Multiverse 1

by Chris Hechtl

  “We've seen some big mothers just off shore. A good half ton easy,” the skipper said, smacking his lips. “Ifthey’re anything like a Tuna or sail…” he grinned.

  “I'm surprised they are off shore,” Roy said.

  “Most animals are just off shore. The deep ocean is usually a wasteland. The deeper you go the less light gets in, the less photo synthesis,” the skipper explained.

  “Ah,” the professor replied nodding. “Tensile strength…braiding would probably be best. Hmmm…”

  They ended up salvaging long lengths of wire from the fuselage for line. Roy pulled seat belts out to supplement it. “You'll have to get someone to cut them lengthwise, into strips. You may get three or four or more strips. If you do it right, you could get um…roughly ten and a half feet per seatbelt half.”

  “Good idea, professor!” the big sailor said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Why, we can weave this together and we'll be set!” Happy, Captain Grumby went off to find bait with two girls looking squeamish about the worms. Four other helpers followed them; most were the divers.

  “Watch out for leaches and other predators around the water! They stake out watering holes!” Roy called out in warning. Captain Grumby waved, but that warning made the girls even more apprehensive.

  Jane Dask, the nurse, and one of their medics saw the hooks and asked him desperately if he could make a curved hook to sew up wounds. They kept ripping scabs open, and the doctor's kit had yet to have been found. He did his best. He made three for her to try out of discarded wire earrings, but they were a bit thick. “You'll have to use thread for the stitches,” he warned. “Boil it.” She thanked him anyway and rushed off to the other medics.

  ~~~~~O~~~~~

  After lunch Shawn came over. Roy heard him clear his throat but ignored him. After a while the man grew impatient and kicked the metal wing. Roy snarled softly and stuck his head out.

  “Since all you're doing is fiddling about, you can make yourself useful again and dig more latrines. The two you did are filled up. So get busy,” he said.

  “I'll get another hole dug in a bit,” Roy said absently, not in any hurry to drop what he was doing.

  “Now! Can't you people get it through your thick heads to get with it?” Shawn demanded. “People are waiting!” he growled.

  Roy pointed to Mrs. Roberts, Susan Somners her assistant, and others who were lazily lounging on the beach getting a tan or sleeping in the shade. “When they get off their asses and contribute, then you can lecture me on how things should be done. Get them and yourself off your ass and to work. It's not hard; even a guy like you can do it. For now, I am busy. I'll be finished when I'm damn good and ready. Until then I'll get to it when I'm done, so buzz off!”

  Shawn retreated in a huff.

  Roy finished what he was doing but kept picking at the parts, carefully taking the plane apart piece by piece. He used luggage to store the parts. Bolts he tucked away in cubbies. He found a few things: handkerchiefs, lotion, shampoo, combs, things people overlooked. He saved those as well. Money he could care less about but saved the paper anyway.

  Every few minutes someone, most of them from the Roberts Clan, would come and pointedly ask if he was done yet. He admitted to himself he kept at the wing longer than needed out of spite. But finally he admitted to himself that he'd better get it over with or they'd never leave him alone.

  He wiped the sweat from his brow and then went back to the damn potty brigade. Someone had already filled in his first two latrines, so he moved off a bit and started on another. The sandy soil kept caving in so he tried to shore it up with branches from the sappy plant. It would do for a while he judged, then climbed out of the hole and finished setting it up.

  ~~~~~O~~~~~

  After a dinner of roots and more fruit, Roy pulled out selected gear, making bundles and brought them into the woods to hide. He found a fallen rotten log and picked at it, pulling out grubs to eat. He needed the extra protein; the starches and fructose sugars weren't enough.

  He did his best to ignore the taste, but eventually he'd had enough of the wriggling things. He returned to camp as the sun slowly set over the horizon. By the light of the fire, he made a better ax and hatchet as well as a better shovel. Doc came by and asked what he was doing.

  He held up the ax. He'd wrapped the handle in rags. Then the other improvised tools proudly. She nodded politely. “Thanks for the sewing needles,” she said.

  “No problem. I wish I'd thought of it earlier,” he said ruefully.

  “Well, you've been busy,” she said in his defense. She huffed a laugh. “Heck, we all have,” she said. She watched as he put his multitool away. He winced. He'd ripped a blister open.

  “You need to stop,” she said, noting the blood on his hands. She caught them and looked at them with a dispassionate eye. He held them palms up. She tisked tisked.

  “I ripped a couple blisters,” he admitted.

  “You need to be careful. A bacterial infection could be lethal,” she warned. She took one of the ripped shirts he had taken from the rag pile along with his bottle of water and then cleaned his hands. When she was done, she bandaged them.

  “Take it easy with them. You need to be careful. We need you.”

  “I'm a bit too busy to take it easy, Doc,” he replied. “Working on tools, finding food, latrine duty…” He shrugged and then winced.

  She grew concerned. “Like I said, bacterial infections are nothing to sneeze at.”

  Klinger sent a kid runner over to find them both. Dennis panted. “Boss man said to drop whatever you are doing and make more spears. A bow and other stuff if you can manage it. He wants them done ASAP before tomorrow,” he said.

  “I need materials,” Roy said.

  “I'll tell him. The others are just sharpening sticks and hardening them in the fire. Boss wants those ones with metal tips like you made,” the boy said.

  “I'll see what I can do,” Roy said. “But not a lot tonight.”

  “Do what you can. The hunters keep losing spears and arrows in the bush,” the kid said with a shake of his blond head. “And they miss.”

  “I know,” doc said wryly.

  Doc looked at him as the kid pounded off. “To have his energy,” she said wearily.

  “Who was telling who to take it easy a moment ago, Doc?” Roy teased. She snorted. “Things need doing. I'll do what I can.”

  “At least you will,” she said, looking down her nose at Mrs. Roberts and others around her. Her secretary, Patty O'Toole, had been recently released that morning to go back to light duties. She had done her best, eventually finding her way to the skipper's fisher group. She was religious though, and it was clear the Roberts were trying to bring her back into the fold.

  “Doc, you've got rounds,” Wendy said, coming over to them.

  “That's my cue,” doc said, slapping her knees. “Break's over. Do be careful though. To hell with them. If they can't figure it out…and none appreciate what you've done. I do though. So does Jonas and I know Al does as well. Klinger…” She shook her head. “He's too wrapped up in the big picture to listen. But keep trying.”

  “I'm not trying at all, Doc,” Roy said, indicating the pile of things around him. “I'm doing,” he said.

  “Well, try anyway. Try talking to him. You may be surprised; he might listen to you. You have the credentials. And you are a doer, unlike some people,” she said.

  “Come on, Doc!” The girl called.

  “I'm coming,” she called back. “Go ahead without me,” she said. She pulled the jacket over her shoulders like a shawl. Reluctantly, she left him to his work.

  ~~~~~O~~~~~

  The next morning Roy made a few more weapons, then a better hammer and even a pair of pliers and an improvised anvil. Gruffly he dropped what he was doing and went off to dig after Suzy “reminded him.”

  She had a point. Over a hundred people had survived the crash; that was a lot of waste even though they weren't eating a lot. The fruit ran
right through them though. But he still didn't see why he kept getting selected for the chore. Klinger had said it would be rotated.

  Angrily, he dug a trench, then cut down a pair of trees and used them to make seats since the old ones from the plane were still in use. He had considered modifying one of the seats from the plane, but work crews were still struggling to get the damn things out of the plane wreckage. So far they hadn't been very successful, spending all day to get ten out. Apparently, they missed his multitool. All ten were immediately snapped up by people for beds or seating.

  He knew despite the breeze and open doors the smell inside was horrible with the vomit, blood, and stuff baking in the afternoon sun. He made a mental note not to go in the aircraft until he checked on that or had another breathing mask. They did have the aircraft's doors off, they made handy shelters and pieces of the wall. They'd even pulled off the maintenance hatches from the exterior hull he noted with approval.

  He went back to the beach and turned a shirt into a bag, filled it with sand and then did the same with his own shirt. He stuck a pole through them and then transported the two back to the latrines. He made three trips before he was finished.

  A frustrated Klinger arrived just as he finished and started to shake his shirt out. “Where the hell did you find that marsh and the avians? No one can remember if you can freaking believe it,” Klinger said in frustration. “I can't believe these people,” he said, shaking his head in disgust. “They better wake up soon and pay the freak attention!”

  “Definitely,” Roy said, stretching. He put his shirt on and then waved. “Now?”

  “Now damn it. We haven't gotten a thing all damn day,” Klinger said. “Amateurs all of them,” the corporal growled. “Civilians,” he snarled, making the word sound like a curse word. Roy pointed the way. “No, you lead,” Klinger told him.

  “Right,” Roy huffed. Sighing at the lack of a break he wearily led the way.

  ~~~~~O~~~~~

  Roy led them to both places. They picked the snow berries clean, then took great swatches of the cattails in bundles. He knew the roots would go into a stew or be served with what little meat they found.

  A guy found what he swore was wild cucumber. He said it was with the starflowers, but there was some concern about the identification so they left it alone. He ate a piece though, a small finger length cucumber he swore was sweet. They took a sample to show Elsa back at camp. If they were the right plants, and the guy didn't get sick or die, they'd go back for more.

  Klinger cautioned them to avoid mushrooms at all costs. They were big but not worth the risk to eat them without knowing what was edible. But he did have them pick off rolls of dead birch bark and timber fungus from the white birches around the area. These two were bundled up. “Great fire starter material,” Klinger said. Roy nodded.

  The mosquitoes were hell around the water and marshes. They would come in a cloud; you'd get a few minutes warning of a humming sound as they came in. There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. All they could do was cover up and try to endure the pests.

  The sounds the group made kept predators and other animals away. They saw the occasional track or scat, but not many animals. A snake once, but it got away before Klinger got to it.

  When the group made it back into base camp, Klinger was disgusted at the sight of the Roberts Clan kneeling in another prayer session. “It is the second time that day, each time not only interrupting the work, but drawing attention to it,” Roy muttered. “People are taking notice that they are slacking off. In management meetings all the time or conferences. Worse, the Roberts are giving those who don't play their game a hard time. They encourage others to do it too.”

  “Seriously?” Klinger demanded. “We don't need this shit. Isn't life hard enough as it is to not make more crap?”

  Roy spread his hands. “I'm getting a bit annoyed at being stuck on latrine duty.”

  “I handed that off to Roberts and others days ago. You're on it?”

  “Roberts,” Roy said in disgust. “He and Susan came to me and said you put me back on it since I was just “fiddling about.”

  “Oh, hell no. Bastard,” Klinger growled. “From now on you take your orders direct from me. He has a problem with that, tell him to see me.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Klinger looked at the group. They were still reading and talking quietly.

  Roy snorted. “Yeah, they won't get crap done at this rate,” he growled. “Only so much daylight to go around.”

  “Wonderful,” Klinger said with a sigh. He wasn't sure how to handle it. On the one hand they had the right to worship, but on the other they had to survive. And besides, these were civilians. He technically didn't have any authority over them.

  “Why aren't you with them?” Klinger asked. “Wait, is that why Roberts hates your guts?” he asked.

  Roy shrugged. “For the record, I'm agnostic and a doer. I like to get my hands dirty. They don't. They don't like being shown up either apparently. Which apparently pisses them off something fierce when someone like you or me has to show them how to do simple tasks.”

  “People deal with trauma in different ways. Anger is one of them,” Klinger said with a frown.

  “True.”

  Klinger gave him an odd look. Roy shrugged it off. “Hey, you want to pray fine, pray, but when you're done you've still got shit to do, and an empty belly to fill. Prayer won't do that. And the last time I checked prayer won't fend off whatever the hell is out there going bump in the night.”

  “True,” Klinger replied, hefting his spear. “All too true I'm afraid.”

  ~~~~~O~~~~~

  Klinger caught the doc in with gunny. Together they talked about the problem after the spartan dinner. “You've got to understand, Max, there is a…division of labor here. One between the blue and white collar sects. Some are built for this work; manual labor is nothing. They've done it their entire lives. Some played at it on vacation. But others sat behind a desk and built up a mental image of themselves in charge; to them that was work and anything else was menial and therefore beneath them. It was a sign of failure, and they couldn't accept it. Won't accept it. It's hard to get away from that, to get them to change,” she said ruefully. He nodded. “The habits are built in for some; they run deep. Changing them…” the doctor shook her head.

  “It's like boot camp all over again,” Klinger muttered. “It takes time and repetition to drill the civilian crap out and establish desired habits and behaviors,” he said.

  “We're fairly lucky no one else has been injured or killed. Or I should say, no one else has been killed,” the doctor said darkly. “Most of the injuries so far have been minor: scrapes, cuts, blisters, and bruises. Muscle strains. That's not going to last forever.”

  The gunny sighed. “No, it's not.”

  “Most of the layabouts are centered on the Roberts Clan. They do some stuff, but you have to supervise them constantly to make sure they get it done. Others…” The doc shrugged helplessly. “I can't really say. Some have trauma, some of it mental.”

  “Yes, but keeping them busy, keeping their minds occupied, Doc, that's important,” Gunny Usher said. “They need something to do to remain physically fit. Something to feel like they are contributing.”

  “True,” Klinger agreed.

  They discussed those used to working, and those who weren’t. Mrs. Roberts was one, a trophy wife used to laying about and getting her own way. “She's leading by bad example. If anyone tries to get her off her ass, she passes it off to her hubby or Cookie or one of her cronies gets the task,” the doc said. “They dump anything they can on people the moment you are out of sight,” she said. Klinger scowled.

  “And unfortunately I can't do anything about it,” Gunny Usher sighed.

  “No, you can't,” the doc said, giving him a quelling look. “You stay put,” she said, waggling a finger at him. “That one,” she said looking at Mrs. Roberts. “Shop and go to spas during the day, that sort of thing. Th
at was her idea of work, her life. Trophy wife, sit around and look pretty,” the doctor finished looking disgusted.

  “Doc, not to change the subject, but sitrep on the injured?” Gunny asked.

  “Well, we haven't lost anyone else,” she said. “I think the pilot is in a coma. He's breathing, he is semiresponsive but not conscious.”

  “Damn.”

  “It might be for the best. I used a knitting needle to check his nerves. He's got some numbness on his right side. A cripple here in these conditions…” She shook her head but her face was sad.

  The two military personnel nodded. “And the others?” the Gunny asked.

  “Well, you, you know about,” she said with a smile. “The other sixty-seven were banged up to one degree or another. I've released a few back to work. Light duty for a few days. They are mending; they can't push themselves too hard too fast or they'll be right back here…or worse,” she said with a grimace.

  “True.”

  “We've got two people with fevers. I've done my best to keep the wounds clean with boiled water but if it's an infection…”

  “Does anyone have any antibiotics you can use?” Klinger asked.

  “I've used it all already,” The doctor admitted. “I gave everyone with injuries at least two doses of whatever we could find in the luggage. I'm out.”

  “Damn.”

  “Focus on what we have and can do, not what we don't have. What else?”

  “We've got a couple mental cases. People who are or were catatonic. They are slowly coming out of it. But additional trauma…” She shook her head. She showed them those with light injuries were mostly resting, but some insisted on doing light work to keep busy. “Keeping busy keeps their minds off their problems.”

  “True. I said that before.”

  “And I agree with you. It also tires them out and like you said, makes them feel like they are contributing. As long as they don't overdo it,” she warned.