Authors: Chad Oliver
Within
all
men
there
is
a
deep
reserve
of
dark power.
It
lies
hidden,
unseen,
unsuspected,
far
in the
depths
of
the
human
personality.
It
cannot
be tapped
at
will,
this
reservoir
of
strength,
and
there is
no
way
to
call
it
to
the
fore.
Most
men
go
all
through their
lives
and
never
suspect
its
existence.
But
some men
find
it.
To
some
men,
a
chosen
few,
it
comes.
Ask the
man
next
to
you,
he
may
not
know.
But
ask
the doctor,
far
in
the
night.
Ask
the
fugitive,
trapped
and alone.
Ask
the
soldier.
They
know.
And
Mark
knew.
It
came
from
nowhere
and
flowed through
his
tired
veins.
It
kept
him
going
past
all
endurance,
kept
him
going
when
he
should
have
dropped in
his
tracks.
It
came
from
deep
within
him,
and
Mark gritted
his
teeth
and
kept
going.
He
raced
through
the
valley,
dimly
conscious
of
the sighing
pines
around
him.
The
growls
and
the
shouts of
the
half-men
crept
closer.
He
could
not
seem
to
lose them;
now
he
knew
that
they
would
tear
him
to
pieces.
Mark
charged
across
the
icy
stream,
his
numb
feet barely
feeling
the
terrible
cold.
He
plunged
through the
low
foothills
and
out
upon
the
open
plains.
The
grass
pulled
at
his
feet
and
the
shrubs
tore
with
sharp fingers
at
his
clothes.
Ahead
of
him,
the
grass
waved in
cold
unconcern,
a
silver
sea
under
the
faraway
stars.
Mark
ran
and
ran
and
ran,
his
chest
a
hot
flame
of agony,
the
breath
stabbing
like
knives
through
his laboring
lungs.
His
mouth
and
throat
were
dry, parched,
and
the
cold
air
washed
through
him
with searing
pain.
His
legs
throbbed
and
his
feet
were
like blocks
of
ice.
He
couldn’t
go
on.
But
behind
him
he
still
heard
the
inexorable
pounding
of
the
Neanderthals,
and
the
tireless
shouts
and snarls.
They
weren’t
even
tired,
those
inhuman
pursuers
of
his,
they
could
go
on
forever,
they
would
run him
down
if
it
took
them
a
week.
Suddenly,
Mark
realized
that
he
could
not
possibly make
the
space-time
machine,
even
if
he
could
find
it by
starlight.
He
could
not
hold
out
that
long,
and
the moon
would
rise
in
the
night
soon,
lighting
the
grassy plains
and
the
mist
with
ghost
light,
picking
him
out
as surely
as
a
searchlight.
He
couldn’t
make
it.
Mark
stopped
short,
his
chest
heaving.
He
had
to think.
Somehow
he
had
to
think.
But
there
was
no
time —he
had
only
a
moment.
And
he
was
so
tired,
ready to
drop—it
would
be
so
nice
just
to
lie
down
in
the grass
and
drift
away
to
nowhere
.
.
.
He
slapped
himself
awake.
The
half-men
snarled through
the
darkness
behind
him,
and
they
were
very close.
With
desperate
decision,
Mark
reversed
his
direction
and
forced
his
body
to
run
again,
back
the
way he
had
come,
back
toward
the
growling,
angry
Neanderthals.
But
not
straight
back.
Mark
had
been
running
almost
due
north
from
the
valley
mouth,
and
now
he
was
running
south.
South,
but
veering
a
little
to
the
east, just
enough
to
miss
the
half-men,
if
he
was
lucky.
If he
wasn’t
lucky—