Someone slaps me. Repeatedly.
I blink awake, hands lifting in self defense as the barrage of little impacts keeps shaking my cheeks. A grub-like creature with rolls of chins, a single hole where its nose should be, and drooping green eyes stares at me. It’s small and rides in one of the little shining crafts.
Another fucking alien.
I scoot back. “—the fuck,” I breathe, lifting my hands and staring at melting clusters of… snow. I scoop a handful, letting it fall from my skin.
“Subject is awake,” comes the robotic voice from the creature’s craft. This creature isn’t wearing armor like the others. I kind of wish he was, because he’s slimy and misshapen without it. Sort of like a booger somebody roughly tried to craft into the shape of a caterpillar.
I look past him, noticing a snowy forest. Somewhere in the distance, I hear a steady, rhythmic thwack. Someone’s chopping wood, but why?
Instinctively, my fingertips lift to my neck as I remember that… place. I can feel the raised markings on my skin. The shape of the letter “1” and the other classifications.
“Subject is looking upon me with unjustified violent intent. Please advise.”
I stand, brushing the freezing snow from myself. I’m still wearing what I’d been wearing in the bunker. Considering it’s always hot as hell in there, I usually just wear shorts and a t-shirt. I’m already clutching my arms around myself, shivering. “Where…” the question dies on my lips. Somehow, it doesn’t feel important, because one look is enough to know this isn’t the world beyond my bunker.
That world… it’s a burnt, acrid place where the air burns your lungs if you breathe too deeply. Trees, plants, wildlife… it’s all almost eradicated. But here, everything looks alive.
Colder than anything I’ve ever felt? Yeah. But alive. Fucking alive.
Trees surround me, all of them blanketed with snow. In one direction, there’s a strange, kind of gray quality to the sky. Is that a wall? My mind reels, because I don’t think it can be. It would be too big if that’s what it was, so I put the thought from my mind.
The creature floats closer in his craft. He pokes me.
I slap his hand away. “Where are we? What is this?”
The creature drifts backward, bulging eyes lingering on my hand as if he’s worried I’ll swing at him again. “Violent beast.”
“You slapped me awake, asshole. Where. Are. We,” I ask again, enunciating just in case he’s hard of hearing and not just a stubborn, slimy little asshole.
His craft rotates, putting his back to me. He’s speaking again, more to himself than to me, I think. But it seems like the shiny little ship translates everything he says.
“Central, come in. Bugbug is not receiving your transmissions. There has been a mistake. Major large mistake. It seems I was assigned as concierge. Repeat, major large mistake has been made. Bugbug requesting immediate extraction.”
I guess that explains what the other alien on the ship meant when he said I’d been assigned a concierge. Too bad mine doesn’t seem to want the job.
But I’m cold, and my mind is currently torn between curiosity and very real fear that I might freeze. At the least, I could easily lose a testicle or two in temperatures like this, so I needed to get moving. I can deal with the curiosity part when my testicles are safe.
I head for the sound of chopping wood. With any luck, it means somebody’s making fire. I shuffle forward, feet already numb as I trudge through snow up to mid-calf. I’ve only been here a few minutes and I’m already deciding I don’t like snow. I’d seen it in movies, of course. Somehow, I never really thought about how cold it would be.
The cold is starting in my feet and creeping up through my bones, straight to my brain until it feels like I can’t even think at normal speeds. I try to move faster. Toward the sound and the possibility of fire.
“Bugbug, requesting—”
“Would you s-s-shut up?” I grate between my teeth.
He does not shut up, but I don’t care, because I can finally see it.
Ahead, there’s a makeshift town. Someone has erected huge logs in a circle, creating a tight wall of wood with pointed tips. There’s a gate roughly made from more branches and logs. It all looks improvised, like it might only be big enough for a dozen people or so to live within.
I make my way to the gate, finding a path of well-trodden snow that’s packed down tight. I follow it right up to the thick logs barring my way inside. “Hello?” I half-shout.
A head appears above, then vanishes. The muffled sound of voices reaches me, but I can’t make out the words. There’s more movement on the other side of the logs. Naturally, they don’t trust me. They’d be idiots to trust me, which leaves me with only one option.
“Let me the fuck in! I’ve… I’ve got bombs. Let me in or I’ll blow this whole place up!”
That should do it.
Bugbug floats next to me, eyes half-lidded as if he’s unimpressed by my strategy. But he doesn’t get it. People don’t respond when asked nicely. You’ve got to make them think you’re the one with the biggest stick. Or bomb, in this case.
The gate opens a touch. “A bomb, huh?” It’s a man. He’s wearing a faded and torn camouflage uniform, like a soldier from the old wars. He’s got a thick animal-skin coat over it, though, with some kind of bearskin hat and a scarf around his face, showing only his eyes.
I can’t say I’ve seen something that looks so new in a long time. Maybe ever. The uniform isn’t even torn up. The colors aren’t faded.
Then it clicks. The people on the ship. He’s one of them. That uniform is probably the real deal, and I bet he was wearing it when they collected him. But the extra layers he’s added makes it look like he’s at least been here long enough to hunt and make himself more comfortable.
If I wasn’t freezing, I would likely drop my bomb act and shower him with questions about the Before times. But I am freezing. “That’s right. A b-bomb,” I say.
He looks me up and down, then seems to decide something, shouldering the gate open wider. He gestures for me to come in. “You’re going to freeze. Get in here, brother.”
I stumble through the gate. The inside of the outpost is a little bigger than I imagined it would be. Shoddy buildings made of wood and sticks huddle against the outer wall. They all look like they’re just one loud noise from falling down. But at the center of the outpost, there’s a strangely high-tech looking metal circle embedded into the ground. It’s full of what must be a hundred little half-circle indentations, one of which holds a glassy orb.
Another egg. It looked just like the thing I saw in my chest back on the ship.
A few people moving around stop and stare at me. The soldier raises his voice, calling out to them. “Another marked one. Just wandered up to the gate claiming he has a bomb.”
A serious-looking woman wearing a blouse that looks like it’s from the 2000’s folds her arms. “Does he have a bomb?”
“Unless it’s stuffed up his ass, I don’t think so,” the soldier says. “You’re welcome to check. But I think he’s going to get hypothermia if I don’t get him near a fire in the next minute or two.”
The woman sighs. “Go on, then.”
Another guy pauses with an armful of chopped wood, eying me as we pass. He’s wearing a tie. An honest-to-god tie. I once saw someone use one of those to choke a man to death, but I’ve never seen someone wearing one.
Frowning, I scan my eyes across the encampment. Everybody here looks like they’re from a different time period. It’s—
“Come on, brother,” the soldier says, urging me toward the nearest stick house with a hand on my back. “We need to get you inside.” I stay alert as I walk, eyes constantly scanning for threats. Once they find out I don’t have a bomb, what will they do? Try to kill me, probably.
My mind races as I try to think of what to do. Maybe I can convince them I know where to find supplies nearby and use the chance to escape?
Bugbug floats silently beside me, still repeating his call for extraction and ignoring everything else. I’m expecting the others to say something about him, but it’s like they can’t even see him.
Maybe they can’t… I reach a fingertip up, touching the place behind my ear they injected when assigning my concierge. I feel a small bump, like they slid something beneath my skin. Maybe it’s why I can see Bugbug. But if he’s just in my brain, why does he seem to want out of here so badly?
More and more people in the encampment are watching as I’m led by the soldier. If I had to guess, I’d say there are maybe two dozen people living here. Almost twice as many as I’d guessed, and I can tell the quarters are cramped. Some of them are busy doing something over a boiling cauldron. If I’m lucky, they’re making food. If I’m less lucky, they’re heating up the water so they can boil me.
The soldier opens the door for me, guiding me inside one of the structures. It’s blissfully warm. A fire rages at the center, carefully protected by stone and given plenty of room so it doesn’t burn the whole building down. There’s a small hole overhead to vent the smoke.
“Sit,” he says, guiding me toward the fire. I take a seat, letting the warmth sink into my skin.
“I’m James,” he says, extending a hand toward me.
I eye the hand with suspicion, not moving. I’ve seen people shake hands in the tapes, but in real life? The only time someone wants to touch your hand is because they’re about to do something very unpleasant to you.
He frowns, letting his hand fall back to his lap. “Right… do you have a name?”
“Garrick.”
James narrows his eyes, pulling down the scarf around his face. He’s probably in his early twenties with a strong jaw dusted with black stubble. His nose is flat and looks like it has been broken a time or two. And he has words on his neck, too—the skin raised and white like a tattoo.
6, F, C-
So he’s… what, level 6? His current power level is F, and his power’s potential is C-?
I shake my head. It’s fucking crazy. People don’t have levels or powers, unless being complete dumbasses counts as a power and aliens decided to abduct humans from across time, ranking us by dumbassery.
I doubt it, though. There’s something going on here. Something big.
James is about to say something when the door swings open. He offers her a tight smile.
“Lana. Decide you wanted to give him a rectal exam after all?”
“Just curious what he knows,” she says, walking in. She’s the one with the blouse beneath her furs. She’s got hair that looks like it was once dyed blonde but it has been growing out for some time. Almost half of her hair is brown, now.
How long have these people been here? And why am I only just arriving?
Lana kneels beside me. I tense, trying to decide how I’ll defend myself if she tries something. I could bite her and kick James at the same time, I think. Maybe steal one of those thick coats before I make a run for it.
“He’s marked like you,” she says.
“Calls himself Garrick,” James says. “You ever seen clothes like that?”
Lana stands, arms crossed as she studies me. “Homeless, maybe? Mid 2000s?”
I turn to glare at her. “I’m not homeless. I live in a bunker,” I correct.
Lana frowns at that, as if it’s a strange thing to say. She has a pinched face with laugh lines around her mouth, but her eyebrows are scrunched into a permanent scowl. “His markings are different than yours, James. What does S plus mean?”
Bugbug floats in the corner of the room, muttering to himself as he looks increasingly distraught. I can hear him continuing to send out his call for extraction, but nobody else seems to.
James pulls the rest of his scarf away. “Any ideas, Garrick? The top number grew when I started hunting last week. Every few kills and I’d feel an itch. It’s up to ‘6’ now, but I don’t really know what it means. This one started at ‘F-” like yours,” he says, touching the first letter below his number. “Went up to just plain ‘F’ yesterday. But the other one hasn’t changed. It was ‘C-’ when I woke and it still is.”
“No idea,” I say. I’m lying, of course, but maybe I can use the information as leverage. Once they find out I don’t have a bomb, I’ll need whatever I can get.
The door opens again, letting in a fresh gust of cold air. It’s the guy with the tie, this time.
“That’s Frederick,” James says, nodding toward the guy in the tie.
“Did this one come with a gun?” Frederick asks, leaning to get a better look at me. He doesn’t look impressed with what he sees.
I stand, inching toward the door.
“Easy, Garrick,” James says, holding a palm toward me. “You didn’t have to pretend to have a bomb to get in here. We’re not like those assholes to the East. We just want to help each other and figure out what the hell this is.”
I squint. My instincts are screaming that I can’t trust him. You can’t trust anyone. And even if these people really are from before, how do I know the movies were telling the truth about them? “What do you want with me?”
“Easy,” Lana says. “We’re the good guys, here. You’re lucky you came to our camp. There are people to the East… they’re…” she trails off.
“You came to the right place,” James says. “We’ll help you get back on your feet as best we can. Right, Frederick?”
“Oh, sure,” Frederick says. “Just another mouth to feed. I don’t imagine you know how to hunt or anything useful, do you, Garrick?”
“What? No,” I say, still rubbing my arms to try to bring back some warmth. Lana plucks an animal skin from by the door and carefully drapes it over my shoulders. I grip it, pulling it tight, relishing the warmth.
Little by little, I feel myself believing it. Not enough to let my guard down, of course. But I might believe them enough to see where this goes.
“Where are their marks?” I ask, pointing to Lana and Frederick.
“No marks for us,” Lana says. I get a better look at her, then, realizing she’s older than I thought at first. Maybe in her fifties, but it’s hard to say. She looks old and young at the same time, as if the life she lived didn’t wear her down the way life in my world… my time wore people down. “James was the first with markings to show up. We’ve found a few others in the last few days. One… dead already.”
There’s a strange silence at that last part, but I can sense it’s not a topic to press them on.
“A week?” I ask. “So you’ve all been here that long?”
Frederick laughs, running a hand down his face. He has deep-set eyes that seem slightly crazed and a large nose. “A week? I fuckin’ wish. Try six months. And before James showed up with his gun, we couldn’t hunt for shit. Between the weirdness of the animals here and those… things. We were boiling tree bark in our soup. Not sure how much longer we would’ve lasted.”
The woman takes over. “Did you learn anything before you came?” Lana asks. “We’re all still trying to figure out why we’re here or how. Some people remember being taken. Nobody remembers anything else, though.”
I try not to show my surprise at that. They don’t remember the ship, then. So why do I? Does it have to do with Bugbug?
But my eyes drift to James and I notice the gun slung across his shoulders, then. I couldn’t see it until he took off his heavy coat. “How much ammo do you have?” I ask. He must’ve been carrying the gun when they took him, but I can’t imagine he had much ammo.
“Ammo isn’t a problem,” Frederick says. “That’s the power I got. All of us with a mark have some kind of power. Best we can tell, it’s like a super power. Some random-ass ability. The viking and roman guy are both just really strong.”
“Miyasha can change things. Wood to stone. Stone to metal. Things like that,” Lana says.
“Your power is… ammo?” I ask, still struggling to accept all of this as real. Then again, with what I’ve seen, it’s not even the most insane part.
“I can make it out of things,” he says. “The material changes the effect the bullet has. Most of it is pretty useless, but rocks are the best. They pack an extra punch.”
“What do you mean, make them? A bullet made of rocks wouldn’t work. It’s not going to—”
“Yeah, not like you’re thinking. Here. Watch.” James looks around the small room and grabs a loose chunk of wood from the flooring, prying it up. He holds it where I can see, then his eyes get a far-off look.
The piece of wood glows briefly as if it’s heating from the inside out. I flinch, eyes squinting against the light. When I blink them clear, there are six wooden bullets on the ground in front of him. He shrugs. “Don’t know how. Don’t know why. I just know it works.”
My heart thumps harder. “That looked like magic.”
“We think it is,” Lana says. “And everyone with the mark on their necks can do it in some form. So what about you, Garrick? What’s your power?”