Timeline - Michael Crichton [78]
“I said, there’s a way out.”
“How?”
“You’re not thinking. The other machine has gone back. To New Mexico.”
“So?”
“They’ll see his condition—”
“Dead, André. They’ll see he’s dead.”
“The point is, they’ll know something is wrong. And they will come for us. They’ll send another machine to get us,” Marek said.
“How do you know?”
“Because they will.” Marek turned and started down the hill.
“Where are you going?”
“To find Kate. We have to keep together.”
“I’m going to stay right here.”
“As you like. Just as long as you don’t leave.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll be right here.”
Chris pointed to the ground in front of him. “This is exactly where the machine arrived before. And that’s where I’m staying.”
Marek trotted off, disappearing around the curve in the path. Chris was alone. Almost immediately, he wondered if he ought to run and catch up with Marek. Maybe it was better not to be alone. Stay together, as Marek had said.
He took a couple of steps down the path after Marek, then stopped. No, he thought. He’d said he would stay where he was. He stood in the path, trying to slow his breathing.
Looking down, he saw he was standing on Gomez’s hand. He stepped quickly away. He walked a few yards back up the path, trying to find a spot where he could no longer see the body. His breathing slowed still more. He was able to think things over. Marek was right, he decided. They would send another machine, and probably very soon. Would it land right here? Was this a known spot for landings? Or would it be somewhere in the general area?
In either case, Chris felt certain he should stay exactly where he was.
He looked down the path, toward where Marek had gone. Where was Kate now? Probably some distance down the path. Couple of hundred yards, maybe more.
Jesus, he wanted to go home.
Then, in the woods to his right, he heard a crashing sound.
Someone was approaching.
He tensed, aware that he had no weapon. Then he remembered his pack, which was tied to his belt, beneath his clothes. He had that gas canister. It was better than nothing. He fumbled, lifting his overshirt, searching for the—
“Ssss.”
He turned.
It was the teenage boy, coming out of the woods. His face was smooth and beardless; he couldn’t be more than twelve, Chris realized. The boy whispered, “Arkith. Thou. Earwashmann.”
Chris frowned, not understanding, but an instant later he heard a tinny voice inside his ear: “Hey. You. Irishman.” The earpiece was translating, he realized.
“What?” he said.
“Coumen hastealey.” In his ear he heard, “Come quickly.”
The boy was beckoning to him, tense, urgently.
“But . . .”
“Come. Sir Guy will soon realize he has lost the trail. Then he will return to find it again.”
“But . . .”
“You cannot stay here. He will kill you. Come!”
“But . . .” Chris gestured helplessly toward the path where Marek had gone.
“Your manservant will find you. Come!”
Now he heard the distant rumble of horses’ hooves, rapidly growing louder.
“Are you dumb?” the boy asked, staring at him. “Come!”
The rumble was closer.
Chris stood frozen in place, not certain what to do.
The boy lost patience. With a disgusted shake of his head, he turned and ran off through the forest. He immediately vanished in dense undergrowth.
Chris stood alone on the trail. He looked down the path. He didn’t see Marek. He looked up the path, toward the sound of the approaching horses. His heart was pounding again.
He had to decide. Now.
“I’m coming!” he shouted to the boy.
Then he turned and ran into the woods.
:
Kate sat on a fallen tree, touching her head gingerly, her wig askew. There was blood on her fingertips.
“Are you hurt?” Marek said as he came up to her.
“I don’t think so.”
“Let me see.”
Lifting the wig away, Marek saw matted blood and a three-inch gash across the scalp. The wound was no longer bleeding freely; the blood had begun to coagulate against the mesh of the wig. The injury deserved sutures, but she would be all right without them.
“You’ll survive.” He pushed the wig back down on her head.
She said, “What happened?”
“Those other