"You got 'em, Con," said Joe, "I know you did."
"But I used up the gun," said Con in despair.
"You did the most sensible thing," said Rick. "Joe or I would have done the same."
"Yeah," said Joe, "if we were smart enough."
"With those bastards gone, we won't need the gun," added Joe.
Con was cheered until light returned and revealed the story of the night's events. Outside the tent were three large ellipses where the gun's blasts had scoured the ground of snow. Beyond the ellipses, the snow was tinted by pulverized debris. The snow behind the central ellipse was pink. That bloody stain was the only remains of the nightstalker vaporized by the gun's discharge. The tripod was gone also, as was the food and even the pot. Con began to weep uncontrollably.
Rick held Con in an effort to comfort her. "Everything Joe and I said was true," he said. "We would have done the same thing."
"I've ruined everything," sobbed Con.
Joe also wrapped his arms around Con. "Con... Con . . . Con .. ." he murmured. "We'll be all right. Don't blame yourself."
"Why not?" she said bitterly.
"We still have each other," said Joe softly. "You're what really matters." Con looked into the eyes of the two men, and saw Joe was telling to truth. She mattered more to them than the food. Con realized her grief distressed them, so she bot-tled it up. Through an effort of will, she stopped crying and forced a wan smile upon her face. "I'll be okay," she said. Rick left Con and Joe to investigate the scene more closely. Blood drops on the snow soon caught his eye. They lay on the outer margin of the left ellipse. Rick scrutinized the blood drops and the tracks associated with them. He wandered away from the campsite twice before he read their entire story and returned to tell it Joe and Con.
"One of them was wounded," said Rick. "But it got away." 32
AS RICK PREPARED TO RESUME THE MARCH TO THE SEA,
he knew all their hopes rode on the slim chance that people had returned to the island. Yet, even that desperate gamble required them to reach the shore with enough strength to make a signal. His mind focused on strategies for achieving that goal.
The arithmetic of calories had been dismally simplified. There was no food. Their only nourishment was the previous evening's meal. Thank goodness we ate well, he thought. That was the only plus in his calculations. His thoughts dwelled on reducing the minuses. We must conserve our en-ergy! With that objective in mind, he forbade Joe to track the wounded nightstalker. It was a decision Joe challenged, but he conceded in the end. "You're the guide," was all he said. Rick also drastically reduced the loads they were to carry. Everything that wasn't absolutely essential was aban-doned—the flashlights, the cooking and eating utensils, the conifer bough bedding, and their summer clothes. The cook-ing pot was already gone. The hardest thing to leave was the bulk of the firewood, but the loss of the travoises made it necessary. That they burned with the bedding to warm them-selves before they started out. As they stood before the blaze, Joe picked up the gun and threw it in. Rick attempted to pull it out.
"When sunlight returns, the gun will recharge," he said.
"So?" replied Joe. "By then, our fates will have been sealed, one way or another." Joe's right. Rick thought, the gun's only deadweight now.
Rick stepped back and watched the gun burn. The three stared into the flames, lost in their private thoughts. When the fire died down, Rick went over to the remaining travois, grabbed its poles, and started off. Without a word, Con and Joe followed.
FOR A TIME, the nightstalker was governed only by fright and pain. She hid in a gully and licked the stump that had been her left hand until the blood flow was stanched. Then, in the stoicism of wild things, she turned her at-tention away from her injury and back to the needs of survival. She must eat to live. That fundamental imper-ative overwhelmed her fright and her pain. The animal left the gully and warily returned to the place of the big things.
When she arrived, the big things were gone. A wide expanse of cold whiteness was stained pink and held the aroma of food. Frantic with hunger, she licked the pink-ness that promised nourishment, yet yielded none. Her tongue went numb with cold before she stopped. Even-tually, she left the pinkness and approached the spot where the big things had slept. She sniffed it. There was the scent of food there also. It was not the burnt flesh smell, but, rather, an old familiar one—the blood smell of mammals. The nightstalker had sensed it for the first time yesterday. About the sleeping place, the aroma was strong and tantalizing. It also hung about the trail the big things made when they had departed. Logic was alien to the nightstalker's brain. It made no reasoned arguments. The big things looked strange and smelled strange, but they had the blood smell of food. Hence, they were prey. The creature knew instinctively that it must follow the trail. The empty expanse of cold whiteness held no other opportunities. The prey was large, and it carried the ter-rible black stick, but the nightstalker was desperate. At the end of the trail were warm meat and a chance to live.
THE WORLD WAS eerily quiet. As Rick, Con, and Joe si-lently trudged through the falling snow, the only sound was their muffled footsteps.
As Rick walked, he considered the many unknowns in his calculations—the weather, the distance to the sea, the wounded nightstalker, and, foremost, the human spirit. He had read tales of hardship where seemingly healthy persons surrendered and died while others, suffering more grievously, endured. That intangible, the will to live, had made the difference. Their wills would soon be put to the test. There was no way to tell how each would fare in the hard times ahead. Rick wondered, When I'm starving and freezing, will I give up? He looked at Con and hoped, for her sake, he would not. Rick turned toward Joe and was reassured by what he saw. Joe was the picture of fortitude and purpose. Wear-ing the Tyrannosaur hide poncho over his jacket and carrying his spear, he looked fierce and savage. His ex-pression matched his dress. Vengeance smoldered in his eyes.
"It's out there," he said grimly. "I know it's coming."
"Better that it wear itself out tracking us than the other way around," said Rick, repeating his earlier argument.
Joe did not reply. Instead, he paused and stared back into the distance, looking for his enemy. The falling snow drew a gray curtain over the landscape. He saw nothing. Joe turned and caught up with Rick and Con.
Throughout the day, Joe and Rick took turns pulling the travois. It was laden with kindling and firewood, all covered by the tent. Con carried the remaining supplies in a bag rigged as a pack. It was a light load, and she realized it. They gave it to me because I'm the weakest one. That idea chagrined her, yet she knew it was true. All her life, she had been strong and energetic, an athlete proud of her toughness. Yet her spendthrift metabolism had turned upon her, wasting her strength. Though her body was diminished, her spirit remained strong. She knew their journey through fire, flood, darkness, and cold was drawing to a climax. She was resolved to see it through to the end.
Growing hunger and exhaustion silenced the three. Talking required too much effort. Their dreary, monot-onous march was no longer interrupted by meals, but Rick insisted they rest frequently. He was concerned that they might push themselves beyond the point of recovery. Accordingly, he called a halt for the day as soon as the slate gray sky began to grow darker.