Mankind's Worst Fear

by David L Erickson

  “Yeah, Lauren?”

  It sounded like a sleepy Don, though it was hard to tell. The connection wasn’t as good as earlier.

  “Come home guys. Come home. George called.”

  “When?”

  “Just a minute ago. He and Heather are wounded...says it isn’t serious, but Wendell...Wendell is dead. You’ve got to come back. There are people out there who will kill you. Come back in.”

  “Wendy...uh, Wendell? Dead?”

  Lauren sobbed, unable to restrain her grief any longer. “Yeah, dammit. Get your asses back here before you get killed too.” Anger boiled over. She didn’t know who to blame, who to hate.

  “Whoa, hold on, girl. I understand. It’s pitch dark out here. We’ll break camp at daybreak. Okay?”

  “Roger that. Keep in touch, will you?”

  “Sure, sure thing. I’ll call you in the morning. Good enough?”

  “Good enough.”

  Lauren keyed off, then sat there, thinking. Hearing from George was a major relief, but the more she pondered it, the more concerned she became. Had she sent the boys on a fool's errand? Put their lives at stake? Grief overwhelmed her. It appeared that everyone she knew, except the Slinker crew, was long since dead. Time, the universal constant, she now knew was as fluid as the tears coursing down her cheeks. It had taken only a moment, a temporal flicker, for the world to become a far uglier place.

  What caused it? A war...and...and we lost? Lauren shuddered. The unthinkable had to be considered. An alternate universe, perhaps? No, the satellite telemetry was absolute. Alien invaders with strange technology...sure. More likely too.

  All she could do now was follow orders. If anyone could make things right, it would be George. With a heartfelt sigh, Lauren wiped away her tears. Se set aside her wonderings and focused on the readings scrolling across the vid. There would be time enough for reflection later. For now she had to ‘buck up’, as Baider would say.

  17:25 Hours, July 16, 2386

  “You catch any of that?”

  “We’ve been recalled...” Roused by the call, Owen sat up and peeled back his enviropad. “...and Wendell’s dead. Any details?” He tossed a small pile of twigs on the glowing embers.

  “Nothing on Wendell. George and Heather are hurt, but not seriously.”

  “Sounds to me like the future isn’t any place to be.”

  “Sounds like.”

  Owen laid back and pulled the top layer up to his chin. “We’d best set the bioscanner for surveillance mode tonight.”

  “You thinking about Wendell?” The sudden flare of yellow flame cast enough light for Don to note Owen’s stoic expression.

  “Yeah. Tough break. He was a good man. Smart as hell to boot.” Owen turned away and snuggled deeper into the enviropad. "Sad, any way you look at it."

  “A decent sort if you ask me...despite being queer. Should’ve cut him more slack.”

  “Too late now,” Owen mumbled.

  "We treated him well enough, but we could've been more of a friend."

  "He made that hard. Only time I ever saw him get excited was when he was with the girls or working the com."

  "Yeah, never did any guy stuff, but like you said, nothing we can do about it now."

  "Set the bioscanner and shut up so we can get some sleep."

  Don sighed, set the bioscanner and lay down. Dawn would bring the long trek home. Unable to shake images of Wendell, he remained awake for some time.

  07:01 Hours, July 17, 2386

  Daybreak crept through the forest. Don bolted upright, wide awake.

  “Well now, yeuns be all comfy like in dat fancy bag, eh?” A gruff-voiced man in a coarse, patchwork fur coat crouched beyond their renewed fire. An ancient looking lever-action Winchester rifle lay across his thighs. He tossed a handful of thick twigs into the crackling flames and warmed one bare hand, his other wrapped around the rifle, a finger caressing the trigger.

  Must have really been zonked not to have heard the bioscanner’s plaintive call.

  “Who the hell are you?” Don asked. Not to arouse the gunman, he slowly reached over and silenced the warning.

  “Winchester Riefull.” The man laughed arrogantly, his deep gold hawk-eyes locked on Don. There was no mirth beneath those bushy brows. “An’ who you be, pretty boy.”

  “Don Scambini. We’re...I’m searching for a friend.” Don glanced around, taking in the three men with Winchester. “He...he got separated from...from our group.”

  The others were dressed similarly: mottled fur coats and pants, leather-soled dark cloth boots and black fur caps with side flaps pinned back with leather thongs. Some kind of uniform? They had scruffy beards and faces pocked, pale and dirty. A truly despicable looking lot. A young man, gaunt and missing four front teeth, examined Don's lasrifle. With his forehead scrunched up, he appeared genuinely stupid. It would have been laughable if the situation were different.

  “Hiden’ sometin...Don?” Winchester reached over and snatched the scanner, scrutinized it, then closed it and tossed it away.

  “No, no...why do you say that?” Don shrugged. The other men tensed.

  “Yeuns sleepin’ buddy ain’t here.” Winchester pointed at Owen’s empty enviropad on the far side of the fire. One of the men cast a handful of leaves and sticks on the flickering embers. White smoke gushed and the fire flared.

  “Must be out taking a leak.” Don dropped his hands to his lap and felt the reassuring bulk of his .45 automatic beneath the material. He had never shot a man before, but it was a comfort to know that if he had to defend himself, he could.

  “Leak?”

  “You know, pee, take a whiz, target the cigarette butt.” Don made the universal sign of a man holding his member and smiled as if he were sharing a private joke.

  Winchester nodded and grinned, though his eyes remained cold, mirthless. “Yessum. He be foun’ soon. My men be lookey here an’ dere. Not far.”

  “What do you want with us?” Though his heart was pounding, Don spoke with an air of indifference. Perhaps he could make a trade. The gear for their lives.

  “Han tole us ta look out fer yeuns. He knews yeuns be comin’.”

  “Who? How?” For a moment, Don forgot he was in mortal danger as he studied the motley group. They didn’t appear to have the kind of technology necessary for bio-detection.

  “Yeuns never mine. He be tellin’ yeuns soons ‘nough.”

  A distant holler grabbed their attention.

  “Biter.” Winchester pointed to the young man with the lasrifle. “Yews go sees what Rasslin be callin’ fer.”

  “Yesum, Winchester.” He laid the lasrifle beside Winchester and loped down the path and out of sight.

  Winchester’s eyes bored into him. Don tensed. Inside the enviropad, he wrapped a sweaty palm around his automatic and slipped a finger into the trigger guard. He jumped and nearly blew his leg off when a .45 boomed twice so close it made his ears ring. The man to Winchester’s left flew back and sprawled, lifeless, on the path. The other gunman, his back to a tree, opened his mouth to say something, but a gush of blood strangled his cry.

  Winchester surged to his feet and swung his rifle butt at Don's head, but he was too late. Don's .45 recoiled. Like a rag doll tossed angrily aside, Winchester flew back and sprawled, arms twitching. Pink froth burst from his gaping mouth. He sucked in a deep, tremulous breath, choked and lay still.

  Owen dropped from above, landed beside Don in a crouch. “Forget the stuff. Grab your guns and ammo and let’s get the hell out of here.”

  Though Don recognized the implicit urgency, shock had set in. His body reacted sluggishly to his demands. In a daze, he pushed aside his smoking enviropad, holstered his automatic, shrugged into his coat and slung his rifle across his shoulders. He avoided looking directly at Winchester, reached past him and retrieved the bioscanner.

  As he straightened, fear ripped through the cloying mire of shock feeding his inertia. He snatched Winchester’s rifle and dashed after Owen.
Loose rocks and gnarled roots reached out to snag him. He crashed through the frozen forest, stumbling and cursing, giving little thought to their noisy passage.

  “We gotta get lost in the woods...choose a defensible position,” Owen growled, then scrambled off the path and up a rocky embankment. At the top, he slowed and turned west. Spiny brambles tore at their clothing and loosened stones clattered down the hillside, though they made some effort to avoid marking their position. Minutes passed before Owen veered southwest, towards Slinker. Layers of rotting, frosted vegetation made it nearly impossible to keep their footing.

  Driven by abject terror, Don struggled on. He just shot a man and watched him die, for god's sake! Vomit rushed to his mouth. He gagged, stumbled and fell. Muddy debris clogged his nose and eyes. He lost his grip on the Winchester and his ears rang, drowning out the shouts of their pursuers.

  “Come on dammit!” Owen jerked him to his feet and forced the Winchester into his hands. “We’re almost to the ridge. We’ll find a place there to hole up and get our bearings. Come on!”

  Side-by-side they scrambled up the hill until they reached the peak and turned west again. Concealed by vine-laced undergrowth, squat Douglas firs and slash pines, they slowed, gaining stealth and better footing.

  With every harsh breath, Don fought to gain some sense of equilibrium, but all he could see was Winchester’s glazed eyes and the pink froth burbling from his mouth and nose. Unabashed fear screamed its malignant tune. He fought the urge to puke until the compulsion faded.

  The tree line thinned below a rocky outcropping that afforded good cover and an unobstructed view a hundred feet down the northern slope. Owen shoved Don into a widened area between boulders and scrambled past and up the rock.

  Forcing all other thoughts aside, Don focused on the Winchester rifle and consciously slowed his breathing. His pulse hammered his chest and throbbed at his temples. He cowered from a terror he could not shake. He wasn’t ready to die. Not here anyway, not at the hands of murderous thugs in a future he never dreamed could exist.

  Owen thumped down beside him. “You okay? I thought I was going to lose you back there.” Brimming with concern, his calming words bridged the gap between innocence lost and the reality of their situation.

  “Yeah, yeah. I’m okay. Just scared.”

  “So am I. Can you shoot that?”

  “Seems simple enough.” Don pointed at a lever on the left side of the chamber. “Safety, lever loading, scope range adjustment...sure. But why not use the lasrifles?”

  “Surprise mostly. If they think all we have are regular weapons, we’ve got the advantage. Here.” Owen flipped him a small, but heavy leather pouch. “Spare bullets. I got it off that big ugly fella you plugged.”

  The bag bounced off Don's chest. He picked it up slowly, and panic resurged. If he had to, could he kill again? Could he shoot well enough to hit anything, let alone a man scurrying from cover to cover? Sickness welled in his belly, but he forced it down. His mind glazed over. His jaw fell slack.

  Owen smacked him across the face. “Snap out of it! Our lives depend on you!”

  Like a bulb exploding, reality slammed him. Scared or not, they had no choice. The bastards intended to kill them.

  “Thanks...thanks, Owen. I’m okay now. I can do it.”

  “Good. They’re coming.” Owen grinned and clapped him on the back, then scrambled up a narrow fissure to a perch near the top.

  Swallowing hard, Don crawled to the edge of the rock cluster and peered around. All he saw was decaying vines, tangled undergrowth and the dirty brown, frost streaked slope. Movement. Hidden in the crevice where rock and ground came together, he brought up the Winchester and squinted through the scope. He made out the fur distorted form of a man, then another. They were crouched in the undergrowth sixty yards distant, one looking through binoculars.

  He leaped back. His breath caught in his throat. He squeezed his eyes shut and for the first time in many years, prayed. The exercise dulled his fear, but his guts ached and his temples throbbed. He lay down, brought the rifle up and sighted. Several gunmen were working their way up the ridge. Stealing himself, he clicked off the safety and adjusted the scope until he had the man with the binoculars square in the crosshairs.

  Though expected, the bang and kick of the Winchester startled him. He jerked back, thankful for the protection afforded by the rock. When he looked again, the men had gone to ground. There was movement in the brush, but nothing he could target. He aimed at a bush just shaken, and fired.

  The gunmen responded with a rapid flurry of shots. Bullets whined overhead or ricocheted, searing Don with stone chips. Owen cursed and fired back, the boom of his .45 rippling off the hills. The shooters didn't respond.

  With the rifle scope, Don scanned the thickets where their attackers should be. Owen landed beside him and did a full sweep with the bioscanner.

  “We've got nine shooters at the base of the hill, but nobody behind us. Time to scat. This way.” Owen holstered his automatic and slipped out of the narrow opening in a crouch.

  Don followed. A dozen feet down the backside of the hill, they were up to their armpits in withered vines and scraggly vegetation.

  “There's a stream at the bottom of this gorge.” A vine slashed at Owen, but he swept it aside. “Might provide us with better footing and not so many damned vines.”

  “Can we make it before they cut us down?” Don stumbled, his foot entangled, but jerked the offending vine from the ground and scrambled on. The undergrowth, studded with spindly pines, thickened.

  “Hard to get a clean shot in all this crap.”

  Bullets whined through the undergrowth and thudded into trees, but the shots were wide. They reached the shallow, rock strewn stream in ten minutes and waded into the ice encrusted, knee deep water. Thick foliage provided ample cover and the going was easier.

  Owen checked the bioscanner on the move. “They’re paralleling our course, about a half-mile north.” A low hanging branch whipped him across his forehead. “Dammit!” He ducked under and pushed on. “We’ve got more company to the northwest, on an intercept course.” He snapped the bioscanner shut and pocketed it when a spiny vine nearly tore it from his hand.

  “You think...they got...a way of...tracking us?” Chest heaving and barely able to keep his footing on the slippery, uneven streambed, Don teetered near exhaustion.

  “Maybe they figured...we’d take this route,” Owen huffed, “or maybe they were headed this way...to begin with...to hook up with others. Wish to hell Slinker had...some firepower. I’d call in a strike.”

  “Geez...how much farther?”

  Trickles of frigid water seeped into their boots despite the tightly sealed pant cuffs. Don's toes went numb, making it increasingly difficult to keep his footing. They would have to stop or get out of the water before he was too crippled to go on.

  Less than a mile on the stream veered south. Owen kept them on a southwest heading, up a steep slope of shale rock and sparse vegetation. At least they were out of the water, Don thought, but he could no longer feel his feet. They topped a low ridge, down a shallow gully and up the next. The trees grew thicker and taller, and the vines thinned. They broke into an opening where the footing was less treacherous, and rushed down a grassy slope.

  At the bottom, they came to a dry streambed. Don tried to make it up the opposing slope, but his lungs burned and his legs refused to bear his weight one step more. “I...I...can't...” He unslung his rifle, propped it against the ground and kneeled, his eyes squeezed shut.

  “It’s...okay...gotta rest...too.” Owen collapsed on the frozen bank and sucked in harsh, rattling breaths.

  With a silent prayer that they be given time to recover, Don let go his rifle and lay down on the cold, unforgiving ground. He thought of nothing beyond the agony in his chest, the lack of feeling in his feet and the chill seeping through his clothing. All but spent, he propped himself on an elbow and faced Owen across the streambed, thankful George had p
ressed their physical conditioning.

  “We’ve got to dry our feet.”

  “Yeah. Mine are popsicles. Set your lasrifle on low...dry our boots and socks with it.”

  “Won’t that tell these guys where we are?” Don sat up too quickly, and clenched his jaws to keep from crying out. Sharp spikes surged up his legs and back. A vine-lash to his neck stung fiercely.

  “Shouldn’t. Tried it once in survival training. Can't see the beam beyond a few feet.” Owen parted his boots along the Zipstrip seam and peeled off his socks. His skin was wrinkled and ghostly white. “Here,” he handed Don his lasrifle. “Pass the beam over the socks for no more than two seconds and aim it down the throat of the boots for three. Any more than that and they’re toast.”

  Don aimed, squeezed the trigger and released. The narrow yellow beam cast little light, but Owen’s footgear gave off a great gush of steam. Owen rubbed his feet vigorously, then yanked his socks back on and shoved his feet into his boots.

  Don followed Owen’s lead, feeling the blood gush through his veins and the stiffness melt as he rubbed and pummeled his waterlogged feet. He hurriedly donned his socks and boots before the chill air neutralized his efforts, satisfied with the results.

  “Let’s go.” Owen smiled ruefully, offered Don a hand and pulled each other up. “You doing okay?”

  “You mean after waking up with some pock-faced guerrilla sticking a gun in my face, killing him, then running my butt off because his buddies want to pay me back?” He shivered as the morning scene replayed itself, then shook his head to erase the vision. Fear resurged, then shame for his cowardice. “No, I’m not doing okay. I’m scared like I’ve never been scared in my life.” His eyes sought Owen’s, anger building. “And I’m so damned cold. Geez, why did they do this to our world!”

  “Yeah. Scared the hell out of me at first, but now I’m just plain pissed. I want to blast these creeps and get the hell off this ice ball.” Owen leaned down, retrieved his rifle and stretched.