Darren Wearmouth - Critical Path

Charlie reached out and gripped the pole, twisting himself around to try to get a better view of his intended destination.

He fully expected a meat-processing warehouse. But the sight surprised him.

Smoke curled into the sky from at least fifty different places from a small town within the basin at least forty meters deep and a couple of kilometers wide.

Croatoans trudged down the dirt road in procession. It cut to the bottom of the basin in a series of shallow switchbacks and ran through the center of the settlement.

Either side of it, a mixture of two hundred or so small buildings with wooden and canvas roofs formed a cluttered surrounding, some with animal pens attached. A scattering of people moved between the individual places.

In the center, a larger building, perched high on a piece of raised ground, glinted in the sun. Charlie shielded his eyes and gasped. Constructed out of debris stone, it reached three stories high and featured a number of glistening metal turrets, completed by solid-looking wooden doors protecting its arched entrance.

Around the perimeter of the basin, a series of five giant steps were cut into the side. Like a stadium for giants. On the left-hand side, twenty or so buildings with more of a modern look nestled on each level, constructed with a mixture of materials.

Some looked like mini warehouses, others like log cabins or adapted trailers. Nothing seemed quite right with each one. The closest mini warehouse had a brick constructed dwarf wall running around the bottom; a cabin had silver window shutters. Several had washing lines out front. The clothing on them flapped in the breeze.

On the steps running around the right-hand side, root spread across the bottom three levels as far as the eye could see. Wheat and barley gently rippled on the upper sections.

A gaping sinkhole lay between the main settlement area and the basin’s left edge. Bigger than any Charlie had previously seen, a dull silver cone protruded out of the left-hand side. He recognized it as one of the initial invasion vessels.

Beyond the chasm, a high stone wall surrounded an area the size of a football field. Visually sweeping the landscape again, he attempted to assimilate the strange configuration. No frame of reference for the mash-up came to mind.

Whatever it was, it had been for some time.

A bearded man dressed in a filthy white apron walked around the side of the nearest building. After throwing the contents of a bucket into a pigpen, he turned and gazed upwards. Charlie raised his hand. The man shook his head, wiped his hands on his apron-front, and returned inside.

The croatoan tugged at the control pole, pulling Charlie to the ground. His heels slipped against the dusty surface as he tried to gain traction.

The alien increased its speed of descent. Charlie’s legs no longer had the strength to maintain a crab-like walk. He grabbed the pole with both hands, lifting his back off the ground, and scraped to the bottom of the incline on the balls of his feet.

A golden retriever bounded up, tail wagging. It panted in Charlie’s face and walked alongside. The croatoan loudly clicked, waving its dusty black glove at the dog until it scampered away. The alien hauled Charlie to his feet and pushed him forward, jabbing the pole into the back of his neck, encouraging him to walk along the two-hundred-yard road through the settlement and toward the main building.

Charlie shuffled forward, stumbling every time he received a thrust from behind. He glanced into the first building on the right. Different cuts of meat hung from hooks on the ceiling. Behind a wooden table, spattered in blood, the man in the filthy apron glared back at him before slamming a cleaver into a pig’s severed leg.

His guts rumbled. Since these people—and aliens—took him out of stasis from within the pod, he’d barely had anything to eat. Days passed and he grew weaker. The sight of those meats taunted him as he thought he could smell barbecued ribs and sausages.

The next place was little more than a glorified tent. Faded red canvas stretched over a circular wooden frame. Inside, a young woman in a basic blue dress worked a loom. A small boy with a dirty face fed her threads.

They both stopped work as Charlie passed. The boy said something, and the woman put her arm around him and tucked his head against her chest. She turned away. Charlie’s head snapped forward after yet another prod from the pole.

Two men sat under a red plastic awning on stools outside a garden shed, drinking from porcelain mugs. Both wore grimy blue jeans, brown woolen shirts and sturdy black boots. One looked at Charlie while casually chatting. He seemed to be acting as if this was an everyday occurrence.

“What the hell is this place?” Charlie said, his sore throat making his words scratchy and barely audible.

The man picked up a small stone and threw at it Charlie. He winced and twisted his head after the stone bounced off his ear. Both men cackled.

“What the hell?” Charlie said, coming to a stop and glaring at the two old geezers. This brought another push from the alien. Charlie thought about trying to twist out of the noose and ramming the pole down the bastard’s throat, but he was just far too weak. Grudgingly, he carried on moving forward.

Loud clanking came from a large open-fronted shack constructed of thick wooden trunks with a pitched slate roof. When Charlie drew level, two croatoans were busily working inside. Sparks fizzed from pieces of glowing metal as the aliens repeatedly hammered them into shape. Neither wore a helmet or uniform. Both dressed in cream-colored, crumpled linen shirts and trousers. Two tubes ran from their backpacks into each nostril of their disgusting tortoiselike heads.

Humans and croatoans working together like this… all this infrastructure. There was no way this had come about since the mother ship came down a month ago. The established settlement had a much older feel. Charlie knew he’d been taken north, but had no idea of his location.

A large lake, he thought. Given the basin and size of this place, it had to have been one of the many lakes that drained during the uprising. This could put him anywhere from north New York, Chicago or even into Canada, Ottawa perhaps.

One of the aliens raised a hammer in acknowledgement to the croatoan who pushed Charlie along before returning to his work. It interested Charlie to see how they had adapted their breathing apparatus. No more bulky visors and backpacks, the ones these wore were smaller and less prohibitive in their movement.

Root vapor still scented the air, though, so that hadn’t changed—they still relied on it in gaseous form.

Ahead, the main building doors started to slowly open with a low creak.

During his previous career, Charlie often dreamed about traveling back in time to observe a functioning medieval town, as a silent witness. But not like this, not in the future.

He thought about Denver and hoped his son believed him dead. Killed in the explosion that downed the mother ship. If Denver knew he was alive, he’d come, all guns blazing, and run into Charlie’s second worst fear after terraforming—integration.

Two croatoan guards aimed their rifles at Charlie as he was pushed into a large courtyard. He glanced up. Twenty aliens patrolled the ramparts, weapons pointing out. All of them had tubes up their nostrils, just like the blacksmiths. About half dressed in the standard uniform. One wore a hide jacket with body armor stitched in similar places.

The noose loosened around Charlie’s neck and slipped over his head. A hand firmly grasped his shoulder and shoved him across a cobbled surface toward a large pair of wooden doors.

Charlie rubbed his neck and considered his options. Running or fighting would lead to a swift gunning down. But he wondered why he remained alive.