by Chris Hechtl
Whatever it was it encountered the retreating Raptors and some sort of battle ensued. It was a bit scary to be able to hear it but not see it. Eventually though it wound down with both sides breaking off and going their separate ways.
The caws in the bush unnerved the traumatized people though. They shifted about, eyes moving from bush to bush. The roars and snarls of other retreating animals terrified the already traumatized survivors even more. Some fell to more hysterics. Klinger sighed. That was all he needed. It would now be much harder to get them out of the camp to gather supplies.
~~~~~O~~~~~
A dozen volunteers grimly cleared out the bodies. It was a disgusting task, heart breaking, but necessary. They found that the bodies in the aircraft were the worst many had been relocated to the rear of the plane and between decomposition and the raptors…
Some of the volunteers gagged or threw up when they saw the torn-up bloated bodies. Roy and the skipper grimly covered their faces with handkerchiefs scented with cologne and dug in. A few guys got wise and followed suit; a couple ripped off breathers dangling from the overhead panels and used them.
Before sundown the deed was done and all the bodies were stripped and relocated to the trench. The volunteers rested wearily as Shawn Roberts read softly from his Bible. When he was finished, they used their staves to knock in the sides of the trench to cover the bodies. Then they went to the stream for a quick bath and then back to base camp. None were hungry or particularly talkative.
~~~~~O~~~~~
When they got back to camp, it was a somber grim group that met them. None wanted to meet their eyes. The skipper was a bit disgruntled. They'd spitted the dead Raptor while the burial detail had been out, and it was nothing but bones when they had returned. “Sure, we get stuck on the shitty detail and nothing to eat to show for it!” he snarled.
“I'm not one for eating,” one of the others said, trudging to his lean-to. He sat in a heap.
“I'm not either,” a woman said quietly. She went off to the other girls. One wrapped her arms around her in a hug. They could see she was crying.
“It wasn't all that great anyway. Tough and stringy. Besides, they burned the hell out of it.”
“Yeah, well…” the skipper waved an angry hand. After a moment he deflated. “Ah, the hell with it. It's over and done with now, I suppose,” he growled gruffly. Roy shrugged.
That evening there was a sparse meal for those who hadn't gotten anything earlier. Mostly leftover fruit and roots. Roy and the skipper wolfed it down while the others that had worked with them picked at their meals. Once that was done, Shawn Roberts cleared his throat and then banged a couple rocks together. When he had everyone's attention, he had them lower their heads and pray for the dearly departed.
Roy lowered his head dutifully out of respect. He ignored the words but agreed with the sentiment. It also allowed the community to share their grief, mourn briefly and then move on. Hopefully move on, he thought darkly. Hell, he thought, he was too tired to care at that point.
While the burial detail had been away, something more had been done about the housing and defense situation it seemed. Some people had used some of the excess jackets, luggage, wreckage, and some cloth divider curtains as improvised tents until better shelters could be made. Not everyone had a shelter, so some huddled under the broken wing of the aircraft or under the trees. There seemed to be something said about safety in numbers and fires. Lots of fires. He noted the stacks of wood nearby with approval.
Eight dogs, three cats and of all things an iguana had survived the wreck. The dogs ranged in size from two Chihuahua, the Roberts’s Yorkshire Terrier Muffins, a pug puppy, to the surfer dude's prize winning Frisbee catching border collie, a rather traumatized female black lab with no owner, and finally two white and black great Danes. The larger dogs were out on the perimeter, acting as guard dogs. The two Danes were already running through their meager food rations.
Apparently, something had been done with the dead pets. Roy wasn't sure what. He wasn't going to comment about it either since they had some meat for the stew. Stringy and tough, but it was protein.
They had their first night meeting a few minutes later. People milled about uncertainly. Many kept fearfully looking at the growing shadows over their shoulders or over the shoulders of others. Roy sighed mentally. It was going to be a long night. Even he was wary.
“Well, if no one is going to start, I will,” one guy said, coming forward. “Shawn Roberts, Investment broker. I'm a multimillionaire, I've run my own investment firm for over a decade. I know how to get people organized and get things going,” he said firmly.
That seemed to relieve a few people, but others sniffed in disdain. They needed leadership, but he just didn't seem the type. A politician, yes, but not a field guy. He seemed to sense their wary regard and faltered.
“Do you know how to handle a survival situation we've been dumped in Roberts?” Larry Wilson asked, leaning against an improvised crutch. His son looked up to him and then over to Wendy.
“Well, something has to be done! Someone has to lead,” Catrina said, lifting her chin imperiously. “At least we have a plan,” she said snidely.
“Do you?” the skipper asked. “Is that what you've been doing while the rest of us have been busting our ass getting stuff done? Setting up the camp, finding food, getting water, burying the dead, treating the injured?” He demanded, waving a hand in the direction of each effort.
“It's clear the people who are best to lead are incapacitated by their injuries,” the doctor said. Her husband nodded ruefully. “We're doing all we can to keep them stable and comfortable.”
“Since we have predators, and since they have the training, I think we need to lean on our military people to take charge, at least for now,” Wilson suggested, turning to Klinger who was coming out of the gunny's shelter. “How is he?” Wilson asked.
“He's listening. He can't do much though,” doc said, answering for Klinger. “He has a fractured right ulna, two fractured ribs and a cracked skull. He's lucky he doesn't have a subdermal hematoma or internal injuries.”
“So he's out,” Roberts said with a sniff.
Klinger shook his head. “Not necessarily. He can't get about, but he can communicate. Gunny was a survival drill instructor at the facility in Portsmouth Naval Shipyard in Maine. I know; I trained with him. For those that don't know me, my name is Corporal Max Klinger, United States Marine.”
The Roberts’s grab for power was not going over well Roy judged, looking at the group as they digested Klinger's statement. Had Shawn and the others put themselves forward and done things, led by example, that might have gone over differently in the initial leader vacuum. But now no one wanted them. Well, only a handful around them.
“And you have a plan?” Shawn demanded.
“I'd like to hear yours,” Doc said, lifting her chin.
“Isn't it obvious? We…um…stay here until help arrives. Someone will come by eventually.”
“Right, and you do remember the three moons in the sky? The Raptors? Alien creatures that have been reported? Birds with four wings and others? Somehow, I think help's a little far away,” the paramedic said.
“Well at least I have a plan!” Shawn said. His wife nodded vehemently, rising to his defense.
“Even I can do better than that,” Wilson said dryly. “Four essentials,” he said. “I'm a survival instructor. Most of you by now have seen stuff, Castaway, Survivorman, whatever,” he waved his good hand briefly as they turned their collective attention to him. “Fire, shelter, water, food. We've got the makings of all four here, but we're limited. Supplies are low on three of them. We need to work on long-term goals too. Improving the situation and getting our people back on their feet,” he said wryly, indicating his bum arm.
“The pilot is out. He's drifting in and out of consciousness. Klinger, until the gunny can get back on his feet, I think you're elected as leader,” the doctor said, crossing her arms.
“No one,” the doctor said. “You are right though, we do need someone in charge. But not you, Corporal?” she asked turning to the young man.
Klinger frowned thoughtfully. He turned to the skipper. “Don't look at me son, I run a small fishing vessel. A group this size is way out of my league.”
Several people snorted at that blunt honesty. “We should call a vote,” Susan said quietly. Her boss nodded.
“Fine, any other candidates?” doc demanded, stepping to the front of the group. “Wilson?” She asked, turning to Larry. He shook his head.
“I'm good for help but not that good. Sure I taught classes, but this is different. I'll help where and when I can,” he said, indicating Klinger. “But for the record, I'm behind Klinger and Gunny. They have the training here. I want my kids to survive.” He put a hand down on his daughter's shoulder. She looked up at him. He stroked her brown hair.
“What is your plan?” Catrina demanded, looking with narrowed eyes at the corporal.
“Survival is broken down into the four essentials as Mr. Wilson said,” Klinger said hesitantly, then picked up steam. “We're set for water, but we need to continue boiling it in case of contamination. Shelter…he waved a hand. “We're working on, but obviously we need defensive structures. And we can't do much with the beach right there,” he said, waving a hand to the beach.
Roy and others nodded ruefully while a few looked at the sea and waves.
“We know now there are predators out there, just under the surface. We don't know what they or other animals are capable of. We need to figure that out. We need to know more about our environment, which means mapping it. We need to communicate too. A buddy system needs to be put into place, with teams of people, at least one armed at all times. Let's see,” he turned and frowned thoughtfully.
“Fire we've got, though we'll need to continue gathering fire materials. Food is an issue, but it's neck and neck with defense.”
“Defense is important; it's our necks on the line,” a wise guy quipped from the crowd.
“Cute,” the skipper said. He turned to the crowd. “Folks, I don't know about you, but obviously Klinger has a plan and can break it down as needed. I'm behind him. Anyone else want to toss their hat into the ring? I guarantee you won't match this man,” he said.
“With those ringing endorsements, how can he loose?” Shawn said sarcastically in the silence. That stirred a muttering among people. Some near him distanced themselves from him. “Fine, then get this over with,” he growled, waving his hands.
“All those in favor of Mister Roberts?” Doc asked. She watched as a smattering of hands were raised. A few jerked their hands down when they realized there were only twenty or so hands up. A few in the back raised both hands.
“And all those in favor of Corporal Klinger and the gunny?” Doc asked. Hands shot up, some cheered. She nodded and then turned to the corporal. “The ayes have it, Corporal, or should I say mister mayor? President?” she teased.
He waved a dismissive hand. “Corporal will do. Call me Klinger,” he said. “If I do this, that means you will have to obey. I'm not some dragon, but there is a reason to do things my way. If you have a better suggestion, by all means let me know. But be prepared for me to be obstinate and tell you to do it anyway. Got it?”
The group nodded or voiced an affirmative. “Fine then. We'll break into groups for chores. Nasty chores are necessary. They will be rotated among us. They are, however, a necessary evil folks. So, no more taking a crap near the water or just anywhere it is handy. We'll set up a latrine area and a normal base camp. I'll see if Gunny has some thoughts on that. Until then, try to do it one place despite the smell. And kick some sand over it when you're done.”
“Sure, so the next guy can step in it,” a smart ass quipped.
Klinger snorted and then shrugged. “That's why we need a designated hole for a latrine area. Skipper,” he turned to the captain. The captain came forward and took off his hat. “Skipper here is in charge of fishing and stuff on the beach. Gathering sea weed, shells, digging for clams, that sort of thing. If you are interested in that, see him.”
The corporal frowned thoughtfully. “We'll have to see who can hunt and who else has wilderness experience. If you have that or survival training, see me later. We'll get better organized as I get to know each of you and what you can do. Try to stay positive people. If you've got an idea, work it out. If you're injured, see Doc here,” he said indicating the doctor. “If you find food, give it to this lady,” he said indicating a pear shaped woman. “She's a professional chef.”
“Call me Cookie,” the woman murmured. She was blushing a bright red. She muttered something else and then fumbled with her improvised apron as she stepped out of the spotlight. Roy noted that she had been one of the Roberts’s supporters.
Ideas began to be bantered about as the meeting broke up. Klinger was mobbed for a moment by well-wishers and people with ideas. He waved them off, and then had them think out their ideas and present them to him later.
Roy noted the Roberts were a bit put out over how the vote had turned out. But they seemed resigned to the inevitable and went along with the majority. He also noted the lack of commentary or direction on tools and other things. He'd have to do something about that, either on his own or with Klinger.
“Hang on a minute here, folks,” Klinger said when people began to demand for tasks in the morning. “Let me consult here,” he said turning his back to speak with the gunny.
Klinger consulted the wounded Gunny for a few minutes and then returned. He slowly laid out a plan: the four essentials, of course, food, fire, water, and shelter but also defenses including a wall. Grimly everyone agreed on that. He put team leaders in charge of various projects to start in at dawn. The architectural student Nima Tormet would work with Wilson on the defenses and shelters. Wilson would have been a natural leader for the hunters and gatherers, but his injury and kids sidelined him at least for a couple days.
Army PFC Harris, rancher Mr. Mclintock, and ROTC student Ashley Simpson would lead the hunters with Klinger. A botanist named Elsa Doonsworthy came forward; she would lead the gatherer teams.
The corporal tried to lay the camp out in a military format, organizing areas for different functions. His take-charge leadership helped spark hope in the refugees.
Cookie, a nutritionist, and Janice Mclintock would handle the mess. That suited Roy just fine; he could cook but knew his limitations. Besides, he knew he had better, more important things to do with his time.
One of the stewardesses was put in charge of the vital water situation. She would have to keep water flowing to the camp and make certain it was boiled carefully. Already two water bottles had been melted and ruined when they had been put too close to the fire or left there for too long.
Doc was in charge of the medics. She nodded and went back to work, not even bothering to listen to the other assignments. Roy didn't get one, nor did he brave the crush of people to put himself or his ideas forward. There would be time enough for that later he thought.
Roy realized Klinger was taking most of his plan from the survival book but playing to people's strengths as much as possible. He was also playing a little politics, throwing Roberts a bone by letting him run the camp able bodied in other tasks. Roy knew that was asking for trouble; Roberts would solidify a power base and then try again when things got better.
He scowled bleakly. People had short memories. After a time they would grow to resent the corporal, think of his measures as draconian, those of a tyrant, not those necessary of survival. Eventually, as things settled down and improved, they'd desire a change in leadership. He shook his head. He wasn't sure he wanted to be around if that happened. Roberts…something about the man just rubbed Roy the wrong way. For now he needed to bank the issue and get some sleep. They had a lot to do in the morning.
&nbs
p; ~~~~~O~~~~~
They were woken in the night by barking. A few people muttered to shut the yappers up but all the dogs were involved. The guards called an alert, banging on metal and yelling. People sat up abruptly to the sight out of a nightmare.
Feathered Raptors, these larger than the first group, were there, making their way along the beach cutting right through the camp. People panicked, some screamed as they scrambled to get away, but the animals mysteriously passed them by. They sniffed the aircraft and then instead they headed on down the beach. One woman threatened a Raptor that came too close with a torch. It hissed at her but then when the point raptor cawed it turned and kept going into the night.
“Wonder what that was about?” Klinger asked.
“I'm not sure, but they were in a hurry,” a guy said, holding a club.
“Anywhere but here,” another vowed. Some people nodded. Others muttered.
“Are they coming back? Why pass us buy?”
“Don't look a gift horse in the mouth!”
“The dead,” the doctor said. They turned to look at her in the shadows as she came out of the Gunny's shelter. She shook her head. “Didn't you see the lead ones? They had their noses to the ground. The smell of blood attracted them. They must be carrion eaters first.”
“Makes sense,” Klinger said, rubbing his jaw. “Predators are like that. Why fight over a meal and get injured? It makes sense to go for the free meal. Can they dig them up?” He turned to Roy.
“Yes. We buried them under a couple feet of dirt but that won't stop them. We left a trail for them to follow.”
“Great. The next question, will they be back? How long will this keep them…full?” The doctor asked.
“I don't know. But we'd better be ready when they are hungry again,” Klinger growled. He turned to the listening group. “Okay folks, I know it's futile but try to get some rest. Those that can't, join the guards on duty. The rest of you, rack out. We've got a long day tomorrow,” he said.
