Mankind's Worst Fear

by David L Erickson

  George, his hands raised placatingly, rose to his full six foot one, relying on his height to accentuate what little authority he had. He was within striking distance of Hanover. From the corner of his eye, he glimpsed Baider edging away, but Piker blocked him.

  “Let’s not jump to conclusions, Hanover,” George said. “She’s only a child and she’s infatuated with Wendell. She’ll say anything to keep him here." His voice gained an octave. "My god, man! You of all people should see through this childish charade!”

  Hanover’s eyes narrowed and his jaw tightened. "Tell me true, girl," He lifted her chin with a finger and stared into her tear-swollen eyes. "Did Wendell rape you?"

  "I...I no tell him kay, but...but I no want to hurt him. Make him marry me and it be kay."

  "Now, now, you know better, Angel." He stroked her cheek like a father mollifying a demanding child. "A man who abuses a woman will do worse when betrothed."

  "But he no bad, bad man." Fat tears welled and streamed down her blushing cheeks. "Angel make him good husband. Good father make beautiful babies. "

  "Can't have it, my child. Can't have an abuser among us." With a gentle push, he disengaged himself from the simpering girl and waved Tasha over.

  Tasha wrapped a protective arm around the wide-eyed Angel and guided her through the crowd to her mother. When they reached the woman, she cried out and clutched Angel to her. Muttering soothing platitudes, she steered her child out of the crowd. Those in her way moved aside with courteous nods.

  Hanover swept the crowd. “You all know the penalty for rape.” His face darkened with each affirmation. A few refused to meet his eye. Many fidgeted and looked down or hesitantly nodded. There was no consensus.

  “Come on, Hanover! The girl’s lying! You too stupid to see that?” George immediately regretted his choice of words, but surged ahead. “Killing Wendell won't solve your problems, but it will deny the truth! Look around you. Hardly any of your people agree with your assessment.”

  “Outsiders cause trouble. I should’ve known it would come to this.”

  A hush fell, such that Angel’s muffled wails rose above the camp sounds. With guns drawn, the men bracketing Wendell backed away.

  “Hey...hey,” Wendell cried, “don't do this! I didn't lay a finger on her! She came on to me!” Despite the chill air, his face glistened with sweat. His wide, frightened eyes darted between Hanover and George. A single tear formed a rivulet that ended at the corner of his mouth. He licked it away with a nervous flick of his tongue.

  Hanover unholstered George’s .45 automatic and leveled the weapon at Wendell. “Pray now to whatever gods you believe in.” Low, throaty, fury barely contained, he drew a gasp from the crowd.

  “No!” George tried to jump between them, but a half dozen men restrained him. “This is insane! What kind of madman are you!”

  Lonesome lowered his rifle. “Ain’ right, Han. A cain ‘bide dis.”

  “Not your concern, Lonesome.”

  "Han, you be killin' a man. Somethin' ta think 'bout."

  Hanover lowered the automatic.

  George gulped in relief. Hanover's rule was near dictatorial, but it appeared he could be reasoned with. A few pointed questions put to Angel, Hanover permitting, and the matter would be put to rest. The hands holding him back relaxed. George was about to voice this suggestion when Hanover's voice boomed over the assemblage.

  “The outsider is accused of rape." Hanover again swept the crowd. They reacted as before. "The evidence stands before you. A virgin-child...defiled. Justice must be served.” With a grim set to his mouth, he snapped out his arm and fired.

  The boom of the large caliber weapon echoed across the plateau. A flock of startled birds took wing. Like a marionette on twisted strings, Wendell jerked backwards. The back of his head exploded in a grizzly rain of red and gray. For eternal seconds the spark of life that remained fought to keep his shattered body erect. A gentle sigh and he slumped to his knees, then to one side, limbs aquiver. His lips moved, formed a word. Blood oozed from a puckered hole in the bridge of his nose. Legs bent beneath him on the dew-dampened grass, he sprawled on his back. Sightless eyes stared skyward. A woman swiped at spatters of blood and tissue clinging to her clothing and face, and retched.

  “Son-of-a-bitch!” With the practiced ease of a man trained to kill, Baider dropped, spun and kicked Piker in the ribs, sending him crashing into a knot of men behind him. Before anyone could react, Baider snatched the rifle from Piker’s hands and leveled it at Hanover’s head. He pulled the trigger. The hammer snapped against an empty chamber. A villager pressed the barrel of his rifle into Baider's neck, relieved the seaman of his weapon and passed it over to Piker.

  “You just killed an innocent man, asshole!" Baider growled in impotent fury. "He’s queer, a faggot! You get the picture? He gets turned on by hairy butts, not skinny little girls!”

  Hanover chuckled, then laughed uproariously, though he had enough presence of mind to keep the .45 aimed at Baider. “So what’s the point? That’s one less girlie-boy left in the world. Good riddance, I say.”

  “Time ta let da udders go, Han.” Rifle slung over his shoulder, Lonesome crossed his arms and shook his head slowly. “Got no right ta keep ‘em no mo. Dey wants ta go. Ifin dey stay, you be killin’ da rest a ‘em fer no good reason dat weuns kin see.”

  “They can lead us to the city under the mountains, you idiot!" Hanover glared. "What we’ve talked about...what we’ve desired for so many years. Can't you see? All the technology...all the easy living...just waiting for us. We can use these strangers as hostages, to gain entrance and bypass their defenses!” With the audacity of a mad man bent on bloody conquest, Hanover’s delivery washed over the gathering like a call to arms. “They aren’t family. Not our flesh and blood. They are our enemies...spies!” But they will lead us to their fortress and get us in...or they will die in the denying!”

  “Ain’ no game we be playin’, Han. Dat uns dead. He ain’ gonna tell weuns nuttin an’ da rest of em jes gonna keep tryin’ ta ‘scape ‘til weuns kill em all.”

  “They don't want to die anymore than that squirrelly worm did. They'll tell us everything we want to know.” Hanover eased the .45's hammer back. It locked into place with a click, hushing the nervously muttering crowd. His face reddened and his finger trembled.

  George held out his hands in a placating gesture to buy time. The strain of holding out a handgun made it less likely Hanover could use it effectively if he chose to shoot.

  “You’re right, Hanover. We don't want to die. Not here anyway. But we won’t give you what you want with a gun to our heads either. We’re highly trained professionals. We die, our secrets die with us. You disarm and we’ll take you with us...as guests...to the city under the mountains...where you were born.”

  The .45 wavered. “How did...” Hanover blanched. Indecision flashed, then his jaw set and the gun steadied. “I'm a rogue agent. The people of Nayork would treat me like...like...a common criminal. No thanks. I’ve got a life here, with these people...my family.”

  “Not anymore. They know you for what you are...as if they needed this to convince them you’re a tyrant...a crazy tyrant at that. Fear's the only thing keeps you out of the grave. We’ve taken that from you. You’ll never get it back.”

  “So?” Hanover smirked. The gun wavered. “I killed a girlie-man. So what?”

  “He was my friend!”

  The unmistakable clack of an automatic’s hammer stifled dissenting murmurs. No one blocked Heather as she strolled purposeful through the crowd edging away from Hanover. She tapped him on the shoulder with the barrel of the black .45 cradled in both her hands. “For that you can't be forgiven.”

  He slowly lowered the .45 and turned, wearing a sly grin. "What's a coddled, baby-girl like you going to do to me?"

  "I'm going to send your sorry ass to hell."

  "Heather!" George flung himself at them, but a burly villager body-blocked him and sent him reeling back. Work harden
ed hands gripped his arms like the jaws of a vice. Horror confronted derision. If he were free, he would kill Hanover, but Heather could not. The repercussions of her vengeful act could torment her for a lifetime.

  "This 'tween Hanover and Heather." Lonesome husked in his ear.

  For the second time in as many minutes, the boom of a large caliber handgun echoed across the plateau. The shot ripped away Hanover’s forehead and left eye, and flung him to the ground. Blood spattered Heather's chest and face. With Hanover's dying gasp, the .45 slipped from his dead fingers. The hill people's long nightmare was over.

  Silence reigned amid the watchers as the echo died away. Even the bleating of sheep and garbled talk of the penned turkeys seemed muted. To the east, the gray skies split. A thin sunbeam bathed those gathered in witness of Hanover’s execution. A child cried out his mother’s name. A choked whimper ended their catharsis. A murmur rushed through the crowd. They shouldered or set to rest their ancient firearms.

  Angel held Wendell’s swollen head in her lap and rocked him. Blood stained her clothing and smeared her bare thighs. Tears poured in zigzag streamlets down her reddened cheeks, up-turned face twisted with grief.

  "I beg Wendell...but he no touch me. I...I...kilt him."

  A woman covered Angel’s trembling shoulders with a length of fur that concealed her nakedness. Piker went to her, shoulders hunched, his expression a mask of conflicted emotions. He knelt beside her and raised his imploring eyes to the heavens. “Why yeuns took this boy, Sola? Bless me wid the sight, to know the why of it. Salve this child’s soul that she’n kin live out her days widout torment.” The mournful lament drew tears from many.

  Looking dazed and disoriented, Heather let her automatic slip from her fingers and covered her face. George shook off the hands holding him back with more force than necessary and stepped toward her, but Baider cut him off. The seaman wrapped her in his protective arms and tucked her head beneath his chin. Realization must have dawned, tearing great, trembling sobs from her.

  George stepped back, feeling awkward, and more than a little slighted. It brought to mind a youthful experience in which he and his younger cousin were robbed at knifepoint outside a local hangout. No street fighter, George punched the mugger, but was kicked and pummeled and knocked to the ground. He regained his wind and scrambled to his feet too late to stop the desperate looking tough from stabbing his cousin in the chest and fleeing into the night. The senseless death had hardened his heart for many years. He was certain Wendell's empty and meaningless murder would wound Heather similarly. He wanted to be there for her, but it was obvious Baider intended to be there as well. Perhaps he should hold back, allow Heather to seek her own supplication.

  Conflicting emotions clouded his mind. A single tear trickled down his cheek. As if from a great distance, Lonesome's strong, trebled voice cut through, issuing orders. The hill people dispersed. Wild boars rooting through the camp offered plaintive snorts. The gray, brooding sky swallowed up the errant sunbeam, and again cast the morning in a chill, half-light.

  Heather's sobs faded to a quiet whimper and she pushed Baider gently away. She stood with her hands clenched at her sides, shoulders bowed, eyes swollen, cheeks puffy and mottled.

  “I...I’m okay, Baider." She turned to George. "We’d...we’d best be going, Cap. We’ve got a...a mission to complete and the morning is...is...” Tears welled. She flowed into his arms.

  He held her, rocking gently, wishing he knew how to temper her anguish.

  "This was out of our hands. We all knew the risks..." Feeling stupid and regretfully inept, George pressed his cheek into her hair and inhaled her smoke-tainted musk. Movement beyond her distracted him.

  Two men stripped Hanover, then dragged his naked corpse to the latrine and heaved it in. Several boys joined in with short black polyfiber shovels and attacked the ditch's dirt pile. The men scraped the loosened dirt into the ditch until Hanover's body was well covered.

  Tugging her daughter away from Wendell's corpse, Angel’s mother embraced her and led a reluctant Angel to their family hut. Others returned to their daily tasks as if compelled to do nothing less. Wendell lay where he fell. A villager had thoughtfully covered his body with a gray wool blanket, but left his stockinged feet exposed. George stared at the mound of cloth and wondered why it had come to this.

  “Uh, George.” Shuffling from one foot to the other, Lonesome waited for George to acknowledge him.

  “Lonesome?”

  “Weuns...uh...how da yew wan Wendell...uh...how da yew wan’ us ta...”

  “A funeral pyre. He was a good man. He deserves nothing less.” George stroked Heather’s hair, wishing she had stayed with the ship, to spare her this pain. ”We don't belong here...in this time, Lonesome. Wendell would want to be cremated...his ashes scattered to the winds.”

  Lonesome shuffled, looking down, clearly uncomfortable. “We be buildin’ a fire over yonder. ‘Bout twenty minutes. I know yeuns wans ta git movin’.”

  Tasha touched Heather’s arm, but held back as if reluctant to intrude. A painful sob and Heather turned into the arms of the older woman. Coddling her with maternal kindness, Tasha led Heather to her hut, leaving George to deal with his own anguish.

  “Thank you, Lonesome. Despite all that’s happened, I’ve come to think of you as a friend. I know you’ll be a fine leader. You’ll take good care of your people.”

  Lonesome bowed his head. “Yeuns be bestowin’ da honor of tribal leader on me?”

  “No, no. Not me. I’ve seen the way your people look up to you. It’s a natural choice and already made. You need only accept it.”

  “He be speakin’ true, Lonesome.” Piker came up to them, hands clasped, head bowed. When he looked up, his eyes shone, though a somber smile spoke of the gravity befitting the moment. ”Yews be da tribal leader now. Weuns needs yews wisdom. Like George says, yews be da one weuns be ‘ceptin’.”

  “Den it be settled. I ‘cept.” As if the title made all the difference, Lonesome straightened and squared his shoulders, though his expression remained grim.

  “Here.” Piker handed George a small black plastic box. Their comset. ”I couldna break it, so’s ah saved it fer yews. Kept it from Han.” His doleful look faded, replaced by a hesitant grin.

  Accepting the comset, George checked it. The bat was depleted. It was inconsequential. An hour strapped atop his backpack would charge it sufficient to call the ship. “Seems we owe you a great debt of gratitude. Your friendship means a lot to me, personally, and I’m sure the others feel the same. Still, we have to move on, find what we came here for.”

  “Set yerself down wid yer frens an’ weuns‘ll git things ready.” Lonesome held out his hand and George took it. They stood like that, searching each other’s soul. Abruptly, Lonesome turned away and strode off to see to other matters, his shoulders square, gait purposeful. Bowed ever so slightly, Piker hurried off to join him, to see to it the new leader’s directives were followed.

  “Baider,” George called, spying him among a group of men nearby. “We need to talk. Join me?”

  Baider nodded and the two men strolled towards the meadow, deep in conversation.

  Chapter Eight

  09:00 Hours July 16, 2386- Earth

  Though scarcely consumed with ritual, Wendell’s funeral was solemn and well attended. The hill people believed that a properly prepared pyre aided the deceased in his quest to be one with Sola, the Creator. Elaborate burial rituals or other acts with the corpse — such as Hanover entombed in human excrement — delayed or trapped the individual's soul on Earth. Release could only come through atonement. And that could take many lifetimes.

  This George learned from Wendell during the previous night's discussions, before Wendell shocked him by revealing he didn't like being alone with Angel. The young girl found excuses to bump or touch him, and often made suggestive references to marriage and children.

  A single tear coursed down George's nose, clung, then blended with days old whisk
ers. He closed his eyes, bowed his head and mumbled a short, half-remembered prayer. He stood with hands clasped, vaguely self-conscious, wishing the funeral to be over. He was to blame for Wendell's death. Should have paid more attention. No, he paid attention. The unhealthy reverence with which Angel regarded Wendell had been worrisome. He should have acted on his instincts. A member of his crew was dead because he didn't.

  Heather tossed a bouquet of field flowers on the smoldering embers and wept. Flames licked, burst forth and died, leaving a faint ashen outline on a smoldering log. Wendell's pyre collapsed with a crackling roar, drawing George from his introspection. With nods and brief, sad smiles, the villagers drifted back to camp and resumed their chores. A few women remained at a discreet distance — the fire tenders.

  “It’s time to go,” George mumbled. Self-recrimination wouldn't bring Wendell back, but at least getting his crew to safety would assuage his conscience, if only by degrees.

  Heather pressed his gloved hand to her lips, then her cheek. He read the depth of her immutable loss, suffered the torment in her eyes as they brimmed with tears. With the back of his glove, he gently touched her damp cheek. Nothing he could do or say would ever be enough. A whimper and she was in his arms, sobs muffled by his chest. He patted her shoulder and held her, feeling awkward.

  Shoulders slumped, fingers twined behind his back, Baider strolled over. George searched for something reassuring to say, but Piker nudged Baider and the two men moved a few steps away.

  “I be havin’ worries about yews.” Piker jerked his head towards George. “It be no matter what Han said and did, no mo. He was bein’ wrong an’ we be havin’ no reason ta keep yews from doin’ whatcha needs ta be doin’. Thas was Han’s dream...da city unner the mount. Weuns got a good life. Thas all dat matters ta us.”

  “Thanks.” Baider offered his hand. "Thanks."

  Piker gripped it and shook once, hard.

  “Means a lot to us, Piker. Sorry I bashed you back there. I...”