Pathways - Jeri Taylor [150]
It looked as a structure would that had been unused for three years.
And yet—something was off. He couldn’t decide quite what it was . . . certainly nothing that caught the eye. But something, something, didn’t feel right.
Neelix climbed out of the vehicle carefully, senses alert, fingertips tingling with wariness. Someone had been here, been here recently. But how did he know that?
He inspected the hut from a distance. The undergrowth looked undisturbed, and he could hear nothing except for the hum of insects and the occasional call of a yute bird.
Quietly, slowly, he approached the door. He could almost hear his heart pounding in his chest and his breathing sounded loud and raspy. What was causing this apprehension?
He was only a few steps from the door when he realized it was something he smelled. The scent of the forest was strong and familiar, a combination of decaying leaves, wild blossoms, and dank moistness. But there was a tiny vein of something else lacing that pungent odor, no more than a hint of something, so subtle it might have gone unnoticed. But to Neelix, the fragrance of the forest was a part of him. He could detect any deviant element.
Something had burned. He couldn’t be sure what, but the whiff of acridity seemed to become more pronounced as he identified it. He glanced around the clearing for signs of a cooking fire, but saw none. He turned back toward the hut, realizing that the odor must be coming from inside.
He could turn around, walk back to his craft, and return to the sanctuary of home. It would have been easy. And, in retrospect, the wise thing to do.
But he felt an ineffable sense of violation. Someone had been using his hut, his retreat. He knew he had no legitimate claim of ownership to it, but his proprietary feelings were no less intense because of that. He’d put hours of work into this place. He’d invested it with literally years of his young life. It belonged to him, and he deeply resented anyone else using it.
So it was with indignation that he opened the door.
And with horror and revulsion that he recoiled at what he saw.
A man—something like a man—was sitting on a chair . . . his chair . . . slumped over. He was prevented from falling because he was tied into the chair.
His face, if it could be called that, was a pulpy mass, purple and bloated. It had distended into a grotesque mask, like the ones children wore on the Day of the Specters. Neelix could barely see the eyes, which had swollen closed.
Someone had beaten him hideously.
Neelix stood at the door, transfixed, uncertain what to do. He didn’t want to walk closer to this monstrosity, but he felt compelled to determine whether the man was alive.
He hoped he was not.
Forcing a calm he didn’t feel, Neelix stepped toward the man, and realized his chest was rising and falling imperceptibly. He was alive.
But then Neelix made another, more horrible observation: the source of the burnt odor.
Beating was not the only thing this man had endured. Parts of him were charred and black . . . feet, ankles, legs . . . He had been cruelly used, flesh roasted from the bottom up. Neelix began shuddering, and was afraid for a moment he would throw up. The smell had become powerful, assaulting his nostrils and lungs until he felt he couldn’t breathe.
He stood frozen for what seemed like hours, trying to control himself. Finally he gasped as he realized the man’s eyes were open, looking right at him.
Open, that is, as far as they could in that puffy face. Dreadful, milky eyes, shot with blood, staring dully at Neelix.
“I’ll . . . I’ll . . . I’m . . . going to get you out of here,” stammered Neelix. He hadn’t intended to say that; the words came out unbidden.
A husky rasp emerged from the bound man’s throat, but Neelix had no idea what he was trying to say, and he didn’t want to draw nearer in order to hear him. But the man rasped at him again, more urgently.
“What? I can’t hear you . . .” said Neelix. His mind was trying to figure out how he could get this horribly injured