Mankind's Worst Fear

by David L Erickson

  With only her uniform jumpsuit, turtleneck and a thin, sky-blue windbreaker between bare skin and the unseasonable cold, Lauren wished she had taken Owen’s advice and added another layer of clothing. Thermal gloves kept her hands warm, but the gentle easterly breeze cut right through her.

  Lauren raised the eyespy and scanned the cove. Twenty minutes past sunrise, the sun was no more than a bright blur peaking above the Cascades to the east. She spotted the thin strip of land where George and the others had gone ashore, and a patch of yellow buried in the brush. No obvious threat manifested itself. She let the eyespy dangle on its neck strap and removed a bioscanner from her jacket pocket. Of limited range, the device revealed nothing living among the dark, brooding ruins. The lift whined and she turned. Owen, in thermals under camouflage pants and jacket and black leather hiking boots, stepped out. In full backpack, lasrifle shoulder slung, and parka cinched tight, he looked ready for war.

  “Anything?” He came up beside her.

  “Nothing. Nothing at all. A graveyard.”

  “You’re shivering. Why don't you go below? Don and I can handle it from here.”

  The cargo lift whirred to a stop. Lauren giggled as she watched Don tug a yellow, inflated raft to the railing. Though he was dressed like Owen, he looked like an oversized kid wrapped protectively by his mother to play in the snow. He gave her a sour look and knelt to attach the boat’s tether to the railing. At his command, a section of the railing faded into the deck.

  “You could've given me a hand, you know,” he groused.

  “Oh, Don, don't be such a winny,” Lauren chided, then returned to monitoring the harbor and derelict town. Owen chuckled, but made no effort to help.

  Grunting from the effort, Don pulled the raft to the side and shoved it overboard. It hit the water with a resounding smack, rocked gently and nudged the hull.

  He laid down, grasped a section of railing and slid over the side. The raft swayed when his boots touched bottom, but steadied after he lowered himself to the forward seat and eased over to the central brace. He mounted the white plastic oars and tested their sweep.

  “Well,” Owen winked at Lauren. “I best be going. The last thing I want to hear is Don whining.”

  “Tube it, man.” Don's voice echoed off the shoreline, startling them. “Wendell’s the whiner, not me,” he concluded lamely.

  “Okay, Wendy,” Owen smirked and gave Lauren another wink. The night’s rest had done them all good.

  “You guys be careful. Don't take unnecessary risks.”

  Owen offered Lauren his gloved hands and she took them in hers. “Methodical we will be, Captain Ma’am." Owen borrowed the expression from Farrell. “And sleuthy. We’ll sneak up on that big ol’ sensor blob and see what’s what.”

  “Neither of you guys are woodsmen, so take extra precautions. Use your equipment to full advantage. And call me. Don't forget to call me.” Lauren gave him a tentative smile, tinged with angst.

  “Yes, mother. We’ll be good. Come on, Owen. I want to get this done and be back on board before I become a popsicle.”

  “Sure.” Owen impulsively hugged Lauren and stepped away. He avoided meeting her eyes and joined Don in the boat.

  Lauren smiled, but the gesture was superficial. She was deeply troubled over the decision to send them after George, but she knew in her heart that it was the right thing to do. She shivered and hurried below.

  08:05 Hours, July 16, 2386

  Owen released the tether and settled into the bow. Don pulled on the oars and swung the raft about. The tide was coming in, leaving thin trails of froth across the softly rumpled surface of the inlet. They could barely hear the frail slap of the sea against the town's crumbling foundations. No seagulls squawked, hunting for their morning meal, nor fish jumped, seeking escape from larger predators. It was as if nature had not yet woken to the dawn.

  When they reached the shore, Don pulled back his hood to vent his sweaty head while Owen leaped ashore and tugged the bow of the raft up the rocky beach. With a sigh of relief, Don shipped the oars and stumbled off the boat, but missed dry land by a foot and splashed in the shallows.

  Exploring, Owen ambled farther up the narrow clearing, while Don wrapped the tether about his gloved hand and drew most of the raft from the water with one sustained pull.

  “There’s the other one,” Owen called, pointing to the deflated raft partially hidden in the brush. “Something’s wrong.”

  “Yeah, something’s wrong all right. There’s nothing alive here about, save us.” With a final tug, Don pulled the boat completely from the water and retrieved his gear.

  Owen knelt beside the other raft. “It’s been vandalized. Slashed to shreds and the motor is missing.”

  “Aw, come on.” Don slung his rifle under his arm and joined Owen at the boat. “We didn’t pick up any bio-readings this close. You going to tell me some forest critter walked off with it?”

  “All the hardware’s gone too.” With a puzzled frown, Owen pushed himself up with the butt of his rifle. “I say we deflate ours and stash it under this one. What do you think?”

  ”Yup. Sounds like a plan. Swimming back to Slinker isn’t my idea of a good time. Any luck and whoever did this won’t notice the addition.” Don wiped away the sweat frosting over his forehead, pulled up his hood and snugged the cord keeper tight. “The forest critters who done this, I mean.”

  “Maybe they’ve got some way of masking their presence.”

  “Hope not.”

  A surge behind them brought Owen to his feet. Slinker, near the half-moon headland that enclosed the bay, submerged. In moments, the disturbance on the water’s surface faded to a few errant bubbles.

  Working together, they soon had the raft deflated and hidden beneath the other. “Better get moving,” Owen said, “we can reach them before nightfall if we bust tail.”

  Don pointed to their left. “There. There’s the trail.” He shoved his rifle between his knees and grunted as he swung his backpack up and on.

  “This way, my friend.” Owen shifted his backpack and shouldered his rifle. “Might want to keep our guard up. Sensors can be obstructed.”

  Though Owen’s lopsided grin reassured him, the bitter cold reminded Don that this was no Sunday outing. “Not looking forward to this hike, old buddy.”

  Owen shook his head and his grin faded to a frown. “Nor am I.”

  The well-swiped path led upward with a gentle sweep to the right. They came to a scorched area at the forest edge and paused. Beyond lay the ruins. Only a few fragile walls still emerged from the thick yellow grass and dissembling vines.

  "What do you make of it?" Don asked.

  "It takes a long time for oaks to get that big. I would say this little town died centuries ago." Owen bioscanned, then squinted at Don. "What do think could cause something like this?"

  "Anything show up?"

  "No." Owen glanced at the bioscanner and slipped it into its waist pouch. "Clean sweep."

  Don shrugged. "Alternate reality, time warp, mind control, virtual dreams, we'll find out." He shrugged again.

  "Science fiction. I don't buy it."

  "You're living what was science fiction before we sailed."

  "That's mechanical." Suddenly pensive, Owen checked the safety on his lasrifle. "Changing reality goes way beyond that."

  "Not necessarily."

  "Look, Don, let's hold up on philosophical discussion for the time being."

  "Gotcha. We don't want the boogey man sneaking up on us." Don smirked and swept his hand in a grand gesture. "After you."

  A slight bow and Owen led off. Slashed and trampled undergrowth guided them over broken polyphalt and thick roots, past polycrete foundations and piles of red or brown brick smothered in leafy vines and all but obscured beneath waves of yellow. Pocked and crumbling walls stabbed at the dreary heavens, sagging under the weight of vines and thick drifts of matted leaves. Side by side, they loped through the ruins and mounted the hill.

&nbs
p; “Will you look at that!” Slack-jawed, Don slowed, then stopped at the edge of a rumpled, weedless polyphalt square. At its center loomed a brooding gray polycrete monolith.

  Owen jerked his head towards it. “What sent George into the mountains must be here. Come on, let’s check it out.”

  “Yeah, sure.” Don hurried after him, wondering at the incongruity of a relatively modern structure anchored in a centuries old wilderness. Beyond the polyphalt perimeter, frosted and rotting timbers lay scattered among enormous oaks adorned with small green petals and shriveled brown leaves. Droop-needled slash pines and shedding white poplars vied for what little light escaped the thick, low-hanging clouds and the oak-leaf umbrellas.

  "All this lacks is a wolf howling from a distant ridge." Don whispered.

  "Uhuh."

  They passed into darkness through a huge, vaulted portal. Owen flicked a litemate and selected wide beam. Don did the same and, working in opposite directions, they scoured the ground level. Familiar boot prints had disturbed the thick layer of dirt, and near the middle, the prints congregated into a large smudge.

  “Hey, check this out.” Owen’s litemate played over an age-old brass ring imbedded flush in the polycrete floor.

  “What do you make of it?” Don crouched and ran his gloved hand over the surface of the ring. It was flush, fused to the floor without delineating ridges or concentric grooves.

  “Looks like some kind of projector, like a holoimager.”

  Kneeling beside Don, Owen passed his hand over it, but it remained dormant. “Maybe.” He surged to his feet. “Let’s find their trail and get going.”

  “Okay by me. This place gives me the creeps.”

  Owen grunted in way of an answer and turned back the way they came.

  With a speculative glance at the ring, Don lumbered to his feet and jogged a few steps to catch up. They searched the perimeter of the grayish-black square in silence. Inside a ruin beyond the northern edge, they found a spent .45 cartridge and med-waste. All about the structure, the tall grass was beaten down, and a trail, marked by broken stems and trampled foliage, led southeast.

  At a steady, energy conserving pace they crossed several shallow ravines, then followed the track into a gully with a gurgling, clear stream that appeared as cold and lifeless as their surroundings. Out of the ravine, the once well-trodden path veered east, away from the stream. They heard a strained call, like a wild turkey, but it wasn't repeated. Minute red dots cluttered the bioscanner display, indicating wildlife, but they had yet to encounter any, let alone birds or insects.

  Don called a halt two hours later at the edge of a derelict city by dumping his pack in the middle of the path and sprawling beside it. His chest hurt and his legs refused to carry him any farther. He gulped air like a fish out of water. Clouds of vapor hung in the stillness until he brushed them apart.

  “Come on. We’ve a long way to go.” Owen stood over him, feigning disgust, though it was obvious he was just as tuckered.

  “Not on your life, buddy-boy. Maybe you get off on pain and torture, but not me. I can't go on until I’ve rested.”

  “Slacker.” Owen shucked his pack and eased himself to the ground. Like the experienced hiker he was, he took long, deep breaths, slowed his heart rate and drained the tension from his muscles.

  Don ignored the insult and closed his eyes. After a couple minutes he steadied his breathing.

  Though near ten a.m., the gray pall remained, as did the chill. The landscape changed markedly when they left the city behind and climbed higher. Poplars, giant oaks and the occasional sequoias gave way to dense thickets, spindly pines, and rocky outcroppings.

  They pressed on, resting every two hours for twenty minutes. By nightfall, they were within five miles of where Slinker’s scanners had pinpointed a large concentration of biosigns.

  "Good a place as any to make camp," Don wheezed. "Nothing out there big enough to pose a threat." Never much for camping, spending a frigid night tucked into an enviropad on stony ground wasn’t his idea of a great time.

  "Got to agree with you. I've had enough hiking for one day." Owen started a fire. By the time they got their wind back, a rehydrated carrots and noodle casserole was warming.

  Perched on his backpack, Don tossed a handful of damp twigs on the dwindling fire. He tried to close his mind to their surroundings, starkly aware the effort was superfluous. The twigs smoldered, than flared, reminding him of Slinker. “Better give Lauren a call.”

  “Just thinking the same thing.” Owen plucked the comset from the side pocket of his jacket and handed it to Don. “Here.”

  “Don't want to take your gloves off?” In the wavering light of the flickering flames, Don could hardly make out Owen’s tired smile.

  “You bet.” There was no humor in his response.

  As unwilling to remove his gloves as Owen, Don plucked a smoldering twig from the edge of the fire. With the cold end, he pressed two flush buttons on the face of the comset.

  “Slinker here.” Lauren’s reassuring voice melted the frost gathering about his mind.

  “Lauren? Don.”

  The relief in her voice was palpable. “Thank heaven. How are you guys doing?”

  “We’re within five miles of George. Freakin’ cold out here.”

  “I’m sure. Have you gotten a reading on them?”

  “Not close enough. Nothing much else stirring out here either.”

  “No wildlife?”

  “Blips. About the size of small dogs or maybe rabbits. No humans.” Don leaned closer to the dwindling fire, but it produced little heat. The darkness crowded in upon them.

  “Anything to report?”

  “Nada. Anything new with you?”

  “A couple minor problems with the bioputer, but Farrell and I fixed them. We’re holding two miles off the coast at periscope depth. Saw a light near the cove, but it didn’t last long. Sensors picked up a half dozen life forms, but they were moving south. Other than that, things are quiet.”

  “Good. I’ll check in with you when we catch up to George.”

  “I’ll be waiting. And Don...be careful.”

  “Sure. I’m no hero. Later.”

  “Until tomorrow.”

  The fizz and pop of the connection ended.

  “Okay. Time for some shut-eye.” Don handed Owen the comset, but his thoughts were elsewhere. Gina, his lady love, was no doubt snuggling into a warm sleeper back at the base and wishing he was there. If only the comset could cross the time chasm between them, he would call her up. "Little comfort," he groused under his breath as he laid out his enviropad on a bed of gathered brown leaves. He sealed the edge of the sheets and once inside, removed his jacket, then rounded it up to form a pillow.

  The trek, so far, had been uneventful, but the morning could prove to be quite different. Don tried to keep an open mind about it, though he wondered what they would find when they reached George. Hopefully, they wouldn’t have to bust them out.

  17:23 Hours, July 16, 2386

  “Slinker, this is George, do you com?”

  Startled and instantly awash with joy, Lauren lunged from the lounger in the communal room, spilling a tumbler of wine and a plate of pita crackers. She tossed her Readit on the bar and raced to the bridge to find Farrell slipping into Wendell’s station.

  “Come on, Farrell!”

  “Cool your jets, Captain ma’am. I’m just warmin’ the seat for you.” With a hasty bow, he slipped from the chair and stood to attention.

  Lauren took his place and pressed the com key, quivering like a young lady before her first kiss. “Clear com, George," she answered smoothly, "we read you five by five.”

  “The comsets on low charge. We’re on our way up mountain. Had a run in with...well I’ll tell you more later. Baider's okay. Heather and I are injured...nothing serious...and...and Wendell’s dead. We’ve made some friends.”

  Lauren closed her eyes. Sorrow ripped the heart from her joy. “How...how did...he...”

>   “I'll fill you in later. We’re heading to a city high in the Cascades. I’ll call tomorrow when I’ve had a chance to recharge. How are you doing?”

  “Fine, Cap,” Farrell blurted, “but we sent Owen and Don after you.”

  Lauren gave him a look that could kill. It wasn't his place. Oh, hell, I've enough to deal with without pulling rank on Farrell.

  “Call them back. There are rogue patrols out here. Don't wait. Call them in.”

  “Roger that.” Lauren held up a hand, more to steady herself than to silence Farrell. “They’ve only been gone since this morning.”

  “They're close then, but it doesn't matter. They have to go back. What about that huge UFO? Saw it boiling the ocean. Slinker do okay?”

  “We think we triggered the attack when we connected with a comsat. This monster ship appeared a few thousand miles out and came right for us. We're okay though. You'll be proud to know Slinker surpassed prestats. Don't get mad, but I set her on the bottom. Currently we're two miles off shore and sixty feet down.”

  “Fill me in later. When the guys get back, go farther out and deeper. My bat’s nearly depleted. I’ll call you tomorrow evening, hopefully with better news, and a full charge.”

  “Roger that. I’ll call up the guys now and wait to hear from you.”

  “Do that. Com out.”

  The call left her shaken and confused. She wasn't that close to Wendell, but they'd worked together for two years, half of that in Slinker's belly. Poor Wendell. George and Heather were hurt, but George was okay and that mattered the most. Did George feel the same about her, and if so, why hadn't he said, done anything to let on?

  She keyed in the code for Don's comset and waited impatiently for a response. Tears streamed down her flushed cheeks and splashed silently on the con. Farrell pressed a disposatowel into her trembling hands and fled to the bunkroom, his cheeks smeared with tears. Lauren watched him go. He and Wendell were buddy close.