The Navigators (25 page)

A shock went through Barry as he realized what had happened. The fragrances used in shampoos and deodorants—so common in his time—would be intriguing scents here. Getting wet in the stream had revived the aromas, but as he piled on the mud, he dampened the modern human smell.

Dampened, but not eliminated. He slid down another inch. The mud on his head helped hide him visually as well as aromatically, but he needed air—and he needed to see.

This would be a game of wait and watch. If Barry didn’t move and the animal didn’t see him, he could stay put until it passed. Maybe it wasn’t even stalking him at all. Every animal needed water, so the streams were a natural watering place—and a natural hunting ground.

Maybe whatever it is just needs a drink.

He remained rigid, not daring to blink as the shadow slinked through the ferns and grass, moving slowly as though it had lost sight of whatever it had been tracking. It moved steadily alongside the stream, closer and closer, obscured by a few feet of tall grass.

It stopped and raised its head to sniff the air. Its nose and ears became visible. It was one of the big cats, a relative of the saber toothed tiger, and just as dangerous. It looked to be five or six feet long, not counting its long tail. Normally it might hunt a baby mammoth.

It lowered its head and took a few more steps, gliding effortlessly through the underbrush. The long grass made no noise as it passed over the animal’s long body. Barely a twig snapped under its tremendous weight.

Barry remained frozen in the water. His only hope was if the predator didn’t see him. He squeezed the backpack. It wouldn’t make much of a weapon. Fighting a bear or any large predator, the idea is to make yourself “big,” to present yourself as a threat and hope to avoid a conflict.

If an attack were to occur, the goal was to fight back as hard as possible. The animal wants a meal, not an injury. Even the smallest wounds got infected in the jungle, and infection is death—even for a tiger.

He wrapped one strap of the backpack around his hand. Maybe throwing it at the tiger would be enough of a scare to chase it off.

If not, I’ve lost my only weapon.

He drew another slow breath.

The tiger moved again, lifting its snout to the sky. It smelled something, and it seemed to want to explore that smell. What could intrigue a big cat that much?

Then he understood.

Blood
.

Barry pulled at his shirt. His armpits has been stained with blood from the crutches, and the scent was now in the water. Sitting by the stream while he piled mud onto himself had put the blood scent into the air.

The tiger would eventually figure it out, and then find its source.

That’s why he’s hunting in daytime.

The big cat moved again, this time drawing a line in Barry’s direction. No longer walking parallel to the stream, the cat now looked to actively enter it. In a moment, it would spot Barry, too.

Do tigers swim? I know gorillas can’t. I’m pretty sure tigers can. What do I do? I can’t outrun it. I have to stand my ground and fight. Is that better done in the water? I can get up a tree—but so can it. Better than me, especially with a cast on.

A heavy, soaking wet cast.

Barry could see the whole outline of the tiger as it moved, glimpsing its long, extended fangs. It was less than ten feet from him now. He froze as the big cat pushed effortlessly through the tall grass toward him.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

I
had stayed mostly to side streets and alleys as I made the long hike to the free clinic. There weren’t many cars on the street at this hour, and the few that passed were mostly late night party goers—nobody interested in a dirty, disheveled young man walking alone.

The dark store windows and the street lights overhead created a mirror every twenty feet. I didn’t dare look. I wasn’t sure about that person anymore.

I shoved my hands into my pockets and continued onward. The time would come when a decision had to be made.

Does the possibility of running away even exist anymore? Probably not. Not for an exchange student with a student visa.

Less so for a fleeing felon.

On the corner stood a shoe repair shop with a pay phone on the wall. A relic from another time. A sign from the gods that fate is the result of choices.

I could call Findlay and tell him the location of the machine, then just walk away. I could save myself and maybe restore my family.

As I stared at the phone, I thought of my father and grandfather.

How will you be remembered?

I knew the ancient answer to the riddle. I had been raised on it. We are remembered for the difficult choices we make, never for the easy ones.

And this was no easy choice.

* * * * *

The tiger had a fix on Barry’s scent. It was crouching, sniffing the air for him, but so far the wind wouldn’t comply. It was close enough for Barry to hear the big cat’s breathing—a low, menacing rumble.

He tightened his grip on the backpack.

The big cat turned and stopped, raising its head. It glanced back toward the tree line, perking its ears.

Then Barry heard it, too. The familiar whirring of the time machine as it revved up to make its return trip.

Minnie was announcing it was time to go.

* * * * *

Melissa had run the campus par course many times. Rarely at night, and usually in running shoes, but tonight the dirt surface and periodic water fountains between the outdoor exercise stations gave relief like they never had before.

She was soaked in sweat and her feet were bruised.

A few miles remained between the mall and her friends’ apartments; even the closest ones lived on the far side of campus. The shortest, safest route was this one—a dark, slender running path.

She paused for a moment by the fountain, getting a second wind.

A difficult day had turned into a difficult night. As long as she appeared at least a
little
like a jogger, nobody would give her a second thought, but the threat of campus security loomed as word had certainly gotten out about the Sun Dome by now.

The cops weren’t likely to let that slide, and since I’m still wearing the same clothes…

It wasn’t worth thinking about.

Move quickly, move quietly, and stay in the shadows.

It’s going to be a long night and it’s still just getting started.

* * * * *

The noise from the time machine grew louder, beckoning its imminent departure. Barry sat still in the water, afraid to move and afraid to stay. The saber tooth tiger seemed intrigued by the sound but hesitant to explore it.

The whirring grew more intense. Barry thought to cover his ears, but couldn’t risk catching the eye of the big cat.

Minnie’s wailing reached a deafening peak. Barry closed his eyes for what was about to happen next. The cat crouched, its ears obviously hurting from the noise.

It was dizzying. Barry wasn’t sure what was taking so long. Usually the machine had let out with its blast of light by now. Instead, the incessant siren continued.

The cat was feeling it, too. It flinched and shrugged against the noise, backing away.

A huge blast shot out like lightning. The cat leaped back and ran for the trees. The echo of the whirring faded through the forest, and only a ringing in Barry’s ears remained.

Minnie had saved him.

And maybe she had killed him, too. If the machine had returned without him, he was now dead to all his friends and family, anyone he had ever loved. But he had survived becoming dinner for a saber tooth tiger – for now.

Barry inched his head out of the water, straining to ensure the tiger had departed. There was no sign. The big cat had had enough.

He sat on the side of the stream, breathing hard. After his pulse returned from the stratosphere, he decided to go see what had happened to Minnie—but he walked a long circle from the tree line where the tiger had disappeared.

The grass was just as tangling as before. It tugged on his cast and stuck to it, covering his legs with briers and stickers from local flora. Gratefully, no sand spurs had appeared yet, but it was probably only a matter of time.

He made his way to the place where he’d left the time machine, craning his neck to see over the large ferns and palmettos.

It was still there.

The grass was matted down under it, like a steam valve had opened and flattened everything in a ten-foot diameter.

“Minnie!” Barry hopped to the big bronze egg and hugged it. “You didn’t leave without me!”

He stepped back, admiring his luck – but only for a moment.

“
Why
didn’t you leave without me?”

He inspected the flattened grass all around the machine. “You build up all that energy for a trip, and when none happened, you had to let it go, didn’t you? Must be a venting system underneath.”

Scanning the dials, nothing appeared to be out of place. Then he checked the fuel gauge: empty. His heart sank. He placed his forearms onto the frame and dropped his forehead against them. “Why didn’t I learn how to refuel you when I had the chance!”

He slung the backpack into the machine. It bounced a little from the spring in the seat.

Barry felt a shock go through him. “The dead man switch.” He smiled, wiping the sweat from his brow. “Minnie, you little devil, you have a safety switch in the seat. You never fly solo, do you? No driver, no trip.”

He pushed the backpack aside and sat in front of the control panel, feeling the springiness of the seat. He nodded. “Yeah, brilliant. You can’t get stranded.”

Barry sat back and exhaled. “Except, I
did
get stranded.” His fingers drifted over the console. “Minnie, you have my apology for ever doubting you. You’ve had us covered from the get go.” Leaning forward, Barry rested his cheek on the control panel. “Now tell me, dear. How do I fuel you back up so we can go home?”

Easing himself outside the machine, he stood and inspected it. For every time they had needed an answer, the designer of the machine had provided one.

There was always going to be a need to refuel; now I just need to figure out what it is.

He rubbed his chin and stared at Minnie. “Actually, I don’t need to figure it out, do I? Your designers have already done that. I just need to find what it is they set up.”

Everything’s been pretty simple so far. Why not this?

Simple, he reminded himself, was a relative term. He leaned on the frame and checked over the hardware. The machine wasn’t obviously a time machine at first; he needed Findlay to figure that out. And Findlay needed some of the deans from other disciplines. Math, specifically, and experts in physics and mechanical engineering. There was an underlying mechanical side to everything about this strange contraption; the levers, the dials.

What haven’t we used yet?

When he stood up, the answer was staring him in the face.

The large turbine just behind the passenger seat was the last remaining mystery. So far, it hadn’t done anything. First, it didn’t move because it was caked with mud from the mine. Later, when they had cleaned it up, it moved freely, but seemingly without purpose.

He put his hand on the little handle.

It slipped forward an inch, then engaged with a gear, becoming very hard to move. It wasn’t weight. It was resistance.

Barry inspected the turbine. It was moving. A slight scraping noise came from inside.

He walked around to the fuel gauge. There, the slight glow of the iridescent paint pulsed in rhythm with the scraping noise.

I’ll be damned.

He went back to the flywheel and grabbed the handle, cranking it faster. The scraping noise increased its rhythm. He turned the wheel several times, hoping that cranking it would start an engine somehow, like a model T Ford or an old lawnmower, but the scraping sound remained consistent.

Let’s rev this thing up and see what happens.

He grabbed the turbine handle again and spun it hard, hoping to really get the wheel moving fast.

Instead, halfway around the first strong push, it stopped. The wheel seized up, jamming his hand and sending a shock wave up his arm.

Barry stepped back, rubbing his hand and inspecting the machine. The rhythm was consistent. It hadn’t sped up or slowed down. He checked the fuel gauge. It was pulsing rhythmically with the turbine.

Speed isn’t the important factor here, for this part of the machine. Whatever it’s doing, it’s doing it the way it was built to do it.

At this speed; no faster, no slower.

He massaged his wrist.
Okay, Minnie; we’ll do it your way.

Checking the gauge every few minutes, Barry hoped to see the bar rise. There was no discernible movement. The scraping inside the machine continued at its pace, however, and despite several attempts, the handle would not be moved again—so whatever was happening, it seemed like it was happening correctly.

Minnie just needs a little time.

He gave it to her. He cleaned the briers off his clothes and inventoried the scant contents of the back pack. The cell phone was waterlogged—a dip in the stream had seen to that—and the peanut butter crackers had become soggy. The rest of the items, a bottle opener and some miscellaneous pens, tampons, and CDs, had gotten soaked to varying degrees.

He toyed with the pen, debating on writing a note in case he was unable to return to the present day, but decided that was too bleak a decision for this early in the journey. He also kept an eye out for saber tooth tigers. After killing time for an hour or so, he checked the gauge.

His hopes evaporated as a twinge of fear rippled through him. The gauge had moved, but it had moved insignificantly. An hour’s time had barely budged it. To fully charge it would take weeks; to get enough fuel for a return trip would probably take a day or more.

He did the math. A quarter of a tank had been enough to allow him to take a trip of 10,000 years, so about an eighth of a tank might be enough to return him. The rough estimation of how far the gauge had increased in an hour, divided into the amount needed was… about a day and a half. Maybe two.

Two days
. Barry glanced around.

That’s a long time to spend in saber toothed tiger land.

* * * * *

Resting in the time machine, Barry listened as the turbine continued its rhythmic scraping noise behind him.

Why does it scrape? What’s happening in there?

He didn’t know if the machine had been damaged from all the activity over the past few days. It hadn’t been shot—he checked—but it might have been broken somehow when it went into the mine way back when. In any case, he wasn’t sure it was actually refueling itself, either. The fuel for all the trips so far had been there when they found it; they had only used what was in the tank.

It might not refuel at all.

A sad thing to consider. He envisioned Melissa, returning to the motel room and not finding him there, the machine gone and him with it. Would she think he’d taken it for himself?

Hadn’t I?

His gaze drifted to the stream. Eventually, animals would make their way down game trails to the water. At dusk, he might see the mammoths. At night, different species would come to drink.

At night.

He bolted upright.

Mosquitoes are one thing. I need a fire to ward off anything bigger. That tiger’s going to return eventually.

He pulled at his shirt again
.

I’m almost as bloody as I was before, and I haven’t started a shelter or a fire or even found a good stick for a crutch! Time to get busy.

He glanced at the sky and mentally noted the position of the sun. Several hours would pass before nightfall, but there wasn’t a moment to spare. First things first; a weapon, and a fire. The smoke would keep the mosquitoes away and the fire would keep any animals away—no matter how hungry they were.

Then, if there was time, a shelter.

He got up, looking around for the nearest tree. A hundred yards away, a thick pine tree stood.

Throwing the backpack over his shoulder, he started toward it.

Two hours later, Barry had a small fire going. The TV show
Survivor
had taught him how—rub two sticks together, pushing one into the other, and don’t give up. A flint works better but flint wasn’t available. He knew from TV that getting fire from two sticks and no matches required an inordinate amount of time, patience and effort. By the time the wood finally began to smolder, he had a new layer of blisters.