by R Magnusholm
John carried his Arsenal mug full of clean spring water in one hand and his spear in another. Why, oh why, hadn’t he brought a water bottle on his last day in the office? Just one lousy plastic bottle would’ve made their lives immeasurably easier.
The morning sun threw shadows that pointed west, but keeping to any kind of compass heading in the woods overgrown with stands of holly and brambles was no mean feat. Currently, they trudged along an animal track that meandered west, south, and north. It split and looped back. No footprints showed on the ground cover of moss and moldy leaf litter.
John imagined that if he were a Stone Age tribesman brought up in a forest, he’d be able to identify the animals who walked here—how many, and when—from just a few scuff marks.
They came to a place where a forbidding stand of holly split the trail. As they pondered which way to go, Liz wrinkled her nose and said, “Phew, it stinks like a barnyard here.”
He sniffed and nodded. What he’d taken for the reek of rotten vegetation had a distinct manure undertone.
After a brief discussion, they took the path leading southwest.
A minute later, John parted the branches and froze. A pair of malignant eyes set far apart in a giant woolly face gazed back at him. He had a glimpse of horns spreading at least five feet wide.
It’s the Devil, his feverish brain supplied helpfully. The Beast. Has to be . . . His heart turned to a trip-hammer that threatened to tear his ribcage open. No matter. His cardiac health was of no importance in hell—not when Satan himself stared him in the face.
He eased backward, letting the foliage fall back into place, and lifted the Arsenal mug to his lips. Might as well have that last drink, a thought flew across his mind. He drank deep and fast, his Adam’s apple bobbing furiously, all the while backing off down the path.
Liz, her face pale, looked at him questioningly.
He held a finger to his lips and motioned for her to retreat.
A twig snapped under his foot, and a bird screeched overhead.
With an outraged bellow and a thunder of hooves, the beast burst forth, flattening the bushes in front of it.
“A minotaur!” Liz screamed. Without a backward glance, she fled down the path, her grass shoe disintegrating.
Still backing off, John gazed at the creature. It wasn’t the Devil or even a minotaur, but a bull of some kind, perhaps a buffalo. Huge. Probably weighed a ton. John exhaled slowly. While the animal looked fearsome, it was a herbivore. Surely, if he just backed off slowly, it—
The bull lowered its head and charged.
John took off after Liz. The last of the water sloshed from his mug, splattering the front of his pants. Don’t break the mug, don’t break the mug, don’t break—echoed through his mind with every stride. Despite his injured foot, he was gaining on her.
“Get behind a tree!” she yelled, before disappearing around a sharp bend in the path.
But there were no stout trees to shelter behind, only thin saplings and bushes. John skidded at the turn, then pelted down the twisting path after her, the thunder of hooves behind him growing louder, closer.
Fortunately, the beast wasn’t good at navigating turns at speed. It overshot. The inertia of its great mass made it skid into the brambles, where it fell sideways to flail among the thorny strands.
But before John and Liz could escape, the bull righted itself and resumed pursuit, bellowing. Bramble vines trailed from its nightmare horns. Spittle flew from its nostrils.
John’s hurt foot protested with every stride, and his initial burst of speed began to falter.
Directly ahead lay a copse of young aspens and birches. The trees grew close together with no more than four-foot gaps between them. His spirits lifted. Surely with its wide horns, their pursuer would be stopped in its tracks.
He was wrong.
Like a tank, the great animal plowed into the grove, snapping tree trunks as thick as a man’s arm as if they were matchsticks. But the thicket slowed the bull enough to give John and Liz a few vital seconds of respite.
Several mature pine trees grew beyond the coppice, and Liz darted behind the nearest. Her sides heaving, she leaned her forehead against the fissured bark.
John, his empty tea mug in one hand and spear in another, dodged behind a tree fifteen feet away from Liz. They exchanged a relieved glance.
In the next heartbeat, the bull, or buffalo (or whatever the hell it was) tore a new path through the thicket and headed straight for Liz. The beast plowed into her tree. The trunk shook.
“Just keep the tree between yourself and the damn bull,” she called coolly. “It won’t be able to get you.”
He stuffed the mug in his suit’s side pocket and gripped the spear in both hands.
The beast circled Liz’s tree, snorting and pawing the ground. She walked around the trunk, flipping John a grim thumbs-up sign. Her face deathly pale, she disappeared behind the trunk.
When the bull’s manure-caked rear came into view, John stepped from behind his tree and jabbed at the beast with his spear. But his pathetic weapon failed to leave even the tiniest scratch in the bull’s tough hide.
The animal whirled on him with surprising speed, then began circling John’s pine. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Liz hurling sticks at the beast. It backed off some ten yards, and John sighed with relief.
The beast charged.
Its great bony head dealt the tree a mighty blow, making the trunk reverberate. From above came a crack. John looked up in time to see a green mass rushing at him. A heavy bough crashed down, smacking him on the head.
Dark fireflies danced across his field of vision. The spear slipped out of his grasp. He held onto the tree trunk, warm blood streaming into his left eye, the aroma of pinesap tickling his nostrils, fissured bark rough against his cheek. Why was he hugging a tree like a fool? A lovely pine, sure, but still . . . He caught a whiff of barnyard and snapped to his senses.
The bull appeared at his side, staring.
I must not fall. Must not fall, John thought, staggering over the mess of fallen branches to keep the trunk between himself and the snorting beast.
They resumed their circling dance. He couldn’t be certain how long this continued. At some point, he picked up his spear again. Periodically, the bull charged at the tree, and it creaked, but no more branches came down.
He jabbed at the bull repeatedly, aiming for the eyes, but always missed. Still, he tore the beast’s nose, and droplets of blood flew each time it snorted. The brute soon learned to respect John’s weapon and began retreating from it.
Liz dashed from behind her tree and cracked her club on the animal’s spine. When the bull turned on her, John stepped forward with his spear.
“Caramba, you asshole!” he yelled. “Arriba! Arriba!” He struck, aiming for the softest part of bovine anatomy. He missed again. But the bull no longer dared to enter the space between the two trees, and it stopped charging.
For a while they had a stalemate.
John took a good look at their tormentor. Muscle-bound and shaggy, it stood taller than John’s six feet at its shoulder. He suddenly remembered an illustration he’d seen in the Museum of London of a man standing next to a prehistoric cow.
“Liz, it’s an auroch.”
“I wish it’d go away.”
The beast eyed them balefully. It lowered its head to snack on a clump of grass.
John dashed from behind his tree. “Hey, go eat somewhere else!”
The bull charged halfheartedly. John dodged behind the tree. The animal retreated further away and again tried to graze.
John picked a boomerang-shaped stick and hurled it with all his might. It struck the bull between the horns with a resounding smack. The auroch withdrew further away.
“Get lost, stupid cow.” John brandished his spear threateningly. “Fuck off!”
The animal retreated a couple steps. And then it bellowed. A low and eerie sound.
For one wild moment, John believed
that their nemesis would go away. He threw Liz a triumphant glance. But she was staring glassily at something. He followed the direction of her gaze. A second auroch emerged from the thicket beyond their bull, then a third and a fourth.
The whole herd had arrived as reinforcements.
Chapter 11
Trailblazers are Us
Midday, Pimlico Woods
As more of the auroch herd came into view, John felt the blood drain from his head. Behind her tree, Liz seemed to be transfixed by the sight of so much angry beef on the hoof.
He peered over his shoulder. Behind them, the ground sloped southward, presumably to the river Thames. Fully grown beech trees and oaks dotted the slope, towering above the scraggy undergrowth. But with the lowest branches too high, none of them were climbable. A dense grove stood at least a hundred yards away. He scanned the retreat route in despair. The fastest human sprinter might cover a hundred meters in ten seconds, but he and Liz weren’t champion runners. And just how fast could aurochs run?
He’d bet his Arsenal mug the damn bulls ran faster than him and Liz.
The beasts lowered their horns, pawed the ground, and bellowed. A chorus of doomsday trumpets. John and Liz exchanged a glance and bolted.
Her feet pumping, she fled without looking back. He ran after, leaping over trailing vines and fallen logs. Under the mature trees, the undergrowth was sparse, but there were places where the tree boles stood less than five feet apart.
From behind him came the thunder of hooves and wet snaps of small trees being broken and flattened. The ground shook as in an earthquake. With mounting horror, he realized he couldn’t keep up with Liz. His injured right foot wobbled with every step, and fresh blood flowed into his eye.
John glanced over his shoulder. The nearest bull was less than six feet away and gaining. Already, it was angling its head to gore him with one of its wicked horns. Another few seconds and—
Ahead of him, Liz darted into a gateway formed by two stout beech trees. Pushing himself to his utmost limit, slaloming around saplings, he chased after her. Wood snapped behind him. The leafy top of a young rowan slapped his left shoulder, showering him with orange berries. He flew through the passage between the trunks, stumbled and fell. Pieces of bark rained on his back as the bull rammed into the trees. A cloven hoof pistoned through the gap between the smooth gray trunks, missing him by inches. Liz grabbed him by the arm and hauled him to his feet.
Already, two bulls were circling around the pair of trees. But the thick undergrowth slowed their progress.
“Let’s go,” he wheezed, heading for the next patch of densely packed trunks some twenty yards farther downhill.
The pursuit resumed. John’s chest burned, and his leg muscles ached. He didn’t know how long he’d be able to keep up this pace.
Not long.
A wide expanse of reeds opened to their left—east according to the sun. At intervals, water glinted beyond that. A flash of dread lent John a fresh burst of speed. Pimlico lay on a peninsula, and if the geography of this world followed that of modern London, they’d be trapped between the pursuing aurochs and the river.
But fortunately, closer to the water, the trees grew denser, and soon their pursuers fell behind.
John and Liz exchanged a weary glance and slowed to a brisk walk, breathing heavily. His twisted ankle burned—a dull and constant pain. His heart thudding in his chest, he was streaming with sweat. Liz, her chubby face flushed, one of her feet bare, was limping too.
The grove of the trees thickened, and soon they were picking their way through the tangle of foot-thick aspens and willows. He imagined that no auroch would squeeze through that. Damp leaves squelched underfoot, and the gnat-filled air smelled of swamp. After some hundred yards, the ground rose, and John spotted a pleasant dry spot where mature pines pushed from the mossy hillock.
As he struggled up the incline, he swayed on his feet. “Let’s rest awhile.”
“Got water?” Liz gasped, pointing to his rucksack.
He slid it off his shoulder and pulled out the lidded plastic container. Some water had seeped out, but the good old Tupperware tub remained nearly full. “Voila,” he said and proffered it to her.
She took a couple of slow sips and handed it back. “Seems we lost them.”
“I hope so.”
For a while, they listened to the distant bovine bellows of rage and frustration. He couldn’t tell if the racket was getting closer or receding, but they were safe here.
“When I first saw it,” he said, “I thought it was the Devil.” He sank to the forest floor, his chest heaving. After a moment, he stretched on his back, relishing the coolness of the mossy ground. The sweet aroma of damp pine needles and mushrooms filled the air. His entire body ached, and his tired heart continued to slam against his ribs. He wiped blood and sweat from his face.
Liz sighed. “Will we ever see our families again?”
“Who knows . . .”
She reclined next to him. Lacy treetops swayed above them, and flocks of white puffy clouds drifted on the southern breeze. After the cold start, the day turned dry and sunny—almost summery.
“What if,” he said, “what if we’re not ourselves?”
“Huh?”
“The process that teleported us here might have duplicated us, copied us from our world into this one. Then the real we carry on as if nothing happened.”
“You probably read a lot of science fiction as a kid.”
“Nope. My parents insisted that all fiction books are garbage. I was only permitted management manuals.”
“John, I forgot to mention how sorry I am you were fired.”
“Don’t be. I broke the cardinal rule of threes.”
“Rule of threes? What’s that?”
“A manager must change jobs every three years,” he replied.
“Why?”
“You come to a company and introduce ‘Changes’. With a capital C. Blame any initial setbacks on the previous leadership. Sounds familiar?”
“You’re describing our new director.”
“Yep. He’ll declare his intervention a great success on his CV and move to a new company before anything bad happens.”
She frowned. “So basically, the management class is a virus. The only way they can survive is by jumping from host to host.”
“Well, there are exceptions.”
“Yes. You stayed with us,” she said.
“Yeah, I did.” He gazed at the floating clouds. The damp ground under his back stopped being refreshing and turned cold. “Not that it matters anymore. It would’ve been better if I were a lumberjack or a carpenter. Then I’d probably have some useful tools with me.”
Liz climbed to her feet with a groan. “I think the aurochs are gone.”
John got up and listened. Just birdsong and the soughing of wind. He peered around. The place looked vaguely familiar. He walked over to an alder bush and examined a broken and wilted twig. Another broken twig hung at the end of the branch further ahead. Yes, two days ago, they had passed here on their way south to the river, marking the trail every twenty yards as if they were great trailblazers.
“The river is south, and our holly thicket is north.” He pointed. “Let’s go.”
Chapter 12
A Lucky Shot
Back at Ground Zero, John pulled his cardboard box from inside the holly thicket where they’d spent the first night. The top of the box was damp from the last night’s rain, but what worried him were four deep slashes in the box’s side and the pall of ominous silence that hung over the woods. He studied the tree line but saw nothing threatening.
“We better go,” Liz said. She started down the trail leading south—the way they’d walked earlier.
“Wait,” he said. Something told him that retracing their steps would be a very bad idea. “Let’s go directly east.”
“You feel that too?”
He nodded. The silence made the hair at the back of his neck prickle. He sensed
being watched.
“We might get lost,” she said.
“We won’t. It’s only a couple miles as the crow flies. If we keep the midday sun to the right, we’d be going east to Fleet Woods.”
They set off. Ten minutes later, birdsong and the rustling of small animals resumed.
“That was a bad place.” Liz peered over her shoulder. “So spooky.”
He examined the slashes in the cardboard and shuddered. The woods behind them were dark under a high canopy of oak and beech, but they were mostly clear of undergrowth. John and Liz could see quite a way back, and nothing seemed to lurk in the dark avenues between the towering gray trunks.
“I suppose we’re safe now,” he said.
“I can’t wait to see if your paperweight works as a magnifying glass.”
He peered at the sun floating between treetops. It was already past midday. They’d have to try it soon. The thought of having a warm fire at night made him forget his empty stomach and hurt foot.
Half an hour later, they sat on a fallen log and shared the remaining water. His cardboard box stood at his feet. He held the glass paperweight—Best Employee award—and waited for the sun to come out. How annoying. It shone for most of the day, but the moment he actually needed it, the sun hid in the clouds.
Liz took the now empty container and began gathering blueberries. John threw a couple juicy berries in his mouth. They tasted so much nicer than those acerbic blackberries. He supposed they could survive in this strange world. Even thrive. But only if they made fire.
The sun peeked from behind the cloud. Quickly, he crumbled a bit of dry birch bark and a feathery reed head atop the log and held the glass ready. The sun hid again.
He sighed, thinking that they needed to explore their new environs soon. The Fleet flowed somewhere ahead. And there must be other good sources of water. They lived in a lush woodland, not in a desert. He was sick and tired of being constantly thirsty and then gorging himself on water as if he were a camel.
He savored a mushroom he’d found earlier. This one had an orange head, and Liz claimed it was an aspen bolete. He chewed the cold fungal flesh with relish, his stomach no longer complaining at the unfamiliar fare, grateful for any meager nourishment.
