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Page 17.

4. Footprint

As Alex looked down at the footprint, and then around him, his stomach contorted with a mixture of emotions, ranging from fear to elation, back and forth. The search for the mysterious sky object would have to be postponed.

He made fists and crouched, as if he expected to be hugged or attacked any moment. And yet that was impossible. The spit of land on which he stood was surrounded by water on all sides. The sea whispered to one side, while palm trees rustled on the other. Birds wheeled overhead. The distant thunder of surf, and the nearby roar of water rushing past the spit, almost drowned the birds’ raucous cawing. A broad swath of calm, deep water separated the spit from firm ground in the valley. There was no place for another person to hide.

He was not, after all, alone in this world. He could have spent a lifetime here, marooned and alone, never knowing there was at least one other human being anywhere near.

Should he call out? Should he make his presence known? Or should he run and hide?

He knelt down, as his common sense returned, and studied the footprint in the sand. Then came his second surprise, a shock almost as overwhelming as the sight of that footprint itself.

It had been made by a woman.

He frowned and looked at it closely. The narrow shape, the long delicate toes, the shallow impression, all pointed to a female—probably young, probably graceful. He bent close to inhale any scent that might be there—but he only smelled the faint decay of a dead mussel fragment, a bubble of rotting kelp. He saw tiny insects scurrying inside the footprint hauling out miniscule debris to eat, for the sand was loaded with nearly invisible life forms washed in by the tide and left to die, probably after reproducing in time for the next tide.

Dazed as he was, it occurred to him that if there was one footprint, there must be more.

Like a man walking underwater, he rose and looked about. Sure enough, he saw the faint impressions of more footprints. The one he had found was a perfect impression left in the dark brown, wet sand just under the higher, dry white sand baking in the hot sun. He found faint impressions that seemed to lead up from the water.

Again and again, to make sure he wasn’t dreaming, he compared his own foot. He made an impression near the female footprint, and almost cried for joy when he saw they were not the same. Not at all. That one footprint, the first one he’d found—it was so perfect that he could almost see the whorls of the skin, but of course that had to be an illusion. The sand was too coarse and grainy for that, even when wet.

The footprint must have been made during the most recent low tide, for water rushing in with the incoming tide would mar and disturb such a delicate and perfect print. He studied it some more: seemed to be adult, from a woman of average height and build, walking with a strong and healthy stride.

As he looked at the foot prints, he noticed the wavering line of dark droplets on either side of them. Some of the droplets had not yet soaked into the ground.

Blood.

He rose, trembling, and looked about. It seemed as if the ground were whirling under his feet. Was it possible? Was he not alone after all? Could there be another human being alive? Wounded? Or had she bagged a kill and was running with it? Or was it some added cosmic joke—a new kind of ripper, raising danger to new levels?

He began to get hold of himself. Now, if ever in his short life, he must keep a cool head. He knew instinctively: contact with another human could mean any number of consequences for himself, from losing his life to gaining a partner, or in-between some level of friendly cooperation.

Where did the footprints lead? He followed them eagerly up onto dry sand in the middle of the sand bar, where they became quickly blurred. Even as he walked desperately in circles, a light wind drove up a foot-high wall of dust. The footprints led nowhere.

He ran down the other side, and saw one or two more descend into the water.

No! he wanted to yell. A pang gripped his stomach as he looked about on the other side for signs of the rippers. Sure enough, he saw a shadowy figure slink from one dark area to another among the tall marsh reeds. If the woman had gone in there, they’d tear her to pieces in a minute.

There was nothing he could do now. He was unarmed and defenseless. He stared desperately, shielding his eyes from the sun with both hands and standing on tiptoe. He edged backwards up onto the highest point on the sandbar to gain an extra few feet of vantage to scan the valley from one side to the other.

Nothing. The woman had vanished. If the rippers had a kill, they would be silently trashing the tall reeds as they milled around the corpse and tore off pieces. They’d fight over a body, perhaps even killing one of their own number, like sharks in a frenzy. No sign of any of that.

Then he saw the keel line in the sand opposite.

He dove in, hard, without another thought, and swam against the fast-flowing current. Gasping, struggling, he dragged himself ashore a hundred or more feet downstream, almost where the narrow channel opened into the sea. Keeping an eye out for rippers, he raced back toward the keel mark.

He saw also the giant flowers, where she must have run. Where blood had dripped, the large yellow and red petals were curling up hungrily, making low squishing sounds like groans of satisfaction as they digested their treat. Butterfly bats sailed in close for a bemused look but kept safely out of range.

Yes! He ran along the edge of the sand bar, feet splashing in the water. The woman had come in a small boat. She’d pulled it ashore here for some reason. Alex knelt and ran a fingertip gently along the edge of the sharp depression in the wet sugary sand where the keel had cut like a knife, and drawn along like the runner of a sled in snow. An honest to goodness boat, he thought. The keel was four inches wide and sank in to its full depth of six inches. No sign of a fin, though if there was one she might have pulled it out to get the boat on shore. No sign of a heavy weight either coming or going. She’d probably come alone or with one other person at most; or children. Children? Could one dare hope?

He rose and stood shielding his eyes with one hand as he looked out to sea.

There! He saw the sail. For a moment he whooped and jumped up and down. It was just a small sail, drab and ugly, the tip of its triangular shape just visible as the boat rocked in deep pockets of water going into the rough water near the breakers.

He stopped jumping and grew silent. Pangs gripped his gut. What if it were someone dangerous to him? He must observe first. Must find the woman. Maybe there was a man, or men. He must find out who they were, what they were like before he exposed himself to their mercies. Maybe the woman was a prisoner and he could free her. Maybe she was just another loner like herself, convinced she was the only human being on earth. Anything was possible. He must find out, and decide from an informed position how to behave.

He saw more blood on the sand. He heard the low growl of a ripper, probably the beast he’d spotted running from one hiding place to the other among the bushes. Alex backed toward the channel, ready to dive in if the ripper came out after him. As he stared toward the dense vegetation further inland where the sand ended and the marshes began, he saw the trail of footprints and the spatters of blood. Big droplets of it, almost a dark vermilion color, congealed like thick-flowing oil, lay spattered on the sand. Some of the droplets had rolled a bit in settling, and had picked up a partial coating of fine sand grains.

No time to look more closely—two rippers came loping out onto the sand, probably some of the beasts that had been shadowing him further up the coast for some time now. They appeared to have some fear of him—though he didn’t have his weapons with him—or they’d be running full tilt. Instead, they loped toward him with a kind of exploratory posture, waiting to see what he would do.

Alex whirled and dove into the water to swim back to his own place. The rippers stayed on the sand, watching him with enigmatic gazes.

As he swam, hugging the shore to avoid sharks, Alex reflected on his exciting find: whoever had a fine boat like that would not go away anytime soon. It had taken time and civilization to build a boat like that. The boat was too small to go very far, so they would be nearby.

Then he thought: would they accept him? He was, after all, not the man Alex Kirk had been. If she was a real woman, capable of all that a woman could do and be, then what place could he have with her?

If she were alone, and hoping for a miracle, would he be more disappointment than joy?