The Dying Time (Book 2): After The Dying Time (20 page)

“Remember me?” Michael waved his blade in front of the man’s eyes and watched them widen.

“Yeah, you remember.”

No-Ears struggled against the rope, making mmmph noises through his gag, trembling as hard as his bonds allowed.

“I saw you bugger my godson today,” Michael hissed. “Left me with some feelings I’ve just got to share with you.”

He reached between No-Ears’ legs and slit the man’s sack, so his testicles flopped out.

“I told you once I just might cut your balls off, but now I know you like to rape little boys I’ve changed my mind.” Michael’s voice had gone flat. He showed No-Ears the pipe grenade. No-Ears squeezed his eyes shut.

“You don’t like my present?” Michael reached down, grabbed an eyelid, pulled it out and cut it off.

Then he shoved his face up next to No-Ears and said, “You’ve got the better part of an hour to live. That’s almost 3600 seconds and I’m going to see to it you spend every one of them thinking about your favorite pastime from a whole new perspective.”

Michael sat up and pounded that pipe grenade so far up No-Ears’ ass only the fuse dangled out. No-Ears bucked so violently against his bonds Michael thought he might rip his shoulders out of their sockets. No such luck. He passed out first.

Michael tied the fuse-igniter to a trip-line and ran the line between the barn and the horses. When No-Ears’ relief showed up later and tripped the device the matchbook cover-tube would be jerked off the matches, scratching the match-heads along the striking surface, setting them on fire and lighting the grenade’s fuse. When it blew, God himself wouldn’t have enough thread to sew up No-Ears’ asshole.

No-Ears had regained consciousness by the time Michael got back. The terror and agony on the man’s face almost swayed Michael toward pity, tempting him to slit No-Ears’ throat and end his misery: almost.

Michael cut the picket line so the horses could drift away from the blood scent. He figured when the grenade blew they would stampede so far it would take days to round them up. That way, even if he died attempting to free the children, his enemies might be delayed long enough for his people to catch up and destroy them. He believed in covering all bases.

No-Ears’ M-16 made a welcome addition to Michael’s weapons inventory as he turned toward the barn. The gun was clean, which surprised Michael since he didn’t hold a high opinion of No-Ears’ soldiering abilities. The guy didn’t even carry an extra clip. Michael consoled himself with the knowledge that if anybody woke up he’d be able to do damage on full-auto.

He paused at the barn door and peeked in, spotting several forms outlined by the dying coals of their fire. The children were secured against the far wall. He eased into the room.

There are two ways to be stealthy. One is to make so little noise nobody can hear you and the other is to make only those noises that are so natural, so much a part of the background, that any listener will ignore them.

Looking over the floor of the barn Michael saw moldy straw, the enemy’s gear and sleeping bodies. No way to be absolutely quiet walking through that mess, but it wasn’t that quiet anyhow. At least two of the men and one of the women were snoring and someone else was mumbling in his sleep. Mice and pack rats squeaked and rustled through the hay.

Matching the rhythm of his steps and the sounds of his breathing to the loudest of the snores, he started across to the kids. Snort/step, pause, look around carefully, spy the next place to put his feet and crutch, then snore/step, pause and repeat the process.

As Michael approached the little ones he could see their eyes were glued to his every move. They were slowly shaking their heads from side to side, pointing with their chins at the floor: a warning. In the dim light, Michael was almost on it before he saw the trap.

Their hands and feet were tied behind their backs and attached by a short length of rope to a trip-line loaded with tin cans and other noise makers. Until he dealt with that, any attempt to untie or cut their bonds would release the tension-trigger.

The children were far enough apart to keep them from getting together to untie each other; yet enough slack had been left in the line so normal sleep movements wouldn’t set it off.

It was a well-designed little device, but its limitation lay in its purpose, which was to prevent the two children from getting close enough to each other to set themselves free, not to prevent a third party such as himself from doing so. Unwrapping a piece of cord from around his waist, he tied the two release-lines together so that when he cut the children loose the proper tension would be maintained on the trap’s trigger.

Michael drew his Bowie, stepped between the kids, leaned down and severed their bonds, whispering, “Flex your wrists and ankles until you know you can move smoothly, then get up and head slowly for the exit. We’re mice and they’re cats. Get it?”

They nodded, eyes big.

The mice in the hay were noisy by comparison as the three of them slipped out of the barn. Outside, Michael shouldered his pack, handed Mary his rifle, Jimmy the .357 and pushed them toward the river. He kept the M-16. Patches of starlight showed through thinning clouds.

Deep inside the woods he stopped to tell them about the raft, but before he could say a word they were hugging him hard enough to crack his ribs. His eyes watered.

“Listen up, you two,” Michael said, “There’s a raft grounded about a hundred yards upstream from where you were today. I want you both to run on ahead, get it into the water and be ready to cast off the second I get there. Okay?”

“Can’t we stay with you?” Mary asked, looking at his crutch and the splint on his leg.

“Please, Uncle Michael?” Jimmy pleaded.

“No.” Michael left no room for argument. “You can move through these woods a lot faster than I can. By going on ahead and getting the raft ready you’ll speed up our getaway and help me out.” He smoothed their hair with his callused palms.

“You’re in the Militia now and I’m counting on you to follow my orders. If you hear gunfire or anything suspicious before I get there you cast off and head for the middle of the river. Got that?”

A few seconds of silence then both children said, “Yes, Sir!” Michael’s heart swelled.

“Uncle Michael?” It was Mary. “We were being followed by people from home. I heard them talking about it.”

“That’s good, honey,” Michael said. “Now take this pack and get going.”

They smiled bravely and dashed for the river.

Michael would never know exactly how it happened. Maybe a grazing horse blundered into his trip-line, or someone from inside the barn got up to take a leak. All he knew is that about ten minutes after the kids left and a good two minutes before he could reach the raft, he heard an explosion and knew that his pipe grenade had just blown No-Ears’ ass to hell.

The blast was closely followed by whinnying horses stampeding through the woods, confused shouting from the enemy and panicked firing. Michael took off as fast as one leg and a crutch could carry him, hoping he could make the raft before they got too far out into the river.

He didn’t have to worry about missing the raft. They were still waiting when he crashed out of the trees and down to the river, pulling up short and hissing, “It’s me!” as he looked down the barrels of his own weapons.

Good thing they weren’t trigger-happy.

Michael thrust himself up onto the raft, grabbed a pole and shoved it out into the river.

They floated silently downstream around a bend, sounds coming from the old ranch fading with distance. Frogs and crickets recovered from the shock of the explosion and resumed their chorus. The burbling, soothing sound of the river was a far cry from the crashing thunder of spring runoff, less than a month away. Michael was just thankful the ice was off.

He had the kids pull his torn-up sleeping bag out of his pack and covered them both with it, telling them to get some sleep. They could talk in the morning. Mary soon drifted off, but something was bothering Jimmy.

“You killed the man that hurt me didn’t you,” Jimmy said quietly, finally breaking the silence. The boy must have noticed No-Ears wasn’t in the barn.

“Yes,” Michael admitted.

“Good!” he blurted out, then in a softer tone asked, “Did you see him...you know?”

“No, I got there after it was over.”

“That’s good,” the boy sighed. But his downcast eyes spoke of shame and humiliation.

“Listen to me, Jimmy.” Michael laid an arm around the boy’s shoulder. “What happened wasn’t your fault. Sometimes people are so foul and evil they like to hurt children. It’s called child molesting and nowadays anybody who does it and gets caught, gets killed.”

“Wh...why would he want to hurt me like that?”

The pain in the little boy’s voice tore at Michael’s heart.

“I don’t know, son,” Michael said, trying to explain the unexplainable. “I wish I did. I wish I could tell you he did it just because he was mean and cruel and rotten, but there’s probably more to it than that. Maybe he was treated that way when he was little, or maybe his mind was sick so he couldn’t stop himself. The main thing is it doesn’t matter why he did it. There’s no excuse for his actions. Period. And he won’t ever do that to you, or anyone else, again.”

“I’m still mad at him,” Jimmy stated flatly. “He was NASTY!”

Michael stroked the child’s head, mourning the boy’s lost innocence. Jimmy fell asleep with his head on Michael’s lap, tears drying to salt streaks on his cheeks.

Jimmy was ashamed of being raped and now that the rage was gone, Michael was ashamed of the way he killed No-Ears. Killing an enemy was one thing. Even torturing an enemy to gain information was acceptable, provided the need was great enough. But torturing a man to death for revenge was not only wrong, in the Freeholds it was a capital offense.

Michael wrestled with his guilt. No-Ears deserved to die, but Michael should have been merciful enough to simply kill him. No-Ears’ death would haunt him.

Michael stroked Jimmy’s hair lightly, trying to soothe away the trouble he could see on the young boy’s face, even in his sleep. Alone with his thoughts, he maintained a silent vigil through the night.

Just before dawn, they entered the Yampa River and rough water forced Michael to pole the raft to the south shore. It took him more than a mile to beach the raft and even though they were all wet and cold by then Michael refused to risk a fire.

The early morning sun and hard work following the broken remnants of US 40 toward Steamboat Springs soon warmed them up and dried them off. The road paralleled the river, so they walked the shoreline--easier going than the busted road.

They were moving just inside a screen of trees at the edge of the water when they heard horses coming and hid. Peering through the branches Michael saw thirty horsemen loping along the river bank, on the same side of the river as he and the kids, coming fast. Ellen was in the lead, leaning sideways out of the saddle as she scanned the ground for tracks. Chad Bailey rode slightly behind her, his head turning constantly as he watched the trees for any sign of the enemy.

Michael clambered to his feet, motioning the kids forward and had started to step into the open when the unmistakable snick-clack of a pump-action shotgun being cocked stopped him cold.

A familiar voice said, “Freeze it right there, asshole.”

“I know I don’t look myself right now, Osaka-san,” Michael said as calmly as he could, “but if you’d quit pointing that damn thing at me and help me through these willows I’d surely appreciate it.”

“Michael?” Dan’s eyebrows arched. The voice he heard didn’t jive with the body he saw. Michael had lost thirty pounds. “Christ, man, you look like hell!”

“I love you, too, Dan. Now will you help me out of here?”

“Sorry about the gun,” Dan explained as he helped Michael through the brush, “but I was riding point when I saw you moving through the trees. I thought you were one of the murderers we’ve been trailing, come back to ambush us. Then I saw the kids and noticed they were armed. That’s the only reason I didn’t shoot you on sight. Man, I still can barely recognize you.”

“Don’t apologize for doing a good job,” Michael said as they forced their way out onto the riverbed. “Hell, Dan, you were riding point for my wife, among others. I’d be pissed if you hadn’t seen us. I swear you see better with one eye and than most do with two.”

The kids were already holding court amid an attentive circle of friends and neighbors.

Ellen’s eyes widened and a bright smile lit her face when she saw Michael. Then her smile vanished and her brows knit as she took in his condition. Michael shook loose from Dan and hobbled a couple of steps toward her as she rushed into his arms, hugging him with such fierce joy she exploded the breath from his lungs. The two were silent for a minute, lost in each other’s arms, holding tightly to what they’d both feared lost, distant angers from ancient arguments forgotten.

Then Ellen stepped back and ran her eyes up and down Michael’s body, noting every wound. She glanced at the children and back to him, shaking her head. “I can hardly wait to hear this one.”

Chapter 19: Aurora One

Marissa Riley and Suzy Yakamoto carefully studied the access panel to the command and control center of the Sunflower satellite. Marissa was there because she was the resident computer expert and Suzy because, as a mining engineer, she was the closest thing the astronauts had to an explosives expert and this bird was, after all, a weapon.

Marissa reached toward a bolt with her electric wrench and Suzy grabbed her hand, stopping her.

“I think it’s booby-trapped,” she said.

“Whoa,” Marissa said, quickly stowing the wrench. “How can you tell?”

Suzy pointed out two small bumps on the sides of the panel cover.

“Why would they do that?” Marissa asked. “They can’t risk damage to this thing.”

“It might not damage the satellite,” Suzy said. She waved a meter over the panel cover and jerked back when the reading spiked.

“Unko!” She swore, using the Japanese term for shit. “It’s electrified.”

She carefully extended the meter again and ran it slowly above the surface.

“Okay, I stand corrected. Only the control panel is juiced. Damn them.”

“Yeah,” Marissa said. “They didn’t trust us with the control codes but realized we’d have physical access to the satellite and this...” She stopped, at a loss for words.

Suzy said, “Sometimes I think it’d serve them right if their own paranoia kept us from saving them.”

The umbilicals stretching from Marissa and Suzy to the Aurora space plane undulated like ribbons in a gentle breeze, occasionally exerting a slight tug forcing them to compensate. They’d wanted to use Extravehicular Mobility Units or EMUs to fly untethered from Aurora One to the satellite but ever since Captain Dupree almost died when a space pebble hit and jammed his propulsion unit, no one had gone outside without a tether.

“So what do we do?” Marissa asked.

“Go home and come up with a plan B, I guess.” She nodded toward a tripod mounted turret. “Heinz said this thing had defenses against close approaches. That’s why Mary was squawking IFF codes on the ride in.”

“IFF?”

“Identify Friend or Foe,” Suzy explained. “It sees you as a friend or it blasts you.”

Mary sighed and muttered, “Idiots.”

“Hey look! Australia!” Suzy said, gesturing toward Earth. It was time to change the subject.

Marissa smiled and allowed herself to be distracted by the stunning view of her homeland as it slowly rotated beneath her. A lump formed in her throat as she observed small clusters of lights in the Blue Mountains, along the western edges of the Australian Alps and in the rapidly greening central desert. Now North of the equator, the desert received monsoon rainfalls and several stations, as Aussies called their ranches, now grew crops they could never have previously grown.

Aboard Aurora One, Captain Mary Adams keyed her radio and asked, “Marissa, do you see the lights?”

Marissa cleared her throat and whispered, “Yes,” hoarse with emotion. Earlier observations from the ISS revealed most of those communities cooperating and trading with each other. No large scale warfare and no cannibals.

“Those are the people we’re trying to save,” Mary said softly.

*

The War Council

May 27, 13 A.I.

Delicious warmth from the late spring sun caressed Ellen Whitebear’s face. Her smile bloomed like a rose as she studied the beehive of activity from the deck of her home. Tipis and tents dotted the valley of the Freeholds. Peddlers and merchants with wagons full of trade goods, minstrels and storytellers, all had set up make-shift booths and were doing a booming business.

Children swarmed like ants at a picnic, gawking and playing. The Troubled Land Band was over by the band shell tuning up for the night’s concert. It reminded her more of a carnival than a council of war and there was more at stake than an alliance. This was a taste of the civilization she was devoted to rebuilding.

Though the initial idea to form an alliance came from Daniel Windwalker, Ellen Whitebear had turned that idea into a reality, sending messengers to every tribe and community she knew and asking them not only to attend, but to spread the word. Tribes the Freeholders hadn’t seen in years and others they hadn’t met at all, sent representatives. Communities the Freeholders traded with and others they had never even heard of, sent delegations. Folks poured in from all over.

By the end of the first week, virtually every group in attendance had voted to join the Freeholders in the war against the King. Unfortunately, there was still no agreement on the vital issue of who would lead the Allied Army and she could see scattered groups engaged in serious conversation.

Adam Young and Lt. Parsons were lobbying Daniel Windwalker and other tribal delegates to support Adam. Jim Cantrell was conferring with people from Livingston, Montana and Casper, Wyoming. Michael and Lt. Walt Beeman were laughing at some joke Minowayuh told. Dan Osaka was talking to Dr. Merriman.

Even when everyone understood they had to fight as a unit to win, it wasn’t easy getting the leaders of such diverse peoples to agree on anything, much less surrender some of their independence. Ellen was everywhere at once, smoothing ruffled feathers here, drawing out a pledge of support there. Dark circles had formed under her hazel eyes.

She sighed. Time to get back to her rounds.

*

Adam Young returned to his tent and was alone with his thoughts for a moment. He had only arrived at the Freeholds the day before, being loathe to leave Deseret while his men were engaged in frequent skirmishes with the King’s troops, but he had no choice. A message from Ellen Whitebear, delivered by Jim Cantrell, made it clear that if he expected to command the army of the Alliance, he would have to persuade the Allied leaders in person.

Persuade them? Adam knew he was the one man best suited for overall command of the new army. In fact, he was pretty sure he was the only man for the job. No one else had his experience directing large masses of men and equipment in combat. No one else had fought the King’s Army as often. And no one else knew the terrain around Nephi, the King’s beachhead, as well. He had to be the commander. He was the only logical choice and it irritated him to no end that it was not as obvious to others as it was to him.

Instead, some of the Freeholders were insisting that Ellen Whitebear, or Jim Cantrell, or even Michael Whitebear be in charge and the tribes were pushing Daniel Windwalker. Adam had detailed Lt. Beeman and Sergeant Buell to learn what they could about his competition while he studied the situation personally.

While he changed into a fresh uniform he tolled off his opposition. He had nothing but respect for Ellen Whitebear. She had greeted him warmly and with dignity and he had taken a nearly instant liking to her--very unusual for him. The job she was doing organizing and hosting this War Council spoke well for her leadership abilities and she’d done an outstanding job fighting off that helicopter attack.

The way she’d led that posse after the raiders, even after running into her husband and the kids, chasing the marauders down and killing almost every one of them...she’d do alright. Even if she didn’t have his depth of experience.

But she was a woman and he doubted the men of the tribes would support her as leader. He knew it wouldn’t go over well in Deseret.

Cantrell had surprised him by being level-headed and cool as ice during the one combat situation they encountered on their way to the Freeholds. Leadership potential there, Adam decided and he thought Jim would listen to suggestions.

Daniel Windwalker was a good man, Adam thought and the way he’d turned defeat into victory when the King attacked the Cheyenne spoke well of his tactics and ability to think on his feet.

But Michael Whitebear was a different story. Adam grimaced. The man was a local hero. Slayer of howitzers. A man lucky enough to attack a battalion alone and escape with his life. A man who Walt Beeman said was, “the guy who hobbled into Prince John’s camp on a crutch, killed a guard, scattered the horses and rescued two children.” Again with the incredible luck. Not that there was anything wrong with luck. Every soldier knew it was better to be lucky than good.

Adam respected the courage and ability those deeds had taken, but he’d seen men like Michael before. They made great fighters and lousy soldiers. Too undisciplined.

A man like Whitebear would depend on his luck, make decisions based on some flaky gut feeling and get a lot of other good men killed while coming through himself without a scratch. Adam was certain it would be a disaster for the Allied cause if Michael was placed in charge; so certain that he would not put his men under Michael’s command, even if it meant not joining the Alliance. And there was no doubt in his mind that Michael Whitebear was the man to beat.

Adam scowled. He just didn’t like the man. His memory replayed the scene last night when they first met. He had said, “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Whitebear,” and extended his hand. Michael had taken it saying, “Mr. Whitebear was my dad. I’m Michael.”

Figures, Adam thought. He never had cared for people who insisted on instant familiarity. Formality was a sign of respect. Years of being called Colonel and Sir had made that a part of his being.

He shook his head, amazed that an intelligent, perceptive woman like Ellen Whitebear, could be married--and happily from what he’d seen--to a man like Michael.

But Ellen Whitebear had only just begun to amaze Adam.

She had devoted a great deal of thought to who should be in overall command, as well as other leadership positions. Political leadership was her forte, not military matters. She had a talent for building coalitions and holding them together, for planning and organizing. She wouldn’t lead the Allied Army, but she’d determine who did.

*

“Thank you, Daniel,” Ellen said as she stepped out of the Cheyenne leader’s tipi.

“Your wisdom is sound,” Daniel replied as he followed her out. “I’ll support him and keep it under my hat.” He watched Ellen walk away, appreciating her beauty the way any healthy male would. But Daniel saw deeper than her skin. Along with Michael, he understood the strength of her vision and the clarity of her thoughts.

Daniel thought Ellen moved a lot like...he shied away from any thought of the pretty musician he’d caught watching him on more than one occasion. He had no room in his life for a woman. The trust his wife had put in him, which he’d betrayed repeatedly...no, he might never trust himself to love again.

A motion caught his eye. Susan Redfeather and Raymond Stormcloud walking down by the riverbank. Raymond held a courting flute in one hand and wore a puppy dog look on his face. Susan looked uncomfortable. With the practiced eye of a tribal leader, Daniel saw trouble developing.

Susan, being basically kind and gentle under her tough-as-nails exterior, would want to let Raymond down without hurting him. Raymond, who was brave and honorable and about as deep as a pie pan, would take anything less than outright rejection as encouragement. Daniel sighed and turned away. He hoped it would work out okay.

Ellen couldn’t suppress a smile as she headed for the next campground. Her plan was working.

*

“Honey,” Ellen said in that sweet tone of voice that told Michael he was not going to like what came next.

“Uh oh...I mean, yes dear?” Might as well let her know he was on to her.

“I think we should invite Colonel Young to dinner this evening.”

OOF! It was worse than he thought.

“Aw Ellen, that man grates on my nerves like fingernails on a chalkboard. He thinks I want to lead the Allied Army and he can’t stand the thought.” Ellen tried to interrupt, but Michael was on a roll. “I don’t know what I ever did to him, but the feeling’s mutual. Probably just bad chemistry. That and the fact that Mr. Spit and Polish thinks he’s God’s gift to our army. And before you try to defend him, I know that, next to you, the stiff-backed jerk is the best man for the job and I don’t mind telling you it irks me to admit it.”

Michael was talking with his hands as he paced around the room. “But what really pisses me off is that he thinks he’s the only man for the job. You know I can’t stand that kind of arrogance. He’s a ramrod, darling. And you know where that term came from?”

She shook her head, no.

“A long time ago, cadets at West Point used to ram little rods up their butts to force themselves to stand and sit with their backs straight. Made’em look real gung-ho.”

“Really?” She chuckled at the image.

“Hell, I don’t know. I just made it up, but it fits.” He grinned, ear-to-ear and shrugged.

Ellen broke into laughter and Michael joined her.

When they recovered their composure he asked, “What would you like me to fix?” Michael did most of the cooking when he was home.

*

“This is really good, Mr...Michael,” Adam amended. When in Rome... And it was good too. Chicken fried rice no less. At a time when rice was almost as valuable as sugar. The meal stated clearly this was an important occasion.