The Long War

As long as he didn’t drown, this was a good plan, right? Throw the dog off the scent, like in the movies. But the pain from the lethal gadget on his back seemed even sharper in the cold water. And he felt like it was talking to him. You could always just step away. End it in a second. A bolt through the heart—how bad can it be? Better than getting your throat bitten out by Deputy Dawg back there. But he wasn’t dead yet.

The river soon swept him away from the cultivated country, the fields, and into rougher terrain. He’d been brought into this place unconscious, and hadn’t had a chance to scope it out. Evidently the Eye of the Hunter, the city of Granddaughter Petra’s Den, really wasn’t so large. He’d need to find a place to hide before Snowy caught up with him—

“Watch out-hrr.”

The voice came from downstream. He struggled to get his head out of the water. There was Snowy, sitting on a rock as if waiting to be fed by his owner, calmly watching Joshua get washed by.

He yelled back, “Watch out for what?”

Snowy glanced farther downstream. “The hrr-rapids.”

And in a heartbeat Joshua had been swept past Snowy’s rock, and over a low waterfall, and into the rapids. He was buffeted from one worn boulder to the next, a punch to the kidneys here, a slam in the chest there, as he tumbled through the rocks like a piece of lumber. He forced himself to give in to the surging, turbulent flow, to keep his limbs loose, to protect his head. But every time the pack on his back caught on some projection the pain was agonizing.

Then he was through, squirted out like an orange pip from a child’s lips, and he was hurled even further downstream. When he glanced back, he could see no sign of Snowy. At least he might have gained some distance.

A fallen tree lay across the stream. With a mighty effort he plunged that way, grabbed the tree as he went past, and pulled himself out of the water on to a bank of gravel. He sat up to protect his back, panting, one breath, two, three.

There was nobody about. No Snowy. But now he had stopped moving he had time to concentrate on the pain in his back, a raking, ripping, tearing anguish. Worse, his lower back felt slippery again, and the damp gravel under him was stained red with blood.

Joshua Valienté had been travelling alone in the Long Earth since he was thirteen years old. He had been in some tight spots before, and he was still around. There was no reason why he couldn’t get out of this one. And you can always step, just step into a different sunlight, and it will be over in a flash…

Not yet. Think ahead. Dogs and scent, right?

He pulled at his clothing. His shirt was a ruin anyhow; it fell apart easily. He threw one half into the water and let it wash downstream. Then he draped the other half over the tree that had saved his life. He stood, glancing around, and stared to paddle down the river, sticking close to the bank, staying in the water.

“Nice t-hrry.” Snowy was right in front of him.

Joshua lunged to his left, away from the river, and ran across broken turf-like ground, not grass, something similar. The fallen tree that had saved him from the river was part of a shattered copse that looked as if it had been smashed apart by a lightning strike. He dived that way, rolled into the shadow of a big fallen trunk.

The huge form of the beagle padded silently across his vision.

Then he heard a human voice calling from far away, a male voice singing: a thin, wailing song, something about remembering Walter… The sound seemed to trigger a reflex in Snowy, and he bounded away.

Joshua knew he had been granted seconds, no more. No point running. He clambered out of his cover, his back aching, and he could feel blood trickling down his bare flesh. He cast around the clearing, picking up fallen branches, testing them. Here was one, thick and solid, too long—he smashed it in two on a lichen-covered trunk. He had a weapon.

A soft growl.

He turned. Snowy had the chewed-up remains of Finn McCool’s walkman in his mouth. He spat the junk to the ground.

Without hesitating Joshua whirled, swinging the branch as hard as he could. It slammed into the beagle’s heavy skull. It felt as if he’d tried to brain a marble statue. The impact shuddered up his arms, his aching back and even his bad shoulder hurt like hell.

But the beagle stumbled, almost fell.

Joshua glimpsed knives of stone and iron in the belt at Snowy’s waist. One chance. He leapt forward, his fingers grasping for a blade.

But Snowy stood straight, almost gracefully, almost kindly, and simply shouldered Joshua to the ground.