Cretaceous Sea

throughout the day's march had lifted. Before they retired to the tent, Rick gathered the meat to bring inside with them. It was already frozen. RICK AWOKE AFTER a poor night's sleep. Without the conifer bough bedding to insulate the ground, it was too cold to sleep in a prone position. They had slept back-to-back in a tight circle upon the travois platform, with their knees drawn close to their chests, sharing the two meager blankets. It was an uncomfortable way to sleep, and, despite his fatigue, Rick had kept waking throughout the night. Joe looked like he had not slept at all.

'How's your arm?' asked Con, who also looked more tired than usual.

'It's fine,' he said. 'Just a little stiff.'

'We should look at it,' said Rick.

'Don't bother,' replied Joe. 'I said it was fine.' Rick was too tired to argue. Instead, he brushed the snow off the cold campfire, piled the last few pieces of driftwood on the charcoal, and made a fire. He roasted some meat for breakfast and-some more for lunch while Con boiled up some broth. As they ate, Rick noticed Joe used only his left hand and held his right arm stiff and straight.

'I'll pull the travois today,' said Rick. 'You should give that arm a rest.'

'I'm fine,' snapped Joe. 'I can pull my weight.'

'Then bend your arm,' said Rick.

Joe started to bend his arm, then winced. 'All right,' he said with resignation. 'You take the travois today, and I'll take it tomorrow.'

'I should tend your arm again,' said Con.

'Why bother?' replied Joe. 'You've washed it and bandaged it. There's nothing more you can do, and it's tender right now. I'd rather you didn't touch it.'

Con gave Joe a dubious look. 'Are you sure?'

'I'm certain.'

Con and Rick made Joe stay by the dying fire while they packed up camp. When everything was ready, they headed out. With food in their bellies and little or nothing to carry, they set a good pace initially, despite their fa-tigue. The sea beckoned them with the hope of rescue. They left the upland plain and entered the burnt remains of the forest. Ruined tree trunks spread to the horizon, standing like black obelisks in the snow. Trees littered the ground also. Fortunately, the fire had pruned them to crumbling, charred cylinders. Rick was able to drag the travois, which was loaded with little more than kindling, a few sticks of firewood, the frozen meat, and the tent, over the fallen trees without assistance. Still, the obstacles slowed them down. The sleepless night also began to take its toll. Their pace slackened to a slow trudge. The line of march stretched out, with Rick at the lead, Con in the middle, and Joe at the rear. They walked mechanically as their minds hazed over with fa-tigue. The landscape they passed through continued to change. They encountered mounds of flood debris, caked with frozen mud. The clearest path was close to the river, which flowed broader here, but sluggishly. The flood was long over, and the world was drying out and freezing. The snowfall was sporadic and light. The few streams they encountered were shallow and had mostly frozen over. Toward late morning, they came to a river bend and saw what they thought was a huge stack of driftwood. When they approached more closely, they realized the pile consisted of corpses weathered to bare bones. Thousands of animals had been washed up on the river-bank. Under other circumstances, Rick would have spent happy hours examining the skeletons. Instead, he looked at them with tired indifference. The only thing that caught his attention was a lone, thin nightstalker. It hopped feebly about the bones, scavenging for the last scraps of frozen flesh. The scrawny creature looked like a pale brown wraith and, like a ghost, it was indifferent to the living. Rick, Con, and Joe marched by without the scavenger's notice. They had become invisible again.

If Joe saw the nightstalker, he gave no sign of it. He walked silently, his face a dull mask to hide his pain. Though Joe tersely rebuffed Rick and Con's expressions of concern, they grew more and more worried about him as the morning passed. At lunch, Joe barely ate. After-ward, his slow pace slackened to a shamble. After a few, painfully slow miles, Rick halted. Snow had begun to fall more heavily, and Joe was so far behind he was only a shadowy gray shape. Rick cursed himself for his lack of attention. Con caught up with Rick and slumped down on a log, her face drawn. Together they waited for Joe. He approached with an unsteady shuffle. Each step seemed to require painful effort. His face was flushed. Despite the cold, he was perspiring.

'We're making camp now,' said Rick.

'No, no,' said Joe in a weak voice. 'It's too early. I'm ... I'm fine.' Con took off her sock mitten and felt Joe's brow. 'You're burning with fever!' She looked into his eyes and saw pain and growing confusion.

'I'm. . . I'm sorry,' said Joe in a slow, tiny voice. 'I let you down.' His eyes welled with tears of frustration as snowflakes melted on his hot, sad face.

33

'SEPSIS,' RICK SAID TO CON IN A HUSHED VOICE, AS THEY

looked for a site to pitch the tent. Joe sat on a burnt log nearby, staring blankly at the snow.