Danger: Dinosaurs!

Chapter 8 Forced March

It wasn’t until later that day that Chuck learned what had caused the truck to stall. He realized then why Masterson hadn’t been able to get the jeep out of the mud, either. Both vehicles were out of gas.

Originally intended for short excursions within the one-mile area surrounded by the force field, the vehicles had come a long way and now were bone-dry.

They made the discovery when they were ready to start back for the rendezvous site.

“You’ll want us to go back at once,” Arthur said. He glanced meaningfully at Masterson. “I don’t think there are any objections now.”

Chuck merely nodded. He still found allusions to his brother extremely painful. It was only with the greatest effort that he could keep the tears from his eyes. But it was impossible to keep the ache from his heart. He and Arthur went to the jeep and tried to start it. Chuck lifted the hood and checked the engine, while Arthur went to the tank, coming back with a stick that was dry.

“Here’s the answer,” he said. “No gas.”

They walked back to the truck and checked the fuel in it. The results were the same.

“We’ll walk,” Chuck said simply.

“What?” Gardel protested. “All the way back...”

“Chuck said we’ll walk,” Pete put in. He was holding a large skillet in his hands. The freckles on his face stood out in angry red blotches.

“This is crazy,” Gardel said. “Just because...”

He saw the look in Chuck’s eyes — a cold, menacing look. He shrugged and sighed deeply.

“We’ll need supplies,” Chuck said. He started for the rear of the truck and was suddenly aware of something that had eluded his grasp up to now. He was leading the group!

At first the thought was overwhelming. He almost turned and said, “Look, fellows, this is all a mistake. I cant...”

Then he thought of Owen and he knew why they had turned to him for leadership. It was an automatic thing, he supposed. Owen had been their leader and now Owen was gone. It was natural to turn to Owen’s brother. The thought frightened him because he had never been in such a situation before. It frightened him even more because he had no idea where the rendezvous site was. He took a deep breath and climbed into the back of the truck, fervently wishing Owen were there to tell him what to do.

“Arthur,” he called. “Pete! Want to take some of this stuff? We’ll each have to carry packs. I’ll hand the equipment and food down and you can get it ready.”

He got to work, trying not to think of Owen or of what lay ahead. Methodically, he passed most of what they’d need down to Arthur and Pete. He kept moving toward the front of the truck as he worked his way through the piles of canned food. Outside, Arthur and Pete arranged the food in heavy packs, fully realizing this would have to last them for a long while. Chuck began moving material, trying to get at the food stacked near the cab of the truck. It wasn’t until he’d moved several shovels, pans and a large battery-driven power drill that he realized he was handling mining equipment. A puzzled frown crossed his face. What on earth was mining equipment doing in the truck? He dug a little deeper, shoving aside a half-dozen picks. And then he came across the box of dynamite. Surprise gave way to shock. He scratched his head worriedly. Why? Why had...

“Hey, Chuck,” Arthur called. “Any more stuff coming?”

Chuck came to his senses. “Just a moment,” he said. He stopped thinking about the dynamite and attacked the stack of food, carrying the cartons to Arthur’s waiting hands. In a little while the truck was almost empty. They were leaving a lot of material behind, but they were taking all they could carry and they could do no better than that.

Chuck jumped down to the ground and swung a heavy pack onto his shoulders, tightening the straps across his chest. He saw Masterson lift a pack and slip his arms through the canvas loops. Gardel helped him with it and then picked up his own pack. There was one thing Chuck had forgotten. He climbed to the back of the truck to correct his memory. “Arthur.”

“Yes?”

“Here,” he said.

He held out his hand, and Arthur looked up at the rifle Chuck was holding. “What’s that for?”

“The animals around here are treacherous,” Chuck said. He glanced significantly at Masterson and then handed Arthur another rifle. “You’d better give one to Pete, too.”

Arthur nodded, taking the rifles.

“How about us?” Gardel asked.

Chuck’s eyes remained cold and impersonal. “I think maybe you’ve both done enough hunting for awhile.”

“See here, youngster...” Masterson protested.

Arthur grinned good-naturedly, his teeth flashing white against his brown skin. “Your license has been temporarily revoked,” he said softly. At the same time he pulled back the bolt on his rifle, and the click of the cartridge sounded a dull warning.

Masterson eyed the gun with contempt. “You’re still working for me,” he said, his voice ominously low.

“I quit, Mr. Masterson,” Arthur said. “I quit a long time ago.”

“Why, you ungrateful...”

“I don’t work for you any more,” Arthur said, his eyes level.

Chuck strapped a Colt .45 to his waist and took a rifle from the truck. “I think we’d better get moving,” he said, dropping to the ground between Arthur and Masterson. “We’ll need plenty of time to get back to the rendezvous site.”

He saw Pete sling his rifle, watched the sullen looks on the faces of Masterson and Gardel. Denise came up alongside him and said, “My uncle isn’t very happy, Chuck.”

He didn’t answer. He started walking ahead of the group, heading in the direction he hoped was right.

Denise caught up and put her hand on his arm. “Are you mad at me, too, Chuck? Just because he’s my uncle?”

Chuck shook his head. “I’m sorry, Denise,” he said. “No, I’m not mad at you. It’s just... well... I don’t much care whether your uncle is happy or not. I just don’t care.”

“May I walk with you then?”

“Sure.” He glanced at her briefly. “Sure, Denise.”

The going wasn’t easy. They were on foot now and they struggled for every inch of progress. The land was wild and stubborn. It tore at their clothing and their skin, rose in their path suddenly, erecting rock barriers, tossing tangled patches of thick vegetation at them. Pete walked ahead, swinging a meat cleaver at the thick leaves and vines that threatened to strangle all progress. The insects enjoyed a field day. They bit angrily, descending in hordes, enjoying the exposed skin. And the sun bore down relentlessly, bathing them in its powerful rays.

The pack seemed to grow heavier. When Chuck had strapped it on at the truck, it had felt almost light. Its weight seemed to increase subtly as they covered more miles. It bit into his armpits, the straps threatening to cut off circulation. It hung on his back like a heavy sack of stones, pulling at his back and shoulder muscles, making his legs feel leaden and dull.

And there was always the danger of the animals. Chuck steered clear of any Jurassic fauna, remembering what had happened already, and anxious to avoid any repetition. The land seemed to be alive with reptiles of all types. Chuck recognized most of them, but he never stopped the party for a closer look. He knew that many of them were harmless plant eaters, but he also recognized some of the smaller carnivorous dinosaurs. Ornitholestes was among these. He glimpsed two of these six-foot-long flesh eaters striding across a flat rock surface on their hind legs, their shorter forelegs dangling from their chests. They had long, almost doglike snouts, and tails that accounted for more than half their length. But he knew they also had sharp teeth and he was not anxious to encounter them. He swung the party around, cutting through a grove of cycads, avoiding the pair of marauders.

The larger dinosaurs were in abundance, too. One of the sauropods he recognized immediately was Diplodocus. He saw the lone creature far in the distance, trodding the earth with slow, ponderous steps. The animal measured eighty-seven feet from the tip of its tail to the end of its snout, but it was not as weighty as a brontosaur, despite the latter’s shorter length. Diplodocuss weight was clustered about its middle, with most of its length absorbed in its extremely slender tail and neck. Its body was short and compact, strongly resembling an elephant’s, right down to the dull gray coloring. Since the vertebrae in the last ten feet of the animal’s tail did not decrease in size, this portion strongly reminded Chuck of a whiplash. He could imagine a flick of that tail in action, and so he once again swerved the party from its course, anxious to steer away from any encounters whatever.

Arthur apparently noticed Chuck’s subtle manipulation of the party. He pulled up alongside him and said, “I don’t blame you.”

Chuck turned his head, lost in thought. “Huh? What, Arthur? I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you.”

“I’ve been watching the way you’re leading us around the animals. I think it’s a good idea.”

Chuck nodded absently. “Some of them are very dangerous. We’ve passed flesh eaters who could tear us to shreds.”

Arthur grinned and said, “No one would eat me. My hide’s too old and tough.”

Chuck grinned with him, feeling his first moment of companionship since Owen had met his death. “No hide is too tough for a dinosaur,” Chuck said. “Not even Masterson’s.”

Arthur laughed out loud, a booming, contagious laugh that rang over the land. “Funny thing about Masterson,” he said. “Since I quit, I feel more free than I’ve ever felt. You know what I mean?”

“Well, no. Not exactly.”

“There are only so many jobs a... a fellow like me can get,” Arthur said, his eyes serious, his face thoughtful. “I’m not blaming anyone, you understand. I know that conditions sometimes get out of hand and then the job of putting them back in order is tougher than ever.”

Chuck nodded his head and listened intently, his eyes roaming the countryside for animals in the meantime.

“But that doesn’t change the fact that the jobs open for my people are jobs like elevator operators or porters or chauffeurs or a job like mine with Masterson — a sort of personal valet.”

Arthur paused, seeming to grope for a thought, struggling to give tongue to it. “It’s a new form of slavery, Chuck, and you sort of grow used to the yoke, forgetting what freedom — real freedom — is really like. Masterson paid me a good salary, but he was paying for my soul.” He turned his head toward Chuck and smiled a timid smile. “I’ve got my soul back now, Chuck. It feels good.”

“A long time ago, a man named Stephen Vincent Benet...” Chuck started.

“The Devil and Daniel Webster,” Arthur said, nodding. “I read that when I was very young. All about a man who sells his soul to the devil. He got his soul back, too, as I recall.”

“Yes,” Chuck said. “He did.”

They fell silent, walking side by side, the primitive world spreading around them in lush greenness. They didn’t say another word until much later when Chuck called a halt for an early supper.

He watched their faces as they ate, huddled around the fire Pete had built. He tried to read expressions, tried to fathom what was going on behind the masks. It might be important, he knew. They had a long journey ahead. He had to know which of the party he could count on and which he couldn’t trust. His eyes moved from one face to the next, and his mind made its silent calculations.

Masterson: He didn’t know. He could read nothing there, nothing at all. The man’s eyes were veiled, and his mouth was expressionless. He only knew that this was the man who had killed Owen and he automatically distrusted him. He wanted to believe that the man was simply ignorant, but he sensed something deeper behind Masterson’s actions. What that something was, he could not tell. Masterson’s face gave no clue.

Denise: She sat by the fire drinking a cup of warm broth. The light danced in her hair, igniting it with flashing sparks. Her brown eyes had somehow lost their luster, and there were tired lines stretching from the wings of her nose to her lips. Chuck felt that Denise was repulsed by her uncle’s behavior. But he was still her uncle, and he wondered how far her allegiance would stretch when the cards were down. He knew for certain that the rigors of the journey were leaving their mark on her. She no longer walked with a spring in her step. There was a weary slump to her shoulders. He would have to watch her carefully. The country could be very hard on a girl.

Arthur: He squatted on his haunches by the fire, a big, powerful brown man. There was a peaceful expression on his face as he sipped at his coffee, an expression of mild contentment. Arthur could be trusted. Yes, Chuck would trust him with his very life.

Pete: Chuck felt he could trust him, too. But somehow, he wasn’t sure. The cook’s main interest was cooking, true. But until Chuck knew what Masterson’s stake in all this was, he could not be sure where Pete’s real interests lay. He began to regret the fact that he had armed the jovial-looking cook. Uneasily, he wondered how he could reclaim the rifle without insulting the man.

Gardel: If anything, he was even more dangerous than Masterson. In the days of the racketeers, Gardel would have been a hired gun, a man who killed for money. This was Chuck’s impression. There was craftiness in the thin man’s eyes, a craftiness that carried down to the tilt of his mouth and the set of his jaw. If Masterson gave the word, Gardel would obey it. And with Masterson giving the word, there was no telling what might happen.

Chuck added these impressions mentally. There was one person he was sure of, two on the borderline and two he definitely did not trust. It didn’t sound good.

He was suddenly aware of the hum of conversation around him. He picked up his plate and picked at the vegetables on it, listening to the voices.

“And I say,” Pete was arguing, “that Man wouldn’t have stood a chance if he appeared on earth the same time these reptiles were running around. They’d have gobbled him up in the space of a week, and that would have been the end of the human race.”

“There’s no way of knowing,” Arthur said. “The big reptiles had already died out before Man appeared. Isn’t that right, Chuck?”

“Yes,” Chuck answered, “Long before Man appeared.”

“Well, I’m just saying for the sake of argument,” Pete said.

“There are too many ‘ifs.’“ Arthur answered. “Man may have survived in spite of the reptiles.”

“I doubt that strongly,” Masterson said suddenly.

“Why?”

“Primitive man was an extremely ignorant animal. The cave man was very close to the ape. Can you picture an ape in combat with one of these monsters?”

“An ape doesn’t have Man’s intelligence,” Arthur said.

“Modern man’s intelligence,” Masterson corrected. “The cave man was not intelligent.”

“He discovered fire,” Arthur said. “And he learned to make tools and to domesticate animals and to decorate his caves, and...”

“I dislike arguing with you,” Masterson said, spreading his palm wide. “You don’t know what the deuce you’re talking about!”

Arthur got to his feet and a wild light danced in his eyes. “Masterson...” he started, and then Pete yelled.

“A cave man!”

For a second Chuck thought Pete had taken Masterson’s side and was throwing a slur at Arthur. One look at the cook, though, told him he had been mistaken. Pete was standing on his feet, his eyes wide with shock, his face pale against his splotchy freckles. One arm was outstretched, and the pointing finger trembled as it stabbed the air, indicating a fringe-covered outcropping of high rocks.

“A cave man,” he repeated, his voice excited. “I saw one. I saw one. Over there. On the rocks.” He unslung his rifle and pulled back the bolt.

Chuck leaped to his feet instantly, putting his hand on Pete’s arm. He could feel the man still trembling.

“Take it easy,” he said. “You’re letting all this talk get you. There are no cave men in Jurassic times.”

“I saw one,” Pete insisted. “A shaggy man with a beard, and... and hairy legs. Right on top of those rocks.”

“That’s impossible,” Chuck said mildly.

“Maybe it ain’t so impossible,” Gardel put in. “Maybe the scientists are all wet. Maybe there are cave men in these times.”

“Come on,” Chuck shouted to Pete. He began running toward the rocks, the cook close behind him.

“Be careful!” Arthur shouted.

Chuck nodded, and he felt his heart start its infernal thumping against his ribs again.

Deliberately, he slid the .45 from its holster at his waist and gripped the walnut stock tightly.