Missing Link

She’s staring at me again.

I’m getting used to it. She’s probably just curious. Or maybe the “lady” finds me sexy in my Levi’s and Deadhead T-shirt. Wish I’d worn something warmer.

Screw the cold. It’s the least of my worries. My real problem is I’m starving. Hunger gnaws at me louder than my teeth chatter. Thirty‑six hours without food. Fortunately, it rained last night, so the dehydration death‑race is running neck‑and‑neck with hypothermia instead of lapping it.

For the record, Zelda (my private name for Ms. Unblinking—I’ve been playing Legend of Zelda a lot lately) is less hideous than you’d think a Pleistocene lady with armpit dreadlocks and enough leg hair to knit a poncho would be. Trust me—I’ve been rejected by homelier women in Phoenix bars.

You probably want to know how I got myself into this situation.

Blame the internet.

An ad popped up on a supposedly legit electronics site: “Find your soulmate—across the ages! Own the Trans‑Chron‑Porter™. 50 TB RAM. Retina display. Only $999. Free overnight shipping!”

Picture two hot influencers gazing soulfully past the product and into each other’s perfect dental work. I thought: High‑end dating app? Sign me up!

When the little white box arrived, there were exactly three instructions:

Power On

Say the date & place you want to visit.

Press EXECUTE. Repeat to return.

Piece of cake.

PBS was droning in the background—some Nova guy nerding out over Neandertals—while I contemplated my maiden voyage. Something safe. Familiar. Romantic. Obviously, the night in high school when blindfolded Emily accidentally kissed me instead of quarterback Ryan.

I cleared my throat like a NASA launch director. “Springfield High School … February 14 … 2013.” Pressed EXECUTE.

At that precise micro‑second the TV paleo‑dude intoned, “… the Goyet Caves in Belgium—forty‑five thousand years ago.”

To paraphrase George Armstrong Custer’s final TED Talk: “Oops.”

•• •

I materialize in a meadow the size of a football field, boxed in by pines and a cliff. Sun blazing, yet I’m gooseflesh‑cold. Birds sing. Something croaks. Something else buzzes. Picturesque … except for the Pleistocene hominin standing ten feet away, clutching a stick‑spear and staring at me like she just spotted a naked mole‑rat in the produce aisle.

Zelda’s eyes widen; mine widen; our jaws drop in synchronized disbelief. Then she smiles—wide, genuine, adorable. I smile back. Step. Step. Mutual curiosity.

Closer now I notice freckles, sea‑blue eyes, and a nose that would inspire Renaissance sculptors and aerodynamicists alike. Also: she’s jacked. Picture Scarlett Johansson after six months cross‑fitting with a saber‑tooth tiger. Her only clothing is a doeskin skirt, so modesty’s on vacation.

I take one more tentative step. She bolts like Amazon stock in 1998.

•• •

I try the obvious and speak into the TCP: “My apartment—Phoenix—July 17, 2024.”

Error 0x00CC: Region code not supported.

Translation: No Wi‑Fi in 45,000 BC, sucker.

Just to be sure, I turn the device off and on again.

No joy.

I bang it against my thigh a few times.

Still nothing.

So, I follow Zelda—at a respectful, non‑arm‑ripping distance—through boulders and spruce. If anyone knows where the nearest Taco Bell is, it’s her.

Sometime around midday, a moose the size of a tour bus explodes from the trees: antlers like satellite dishes, stink like a gym bag left in the sun. Herbivore, thankfully, but try explaining diets while it’s swinging those head‑forks around. Zelda doesn’t flinch; she just tightens her grip on the spear. I practice the ancient survival technique of hiding behind a fern.

I’ll keep talking into this thing while I follow Zelda. She’s pretending she doesn’t know I’m here. Ignoring me. Story of my life with women.

A while ago, I found out the TCP has a recording app. I think it’s important for me to leave a voice journal in case I don’t get back to my own time. Maybe a paleontologist will find this thing encased in amber someday and Steven Spielberg will make a movie about it … and me. Note to Spielberg: please cast Chris Pratt to play me; he’s already done dinosaurs and can handle a Neandertal rom‑com‑horror.

The sun is low in the sky when Zelda sprints back toward me, eyes huge. She tackles me like an NFL linebacker sacking a lawn chair. I’m flat, breathless, face mashed into warm freckled cleavage while she whispers “Ssshhh … be‑bek … ssshhh …”

Branches snap. Trees groan. Then the trumpets: Mammoths (be-beks?)—seven of them—blast a chorus that makes Metallica sound like kazoos. Ground shakes, pinecones jump. Zelda clutches me until the shaggy parade tromps past and the forest exhales.

Meanwhile, with my face buried in her bosom, I explore one of her nipples with the tip of my tongue. It’s the first real naked female breast I’ve ever encountered.

And that’s when she notices exactly how … um … grateful I am for her protective embrace.

Long story short: Neanderthals may lack Netflix, but they invented astonishing alternatives to chill. Details redacted for archaeological modesty, but let’s just say the Kama Sutra looks like IKEA instructions compared to Zelda’s repertoire.

We doze beneath the Milky Way, two naked species entwined, while somewhere in the dark a wolf howls what I’m 90 percent sure is Pink Floyd’s “Wish You Were Here.”

Somewhere in the back of my mind I wonder if I’ve committed a mortal sin by having sex with a female from another species.

•• •

Dawn. We resume our journey together now—hand-in-hand. Zelda chatters away in her strange, guttural language. Occasionally, I smile and nod as if I understand her. At one point, she reaches behind me, squeezes my ass and licks her lips in a hungry, lascivious way. At first, I think she wants to have a quickie right there on the moss, but instead she drags me forward like she’s in a hurry to get someplace.

I’m starting to notice weird markings on some of the tree trunks. They’re obviously the work of human hands. Carefully placed animal bones here and there seem to act as road signs. Zelda makes a left at a cave bear skull, walks a little farther, and then makes a right at what looks like a pelvic bone—a remarkably human-looking pelvic bone. Maybe some sort of ape species lives around here.

Zelda’s giddy, dragging me uphill toward a yawning cave that smells like a raccoon dumpster fire. It must be her home.

As we walk, I’m rehearsing small talk in my head: “Lovely stalactites, Mr. Z. Big fan of your daughter’s brow ridge. I’m starving. Got any mammoth steaks in the fridge?”

Okay, that’s odd. There’s a sun-bleached human head lolling on a stake like the world’s worst garden gnome. I don’t like the looks of that. Zelda squeezes my hand, oblivious to my unease.

I’m gonna shut this thing off ’til I find out what’s going on …

Epilogue

The TV screen flickered briefly, but the narrator continued as if nothing had happened. He spoke to an empty living room.

“The Goyet dig is significant because of the almost irrefutable evidence of Neandertal cannibalism. Why they engaged in this behavior is unclear. Could it have been hunger, or was it a religious ritual? We may never know for sure.

“What we do know for certain is that the Neandertals who lived in this cave system ate not only their own kind, but modern humans as well. The bone fossils uncovered so far have included lower arm and finger bones that are clearly from an AMH, or anatomically modern human. The hand bones seemed to be clutching something, perhaps a talisman, but whatever it was decomposed thousands of years ago.

“The bone fragments show distinct signs of cutting and scraping, the same type of marks we often see on the bones of deer and horses that were butchered for food.

“The find proves the interaction between Neandertals and modern humans wasn’t always friendly, despite the DNA evidence confirming sexual intercourse took place between the two species.”