Mankind's Worst Fear

by David L Erickson

  “A thug, huh?” Heather leaned over, patted Baider on the knee and winked. “A thug who could hog-tie Wendell and drag him off the boat, eh?”

  George snickered. “They'd both enjoy it too much.”

  “Here I come. Here I come.” Shoulder-deep in the hatch, Wendell tossed a large black carryall bag onto the replica slat-teak deck and followed it. He was equipped as the others in cold weather camouflage pants, jacket, black leather hiking boots sealed to mid-calf and a utility belt of thick, webbed black pockets. On his left hip was a stout, sheathed hunting knife, on his right, a weapons pouch and a steel-blue .45 caliber automatic. Similar in appearance to the antiquated military version, Geroge had selected the sidearm because it employed a longer, rifled and solid mounted barrel. Enhanced trinitrotoluene powder and explosive, titanium-tipped bullets increased range and knockdown power. A self-adjusting laser sight made targeting child’s play.

  “About time,” Baider mumbled derisively. Instead of a survival jacket, Baider sported a tan, yellow-wool lined flight jacket he won from a drunken fighter jock. Though not in the habit of disclosing his feelings, he once told George in a moment of bravado that he thought the jacket gave him a roguish appearance — for the chicks. It was zipped to mid-chest and snapped tight at the waist and sleeves. Where Wendell had his parka snugged about his face, Baider wore a battered Russian fur cap with the muffs hanging limp over his ears. His way of announcing his disdain for regimentation, as well as his own uniqueness.

  “You shouldn’t talk behind someone’s back, especially since I heard everything you said. For your information.” he stuck his tongue out at Baider. “I was choosing instruments I thought we maybe might need. I even remembered to select a bioscanner for Heather.”

  “Good, great. Now, get in the damn boat.” Now seated in the stern beside the five horsepower waterjet outboard, George skewered Wendell with a piercing glare. The young man's tardiness as quickly forgiven, his gaze drifted back to the unfamiliar shoreline. Would the land reveal what Slinker's technology could not? What of his mother and father. Had they survived this apparent calamity? Their cave home wasn’t more than a day’s march from the new coastline. It might provide a starting point to understanding this startlingly alien environment.

  Wendell swung a leg over the knee-high deck rail and gingerly lowered himself beside Heather. He reached up and retrieved three stuffed black polylon backpacks from Farrell, one at a time, and stowed them between the lateral supports of the dinghy, leaving little room for their feet.

  “And here.” Farrell retrieved a lumpy black bag and handed it down to George. “Lasrifles and spare energy packs. I suggest you keep them loaded. No telling what’s out there.”

  “Thanks.” George stacked the bag atop the backpacks where it was accessible, and nodded his appreciation. The new rifles offered many advantages over conventional arms. Such an obvious oversight, it was odd that he hadn't thought to bring them. But until that moment, he hadn’t considered the possibility that an advanced alien force might have invaded Earth, and altered the world with devastating weapons.

  “Don't mention it, Cap. I want you guys to come back...alive.”

  Baider unsnapped the mooring strap and pushed off, then unzipped the black bag. He removed a lasrifle, about the size of a sawed-off shotgun, aimed it towards the nearest building, and sighted in using the auto-ranger mounted atop the weapon like a vid view-finder.

  Though a competent marksman, yet disdainful of weapons and a staunch supporter of international disarmament, Heather glared at him disapprovingly. Her efforts to keep Slinker free of weapons had almost convinced George, but NASCAP’s board of directors saw otherwise. The military uses of such an advanced submersible and basic security needs could not be ignored.

  Drifted clear of Slinker, George popped up the small black control panel molded into the curved sidewall of the dingy and pressed a square red button. The hydrogen powered trolling motor, no more than a silver tube with a bubble head, burbled to life. With a thin, yet powerful mixture of water and air, the little motor propelled the dinghy slowly forward. Its steady thrum barely intruded upon the gentle wash of sea against shore.

  George steered toward an outcropping ringed with trees that he figured would provide firm footing and good cover for the dinghy. Not that he was overly concerned about thievery or discovery, but he was cautious by nature and training. A breezeless hazy sky, capped by low gray clouds, negated effective aerial surveillance, and what few biosigns Slinker had detected were faint and distant. Despite his penchant for bold and decisive action, George refused to put his people in danger by ignoring basic precautions. So why had he forgotten the lasrifles?

  Baider cradled the lasrifle in his left arm and pointed. “Make for that building to starboard. We can use the overhang for a dock.”

  “No telling how sound any of these structures are.” George said.

  “Good point, Cap. Still, ought to check out a couple buildings by the water. And that tall one up the hill.”

  “We’ll have to be darn careful. This town appears to have been abandoned for centuries. I’d hate for one of us to get injured out of carelessness.”

  “Nothing but brick and stone from what I can see.”

  “We’ll take a closer look before I draw any conclusions.” George motioned to Baider. “Ready the bow line, would you?”

  “Sure.” Baider grasped the mooring strap by its clasp and crouched, waited for the dinghy to ground itself. Wendell reached out to steady him as the craft bumped the graveled shoreline, but quickly withdrew his hand before Baider could react. With practiced ease, Baider leaped to one side of the bow and landed squarely on the undergrowth-crowded spit of sand. He firmly grounded the dinghy and held tight as the others grabbed gear and came over the bow.

  With backpacks held off the ground by their straps, Heather and Wendell lifted the bow by its handholds, waited while George and Baider lifted the stern and helped them haul the dinghy to a vine patch sheltered within a cluster of spindly Scotch pines.

  While George and Heather deflated the dinghy, Baider emptied the black bag Wendell set beside him. He handed around lasrifles and webbed belts with utility pockets stuffed with survival kits and power packs, then set aside two camouflaged sheaths with machetes and tossed the empty sack in the dinghy.

  He looked up at George inspecting the lasrifle he’d been handed with a hint of appreciative disquiet. “We’ll have to cut a path.”

  “Thanks for volunteering.” George smiled. He hoped there would be no need to use weapons, though as a scientist, an active demonstration of their effectiveness would assuage his curiosity.

  “No problem, Cap.” Baider shot him a wry look. “I can use the exercise.”

  With rigorous daily workouts an integral part of the crew’s base-side regimen, George nonetheless agreed with him. “We’ll take turns.”

  “Don't look at me,” Wendell chimed in.

  Exploring the western end of the small clearing, Heather had her back to them. “You shouldn’t say that. We can all use a good workout, even if you can't see that.”

  “Sweetheart,” Wendell cocked an eye at her. “If I had a bod like yours, I’d...I’d...well... I wouldn’t be so ready to wear it out.”

  “Stuff it, Wendy.”

  “Ouch! Cut me to the quick, girl.” He gave her a wounded pout, shook his hand as if it were burned, then turned his back on her and sniffed haughtily.

  Chuckling at their childish banter, George caught the machete Baider tossed him, then shouldered the backpack at his feet. A sudden unease made him glance about, scrutinize their immediate surroundings, attuned to what some would consider meaningless. He noted the absence of flying insects and the twitter and chatter of small life amid the foliage, spider webs strung through the tangle of undergrowth. A faint breeze tainted with brine wafted through the dense forest, bereft of the natural odors of decay and freshness of wild greenery.

  He froze. Perhaps the thud of boot on a fallen log or
a rotten branch separated from its host, disturbed the eerie silence. It didn’t come again and he tried to shrug it off, but an uneasy disquiet remained.

  “All right you two, can it and load up.”

  “Aye, herr Cop-e-taun.” Wendell saluted in the manner of a Euro storm trooper, fingers splayed, palm out. With a silly grin, he retrieved the last pack. Heather stifled a giggle and came back to the dinghy with her hand out. Bowing with a great air of servitude, Wendell offered her a backpack and helped her slip it on.

  She beamed at him. “No matter how serious things get, Wendell, you always know how to make me laugh.”

  “A gift...from my father’s side.”

  “I thought you had two mothers?”

  “One of them played the daddy. My real dad came together with my mom in a test tube.”

  “Ohhh...”

  “Let’s go.” Baider chose a spot between two tall, skinny pines and took a swipe. Thick brownish green vines and shoulder high yellow grasses melted away. He took a step forward and swung again, clearing an opening to knee level. Swipe and step. Swipe and step. Methodically he moved deeper into the forest. The ground rose gradually as he angled toward the town, staying roughly parallel to the bay, twenty yards to their right. The others lined out behind him, giving him plenty of swing room.

  Ten minutes passed before the undergrowth thinned. Cracked and ribbed polyphalt appeared beneath them with ragged patches of weeds and vines shooting skyward from foot wide, two deep fissures. The nearest structure, a square two-story red brick ruin with corroded aluminum frame doors, glass panels congealed with mold and mud-splattered green scum, reared from the wilderness like a craggy, brooding gateway to Hades.

  With his usual confident swagger, Baider mounted the Polycrete rise running the width of the building and kicked at one of the doors. The framework ripped from the brick with a prolonged grinding squeal of protest, twisted and collapsed with a hollow crash. Glass shards splayed across the buckled, mold encrusted floor in a muffled, energetic dance.

  Heather caught up to him, grasped his arm and held him back with a light tug. “Be cool, Baider. Uncharted territory.”

  He winked and scrunched up his face as if to say her worry was misplaced, then cautiously planted one boot over the threshold, hesitated, brought his feet together. His head snapped right, panned left. “A retail store.”

  Mounting the walkway beside Heather, George stayed her with a hand to her shoulder, then waved, palm back, to keep Wendell from joining them.

  Baider proceeded across the floor, testing each footfall, leaving shallow, treaded indentions to where he paused near the center of the undivided expanse. He cocked his head and listened, breathed deeply, waved them forward.

  “It’s okay. Watch the broken glass.”

  George shuffled through the entrance’s black maw and eased to the right, then waved Heather in. Hesitant, she sidestepped a puddle of glass shards and stopped just inside the door as George advanced until he was a half dozen feet behind Baider. Broken down display cases of corroded aluminum, rust streaked from long absent metal, and panes of moldy green were laid out in once neat rows. The remnants of roof trusses, corrugated I-beams, had crushed several cases. Bits of dull and oddly shaped colored plastics lay everywhere. Near the back wall, water seeping through the ancient bricks gurgled as it trickled to the floor. Behind them, gentle waves slapped against the ruins along the bay and a faint breeze stirred the treetops. The scuffle of their boots and the crunch of glass seemed unnatural, intrusive, like trodding on primeval gravesites best left undisturbed.

  With a gloved hand, Heather reached into the rubble of a case and retrieved a small brown clump. She wiped away the grime with a gloved thumb, revealing a sparkling mass.

  “A jewelry store or maybe a pawn shop.” She rubbed the piece between her fingers and a small gold cross and gold filigree chain emerged. Tiny diamonds encapsulated in nodules woven into the chain glittered when she blew on it.

  George used the butt of his lasrifle to disturb the contents of another case, pushing irregular shards of glass onto the floor. A number of shapeless lumps and a thin, palm-sized rectangle tumbled out. He retrieved the rectangle and wiped its surface until he could read the black onyx letters imbedded in the platinum case. Letting out a low whistle, he leaned around and showed Heather what he found.

  “NHDA, One-o-one Strike Group, commemorative,” she read softly, taking it from him. “It looks like a holder of some sort.”

  “Open it.”

  “I can't with these gloves on, George.”

  “Here.” He took it from her and popped the edge against his rifle butt. It flipped open, revealing a solar-powered organizer, and an inscription. “To my beloved husband, Tom. May God be your co-pilot. I pledge my love to you forever. Your adoring wife, Malisha Connor, July 10th, 2057.”

  “Impossible! That's only last week! How could that be?” Heather's eyes grew large. “This place is in ruins! My God!” For a frightening moment, she tottered on the verge of hysteria.

  George stepped quickly to her side and wrapped his arms about her. He held her tight until he felt her fearful gasps subside. Usually stolid and unshakeable, never had he seen her in such a panic, didn’t know she was capable of it, but couldn't help but share her growing sense of disorientation and loss, like a cold pick chiseling at the edges of his mind. Unable to find words of encouragement, and deeply moved by the sudden appearance of a weakness he thought her incapable of, he could do nothing more than hold her.

  “Got to be some kind of explanation for this.” With slow, deliberate steps, Baider moved farther into the store, kicked at small items, face rigid in disbelief. “Something happened. Just have to figure it out.”

  “Something’s moving out here!” Wendell shrieked.

  George and Heather whirled about and stormed outside. A searing yellow bolt from Wendell’s lasrifle cut a seventy-foot swath through the undergrowth in the direction they had come. He was shaking so hard he could barely hold his weapon.

  Eyes ablaze, George lunged off the porch and snatched the rifle from him. “Don't ever fire that damn thing again without my orders! You understand!” Jarred by his uncharacteristic overreaction, George forced the vehemence from his voice and stilled the frightened rage that wanted to smash Wendell’s teeth in with the butt of the weapon. “We don't know what the hell is going on here, but your panic attack won't get us anywhere.”

  “We need a time fix, Cap.” Baider’s calm tone resonated from the store entrance, took the edge off the moment.

  “Cap," Wendell whined, "I saw something. Something as big as a man. Only...only...hairy. And...and...dark.”

  With eyes trained to spot distant objects across rolling seas, George scanned the smoldering patch and beyond, but detected nothing other than a thick wall of yellow/green vines, giant, gnarled oaks and spindly pines. He clicked on the rifle’s safety and handed the weapon back to Wendell, considered if he should apologize. Instead, he tried to online with Slinker, but when that failed, faced Baider.

  “Contact Slinker. See if Farrell can get an astral fix.” George glanced at Heather. Her eyes were wide and glazed, her jaw slack, skin pale. “As far fetched as it may seem, there is the possibility we may not be in our own time, or dimension. Can't dismiss anything out of hand.”

  Flushed, Heather pressed herself into Baider when he stepped off the porch, as if his solemn composure would somehow dissolve her fears. The gold cross dangled, forgotten, from her fingers.

  “Aye, Cap.” Baider patted Heather’s back and gently disengaged himself. She resisted, but a frown from him, she stepped away, squared her shoulders and consciously reasserted her air of self-assurance. Baider jerked a glove off, unzipped a pocket on the sleeve of his jacket and produced a comset.

  Though he figured she no longer needed it, George squeezed her shoulder as he retrieved the bioscanner from the pouch on her utility belt. Jaw tight, eyes determined, she gathered a trembling smile, as if to say she was okay.


  It wasn't much, but George was encouraged. The last thing they needed was for her to fall apart. He hesitated, his memory replaying a similar reactive episode weeks before, let it go, then flipped open the bioscanner and studied its digital display. The sense of foreboding he had encountered aboard ship, returned. What they were seeing was impossible...right?

  *****

  Aboard Slinker, Farrell looked up from monitoring the shore team's progress. His vid had turned light green, with four red blips beside the outline of a structure. A faint blip appeared several yards from the others. An energy burst flared and the blip disappeared. It was likely that whatever had caused the blip was still there, but had somehow shielded its heat emanations by burrowing into a foundation or a tunnel. The bioenhancer tags the shore team wore about their necks offered an unambiguous fix.

  Don leaned over the com con and tapped the trans/receive tab. “All right, Baider. What’ve you found so far?”

  “Ruins. A jewelry store. Not much left.”

  “What was that discharge?”

  “Wendell freaked. Thought he saw something.”

  “Something was there. Something big enough to produce a heat signature the sensors could read.”

  “Is it gone?”

  “The blip is gone, but no telling if what made it is.”

  A brief silence ensued.

  “Cap wants an astral fix.”

  “I’ve tried already. Can't pick out a star formation to save our souls. Too much cloud cover. Why?”