Jerry Oltion - Anywhere but Here

He heard a patter of arrows hitting the ground behind him, and one clanked off his helmet, but then he was out of range. He turned to make sure Donna was okay, too, and saw her still running.

“You’re clear!” he shouted. She slowed to a stop and turned around.

It looked like a miniature forest under the tree. At least two dozen arrows had come down, all but two or three sticking point-first in the ground. Trent pulled them up and tossed them in a pile off to the side, then picked up Donna’s end of the big branch and dragged it out into the open again. “One more time?” he asked.

Donna said, “Sure,” and picked up her end. He lifted his, and on the count of three they did it again.

Three more arrows came down. Trent tossed them aside with the others and was trying to decide whether or not to give it one more whack when he heard a snort off to the side and looked up to see the buffaloceros lumbering straight toward him.

“Jesus, get in the camper!” he yelled to Donna. She turned and ran, but she had to cross the stream to get there, and it was too wide to leap. The buffaloceros saw her movement and started toward her while she was picking her way across the slick stones, but Trent stepped out in front of it and waved his arms, shouting “Hey! Hey you! Over here.”

The buffaloceros turned toward him, lowered its head, and charged. He backpedaled as fast as he could, putting the trunk of the arrow tree between it and him, but the creature didn’t seem to see the tree. It crashed headlong into the trunk, shaking it way harder than Trent and Donna had with their log. It staggered back a step just as a hail of arrows glanced off its armored back. A couple whacked into Trent’s helmet and shoulder guards, too, and one tore a hot streak down the side of his left leg.

“Ow!” he yelled, dancing back out of the way, but the buffaloceros came after him, sidestepping the tree this time. Trent knew he would never make it across the stream before it caught him, and he didn’t want this thing ramming the camper anyway, so he picked another arrow tree and sprinted for it, his helmet tilting askew and his shoulder guards flapping up and down as he ran. He heard Donna screaming from the other side of the stream and heard hoof-beats thundering just behind him, and he poured everything he had into the last few steps between him and the tree. He didn’t even slow down; just dodged past and prayed that the buffaloceros wouldn’t see this one, either.

It didn’t. Apparently it only saw things when they moved. It smacked this tree at full-tilt, too, bringing down another rain of arrows. Trent was already out from under it and halfway to the next tree beyond; he ran to it and skidded to a stop behind the trunk while the beast was still shaking its head from the impact.

It looked around, stupefied, obviously wondering where Trent had gone. It didn’t seem any worse for wear. That armored forehead was apparently good for more than just arrows.

Trent held perfectly still while it turned its head from side to side. Donna was across the stream now and running for the pickup, and her footsteps drew its attention, but the moment it looked away from Trent he picked up two rocks and tossed one at the thing’s side.

It bellowed loudly and whirled around, just as Trent tossed his other rock into the bushes to his left. Either the motion or the sound of the rock hitting branches was enough to set it off, and it charged into the brush, scattering twigs and leaves everywhere. Trent picked up another couple of rocks and tossed them out ahead of it, beyond the bushes, and it continued onward, chasing the sound.

It kept running even after it passed the last rock. Trent listened to its hoofbeats receding into the forest, and when he was sure the creature could no longer see or hear him, he walked back to the tree he and Donna had been working on.

She came back from the pickup carrying the rifle. “Are you okay?” she asked.

“Yeah. It didn’t get me.”

“Something did.”

“Where?”

“Your leg.”

Oh yeah. He hadn’t even felt it after the initial sting, but he looked down at his left calf and saw a rip a couple inches long in his pants, and blood welling up from a cut beneath that. Now it hurt.

He sopped up the blood with his pantleg and had a look at the cut. Not very deep. It was more of a scratch than a cut, probably from the rough sides of the arrow. “It’ll be all right,” he said. He looked back toward where the buffaloceros had gone. “I guess now we know how to call one of those guys if we ever want to. They must like to butt heads like bighorn sheep.”

“It’s probably mating season,” Donna said.

Trent nodded. “I hope one of ’em doesn’t mistake the pickup for a female.”

He reached for his camp saw, then swore when he noticed what had happened to it. He’d laid it next to the pile of arrows while he and Donna had been using the log for a battering ram, but the buffaloceros had run right across it in its charge, and the last three inches of it were bent. It was the bow, not the blade, that had taken the brunt of the weight, so at least the blade hadn’t snapped, but Trent had to go back to the pickup and pound the bow into shape again. He did it inside the camper with the door closed, setting the flashlight on the counter so he could see and hammering against a chunk of firewood with a towel between it and the floor so he wouldn’t attract another buffaloceros.

When he got back to the tree, Donna had cleaned up all the arrows that had fallen around its base. They made quite a stack. Trent would have to build a longbow and see how they worked for hunting.

That was a project for later. He had a waterwheel to build today. He bent down to the cut he’d started and took a few light strokes with the saw, testing his repairs before he put his weight into it. It seemed strong enough, so he started sawing in earnest, and Donna didn’t call out a warning even when the blade bound a few strokes later.

“I think every branch that’s loose enough to come down this year probably did it already,” he said as he continued to saw. “That thing really smacked this tree.”

“It must have a head like a rock,” Donna said.

“Well, that’s about how smart it seemed.”

Trent finished the wedge, then went around to the other side and started in on the back-cut. He planned to drop the tree uphill parallel to the stream so he could cut off the top and pull it downhill when he swung it out over the waterfall. He kept his eye on both sides of his cut, making sure he was leaving an even amount of wood to act as a hinge when it started to fall. He had to cut to within a half inch or so before it teetered, then he removed the saw and gave the tree a good push. It held for a second, then let go with a groan and a pop, tipping right toward where he’d intended it to land. The top made a loud swoosh as it fanned down through the air, then the trunk thumped to the ground with a deep, bass boom . Arrows flew every which way when the tuft at the top slapped down, rattling down like pick-up sticks.

“Let’s get under cover for a few minutes in case that guy comes back to investigate,” Trent said, leading the way to one of the leafy trees, where they could climb up in its branches if they had to get out of the way. They leaned up against its trunk in the relative dryness beneath its canopy and watched the rain come down.

“Thanks,” Donna said after a minute or so.

“For what?”

“For gettin’ me away from that damned computer for a while.”

He nodded. “It was definitely eatin’ on you.” He put his arm around her and pulled her up against him. “Tell you the truth, right now I don’t care if we ever do get home. We’ve got food and water and shelter, and in a week or two we’ll have power enough to drive around if we need to, and the fridge will work again and we can cook on the stove if we want. A person can’t really ask for much more than that.”