Mankind's Worst Fear

by David L Erickson

  About to describe the aircraft, George spotted the roughly cylindrical pile of cemented rocks she was heading towards and changed his mind. It could wait.

  Instead, he pushed himself up, grabbed his gear and joined her. Baider gathered his and her lasrifles, shouldered both packs by a strap each and followed.

  “You think this is an observation post?” Sweat streaked her dirty face. She sucked in a deep breath, braced her hands atop the pile and heaved herself up.

  “What can you see?” George used his lasrifle as a brace and kneeled at the foot of the pile. A multitude of petty aches reminded him of why he abhorred mountain climbing.

  “Part of the bridge, the ridge, hills and trees.”

  Followed by a distant pop, a bullet ricocheted off a tree at the western edge of the clearing. Leaves burst forth and fluttered to the ground. Heather yelped and leaped, collided with George, knocked him down.

  "You okay?" he asked, nose to nose. Her warm breath teased his face and for those few seconds the reason she was atop him diminished in importance. They were just good friends, he reminded himself.

  "Just shook a little." She grimaced and rolled off.

  "Good!" Baider grinned, offering her a hand. "That'll make you cautious. Cautious will keep you alive."

  She took it and rose, then hunched down. "If you were a gentleman, you'd have been up there instead of me," Heather bit back with enough venom to startle George.

  "Fools rush in..."

  "Children!" George barked and nudged Baider's boot with his. “We’re being shot at. Baider, get out the bioscanner.”

  “Aye, aye, Cap,” Baider grinned.

  “This isn't a game!”

  “Ease off, Cap. I'm getting used to this place. Kind of rough and tumble. A man's kind of place. Know what I mean?” In a cocky about-face, Baider winked at George, then retrieved bioscanner and eyespy from a waist pouch.

  "I prefer indoor plumbing," George retorted.

  “Be prepared, boy scout. They’ll be coming up after us.” He tossed the bioscanner to George, sauntered to the rock pile and heaved himself up. He crouched, swept the western horizon, adjusted the eyespy and rescanned. Rising slowly, he made a full sweep, then another.

  “Shooter on the west ridge.”

  A bullet whined overhead. “I count four, now five. One has a scope. Probably the one shooting.” Another bullet clipped a tree and whined past, closer still. Baider seemed unfazed.

  Below the line of fire and protected by foliage, George scanned the countryside beyond the bridge. “We’ve got five bios along the ridge, six on the road nearing the bridge. Five more coming fast from the southwest. We’ll make our stand here.”

  Cheeks flushed anew, Heather scrambled to her feet, eyes wide. “Why don't we just keep moving?”

  George didn’t miss the quiver in her voice as she unholstered her automatic, snapped out the clip to check the load, and slammed it home with a resounding clack. Her hand wavered chambering a round.

  “Can't. With a scoped rifle, they’d pick us off easy,” George answered.

  “I agree.” Baider jumped down. “We’re better off here.”

  “But, we’ve got no cover, guys.”

  Fingering his lasrifle's trigger, Baider appeared eager for a fight. “We got the rock pile and deep grass. We’ll hear them coming easy enough and pinpoint them with the bioscanner. A head pops up, we plug it. Simple.”

  “I get the feeling you want to kill something.” Heather looked away, her lips compressed, eyes hard.

  “Yeah. Pisses me off when I get shot at.”

  “Enough. They’re coming down off the ridge.” George gave Heather a reassuring smile and slung a leg up on the rock pile. With a grunt and the clatter of small stones, he pulled himself up and crouched. He had a clear view of the ridge and a portion of the bridge. There were nine figures jogging across the primary span, spread down both sides. They disappeared below the tree cover. That left two somewhere near the foot of the hill and five beyond the ridge.

  “Baider, take a position at the tree line facing south. Heather, get behind the rocks. I’ll hunker down on the north side. Unless they change their approach, they’ll be coming up the west slope.”

  Baider gave him a two-finger salute and scuttled away, leaving a rumpled path across the clearing. Heather didn't respond, but obeyed.

  "Heather," George asked, "you okay with this?"

  "I'll do what I have to," Heather whispered harshly from behind the rock pile.

  Her closeness moments before lingered like the sweet taste of honey on his lips.

  “Good girl,” he managed to grunt.

  She seemed in control, though that could be a masquerade. That flash of unreasoned anger was unlike her, but carrying out a cold-blooded execution wasn’t her either. George could only guess at the turmoil roiling in her head, but as long as she could defend herself...

  The distant rush of tumbled water gave way to the rustle of brush on the western slope of the knoll. The subdued twitters and squeaks of small creatures dimmed, then ceased. A pair of blackbirds took wing. The feeble breeze died. George strained to hear and was rewarded with the snap of twigs and a muted curse. The higher the gunmen climbed, they noisier they became.

  Minutes passed while the intruders laboriously scrambled up the slope. Heather’s breath quickened. George worried about her. A gruesome visage of the three of them lying dead in the grass jelled, but he squelched it and concentrated on the approaching menace. His heart thumped aloud. Sweat trickled down his sides – more afraid than he cared to admit.

  Kaboom! George jumped and Heather cried out as Baider’s shot rippled off the hills. The bullet skinned a tree at the western edge of the clearing and punched through the undergrowth. Firing high, the patrol responded with a ragged volley, clipping leaves and small branches.

  “Hold your fire, Baider,” George hissed.

  “For what?”

  “Our munitions are limited. Wait until you have a clear shot.”

  The rustle in the bushes ceased, replaced by hushed voices.

  Automatic and bioscanner leveled at the far side of the clearing, George poked his head above the grass. Too close to get definitive resolution, the bioscanner displayed blob images in a rough line several yards to the south west.

  “At ten o’clock, Baider,” George whispered, “twelve yards.”

  “Yeah.” Only the top of Baider’s fur cap protruded above the long grass. A branch at the edge of the clearing twitched. Baider fired twice. The rattle and crack of semi-automatic fire smothered a painful groan. Bullets whizzed through the grass or clapped off the rock pile and whined harmlessly away.

  Seven heavily furred figures leaped from the cover of the trees. The throaty booms of Heather’s and Baider’s .45s answered. A slug wanged off the rock pile, spiking George with chips. He tasted the coppery tang of blood. Crouched on one knee, he took careful aim at a hunkering fur pile zigzagging towards him and pumped out three rounds. His third shot dropped the gunman. George blinked hard, swallowed, steadied his hand and targeted another.

  A slug smashed the gun from his hand, stinging his fingers and numbing his wrist. He flattened out in search of the automatic, suddenly very afraid. If he didn’t find it soon – bullets snapped and whizzed through the tall grass so close he felt the air part. He couldn’t get any lower. More lead wanged off the rocks. Heather fired back, emptying her clip. While she reloaded, George found his .45. His hand shook, but he leaped to his feet and blasted at two fur piles dodging toward him, and missed.

  They were nearly upon them when Heather clipped off a half dozen rounds. Both collapsed into the anonymity of the deep grass. Baider banged off a couple more shots. In full retreat, two of the attackers fired back, covering for wounded comrades seeking the cover of the trees. Baider ducked and cursed. The gunmen disappeared beyond the slope of the clearing. The firefight had lasted a half minute.

  From the ridge came the distinctive crack of a Marlin 30-30, followed
by several sporadic shots from somewhere near the bridge. Amid the ragged clap and whine of return fire, the gunmen made no attempt to conceal their noisy withdrawal. George saw Baider’s head pop up, cocked as if he were listening.

  “They’re moving off,” he hollered, “I’m taking a look,” and dashed across the clearing in a crouch.

  George thumbed out, inspected and reinstalled the clip with numb fingers, ran the slider back. It was still in working order. He holstered the gun, retrieved the bioscanner and scanned.

  “Their leaving,” George called. Though jaded, he had enough presence of mind to appreciate they had defended themselves well. He stood, brushed himself off.

  “Keep down,” Heather cried.

  “It’s okay. They’re headed downhill. The ones on the bridge are moving north along the riverbank.” Injured hand tucked under his arm, George used his elbows and knees to climb atop the rock pile.

  Over the treetops he saw a dark figure crouched atop the ridge and four others in a staggered line down slope. Muzzle flashes and the crack of a 30-30 from the rifleman on the ridge were answered by sparkling pops from the east bank of the gorge.

  Lips pursed to a thin line and skin pale, Heather holstered her .45 and clambered up beside George. “What can you see from here?”

  "Glad you're alright too." He smiled. Her bravado was paper thin.

  "Yeah, okay," she huffed, "only my first shoot out. How am I supposed to act?"

  "Just giving you a hard time." He shrugged.

  She didn't smile, but the hardness in her eyes softened.

  Body saturated with unspent adrenaline, George's hands shook. He tried to conceal it by turning away, but didn't think he was fast enough for it to escape Heather's notice. “I've got a bioreading from where you dropped those two guys.” Stubbornly maintaining a calm facade, George was anything but. He had come unnervingly close to taking a hit. His forearm and wrist still ached and his fingers tingled, but the symptoms were fading.

  Across the clearing, Baider holstered his automatic and jogged over. A dark gash on his forehead oozed, forming a thick ridge. Mouth a hard slash, he clambered up beside George, brought out the eyespy and focused it on the ridge. “We’ve got friends.”

  The coldness in his voice steadied George. He could count on Baider, no matter what.

  “Who?” Heather gripped Baider's shoulder and pushed up on tiptoes. Her expression became one of concern, then alarm. “Baider! You’re wounded!”

  Baider dabbed at the trickle of blood over his left eye and frowned at the dark stain on his glove fingers. “Just a scratch.” He resumed his scan. “It’s Piker on the ridge.”

  “Thank God!” Almost childish with relief, Heather hugged herself and flashed a smile that eclipsed the grime on her face. “So, what do you think brought him back?”

  George closed the bioscanner and slipped it into its waist pouch. He couldn’t shake the feeling he just cheated death. His cheek stung where a rock fragment sliced through. He tongued the perforation, sought out the granite shard lodged between gum and cheek, and spit it out.

  “The patrol’s headed north, along this side of the river,” George said.

  “Maybe we should go greet our saviors,” Heather ventured.

  “Yup.” George crouched and jumped, landed unevenly, wavered, made an inelegant recovery. A little embarrassed, he retrieved his lasrifle from where he left it in the grass, slung it over his shoulder and turned to offer Heather a hand.

  A loose stone turned when she crouched. Hands flailed. She pitched forward with a little cry. Too sudden for George to get under her, Baider snatched her by the arm and eased her to the ground.

  “Thanks guys,” she beamed, “Clumsy of me.” and gave Baider a quick hug after he landed beside them.

  We're acting like amateurs, George thought. He armed his lasrifle, brought it to his shoulder and swept the clearing. With the patrol gone, it seemed a superfluous effort, but he thought it might reassure Heather. Near the western edge of the hilltop, tall grass rustled, followed by an anguished cry, cut short.

  Baider cinched his rifle to his pack and unholstered his .45. “Don't saddle up. Keep your backpacks loose and a gun handy. The one I nailed is dead. One of yours is still kicking..”

  With his rifle shoulder-slung across his chest, George nodded to Baider to lead out. About to suggest it, George noted Heather's lasrifle was off safety when she passed him and cut to Baider's left. George swung right and abreast. Two yards apart, they proceeded slowly toward the west side of the clearing. A hand shot up near the tree line and disappeared, followed by a low moan.

  George cast a look to the sky behind them. “Those flyers I saw should’ve been here by now.” Edgy, he worried about the flyers to conceal mounting anxiety that he might have to kill again. Beyond violating his personal morality, the shootout had left him nauseous.

  “Yeah. Wonder why.” Wading through the thick grass, Baider stumbled, caught himself, stepped back and circumscribed a flattened patch. Heather and George reached him in moments. Arms thrown out, the furry bundle sprawled on his side was no longer a threat. Half his face was gone.

  “I...I...I’m...going...to...to...” Heather paled and turned away. Her whole body convulsed and with a little cry, she spewed her breakfast in one angry heave. Baider shrugged and George, on the verge of joining her, straightened and breathed deeply. Though he was reasonably sure he had the urge under control, he refused to meet Baider's curious gaze. They left Heather to regain her composure.

  A few steps farther lay a second man. Gut shot, his coat sticky with great puddles of blood, he made no effort to defend himself. Baider stooped, retrieved a .22 target-rifle, removed a short clip and flung rifle and ammo in different directions.

  “Leave him,” George ordered. “They’ll be back for him once we’ve gone. Nothing we can do with what we’ve got anyway.” Though callous, what he said was essentially true. Even if Piker took the gunman back to the village, the trip alone would most likely kill him.

  Heather came up between them, pale and shaken, and made as if to argue, but the man coughed up blood. She turned away.

  Baider gave her a manly, awkward hug and put his face close to hers. “He’s right, Heather.”

  Dirty and clad in stitched-together furs, the wounded man seemed more surprised he was wounded than fearful for his life. He croaked something unintelligible and tried to smile, closed his eyes and grimaced.

  George motioned Baider and Heather past and followed. It was improbable the wounded man could get to his rifle and ammo, but George backed away, watching for movement atop the knoll until the trees closed in on him. He scrambled down the treacherous slope, took the lead, and in turn paused to watch and listen every few yards as Baider and Heather, in turn, scrambled past. They left the protection of the forested slope several feet apart, the overgrown roadbed close to their left, and crouched low in the grass.

  George bioscanned the frigid landscape. “The patrol is still moving north at a rapid pace. I count seven. Seems short. Baider?”

  “One confirmed dead on the hill, one wounded, another two dead or dying in the brush...should be right.”

  George pocketed the bioscanner and cocked an eye at Baider. “You think they’d leave the sharpshooter and circle back?”

  “No. I killed the one with the scope.”

  “So, what's left is Piker and his guys coming across the bridge.”

  “I see them." Heather pointed. “There, there’s Piker!” With unabashed exuberance, she leaped up, but George laid a restraining hand on her arm and she held back.

  “Just in case, wait until we're out there a bit." With a tight-lipped smile, George hefted his pack and rifle. Baider and Heather did the same.

  "Baider. You take the lead."

  "My favorite place." Baider glanced around and flashed a grin, then dashed from the cover of the trees and loped through the waist-high grass. George and Heather followed a few yards behind. They came together with Piker and his
four youths near the bridge landing. Their saviors were in high spirits, grinning from ear to ear.

  “Weuns figured yews might git inta trouble.” Piker set the butt of his Marlin on the ground and shuffled his feet, like a kid caught doing good.

  “You were on your way back to camp?” It was impossible for George to resist their merriment at his expense. He shook Piker’s hand several times, then the others, each expressing appreciation for the gesture.

  “Didna git far. Smelt somethin’, so weuns went ta see fir ‘selves. Weuns could tell da patrol was headin’ yews way, like dey knew where ta find yews. Theyuns scavengers...but dey doan bother us no mo on accountta weuns showed um weuns stronger.”

  “Why’d they come after us?”

  “I says someun sent um afta ya. Dey be bandits...do dis dat fer trade.”

  “Piker. You know where we’re going, don't you?”

  “Kinda.” Piker fidgeted and looked down, fingering the Marlin's sight. The others stopped grinning and fidgeted.

  “How so?” George arched his brow and leaned closer.

  “Dem flyers come from da mountains. People been hurt by um.”

  “They shoot at you?” George's eyes narrowed. “Like from the aircraft we saw coming this way?”

  “Been known ta happen. Nutin’ recent though.” Piker nodded, as if to add significance to his words. “No’uns sees um much no mo. Saw ‘em a bit ago, but dey be gone now.”

  “Don't want to break up the party,” Baider admonished, “but shouldn’t we check the bioscanner? Make sure the patrol is gone?”

  “Uh, what?” Piker hefted his Marlin and checked the clip. His eyes darted over the northern landscape.

  “A tool that measures the heat given off by living things.” George held out the device to satisfy Piker's curiosity. “Baider’s right. Best get down until we’re sure.”

  A hush fell over the group. All but George and Piker hid in the yellow grass. Piker squinted at the hill, fingering his Marlin's trigger.

  “Damn! Get down!” George shoved Piker roughly to the ground and dove to the side, losing his grip on the bioscanner. From the north slope, a shotgun boomed. Small caliber weapons joined in. Bullets whizzed through the grass. Angry with himself, George pulled his legs under him, snatched up his lasrifle and aimed at the trees, saw a patch of light, drifting smoke, but the shooters were well hidden. His right side ached.