Mists of Dawn (25 page)

Mark
staggered
forward,
and
fell
toward
the
fire. But
one
of
the
half-men
caught
him
and
jerked
him back.
The
things
grunted
at
each
other
and
Mark
felt himself
seized
and
shoved
up
a
narrow
trail
inside
the cave.
He
was
thrown
into
a
dank,
wet
cavern
and
collapsed
on
the
rocks.
Faintly,
he
was
aware
of
the
half-men
shoving
a
great
boulder
across
the
small
cavern entrance,
cutting
off
the
light.

Mark
was
sealed
in.
Cold
and
hungry,
he
gasped
for breath
on
the
wet
floor
of
the
cavern.
He
knew
with cold
certainty
what
had
happened
to
him.
Those
half-men
were
unmistakable.

He
was
in
the
hands
of
the
Neanderthals.

That
was
all.
Mark
could
stand
no
more.
A
white pain
lanced
along
his
nerves,
up
through
his
chest,
and exploded
with
a
cloudy
puff
in
his
brain.
With
a
hopeless
gasp,
he
lost
consciousness.

When
Mark
came
back
to
awareness
again,
he
lay
very
still
and
looked
at
the
damp
rocks
before
his
eyes.
He
felt
a
little
better
and
his
mind
was
cool
and
clear.
He
did
not
bother
to
pinch
himself,
for he
knew
all
too
well
that
what
had
happened
to
him was
no
dream.

He
was
lucky
to
be
alive;
he
had
not
really
expected to
wake
up
again,
ever.
He
wasted
no
time
on
idle
regrets,
but
went
right
to
work
analyzing
the
situation. As
long
as
life
was
left
in
him,
he
would
go
on
trying. That
was
what
it
meant
to
be
a
man.

First
of
all,
what
kind
of
shape
was
he
in?
Mark
got gingerly
to
his
feet
and
braced
himself
against
the
wall of
the
little
cavern
until
the
dizziness
passed.
He
was very
weak,
but
his
hunger
had
subsided
to
a
dull
ache. His
mouth
was
dry
and
he
was
thirsty.
His
throat
was beginning
to
be
sore,
but
by
some
miracle
he
had
no fever
as
yet.
He
knew
that
if
he
came
down
with pneumonia
he
was
through,
and
he
had
no
way
to
take care
of
himself.
Why
was
it,
he
wondered,
that
in books
of
fiction
the
hero
never
seemed
to
be
troubled with
colds
or
illness,
but
felt
wonderful
all
the
time, 
even
after
a
rifle
bullet
through
the
chest?
He
smiled ruefully.
It
was
different
when
you
were
real.

Mark
moved
silently
through
the
gloom
to
the mouth
of
the
sealed
cavern.
The
big
boulder
did
not fit
flush
with
the
sides
of
the
cave
opening,
and
he could
see
through
the
cracks.
He
looked
out
into
the big
cave
of
the
Neanderthals
and
examined
the
entrance
to
their
cavern.
The
light
outside
was
gray,
and he
judged
that
it
must
be
getting
on
toward
evening. He
had
slept
some
twelve
hours,
then.

What
could
he
do?
He
tried
to
move
the
boulder, but
it
did
not
budge.
He
did
not
waste
his
remaining strength,
but
stretched
out
again
on
the
floor
of
the cave.
There
was
a
little
moisture
oozing
out
of
the dank
rocks,
and
Mark
licked
at
it
with
his
tongue
to relieve
the
parched
dryness
in
his
mouth.
Then
he glued
his
eyes
to
the
crack
in
the
rock
and
determined to
learn
what
he
could,
in
the
hope
that
some
method of
escape
would
present
itself
to
him.
He
told
himself that
he
was
certainly
smarter
than
his
captors,
and
he still
had
his
.45,
and
thus
he
bolstered
his
courage.

Mark
counted
twenty
Neanderthals
in
the
cave, many
of
them
women
and
children.
They
were grouped
around
a
central
fire.
At
first,
they
seemed
to be
simply
a
pack
of
savages,
moving
around
without aim
or
purpose.
But
as
Mark
watched
he
began
to
detect
certain
patterns
that
brought
some
semblance
of order
out
of
the
seeming
chaos.

The
Neanderthals
were
still
hideously
ugly,
even startlingly
so,
but
they
were
somehow
less
revolting to
Mark
than
they
had
been
the
night
before.
Perhaps it
was
because
he
was
more
used
to
them
now,
or possibly
it
was
due
to
the
fact
that
he
had
had
some sleep
and
his
jangled
nerves
were
more
settled.
Probably
though,
Mark
reasoned,
it
was
due
to
their
actions.
For
all
their
grotesque
appearance,
they
were doing
things
that
were
unmistakably
human.

Several
of
the
Neanderthal
women
were
engaged
in building
up
the
fire,
taking
dead
branches,
ferns,
and moss
from
a
pile
in
one
corner
of
the
cave
and
piling it
on
the
crackling
blaze.
The
little
children,
for
all their
ghastly
looks,
were
almost
comic
as
they
tottered around
after
their
elders,
trying
to
drag
branches
to the
fire.
Mark
spotted
another
woman
scraping
the flesh
from
a
bison
hide
with
a
sharp
stone
scraper.
The scraper
was
very
crude
and
seemed
to
be
too
large
for its
purpose,
but
it
was
getting
the
job
done.

There
were
no
animals
of
any
sort
around.
At
the mouth
of
the
cave,
a
Neanderthal
man,
who
might
have been
a
lookout,
squatted
on
his
haunches,
flaking
a chunk
of
rock
with
a
hammerstone.
By
his
side
lay
a short
wooden
spear
tipped
with
a
stone
spearhead.