Day of the Predator - Alex Scarrow [81]
Liam rolled his eyes. He didn’t need a blow-by-blow account of the maths. ‘That’s great. So … what’s the answer?’
‘With a constant particle attrition rate, my calculation is that we are located sixty-two million, seven hundred and thirty-nine thousand, four hundred and six years into the past.’ She smiled proudly. ‘Accurate to five hundred years either side of that date.’
‘Well done, Becks.’ He watched the others slowly staggering across the shifting, clattering pebbles. ‘So we have a date we can put in the message. And we can encode the message with your Harry Potter book code?’
‘Affirmative.’
‘And of course the date and location of the field office.’ He drew in breath through his teeth. ‘Jay-zus, this does really feel like we’re meddling with time in a big way.’
‘We are,’ she replied.
‘We’ve just got to figure out the best way to ensure our get me out of here note lasts … sixty million whatever years.’
‘Sixty-two million, seven hundred and thirty–’
He raised a hand to shush her. ‘To ensure it lasts a long, long time.’ He picked out Whitmore and Franklyn walking side by side comparing some of the shells they’d collected. ‘I just hope those two fossil geniuses know where best to leave our message.’
In the distance, four or five miles down the beach, he saw several long necks hastily emerging from a cluster of jungle and out on to the beach, a small herd of those alamosauruses hurrying out into the open.
Something just spooked them over there. Didn’t it?
He watched as they thundered along the beach, kicking up a trail of dust in their wake.
His gaze rested on Edward and Jasmine supporting a limping Leonard up the shingle. They finally caught up with the rest of them gathered at the foot of the steep slope of jungle.
‘We’ve just got to hike over that, ladies and gents,’ said Liam, ‘and we’re there.’
Franklyn was exhausted, out of breath and dripping with sweat. He was pretty sure the climb up this steep slope of jungle was one or two degrees short of full-on vertical rock climbing. He wondered how the huge canopy trees with their mushroom-like roof of leaves were managing to keep a purchase on the craggy rock sides.
The others seemed to be faring better than him, even that poor kid, Leonard, who was hopping and clattering up awkwardly, his bad leg dangling behind him. But then Franklyn was carrying twenty more pounds in weight than them, most of it round his middle. ‘Puppy fat’ he preferred to call it, in a vain hope that come college it was all going to magically disappear and the trim athletic body of sports jock was going to emerge. He’d still be a geek on the inside, though. But a cool jock on the outside.
A smart sports jock.
Now there’s something you don’t see every day.
He was so pleased with that observation that he misplaced his step and stumbled to the ground, barking his shin on a rock. ‘Ow!’ he hissed.
‘You OK, man?’ asked Juan, six yards ahead and above.
‘Yeah, I’m f–’ His rucksack slid off his shoulder as he picked himself up and started sliding down the slope. ‘Oh no!’ he muttered, watching it bounce off a tree trunk and continue its rolling, bouncing, tumbling descent. ‘Just great,’ he sighed. ‘Now I gotta go down, get it and climb this bit all over again.’
‘I’ll tell the others to hold up while you get your bag, ’kay?’
Franklyn nodded a thanks and began his descent. He could see his yellow rucksack down there, swinging from a low branch. Good, it wasn’t going any further, then.
Several minutes later he was nearly there, pushing his way through the large fronds of a fern on to a small level clearing of dried cones and needles and soft soil. Across the clearing – on little more than a wide ledge – was his bag, still swinging from a shoulder strap tangled round the broken stump of a branch. If it hadn’t caught there, it would have rolled over the edge and he’d be backtracking another tiresome ten minutes’ worth of climbing all the way to the bottom.
He stepped across, unwound