THE HUMAN MEMOIRS by Greg Howell Part I I, a stranger and afraid In a world I never made -HOUSMAN Running feet pattered and clicked on worn flagstones, the sound echoing hollowly through the Library's cold stone corridors. Of course running in the Citadel was frowned upon, but at this hour the halls were practically deserted; the only ones around to witness such infractions were the rats and mice, and they couldn't care less. The cavernous oval floor of the foyer - packed with students during daylight hours - was as deserted as the rest of the Library. Beyond the antique leaded glass of the high ceiling dome, night-bound clouds scudded across the sky, seemingly just arm's length outside. He blinked up at fat raindrops blatting against the glass and shivered; the heating was turned down for the night, not that it ever made much of a difference in a room this size anyway. Somewhere in the library an old water clock chimed the hour, making him glance at his timepiece for confirmation. He grimaced. Rot it! Late enough already. In the dimness, terminals - a few with green characters flickering up their screen - stared glassily from their cubicles. Beyond the glass partitions, row upon row of ancient shelves stretched off into the shadowy vaults. The soundproofed viewing and study chambers were tucked away in a quiet corner behind a row of wood-paneled doors, one with the 'IN USE' plate glowing. He sighed and took a guess at exactly what she'd say, then opened the door. "You took your time!" He grinned. Close enough. Mas swung her feet off the edge of the desk, spun the chair around and glared up at him as the door hissed shut behind him. One finger was impatiently drumming a tattoo on the well-worn upholstered armrest. "So, did you bring it?" "Love you too," he retorted, flopping into the second chair. She glared at him. "All right! I got it," he waved the plastic case under her nose. "Why did you have to wait for the last minute anyway?" "I had other business," she growled. He'd heard that one before. "Sure. More important than your finishing grade?" "Yes." "Oh? What? Someone die?" She stared at him, then began to bristle. "None of your business!" "All right." He shrugged. "Sorry. Forget it. Anyway, you could have booked some of the libraries disks earlier in the year." "I didn't know they'd all be booked out. That festering video they showed; suddenly everyone wants the disks. Great timing," Mas scratched fingers against the wooden countertop, "Just in time for a thesis. Why on earth did they set THIS as the topic?!" "Come on. You know it's customary for every Academy graduate to do it." "Every year?" she asked with a wrinkle of her nose. "You'd think the 'Great Learned Ones' would be filled to the back teeth reading all those recycled essays. Most of the students just load a thesis saved a year ago and rewrite it. If you look through the files you'll see they all seem remarkably similar." "Those files're supposed to be locked!" "Huh!" she snorted. "You of all people should know the locks they use are a joke. There's no way they can keep a dedicated system wanderer out. If you know the right people and right software, you can get access to anything." "You wouldn't!" She just grinned at him. Perhaps she would. That was her style: all take and no give. He didn't know why he'd agreed to help her. A strange one she was: Only recently arrived at the Academy, perhaps not even from the east coast. Intelligent enough - in the Academy that went without saying - probably smarter than he was, but also incredibly aloof and arrogant. Nobody knew anything more about her other than that she kept herself separate from everyone else, never entering into relationships: a frigid bitch to all appearances. He'd never known anyone who had even claimed to have spent a night with her. He had never found her files in the admin system. She seemed to be a nobody, but nevertheless she held some kind of sway over the establishment, that was the only way they'd been able to bend the rules and get into the Library after hours. Her arrival at his dorm had come as a complete surprise and her request. . . no, her demand for help on this project had left him flustered and tongue-tied. Perhaps if he'd been thinking straight he wouldn't have agreed to help. It was his high academic achievements that'd caught her attention and he knew in his gut that when she'd squeezed him for all he was worth, she'd dump him. Somehow, he didn't care. Frigid she may be, but she was also undeniably attractive; any red-blooded male would gladly give a testicle for a chance to be shut in a cubicle with her. A shame she had a tendency to turn it into an experience akin to being shut in refrigerator. A real waste. He sighed. . . Oh well. "If you're going to do it that way, what do you need me for? I'll just let you get on with it." He began to stand but she kicked his feet out so he fell back into the chair. "Sit down! You're a walking encyclopedia when it comes to this kind of thing. And I know you get a rush out of doing it. Already got a career planned out, haven't you? What was it? Historics and Research?" "Uh. . . yes. How'd you know?" "Heard you in the canteen." "Oh." When had that been? He hadn't been to the canteen for. . . "I can't understand why you enjoy this kind of thing," she snorted. "We could be researching something practical, like matrix memory, or the space probes and parallel junction projects." "And where'd those come from?" He waved the disk. "Aren't you forgetting who actually suggested those ideas. We've just developed the capabilities to actually build them." "History!" she muttered. "Shackles of expectations!" "Huh?" "Nothing." She shook her head. "Just forget it." "Forget it? You like riddles?" "No. It's nothing. Just something my father once told me." "Your. . . " "Don't ask!" she snapped. "Now we've got work to do. That video: how accurate was it?" "Uh. . . " her sudden change of tact had thrown him. Her father, that was a fascinating slip. There was more there. . . but later. "I. . . It was fairly well done, but of course you could still tell they were costumes. And they 'cleaned it up' a little: rearranged parts to make it more interesting." He flipped the disk box in the air and caught it again. "This transcription is copied verbatim from the original translation. Well, as close as possible anyway. Everything's there." "Great," she muttered unenthusiastically. "Ah, well. What about the museum? You recommend it?" "Definitely! You haven't seen anything until you've seen them in the flesh, so to speak. Weird!" he chuckled, then added, "And you should look up their mating habits. That's got some interesting tidbits." Mas snorted, snatched the case and popped it open, checking the disk's label before dropping it into the drive. The screen flickered, the manufacturer's logo blinking across the top, then the disk's boot sectors took over and a menu appeared, icons arranged in neat rows. Mas selected one, pressed the puck's button and the drive light flickered for a second, then the high-resolution digitized graphic of an ancient, worn leather volume appeared on the screen along with title and dates. Beat his old system back home clear out of the running speedwise, and the graphics were so clear they seemed to jump out of the glass. Another few seconds then the screen cleared and the text of the translation began to scroll down the VDU. "Put it up on the big screen," he suggested, then after a few seconds added, "Who knows, you might even find this interesting." She bared teeth back at him and he smiled to himself. At the touch of a key, the featureless black wall above the monitor flickered, text appeared on it, the lights dimmed. Without another word the pair settled back in their chairs and began to read. THE HUMAN MEMOIRS This ain't no technological breakdown, this is the road to hell. . . Chris Rea's voice faded in a burst of white noise, then pulsed back to full strength again as the transistor radio swung like a electronic pendulum from the dash. The headlamps of the world-weary Deuce n' a Half illuminated the road ahead for fifty meters in the clear night air, the catseyes down the center glaring back at the truck as the lights swept over and past them. I squirmed on the uncomfortable seat, trying to work some feeling back into my numb tailbone. I think they cut cost in the earlier models: welding the axle directly to the chassis without bothering with suspension. "Will you stop squirming like that!" Tenny Dalton shifted gear and glared at me, his face turned into a cragged monstrosity by the faint green glow of the dash. The stub of cigar jutting from his mouth glowed like a malevolent LED. "You got a rash or something?" "Not yet," I groaned and stretched melodramatically, "but it's only a matter of time. Where are we anyway?" "How should I know? You've got the map." "You don't NEED a map!" I protested, then rubbed my eyes and picked up the flashlight from the dash, illuminating my watch. "Shit. We should have caught up with them an hour ago." "Hey! I've been going where you tell me. You sure it's the right damned road?" I leaned back and flashed the battered old angelhead at the map strapped to the dash. "Uh, what's this road?" "Ah. . . last sign was US29 to Charlottesville." "Uh-huh." I squinted at the map. "Uh. . .Yeah, that's what I've got here. How long ago was that? Half an hour?" "'Bout that." "Well, next stop's. . . " I peered at the confusion of lines, "Lynchburg. . . I think. That's not too far now. Might catch up there." "Shit. Better hope we do," Tenny growled. "Can't you imagine it? Trundling into camp two hours after the others. A truckload of live ammo rolling around the countryside unescorted, SOP out the window. . . Shit, Jefferson'd have a field day." He slapped the wheel in disgust, then reached over to fiddle with the radio as it faded out again. "What the fuck's wrong with this thing?" "You put fresh batteries in it? Try another station. If the coil hadn't died on us back there there. . . " "Oh, yeah. Whose fault was that? You're the mechanical whizkid. You were supposed to overhaul it in the pool. 'Sure,' you said, 'get right on it' you said." He clamped down on the cigar again; the tip glowed furiously as he puffed away on the reeking thing. "And get your feet down." "I did the coil," I snorted, dropped my feet and made a show of dusting off the scratched metal. "It'd take me years to fix everything on this heap." "Heap?" He actually sounded outraged. "Don't criticise a classic piece of machinery. "He patted the worn steering wheel affectionately. "She don't like that kind of abuse, do ya girl?" "Talking to a truck. . . "I shook my head despairingly. "Have you ever thought about professional help? Or at least a long, long vacation?" He laughed and took his right hand off the wheel to flick me the finger. "You're going to eat them words," he grinned. "It's a good truck. I like the way it handles." I stuck my feet up on the dash again, unintimidated. "You're only saying that cause you keep drawing the short straw. It handles like a four ton lump of shit. I mean, hell, even SLEP didn't want anything to do with it." "Really?" he asked lightly and the truck lurched over to the right. I glanced over at him, "You trying to prove. . . OHSHIT!!" I yelled and grabbed for the dash as a car's lights glared from around a corner, the driver hit his horn and Tenny held it to the last second. Tires screamed as the truck lurched back to the left side of the road and a seconds later the vehicle itself flashed past us. "Jesus Christ!" "Might have been," Tenny said with a glance in the mirror. "I didn't see." I shook my head.Join the Army; See interesting places; Meet interesting people. It's a man's life. . . And then there's the Quartermasters Corps. It's a living. It pays more than regular army, and I was scraping for every cent I could. These days college really costs. One of the rules engraved in the rank and files' unofficial handbook is 'never volunteer'. Okay. That's no problem. You don't have to volunteer: they do it for you. You can wake up one morning and find you've pulled a duty riding shotgun on a fifty year old truck on a run from Fort Delvoir out of DC down to Fort Jackson with a couple of tons of outdated military hardware on the bed. And then to cap it all was the driver. . . Tenny Dalton: PFC, old friend. Oh, he could drive all right. In fact the way he handled a truck was downright uncanny, as were some of the other things he did. Everything he did he accomplished well and with a slight air of indifference, as though he really wasn't trying. This applied whether he was overhauling an engine or coming on to one of the noble Ladies in a dive in Jacksonville. Still, they weren't as annoying as his insistence on smoking: cigars of all things. I coughed and tried to fan a streamer of smoke aside. Useless to ask him to chuck it; he'd sooner amputate his right hand. I don't know where the hell he got them from, but he only smoked Havanahs. I just wound the window down a bit further and let cold air whip around my face. When the local FM station vanished completely into the sea of static, Tenny spent only a few seconds fiddling with the dial, then snapped it off. The engine growled and the transmission grated, then settled down again as the truck started up a grade. The shadows of the trees along the roadside blurred past in the darkness and occasionally the bluish-white smear of the cloud-covered moon was visible through the black crests of trees and mounatins. With nothing to see or say, I yawned, then settled back to doze. Well, I meant to doze. Not my fault I dropped off completely. A slap on my shoulder snapped me out of my slumber. "Davies. HEY! Davies!" I yawned, shook my head and roled my shoulders. Damn kink in my neck . "Huh? Wassup?" There was no sign of civilisation outside. Just trees, darkness, trees, and more darkness. "Where are we?" "Somewhere near Roanoke." He was leaning forward, trying to watch the sky. "Oh. . . WHAT?" I grabbed for the map. "Damnation! You decide to take the scenic route did you?" How the hell did I sleep through that? "Why didn't you wake me?" That wasn't a rhetorical question, but he still didn't answer. "Hey! The power was out when we went through Lynchburg. Lights and everything. I took the wrong turnoff. . . Look, there's something weird going on. Check the sky and tell me if you see anything." "Huh? The martians coming?" "Goddammit! Will you look!" What the hell was he on about? I shrugged and wound down the window. "Oh, wow man!" "You see it?" he urged, just about smearing his face across the dusty windshield in his efforts to see upwards. "There's nothing there," I told him. "You were perhaps expecting the Hindenburg? You should check those cigars: anything besides tobacco in there?" I grinned and looked up in time to see a bolt of white-blue lighting arc across the sky. Less than a second later the horizon ahead flashed with a white glare that died just as fast. "Holy shit!" "You see that?" Tenny yelled, his voice too loud in the cab. "You see it?!" "Yeah. Weirdest lightning I ever saw. . . There's another!" "And another!" The bolts had all originated at different places in the sky, but they all seemed to finish at the same spot, out of sight down the road. The sky just over the hill was pulsing like a gigantic strobelight. I stared as more pulses of blue- white light snapped across the night sky. The clouds had cleared, the stars bright. "No clouds," I muttered. Tenny glanced at me, then fixed his attention on the road again. His fingers flexed on the wheel. "Yeah, I noticed. . . What the fuck is it?" "Ball lightning?" "Say what?" "Fireballs. A kind of lightning. . . maybe." I leaned out of the side window, peering ahead. "I can't see anything, I. . . SHIT!" I cursed and ducked as the air above my head was ionized. That time the bolt came from behind us,'bout ten meters above the road and going straight ahead, it disappeared into the darkness ahead. A couple of seconds later, the sharp crack of its passage hit. Tenny hadn't even noticed the near miss, he was staring at something else. SOMETHING was forming in the air ahead. . . no, all around us. No real shape to it, a whirlpool of the deepest blue hanging in the air, like one of those laser light shows. Jagged bolts of cyan and electric blue lighting materialized out of thin air and shot into the vortice, highlighting it and the surrounding landscape in strobing flashes of surreal color. We were heading right for the hub of the thing. The hood of the truck blazed with dazzling corona discharges and St. Elmo's fire coruscated around the headlamps and other metal fixtures. The radio blared to life with a scream of static as electrical sparks flared on the antenna. "STOP!!" I screamed. There was a continuous almost sub-sonic rumble from the mega-high voltage plasma sculpture building in front of us. He snarled something back. Bitten in half, the glowing stub of the cigar dropped into the foot well. He had already floored the brake and clutch. Nothing. He jammed the transmission into reverse: A spectacular shower of sparks gouted from the back wheels and tortured metal under the truck screamed, but we kept going. I grabbed for the dash and yelped as fat blue sparks kicked me back. Whatever it was, we hit it at seventy five. . . And kept going, right through it. Hit something with an impact that almost broke my neck, the front of the truck leaving the ground, superstructure protesting while the engine noise went off into an earsplitting whine. There was a retort that could only be an axle breaking, then the headlights illuminated flashing glimpses of grass, stones, and trees. Pounding and crashing as the crates in the back broke loose. I was thrown against Tenny, then against the door as the truck fishtailed, threatening to roll, then the door broke open and everything was still for long seconds then a giant backhanded me and everything spun, rolling and bouncing against bushes and rocks. Stunned, I didn't have time to do anything but lie there gasping for air as the back of the truck slewed past, just missing my head. It flipped, again and again, rolling and skidding along on its side, sparks flying, canvass flapping and cargo crates tumbling end over end, metal screaming, then something caught and it became a fireball slamming into rocks where it stuck, burning with a vengeance. "Tenny?" The explosion ripped the night apart as cargo cooked off, more fireballs bursting to life. There was a sound like machinegun fire. Thousands of tiny trails of smoke arced and corkscrewed high into the air and fell back to earth as smoking and glowing debris was hurled away from the mass of flames. Tracers whined overhead like mad skyrockets. "TENNY!" I lurched to my feet, then promptly keeled over again. ***** Warmth on my face woke me. I opened my eyes, then closed them nearly immediately, groaning at the morning sun dazzling me. I rolled over onto my hands and knees. The movement startled a family of deer on the edge of the forest. With graceful precision they melted into the trees. I stared after them, then remembered. The road. . . the lightning. . . the crash. . . Tenny. It hadn't been a nightmare. Smoke was still curling up from the wreckage of the truck. Blackened and twisted debris was scattered far and wide over across the gentle slope, like driftwood on a beach. The shattered skeleton was still ticking and pinging as I picked my way around warped pieces of metal, olive crates with blistered paint and contents data stencilled on the sides, small craters gouged in the earth by ordinance cooking off. Gobs of melted lead and objects that were just identifiable as fragments of shell-casings littered the ground. Actually it was surprising that there was this much left of the vehicle. If so much of the cargo hadn't been thrown clear as the bed broke up, the truck would probably have been reduced to pieces too small to find. Now there was just a framework, the cab scored black with carbon, crumpled like an accordion and tipped to one side. The door on the drivers side was still closed, jammed into place and facing the sky. Where the windshield had been was a hole framed by shards of glass: a mouth with jagged black teeth grinning at me. Behind it. . . Tenny hadn't gotten out. I turned away and vomited, hard and violently; heaving until I gagged on bile, felt it running from my nose.Help. Where was help? Surely someone had seen the fire! The road. . . there were cars, trucks. . . I coughed on smoke and puke then ran for the road. A few paces into the forest I stumbled to a halt, leaning against the slender bole of a pine. The road! Where was the fuck was the freeway?! A road isn't something that wanders off by itself. People don't steal them. Still, it wasn't there. For fruitless hours I searched for it; wandering around in circles, climbing hills and trees. All around me, as far as I could see to the east: trees, trees, and trees, finally fading into the horizon. Westwards were The Smokies, seemingly unchanged in the brilliant afternoon sun. There was no, repeat no, road. Numb, not understanding I returned to the clearing to wait.Something else I noticed. The scars the truck had torn into the grass: They ran about forty meters from the wreck before stopping. In the middle of a gently sloping grade, covered with summer-gold grass, the tracks just. . . stopped. ****** The night was chill. I curled up close to the small fire, lying there with my eyes open, watching the flames. Strange to be almost killed by fire, to have friend die by flame, then use fire to keep me alive. I shuddered, then closed my eyes and tried not to dream. Something that night woke me. There was movement on the periphery of the light cast from the dying campfire. Shadows, like circling sharks orbiting just beyond the terminator. Many eyes glowed dull red, feet brushed against grass and pine needles. A low rumbling hung in the air. I rolled to my feet, reaching for a knife that wasn't there. Out of the darkness, like a ghost from the shadows, a grey wolf materialized, head low and growling. "Uh, sit boy," I said. It snarled. I yelled as it lunged toward me, teeth bared. It hit me low, tumbling me backwards. I caught handfuls of fur and kicked, sent the animal flying over my head. Sparks exploded into the night and a terrified howling cut the air as the wolf landed in the fire. Coat blazing, it scrambled to its feet and fled. I could see it running across the field like a flare, its fur burning brighter and streaming sparks. There were still more of them out there. I took up a hefty branch, only just smouldering, and fanned it in the air until the glowing end burst into flame. Another wolf lunged towards me and I jammed the brand into its mouth. It yelped and turned tail and ran as fire lapped from its mouth, catching on its facial fur. Waving the burning branch, I yelled and charged the remaining wolves. They retreated before me, but stopped when I stopped. I turned in time to jab another attacking creature in the eye. It leapt backwards and rolled on the ground, yelping in agony, then bolted blindly for the trees. Now they'd had enough. The pack melted away into the night, in search of easier prey. I stood there panting hard. Wolves?! In Virginia! Attacking a human! This was beyond bizarre. For the rest of the night I didn't sleep. Instead sitting by the fire, snapping awake with my heart pounding whenever I began nodding off. ******* I used the piece of spring steel to prise the lid off another case from which the stencilled lettering had been obliterated by heat. The top came off with a screech of nails, revealing neatly stacked rows of olive green 81mm mortar shells. Thank god they still had their handling caps on. If they'd cooked off in the crash, I wouldn't be writing this. In another case I found the fuzes for the shells. Impact fuzes. Another box yielded grenades. Another a trio of M-60 GPMGs, one with its bipod twisted and carry handle snapped off. Three 81mm mortar tubes survived intact, along with five of the Stokes-Brandt bases. Hell, those thing were practically indestructible. Case after case I went through. We'd been hauling a miscellaneous shipment, surplus and outdated equipment, everything from ammunition and weapons to socks to the old cans of C-rations. While some stuff'd been turned to charcoal briquettes, a surprising amount had survived intact. I sorted through the mess of crates and boxes, gathered together some bits and pieces to keep me alive and kicking if I had to walk out of here: food concentrates, canteen, pack, knife, and a few other odds and ends. However the object I had really been seeking I finally found lying under a bush: a case with the legend M- 16A1 GI867503 PROPERTY OF US ARMY stencilled in black on olive green. I tore the box open and hefted one of the black weapons. Inspection revealed no firing pins in the rifle. I had to crack open a case of spares for those. And for the ammunition. . . I knew for a fact that we'd had twenty ammo cases with one thousand twenty four rounds each of the old 5.56 ammunition, about five of the standard IMR NATO 5.56 rounds, another twenty of 7.62mm, and fifteen 12.7mm listed on the inventory. I found twelve metal cases of the smaller caliber rifle ammunition and four catering to the heavier 7.62 GPMG rounds. Although I also found five containers of 12.7mm ammo, they were useless. Even if I did have a weapon of that caliber, I wouldn't be carrying it around with me. However it might have been useful in case I came up against - say - a hostile tank. Not that likely in Virginia. I overloaded on ammo: three hundred and sixty rounds of Armalite ammo, enough to fill twelve thirty round magazines. I scrounged six clips and filled those, the excess rounds I loaded into canvas belt pouches. Obsolete hardware. Surplus. Scorched and dented, but more than enough had come through to ensure that if those crazy canines came back I didn't have to worry about being turned into dog food. So, from the remains of the truck I came away with an M-16 with an Armalon optical sight and three hundred and sixty rounds of 5.56mm ammunition. A silver-anodized survival blanket sealed in its packet, the small anglehead flashlight that'd also survived intact, one canteen, a couple of C-Rations packs, a pizo-electric cigarette lighter (almost full), a digital Casio watch, a small notebook and ballpoint pen. The small medical kit contained antiseptics, antibiotics, a vial and styrettes of morphine, old fashioned gauze bandages, surgical suture and needles, three syringes(Disposable). The small tool kit for the M-16 yielded a set of allen wrenches, a couple of small screwdrivers, some three-in-one oil, and some spare screws, nuts, and firing pins. My sheath knife had the standard Bowie blade with a hollow pommel concealing a spool of approximately ten meters of single-strand nylon fishing line, five hooks, and five needles and thread. A gimbaled compass was built into the pommel. My pack was a canvass job; singed, acceptably waterproof and very tough. My helmet was my own, one of the new kevlar coalscuttle jobs. I'd found it near the ruined cab: slightly scorched, but otherwise fine. For clothing I had what I was wearing on my back as well as a lifetimes supply of oversized shirts and socks. Didn't bother me too much. It wouldn't take me that long to find a house or gas station; somewhere I could use a phone or stop a car. I'd survived basic training so I could live off the land if need be. This wouldn't be too much different. That out of the way I took another two hours to collect the dangerous hardware together and hide it a short distance away in the trees. The branches I cut to cover the pile would die and turn brown eventually, a dead giveaway, but it would keep until someone came for it. Leaving it lying around for some redneck or hillbilly to stumble across wasn't a fantastic idea. Then there was time for a parting look at the blackened mass of twisted metal that was Tenny's impromptu coffin. That one look into the cab had been one look too many. It was hard to believe that what I had seen had once been a good friend. I swallowed hard. "I'll be back," I choked. "Promise. Get you a decent burial." A final informal salute, then I slung my pack over my shoulder, plonked the helmet on my head, and set off eastwards. I looked back several times, until the wreck was hidden by trees. As the day went on I grew more and more disquieted. There was no way that I could have walked that long without seeing SOME sign of man. But I had. It was creepy. I didn't sleep well that night. Several times I awoke abruptly, heart beating a tattoo on my breastbone as I strained to hear something that was no longer there. Something seemed very wrong, but I couldn't place it. I laid back and tried to pinpoint it until I slept again. Next day I started east again. Damnation! I was in the middle of some of the most populated land in the U. S. : there was no way that I could walk for any distance without coming across some sign of civilization: a house, a road, a gas station, even a plane. . . anything. At this rate my next stop would be the Atlantic ocean. I saw more animals: raccoons and red squirrels chittered at me, deer that placidly watched as I passed by. I heard the deep belling of a moose or elk. This far south?! Nothing was right. Was I in the middle of a wildlife park? How? Later that day I did come across a road running north-south. Well. . . not exactly a road, more of a track. Maybe a trail used by rangers. It did seem well used, but the tracks were weird: much too narrow to be car or truck. Perhaps bicycle or trailbike tracks. I shrugged, then decided which way to go. North or south. "Eenie, menie, minie, moe. . . ." South I went. ****** The twin tracks of packed earth in the grass rose over an exposed and eroded crest then slowly turned and dipped into a broad, shallow valley. Lush greenery - huge trees of every description - cloaked the length and breadth of the valley floor while fields of wind-blown grasses grew along the gentle slopes : turning golden from the summer sun that also coaxed heat-shimmers from the ground. And the track simply dipped down to follow the valley, two faint ruts through the long grass before it vanished from sight in the treeline below. Sweating in the midday heat and humidity, my shirt stripped away and used as padding between the straps of the backpack and my chafed collarbone, I shaded my eyes with the blade of my hand and looked around. I was starting to feel desperate. . . and scared! It was impossible, utterly impossible that I could have walked for so long and yet have seen absolutely nobody. Still there was nothing. Not a building or vehicle anywhere. I sighed, spat phlegm, hitched the pack up and started down into the valley. It was like something out of the fucking Twilight Zone: There had to be somebody somewhere! The steady tramp, tramp of my boots was a continuous, monotonous, mindless rhythm that went on and on. Each footstep raised a small cloud of dusty ochre Virginia clay, turning the olive drab of my fatigues a rusty red. At least nearer the river it was cooler, the more luxurious flora offering some shade. Shadows began to stretch out again as noon passed and the afternoon crawled across the countryside. High overhead a hawk circled and hovered before diving upon some unsuspecting rodent. I sighed a deep breath, wiped sweat from my forehead then threw the pack and rifle aside and sprawled out in the grass on the verge. For a few seconds I considered taking my boots off, then thought better of it: I'd never be able to get them on again. The water in the canteen was warm - almost hot - but it was wet. I took a mouthful, swilled it around,then spat out a mixture of water and the grit that I'd accumulated. I raised the canteen again and this time took a deep draught. And froze with the bottle against my lips, water spilling down my chin. The faint sound of metal grating on metal. I lowered the canteen and listened hard.Wind rustled leaves and birdsong was bantered back and forth through the trees. Then it came again; slowly growing louder, more distinct, closer. A faint creaking and the unmistakable rumble of wheels being tested to destruction on the pathetic excuse for a road. It was coming from behind me; back the way I had come. "Alright!" I whooped, then my grin faded: there was no engine sound. No matter. I fumbled the camp back on the canteen and and grabbed my equipment. Tipping my helmet back on my head I stood to wait for them. The day no longer seeming so stifling, a cooling breeze seemed to have sprung up from somewhere. There were a few questions I wanted to ask whoever this was. One that came to mind was: where the hell was I? a private estate of some kind? Abruptly they rounded the corner, shafts of sunlight shining through the canopy above illuminating patches of dust as the breeze wafted it away from wagon wheels and the llamas' hooves. Llamas?! I stumbled to a halt and just stared stupidly as they clattered to an abrupt standstill, bleating and tossing their heads. I stared at them, then at the riders. Is this a joke?! The llamas skittered impatiently and moved forward and I saw it was for real. I bolted. Branches and leaves tore at my face and arms and roots tried to steal my feet from under me as I stumbled and careened blindly through the foliage with yowling cries sounding behind me. Then there was an embankment rising before me: A near-vertical face of dark, crumbling earth, carpeted with multi-fronded ferns and held together by a labyrinth of tree roots. I hardly slowed as I clawed my way to the top, to fall flat on my face and scramble around to see if they'd followed. The road was just visible through the boughs, trunks, and foliage; less than thirty meters away. I wiped sweat from my eyes, liberally smearing myself with dirt at the same time, and saw the riders staring back, gesticulating wildly amongst themselves, pointing towards me. "Oh Christohchristohchrist. . . " I was babbling to myself as I leaned back against a moss-covered boulder, out of sight for the moment. When I looked again, they were still there. One of them had dismounted and come a few paces into the trees. I grabbed for the rifle and snapped the bolt back, safety off, but held my fire. Eyes the green of molten emerald held my disbelieving stare and I shivered at the chill that ran up and down my spine on spider's feet. For an eternity the tableau held; that thing staring at me, our eyes locked. It can't be. . . And I jumped backwards when the creature turned and barked at the others then it caught its llama's reigns and swung back into the saddle, waving the others on past. They left quickly, the single wagon gathering speed and rumbling off after them. For a few moments the single remaining creature on its llama did nothing but watch me, then the furred muzzle wrinkled and sharp teeth grinned at me. My finger tightened on the trigger, but the rider had reigned its llama about and was hurrying to catch the others. The sounds of their passage faded into the distance. Several minutes later, my heart pounding, I climbed back down to the road. There wasn't a sound, not a sign of the creatures. I stepped into one of the dusty ruts with the rifle at the ready. But there were the hoof marks, llama droppings, and thin hard lines like bike tracks gouged into the clay by iron-bound wheels. Perhaps I should have gone the other way. Perhaps it would have been for the better, but hindsight tells me that my fate would almost certainly have been a grisly death. . . or worse. I have spent my time in a cage and do not relish the thought of living my life out in one. "WHAT'S HAPPENING TO ME?!" My scream to the heavens echoed through the trees and hills, scaring birds, but eliciting no other answer. What WAS going on? I couldn't explain it and my brain was threatening to curl up and play peek-a-boo from some remote corner of my cranium. I wanted to head for the hills, anywhere. But then you'll never know what happened. I don't WANT to know! Yes, you do. . . Chalk one up for human curiosity. I followed them. ****** The river - a broad, shallow stream actually - followed its meandering path through the valley an oversized ice cube had gouged millennia ago as it inched its way down from the polar icecaps, then retreated again. Along its banks, the trees cast their branches out over the water to form a leafy corridor that didn't quite meet in the middle. Pines: loblolly pines, longleaf pines, slash pines, overcup oaks. . . My knowledge of botany gave out on me. A cormorant - surprised while drying its wings - took to the air as I approached. It dropped off its perch, skimmed the water and climbed away from the stream that ontinued burbling along its way. The road itself twisted and contorted as much as the river as it dodged through and around clusters of trees and boulders: indigenous and erratics. At times it ran along the river bank, while at others it had climbed halfway back up the side of the valley: always following the easiest route. I followed the track, always keeping an eye peeled on forest around me. The afternoon was beginning to cool off, the shadows growing longer and deeper when I heard the sounds coming from down the road: ringing of metal on metal through the trees. Animal cries and howls wailed through the valley. What the hell?! My heart started to pound as I took my rifle into my hands and cocked it. Keeping to the side of the track I moved forward, carefully, like I was walking on glass. Every damn broken twig sounded like a gunshot, but with the noise from ahead, there was no way anything could have heard me. Then I rounded a tree and saw them, There was a ford here where the track crossed the river. The wagon sat in the middle, tipped crazily to one side, one of the front wheels almost completely sunken beneath the waterline. The driver was a bundle of cloth and limbs lying face down in the water, the current gently butting the corpse against a rock and wafting a trail of red blood away downstream. More corpses lay in the shallow current, some still kicking their life away, turning the water to a pinkish froth. There were others still fighting. They had to be soldiers of a sort, those creatures from the caravan. Wearing stained and battered leather armour, trimmed with blue and silver designs that despite the dirt were still recognisable as a uniform of a kind. They waded knee-deep in the water fighting wildly against others garbed in a hodge-podge assortment of armour. And they were losing. Hampered by the water and the treacherous footing, they didn't stand a chance against their opposition safely entrenched along the banks. Swords whirled and gleamed and grew red, another yowling scream rang out and another of the soldiers fell. Now only four of them left against at least ten assailants. A couple of the soldiers may have made it out as together they overcame an opponent on the riverbank, then they both twisted and went over backwards, falling with stubby feathered shafts embedded in their necks and chests. I ducked as more bandits stalked into view between the trees on my side of the river. Just twenty meters away, their backs to me as they recocked their crossbows. Why were they bothering to get their feet wet assaulting the wagon? They could've just shot them all from a distance. I sank a little lower behind the tree. The last soldier was crouched low and slowly turning to face its opponents as they circled, slowly closing in. Backed up against the wagon there was nowhere for it to run, it had no chance, but it still clutched its sword. I began to move out, leaving the cover of the tree to retreat back down the track. The last thing I wanted here was to be involved in a firefight with. . . with whatever they were. I was out of my league. I didn't know what kind of shit I was in, but whatever it was, I was in it over my head. Two loud cries came at the same time: one a truncated yowl as that last soldier fell, and the other from the archer who spotted me. "Ohshit!" I ducked automatically and a hastily aimed quarrel fired from the hip bisected the space I had occupied a split second earlier. Shit! I ducked behind a pine trunk and there was a sharp Thwok! as a stubby bolt sprouted from the wood near my head. Red feathers, I thought as I stared idiotically at the arrow, spun around wideeyed to see bows being aimed again and started running as another blur hissed past my ear, then a hollow sound and someone hit my pack with a baseball bat and I stumbled, then dove for cover, headlong into the bracken and undergrowth. Ferns and bushes crackled around me as I scrambled on all fours while more quarrels rattled into the thicket over and around me. A fallen log offered some solid protection and I took it, diving over it and hugging the ground. There were no more quarrels. Reloading? Gasping air as quietly as possible, I struggled out of my pack, wincing as leaves and branches rustled. Red feathers were protruding a few centimeters from the canvass. If it hadn't hit something solid, I doubted my backbone would have stopped it. Bastards. Where were they? What were they doing? I listened, hearing wind in the treetops, water burbling, and a faint growling and the crackling of bracken. Again, shit! I risked a peek, then hugged the dirt again, mud and slimy leaves rubbing against me. They were coming after me! Not many options. . . I charged the rifle, checking for a flash of bronze in the breach to make sure a round was seated then gripped the rifle, flexing my fingers against chill metal and feeling the checkered grips grow slippery with sweat. Three of them, with swords, taking it slow. The archers didn't have a good angle on me. Just three of them, a few meters apart. I took a breath, clicked the safety off and swung the M-16 up and over, not aiming, squeezing the trigger, the rifle kicking like a jackhammer in my hands, plants jigging wildly in the muzzle blast. Not three - four of them, one down, the others staring, now starting to react, screaming, skidding and spinning to the dirt as the bursts of slugs buzzsawed into them. First rounds were low and wild, kicking their feet out from under them. I compensated and hit torsos, heads, splintering bone and shredding flesh. They fell, two howling and threshing. Over the log, dodging and firing at the others. They'd frozen, some standing in the middle of the stream, on the wagon, on the far bank, staring wildly. The archers tried to fire, their shots going wide as I hit the deck again and sprayed them with a wild burst. The first one's head split open like an overripe melon and the corpse crumpled like a deflating balloon; Small, red roses sprouted on the others' torsos and they died slower. NOW the others were turning, running. I was on my feet again, staying low as I ran and dodged for the cover of rocks and trees by the stream. One of the creatures I'd first hit was rolling and thrashing in the bracken. I shot it in the head on the way past and it bucked once then was still. A bolt from a crossbow struck glittering sparks from a rock near my head. "Fuck you!" I screamed, firing back, emptying my weapon into the fleeing figures: mowing several down like scythed wheat. When the bolt clicked on an empty chamber I automatically buttoned out the magazine, plucked a fresh one from my belt, and rammed it into the well. I emptied half the magazine at shadows running into the trees, kicking dust and wood chips from the trees, sending rounds ricocheting. I don't think I actually hit any of the bastards. They were fast! Then they were gone. Ten seconds perhaps. Heart still pounding I looked around, clutching the rifle like it was the only solid thing in the world. In the trees, a couple of birds ventured hesitant calls while the stream continued enthusiastically on its way. There was the slow drip drip as the blood from a corpse on the river bank ran down a rock, beaded on the edge as if gathering its courage before dropping into the swirling water. The wagon rocked as the beasts pulling it - bison, I noticed with dull surprise - tugged at their harnesses. The corpses weren't neat, with chunks of meat the size of baseballs ripped out of them. Blood. . . it was red. Red and glistening like wet paint. A cloying, fecund smell hung heavy in the air: the flatulence of death. A coughing, moaning sound from the water. One of the creatures - one of the ones in blue armour - struggled weakly on all fours half in, half out of the water, blood from a gaping slash in its side swirling away with the current. It was dragging itself out of the stream by its hands, kneeling coughing and retching in the mud of the ford. When my shadow fell across it, it stiffened, raised its head to see my boots, then shuddered and collapsed on its side with a grunt: eyes closed, one outstretched hand curled half-shut, chest heaving while blood mingled with the mud. I was standing above a creature that could never be, my rifle levelled at it and staring in mute shock while my credulity took a beating. Putting it bluntly, it was a cat. End of Sample