IN NATURA: a science fiction novel (ARZAT SERIES Book 2)

by David Samuel Frazier

  And fire. Don’t forget about fire big boy. That is something even your great ancestors were never able to master, Alex thought, blocking.

  She gently probed. The wound appeared to be about four inches long and an inch or so deep. “This must hurt like hell,” she said, standing on her toes to get a clear view. She slipped and the big Arzat flinched. “Sorry,” Alex said.

  How does this little smooth-skin know such things? Za’at suddenly felt light headed and confused.

  “Why don’t you have a seat so I can get a good look at this and we can talk a bit,” the strange female said to him not as a question but as a command.

  For some reason, Alex was no longer afraid. While the damage to the Arzat’s shoulder was probably not life threatening, he was going to need her help. Hell, she thought—suddenly remembering she had just essentially reentered the Stone Age—maybe this wound is life threatening. As she studied it, she began to think of the implications.

  Za’at sat down on one of the boulders near the fire pit and was finally able to clear his mind enough to take a sideways look at his shoulder. What he saw horrified him. He had personally watched many an Arzat eventually die from such a wound. Of course, the Healers would do what they could, mostly uttering incomprehensible appeals on behalf of the victim to the Great Creator while spreading ineffective salves and waiving their hands. But, eventually, in Za’at’s experience, this type of wound could easily fester and get worse over time. Then, when the pain became unbearable and it became apparent there really was no hope for healing, the Elders would make a decision, and the Arzat in question would be helped into the Great Void whether he liked it or not.

  He reached over and touched the deep laceration with his right hand, trying to pinch his scaly skin back together, but when he released it, the wound simply opened again and continued to bleed.

  “Can I have a closer look?” Alex asked, gently pushing the Arzat’s hand aside.

  Za’at turned his attention back to the female, his mind still whirling with the implications of his injury and the sudden revelation of her ability to telepath. Nothing about this hunting expedition has gone right, he thought. I should have listened to the Elders. I should never have attacked the umans. I should never have returned for this female. Ack dead? Fire? Hah, what is the point of it now? I should kill this female and kill myself for my stupidity! Za’at, the Great Hunter, son of Qua. How disappointed he would be, Za’at lamented, thinking of his own dead father who had died from a similar wound.

  “You’re god damned right you shouldn’t have attacked those humans,” Alex said, slowly approaching again, her eyes on his injury. “And, you shouldn’t have kidnapped me! Hell, I’m not even the woman you were looking for.”

  Alex had read Za’at’s thoughts, which for some reason he continued to fail to block. She had been able to reach into his mind enough to see the recent turn of events and even to vaguely see the original female the Arzats had spared. The woman looked nothing like her. Not even close.

  Hell, I’m getting pretty good at this, Alex continued to think as she probed his mind, still blocking her own thoughts from the Arzat as Ara had taught her.

  “And, as far as killing me, you might want to rethink that, at least until we are able to do something about this wound.”

  Za’at watched as the tiny uman once again placed her hands on him. He was not only in shock from the wound but also from the incessant chatter now effortlessly emanating from the little female. How did she know of these things? Was she reading . . .? Of course! She could not only speak with her mind but also read his!

  “I will if you don’t block,” Alex continued, still gently probing both his mind and his wound.

  Time to take charge or die Alex.

  Eventually, she sat back and looked at the Arzat directly. “Now, I think it’s about high time to formally introduce myself. I am Alex, daughter of the Great Hunter Simon. Who are you?”

  Za’at looked directly into the female’s eyes, semi-roused out of his stupor by the direct and formal question. “I . . . I . . . I am Za’at, son of Qua,” he stammered. How did this uman know about the formalities of an Arzat introduction? Za’at’s mind continued to spin.

  “Well, Za’at, son of Qua, it looks to me like you need some stitches to close up that wound, but . . .” she said, glancing around the area, “I don’t see anything like a first aid kit around here.”

  Actually, Alex had been trying to think of a way she might suture the deep cut using something natural, but nothing was presenting itself. The Arzat’s arm was still bleeding profusely, but fortunately the blood didn’t seem to be coming from a major vein or artery. She noted that there were still some embers glowing deep within the remnants of their fire and a thought did occur to her that she was not very excited about.

  “What are ‘stitches’?” Za’at asked.

  “It’s a long story,” replied Alex, still looking around, trying to devise a better plan than the only one she had so far come up with. Alex pulled the shirttail from her waist and ripped off a piece of it, wadded it up and placed it over the wound. “Here, hold this, Za’at, son of Qua. It should help stop some of the bleeding. There, keep some pressure on it,” she said, holding her tiny hand over the top of his enormous one.

  If only I had my backpack, Alex thought, lamenting the fact that she had lost everything when they ran from the collapsing stairs in the ARC—including the first aid kit. It was becoming increasingly clear to her that virtually everything they would need for survival would have to be found or made from scratch. Perhaps, were they ever to find another ARC or miraculously dig their way back into the Utah site, that situation might change. For now, Alex realized, she was truly back in the Stone Age.

  She thought about Tom, Mot, and Ara, and hoped that they were well on their way to finding her. Maybe the fact that she and the Arzat had stopped for the night would help. She knew that they had covered a lot of ground, but she also knew Mot and Ara were capable of the same. Tom was the wildcard. What would they have done to speed him along?

  One thing Alex knew for sure, if this big Arzat before her had any of the same cultural beliefs that Mot and Ara had, saving him would mean that he would owe her—big time! At least one life—one “get out of jail free card”—that she imagined she was certainly going to need. She doubted if he would ever voluntarily let her go. What she had seen in his mind had pretty much told her that. But, at least maybe he wouldn’t kill her. And maybe, if and when the time came . . .

  “Let’s see if that helped,” she said, gently reaching for the bloody piece of cloth. The Arzat allowed her to lift it, but the moment she did, blood flowed again. She pressed the material back into place and once again put the Arzat’s right hand over it. She then looked into the Arzat’s eyes.

  “You are not the female,” Za’at said, staring back.

  “I beg your pardon?” Alex said, not able to resist. She knew exactly what he meant.

  “You are not the female who killed my brother.”

  “No, Za'at, son of Qua, I am not.”

  “Then, where did you come from?”

  “Well, that, my friend, is another very long story. Let’s just say that I am not from this . . . area.”

  Be careful Alex. Don’t get cocky, she could hear her father’s voice.

  “Are you alone?” Za’at’s eyes narrowed. “Were you alone?”

  What to answer, Alex thought, her mind struggling to block. She listened for more of her father’s advice, but he was silent on the subject. She finally decided that lying was not her forte.

  “I have . . . friends. They are probably looking for me now.”

  She watched as the Arzat’s eyes quickly scanned the area. He unconsciously sniffed the air and flicked.

  “You umans suddenly seem to be everywhere. I have lived here all of my life and have rarely seen even one until recently. Now . . .” Za’at stopped, his eyes narrowing again. He looked around. Qu’aa was shining his light through the tr
ees and the morning was quickly passing. “We need to go,” he said, beginning to rise. As he did, he suddenly felt lightheaded and sat back down.

  “Listen, Za’at, son of Qua. We need to stop your bleeding or we aren’t going anywhere. You might die right here if we don’t do something about that wound.”

  Za’at looked back at the uman, knowing that she spoke the truth. His blood was still flowing. Perhaps it is better this way. He glanced at the fire. Perhaps if I spare the female, she will commit to burning my remains.

  “We don’t need to go there yet,” Alex said, still reading the Arzat’s mind. “I think I can stop the bleeding, but the method is not pleasant. I tried to think of another way but . . .”

  Cauterization! That is the only way, she thought.

  Alex glanced back at the fire, which needed fuel or it was about to die completely. She got up and began to throw pieces of dry wood into the remaining hot spot. The Arzat did nothing but watch.

  It is the only way, she said to herself, as she stoked the fire. Cauterization had been used for centuries before antibiotics, but the “cure” was sometimes as bad as the injury. She knew she would have to be very careful not to make the Arzat’s situation worse.

  “We need to burn the wound, Za’at, and hope it stops the bleeding. It is quite painful, but my people have used the method for ages.”

  Alex found a long piece of wood and placed it in the fire, which was starting to show flames again.

  Za’at looked at his injury. The cloth that the female had given him was now so soaked with his blood that it was completely failing to stop the flow down his left arm. He looked up at the mountain and weighed his options. They were close to the caves, just three or four torches at a normal pace. But with his injury and the female, Za’at realized it might take all day to reach them—if they reached them. He could feel his strength beginning to fail, running down his arm in the form of his own red blood. It was a strange and very unpleasant sensation. Something needed to be done.

  “All right, little uman, Alex. I will take your remedy and pray to the Great Creator that it works. You should pray too, for without me, you will not survive out here for more than a moment.” Za’at looked at Alex and then to the dead beast that was lying in a pool of its own blood to make his point.

  What a trophy you would be, he thought, examining the koota’s large head, if I only had the strength to bring you home.

  Alex eyeballed the big cat as well. The Arzat was completely right. There was probably no way she could return on her own to find Tom, Mot, and Ara—and make it there alive. Especially not if there were more of these huge felines prowling around. Tom was right. Who knew what other meat-loving critters were out there lurking in the woods. And humans? Other humans? She hadn’t had a moment yet to kick that huge revelation around.

  She looked in the direction they had come from, which was now covered in a dark cloud. It looked as if it was raining hard lower down the mountain. She looked back at the Arzat and then to the fire. The stick she had prepared was glowing.

  “Za’at. I am going to use this to burn the wound shut.” Alex said, pulling the end of it from the coals. “It is going to hurt like hell.”

  Za’at didn’t know what ‘hell’ was, but when he saw the female Alex lift the red-hot stick from the fire, he began to imagine. Perhaps I should leave this uman and try to make it to the caves, he thought again. Burn it shut? He had never heard of such a thing.

  “Look, Za’at. I don’t like the idea of this any more than you do, but it is the only way I can think of to close the wound and stop the bleeding. Now, do you want my help or not?” Alex realized she was almost as nervous as the Arzat. Worse, she really had no idea if it would work.

  Za’at looked into the female’s eyes and back at his arm. It was still bleeding profusely. “I am ready,” he said, already grimacing in anticipation of the pain.

  Alex looked around again and found a short green piece of wood and presented it to Za’at. “Here, you might want to bite down on this.”

  She approached him and looked into his eyes. “You are going to want to hit me—but please don’t. You’ll probably kill me if you do.”

  “I will not hit you, little uman Alex. I can take the pain,” Za’at said, clenching down on the green sapling the smooth-skin had given him despite his proclamation. “But I will kill you if this doesn’t work.”

  Now or never, Alex thought, carefully but firmly shoving the hot end of the stick into the wound. The huge Arzat flinched slightly, but he did not move otherwise. Alex held the fiery stick in place until she herself could no longer bear it, afraid she would do more harm than good if she left it for another moment. When she finally pulled it away the Arzat’s sharp teeth snapped the sapling in two. He pulled the pieces from his mouth with his free hand and spat into the dirt. Alex backed away.

  “Kak! Kak! Kak!” Za’at said aloud, his eyes watering.

  “I’m sorry, Za’at.”

  Alex watched as the Arzat tried to breathe normally. He sat for some time, miraculously composing himself. Finally, he chanced a look at his damaged shoulder. The wound was blackened now and hurt worse than before, but the bleeding had stopped. He looked again to be sure, still taking measured breaths. Miraculously, the bleeding had stopped!

  The Arzat tipped his head back and looked defiantly into the sky. Then, he let out a cry that was so otherworldly and so brutal that Alex’s own body shook from the sound of it.

  CHAPTER 33

  SCENE OF THE CRIME

  Mot’s heart raced with worry. His worst fear had materialized. Rain was pouring from the sky and any chance of rediscovering the scent of the Arzat who had taken Alex had completely vanished. Even the scents of the other Arzat Hunters were becoming vague and hard to follow. Now he had to rely exclusively on the humans and their horses to lead him to the Arzats. After what he had seen in the camp, he was certain that the humans were out for revenge. Mot did not imagine they would give up easily.

  Fortunately, despite the rain, the horse tracks were easy to follow. The animals defecated often, leaving not only their deep footprints behind them but their strange droppings as well. Mot ran at a swift trot, sure that he had to be closing on them. Hopefully, he thought, the humans are having better luck tracking the hunters.

  Suddenly, he stopped. Somewhere, much higher up the mountain, he heard something distinct and familiar. The sound had resonated like the battle cry of an Arzat. He tried to place the exact direction, but the heavy rain made it impossible. Mot continued to listen closely, hoping that if it were an Arzat, he would cry out again so he could zero in on the source. He waited another moment, but heard nothing further and began to run again as he continued to follow the horses’ tracks.

  The terrain rose swiftly and there were more and more trees. Mot was still not used to their strange appearance. Most of the plants he was familiar with were dark green and very broad leafed. These were comparative giants that looked almost dead at their bottoms with tiny leaves sprouting from the ends of higher branches. He ran through a cluster of them and managed to stop just before he would have tumbled over a cliff.

  It was hard to see clearly through the rain, but at the bottom of the long ravine he had almost fallen into, he thought he saw bodies. He flicked his long tongue and tasted the wet air. The rain had softened the scent, but the smell of death coming from below him was unmistakable. It was the scent of Arzats—lots of dead Arzats.

  He squatted and placed his hands to the ground, listening carefully for any signs of danger. Mot had to be especially cautious. He knew the rain-dampened ground might hide movement he might otherwise easily detect and whatever had killed the Arzats might still be lurking close by. He sniffed and flicked again. There was a vague scent of the humans and the stronger scent of their horses. Was it possible that the humans had somehow intercepted the hunters?

  He looked carefully around the canyon. There was a narrow path down that Mot could see the horses had taken. He began to edg
e his way along it, stopping frequently and sniffing the air along the way. Despite Mot’s own surefootedness, the path was slippery and treacherous from the rains. He eventually reached the bottom, easily jumping the last four or five sticks of the distance to the canyon floor.

  Mot looked up at the sky. The dark clouds above him appeared to be parting and Qu’aa was beginning to penetrate them with streaks of light. The rain had suddenly lightened and seemed as if it would soon stop altogether.

  He turned his attention back to the valley. There were several dead Arzats strewn about. Mot carefully approached the first body that he came to and examined it. The Arzat was young, probably close to his own age, and had only recently died. The blood around him was still quite fresh. Mot sniffed again and confirmed that this was indeed one of the hunters he had been pursuing.

  As he bent to get a closer look, he noticed that there was a very unusual killing stick that had struck the young Arzat in the mouth and was protruding from the back of his head. Mot fingered the weapon, amazed at how thin it appeared to be. His eyes were eventually drawn to the bloody tip that had completely penetrated the Arzat’s skull and had emerged from the back of it.

  Interesting, he thought, examining the object closely. The tips of Arzat killing sticks were usually just sharpened bits of wood. This weapon had a tip made of rock, perfectly cut and very sharp, much more like the blade of an Arzat cutting stone. Mot marveled at the strange stick and the attachment of the stone, trying to imagine exactly how it was used.

  He moved on and examined the rest of the Arzat corpses. Most of them had been killed by the same sort of weapon as the first had been—but there was something else even more unusual. Two of the Arzats had been brought down by much smaller versions of the same type of weapon. The only real difference was size and the fact that they had some sort of . . . well . . . he didn’t know what exactly . . . attached to the end opposite the tip. Whatever the material was, it was soft and bent in his hand. The thin sticks looked like something only a child might play with, but their small stone tips had been buried deep in the skin of the victims. Once again, Mot tried to imagine how they were used, but couldn’t.