Guys Read: Other Worlds

by Jon Scieszka

  As he neared the foothills he scanned ahead, looking for an escape route. He was about to reach trees and the uneven terrain that led to the mountains. As fast and agile as the machine was, the rugged terrain would force it to slow down. That gave Kit an advantage. He knew where he was going; the machine didn’t. His hopes began to rise . . .

  . . . and were immediately shot down when an explosion erupted directly in front of him that blew gravel into his eyes and knocked him to the ground. Hard. He was stunned and disoriented, but his survival instinct was intact. He rolled twice and popped up to continue running. That was the good news. Bad news was he was hurt. He had fallen on his left shoulder and torn open a nasty gash on his upper arm. It was painful and bloody, but not life-threatening. He would have to ignore it until he was safe . . . assuming he ever got safe.

  Kit arrived at the trees and immediately started running an erratic course to confuse the machine. His plan was to lose his pursuer in the maze of boulders and trees and be long gone while it hunted for him in vain. As long as he didn’t outsmart himself and choose a twisting course that led him directly across the path of his hunter, he’d be fine. The odds were in his favor . . .

  . . . but he needed rest. Desperately. He had been running constantly in the ever-increasing desert heat and was nearing exhaustion. Kit took a sharp right and threaded his way through the trees along the base of the mountains, looking for a place of refuge where he could catch his breath and plot his next move. He found it in a stand of trees that surrounded a mound of massive boulders. He ducked behind it, found a sliver of shade, and dropped to his knees. He yanked his pack off and fumbled quickly for his water. The bottle was still two-thirds full, but he could have downed a dozen times that amount. Still, the water soothed his parched throat. He had to force himself not to drain the bottle.

  With the pressure off, Kit took stock. His arm was bleeding badly. The agony came in waves, as if his heart were sending a throbbing surge of pain with every beat. He dug through his pack for the first aid kit. There was a roll of gauze that he quickly used to wrap the wound and stem the blood flow. He didn’t bother with the antiseptic gel, figuring that by the time infection became an issue he would either be safe . . . or dead. With the gash tied off he sat down with his back against the rock. His every sense was on alert, tuned to detect the sound of wheels creeping across sand or the whine of a weapon powering up for another attack.

  There was nothing. He could relax, at least for a while.

  His mind raced, calculating his next move and trying to understand what was happening. He had been in the Scouts for over a year but had never encountered anything remotely like this. It was hard for him to believe it was part of the survival training, but when it came to the Scouts, nothing surprised him. It was an organization that had become far more militaristic than when his father had belonged. Then again, life in general was very different from when his father was young.

  Poverty was widespread and growing daily. More people went hungry than the government dared to admit. Cities had become impossibly crowded. Housing was a constant challenge. Homeless families, desperate for more space, moved to the country, where tent cities sprang up. The crime rate was off the charts.

  The wealthy still lived in comfort, but they were a small fraction of the ever-growing population. Everyone else was left to fight for a sane and safe existence.

  Joining the Scouts was a route that many took as a way to deal with the growing horror of poverty and hunger. The organization operated as an extension of the government and, by association, the wealthy. The government provided food and housing for all Scouts and their families. In return they gave their lives . . . and their blind allegiance.

  Some Scout troops provided security for government buildings and big businesses. Others were used as escorts for wealthy industrialists who feared being harassed or kidnapped by the angry, wretched masses. Kit had even heard rumors of how some Scout troops were being used to keep peace in the tent cities by overrunning the camps and rousting “undesirables.”

  Kit had never been asked to do any of those things and hated to believe that the Scouts had become a violent tool of the government. If it were true, it might follow that they had created the killing machine that was chasing him. It could be a new weapon to be used in what the government called their “War on Poverty.” That was the catchphrase they used, but everyone knew it was really a war on the poverty-stricken.

  But why was it after him? Was their so-called survival training really meant to be a test of the weapon’s efficiency? Had the thirteen Scouts been set up as guinea pigs? The thought stirred the kind of anger and disillusion that had been building inside of Kit for a very long time.

  His only consolation was that he was enrolled in a Scout program that had nothing to do with security or violence. He was being prepared for something far more positive and exciting.

  He was going to touch the stars.

  There was life out there. Kit knew it. Everyone knew it. The Scouts were good-will ambassadors to other worlds. Their mission involved traveling to distant civilizations in the hopes of gathering knowledge and wisdom that might help them deal with the problems they faced at home. Several expeditions had already been launched. Kit was scheduled to leave on his own adventure at the end of his two-year training. It was a trip that held the promise of delivering all that he had dreamed of as a child.

  But at that moment he wasn’t sure if he would survive long enough to see his family again.

  He had to find his way back to base. Quickly. Before nightfall. He was fairly certain he could dodge the machine for the rest of the day, but once it got dark he would be blind and the mechanical monster would have him. Kit dug out his communicator in the hopes that whatever was wrong with it had magically fixed itself.

  It hadn’t. The screen still showed static. He was going to have to find his own way back.

  He looked up to the mountains and tried to visualize seeing them from base. The desert was ringed by steep cliffs, making it next to impossible to tell which way was which. There were no single, recognizable peaks or telltale valleys. It was all so frustratingly constant. But sitting still and fretting over it wasn’t an option. He had to make a choice and trust it was the right one.

  Kit jammed the first aid kit back into his pack, hoisted it onto his damaged shoulder, turned for the trail, and . . . came face-to-face with the machine.

  It had been approaching slowly and silently, like a predatory snake, and it now stood less than twenty feet away. But how? What was controlling this demon? Could it think and reason? That seemed impossible, yet there it was, blocking his way.

  Kit threw the water bottle at it. It was a feeble gesture but all he could come up with as he jumped to his left to avoid being shot.

  The truck didn’t fire. The silver tubes were locked on Kit, but no surge of energy erupted. Instead it moved forward slowly.

  Kit didn’t think for a second that it had given up. He knew why it was moving closer . . . it didn’t want to miss again. It proved that the machine was even more dangerous than Kit feared, for by changing tactics it revealed that it could think.

  Kit sprinted around the mound of boulders and headed toward the mountains. He now realized that losing the machine was impossible, for each time he tried to shake it, the maniacal truck found him with ease. Could it see? Was someone sitting behind a console at a command center watching his every move through the eyes of the demon robot? Or maybe he was being observed by an orbiting satellite. Whatever the technology was, Kit no longer felt as though he could shake the killer. His only hope was to outrun it to the safety of his base. Ignoring his aching shoulder and rapidly growing thirst, Kit ran deeper into the trees, hoping they would shield him. All the while he scanned the foothills, desperate to find an escape route.

  CRACK!

  A towering tree was struck directly ahead of him. The mechanical beast wasn’t far behind and was no longer holding out for a better shot. The force of the i
nvisible missile blew out the base of the tree and sent it toppling back toward Kit. Kit changed course and ran toward the mountains, barely avoiding the tree as it crashed to the ground, cutting off the path he had been on. His new route led him to a steep wall of rock that he climbed quickly, hoping it would slow his pursuer. When he crested he was faced with a towering, sheer cliff that stretched to either side as far as he could see. It was a dead end. His only options were to run right or left. Neither way provided any protection.

  Kit turned left and sprinted along the base of the cliff, dodging boulders and trees, until he spotted something that could be his lifeline. It was a cleft in the rock face . . . an opening that led to a slot canyon. He had studied satellite views of these mountains and knew they were laced with dozens of narrow canyons. They snaked through the heart of the mountains, making several twists and turns before opening up on the far side. They could provide ample protection from a missile fired from the rear.

  Unfortunately, some canyons led to dead ends. There was no way to know which was which.

  The thought hit him that by knocking down that tree and cutting off the path, the diabolical machine might have forced him into heading toward the canyons. Was it that smart? Could this be a trap? It didn’t matter. There were no other options. He had to risk it and sprinted toward the gap.

  The canyon was narrow, which created welcome shade from the relentless heat of the sun. Kit ran as fast as possible without slamming his wounded shoulder into a wall. The slot canyon wove through the rock, sometimes growing wide enough to sprint while other times narrowing down so that he had to slow to a walk and squeeze sideways to get through. There was no telling how far it was to the other side. All he could do was keep moving.

  He pushed himself relentlessly until his lungs ached. He needed to rest and stopped in a narrow section of the canyon. While catching his breath he made another desperate attempt to use his communicator. He pulled it from his cargo pocket and stared at the static-filled screen.

  It was useless.

  Or was it? A realization swept over Kit that made him want to scream with anger. The communicator was also a navigation device. It used satellite technology to pinpoint his location and direct him to whatever spot he chose. And it worked both ways. The communicator not only received information, it transmitted it. If he were lost, the Scouts could zero in on his coordinates to find him.

  Kit wanted to throw the device to the ground and crush it under his boot.

  The truth was all too obvious. Back in the dry culvert the mechanical rover had come to life at the exact moment that Kit had activated the device. The monster always knew exactly where he was because it had locked onto the signal from his communicator like a bloodhound following a scent. How could he have been so stupid?

  Kit didn’t waste time beating himself up. He powered down the communicator and continued his journey through the slot canyon. He knew he couldn’t lose the killer in there, for it would have already tracked him in, but once he got to the far side he would now have a fighting chance. With the machine blinded, there was hope. All he had to do was get to the far side. His confidence grew . . .

  . . . until he rounded a sharp corner of the canyon and hit a dead end.

  The chasm was sealed off by an avalanche of rocks that had tumbled from the steep cliffs high above and filled the narrow crevice, completely blocking the way. The rock slide could have happened a century before or that morning. It didn’t matter. He was doomed from the moment he ducked into the canyon.

  But he wasn’t ready to give up. The fallen rocks had actually created another possible escape route: The tumbled pile was climbable. A quick look up showed that the rim of the narrow canyon was within reach. It was a long, steep climb on an unstable pile of rocks, but it was his only shot. Kit began to climb when another idea hit him. He took out his communicator, and after a deep, nervous breath he powered it back up. Again, the screen showed static. He scanned the wide section of canyon until he saw a narrow crack in the wall opposite the rock pile. He ran to it and placed the communicator inside, deep enough to be out of sight, then turned back to climb up the rubble.

  It was easy going . . . at first. The pile of rocks provided decent handholds and footholds for his desperate climb. But the pile quickly grew steep. He had to slow down and use caution. His fear was that the robot would arrive below and start shooting before he was up and over, but it would have been a mistake to climb recklessly. One wrong move and he’d tumble down the steep rock pile and crash in front of the hunter, probably with a broken leg.

  As he climbed he listened for any sound that would announce the arrival of the truck, or of its weapon powering up to shoot him. He didn’t want to look down to see if it was there, or to realize how high he was. Kit wasn’t great with heights. The last thing he needed was vertigo. The best and only thing he could do was to stay focused and climb.

  He was twenty feet from the top when he heard it . . . the unmistakable whine of the demon’s engine. It was moving fast, maybe because it realized it was about to lose its prey. Kit risked a look down . . . and saw it.

  The little truck rounded a bend in the canyon far below, sped up to the dead end, and stopped. Kit froze, hoping that the monster would start shooting at the cleft in the wall where he had hidden his communicator. As soon as the shooting started he would make his final push to the top and hope that the explosive blasts would cover the sound of his escape.

  The machine didn’t move. Or shoot. What was it doing? Was it intelligent enough to recognize that there was no way a person could have squeezed through that narrow crack in the wall? The truck’s body rotated until one set of its weapons was aimed at the cleft that held the hidden communicator.

  Kit held his breath. This was it. As soon as the machine fired, he’d move.

  But it didn’t fire. What was it doing? Thinking?

  The wait was torturous. Kit shifted his left foot slightly to get a solid base to jump off . . .

  . . . and kicked a rock loose.

  He froze.

  The rock tumbled down and landed two feet from the machine with a sickening thump. The machine spun quickly until the gun barrels were pointed at the fallen rock.

  Kit held his breath. He had no idea if this was a mindless machine that was simply firing at his communicator, or if it took every bit of information that was presented in order to calculate a fully informed firing solution.

  There was no doubt that it had registered the fallen rock, which meant it could see or hear or both. He silently begged for the machine to unload on the rock . . . or swivel back and blast the hidden communicator. Either way he was poised and ready to scramble the last few feet to the top.

  It was deathly quiet in the slot canyon. Kit felt as though he could hear his own heartbeat.

  The machine stayed locked on the rock for a ten-second lifetime, then slowly rotated back toward the cleft that held the communicator. Kit let out a relieved breath . . .

  . . . as the weapon spun back and turned skyward.

  It had found him.

  Kit began a desperate scramble to the top as the demon truck let loose. The pulse of energy hit the wall of rocks several feet to his right. It may have sensed where he was, but without his communicator to lock in on, its aim wasn’t precise. The pulse blew out the rock wall, loosening the pile, creating another avalanche. Kit felt the rocks destabilize beneath his feet. The entire wall of rocks was going to fall and he was about to tumble down with it. If the fall didn’t kill him the robot weapon would finish the job when he was dropped right in front of it.

  Kit looked desperately for a handhold and saw a large boulder hanging above his right shoulder, held up by a fist-size rock wedged beneath it. He saw an opportunity, a long shot, but it was better than no shot. He reached for the smaller rock and yanked it out, releasing the larger boulder above. It fell fast and Kit had to dodge to his left to avoid being hit by the heavy boulder as it rumbled past him.

  The machine fired again .
. . and the entire wall collapsed. Rocks and boulders of all sizes tumbled down as Kit desperately scrambled to his left to try and avoid the heaviest concentration of falling rocks. He no longer feared the robot since it was more likely that he’d be battered to death in the tumultuous avalanche. He grasped wildly to get a handhold, forgetting the pain in his gashed shoulder.

  The truck fired again, sending a spray of exploded rock toward Kit that peppered him with a stinging shower of debris that tore at his clothes. He was able to grab onto the point of a stable rock but knew he wouldn’t be able to hang there for long. The best he could hope for was to control his own fall and pray that no boulders would crush him from above. He held on to the lifesaving rock, the muscles in his forearm burning. He had a brief moment of hope where he felt as though he might be able to hold on until the avalanche settled . . .

  . . . when the rock pulled from the dirt. Kit half fell, half slid down, crashing through a storm of dirt and debris until his feet hit the solid, sandy floor of the canyon. He quickly pushed off to get away from the bulk of the avalanche that continued to rain down around him. He stumbled back and slammed against the far wall of the canyon, knocking the air from his lungs. He was cut up and bleeding from more wounds than he cared to count, but he was alive and had no broken bones.

  He spun toward the center of the canyon, ready to dodge another blast from the machine but saw that the small truck had been flipped up onto its side. It wasn’t moving. Lying next to it was the large boulder Kit had dislodged.

  It had done its job.

  The proof of that was the deep, black streak across the rock face . . . and the crushed side of the machine. The silver weapons were pointed skyward, silent. There was no whine of an engine, no hint of a weapon powering up, no green light glowing beneath.

  Kit didn’t dare move as the dust settled around him and the tumbling rocks found their new resting place. He kept his eyes focused on the machine, expecting it to whine back to life and focus its weapons on him.