Mankind's Worst Fear

by David L Erickson

  A hint of dawn had taken the edge off the night. Frost covered everything. The smell of smoldering wood seemed alien amid the antiseptic chill of the morning, but the warmth, if they were allowed to share, would be appreciated.

  “A sees yeuns up. Good. Stir da others...er I will.” Piker, on his feet, shook out an irregular sheet of oiled leather. Frost scattered from its shiny surface. He made two folds, then rolled it up with a blanket and strapped them with a stringy thong to his pack. His people were doing the same, except for Hunter, who stood with his back to a tree across from the shallow clearing beside the path. His rifle, unslung, pointed at the sky.

  In slow, easy twists, George eased the grinding pain in his lower lumbar, feet still buried within his enviropad. He stretched as high as he could, rising on his toes, tensing, relaxing, feeling his muscles warm and loosen. The chill receded and other than a general soreness, he felt invigorated.

  Breathing shallow and regular, Heather lay flat on her back beside him, the damp oval of her face exposed. He stooped, gently shook her, waited, then repeated. She stirred and yawned, opened her eyes with a gasp.

  “I had the strangest…”

  “It’s not a dream, Heather.”

  “Damn. Ouuu. I hurt all over.” She pulled herself up with George's sleeve, then leaned on him as he rose. Fear lingered in her blue eyes, but her manner was vigilant, wary.

  “Ditto.” Lame. No quick wit, it sometimes left him at a disadvantage.

  “No sonic showers I’ll bet.” Pouting, Heather ignored their captors and shook out her hair. From a thigh pocket she produced a small, pink plastic comb. With stiff fingers and a poorly concealed shiver, she tugged out snarls and a small leaf. It was a coping device George had seen her use when stressed.

  Baider stirred, then woke Wendell, curled up at his back in a fetal position. Though his eyes were cold, expressionless, he didn’t lash out at Wendell with the expected colorful stream of expletives, denigrating Wendell’s lineage. Still, Baider’s growing resentment of their capture would soon become as apparent to their captors as it was to George. Still, these ‘hill people’ might be good guys, or at least better bad guys in a world where being bad might be normal.

  A crackling fire flared and soon the aroma of fried roots and grilled pork awakened the emptiness in George's belly. There were rations in the backpacks, but their captors had made no effort to examine the contents. The hill people spoke quietly among themselves until breakfast was ready, then fell silent. Piker motioned to each one in turn to bring their tin plates over and ladled out the grub from a shallow, steaming skillet hung from a makeshift tripod.

  George’s crew took the proffered tin plates and sat together several feet from the others. One of the captors, a thin muscular youth, kept an eye on them as he wolfed down his food. The respite lasted all of fifteen minutes. Long enough to finish eating and clean up the dishes using frost moistened broad leaves. The fire scattered and tamped out, packs and weapons shouldered, they moved out in single file, captives separated from each other.

  The sky remained a sullen gray, but there were birds twittering this morning and George caught sight of a small furry creature darting across the path. What mammals existed here were small: a bobcat or an eagle, a wild turkey, but nothing substantial enough for Slinker’s scanners to detect. They trudged up a gradual grade amid a scattering of giant oaks, scrawny pines, copses of white-barked poplars and thinning underbrush. The path widened and appeared more heavily traveled.

  Heather staggered, stumbled over a root and nearly fell. George took two long strides, acknowledging the man between them, slipped the backpack off her shoulders and carried it by its straps. From behind, Piker poked George’s arm with his rifle, and motioned for George to give him the pack. As if it were filled with air, Piker slung the pack on his shoulder and slipped an arm through the loops, careful to keep his weapon out of George’s reach.

  Up ahead, the woman witnessed the exchange and stepped off to the side of the path until the others had passed. She rejoined them when Heather reached her.

  “A’m Tasha,” she whispered, “Summer’s mom. Lonesome’s ma mate. Wots yeuns name?” She was not much older than Heather and may have been a beauty once, but her pale, seamed skin was chafed and discolored. Her brown eyes held wisdom and kindness.

  “Hea...ther.” Her breath came in wheezes between plodding steps that threatened to take her down each time she faltered.

  “Yew won’ be harmed ifin I got a say.”

  “Tha...nks. We...we aren’t...” Heather paled, despite the cold, apparent she had reached her limit of endurance, “...here to sp...spy...or...anything.”

  “Yeuns diff-rent. Yeuns choppers er white...har done up...new close...boots. How?”

  “We live...in...a city...far from...here.”

  “Tell me. We be goin’. Live better.”

  “We can't...take you...there. Wish...we could.”

  George, a few steps behind, nodded to Heather’s answers. He welcomed Tasha’s attempt to befriend Heather. The overture would be useful: if not today, perhaps soon. If nothing else, it would reduce the risk of the hill people acting out of hand.

  “Talk later. Almost dare.” Tasha’s smile displayed a mouthful of scrubbed, yet yellowed teeth.

  Even though no longer climbing in and out of ravines, the ground drove steadily upward along a ridgeline. Their captors showed signs of fatigue near noon when they reached a fork in the path, one leading southeast and the other northeast. They turned left. Within a mile they came to a fairly level and open plateau. A light fog had settled, cutting visibility to a few dozen yards, but it also carried sounds: a baby’s cry, metal scraping, a bang, followed by an expletive.

  A domed hut of skins over bent pine poles appeared. They marched past a dozen more before Lonesome held up his hand. George reached him, shrugged off his backpack and slumped to the ground. Wendell shucked off his backpack and squatted beside him, then splayed out, chest heaving.

  Looking thoroughly spent, Heather collapsed as Baider reached them and kneeled to allow Summer to slip off his back.

  Favoring her injured limb, Summer hobbled a few steps, then looked back at Baider. “Thank yew.”

  “You’re welcome, young lady.” Baider grinned and offered her a high five, but she shrank back, wary, puzzled.

  Piker pointed his rifle at Baider’s chest, his stony glare ample warning that the girl was not to be toyed with. Carefully Baider lowered his hand and knelt beside George. He feigned indifference and lay down, rolled over onto his side. With a sigh that rattled deep in his chest, he closed his eyes.

  So tired he dozed, George had no idea how long they were allowed to rest, but eventually they were herded a short distance to one of the smaller huts. With four guns trained on them, a hefty young man with horrible acne scars searched their pockets and boots. He tossed discovered items into a worn gray cloth bag held by a smooth-faced youth with bad teeth. He frisked Heather last, making no pretext of respecting her sensibilities when he unzipped her jumpsuit and shoved his hand into her crotch. She grabbed his hand and readied a punch, but a muzzle nudged her cheek and she let her arms go limp. The young man stepped back, unfazed.

  “Dis yews home fer now.” Showing no malice, Lonesome uncocked his .38 Colt revolver and shoved it back into his coat pocket. His voice softened. “Yews stay here ‘till weuns says diffrent.”

  Though weapons were no longer trained on them, the number of people gathering amply demonstrated an implied threat. Every adult male carried a firearm and the women looked tough enough to put up a darn good fight. They disregarded the men, but stared curiously at Heather.

  “We need food and water, Lonesome.” George stood as straight as he could, shoulders squared, arms crossed. It was a simple tactic — showing strength when the opponent held all the cards.

  “Soon ‘nough. Rest. We be talkin’ more whens yews up ta it.” Lonesome had seen right through him. “In there.” He pointed to the nearest hut.
<
br />   “Good enough.”

  George ducked beneath the patchwork skin flap held aside by what he believed to be a young woman. From her wavering lantern, sufficient light pushed back the darkness to keep him from tripping over the patchwork furs and coarse gray blankets heaped on the matted yellow grass floor. There were no windows, nor a heat source.

  Fatigue crowding out all thought, George stretched out a fur and lay down. Heather gathered up one of the blankets, lay down beside him and threw the covers over him before crawling under. Baider tossed a blanket to Wendell then hunkered down a small distance from the others.

  “Thank you,” Wendell murmured and curled up beside Heather.

  “Keep it to yourself, Wendy,” Baider growled.

  Wendell’s eyes snapped open. He rolled over to stare at Baider in the semi-darkness. “Are you blaming me for this?” he whispered.

  The door flap fell into place and darkness enveloped them.

  “Shoe fits. You shot off that damned laser.”

  “I shot at a monster. Maybe one of them.”

  “Monster,” Baider snorted. “No excuse. You tipped our hand, dummy.”

  ‘Well...” Wendell huffed. “...if you must resort to name calling...”

  “Shut. Up,” Heather hissed.

  “What about that space ship?” Wendell whispered.

  “Wendell,” George infused his voice with calm reassurance. “Get some rest."

  "Sure, Cap."

  On the verge of sleep, George wondered what the morrow would bring. Outside, an easterly breeze rustled the treetops. A villager coughed, and the faint laughter of children lulled his mind to rest. Baider’s sonorous rumble filled the hut, and George slept.

  *****

  George woke, stiff, yet warm. Someone was hard against his back, an arm slung over his waist and a leg between his. Nature called. He groaned as the previous day's march awakened a thousand pains. He gently disentangled himself and slipped out from under the blanket. Instantly he wished he hadn't. A sharp chill nipped at his face and bare hands, and his breath puffed out in great clouds that remained suspended in the still air.

  Despite intense conditioning, George’s muscles were tender and his back cranky. He worked slowly through a series of stretching movements, though unable to stand fully erect without colliding with the curved roof of the hut.

  He stank of sweat, his mouth gummy. His belly grumbled ominously. Doing his morning ritual eased the disquiet and made him feel better, but the demands of his bladder had grown insistent. He looked around in the dim light filtering past the door flap.

  Heather, hard against Baider, both were buried in fur. Wendell stirred and muttered something. With minor trepidation, George threw the flap aside.

  Morning had arrived clear of fog. Several heavily clothed clansmen were huddled about a large fire at the center of the encampment, engrossed in quiet conversation over steaming tin mugs. They ignored him. Others were about various tasks: a smithy bent over a small tub of glowing coals preparing a bullet mold, a boy teasing a scraggly dog with a bone and two young girls shaking out fur blankets. Tin ladles clanked against iron pots, goats bleated, roosters called and small children played tag among the huts.

  The sky remained a dismal gray, though brighter than the day before. Beyond the cluster of thirty plus huts, all considerably larger than the one George spent the night in, wild grass fields stretched to the southwest. On the northern edge of the village, separated by a tilled square, was a makeshift corral and a dozen small brown critters that resembled hairy pigs. Glossy black, gold crowned chickens and white scraggly goats roamed freely amid the huts arrayed about the central fire.

  Tasha spotted him and rose. An inviting smile creased her wind-burnished face. “Mornin’ ta yeun.”

  “Good morning, Tasha.” George bowed slightly. Glad to see her, he smiled warmly, but his bladder demanded action. “Could you point me to the latrine?”

  “Perdon?” She took a step closer, away from the fire, drawing the attention of others.

  “The potty...outhouse...you know...” He crossed his legs and held his hands over his genitals, assuming it to be a universal gesture of need.

  “Ah. Peehoe.” She smiled as if pleased to be of help, and pointed to his left. “Yonder. Yeun kin fine it well ‘nough. Smell fer it.”

  George sniffed and caught a faint whiff of human excrement. “Thank you. Breakfast ready?”

  “Perdon?” She leaned closer. One of the men rose, brandishing a pump-action Remington shotgun.

  “Food...chow...vittles.”

  “Uhuh. Mornin’ feed be ready when yeun git back from da peehoe.”

  “I go wid him.” The man with the Remington was elderly, his back bent, though his gunmetal blue eyes were sharp and clear. Like the other men, he was clean shaven. Before George could turn his back on them, the man was beside him. “Om Calib.”

  “This doesn’t require assistance.”

  “Ma job’s ta keep a eye on yew. No ‘fense.” He acted likeable enough and, if anything, uneasy with guard duty.

  “None taken.” Unwilling to admit that 'natures call' had become more insistent, George ambled across the village to the latrine with Calib beside him. He wanted to allay their fears that he might try to skip out.

  There were two trenches, one partially concealed by a threadbare sheet made of some type of tightly woven, sun-bleached wool. Calib pointed to the unshielded trench and turned his back. Though a bit unnerved by the close proximity to the camp, George stepped up to the crumbling edge and relieved himself. He stood in plain view, but the noisy splashing of urine atop the thick, stinking slime saturating the bottom of the trench failed to draw anyone’s attention.

  George sighed and faced the camp in time to see Baider duck through the hut’s doorway. Wendell appeared moments later. George sealed his jumpsuit and waved to them, pointed to his crotch, then to the pit. Baider nodded and hurried over with a shivering Wendell close behind. Two armed men beside the fire scrambled to their feet and followed.

  Baider took it all in stride, but Wendell’s pale complexion reddened. As he approached, he wrinkled his face, pinched his nose, and waved his hand as if it would dissipate the stench.

  “I can't believe this is the toilet,” Wendell moaned.

  “It's also a waste-pit.” Though he kept from laughing out loud, George couldn't conceal a smirk.

  “Nothing to it, Wendy.” Baider peeled off his jacket, handed it to George, and pulled down his jumpsuit without a moment’s hesitation.

  “Stop calling me that!” Indignantly, Wendell turned his back on them.

  Bare-bottomed, Baider squatted over the pit like he’d been doing it all his life. He accepted a large leaf Calib held out to him from a satchel hung on a nearby pole, dipped it into a bucket of muddy water set at the edge of the pit, and wiped. Finished, he dressed slowly, as if to prove he could brave the cold with the best of them.

  “Oh geez!” Wendell whined. “I can't do that.”

  “You have no choice. When in Peoria...” Baider chuckled, obviously enjoying Wendell’s discomfort.

  “Why can't I use the one behind the sheet?” Wendell squeezed his thighs together and shuddered.

  “Dats fer da weemen.” Calib held out a leaf to Wendell. A wide, nearly toothless grin split his rugged, ugly mug.

  With a great show of derision, Wendell peeled open his jumpsuit. “You don't have to watch!”

  Baider guffawed and slapped his knee, drawing the stares of everyone in view. “Godamighty, Wendell! Act like a man!” Tears formed at the corners of his eyes and his face reddened beyond the blush caused by the cold.

  For the briefest of moments, George felt as if they were on a camping trip, not captives of a band of rogues capable of killing them, though he no longer harbored a fear of execution. They would befriend their captors by being useful and obedient. The hill people were rugged and self-reliant. They would think twice before taking a life.

  “Morning.” Looking chip
per, Heather whisked past and disappeared behind the cloth, where an elderly woman caught up to her.

  Wendell gulped and hurriedly shoved his member back in his pants, his face crimson. “I’ll...I’ll use the woods.”

  You can't, Wendy.” Baider, reduced to a snickering chuckle, had turned his back to him. “They don't want us out of their sight.”

  “Screw that! They can shoot me for all I care!” In a huff, head held high, Wendell strutted off into a copse of scotch pines bordering the camp. The men watched him depart, making no move to intercept.

  “He be a funny man. Maybe more girlie than man?” With a sly sneer and a shrug, Calib nodded towards the camp.

  Baider, still chuckling, headed to the breakfast fire. George and Calib followed, drawn by the enticing aroma of frying eggs and pork. Heather and Wendell joined them.

  They squatted or sat cross-legged on thin mats woven from the hardy grass that blanketed the plateau, and scooped greasy eggs off tin plates with crisply rigid planks of pork, not unlike thick slices of bacon.

  Once they became accustomed to their captive’s presence, the hill people spoke freely. Their language differed substantially in many ways, a subversion of Western American English George decided, yet they delighted at discovering the meanings behind the words they did not share. As the pace of the conversations picked up, it became more difficult for George to follow, but he felt more like a guest than a captive with an uncertain future. Still, he deflected questions about their unusual clothing, and what might be in the backpacks.

  A girl, no more than sixteen, yet tall and willowy, took to Wendell and made it a point to sit by him. Her laughter, refreshing in its youthful vigor, added to the unexpected air of conviviality.

  The meal was almost over before George learned anything useful about their society. The group’s defacto leader, Hanover — none of them had a second name — was expected back by mid-morning. From the subtle inferences woven amid their conversations, George was certain Hanover was feared more than revered. With careful prodding, he learned that on the day their previous headman died in a hunting accident, Hanover killed a rival in a struggle for tribal leadership. Though none actually witnessed the final thrust, it was rumored that Hanover hid a blade up his sleeve and knifed his opponent during a match of physical prowess. The man died of a massive infection days later, and in great agony. Though wild remedies were plentiful and well known, none proved adequate. There were those who believed Hanover poisoned his victim to hasten death and assure his ascendancy.