Free Mists of Dawn by Chad Oliver Page A

horror, died and gone to heaven. He did not open his eyes for a moment, but simply lay there and enjoyed the almost forgotten luxury of comfort. He was warm, gloriously warm, and the searing agony of his pains had subsided to a dull ache. Even the ache seemed pleasant to him—such was the relativity of pleasure.
    Mark opened his eyes at last, then blinked them shut again. He tried once more, this time opening them to mere slits. He saw the sun, the wonderful sun. And a brilliant blue sky, flecked with scudding white clouds. Almost it seemed that he was back home again in the hills of New Mexico; the sky was the same.
    The warmth from the sun’s rays bathed his body, and he soaked them up gratefully. The gentle heat coursed through him, wakening once more the slumbering fires of life. Mark smiled contentedly. The sun’s heat was the most enchanting thing he had ever known.
    Mark became aware of the fact that he was lying on his back, and he rolled over on his side. The rocks that had sheltered him were warm and friendly now, no longer the dark behemoths of terror that they had seemed the night before. The scrub pines stretched away down the foothills below him, and beyond them was the grassy plains. The scent of pines was strong in the air, and sweet. Mark saw that the sun was directly above him. It must be noon.
    Cautiously, he tested his dry throat. It was still raw and sore, but it seemed little worse than it had been before. Mark knew that the sun had saved him for sure, the sun and the rocks. The great boulders had shielded him from the cutting wind, and the sun must have come up shortly after he had collapsed, warming him and drying out his wet clothes. Mark felt like a new man, through with the terrors of the night and ready to face life again with a fresh spirit.
    Mark got to his feet, and his new strength promptly deserted him. He swayed dizzily and almost fell, but caught himself on one of the boulders. He stood with his eyes closed for a moment, waiting for the spinning in his mind to stop, and then struggled erect again. This time he made it, but he was fearfully weak.
    He panted from the slight exertion and tasted the dryness of his throat. His mouth felt as if it was full of cotton, cotton that had the fiat, metallic taste of copper pennies. His thirst came back with a vengeance, and with it came a gnawing hunger.
    He had to have food—and he had to have it in a hurry. Mark moved carefully from his retreat, every sense alert. He saw nothing that looked dangerous. There was only the blue sky, and the sun, and some faraway tiny shadows on the plains that must have been birds. He crawled up over the ledge, and walked slowly to where he saw a patch of snow under a large rock. He fell to his knees and scooped out a handful, which he forced himself to eat slowly. The snow melted deliciously in his mouth and trickled down his dry throat. Mark ate another handful, and another, and then he felt a little better—well enough, at any rate, to make it to another stream. Water was everywhere in the mountains, and he expected to have no trouble finding it.
    Mark waved a weak farewell to the little shelter that had saved his life, and made his way back through the foothills to the edge of the marshy plain. He moved slowly, conserving his strength. He thought for only a moment before he set out once more into the east, determined to put distance between himself and the half-men. Of course, there might be others ahead of him—he had no way of knowing. But that was a chance he had to take.
    Mark kept a wary eye out, but he saw no game. He tried not to think about how hungry he was, but he couldn’t help it. He began to construct wondrous edible fantasies as he walked along. He could see himself sitting down at a table in his uncle’s home—the little table in the kitchen, with the clean white tablecloth on it. And there was salad, and turkey soup, and a thick charcoal-broiled steak with hashed brown potatoes, and banana