Time Spike: Chapter Thirteen

    Stephen McQuade didn’t expect the rifle butt slammed into his lower back. He fell to his knees, gasping in pain. He’d been floating in and out of consciousness for hours. Maybe days. It was hard for him to decide. He had been beaten too many times to be sure of anything.

    But the beatings were the easy part. The hard part was the fear. The knowing what was next. After each beating he’d had been tied to a tree and was able to watch one Indian after another tortured then killed. He assumed they were Indians, anyway, although he didn’t recognize their language or their manner of dress and personal decoration. They certainly weren’t Cherokee or any other of the southern tribes he was familiar with.

    He did recognize the language spoke by their captors. They were Spaniards. He couldn’t speak or understand Spanish, beyond a few words, but he knew the sound of the language. These men could be nothing else.

    They were brutal beyond belief. Not even the worst sort of Georgia militiamen would have been this savage. First they’d torture and eventually murder the children, so their parents could see them die. Then, apparently not getting the information they demanded, they started on the women. That was just as slow and even more degrading. Finally, the men. One at a time. Hour after hour.

    Hands pulled him to his feet, then a moment later he was back on the ground gasping, bleeding from a blow to the back of his head. Kicks were coming from all directions; he closed his eyes in an attempt to protect his vision as his head and body were pounded. Someone ground the heel of his boot onto McQuade’s left ankle. His hands were tied behind his back, so he couldn’t fight back. Stephen curled his legs towards his chest, protecting himself the best he could.

    Someone kicked him in the groin. The world faded to gray.

    The beating continued. Stopped. Then continued. His nose broke and his sinuses closed. He had to breathe through his mouth: His lips were split and some of his teeth were gone. The pain was too much for him to know how many. Hands grabbed at his hair, dragging him through the dirt and over the bodies of those already dead. The pain was everything. There was nothing else.

    A voice came from somewhere. He thought that was the man the others called De Soto. He was demanding something. Stephen tried to answer, but it hurt too much to open his mouth. He wondered if his jaw was broken. Then, decided it didn’t really matter.

    Someone grabbed the leather that bound his hands behind his back and jerked him to his feet. His shoulders screamed. One of the soldiers wearing chain mail, leg armor, boots and a steel helmet, stepped in front of him. The man aimed his ancient-looking gun at McQuade and fired. The flesh of his right side tore and burned, and the impact knocked him down.

    He tried to crawl away.

    The Spaniard standing to the left of the man with the matchlock reached out with a wood-handled halberd and hooked Stephen’s left hip, dragging him back to the center of the small crowd. The one called de Soto placed a booted foot on Stephen’s stomach while the Spaniard with the halberd wrenched its metal tip from where it was buried in bone and muscle. That finally brought blessed unconsciousness.

    Stephen woke to the sound of silence.

    He forced himself to roll to his side; stopped as the nausea washed over him, then slowly turned his head so he could catch a glimpse with his right eye, which was the one not swollen completely shut. There were no Spaniards, and no Indian corpses. There were footprints and animal tracks. Strange tracks from strange creatures.

    He tried to think through what he was seeing, but it was too much for now.

    He was alive. And the cave he’d passed the night in was not far from where he lay. He forced himself to get up, as difficult as that was. He needed to walk.

    He knew he would die. There was no way to survive his injuries, even if his hands weren’t tied behind his back. But if he stayed out in the open, the dried blood on him would surely attract one of the strange creatures he had seen. The cave would be a much better place to end his life.

    Lieutenant Rod Hulbert’s small band of hunters had been out since before daybreak and was starting to tire. They had already taken a buffalo of some kind and what he thought was a ground sloth and were headed back to the prison with more meat than they could comfortably carry. Hunting was going to be even better than he hoped. He nodded to himself and swatted at one of the strange insects flying in circles around his head. On their next foray he would take a larger party with him. That way, carrying their kill wouldn’t be quite so hard.

    As heavily loaded as they were, he guessed they wouldn’t get home until sunset tomorrow. Then, grinned when he realized he already thought of the cement and razor wired structure as home.

    He called a halt, and the four of them dropped their bundles and stretched out in the grass. They still had four hours of daylight left. They could afford a short break, two hours more of walking, and then they could make camp for the night. Their prey had been boned-out on site, which made carrying the creatures a lot easier. Marie carried at least sixty pounds of the meat, and each of the men were loaded down with still more. Carrying the meat bundles, plus their regular gear was hot, hard work that the insects hadn’t made any easier.

    “We’ll take twenty,” he said.

    The four of them lay in the grass for almost five minutes without talking. They were tired. It was Jerry Bailey who broke the silence. He sat up and waved toward the small rise to the new north. “You guys go ahead and take a break. I keep hearing something that sounds like water. I wanna take a peek.”

    “All right,” Hulbert said. He had heard the noise and guessed it to be a small creek. “But no more than five minutes out. And keep your whistle in your mouth.”

    Bailey stood up and stretched. “Be back,” he said.

    Rod watched him go, suppressing a grin. Bailey was a hell of a hunter. It had surprised him. The soft-spoken guard hadn’t struck him as much of an outdoorsman. But he was. As a matter of fact, so was Brian Carmichael. And Marie Keehn turned out to be worth more than both of them combined. The four of them had worked well together. Marie had been the one to actually make the kills, but it had been all of them working together that made it possible in such a short time. That and luck.

    “I hope Jerry finds a lake with a few croppies, or maybe a bass or two in it.”

    Marie laughed. “Brian, if you’re going to make a wish like that, wish for a few catfish.”

    “Nope. Bass or croppies. Maybe a pike.” Brian Carmichael sat up. “I grew up down by Kentucky Lake, eating catfish. Every Sunday afternoon we went to Grandma’s for fried kitty-fish, cornbread and greens. I haven’t found anyone who can make those bottom feeders taste like she did. So, I gave up on them.”

    “Well, you’ve never tasted my old man’s recipe. You get me the fish and I’ll…” Marie’s grin changed to a frown. “Hulbert,” she whispered. “We’ve got people.”

    Rod sat up and looked south, the direction Marie was looking. It didn’t take him long to see what she’d spotted in the distance. A dead fire, obviously made by people.

    When they went over to investigate, all they found was a broken arrow and a bead necklace. There was also a mix of tracks—human and animal—leading off into the woods. Blood. Another set of footprints going the same direction Bailey had gone.

    A second later, Jerry was back, waving for them to follow him.

    The three of them moved quick and quiet.

    “There’s a corpse at the edge of the river, and I don’t think it’s very old,” Bailey said, as soon as they were close enough for him to be heard without shouting. “The guy was killed by humans, but his body’s been chewed up pretty bad by a scavenger of some sort. And by the looks of the blood trail, there could be others. Human and scavenger.”

    “Damn,” Hulbert hissed. “Okay, we need to be careful, here. If there are people, we need to find them.”

    When they reached the corpse, he knelt down to inspect it. “This guy was stabbed, with some sort of big knife. It’s not a wound caused by any sort of animal, that’s obvious. Okay.” He straightened up. “I guess it’s no longer an ‘if.’ We are not alone, and someone had to have done this.”

    He glanced at the two men with him and then at the small brunette. “Remember, we don’t know who the bad guy is.” He waved at the corpse. “It could be him. He might have been killed by someone trying to defend himself. Or, he could have been a victim. He could have been robbed and then murdered. Hell, he could have been killed for the fun of it. We know that happens way too often. But it doesn’t matter. He’s dead and someone did it.”

    Hulbert checked their ammo. They had enough. But the body armor was back at the prison. You didn’t need it when you were after anything but man. He considered going back to the prison for reinforcements and the proper gear but changed his mind. There were more than human prints in the mud and dirt. The animal tracking the people wouldn’t wait until he got back.

    “Marie, haul the meat this way, then wait here. Stay out of sight, and don’t make any noise. We’ll check it out.”

    The raptor—a large female weighting over a thousand pounds—stopped. The male that had joined her several days before also stopped. The two of them were inside the thick brush of tree ferns not far from the herd they had been tracking for the last half hour; their brown-red skin blended in with the brown-red of the dried ferns.

    The large female sniffed the air.

    The two of them stared at the lone iguanodon. The big plant-eater had been placidly feeding on the tender shoots of seedlings growing close to the rapidly flowing stream. While he grazed, his herd had moved downstream. He was young, not full-grown, and careless.

    A female iguanodon bawled to her calf.

    The three-year-old bull heard her and lifted his head. He looked around. He rose on his stocky hind legs and took a half dozen steps toward his herd. His nostrils flared. The cows were starting to bunch up, herding the yearling calves into their center.

    The three men lay hunkered down in the dried fern, watching and listening, afraid to breath.

    The two predators—they reminded Rod of raptors, except they were reptiles and not birds—moved from the edge of the fern trees toward the herd of huge vegetarian reptiles. The cows screeched a warning. Two adult bulls bellowed as the raptors raced past them, hunting the calf furthest from the herd. Their claws, three on each foot and one of them huge, cut through the calf’s upper skin layers and gashed the muscle and nerve layers below.

    The calf, startled and bleeding, tried to run.

    The raptors pressed the attack.

    One moved to the creature’s left; the other worked its way to the right. Their claws sliced the prey’s flesh, leaving behind long slashes that were inches deep. Over and over, they struck at the beast. Warm, red blood flowed from the gaping wounds. Rod understood the logic of their hunting tactics, although it was not what you’d see from most predators he was familiar with. They weren’t going for a neck-crunching death bite. They were deliberately bleeding out their prey.

            The calf lunged awkwardly at the tormentors. They jumped back, and then pressed forward, hissing and screeching.

    The attack continued. Back and forth, over and over, the instincts and coordinated moves of the pack-hunter allowed the raptors to keep the adults of the iguanodon herd at bay without slowing the attack on the calf.

    They lunged toward their prey—rip, twist, turn—and then ran at the herd—force the creatures back—and then returned to the attack on the calf.

    More and more muscles and nerves were severed. More and more blood flowed. Blow by blow, the two raptors worked together, weakening the beast. It didn’t take long for the great creature to fall to the ground, bleeding and dying. After it collapsed, the herd moved away and the raptors began tearing the flesh from the calf, consuming the meat while the pitiful creature was still alive.

    Rod pulled his cell phone from his pocket.

    “What are you doing? Those things don’t work,” Brian Carmichael whispered. “There’s no satellites, no calling 9-1-1.”

    “Pictures,” Hulbert hissed back, aiming and clicking his camera phone. “We’ve got to warn everyone, and I don’t even know what to call the damn things.”

    “I do,” Jerry Bailey said. “They’re Spielberg’s monsters. Velociraptors.”

    Marie Keehn sat impatiently, waiting for Hulbert, Carmichael and Bailey to return. It had taken her over forty minutes to haul the four bundles of meat to the river’s edge, and another ten minutes to scout the area. Now, three hours after sitting down on a fallen log, she was definitely getting spooked. She kept hearing something, over and over. It wasn’t loud, and it wasn’t continuous. It was just a soft sound that she felt she should recognize, but couldn’t.

    Then the sound changed. It grew a little louder. It was a moan.

    She circled the area. Back and forth, holding her breath, hoping to hear it again.

    There it was. Soft. From…

    She turned around, scanning the area. Yes. Behind the brush. She approached the area slowly and carefully. Behind the greenery was an opening. A cave. And inside the entrance, a… man, yes.

    Bloodied. Broken. But alive.

    She used her steel, prison-issued whistle to let the others know she had found something; then, squatted to get a better look. The man’s chest rose and fell. His face was swollen and misshaped. This was not an injury from a fall; his hands were tied behind his back. The man had been beaten. He had also been shot.

    She could hear the guys coming and gave the whistle she wore around her neck a small puff, creating just enough sound to allow them to locate her. She didn’t want to move the man without help. He didn’t appear to be in imminent danger from his surroundings. And his injuries were extensive enough she could complicate them if she tried to move him into the sunlight. She leaned closer, trying to get a better look at him.

    The breeze momentarily changed direction. The hair on the back of her neck stood up, and her heart raced. She could smell wet fur.

    “Marie!” Bailey yelled. “Don’t move!”

    She froze, scanning as much of the area as she could without turning her head. Her rifle was on the ground. Her knife was on her belt.

    From somewhere to her left she felt, more than saw, movement. Hulbert was now in front of her. He was on one knee, his shotgun raised. One second after that her ears rang from a loud boom.

    A big catlike thing lay on the ground less than two yards from her. Its head was the size of a bear. The body was stockier than that of any cat species she’d ever seen, but it was definitely some kind of cat. Its canines were enormous.

    “Shit.” She stood up and looked at the giant “kitty” Hulbert had taken down with one shot. A head shot, right in the left eye. The kind of shot that only an expert marksman could pull off—and probably the only kind of shot that could have saved her.

    “Thanks.” She blushed and picked up her gun. That was really stupid. She knew better than that. Her father and her brothers had taught her the rules long before the prison preached them to her. You had to know what was going on around you. Know your environment. Don’t get sidetracked. Be aware and be alert.

    “I appreciate the help.” She gave Hulbert an apologetic grin and then nodded toward the cave’s interior. “I guess I was messing with its dinner.” She pointed toward the man lying just inside the opening to the small cave.