Footprints of Thunder (56 page)

Then it all came back. That strange fish. The one that came out of the water, walking on its flippers and then grabbing her ankle. It had pulled her under the water, and she had drowned. But she hadn’t drowned, not unless this was hell. It sure wasn’t heaven. But where was she, and why wasn’t she dead?

Petra kept her head as still as possible and reached out slowly with her right hand, sliding it across the wet surface. The bottom was clearly rock. Then her hand touched something slimy and scaly. She jerked her hand back and froze. It was the fish.

Her heart pounded so loudly, she feared the fish would hear. But nothing happened. It didn’t move and made no sounds. When Petra’s panic subsided, she began to think more clearly. The fish she’d touched couldn’t have been the one that grabbed her; that one was covered with hard scales. This fish was slimy. Petra forced her hand back out to the fish and touched it again, poking it with a fingernail. It didn’t move. She ran her hand along its length. It was four feet long with a long fin on one end. She couldn’t bring herself to explore its head, after she discovered that the fish was well decayed. She went to wipe her hands on her pants but found she wasn’t wearing any. In fact she wasn’t wearing much at all.

She reached out above her head and found something covered with smooth skin, not scaly, with a long thin neck and at least two well-muscled back legs. Petra realized she was in a den. She was part of the food supply of that walking fish that snatched her. Somewhere on the trip to the den she had passed out, but she hadn’t drowned. At least not quite. Her head told her she had been without oxygen for a while. She worried briefly about brain damage but realized there was a more immediate problem. She was part of some prehistoric fish’s larder, and she didn’t want to be its main course at the next meal.

Petra lay still, listening as hard as she could, but heard nothing. She was pretty sure the fish wasn’t in the den with her. There were no sounds that weren’t her own. She reasoned that if the fish could walk out of water, and snatch her and other land animals, that it must be an air breather. The only sounds of breathing were her own. No, this den was filled with death and rot, not life. Except her life.

Petra lifted her head slowly, pausing frequently to let the stars clear from her eyes. The pain kept her at the edge of tears, but she was almost to a sitting position when her head, with a dizzying pain, hit the ceiling. It seemed to be made of sticks and mud. There
was
air in here, she realized, stale putrid air, but air. She must be near the surface of the lake. She thought about digging through the roof but didn’t know what was above. Could this part be under the lake? Surely not, if it was made of mud.

She sat semireclined, holding her body up with her hands, and looked around. It seemed brighter now. But where was the light coming from? Petra looked above and behind, seeing nothing but the gloom. Then she spread her knees apart and looked between. There was a soft glow on the floor of the den. It took her a minute to realize she was looking at a pool of water, and the pool was glowing softly. That was the way out. But even if she could stay conscious, could she swim far, weakened as she was and with a crushed ankle? She was debating whether to try it when the light suddenly disappeared and the water began to ripple. Something was swimming up the tunnel.

She flopped back down and froze, trying to remember the position she had been in. The water of the pool sloshed violently enough to splash her ankles. She began to tremble with fear and bit her lip, trying to stop the shaking. Suddenly there was a loud splash and the wet sound of blowing air—she could feel the walking fish behind her. It puffed and blew a couple of more breaths, tasting the air of its den as if to make sure it had not been disturbed. Petra knew her only chance was to play dead, but reflexively she wanted to run or fight.

Still, she suppressed her instincts as the fish pulled its body from the water. She heard its flipper-feet pad across the wet surface, its body or tail dragging across the floor of the den.

Then something pushed her in the back. Petra tried to remain limp, but she panicked again. Rigor mortis. She should be stiff, shouldn’t she? Too late. She couldn’t change her act now. It pushed her again, this time higher in the back. Petra rocked gently again, acting limp. She’d play stiff later. Then the fish walked forward and began rummaging around in the back of the den. Soon Petra heard the sounds of chomping and eating. Relief swept her body. She was too big for an after-dinner snack, so unless it planned to taste her, she didn’t think she was on tonight’s menu. From the smell of the cave this prehistoric fish liked its food well decomposed.

When the fish finished its meal it rummaged around a bit longer, then padded back toward Petra. She held perfectly still when it approached, but then to her horror, it plopped down behind her, its back pressed against hers. She waited for it to move, but it didn’t. After a few minutes she heard rhythmic breathing. It was asleep, its back against Petra. Now she couldn’t move. She was trapped.

55. Pat and Patty

The killer whale has no peer; it fears nothing in its domain and has no qualms about attacking any other beast it makes contact with, even the true whale. Would it kill a man? Probably yes.

—
James B. Sweney,
Sea Monsters and Other Dangerous Marine Life

West of Naples, Florida

PostQuilt: Wednesday, 7:12
A.M.
EST

H
ey look, a fin!” Chris yelled. Ron woke to see a black fin break the surface, and then disappear again. Another fin appeared farther out and then another.

“Are they sharks?” Carmen asked.

“No,” Rosa answered. “They’re too big.”

“They’re over here too,” Chris said excitedly.

Ron looked right to see two more fins. Then one of the animals leapt out of the water. It was black on the top but white on the bottom, the clear markings of orca. It was a pack of killer whales—there were at least ten.

The whales circled Patty and Pat, coming closer with each pass. Then Chris shouted and pointed straight down. Ron looked to see a black shape shoot between Patty and her baby. Another orca followed, but this one rammed Pat, driving him away from his mother. More whales swam between Pat and Patty, driving the baby farther away from its mother.

“They’re after the baby,” Rosa said sadly. “We’ve got to help it.”

Suddenly the baby let out an ear-piercing squeal. The mother immediately whipped her head around, wrenching her body into a partial turn. Ron and the others dropped spread-eagled, to keep from being thrown off.

When the mother was satisfied the baby was still following she resumed her course. Ron looked down at the baby and heard rapid, deep breathing, punctuated by a slight whine. Rosa pointed silently to the baby’s wake; everyone saw that Pat was leaving a pink trail in the water.

Suddenly Pat dipped deep into the water, nearly submerging his head, and screamed again. Chris put his hands to his ears to block the horrible sound, but Patty wrenched around again and Chris had to spread his arms wide to keep from rolling off. Ron looked back to see two more fins rushing toward Pat. Now the fins dipped below the surface and a few seconds later Pat shuddered twice in quick succession.

Pat screamed continuously now, and his wake was a crimson stream far into the distance. The orcas were in a blood frenzy and the pack circled closer. The flashing orcas were designed for this kind of attack. Sleek and powerful, they darted in and out, biting into the struggling Pat, who squealed with every blow. Patty’s huge tail might have been formidable on land, but in the water it was nearly useless in the defense of Pat. Occasionally Patty’s tail would break the surface and slam down into the sea with a deafening slap. The orcas seemed bothered by the sound at first, but then ignored it, dodging it every time.

The kids were horrified. But Ron realized that to the orcas it was just feeding time, and Pat was the target. Even in the civilized world justice is fleeting; in the animal world it is meaningless.

The attack on Pat was going on at a leisurely pace. The orcas were enjoying the hunt, streaking up from below—their attacks drenching Patty’s passengers with bloody spume.

“I want to get out of here,” Chris moaned.

“Me too,” Rosa said. “Let’s swim away.”

Ron had never heard of orcas eating people, but he wasn’t sure anyone had ever swum through a feeding frenzy, covered in the blood from the kill. Apparently Carmen agreed.

“We’re still safer here, kids,” she said. “If we get in that water they might come after us. Let’s stay up here as long as we can.”

Ron nodded. He decided now was the time to use the last of the water and passed the bottle to the kids. They each drank about a quarter and passed the bottle to Carmen—who started to refuse, but Ron frowned at her. There was no point in saving the little that was left. After Carmen drank her share she passed the bottle back to Ron. As he drank the last of the water, he noticed dozens of seabirds gathered overhead. They must have been following the killer pack, scavenging the remains of their victims. The birds circled and screeched, waiting like vultures.

Pat was barely moving now, although he still seemed to have little trouble floating. Patty was getting frantic, and began bleating defiantly at the circling orcas. Then as Pat slowed to a near stop, Patty turned in a wide circle, around him. Carmen yelled for everyone to lie flat, to get as much traction as possible. Patty, even with the long dragging tail, couldn’t come close to encircling her baby.

The orcas paused, apparently considering Patty’s new strategy. As Patty circled, Pat floated in the reddening water, squealing for his mother’s help. Ron began to think it was time to get off.

“Here they come again!” Carmen shouted.

Ron turned to see an orca darting toward Pat, skimming along just below the surface, timing its attack to just clear Patty’s massive tail. They could feel the muscles along her spine bunch as she suddenly lifted her tail and stopped swimming. The whale continued forward, confident it would clear Patty’s tail, but Ron realized the orca had miscalculated. The refugees felt the collision when several tons of tail slammed into the attacking orca, and then her whole body wrenched to the side.

The whole family cheered.

“You show them you’re the mama!” Carmen shouted.

“Way to go, Patty!” Rosa yelled.

“Yeah, way to go,” Chris echoed, and then added, “one down, nine to go.”

Chris’s mention of the odds sobered the group. There were many more orcas, and they had no idea how badly their member was hurt. Then it surfaced outside Patty’s protective circle. When it blew its lungs clear the spray was pinkish. It dove again and then quickly surfaced, again blowing pink spray.

The family watched the injured whale swim off to the west, tilted at an angle, zigzagging through the water. Ron realized it was being followed by the flock of scavenging birds.

The orcas continued to circle, now deadly efficient, businesslike. Then an orca split off and angled in at Patty broadside, disappearing beneath the waves a hundred yards from them. Suddenly something slammed into her, shaking Ron and his family. Patty screamed, swinging her tail up and down violently, and the family reached out, grabbing onto one another’s hands and holding one another up. Another hit came from the opposite side, and Patty wrenched again, twisting toward the new attack. Another hit came from the front and Patty’s screams became deafening. The attacks stopped for a moment, and Ron looked for the rest of the orcas—now busy with Pat.

The baby was twisting in the water, whipping his neck back and forth as the orcas took turns hitting him. Pat began to list to the right and fought to keep himself upright. As he rolled, Ron could see his left front leg come up toward the surface. It looked like the leg of an elephant, thick with baggy skin, but with three distinct clawed toes. Now an orca buried itself in the flesh of the leg and whipped its body back and forth, tearing free meat and skin.

Pat had no more screams left in him. Another hit to his belly finished pushing Pat to his side, and his head disappeared into the water. Pat would die soon, either of blood loss or drowning. As he rolled over, Ron could see the left rear leg was nothing more than a thick white bone with a few chunks of bloody meat still dangling.

The attacks on Patty continued, even though the orcas were at the same time making a meal of Pat. It was getting harder for the family to stay on her shuddering back.

Orca after orca slammed into Pat’s body, tearing away bloody chunks that now floated in the crimson water, making a gory soup. The seabirds were beginning to risk dropping briefly into the water to feed on the scraps.

In her pain, Patty forgot about Pat and began swimming away from the attack, out of the red soup, but leaving a pink trail of her own. For a moment the attacks on her stopped. She resumed her eastward swim, returning hope to Ron and the rest of the family. A sense of relief spread through the little group, but they kept glancing back, fearful the orcas would follow.