The truck bumped and rattled violently over the rough terrain, its tires clattering into deep ruts and jolting over exposed roots and stones. What had begun as a crude road had now narrowed into little more than a path, hemmed in by thick underbrush and low-hanging branches that slapped at the sides of the vehicle. In the cab, Steve gripped the wheel with white-knuckled focus while Mark braced himself against the dash, both men feeling every jarring impact through the worn suspension.
From the back of the truck, Dan muttered through clenched teeth, “Feels like we’re on some little-used patrol road... if you can even call it a road anymore.” He winced as the truck lurched hard to one side, jamming his shoulder into the wooden rail.
Fitzhugh, wedged in beside the others, scowled and shook his head. “Little-used is right. It’s bound to run out soon—it’s gotten less and less traveled with every miserable mile.”
Valerie kept her gaze fixed on the changing scenery as the truck rattled onward. “It’s getting greener out there,” she continued, her voice soft but hopeful. “There are more berry bushes now—more food to be found. And look… the land’s starting to slope downward. That river we left behind at the forest’s edge—the one flowing out of the valley with the caves where she lived—we should be running into it again soon, just as soon as we get past Mount Apemore.” She turned to the others, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “If we can reach it, maybe we can build some kind of boats and follow the river downstream. It could take us all the way to the forest south of the Forbidden Zone—and maybe even to the Marintha, if we’re lucky.” Valerie’s voice faltered slightly. “She must be worried about us. We’ve been gone for days now…”
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Steve’s voice cut through the constant rumble and clatter of the truck, sharp and urgent. “Look!” he barked, his tone edged with alarm.
The single word snapped Mark’s attention from the rutted path ahead. From the tone of his friend's voice, he knew he'd spotted trouble. He instinctively eased up on the accelerator and glanced in the direction Steve was pointing, the wheel wobbling slightly in his hands as the truck jolted over another deep rut.
"A scouting patrol!" Mark moaned. "Two jeeps and five gorillas!"
"They've seen us!" Steve warned.
The jeeps were on an opposite hill, but they started down towards the astronaut's truck at once.
"Floor it!" Steve cried.
"I'm going as fast as I can!" Mark answered. "Those lighter jeeps can go where this monster would get bogged down in a second!"
"Speed's not the answer here," Steve said calmly, reaching down to pull Fitzhugh's trick screwdriver from between his feet, where he'd carefully stashed it, despite Fitz's objections.
"You're---you're going to kill them outright?" Mark gasped.
Steve was checking the tool, but he glanced sidelong at Mark. "If I have to, yes. What do you think they'd do if they caught us?"
Mark gulped. "I don't even want to think about that!"
"Taking life isn't my idea of fun, Mark, but this is self-defense."
"Just shoot straight, captain," Mark said, grunting as the truck still twisted in the ruts of the road.
They bounced wildly for a moment, and the engine stalled as the wheels jammed. Mark worked at the starter, but the engine wouldn't catch.
"Don't run the battery down," Steve advised. He opened the door and jumped to the ground. "The jeeps are in that gully. I'll run down and set up and ambush for them. You stay in the truck. They may think you're a gorilla group."
Steve slammed the door and started running toward the thicket at the road's edge.
Mark continued to try to start the truck, but the engine wouldn't catch. "We must've shaken something loose," Mark said, opening his door.
"I said not to get out!" Steve shouted.
"I'll be on this side, away from them," Mark replied as he jumped around to the front of the truck and quickly opened the hood, then slipped back around to the side and peered under it.
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Steve had run among the bushes lining the road and dived in to hide under a thorny bush that offered top-notch concealment. He yanked off the last piece of the disguise with one hand——a greasy rag wrapped around what looked like an ordinary screwdriver but wasn’t—and cradled Fitzhugh’s laser in the other. With practiced fingers, he flipped open the recessed activation switch and heard the soft hum as the weapon came to life. The indicator light flared green. A fast glance at the setting dial told him that the solar receptor had done its job well—batteries fully charged. The output was dialed to millipulse mode, a high-precision beam tight enough to cut steel. “Perfect,” Steve muttered, eyes narrowing as he looked toward the line of approaching jeeps. “We’ll slice them clean in two.”
Steve could hear the jeeps grinding up the slope to his left. He blinked, steadying himself for what was to come next.
What have we done to deserve this? he thought. One wrong turn, one emergency landing, and suddenly we're fugitives in a world turned upside down. Seven lives—no, eight, if I count myself—hang in the balance. And all of it came down to a disguised piece of tech, a fake screwdriver, wrapped in a rag. A screwdriver! That was what stood between them and annihilation. It's absurd. Embarrassing. I should be brave, unshakable in the face of danger. So why am I afraid? What's my excuse? And Chipper? We haven't told Barry yet, not about the dog he trusted turning into a threat and forcing us to kill him. When he eventually finds out, what then?
Steve licked his dry lips. The jeeps were closer now. He suddenly remembered something he heard one time, back when he was learning to fly: "Heroes can't imagine their own death, and that's why they're heroes." Steve didn't agree with it. PEOPLE can't imagine their own death---not just heroes. Or what people call heroes....
The blond aviator knew that though Fitz's laser was highly advanced and quite deadly, it was by no means the supreme weapon. The alert eyes of a gorilla might spot him in the thicket, and he could die from a rifle bullet, or a rock whammed into his head just as easily as from an A-bomb or a laser.
It's not cowardly to wish for life, Steve thought. It might be cowardly to beg for it, or to give up something much bigger than you in exchange for it. You SHOULD wish for it, all right, and fight for it to the last breath....but when you know it's over---well, go with dignity.
He clenched the laser and sighted it, aiming at the place where the jeeps were likely to appear at any moment. The courageous thing to do is face up to your weaknesses, he thought. To fear death is normal. To fear fear is a weakness. He took a stronger grip on the trick screwdriver and got ready. The jeeps were coming up the hill.
As Steve took aim at the first vehicle an old English proverb popped into his head. "A hero is the one who was afraid to run away." He grinned and pressed the firing stud.
The beam sliced through the radiator and engine of the lead jeep; then Steve angled it up and took out the driver. The jeep swerved, bringing the jeep's other occupant right through the still-pulsing beam. The jeep crashed into the thick brush on one side of the road. It's engine stalled and one half of a body fell out.
Alerted, the second jeep swerved to a halt and the three gorillas in it jumped out and fired toward the source of the red beam even as Steve swung the deadly laser toward them. His first shot exploded their gas tank, showering the area with flaming pieces of metal and rubber. His second sliced through the apes themselves.
As Steve rose from under a sheltering bush, he noted that a bullet had snapped off a twig only one inch from his face. He stepped carefully into the road, his eyes still searching for survivors.
A minute's survey told him all five of the soldiers were dead. Their rifles were either burned or rendered useless by the laser's silent sword. Steve put the first jeep in neutral and shoved it back until it touched the now smoldering second jeep. Though he tried to avoid looking at the severed bodies, his stomach grew queasy at the sight.
Back at the truck, he told Mark, "I hope it'll look like as if they'd had an accident. We don't want the Ape Army to know about us being here---or about the laser, if we can help it."
Mark was wiping his oily hands on a piece of wastepaper from beneath the truck's seat. "And now we walk. This thing is finished. It was almost out of gas anyway." He looked back at the column of black, oily smoke rising from the gorillas' jeeps. "That'll bring them fast. Let's split, Mr. Man-of-the-Hour."
"No 'Man-of-the-Hour' stuff, please," Steve said. "I'm not your hero, I...." He grinned: "I just scare easy and have fighting reflexes."
Mark swung open the back of the truck with a grunt, the hinges squealing in protest. “Come on, everybody out,” he called, waving his arm urgently. “We’ve got company up ahead.”
The castaways began to climb down, some stiff from the long ride, others blinking at the sudden exposure to the open terrain. Dust swirled around their feet as they gathered near the side of the vehicle.
“What happened?” Valerie asked sharply, brushing her hair back from her face. “Why did we stop?”
Steve stepped around from the driver’s side, his expression tense. He glanced past her toward the bend in the road ahead, then turned back. “I didn’t have a choice,” he said. “Fitz's screwdriver—his trick laser—I had to uncover it. That oily rag he had wrapped around it? Gone. I stripped it down and checked the power cell. The solar receptor had charged it to full, and it was already dialed to millipulse settings. That thing could cut a jeep in half.”
Valerie looked stunned, but Steve continued, his voice tight with the weight of the decision.
“I didn’t want to reveal it unless it was life or death. But it’s the only reason we’re not being chased right now. I used it to disable the lead vehicle just before they saw us. We’d be boxed in by now otherwise.”
The castaways began moving out on foot, sticking close to the brush that lined the narrowing path. The road had become little more than twin ruts in the earth, half-swallowed by creeping vegetation.
Mark took point, his eyes scanning the ridgeline ahead. “They’ll trace the truck,” he said over his shoulder, “but maybe by the time they do, we’ll be far enough away they won’t catch up.”
“Maybe,” Fitzhugh repeated, dragging his feet slightly as he adjusted the strap of a too-heavy satchel. He gave Mark a theatrical look of disgust. “Marvelous. Our entire survival plan hinges on a maybe. Just the kind of certainty I find so comforting when we're fleeing an angry ape general with a personal vendetta.”
Dan gave a short laugh and pushed Fitzhugh forward. “Keep moving, or his maybe’s gonna turn into a definitely.”
They went down the slope and into the three, seven rather dirty and disheveled humans.228Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡEha6STKawV
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Fitzhugh wiped his brow with a dramatic flair and thumbed the checking switch on his trick screwdriver. The tiny dial quivered, then settled near the upper range.
“Hmph,” he muttered. “This infernal thing’s getting a little hot.” He set the laser down carefully on a flat rock, as if it might explode. “I suppose slicing through half a forest to build a raft will do that,” he added, his tone thick with theatrical self-pity.
He turned just in time to catch Barry at the edge of the clearing. The boy had gone still, a small smile creeping across his face. From between the trees, the slim figure of a humanoid girl stepped into view—barefoot, wild-haired, and unmistakably familiar.
Nova.
She moved hesitantly at first, then broke into a quick trot as Barry stepped forward. Without a word, he reached for her hand, and she took his as if no time had passed at all. Their fingers laced together in quiet relief.
Fitzhugh snorted, loud enough for everyone to hear. “Oh, splendid,” he said, with withering sarcasm. “Love blossoms in the jungle. I can’t wait for the wedding invitation—perhaps carved into bark.”
Mark, nearby, shot him a warning look but said nothing. Nova glanced around nervously, sensing the tension, then relaxed slightly as Valerie stepped forward to greet her with a warm touch to the arm. The moment was quiet. Soft. Human.
But even so, Fitzhugh muttered under his breath, “Next we’ll be holding hands with chimps and singing campfire songs.”
And then, despite himself, he picked up the hot laser tool again, adjusted the focus, and muttered, “Let’s just finish this raft before I’m expected to toast marshmallows with the local fauna.”
Fitzhugh had done the cutting with theatrical grumbling and exaggerated sighs, but he’d followed instructions—more or less. Under Steve and Dan’s guidance, he hadn’t felled the trees in a neat cluster or cleared a visible patch of forest. Instead, the trees had been taken at irregular intervals, scattered among the dense undergrowth so the area wouldn’t look obviously worked over from above or afar.
Each stump had been cut low, close to the ground, with care not to leave clean rings of exposed wood catching the light. Steve and Dan then directed the others to conceal the stumps further—some with casual-looking mounds of forest pebbles, others with large, flat stones pried up from the nearby streambed and dragged laboriously into place.
The effect was rough and wild, more the aftermath of storm-fall or natural rot than any systematic harvesting. From a distance—and hopefully to any patrolling gorilla scouts—it would look as if nothing at all had changed.
Valerie, brushing a stray branch aside as she passed, glanced over at Fitzhugh and said calmly, “We won’t be here very long, so it really won’t matter.”
She adjusted the rope bundle of supplies on her shoulder and gave him a pointed look, half-exasperated, half-reassuring—clearly trying to keep him from launching into one of his usual tirades.
But Fitzhugh, clearly vindictive now, snatched up the laser tool with a huff and stalked over to Valerie. Without meeting her eyes, he thrust it into her hands.
“Here. You watch it,” he snapped. “When the dial turns from red to that nice, soothing green, you may summon me.”
Valerie blinked, taken aback. “Where are you going?”
He turned sharply, not bothering to hide the irritation in his voice. “To see how the others are managing with the raft. I’m sure someone has to ensure it doesn’t sink before it floats.” He strode off through the underbrush without waiting for a reply, muttering under his breath about engineers and amateurs. What a gorgeous day, Fitzhugh thought. What a shame it has to be spoiled by the fear of Urko and his gorillas coming over the hill at any moment. I know the horrible fate that'll await all of us if the bastard ever catches us unawares.
Fitzhugh emerged from the thinning brush and paused at the top of the muddy bank, brushing a leaf irritably from his sleeve. Below him, the scene was a flurry of quiet, determined motion. Steve stood ankle-deep in the river, sleeves rolled up, directing Dan as they lashed a freshly stripped log to the growing framework of the raft. The construction looked crude but solid—a rectangle of thick tree trunks fastened together with knotted vines and reinforced with smaller crossbeams. It bobbed gently at the river’s edge, its surface slick with river mist and speckled with drying mud. The raft appeared nearly finished, with just a few more support logs needed to balance the rear section. Fitzhugh could tell they’d been working for hours—perhaps days—judging from the organized stacks of cut trunks and the smoothed, intentional construction of the floating platform. A braided fiber rope held the raft to a thick root protruding from the bank, looped expertly in a double hitch that Fitzhugh, even in his limited wilderness experience, could tell was the work of Betty. She stood knee-deep in the shallows, checking the tension of the knots with practiced hands. Barry and the primitive girl, Nova, were just arriving at the water’s edge. Each carried one end of a heavy tree trunk, dragging it down the muddy slope between them. Fitzhugh blinked in surprise. Nova, slight and barefoot, showed a surprising strength—her small frame was wiry, her steps steady despite the weight of the log. She handled her end with the calm, tireless stamina of someone used to hard physical labor. Fitzhugh sniffed at the sight, but deep down, he had to admit—aloud, perhaps never—that she was stronger than she looked.
As Nova and Barry trudged past him, dragging the heavy log between them, Fitzhugh took a deliberate step back to avoid getting splashed with more river mud. He gave the girl a sidelong glance and sniffed theatrically. “Well, if this is the future of the human race,” he drawled, “we’re clearly in the hands of tireless savages and boy engineers.”
Nova didn’t respond—just kept walking, face calm and unreadable. Barry shot him a quick glare over his shoulder but said nothing.
Fitzhugh watched them go, lips curling faintly—less in scorn than in grudging, bewildered admiration. She’s as silent as a ghost and twice as strong, he thought. Not half bad for someone who probably thinks fire is still a miracle. At least she works harder than some of the society ladies I’ve known. And she doesn’t complain, which is more than I can say for—well, anyone else around here.
Nova made Fitzhugh uncomfortable in a way he couldn’t quite articulate—an odd, unsettling mix of vulnerability and something older, more instinctual. She never spoke, not a word, but her eyes—those wide, watchful eyes—always seemed to be studying him. Not judging, exactly. Not afraid. Just… aware. Like she saw through the bluster and the sarcasm and the neat, double-breasted jacket he refused to stop wearing. She didn’t act like a child, but she wasn’t quite a woman either, at least not by his standards. She was primitive, silent, half-wild—and yet she moved with a strange grace and purpose. When she walked past him barefoot in the mud, he became acutely aware of the shine on his shoes, the stiffness of his collar, the uselessness of every civilized habit he still clung to. That's the most disconcerting thing about her, he thought.
Fitzhugh laughed to himself as he climbed down the muddy bank towards Steve. Female monsters, he thought. The Bride of Frankenstein... Cat People... They weren’t terrifying because they were ugly—they were graceful. Calm. Alien. That’s what made them so scary. Nova moved with that same quiet strength—no words, no snarl, just a steady gaze and a silent purpose. It unsettled him more than any growl or scream ever could. Horror shouldn’t be that composed, he thought, shifting uncomfortably.
Fitzhugh squinted at the jungle shadows and suddenly recalled a grainy black-and-white film from his youth—The Man Who Grew Too Much. Or was it The Unearthly Giant? He couldn’t remember the title, only the image: a poor fellow who stumbled into some radioactive muck or strange plant serum, and then… he just grew. Not just in size—though that happened too—but in strangeness. His skin thickened. His eyes went hollow. His mind stayed sharp, tragically so, as his body became a towering, alien thing. Half-human, half-monster. It wasn’t the transformation that had haunted Fitzhugh. It was the look in the man’s eyes when he reached his final size—aware of what he’d lost, and what he could never be again. Fitzhugh shook his head. God help us if Barry ever finds something like that, he muttered, trying to lighten the mood—but it didn’t quite work.
The rush through time to this distant, hostile, and strange future version of Earth had made Fitzhugh even more uneasy and paranoid. Everything seemed turned around and bizarre. Intelligent apes, strange sea animals, mutated humans, ME-262's thousands of years out of place, volcanoes where Metropolis, USA used to be....
Fitzhugh shook his head and walked up to Steve, who was standing ankle-deep in mud, his hands on his hips, watching Barry and Nova wrestle another log into position.
"Tie it fast!" Steve called out, making a knotting motion with his hands. He glanced up as Fitzhugh sloshed closer. "Finished, Fitz?"
Fitzhugh stepped delicately around a pile of brush, chin lifted, and announced, “I am almost finished, thank you very much. Thought I’d be kind to the instrument and let it cool a bit—treat it gently, you know. No sense in burning out a perfectly good piece of my own engineering.” He glanced down at the raft, then over at Steve with one eyebrow raised. “And how long, might I ask, before this…floatable lumberyard of yours is ready for launch?”
"A day, at the most."
Fitzhugh folded his arms and cleared his throat with theatrical urgency. “If you don’t mind, Mr. Burton,” he said, voice dripping with impatience, “might I suggest a little haste? At any moment, General Urko and his charming collection of tanks and jeeps might come crashing down on us like a herd of iron-plated buffalo!” He gestured dramatically toward the hills. “And personally, I’d prefer not to be present for the reenactment.”
"If he finds us..." Steve reminded Fitzhugh.
Fitzhugh squinted at the hills. Fitzhugh sniffed and adjusted his collar as if the jungle heat were a personal insult. “Oh, he’ll find us,” he declared with haughty certainty. “In time. The brute certainly has enough patrols bumbling about the countryside. One of them is bound to stumble over our tracks—probably just as we’re shoving off, knowing our luck.” He shot a meaningful look at the unfinished raft.
Steve wiped the sweat from his brow and glanced up toward the ridge. “Well then, maybe you’d like to make yourself useful and scout those hills. Keep an eye out—come running if you spot any movement.”
Fitzhugh recoiled as though Steve had asked him to wrestle a gorilla barehanded. “Me? Climb up there like some common sentry?” he scoffed, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeve. “My dear fellow, I hardly think it wise to waste a man of my particular talents on something so… athletic. Besides, if I ran down screaming, who’d take me seriously?” He gave a smug smirk. “No, no. Best I remain here—strategically available.”
"Fitz!" It was Valerie calling. Fitzhugh turned to see her pointing at the trick laser. He nodded at her and turned back to Steve. “The laser has quite recovered—back in working order, so to speak. I shall resume my work at once, and in a few short moments, you’ll have your precious raft finished. Do try to contain your excitement.”
Steve called out to Barry and Nova who were floating a log into place. "No, no!" He made turning around gestures. "Alternate the big and little ends!" He looked over at Dan, who was standing nearby, laughing it up. "Oh, boy. I'm turning into a pantomimist! If we ever get back to L.A., I'm going to be really great trying to tell someone how to fly a transport with my hands!"
Fitzhugh climbed up the bank to walk back to Valerie. As he took up the laser, he got down on his knees and selected a tree. With two quick spurts, he cut a notch in the tree about a foot off the ground. Then he looked around to be sure nobody was in the drop zone. He took aim, shouted "Timber!" and sliced through the tree trunk like butter. It fell with a crash, and Fitzhugh aimed the laser at the ground to slice off the stub.
As he was getting up, Valerie smiled at him. "You just love yelling 'Timber!' don't you?"
Fitzhugh grinned back. "Indeed! Ever since my earliest days, I’ve longed to fell a great tree and observe it crash to the earth with suitable drama. But really, today has provided rather more than my fill of such rustic labor."
"Want me to spell you?"
"No, thank you. But you might go and see how Betty and Mark are faring—if you're in want of purpose."228Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡpB5KjXXxmM
Valerie walked through the sparse grove to where Betty was building up a supply of baskets---crudely woven from palm fronds---and bags made of animal skins. Mark was scouring the hills and valleys for berries, fruit, nuts, and edible roots, as well as checking his little traps for wild rabbits or other small animals he might have snagged.228Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡWZYEhUHHzv
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Fitzhugh crouched near the corner of the camp, muttering to himself as he rummaged through Nova’s skin bag, pulling out items and inspecting them one by one—small tools, bits of dried food, a crude necklace of shells. His movements were quick, almost furtive.
Valerie spotted him and stormed over, hands on her hips. “What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded, her eyes flashing.
Fitzhugh didn’t flinch. “Following orders,” he said curtly, holding up a wooden trinket before tossing it aside. “Steve said only essentials go. Anything we don’t need gets left behind—it’ll just slow us down or weigh too much for the raft.”
Valerie frowned, folding her arms. “That’s Nova’s. You don’t just go through her things like that.”
Fitzhugh stood and faced her, a bit of exasperation in his voice. “We’re not packing for a picnic, Miss. We’re trying to survive. If it isn’t food, medicine, or something that floats—it doesn’t go.”
Valerie hesitated, clearly still upset, but said nothing more. Fitzhugh turned back to the bag with a grim shake of his head. “Honestly, I don’t enjoy this any more than you do. But sentiment won’t keep us alive.”
Valerie stepped closer, her voice sharper now. “Let me see that.”
Fitzhugh hesitated, then handed her the small carved object with a huff. “Fine. Knock yourself out.”
Valerie turned it over in her hands, the rough lines and curves suddenly striking a nerve. Her breath caught in her throat. “No… no way,” she whispered.
The carving was crude but unmistakable—a miniature replica of a cassette tape recorder. Not some abstract totem, not a toy. It had buttons etched into the surface, a tiny handle, even the hint of spools through a carved "window."
She looked up at Fitzhugh, stunned. “This is from our time. Or at least someone knew what it was. Do you have any idea what this means?”
Fitzhugh blinked, suddenly uneasy. “It’s just a carving. Maybe she found it, copied it. Doesn’t mean—”
“You don’t get it,” Valerie cut in. “You were ready to toss this like it was junk. But if Nova or someone she knew carved this… it means there's still a connection to us. Maybe even someone from the Marintha.”
She clutched the object protectively and backed away. “Next time you go poking through someone’s things, Fitzhugh, try asking first—especially if you don’t understand what you’re looking at.”
Fitzhugh sniffed and waved a hand dismissively. “Fine. Let her keep the blasted thing,” he said with theatrical exasperation. “If it means that much to you.” He glanced at the carved recorder again, his lip curling. “Though I highly doubt she had anything to do with making it. Probably picked it up like everything else she doesn’t understand.”
Valerie turned away from him without a word, her fingers still wrapped tightly around the carving. Her silence was deliberate, and it stung more than any retort might have.
Fitzhugh, now red-faced, spun back toward the camp, shouting over his shoulder, “Just remember what Steve said—only the essentials! We’re not dragging every scrap of sentimental clutter across half a continent!”
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