WHERE I BELONG
Setting the Scene.
The cure for the extinction-level pneumonia threatening both Eloi and Morlock had arrived. The surviving Eloi were vaccinated, but how to convince the Morlocks?
Seventy-two hours later, there was another Harvest night, this time four hours long, ending with sunrise.
A hand jarred me awake. The glare of a perimeter security light splashed against the tent wall.
“We got a Morlock,” Swede said in a graveled, sleep-deprived voice.
I opened my tent flap just as a second light flashed on, turning a swath of lawn and bordering woods into near daylight. Farther around the perimeter, the first had created a similar scene.
“They’ve been firing off like that for a good fifteen minutes.”
After a minute, the first light went dark.
“How many?”
“Only one, but he’s a persistent little bugger.”
I dropped my night glasses into place to confirm. Sure enough, a single Morlock darted among the trees and statues scattered over the lawn.
Swede’s large Aryan face jutted toward the dark as if he could see into it. “Do you think it’s trying to map out the range of our lights? Maybe to find a gap and return with a party?”
Another light popped on. This one caught a small humanoid form in its beam. In a second, the Morlock scrambled behind a tree trunk. A familiar head of long straw-like hair flew everywhere.
“Should we go out and grab it?”
“I don’t think it can cause any harm.” I weighed the amount of darkness remaining against the chance to learn more from my new friend. “Tell you what. I’m awake for the day. No sense of you losing any more sleep. I’ll take the rest of the watch.”
“Really? Thanks, Boss.”
As if I might change my mind, Swede wasted no time in clearing out. I waited until his snoring settled among the other noises. Night glasses worked well at spotting living things, but I needed the helmet lamp to pull statues and Eloi lawn furniture from the dark. While I prepared, the interloper continued to tease the security lights. After making sure everyone else was asleep, I set off in pursuit.
The track took me down a stone path, snaking through the wood like a dawdling child. I got my bearings from the White Sphinx, visible beyond the black columns of the tree trunks. My limitations soon became clear. Interference imposed by trees and the remains of statues conspired to diminish the effectiveness of both night glasses and the helmet lamp. The deeper I penetrated the forest, the more I thought leaving the safety of motion-sensing lights was a bad idea. After traveling several hundred feet, I decided to head back. As I turned, the helmet light reflected off something metallic on the seat of a small bench. Night glasses revealed nothing close. The weight of both stun-gun and sidearm dangling from my belt convinced me to investigate.
I found six MRE packets lined up on the bench. Two bore the cuts I made to demonstrate the knife’s safe use. The others proved the young Morlock woman had paid attention. The inside of the containers had been washed and dried. Spongy, sweet-smelling wafers filled each to bursting.
As I packed them away to bring back for examination, one bag was heavier than the rest. Dumping it out, I found the knife I sent along with the MREs. Had she thought it was on loan and returned it the way a grateful neighbor might?
I sniffed one of the aromatic wafers. Nothing smelling this good could be harmful. Violating every safety precaution in this world or any other, I took a nibble. They were mushrooms. The meaty consistency added to the sweet taste ignited my palate. After a minute passed without adverse effects, I headed back to camp and finished a whole packet on the way.
Upon arrival, I put the offering aside, scooped up twelve MREs suited to Morlock tastes, and returned to the bench. After placing the packets in two neat stacks and the knife on top, I retreated to cover behind a nearby shrub and waited.
She had patience, too. For almost an hour, I knelt, silent as a statue. Just before the first rays of dawn, a green form stirred on my night glasses. It approached from the river in a cautious, indirect route. Who else but my Morlock could it be?
Something large inside me warmed at the idea she still lived. Then, twenty feet from the bench, she stopped and crouched behind a tree trunk to confirm there was no threat. We both waited, but she gave out first.
She picked up the knife. Her head turned toward the camp and back to the MREs. Despite the darkness and Morlock facial inscrutability, I sensed confusion, followed by understanding and acceptance. Picking up the trove, she started walking toward the White Sphinx.
Once in the open, she picked up the pace. The sphinx’s pedestal doors seemed her objective. Did she plan to force them open or were accomplices waiting inside? At this point, I had no intention of turning back and touched the polished holster leather of the Glock for reassurance.
Not anyone inside and not several, but a second heat signature appeared from the bushes beside the pedestal. This one was as tall but slighter in build—another female. Her choppy speech and higher pitch suggested the excitement of youth, maybe a younger sibling.
Before ascending the steps to the pedestal doors, the youngster seemed to insist on inspecting the haul. While they clucked and marveled, I took the opportunity to close for a better look.
At ten meters apart, the older one alerted. Two pairs of large oval red eyes confronted me. There was something tragic in them. At that moment, my heart melted like it once did for the homeless families I tried to help in San Fran.
For the better part of a minute, no one moved. Unlike her companion, the younger one had nothing to cover her feet and walked with a slight limp. I remembered a pair of new socks that Liz pulled out of stores for me. At the time, I stuffed them in a side pocket. Holding the stretchy ball in an offering, I blasted the Morlocks with my best smile. The two conferred briefly before the older one began a wary approach. I put the socks on the ground and backed away. In a flash, she snapped up the pair and showed them to her companion. While debating the purpose of the presentation, their eyes never left me.
After a minute, I lifted a boot and pantomimed the application. First one Morlock, then the other, cocked her head to the side, which I interpreted as understanding. Together, they climbed to the pedestal doors. While the youngster worked the socks onto her bare feet, the older Morlock pressed a hand on the crease where the doors met. They noiselessly slid open as if on new Teflon hardware.
Before entering, the older Morlock turned and raised a clench-fisted arm, the same as the track athletes at the Mexico City Olympics. The doors closed behind them, leaving me to speculate on the meaning of the parting gesture—a show of gratitude or a Morlock version of flipping the finger?
The cure for the extinction-level pneumonia threatening both Eloi and Morlock had arrived. The surviving Eloi were vaccinated, but how to convince the Morlocks?
Seventy-two hours later, there was another Harvest night, this time four hours long, ending with sunrise.
A hand jarred me awake. The glare of a perimeter security light splashed against the tent wall.
“We got a Morlock,” Swede said in a graveled, sleep-deprived voice.
I opened my tent flap just as a second light flashed on, turning a swath of lawn and bordering woods into near daylight. Farther around the perimeter, the first had created a similar scene.
“They’ve been firing off like that for a good fifteen minutes.”
After a minute, the first light went dark.
“How many?”
“Only one, but he’s a persistent little bugger.”
I dropped my night glasses into place to confirm. Sure enough, a single Morlock darted among the trees and statues scattered over the lawn.
Swede’s large Aryan face jutted toward the dark as if he could see into it. “Do you think it’s trying to map out the range of our lights? Maybe to find a gap and return with a party?”
Another light popped on. This one caught a small humanoid form in its beam. In a second, the Morlock scrambled behind a tree trunk. A familiar head of long straw-like hair flew everywhere.
“Should we go out and grab it?”
“I don’t think it can cause any harm.” I weighed the amount of darkness remaining against the chance to learn more from my new friend. “Tell you what. I’m awake for the day. No sense of you losing any more sleep. I’ll take the rest of the watch.”
“Really? Thanks, Boss.”
As if I might change my mind, Swede wasted no time in clearing out. I waited until his snoring settled among the other noises. Night glasses worked well at spotting living things, but I needed the helmet lamp to pull statues and Eloi lawn furniture from the dark. While I prepared, the interloper continued to tease the security lights. After making sure everyone else was asleep, I set off in pursuit.
The track took me down a stone path, snaking through the wood like a dawdling child. I got my bearings from the White Sphinx, visible beyond the black columns of the tree trunks. My limitations soon became clear. Interference imposed by trees and the remains of statues conspired to diminish the effectiveness of both night glasses and the helmet lamp. The deeper I penetrated the forest, the more I thought leaving the safety of motion-sensing lights was a bad idea. After traveling several hundred feet, I decided to head back. As I turned, the helmet light reflected off something metallic on the seat of a small bench. Night glasses revealed nothing close. The weight of both stun-gun and sidearm dangling from my belt convinced me to investigate.
I found six MRE packets lined up on the bench. Two bore the cuts I made to demonstrate the knife’s safe use. The others proved the young Morlock woman had paid attention. The inside of the containers had been washed and dried. Spongy, sweet-smelling wafers filled each to bursting.
As I packed them away to bring back for examination, one bag was heavier than the rest. Dumping it out, I found the knife I sent along with the MREs. Had she thought it was on loan and returned it the way a grateful neighbor might?
I sniffed one of the aromatic wafers. Nothing smelling this good could be harmful. Violating every safety precaution in this world or any other, I took a nibble. They were mushrooms. The meaty consistency added to the sweet taste ignited my palate. After a minute passed without adverse effects, I headed back to camp and finished a whole packet on the way.
Upon arrival, I put the offering aside, scooped up twelve MREs suited to Morlock tastes, and returned to the bench. After placing the packets in two neat stacks and the knife on top, I retreated to cover behind a nearby shrub and waited.
She had patience, too. For almost an hour, I knelt, silent as a statue. Just before the first rays of dawn, a green form stirred on my night glasses. It approached from the river in a cautious, indirect route. Who else but my Morlock could it be?
Something large inside me warmed at the idea she still lived. Then, twenty feet from the bench, she stopped and crouched behind a tree trunk to confirm there was no threat. We both waited, but she gave out first.
She picked up the knife. Her head turned toward the camp and back to the MREs. Despite the darkness and Morlock facial inscrutability, I sensed confusion, followed by understanding and acceptance. Picking up the trove, she started walking toward the White Sphinx.
Once in the open, she picked up the pace. The sphinx’s pedestal doors seemed her objective. Did she plan to force them open or were accomplices waiting inside? At this point, I had no intention of turning back and touched the polished holster leather of the Glock for reassurance.
Not anyone inside and not several, but a second heat signature appeared from the bushes beside the pedestal. This one was as tall but slighter in build—another female. Her choppy speech and higher pitch suggested the excitement of youth, maybe a younger sibling.
Before ascending the steps to the pedestal doors, the youngster seemed to insist on inspecting the haul. While they clucked and marveled, I took the opportunity to close for a better look.
At ten meters apart, the older one alerted. Two pairs of large oval red eyes confronted me. There was something tragic in them. At that moment, my heart melted like it once did for the homeless families I tried to help in San Fran.
For the better part of a minute, no one moved. Unlike her companion, the younger one had nothing to cover her feet and walked with a slight limp. I remembered a pair of new socks that Liz pulled out of stores for me. At the time, I stuffed them in a side pocket. Holding the stretchy ball in an offering, I blasted the Morlocks with my best smile. The two conferred briefly before the older one began a wary approach. I put the socks on the ground and backed away. In a flash, she snapped up the pair and showed them to her companion. While debating the purpose of the presentation, their eyes never left me.
After a minute, I lifted a boot and pantomimed the application. First one Morlock, then the other, cocked her head to the side, which I interpreted as understanding. Together, they climbed to the pedestal doors. While the youngster worked the socks onto her bare feet, the older Morlock pressed a hand on the crease where the doors met. They noiselessly slid open as if on new Teflon hardware.
Before entering, the older Morlock turned and raised a clench-fisted arm, the same as the track athletes at the Mexico City Olympics. The doors closed behind them, leaving me to speculate on the meaning of the parting gesture—a show of gratitude or a Morlock version of flipping the finger?
© 2014-2021. All rights reserved and no exceptions. All personal works on this site are the exclusive property of I Heart Book Publishing, LLC. Work may not be transmitted via the internet, nor reproduced in any other way, without prior written consent.
© 2014-2021. All rights reserved and no exceptions. All personal works on this site are the exclusive property of I Heart Book Publishing, LLC. Work may not be transmitted via the internet, nor reproduced in any other way, without prior written consent.
