Day of the Predator - Alex Scarrow [66]
The rest of his pack were there with him, dotted around beneath the shelter of ferns, behind the slender trunks of the trees that lined the river, as many hunting males as he had teeth in his mouth. The females and the younger pack members, a little further back in the jungle for safety. So many of them hiding within a few yards of them, and yet none of these curious pale upright creatures seemed to have any idea they were being watched.
Broken Claw struggled to make sense of that. Perhaps these things had spotted them, but for some cunning reason were hiding their reactions? Again, another reason to be wary of them. That and those sticks they carried, those sticks that could easily trap fish from the raging river. And new things. Curved sticks with a taut line of vine stretched from one end to the other. He wondered what these new devices did.
The new creatures stumbled clumsily and noisily past, up the gentle incline of the bank, and disappeared into the dark canopy of the jungle. Broken Claw turned from them to study the others on the far side of the river. They were pulling on another length of vine and he watched in silent awe as the tree trunk across the water slowly jerked and wobbled and raised inches at a time, reminding him of one of the large plain-dwellers, raising its head and long neck after drinking from a pool of water.
He understood this thing now. He understood its purpose.
A way across the dangerous water. A way that could be raised and lowered at will.
He caught sight of yellow eyes dotted here and there, the intent gaze of his extended family pack. They too were watching the tree rise, apparently under its own power. That was good. Good that they were seeing for themselves how wary they must be of these harmless-looking new arrivals.
Broken Claw offered a soft bark and the yellow eyes vanished. And the pack, like a ghostly dawn mist dissipating under the warm light of a rising sun, was suddenly gone, as if they’d evaporated into the jungle.
CHAPTER 36
65 million years BC, jungle
It was gone mid-afternoon as they neared the crest of the steep jungle mountain they’d been struggling up since dawn. Through fleeting gaps in the foliage canopy, Liam had caught glimpses of an ebony ridge of peaks ahead of them, to the left and right, as far as he could see. He’d considered suggesting they turn left or right to try finding a way round, but that might mean a detour of days. Better, he decided, to press on up the sloping jungle hillside and tackle the ridge. At least it would be all downhill on the far side.
Up ahead, now, the jungle was fast thinning, giving way to smaller withered trees trying to find a foothold on a ground of shale and gravel dotted with coarse tufts of grass. Just ahead of him Becks emerged into sunlight.
He noticed that her back, taut with muscle, was bone dry. Don’t these clones ever sweat? Liam was drenched. Every inch of his skin was slick with perspiration, the salt running down from his fringe stinging his eyes.
Behind him he could hear Franklyn and Whitmore talking. They hadn’t stopped since they’d set out from the camp, a relentless jabbering to and fro on all things prehistoric. It was certainly reassuring to know their group had what sounded like a fair bit of expertise on this alien environment, but Liam would happily have paid a ship steward’s monthly wage for them to just shut up for five minutes.
Whitmore dabbed at his damp forehead. ‘But I want to know why we haven’t seen any yet. This Mesozoic era was very favourable to the larger species. I mean –’
‘No need to patronize me, Mr Whitmore,’ Franklyn cut in. ‘I know all that. I know this was the most densely populated era, that the Cretaceous was really the time of the dinosaurs. Much more so than the Jurassic era.’
Whitmore