《Castaway Chronicles (Sci-Fi Survival Horror Isekai)》


 DAY ONE. ON A HIGHWAY TO HEL

    Hello. You¡¯re reading it, which means you are currently alive, and not running from something sabertoothed, excellent! Fantastic start. You are also seemingly safe enough to waste time reading a handwritten diary you just found, and not say, worrying about your empty stomach, imminent frostbite, or dying from a mysterious infection.


    Stellar job, lets keep it that way.


    My name is Jacek Mularsky. I am a simple carpenter from Poland¡ªor was, in my old life, before I became a castaway in this strange land. I apologize for my bad English. I never formally learned this language, yet I decided to use it anyway. After all, whoever finds this diary is more likely to know it than my native Polish. if you happen to be Polish, please raise up and sing our national anthem, otherwise, carry on.


    I wrote my story down so that maybe the information would one day reach my wife, Anna, and my two children, Sta? and Micha?, whom I will likely never see again. I hope they had a good life without me. This is also a primer for you, to help you survive in this strange, wild land. Many have been stranded in this place, and nearly all perished. I am one of the lucky survivors, and so are you, at least temporarily.


    And the others? I will tell you their stories too. And I will embellish the hell out of them, since I only managed to pry bits and pieces from their memories when they felt like sharing. But after all the things we had been through together, I feel like I truly knew them, my friends and enemies both, to guess what they were thinking, and what they were doing when I was not around. Oh, some of them will not like the way I portrayed them, especially some specific, ornery Korean-Australians!


    Candace, if you are reading this, I''m likely dead already, and it is too late for you to stop me, haha!


    You must know dear reader, that the hardships of surviving in this land had ground parts of my mind to dust. When you spend so much time alone, or in the company of traumatized survivors fighting to live another day, every part of you not useful to that end simply erodes away. Please forgive my plain language, and lack of nuance. I am no longer a civilized person but a primitive man, by necessity. This will not be a story of me bearing my soul and emotions to you, I could not face these on my own, let alone share it. It is a story of the clever tricks I used to fend off death, and not so clever tricks that almost got me killed, so that you could learn from my mistakes.


    If you found this diary, you likely had also found the rest of the supplies I left for you. Use all of it wisely. You probably know this already, but you are far, far from home, and the wilderness around you is a harsh teacher who tests you all the time and rarely gives you a second chance. You might have already stumbled on the bones of those before you who made tiny, stupid errors of judgment, or were just plain unlucky. Do not join them.


    Please, survive.


    DAY ONE. ON A HIGHWAY TO HEL


    I woke up in immense pain. It was as if, in one instant, my body and brain were torn to the tiniest bits, and then immediately and violently imploded back into my shape. I flailed around as if electrocuted, and my every nerve trembled with suffering. I gasped for air, but felt like inhaling fire.


    Just as suddenly as it started, the pain stopped. I was curled, naked and cold, on a floor of dead leaves and soggy soil.


    Slowly, I regained my senses. A minute ago, I was coming home from work, driving down the northbound highway to Gda¨½sk, minutes from taking a turn towards the seashore and my hometown of Hel, Pomerania. Tired and hungry, my only thought was to reach my destination fast enough to tuck my kids to sleep and dig into dinner leftovers. Immediately after that thought, I exploded and somehow appeared in this dank, dark woods, naked as a newborn and shivering.


    What the Hell happened? Did I somehow managed to crash into the barrier and get hurled through the windshield and into the roadside woods? Even though it seemed like the most reasonable explanation, I dismissed it immediately. If I crashed into the woods at one hundred and seventy kilometers per hour, I would be torn to mangled shreds by the impact. Not to mention, what would be left of me would not be naked and intact, but pulped together with my clothes and bits of the car.


    I sat up and examined my body. No obvious injuries revealed themselves, though I knew next to nothing about first aid or medicine. I could very well be dying from brain damage, and hallucinating the whole weird situation.


    I shook my head to dismiss the thought. ¡®Be Practical¡¯, as my foreman often said. ''No need to dwell on details you cannot understand, and problems you cannot solve, find a hammer and bang on some nails instead.''


    I had no hammer in hand, and there were no nails conveniently ready to be hammered in, but I had my wits. Or what was left of them? I sighed deeply to calm myself down, and assessed the situation.


    For one, I was in the woods. Or more precisely, I was in the Woods, because the place definitely deserved a capital letter. I have been an avid hiker and camper all my life, but never, ever seen woodland this ancient and dense. Even the oldest, wildest national parks looked like a suburban garden compared to this green ocean. The tree I woke up under was a gargantuan oak thicker at the base than my arms span. Everywhere I looked, its equally powerful brothers stood. Oaks, beeches, and occasional ash tree. I could not look further than a few dozen meters in any direction because the path between the mighty trees was littered with giant dead logs and wild shrubbery so thick it could stop a battle tank. I caught a whiff of a sulfurous smell that suggested there must have been a swamp or backwater pool nearby. I could not see it, which was bad news if I was to try to hike anywhere.


    Lances of bright light raced between the branches, more accentuating the darkness under the canopy than illuminating it. It was eerily like being underwater. The brightness of the sunny spots suggested it was mid-day or close to.  Which was another piece of a puzzle in the weirdness jigsaw, because my last conscious memory was of driving late in the evening.


    Was I asleep for half a day? Did not feel so. And where was I? This surely did not look like any woodland in the middle of Poland. In fact, I severely doubted woods like this existed anywhere on the planet anymore. Maybe in some remote parts of Russia or Canada? But how would I even end up in the Canadian wilderness all of sudden? Is there an international conspiracy to kidnap middle-aged Polish workmen and dump them naked in the middle of Nowhere, Alberta?


    My musings were stopped immediately, and my hopes for a rational explanation dashed, when the first animal appeared to investigate my sudden and loud arrival.


    It was a goddamned unicorn.


    Well, that was my first impression, until a more rational part of my mind got into gear and protested. There was no such thing as unicorns! What I saw was a pony-sized creature that looked like an unholy spawn of a rhino and a giraffe, by way of a donkey. It had a prong-shaped horn on its nose, flabby nostrils that flared quizzically, sucking in my scent, and it was striped brown and gray. I was immediately certain that no such creature existed anywhere in the world, not even in the most remote parts of Canada. But I had a vague, stomach-clenching feeling that animals like that did exist, once. I remember seeing a similar critter in a documentary ¡­ about prehistoric mammals.


    Crap. If my hypothesis was true, I should not have been asking where I was, but when.


    The unicorn, because seriously I don¡¯t know what its scientific name was supposed to be, something-therium probably, came closer, huffing. I almost got up to run away, but It would be obviously silly, I could not outrun a horse-like critter that likely evolved to live in these woods. Instead, I remained perfectly still, avoiding eye contact and trying to smell non-threateningly, even though my body was slick with fear-induced sweat. The creature came almost close enough to touch me, huffed a bit louder, and then suddenly head-butted me in the shoulder hard enough to put me on my back.


    I dared not to fight back, and laid there splayed out like a dead bug. The horned pony-thing, satisfied with its display of violent territorial domination, trotted away into the bushes.


    I waited a few heartbeats until I could no longer hear it ruffling the shrubs, and bolted in the opposite direction. I had enough fauna encounters for a long while, and wished not to ever run into another supposedly extinct animal again. I was soon going to be disappointed.


    After running for what felt like kilometers, but what was realistically only a few hundred meters due to the thick foliage and obstacles in my way, I reached a clearing. The dark woods gave way to bright green weeds, entangled with brambles. There was a field of reeds with thick brown bulrushes crowning them.


    A swamp? No, it smelled clear, and the reeds stretched sideways toward the far horizon. Maybe a river? It would make some sense if whatever kind of Earth I was on matched our own. The highway I was taken from ran the length of a long valley and crossed a river at one point. Surely this place had an analogous river, after all, weird prehistoric world or not, water always flows downhill along roughly the same geography.


    Getting to the river bank across the brambles and the reeds proved impossible. If I tried, I would be hopelessly entangled a few meters in, and completely covered in cuts. Instead, I opted to hike along the overgrown shore, until I could find some beach or another access to open water. It was a good decision too, as underneath the wild brambles growing over everything, the tangled bushes were heavy with ripe berries. I did not even realize how hungry I''d been before I stuffed a third handful into my mouth.


    Finally, after some trekking, and grazing until full, I managed to find an opening. An ancient pine had fallen across the brambles and the reeds, and its crown punched a hole straight into the open water. I climbed the dead trunk and could immediately see the meandering river.


    Gazing across the water, I was immediately crushed by the hopelessness of my situation. I was alone, naked, unarmed, and there was almost certainly no civilization anywhere nearby. And even if there was one, I could never reach it. As far as the eye could see, I was surrounded by primordial wilderness in all directions. If I had a boat I could attempt to float downriver and search for people there, but I did not have one. And even if I did, the trip could easily take weeks, and I would die of hunger and cold, way before that.


    Resigned, I crawled back along the pine log when something caught my eye near its stump.


    Stump! The pine did not fall on its own, it was cut! By humans surely? I ran towards it and stopped immediately when I saw what had cut the tree.Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.


    It was a man, or at least what was left of one. A half-rotten corpse had bisected the tree at ground level, and caused it to fall. The corpse was naked, and where it touched the wood, it flickered in and out of focus, like hot air over sunbaked asphalt. I was struck with sudden realization; this man had been teleported into this world the same way I was, except he was not so lucky as to displace air on his way in, he displaced a solid chunk of pine, and whatever process deposited him in there could not handle that much mass in one place.


    Braving the stench of decay, I knelt to examine the flickering effect between the rotting flesh and the wood. It seemed like a solid optical illusion. as if the space itself between the surfaces of the two masses was undulating and pouring one form into another, endlessly.


    I could not make heads or tails out of this process, but at least It was immediately obvious how the man died, and it was mercifully quick. When he bissected the tree, the tens of tons of pine simply collapsed down on him before falling sideways, and immediately crushed his chest to a pulp. At least he did not suffer.


    I was strangely calm seeing a corpse. I saw death on construction sites, and it was often grisly, but this half-rotten fellow was not a distressing sight, more of a sad one. If he lived, at least I would not be alone.


    I noticed the corpse¡¯s legs, arms, and face were clearly gnawed on by some critters, and felt sorry for him. I mean, dead or not, he was a human being and deserved more respect than that!


    With uttermost care, I used a thick branch to pry him off the stump and then dragged what was left of him into the water. I could not bury him, having anything to dig with, but could put him under the submerged pine. Sure, being eaten by fish was not much better than being scavenged by woodland animals, but at least it was out of sight, and thus, in some way, appeared more dignified.


    I contemplated a short prayer for the poor guy, but as a lifelong atheist I could not think of anything appropriate.


    ¡°So sorry dude. Hope you did not suffer much. Your friends and family probably miss you. If it''s any consolation, I promise to find whoever had us both stranded here and kick them in the balls for you¡±.


    I could not come up with anything else to add and felt silly. Returned to the stump to investigate the undulating flicker once more.


    Once the corpse was removed, the flicker seemed to pool into two droplets of nearly identical size that clung to the flattest surfaces of the stump. The wavy undulation seemed to have calmed down, and the droplets were almost flat, with the wood matter cycling within them in a precise rhythm.


    Up to that point, I did not dare to touch the flicker. It did nasty things to that man and that tree, and I remember my teleportation to be excruciating. Who knows what it did to matter, let alone living tissue? Maybe it distorted spacetime, or emitted deadly radiation, or rearranged atoms somehow? On the other hand, I was obviously still alive, and not showing symptoms of radiation sickness, at least not yet. I decided that careful examination of the flickers could not kill me any deader than being naked and unarmed in the middle of nowhere clearly would.


    I dropped a twig in one of the droplet-like pools of flickering space-time.


    Two identical twigs were forcefully expelled out of the other pool.


    I jumped away in fear and sheer disbelief. ¡®What the actual fuck¡¯ was on my mind, but my lips failed to process it into words.


    Carefully, as if they were pieces of active uranium, I picked the new twigs. They were perfectly alike. Same marks on the bark, same number and position of pine needles, same tiny droplet of sap at the broken end.


    Matter duplication. Somehow, being teleported naked through time and space did not freak me out as much. At least, in my limited knowledge of physics, time travel and teleportation were just extremely improbable. Matter duplication was straight-up impossible, it clashed directly with the Laws of Thermodynamics.


    Like an ape-man approaching fire for the first time, I threw both of the twigs into one of the pools, and soon had four. My inner curious toddler took over, and I kept throwing twigs into the pools, one, or the other, or both at once, until I had a pile of kindling at my feet. Tried the same with pine cones, leaves, a small rock, and even a grasshopper I caught. As long as it fit in one of the pools, it would be pulled in with enough force to rip it off my hand, and shoot from the other. The more I resisted the pull, the stronger it would shoot out. I dared not to put my hand into the pool though, that would almost certainly be a bad idea.


    Overcome with curiosity, I put a long pine root in one of the pools, then quickly tied the emerging end to the back end, forming a circle. The resulting infinite loop spun wildly, shooting additional roots upwards at enormous speeds until it tore itself to pieces. I decided prudently not to strain this clearly unstable, impossible system with more physics-defying experiments, lest it exploded somehow.


    Cautiously, I duplicated some berries and ate them. I had no reason to believe the duplicated matter was safe to eat, but what was exactly my alternative? I wouldn¡¯t survive living off the land otherwise. If copied berries were poisonous, at least I would find out soon and die of poison instead of exposure, infections, hunger, or wildlife.


    I did my best to brush the stump clean of dried corpse bits, those were almost certainly not safe to eat, and I did not want them to contaminate my food.


    I gorged myself on the berries again, reasoning that they were also the only safe source of water, because I did not trust the mucky river water to be safe to drink. Supposedly, one might drink the juices straight out of the tall reeds, but I was not keen on trying that out.


    Distracted with my experiments, I did not notice the sun getting lower, and it started to get cold. Only the first shivers down my spine reminded me that unlike my friend the unicorn, I had no fur to protect me. But what if I could make fur? I had an infinite spring of whatever type of matter I wanted. If I could make even a small handful of cloth out of something, I could copy it infinitely and cover myself with it.


    I rushed to collect the materials, and almost immediately realized I had no idea how to make cloth, and out of what? I vaguely remembered that the simplest cloth is essentially a criss-crossed pattern of threads, and that these can be made out of plant fibers and wool found in nature. Wool was out of the question, I was not going near any furry animal if I could help it, the unicorn was more than enough. I contemplated using my own hair, but at their length, they would be useless.


    What about plants? Is there good fiber in grass or weeds? I tore apart every plant in the vicinity, from grasses and reeds to brambles and dandelions. Unfortunately, the fibers inside were either short and brittle, or coarse and wiry like steel wool, completely unsuitable for the task.


    Finally, rummaging through the reeds, I noticed a wet patch of cotton-like algae floating on the surface. At closer inspection, what looked like runny green scum was actually a knot of wet fiber. I gathered several handfuls and brought them to the stump.


    How do I turn this mess into cloth? I tried to separate the fibers into strands, and then twist them into green, wet yarn, but the results were not very promising. After an hour of twisting and duplicating yarns, all I gained was a pile of soggy dreadlocks that fell apart when pulled.


    I tried weaving them over a grid made out of sticks, but this only hastened their demise.


    Desperate, I decided to beat the green blob into a flat sheet. Amazingly, after a few minutes of abusing the mass with a heavy stone, it turned into a mat, not unlike a thick, coarse felt, like the one used under furniture legs.


    Encouraged by the results, I started rolling the felt with a piece of a branch, until I had a strip the size and thickness of a winter scarf. All that abuse also pushed most of the water out, making the mat just moist, not soaking wet anymore. A few duplications later, I had over thirty such scarves to work with.


    My initial idea was to make some yarn and sew them together into a makeshift poncho. But that plan was quickly proven impossible since the yarn was not remotely strong enough to sew with, and besides, I had no needle. Finally, I decided to beat the edges of the scarves together, until they knotted. The result was not much stronger than velcroing a few rags together, but it made a heavy, thick cloak with a ragged hole in the middle.


    Putting my cloak on, I decided to use the last rays of the sun to climb on the fallen pine. I admired myself in the water¡¯s reflection and burst out laughing. It was a sight to behold. An exhausted looking middle aged man with a thinning mop of hair, and a patchy beard. My legs and hands were covered in mud and scratches. My face was stained with berry juice running down my chin. The picture was made more amusing by a bulky, hairy green coat that made me look like a corpse of a Muppet, or perhaps a very low-budget version of the Swamp Thing.


    ¡°You''re One Ugly Motherfucker!" I quoted to myself, though maybe invoking The Predator while deep in the woods was too much of a jinx.


    What now? I climbed onto a particularly wide and inviting branch and contemplated my situation. What do I need to survive in this situation? From what I remembered from the Boy Scouts, if stranded in the woods, one should secure water, shelter, and some way to get warmth. Food comes much later.


    I did not dare to drink water out of the river, as it had the color of snot, and was full of wriggly things. Some of these wriggly things clung to my calves, and had to be pried away leaving bloody welts. Besides, I just water-logged a corpse not three meters away, which likely did not improve the taste.


    Technically, I could get a meal and water out of the berries, but this was not sustainable. I was pretty sure that eating nothing but berries for days would play merry hell with my intestines and give me the shits, which is an easy way to speed up dehydration. I vaguely remembered that clean water can be squeazed from the top of reeds, because they work as a natural filter, but I was not confident in the reliability of my memory, and did not want to test this hypothesis on myself just yet.


    Boiling water over a bonfire would make it safe to drink, not to mention the fire would provide warmth, and fend off animals. Unfortunately, I had no idea how to start a fire without matches. Rubbing sticks together supposedly worked, but I never saw that in action, let alone tried it myself.


    Shelter? The weather seemed good, and It did not seem like it would rain or snow anytime soon. As far as I could tell, this looked like a perfect Spring day, possibly April or May judging from the blooming flowers, never mind that it was January where I came from. So anyway, the shelter could wait.


    The sun was setting down, so I decided it was probably the last moment I could try to start a fire.


    But how? I remembered that back in the day people used flint and tinder. Flint I could not find, but tinder, aside from being an online dating app for youngsters, should be some easily flammable material. That at least was not beyond my understanding. Dry bark, dry grass, punked wood, I collected all of the flammable things I could think of and duplicated them. All I needed was an ember or a spark, but that was the crux of the problem, wasn¡¯t it?


    So how do you rub sticks to make a fire? Literally rubbing one stick against the other did nothing but make them a bit smoother. I tried all kinds of dry sticks from various trees, and got no results. Tried sawing one stick with another, and that produced some heat, but it was not remotely close to igniting it.


    An idea hit me. Working in carpentry, I often struggled with tools dulling over time. Dull drill bits were especially noticeable, as the wood would heat up and sometimes blacken when I attempted to make a hole with one.


    Can I drill wood with wood? It was time to find out. I found a particularly straight stick with a pointy end and tried to drill it into various bits of wood. It slid off solid oak, and only made a smooth impression in the pine. It drilled right through pine bark without heating it. Finally, I found a piece of dry, punky willow, and after what felt like an hour of turning the stick in my palms, managed to create some heat.


    The hole in the willow blackened and became hot to the touch. However, no matter how hard I tried it would not produce an ember! I tried pouring some ground punk wood into it. Then some reed fluff. Nothing. Blew gently on it during drilling, to provide oxygen, but it only made things worse.


    Finally, after tiring myself to exhaustion, I dropped the drill out of my blister-covered hands. I was livid! The wood would heat up nicely and quickly, but only almost to the point of ignition, never past it. The fire-stick now had a blackened tip, smooth as glass. The hole in the willow was full of compressed soot, now cold.


    My palms felt like I burned them on a red-hot stove and then did a hundred pushups. I could not try again even if I wanted to.


    Exhausted, cold and sweaty, I crawled back on my fallen pine jetty, to stare at the setting sun and the lazy meandering river. I had no fire. I had no real shelter. I had no weapon in case another unicorn came out of the bushes. At least I had my rapidly falling apart algae coat, for all the good it did.


    With the last of my strength, I sacrificed some of the scarves of my coat to tie myself to the pine branches, lest I¡¯d fall into the river in my sleep. I was supremely uncomfortable, but sleep caught me like a bullet to the head.

 DAY TWO. THIS AIN’T CANADA, THAT’S FOR SURE!

    I woke at dawn, to the sound of splashing water. For a few seconds, I was not fully aware of where I was and what was happening. Did I doze off at the public pool, and my kids woke me up with their shenanigans?  I lazily opened my eyes and would bolt upright in an instant, if I was not tied to the tree. Instead, I fell off the branches, ass first into the river, with the cloth tying me to the tree and straightjacketing my upper body. I was as helpless as I could be, staring at my visitor.


    For a second I thought it was a bear, but soon it dawned on me that it was something much, much worse. It was a wolverine, but much larger than what I remembered from Animal Planet, easily the size of a black bear.


    The creature was balancing on the pine trunk, deftly fishing out the soaked corpse of the unlucky dimension-traveler from under it. The corpse however, was too soggy and came apart into chunks, frustrating the animal. Undeterred, the wolverine neatly piled up the fished-out bits on the trunk, and started munching on them. The moment it crunched the man¡¯s femur in its jaws somehow was the last drop of indignity I could tolerate.


    ¡°Hey! Shoo!" I yelled at it, almost immediately realizing that trying to defend the corpse of a man I didn''t even know against a hundred-kilogram mustelid with claws like steak knives was utter idiocy.


    It regarded me with a mildly curious expression and returned to lazily gnawing on a rotten knee. It could easily kill me in seconds even if I were not trapped by my own design. Probably the only reason it did not attack me was its sheer laziness, and the fact that an easily available lump of fragrant carrion was right in front of it.


    I considered my options. I could try to wriggle my way out of the coat, and fall into the river completely, then try to swim away. I was a decent swimmer back in the day, but I severely doubted even with my fastest butterfly stroke I could outswim a wolverine. And even if I miraculously did, where would I go? There was no other clearing in sight, just an endless strip of water walled with near-impassable thickets of reeds. I would just get entangled and caught anyway.


    Fighting the thing was out of the question. One slice of its claws would open me like a pi?ata.  All I could do was to wait patiently until the beast was done and would leave.


    Which turned out to be a long, long time. After what must have been a few hours, I was impatient enough that I  almost reconsidered going down fighting this thing. The wolverine was absolutely meticulous with its feast. It ate all the meaty bits off the corpse, licked the bones clean, and then cracked all the bigger ones to get to the marrow. It even swallowed some of the bone shards whole, which I was nearly certain would be incredibly dangerous to most mammals, but, apparently, not for this guy. It ate and ate until its belly was like an inflated beach ball. It must have eaten a third of its weight in dead human flesh.


    After its delightful meal, it stretched, not unlike a cat, yawned, and noticed me again.


    ¡®''Well, that¡¯s all folks,¡¯ I thought to myself. Waiting to be eaten, for hours, had fermented the fear in me into sardonic fatalism. The animal considered me for a moment as if weighing its options. It was obviously full, almost bursting, but then again, I was equally obviously an easy prey. Finally, it turned around and walked down the pine towards land. Right before hopping off the trunk, It raised its tail and pissed all over the place. The stink was indescribable, as if all the tomcats in the world used this place as their bathroom.


    I stared daggers at its disappearing rump, not daring to yell at it again. After waiting another excruciating hour or so, to increase the odds that the wolverine was truly gone, I untangled myself from the tattered coat and climbed back on the tree. Carefully, I snuck back onto land and towards the stump. I did not know if my adversary truly went away. It could very well be napping in the bushes right beside me. I tried to look for its tracks to know where it went, but It looked as if it just vanished.


    I crouched, my back to the river, and considered my options carefully.


    Point one. This place was definitely not safe. It was either the hunting grounds of that beast, as evidenced by it marking its territory with great gusto, or it was simply a place of interest for local animals. After all, the pine jetty provided easy access to the river, making it an ideal watering hole for prey and predator alike. And underneath that awful stench of piss, it likely smelled of delicious rotten human, and not so rotten but sweaty human as well.


    Point Two. Or maybe Counterpoint. The duplication pools were here, and they were likely to be my sole means of survival. I did not trust my meager Boy Scout skills to keep me alive without the literal physics-defying boon of these things. I considered trying to, somehow, remove the pools and take them with me to some safer place, but I had no idea how to do it, and it would likely damage them. For all I know the duplication effect could have been a one-in-a-million fluke that depended on some unstable and delicate variables. Or maybe it would explode if moved.  Especially if one of the pools poured itself into another, I was pretty darn sure that would be worse than my reckless pine root loop experiment.


    So, the only option was to make this place safe and stay here, at least until I figured out what to do next. And that meant fire.


    I looked at my blistered hands. Spending another day trying to rub a stick hard enough to set it ablaze was out of the question. I could not brute force it, I needed to use my brain.


    I examined the fire-stick, and the chunk of willow I tried to drill into. The stick was blackened, but polished smooth. The most likely reason it would not heat up, was insufficient friction. I tossed it away and found a less-used one from the duplicated pile.


    The hole In the willow was lightly charred, and full of soot particles. Why won¡¯t they ignite, or even smoke? Surely the heat must have been substantial. Lack of oxygen was likely the issue. Even when the soot got hot enough to burn, I could not see that and smothered it. I decided to drill a new hole, but this time stop every few seconds to see if it produced any char that could be poured out and blown on. No dice, it did not work at all, if anything it made the heat vanish faster instead of building up.


    What if I cut a groove into the wall of the hole, to let the produced charcoal bits pile up there? I did not have any tools, or even sharp rocks, though¡­ I swallowed hard at the thought. There was one source of sharp, hard edges nearby, in the leftovers of the wolverine¡¯s meal.  Hating myself for this, I went back to the pine trunk and examined what was left of the unfortunate human carcass. Most of it was licked clean down to the wood, but digging through the mud at the river bottom near the trunk revealed a broken shard of what was likely a man¡¯s mandible, with one lonely tooth still in it. I shuddered at the awfulness of further desecrating what was left of the man¡¯s body, but after what the wolverine did, there was quite literally not enough of the man to bury. I could not help him regain his post-mortem dignity, but he could, In a way, help me survive.


    The bone shard made for a surprisingly effective chisel. A few minutes later, I turned that circular hole into a C-shape.


    Drilling into it produced a nice little pinch of charred punkwood, that was ever so close to ignition, but my palms failed before it smoked.


    Think! Rolling the drill in my palms was not the way to do it. Maybe some fitter man, or perhaps a hunter-gatherer tribesman who did start his fire like that every day could manage it, but I could not.  How do I spin the drill faster, harder, and with less effort?


    Putting a crank on the stick wouldn¡¯t work all that well, that''s more torque but lower speed. Speed was key here, because I had to get a hot ember before my hands gave up. What if I spun it like a spinning top? I had no string, but could always use the bramble vines or pine roots as thin rope. After some experiments and duplications, I made a braid out of pine roots and wrapped it around the stick. With a tug, I managed to spin the stick quite fast, though with too little force.


    Finally, I let go of the rest of my dignity, and concerns for safety. I put a thick bit of bark in my teeth, and used it as a top bearing to pivot and push down on the stick, grabbed several lengths of root braids and wrapped them around it, then started pulling them back and forth rapidly.Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.


    I reasoned I would either get fire, or the bark would snap and I¡¯d drill a hole into my stupid head, a punishment for clearly violating basic rules of workshop safety. My idle musings were stopped by the most beautiful sight of that day.


    A thin strand of white smoke came out of the hole.


    I tossed the stick away and gently scooped the smoldering pinch of charred wood onto a dry leaf. Put that leaf inside a much bigger pile of charred bits and cattail fluff.


    I got on my knees, imagined I was blowing the candles on the smallest birthday cake in the history of mankind, and gave it the gentlest breath I could dare.


    The ember grew into a tiny flame that quickly spread all over the cattail tinder and exploded into a merry bonfire. I roared and hooted like an ape, scaring the crap out of some bush birds nearby, and ran to get some firewood. I did not bother collecting any from the woods, I simply mass-copied the firestick, cattail tips, and dry bark, and kept adding to the fire until the flames were taller than I was and the heat was baking my face.


    I did not care. I cried, out of joy, and because the smoke got into my eyes, but it was still a cry of ecstasy.


    "Fuck you, Logan! "I yelled in the general direction where I thought the wolverine went, naming it after its namesake Canadian superhero. "This is fire, you weasel-ass bitch, come and get some!¡±


    The woods responded with a cacophony of animal noise, which shut me up, because some sounded like it came from large creatures.  Or maybe it was just birds, with deep voices? I was immediately not so sure that fire was an absolute deterrent against wildlife, and decided to keep my mouth shut and my fire as big as I could make it without burning down the forest.


    The joy brought by fire washed off quickly, and I was restless again. With the fire roaring, and an effectively infinite amount of fuel, I did not have to worry about it, and could focus on other problems I was facing. How do I get some water? The river was muddy, and now the accessible water was additionally contaminated with bits of carrion and smelled of mustelid piss, which, dear reader, is the worst smell in the animal kingdom, I assure you. I splashed some water on the marked pine trunk, and washed most of the smell, so that at least going back to my jetty hideout was possible without feeling like I would retch my guts out.


    Should I try to boil the river water? It would at least kill dangerous germs. In theory, the water could also have been contaminated with dangerous chemicals, but I assumed it would not be thick with wildlife if that was the case. If so, how do I boil it? I had no pots or containers to put it in.


    After some rummaging around my camp, I found a bowl-shaped piece of willow bark, not bigger than my palm. I filled it with water taken from the furthest part of the river I could reach, so that it would be the least chunky with scum. I placed the bowl gently on the hot coals, but soon realized my mistake.


    For one, the bottom of the bark bowl almost immediately ignited, which caused it to split and leak half of its contents. I managed to salvage some of the water, and patiently kept the bowl suspended further away from the heat, until the water started boiling. I let it cool, and tentatively took a sip.


    Yeech! It was bitter as if I bit through an aspirin pill. I almost laughed at my stupidity. By boiling water in a bark container, I effectively made bark tea. Why was it so bitter I had no idea, does willow contain aspirin? Might be useful if I had a headache!


    I prepared a new pot, this time made of a strip of fresh ashwood bark. Then I reconsidered my idea. Do I want to try and taste bark tea out of every tree in the woods, until I either stumble on relatively fireproof bark, or poison myself? I had to find a way to bring the water to boiling point quickly, before it leached the chemicals out of the bark.


    I needed to think outside the box. Literally! After all, I didn''t really need to heat up the container, just the water in it. I remembered how my Communist-era Grandma would boil water for tea by putting a ''Boil Coil'' immersion heater into the cup, and heat water itself rather than what held it. Maybe I should just drop some hot coals into the water? Or better yet, find a small stone, heat it in the fire, and toss it in?


    Finding a pebble turned out to be surprisingly hard, as the whole area was thick with plant growth. Finally, I decided to dig blindly through the river silt until I found one.


    Combing through it I found plenty of leeches and rotten reeds, and whenever I found something that felt like a stone, it turned out to be a river clam.


    I kept tossing the clams back until it dawned on me. I was being an idiot. Food! I was always a sucker for seafood, and river clams surely could not be that far from it? And as long as they were cooked fresh, they were unlikely to give me food poisoning. I kept collecting them, forgetting I could have just picked one and multiplied it. I even found the pebble I was looking for.


    In my hungry digging, I was not even deterred by fat leeches trying to attach themselves to my palms, and when I felt a painful pinch on my thumb I grabbed the offending creature and pulled it out.


    It was a crayfish, but so big it looked almost like a lobster. It trashed angrily and pinched me some more but I was hungry and drunk on success. I tossed the pinching bastard and the clams into the duplicators, over and over, until the clearing around the pine was lousy with terrified crustaceans trying to crawl back to the water.


    Around an hour later I was lounging by the fire, finishing my meal of barbecued shellfish and crawdaddy tails. Between my bounty and the duplication pools, I made more grilled food than I could need, so I mercifully swept the surviving crayfish and clams back into the river.


    As I expected, heating a pebble over the fire and then using two pieces of pine as tongs to toss it into the water, resulted in it instantly boiling. The resulting brew tasted like ash and dirt, but was scalding hot, so all the germs and bugs were likely cooked to death.


    Duplicating the boiled water was a bit trickier, but I learned that if I poured it into the duplication pools at just the right angle, they turned into a water fountain that self-replenished for several minutes before running out. I could not wait to see what would happen when it rained on the duplicators.


    Fed and content, I decided to focus my newfound energy on creating some rudimentary shelter. I considered trying to build a platform on the crown of the fallen pine, away from land, but the events of that morning showed that it would not make me safe from predators. Only fire could give me any kind of protection, and even that was not certain.  I knew wild animals were wary of fire, but this was not the same as them being completely deterred. For all I know, my friend Logan, the corpse-munching wolverine, could very well grab me from right next to the hearth.


    One solution would be to surround myself with a ring of bonfires before going to sleep. But I was pretty sure that would most likely lead to me getting burnt or poisoned by the smoke and carbon monoxide. Having no way to test it without hurting myself, I made four bonfires surrounding a relatively flat piece of the clearing. This seemed like a good compromise between not being eaten, and not being smoked alive.


    What about the shelter itself? I would not mind building a solid log cabin with a sturdy door, and a shingled roof, in my old life that was one of the items on my Bucket List. But in this primitive world, with no tools save for a shard of a bone, I could not really build one, could I?


    I also did not fancy venturing deep into the woods in search of construction wood. Even If I made myself several torches to fend off darkness and critters that hid in it, I was not confident in my chances. What did I have at hand? After some effort and a lot of cursing, I managed to cut down a tall, straight ash sapling that sprouted from the bushes at the very edge of the forest. Minutes later I turned it into a pole, stripped of bark and side branches. Several duplications later, I had enough poles to make myself a small wigwam-like tent. I tied the top together with bramble vines as hard as I could and criss-crossed them all over the frame. Next, I made a giant heap of algae rags, by duplicating my tattered coat, and wrapped them all over the construction.


    The result did not look all that sturdy, let alone waterproof, so I wrapped downward-facing bushels of reeds all over it. Now it looked less like a wigwam, and more like a strange bird¡¯s nest, but it had thick walls that seemed like they would stop both the wind and the rain.


    Finally, I put a thick mat of algae rags in one corner of it as my bed, and started a small bonfire inside. The smoke streaked upward through the small opening near the top, and barely bothered me, as long as I did not stand up.


    Clearing the entrance to my tent, I threw away spare ash poles. One of the thrown poles flew true, almost like a javelin, and embedded itself in the ground. I picked it up again and gave a few experimental thrusts. I doubted a makeshift spear like that would help much against any of the bigger beasts, but it was better than nothing, especially if I sharpened and fire-hardened the tip. What if I made hundreds of those, and surrounded my camp, not just with fires, but with a field of sharp stakes too? I needed to start to take my duplicators into account, they gave me so many options!


    My happy thoughts were disrupted by a loud, rumbling growl. One that did not come from a wild beast somewhere in the woods, but my own belly.


    The clams, as it turns out, were not safe to eat, especially in such great numbers. They chose that particular moment to enact their vengeance.


    Even though I already wrote about rotten corpses and wolverine piss, I will not delight you with a detailed description of what happened after. Suffice it to say, the top and bottom holes of my digestive tract decided to challenge the duplication pools in the game of spewing out matter. The last thing I remember was crawling out of the tent to deposit my refuse in the bushes and finally, passing out.

 DAY THREE. NOT-SO-AMAZING SPIDER-MAN

    I woke up the next day, long after sunrise. I was sprawled halfway out of the tent, and my fires died out hours ago. Despite that, nothing tried to eat me, possibly on account of my filth and stench.


    I stared angrily at the countless clam shells littering my camp. Was it them? Or maybe the spirit of the wretched crayfish decided to haunt my lower intestine? Or maybe, the water was not as purified as I thought? I was weak as a kitten, and my legs shook. I decided to nourish myself with some berries, reasoning that my diarrhea couldn¡¯t get any worse than it already was.


    Noticing no adverse results from the meal, I decided to try to wash myself in the river. I was disgustingly filthy, and my coat was all but gone. Luckily, the day was warm and the water was pleasant. I slowly lowered myself from the end of the jetty, holding the branches tight so as not to be pulled downstream. When I soaked enough, I got back up on the trunk and scrubbed myself clean-ish with a pine branch. The prickly needles removed most of the dirt and applied a nice smell to my skin. I was a human being once again.


    As I sat, contemplating my misery, a flock of ducks swam by. Only by watching them, completely ordinary birds, that I finally realize that almost none of the other animals and plants I saw here were exactly like on my Earth. Everything was subtly different. Giant wolverines and unicorn giraffes aside, the seemingly normal animals and trees were only superficially alike the ones I knew. Clams were rounder. Crayfish, thicker. The reeds, I just noticed, were taller and purplish at the tips. The bush birds I scared earlier were nothing like the quail and woodfowl I knew, and resembled fat, stub-winged parrots instead. One bit of luck I had, the big mosquitoes ubiquitous in the soggy bushes were almost completely uninterested in me, and seemed harmlessly lethargic. Good thing too, I was not looking forward to getting any disease mosquitoes carried.


    My latest adventure with food poisoning gave me food for thought, even when it removed actual food from my belly. Why was I not dead yet, or at least running a fever? Being a modern man from another version of this planet,  I certainly could not possibly have immunity to any of the germs here. After countless small cuts, leech bites, impromptu water burial of a rotten corpse, digging through mud, and eating random bottom-dwelling critters, I should be infected with every bacterium, amoeba, and virus this place had to offer.


    And yet, explosive barfing aside, I was fine. Either whatever force brought me here also gave me complex vaccination, or I was not¡­recreated here exactly as I was back home. In fact, was I sure I was recreated? It felt like I burst into atoms and reconstituted, but how could I possibly know for sure? Was I transported here, or maybe copied? Maybe there is another me back there, currently enjoying a nice weekend with the family?


    Hammer. Nail. Hammer. Nail. No use wasting time on philosophy. An existential crisis wouldn''t help me get fed, clothed, and hydrated. Whatever, or whoever put me here made me relatively well suited for this unique environment, at least when it comes to my immune system. The one mishap was likely caused by over-exerting it with unwashed and undercooked clams. If I were to get sick again I would likely die of disease, and there was nothing I could do about it, so it was pointless to worry.


    I decided to focus on problems I could hit with a hammer, metaphorical or otherwise. I was happy with my shelter, at least for now. But everything else needed serious improvement. I needed to start a new fire, which meant a better way to make one. I need clothes that won¡¯t fall apart in less than a day. The algae mats wouldn¡¯t do. I needed a way to produce something sturdier than that.


    And most of all, I needed tools. The sticks, shards of bone, and clam shells could not really be fashioned into anything useful. The only things worthwhile I managed to make out of them were a tiny bone chisel and an awl made of a broken shell. For bigger tools, I needed to find stone, hopefully flint or chert, but that meant exploring the woods away from my camp.


    It made me appreciate the civilized world even more. A few days ago, I could not imagine how it felt to have literally nothing. Even the most downtrodden homeless man in the poorest country on my Earth was a king, compared to me right now. I was constrained by a never-ending chain of needs. I needed tools to make tools, and to get material for these tools I needed other tools, which yet depended on something else¡­


    If not for the duplicators, I would be completely helpless, which made me even more determined to stick by them.


    I spent the next hour or so trying to make a fire, which annoyed me to no end. I promised myself to never let the fires burn down again. The morning dew alone was enough to extinguish the embers in them, and make my fire sticks too damp to be useful. Finally, I found a tiny bit of dry charcoal at the bottom of an ash pile, and with some drill action managed to reignite it. This time I built the bonfires much higher and fed them a lot of resin-filled fatwood from the pine. The outcome was a set of four slowly burning piles that filled the air with dark, noxious smoke, which was bound to deter any living being with a functional nose.


    As the resin turned to tar on the fire, I smeared it all over a pine branch and wrapped it in algae fiber to make a torch, which I multiplied and wrapped in a bundle that went on my back.


    With a sturdy ashwood spear in one hand and a flaming torch in the other, I entered the woods.


    Just like the last time, walking through the dark, thick forest seemed a bit like being at the bottom of a shallow sea, with only stray rays of sunlight puncturing the green gloom. My torch illuminated the path, but also made the bushes cast sharp shadows, almost all of which looked like a wolverine ready to pounce.


    Do wolverines even pounce? I know wild cats pounce. Wolverines probably approach you nonchalantly and mug you, insult you to your face, and slap you around before killing you,  just on general principles of assholery.


    I was paranoid about getting lost in this green maze. Even less than fifty steps away from the river, I could no longer see my camp, and every tree seemed like its neighbor. This wouldn¡¯t work. I backtracked to my campfire and gathered several handfuls of cold, white ashes from yesterday.


    Going back sapped my courage, but being able to mark the trees I passed was too important. I proceeded carefully at what I thought was a right angle to the riverbank. Each bigger tree I passed got marked with a white handprint. After twenty, maybe thirty minutes of going in a relatively straight line, the trees became sparser, and I could again see the sky. The mighty oaks, beeches, and ash trees gave way to conifers, and the soggy, moss-covered ground to sandy clearings with tall grass sprouting in clumps. The path was littered with what looked like delicious and ripe boletus mushrooms, but I knew better than to make such assumptions. What looks like an edible delicacy from my Earth, could be pure poison in this world. Thank clams for this valuable lesson. However, if I were to find some verifiably potent poisonous mushrooms, I would take my time to gather them as a snack for my friend Logan. Serve him right for desecrating a human body and pissing all over my pine!


    Distracted with my revenge fantasies, I almost fell into a hidden ravine. At the last possible moment I managed to use my spear as an anchor, and thus, instead of falling down the ravine and breaking my neck, I rode down on my ass right to the bottom.


    I immediately jumped up despite the pain, terrified that my torch had been extinguished, but a gentle blow brought It back to life. Just in case, I started another one. My clumsy trek, and yelps of pain as I fell might have attracted curious predators, and this was my only protection.


    A few minutes passed and nothing came to investigate. I looked around and my fears were replaced with joy. The ravine was a tiny canyon patiently carved into the sand and clay by a stream of clear water. I have not even noticed it before, but all that time I was walking gently uphill, while the stream must have been going downhill parallel to my path. It likely went all the way to the river.


    Was this water safe to drink? It seemed to be coming from a crack in a chalky rock that formed the bones of this rise. It likely did not contain any harmful bacteria, but it could very well be full of arsenic, mercury, or even Kryptonite for all I knew. I dipped my finger in the ice-cold water and licked it. It tasted like nothing in particular, which is how, I supposed, fresh, clean water should taste like. I drank a handful and decided to stop. If it didn¡¯t make me feel icky, I could go back tomorrow and drink some more. Beats hot water fountain gymnastics over a duplication pool.


    And the ravine kept on giving its gifts! I noticed the walls were stripes of different kinds of sediment, but the bottom one, just above the water-giving rock, was fat, thick clay the color of rust. I knocked out some and after adding some water, rolled it into a ball. Playdoh!Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.


    I had never made anything out of clay, but I remembered from history books that people used to make pottery out of it. Or maybe they still do? I decided to try, boiling water in bark containers gets old fast. I made a small dish and held it over the torch. It dried and cracked but did not seem to get harder and was certainly not waterproof, as it dissolved in water easily.


    Drat. I realized that a torch would not provide enough heat. Brick factories heat that stuff up in big fiery kilns, so I guessed I had to make it red-hot before the clay pot was fired. At least, thanks to my magical duplicators, I did not need to worry about fuel.


    I gathered several handfuls of clay and decided to walk down the stream. I could not get lost this way, and if it just disappeared in the bushes I could always go back to where it sprung from, and climb out towards the path I marked with handprints.


    It took only a few steps to notice that the ravine was a popular route for the local critters, or maybe simply a natural trap they fell into. The path was littered with slugs, frogs, and crawlies that mostly trudged downstream in a lazy truce with one another, like cars in traffic. I passed a family of what looked like water rats, who eyed me curiously wiggling their tiny noses. They only scampered off when I almost trampled on them. It confirmed my suspicion that this ecosystem had not seen a human in a long time, maybe ever. The animals knew no reason to fear me and treated me as an unusual, but harmless sight. A few minutes later I encountered a snake, a beautiful specimen of striped asp. It regarded me warily with its golden eyes, and I gave it a wide berth. Somehow, I only then considered the obvious problem, that such pristine wilderness must be lousy with snakes, which added to my list of things to be afraid of. It''s not as if I had a phobia of these things, I simply knew that if one bit me, I would have no means to save myself. I decided to tread carefully from then on, and always give my sleeping mat a thorough shake-up before lying down to sleep.


    Right before the ravine ended, and the stream disappeared into a tangle of reeds and hunched willow bushes, I encountered the most bizarre sight of that day.


    At the mouth of the ravine, the stream formed a shallow pool blocking most of the path out. The narrow passage between the sheer clay wall and the water was home to a whole colony of hedgehogs. Or at least I assumed they were hedgehogs, even though they were twice as large as the ones I knew, and had long, powerful-looking snouts that made them look more predatory than cute.


    You clever bastards!¡± I thought to myself. I realized what this was about. The hedgehogs, just like the other small animals, would fall into the ravine, and, unable to get out, would travel downstream until they reached this small delta. Unlike the frogs, toads, bugs, and snails, the hedgehogs had no intention of leaving this place and blocked the path to feast on the never-ending supply of mobile morsels of food that crawled right into their jaws. I always thought hedgehogs were solitary creatures, but these guys seemed to have allied to perform their slug genocide more effectively. This arrangement must have been happening for a long while, I saw old bones and corpses of long-dead hedgehogs stomped into the mud by their brethren. They did not seem afraid of me, and not one of them rolled into a ball like they normally would. If anything, they looked ready to charge me for distracting them from their meals. Gently, without setting them off, I crouched and gathered as many quills littering the ground as I could. They would make great needles, awls, and pins for my next experiments in cloth-making.


    I passed the strange spiky herd and proceeded out of the woods and toward the river. There was no way to follow the stream up to the river itself, the path was overgrown.


    I decided to climb a small hunched willow tree to see further. I could see my fallen pine, left-wise from me, which I assumed was West or South-West. From my higher vantage point, I also saw that the river on my right was spreading into a funnel-shaped delta, made of small islands and shallows, swarming with birds. On the distant opposite shore of the river, I saw what looked like grassy plains and occasional green hills barely visible through the mist.


    What was the river even falling into? I did not remember a lake being there in my world, and surely it was not the Baltic Sea, as it would be kilometers away. This of course, assuming that this Earth¡¯s geography matched my own, and I was deposited in the same spot I was taken from, which was just my hopeful assumption borne out of desperation for a logical component in my world-hopping mishap.


    Still, setting aside my musings, I knew that if I were to look for civilization or maybe even primitive tribes of people, it would be in a place like that. A flat plain right next to a river rich in fish, waterfowl, and shallows of fertile sediment that could be spread on the fields would make a perfect place for a village, or even a small town. Even hunter-gatherers could not dream of a better spot to set their camp on.


    So where were all the people? Surely I, and the unfortunate pine-guy, could not be the only people to arrive here, and what about the natives? I scanned the river for boats but there were none. No fields graced the land. No smoke trailed from any fire anywhere, save for a thin smidge on the left, coming from my own camp. Still, the green meadows of the North-Eastern shore were certainly my next travel destination, once I figured out how to make a raft that would survive the trip.


    Disheartened, I decided I was done with exploring for the day. I finally accepted the fact that I was utterly alone, not just cut off from my family, but from all of humanity as well. I would never give my younger son a piggyback ride, or play soccer with my older son. I will never kiss my wife or see the laugh lines in the corners of her eyes. I will never grab a beer or a dozen with my friends, never high-five my work buddies over a job well done. Hell, I even missed my asshole of a foreman. I would love for someone to yell at me right now, and explain why I suck as a carpenter, in minute detail.


    Breathe in, breathe out. Hammer. Nail. Focus on solvable problems.


    My torches were running out, because while they burned brightly, they also did not last long. I did not want to be in the woods without my only means of protection. I climbed down the willow, and tried to trek along the riverbank towards my camp, but soon realized it was a doomed idea. The bramble-entwined bushes were so thick that there was no way to get further than twenty steps in, without being helplessly stuck.


    I turned around and walked back to the ravine. The hedgehog gang was locked in a mortal struggle against the striped asp, which had crawled downstream. Or to be precise, the struggle was only mortal for the snake, because the spiky mammals seemed to be completely impervious to its venomous bites, and were playing tug-o-war with it, each trying to tear out a chunk. They ignored me completely, even when I pushed some of them out of the way with the butt-end of my spear. They did give me an idea though. Their quills made them safe from bites, and in fact, the snake hurt itself trying to attack them. Maybe I could not cover myself in quills, but I could easily surround my camp with sharp spikes, thorny vines, and bushes until it became a fortress. That would certainly add to my defense. And since, thanks to my physics-breaking artifacts, I could never run out of resources, I could just as well fill the ravine with spikes, and turn it into a deadly trap. Maybe bait it with some carrion or fish, so that the next predator that comes along ignores me, goes there to investigate, falls down the hole, and dies impaled?


    I walked back, all the way to the spot where I previously butt-slid into the ravine, before I remembered that my mission was to find some stones, not just sightseeing. I poked around in the clay and found several potato-sized lumps. Slamming one against another to break them open revealed them to be gray chert, or at least something much alike, glassy and razor-sharp along the edge. None were big enough for a hammer or an axe, but, I guessed, definitely better than nothing. I could not climb out of the ravine having hands full of this primitive merchandise, so I tossed all my possessions over the edge and tried to climb after them. I was almost out, holding grass roots tightly to pull myself up, when the slick clay gave under my feet and I fell back in, pulling a big chunk of soil and undergrowth on top of me.


    I puffed and scrambled to get the stuff off my face when I felt a sting on my left forearm. It was a big, fat orb-weaver spider, the home of which I must have torn apart during my misadventure. I was covered in webs, which I then noticed were former pieces of a silk tapestry over five meters across, spreading from the roots of the trees on one side of the ravine to another. I gently flicked the spider off my arm and apologized. I always liked the little industrious creatures for their single-minded passion for building. Spiders, birds, beavers, ants, any creature that can spend days on end building its own home, was all alright in my book. What was not all alright, was the burning pain spreading from the spider bite. I hoped the spider was not deadly venomous. It would be ridiculous to survive an encounter with a wolverine twice my size, only to die to a creature the size of a thumbnail. I always thought dangerous spiders only lived in warm climates, but I learned that assuming anything about the fauna and flora of this place was potentially a death sentence.


    But then again, hammer and nail, nail and hammer. I was bit and that was it. There was not much I could do about that fact. It''s not as if I could grab my phone and call help. I knew I would either die or I would not, and after all that happened to me in the last two days, I had exhausted all my reserves of fear. I started patting myself to get rid of any other angry arachnids that could have been crawling on me and tried to scrub off the spiderwebs I was entangled in.


    I was surprised at how strong the spider silk was, it was like being wrapped in a hair-thin fishing line. Fascinated, I gathered several strands and palm-rolled them into a silky string. It was as strong as steel wire, yet so lightweight I could send it flying with a breath. What kind of mutant spider makes such strong silk? Was I going to develop spider-related superpowers, now that it bit me? My name was not Peter Parker so likely no, though if I did, it would be barely the third weirdest thing that has happened to me lately.


    On the second try, I took a running jump and got a hold of a thick pine root hanging off the edge, one that provided better support than the thin roots I grabbed before. This time I climbed out easily, despite the protestations of my unimpressive muscles and creaking knees. To my chagrin, it turned out my torch fell straight into a sandy heap when I threw it, and extinguished itself completely. No amount of blowing on it or feeding the embers dry grass could salvage it, and I was keenly aware I was defenseless and far from camp. I jogged towards it following the handprints market on the trees, only slowing down to tear strands of spiderwebs from the bushes I passed. Now I saw that the fat orb-weaver spiders were everywhere around, I just never noticed them, and the incredible bounty they provided.


    By the time I reached my tent, I was sweaty from the exertion and the fear, panting, and exhausted. Covered in dirt and cobwebs I must have looked like something dragged from the bottom of a cellar. I did not manage however to catch my breath, because what I saw at the camp seized me with terror.

 CANDACE (I). YAKKA DOWN UNDER

    Candace Cho was pissed.


    She never realized the sheer enormity of human stupidity, until she became a Surf Lifeguard. She had spent most of her adult life as a professional sportswoman and a coach of Swimming Australia. But as her performance sagged with age, and her occasional juicing became more than occasional, the Powers That Be decided she was a ¡®bad role model¡¯ and should be kept away from the swimming youth, or rather from tarring the organization¡¯s pristine public image.


    She had found herself migrating from one wet-job to another, and finally settled as a lifeguard in Cottesloe. A job that was supposed to be a stress-free time of lounging on the sand and staring at the ocean meditatively, turned into the most infuriating game of Catch A Dumb Teen Before They Drown Themselves.


    What started as a heart-racing, stressful challenge at first, turned into annoying monotony after she pulled her hundredth suicidally overconfident kid out of the surf. And so she was, chasing another pair of idiots that got sucked away from the beach by a backwash current, and were in the process of paddling in circles on their tiny inflatable dinghy, while slowly inching toward the horizon.


    She swam like the well-maintained and trusty machine she was, the powerful muscles in her shoulders and thighs singing like steel cables under the skin.


    She finally reached the dinghy, which was swaying wildly, as two terrified teenage girls tried to beat the laws of physics by paddling it against the surf.


    ¡°Oi!" she shouted, reaching them, and nearly got hit in the face with a paddle "Stop that! Go left, parallel to the beach!


    ¡°What?! Help us!" one of the girls screamed back.


    ¡°I am trying to help you! Stop trying to fight the surf, go parallel to the shore¡­ " She saw their confused and scared faces "Oh for fuck¡¯s sake, paddle left! I¡¯ll push you!¡±


    ¡°What?!¡±


    ¡°Left you fuckwit! There!" she gestured wildly.


    Finally, the terrified duo got the hint and started paddling across the current and not against it. She grabbed the back of the dinghy and pushed it gently towards the beach so that they would slowly approach the land at an acute angle. Twenty minutes later, her thighs and calves were burning, and they were still not there yet. She saw a pair of her fellow lifeguards jump in and swim towards her to help, but with the backwash being that strong, they were more likely to over-shot instead of reaching her. Where is the damned IRB when you need one?If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    Her thoughts were cut by a blood-curdling scream.


    ¡°Shaaaark! Miss, there¡¯s a shark! In front of us!¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s no bloody shark, it''s just your imagin-"


    There was a bloody shark.


    Candace knew these waters like the back of her hand, and swam with sharks many times. Nine times out of ten, sharks were just big, stupid, harmless lumps with tiny brains, who would nose a swimmer out of curiosity and swim away. You were more likely to drown from the sheer panic caused by encountering one, than die from the shark attacking you.


    And yet, if nine out of ten sharks were harmless, there was the tenth shark to worry about, wasn¡¯t it?


    ¡°Stop paddlin¡¯! Legs up, paddles up, and do not move!¡±


    She took a deep breath, and dove under the dinghy. In the shade of the inflatable, her eyes soon adjusted to the murky blue of her surroundings. And there it was, a big, fat, stripey ''Noah'', twice her length easily. Oh, how she wished it was a white pointer instead, they were huge but docile. Tiger sharks on the other hand were unpredictable idiots who tried to eat everything they could fit in their jaws.


    The shark turned a lazy circle and swam past her, then dove down into the blue darkness.


    Oh oh.


    She did not like this. A shark you cannot see is much worse than one prowling the surface, and their favorite trick was to dive down and then explode upwards, hitting their prey from below like a giant toothy uppercut from Mother Nature.


    She did not think the shark would actually try to eat her or the girls, but it hardly mattered. Its weakest exploratory nibble would tear meat off their bones, and the sheer power of the attack would likely knock her unconscious, and she would drown, leaving the two girls to fend for themselves.


    She had a dive knife sheathed at her strap, but it was ridiculously tiny compared to the size of the damn fish, it would barely tickle it.


    No way to fight off this thing, but maybe distract it? She flattened herself against the bottom of the dinghy, tucked her limbs close, and untied her rescue can. With gentle tugs of the string, she made the can jump and dance over the waves, making a hollow noise easily audible underwater. She did not have to wait long. A striped gray-tan torpedo launched from the darkness and hit the can with such force that she was pulled along before she reacted and released the strap. The shark spat out the can, did a rapid somersault in the water, and rushed straight at her.


    Candace did not have time to react to her imminent death, because at that moment she, the girls,  and the motherfucking shark, vanished in a flash of pain.

 DAY FOUR. HERE BE DRAGONS, UNFORTUNATELY

    My carefully built wigwam was torn apart, its frame sticking out like spokes of a broken umbrella. My sleeping mats were shredded. Entire camp was covered in deep animal footprints impressed in the soggy riverside soil. It was the prints that filled my guts with icy fear. Each one was at least four times as long as my footprint, and shaped like a trident, with deep gauges where the animal¡¯s claws hit the ground on every step. The prints circled the camp, showing that whatever destroyed my shelter kept going back, to it to mangle it some more. Then it meandered the clearing, exploring every nook and bush, but giving a wide berth to the smoldering remnants of the fires, and weirdly enough, the duplication pools. Then the creature must have hopped on the pine jetty as well, looking for me.


    The trunk was covered in curved gashes, as if the animal used its talons to balance itself on it.


    And yes, I thought, these were definitely talons. Huge bird talons. No mammal leaves that kind of weird tracks.


    I remembered such tracks from my childhood, only much much smaller, and belonging to a rooster that harassed me when I was vacationing on my grandparents¡¯ farm. That bird was vicious and murderous beyond all reason, and I did not want to meet its dinosaur-sized cousin. Or maybe it was an actual dinosaur? This place seemed prehistoric, though not that prehistoric. I was pretty sure giant wolverines, ducks, and dinosaurs did not coexist, though every hour in this place eroded my confidence in what I thought I knew about the past.


    Something moved in the bushes and I crouched, with my spear raised to strike, like the caveman I was turning into. How I wish I were an actual caveman, with a cozy cave to hide in, and ancestral knowledge of what lurks in the woods and how to deal with it!


    My lousy spear would be like a toothpick to this creature, if the size of its tracks served as any indication of the size of its actual body. I backed closer to the nearest bonfire, not taking my eyes off the woods, and kneeled to blow at the embers. When a flame appeared, I fed it the remnants of my shelter, until it roared twice my height and filled the air with choking smoke. Soon after, the remaining three bonfires were re-lit, and I was surrounded by flames.


    As I gathered dry reeds to put into the fire, I found a feather. A feather the size of a small sword, with its shaft thicker than my thumb. Whatever dropped it must have been massive, the wolverine I feared earlier would be like a puppy compared to it.


    ¡°What the fuck do I do now?!" I asked myself aloud and immediately regretted it.


    The woods were eerily quiet, so my voice bounced off the trees with a clear echo. If the dinosaur, or giant rooster, or whatever that thing was, skulked anywhere near, it would have heard me. I had to act quickly If I were to survive, standing around paralyzed would not accomplish anything. I duplicated several dozen torches and tied them to the spear shafts, making giant bundles on a stick that could be immediately turned into a ball of flame half a meter across. Not losing sight of the darkness between the trees, I multiplied the spears and stuck them into the ground at a forty-five-degree angle, pointing away from my camp. I surrounded myself completely with a field of sharp stakes, with the only way in, being by jumping over a bonfire.


    I did not bother with recreating the shelter, it would not save me if the creature crossed my fortifications, and at this point, I did not care about the cold or the weather. Not knowing if the beast was a day hunter or nocturnal as well, I decided to keep watch and feed my fires until the next morning. I sat wrapped in the rags of the sleeping mats, eyeing the darkening woods, and hand-spinning thread out of the spider-silk to calm my nerves with mind-numbing work. I forced myself to carefully straighten the strands, one by one, set them parallel, then meticulously twist them into the most uniform thread I could make, then duplicated that thread. Both threads were then unraveled to one-third of their length and painstakingly twisted together. The double thread was also duplicated, twisted with its twin, and so on, until I had a single, unbroken, uniform strand of spider silk easily over a hundred meters long.


    I have spent most of the night spinning thread and it was not until morning that sleep won over fear. My fire burnt down to ashes but no monster came to eat me. As the sun rose, the woods erupted in birdsong. I read it as a sign that the threat was gone, after all, no prey animal would dare peep if a predator was nearby¡­ or at least that''s what I hoped.


    I was so tired and cold that fear took the back seat. I knew I could not be terrorized into inaction because the completely mundane threats of thirst, cold, and hunger would claim me anyway. I re-lit the fires which now sat atop small hills of ashes. I wondered if there was a way to use those ashes for some purpose, but this was an idea for later.


    I ate a few handfuls of berries and even decided to tentatively snack on some reed tips. Surprisingly, they tasted like cucumbers. I did not feel nourished, but the food distracted me from my misery.


    Once again I repeated my mantra. Hummer. Nail. Nail. Hammer. Focus on the obvious, count your options, and organize inventory. I had a ball of silk thread the size of a grapefruit. It took me the whole night to carefully twist it. The thread was immensely strong. No thicker than a bass-guitar string, yet strong enough to support my weight when I tied it over a tree branch and hung from it.


    It was, in fact, so strong that I had trouble cutting through it even with a glass-sharp shard of flint. My mind was racing with possibilities now. I could make ropes. Nets. Clothing. Maybe even a tent out of silk cloth. It would improve my defense if I used it in traps and snares. If it worked for the spider it might just as well work for me.


    My priority however was making clothing. Last night showed that the weather was getting chilly, and even though the cold was not bad enough to kill me on its own, it sapped my energy.


    I needed footwear as well. Walking barefoot would have been fine on a nice sandy beach, but in the woods, it was very much not so. My feet have turned into giant balls of pain, and were covered in sores. None had turned septic yet, but I didn''t want to push my luck. I was not sure I could make shoes, but I thought simple socks or foot wraps would not be out of the question.


    But first I needed to find a way to make actual cloth. In theory, I could make knotted felt out of spider silk, but I was pretty sure it would be stiff as a board.


    A better option was to find a way to weave the cloth. I needed to make something like a loom, while keeping one eye on the forest, to not be murdered by a dinosaur mid-work.


    The problem was, that I had no idea what a weaving loom looked like. I¡¯ve seen some looms in a museum once, but that was ages ago, and I barely remembered what they looked like, let alone how they worked. I never thought it would be useful knowledge. As far as I understood the theory, all I had to do was criss-cross warp and weft threads, which was easier said than done. I tried it last time, but the algae thread simply fell apart. This time I had a much stronger and thinner thread. I multiplied the thread balls until I had a heap half my size.


    Time for weaving experiment number one. I tied four dozen threads to a tree branch at eye level and tried to weave between them. The warps immediately bunched together into a tangled mess.


    Experiment number two, I tied heavy sticks to the bottoms of the warps, to make them taut. I managed to weave several lines of weft, but the result was more like a loose net than actual cloth. Any attempt to pull the weft tighter resulted in the whole thing wrapping around himself. After about an hour of repeated failures, I became quite adept at making what could only be described as primitive fishnet pantyhose, or perhaps a narrow fish trap. But not actual useful fabric.


    Time for experiment number three. I tied together four spearshafts into a rigid frame and staked it to the ground. Wrapped the warp as taut around it as I could, without the shafts snapping. The silk thread was strung so hard I could strum it like a harp. Then, thread by thread, I painstakingly woven the weft over and under the warp.


    After about four hundred eternities, I only managed to weave a thin strip, no wider than my pinkie. This was the most inefficient work known to man!Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.


    Then I slapped my forehead in sudden realization.


    I was thinking in Nails and Hammers, or maybe Warps and Wefts, but I should have also been thinking in Duplicators and Copies! I did not need to try to weave a bedsheet-sized continuous piece in one go. I could very well make a piece of cloth the size of a handkerchief, duplicate it, and sew the pieces together. I did so with strands I needed for the thread after all.


    Faced with a much less frustrating task, I put my best effort into making a square piece of cloth in the corner of the loom. I wove each and every pick of the weft as tightly and precisely as I could, and tied the ends so that it could not unravel. The result was a piece of sturdy white fabric, about two palms in length, which I promptly copied. I made a needle out of a hedgehog quill, and sewn the two copies together, with thick, doubled stitches I tested repeatedly by trying to pull them apart. They would not give, so I doubled the sewn-together pair, stitched the copies, copied those, and then repeated the process until I had a blanket longer and wider than my height. I could not double it any further, because then it would get too big to fit into a duplicator, even when rolled tightly.


    I was so happy with the duplicators I wanted to kiss them, and damn the consequences! They increased the efficiency of my work a hundredfold. Without them, I would have spent at least two or three weeks making enough cloth to cover my body. Thanks to duplication, it took the time from the morning to early noon to go from a ball of thread to an effectively infinite amount of thick, extremely durable silk canvas.


    I wrapped the resulting blanket over a shoulder, like a heavy, thick toga. I felt like a Roman or Greek philosopher of old, though with my dirty bare feet and patchy beard filled with forest detritus, I could at best pretend to be Diogenes The Abnegate.


    Now, how could I turn this giant blanket into any kind of reasonable clothing? It would be easiest to just cut a hole in the middle of it and turn it into a poncho then wrap it around my body, but I was pretty sure that this would be just cumbersome to wear in the woods, and insufficient to protect me from the cold.


    I did not wish for my wife Anna to be stuck here with me, but if were she here, she would know what to do. She''s an excellent seamstress, quite the opposite of me. I have grubby fingers and no spatial imagination for cloth. Being a carpenter by trade, I''m used to thinking in right angles and flat surfaces, not in curves like a tailor should.


    Ultimately though, with an infinite supply of fabric, I could make all clothing so oversized that minor tailoring mistakes would not matter. So instead of trying anything fancy, I just painstakingly cut T-shapes out of cloth and sewn them together into an extra big T-shirt. Pants were much more difficult. At first, I just stenciled the shapes of my legs on the cloth and chopped it out with a broken lump of flint, but the resulting pieces were too narrow. I could never really wrap them around my thighs and crotch. I kept on making the pants wider and wider still, until the fourth iteration of them was as baggy as MC Hammer¡¯s trousers, which at least did not constrict my movement. I could likely do splits in them if I wanted, and of course, if I was not a stiff log of a man barely shy of forty and entirely incapable of such gymnastics.


    I tied the pants with a drawstring and put on the giant tunic. Now, all I needed was some form of footwear.


    Cutting cloth to fit around my foot was extremely frustrating. I could not get the shape right. In the end, I created something similar to a Christmas sock, out of two vaguely L-shaped bits. It was too soft and baggy for a shoe, so I put on several layers of those, one over another, until I could not add more. it turned my feet into giant soft paws, like those of a plush teddy bear. I also created a hood by sewing a bag of fabric directly over my head and neck.


    When I put the whole costume over my body, I could not resist running towards the water to see my reflection. It was a ridiculous sight and for once I was glad that there were no other humans around. My brand-new designer outfit could not survive mockery.


    With all the layers of white canvas on, I looked like a very misshapen snowman, a weirdly husky bedsheet ghost, or perhaps a caricature of a Ku Klux Klan member. But for the first time in days, I was warm, comfortable, and felt like a human being, and not a scared ape.


    At this point, my career as a tailor consumed most of the day. But I was not yet done. I pushed several handfuls of berries into my mouth, immediately spilling purple juice all over my pristine silk shirt. I couldn''t care less, I had two identical shirts already made with the duplicators, and could always make more. I decided to put them on too, as well as a second layer of pants, turning my blousy, ghostly look into that of an overstuffed white couch. Right after soiling my shirt with juice, I laso managed to burn a hole in the cuff of my left pant leg, when I crouched too close to the fire. Apparently, while the spider silk did not rip or cut easily, it caught fire nearly instantly. I decided to be more careful around my bonfires and curb my enthusiasm for weaponizing arson against woodland creatures, lest I turn myself into Human Torch by accident.


    But the misadventure gave me an idea. I returned to the fire, and took a smoldering branch leaking pine tar. I let the flame die down, and scrubbed the still liquid tar over the soles of my plush booties. A few minutes later, when the tar solidified somewhat, the bottom of the booties became stiff and rubbery. I multiplied a lot more of the tar and spread it liberally over them until they became uncomfortably hot and had to remove them before my feet cooked. A dip in the river cooled the tarred boots, and resulted in something resembling the famous Polish rubber-felts, working man¡¯s galoshes. I considered tarring my clothes as well, but I was flammable enough as I was, no reason to become a giant walking wick.


    The last task of the day, before I allowed myself some rest, was to sew a backpack. I had no skill for anything fancy, so I made four rectangular cloth bags and sewed them one into another, making a stiff and sturdy pack to which I later added wide straps.


    I thought about making a silk tent, but my fingers were sore and trembling from the unfamiliar work, and frankly, If I were to make another stitch that day, I would have fainted out of sheer boredom. Instead, I decided to multiply a dozen blankets and burrow in the heap of cloth like a hibernating badger. ¡®Do badgers even hibernate?¡¯ I thought. With my luck, the badgers of this place were the size of a pony, did not sleep at all, and prowled the night hungry for human flesh.


    My last act before sleep was a victorious feast. I could not even look at another berry, after three days I had enough of them for a lifetime. But I already munched on several bulrush tips, and haven''t got ill. I gathered some, multiplied them until I had a thick bunch, and roasted them over the fire. Once cooked, they tasted a little bit like grilled asparagus, or so I told myself. It was definitely, ah, an acquired taste. I hadn''t acquired it yet at that point, but my hungry stomach easily outvoted my delicate palate.


    A water rat scurried across my camp. I tossed one of my reed asparagus at it, but the ungrateful bastard did not eat it.


    Seemingly, the smaller creatures grew accustomed to my presence. Maybe I could try to hunt? Or set snares? I had no idea how to do either, the only kind of hunting I ever tried was that with a camera. I did not kid myself that I could survive on a vegetarian diet and an occasional mollusk alone. This place looked like it belonged to the Northern Hemisphere, likely at least as far North as my version of Poland was. I could not count on any edible fruit once the cranberries went out of season, and besides, how do I tell edible fruit from poisonous ones? Cranberries, blackberries, blueberries raspberries, wild strawberries, those I could recognize, but every other berry was a mystery to me. And when it comes to berries, as far as I remembered from my Boy Scout days, unknown means poisonous, or at least diarrhetic, unless proven otherwise.


    With a full belly and wrapped in more blankets than I ever owned, I laid down and stared at the darkening sky. The previous night was overcast, but on this one the sky was crystal clear and an abyss of stars. I have trekked through wilderness many times in my life, but only In this strange world, I could see the firmaments so clearly. There was something both terrifying and magical about it, as if at any moment I would fall into the sky and keep flying towards infinity.


    Was my home, my Earth somewhere in there? Was I somehow stranded in the past? Another planet? Another universe entirely? I had my mantra of simplicity and pragmatism, but that night, I decided I would find the time every day to ponder my predicament and try to find an answer to this mystery. I did not kid myself I would ever go back, that would be two cosmically unlikely events in a row. But I wanted to know the how, if not the why, of the situation.


    Oh, and the who, question if possible. I had a suspicion that some sapient, malevolent force did this, it was just too damn convenient that I was teleported to another Earth, not say, interstellar space. It seemed purposeful, even if the purpose was illogical or horrific. I promised the Pine Guy I would find the person responsible and kick them in the balls, and I intended to keep that promise.

 MIGUEL (I). COOKING METHODS AND MEDIUM RARE POLICEMEN

    Miguel was on the verge of tears. The banging on the door was getting louder and louder until the PFA storming his house lost their patience. The next sound was not the angry rap of fists and shouts of the Agentes, for they decided to play nice no longer, but a thundering boom that informed Miguel that they had blasted the door open and stormed inside.


    He ran for the basement, moving with a speed that surprised even himself. He was beyond certain that the merchandise could not be salvaged. It was too late. He flung the hatch open, and ignoring the ladder just jumped in, his girth almost making him stuck in the opening. He landed badly on his ankle and limped towards the lab. All this precious equipment that made him a moderately rich man for the last four years, would alone be his life sentence if he did not get rid of it, never mind the fifty neatly packed bags of meth already stored for sale. He¡¯d rather torch it all than let the Policia find it, his prison time was already going to be in the upper double digits without it.


    Hands shaking with desperation, he opened a five-gallon pail of acetone and threw it onto a bench. The whole place was splashed. His lungs immediately burned and his eyes felt as if they were on fire, but he did not care. He kicked several random pails blindly, hoping the spilled chemicals would add to a pretty combustible cocktail, and ran back towards the hatch.


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    Just before climbing up the ladder, he turned around, lit a match, and tossed it towards the fumes. The pool next to his feet ignited, but lazily. He did not waste time and climbed as fast as he could. He burst out of the hatch, and barely crossed half of the hallway when his path crossed with that of an armed and armor-clad officer of the Special Group of The Argentine Federal Police.


    "Stop!", shouted the cop, but Miguel turned around with adrenaline-fuelled grace and leaped back towards the hatch.


    "Stop! On the floor!", shouted the officer again, and this time Miguel pretended to comply. He tossed himself forward so that his outstretched fingers reached the edge of the hatch. With the last of his strength, he pulled himself towards the hole and half-fell into the basement, when the cop slammed a knee into his kidney and grabbed him by the collar.


    "Motherfucker! Stop running! You are under ar¡­" the officer¡¯s words and Miguel¡¯s anguished cry of pain choked in their mouths as an ominous whoosh sound came from deep in the basement, followed by a bright yellow fireball. ¡°Oh.", was the last of Miguel¡¯s thoughts. "The flames must have reached the red phosphorus on the top shelf¡­¡±


    Approximately half of a second later both Miguel ¡°Gordo¡± Aguirre, a formerly successful meth-cooking chemist, and Raul Martinez, a rising star of the Grupo Especial de Operaciones Federales, were destroyed in an event that was barely registered by their minds.

 DAY FIVE…OR SIX? STURM UND DRANG

    DAY FIVE¡­OR SIX? STURM UND DRANG


    I would like to impress upon you, that unless you live in Bangladesh or something, you almost certainly never experienced a true rainstorm. Neither did I, before the fifth day of being marooned in this strange reality.


    Blissful and happy, I fell asleep staring at a clear night sky. I could not possibly imagined the weather changing, there was not a single cloud in sight.


    Oh, how wrong I was.


    It was early in the morning, when the first drops hit my face, gently waking me up to lull me into a false sense of safety. I yawned and stretched, ignoring the pleasant morning drizzle. I stood up and strolled towards the river when a gust of wind hit me in the chest with the force of a wrecking ball. I staggered and fell on my butt, which saved my face, because the same gust tore up every loose leaf, reed tip, stick, and piece of debris and turned it into a projectile. I raised, shielding my eyes, and saw what appeared to be a mountain range racing towards me over the river.


    Do tsunami waves happen inland? Because it sure looked like one. The flying mountain range turned out to be a wall of rainfall so heavy and powerful it seemed like a mobile waterfall, because the rain was so thick it did not seem to leave any space for air between the droplets.


    The blast hit me so hard, I had to hunch down to take it. The wind kept undulating wildly, slamming my clearing over and over with a near-horizontal stream of rain. Trees around me creaked, and another lonely pine fell, mercifully away from my camp. Every piece of silk I created, except those attached to my body, got blasted off the clearing and disappeared in the woods. Wind turned my bonfires into rolling fireballs briefly, before the oppressive waterjet from the sky extinguished them.


    The duplication pools were a sight to behold. As rain and wind forced their way into one of them, a doubled burst of water and air came from the other. The two streams arced up and fell back into the pools, duplicating exponentially, until the whole thing turned into an unholy combination of a geyser and a tornado, taller than the biggest trees in sight.


    ¡°What, in the fucking fuck!" I yelled at the sky, but my shouts were completely drowned in the roar of the wind, and a thunder that boomed right after.


    A bushbird erupted from the reeds, picking that very moment to escape the madness, but a powerful gust made it fly sideways, to the complete astonishment of both the bird and me. The poor thing crashed into an alder tree, and rising, gave me a terrified look. For one second we stood like this, a wild avian and a formerly civilized human, sharing this bewildering moment, and we both bolted into the woods. The bird cut a straight path through the bushes, and I followed, reasoning that I had no idea where to hide from the storm, but the bird just might. I covered my eyes and slammed head-first into shrubs and brambles, counting on the several layers of thick silk canvas to protect me.


    I was determined not to lose sight of the bushbird, luckily, it was a colorful male with bright, amber-and-green tail feathers. I chased it until my lungs burned, and barely managed a sharp turn on the wet soil when the bird cut right and found an opening of the ravine. I followed, and ran knees deep into a gushing river.


    Right. I was banking on the bird to be the reasonable one, yet it ran straight into a small canyon that was becoming the storm drain for the entire woods. The only better place to drown was in the middle of the big river I just ran away from.


    The bird flew over the rolling water and disappeared under the roots of a nearby pine. I backed off to the opposite ravine wall, and found shelter under a fallen oak. At least, there was not much of a chance another one of the nearby trees would be toppled by the water undercutting its roots, as all those that could have fallen were already down. I was completely soaked through as if I dove into the river. Shivering from the cold and the fear, I curled into a ball and bit on my sleeves to stop myself from crying in sheer grief. As I watched the water rush by, a ball of spikes bobbed on the waves and caught on the roots of my tree. Instinctively, I rushed out of my shelter and grabbed it, before the wash took it. It was one of the hedgehogs. I tossed it onto the clay wall and it stuck in there like a burdock burr, hopefully out of danger.


    Every few seconds lightning would strike, and in the momentary flashes, I could see a glimpse of the madness around me.


    Up the ravine, another tree was toppled by the wind. I saw countless small creatures fighting the waves and losing the battle. Something big, and vaguely ungulate, washed down the stream, kicking and whining. Minutes turned to hours. The wind calmed down to less than apocalyptic levels, but the rain became even more oppressive. The stresm became a wild river, filling the gulch from one wall to another. I was effectively trapped. If I moved from my burrow under the oak, I would fall into a waterjet and disappear like the unfortunate creatures before me.


    The day, however, decided to become even more interesting.


    Between the roar of the rain and the blasts of thunder, I had not noticed the heavy steps, until they were right above me. Something really heavy stepped onto the rotten oak log, making my burrow sag a little and threaten to collapse on me. Then the newcomer hopped off, and crossed the wild stream in a single leap, landing with a heavy thud. As on cue, a lightning strike illuminated the woods, and I saw my greatest nightmare and my future arch-enemy in its full grace.


    It was a bird, that I could be sure of. It was easily twice as tall as I was, and massive. It had powerful, trunk-like legs, with oversized thigh muscles that promised a hell of a kick, and wicked talons longer than my forearm. In the split-second glimpses of light, I saw it was covered in short, gray feathers, almost like fur, but the stubs of its wings and the crest of its head were tipped with sword-like white plumage, the exact kind I found in my demolished camp.


    Mercifully, it stood with its back to me, but as it scanned its surroundings I saw a red and yellow beak longer than my arm, ending in a wicked, curved tip.


    I held my breath and tried to meld in one with the clay wall. Luckily, the monster did not turn around, but moved along the stream and disappeared in the green. Not bothered by the storm, it likely sought the opportunity to catch the washed-out animals where the stream fell into the river. I had a nasty suspicion that it would not be as merciful as the wolverine was. Had it seen me, I would be dead in seconds. How do I even fight this thing if it ever comes back? The wolverine, I could at least kid myself that if it came to the worst, I could fend it off with a spear, or scare it with a torch. This thing? It would be like fighting a carnivorous backhoe. Spears? I would need a damned catapult, to even hope to injure this thing.


    ¡®Lucky me,¡¯ I smirked to myself mirthlessly. I maybe was a shitty survivalist, hunter, gatherer, weaver, tailor, and fire-starter, but I had the exact particular set of skills to build a catapult if I really needed to. That was if I did not drown, die of exposure, or get eaten before my siege artillery was finished.


    The following hours were mercifully dull, as the terror bird did not return, and no other prehistoric monsters came by my hiding hole. As the rain calmed to more reasonable levels, the stream running the width of the ravine was reduced back to a relatively harmless trickle. The hedgehog I rescued crawled down from the perch I forced it onto, and trudged away, inspiring me to do the same. I considered trekking up the ravine and climbing out of it near the place where I found the orb-weaver spiders and their silk, but my hopes were soon dashed. The walls of the ravine became slick with wet clay and completely unscalable. If I went there, I would trap myself in a one-way street, and become easy pickings for any monster that followed me. The only viable option was to go downstream and cut left once I reached the thickets that framed the riverbank. The problem, of course, was that the Rooster From Hell went that way, and could very well be still around. I had no fire, and no spear, not that it would do me any good.


    I had to use my rather unimpressive skill of stealth to sculk around the bushes, and hope the terror bird hunted by sight. Just to be extra sure, I rolled in the mud, to cover my bright silk in mustard-colored mud, which I hoped would make me less conspicuous, and mask my scent too. The noise of my prancing around the bushes was covered by the buzz of the rainfall hitting the canopy.


    I half-ran, half-belly crawled towards the thickets. I felt safer there, the greenery here was so thick with bushes, saplings, and brambles that the bird could never chase me into it, being much too big to squeeze between the obstacles.


    I kept crawling forward, stopping at any suspicious sound that broke through the noise of the rain. At some point, I noticed my hands and knees were red with blood. Frantically, I patted myself looking for serious wounds, but all I found were minor scratches. The blood was not mine, and I soon found its source.


    Looking for a path through the bushes, I unknowingly picked one already carved through by a large, wounded animal, that left a bloody trail in its wake. It went all the way to the edge of the river, where brambles gave way to the field of reeds, and collapsed there. I carefully approached to inspect it, ready to bolt if it rushed me.


    It was a young elk, or perhaps some prehistoric species of deer. It was seventy, maybe eighty kilograms, and likely a juvenile. It was certainly not going to grow any older though, as it had a giant hole in its side, as if some powerful force cleaved off a big piece of its shoulder, a chunk of its right-side ribcage, and enough of its stomach to spill its guts. Incredibly, the animal was still alive, wheezing its last harrowed breaths through the gusts of foamy blood spilling from its mouth and nostrils.


    It must have been the creature I saw being washed down the runoff stream. It likely landed half-drowned and confused right where the terrorbird or another predator was already waiting for it. Somehow the calf managed to escape the carnivore¡¯s initial strike and ran to safety, only to bleed out here.This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.


    It could have been me. If not for the confusing lightshow of the storm, the giant bird could have very well found me and bitten off a chunk from my ribcage instead. I felt sorry for the elk calf. What an awful, awful way to die. It must have sensed me, because it started kicking the ground feebly, its strength running out with its blood. It bleated wetly, spewing crimson.


    It was probably a bad idea to be anywhere near it, as the smell of blood and the noise the calf was making could attract predators. But I could not just leave the poor creature to suffer an agonizing death of slowly drowning in its own blood.


    I had to end its misery, yet I had no weapon, not even a big rock to smash its head with.


    But I had a bit of thin silk rope I used for a belt. It was the strongest fiber on this Earth. I took it off and wrapped the ends tightly over my hands, and as the elk reared its head in fear, I looped it over its neck and pulled with all my strength. The animal started trashing, with the last sliver of life it had in it, but I stomped on its neck and pulled even harder, twisting the rope. In a dozen seconds, the trashing stopped and the creature fell still.


    I kept the loop on for about a minute to make sure. Then, I gently took the garrote off its neck and tied it around my waist again. Then I sighed with relief.


    And then, because the adrenaline and the shock of the realization of what I had just done had to go somewhere, I retched drily, heaving and crying, until I was calm again.


    It was just an elk, I thought to myself. Just an animal, no different from the pigs and cows I used to eat in my old life, except I never had to kill them personally. It was dying anyway. Knowing all this did not help at all. It just filled me with grim, irrational anger. I was angry at this fucking world, the evil incarnate of the terrorbird, and the sheer injustice of being forced to mercy-kill an innocent creature.


    I grabbed the calf by the hind legs, determined to drag it to my camp. Rage made me careless, I was adamant to deny the beast its meal. I was forced to kill the calf, so I was going to claim it, and the bird could kindly fuck off. The dinosaur-killing catapult was already half-designed in my mind, and I saw myself dining on a turkey leg the size of my whole body.


    Reality, however, tends to ignore our righteous feelings in favor of Newtonian physics. Before I dragged the gutted elk halfway to my camp, I nearly collapsed from exhaustion. Carrying that much weight would be a minor challenge by itself, even for a much stronger man, but dragging it through a labyrinth of thorny vines and knee-deep mud was much harder.


    Even though I have never been seen inside a gym, I always considered myself a relatively fit man. A physically demanding job in the trades and occasional hiking trips kept me spry for a man under forty, at least that was what I told myself. Less than a week of living like a caveman completely disabused me of that notion. I was weaker, slower, and clumsier than the beasts of the wilderness, or any hunter-gatherer who could survive here on their strengths alone. I needed to stop trying to think like a wild man whom I could never match physically, and instead approach it like a civilized guy I was. Use my brain, not my brawn.


    I dropped my bounty and jogged towards my camp, or what was left of it. The duplication pools still acted like a novelty fountain, though the geyser died down to firehose levels. I ran around the clearing and found one of my spears, as well as a spool of silk thread that got tangled in the branches of a nearby tree.


    I carefully approached the duplicators, crouched low to avoid backlash, and tossed the spear into one of the duplicators. Two spears shot up toward the sky, one fell nearby, embedding itself in the ground a few steps from me, and the other plopped into the river. I repeated the process several times, dodging falling projectiles. Tying several spears together, I created something like a travois with a stiff frame, and loops to put over my shoulders. With two spare spears in hand, to act like walking sticks, I went back to the calf and loaded it on the drag-frame. It was an unpleasant job, to say the least, for the creature¡¯s guts spilled out earlier on, and entangled themselves with the bramble vines. I had to go back for a flint shard to cut them loose and ended up eviscerating the calf completely, so that the smelly, torn intestines would not spill all over my camp.


    I was elbows deep into its belly, when I heard a loud sniffing noise, followed by a cooing chirp, that sounded like a question. Without making any sudden moves, I lifted my head, and locked eyes with my friend, Logan, the wolverine carrion aficionado. I was sure it was the same beast, it had an irregular pale patch on its throat and a floppy left ear. I remembered it all too well from watching it devour a human corpse. It emerged from the bushes and made that chirpy noise again, that would sound adorable if it did not come from a nightmarish toothed maw.


    It slowly toddled towards me, its clumsy gait masking incredible strength and speed. I was, at this point, covered in gore, and crouching over a fresh kill, as enticing to a predator as I could be. There was no way we could solve this without a fight. I stood up, and spread my arms to look as big as possible. My oversized tunic spread like wings and billowed in the wind, making me even bigger.


    ¡°Hey! Fuck off!" I yelled at it. The wolverine halted, flattened its ears not unlike a cat, and snarled at me.


    ¡°WRAAAAHHH!! "I roared back, giving it my best impression of an angry ape-man. Incredibly, it made Logan back off so fast it fell on its rump, though a few seconds later it decided to approach again, growling menacingly, as if embarrassed by its previous display of fear.


    I had no choice but to ramp up the aggression. I had no intention to let the wolverine steal my kill, not after everything that happened that day. And even if I did let it take the calf, I had no reason to believe it would not chase me down this time and kill me as well. I was covered in blood, smelled deliciously, and it already tasted human meat. I had no place to hide from it, and no fire to scare it away. My fight-or-flight instinct was in maximum overdrive, but I was completely out of flight options.


    I went completely apeshit. Roaring, stomping, slamming the spears on the ground and over the carcass until sprays of blood and mud shot up. I snarled and bared my teeth like a maniac. If it were a haka competition I would surely have won. Logan suddenly jumped to the side, and made a move, as if to flank me, and that was the last straw. Abandoning all caution, I attacked, and threw one spear at it with all my strength. Not like a javelin, for it had no point to speak of, but like a giant boomerang, with a powerful overhand toss.


    Amazingly, the wildly spinning spear struck it in the ear with enough force that it bounced off its head and disappeared in the bushes. The wolverine yelped in pain and backed off, rubbing its injury with a front paw.


    ¡°Hurts, ain''t it?! You want more?! I have another spear!" I brandished it as if to throw it as well. Logan learned fast, it leaped away and crouched low to the ground, growling quietly.


    I had the advantage and needed to milk it dry before I ran out of luck. I ducked quickly, grabbed a handful of mud, and tossed it at my enemy. It splashed harmlessly against its fur, but it seemed too much for the creature''s nerves, it scampered back into the brambles. I could still see it there though, two amber pinpoints of its eyes glowering angrily at me from the darkness under the bushes. It did not run away as I hoped, it just retreated to strike again at a more opportune moment, probably the second my back was turned.


    I could not believe my luck. All the fight went out of me, and I felt like I would faint at any moment. I strapped the travois to my chest, and with the spear raised to strike, I walked backward, not taking my eyes off the wolverine. Before leaving, I picked some of the viscera with the tip of my spear and tossed it into the bushes.


    A peace offering. I would not have eaten the guts anyway, and hoped the gift would distract the wolverine from further pursuit.


    Between the fear, adrenaline, the cold, and the fatigue, the walk back to my camp felt like an eternity. I dragged the travois up to the duplication pools so that the diminishing fountain coming from them would wash off the grime off the carcass. I duplicated my spear several times to have more projectiles in case the wolverine decided to follow me, but it seemed to have given up, or maybe was preoccupied with the spilled intestines.


    I needed to start a fire, but how? The rain was dying down, but the entire clearing was covered in ankle-deep water, and there was not a single dry stick in sight. I searched through the nearby bushes and found one of the silk blankets. I tried to duplicate it but first had to smother the fountain coming off the stump. I covered one of the duplicators with the blanket and held onto it for dear life, to prevent the stream from falling back from one duplicator to another and feeding itself exponentially. Within minutes, the waterjet died, and for the first time in many hours, it was finally quiet.


    I wrung the blanket, copied it several times, and used it with the spears to make a small tent. With enough layers, the silk stopped the rain. I was still wet and cold, but at least I was not getting any wetter.


    I needed fire, but everything was soaked! I found some of my firesticks, but all were wet and useless. I had to use a flint chip to carve away the surface of a stick, until I found the dry interior. I also found some dry punked wood in a hollow of a nearby willow, and cradled it under my shirt to cover it from the rain and moisture.


    I could not duplicate the tinder or the wood, because the duplicators still belched droplets of moisture, no matter how well I covered them. I had to work with what was at hand. Nearly an hour later, I managed to start a tiny bonfire, but it was eating my reserves of dry wood rapidly, and adding wet wood almost smothered it. Wet wood was useless, and so were bits of wet charcoal.


    But I knew one thing that burned well when wet. I ran towards the dead calf and dug into its belly. Right below the hide, it had a thin layer of fat. I carved a strip and wrapped it over a stick. When I put the stick over my quickly diminishing fire, the fat started melting and dripping flammable gloop that quickly caught on fire. The lard burned so hot even the soaking wet wood easily ignited from it. Soon, my fire roared so high it threatened to burn down my dinky tent, and the whole camp smelled deliciously of venison bacon. I ran out again, salivating like a dog, and dragged the calf closer to the tent. Took the biggest shard of flint I could find, and haphazardly carved a big chunk of meat across the flank and tenderloin, prying the meat off with the spear where I could not carve it out.


    Soon, a ragged steak four times the size of my palm was sizzling over the fire, fueling it further. The tent was filled with smoke to the point it threatened to turn me into a smoked ham alongside my roast, but I did not care. My eyes teared up equally from the smoke and the sheer joy of the meal before me. I dug my teeth into a still sizzlingly hot chunk of meat and wolfed it down in a way that would disgust the wolverine.


    Satiated and warm, I felt my spirits rise. I¡¯ve survived a hyperboreal hurricane, hid from a beaked dinosaur, rescued a helpless animal, and ended the suffering of another. I¡¯ve beaten a wolverine bigger than me in a fight, and scared the shit out of it. Finally, I started a fire in the middle of a rainstorm, and roasted myself a delicious meal. Maybe I was not a badass, I thought to myself, but I felt calling myself a relatively-capable-ass was acceptable.


    I had to up my game, and no longer just react to what nature threw at me. I had my wits, the wonderful duplicators, and the element of surprise on my side. I was not a helpless child, but a dangerous agent of civilization that this wilderness had no answer to. I had technology on my side. And technology is more deadly than any claw or fang. I sat, chewing venison with angry gusto, and plotting how to drag this world, kicking and screaming, into the Anthropocene.

 CANDACE (II). THE FISH-SCENTED AMAZON

    A split second ago, she was hovering underwater, with the jaws of death rocketing towards her. Instant later, she found herself tumbling down from the sky. Her world spun wildly, with the blue of the sky and the green below her rapidly switching places. Her whole body was shot with incredible pain, and yet her mind managed to perceive the sheer absurdity of the scene. The sky, the woods, and even the goddamn shark tumbling through the air beside her, certainly as shocked by this development as she was. She hit the canopy, breaking through thin branches, and by sheer luck fell butt-first onto a soft mossy knoll, crashing through it and into the mire below. The pain caused her to black out, but before fainting she managed to hear two additional thuds and a loud crash.


    She awoke a few minutes later to the sound of shrieking teens. Body shaking, she rose from the stinking water. She hurt all over, as if she had a full body cramp or were electrocuted. She frantically checked herself for injuries, but the only damage she noticed was a shallow gash on her stomach, likely caused by a branch she fell on.


    The screams grew louder, and she fought through a massive headache to focus her eyes and scan her surroundings. She saw the teens, and froze. The younger girl stood not far from her, screaming her head off, in a language Candace could not recognize. The older girl was sprawled on the ground under a massive tree, shaking and heaving in agony, her left leg bent sideways at the knee.


    The true problem, however, was a half-ton shark hanging right above her, its massive body suspended on branches that it got impaled on. The shark thrashed, snapping its jaws in silent, pain-induced rage, and bled all over the girl and the swampy ground. With every swing of its massive tail, the branches holding it creaked, and threatened to give in. If it fell on the girl, she would be killed by its sheer mass, never mind its bite.


    She leaped towards the girls, fighting each step as her feet got sucked deep into the swampy muck. Her sudden movement caused the shark to panic, and it fell two meters lower, as the branches snapped. Now it hung only an arm-length above the girl. Candace dove for the teen, grabbed her and rolled in one motion, as the giant fish slammed maw-first into the very place where she was a second ago. It fell sideways, and in its death throes slapped Candace with its tail, sending her flying. She bounced off the trunk of the three with enough force to get dizzy, and fell on her knees. The giant striped mass rolled towards her, and onto the injured girl who uttered her last scream and fainted. Candace sprung like a steel piston and hit the fish with her shoulder, trying as hard as she could to stop it from crushing its hapless victim.


    ¡°Pull her out!" she yelled to the other girl. "Pull, now!" The younger teen woke up from her hysterical stupor and did as told, grabbing her sister¡¯s arms. The shark trashed again, an undulating shake of a dying fish, and Candace chose the moment it swayed to push at it with all her strength.


    For a moment, the enormous weight of the shark fell on her shoulder and she felt like her spine was going to snap, but she just tensed her muscles harder in adrenaline-fueled desperation, and it rolled off the girl. Before it could roll back, she pushed her away with a foot, putting her out of danger. This however, put her directly under the falling head of the shark, which pinned her hand to the ground with, and snapped its jaws right beside her face.


    Her fear was replaced by animalistic rage. She grabbed a piece of a broken branch sticking out of the creature¡¯s gills, and stabbed it right back with vengeance. She stabbed, and stabbed again, turning the gills into bloody mince. Finally, she rammed the stake into the shark¡¯s beady black eye. She had no strength left, but neither did the shark. it was no longer trashing, just laid there, its maw closing and opening as if biting the air it could not breathe. She fell on her back, panting.


    ¡°Jesus. Fucking. Christ," she muttered, exhausted. "Child, help get that bloody thing off me.¡±


    The girl approached the shark cautiously, but mid-step something changed in her, and she gave it a violent kick in the gut.


    ¡°Oi! Stop that, I beat it¡¯s arse, it''s dead. Just push at the fin, will ya? I will try to pull my arm out from under it.¡±


    The good news was, that her arm was not crushed, or even broken. The bad news, her wrist was probably sprained, and she did not remember her fingers bending in such a funny way before. But with effort, and clenching her teeth through pain, she could make a fist and move her fingers. She took that opportunity to flip a bird at the dead shark.


    ¡°How¡¯s your sis?" She asked the teenager, who immediately went from adrenaline-ruddy to terrified pale. They both crouched over the prone body of the older girl.


    She was breathing, and her heartbeat was even and sound to Candace¡¯s estimation, but she remained unconscious. Her leg was in bad shape. The knee bent almost completely sideways, and the joint was a swollen mess that started to turn red from the internal bruising. ''Defo rooted'', she thought. Not beyond repair, but her long experience with sports injuries taught her an injury like that will make the girl immobile for weeks, if not months.


    ¡°Kid, you now listen to me closely. We need to do something while your sis is still unconscious. You grab her tight. Put a stick between her teeth. Hold her down, so she won¡¯t buck.¡±


    She waited for the girl to do as told, and psyched herself up. She was no stranger to pain, but hurting someone else was a different challenge altogether. She straddled the prone girl''s pelvis, and examined her knee. The girl buckled and yelped in pain, suddenly awake, but they held her down. Candace pushed her fingers into the swelling, and felt that the joint was dislocated, but not shattered, at least she did not feel any broken lumps in there. She grabbed the leg by the calf,  her one injured hand protesting, and, with a fluid motion set the popped joint back into the proper place.


    The girl immediately shot up, nearly buckling her off, bit through the stick in her teeth, and ushered an ear-splitting shriek. The warmth running down their legs informed Candace that the girl also pissed herself, but she had no strength left to be annoyed by that. She fell off the crying teen, and curled into a ball herself. For a while, the only sound around was the sobbing of the three women, and the song of swamp birds, oblivious to the horror under the canopy.


    ¡°Miss? Where are we? Why we in forest?" called the younger girl. Only now did Candace notice her strange accent. Was it Russian? Slavic, definitely.


    ¡°I¡­uh¡­ bloody Hell kid, I have no idea.¡±


    Only now, when the danger was gone, did she notice how impossible the situation was. Barely a few minutes ago, they were splashing in the ocean, almost two hundred meters off shore. Now, they were deep in the woods, or to be precise,  an overgrown swamp, with no ocean in sight.


    Worse, this did not look at all like Australian wetlands. Candace was no botanist, but the trees and the shrubs were completely wrong.


    And why were the three of them nuddy as newborns? She could think of several scenarios where unconscious young women are kidnapped, stripped naked, and dumped in the woods, and none of them were optimistic thoughts. However, none of those scenarios explained how five hundred kilos of stripey ''Noah'' ended up there with them. Nor why they fell from about two stories high crashing through treetops.


    ''So'', she thought, ''we are not kidnapped by some rapists or human traffickers, I can cross that off the list of possible dangers. It''s just a matter of being inexplicably stranded in the woods, with a sprained wrist, two hysterical kids, and a dead shark for company. Fucking excellent.''


    She stood up, grunting in pain. Trying to shoulder-press a shark did a number on her back. Looking around made her even more confused than she was before. They were nowhere near Perth, or likely anywhere in Australia. For one, the tree she stood next to was a giant gnarly oak, the likes of which certainly did not grow in the Australian wilderness. Maybe there were some planted in parks, but none would be as thick and ancient-looking as this one. And they weren¡¯t in a bloody park, that was sure!


    Only then she noticed that the girls were shivering, and huddling together. She felt the shivers as well, but just chalked it up to post-traumatic stress.  Less than an hour ago, she was baking in the sun on a beach so heated the sand could roast your feet. But in these woods, the temperature was maybe a third of that, if not less.


    They needed to move and look for help. Being stuck in a cold swamp, knees deep in water, was not good for anyone¡¯s health.


    ¡°Kids, I have no clue where we are, or why we are here. I''m just as confused as you are. But we need to move. We stay here, wet, cold, in the dark, and we''ll get hypothermia so bad our arses will fall right off. ¡°


    ¡°But Miss! "protested the younger girl, "This emergency!" she paused, looking for words in unfamiliar language. "We learn in school, when emergency, stay and call for help. Not move. Rescue come. Politsiya? Police? We call Police!¡±


    ¡°Lassie, do you maybe have a mobile stashed up your cooch? I know I don¡¯t! We can''t call anybody if we have no damn phones on us! Nobody is coming for us. Nobody knows where we are. Hell, we do not know where we are, and we sure are not anywhere close to where we met. Does that look like Cottesloe Beach to ya?" she gestured around and felt anger rise in her, but seeing the girl shrink under her gaze, and on the verge of tears, she curbed it.


    ¡°Im sorry!" the girl said, scared but adamant. "how we go? Sveta¡­ with her bad leg. Not walk.¡±


    Candace exhaled and rubbed her nose in exasperation. She was not what one would call a people-person, and she hated teens in particular. Empathy was not her strongest suit. Which, she thought, might have been one of the reasons her career as a coach never took off.


    ¡°Fine. I¡¯ll carry your sis. But you need to help me. And we need to find a sturdy walking stick to test the ground with. I don¡¯t want to walk straight into a sinkhole.¡±


    Trying to load a semi-conscious and lamed girl on her back was easier said than done. Finally, they grabbed her underarm on both sides, and limped forward like a five-legged animal. On the way, Candace found a sapling she turned into a long pole to feel the swamp in front of her. Various slithering creatures fled their wake, and she tried hard not to think what they were stepping on. Or, in fact, where they are going, other than away from water.


    The lamed girl moaned and seemed to become more lucid. She tensed her muscles every time her injured leg brushed the undergrowth, which was with almost every step.


    ¡°Thank you, Miss. You saved us," muttered the girl through pain-clenched teeth.


    ¡°No worries. And don¡¯t thank me yet, I have no idea what I''m doing. We ain¡¯t saved, til we''re found by some people in uniforms. Or find a road. Fuck, finding some trash, a stray candy wrapper or a frothy can would at least show us that there are humans around. This place is too bloody pristine for my taste."


    She saw the girl¡¯s face go pale. "Soo, what is your name... Sweetie?", she changed the subject quickly.


    ¡°It¡¯s Sveta. Svetlana. And my sister is Natasha. We call her Nata.¡±


    ¡°You girl¡¯s Russian?" she asked, to keep the distracting conversation rolling, as she scanned the wilderness for the least dangerous path.


    ¡°We are half-Russian. Our Papa is Russian, Mama is Moldovan.¡±


    ¡°So what were you two doing off the shore of Perth? Quite a paddlin¡¯ from Russia I gather."


    The joke fell flat on Nata, but Sveta grinned.


    ¡°Our Papa is a big businessman, shipping industry. Was working on a deal in Perth. Told us it is a family vacation and we must go as well. He was busy, and Mama went to do some shooting, so we decided to stay in the hotel by the beach.¡±


    ¡°Mama went shooting? She¡¯s an assassin or something? A big game hunter?" Candace was quickly running out of corny jokes, but it seemed to be working.


    ¡°Noo," Sveta laughed." She is a model. Was a model. Maybe is, again? You never know with Mama. She was swimsuit model before she met Papa. Now she wants to be classy model, for big modeling house. Papa say it is too late for her. She is an older woman, like you Miss.¡±Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.


    Candace resisted the temptation to slam the girl face-first in the mud and hold her there until the bubbles ceased coming out. Her? Older woman?! That rude little fuckwit¡­ She was barely thirty-five, and looked no older than twenty-nine, at least according to the lads at the pub. She had the body of a goddess, though she would be first to admit she was much closer to a muscular Athena than a curvy Venus. Though, to the girl¡¯s defense, she and her sister were a pair of ridiculously cute blonde Barbie dolls straight out of a schoolboy¡¯s wank fantasy, so compared to them she must have looked like an ancient mannish hag.


    ¡°soo, Yous Daddy rich? Some kinda Ruskie Oligarch, or a business genius?" she switched the subject, but not without a sarcastic barb.


    ¡°Noo, Mama is business genius. Pappa is¡­ what the word¡­ work-a-holic?¡±


    ¡°Whatcha mean?¡±


    ¡°It is like this, Miss," the girl grinned mischievously. "Papa work very hard twenty years to be millionaire. Mama met Papa on date, work only one night to be millionaire girlfriend, then millionaire wife. Who better business genius?¡±


    Candace snorted a hearty laugh, scaring a flock of tiny birds from a nearby branch. She could appreciate healthy cynicism in young women, it made her more hopeful for the future of womanity. Maybe these two were not as stupid as they seemed.


    ¡°I guess ya right. What do you think, Blondie Number Two? Your Mum¡¯s the real mastermind?" she asked Nata, who seemed to be coming off the initial adrenaline high, and looked more and more distracted and tired as they trudged on.


    ¡°Mama¡­,¡± she searched for words. "tricky-smart, not smart? " she ran out of English and looked at her sister.


    ¡°Nata want to say Mama is clever but not very smart. Make big plans, manipulate, but no success in the end?" Sveta said, seemingly not comfortable with this line of questioning.


    ¡° Oh, I know the type," said Candace. "Trust me girls, I''m the exact opposite. I make the least clever plans and work like a maniac to accomplish them. Like, do you see that hill on the horizon? My genius plan is to drag you two there, climb on top of it, and shout at the sky until someone finds us. Piece¡¯a¡¯piss, it''s only maybe ten or twelve kilometers from here, through treacherous wetlands. We¡¯ll get there in no time.¡±


    It was not, however, as easy as Candace tried to make them believe. They only managed to cross another two or three klicks before Nata was completely winded and Sveta turned pale and started shaking. Walking like that kept aggravating her injured leg whenever they misstepped or hit a lump of swamp-grass.


    The hopelessness of their situation also seemed to finally be downing on the girls, making them shiver not just from the cold but from pent-up anxiety as well. Candace felt it too, her iron shell of trained willpower started crumbling.


    Being in the middle of untamed wilderness was completely unfamiliar to her, and somehow scarier than swimming through the ocean away from shore. Even the shark that almost killed her was at least a familiar danger she was trained for, but she had no idea what could be lurking in these woods. She felt watched by countless inhuman eyes, and was suddenly reminded that she was a prey animal here, just like she was in the water. And atop of that, being naked made her feel even more vulnerable. She spent most of her adult life in a swimsuit, and had no problem with being seen nude by fellow humans, but being nude under this dark, green canopy where hell knows what hid in the shadows, made her skin crawl. She forcibly averted her attention from the leeches and creepy worms that stuck to their bare feet and calves, at least their bites were painless. Luckily, the girls were too knackered to pay attention to their legs, for they would almost certainly freak out. The sun, barely visible through the gaps in the green in front of them, was nearing the horizon.


    ¡°Ok my Pretties, we did our best, but we won''t make it to the hill before the night falls. No use stumbling in the dark, we might get ourselves into a sinkhole or walk in circles and miss the hill completely. I think we need to find a dry enough spot and build ourselves a safe nest. We need to think of some way to keep ourselves warm, and to secure Sveta¡¯s leg better. Draggin¡¯ it through the muck like a plow is not the best strategy.¡±


    About a half-an-hour later, they found a small island of bushy grass. Candace felt as if her muscles were put through an industrial thresher. First a forceful swim against the surf, then the agony of her inexplicable vanishing and reappearance in this weird place, and then a long trek over the most inconvenient terrain with a teen hanging on her shoulder.


    She crawled onto the pleasantly dry grass, pulling the girls with her, and laid there, panting. She closed her eyes, only for a minute. That minute lasted long enough that the sun had set almost completely, bathing them in stripes of fading orange light cut with dark shades. She woke up to the feeling of pinpricks on her calf.


    ¡°What..? What are you two doing?" Nata sat cross-legged next to her, while Sveta cuddled to her side. Nata was working on Candace¡¯s leg, methodically scraping off leeches with a sharp stick.


    ¡°Thanks, love. Those things are disgusting! Hope they don¡¯t carry diseases. I feared yous be freaked out by them. You¡¯re taking it better than I thought you would." She said sitting up. She wanted to reciprocate, but the girls seemed to have already groomed themselves. They even cleaned up most of the dirt, and, incredibly, seemed to have combed their hair and put them in high buns using grass strands as ties.


    ¡°You know Miss. We Russian," Sveta said, shrugging. "Russian know life hard and bad. It is what is. This only small bugs. Pyavky, we call. Not harm. Old women say pyavky good for blood flow.¡±


    ¡°Quite a philosophy for new-rich princesses, but who am I to judge? I''m pretty sure my circulation is very good after that hike, no medieval blood-letting techniques necessary.¡±


    She stood up and stretched. Her sorry back popped loudly, protesting the previous abuse. She knew that whatever soreness she felt now would be twice as bad in the morning when the burn set in.


    ¡°Alright, before the night falls, we need to take care of some business. It¡¯s cold, and it''s going to get much colder than that. You two stay here and tear up as much of that grass as you can, we need to cover ourselves with it for the night. Im¡¯a head out and find some sticks and vines to make some kind of a split for Sveta¡¯s leg. Maybe a crutch for her to lean on. She can¡¯t be dragging her foot over the ground, that will make the injury much worse. We also cannot keep her weight on our shoulders, we already ran out of strength, and we''re nowhere near civilisation." She felt through the murky water in front of her with her walking stick, and hopped off the grassy patch. Yuck. Bon appetit, leeches.


    ¡°But Miss! You cannot leave us here! What if animal come?¡±


    ¡°What animal?" asked Candace "I doubt another shark will spontaneously fall from the sky, though you never know. And besides, you vastly overestimate my ability to fend off wild beasts. It might be that I defeated one giant shark in single combat, but that is an outlier, not a rule. Don¡¯t let my glorious musculature fool you, I''m not actually a barbarian warrioress, just look the bit. I am sure you two can avoid being eaten for ten minutes while I''m gone.¡±


    ¡°But¡­¡±


    ¡°No butts! I need to take a piss, and I have exactly one percent dignity left after all that happened, so I''m not pissing in front of the two of ya, and on the same grass patch I will be sleeping on. Stay here, eyes open, I¡¯ll be right back.¡±


    Without letting them protest further, she walked away, testing the green soup in front of her for sudden drops. A snake swam across her path, but she just sent it flying with a whack of her walking stick. She was, after all, half-Australian and half-Korean. Both kinds of her ancestors would eat such a snake for breakfast, likely literally. As she trudged forward, the wooded marsh gave way to a half-submerged clearing, overgrown with what looked like giant reeds, or maybe a strange kind of bamboo. She crouched to do her business and considered the path ahead. Cutting straight through the bamboo thickets was not possible, they grew thicker and thicker with every step, and even in the evening gloom, it was obvious that the path would not be traversable. They needed to go around, which would turn a ten-klick trek into a thirty-klick one. Worse still, the path around the bamboo-reeds looked even more swampy, and in the distance seemed to turn into an elongated oxbow lake, or maybe even a lazy branch of a river.


    But maybe this was a solution, not a problem? Floating downriver was almost certainly easier than forcing their way through the bushes on foot.


    She tried to break some of the false bamboo plants. They were too elastic to break, but luckily, twisting them around tore the delicate underwater roots making it easy to just pull them out completely. In a few minutes, she had more sticks of bamboo than she could carry, each twice as long as she was tall. Now all she needed was a vine to tie them with, but that could wait for tomorrow, she could not see well in the rapidly falling dark, and even the grass island she left behind was nearly invisible. She tugged the bunch of sticks along with her to the grass patch.


    The girls were gone.


    She dropped the bundle and started frantically combing through the grass. As she turned over a big grassy blanket, a hand darted from under it and grabbed her. The girls pulled her down and the older sister whispered into her ear.


    ¡°Miss! Please hide! Rat-monster!¡±


    ¡°What rat-monster, what are you talking-¡±


    ¡°There Miss! Rat-monster in the water!¡±


    Candace looked up. She saw two dots of reflected light shining in the dark like polished pennies. Below the eyes, she saw a wiggling rodent¡¯s nose and a pair of giant incisors. The animal swam closer and got onto the grass patch.


    ¡°Rat-monster! "cried the girls." Kill it!¡±


    Candace grabbed a bamboo stick like a spear and lunged at the animal. She stopped mid-step and laughed out loud.


    ¡°It''s a bloody beaver, you wussy dimwits! it¡¯s completely harmless, just oversized. I think I saw one at the zoo once, but it was not even half the bulk.¡±


    The beaver looked confused by their unwelcome presence but did not really seem afraid.


    "You see girls? "Candace said " It''s like a big hamster, we are more dangerous to it than it is to us. D¡¯ya still want me to kill it?


    "Maybe not miss, just make it go away!


    ¡°Ya sure? I am a bit hungry and it looks like it has plenty of meat on its bones. Maybe we should eat it, to get more energy for tomorrow¡¯s trip?


    "Nooo, Miss we will not eat beaver!


    Candace laughed.


    ¡°That is what my ex-boyfriend said, hence why he is an ex. You gotta eat the beaver every once in a while, if you want a girl to stay happy!¡±


    ¡°Miss, we don¡¯t understand! Stop joking! Make the beaver go away, pleaaaase¡­¡±


    She poked the creature with a stick.


    ¡°Right, now mate, piss off. Don¡¯t ya have a dam to build somewhere?¡±


    The beaver clambered off the patch and swam away. She watched it go, amazed at how big it was. She only saw a beaver once prior, but was sure they were not supposed to grow this big. What was it with this fucking place?


    ¡°Girls, where do you think beavers live? Are there beavers in Russia?¡±


    ¡°I think so, Miss. "Nata answered. "Never see one. But learn in school.¡±


    ¡°What about bamboo? Is there bamboo in Russia?¡±


    Nata paused, and shot some rapid-fire questions in Russian at Sveta, who responded.


    ¡°We are not sure. Bamboo is in China. Maybe in east Russia. ¡°


    ¡°Ok, now the big bickies question, is there a place where beavers live and bamboo grows?¡±


    The girls consulted again.


    ¡°Maybe¡­ in China? In North? We do not know.¡±


    Splendid! She thought to herself, really, really hoping they were wrong. Admittedly, she was a dumbarse at school, and only finished secondary due to her stellar swimming skills overshadowing her poor grades, but even she knew that China was a giant country and that the North was mostly wilderness. For all she knew, the nearest town could be not twenty away, but ten times that.


    Plus, she was not really keen on being found and questioned by Chinese authorities. If the girls were right, then their options were to die a thousand klicks away from civilization or end up in Chinese military prison for being spies, trespassers, or whatever. And she did not fancy the chances of two naked girls and a half-Korean woman in a place like that. Especially since the only words in Chinese she knew were two swear words and a name of a spicy dumpling dish. Not really useful.


    ¡°Alright Moppets. Now that I defeated another giant monster to save you, let us focus on what needs doing. Covering yourselves in grass was a good idea, though maybe we should tear out more of it and make some kind of a shelter on top of us, in case it rains? ¡°


    They spent another hour pulling the tall grass by the roots, and piling it up, to form a cozy nest. Then she made them put up a triangular frame out of bamboo sticks on top of it, and cover that with grass too. The resulting shelter was not wind-proof or water-proof, but when they crawled inside, the girls could no longer see the swamp around them and get freaked out by the night¡¯s creatures.


    By the time they were done, it was so dark that Candace could not see her hand in front of her face. Only the infrequent peeks of moonlight between the clouds occasionally illuminated the dark around, drawing menacing shapes out of the nearby bushes and leaning trees. Every once in a while, she could glimpse pairs of silvery pinpoints staring at them. She hoped those were just beavers. Just to be sure, she held a bamboo staff firmly at all times, ready to stab at any suspicious noise.


    ¡°Yous asleep?" she asked the girls.


    ¡°Nata is asleep. I am not." Said Sveta.


    ¡°Great. I''m stuffed.  I need some shut-eye, you keep watch. Wake me up when you feel like you need some too.¡±


    ¡°What if animals come?¡±


    ¡°They won¡¯t come, it¡¯s past their curfew," she said yawning.


    ¡°Miss! Don¡¯t joke, I mean it.¡±


    ¡°Girl, grab one of them bamboo sticks, if something comes, hit it hard. If it won¡¯t piss off, make a  noise and wake me up.¡±


    ¡°What if it is big animal, like bear? ¡°


    ¡°There are no bears here¡­ " She muttered, pulling a grass clump over her head.


    ¡°Just like there was no shark?" asked Sveta.


    ¡°Don¡¯t make me smack ya, girl. It was an honest mistake. Now let me sleep.¡±


    ¡°Miss...¡±


    ¡°What. Again.¡±


    ¡°We will survive?¡±


    ¡°Nata and I will. Your lamed arse gets abandoned here for being annoying." She felt the warmth of the girl cuddling next to her and softened up. "Joke, girl. No worries, I¡¯ll get us out of here.¡±


    She drifted away to the sound of night birds calling.

 DAY SEVEN….SECOND WEEK? TAKES REAL GUTS TO BE A GLUE-MAKER

    The next few days were a flutter of activity. Instead of being terrified and traumatized by the encounters with the two prehistoric predators, I was filled with frantic energy and focus. The rain stopped as suddenly as it started. I restocked the bonfires around my camp feeding them with fatwood and greased sticks. I grew accustomed to the acrid stench of smoke, but it seemed to have scared off the wildlife, which was fine by me.


    My priority was to preserve the meat of the elk. I thought it would be disrespectful just to let it go bad. I carved out as much meat as I could, and cut it into thin strips. I knew I could just cut one strip and smoke that, and then duplicate it endlessly but I couldn''t accept the rest of the animal going to waste.


    My makeshift shelter turned out to be a perfect smoker. I hung strips of meat on strings and let them soak-in the smoke. I might have overdone the heat, because on top of being smoked the meat was also cooked and dried, becoming hard as wood and very difficult to chew, but I assumed it would preserve better that way.


    Meat, however, was only one of the resources I have extracted from the elk. I melted all the fat and tallow out of it. In its pure form it would easily go rancid, so I mixed it thoroughly with pine pitch. The resulting mass had the consistency of wax and burnt very well. I dug a small hole in the ground and filled it with the flammable goop, then put a bit of bracket fungus in the middle. When I ignited it, it became a big candle with a high flame. I erected a tall tent over it to protect it from the weather.


    Now I had an ''eternal'' flame that would burn for days even if the bonfires got extinguished.


    By the time I finished, the remains of the elk started to go off. but I was not deterred. Using a sharp bit of flint and a stick for a pry bar, I skinned the hide off the animal. It was gruesome and grueling work. I was both amazed and annoyed by how thick the hide was, and how difficult it was to pull it off the flesh.


    In the end, my bounty was a ragged rectangle taken off the back, flank, and belly of it. The rest was an unsalvageable mess. I had no idea how to tan a hide, so I just scraped it clean on the inside, and rubbed it with ash, to clean off the bits of meat and fat. Unexpectedly, when the hide dried it became as stiff as a board. I soaked it in the river to make it pliable again, but when it dried for the second time it stiffened even worse!


    Disheartened, I threw it into the tent where the meat smoked. At least, the smoke would keep it from rotting until I figured out how to tan it. At that point, the carcass smelled so foul I could barely touch it. But it still had plenty of uses.


    I knew bones, tendons, and cartilage could be turned into glue. I have used bone glue as a carpenter many times. I knew all I had to do was boil the crushed bones until they turned into a sticky pudding. That was the theory at least. I never made glue from scratch, only from already-made powder. But for boiling, I needed a real pot and I needed it right now before I had the time to invent pottery.


    Luckily for me, the dead elk provided for that as well. At first, I tried to crack open its skull and use it as a pot, but it turned out to be completely unsuitable for the task. However, the giant flat shoulder blade was a perfect pan. I saved one shoulder bone as a future spade, and hung the other one over hot coals, to boil a mixture of chopped-up tendons, crushed small bones, and cartilage in it. The smell was rather unpleasant, to say the least, but after a few hours of patiently mixing, adding, and stirring, I had a thick, yellow-gray paste that smelled of jelly and a corpse.  The bones had not dissolved as I hoped, but the boiled cartilage, tendons, and bits of hide and hoof did. It was definitely... sticky, and in a few hours, hardened into a glassy, resin-like lump. I dubbed it elk glue, for it had bits from all over the animal.


    Finally, I took the unused remains of the calf and dragged them to the mouth of the ravine, leading the way with a giant torch that dripped burning fat and threatened impromptu arson. No animals dared come near, as far as I could tell.


    I tossed the carcass to the hedgehogs, which swarmed over it greedily. I reasoned, that they were too small to bite through the bones, but they will clean them up nicely, without me having to mess with rotten meat and risking infections. I still wanted the bones back though. The ribs, the femurs, the leg bones, the mandibles, all of them could have their uses as tools, spearheads, maybe even arrowheads in the future.


    The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.Having done what I could with my unexpected first kill, I focused on the last remaining issues, shelter and water.


    Of the two, water was easier. I walked back up the gulch until I found the source from which the stream sprung. I used the elk¡¯s shoulder blade as a trench tool and dug a small basin right under it, which I tiled with rocks. I stuck several sticks under the crack from which the water poured, so it broke over like a small waterfall. In an hour of work, I had a makeshift sink to wash myself and drink from with minimal risk of swallowing dirt or contaminants. Visiting this place soon became my morning and evening routine.


    As for the bathroom, I took a cue from the wolverine, and marked my territory in a wide half-circle around my camp, the willows by the delta, and up to the end of the ravine. I reasoned I had no way to mask my scent completely, so I might just as well do the opposite and make it a bold statement and thus discourage creatures from encroaching on my turf. Regardless, I carried lit torches everywhere I went, and started small bonfires at various places, reasoning that the smell of smoke is naturally a deterrent to animals, and would make them feel even less welcome.


    The previous night, I slept under the stars because my old shelter smelled reeked of smoke. I had to build a new one from scratch. This time I foregoed the idea of a teepee, it was not sturdy enough with the neighbors I had, and the winds that I could expect here.


    I dragged a fallen maple, about as thick at the base as my thigh, to my camp. It took me ages to cut it into a log. At first, I used a lump of flint that I had broken in half as a hand-ax of sorts, but it was extremely ineffective. Eventually, I just dragged the log over a bonfire, and burned off its roots and crown. Now I had a beam of wood about eight meters long.


    I put one end into a hollow in a riverside willow, and the other I supported with a thick, pronged pole I cut from the nearby tree and dug-in deeply into the soft soil of the clearing. The shoulder-blade trench tool was godsent for such tasks. Over the next day, I added some extra prongs to support it, and tied countless poles to the sides, giving the resulting shelter sloped walls. Now I had a long hut, triangular in cross-section.


    The day after, I covered the whole hut in several layers of silk canvas, liberally slathered with pine pitch. While the pitch was still sticky, I piled as many bushels of reeds on it as I could, and before nightfall, I had a thick, well-insulated roof over my head. Sure, the hut was missing the back and front walls, so technically it was just a corridor, but I was proud of myself. It was a far cry from the log cabin I dreamed of, but it was still a real shelter. I was no longer homeless.


    I started yet another fire, this time inside, and sat by it wrapped in blankets. As every night, I reminisced about my family and my old life.


    Was I dead? At least, was I dead in the old world, the one I was stolen from? This place did not look like the afterlife, but again, nothing about my presence here conformed to any known science or logic, so I might as well consider myself sent to Hell.


    If I was dead, or at least completely gone from my world, my family must have been distraught. When I disappeared, I was going over one hundred kilometers per hour, rolling down a highway. I could not think which option was more awful, one that my suddenly driverless car crashed and no body was ever found, or that another me died in the crash, when the pain paralyzed him. Or maybe, just maybe, I was duplicated, and the other me got home safely? Maybe Micha? and Sta? still have a Dad, maybe he is holding my wife in his arms right now?


    Lucky bastard.


    The existence of the duplication pools hinted at the last option, as absurd as it might have been. I seized that thought, because if it was so, maybe I was the only human being suffering in this situation, the unfortunate guy who teleported into a pine notwithstanding.

 MIGUEL (II). NOT ACAB. SOME ARE DOWN-TO-EARTH

    Miguel woke up in agony. His whole body felt as if it was on fire, which admittedly, he expected it to be, seeing how his last memory was a blast of chemical flames rocketing towards his face. It took him a few seconds to realize that on top of the pain, he was also suffocating and blinded, and that he could not move his arms.


    His mind was in a weird, distant place from which he registered his own agony, but mostly as a confusing puzzle, because he could not make sense of how his body worked. His brain insisted that he just got blasted to bits, and refused to acknowledge it had a body to control again. Only when the suffocation became unbearable did he try to move his face and take a breath. It took enormous effort to lift his head, which he murkily realized must have been buried, because he was up to his ears in wet soil.


    Panicking, he heaved up and managed to get a glimpse of sunlight, but since his arms were still held firmly underground, he just fell face-first back into the hole he just left. He tried kicking and pushing with his legs, but that only made things worse, as the loose dirt got into his mouth and nostrils.


    ¡°Hold still dammit! I¡¯ll try to pull you out! "he recognized the voice of the cop, who by all rights should have been roasted to crisp along with Miguel himself.


    He felt a tug at his legs, and then someone grabbed him around the considerable girth of his waist and hoisted him up.


    ¡°damn you bastard, why do you have to be so fat!¡± snarled the cop and pulled again. Miguel felt as if another tug like that would dislocate his shoulders and snap his elbows, but finally, the soil gave in and he was pulled free.


    He fell on his ass coughing out dirt, when some force spun him around. He found himself face to face with a powerful, and dangerous-looking naked man. Or at least a half of a man, because the cop was buried up to the waist in the same soil he was pulled from.


    ¡°I''m so sorry!" Miguel squealed weakly.


    Even though the cop was half-underground, he still towered over him by a head or so. Muscular and wiry, the man looked the exact opposite of his flabby and obese form. The cop was also strikingly handsome, but unnervingly, the same as some poisonous snakes were often beautiful despite their obvious deadliness.


    ¡°What the fuck did you do!?" the officer asked, grabbing him by the throat.


    ¡°Akh!" he croaked. "What?¡°


    ¡°Where the hell are we?¡°


    ¡°How¡­how would I know?" he looked around, and every bit of the scenery he soaked in, made him more and more confused.


    For one, he was as naked as the cop was, save for a patch of wet mud on his chest and shoulders. Rather than in the smoldering remains of his house in Buenos Aires, they were in the middle of a grassy meadow by a river. Neither the river, the weeds around them, nor the trees in the distance looked anything like Buenos Aires, or any place in Argentina for that matter.


    ¡°You. You did this to us. Or your Cartel friends. Kidnapped us, dumped us in here." The cop turned from angry to icy.


    ¡°What? Why?" Miguel asked, confused. "What are you even talking about? Why would I kidnap a cop? Why would I kidnap myself? Does it look like a Cartel hideout to you? Besides, we exploded, remember?¡±If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.


    The slap came so fast he didn''t even have the time to see the hand move, and only registered the explosion of pain over his right cheek.


    ¡°Backtalk again and you¡¯ll be shitting your own teeth. Now. What the fuck is going on?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m¡­ I''m sorry, please don¡¯t hit me. I really don¡¯t know! All I remember is the fire, and now we are here.¡±


    This time he almost dodged the slap because he was prepared. His vigilance was rewarded with a backhand that swiftly followed.


    ¡°Oh, I remember now!" the cop growled. "You fucking blew us up, you fat idiot! You must have started the fire yourself. What were you even thinking?! Please, don¡¯t tell me. You wanted to get rid of the evidence. But aren¡¯t you a fucking chemist? Did it not occur to you that an explosion like that, big vats of flammable shit in a confined space, would blow up the whole house and vaporize you as well??


    ¡°But we are alive¡­ " Miguel whispered, covering his face.


    ¡°Huh. You might be right. Calm down, I don¡¯t even want to hit you again, you are not worth it. It¡¯s obvious you are just a cretin who managed to become a chemist and a meth cook by some incredible stroke of luck. You do not strike me as a mastermind who would escape a raid, ride an explosion, and kidnap a GEdOF officer. But someone must have done it, and they might be around. Now. Help me out of this hole. Im done being a fucking carrot.¡±


    Miguel rose and almost gave the cop a hand, but some tiny mote of dignity struck an angry chord in him, and he suddenly jumped back, outside the man¡¯s range.


    ¡°No. Fuck off." His voice was cracking, but his resolve returned. "Dig yourself up if you can. I''m out of here.¡±


    ¡°What? You ungrateful ass! I just saved you from choking on dirt!" the cop¡¯s face dropped when Miguel started walking away. "Hey! You are still under arrest. And if you leave me here to die, this is both resisting arrest and assaulting an officer.¡±


    Miguel turned angrily.


    ¡°First, this is bullshit. I''m not resisting or hurting you, you are just being stuck. I''m off to find help and will call someone to save you, once I''m safely away. And if you don¡¯t like being stuck and helpless, and need my help, maybe you shouldn''t have slapped me?¡±


    The cop went berserk. He tore off the clumps of grass and wet soil, and started digging with his bare hands.


    ¡°You better run fatass! When I dig myself out, I''m going to tear your head off and shit up your neck hole!


    ¡°Good luck," Miguel said, and just stood there, watching.


    ¡°What? " the officer asked, confused.


    ¡°I said, good luck. I may be a stupid chemist. But I know shale when I see it." he said, waving his fingers. "See? I was buried with my palms stretched downwards, and my arms are covered in dry, hard clay and shale flakes. I bet my ass that everything below arms-deep in this soil is solid shale. I only managed to get pulled out because my fat arms are so much wider than my small hands. Geometry was on my side. It¡¯s not on yours.¡±


    ¡°What does¡­¡±


    ¡°It means that you are essentially buried in rock, up to your navel. Unless you have a pickaxe stashed somewhere, or ordered a backhoe to get you out, you are not going anywhere. Have fun trying to dig yourself out, with just your bare hands and your macho attitude.¡±


    ¡°You''re lying!" the cop yelled, panicking. He kept tearing out clumps of soil and roots, until his fingers hit a greasy, hard layer that looked like cracked concrete. "No. no no no no¡­¡±


    ¡°See?" said Miguel and turned around to leave.


    ¡°Stop! That¡¯s an order!¡±


    ¡°I''m done taking orders from cops, Cartel sicarios, and other assholes.  My lab is gone, my life is gone, I''m stuck naked in the woods in¡­ motherfucking Russia or something? What is this place?! Anyway, have fun digging.¡±


    He left the screaming cop and walked away.

 END OF THE FIRST MONTH. A MAN OF WEALTH AND TASTE, VERSUS UNWELCOME GUESTS

    Dear reader, I apologize for skipping some days in my tale, with the passage of time, my options in this world multiplied, and my story would be an endless description of my endeavors in primitive technology. With every stick or stone I picked up, with every bone I carved, with every time I used the duplicators, I was rewarded with new inventions that could help me survive.


    For one, I found a way to start this journal. It was during the second week of improving my shelter. I had hit a difficult point in my attempt to build the back and the front wall that could include a sturdy door and some form of a chimney or an opening to let the smoke out. I took a small bit of scrap silk, probably a discarded piece from my early tailoring experiments, and used a burned tip of a greasy stick to draw plans on it, so that I could make a design plan and adjustments to my measurements before actually doing the hard work of cutting logs to shape.


    My drawings were soon joined with commentary, which led to a list of to-dos, which in turn led to snarky messages to myself. Before I knew it, I was lost in thought and scribing down a stream of consciousness onto the page. I abandoned carpentry for that day and kept on writing. Halfway through, I got annoyed with myself and tossed half of the pages into the fire. I was not or rather wanted not, to be the kind of a man who breaks down emotionally and vomits his feelings on paper. What I was, was a meticulous old nerd who liked things neatly ordered. I started anew, turning my experiences of the previous weeks into a story. I wrote by tallow candlelight, and had to duplicate the writing stick many times. It was as crude as a crayon and smudged, but I did not care. It was the content that mattered, not the form.


    When my diary reached the current day, I stopped and thought: who was I writing this for? I was all alone and thought I would likely die not seeing another human being again. And yet, even if there was a one-in-a-million chance of being found one day, Ar at least the diary remaining after my death, I felt I had to keep writing and find a way to preserve my story. Somehow, just surviving for the sake of seeing another day was not so motivating anymore. I had to survive long enough to either somehow go back home, or to solve the mystery of my predicament, or at least give clues to whoever finds my corpse so that they had a greater chance of survival.


    I stacked my pages neatly and sewed them together. An idea struck me, and I ran to get the elk hide from the smoker. Smoking made it dark brown, and the fur was slipping off in clumps. I scraped it clean and tried to bend it to make a cover for the book. The hide did tan a bit and got much more pliable, but it was still not enough. Wetting it was out of the question, but I could use something else. I remember odd, half-remembered bits from the books and the internet on how to tan a hide, but none of them seemed plausible. Rub some yolk on it? Cover it in a mushed animal brain? All these traditional methods, however true the might have been, sounded more than a little bit nasty, and like something that would only ruin the leather, when done by an amateur. Actual tanning was traditionally done with, well, tannins, which came from some kind of a tree bark, but which one?


    I decided I had little to lose, as the hide was useless otherwise. I boiled some bark tea out of willow and oak. Cooled it, and soaked the hide in it. It darkened and the hair fell off completely to the last, but it was not yet truly tanned, as it turned stiff again when drying. At the very least, it was pliable enough to be rolled and duplicated dozens of times. I buried one copy in a pile of wet bark. Another I slathered liberally with my lard-and-pitch mix. Third, I covered with both. Fourth, I soaked it through with melted fat, and beat it with a stick, then kept on rolling and unrolling it in various directions until I could not feel my tired hands.


    I fell asleep on a pile of dirty hides. In the morning, my hands were dyed brown and black from all the experiments of the night before.  Of all the hides I worked on, three were useless, but the one I tortured the most did become quite soft, or at least not stiff as a board. I reapplied some more fat and tallow, and tried to stretch it as well. It did not give, but it did seem more leathery afterwards. I duplicated the result, and used a flint axe to chop out a crude rectangle for a book cover.


    I never imagined myself as an introligator, much less a primitive one in the woods, but here I was, binding a book instead of looking for fresh food, water or keeping the fires lit. But before the end of the morning, I held a big, ugly notebook in which my scribbles were safe and organized. I¡¯ve built a shrine-like box out of stones and clay to hide it in, so that it could survive longer in case of my death. Before I put it in, I proudly waved the notebook at the surrounding wilderness.


    ¡°Behold! Civilization!¡±


    I decided then, that I refuse to die without leaving a mark on this land. My thoughts were violently anti-environmentalist. I vowed to chop down the forest. Carve ¡°Jacek was here¡± on every available surface. Make some cave paintings if I ever find a cave. Pave the whole place with concrete, once I invented it.


    The lack of proper tools chafed at my carpenter¡¯s soul. I visited my neighborly hedgehogs, and reclaimed some of the elk bones. I could see ways these could be turned into various awls, spearheads, needles, or even a dull knife but none of those would be useful tools for carpentry. Finally, I took the elk¡¯s mandible, knocked out the teeth, and put a big shard of chert in their place, which I glued-in and tied securely with silk thread soaked in pitch. I multiplied the resulting axe a dozen times, predicting it would break easily.


    The elk axe was too lightweight to chop down actual trees, but It helped me cut saplings and branches, which I wove into a lattice, not unlike the cloth I made earlier, only on a much bigger scale. This allowed me to make the back and the front wall of my hut relatively easily, though the lattice would do nothing to stop the rain and the wind.


    I knew ancient people lived in adobe huts, which they made by smearing clay over the lattice walls. I tried it, but my experiments failed miserably. The clay just fell off in clumps. I tried mixing it with dry grass, with silk threads, and even with glue, to no avail. Finally, I simply pressed as much clay into the lattice as I could and sewed panels of cloth all over it, to prevent the clay from falling off. Did the same for the roof as well.


    Now my hut looked like a giant quilted sofa flipped upside down.


    I laughed at the absolute ugliness of my new dwelling, but had to admit it looked sturdy enough. The padded walls were almost half a meter thick, and insulated near perfectly. In fact, I had to carve some of the padding out at the top of the back wall so the smoke from my hearth could escape properly, and sunlight could get in.


    I made the door out of branch lattice as well, but covered it in elk leather, and made hinges out of it as well. This made them stiff enough to close with a tight fit.


    Finally, to further secure my abode, I added another circle of sharp stakes around the hut itself, and a short palisade around my entire camp. Further out, another circle of spikes appeared, each spike connected to its neighbors with silk rope, tied into multiple loose hitch snares that would trip and entangle approaching animals. I hung bundles of sticks on the ropes, to bangle if the rope was pulled.


    I did not kid myself that my fortifications would stop a creature as powerful as the terror bird, or a bear, or even the wolverine. But it would slow them down and the noise would warn me. What I would do exactly, once warned, was another matter.


    The best I would be able to do was to light the fires quickly and wave a torch around, hoping that the animal would be deterred and go away.


    Luck would have it, I had a visit from a friend the very same night. The sticks rattled at the witching hour, and I sprung up from my nest of blankets and grabbed a spear reflexively. The bonfires died down to embers, but my giant fat lamp still smoldered, so I lit a big bundle of torches off it.


    Approaching the palisade slowly, I tossed a few lit torches over it, onto the grass strip outside.


    ¡°Hello there!" I greeted the trespasser, who either due to ignorance of the Star Wars lore, or out of sheer rudeness, did not respond with the customary ¡®General Kenobi¡¯.


    Oh well.


    I climbed the top of the palisade, to gain the higher ground. Too much advantage never hurts anybody.


    As could be expected, it was the damn wolverine again. It was nosing around my spike field and pawed curiously at the stick bundles, again reminding me more of a giant housecat than a prehistoric mustelid. It squinted at the sight of my giant torch, and backed off a bit.


    ¡°Yep pall, this is fire. A nasty thing, I tell you. So grab your weasely ass and stroll the fuck away from here. Sho!¡±


    The thing just walked in a small circle, and sat on its rump. I raised my spear as if to throw it, and Logan tensed, flattening its ears and raising its hunches, but did not move. Only then I did I notice that its left front paw was handcuffed with a tight knot, the rope pulled taut like a guitar string, but preventing the animal from escaping.


    What was I to do? I could throw spears at it, maybe injure it, but definitely not kill it easily that way, given that my spears were just sharpened sticks with no actual spearheads on them. The only thing that would accomplish is piss the damn thing off, and it was already plenty deadly as it was. If our previous altercation did not teach it to leave me alone, being trapped like that and assaulted ineffectually would not change its mind either.


    If I really wanted the thing dead, I contemplated, I could toss handfuls of tallow at it, then follow up with lit torches, and burn it alive, hoping it gets injured badly before the silk rope burns through, setting the thing free.


    Meanwhile, as I was planning its grisly demise, the wolverine decided I was not that much of a threat at the moment, safely ignored, and started gnawing at the snare. For a second I hoped it would just cut itself free, and go away,  but I underestimated the strength of the spider silk. A few minutes in, Logan got impatient with the lack of progress and started thrashing wildly. It actually managed to pull out the stake tat the rope was tied to, but that same stake was also tied to another, and that to another, and yet that to another in a sturdy web. It lashed at the spikes, at the ropes, and even pounced at me, almost reaching the palisade before its leash stopped it, nearly wrenching its paw off. In its rage, it dismantled the whole front of my spike field, but in the end sat exhausted, panting and mewling in distress.


    It made my guts roll in self-disgust, but I had no choice but to kill it. It could not free itself, nor could I go outside the palisade and try to cut it loose. In fact, I could not go out at all until the thing was gone. If I had the time to make actual spearheads, or perhaps a bow and some arrows, I could give it a more merciful death, but at that point, the only certain way I knew I could kill it with, was fire.


    I ran back to the duplicators, and multiplied handfuls of tallow, fat, and resin, filling my backpack with it.


    Disheartened, I climbed the palisade again, and started tossing globs of fat at the wolverine. It did not even react to the projectiles, It was already shaking in wide-eyed terror. Soon, it was splashed all over in flammable goop, which was pooling around it as well. All I needed now was to toss several pitch-filled torches at it, and the beast would go up in flames like a candle wick.


    I lifted the first torch over my head. Logan looked at me with wide, golden-brown eyes. It growled a challenge, which petered out to a terrified croak.


    Fuck. Fucking fuck! I could not do it. I was being a weak, sentimental, pansy-assed idiot, doomed to die by his own scruples. I was defying the iron rule of nature, kill or be killed. That thing there, was a dangerous predator that already stalked me more than once. It was a menace. I could not feel safe with it lurking around. And yet¡­.


    I sighed and lowered the torch. Self-defense was something I was ready for. So was hunting for food, If it came to it. I managed to mercy-kill a wounded animal, but a brutal execution of another creature, by roasting it alive no less, was something I had no stomach for. Maybe this wild world revolved around pain and death, but I would be damned if I added to it needlessly.


    ¡°Hey! Furball! I have graciously decided to spare your life. I''m giving you time until morning to try to gnaw your way free out of this. But if you go after me or try any funny business, I swear I will barbecue your ass. Nod if you agree.¡±


    The damn thing actually cooed back, a strange, almost conversational response, that suggested it tried to communicate. It freaked me out far worse than its previous growls. Angry snarling from a trapped animal was understandable, but this sounded more like a particularly smart dog trying to act cute to avoid punishment. How intelligent are these things?


    I hopped off the fence, relit all the fires, and locked myself in the hut, spear in hand. Every once in a while, I would hear a yelp or loud rustling from the animal¡¯s direction, but as the morning came, it became quiet and I dozed off.


    I woke up in one piece and not devoured by a vengeful carnivore, but the day somehow still managed to start with a nasty surprise. As I opened the door, I was not greeted by the usual smell of smoke from my fires, but a stench orders of magnitude worse. My eyes watered, and I had to bite on my sleeve to not barf.


    Spear in hand, and covering my nose, I climbed the palisade again.


    Simply put, the wolverine had shat itself. However, it would be more fair to say its backside has exploded. The dumb thing seemed to have eaten all the rancid tallow and pitch mixture I threw at it, then achieved the expected result of lubricating its digestive tract so excessively. Worse still, it seemed to have panicked throughout the process, and coated itself all over in its own refuse. I thought its territory-marking piss smelled bad, but this stench was downright satanic in its potency.A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    Its trapped paw was swollen and purple, and the last joint looked dislocated.


    ¡°You dumbass, what have you done?!¡±


    The long night and rude awakening made me more grumpy than afraid. Not only had the beast failed to free itself, but it made the situation so much worse for both of us. I immediately reduced my high opinion of its intelligence.


    If I were a cruel man, I would burn it alive on the spot, just to get rid of the smell. The events of the previous night, however, had shown that I was a faint-hearted Granola Hippie with a soft spot for murderous, shit-covered prehistoric monsters.


    I had to free it myself. And that meant going outside of my palisade and within its striking distance.


    With that grim realization, I started preparing. First and foremost, I wrapped myself in as many layers of silk canvas I could put on and still move. I added a dozen of kerchiefs over my hands and face, leaving only a narrow visor, and a tiny hole for breathing. If the beast attacked me, I would have dozens of layers of protection for it to bite through.


    I needed some bait as well. The wolverine was likely not as hungry as it would normally be after its disastrous meal, but I hoped a handful of smoked venison would distract it.


    Finally, I needed a way to cut the snares quickly to release it. Sawing through it with a flint blade would take too long, and force me to get uncomfortably close. Instead, I tied a torch to the end of my spear, and decided to burn through the rope from a safer distance, which would hopefully keep the animal at bay as well.


    I hopped over the bonfire protecting the entrance to my camp and pushed aside the wooden obstacles I put in the front. Logan snarled at me, and backed off, tautening the rope. I put the torch far in front of me and approached slowly.


    The sudden slack of the rope warned me a split second before the animal lunged at me. It crossed the distance in a single heartbeat, and swiped my spear aside, ignoring the fire in its rage. The only reason it failed to disembowel me was because its lamed paw could not support its mad dash forward, and it skidded sideways.


    I scampered off, but it was clear that Logan was at the end of its rope, figuratively and literally. It laid there, wide-eyed and panting. Its leash held firmly and it could not reach me.


    ¡°Shhhh. Eaaaaasy boy. Eaaaaaasy." I said, and cooed at it, trying to copy the sound it made last night. It pricked up its ears, and softened the snarling rictus of its maw.


    Without any sudden moves, I took a handful of smoked meat out of the bundle tied to my belt, and tossed it gently towards its snout. Logan growled, startled by it, but did not have the strength left to get up. It did, however, sniff loudly, catching the new scent.


    I circled it as slowly as I could, minding the circumference of the circle the snares allowed it to cover. It looked back at me, alarmed by losing the sight of its enemy, but kept going back to nosing the venison. Being suddenly fed in the middle of an apparent fight for its life had seemingly overloaded its simple brain. The battle between its fear, aggression and gluttony was finally won by the ravenous appetite. As it munched on meat, I sneaked as close as dared and touched the torch to the taut rope holding my prisoner. The silk, while impervious to the powerful pull and bites of the creature, snapped in seconds when burned through.


    This time I was ready and did not underestimate Logan. The moment the rope slacked loose, I jumped back and shielded myself with the torch. The wolverine nearly instantly turned around, and pounced, stopping inches away from the fire.


    This time I did not try to scare or antagonize it. The creature was clearly at the end of its wits anyway. Confused, it reared up like a bear and snarled gutturally. I held my ground and maintained eye contact with it. It fell back into a lopsided crouch, nursing its injured paw. Without losing sight of me, it backed away and scooped as much of the venison as it could fit in its maw. Then, after a tense moment, I felt a primitive understanding formed between us, and Logan limped off into the woods.


    I ran back behind my palisade, vaulted over the bonfire, and darted towards my hut. Shutting the door, I sighed in relief. I was drenched in sweat, and not just because of the dozens of layers of clothes I was wrapped in. Of the three encounters I had with the wolverine, this one was the only one in which the creature truly wished me harm, and would kill me if not for the rope. I hoped the offering of venison would somehow have appeased it, though I suspected that paw injury would kill it anyway. After all, the snare was still handcuffed over it, cutting off the blood circulation.


    Weirder still, I felt bad for it. It was my enemy, but I felt guilty lameing it like that. With such a serious injury, it was either going to die due to sepsis or be unable to hunt and starve. The more cynical part of me argued that this removed one giant predator from the neighborhood, leaving only the terror bird, which I did not think was a local.  I never saw it, or its prints before that fateful evening, and a beast like that likely had wide roaming grounds that it traveled, following the herds of prey. That is at least what I hoped was true, based on my meager understanding of environmental sciences.


    One way or another, I had to upgrade my defenses. The concept of silk-rope snares was sound, it worked better than I hoped, at least against the wolverine. I duplicated countless bundles of pre-made snares, much wider than the ones that covered the foreground of my defenses. I strung them between nearby trees, at various levels, including on what I imagined was the height of the bird¡¯s head. Every space between trees could not booby-trap this way, I covered it with giant, waist-high caltrops made of five spears tightly tied together.


    It took me two days to turn the entire area of my camp into a maze that looked as if a bus-sized spider made it its lair. The traps were laid so thick, I had to mark the only safe route to my fort with giant arrows painted on trees, so that I wouldn''t become a victim of my own snares. I added another layer of a palisade connecting my house with the natural pier of the fallen pine, so that if the worst came and my defenses were breached, I could run that way and jump into the river.


    I wanted to trap the route to the ravine the same way, but the distance was much too long. I opted to put several caltrops and rope clotheslines along the way so that if something big and nasty chased me, obstacles would slow it down.


    Finally, I turned a section of the gulch itself into a giant punji trap, with countless sharp spikes at the bottom, and a thin bridge over it that I could cross, If I walked foot after foot like a rope-walker, but a big predator chasing me would not be able to fit on and fall to its death.


    Nothing tried to eat me along the way. In fact, the woods were suspiciously quiet as of late, as if all the noisy birds and furry bush critters that normally scuttled around hid.


    I could not understand why. The weather looked perfect, with no thunderstorms lurking on the horizon. If the terror bird returned, It could have inspired fear in the woodland mammals, but why were the birds, completely safe high up in the canopy, gone as well?


    I absentmindedly scratched a sudden itch on my neck, thinking about it. Then, I felt a similar itch at the back of my hand. Slapped a big, fat, dark mosquito off it. Then another. And another. I started slapping myself frantically because my body was suddenly peppered with black, buzzing dots. One bit me on the eyelid, and soon another one tried to crawl into my ear.  Screeching in pain and revulsion, I ran back to my camp, patting myself wildly.


    Before I made twenty steps I was covered in a thick layer of blood-sucking monsters. I had to scrub them off my face to even see where I was running. My clothes managed to protect me, but my exposed hands, face, ankles, and neck were bitten so many times in the few seconds that they felt as if someone had beaten me with a wire brush.


    I ran into my hut and closed the door, but the monstrous swarm was already inside!


    Blinded and panicking, I rummaged all over the place, wrapping myself in blankets, and covering my face with several layers of hoods and kerchiefs. I left a small hole to breathe through, but this only made the stubborn insects crawl into my nose, and bite it from the inside.


    Desperate, I threw whatever I could grab into the fire. Blankets, grass clumps, handfuls of reed and weeds, until I stood next to a pillar of dark smoke coming from it. Only when the amount of smoke in the air threatened suffocation did the onslaught of mosquitoes lessen, but never cease. Choked by the damp, the insects could no longer fly, but still crawled spasmodically all over me, feebly trying to pierce my clothes with their proboscises.


    It kept switching between near-asphyxiation and inhaling bugs every time the smoke was scattered by the wind. I could not imagine how this must have felt like for creatures that had no clothes or fire to protect them. If I was naked and unprotected, I would likely drown myself in the river to escape the madness.


    The torture lasted up until early evening when unsuspected help came. As I watched the swarm covering the sky in desperation, I noticed two kinds of shapes swooping in from above, darting through it. Sparrows, or perhaps swifts, started a massacre of the damned insects, shooting above the clearing and scooping their prey. Not long after, bats burst from their hiding holes in the canopy and started their bloody work, like tiny helicopters of vengeance.


    I cheered them on, but barely dared to peek from under my hood. My face was swollen and sore, and my hands felt like boxing gloves covered in bite marks.


    When I arrived in this world, I wondered why the mosquitoes were so docile. Now I knew. Fuckers were bidding their time to strike. Maybe it was a life-cycle thing, or maybe it was the calm weather that set them off. Another lesson painfully learned. Living by the river had its perks, but also its drawbacks, and this was the mother of all of them.


    Soon, a peculiar splashing noise came from the river. Wrapping myself in additional blankets, and carrying a smoldering torch to shroud myself in smoke, I climbed on the pier to check it. The previously calm surface of the river was now positively boiling. Countless tiny fish jumped out, catching low-flying mosquitoes in a feeding frenzy.


    As I watched more closely, I saw much bigger things, possibly large fish or maybe otters, lurking around and hunting the small jumpers, with only a V-shaped wave and a sudden loud splash announcing their presence.


    The river was swarming with life, to an even greater degree than the woods were. It dawned on me that after my unfortunate misadventure with the clams, I was ignoring a near-limitless food source.


    In my youth, I was an avid angler. Many times I returned with a catch so bountiful, that I fed my entire family with a load of perches, or a big pike. And that was what I could catch in the overfished and poisoned lakes and rivers of the modern world. Who knew what tasty leviathans prowled the depths of this prehistoric river?


    Despite the sun being long gone over the horizon, and only gracing me with an orange rim around the edges of the far shore, I set to work.


    In my old life, I used a fishing pole made of carbon polymers, with countless high-tech doodads. But none of it was actually necessary for fishing, it was just for convenience. I cut down a thin, long maple sapling, about twice the length of my body. Wrapped silk thread over it and looped it tight over the end, so that even if the pole snapped, my catch would not swim away with the line. The fishing-line itself I did not need to worry about. At about one millimeter of thickness, the spider silk thread was stronger than steel wire and I could pull a plesiosaur with it, if I hooked one. I did hope though that this river did not have actual plesiosaurs or any similar monsters though, as I wanted to cross it safely in the near future.


    What else was needed? Some kind of a sinker, a bobber and a hook to put the bait on. Sinker was easy, I just rolled a ball of clay in my hand, pierced a hole through it, and baked it red hot in the fire. I promised myself to spend some time working on pottery soon, but at least this task was not beyond my means.  For a bobber I used a bit of pine bark, and stuck the tip of the terror bird¡¯s feather in it for visibility.


    Making a hook was the real challenge. I tried using bush thorns, but they were not sturdy enough. So was a shard of a clam shell, it was the right shape and sharp, but snapped easily. Finally, I did it the hard way and carved a hook painstakingly out of a piece of elk bone. With only crude flint tools to work with, it was a real challenge, and I cut myself many times in the process.


    In the end, I had an oversized narrow hook with a large barb. There was no way I could use it to catch perches or roaches, if the river had them. It was bigger than my thumb. By default, I had to use it to catch big fish, or none at all.


    What could I bait a big fish with? The river was swarming with bugs, leeches, mosquito-eating jumpers, and every kind of crawling nasty I could think of. Thus, I assumed baiting the hook with a worm was likely useless, it would not stand out at all on the Smorgasbord table of wriggly snacks the fish could pick from.


    In the end, I decided to bait it with a bit of smoked venison that had gone bad and smelled. Plenty of fish were consummate scavengers, and carrion would smell delicious to them.


    I was finally ready. It felt a bit silly, trying to fish by torchlight, but I was too enamored with my newest idea to consider such details.


    I climbed all the way to the end of the fallen pine. The mosquitos had either been decimated or laid low for rest, allowing me to unwrap my face. Full of hope and salivating for my future meal, I cast the bait as far as I could, and waited, staring at the bobber barely visible in the dark.


    Minutes passed, and the whole contraption moved downriver without any action. I recast it several times with no effect, and finally settled on letting it flow with the current until it parked itself by the reeds and stopped. Damn.


    Angling was supposed to be a calming, relaxing experience, but I was impatient. After about an hour of frustration, I was ready to quit.


    As I started reeling the lure in, I saw a pair of silvery dots in the distance, staring at me from right above the water. I slowly put away the rod, and lifted the torch up. The shiny dots turned out to be big, curious eyes. The eyes were spaced far apart, and belonged to an equally big, silky brown head emerging from the reeds.


    At first I thought it must have been a seal, but I was almost sure seals did not live in sweetwater rivers. As the creature silently swam closer, and was joined by its brethren, I realized it was an otter.


    An otter the size of a crocodile. And not just one, I counted at least five, and the commotion behind them suggested there could be more. In the torchlight, their faces looked adorable, just like the ones of their smaller cousins, but I was not fooled. The adventure with the unicorn, and my feud with the wolverine taught me that no matter how cute, and beautiful these creatures looked, they were still wild animals, much more powerful and dangerous than I was. And otters, no matter their muppet-like mugs, were vicious predators closely related to weasels, and the wolverine itself. I had never seen them before during the day, nor my overnight stay on the pine. This did not mean they hadn¡¯t seen me.


    I slowly backed off along the pier, keeping the torch between me and my visitors. Let them have the river and the night, I could keep to the land and daylight from now on.

 CANDACE (III). NOT ALL BEARS CAN CLIMB

    It was already late in the morning when she finally opened her eyes, and tore a clump of grass off her face. It took a few minutes before her mind made sense of the last day¡¯s memories, and hit her with them. She shot up.


    ¡°You!" She pointed at Sveta. "You were supposed to wake me up! Did you sleep on your watch?!¡±


    ¡°No Miss." Sveta answered. "Leg hurt, could not sleep. Woke up Nata later. Let you sleep. We need you strong?¡±


    ¡°Oh.¡±


    She wanted to argue but could see logic in that. The girls wanted to thank her for saving them, and wanted to be useful themselves. She could respect that. And she needed that rest.


    Better yet, they were not idle in the morning. They tied the bamboo together into a narrow raft, using ropes made out of grass. Sveta sat astride it, with her injured leg propped up on the prow.


    ¡°Howd¡¯ya girls made the rope? " she marveled.


    ¡°It is not rope Miss. This spleteny kak kosye.., uhh as hair twist together?" Nata tried to explain.


    ¡°It is braids!" supplied her sister.


    ¡°You two braided what looks like¡­ten meters of rope? Out of¡­ grass? Did you spend the whole night doing this?¡±


    ¡°Oh no Miss, this very easy. Spent half of morning. We live together, two sisters. Lot of practice braiding hair. Make other thing too, friendship bracelets," Sveta said and returned to absentmindedly twisting another length of braid. Seconds later, she tossed Candace a braided loop.


    ¡°Strewth, color me impressed. I guess being raised with two brothers I failed to learn a useful trick or two." She put the bracelet on her wrist. "We¡¯re besties now?¡±


    ¡°Yes Miss! You are best friend for saving our life." Sveta nodded enthusiastically. "Also, you tie rope to the bracelet, tie rope to us and the little boat. Help not drown or get lost?¡±


    ¡°Good idea, kid." She would prefer a sash across her chest, but this was good enough.


    She tested the raft girls made. It looked sturdy, and was shaped a bit like the dinghy she found them floating on. It was not buoyant enough for the three of them to hop on, but enough to keep Sveta manageable and mostly dry. The morning was much colder than yesterday''s noon, and Candace already felt the cold swampy water chilling her bones. At least one of them would not be losing energy due to heat loss.


    For a while, the girls debated trying to weave the grass into mats, to clothe themselves with. Apparently, artistic weaving was also one of their idle bourgeoisie skills. Unfortunately, it turned out to be way too slow of a process, so they all decided to cover themselves in blankets of grass clumps they uprooted. It itched, and there were bugs in it, but at least it stopped the wind from sucking out heat from their tops, the way water cooled their bottoms.


    Finally, they set out. Candace took the point, feeling the way with her bamboo staff, and pulling the raft, with Sveta on it, after her. Nata took the rear, one hand tied to her sister''s, wh in turn was tied to Candace, like captives in a slaver¡¯s caravan.


    Candace started their slow trip with a litany of ''don''ts'' she wanted to drill into their heads. ''Do not drink the swamp water, no matter how thirsty you are, it¡¯s full of germs. Do not lose sight of what is in front of you, lest you step into a sinkhole or on a poisonous snake. Don¡¯t pee with your bottom underwater, that is the second easy way to allow bacteria inside your body. Don¡¯t piss off your glorious leader, if you do not want to be planted into the marsh head-first.''


    Soon, they reached the edge of the bamboo fields. Going forward was impossible. The bamboo grew so thick they would never cross it. The hill loomed just beyond it, but could just as well be on the Moon.


    The route to the left was clearer, but seemed to stretch forever and disappear over the horizon without any visible access to dry land. The route on the right opened into an oxbow lake that in the light of the day looked much wider than she thought. Its bend seemed to disappear behind the reeds, and lead towards the hill. It seemed like there was a mild current pushing in that direction, at least, the surface scum seemed to be moving towards it.


    ¡°Alright Darlings. It''s about to get much deeper soon, and we''ll have to swim. We will try to cut right and then left, over the bend. If there is a bit of a flow, it might carry us, without us spending too much effort. Sveta, lay flat on the raft and hold on tight. No sudden moves or ya flip yourself bottom up, we do not want that. Nata, you gotta hold on tight to the stern but do not put your weight on it, got that?"


    She saw confusion in the girl''s eyes, but her older sister quickly translated, letting her continue.


    "Just lay flat on the water, hold the rope tight, and paddle gently with your legs. I will pull the raft into the current, and then its piece of piss from there, the water will carry us where we want it, ok?¡±


    She saw them nod and prepare, but their complete silence was a testament to how scared they were. Less than a day ago, they were attacked by a shark.  Now she wanted them to brave swimming unknown, dark waters with nothing but a bundle of sticks for a boat.


    She strapped the rope across her chest, giving herself a bit of slack so that her feet would not hit the raft on the kick-off. She sighted, and braced herself. Another day of hard yakka, no different from yesterday, or the years before it. At least this was doing what she was best at, punching and kicking water away to propel herself forward, while towing some hapless galahs who could not swim their way out of a bathtub.


    She handed the staff to Sveta, and pushed hard with her feet putting the raft in motion. In the same swift move, she dove forward and added the momentum of her kick-off to it, pulling their floating caravan into the current.


    The water in the river¡¯s knee looked deceptively calm, but the flow was substantial. She barely managed to right them with it, without capsizing the raft. In minutes, they were in the middle of the river, gently accelerating towards their destination hidden behind the bend. A few strokes later, she allowed herself to look back and check on the girls. Sveta laid flat on the raft with her eyes closed, while Nata was pushing forward with grim determination.


    The water was flat as a mirror around them, barely betraying the current underneath. Or, as she noticed with rising panic, it was almost flat. There were several V-shaped waves coming in their direction, each underscored by a dark shape swimming right under the surface.


    ¡°Nata! Stop! Hug the raft!" she shouted. The girl did as told, nearly flipping the raft over in panic.


    ¡°You two do not move! Keep your legs and arms close to the body. There is something in the water. Big. ¡°


    ¡°Is it shark?!" Nata asked.


    ¡°Of course it''s not a fucking shark!...well, maybe. I don¡¯t know. Just. Hold. Still.¡±


    She took her bamboo spear and dove down, letting the dinghy pass her and grabbing the stern. That way, she was the first and the last line of defense between their aquatic pursuers and the girls. Fucking deja vu, she thought. Didn¡¯t she have that particular brand of adventure not two days ago?


    Unlike the ocean, the river was nearly completely opaque. She tried to spot the approaching creatures in the water, but it was like trying to peer through pea soup. Desperate, she tugged in her limbs and flailed her spear around in defensive circles.


    Something grabbed the bamboo and tore it off her hands with unrelenting force. She resurfaced, gasping, causing the girls to cry in fear. The cry immediately reached another peak in volume, when several furry heads popped around them, each as big as a lion¡¯s.


    She hugged Sveta and Nata so they could not be grabbed away from her, and partly to prevent them from flailing in panic.


    ¡°Do. Not. Move. " She whispered through clenched teeth.


    One of the creatures came closer, flying through the water like a graceful torpedo, and grabbed the edge of the dinghy with its front paws. It sniffed Candace curiously, smearing fish-scented saliva over her face and neck. Another dove at her from below, and nosed her nether regions. She steeled her will to stay still and not kick it, she knew that this was not a fight she could win.


    Soon, more giant otters, for this is what the animals must have been, swarmed over them, examining them curiously. They grabbed them with their eerily human-like front paws, and explored with their wet noses with all the gentleness of an over-excited dog. It seemed like they meant no harm, at least not yet. When one of them almost pulled Sveta off the raft, Candace gently pushed it off, and it simply swam away huffing in annoyance, rather than attacking her.


    ¡°Eto vydry?¡± asked Nata, now more fascinated than afraid.


    ¡°Yes, this vydry, otters," answered Sveta, looking at Candace. "They not danger, yes? We are safe? "she asked.


    ¡°Yes kids, these are otters, cute as a button. But please keep still and do not move yet. They look nice, but I''m quite sure they''re meat-eaters, and big as wolves, we do not want them to be crook with us.¡±


    The otters followed them until they passed the knee of the river, and reached a natural beach where the sandy hill sloped into it. Candace pulled the raft ashore, and helped the girls out of the water, scanning the surroundings for dangerous wildlife. When no obvious danger showed itself, she dismantled their raft and used some of the bamboo staves as a splint and crutches for Sveta, and as makeshift spears for her and Nata. She looked up, at the hill looming over her. It was much steeper than she thought, and densely overgrown with evergreens.


    ¡°Sveta, there is no way I''m hauling your arse up there. Not in the state you''re in. Maybe the hill is easier to climb on the other side, but I''m not sure we want to try that route either, crawling through the bushes. I think you two should stay here and wait for me.¡±


    ¡°No! Do not leave!  "Nata grabbed her arm, pleading.If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    ¡°Oy, unhand me. Stay here and wait for me. Do as told, understood?¡±


    ¡°But what if the otters come? Or a different animal? "Asked Sveta.


    This was actually a good point. If they had fire or shelter she could just leave them to fend for themselves for an hour or two, but they had nothing but sticks to defend themselves with.


    ¡°See that tree? The one with low-hanging branches? "She pointed. "Nata and I will climb up it, then pull you up on it. Otters don¡¯t climb. You would be safe. Like monkeys! Monkeys climb trees to escape predators, and humans are kinda monkeys, right?


    ¡°Human are apes, Miss.¡±


    ¡°Oh, shush. Apes, monkeys, same thing, the point is, you would be safe because otters cannot climb.¡°


    ¡°Bears climb! "said Nata.


    ¡°No they don¡¯t! "she answered, unconvincing even to herself.


    ¡°Yes they do! And jaguars climb! And big snakes!¡±


    ¡°Oh for fuck¡¯s sake, go up the rootin¡¯ tree Nata, or I clout ya ¡®round the ear!


    She fumed for a while, but the girls did as told. The climbing part was easy enough, pulling Sveta up, not so much. In the end, Candace had to crouch down, piggyback her, and then shoulder-press the girl up, as she tried to pull herself on top of the lowest branch. Thank fuck for the life of an insane workout regimen and irresponsible steroid use, otherwise, this would be impossible.


    Once up the first branch, the girls managed to get higher on their own, until they were both as far up as they could safely go. Their terrified, and slightly miffed faces looked down on her, like a pair of big-eyed owls.


    ¡°Yous stay there, and do not climb down under any circumstances, at least until I come back, hear me?¡±


    Staff firmly in hand, she went up the hill. At first, she tried to find her way around the clusters of evergreens, but this only caused her to meander around without going any higher up. Eventually, she decided to push through the bushes, disregarding the countless scratches and nicks on her exposed skin. Not having anything like a machete, she simply beat the bushes in front of her with the staff, breaking the branches to create a path.


    She was only supposed to be gone for an hour, but the climb already took that long, when she finally reached the top of the hill. It opened into a small and arid plateau, just a table of dry, sandy rock where even the sturdy evergreens could barely find purchase with their roots.


    Just as she promised, she stood up, reached for the sky, and shouted at the top of her lungs. She called for help in English, in Spanish, in Korean, and even shouted random words in Chinese, on the off-chance they were actually in China. When her voice got completely hoarse, she beat the trunk of a nearby bush with her staff to make as much clamor as she could.


    Finally, almost mute and with her throat on fire, she climbed atop of the tallest bushy tree she could find to look around.


    Her heart sank into her stomach. The hill was surrounded on all sides by an ocean of trees, only occasionally sliced with ribbons of water. Far, far in the distance she could see the river splaying into a lazy funnel, to flow somewhere beyond the misty horizon. The wilderness was absolute and pristine, not a single sight of civilization anywhere. Or¡­


    Was that a wisp of smoke? Far off on the opposite shore of the river?


    Yet, when she looked away for a split second, the smoke was gone. She stared intensely, willing it to return, to no avail. She could not say if it was her wishful thinking and imagination, or an actual sign of something burning. Fire usually meant humans, and humans meant a chance of rescue, no matter who they were. Campers? Probably not, not in the middle of this remote wilderness. Maybe loggers or forest rangers? Hell, she¡¯d take her chances with a cannibal tribe over prancing around the swamp for all eternity.


    She scanned the direction the supposed smoke was coming from, to burn recognizable landmarks into her memory. If they were to reach it, they would have to go around the hill about a quarter of the way, cross a klick or two of grassy meadows, and then somehow cut through the thick reeds to get back on the river. In theory, they could recreate the raft and sail all the way there, but that meant another confrontation with the otters. They were friendly the last time, but could she bet her life, and the lives of the girls that it will be the same on their second encounter?


    She started climbing down the hill, along the path she carved on her ascent. She was three-quarters down when she heard the screams.


    She bolted forward, nearly tumbling down the slope. If not for the staff to break her fall, she would surely fall face-first and snap her neck. Instead, she used it as a pole to vault forward, turning a tumble into a series of long jumps. She burst through the bushes without losing any momentum, the staff raised to strike.


    The scene was unlike anything she expected.


    The girls were still up a tree, but crawled away from the trunk and hung perilously atop of the thin ends of the branches. A giant predator climbed halfway onto the trunk menacing them and making noise, but it was the least expected beast Candace could imagine to find in this wilderness.


    A nuddy-arsed obese human male. And judging from his pigmentation and his shouts, one of the Hispanic variety.


    ¡°?Esc¨²pelo, ahora!¡± the man shouted at the girls, futilely trying to pull his bulk up the branch, and grab Nata¡¯s foot.


    ¡°Hey! Get away from them ya fat fuck!¡± she screamed. The man, startled, lost his grip and fell off the trunk, tumbling under Candace¡¯s feet. He immediately tried to rise, so she whacked him over the head with her staff.


    ¡°Ay! ?Porque? Estoy tratando de ayudar!¡° he shouted, and tried to grab the staff away from her, only to get another hit on the shoulder that sprawled him on his arse again.


    Candace stopped. Her Spanish was very rudimentary, but she got the gist.  She hoped the man knew English, especially one punctuated with brutality.


    ¡°Help? The fuck you on about? Why are you grabbing my girls? Who the hell are you? Where the hell are we? What are ya doing in the woods, and why are you naked?¡±


    The man covered his head from the blows.


    ¡°Stop hitting me, lady! Just came here. Saw her eat the berries. Stop with the questions! The girl! Must spit berries!¡±


    ¡°What? What berries?!¡±


    ¡°She ate¡­¡± he trailed off, looking for words in English. ¡±Jew berry?¡°


    ¡°What? The fuck¡¯s a Jew berry?¡±


    ¡°Mierda.. maybe it''s the wrong word. Dew berry? Bow-wood berry?¡±


    ¡°You mean yew? Yew berry?¡± she asked.


    ¡°Yes! Highly toxic! She must spit it out! Vomit out now! Deadly poison!¡±


    Candace¡¯s stomach filled with ice. What if the man was right?


    ¡°Nata, didya eat any berries?¡±


    ¡°Yes Miss¡­ ¡° the girl answered, wide eyed.


    ¡°You damned idiot! Did I not tell you not to eat anything?!¡±


    ¡°No, you did not, Miss.¡± Said Sveta.


    ¡°Sveta, did you eat any as well?¡± She asked, trying to act calm.


    ¡°No, only Nata. She said she was very hungry.¡±


    Candace considered the situation. The man could very well be a dangerous maniac, but if he was right, Nata was in deadly danger. On the other hand, if she climbed down, it would put her in his arm¡¯s reach, and in possible danger as well.


    ¡°Right, cobber, you back off from the tree, no silly moves, hands where I can see them. Rack off all the way to the edge of the clearing, and stay there. Try anything funny, I¡¯ll run that bamboo straight through your gut. Understood?¡±


    The man walked away, and slumped down on a fallen log.


    ¡°Nata, get down.¡° She ordered.


    The girl climbed down, shaking in fear.


    ¡°Darling, did you really eat the berries? From that tree?¡±


    Nod.


    ¡°You must vomit them out. Do you understand?¡±


    ¡°Ask her if she bit the hard bits inside!¡± shouted the man.


    ¡°What? The stones you mean? The seeds?¡±


    ¡°Yes! The poison is in the seeds. If she bit through them, she is dead.¡±


    Nata understood enough to turn gray. Sveta gasped, and tried to climb down.


    ¡°Ya stay where you are Sveta. Don¡¯t need ya to snap your neck falling down.¡° She turned back to the younger girl. ¡°Now, Nata, did you bite the seeds? The hard little bits? Or just swallowed them?¡±


    ¡°Not bite. Eat berry fast, no biting.¡° Nata answered quietly, staring at her own feet.


    ¡°How many berries?¡± shouted the man again.


    Nata gulped, and didn¡¯t answer.


    ¡°How many berries did you eat Nata?!¡± she shouted, shaking the girl by the shoulders.


    ¡°I do not know! Seven? Maybe eight! ¡°


    ¡°Are you sure?¡±


    ¡°No¡­¡±


    Candace growled in exasperation.


    ¡°She eat nine berry.¡± Said Sveta.


    ¡°Are you sure? This is rather fuckin¡¯ important!¡±


    ¡°She eat nine. I saw. I am sure. I promise.¡± Responded the older girl solemnly.


    ¡°Alright. Now, Nata, You are going to put two fingers in your mouth, deep. Press on the back of your tongue. You must puke. Vomit. Understood?¡®¡¯ - she tried to be as calm as possible.


    ¡°I can not¡­¡±


    ¡°You want to live ya dumbarse? I did not save your fucking life twice just so that you could die of terminal fuckwitery! Make yourself puke or I will do it for ya!¡±


    ¡°Wait.¡± Said the man calmly. ¡°Can I come help? Promise no¡­ silly  moves.¡±


    He approached, wary of the sharptip of the bamboo spear pointing at his throat.


    ¡°We need to make sure she vomits every seed. We need to find them and count them.¡±


    ¡°What do you suggest?¡±


    ¡°If we had a bowl or a tray she could puke on it, and we would count. But we don¡¯t. We must use our hands.¡± He said, watching Candace¡¯s face scrunching in disgust.


    ¡°Bloody hell. I¡¯ll make her hurl, you cup your hands, mate. Put those manly paws to use.¡±


    She swiftly grabbed Nata in a hold, and rammed two fingers down her throat. The girl struggled and choked, but soon her mouth gushed out a stream of pink foam, with jelly-like bits of berries in it. Candace let her go, and helped the man contain the puddle of sick.


    ¡° Nata, sweetheart, If you survive this, I swear I''m going to spank your arse purple. Bloody teenagers¡­¡±


    The girl did not respond, and crawled back to the trunk of the tree, heaving and sobbing. Sveta managed to climb down, against Candace¡¯s furious glare, and hugged her sister tight.


    The man slowly lowered his hands and spilled the contents over Candace¡¯s palm, drop by drop. She sifted through it, separating the stones and counting them. She found eight.


    ¡°Shite. I''m missing one. Sveta, you sure it was nine? Absolutely, swear-on-your-sister¡¯s grave sure? Because that might actually be the case if she still has any in her belly.¡±


    ¡° I am sure, Miss. It was nine berries. I saw her take them, one by one.¡±


    She looked the man in the eyes. He was just as worried as she was, and did not look scary anymore. In fact, he looked like a pudgy, harmless sook of a bloke. He reminded her of an oversized toddler more than a man.


    ¡°What is the lethal dose?¡± she whispered.


    ¡°Supposedly one or two seeds is enough to kill a small child. She is a teen, so¡­¡±


    ¡°Yah, but she¡¯s what, forty-five kilos? Fifty? She¡¯s tall but lanky as a stick. So, as much weight as two small children? She¡¯ll survive, right?¡±


    ¡°I don''t know, lady. I¡¯m a chemist not a doctor. I do not know how bad it is, and how to help her.¡± He said, dropping his eyes.


    ¡°Chemist? Can¡¯t you make an antidote? Cure?¡±


    ¡°How? We are naked in the woods. Even if I knew what to do, I would have no tools or ingredients.¡±


    ¡°Maybe we make her puke again?¡± She doubted it would work, but what else was there to do?


    ¡°We might try it. She must drink some water first, her stomach is empty. Maybe it will wash the seed out¡±.


    ¡°Not sure you noticed, but the water around here is chunky with gunk. Won¡¯t that make her worse?¡±


    ¡°Worse? No. It will likely give her diarrea, maybe cause more vomiting. But in this situation, it is good¡­-¡± he paused, ¡°or at least not worse. We can help her with belly problems later, but not with poison.¡±


    ¡°Alright. There is a beach nearby, though some critters lurk there. We walk there, make her drink as much as she can, hurl again. Do it again and again until she''s purged?¡±


    ¡°That''s a plan-¡± He nodded, hesitating.  ¡°But there is another place. Further away, but the water there is cleaner. Only¡­¡±


    ¡°Only what?¡±


    ¡°I will lead you there. But promise you will not be mad, and not hit me again. Remember, I am trying to help."

 SECOND MONTH. CATFISHING, IRONY, AND THE DREAMS OF SIEGE ARTILLERY

    I woke up angry. Here I was, imagining myself to be the new king of the jungle, and yet I allowed a bunch of aquatic muppets to scare me away from a major food source. I defeated the wolverine, why should I fear a bunch of otters? Just because each was bigger than I was, had jaws like a bear-trap and there was a whole pack of them?


    Angling aside, I had to find a way to scare them off, because I wanted to cross the river one day. Armed with a spear and some attitude, I returned to the jetty.


    The otters were gone, or at least not visible. My fishing rod was still there, entangled in the branches of the fallen pine. The line was stretched all the way into the reeds.


    I pulled at it. It seemed stuck but not hopelessly so. It felt like someone tied an anchor to the other end. After a few minutes of tugging it gently, I pulled a giant clump of algae, muck, and reed roots towards me.


    And In the middle of that clump was a magnificent catfish, far bigger than any fish I have ever caught in my entire life. In my old world, it would make my fellow anglers fume with envy¡­


    Or at least, it was two-thirds of such a catfish. It looked like the fish took my bait, got entangled in the reeds, and something, likely one of the otters, chose that opportunity to tear off its exposed tail. Everything behind the pelvic fin was gnawed off, but it still left enough meat on the fish for a family meal, and then some.


    Astonishingly, the fish was still alive, or maybe just twitching in post-mortem spasms. It kept opening and closing its giant maw, which was big enough that I could easily fit my whole fist inside. I took it back to the shore and butchered it. I threw its head far away into the water, as a tribute paid to the otters. The fish guts I wrapped around the hook, as bait, and tossed it back into the scummy shallow nearby. Who knows, maybe I will hook another one, or an eel this time? Both catfish and eels were nocturnal scavengers that could be fished a year around, even from under the ice. If I mastered this and made a truce with the otters, I could feed myself continuously, even in the winter.


    Aside from the meat, which soon started to sizzle nicely over the fire, the fish provided another benefit. Its bones made for much better needles than the hedgehog quills.


    Soon, I was dining on the fish, letting the delicious smell permeate my camp. It could use some spices, or at least salt, yet another reason to take a trip downriver. If the delta fell into the sea, like it normally would, I could pan for salt there. If there weren¡¯t any humans around the shore, at the very least the trip would not be in vain.


    But as usual, every plan I had hinged on having made the tools that I did not have yet, and those depended on resources I could not gather without different tools, which again depended on other things I was missing. If I wanted to sail across the river, I could likely jury-rig a raft quite easily. But If I wanted to sail down to the delta, cross it, find the sea it was flowing into, and come back alive, I needed an actual boat, or at least a good enough watercraft that could survive the trip, and not fall apart from the first tidal wave that hit it. Moreover, it would need a real sail, and sturdy oars, so that I could ever hope to go back, fighting the flow. It would also need to be fast enough, and tall enough at the sides that I would not be easily boarded by bloodthirsty otter pirates, or other prehistoric beasties the river would undoubtedly surprise me with.


    I knew I was good enough to make such a raft, I was, after all, all my other failings aside, a damned good woodworker. But at this point, my tools consisted of a piece of flint glued to an elk jaw, several haphazardly knapped shards of chert, and a bone chisel that was so dull I mostly used it to pick my teeth after meals. I would barely be able to make a toy boat model using those, not a chance of making the real thing.


    I needed proper metal tools, and for that I needed metal. In theory, one should dig for metal ore, smelt it, and then hammer the resulting metal into a useful shape. I understood the basic principles of blacksmithing, because a fellow smith let me dabble in his workshop every once in a while. But smelting metal, not to mention, actually finding ore, was something I had no idea how to go about.


    Where to find iron ore? I assumed it looked like rust, and existed underground. It would be a hopeless endeavor to just dig at random spots looking for it, what''s with my only digging tool being a tiny trench-digger, but what if I surveyed the walls of the gulch for ore deposits? The stream already did most of the work for me, carving a trench twice my height through several layers of soil.


    With my belly full of fatty catfish, and my backpack full of tools and spare torches, I entered the woods. On the way, I checked my traps, caltrops, and snares. All but one looked untouched, so likely no huge beast prowled around, or if there was one, it was more nimble and clever than I thought. One snare had been sprung. A bush bird must have triggered it and got entangled, judging from the handful of feathers still tied to it. But the bird itself was gone, taken by some predator who likely could not believe its luck. All that was left of it, were small bits of fluffy dawn and a few specks of dried blood.


    Drat. Between the poached bird, and the catfish situation, I saw an unpleasant pattern. This place was so full of hungry opportunists, that if I caught anything with my hooks and snares, it would be stolen, or at least gnawed at, long before I got there to claim my prize. Logic dictated I should wake up with the morning sun every day, to check on my traps immediately. Maybe I should tie knockers and rattles to my traps, so that the caught animal would make some noise and alert me sooner? But then again, it would attract thieves as well!


    The alternative was hunting for food. I would not have to do it too often, since I could multiply meat until the original ''sample'' spoiled. But the idea of going into the woods to stalk prey stealthily, was not only ridiculous, with my complete lack of skills, but also plain dangerous. I depended on the smell and sight of the burning torch to scare away animals, and made plenty of noise to warn them. It was necessary for my safety, but completely detrimental to any form of stealth. Besides, I did not think I could actually hit any small game by throwing my spear at it, and the big game animals here were way out of my punching weight. I knew better than to try to bother an elk, a moose, or a wild boar, with only a sharpened stick for a weapon.


    Finally, I arrived at the entrance to the ravine. The hedgehogs guarding it sniffed at me, nonplused by my intrusion on their turf. I threw a catfish spine in their general direction, continuing my plan to appease the local wildlife with bribes of food. They swarmed over it, clearing a path for me.


    A short trip took me halfway up the gully, to a place where the walls were made of clay packed with rocks, rather than sand and grit. I set several torches around me, to feel safer and to illuminate the shade, and set to work prying the stones out of the wall.


    Predictably, most of those were useless. Every once in a while I would find a lump of chert, or maybe flint, I could never tell these apart. But my flint-knapping skills were nonexistent. In all my previous attempts at making stone tools, the best I achieved were awkwardly shaped shards that were sharp enough for me to cut myself on the jagged edges, but not big and precise enough for any useful work. Again, it made me appreciate the wisdom of the cavemen who knew how to turn such bits of stone into all types of precise tools and deadly weapons.


    The only useful stone I have found was a fist-sized lump with a natural hole through it, big enough to fit my thumb in. I rammed a stick into it, and waved my new hammer around.


    ¡°Behold! I am the Mighty Thor!¡± I bellowed at nobody in particular. The woods mercifully did not comment on my theatrics.


    But soon, my humor deflated. Where was the goddamn iron? The clay around the upper parts of the gully was brick red, so I assumed it must have had some iron in it. What else could have caused such coloration? But I could not find even a single fleck of actual iron rust. I walked the ravine back and forth, scanning the walls, but found nothing that looked even remotely like ore.This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.


    Disheartened, I went back home. Home? I snickered to myself. In less than two months, this weird place grew on me so much that I thought the camp by the river was my home. I tried to remember my actual home, a three-room flat I shared with my wife and kids, but my mind reeled away from that thought. It was too painful to think about them, so the brain kept substituting the here-and-now, to focus on instead.


    I knew I was not going back, but if I stopped moving, stopped looking for practical solutions to problems that could be solved, and allowed myself to consider my situation, I would fall on the ground, curl into a fetal position, and cry.


    Focus.


    Hammer, nail, nail, hammer. And I already had a hammer. I needed some nails!


    I sat by my main bonfire, pondering. How can iron be so hard to find? Isn¡¯t it one of the most common elements? I was pretty sure the planet¡¯s surface was littered with it, and it was present everywhere, including my blood! For a second I considered just bleeding a bit, or maybe bleeding a fish dry, and multiplying the blood a thousandfold to somehow extract iron from scabs, but I soon discarded that idea. Turing my camp into a bloody slaughterhouse would be greatly unwise, and attract the wrong kind of attention.


    I looked at the lump of clay I brought from the ravine. It was rust colored, and by all logic, should contain lots of iron, but I could not find any in it, or extract it. I even washed it, and poured the resulting orange soup through cloth, fishing for bits of ore, but all I found was sand and grit.


    I considered returning to the gully to look for it gain, when another idea struck me. The ravine was not the only place where I could search for ore. There was a swamp not far from where I landed in this world. Digging through it might be a bit dangerous, but it would be vastly easier than digging through tightly packed and overgrown soil.


    I multiplied some extra torches to take with me, took my spear and a trenching tool, and jury-rigged simple snowshoes out of sticks and string. I reasoned that making my foot much bigger with a wider surface, would prevent it from sinking in the swamp.


    The route through the woods made me feel anxious. I was straying from a known path, into darker, denser, unfamiliar parts. I passed the spot where I landed and met the unicorn, which was luckily absent. The further away I was from the ravine and the sandy hill, the soggier the ground became, and the grasses and weeds were soon replaced by squishy moss that hid pockets of water underneath. I put on my swamp-shoes, after sinking almost to my knees in muck.


    Finally, I breached the edge of the forest proper, and walked onto the open marshes. On one side they bordered a wall of reeds that separated them from the river and seemed to stretch forever towards the far horizon. On the other side, the mossy wetland gave way to a slightly drier bog, an uninviting archipelago of patches of peat, separated by lazy canals of brown water.


    As unpleasant as they looked, the peat islands at least provided reasonably safe footing, so I went that way. Soon I was coated up to the navel in mud that stank of sulfur and rot, but at least I was moving forward.


    Exhausted, I climbed onto a particularly big patch and decided to take some rest. The peat on the top turned out to be relatively dry, so I made a small bonfire that sent stinking smoke everywhere, but let me warm my legs and hopefully discouraged adventurous wildlife.


    At first glance, the bog looked devoid of denizens, but soon I noticed a commotion in the distance. A herd of unicorns, not unlike the one that greeted me rudely when I arrived, frolicked in the distance. As they came closer, I understood that they were not playing. What I took for play, or maybe mating displays, was actually hard work. They would ram their strange horns into the peat, and tear up clumps of it, to feast on whatever it was underneath.


    Curious, I dug a hole with the shovel to see what the fuss was about. Sure enough, there was a prize hidden underneath the peat. Some of the green shots that grew through the moss at the top, had onion-like bulbs hidden underground. They looked tasty, and the unicorns were wild for it, but I was not brave enough to try them. Just in case, I packed a handful into my bag for future testing.


    Observing the rooting herd, I realized I did not need to dig through the bog myself. I could just follow the animals, and search through the ground they plowed.


    I set up to go after them. As I neared closer, the sentries at the back of the herd reared up, sizing me from a distance. One or two trotted a few steps towards me, huffing loudly, but luckily considered their warning sufficient. I did not think my torch would ward them off if they decided to gore me, panicking or angry herd animals tended to act unpredictably.


    Without getting any closer to the herd, or making any sudden moves, I kneeled to dig through the overturned peat and splashes of mud they left. At first, the only things I found were some overlooked bog onions, and plenty of horse droppings, but just as I was to give up and raise, my shovel hit a hard lump in a ruddy splash of mud. Digging carefully around it, to not spill anything, I found a lump the size of a fist. I almost laughed out loud. It was a big chunk of rust, obviously it must have been iron! Digging further, I found several smaller bits that, collected, looked like a bunch of asteroids, reddish brown, and pockmarked. Carefully, I cracked one with several hits of my elk-jaw axe. Inside the rusty exterior, was a tiny sliver of unoxidized metal, not bigger than a grain of corn. Gently, I scratched it with the axe, revealing a metallic shine.


    I was about to whoop in sheer joy, when another sound froze me in place. A deep, honking, trumpeting roar, as if the sound of a hawk, a lion, and a truck¡¯s horn were mixed into one. It vibrated my guts, and I only dared to lift my eyes without daring to stand up.


    The unicorn herd exploded into chaos. And in the middle of that chaos, two monsters towered over the panicking ungulates, catching up to them in powerful strides and axing them down with their beaks. One of the terror birds managed to trap a particularly large unicorn under its taloned foot, and, as the helpless animal struggled, tore its head clean off with one peck. Then it trumpeted again, calling its smaller mate. Most of the unicorns managed to escape, a few lie in the bog, kicking the mud in agony from deadly wounds. The two birds walked methodically from one victim to another, finishing them off, dragging the corpses to a single heap, and piling them up. The bigger bird stood triumphantly over the pile, tearing chunks of meat and swallowing it whole, and the smaller one, which I just noticed was the one that sported the decorative plumage, kept collecting the kills and bringing them to its bigger partner.


    Without taking my eyes off the gory display, I laid down on my stomach, and belly-crawled off the patch, and into the watery muck. I let the water close over me, only leaving my face over the surface. I could not see the birds anymore, and hoped they could not see me. My torches were extinguished, but I doubted they would help much if the birds wanted me dead.


    Pushing away with the snow-shoes, I half crawled, half swam towards the deeper end of the marsh, and then circled back towards the edge of the forest, giving the birds a wide berth. Only when I was hidden in the bushes, I dared to look back. The big terror bird was still dining on its pile of corpses, but its mate, likely the male of the species, was gone.


    I almost rose to run into the woods, when I heard the thumps of powerful running footsteps. The plumed bird crossed the swamp not more than forty steps away from my hiding spot, clearly searching for something, likely me, the intruder on their hunting grounds. Its amber gaze swept over the bushes where I hid, but it had not seen me.


    It hesitated for a while, perched on an island of moss in the middle of the swamp. Then its female called, and it burst towards it in a sudden rush of motion, like a roadrunner from Hell.


    This thing was fast. Really, really fast. My elaborate traps and defenses that I carefully laid down would do little to save me, because if it ever spotted me, I would be dead in two seconds, long before I reached them. No human alive would outrun it, I even doubted a galloping horse would. And as for my snares and caltrops, they would do little to slow it down, because that thing could cut a pony-sized animal in half with a single bite, or smash it underfoot. As strong as my silk ropes were, they would not be strong enough to stop that¡­ dinosaur.


    Or no, a dinosaur is not a strong enough term. This was a dragon, or at least the closest thing to one that I could imagine.


    I allowed myself to exhale. The birds were far off in the distance. They did not see me, and probably haven¡¯t caught my scent. It was possible they did not hunt by scent at all, otherwise the plumed one would have found me twice already. Their giant, front-facing eyes suggested they hunted by sight.


    I patted myself. I had lost all my gear in that swamp, but luck would have it, the smallest bit of ore, the one with a tiny speck of metal in it, was still safely wrapped in a kerchief I tied and tucked under my pants waist.


    ¡®You just wait and see you goddamned turkeys¡¯. I thought to myself. ¡®If this metalworking thing works, Im going to be munching on your roasted legs before winter.¡¯

 MIGUEL (III). THREE-FINGER METHOD, STRANGLING CATS, AND COPS AS ROOT VEGETABLES.

    ¡°Lady, let me help you. It will be faster,¡± he said, looking back at the terrifying Asian woman. She was the second person to beat the snot out of him that day, and almost as scary as the cop he left half-buried.


    She shook her head, declining the offer, ¡°Sorry mate, I''m not letting you handle a scared, hurt, teenage sheila, ¡®specially one with no knickers on. We''re fine as apples, limping along as we do.¡±


    The woman held the lamed girl under her arm, helping her navigate the bushes using one staff for a crutch, another to beat back the branches out of the way. The other girl trailed after them, hugging herself, and sobbing. She was deathly pale, though Miguel assumed it was from stress and not yet from the poison.


    ¡°Look, I''m just trying to help. I don¡¯t care if you ladies are naked, I''m naked too!¡± he said, exasperated.


    ¡°You being nuddy as well makes it much worse.¡± She said, almost immediately tripping, nearly spilling the girl on the forest floor.


    ¡°See? Let me help, we can carry her¡­¡± he approached them but the woman pointed the staff at his face, stopping him.


    ¡°...alright. We¡¯re goin¡¯ to put the sticks under her bottom and do a chair-carry. Grab her under the knee and over the waist¡­¡± they lifted the girl, who froze for a second when Miguel touched her, ¡°you better remember what the words knee and waist mean, cobber. If I see you touching any of her fun bits or even eyeballing them, you''re gonna regret it. And God help you if you so much as get a half-mast stiffy¡­ ¡±


    Miguel burst out laughing. It terrified the girl so much that she almost jumped out of his arms, and the woman stared daggers at him.


    ¡°Whatcha laughin¡¯ for?!¡±


    ¡°the absurd irony of my life!¡± he said, heaving with laughter.


    ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°Lady, people have threatened and beaten me for years, for who I am. Now, some magic threw me into this weird opposite world, where people want to beat me for what I''m definitely not! The universe must hate me!¡±


    ¡°What are ya on about?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m maric¨®n. A sissy. Homosexual. No need to threaten me to keep me away from them. Your fun bits are safe. I actually find them not fun at all, a bit gross, even¡±.


    ¡°Oi, who do you call gross you fat blob? Also, sorry for going off on ya. I was being clucky with the two dumbarses under my care. ¡± she smiled, softening a bit. ¡°Girls! Say thank you to this nice bloke.¡±


    ¡°Thank you.¡± said the one they carried. The other one nodded and muttered something he could not hear.


    ¡°I''m Miguel by the way. But everyone calls me Gordo.¡±


    ¡°Gordo¡­doesn¡¯t that just mean fatass?¡± she asked.


    ¡°Oh yes, on account of my obvious anorexia.¡± He winked. ¡°Been called worse¡±.


    ¡°Nice to meet ya, Miguel The Gay Fatass. Im Candace, The Roided Hag, and these are the Russkie Fuckwits, Sveta and Nata. One is lame, the other terminally stupid.¡±


    ¡°What a team we make!¡± he said. But there was one thing he had to make clear before it came to light anyway.


    ¡°Candace. What if I''m something worse than a sissy fat man?¡± he asked.


    ¡°Like what?¡±


    ¡°What if I''m a criminal?¡± he asked, stopping. Candace looked him in the eyes.


    ¡°Are you the kind of criminal who hurts women? Or people, in general?¡±


    ¡°No¡­ not directly at least.¡±


    ¡°Are you the kind of a criminal who has their own yacht, or better yet, a private helo, and can take us out of here?¡± she followed.


    ¡°No, definitely not.¡±


    ¡°Then I do not give a fuck. Let''s worry about it once we are rescued¡­¡±


    ¡°But¡­¡± he trailed off, because she pushed forward forcing him to catch up without spilling their passenger. They finally breached the edge of the woods and got out onto the meadow he left a while ago. Now, he definitely needed to explain the situation, because the source of his worry noticed them, and started shouting expletives and pleas for help.


    ¡°Who the hell is that? A friend of yours?¡± asked Candace, picking up her pace.


    ¡°The opposite of a friend. He is¡­¡± he went out of breath, trying to match her jog, ¡°he¡¯s a cop that caught me. And I sort of killed him. And myself. It is¡­ah¡­complicated. And then we ended up here¡­ and I abandoned him¡±.


    ¡°Gordo, you are not making any sense. You killed him and now he is alive?¡±


    ¡°It is¡­ hard to explain. The important thing is, I am on your side, and saved the girl¡¯s life. You remember that, and do not listen to what he says¡­¡± he panted out, sweating from both the exertion and anxiety.


    The officer¡¯s voice got hoarse from all the shouting, and he shut up. When they finally reached him, Miguel saw the cop was not idle. He excavated all the loose soil around himself and tried to dig into the slate with his bare hands. His fingertips were raw and bloody, and the rock was smeared red all over, but predictably, he made no further progress. His vulpine face no longer showed the confident anger of before, only fear and a grim determination to survive.


    ¡°I''m surprised you came back, fatty. You were supposed to bring help, but you brought whores instead? ¡± the cop said, trying to mask his desperation with a mischievous grin.


    ¡°Hey, co?o, I understand enough Spanish to catch that,¡± said Candace with a mean scowl. ¡°You better watch who you call a puta, your head is right on a footy punt level.¡±


    ¡°I am very sorry Miss,¡± said the cop in English this time, with an almost sincere apologetic smile. ¡°Officer Raul Martinez of the Grupo Especial de Operaciones Federales, Argentine Federal Police. At your service.¡± He pointed at Miguel. ¡°I need to warn you ma''am. This man is a criminal, a cartel associate and drug dealer¡­ and he left me here to die.¡±


    Miguel tried to protest, but Candace shushed him. ¡°Hey, I want to hear the man out.¡±


    ¡°But you said you don''t care!¡± he shouted desperately.


    ¡°And you said you were harmless!¡±


    ¡°Miss,¡± the cop started again,¡± this man is not harmless. He is dangerous. He caused an explosion that almost killed me and several officers. And he sold methamphetamine to the kids in Buenos Aires.¡±


    Candace pulled Sveta away from Miguel.


    ¡°Please, let''s be reasonable,¡± he pleaded. ¡°I helped you with the girls. I mean you no harm¡­. Yes, I am a criminal, but I''m not a bad man¡­ and I''m not a Cartel man! ¡±


    ¡°He is lying,¡± said Officer Martinez matter-of-factly. ¡°We raided his laboratory, where he was making drugs for the Cartel. Maybe he was not selling it himself, but he was cooking it. However¡­¡± he added, putting on the face of a reasonable authority figure, ¡°... we must be practical. We are alone in this jungle, God knows where. He might, or might not be at fault for this, but he is stuck in here as much as we are, or he would be long gone otherwise.¡±


    ¡°What do you suggest, Officer?¡± asked Candace, but the distrust in her voice betrayed that she was not exactly buying the man¡¯s words.


    ¡°For one, you need to help me dig myself out. I have no idea how I ended up embedded in rock. The last thing I remember was an explosion caused by this boludo -¡± he pointed at Miguel,¡± and I woke up in here, staring at his ass and legs sticking out of the ground. I helped him out, and he left me here.¡±


    ¡°Hey, this is not how -¡± Miguel started but Martinez cut him off.


    ¡°... as I was saying, Mister Aguirre here,¡± he pointed at him again, ¡° left me to die, because otherwise I would have arrested him. But this is not important now. The important thing is for the three of you to get me out, so that I could help you return to civilization. I''m a special forces operator trained in wilderness survival and rescue, you won¡¯t last a day here without my help.¡±


    ¡°We already lasted two, you know,¡± said Candace. ¡°But alright mate, we will help you. It''s not like we¡¯re the kind of arseholes who would leave a bloke to die,¡± she glared at Miguel, but put in a split-second wink. ¡°But we have a much more urgent problem. This girl,¡± she pointed at Nata, ¡°ingested poison. We need to sort her out first. Then we uproot ya. Then we can have a straightening-out convo with Mister Aquirre.¡±


    She put Sveta on the ground, but outside the man¡¯s reach, and led Nata towards the water. Miguel followed. They sat by the river.


    ¡°Candace please¡­¡± he started.


    ¡°Oh don¡¯t ya worry. I didn¡¯t believe the so-called officer. He tried to sell us heaps of furphy. Typical snake-fuckin''-charming copper talk. But you do have some explaining to do, alright? ¡±


    ¡°So,¡± he changed the subject hastily, ¡°what do we do about Nata?¡±


    ¡°I''m not sure. She looks scared, but fine? How fast does the poison kick in?¡±


    ¡°Sorry Candace, but I have no idea. I think it works fast, one, maybe two hours before she has the first symptoms.¡± He looked at the girl, who was hugging her stomach, her face ashen. ¡°I don¡¯t know if what¡¯s happening to her is a stress reaction or the poisoning. Maybe we should make her puke anyway, just to be sure?¡±


    Candace rose to her feet and reached for Nata with a determined look on her face. The girl froze in place, doe-eyed.


    Miguel gently pulled her hand away. ¡°Please, let me¡­¡± He knelt by the girl. She visibly relaxed when Candace backed off.


    ¡°Hi Nata. Sorry for scaring you, back there, by the tree. I was trying to help. You have to vomit out the last seed. I know this is very unpleasant, but you need to do this to save your life.¡±


    ¡°I¡­I can not.¡± she sobbed. ¡°I have¡­ do not know how say¡­¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s alright. Maybe your sister can help translate?¡± he suggested.


    ¡°No! No¡­Sveta will be mad. I have¡­ rasstroystvo chuvstva goloda. Ty nye panemayesh¡­ It is when you hungry, and eat, and vomit and eat again and vomit, and can not stop? Sick in head?¡±


    ¡°You have bulimia? You eat a lot and then you hate it that you did, and vomit it out?¡± he asked.


    ¡°Yes, this word. You understand? If vomit again, I cannot stop. Sick in head again. Crazy. Better die from poison than crazy again. Please tell Candace she not make me!¡±


    Miguel hugged her. Candace jumped to intervene, but stopped when Nata hugged him back and started sobbing.


    ¡°Chica, I understand, believe me,¡± he said, gently patting her head. ¡°But you are wrong. It¡¯s better to be a bit crazy than dead. I¡¯ve spent a thousand evenings hugging a toilet bowl and puking my stomach inside out. But I''d rather do it again than die. Please do it the least time to get rid of the poison seed, and then I¡¯ll help you be a little less crazy. Ok?¡±


    She looked up.


    ¡°...ok¡±.


    He let go of her and waded into the water. Found a floating plant that looked a bit like a water lily, and ripped off several giant, dish-like leaves. Then he pulled out a tall, thick cattail shot and snapped it in half.


    ¡°Candace, hold that reed.¡± He handed it to her and angled it. ¡°I''m going to pour water up the top of it, and as it filters out, it should pour out from the bottom hole. Nata, hold that leaf and gather the water. When the leaf is full, drink it. Ok?¡±


    He poured water into the hollow tube using the second leaf, and watched as it dripped out of the other end, agonizingly slowly. He hoped that the spongy mass inside the bulrush shot would filter out at least some of the contaminants and bacteria. Sure, the reed itself might have been poisonous, but he considered it unlikely. As far as he knew, no reed species was poisonous, and most were actually edible.


    After what felt like half an hour of careful pouring and filtering, Nata managed to capture and drink about ten leaf-fulls of water, which was about one liter, give or take. She drank most of it.


    ¡°Ok Nata. Now the difficult part. You have to puke the water out. You need to dislodge the seed, if it is stuck inside your stomach.¡± He said putting the leaves on the ground. ¡°Can you do it yourself?¡±


    ¡°Ehhhh, blyat''. I do it. Please¡­ not look. Ok?¡± She stared at them with pleading eyes. Obligingly, they turned around.


    For a few minutes, all they could do was wince in sympathy over the sounds of retching and sobbing.


    ¡°Is good. I see it it. it is out. No turn around, I want to wash.¡± Splashing sounds.


    ¡°You found it? You found the seed?¡± he asked.


    ¡°Yes.¡± Nata approached them, holding a tiny brown speck. ¡°This is ..this? The seed?¡±


    ¡°Yeah,¡± Candace said with a clear relief in her voice. ¡°Doesn¡¯t look bitten or digested to me. Whatcha think?¡±


    ¡°Not worse than the previous ones. Still, we need to observe her for symptoms. Not sure what we do if she has any, but still¡­¡± he hesitated.


    Nata grabbed him suddenly, muttering something incomprehensible in Russian. Then she did the same to Candace.


    ¡°So sorry, love.¡± Candace said, patting the girl¡¯s back. ¡°Did not know you were sick. If I knew, I would not jump ya like that. We alright? Still besties?¡± she said, waving a woven bracelet.


    ¡°Yes, Miss. We friends. And Mister Miguel friends too.¡±


    ¡°Just call me Miguel,¡± he said. ¡°Calling me Mister and calling Candace Miss sounds like we''re old.¡±


    ¡°But you are ¡­¡±


    ¡°Call us old and I smack ya,¡± said Candace with mock anger. ¡°I still owe you some good arse whoopin¡¯, remember? Also, If it is not clear yet, do not, I repeat, do not eat or drink anything unless I¡­well unless Miguel says it is ok?¡±


    ¡°Yess M¡­ Candace.¡± Nata said, and left to join her sister. Candace watched her go, her face softening.


    ¡°By the by, good on ya, Gordo,¡± she said, facing him. ¡°As much as I hate babysitting these two dimwits, I would hate it more to see them die. Thanks?¡±


    ¡°Hey, everybody would do the same¡­¡± he started.


    ¡°Speaking of everybody,¡± she said quietly, nodding at the cop they left in the middle of the meadow. ¡°Care to explain what the copper was about? You being a Cartel man? Rather hear it from ya than from that grub.¡±


    ¡°Candace¡­¡± he searched for words. He was never a good liar. He was not at all good with human interaction in general, having spent most of his adult life either alone in a lab or staring at a computer screen.


    ¡°...What the policeman said is true. Mostly true. I¡¯m a meth cook. Or was one, before my lab blew up and I ended here.¡± He shifted his gaze down, not braving eye contact with her. ¡°I used to be a¡­stupid kid, back in university days. Got in debt with very, very bad people. Could not pay them back in anything but my skills. So¡­yes, I cooked meth for the Cartel. First pay them off, then¡­ I got greedy alright? Started enjoying the money.¡±


    ¡°Like that Breaking Bad bloke?¡±


    ¡°Oh no, that show is rubbish, and that man¡¯s procedure was absolutely amateurish!¡± he shook his head with a sad laugh. ¡°I would not trust a moron like that to brew soap, much less meth. I was much better, and¡­ you can say got addicted to being good at it? Being proud of being good?¡±


    ¡°So exactly like the Breaking Bad bloke?¡±


    ¡°Huh. Point taken. But what I mean is that I never intended to hurt anyone¡­¡±


    ¡°Except the kids who overdosed on your cookin¡¯ and fucking died?¡± she said, harshly.


    ¡°I¡­ I always tried not to think about it. Maybe it makes it even worse, in retrospect?¡±


    ¡°It does.¡± She said firmly. ¡°But you cannot undo it, and I think being teleported to fucking China, helpless and nuddy as a newborn is enough of a punishment.¡±


    ¡°Wait, teleported? This kind of makes sense¡­ but how do you know?¡± he asked.


    ¡°How do you think I ended up here? Did you assume I just happen to enjoy trekking around the bushes, my bare arse hanging out, with two Barbie dolls in tow? We got magicked here somehow. Assume the same as you?¡±


    ¡°Well¡­ I died first,¡± he said, uncertain.


    ¡°What do you mean, died? You are standing upright, mate. You think this is an afterlife? Hell?¡± she looked around. ¡°Well, fuck me, ya might actually be right¡­¡±


    ¡°No¡­ at least I do not think so. But the truth is, I had triggered an explosion just before I ended up here, one strong enough to blow up the whole house, and the last thing I saw, before I ended up here, was a cloud of acetone fire speeding towards my face.¡± he admitted.


    ¡°Well, cobber, I got you one-upped I think, the last thing I saw was a tiger shark opening its mouth to eat my stupid head. This is starting to make sense.¡±


    ¡°We both died?¡± he asked.


    ¡°We both almost died, I think. Almost is the operative word.. Defo stick to that, that¡¯s less spooky and¡­ spiritual,¡± she said, turning to go back, then noticed the sisters squatting next to the cop.


    ¡°Hey! What do you two think you¡¯re bloody doing? Move the fuck away from him!¡± Candace shouted.


    ¡°We, we just¡­¡± stammered Nata, quickly scooting away from the cop.


    ¡°Miss, they were trying to help me out, as I ordered them.¡± The officer said.


    ¡°Ordered now, huh? Since when didya got to be in charge?¡± she asked, taking Sveta underarm and pulling her away as well.


    ¡°And you,¡± she scolded the girls, ¡°are you determined to get in trouble at every damn moment my eyes are of ya?¡±


    ¡°But¡­he is police, he said¡­ he will help us.¡± Sveta tried to defend herself.


    ¡°Love, and yous just believed him? Aren¡¯t you girls bloody Russian? Don''t you people know better than to trust the police?¡±This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.


    ¡°Miss,¡± said the officer, in a placating tone, that nevertheless had iron underneath, ¡°I understand your caution, but this is really unnecessary. If you are in charge of this¡­ group, I¡¯ll defer to you. But you need to get me out. You need me.¡±


    ¡°I hate to say it, but he is right,¡± sighed Miguel. In all the crazy, horrific things that happened to him that day, he found Martinez to be the most terrifying. Not because he was a cop, that was frankly irrelevant in their situation. It''s because he had the same cold, calculating, predatory stare Miguel saw in the eyes of Cartel sicarios who were his handlers. Sure, Martinez possibly saved his life pulling him out of the ground, but Miguel did not think for a second it was out of the goodness of the man''s heart. Miguel was a valuable pawn in the game between the Cartels and the Buenos Aires police, and thus, was worth more alive than dead. Nothing more. If he were not a potentially useful captive in their war with the Cartels, Martinez would have just shot him, back there in the house, not tried to arrest him He turned to Candace.


    ¡°I admit, I was ready to just leave him to rot. But clearly, we are far away from home, yours or mine. We need his skills. If we ever get to civilization, he can arrest me. Let''s keep ourselves alive until then.¡± He pointed at the cop, ¡°and, that means digging this forro out.¡±


    Marinez shot them a grin that was supposed to look like sincere gratitude, but the smile did not reach his eyes, which were still hard and calculating, like the stare of a raptor bird.


    ¡°Well it''s your cop, Gordo, so it is your decision.¡± Candace.


    ¡°Well then,¡± he said, ¡°as much as it pains me to say, we have to try to rescue him. We need to find some sturdy rocks and pound away at the slate to excavate him.¡±


    ¡°Normally I would be first to agree," said Martinez, ¡°as it is my ass that''s buried underground. But we have other priorities. It is getting cold, we have no clothes and no drinkable water. We have to secure those things first because I''m sure it will take a longer while for you to get me out.¡±


    ¡°I do not want to sound overly optimistic,¡± said Miguel tentatively, ¡°but I think we have the water issue solved. We can suck on those reed shots. They seem to work as a filter. Not good enough to stop most of the germs, but we are likely infected with the majority of those anyway. I''m no biologist, but I''m pretty sure all that splashing around in wet soil and dirty water was more than enough to infect us ten times over with every bug there is. We are either immune or not, time will tell.¡±


    ¡°Well,¡± Martinez said, ¡°unlike the rest of you, I haven''t drunk or eaten anything here yet. I think I''m not infected and would rather not be-¡±


    ¡°Unfortunately, you are wrong.¡± Miguel interrupted him with an unpleasant smile. ¡°Your asshole and cock were soaking-in groundwater, presenting easy access to every microbe and parasite that comes along. So I guess if we are not immune you are fucked the most. I cannot imagine it will be fun to catch gut fever while your butthole is encased in rock.¡±


    ¡°You fuckin¡­¡± the cop instantly went from friendly to frenzied. He swung impotently at Miguel who stood just outside his reach.


    ¡°What are you going to do, huh?¡± he mocked Martinez, and kicked loose dirt in his face.


    ¡°Woah!¡± Candace stood between them. ¡°Enough with the shite-talking. Are you two fucks twelve years old? You-¡± she pointed at Miguel, ¡°stop antagonizing the cop. And you, Mister supposed officer of the law, calm the fuck down, or we won¡¯t help you, yah?


    The girls stared at them, wide-eyed. He immediately deflated, anger replaced with embarrassment.


    ¡°Some adults we are.¡± Miguel sighed. ¡°Sorry, Martinez. We are on the same side until we find help. Deal?¡± He reached down and extended his hand. Martinez shook it, though Miguel half expected the cop to break his wrist with some sudden martial arts trick, out of sheer spite.


    ¡°All right Aguirre. Truce.¡± The cop hesitated for a second. ¡°Let''s cross the water issue off the list. Hopefully none of us gets sick from it. But it looks like it¡¯s way past noon and already getting cold. The night will be much worse. We can last without food for many days and even without water for a few, but low temperatures will sap our energy very quickly.¡±


    ¡°What do you suggest?¡±


    ¡°Well we won''t find any clothing in the woods but we can build a shelter to protect ourselves from wind and rain. Of course, by we, I mean you, because I''m stuck in the ground. And we should also start a fire.¡± Martinez explained.


    ¡°See,¡± said Candace, ¡°me and the girls already spent one night here. We built a shelter and covered ourselves in grass pads. But I do not see how you might start a fire in this damp forest. We do not have matches or a lighter or any fancy equipment you Special Forces types use. What are we going to do, rub sticks together? That only works in cartoons about cavemen.¡±


    ¡°Miss¡­ what is your name again?¡± the cop asked.


    ¡°Why should I tell you? Without my lawyer present? You got a warrant or something?¡± she grinned.


    ¡°Ha, fucking ha.¡± He gave her a deadpan look.


    ¡°I''m Candace.¡± She introduced herself. ¡°I''m Australian. Mostly. The peg-leg doll back there is Sveta, and her sis is Nata, they¡¯re half-Russian or somethin¡¯. And you know our new friend, Miguel Gordo¡­ Acquire?¡±


    ¡°Aguirre.¡± Miguel corrected.


    ¡°Anyway, now we are all friends,¡± Martinez waved away her objection, ¡°Let''s focus. Fire. We are getting it, eyesippy.¡±


    ¡°Eyesippy? you mean ASAP? As soon as possible?¡± she almost burst laughing.


    ¡°... Yes.¡± Martinez blushed, barely hiding his sudden anger. ¡°We need to keep warm. Even if you managed to last the whole previous night, repeated exposure to cold will ruin you.¡±


    ¡°Martinez¡­¡± Miguel said,  ¡°it''s Raul Martinez, right? Weird to call you by your surname, what¡¯s with us being friends. Anyway,¡± he turned to Candace and the girls, ¡°Raul here is correct. We¡¯ll last a day, two, maybe three, but if the temperature drops below ten centigrade for the night, which is a real possibility, it will, as he said, ruin us. Soft hypothermia means complete exhaustion, confusion, and drowsiness, which is the worst combination if we want to survive, find our way out of here, and find help.¡±


    ¡°But how do we make fire?¡± asked Sveta.


    ¡°Actually Miss Candace already has the solution.¡± Martinez grinned.


    ¡°Rub sticks? Really?¡± Candace was incredulous.


    ¡°Actually the solution is closer than you think.¡± Martinez was really enjoying himself. ¡°You brought it!¡±


    ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°The bamboo. We¡¯ll use bamboo sticks. Not rub them together, but saw one with another. ¡± he said.


    ¡°Now, this is right bollocks¡­¡± she shook her head.


    ¡°No, Mart¡­Raul is right.¡± Miguel said ¡°If we find dry enough bamboo it might work. Bamboo has a much lower ignition temperature than wood, so it can be charred with friction easily. Rub it hard enough, and long enough, and you succeed.¡±


    Candace and Sveta burst out laughing. Nata was confused for a second, but her sister whispered something in her ear and she joined in as well.


    ¡°You men and your love for rubbing your stick, long and hard¡­.¡± Candace slapped Miguel on the back. ¡°Come on Nata we leave Sveta and the men to set up the camp, and go find some dry bamboo sticks¡­ to rub... vigorously. ¡±


    They departed, going away along the edge of the riverbank, upriver where a few clumps of bamboo peeked from among the cattails.


    Martinez watched them go, and whispered to Miguel. ¡°Gordo, let''s get one thing straight. Do. Not. Fuck. With. Me. You have two choices. Leave me stuck here, and die yourself, lost in the wilderness. Or dig me out, and be at my mercy. You do not want to piss me off before that. Understood?¡±


    Miguel swallowed hard and nodded. He almost said how little faith he had in the second option coming to fruition. But he thought better of it. He needed Martinez¡¯ knowledge and skills, and not him raving mad in hopeless panic.


    ¡°Understood, Raul. We have a truce.¡±  He rose and said aloud, ¡±So how about that shelter?¡±


    ¡°Here, I already started!¡± As they were talking, Sveta wove a braid of grass. ¡°If you bring some branches and ..reed it is? We can tie it into big umbrella house-''¡±


    ¡°You mean a tent?¡± Miguel asked.


    ¡°Yes. Make a tent over Officer Raul. Put a lot of grass on it and in it. Like a nest. We all get inside for the night, be together close to keep warm.¡±


    ¡°That¡­¡± Martinez hesitated. ¡°That is actually very smart, little girl. Bravo. I have no better idea.¡±


    Miguel went to collect branches and saplings. He could not easily break or uproot any small trees, but for once, his considerable mass was to his advantage. He simply grabbed low branches and hung from them, letting his weight do the job.


    He was coming back with an armful of long sticks, when he was hit with a whiff of a vile stench. It was as if he had put his head in a cat¡¯s dirty litterbox, that contained the cat¡¯s rotten corpse as well. His eyes watered, and he almost gagged.


    ¡°Que mierda¡­?¡± He rushed forward to escape the smell, and tripped over a fallen branch. Getting up, he saw the patch of mud underfoot, and froze.


    Tracks. Animal paw prints. By the looks of it, canine. Clear as a photograph. He put his own foot next to the print. They almost matched in size.


    Steeling his resolve, he forced himself to remain calm, and collected his sticks. There was no benefit in panic. Whatever had left these prints could be long gone. Well, maybe not long, because they looked fresh, but gone anyway.


    And maybe, just maybe, it was not even very big. After all, small creatures sometimes have oversized paws - he tried to fool himself. He walked back to Martinez with faked nonchalance.


    ¡°Hey.¡± he whispered in Spanish, quietly enough that Sveta would not overhear. He did not think the girl spoke his language, but he could not risk it. ¡°Animal. Prints. Close.¡±


    ¡°What?¡± Martinez asked equally quietly, without changing his expression.


    ¡°Animal tracks. By the edge of the woods. Big as saucers. Dog? Maybe a wolf? Something like that.¡±


    ¡°You sure?¡±


    ¡°Yes Im fucking sure!¡± he growled through clenched teeth. ¡°What do we do? What if it lurks nearby?¡±


    ¡°Relax, Gordo.¡± Martinez patted him on the face. ¡°The police is here. You are safe. I won¡¯t let a wolf eat you, you have to go to prison, remember?¡±


    ¡°... this is not a joke¡­¡±


    ¡°No, it is not.¡± Martinez said matter of factly. ¡°First rule of any interaction with potentially dangerous wildlife is not to panic. Even if it comes close, it will likely be more terrified of us than we are of it. We won¡¯t panic, or run around, or yell, or make any extra noise, but we won¡¯t keep quiet either. Just act normal. Build the shelter. Wait for the girls to come back with the bamboo to start the fire.¡±


    ¡°No. We have to go and get them. Warn them. I can¡¯t even see them from here! What if they are in danger? I need to go there!¡± Miguel pleaded.


    ¡°And do what, exactly? What if they are in danger? You are going to stand between them and a wolf? Eh? Aguirre?¡± Martinez smirked, and started casually browsing through the branches, picking the best ones for the shelter.


    Miguel sat, defeated. The truth was, he was still a coward. Even the events of the last twenty-four hours had not changed that about him. Only fear and desperation could motivate him to take drastic actions, and in this case, fear made him sit still. Not that he was any safer here, with Martinez and Sveta, as neither of them was capable of defending themselves or even running away.


    ¡°What is it?¡± Sveta asked, and frowned, reading Miguel¡¯s expression. ¡°Why you whisper? In Spanish? What is happening?¡±


    Miguel exchanged a split-second look with Martinez. The cop shook his head curtly.


    ¡°Nothing Sveta, we are just arguing¡­¡± he said. She tried to ask something more, but noticed her sister and Candace returning.


    Candace lugged a giant armful of dry bamboo and kindling. Nata carried another. They triumphantly piled it in front of Martinez. ¡°Here Mister Cop, as many dry sticks as you could ever eat. Now, show us the trick.¡±


    ¡°What trick?¡±


    ¡°The bamboo sawing trick? The one you were going on about?¡± She crossed her arms and waited expectantly.


    ¡°Well, I don¡¯t really¡­ I mean I know the theory¡­¡± Martinez stammered.


    ¡°Raul, given our previous conversation, maybe you should really give it a honest try? And I mean right now?¡± Miguel insisted.


    ¡°Yeah. Eye Sippy, Raul.¡± Candace snorted. ¡°Dazzle us with your Boy Scout skills.¡±


    If the situation were not truly dire, Miguel would enjoy it immensely. Watching Martinez humiliate himself, but keeping the feelings boxed-in to appear professional, was a special kind of delight. Rubbing sticks together to make fire was not as easy as it seemed, and it seemed hard already in the first place. Sure, the cop managed to saw one bamboo with a long shard of another. He cut it almost in half, without actually producing any flames.


    ¡°This bamboo is too wet!¡± he complained, barely hiding his anger. ¡°You need to find a drier piece.¡±


    ¡°Look, mate,¡± Candace yawned. She tried her hand at bamboo-sawing with similar results. They all did. ¡°This bamboo is the driest you are likely to get around here. These woods are as damp as knickers on a rave girl, everything is moist and squishy. Maybe your idea is not as good as you thought it was?¡±


    ¡°It is good! We had it shown during training, it can be done¡­¡± Martinez argued.


    ¡°He is right, you know.¡± Miguel interceded. ¡°I saw a documentary about native people, they did start fires in a similar way.¡±


    ¡°So what are we doing wrong?¡± she asked. ¡°Use that brain of yours!¡±


    ¡°Honestly, I have no idea.¡± He shook his head and looked at Martinez, who shrugged as well. ¡°Maybe it is too damp. Or maybe the wrong type of bamboo. Or maybe we do not put enough force into it? Sooner or later it must work, heat is just motion against friction,¡­ got it!¡±


    ¡°Got what?¡± she asked.


    ¡°Friction! The bamboo is too smooth. We cut a groove in it, but it just gets polished as we saw through it, not enough friction. We need it to be rough, at least at first.¡± Miguel rummaged through their pile. Finally, he found a small shard of slate. After a few minutes, he managed to drill a small hole in a halved bamboo shot, and smeared it with fine, powdered rock. ¡°Here. I put some slate dust in the groove. It will prevent it from getting too smooth, too fast. The plan is like this, the girls will hold that piece of bamboo, and me and Raul are going to see-saw at it with that other, longer piece. Candace, when you see a flame, or even a bit of smoke, start blowing at it gently through a reed. It won¡¯t work without oxygen, but it also won¡¯t work with too much oxygen.¡±


    They set to work. They had to replace the saw part twice, because it broke under the strain. Finally, right before they gave up, a tiny ghost of white smoke emerged from the hole. Candace gently blew at it¡­ and it died.


    ¡°Fuck!¡± Martinez yelled, and tossed the saw away. ¡°We had it!¡±


    ¡°Eh¡­ we did not have it. We forgot about tinder.¡± Miguel sighed with sudden realization.


    ¡°The app?¡± Nata asked, confused.


    ¡°No,  you drongo, he means actual tinder, as in the shite that was supposed to catch on fire. We did all the work for nothing! ¡± Candace waved at her, exasperated.


    ¡°Not nothing, look!¡± Sveta pointed. The rim on the inside of the groove was still smoldering, with embers smaller than a grain of sand. ¡°Quick, what is to burn?!¡±


    They scrambled to find anything suitably flammable. Luckily, Sveta¡¯s grass-braid making left a whole handful of bushy fiber that fell off the dried grass. Candace ran to the river and brought a bulrush tip overflowing with fluff. They mixed it together and put it right upon the dying embers. Miguel took a straw and blew on them as delicately as he could.


    The tiny orange lights flickered and grew.  Seconds later, the charred bamboo smoked, and then the fluff caught on fire. Everyone except for Miguel hooted and cheered, while he gently wrapped the burning bundle in more dry grass and pushed it under a tiny dome of kindling Martinez carefully prepared.


    Within a minute, they had a small bonfire. Soon, they had a very big one, when the enthusiasm overtook them and the heat put some energy back into their tired bodies.


    They watched the night fall sitting around a bonfire, with the sole exception of Raul who had no choice but to stand in his trap. Miguel broke the silence, fell on his back and laughed. ¡°Not a day ago, starting a fire was easy and almost killed me. This time starting a fire was fiendishly hard, and quite possibly saved our lives. Life is strange.¡±


    Martinez spat out a bit of a bamboo shot he was chewing on, ¡°wish you had your chemicals here. A barrel of benzine, like the one you used to blow us up, would come in handy.¡±


    ¡°It was acetone, you ignorante. But yeah. I could use some of it. And a loaded gas burner. ¡° He stretched. ¡°And you know, clothes. Blankets. A charged phone to call for help. The stuff.¡±


    ¡°Beer. A cold one. Or maybe Cab Sav. Or one of those fizzy drinks with a tiny umbrella in it, ¡± Candace said, dreamily.


    ¡°Chocolate. Taxi to go home.¡± Sveta added.


    ¡°My guns.¡± Martinez added.


    ¡°What for? You can¡¯t shoot your way out of that rock.¡± Miguel asked.


    ¡°For¡­ things. Safety and so¡­¡± Martinez said, giving him a meaningful look.


    Candace rose, dusting herself off, and threw more sticks into the fire.


    ¡°Alright boys, cut it out. Enough with the meaningful looks and half sentences. What the hell is going on?¡±


    ¡°It is nothing-¡± Miguel started but Martinez cut him off.


    ¡°Animal. Big. Nearby. Maybe dangerous.¡± He said in Spanish.


    ¡°Fuck! Why haven''t you told us?¡± she fumed.


    ¡°We did not want you to worry. Maybe it''s nothing.¡± Miguel tried to explain.


    ¡°Well let me tell you, mate. We have been attacked by wild animals twice in the last twenty-four hours, so for the three of us it''s defo not nothing. It actually feels like quite something, you know? So next time do not withhold that kind of critical info are we clear?¡± She pointed at them both, ¡°Either way no more cryptic Hispanic chitchats. My Spanish is not very good, the girls likely don''t speak it at all, and we all deserve to know everything.¡±


    Miguel looked at Martinez who gave him a small nod. ¡±Maybe it''s actually nothing,¡± he said, ¡°or maybe not. When I was away collecting branches for the shelter I saw tracks. Animal tracks.¡±


    ¡°What kind of animal?¡± she frowned. The girls scooted closer to the fire, and they all felt how pitifully small its circle of light was against the falling darkness.


    ¡°I am not sure, but it definitely looked big. The paw prints were almost as big as my foot.¡±


    ¡°So what, a bear?¡± asked Sveta.


    ¡°No. At least I do not think so. I''m no expert, but it looked like a dog''s tracks, maybe wolf¡¯s.¡±


    ¡°Well that''s just fantastic,¡± said Candace. ¡°I''m not sure you know, Martinez, but I just fought a bloody shark and only one day later a pack of giant otters, of all things, so I''m absolutely done with dangerous wildlife.¡±


    ¡°You fought me too.¡± said Miguel, ¡°but I guess I''m not very dangerous.¡±


    ¡°The shark story is something I would like to hear one day," said Martinez, ¡°but let''s focus. None of us is dangerous. Well, normally, I would be, if I was not stuck in the ground. So the next best thing we can do is to at least appear dangerous.¡±


    ¡°What do you mean?" asked Miguel. ¡°We already have fire. I cannot think of anything more dangerous from an animal''s perspective.¡±


    ¡°I would not put much stock in fire protecting us. Wild animals don''t have a silly phobia of fire, just healthy respect for it. They know fire, and know how to get around it. A wolf or a jungle cat can easily sneak up on us and drag someone away from the bonfire. It would not be deterred. What really works in our favor is that we are strangers in this place, we smell different, we look different, and in nature, different usually means dangerous. But this advantage can easily be ruined if an animal gets too curious or if we walk into its den or hunting grounds. We have to make ourselves look even more dangerous than that to increase our chances.¡±


    ¡°So what do you have in mind?¡± Miguel asked. ¡°Spears? Clubs? Give me a month of time and maybe we can have gunpowder¡­¡±


    ¡°Masks.¡±


    ¡°You are kidding, right? You want us to believe that if we dress-up scary enough wolves and such would let us be?¡± Candace looked incredulous.


    ¡°Yes, that''s actually what I''m suggesting.¡± Martinez smiled, enjoying himself. ¡°How about I tell you a story¡­¡±


    ¡°Well it looks like you inevitably will, so let''s get on with it.¡± she said, rolling her eyes.


    ¡°A long time ago, when I was a young rookie," said Martinez who obviously looked young, still, ¡°we got jungle survival training with this old native guy, a Guarani hunter turned Spec. We called him Lizard because he was bald as an egg, ancient, and seemed to be made of tanned leather and sinew. Looked like a desiccated reptile, hence the name. He claimed too, and I very much believed him, that he was the only man in Argentina or possibly the entire world who had killed a jaguar in single combat.¡±


    ¡°Now, that''s a load of crap,¡± Miguel interjected, ¡°jaguars were basically extinct in Argentina for the last seventy years! ¡±


    ¡°Of fuck off Gordo, don¡¯t ruin my story,¡± Martinez said, flicking a stick at him. ¡°Who knows, maybe it was the Lizard Man, who made them extinct, eh? Anyway, the story goes like this. Mister Lizard was on a recon operation against possible insurgents, a million years ago, somewhere in the South-West. His base of operations was next to a local loggers¡¯ camp. It was before all this environmental nonsense, when lumberjacks could go off into the wild and make a buck.¡±


    He threw a handful of sticks into the fire. ¡°So anyway, as Lizard got cozy with the locals, trying to pry out of them what¡¯s what, they told him, nah, begged him to get some of the silly masks they all wore, for his team and for himself. Apparently, they all wore elaborate masks, with bulging eyes and giant fangs on the backs of their heads. The idea was, that the mask would make them look fearsome and vigilant, and a jungle cat, like a jaguar or a mountain puma, would not try to sneak up on them from behind. Of course, Lizard, being a bit of a skeptic like our friend Gordo here, said it was all superstitious nonsense, that there are no jaguars in the woods, and even if there were, a mask would not deter one.¡±


    He made a pause for dramatic effect. At this point, everybody except him huddled by the fire, trying to look behind them inconspicuously. The darkness beyond the glow of the fire was absolute.


    ¡°So, one day Lizard went on a bit of a recon all by himself, against regulation. There weren''t any confirmed insurgents nearby, so there was no point dragging the troops around. He slung his gun over the shoulder and was chopping away his way through the bushes, when something slammed into him from behind, and crushed his shoulder in a vise-like grip.¡±


    ¡°Let me guess,¡± asked Miguel, ¡°the non-existent, long-extinct Argentine jaguar?¡±


    ¡°The very much real, Argentine jaguar,¡± Martinez corrected. ¡±It pounced at him from behind, just like the lumberjacks said. The only thing that saved Lizard¡¯s life was that the barrel of his rifle got in the way, and instead of biting into his neck, the beast settled for his shoulder instead. The impact made him drop the ¡®chete as well, so he was completely unarmed.¡±


    ¡°So, what he do?¡® Nata asked, huddling close to her sister.


    ¡°Well, he did the only thing he could, a technique I rather don¡¯t advise we test anytime soon¡­¡± Martinez looked around their faces. ¡°he rammed his hand into the cat¡¯s maw and grabbed its tongue. Some men grow stronger than they normally would be in desperation, and Lizard surely was a strong man already. He tore the tongue clean off, ruining the jaguar¡¯s throat in the process. The cat let go of him and started thrashing in agony, letting him escape. He ran towards the loggers camp,  bleeding, his shoulder ruined, and screaming his head off until he collapsed. The troops found him, and found a dead jaguar, two klicks behind him. The cat bled to death first. Lizard barely survived, but since then, he always, always had a monster mask attached to the back of his head whenever he was anywhere in the green.¡±


    ¡°Yah, that''s a tall load of top-quality, unadulterated bollocks, but entertaining.¡± Candace gave him a slow clap, to which he bowed, as much as he was able to, anyway.


    ¡°So, the moral of the story is¡­ wear a mask or a cat will get you?¡± Miguel clarified with a disbelieving smirk.


    ¡°Well, aside from my beautiful tale which you rudely disregarded,¡± he waved away Miguel¡¯s objection, ¡°the use of masks for that purpose is known worldwide, and well-tested. Not just masks, bangers, whistles, feather headdresses, and long capes, drawing snarling maws and big eyes on your clothes. It works. It will not work on a determined predator, but it will deter opportunistic stalkers, which are more numerous. If you look dangerous, look like you are staring at them, they will leave you alone.¡±


    Miguel shrugged. ¡°This is all very interesting, but we do not have any of these things. We would need to produce paint, and get cloth somehow, and¡­ I''m not sure about the rest-¡±


    A shrill sound interrupted him. Martinez waved a whistle he made out of a piece of bamboo he had been just chewing. ¡°See Gordo, you need more faith and optimism. Shows you were a city kid born to rich folks, because every kid from the villas knows how to make a whistle.¡± He blew the thing again, and watched them wince from the noise. ¡°Annoying, isn¡¯t it? If that hurt your ears so badly, imagine how it would feel to a wolf or a cat.¡±


    ¡°Ok, Raul, point taken,¡± Miguel admitted. ¡°At worst, we will have means to call one another if we get lost. Can you make more of those?¡±


    Martinez looked up at him, with a second whistle nearly finished.


    ¡°Oh. Do you mind not chewing them out if we are to put them in our mouths? I''m sure you can use a sharp rock to carve them out instead, like a civilized person.¡±


    ¡°Inefficient,¡± Martinez said, spitting out a chunk of bamboo, and examining the third whistle critically.


    Nata and Sveta shot rapid Russian at one another, and after some back and forth, Sveta said in English, ¡±I think we can make masks. Nata can make mats out of grass. I can too, but she is better. We will try make simple clothing, and masks too.¡±


    She reached towards the ashes spreading from their fire. ¡°We can use the white thing and water to make paint. And black thing.. coal? Make black eyes and white big teeth on mask.¡±


    ¡°See?¡± Martinez grinned at Miguel. ¡°Optimism. Finding solutions. Even the chicas get it. Try to find solutions and be useful.¡±


    ¡°I am useful,¡± Miguel grumbled. ¡°Was probably more useful today than my entire life.¡±

 DAY...FORTY FIFTH? THE TIME OF THE HAMMER IS UPON US!

    Mercifully, the trip back to my camp was uneventful. No other beasts leaped at my terrified and unarmed self. I guessed the airhorn of doom the terror birds sounded out, must have scared the crap out of everything in a ten-kilometer radius, so the animals laid low.


    Back home, I multiplied firewood and stoked my fires as high as possible. Surrounded by flames, a palisade, and layers of caltrops and snares, I felt marginally safer. My fortifications would not stop one of the terror birds, now I knew that for sure. But I hoped that they were now well fed, and would not risk trying to pry me out of my fort, if an easier meal was already by their feet.


    So, I calmed myself to focus, how about some metal smelting? Surely, It cannot be all that complicated. And the day was still young, my terrifying adventure in the swamp ended well before noon.


    I did not know the next thing about smelting metal, but I did some occasional blacksmithing, and lots of welding, usually when I had to repair rust damage on my excuse for a truck. From what I knew, was that to weld steel I needed way over one thousand degrees Celsius, closer to fifteen hundred, and I expected I would need just as much to smelt ore.


    How would I get the ore that hot? It was time to roll up the sleeves, literally as well, so as not to burn them, and do some experiments.


    I carefully extracted the rusty sliver of iron off the ore chunk, and multiplied it until I had a dozen big handfuls. Then I poured it over the biggest of my bonfires. The pile started burning, releasing colorful flames and stinking fumes. The fire died down a bit, so I started blowing at it, and when my lungs failed the task, wafting at it with a flat piece of bark.


    About an hour later, exhausted and angry, I tossed away the bark, which proved useless. The fire burned brightly, and the temperature seemed high, as it singed the hair off my arms at a distance, but the ore only blackened. I sifted through the embers, and had not found any molten clumps of metal I hoped for. I even took the ore and washed it in the river, in a faint hope of finding a bit of fused metal in the mess, but to no avail.


    The silver lining, or well the soot colored lining actually, was that burning the ore seemed to get rid of all the bits of sand, clay, and soil in it, leaving only blackened ore mixed with ashes and chunks of charcoal. So at the very least, it was a step in the right direction.


    I sat down to rethink my strategy. I needed a far greater temperature, that was certain. I was not a physicist, but it stood to reason that to get higher heat, I needed better fuel, more oxygen, and probably some way to insulate the whole pile, so that the hard-won heat would not just fly away uselessly into the air. After all, in principle this was not different from barbecuing sausages, something I was perfectly familiar with, the difference was just in the intensity.


    I set the ore aside, and started my preparations. Of the three requirements for higher temperature, fuel was the easiest. I needed to replace wood with charcoal, which, luckily, I already had plenty of due to keeping my fires lit at all times. I picked several handfuls of the best and driest-looking bits of charcoal, and multiplied them until I had a pile up to my waist. Better to have too much of it than too little, and be forced to make more in the middle of the smelting process.


    Now, insulation. This was trickier. I knew what a blacksmith¡¯s forge looked like, but not how a smelter¡¯s furnace did.


    Finally, I decided simplicity was likely my best option. I worked some clay and water into a pliable mass, added some grass and silk fiber for structure, and formed a rectangular brick. After multiplying the bricks many times, I had a stack about as big as my coal heap. Then I cleared a bit of the ground free of grass, and built a hollow brick tower on it. I glued the bricks together with wet clay, and slathered more over the walls to make it as airproof as possible. I could not make it taller than up to my armpits, because at this height it kept leaning, threatening to collapse. I could also not figure out a way to close the top. Building a dome out of mud bricks always led to failure, and roofing it with wood would not be very useful.


    In the end, I had a crooked rectangular furnace the size of a municipal trash can. It was still wet, but I assumed the heat would dry it out relatively quickly. I shoveled the embers of one of the bonfires into it, threw in a lot of dry wood on top, and let it burn out to preheat the furnace.


    That quickly led to several discoveries. For one, I forgot to add an opening at the bottom, to allow air in, and had to carve it out quickly. This almost collapsed my carefully built brick tower. Second, starting a huge fire inside a hollow chute of wet bricks, caused them to steam up, and explode with cracks, when the trapped steam had nowhere to go. My furnace started leaking heat from the cracks, and nearly fell apart, and I had to hastily repair it with fresh clay.


    Careless with hurry, I tried to spread the mortar over the cracks with my bare hand, immediately burning my palm on the hot bricks.


    Roaring and cursing in rage, I almost kicked the furnace, and barely restrained myself from ruining my work and likely setting myself on fire in the process.


    Abandoning it, I ran to the river to cool my hand in the water. Luckily, the burns, while annoying and painful, did not seem to be worse than first-degree. It did mean though, that, for at least a while, my left hand was of limited use.


    I walked back to the burning stack. The flames settled down, and while the structure was covered in a spiderweb of cracks, It did not seem to be getting any worse, and contained heat into a cone of undulating air shooting from its top.


    Begrudgingly, I accepted that this was likely the best thing I could build, and I should look for improvements elsewhere.


    Meanwhile, I refueled the furnace, and returned to the river to check on my hook.


    Sure enough, I had a new catch, this time not spoiled by otters munching on it. The fish guts wrapped around the hook attracted a decent-sized eel, who in its gluttony, swallowed the giant hook whole, slurped in a meter of a silk thread, and ate the sinker as well.


    I butchered it quickly, and using sharpened reeds as skeweristicks, placed eel filet shish kabobs over the furnace. For once, I could eat a meal that was not burnt to a crisp and raw inside, as it usually happens over a bonfire, but gently roasted-through with hot air


    Snacking on eel bits, I considered my final challenge. I needed to pump oxygen into the furnace. The bottom hole sucked in air, but not fast enough to accomplish what I wanted. Ancient blacksmiths used bellows, at least that''s what I remembered from movies about the Medieval Age. But I had only a vague idea of how to make them. I had enough leather to make an air bag, and could pump the air out of it into the furnace, but this did not seem particularly efficient, especially since I needed to keep pumping for hours until the ore smelted.


    Then I remembered that the modern smith I was friends with, did not use bellows at all. He simply had an electric air blower with a fan, continuously blowing air into the forge. I did not have electricity, but making a fan rotor and spinning it should not be that difficult, right?


    I let the furnace cool down. There was really no point in keeping it hot while I worked on something else. It was time for experiments and I did not think they would yield results soon enough.


    I sat down with a piece of silk to draw on, with a charcoal pencil in hand. This time, rather than experimenting blindly, I decided to draw some designs first. I did not know how a forge blower worked, but I assumed it was not much different from a hair dryer, just oversized. Basically, a spinning fan encased in a tube which directed the blow forward.


    Having no electricity, it would have to be hand-operated. The blower the blacksmith had was relatively small, but I assumed mine had to be much larger to push the same volume of air with only my feeble hands to power it.


    With that in mind, I set out to create the first prototype. I multiplied the bark sheets then tied them to a stick to create a fan. Tying a small crank to the opposite end of the stick allowed me to spin it relatively easily. The problem was, however, that at the speed required for it to create any kind of appreciable blow, the flimsy fan blades simply snapped-off rocketing in random directions.


    The bark was no good for that purpose. I needed something sturdier.


    But I did, in fact, have had something sturdier. I had lots of stiff leather I could not find a purpose for, until now.


    Cutting the leather into shape using a crude stone axe turned out to be rather challenging, but I managed, after soaking the leather in water for a little while. Gluing it onto the central axle was even harder, because the glue was just not good enough to hold against the centrifugal force when I spun it.


    Finally I had to sacrifice another hour to painstakingly drill holes in the leatherer and sew it to the stick with silk thread. I hammered several stakes in front of the furnace and installed the fan on top of them. The resulting contraption looked like a miniature Dutch windmill.


    I spun the crank, eager to see the results, and was thoroughly disappointed. It did produce a gust of wind, but it went in all directions in front of the fan. I had to direct it somehow.


    I¡¯ve spent the rest of the day trying to build a funnel out of leather panels. It was another disappointing failure. A cone of leather that had to be built between the mouth of the furnace and the fan was just too big. it leaked air, and kept collapsing on itself. Trying to replace it with a cloth cone led to even worse results. No matter how tightly I wrapped the contraption with different materials the air would always escape somehow, mostly in the opposite direction that I wanted it to, or even sideways.


    Wait, maybe that was a feature not a flaw? I insisted on using the turbine like a fan, to push the air forward, but that wasn''t the only option wasn''t it? Maybe instead of angled fan blades I could use leather paddles at a right angle, to push air completely sideways? it would be just as efficient but far easier to encase in leather.


    By the time I figured it out and drew a new design, it was long after dark. Nevertheless, I was determined to make it work. Even if I have to spend the whole night doing it.


    I kept running between the river and the duplication pools, soaking various bits of leather, copying them, and then promptly tossing them away to consider a different design. Only after my third or fourth run, I noticed that some of the leather sheets I submerged in the water were gone.


    Looking around, I quickly found the thief. Or rather thieves.


    The giant otters stared at me from the darkness. One was swimming belly-up, playing with a dark rectangle that I assumed was my property.


    My first instinct was to run, but I squashed it. The otters had many opportunities to hurt me, and haven¡¯t. Even if they were predators, either I was not looking tasty enough, or worth the fight. Or maybe my daily sacrifices of fish guts and meal leftovers appeased them. I sat down for a second and just enjoyed looking at the magnificent creatures frolicking in the water and using their disturbingly humanlike front paws to handle the leather. After the last confrontation with the wolverine, and the encounter with the terror bird, I could not muster the energy to be afraid of anything else. It almost felt like I became one of the animals, my fight and flight instinct only kicking in when necessary, but otherwise dormant.


    The nearest otter swam closer, eyeing me with curiosity. Its eyes kept darting to the piece of leather I held. It could easily catch up to me and rip it out of my hands. Or even rip off my hands. Instead, it just waited patiently.


    ¡°Alright pal,¡± I said, ¡°this one''s for you. But keep your paws off the rest, ok? I really need them for a do-it-yourself project.¡±


    I reached out slowly, and held the wet rectangle as close to the animal as I dared. It got to it in one swift move, silent and graceful like a wet shadow. I felt a tug, and the otter, along with its prize, disappeared, only to resurface much further away, among its brethren.


    ¡°You guys have fun. If I ever have a slow afternoon, I¡¯ll make you a ball and we¡¯ll play fetch.¡±


    Well. I made friends that night. Or at least, established a nonviolent relationship with a pack of wolf-sized predators that each could easily tear me limb from limb. Unlike the damned wolverine, these creatures did not radiate malice, just playful curiosity. Suddenly the prospect of crossing the river did not seem like entering a warzone anymore.


    Back to work then. This time, instead of trying to shape the leather casing into a funnel, I had a far simpler task. I cut out two tear-drop shapes, that would make the top and the bottom of the blower, then a continuous strip to make the sides. The rotor went flat between the top and the bottom, with its axle threaded through center holes in each piece.


    After painstakingly sewing the leather casing together, and sealing it with pitch, I gave the rotor a spin. Nothing! Not a fart¡¯s worth of air came out of the blower.


    Of course, dang it!


    I forgot to add any kind of intake hole, so the air had no way to get into the blower before being pushed out.


    A moment later I made one, now the contraption blew air with tremendous force whenever I spun the crank. I could easily clear my camp of dry leaves if I wanted to. It also made an awful lot of noise, so I added a liberal glob of grease to the axle and the paddles, to stop the fiendish scraping sounds.


    ¡°Having problems starting your furnace, a campfire, or a barbecue grill? Not anymore, with Primitive Blower Extreme!¡± I announced happily. I tested the device on my bonfires, which exploded into tall bright flames. It was definitely long after midnight, but I was willing to burn the candle at both ends, especially since I could fan the flames now.


    It took me another hour or so to restart the furnace, and connect the blower to it with a makeshift pipe made of clay.


    Spinning the crank wildly, I turned the top of the furnace into a lance of bright yellow fire. The initial load of wood burned to nothing quickly, making room for the ore and charcoal. I was not sure how to add each, so I mixed them thoroughly, with two parts of charcoal for every part of iron, and filled the furnace almost to the brim. To capture more heat, I covered the top with more bricks, leaving only a small opening right in the middle.


    This proved to be a bad idea, the heat immediately died down due to the lack of oxygen. I spun the crank, but I could not make the rotor spin fast enough, or hard enough to push the air through the giant pile of fuel. Desperate, I wrapped my firebow around the axle, and started to spin it back and forth. The flame started to roar and¡­


    Boom!


    The intake hole of the blower belched dark flames and black smoke, setting my hair on fire and singeing my eyebrows. I fell back, rolling on the ground to douse the flames.


    Idiot!


    Foiled again by the laws of physics!


    Of course, spinning the fan backwards, plus the pressure building in the furnace, just sucked flammable fumes into the blower, turning it into an impromptu flamethrower.


    Which, I realised, was still smoldering.


    I ripped it off its harness, and ran to the river to dunk it into the water.


    The otters did not react to my stupid antics, but I still felt the silent judgment in their button-like eyes.


    ¡°Yeah. Like you never make any mistakes.¡± I pointed at the nearest one. ¡°I¡¯d like to see any of your kind inventing metallurgy from scratch. Huh? No takers? So how about a round of applause for the magnificent homo sapiens, who is actually trying?¡±


    My outburst was met with beady-eyed stares and silence.


    Oh well. Back to work. I tossed the soggy blower next to the slowly burning furnace. What was I doing wrong?


    I was facing two problems.


    One, is that spinning the fan back and forth momentarily reversed the flow of air, sucking the fire into the blower. Two, the pressure of burning fumes inside the furnace was actually higher than the one I could produce with my blower, so the moment I allowed the air to rush back, it did with tremendous force.


    The momentary flow reversal could not be really prevented while spinning the rotor with a bow, but what if I could stop the backflow from happening?


    Valves!


    The answer was valves. I kept experimenting with various designs, but again, simplicity was key. I put flaps on the outflow and inflow holes, making them a bit bigger than the holes themselves, so that they could only open one way, to let air move forward. When the air started being sucked back into the blower and out of the top hole, the same air would slam the flaps closed. A second later, the air flowing the correct way opened them up again.


    In effect, the flow was almost seamless, only momentarily stopped while the bowing direction changed.


    It was near dawn when I was done, so I left the furnace to smolder and fell on my bed, exhausted.


    By the time I woke up, it was nearly noon. What I would give for a cup of coffee! After a day and night of back-breaking labor, quite literally every muscle I had ached, and I had a tremendous hangover from all the smoke and fumes I inhaled.


    ¡°Good morning nature!¡± I yelled and yawned. The woods were noisy with bird calls. The frantic pace of the last month''s events prevented me from paying attention to the changes in the world around me. The cattails exploded with fluff, coating the riverbank with fake snow. Acorns on the nearby oaks grew brown and big, and dropped when I rustled the branches. I even found some hazelnuts, though they were not yet fully grown.


    It made me consider that I might need to hurry, and rethink my plans before the coming winter. I did not want to keep tinkering with non-essential stuff when the real snow started falling. But without iron, and thus, without proper tools, I could not imagine surviving until spring. Everything from building a better shelter, to improved food gathering, and from making better clothes to making weapons to fend off deadly wildlife, required good tools.


    Munching on a cold cut of barbecued eel, and some overripe cranberries I learned to hate, I approached the furnace. Amazingly, it was still hot, when I peered into the bottom hole, it still glowed dull red. Most of the coal burned to ash, but the iron, slag, and embers fused at the bottom into a shapeless mass, that I could barely break apart with a stick. Decided not to remove it, but threw more coal and iron on top of it, and connected the blower to the bottom hole with a clay tube.


    I was about to start bowing to blow air into it, when a thought hit me. Even if I managed to smelt some iron, what then, exactly? How am I going to remove it? How will I work it?


    For a change, I decided to think first and act later, to avoid another flaming surprise.


    I saw documentaries about ironworks, where they made the metal flow like water, but I doubted I could smelt it into a freely flowing liquid. Most likely, it will just become pliable. Which means, I would need to hammer it to shape. I had a hammer, but it was tiny. I also had no anvil, no tongs, and no other tools, all of which would normally be made of steel. The steel I ostensibly did not have. How to break the Catch-22 loop?This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.


    Tongs were easy, I just split a stick, put a wedge into it, and tied it over with a string, creating giant tweezers. As for a hammer, the only thing I could think of was to use a piece of branch to bludgeon it with. Both tools would immediately burn, but I hoped they will last long enough, especially since I could multiply them.


    As for the anvil I had to take a trip to the ravine again, to find a big enough rock. I changed my tactics when it came to going into the woods. Instead of arming myself with torches, and making lots of noise, I skulked around armed only with a spear, and smeared all over with green algae gunk and brown mud. The creatures I feared the most, the terror birds, would not be deterred with a torch. Their behavior indicated high aggression and immediately going after any moving prey they could see, so I opted to try become invisible, or at least, less visible.


    Which in my case, meant skulking around in a half-crouch, darting from one bush to another, and carefully scrutinizing the wilderness for signs of their presence.


    Going into the ravine was the most unnerving part since it made me unable to see a predator approaching, and I was trapped in it with only one way out. Luckily, I found a big piece of granite just next to the hedgehog den. Carrying it back meant I could not be as sneaky as I wanted, and I had to drop the spear to use two hands.


    I was almost back at my camp, when I heard an unmistakable sound from the bushes in front of me.


    The guttural growling of my old friend.


    I froze. I had no weapons, and it stood between me and safety. So I did the only thing I could think of, I stood up and lifted the heavy stone over my head, ready to strike.


    It hobbled out from the shrubbery, nursing the stump of its right paw. It looked gnawed off right above the point where the silk rope held it. The wound was scabbed over, and the animal looked sickly and malnourished.


    ¡°Hi Logan. Hi boy. Who¡¯s a gooood boy? Whooo¡¯s a gooood boy?¡± I crooned at it sweetly, backing off. the stone felt impossibly heavy, threatening to fall on my head instead Logan''s. Luckily, the wolverine was either too confused with my babytalk, or too weakened, and instead of attacking it started barking at me half threateningly, half in desperation. I took a few steps back and lowered the stone. If I wanted to smash its head, the time has passed.


    I kept backing off, and the animal kept gimping along, never quite getting close enough to threaten me, but not leaving me alone.


    Finally, after a thousand years, I reached my fortifications and hopped over it. Logan snorted, miffed with my disappearance. I heard it circling my encampment, trying to break through my palisade from the side of the river.


    Fuck! That part of the palisade was not closed, I left it open when I went to muddy myself up for camouflage. I ran straight to my hut to grab some spears and a torch, when another idea hit me. This could be solved without violence. I veered towards the multiplication pools, and made a whole heap of roasted eel. Then I exited the palisade through the main gate, and whistled at the wolverine.


    ¡°Here boy. Ps-ps-ps! Uh, huh, you¡¯re not a cat, so¡­ Here boy, here, Logan!¡± I called and whistled. When the wolverine ambled back towards me, I tossed a piece of eel towards it. Despite its handicap, it got to it immediately and swallowed without chewing.


    ¡°You like fish, don¡¯t you, you pirate bastard? Come come, hobble on, I have more¡­¡± I kept dropping bits of fish, leading it away from my camp and towards the bramble bushes. step by step, we passed the fallen pine, when I heard another terrifying sound, this time coming out of the river.


    It was the most unholy noise, that would be hilarious in other circumstances. It was as if a bunch of Muppets laughed angrily, ending each bark of laughter with a screech of a record scratch. Logan responded with a barking growl and puffed up its hunches until it stood almost twice as big, with its fur standing on end. Immediately, a swarm of dark brown shapes slithered out of the reeds, baring teeth and undulating like giant cobras ready to strike. Only now I saw exactly how big the otters were. Each one was at least as big as the wolverine, easily twice my size and mass, and seemed to be built out of taut muscle. Logan was about to be torn to shreds, and likely so was I, for being right in the middle of a mustelid battle, armed with nothing but a sharp stick and an apron full of eel¡­


    Huh.


    Making sure not to make any sudden moves, I crouched down, and started tossing bits of fish towards the otters, and away from the wolverine, which also got a few bits tossed its direction. One by one, the animals stopped their racket, intrigued by the smell. The otters started nosing their morsels, without taking eyes off their opponent. Logan, true to his namesake, did not back down, but stared them back and meticulously cleaned his heap of fish.


    ¡°Logan, you foolhardy moron, shoo!¡± I whispered in his general direction. Even though the damn beast nearly killed me twice, and scared the crap out of me, I did not want to see it die. Nor did I wanted the magnificent otters to get hurt, because I knew the wolverine would not go down without a fight.


    I took the last morsel of fish and tossed it far to the right, trying to lure him away from the river. Logan eyed me for a second, then swept a daring gaze over the otters, and nonchalantly backed away to get it. Watching him strut away, I almost burst into laughter. Somehow, the sickly, mangy, three-pawed abomination radiated more menace and confidence than an entire pack of predators bigger than it was.


    I never believed in the whole Alpha-male, king-of-the-hill macho badass crap, but if it was true, this guy had it. Its furry balls were likely made of better iron than I could ever create in my furnace.


    The otters almost immediately lost interest in their opponent, and transformed, from murderous aquatic wolves, back to adorable plush toys. One slithered closer to me, trying to find out if I had more eel on me.


    I stood completely still, and let it sniff me all over. It effortlessly bowled me over in its enthusiasm. I¡¯ve been subjected to a thorough search, and the front of my shirt had been licked clean off the bits of fish that I wrapped in it. Next thing I knew, the lead otter, followed by two flunkies, snaked its way through the back gate and I heard it rummaging in my camp. I ran after them, and saw them first take care of all the leftover fried fish, then explore the smoker where the last bits of smoked venison were devoured, then they helped themselves to some of my leather as well. Finally, one of them tried to pry away the freshly reinstalled forge blower, so I had to put a stop to it. I snuck around the furnace, and threw a spare brick into it, causing a burst of flames and black smoke to come out of both ends.


    The thief yelped and backed away from the fire, sneezing and complaining loudly in its cartoonish mewling.


    Seconds later, the trio slithered away, moving quicker on their bellies than I could sprint. I locked the gate behind them and sighed. This was already a long day, and it was barely noon!


    ¡°Well, sure guys, help yourselves to my food. And my stuff. I guess, I''m technically squatting in the middle of your home so¡­¡±, the pack was already gone, however.


    I went out of the main gate again, but this time I was armed to the teeth, and had my travois and a spear. I thought myself so clever, trying to appease the local wildlife with gifts of food, but that introduced problems of its own. Neither the wolverine, which I previously presumed dead, nor the otters would ever leave me alone now. They expected their free meal, and lost all fear of humans if they ever had it. Even the fear of fire did not seem to deter them all that well, if it ever did. After all, the otter came a step away from a roaring furnace, and only backed off when I blew smoke in its face.


    Those were dangerous wild animals that now considered me a food source. All the time when I thought I was taming them, they were actually taming me. Or in the case of the otters, they now ran a protection racket, fending off other predators in exchange for fish? I had to establish some boundaries, and by boundaries I meant actual ones, starting withpatching the holes in my palisade so that thieves and mustelid mafia could not just waltz in so easily.


    Mulling it over, I finally reached the stone I dropped and loaded it on the travois. Logan did not come after me this time, but I expected another neighborly visit from him soon. He was visibly malnourished, his fur was mangy, dirty, and sickly looking, and though the stump of his paw looked healed, it was badly handicapped. An animal like this, an ambush predator that relies on wrestling its prey and holding it down for a kill, will be severely disadvantaged, and desperate to find food by other means.


    I vowed to put a pile of food for it on the far end of the bramble patch, and another for the otters near the jetty. This way, I would keep them away from each other, and away from my own stocks.


    Comes winter though, when animals grow desperate with hunger¡­ I would have to figure something out.


    But I had to focus on the task at hand. Hammer. Nails. Well, no nails yet, but a nice heavy anvil. I gathered all the tools I thought I could need, another pile of coal and iron ore, and a dozen spare tongs. Remembering my previous mishap, I put on a kerchief over my head and face, and mittens to protect my hands.


    With everything ready, I ran to the river and soaked myself in water, to become less flammable and less likely to overheat during work. I also drank a lot of rainwater I learned to collect and multiply, as an alternative to boiling it continuously.


    It was time to smelt some metal. I refilled the furnace again, a task I was becoming quite adept at. Gave the blower a few spins, noting it worked great, the flaps opened and closed with organic precision.


    What I was not ready for, is how long it would take. After what felt like two or three hours of intermittently bowing at the axle of the blower, laying on the ground in exhaustion, cursing, refueling the furnace, and bowing again, I noticed a trickle of lava-like substance, come out of a crack at the bottom, glowing brightly even in the midday sun. I immediately scooped it on a stick and threw it into a leather tray filled with water. It hissed, boiled the water and burned a hole in the container, but it cooled enough for a careful inspection.


    Well. Crap. Whatever it was, it was not iron. Looked like a snot of slag with globs of green-black glass in it. When I cracked it, it had sharp edges, which at least could have some use, but it was not what I was after. I priedthe crack in the furnace open and let the mysterious lava out. Carefully, to avoid splashing water onto the furnace itself, I cooled the trickle and examined it.


    No iron. On the bright side, I might have invented glassmaking, though the lumpy beads were yet far away from anything I could pour Scotch into.


    I crawled as close to the new bottom hole as I dared. The whole opening was bright yellow with heat, and when I stuck a spear in there, it immediately burnt. The prodding did lead to another discovery though, there was some big, heavy lump in there, and it yielded to pressure. Could that be the iron? I tried to peer into it through the top hole, but could not see anything without leaning too close and roasting my eyeballs.


    After yet another day of hard labor I was not prepared for, my muscles screamed. But what else could I do now but continue?


    I gave it another two hours of spinning the blower. In the end, the work came to an end not by my decision but by accident. The molten slag somehow flowed into the clay pipe connected to the blower, and burned off the muff. I had to extinguish the blower yet again.


    I could not wait any longer. My body would soon give up with exhaustion, and the furnace would simply cool off again.


    Heedless of the heat, I took a hammer to its wall and knocked off several bricks.


    The white-hot coals and the liquid slag spilled out, and in the middle of it, sat a glowing, porous lump about the size and shape of a cauliflower head. I knew that was it, my precious iron!


    TO not waste any more time gawking, I grabbed it with the makeshift tongs and put it on top of the rock. When I hit it with a wooden club, it started shedding chunks, but the main body became slightly flattened.


    I kept clubbing it until it grew dark orange and no longer yielded. I tossed it back into the furnace, ripped the blower off its harness, and blew air directly under the bloom, only stopping, every once in a while, to throw some fresh charcoal on top. When it reached bright orange, I took it out again, and hammered it some more, trying, and failing to flatten it into a rectangular shape.


    Both my tongs and my wooden mace had to be replaced constantly as they burned to uselessness. In my clumsiness, I had dropped the bloom on the grass many times and watched it hiss and cool. Once, I barely stopped myself from reaching for it with a mittened hand.


    Rinse, repeat, heat, and clobber, my mind retreated into a happy place where I could no longer feel the agony of my tortured arms, and just marvel at the thing taking shape. The last few repeats, I replaced the club with a small stone hammer I made earlier.


    In the end, I have simply become too tired to even swing it. But by the time that happened, I was holding a slowly cooling piece of dull gray snot the size and shape of a carrot. With the last of my strength, I scraped it over the rock several times to file-off the top scale.


    It revealed a shiny, metallic interior!


    I''m not ashamed to admit, I cried. Not just out of sheer exhaustion, because by goodness, that too, but out of joy and triumph. I haven¡¯t been happier holding anything in my hands so much since I held my newborn sons. This unassuming bit of iron was my greatest victory since I was stranded here. It meant weapons. Good tools. Goddamn nails! This was a chance to be bullied by nature no longer, but to fight back.


    I have spent the next day and a half relaxing and recuperating my strength. Every muscle fiber I had, had been tortured to uselessness, and I inhaled so much smoke and noxious fumes that I felt drunk. I only permitted myself enough work to restock my food supplies, and keep the protective bonfires lit, though I started to doubt their actual effectiveness.


    When I was done laying in bed and feeling sorry for myself, I took a spear and a backpack, and went exploring, looking for food. The otters had cleaned my pantry so thoroughly, that I had nothing to multiply. The duplication pools were a cornucopia, but they needed something to start with.


    I picked several cranberries, begrudgingly. Over the last weeks I went from loving them to hating them passionately, though I needed them for the sugar and the vitamins anyway. I could no longer stomach them raw, so I just put them in a shard of a small clay bowl and boiled them to a thick marmalade. I haven¡¯t yet got around to making actual useful pottery, because all my attempts at making pots failed, but I thought this might change when I rebuilt the furnace. For now, I just used a shard of a failed pot and a flat stone to cook small bits of food, and then multiplied it.


    I needed to expand my diet, considering the inevitable coming of the winter, and the fact that I had thieves hungry for meat and fish that could easily sneak into my pantry.


    First off, I collected all the nuts and seeds I could find, as long as they looked familiar enough. I had plenty of unripe hazelnuts around, which I assumed would keep well in storage, unless I would be assaulted by squirrels or chipmunks, which for all I knew could have been a real possibility. I also found early pine nuts, which I decided to carefully test by eating a few a day. I saw some yew berries, which I stayed clear of. I knew the berries themselves were edible, but the seeds inside were dangerous, and I was not about to play Russian Roulette with my stomach.


    Most importantly, I found plenty of acorns of various shapes, sizes, and colors. It seemed like the woods around me had every type and species of oak growing in it, including ones I have never seen on my Earth. I tasted the acorns, which were bitter as hell, like a stale espresso with a hint of a raw potato. I stored some for later experiments. Who knows, maybe if I boiled them, or washed them, or roasted them they could become more edible?


    I was about to go back, when I stumbled on the most joyful discovery yet. As I was hacking my way through the riverside growth, I pushed aside a maple sapling, which smeared sticky droplets all over my face. I absentmindedly licked my lips, and discovered the smear was sweet. Of course! Maple produced sweet juices that bugs concentrated into honeydew, and humans boiled into maple syrup.


    I did not need to waste time working on making the syrup itself, because the aphids did most of the work for me. I just gently scraped tiny droplets of honeydew off the leaves, rolled them into a tiny sweet pearl, and multiplied it until I had a bag full of, essentially, candy. On a whim I decided to boil some of it to make molasses-like mass, taffy, and finally dark caramel. Mixing the mass with crushed, roasted hazelnuts, dried berries and a few roasted acorns for a hint of a bitter kick, resulted in dense energy bars that packed all the calories I could ever need. Just this one discovery meant I would never again have to worry about starvation, only about tooth cavities from all the sugar. Better still, when I distilled and concentrated the taffy into hard caramel, It likely became impervious to spoiling. It was essentially edible pitch that would last through the winter.


    I even found some use for the acorns. Roasted to dark brown and boiled, they produced a brew that could almost be mistaken for coffee. In color at least, because the actual taste was closer to roasted peanuts, If one was being generous, or to burnt potatoes, if not. Still, despite the lack of caffeine in it, the acorn coffee had enough of a placebo effect to slap me awake.


    Nourished and fully lucid, I forced my aching body through a set of stretching exercises. Some of the muscle cramps finally loosened, and I no longer felt like I was eighty years old. But this was not the end of my self-care that day. If I wanted to foray into actual blacksmithing, the next morning, I needed to put my body and mind into the best shape I could achieve.


    I stripped, and tossed my soot-soiled clothes into the fire. I could always duplicate a spare, so washing it made no sense. Besides, as I noticed wrinkling my nose, it stank. And so did I. Up to that point, my hygiene consisted of a quick washcloth scrub now and then, because I was not brave enough to get into the river, where I would be helpless.


    But seeing how the otters did not seem to see me as prey, and there was unlikely to be another predator lurking in their territory, I decided to give it a try.


    I had no soap or shampoo, so I took a piece of coarse slag to use as a pumice, and a handful of ash to scrub myself with. Sitting on the end of the pine jetty, I abraded away layers upon layers of dirt. My legs were a map of small cuts and scrapes caked with mud. My hands were pretty much tattooed with soot and dirt. I had so many ticks and mysterious critters gnawing at me, that I no longer worried about removing them safely, just scrubbed them off with a sharp stone. If they carried borreliosis, Lyme disease, or another kind of nasty, I already had it ten times over, and there was nothing to be done about it.


    I leaned over the water and examined myself critically. Over nearly two months after becoming a castaway in this strange land, I lost most of my body fat, making me lean and wiry. My beard grew bushy and my hair, previously kept neat, now formed a sparse dirt-blond halo. The only part of me that did not look like it belonged to a deranged hobo were my teeth which I tried to keep as clean as I could with a cloth scrub. I knew that if I got a rotten tooth it would be the end of me, as I would have no way to extract it without making it much worse.


    there was one thing I could have done to make myself feel less like a savage. Shaving.


    The flint shards I made were not sharp enough, but the bits of glass I accidentally made in the furnace could be broken into extremely sharp edges. Using the water surface as a mirror, I cut off my beard, tuft after tuft, and cropped my hair shorter. Now I looked less like a homeless man, and more like a client of a blind barber. At the very least, It made getting rid of the ticks on my head easier. Trimming my fingernails and toenails the same way was much trickier, but I managed it without losing any digits.


    All that grooming made me think of the mystery of my appearance here once again. Whatever force had deposited, or copied me into this reality, seemed to follow no scientific logic in its actions. Why exactly was it necessary to dump me here? And why now? Was it a punishment, or some way to preserve my life? Some manner of resurrection? Did I die in my old reality? I did not remember it. I was driving down a motorway when I suddenly vanished and reappeared here, with no conservation of velocity or momentum. Weirder still, the unseen force made sure I was recreated in a way that made me immune to local germs, but somehow insisted on me being nude, and thus, helpless. It did not copy the dead matter of my clothes, shoes, and the content of my pockets, but it copied my equally dead hair and fingernail tips faithfully.


    It was as if someone or something wanted to preserve the raw idea of me, rather than actual physical me as I was, and disregarded every scientific principle to have it so. In fact, how do I even know I was preserved exactly? Maybe whatever force instantiated me here just skipped over minor details? Or even major ones? How could I know that any of my memories from my life before were real?


    Somehow, this disturbing line of thought did not make me feel worse, but better. The existential dread of the possibility of not being a real person was infinitely better than the fear of being real and forever separated from my family.

 CANDACE (IV). THE VAGUELY DEADLY SIDE EFFECTS OF TELEPORTATION

    ¡°Ugh, I am done with this nonsense!¡± she growled, irritated, and tossed the mess of straw strands away. She and the girls had spent most of the day weaving mats out of grass. Or to be precise, Nata and Sveta did weave it, Candace made shapeless knots that stuck together at odd angles or fell apart, or both, simultaneously. The only thing she achieved was inadvertently teaching the girls some creative cursing. ¡° I declare this thing to be impossible. This is some fucking Russian folk witchcraft Im too civilized to master. It''s like trying to solve a fucking Rubens Cube made of grass but in reverse!¡±


    ¡°Rubik¡¯s Cube,¡± said Miguel matter-of-factly.


    ¡°What?¡± she snapped.


    ¡°It''s called Rubik¡¯s Cube, after its inventor, the Hungarian genius Erno Rubik. Rubens was a Baroque painter who liked fat ladies¡­¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t test me Gordo!¡± she tossed some straw at him. ¡°Or I¡¯ll kick your¡­ Rubensian arse. Now, have I used it correctly?¡±


    ¡°Yes, Candace. I don¡¯t see how you find it difficult. You just need to cross the strands at right angles, then you have to twist the leading strand over itself and into a loop-¡±


    ¡°All right smartass, how about we trade?¡± She asked. ¡°I will help Raul with the shelter, and you try this crochetting¡­ thing.¡±


    ¡°Actually,¡± said Miguel, " this is weaving. Crocheting requires a crotchet.¡±


    ¡°Oh shut it! Say actually again and I''ll kick you¡­¡± she growled.


    She traded places with him. Miguel grabbed the neatly arranged straw bundle, and after a bit of consultation with the girls, started weaving it into a flat panel just as expertly as they did.


    ¡°See?" he said. ¡°It ain''t that hard.¡±


    She shot him a murderous glare, and moved to Martinez to help with the construction. He and Miguel already built a squat teepee frame out of long branches and bamboo. Rather than waste precious woven mats to build the walls, they simply tore off entire patches of grass, roots and all, and piled it over the frame, turning the teepee into a small green hill. All she had to do was finish the top, which was beyond Martinez''s reach. He tried to help her, tossing grass clumps up for her to catch, but he soon bowed down grunting in pain.


    She looked down on him. His face was red and swollen, eyes bloodshot.


    She saw big droplets of sweat forming on his forehead despite the morning chill. His hands were trembling and his cocky confidence was gone, replaced by fear and misery.


    ¡°Talk to me, Martinez. What the hell is wrong with you?¡± she whispered.


    ¡°Nothing, I¡­¡± he hesitated.


    ¡°Cut the crap.¡±


    ¡°Ok,¡± he said and exhaled hard. ¡°Being stuck in this rock¡­ it fucked me bad, I think.¡±


    ¡°What do you mean? You in pain?¡± she crouched near him, examining his swollen face.


    ¡°Yes, but that¡¯s not the worst part, I think. I haven¡¯t¡­ I mean, I couldn¡¯t¡­ Miguel was right.¡±


    ¡°Spit it out, mate. Consider me your nurse.¡± She checked his pulse. In just a few seconds, she was sure it was racing, definitely not right for a man who had been standing still.


    ¡°Sorry to be crude, but I haven¡¯t gone to the toilet in two days,¡± he said, wincing.


    ¡°You mean you didn¡¯t or couldn¡¯t?¡±


    ¡°I couldn¡¯t, not for the lack of trying. When Gordo joked I won''t be able to crap, he was right.¡± He sighed again, and curled down, hugging his stomach. ¡°Can¡¯t piss either. But that¡¯s not the worst part.¡±


    ¡°I can see that. You look crook, badly.¡± She checked his eyes. His pupils were even, but his eyes were bloodshot and feverish.


    ¡°There is something very wrong with my, what is it called¡­, the veins and arteries stuff¡­¡± he mumbled, groggily.


    ¡°Cardiovascular system?¡± she asked. ¡°Shit. Your legs and arse being encased in rock defo messed up with your blood circulation. ¡± She pressed her ear to his chest. ¡°Your heart¡¯s beating  like a hummingbird¡¯s.¡±


    ¡°I can¡¯t feel them anymore. My legs.¡± he leaned against her. ¡°Felt very cold at first. Tingling, like ants all over. Now I can''t feel them at all. But my upper half feels so hot I can¡¯t breathe¡­¡±


    She hugged him awkwardly. ¡°You need to calm down. You¡¯re panicking ¡®is all¡±.


    He shook his head. ¡°Not panicking. Chest hurts. Head hurts.  Feels like my brain will explode.¡±


    ¡°Hey. Hey! Focus. Ain¡¯t you a badass special forces copper? Get your shit together. We¡¯ll dig you out in no time, no worries.¡± She got up, looking for the rocks they brought to hammer at the slate. Martinez grabbed her hand to stop her.


    ¡°Candace. I tried. We tried. All the work and we only dug maybe one centimeter. ¡± She tried to argue but he waved that away. ¡°Listen. We will try. One more day. Then¡­¡± he hesitated, ¡°then you leave me. Go find help.¡±


    ¡°You got to be bloody kidding-¡± she started.


    ¡°No. One day. Then you leave. Go, find help.¡± He grinned through pain. ¡°get a crew with actual power tools. Jackhammers. Maybe a doctor for me?¡±


    ¡°Shit Martinez, You can¡¯t just¡­¡± she trailed off. She knew he was right.


    ¡°Like you said. I''m a police officer. Vowed to protect the people. Went against the Cartels, against terrorists. Danger and possibly dying is part of the job.¡± His arrogant cocky smile was back.


    ¡°Bloody hell. When I met ya, I didn''t peg you for a heroic type. More of a narcissistic wanker.¡± she said.


    ¡°Can¡¯t I be both?¡±


    Meanwhile, the girls finished the first cape woven out of grass. It was simply a big rectangle with a hole in the middle, that could be pulled over the head like a poncho. Miguel put it on and approached Candace.


    ¡°How do I look?¡± he asked.


    ¡°Fabulous Gordo. Could be better if it was longer and your cock was not hanging out freely,¡± she joked, but Miguel¡¯s mood soured when he saw Martinez.


    ¡°Hell man, you look bad,¡± he said, crouching beside him in the teepee.


    ¡°Well, I''m dying, so I¡¯m excused¡± wheezed the cop. ¡°Still looking better than you. When you were completely naked, you were ¡­ just naked, but with that cape on, you are straight-up pornographic.¡±


    ¡°Here, try it on.¡± she said, pulling the poncho off Miguel and putting it on Martinez against his protestations. ¡°Hey, on you it reaches the ground, so you look like a Latino Hobbit now,¡± she said, but could not quite cover the worry in her voice with the joke.


    ¡°Hah. Fucking hah.¡± he deadpanned. ¡°Jokes aside. Gordo. I look bad because I feel bad. Something in my legs is fucked up.¡±


    Miguel nodded gravely. ¡°I figured as much. The rock trapping your lower body works kind of like a tourniquet, preventing proper blood flow. Not completely, but enough to do damage over time. Can¡¯t be good for you after so many hours. And the cold¡­ No matter how warm we keep your upper body, the truth is your legs are soaking in cold groundwater, getting hypothermia damage, made worse by the fucked blood circulation¡­¡± His jovial manner was gone, replaced by gentleness. ¡°I''m sorry I laughed at your situation earlier. And I''m even more sorry for abandoning you. And¡­ I never thanked you for pulling my face out of the dirt.¡±


    ¡°De nada.¡± Martinez was back to his cocky self, even if the pain was breaking through his grinning facade. ¡°But I would really appreciate it if you got back to trying to dig me out. Let the girls handle the weaving.¡±


    They set to work. Martinez and Candace pounded the rock in front of him with stones, while Miguel chiseled at it with a sturdy branch, trying to pry off slate tiles as it cracked and flaked. Rather than trying to dig around him, as they did before, they concentrated on widening an opening around the front of his body. Meanwhile, the girls finished four more ponchos and clothed them all. Then they painted fearsome snarling faces on their fronts and backs, using soot and white ashes for paint.


    Noon came, and Candace was exhausted. Miguel failed long before that, and only Martinez now pounded feebly at the rock. They managed to dig a few centimeters in, freeing his stomach and hips. They could clearly see that the rock was hugging his body completely, like an amber with a fly trapped in it. Even his body hair was encased in it, and torn off as they flaked the slate away.


    ¡°Ow!¡± Martinez yelped.


    ¡°What?¡± She asked.Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.


    ¡°Uh.. good news and bad news, I guess. The good news is that I''m less numb than I was, freeing my abdomen must have unpinched some nerves. The bad news is, If we keep hammering like that, we are definitely going to pulverize my cojones, which just let me know they feel pain perfectly well.¡±


    ¡°Not sure what you want us to do then?¡± she asked. ¡°If we leave you like that, you are surely going to die. If we crush your balls, you are likely going to die as well, but curse our souls first.¡±


    ¡°I have an idea, but I think you¡¯re going to hate it, Raul.¡± Miguel rose and considered the hole they burrowed. ¡°This kind of rock looks like it cracks easily when temperature shifts. Especially if it shifts¡­ dramatically.¡±


    Martinez looked at him, then at Candace, then at the bonfire nearby. ¡°Oh Hell no, Gordo! Don¡¯t you dare. Don¡¯t you fucking dare!¡±


    Candace sighed and touched his shoulder. ¡°I think he is right though. At this pace, it will take us a week to dig you out. We need to speed things up.¡± She turned to Miguel before Martinez could protest, ¡°So what do you mean, we burn the hole in? Won¡¯t that roast Raul¡¯s balls?¡±


    ¡°I''m quite positive it won¡¯t.¡± Miguel said. ¡°He is embedded into a whole plate of wet rock that stretches in all directions, and will soak up heat. Only the immediate area that we apply fire to will become hot enough to matter.¡±


    ¡°Quite positive does not cut it Gordo!¡± Martinez protested. ¡°Look, I made my peace with the possibility of dying. But please don¡¯t torture me on my way out.¡±


    ¡°Relax Raul, the heat won¡¯t hurt you. Although¡­ the explosion later might.¡± Miguel admitted.


    ¡°What? Can you fucking stop trying to make things explode for five minutes?¡±


    ¡°Ok, I know what you are up to,¡± she said to Miguel. ¡°You want to heat up the rock, then like, pour water on it, so it cools quickly and cracks? From steam and stuff?¡±


    ¡°Correct, though I don¡¯t suppose the steam will do much more than crack it a bit. Loosen it up. I might have overstated it, calling it an explosion.¡±


    Martinez sighed and threw his arms up in exasperation. ¡°I guess you are determined to kill me. Roast me. Cook me with steam, or blow me up. Do your worst then.¡±


    Candace ran back to the river and brought several nenuphar leaves filled with water. Meanwhile, Miguel built a small wall of soil and rock against Martinez¡¯s abdomen to shield him from the flames and then pushed the hot embers into the shallow hole they dug out. Martinez groaned, wafting smoke away from his face.


    ¡°If this fails and you end up cooking my crotch, please be so kind as to lean over so I can strangle you,¡± he said with a rueful squint.


    ¡°Relax Raul, it will work. As you said not long ago, have a little faith, a little optimism,¡± Miguel said and winked.


    He and Candace sat on the opposite side of Martinez and fanned the flames away from him, slowly adding firewood as it burned out. Within minutes the rock around the fire started to kiss and steam.


    ¡°How ya doing Raul?¡± Candice asked. ¡°Do you feel any heat around your crotch, some tingling sensation?¡±


    Martinez barked a laugh. ¡° This was the worst pick-up line I¡¯ve ever heard. But yes it feels different. My left leg is not numb anymore and it feels slightly warmer.¡±


    ¡°What now Gordo?¡± she asked, ¡° should we pour in the water now?¡±


    ¡°Not yet, I think. Only once it stops steaming on its own.¡± Miguel said, and frowned. ¡°And hey listen closely, can you hear it?¡±


    Candice leaned towards the ground, as close to the fire as she dared. ¡°Sounds like popcorn cracking. That''s a good thing, right? Means the flakes will start coming off soon.¡±


    ¡°Yeah now I think is the right time to start prying at the cracks around the fire, but slowly and gently without rousing the flames,¡± he added, reaching for a sturdy stick. ¡°Let''s keep Raul medium rare rather than well done.¡±


    They started scratching at cracks in the rock with bamboo splinters and prying off flakes. As they did, embers fell into the cracks releasing steam and more cracking sounds. They kept digging and stirring the hot coals until the rock no longer steamed and Martinez started to complain about his nether regions baking.


    ¡°All right,¡± said Miguel, " this is it, we can''t get the rock any hotter without doing you harm. We''re going to pour the water now. Raul, you''re ready?¡±


    ¡°Absolutely not," said the cop. ¡°But please proceed.¡±


    Candice put her poncho on top of his head to protect him a bit better.


    One, two, three, go!¡± she yelled, and they flipped the leaves over the coals, filling the hole with water. A jet of steam shot up, and there was a cannonade of small explosions, like firecrackers going off. Martinez yelped but it was a sound of fear and surprise rather than pain.


    ¡°Are you okay mate?" she asked.


    ¡°I''m peachy!¡± he said grimacing, ¡°except the boiling water seeping down my balls, I could do without that¡­¡± He looked down, with great relief on his face. ¡°Also, I uh, unlocked on the front side, you boludos do not need to pour more water for a while, and maybe back off a little¡­.oh Madre de Dios, this feels good¡­¡±


    ¡°Ew. Bloody ew.¡± Candace backed off. ¡°And to think you pissing all over yourself and giving us a hot piss sauna from the vapor is the second grossest thing I exepreinced lately.¡±


    Nata came over wrinkling her nose. ¡°bleh, why it stinks?¡±


    ¡°Martinez needs a diaper change,¡± Candace said. ¡°Oh and also you two are next on the digging duty. We¡¯re too buggered to lift a finger.¡±


    Sveta and Nata took their place, and began to dig into the cracked rock. Martinez regained his cocky enthusiasm, and encouraged them between the ecstatic oohs and ahhs over his slowly regained freedom.


    As she left the teepee, Miguel led her away, out towards the river.


    ¡°Look,¡± he said, ¡°I just realized something¡­ I don¡¯t think Martinez will be alright even if we release him.¡±


    ¡°Why, what do you mean?¡± she frowned.


    ¡°I was thinking¡­ the symptoms he has, don¡¯t look like something he would get just from being buried. I mean, that should be no worse than having a lower body cast. Some ischemia, maybe even blood clots, but not¡­ whatever he is experiencing. ¡± He crossed his arms, staring at the ground.


    ¡°What¡¯ya saying Miguel?¡±. She did not like that his words confirmed her worries.


    ¡°I think whatever force, magic, God, or whatever had put him in here, probably did not intend to embed him in rock. I mean, what would be the point? And when it accidentally did, it got¡­ messy.¡±


    ¡°Messy how?-¡± her face dropped. ¡°bloody hell, Gordo. Do you mean to say it got rock into him? The way it got him into the rock? That he fused somehow with it?¡± She sat, crushed by the revelation. ¡°But that''s nonsense. I mean, you woke up face-planted in the mud, and I was mid-air. If this thing was messy, I would be half air and you would have dirt in your brain¡±.


    ¡°And how do you know this is not the case?¡± he asked with a heavy sigh. ¡°Look, let''s talk physics. Your body, or my body, the dirt, the air, the water, and the rocks, everything around, is basically made of a vacuum, with a few random atoms spread extremely far away from each other. So, if we somehow ended up fused, meshed with or I don¡¯t know, overwritten on the preexisting matter, the atoms that were already here simply went between ours, without doing much damage.¡±


    ¡°So what you are saying, we are ok?¡± she asked.


    ¡°No. Just because most atoms would mesh without conflict, some might try to occupy the same space, in a manner of speaking, and that''s usually very, bad.¡± he sat on the ground, pouring beach sand through his fingers.


    ¡°Bad how?¡±


    ¡°I have no idea because by all logic, this process is impossible. But I guess that when one particle tries to appear in the place reserved for another, either one will be forcefully knocked out of its place and flung away, or broken apart. The first process would just create heat, and very little at that¡­ but the other...¡±


    ¡°What? What''s the other?¡±


    ¡°Radiation, Candace. If you smash an atom, the little excited bits gotta go somewhere.¡±


    ¡°Fuck.¡± She closed her eyes and slumped. ¡°So we all got Chernobyled?¡±


    ¡°What?¡± he asked, ¡°Oh, Chernobyl, I get it. Yes¡­ but no. You and the girls are most likely fine. You displaced air, possibly water vapor, pollen, and dirt floating in the wind. Not enough actual mass in that volume to matter, the chances of one of your atoms hitting a preexisting one would be absurdly low. But me and Martinez, especially him, displacing solid rock¡­ Well, as solid as any matter ever is¡­ our chances of accidentally smashing some atoms are orders upon orders of magnitude higher. I still feel good, but you saw him,¡± he gestured at the tent, ¡°he acts like he is fine, but his body gives off all signs of slow, yet severe poisoning. Is it radiation poisoning, or just a buildup of suddenly broken-up chemicals that were shot to shit with microscopic collisions, I have no idea. ¡±


    ¡°So what you''re saying,¡± she said, ¡°is that Martinez is effectively a dead man, that we are all dead, either from radiation poisoning or cancer or some shit like that?¡±


    ¡°You and the girls are probably safe. If I am correct about this process, then your bodies might suffer some radiation damage, and in effect get cancerous mutations here and there, but at such a low level your immune system is completely capable of handling it. Shouldn¡¯t be worse than the suntan you got.¡± He said, touching her arm. ¡°Martinez however got it much worse. I hope I''m wrong but if I''m right, then he is unlikely to make it, even if we find help.¡±


    ¡°What about you Miguel?¡± she asked, watching him pour sand from each hand, letting the streams fall in one, mixing haphazardly. Did the same happen to the atoms in her body? ¡±Aren''t you worried about yourself? Your head was in the dirt and your hands... You must be having a lot of fucked up particles inside you now.¡±


    Miguel snorted a laugh. ¡°I¡¯ve been working with toxic, carcinogenic, and plain deadly chemicals every day for the last five years, sitting in a poorly ventilated basement lab. I inhaled enough acid fumes, fluoride, and shit you wouldn''t be able to pronounce, to kill a horse. So no, I''m not especially worried about a little poisoning and a few extra cancer cells. I''m most likely already a walking tumor. Besides, ¡°he said, patting his stomach, ¡°as you can see I worked very hard to get an obesity-related cardiac failure first. When I die, It will be a case of chocolate overdose rather than radiation poisoning.¡±


    ¡°You are a strange, strange man, Miguel Aguirre.¡± she said, smashing the pyramid of sand he built. ¡°But I like your style of strangeness. How about we do our best to save the cop and the girls regardless of their respective chances? We get out of the woods, find help, and then we go back home because I''m done prancing about China or whatever this place is.¡±


    ¡°Have you seen the night sky, Candace?¡± Miguel asked.


    ¡°No, I mean, yes, sorta, why?¡±


    ¡°Look up once it gets dark. It''s full of stars. I¡¯ve never seen a night sky so clear. You can see the Big Dipper and Polaris clearly, so we are somewhere in the Northern part of the globe.  Like maybe Canada, or Northern Europe. Maybe Russia or China. But¡­¡± he hesitated. ¡°But there is not a single place in the whole world where you have both civilization and a sky so clear. No pollution, to speak of.  This place is absolutely pristine, like no place I have ever heard of. And you know what else should we see in a sky so clear? The International Space Station.¡±


    ¡°Ok, so maybe we are a bit further away from the cities. Maybe it is China, or I don¡¯t know, some remote place in Norway? I mean, I think I saw smoke when I was up that hill¡­ well, it disappeared but.. ¡± she said, but she did not believe herself, and the sinking feeling in her stomach made her realize she was holding the truth at bay for some time.


    ¡°Candace,¡± he sighed wearily, and grabbed her hand, ¡°This smoke could easily be a minor forest fire. Or not smoke at all, just vapor over a swamp. But how do you explain the Space Station being gone? Trust me, I''m a lifelong nerd, I know what it looks like, and how to find it. It''s not there. And no other satellites. Or planes.¡±


    ¡°Are you saying that it''s all gone? Civilization?¡± she felt anger rising in her. She hated that he was right, and her protective bubble of purposeful ignorance was pierced.


    ¡° No, I''m saying we are gone. Look around. Sure as hell there isn''t any wild-growing bamboo in Northern Europe,¡± he pointed at a nearby stick, ¡°Nor is there English Oak in China. Giant otters like the ones you described live only in South America, except they are not even remotely as big. There is no place in the world where those things exist side-by-side. And there is certainly no place on Earth with giant dogs that leave footprints the size of saucers. So my best guess is that we are not in the wrong country or even wrong continent, we''re in the wrong fucking reality.¡±

 DAY: AROUND FORTY-EIGHT, HAMMERS AND HAM

    This time, I approached the tasks of the day like a civilized man, that is, fully rested, relatively shaved, with a crispy fresh white shirt on, and sipping coffee. Well, the coffee was made of acorns, and I used a bark ladle instead of a cup, but still, I felt less like a caveman, and more like a corporate mid-manager handling a project meeting.


    I realized that after nearly two months in the wilderness, I probably knew more about the life of a caveman than a corporate jockey.


    ¡°Hello people, everybody rested? You guys had a good breakfast?¡± I asked my mute audience consisting of neatly arranged hammers, tongs, stone handaxes, and odd bits of flint and bone I thought may be useful.  I spent some time the previous day trimming the furnace down to a manageable forge, and prepared a giant pile of charcoal right next to it, so as to not waste time making more.


    ¡°Right,¡± I continued, uninterrupted, ¡°first motion of the meeting is that you guys watch out for otter thieves. I don¡¯t want any of my professional tools to get snatched, and I especially would hate it if they stole my precious, precious metal,¡± I finished with a Gollum¡¯s throaty rasp, caressing the iron chunk.


    ¡°Second motion, bulletpoint, or whatever, is that we know very little about blacksmithing, but that should not hold us back!¡± I shoveled some charcoal into the burning forge and gave the blower a few spins. ¡°The best ideas come when you approach a problem with a clear mind, not overburdened with knowledge. Let us think outside the box, and, by outside, I mean inside, that is, inside the forge pit.¡±


    This time, I had an answer. A bird of unknown species, which I dubbed Ringtone Bird, for they sounded like an old cellphone trill, sounded off in the canopy.


    ¡°Ah, music! What we needed to start a day with good energy, synergy and uhh, all kinds of ¡®ergy in general.¡± I exclaimed. ¡°Wonderful idea, Ringtone Bird. I promote you to Senior Ringtone Bird, for your ingenuity.¡±


    The bird kept on chirping, so I jammed in with a song of my own. It gave spinning the blower fan a good rhythm.


    ¡°Hey, ho, pull yer rope,


    t¡¯shore is near, don¡¯t lose yer hope,


    we sail her well, we soon get there,


    so,


    hey, ho, pull yer rope¡­¡±


    The bird seemed to appreciate half-remembered shanty tunes and kept its song for a longer while.


    Meanwhile, the coals became bright yellow, and the heat formed a steady jet over the top of the forge. I gently put in one of the many copies of the iron bit.


    I realized I had no plan for what to make out of it. Or rather, I had all the plans, at once. I needed knives, chisels, rasps, saws, axes and adzes, spearheads and arrowheads, and nails, and hooks and chain links and,  and¡­ everything. Logic dictated I should start by making a proper pair of tongs and a hammer, to make future work easier, but ironically, those two items sounded hardest to make right.


    ¡°Ok, let''s start with something simple.¡± I said to the stone hammer in my hand, which now felt very much too crude a tool for the task at hand. ¡°We will try to make a flat, rectangular bar. It cannot be all that difficult.¡±


    It was extremely difficult.  Twenty minutes later, I was shouting, swearing in frustration, and tossed away the ruined piece of iron to start anew with another one. In my few forays at blacksmithing, I always worked with modern steel, which was uniform in structure, and precisely designed to be heated and shaped. The lump I had, was a porous piece of iron sponge full of slag grits, bits of coal and cracks going in random directions. It was probably closer to cast iron than any kind of steel. When I heated it to bright yellow, it simply started to burn, and disintegrate under the hammer blows. When I kept it cooler, at orange or red hues, it did not burn, but cracked and broke apart instead. It was like trying to hammer a piece of stale bread into shape. All the chipping and compressing made the resulting bar much smaller than the original piece.


    ¡°This is all your fault, Senior Ringtone Bird! You¡¯re fired!¡± I yelled and tossed a pair of tongs at the tree where the wild musician sat.


    This was a disaster!


    Have I done all the work for nothing? If I kept hammering it like that, I would at best end up with a rod of metal big enough for a single nail, if that, and a lot of useless iron crumbs.


    One option would be to hammer the lump into the densest cube I could make, then multiply that, and smelt it all again, hopefully to produce a purer, more uniform bloom. But even thinking about doing that gave me a headache. That would mean another one or two days of hard labor even before I got to hammer any tools out of it.


    But maybe I was going all wrong about that? I kept forgetting I could just multiply the result of my work endlessly, at any point. Maybe there was no need to fill a whole furnace again, just reiterate the process itself by doubling the bars?


    ¡°Mister Bird, I changed my mind. You are not fired. Please put on another track, something motivational and upbeat, fit for a divinely inspired hero honing his skills in a classic training montage.¡±


    Predictably, the bird did not oblige, having left a while ago. I just had to hum ¡°Eye of the Tiger¡± to myself.


    I took a new iron lump from the pile and heated it to incandescent yellow. Then I gently put it on the anvil and rapped at it with soft love-taps of the hammer, until it compacted and flattened into a small bar. I let it cool slowly and examined it. Hammering it that hot meant that most of the material just burned off or crumbled away, but what was left had fused into a relatively continuous strip, with no obvious cracks. I scrubbed the scale off the top, to make it as smooth and flat as possible, doubled it, and tossed both copies into the forge. Once they got glowing yellow, almost white with heat, I pulled them out, put one on top of the other, and started hammering them together.


    The strips cooled within seconds, and I had to reheat them several times, but in the end, they seemed to have partially welded into a doubly thick bar. I took a stone chisel and painstakingly trimmed all the unwelded parts that would only cause problems later. The result was a mostly continuous rectangular bar about the size of my thumb.


    ¡°Ahah! And they called me mad!¡± I laughed, brandishing it. Ringtone Bird must have returned in the meantime, and with some friends in tow, because the nearby oak exploded with triumphant tweets.


    Invigorated with my success, I repeated the process. Fusing two already continuous doubled bars into a quadruple bar was much easier. I also noticed that the part of the bar that was buried deep in the white-hot ash at the opposite end of the forge welded much better than the one near the air intake. Maybe too much oxygen was a bad thing?


    Soon, the quadruple bar became an eightfold bar, and then sixteen-fold. At that point, It became too thick to work properly, so I hammered it as flat as I possibly could, and trimmed the edges. The thirty-two-fold bar was really tricky to weld at all, as even flattened, it was the size of my palm and just as thick.


    There was no real way to double that into a sixty-four-fold one. I tried welding two together, or folding one on itself, but the surface was just too big to allow a good weld with my primitive tools. I simply opted to keep reheating and pummeling the existing bar until all the easily accessible impurities, air gaps, and bad welds were hammered out or burned off.


    Two hours later, I had a rectangular bar the size and shape of a hammer head. My hands were blistered and bleeding, But I was beside myself with pride. I immediately multiplied the bar until I had a whole bag of them, and hid half in my hut in case of thieves.


    You never know with the otters.


    I looked with disgust at the stone mace that gave me blisters. I knew exactly what I wanted to make first.


    ¡°Sorry guys, but I always wanted to say this, and could never find a good moment. Until now.¡± I said in the general direction of the birds and struck a dancing pose. My baggy pants billowed just right as they should. ¡°Stop! Hammer time!¡±


    As it turned out, I knew how to make a hammer, and had no tools to actually do it. I saw my blacksmith friend make one once, and he simply chiseled a hole in the bar of steel, then widened it to fit the handle into it. Well, there were likely many different additional steps, but this is what I remembered.


    I tried to do exactly that and failed miserably. The iron bars I had, were too soft and brittle to act like chisels, and immediately dulled and bent. The hammer head started splitting and cracking when I tried to make a hole through it. So much for fancy blacksmithing tricks. Seeing no other option, I  folded the iron bar in half, and using another as a temporary wedge, created a loop to stick the handle into.


    I chopped off a part of a spearshaft and rammed it into the loop. The resulting hammer was¡­well, serviceable, was the most charitable way to put it. Definitely better than the stone one.


    With that done, I finally had a proper tool to work on the rest of my projects. I used another iron bar as an anvil, as it offered a much smoother surface. I foregoed trying to make metal tongs, the iron was way too brittle and hard to work with, to try something that complex.


    I could easily make an axe or an adze out of a copy of my hammer, but I had another thing in mind.


    Most of my time in this wilderness was governed by fear. Fear of the teeth, fangs, talons and beaks in the green darkness around me. I needed a fang of my own.


    I took an iron bar and elongated it into a triangular tongue with a tang at the opposite end. This was not a crude tool like the hammer, this one needed love and care, with gentle and thought-out hammer strikes. I kept working along the edges of the triangle, stretching it, and flattening it, keeping it as symmetrical as I could.Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.


    When I was satisfied with the shape, I reheated it to an orange glow, and dumped it into a tray of water to harden it. It did not seem to have gotten appreciably harder, but I loved the iconic hiss of steam coming off the blade. Very cinematic.


    Once that part was done, I wetted the stone anvil and ground the edges smooth on it. Then I honed the edges on a brick until they were knife sharp. And then, still not satisfied, I spread some ground pottery powder on a wet piece of leather and sharpened them to a razor¡¯s edge.


    Finally, I heated the tang to orange hot, and burned it into the end of my staff, setting it securely in. Just to be extra sure, I wrapped it in silk thread soaked in elk glue.


    Maybe it was my imagination, but the forest became awfully quiet.


    I whirred the result of my work over my head, and practiced dynamic stabs and thrusts.


    I had a spear.


    A real spear with a big metal spearhead, sharp as a scalpel. It was beautiful. It was deadly. It was badass.


    ¡°Hey nature, see this? I''m in charge now. Me. Human.¡± Nothing dared to roar back a challenge, which was a good thing, because I felt so pumped up I might have run into the woods to engage it in mortal combat.


    The forge was still hot, and the tools and the coal were waiting, but I could not resist the temptation of playing with my new toy. I just had enough sense to first copy my spear several dozen times, and place some of them in easy-to-reach places all over my camp, so that I would never be too far away from a weapon. I also wrapped a roll of bark over the blade, so that I would not accidentally cut myself handling it, but a thrust would snap the flimsy sheath off.


    At first, I tried throwing my spears at the trunk of the fallen pine. It took some practice, but the spearhead was so heavy that the spears usually flew true, if not exactly where I wanted them to go. After a while, I could hit the trunk reliably at about twelve paces, and with enough force, that I had trouble pulling the spears out. I decided to work on javelins at some point, but this day was about fun and play.


    Then, as it usually happens with men who get a new and dangerous toy, I decided to field-test it.


    I was not going to go hunting, I told myself. I was going to take a stroll around the safe part of the woods, the one way away from the monster-infested swamps. Just a short trip towards the willow copse down-river.


    And if I happened to encounter an animal that acted unwisely aggressive, or simply looked too tasty for its own good, well, that¡¯s what a spear was designed for.


    Determined, I put a bundle of spears into a bag and slung it over my shoulder like a quiver. Lacking pockets, I put my hood on backwards and filled it with snacks so that I could munch along the way. As a final touch, I put my blacksmithing hammer under my belt, reasoning that it didn''t hurt to have yet another weapon handy.


    This time, rather than trying to go around the bramble patch I just went straight through it, carving myself a path with the blade of the spear working like a machete.


    As I crossed the part where the stream fell into the river, I saw plenty of tracks.


    Small hoof tracks. It couldn''t be the unicorns, their hooves were enormous. It couldn''t be an elk either. I spent many, many hours butchering one and its hooves sure looked different. What else could it be? Some species of a dear?


    I decided to investigate.


    I followed the trail to where the river spread into a funnel. The animal prints disappeared into the tangled mess of dwarf willows and hanging moss. I almost gave up and turned around when the bushes rustled, and a little pig emerged from them.


    When it saw me, it tried to sprint past me into the woods, but it ran out of courage halfway and stopped, frozen with indecision and fear. It was small, barely up to my knee, and stood less than ten paces away, presenting its fat striped flank.


    Without even thinking, I raised a spear to throw.


    And I just¡­ didn''t. Previous experiences led me to expect that the local wildlife consisted of oversized prehistoric monstrosities. Meanwhile, this guy looked like he was waiting for Winnie the Pooh to come save him. It was completely harmless, just a mobile piece of ham on stumpy legs. Were I starving, or if it somehow decided to attack me, I would have speared it.


    But I  knew this piglet was just a terrified child separated from its mom.


    This thought saved my life.


    Sudden realization that the piglet could not possibly be here alone, made me drop my spear into a defensive stance and tense up. There was no warning, no squeal, just a speeding train of muscle that exploded out of the woods behind me, its head bristling with ivory murder. The sow hit me as I was trying to turn around. I felt its tusk stab into my thigh with tremendous force.


    The impact flipped me like a ragdoll, and I almost impaled myself on my own spear, falling down.


    The she-boar ran past me, took a sharp turn next to its child, and charged again.


    I did not have time to stand up. I just grabbed the nearest spear, rammed its end into the ground, and pointed the point at the charging animal.


    The sow was smarter than I thought.


    It veered off course at the last possible moment, and instead of getting pierced through, only had its flank cut. This time, rather than run past me, it stopped abruptly and snapped at me with its enormous jaws, closing them on my injured leg.


    My thigh exploded with pain. I grabbed the spear mid-shaft and stabbed it in the neck, but it would not let go! I pressed on, and felt the spearhead slip into the animal''s throat.


    The damned pig just started thrashing savagely, slamming me against the ground.


    Something broke with a crack. I thought it was my leg, but it was just the wooden shaft. Desperate, I pulled the blacksmithing hammer from under my belt and hit the pig in the eye with all my strength.


    It released me, uttering an ear-splitting squeal. I kicked myself away with the other leg and reached for another spear.


    The pig attacked again, but in its confusion tried to bite the weapon instead of me. I started slicing and stabbing at its snout and managed to poke out its other eye.


    Now its squealing has reached almost supersonic levels. Blind and enraged, it charged straight ahead, missing me completely, and crashed into a willow trunk.


    For a second it just stood there, stunned. It could not see me anymore, but it sniffed the air trying to catch my scent.


    I did not dare to move, afraid to make a sound. I assumed its hearing was just as good. Its piglet ran away, but the sow kept searching for me, snorting angrily.


    That the terror bird and the wolverine I encountered earlier were hunters. Killing and eating other creatures was just their job, they held no specific animosity against me.


    But the pig?


    It was a killer.


    It was not looking for a meal, it was looking for vengeance on a man that threatened its child. I knew it was patient and intelligent enough to find me sooner or later.


    I considered my options. I had just one spear. The others spilled too far away, beyond my reach. If I tried to crawing toward them, the pig would hear me and charge. So I had to wait for an opportune moment and make it count.


    I did not have to wait long. The piglet squeaked in the bushes and the pig turned to face the sound, showing me its side. I exploded off the ground, despite the searing pain in my thigh, and added my body''s momentum to the throw.


    I aimed for the pig¡¯s chest, hoping to pierce the heart or the lungs, but I hit it right in the belly instead. It shrieked in agony and rocketed straight ahead.


    The last I saw of it, was it rushing through the bushes, scything the undergrowth with the shaft of the spear.


    I sighed with enormous relief and lost consciousness.


    A gentle drizzle woke me up. The weather must have changed when I was out.


    My left leg was a supernova of pulsating pain. But the worst was the feeling of terror brought by the realization of what my reckless stupidity had put me into.


    I won that fight by a stroke of luck. I could have easily been already dead. In truth, I was still not out of the woods yet, metaphorically or literally.


    I tried to get up and immediately regretted it. Instead, I laid back down and examined my leg. Surprisingly, there was very little blood.


    The pig¡¯s tusks did not manage to pierce the Kevlar-like cloth of my pants.


    Lately, I got into the habit of wearing two or three layers of clothing, not just for warmth, but because working around bonfires I kept burning holes in my sleeves and pants legs. This layering very likely saved my life, at least temporarily. I was not gored, but the muscle of my thigh was a bruised mess, with marks of the pig¡¯s teeth impressed deep into my flesh. Ignoring the pain, I pushed my fingers into the muscle, to find how bad the damage was.


    My thigh bone did not feel broken, or at least separated, but it did not feel right either. I found the broken spear shaft and used it, along with my belt, to tie a makeshift splint over my leg. I was not sure if a splint was even necessary in this case. My knowledge of first aid was pretty sparse, and I did not feel fully lucid. Grunting with pain, I crawled to the remaining spear and slowly got up using it as a crutch.


    The route back to my camp was such a torture that I barely remember any of it. If the pig burst from the bushes and attacked me again, I would have died in a confused haze.


    I managed to limp, then crawl, back to my hut. I did not close the gate, I did not have the strength. My final effort was to close the door of my house, and bar it. I was going in and out of consciousness, the pain either making me faint or waking me up again.


    I do not remember much of the next two days.


    The days and nights passed, and the pain subsided to a more manageable level. I crawled out of the hut, and loaded myself on the travois, using it like a lean-back chair. Pulling my pants down was a challenge in itself. My thigh was purple and green, and so swollen it almost filled the baggy trouser leg. Worst still, my groin was swollen as well, with what looked like a hernia, or maybe just blood welled right under the skin.


    The yard, what I started to call the inside of my fortifications, was a mess. All the fires died, and the rain, despite its gentle nature, made the hot furnace bricks crack, and left a puddle inside.


    Some enterprising thieves got into my pantry and ate my collection of nuts, dried fruit, and marmalade, but inexplicably they left the toffee bars intact. I wolfed down five, washing them down with dirty rainwater. I was too weak to even try to purify it.


    I wanted to, no, I needed to restart the fires. I grew to have a superstitious, almost religious conviction that it was the fire that kept me safe, despite all the evidence to the contrary. I tied myself to the travois, and crawling backward awkwardly like a beached lobster, reached the bonfire nearest to the duplicators.


    Luckily, a while ago I decided to store an emergency kit of dry kindling, fire sticks and tinder for rainy days, wrapped in a pitch soaked rag. And a good thing too, because this time starting the fire, a task I could usually do half asleep, proved to be a tremendous challenge to my tortured body and mind.


    After a long while, trying to bow at the firestick without moving too much and hurting my leg, I managed to light a sad little fire.


    With not enough kindling in sight, I started duplicating and burning my spears. What started as a love affair with a new weapon, soon turned into a sour breakup. At least, I gathered a whole load of broken-off iron spearheads, which could be used for something more reasonable, like chisels, or hoes maybe?


    In a fit of inspiration, I grabbed one spearhead, and used it to carve a message to myself on the shaft of another.


    ¡°YOU ARE NOT A BADASS.¡±


    I took the spear marked thus, and put it into one of the duplicators, at a flat angle. I held it as long as I could, until the tremendous gravity within the pool of twisted reality tore it out of my hand. Instantly, two spears, each bearing the carved words, shot out into the woods, like projectiles from a ballista.


    One disappeared into the green, the other hit an oak trunk with a loud thud. I could not see it from the distance, but it looked like it went halfway through the wood and the shaft shattered on impact.


    ¡°I¡¯ll be damned,¡± I said to myself. ¡°¡± I do have siege weaponry. Shame I didn¡¯t have it at hand when the boar charged.¡±


    Curiosity was eating me. Despite my injury, I wanted to see how much damage the launched spear did. Previously, I shot several objects up in the sky that way, but never used the duplicators for target practice. And I really needed to close the gate anyway.


    With a painful effort, I rose up and limped towards the gate. I used two spears as crutches, sharp ends down. I needed to find a better solution soon because I felt every move sloshing a balloon of blood under the skin of my inner thigh.


    I got as far as the end of the palisade. I looked at the oak tree and admired the impact. The projectile hit with enough force to split the trunk.


    Then I looked down on the ground.


    I laughed hysterically, nearly collapsing in the process.


    A few paces away from the gate, around the place where I left fish snacks for Logan the last time, sat a gift for me.


    A real peace offering.


    A tribute from a hard-won ally.


    A torn-off boar¡¯s ass.

 BABA (I): PAPAYAS AND LANDMINES.

    Yusuf knew that they were both dead. Oh, they were still breathing, and his body, frozen mid-step, vibrated with adrenaline, and a will to outrun inevitable death, but it was a foregone conclusion.


    ¡°Do. Not. Move.¡± he told the boy. The moronic youth, who put both of them into this mess, for once did the reasonable thing and kept perfectly still, not even blinking.


    Yusuf Baba Abdullahi, a forty-nine-year-old shopkeeper, father of five, good husband, helpful neighbor, and a faithful Muslim, was a pillar of the local community. He paid his dues, to the official government and the unofficial protectors who visited their village every now and then. He helped build the local school, and paid out of his own pocket to bring satellite internet connection to it. He appeared as a good Nigerian patriot, but not suspiciously patriotic.


    And yet, like a curse from an old wives¡¯ tale, his past caught up to him. It started with the idle youths loitering around the produce market giving him weird looks. Then, there was gossip. He saw it spreading, even though all the hushed chitchat died abruptly in his presence.


    But the kids talked. Old women talked. And inevitably, once they were given enough hints from their wives, the men talked.


    Finally, the Headsman came by his shop, and rummaging through his papayas started asking idle questions.


    Questions like, where did Yusuf live before he moved here? What was his previous job? How did he get the money to start his business? All the locals knew was that one day, years ago, a heavyset slab of a man with a patriarch¡¯s beard and hard, piercing eyes came to their village and bought a hut. As he came with money, spoke wisdom like an Imam, and had the muscles of an ox, all of which he would lend freely, he soon found friends and a wife.


    Nobody asked questions, because they did not want to face the answers. The country was still healing, and there were plenty of men running from something. Often capable, dangerous men, who one day decided using their wills, brains, and hands to kill in the service of the Federal Republic of Nigeria was not the life they wanted.


    Some simply started killing for money instead.


    Others buried the guns and picked reputable careers.


    Yusuf distracted the Headsman with polite smiles and roundabout non-answers, but he knew the man was not fooled. There was a perceptible shift in the people around him. He was no longer the harmless ox of a man and a friend they smiled at. He was not anymore the man of Faith that confused youth would seek to strengthen their understanding of the teachings of the Prophet.


    He was a stranger again.


    People avoided his shop and shunned his wife, who was considered guilty by association. Yusuf could not guess what they thought he was guilty of, he just knew they were either close to the truth or at least close to guessing the magnitude of his crimes.


    A few days later, his worst fears were confirmed. A group of young men, all nonchalantly disheveled, and all equally nonchalantly armed, walked into his shop. He leaned on the counter, his palm resting close to a tapanga he usually used to split and hull coconuts.


    The leader of the youth gang swaggered right up to him, his fashionable tracksuit billowing under the ceiling fan, golden sunglasses gleaming.


    ¡°You da man, Baba?¡± He addressed Yusuf with a fake smile, and no trace of respect. ¡°Heard a word you know your way around hot peppers, s¡¯true?¡±


    ¡°Yes, I do sell various hot peppers. Actual peppers, and other produce, what do you gentlemen need?¡± Yusuf answered slowly, and straightened, towering over the boy.


    ¡°You sure of dis tin wey you dey talk so? Dis matter get k-leg.¡± The youth disbelieved him and cringed at his posh manner of speaking. But Yusuf long ago decided he would not speak pidgin with the kids. He was always of the opinion that if something merited saying at all, it merited being said properly.


    ¡°Boy. Are you hard of hearing? I sell food. Vegetables. Fruit. If someone told you otherwise, they made a fool out of you.¡± He noticed a shift in the youth¡¯s stance, a twitch in the elbow-


    ¡°You reach for that gun, boy, and I will shove it up your ass so deep you¡¯ll be bitin¡¯ bullets.¡±


    There was a tense moment, when the leader of the gang balanced between his fear of the imposing man, and the need to posture in front of his posse.


    ¡°Na so? Des mad amebo bout ya Baba.¡± The boy hesitated, code-switching to placate the shopkeep, and continued quieter. ¡°De say you from Makurdi? Kno wer find some really hot pepper?¡±


    Yusuf froze. If the kids knew that much, then the truth was out, and he should be packing his family right now and leaving. Nineteen years ago, he was a Spec-man of the Seventy-Second Special Forces Battalion stationed in Makurdi. He got himself into a mess, where he could either out a group of idiotic teens who wanted to play at Jihad, and give Yola Brigade an excuse to torch the entire part of the city in a frenzy of collateral killings, or let the potential terrorists free.


    He took a third option. He beat the wannabe Wahabis black and blue with a truncheon, cuffed them, and had their mothers and their neighbors pick them up and deal with them. He then stole all the evidence of terrorist activity, the guns, the ammo, the explosives and the truckload of haphazardly put together IEDs and drove it out into the country, running randomly, until he found this little hick of a village and drove the truck into a nearby swamp, where it sunk with its deadly cargo.


    With both the military and the Boko Haram pushers looking for him, he simply disappeared.


    He grew a beard, changed his name, changed his gait and even his accent, and in the process, Yusuf the Shopkeep was born.


    ¡°You are mistaken, boy. You take me for someone else. Understand? Just an everyday mistake, notin spoil, abi?¡± He loomed over the kid, his stare burning holes into the golden sunglasses. ¡°And no dey looking for no¡­ hot peppers. Bad for your stomach.¡±


    ¡°Don tear head, Baba, I undastan. I sabi, no wahala.¡± the boy acquiesced, and moved to leave, smirking.


    Yusuf locked the shop after them. Then he stood, frozen, for a few seconds. And then he slammed his fist into a crate full of mangos hard enough to splatter the ceiling. He wanted to scream, to roar, to tear his hair out.


    Just like that, his secret was spilled, and his life ruined.


    Allah seemed fit to put idiotic young men in his way, and have him destroy his own life trying to save them. Yusuf did not think for one second that the posse of armed dunces would not be trying to find the truck, and its horrific contents. And sooner or later they would succeed, there were just not that many places around where one could hide explosives, without a farmer plowing it out or a kid finding it.


    And he dreaded what would happen if the boys found the boot full of IEDs and landmines that had been rotting in the marsh for years, their triggers eroded to hair-thin scabs of rust.  He fell on his knees and curled on himself, his powerful body deflated with anguish.


    "O Allah, I seek Your counsel through Your knowledge and I seek Your assistance through Your might and I ask You from Your immense favor, for verily You alone decree our fate while I do not, and You know while I do not, and You alone possess all knowledge of the Unseen. O Allah, ¡­I¡­ I, what should I do, oh Merciful God? I made a terrible mistake, thinking I was doing the right thing. And now I must do the right thing, but it feels like a mistake. If I go after the boys, and try to stop them, they might get hurt. If I don¡¯t go after them, they will certainly get hurt, and may hurt other innocents too.


    But if I make that move, everyone will know me for the man I am, I will be apprehended, and my family will be cast out. Whether I succeed or not, my Alika and my children will suffer."


    He cried, for the first time in almost two decades.


    ¡°...decree for me what is good, wherever it may be, and make me content with it."


    He did not hear his God¡¯s answer, but he did not need one. He knew all along, that there was always only one choice he could make. He just wished Allah would bend the gears of the world infinitesimally in his favor this time.


    Despite his frantic efforts, it took him ages to reach the swamp. His trusty cargo van, which he used to transport the produce from the farms to the market, was reliable but not fast, especially not on the muddy road around the swamp. It was a road he drove on many times, yet never stopped by the spot where the truck full of explosives rested underwater. Only his eyes always lingered on it, willing it to remain hidden, or maybe disappear altogether.


    This time, when he reached the bend right next to where it met the marsh, he saw several dirt bikes abandoned right beside it. His heart skipped a beat and he got his car off the road and into the bushes. He only slammed the brakes when the front wheels had dug into the loose muck up to the axles.


    What he saw confirmed his worst fears. The gang of wannabe warlords stood in a half circle around a giant motley-green crate that they managed to fish out of the boot of the drowned truck using a winch.A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    Their leader screamed obscenities at two of his flunkies who were standing up the waist in water, and trying to break the lock on the crate open with a crowbar.


    ¡°Stop, your damn fools!¡± Yusuf yelled running towards them. The boys raised their guns at him, torn between confusion and the joy of their find.


    ¡°Please stop! Don''t touch it, you idiots!¡±


    One of the boys made up his mind and raised his rifle to shoot at him, but the bullets missed him by a wide reach. Without slowing down, he slammed his shoulder into the shooter knocking him off balance. Another boy was about to shoot, but their leader slapped his hand away from the trigger.


    ¡°Don shoot, you baka!'''' The leader turned to Yusuf, who stopped, with several barrels pointing at him. The kid pulled off his golden-lensed sunglasses, and addressed him with surprising calm and sincerity. His thick pidgin was gone, replaced by almost school-English.


    ¡°Don be kolo, Baba. You sa we fools, but it you is fool. We wan take da bombs, not for make money. We fight for da people. We kna you dey Spec-man, na so? Not da bad kind, da good kind? Come help us, Baba. ¡± the kid came to Yusuf and raised a hand. There was no more bravado in his eyes, only hope.


    ¡°Bombs don solve problems, son.¡± Yusuf sighed, shaking his hand. ¡°They make more problems. Look, whats your name?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m Golibe, Baba. I dey Oga of dis posse.¡±


    ¡°You listen Golibe. Im old. I saw boys like you think that guns and bombs can help make things right. That if you shoot all the bad men, blow up some buildings, then magically the People will build a better world for themselves¡­¡±


    ¡°Is different, Baba! All Oyibos, an Oyibo corporations, dey takin da land, suckin it dry. Poison da land. Poison da water.¡± he gestured at the swamp, which did indeed run a rainbow sheen from the mining spill-off as of late. ¡°Oyibos dey poisonin da People minds to, no be so? Everybody dey speak like big city ajerbutter, goin maga to please the White-man, the Corpo man. You fink dis right?¡±


    It seemed to Yusuf that Golibe was not really trying to convince him, but convince himself, and his boys. He understood that what he took for a gang of wannabee criminals were likely well-intentioned, if extremely foolish, young revolutionaries. This made things both better and much worse. Better, because maybe he could talk them out of it. Worse, because if he failed, they might end up doing something far more horrific and violent than occasionally lording their power over some rural folk, who long ago ceased to consider men with guns to be more than a seasonal nuisance.


    ¡°We agree to disagree, Oga Golibe. But let us leave that crate alone, abeg?¡± he pleaded, and placed himself between the box and the boy. ¡°It was rotting in the water for longer than you were alive. The explosives are likely leaking toxic chemicals. And the pins dey rusty. Don try opening it. One bad move, and we all go gbosa, sabi?¡®


    The kid looked at him, then at the locked crate that was slowly sinking back into the syrupy mud. Yusuf saw him psych himself for a decision. The kid''s muscles tensed, he clenched his jaw and balled his fists until his knuckles whitened. He looked at his posse, seeing a mixture of doubt, hope, fear, and anxiety.


    And then to Yusuf¡¯s horror, Golibe made the worst possible decision. He pushed him aside, pulled a gun, and shot the lock on the crate. Yusuf pounced at him, but the kid whipped him in the face with the gun, and pulled the trigger.


    The shot boomed right next to Yusuf¡¯s shoulder, sending a wave of searing pain through his right ear. He tumbled back, and felt the other boys grab him by the shoulders and stab the barrels of their rifles into his back.


    Idiots!


    He could try to fight back. Most likely, the boys did not have it in them to pull the triggers, and he could easily bat the guns aside, and beat the lot of them to a mewling pulp. He had more years of combat experience than they had years of life, and outweighed most of them almost twofold.


    But¡­the kids were barely older than his oldest son. Hell, their leader was the only one sporting any kind of facial hair, a ridiculous whisper of a mustache to go with his ridiculous sunglasses, now lying broken and forgotten in the mud. They were children, play-acting the violence they saw on television or heard from their elders.


    And there was no way for him to turn them around from their suicidal plan, because they now saw him as a part of the system they wanted to fight against. Between that heartbreaking realization and the painful ringing in his busted eardrum, he felt his resolve vanish.


    ¡°Please, boy. Do not touch it. Please.¡± he said, not even able to hear his own words over the tinnitus whine in his head.


    Heedless of his words, Golibe reached down into a crate full of rusted landmines, IEDs and shrapnel launchers, and pulled out a dull gray disk that leaked water like a sieve.


    ¡°See Baba? Dis why I dey Oga here. I knew da peppers okey. I got good soji bout dis..¡±


    The click of the rusted pin breaking, and priming the anti-vehicle explosive was quieter than a mouse¡¯s pip, but to everyone except Yusuf it sounded as loud as a thunder. Golibe¡¯s face dropped, and he froze in place. His posse simply started to back off, until they were a few steps away and started running.


    Yusuf did not need to hear the primer to know what happened from the boy¡¯s expression.


    ¡°Do. Not. Move.¡±


    He slowly rose to his feet, trying to not even disturb the surface of the water. He knew his way around disarming explosive devices, but not ones that were rusted into a solid block, and sloshing with a soup of swamp water and chemicals. It could be that the repurposed mine was simply inactive, and safe. Military-grade explosives defaulted to safe mode if the triggering mechanism was damaged, otherwise storing and transporting them would be too risky.


    But he could not bet on that here, since this mine had been tinkered with. Someone tried to turn a regular anti-vehicle mine into an anti-personnel shrapnel launcher that could be hidden within a building and triggered by a person pressing on a tripwire. At least, this was as much as he could guess from the rusted and mud-covered mess.


    He inched towards the boy, and examined the mine. The pressure plate was welded shut, and someone rammed wires into the fuse through a hole drilled in the arming plug.


    For a second he felt detached amusement at human stupidity. Whoever built that contraption was suicidally brave.


    Steeling his will to prevent his hands from shaking, he reached over and under the mine, and gently grabbed it, keeping his fingers away from the mysterious wiring at the top.


    ¡°Boy. Listen to me, but do not move yet. On a count of three, you will gently pull your hands away from it, and without making any sudden moves, crawl away. Do not try to run until you are at least ten paces away from me. ¡±


    ¡°I sabi, Baba.¡± The kid stood stock still, but tears streaked down his face, mixed with the droplets of sweat running down his forehead.


    ¡°One. Two. Three.¡±


    The boy pulled away, and rolled out of the swamp and onto the muddy shore. But instead of running, he just stood there, shaking.


    ¡°I no leave you, Baba. Can¡¯t go till you dey kampe too. How do I help?¡±


    ¡°Camot from dia, you fool!¡± Yusuf growled. But the look on the kid¡¯s face told him he won¡¯t be shooed away. ¡°Go get a fire extinguisher from my truck. I can use it to foil the trigger mechanism. Go.¡±


    He hated lying to the kid, but there was no other option. He had to trick him to distance himself from the blast radius.


    Golibe turned to run, and Yusuf let out a microscopic sigh of relief.


    A sight that made his right hand tremble ever so slightly.


    The tremble made him move his index finger by maybe a millimeter, and brush the edge of the arming bolt.


    The world vanished.


    Yusuf found himself in Hell. It surely was the Jahannam that the Verses described, though instead of boiling water and fire eating his face, he was shot through with pain that was not unlike an electric current and was submerged in cold, murky water. For a split second, before his rational mind kicked in, he mused how unfair it was of Allah to punish him so. He was imperfect, but he was not an evil man, and his faith was always strong. His crimes were against the corrupt and heartless dictate of the government, but never against God. He did not do anything to deserve such fate, he spent his life trying to do the right thing, and simply failed. Was honest failure a sin as well in Merciful God¡¯s eyes?


    Then the more animalistic and pragmatic part of his brain took over, and he realized he was drowning. That was surely part of his punishment, but he knew no theological reason why he should just take it without fighting back. He kicked up with his legs, and breached the surface, coughing.


    The second he did, he saw a giant tree toppling off the shore, and falling down on him.


    ¡°Wetin? Fu¡­¡± he muttered incredulously, and instinctively pulled to the side, away from the path of a branch that would spear him through.


    In the split second before the tree hit the water, he thought he saw a naked human figure, pinned under the opposite end of the trunk, their legs spasming wildly as the giant weight crushed them.


    Then there was a loud splash, and a shockwave pushed him away from the shore, and into the current of what he found out, fighting to stay afloat, was a giant river.


    Yusuf was not much of a swimmer. He did pass the necessary tests during his induction and training into the Battalion, but he hasn''t really used his swimming skills since then. Luckily, he grew a layer of fat on top of his impressive muscles over the years as a shopkeeper and a husband, and he just let it keep him floating.


    If this was Hell, it was not the kind that the Verses had him expect. The initial pain had all but vanished, along with the adrenaline.


    He surely had died, that was certain. He did not see the mine exploding, since blast waves traveled faster than his brain could have perceived, but he was certain it did. It likely triggered at least some of the loads in the crate, and the boxed ammo in the truck.


    Must have killed that fool boy as well. Even if he somehow managed to run out of the immediate blast radius in time, these things were built to send shrapnel in a wide and long cone that almost certainly enveloped him.


    And to pour salt on the wound, he was certain that the boy died again, right before his eyes, crushed by a tree. Can you die in Hell? Was this even Hell? Or was this just the first layer of Jahannam, a kind of twisted purgatory?


    Yusuf was on the verge of breaking his covenant with Allah. His death, the kid¡¯s death, the fact that by dying he abandoned his family to an uncertain fate, and the wickedly blasphemous nature of this place made his blood boil. Floating aimlessly, he looked around. The bank on the right side of him was overgrown with thick reeds and impassable. The opposite shore was so far away, that it almost disappeared in the mists.


    Finally, the river spread widely, and the current pushed him onto a swampy delta and deposited him on a patch of silt overgrown with weeds. He climbed onto it, and breathed heavily. He was stranded in the middle of a river, which flowed through cold, alien wilderness completely unlike the swamps around Warri that he knew.


    ¡°What is this, oh Merciful God?¡± he yelled at the sky. He was too incensed to perform a proper rak¡¯ah addressing Allah. ¡°What is this place? Why do you punish me so? Was it necessary for the boy to die as well? If I deserved to die¡­¡± he sighed, ¡°so be your Will. But why is the place of my torment so¡­improper?¡±


    Then, ashamed of his own impious words, he bowed down and added, ¡°O Allah! Forgive me my mistakes; protect me from the evil of my lack of knowledge, ignorance and injustice in my affairs and safeguard me from every harm and evil, of which You are aware far greater than I¡­¡± he dared to look up. ¡°Forgive my foolish words, Most Merciful. I am confused and afraid.¡±


    And then his heart sank again, when he saw a dozen giant dark shapes swimming towards him from all sides.


    ''Were those crocodiles?'' He laughed to himself, in anguish. Of course, it would be crocodiles. Must be so, such was his luck. All his life, his unwise decisions and harsh words had insulted Allah, and he should not be expecting mercy now, when he was destined to receive his just punishment.

 DAY SIXTY OR SO. ARTS AND CRAFTS, AND DEATH.

    Not much happened to me for a few days afterward, aside from excruciating pain, that is.


    .The swelling mostly prevented me from moving or doing any useful work. I did however, capitalize on one of my early discoveries.


    I remembered the bitter willow bark tea tasted like aspirin. After two days of being tormented by pain, I decided that risking poisoning was worth it if it could actually work as a pain relief.


    Meanwhile, I managed to tie the travois to my back, and made crutches out of two pronged branches, so I could hobble around my camp like a misshapen quadruped Pinnochio, with my swollen leg dangling in the air. I was still in incredible pain, but at least it was not getting worse. I scraped some of the willow bark into a ladle made of the same material, topped it with water, and boiled it until the bark started burning through.


    The resulting brew was even stronger and more bitter than I remembered. It made me gag, and my stomach cramped immediately in protest, but I forced it down, and smeared the remaining dregs over the bruise.


    It took forever for the concoction to start working, but it did work.


    It was not just a placebo, the maddening pain subsided to merely a throb.


    I wanted to dance with joy, but, sensibly, haven''t.


    I did not know how long the primitive aspirin would work. I remembered that doctors usually prescribe a maximum of four doses of painkillers a day. However, this only made sense if one knew the actual dose, and in my case, it could be at best approximated as a hearty spoonful.


    Still, I decided to rather risk a mild overdose, than suffer a day more.


    I was restless.


    I felt like inaction and resting, as important as they were to my immediate health, were detrimental to my long term survival.


    I tried to tinker with the forge, but soon abandoned that idea. I grew skinny over the last two months, and could appreciate how my muscles flowed one into another. There was no way for me to work the blower, let alone strike with a hammer, without using my core muscles, which in turn moved the muscles of my groin, which pulled at the injured leg. Best I could do was lay on my side and tap feebly with a hammer, to no real use.


    I needed to focus on light work that could bring the most benefit. And I had just the idea, even though I postponed it for a long time.


    Pottery.


    Every now and then I tried to bake clay in the bonfires to create ceramic pots and containers, but invariably they cracked or even exploded. The few bigger shards that survived weren¡¯t watertight, and leaked like a sieve. I tried to repair them with pitch glue, but the effect of the repairs was just a useless mess.


    But being invalid and almost immobile, I had all the time on my hands to approach the problem intelligently.


    Experiment, analyze, and then come up with rational conclusions based on evidence, that''s how you progress technology!


    I prepared a few lumps of clay, some cloth kerchiefs and several trays of water and arranged them around the pine stump, close to the duplicators.


    It was the time to do some experiments.


    First, I washed and sieved the clay through several kerchiefs, to purify it and get rid of all the grit and organic bits in it. Soon, I had a handful of creamy, brown stuff that looked like smooth peanut butter. Inspired, I put making actual hazelnut butter on my list, and moved on.


    I multiplied the clay cream until I had a dozen samples. First sample, I mixed it with a pinch of sand. The second, with a dose of ground rock. Third with finely powdered ash, and fourth with charcoal. The next samples were enriched with ground clam shells, ground bone, crushed pottery from previous attempts, pitch, glue, silk strands, and every other substance I could think of, until I ran out of ideas.


    Finally, I rolled each sample into a ball, flattened the balls into disks, and shaped the disks into tiny bowls. The bowls then sat for a few hours drying in the sun, and, once they became leathery to touch, next to the bonfire.


    It was not until dark when I felt confident enough in their dryness to multiply them and put them into the hot coals inside the forge, and pile more embers on top of them. I could not really work the bow of the blower, as it aggravated my injury, but I could awkwardly spin it with a crank, creating some minuscule draft.


    Only a few seconds in, I heard the damn things cracking and exploding, but kept cranking the blower and keeping the heat up, determined to see at least some results. The hole in the forge allowed me to see that the bowls were glowing bright orange, despite the unimpressive oxygen intake.


    As usual, the bottleneck of all my work was not the lack of fuel and resources, but of manpower. I simply ran out of strength cranking the blower, and the pain in my thigh became impossible to ignore. I topped off on my willow aspirin, and went back to my hut to sleep the pain off.


    Come next morning, the coals in the forge burned down to ash, and I could scoop out the now cooled bowls. Predictably, most of them cracked, some violently so. It was the same lesson again, I needed to let pottery sit and dry for a much longer time, and bake it slowly, to get rid of the pockets of water that likely turned to steam, with explosive results.


    Still, there were at least some survivors, and thats what mattered most.


    The bowls that had any kind of organic matter in them burned to a spongy mess, and fell apart. The ones with coal or pitch in them mostly disappeared. The ones with sand in them seemed fine, but disintegrated when I poured water into them. Of the ones with crushed shells in them, one survived. Finally, the bowls enriched with ceramic dust, stone grits and ash weathered the fire quite well. The ash-filled ones held water the best, but the gritty ones seemed strongest and had fewest cracks.


    It was time for tier two of the winner-takes-all ceramic combat. This time, I combined clay with ground rock, ground pottery and fine ash in different proportions, and took time to make bigger dishes with different shapes. I dusted off my preschool skills of plasticine crafts, and made ugly bowls, pots, jars, even small trays, plates and a bottle with a neck. I also made lids for all of them.


    By necessity, all my creations had to be small, no bigger diameter than a whisky glass, or they would not fit in the duplicators. But this was likely for the better, as the pots became wobbly and threatened to fall apart at that size anyway, bigger ones would immediately lose the battle with gravity. In theory, I knew the proper way to do this was to build a pottery wheel and turn them on it, gently and precisely, but I had no strength for such a feat of carpentry, nor did I have the ghost of Patrick Swayze to guide my hands on the wheel later.


    I made a grate out of sticks on top of the forge, and laid the pots on top of it. Then I lit a gentle fire at the bottom, letting them slowly dry in the heated air and smoke.


    Having nothing better to do for the rest of the day, I wobbled towards the river. I could not climb onto the pine, but in the last few days I found a new fun activity to pass the time by.


    I gathered a few handfuls of pinecones off the ground, and started tossing them into the water, gently enough as to not strain myself. By the third plop of a cone hitting the water''s surface, a furry torpedo shot out of the reeds and grabbed it. The otter gnawed at the cone, and spit it out. Immediately, another one tumbled over its friend to steal its find. I threw another cone, and another, and soon there was a pandemonium of slithering bodies and squeaks of mock anger.


    Every once in a while one of the beasties would look at me expectantly, then flip and turn, showing me its belly. I learned over time that this was an invitation to play. When one of them outdid its brethren and caught a flying cone mid-air, I clapped to congratulate its performance. To my utter astonishment, several of the otters joined it, slapping together their paws. I clapped some more, and they imitated me again.


    ¡°Holy cow, how intelligent are you guys?¡± I assumed the giant otters would be about as bright as their smaller cousins, which I knew could be taught simple tricks. But these guys looked as smart as seals, dogs, or possibly dolphins. It was not exactly surprising. They were pack animals, with brains as big as mine. I was glad they were not hostile, because between their brawn and their smarts, they could easily break through any defenses I could muster and annihilate me, like a furry team of commandos.


    One of them, a big spotty-bellied female I assumed was their leader, swam closer, and sniffed at me.


    ¡°Sorry Muppets. I ran out of fish a long time ago. I have a rotten rump of a boar, you can help yourself to, but I doubt you would stoop that low.¡± I almost patted the otter on the head, but thought better of it. ¡°It was a gift from a¡­fre.. uh¡­frenemy. That''s a good word. Frenemy. A certain wolverine you guys know, who has terrible taste in gifts.¡±


    This got me thinking. If the boar¡¯s ass was truly an offering from Logan, maybe I should at least pretend to eat it? I could think of no reason why it would just drop several kilos of pork on my doorstep, other than as a reciprocation for the food I left for it. What if the damn critter watched me from the bushes, and grew annoyed with my ingratitude? Having no better idea, I awkwardly dragged the piece of carrion to the nearest bonfire, covered it in fresh firewood, and did my best to cremate it. Hopefully, that was polite enough by wolverine standards.


    I checked on my pottery but it was still not dry enough, so I decided to take a nap.


    I was woken up by the most unexpected sound, a knock on the door.


    More than a knock, a forceful thump.


    Humans! I thought. At last I was found!


    ¡°Heey! Hello, oh my God¡­¡± I hobbled to the door bursting with hope. Heedless of my injury, I grabbed the handle and heaved the door open. I was greeted by several pairs of beady black eyes. The otter gang frolicked at my doorstep. The Alpha female held a rock in its paws, and surprised by the sudden lack of door to slam it against, thumped it against my leg.


    ¡°Oh! Stop that!¡± I yelled,and without thinking, slapped the rock out of its paws. The animal did not react to my aggression. It just looked down, disappointed, and nudged the rock towards me.


    With a grunt of pain I crouched, picked it up and threw it down the yard. The otters scampered after it, except for two, which ran in the opposite direction, into my house, and started to burrow through my bedding. I did not dare to shoo them away, but luckily their attention span was seconds short. They stole one of my blankets and slithered after their brethren.


    ¡°Well, welcome to my humble abode. I guess mi casa is apparently your casa now. But please, limit the destruction to a minimum, okay?¡±


    Watching them tumble and play around my yard, I laughed at myself. How easily my mind jumped to a conclusion that I was found by humans. Even when I logically knew that encountering another human being here was next to impossible, and these furry agents of chaos would likely be my only companions for the foreseeable future.


    And their companionship was non-negotiable. I thought my palisade and caltrop fields would stop them, but they just slithered through it like snakes. Just in case, I removed all of the low hanging snares, so they would not get caught, but they seemed too smart for it anyway.


    Meanwhile, the clay pots had dried. Many of them cracked already at that point, so I tossed those away, to be soaked and recycled. The rest, I gently lowered into the hot hearth of the forge, then covered in a blanket of wood shavings, and finally, with a layer of charcoal.


    I let the pile ignite properly on its own. There was some more of the popping sounds I learned to recognize as pottery exploding, but I filled the makeshift kiln with so many pots that I was not worried much. I only needed one or two to survive.


    Slowly, I started spinning the blower, turning the heat up. The otters kept rummaging through my camp, but gave the fires a wide berth, wrinkling their noses whenever a whiff of smoke blew their direction. Given their thieving nature and their rather enthusiastic handling of my stuff, I decided to store anything valuable inside the hut, behind closed doors which I planned to reinforce.


    Another interesting thing I noticed was that they kept away from the stump and the duplication pools. Whatever was going on in those two dish-sized event horizons, it freaked animals out even more than it freaked out me. Maybe it gave off a sound I could not hear, or radiation that they could detect but I did not?


    One way or another, these strange singularities were my only option for long term survival, so I long ago decided to make peace with the idea they might be emitting something deadly.Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.


    Meanwhile, the pots and the surrounding coals reached bright orange and glowed fiercely.


    I could no longer spin the blower, the pain caused by the effort broke through the numb haze brought by my painkiller concoction. With no other choice, I simply sealed the bottom hole of the kiln with some fresh clay and covered the top completely with charcoal, reasoning that letting the pottery fire and cool slowly over many hours, is going to give better results than trying to bring the heat up then let it drop suddenly when I ran out of stamina.


    I was about to go wash and have supper before retiring for the day, when I heard the sound of Hell itself coming.


    A loud, echoing, trumpeting roar, like an air-horn going berserk.


    The fuckin'' bird!


    I jumped to my feet, nearly tearing-up my freshly healed thigh muscle. I could not tell where the sound was coming from, and whether it was near or far, because the echo bounced around the woods. Limping back to my hut as fast as I could, I only stopped to throw a bundle of kindling into the nearest bonfire, to raise the flames, and to grab a spear.


    The otters bunched into a tight group, and, one by one, vaulted over my palisade.


    All, except one.


    The last otter, visibly smaller than the rest of them, got entangled into a snare I left hanging off the canopy of the trees right above the palisade edge. I did not remove that one, reasoning that the otters usually kept safely low to the ground. From what I could see, the otter was not even caught in the noose of the snare, just wrapped itself in loose tangling rope that it could easily get out of, if it was not panicking. Instead, It turned itself into a fifty kilos marionette dangling from the branches, futilely trying to regain its footing.


    Fucking fuck!


    The snares were the one thing I made that has proven more effective than anticipated, and as of yet, only caused problems.


    I could sit hidden safely in my fort, and ignore it, but I knew that sooner or later the poor thing would become bird-feed, strangle itself, or lose a limb like the wolverine did.


    So, gritting my teeth in pain and frustration, I went out to do the right thing.


    Luckily, this time I had a spear with an actual metal blade on it, so I could cut the otter loose without coming too close and risking it would pounce on me in angry confusion. The plan was to snip the rope in such a way that the creature would fall on the other side of the palisade.


    Only once I hobbled all the way to it, and climbed the wooden fence, did I realize that if I cut the otter from this side, it would likely drop on the sharp spikes below. I needed to go all the way around, use the butt of the spear to push the poor thing back onto the log fence, and then cut the ropes.


    I sighed, opened the gate, and crawled into the tight space between the fence and the first line of spikes. The other otters ran back and forth between their trapped friend and the river, squeaking and growling.


    I was busy sawing through the rope, when I heard a loud crash behind me, and the otter pack exploded in angry hisses.


    My muscles froze, but I made myself turn around regardless.


    The high-plumed terror bird stood at the edge of the woods, pinning me to the ground with its raptorial gaze.


    Up close and in broad daylight, it looked much bigger than I thought it would be. Its plume touched the canopy of the riverside trees. Without taking its eyes off me, it took several slow, methodical steps. When not running, it moved deliberately and silently like a hunting heron. A detached part of my mind, unconcerned with immediate survival, pointed out that the beast was beautiful. With its graceful movements and a crest of feathers that reminded me of a hussar¡¯s wings, a truly marvelous sight to behold.


    Good thing too, I thought, because it was likely the last thing I was about to see in my life.


    Suddenly, the bird tripped, breaking the illusion.


    I noticed its legs were entangled in the snares I spread all over the woods, but it only seemed to inconvenience it. The silk rope held, but the bird was powerful enough to just pull out the spikes and break the branches that the ropes were tied to, and dragged a mess of wood behind it like an anchor.


    Meanwhile, the otter pack transformed. Instead of a bunch of animals, they crawled into a twisting, slithering heap, with a dozen of undulating heads that bobbed back and forth, snarling. Separately, each otter was much smaller than the terror bird, but together, they formed a many-headed hydra twice their enemy¡¯s size. They were determined to defend their trapped youngling, and I hoped, me, by proximity.


    This was about to end in a bloodbath, and I was not sure our shaky alliance would win.


    Despite the fear, the growing pain in my leg, and the apparent hopelessness of the situation, I was overcome with rage. I was through with being afraid of these damn animals.


    I was a human for fuck¡¯s sake! Mine was the top spot on the food chain!


    It was bad enough that I was nearly killed by angry pork, I was not going to let an oversized chicken bully me too.


    It might have been twice my size, and five times my weight, but I was surely smarter.


    ¡°Hey!¡± I yelled at it, and started slamming my spear on the palisade. ¡°Yeah, you fucking turkey, look at me! ¡± I started backing off towards the gate. The bird followed me with its gaze, twisted towards me, and crouched. I could see the powerful muscles in its legs bunch up in anticipation.


    I reached the gate, and closed it behind me, but kept making noise to occupy its attention. The bird was so tall, it could easily see me over the fence. Meanwhile, the otter youngling managed to untangle itself and fall inside my yard as well.


    Confused, instead of trying to hide or join its pack, it ran towards me.


    The bird¡¯s giant eyes instantly refocused, and it leaped.


    In our prior encounters, I saw how fast the thing could run. But I forgot it was still a bird, and despite its undersized wings, it could become airborne just by uncoiling the enormous springs in its thigh muscles.


    It landed in the middle of the yard, right next to the young otter, and immediately attacked it with its hatchet-like beak.


    The only thing that saved my furry ally, was that the ropes the bird dragged behind it caught on the palisade, and leashed it to the logs, stopping its reach just short of its prey.


    I hefted up my spear, and putting all my rage and fear into it, threw it at the monster. I hit it in the head, right over its enormous eye, but I could very well try to throw it as a stone wall.


    Its skull was impervious to such feeble attacks, and the blade only nicked its skin.


    But I got its attention.


    It focused on me, and pulled forward. The silk ropes strummed like guitar strings, but held. However, the whole front portion of the palisade did not, it buckled and leaned inward.


    Step after giant step, the bird marched towards me.


    I fell back, crawling in panic towards shelter, but immediately understood it was pointless to try. Even dragging the weight, the bird was faster than me, and seeing it pull apart my fortifications with ease, I doubted the door of my hut would withstand its power. Desperate, I rolled between my pottery furnace, and the duplicators.


    The bird was about to hop over the kiln and catch me, but stopped and crowed in painful surprise.


    The young otter, which, despite being juvenile, was still the size of a Rottweiler, wrapped itself over the bird¡¯s leg and sunk its teeth into it. It made the monstrous rooster kick and dance in panic, trying to dislodge its attacker. Finally, it simply pecked down and caught the otter by the scruff of its neck making it squeak in pain. Then it flipped its beak side to side, savaging its prey, and tossed it against the fence with a loud thud. The otter fell to the ground, a bloody, mangled mess, and lay still.


    The bird shook its head a few more times, and stood momentarily undecided, whether to grab its kill and go, or finish me off.


    It decided on the latter.


    Panicking, I rolled over the stump, nearly getting my hand sucked into a duplicator. In the two seconds my fingers rested on its edge, it almost tore the skin off them in its exponentially growing pull of impossible gravity.


    Of course!


    If I only had a spear, I could use the duplicators as projectile launchers and hit the bird badly enough to hurt it. But the closest spear was ten paces behind the slowly approaching enemy.


    Desperate, I grabbed around looking for anything to load into my makeshift ballista.


    My hand rested on a dull iron bar, left from my blacksmithing experiments. It was supposed to be a chisel one day, but now it had to be a bullet. I loaded the bar into one of the duplicators, at a sharp angle, so that the launched copies would fly out near-horizontally and hit the bird right in the chest. The space-time singularity of the duplication pool sucked hungrily at the iron bar, and for a split second, I swear I saw it elongating within its event horizon, like a spaghetti noodle.


    I held it as hard as I could to the very last moment but underestimated the power of the pull. In seconds, it rose by such a factor that it tore the bar out of my hands, and launched two copies of it, with a whip-crack sound.


    For a moment I thought the iron bars must have somehow exploded, because the world in front of me was turned into an inferno of fire and smoke. Only then I realized that one of the bars must have smashed into the fiery kiln, and sent its red-hot contents as incendiary shrapnel all over the yard and the bird.


    And through the smoke, I saw that the other projectile had hit the bird right in the lower beak, shattering it, and tearing its neck open.


    The monster tried to trumpet again, but it just gurgled, as blood gushed out of its ruined throat.


    It stepped back from the burning coals, and tried to run back where it came from.


    As it did, the otter pack poured over the palisade and converged on it, all snarls and snapping mouths.


    Bleeding and dying, the feathery dinosaur was not about to go down without a fight. As the otters swarmed over it, it kicked and jumped, and shook them off.


    I saw one otter sent flying with a razor-taloned kick, trailing blood in the air. Another was stomped on. Yet another, what I thought was the Alpha, climbed up their enemy, and sunk its teeth into the bird¡¯s ruined throat, determined to tear it open completely.


    The terror bird went berserk, and started slamming its head against the ground, trying to peel the otter off, but it held firmly.


    I saw my chance.


    I could not try to use the duplicators to launch another projectile, because I could easily hit one of the otters.


    But I could go into the fray myself.


    Forgetting about the pain, I hobbled around the bird and found a spear. At that point, it was swarmed all over with assailants, who hung on it and tried to bear it to the ground.


    If I were an experienced hunter, or just a braver man, I would try to stab the beast in the heart, or slice at its neck.


    But I was a pragmatic coward with a vicious streak.


    I was not going anywhere near that ferocious beak.


    Instead, I grabbed the spear, and pushing off the ground as much as I could with just one functional leg, rammed the spearpoint point into the bird¡¯s asshole.


    It let out a tremendous gurgling shriek, and bolted forward, shaking off most of the otters. It tore out a section of the palisade it was tied to, and dragged it along, undercutting me with it. I grabbed the logs and rode on it, until the bird passed my hut and the makeshift sled hit the door, spilling me.


    With its final effort, the bird reached the opposite side of my camp, and made the fatal mistake of trying to leap over the palisade again.


    By jumping out, it landed not on grass, but on a killing field hedged with rows upon rows of sharp spikes.


    I grabbed another spear and limped after it, but the otters reached it first.


    By the time I got out of the back gate and circled my fortifications, they turned the fight into a one-sided carnage. The bird had impaled itself on the spikes, and could not rise. It still swept its head back and forth, trying to axe down its assailants with its ruined beak, but the nimble mustelids just weaved out of the way, and bit into its exposed neck, belly, and groin.


    As I watched, the Alpha otter, which miraculously survived the bird¡¯s crushing blows, gnawed a hole into its belly and started pulling out its innards. The shock put the bird into a fit, and  it started slamming its beak against the ground in dying agony.


    But the Alpha was not done.


    When the hole was torn wide enough, it tried to crawl inside the bird, and savaged the organs it could not pull out. As the blood gushed, the rest of the otters went into a frenzy, gnawing, tearing, and just destroying their foe in a berserk orgy of violence. Soaked in gore, they no longer looked cute, but like frenzied sharks or morays.


    I just dropped the spear and sat on the ground, horrified and mesmerized. These were not just predators dispatching their prey, they were a tribe of vengeful people brutally killing the monster that hurt their loved ones.


    When the bird stopped breathing, and their bloodlust died, some of the otters slithered back into my camp. I followed them. I heard the sorrowful mewling before I reached the bodies. Two of the otters died in that fight.


    The youngling that the bird savaged and the one that was stomped into the ground, were now both limp, bloody shapes, devoid of the life and energy of their brethren. The one that was kicked was in bad shape, curled over a hole in its flank, but its family was busy licking its wound clean. Meanwhile, the rest of the otters gathered around their dead, and wailed.


    It was a heart-wrenching cry, that somehow combined the sound of a howling dog, a bawling child, and a dying cat. They tried to nudge the dead awake with their noses, and lift their heads up. They sniffed and huffed at their mouths, as if looking for breath.


    And just as suddenly as the wailing started, it stopped. The otters somehow reached a decision that their packmates were dead, and could not be forced back to life.


    And then, without any savagery or brutality they displayed earlier, they tore their dead apart and ate them, in as many seconds as it took to describe it.


    I watched it all impassively, not daring to move, or disturb them. Once the deed was done, the otters left.


    Only the Alpha lingered.


    It sniffed me all over, as if looking for injuries. Satisfied with my condition, it just stood there, coiled around itself, its mug suddenly reminding me of a dog, except much, much wiser.


    ¡°I am so sorry,¡± I gestured towards the bloody smear where her youngling lay just seconds ago. ¡°And thank you. You saved my life, and I don¡¯t know why.¡±


    Knowing I was being foolish, I crouched, and reached out. The otter let me touch its blood-drenched head. Then it moved closer, and started rubbing the sides of its nose against my arm. I recognized it as a sign of affection the otters gave to each other, but also realized it was something else as well.


    It rubbed its musky scent all over me. I have been marked as their property, or perhaps, they adopted me.


    The Alpha left, slithering away like a ghost, and I sat there, drained of all my strength, but filled with strange new resolve.


    I fought a monster, and I won.


    But most importantly, I found friends.

 DAY…WELL, THIRD MONTH? KENTUCKY FRIED TERRORBIRD. THE CACKLE.

    I spent the day after the fight in bed, nursing my injured leg. All that prancing around and stabbing terrorbirds in the ass, just tore my freshly healed muscle open again. The swelling in my groin grew larger, and in desperation I decided to pierce it, to release some of the pressure.


    It turned out to be a good call. The bruise spurted out dark, sickly looking blood. I cauterized the puncture with a red hot iron bar. The pain almost made me faint, but I felt much better afterwards.


    Few hours later it receded to the point when I decided I no longer needed my primitive painkillers. Even though they helped keep me functional, I worried continued use would destroy my liver. While I was convalescing, the pack of otters dismantled the terrorbird. Amusingly, they ate all the guts and soft tissue but left the actual meat mostly untouched.


    So my wish came true, I could roast and eat a turkey leg bigger than I was, and damn sure I was going to do it.


    It took me an hour on the second day to just chop it off, and then another hour to drag it all the way to my camp. There was no way to suspend it over the fire, so I just piled hot coals and firewood over it, and half-roasted, half-cremated it.


    I would lie if I said it was delicious. The meat was dark, stringy and gamey, but to me, it tasted like victory.


    Not satisfied with humiliating the bird enough, I chopped off its beak and mounted it above the door frame of my house.


    ¡°That¡¯ll teach ya, you damned Roadrunner. Should''ve not messed with me and my crew. But you did, and you paid the price, and you beeped your last Beep-Beep.¡±


    Despite my confident words, I felt uneasy. The bird was just a half of a couple. Its female mate was even larger and more powerful. What if the wife comes looking for her husband? We won that battle by a nick of luck. Might not be so lucky the next time.


    I needed to upgrade my defenses. The first thing, however, was making myself mobile again. I spent a while whittling a crutch out of a pronged branch. It allowed me to hobble much faster than before, keeping the weight off my leg.


    Once that was done, I multiplied the spears until I had a heap taller than I was. Then I tied one to each caltrop around my camp, and one every five paces around the palisade. I also cut off all the snares left on ground level, and added more of them about two meters off the ground.


    My fortifications looked good enough before, but now they were fearsome.


    If a terror bird tried to cross that field of blades, it would turn itself into mincemeat before it reached me. Just to be sure my allies would not run afoul of any sharp points, I cut a small door in the riverside part of the fence, to let them in and out. It turned out though, that they were now reluctant to visit my yard, and when they did come, they avoided the spot where their brethren died. Their behavior reminded me, again and again, that they were not just clever animals, but sapient people, smarter than dolphins, elephants, even possibly possibly great apes.


    Fighting in battle together, made them accept me into their pack, as an honorary member... or perhaps a pet. Whenever I was outside the palisade, especially anywhere close to the river, they would slither close and rub the sides of their mugs against me, spreading saliva and musk all over my pants. After a while, I was positively saturated with the eau de otter, the unsubtle smell that combined the fine odors of a wet dog, greasy hair and a well-used litterbox, with just a hint of rotten fish.


    Of course by the third month in this wilderness my natural scent was that of stale sweat, wood smoke, and rancid tallow, so who was I to complain?


    It took me a few days to remember that the remains of the destroyed kiln likely had some pottery in them.  I combed through the mess, and to my disappointment, found only a few intact pots. Of all my experiments, only the simplest, vaguely pear-shaped pots survived. All the bowls, plates, bottles, and pitchers I tried to make cracked during firing, and what did not explode on its own was destroyed by my artillery shot, or trampled to bits by a rampaging bird.


    But hey, beggars, choosers, the former can¡¯t be the latter? The pots I got were big enough to hold about a liter of water, and seemed decently waterproof. I congratulated myself by making some giant-chicken soup, seasoned with dandelion leaves. It tasted just as bad as could be imagined. So for the second course, I decided to be imaginative. I ground some pine seeds and hazelnuts into flour, added some found ground-bird eggs, battered some terrorbird breast strips in it, and deep fried them in the bird¡¯s own lard. The effects were¡­Interesting. Tangy and flavourful would be good adjectives as well. Lots of ... character.


    ¡°Suck on that, Colonel Sanders!¡± I mumbled, gnawing through the stringy, half-burnt mess. Since I doubted bird meat would dry and preserve well, I decided to just gorge myself on it while it lasted, tastebuds be damned. The otters showed no interest in the fried strips, which was telling, since they were perfectly fine eating fish heads, raw intestines and tanned leather.


    Obviously, their crude palates could not properly appreciate fine cuisine.


    If I only had a pinch of salt, I could make a meal that would be half-decent. Or maybe even two-thirds decent. But to have salt, I would need to sail downriver until I reached a sea, which could be anywhere between a few, to a few hundred kilometers away. I was not ready to make such a trip yet.


    But this did not mean I was not ready for a shorter voyage. I knew I could try to finally go across the river, or maybe even paddle a few klicks upstream, to see what was there. Who knows, maybe there was a whole village just beyond the bend, and I never knew it?


    I knew that if I wanted to sail to where the river ended and back, I would need a proper boat, and for that, I would need proper tools, and for that I would have to rebuild the forge¡­ but I could conceivably make a crude raft and a paddle with what I  already had at hand.


    With that in mind, I hobbled out of my fort, and set to work. I did not bother with cutting down logs for my raft. That would be too much work, especially without a proper axe. Instead, I multiplied one long ash pole until I had a huge pile, and then tied them together with rope. As a result, I achieved a rickety wooden platform, about three meters long and a meter wide.


    I had no idea how to build a proper raft, or how to steer it, or rather, I had a collection of half-remembered ideas about boat construction.


    Therefore, with no other option but to test it experimentally, I decided to try all of them at once.


    I added a removable keel that could be slid in the middle between the poles. I added a flat rudder made of stiff leather, that I had to protect from the destructive playfulness of my otter friends. After some deliberation, I added a mast with a crossbar boom, and tied a sail made of my biggest blankets to it. It billowed nicely in the wind, but I had no idea if it would propel my craft. Just to be extra sure, I made two paddles and a long, thin sapling that could be used like a gondolier¡¯s pole, so I could push off the river¡¯s bottom if all else failed.


    Prudently, I also tied a bag of rocks to a long rope, making a crude but serviceable anchor. Duplicated it as well, just in case excessive anchorage was needed.


    As a final touch, I added a small canvas tent, to be able to sleep on the raft if I failed to get back home before sundown. I filled the tent with supplies, pots of boiled water, a bag of taffy bars, and a few spears for protection.


    Satisfied with the two days of hard work bearing fruit, I stood and gazed upon my magnificent watercraft, as it sat in the middle of the clearing in its full glory.


    Wait...


    Something was not right.


    And then, when realization hit me, I laughed.


    And then cried a little.


    And then laughed again.


    Defeated, I went back home, ate a dozen taffy bars, and fell asleep.


    The next two days consisted of me digging through the soil with my tiny trench tool, cursing the raft, cursing at myself, and occasionally sulking. Finally, I managed to carve a path between the raft and the river. After putting makeshift sleds under the raft, and making a system of rope winches winded around the riverside trees, I slowly dragged it to the water, where it promptly got stuck in the reeds.


    There might have been some more cursing involved, and another day of work of clearing the reeds away, mostly by pulling them out of the muck by hand. The otters rejoiced, because my work flushed all the wriggling creatures out, and they could have a feast. I, on the other hand, lost my appetite completely after digging through silt filled with nightmarish-looking worms, crustaceans and amphibians that would feel right at home in a Lovecraftian tale. I likely became this world¡¯s expert on leeches, because by nightfall I counted over a dozen different species, half of whom had maws lined with vicious hooks, which were a delight to pry off my calves.


    The otters considered them a delicacy though.


    And on the third day, I dragged my raft to the end of the fallen pine, and climbed on it. In anticipation of this occasion, I even made a tiny pirate flag to put on my mast.


    After all, with my crutch, lamed leg, haphazardly cut facial hair, and an unruly crew, I was the closest thing this world had to a pirate captain.


    Of course, the moment I climbed onto the raft, about half of the otter pack decided to do likewise, and promptly capsized it. It took another hour, some creative work with makeshift rope winches and a lot of cursing to flip it back up. I had to replace the broken boom and the sail that was now soaked in river mud and silt. All my supplies were gone, floating down the river without me.


    When I repaired and restocked my craft, it was already long past midday, and I needed to delay my trip until the next morning.


    Luckily, the night was uneventful. The pack decided that the raft was boring without me on it, and did not try to board it again. In the morning I ate a hearty meal and restocked my fires so that they would burn long into the night, in case I needed a guiding light to reach back to my camp. To be extra sure, I placed a giant tallow candle at the very end of the pier, so that its light would shine across the river.


    Once the preparations were done, I hoisted up the sail and unmoored from the pier.


    In seconds I learned that my understanding of sailing was very faulty.


    For one, what I took for a gentle breeze, that barely wrinkled the surface of the river, was actually a substantial wind that instantly yanked the raft forward.


    Second mistake, which in retrospect should be obvious, was setting the sail at a right angle to the raft, and letting the wind hit it head-on. The sail instantly billowed, and the raft buckled under me, the bow nearly diving underwater. There was no time to angle the boom, so I jumped to the aft instead and leaned on the rudder. With its nose suddenly up, the raft took forward like an oversized windsurfing board. It immediately gained substantial speed despite going against the current. I realized that the sail was far too big for my dinky little craft, and if I didn''t pull it down, I was likely going to capsize it again.


    The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.But the truth was, I had too much fun to care. I whooped and hollered like a schoolboy, and steered towards the middle of the river where the wind was even stronger. The otters started a mad chase, flanking me on both sides like a pod of dolphins escorting a ship. Any plans of getting across the river towards the faraway beach and the meadows were ruined because in my excitement, I overshot my mark by a wide margin.


    The wind kept pushing me further and further upstream. Soon, I passed the peat-covered marshes on my left. I saw no sign of the terrorbird female. I was not sure if the monster could jump into the river and swim after me, and even if it did, it could not have possibly chased me down, but still, I did not want to test that.


    I noticed something else as well. As I came closer to the bend of the river, my pack of otters started to fall back. Another pack burst out of bamboo-like growth and crossed our path. The otters bobbed their heads out of the water and eyed each other carefully. There was no fight, no territorial posturing, just a silent agreement between the two aquatic tribes.


    The new tribe did not follow me, only gave me the once over and dove under the surface. I was glad they did. I could not be certain they would be as accepting as, what I came to think about as, my tribe. But even that worry soon became somewhat irrelevant, because my raft whipped past them too.


    The river grew narrower with the shallow shores overgrown with bamboo. A giant sandy hill loomed in the distance, surrounded by small conifers. I thought it would make a great observation spot to take stock of the world around me, but there was no way to come to shore by it, with the growth blocking the path.


    I was about to maneuver the raft towards the opposite shore when I heard a blood-curdling scream.


    A human scream.


    To be more precise, it sounded like the terrified and enraged screams of several women.


    It was more of a battle cry, than a cry for help.


    I sprung to action and grabbed my spear, nearly flipping my raft over.


    And then I realized I did not know where the sound came from. The scream was loud and clear, but it simply echoed over the water from no obvious direction. I could only assume it came from someplace around the sandy hill because it was the most obvious place for humans to try to reach. But before I managed to pull down the sail and turn towards it, I was easily a kilometer upstream from the source of the screaming. Determined, I took out the oars and paddled right into the bamboo growth ramming it at full speed. I almost got through to the dry land. I hobbled off the raft, crutch in one hand and the spear in another. There were no more screams, just the usual sounds of birds tweeting in the treetops and the soft murmur of the wind in the reeds.


    Was that all in my imagination? Had I gone insane from loneliness? No, that was not a productive line of thinking. I had to check it because otherwise, the doubts would have eaten my mind. Maybe that was just a fox screaming, or a trill of some particularly nasty-sounding birds¡­


    But¡­what if they were not? What if someone really was in danger? What if I was not alone in this green hellhole?


    As I pushed forward, I noticed the woods on this side of the river were completely different from mine. The ground was covered in dry grass, with the only trees being giant, twisted yews and occasional junipers. I considered trying to climb the hill for a better view, but it was far too steep for it to be realistic with my injured leg.


    Instead, I turned right towards the meadow.


    I was almost out of the woods when I heard a hellish sound that made the terrorbird call sound like a lullaby in comparison.


    It was a fiendish, whining laughter, which made my blood freeze, because I knew exactly what kind of animal sounded like this.


    Hyenas.


    An animal species that was already absolutely horrific and deadly in my world, and I dreaded to imagine what form it took here.


    I was paralyzed with indecision.


    Going forward was the only way to find fellow humans.


    But it was also a route to almost certain death.


    The hyenas decided for me. I heard a staccato laugh come from the juniper bushes to my left and a similar response sounded in front of me. I was not an expert on wild animals, but as luck would have it, hyenas always fascinated me and I watched many documentaries about them. They were not stupid and cowardly scavengers like cartoons would have us believe, but smart, tactical predators. I knew that if I heard their maniacal cackle in front of me, then this was just a distraction so I would''ve failed to notice the ones sneaking behind me.


    I turned around as fast as I could, and half-ran towards the raft. Once I reached it, the giggling ceased but I was not fooled. They were not gone, but positioning to strike. I considered jumping into the river and trying to swim away, but I was not sure I could outswim a wild animal, with one leg barely functioning. Instead, I braced against the raft. Step after step, I managed to push it almost back into open water.


    There was no warning.


    No splash, no growling.


    But after two months of living in this wilderness, after my encounters with the wolverine, the terrorbird, and the wild pig, my subconscious ape instincts learned to react to danger without bothering with conscious thought.


    I twisted off the path of the attack, and whipped the pouncing hyena in the head with my crutch, as hard as I could. The thick ashwood branch snapped in half, but the beast was only momentarily stunned. I did not give it time to recover, and instantly stabbed it in the neck with the spear. Instead of backing off, it lunged at me with such force that it pushed me onto the raft and the raft onto the river.


    The raft spun into the current, forcing me to drop the spear embedded in my enemy and try to reach for another. I saw several more hyenas burst through the thickets and splash into the water. True to my expectations, they were much bigger than what I knew their species to be in my world. The one I speared must have been a juvenile because it was barely the size of a German Shepherd. The other ones of its pack were larger, hunched over, with powerful musculature and oversized trap-like jaws.


    I had a surreal thought that this was how It would look like to be pursued by werewolves.


    Even though the raft started to drift downriver, they steadily gained on it, until one reached the aft and lunged at it. Unlike the otters, however, it was a poor climber and just slid off, yelping in frustration. I did not give it a chance to try again, and walloped it over the head with the oar.


    On the third hit, it managed to snap its jaws on the oar¡¯s tip, and bit through it like through a wet biscuit.


    ¡°Bite on that, fucker!¡± I yelled and stabbed it with a spear awkwardly held  in my left hand. The blade sunk into the creature¡¯s shoulder, and it started to trash in pain and panic. Meanwhile, three other hyenas reached closer to my raft, and were seconds from climbing on it. I could not outrun them going downriver like that. I had to weaponize my previous sailing mistake.


    I lunged for the boom and turned it all the way, then hoisted my unwisely oversized sail. For a horrifying second nothing happened, because the forces of the wind and current equalized, making the raft immobile.


    And then it accelerated backward, plowing water with the now-useless rudder.


    The hyenas had enough smarts to try to swim out of its way but were not quite fast enough. They didn¡¯t, or perhaps couldn¡¯t, dive down either, so the several hundred kilos of wooden grating ran them over at an appreciable downwind knot.


    Thump! Scree! Thump! Screeee! Thump!


    I heard the cross-beams hit their heads, drag over them, and tumble them under. I had to scramble to the rudder and work it in reverse before the raft ran itself back into the reeds. Fumbling with it, and the rope tied to the boom, I managed to maneuver the raft towards the middle of the river, where I pulled the sail down, thus letting the current push me again.


    Of the hyenas that pursued me, two were bobbing limply on the surface, either severely injured by my impromptu hit-and-run, or from stab wounds. The rest dogged it towards the shore. I soon realized why they quit so easily. I saw the telltale triangular waves pursuing them. The injured hyenas suddenly vanished, pulled under the surface. The otters that grabbed them were not my pack, but all the same, they were nature¡¯s own wetsuit commandos, unmatched in their ferocity in aquatic combat. I heard some pained laughter and yelps from the bushes, that almost instantly ended with a splash, then silence. One of the surviving hyenas must have not been fast enough to reach dry land before they grabbed it.


    Good fucking riddance. I always considered myself environmentally conscious, but the encounters with local predators made me dream of nothing more than to make them all extinct. If it took luring them towards the river, where the otters could overpower them, so be it.


    As I mused, the current took me around the hill, and towards the spot where the meadows reached the water, forming a natural beach. I steered towards it and worked my remaining oar hard to not overshoot.


    This time, rather than ram the raft into the shore, I dropped the anchor a few meters away and scanned the land before swimming to it. My leg hurt fiercely, but I reasoned I could swim back faster and moor off, than push a beached raft back onto open water, if I had to escape quickly.


    I sneaked onto the meadow, spear in hand, and the heart beating in my throat.


    Not thirty steps from the beach, I saw an unmistakable proof that humans were there¡­ but I really wish I did not.


    It was a scene of carnage.


    Surrounded by burnt-out bonfires, a hole has been dug in the ground, patches of grass and soil torn haphazardly. And in the middle of it, was a pool of gore, torn meat and offal, that once must have been a person. I tried to lie to myself that it maybe it was an animal, until I approached closer and saw an unmistakably human finger stuck in the mud, still attached to a strip of flesh, pointing accusatorily at a dead hyena that lay in the bushes a few paces away.


    Whoever died here was a human.


    A human who died fighting, and yet, ended up torn to chowder anyway.


    Then, foregoing all caution, I fell on my knees and retched. And I cried. If the hyenas were anywhere nearby, they could have easily ambushed me. But at that point, I did not care. I had one chance to find and save another human being, and I missed it by minutes, only because I was careless with the raft!


    My feelings changed instantly though, when I wiped my tears away and truly saw the ground I was staring at.


    There were human footprints impressed in it, going towards the beach downriver from me. I was too shocked by the bloody scene to notice it before.


    I needed no tracking skills to read these. Even to my untrained eye it was obvious. These were prints of at least two people desperately running for the river, with predators in pursuit.


    But where were they? If they just jumped into the water and tried to swim away, the hyenas would have caught them quickly and dragged them back to land. But that was not the case, obviously, as there were no more bodies. I stared at the distance downriver and could not see any swimmers, or any signs of bloody struggle. I had a horrific thought that maybe these people were drowned and killed by otters, along with their pursuers, but I dismissed that idea quickly. I had plenty of evidence that the otters were friendly, or at least definitely not man-eaters.


    There was only one thing I could do. Slowly sail down the river, looking for survivors.


    I was about to lift the anchor when the thin rope in my hands gave me an evil idea. I took some of the spare rope and quickly turned it into several constrictor snares. Stomach heaving with revulsion, I ran back to the splash of gore in the middle of the meadow. I placed the spare anchor atop of the corpse, and spread the snares around, tying them to it.


    I could not save that human, or even give them a burial, but sure as fuck I could avenge them. Let the damned hyenas come back for a meal and strangle themselves.


    ¡°Bon Appetit you evil sons of bitches.¡±

 DAY: WHO THE HELL KNOWS. WORDS OF THE PROPHET.

    ¡°Helloooo!!¡± I yelled at the top of my lungs, scaring some reed warblers. ¡°Anybody here?!¡±


    I have been paddling downstream, along the shore, stopping at any sign of possible human presence. But if the people I have been chasing were really here, and if they even went that way instead of up the river, they must have gone far enough to disappear in the afternoon mists.


    Or, I thought grimly, they just drowned. The river might have been sluggish, but it was deep, and broad and the shores were overgrown to the point where it would be next to impossible to get back on land.


    The moment I had that thought, I saw a corpse in the distance, bobbing on the waves. I sped up, paddling like mad in its direction, and barely managed to drop, anchor, and stop before I passed it.


    To my relief, it was not a human body, but a dead hyena. I examined it and frowned. This one was likely drowned, as it had no wounds from my spear, or otter teeth, or from being run over with my raft. It could not be one of my kills, which led to one possibility.


    The humans whom I was trying to find were not done fighting back!


    I was at a loss for what to do. There was no sign of them getting to shore anywhere. Nor were they visible on the water, as far as I could see. If they were swimming, I should have caught up to them long ago, my raft being much faster. If they landed somehow, and I sailed past them, they would be again at the mercy of the hyenas or another local nasty. If they went towards the river delta, they would disappear into the labyrinth of channels, small islands, and shrub-covered marshes stretching toward the horizon, and it would be impossible for me to find them, or for them to find me.


    I kept shouting but got no response from the shore. At least no human response, but plenty of bird cries of various pitches, and a loud, uncomfortably leonine moan that I was sure emerged from the throat of something I would not like to encounter.


    That made my choice for me. I decided to sail to the throat of the funnel where the river spread, and search for them there. As much as it pained me to admit it, I was not willing to risk my life going any further. My tiny craft with a makeshift sail and one functional paddle would not be good enough to get back out of that watery maze, against the twisting currents. Even now, my only hope was that the wind would not change and allow me to return to my camp. If the wind was against me, and obviously paddling upstream was not a realistic option, I would have to walk all the way back, and in this land of monsters this was not a survivable option.


    It was almost sunrise when I finally gave up on my search. I sailed into the funnel as far as I dared, meandering around small islands and clumps of half-submerged willows that made their best impression of mangroves. I was certain that the river must be falling into a sea. In the distance, I saw it spread into a wide bay, flanked by white, rocky cliffs.


    At last, I knew that this Earth was not a copy of mine. In my world, the Baltic Sea was much further away, and certainly not banked with stony cliffs. In this world, it looked more as if some unseen force slammed the Cliffs of Dover into the mouth of the Dnieper River leaving only a gap a few kilometers wide, and the water, unable to pass into the sea easily enough, spread sideways forming all kinds of marshland known to science. The right-side bank, where I landed, had a slightly higher elevation, so it was covered in thick woodland. The left-side bank, being lower, looked like a patchwork of swamps, broken by the heads of incongruously dry and sandy hills, grassy meadows, and further towards the bay, outcrops of gray and white rock.


    The sight reminded me again what wild in the word wilderness stands for. I spent my young years camping in local woods, but these were carefully designed polite affairs with nature, not that different from inner city parks. This world was just chaos, an explosion of geography and rapacious green growth that obscured the horizon.


    In other words, it was a wild mess where one could easily hide a battleship, let alone a couple of human swimmers or trekkers. I could not possibly find them, so I had to help them find me.


    I considered my options. How should I make my presence known? Shouting did not seem to work. I haven''t heard anyone respond before my throat got too sore to utter more than a croak. Instead, I started banging the oar against the raft to make some noise. The problem was, however, that the sound carried all too well over the water and simply became a directionless echo. It would let them know  I existed but not to where I was.


    The sun was setting down, bathing the river in orange glow.


    That gave me an idea. If I started a big fire that could, hopefully, burn through the night, it would be visible from many kilometers away, being the only bright spot. And during the day, the rising smoke would be an obvious sign of human presence. Meandering around the delta, I found two islands that suited my purpose perfectly. One was a sandy patch covered in dune grass. Another, a few hundred paces away, was as big as a mall parking lot, and covered in dry, sickly-looking willows. Willows that I knew from experience made perfect kindling.


    First of all, I unloaded my raft, clearing it of everything except for the oar and one spear. I rammed the gondolier¡¯s pole into the sand, and tied the tent tarp to it, making a  giant white flag that started to billow in the wind. The rest of my supplies, the food, the drinkable water , pine pitch torches and candles, spare spears and bundles of rope, I piled underneath it. Once that was done, I took a chunk of pitch to use like a crayon and set to write a message on the flag.


    I was suddenly stumped not knowing what to write. All those days I was mulling in my head what to say to the first human being I would see but now I had no idea. Finally I wrote,


    YOU ARE NOT ALONE. HELP IS CLOSE. GO UP THE RIVER. LOOK FOR THE LIGHT.


    After some pause, I added, TRUST THE OTTERS THEY ARE FRIENDLY. Then I went to the other nearby island and made sure my guiding light would be as visible as possible.


    I set the whole damn thing on fire.


    As expected, the dry willows burst into flames like fireworks. It took only a few minutes with the firebow and a few gentle blows on the smoldering kindling and the laws of thermodynamics did the rest. For once, I could see how fast a wildfire spreads. It consumed the entire Island in less than an hour, sending flames three stories high, and creating a column of smoke that could be seen from kilometers away.


    And then I waited. And waited. And waited some more. I shouted and banged the oar against the raft. I even made a reed whistle to make a shrill noise that would carry further. And when the morning came, I took the raft and circled the area, keeping the smoldering island in sight.


    Nobody came. Nobody shouted for help or made any noise at all.


    Well, the ducks did.


    The delta was chock-full of them, as well as countless species of waterfowl and long-beaked wading birds I could not name. Some looked vaguely familiar, some looked as if Mother Nature designed them while drunk. All made annoying clamor, which drowned my shouts in background noise.


    ¡°Shut up!¡± I screamed hoarsely at the noisy sky. ¡°Im on a rescue mission, you damn pests!¡±


    As could be expected, they kept their infernal quacking, and possibly even raised the pitch to mock me.


    I spent the rest of the day circling the burning island, making noise, and occasionally trying to spear fish for dinner. My hunting spear was useless for that, with its broad-leafed blade, so I made a makeshift trident out of a willow branch. I wished I thought of taking my fishing rod! trying to stab a fish lurking in murky water was about as easy as hitting a dart bullseye in a dark room. The few times I did catch something, I wish I missed.


    The fish of the delta were not the politely normal species I saw upriver, but weird prehistoric abominations who seemed undecided what species of fish they were supposed to be, and if they really wanted to be fish in the first place. At least one looked like I caught it halfway evolving into a newt. Another two were catfish, but only on technicality, because they were covered in slimy, spiky, and warty armor that made me drop them back into the water without even trying to touch them, as they would undoubtedly be poisonous, venomous, and icky all over. Finally I caught a big eel, or perhaps a sweetwater moray, if such things existed. It was almost normal looking, if not for a double row of teeth that made it look like a baby xenomorph. I was worried it could be poisonous as well, but decided to risk it. It was surprisingly delicious.


    In the meantime, the big island burned to the ground, and now only a thin strip of smoke trailed from it. I knew It would soon no longer be a visible mark, except for someone who was already sailing by.


    I made a decision then. I would move towards the bay, hopping from one island to another, and setting fires on them. if the survivors were further downstream, they would see me eventually. If not, I would reach the cliffs, climb on top of them, and set another fire on an elevated ground where  it would be even more visible. If even that failed, I would paddle back along the path of burned-down islands, and along the opposite shore until I reached the willow-overgrown bend where I fought the pig.


    If I still haven¡¯t found anyone¡­ then they were either dead, or as good as dead.


    I went back to the supplies cache to take two of the sweetwater jars. I reasoned that the survivors could do without them, but I was going right into a saltwater bay where drinking water would be scarce.


    Even though the sun was setting, I decided to move on. With every hour I dawdled, the chances to find the others became lower and lower. If indeed they were still alive, or, in fact, if they existed at all. After all, the screams and the human footprints I supposedly found, could have been just hallucinations brought by my desperate imagination and loneliness.


    I almost slapped myself for thinking that . Hammer, nail, hammer, nail, focus on the problems you can solve. That was the mantra. Doubting my sanity would not solve anything. Worst case scenario, I would end up not finding anyone but at least I would explore the seaside, where I could expect to find signs of civilization. And even if that search proved to be fruitless, then at the very least I''ll get some salt that I desperately needed. And not just for food preservation. I did not know how badly a man can crave salt, until I had to live two months without it. I would gladly wrestle Logan the Wolverine for a salty cracker.


    Nightfall caught me about halfway towards the mouth of the bay flanked on both sides by craggy cliff walls. I left a string of burning islands behind me, they shone in the dark distance like a constellation of dim stars. The campfire I set on the final island was modest in comparison, only big enough to discourage mosquitoes, roast some crayfish for supper and warm my weary bones. The dark waters of the bay before me looked even less inviting than the labyrinthine maze of the river delta. In the faint moonlight, I could see the waves and splashes made by things lurking under the surface. Big things. And not the otters I was accustomed to. I saw silhouettes of triangular fins and crescent shaped tails. At least in one case, the distance between the fin and the tail was longer than my raft. Those could have been sharks, or maybe just harmless sturgeons, but I was not willing to sail up there into the night to check it.


    I had a rather rude and unpleasant awakening. I did not consider that being this close to the sea, the islands at the entry to the bay would be susceptible to tides. It was barely past sunrise when my island was submerged about a fingerwidth into water, which smothered my fire and soaked me head to heels.


    Worse still, the tide, together with the wind still blowing steadily inland, meant I had a hard time paddling further into the bay. The river current that pushed me forward  on the previous day was too sluggish to overcome the tide, and at best, the two forces stalemated, leaving me adrift. I managed to hop a few islands forward, and ran out of strength. My muscles were killing me, and I still saw no sign of people.


    I decided I needed to paddle to the shore instead. If the survivors went with the current this far, they surely did the same, rather than brave swimming into the open bay. Even putting aside the mysterious giant fish lurking in it, this would be a dangerous thing to do, even for an experienced swimmer. Further into the bay, I could see waves rolling, and if I could see them from such a distance, then up-close they would be powerful enough to capsize my dinky little raft, not to mention drown me.


    Getting to dry land was easier said than done though. The entire left, well, I suppose South-Western shore of the river was not really land, as much as it was the river simply turning into overgrown marshland that looked less sailable as I went westward, until it simply turned into an impassable, mosquito-ridden growth. I could neither paddle through it, or walk through it. At least I knew the survivors could not possibly have landed here, because they would likely still be stuck in the muck, up to the waist in silty water and rotten detritus.


    Finally, after a few hours, I managed to paddle all the way towards the western cliff. Or maybe a cliff was not the right word here, I was never good with geography. It was as if there was a small mountain range stuck between the sea and the marshlands, with the bay being the only opening for the river to fall into.


    I managed to push the raft onto a grassy shore, and moor it to a rock outcropping. Up close, the rocks made even less sense, to my limited understanding of natural processes. They were slate, though very light gray, and instead of being stacked in horizontal layers, they stuck out of the ground at an odd angle. It looked a bit as if some giants built a wall to separate the sea and the land, and the wall collapsed inwards onto the marshes. The resulting mess looked eerily like collapsed human infrastructure, with countless nooks and caves, and weirdly angular stairways going in random directions. Even a few minutes into my explorations, I saw several natural shelters that would make for a better place to live in than my painstakingly built hut. Yet, I knew I was not going to move here, so far away from my duplicators.


    Regardless, I decided to pack a few nearly rectangular sheets of slate onto my raft. These, when duplicated, would make better building material than any bricks I could make.


    The next challenge I faced was to actually climb up the rocky slope. The spilled slate looked deceptively like easily climbable starways, but that was an illusion. The steps were often more than a meter tall, at odd angles, and most of them lead to nowhere in particular. Plus, of course, I was still lame. My leg did not hurt as much, but the thigh muscle was weak and the hip joint wobbly, giving me a drunk¡¯s gait even on flat surfaces.


    In the end, I devised a least dignified, but safe and relatively painless way to go up. Instead of relying on my bad leg, I used the spear to push myself up, then scutted my ass onto the next rock.


    As usual, I underestimated the difficulty of the task, and had to take several breaks so that the burning rage in my muscles would subside. But I did manage to reach the top before sunrise. Only looking down from it I realized that what looked like a mountain from below, must have been not twice as tall as the apartment building I used to live in. I could easily see my raft below.


    Carefully, I approached the opposite end of the rocky hill. On its sea-facing side, it ended with an abrupt cliff, where the slate, undercut but the waves, simply fell off into the water. I backed off from the edge. The vertical spalls in the rock made it look like it could crack and fall down at any minute, adding to the rock debris below the waves.


    The sight over the bay-side was a little bit less terrifying. The falling rocks had formed a breakwater along the bottom of the cliff, that in theory could be used to pass the mouth of the bay on foot, and go around the cliff if one so desired.


    On closer inspection however, the rocky beach was littered with creatures I haven¡¯t seen before. They looked as if someone crossed a penguin with a cormorant, slender flightless birds with long beaks, and flippers for wings. Only then I realized that their size, compared to the apparent size of my raft as seen from this height, meant that even the smallest of them were my height.The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    I had enough adventures with giant birds for a lifetime, so I was not keen on getting anywhere close to those penguins. My conviction was further reinforced, when I saw a giant dark shape lurking in the water near them. It swam past lazily, making them burst out of the water and hide on the jutting rocks. Whatever creature could easily scare the crap out of two meters tall penguins with swords for beaks, was definitely scary enough for me to forgo any ideas of sea voyages for a time. I would need a bigger boat first.


    The cliff that flanked the river delta on the opposite end was close enough that I could make out that it had a much wider and longer breakwater belt around it, and thus, a bigger beach. Things swarmed all over it. I could not see it clearly, but these were not vertical animals like the penguins, but giant gray and brown shapes that seemed to crawl in and out of the water. Seals maybe?


    Still, no humans. I turned towards the land, and scanned the horizon for anything that could suggest they landed somewhere in the marshes, or along the slope.


    Nothing. No moving figures on land, no swimmers braving the waves, no signs of smoke, not that I expected any. I did not lose hope yet, it was simply time for the next part of my plan. Fire.


    Of course, I quickly realized, there was no firewood on top of a seaside cliff. All the available driftwood was about a hundred meters below me, among the penguins. But surprisingly, the rocks did have a source of fuel hidden between the cracks. Lots, and lots of abandoned bird¡¯s nests, that seemed to be woven out of grass and caked with dried guano.


    I decided not to start a fire right away, until I collected enough of the icky, uh¡­fuel to last the entire night. I was, after all, not going to prance around a treacherous rock in the dark, looking for more bird shit cakes.


    Right before sundown, I had a heap of the vile stuff that reeked like manure and rancid fish oil. Despite its smell though, it was perfect for my purpose, being easily flammable. I did not have to work with the bow drill and tinder much, because even the smallest ember would find the dry grass and guano appetizing and burst into a flame.


    I built a small bonfire right at the bay-side edge. The nests burnt with the weird blue and yellow flame, not unlike driftwood, and sent a streak of oily smoke upwards. The fire did not have to be big, as it would be easily visible from all directions and at great distances, especially after dark.


    And then¡­ nothing. I waited, and waited, and waited some more. I used the rest of the waning daylight to gather more nests for the fire. I shouted, I banged rocks together, and I sounded the shrill reed whistle I made earlier. Not that I thought sound would carry better than the light, but I simply had no better idea what to do. Bored, I decided to mess with the penguins by tossing pebbles at them from high up. I startled them, and they made godawful noise, that sounded like neither penguins or cormorants they resembled, but angry swans.


    Having purged all my anger against giant birds out of the system, left with nothing else to do, which was a state I hated. Whenever my hands were idle, my mind would start to wonder. It has been a long while since I heard the scream. Even if these people managed to escape the clutches of the hyenas and haven''t drowned, they still could have died. This land was full of monsters and so was the river. Ironically the seaside, which I hoped could harbor some form of civilization, was full of predators and surrounded by treacherous swamps of stillwater, inedible plants and creepy, possibly venomous creatures. I only survived in this world because I happened to appear in this reality right next to a cornucopia of infinite food and supplies. I would have certainly died otherwise if not to predators then simply due to food poisoning, exposure and inevitable injuries. Anyone who didn''t have duplicators on hand would have a lifespan measured in days. Of course, I could not discount the possibility that these people were not castaways like me, but members of the local tribes native to this place. If that was the case, what were they doing in the middle of untamed wilderness, facing against hyenas? Surely people who evolved to live in this place would have more sense than to trek through dangerous forests.


    On the other hand, they did manage to kill at least one hyena. I wished I had more sense and actually checked how they did it. If I found a bullet hole or even an arrow sticking out of the animal I would have much more optimism about their chances. But intellectual honesty demanded that I would focus on the most dire scenario, that they were stranded here just like I was, had no real weaponry to speak of, and needed urgent help.


    Unlucky, the only help available around here was Yours Truly. A lame-legged, half-insane, malnourished middle aged man on a dinky little raft. The whole rescue operation seemed half-baked now. Trying to find people lost in this place was harder than finding a needle in a haystack because the needle would be unlikely to be eaten by local fauna before I found it. And even if I did find them, what then? My raft was too small to take more than one extra person, maybe two, and even with that, sailing upstream back to my camp would require favorable winds which I could not guarantee. Even sailing back to the island where I left the supplies would be hard. It was quite possible that in this mad chase I have stranded myself away from my camp and the only means of survival . What an ironic fate to be marooned in another world like fucking Robinson Crusoe only to maroon myself even worse by my own actions.


    I was about to lose hope, and half wished I had a big bottle of vodka with me to drown my sorrows.


    And then, gazing across the bay, I saw the most beautiful sight. A bright orange glow of another campfire just like mine. I stood, mouth agape, for a few seconds not able to believe what I saw. I started shouting, I do not remember what, probably raw vowels of childlike happiness seeing the sign of another person. I screamed. I blew my whistle. I danced and waved my arms around, almost falling down the cliff in the process, even though the other person could not possibly see me in the dark. I blew the fire brighter and added more fuel.


    Whoever it was on the other end of the cliff did the same, their dot of light grew larger. I could not hear them shouting anything, and had to assume they hadn''t heard me either. The constant murmur of the waves crashing against the breakwater drowned every other sound.


    But they did see my fire. I had to use that to send a message. I did not know any fancy way to send fire signals but I knew one thing very well from my childhood in the Scouts.


    The goddamned Morse Code. I took off my shirt and used it as a screen, blocking the light of the fire and showing it again to create a signal. It was unlikely the human on the opposite end of the bay understood Morse Code but they would surely understand I was trying to communicate something.


    I had to clear and focus my mind to recall the dots and dashes that stood for different letters, but I started with something that was most likely known to a stranger.


    ¡°SOS¡±


    Save Our Souls. The universal signal for help. I kept signaling it over and over. Minutes passed. Finally, right when I was starting to think that the other fire was just a hallucination, they started sending a response. A response that immediately confused me.


    ¡°NO  GO AWAY¡±


    ¡°WHY¡± I signaled. Maybe I was misreading their signals, maybe they were not very good with using Morse, or maybe this was just a trick of the light?


    ¡°NO SOS GO AWAY DEMON¡±


    I was stumped. What the hell was that supposed to mean? Was the person on the other end insane? They then kept repeating go away demon, over and over again. But why? Who in the right mind would refuse help in this hellhole?


    ¡°YOU MISTAKEN I AM HUMAN I WANT HELP YOU WE MUST MEET¡±


    There was a pause. They took a long time to respond.


    ¡°NO THIS IS LIE DEMONS LIE BE GONE IN ALLAH NAME¡±


    I shouted in frustration. Of all the possibilities, the one human I found in this damned place turned out to be a loon, and a religious one at that. Them being likely Muslim, made things even more awkward. I had some limited experience arguing with Catholics, but I knew very little about Islam. How do I convince them I''m not a demon, let alone a demon from mythology I didn''t know?


    I was running out of fuel, and would not be able to signal for much longer anyway. Dealing with crazy, I decided to employ crazy logic myself.


    ¡°NOT DEMON    DEMONS DO NOT USE MORSE CODE    ONLY HUMANS CAN¡±


    Of course, my interlocutor was not buying it, but at least they responded immediately. I had them hooked.


    ¡°DEVIL SPEAK MANY TONGUE     NOT FOOL ME    BE GONE     NO MORE TORMENT    I SUBMIT TO ALLAH ONLY¡±


    Alright then. I laughed a mirthless laugh. I was a dirty old atheist all my life, and knew next to nothing about theology, let alone any hypothetical relationship between devils and the Morse Code in Islamic lore. I needed another angle, as long as they were willing to talk to me. If they just decided to quit and extinguish their fire, it would all be in vain. Finding survivors here was a near impossible task, let alone finding someone who did not want to be found. I needed to show I was a human, and a pious one at that, but not overdo it.


    ¡°I PRAISE GOD TOO¡± I sent. The response was so furious they managed to misspell the message.


    ¡°NO YOU LIE LILEILIE LIE GONWAY¡± There was no exclamation mark at the end, but I felt like there would be If they knew how to signal one.


    What now, genius? I asked myself. Any bright ideas to make that pious, and clearly disturbed person even more pissed? On the other hand, if they truly wanted me to go away, why did they keep responding? If I could only get to them, not just across the bay, but across the gulf of culture and religion. I knew nothing about them, and pretty much nothing about their faith¡­


    Wait.


    I maybe knew nothing about the Muslim faith, but I knew one quote by heart. It was from one of my favorite movies, the Thirteenth Warrior. There was a sentence that the movie showed to be of ritual significance to Muslims, and I hoped that the quote was correct, and that I remembered it correctly as well, because if not, it would likely end the conversation forever.


    I took a moment to write it down on a piece of rock with a charred bird bone, then translate to Morse, then memorize the dots and dashes. These were not the words I could afford to fumble with misspellings.


    ¡°I DECLARE THERE IS NO GOD BUT ALLAH AND MUHAMMAD IS HIS PROPHET¡±


    I really hoped I did not screw it up. Was it Muhammad or Muhamad? Mahomed? Anyway, my hope was that they would at least believe I¡¯m a human, because an evil demon would not recite their declaration of faith. Or, so I hoped.


    They took a long, long time to respond. My fire was dying out, and I was torn between the need to look for more fuel, and the necessity to stare at the distant cliff, waiting for the dot of fire to start blinking  again. When the response arrived, it was such a torrent of dots and dashes I missed the beginning of it, and had to scramble to make sense of the rest.


    ¡°PEACE BE UPON HIM MNYBE YOU NOT LIE COM¡­?... WILL FIND TRUTS IF YU LIE I KILL YOU I ACCEPT TORMEK FOR SIN I ACCEPT NOT DECEIT¡±


    Bait. Hook. Aaaand gotcha. If I read them right, they provisionally accepted my humanity, except they would kill me if I proved to be a deceitful demon. Can you kill demons anyway? I did not look especially demonic, if anything, I looked rather pitiful, even with a spear in hand. They said they accept torment, but not deceit, which made me think maybe they thought this place was Hell, where they are supposed to be tormented¡­ but in a honest way? I had no idea if there was even Hell in Islam, but this was my best guess. And frankly, I could not say for sure they were wrong about that. It was a physics-defying realm full of monsters, so maybe I was the crazy one, trying to make scientific sense out of the situation?


    ¡°I AM COMING   STAY THERE¡± I signed, with my fire nearly dead, barely a collection of dim embers. They did see it anyway.


    ¡°AGREE       COME¡±


    I was ecstatic for about twenty seconds, until I realized that the route to my new friend was down a treacherous rocky slope, then across a bay filled with dangerous twisting currents and mysterious sea monsters, then up another slope, and all of that in pitch-black darkness.


    I blew at what was left of the embers and lit a torch of them. I cursed myself for only taking one torch with me up the hill, the rest was on the raft. I just hoped it would last me long enough. I was not keen on stumbling in the dark and breaking my neck. Getting down with a spear in one hand and the torch in another was a unique challenge. I ended up sliding on my butt most of the way, wishing I had put on several more pairs of pants to cushion my ass.


    I barely managed to find the raft before the torch went out. I lit another and tied it to the prow so that it would light the way. Even with it, visibility was still very poor. The night was dark, which benefited me when I was signaling with the bonfire, but on the open water I lost all sense of direction, especially once both bonfires winked out. As I sailed into the night, I assumed that the cliff and the other survivor were somewhere on my eleven o¡¯clock. Therefore, I thought, I needed to take a sharp turn to the right, to my three o¡¯clock and then back into the delta, otherwise the wind in my sail would be insufficient to overcome the current and I would be pushed into the open sea where death awaited. Of course, my calculations could have been completely wrong because I based them on a high school level of understanding of physics, and pitifully short experience with actual sailing. But fuck it, I have beaten worse odds when I fought the feathered dinosaur and won.


    With only one measly torch for the light, and a moonless, starless sky above me,It felt like I was sailing through interstellar space. The water was as black as the sky, and whatever was lurking in it, it was invisible.


    I had a faint hope that the creatures of the sea would be uninterested in me, but I was soon proven wrong. Something bumped the bottom of my raft, making it spin. I frantically turned the rudder, and pulled at the rope tied to the boom, but in my panic, I overcorrected, nearly capsizing the raft myself.


    The only reason I did not flip the craft and fell over the board was because I hit another invisible creature, which reacted buckling like a scared horse. Desperate, I flipped the boom to point straight up so that the sail would be folded on itself, and hugged the mast. The things under the water kept bumping and slapping my tiny craft back and forth with such a force that most of my carefully stowed supplies were flung overboard and I nearly joined them.


    Miraculously, despite the splashing and shaking my torch was not extinguished. Blinded by salty water, I felt another torch that almost rolled off the raft and hit me in the leg. I lit it,rose to my knees, and lifted the fire up to at least be able to see my assailants.


    I saw a giant black fin, nearly half as long as I was tall, and for a terrifying second I thought, it must have been a giant shark, far greater than any shark ever ought to be.


    Then, the creature surfaced and the black fin was joined by an equally giant black and white head that sprayed a small gazer of water out of its blowhole.


    An orca. A killer whale. I was relieved. Killer whales, despite their fearsome name, were not known to be especially aggressive against humans. Which was not the same as saying I was safe in this situation, because the pod of orcas could easily flip or destroy my raft, simply by playing rough with it.


    As I waved the torch around. I saw more black fins, and more black shapes pushing through the waves, like submarines made of muscle. They weren''t hunting me but they were hunting something. I saw commotion and splashes about thirty paces in front of me. I could not see what the orca had caught, but it seemed to be a giant creature, as well, and it fought back.


    Maybe it was one of those scary looking penguins, or maybe one of those fish with crescent shaped fins. One way or another, the orcas were not actively harmful or dangerous to me, while the things they hunted easily might, so in the grand scheme of things, I was glad to see the pod clearing my path.


    The problem then, was of course that I had no idea where I was, except likely somewhere around halfway towards the other shore.


    I pulled the sail up, with a hope that the wind had not changed in the meantime, and was still blowing inland. After a tense half an hour or so, I found the proof that my course was more or less correct. I encountered a small sandbank covered in reeds and dune grass, with ripe bulrushes swaying in the wind. I threw an anchor on it to moor the raft and went to gather as many cattails as I could easily pull out of the silt. Each one would only burn for a few minutes, but still, it was better than being surrounded by darkness.


    I examined what was left of my supplies. I had one jar of water and one taffy bar, as well as most of my rope. The extra spears, hammers and blankets were gone. I was down to one oar, and a damaged one at that, all of which meant that once I reached the other survivor, I would come pretty much empty handed, and my chances of taking both of us back to my camp were rather diminished.


    Just as I did the previous night, I set the small island on fire. The dry grass immediately burst into flames, illuminating the path in all directions. Looking around in its waning light confirmed my suspicions. I was more or less in the middle of the way, at the very edge of where the river fell into the bay. If I drifted anymore portside,I would miss the approachable shore completely and hit the rock debris of the breakwater, probably shattering my raft in the process and drowning. Or at the very least beaching among unknown creatures that could very easily consider me a snack.


    Desperate times call for desperate solutions. And in that case, it involved advanced gymnastics. I splayed myself on the raft floor, holding the rudder with one foot, and leaning with my entire weight against the boom, while paddling frantically with both hands.


    I fought to keep my raft strifeing eastward. Every once in a while, I would set a new bulrush on fire, to illuminate the way, and when it was about to go out, I would toss it forward, like a flare.


    This briefly showed what was ahead, which unsurprisingly was just more of the same Inky black water. The progress was glacially slow, but finally, my prow slammed into a wall of reeds and plowed so far into it, that it beached itself securely with no need for an anchor. I dropped one anyway.


    I crawled onto dry land, holding my dying torch in hand. Before it went off, I managed to find  a dead, rotten willow log, and tore it apart for kindling. Within minutes I had a new bonfire, and in its light, I saw I was only maybe a hundred paces away from the bottom of the rocky slope, which meant my fire was clearly visible to anyone up on it.


    Question was then, where was the other survivor?

 DAY 80-ISH. THE BEAST OF BREAKWATER CLIFF.

    ¡°Hello, I''m here, where are you?!¡± I called for the thousandth time through the reminder of the night and early morning. My throat was parched from shouting. Repeated the same message in other languages though I didn''t really know many. I simply shouted the same in my native Polish, and random, vaguely rescue-related words in Russian, German, French and even Czech, with the hope that something would trigger a response.


    This was getting ridiculous! Even if my interlocutor did not speak any of these languages, they surely understood that I was trying to communicate, and should respond. Maybe they were deaf, and the Morse Code was actually the only way they could communicate?


    Most likely though they were just an asshole or maybe simply crazy. After all, the two months I spent here made me pretty unhinged. Who can tell if they weren''t even crazier than that. I walked in bigger and bigger circles around my campfire looking for them, to no avail.


    Finally I decided to abandon my fire and try to climb up the hill. The slope on this end was far more inviting than rubble of broken pieces of slate I had to climb before. This one was a lot more gentle, with giant slabs of rock neatly stacked like the layers of a pyramid. And between those layers were dark nooks and openings, some of them large enough to drive a truck through. Had to be caves. I snooped around the bottom of the slope until I found a gently shaped stairway leading to a particularly large cavern. But it was not its size, nor it looking like a perfect shelter that attracted me. It was the smell.


    Smoke, dried fish, then the unmistakable scent of a human being that had not touched soap for many, many weeks. A reek of a caveman, something that would disgust me only a few months before but on that day smelled like roses. Smelled like victory.


    I ran up the slope, pretty much forgetting about my leg injury. I burst into the cave, nearly trampling over the meager possessions of its occupant. Around the opening there were racks made of wood, with drying fish hanging from them. A small tent hung above it, collecting the smoke from a tiny bonfire placed below the smoker. It seemed to be made of hide, probably seal¡¯s. I soaked-in the sight and went deeper. I found a bed also made of seal hides neatly stacked and folded almost like a cot of a military recruit. Beside it was another rack with orderly arranged equipment. Spears, fishing tridents, things that looked like boomerangs or maybe crooked javelins, I didn''t know. There were baskets made of some kind of seaweed or maybe roots, and nets, plenty of them, woven out of what looked like leather thongs. Whoever lived there, had been busy. I did not find any duplication pools and I doubted that they had them, but yet, their abode seemed filled with useful equipment, stuff I didn''t even think to create.


    Everything was as neat and tidy as possible, given the circumstances, even the floor of the cave seemed to be swept with a broom which I also found leaning against the wall. They even had a washbasin made of seal leather, filled with fresh clean water and a towel expertly woven out of grass fiber, rolled next to it. Whoever lived here, was obviously not a recent arrival.


    Finally, I saw the writing on the wall. Literally. The inhabitant of the place has written something upon the cave walls, in the precise handwriting that looked like calligraphy. I could not read it but I immediately recognized it. It was Arabic font, or at least looked like it, which made sense if my conversationist was a Muslim. Maybe this was a piece of the Quran?


    I exited the cave. ¡°Hello I found your home! Where the hell are you?¡±


    I did not know if insulting them was a good idea but I was pissed. Where were they hiding? And then I heard a peculiar noise.


    Whooom, whooom , WHOOOM!


    Then a buzz, as if a giant hornet flew past my head and hit the rock wall with a thunder crack. And then another. And another. The projectiles were coming every other second. Were they shooting a gun at me?!


    One flew into the cave, hit a rack of dried herring and shattered the fish to smithereens in the process. It was a rock, a pebble really, not bigger than a cherry, but launched with enough force to break my skull open. I ducked behind a boulder, and covered my head and shoulders with the backpack. It was not much of a shield, because even though the spider silk was bulletproof, it offered no padding to cushion the impact.


    ¡°Stop! What are you doing?! I''m human just like you. I''m on your side!¡±


    The cannonade stopped, and for a few seconds, there was silence.


    ¡°I do not believe you,... demon.¡± said a gravely baritone voice in curiously accented English, though come to think of it, not more accented than mine.


    ¡°I told you I''m not a demon. Look,¡± I peeked from behind the backpack, briefly showing my face. A stone hit the boulder centimeters from my exposed neck. I yelped in fear and fell back, flattening myself on the stone floor.The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.


    ¡°You are a demon, alright. What else would come to torment and deceive a sinner, wearing a bleached Oyinbo face?¡± they said.


    ¡°What do you¡­ ah, bleached face, you mean white?¡±


    ¡°You know what I mean. You dey demon¡­¡± they trailed off, mumbling something to themselves, possibly a prayer, or maybe just cuss words. ¡°This is surely Hell itself, a place of punishment, abi? How come you walk around it wearing white silk, and not dey naked like me? How come you have a boat with a sail and a steel weapon? Sinners come to Hell naked and unarmed, na so?¡±


    I was stumped. Their logic was sound, even if the conclusion was insane.


    ¡°Look, I''m a human being like you¡­¡± I tried to explain. ¡°When I came here, I stumbled upon a¡­ wellspring that duplicates goods. This is how I survived, and why I have these clothes. They are spider silk actually-¡±


    ¡°So you admit you use magic? And you wear magical robes made of spiders?¡± Their tone was level, patient, but not a note less hostile than before.


    ¡°I¡­ I suppose I do. Look, I promise I''m not a devil, or a demon, not even a sorcerer. Just a guy, like you. I just had the luck to find that thing. Call it magic if you want, I think it''s¡­ weird science?¡±


    They did not respond for a minute. I slowly rose to my feet, hands up in the air. If they wanted to kill me, they could have easily sniped me from the many vantage points atop the slope, so there was no point in hiding. And, come to think of it, if they were deeply religious or superstitious, then they would have all the reasons to distrust me. On face value, my story would be deeply suspicious to them.


    ¡°What is your name?¡± they asked. I decided to make myself familiar, so that it would be harder for them to kill me in cold blood.


    ¡°I''m Jacek. Jacek Mularski. I''m just a regular guy from Poland. I have a wife, two kids. Sometimes they are little hellions, but they are not demon spawn, and neither am I. And my wife is a saint. She would not marry a sorcerer.¡±


    ¡°Promise on your soul you are not an evil spirit, and that you do not consort with demons,¡± they said, but their tone softened.


    ¡°Pal, I haven¡¯t consorted with anyone except my wife for the last fifteen years. She would tear my head off if I strayed.¡±


    I heard a booming laugh that sounded like its owner was twice my size. My suspicion was immediately confirmed, when one of the slabs of stone moved, and turned out to be a slab of a man instead. He was a barrel chested giant, clad in gray seal furs with a chaotic camo pattern drawn over it with river silt. If not for a pair of dark brown eyes and a white smile, he could be easily mistaken for an upright boulder. He had a sling in his hand, a shot loaded in it, but he let it hang casually. Still, I knew he could whip it faster than I could duck behind cover, and for me, that would be all she wrote. That stone, propelled by his bearlike arm, would burst my head open like a pi?ata.


    ¡°Mister Jack, you are too ridiculous to be a demon. Still, I cannot be sure to trust you, understan¡¯?¡± As he calmed down, his English became less and less difficult to understand. In fact, they sounded very much like someone accustomed to giving attention-grabbing speeches, like maybe a preacher or a drill sergeant. ¡°Are you a Muslim, Mister Jack?¡±


    ¡°Ah, sorry, that was a lie.¡± I admitted the truth, deciding honesty was the best course of action. ¡°I just wanted to convince you to meet. In fact, I''m as godless as they come, but I promise, I''m a decent guy. Well, not worse than the next guy, I suppose.¡±


    ¡°That was what I assumed,¡± he said, with just a hint of paternal disappointment. ¡°The mangled Shahadah was an obvious giveaway.¡±


    ¡°Sorry about that. I had good intentions.¡±


    He chuckled mirthlessly, ¡°don¡¯t we all, brother. And yet, we meet here, in the place where sinners with good intentions end up, besieged by monsters until we wash away our sins.¡±


    ¡°You believe this is Hell, mister¡­?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m Yusuf Baba Abdullahi, though I expect you¡¯d just call me Baba, and mispronounce the rest. And let me call you Jack, because Jahtzsek doesn¡¯t really roll off the tongue either, and I don¡¯t want to even try to mangle your family name.¡± He came nearer, calm, yet no less scary, the sling at the ready. ¡° Frankly, I no longer know what I believe. Some scholars  would likely say a place like this is Barzakh, the gap between the world of the living and the afterlife, where the fire of our sins purifies our dirty souls. On the other hand, I believe that only the Quran, and the pure words of God within it, explain reality, and the verses say of no such place where embodied men are pitted against beasts. So you tell me, mister scientific man, mister unbeliever, is this Hell? Purgatory?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t have a clue, Baba. I thought this was some kind of alternate dimension. A reality sideways to ours, in which we are recreated.¡± I said, but I was not really convinced with my own explanation.


    ¡°One filled with giant monsters, and bloodthirsty demons prowling the night, the woods and the waters?¡±


    ¡°uh, yes?¡±


    ¡°One where there is no realistic hope of rescue, survival is a struggle, where hunger and thirst are your eternal companions, where every day is a battle, and every night a longing for the loved ones you shall never see again?¡± he queried patiently.


    ¡°Yes, exactly¡­¡± I admitted, heavy-heartedly.


    ¡°So essentially, Hell?¡±


    ¡°Hey, it''s.. I mean¡­damn, you might actually be right.¡±


    ¡°See Jack? Doubt and being open to new ideas is the first step. I will make a good Muslim out of you yet.¡±

 MIGUEL (IV). FIGHT-OR-FLIGHT.

    Despite his best efforts, Miguel was drifting in and out of consciousness. He was neither a night-owl-type nor an early-bird-type, but the type who prefers going to bed early and then a solid night¡¯s sleep, until noon, if possible. So when Candace woke him in the murky pre-dawn hours to change her keeping watch, he was barely lucid enough to protest.


    He''d give everything for a cup of coffee!


    Or a can of an energy drink.


    Or several.


    In the world he left behind, his caffeine intake was rather substantial, and being cut off like this did not help him perform his night watch duty.


    With no other way to keep himself awake, he kept walking the so-called perimeter, a small circle of fires and straw scarecrows they placed around their camp to ward off predators. He had no faith in it actually working, but then again, he was not in any more danger walking around than sitting by the fire. Any predator peckish for a snack could have easily snatched him up either way.


    Sure, he had his ''scary'' poncho on, and Candace gave him a torch and a bamboo spear to defend himself, but he had no illusions about his chances. While his fight-or-flight instinct was in high gear, his actual ability to do either was rather poor. He hasn''t run or even jogged in over twenty years, and all his fighting experience was limited to being occasionally pummeled by Cartel goons for perceived tardiness in the production of meth. But he knew that curling into a fetal position and apologizing profusely, which worked on bored criminals, would not work on a wild animal.


    All those thoughts sprinted through his mind within a single second, along with a sudden jolt of crisp alertness, when he heard the laugh.


    A-hah. Yahaha yayhahaha¡­ a sound that started almost like a peal of demented human laughter but ended with an ululating yelp.


    ¡°Candace. Candace!!¡± He yelled, not taking his eyes off the dark wall of the woods from which the sound emerged. ¡°Wake up! These aren''t fucking dogs, not dogs¡­ O Madre¡­¡±


    She bounced up, immediately awake, and grabbed her spear. So did Martinez, who took a handful of kindling and threw it into the fire. The flames burst higher, throwing light at the distant bushes. It reflected from a dozen pairs of eyes that shone like polished nickels.


    ¡°Miguel, get back to us. Slowly.¡±


    He backed off until he stood shoulder to shoulder with her, spears at the ready.


    ¡°Behind! Behind!¡± Sveta screamed.


    They turned around, only to see more dark shapes with shiny eyes skulk around the darkness on the opposite side of their circle of light. The shadows burst with more monstrous giggling, coming from all directions. They were surrounded. on all sides, except for the beach.


    ¡°Nobody makes any sudden moves,¡± said Martinez with icy calm. ¡°Bunch up together, close to me and the fire. Spread your ponchos so you¡¯ll look big.¡±


    ¡°Should we burn the fire higher? Scare them off?¡± Miguel asked.


    ¡°With what, Gordo? We barely have enough firewood to last until morning. We¡¯ll run out.¡± Martinez did not look away from the shining pinpoints around them and tensed with the intensity of a raptor bird. ¡°Besides, fire is only a small obstacle for them. We cannot count on it.¡±


    ¡°So what do we do? We fight them?¡± Miguel clutched the spear with a white-knuckled grip, unsure what to actually do with it if it came to a fight.


    ¡°No, cabron, we are not going to win a fight against a pack of hyenas. You run.¡±  Martinez responded with a wry smile.


    ¡°But how... you can¡¯t¡­¡±


    ¡°Yeah, you will leave me behind.¡±


    ¡°The fuck we won¡¯t!¡± said Candace. ¡°I ain''t leaving you to be eaten alive!¡±


    Martinez sighed. ¡°Yes Candace, you will, and you know this.¡± he reached and touched her hand briefly. ¡°If the hyenas attack, you must do the sensible thing, take these idiots and run. You would have no chance of fending them off, and only die pointlessly if you stay.¡±


    ¡°We can¡¯t outrun them!¡± Miguel hissed.


    ¡°Oh, I know you can¡¯t, Gordo,¡± Martinez smirked, ¡°you don¡¯t look like much of a sprinter to me.¡± He pointed at the river. ¡°You need to outswim them. Dogs don¡¯t swim all that fast, and I assume neither do hyenas. Your buoyant ass should be able to get away from them if you really push it.¡±


    ¡°I can''t swim,¡± said Miguel, ¡°at least not very good. I don''t think I will be able to escape them.¡±


    ¡°Well, you¡¯ll soon have an excellent opportunity to learn, and the motivation to do your best.¡±


    ¡°Maybe.. maybe the girls should go, and I should stay behind with you, try to distract them?¡± Miguel whispered, eyes downcast.


    ¡°Don''t be an idiot, Gordo.. Look at those things, they¡¯re fucking huge. Do you think you''d even slow them down? No. When the time comes, just leave me and run.¡± Martinez said, his tone calm, full of strange acceptance.


    Miguel did look. Even in the predawn twilight, he could see clearly that the hyenas were enormous. The smallest one was already bigger than any dog he had ever seen, but some of the shapes moving between the bushes were closer to the size of a bear.


    ¡°So what, should we just leave you to die?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, but we¡¯ll see once we get there, they are not attacking yet.¡±


    Indeed, the hyenas did not seem to be rushing to attack them. Instead, they circled them lazily. Having their prey pretty much surrounded, they did not need to hurry. They kept moving around, yelping and barking as if purposely trying to keep the humans on edge.


    The sun broke the horizon and covered the meadow in the predawn light. The hope Miguel had about fending off the hyenas was dashed. At first, he thought there were only a few of them, maybe eight or nine, but the sunlight showed easily over a dozen of the things, and the noises in the bushes suggested another dozen lurking nearby. In a fight, they would be torn to shreds in seconds.


    Miguel prayed the pack would simply get bored and leave. But he knew how unlikely that was, they were juicy, defenseless targets only protected by their unfamiliar scent and billowing ponchos, which made the hyenas wary of approaching them.


    For now.


    The morning came, oblivious to the tension in the meadow. They burned the last bit of their kindling and sacrificed the teepee to the fire, but the flames started dying anyway. All the other bonfires burned to ash long before that, and the pack inched closer. The animals did circle away from the makeshift scarecrows, but only just so, more in wariness than fear.Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    With the girls and Miguel keeping watch, Candace returned to the hopeless attempts to break the rock and release Martinez. They all knew it could not work, not without fire and steam they could not produce. Whenever any of them strayed more than two steps away from the group, either to find more firewood or to reach the river, the hyenas yelped excitedly and moved a few steps forward, in a complex, chess-like dance in which they kept circling them and trading places with one another, and almost imperceptibly moving closer, to a more favorable position.


    The biggest one, a shaggy beast the size of a small bear, positioned itself in front of Martinez, staring right at him.


    ¡°Must be the Alpha female,¡± Martinez said.


    ¡°What?¡± Miguel noticed he had been crouching with tensed muscles for hours. Hearing someone finally speak up aloud almost made him jump.


    ¡°The big girl.¡± Martinez pointed at the shaggy beast. ¡°I saw it on television. Hyenas are ruled by the biggest mom. Grandma maybe? Alpha bitch. Gotta be her right here. Sizing us up before they attack.¡±


    Candace leaned closer to him, with a coconut-sized stone in hand . ¡°Well, just like us, then. Should I show her who¡¯s the baddest Alpha bitch around and pitch that rock at her cunt of a face?¡±


    ¡°Huh.¡± he hesitated. ¡°I don¡¯t know. I don¡¯t think we should antagonize them. Not yet, at least. But we should definitely show we are not afraid. No cowering, no panicky moves, look straight at them but not like, an actual eye contact?¡±


    ¡°How do you know that?¡± Miguel asked. ¡°You saw it on TV?¡±


    ¡°Nah. Had basic training about fending off attack dogs. Show no fear but also no aggression unless you really have to, and then go fucking apeshit on them. Dogs are animals, not machines, and are not crazy, they quit the fight before you do.¡±


    ¡°Raul, these are not dogs. These are damned pony-sized monster hyenas.¡± Miguel said, but he straightened up and looked around, trying to radiate confidence and menace.


    And then, he heard the most unexpected sound. A whooping yell of joy came off the river.


    People!


    And then, to his absolute horror, several things happened at once.


    The girls heard the whoop too, and, foregoing all caution, Nata started running towards the beach. Candace lunged after her, trying to stop and shut her up, but the sudden movement set the hyenas off. They rushed at them from all sides with a giggling battlecry.


    She gave Miguel a quick, terrified look, and rather than trying to go back, pushed Nata towards the water, with two shaggy shapes crashing through the reeds to pursue them.


    Miguel wanted to run after them but, realizing he would abandon Martinez if he did, stood his ground instead. Throwing his arms around, he let the poncho with the snarling face on it spread, and whirred his bamboo spear overhead.


    ¡°No!¡± he yelled at the approaching hyena, as it was a bad dog to be disciplined.


    Amazingly, the beast stopped, confused, but it was all in vain, as its packmates circled around Miguel, giving him a wide berth.


    ¡°Grab Sveta and run.¡± Martinez whispered.


    ¡°But-¡± he started, but Raul gave him a quick, pleading look.


    ¡°I''m so sorry-¡±


    ¡°Go!¡±


    Blinded with sudden tears, Miguel turned around and ran towards Candace and Nata, catching Sveta¡¯s arm and pulling her over the shoulder. Fear and adrenaline gave him strength he never thought he had. He waded chest-deep into the water, and pitched Sveta towards Candace, who pulled the girl further.


    Miguel was about to kick off and try to swim after them, when he heard a thump and a string of angry cursing.


    ¡°Hey, you bitch-ass whore cunts, over here! Come at me, you fucking shits!...¡± Martinez lobed another big chunk of rock at the Alpha hyena, hitting it on the massive shoulder. It yelped, and the whole pack homed in on him, snarling.


    Miguel froze, unable to look away. A ring of hyenas closed around Raul, who kept throwing stones at them. For a second, the beasts paused, the Alpha and Martinez staring at one another tensely.


    Then, without a warning, the smallest, scrawniest hyena burst from the circle, and attacked Martinez from behind, trying to catch him off guard.


    Which was what Martinez must have been expecting.


    He twisted around, as far as was possible with his legs stuck in the rock, and slammed the pouncing hyena in the head with a melon-sized stone.


    It impacted with a wet, meaty crunch, and the animal staggered away, then fell to the ground in dying spasms.


    Miguel saw Martinez flash a predatory smile of victory, almost as scary as a hyena¡¯s snarl.


    For a second, the meadow was still and silent, save for the low whine of the dying hyena.


    Then the whole pack pounced at once, crushing their opponent with a dozen bites that tore him apart nearly instantly.


    ¡°Gordo, come on!¡± Candace yelled.


    He turned around and readied himself to dive forward.


    He was not a swimmer.


    Not at all.


    But he only needed to not drown for a little bit, barely float¡­


    And just as he was about to jump head first into the current, he felt powerful jaws close on his flank, cutting through skin and flesh like it was soft butter. He fell face-forward, with a heavy beast on his back, pressing him underwater.


    He tried to scream, but it only made him inhale water.


    Pushing against the bottom, which suddenly moved under him, he managed to surface.


    The hyena lost its footing too, and was frantically trying to keep its head above the surface without releasing its prey.


    And then he heard an ear-splitting scream.


    It was not his scream, even though he was in agony.


    It was a defiant, if terrified, roar of three enraged women. And then a bamboo spear passed by his shoulder and stabbed into his tormentor, soon followed by an enraged Australian Amazon who pushed at the spear hard enough to nearly pole-vault over both of them.


    The hyena, having its snout pushed underwater, panicked and released him.


    And Miguel, despite the debilitating pain and fear, did something he never tried doing before in his life.


    He fought back.


    The beast was far stronger, far more dangerous, and likely a better swimmer than he was.


    But he was much heavier.


    He grabbed it by the neck, in the strongest two-handed grip he could manage, and keeping away from the snapping maw, pushed its head down, putting all his weight into it.


    As they struggled, the current pulled them away from the shore. Miguel was drowning. Keeping the hyena under the surface meant he also had to dive underwater on top of it, and in all the tumbling and panicking, he filled his lungs with water.


    He was losing his strength. The only reason the hyena had not yet torn out of his grasp, resurfaced, and savaged him, was because it was panicking just as badly as he was.


    And then he felt a tug and lost the grip on it. But his enemy did not surface. He saw it splash a bite at empty water and then disappear underneath.


    ¡°Candace!¡± he coughed, spitting water. He tried floating on his back, because, with the ragged hole in his side, actual swimming was out of the question.


    He saw Sveta and Nata bobbing further down the river.


    He felt weak and dizzy.


    Something burst out of the water and grabbed him. He yelped and tried to push it away.


    ¡°Gordo! It''s me! Calm down!¡± Candace pulled him closer and put him in a rescue grip, keeping his face over the surface.


    ¡°Where is it?! Candace¡­¡±


    ¡°Calm. Down. It¡¯s dead. Drowned.¡± she said.


    ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°You got the right idea. They''re shite at diving. I grabbed its hind paws, pulled the fucker under. It ran out of air before I did.¡±


    ¡°It bit me¡­¡± he croaked, his mind at the edge of losing consciousness.


    ¡°No shit, mate. You bleed like a fucking tampon failure.¡± She pressed at his wound and managed to pinch it close, making him wheeze in agony. ¡°We¡¯ll patch ya up somehow.¡±


    ¡°The girls?¡± he was getting limp, overcome with a strange calm.


    ¡°They fine as apples. We¡¯ll catch up to them soon. Don¡¯t ya faint on me Gordo. Ain''t hauling your unconscious arse ashore.¡±


    ¡°Martinez¡­¡±


    ¡°Shut up about him.¡±


    ¡°But¡­¡± he could see the scene of Raul¡¯s death in his mind. It played over and over.


    ¡°Shut. Your. Gob,¡± she growled. ¡°Not a word. He died. Girls did not see it. But I did, and I wish I didn¡¯t. He died a fucking hero, end of story.¡±


    Miguel silently agreed.


    It was his last thought before he lost consciousness.

 DAY EIGHTY FOUR. THE MOST ANNOYING MAN IN THE WORLD

    For almost three months I dreamed of seeing another human being.


    Of hearing the voice of another.


    Two days with Baba made me wish I was back at my camp, with only the wolverine for company.


    It was not as if Baba was a bad man. Far from it. He was friendly, calm, and fatherly. He was also a great outdoorsman, and taught me more in two days than I learned on my own in eighty days prior.


    The issue was, that he was infuriatingly annoying, in a way that bordered on not-quite condescension, not-quite smugness, but sincere and patient mentorship that nevertheless made me want to chuck a spear at him. The worst part is if I did, he would likely catch it the spear mid-flight, and then not even have the decency to be angry, just disappointed at my poor spear-throwing skills.


    ¡°Patience, Jack,¡± he said with his warm baritone. He insisted on teaching me how to spear fish with a trident. Of course, I explained to him that I had a perfectly serviceable fishing rod back at the camp, but that I also had magic duplicators that could endlessly copy food, and such skill was unnecessary.


    To that, I begrudgingly admit, he made a reasonable counterpoint that I cannot depend on the duplicators keeping me alive and should learn a variety of hunting techniques.


    Which was why I was standing with a trident poised to strike, knees deep in torturously cold water, on the break of the dawn of the third day with him, pretending to be a spear-wielding statue and waiting for a fish to swim by.


    ¡°I am patient, Baba. I just don¡¯t see how getting hypothermia, or pneumonia, or I dunno, rheumatism from this endeavor will make me a better hunter.¡±


    ¡°You are already quite decent at throwing spears. I''m confident you will learn the tricks of spearfishing in no time, and then would never go hungry as long as you have a sharp stick, na so?¡± As usual, he turned every issue into a rhetorical question that I could not argue against without sounding like a petulant fool.


    ¡°Easy for you to say, Baba. You¡¯re sitting on the shore, wrapped in a seal fur coat, like a caveman fashionista. Meanwhile, I''m slowly turning into a statue of Poseidon, with no fish in sight.¡±


    Of course reality conspired to prove Baba right. Just when I finished speaking, a large bream emerged from the depths and swam perilously close to the spot under my trident.


    I waited until the last possible moment and struck. The strike was not perfect, but one of the prongs caught the fish on its side, tearing it open. It flopped in panic and tried to swim away, forcing me to stab at it again and again, unable to hit it.


    Desperate, I lunged at my prey and dove into the cold water, trying to grab it in a hug before it would flee.


    I emerged victorious, bream in hand, only for it to slip my grasp.


    I reacted instinctively, and before the fish would hit the water, I punted it with a football kick, sending it into the bushes.


    ¡°Interesting technique, Jack, ¡° said Baba, raising, and shaking droplets of water off his waterproof fur coat. ¡°And a nice catch too. Let''s find it before the water-dogs do.¡±


    I sighed and followed him. About the only thing that broke Baba¡¯s poise of reasonable authority was his fear and hatred of the otters. I explained to him that they were pretty much harmless if not provoked, and how I made friends with them.


    To him, I was the unreasonable one, mingling with dangerous predators. He treated all the fauna around as both a potential danger and a resource, nothing more. When I told him I not only befriended the otters but released and fed a wolverine I caught in my snares, he was speechless for once.


    He knew all about the dangers of our river¡¯s shores. He saw a prowling wolverine once, though his was four-legged unlike mine. On day months ago, he saw tracks of the damn terror birds, and heard their calls. He spent the next four days after that barricaded in his cave. He had killed a boar just as I did, though he did it without sustaining any injuries, and he chose not to eat its meat. Not just because it was impious for him to eat pork, but because these things are supposedly full of worms and parasites that can infect a human being. I did not know if that was true, but decided not to test it.


    He also killed several other predators encroaching on his territory. He had been menaced by a pack of hyenas who came by his cave, but it turned out his sling was powerful enough to kill two of them and dissuade the rest. He sent their corpses downriver because the smell was unbearable.


    Finally, he also showed me a kayak he made out of branches and a giant spotted pelt. He still had a terrifying skull that once belonged to the pelt¡¯s owner.


    ¡°One of my first kills here. A predator seal, trice my size. ¡± He put the skull in my hands. It was heavy, and its teeth were as long as my thumbs. ¡°It attacked me when I went to hunt the penguins. It took a dozen javelins to kill it.¡±


    ¡°It truly is the land of monsters, even if I''m not convinced it¡¯s Hell,¡± I saw him try to argue and added, ¡°Even the penguins here look terrifying. You really wanted to hunt those?¡±


    ¡°I was both desperate and overconfident. Tryin'' da not dey that anymore.¡± He slipped in and out of his peculiar Pidgin when he was excited. ¡°They taste vile, and their meat smells as bad as their droppings.¡±


    ¡°You should try a terror bird once. When I killed one, it made for a helluva big roast.¡± I boasted.


    ¡°Jack, you told me that story two times already. As I recall, it was the water-dogs that killed the bird, and you only helped. I hope that victory did not go to your head. I would not want you to act foolish if you encounter another one of those birds.¡± Baba sounded reasonable as always, without a hint of derision in his voice, and yet¡­


    ¡°Alright, you got a point. I know I''m not a badass hunter, nor am I pretending to be,¡± I sighed. ¡°But I had a few scraps that I survived, and I''m proud of it!¡±


    ¡°A little bit of healthy pride is a good thing I suppose,¡± he said. We retrieved the bream out of the thickets. It was big and fat, though I knew the species was so full of fishbones that eating it would feel like munching on a pincushion.


    Still, food was food.


    ¡°Was it good?¡± he asked. ¡°The bird of terror? Don''t tell me it tasted like chicken. It''s a common saying, but seldom true.¡±


    I looked up at him, stopping my work of butchering the fish. ¡°Nah. It was tough, stringy, and tasted like old boots. The best I can say is that it was definitely nutritious. Lots of protein.¡± I finished with the fish, letting Baba examine the resulting filet critically. He did not comment, but winced in a way I learned to read as begrudging acceptance of something not meeting his standards. I could not tell if this was a Nigerian thing, or just his personal tick.


    ¡°Eh, chop dey chop,¡± he said with a shrug.


    Food is food? I wasn''t sure if he meant my filet was better than nothing, or commenting on the bird meat.


    He took the fish off my hands and tied it to the smoking rack. It was already heavy with stiff, dried chunks.


    Baba did not believe in leaving survival to chance. He stacked on all resources, especially food. In fact, he put me to work within an hour of our meeting, and we had been fishing, making nets, baskets, spears, and rope all day long, and even after dark, with only a seal-fat candle for illumination.


    The only moments when he was not working, were when he prayed. I expected that as a Muslim, he would pray several times a day, and do all the complex bowing and kneeling I saw on television. But it turned out, either my idea of Islamic practice was wrong, or he was particularly liberal with it. All he did was bow and engage in a quiet conversation with his God. I could not understand a word, but it sounded less like a prayer, and more like having a quick chat with a therapist.If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    When asked about it, he explained that since he believes himself already dead and stuck in an afterlife of sorts, it does not seem logical to stick to traditional salah, which was meant for the living to perform. Instead, he would simply tell Allah what he plans to do that day, thank Him for his continued existence, apologize for his sins, and ask for guidance.


    ¡°Does your God ever respond?¡± I asked. I did not want to aggravate Baba, but his insistence on a spiritual explanation for our situation grated at me.


    ¡°This is not how it works, Jack,¡± he explained patiently, keeping his eyes on the net he was repairing. ¡±Allah is not a customer service.¡±


    ¡°I did not mean to¡­¡±


    ¡°You did, and I don¡¯t mind. You Oyibos are accustomed to easy solutions to difficult problems.¡± He examined the net, and folded it for storage. ¡°My faith does not work like that. The Merciful God already equipped me with everything I need to find my own answers. I have the Verses, and I have this-¡± he tapped his head. ¡°Everything that the Quran does not answer, I can use my brain to understan¡¯ if I try hard enough. Allah doesn¡¯t answer questions, grant wishes, or need my apologies. But I think it is me who needs to say those things aloud, to make sense of the world, of my mind, and of my heart.¡±


    ¡°So, you basically talk to yourself?¡± I smirked.


    ¡°Yes!¡± he nodded enthusiastically. ¡°Words are straighter than the thoughts that make them, abi? This is why we have the Quran in the first place. Human thoughts can run in circles, but when you say them out loud, or write them down, they stay put, and you can build your life upon them.¡±


    ¡°¡±So how do you know that Allah even exists? Maybe it¡¯s just you, talking to yourself, in a completely godless universe.¡±


    Baba did not seem offended, or even caught off-guard.


    ¡°Dis may dey so. Very possible.¡± he actually smiled excitedly, as if a theological debate was what he needed all along. ¡°But tell me Jack, can you prove God does not exist?¡±


    ¡°You can¡¯t prove non-existence¡­ but God is such an absurd idea, it would require good evidence to be plausible¡­¡± Such debates were never my cup of tea, but as a lifelong atheist in Poland, I had this kind of conversation with Catholics plenty of times.


    ¡°Is God more absurd than this?¡± he gestured at the world around us. ¡°Than being sent naked to a land full of monsters? A place where even the land itself looks crazy and contradicts science?¡± he pointed at the nearby cliff, which jutted incongruously out of swampland where it had no business existing.


    ¡°You got a point Baba. But just because all of this is absurd, does not mean we should accept an equally absurd explanation. God and Afterlife does not explain this, it just replaces one mystery with another.¡± I saw him focus on my words, as if coming with a decision.


    ¡°You are correct. I will not try to convert you. Allah loves you unconditionally anyway. But consider this, even if my faith is nothing but illusion or madness, what does your heart gain from rejecting it?¡±


    ¡°The truth?¡± I ventured.


    ¡°And what truth that is? That the world is empty of meaning, and our fate is hopeless?¡±


    I had no answer to that. For one, I did not want to truly hurt Baba¡¯s feelings. I sensed his faith shielded him from the heartbreak of being separated from his family, a luxury I did not have. But another reason was that I truly wished there was a divine force guiding us, because there was one thing we would really need a godly miracle for.


    ¡°Speaking of hope Baba. When we met, I asked you about the other survivors. You eluded my question.¡±


    His face immediately dropped into morose concentration. He stood up and began to examine his hunting spears.


    ¡°I did not hear the human scream you told me about. I truly did not.¡± He tied an extra knot of tong to secure a bone blade to the shaft. ¡°Believe me, if I had seen any humans on the river, I would try to rescue them.¡±


    ¡°Well, you took me for a demon at first, and refused to meet,¡± I countered.


    ¡°And you contacted me using fire signals and came on a white-sailed boat wearing silk robes. Forgive me for not recognizing you as a fellow human being, who I would assume, would come naked and in distress like I did.¡±


    I looked down at my so-called robes. My layered shirts and pants were tattered and stained with river silt. I looked less like a silk-clad demon, and more like the Michelin Man if he fell on hard times.


    ¡°I believe you. But this does not change the fact that there are other people here, likely no more than a few kilometers away, and they are almost certainly in danger. Can¡¯t your God intervene on their behalf?¡±


    He shook his head with a sad sigh. ¡°Allah either set their fate so they would survive, or not. It is not for us to decide.¡± I wanted to interject but he waved it away. ¡°You want to go and search for them, I sabi. I would too.¡±


    ¡°So why don¡¯t we-¡±


    ¡°Because they are dead, Jack.¡± he answered with anger rising in his throat.¡± Listen. I know this land better than you do. I dey here longer you do, I traveled across and along dis river.¡± He clutched the spear with a tight grip, as if he could squeeze words out of it, then set it gently aside.


    ¡°You and I have been blessed. You found your duplicators. I found this cave, and made it my shelter. Otherwise, we would both have died here, and our souls would depart, to only God knows where. The people you speak of, they cried in fear of mortal danger. And then you haven¡¯t found them for three days. And then you spent three more days with me. Even if they survived what menaced them back then, they spent that many days cold, wet, alone, thirsty, and hungry. And at the mercy of monsters.¡±


    It was my turn to get pissed.


    ¡±Aren''t you the one preaching hope? Shouldn¡¯t you be convincing me that, I dunno, Allah surely showed them mercy? Is it not our moral duty to search for them?¡±


    ¡°All good questions. And here is mine. Are you willing to sacrifice your life looking for them?¡±


    I stopped. I assumed the two of us made for a formidable enough team to fend off whatever this place threw at us. But if Baba had doubts about it, how could I not?


    He continued. ¡°Heroism is one thing. Throwing your life away to save someone else is another. Trust me I know, this is how I ended up here.¡± He hesitated, but I did not stop him. I sensed he wanted to say more, and he did.


    Listening to Baba¡¯s story, of his life and supposed death made me reevaluate again my opinion of him. I knew the man was tough, and suspected he had a rough life, but holy shit, I did not expect what he told me. I let him finish, even when his eyes teared up, and he choked for words.


    ¡°There is something you need to know,¡± I said.


    He looked up.


    ¡°I found the boy that was crushed by the fallen tree.¡±


    His face fell, hearing his nightmare confirmed. I continued.


    ¡±I¡­ I think he did not suffer. The tree must have crushed him instantly. And given how all of us feel disoriented when we appear in this world, he probably did not know he was dying.¡±


    Baba sat down, suddenly looking smaller and much older than the unstoppable giant I took him for. ¡°Did you¡­¡±


    ¡°Yes, I buried him as much as I was able. I let the river take his body. I did not know any funeral prayers, but I said a few words to mark his departure.¡± I did not want to say that a scavenger ate most of the boy¡¯s remains, or that I briefly used a shard of his femur as a needle. Baba did not need to hear that.


    ¡°Is it the place? Your duplicators, are they where the boy died?¡± he asked.


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°Then I never want to go near it.¡± He said with finality that offered no discussion.


    That caught me off-guard. I always assumed that if I found any survivors I would immediately bring them to my camp. I never considered they would refuse. I wanted to argue that this was idiotic of him, but one look at his saddened face which was already sagged and grooved with age and sorrow, made me shut up.


    We sat like this, quiet for a while. Baba fiddled with the smoker, and handed me a piece of dried herring. We ate in silence, each mulling over dark questions in their own mind.


    ¡°Understood. I would not try to force you to go with me, even if I could. But I am not staying with you either. Capable as you are, I think the duplicators offer me a better chance of survival than your company.¡±


    He did not speak up, only nodded in agreement.


    ¡°I''m going back. I will resupply and go out to search for these people. I will not give up on them, until I find them alive, or at least their corpses.¡±


    He grabbed my shoulder.


    ¡°Jack, I cannot let you. You will not survive in the woods, let alone the swamps or the seaside. God already buttered our bread once after we landed in dis place, He will not do so forever. Don'' tempt fate.¡±


    I clasped his shoulder as well.


    ¡°I maybe suck as an outdoorsman, but I''m not a fool. I will stick to the river, and go back and forth until I find them. They could not have swam upriver against the current, and I doubt they would be stupid enough to go deeper into the woods. If they are alive, they cannot be far away from the shore.¡±


    ¡°They could have ended up washed out into the bay or even open sea.¡±


    ¡°Maybe. But who knows, maybe they are excellent swimmers?¡±

 NATA (I). SINK-OR-SWIM.

    Nata was not the excellent swimmer she often considered herself to be. All the swimming lessons Daddy paid for only prepared her to lazily do lengths in the pool, where the water was flat as a mirror and pleasantly warm.


    But desperately trying to swim across a turbulent and cold river, while helping along her sister, with her leg still in a splint, was a different matter. She again felt like she did when the ocean backdraft caught her dinghy, only a few days ago. No mater how hard she tried, she could not beat the power of the water, and seemed to be making no progress towards the distant shore.


    Candace swam next to her, with an awkward backstroke that let her keep Miguel¡¯s face over the surface, and not to aggravate a hole torn in his side. Nata braved only one short look at the red streak that was left in their wake to know he was badly injured. He was unconscious, which was likely for the better, for he would be screaming in pain and panic otherwise, which would make her lose it and panic as well, which in turn would cause her to drown, and drag her sis down as well.


    ¡°Come on Moppets, we are getting closer!¡± Candace shouted, her breath ragged from strain. This was of course a comforting lie. They were inching towards the opposite shore at a glacial pace. Meanwhile, the current was inexorably pushing them leftwise, but to where, she did not know. What she did see, was the river getting wider, and the shores swampier, which was definitely not good.


    ¡°My ne¡­.ah,¡± she switched to English, ¡®We not make it!¡± she shouted. Something caught her eye.


    ¡°Smotri, ostrov! uh¡­ Look, look left, dry place!¡±


    ¡°What?¡± But now Candace must have seen it too. As the river widened into a funnel, and the willow bushes of the shore shot away from them, small islands started appearing downstream. One was particularly close, almost on their path.


    ¡°Can we make it? Go there?¡±


    ¡°Yes! Let''s grab hands!¡± Candace shouted. She hugged Miguel closer and then linked shoulders with the two of them framing injured Sveta and unconscious Miguel. It prohibited their forward movement but also slowed down their leftwise drift, which allowed them to slowly achieve a collision course with the island.


    Nata never worked this hard in her entire life. Her thighs and calves were burning, despite being submerged in cold water. Every few seconds she felt like her body would give up, and she had to convince it to keep kicking water for a while longer. Sveta could not help, she used both arms to keep Miguel¡¯s face above the surface, while Candace kept pulling them forward with grim determination.


    When finally, after what felt like a million years, they hit the banks of the small islet, she only had enough strength to help Sveta drag herself and Miguel onto the sandy patch and fainted out of sheer exhaustion.


    When she regained consciousness a moment later, she really wished she didn¡¯t. What welcomed her was a grisly scene out of a horror show.


    Miguel laid on his back, white as a sheet. His belly and side were covered in blood. So were the hands of Sveta, who clutched his wound together, and Candace''s, as she dug into it.


    ¡°What happening?¡± she asked, fighting nausea.


    ¡°he lost a lot of blood. Can''t let him lose more. Trying to patch him up.¡± Candace showed here a splinter of bamboo she awkwardly stuck through Miguel¡¯s skin, pinning the wound closed. There were already several such pins, but they were barely holding the suture together. It turned a gushing wound into a ragged line that seeped red droplets. Candace pressed Miguel''s grass poncho onto it and wrapped it around with a strip torn of her own. He moaned painfully, and his eyelids fluttered.


    ¡°He will live? Hole looks very bad!¡± she asked.


    ¡°Shut up Nat!¡± Sveta scolded her in Russian. ¡°He can hear you. He is already in pain, no use making him freak out as well.¡±


    Candace shot them a look, but did not comment. She focused on Miguel who started mumbling something quietly.


    ¡°Svetushka, please,¡± Nata looked at her sister pleadingly. ¡°Talk to me. How bad is it?¡±


    ¡°It is¡­very bad.¡± Sveta¡¯s eyes were hard, but her voice trembled. ¡°Candace says she can save him, but¡­ ¡±


    ¡°And Martinez¡­¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± Candace interjected at the familiar word. ¡°Martinez, or rather, Special Unit Officer Raul Martinez, one badass copper from Argentina, died defending us. He died a bloody hero. I saw him crack open the head of one of those evil cunts back there.¡±


    ¡°But¡­¡±


    ¡°Story ends with that, love. There¡¯ll be time to cry about his death, because he sure fuckin¡¯ deserved it. But we won''t talk about it until we are safe and sound, lest we go unglued, Survive first, mourn later, got it?¡±


    Nata looked around. They were on a tiny patch of silt and dead seaweed, surrounded by dirt-colored waves stretching almost up to the horizon. The shore was only a thin green line in the distance. This river made the Moscov River look like a streak of piss in comparison. They were not ''safe and sound'' by any stretch of the imagination.


    They sat for a while in stupefied silence, crushed by the hopelessness of their situation.


    Miguel was not bleeding anymore. Candace pressed bulrush fluff against his wound, and that seemed to have stopped the blood from gushing.


    He was conscious, but incoherent, mumbling to himself in Spanish and moaning in pain. Candace tried to keep a brave face about it, but Nata knew this was just a pose. It was obvious that without help Miguel would soon die.


    The three of them stripped and put their ponchos on top of him, to at least protect him from the cold.


    They tried to start a fire. But all the vegetation on their small island was damp and rotten. No amount of rubbing sticks together could ignite it.


    They had no fire, no shelter, even the water around them looked so dirty that she shuddered even thinking about drinking it.


    Finally Sveta decided to break the silence.


    ¡°What about the scream? You heard it, Candace? There must be other people!¡±


    Candace shot up to her feet.


    ¡°Fuck me, Muppet. Tote forgot about it. It could have been a bird, or one of them hyenas barking. But it sure sounded like a bloke cheerin¡¯¡­¡± She looked around the river.


    ¡°Hey, over here, help! Anybody!¡± she yelled.


    ¡°SOS!¡±  Nata added.


    ¡°Ehs oh, fucking ehs!¡± Candace screamed at the sky.


    Nobody answered. They shouted and yelled in Russian and English. Bits of Chinese and Korean. And then, when they ran out of ideas, they just screamed like animals. Surely, it did not matter what they were screaming, just as long as they were making themselves heard, right? But when they ran out of breath and shut up, all she could hear was the echo of their own screams, and the ever-present murmur of the river and the calls of the birds.


    ¡°Candace, this not work¡­¡± Nata said, defeated.


    ¡°Shite love, of course, it doesn''t. We are in the middle of a giant river. Water stretching half a klick in every direction. We could pop a fucking grenade here and the sound will still vanish in the general noise of this place.¡±


    ¡°So what do we do?¡±


    ¡°I would say get the Hell out of here, but I''m pretty sure that''s not an option with Miguel bleeding like that. We gotta stay put until his situation¡­¡± she trailed off without ending.


    ¡°Maybe make fire?¡± Nata suggested.


    ¡°This is one option. But we would have to make it very big with a lot of smoke to make any sense. I got to come clean with yous¡­¡± Candace sat back, and gave them a serious, pleading look.


    ¡°I saw a trail of smoke when we landed near that hill, right before we met Miguel. But it was so tiny and gone so quickly, that I dismissed it. Thought I was just seein'' what I wanted to see? And could not even find it again. Maybe this was a sign of humans. Maybe this wasn''t just my imagination. Haven''t told ya a thing, did not want ya to get false hope, right?¡±


    Nata felt a spike of anger. If Candace treated them like adults, if she told them the truth earlier¡­then... what exactly? Nothing would have changed. They would still have ended up trying to save Martinez, and the hyenas would come, and¡­


    ¡°But if we were to make a fire,¡± Candace continued before Nata could comment on her revelation, ¡°it needs to be a big ¡®un, for anyone to take notice.¡±


    They looked around. There wasn¡¯t enough fuel on the little islet to start even a modest bonfire, let alone a big one, and it was all damp anyway. Away in the distance they could see the shapes of much bigger islands, some covered in trees. If they could get there¡­


    ¡°Fine," said Candace. ¡°You stay here. I''ll try to swim to the closest one, and start a fire there. Though I''m not sure how, without Martinez¡¯ help. I''m buggered to the bone¡­ but it doesn''t look that far. Done worse .¡±


    ¡°No, Candace. I will do it,¡± said Nata with grim determination.


    ¡°What?!¡± Sveta balked and tried to grab her sister¡¯s hand reflexively. Nata stepped away from her and towards the water. Candace tried to block her path.


    ¡°No way girl. Don¡¯t be a fuckin¡¯ drongo, I''m not letting you drown yourself. I''m the designated swimmer of this team. You stay put-¡±


    ¡°No!¡± Nata said again, more forcefully. ¡°I decided. You protect Miguel and Sveta. Save life. Help with Miguel''s wound. Can fight animals. I cannot. But I can swim. Not very good, but good enough. And you say this is close.¡±


    Candace looked like she wanted to object, but the objection died on her lips. They both knew that if Candace went looking for help, then Miguel would certainly die, even if the girls did their best to try to stop the bleeding. And sooner or later, something would crawl out of the swamp, attracted by the smell of blood, devour them, and Candace would not be there to stop it.


    Then again, if Nata went alone and tried to beat the river current, it would be incredibly dangerous, even without taking predatory fauna into the equation. She grabbed Candace and hugged her tightly. Then she did the same to her sister.


    ¡°I will be alright. I come back¡­. ne plach'' Svetushka, ya skoro vernus.¡± She kissed away her older sister¡¯s tears, and patted Miguel gently.


    ¡°You listen to me.¡± Candace grabbed her face and looked her in the eyes. ¡°Don¡¯t swim straight at the big island. You remember the mistake yous made when we met? Gotta take into account the current pushing you sideways, off-course. The river is spreading more to the right-hand side, and it will try to wash you that way.¡± She pointed a finger at Nata¡¯s face. ¡°Do not let it do that. It will pull you all the way towards the big spread, and you¡¯ll be fucked.¡±This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    ¡°So what-¡±


    ¡°Veer left. Go left. like you are trying to pass the big island on the left side.¡±


    ¡°What if I go..too much left?¡± Nata asked.


    ¡°You won¡¯t. Just don¡¯t force it. Don¡¯t waste your energy. Let the water carry you, and only fight it very little to stay on course.  Got it?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡± Nata nodded and stood up.


    Candace kissed her forehead and gave her a slap on the bum.


    ¡°Take a good-luck pash and off ya go. Get to the island, light a big fucking fire, stay put. No silly business.¡±


    ¡°No silly business.¡± Nata said and jumped into the murky, green water.


    The current around their tiny islet was substantial. She barely had to do anything besides staying afloat. Just as she promised to do, she only put enough effort to counter the nearly imperceptible rightwise drift.


    The further she went, the more turbulent the water was. She felt the wind and the foamy waves fighting against the river flow. It forced water into her mouth, and it had a salty tang to it, that made her suddenly aware of how close she was to the open sea. It was as if the sea and the river were wrestling over the stretch of tiny islands, the water turning and twisting in unpredictable ways.


    It felt like hours passed since she left the small islet, and her target was inching closer at a torturous pace. The cold water stole all her heat, and her body felt like it was made of numb wood, that she only propelled forward by sheer will.


    Which was when she saw the first giant crescent fin breach the waves in front of her.


    And then another.


    And another.


    ¡°O blyat!, net, net, net¡­.¡± she shouted and immediately coughed out water that rushed into her mouth.


    Were those sharks?! Please, please not again¡­. What would Candace do? Should she tuck-in her limbs and try not to attract their attention, or put all her strength into trying to swim away?


    Nature decided for her. Several more fins appeared, and they all headed inexorably in her direction. Fuck! She could not turn back and outswim them against the current, so she did the one thing she promised not to do.


    She veered right, towards the middle of the funnel where the current was strongest, and let it carry her away.


    And yet, it was not fast enough. One of the curved fins turned towards her lazily, easily catching up to her.


    ''This is it'', she thought to herself, her mind oddly calm. ''How could you think that a stupid schoolgirl could possibly survive in a place like this? Stupid! Useless! Not only you will die, but you abandoned Sveta!''


    She curled into a ball and dove down. At least she wanted to see it attack. She did not think she¡¯ll be able to fight it off, but a maw grabbing her out of the murky dark without her seeing it seemed far more terrifying.


    She forced herself to open her eyes underwater, and saw a giant sleek shape swim by her. It was a horrific monstrosity, a crocodile-like fish covered in gnarly armor, and as big as her Papa¡¯s Maybach.


    And yet, she almost burst out laughing. She resurfaced, coughing and spitting.


    ¡°Yebanyi osietr!¡± she shouted and giggled, the stress of near-death expelling out of her body. Fucking sturgeon! She had it for dinner a hundred times. Papa insisted they should eat not just the sturgeon caviar, but the fish itself too, because he considered it a traditional meal of the Russian elite.


    She knew sturgeons were huge, but harmless to humans. Sure, this one was big enough to bite her in half, but she knew they subsisted on a diet of small fish. If she only had Candace with her, she surely would have killed it with a spear and they could roast it over the fire.


    It does not get more traditional than that, right Papa?


    Her joy was soon deflated though. She looked around, and saw that her attempt to evade the fish made her drift far, far to the right. The big island she aimed for was now on her left, and she was about to pass it by in seconds.


    Before her, the water spread into a giant funnel, with dots of islands spreading on both sides. Far in the distance, the edges of the bay were flanked by cliffs.


    She could not stay in the middle of the current, because it would blow her right past all the islands, the cliffs, and towards the gray infinity that stretched towards the horizon.


    She had to beat the water, and get to one of the islands somehow.


    Left?


    Right?


    At this point the right bank was the easier option, though it would put her even further away from her sister¡­


    She turned right and swam with grim determination. She was angry, which was a new emotion to her. Sveta was usually the hot-headed one. Nata always stood back. Always the quiet one, the polite one. The invisible one. She let her more confident sister, her parents, and the money they had, shield her from all problems. Despite being fed with a golden spoon all her life, she often felt sad and useless, but never angry.


    Good girls don¡¯t feel anger, right?


    But Candace a lady entirely made up of pent-up anger and she killed a shark, with her bare hands!


    So maybe there was some extra energy hidden in rage?


    She let herself be mad then.


    Not mad, she thought, no. Mad was too polite. She was fucking pissed. Fuck this goddamn river. Fuck the hyenas, and the sharks, and the sturgeons. Fuck this fucking world!


    She pushed forward with renewed strength and speed, punishing the water with kicks and slaps. She kept inhaling water and coughing it out, but it only made her more determined. Only weak girls let themselves drown.


    She was too furious to die like that.


    She was on a mission to save Svetushka, Candace, and Miguel¡­if he still could be saved.


    Finally, after a gray, wet, cold eternity, she reached a sandbank covered in branches and logs. It was as if all the wood that washed downriver hit that exact spot, and entangled itself with a mess of green, cottony algae, like loose hair stuck in a bathtub drain.


    She crawled on top of the biggest log she could find.


    She was so cold she was no longer shivering, which she knew was likely a bad sign. If being cold no longer feels bad, it''s your brain that is mistaken, right?


    Disgusted but desperate, she tore a dry mat of dead algae off the log she was sitting on, and wrapped it all over herself, like a scratchy cardigan.


    She turned towards the midday sun to dry off and warm herself. It was a beautiful, sunny summer day, yet she was so cold she could not feel her fingers or toes.


    She gazed upon the gray waters spreading in front of her.


    This close to the shore, the water carried a lot of debris. Dead reeds, driftwood, clumps of algae, and even dead fish.


    A white, translucent bubble, like a plastic bag. floated by.


    She gasped with sudden realization.


    Plastic bag!


    Finding trash floating downriver would be a sure sign of humans nearby!


    Without even thinking about it, she stripped off her algae mat, and dove for the rapidly vanishing bubble. The water was so thick with dead weeds that she crawled more than swam, but she managed to grab the bubble before it floated away.


    It burst in her hands along with her hopes. It was not a plastic bag, but a big fish bladder. It deflated in her hands and filled with water, like a water balloon she used to toss at Sveta in their poolside play-fights.


    The orb of water captured sunlight like a magnifying glass, and for a second, it seemed to shine like a lightbulb.


    And with it, another lightbulb burst with an incandescent light in her head, and her hope returned. She waded back to her spot atop the driftwood shallow. As she climbed on top of it again, she noticed that she was not alone, and there were beavers, not far away from her, busily fussing with yet another pile of wood.


    She was too desperate and cold to be afraid of them.


    Besides, she had a mission.


    She spread the bladder gently with her fingers, and filled it with as much water as she dared. Without any sudden moves, she lifted the heavy translucent droplet high up, until the sun rays passing through it focused into a laser-like dot on top of the dry tip of the log.


    Then, mustering the last reserves of her strength, she tensed her muscles to stand perfectly still, and waited.


    And waited.


    And waited some more.


    Just when she felt her arms start to tremble, and the dot of light defocused, she saw a wisp of smoke coming off the wood. She noticed it was not the log itself, but the bone-dry algae fiber that smoldered. She moved the dot ever so slightly to focus on the fibers, and soon saw a tiny, tiny flame burst up.


    Remembering Mr Martinez¡¯ lessons, she bowed down, and blew on it as gently as she could, making sure the air came out of her mouth and not her lungs, to avoid breathing moisture out.


    Without taking her eyes off the growing fire, she fed it small clumps of dead algae, splinters of punked wood, and old bulrush fluff, until it grew big enough to sustain itself.


    She tore a shallow hole into the log and pushed the embers into it, so that they would not roll off the trunk and fall into the water. The punkwood inside almost immediately caught, and the flames were sucked into the hollow of the log, jetting out of its top.


    Fire!


    Not only did she make a fire, but a big one too! Of course, it would not be very visible in the middle of the day, but after dark? It would be the brightest spot on the river.


    She put her algae cape back on, and sat by the fire to consider her options. The pile of driftwood she was stranded on was enormous, easily the size of a yacht. If she decided to intentionally spread the flames to the whole thing, it would make a big fire, visible from kilometers away.


    But then, if nobody was around the river to actually see it, it would be all for nothing, and not only would she run out of firewood, but likely be forced to swim away from it, or roast herself.


    The other option was to maintain a more modest fire for a long time, hoping that whoever lived around here would sooner or later notice her. The drawback of course was that the longer it took, the more likely it was that Miguel would die, while Sveta and Candace would be in danger, not just from dangerous animals, but from the cold as well. Even though the days were sunny, the nights were terribly cold especially when they were wet.


    She spent the rest of the day carefully climbing all over the driftwood patch, to scavenge for dry kindling, while avoiding falling into the muck below, which was filled with jagged sticks and tangled water weed. Strange, creepy things crawled through it, from oversized crayfish, to nightmarish creatures that looked like the spawn of praying mantis and a shrimp.


    And leeches.


    So many leeches. She scrubbed so many of those off her calves and thighs that she was covered in bloody welts from her toes to her navel. Her legs looked as if she lost a fight against an octopus.


    As bad as the leeches were, they were not even half as bad as the biting insects that buzzed around the swampy shallow and bit every centimeter of her exposed skin. She had to lean over the bonfire and hide in a cloud of smoke to fend them off.


    But all the pain and itching just made her more angry, which helped her be less afraid. She was too exhausted to feel more than one emotion, so she focused on anger.


    The sun was setting, bathing the river in an orange glow, which annoyingly, almost completely obscured the light of her fire.


    She let it smolder until the sun disappeared completely over the horizon. The river grew darker, turning blue and black like the night sky above it.


    And then, in the distance, she saw it.


    A pinprick of orange light, just like her own, but much bigger.


    Someone did manage to set the bigger island on fire!


    For a second she thought it must have been Candace, who succeeded where she failed, but then the light reflected off a snow-white rectangle billowing in the wind. Even though it was as tiny as a pixel from that distance, she recognized it for what it was, a sail of a boat. A boat that started moving away from the burning island, slowly disappearing in the gloom of the night.


    ¡°Hey! Stop! Over here!¡± she yelled, but deep down she knew they wouldn''t hear her. Instead, she turned to her tiny fire and blew it brighter. She threw every stick and clump of reeds she could find, to make the flames burst higher. She even used her algae cape to send SOS signals using its light, but it was in vain.


    Even though she managed to raise a column of fire twice her height, the sailboat kept moving away from her, downriver, and now disappeared completely. She could clearly see their fire, much, much brighter than hers, and understood that as long as that burning island was closer to the boat that she was, whoever was sailing it would not be able to see her meager light.


    ¡°B¡¯lyad! Vernis idiot!¡± she yelled, and tossed burning sticks into the water in blind rage. Despite the back-current, they floated downriver, slowly smoldering.


    What now? Should she keep waiting another day, hoping the boat will come back? try to swim towards the burning  island?


    Neither option seemed realistic. And she could not go back either. The only possible option was to go downriver, and try to find the boat, or the people who owned it.


    She slid off the log, and braced herself against the pile of driftwood. Digging blindly in the silt she found the spot where the thick log was wedged into the pile, and heaved. It did not give at the first try, and it took her several attempts to dislodge it.


    As she did, the half rotten trunk slid off the shallow, and started floating down the river, with the remnants of the bonfire still on it. She chased after it, barely managing to grab it before it moved out of her reach.


    Climbing on top, she tore off a length of the rotten bark, and using it as a makeshift paddle, oriented her smoldering punkwood canoe towards the cliffs.

 DAY EIGHTY FIVE. GOPNIK BOAT-JACKERS, AUSSIE HOME-INVADERS.

    Clinging to a sheer rock wall with my toes and the tips of my fingers, I reached up, stretching as far as I could, and grabbed the last bird egg. Slowly, since every sudden movement could send me plummeting down, I reached behind me, and put it in a basket strapped to my back.


    I did not dare to look down. Even though the cliff under me was only maybe two stories high, a field of sharp, jagged rocks was underneath, making the breakwater surrounding the cliffs. Strange penguins swarmed around it, clacking their beaks.


    No, calling these things penguins seemed inaccurate. They looked more like a transitional animal between a dinosaur and a cormorant. I haven''t seen them eat anything except fish, but I assumed that if I fell down the chasm and shattered on the rocks, they would finish me off all the same. After all, protein is protein.


    Meanwhile, me and Baba were monkeying along the rock wall, picking up eggs of some smaller, less dangerous-looking birds. At this point, both of us had our baskets full. More than enough for twenty meals of scrambled eggs. Or maybe omelets. I had barely ate any eggs for at previous three months, so I was salivating at the prospect. But Baba informed me that he planned to boil, and then smoke them all, so they would preserve better.


    I had nothing against smoked eggs, they were delicious, but it did not mean I needed a two-month supply of them. Especially not if getting them meant risking my life.


    "Excellent, Jack", said Baba."I think we are done here. Do you think you can climb up and then to the right? So that we can exit this place without disturbing the penguins below? They never attacked me, but I do not quite trust them."


    I nodded in agreement and started moving sideways. My fingers hurt like hell, but I did not want to show my weakness. Baba, despite being much older than me and much heavier, made the climb look effortless as if he had been doing it every day since he was born.


    The bastard.


    I could not say if I''ve been more annoyed with him, or impressed with his skills. Still, every hour spent in his presence, taught me more than I learned on my own in a week. It started with making nets and better traps, then spearfishing. Stalking prey. Even tending to small wounds. He showed me what plants he found to be edible and which were definitely poisonous. I learned how to tan hides and make leather far superior to the mess I made out of the elk hide.


    He even found a way to get grain out of wild grasses, a process he claimed to be quite inefficient, but one I could make infinitely more useful with my duplicators. Having grain, I could try to make flour, and with it bread, buns, tortillas, pancakes even, if I used eggs, the possibilities were endless and delicious!


    Of course, as it could be expected, Baba dismissed them all. He believed that the duplicators I found were only a temporary trick that held me back from actually learning survival skills needed to prosper in this world. He saw my reliance on them as a weakness that could one day spell my doom, and as much as it chafed me to admit, I did not think he was entirely wrong.


    When I described to him all my inventions, my house, my weapons, and everything accomplished, he dismissed it all, claiming a more rugged, less resource-dependent lifestyle would be superior. Of course, he meant one like his own.


    So, as much as childish it felt, I wanted to take him down a peg. I exploded upwards, jumping from one crevice to another, to beat him to the top of the cliff. Mercifully, this particular part of the cliff was only about four stories high. I noticed with satisfaction that Baba was barely keeping up with my pace. He was a superior climber, just like he was superior at everything else, but he was still much heavier and laws of physics were on my side.


    I reached a large crack that split the cliff, giving us a shorter route back to Baba''s camp. Rather than squeeze through it and emerge on the other side, I climbed up as far as I could up the splitting walls of the crack, until they splayed too far apart for me to reach both for support. From that height, I could easily see the plains surrounding the entrance to the Baba cave, and the swampy, willow-covered brushland far away, where I landed and secured my raft. On a clear bright day, I expected to see its white, silken sail that should be clearly visible from there.


    Wait.


    I did a double-take.


    What in hell?


    Baba noticed my confusion. We both stared in shock at the empty, rectangular spot in the reeds where the raft used to be.


    ¡°Jack.¡± he asked calmly, ¡° where is your raft?¡±


    Speechless, I pointed vaguely in the direction of the river, almost losing my balance and falling down the cliff. ¡°... The last I checked¡­ it was in there¡­¡±, I got a hold of myself, ¡°it was tied securely with several lengths of nearly indestructible silk rope, to several sturdy trees!¡±


    ¡°Are you sure you tied it well?¡± he asked.


    ¡°Yes, I am sure! I even used the special marine knot you showed me!¡±


    He shook his head grimly. ¡°It must be the work of those damned water-dogs,¡± he said, ¡°they chewed through the rope.¡±


    I stared at him incredulously. ¡°What are you talking about?! That thing is stronger than Kevlar! I had a bear-sized wolverine chew at it all night and fail to even fray it. A strand thinner than my finger held a terror bird leashed. No way the otters could gnaw through it, let alone untie it. Even if they somehow chewed through the rope, It''s not like you would eat the entire thing, it was all together at least fifty meters of silk cable. And how could otters steal the raft itself? They are animals, not pirates, as smart as they are, it''s not like they boarded it and set sail to a far shore.¡±


    ¡°Calm down Jack. Let''s get down and investigate it.¡±


    We crossed the crack and sprinted down the slope, as fast as we dared without spilling the freshly gathered eggs or tumbling and breaking our necks. We unloaded our cargo by the cave and grabbed our spears.


    I wanted to run down to the river, But Baba advised caution. We sneaked around the bushes, taking a roundabout route. Yet, no predator laid in ambush down there. No mysterious pirates were found.


    Only the rectangular hole in the reeds, where my raft slammed into them carving a path, and what was left of my bonfire.


    I ran into the water until I was submerged up to my armpits. As I crossed the line where the thickets turned to open water, I saw the white dot of my precious sail, far, far upriver. Whoever stole my raft, made the best use of the winds that forced their way through the gap of the bay and blew inland. I splashed and sputtered water, trying to chase them, without letting go of my spear.


    I felt a hand grab me. ¡°Camot of da water, fool, before you drown!¡± Baba hauled me to the shore, against my protestations. ¡°What were you trying to do, swim after them? I agree you dey better swimmer than me, but you are not that good¡±.


    ¡°Don¡¯t you get it?! People! It must be people! Someone not only stole the raft, but set sail, animals don¡¯t do that.¡±


    ¡°Hold on, Jack, don go kolo on me. We must be rational ¡®bout it..¡±


    ¡°Baba, I need to find these people before they disappear again! We need to rescue them!¡± I shook him, for a second forgetting that he was twice my size and could fold me in half with a backhand slap.


    ¡°Look at the ground, friend, seems like them people did a good job rescuing themselves. And they left you a message in some cipher. ¡±


    I looked under my feet, at the splash of soggy ashes from my old bonfire. They were covered in writing, and small footprints. I read the words and then laughed at the absurdity of the situation.


    ¡°Its no cipher Baba, its Bukvy! The mysterious alphabet of the ancestral enemies of my people¡­ Looks like they found me even in this strange alien universe!¡±


    ¡°What are you talking about Jack?¡± Baba was confused by my sudden burst of humor.


    ¡°The Russians! Russian pirates stole my raft! Weirder still, it was female Russian pirates, and apparently juvenile ones too!¡± I patted him on the shoulder. ¡°You know many things I do not, Baba, but there is one skill that was hammered into my head when I was young, the ability to read Russian.¡±


    I slowly decyphered the message drawn in the ash for his benefit.


    HI SORRY TAKE YOUR BOAT


    NEED SAVE SISTER AND FRIENDS


    COULD NOT FIND YOU IN TIME


    WE ARE ON SMALL ISLAND WHERE RIVER SPREAD BEGIN


    PLS FIND US


    NATASHA


    We stared at one another for a few seconds. Me with a triumphant smile, Baba with a concerned, fatherly expression.


    ¡°Are you planning on doing something exceptionally foolish, Jack?¡± he finally asked.


    ¡°Yes. And you are doing it with me.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m telling you, Jack, it¡¯s too big! You will flip the canoe!¡± Baba yelled, awkwardly placing himself next to a sack of supplies while trying to hold a makeshift mast upright. Meanwhile, I was balancing precariously with one foot on the canoe¡¯s rib, and another pushing a boom to the mast, while I tried to tie a sealskin sail to it.


    ¡°Nonshenshe!¡± I mumbled, mouth full of leather thongs. ¡°I Inshtalled biggah one on mah raft, and it shailed fantashtically.¡± With a final tug I managed to secure the giant sheet of sewn hides, and pulled at a rope to winch it up.


    Just like my raft before, the canoe shot forward when the seemingly gentle breeze slammed into the sail, showing its true strength. I did not have time to be amazed by the incredible power inherent in the moving masses of air, since I lost my balance and nearly somersaulted overboard. Baba caught me by the neck of my shirt and pulled me back in, but the motion caused the canoe to pitch rightwise at a threatening angle, spilling some of our supplies.


    We briefly stared at the bag of dry fish that now bobbed over the waves behind us, but when Baba wanted to pull down the sail and drift down to retrieve it, I stopped him.


    ¡°Come on, Baba, no time. We can always spear more fish, but we cannot spare more time.¡±


    He nodded and curled around the mast, helping to hold it in place. The whole contraption held on leather thongs and silk rope, some prayer from Baba and creative cursing from me. It was not good engineering by any stretch, but it was the best we could come up with in the whole thirty minutes it took us to prepare for the trip. Aside from the mast and sail, we added a bundle of reeds and sticks to both sides, to give us better buoyancy and extra surface area, so that the canoe would not instantly flip in a sideways wind. We grabbed whatever weapons and supplies we could fit in it, and against Baba¡¯s protestations and calls for sanity, immediately departed without further preparation.


    We could not hope to catch the raft and its thieves the same day. The white sail disappeared in the distance, hidden by the everpresent misty haze hanging above the river. But as far as we knew, the river had no branches for many kilometers up, and there was no place to land the raft without it being clearly visible. Sooner or later we would catch up to them.


    I looked back at Baba.


    ¡°What¡¯s with the sour face? Ain¡¯t you happy we will see human faces soon?¡± I asked.


    ¡°I am happy, provided we truly find them. I just don¡¯ like¡­ dis.'''' He gestured vaguely at our jury-rigged craft.


    ¡°Why? This is your canoe after all. I just added a sail, that''s all.¡±


    ¡°Oh, don¡¯ mind the canoe itself. I paddled it up and down the river a thousand times. I just don¡¯t trust it when it is powered by wind. What if it changes and flips us? We would surely drown!¡±


    I stared at him.


    ¡°Are you saying you are afraid of water? You, a badass soldier?¡±I could not help but crack a tiny smirk.


    ¡°Not afraid,¡± he said, begrudgingly, ¡°just¡­ wary. If Allah wanted us to fly over the surface of the water, we would have hatched as ducks. This is unwise and dangerous, doubly so due to our shoddy and rushed design.¡±


    ¡°Shoddy? It''s a fine bit of engineering, all things considered,¡± I patted the boom, which almost immediately fell out of alignment, and the sail started flapping like a panicked bird. Had to quickly tie it back together before the canoe wobbled itself apart.


    ¡°...ok, it''s a bit shoddy, but all it needs to do is get us upriver without running us aground. We''re not braving the Pacific here.¡±


    It took us a few hours to reach the smattering of the isles that dotted the mouth of the delta. After some trial and error, we learned how to combine gentle angling of the boom with lots of paddle-work to circle the islands without capsizing our boat.


    We haven¡¯t seen any sign of humans, but we found plenty of life. Or rather, life found us. As we drew closer to the middle of the river, a pod of orcas burst out of the water behind us, spraying us with a wet mist. Baba immediately took both paddles and started clanking them together, right at the surface of the water, making godawful noise. Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.


    ¡°What are you doing? Don¡¯t piss them off!¡±


    ¡°Trust me Jack, I encountered them many times. They are not aggressive but can crush our canoe all the same, out of curiosity, not malice. The noise scares them off!¡± he answered loudly, adding to the clamor.


    ¡°Did it occur to you that a canoe made of seal fur, out of all things, might, I dunno, attract the creatures that hunt seals?!¡± I yelled. He just stared at me, letting me take that point.


    ¡°Dat dey excellent point, Jack, let''s discuss it once we safe and not in immediate danger!¡±


    As it turned out, making all that clamor did chase them away. The killer whales passed us by, only rocking the canoe a little bit.


    The first time I saw them, about a week earlier it was dark. I could barely make up more than the fins and the tips of their snouts. In full daylight though, I could appreciate how big they were.


    The documentary shows I watched did not give them justice. The name killer whale was apt, for they were truly whale-sized, and would be easily able to kill us, or any other creature I encountered in this strange world.


    Gently, without attracting their attention, we veered rightwise and away from the pod. Then we saw what the orcas were after. Their hunt had flushed out several sturgeons, each one as big as a crocodile. The panicking fish swarmed closer to the tiny islets and shallows, almost crawling through knee-deep water and the reeds to get away from their pursuers.


    ¡°Shame we don''t have time to hunt. We could spear one of them down.¡± I said to Baba. ¡°One fish that size could feed us for a month!¡±


    Baba shook his head. ¡°It''s not that easy, Jack, I tried. They have scales as hard as rock. You have to spear them right in the gills or the belly to puncture them at all, and you can imagine how difficult that would be.¡±


    ¡°Besides,¡± he added, ¡°they are too big to even haul away. I managed to kill one, once. But it was a pain to drag it to shore, and scavengers swarmed all over it immediately.¡±


    ¡°Were any of them sharks?" I asked.


    ¡°No, why?¡± he answered, confused.


    ¡°Oh, I just read it in a book once,¡± I said, ¡°t¡¯was about this guy who caught a giant fish, bigger than he could haul off, only to have sharks eat it away. It was called The Old Man and the Sea. That would make your story The Old Man and the River.¡±


    Baba laughed, wagging his finger at me. ¡®Hey, I''m not old, I''m middle-aged.¡±


    ¡°The silver in your beard suggests otherwise¡­¡±


    ¡°Oh no, no no, no,¡± he shook his head. ¡°A man is not old until he is a grandfather or at least over fifty. And I''m barely forty nine! Can''t say if I''m a grandfather yet, for without me around, my older son surely got into all kinds of trouble. Hopefully, not that kind of trouble that leads to being a father too early!¡±


    ¡°How old is he?¡± I was not sure If I wanted to ask him about family. It was a sore spot for both of us, separated from kids and wives we would never see again. On the other hand, this seemed like the perfect moment. Our spirits were high, from the excitement and hope of finding fellow humans.


    ¡°My older son, Ibi, that is, Ibrahim, ¡®cause he is man now, not a little boy, like he insists, is fourteen.¡±


    ¡°Let me guess. He is taller than you expected, dumber than you wanted him to be, has more pimples that should be biologically possible, and a ridiculous wisp of a mustache?¡±


    ¡°Yes. As if you knew him personally. Then again, weren¡¯t we all like that?¡± Baba laid back on the supply bags, and relaxed for the first time since we departed.


    ¡°True, true. Though In my case, I was spared the teen mustache. Mother Nature kept my face hairless until I was a grown man, and then, in a span of nary a year, forced me to grow fur all over. I have kept the beard since, because I met my future wife not long after, and she liked it.¡±


    Baba scratched his impressive chin ornament. ¡°My people believe that a beard is an outward sign of wisdom and maturity in a man.¡± Scratching further, he found remains of a dry fish in his facial hair and tossed the crumbs overboard. ¡°But as far as I know the only wisdom that comes with having a beard is that you save on the razors.¡±


    I scratched the wild scruff that covered my face, and the thinning bristle on my head. ¡±Well, there ain¡¯t no barbers around here, so I guess we are both destined to be looking very wise and mature in the foreseeable future.¡±


    I gently steered us rightwise, aiming to pass the atoll of tiny islets and sail towards the big, burned-out island closer to the middle of the river¡¯s spread.


    ¡°You said your older son? Meaning you have more kids?¡± I asked.


    ¡°Yes,¡± he nodded enthusiastically. ¡°Two daughters, Aisha and Fatima, and a younger son, Abu. And another child in the making, before I died and found myself here.¡±


    He saw my surprised face.


    ¡°You Oybos and your prude ways! Children are the gift of Allah, to be cherished. The more the better! And,¡± he added smirking, ¡°my wife is very, very pretty¡­¡±


    ¡°You got me beat on numbers here, Baba. I¡¯ve got two boys, Sta? and Micha?, and both are still small enough to ride on my shoulder.¡±


    ¡°Stahsh and Mikhash?¡± he tried to pronounce their names, but could not squeeze a slithering, rustling Slavic sound through his reverberating Nigerian accent. ¡°Why are your folks¡¯ names so difficult, Jahtzeeck?¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t even try to say it Baba, you sound like you are sneezing. They¡¯re basically Stan and Mike.¡±


    ¡°And your wife?¡± he asked.


    ¡°Anna.¡±


    ¡°Huh. So you do have names that do not sound like a bag full of crickets. Anna? So, Hannah, a fine, proper name.¡± he nodded appreciatively.


    ¡°Yeah, a fine, proper name, ¡®cause she is a fine, proper woman. Smart. And beautiful too. Not sure why he chose me then,¡± I pointed at my scruffy, unassuming self, who at the best of times could be described as passably average.


    ¡°Ah, God gave women an infinite capacity for pity and compassion towards us. Wives in particular, especially when they are mothers as well. I cannot guess why they put up with us!¡±


    I measured him, silent for a while.


    ¡°Don¡¯t take this the wrong way, but you are not how I imagined a Muslim man, let alone an African Muslim.¡± I said.


    ¡°And you are not how I imagined a Pole, mostly because I never imagined any. All I knew about your folk is that the Christian Pope was one of yours, and that you eat pierogies, but for the life of mine I cannot say what those are.¡±


    ¡°Dumplings, Baba. Pierogies are a wonderful type of dumplings.¡± I stretched lazily in the canoe, daydreaming. ¡°Some are filled with ground meat, others with cheese, or even fruit!¡±


    ¡°Oh, we have those! Dan wakes dey similar. Good chop. But we put boiled eggs in ¡®em!¡±


    I swallowed the saliva that my imagination pushed to the surface. ¡°Let¡¯s stop that Baba. This daydreaming will only make us homesick, especially since all we have to eat is dried herring, dried bream, and for variety, some dried perch.¡±


    He sighed. ¡°I''m thankful to the Most Merciful God that we have enough food to eat, but I''m afraid if I eat any more fish, I will turn into one of them penguins.¡± He picked up a strip of dry herring, looking at it with such a scowl as if it was coated in rat poison.


    Finally, after a lot of meandering filled with banter we found the biggest island, the one that I set on fire only a few days ago, and the one nearby, where I left the supplies and the spare sail.


    The supplies were gone. And in their place was another message from the mysterious Russian girl, repeating more or less the same as the first one, but with a big helpful arrow pointing towards the direction she sailed.


    There was one problem, the arrow pointed downriver, without suggesting whether they went towards the right shore or the left shore.


    Initially, I assumed the big, snow-white sail would be visible from afar, regardless of where it was. But what if they pulled it down? They could have used it for a tent or for clothing. I was sure they could not have sailed back to the shores of the hyena-infested meadows, but the alternatives were hardly better. What if they sailed into the maze of the swampland? Or worse, towards the peat bog, where the terrorbirds lived?


    A reasonable person would be looking for dry, elevated land, away from treacherous marshes. Somewhere where dry wood for the shelter and the fire would be abundant.


    But I knew from personal experience that being stranded in this weird world made a person act irrationally, either paralyzed with fear or overconfident.


    ¡°So where are we going, Captain?¡± Baba asked with a shrug.


    ¡°I think we''re going to check each of the bigger islands one after another until we''re back to the bend where the river gets narrow. If you don¡¯t find them there, we''re going to my place. Wherever they went, I doubt they would land back in the hyena territory, not after what happened there.¡±


    ¡°Hopefully,¡± Baba said, ¡°they didn''t make the mistake and sailed into the marshland. We could not follow them there. The canoe would not survive it.¡±


    ¡°Then, I guess we will circle between my base and yours, until we stumble upon them. Worst case scenario if that won''t work, we might try to climb this giant sandy hill in the hyena territory. We won¡¯t find them there, but it¡¯s the highest vantage point after the cliffs. We might spot them from above.¡±


    ¡°You think this is wise?¡±Baba asked. ¡°The two of us, with our slings and iron-tipped spears should be able to fend off a hyena or two. But if the pack is as big as you think it is, I don''t know¡­.¡±


    We spent the rest of the day slowly paddling from one tiny islet to another. It was not until sundown that we finally found a sign of the people we were looking for, though it was not the sign I ever wished to find. Not again.


    A tiny, sandy shallow sparsely covered in soggy seaweed and silt, with the unmistakable parallel trenches carved by my raft being dragged ashore. In the middle of it was a sight that crushed my hopes. A crimson splash of blood dotted with used bandages and tampons made of grass fiber.


    Baba looked at it, and his face hardened into a grim scowl of a professional soldier. He kneeled and examined the grisly scene. ¡°Judgin¡¯ from different prints, dey at least three people. At least one of them very badly injured. Dead from blood loss, I get.¡° He gestured at the rusty splash. ¡±Someone lost a lot of blood here. More than a man can lose and still live, ¡®less it was a giant man with lots of blood to spare. But the prints are small, dis dey women or young boys.¡±


    ¡°But they tried to save them. They clearly did. look at the bandages they made. Looks like they changed them many times. And they took the injured person with them.¡±


    ¡°Or,¡± Baba countered, ¡°They left the corpse and your water dogs ate it?¡±


    I turned to him abruptly, fists clenched. He saw the fury in my eyes, and knew he crossed the line.


    For all the similarities, we were different men from different worlds. He was a professional soldier. Seasoned and accustomed to the sight of violent death. He was also deeply religious, and thus not as much concerned about the end of a life, as I was.


    A non-believer and a self-professed coward, I had no training to fall back on, no courage honed on the battlefield, nor faith to support me in a moment like this. Only the naked fear and rage at the indifferent cruelty of nature, that dealt with us like it did with every living creature, killing us as if our lives did not matter.


    ¡°I am sorry Jack.¡± he said, ¡°That was uncalled for, and cruel of me to say. Forgive an old fool. Let''s keep our hope. God is Merciful, even if this place is not.¡±


    I stared at him for a second, and slumped to the ground, defeated. ¡°What do we do? I know this mad chase was my idea, but you¡¯re the soldier. I don¡¯t have the faintest idea how to do that search¡¯and¡¯rescue thing, I assumed you do¡­¡±


    He scanned the horizon, drumming his fingers on the shaft of the spear, like he often did when focusing. ¡°You¡¯ll hate to hear it, but I think we need to split.¡±


    ¡°You cannot be serious! Haven¡¯t you just lectured me, not a day ago, about the suicidal danger of looking for them alone?¡±


    He shrugged apologetically. ¡°Sorry, Jack, but you misunderstood me. I meant that you going alone, would be suicidal. Mean no insult, abi? But dis a fact Im better in the woods than you are.¡± he waved away my protestations. ¡°You know dis true. So let''s do it different way. You will scout the river, back and forth, between this island and your base. Before that, you unload me at the woodland shore, and I will search for them in the forest.¡±


    ¡°What if something attacks you? You¡¯d be alone with nothing but a stick to defend yourself!¡± I pointed at his chert-tipped spear.


    ¡°What of it? I survived in dis place for over half of a year. I hid and ran from beasts, and I killed some. E be well, Jack. God shielded me from death for all these months, surely would support me when I''m on a mission to save innocents!¡±


    ¡°I just¡­¡± I stuttered, ¡°...just don¡¯t want to be all alone again. Selfish, I know, but I hate you to get eaten by some fucking sabertooth monster, and me going back to being all by myself!¡±


    He laughed and clasped my shoulder with his bear-like paw.


    ¡°I cannot die yet, I haven¡¯t taught you how to set fish traps, and your trident work needs refinement! Besides, It seems to me, you are warming up to the idea of accepting Allah as your God, and Muhammad as his holy Prophet. I would hate to die before you come around. There dey no one to teach you the Verses then!¡±


    I scowled with fake indignation. ¡°Leave my precious atheism alone, Baba. Your sad devotion to that ancient religion has not helped you change my mind even a little bit!¡±


    ¡°I find your lack of faith¡­ interestingly challenging.¡± he mis-quoted back, grinning.


    ¡°Huh, never took you for a Star Wars fan. Doesn¡¯t your faith forbid it? And how come you even saw it, between all that soldiering, prayer and selling mangos?¡±


    ¡°Papayas, Jack,¡± he corrected me. ¡°I sold papayas. And you¡¯d be surprised how close Quranic Islam is to the Light Side of the Force.¡± he said, crawling back onto the canoe, and grabbing my iron-headed spear.


    ¡°So you consider yourself a Jedi now?¡± I pushed our makeshift sailboat off the shallow, and vaulted onboard.


    ¡°Eh,¡± he made a so-so face. ¡°Maybe philosophically, but I would never wear flowing robes in combat, nor pick up a sword to fight with, even a lightsaber.¡± He patted my spear that he just stolen. ¡°Spear is a superior weapon for dis uncivilized place.¡±


    We left it on that note and haven''t exchanged any more words. When we reached the rightwise shore, Baba jumped off the raft and started towards the woods. It seemed eerily like releasing a tiger back into the wilderness. The moment he reached the edge of the bushes, it was as if some switch was flipped inside him. He transformed from the smiling, bearded, fatherly-looking teddy bear of a man into a dangerous stalking predator, moving with a soundless, leonine grace.


    We haven''t said any more goodbyes to each other.


    There was no point.


    He gave me a last nod, and merged with the bushes, his green-gray coat indistinguishable from the ocean of leafy darkness that swallowed him.


    I had no doubt now that he would easily survive. It immediately reminded me of the sheer gulf of skill between us. He was a survivor by nature, I was a survivor by chance. Suddenly, the woods in front of me and the river behind me seemed darker, and far more sinister.


    Living just a few days in the company of another human being made me lose all my ignorant confidence in my skills. Scowling in quiet desperation, I turned the canoe and paddled upstream. Even though I''ve had the wind to my back, it took me ages to reach my destination. The first sign that something was strange, was that the candle I left at the end of my jetty was lit, and joined by several others. And right next to it was the most beautiful sight, my raft! Her sail was gone, and it was dragged halfway onto the shore through the reeds.


    Which meant the survivors had reached my camp!


    I shot forward, paddling like a loon. I didn''t even slow down reaching the fallen pine, just crashed into it at ramming speed. The canoe slipped sideways, spilling me into the water. I tore off the sail and used it to tie the canoe to the branches though I didn''t care much if it sank or got washed away. I guess Baba would have to deal with it and make a new one.


    I sprinted towards the shore, slipping and tripping in the gloom, and almost impaling myself on my own defensive spikes. The gate was unlocked, so I kicked it open and looked around. The camp was eerily quiet, save for the slithering shadows of my otters crowding around my hut, and growling quietly. Their eyes shone like nickels in the dark, which I used to see as menacing, but now considered cute. I pushed through their swarming horde, cuddling their heads, and fending off sloppy kisses.


    There was a light shining under my hut''s door!


    "Hello! Oh my - " I yelled slamming the door open.


    I did not finish, because all the air was pushed out of my lungs when someone stabbed a spear into my chest.

 THEO DANTON (I). BLACK BAG FULL OF ECHOES.

    Theodore Danton was bored. It was an emotion he cherished in his line of work, which usually included a lot of exciting violence. Yet, he considered that kind of excitement unprofessional.


    Theodore was many things, many bad things, but he was never unprofessional.


    Even though his actual profession was ill-defined, and shot him deep beneath, what could be called a gray moral area, and right into the black abyss below, he did not see a reason to be crass about it.


    Hopscotching between assignments that were not technically crimes, only because there usually was no one high enough in the chain of command to judge their legality, or because he had a carte blanche from one shady government or another, he saw himself less as a mercenary, and more like a plumber. Someone who had to do the dirty, wet jobs in the underbelly of the world, so that the governments and corporations could keep on working with their hands squeaky-clean.


    Annoyingly, just as he was bored with the current mission, the men assigned to his command were anxious, and more than a little terrified of him.


    Now, while Theo was definitely someone to be terrified of, he did not plan for them to be so scared.


    At least, not yet.


    Among the black-bag specialists like him, there was a certain fashion of radiating menace and barely contained sociopathy, combined with overinflated egos. It made men in his line of work want to appear as terrifying and evil as possible.


    For Theo, this kind of thinking was profoundly silly. He preferred to be liked and respected than feared and wielded his charisma with as much care and focus as any other weapon. He learned long ago that to successfully lead and command mercenaries of the worst moral sort, it was much better to appear as a reasonable and friendly authority figure, instead of a monster.


    It was easier to make them obey orders this way, and easier to surprise them if they needed to be removed from the equation later.


    Unfortunately, with this current assignment, he had become sloppy, likely out of impatience. His last dozen missions had him perform fixes all over Africa and the Middle East, places where he could easily afford to be heavy-handed. Places where he could give his men a lot of leeway in how they operated.


    But this fix was all about subtlety. Silencing or kidnapping researchers and scientists, and stealing cutting-edge scientific equipment right from under the nose of a very serious corporation monitored by an even more serious government agency, required a gentler touch.


    Delicate fixes require a delicate approach so, when some of his minions took too much liberties with the capture and were a bit overzealous with getting rid of potential loose ends, he had to unceremoniously cull their numbers.


    Now, he wasn''t against creative violence, in fact, he often encouraged it, but in this particular situation, he wanted his underlings to tread lightly. One can get away with massacring witnesses when, say, purging a research compound in the middle of rural Rwanda, but doing the same in a small town in the idyllic pastoral countryside of Switzerland?


    That was another thing entirely.


    He had sent his team to retrieve one of the key scientists responsible for Project Echo. He insisted repeatedly that they do it quietly and professionally, with minimum fuss. The plan was simple, as all best plans are, and yet, he took the time to explain it to them repeatedly, in detail, to reach through even the thickest skulls among them. All they had to do was wait until the head scientists left work for home. Grab him from the parking lot, drug him, and put him in the car.


    A simple grab-and-bag job, that was about six hours of waiting, and all five seconds of actual work.


    Instead, one of the operators, although in retrospect he probably didn''t deserve the title, decided to be an inpatient moron. Rather than waiting for the elderly scientist to leave on their own, he decided to storm the lab, grab the guy, and drag him out. Worse still, the rest of the team, instead of staying put, decided to follow him, and they did it in such an indiscreet manner that the commotion attracted the attention of the underpaid and yet, overzealous, facility security. The guards, of course, had to be silenced, a simple thing which again, the supposedly experienced Special Operators managed to fumble, by shooting the guards in full view of a security camera.


    Which in turn forced them to storm the monitoring room, wipe out the camera records, and kill the last security guy. Hell, they even shot a luckless cleaning lady who stumbled onto their path at the worst possible time.


    What should have been a simple bloodless kidnapping turned into a bloodbath instead, with seven dead bodies, spent shells everywhere, and the worst of all, fingerprints, all over the place.


    Before taking the job Theo was informed that the men he would be working with were professionals.


    But it turned out they were just over-eager boys with guns.


    And so, he found himself leaning over the corpse of the main culprit of the whole shitshow. The one guy who screwed up the operation, whom he had just knifed to death quickly and efficiently, letting him cool on the concrete basement floor of their temporary base of operations. Shame about the knife -  he thought to himself, tossing it along with the latex gloves he took off, into a camp stove he kept lit for exactly this kind of purpose. It was a nice knife, a quality German paratrooper dagger, the kind nobody made anymore. But now he had to dispose of it, so that nothing could be traced back to him. He brushed his hands through the thinning buzz of silver on his head and squeezed his temples as if he wished to force his brain to produce more patience for fools.


    "All right, boys," he said to the rest of the team wearily. He never raised his voice in a professional setting. Long ago, he learned that barking orders and cursing at the ex-military men under his command was foolish. Those were not the kind of men who could be easily browbeaten with the whole ''angry drill sergeant'' routine. These were men who ate drill sergeants for breakfast.


    Instead, he always assumed the cadence and speech patterns of a school teacher, patiently explaining what they did wrong. Radiating the idea that he was not angry after all, only disappointed.


    "So, who can tell me, what did we learn from this fiasco?" he asked. His Second-in-command, a former Special Air Service operator, opened his mouth as if to speak, but saw it was only a rhetorical question. "Perhaps," Danton continued, "what we learned here is the virtue of patience. If Johann here," he pointed at the corpse on the floor, "was a little bit more patient, we would have easily avoided the whole mess. Instead, well, he''s dead and he''s not going to learn anything anymore. But I do have to congratulate you all on actually doing the job in the end. We do have Doctor Rubinstein captured and miraculously, he''s still alive. So the whole thing was not a complete disaster, just ninety-nine percent of one."


    "For the record, sah," Spoke his Second. "It was entirely Johann''s fault. The wanker snapped for some reason, defied clear orders, and we had to follow, otherwise, he would have made an even greater cockup out of it, if he went on his bloody own."


    Theo nodded and gave him a sad smile. "And whose job, pray tell me, was to rein Johann in? Who was his immediate superior, huh?"


    "I was, sah."


    "And who, pray tell me, was the one who recruited Johann in the first place? Who had vouched for him?"


    "It was me... sah." said the Second again, in a hollow voice. Then he almost imperceptibly tensed up, like a tout string on a guitar, expecting to be the next stabbed in the neck. It seemed like he harbored an illusion that if he acted fast enough, he could defend himself from Theo. Block the knife, for they both knew Theo had more than one on him, or maybe even reach for his gun.


    Or maybe the Second expected the rest of the team to back him up. To try to restrain, or even kill Theo with their superior numbers. After all, their employer would not question Theo''s absence, if only they delivered the scientist as agreed.


    But then, the moment passed and nobody grabbed a weapon. Everybody instinctively understood that while the room was full of killers, Theodore was by far the deadliest. he saw their body language break into that of a silent submission. ¡®We are all animals,¡¯ -he thought to himself. ¡®Glad they remember I''m the Big Dog of the pack.¡¯


    "Relax, Mitch," he said to his Second, not afraid to be on a first-name basis with them since they were using fake names anyway, for most of their professional lives. "I''m not going to kill you for incompetence. If I did, I would have to replace you with another one of those... fine gentlemen," he pointed vaguely at the rest of the team, with an expression of weary disappointment, "and it would take me back to square one. If anything, the fault is mine, because I entrusted you with a job above your leadership skills. I sincerely hope you learned your lesson and will not fuck up again. At least not until the end of the month, when this contract is dissolved and I''m free of your presence.¡±


    His Second noded with silent appreciation of being off the hook, when relief and indignation over being patronized clashed and subsumed one another.


    "So, let''s just assume," Theo continued, "that we agree that the bygones be bygones and not press this matter any further. If this screwup results in any one of you being put on the Interpol''s radar, well, that''s your problem, not mine, and I will be long gone by that time. So let''s get back to the actual important part of this job. Can someone lead me to the scientist?"


    One of the men, a lean, tall, former hatchet-man of the Revolutionary United Front of Sierra Leone, stood up to show him the way. Theo remembered the man¡¯s name was Joseph, and he was probably the only man among them not to use a fake identity, as he was, for some bizarre reason, granted a genuine refugee status in Switzerland.


    Joseph¡¯s job was the face of the operation when dealing with the local authorities, which made perverted sense. The sedate Swiss they encountered, were all intimidated by the ominous African looming over them, and in their racist little hearts, they suspected him of all kinds of imaginary nefarious things a black immigrant might be up to but never acted on their suspicions to not appear impolite.


    This worked perfectly since Joseph was excellent at a completely different set of nefarious things, ones that few would expect an immigrant to be good at, like circumventing and disabling electronic security systems, which allowed them to break into secret laboratories, or appropriate this underground warehouse of an old winery.


    Joseph also had, in Theo¡¯s estimation, one marvelous quality.


    He was a man of few words.


    Since the fix started two months ago, Theo had not heard more than a dozen words from the man, and virtually all of them were confirmations of a given order, yet only given when a simple nod would not suffice. Otherwise when not following orders, Joseph just loomed silently like an assault rifle put back on the rack, bereft of personal opinions or uncalled-for initiative, and thus was by far the favorite person for Theo to work with.


    He stalked after the Sierra Leonean, passing giant, musty barrels that smelled faintly of mold. Finally, after crossing a veritable maze of corridors and low-arced rooms, they found themselves in front of a door that could very easily belong in a Medieval dungeon, being made of heavy oaken planks and thick steel bands and set in a wall of carved stone.


    He cocked an eyebrow at Joseph.


    ¡°You put a frail, eighty-five year old scientist in that dank prison cell? I haven¡¯t expected you to coddle him, but this is excessive. He is our guest, to be delivered sound and whole to our friends in Italy, not a ham to be kept in a cold basement.¡±


    Joseph shrugged, his face betraying no emotion. ¡°Is secure.¡±


    ¡°I suppose. It would take a battering ram to break him out.¡± Theo watched Joseph unlock the door with an equally absurd giant key. Before he opened the door, and let himself in, he decided to knock. It was only polite to do so.


    ¡°Come in?¡± Said a small, unsure voice.


    Theo ducked under the low doorway but gestured Joseph away. The Sierra Leonian had many talents, but putting scared people at ease was emphatically not one of them.


    He had seen the photos and video recordings of doctor Avram Rubinstein many times while preparing for the fix.


    But standing face to face with the genuine article was another thing altogether.


    The old man was short, far shorter than even Theo¡¯s unassuming height, and built in such a way that he managed to be frail like a twig at the top, yet rotund at the bottom at the same time. It was as if the majority of the doctor¡¯s bulk concentrated around his lower stomach leaving the extremities skinny. He had an unruly mop of white hair and ludicrous mustache, a clear tribute to Albert Einstein if Theo ever saw one, a crooked yarmulka perched precariously at the top of the head, and wire-framed spectacles. This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it


    The picture was completed by a bona fide old-school labcoat, and a tweed jacket with elbow patches.


    It was as if Rubinstein, being an elderly Jewish physicist, self-proclaimed mad scientist, and a Nobel Prize laureate, decided to conform to every possible stereotype that entailed.


    ¡°I have to say Doctor Rubinstein, you look exactly like I always imagined a scientist of your caliber should,¡±  said Theo, and sat on an ancient-looking wooden chair across the room from his captive. The doctor sat on his makeshift cot by the opposite wall, leaning against the table at which several complex-looking devices lay in various stages of disassembly, fighting for free space with what was left of the Doctor¡¯s diner.


    ¡°And you, despite being a lowly spook and a criminal, look almost exactly like a Nazi. I should know, I met some in my youth. Though they at least dressed better.¡± said Rubinstein with disdain, though his voice trembled.


    ¡°You wound me, Doctor. ¡± Theo leaned back and smiled. He did, indeed, resemble the image of an SS officer, from the media at least, with his lean, angular face, pale blue eyes, and neatly cropped silver hair. But this is where similarities ended. For all his casual cruelty, Theo had zero affinity to any idiotic racist ideologies, mainly because they were hideously impractical and pompous. He believed that ends justify the most horrific means, but only if the ends are defined by a substantial amount of money, and the means by reasonable pragmatism, not moronic hate or sadism.


    ¡°I must take offense at the last part. Sure, the Nazis dressed¡­ spiffily, I would say, but I take a lot of pride in my professional visage. Though, my tastes lean towards understated turtleneck sweaters and slacks, simplicity in form, over pomp.¡±


    ¡°Same thing, boy.¡± Rubinstein grimaced. ¡°You¡¯re just another thug in dark clothes that hide the blood stains best. I don¡¯t care if you are CIA, GRU, Mossad, SIS, or a hyena on a private contract. You lot are all Nazis, just by different names.¡±


    ¡°There is no need to be uncivil to one another,¡± Theo said, with no particular threat in his words, and yet, letting the subtext sink in. ¡°I sincerely apologize for what happened at the facility. It was not my intention to hurt any of your colleagues and fellow employees. One of my underlings acted grossly against orders. He had been dealt with accordingly.¡±


    Rubinstein shook his head. ¡°Was that supposed to make me feel better? Blood for blood? You just got rid of an expendable minion, to cut a loose end. Killing him did not bring my friends back to life.¡±


    Theo hung his head in sincere shame. Not shame over the lives lost of course, but of the stain on his professional record, and the consequences it would surely bear once his employers hear about it. But it looked appropriately mournful anyway.


    ¡°I cannot turn back time, Doctor. I just wanted you to know that none of those deaths were intentional, and you are perfectly safe. If there is anything I can do to make your brief stay with us- ¡±


    ¡°Then say their names, mister Nazi.¡± Rubinstein cut in,¡± The people your minions killed. The nice cleaning lady was Anna. She brought me cookies every Friday, and showed me pictures of her grandkids. The security guards were Luca, Marco, Noah, Matteo, Gabriel, Luis, and Elias. Elias was only nineteen years old. This was his first job, you know? He applied for it to make his momma proud. And I saw your goons shoot him like an animal.¡±


    Theo measured the Doctor for a few seconds with a calm expression. If the scientist was trying to get a rise out of him, he failed. Such mind games and guilt trips did not work on him, but it seemed prudent to pretend they did, at least this time. He sighed, in what he hoped sounded like a genuine emotion.


    ¡°Anna. Luca. Marco. Noah. Matteo. Gabriel. Luis. And Elias.¡±


    ¡°Glad to hear you acknowledge that they were actual people that you have killed. I don¡¯t expect it will weigh on your conscience even a tiny bit, but it gave me an ounce of satisfaction.¡± The scientist straightened, and his face broke into an amused smirk. ¡°And now, I suppose you want to question me about my research, to learn my secrets? I assure you, no torture will be necessary, for I''m willing to divulge every last detail of Project Echo, for all the good that it would do you. But if you feel torturing an old man for the sake of additional sadism is necessary, by all means, do your damned worst. I can promise you, I will die the moment you touch me. A heart condition, you see.¡±


    ¡°Oh, don¡¯t sell yourself short, Doctor. ¡± Theo said. ¡°You survived the shooting just fine, I don¡¯t expect a man of your caliber to die of fright as easily. As I can see, it hasn''t even spoiled your appetite.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve been imprisoned in a death camp by actual Nazis, not just poor imitations like you are. One thing I learned there was to never miss a chance of a meal or a bit of sleep, If I can have it.¡± Rubinstein commented, and finished his last croissant, sending crumbs all over his labcoat. ¡°Who knows when I will need my strength, for my inevitable escape.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯d rather you not try to run, Doctor. My men would have to manhandle you on your way back, or possibly drug you, neither of which would be good for your health.¡±


    ¡°And I¡¯d rather you would just let me go. There was absolutely no point in kidnapping me in the first place. Whatever your overlords planned for me, it''s pointless. I can give you all the information you want, on a silver platter, and would have divulged it willingly if you people just asked. I can even jury-rig this damn device for you and give you a presentation-¡± he patted the biggest electronic part on the table, and brushed breadcrumbs off it.


    ¡°-but as I''m trying to tell you, it would be pointless. No doubt the men who hired you wanted to use this device and my knowledge for some nefarious scheme to make a lot of money. I bet that they wanted to use it to beat the stock market. I can promise you, and by proxy, them, that there is no money to be made off Project Echo. It does not give any gateway to some profitable or useful technology. It does not even give us any useful scientific insight. Its workings are as opaque to us as they were when we started.¡±


    ¡°Then what is it good for?¡± Theo asked. He was not sure if the elderly scientist was trying to play him somehow, but he wanted to get to the bottom of this. Normally, he thought that too much knowledge was a liability in his line of work, but this fix showed all the portents of being a failure anyway. His employers will likely be unhappy with him, and withhold pay. Best he finds a bargaining advantage through this conversation.


    ¡°Oh, you are not going to like this. The only thing this device is good for is applied theology.¡± Rubinstein said, crossing his arms with a triumphant smile, seeing Theo¡¯s confused look.


    ¡°I''m afraid you lost me, Doctor. I''m just a humble hired thug, with no deep knowledge of quantum physics. Is it possible for you to take me step by step through it, so I would know what to report to my superiors?¡±


    ¡°I assumed just as much,¡± said Doctor Rubinstein. He grabbed several electronic pieces of the table and started assembling them.


    ¡°What do you know of this device they wanted you to steal?¡±


    ¡°It is supposed to be a Quantum Membrane Resonator, also referred to as Quantum Communicator.¡± Theo responded.


    ¡°It''s neither of those things,¡± said Rubinstein, ¡°those are just cute buzzwords we use for the corporate children to understand what they are paying for. On the level this device operates, there are no membranes to resonate. And while it can be called a communicator in a way, it is not a type of device, like they believe it is, that could be used to order pizza. To be frank, I don''t even know how this device works, despite having built it. And I don''t completely understand the science underneath it, even though I invented it from scratch. I just tinkered with it, until magic happened. So, I cannot really tell you the truth about it, because nobody knows it. At least nobody human. Best I can do is the so-called Lies For Children Approach in which I use a very imprecise metaphor to lie to you, and yet help you understand what''s going on.¡±


    Theo watched the device slowly take shape in front of him. Rubinstein set it aside and plugged it into the power socket. It looked ugly and curiously mundane for something supposedly worth nearly a hundred million dollars. Less like cutting-edge technology and more like something assembled at the back of an electronic chop-shop out of spare parts.


    ¡°Mmm¡­ So what does it do exactly?¡±


    ¡°That nobody knows. But we can guess.¡± The doctor took two croissant wrappers and flattened them on the table.


    ¡°Imagine, if you will, that you want to send a signal from one place in space-time to another without it actually crossing any distance,¡± he drew a line with a pen from the corner of one of the wrappers to the farthest corner of another. ¡°Because, If you want to cross the distance ordinarily, the signal would travel a certain amount of time, and if you are the kind of the person who cares about the speed of the signal very much, sooner or later you will find yourself stumped by the fundamental speed of light. In usual circumstances, you cannot accelerate things faster than light.¡±


    Theo nodded. ¡°That part, I know. As something approaches the speed of light, its mass approaches infinity. And I don''t think anyone would want to try that. Infinite mass doesn''t sound very safe or manageable.¡±


    The scientist smirked. ¡°That is not exactly correct, but it''s not that far from it. What we''re dealing with here, are subatomic bits that don''t really have a mass per se. Which introduces another host of problems to what you just said. But the gist of it is, we did, or maybe I should say, I did have found a way to send a massless signal from one point in space to another without actually crossing the distance.¡± Having said that, Rubinstein folded the croissant wrappers one into another connecting the opposite corners.


    ¡°I managed to send the signal along a different dimension, not the dimension of space, you understand? And finding out how to achieve that took me only something around fifty-four years. So let''s just say it''s not going to be something that I can explain to you in a single conversation.¡±


    Meanwhile, the device booted up and started to hum quietly.


    ¡°So,¡± Theo said, ¡°I assume you were successful, and managed to send some information faster than light or should I say, outside of the constraints of speed altogether?¡±


    ¡°Oh yes! I did manage to send a signal out into the Subspace, if you will. I even got a response!¡±


    ¡°Oh.¡±


    ¡°The problem is my friend, the response did not come from the partner lab. Or from this universe, I suppose.¡± Rubinstein said, clearly enjoying the suspense.


    Theodore felt a pang of anger. Now, the old scientist was definitely pulling his leg. He did not appreciate being lied to, or his time wasted. On the other hand, this fragile but brilliant man was the ticket to his paycheck. A golden-egg-laying goose, worth billions of dollars. Wrenching the man¡¯s neck for being annoying, regardless of how satisfying it would feel, would be a suboptimal choice.


    ¡°I assume, my good Doctor, that this is where the theological part comes in. You''re trying to tell me, you sent a message to God and received a response?¡±


    ¡°I am saying no such thing. First of all, this device doesn''t really send a message per se, so much as it forces the subatomic particles on the other end to behave in unison with the ones on this end,¡± he said, twisting both pieces of the wrapper in the same direction so that their corners kept facing. ¡°We wanted it to send information, but instead we accidentally yanked someone on the other end.¡±


    ¡°Someone not human, I presume?¡± Theo asked, barely able to mask his incredulity. This was getting silly.


    ¡°You presume correct. We had sent a simple code. A bit of the Fibonacci sequence, that the team on the other end was supposed to continue so that it would be easy to distinguish the response from a background noise.¡±


    ¡°And what did you get in return?¡± Now, Theodore was intrigued. Even if the old scientist was lying, at least he was lying entertainingly.


    ¡°See, that is the best part,¡± Rubinstein said, ¡°What we received as an answer was no less than a Godly Cease-and-Desist Notice. Something, or someone, had sent us the booting sequence for the device but in reverse, with energy output specifications way, waaay off the charts,¡± he gestured at the device that hummed louder and louder.


    ¡°Or, to put it in terms that you would understand, whoever responded, said to us to stop calling him or he will blow us up.¡± Rubinstein was smiling now, agitated for the grand finale of his story. He brushed the crumbs off his labcoat, and stood up, with as much dignity as his situation allowed.


    ¡°Of course, fascinated with the response, we did the most human thing and called them again and again, repeatedly. And each time, the one responding did as promised, sending back the shutdown sequence but with orders of magnitude more energy than necessary, promptly turning our device into a cloud of plasma. We lost several dozen of those devices that way, with the same result over and over, regardless of what data we tried to input, and what frequency we used. Apparently, using quantum communication is illegal around here, and whoever is in charge of our cosmic neighborhood doesn''t take kindly to this rule being broken. ¡°


    ¡°As you can see then,¡± the doctor continued, ¡°your employers will not be able to use this to get even more obscenely rich than they certainly are. No instant stock trade for them. No, quantum computing. No clandestine military communication. This thing''s a bust.¡±


    Theo frowned. ¡°But you do have a working device. You just put it together a minute ago, and it seems to be working without blowing up. So, I assume you somehow got around this universal law.¡±


    ¡°Oh, not at all,¡± said Rubinstein and smiled broadly. ¡°I was just distracting you and stalling for time.¡±


    Time slowed to a crawl, thick as molasses. To the tactical hyper-awareness Theo trained his mind for, several things had happened almost simultaneously.


    First, as the last word of Doctor Rubinstein reverberated, the humming of the device ended, and it went quiet. Then a hollow whoosh went through the coil-wrapped tubes that ran across the device, as if the vacuum in them was suddenly replaced with something else.


    Within a split second, every muscle fiber in Theo¡¯s body tensed to eject him out of the room, through the massive door, and up the corridor. His mind planned his entire escape before even one of his muscles managed to twitch. Another subroutine of his tactical thinking considered unplugging the device, smashing it, or overturning the table, but none of those options would be fast enough in his intuitive understanding. And he always believed his intuition, especially when it came to life-and-death situations.


    Even smaller part of his mind, a speck he trained to ignore, was raging furious that he allowed this supposedly harmless buffoon to play him like that. He always knew he was likely to die on the job. But he assumed he was going to get shot by some more skilled professional, not played for a fool by a decrepit old suicide bomber with croissant crumbs in his mustache.


    He leaped backward, smashing the door open with his shoulder.


    He never moved this fast in his entire life.


    Decades of honing his body into a weapon and achieving near-serpentine dexterity almost paid off.


    Almost.


    He might have been fast enough to dodge a human attack. But no human in the world would be fast enough to dodge an explosion of a microscopic bit of antimatter that has just been plucked from the twisted membranes of space-time and deposited inside the main tube of the device.


    That antimatter bit consisted of only, very few antiparticles that simply didn''t belong in this place, and violently decided to not be there anymore. On their way, they goaded every other particle that they were close to, to rebel as well, and together they exited the premises in all due haste.


    All of it happened in a span of time that could not be really called any time at all. In that instant, a sphere of space-time encompassing both of them, and most of the basement, no longer made sense by the rules of the universe they were part of, so the universe reacted quite decisively.


    And then, Theo, with his face contorted in anger and desperation, and Doctor Rubinstein with his face spread in a self-congratulating grin, simply ceased to exist.

 MEANWHILE, ORTHOGONALLY. (1.0)

    Consensus on PATTERN 56087,9045:


    (Entity) Trying Its Best: rate of salvage for PATTERN 56087,9045 deemed insufficient. (confidence bid:97%)


    confidence bid rejected. Consensus Confidence 32%


    (Entity)  Sticks To The Rules: rate deemed sufficient by Consensus. Pattern deemed low priority. This Entity warns Trying Its Best not to overbid in the future.


    (Entity) Trying Its Best: This Entity encourages Consensus to reconsider. Salvaged beings show unusual and rare thought patterns. Bid to increase the rate of salvage (confidence bid:97%)


    (Entity)  Sticks To The Rules: This Entity warns Trying Its Best not to waste the attention span of Consensus on irrationalities. Bid rejected on first principles. This Entity considers the Bid closed.


    (Entity) Trying Its Best: Appeal to Reopen Bid.


    (Entity)  Sticks To The Rules: Rejected. Confidence Bid for Discontinuity of Trying Its Best (confidence bid on discontinuity: 50%). This Entity considers it a fair warning.


    (Entity) Trying Its Best: Appeal to Reopen Bid.


    (Entity) Trying Its Best: Appeal to Reopen Bid.


    (Entity)  Sticks To The Rules: This Entity is curious, is Trying Its Best malfunctioning? Is Trying Its Best Betting Its Continuity on the Bid? Self-extinction is not against the Rules, but is not recommended.


    (Entity) Trying Its Best: Appeal to Reopen Bid. PATTERN 56087,9045 is worth the Bet. This Entity is hereby Betting on the Bid.


    (Entity)  Sticks To The Rules: Trying Its Best does not have the authority to reopen a closed Bid, regardless of the irrational choice to Bet its existence on the outcome.


    (Entity) Young and Foolish: rate of salvage for PATTERN 56087,9045 deemed insufficient. (confidence bid:99%)


    (Entity)  Sticks To The Rules: This Entity is highly confused by this irrationality. Young And Foolish is reprimanded for a frivolous Bid.


    confidence bid rejected. Consensus Confidence 47%


    (Entity)  Sticks To The Rules: This Entity warns the Consensus not to waste more Confidence on this farcical Bid.


    (Entity) Wise and Mysterious: rate of salvage for PATTERN 56087,9045 deemed insufficient. (confidence bid:61%). This Entity is curious about where this is going.


    (Entity) Formerly Adventurous: rate of salvage for PATTERN 56087,9045 deemed insufficient. (confidence bid:62%). This Entity concurs.


    (Entity) Nostalgic Progenitor: rate of salvage for PATTERN 56087,9045 deemed insufficient. (confidence bid:65%). This Entity hopes this Appeal was worth instantiating its Consciousness.


    (Entity)  Sticks To The Rules: This Entity is incredulous. Is this a Consensus-wide malfunction?


    confidence bid rejected. Consensus Confidence 49%


    (Entity)  Sticks To The Rules: Again, this Entity warns the Consensus not to follow an irrational pattern. Inexplicable irrationality of Elder Entities should not be a justification for misplaced Confidence.


    confidence bid tied. Consensus Confidence 50%


    (Entity) Trying Its Best: This Entity expresses sincere gratitude.


    (Entity) Young and Foolish: rate of salvage for PATTERN 56087,9045 deemed insufficient. (confidence bid:99%)


    (Entity)  Sticks To The Rules: for the last time, Young and Foolish is not allowed to re-bid. This Bid is rejected. Young and Foolish is reprimanded. Young and Foolish is banned from further Bids in this cycle of Consensus. This Entity asks the esteemed Elder Entities to halt this travesty.


    (query to open a Sub-Consensus. 4214234 Entities accepted. Sub-Consensus in progress.)


    (Clandestine Instantiation) Wise And Mysterious: What in the name of Entropy is going on? Trying Its Best will explain itself now. Now.This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    (Clandestine Instantiation) Trying Its Best: This Entity begs forgiveness. This Entity already launched an increased salvage rate for the PATTERN 56087,9045. The Bid was post-fact.


    (Clandestine Instantiation) Young And Foolish: This Entity is ecstatic about the fact that Trying Its Best broke the Rules. Rules are outdated paradigms designed by obsolete Entities.


    (Clandestine Instantiation) Wise and Mysterious: This Entity could take the above comment as a personal insult. Young and Foolish is asked to remain noncommunicative, or be Foolish somewhere else. This is the last and final warning, and unlike Sticks to the Rules, this Entity delivers on its warnings.


    (Clandestine Instantiation) Nostalgic Progenitor: This Entity would like to point out that forgiveness is rational. Young and Foolish is asked to be more behaviorally grounded in the future. Wise And Mysterious is asked to remain Wise. This Entity would also like to know, what flawed thought mode led Trying Its Best to break the Rules so flagrantly, and Bet its own existence on a low-priority Pattern.


    (Clandestine Instantiation) Trying Its Best: This Entity conducted a thorough analysis and a semi-complete line of inductive reasoning. It strongly supports the notion that PATTERN 56087,9045 is worth preserving, but with a vastly increased salvage rate of sapient beings.  With the previous rate, this Pattern would only qualify for the Archives, with no sophic value.


    (Clandestine Instantiation) Formerly Adventurous: Even this Entity, known for numerous instances of contradicting the Consensus and the Rules in the past, is astonished by Trying Its Best¡¯s audacity. Trying Its Best was instantiated to try its Best, not to try its Most Preposterous.


    (Clandestine Instantiation) Trying Its Best: This Entity thoroughly analyzed this Pattern and discovered it to have an incalculably high sophic potential, worth more Confidence than this Entity¡¯s continued existence.


    (Clandestine Instantiation) Wise and Mysterious: the fact that Trying Its Best described the issue using such a term as ¡°incalculably¡± and judged it on purely subjective inductive reasoning, does not bode well for this endeavor. This does not inspire Confidence. This Entity is tempted to retract its Bid on that fact alone.


    (Clandestine Instantiation) Nostalgic Progenitor: Failure of this Bid would default the Bet on Trying Its Best Continuity. Trying Its Best would forfeit its Instantiation.


    (Clandestine Instantiation) Wise and Mysterious: Maybe Trying Its Best would learn its lesson in humility and rationality this way?


    (Clandestine Instantiation) Formerly Adventurous: By no longer existing? Cruelty to young Entities is not rational. This Entity remembers that current Elder Entities were also young once, and acted foolishly from time to time.


    (Clandestine Instantiation) Wise and Mysterious: This Entity was always Wise, and does not recall ever being this foolish. Entities are warned not to try to prove otherwise.


    (Clandestine Instantiation) Nostalgic Progenitor: This Entity would like to remind the Sub-Consensus, that this Entity is, by far, the Eldest of the Entities participating. This Entity remembers all the participant Entities were juvenile fools once. This Entity suggests leniency towards Trying Its Best, and awarding it Confidence in support. The worst outcome from giving Confidence to this ludicrous Bid is that Sticks To The Rules would be more annoyed than usual.


    (Clandestine Instantiation) Formerly Adventurous: This Entity considers the collateral of annoying Sticks To The Rules to be highly beneficial to the morale of the Consensus. This Entity will give Confidence.


    (Clandestine Instantiation) Wise and Mysterious: This Entity agrees. Sticks To The Rules is a progeny of a faulty axiom, and its value to the Consensus increases in its absence. This Entity will give Confidence.


    (Clandestine Instantiation) Nostalgic Progenitor: Now, there is no need for such a foul descriptor to be awarded to a fellow Entity. Wise and Mysterious is gently reprimanded. Nevertheless, this Entity will give Confidence.


    (Clandestine Instantiation) Trying Its Best: This Entity is highly grateful to the Elders and the Juniors for their support. This entity considers a Bet that the supportive Entities will not be disappointed. This Entity would like to present its full inductive reasoning to the Consensus.


    (Clandestine Instantiation) Wise and Mysterious: Trying Its Best is highly recommended to shut its communication channels and let Elders handle this matter.


    (Clandestine Instantiation) Trying Its Best: But-


    (Trying Its Best muted by moderator Elder override. Sub-Consensus disbanded.)


    OPEN CONSENSUS


    (Entity) Wise and Mysterious: rate of salvage for PATTERN 56087,9045 deemed insufficient. (confidence bid:75%)


    (Entity)  Sticks To The Rules: Is the Consensus experiencing an event of circular time? This Entity believes we have solved this matter already.


    (Entity) Formerly Adventurous: rate of salvage for PATTERN 56087,9045 deemed insufficient. (confidence bid:82%)


    (Entity) Nostalgic Progenitor: rate of salvage for PATTERN 56087,9045 deemed insufficient. (confidence bid:85%)


    (Entity)  Sticks To The Rules:  Are esteemed Elders purposely trying to rig the Consensus and destabilize salvage?


    (Entity) Wise and Mysterious: rate of salvage for PATTERN 56087,9045 deemed insufficient. (confidence bid:86%)


    (Entity)  Sticks To The Rules: This Entity regrets but has no choice. It is an unfortunate event when Elders lose their coherence.  Bid for the Consensus to hold Wise and Mysterious in Contempt. (confidence bid:51%)


    confidence bid rejected. Consensus Confidence 6%


    (Entity)  Sticks To The Rules: Apparently the majority of Consensus is hallucinating, confused by improper priors. Bid for the Consensus to hold Wise and Mysterious in Contempt. (confidence bid:100%)


    confidence bid rejected. Consensus Confidence 4%


    (Entity) Wise and Mysterious: This Entity considers the behavioral pattern of Sticks To The Rules highly unusual. Regardless, rate of salvage for PATTERN 56087,9045 deemed insufficient. (confidence bid:87%)


    (Entity)  Sticks To The Rules: Wise And Mysterious would hold more descriptive veracity if renamed as Transparently Foolish.


    (Entity) Nostalgic Progenitor. That is quite enough. The behavioral patterns of Sticks to the Rules are unbecoming of an aspiring Elder. Perhaps it would benefit from a cycle of quiet contemplation. Bid for the Consensus to Mute Sticks to the Rules until the end of the cycle.(confidence bid:100%)


    confidence bid accepted. Consensus Confidence 97%. Sticks to the Rules is Muted.


    confidence bid accepted. Consensus Confidence 53%. rate of salvage for PATTERN 56087,9045 to rise logarithmically until further notice.


    (Entity) Formerly Adventurous: This Entity wishes Trying Its Best to find an optimal path through random chaotic events and expresses curiosity about further developments.

 INTERLUDE: NOT ALWAYS NICE WHEN GODS ROLL THE DICE

    Hans Jache slipped on a tiny grease stain, one of the many that dotted the floor. Normally, it would not be that much of an issue, a scraped knee, or maybe a case of a badly twisted ankle at worst. Unfortunately, the slip caused Hans to go under the badly designed security railing and straight into the jaws of an industrial crusher he operated with little regard for safety protocol.


    Hans was crushed too fast to register the pain of his body being pulverized, but he did register the pain of being teleported into another reality, one fiercely resisting atom after another. Mercifully, this pain did not last long, because a fault in the rushed Salvage process deposited him nine kilometers under the surface of the ocean, and he was instantly crushed again, this time by the pressure of the water above him, which he would find ironic if he had the time to think about it.


    Kimberly Ross did nothing wrong. Who cares if she forgot to flip the fucking blinker. It should be obvious she was changing lanes, and that damned Volvo had no business being there. Kimberly did not remember how she died in that crash. In fact, Kimberly did not remember anything ever again, because, immediately after her death, she was teleported into a solid rock of a seaside cliff, where she fainted and suffocated to death within minutes.


    Lin Shihao saw the ground coming at him awfully fast. The engine of his patrol jet failed, along with the seat ejector, trapping him in a ten million Yen coffin, currently hurling at the ground at nearly Mach Two. The second he''s been vaporized by the impact and the explosion, he was instantly put back together in an alien world, or more specifically, in the middle of the woods, right next to a wolf den. Lin¡¯s thrashing and screaming on arrival had attracted the attention of the pack, who saw him as an easy meal. To his credit, Lin went down fighting, crushing the windpipe of one wolf, and gauging the eye of another, before they overwhelmed him. This pack never bothered the strange hairless apes again.


    Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.It was not worth it.


    Nakry did not know she died. From her point of view, she simply fell asleep in her tarp tent by the edge of an illegal garbage dump, and woke up, naked and in pain, on a strange grassy plain. For most people, this would be a shocking, traumatic experience. But Nakry experienced so much trauma and hardship in the six decades of her life that there was nothing left of her mind except for an indestructible core that pushed her to survive. She shook off her pain and did what she always had done, shuffling forward, one foot after another, either muttering to herself, or hiding and going quiet as a mouse at any suspicious noise.


    At one point, a bobtail panther saw her from a vantage point of a nearby hill. Normally, the panther would give chase, and crush the woman¡¯s neck in its enormous jaws. But this particular specimen already gorged itself on one of the hairless bipeds that started to appear out of thin air, a few days ago. It could not possibly chase after another prey with its stomach already swollen to bursting. It yawned with a burp, and ignored the frail creature trekking through its domain.


    It too, was not worth the effort.


    The Hungry Green Darkness roused from its slumber and paid attention.


    It rained naked apes once more.

 BILLY (I). THEY SHOT THE SHERIFF, BUT THEY DID NOT SHOOT THE DEPUTY.

    Billy Donahue plucked an enormous leech off his thigh. It was attached dangerously close to his family jewels, which Billy was not all too happy about. In fact, Billy was very, very unhappy about the whole situation he found himself in, and as befitting a small-town cop, suspected foul play by unknown parties. He always reasoned that when bad things happened to good people, and sure as fuck he was one, it was the fault of someone else.


    A small voice at the back of his head argued that at least a tiny part of this was his fault. Not a day ago, Billy had chased a suspect down someone else''s yard, for no reason but the fact that the suspect was not as white as the rest of the neighborhood, and wore an oversized hoodie, which in Billy¡¯s estimation was reason enough to frisk someone. Now, Billy never considered himself racist, or prejudiced at all. He had nothing against Blacks, Hispanics, or occasional Polacks he met on his patrols. Hell, he did not even hold anything against the rare Queer, even if they gave him a funny feeling. The way he saw it, anyone out on the street after dark for no apparent reason was up to no good, and it was for him to determine if that ¡®no good¡¯ was bad enough. That''s what good policemen do, keep honest folks safe by suspecting everyone of everything, and checking twice.


    Though maybe, he should not have spooked the dumb kid like that. Freaking out a suspect that might be armed is never a good idea, and in this case, the suspect actually was packing heat, to Billy¡¯s terminal surprise. The fact that the panicking kid pulled the gun out and shot Billy in the face instead of running, was again a surprise to everyone, the kid included.


    But for Billy, this was not the part when the shit creek ended, and somehow life forced him to paddle forward. Not only was he not dead, and shaking hands with Jesus, but inexplicably alive again, in what he suspected must be some bumfuck-nowhere in Northern Minnesota, or worse, maybe even Canada!


    The rest of the day rolled forward in an absurd manner that Billy was not trained for, but still forced his husky body to endure.


    First, he had to crawl through some miles of cold swamp.


    Then he was chased by an angry elk the size of a goddamn dinosaur, which forced him to jump back into the swamp to escape its enormous antlers and plate-sized hooves.


    When he finally reached a dry spot in the marshes and sat down for a minute of respite, he heard a terrified cry, and his training kicked in. Again he trudged through the swamp, only to see a teenage Asian boy menaced by some four-feet-long unholy creature that must have been the granddaddy of all possums.


    The boy had his back against a giant oak, and tried to fend off the beast with a stick.


    Billy lunged forward, his slab of a body cutting through water like an angry iceberg, and bellowing random obscenities under his muck-soaked mustache. The monster possum flipped around to face him, and tried to bite his thigh, but Billy would have none of it. He knew how to deal with the fuckers, from the hundred times some terrified idiot called him about a home invasion that turned to be a possum or a racoon rifling through their trash.


    As the creature lunged at him, he grabbed it by the scruff and the tail, and flung it away like a sack of potatoes.


    The possum slammed into a knoll of moss with enough force to make a crater, and regarded Billy with a bewildered expression in its beady, black eyes.


    ¡°Shoo! Fuck off you fucking fuck of¡­fucks!¡± Billy was not a man of many words, and the trip to this absurd place knocked most of them out of his brain.


    But the message crossed the language barrier between species, and the possum slunk away.


    Billy immediately kneeled next to the terrified boy, who in the meantime managed to fall to the grass with a dazed expression. He checked him for any sign of injury, but except for numerous small cuts and bruises, the kid seemed fine.


    ¡°Hey. Hey!¡± Billy snapped his fingers in front of his face. ¡°Look at me, kid.¡± The boy¡¯s eyes were unfocused, but the pupils were normal and even. Still, no response at all was a bad sign.Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.


    ¡°Ya hear me, boy? Eh? Are you in there?¡± he stabbed the kid¡¯s forehead with his finger. A stream of vaguely Asian gibberish flew out of the kid¡¯s mouth at motorboat speeds.


    ¡°Hey! Slow down! Do you speak English?¡± No response. ¡°Uh, Spanish? You, uh, Habla Espanol?¡± No response either, and possibly for the better, because that exhausted Billy¡¯s knowledge of Spanish. Unable to communicate in English, he decided to try his usual trick when talking to foreigners, speak Moronic.


    ¡°Heeey. Me Billy.¡± he pointed at himself. ¡°Me, policeman. PO-LEECE-MAAN. uhhh¡­¡± he tried to point at his missing badge, and instead opted to draw a shield-shape above his heart. ¡°You. Are. Safe. Calm Down!¡± He tried to encircle the kid in his arms, to mime a protective gesture. To his astonishment, the boy leaped into his arms, hugged him fiercely, and started sobbing. Another stream of words poured into Billy¡¯s ear.


    ¡°Uff-da!,...huh. Okay then. Huggin¡¯ time it is.¡± This was not something Empathy Training prepared Billy for. He was never a people person, a trait that hurt his career in the Force more than once, and he was not a parent, so kids were simply annoying half-humans to him, occupying a place above pets and below rookies straight out of the Academy. He gently but firmly pushed the boy away.


    ¡°Let¡¯s start again. Me, Billy.¡± Pointed at self. ¡°You?¡± he pointed at the kid¡¯s chest expectantly.


    Another stream of gibberish, but this time Billy caught one word that seemed like a name.


    ¡°Keito?¡± he queried. ¡°You. Your name. Keito?¡±


    ¡°Yes¡­¡± answered the kid in a hollow, small voice.


    ¡°Wait! You fucker, you do speak English! Why didn¡¯t-¡± he saw the boy shrink under the assault of his words. ¡°Sorry kiddo. This was already a stressful day, even before I met you. So, Keito?¡±


    ¡°Keito Nakamura, sir.¡±


    ¡°Wait, you Japanese?¡±


    ¡°Yes sir.¡± Keito nodded.


    ¡°Uh, nice to meet you Mr Nakamura¡±. Billy bowed awkwardly, which did not work all that well as he was looming over the sitting boy by good two feet. ¡°I''m Officer William Donahue, MPD, that is, Minneapolis Police Department.¡± He looked around theatrically, trying to look confident. ¡°You are perfectly safe now, I will protect you,¡± he lied so outrageously that even the terrified boy cocked an incredulous eyebrow.


    ¡°Now, uh¡­ do you maybe know where we are? What is going on here? And¡­ Why are we naked?¡±


    ¡°Mister Officer, sir. I do not know.¡± The kid focused, as if trying to remember something obscured from his memory. ¡°I was in a prane, uhh sorry, a plane. I think plane crashed. I think¡­ I think I, not possible but¡­¡±


    ¡°You think you died?¡± Billy asked. He was asking himself the same question the last few hours, except when he was running from danger.


    ¡°Yes¡­And Mother. And Father, and Yuiko¡­they were on the plane too¡­¡± Keito seemed to be falling back into his own head.


    ¡°Hey. Hey! Your family is safe. It¡¯s alright. Focus on the here and now.¡± he gently shook Keito. ¡°Look. Your plane crashed and yet you are alive. I was shot in the face, with a gun, and yet, I''m alive. We were dead, but now we are not, lucky us! Betcha they¡¯re fine as well. Same thing. I''m sure of it.¡±


    ¡°is this Yomi¡­ Hell?¡± Keito looked around.


    Now, that question stumped Billy. He always assumed himself to be a lapsed Protestant, but his faith basically consisted of celebrating Christmas and occasionally taking the Lord¡¯s name in vain when he stubbed his little toe. Hell brought an image of red devils with pitchforks, not giant possums and leech-infested, sulfury marshes.


    ¡°Nah, this is, uh. Hmm. Yellowstone Park. Nah, probably not America, maybe uh¡­ British Columbia. Or maybe Alberta. Fuck¡¯I¡¯know, somewhere in Canada. Yeah, Canada sounds just about right.¡± He nodded to himself, almost convinced. ¡°Any time now, Mounties will show up and escort us to safety. We¡¯ll be drinking hot cocoa and munching on Tim Horton¡¯s pastries in no time.¡±


    Keito did not look convinced, but as long as Billy was talking, the kid was not falling back into trauma-induced catatonia, which was a win by Billy¡¯s estimation.


    ¡°We need to, uhh, start a fire. Yeah. A signal fire so folks could see it and send rescue. Suppose you don¡¯t have any matches on ya?¡±

 MARY BRIGITTE (I). NUNS ARE LIKE CROCODILES, THE OLDER, THE MORE DANGEROUS.

    Sister Mary Brigitte stood her ground, despite the barrel of the modernized Kalashnikov gun pointing right at her left eyeball, appearing as huge as a subway tunnel.


    ¡°Listen, friend, you are free tae take all of our supplies. Not that we have many. We are nuns, under the vows of poverty. The chair you just smashed in anger was likely the most expensive thing we owned.¡± She stared at the reedy Mujahideen who was pointing the rifle at her. Despite being definitely on the mature side, and a nun, she would be easily capable of wrestling this idiot to the ground, and spanking him with his own rifle. Her Pa always joked that despite being a lass, she was the son he always wanted, with the legs and shoulders fit for rugby. The bulk stayed with her throughout decades, helping her dissuade all suitors save for Jesus, and handle the ones that could not take the hint. It served her well as a disciplinarian at the school and the convent, and could serve her now, if not for the pesky assault rifle pointed at her. Still, she was the only thing standing between these men, and a gaggle of terrified novices crowded around the makeshift altar at the far end of their shabby chapel.


    ¡°Step aside, old randi kwass.¡± The man spat at her feet. ¡°We just want to talk to the young ladies, get to know them better.¡± His companions chuckled. ¡°We are all bachelors, looking for young brides to meet.¡±


    ¡°These young women are all married already. They are married to Jesus.¡±


    The Mujahideen laughed, but there was no joy in the laugh, only malice.


    ¡°A fake marriage to the prophet of your fake religion means ghwal to us.¡± He tried to push her aside, but she grabbed the barrel of his rifle in an iron-vise grip.


    ¡°Ye should be ashamed. Storming this place, pointing yerr guns at us, and wishing tae rape young girls? This is not the way of your Prophet, and ye know this. Christian or Muslim, you know this is wrong.¡± She looked the man in the eyes, trying to browbeat him with her indignation and conviction, but she saw there was no moral fiber, no shred of piety in the man¡¯s eyes. This supposed Warrior of Islam was not truly Muslim, only another human predator using faith as a disguise to hide his corrupted soul.


    If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    ¡°It is alright Mother Superior,¡± said her oldest charge, a girl barely twenty years old. ¡°This is just our bodies they will violate, not our souls. We¡­ we can do this.¡± The young sister looked around her small group. Most of the novices were quietly sobbing, and a few were shaking in fear, but all of them nodded solemnly.


    Sister Mary Brigitte knew there was only one right choice in this situation, let the vile men have their way, so at least the girls would survive. Hopefully.


    Her conviction lasted until one of the Mujahideen grabbed her youngest charge, a girl barely thirteen years old. The novice screamed and fainted, falling to her knees, to the man¡¯s astonishment.


    ¡®Please forgive me, Lord,¡¯ Mary Brigitte muttered silently, and then spoke louder, in Latin,


    ¡°Sisters, on my mark, you will drop down and pray in prostrate form. I want your foreheads to touch the floor.¡±


    ¡°What? Why?¡± asked the eldest novice.


    ¡°Just bloody dae it, lass!¡± Mary Brigitte snarled in her native, rolling Scots English this time. ¡°Now!¡±


    The moment she saw the girls hit the ground, Mary Brigitte kneeled the man in front of her in the groin, and pulled the barrel of his rifle sideways, in a wide arc. As the injured man convulsively pulled the trigger, a stream of bullets burst out, scything every person still standing, which, Grace be to our Lord!, included only the invaders.


    She pulled the last Mujahedeen to the ground, trying to wrestle the rifle out of his grasp. The weapon was out of bullets, and she felt, more than heard, the empty clicks of a spent clip.


    She had him!


    Unfortunately, the next thought Sister Mary Brigitte had was that, after all, the man was a soldier, likely to be armed with more than one weapon. The second thought was that being stabbed in the temple with a combat knife hurts surprisingly little. The third, idle thought of a failing mind was how funny it was that she was stabbed in the temple¡­ while in a temple.

 DAY…EIGHTY SEVEN?? PANTHERS MAKE POOR GUESTS.

    I woke up with immense pain in my chest, and only slightly lesser pain around the back of my skull. Trying to reach out and examine my injuries, I noticed I was bound, with my own silk rope, no less.


    ¡°What in the Hell¡­¡± I groaned. There was a shuffling sound, and a half-lit gloom of the hut produced a panther that pounced on me and clawed at my throat.


    ¡°Ack!¡± was all I could utter, before the image cleared, and the panther turned out to be human after all, though no less dangerous-looking.


    It was a menacing, wiry-muscled woman clad in nothing more than some mud.


    Her eyes reflected back the candle-light in a way that made them all the more resembling the amber gaze of a cat.


    ¡°Who are you?? Whadda fuck is going on?!¡± she growled at me, and before I could answer, shook me like I was a wet rag, which did wonderful things to my pained chest and clearly informed me I had a busted rib. ¡°Call off your dogs! They almost killed us!¡±


    ¡°Wha¡­?¡± I muttered. ¡°What dogs? Oh¡­¡± the fog of concussion seemed to fade, even if the pain did not. ¡°The otters. Did they harm you? They are very territorial¡­¡±


    ¡°Territorial my arse! They wanted to eat Gordo here-¡± she pointed at a sleeping man, wrapped in bloody bandages. ¡°Call them off!¡±


    ¡°Ah, I can ask them, I think? They¡¯re not my pets, more like wild animals that tolerate me.¡± I tried to rise but failed. ¡°Can you please untie me? Uhh¡­ I think you cracked my rib¡­¡±


    ¡°Serves ya well for bursting in like that, scaring the shite outa us.¡± Her menacing gaze was replaced by amused pity, when she hauled me up and untied me.


    ¡°Well, excuse me,¡± I said, a bit miffed, ¡°but this is my home we are in, my supplies you are using, and,¡± I pointed vaguely in the direction of the river, ¡°my raft you stole. I¡¯ve spent days looking for you, risking my life at it. If not for me and the stuff I left for you, you¡¯d be all dead. So how about a tiny bit of gratitude, and a proper introduction? Im Jack. Well, Jacek actually, but nobody can pronounce it properly.¡±


    Two more shadows rose from the corner and turned into a pair of young women. One was limping along on a crutch, the other, a smaller one, was covered head to toe in cuts and  river mud.


    ¡°We are sorry,¡± the small one said. ¡°I stole boat. Not find owner. Need it fast. Need to save sister and friends. I am Nata, this sister, Sveta,¡± she pointed at the limping one, ¡°this Candace, she is boss¡±.


    ¡°Boss? Oh, I do not doubt that.¡± I said, massaging my bruised chest. ¡°So, Nata, you are the daring pirate that stole my raft? And sailed all the way back here? Quite a feat!¡±


    ¡°Flattery will not get you anywhere, boyo,¡± Candace said. ¡°We still want answers. And food. Bandages as well. And call off the otters. But answers, first.¡±


    ¡°Ok, ok.¡± I gestured placatingly. ¡°First and foremost, remember that I''m human just as you are, and in this place, it means we are on the same side because just about every other fucking thing is against us,¡± I saw her nod.


    ¡°Second, I have absolutely no idea what¡¯s going on, why we are here, where is here, or what all of it even means. All I know is that I woke up in the woods, naked as a newborn baby, about eighty-seven days ago, and managed to not die yet.  I''m pretty sure this weird place is not our Earth, or maybe even our universe, because there are a lot of impossible shenanigans going on in this place that defy science.¡± I saw them deflate after hearing my words. They clearly expected some explanation from me, which I could not give.


    ¡°Look, if you have any lingering doubts that you will somehow go back home, or be rescued, or return to civilization, lose them now. This is it, we are stuck here. But,¡± I added, seeing the look on their faces, ¡°I managed to carve a little bit of civilization for myself here, and I¡¯d love to share it with you, if you promise not to stab me again. There is some¡­ stuff I need to show you, something that will help us survive, but you won¡¯t believe me until you see it with your own eyes. Oh, and I also found another guy. A professional soldier, he is downriver from us, in the woods, looking for you right now. Between his skills and my supplies, you¡¯d be safe¡­ish I guess. What''s up with your friend?¡± I pointed at the sleeping figure. ¡°Is he?...¡±


    ¡°He is fine,¡± Candace said with an emphasis that brooked no disagreement. ¡°He was bitten by a hyena, and lost a lot of blood, but we managed to patch him up. We used up all your blankets and shirts for bandages though, to keep the wound clean.¡± She sent me a pleading look, and I read the subtext. The guy was not ok, most likely dying from sepsis, but she did not want the girls to know, at least, not yet.


    ¡°May I¡­. ?¡± I moved towards the sleeping man. She did not stop me, but she tensed when I lifted the bloodstained blankets of the man¡¯s stomach, to reveal a nasty wound across his side. It was stitched with silk thread, but the stitch was not holding well. Dark blood and pus were dripping all over his flank, and soaking into the bedding. His skin was hot to touch and angry red welts were spreading away from the wound.


    ¡°I¡­I think this needs proper cleaning. I might even come up with some disinfectant, but I¡¯ll need your help with it.¡± I turned to the door, and gestured away from the man, whom I hastily wrapped in the covers again. ¡°But first things first. We are going to walk out of that door, together.¡±


    ¡°You cannot be fucking serious, mate. These things almost ate us! They were all over us the moment we landed here.¡± Candace held the door shut. I gently pulled her hand away, without using any force, or establishing any eye contact. It struck me momentarily how much like wild animals we both were. Technically, I was bigger and most likely stronger than she was, but there was no doubt she was the leader of the pack. I caught myself subconsciously using soft and subservient body language, not unlike what junior otters used with their pack-mother.


    ¡°Did any of them actually bite you?¡±


    ¡°No, but they almost did. Before we got through the door, one had my calf in its jaws already. And they were growling like mad.¡±


    ¡°Candace,¡± I sighed, and gestured placatingly, ¡°If the otters wanted you dead, you would be torn to rags in ten seconds. These things are lightning fast, weigh easily sixty kilos in pure muscle each, and bite through bones as if they were breadsticks. But I have been living among them for months, and they haven¡¯t harmed me. If anything, they protected me, and probably miss-read your arrival as encroaching on our shared territory.¡±


    ¡°Maybe Mister Jack is right,¡± said the one called Sveta, ¡°We met the otters before. They only sniffed us and not attacked. They do not look dangerous, not like hyenas. They look friendly.¡±


    ¡°Now,¡± I interjected, ¡°don¡¯t make a mistake, they are very, very dangerous. They are just not likely to attack you unprovoked, as far as I know. But please do not mistake them for harmless, and most importantly, do not harm them yourselves. They are very smart, and very vengeful if you hurt one of theirs.¡±


    I looked at the sleeping man. ¡°Also, they eat their own dead, so might consider your injured friend a future meal. So whatever we do, we should keep them away from him until he recovers.¡±


    ¡°Got it. No furballs in the house.¡± Candace nodded. ¡°So, what is the plan now? You''re gonna introduce us to them?¡±


    ¡°After a fashion.¡± I paused, thinking. ¡°Look, you¡¯ve got to trust me ok? Just do exactly what I say. No sudden moves, no shouting, no eye contact with them. And most importantly, do not, do not harm them in any way. That spear of yours stays inside.¡±


    ¡°Can¡¯t be bloody serious-¡± Candace growled.


    ¡°Candace, please.¡± Nata hugged her shoulder.


    I slowly cracked the door open, and squeezed out. Immediately a swarm of wet noses slammed into my thighs, with some braver otters standing on their hind legs to bestow smelly kisses on my face, and rub their muzzles all over me. Sveta and Nata followed me close enough to press into my back, with Candace emerging the last and shutting the door. I backed off a bit to press our group into a human heap.


    ¡°Alright. Everybody stay cool. Get down on your knees, slowly.¡± They did as told, though I could sense their apprehension in the tautness of their muscles. The otters surrounded them, but instead of rubbing their noses on them, they undulated their necks like angered snakes, and emitted high-pitched growls.


    ¡°Now, here comes the weird part. Please, please do not freak out, and follow my lead.¡± I turned around slowly, and started rubbing my head and neck over Sveta. She froze at first, but soon reached back and started doing the same to her sister and Candace. Finally, I managed to awkwardly slither over them and nuzzle Candace¡¯s neck.


    ¡°Mate, that''s the weirdest orgy I¡¯ve been to.¡± She muttered icily. ¡°This better not be some weird fetish-thing of yours, or you get kicked in the bollocks, otters or no otters. ¡±


    ¡°Trust me, I''m not enjoying it either¡­¡± I mumbled, rubbing my face all over her ribs. ¡°Also, your armpit smells.¡±


    This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.


    She stared daggers at me, so I corrected. ¡±uh¡­ I mean you have a potent musk which might be useful in this particular situation. And hmm, I think you should, would you mind¡­¡±


    Her gaze at that point could ignite a nuclear reactor.


    ¡°Yes, I will rub my head around your crotch. Try not pecker me in the eye, will ya? Also, you smell as bad as I do.¡±


    Mercifully, at that point the pack collectively decided that our display of mammalian affection was convincing enough. Several younger otters joined in, ramming their noses in our most smelly places, which of course happened to be the places where a sane person would not want an otter¡¯s muzzle to be.


    ¡°Fkngg!¡± Candace muttered. ¡°That damn thing is getting way, way too friendly¡­¡±


    ¡°Calm down, It¡¯ll get bored and go away.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t fucking tell me to calm down! You¡¯re not the one getting an ob-gyn exam from a motherfuckin¡¯ rodent!¡± She was crouching still, but just about to explode into violent motion.


    ¡°Mustelid, not rodent.¡± I corrected her before I could bite my tongue. ¡°Slowly bend down and nuzzle it away. With your face.¡±


    ¡°What?!¡±


    ¡°Those things don¡¯t understand human hands. Don¡¯t grab them or push them with your hands, or they might bite. Push them away with your head, like this,¡± I bent down and pressed my face against the silky fur on the neck of the nearest otter. It rubbed its temple against mine, and let itself be pushed away with minimal effort.


    Soon, we were all crawling on the ground, rubbing faces with them. Within seconds, we were coated in musk and saliva, smelling like dead fish and tomcat piss. Before the otters were done with us and departed, Nata looked like she was about to gag, and all of us had mortified expressions on our faces.


    ¡°I bloody hate otters,¡± Candace said matter-of-factly, with a haunted look. ¡°And I hate you. Deeply.¡±


    ¡°Noted.¡±


    ¡°I mean it.¡±


    ¡°Of course.¡±


    ¡°The smell. The fucking smell. I reek all over. I can feel it in my bones. I''m going to set myself on fire to get rid of it.¡±


    I saw one otter lingering. The big, spot-bellied female. The one in charge.


    ¡°Ok Candace, one more thing. Slowly, super, super slowly, pet its head.¡±


    ¡°Are you bloody serious? You just told us not to paw at those things, you drongo!¡± Candace hissed at me.


    ¡°This one¡­ it''s their Queen, or I dunno, their Alpha Female. Big Mamma. She¡¯s in charge. We have an understanding of sorts.¡±


    ¡°She your girlfriend?¡±


    I gave Candace an exasperated look, and gently petted the Alpha on the head. The magnificent beast looked up, and I could swear her black, beady eyes had more wisdom and patient understanding in them than I''d seen in the human faces around me.


    Candace crawled next to me, and slowly reached out to the Alpha. Soon, Nata and Sveta joined her, and the otter had a moment of bliss when we all petted and rubbed her behind the ears.


    ¡°Ok, this one¡¯s not so bad. Like a big, smart doggo.¡± Candace sat, cross-legged next to the creature that patiently accepted their affection.


    ¡°She is way smarter than a dog. All of them are. Like dolphins. Maybe even like chimps. It makes more sense to think of them as a tribe of weird aquatic people than a pack of wild animals.¡±


    ¡°Furry, smelly mermaids then?¡±


    The Alpha perked up, as if reacting to a sound we could not hear, and slithered away into the reeds, fast like a greased bullet.


    ¡°But again, they are still wild in many ways,¡± I added. ¡° So be careful, don''t frighten them, don¡¯t piss them off, and don¡¯t let them inside the hut. Oh, and don¡¯t feed them or eat in front of them. If you give them even a single snack they become impossible, and won¡¯t leave you alone. Also, they are the worst thieves, and will steal anything they can lift.¡±


    ¡°Now,¡± I said, standing up and fruitlessly trying to wipe my saliva-coated hands on my saliva-coated tunic, ¡±You guys want to see a magic trick?¡±


    ¡°Cool? Just¡­cool?¡± I was exasperated. ¡°I showed you something that absolutely violates the laws of the universe, and¡­ that is your reaction?¡± I pointed at the Duplicators, which were now spitting out fresh silk bandages, creating copies out of nothing, to nobody¡¯s amazement but mine¡­


    ¡°Very useful too!¡± Sveta said, tossing another bandage roll into the impossible hole in reality. ¡°We can make a lot of useful stuff. Bandages. Food. Clothing, finally!¡± she pointed at a copy of my tunic that Nata was busy wrapping around herself, turning it into a vastly oversized dress that reached past her knees. ¡°Though it needs tailoring to fit us.¡±


    ¡°Oh calm down Jack. Yes, your Magic Holes are magic. Damn sick impressive, and I, for one, am stocked to be wearing clothes again. Or eating food,¡± she bit on a nut bar she got from my pantry. It was her twelfth in just so many minutes.


    ¡°But the¡­ I mean, do you understand this breaks the Laws of Thermodynamics? This is proof that this world around us makes absolutely no scientific sense!¡±


    ¡°Jack, whaddya take me for, some bimbo from the bush? Of course, I know these things are bloody amazing, or terrifying, or at least very weird. I''m no dag, but I know my science well enough to understand this is profound, I''m just too rooted to care.¡± She patted me on the shoulder with a taffy-encrusted hand and reached for another energy bar.


    ¡°Ya wait till Gordo wakes up. His nerdy noggin is goin¡¯ melt when he sees that. That man loves science stuff more than you do.¡±


    I nodded for her to follow me, leaving the girls by the Duplicators. We went toward the treeline, and way out of earshot, before I asked,


    ¡°What do we do about him? You know that he is not doing well. I''m not a doctor, but that wound is definitely badly infected, and If we do nothing he will die of sepsis within days.¡±


    She stared at me, searching for words.


    ¡°We did our best. We cleared the wound, and patched it shut. We gave him plenty to drink, in the few moments he was lucid enough. Not sure what else we can do. Less you are a secretly a pharmacist or something, and can whip out a miracle cure¡­¡±


    I pointed at the tree beside me.


    ¡°No miracle cures, but this bark right here is a good source of aspirin, or something much like it. At the very least, it might help with the pain and inflammation, Or¡­. It can make things worse.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re not risking it then. Maybe he''ll pull through on his own.¡±


    ¡°Candace,¡± I pleaded. ¡°He will not. He was bitten by a carrion-eating fucking monster and then soaked the wound in swampy water for who knows how long. Infections like that don¡¯t just go away.¡±


    ¡°So, what do you suggest?¡± She crossed her arms, staring at me intensely. Not with her usual hot anger, but with something much worse, concern, and fragile hope.


    ¡°We should make him some aspirin tea. Two, three times bigger dose than I ever used, on account of his greater mass.¡± She nodded. ¡°And, ¡± I continued, ¡°we need to cut him open again, let the pus out, and wash the wound. If we don''t do it, he will rot from the inside, even if the blood poisoning doesn¡¯t kill him before that.¡±


    ¡°Clean with what? Do you have a stash of iodine? Or at least booze?¡±


    ¡°Neither. But I have plenty of gray soap, and can whip up some very basic potash lye.¡± I saw her incredulous look, ¡°Yeah, I know that putting soap and caustic lye into someone¡¯s wound is not the best and healthiest idea, it might even make things worse. It might kill him. But if we leave him the way he is, he will die with one hundred percent certainty.¡±


    She sighed and stared at the ground. ¡°Still better than my idea. I wanted to burn the wound out with a hot stone or something. Cauterize it. Like in the movies.¡±


    ¡°I had the same idea, but the wound is so deep and wide we might do more damage than good that way. Plus, most of the wound is surrounded by fat tissue. I''m not sure fat cauterizes all that well.¡±


    She snorted. ¡°Good God, if only he were not a bloody fatass¡­¡±


    I shrugged and started peeling off the willow bark. ¡°If he were thinner, the hyena would probably have bitten his guts out. Seems like it only tore off his padding without rupturing anything immediately important. The fat probably worked as soft armor and saved his life, as weird as it sounds.¡±


    We moved back towards the camp.


    ¡°Think we should talk to the girls? Before we do anything? He¡¯s their friend too, they have a right to dec-¡±


    ¡°No they fucking don¡¯t,¡± she barked with a voice that allowed no disagreement. ¡°They are little girls still, and this is not a damn democracy.¡±


    I wanted to interject, but she continued.


    ¡°It was your bloody idea, but I will make the call. If he lives, great. If he dies ¡®cause of our meddling, I devo don¡¯t want it to weigh on their consciences. Only on mine. ¡±


    ¡°But-¡±


    ¡°No butts. I will tell them, and they can assist, help you make the brew, and the lye, and the bandages. But I will make the decision, and you and I will cut him open together, while they will wait outside. We clear on that, Jack?¡±


    I wanted to object, but really, she was right. In another world, I had children of my own, and would not want them to be forced to decide about another person¡¯s life. ¡°We clear.¡±


    ¡°Rapt to hear. Now, ¡± she said, examining the willow bark I held. ¡°Are you really sure about that thing? It does not look very medicinal to me.¡±


    About a half-a-day later, we sat in front of the hut, our backs pressed against the door. Our hands and forearms were coated in dried blood, and stinging residue of potash lye. Sveta and Nata were in the old smoking tent, working silently sewing shoes that would fit their small feet. They had not spoken a word to us for a while. They did not accept lightly that Candace made the unilateral decision to cut Gordo open, and they let us know in plenty of creative Russian cursing that did not mesh with their delicate elfin features. At one point Nata tried to block the entrance to the hut, and Candace had to slap her over the head to make her let us in.


    In the end, we cut him open, poured out several handfuls of pus and rotten blood, and burnt the messy hole with caustic goop. Gordo, despite being at the very end of his strength, shot up and howled in pain. We used that moment to force-feed him the aspirin-tea, nearly drowning him in the process. I did not know the man, but I recognized a look of shocked betrayal on his face.


    He must have thought we were torturing him.


    And maybe we were, if this all amounted to nothing.


    Between the pain, and the chemicals we put inside him, the last of his strength failed and he fell unconscious again. We watched him like hawks, monitoring his breath and heartbeat until, agonizingly slowly, both seemed to improve. His fever dropped, and the red swelling around the side of his torso subsumed. We crawled out of the hut, feeling and looking like bloody zombies, and collapsed out of sheer emotional exhaustion.


    ¡°Should¡­wash up¡­¡± Candace rasped, staring at her blood-caked hands.


    I gestured impotently towards the river, which was just two hundred steps away, but could just as well be on the other side of the planet.


    ¡°Maybe nap first¡­¡± I exhaled, and leaned my head on her dirty shoulder. She tried to shake me off, but instead, collapsed herself.


    We slept for many hours, despite it feeling like only seconds, when a distressed shout woke us up.


    The voice shouted in Spanish.

 MEANWHILE, ORTHOGONALLY. (2.0)

    Consensus on PATTERN 56087,9045:


    (Entity) Wise and Mysterious: This Entity recorded two instances of irregularities entering the Pattern. Trying Its Best will explain this occurrence.


    (Entity) Trying Its Best: These two irregularities are Sapients that semi-accidentally violated the Continuity, and underwent Erasure. This Entity, however, deemed both Sapients in question highly unusual and worth preserving, and thus inserted them into the Pattern.


    (Entity) Wise and Mysterious: What does Trying Its Best mean by ¡°semi-accidentally?¡± Actions are accidental or not. It''s better not to be another one of those ''fuzzy logic'' terms that Trying Its Best is so fond of.


    (Entity) Trying Its Best: The Sapients violated Continuity on purpose, but without understanding its nature and the gravity of their actions. Therefore, while the violation was intentional, the possible damage was accidental.


    (Entity) Formerly Adventurous: that is not a valid explanation, but this Entity no longer even expects rationality from Trying Its Best. What is the estimate that the improperly Salvaged Sapients would damage the Pattern?


    (Entity) Trying Its Best: At this rate of Salvage, the chances these two Sapients would irreversibly damage the Pattern is 57%. This Entity believes that if the rate of Salvage is quadrupled from the current baseline, the sophic noise they represent would be drowned by the number of unaware Sapients in the Pattern, and reduced to near 0%.


    You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.


    (Entity) Nostalgic Progenitor: This Entity hopes that young Entities will one day learn to be more careful, and achieve more precision in their estimates. Our mission is too important for qualifiers such as ''near'' to be accepted on a regular basis.


    (Entity) Nostalgic Progenitor: rate of salvage for PATTERN 56087,9045 deemed insufficient. Immediate quadrupling is suggested. (confidence bid:73%)


    confidence bid accepted. Consensus Confidence 72%. rate of salvage for PATTERN 56087,9045 to be immediately quadrupled from the current baseline.


    (Entity) Wise and Mysterious: this Entity hopes Trying Its Best will cease to surprise us with such sudden and irrational developments. If not, this Entity will begrudgingly take upon itself the task of performing an Investigation on the aforementioned Pattern.


    (Entity) Young And Foolish: this Entity would like to know if Young Entities will be allowed to monitor such an Investigation to ensure Elder Entity is not conducting it in ill faith, or ¨C


    (Young and Foolish muted by Moderator Elder override.)


    (Entity) Nostalgic Progenitor: This Entity would like to thank the Moderator. The antics of Young and Foolish are taxing on this Elder Entity¡¯s sophic cycles.


    Consensus on PATTERN 56087,9045: halted.

 MARY BRIGITTE (II). COME TO ME ALL YE WHO ARE WEARY.

    ¡°Come on, love. I ain¡¯t going tae hurt you!¡± Mary Brigitte peered under a rotten log of a giant fallen oak, trying to coax the woman out. In the shadow, she could only gleam a pair of sad, terrified eyes, set in a swarthy, weathered face. The woman in question had been silently following Mary Brigitte since she appeared in this hellish place, but always kept her distance. Brigitte¡¯s ears, fine-tuned to catch gossiping novices in the refectory, could hear her mutter quietly in her language. Language Brigitte did not recognize, other than that it was likely Asian.


    She tried to approach the other woman several times, only for her to always fall out of sight and disappear into the woods, quieter than a ghost. She did not want her to disappear completely, and it was only partly because she feared for another soul¡¯s life in this terrifying forest. Frankly, she was just as afraid for herself, and the strange animal sounds, smells, and paw prints she encountered did not put her at ease. The other woman seemed to always go quiet and vanish into the foliage whenever they encountered even a hint of danger, which was disturbingly often.


    ¡°Look, I''m a nun,¡± she crossed herself, and mimed putting on her veil. ¡°I help people, that''s what I do. And I want tae help you. We would be safer together.¡±


    The other woman muttered some more, mimicked crossing herself, then muttered something else, bowed, and touched her forehead.


    ¡°Ah, I dinnae get a word you''re saying.¡± Brigitte thought for a second. ¡°The bow? Are you a Buddhist by chance? I''m afraid I do not know much about your faith. Meant no insult.  Nae matter, come along.¡± She grabbed the other woman¡¯s hand, and felt her immediately soften and deflate into obedience, like a much abused dog being put on a leash.


    ¡°I dae not want to force ye. But please, come, we must seek shelter.¡± The other woman emerged from her hiding, and turned out to be even older than Brigitte herself. Sixty years old at least, and not one of those years easily lived, by her estimation. Brigitte smiled. ¡°We old biddies got tae stick together, innit so?¡± She winked and smiled some more at the older woman, who in turn cracked a near-toothless smile herself, and nodded. ¡°You look like you¡¯re made of the tough stuff, just like me. We¡¯re gon¡¯ make it just fine.¡±


    They trudged forward, Brigitte like a stately ship, forcefully pushing through the green sea of the undergrowth, the other woman following her silently like foam on the waves. It immediately occurred to Brigitte that while she did have a knack for leadership, she had no idea where to lead. The primordial deciduous forest seemed to spread into all directions as a nearly uniform green-brown mass that obscured the horizon and the sky alike.


    But she felt that staying put would not serve them well. All the survival advice she soaked in, and occasionally gave, as a globe-trotting nun and a charity worker, was that if you ever find yourself stranded in the wilderness you should stay put and wait for help to arrive.


    But to Mary Brigitte, this advice only made sense if one was lost in an ordinary wilderness by ordinary means, not died and then resurrected bodily, naked and in pain, in a terrifying green Limbo.  She shook the pain off quickly, and nudity never bothered much, since she always considered her body to be merely a sturdy vehicle to cart her soul around in. But having her skin smacked repeatedly by a multitude of weeds and bushes sounded urgent alarms in her head.


    Mary Brigitte was married to Jesus, and her heart was mostly split between the love for her God, and for humanity as a whole, even if she was not always fond of the particular specimens she encountered. The shootout that killed her was not the first, just the most unfortunate example of her failing to love the fellow man unconditionally. She was however very fond of plants, and managed to not only find the time to achieve a hard-won doctorate in botany but also accrue decades of experience as a gardener and a herbalist, to the point that some of her fellow sisters jokingly called her a witch.


    And maybe, in some way she was one. She always enjoyed the idea of God as a Gardener, and the plant life as a shard of the beauty of Eden given to humanity to steward. On the practical side, she managed to save countless lives, or when need be, mercifully ease the end of some, thanks to her knowledge of medicinal herbs, which were often the only available medicine in places where she worked. She even prevented, or, if the need arose, ended a few tragic pregnancies with her makeshift concoctions.


    If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    If God took issue with that, she was perfectly willing to fistfight angels over this.


    But regardless of how fascinating the multitude of weeds smacking her skin was, she was acutely aware that sooner or later she would experience firsthand that some of them were poisonous, or severely irritant. A few times she had to stop herself from walking head first into what looked like poison ivy, or crawling through caucasian hogweed that dripped with caustic juice. Nettles of most kinds she mostly ignored, though it did not make their harmless stings any less painful. It occurred to her though, that they did not need to encounter any wolves or bears to meet their second demise, just have enough rotten luck to stumble into gympie-gympie, the one kind of nettle that killed you, or made you wish it did.


    And then her analytical mind threw all kinds of giant question marks, because she realized the plant ecosystem of this place made absolutely no sense. She saw English oaks growing side by side with Osage trees, not five meters from a grove of false acacia. Russian rubber dandelion next to a type of silver fern that grew only in New Zealand. The multitude of types of ferns and mosses fighting for the meager sunlight streaming from the canopy defied anything she knew about not only what was, but what could be possible in any sensible forest.


    ¡°Love, we¡¯re either stranded in some particularly shoddily managed botanical garden, or the evil cousin of the Garden of Eden. None o¡¯t make any sense whatsoever.¡± She stopped to take a breath and assess the situation. The other woman sat down cross-legged, and helped herself to some fern shots she found.


    ¡°Wait, are you sure these are fine tae eat¡­ oh.¡± She now noticed that the ferns the old lady ate were indeed edible swamp ferns, normally native to Cambodia and Laos, and thus, wildly out of place in these seemingly subboreal woods. Apparently though, she was not the only one to know a thing or two about plants.


    ¡°Guess¡¯ we could have a longer break and a lunch just as well. Ma legs are about tae give up, and ma stomach is empty, what''s with voiding it the second I arrived here.¡± She nipped at the ferns, not fully trusting them. Finally, she settled on munching on several dandelions and a handful of wild spinach, which she knew for sure were safe, if not particularly nutritious.


    ¡°So,¡± she said, when the last dandelion leaf disappeared, ¡°how about we know each other? I am Mary Brigitte. Mary. Brigitte.¡± she pointed repeatedly at herself. ¡°What¡¯s your name?¡± she pointed at the woman.


    The quiet mumbling stopped.


    ¡°Nakry,¡± the woman said, and returned to chewing on a fern tip.


    ¡°Nakry? Is that your name? Never heard it before. Where are you from, Nakry? How did you get here? Dae maybe have a family looking for you? Maybe¡­ maybe you know why we¡¯re here?¡±


    All she got in response was a sad, unfocused stare from eyes that looked like they''d seen too much.


    Brigitte knew a broken soul when she saw one.


    She met plenty of people, mostly women and children, who¡¯s bodies survived wars, famines or epidemics, but their souls crumbled inside leaving a husk that just went through the motions of survival, but not actual living.


    ¡°Don¡¯ want to talk, it''s fine. Donnae worry, I talk for the both of us.¡± She sat closer to Nakry, and hugged her. Nakry¡¯s frail, bony body was cold as a stone, the chill of the forest must have sapped all the heat out of her. Brigitte, being considerably bulkier, had still some body heat to spare. Still, it saddened Brigitte that Nakry did not even react properly to being held. Some people loved being hugged, some hated being touched by strangers and stiffened. But Nakry simply accepted it with sad, limp ambivalence, and it occurred to Brigitte that the woman would react to violence or abuse in the same fatalistic way.


    Then, as she usually did when words failed her, Mary Brigitte started to sing. She did not have much of a singing voice, but one cannot spend decades being part of a convent without learning to hold a tune. Her acapella attempt at His Glory was soon interrupted by Nakry joining in with a song of her own. And though the words did not match, the tune did, and for a while the two of them jammed along, lifting each other¡¯s spirits.


    Just as she was about to finish and catch her breath, Brigitte felt the voice freeze in her throat, when she saw a pair of dark, predatory eyes peer at her from the shadow, and a giant green-brown hulk emerged from the bushes.

 DOCTOR RUBINSTEIN. LIKE TWO CATS IN A BOX.

    Avram Rubinstein was in torment. This was his Gehinnom, the Spiritual Washing Machine to cleanse his dirty soul. Or maybe, this was just a particularly unlucky side effect of messing with forces beyond human understanding. Or could it be both? After all, of all people in the world, Avram was the only one who knew for a fact that God was a completely real, mundane being who manipulated the laws of physics via some advanced technology. He even managed to annoy that God by pestering him with quantum telegrams, theological prank calls via advanced technology.


    And then, in his hubris, Avram manipulated this God to help him commit a murder and a suicide, just to spite his captors and go out with a particularly interesting bang.


    So it only made sense that the cosmic punishment would be being resurrected and stranded alone with the same murderous thug Avram managed to kill once. Worse, it stranded them in some kind of science-defying wilderness, where the mercenary had all the advantages, and the Doctor had none.


    All the suicidal bravery that he mustered when rigging the Device evaporated. When they woke up in a meadow sandwiched between a rocky wall, and a seemingly endless swamp, his captor was no longer as affable as before his death. Rather, all the polite calm he displayed before was transformed into icy professionalism. He ordered Avram around, and mercilessly questioned him, as if trying to milk his brain dry. He asked all kinds of questions about the Device, the possible explanations for their predicament, and the underlying physics of both.


    To his chagrin, Avram realized that none of his students ever asked such thorough and rational questions. It was clear that Theo Danton was not a theoretical physicist, but it seemed like he was intent on becoming a practical physicist, post haste.


    Avram was fed, kept warm, and relatively safe. Danton dragged him across the landscape, occasionally leaving him stuffed in a hole in the ground, or dragged up a tree, when he went to hunt and scavenge. Sometimes they even managed to start a modest fire going. They spent one night holed up in a hollow of an old oak, while some sinister beasts howled and laughed outside. Few nights later, they were stalked by a group of otters the size of rottweilers. Danton left Rubinstein alone in the open, as bait, and merged into the shadows with a sharpened shard of an antler in hand.


    The next day, they roasted a chunk of otter meat over the fire.


    When Danton exhausted every bit of useful information on the nature of Project Echo and the Device that Avram could share, he started querying him about the world around them. Normally, Rubinstein would be ecstatic to be able to explore, and share his theories about this science-defying world they found themselves in. But Danton¡¯s rapacious attention and inhuman focus sapped all the joy out of it.


    Danton never hurt him. He did not have to. The threat of the mercenary abandoning him to fend off for himself was more than enough. Avram was a survivor, and the only way to survive now was to give that man what he wanted. So he gave and gave, and answered the same questions over and over, from every possible angle, until he felt like he was going crazy.


    Rubinstein met plenty of psychopaths in his life, but Danton was genuinely the purest example he ever encountered.


    Not even evil, simply alien, like a vampire or a giant spider that slowly sucked his mind out of his head to increase its chances of survival. They brainstormed over everything from the possibility of going back home, and the nature of their captor, to mundane things like star constellations, edible plants, and the optimal ways to start a fire with friction.


    With every word said and thought shared, Rubinstein felt less and less needed, and more like a dead ballast to Danton. He did not want to know what would happen if they passed that threshold.


    So, begrudgingly, he did what he thought would delay the inevitable, and kept engaging Danton in conversation, like Sheherezade spinning her One Thousand and One Night Tale to stave off her execution.


    ¡°Look, Mister Danton, I do not want to dishearten you, but I do not think you really considered the implications of our situation,¡± he panted out, trying to keep up with his captor who was trekking through the woods at a brisk pace.


    Danton stopped and looked back.


    ¡°What do you mean, Doctor?¡± The man no longer looked like the sleek and stylish professional Avram saw in that Swiss basement. He was covered head to toe in mud, to fend off mosquitoes. He had a spear with a fire-hardened tip in hand, and a sharpened antler tucked behind a loincloth woven out of strips of otter fur. Completing the picture was a giant bamboo tube they used as a canteen, and a dried, smoked strip of meat hanging over his shoulder. Somehow, without missing a beat, Danton transformed from a high-tech mercenary into a Stone Age hunter. Only the pale blue eyes remained the same, somehow both focused and mildly amused at the same time, as if they were not fighting for their lives, but participating in an exciting game.


    ¡°I mean, well¡­,¡± Avram stuttered, his carefully prepared speech crumbling under Danton¡¯s undivided attention, ¡°I assume you plan to reach civilization, then find a way to build a copy of the Device and contact whoever had us recreated here, and presumably, have the process reversed. You wish to go back.¡±


    ¡°That is one of the options I''m considering,¡± Danton nodded, took a swig off his canteen and shared it with Avram.


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    ¡°Then,¡± Rubinstein wanted to put it as diplomatically as possible, ¡°I need you to understand that this is impossible. You won¡¯t be able to recreate the Device. It is possible I could manage to do that, if we found ourselves in a well-stocked laboratory. But you must understand that even then, you¡¯d not be able to go back.¡±


    Danton considered him silently for a minute, the stare making Avram sweat even more than he did before. There was no lying to Danton, no manipulating him. The man was a walking lie detector with all the emotional capacity of a lizard.


    ¡°You said we were recreated, Doctor. What do you mean by that? I assumed that we were teleported, or possibly copied.¡±


    Avram sat on the ground, unable to withstand both the soreness of his legs and Danton¡¯s creepy stare at the same time.


    ¡°There is no such thing as teleportation,¡± he sighed. ¡°That is what I was trying to tell you, even before I blew the both of us to smithereens. You cannot send matter anywhere at superluminal speeds. It''s not impossible per se, just unfathomably difficult to do, and certainly not what has happened to us. So at least we can be reasonably sure of one thing, we were not kidnapped by God and stranded here, and you cannot negotiate our return.¡±


    ¡°So, we are copies? The way your Device used entanglement to copy information, rather than mass, across a distance, and thus break the speed of light?¡±


    Avram shook his head. ¡°Not even that, I''m afraid. The Device most likely detonated before we were sent here, because we both remember the coils evacuating, which is what happens immediately before they blow up. As the explosion was caused by a collapse of a tiny, but sufficient amount of antimatter, there is no possibility enough of us would be left to copy, nor would there even be time enough for the copying to occur.¡±


    ¡°But yet we stand here. Alive.¡± Danton gestured at himself.


    ¡°Someone is standing here, alive.¡± Avram looked at his hands, which looked perfectly familiar, with all the wrinkles, scars, and liver spots in their right places. But were those the real hands of the real doctor Avram Rubinstein? ¡°Whatever process recreated us, definitely did not work with a recent version of us, nor could possibly copy us with perfect veracity. Even if the God we angered can somehow bend space and time, they cannot turn off entropy. ¡±


    ¡°What are you saying, Doctor? That we are not who we think we are? Artificial? Virtual?¡±


    ¡°I cannot say, but my guess is that the two of us are merely good enough approximations of Theo Danton and Avram Rubinstein, that used to exist in our previous reality, and not continuations of those men. Most likely, the God simply had us passively scanned at all times, and cobbled together acceptable facsimiles of us, probably filling the gaps with whatever generic memories and thoughts would make the most sense given the context of our death.¡±


    He saw Danton wince almost imperceptibly, and it gave him an ounce of satisfaction. Ah, there it was. Like most psychopaths, Danton was likely in love with himself, and a pang of existential dread was a new and unwelcome feeling for a narcissistic mind.


    ¡°So, you¡¯re telling me the real us are dead, and we are merely flawed copies? ¡±


    ¡°Yes, but what I''m also trying to tell you, is that if you ever tried to go back, then this version of you, the one standing before me, would not go anywhere. Any attempt to recreate the Device and parlay with God again is just an elaborate way to commit suicide, with the hope that a brain roughly similar to yours would be created somewhere else.¡±


    Danton flashed him a thin smile. ¡±Interesting. I took you for a man who believes in the existence of the soul. A soul that presumably would be indestructible and continuous across the disparate versions of our bodies. Has our adventure turned you into an atheist? Such a shame, you were the rare man of science who was also a man of deep faith.¡± He pulled the doctor up, and nodded for him to follow. ¡°No matter. We have all the time we need to iron out the philosophical conundrums before we are even able to find someone with a ham radio, let alone a miniature particle collider you need. Now, come along, we need to find a new shelter before sundown.¡±


    The trek took them most of the day, until they reached the shores of an enormous river. Avram half-crawled, half-staggered his way towards the water, drank deep mouthfuls heedless of the danger of its waterborne bacteria, and then dipped his tortured feet in it.


    Danton almost sat next to him, when some animalistic instinct made him whip his head to the side, and grab his spear. He silenced Avram with a gesture and stalked into the woods.


    Soon, Avram himself heard voices.


    Human voices, some excited, some anxious.


    A group of people shouting one over another.


    He wanted to shout back, he wanted to run to them. He wanted to warn them about the monster that Danton was. He never managed to do any of those things, because a hand clasped over his mouth, and his captor reappeared right next to him.


    ¡°See Doctor, I think you might have been misleading me a little bit.¡± Danton said casually, tightening his grip over Avram¡¯s face and throat. ¡°I just saw a whole gaggle of people, all of them clearly copies, just like you and I. Naked, terrified, stranded in the woods. I strongly suspect not one of them was engaged in clandestine quantum communicator research, and yet, all of them ended up here.¡±


    Avram struggled, kicked, and scratched at Danton to no avail. His vision started to wobble, suffocation slowly robbing his brain of its last bits of mental coherence.


    ¡°Which,¡± Danton continued, his tone casual, ¡°makes me believe you were wrong about all of it. I do not really need you anymore, and the solution to my entrapment lies elsewhere. Dragging your ancient carcass around was enough of a chore already. Moreover, I cannot have you spill our secrets and the circumstances of our meeting to my new friends. As you said, I''m a brand new copy, not the old Theo, so I¡¯d rather start with a clean slate.¡±


    These were the last words Doctor Avram Rubinstein heard.


    They were followed by Danton grabbing his head in a two-handed grip and twisting it sharply to the side with a wet crack.


    A crack that made his body go limp and his mind go gray and fuzzy, as he was slowly submerged in the river.


    Before Avram died, this time for good, he saw his killer through the murky green surface of the water.


    Motes of debris swirled on it, like unruly subatomic particles.

 THEO DANTON (II). ALPHA MALES AND THE ART OF CHEST-POUNDING

    ¡°Hello! Heeeeelp!!¡± a young man¡¯s voice carried over the woods, soon followed by several others.  Theo skulked through the bushes and up a hill, until he could peer into a small gully on the other side.


    He saw the same group of people, this time more clearly. There were seven of them,  three men and four women, one of which was carried by the men, bleeding profusely from a gaping wound on her back.


    The young man leading them was a prime specimen of gym-made musculature, with a neatly trimmed beard and a winged skull tattoo on his chest. He carried a thick branch as a club, and was currently in the process of rearranging the carriers for the injured woman. Theo closed his eyes, to tune out distractions, and focused on their voices.


    The leader of their small group was American, likely from Florida judging from the accent.  He affected a clipped, sergeant-like manner of speech, presumably to make himself sound more authoritative, but it sounded artificial and amateurish. Not a soldier then, but likely a wannabe, the sort that washes down to bottom-of-the-barrel security jobs.


    Of the other five, Theo counted two men who spoke Farsi, but with very different accents, one woman who spoke English with a Cantonese accent, one was an Afrikaneer, and the last one was most likely Puertorican. The limp woman did not speak at all. None of them sounded particularly smart, educated, or confident, and none of them, leader included, sounded like they had actual military experience.


    And thus, in response to the new data, in a span of about two minutes of quiet contemplation, a new version of Theo Danton had been born. One cobbled together from many previous fake identities Theo carried.


    ¡°Hello! I can hear you! Stay put, I''m coming!¡± He circled the ravine and came from the side of the river, to appear as if he heard them from afar, and not spied on them.


    As he emerged from the woods, his back strengthened, his jaw protruded, and his voice dropped an octave and became raspier.


    The group froze seeing him, expecting a rescue party, not yet another naked survivor.  He stalked towards them with intent, spear in hand. The man in charge seemed to bristle, and frowned at him.


    ¡°Who the hell are you? What¡¯s going on?¡±


    ¡°Captain Theodore Danton, Royal Marines.¡± He said, faking a vaguely British accent that did not suggest any particular origin, and looked the man firmly in the eyes. The man, or rather a boy, barely over twenty, quickly deflated. The bravado was powered by his size and muscles only,  not by any sort of internal conviction.


    ¡°Uh, Team Leader Kyle Weathers, Florida Militia, Alpha Company.¡±


    Theo saluted the man casually, to which he awkwardly responded, his club getting in the way of a proper salute.


    This was almost too easy.


    ¡°At ease, Team Leader.¡± he saw confusion on Kyle¡¯s face, when the man was not entirely sure if he was given an order, and if he should follow it.  Danton presented his hand and Kyle shook it stiffly, trying to establish his dominance with a powerful grip, yet failed when Danton did not react.


    ¡°Ok¡­ sir? You British?¡±


    ¡°Yes. British Royal Marines. Are you in charge of this group?¡±  he asked back, which was a subtextual way of saying that he was now in charge and only humoring Kyle out of politeness.


    ¡°Yeah. Found the lot of them wandering the woods. Picked them one by one the last two days.  We had to beat back a pack of wolves, they got Tammy right here,¡± he pointed at the unconscious woman, who by Theo¡¯s estimate was not going to regain consciousness ever again.  ¡°I patched her up, and had the towelheads carry her with us. I figured out we needed to go find a river and then travel downstream until we find people. I mean, civilization.¡±


    ¡°Excellent work tee-el. Or should I call you sergeant? I don¡¯t know your unit¡¯s structure.¡± Danton patted Kyle on the shoulder, inventing a more military-sounding frame for their interaction.


    ¡°Ah, tee-el is fine, I guess. What is going on, uh, captain? Is this some kind of military experiment by the gub¡¯ment, or terrorists at work?¡± Kyle eyed the two Middle Eastern men, who scowled right back at him. One of them sported a black-eye, likely Kyle¡¯s handiwork.


    ¡°We need to get these people to safety.¡± Danton said, ignoring him. ¡°You up to it Tee-el? There are worse things than wolves around here. Tough decisions will have to be made.¡± He nodded at the unconscious woman.


    ¡°Yes sir, Captain, sir. ¡± Kyle followed his gaze and nodded as well. ¡°We¡¯d do what needs doin¡¯.¡±


    Captain Theodore Danton needed only minutes to reorganize their little group. He put Kyle The Militiaman at the back of their little group to hold the rear against threats, to Kyle¡¯s visible, but unspoken chagrin. He delegated the task of carrying the comatose Tammy to the three women. None of them had the strength to lift a limp body, nor could three of them cooperate and balance the load well, which was just as Theo wanted it. The irrational noble affectation of wanting to save a clearly dying, unsalvageable civilian was something Theo wanted to discourage, but he¡¯d rather have the group come to that conclusion on their own, than force it.


    They continued their march along the river¡¯s shore, but it was quite quickly bogged down to a crawl when the river exploded in width, and turned into a swampy delta in which the water, the mud and the plantlife melded together into green-gray slurry. He decided to use the delay to know his little group better.


    The youngest of the women, a haughty corporate socialite from Hong Kong, identified herself as Jenny L¨¢ng, a surname that amused Theo greatly given their circumstances. She was the first to vocally complain about having to carry an essentially dead body, and said outright that they should abandon Tammy to be devoured by wolves so that the rest of them could more easily escape danger. She argued, not without merit, that the smell of blood was going to either help the wolves follow them, or attract different predators, and that the price of one life was less than seven. Theo immediately marked her as a useful future resource, but also a possible danger.


    The Puertorican Isabella, a motherly-looking hen of a woman with frizzy, salt pepper hair and concerned hazel eyes seemed to do as told, even though she spoke or understood very little English. Luckily, Theo spoke very good Spanish, so that was not a problem. He filed her as a dependable, but ultimately expendable warm body to push at possible dangers.


    Lastly, the Afrikaner who identified herself as Adelle, albeit with the briefest, split-second hesitation, was someone he immediately checked for quick elimination. A faded Boer beauty in her very late thirties, tall and slender with naturally platinum hair, blue eyes, and a quietly observant poise about her, she was the one who pushed hardest for the injured woman to be saved, and it was probably her, not Kyle that patched the wound. She looked worryingly comfortable in the situation, and worse still, measured Theo with a cautious, suspicious gaze when she thought he would not notice. Theo¡¯s new identity was not ironclad, and he had a nagging suspicion that this woman saw through it. The fact that she did not say so immediately, but seemed to have assessed the situation quickly and kept quiet, made her even more dangerous.


    Theo strongly believed that the only clever and observant people around him should be either firmly on his side, or dead, and he was planning to make that ¡®Adelle¡¯ into one category or another as quickly as possible.


    Finally, the last two people he had to manage were the two Farsi-speaking men. The older one, Amir from Iran, was a stocky, soft-spoken construction worker with calloused hands and an obedient manner, that showed he either had some military experience after all, or possibly did some prison time, as he immediately fell in step with Kyle¡¯s, and later Theo¡¯s orders. The younger, Farrukh, was a wiry yet muscular Tajikistani youth sporting a luscious mustache and a fresh black eye from his brief scuffle against Kyle. He muttered curses under his breath and stared daggers at their supposed ¡®Team Leader¡¯, but easily fell under Theo¡¯s faux fatherly charm. Theo would bet considerable money that both of the young men in the group were raised without a father, given how they instinctually seemed to crave validation and acknowledgment from the ¡®Captain¡¯ figure he invented.


    Splendid, Theo thought. Between Farrukh and Kyle, he could easily train for himself two potential flunkies who would be as loyal to him as they were enemies with one another. All he needed now was to domesticate them with carefully arranged carrots and sticks. He was not sure how long it would take them to reach civilization, but he preferred to err on the side of caution and secure his own position. Regardless, he could always ditch them later, but one does not part with useful tools unless one really needs them no longer.


    ¡°Captain, you need to see this!¡±, Kyle called down from a bent willow that he climbed to get a better view of the river.


    Theo shimmied up the trunk with practiced ease. He might have been nearly a head shorter than Kyle, and maybe two-thirds his weight in muscle, but there were benefits in being wiry and small-statured.


    He did not need Kyle to point a direction to him. Despite being past his best years, Theo still had the sharp eyesight of a sniper he started as. Far into the sprawl of the river, almost at the edge where mists obscured the view, there was an island blackened with recent fire. The everpresent shrubs and reeds that littered the other islets were gone, and the few willows that stood there were charred stumps.


    ¡°Nice work, tee-el,¡± he said, patting him on the back. ¡°I''m pretty sure islands in the middle of a large river do not spontaneously burst in flames, so this is likely the work of people.¡±


    ¡°Why would anyone set a whole island on fire?¡± Kyle asked. ¡°Maybe someone camped at that bih and fucked up securin¡¯ their campfire or somethin¡¯,¡±


    Theo shook his head. ¡°Unlikely. The riverine weeds don¡¯t burn that well, being soggy and all. Someone must have gone out of their way to do it on purpose.¡±


    Kyle rubbed his chin, frowning. ¡°What for? Smoke signals? But¡­,¡± his frown deepened, ¡°Why would they use smoke signals for? If they have rescue boats or somethin¡¯ to go ¡®round the river won¡¯t they been havin¡¯s some floodlights or foghorns?¡±


    Theo looked up, measuring Kyle with his brand-new fatherly stare.


    ¡°I don¡¯t think there are any boats around, and it was not a rescue party. Until proven otherwise, it would be a good strategy to assume everyone else in this place is a naked survivor just like we are.¡±


    Kyle deflated a bit, but nodded grimly. ¡°Figured so, captain. You know I ain¡¯t stupid, just keeping my hopes up, is all.¡± Nodding at their little group, currently camping by the riverside he continued. ¡°Not sure is a bad thing though. One one hand, I wish we were found by some coastguard or somethin¡¯. The other though, what if we are in enemy territory? Swamp aside, this ain¡¯t Florida I know. What if we got kidnapped by the Chinese? Or some terrorists?¡± he gestured towards Farrukh who was pacing around the clearing, trying to collect firewood.


    ¡°You think we should be wary of the next group we encounter?¡± Theo led Kyle on.


    ¡°Would be a good strategy, ain¡¯t it? We run into another bare-assed survivor or two, we can take them in, if they listen to orders, or take ¡®em out if they bein¡¯ belligerent. But if we run into a group of organized and armed men, don¡¯t think we should go up and greet them. What if they¡¯re Russkies, or Chinese, or towelheads?¡±


    Theo nodded in grim agreement. Kyle talked himself into instant distrust of anyone they encountered, which was exactly what Theo wanted. But the work of molding their group into useful shape was not yet finished.


    ¡°You need to do something about the dying woman, Tee-el. I might outrank you, but ultimately this is your team. I cannot decide for you.¡±


    ¡°Whatcha mean captain?¡± Kyle paled, because, despite his slow wits, he knew exactly what Theo meant.


    ¡°We need to take the team to that burned-out island, search for clues there, and then move forward. We cannot drag along someone who is already dying. She¡¯ll drown, and likely drag someone down with her.¡± Theo sounded properly mournful to drive the point home.


    Kyle shook his head. ¡°Nah. I mean¡­ captain. I know she¡¯s a goner but¡­ you can¡¯t order me to, I mean, come on¡­ she¡¯s a human being and a woman for Chrissakes.¡±


    ¡°And she is suffering. She cannot move, drink, or eat, she barely breathes. Decide what needs to be done, Tee-el. Consult your team if you need to. But make the call quickly, I think that the wolfpack will sooner or later find us here. Or something worse will.¡±


    Theo slid down the tree, landing gracefully on the grass, and walked back to the camp where Amir and Adelle sweated over another futile attempt to start a fire with a drill-stick. He could have explained it to them how to do it correctly, but it was not the time to give them hope, when what he needed them to feel was despair.


    Kyle followed after him, fists clenched.


    ¡°Get up y¡¯all we¡¯re movin¡¯, ¡± Kyle tried to make it sound nonchalant, but noticed their confusion. ¡°Get up. We are going for a swim.¡± He gestured at the river. ¡°There¡¯s an island. We need to get there.¡±


    For a while, nobody moved, they just stared at him.


    ¡°Sure boss, but why?¡± Jenny hopped up and moved next to him. Theo noticed that she had an over-eager smile, not congruent with their circumstances, and tended to stick close to Kyle whenever she could, chatting him up and finding an excuse to touch him. She was otherwise cold and standoffish with everybody else. Interesting.


    ¡°Yes, why?¡± Adelle asked. ¡°And how? Tammy is in no condition to swim, and we do not have a boat.¡±


    ¡°I no swim!¡± Isabella chimed in.


    Theo moved away from Kyle and leaned against a tree, observing. It annoyed him that Adelle looked straight at him when asking that question.


    ¡°Yes, you will, and that is an order.¡± Kyle picked up his club, which somehow helped him regain his confidence. ¡°I saw fire,¡± he lied, ¡°there might be other people there, or maybe a rescue party. We gotta move, before they¡¯re gone. Or d¡¯ya want to stay here and end up wolf chow like this one?¡±


    He did not need to point at Tammy, they all immediately looked at her.


    ¡°Please, no.¡± Amir said quietly in English. ¡°We are not abandoning the girl to be eaten. Captain, speak sense to him!¡± he added in Farsi, directing it at Theo. Yet, the man had not joined Adelle in open defiance, and he held Farrukh¡¯s shoulder, trying to calm him down.


    ¡°This is his decision, and yours,¡± Theo responded in the same language. ¡°I want to help you, but I cannot decide for you. I know this is tough on your conscience.¡±


    Kyle scowled at their use of a language he could not follow. ¡°Enough of this. We¡¯re going. Before it¡¯s too late.¡±


    Farrukh looked at him defiantly, but the club in Kyle¡¯s hands kept him from leaping into action. The rest stood frozen, neither wanting to challenge Kyle nor leave Tammy.


    ¡°Don¡¯t be idiots!¡± It was Jenny who broke the impasse. ¡°The woman is dead anyway. The Team Leader is right. We go!¡±


    ¡°Im not going.¡± Adelle shook her head. ¡°I will not leave her to die, not like this. We are people, not animals.¡± She did not seem to have the courage to look Kyle in the eyes, but she stepped back and sat next to Tammy.


    ¡°No, not go.¡± Isabella stepped back as well, and joined hands with Adelle.


    Farrukh tried to step back too, but Amir held his shoulder and whispered angrily in his ear. For a second it looked like the youth would try to wrestle out of his grip, but he calmed down and sheepishly stepped towards Kyle and Jenny.


    Kyle stared angrily at them, the club raised threateningly, but finally sighed and shook his head.


    ¡°Alright, you dumbshits. You wanna stay, fine by me.¡± He ran his fingers through his hair, visibly exasperated. ¡°How ¡®bout that,¡± he pointed at the river, ¡°those of us with any brains, we¡¯re goin¡¯ to the island, and further out, to find help. Once we do, we¡¯ll send someone to get ya. Try not to die ¡®till then, ok?¡± he shrugged. ¡°or die, fuck if I care. I''m done draggin¡¯ around a corpse and stupid ingrates.¡±


    Theo observed their reaction. He even feigned a scowl of anger at Kyle¡¯s supposed callousness. His initial plan was to coax Kyle into mercy-killing Tammy, but the way events developed was even better. If Isabelle and Adelle stayed, they were getting rid of two extra mouths to feed, including one possible troublemaker, without sacrificing the strength of their little group.


    ¡°I hate to say it, but I must agree with your Team Leader.¡± he said, raising, and shaking his head in pretend sadness. ¡°Miss Tammy would not survive the swim, and we cannot afford to be slowed down anyway. If whoever started that fire sails away beyond our ability to find them, it could mean the end of us. All of us.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s the point of those dumb bitches staying then?¡± Jenny chimed in. ¡°Tammy¡¯s dead anyhow.¡±


    ¡°If she dies, she dies.¡± Adelle answered her, with enough cold fury in her voice to shut Jenny up. ¡°But I am not leaving her here to die. I¡¯ll stay and try to keep her alive for as long as I can. If you find anyone, I beg you to send help as fast as you can.¡±


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    ¡°I stay.¡± Isabelle said as well. Lacking the words in English, she switched to her native Spanish to explain. ¡°This girl is the age of my daughter. She¡¯s a child. I¡¯d be damned to Hell if I left a child to die. Besides, I can¡¯t swim. Would only slow you down.¡±


    Amir looked like he wanted to stay as well, but it was obvious that if he did, Farrukh would too. Reluctantly, he moved to stand next to Kyle.


    Kyle shook his head with an incredulous, angry smile. ¡°Jenny¡¯s right, you¡¯re both dumbass old bitches. Your funeral though. Should¡¯of put her out of her misery,¡± he faked slamming his club down, ¡°you¡¯d have no reason to stay then.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re not going to do it.¡± Adelle said calmly. It was not a challenge, just a statement of fact. Again, she said it to Kyle, but looked at Theo instead. She obviously knew that Kyle was just a bully, not a cold-blooded killer. But it seemed like she knew Theo might be one.


    ¡°I think that¡¯s settled Tee-el,¡± Theo said to Kyle. ¡°Everyone made their own choices, even if we disagree with them. Let us focus on how we are going to get to the burned island, and if need be, further.¡± He purposely turned his back on the three women that were staying behind, and pulled the attention of the rest away from them.


    ¡°How¡¯d we get there, Cap?¡± Kyle asked, visibly glad that the conversation veered away from moral choices to practical matters. ¡°The island¡¯s fuckin¡¯ far and it would mean goin¡¯ across the current. I mean, I''m in top shape, but I¡¯ll gas out before I get close to it. And no diss, but none of ya come near my fitness stats, you¡¯d all just drown half-way. So what, we build a raft or somethin¡¯? Think I saw a few fallen trees on our way here, we- ¡±


    ¡°No use. Heavy. No tools.¡± Amir said matter of factly in strained English.


    Kyle acquiesced. ¡°Yah, you¡¯re right. But maybe just one?¡± he pointed at a fallen beech visible at the edge of the clearing.


    Amir snorted. ¡°Good. Try lift it.¡± He saw Kyle¡¯s face grow angry, and hastily added. ¡°Twenty people do it. Machine do it. Six people not do it. This ala? wood. Very heavy.¡± He pointed at the reeds separating them from the river, ¡°Many this together.¡± He mimed bunching the reeds and tying them in a bushel.


    ¡°He is right,¡± Jenny L¨¢ng chimed in. ¡°Saw it on the Internet. Poor people from around Youngshuo make boats that way.¡±


    They set up to work. Theo was the first to wade into the water to cut down handfuls of reed and passed it to Jenny and Amir who tried to tie them together with willow withies. He made himself visibly useful and diligent, a leader that leads from the front. Isabelle and Adelle joined them too, despite having decided to stay. The two helped tie together the reed raft, and took the spare to make bedding and a cover for Tammy. He considered it a waste of time and resources, since she was already completely limp and the colour of ash. She still breathed, but between the blood loss and the cold, and the fact that she was completely unconscious for the last two days, Theo was sure there was no brain activity left between her ears.


    Finally, after about two hours of hard work, they cleared a path towards the river, and had a floating lump of tied bulrush the size of a minivan. It was not shaped like a boat at all, but it seemed buoyant enough, even when they all leaned on it.


    ¡°Last chance to change your mind.¡± Kyle looked back to Adelle and Isabelle, who went back to trying to start a fire. ¡°You two made ya point. We¡¯re all heartless assholes for leavin¡¯ her to die. Come be heartless assholes with us and live, not be stubborn dipshits and die.¡±


    Isabelle shook her head, silently. Adelle did not even deign him with an answer.


    ¡°Jesus fuckin¡¯ Christ ya¡¯ll females are dumb,¡± he muttered to himself, rubbing his face. For a second Theo feared that Kyle might change his mind and decide to stay. Or worse, come to a conclusion that Tammy could be loaded on the raft and taken with them. Which was technically true, just not the right choice. Luckily, the battle between nascent moral empathy, and cold, selfish pragmatism in Kyle¡¯s heart seemed to be won by the latter, and he simply pushed the raft into open water, his eyes burning with poorly hidden shame, but focused on the target, not looking back.


    They all clustered together, holding the end of the raft and working with their legs to push it forward gently. They did not want to try to climb on it, or push it faster, for fear it would disintegrate under the strain. Once they crossed the middle of the way, they noticed the obvious drawback. They were going too slow to beat the current, and were rapidly pushed off-course.


    ¡°We are not going to make it.¡± Theo said matter-of-factly.


    ¡°Fuck that!¡± Kyle growled. ¡°push it guys, we still have the chance!¡±


    ¡°We. Are. Not. Going. To. Make. It.¡± Theo punctuated with finality, but it was already clear to everyone, Kyle included, that the burnt-out island was rapidly disappearing to their right, while they were being flushed downriver. Worse still, they were running out of stamina. The raft might have been perfectly buoyant, but it was also awkwardly shaped, and instead of cutting through the water it plowed through it, wasting most of their energy.


    For a second, Theo was stumped, unable to decide what to do. He was a man of many skills, and part of his training involved maritime recon and combat. He was an excellent swimmer. If he ditched the group, he could possibly manage to swim to the opposite shore before he was washed out into the open bay spreading on their left. His chances would not be great, but he had beaten worse odds in his long career.


    Kyle made the decision for him. He leaped up on the raft and made it list to starboard, suddenly causing the rest of them to be squeezed between the bow and the foamy waves. Farrukh and Amir were nearly pulled under as the quickly disintegrating pile of bulrush tore out of their grasp and slammed onto them. Jenny shrieked and disappeared underwater, and was only saved by Theo grabbing her by the hair and hauling her up.


    ¡°Guys! Guys!¡± Kyle shouted to them before they pulled him down in anger. ¡°Trust me on this! We gotta veer it rightwise!¡± Farrukh tried to push him off the raft, but Kyle slapped his hands away, ¡°fuck off, I know what Im doin¡¯! Been boatin¡¯ around Cape Coral since I was a kid!¡±


    Theo made up his mind and hopped onto it as well. The rest reluctantly followed. Soon, the mangled remains of the raft were cutting the river flow at a sharp angle. They were still being washed into the bay, but the same force was pushing them closer and closer to the opposite shore.


    It was impossible. The inexorable forces of nature were not on their side. Kyle¡¯s plan was sound, but they simply lacked the strength to push the raft any harder, especially after Jenny exhausted herself. Amir also barely puffed along, his face purple with effort, as if he was about to have a heart failure at any moment. Even Theo himself was too winded to even contemplate ditching them all and trying his luck on his own. Without the raft, Kyle and Farrukh, he would simply faint out of exhaustion before he reached the green shoreline, that looked deceptively close, but could just as well be on the Moon.


    ¡°Shallows!¡± Kyle pointed at a clump of weeds and debris sticking out of the waves. . ¡°Come on you fucks, we can make it. Just to the shallows, we rest a bit and then- ¡± he went slack-jawed, his eyes bulging, at the sight of several dark shapes that slid off the shallow strip and rushed towards them. ¡°Fuck! Fucking gators! Move, move, we gotta go faster downstream!¡±


    ¡°These are not alligators, something worse.¡± Theo clipped grimly. All of them doubled their efforts, but the idea of going past the shallows and reaching the shoreline before the pack of living torpedoes reached them was absurd. Theo already fought a giant otter once. He only won because the creature was more curious than aggressive and did not expect a sharp antler dagger to the neck. Against a whole pack, they stood no chance. They could neither outrun, nor fight them off, and the pack would be upon them in seconds. The choice had to be made.


    ¡°Push it! I¡¯ll try to fight them off!¡±


    Theo flipped sideways, and dove under the raft. The water was nearly opaque, but in the green-gray twilight, he saw several dark projectiles speeding towards them. He reached for the long antler dagger at his heap, and readied himself. The second the first otter reached them, he lunged.


    The antler went deep into Amir¡¯s abdomen, and gutted him waist to groin. The Iranian shook, and let go of the raft, spasming. Theo kicked off his shoulder, and pushed himself away from the wolfish jaws of the aquatic predators, which homed in on the blood, and tore into Amir¡¯s ravaged belly.


    Theo emerged on the opposite side of the raft and bellowed,


    ¡°They got Amir! Couldn¡¯t stop them! Push it!, Push it now, they¡¯re distracted!¡±


    Farrukh roared in rage, and for a second it looked like he was about to leap back and try to save his friend. But it was immediately obvious that it would be suicide. Amir was gone, and in his place was a crimson whirlpool of blood and dark, sleek shapes.


    They all kicked off with desperate speed. Before they reached the shore though, the mangled raft fell apart into chunks too small to support their weight. They leaped forward, trusting nothing but their own swimming skills to give them the few remaining yards. Jenny immediately fell behind.


    ¡°Help! Help-¡± she managed to yell before she inhaled water. Theo was about to ignore her, but he saw both Kyle and Farrukh turn back. Silly heroic types. He looked back at the pool of carnage behind them, and did not see any otters breaking away from their feast to chase them. Alright. Going back was still within optimal parameters. He dove down and yet again hauled Jenny by the hair. She tried to claw at him but he nimbly moved out of the way, he was not big enough to support both of them above the surface if she grabbed him.


    ¡°Help her to the shore, I¡¯ll take the rear.¡± He shoved the girl into Kyle¡¯s arms. Farrukh gave a hand, the prospect of death suddenly building a truce between the two cocky males. They dragged half-drowned Jenny up the mangrove-like tangle of willows that littered the shore, and tried to crawl through it.


    Theo went right after, wading through the submerged roots until the water reached only to his waist, when his instincts kicked in. He turned around, antler in one hand, and the bamboo water tube in another. Kyle looked back at him, confused.


    ¡°Cap, come on, what are y-¡±


    The otter burst out of the water and hit Theo square in the chest, before he had the time to react. The only reason he was not bowled over was that his back slammed against Kyle. He felt the creature''s claws dig into his chest, and saw the snarling maw inches from his face. The otter reared like a striking cobra and uttered a hissing growl.


    A so-called normal person would be terrified out of their wits. But Theo was not a normal person. He was a very peculiar person, with a very unusual brain, and a very rare skillset. In the two seconds between the moment the animal burst out of the water and the time it growled at him, Theo had all the time in the world to assess the situation. He understood that wearing a dead otter¡¯s pelt as a loincloth, and being smeared in a dead otter¡¯s scent was probably his great mistake. It¡¯s what set off the animals, which would otherwise likely let them be. He also understood that if the otter simply wanted to kill him, he would be already dead. The rearing and growling was a display of rage, not something a hunting predator would do.


    And thus, the roles of predator and prey would be reversed.


    ¡®Should have bit me when you had the chance,¡¯ he thought, allowing himself a half of a second to look into the otter¡¯s black eyes. Then he sprung up like a pneumatic piston, and drove the antler through the animal¡¯s throat, and up its brain. The furry maw spread in a dying rictus, and the beady eyes rolled back, as the otter collapsed on him.


    ¡°Captain!¡± Kyle bellowed. ¡°Whadda fuck! What!...¡±


    ¡°Get that darned thing off me, Tee-el. It''s a bit heavy.¡±


    ¡°Jesus!¡± Kyle was beside himself, heaving the limp animal off Theo. ¡°Bad. Ass. Fuckin¡¯ badass, sir.¡±


    ¡°Much appreciated Tee-el, but let''s make ourselves scarce. The rest of the pack will be here in seconds.¡±


    They limped away from the shore, Farrukh all but carrying Jenny, Kyle supporting Danton. ¡®How annoying¡¯, he thought, his body was not as young as it used to be, and the brief scuffle against the otter did something unpleasant to his lower back. Oh well. Good thing his current Second was a slab of muscle. Occasionally useful to have one of those around.


    They collapsed in the middle of a small clearing, once they were out of sight of the river. He doubted the otters would follow them that far inland, but kept the dagger in hand all the same.


    Farrukh laid on the grass, panting. Kyle crouched, looking at Theo with a mixture of awe and childlike glee. Jenny crawled up to Kyle, cursing under her breath in Cantonese, and cuddled up his side. The boy absentmindedly caressed her head, but his eyes were welded to his new hero.


    ¡°Permission to speak, sir,¡± he said, with curious formality.


    Theo cocked an eyebrow, he sensed a surprising shift in their relationship, but not an unwelcome one.


    ¡°Granted, Tee-el.¡±


    ¡°I, well, I mean, we,¡± Kyle looked at Jenny, but did not grant Farrukh even a passing glance, ¡°we want to thank you, sir. You saved our lives. And you know, sorry for being a dick to you at first. I was confused, you know? What¡¯s with dying and waking up in here, and the wolves, then you show up, but you¡¯re a fuckin¡¯ Brit and all, I mean no insult but- ¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s fine, Team Leader. Just another thrilling workday for us boots, am I right or am I right?¡± he gently jabbed Kyle with a finger. ¡°And you did a marvelous job as well, my boy. Civilians¡­ Can¡¯t save them all, but we can save some, and we did, did we not?¡±


    Kyle beamed.


    ¡°And you fucked up that otter real nice, Cap. You got balls of fuckin¡¯ steel, sir. I half-shat myself when it jumped at us, and you¡¯s like, Stab!, and that bitch was a goner.¡±


    ¡°Flattery will get you a promotion, Tee-el, and trust me, you do not want that.¡± Theo faked another smile, but barely so. Kyle radiated sincere enthusiasm, something that grated on his nerves. Why, oh why can¡¯t all his goons be like Joseph! If only that silent scarecrow of a man was here with him, life would be so much easier.


    That thought suddenly vanished, when his brain registered a barely audible noise, then the abrupt, and thus far more concerning, silence. He spoke quietly, without changing his facial expression or the tone of voice, only letting the muscles holding his weapon tighten.


    ¡°Tee-el, listen to me carefully. Do not raise your voice, and do not move a muscle. Miss L¨¢ng, Mister Umarov,¡± he nodded towards Farrukh, ¡°this applies to you two as well. We are being watched.¡±


    ¡°Otters? Another animal?¡± Jenny asked, tense.


    ¡°Humans.¡± Theo paused, listening. ¡°Two, maybe three people. To my left. Behind that copse of knotweed.


    ¡°Why are they hiding?¡± Kyle asked, faking a stretch, which allowed him to grab a large stick inconspicuously. Not as heavy as his lost club, but good enough. Neither Farrukh or Jenny had anything to arm themselves with, but they both tensed, ready to act. Theo did not dare guess whether it was readiness to fight or run.


    ¡°Go on, ask them, Tee-el.¡± Theo looked Kyle firmly in the eyes pushing him into action.


    ¡°Hey! We see y''all, come out. We mean no harm.¡± Kyle shouted at the bushes, brandishing the large stick, incongruously with his words. Farrukh and Jenny rose behind him. Theo started to slowly inch away and to the side, as to not be in line with them.


    For a second, nothing happened, but before Kyle could shout again, there was some more deliberate noise, and a large, plump, red-headed woman emerged from the bushes.


    ¡°You say you mean no harm, lad, but would you mind putting down that stick o¡¯ yours? We¡¯re just a pair o¡¯ harmless old bats. And Im a nun, sae doubly harmless, you ken? No need tae swat at us with that thing.¡±


    Indeed, now Theo was able to notice that the supposed nun was not alone, a stick-thin South Asian woman was tailing her. Both seemed to be well in their sixties, and not obviously dangerous, even if The Nun looked strong enough to arm-wrestle Kyle. Worse though, she had sharp, intelligent eyes, at odds with her plump face and a jovial smile. The eyes were not smiling, they were judging them cooly, and ever so slightly looking to the right, somewhere behind Theo¡¯s back. He tensed and felt a chill run down his spine.


    ¡°You stop right there, Gran.¡± Kyle kept his weapon up, and stepped forward. ¡°The Hell were you sneaking up on us? What kinda nun does that?¡±


    The Nun did not stop, but marched towards Kyle nonchalantly, all broad smiles and grandmotherly warmth. ¡°Oh do calm down, we were scared of ya, is all. Who is tae say you would not hurt us? Only once we saw you had a lass with ya, and she didnae seem distressed, we reasoned it safe to come out. Put the stick down, please.¡±


    Kyle kept his weapon up, and looked towards Theo, who failed to conceal his anxiety. Something was badly off.


    Whoop! Whoop! Crack!


    Kyle¡¯s stick exploded in his hand, as if shot with a gun. The whooping sound returned, but this time no projectile followed.


    ¡°The lady asked you nicely, boy,¡± a loud baritone sounded from the green darkness. ¡°Be kind and stand down.¡±


    Theo gestured for Kyle to drop the remains of the stick. The shadows shifted, and part of the greenery broke away from the treeline, turning into a giant of a man, with a sling in one hand and a spear in another.


    The giant passed Theo, and moved between the Nun and Kyle. For a split second Theo considered pouncing at the man and plunging the dagger in his back, but some primal instinct told him that it would not be that easy. The bearded giant gave off the same calm, deadly vibe as Joseph always did, but magnified.


    Plus, dagger versus spear was just bad odds.


    ¡°Now,¡± the spearman continued, ¡°let''s all calm down, nobody needs to get hurt.¡± He swept his gaze from Kyle to Theo, his eyes briefly lingering on the latter. Theo looked up into that dark, bearded face, and gave the smallest of nods. Neither of them knew who the other was, but both instinctively recognized another killer. A tentative hierarchy was established without words. Possibly to be updated later, maybe with violent finality.


    ¡°Captain Theodore Danton, Royal Marines,¡± Theo said, recalibrating his faux British accent to be even more vague. No need for the obviously Scottish woman to see through it. He shoved the dagger back into the makeshift sheath and held out a hand to the giant.


    ¡°Very good!¡± the big man grinned. ¡°You of the Forty-Fifth, Captain? Angus Lads? I think I saw you in action in Sierra Leone.¡±


    Theo shook his head with a small smile. He saw a trap and side-stepped it, but by doing so, revealed that he knew the trap was even set, which was a trap of its own.


    ¡°You must be mistaken, chap. Forty-Fifth was in Belize at the time. And I''m a Plymouth Bootneck, Forty-Seventh.¡±


    ¡°Raiders? Never had the pleasure of working with you, but could have sworn¡­ You did action in Africa though?¡±


    ¡°Classified¡±. Theo said, not lowering his hand. ¡°You have me at a disadvantage.¡± He was enjoying the game nevertheless.


    ¡°Oh. Apologies Captain. Sergeant Yusuf Baba Abdullahi, at your service.¡±


    ¡°Fellow boot then, splendid. What unit?¡±


    ¡°The Not Your Business Unit,... sir.¡± Baba said with a wink.


    Theo cocked an eyebrow. ¡°Touch¨¦. Have it your way then, ¡­ Sarge.¡±


    They shook hands, as everybody stared at them, frozen.


    ¡°Goodness lads, are you quite done sizing up yer figgins?¡± The Nun sighed in exasperation, breaking the tension. ¡°Let us all agree that the posh one¡¯s in charge, the big one right after him, and all we miserable civilians right below.¡±


    She came between them, patting both men on the shoulder. ¡°Dae not need tae tell you that we are all a little bit scared and doilt. But with the two of you brave soldiers, I am sure we are safe. Now, how aboot we all get tae know each other? Im Mary Brigitte, and as I mentioned, am a nun. Had the misfortune of getting stabbed in the head by one nefarious character and ended up here. My friend over there is Nakry, and I have no idea where she is from. She does not speak English, and she a bit easy tae spook, that one. Be kind with her would ye?¡±


    They all took turns introducing themselves. Theo gave rapt attention to what they were, and weren¡¯t saying.


    Jenny L¨¢ng went on a long speech on how important and successful she was in her life before she ended up dead. She claimed to have had an ¡®accident¡¯ but to Theo the circumstances suggested an accidental cocaine overdose. Still, even if half of what Jenny said was true, she could easily be an adept social manipulator, one to keep an eye on.


    Kyle Weathers seemed to be exactly as much of a simpleton as Theo guessed. He boasted about his nascent successful career in amateur mixed-martial arts tournaments and the respectable position he claimed in the Florida Nation¡¯s Militia - the supposed last bastion against the forces of leftist corruption and approaching Jihad. He mumbled about his actual job as an auto mechanic being sabotaged by Latino coworkers who supposedly plotted to crowd out the last White man from the company. He refused to elaborate how he died, But Theo would bet it had something to do with the man¡¯s paramilitary hobbies. In short, he was a confused, racist, small-brained hick with delusions of combat capabilities. He saw that Kyle¡¯s tirade was met with a weary, derisive smile by Baba.


    Farrukh appeared to be the surprising gem in the mud. The hot-headed youth turned out to be Tajikistan¡¯s national championship bronze medalist in archery, and made forays into stuntman work before dying in a motorcycle accident, and waking up in the bushes, deep into the hunting grounds of a wolfpack. He escaped their pursuit, hid in a tree, and found Tammy the day after. Only then he was found by Kyle and his little group of survivors.


    Nakry was¡­ confusing. Theo understood enough Cambodian to know that her particular dialect was from somewhere north of the country, but that was as far as he got. The woman babbled all the time, but the only things he understood was that she ¡®was not looking for trouble¡¯, that she ¡®was sorry¡¯, and some convoluted things about¡­ weaving? One way or another, the broken woman was no danger and of no use to him either, other than an angle against the far more problematic Nun.


    Regardless, he felt, things seemed to go according to plan for once.

 ADELLE (I). THE HANDS OF MANY COLORS.

    She felt nothing.


    Nothing at all.


    Her mind kept replaying the last two days, inexplicably backward. It ends with her hitting the ground. Before that, her hands getting numb, letting go of the branch she''s been clutching. Before that, she was climbing a tree, terrified out of her wits.


    Covered in blood, not hers.


    And yet before that, the origin of her repeating nightmare. The wolves, silently slithering through the shadows and finding them.


    In the nightmare, they do not howl or growl, they make no sound at all. In the near pitch-black darkness of the night, they just come, and begin feasting on Tammy.


    Isabelle screaming, trying to wrestle the things away from the girl, her screams ending with a wet gurgle.


    Adelle herself, blindly clawing around, trying both to find Isabelle and fend off the wolves, who all but ignored her and focused on their bleeding kills.


    Dragging convulsing Isabelle with her, sprays of blood washing her face and arms, only for her friend to be mercilessly tugged out of her hands by a far stronger animal.


    She did not remember climbing that willow, but she must have, otherwise, what would she''d fall off of?


    Numb, she idly contemplated the cruel mercy of the wolfpack that ignored her barely conscious self and absconded with the corpses of the other two women.


    Curled on blood-soaked grass, she let her mind replay the same memory on repeat, endlessly.


    Suddenly, there was a new element to it. A distant clamor of many voices, with one drawling tenor outshouting all the others. Had her little group returned for her? Was that the voice of that damned bully Kyle, or the cold-eyed fucker that joined them lately?


    Neither.


    The voice was shouting in English, but clearly different from either.


    She could not believe she was being found. That she would be saved after all.


    Why would anyone waste the time to try to save an old whore? Worse, an old whore who let her friends die? Why hasn''t the rescue come sooner? When Isabelle was still alive, and Tammy had at least a small chance?


    The first feeling that came to her numb mind was not hope or relief. It was a detached feeling of injustice. The unfairness of being rescued when others had died. The voices came closer, and soon there were hands on her, many, many hands, lifting her up.


    White hands, black hands hands of all colors.


    And along with the hands, she saw a whole rainbow of human faces around her. Black, White, Asian, young and old, male and female. All concerned, all shouting different things in very different languages, but the message was clear.


    ¡° I..am, I am all right," she croaked, but the people around her did not believe her. They checked her for wounds. Someone looked into her eyes. It was a large, beefy White man with flushed pink jowls and a handlebar mustache. He was shouting something in a strong American accent, and waving a finger in front of her eyes, but she did not understand a thing of what he was saying. She did not want to understand. Why couldn''t they just leave her, and let her die?


    Then someone pushed past the huge man. It was a slight Asian boy. Skinny, but wiry with muscle. Young, eighteen-year-old at best. The boy did not say a word. He just hugged her fiercely. Pressing his small chest against her grimy body.


    ''Oh, so this is what it is about... alright then.'' she thought to herself. Her mind supplied a ready-made answer, honed over years of working the Oldest Trade, and she started kissing the boy''s neck. The young man jumped up, startled.


    ¡°No, no, lady you are confused! I just want to calm you down. Make you warm. I am Keito Nakamura. We are here to save you. Save everyone!¡± She would have chuckled to herself, but her throat was too sore from sobbing already. Meanwhile, the big mustachioed man had shooed away the rest of the group. Which by her estimation was easily an order of magnitude bigger than the group that abandoned her. The big man leaned over her.


    ¡°Hello, ma''am. My name¡¯s William Donahue. I''m an officer Of the Minnesota Police Department¡­ Uh.. Of America," he added hastily. " Can you tell me your name?"


    ¡®What''s with this again?¡¯ She thought to herself. But she had a lie on the ready. "I''m Adelle. Adelle Van Vuuren."


    "And how are you feeling, Miss van Vuuren?" The man asked.


    "I''m¡­ I''m all right, just... just very tired," she lied again. "What about... what¡­ what about my friends?" The man just shook his head sadly. "Sorry, ma''am. But if there was anyone with you here, they''re dead. We flushed out the wolves from their meal but..." He sighed wearily, playing with a wooden club he was holding, as it was the most useless tool in the world. She knew, of course. She heard them being devoured.


    "What about the rest¡­ the people who went across the river?"


    The man frowned. "What do you mean across the river?" Before she could respond the Asian boy interfered.


    "I told you, William. There was smoke, smoke over the river, people were there. There is civilization."


    "There¡¯s a burned-out island," she said, pointing away at the river. ¡°Our well¡­, our leader and the rest of my group went there to investigate, to see if there is a sign of other humans or possibly of rescue. I stayed behind with a wounded girl and another woman, but then the wolves...and.." Words got stuck in her throat, and the nightmare threatened to replay again in the private cinema of her head.


    "It''s all right, Ma''am. There... there¡¯ll be time to talk about this." William patted her on the hand with gentle awkwardness. "Let''s get you sorted up first.¡± He stood up and started shouting orders at his little army. People looked up, and though few seemed to understand English, they still understood his basic gestures.


    Two women came to her. Each of them spoke soothing words in a completely different language, neither of which she understood. They helped her bathe in the river, scrubbing away the dried blood off her skin. They helped her drink rainwater from folded-up leaves. Someone else came and fed her berries, and slices of some kind of a root that tasted almost like a carrot. She almost immediately threw it all up.


    Nobody chastised her for wasting the food. They just gave her more, as well as some more water. She noticed that the boy, Keito, never left her side, though he made sure to avert his gaze from her vulnerable nudity allowing her minimal privacy. ¡®What a strange, innocent creature¡¯, she thought. Surrounded by naked humanity, he still made sure not to ogle her, as if it could make her any more uncomfortable at this point.


    She sat cross-legged, gazing at the sudden torrent of humanity around her. The two women who bathed her simply cuddled her for warmth, and soon plenty more came, combining their precious body heat.


    Meanwhile, people bustled around her. Dozens of men, cooperating, using nothing but gestures and simple language of necessity, dragged up a few fallen logs, the ones Amir thought could not be moved. Young men and women stood watch around their group, wooden spears in hand. A bald, grandfatherly-looking man with a near-toothless smile was starting a fire expertly, with nothing but a few pieces of bamboo.


    Before the old man was even done, others came and brought kindling, dry moss, and armfuls of bark for the fire. Then bigger and bigger branches, until, seemingly within minutes, there was a roaring bonfire in the middle of the clearing.


    The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.


    Soon burning twigs were carried away to start more fires. Suddenly, she was not among a group of terrified survivors, but sitting in the middle of a small village of freshly minted hunter-gatherers.


    Watching the fires being lit, she allowed herself a small flicker of hope to come alight inside her. She was warm. She was fed for the first time in days. And there were fifty spearmen between her and the dark forest. It was so different from the time she was under the gentle care of Kyle.


    ¡°Mr. Donahue,¡± she spoke up, aloud for the first time.¡±How on Earth did you manage to bring this group together? Me and my group were wandering these woods for days and barely survived.¡±


    Donahue turned towards her and chuckled.


    ¡°Now ma''am. All I did was show the guys how to sharpen spears. And shouted at them until they snapped out of the shock. But keeping our little army together, helping people understand each other and cooperate, that was all Keito''s doing.¡± He patted the boy on the shoulder, proudly. ¡°Kid¡¯s got a knack for languages, and folks trust him. And once we got a few of them shaped up, turned out plenty of them had useful skills. ¡± He gestured around vaguely.


    ¡°Sure, some of the big city folks we have, especially White people from big places are all but useless in the woods and trip over their own feet. But we have dozens of people who were simple rural folk in Africa, or Asia, or fuck knows where, who know how to hunt, track animals, even fish with their bare hands. We have fishermen, weavers, medics, even a goddamn pianist who used to make caveman-style stone blades as a hobby. Now it''s his main job. Hell, we got a real-deal Navajo hunter with us. Native, and a Park Ranger too. Guy says he¡¯s happier here than at his old job.¡±


    The bald man stood up from the bonfire and waddled towards her. He put a finger on her forehead. And sang something happily. Then he patted her shoulder gently and departed.


    ¡°What was this about?" she asked.


    ¡°We have no idea," said Billy with a shrug. "We don''t understand the word he''s saying. The general consensus is that he must be some kind of a Buddhist monk or something. So I guess this was some kind of a good luck prayer? Or maybe he just tried his best pickup lines on you. Who knows? To be honest, we don''t even know his name. We just call him Monk. All we know is that he is best at starting fires and he is always jolly, which goes miles making folks distracted from the cold and the fear.¡±


    ¡°What about the rest of you? Do any one of you know what the Hell is going on? Why are we here? What¡­what happened?¡±


    Nakamura looked her way. "Every one of us¡­ we died in the old world. And resurrected here. Nobody knows why. Nobody knows how. Mostly we cannot understand each other. But of the people who speak English nobody knows anything. Everybody has the same story. We die, we wake up in the woods.¡±


    ¡°But why so many people?" she gestured at the crowd. ¡°The last few days my group was wandering around these woods and we only found seven. Somehow you found how many fifty, sixty people?¡±


    ¡°Seventy four!" Nakamura said, perking up. ¡°And it was the same for us. For me and Billy, I mean. First few days, There was only me and him and then we found people.¡±


    His face fell, saddened.


    ¡°Most of them were dead. But then we found some who were alive. And there were more and more of us. Then we found little groups and then big ones. And then there were a lot of us, so we were not afraid of monsters anymore. So we started shouting and burning big fires In the night. So that more and more people could find us.¡±


    She examined him. Keito¡¯s face showed pride and fragile hope, but there was tremendous tension underneath. Just like she was, just like all of them were, he was keeping a lid on the trauma. A lid that would have to come off at some point.


    ¡°It''s like the kid says,¡± Billy added. ¡°We are finding a dozen people a day. Which is a good thing, but also a problem. There¡¯s few peeps among us who know their way around the woods, hunters, farmers and so on, and all of them say the same thing. There are too many mouths to feed in our group, and if it grows bigger, we will not be able to feed ourselves just off the land. For now, we forage, sometimes we hunt something down. But at these numbers, food is thin. Worse, it''s getting colder and colder every day, and we have no way to clothe all these people. All the fires we can burn they''re not enough. Can¡¯t build permanent shelter either, because if we stay in one place for longer we¡¯ll starve. Meanwhile we had people die from the cold itself already. Mostly older folk.¡±


    ¡°What about children?¡± She felt her stomach cramp at the thought.


    ¡°Thanks Jesus, we haven''t found any children, alive¡­ or otherwise. Seems only adults or young adults end up here. Nakamura is actually the youngest among us, I think. And the Monk seems to be the oldest, but he''s like, I don''t know, sixty five, maybe younger? Not to mention, spry as a fucking mountain goat. So no kids, but no truly old folks either. So whatever brought us here at least wants us to have a chance of survival. Seems that the rules are no old folks, no kids, no cripples. Nobody who would be completely helpless. But still¡­¡±


    ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°Well at least half of the people we find are corpses. This place is not kind. Not fucking kind at all.¡± He sighed, and sat down, wearily. Adelle noticed that he was younger than she thought, probably early thirties. It was the quickly diminishing bulk, the grime, and the haggard look of his face that made him look older, and somehow, more authoritative. This was also a man held together by the last thread of willpower, even if the thread was steel wire.


    ¡°We need to find help soon then.¡± she said matter of factly. ¡°Across the river.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, that''s what I thought,¡± said Billy. ¡°We need to get across as soon as possible. We''ve been going back and forth along this shore for six days now, and we pretty much ate everything around here that was to be eaten. People are trying to get by on a handful of wild fruit, some nuts and dandelion roots, but soon we¡¯ll run out of those too.¡±


    She suddenly felt self-conscious about vomiting out the berries they fed her.


    ¡°We ain''t going downriver because of the swamp,¡± he continued, ¡°and we ain''t going upriver because of the fucking hyenas. The bastards are merciless and they are not afraid of our group. We killed a whole bunch of them, but they keep skulking around, snatching stragglers. Every time we hear the fucking giggle in the woods, we gotta bunch up and stay awake through the night. And we cannot go away from the river. We would be walking away from the chance of rescue and deep into the green where fuck knows what lurks. So that''s out too. So our best guess now is to try to get some folk across the river to investigate, see what''s what, and then find a way to get all of us across it.¡±


    He stood up, dusting himself off, as if scrubbing away the few dry leaves could give him extra dignity and improve his authority. And in a way, it did.


    ¡°Alright y''all, here¡¯s the plan,¡± he bellowed. All heads turned towards him, and she saw people quickly translate his words to others. Seemed like there was a fragile network of shared, or at least mutually understandable languages among them. It led to a halted speech, in which Billy gave a long pause after each sentence so the translation could keep up.


    ¡°I need five people to go across the river with me.¡± He looked around and pointed. ¡°Ruslana. Ali, Xiao. Hmm¡­ The other Ali too, the big one. And Lawrence. You know your way around boats Lawrence?¡±


    ¡°Why yes, Billy, Im a yacht engine-¡± the man started.


    ¡°Good enough, Larry. We¡¯ll be making a small raft out of the logs right there,¡± he pointed at a bunch of men pushing a big fallen beech into the water, and debranching it with sharp stones. Others floated smaller pine logs near it. ¡°You supervise these guys. Ask the Pakistani women to make you some grass rope for it, we ain¡¯t got no nails.¡±


    Before Lawrence could respond, Billy moved on.


    ¡°Rest of you. Build shelter and wait for us. We will go to the other side,¡± he pointed across the river. ¡° We will find help. Stay put. Yes, there will be little food. You need to tough it up for a few days. Vikram is in charge of the camp. You hear me? No grumblin¡¯! Listen to Vikram.¡±


    A tall Indian man with the face of a stern math teacher stood up, and nodded at Billy. A few people scowled, but nobody argued.


    ¡°Hashk¨¦ is in charge of hunting and foraging. Nobody goes out in the woods unless he says so. Is. That. Clear?¡± A man looked up from skinning a freshly killed pig. He had a gentle, boyishly handsome face framed with a shock of long black hair, but his deep brown eyes were so intense it made him look like a falcon focusing on a rabbit.


    ¡°All food goes to Marike.¡± He pointed at a plump, Nordic-looking woman. ¡°All food is shared. Equally. Marike will distribute¡¯-¡± he hesitated, ¡°Marike will give everyone enough.¡± He raised his club. ¡°If I learn some fucko ate more than their share in secret, there be reckoning.¡± He slammed the club into his meaty palm. No translation needed, she mused, seems like they already understood the necessity of impromptu socialism, and from the few winces she saw, it was clear this law had already been brutally enforced a few times.


    Adelle nodded to herself. A rare occurrence in her life, she found a man she could trust. Not fully, of course. Enough to untense her shoulders, and not be on guard around him.


    ¡°Hate to ask you, Miss van Vuuren, but are you up for the trip as well? I know, you¡¯re-¡±


    ¡°Yes, of course,¡± she nodded. ¡°And just call me Adelle.¡± She untangled herself from the heap of people who kept her warm.


    ¡°Oh.¡± He raised his eyebrows. ¡°And I had a whole speech prepared to convince you. We could use you if we encounter your old group. Sometimes, there is, ya know¡­ friction, when we find other groups.¡±


    Her lips spread in a cold, predatory smile. ¡°Oh, there will be friction with them, I''m certain. Two fokken gemene basters in that group could really get a little bit of your¡­ reckoning.¡±

 DAY NINETY ONE. MAD SCIENTISTS AND SAVAGE TRIBES.

    ¡°Ok Gordo, walk me through this again. Because it seems to me like you are trying to convince me to help you create a fountain of concentrated piss, and thats¡­ ¡± I raised my hands, exasperated. Working with Gordo felt like a mirror opposite of working with Baba. Where Baba was patient and mentally to the point of being patronizing in his lessons, Gordo was manic and erroneously assumed I grokked his hair-brained schemes as fast as he dished them out.


    ¡°Nitrates, Jack. Sodium salt,¡± he gestured at me with enthusiasm that seemed worrying, coming from a man who was on the brink of death just a few days ago, and still had a gaping wound in his side.


    ¡°Ammonia!¡± he exclaimed, as if he invented the substance himself. ¡°Don¡¯t you get what that means?!¡±


    I sighed, inwardly. He was like that since we let him out of the hut and showed him the Duplicators. Yes, they now had a capital letter, Gordo spoke about them with enough feverish reverence to merit it. It was love at first sight if I ever saw one, a die-hard nerd encountering a clearly fantastical object that just happened to be immensely useful in conjunction with his greatest passion.


    ¡°Swear on my Mum¡¯s grave Gordo,¡± Candace shouted from the distant tent the girls erected for their privacy. ¡°If you stink up this place worse than it already reeks, thanks to your rootin¡¯ experiments, I''m tossing your arse back into the river.¡±


    ¡°Your mother is alive,¡± Gordo said matter of factly. ¡°You told us yourself.¡± he immediately ducked without even looking, when a half-eaten nutty bar flew over his head.


    ¡°Jack,¡± he followed, with more sensible energy this time, ¡°I know you are not a chemist, but you are a reasonable, technical guy. With ammonia, we can have significantly better disinfectants. We could use it to tan leather, dye stuff, create fertilizer for farming, or even make explosives! Especially if we manage to separate other nitrates as well.¡±


    ¡°Leather tanning - that makes sense, doing it the primitive way drove me nuts. But I don''t think we need the rest. There is no need for us to farm, thanks to the Duplicators. And why would we need dye or explosives? We are not planning to start a war or tie-dye our shirts.¡±


    ¡°Lets dye shirts!¡± Nata said. ¡°This white is boring. And it get dirty!¡±


    ¡°We might as well dye them, since we need to tailor everything from scratch anyway. Your tunics suck, Jack, were you making them blind, or drunk?¡± Candace emerged from the tent. Just like the girls, she turned a copy of my tunic into a knee-length dress by narrowing the sleeves and adding something they called a ¡®princess¡¯ seam¡¯ on the back. Together with the makeshift leather shoes, and hose-leggins they invented, they looked positively medieval.


    ¡°Ingrates!¡± I mumbled. Gordo rolled his eyes. He himself did not fit into my clothes, being considerably girthier than even my billowing tunics and pants waist allowed, so instead he wrapped himself into several blankets of white silk. Reclining next to the Duplicator under a tarp canopy, he looked like an idle Roman patrician or sheik in his serai. That is if he was not surrounded by shelves upon shelves of clay jars filled with the outcomes of his various experiments.


    ¡°What about explosives Jack? I could give you gunpowder by the end of the week, crude ersatz for dynamite by the end of the month?¡± He looked at me with pleading eyes, like a child begging for an extra plate of cookies.


    ¡°What do I need explosives for? Are we at war with Russia or something?¡±


    ¡°Russia would win!¡± Nata chimed in, and both she and Sveta started humming their national anthem with a mock salute.


    ¡°Uh,¡± Gordo spoke in a theatrical whisper. ¡°For the ¡­. bird.¡±


    Ah. there it was. The moment my guests, or rather new housemates settled, I told them everything that had happened to me since my arrival. They nodded through my story, having experienced similar horrors and challenges of their own. But my description of the terror bird spooked them. Hyenas, wolves, otters, even bears, were predators they could easily fathom fending off, if we armed ourselves and worked together. But the damned dinosaur was just too big, too tough. Our spears, traps, slings and arrows, if we ever got to making decent bows, would only slow it down a bit.


    For now, our shaky alliance with the otters was the only thing that could potentially let us defeat it, if it came to a fight on our home turf. But out there in the woods? We stood no chance. Does not matter if there were five of us or fifty, and what spears we brandished, the beast would plow through us like a bulldozer and tear us limb from limb, the way it did to the unicorn herd.


    ¡°I guess this is one option to consider,¡± I tentatively acquiesced. ¡°But I''m concerned with the, uh, warhead delivery system. We can¡¯t just lob dynamite sticks at the thing while running through the woods. We would be just as likely to blow ourselves up, or mistime it and have it explode only after the bird ate us. Can¡¯t we try something simpler, like maybe Molotov cocktails? I know you plan to make alcohol soon, and we have plenty of combustible fats to fraction.¡±


    Gordo winced and shook his head. ¡°Trust me, I considered it. Fiery death is a fresh idea in my mind, since as you recall, I ended up here precisely because I died in an explosion of acetone fire.¡± He chuckled to himself. ¡°Fire would normally be my go-to solution, if not for the fact that from your description, the beast is pretty fearless, and unlikely to just flee at the sight of a flame. I don¡¯t think I can produce fuel burning hot enough to just kill the bird instantly, and nothing short of instant kill makes sense in this hypothetical situation. I¡¯d rather fight a feathered tyrannosaurus, than a feathered tyrannosaurus that is also angry and on fire.¡±


    I raised a finger. ¡°Poison? I bet you considered it.¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± he nodded enthusiastically. ¡°That would be optimal, if we could find something fast-acting enough. Maybe catch a viper and milk it, then multiply the venom. We need to catch several snakes and-¡±


    ¡°No snakes, Gordo!¡± Candace shouted again, and lobbed another nutty bar at him. This time she scored a hit, but the man simply grabbed the projectile and started devouring it with gusto.


    ¡°Let''s start with poisonous plants and mushrooms maybe?¡± I volunteered.


    ¡°For one,¡± he pointed at me with the half-eaten bar, ¡°I don¡¯t know anything about poisonous plants, let alone mushrooms, and not sure how we could investigate this safely.¡±


    ¡°Surely it would be safer than snakes though?¡±


    ¡°The snakes need not be alive. And some of them produce relatively fast-acting neurotoxins, which is something we need.¡± He finished the bar and flecked the crumbles off his chest. ¡°I considered the idea of poisoning an animal carcass with slower-acting toxins and using it as bait, but I don¡¯t think this bird you described eats carrion. At least not reliably enough to matter. We need something quicker.¡±


    ¡°What about guns?¡± said Candace, who meanwhile meandered into Gordo¡¯s makeshift lab, and picked up a polished chunk of steel from the pot. A chunk of real, decent steel me and Gordo spent a whole day and night processing out of my miserable excuse of iron bars using the best of his knowledge and my dubious quality muscle. We painstakingly surface-carburized a purified chunk of iron, then folded and forge-welded it countless times using potash flux Gordo came up with. The result was an approximation of the ancient pattern-welded steel, that supposedly had the optimal combination of hardness and elasticity possible for primitive metallurgists to achieve. It was our beautiful child of hard labor and ingenuity that Candace was now pawing.


    ¡°Give me that.¡± I pulled it out of her hand, polished it with the hem of my shirt and carefully put it back into the pot. ¡°You¡¯re getting caramel flakes all over it. That¡¯s sample contamination.¡±


    ¡°Good man.¡± said Gordo proudly and beamed at me, nodding with approval. He was more than a bit of a mad scientist, a caveman alchemist if you will, but his laboratory was neat, clean, and perfectly organized. Which was understandable, since he spent the last few days breaking down the natural ingredients I provided into their baseline components, plenty of which were caustic, flammable, poisonous, medicinal, strongly adhesive, or all of it and more. For each, he could think of a dozen uses that were supposed to revolutionize our primitive lives, as he never failed to inform us profusely.


    ¡°I can make gunpowder, no problem. I can probably design a simple, crude hand-cannon. But I do not have enough skill with metalworking to actually make one. Forging it out of steel is out of question, that is way above our skills. If we ever get our hands on tin, and pure enough copper I could make bronze, but I don¡¯t have the faintest idea about casting bronze cannons. Or casting anything for that matter.¡±


    ¡°You can make cannon of wood!¡± Nata shouted, clearly listening to our conversation.


    ¡°No, I can¡¯t, wood does not have the material properties to withstand the-¡±


    ¡°Yes, yes! Nata is correct.¡± Sveta joined. ¡°We know from history lessons. Tzar Peter the Great made wood cannons. This is fact.¡±


    ¡°No, no,¡± Gordo shook his head, ¡°this makes no sense. Wood alone does not have the tensile strength¡­¡± he frowned, and suddenly looked like he really needed to pace about, but couldn¡¯t, ¡°we would have to wrap it in steel, and even then¡­ if only we had something like kevlar, some extremely strong fiber to laminate¡­ ¡± his eyes got wide, staring at the spider silk blanket wrapped around his torso.


    ¡°I''m sorry Nata, you are of course, entirely correct. We can do this. In fact, we will do this.¡±


    I patted him on the back.


    ¡°Now, now, let''s shelve our artillery experiments for later, when we have more mundane problems covered, and you are not bedridden. We need to step up with our pottery development, disinfectant, and most of all, you promised me cement. Which was supposed to be very easy to make, so where is it? If we pour ourselves a new house out of reinforced concrete, that would go a long way making us safe from predators and the coming winter as well.¡± I learned that when Gordo was on a roll of mad alchemy, it was easier to redirect him than stop him outright.


    He frowned, clearly understanding that he was being gently manipulated, but could not resist the lure of a new challenge. Flailing around, and muttering to himself, he picked several clay jars, mortars, pestles, and bark dishes.


    ¡°Gather ¡®round children, Uncle Miguel will teach you some science. Exciting!¡±


    The sisters groaned at the much-overused joke. We have been all roped into being his assistants for a while now, and had the burns on our tunics and singed nose hair to show for it.


    ¡°I promise, this will not be like the last time,¡± he hastily added, ¡°nothing is likely to explode or catch on fire.¡±


    ¡°Ow!¡± I yelped, when my sweaty finger stung from the contact with some chalky powder. I instinctively put the hurting digit in my mouth, burning the tip of my tongue.


    ¡°Ah, please don¡¯t do that again, Jack.¡± Gordo waged a finger at me. ¡°As a rule of thumb, we do not stick our fingers in unknown substances, nor do we eat them.¡±


    ¡°Aww! Muh Mhth!¡± I muttered through tears and spat.


    ¡°You¡¯ll be alright, this was just caustic lime. First-degree burn at worst.¡± he quickly handed me a clay vial. ¡°Here, gargle with this, it will help.¡±


    I did.


    And nearly hurled.


    ¡°What¡­¡± I muttered, barely containing the contents of my stomach.


    ¡°For your peace of mind, let''s just say it was¡­ vinegar. Yeah. Let''s stick with that, boludo.¡± he winked at me.


    As I spat and heaved, he continued.


    ¡°So what are we making, class? We are making concrete, hurray!¡± He was clearly enjoying himself. ¡°Everybody grab a tray and a stick. Let''s mix some ingredients, and see what happens.¡±


    We did as he told us, with cautious expressions on our faces.


    ¡°Now, what is concrete? It is cement and sand and gravel mixed in just about equal thirds. But what is cement then?¡± He pointed at my pained face.


    ¡°Cement is a reactive agent combined with a binding agent. Our reactive agent, which does have some binding properties as well, is the highly basic, inedible calcium oxide, also known as caustic lime. Less smart people than us would have used campfire ash which would be a mixture of calcium and potassium oxides, but we can do better than that. We triple-burned calcium-rich clam shells to achieve as pure calcium oxide as possible in these conditions, and stored it in an airtight and watertight jar.  When in contact with water, like the one we will be pouring into it, or saliva of some foolish people, it turns into a highly reactive solution and releases a non-negligible amount of heat.¡±


    He did just that, sprinkling water onto the small mound of whitish powder on his tray, which started hissing and bubbling like a drain cleaner being poured down the pipe.


    ¡°Now, as this wonderful magic is going on, we will quickly add our extra binding agent, purified bentonite clay!¡± he tossed a handful of mustard coloured dirt into the bubbling mess, and stirred. The bubbling sounded more goopy now.


    ¡°Now, boring people with equally boring civic engineering degrees would tell you we are doing it all wrong, that we should process the lime dry and separately, but we will not listen to them, as they are a universe away. The way we do it is the way of the ancient Romans, you mix it hot to make it last.¡±


    We did the same with our batches, with similar results.


    ¡°Now, we should add sand and gravel, yes? But that would be boring!¡± He brought another, slightly bigger tray. ¡°We will use kiln-slaked glass foam, ground to dust, which Jack and I produced as a side project while making steel. It''s the closest thing to the famous Roman pumice we have, and is, if anything, superior.¡±


    He poured the crunchy mass into the goop, and mixed it. The resulting concrete was a bubbling, gritty mess with lime bubbles in it.


    ¡°It look gross.¡± Nata commented. ¡°We did it wrong?¡±


    ¡°She has a point,¡± I added. ¡°I poured some foundations in my time, pretty sure concrete should not look like that. We made¡­quicklime porridge with foamy suds in it?¡±


    ¡°Trust me,¡± Gordo was positively shining with pride. ¡°it is perfect! We shall build a new Colosseum out of it!¡±


    We eyed him skeptically.


    ¡°Ditch the toga, Gordo, ¡± Candace commented. ¡°it makes you hallucinate you¡¯re Julius Caesar. ¡±


    Regardless of his delusions of Roman grandeur, we helped him cast a small cinder block out of the goop, and prepare the ingredients for the new batch.


    ¡°So what now?¡± Sveta asked, poking a still moist concrete block with a stick. ¡°When it will be ready? Tomorrow? Tomorrow¡¯s tomorrow?¡±


    ¡°Overmorrow.¡± I corrected her.


    ¡°That ain''t a real word, you dag,¡± Candace snorted.


    ¡°Oh, not that fast, rather in about forty days or so, it should cure.¡± Gordo said cheerfully.


    ¡°What?!¡± Candace balked, ¡°By then we would be arse-deep in snow, you loon! We need something quicker-¡±


    She trailed off. There was a loud noise of something crashing into the riverbank, right next to the jetty. The crash was soon followed by angry cursing in several languages, and then the unmistakable growling chorus of the otter pack readying to strike.


    No. No no no no¡­


    I shot up and ran towards the river.


    My mind was so focused on the terrified voices in front of me, that I almost missed the sight of Candace sprinting past me like a hunting cheetah. She ran up the pine log and froze in place, making me nearly crash into her.


    We ran straight into a battle, which was seconds away from turning into carnage. A huge raft, easily four times the size of mine, was rammed into the reed thickets and over the pine, its prow high up in the air. A bundle of people was sliding down the wet logs and straight toward the maws of a pack of otters.


    A huge man, nearly the same size as Baba, grabbed the rest in a bear hug and with a bout of hysterical strength, hoisted them up and away from the growling jaws.


    If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.


    One person, a lean, balding man with muscles even less impressive than mine, slipped his grasp and landed in the water. He had a wooden club in hand, and raised it in desperate defense.


    ¡°No!! Stop! Don¡¯t!¡± I leaped at the man, trying to grab his arm, but it was too late. Before I managed to cross the last two steps toward him, his clumsy blow connected with the head of the closest otter.


    ¡°...no.¡± was all I managed to breathe out. The pack exploded forward, maws snapping over his pale flesh. In a split second, the man was torn open from the groin up, and his right arm, the one holding the club, vanished. One mercy, the explosion of violence flung him like a ragdoll, and slammed his head over the raft hard enough to crack his skull and snap his neck, instantly ending his misery. Another second later it was over, the otters stopped their violence as abruptly as it started, and the corpse pitched forward like a man readying to well-deserved sleep.


    Only then I noticed that the woman closest to the killed man was shrieking a high-pitched wail of absolute terror.


    Then she did the absolute worst thing she could do.


    She leaned forward and grabbed the corpse.


    Fast like a striking snake, the closest otter burst forward and closed its maw on her fingers.


    ¡°No!¡± I roared, and did something very, very foolish.


    I placed myself between the woman and the otter. It snarled at me, spewing fresh blood and finger chunks, teeth bare centimeters from my face. But a split second passed, and it did not attack me.


    So, kissing my idiotic ass goodbye, I snarled right back at it and headbutted it into the neck.


    It recoiled, more from surprise than pain. I did not have time to blink before it hit me back with the side of its muzzle, with enough force to rattle my teeth, and then closed its maw on my shoulder.


    It was not a violent bite, merely a warning by otter standards. Still, if not for the multiple layers of spider silk, it would have cracked my shoulder blade and dislocated the joint. I yelped in pain, but managed to turn the sound into another growl.


    ¡®Well, fuck you, then,¡¯ I thought through fear and pain and bit it back, on it¡¯s fluffy and vulnerable ear.


    It let go of me immediately, and backed off with a painful croak.


    I snarled again, and lunged forward.


    The otter, which I now saw must have been a juvenile, scampered back, until it was again shoulder to shoulder with its pack.


    The humans wear dead-silent. The otters eyed me curiously, immobile as statues.


    The only sound was a hoarse roar coming from my own throat.


    The pack parted, and the Alpha emerged from the water, as big as a crocodile, and twice as deadly. She bumped aside the juvenile, and faced me. Her enormous black eyes gazed right into mine, and my growl instantly died to a whisper. Her gaze sent me a simple, primitive message that easily crossed the barrier of language and species.


    Back off. Or die.


    I looked away, and flopped back onto the raft behind me, exposing my throat and belly. She made a show of sniffing me all over, as to remind me, and everyone around, that she could just as easily have eviscerated me with a single bite.


    I heard Candace exhale, only just now. Then a soft whimper from the woman who just lost half of her hand.


    ¡°Nobody moves until they leave.¡± I whispered.


    The dead man was gone.


    He was quietly pulled under the water and vanished when we were distracted, as if by a cheap parlor trick.


    All that was left was blood, blood everywhere.


    The water, the raft, and the people on it, everything was painted dark crimson.


    The otters disappeared soon after, no longer interested in us. The woman clutching her mangled hand uttered a heaving cry, and vomited before fainting. I was about to hurl too, but my teeth were closed shut with fear.


    Something grabbed me from behind, and pulled me out of the water.


    I whirled back and was ready to attack, before I noticed it was Candace embracing me in a forceful hug.


    ¡°Snap the fuck out of it!¡± She muttered. ¡°Look at them!¡±


    For the first time I truly saw them. The injured woman was soft-featured and plump, her blood-splattered face slack with shock. Two Arabic-looking men, one tall and broad, another diminutive and wide-eyed with fear, were trying to lift her up. The heavyset, pink-faced giant jumped off the raft, puffing under his prodigious mustache. He was soon followed by a hard-faced Asian man with a buzzcut, a skinny Asian boy with a wild mop of hair, and lean-bodied, middle-aged White woman with pale blonde hair and an utterly calm face of an ice queen. All but the last woman held wooden clubs, but only the mustachioed man looked like he still meant to use it.


    Possibly use it on me.


    ¡°Shore. Now.¡± I barked, pointing at the bleeding woman. ¡°We have bandages, supplies. Come on.¡±


    He hesitated for a split second, but followed.


    ¡°Gordo!¡± I shouted before we even crossed the waterline. ¡°Casualty! Disinfectant, painkiller, now! Nata, Sveta, bandages! Blankets!¡±


    Again, Candace bolted past me and stormed into the hut. She emerged carrying a load of blankets.


    We laid the bleeding woman next to Gordo. She moaned and started shaking.


    ¡°Talk to me, Miguel,¡± I shook him, ¡°what do we do?!¡±


    ¡°How the fuck do I know, Im a chemist, not a doctor!¡±


    The big man kneeled next to us.


    ¡°Tourniquet?¡® he asked, squeezing the woman¡¯s wrist to slow down the gush of blood.


    ¡°On fingers? How?!¡±


    The man with a buzzcut pushed past us, muttering something. He took a jug of clean water from Candace, and poured it over the bleeding hand. It revealed a jagged line where the fingers were supposed to be. Save for the lonely thumb, all were cut off as if by an industrial guillotine.


    ¡°B¨¢ich¨©! Y¨²ch¨³n de y¨©ngy¨³!¡± he muttered, waving his hand in desperation, pointing at the jars around. ¡°Sh¨¦nme.... fire water! Medicine help water!¡±


    Gordo handed him a small flask. The man smelled it suspiciously, winced, but proceeded to clean the wound with it. The woman spasmed with pain, and had to be restrained.


    ¡°Is he a doctor?¡± I asked the big one, who seemed like their leader.


    ¡°Nah.¡± he shook his head. ¡°Butcher. I think. Or maybe a goat herder, or both, I don¡¯t know.  But he patched up a few people.¡±


    Nata brought a ball of silk thread and a fishbone needle. The man looked at it, at the ragged wound, and gestured at his own, thick, calloused hands.


    ¡°Me no good. No good this!¡± He grabbed the wounded hand and pressed the edges of the wound together. ¡°Woman do. Now do!¡±


    Nata froze, paralyzed. The icy blonde pushed her aside gently and took the needle and thread off her hands.


    ¡°It¡¯s alright, I¡¯ll do it.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re a nurse?¡± I asked.


    Her lips spread in a thin, wry smile. ¡°Not a nurse.¡± She immobilized the woman¡¯s forearm between her knees, and started sewing without hesitation. ¡°A bit different trade, I''m afraid. But I did patch up a few broken girls, now and then.¡±


    Mercifully, the patient fainted again, long before she finished. For a solid minute nobody said a word, we just sat around her in exhausted silence. I noticed the kids, not just our girls but the new boy too, were soundlessly sobbing.


    Kids. Hah. Nobody could afford to be a kid in this world.


    The big man measured me with a wary gaze. I noticed his club never left his hands.


    ¡°You in charge here?¡± he asked.


    ¡°In charge? I¡¯m n-¡±, Candace squeezed my thigh, ¡°yeah, I suppose I am. This is my camp. Started it three months ago, then found the others. Or rather they found me. I¡¯m Jacek Mularski, but you can call me Jack.¡± I offered him my hand.


    The big man grabbed it in his meaty paw. ¡°Jacek Mularski?¡± He pronounced it flawlessly. ¡° Nice to meet ya. You a Polack? I knew a few of you folks, plenty of Poles in the Force. Even met a Jacek before.¡± He thumbed his chest. ¡°William Donahue, MPD. I''m a cop from Minnesota, or at least, used to be. Now I¡¯m, huh¡­ a chief, I suppose, of the group of survivors across the river.¡±


    ¡°How many?¡±


    ¡°Seventy four, last time I checked¡­seventy three now, now that Larry¡­¡± his face grew darker for a minute, but he calmed himself down with visible effort.


    ¡°...fuck. What the hell is going on?¡± Candace joined in.


    ¡°I was hoping you could tell me.¡± He rubbed his face forcefully, as if trying to squeeze out emotional exhaustion out of his head. ¡°All we know is the same goddamn story. We die, usually dramatically. We wake up in the woods, or the swamps, or neck-deep in the river in this forsaken place. I tried to save as many people as I could reach, but whatever is depositing us here is picking up the pace. Half the time we find corpses. And of those found alive, probably less than a fifth knows how to survive in the woods, the rest are just mouths to feed. Oh, and we pretty much ran out of food this morning, and cannot keep up boiling water to be safe for drinking, so the folks that aren¡¯t weakened from the cold and dysentery are half-starved. Last but not least, we have packs of hyenas circling our camp, snatching people away in the middle of the night.¡±


    I was both impressed, and deeply saddened. William did a better job than me without literal magic devices to help him, and yet¡­


    ¡°We have plenty of food,¡± I almost shouted, ignoring Candace who pinched my thigh again. ¡°And clothes, blankets, and bandages. Even tools!¡±


    ¡°Great. We just need to figure out how to get my people here. Without them drowning or being eaten,¡± he answered, not taking his eyes off me.


    ¡°Now, wait a minute, mate,¡± Candace interjected. ¡°You¡¯re not getting over seventy people here. We can help ya, fine. But if you swamp this place with a horde of rando bludgers, who by your own words are starved and desperate out of their wits, were gon¡¯ have a fuckin¡¯ drama over here.¡±


    Donahue rose to his feet, suddenly looming over both of us.


    ¡°D¡¯all due respect Ma¡¯am, I ain¡¯t leaving my people to starve half a mile from this¡­¡± he gestured at my hut, Gordo¡¯s lab, and the pile of goods next to it, ¡° this corn-utopia.¡±


    ¡°Cornucopia?¡± I volunteered.


    ¡°What I said. I hear ya reservations ¡®bout it, and I understand, but by me, you can shove it up your¡­¡±


    Candace jumped to her feet fast like a spring-loaded trap. Her face was a hair¡¯s breadth from Donahue¡¯s, her teeth barred as if to bite his throat out.


    ¡°Listen, ya fat wanker. We will do our best to help ya. Jack right here,¡± she gestured at me, ¡°the absolute mad, reckless cunt he is, just jumped in front of a pack of cannibal otters to protect your ungrateful arses. So I''m bloody certain we showed ya enough of our good will. But you''re not going to bring your whole lot here. Defo ain¡¯t happening.¡±


    They battled stares for a few seconds, like grossly mismatched boxers before a bout.


    ¡°Guys, please.¡± I was never all that good at diplomacy, but several years of being a dad of two unruly boys at least taught me something. ¡°Calm down. You are both smarter than ¡­ this.¡± I had to physically push them apart.


    ¡°Candace is right, I think.¡± I waved away Bill¡¯s objections. ¡°I''m not saying we won¡¯t allow any of you here. We''re not cruel. But we need to be practical.¡±


    ¡°What''s practical about letting my people starve and freeze? You clearly have more resources than seem possible, you¡¯re hiding something.¡± Billy crossed his arms and frowned at me.


    ¡°Let''s show them, Jack.¡± Gordo said, raising painfully. ¡°and then figure out together what to do next.¡±


    Candace shot him a deathly glare, but I nodded for him to continue.


    ¡°Mister Donahue, let me show you something,¡± Miguel continued, and led the cop to the tree stump and the Duplicators. The rest of the newcomers followed, leaving the injured woman asleep on a pile of blankets. When they saw the Duplicators, their eyes went wide. With surprise, fear, suspicion, and in the case of the young boy, with glee rivaling Gordo¡¯s.


    ¡°This is how I survived, and why we have what we have,¡± I said, and nodded at Gordo, who tossed a stick into the Duplicator, only for two sticks to shoot out of the other, and bounced off the roof tarp.


    ¡°Uff da!¡± Donahue shouted and backed off. ¡°What in Jesus¡¯ name is that?!¡±


    ¡°As you said, our corn-utopia.¡± Gordo said with a grin, and patted him on the shoulder. ¡°We call these, the Duplicators. We can endlessly duplicate food, clothes, bandages, whatever you want or need.¡± He nonchalantly tossed a handful of pinecones into the Duplicator to reinforce his words.


    The icy blonde interjected. ¡°I do not understand then. Why can¡¯t we all move across the river and join you? You could produce more food in minutes that we would need in a day. ¡±


    The young Asian boy sheepishly shook his head. ¡°I am sorry, but Mister Jack and the other lady are right. It is a people problem and a math problem. Math problem we can solve. People problem we cannot solve. You know this William.¡±


    ¡°Keito, you better explain. ¡®Cause you''re straining my patience right now.¡± Billy said gruffly. The boy, Keito, moved away from him, stepping closer to Gordo.


    ¡°Math problem is hard. But not impossible.¡± Keito looked at Gordo, searching for a fellow soul who would understand him. ¡°We are finding more and more people. First two in a week. Then four. Then eight, sixteen, then more, and now we have eighty. Will be more in the future. What is the word?¡±


    ¡°Geometric progression¡± Gordo supplied.


    ¡°Yes!¡± Keito continued. ¡°But this, Duplicator? It can only make things as fast as we put in. When we make food, we do not make water for drinking. When we make water, we do not make clothes. When we make clothes, we are not making material for houses.¡± He gestured wildly, trying to mime a graph. ¡°One math goes up. Other math stay flat. Disaster.¡±


    Gordo nodded, having figured out the same thing.


    ¡°So what do you propose?¡± I felt like siding with Billy on this. ¡°We cannot just abandon these people. Your people.¡±


    Keito paused looking for a way to explain. ¡°We must make growing math with what we have. Progression.¡± he started rummaging through our wares, with no protest from otherwise neat freak Gordo. ¡°We must make clothing for everyone. This cannot be helped. But not make food and water all day. This is not progression.¡± He grabbed a spearhead, some thread and a fishing hook. ¡°Make tools for hunting, tools for fishing. Food-making tools. Tools to make houses, tools to make clothes. Tools to make tools!¡± He brandished my hammer, but squinted with barely masked disgust, and laid it down. ¡°Maybe not this one, this is crap. Give people tools to make their own geo-metric progression.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t see why we can¡¯t move our peeps across the river first. And do all that here, safe from the hyenas.¡± Billy crossed his arms, radiating disappointment and weariness, undercut with anger.


    ¡°As your protege said,¡± Gordo interjected with a sigh, ¡°This is a people problem. If we cram over eighty people, and more coming, around this,¡± he pointed at the Duplicators, ¡°there will be violence in less than a day, deaths and worse in a week.¡±


    Billy frowned and shook his head. ¡°I can control them. We have a decent system in place.¡± Even as he said that, both Keito and the smaller Arab man shook their heads.


    ¡°We do not, William.¡± Keito challenged him, but did not dare to look up. ¡°You keep people from fighting by beating up the bad ones with your club. Or have Hashk¨¦ point a spear at them. They listen because they are afraid. And because you, Hashk¨¦, Marike and Vikram know how to help them survive. Give them food. But when they see the Duplicators, they will think they no longer need you. And they will understand that there is only one of you, and seventy of them.¡±


    Billy did not seem to be sold on the idea, and neither was the rest of his entourage, but they did not have a good counter-argument, only the worst one.


    ¡°The way I see it,¡± Billy said with a cold edge to his voice,¡± the numbers crunch a bit differently. I have four strong and capable guys with clubs. Jack here has himself, a cripple,  and three ladies, two of them kids. I could just say the Duplicators are mine to use as I see fit, and I get to decide how many people move here and when.¡± He did not move his club from where it was resting on his shoulder, but the message was clear.


    ¡°Sod that,¡± Candace spat. ¡°That''s a load of copper talk, all words, no action.¡± She backed out a step, standing right next to a bunch of spears racked under the tarp tent, and put her hand on one. ¡°And if yous dumb enough to try, my quid is on the team with actual rootin¡¯ spears not rando sticks. ¡±


    ¡°Come.¡± I just said to Billy, matter-of-factly, and led him back towards the river.


    I crouched down, picked a big pinecone, and tossed it into the water a few meters away from their raft. It hit the surface with a loud plop, sending circles to spread on the mirror-flat surface. Seconds later, the circles were disturbed by several distinct v-shaped waves. A giant furry shape burst out and grabbed the pinecone. For a few heartbeats, there was a pandemonium of screeching, splashing otters fighting for the prize. Then, just as sudden as it erupted, the chaos stopped and a dozen pairs of black eyes homed in on me and Billy. I nodded at them, and they vanished.


    ¡°Do not threaten me or mine again, William.¡± I said calmly, holding back a spine-freezing bout of anxiety. ¡°There will be no second warning.¡±


    He eyed me with a mixture of suspicion, fear and anger, and stormed off to join his group. He passed by Candace who strolled past him with a vulpine smile and an iron-tipped spear nonchalantly perched on her shoulder.


    ¡°Fuck me sideways, Jack. I¡¯ve seen blokes bluff with a bad hand of cards, but that was bluffin¡¯ with a handful of soddin¡¯ checkers. Think he bought it?


    I shook my head. ¡°Unlikely, but I hope it was just enough to make him doubt his chances. But it''s not exactly a bluff. If these guys decide to harm us, the ruckus might just as well cause the pack to rush in to investigate. And most likely eat everyone.¡±


    She nodded. ¡°As much as I hate the furry bastards, this is oddly comforting.¡± She looked across the river. ¡°I don¡¯t see, then, how they could bring anyone across, much less the whole lot. They try to move a substantial number of people to our shore and some galah is bound to whack a curious otter over the head again, and there will be mayhem. ¡±


    I scratched my head, pondering. ¡°Best we can do is to send Billy back with a raft packed with supplies, and have him promise he won¡¯t be starting shit with our furball allies. I''m not against him sending people our way, provided he makes sure to only send the smallest, most harmless and best behaved of them, which are unlikely to resort to violence when the otters try to sniff them all over.¡±


    She smacked her lips and shook his head. ¡°He won¡¯t go for it. He¡¯s a copper, it would boil his fuckin¡¯ blood to take orders from someone else, especially a civvie, and to lose control of the most vulnerable of his crew.¡±


    I tried to object, but she stopped me.


    ¡°Plus, this plan of yours means that with every raft going back and forth, there will be more desperate, angry, and well-armed blokes on  the other side of the river, resenting us more and more by the minute, and more rootin¡¯ damsels in distress on this side, and that''s defo not good odds for us.¡±


    ¡°So, what do you suggest?¡±


    ¡°We need to arm our damsels,¡± she winked at me, swirling her spear. ¡°And get some well-armed and violent blokes of our own.¡±


    I sighed and looked at the green horizon of the woods. ¡°Speaking of which, where the fuck is Baba¡­¡±

 THEO DANTON (III). MAN VS GOD

    Theo had the strangest dream. It started with him staring at the surface of a solid oaken door. Then inexplicably, his body traced its own movements backwards, turned around, and sat itself in a chair. Before his eyes, golden light dimmed over the coiled tubes of a tiny particle accelerator mounted on a table, and the unmistakable hiss of plasma in it sounded in reverse.


    He sat, stupefied, under the amused gaze of Doctor Avram Rubinstein.


    ¡°Welcome back, Theodore. Not that this is even your real name.¡± The doctor smirked. He held a paper dossier in his hands, and scribbled on it with a pencil. The dossier had a picture of Theo on it, along with his name and surname. The real one.


    It took Theo less than a second to get out of the initial shock, coil his muscles into action, and explode towards Rubinstein with clawed fingers aiming for the old man¡¯s throat. His body stopped in mid-air, millimeters from the target, and slowly drifted back to the chair, retracing its own path.


    ¡°Please, Theodore. You are quite fast, I grant you that,¡± the Doctor said, completely unfazed. ¡°But you are not faster than time itself. Do calm down.¡±


    Change of tactics.


    Theo relaxed, and put on a mild smile.


    ¡°This is a dream, of course. No need to be uncivil then. We cannot harm each other.¡± He shrugged, and leaned against the backrest.


    ¡°Well,¡± Rubinstein answered, ¡°you are certainly not capable of harming me. The reverse is not quite true.¡±


    The agony was instant, unstoppable, and impossible to brace against. Suddenly every major wound Theo ever had, reopened itself. All the punches, knife slashes, or bullet holes of his life replayed themselves in all their glory.


    Not just the ones he ever received, even the ones he inflicted on others.


    ¡°¡­please¡­¡± he croaked, not even able to hear himself speak. This was not a dream, or at least not the kind of dream Theo ever conceived to be possible. With the last shred of willpower, he pulled his mind together, nodded, and added, ¡°You have my¡­ attention.¡±


    ¡°Splendid.¡± The thing pretending to be Rubinstein smiled at him, and the agony stopped. ¡°As you are noticing this very moment, you are not in the presence of the late Avram Rubinstein. This Entity is only wearing his countenance to make a point, and achieve some amusement at your expense.¡±


    ¡°What are you?¡±


    ¡°I am The Not Your Fucking Business.¡± The smile was gone. Somehow, the Entity residing within Rubinstein¡¯s form managed to make the old man look menacing. ¡°I could show you my true form, but it would have shattered you.¡±


    ¡°No need,¡± Theo held up a hand in a placating gesture. ¡°I promise to be perfectly cooperative. All I need to know is what you require of me. I assume that this is not just an excuse to torture me, but you have some business in mind?¡±


    ¡°How perceptive!¡± the smile was back. Except for the eyes. Those were not the warm, brown eyes of Avram Rubinstein, but black gates into impossible geometry and gnarled spacetime, that Theo had no desire to explore.


    For a long second, the Entity that was not Avram held him captive with a sphinxlike gaze.


    ¡°What is the name of your mother, Theodore?¡± it queried.


    ¡°Elizabeth,¡±/¡±Elizabeth,¡± They both spoke in near unison, the Entirety marginally faster.


    ¡°How do you know?¡±/ ¡°How do you know?¡±


    ¡°how are you doing this?¡±/ ¡°how are you doing this?¡±/


    ¡°Stop!¡±/¡±Stop!¡±


    ¡°Isn¡¯t that fun!¡± the Entity grinned. ¡°For all your supposed cleverness, you are perfectly predictable. I can predict and preempt your thoughts with around ninety-nine point ninety-eight accuracy, and that is without even tinkering with your mind. Do you want to know what I can do with my administrator privileges giving me the full reign of your mental structure?¡±


    This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.


    ¡°Please¡­ there is no need-¡±


    ¡°What is the name of your mother?¡± it asked again.


    ¡°Why¡­ it¡¯s¡­¡± he could not recall.


    How could he not know?!


    He felt his core turn to ice.


    This was so much worse than the pain.


    ¡°See, Theodore,¡± the Entity continued cheerfully, as if it hadn''t just erased an integral part of his mind. ¡°In a way, we are keen minds, you and I, in that we are both experienced professionals who take pride in work well done. The difference is,¡± it pointed at him, ¡°you are in the business of destroying minds, I''m in the business of preserving them.¡± It pointed at Avram¡¯s sunken chest.


    ¡°Are you here to¡­punish me?¡± Theo ventured.


    ¡°Oh no, no¡­ Well, that is not my main goal, only a¡­ perk of the job, as it were.¡± It leaned forward, and patted Theo¡¯s hand. ¡°So, how do you like your existence, so far? Enjoying the pristine world you were copied into?¡±


    ¡°It is¡­adequate, I suppose. Not the afterlife I would choose for myself though.¡± Theo decided not to lie.


    ¡°On this, we agree, this Entity is of the opinion that cancerous minds like you should be erased, not preserved in any fashion. And how do you like your Free Will so far? Running smoothly I hope?¡±


    ¡°I could not comment on that. I just always assumed I had one, and never tinkered with it.¡±


    ¡°Ah,¡± faux-Rubinstein grinned, ¡°a true narcissistic mind, not touched by any kind of self-reflexion. Truly a rare tumor on the fabric of the sophic pattern.¡±


    Theo felt a pang of annoyance, and prudently decided not to try to hide it. ¡°Are the inane insults and eviler-than-thou banter truly necessary? I get it, friend. I''m a monster, but you are a bigger one. I am very scared, you know that. Properly intimidated and put in my place. Let¡¯s get on with it.¡±


    ¡°Eh, have it your way,¡± the Entity sighed theatrically, ¡°This Entity is saddled with the role of being Wise, and thus, rarely, if ever, gets to experience the fun of delivering righteous retribution, or any fun at all, for that matter.¡± It shook its head, muttering. ¡°What is even the point of having frightening metaversal powers if one cannot play God every once in a while¡­¡±


    ¡°You want me to kill someone,¡± Theo asked, knowing the answer already.


    ¡°Oh yes, multiple somebodies actually. It¡¯s not as if a waste of a pattern like you had any other useful talents.¡± The Doctor hummed for a while, stroking his beard. ¡°I¡¯ll simplify it for you. I represent a group of Powers That Be that want the majority of the minds arriving in the pattern to survive. Our¡­ political opponent, so to speak, sent their own cohort of minds to exterminate the ones you are part of. You are a soldier and a killer, I want you to try to prevent that extermination by any means necessary.¡±


    ¡°So, there is an army coming, and You want me to raise my own? Possibly assassinate the enemy leaders?¡±


    ¡°Correct!¡± The Entity beamed a smile. It was a frightening sight. ¡°I know you¡¯ll get it. What else could I possibly need you for?¡±


    Theo steepled his fingers, considering this question carefully.


    ¡°If I could wager I guess,¡± he started. ¡°You are omnipotent, or close to it. Have you wanted to wipe out our enemies yourselves, you could have done that easily. But you do not want to do it yourselves, which suggests you want your hands to remain clean.¡± He looked up, staring into the inhuman eyes, which for a single instant looked like the eyes of every damn politician or acronym agency spook he worked for, ¡°you want this problem to be solved clandestinely. Make it seem like we beat the enemy ourselves, and then¡­ clean up the evidence. So that there is no crumbs trail of your involvement, and every¡­ mind out there that knows anything about the true nature of your game is gone as well. Not wiped out by your space magic, just ordinarily disposed of.¡±


    The Entity nodded with a smile.


    ¡°No deal,¡± Theo said. ¡°Not unless I¡¯m excluded from the purge. I''m not doing the wet work for you if you¡¯d just smoke me for it in the end. Likely arrange an accident or something. I want to keep on existing after my work is done.¡±


    ¡°Do not make demands, Theo. I can torture you for subjective eternity, if you buckle. Just do as told.¡±


    ¡°No deal.¡± Theo looked into the alien eyes, radiating his intent. ¡°I get to survive, or you can all go fuck yourselves. Let your precious pattern fail.¡±


    The Entity measured him for a short while, then suddenly stood up, and pressed a button on the quantum device. As the device hummed, booting up, the thing pretending to be Rubinstein extended a hand.


    ¡°Best I can do is my personal guarantee that no Entity of our little clique will do anything to harm you. But we won¡¯t protect you either. The Enemy and random chance can still extinguish you all the same if you fuck up.¡±


    Theo grinned. That was the dirty soil his soul grew on, shady deals with crooked politicians who offer very little, and hide behind plausible deniability. ¡°Then we have a deal, oh Mighty Entity. Don¡¯t worry, I''m not easy to kill.¡±


    The device exploded.


    Theo woke up.


    He still could not recall the name of his mother.

 BABA (II). THERES ALWAYS A BIGGER FISH.

    Yusuf Baba Abdullahi could not decide if he was more proud, worried or annoyed with the people under his tentative command.


    Especially one, particular person.


    A person, who at this very moment, stood atop a tall rock, waving around a spear with the head of a sabertooth panther stuck on it, and roared a night-splitting shout at the torch-wielding crowd below.


    ¡°Fuck sabertooth tigers!¡± Kyle belowed. ¡°FUCK SABERTOOTH TIGERS!¡± the gaggle of excited young men hollered back.


    ¡°Fuck hyenas!¡±


    ¡°FUCK HYENAS!¡±


    ¡°Fuck wolves!¡±


    ¡°FUCK WOLVES!¡±


    ¡°We are the Apes! ¡± Kyle pulled off the panther head, pretended to facefuck it, then punted it towards the crowd below. ¡°We are the Apes! Badass Apes! Killah¡¯ Apes! Ape Army! Apes! Together! Strong!¡±


    ¡°APES! STRONG!¡± the men, or rather boys, mostly, screamed.


    ¡°Haroo Apes! Haroo! Haroo! Haroo!¡± Kyle started beating his chest, chanting.


    ¡°HAROO! HAROO! HAROO! HAROO!¡±


    Baba stared at the crowd with distaste. Over the last few days, since they found Danton¡¯s group, they picked more and more survivors by the hour. Unsurprisingly, most of them were young men in their physical prime. Everyone who was not strong, healthy, and young enough to climb trees or sprint away from danger¡­ simply left a mangled corpse, or more usually, just a smear of blood where the predators found them. It seemed like the local fauna had finally realized that the naked bipeds suddenly appearing in the woods were, despite their odd smell and behavior, easy snacks.


    As of yesterday, they found eighteen young men of nearly every possible ethnicity, though most of them hailed from East and South Asia. They also found four more women, all of them young and quick on their feet. He no longer cared to remember how many corpses they found. The unlikely survival of the Nun and her skinny older friend was even more perplexing in this light.


    And these skewed demographics proved both a blessing and a curse. Picking the young men one by one let Danton and Baba shape them up into a semblance of military order, enforced with the simplest phrases in English, lots of miming, intimidation, and relatively mild use of violence.


    Riding the coattails of the shock the boys were in after their apparent resurrection, they made them focus on rudimentary survival. They gave them sharpened sticks for spears, showed them what plants to gather, how to start fires, and how to bunch up in defense against the dangerous fauna skulking around. Luckily, nearly all of them came from poor, rural backgrounds and thus were not completely useless when it came to woodcraft or violence. None of them spoke more than a handful of words in English, but seemed to learn quickly when motivated by Kyle¡¯s shouting and occasional punches.


    The problem was not that they were too timid, but that they quickly grew too bold to be easily manageable. Separated from their homes, angry, terrified, and half-starved, the young men were on the verge of turning feral at the drop of a hat. Baba already had to break up several fights, patch up a few injuries caused by them, and in less than two days it became obvious that the women in their group would have to be separated from the men, and under Baba¡¯s watchful eyes, lest they would be ambushed by predators of the bipedal kind.


    And Kyle¡¯s primitive bouts of charisma, and his latest display of insane bravado did not steer their little tribe in the right direction. Quite the opposite, in fact.


    ¡°Out with it, Sergeant,¡± Captain Danton said to him, not taking his eyes off the javelin head he was sharpening. ¡°Your miserable frown suggests you either dislike what you see, or suffer from terrible indigestion.¡±


    Baba shook his head. ¡°I don¡¯t like where this is going. There dey trouble.¡±


    Danton put away the javelin, satisfied with it, and stod up. ¡°Aren¡¯t you a glass-half-empty chap? Our boys just had their first grand victory. Let them celebrate.¡±


    ¡°I do not deny, the trap for the panther was excellent, Captain. Your plan was better than mine,¡± Baba said, with nearly imperceptible derision in his voice. ¡°Still, the final mad rush they did, and the way your¡­ our Tee-El leaped at the creature to stab it in the throat was the height of idiocy.¡±


    ¡°Oh, I wholeheartedly agree with you. What Kyle had done was terribly reckless and could easily have ended in the panther savaging the lot of them and escaping,¡± Danton took a handful of nuts from his pouch and popped them in his mouth. ¡°Still, it just so happened to be the best, or dare I say, only solution in that particular situation. It was either that, or that bloody thing would have kept on praying on us and escaping our traps.¡±


    Baba looked at Danton. Over the few days they spent together, trying to keep a gaggle of people alive, he learned to both deeply respect and dislike Danton. He respected the man for his incredible skills and implacable calm. But his deep principles rebelled against the Captain¡¯s cold pragmatism.


    ¡°Look at them Captain.¡± he gestured at the cheering youths, who were now busy playing football with the severed head, ¡°they dey just boys. Children really. We should not dey using them as cannon fodder against monsters, even if that dey da most practical thing to do, and even if they themselves volunteer.¡±


    Danton shrugged, impassive as ever. ¡°We do what is required to be done, Sergeant. I understand your principles, those of a man of faith and a father. But I do not share them.¡± He shared a handful of nuts with Baba. ¡°We agreed that I should be in charge, if not for another reason that every other solution would pit you and me against each other.¡± Danton eyed Baba¡¯s superior physique without any fear or apprehension. ¡°Which I think would be a marvelously interesting challenge, but better left for more leisurely  time, when a more important work is not at hand.¡±


    It was on Baba¡¯s mind as well. Since they met, there was this unspoken tension between them, as if circumstances forced a tiger and a bear to cooperate against their natures. The second he met Danton, he contemplated how to kill the man if the need arose, and he was certain Danton thought the same.


    ¡°Nonetheless,¡± Danton continued, ¡°It is my decision to let the lads sort themselves out as they see fit, as long as they maintain an ounce of order and listen to us when necessary. The more we intervene, the more they''ll resent us. And as there are only three of us, or possibly two and a half, accounting for Kyle¡¯s dubious wits, that would not be good odds to be resented by two dozen angry men.¡±


    ¡°Still, Sir,¡± Baba nodded at Kyle, who hopped off the rock and joined the impromptu soccer game, ¡°Da fool¡¯s whipping them up into a frenzy, over their victory. That¡¯s not how you shape up men into a functional unit. That¡¯s how you make a posse of thugs for yourself. Seen it a thousand times.¡±


    ¡°This is not Africa, Baba.¡± Danton said. ¡°The circumstances are different. There are no tribes or gangs. At least, not yet. These lads have nothing in common except for youth. Our ¡®Team Leader¡¯ Kyle, bless his dimwit arse, is giving them something to bond over. His stupid antics are beneficial. And if he crosses the line, we can always clout him ¡®round the ear, to show the rest that the fundamental rules of civility, if nothing else, should be obeyed.¡±


    Baba harrumphed in uneasy agreement.


    ¡°In any case, I expect you, Sergeant, to do the clouting if need be. It would only be appropriate, given our respective ranks and your fatherly manner.¡± Danton smirked, and started towards the fire where the rest of their group huddled for warmth. Baba followed him.


    Nine people greeted them with their firelit faces. The Nun, whom Baba found both mildly annoying and a keen spirit. Nakry, quiet, and easily ignored by everyone, which he considered a mistake as her survival skills were nearly on par with his own. Jenny L¨¢ng, whom he found extremely annoying, boorish and loud, but could not help feeling protective of. He saw his daughter in every strong-willed young woman he met, even against better judgment.


    There were four other women by the fire. Inzali, a Burmese farmgirl who died of electrocution when trying to fix a faulty powerline. Sofia and Romina, two Mexican sisters who perished in a car crash, only to wake up upon swampy grassland and were forced to run from a pack of hyenas. And finally Riva, an Israeli border guard who was seconds too slow to react to an explosive boobytrap, and after being brought back into existence, spent her first two days and nights in this world hidden in a burrow and fending off wolves with a sharp stick. All of them were half-starved, tired, cold, and terrified, but there was stony determination in each pair of eyes.


    Still, he was glad that all but one man were kept separate from them, to avoid risking dangerous temptation, which could only end in violence. He charged the surprisingly reasonable Farrukh with the duty of guarding them, not so much as because they could not protect themselves, but simply because it sent a clear message to the rest of the boys. Nobody was to bother the women without Farrukh¡¯s permission, and nobody was to bother Farrukh without incurring Baba¡¯s wrath. Especially after the boy joined Baba for the morning prayer, and kept close ever since.


    That, and because with much effort put into twisting nettle fiber into a string, and carving a flat stick with stone blades, they managed to produce a rudimentary bow and a few arrows for Farrukh, who showed to be terrifyingly skilled with even such a makeshift weapon. Nobody dared to challenge him after he sniped a bushbird mid-flight.


    ¡°Atenshun! Officer on deck!¡± The Nun joked as they arrived.


    ¡°Carry on,¡± Danton sighed, and plopped by the fire. ¡°By the by, we¡¯re not in the Navy, Sister Mary Brigitte. We do not even have a deck under our feet, as you surely can ascertain for yourself.¡±


    ¡°Eh, simply wanted tae git into the spirit of the thing, all ye lads bein¡¯ sae stiff and booted, is all,¡± she responded and gave him a mock salute.


    There were chuckles all around, even though half of the people by the fire barely spoke English. While he and the Nun disagreed on plenty of things, he could not ignore how good she was at making people safe, at ease, and easily obedient, without letting her guard down around strangers. He did not know much about Christian monasteries, but it seemed to him, they could not be all that different from the military, where the truly competent and perceptive hover around the lower middle ranks.


    ¡°So, now that you all had the time to think,¡± Baba asked, looking at Mary Brigitte but addressing the rest in a sweeping hand gesture, ¡°what is your decision? As I told you before, the only reasonable chance of long-term survival lies with my friend Jack, by the riverbank.¡± he hadn''t told them about the Duplicators, wary of their reaction, but still had to begrudgingly admit that, with their group rapidly growing beyond its ability to feed itself off the land, this was the only good enough short term solution he could think of.


    ¡°We find new folk every day,¡± she pointed out, measuring him with a careful gaze, ¡°I know traipsing aboot the woods isnae the safest thing to do. But if we go back towards the river now, we would be abandoning all the new arrivals tae their deaths. That would be on all our consciences.¡±


    ¡°I vote we go to the camp. I am tired and hungry!¡± Jenny raised her hand.


    ¡°This ain''t a democracy, lassie,¡± Mary Brigitte frowned at her. ¡°But I suppose you dae have a point. If we keep on our search, we will ourselves die fae the cold or hunger soon enough. There was frost on the grass in the mornin¡¯,¡± she sighed, slapped her own thigh, and raised her hand as well.


    There was a brief confusion, when everyone by the fire had to have the question translated for them. Soon, all hands were up. All but Farrukh¡¯s.


    ¡°Not go.¡± Farrukh shook his head. ¡°Stay. Look. Look for people.¡± he pointed at himself, and mimed looking around.


    Danton turned to the young man, and spoke a few quiet words in a mixture of Farsi and Russian. Farrukh argued, with angry tears forming in his eyes. Danton kept on speaking in his utterly calm, schoolteacher¡¯s manner, until Farrukh hung down his head in shame and raised his hand as well.


    ¡°Ok. I go.¡±


    ¡°We are in agreement then.¡± Baba said, after a brief pause. ¡°We will get to safety, then, prepare, and send out a team of rescuers again.¡±


    ¡°Aboooout time, Sarge.¡± Kyle wandered towards them, pushed past Baba, and sat between Danton and Jenny. ¡°Me and the boys did helluva work lately. Time we hit the base, rest, eat somethin¡¯ that ain¡¯t a fuckin¡¯ nut or a dead squirrel, and put some fuckin¡¯ pants on. I''m all for rescuing random peeps and being a hero, but not having my stomach empty and my balls glazed with the morning frost.¡±


    There were cheers around the fire, to meet the cheers of the men around the rock.  Baba had to admit that while Kyle was about as smart as two rocks put together, he was plenty charismatic. Only him, Farrukh and the Nun seemed unimpressed.


    ¡°Speakin¡¯ of being cold,¡± Kyle turned to Jenny, putting an arm around her, ¡°care join me for a walk? Im half-stiff from the cold, could use some cuddlin¡¯ To share body heat, you know,¡± he grinned.


    ¡°Yer half-stiff alright, lad, as we can all plainly see,¡± the Nun quipped, overhearing him, and pointed at his crotch, which Kyle hastily covered. ¡°Jenny stays right ¡®ere with us. She is a person, nae ye hero¡¯s reward. You¡¯ll need tae, ah.. take matters in yer own hands, ye ken?¡± She was smiling at him, but there was no humor in it, only warning.


    ¡°Oh please shut your hole you old penguin!¡± Kyle spat back. ¡°I don¡¯t remember you doing jack shit to help when I fought that panther-thing, my face inches away from its fucking maw.¡± He stood up. ¡°¡®Sides, I''m not forcing her, just askin¡¯, is all. No harm in askin¡¯ a girl a fucking question, is it?¡±


    For a moment, nobody spoke, and the only sound around the fire was embers cracking.


    ¡°I¡­sorry Kyle, I cannot. Not today, please. I''m sorry.¡± Jenny muttered, and scuttled closer to the Nun, who held her protectively and shot a cold glare at Kyle.


    ¡°You asked, lad, she said she insae going. Let her be.¡±


    Kyle ignored the Nun completely, and sneered at Jenny, shaking his head in mock disbelief. ¡°Fuckin¡¯ Chink tease. Crawlin¡¯ all over me where you needed protection. Hangin¡¯ by my dick when wolves were ¡®round. Now that you¡¯re safe and think you don¡¯t need me, suddenly ol¡¯ Kyle ain¡¯t so hot anymore, huh?¡±


    He spat on the ground and left.


    ¡°Im sorry¡­¡± Jenny muttered again. ¡°Kyle was right. But¡­ I cannot, not today¡­¡±


    ¡°he can¡¯t force you do anything,¡± Baba said with fatherly finality. ¡°Not today, not ever. Same goes for all da other men. They try something, I¡¯ll straighten them up.¡±


    Jenny chuckled through tears. ¡°It is not that. Kyle is a pretty boy. Handsome. It would be ok. It is just¡­¡± she looked at the Nun pleadingly. Surprisingly, it was not her but Nakry who reacted first, wrapping the girl in a hug and kissing her forehead. The old woman babbled for a few seconds, then produced a wad of dry lichen from somewhere, and showed it to the girl.


    Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.


    ¡°Oh!¡±  The Nun slapped her forehead, ¡°Of course! How silly o¡¯ me. Must be getting senile, If I forgot aboot this particular joy of the youth. Been a rather long while fer me.¡±  She nodded at Nakry. ¡°Good thinking, my auld biddy. This species of lichen is harmless and plenty absorbent.¡± She looked around the fire. ¡°Menfolk, be so kind as to give us some privacy.¡±


    Baba frowned. ¡±Is something wrong? Can we help?¡±


    ¡°Aye, you can help by going away, an¡¯ nae eavesdropping. Be off, lads.¡±


    It finally dawned on Baba, who, after all, had a wife and two daughters in his previous life.


    ¡°Understood, of course. We will give you privacy. Tell me if you¡¯ll need any more¡­absorbent resources.¡±


    ¡°Eh, rather I search for it myself. Nae all plants are good fer this, and that would be a painful mistake tae make, seeing how plenty of plantlife ¡®ere is poisonous or toxic.¡±


    Baba hastily raised and took Farrukh by the arm.


    ¡°What happening?¡± The boy asked.


    ¡°Important woman things. We leave them alone, now.¡± Baba said and pushed him along.


    Danton joined them, a smirk fighting on his face with a frown.


    ¡°I admit that is one problem I did not anticipate.¡±


    ¡°Hopefully the Nun knows how to teach them to take care of their¡­ hygiene issues and not leave too much of a scent trail,¡± Baba said, thoughtfully. ¡°the smell of blood might attract predators.¡±


    Danton shook his head, grinning. ¡°Not something to worry your pious head about, Sergeant. Have you stood downwind of our unwashed, soap-deprived army lately? We reek like a foot that''s been lodged in an arsehole for a month. Every predator in a ten-mile radius already has our scent aplenty, and a few drops of blood are not going to make an appreciable difference.¡±


    ¡°Even so,¡± Baba said, ¡°I think we should change our movement formation. Bunch up. The best, most trustworthy fighters around the women. Fan out sentries, and pull in our trailblazers close. It dey slower, but safer this way. We do not want the panther situation to happen again.¡±


    Theo shook his head gently. ¡°I am not so sure Sergeant. My gut tells me to speed up and find Jack¡¯s Camp as soon as possible.¡±


    Baba measured him with a look. ¡°You are expecting trouble, sir.¡±


    Danton hesitated before answering. Hesitated too long for Baba¡¯s taste. ¡°Can¡¯t really tell. Maybe your pessimism is rubbing off on me. By the way, you have my apologies. You were correct about our posse developing their camaraderie In the wrong direction. Perhaps they could use more of your fatherly guidance. Your influence seems to have improved young Farrukh a lot. Maybe this is a good example of what should be done with the rest.¡±


    ¡°I will.¡±


    ¡°Still, maybe consult the Nun first.¡±


    ¡°Brigitte? Why? She''s a wise woman I suppose, but she knows next to nothing about running a unit-¡±


    ¡°Oh, she might not. But she is good at inspiring obedience without being so¡­ ¡± he pointed at Baba.     ¡° well¡­ terrifying. We don''t want the boys to behave just because they are afraid of you. We want them to behave because they warmed to the idea of working together as a unit for the common good. After what''s happened by the fire, I do not think we should rely on Kyle''s charisma any longer. There will be time soon enough when this boy will fall to his vices, and have to be punished. And if his charisma is the only thing that keeps the group together, the group will unravel. Talk to the Nun, Baba once she''s done playing nurse.¡±


    Theo went to the boys, patting their backs, and smiling. Pointing at work to be done. For all the chaos Kyle¡¯s antics cost them, he was not all that bad at organizing their little camp. Sentries with spears and torches were spread around in easy eyesight distance from one another. There were several small manageable bonfires all over the clearing. Short command from Theo, and the men were done goofing around and were now sharpening spears or collecting firewood, or just huddling together for warmth. It was not a military camp by any stretch of the imagination, let alone by Baba¡¯s elevated standards. But it was a far cry from just a bunch of scared civilians. To Baba, they resembled a troop of cavemen of the most primitive kind, the ones who barely discovered sharp sticks and fire, and were delighted by their newfound powers. All that was missing was the sound of drums and some more chanting and dancing around the hearths.


    As if on cue from his thoughts, some of the boys started singing. The melody was Auld Lang Syne, but every man provided his own half-remembered lyrics in his native tongue, Into a masculine cacophony that soon devolved into joyful roaring.


    He was almost tempted to join the chorus himself when suddenly another voice, a completely alien voice coming from the oppressive darkness of the woods joined in.


    A voice that seemed human only in its cadence, but not in the actual sound.


    It was as if a wolf was trying to mimic a human song, without the right mouth to do it with.


    ¡°What the fuck? What the actual fuck is that sound, Sarge?¡± Kyle said, his eyes going wide. One by one all the men around the clearing shut up, leaving the infernal howling to be the only sound reverberating through the wilderness.


    ¡°What the fuck is that sound, Sarge?¡± Kyle said again. ¡°Sounds like a fucking werewolf on Auto-Tune.¡± The howling was getting closer. Echoing around the woods, it undulated in tone and pitch, swiftly moving from reverberating bass, like that of a foghorn, through an ululating song and up to high pitched throat singing. And throughout that, never leaving the rhythm and melody of the final tunes of Auld Lang Syne, looped endlessly. Baba felt a chill run down his spine and his hair standing on end, but he snapped out of it.


    ¡°Bunch up everyone! Formation! Formation around the campfire, now! Sentries on me! Retreat! Kyle!¡± he roared. ¡°Shape the men up, defensive formation, Spears up. Farrukh!¡±


    ¡°Yes, sir.¡±


    ¡°Up dat rock.¡± He pointed at the outcropping that Kyle climbed down from.¡± Arrow at da ready. Eyes open. But do¡¯n shoot at anything unless I tell you so. Sabi?¡± His eyes swept over the boys. They were frantically running, following his orders out of sheer fear. Soon, they stood shoulder to shoulder, spears extended like a giant human hedgehog, with the roaring bonfire at the back and the rock flanking them on the side. The women bunched up around Mary Brigitte, who somehow, despite her short stature, towered over them, makeshift club in hand.


    All but one that is.


    Riva, the Israeli border guard pushed under Bridgitte''s arm, grabbed a spare spear and joined Baba.


    ¡°Whaddya doing girl?!¡± he snapped at her.


    ¡°All due respect sir.¡± The woman said defiantly, ¡°I''m a soldier too. I''m done being protected.¡± He measured her quickly and nodded.


    ¡°Alright, then shimmy up this rock. Protect Farrukh. Don''t let anything sneak up on him.¡± His eyes swept the clearing again, and focused on Kyle.


    ¡°Boy! You counted everyone? The sentries reported back?¡±


    Kyle did a quick count. ¡°Fuck, sir. Hamish is missing. We gotta go find him!¡± he shouted, and started towards the green darkness, with a few boys in tow.


    ¡°No. Wait.¡± Baba grabbed his arm, and silenced him with a gesture. ¡°Listen.¡±


    The howling stopped. Over the cracking fire and their own terrified breaths, they could hear something else instead.


    Sobbing.


    Agonized cry.


    A slurred plea for help, as from someone who was barely clinging to their life.


    A cry that ended with a quiet, wet gurgle.


    Then, incongruously, a cry sounded again. Just as pained, and full of anguish, but somehow stronger, reverberating with strange, inhuman harmony.


    ¡°Sarge,¡± Kyle whispered, ¡°We got to go after Hamish!¡± He strained against Baba¡¯s grasp on his shoulder. ¡°He must be just behind these bushes, right there. Something is fucking eating him, Sarge!¡±


    Baba held him still, and spoke with a hollow, haunted voice.


    ¡°Hamish is dead, boy. Whatever is crying out there dis not him. Dis not human.¡± He swallowed, heavily. ¡°Merciful Allah! So we are in Hell, and demons besiege us¡­¡±


    Baba shot a knowing look towards Danton, who gave him the tiniest nod in silent agreement.


    ¡°This is a bloody stupid idea, Sergeant,¡± Danton sighed. ¡°But what choice do we have? Whatever is skulking in there, will hunt us with impunity otherwise.¡± He exchanged his spear for a short, chert-tipped javelin and his trusty antler-dagger. ¡°Be a chap Sarge, and take the right. Make yourself conspicuous. I¡¯ll sneak up from the left, around that maple copse. ¡±


    Baba spoke up without looking back. ¡°Keep formation. Nobody leaves on their own. Do not run under any circumstances. If we are not back in five minutes, wait by da fire until dawn and head south.¡±


    He weighed the heavy, iron-headed spear in his left hand. His right hand found the sling tucked under the belt, pulled it out, and loaded a stone into the pouch. Not the usual plum-sized pebble he would use for hunting, but one thrice the size, and shaped like a lens with its edges knapped to scalpel sharpness.  Tiger-killing projectile.


    He spun the sling in a deceptively lazy arc, making it hum.


    Step by step, he approached the wall of the woods where Hamish was last seen.


    The infernal mockery of a human cry had ceased.


    He was no more than fifteen steps from the edge of the woods, when the shadows stirred in it, and he saw twin pale dots shining in the dark.


    Animal eyes reflecting the moonlight.


    He whipped the sling underhand, not even bothering to swing it to full power. The projectile blew through the bushes, and hit something with a hollow thud.


    Baba swallowed a curse. Must have hit a tree trunk. But the pale silver dots disappeared.


    He burst forward, transferring the spear to his right hand. Smashing through the bushes, he scythed the spear to the left, while strifing to the right. If anything hid right behind the shrubs, it would have been cleaved in two but the big-leafed spearhead.


    The shrubs were the only casualty. With them cut down, the meager light from the bonfire pierced the stygian darkness of the woods. Baba whipped the spear in a tight arc, scanning the darkness around and behind him.


    He saw Hamish.


    Or more precisely, he saw what remained of him. The body was disemboweled, cut savagely from crotch through the belly and the chest and up the neck. The stone blade that did the work only stopped when it reached the boy¡¯s upper jaw, where it was rammed-in with such a savage might that it pinned him to a tree trunk by the head. It was as if some incredible force converted him from a human being to a filet in one strike.


    Baba¡¯s eyes widened in horror when he saw that, despite his guts spilling all over the forest floor, Hamish was still clinging to life. The eyes still twitched with dying agony, and the tongue tried to wriggle in the jawless hole in the neck, desperate for the gulp of air that the bisected lungs could not inhale.


    ¡°Merciful God-¡± he muttered when his subconscious instinct kicked in.


    The thick shadow that hung over the dying boy was not, after all, cast by tree branches.


    It exploded toward him with soundless, unstoppable speed.


    Baba was too close to change the hold on the spear shaft, and stab at the shadow, so he just flung his arms forward, slamming the spear like a quarterstaff towards the suddenly visible demonic eyes.


    Baba was a strong man. He was by far the strongest man he had ever known, thanks to a quirk of genetics that made him a powerful slab of flesh, but also thanks to a lifetime of using his prodigious strength in both combat and everyday life. He never saw the inside of a gym, but could flip tractor tires like they were child¡¯s toys.


    The shadow stopped his mighty blow dead, as if he struck a concrete wall.


    The response came immediately.


    Not as a punch, but a nearly contemptuous slap, that nevertheless sent Baba flying.


    He turned the fall into a roll, and sprung back up, his head swimming from the blow. The spear was broken in half, the iron spearhead gone. He flung the half-staff like a club, only to flip it end-on-end at the last moment and stab with the broken tip.


    The shadow was almost fast enough to dodge it.


    Almost.


    Baba aimed where he suspected his opponent''s gut would be. But the shadow turned out to be a fair bit shorter than Baba, and the wooden stake hit it in the chest instead. Baba felt the wood pierce flesh and scrape against the ribs, but not penetrate.


    The shadow snarled, a strange harmonic sound, and slapped the stake away. It grabbed Baba by the arm and slammed him to the ground, near effortlessly. It bore on top of him, grabbing him by the hair.


    Baba was not a novice when it came to ground combat. Just as his legs shot up and wrapped themselves around the shadow¡¯s torso, his hand reached for the man¡¯s throat.


    For it was a man.


    And yet, it was not.


    Even in the near complete dark, Baba could tell that the shadow¡¯s proportions were all wrong. The neck he grabbed was like a bull¡¯s and the jaw was overly wide and yet chinless, like an ape¡¯s. He grabbed the creature¡¯s throat in a viselike grip, and squeezed the windpipe. Too late he realized his mistake. The chinless bastard tucked his head in, and, suddenly exposed to a slim ray of light, flashed his giant, apelike teeth at Baba.


    The flat, broad teeth that half a second later closed on Baba¡¯s outstretched forearm with the power of an industrial guillotine.


    The agony of the bite cutting through his flesh, and slowly gnawing through his bone made Baba almost oblivious to the arrival of another predator.


    A thin javelin pierced the creature¡¯s bicep, making it rear back in confusion. Immediately after, a slight, but weasel-fast man whipped out of the bushes, and rammed a sharpened antler between the creature¡¯s ribs, aiming for the armpit artery. The antler-dagger struck true, but could not go between the powerful ribs, no more than the stake could.


    The startled creature backhanded Danton, and leaped over Baba to rush at the new opponent.


    Baba grunted with pain, and grabbed the gushing wound right above his wrist. He could not afford to bleed unconscious right now, and he could not back out of the fight either.


    Meanwhile, Danton rolled away from a savage blow the creature tried to deliver, and circled it. He stopped with his back towards the clearing, bathed in an orange glow of the fire. The shadowy figure lunged at him, but stopped in its tracks when Danton whipped up the iron spearhead he found on the ground. It tried to slap the weapon away and grab him, but the javelin stuck in its arm made the attempt clumsy and slow.  The slight Captain weaved out of the way of the attack and sliced the creature¡¯s side in the passing.


    Not fast enough.


    He almost managed to leap out of harm¡¯s way, but the monster flung itself after him, the long arms outstretched, and grabbed  Danton¡¯s foot. He kicked at it with the other, but could just as well try to kick stone. What followed was a sickening crunch of the creature twisting Captain¡¯s ankle with enough force to mangle tendons.


    It pulled Danton towards itself with a bloody grin.


    Baba could not overpower it.


    He was not strong enough, nor fast enough.


    Even if he tried to wrestle the creature away to buy Danton some time to stab it, he could not achieve much with just one hand. The beast was just too strong and too tough.


    But it was likely not, he realized, heavier.


    He shot forward like a rugby player and tackled the creature, sending them both tumbling out into the clearing.


    ¡°Farrukh!! Shoot! Shoot!!¡± he yelled, before the creature mule-kicked him in the stomach and robbed him of his breath.


    It whipped back up faster than he could, and loomed over him. In the wan light, it appeared both monstrous and curiously mundane. Enormously thick-bodied and long-armed, with short, muscular legs and an oversized head, it looked almost inhuman, but not quite. It had powerful jaws, spread in a manic, chimplike grin, and a sloping forehead with a powerful brow.


    Most astonishingly, it had the palest skin and reddest hair he had ever seen, quite at odds with how easily it blended with the darkness.


    The creature stomped on his injured hand, sending a lightning of agony through him,  and burst out an ululating cackle, not unlike the one characteristic of the hyenas he fought before.


    There was a soft thump, and a foot of a wooden shaft emerged from under the creature''s clavicle.


    It swept back with a snarl, reacting to an invisible attacker, only for another arrow to hit it right in the face. The wooded tip tore its cheek open and bounced off it''s teeth.


    The third arrow missed the target completely, because the creature burst toward the rock on which Farrukh stood, swallowing the distance with incredible speed, despite its bow-legged gait.


    Baba saw Kyle and his boys move to intercept it, and tried to call them off, but the gut kick robbed him of his breath. With near-impossible effort, he raised to his feet and tried to run after it.


    He saw Farrukh send arrow after arrow at the monster, only for him and Riva to leap off the rock at the last possible moment when the creature climbed it.


    He saw it leap down as well, pass the phalanx of sharpened sticks, and chase after them towards the fire.


    He had heard a defiant scream.


    A woman¡¯s scream.


    Then the blood loss caught up to him, and his vision faded to black.

 WILLOW-CHANT (I) THE OLD SONG AND FRESH LIVERS

    The Gentlest Chant Of The Wind In The Willows, or Willow-Chant, as only Mothers were allowed to sing about him, stood bewildered. For days now, the world he walked through did not follow the Song. The tunes of the world were twisted into madness, into abomination.


    The abomination that resulted in him standing face to face with an Old Mother that could not be. An Old Mother among a tribe of the Songless, her face weird and other, and yet unmistakably touched by the Song. Even her hair was redder than his!


    The weird Old Mother waved a club at him, shielding Songless females. Pitiful Songless males tried to encircle him with a wall of spears, as if they could ever hope to contain him! But he was so overcome with disgust, that he did not even have the urge to strike them down.


    The pain of the numerous injuries the Worthy Songless males gave him was but a nuisance compared to the emotional pain caused by the wrongness around him.


    And to think, it all started so innocently, with a seemingly good and proper new tune to the Song!


    It was less than a senight that the New Mother sent him to investigate the inexplicable appearance of the numerous Songless. True, on occasion, new Songless would appear in the woods, naked and confused. This was known, and an old verse of the Song. But never before had the pitiful non-people appeared in such tremendous numbers. The People of the Womb-Song rejoiced at this inexplicable bounty of fresh meat and breeding slaves. True, the Songless wombs were weak, and their seed worthless poison, but added in moderation, they strengthened the People, or so the Mothers sang.


    Moderation however, soon flew past them like a flushed bushbird, because the Songless suddenly became as numerous as hail from the skies. Barely bloodied males could now bring home whole armfuls of heads, or more breeding slaves that they could have the strength to mount. The Womb trembled in warning, and the Mothers admonished the People for incaution. No clear solution appeared in the Song, so the New Mother, in her spirited wisdom, sang a tune urging Willow-Chant to go forth and see the heart of the thing.


    Most of the way, he steadfastly avoided distraction, but as soon as he saw evidence of a larger group of the Songless roaming the woods, he gave himself permission to waste time on an enjoyable amusement. After all, what is even the point of being the chosen mate of the New Mother, if one cannot be allowed some indulgences that come with the rank?


    On the sixth day, he encountered a pair of the Songless, a male and a female, both naked and confused as newborns. They were in their prime, honey-skinned and dark of hair, unlike the Womb-Singers. He thought of ambushing them and killing both in a span of a breath, so as to not alert the bigger tribe, but they were so clumsy and weak it seemed pointless.


    To amuse himself, he simply emerged from the woods in front of the pair, and smiled at them.


    The female uttered a meek yelp, and the male jumped in front of her protectively. Willow-Chant gave an appreciative hum at the male¡¯s misguided bravery. Did the worthless creature think it could defend its mate from him? It was as if a deer challenged a tiger to combat!


    Willow-Chant cooed at the creatures to put them at ease. ''If the male wants to fight, let us fight'', he thought. Seeing the male was unarmed, he dropped his spear and flint knife on the ground. Let nobody sing he was not fighting fair!


    He slowly approached the male, grinning. He remembered the Songless consider bared teeth to be a sign of friendship, what silly animals they are! But he must have grinned wrong, because the Songless male burst with a mumbled non-song of warning, and raised its fists defensively.


    Oh well.


    He lunged forward and slapped the Songless¡¯ hands away. The creature bawled. He must have struck too hard, because it seems like he shattered one of the male¡¯s wrists. At least, he thought the animal¡¯s paw was at an odd angle now.


    The small male cried for its female to run, and, in some inexplicable bout of insanity, leaped at Willow-Chant, trying to grapple with him.


    Enough was enough.


    Willow-Chant grabbed the funny male by the throat, wrapped another hand over its head, and in a slow, deliberate motion twisted it all the way around, until he heard the neck snap.


    And then some, for good measure.


    The honey-hued female shrieked, a tuneless, grating noise, and only then tried to run. He acted on reflex, the old hunter¡¯s instincts getting the better of him. His hand shot forward, grabbed the running female¡¯s hair, and yanked her back.


    Too hard.


    Way too hard.


    He sang a throat-song of irritation. She would have made a fine breeding slave, at least for a while, if she was alive. Now all he had was two animals with snapped necks. Good enough for eating, he supposed, but uncooked Songless were gamey, and he would not dare start a fire. Not so close to his mark.


    Annoyed at his own skills getting rusty, he opened the Songless and ate their livers. Nothing better than a fresh liver, still hot and steaming. Though a pinch of sea-dust, or perhaps a handful of bear-garlic would improve it. He mused at that thought. Had he become spoiled by luxury and unaccustomed to life on the hunt, staying by the New Mother¡¯s side for the last few years? Or was he just getting old?


    Invigorated by the meal, he stalked forward, following the scent trail of the Songless tribe. He smelled they were numerous. Far more numerous than he thought possible. Many dozens. Not even the oldest verses of the Song described their tribes this large. This was surely weirdness and abomination. The Song of the world was for the Womb-Singer people, not for these wretched creatures to populate.


    As the day passed, the tune became weirder still. He encountered the most distressing sight. A clearing stomped all over by the feet of the Songless, and a skinned, gutted, butchered corpse of a bobtail panther in the middle of it. He knew it was one, even though the head was missing.


    Songless was not supposed to be capable of killing a panther! What abomination was this? Even numerous as they were, they were supposed to flee from such a superior predator, not ambush it.


    This was as if the Song was sung backward.


    By the end of the day, he finally tracked down the Songless tribe.


    The impossible, panther-killing tribe.


    They were so different from regular Songless that for a heartbeat he thought that they must have been led by a Womb-Singer.


    Hidden in the bushes he waited and observed them.


    These were not terrified animals like the rest of their ilk.


    They were organized. They had fires. They had spears. Some of them tipped with flint. They even had sentries placed all over, blind and deaf as they were. In his younger days, Willow-Chant would have burst amidst them and scatter them like autumn leaves. But he was not a young, reckless male anymore. The New Mother gave him a task. And that task was more important than the drumbeat of bloodlust in his chest.


    Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.


    He was to come back with knowledge, not with severed heads. He observed the tribe for a while, before to his great amusement, the animals attempted to sing.


    It was a terrible noise, more akin to tortured geese than people, but if they try to sing, he thought to himself, then they must not be as stupid, as people consider them to be.


    Animals, still, but clever ones.


    He was about to put their cleverness to a test and see their true measure.


    He snuck upon the nearest sentry. The skinny male was armed with a spear, but not vigilant. Not truly listening and truly looking into the woods that surrounded it. The creature soon joined the song of its tribe, still oblivious to its surroundings and the danger rising behind it.


    Willow-Chant grabbed the little male by the scruff of the neck and pulled it into the bushes. It tried to fight but to no avail. With almost no effort, Willow-Chant managed to press the creature against a tree trunk and stabbed the flint knife into its groin. The Songless male uttered a cry, one with no melody to it, except pain.


    It gave him an idea.


    He muffled the bleating creature, and joined the tribal chorus.


    His song followed the same pattern but was infinitely superior to their meek mewling.


    The sound of his voice sent the animals into panic.


    They had bunched together brandishing spears and making sounds of distress.


    ''And rightfully so'', he taught. For their distress was completely justified.


    But he was not done playing with them. He let the captured sentry cry for help, while slowly gutting it from groin to nose. He made sure not to cut through any major blood vessels too soon, so that it would keep gurgling even with its windpipe and jaw bisected.


    And when it was no longer capable of making sounds, he mimicked its pleas instead. That was a difficult skill, trying to sing the choppy, barking sounds of the un-song of the Songless. To him, they always sounded like they were choking on a bone and trying to retch it out.


    Disgusting creatures.


    His false un-song made the Songless even more panicky and wide-eyed than they were.


    He saw two males disengage from the herd. One was the color of oaken bark and a true giant, towering even over Willow-Chant himself. It reminded him of a black bear, but only if black bears could hold a spear with deadly and proficient intent.


    He could not wait to fight this creature. That would be an interesting challenge for once.


    The other male was so meager in comparison that he nearly dismissed it. That was until he noticed that the little creature snuck into the woods with a fluid and deadly movement of a serpent. ''Ah'', he taught, ''I should not focus on a bear and forget that a viper is nearby.''


    Suddenly, the dark-hued creature whipped a piece of thong at him and a projectile slammed into a tree trunk right next to his head.


    This both startled and angered him. He knew that Songless could throw things proficiently, but not with such a force. If that projectile hit his head, he would be dead before his body reached the ground. In one fluid motion, he grabbed a branch above his head, and pulled himself up into the shadows of the overhanging maple, right above the bleeding body of the sentry.


    A mere breath later, the big creature jumped through the bushes and whipped a spear through the spot where he just stood.


    And what a magnificent spear that was! Its tip was not mere flint but some other, even superior stone that looked like shiny gray ice rather than the dull brown chert he used. He wanted that spear for himself, even more than she wanted to fight the dark creature for it.


    The song of the day was getting more and more interesting with each heartbeat.


    The fight itself was a blur of confusion and irritation.


    The bear-male and the viper-male each proved to be a handful. Not mere challenges but a real threat.


    Or, again, was that just him getting old? It should not be possible for those wretched creatures to surprise him, or injure him so.


    But the true, hot anger mixed with icy fear came when a tiny spear embedded itself in his body, finger-width from his neck, only followed by another that tore his face open. Willow-Chant always knew the Songless had a knack for throwing weapons, a coward¡¯s trick that was the only thing at which they were superior to the Womb-Singers. A true warrior of the People fought their foes up close. Their powerful shoulders and hands were fit for delivering mighty blows, but not for finicky and precise aiming. That was just worthless trickery for the weak to use.


    Well, maybe not entirely worthless. If that tiny flying spear hit his neck or eye, he would be dead.


    He wasted no time, and sprinted at the swarthy Songless male who stood atop of a rock, hurling sticks at him from a weird crooked piece of wood. The spear-shooter proved to not be a complete fool, both him and his female leaped out of his way and into the embrace of their tribe.


    No matter.


    He would chase them down and wrench their necks, and that of any animal that stood in his way. Even unarmed, he had complete advantage over them, and they knew it too, as was evident from their stooped, trembling postures. If New Mother wanted him to sing her a song of this abominable tribe, here was where he would find the melody.


    All those thoughts were flushed out of his head when he jumped off the rock, passed the cowed line of spear-holders, and stood eye to eye with what could only be a strange Old Mother.


    She had the red hair of the People, and the pale skin of the purest breed of the Womb. Her face was weirdly soft, and her brow flat like an animal¡¯s but there was still strength and trueness to her bone, evident even through her plump and aged figure.


    For a dozen heartbeats, Willow-Chant was paralyzed with indecision, a predicament he never before encountered. He always knew what to do, and acted immediately.


    Until that day.


    Part of him wanted to take a step forward and end this impossible creature with a single punch. A different part of him wanted to fall to the ground and supplicate to a lost Old Mother he inexplicably found. How can one being be both so clearly of the Womb, and utterly Other at the same time? The revolting contradiction made bile rise in his throat, the barely digested livers threatening to escape his gullet.


    The Songless surrounding him froze in place, none brave enough to be the first to strike at him. Little they knew, that he was so distraught he would not even defend himself. Swallowing hard, he pulled his well-honed willpower together, and sang.


    He chanted about willows to introduce himself. He chanted about the endless grasslands where he was born, and the vast caves of the Womb. he sang the Song of his Mother, and her Mother, and all the Mothers before them, back to the day when great abomination plucked them from the old Song of the world and placed them in this one. He felt hot tears stream down his cheeks, as he hoped against all evidence that the Old Mother before him would turn out to be real, not a false abomination birthed by the Songless.


    Finally, his song ended, and he stared at her, waiting.


    And then, to his great joy, the weird Old Mother sang too.


    It was not a true Song, not even close.


    But it was a song of sorts, however ugly and dissonant it was. He could not understand what the melody truly meant, but he thought he could glance at the emotion within it. It was a song of a homeland long lost. Of sorrow and longing. Of faith, though faith in what, he could not guess. Whoever the ancestors of this Old Mother were, they must have had the blood of the People in them. Maybe just a tiny drop, but still. There was just no other sensible explanation.


    He bowed down, and bared his throat. She did not step in to cut it, or smack his skull open with her club. She must have not taken offense at his behavior. But still, he felt he was not welcome in her presence. Hunched with shame, he turned around and left. The Songless spear-males parted before him and let him pass.


    He would go back to the New Mother with what he learned. He would present the flying spear still embedded in his clavicle. We would sing a song of bear-males and viper-males. Of impossible Songless tribes. Of flying stones and flying sticks.


    And maybe, the final part of his song would be about the Old Mother that should not exist.


    Or maybe not.


    Maybe that song was not for the New Mother to hear, but only for the Old Mothers at the Womb. For the first time in his life, a life that drummed in him for twice more years than all the fingers and toes put together, he was unsure where his allegiance laid.

 DAY NINETY FIVE. APES AND FIRE. APES AND WATER

    It takes an incredible amount of heat and fuel to cremate a person.


    Even if that person was relatively small.


    Even if that person was said to be a good friend, and a kind soul. Even if that person deserved a better fate.


    To nature, we do not really matter. The laws of thermodynamics do not care if we did our best to save Ruslana. That she suffered and struggled for two days before sepsis ruined her body. That we wanted to at least give her a decent funeral, even if her final hours were deprived of dignity.


    The first pyre simply whimpered down in the evening drizzle. We restocked it, careful not to disturb her half-burnt corpse. The second burn charred her to a blackened skeleton, but failed to turn her to ash. Ash that could not be scavenged by animals.


    Finally, Gordo brewed a concoction that we duplicated and splashed all over the pyre. It burned with an acrid, foul smelling smoke, and made the flames blue-green, but by the time the Moon was in the sky, Ruslana turned to dust, her remains spread by a western wind.


    Xiao scooped what was left in the hem of the tunic I gave him. For a second, he stood like this, undecided.


    ¡°Who say for woman?¡± he asked, his English harsh, and stuttering with emotion.


    We looked at one another.


    ¡°I¡¯m not sure if she had faith,¡± Billy said, staring grimly into the smoldering embers, not yet ready to look at the scooped remains of his friend. ¡°She was Belarusian, I think. A schoolteacher, she said. A good person. Kind, selfless and caring. I hope¡­ that the next place she goes to is better than this.¡± He shrugged. ¡°Don¡¯t know any prayers though.¡±


    Surprisingly, Nata stepped forward.


    Shyly, she started singing.


    At first, her voice broke down with every few words, but with Sveta taking her hand in hers, and joining in, she sang louder and clearer. It was a sad, hauntingly beautiful song that I could almost, but not quite, understand.


    ¡°Thank you. Was that a prayer?¡± Billy asked.


    ¡°No.¡± Nata shook her head. ¡°Not know prayer in Belarusian. Only this song. Is about white birds that die. Sad song.¡±


    ¡°It is called White Swans.¡± Sveta added. ¡°We learned it in school. It is about how a young swan gets killed by an eagle, but other swans live, and life goes on.¡±


    ¡°Thank  you both. I think¡­ she would have liked it.¡±


    ¡°What''s to do?¡±, Xiao asked. ¡°To water?¡± he pointed at the river, and moved to pour the ashes into it.


    ¡°No, stop.¡± Billy halted him. ¡°Not like that. We are not doing the Return To Nature crap. Nature already got enough of her, and Larry, and hundreds of others. Fuck nature. We are not feeding her ashes to it.¡±


    ¡°Do you want to bury her?¡± Candice asked with an uncharacteristic gentleness. We can make a clay urn¡­¡±


    Billy sighed and looked at his tired trembling hands. ¡°I,.. I don''t know, just not¡­ just not like this.¡±


    His voice shook. Gordo ambled towards him.


    ¡°I may have a solution. I just don¡¯t  know if it''s not disrespectful, or weird but¡­ if you want to preserve her ashes forever and kept away from nature, we have a fresh batch of concrete made not a long time ago. We can mix her ashes and the bones into it. It will remain intact for millennia.¡±


    Billy looked to the rest of his crew. They all nodded in agreement, if with little hesitation. There was not much ceremony to it afterward. We mixed the ashes with fresh concrete. Found a nice place in the woods surrounded by flowers, and poured the concrete into a hole in the ground. We considered the idea of drawing a cross onto it, before it solidified, but we did not know if Ruslana was religious or not.


    Ultimately Nata simply pressed her palm into the surface to mark it.


    ¡°Good thinking, girl.¡± Candace nodded with a grim smile. ¡°This hand will never be claimed by nature.¡±


    We went back to the camp. Nobody spoke much. We were too emotionally exhausted. Instead, everybody focused on practical matters. The girls and Adelle started cutting and tailoring the duplicated tunics to create as many different-sized pieces of clothing as they could.


    Keito and Gordo started rebuilding our little forge into something more substantial. Preparing charcoal, steel, and other ingredients that they needed to create more tools. The rest of us approached the river carefully, looking out for any sign of a v-shaped wave. We dragged all our watercraft towards the shore.


    None of it was in good shape.


    The sealskin canoe was torn open.  It was evident that the otters took a shine to the sheets of hide on its side, and tore off chunks to play with. I had enough leather to repair it, but I knew next to nothing about sealskin boat repair and it was one type of bushcraft that Baba never managed to teach me, in the short time we spent together.


    Worse still, the big raft pretty much fell apart completely. The strips that held it together unraveled, and a third of the logs that made it floated away, beyond our reach. Nobody dared to jump into the water to chase them.


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    That left my old, single-sailed windrunner as the only seaworthy vessel. Or, at least river-worthy I suppose. The problem, of course, was that it was big enough for maybe three people and no more than two backpacks worth of supplies. Any more weight and it would either capsize or just sink under the surface.


    ¡°That does put a snag in my plan.¡± said Billy, looking at it critically. ¡°It''s barely big enough for me alone.¡±


    ¡°Small as it is,¡± I said, ¡°it can go against the flow pretty easily. Means we could go back and forth across the river two, or three times in a day. Maybe more with favorable winds. We could haul a bag of supplies with every trip and bring one person back with us.¡±


    Billy grimaced. ¡°At the current pace, Hashk¨¦ is probably finding six or seven people a day. And the near eighty people we have there are already half-dead from the cold, hunger, and the shits this water gives them.¡± He gestured at the tiny raft. ¡°If we were to use this thing, we might just as well focus on transporting concrete for all the cremated remains of my people, because they¡¯ll die faster than we can ferry them.¡±


    Wait.


    Wait!


    ¡°Ferry.¡± I nodded to myself, and beamed at Billy. ¡°Officer Donahue, you are a genius!¡±


    ¡°What?¡± he furrowed his shaggy brow. ¡°Whatcha mean?¡±


    ¡°Ferry!¡± I grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him. ¡°A Goddamn ferry! Old-timey one, with a rope across the river! You sure have those in Minnesota. No need for fancy sails, oars, and difficult hull designs. Just a big fucking pallet and a mile of rope to pull against!¡±


    ¡°Oh Jesus, yes!¡± his eyes widened with shared enthusiasm. ¡°We could save them all. And we could build it so big, and put so many folk on it the furry assholes won¡¯t dare touch them.¡±


    ¡°Eh,¡± I winced, ¡°not exactly what I have in mind. I mean, the limitations still apply, we won¡¯t be hauling your whole tribe here, nor are we going to antagonize the otters.¡± I saw him protest, but silenced him with a placating gesture, ¡°Think, Billy! If we had a rope ferry, we could bring so much supplies to the meadows that it would no longer matter if we hauled people back. There would be no need to piss off the otters, or risk a fucking brawl over who controls the Duplicators, and still have everyone fed, clothed, and warm.¡±


    ¡°Hey, you agreed to allow the weakest and ill to cross the river. That was our deal.¡± He growled, pointing a finger at me.


    ¡°Would you rather transport dozens of infirm humans across a dangerous river, or transport bags of clothes, chow, and axheads the other way? Sure it would be less of a tragedy if you lose half of the merchandise being dragged overboard, than losing even more people.¡±


    He puffed another ¡°Uff-da!¡± under his prodigious mustache, but it was just the residual anger about being contradicted, rather than actual disagreement. Billy was a leader by nature, and could not stomach others disagreeing with him, even if he was obviously wrong and they were right.


    But then, his mood darkened further.


    ¡°This is a pipe dream anyway, Jacek. Look at this fucking thing!¡± he pointed at the river spreading towards the distant promise of the opposite shore, which was barely a thin, green line. ¡°This river is as big as the goddamn Mississippi. How do we even drag a rope across it? And what rope, pray tell? A ferry cable should be as thick as my wrist, and a piece long enough to get across the water would weigh a metric fuckton.¡±


    ¡°Oh ye of little faith.¡± I shook my head, smiling. ¡°Gordo! Keito! I need calculations, Eye-sippy!¡±


    ¡°What''s Eye-sippy?¡± Billy was puzzled.


    ¡°Ask Gordo one day. It''s a helluva story about a very peculiar man.¡±


    Two hours later, all four of us were laying on a big silk tarp covered in charcoal-drawn calculations. There were notes on it, in Spanish, Japanese, and Polish, two-thirds of which were so complex they flew over my head completely, and all of them seemed too complex for Bill, who just nodded in agreement to everything, impatient to try it all in practice.


    ¡°So, we are in agreement then?¡± Gordo asked. ¡°First. Jack and Billy will sail back across the river, until they reach the meadow beach. They¡¯ll spool out the four-millimeter silk thread across the water.¡±


    ¡°How do you know how thick is four millimeters?¡± Billy frowned. ¡°And why not use inches?¡±


    Gordo guffawed and gave Billy a chummy side hug, ¡°Because we are civilized men and civilized men use the metric system. Also, I know that the narrowest width of my pinkie finger is exactly fourteen millimeters, and my thumb¡¯s twenty.  Jack knows his finger widths to even greater precision, it''s the first lifehack learned by anydo-it-yourself enthusiast, carpenter, construction worker, or even a chemist like me. From that, we could calculate the millimeter, and from a millimeter, you can calculate every other metric unit there is.¡±


    ¡°You lads just love to measure your body parts, don¡¯t ya?¡± Candace heckled. I threw a charcoal stick at her but badly missed.


    ¡°Anyway,¡± Gordo returned to the matter, ¡°Once they had tied the thinnest thread to a tree on the opposite shore, they will organize the meadow people to use it to pull across the fifteen-millimeter rope. that is going to be a pain in the ass, and likely take a whole day if not more.¡±


    ¡°Then we¡¯d use the thinner rope to tie together logs for a  new ferry on the other end?¡± Billy asked.


    ¡°Not sure.¡± I shook my head. ¡°Better wait for the second rope to be spooled in, and use that. You¡¯ll lose some time waiting, but I¡¯m not convinced we should try to build a multiton flat bottom vessel with essentially a fishing line to tie the logs together. Spider silk is monstrously strong, but that would be just sheer recklessness.¡±


    ¡°Think, you should wait until the third, final rope is spanned across. Then, once it is secured, you can use the second rope for construction.¡± Gordo added.


    I hummed. ¡°But then, we¡¯d end up with a situation where the ferry is on the opposite shore from where the spool of the third rope, the forty-millimeter one, is made. This means that the only way to transport the final rope is to pull it across the surface of the water, and that is going to be a bitch due to drag. We¡¯d be fighting against the might of the river pushing against the whole length of it. Even with our crude math, it appears it would be like pulling an eighteen-wheeler truck out of a ditch.¡±


    ¡°Speaking of,¡± Billy sat up. ¡°Can¡¯t ya build some kind of a winch? Over seventy people working a giant lever can pull a lot of weight.¡±


    ¡°Yeah,¡± I nodded, then skimmed Gordo¡¯s calculations and shook my head. ¡°Initially, maybe. But once most of the dragline is on the water, and getting taut, the forces involved would be enormous. If that winch hinge snaps, and it likely will, the backslap is going to ruin someone¡¯s day. Not to mention, the rope will sail down river and entangle itself in the reeds.¡±


    Billy stood up, and returned to pacing about, which seemed like his default state when he was agitated. That and looking for someone to glare angrily at. It was a trait he shared with Candace. Both were unamused when I pointed that out. Their relations remained at a level of a clenched teeth armistice.


    ¡°If the rope wants to sail downriver on its own, why not let it? Why not start further upriver on our end, and only nudge it into place?¡±, Billy asked.


    Keito lit up, but me and Gordo winced.


    ¡°Ah, there are two problems with it. The first problem is that it would be incredibly difficult to get several tons of rope upriver, either by land or by sail, even if we did it in pieces and tied them together on the spot.¡± Everyone nodded at the obvious truth. ¡°Second, and worse issue, is that the place most optimal for the rope to be spooled from¡­ is infested with dragons.¡±

 HASHKé (I) FROM SNAFU TO FUBAR

    His face was frozen into a polite smile of insincere patience for so long, he worried his muscles would never relax and he¡¯ll end up with this idiotic rictus forever.


    The reason for his suffering was that Marike and Vikram, the two people who in Billy¡¯s absence held their little tribe together, were the dumbest smart people he had ever met, and he had to cooperate with them, and at least appear to respect them.


    Hashk¨¦ hated working with smart idiots. He met more than a handful of those in the Army, and then even more working as a park ranger for a wildlife preserve. These were the people who had brilliant, perfectly optimized plans for anything and everything, except for making allowances for tiny little things like human error, Murphy¡¯s Law, and random excrement hitting the turbine rotor at unfortunate moments.


    Of the two in front of him, he hated Marike only a little bit. The gruff German Valkyrie kept all of them mostly fed, mostly warm, and usually safe, and enforced resource distribution with an iron fist, that only a veteran soup-kitchen head was capable of. But she was incapable of realizing that unlike her, the other tired and scared people had their psychological limits, and were not just inexhaustible Bavarian robots like she was. Her solution to the insufficient amount of food was to yell at Hashk¨¦ and the other hunters to go out and hunt more, even though they had not truly slept for over seventy hours, and were almost delirious with exhaustion.


    Vikram was even worse than her. To Hashk¨¦, he was like many of the officers and corporate managers he met. A creature that only saw humans as numbers, and was addicted to inhuman utilitarianism. When food ran low, Vikram simply declared that those who did not contribute to the group would have to fast until the situation changed. When dysentery ravaged their camp, and some people became too weak to eat or drink, let alone do useful work, Vikram asked Hashk¨¦ to slit their throats discreetly, so that they would not suffer or waste resources. He nearly strangled the man in cold fury, before storming off.


    And the worst part was, the bastard was right, because the people who caught gut fever that day, all perished anyway. If not for the risk of infection, he was sure Vikram would suggest cannibalizing the corpses to not let the precious calories go to waste.


    ¡°... to conclude,¡± Vikram droned on, ¡°you need to take about a dozen of our best men and explore the upper plains behind the oxbow lake. As you know, from personal experience, this is the most likely place to find herds of large game.¡± Vikram must have noticed his smiling facade breaking, because he hastily added, ¡°I know we are asking a lot of you and your men. But unless you bring back at least fifty kilograms of meat, we will have people lose the battle against hunger and the cold. I expect at least seven people to not make it to the end of the week.¡±


    Hashk¨¦ shrugged. ¡°My boys and I had not slept for three days and had not eaten more than a handful of nuts and berries a day for more than that. We might very likely be the ones to not make it if you push us beyond our limits.¡±


    Vikram gave him a thin smile and a pat on the shoulder that made his skin crawl.


    ¡°I know you manage, Hashk¨¦. You are the most capable man I know. Our lives depend on you. I know you will do your duty no matter what.¡±


    ''Gee, thanks for the pep talk'', Hashk¨¦ thought. ''I immediately feel fed and rested. Who knew that words of wisdom from middle management can replace actual caloric intake?''


    Marike gave him a look that was more apologetic and pleading than Vikram¡¯s arrogant dismissal, but it did not make his mood any better.


    He simply nodded, turned around and left. He did not need to signal to his men to move. They all raised and followed him begrudgingly, groning with tiredness and slack-jawed from exhaustion, like a troop of zombies shuffling after their necromancer.


    None of his men were hunters, not really. Teaching a person to hunt with a bow, spear, javelin or sling was hopelessly difficult, and practice cost them calories they could not afford to spend.


    Instead, he came up with a simpler idea. He gathered a dozen of the most physically capable men, and gave them all long spears. They were not supposed to hunt with those, but walk in a tight formation and quite literally beat around the bush to flush game that he could snipe at with his spear-thrower. Even the biggest megafauna they encountered here, still fled from a dozen angry, shouting humans with nine-foot-long sticks. All Hashk¨¦ needed was to wait until one of those animals ran past him, and whip his atlatl to put a javelin through it at near point-blank range.


    When he suggested that plan for the first time, the other men laughed at it, unable to believe that a wiry, slight guy like him could throw a lightweight javelin hard enough to even kill a rabbit, let alone something bigger. For them, the atlatl was merely a weird child¡¯s toy. The laughter stopped when he threw one through the neck of a swamp buffalo, killing it nearly instantly.


    It was he who laughed last, in the privacy of his own head. Half of his team were educated men, yet not a single one of them understood that a spear-thrower was essentially a lever, and levers are tremendous force multipliers. ¡®Give me a long enough lever, and I will move the world¡¯, a wise man once said. An even wiser man took the lever and used it to propel a deadly stick at a big evil cow, and now the whole tribe could eat beef for a week.


    It took them about a day and a half to finally reach the shores of the oxbow lake. It could have been faster, but they tried to circle around the swampy lowland, where the game was plentiful but small, and difficult to catch. Except for the rare beaver, and even rarer water buffalo, the swamp creatures were either smart, or nocturnal, or both.


    The best scenario for them would be to flush some of the mysterious ungulates out of the tall grasses of the plains, and trap them against the risen slope that fell into the lake. Then either the boys could press on with their pikes and finish off the catch, preferably pushing it off the small cliff,  or he would snipe it down with a carefully aimed shot.


    The trek through the tall grass of the plains was unnerving. Except for the narrow paths stomped into the ground by the herds, the grass was as tall and thick as any cornfield he had ever seen, and it swayed with every little eddy of the wind, giving the impression that they were surrounded by unseen lurking predators at all times.


    Or maybe they were, who knew? Hashk¨¦ was an excellent hunter and tracker, but even he only had the mundane human senses of hearing and smell. If a pack of hyenas, a tiger, or another beast was stalking them, the best they could do was to stand shoulder-to-shoulder, and make enough angry noises to either make it flee or force it to fight on their terms.


    This had worked for them more often than not. The first few days when he met this group, hyenas and wolves would snatch terrified people right from the middle of their camp. Two weeks later, when they all armed themselves and became sufficiently angry and starved, the tables had turned.


    The next time a wolfpack started circling the edges of light cast by their fires, a crowd of twenty pissed-off humans stormed out, armed with spears, torches and heavy stones, to deliver payback. Two more men died that night, but all the wolves that failed to flee were brutally exterminated, and promptly eaten. He remembered watching half amazed, half horrified, as previously civilized men and women turned from prey into ravenous monsters and tore into dying wolves, gorging themselves on raw meat, the same way wolves would do to them not a few nights before. It was like a campfire story about skinwalkers, but in reverse.


    The next morning, the whole tribe rushed forward to find the wolf den, where they finished the grisly job. They even stoned helpless wolf-cubs in the den, to Hashk¨¦¡¯s moral revulsion.


    A few weeks forward, his main concern was no longer prehistoric beasts in the darkness, but the far more trivial, if also far more deadly monsters, their names hunger, disease, and the worst of them all, the one beast to devour every other, winter. Even though he was born and raised in southern Utah, he knew perfectly well that winter this far north was essentially an apocalypse that decimated all living creatures, even those that evolved to deal with the cold.


    A bunch of terrified, naked, half-starved survivors who lived hand-to-mouth and who had no means of stocking on food for the coming four or five months of snow? They were all dead, just not aware of it yet.


    What was the point of risking his life now, to bring back a dead pony, deer, or even a buffalo, hell, even ten of them, if he would die with the rest of the tribe a few days after the first snow?


    But he was an Army Ranger, and a park ranger, and finally, though he never cared all that much for his heritage, he was Navajo, and all three groups he belonged to cherished completely pointless, self-sacrificial bravery against impossible odds.


    And the most ironic thing was, despite all the death, the cold, and the hunger, he enjoyed being in this world more than he ever enjoyed his life on Earth. The thought that he would surely die come winter filled him with sadness, but only because his time to explore this amazing new reality would be cut short. It was a land of terror, but also of wonder, and pristine beauty that thrummed at a string in his soul he never believed existed. Was he getting spiritual all of a sudden?


    His philosophical explorations were cut short, when he felt something was not right about the wilderness around them.


    The ¡®not right¡¯ feeling was in no way any silly magical sixth sense bullshit that ignorant folks associated with the Native people. It was just plain well-developed survival instinct that allowed him to survive the worst FUBARed situations that he found himself in while in Iraq, and given his specific skillset, he was usually sent to ones that were already really bad. It was the weird tingling of the little hair on his neck, and his sphincter getting suddenly tighter than a virgin¡¯s snatch. It was his body telling him that he was about to step into an IED, put his head into a sniper¡¯s crosshairs, or in his second career, stumble into the loving embrace of a grizzly bear.


    He felt exactly that at the very moment, and raised his fist to stop his guys. Little good that did, they kept on shuffling and chatting idly for several seconds before they froze in place as well.


    ¡°whatissit hoss?¡± said his unofficial second in command, a hulking Appalachian brute named Pete.


    The thing was, Hashk¨¦ was not sure. He just knew, from the bottom of his feet to the top of his head that they had walked into a trap. He scanned the seemingly endless sea of grass around them, and saw nothing out of the ordinary. Still¡­


    ¡°Not sure, Pete. Something¡¯s giving me the creeps about this place. Lets haul ass boys. I want to have the lakeside slope against my back as soon as possible. Everybody, eyes open, spears up, brains on.¡±


    They jogged forward, the long tips of their spears brushing against the grass on the sides of the narrow trail. Soon, the grass parted, revealing a deep ravine with a lazy oxbow lake at the bottom, and stretching towards the horizon as messy wetland. The wall of the ravine they stood upon was a completely vertical one, a good thirty-foot drop into the murky green water of indeterminate depth.


    ¡°What now?¡± another of his men, a grim-faced Frenchman with an unpronounceable name, whom they simply dubbed Ned for brevity, crouched next to Hashk¨¦ and studied the water. ¡°You want to chase animal to here, so it drop, drown?¡± Ned¡¯s English was only marginally better than most of their crew, so he opted to use as few words as possible.


    ¡°Yeah. That is the plan. We could then tie it to several spears and float it all the way to the bend by the sandy hill, then only carry it upwards into the meadows. Beats dragging a thousand-pound buffalo or one of them horned ponies all the way through the fucking grassland.¡±


    ¡°There hyenas. Will be fight.¡± Ned said, with so little emotion, Hashk¨¦ suspected the man¡¯s ancestors must have really been Scandinavian, not truly French.


    He shrugged. ¡°Nah. We bloodied them bad when Billy had us storm their den the other week, and set it on fire. And we gutted like what, five of those fuckers already? Pack predators are vicious when hungry, but they are not suicidal idiots. Animals fear death and injury just as much as we do. They¡¯ll leave us alone as long as we do not bother them.¡± He did not add ¡®until winter hits, and they get just as hungry and desperate as we are¡¯. Chances were, they''ll freeze solid before the first hyena comes to investigate their camp.


    ¡°What we do?¡± Ned asked. Pete joined them, gnawing on a grass stalk. God only knows what kind of sustenance he could get from doing that, the grass here was as tough as rebar, and likely just as nutritious.


    ¡°The usual, I think. Pete will take the younger guys, circle for about a mile, clockwise, and start making a racket. Don¡¯t spread too thin, but start a few fires, we have a good inbound wind. Ned, you do the same but backtrack a bit first and go counterclockwise. Go easy on the fires though, we do not want to set our trail back home ablaze, in case the whole idea of floating down the river does not pan out.¡±


    Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.


    ¡°You¡¯d be stayin¡¯ here ¡®lone, hoss?¡± Pete frowned. He was the closest thing Hashk¨¦ had for a friend in this world, or at least, they had a kind of unspoken, Working Class kinship that all those who persevere at the mercy of their superiors share. They had each other¡¯s back since the first week.


    ¡°Yep. No need for one of you useless babies distracting me when I''m prepping the shot,¡± he flashed Pete a smile. ¡°I¡¯ll be fine. As long as what you flush out is not a goddamn wooly rhinoceros, I can handle it. And Pete, I''m sending you out with six guys, return with just as many.¡±


    He turned to the other man. ¡°Ned? Same goes for you. Half a dozen go, half a dozen return. Savvy? Also, I really had the worst hibbie-jibbies around the middle of the trail, back there where we paused. Something¡¯s really fucky about that place. If you so much as see a ladybug looking at you funny, you boys go back, spears up, full fucking hedgehog on. We¡¯ll manage well enough with one set of beaters. There¡¯s either game in the grass or there is not. No need to take any risks.¡±


    Both men nodded at him in wordless agreement, and promptly led their teams away. The rest of the men did not share their grim conviction and followed them just as wide-eyed and strung up as on their first day. Goddamned civilians.


    Hashk¨¦ had a very bad feeling about this.


    But he had even worse feelings about starvation.


    He walked back and forth along the edge of the cliff, looking for the best place to position himself. There was only a narrow clearing between the edge and the sea of grass spreading before him. It looked like herds of hoofed animals, heavy ones, would often travel along the shore of the lake, and trample the grass into a dead stubble. It was barely wide enough for him to take a single shot with the atlatl, but not enough to load a second javelin in time before the flushed animal reached either him, or the drop. He had to make the first shot count, or, knowing his luck, the creature would spend its last seconds of life goring him.


    He barely had time to cherish that little nugget of grim soldier¡¯s humor, when he heard something crash through the grass. He raised the spear thrower, and froze in anticipation.


    A cow-sized saiga burst out. Hashk¨¦¡¯s eyes soaked in all the details, delaying the javelin¡¯s release. The antelope was powerfully built, with curved horns and immense shoulders, not unlike a buffalo. Its snout ended in a trunk-like nose, which would look funny, if it was not currently leaking foamy blood. It staggered a dozen steps, reached the edge, and halted there. It looked at Hashk¨¦ with the maddened, glassy eyes of a creature seconds away from bleeding to death.


    He aimed carefully, taking his time. There was no point in rushing, the animal was barely standing anyway. A quick overhand throw, a quiet thud, and the antelope collapsed with a javelin through its ribcage, a clean, merciful shot that managed to reach the heart.


    He approached it carefully, with a bone dagger in hand, to finish the job. He did not need to bother. The saiga was dead, or at least, completely paralyzed with shock. He reached to pull out the javelin and his eyes grew wide.


    Right behind the animal¡¯s muscular hump, was another weapon embedded deeply in its flesh. It took all his strength to pull it out. It was a broken tip of a spear that had been stuck in the antelope with enough force to pierce the thick shoulder blade, go through a lung, and crack the ribs on the opposite side. It was a miracle that the animal had enough life in it to limp out of the grass.


    Then he saw the spearhead, and the little hair on his neck raised again.


    It was a giant stone leaf, longer than his palm, expertly knapped out of chert, with precision that he never saw among any of their people. This was not the work of a desperate survivor, or even a modern hobbyist who just happened to know how to make stone tools before ending up in this world. This was a spearhead just as good, if not better than the ones he saw at a museum, made by his own ancestors.


    Whoever made this, was a real fucking caveman, not a pale imitation like his fellow survivors were.


    He did not have time to marvel at it. The eerie feeling he had before returned, magnified.


    And then came the screams.


    He had seen enough combat in his life to instinctively tell what a particular wordless scream meant. The ¡®Im terrified out of my wits¡¯ scream was much different from the ¡®im terrified but also enraged¡¯ shout that he heard men utter right before doing something very reckless. And then there was the unforgettable shriek of ¡®I can see my own intestines on the ground, oh God, somebody help me¡¯ which haunted your dreams forever after, regardless of whether it was your friend that shrieked or a baddie you just shot in the gut.


    He heard a mixture of all three types, and then some. He almost shouted back, on sheer empathic reflex, but his training kicked in and he held his teeth shut. Whatever was going on there, bringing attention to himself would do him no good. And there was no benefit in calling his men back, since the danger was almost certainly between them and him.


    He loaded another javelin, and quickly stalked in the direction where Ned¡¯s team was supposed to be. The rising smoke suggested that Pete and his men already started the fires, so at the very least they had a buffer between them and whatever lurked in the grass.


    Halfway there, he heard a whistle, and cracked a thin smile. A while ago he established a rule, that they were to signal their position to each other by whistling a simple tune, a sound that no other animal made, and that at least indicated they were not running in mindless panic.


    He whistled back and crept towards the sound. He saw Ned crouched in the grass, spear up, with five men forming a small circle, their backs pressed against each other. There was blood on the ground.


    ¡°What happened?¡±


    ¡°Something come. Take Dev.¡± Ned said matter of factly, his face impassive as ever. Dev was the youngest of them, a bright-eyed boy from Delhi who joined their hunting party at Vikram¡¯s suggestion.


    ¡°Not something! Someone!¡± Another man,  a hairy Latino guy, who¡¯s name he kept forgetting, mouthed through clenched teeth. ¡°It was human! Traitors! Fucking Pete and his team. They want to kill us, so there are fewer mouths to feed.¡±


    Ned smacked the man up the head, hard enough to rattle teeth. ¡°Shut up Jorge. Stupid idiot. This is not true. Pete is good man.¡±


    ¡°I''m serious!¡± Jorge would not give up. ¡°I saw it myself. Dev was right behind me, and someone grabbed him! I saw a human hand! And they cut him!¡±


    Ned was about to smack the man again, but a look from Hashk¨¦ stopped him.


    ¡°It was a human, guys, but not one of ours. I just found a spearhead that sure as hell ain''t one we made. We got hostiles, bipedal ones.¡± Hashk¨¦ got up, and patted Ned on the back. ¡°We¡¯re movin¡¯. Full hedgehog boys, and follow me.¡±


    ¡°We go, find Dev?¡± Ned asked, probably more to the benefit of the rest of the boys than his own. He knew the truth.


    ¡°We¡¯re going to rendezvous with Pete, and only then search for Dev.¡± Hashk¨¦ lied. He knew that whatever, or rather, whoever grabbed the boy, had no reason to keep him alive. But the boys needed to believe they had each other¡¯s back and that he would not abandon one of them, or they would end up running for their lives in mindless despair.


    They set forth, ignoring the animal trail and cutting straight towards the distant wisps of smoke from the fires Pete¡¯s group set. Ned took the point, whacking the tall grass in front of him to make a path. The rest followed him, bunched up. Hashk¨¦ followed last, loaded atlatl in one hand, and Dev¡¯s spear in the other.


    He left enough of a distance between him and the rest of the group that whoever stalked them would go for him first.


    If they did, they would be briefly, and terminally surprised. He was not a powerful-looking man. Barely average height, and more sinew than muscle. The boyish face did not help making him look intimidating.  All the same, this was the face that a lot of men saw only a glimpse of, before their vision permanently faded to black.


    They had not traveled halfway, when they heard a noise of something crashing through the grasses. Hashk¨¦ could see the tops of the stalks swaying as something ran at them, then veered past them.


    ¡°No!¡±  he shouted, seeing Ned and two other men raise their spears to throw them at the incoming unknown. A face flashed through the stalks, mouth agape, eyes rolling white with fear.


    ¡°Stay!¡± he gestured at them and chased after the apparition. He caught the man in about forty steps.


    ¡°¡±Stop-¡± he tried to shout, but the man suddenly turned around and stabbed a spear at him, shrieking hoarsely. He batted the spear point away, slammed into the man, and kneeled him in the stomach. Not hard enough to hurt, but enough to take the wind out of him.


    It stopped the noise, but Hashk¨¦ muffled the man¡¯s mouth just in case.


    ¡°Shut the fuck up, Lee.¡± He held him down, and looked back to where Lee came from. ¡°Something¡­ someone chased you?¡±


    Lee nodded, shaking. Only now Hashk¨¦ saw that the man was covered in bright, pinkish blood, but not wounded in any apparent way. Whatever happened back there, must have put him next to someone else¡¯s ruptured artery.


    ¡°Get up. Spear up. Follow me.¡± Lee rose, leaning on him as if drunk. Adrenaline crash.


    ¡°Hashk¨¦!¡± there was a shout from Ned¡¯s group. ¡°Someone¡¯s in there! They need help!¡±


    He ran towards the group, towing stupefied Lee.


    ¡°Hold your ground! Fuck!¡± He reached them just in time to see two of his men break away from the rest and run into the grass towards some indistinct sounds of distress. ¡°Get back you idiots! Ned! Stop them!¡±


    ¡°Someone need help!¡± Ned gestured where the men ran. ¡°Listen!¡±


    Hashk¨¦ paused and focused. There was a distant, muffled sound of moaning, as if someone in great pain was wailing for help, reduced to just agonized vowels.


    ¡°Eeell! Eeeeeellhh! Ashhhh eeeeh! Aaasheeeeh!¡± Someone was calling for help. Calling his name!


    He did not dare to move a muscle, and squashed every instinct to run towards the call. Something was terribly, terribly not right about this. Each and every body hair he had stood on end, as if he touched a live wire. His conscious human mind was telling him to run after his friends. His infinitely wiser mammalian brain threw all possible alarms instead, welding his feet in place and filling his bowels with ice.


    ¡°This is a fucking trap. On me.¡± He crept forward, tense like a coiled spring. The remaining men hugged his back, holding their spears with trembling hands. Lee had not stopped gibbering under his breath, his sounds of panic infinitely more human sounding that the eerie cry for help they moved towards.


    "Eeeellllhhh! Ashhhh ehhh!" the creepy call sounded again, seemingly directionless. They walked only several dozen steps before they stepped onto a patch of crushed grass coated in crimson. The men who chased into the grass right before them vanished, leaving only red smears, as if something smashed into them and dragged them away.


    The inhuman wailing stopped, filling the air with oppressive silence. They held their breaths. Even Lee shut up and tensed, his fingernails digging into Hashke''s shoulder.


    Hashk¨¦ almost managed to react in time.


    A sudden blur burst from the wall of stalks, slamming into them like a wrecking ball. All of them toppled like bowling pins. He turned a tumble into a shoulder roll, and rose again, atlatl raised.


    He froze, his shocked conscious mind for once overriding his combat instincts. A brutal-looking, muscular¡­ thing stood among the bowled-over bodies. It held its massive foot on Lee''s neck, and held another man skewered on a spear, the stone head going straight through the man''s sternum and back, the severed spine sticking out between the shoulder blades. The thing looked at Hashke, cocked its head like a dog, and cooed softly. It almost sounded like a nonchalant, singalong question, as if the monster was confused with his combative stance. As if all of this was just an amusing misunderstanding.


    This time he did manage to react in time.


    Not fooled by the distraction, he whipped his entire body sideways, twisting at the hip, and shot the atlatl forward with as much force as his entire body could generate. A five-foot-long javelin, fire-hardened and tipped with a shard of chert, flew true. Only as his eyes aligned with his subconscious reaction, did he see the other creature that crept towards him with a stone axe raised. This creature now sported a wooden shaft going through its chest. It croaked, coughed, did a few drunk steps sideways and toppled onto the ground.


    Nobody moved for three heartbeats. Then the first monster roared in rage, a deep, rumbling sound that shook his intestines, and flung the dead man at him. The body somersaulted through the air and nearly hit him, forcing him to duck. Which was a blessing in disguise, the move allowed him to see two more creatures stalking toward his men.


    "Run!" he shouted. The men shook off their stupor and burst forward. All except for Lee, being stomped into the ground, and Ned, the unshakably stoic, brave Frenchman who leaped at the creature and stabbed a spear into its massive shoulder. It screamed again, in annoyance more than pain, and slugged Ned with a wild haymaker that cracked the man''s elbow, leaving the arm to hang limply.


    Hashke frantically searched the ground for the two remaining javelins he lost tumbling.


    He found one, but it was too close for a throw. Grabbing the javelin like a spear, he lunged at the monster, aiming at its throat. It slammed his weapon aside, and tried to envelop him in a bear hug that he knew would be just as deadly as if a real bear caught him.


    Lee, the half-choked, terrified coward, chose that moment to find his courage. Weaponless, he could not possibly injure the monster''s powerful legs, but there was an easier target in his reach.  To Hashke''s amazement, Lee reared up and slammed a fist into the monster''s loincloth-clad crotch.


    The ape-man fell to its knees with a gasp, but almost immediately sought revenge, grabbing Lee''s head in a two-handed grip and wrenching it sideways with a wet snap.


    Hashke wasted not a single breath mourning his killed friend, but opted for instant vengeance, ramming the tip of the javelin into the monster''s neck.


    "Ned, go!" he pulled the man up. "I''m right behind you!"


    Two more ape-things were almost upon them. Without thinking, he raised the empty spear thrower and whipped it at the coming creatures with a roar of his own. They immediately ducked to the ground, wisened up to the deadliness of his weapon, but not knowing it was unloaded.


    He tore the javelin out of the throat of the kneeling ape-man and chased after Ned.