Mike Lewis

“ Morgan shook his head thoughtfully. If she had been through the violent illness of the parasite's incubation, she should now have one of the squeaking little degenerates in place of a brain. The fibers of the small animals grew slowly along the neural arcs, replacing each nerve cell, forming a junction at each synapse. There was reason to believe that the parasite preserved the memories that had been stored in the brain, but they became blended with all the other individualities that comprised Oren, thereby losing the personality in the mental ocean of the herd-mind. ”

“ Morgan glanced at the window, sighed, and stood up.
"It's getting light outside. We better hunt some food."
Morgan and the old man, whose name was Hanson, went out to prowl along the outskirts of the swamp. They returned at mid-morning with a string of perch, a rabbit, and a heart of swamp cabbage. The girl cooked the meal in silence, scarcely looking at them. Her face was sullen, angry. Morgan turned while he was eating and saw her staring contemplatively at the back of his neck—where the Oren-sting was usually planted.
"Nobody's going to force you into anything, Shera," he said quietly. ”

“ They hurried about the unpleasant task of splitting open the once-human skulls to remove the legless parasite-entities that filled the bony hollows where brains belonged. The Oren creatures lived in their stolen homes long after the borrowed body died, and they could signal others to the vicinity. Morgan tossed the globular little creatures in the ditch where they lay squeaking faintly—helpless, once-removed from the body of the host who had long since ceased to exist as a human being. ”

“ When it was over, the cats collected in a group on the road-bed. They sat licking their forepaws while a dozen shabbily dressed guerrillas moved out of the jungle in a disorderly band.
"Joe, have your bunch unload the dynamite!" bawled a burly leader. "We'll take the tank-car. Emmert, get the packs on those carts."
"I wonder," said a voice to a comrade, "who's controlling those animals. You'd think they were Oren. Why don't they sting?"
"Stingers ripped out, chum. Why ask questions? They're on our side. And we'll win, eventually—if this keeps up." ”

“ He shot her a hard glance then stood up to pace the floor. "Ambush, slaughter, and rob," he amended, and looked at her sharply again.
"Rob?"
"Oren's taken our cities. He's reorganizing industry. With individuals coordinated by a mass-mind, it'll be a different kind of industry, a more efficient kind. Think of a factory in which a worker at one position shares consciousness with a worker in another position. Does away with control mechanisms." ”

“ But they turned short and cut north through the edge of the brush. Morgan caught a glimpse of the truck far ahead. Hanson's hounds were snarling about the wheels and leaping up toward the bed. The road was soft sand to their right. Ducking low, they darted ahead until it appeared firm enough to admit the truck.
"We want them to get past us," he hissed to Hanson. "When they do, you stand up and show yourself. When they start piling out, I'll start shooting. ”

“ Morgan sat up sharply. "How many dogs you got, and where do you live?"
"Fo' dawgs. I live in the swamp. They's a big hollow cypress—I got my bed in it."
"Why didn't you move in here?"
The old man looked at the place in the center of the floor where the dust outlined the shape of a human body. "Suicide," he muttered. Then he looked up. "'Tain't superstition, exactly. I just don't—"
"Never mind," Morgan murmured. He glanced at the girl. She had laid the shotgun aside and was lighting a cigarette. He tensed himself, then sprang like a cat. ”

“ The old man giggled. "Wants ta sting a cat, ah bet, suh."
She shot him a furious glance, but didn't deny it. They sat for a long time in silence. Morgan lowered the shotgun, then laid it aside.
"Thanks," she murmured, and looked really grateful.
But Morgan was staring thoughtfully at the oldster. "Your dogs ever tree a panther?"
"Yas, suh, they're good at that!" He grinned and waggled his head.
"Many panthers in the swamp?" ”

“ Sometimes I can feel when they're near. That's all."
"But if it were true—your brain would be replaced by the parasite!"
"I wouldn't know. Apparently it's not."
Morgan couldn't believe it. But he sat stunned in the darkness. What was this thing in the cabin with him? Was she still human? He began inching along the wall, but a board creaked.
"I don't want to shoot you, Morgan. Don't rush me. Besides—there's something outside, I tell you." ”

“ I'll kill ya!"
"Oren is millions. He cannot die. We come."
Hanson's foot nudged Morgan's nervously. Still he lay under cover, waiting for their advance. Feet shuffled on the bed of the truck. The hounds were going wild. There was something weird about sounds of Orenian movement. It was always coordinated—so many marionettes with one set of controls. But they could shift from parallel coordination to complementary, dovetailing each set of movements to achieve the common purpose.
Morgan burst forth from the brush and fired at the tight group of bodies near the back of the truck. ”

“ Morgan gripped his hatchet and waited, not knowing who would be the greater enemy—the girl or the prowlers.
"When the door opens, strike a match. So I can see to shoot."
Morgan crouched low. There came a light tapping at the torn screen, then several seconds of silence. Someone pushed at the door. It swung slowly open. ”

“ They always march in step. Keep quiet."
Morgan gripped the hatchet and set himself for a quick spring. As they drew nearer, he decided that there were two of them. Their movements were perfectly coordinated, since they were of one mind, one consciousness—that of Oren. The girl tapped his arm with the blade of a knife. ”

“ I got my dawgs trained so they don't bark less they's a bunch of 'em."
Morgan listened for a moment. "I hear a truck."
"That's so?" Hanson shook his head. "They ain't never come in a truck before."
"Truck—must be a dozen of them at least." He eyed Hanson sharply. "Run or fight?"
The old man scratched his toe in the dirt. "Ain't never yet run from a fight."
Morgan turned silently and strode back in the house for the gun. Shera ignored him. "Orenians coming," he grunted, and went back out to join the oldster.
Morgan and Hanson trotted through the scrub spruce, heading for the roadway. ”

“ The visitor glanced up with a sheepish grin.
"I feed 'em to my dawgs, suh. Dawgs like 'em. Getting so my dawgs can smell the difference twixt a man and an Orenian. I'm training 'em. They help me with my hunting." ”