Sting of Lies by Carol Potenza

Author:Carol Potenza [Potenza, Carol]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Tiny Mammoth Press, LLC

Thirty-Seven

A concussive wave of pressure and sound, stinging sand, and smoldering twigs blasted through the opening. Myrna curled into a fetal position, William Tell cowered in the hollow of her belly and thighs, Jessup draped over them both. Light from the burrow’s entrance blinked out, only to be replaced by the glow and crackle of burning wood and leaves.

Jessup rolled off her. “Go.”

His voice bit into Myrna’s panic. She scrambled to her hands and knees, spitting dirt, and scuttled after William Tell into the tunnel at the back of the burrow, straight into darkness. William Tell yelped, and Myrna stopped. Jessup plowed into her behind.

“Go!” he barked.

Myrna did.

Right off the edge.

She tumbled down a steep sandy slope, her yelp just as loud as the dog’s, and somehow rolled into a sitting position at the bottom, dizzy but unhurt.

Jessup’s “Oh, sh—” jolted her to scurry out of the way until she bumped into a furry body and a rock wall.

Another boom rumbled above them as a second grenade went off. Shivers of sand rained down and a shaking William Tell scrambled into her lap. She cuddled him close and closed her eyes.

“Jessup?” she said plaintively into the darkness.

The shush of movement, the snap of twigs, and Jessup wrapped his arms around her and pressed her face into his chest.

They waited for what seemed like forever, silent, ears strained, tense.

Nothing.

Jessup’s arms still holding her, Myrna raised her head.

“Do you think they’re gone?” She pulled William Tell tighter, opening her eyes to a squint.

And was knocked silly with wonder.

A stream of men dressed in sinew-stitched leather and furred pelts treaded warily up a passage, carrying blazing pine-pitch torches that danced their shadows on worked rock walls. They followed a heavily caped shaman—shawoman—with long gray hair who scattered glittering green powder from a mittened hand, lips moving in a chant, but all sound of their trek was lost to the past. The old woman sent a side-eye glance at Myrna, fear pinching her white-gray brows, before she moved on. Myrna’s gaze skittered along the line of people, collecting details of their clothing, trying without success to place them in time, until …

The final man carried a spear. And atop the straight heavy shaft, tarred and wrapped tight with the thinnest gut, sat a luminous chalcedony Clovis point. Her skin shivered with goosebumps.

These were the mammoth people.

Sudden brilliant white light smothered the flickering oranges and yellows of the torches. The Clovis people’s bodies shimmered and faded, then morphed into … cowboys? Boots, wide-brimmed hats, heavy waxed jackets and dusters, leather gloves. Each man carried bulky canvas sacks slung over their shoulders, and gas masks hung from their necks. Hissing like a hard rain on a roof emanated from lanterns carried by the first and last man. She read the lettering on the fuel fount—Coleman.

The black-hatted cowboy at the front raised his hand in the universal sign for halt and placed the lantern in the dirt at his feet. He readjusted his sack before he fished a large chunk of charcoal out of a capacious pocket and marked a circle on the stone wall.

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