IN NATURA: a science fiction novel (ARZAT SERIES Book 2) (22 page)

  “Jesus, Ara!” Tom said aloud, startled by the suddenness of her movement.

  Maria appeared to be equally as shocked by Ara’s leap. She glanced at Tom, water running through her cupped hands.

  “Sorry Tom,” Ara said from across the water, carefully looking at the indentations she had just discovered. “I forget that you humans are not used to the natural movement of Arzats. The wind shifted and I suddenly caught a new scent . . . a number of them actually.”

  “Alex?” Tom asked hopefully, still amazed by the Arzat’s amazingly long jump.

  Ara continued to look at the marks in the sand. “Humans, many of them, riding on the backs of horses.”

  “Horses?”

  That’s interesting,
thought Tom, unconsciously glancing back at Maria.

  “Anything else?”

  Ara took a few steps, still concentrating on the ground. She squatted and placed her hand over another indentation. “Yes, Tom Pilot. There is the unmistakable mark of another Arzat. It is that of Mot, son of Url!”

  Tom could hear the ring of happiness emanating from Ara. He watched as she rose and once again leapt back across the creek in a single bound, landing just short enough of the water’s edge to splash Tom in the process.

  “Are you ready to go?” she asked.

  “Jesus, Ara, will you stop doing that,” Tom said, almost laughing, wiping some water from his face. He looked at Ara’s eyes, which were shining.

  “Sometime, Tom Pilot, you really must tell me about this ‘Jesus-thing’ you refer to so often.”

CHAPTER 31

ABRAHAM

Abraham carefully eased his horse down a narrow trail that ran along the steep canyon wall. He let loose of his reins, giving the well-trained beast its head, knowing the animal could find its own way.

  Next to his daughter, there was probably nothing he loved more than the animal he was perched on. He had captured it himself from the midst of a wild herd when it was still in its first season, and he had personally trained and cared for it since. That had been five seasons ago and now the young male had blossomed into one of the finest studs in the tribe.

  He called him Socrates
after something he had seen in one of the sacred texts that—as tribal leader—he was personally charged with protecting. There were only a few of the faded and fragile books
left. They were stored in a mysterious container that was made of some kind of impervious hard material the ancients had invented before the end of their world. Highly prized as sacred objects and entrusted to the leader of the tribe from generation to generation—these books were the only tangible link to the ancestors of the Great Emergence.

  Abraham could only guess if what he called his animal
was how the word
Socrates
might have actually been pronounced. The art of actually interpreting the symbols contained within the pages of the texts had gradually been lost over the course of many generations. In fact, the current spoken language seemed to have little or nothing to do with them.

  When Abraham was very young, a tribal Elder had taught him how to read some of the symbols and what was known of their actual pronunciations, but Abraham had been much more interested in learning the ways of hunting, combat, and survival to pay much attention to the lessons. Since then, he had grown into a man, too busy surviving and learning the ways of leadership to spend much time practicing what the Elder had taught him. He had always resolved to eventually get down to more study of the ancient words, but that opportunity never seemed to come. In the meantime, the history of their great
Colorado
tribe was well enough preserved by the storytellers and the images that were carefully drawn into the leather of their tents.

  Perhaps when I have a son,
he had often thought.
Perhaps we will study together and finally unlock the secrets of the mysterious symbols. Perhaps we can learn to mark down our actual thoughts as the ancients had obviously done.
But that time had also never come. His mate died shortly after the delivery of his first and only child, which unfortunately had been a female. He had named her Maria.

  Since then, besides his responsibilities as tribal leader, his sole focus had been on raising his daughter. In fact, those two preoccupations had even caused him to spurn the many advances that had been made from other eligible females in the tribe who were eager to become his mate. Given the communal nature of the tribe, the women had been mostly responsible for Maria’s initial upbringing anyway, but Abraham had never found one among them to match the mate he had lost.

  In addition to allowing the females to educate Maria in the ways of the females, Abraham had taught his daughter everything he knew about hunting and foraging. By the time of her thirteenth season, she was as skilled with a bow and spear as any young male in the tribe and even more competent than most of them on a horse.
Pity she hadn’t been born a male,
he had often thought. But for that, she had all the makings of a fine tribal leader.

  As her natural beauty had begun to emerge, Abraham had begun to shudder at the sudden interest of the young males in the tribe. He held them off as long as he could, but when Maria had reached her fifteenth year, even he knew it was time for her to accept a mate. Much to his chagrin, she chose a warrior named Armando, one of Abraham’s least favorite possibilities. It wasn’t that Armando was bad—it was just that there were much better options in his opinion. For a while, Abraham tried to encourage Maria to pursue Moses—his favorite tracker. Moses had much greater skills and more common sense. Armando was still young and foolish and sometimes irreverent and unpredictable. Ultimately, Abraham had capitulated to his daughter’s wishes.

  When, in early spring, Armando had approached Abraham and told him of his plan to venture away from the tribe, Abraham wasn’t completely surprised. The tribe had not done well through the winter and there had been much sickness and hunger. Nonetheless, Abraham had strongly advised against such a move and had considered that Armando would abide by his wishes—especially when he had fully described the dangers and forbidden him from taking any of the tribe’s horses.

  Despite Abraham’s counsel and misgivings, Armando had gathered Maria and a small group of like-minded young adults and children and had left the camp early one morning. Since Armando had officially taken Maria as a mate, there was little that he could say even as tribal chief. As a matter of tradition and tribal law, Maria and her future had become Armando’s sole responsibility the moment they had wed. And, as he had demanded, Armando and the other males in his band had left their horses behind and set out on foot, although even Abraham was well aware that the men would have been perfectly within their rights to take their own mounts with them. He knew that Maria would have only gone if she thought they could do better away from the tribe.
When they realize their mistake, they will be back,
he had thought.

  But not long after Maria had left, one of his warriors had spotted a group of the lizard men from afar, hunting in the same area that the tribe often hunted. This was highly unusual. In fact, any encounter with the lizards was so infrequent that their actual existence was still regarded more as myth than actual fact. Nonetheless, Abraham’s gut had instantly told him to go after his daughter, and he had quickly assembled a group of warriors to go looking for her and the rest of her party.

  He had been tracking Maria’s group for almost a week when he had stumbled upon the brutal massacre. His tracker Moses had assured him just the day before that they were close to finding Maria, and he had been right. Unfortunately, they had also been too late.

  When he and his men had finally come upon his daughter’s camp, Abraham dismounted Socrates and puked his guts into the tall grass. It was clear that the wolves been there, but that wasn’t what had killed his daughter and her small group. The marks in the trees and the scattered tracks of the lizards told a gruesome story. There were human body parts scattered everywhere.

  He tasked his warriors with carefully combing through the remains of the dead, trying to determine exactly who had been killed. The job was difficult, made more so by the obvious scavenging of wolves and the rapid decomposition of what little was left of the bodies. The stench of the decay was almost too much to bear. Eventually, his men had accounted for all but one of Maria’s original group, but exactly who was missing was impossible to tell. Many of the faces had been mauled beyond recognition.

  Perhaps they took a hostage,
thought Abraham hopefully.
Perhaps it had been Maria.
It was also quite possible that the wolves or some other scavenger had simply carried off the head of one of the victims, which would account for the discrepancy. Even if one had survived the attack, the likelihood of it being Maria was remote at best.

  “Shall we bury them?” asked Moses.

  Abraham was bent over, studying the marks of the lizards, his blood boiling.

  “No, Moses, there is no time. We are going after them. They might have one of our people.”

  Moses knew better than to argue with Abraham. He would have liked to have buried or burned what was left of the victims, but his blood was boiling as well, and he was just as anxious to find the culprits and render justice.

* * *

The warriors mounted up and rode hard through the night, almost to the point of endangering the health of their prized horses
,
but Moses had been brilliant at tracking the beasts. At one point, Moses had been so confident about the lizard’s direction of travel that he had convinced Abraham to take a difficult and dangerous shortcut so they could possibly intercept them.

  His strategy paid off. Moses had not only found the lizards, he had led Abraham’s warriors ahead of them to the cliffs where they could be ambushed. The warriors had left their horses, prepared their weapons, and had quietly waited. That the lizards had chosen to rest just below their hiding place had been nothing more than pure luck.

  Now, as Abraham rode down into the small valley, he began to appraise the slaughter. He dismounted, carefully observing one of the dead lizards. This was the first time he had ever had the opportunity to see one up close.

  In a sense, they almost look to be human,
he thought, amazed at the beast’s physical similarities to his own. But the lizards were much larger. Bigger by far than any man he had ever seen.
A snake in a human’s body,
he thought.

  The other warriors had also made their way down from the cliffs and were similarly engaged in studying the giant reptilians and the pile of skinless human bodies nearby. One of the younger warriors lifted a lizard’s spear. He looked at it for a moment in wonder, screamed a war cry, and then brutally thrust the spear several times into the lizard’s corpse.

  At the edge of the canyon, Abraham could see Moses bent over, carefully looking at the ground. “What is it, Moses?”

  At first, his tracker said nothing, continuing to study the earth, moving ahead a few paces at a time. Finally, he rose up and looked at Abraham.

“One of the lizards has survived.”

CHAPTER 32

DOCTOR MOSS

Alex was still trying to recover from the violent confrontation she had just witnessed. In the dim morning light, she looked over at the enormous cat, which was no longer moving but still bleeding out from the sizable hole in its throat. Its golden eyes were open and staring into space. Except for the nonelliptical pupil, Alex concluded that they were strikingly similar to Ara’s.

  The Arzat was standing over his kill, his own crimson eyes shining with both triumph and pain. Alex could see that he had a large gash in his left shoulder, undoubtedly rendered by one of the cat’s large claws. The wound was bleeding profusely. The blood had run to the black tips of his fingers and was dripping onto the ground. He hardly seemed to notice, his eyes still fixed on the cat.

  “Well,” Alex said telepathically, rising up, “we should probably try to do something about that wound.”

  Za’at blinked, his reverie broken, and unconsciously looked down at his left hand. He wasn’t sure if he was more in shock from the unexpected and viscous battle with the
koota
or the fact that the
uman
female had just clearly spoken to him again.

  So you can speak, little uman,
he thought.
Why, it’s just as though she were an Arzat!

  “Yes,” Alex replied, reading his open mind. She approached him and gently lifted her hand, as if asking permission to examine the wound.

  Za’at didn’t move. His mind was spinning.
The umans are just
animals
, his head kept screaming! Yes, they have weapons and clothes, and yes they are known to have their own language, but they are certainly not civilized! The Elders have always said . . .

  And fire. Don’t forget about fire big boy. That is something even your great ancestors were never able to master,
Alex thought, blocking
.

  She gently probed. The wound appeared to be about four inches long and an inch or so deep. “This must hurt like hell,” she said, standing on her toes to get a clear view. She slipped and the big Arzat flinched. “Sorry,” Alex said.

 
How does this little smooth-skin know such things?
Za’at suddenly felt light headed and confused.

  “Why don’t you have a seat so I can get a good look at this and we can talk a bit,” the strange female said to him not as a question but as a command.

  For some reason, Alex was no longer afraid. While the damage to the Arzat’s shoulder was probably not life threatening, he was going to need her help.
Hell,
she thought—suddenly remembering she had just essentially reentered the Stone Age—
maybe this wound
is
life threatening.
As she studied it, she began to think of the implications.

  Za’at sat down on one of the boulders near the fire pit and was finally able to clear his mind enough to take a sideways look at his shoulder. What he saw horrified him. He had personally watched many an Arzat eventually die from such a wound. Of course, the Healers would do what they could, mostly uttering incomprehensible appeals on behalf of the victim to the Great Creator while spreading ineffective salves and waiving their hands. But, eventually, in Za’at’s experience, this type of wound could easily fester and get worse over time. Then, when the pain became unbearable and it became apparent there really was no hope for healing, the Elders would make a decision, and the Arzat in question would be helped into the Great Void whether he liked it or not.

  He reached over and touched the deep laceration with his right hand, trying to pinch his scaly skin back together, but when he released it, the wound simply opened again and continued to bleed.

  “Can I have a closer look?” Alex asked, gently pushing the Arzat’s hand aside.

  Za’at turned his attention back to the female, his mind still whirling with the implications of his injury and the sudden revelation of her ability to telepath.
Nothing about this hunting expedition has gone right,
he thought.
I should have listened to the Elders. I should never have attacked the
umans
. I should never have returned for this female. Ack dead? Fire? Hah, what is the point of it now? I should kill this female and kill myself for my stupidity! Za’at, the Great Hunter, son of Qua. How disappointed he would be,
Za’at lamented, thinking of his own dead father who had died from a similar wound.

  “You’re god damned right you shouldn’t have attacked those humans,” Alex said, slowly approaching again, her eyes on his injury. “And, you shouldn’t have kidnapped me! Hell, I’m not even the woman you were looking for.”

  Alex had read Za’at’s thoughts, which for some reason he continued to fail to block. She had been able to reach into his mind enough to see the recent turn of events and even to vaguely see the original female the Arzats had spared. The woman looked nothing like her. Not even close.

  Hell, I’m getting pretty good at this,
Alex continued to think as she probed his mind, still blocking her own thoughts from the Arzat as Ara had taught her.

  “And, as far as killing me, you might want to rethink that, at least until we are able to do something about this wound.”

  Za’at watched as the tiny
uman
once again placed her hands on him. He was not only in shock from the wound but also from the incessant chatter now effortlessly emanating from the little female.
How did she know of these things? Was she reading . . .? Of course! She could not only speak with her mind but also read his!

  “I will if you don’t block,” Alex continued, still gently probing both his mind and his wound.

  Time to take charge or die Alex.

  Eventually, she sat back and looked at the Arzat directly. “Now, I think it’s about high time to formally introduce myself. I am Alex, daughter of the Great Hunter Simon. Who are
you
?”

  Za’at looked directly into the female’s eyes, semi-roused out of his stupor by the direct and formal question.  “I . . . I . . . I am Za’at, son of Qua,” he stammered.
How did this uman know about the formalities of an Arzat introduction?
Za’at’s mind continued to spin.

  “Well, Za’at, son of Qua, it looks to me like you need some stitches to close up that wound, but . . .” she said, glancing around the area, “I don’t see anything like a first aid kit around here.”

  Actually, Alex had been trying to think of a way she might suture the deep cut using something natural, but nothing was presenting itself. The Arzat’s arm was still bleeding profusely, but fortunately the blood didn’t seem to be coming from a major vein or artery. She noted that there were still some embers glowing deep within the remnants of their fire and a thought did occur to her that she was not very excited about.

  “What are ‘stitches’?” Za’at asked.

  “It’s a long story,” replied Alex, still looking around, trying to devise a better plan than the only one she had so far come up with. Alex pulled the shirttail from her waist and ripped off a piece of it, wadded it up and placed it over the wound. “Here, hold this, Za’at, son of Qua. It should help stop some of the bleeding. There, keep some pressure on it,” she said, holding her tiny hand over the top of his enormous one.

  If only I had my backpack,
Alex thought, lamenting the fact that she had lost everything when they ran from the collapsing stairs in the ARC—including the first aid kit. It was becoming increasingly clear to her that virtually everything they would need for survival would have to be found or made from scratch. Perhaps, were they ever to find another ARC or miraculously dig their way back into the Utah site, that situation might change. For now, Alex realized, she was truly back in the Stone Age.

  She thought about Tom, Mot, and Ara, and hoped that they were well on their way to finding her. Maybe the fact that she and the Arzat had stopped for the night would help. She knew that they had covered a lot of ground, but she also knew Mot and Ara were capable of the same. Tom was the wildcard. What would they have done to speed him along?

  One thing Alex knew for sure, if this big Arzat before her had any of the same cultural beliefs that Mot and Ara had, saving him would mean that he would owe her—big time! At least one life—one “get out of jail free card”—that she imagined she was certainly going to need. She doubted if he would ever voluntarily let her go. What she had seen in his mind had pretty much told her that. But, at least maybe he wouldn’t kill her. And maybe, if and when the time came . . .

  “Let’s see if that helped,” she said, gently reaching for the bloody piece of cloth. The Arzat allowed her to lift it, but the moment she did, blood flowed again. She pressed the material back into place and once again put the Arzat’s right hand over it. She then looked into the Arzat’s eyes.

  “You are not the female,” Za’at said, staring back.

  “I beg your pardon?” Alex said, not able to resist. She knew exactly what he meant.

  “You are not the female who killed my brother.”

  “No, Za'at, son of Qua, I am not.”

  “Then, where did you come from?”

  “Well, that, my friend, is another very long story. Let’s just say that I am not from this . . . area.”

  Be careful Alex. Don’t get cocky,
she could hear her father’s voice.

  “Are you alone?” Za’at’s eyes narrowed. “Were you alone?”

  What to answer, Alex thought, her mind struggling to block. She listened for more of her father’s advice, but he was silent on the subject. She finally decided that lying was not her forte.

  “I have . . . friends. They are probably looking for me now.”

  She watched as the Arzat’s eyes quickly scanned the area. He unconsciously sniffed the air and flicked.

  “You
umans
suddenly seem to be everywhere. I have lived here all of my life and have rarely seen even one until recently. Now . . .” Za’at stopped, his eyes narrowing again. He looked around. Qu’aa was shining his light through the trees and the morning was quickly passing. “We need to go,” he said, beginning to rise. As he did, he suddenly felt lightheaded and sat back down.

  “Listen, Za’at, son of Qua. We need to stop your bleeding or we aren’t going anywhere. You might die right here if we don’t do something about that wound.”

  Za’at looked back at the
uman
, knowing that she spoke the truth. His blood was still flowing.
Perhaps it is better this way.
He glanced at the fire.
Perhaps if I spare the female, she will commit to burning my remains.

  “We don’t need to go there yet,” Alex said, still reading the Arzat’s mind. “I think I can stop the bleeding, but the method is not pleasant. I tried to think of another way but . . .”

  Cauterization! That is the only way,
she thought.

  Alex glanced back at the fire, which needed fuel or it was about to die completely. She got up and began to throw pieces of dry wood into the remaining hot spot. The Arzat did nothing but watch.

  It is the only way,
she said to herself, as she stoked the fire. Cauterization had been used for centuries before antibiotics, but the “cure” was sometimes as bad as the injury. She knew she would have to be very careful not to make the Arzat’s situation worse.

  “We need to burn the wound, Za’at, and hope it stops the bleeding. It is quite painful, but my people have used the method for ages.”

  Alex found a long piece of wood and placed it in the fire, which was starting to show flames again.

  Za’at looked at his injury. The cloth that the female had given him was now so soaked with his blood that it was completely failing to stop the flow down his left arm. He looked up at the mountain and weighed his options. They were close to the caves, just three or four torches at a normal pace. But with his injury and the female, Za’at realized it might take all day to reach them—
if
they reached them. He could feel his strength beginning to fail, running down his arm in the form of his own red blood. It was a strange and very unpleasant sensation. Something needed to be done.

  “All right, little
uman,
Alex
.
I will take your remedy and pray to the Great Creator that it works. You should pray too, for without me, you will not survive out here for more than a moment.” Za’at looked at Alex and then to the dead beast that was lying in a pool of its own blood to make his point.

  What a trophy you would be
, he thought, examining the
koota’s
large head,
if I only had the strength to bring you home.

  Alex eyeballed the big cat as well. The Arzat was completely right. There was probably no way she could return on her own to find Tom, Mot, and Ara—and make it there alive. Especially not if there were more of these huge felines prowling around. Tom was right. Who knew what other meat-loving critters were out there lurking in the woods. And humans? Other humans? She hadn’t had a moment yet to kick that huge revelation around.