John Smith, World Jumper
Book One: Portal to Adventure
Copyright 2012
E. Patrick Dorris
Published by Smashwords
Chapter One
The world you know is but one of many. I do not mean this in the sense that astronomers are beginning to discuss; distant worlds around far away stars, possibly like our own or possibly not. The worlds I speak of are, how shall I put it, duplicates. Some of these realities seem closely intertwined, some only slightly similar to the Earth you know. But all are nearby, separated only by the differences between them.
The only way I can think of to describe these “Earths” is that they are like looking into a mirror, except that what you see is not a reflection, but another world. Add to that the myriad of depth visible, each scene behind the last, when you hold two mirrors facing each other, and you may be able to grasp the number of other worlds I am speaking.
I am neither a scientist, nor an engineer by trade, so if my description here or elsewhere is remiss in any empirical manner from reality the fault is mine alone. I can only describe what my senses tell me, or what those more learned than I have attempted to clarify for me.
How then do I speak of such things even in my limited manner? I speak from experience. I do not yet know how or why I have been given the ability, but I can and have made the transition between worlds on several occasions. What follows is my attempt to record for posterity what I have seen and done so far. Not because I am in any way special for my abilities, but so that someday when the bridge or bridges between worlds become easier to cross, my simple musings might help those in an undertaking of far more significance than my own wanderings.
In any event, the places and events described herein are as I remember them. If my memory is faulty, or fades with time, I offer, now, my humble apologies.
My story begins long ago. As I saw the last of the Great War veterans of this Earth pass on, their names trickling into obscurity, I cannot help but regret that although I was there my name shall not be counted among them.
I am an amnesiac. I do not know who my parents were, or remember anything but bits of my childhood, adolescence, or early adulthood. My limited recollection even after so many years is frustrating, but I have lived so much since my awakening that I cannot complain overmuch.
My military record lists my name as John Smith, a name assigned as an alternative when too many John Doe’s were present at the morgue or in my case, luckily, the hospital. It has been my name, thanks to my Canadian nurse, since June 18th, 1918 when I awoke with no prior memories in a U.S. Military Base Hospital on the outskirts of Paris, France with a bandage wrapped around my head. I learned neither of the battle of Beleau Wood, nor that I had been found wandering that battlefield wounded and naked, for days after.
I am of average height and build, if a little on the athletic side. My brown hair becomes quite unruly if left long, and in keeping with longstanding military traditions I keep it shorn short, and my face clean shaven when practical. For those concerned with such things, my eyes are either blue or gray, depending on the light, or some say, my mood.
That I am in the prime of life is all I can say about my age. I assumed I was in my early 20’s along with most of the other men I served with, but that assumption is quite probably false. In the decades since, I have not apparently aged one day. I remain as hale and hearty as ever, my face unlined by the passage of years.
If this un-aging is somehow linked to my abilities to cross worlds, learn languages remarkably quickly, and heal unnaturally fast, I cannot be sure, but I do think it highly likely. In any event, barring contact with someone who knows my past, the amnesia which blankets my memories stands as the single failure of my body to heal itself, and leaves any conjecture as to my origins and special powers just that.
As to whether I am or was, prior to that long ago day, a soldier by profession I cannot swear, but since my proclivity towards skills related to soldiering seems readily apparent, such an assumption is as likely as any I can think of.
My first personal recollection is of bright lights and a splitting headache. My second is of a pretty but serious-faced nurse gently dabbing, with a cool damp cloth, what little of my forehead was left exposed by the wrap on my head. As she noticed I was awake, she smiled gently but with a hint of something in her eyes. Was it recognition? Something did seem vaguely familiar about her, but at the time I assumed it was merely that she had been tending me for some time while I had been less than coherent. That assumption proved to be incorrect, as I will relate later, but it will suffice for now.
For some reason, over the next several days, various doctors found my case intriguing. My chart read “NN John Smith, service unknown, unit unknown. Diagnosis: Severe cranial trauma with inclusive shrapnel, inoperative, prognosis poor; disassociative shell shock, apparently normal personality.” But from the way I was checked over from head to toe, poked and prodded, had lights flashed into my eyes, there was more to my case than I realized at the time.
When the sixth deceased patient in three days was pushed from the common room where I lay, a doctor came and sat down next to me. To this day I could not for the life of me tell you his name or give you a description of the man, other than that he was rather on the thin side and wore a surgeon’s smock, laundered yet visibly bloodstained. Thankfully he considerately removed his thick operating apron before speaking with me. One of the smells I remember as disconcerting from that time is the coppery blood smell, poorly disguised by an alcohol wash, which seemed to follow those infernal aprons around.
He pretended to read my chart, but I could tell he was merely covering for an unsure bedside manner. After several seconds, he settled for a direct approach “I am afraid we cannot put things off any longer, we need to check your wound and change the dressing. Frankly, you’ve lost a sizeable chunk of your skull. Most of the shrapnel we couldn’t risk removing. It’s a miracle that you haven’t developed a severe infection already, but it could happen at any time, or the shrapnel could shift…”
The doctor was starting to babble, so I interrupted him. “I’ve had worse.” Why I said that, I hadn’t a clue at the time. With what I know now, it makes more sense, but the doctor obviously took it as my attempt at humor. His laugh was strained. “Have you started to remember anything yet? Do you know your name or who your family is? If you take a turn for the worse, we should know whom to notify.”
I thought for a minute, but nothing came of it, only a hazy fog. I shook my head gently. My nurse Lila, I now knew her name to be, wheeled an instrument tray over on a cart with squeaky metal wheels. Her face seemed even more impassive than usual but when she caught me looking at her the smallest of smiles crossed her mouth, and of more import, her eyes. That smile, one she shared on occasion, and seemingly only with me, brought me the first fleeting moments of joy I had known in my, as far as I was concerned, brief existence. Lila had pretty green eyes that were more suited to smiling than the pensive, tired-beyond-her-years look she usually wore. I couldn’t blame her for her normal staid exterior, nor did I envy her for her place in this morbid institution. That slight change in her demeanor meant much to me.
The doctor carefully unwrapped the bandages from my skull. Occasionally I felt Lila’s gentle fingers assisting. Blood had soaked the layers of gauze together and I heard, more than felt, the bandage being cut. After an indeterminate amount of time I felt something bounce off my shoulder and clank to the tile floor. Lila’s sharp inhalation of surprise and the doctor’s more reserved “Oh my,” brought the distinct idea that I was a goner to the forefront of my thoughts.
Several seconds went by, seconds in which I waited for my world to fade into inevitable blackness. When I surprisingly remained conscious I noticed the distinct feeling of fingers probing my scalp, pushing gently on my intact skull. There was no pain.
“Someone must have gotten these charts mixed up,” I heard the doctor exclaim. I raised my head and looked up. Lila shook her head, “No. I was there when they brought him into triage. He had a hole in his skull as big as this,” she held her clenched fist up in an example. The doctor shook his head. Lila continued, becoming exasperated, “You saw the bandages Doctor; they were covered in blood and lymph. No one here mixed up the charts.”
The Doctor raised his voice, “Then how can you explain this?” He tapped on my skull, right in the middle of a large hairless patch, where the hole should have been. Lila shook her head, “I can’t.”
I found myself temporarily ignored as they argued. Bending over, I fished around on the floor until my fingers closed on the object that had fallen, I assumed from my bandages. It was jagged, metallic. I tossed it into the examination tray with a clatter.
Argument forgotten, the Doctor stood, seized the shrapnel, picked up my chart, and strode purposefully out of the room. I turned at a light touch on the side of my head. Lila smiled as her fingers carefully traced the outline of stubbling hairs circling my former wound. Her eyes glistened slightly as she looked at mine, then away, embarrassed at her forwardness. She hesitated briefly before excusing her behavior, saying “I’ve never seen any wound heal this fast. It’s well, some kind of a miracle.”
“Thank you,” I said awkwardly, of a sudden at a loss for words. Apparently I had brought her out of deep introspection. “What?” she asked. “Thank you for your concern.” I added.
She was quiet for a second, looking at the floor. “So many men…boys really, this is their last, I mean, they come here and they die. Or they leave here maimed.” I nodded sympathetically. Lila tucked an unruly strand of auburn hair back up under her nurse’s cap before continuing, “Now you come here… I saw your head. You should be dead with all the others. I’m happy that you made it, really I am, but…”
“But what?” I prodded. Her response, sudden and emotional, surprised me. “All I can think about is that they are going to send you back into that, that meat grinder. I don’t even know you, not from any of the other hundreds of faceless casualties that have come through here.”
I am skilled at numerous things, calmly confident in dealing with many situations. The comforting, much less the understanding, of women is not one of them. If she had not leaned in and placed her head on my chest, I would have said something invariably bumbling in an attempt to reassure her. Instead, I contented myself with silence. I brought my hand up, and it seemed the most natural thing to squeeze her gently to me as she cried softly.
I will not bore you with minutiae concerning the next several days. Despite evidence to the contrary, the examining doctor’s and Lila’s testimony, I was relegated to a ward of suspected malingerers. Somehow, the hospital’s administrative staff found it easier to consider that I was somehow responsible for either substituting myself for a mortally wounded soldier, or falsifying my chart once here, than to consider the seemingly unexplainable medical phenomena surrounding my brief convalescence from what should have been a fatal wound.
The psychiatrist assigned to evaluate me was not convinced of either my guilt or complicity in the matter. I stubbornly refused to exhibit any known or commonly faked symptoms of shell shock, other than the amnesia of my personal history. Although I could not remember any specifics of my own past, I was not ignorant of a significant portion of history in general. Several times during my interviews Doctor Barry would stop me and correct a minor aspect of my narration, always with a puzzled look on his face as if he were correcting some mischievous child who insisted that the sky was green when he knew full well it was not.
The best example I can remember of this was my insistence that of the two Punic wars, Rome had lost the first and soundly trounced Carthage in the second. Doctor Barry calmly corrected me, and his assertion that there had been in fact three wars with Carthage I accepted along with all his other corrections.
Errors in my memory of dry, moldering history however was not what led him to believe I was not suffering from any of the psychological maladies he had heretofore encountered during this war to end all wars. His opinion was formed by my insistence that, although I hadn’t the faintest idea who I was or to which company I was assigned, and indeed whether I was even part of the United States forces, or much less whether I was Army or Marine, that I be allowed to get back in the fight as it were. Once he told me what was known concerning the circumstances and location where I had been injured, I insisted that I be allowed to help, and as soon as possible.
As there was no way anyone was going to make a charge of malingering or desertion stick, the problem became what to do with me. To make matters worse, none of the soldiers or marines who filed through to determine if they recognized any from among the several amnesiacs knew me. Other men were recognized and at least identified, whereas I remained an enigma.
Although my accent clearly marked me as American, my good doctor spent several hours investigating the possibility that I might be of another nationality. That proved to be a dead end as my German was so atrocious that no one who spoke that language could have pretended to be so un-fluent. Although by the end of his questioning, my German had improved somewhat, I still failed all recognition of words not first used by the doctor.
With French, he thought he had hit on a possibility, but while my skill with that language was passable, neither the French-Canadian, nor any of several French physicians or nurses could place my accent. One of the French doctors, a kind elderly gentleman who must have had a much broader set of life experiences than the others, noted that my usage seemed almost archaic, and that some words I frequently inserted into my sentences were completely incomprehensible to him.
In retrospect, this anomaly with languages, and other things recorded in this narrative should have given a clue to my later revealed abilities. The only reason I can give for not noticing or putting the pieces together at the time is quite simply that I wasn’t looking. Frankly, I had other concerns.
But I am wandering too far from anything resembling an interesting story. I am sure that anyone still reading this is more interested in the wondrous places I have seen and the interesting characters, be they fair or foul, that I have encountered. The matter of my enlistment was resolved one day when a squad of US Marines marched smartly into the square, apparently on assignment to retrieve formerly hospitalized Marines recuperated enough and considered fit for duty.
I was able to watch them through the only slightly blurry, multi-paned windows made from leaded glass that lined the hallway where I was encouraged to exercise by Lila who for some reason continued to keep tabs on me even after I was moved from her ward. She would walk with me for a short while when on a break from her normal duties. Although I had little to discuss, I proved an adequate listener and she talked about her hometown and various more pleasant memories to distract her from life in a field hospital.
But I digress from my viewing of the Marines. Being sufficiently impressed with their military bearing I decided then and there to throw my lot in with them. Again, of the details following I do not wish to bore you. Suffice it to say that it was not without effort, and help, that I eventually became “re-assigned” to Company 4-6 4th Marine Expeditionary Force. Despite my acceptance into the unit, and feeling that I fit in there, my newfound occupation and accompanying camaraderie was to be short lived.
Much has been written about this First World War, from a broader and more informed perspective than I can give. I will not dwell on most of my experiences which were similar to those shared by millions of Marines and Soldiers. Two incidents, one of which only later became apparent was an example of my “world jumping” ability, as I have come to call it, suffice to advance my story.
Compared to what some have described as the sheer terror of charging across the crater scarred, muddy front lines, en masse, into machine gun and rifle fire, the “mopping up” operations I participated in with the 4th Marines through the forest of Belleau Wood were vastly different. It would have been peaceful walking through the mostly intact forest, except for the all too common sight and smell of dead men and dead horses, some bloated and stinking.
Broken artillery pieces and other military hardware littered the landscape. Once we came upon the still smoking wreck of a scout plane in a long yet narrow clearing. The canvas had all but burned away from the fuselage and both upper and lower wings. Upon closer inspection the right upper wing was missing except for a few burnt wooden supports and the loosely dangling support cables. Other than the wing damage, the blackened wooden frame was largely intact, as if the pilot had somehow grounded softly. What I imagined, however, as his heroic efforts in bringing his plane down were for naught. His body, horribly burned like the rest of the plane, sat rigid, still in the cockpit.
The gnawing tension of walking through such an environment, and attempting to keep ever vigilant for signs of living enemy, perhaps waiting in ambush, grated on the men in my platoon. I could see it in their faces as they walked carefully, ears listening for any sound of movement, at times hearing real noises, at other times hearing that which was not even there.
We had just crossed a small babbling stream when the first bullet struck Pvt. Hastings, who was walking some six feet in front of me, in the neck with a thunk. I remember thinking it strange that he seemed to fall in slow motion, when I noticed a movement to my left. Turning, I was surprised to see a bullet moving towards me, leaving a blur behind it as it raced towards me. Now it was not moving slowly by any means and I barely managed to throw myself out of the way in time, but the fact remains that one does not see bullets in mid-flight, or “dodge” them. At least that is what my rational mind told me later.
After an unsuccessful search for the sniper, I related my experience to the corporal in my squad who had seen action before. He reassured me that the mind plays tricks with perception and senses in combat, heightening some and dulling others. I thought no more on the matter for some time.
Although we had several engagements with straggling German units in the days that followed, nothing like that first experience happened again until we were en-route, ironically to the very hospital where I had convalesced. It was also, as you shall soon see, the end of my naive belief that the world I inhabited was unique.
Walking single file alongside a roadway, in the narrow strip of solid ground between the muddy vehicle ruts and the drainage ditch, I had the “privilege” of being last in line. This meant that I was tasked, informally, with minding any traffic approaching from behind and being the first to be muddily splashed should I not.
Not desirous of becoming any dirtier than I was already, I took this job seriously, ignoring the friendly banter coming from the front ranks. To my chagrin, as I looked back towards the approaching sound of an engine, I saw what I can only assume was a Ford Model T flatbed approaching at a high rate of speed. Not only was it traveling rapidly, but it was also swerving erratically to avoid potholes in the road and the driver seemed to be paying little attention to any pedestrian traffic. I saw a man on a bicycle, heading in the opposite direction as the truck missed being hit, by the narrowest of margins, and then only by riding into the ditch.
I shouted a warning as the truck careened towards us, making sure everyone heard me and was moving off the roadway before jumping over the ditch myself. As my luck would have it, I stumbled and ended up several steps into a field before I could catch my balance. Turning, I took a step back towards my squad. An embarrassed grin on my face, I heard a telltale clicking sound under my boot and looked reflexively down towards it. I thought briefly that stepping on a wayward land mine was quite an unglamorous way to die.
When nothing happened, I blinked and looked around. The men of my squad who were looking at me seemed stunned with surprise, the look frozen on their faces. I noticed the truck, swerving as if in slow motion. The engine noise was all wrong, deeper somehow, as if someone was playing a 78 speed phonograph record too slowly by holding pressure on the turntable.
Looking down, I saw a discarded sign lying in the grass. “Nice place for a minefield sign,” I remember thinking. For some reason, until I saw that sign, I hadn’t been thinking of the mine under my foot, so caught up was I in the altered sensations I was experiencing. I felt a strange upwards pressure lifting my foot, so I looked down at the ground again and saw a slight but visibly growing bulge in the ground.
I began to inhale sharply in surprise, but found that my breathing was restrained. The air seemed thicker somehow. Suddenly I knew without a doubt that the mine was in the process of exploding. My perception of time was somehow altered, my movement to a lesser extent. I also knew that despite the apparent slowness of the explosion, it would nonetheless tear me apart. It was not a pleasant prospect to consider, as slow as it seemed to be happening. I began to think that my mind was somehow working much faster than usual.
Looking around again, I searched vainly for options as the explosion bulged inexorably outward. With great difficulty I found that I could move a bit faster than the shock wave and lifted my foot out of the way, for the time being at least.
The noise from the truck had all but ceased and looking up I saw that while it was leaning slightly as if into a skid, in the brief time I was willing to devote to sightseeing, I could detect no forward motion in it.
Glancing behind me I noticed something else for the first time. A section of air, the best I can think of to describe it is a concave lens-like shape, some three feet across glowed and hummed faintly. Lens is a bit of a misnomer. While it was generally circular in shape, it actually had no distinct boundaries, instead fading gradually from the center.
I also use the terms glowed and hummed, but neither of those descriptions are really adequate. The perception was not solely visual or auditory, but somehow a combination of the two along with something else. What was that something else? I cannot say with any degree of certainty, but it reminded me of nothing so much as when one’s neck hairs stand on end in response to an unknown fear. Only in this case there was no accompanying fear. The lens or disc was slanted at an angle of approximately forty-five degrees and through it the ground below appeared refracted slightly.
Another distortion, this one behind the first, was higher yet smaller and hung suspended at a different angle. The explosion continued to expand and as my options were uncomfortably limited I took a wild guess and chance. Since I was already leaning off balance, falling in slow motion away from the expanding blast, I jumped as well as I could off of my grounded foot and leaned backwards towards the closer lens, pulling both knees toward my chest.
It was an awkward position, made more awkward by the time I seemed to hang suspended in mid air as I drifted slowly downward towards the lens just ahead of the only slightly more slowly moving explosion. As soon as my back entered the disc, or I must assume when I entered the disc, things became radically different.
It felt as if I were spinning rapidly, end over end. That was disorienting enough, but a rainbow of lights flashed around my eyes, and my ears were washed in a sound that I can only describe as a hum. It was similar to the hum of a vacuum tube warming up, but imagine if you will that sound on many different frequencies simultaneously.
Luckily, I am not prone to motion sickness, or else I would have had a much rougher time of it. I may in fact have blacked out, but I cannot be certain, as distorted as my perceptions were.
For what seemed like several seconds, I was immersed in these sensations. Suddenly the spinning, lights, and sound stopped, only to be replaced by the feeling of falling. This new feeling was, thankfully at least, in one direction. I was somewhat surprised to land on my back, unhurt, legs up in the same position that I had started my fall through the lens. Still dizzy, I managed to open my eyes and lift my head enough to see that I was lying in the middle of a snow covered clearing. Strangely, the sensation of cold took several seconds to register as I struggled to rise.
Failing even in my effort to roll onto my side, I let my head rest, into the snow. Watching the steam of my breath rise into the gray sky, I attempted to gather my faculties. A snorting noise, behind me and above my head, startled me into action. Through some Herculean effort I managed to roll to my right and onto my hands and knees in order to face whatever was approaching.
The effort proved too strenuous in my weakened condition. I briefly caught a glimpse of a large, furry elephant-like creature standing not twenty feet from me with its ears flaring and trunk lifted into the air. Another smaller one stood cautiously behind the first.
Swirling stars rapidly clouded my vision and I sank back to the snow, unable to hold myself up any longer. I was completely spent. My vision faded as darkness engulfed me. I blacked out and knew nothing more.
Chapter Two
I awoke to the sensation of movement, mostly smooth with an occasional bump. I was wrapped, rather snugly, in what proved to be the fur lined pelts of some large animal. The platform on which I rode was slanted and I became gradually aware of a plodding regularity which must have been the footsteps of the beast which dragged me.
Warm and secure, with the sensation of monotonous movement underneath me, I was tired enough yet to drift off into that hazy state of pre-sleep when I felt something cold snake beneath the furs covering my face and quickly pull them off. The frigid air startled me, but as I opened my eyes the sight of a furry trunk, nostrils blowing warm air on my face as it descended, startled me more.
With the realization that I was restrained more tightly than I had thought, and was unable to raise my arms to ward off the enormous proboscis, I lay helplessly while it snuffled over my face. Not normally squeamish, I was nonetheless unable to contain a quite unmanly groan of protest.
Presently the trunk, or more accurately its owner, lost interest in me and as it left my face alone I was able to see more clearly. The trunk lifted and wrapped itself around a small tail which was attached to the beast that pulled me. I realized that my earlier vision of pachyderms had not been a mirage, and that these must be somehow tame. My thought that no theory had ever been advanced concerning the domestication of mammoths was set aside temporarily at least in the face of this quite empirical evidence. I do not know which disturbed me more, the idea of living mammoths, or the idea of tamed mammoths.
The fact that I was no longer in France, or at least not in the France that I had so briefly known, seemed less important to me than learning of where I was currently. Any speculation I began to entertain with my limited knowledge was cut short by a commanding, yet gentle female voice above me. The words were not immediately familiar, but the meaning became clear as my conveyance slowed to a stop. I heard an impact in the snow, followed by the sound of footsteps approaching to one side. Just as I prepared to get a glimpse of my rescuer or captor, of whom I was not certain, the following mammoth became interested in me again, probing again with its trunk. I turned my head in a vain attempt at keeping the thing away from my mouth and nose, sputtering in protest.
Feminine laughter followed, and if I am not mistaken, the beast was allowed to explore my face for a few seconds more before the laughter changed to a clear, “Tut, Tut,” and a mittened hand pulled the trunk from my face. If I was expecting a clear view of whomever it was that stood above me, it was not to be. The cold was apparently a force to be reckoned with, and all I was able to see was a thick leather parka with a fur-lined hood. Narrow slit type eye protection, made from wood or bone covered her eyes and a cloth of some type concealed the rest of her face.
With deft quickness, I was re-wrapped and without delay, we started moving again. The fatigue which had not fully left me returned and I drifted back to sleep again, lulled by the gentle motion of the beasts as they plodded along. How long I slept, I cannot be certain, but when I awoke to a cold breeze on my face it was night. It was moonless and the overcast had cleared, leaving stars brilliantly shining as they do only in the wilderness or the middle of the ocean, far from the light of civilization. I was no longer moving.
The dark shape of the mammoth that had been towing me was still visible above my head, but of the curious one who disturbed my coverings, there was no sign. Neither was there any sign of my rescuer, as I hopefully decided to think of the one who rode the mammoth and seemed to at the least hold no malice towards me.
Feeling more energetic than I had been, and with nothing else to do, I began to work myself free of the furs covering me. Several straps secured me and my fur coverings, to the platform. Wiggling my arms out first, I was able to untie the closest one when things suddenly became more urgent.
The first indication I had that something had become amiss was agitation in the mammoth standing over me. I heard it inhale deeply as it sniffed the air, shuffling its feet anxiously. Redoubling my efforts, I freed the second strap and was able to sit up far enough to loosen the third.
I took a second to look around. Luckily my eyes had adjusted as well as could be expected to the darkness, and I saw several large four legged shapes moving through the darkness. With my legs free I stood, thankful that I still wore my fatigues and boots. However, other than the small knife I wore at my belt, my other equipment including my pack, rifle and other accoutrements was missing. They might have been inches away, but in the darkness I had no hope of finding them by sight.
Thinking rapidly, attempting to formulate some sort of strategy, I felt around the lower end of the fur lined platform which extended several feet further towards the ground. I was heartened to feel the frame outline of my backpack, but of my rifle or ammunition pouch there were no sign.
Much closer than I had expected, I heard a low growl, very canine, yet also distinctly from a large animal. Even as the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end, and not because of the cold, the mammoth decided it was done with waiting and began walking rapidly away. I followed the beast thinking being near such a large animal was preferable to facing unknown attackers alone. At the same time I wondered where the woman rider and other mammoth were.
My predicament seemed truly dire. I am not one to panic, but as other growls became audible in the darkness, interspersed with occasional perplexingly deep and voluminous barks, I must admit to coming close to doing so. Facing a known opponent when armed is one thing, facing an altogether different and unknown threat, when unarmed in the dark, is something else entirely.
What happened next both startled and puzzled me, although I could not tell you which one I experienced first. Over the growling beasts and trumpets of the mammoth came the sharp crack of a rifle. A bolt cycled rapidly, and the rifle cracked again before echoing into silence, muffled by the snow.
Other than the abrupt change to icebound winter and the disconcerting presence of the mammoths, I had no real perspective of how different a place I was truly in, so hearing the rifle shot was not as out of place to me as it should have been given what I saw of this world over the next several days. Hours before I had been in a reality where the sounds of gunfire and other explosions if not commonplace, were at least practically a part of daily life. Nonetheless, some dim part of my awareness realized even then that the sound of rifle discharge was non-sequitur.
Even as footfalls approached through the snow, the large canine creatures retreated. I hesitate to call them wolves because of their sheer size, but that name fits as well as any. Besides, I thought, the dim starlight might be up to its usual tricks with ones imagination.
My weakness of night vision was apparently not shared by my unknown savior. I had always thought myself as adequately equipped as any to see things in dim light, but as the fur clad figure appeared and stood before me, looking me over I felt slightly outclassed. If our positions had been reversed, I would have been forced to take a much more physical approach to examining my rescuee.
The one thing even my eyes could not miss was the large, lumbering shape of another mammoth. It followed behind the fur clad figure, non unlike a two-ton puppy. I chuckled at the thought, but was brought up short by the cold metal of my Springfield, or as my squad leader had called it, “United States Rifle, Caliber .30, Model 1903,” being pushed against my chest at a slight angle from straight up and down. I grabbed it instinctively, and just as instinctively checked the action.
Even as I cycled the bolt, the figure brought up a fur clad arm and pointed towards the departing wolves. “Watch for them,” came the simple instruction, and with it the realization that I was dealing with the same woman who had been escorting me thus far.
That I understood her words should have startled me, but for some reason it did not. What did raise a hint of curiosity in my mind several seconds later was that both her instruction and my response, “I will,” were uttered in what upon reflection proved to be a dialect of the Greek language.
It actually surprised me more that I had understood and responded to her words well before I consciously realized what language she spoke. As she moved to sooth the larger mammoth, which slowed then stopped, I scanned as best I could, the darkness around us. Keeping my focus loose and moving, I fought the urge to attempt focusing on every dark shadow I thought I saw. Instead I concentrated on looking for movement.
Before many seconds had passed I quite realized why my companion was bundled up as she was. It was bone chillingly cold. My initial excitement and action had dampened my awareness somewhat, but when the thin layer of warmth that had surrounded me underneath my bed of furs was blown away by the first gust of wind, I became painfully aware of how unprotected I was from the weather.
It seemed even colder now than it had been upon my initial arrival onto the snow covered ground. Without hesitating, I walked to the travois and, setting my Springfield down, wrapped a fur around my shoulders. Thinking that would be sufficient to warm me, I reached down to pick up the rifle. The numb stiffness in my fingers as they clumsily closed on the wooden stock alarmed me somewhat.
I was in no condition to even cycle the bolt, much less shoot my rifle. Noticing my predicament, and having calmed down the mammoths, my fur covered companion returned to my side. “Day comes. We should be safe enough for now. Get back underneath until it warms. I do not have spare clothes.”
Fumbling the rifle with me onto the travois, I adjusted the furs as best as I could. My coverage was apparently not good enough. With the same dexterous motion I had experienced earlier, I was bundled into the furs. This time however, I was not only propped up slightly, but also allowed enough freedom of movement to wield my rifle as effectively as possible from the back of a contrivance being dragged behind a mammoth. I hoped that I would not be called upon to do so.
Not knowing how much longer I was to travel in anonymity I risked a first question of my fur-clothed companion. “What is your name?” I said loudly enough to be heard above the muffling I felt her furs must provide. If my voice was hoarse from the cold air and lack of speech, she gave no sign as, turning back towards me, she briefly unwrapped the furs from her face.
I must have looked like I had seen a ghost or some other apparition, for she immediately pulled off one mitten and felt my forehead for signs of fever. The shock of seeing her face was so great that as she answered, her words could have added not one measure to my surprise. “My name is Layla. Why are you so upset? We are both of The People, and you could have been found by Others.”
Of People and Others I had no concern. Standing before me, although wrapped for the weather with only a small part of her features revealed to me, was the spitting image of Lila, my nurse. As I dumbly sat, not even acknowledging her question, I realized that while this Layla was speaking in a different tongue than my nurse Lila, the timbre of their voices was the same, and her eyes exactly the same deep green hue.
Perhaps I had not fully come to terms with the still new idea that I was somewhere completely different than where I had started. All I can say is that up until then, the possibilities of where I was had been somewhat more limited in my mind. At that instant, when I saw a person who could only be another version of someone from the world I had only recently departed, my concept of the universe changed.
Unfortunately, as all too often seems to have become my lot in life, something happened which cut short a more thoughtful contemplation of my situation. Both mammoths raised their trunks and trumpeted in unison. Layla raised her head, looked around and then leapt to the side of the larger mammoth and climbed quickly onto the creature.
I was about to ask her what was happening when she prodded the rump of her mount with a curved stick she must have pulled off of the low platform that served as some sort of saddle on the mammoth. As it lurched away at a higher rate of speed than I had heretofore experienced from my ride, Layla pointed behind us to the right side and shouted, in a warning tone , “Others!” before quickly re-wrapping her face and securing herself into the seat with a leather strap.
Looking in the direction she had indicated, I strained for several seconds to see what she had pointed at, these Others, as she called them. When, several hundred yards behind us, they crested a slight ridge and became visible to me at last, I understood Layla’s haste. Even though I had done so minutes before, I checked the action on my Springfield and began searching for my ammo pouches.
Chapter Three
It must have been awkward for me to root around underneath the bouncing furs of my travois with mostly numb fingers but frankly, I did not notice. My eyes were locked in awe on the strange shapes of the approaching creatures and their method of locomotion. It was several full seconds before my brain processed enough of what I saw to allow me to even comprehend it.
They were multi-limbed, although at this distance I could not tell how many limbs, with a slightly oblong central body. I hesitate to compare them to spiders or octopi, because neither description does them justice, but the two animals serve as points of reference.
Unlike arachnids, these creatures seemed at least as tall as a man, and perhaps half again more. The limbs extended out and downward from the body, spreading wide as they went. As far as I could tell the legs were flexible but without obvious joints.
Each set of limbs moved in a pattern I could not discern. The limbs alternated between being sinuous like a worm or snake when not bearing weight, to possessing a stilt-like rigidity when against the ground. To add to the strangeness of the movement the tips of the limbs also seemed to stretch toward the ground when preparing to step, and then retract away from it when lifting.
Of the details contained on the central body I could not recognize much at this distance. But one thing I could see was that, regardless of the terrain features the legs lifted them over, the bodies remained unnaturally stable. The only thing I can compare it to is the stability evidenced by a bird of prey in holding its head still when watching something from a great distance aloft while its wings and neck compensate for the buffeting of the wind.
Despite the fact that they were moving in our general direction, I got the distinct feeling that they were not as of yet aware of either Layla, the mammoths, or I. There were between ten and fifteen of the creatures, but not all of them were moving in the same direction. Periodically, one would stop and lower its body to the ground briefly before rising up and moving along a slightly different path.
I surmised that they were either grazing or searching for something, although initially I tended, out of optimism, toward the grazing hypothesis. Whatever they had been doing however, their behavior changed suddenly and dramatically when one of them came across the tracks of the mammoths.
Perhaps their initial slow pace had lulled me into the more relaxed state I had assumed while watching the creatures and observing their behavior. In any case, when their movement changed, it brought me out of my entrancement. At first one of them began moving rapidly up and down. If not for the legs, it would have reminded me of a ball bouncing.
The Others stopped briefly and mimicked the first one’s behavior. I actually grinned, so comical it looked seeing the group bob up and down in unison. The grin was short lived however for, as a unit, they began moving towards us at a much higher rate of speed. Obviously, they were now quite aware of our presence. In short order, they would overtake us, and I could see no good coming from it.
“They’re coming!” I shouted in warning. Layla must have heard me because she looked briefly back over her shoulder and reapplied the stick to the mammoth’s flank. Personally, I did not think the animal needed or could heed any further encouragement as it already seemed to be going at full tilt. Indeed I noticed no increase in speed, despite Laylas’ prodding.
I quickly came to the conclusion that we were fleeing for our lives. Not one to sit by passively, I raised my Springfield and did my best to draw a bead on the creature closest to us. It was a futile attempt, due to the bouncing of my platform, and after my third shot went wide of its target, I lowered the rifle.
The cluster of Others, had already closed half the distance between us, and I doubted that the mammoths could maintain their sprint much longer. I did the one thing that came to my mind. Furs and all, I rolled from my travois, tumbled sideways for some distance and came to a stop.
Between the cushion offered by the snow on the ground and the padding provided by the furs, I was none the worse for wear. The sudden tumble and stop from some twenty miles per hour left me a little dizzy, but I was otherwise unscathed. In the back of my mind I hoped that my ammunition belt had come off with me.
I do not consider myself either an unusually reckless or exceptionally brave individual. I quite easily admit that I felt fear in the split second before I left the temporary safety of the travois and put myself squarely in the path of our pursuers.
If you expect that next I stood, threw off my fur coverings and faced these Others standing tall to divert their attention, I am sorry to disappoint. Not only did the furs continue to provide warmth and insulation against the cold, both air and ground, but my prone position made aiming a much easier task. Also there was impinging upon my thoughts the idea that attracting the attention of more than ten creatures that were not hesitating to chase something the size of a full grown mammoth was at the very least imprudent.
Instead, I remained horizontal and directed aimed fire towards the creatures as they approached. I fired twice at the nearest target, but then was forced to reload. As I thumbed rounds into the rifle, the first creature slowed before stumbling from its feet and crashing to the ground. It rolled before stopping and I noticed briefly that its legs flailed in the air as if trying to gain purchase enough to continue pursuit.
The other creatures either did not notice, or chose to ignore their fallen companion. They simply moved around it and continued on. I finished reloading and cycled my bolt, chambering another round. They had not noticed me yet and continued, focused on the mammoth.
Devoting two rounds to each target, I shot as many of them as I could. I decided not to wait to see the effects of my shots before moving to the next creature. It was probably not the best course of action, but they were approaching rapidly and I did not think I could afford to shoot one target until it fell.
Before my rifle was empty again, a total of three of the creatures were thrashing on the ground with another still on its feet but spinning in circles as it scraped at its side in annoyance, presumably at the sting of one or more of my bullets.
The remaining eight or so still seemed not to have noticed me, so with nothing else to do I reloaded quickly under my furs. Thankfully, the ammo pouches and belt had been within easy reach. As the first few creatures ran around me, I regretted that I had not had time to fix my bayonet.
Then as one of them seemed on a direct collision course I realized I had overplayed my hand. Still constrained enough by the furs, there was no way I would even be able to roll out of the way in time. Even as I brought up my rifle in a vain attempt at a snap shot, I tensed in anticipation of being trampled.
I fired, also hoping briefly that I might again experience the time distortion phenomenon that had allowed me to escape danger previously and that also seemed to have brought me to this place. In that I was disappointed, and the beast continued running at me full tilt. My shot seemed to have no effect but luckily the creature moved right over me.
I threw myself flat onto my side, covering my head with one arm. As I had feared, one of the legs stepped right on me. Gritting my teeth, I expected to hear the crunch of broken ribs, but while I felt downward pressure from the limb, it was not excessive. The other merely stepped on me and continued past, chasing the mammoth, and Layla.
At least it continued for another fifteen or twenty feet, long enough for me to begin to feel lucky. Then it stopped, turned back to me and began approaching warily. The feeling of luck drained away quite rapidly.
Not having any strong desire to experience the creature’s predator versus prey behavior first hand, I sat up and fired my rifle, working the bolt until the trigger clicked empty. At this close of a range I could not have missed.
I hadn’t. As this creature fell to the ground its legs failed to twitch as the rest had. I felt instantly relieved, until I remembered the several of them that had run past me in pursuit of Layla.
I counted six, each of them now closer to Layla than to me. My shots brought down two more. While before I had hoped the creatures would not notice me, I now hoped they would.
My rifle empty again, I spent a second feeling in vain for another ammo pouch. Failing in that endeavor I sensed my options becoming limited. Layla had saved my life, and now hers was at risk. The very least I could do was give mine back in an attempt to save her.
Standing, and shrugging off the furs at last, I ran after the four remaining creatures that had now closed sufficiently on the mammoth to cause Layla to wheel it around and face her pursuers. For its part the mammoth looked ready, holding its tusks low and swinging them back and forth. The smaller, tuskless mammoth had been running in the lead, but now stood sheltered behind the larger pachyderm.
Weighing the choice between using my rifle as a club, an option I did not relish while I still had ammunition even if it were not readily accessible, and attacking with the puny belt knife still at my waist, I ran. Still vainly attempting to formulate some kind of plausible tactic, I was struck on the right arm from behind with a sickening crack and knocked sideways off of my feet. My rifle skidded off in a different direction. As I tumbled I caught a glimpse of one of the creatures behind me, with one limb outstretched towards me, still following through after striking me.
My mind stayed remarkably clear even as I realized that not only was my weapon laying some distance away in the snow, but my right arm was broken. Luckily, if you could call it that, my arm was still numb and I didn’t have to worry about the distraction of pain, for now at least.
Charging four of the creatures without any plan, or even any effective weapons, had been dangerous. Standing face to face with one of them while crippled by a broken arm thrown in the mix brought a certain urgency to my predicament. I managed to unsheathe my belt knife with my left hand as I stood, a bit clumsily, without the use of my right arm.
I was now locked into my immediate situation and could spare no attention to the plight of Layla and the mammoths. Standing this close to the creature I noticed a few things briefly as I looked for targets my small blade might damage. Its body was covered by small, bumpy scales. Not inherently overlapping like a fish or snake, these scales nonetheless were able to allow the limbs and body to flex by temporarily crossing each other. However, which direction the scales crossed seemed determined by the direction and angle of movement, not by any predetermined patterns. They must have been attached near the center, instead of at the edge like a more typical reptilian scale.
The creature also stunk. At first, due to the landlocked wintry landscape, I did not identify the smell as it wrinkled my nose. Then I realized that it smelled like nothing so much as a pile of rotten seaweed.
It had two small eyes on either side of the body, in front of the forward most set of legs, but no discernible structure that might be considered a head separate from the body. There were also no visible mouth, ears or nose; although I guessed that any mouth was probably in the center, underneath the body.
All of these things I noticed in a second or two as I attempted to move away slowly at a slight angle to one side. The creature matched my pace however, and I gained no distance. I stopped and faced the thing, my pathetically small knife the only thing between it and me. When it reached for me, I at first thought I was once again perceiving things in that strange altered time rate as I had before escaping the landmine explosion. I realized, however, that it was just reaching very slowly, as my breathing was unrestricted and none of the other side effects of my odd ability were present.
I looked briefly at the small knife in my hand and decided against trying a random slash. The fact that I was not being trampled into the snow both puzzled and intrigued me, and although the approaching limb with its flexible tip did not in any way reassure me, neither did it fill me with fear.
Oddly, I also noticed that the coloration of the flesh in between the scales had changed color, from a dull red to a grayish khaki similar to my fatigues. When the limb touched me, it was with a light brushing contact over my broken arm. Although my arm had started throbbing, and I began to break out in a sweat that felt as if it must freeze to my face in the cold, I managed to stand still as it touched me.
The limb withdrew slowly and to my surprise the creature turned slightly to one side, revealing the wound my bullet had caused. The bluish substance that trickled through the opening I could only assume was its blood. The creatures’ limb bent and it gently touched the area around the wound.
It was intelligent, and it was communicating with me. I stood dumbfounded as I struggled to come to some understanding of the strange psychology evidenced by this other who stood before me without apparent hostility after I had shot and wounded not only it but several of its companions, probably lethally in at least one instance. Quite abruptly, it turned and walked away, towards the several of its kind that lay on the ground.
The one that had fallen and lay still remained so, along with another also now motionless. Several of the rest, however, were successfully regaining a standing position although somewhat unsteadily. I remembered Layla.
Turning, I saw that her situation was no less strange than mine. She remained astride the mammoth, but between her and the four beings that had been pursuing her, a cloud of light grayish-brown smoke rose thickly, hugging the ground. As I watched she pulled an object out of a pouch strapped to the mammoth’s side and hurled it towards her pursuers.
The creatures had already slowed near the smoke cloud, and stopped completely as they reached it. The object Layla had thrown arced through the air and landed slightly past the first smoke cloud. I heard a small popping noise and saw smoke billowing from it. This smoke was a darker shade of the same color than the first cloud. I quickly assumed another grenade had caused the initial smoke cloud as well.
Download this book for your ebook reader.
(Pages 1-25 show above.)