they still longed to be. He glanced at Bradford, who’d changed his appearance, perhaps, but remained essentially the same person. In all the ways that counted, Dennis suspected he himself may have changed more than anyone.
He hated the thought of letting the captain down, but felt a moral imperative to avenge the death of Tony Scott-someone he’d barely known before the Squall. He couldn’t shake a sense of protectiveness toward all those who remained. He continued to act like the same Dennis Silva everyone expected to see: careless, fearless, irreverent, happy-go-lucky, perhaps even a touch psychotic. Outwardly, except for some new scars and a luxuriant blond beard, he remained the same. But now he did care, and that was a big change indeed.
They’d seen plenty of larger piles: the stupid, domesticated “brontosarries” the Lemurians used as beasts of burden created much more mass, but the droppings of the strictly herbivorous sauropods more closely resembled titanic cow-flops. The object they were studying so intently was clearly a giant, compacted turd, manufactured by an equally giant carnivore. A “super lizard,” to be precise.
Bradford hated the term “super lizard,” and insisted the creatures were unquestionably allosaurs, relatively unchanged from specimens in the fossil record. Also, unlike most other “dinosaurs” they’d seen throughout what should have been the Dutch East Indies, super lizards were not stunted in size. If anything, they were bigger than their prehistoric cousins. Fortunately, there weren’t many of them, and they seemed highly territorial. When, rarely, one was killed, it was often quite a while before another took its place. They were ambush hunters that positioned themselves along game trails and the odd clearing. Bradford said they were built for speed, but they hunted lazy, Silva thought. That was probably how this one got Tony. Just snatched him up when he came ambling along the cut. Fresh anger surged within him, and he stood and brushed damp earth from his knee.
The voices of the work detail diminished as it slogged on toward the well, leaving them behind. Silva turned to a gap-toothed ’Cat with silver-streaked fur. He had no clan, and he was known simply as the Hunter. All ’Cats wore as little as they could get away with, but the Hunter wore nothing but a necklace and a quiver of large crossbow bolts. The massive crossbow he carried, and the super lizard claws clacking on the thong around his neck, seemed to establish his bona fides. “That not you friend,” the Hunter said simply, referring to the spoor. “See thick black hairs? They from… I think you call ‘rhino-pig’?”
“Rhino-pigs” were rhinoceros-size creatures, one of the few large mammals indigenous to this Borneo, and looked remarkably like massive razorbacks. They were extremely prolific and dangerous omnivores with thick, protective cases, and savage tusks protruding a foot or more from powerful jaws. They also sported a formidable horn on top of their heads. Regardless of the challenge, they were the Hunter’s principal prey due to their succulent, fat-marbled flesh. Evidently, in spite of their horn, they were also the preferred prey of super lizards.
“How long?” Silva asked.
“Not long. He hear big group, loud walking. He go.”
“Afraid of large groups?” Stites asked hopefully. The Hunter’s grin spread.
“He no hungry enough for all. He waste good hunting place.”
“Waste-”
Silva interrupted. “Where’d he go?”
The Hunter pointed toward a cramped trail disappearing into the jungle.
“You’re kidding,” Stites grumped. “I thought these things were big?”
“Well… how many of these things have you killed, anyway?”
The Hunter paused briefly, and fingered his necklace. “Only one,” he answered quietly.
“How come you know so much about ’em, then?” Stites’s tone was skeptical.
The Hunter considered before making his reply. “With you magic weapons, maybe you not fear ‘super lizard,’ as you call him, but to slay even one with this”-he motioned with the crossbow-“I learn as much as I can about him. Also, even while I hunt other beasts, he always hunt me. I survive him long time, so maybe I learn much.” He grinned hugely at Stites’s expression. “Enough? We see.”
“Then what brings you along?” Bradford inquired, visibly perplexed. “We cannot pay you.”
The Hunter blinked pragmatically before turning back to the trail. “If he gone, this place be safer hunting for short time. Maybe long time. The Great Nakja-Mur reward me for meat I bring…”
“Oh.”
CHAPTER 2
For the rest of the morning they crept carefully along, the Hunter in the lead, sometimes on all fours, tail twitching tensely behind him. Occasionally he paused, studying the ground disturbance in the dense carpet of decaying leaves and brush. Sometimes he motioned them to silence and listened, perfectly still, often for a considerable time. Silva grew certain that the ’Cat was using his nose as much as his ears. Ultimately, almost reluctantly it seemed, he’d move on. During one such respite, he gathered the eight others around him and spoke in a whisper that seemed almost a shout. Strangely, for once there were no raucous cries or any of the other sounds they’d grown accustomed to. Their quarry had passed recently indeed.
“We close,” he hissed. “He pass this way soon ago. He know we come; he search for place to spring trap.” The others, even Dennis, looked nervously around. “No, not here. He need more space. Maybe be clearing close ahead. He be there.”
The jungle slowly came back to life, and even at their careful pace, the expected clearing soon appeared. It was much bigger than they’d expected, perhaps a hundred yards wide and longer than they could tell from where they stood. Blackened stumps, and new, fresh leaves testified to a recent lightning fire. They squinted for a moment in the dazzling sunlight, accustomed to the gloom of the trail, but the sun soon passed behind a cloud. The midafternoon showers-so common this time of year-awaited only the inevitable buildup. A dull, distant grumble of thunder echoed in the clearing. Silva unslung the BAR and raised it to the ready.
“No,” pronounced the Hunter. “He not be so near opening. As I say, he want get us all. That need more room, I think. We go down main trail through burn. Where trail pass near jungle on either side, that where he strike.”
“Are you suggesting he’ll employ a strategy?” questioned Bradford, amazed.
“You ask, ‘he plan this?’ I let you judge. Super lizard is greatest hunter on all Borno. He not stupid.” He looked meaningfully at Silva’s BAR. “I not stupid. You magic weapons kill er so slowly, but with increasing speed, Silva got his “stately collapse.” It almost fell on top of him. The earth shuddered as the monster toppled lifelessly to the ground amid the sharp crackle of its own breaking bones. The riddled head struck less than six feet from where Dennis stood, and he was festooned with a splatter of gore and snot.
Silva almost fell to his knees, but somehow managed to keep his feet. Angrily slamming the cutlass back in its scabbard-to hide his shaking hands-he whirled and faced a grinning Paul Stites, as the gunner’s mate rushed to him.
“What the hell’d you do that for?” he yelled, his voice filled with indignant wrath. “Goddamn it, I was just gettin’ to the good part! What’s the matter with you?” Yanking his cutlass back out, he stomped over to the head until he stared down at its remaining, unblinking eye. The thing seemed dead, but its abdomen still heaved weakly, and bloody bubbles oozed from its nostrils. He touched the eye with the sharp tip of his blade, pushing until the orb popped and a viscous fluid welled forth. The creature didn’t stir.
“That’s for chasin’ us all over kingdom come and scarin’ these poor cat-monkeys half to death,” he said. Then he drove the blade deeper, feeling with the point. Finally he shoved it in almost to the hilt, and the ragged breathing abruptly stopped.
“That’s for Tony Scott,” he muttered darkly. “That’s for killin’ my friend.”
“Wish we had a camera,” Stites said languidly, slowly exhaling a blue cloud of smoke.
“Who cares about cameras; just gimme a damn bullet, will ya?” Silva pleaded. He and Stites were lounging on top of the dead monster, sharing a carefully hoarded cigarette, while Bradford-quite recovered-scampered around the beast, pacing its length and talking excitedly with the Hunter, who’d appeared in the cut soon after the shooting died away.
“Why?”
“Because I want one, damn it!” He sighed. “Look, shithead, I shot myself dry, see? I’m totally out of ammo!
