The Dying Time (Book 2): After The Dying Time (50 page)

“Enter.”

An electronic buzzer went off, reminiscent of those used in security-conscious apartment buildings before The Dying Time. The guards both looked mildly surprised he was being allowed in. Raymond opened the door and stepped into a nightmare.

Once more, the room he was in was lined with iron cages. But these contained living prisoners, all of whom bore marks of torture. Moans, howls and whimpers came at him from all sides as he walked the length of the room. This time he had to look into each cage, for he had to find Sara. His gorge rose, but he fought it back down. Some tough Indian, he scolded himself. What he saw went beyond brutality, beyond mere mutilation; it defined the word obscene. He heard an odd noise.

He rounded a corner and stopped. A thing bumped and scraped its way along the floor toward him, mewling as it dragged itself closer. It was so horribly scarred, Raymond couldn’t tell if it had been a man or a woman, in spite of the fact it was naked. It was bald and from the acid-etched condition of the scalp, no hair would ever grow there again. Its eyes were charred, empty, holes, staring from a face that appeared to have been partially melted. Its ears and nose were gone, though whether they’d been cut off or burned off was impossible to tell. Snot ran downwards from one of its nose holes. A heavy iron collar encircled its neck. Its legs were stubs of such unequal length it had to drag itself along the floor. Its arms ended in fingerless, thumbless, hands. Ridges of scar tissue covered its body. Its mewling whine made it obvious the thing had no tongue.

Raymond couldn’t tear his eyes from it. He stepped back, shivering as it reached for him.

“Do you like my pet?”

Raymond started at the sound of the voice and jerked his gaze up from the creature toward the door at the end of the corridor. He hadn’t even heard it open. A figure stood in the door, covered by a blood red cape.

“I asked you a question, slave.” The hood on the cape was so large and cast such a deep shadow Stormcloud couldn’t even see the face that belonged with the voice. This had to be the Royal Inquisitor.

Raymond gulped, searching for the right words. He relied on his intuition.

“Very...artistic,” he managed.

“Ah! A perceptive slave. Yes, truly I am an artist who works in flesh.” The voice was so cold, so even-toned, Stormcloud couldn’t tell whether it belonged to a man or a woman. Its cape-covered shape offered no clue. Like its pet, it was genderless.

It likes props, thought Raymond, grasping that truth immediately. His mind had disengaged itself from the horrors around him and begun to function. Though he was woefully inadequate at interpreting females, Raymond was more intelligent than most people gave him credit for. It hides its sex to inspire fear. It has no name other than Royal Inquisitor or Your Honor for the same reason. Forcing visitors to parade past a series of gruesome exhibits puts them in the proper frame of mind to meet such a monster. His or her particular brand of insanity must feed on the fear and pain of others.

“I believe you have something for me?”

Raymond’s hand darted into his pocket withdrawing the envelope, extending it as he stepped around the Inquisitor’s pet. The hand that came forth from the cape to receive it was gloved.

Figures, Raymond thought. Probably wears a damn mask under that hood too.

The Inquisitor opened the envelope and read the invitation within.

“I never attend public events. Everyone knows that.” The voice was stiff and a bit angry.

“But Your Honor is always invited,” Raymond offered. “My master sent me to insure no offense was given.”

“As well he should,” the voice replied, faintly amused.

“Will there be a reply?”

“Yes...I believe so.” The figure turned back into the room from which it had stepped. It beckoned with one arm.

“Come,” it said. “You too, Pet.” The ruin that had once been a beautiful blonde named Ashley began laboriously dragging itself back toward the doorway.

Raymond entered what appeared to be the Inquisitor’s living quarters and paused. Paintings depicting scenes from hell hung here and there on the walls, interspersed with swords, axes and exotic instruments of torture: delightful. A scarlet and black color scheme added atmosphere. The benches and chairs lining the entranceway seemed to be upholstered in human skin. Goose bumps skittered down Raymond’s back.

“Come! You may admire the decor on your way out,” the voice began impatiently, then noticing the direction of Raymond’s stare, added, “Ah yes! As you can see, I’ve resurrected the fine art of flaying. The Nazis were such amateurs.” The figure sniffed contemptuously as it continued down the entrance hall.

Raymond followed it through a door set into the right side wall into a large open room. A dark wooden cross sat upright in concrete in the middle of the room. Sara Garcia hung naked on the cross. Large red welts and small slicing cuts, crisscrossed her body. Blood dripped from her unconscious form, adding fresh stains to the already discolored concrete below. A cat-of-nine-tails lash lay nearby. Raymond decided he’d interrupted the Inquisitor at work, or was it play, he wondered with a shudder. He didn’t notice the needle marks on Sara’s arms.

As he completed his inspection, the door behind Raymond slammed shut and a man stepped forward, pinning his arms while another whirled from concealment and punched him in the jaw. The Inquisitor turned, threw back his hood and then peeled off a mask, revealing the face of Doctor Jason Merriman.

“I believe this is what you’re looking for,” he sneered, gesturing toward Sara, “isn’t it, Raymond?”

The pain from the blow to his jaw and the shock of seeing Doctor Merriman acted differently on Raymond than it would on most men, galvanizing him where another might have frozen.

As the man in front stepped forward to hit him again, Raymond raked the heel of his right boot down the shinbone of the man holding him, stomping the man’s foot so hard it broke with an audible snap. The man’s grip weakened as he gasped in pain. Raymond twisted, driving his right elbow deep into the man’s solar plexus. The man let go and gagged.

The fingers of Raymond’s right hand formed themselves into a claw as his right arm shot forward, his hand grasping the throat of the man in front of him in a steely grip. Raymond’s fingers tightened in the hollow spot behind the man’s Adam’s apple till they touched. He tugged hard and the man’s throat stretched almost six inches before he collapsed to the floor, strangling from a crushed larynx.

Raymond spun and rabbit punched the man who was still fighting for breath behind him. The man hit the floor hard, unconscious.

Stormcloud whipped back toward the doctor and launched himself in a gymnast’s somersaulting dive as Merriman pulled a gun and fired. The bullet passed wide. Raymond rolled to his feet next to the doctor, one arm deflecting the man’s gun while the other thrust elbow-deep into the man’s gut. The doctor paled and gasped. He dropped his gun and stumbled back a step. Raymond, who was the Cheyenne Tribe’s hand-to-hand combat instructor, punched the man in his heart so hard it knocked Merriman to the floor. The doctor’s eyes remained aware, if clouded by pain, but the force of the blows had paralyzed him. All he could do was fight for his breath and watch in horror as his “pet” dragged itself nearer.

Raymond heard the noise and snapped himself around to meet the new danger. He saw the “pet” pulling itself toward its master and dismissed it from his mind. He scooped up the doctor’s gun and raced to Sara’s side.

She had regained consciousness with a moan--a deep, terrible sound. Raymond used a knife sticking from a wooden post to cut the lashings that held her to the cross. He caught her as she slumped into his arms, laying her on the floor. He went to get her some water and some clothes, stopping only to kick the good doctor in the solar plexus in an uncontrollable expression of rage. I will kill you before I leave, he thought. His only regret was he couldn’t take his time about it.

He took a minute to bind the doctor, then slit the throat of the unconscious lackey, making certain the other one was dead. He didn’t bother to gag the doctor. The place was pretty obviously soundproofed.

Sara was sitting up when he returned with clothes and water.

“Hey, Ray,” she said with a weak smile. Her powers of recovery amazed him.

“I know you were probably expecting Whitebear, or Jim,” he said, as he gave her a drink, “but Kemo Sabe was busy and your man had to stay with the troops.”

“You’ll do just fine, Ray,” she said fervently. “Now how do we get out of here?”

Raymond handed her some men’s clothes, including a robe that matched the one Merriman was wearing.

“Best I could do on short notice,” he apologized. “We’ll put you in the Inquisitor’s robe. Then, if we can’t bluff our way out, I’ll use this,” he gestured with the gun. “But first,” he picked up the knife and met her eyes.

“Oh, yes!” she said with such hatred it made his skin crawl. She dressed hurriedly.

There was an odd tearing sound behind them, accompanied by a shrill scream. They looked and froze. Pet had used its teeth to rip off one of Merriman’s ears. As they watched it spit the bloody thing out and bit down on the doctor’s nose. With a wrenching motion it succeeded in biting off a piece. The doctor was trying desperately to roll away, but Pet’s fingerless hands held him in place as they tore at his clothes.

“I wondered what could keep such a thing alive,” Sara whispered, stunned. Then her eyes and voice hardened.

“Let’s go, Ray. If anyone deserves the pleasure of killing Merriman, Pet does.”

The doctor’s screams filled the room. Behind them, Ashley bit off one of the his nipples and felt her way down his squirming body toward more tempting morsels.

On their way out Raymond and Sara released all the captives and killed all the guards who had seen Raymond enter. Denise and Jacques had asked him not to blow their cover unless there was no other way to free Sara. They knew if the Allies somehow won, it would be advantageous to have a spy in the King’s court.

Chapter 49: The Battle of Provo Canyon

Even Prince John was impressed by the slaughter wrought by Captain Parsons’s Beehives. John stood over General Carswell’s corpse and swore down at it.

“Carswell, you stupid fuck!” The asshole couldn’t even prevent the retreat up the canyon. He kicked the general’s corpse and a flechette poking through the body penetrated John’s boot and stuck his foot.

“Goddammit!” he yelled and lost control completely. He ripped the saber from Carswell’s hand and chopped viciously at the man’s neck until it parted. He picked the head up by its hair, swung it in an arc and smashed it against a rock, splattering himself and everyone else within ten feet with gore.

Dropping the shapeless mass, he strode across the killing ground to the twisted mass of metal--all that was left of the gun that had done so much damage. His forward element had been so excited at finding the howitzer intact that they’d opened the breech, set off a booby trap and blown themselves and the gun to hell.

Damn! John thought as he slipped on a corpse. I have to find me some of those projectiles. If they’d shot even one of those things at the charge I led this morning I could be lying there like Carswell. That fact, in no small way, contributed to his anger.

Of course, his anger had been raging since the night before, when Whitebear slipped through his fingers after making a fool of him again. My God! If the King finds out that 800 men couldn’t stop one man from raiding my headquarters, stealing my battle plans and escaping in one of my jeeps... John didn’t even want to think about the resulting tantrum.

But this...this carnage, he could use against the Allies. He would use it as a battle cry to motivate his soldiers. Remember Carswell’s Charge! He would keep the pressure on the Allies all night and tomorrow his army would drive up this damn canyon and smash everything in their way. And even if the Allies made it to their defensive line at the back of the canyon they’d soon have another surprise. He’d stop this endless retreat one way or another.

*

As if reading John’s thoughts another 5,000 troops, whose mission was known only to John, embarked on a voyage from the Southern shores of Lake Zion. Their destination was the massive earthen dam at the back of Provo Canyon. When they arrived all further Allied retreat would be cut off.

*

Jim Cantrell was as worried as he’d ever been in his life. The rest stop had been a good idea and his men had managed to accomplish more in the past day than in the preceding two; but they were hitting water in almost every shaft now. He had to send down divers to plant the charges and that was costing time they didn’t have. Earl’s assurances that hitting water now was a good sign didn’t do much for Jim’s peace of mind. Not when he knew that eight miles below him, at the other end of the canyon, men were dying and preparing to die in order to buy him the time he needed to finish digging and laying explosives. Every minute of delay was costing lives.

He shifted his gaze from down canyon to the draw that led off north up to Cascade Springs. The last of the stretcher-bearers and pack trains, carrying the wounded and the Allies’ remaining medical supplies, had disappeared up the Deer Creek trail little more than an hour ago. Safe for another day, maybe. But if this last desperate hope failed to stop the King’s army...

*

Adam studied the forces available to him and the topo map that covered the battleground. The map had been revised by an Allied surveyor the preceding spring. Highway 89 and the DRGW railroad bed had been cleared of enough rock to assure fairly smooth passage by his troops. The steep, rocky sides of the canyon were ideal for ambushes and sniping attacks. But he was still outnumbered at least eight to one and in this war of attrition, the fact that the enemy could replace his losses was beginning to make the difference. Add to that the fact he’d had to detail almost eleven hundred troops to evacuate the wounded...

He’d started out with almost twelve thousand volunteers. Now, he was reduced to slightly over three thousand combat effectives. The hell, he thought, what I mean is I have 3,117 men, women and children who aren’t too hurt to pull a trigger. The 1,100 he’d sent with the wounded would return from Cascade Springs and join Jim’s troops at the main stronghold, just below where the earthquakes of years past had dammed Lake Zion.

He estimated the strength of the enemy forces at almost 25,000 men. His last radio contact with the Lachelles, just before he was forced to abandon Provo, had warned him that yet another 5,000 replacements were moving up to the front. By his count that made between 45 and 50,000 troops the King had committed to the war. It also meant that, even if the King won, it would take the combined populations of Colorado and Utah over ten years to grow enough just to replace the King’s losses. It was insane! Even under the economics of slavery it was insane.

“I just can’t understand it, Bob,” Adam said to his younger brother, explaining what he’d been thinking about.

“I do,” Bob replied, with the instincts of a politician. “It’s all a matter of ego. The King and his sons have probably never been defeated. To maintain their aura of invincibility they have to win, regardless of cost.”

“So you’re saying if they lose here, it might cause problems in the rest of their empire?”

“Yeah, but more than that. If the King truly believes he’s the anointed of God and everything we’ve heard from the Lachelles supports that assumption, it follows he must believe he can’t be beaten. So a defeat here, or anywhere, threatens his delusion, his whole self-image.”

“And if he loses, it means God has abandoned him.”

“Not necessarily. If he’s truly insane, he’ll rationalize the defeat somehow. You know. God is testing his faith, or some crock like that.”

“But what about his subjects? Some of them would see it as a sign that he’s vulnerable.”

“That’s why he keeps pouring troops into Nephi. He has to win.”

“So do we,” Adam said in a steely tone.

“Then let’s do it,” said Bob, with a slight smile. “Look, Adam, God knows I’m no tactician, but it looks to me like less than a thousand men could hold this place as long as we need to, so let’s send the rest back to help Jim. That’s our only hope.”

Adam sighed. “I know, but I’ve already sent more than a thousand experienced front line fighters back to help him. And if we don’t keep somewhere near two thousand here it’ll be too easy for the Prince to overrun us. Besides, we have to retreat just fast enough to suck his entire army into the trap. I don’t want to hold him up long enough to get him thinking he has to flank us.”

“So we have to balance the speed of the retreat against Jim’s progress.”

“Exactly! I want him thinking he can get us all if he comes in fast and hard, with everything he has.”

“How will you know how fast to retreat?”

“For the most part, circumstance will dictate that, but I’ll have a constant string of runners going back and forth so Jim and I can keep in touch.”

Bob nodded his understanding. The firing from the front line was intensifying. Adam and he broke off their discussion to check it out.

*

Michael Whitebear, Daniel Windwalker and the remaining Allied fighters who still had ammunition fired steadily into the advancing mass of men. Dozens fell, but it was like throwing rocks at a tidal wave. The canyon was so narrow at this point that only one hundred men could fit abreast and since the Allies were running low on ammo, so low they couldn’t use machine guns, they just couldn’t pour out a volume of fire sufficient to stop the enemy charge.

Michael turned to Adam, concern in his eyes. “We better pull back.”

“Yeah,” Adam agreed. “It wouldn’t do to get overrun this early in the game.”

Adam relayed the command to his troops, who began to fall back toward the second bunker. The enemy troops, noting the slackening gunfire and sensing victory, charged harder than ever. They poured up and over the first bunker and overran the troops acting as the Allies’ rear guard. Fighting was hand-to-hand.

Michael smashed the calloused edge of his hand into an enemy’s throat and shot another point blank with the last round in his Uzi. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Windwalker slash a man’s eyes with his whip, the crack of which was like nothing else on the battlefield. The whip snaked forward again and wrapped around an enemy soldier’s machine gun. With a sharp tug, Daniel jerked it out of the man’s hands and bashed him over the head with it. More soldiers rounded the rocks and headed toward them.

Michael became a dervish, spinning and punching, twisting and slashing. He smashed two men’s heads together so hard they cracked. He kicked another in the balls and stabbed him through the temple as he fell. A gun went off so close to his chest the powder burned his skin. He head-butted the man, squashing the soldier’s nose. As the man’s head snapped back, Michael stabbed him in the neck under the ear.

He saw Daniel dispose of two men before going down under the charge of two more. He wanted to help, but he had problems of his own.

Michael whirled a kick into an enemy soldier’s leg that buckled the man’s knee. He clubbed the man senseless with the stock of his Uzi, then ducked under a swinging rifle butt, coming up under the other soldier’s chin with the heel of a hand to snap the man’s neck. He grabbed the dead man and swung him into the path of a lunging bayonet. The bayonet impaled the corpse and snagged momentarily as its surprised wielder tried to tug it free. Blazing golden eyes were the last thing the terrified man saw as Michael cut his throat with a combat knife.

Michael wrenched the rifle from the dying man’s hands, fired it into the head of Daniel Windwalker’s sole remaining opponent and emptied it into other nearby enemies, momentarily eliminating any immediate threats. From farther down the canyon he heard a familiar voice, one that rose clearly above the crowd, urging the enemy soldiers onward. But now was not the time to deal with the Prince.

More men poured around the boulders and melted under a hail of gunfire from an Allied sniper team hidden in the rocks above. Michael helped Daniel to his feet and the two sprinted up the canyon, dodging bullets and outdistancing the pursuit.

Elsewhere along the line, other rear guard fighters did the same, or died buying time for their friends to retreat. Their determination allowed the Allies to get set up behind the second barricade in time to blunt the enemy’s advance.

“Thanks,” Daniel gasped as he and Michael threw themselves over the top of the bunker and flopped down to relative safety. “I won’t forget it.”

Michael shrugged it off. “Thank whoever shot up that last squad that found us.”

“That was too close,” Daniel said, unconsciously reaching for his medicine bundle. He kept forgetting he’d given it to Chris.

“Any closer and this could have been a rout.”

Daniel nodded his agreement. The two men began thumbing rounds into the clips and chambers of their weapons.

“We could sure use some more ammo,” Michael said.

“Or fewer enemies,” Daniel added with a smile.

“Or fewer enemies,” Michael agreed. “And while I’m wishing for things we don’t have, I’ll just wish us up a good meal, a hot shower, a couple of beds and a decent night’s sleep.”

Daniel chuckled. “What? No women?”

“I already got one,” Michael said with feeling, then added slyly, “And unless I missed my guess you do, too.”

“Chris and I that obvious?” Daniel laughed in a half-delighted, half-embarrassed way.

“Naw, you’re subtle; I’m just very perceptive.”

Daniel rolled his eyes, imploring the heavens. A smattering of shots thudded into the other side of the bunker.

“We’ve got company,” called a voice from atop the embankment.

The two men crawled up to the top and began firing into the advancing men. There was enough light now to allow accurate aiming.

*

On the other side of the river, a few hundred yards from where Michael and company were shooting at the enemy, Adam and Bob Young were in conference. They, too, realized how close a thing the retreat from below Bridal Veil Falls had been. The fighting had separated them from Michael and Daniel and before they knew it, they were in the river. If Sergeant O’Malley hadn’t shown up in the nick of time they would both be dead.

The redoubt they were now defending stretched across the canyon just below Vivian Park. It was their last stronghold, excepting the huge bunker that marked Jim Cantrell’s position. The problem was it was more than five miles to the big bunker, plenty of time for an orderly retreat to dissolve into a rout. Of course, as Bob pointed out, if Jim was ready in time it might even be advantageous to make the enemy believe the rout was on.

At least no one could get lost. The only turnoff that led out of the canyon between Vivian Park and the bunker was the Alpine Scenic Highway and that had been thoroughly blocked off by landslides. Even the road that branched off at Vivian Park to follow the South Fork of the Provo River lay buried under tons of rock and mud. No one could get lost; but then the real problem was how to retreat up five miles of ever-widening canyon without getting killed. The wider the canyon, the more troops the enemy could bring to bear on a given point.