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Desolation met desolation. As Steve stood on the bank of the peaceful river, his sense of relief at being alive was melting into a feeling of awe, which flowed into a kind of wonder. Looking about, he saw almost nothing to relieve the mind, to lead to hope or to tell where they were or what had gone by.
A portly middle-aged man with dark hair stormed down the ramp of the Spindrift, his face red with fury, his beige naval uniform taut across his frame as he bristled with indignation. He marched straight toward Steve, jabbing a finger in the air.
“This is an outrage, Captain! An absolute disgrace!” the portly man bellowed, his voice shaking with fury. “I demand an explanation!”
Steve stood by the riverbank, his arms crossed, his jaw set tight. He didn’t so much as flinch at the older man’s tirade. Instead, he kept his gaze fixed on the landscape beyond—the scorched, barren terrain that stretched for miles in every direction.
"You want an explanation?" Steve said at last, turning to face him. "Then you're out of luck. Because I don't have one."
The portly man scoffed, waving a dismissive hand toward the water. “Well, I do! We’re in England, that much is obvious. Look at this river—it’s the Thames, plain as day! We’ve simply lost our bearings, and if you had the slightest competence as a pilot, you’d—”
Steve cut him off with a sharp glare. “If this is the Thames, then where’s London?”
The portly man opened his mouth, then hesitated. His gaze swept up and down the river, then out toward the horizon. There were no city lights, no towering buildings, no bridges spanning the water. Just emptiness.
“This is some uninhabited stretch,” he insisted, though the bluster had drained from his voice. “Perhaps near the estuary—”
“No,” Steve said flatly. “That’s not it.”
A silence stretched between them as the wind kicked up dust, swirling it around their feet. The portly man shifted uncomfortably before Steve broke the tension. “Hold on,” Steve said, his tone firm yet measured. “I don’t even know your name. Who are you?”
The man straightened up, a flush rising on his face. “Alexander Fitzhugh,” he replied, his voice steady but edged with indignation.
Steve exhaled and squared his shoulders. “Look, Mr. Fitzhugh, we can argue about where we are later. Right now, we need to take stock of what we’ve got, check on the passengers, and figure out how badly the ship is damaged.” Locking eyes with Alexander Fitzhugh, he continued, “So unless you’ve suddenly got all the answers, I suggest you make yourself useful.”
"I'm---I'm a passenger," protested Fitzhugh. "This is your business, not mine!"
Steve picked him up by the collar of his shirt. He marched him back toward the ship. “Get in there or I throw you in," he said savagely. "Help Betty keep the others calm."
For a moment, Fitzhugh looked as though he might argue further, but then, with an exaggerated sigh, he spun on his heel and stomped back up the ramp.
Steve turned back to the landscape, his fingers tightening into fists. He had no idea where they were. But wherever it was… it sure as hell wasn’t home.
Steve slipped back into the cockpit, where Dan Erickson was hunched over the primary console, scanning a half-dozen blinking indicators. The faint smell of scorched wiring still lingered, and the overhead lighting flickered intermittently. Steve let out a low breath as he took in the damage on the steering system’s readout. “It’s worse than I thought,” he muttered, running a hand over the cracked housing. “The entire steering mechanism’s jammed—like it took a direct hit. We’re lucky we were able to land at all.”
Dan glanced up, his expression grim but focused. “We might be able to jury-rig a bypass,” he said, tapping on the readout with a stylus. “But a full repair? Not with what we’ve got on board. It’s a miracle we still have partial control surfaces.” He turned to face Steve, a determined glint in his eyes. “We’ll do what we can, but I wouldn’t bet on us taking off again anytime soon—unless you’ve got some spare high-pressure hydraulics hidden somewhere.”
Dan’s eyes remained fixed on the chronometer as the last figure blinked into view—a stark “7678” in glowing digits, placing them squarely in the mid-75th century. “Steve, look at this,” Dan said in a hushed, incredulous tone. “The clocks read 7678. That’s well beyond our intended destination. How is this even possible?”
Steve’s jaw tightened as he studied the instruments. “Whatever the nature of the forces that had seized us, they operate at the very edge of Earth's atmosphere,” he replied, his voice grim. “It could be that the whatever-it-was that had jerked us out of our normal routine flight can't act in air of appreciable density. That would account for the fact that, arrived in an unknown time and place, we were released where air pressure was just barely detectable. If the space warp had carried us away at random, passage near a planet had made the space warp let go.” He paused, rubbing his temples as if weighing the implications. “Which might or might not be true, but it's reasonable for us to act on a guess than not act at all.”
Just then, Dan’s eyes lit up with a sudden idea. “Steve, let me check the two-way radio—maybe we can get a response from LA,” he said as he leaned over the panel. He tapped a few keys, and the static on the channel shifted. Instead of the expected distress call response, a bizarre, twanging country-style tune burst forth from the loudspeakers. The lyrics, off-key and oddly playful, declared, "I'm goin' humanoid over you!" The unexpected refrain sent a chill down Dan’s spine.
Steve’s expression turned grave as the words echoed in the cockpit. “Humanoid… as if the singer isn’t one!” he muttered, his voice thick with apprehension. The eerie song, its melody warped and its rhythm unsettling, seemed to signal something ominous approaching their direction. “Dan, that isn’t a distress call response—it’s a threat,” Steve said urgently. “We’re not waiting around to find out what’s coming. Get the evacuation protocols ready and prepare to abandon ship!”
Dan nodded, already moving to alert the passengers, as both men braced themselves for the unknown menace that the strange serenade portended.647Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡrEh5HvPjlX
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The steady crunch of boots on hardpan dirt echoed through the silence as the group trudged across the barren expanse. The sun hung high in the sky, relentless, casting a harsh, unyielding light over the parched landscape. Captain Steve Burton led the way, his intense gaze scanning the horizon for any sign of refuge, while co-pilot Dan Erickson kept a watchful eye on their array of crucial gear. As they stumbled across the cracked earth, Betty Hamilton kept close to the boy Barry, his dog Chipper whimpering softly at his side, sensing the discomfort of the journey. Valerie Scott, the girl with the sophisticated air, seemed strangely at home with the grit of survival, though the sweat beading down her brow betrayed her weariness. Entrepreneur and financier Mark Wilson and Alexander Fitzhugh, a former military officer, brought up the rear, the latter’s constant complaining punctuating the dusty air.
“This is ludicrous!” he griped, wiping the sweat from his brow. “Blasted sun, blasted heat! A man of my age shouldn’t have to endure this kind of torment! What kind of place is this, anyway? It’s not fit for living!” He glanced at the flat, oppressive terrain. “And where’s the water? We’ve walked for miles, and—”
“Keep moving, Fitzhugh,” Steve called back without turning around. “Complaining isn’t going to get us anywhere.”
Fitzhugh huffed but complied, his gait slow but steady as he pulled his collar up against the relentless sun.
Suddenly, Dan, who had been scouting ahead, raised a hand. “Over there!” he shouted. “A cave! Or a rock formation—anything for shade!”
The group’s pace quickened, the promise of even temporary relief spurring them on. They reached the shelter of a jagged outcrop of rock, where some sparse vegetation—scraggly cacti and twisted sagebrush—lined the perimeter, offering both shade and the faintest semblance of life in the otherwise desolate stretch. Even with the sun now hidden behind the rocky formation, the heat was still oppressive, but it was better than nothing.
Fitzhugh let out a small, relieved sigh as he dropped into the tiny patch of shade. “Well, I suppose we’re not quite dead yet,” he muttered, fanning himself with his handkerchief.
The rest of the group collapsed into the shade as well, grateful for the respite, but their thoughts already turning to the next step—how to survive in this strange, hostile world.
Steve reached into the survival pack, his hands steady despite the tension of the moment. He carefully unlatched the compartment and began to pull out a series of sealed containers, each one packed with a ration of emergency food. Methodically, he passed them out to the group. Betty Hamilton stepped forward, her eyes lighting up with relief. “Thank you, Captain,” she said warmly, “for thinking fast enough to grab these.”
Alexander Fitzhugh couldn’t help but grumble as he accepted his container. “I bet there’s no caviar in these, is there?” he complained, shaking his head. “And Barry here could really use a Coke instead.” Barry Lockridge, clutching his small dog Chipper, looked up with a resigned sigh.
Dan Erickson interjected sharply, “We’re getting what we’ve got, Fitzhugh. Complaining won’t fill our bellies any faster.” His tone was firm, leaving no room for further grumbling.
Meanwhile, Valerie Scott tore into her own container with practiced precision. As she extracted a portion of the meal, she glanced down at the nutritional data printed on the side. “I really hope these calories are low,” she murmured to herself, a hint of disappointment in her tone. Determined to maintain her figure even in this dire situation, she took a careful bite, her expression balancing between hunger and vanity.
Steve did a quick mental calculation as he surveyed their limited rations. “We’ve got maybe three days’ worth of food and water if we ration carefully,” he said grimly. “But we might be able to stretch that a little further. If the river water is safe, we can fill these empty bags and extend our supply.” He looked toward the shimmering blue stream, uncertain what unseen dangers it might hold but knowing they didn’t have much choice.
Just then, Barry spoke up, his voice small but urgent. “What about Chipper?” he asked, stroking the little dog’s fur. “Is there going to be enough for him?”
Steve and Dan exchanged a look, the unspoken answer hanging between them. Dan sighed and ran a hand through his hair before crouching down in front of Barry. “Barry… we have to be realistic,” he said gently but firmly. “We can barely stretch what we have for ourselves.”
Steve hated what he had to say next, but there was no way around it. “Chipper’s going to have to fend for himself,” he said. “It’s not fair to you, and it’s not fair to him, but we can’t take him with us.”
Barry’s face crumpled with emotion. “No! He’s my dog! I can’t just leave him behind!” His grip tightened around Chipper as the little terrier whimpered, sensing his owner’s distress.
Betty knelt beside Barry, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Barry, I know this is hard,” she said softly. “But from now on, things are going to be different. We’re in a place we don’t understand, and survival has to come first. Chipper’s a smart little guy. He’ll find a way.”
Barry sniffled, his eyes brimming with tears, but he finally nodded. He knelt down and hugged Chipper one last time. “Go on, boy,” he whispered. “Be brave.”
The little dog hesitated, looking up at Barry with trusting eyes before finally trotting off toward the riverbank. Barry turned away, rubbing his eyes furiously. The group watched in silence, the weight of their new reality settling heavily upon them.
Mark Wilson wiped the sweat from his brow and turned to Steve. “All right, Captain,” he said, folding his arms. “Which way do we go from here?”
Steve exhaled, glancing out over the desolate landscape. After a moment of consideration, he lifted his arm and pointed toward the distant horizon. “That way,” he said firmly.
Alexander Fitzhugh scoffed. “And what, pray tell, makes that way any better than the rest of this miserable wasteland?” he demanded, waving a hand at the bleak surroundings.
Steve turned to him, his expression unreadable. “Because it’s as good a direction as any other,” he said simply. “And, if you must know, I saw something when we were coming down—some green patches out that way. Could mean vegetation. Could mean water. Either way, it’s better than sitting here waiting to die.”
Fitzhugh grumbled under his breath but said nothing further. The others exchanged uneasy glances, then nodded. It wasn’t much of a plan, but it was all they had.
Betty brushed a loose strand of hair from her face and nodded. “Works for me,” she said. “I had my hands full back there trying to keep everyone calm. The sooner we find a real place to regroup, the better.”
Steve gave her an appreciative nod. “Then that’s settled,” he said. “We move out.”
The others, some more reluctantly than others, began to prepare for the long march ahead.647Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡuUFgwR8pCn
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The group moved in a weary single file, their boots crunching against the coarse sand and jagged stones that made up the barren landscape. The sun had dipped lower in the sky, casting long, eerie shadows across the terrain, but the heat still radiated from the cracked earth beneath their feet. There was no sign of life—no tracks, no ruins, no indication that man or beast had ever set foot in this place.
Towering mesas loomed in the distance, their weathered faces carved by what must have been centuries of relentless winds. Buttes jutted upward like the last remnants of a dead world, their dark silhouettes standing in stark contrast to the burning orange sky. The land was dry, lifeless, as if all moisture had been drained from it ages ago, leaving behind only rock and dust.
Yet, there were other things. Strange formations, almost like crude pillars, dotted the landscape—some bent at odd angles, others standing impossibly straight. The sand itself wasn’t uniform, with patches of dark, almost blackened grit disrupting the sea of reddish-brown. And in the distance, far beyond where any of them wanted to go, were massive shapes—hulking, indistinct, and shimmering in the heat waves. Whether they were just tricks of the light or something else entirely, no one wanted to find out.
Fitzhugh, panting heavily, wiped his forehead and muttered under his breath. “This place is a nightmare,” he grumbled. “I’d take a London fog over this infernal wasteland any day.”
No one disagreed. They just kept moving forward, toward whatever awaited them in the unknown beyond.
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