The beasts of Barakhai bob-1 Read online

  In a daze, Collins swung his legs over the window ledge and jumped. He regretted the action immediately. Without his glasses, his depth perception had failed him; and he found himself airborne, surging toward the slope of a massive hill that supported the decaying structure. He hit the ground, right shoulder leading. His teeth snapped shut, pinching his tongue, and he tasted blood. A hot bolt of lightning burst through his head. Pain lurched through his arm and chest. Then, the world swirled around him in alternating patterns of green and silver as he spilled in savage circles down the side of the hill.

  Pollen tickled Collins' nostrils. Stems crackled beneath him, stabbing his naked chest, sides, and back. The odor of broken greenery joined the mingled perfumes of the flowers. He wrapped his face in his palms and let gravity take him where it would, sneezing, wincing, and huffling as he went. At last, he glided to a gentle stop. Weeds and wildflowers filled his vision, and his head spun, still several cycles behind his body.

  Collins lay on his back. An edge of sun peeked over a horizon he could only assume was the east, throwing broad bands of pink and baby blue through the gray plain of sky. Pale-petaled flowers swayed, intermittently blocking his vision, interspersed with woody stems that he hoped would prove edible and harmless. Sunrise. He blinked, the scene senseless. 1 couldn't have crawled around that long.

  An interminable, aching groan issued from his stomach.

  Collins sat up. Now what? He studied the building he had abandoned on the hill, a crumbling ruin of a stone fortress that defied modern construction. If it connected to Algary campus in any fashion, he could not see how. Later, he would explore it for some underground tunnel or well-hidden passage. Food had to come first.

  Movement rattled the grasses.

  Collins held his breath. He had not gone camping since Boy Scouts, and the image of Jimmy Tarses dumping a copperhead out of his boot remained vivid. No one had teased Jimmy for his high-pitched screams. The rest of them had been equally startied; from that time on, no boy put on any gear without checking it thoroughly first. Now, Collins' skin prickled at the thought. His heart resumed its wild pounding, and he rose cautiously. For all he knew, rattlesnakes might be cavorting all around him.

  The rustling recurred, closer.

  Collins watched a column of weeds dance, then stop. Hand dropping to the multitool he always kept on his belt, he forced himself to step toward it.

  At that moment, the thing sat up on its haunches, peering at him through the grasses. Its nose twitched, its ears rose above the wildflowers, and it examined Collins through enormous black eyes. Collins took one more step, squinting, and finally got a good look at a fat, brown rabbit. It seemed remarkably unafraid, studying him, whiskered nose bobbing.

  Never seen a human before? Collins guessed. Or maybe someone's pet? He cringed. If he caught the thing, he would have to eat it. If he ever found an owner, he would apologize and replace it; but he had no way of knowing when, or if, his next meal would come. Until he found Algary campus, he would have to make do.

  "Here, bunny, bunny." Collins kept his motions fluid and nonthreatening. He held out a hand to it.

  The rabbit remained still a moment longer, head cocked. Then, it dropped to all fours and stretched its nose toward Collins' hand.

  Collins held totally still, allowing the animal to sniff at his fingers.

  The rabbit glided toward him, outstretched front legs followed by a more solid hop of the back ones.

  Prepared for it to scratch frantically or bite, Collins reached out and hauled the animal into his arms. Recalling kittens from his childhood, he scooped one arm under its legs, pinning its clawed feet, and used the other to clamp it against him. "Gotcha." The fur felt thick and soft against his chest.

  The rabbit made small noises in its throat. Its coat mingled brown-and-gray agouti-striped hair in tufts.

  Okay, Alice. You've caught the rabbit. Collins looked at the animal, hating himself for what had to come next. He wished he could keep it as a companion in this bizarre and, thus far, lonely world. What happens now? The Queen of Hearts shrieks, "Off with his head?" Though it seemed madness, he spoke to the creature. "You're not one of those magical talking animals, are you?"

  The rabbit seemed to take no notice of Collins. It lay in his arms, surprisingly dense, its nose continuously wobbling.

  "Because, if you are, you'd better tell me now." Collins carefully shifted the rabbit's weight to free his right hand. Opening the clasp on the belt case of his multitool, he unsnapped it and pulled out the tool. He worked free the knife blade, then looked at the rabbit again. "No? Sorry, bunny. It's over." The words came easier than the deed. Collins hesitated, cringing. He had pithed rats and frogs before, but the idea of slaughtering someone's sweet-tempered pet seemed an evil beyond his tolerance.

  Collins closed his eyes. The pain in his gut intensified, an aching exhortation. Opening his eyes to slits, he pressed the blade against the top of its head, just behind the ears. In one swift motion, he drove the point deep into its brain.

  The rabbit squealed, a high, haunting call that sent a stab of dread through Collins. Then, it went limp in his arms.

  Collins shivered; the lingering horror of the noise weighed heavily on his conscience. He set the rabbit on the ground, his knife beside it. Never having hunted, he did not know the proper way to skin and gut; but he believed his anatomy classes would help, first, afire. Collins pulled up a circle of grass and flowers, picked the driest for kindling, and walked in widening circles in search of twigs. At length, he gathered a handy pile and started the fire with his lighter.

  Settling by the glow and crackle of the flames, Collins drew rabbit and knife into his lap and started skinning.

  Chapter 2

  BENTON Collins had heard rabbit meat described as tough, greaseless, and stringy; but experience clashed pleasantly with the report. He savored its rich, gamy flavor and streaming juices that sizzled in the fire. Succulent as a steak, it satisfied his empty stomach. He had teased out the organs carefully, yet guiltily suspected he had wasted quite a bit of edible meat with the skin. In the future, he hoped he would learn to rescue every scrap; his life, as well as more rabbits', might depend on it. He prepared to sink his teeth into the last leg.

  A horse whinnied, sharp and sudden as a whipcrack.

  Collins sprang to his feet, whirling toward the sound. Distant figures emerged patternlessly from the forest. He squinted, managing to make out a single, light-colored horse, its rider, and three or four milling people. His spirits soared. "Hey!" he shouted, waving the drumstick. "Over here!"

  Their movement stopped. Without his glasses, Collins could not tell if they turned toward him.

  "Here!" Collins called louder, waving the remainder of his food frantically. "Over here." Human contact, thank God. I'm saved. He realized his story would sound positively ludicrous, unless others had come to this place through Daubert Laboratories before him. Perhaps some of the gamers did so regularly. Even if no one had, he doubted he would sound insane enough for them to have him institutionalized. Assuming, of course, this parallel dimension is even at the same tech level as ours.

  Two dogs shot ahead of the people, barking wildly. They bounded into the weeds, leaping like porpoises through the tall grasses toward Collins.

  Collins laughed as they approached, the horse cantering after them. A thought struck with chilling abruptness. What if they're hostile? What if they're members of some primitive warrior tribe that hates everyone? He discovered eerie parallels in his undergraduate history and sociology classes. People tended to fear differences, to revile what they did not understand. Oh, come on, Ben. There's no such thing as other worlds. This is twenty-first-century America, for Christ's sake. What's wrong with me?

  Copper highlights glimmered from the horse's sleek golden coat, and its black mane and tail trailed it like streamers. Its rider appeared broad and well-muscled, apparently male, wearing what looked like a thigh-length rust-colored long-sleeved T-shirt with matchi
ng bicycle pants and leather riding boots.

  The dogs arrived first, sneezing and waggling their tails, snuffling every part of Collins. One resembled a beagle, medium-sized and tricolored. The other towered over its companion, uniform brown except for black on its muzzle. Its ears stuck up in sharp triangles, and its tail curved over its back in a broad, stiff loop. Collins smiled at them, alternately petting each. He offered the last of his dinner to the beagle.

  Delicately, the dog sniffed at the meat, whined softly, and retreated. Surprised, Collins held the drumstick out to the other dog. He had never met a large dog that did not gobble down proffered meat in an instant; yet this one also refused, pacing backward and forward nervously. It appeared to Collins as if it wanted the food but dared not take it. Realization seeped slowly into his thoughts. Probably trained to only accept treats from their trainer.

  The horse skidded to a stop at his makeshift camp, trampling grasses and flowers beneath prancing hooves. Now, Collins could see the crude stitching and deep staining of the man's clothing and the deep saffron of his cuffs and collar. Widely spaced brown eyes studied Collins from coarse, weathered features, and he bore a headful of tangled sandy curls. He reeked of sweat. A sheathed sword dangled from his left hip. The fine-boned mare rolled a blue eye that contrasted strikingly with its buckskin coat and wind-whipped mane and tail. It bore no saddle and only a rope for a bridle, yet it clearly obeyed its rider.

  Collins could not help staring back. He could no longer doubt that he had transported through time or discovered a world with no connection to his own. Seeking saliva in a mouth gone painfully dry, Collins broke the silence with a compliment. "Well trained dogs you got there. Wouldn't take fresh meat from a stranger." He brandished the rabbit leg.

  The rider leaned forward, gaze sweeping the crafted clearing. Suddenly, he jerked back. He shouted something indecipherable to his slower-moving friends, who quickened their paces.

  Collins glanced to his right, trying to figure out what had provoked his new companion. He saw only crushed and broken weeds, his multitool, and the remains of the rabbit. The multi-tool, he guessed. Probably never seen anything like it. He continued speaking, trying to radiate trust. "Well trained horse, too. Don't know many people who could ride without-"

  Collins broke off as the other four people caught up, panting, with the leader. Though dressed the same, including the swords, they otherwise seemed as different as possible. Two were blonds, both male, one fair and the other dark as cola. One of the brunets was a pale and lanky man with a Roman nose, the other a sinewy, brown-skinned woman with her hair tied in a rough bun. Collins loosed a pent-up breath. At least, they seemed unlikely to comprise a homogeneous group that would hate him simply for his appearance. "Hello," he said.

  The people ignored his greeting. The one Collins assumed was the leader dismounted. He and the ample-nosed brunet stood on either side of Collins, examining him intently. The blonds approached the remains of his dinner. A sword rasped from its sheath.

  Collins recoiled; but its wielder, the darkest man, kept his back to Collins and the others. He shuffled through the bones, skin, and organs, speaking rapidly in a language Collins could not identify. It sounded like nothing he had ever heard before, even from the international graduate students who shared his campus apartment building.

  Abruptly, all of the humans spun toward Collins. Several started speaking at once, their tones frenzied and their gestures savage. The horse's eyes rolled white, and it danced sideways.

  The sandy-haired leader stabbed the air with his hand and spoke over the others. Silence followed, but the glare on every face seemed unmistakable.

  Collins back-stepped warily, abruptly terrified. His eyes jerked wide, his nostrils flared, and his heart rate doubled in an instant. Drained of thought, he whirled to run and nearly impaled himself on the woman's sword. He stopped short. The metallic rasp of drawing weapons echoed through the clearing. He froze. Then, slowly, he raised his hands in an innocent gesture of surrender. "I mean you no harm. Friend." He hooked a finger toward his naked chest. "Ben. My name is Ben. Ben."

  Collins felt motion at his flank. He spun. Something heavy crashed against the side of his head. Pain shocked through his skull with an explosion of white light. The impact flung him to the ground. He ducked behind his hands, protecting his aching head. Five swords leveled at his vitals held him in place.

  The leader gave a command.

  The lighter blond sheathed his sword. He shouldered off his backpack and rooted inside it. A moment later, he pulled out a braided mass of rope, which he carried to Collins.

  Collins bit his lip but otherwise remained perfectly still. His head felt on fire, and he did not know what might antagonize them to finish him off.

  The sandy-haired giant motioned at Collins and said something uninterpretable.

  Collins shrank further against the ground, head pounding. "I-I don't know what you're saying," he squeaked.

  The brunet man exchanged a few words with the leader. Then, he hooked a boot beneath Collins' shoulder and flipped him prone.

  Collins did not fight the motion, though it sparked flashes of light through his brain. Behind him, someone seized his hands and roped them together. As the knots tightened, they bit into his wrists. The blonds rifled his pockets, removing everything: loose change, calculator, keys, mechanical pencil, lighter, notes, wallet, the remote keyless entry to Marlys' car. They unfastened his belt, taking it along with his pager and cellular phone. They added his watch and the multitool to their haul. Craning his neck, Collins peered around the nearest of the strangers to watch others scoop the remains of his meal into a sack. Another stomped out his fire. When it seemed every trace of Collins' presence had disappeared into one sack or another, the four men seized him by the arms and knees, hefting him awkwardly onto the horse.

  Collins did not fight, recalling the words of his neuroanatomy professor: "In movies, you see heroes bashing guys in the head all the time to knock them out. Truth is, the difference between causing a brain bruise and a deadly hemorrhage is incalculable. Guy goes out longer than a minute or two, it's a murder charge for the hero." If he could help it, Collins would not give these strangers another reason to strike him.

  The horse snorted, humping its back. At a warning from the commander, it settled back on its hooves, prancing nervously sideways. The leader spoke soothingly to it, stroking its nose. The mare calmed, docilely allowing them to tie the sacks in place behind Collins. Two people on each side, the sandy-haired man leading the mare, they headed toward the forest.

  Every step of the horse jarred through Collins' spine, and he suspected the animal deliberately made the ride as bumpy as possible. It stumbled over invisible stones, losing the delicate grace that had previously characterized its movements. The rope shifted with his slightest motion, grinding into his flesh until he worried it might sever his wrists.

  Soon, the forest swallowed the group. Collins found himself in a shade as cozy as an early spring day. Most of the trees closely resembled those he knew: maple, oak, and locust. Others he did not recognize, including one with star-shaped emerald leaves so bright they seemed like polished holographs. His escorts spoke rarely to one another, though he caught them staring at him with evident hostility on occasion. He wondered what about him bothered them so much and, given their wildly different appearances, how they even knew he did not belong among them. The answer came almost immediately. Duh, genius. Perhaps my complete inability to communicate with them?

  The self-deprecation did little to elevate Collins' spirits. His mind drifted to his telephone call with Marlys. In his current situation, the whole thing seemed foolish. When I get back, I'll take all the blame. Buy her flowers. Treat her like a queen. She'll forgive me. The words "if I get back" interspersed themselves into the thought, quite against his will. Apologizing for something not his fault seemed trivial compared to the possibility that these men and woman might be hauling him to eternal imprisonment or death.
r />   Not death, Collins tried to assure himself. They could have killed me easily enough in the field. He felt like a suspect whose life now lay in the hands of lawyers and judges. During his first year of college, he had dabbled in radical liberalism. He still recalled trying to convince his father of the "truth" of the prison system. He pictured James Collins in his favorite La-Z-Boy, setting down his newspaper to debate with his son. Gray-flecked, army-short black hair receded from his freckled forehead, and he carried about twenty-five extra pounds, all of it in his gut.

  "Prison just hardens criminals, makes them better and crueler criminals."

  James had grunted at that. "Not our job to soften 'em, Ben. In prison, at least they're not hurting anyone innocent."

  Collins had hardly dared to believe his father could not understand at all. Until his teens, he had always looked up to this man. "But when they get out, Dad, they're worse."

  James had given his son a deeply searching look. "Worse than if we let 'em get away with their crimes?" He opened the newspaper again. "I don't think so." He lowered the paper to his knees. "Or are you suggesting executing them all as the alternative?"

  The words had shocked Collins. "Dad, the death penalty's barbaric. You know that. And it's not a deterrent."

  James had raised the paper again, turning the page with a loud rustle. "It's the ultimate deterrent."

  "No." Collins had delved eagerly into the argument. This time, he had clear facts on his side. "No, Dad. It's not. The studies show-"

  James' voice became muffled by the newspaper. "I don't need studies to tell me that once a guy's dead he can't hurt anyone any longer. Nothing more deterring than that."

  At the time, Collins had given his father up as a lost cause who might never see the light. Now, with his stomach skittishly churning the rabbit meat, his thoughts flying in strange directions, his wrists and back aching, he realized he had discovered that terrifying limbo that precedes a fate wholly determined by strangers. The loss of control alone felt like torture. He could not speak for others, but the terrified wonder would deter him from ever committing a crime. If he ever had the chance.