Mankind's Worst Fear

by David L Erickson

  “How she be lookin'?”

  “She be ‘kay, Lonesome. Top o da skin. Not deep.” The woman squatted beside Heather and trained the litemate on the little girl’s leg. “Kin yew walk?” she asked.

  “It will hurt, I’m sure,” Heather quavered, “but she can if she has to.”

  “Didn’t ask yew.”

  “No, mama. Hurts bad.”

  “One what shot her kin carry her.” Lonesome sheathed his knife and slipped it into a large pocket at his waist. “Time ta git. All-a-ya. On yews feet. Move!”

  They rose cautiously and waited.

  Though frustrated and angry, George reminded himself that it was the native’s territory, and George and his crew were oddly attired strangers who just shot a kid.

  Baider’s sullen glare drew a warning prod from a rifle barrel, while Wendell’s quivering lip and Heather's trembles only garnered hard looks. Months of survival training barely addressed 'capture by hostile forces', but George felt they were handling it well enough.

  A gunman, rail thin and ugly, poked Baider with his rifle and motioned toward the girl. “Pick her up.”

  Firm, but without malice, Lonesome gave the order. “Ahrite. Git thar things.” His people shouldered the captured weapons and picked up the backpacks. “Hav dem carry da satchels...cept fer da big fella. He be carryin' Summer.”

  The man with the shotgun in Baider’s face pointed to the girl. “No funny stuff...hear?”

  “No funny stuff.” Baider knelt, but the girl shrank back into her mother’s coat.

  “Git on his back, Summer.” Lonesome offered her his hand. “I wan no denyin’ from yews, unnerstan?”

  Summer nodded. Heather helped her stand. She wavered on her good leg, the injured limb crooked back. She hopped a step towards Baider. With exaggerated care, he turned his back to the girl. Hesitantly, Summer wrapped her arms about his shoulders and her good leg about his waist. He rose, settled her weight with a shrug and faced Lonesome.

  In the dim light, George glimpsed Baider's expression. The sullen glare was gone.

  “Hunter, yews lead.” Keeping a wary eye on their captives, Lonesome stepped back, gave the others room.

  Hunter jerked his head towards the opening in the west wall and, rifle at the ready, led them outside. The others followed without prodding, captive alternated with captor. Lonesome took up the rear behind Heather and the woman.

  Moon and stars blanked by thick clouds, the night was inky black. The feeble beamed oil lanterns held by Hunter and Lonesome swept the ground, sufficient to keep the newcomers from crashing into their captors, but not enough to keep them from stumbling over roots or clumps of vegetation. The trail showed periodic use, trees and bushes hacked back between rocky outcroppings, but was barely recognizable as such.

  With darkness had come the twitters, squeaks and scrapings of small critters, and a steady, cold breeze off the ocean. The chill deepened, but after a few hundred feet, George warmed enough to no longer notice. They worked their way uphill at a steady pace amid the deeper black of huge trees and thick undergrowth. The night sounds receded as they passed, then resumed, though heavily masked by the Slinker crew’s heavy breathing. Their captors appeared mildly winded, yet moved along at a gait that made it difficult for the captives to keep up.

  They reached the apex of a low ridgeline and plunged into a steep ravine. Wendell slipped on the frost-slick growth and loose shale, stumbled and cursed. A rifle butt jab to the small of the back sent him staggering, but he scrambled to his feet and continued down the boulder-strewn hillside.

  For the better part of an hour they wove around forested hillocks before reaching the outskirts of a city. Small, evenly spaced foundations jutted from the overgrowth, revealed by the dim, wavering glow of the lanterns. Brick ruins soon gave way to tall and substantial squares and wide avenues. Occasionally, they were forced to detour around huge mounds of shattered brick and polycrete. They crossed over a river and soon left the heart of the city behind. The ground sloped gradually upward. The declining band of ruins gave way to ever steeper slopes and wider, deeper ravines.

  During a ten minute break at the apex of a ridge, George snuck a look at his watch. Six hours had passed. His legs hurt mercilessly. He sucked in the thin, frigid air with harsh gasps. A slug of hot Irish whiskey would go down well about now. He looked to Wendell and Heather, noted they were doing as poorly. Baider, sure-footed, seemed little fazed.

  “Aright,” Lonesme growled, “On yeuns feet.”

  Heather moaned and Wendell whined under his breath, but they rose with the others and the ground-chewing pace resumed.

  George tried to conger up a pleasant experience to dull the grinding pain inching up his thighs and back, but only an image of him snorting lines of coke off a small, round mirror with a rolled dollar bill in a darkened, sea-tossed cabin, emerged. Every fiber of his being told him he should be on the bridge, yet the thin trails of white powder compelled him to bury his responsibilities as first mate, demanded he stay put, one leg wrapped around the metal table leg to keep him from being tossed about as a massive storm raged against the coastal trawler.

  Wired beyond the ability to reason, George climbed into a haggard yellow oil-skin, unlatched his cabin door and was promptly hurtled into the corridor when the ship heeled over, shuddered from stem to stern. Rivets popped with alarming screeches, banged off sheet steel. Frigid water sloshed in the corners and funneled down stairwells from sprung hatches, wetting his sea-boots and making passage even more hazardous. Blinded by the white fury ricocheting off the inside of his skull, he stumbled down the main corridor to the crew quarters aft, seeking seaman Harkinson, his supplier, but the cabin was empty. In a near catatonic stupor, he slammed his way forward, unaware of the massive bruising of his shoulders and arms, a palm laid open from a bulkhead seam rent apart.

  He stumbled onto the bridge, bounced off the chart table and into a dark shadow manning the helm. The small ship heeled to starboard as the helmsman lost his grip on the wheel and fell, cushioning George’s impact with the cold, damp deck. He rolled off and tried to stand, but the trawler’s bow surged, sending him crashing against the aft bulkhead. Agony sluiced up his back and stabbed into the base of his brain, bringing clarity.

  “Mister Schumer!”

  “Get the wheel, Carson!” George screamed, “Grab the wheel!”

  “Aye, Mister Schumer.” Back-dropped by the faint green glow of the radar binnacle, crewman Parker pulled himself up by the wheel, fought to bring the bow head on to the surging seas.

  “Where’s the Captain,” George hollered over the howling wind and thunderous assault of frothing, gray-black seas. A lunge as the ship rolled to port slammed him into the chart table, but his hand, slicked with blood, offered only a tenuous grasp.

  “In his chair!” Parker hollered, barely audible in the din.

  The trawler plunged into a trough, slammed through an oncoming sea. Metal screeched and an ominous crack ripped the night open, casting the bridge in stark relief for a second, but it was enough. Captain Killibrew, strapped in his chair, was beyond caring. His mouth and empty eyes gaped and his arms hung limp.

  Gees! Hell of a time to die! With the flush of cocaine riveting his eyes in their sockets, fear grabbed hold of George’s chest and squeezed. He gasped for air, choked on spittle, issued a strangled cry for mercy.

  “Aright. Weuns be stoppin’.”

  Lonesome’s gruff order ended George’s nightmare before recrimination rendered him a whimpering, feeble wreck. One foot stumbled before the other, came together. He collapsed where he stood and closed his eyes. Pain resurged as strength ebbed, left him unable to muster the strength to check on the others. A charlie-horse crept up his left leg. He bit his lip to keep from crying out. Exhaustion smothered the anger that had kept him placing one foot after the other.

  “Safe ‘nough fer now. Make camp, but no far. Doan wanna ‘tract da patrols.” Lonesome trudged past George.

  As the charlie-hors
e faded and harsh gasps eased, George sat up and began to take note of their captor's actions. They appeared to be as much at ease crossing the rugged terrain as George was negotiating the streets of Portland, Oregon. Escape crossed his mind, but he wouldn't get far in the darkness, and he would not leave the others behind. For now, it was best they do as they were told. Bide their time. See how things played out.

  Lonesome stooped before Summer and wiped strands of hair from her eyes. From the yellow glow of the lanterns placed far apart, George could see little more than shapes, but Lonesome’s movements were clearly paternal.

  “She your daughter?” George wheezed.

  Lonesome ignored him.

  “No reason to keep it a secret. Summer your daughter?”

  “Hush. Nothin’ yews needs ta know.” Low, but sharp, Lonesome’s warning convinced George that the girl was indeed his daughter.

  “How much farther?” Heather demanded through pain-clenched teeth.

  “Lonesome whirled about and rose. “Whot’s yews name,” he spat. A litemate beam splayed across her face.

  Heather winced and scrunched her eyes. "Heather."

  “Heatha, it doan matter none. Ifin yews cane make it, we jest hafta shoot yews pretty face off an’ leave yews fer da critters.”

  “Doan be such a gobbler,” the woman spat at Lonesome. “Weuns doan know who dey be. No fair treatin’ em like hen crappin’s jesta fatten yer haid.”

  “Shut yews yap, Tasha. Fer all weuns know, dey be da devil’s own.”

  “Hen crappin’,” She snorted, and brushed his words away with an angry wave, then knelt beside Heather and helped her to sit up. “War yeuns from?”

  Heather looked to George.

  Intently interested, George dragged his battered body upright, as much to get his thermal boots between him and the frigid ground, as to hear better. Useful commonalities would be revealed, regardless of the topic.

  “From up the coast.” Heather answered, technically correct.

  “A village er somethin’?”

  “Yeah, a big village.”

  “Yeuns lyin’,” the woman snapped, though she appeared uncertain. “Ain’t no nothing much up da coast. Least wise, none weuns heared of. Jest da patrols an’ such.”

  “It’s really big. Thousands of people, mostly military.” She snapped a worried frown to George, then lowered her head. It was obvious she regretted speaking out, lending voice to what their captors might construe as an implied threat.

  “Military huh?” Lonesome growled. Their captors scrambled to their feet with weapons trained on their captives. “They be havin’ trackin’ stuff?”

  “No! No,” George blurted. “Nothing like that. We’re explorers, scientists mostly.”

  “What uneform da yeuns wear?”

  “U.S....Navy and Air Force.” There was reason enough to keep quiet, but if they were to befriend these hill people, George knew he must give them enough details to satisfy their curiosity and allay their suspicions.

  Lonesome reached George in two steps and shoved his Marlin in George’s face. “Yews be lyin’. Ain’t been a orgeenized military since da aliens come, three hunnert years ‘go. Yews tryin’ ta trick us up, aintcha.” It was not phrased as a question.

  “No, no, nothing like that,” George fought to remain calm, shocked by the reference to aliens. Did they mean aliens from another country or from off world? “We’re survivors, just like you.”

  “Sirvivers, eh? Yeuns mean duhsendunts, dontcha?” The woman’s desire to quiet Lonesome's fears was pointedly clear.

  “Yeah, sure...that’s right.” Calm and unhurried, Baider’s experience as a first mate made him quite adept at diffusing tense situations. “No heavy weapons, no tanks or planes. The aliens wiped us out long ago and we haven’t learned how to make new ones.”

  “Dubel liar!” A snarling, pock-cheeked and grizzled gunman shoved a rifle barrel in Baider’s face.

  Lonesome whirled on the younger man. “Keep yews yap shut, Piker. I be doin’ da questnin’. Yews jest keepa sharp eye out fer mora thar fella x-plorers. No tellin’ how many more er out thar.”

  Piker tramped to the edge of the small clearing, grumping to himself. He was about Wendell’s age, black haired and brown eyed, with pale, weathered features.

  “It’s just us,” Heather spoke softly. “We came south searching for other villages...other people like us. They don't know where we are.”

  “I cane trust nothin’ yews be sayin’. Yews done lied ta us a-ready.”

  With a lantern on the ground between them, two men examined the contents of Baider’s utility belt. A litemate blinked on and off, on and off. “Lonesome! Catch!” Another man, much older by the looks of his silver hair and stooped shoulders, held up their comset. Lonesome faced him, his shotgun still trained on George. The man tossed it to him.

  “Well...well,” Lonesome eyed the device. “what be dis?”

  “A comset. Hasn’t worked in days,” George lied, hoping it was too techno for them to figure out.

  “Wat be dat?”

  “Way for us to communicate…to talk to our people back in our village.”

  Lonesome looked it over. “Cover ‘im an gimmie some light.” He laid his rifle beside him. A litemate blinked on, then arced gracefully towards him. Lonesome made an easy grab, then shined it on the comset.

  “On.” He punched the power button and brought it to his mouth. Keeping an eye on George, he keyed the mic. “’lo. Base. Com-in base.” Static answered. “Patrol ta da base. Patrol ta da base. Com-in base.”

  “I told you it didn’t work.” George’s relief was such, he dared say no more lest he reveal himself.

  “Well now. Guess yew was bein’ right. Doan work, I be jest tossin’ it.”

  “Our resources are limited.” Though suddenly seething inside, George allowed only a mildly dismissive tone to creep into his voice. “We might be able to repair it. Makes no sense to throw it away.”

  “A-right. Yews right. Here.” Back-handed, he tossed the comset to Piker. “Break it.” The litemate blinked out. “Nuf res. We be movin’ on.” Lonesome stood. “Yews wanna stay here...I gotta shoot yews.”

  Anger giving way to dismay over the loss of the comset, George half-heartedly pulled his legs under him and tried to stand, but only managed to get one knee up. With a groan, he fell back on the thick carpet of leaves and needles.

  “Up.” Piker prodded with his boot.

  “No.”

  “Up!”

  “I can't get up.”

  Piker raised his rifle and pointed it at the bridge of George’s nose, inches from his face. “Lass chance, x-plorer man.”

  “Hold it, Piker. Hans gonna skin us ifin weuns kill ‘em.” Lonesome faced Piker, though George doubted they could see each other clearly enough to read each other. “Yews saw thru ma bluff. A-right. We be stayin’ ‘ere tanight. Yews pull anythin’ an I be blowin’ yews crapper ‘way. Got it?” He huffed and moved away. “A-right. Piker, yews be taken da firs watch.”

  “Lonesome.”

  “Yews jes shuts up,” Lonesome growled at George.

  His irritation told George their captors were just as tired. Cloaked in the anonymity of darkness, George smiled. He learned long before that a weary man wasn’t likely to start a fight over something inconsequential.

  “Mind if we get out our enviropads…our sleepers?”

  A litemate flicked to life and played across George’s face, then alighted on the backpack beside George. “Yews gets dem out, one ba one. Slow.”

  Hands where Lonesome could see them, George removed his enviropad from a zippered pouch at the bottom of his backpack. Slow, deliberate, he laid out his sleeper and wasn't surprised when a gunman snatched his pack and tossed it to a cohort farthest from the captives.

  Heather shivered loudly and George looked up to say something clever to comfort her, but a prod from a rifle barrel stopped him. Grumpy when tired, the threat demanded he do something heroic, and stupid, but
he sensed the gun's chill steel at the back of his head and instead, peeled back his boots and wriggled into his enviropad.

  Beneath the glare of a litemate, mumbling about the god-awful cold and her immeasurable fatigue, Heather did the same. The litemate next played over Wendell, making his dark cheeks appear drawn. Shaky hands fumbled with his enviropad.

  “Hep him!” Lonesome pointed the shotgun at Baider.

  Without a word, Baider, who had just as cautiously removed his enviropad, did as told, then laid out his own, slipped in, boots and all, and was snoring heartily in moments.

  Beyond the blinding glare of the litemate, George watched their captors unfurl rolled blankets of coarse, gray wool. They formed a circle about George's group, kept their weapons tucked close.

  “No crap, unnerstan!”

  Bone weary, they were the last words George heard before collapsing into the morass of a deep and troubled sleep. Demons and disjointed images played to his mind's eye, forced him awake in minutes. He listened to the soft and steady breathing of those around him, wondered at the eerie silence that pervaded the wilderness. Even the small creatures that kept a forest alive at night were stilled as the frigid air grew colder. George snuggled deeper into his pad until only his mouth was clear, and slowed his breathing. A metallic clink jarred him, but a coal-black sleep soon muted his senses.

  *****

  George woke on his side, shivering, left arm numb. Despite layered, sweat absorbing underclothes, his skin was damp. He labored to sit up, but back muscles flamed and his legs refused to cooperative. For a time he lay still, wondering if he didn’t get up and move around, if he might not be able to when he had to. A stiff-armed push and he landed on his back. A tingle began in his fingers, quickly absorbed his arm, then devolved to painful needle pricks. Working his hand, the sensation slowly faded. He flexed his arm, then the other, a leg, the other, and sat up. He stretched muscles still too sore to offer more than grudging acceptance.