by Boyett, J.
She replayed the moment in her head—Dak had brought the ship down for a landing, by night so they wouldn’t be seen, in a deserted forest spot at the center of what was now the walled perimeter. At dawn, they’d stepped out, with no protection but their white therma-fix jumpsuits and their sturdy helmets, and Veela’s rudimentary grasp of the basics of Group B’s language. And two laser-blasters, the only two that weren’t locked away in that hold. They’d walked around the side of the ship, to open a side-hold and get a pack’s worth of perma-meals ... and that fucking zombie mouse had streaked out, hissing and slithering as it zipped under the carpet of dead leaves and disappeared.
Veela had given a yelping shriek and leaped into the arms of Dak, her unlikely hero. He had extricated himself from her embrace, and blithely said, “Ah, well, that’s unfortunate. We shall have to go back up, now. If the undead are going to be loose here in prehistory, there’s no time to lose in building a perimeter wall to contain them. Eradicating the infected will be the second priority.”
Eradicating the infected, Veela had repeated to herself, as Dak combed through the hold with his instruments, making sure there were no more stowaways from the future. Everything he had just said was absolutely correct; now that they had committed this fuck-up (how had a mouse ever snuck into the hold in the first place, much less a zombie mouse?!), their number-one priority had to be nipping an apocalypse in the bud. Both morally and in terms of their own survival, that was the only thing that made sense.
But there were people down here. Unsuspecting humans. As Dak was finishing up his sensor sweep of the hold and heading back to the main hatch, she’d heard herself say, “I’m staying down here.”
The slightly immature pleasure of seeing Dak at a loss almost made up for the crippling terror of what she was about to do. “What?”
“The people,” she said. “I speak some of one of the three linguistic group’s lingo, and someone has to warn them what’s coming. Has to tell them how dangerous these things are, has to explain that their only vulnerable point is the brain. Stuff like that.”
He was still staring at her. “They’re primitives,” he said. “They’ll rape and eat you.”
“Only if they’re primitives and also dickheads.”
He spent a little more time trying to dissuade her, but she was raring to go try to catch up with the Overhill group before any of its members became infected. Also before her nerve failed. She was almost touched by how upset Dak seemed at the prospect of her heading into danger alone, although maybe he was just pissed that she was taking one of their only two hand-held laser blasters. For a second she thought he might refuse to hand it over.
When they’d parted, Veela had said, “All right, I’m going to go find Group B. They’re north, right?” She pointed.
“Yes, they are to the north, but you’re pointing west, for goodness’ sake. Once again, I must protest this reckless and tactically useless notion of yours.”
Once she had it clear which direction north was, she’d marched off that way, trying to quell the fearful tremblings in her belly, unable even to look up over her shoulder at the ship as it hummed smoothly and safely into the sky.... And then how had she lost that blaster? What use had she, the brave and intrepid rescuer, made of fully half their available hand-held weaponry? With her belly bubbling in fear the way it was, she hadn’t gone many yards before she’d realized she was going to have to take a shit. And then she’d realized, appalled, that she had no idea how to go about it. Never before in her whole life had she even once relieved herself in an environment not engineered and built for that explicit purpose. She’d looked around at the forest: what, was she just supposed to go out here? In daylight, on the ground? In some irrational but powerful way it was simply unthinkable, even aside from the possibility of a lurking zombie mouse. She tried to recall a scene from some adventure vid or some historical novel where a character in the wild had taken a dump, so she could remember how they’d managed. She couldn’t think of any such scene, though.
Nearby was the sound of running water. She’d walked to it and found a pretty brisk stream with what she supposed was a fairly strong current, not that she’d ever before seen a stream that wasn’t man-made. The running water had made the set-up feel sort of like plumbing. After a nervous look around, Veela had opened the back flap of her jumpsuit and copped a squat, poking her bottom out over the water—just in time, too. There were a few towelettes stored in the lining of her jumpsuit that she’d used to clean herself, wondering all the while what she was going to do when those ran out.... Did people here in prehistory just use leaves? How many centuries did that go on?
She’d managed to walk a pretty long way before she even noticed that her blaster holster was empty, and remembered that, before sticking her butt out over that stream, she hadn’t thought to fasten the holster. Horrified, she’d run back to the spot. But the quick little stream’s current had been strong enough to whisk the light plastic-and-synthcrystal weapon away already.
Now, with the Jaw, she replied to his question: “To explain, is difficult.” And when it looked like he was going to press the issue, she distracted him with multiplication drills.
Eleven
Veela was learning the People’s tongue fast—she spent all her time practicing, which was another way of saying she was forever babbling. Chert was going to go insane listening to her. Whenever he tried to steer her to some interesting topic, she started talking about her math again. And then the Jaw would hang on her every word.
The Jaw grew more pathetic with each passing moment. She’d let him take that protective head-protecting stone of hers, called a “helmet,” since it fascinated him so much. The Jaw had torn loose a strip of the hide he wore and tied it to the helmet, so that now it hung from his garment, getting in the way. It was as if he was so fascinated that he wanted some fetish of hers always at hand, in addition to her actual presence. Chert hated the sight of that bizarre stone, hanging off his son and bobbing clumsily as they walked.
Two days after the red flashings, his second full day of getting an earful of the math, Chert raised his hand to the Jaw’s chest, to halt their progress.
The Jaw stopped. It was plain from his face that he expected nothing good from whatever his father was going to say. Veela kept walking, till she noticed that they’d stopped.
“Who are you to hold this female for yourself?” said Chert.
The Jaw didn’t respond, except to tighten his mouth and the muscles around his eyes.
“Am I not the older?” said Chert. “Am I not the father? I have the right to use the captured woman, too.”
“She’s not our captive, Father.”
The Jaw had gotten into the habit of calling Chert “Father” when he wanted to soften him. But Chert could see there was no affection behind the title, certainly not this time, and the trick only made him more resentful.
“Are we her captives, then?”
“No, Father. Maybe we’re....” The Jaw trailed off. He had been going to say “equals,” but knew the mockery he’d face if he suggested to Chert that they be equals with a female, even one as extraordinary as Veela. In truth, the notion struck the Jaw himself as bizarre, when he tried to articulate it.
Chert waited for him to finish. When the Jaw didn’t say anything, Chert said, “She’s not a member of our band. She’s not of the People. Thus, either she is our captive or we are hers. And I will be no woman’s captive. So: she is ours. If she is our captive, we have three choices: kill her; free her; or use her. You don’t want to kill her. As for releasing her, I doubt we could persuade her to go, and even if we did she’s so ignorant that she would soon die in the forest. So we only have one choice left.”
Veela’s listening comprehension had advanced far enough that she could make out the vague drift of Chert’s words. For now, she merely moved her eyes uneasily from one man to the other, waiting to see how they would decide it between them before taking any action herself.
&n
bsp; The Jaw’s face looked like it was about to explode. Barely able to move his tight-gripped teeth enough to get the words out, he said, “Say you’re right, Father. Say she is our captive. There’s plenty of use to be gotten out of her, going on as we are. She is our link to the strong tight fire and the flying stone. And you don’t understand the math, but I do, and I tell you it’s good.”
“Don’t remind me of how she’s fogged your mind with that math magic, you’ll only convince me that the best thing is to kill her after all.”
The Jaw took a step closer to him. “I say again that you’ll not kill her, Chert. Or touch her at all.”
Chert wondered if he would have hated his own father, as the Jaw was coming to hate him, as Spear had once hated his. Probably not—not enough to kill him, at least. Anyway, he would never know. Chert’s father had been mauled to death by a bear, back when he and the other hunters still towered twice Chert’s height.
He tried to keep the note of pleading from his voice. “Son. If you want to keep her for your own use, if you ask me for that, I will renounce my right to her. I have no desire for this female, anyway. Only, make use of her yourself, at least. I can’t stand to see you debase yourself like this. This is not the use to be made of the life I gave you.”
“The life you gave me?” the Jaw repeated. “And what was the purpose of that life, I ask you? Was I not destined to be a slave? To be used? Was it not my sole purpose to be killed by the People whenever they saw fit to punish my mother for some trifle?”
Chert raised his hand to the Jaw’s elbow. Incredibly, his eyes had grown wet. “But I wouldn’t let them, my son,” he said. “Do remember that.”
“How will we ever know if your resolve would have held?”
“Don’t be a fool. You know.”
“I know I’m half Big-Brow. How long would it have taken Spear and the rest to refocus your eyes on that hated half? If the unkillables hadn’t come, perhaps I’d be dead now. Either you all would have executed me, or I would have died trying to stop you from killing my Big-Brow mother, whom you once used as you’d like to use Veela now.”
Chert was losing patience. “This is foolishness. All I’m trying to do is get you to do what men have done since the world began. And if you don’t know how, I’ll show you.”
Dry leaves crackled as Veela backed away from them. She raised the nut to her mouth and said something softly to the little man, who didn’t reply.
Chert stepped toward her. “I swear I’ll kill that little man of yours!”
The Jaw clapped a hand on Chert’s shoulder to halt him. “I’ll kill you,” he said. “If you lay a hand on her, I swear I will.”
“You can’t kill me, I’m stronger than you!” Chert wheeled around to face his son. “And you can’t kill me for a reason like that, anyway! Women don’t come between men! They don’t come between us!”
Veela, hissing something angrily at the little man in the nut, turned and ran.
“Veela!” shouted the Jaw, and pushed past his father to go after her.
Chert grabbed his son by the arm, yanking him back. “Let her go! We’re better without—”
The Jaw smashed his father in the face, hard enough to knock him loose—yet Chert retained enough control to grab hold of the Jaw and pull him down along with him. The Jaw landed atop him and tried to pound him again. If the blows had connected they might have done real damage, but the Jaw was in a tearful rage and his fists flew wildly, connecting with nothing as Chert dodged them. Chert bucked his hips and rolled on top of the Jaw, then slithered around behind him as the Jaw tried to turn over, and got him in a chokehold. The helmet got torn loose.
From beyond the near trees, Veela screamed. Panicked, she shouted something in her own language.
The Jaw struggled even more fiercely, but all he could do was land weak punches on the back of his father’s head. He had to reach around behind himself to punch. The blows hurt, and they would soon add up, but for now Chert was able to wait them out.
Veela screamed again, this time in the People’s tongue: “No-die!”
The Jaw let out a desperate wheeze, and fought even more vigorously to break free. But Chert held tight.
“No-die!” she screamed again.
“Sh,” Chert said. “Shhh. It’s for the best. Let her go. If she can’t defeat one undead, or no-die, or zombie, or whatever they are, then she’s no good to us anyway.” The Jaw unleashed another burst of thrashing. “Shhh,” said his father again, squeezing his neck tighter. “When you wake up, it’ll all be over.”
The Jaw struggled as long as he could. Then he slumped, unconscious.
As Chert got up Veela screamed again. Hopefully whatever she’d come across would kill her before the Jaw awoke.
He cautiously made his way to her. What with the path she’d torn through the forest and the sounds of her struggle, she wasn’t hard to find.
He saw her and one of the undead. Chert realized with a shock that he recognized it—this thing had once been Horn. He was black now, his head had that indefinably misshapen quality of the no-dies. The thing that had been Horn glared at Veela as if indignant that she would dare withhold her brain. She had her spear pointed inexpertly at it. As Chert leaned against a tree to watch, she jabbed at it, coming nowhere near its body. “Help me!” she shouted at Chert. “Help me!”
He watched her impassively. Even avoiding the risk that she, too, would be changed into a zombie he’d have to fight, was not worth the trouble of helping her. Right now, Chert felt he would gladly allow the personal danger to himself to increase, in exchange for seeing Veela dispatched.
She was only still alive because the zombie was even clumsier than her, and because they were in a stand of saplings that blocked what limited mobility it had. They blocked Veela’s too, though. “Help!” she said once more, hopelessly, then returned her full attention to fending the creature off.
This might prove to be a rare chance to calmly observe one of these zombies fighting, Chert thought. Again he noted how it led with its teeth—more precisely with its out-jutting jaws. It swiped at Veela with its arms, too, but almost as an afterthought.
“Dak!” shouted Veela. That, Chert and the Jaw had figured out from listening to her foreign chatter, was the name of the little man in the nut. He still didn’t respond to her.
Fear must have aided her concentration. She landed two good thrusts, driving the spear into the zombie’s ribs. She couldn’t kill the creature with the spear, but she could keep shoving it back till she got unlucky or exhausted. But the second blow nearly got her killed; the spearhead stuck between the zombie’s ribs, and if the zombie had thought to grab the shaft while Veela was trying to yank it out, it could have disarmed her. But the zombie proved almost as stupid as its prey, and too preoccupied with lunging uselessly at her head to press its advantage.
Veela pulled the spear out and circled around the thing, spear up. The thing spun after her. Chert saw what she was trying to do, and admitted that it wasn’t a bad idea, though she didn’t seem very aware of where her spear was in relation to the trees.
She waited till the right moment, till the zombie’s neck was lined up with a sapling behind it, though Chert could see how hard it was for her to hold back, how terror made her want to strike prematurely.
When everything was aligned, she thrust forward with the spear, putting all her strength into it, all her hope. Her aim was true—the spear pierced the zombie’s neck and passed through into the tree behind—the zombie’s swiping twisted hands nearly caught Veela, but she managed to stay just out of their range. The zombie was pinned to the tree. Considering how pathetic Veela had been two days ago, Chert was willing to admit that this was relatively impressive.
Even with its neck pierced the zombie continued trying to breathe. Most of the air whistled in and out through the hole incompletely plugged by the spear. Obviously the thing no longer needed to breathe but continued to do it, out of habit perhaps. Instead of using its arms to tear
the spear from its neck, the idiotic creature continued to claw at Veela.
Gasping from exertion and terror, she hunted for stones big enough to do damage but small enough to easily handle. She looked at Chert as if she again had the urge to plead for help, but knew better than to waste her breath. She found two suitable stones. She circled around behind the zombie. It expected her to come back around on the other side, its right, and sent its arms flailing and swiping in that direction. Veela, feinting to the right just close enough for the thing to spot her and strain its energies in that direction, doubled back and sprang upon the creature from the left. She spun around, pounding the rock in her left hand as hard as she could into the zombie’s head, then following up with the stone in her right.
The zombie grabbed her around the waist with its left arm, when she lunged in to bash it in the skull. To be fair, Chert wasn’t sure how she could have gotten close enough to hit it in the head with the rock, without getting within arm’s reach as well. Luckily for her the zombie, after having at first shown little interest in the spear, had become preoccupied with clawing at the spot on its neck where the thing held it fixed; with only the zombie’s one arm around her waist, she was able to push on its chest hard enough with her left hand to keep out of range from its snapping jaws and strong teeth, while she pounded it in the forehead and temple with the rock. As she hit it she made desperate little sobbing noises, but no longer bothered to look up at Chert or call to Dak.
Chert doubted that under normal circumstances her arm would have had the strength to shatter a skull with a rock. But he saw his impression of the no-dies’ rottenness confirmed now. At first he thought it might be his imagination—but, no, there were small dents in the forehead and temple, dents that grew bigger and deeper as she hit it again and again. But the damage to its head didn’t seem to slow it down—on the contrary, it seemed even more determined to draw her into killing range, though still too stupid to divert its right arm for the purpose. The outcome looked certain now, and Chert decided he had little left to learn by watching. He scanned the ground for rocks of his own, planning to walk to the sapling, smash in the zombie’s head, and kill Veela as well, preferably before that thing gained strength from eating her brain.