Mists of Dawn (30 page)

They
wouldn’t
be
expecting
him
to
double
back,
of that
he
felt
sure.
He
drew
his
.45
and
ran
bent
over almost
double,
only
a
shadow
among
the
shadows.
He was
close
to
them,
he
was
even
with
them,
he
could smell
them
in
the
night—

With
horrifying
suddenness,
a
figure
loomed
up right
at
his
side.
Mark
dropped
like
a
shot
and
wriggled through
the
wet
grass
on
his
stomach.
Had
he
been seen?
He
fought
to
control
his
breathing,
but
it
was impossible.
Had
he
been
seen?
Evidently
not.
There was
no
alarm.
His
body
one
aching
agony,
Mark lurched
to
his
feet
and
ran
on.

He
wouldn’t
fool
them
long,
he
figured.
They
would be
back
after
him.
But
he
knew
now
that
he
did
not have
so
much
as
a
prayer
on
the
open
plains
in
the moonlight.
The
Neanderthals
were
stronger
than
he was,
and
there
were
more
of
them.
Even
as
he
ran,
a small
subconscious
corner
of
his
mind
wrestled
with the
problem.
It
was
the
old,
old
game
of
man
against man,
the
hunter
and
the
hunted.
But
one
factor
at
least was
changed—now
it
was
man
against
half-men,
and that
made
a
difference.
It
had
to
make
a
difference.
It was
his
only
hope.

Mark
angled
along
the
slope
of
the
foothills,
bearing somewhat
east
from
the
valley
of
the
Neanderthals. The
sounds
of
pursuit
were
almost
lost
in
the
distance now,
but
Mark
did
not
fool
himself
into
thinking
that he
had
given
them
the
slip.
They
would
pick
up
his trail
and
come
on,
snarling,
untiring,
like
mighty hounds
on
the
scent
of
a
desperate
fox.
He
was
the
fox.

The
foothills
continued
for
a
long
time,
with
the dark
mountains
that
shielded
the
Neanderthal
caverns fading
by
on
his
right.
The
ascent
was
becoming steeper,
however,
and
the
scrub
pines
that
dotted
the foothills
were
getting
fewer
and
fewer.
Mark
redoubled
his
efforts,
but
his
best
speed
now
was
no more
than
a
jagged
trot.
If
he
could
just
reach
the mountains,
hide
himself
somehow,
somewhere
.
.
.

But
the
Neanderthals
would
surely
know
the
mountains
around
their
home
well
enough
to
search
him
out. Mark
gasped
for
breath.
He
had
no
hope
now,
and
he knew
that
he
was
fast
reaching
the
ultimate
limits
of his
reserve
strength.
He
could
only
go
until
he dropped,
and
then
there
was
the
.45.
Five
shots
left. Four
for
the
half-men—
And
one
for
himself.

Mark
hurled
himself
into
the
mountains.
The
rocks tore
at
his
beaten
body,
but
he
kept
going.
Up
and
up, and
always
bearing
toward
the
east,
away
from
the valley
of
the
Neanderthals.
He
scrambled
up
smooth cliffs
and
plunged
through
snowdrifts,
white
and ghostly
under
the
stars.
He
had
no
way
of
knowing whether
the
drifts
were
a
few
inches
deep,
or
a
few feet,
or
a
few
miles,
and
he
had
no
time
for
caution. Certain
death
was
behind
him,
and
chance,
no
matter how
slim,
was
better
than
that
black
certainty
that pursued
him.