Science Fiction Friday (T minus 3) -- Chapter 4

Read Chapter 1 Here

Read Chapter 2 Here

Read Chapter 3 Here


With the Mystery Tramp

Limbs were all around me. I was shoved back toward the centerline of the massive tree. A large branch scraped the side of my head and neck. The mass and momentum of the falling giant snapped that branch near the trunk which, for an instant, threatened to crush me. Then the tree rolled a little to the right pulling me with it so that I was lying nearly flat on my back. My left shoulder and side were propped against the trunk with my left leg tangled in some branches and my right leg doubled back and pinned against the ground. When everything settled — and it took some time, I breathed a sigh of relief that I hadn't been broken up — as best I could tell, or killed, which I was fairly sure of. I began the attempt to untangle myself as rain started pouring down in a relentless deluge.

The first thing was to get my head out from under the big limb that rested on my throat. That was also the last thing. There was not enough room between the trunk and the splintered but still attached branch for my head to pass through. When the limb snapped it had gone around me. It, along with others driven against the ground, had acted as springs under the main weight, their ends now turned beneath the trunk, compressed and immobilized. I was closely snared by a noose of thick, green wood. I panicked. I fought against the strength of gravity and solid wood until I was completely exhausted. It was futile. There was no release, no way out. I cursed. I tore the nails off my fingers trying to claw my way free. I scraped my neck, jaw, and shoulders raw. Finally with a wail of utter, hopeless anguish, I gave up.

The merciless rain beat upon me. The cold tortured my shivering frame. I was destroyed. I was helpless. And I was alone. When I had arrived on Cotter I thought I had hit rock bottom. Now I knew there was a lightless depth of existence beyond even the harshest life, a nightmare of consciousness with no relief in awakening. By the time the storm ended and dawn broke, I was delirious from exhaustion, starvation, and hypothermia. Having screamed until my voice was broken, there was nothing to do but wait and die.

I came around with a brilliant light in my face. I thought it was a train bearing down, and I tried to leap aside only to be painfully reminded of my plight. I recognized the light as the sun directly above me. That's when I noticed the water. The rains had fallen, long and heavy, in the hills. All the little streams and washes that fed the river were pouring in their excess. The water was rising. My back was already wet, and, moment by moment, the icy flow rose higher. It was so absurd that I laughed, though my abused vocal cords gave little sound. I who had lived as though the whole universe existed for me was about to be snuffed out with no more thought or concern than I gave in crushing a spider. I thought of my mother. For the first time in many months, I thought of my abandoned wife and children. In a way, it seemed almost fair for me to go out into the black by myself. Whether I deserved it, I couldn't say, but I knew I had earned it.

The water was washing over my chest. I could still breath only because the tree held me just off the ground with my head slightly higher than the rest of me. I tried to twist around a little. My face was submerged. There was no point in fighting it any more. I wanted to open my mouth, inhale, and finish it. Yet a voice rang in my head, stirred me. Something told to try one more time, one last effort — not desperate but resigned. My right leg, though numb, tried to straightened in unfeeling obedience. I had no strength left, yet I gave a little push. Something gave way. Wood creaked. My head slipped almost effortless from the trap. I broke through the surface amid a tangle of branches. Too weak to stand, I crawled through the water to dry ground and collapsed on the sun-warmed pebbles. It was the funniest thing that had ever happened, but, too weak to laugh, I passed out.

It was the bear ripping my flesh that woke me up the next time. At first I thought it was a dream then my eyes opened to a huge, horrible mass of brown hair, nasty teeth, an incoherent growl and an overpowering stench. I tried to scream. I struggled to get up. I aimed a feeble, ineffectual kick in the beast's direction. It had already eaten off my hands and arms. It kicked me in the ribs and somehow yanked me up on my knees.

The growling resolved into words. "Don' gib me no troub'. I split yo' damn' 'ead. Yo' 'bout as much use dead as 'live. All I need yo'un scen' t'cub m' bat'trail. Foo' dat damn' dawg."

While it didn't make much more sense than an animal growling, this was clearly a human of some kind. He had bound my hands with a flat strap. He pulled me forward. I managed to stand and take a step or two before I stumbled and slammed against the ground. My captor continued moving forward, dragging me with seemingly little effort. I pulled against my bonds and managed to get up again only to fall back down after ten or fifteen paces, and the process was repeated until I could no longer gain my feet. It seemed to go on forever, but I was only dragged three or four hundred meters, upriver, around a bend, and out of sight of the crossing.

Not being dragged over the rough ground was a relief. That I still lived was unbelievable. I just wanted to sleep. Yet in my barely functioning brain there rattled an alarm, something I had to do. I raised my head and looked at the man. "What'd'ya want?" I croaked.

"Fo' yo' be quie'. Don' spook dat dawg. I ki'ya." He pulled a knife and pressed it against my throat. "Mak'a soun' an' die." He was whispering. Almost to himself he muttered, "Ou'a go 'head t'may' sho'." He snickered. "But 'e might be good fo' sumpin' lata'."

"The red dog?"

The point of the knife sliced through my cheek, clinked against my teeth. "Yo' tink I jokin'?"

I'm not the smartest fellow around but I can take a hint. My brain began to unfog a little. The madman was set up with a long gun braced on a bipod, screened by low brush from anything coming up the path along which I had been dragged. He expected the dog to return, looking for me. She would catch my scent and trot happily toward us. And he would kill her. I had no idea why.

My hands were bound in front of me. The gun rested only a step from my head. I thought I had enough strength left for one last lunge. If I timed it just right, I might be able to throw off his shot and save the dog. The payback probably wouldn't be much fun, but I had to do something. I decided to concentrate on watching his trigger finger. When it began to tighten, I'd throw myself forward. I waited.

It was mid-afternoon — the time when the dog usually sought me after her excursions. I saw the madman's hand go to the grip. He could see her. "Co'moan," he muttered. After a moment he whispered a violent, though completely unintelligible curse and shifted the base of the gun closer to me. The dog had moved off the trail. He shifted further, now moving the bipod over to the other side of me. She was circling around, still out of his range. He was muttering nonstop. "Ha!" he said at last and settled down for the shot. I took a deep breath; my eyes focused on the trigger finger. I had to spring just when it was too late for him to recover.

Suddenly his hands came away from the gun entirely. "Don' shoo'," he said. I didn't understand what had happened. Had he changed his mind about killing the dog? "Ah. You. Wha'ya do ov'a hee' meddlin'?" the madman asked.

"I ain't meddlin', LeMat," another voice said. "Ya got my friend trussed up, and yer 'bout to shoot his dog. I'd say that'd be some a' my business."

"Del, you gotta know, I din'a know he be no frien' a' yo'un. Why I's jes' gettin' ready t'feed 'im anyways. Yo' 'oungry y'sef?"

"How'd he get that fresh gash on his face?"

"Jes' a'lil miskamoonakin'. An', ain' like he die a'nuddin'. Beside he done got dat dawg out'a my own trap up den da hills. Now you know dat ain' rhat. I done been trailin' 'im ni'on two week. Dat my dawg. Dat my boun'y."

"Not this time, LeMat. If ya'd tend t'ya traps like a man's supposed to, it wouldna happened, would it?"

"'Ell, I fergit. We ah' be frien'. We le'd go dis time."

Del removed the strap from my hands after he had LeMat discard the remainder of his weaponry by the long gun and move some distance back. The dog had come up to us. She sat down near me where she could watch LeMat. I was given a drink of a tepid, bitter liquid and a few bites of some kind of soft sausage-like food. Breaking my extended, involuntary fast would have to be done cautiously. Del shared some of his grub with LeMat, and they talked as they ate — mostly about how their trapping and hunting efforts were going.

"All right," Del said after a time, "me and m'friend's goin' back across the river. I reckon we'd better be gettin' on."

"Sho," LeMat replied, "you min' carryin' m'guns down d'da crossin'? Jes' leeb'em in da us'l place. I be down, geddem adder w'ile."

"Be glad to. Ya take care now."

With Del assisting me occasionally, he, the dog, and I forded the river without incident and reached his campsite, a rough lean-to shelter. The long twilight held as my friend brought the fire to life. I wasn't hungry, and I was warm. I tried to talk, but I could not stay awake for more than a minute or two at a time. Del told me to rest. I saw him give the dog a joint to chew on. I heard the cracking of the bone as I fell into blissful slumber. When I roused again, my dog was lying partially across my legs, watching over me.

I suppose I was still what many would think of as a young man back then. I began to regain my strength right away. The puncture wound from LeMat's blade bothered me as much as anything. We had no weave to patch it up, and I still carry a puckered scar on that cheek, but, these days, it's no more than one of many. Anyway, I was never all that pretty.

The first thing Del taught me was how to make a fire. He gave me a knife with a file pattern cut into the spine and a flint that locked into the pommel. "You keep that with you," he explained, "and you'll have no reason to do without in the outlands." I learned to lay out my fuel from kindling, to small sticks, to larger chunks, make tinder, and expertly — or nearly so — strike a spark that would catch and burn. I was much slower to pick up the ways of trapping and snaring, but Del set me to work right away learning to skin and dress game, to build gums, whittle out triggers, and to do some of the cooking. Once the dog was in the company of a capable human, she no longer made her early morning forays. If I left camp, she'd follow me. She'd go with Del if he called her. At that point, I still hadn't given her a name — I just called her "Dog" or "Girl".

As we were finishing up our after-supper camp chores one evening, Del brought up the subject of naming the creature. "I don't know," I replied, "I don't want to get too attached to her."

"Why not?"

"Probably somethin'll happen to her, or she'll run off or somethin'."

"That's no reason. Ya'd still wan'a remember 'er."

"I been meanin' to ask ya. Why was LeMat tryin' to kill 'er? What did he mean about a bounty?"

"There's a bounty on some a' th' hounds. I don't know th' whole story, a'course. Probably nobody does. All that GM stuff that's s'posed t'be illegal. I think they done it on animals — dogs 'specially. Brought 'em t'planets like Cotter. Some of'em got away and bred in the outlands. Yer dog's most likely from that."

I nodded and frowned. "She looks normal."

"More'n likely it's their brains, maybe other internal parts."

"She does seem pretty smart."

"So what'a ya gone'a name 'er?"

"Somethin' that don't take much effort - how 'bout 'Ginger'? I once knew a mighty fine-lookin' girl by that name. Call her 'Gin' for short."

"Try it. See what she thinks."

The dog was lying on the far side of the stone reflector that backed our fire. She was facing out toward the night, apparently asleep, but her ears were alert in our direction. "Gin!" I called. She immediately raised her head, faced me, and wagged her tail. I looked over at Del; he nodded approval. Ginger came around to us and laid her head on my lap.

"I'd take that fer a sign," Del said.

I smiled. "So, is ever'thing a sign?"

He was silent a moment, serious, face turned toward the stars, contemplating or, perhaps, praying. "No," he said at last. "Some things are wonders."