by Ron Rayborne
Wildlife, he thought. How strange that word. Animals roaming free, free to go wherever they choose. No cages, no walls, no roads, no fences. It boggles the mind. And I’ll have to go through them! The thought sent a shiver up his spine. Still, the view ahead of him was lovely, no, more than that, it was stunning, majestic, alluring. It called to something deep inside him, something long buried by civilization, paved over with cement and asphalt. Touched a heart hardened against it.
Something moved briskly in the grass nearby him. He looked. Spider! A big one! Tom jumped up and back, but it paid him no mind, continuing on in its hurried fashion away from him until it was lost in the undergrowth. He looked around himself for more; shuddered at how close it had been. One didn’t see spiders much in his time, casualties of man’s ceaseless war on pests. One did, though, have to deal with flies and roaches.
Again, the magnitude of his situation hit Tom and terrified him. This world, this raw, untamed wilderness, teeming with life, all manner of life, was alien, as alien as if it were another world. Karstens was right, it would take a revolution in his thinking to get used to it. Where before, his basic necessities had always been met by long established means and mediums of convenience, now he was entirely on his own. He would have to find his own food when his rations ran out. Make his own clothing. Defend himself. No one would come to his aid if he called. There was no one to complain to for injustices. No doctor to attend to his injuries. If that spider was poisonous and had bitten him, he could very well now be lying on his deathbed, so to speak, and no one would ever know — or care.
Then, suddenly, unbeckoned from within him, from that dark core of fear and loathing he’d acquired in the warped, twisted world of the future, arose another feeling. He missed his world, his own time. A world that, for all of its sickness, all of its miserable gloom, still was the world that he understood. A world that he could at least navigate in somewhat. The world where his friends and everything he ever knew were. He wanted to go back.
Almost as quickly as he’d thought it, though, Tom shivered, his revulsion immediate. No! The perverse feelings of regret were short-lived, melting away in the light of sanity, blowing away on the wind. He shook them from him. Yes, he did miss his friends. Yes, the prospect of being alone in this world was petrifying. Yes, for a while he would miss the security of utter predictability. But there was nothing else for him there, nothing else to yearn for in that dark and dreary place.
He looked again at the PinPointer. There were the two dots, still separated by a puzzling distance. He wondered if they could see him, as well. Then Dietrich would know that someone else had made it back and would be on the lookout. Tom wondered if he should turn off the device so as not to announce his presence. He thought about it: Might be a good idea, better not to let the big man know until the last. On the other hand, if Julie noticed the other dot, it would give her hope. Of course, there was the possibility that, as soon as he had switched on his locator, both Dietrich and Julie were aware of it the same way he was of them. He was undecided, but finally chose to leave it off, for the time being anyway. He took another look at his intended path, then turned around and headed back down the mountain, this time with a bit more assurance.
At the landing site, Tom noticed that the lighting had changed subtly. He looked up. The day had advanced some, but he couldn’t tell by how much. Wondering what time it was, Tom looked for his watch, then remembered that he’d been told to remove it before launching. He dug around among the assorted paraphernalia in the container and found it. Not working. He tapped it, shook it, but to no avail. Damn! He’d need that watch, always wore one. How would he know the time without it? Then he thought about it: What do I need it for? It’s not like I’m on a schedule now. There are no more clocks to punch, no more deadlines to meet. No more curfew. Still. Tom looked up through the canopy, tried to judge the time by the position of the sun. It was high overhead. Probably near noon.
He wondered what time of year it was. In the summer, the days were long, but in the winter, they were short. How to know? Looking around, he again noticed the flowers he’d seen earlier. Flowers used to come out in spring, he thought. Spring, then. The days would be of medium length, with sunset perhaps seven or eight hours from now. Should he leave right away? Tom pulled the other bunker out, the one with the food. Put everything on the ground. Spread it out. He grabbed the backpack, opened it, then tried to decide what to bring. He wouldn’t be able to take everything, so he had to choose wisely.
The pack was a nice one. Top of the line, as would be everything else. He looked inside. Roomy, yet not nearly enough space. Should he fill it with food or equipment? If food, it would take him farther, but he knew it would run out well before he was even a fraction of the way there. If equipment, he would have to find food on the way, and Tom was decidedly wary of his ability to do so. What if the plants were poisonous? He had a firearm; he could hunt. But he was leery of that, as well. For one thing, he had no idea how to go about it. What if he only wounded the animal? He’d heard as a child that a wounded animal was a dangerous animal. For another, was the fact that he had ethical objections to killing other beings. In his time, wildlife were all but nonexistent. It would be sacrilege to those with caring hearts, like crushing a rare flower. Besides, both he and Julie were vegetarians, having made that decision years ago when they began to distrust the meat the government supplied. A combination, then.
From the gear in front of him, Tom chose:
Sleeping bag
Tent/Hammock
Inflatable pillow
Lightweight thermal blanket
Broad-brimmed hat
Sunglasses
An extra set of clothing
Needles and thread
Handsaw
Two small hand towels
Two bars of soap
Medical kit
Insect repellent
Water filter
Collapsible water bottle
Small, foldable pan and spoon
Flashlight / lantern / signal light
Fire-lighters
Magnifying glass
Pedometer
50’ length of rope
Hand shovel
Compass
PinPointer
Photo Identifier
Knife
Gun and ammunition
Writing journal
Binoculars (still slung around his neck)
Lastly, he found the board piano he’d brought. The little wooden, oval and steel-tined instrument from Africa his father had given him as a child that played such simple, yet sweet tunes. His first musical instrument. He couldn’t leave it.
Then he loaded the foodstuffs. A meatless, jerky-type concoction. Freeze-dried packages of various meals. Packets of candy. Powdered sugar drinks. He hefted the pack and groaned. Too heavy. Way too heavy. But when he tried to think of something to leave out, he couldn’t. He was already leaving too much stuff behind.
Something moved in the brush behind him, something heavy.
Tom vaulted for the door of the Strong Box, tripped, painfully banging a shin, then, rising in a hurry, fell inside, grabbed the door and made to close it, stopping himself just before it shut. Yeow! he grimaced. That really hurt! And he didn’t want to be stuck here in the dark again, that was for sure. Heart racing and leg throbbing, Tom listened for it now — at first, nothing more, then, finally, a slow, methodical advance through the brush. Gradually, he pushed the door open a little to get a look. Peered around the side. What he saw made his heart leap. A great, russet-colored beast, with wide antlers upon its head, stared attentively in his direction, ears pricked forward. It looked ready to bolt. Evidently, Tom’s ungraceful exit alerted it. With great caution, it stepped, one foot in front of the other, occasionally stopping to look around. Extremely watchful, its muscles rippled under thick skin. In a short while, it was standing over the supplies Tom had carelessly left on the ground. A huge beast. Magnificent.
After takin
g another look around, it lowered its head to sniff the gear. Great! Tom thought, It’s going to eat it, and then I’ll have nothing. What to do? Seeing that the enormous animal looked like it might flee, Tom decided to try to scare it away. Holding the door, he pushed it open some more, ready to close it again if need be. Instantly, the beast raised its head and looked at him. He gulped, continuing to open the door until he was fully in view of the animal. It took a step back. Then another. Tom just stood. Finally, the animal turned, and with high springy steps, pranced away, back into the shadows.
Tom’s chest heaved. He’d never seen anything like it! Well, maybe in pictures from a time before he was born, or in Julie’s dioramas. There was no comparison.
If Tom was apprehensive about the journey before, he was positively terrified now. Quickly, he began to gather the supplies into the bunkers and drag them back inside the Strong Box. He put the lantern on the small, raised counter next to the seat, which provided some light. Back outside, he looked up again, trying to gauge the time. The sun was now further west. He decided that the day was too far advanced and thus now was not a good time to leave. It was a stall. But leave he would, first thing in the morning. That meant a night in the Strong Box.
Suddenly hungry, Tom rummaged in the food locker and found some bread and jerky. He ate it hastily, then opened a pack of the powdered drink mix. He’d need some water. To be sure, there was some in one of the “cabinets” below, but for some reason, Tom didn’t want that water. He thought of the stream outside — clean, lovely. Taking the collapsible bottle, he dumped in a portion of the powder, then tentatively made his way back outdoors, carefully scrutinizing the area before proceeding. It was probably fifty feet to the stream. He judged that it was safe. Limping, Tom kept an eye out for any more uninvited visitors. None showed. Crouching down now, he dunked the bottle into the stream and it began to fill, turning a bright red from the drink. Likely an artificial dye. When it was filled, he turned back to the Strong Box.
Leaning back in the seat he’d arrived in, he made to chug his drink, when he suddenly realized that he’d not filtered the water. He looked at it. It looked clean, but he’d been instructed not to drink unfiltered water, could catch a disease or something. Damn. He really wanted that red stuff! Sighing, he got the water filter and unscrewed the lid, pouring the drink in. Then he drank it. None of the coloring or sugar made it through, but the water by itself was refreshingly cool. Tom drank half the jug, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Then he ate some more. He’d decided that, if he was going to be leaving most of the food behind, he’d better eat as much as possible before he left. He gorged himself.
Tom withdrew the journal from the backpack and wrote:
Julie, I’m here. I’m coming. Hold on, my love.
Reflexively, he dated it the date it had been when he’d left: February 21. Then he thought again about that: What is the date? It seemed improbable that he’d landed on the very same day of the year he left on. He furrowed his brow. Actually, it does seems to be spring outside, he thought; Okay, let’s make it April 22nd. Earth Day.
April 22, Year 1.
The night was a long one for Tom. His leg ached, his fall had inflicted a nasty bruise, and he shivered, not due to cold, for, if anything, it was warm. But from nerves. All the night sounds of the forest. The various calls, both deeply guttural and high. Roaring, bellowing, yipping and mewling. The sound of crashing through brush. He dared not look out. It hit him now how foreign this world was. Yes, it was the same earth, but so very different. All the normal sounds he knew, had grown up with — cold, hard, mechanical noises, of grinding engines and sharp, abrupt staccatos — were gone. Gone forever. In its place were these sounds, the sounds of nature. Of unpredictability and chance.
And there was apprehension. Tomorrow he would be leaving. Leaving the Strong Box, the last bit of security the future world provided. He knew that, once away, he’d never find it again.
After a while, a light rain began to fall. A gentle shower. The sounds of the forest died down, then another sound began from farther away. Rhythmic, melodious. Tom tried to identify it. Something from his past. His mother taking him somewhere. A lake, at night. Her walk down a dirt path nearby it, holding his hand. And ... frogs. Yes, that was it! She wanted him to experience them before they were gone.
This was frog song. A million of them now, it seemed, lulling him to sleep.
Chapter 13
Tom awoke the next morning, stiff and achy from his night on the floor. It was hard and unyielding, even in the sleeping bag. Besides that, he’d stretched muscles he didn’t even know he had climbing that hill yesterday. Sitting, he raised his arms and twisted his torso right and left in an effort to loosen them, groaning as he did.
Light streamed in from the narrow opening of the door. He’d been tempted several times during the night to shut it completely against the eerie sounds of the outside, but stopped himself each time. Scooting out from the bag, he looked at his leg. The bruise had spread a little, widened, but now it didn’t feel as sensitive. He hoped it was a good sign.
Rising, he walked to the door and looked out through the narrow gap. A cool, fresh breeze brushed his face. The sound of the stream met his ears. Pushing the door open, he looked out. A lovely morning. A symphony of birdsong. The sun above the eastern horizon told him that he’d overslept. He stretched once more and thought about the difficult road ahead. Likely, that was the last safe night of sleep he’d ever have again. Well, no sense dallying.
Tom stepped outside, naked, to relieve himself. Felt the cool, moist grass beneath his feet, between his toes, the coolness of the air upon his skin. It felt wonderful. He listened, half expecting the usual sounds of the city. The ever-present drone and scream of automobiles and airplanes, the honking of horns, of someone hurling a curse at someone else, the alarm of gunshot and the cries that followed, the jarring notes of siren and jackhammer, the painful shriek of metal on metal, the many clangs and bangs. But there was none of that. It was unsettling; told him just how alone he really was. He walked to the stream, and, forgetting his filter, bent down and drank. The water was cold and delicious, its purity filling him, healing his wounds. Going back inside, he got his jug and dunked it in, recharging it.
Tom dressed and ate a big breakfast, deciding again that it was best to do so while he could. Meanwhile, anxiety gnawed at him. Finally, though, unable to think of any other (good) reason to delay, there was nothing else for him to do but go.
Looking at the sun, he estimated the time to be around 9:00. Gathering himself, Tom hefted the backpack. Still too heavy. Walking back outside, he bent himself over while lifting it up. It felt like a bag of bricks. Slowly, he got one arm, then the other in and stood. The pack slumped solidly down, putting an incredible weight on his shoulders. Not only that, something was jabbing him from behind. It wouldn’t do. A momentary reprieve.
Reluctantly, he again bent over and slowly got the pack back off. He opened it to see what the problem was. It was the folding shovel. He wrestled it out, then took another look at his pack. When he’d filled it yesterday, he’d thrown supplies in haphazardly. Stupid. He dumped everything back out on the ground, then with more care, began to repack it, starting with putting his extra clothing between the inside back and the rest of his gear. An additional buffer. He still could not think of anything that he could leave out. Finally, it was done. The hat now, though, was on his head and gun on his belt. Once more, he struggled to get the pack on, grunting with effort. Then he noticed the padded straps below, dangling from either side. Oh, a belt. There was a clip on both ends. Seizing them, he gave a little jump, hoisting the pack higher, and snapped the belt together. Again, it came down to rest, but this time on his hips rather than his shoulders. It made a big difference.
That done, he turned around one last time to say goodbye. Goodbye to the world of man, goodbye to that future. This was his world now.
“So long,” he said simply, and, turning back around, s
et his sights on the peak. “This isn’t going to be easy,” he said aloud. Then off he went, over the stream and up the mountainside.
In short order, Tom was out of breath and had to stop. In fact, he stopped exactly twenty-seven times going up that peak. He was ashamed of his condition. A man of my age should be able to run up this knoll, he thought. Eventually, though, he made it, albeit hacking, gasping for air and shaky of leg. He briefly thought about dropping his pack and taking a rest, but scolded himself for his weakness.
Tom looked out again over that skyline. Enchanting. He withdrew the PinPointer, hoping that, if he just turned it on temporarily, Dietrich wouldn’t know. He did, and the two blinking dots reappeared, green and red. Withdrawing the estimator, he found their distance had closed. Now it was thirty-two miles, twelve miles closer than yesterday. It made him nervous. Switching on his own beacon, the two dots resolved to the bottom of the little screen while a blue light appeared at the top. He set the two points of the estimator on the blue and the green dots and was horrified to find that the distance between him and Julie had actually increased! Where yesterday it was six hundred and fifty-three miles, today it was six hundred and fifty-nine! While he’d been lounging, she’d been moving, and fast. Away from him. But why? Was she being pursued? He shuddered at the thought that she was running away from Jaqzen. It put a fire in his belly. Be safe, he willed her.
Looking back at the little forest path he’d seen the day before, he set his foot in that direction and immediately started down, keeping it in his sight. Shortly though, as he dropped below the canopy, it was hidden by the trees. He tried to judge how far away it was, and guessed maybe two, two and a half-miles. It was unnerving going this way, as it was completely unfamiliar. Whereas the other side was relatively unobstructed, Tom found this side anything but. There were sundry large, downed trees that blocked his way, which he was forced to climb around, through, or over. His pack caught time after time on branches. Finally, as the last tree had deteriorated enough, having been weakened by the steady work of beetles and ants, Tom was able to push through, sending thin branches snapping off to the ground. That sent a swarm of insects scurrying.