Savage Survival

by Darrell Bain

  Lyda drank some more water, this time, being allowed to dip her hands in a relatively clean tub. Just then, there came a warbling noise similar to the gobbling of a turkey she had heard once. She looked for the source of the sound, and she saw then where the food and water were coming from. An apparatus somewhat like a kitchen stove, only larger, was tucked into a recess in the outcropping and partially hidden behind the stack of food bricks. As she watched, a door opened, just like an oven. It was filled with the red food bricks. The inside of it tilted and they spilled out onto the ground. At the same time, a stream of water exited from a suddenly visible orifice and fell into a waiting tub. A woman and two men, obviously the designated food gatherers, had rushed over as soon as they heard the noise. The woman began gathering the bricks of food, while the two men waited until the tub was full, then they picked it up, grunting with the effort, and moved it to where the others were being guarded. As soon as it was out of the way, the orifice began extruding a pasty gray substance that dropped down and began to take on the form of a water tub. It glistened as if wet for a moment, but once its shape had been attained, the sheen quickly vanished and it was the same dull gray color as the others. Finally, another door opened and a roll of some kind of green and brown colored cloth fell to the ground.

  Now Lyda knew where the seats some of the gang sat on came from, and where what she had thought were mattresses had their origin; they were both upended tubs that apparently could be shaped somehow into different forms. And once she saw the bolt of cloth, she could look around and see it was being used here and there as windbreaks or coverings for the “mattresses". Food, water and shelter. The aliens were providing the necessities, but apparently leaving it up to the captives to sort out the distribution. It's like an open range zoo, she thought. Where the animals are fed and watered but the biggest and fiercest ones eat and drink first. At least that was what it looked like, but she knew there could be other reasons it was being done like this. Maybe in other areas of the desert, the allocation of supplies was controlled by more fair-minded individuals.

  Had her situation not been so desperate, Lyda would have been fascinated with the process; as it was, she wondered how to go about getting possession of one of the empty tubs to sit on, or perhaps shape into something to lay on. As the sun dropped lower, a breeze sprang up and the temperature began dropping. It was beginning to look as if she was going to have to spend the night with this gang before her “sale” and all she had to protect her from the elements was the clothes she was wearing. She had a sudden flash of memory, something about deserts being colder at night because of drier air. She pulled her jacket tighter about herself, very glad now that she had put it on before being captured.

  Lyda asked for, and was given, another food brick, albeit reluctantly. While no one was watching, she switched the new one to her pocket and began eating the remains of the old one. It still tasted fine. While she sat cross-legged in the sandy soil chewing on the food brick, she again turned her mind to the near future and the certain prospect of being ... raped. Yes, raped was the word. That was what Big Bill had done to her. She shifted her body in an attempt at getting into a more comfortable position and felt how sore she was now that the immediate pain had faded. How could she possibly suffer another assault like that? She fingered the rock in her jeans pocket. Maybe if I fight, it won't happen she thought. No, that hadn't helped with Big Bill; it had only made it worse. She touched her bruised and swollen face and lips. But there must be something she could do, like one of her favorite heroes, Honor Harrington. Honor always managed to triumph over her adversaries—but it usually only happened at the end of the book. Lyda suspected her trials were just beginning.

  As if to prove the notion, the sudden noise of shuffling feet and the sound of voices raised in argument brought her to her feet. She listened for a moment, trying to see through the increasing darkness. Half a dozen men had come up to their camp and were talking with Big Bill. She heard words like “not enough” and “she's young and prime” and other phrases she would just as soon forget, except that she couldn't. Her “sale” was obviously underway.

  * * *

  CHAPTER THREE

  Lyda tried to sneak away while most of Big Bill's gang members’ attention was concentrated on the visiting supplicates, but it didn't work. A big lumbering man she had seen slapping a woman earlier in the day grabbed her and held onto the back of her jacket collar while the negotiations continued.

  She never learned what her “price” was, nor whether it was paid before she made her move. All, day she had been running escape scenarios through her mind; in fact, every time the memory of Big Bill stripping her clothes from her and images of the humiliating and painful debasement that followed entered her mind, she thought of flight. During the day, she watched as one of the giant transports came down and loosed more captives a mile or two away. She reasoned that where it landed must be the center of the confinement area, but where were the boundaries—or were there any? Surely there must be, she thought; otherwise, everyone would have left. Nevertheless, if she could get loose, she intended to run in the opposite direction from the transport and hope she could find a refuge. Or maybe a protector who wouldn't rape her in return for food and drink.

  Lyda felt the big man's hands on the collar of her jacket. She shifted her shoulders, causing him to tighten his grip, but there was method to her movements. As she shrugged, she slid open the zipper of her windbreaker and at the same time, spoke to the big man to conceal any zipping noises.

  “You're choking me! Let loose!"

  The grip on her jacket eased. Lyda's pulse raced. She took a deep breath and lunged forward, slipping her arms from the jacket and leaving the man holding it instead of her. Immediately, she took off running into the night, lit only by stars. She darted around and under several sets of outstretched arms. Before most of the gang knew what had happened, she was racing away, free for the moment.

  Lyda ran, praying she wouldn't trip, at least until she got well away. She was fortunate in that she knew the way she intended to go and thought there was nothing in the immediate area to hinder her, not even one of the big cacti towns. Shouts and yells of rage followed her, and the sound of pounding feet in pursuit gave wings to her flight. Her feet were being bruised and cut but she didn't slow down for anything, not until she was well into the surrounding desert. Even then, it took a bad tumble from a small mesquite bush she didn't see in time to slow her down. After her fall, she trotted, wary of any other persons and going slow enough to avoid other encampments like the one she had just escaped from.

  When Lyda did finally stop long enough to catch her breath, she became aware of how cold the night air was on her sweaty body, especially without her jacket. Earlier in the day, after cleaning her thighs and her jeans one more time with sand, she had put her panties back on. Now she was glad she had; her groin was the only place on her body even halfway warm. She wrapped her arms around herself and went on, trying not to shiver. After what seemed like ages, the moon rose over the horizon, in half-full phase. Together with the myriad stars visible in the thinner air and away from city lights, the desert seemed to glow with a dim, surreal illumination.

  It got colder the more she traveled, and people became fewer, the ones she could see anyway. She suspected she passed many who were huddled down for the night. She thought of her warm, cozy bed back home and shivered violently but never gave a thought to going back to Big Bill or risking capture again by asking one of the other groups for shelter. Better to freeze. The cold night wind made that seem like an increasingly likely proposition.

  Finally, she slowed as she neared another of the rugged clusters of rocks thrusting up from the desert floor. She wondered if she could find a hideaway of some sort in the rocks, somewhere out of the wind. Maybe even a cave or a cubby hole where her body heat wouldn't be blown away from her into the night. She approached cautiously, aware that it wasn't necessarily humans she had to fear. Earlier in the day, one of Bi
g Bill's ruffians had killed a small rattler that lost its caution while slithering slowly toward a mouse busily feeding on a dead scorpion. And there had been the howl of coyotes as dusk approached. The desert wasn't lifeless. She pulled the rock from her jeans pocket and held it ready, thinking it was a poor weapon to defend herself against an adult, much less a pack of coyotes, but she was too cold to care. She crept on.

  She worked her way into the rocks and found some blessed relief from the cold wind. She was so intent on what might be in front of her, she failed to see the body on the ground until she stumbled on a soft obstruction and knew immediately it was something living. She kept her feet, just barely, and managed to swing her hand holding the rock in a hard arc, just as the figure said something unintelligible and rose from the ground. She connected solidly with its head and it fell.

  “I give up, don't hit me again,” a scared female voice said.

  Lyda held the rock ready. “Be quiet.” She looked around fearfully, hoping the noise hadn't awakened someone more dangerous.

  “Who are you?” the voice asked in a whisper.

  “I'm Lyda. Who are you? No, stay down or I'll hit you again!” Lyda ordered in the most authoritative voice she could manage while still trying to speak softly. She was trembling and scared.

  There was silence for a moment while Lyda examined the woman the best she could in the darkness. She was a small person with short hair, but looked to be an adult. Lyda felt guilty for hitting her, then stifled the thought. So far, adults had proven to be worse enemies to her than the spider things or the aliens who ordered their movements.

  “I'm ... why, you're just a child!"

  “Well, I'm a mad child,” Lyda said, threatening with her rock. “Who are you? Is there anybody else around here?"

  “No, I'm alone. I've been hiding here with my baby."

  Lyda hunkered down out of the wind, but still kept her rock handy, even though she wasn't quite as fearful as before. She wondered how the woman had survived, how she was getting supplies.

  “Do you have any water? Or food?"

  “There's a little seep back in the rocks. It's muddy, but drinkable. I had some food in my backpack when the ... the spiders herded us out of the park and into their spaceship."

  “Park? Where were you?"

  “On vacation. We were planning on going hiking in Oak Creek Canyon and picnicking at Slide Rock. That's the reason I had the backpack. My husband ... my husband was killed, I think.” Her voice broke.

  Lyda shivered again. It was very cold. She could see well enough to tell the woman was dressed much more warmly than herself. She wondered where the baby was the young woman was talking about.

  “You didn't tell me your name."

  “I'm sorry. It's Ginella. Ginella Sparks."

  “Where's your baby?"

  “Over there. She's been sick since we were brought here."

  Lyda saw a small, unmoving bundle several feet beyond the woman. And for the first time, she noticed the smell, like a dead animal or some very ripe garbage.

  On impulse, Lyda walked around the woman and toward the baby. The smell grew stronger.

  “Don't wake her,” Ginella said.

  Lyda leaned down and touched flesh as cold and lifeless as a slab of roast left sitting in the refrigerator overnight. Abruptly, she knew there was no chance of waking this baby. It was dead. She looked back at the woman, who still sat with her arms around her knees. Lyda didn't know what to do. She had read of people who refused to accept reality, but this was her first experience with one. She started to leave, then changed her mind. This was probably a safe place to spend the rest of the night and she didn't think she could face the wind again. It was cold enough without it. She would deal with the woman in the morning, so long as she didn't cause trouble tonight.

  “Do you have anything I can borrow to wear until morning?” Lyda asked.

  Ginella fumbled in her backpack and handed her a flannel shirt. Lyda gratefully accepted it and pulled it on. It was too large, but that made it even better. The tail was long enough to sit on and give some added warmth. She leaned back against a rock and was surprised to find it still faintly warm. Of course! The rock still retained some heat from the daytime sun.

  Ginella didn't seem inclined to talk and Lyda wasn't in much of a mood to either. After a while, the smell of the dead baby faded as her nostrils became accustomed to it. She gradually stopped shivering and finally dozed and didn't wake again until the first rays of the morning sun hit her face, rousing her from a nightmare of a dozen men closing in on her, their intentions horribly apparent. She shook her head and looked around. The woman and her baby were gone.

  * * * *

  Lyda stood up and gazed into the distance. She orientated herself by the sun and looked back the way she had come, or thought she had, the night before. In the remote distance, she could see part of one of the giant transports rising from the desert. It was either the same one she had seen the day before, or another bringing more people. She turned, and now she could see something new, a green shimmering band in the opposite direction. Curious, she started that way, then stopped when she felt her body beginning to tingle. She squinted her eyes and saw what looked like bodies scattered in a rough line along the periphery of the shimmer. She backed up and the tingling sensation stopped. This then, must be the limits of the desert prison. It looked like death waited for anyone who tried to force their way past. She turned back the way she had come.

  With just a little searching, Lyda found the seep Ginella had talked about. It was right at the level where an uprising rock met a damp, sandy area that expanded for a few feet before narrowing again. Five yards from the rock, the ground was as dry as the rest of the desert. She saw signs of digging and handprints in the sand, along with tracks of small animals leading to little holes they had dug. She squatted and began digging with her hands. A satisfying amount of muddy water began to fill the hole. She drank first, then shed her clothes and washed the best she could, shivering in the shadowed alcove where the sun hadn't yet reached. Then she sat down and ate her other food brick and wondered what to do next.

  * * * *

  A little later that morning, Lyda began cautiously working her way back in the direction she had started from. After going only a few hundred yards, she stumbled over Ginella's body and the decaying corpse of her baby. She stared at the sight for long moments. The woman had used a sharp piece of rock to scrape ragged gashes across both wrists, then sat quietly and bled to death.

  I guess she finally realized her baby was dead, Lyda thought. I will never do that, though. No matter what happens. Not even if the men catch me again. I'm going to live and someday, I'm going to fight the aliens for what they've done. And I hope I get a chance to kill Big Bill along the way. He's a bad man. She started to move on, then stopped. She stood and pondered for long moments, then hating herself, but knowing it was necessary, she stripped Ginella's jacket and shirt from her body, trying to avoid looking at her face with its dead glassy stare. She took her shoes, even though they were two or three sizes too large, then explored the backpack. It contained several packages of trail rations, a set of metal utensils to eat with and most importantly, a small revolver and a handful of loose cartridges. She wondered why the woman hadn't just used the gun on herself. It would have been much quicker and easier, but perhaps she hadn't wanted their bodies to be disturbed. Maybe Ginella was so deranged by then, she fixated on her wrists and had forgotten all about the gun. The whole thing was new and strange to Lyda, like all the other happenings. Strange and horrible and frightening.

  That led to another thought. The seephole was a source of water no one controlled and now, only she knew about. She thought about burying the bodies by scraping at the soil with her hands but finally decided if she left them where they lay, it might discourage others from coming close to the water source. It was a cold thought, and that was new to her, too. She'd never had to make decisions like this before and it was disconcerting
. But I want to live, she thought. But not like those bad men and women that captured me and were going to sell me like a piece of meat. I won't ever be like that, she decided with fierce resolve. Never, never, never!

  Lyda walked far enough away from the bodies to where she could no longer smell the baby's corpse and found a little round rock to sit on. There, she thought of what she had to do. Dad had always said thinking and working should be done by priorities, the most important things first. He taught her to do her homework like that and she found no fault with the system. Homework and this situation were far removed from each other, though. There was so much to think about—and there were things she must accomplish if she wanted to live and remain free of the gangs who had apparently taken over the source of supplies necessary to survive.

  She fingered the revolver. That would probably help if she dared use it. She didn't know whether she could shoot anyone or not, except maybe Big Bill. Priorities. While thinking, she began fashioning a crude holster for the gun with the paring knife from the utensil set and the tail of one of her shirts. She fixed it so it was concealed, but where she could get to it quickly if it became necessary. While she was doing that, it occurred to her that all the men and women and especially the kids, couldn't be as bad as the ones she had first met. There had to be lots of good people here. The problem was finding them and deciding who to trust. Mom always said you should trust people until you found out otherwise, but Lyda didn't think that dogma applied here; trust the wrong man or woman, and she was likely to wind up behind a rock again, being stripped and raped or sold or forced into other unspeakable acts in order to eat and drink.