Mists of Dawn (22 page)

He
did
not
like
the
idea
of
a
night
in
the
open,
in this
unknown
country,
so
Mark
kept
going,
praying that
the
light
would
not
fail.
But
it
was
growing
darker by
the
second;
he
could
hardly
see
at
all.
The
feeling that
unseen
eyes
were
upon
him
persisted;
he
could
not shake
the
feeling
off.
He
tried
to
tell
himself
that
it was
a
normal
reaction
under
the
circumstances,
but
he couldn’t
convince
himself.

Doggedly
he
went
on—and
then
stopped
dead.

There
was
something
there.

Ahead
of
him,
they
were
ahead
of
him.
Mark
turned around.
They
were
behind
him
too.
He
could
feel
them.
He
gripped
the
.45
tightly,
feeling
cold
sweat start
out
on
his
forehead.
The
night
wind
sighed
eerily through
the
grass
and
he
could
not
see.

He
was
trapped—the
things
were
all
around
him!

Mark
was
terrified.
This
was
too
much.
Panic
1)1
shrieked
along
his
nerves.
He
had
a
wild
impulse
ly
I
to
shoot
crazily
into
the
darkness—shoot
anywhere,
I
I
at
anything.
He
mastered
the
impulse
with
difficulty.
But
what
could
he
do?
What
.
.
.

One
small
corner
of
his
mind
still
functioned.
Wait,
it
whispered.
Don’t
lose
your
head.
Wait.

Mark
waited,
clutching
the
gun
as
though
determined
to
squeeze
it
into
a
shapeless
mass.
The
things came
closer,
closer.
He
could
almost
see
them
now. He
stifled
a
sudden,
terrible
scream.
Those
things! What
were
they?
What
could
they
be?

His
hand
trembled,
but
he
raised
his
gun,
took
careful
aim.
But
he
did
not
fire.
There
were
too
many
of them.
He
could
make
out
at
least
ten
shadowy
figures in
the
semidarkness.
He
had
only
six
cartridges.
There was
a
chance
that
the
shots
might
scare
the
things,
but that
was
a
long
chance
to
take.
They
didn’t
look
like
anything
would
scare
them,
ever.

They
were
nightmares
.
.
.

Mark
waited.
His
eyes
peered
through
the
gloom. He
was
beginning
to
make
them
out—and
suddenly
he 
did
not
want
to
see
them,
not
in
the
light.
They
were terrible
enough
dimly
glimpsed
in
the
darkness.
The things
walked
on
two
legs,
which
were
bent
slightly, giving
them
a
stooping
posture.
They
were
short, about
five-feet-five.
They
had
two
arms,
and
they seemed
to
be
carrying
weapons
of
some
sort.
They were
not
apes—and
yet
they
were
not
men
either.
They were
half-men,
and
Mark
knew
that
if
he
ever
got
a good
look
at
them
he
might
well
go
out
of
his
mind.

One
of
them
snarled
hideously.
The
thing
came
forward.
It
touched
him.
Mark
tensed.
A
foul
animal smell
assailed
his
nostrils.
He
dug
the
muzzle
of
the .45
into
the
thing’s
belly
but
he
did
not
dare
fire.
He waited.
If
he
was
attacked,
he
determined
to
sell
his life
as
dearly
as
possible.
Otherwise—what?

The
thing
snarled
at
him
again
and
jerked
his
arm.

“Who
are
you?”
Mark
heard
a
voice
gasp.
It
was
his own.
“What
do
you
want?”

There
was
no
answer,
of
course.
The
things
could not
possibly
understand
what
he
said,
even
if
they
had a
language
of
their
own.
But
Mark
had
to
talk.
He felt
better
talking.

“What
do
you
want?
Get
away
from
me,
get
.
.
.”

The
thing
snarled
again
and
then
screamed
hideously.
Mark
shuddered.
The
half-men’s
eyes
seemed to
glow
redly
in
the
darkness,
like
monsters,
like
fiends from
Hades
.
.
.

The
thing
jerked
at
his
arm
again,
harder
this
time. Its
hand
was
rough
and
as
hard
as
iron.
The
half-man growled
deep
in
his
throat.
Again
he
pulled
at
Mark’s arm,
while
Mark
kept
the
.45
buried
in
the
thing’s stomach,
his
finger
curled
around
the
trigger.

Mark
understood
dimly
what
the
creature
wanted.

It
wanted
Mark
to
come
with
them
somewhere,
that was
clear.
Mark
weighed
the
possibilities.
He
could shoot
the
thing
arid
make
a
break
for
it,
but
where could
he
go?
It
was
too
dark
to
see
now,
although
the stars
were
coming
out,
and
he
could
not
find
his
way back
to
the
space-time
machine
without
a
stroke
of extraordinary
luck.
And
the
others
would
be
all
over him
in
a
minute,
ripping
him
apart,
tearing
at
him.
He had
no
chance
and
he
knew
it.

“Okay,”
Mark
whispered.
“Let’s
go.”

The
thing
understood
nothing
of
the
words,
but
it seemed
to
sense
the
meaning
of
Mark’s
voice.
The
iron hand
relaxed
and
Mark
was
free.
The
shadows
of
the half-men
closed
in
around
him
and
began
to
walk across
the
plain
into
the
night.
With
a
sinking
heart, Mark
kept
in
the
center
of
them.
Whenever
he
fell back
or
hesitated,
a
warning
snarl
kept
him
in
line.

Mark
kept
the
.45
ready
in
his
hand.
However,
he had
abandoned
all
hope
of
using
it.
It
was
very
cold now,
although
the
wind
had
died
down
with
the
coming
of
the
night.
It
was
very
still,
except
for
the
shuffling
of
feet
and
the
harsh
sounds
of
breathing.
From far,
far
away,
as
though
from
another
world,
he
heard an
awesome
trumpeting
like
the
cry
of
an
elephant.

Mark
shivered.
If
only
he
had
a
fire
to
keep
him warm!
He
was
not
used
to
such
cold,
nor
was
he dressed
properly
to
endure
it,
the
chill
going
through his
shirt
as
if
it
didn’t
exist.
A
fire.
That
gave
him
an idea.
He
still
had
the
matches
in
his
pocket—could
he do
anything
with
them?
Mark
had
read
stories
in
which people
had
startled
savages
by
unexpectedly
striking a
match,
and
thus
making
good
their
escape.
It
was
a slim
hope,
but
worth
a
try.