Mankind's Worst Fear

by David L Erickson

  "Hey, hey! We're in luck!" Garson shouted from far down the parking lot. Moments later a turbine whined to life, followed by the unmistakable rush of compressed air as the cargo hauler backed up and came about. Air boosters — O’Brien recognized the sound — were necessary to build forward momentum for heavy haulers.

  “That’s our ride.” O’Brien squeezed Doomes’ shoulder. “Hang in there, Sergeant. We’ll be in the comfort of a modern medical facility before dawn. Within a week, you’ll be on your feet and chasing the nurses.” Doubt tinged his words. Doomes gave him a look of disbelief.

  “Colonel,” Linda offered O’Brien a tired, doleful grin and handed him a clear vinyl bag filled with foil packets. “Radiation pills. Everyone needs to take two now...before we get any sicker.”

  “Good work, Doctor.” He laid the bag on the gravpad beside Doomes. With a snap of his wrist, he tossed a packet to Tammer, then opened another for Doomes and pressed the small caplets into the sergeant's mouth. He emptied the bag's contents into his thigh pouch until it bulged, bunched up the bag and tossed it aside. Hands trembling with fatigue, O'Brien ripped open a packet, popped two caplets in his mouth, worked up spit and swallowed.

  A white, box-bed hauler with the stylized red letters PACDEL emblazoned on its side whined to a stop beside the ambulance. Halolamps pushed back the darkness, revealing a dark gray polyphalt expanse strewn with rocks from the barrier wall, and limbs and foliage torn from the trees.

  “Okay, everybody out.” O’Brien motioned, and Linda followed him from the ambulance. He was relieved to escape the foul, though faint odor lingering within their temporary shelter.

  In three steps, they were at the back of the hauler. O’Brien released the mechanical latch and pressed the lift pad. The door rolled smoothly upward, bathing them in a sweet, overpowering aroma emanating from hundreds of visquine-wrapped two-kilo packets. Though he had hoped the hauler was empty, the packages, properly stacked, would protect them from the hard, unyielding surface of the hauler bed.

  “Holy Mother of God, will you look at that!” Flashing a wide, white-toothed grin, Tammer grasped a metal handle welded to the doorframe and heaved himself up. He dug his bare fingers into a package, tore it open, brought it to his face, and inhaled deeply. With a self-satisfied smile, he handed the package down to O’Brien. “Manna from heaven!”

  Garson came around the back of the hauler and stopped beside Linda and O’Brien. “What’ve you got there, Tammer?”

  “Unprocessed marijuana, my dear uninformed friend. A gift from God. A natural substance that instills a feeling of euphoria when smoked. Also of special value when one must offset the nausea associated with radiation poisoning.” He offered Garson an indulgent grin and handed him a package. “Don't tell me you haven’t heard of it?”

  “Well, sure, but I’ve never seen it in its raw form. Just the cigarettes you can buy just about anywhere.” He sniffed the proffered package and wrinkled his nose. “Kind of stinks. Earthy.”

  Tammer laughed uproariously. His great belly shook. Tears welled. “Well, my friends, you’ll just have to indulge me. I’ve been a lifelong toker and I’ve sorely missed the sweet, exhilarating sense of well being a toke can impart.”

  “A what?” Curious, Linda pried loose a small sample from the package in Garson’s hands, and sniffed.

  “A joint my dear, a marijuana cigarette. It is how one consumes this golden treasure. You inhale and hold it in as long as you can. Surely you were taught this in medical school?”

  “Well, yes, but I’ve never seen...I mean, there were many who used it...on weekends...at parties...” She clutched her belly, bent over and convulsed, but nothing came up.

  “Radiation.” O’Brien tossed the package to Tammer and stroked Linda's back. “Okay.” He clapped his hands, but the gloves made little sound. “Let’s get some of this unloaded. Linda, bring Doomes, would you?”

  “Sure, Colonel.” Arms crossed over her belly, she straightened enough to cross to the ambulance and climb in. Shortly, the gravpad slid out and she followed with her hand on the controls.

  Tammer shook his head with a lamentful sigh, as if he were tossing away gold bullion, and heaved a package into the darkness. Garson and O’Brien joined him. Together they quickly emptied a third of the load and fashioned benches on either side of the cargo box from the remaining bales. Despite the cooling drizzle, they were sweating and breathing harshly well before they finished.

  O’Brien collapsed on the makeshift bench as Linda guided the gravpad into the open space and set it down on a single layer of packages. She struggled feebly to board, accepted a hand from O’Brien, and collapsed beside Garson and Tammer. Beyond the limited protection afforded by the hauler was a blackness as deep as hell.

  In the light cast by a pair of litemates set above their heads, O’Brien studied his companions with concern. Lips compressed and arms wrapped about their bellies, their pale cheeks were crimson. Their eyes had taken on an unhealthy dullness. Even Doomes, who’d been alert and less affected earlier, lay back, eyes closed and breath shallow.

  “My turn to play doctor.” Discarding his gloves, Tammer flourished a small jade-embedded silver tube with an ivory colored Meerschaum bowl at one end. “This will take care of the queasiness and give us one hell of a spiritual boost!”

  The exquisitely detailed bowl resembled the head of an old seaman. Tammer removed the sailor’s yellowed ivory cap and filled the bowl with a wad of golden brown buds.

  From the thigh pocket of his envirosuit, he produced a thumb-sized silver igniter inlaid with jade Chinese characters. He touched the glow tip to the contents in the bowl and sucked on the stem for a very long time, then handed the pipe and igniter to O’Brien.

  Holding the smoke in, Tammer motioned for O’Brien to do as he and leaned back, cheeks puffed out, pupils dilating. O’Brien followed suit. When the hot smoke reached his lungs, he choked, gasped, grimaced and handed the pipe back.

  Tammer exhaled noisily and roared with laughter, bringing tears to his eyes. “Slowly, Colonel. Slowly.” He pushed O’Brien’s hand away. “Take small puffs, but don't hot box it or you’ll cough worse.”

  O’Brien put the pipe to his lips wondering what hot box meant, but unwilling to share his ignorance, sucked in a small quantity of smoke. He held it in and handed the pipe to Garson. With as little skill as O’Brien, Garson choked at first, but after two tries, succeeded in keeping it in. Linda fared better. Before long, a faint smile glimmered to life and the dullness faded from her eyes.

  Three times Tammer refilled the bowl and passed it around. Giddy, O’Brien realized the debilitating symptoms had eased. The day’s traumatic events took on a dream like cast — the need to press on inconsequential. His vision had sharpened, as with all his senses, though his limbs felt heavy. He slumped deeper into the bales. Despite his growing lethargy, it was time to move out.

  “Garson. We’d better get started. I’ll join you in the cab. You drive.” O’Brien chuckled, embracing his euphoria.

  “Sure, Colonel.” Garson giggled and pressed his fingers to his lips, struggling to still an even greater one. Linda slapped his thigh, trying to suppress a giggle as well, but it blossomed into much more. Within moments, they were all laughing uproariously, except Doomes, who slept.

  With flushed faces, dilated eyes and insuppressible smiles, they eventually calmed themselves. Garson, still giggling, jumped awkwardly to the ground and staggered to the cab. O’Brien eased off the hauler and joined him.

  “Ready, Colonel?” Garson giggled.

  “No one will ever hear of this. Understand?” There was little O’Brien could do to keep them quiet on the matter, but despite his ebullience, he clearly knew this wasn’t the kind of thing a career officer wanted on his record.

  “Whatever you say, Colonel.” Garson grinned stupidly and pressed the initiator button. With a rush of compressed air, the starter engaged and a comfortable hum, overshadowing a low whine, invaded the cab. The halolamps glared
into the sullen darkness, illuminating a stretch of polyphalt swept nearly clean of debris. He eased the control wand forward and the cargo hauler lifted with a whoosh, made a wide U-turn and headed up the parking lot.

  They cleared the open area and wilderness closed in. The graytop lane twisted left, then right, up and down, or doubled back, winding deeper into the mountains. The hauler dipped and swayed passing over splintered tree trunks and large debris, but Garson held it to the yellow centerline. Neither man spoke, but Garson occasionally giggled, each time casting a sheepish look at O’Brien.

  Belly no longer tied in knots, O’Brien tried to suppress the mind-altering affect of the marijuana. The nature of their circumstance was of distant importance, an outing with friends. He felt good, but knew he needed to stay clear-headed, just in case.

  The digital gauges registered seven kilometers before they came to an official looking green plastic sign affixed to a chain link fence. Embossed on it were the capital letters ‘NAORC’ above an Air Force emblem. Garson steered the hauler through the open razor wire topped chain-link gate and a quarter kilometer farther, through another gate with a guard shack. A massive marble slab to one side announced their arrival at the National Aeronautic and Oceanographic Research Center. Farther on, they passed several civilian and military vehicles and cargo haulers, some parked in neat rows, others scattered about, doors or windows open, abandoned.

  Garson pressed on past low, polycrete buildings, a microwave tower and another gate. A few meters beyond lurked a wide, dark tunnel bored into the side of the mountain, its opening framed by monolithic polycrete columns. Another chain-link fence stretched into the darkness on either side.

  “This what we’re looking for, Colonel?”

  "Yes." O’Brien pursed his lips and studied the entrance. The gates should be closed, with uniformed guards and dogs posted, the tunnel brightly lit. “Take us in.”

  “Looks spooky.” Garson, brows knit, glanced sharply at O’Brien. His hand gripped the stick loosely. “You sure this is what you’re looking for?”

  “Yes...yes...I’m sure.”

  “Okay, Colonel, but I don't like it one bit.”

  “Objection noted.”

  Garson eased the wand forward and the hauler glided smoothly through the entrance. The hauler’s rectangular halo lamp beams illuminated barren walls and a string of ceiling mounted lamp shrouds at four-meter intervals.

  Despite the tetrahydracannibinol dulling O'Brien's mind, dread coursed through him. Where were the facility’s inhabitants? Was his small band the only human survivors on planet Earth? Did the fate of Mankind now rest on his shoulders? Would their quest prove fruitless?

  Chapter Twelve

  08:16 Hours July 17, 2386 - Earth

  “Rise and shine, buckos.”

  George felt the toe of Baider’s boot nudge his foot a second time. The last vestiges of a pleasant dream faded like chocolate drops melting on the tongue. He raised his head a notch and cracked an eye. Fire flared below his ribs and a small army of thorns march-stepped up his spine, bringing him crashing back to reality. He turned inward, concentrated on the pain. The spasm subsided and his ribs settled to a dull ache. He licked frost crusted lips and squinted at Baider reaching over him to gently shake Heather.

  She stirred, pressed her hand beneath her right arm, gasped, then bit her lip. Eyes squeezed shut she sat up.

  “Oh, guys. I hurt something awful.” She blinked several times, then turned her mournful gaze on George.

  Propped on one elbow, he offered her a warm, knowing smile. "Yeah, like a cargo hauler used you for a loading ramp, right?”

  "Uhhh..." she groaned.

  He retrieved his gloves from within the enviropad and peeled back the top sheet, instantly regretting his haste. Paralyzing cold sliced through him. Shivering so hard he could barley stand, he dropped his gloves and gathered up his makeshift pillow, jerked it on and cinched the hood tight. He stumbled into his frozen, mud caked boots and squatted to seal them. Gloves on, enviros to max, welcome heat flushed his skin.

  He glanced Heather's way as she roused, then chided himself for worrying. Slinker's resident babe had proven she was tough as any of them. Maybe tougher. Blowing that murderous thug Hanover away had stunned him. Taking that bullet in stride just hammered home the point. The weekly regimen of physical and psychological preparation had paid off. The marine biologist he hired could never have killed a man, even in self-defense. He stowed his enviropad, sealed his backpack and shuffled to the smoky, crackling blaze.

  Squatting across from George, Baider roasted leaden chunks of wild turkey on sticks scraped clean of bark.

  Heather wrinkled her nose. “That smells terrible.”

  “Reheated turkey always does.” Baider did not look up

  She moved close to the fire, laid down her folded enviropad and knelt on it. Hood thrown back, she shook out her tangled hair and combed through it left-handed. In a few strokes, her face grew pasty and she relented. Just as George taught her, she closed her eyes, breathed out and went limp. Color slowly returned.

  He was encouraged by her spunk. She would slow their pace, but they wouldn't have to carry her. He snugged the hood about her face and gave her an encouraging smile. She smiled back, but the sparkle was gone, sacrificed to this cruel and harsh reality. Helping her eased his backache and steadied his queasy belly, but the dull ache in his side grew more insistent. He settled into a lotus position, taking pressure off his wound. Sweat trickled down his sides. He lowered his thermals and chastised himself for not doing so sooner.

  A pine bough swished and snapped. George froze. From a copse spilling over the edge of a gulley close by, a twisted, ugly gray head appeared then slipped back into the web of vines. A wild turkey. He sighed and relaxed.

  Flashing a grin, Baider offered Heather a stick. She shook her head no. He frowned and pushed it at her again. Reluctantly she took it and nibbled off a strand, chewed thoughtfully, then chomped into the blackened hunk, tearing off a mouthful with unlady-like zeal. She devoured the meat, threw her stick on the fire and held out her hand for more.

  “Glad to see you haven’t lost your appetite." Baider grinned and handed her another. " Should have kept the stick.”

  “Sorry." She grimaced. "Why are we eating this stuff? Don't we have rations?”

  “I thought we should use the perishable stores first.” Baider handed a stick to George. “You ready?”

  “As disgusting as it smells, no, but my gut says otherwise.” George, belly growling, accepted what appeared to be a lumpy thigh, black as charcoal on one side. The meat was dry and tough, but hot and filling.

  Along with the fresh skewer, Baider handed them white polyfiber mugs. The aroma of fresh ground coffee spread, but George found the tepid, dark herbal concoction tasted more like dirty dishwater.

  Cup in one hand, skewer in the other, George ate slowly, savoring the wild taint. It brought back memories of fall dear hunts and turkey shoots in northern Michigan, before puberty and troubled playmates eclipsed his teen years. He closed his eyes and pictured a hearth-warmed pine cabin, rough plank tables laden with platters of the day’s kill, and wooden bowls heaped with sweet breads and honey-baked yams. Friends and relatives, gathered to celebrate life before the encroaching winter, toasted each other with beer and wine, or mugs of hot cocoa spiced with a dollop of pine whiskey. Even the children were afforded the rare luxury of a small glass of home brewed apple wine.

  But that was a long time ago, when he lead a life so different he often had trouble remembering when it had all changed. Suddenly angry and frustrated and more than a little homesick, George swallowed hard and tried to shrug it off. He thought of Lauren and the others waiting aboard Slinker, and his pessimism diminished. Whatever lay ahead demanded he believe the technocity they sought held the answers to their leap in time. At the very least, it offered a tangible goal.

  Beside the fire, Baider urged Heather to take the last bite, but she refused. She giggled at somet
hing Baider whispered. A damp stick burst, snuffing out the flames. He flicked a dying ember from her shoulder, then brushed himself off.

  "Our stuff doesn't burn, remember?" With a sidelong glance, she playfully tossed a handful of damp twigs on the glowing embers. Feeble flames leaped up to consume the new fuel.

  “You trying to provoke me?” Baider teased. He appeared well rested and uncharacteristically cheerful.

  "You're getting off on this aren't you?" Playfulness crinkled her eyes, but her words nonetheless held an edge as she drew on her gloves. She stifled a cry and paled. Sweat crystallized on her upper lip. "This rugged, kill or be killed world suits you, doesn't it?"

  Baider knelt beside her, took her hand in his and looked earnestly into her eyes. "Madam, I but long for your safety. Be assured you will reside once again amid the gracious accouterments you so richly deserve." He swept his hand before him and bowed. "And yes, except for the shooting part."

  It was good to hear her laugh, but George just wanted this nightmare over. Baider’s good-humor grated. Aware the twin demons, grief and pain, were behind his anger, George buried his irritation. He tossed his grease slimed skewer on the smoldering cinders and set his cup with the others. A fat snowflake landed on his outstretched arm and melted. With growing dismay, he looked up. A northeastern breeze stiffened. More large flakes tumbled through gaps in the forest canopy. "What next," he mumbled.

  "Huh?" Baider looked up from scrubbing the collapsible cups with a WipeFree.

  "Snow." George kicked apart the fire and helped Heather up.

  "Ought to be interesting."

  George reached for Heather's backpack, but Baider put a hand on his arm.

  “I’ll get hers. Your wounded.”

  George met Baider's enigmatic glance and acquiesced. Pain seared his side while he helped piggyback Heather’s bag on Baider's and settle them both on Baider's shoulders. Angrily, he squelched a curse and turned away to conceal his discomfort. The spasm passed.