Mickey Reichert: The beasts of Barakhai

BENTON Collins had heard rabbit meat described as tough, greaseless, and stringy; but experience clashed pleasantly with the report. He savored its rich, gamy flavor and streaming juices that sizzled in the fire. Succulent as a steak, it satisfied his empty stomach. He had teased out the organs carefully, yet guiltily suspected he had wasted quite a bit of edible meat with the skin. In the future, he hoped he would learn to rescue every scrap; his life, as well as more rabbits', might depend on it. He prepared to sink his teeth into the last leg.

A horse whinnied, sharp and sudden as a whipcrack.

Collins sprang to his feet, whirling toward the sound. Distant figures emerged patternlessly from the forest. He squinted, managing to make out a single, light-colored horse, its rider, and three or four milling people. His spirits soared. "Hey!" he shouted, waving the drumstick. "Over here!"

Their movement stopped. Without his glasses, Collins could not tell if they turned toward him.

"Here!" Collins called louder, waving the remainder of his food frantically. "Over here." Human contact, thank God. I'm saved. He realized his story would sound positively ludicrous, unless others had come to this place through Daubert Laboratories before him. Perhaps some of the gamers did so regularly. Even if no one had, he doubted he would sound insane enough for them to have him institutionalized. Assuming, of course, this parallel dimension is even at the same tech level as ours.

Two dogs shot ahead of the people, barking wildly. They bounded into the weeds, leaping like porpoises through the tall grasses toward Collins.

Collins laughed as they approached, the horse cantering after them. A thought struck with chilling abruptness. What if they're hostile? What if they're members of some primitive warrior tribe that hates everyone? He discovered eerie parallels in his undergraduate history and sociology classes. People tended to fear differences, to revile what they did not understand. Oh, come on, Ben. There's no such thing as other worlds. This is twenty-first-century America, for Christ's sake. What's wrong with me?

Copper highlights glimmered from the horse's sleek golden coat, and its black mane and tail trailed it like streamers. Its rider appeared broad and well-muscled, apparently male, wearing what looked like a thigh-length rust-colored long-sleeved T-shirt with matching bicycle pants and leather riding boots.

The dogs arrived first, sneezing and waggling their tails, snuffling every part of Collins. One resembled a beagle, medium-sized and tricolored. The other towered over its companion, uniform brown except for black on its muzzle. Its ears stuck up in sharp triangles, and its tail curved over its back in a broad, stiff loop. Collins smiled at them, alternately petting each. He offered the last of his dinner to the beagle.

Delicately, the dog sniffed at the meat, whined softly, and retreated. Surprised, Collins held the drumstick out to the other dog. He had never met a large dog that did not gobble down proffered meat in an instant; yet this one also refused, pacing backward and forward nervously. It appeared to Collins as if it wanted the food but dared not take it. Realization seeped slowly into his thoughts. Probably trained to only accept treats from their trainer.

The horse skidded to a stop at his makeshift camp, trampling grasses and flowers beneath prancing hooves. Now, Collins could see the crude stitching and deep staining of the man's clothing and the deep saffron of his cuffs and collar. Widely spaced brown eyes studied Collins from coarse, weathered features, and he bore a headful of tangled sandy curls. He reeked of sweat. A sheathed sword dangled from his left hip. The fine-boned mare rolled a blue eye that contrasted strikingly with its buckskin coat and wind-whipped mane and tail. It bore no saddle and only a rope for a bridle, yet it clearly obeyed its rider.

Collins could not help staring back. He could no longer doubt that he had transported through time or discovered a world with no connection to his own. Seeking saliva in a mouth gone painfully dry, Collins broke the silence with a compliment. "Well trained dogs you got there. Wouldn't take fresh meat from a stranger." He brandished the rabbit leg.

The rider leaned forward, gaze sweeping the crafted clearing. Suddenly, he jerked back. He shouted something indecipherable to his slower-moving friends, who quickened their paces.

Collins glanced to his right, trying to figure out what had provoked his new companion. He saw only crushed and broken weeds, his multitool, and the remains of the rabbit. The multi-tool, he guessed. Probably never seen anything like it. He continued speaking, trying to radiate trust. "Well trained horse, too. Don't know many people who could ride without-"

Collins broke off as the other four people caught up, panting, with the leader. Though dressed the same, including the swords, they otherwise seemed as different as possible. Two were blonds, both male, one fair and the other dark as cola. One of the brunets was a pale and lanky man with a Roman nose, the other a sinewy, brown-skinned woman with her hair tied in a rough bun. Collins loosed a pent-up breath. At least, they seemed unlikely to comprise a homogeneous group that would hate him simply for his appearance. "Hello," he said.

The people ignored his greeting. The one Collins assumed was the leader dismounted. He and the ample-nosed brunet stood on either side of Collins, examining him intently. The blonds approached the remains of his dinner. A sword rasped from its sheath.

Collins recoiled; but its wielder, the darkest man, kept his back to Collins and the others. He shuffled through the bones, skin, and organs, speaking rapidly in a language Collins could not identify. It sounded like nothing he had ever heard before, even from the international graduate students who shared his campus apartment building.

Abruptly, all of the humans spun toward Collins. Several started speaking at once, their tones frenzied and their gestures savage. The horse's eyes rolled white, and it danced sideways.

The sandy-haired leader stabbed the air with his hand and spoke over the others. Silence followed, but the glare on every face seemed unmistakable.

Collins back-stepped warily, abruptly terrified. His eyes jerked wide, his nostrils flared, and his heart rate doubled in an instant. Drained of thought, he whirled to run and nearly impaled himself on the woman's sword. He stopped short. The metallic rasp of drawing weapons echoed through the clearing. He froze. Then, slowly, he raised his hands in an innocent gesture of surrender. "I mean you no harm. Friend." He hooked a finger toward his naked chest. "Ben. My name is Ben. Ben."

Collins felt motion at his flank. He spun. Something heavy crashed against the side of his head. Pain shocked through his skull with an explosion of white light. The impact flung him to the ground. He ducked behind his hands, protecting his aching head. Five swords leveled at his vitals held him in place.

The leader gave a command.

The lighter blond sheathed his sword. He shouldered off his backpack and rooted inside it. A moment later, he pulled out a braided mass of rope, which he carried to Collins.

Collins bit his lip but otherwise remained perfectly still. His head felt on fire, and he did not know what might antagonize them to finish him off.

The sandy-haired giant motioned at Collins and said something uninterpretable.

Collins shrank further against the ground, head pounding. "I-I don't know what you're saying," he squeaked.

The brunet man exchanged a few words with the leader. Then, he hooked a boot beneath Collins' shoulder and flipped him prone.

Collins did not fight the motion, though it sparked flashes of light through his brain. Behind him, someone seized his hands and roped them together. As the knots tightened, they bit into his wrists. The blonds rifled his pockets, removing everything: loose change, calculator, keys, mechanical pencil, lighter, notes, wallet, the remote keyless entry to Marlys' car. They unfastened his belt, taking it along with his pager and cellular phone. They added his watch and the multitool to their haul. Craning his neck, Collins peered around the nearest of the strangers to watch others scoop the remains of his meal into a sack. Another stomped out his fire. When it seemed every trace of Collins' presence had disappeared into one sack or another, the four men seized him by the arms and knees, hefting him awkwardly onto the horse.