Chương 2: Vol 1. Well, I'll be damned!

Morton awoke with a jolt, forcing himself up onto his rump.

"Good Lord, my head," he murmured, rubbing his temples.

"What happened?" That's when he took in his surroundings. Tall, ancient trees with trunks as wide as two people stretched endlessly upward, their dense leaves blanketing the ground where Morton sat.

"Right, that lady. Something about saving another timeline or something like that." He still wasn't fully sure what that meant. Perhaps it was God himself speaking directly to him. Perhaps he was starting to lose his mind; Martha had always told him he had "the mental capacity of a dementia patient if they had an IQ of 2." Morton smirked. That woman had always made life so difficult for him. (He guessed it was resentment over getting her knocked up at senior prom.) But he still loved that woman, for all her faults. He decided that was enough reminiscing about a time long gone. He grabbed his hat, put it on, and stood. Morton seemed to have all his belongings with him, just as they had been when he scavenged the abandoned building. Steadfast, he marched in a random direction. Birds chirped overhead, darting from branch to branch. Morton shook slightly. Leaves rustled in the chilly wind. The forest's creepers scurried through the foliage. Morton paused.

Pattering towards him was a tortoise, its ancient visage apparent.

"Why, hello there, fella," Morton said.

"How—" Morton jumped back, startled. His heart was pounding against his ribcage like a SWAT team serving a warrant. A huge, bird-like thing—a gargantuan bird-like thing—descended into the canopy. Gargantuan was an understatement: that thing made the Argentinosaurus look like a little chicken fetus. It soared down gracefully, the wind from its wings pushing the grass flat, and, with its mighty claw, stabbed a single talon into the turtle's shell. Then it flew above the trees, leaving a startled Morton on his back.

"Good Lord, what did I get myself into?" he wondered. He continued his march, now more aware of his surroundings. He definitely didn't want to become bird food. Soon, he reached a clearing. At last, something different from dense copses! Morton quickened his pace. He stopped at the edge of a small cliff and took a deep breath. Mountains surrounded him. Tall mountains, with patches of snow like polka dots amid the forest's green.

And what the mountains enclosed was a clear field of tall, yellowish grasses and tall flowers in every colour of the rainbow. He could smell the aroma of the pollinated flora from atop the cliff—many, many different scents coming together that reminded him of a good early spring morn, even though it was midsummer (or was it?). Pudgy bees, about the size of a hamster, darted between the blossoms with the lethargy of a spoiled housecat. It was right beautiful, he had to say.

It reminded him quite a bit of Appalachia. When he was a younger fella, his daddy used to take him up there, and they would camp in the mountains. There would be no one else in sight for miles upon miles. It was like heading back in time. He remembered that, back then, he loved getting away from civilization; now, he yearned to be surrounded by urban folk. They hadn't existed for a long time. Morton was snapped out of his reminiscence.

"What in the hell?" he murmured. In the centre, cutting through the flora, was a pitiful dirt road, and on it was a pioneering cart, its surroundings completely devastated. Horses, probably at least four or five, lay there, their blood oozing into the soil beneath them that would be their final resting place. Lashes covered their entire bodies, with some in distinctive cross-patterns. One mare was still alive, one eyelid still open.

It twitched and quivered in that horrifying dance one does with the devil before final judgement. Morton thought, Who the hell would do that to damn horses? Someone who feels up the devil with glee, that's who! There also lay large animals, feline-esque, their fur matted, their hides cut open, and their guts and intestines spilled. They looked as if they had tried to put up a fight, but in the end had given up, accepted their fate, only to be given a harsh punishment for their honourable act.

Morton was not squeamish, but something about this sight just sickened him. It was not as if he did not hunt; he had been hunting since he was a young boy with his daddy, then on his own as a teenager, and finally for survival as a man. But if the Navajo men his daddy was friends with had taught him anything, it was to respect animals and nature, for we are its stewards. This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

"Is anyone following us?"

"What the…" Morton whispered. More of the creatures stood beside the cart. They were feline in appearance but bipedal like humans, with a distinctly feminine structure to their frames. Their bodies were covered in thick, orange fur with black dots, though they wore grime-filled linen shirts, jerkins, and breeches like any traveller. They carried blades, like some cross between a European longsword and a katana. Their blades weren't stainless; they had faint hammer marks and slight discolouration.

Good craftsmanship, but certainly nothing factory-made like many of the wanderers he came across had. Morton slowly raised one palm towards his face and, like hell for leather, slapped himself across the face once… or twice. Still cat people. He rubbed his eyes. Nope. Still cat people. He pinched himself once… okay, maybe four or five times. Annnnnnnnd… nope, still cat people.

"Well… I'll be damned," he muttered.

"You see something new every day."

"No, ma'am," a small, skittish-seeming one said. Good Lord, they talk? Now that Morton thought of it, they weren't speaking English! Nor Spanish or, based on the little bits he knew, Navajo. But he understood their conversation perfectly. Just what the hell were these things?

"Are you sure?" The speaker wore a heavy, unimpressed scowl, with a couple of sharp teeth visible, and was the tallest of the animals… or were these people? Morton had never had to grapple with the concept of "sentient life that ain't humanity." (He knew people were super into all that alien crap, but he always thought of it as a bunch of rubbish.) The only other thing he could think of was mutants, and those were a myth.

He always hated to tell other travellers that, but it was the truth: nuclear waste doesn't give you superpowers, nor does it turn you into a monster. It just gives you cancer.

"Yes, ma'am," the skittish-seeming one said.

"We have rested for nearly three days and have continuously checked the trail as you have commanded. There is no one to be found. It appears our captive truly has been left for dead. I mean, it is just a first son, after all. Those are expendable. I highly doubt anyone will come after them unless they have a mother who is highly protective of their baby boy."

"Well, let us hope they want them back," the tall one snorted.

"We went to a lot of trouble to get this prisoner. I will see financial gain from it."

"Perhaps we can sell him to a dance house!" another chimed in.

"You would think that, wouldn't you?" the tall one snarled.

"Honestly, do you think with anything but your clit?"

"What can I say, ma'am? The soul knows what the soul wants." They sighed.

"Now, if only ma'am would be so kind as to see what is beneath that dress of his, to inspect the property."

"Yeah, I am afraid that is never going to happen," the tall one said. Morton felt the blood in him heat to more than a thousand degrees past boiling; his cheeks flushed; his arms quivered; his eyes twitched; and, God-fuckin'-dammit, he felt utterly livid! He did not know what these things were, whether the feminine voice had sent him here to kill all these folk for her, or what have you.

But he knew one thing: they were talking about selling a young man into sex slavery, and, like other great followers of the good book, like one Mr. John Brown, he could not allow that. He checked his belt: he still had a pouch of about 100 rounds—fifty for his revolver, fifty for his Glock. Sliding slowly down the hill, he approached the tall one from behind. They didn't even seem to notice his presence. Clearing his throat, he said:"Excuse me, miss."

Those three little words would change the trajectory of this world forever.