Shock Diamonds

by E. R. Mason

  I resigned myself that introductions were inevitable. If I held out so long that the invitation became confrontation, there was certain to be quite a lot of suffering involved, probably accompanied by additional injury. I tucked my plastic knife back in the leg pocket, winced at the pain from pushing out of the seat, and got down on all fours at the door. With the greatest of misgivings, I crawled out, and holding the side of my injured chest, stood.

  There were eleven, covered mostly in fur that hadn’t been properly cured and beaten. Some had leather wrappings on their feet. The rest were barefoot. They all had the rat’s nest hair, brown or black, down to their shoulders or longer. Above the accentuated brow was one long, fat eyebrow that ran full across the forehead. Human-like eyes and eye colors, except they all had a ring of yellow outlining the pupil. It made for a fearsome stare. Wide nose, too much hair on the sides of the face and temples, some of it quite long. They had tattoos, mostly of dark stain, a few ash-red. The designs were swirls and symbols I did not recognize. Some of them wore colorful feathers braided into their hair. They all had wooden spears shaved to a fine point.

  We stood in silence, appraising each other. They had no idea what I was. Hoping to maybe have some control of the situation, I patted one hand on my chest and said, “Tarn.”

  They stood at the ready with spears well-aimed and looked at each other for answers, but found none. The largest, most elaborately decorated of the bunch had a long nasty set of scars down his left cheek that looked like claw marks. He stepped forward, twirled his spear so that the blunt end was facing me, then poked at my left shoulder, apparently to see if there would be any consequence from doing so. I moved with the jabs trying to minimize the pain, at the same time doing my best to hide it. Satisfied I was not some sort of god, he yelled, “Ga-don, ga-don!” at his cohorts and they spread out around me. I wondered if this was the end.

  Scarface raised one hand and pointed toward a rough-hewn clearing in the forest. He shook his spear and yelled, “Doe, doe!” His friends became agitated and excited and backed him up with grunting. Given the alternative, I gimped along in the requested direction, trying to keep an eye on each spear tip. Five went ahead of me, the rest behind. When I slowed too much, I was tapped in the back with the blunt end of a spear. At least I was not hanging from a post like a trophy deer.

  It was a trek of several miles over uneven ground through jungle so thick it was already retaking their trail. My injuries were killing me, the ribs being in a class all by themselves. Somehow, my captors were smart enough to know. I was close to passing out from lack of breath. Each time I staggered, the spear prodding was held back for a few moments in a gesture of patience that surprised me. It may have been that they did not want to carry me. On two occasions there was a growling from the forest that caused the entire caravan to pause and take a ready stance, but no predators ever appeared.

  After a hike that took every bit of strength I had left, we emerged into an encampment clearing busy with many more Neanderthals. It was an elevated plateau in front of a huge, fifty-foot-high cave entrance. A quick count of the population was thirty or forty individuals working inside and outside the cave. There were waist-high stone platforms at various points around the place used as work stations. Empty wooden cages were stationed alongside the right side of the clearing. There were more men than women. I was encircled by my captors, and to my dismay, led toward one of the chest-high cages, but instead of being thrown in, I was forced to sit on a rock seat near them. Half a dozen spear holders stood guard. I waited, hunched over, too exhausted and in too much pain to complain.

  A gathering of curious Neanderthals began to form. There was grunting, exclamations, and guttural sounds of disapproval. The wait was not long. To my right, an entourage emerged from the mouth of the cavern, headed my way, growing in size as it came. Leading the assemblage was the oldest of them, a man whose hair was just as much a bushy rat’s nest with a primitive tangle of gray-brown.

  He led his pack to me where Scarface greeted him, making the necessary grunts and exclamations with finger pointing. Gray-hair gave a one-grunt command and two subordinates approached me cautiously. They pulled on the fabric of my flight suit, rubbing it between huge thumb and forefinger, looking back at Gray-hair and shrugging as they rocked back and forth.

  They did not understand my zippers. They did not understand the shiny metal or the mechanism itself. I obliged them by ever so slowly reaching up and unzipping the chest pocket. There were subdued oohs and aahs from the crowd. Neither subordinate seemed able to master the procedure. One at a time, I opened every pocket on my suit. They fished around in each, finding my plastic knife, still with dry blood. The stain did not faze them for even a moment. The plastic did. It was handed to Gray-hair, who flexed and turned it in every possible direction, inserted it in his leather string belt, then looked up with an expression of "What-else?"

  Next came the bar of magnesium. They managed to unsnap the pouch and remove it, but quickly decided it was some kind of ceremonial rock and threw it back in my lap as though it was unimportant to a tribe of their advancement. I hurriedly placed it back in my chest pocket.

  All pockets explored, Gray-hair took the spear from his nearest guard and pounded the blunt end once on the ground. “Tup!” he commanded. I did not need a translator to know what that meant. Wincing from pain, I slowly forced myself up.

  “Dom,” he continued, and I knew he wanted me to step forward.

  We stood facing each other in silence. Perhaps I was expected to do something. I took a chance and pressed my hand on my chest several times and said, “Tarn….Tarn.”

  The reaction was swift. One spear handle caught me behind the knees, the other just below the throat. I went down over backwards, broke the fall slightly with my right hand, and crashed to the ground against those badly abused ribs. I screamed in pain and rolled, trying to find a position less excruciating where I could breathe. Gray hair made several more grunting commands and turned away, heading back for the cave.

  I was indelicately hoisted to my feet, a guard under each arm. I wondered what the current mode of execution was. They dragged me along through the dirt in the same direction Gray-hair had gone. I struggled to help them, hoping to take some weight off my rib cage. We passed into the shadow of the cave where the air immediately cooled and a smell of dampness pervaded the air. Hand prints and primitive drawings covered the walls. There were mini encampments within the cave, marked by furs and stone constructions. They led me to one of them, and set me down on a rock seat covered with animal hide and fur. They tugged at the main zipper on my flight suit and then grunted commands. They wanted me to open it. I was too beaten down to put up a fight. I unzipped it to the waist.

  To my surprise, the two guards left. Two Neanderthal females carrying wooden bowls took seats beside me. They were dressed just as the men, but with more attention to detail. They had primitive makeup on their faces. Their huge heads of hair were better kept. Their footwear looked more like laced-up boots. They spoke in gentle tones, and without warning pulled my flight suit down to the waist. There were more oohs and aahs as they inspected the damage. The one on the right had a big bowl full of water and fur. She began washing me with special attention to the wounds. The other began scooping out a mixture of green goop from her bowl, gently pasting it onto the wounds. Nothing had ever felt that good. While they worked, a young Neanderthal wearing little more than a loincloth came up to us with a bag. It was filled with strange roots and what appeared to be alien fruit. He placed the bag at my feet and backed away. I grabbed a root from the top of the heap. It was gray-white and shaped like sausage and still had a little bit of black dirt on it. I tore into it like the starving man I was. My nurses giggled.

  I awoke naked within a heavy layer of fur. My freshly cleaned flight suit was stretched out on a rock next to me. It was completely dry. My boots were within arm's reach, unlaced as though someone had tried them but didn’t like them. The laces were spread ou
t on the ground alongside. There was also a thick, brown fur vest beside the flight suit, a gift from my new benefactors.

  There was no way to tell how long I had slept. Light from a rising sun was casting long shadows in the cave. Or was it a setting sun? The place was busy. Heavily cloaked Neanderthals were moving about. I pulled down my covering to find my chest and most of my naked body covered with dried green paste that had hardened and cracked. I suddenly realized my breathing had improved greatly. I tried for a deep breath and got it with only a bit of sharp sting at the end. Both shoulders were working much better. I pushed up on one elbow and a large chunk of green paste fell off. Further inspection revealed that indeed, almost every inch of my body had been coated with the green goo. I sat up, watched to see if anyone took notice, then began peeling off the rest of the green. When all of it was removed, I leaned over and recovered my flight suit and slid into it. Checking the heel compartment in my left boot, my Nasebian crystal was still there. I pulled the boots on and took the time to re-lace them all the way. When it was done, I dared to stand. Amazingly, no one paid me any attention.

  It seemed I was free to move around the encampment. There was a good chance that meant I was not tonight’s dinner, although guards stationed around the settlement looked as though they might not approve of my leaving, had I a place to go. I moved around with my hands in my pockets, trying to look less threatening. The morning’s work was in full swing. Leather was being hammered and chewed. There was a stream on one side of the camp where washing was going on. Back by the empty wooden cages, spears were being sharpened, and men were grouping together in what looked like a hunting party. I took a seat on a stone near the cave and tried to look inconspicuous. It did not work.

  Scarface showed up at the hunting party. There was a serious discussion. To my utter dismay, he looked over at me, pointed, and gave his men orders. Two of them grabbed their spears and headed my way.

  I could have put up a good fight at that point and then tried to run like hell, but the thought occurred to me that I might need these people. There was a chance I would be spending the rest of my life here. They knew the dangers. I did not. They knew how to survive. I had a lot to learn.

  The guards were more respectful this time. They came up to me and one took some red pigment from a shell and drew two lines down each side of my face. They pointed to their party and grunted, “Dom.” I had already learned the word for "go." I nodded and followed them back to the group where the others looked at me with Neanderthal smirks and utterances of idle ridicule. Not far away, a second hunting party was forming, but they did not seem connected to ours.

  We moved out toward a well-worn trail at the far end of the clearing. Two Neanderthals seemed assigned to keep me in line. There was no doubt in my mind that given the opportunity, I could not outrun them. The others, busy around the encampment, paused to watch our departure as though it was something of significance. Every man in the group was well-armed with spears and clubs. I, of course, had nothing, leaving me to wonder exactly what my role would be. It concerned me.

  The trail was rough and uneven. Climbing was required in places. The place was mineral rich in every direction. I spotted beds of yellow sulfur against some of the cliff walls, glints of various metals along others. Walking a good half mile along a narrow running stream I was certain there was flint within the polished boulders that lined it. Animal sounds from the forest were frequent and unnerving.

  When the column of fur-covered hunters suddenly came to a halt, the dense forest overhang made it impossible to see up ahead. No matter. I was immediately summoned and ushered along past the others to the head of the line, where Scarface waited.

  We had arrived at a huge clearing filled by grass that towered a foot overhead. A trail was cut through the grass and disappeared around a corner forty or fifty feet ahead. Far in the distance, treetops could be seen where the clearing ended and more forest began. My captors stood silently staring at me. At first, I thought they wanted me to lead as bait for any danger that lay in wait. I was only half right. I held out my hand for a spear, but Scarface grunted a negative. I decided I could break into the grass and hide as well as any of them, so I took a few steps toward the high grass, but Scarface grabbed my arm and stopped me. He grunted more negatives and punched a fist into his open hand several times saying, “Da-bow, da-bow!”

  The hair on the back of my neck stood up. He was telling me to run. I guessed the other forest edge to be a football field away. It did not take a genius to know I would be running for my life. I looked at Scarface. He knew I understood. He grunted, “Shoo, shoo.” It was supposed to be encouragement. They were not trying to kill me, but there was a good chance something in the high grass would. I had no idea what was out there, but I was certain it was unpleasant. Looking back at the line of silent faces, it was the first time I had seen respect from all of them. I began to hyperventilate, ignoring the remaining rib pain. I ran in place and pumped myself up. Scarface grunted approval. They all understood.

  With a last look, I took off in a sprint for the other side. There was no sense trying to take cover in the grass. It was there the predator dwelled, one that probably had a hunter’s sense of smell. I quickly worked up to a full-out run, consciously regulating my injured breathing, using the arms to add thrust. The trail was a good ten feet wide with dirt-grass footing. There were no sharp corners, just gradual bends through the stalks of grass.

  Three-quarters of the way through, I sucked air and started to think I had a chance. The treetops on the other side were getting nearer. Maybe I had been too quick for the predator.

  Male ego rearing its ugly head.

  The beast picked me up a second later. I heard its scream as it mashed through the grass somewhere behind. I dared a quick glance back, and that was enough to add speed to what I had thought was my maximum.

  It broke into the trail about thirty feet behind. It was a type of flightless bird. It was as tall as a backhoe. Ostrich legs. Long neck with a dinosaur head. Long pointed teeth that formed a smile where there actually was not one. Eyes on either side. Long tail held high in anticipation of an upcoming meal. The ground shook with the stomp of each of those pile-driver feet.

  I gasped for all the air I could get, rib cage pain no longer a concern. I twisted my head sideward stretching for even more power. The beast screamed at me to stop. The ground shook from the pounding of its feet. It was close enough that I could smell it.

  I did not need to look back to know I was losing, but the forest edge was a mere twenty yards away. Would the drooling mouth clamp down on my shoulder and lift me away? If I made the forest, could I cut into the underbrush in time to run interference and maybe hide?

  It is a strange sensation when your body starts to give out, even though it knows it will be killed. It feels almost like a promise broken by God. Death that comes while every inch of you is full bore trying to stay alive. It is a contrariety well-known by soldiers on the battlefield, emergency rescue personnel, and some accident victims. It was a mind-set I did not care for.

  I pumped beyond what seemed possible and tore through the line between clearing and forest, the creature’s breath on my neck. I dove for the nearest brush expecting a huge clawed foot to lock me down.

  From out of nowhere, heavy vine snapped up, catching Big Bird square in the neck. With a loud snapping, cracking sound, he flipped over backwards and was immediately besieged by a small army of Neanderthals hiding along the forest’s edge, the second hunting party from the camp. There was a fierce session of spearing and clubbing and yelling. The predator had become the prey.

  I struggled onto my hands and knees, gasping, while the celebration broke out around me.

  Chapter 17

  We marched back to camp victorious, large pieces of Big Bird hanging from shoulder-carried, freshly cut tree limbs. For me, something had changed. There were no more guards. All spear-prodding had ceased. I had the feeling I could have left anytime I cared to.


  The encampment immediately became filled with whooping and hollering, and jumping and rolling on the ground. As the hunting party dispersed into the celebration, I suddenly found myself a free man to do as I wished. That eventuality had not occurred to me, so I went to a rock platform by the cave and sat, hoping to sort out my new life.

  Furious butchering of big bird parts was underway at various points around the camp. As I sat in a pose reminiscent of The Thinker, Scarface appeared carrying a healthy chunk of bright red meat. He plopped it down on the rock next to me, gave a prideful shake of his hairy head and left.

  Very few Earthlings eat real meat these days. The substitute steaks and other products are so packed with protein and healthy ingredients, and taste so damn good, there’s just no real reason to. I looked down at the thick red portion bequeathed me and wondered if I could. And would it be an insult not to? I gazed around the camp at my newly adopted family, most of them gobbling away, the hair on their faces stained red. A new realization suddenly hit me.

  There was no fire here. I had seen a large fire circle of rock nearly covered by dirt in the center of the camp. There were similar smaller ones within the cave. There had been fire here once, but there was not now.

  I stood and looked around to see if anyone was paying attention. They were too busy enjoying big bird. At the edge of the woodland behind me, I gathered up a huge armload of leaves and kindling and walked tentatively to the old fire circle at camp’s center. I kneeled and quickly dug it out, then filled it with kindling. Some of the tribe took notice but kept eating as though it was entertaining but of no significance.

  Back at the edge of the woods it was easy to find enough half rotten logs. I carried an armload back and stacked them accordingly. More of the camp began to watch as though this was the meal’s entertainment.

  I slipped the magnesium bar from my pocket as inconspicuously as possible and held it in my hand in a way it could not be seen. With a special pile of very fine tinder, I began my subtle striking of the magnesium. I had embers within thirty seconds, and with the proper amount of blowing, a small flame a minute later.