripman, give Angie your coat,’” Ellen told him crisply.

Ripman turned back defiantly. He sat tight-lipped, making no move, facing the same crisis he’d faced with John and Cubby. He didn’t want anyone to become dependent on him. Finally Angie spoke up.

“If you’re cold, go ahead and keep it, I’m fine.”

Ripman snorted softly and mumbled, “I don’t get cold,” then removed his coat and tossed it to Angie.

“Get some sleep,” he ordered. “I’ll keep watch.”

When he left he took his backpack and canteen with him. Ellen wasn’t sure they would see him again. Eventually Angie slept fitfully, but Ellen spent the night worrying about John and damning her husband for leaving her.

They were drunk, but the party atmosphere was gone, replaced by fear and anger. John was glad that one of the men was dead, one of those who attacked his mother. Another one was hurt, but not hurt bad enough to suit John. It must have been Ripman, John thought, who put those arrows into the men and helped John’s mother escape.

Cubby and John had watched as the men fired after his mom and the other woman. It was a long time before the bikers gave up searching.

Then the men built a fire away from the body of their friend and passed bottles around. Cubby and John crept through the forest until they could hear the men talk of their fear and plans. The injured man, Carl, listened for a while before cussing their stupidity and throwing the fiberglass arrow from his leg in their faces. After that he led the discussion.

“We can’t let those women get away,” he argued. “They saw Deputy Dawg get it.” No one dared point out that Carl had done the killing. “What about what we did to the women? Hey, Miller, what’s your wife’s old man gonna say about that? Think you’ll still be workin’ at his mill after that? Butler, Chief Peters hates your guts already. He’s been looking for some reason to get your parole pulled. He finds out about this and your ass is back in the can. He didn’t like Deputy Dawg better’n anyone else, but what’s he s’posed to do when one of his deputies gets killed? He’ll pin it on all of us, not just me. And what about Bobby? Kishton, you were a better friend a his than the rest. You gonna just let someone murder him like that? Shot him in the back … in the fuckin’ back! It ain’t right.”

Carl wheedled and worked on all of them till they agreed. They couldn’t let the women get away, and whoever killed Bobby was going to pay for it.

Cubby and John slipped away after that for their own discussion.

“We gotta help them, Cubby. Ripman helped my mom. You know he’d help us if we were in a jam.”

Cubby agreed and so they decided to disable the motorcycles, giving Ripman and the women a chance to get away. It also gave Cubby and John a better chance if they came after them. They then worked their way through the forest to a spot well away from the camp. It wasn’t close to the bikes, but a shorter crawl wasn’t worth the risk.

John had listened to the men long enough to pick out their voices. There was Carl of course. One of the others was Miller, one Kishton, and Butler, who seldom spoke-—that worried John. As John crawled he listened, checking the voices against his list. They were around that fire—except Butler, who could be anywhere.

John had been inching through the grass on his stomach for what seemed like hours and was almost to the motorcycles. The last stretch would be the most dangerous, because the grasses and the ferns were trampled down and even on his belly he would be visible. John knew the roaring fire the men were staring into would help. Their constricted pupils would find it hard to pick out shapes in the shadows.

He heard Cubby crawling through the grass to his left. They’d started toward the bikes at different spots, but were angling toward the targets. But another noise came from his right and he froze. Someone was walking through the grass. He pulled his knife from its sheath and slowly rolled over. He was angry about what they had done to his mother, but he was also afraid.

There was a burst of shouts from the fire and he picked out Kishton’s voice, then Miller’s. This one near him was either Carl, or Butler. He listened to the approaching steps. There was no hint of a limp, and Carl had been limping badly. It must be Butler. It wouldn’t matter, they were all bigger than John, and all with biceps twice the diameter of John’s skinny ones.

The footsteps were almost in John’s ear when they stopped, replaced by fumbling and then the sound of peeing. John could smell and hear Butler’s loud whizzing. Soon, John’s knee felt damp. John silently cursed him.

A loud splintering crash rolled through the meadow startling a gasp out of John, who trembled, afraid of being heard. Butler took two steps forward and uttered a “What the shit?” John could now see him through the grass, but Butler’s eyes were riveted on the far side of the meadow. John heard the sounds of running men.

Butler shouted, “What the hell is that?”

“You see anything?” an approaching voice asked.