Going Feet First

Beneath him was a good twenty five feet of daylight and a whole lot of little branches that would do nothing to slow any sort of rapid descent. Blood pounding through his ears, Galen reached up and grabbed onto the wide branch above with a death grip, breathing hard as he pulled himself up and onto the perch.

At first, the long branch bent downward, bits of dead bark cracking and breaking off. Galen's heart stopped as the branch began to creak. If it was going to drop him, now would be the time.

It ain't the fall that kills you; it's that sudden stop at the bottom.

Galen found himself giggling now at his father's wicked sense of humor. If he was going to die, it would at least be with a smile. At last, the precarious tree limb upon which he found himself resting held still.

The stagnate air pent up in his lungs escaped as he laughed away the tension in his mind. He took a moment to try and slow his heavy breathing and silence that pounding in his ears. He even glanced over the side to see how high he sat.

Another brush with death, he thought, pressing his back against the tree and settling his nerves. Either the devil doesn't want me, or God indeed loves me. Either way, I still gotta find the Company.

At that moment, he looked out to the direction from where he had flown in. He saw not a city in the distance, nor any aircraft buzzing about, nor the burst of flak around a flood of search lights. There were no signs of war or rattling off of AK-47s in the distance, only the vast expanse of an untouched forest.

Several clearings, both wide and small, were scattered all over with flocks of birds gliding over the tree tops. Trails of smoke steadily rose from several of of the clearings, but it didn't seem to be from the crash of any aircraft. The smoke was thin and steady, like a camp fire, not thick and plumy from burning oil.

That meant a cooking fire. And cooking meant people. And people meant the chance of communications.

Galen also made note of the river cutting its way through the land. A place he could possibly clean himself up if he needed.

The only thing that made him wonder, though, was not his situation. It was what lay beyond the forest. Miles upon miles away, there were rolling, treeless hills. Not treeless from bombing, but waving fields of grass. Whatever was beyond those grassy hills was blocked by the faint silhouettes of mountain tops.

Wherever Galen was, he was sure as Hell it wasn't Vietnam.

Galen peered over down the side of the tree, packing down the lump in his throat before carefully sweeping his feet over the edge of his perch. Climbing up was one issue, getting down was going to be an outright challenge.

Cycling several deep breaths, the Private carefully guided his boots down onto the same points he had used to climb up, every step cautiously placed to ensure he didn't take a tumble down to his death. It'd be a shame to survive a plane crash only to buy it falling off a tree.

Considering his earlier troubles coming up, his journey down was making good progress. Only ten feet separated him and the jagged roots jutting from the earth below and he was moving at a brisk pace.

"I can do this," he whispered, "I can-" -snap- "shit."

A lump of bark gave way under his boot, leaving Galen wailing as he hung eight feet from the safety of solid ground. He kicked wildly, beat at the side of the tree, anything to try and find a spot to dig in. His fingers began stinging as the sharp points of coniferous needles sank in.

"rrr-AHHHHH" he hollered as he released the tree.

Training kicked in just as his boots hit the forest floor, his legs collapsing with enough muscle power still pushing back to soften his landing. The only downside was this technique was meant to be done while moving forward. This sent his helmet smacking against the trunk of the tree with loud crack and a swirl of stars in his eyes.

"Oww," he groaned as he fell backward.

Next he felt a root jabbing right up into his ribs.

"Ahhhoowww, damn it!" he cursed, flipping over and away.

The only comfort to his current agony was the fact that he was on the ground. His right thigh hurt like Hell, it felt like some hit him on the head with a hammer, and he could swear that somebody sunk a knife in his back, but he was on the ground.

Groaning at the pain riveting his body, Galen managed to pull himself together enough to stand up. Battling the strain of muscle and the weariness of fatigue, he gathered up his pack and hoisted his rifle over his shoulder.

Wherever he was going was a mystery, the thought of where to go next drew blank in his head. All he knew was that there was a river a mile or so away. And a river meant fresh water and even a few fish. Maybe a town or village could be in some of the clearings he saw. Fire confirmed the presence of people, and if they had a radio, he could try and contact any US forces in the area...

If he was even in a place that had any US forces.

What if the plane carried him to a new country completely? What if even, he was-?

BANG!

An eruption of birds burst from the tree tops as the gun shot echoed through the forest.

One name passed through Galen's mind the instant he heard that rifle go off.

Michael.

....................................................................

The Neko woman clung to her tree as thunder shattered the calm over the forest. Hairs raised down her back as she frantically searched the skies for any sign of clouds or lightning. She didn't smell any rain, nor had any dark anvil head formations blown in from any direction. Where had the thunder come from?

Her nerves rattled through her body as she leaped to another tree, her claws sinking into its bark as she watched over this curious human who now sprinted through the forest, that great wooden club of his pressed close to his side with the metal tip pointing forward.

Whatever this club was, it seemed very special to him, and it didn't seem like he was interested in leaving it behind. Perhaps she could remove it from his possession while he slept, investigate it for herself or even bring it to her village elders. One of them was very familiar with some of the workings of human society; he may have a clue as what it may be.

Until then, she could only follow the human as he ran full tilt through the forest, bounding over roots and bushes, bolting past trees and scaring the game away. Twice, she had caught glimpses of deer fleeing the racket he made. Never once did the human even acknowledge them. It became obvious that a hunt was not on his mind as he ran to where the thunder had clapped.

"Sergeant!" he yelled as he passed by a tree painted with the image of a red claw.

The Neko woman froze as she saw the symbol. What was this human doing?! Did he not know where he was going?!

FOOL! She cursed in her mind; you're entering the territory of the Ra'zorlichs!

Of all the races across her world and the different tribes and 'nations' that had arisen within them, the Ra'zorlichs were among the few who didn't enjoy the Company of others. If any of them found this human, they would end him. Not quickly, neither. They were known to be beyond the definitions of the word 'cruel' with any who dared to trespass on their lands. This human would be begging for death by the time they were done, but not if she had something to do about it!

At once the woman began to leap through the trees, bounding from branch to branch with incredible agility. She needed to stop him before his life would be at the mercy of the rogue Neko tribe. Her feline abilities allowed her to surpass the human running along the ground as she went through the trees above him.

Suddenly the human slowed down, raising that club of his in a peculiar fashion. Right ahead, something unnatural was caught in the forest canopy. It was one of the wide sheets that the human had used to wrap his dead; it was caught in the highest clutches of a tree with some sort of backpack hanging down by long strands of string.

Below that pack laid the corpse of a Neko. A Ra'zorlich. She could tell by the red claw painted on the shoulder of his black plate armor. Blood stained his light gray fur, and his sword was still tucked in the sheath attached to the warrior's red steel leggings.

And there! A few feet from the body, lay yet another human. His clothes were identical to those of the first one, as was the strange club lying at his side. The only real difference between the two was that this human didn't wear armor on his head or carry a heavy pack. He was also wounded.

This human was torn in the thigh, the whole of his right leg bathed in thick crimson. There was a second, long gouge through his flesh, right below where the pant leg had been torn off below the hip. If this human did not bandage his wounds at once, he would likely die.

The first human broke through the bush with his club pointed at the other human. The end instantly went down as he recognized his friend.

"Sergeant!"

"Martin? Son of a bitch... you're late."

"Better late than..." the human froze as he saw his friend's leg. "We need to get ya to a medevac."

"It's just a scratch," Michael shrugged, staying extraordinarily calm at his predicament.

"That's more than a scratch, Michael! We need a medic... I saw a clearing a couple hundred yards away, there's some smoke comin' from there, so it could be a village."

Oh, you poor fool, the Neko woman thought.

"And if they have a radio, we could use that to get air support. Get us the Hell out of here."

What is a 'radio'?

Crackling in a bush a few yards off brought the woman's attention away from the humans. Five Ra'zorlich scouts emerged from the brush line a short distance away from the human; this time they had their blades in hand.

Ready to slay the beings that killed their pack mate.

..................................................................

Galen spun on his heel, bringing his M14 to bear on the five creatures that had just come out of the bush. Their teeth were flashing, sunlight shining off that heavy armor plating they wore. Swords were readied in their clawed hands.

Wait, claws? Fur? What the Hell?

The Private took a double-take on the creatures before him. Never in his life, nor in his job description, did he ever see anything about these... things. Fur covered their bodies from head to toe, distinctly feline ears protruded from the top of their heads, just as long feline tails hung behind their legs. These things were no human; they were closer to the description of oversized cats walking on two feet.

Red claws were painted on their shoulders, matching the image he had seen on the tree a couple dozen yards up the trail. Dark red loincloths hung off their hips, embroidered with that same claw, only it was stitched in black.

"A human!" one growled.

"We told you parasites that none shall pass our territory, human. And now you will pay with your life!"

Galen took a step back as moved the select fire switch of his rifle to full auto.

"I am Private Galen Martin of the 101st Airborne Division of the United states Army. I don' know who you are, but if you attack me, I ain't gonna hesitate to kill you."

The pack of beasts laughed aloud, "Ahahahaha, a human? Alone? With wounded? AHAHAHAHA HAAAHAAhhhh!!! Human, I will make your death swift for granting me such a hearty laugh."

"We'll see how that works out for you, kitty cat. I'm not warnin' ya again, back off or I'm gonna kill you!"

Sergeant Michael clutched onto the gash in his leg and chuckled, "Aim for the head. Their dead friend here didn't think I was serious, either, so I think we should teach these pussycats a lesson."

The leader of the cat beings crossed his arms and motioned his troops forward, "Bring me the wounded one's head. I desire his tongue for my son's chew toy."

In a dash of fur, four of the beasts leaped forward toward Galen, swords high in one hand and claws readied in the other. In a second Galen lifted his rifle up to the flying fur balls and squeezed the trigger, a burst of 7.62 mm rounds spitting from his rifle and punching clean through those breast plates of these cat creatures and dropping them from the air.

Their leader bounced back as his four men fell to the ground, one screaming in agony as blood surged through his armor. Without hesitation, Galen brought the barrel of his rifle up to the wounded cat's head and gave one last pull of the trigger.

The head exploded as the .308 caliber round hollowed out his brain pan. When Private Galen looked back to the leader, he had already turned to flee back to wherever he had come from.

"Don't let that bastard escape!" the Sergeant ordered.

With a nod and an adjustment to semi-auto, Galen shouldered his rifle and lined up the shot. The rifle gave a deafening crack as it fired. The cat creature pirouetted as his shoulder burst open from the high powered round.

When he hit the ground, Galen pulled a bayonet from his belt and fixed the six and a half inch blade to the end of his rifle, not willing to take any chances as he ran after his newfound foe.

...........................................................

The Neko woman watched in total awe as the human ran after the fallen Ra'zorlich officer.

This human, by himself, had slain four fighting men of a Ra'zorlich hunting pack. They were no mere tribesmen who trained for battle when they came of age. The Ra'zorlichs were violently reclusive, training themselves from birth to be ready to fight and die for their lands. They never left their home, and those who dared to come in rarely left alive.

The fact that the humans still drew breath -and drew it in victory- sent chills down her spine.

This momentary delay would not last long. More would come, and unless she and the humans wished to join those whose remains fertilized the Ra'zorlich victory garden, they had to leave. Her own tribe had peaceful terms with the human lands; they could bring them to safety, return them to wherever they had come from.

With the swift agility of her feline body, she leaped down from her tree, landing just a few feet short of the wounded Michael. In an instant, he pulled an axe from his belt, drawing his arm back to throw.

At first glance, his eyes went wide. His hand wavered a bit.

"I mean no harm, human. I have come to help," she stated in a low voice, searching around for any Ra'zorlichs that may have come toward the thunder.

"Stay back, woman!"

"I am not here to hurt you! I wish to bring you to safety! To help!"

Michael stared at her a moment, his weapon still drawn back to throw. While she made no hostile moves, he quickly glanced to the other five bodies around him, all of them the same race as her.

There was no reason for her not to attack, to try and take his life. Michael debated whether or not to throw his tomahawk and end her. He needed help, however, and something about this woman... something about her churned up his chest, softening his grip on the weapon in his hand.

Returning his tomahawk to his belt, the paratrooper grabbed onto the rifle beside him and made sure the safety was off. With his weapon serving as a brace, he managed to sit himself up to properly face her.

"What's your name?"

"Mila, a tracker of the Willher tribe. What is yours?"

"Michael. You know how to dress a wound, Mila?"

"I do, Michael. But I have not the herbs or wraps to help."

Michael set his rifle aside, pulling his field medical kit from his webbing and tossing it to her. When she caught the first-aid kit in her hands, he opened the holster on his hip and laid the pistol on his lap. Mila, however, didn't even acknowledge the firearm as she inspected the medical kit. Either she knew that he wouldn't kill her, or she didn't even know what he held in his hands.

Whatever her reason, this lack of knowledge bothered Michael. If she didn't know what a gun was, how many creatures or men would be killed going against a weapon they knew nothing about?

Mila stared at the package Michael had tossed to her, wondering what exactly it was until she felt something move inside. At once, she tore it open, barely catching the contents that spilled out. She wondered at the white packet and small white bulb with the pointed needle encased in glass. Half the items that were within this package were completely alien to her, but she knew what the white bandage was for.

Unwinding the wrap, she knelt down beside the soldier and tore away the remnants of the pant leg.

"Have you any water, Michael?" she asked.

"I do," he answered, pulling a canteen off his hip. He twisted the lid, opened it up, and took a swig before passing it off the Mila. She washed off the open gash that ran deep into his muscle, cleaning away what blood she could before more of it could fill the wound. At least it seemed that nothing important had been damaged.

"Dump that white powder packet in there, it helps," Michael ordered.

The Neko woman fumbled with the rattling packet. She tore it open and dumped the contents over the wound and started to wrap it up.

"What the kinda creatures are you?" Michael asked as he winced at the tightness with which she wrapped his leg.

"I am a Neko," Mila answered.

"Neko?"

"Yes. Cat people, as you humans simplify."

Michael thought for a moment as he analyzed her features. She wasn't much taller than him, heck, she may even be shorter, but from his sitting position, trying to guess her height proved to be quite difficult.

Her face was somewhat cat-like, with the carnivorous fangs that lined her mouth and a coat of fur covering her body. But, unlike a true feline, she had no whiskers, and her nose and lips were very much human. As her hands moved around his thigh, Michael could feel how incredibly soft was the layer of fur that covered her entire body. She had the fur of a young kitten, and yet that long, flowing grace of beautiful, reddish brown hair descending from her head was just like that of a human.

Michael was pulled from his moment of admiration as Mila tugged hard on the bandage to tighten up the knot.

"That will do. We must collect your friend and leave this area, quickly."

"Yeah... where is Galen?"

...................................................

The Ra'zorlich warrior lay back against a tree with Galen's bayonet prodding his throat. Thoughts of grabbing the weapon and plunging it into his neck crossed his mind; it would certainly end the suffering of his obliterated shoulder. Such a shame it was for him to fall to a single, pathetic human. What respect would his warriors hold for him if they knew their officer had been beaten by an inferior parasite such as this? Then again, his shoulder told a different tale, as did the rest of his pack.

"Why'd you attack me?" Galen demanded.

"You are in our land, human. A hundred years, we told your kind that these woods are forbidden to you. A hundred years, we have slain the trespassers. Now, you dare ask me why I strike?"

"Listen, cat, I don't got any idea where the Hell I am, or who the Hell you are. I just came here for my friend, next thing I know, you an' your kind are pickin' a fight and tryin' to kill us. Now if you can just point me to the nearest radio, I'll be happy to get out of here, and never come back."

"What in Necela's name is a radio?" the warrior asked.

Galen's brow raised as a confused look came across his face. None of this seemed to be good news for the Private. For one, this creature wasn't human, which was not a good sign. Two, the cat creature didn't seem like he was lying, though it was difficult to read the alien body. And three, if he spoke his tongue but didn't know what a radio was, then Galen was definitely not in Vietnam. Wherever he was, it was not even his world.