A Long Time Until Now - eARC

by Michael Z. Williamson

  “You’re doing it, too. I’m strong enough.”

  “To haul logs?”

  “As part of a team? Sure. I don’t see any of you hauling one alone.”

  They didn’t get it. It was all about physique. Prod a male soldier and the argument frequently degraded to “I can do more pushups.”

  “No, but the young bucks like it, they need to burn off the testosterone, and until we need the grunt, vet or translator, your skills are useful and theirs are best suited to hewing wood.”

  She shrugged. “It’s entirely a cultural artifact. Like pairing us up with dominant males on meeting the natives. Then we find they’re more flexible in their roles. Go back another hundred thousand years and there weren’t any.”

  “And they squatted in caves or under brush, picking fleas and half starving.”

  “Until women developed agriculture. Brains over the brawn of hunting.” She shivered in cold. It was cold enough for breath to frost, not mist.

  “Yes, that was a good thing, so what’s your complaint?”

  “Because all of you look at me, longingly.” She shivered again and kept her voice from cracking.

  He sighed.

  “Yes, you’re the most attractive woman here. No, we know we can’t have you unless you make the offer. Yes, you feature in people’s fantasies. It’s a very human thing.”

  “It’s a male thing, and it’s cultural. Here, the Urushu were a lot more neutral on the matter.”

  “Casual, yes. Not sure on neutral. And I’m not positive they’ve linked sex to children yet.” He piled up the chopped pieces and rolled them in a hide kept for the purpose.

  She really didn’t have anyone to talk to about the subject. Few men could see it, fewer in the military, and Alexander was somewhat agreeable, but they didn’t get along as friends.

  “Look, the locals grab at everyone. They saw me as genetic material, if they saw anything. I’m not the only redhead you’ve seen.”

  “No, but you’re the only one here. And those same urges still exist.”

  “I’d hope we’d develop past that.”

  Bob said, “That’s going to take a long time. Another fifteen thousand years, maybe. And we’ll have scorched goat in blood sauce. Let’s wrap it up and get it inside.”

  “It hd better warm up at least a bit next week. Only two more corpses left, and I didn’t like goat even before I was a vegetarian. This is getting boring fast.”

  “Well, these should help.” He reached into a wicker box and pulled out two birds. Pheasants.

  “Yes. Thank you. A wing and a drumstick will be much better than haunch of goat, and I hate eating animals, and I hate this utterly nontechnological lifestyle, and I hate my hormones, and I hate being in the tent, and,” she felt herself growl into a shriek. She choked back the sobs, because she wasn’t going to have anyone playing the “There, there” game.

  “It is what it is,” he said. “It will get better as we can build more.”

  “We need a platoon, a company or squadron, an entire battalion. Ten people isn’t enough, even with borrowed labor. And you know, I’d like to get laid myself, but it can’t be you guys, and it sure as hell isn’t going to be any of the others.” Why was she telling him this? But she had to talk to someone. Alexander wasn’t very social, and was a mean bitch. But they were all her brothers and sisters at this point, regardless.

  She’d never been much of a drinker, but now she wished for a bottle of booze she could climb into and at least feel warm, until she felt nothing.

  CHAPTER 23

  Christmas, Rich Dalton thought. It was cold and white enough outside, and they had a fire. The ambience was good, and Jesus was Lord. It was good to remember that, no matter what happened. Trust in God, live life the best it could be, work hard, and in the end, it would be worth it.

  Barker had the bird mostly cooked. There was a brief break in the watch, so everyone was inside. The tent was lit with an LED light hanging from a cord just off-center to avoid heat from the fire. It rotated a bit now and then, setting odd shadows in motion.

  He looked around and saw the LT was awake, who nodded to him. He scanned the tent and saw everyone was at least mostly conscious.

  “Attention, please,” he said.

  Everyone turned to face him, though it took Ortiz a few moments to look up from his tablet. Trinidad had to whack him. Apparently his headset volume was pretty high.

  “It’s Christmas morning. I plan to have a brief devotional over here, and some carols. Sergeant Barker has cooked up something different that smells very tasty. So let’s do it.”

  There was shuffling of sleeping bags next to him, and most of the rest walked around the fire circle. Spencer and Alexander conspicuously remained on the far side.

  “Not going to join us?” he asked, and knew he probably shouldn’t have.

  Spencer said, “I’m good,” and Alexander said, “I would strongly prefer not,” with an expression that wasn’t a snarl, but was negative.

  Barker said, “I’m here,” but sat closest to the fire and the meat.

  “No problem,” he said.

  There was also some light from the small smoke hole above, some dim glow through scraped areas of the goat hide cover, and Spencer turned on one of his lights and dialed up the brightness, then down, so they were well-lit but not too bright.

  He opened his Bible, but he needed no page for this. He looked around at the others.

  “Thank you for joining me. It’s great to be here, fed and warm, no matter what is happening outside. God has provided, and in exchange we work for our bread. Which I hope someday will actually be bread.” There were chuckles.

  “I guess I’ve learned to appreciate that no matter where on Earth one is, or when, God has provided. One has to look for it, think and determine how to get it, and work, but it’s there. We have fuel, food, shelter and protection, but most of all, we have each other, and no matter what disagreements we have, we’re family now. We’ve met other travelers, and their ways aren’t ours, and we know we have to cooperate to make things work. Hopefully we can bring the others on board, by example. Some seem to know of God under a different aspect, and the rest we’ve tried to bring to Him, though perhaps that approach wasn’t as well planned as it could be. And that was a lesson for me.” There were a few more laughs and a bit of muttering. Yes, he’d screwed up.

  “So with that out of the way,” he said, and took a breath, then recited from memory:

  “And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night.

  “And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid.

  “And the angel said unto them, ‘Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day, in the city of David, a Savior, which is Christ the Lord . . .”

  Most knew some of the words, and Ortiz kept pace with him in Spanish. Caswell’s voice was clear and in perfect unison with his own.

  It didn’t matter where they were. He felt a rush, a thrill, and it might be the Spirit itself, but whatever it was, he was full of joy and confidence.

  “. . . Glory to God in the highest, and on earth, peace, good will toward men.”

  They all felt it, and the LT had damp eyes, too.

  “I see we all feel it. Thank you. Let us all take a moment in silence to pray as we choose.”

  He bowed his head and thought to himself. It didn’t matter if they got home. This was home. It did matter that they lived the best lives they could. That was all. He did ask God to take care of his parents and James. He wished everyone here could be at peace and joyful. There really wasn’t much else they needed, when it came down to it. All the trappings of civilization didn’t make one a better person. Nor worse, but they weren’t necessary.

  “Okay, would anyone like to choose a carol to start with?”

  A voice starte
d loudly, and in reasonable tune, “Hark! The herald angels sing, glory to the newborn king. Peace on earth and mercy mild . . . ”

  And everyone joined in “God and sinners reconciled.”

  Sergeant Spencer, the proclaimed atheist had led the hymn. Right with him in a very sweet voice was Alexander.

  The song was powerful, moving, and it felt as if the tent shook.

  “God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen,” “O, Holy Night” and “Joy to the World” followed, with everyone in chorus, and if it was a little shaky on key, who cared? Dalton wasn’t a great singer himself. Devereaux was pretty good, though.

  As they finished, Barker said, “Okay, it’s crispy field buzzard, in salt, with ground herbs.”

  Trinidad said, “It is pheasant, right?”

  “Yeah, I’m being sarcastic. Here you go.” He sliced off a crisp chunk of breast.

  Dalton didn’t care if it was hot. He wanted that wing. He grabbed it and pulled, and started chewing.

  Tough. Very tough. Also too hot. The meat was stringy. But it wasn’t goat or buffalo, and it was delicious, with salt and some of the green herbs rubbed on it before cooking. There was a faint pine scent, too.

  Cooking on the rocks around the fire was an entire coil of pudding sausages. The cold made those welcome, and the seasoning wasn’t bad, though he still didn’t care much for the mustard taste. The spices were so limited. No pepper, not hot peppers, no curries. He no longer cared they were cooked in inside out goat intestines.

  They all munched in silence for a few minutes, then resumed talking.

  “The singing sounded great,” Oglesby said. To Spencer he added, “I thought you were an atheist.”

  “I am,” Spencer agreed. “Which doesn’t change the fact that some Christmas carols are incredible compositions, moving, and fun to sing.”

  “Fair enough.”

  The old NCO smiled. “I need to keep saying it. Just because I don’t believe in religion, doesn’t mean I object. If it helps you deal with the world, then please, worship as you wish.”

  Alexander looked bothered and added, “I also like the music, but I actively dislike Christianity. But it’s not my place to tell you what to believe, as long as you grant me the same courtesy. Just understand I’ll be uncomfortable around it.”

  Dalton said, “I accept that, I just don’t understand it. I mean, God is . . . sorry.” He really didn’t know how to respond.

  Then he recalled a Muslim trying to explain Mohammed to him. He’d not only not appreciated it, he didn’t understand why anyone would. He’d been polite and left as soon as he could.

  It was like that.

  Alexander said, “By the way, catch!” and tossed something. It snaked through the air and he caught it.

  It was a long braided cord of goat hair in two colors, with beads knotted in.

  She threw one at each of them.

  “Thank you very much. What is it exactly?”

  “It’s a cord for retaining your knife or tool so you don’t drop it in the snow.”

  Oglesby said, “I’ll take six,” and there were laughs.

  Caswell slid a paper in front of him. It was a pencil sketch of him atop the MRAP on guard duty, and quite well done.

  “Thank you also,” he said. “That’s a striking image.” It was stark and simple, but had depth and shade. It did look like him, and captured the boredom and intensity of endlessly watching. She’d even caught the clouds and light from the setting sun.

  “You’re welcome,” she said. “It was a great pose. And thanks for the service.”

  Barker had prepared the food, and also had a leather pouch for everyone, of soft goat hide.

  “Medicine bag,” he said. “For anything small and meaningful. They’re good for rings, coins or such, and it’ll go on your dogtags or belt.”

  Devereaux gave everyone a wristband braided of grass. Perhaps not useful, but intricately made and thoughtful. Ortiz had carved sticks into gnarled faces. Trinidad had peeled and shaped swagger sticks for the LT and Spencer. “If the British had them, you should, too.” He’d chosen some beautifully grained wood. The rest each received a wooden monogram.

  Oglesby had very neatly written out a sheet with primary words in Urushu and Neolithic, in phonetics. There was a copy for each of them, each in one of the plastic sleeves from the vehicles’ logbooks.

  Spencer held up a file and stone.

  “I’ll put a razor edge on anything you bring me. Within reason.” He stared at his swagger stick and looked confused. Dalton laughed.

  “And we have about two more gallons of hooch.”

  That was welcome.

  The LT said, “I didn’t have time to make anything. But I will be adding an extra pass day in for each of you this coming week and a half. I’ll cover the supplemental time.”

  Dalton held up his package.

  “I guess I hope you’ll all be okay with this. I wrote out a brief Scripture for each of you, that I think applies. I hope no one will be offended.” He’d thought long and hard on what verse would be best for each. He couldn’t hope to do Medieval illumination, but he’d done his best to dress them up. Each was on a small slip they could easily put in that medicine bag, or toss in the fire when no one was looking.

  Alexander accepted hers cautiously, and read it aloud.

  “And if a stranger sojourn with thee in your land, ye shall not vex him. But the stranger that dwelleth with you shall be unto you as one born among you, and thou shalt love him as thyself; for ye were strangers in the land of Egypt: I am the LORD your God.”

  He was very nervous about it. While that seemed to be a sentiment to work between them, other parts of that chapter might offend her.

  “Thank you,” she said and smiled. “I think of you as the younger brother I never wanted.”

  Okay, that was funny, even if it was still sarcastic.

  She added, “And I’d be happy to illuminate stuff for you. Though this linear style is very elegant.”

  “Glad you like it,” he said.

  The rest had been easy.

  The LT said, “I hate to break up the party, but two people need to be on watch. I’ll be one of them, so Barker can stay warm today. I’m afraid it’s your turn, Dalton.”

  “Roger that, sir. I’ll clothe up.”

  It was a day the Lord had made, and he would rejoice and be thankful in it, no matter the task.

  Martin Spencer crawled back to his pallet. No doubt Dalton meant well, but being reminded that his real family wasn’t here had not helped his mood.

  He hoped the weather would clear soon. Snow wasn’t bad, though it wet clothes eventually. Regular freezing temps were okay. This wind and frigid weather sucked.

  And he had five pills left. In ten days, he was down to local treatment only. Bone meal or chalk, hope the calcium didn’t trigger a heart attack, and hope it was enough to settle his guts.

  People settled back in. Doc and Caswell were talking about something. Doc was Catholic, he recalled, as were Ortiz and Trinidad; Caswell Luteran. The LT was mildly religious. He wasn’t. Alexander didn’t seem to bother with much service. But what holy days did she have and would they translate? Oglesby was hard to define. Barker wasn’t very observant.

  He’d gone through all this before, he realized. He’d also been zoning on other thoughts, because an hour had passed. He spent a lot of time, too much, staring up at the goathide above him.

  He could just see Alexander through a gap between walls. She was lying on her bag, reading something on her phone. Now was a good time.

  In the bottom of his duffel, he’d found a package of MRE cocoa powder. He would enjoy it himself, but he knew she liked chocolate the way he liked coffee. He slid it slowly under the hanging poncho.

  A moment later she twitched, shifted, and raised the fabric.

  In a whisper, she asked, “Where did you get this?”

  “It slipped to the bottom of my gear. Merry Christmas or Solstice or whatever.”

&nbs
p; She held it in both hands and stared at it. Her eyes were wet.

  “I don’t think I can take it.”

  “It’s mine. I want you to have it.”

  “I feel like I should share it with everyone.”

  “You can. But it’s yours. If you want to enjoy it, I won’t say anything. Just kill the wrapper properly.”

  “Thank you,” she said, her voice husky. “Do you want some?”

  “No. Please.” He wanted to mix it to a paste and lick it off her body. And he wasn’t going to say that.

  It was the last chocolate in their world, and it was out of an MRE pack. That was depressing all by itself. He turned away and hoped no one saw his face.

  He sat up with the sleeping bag around his legs, picked up a knife and started sharpening it. It looked like Dalton’s, though he and Trinidad each had the same Cold Steel SRK that showed up in the PX every couple of months. He’d just place it near the fire when done. People knew their own knives from the wear and feel.

  A half hour later, he looked over to see Gina lying prone with her face over the pouch, very carefully spooning out a few grains at a time, desperate not to spill any. She ate it bit by bit, and spent most of an hour over something he remembered downing in under a minute, including time to mix it.

  She laid the mostly empty package down, fumbled around until she pulled out a knife, and sliced the package very carefully. Then she licked the residue, with a melancholy expression. She used that tongue well, too. Dammit. He turned away again.

  When done, she cut the package into several strips. They went into the little pouch she used for trash, to eventually be burned in the fire.

  He was glad he could do that for her. He wished he could do something for all of them.

  Hell, he wished he could wish them home.

  It wasn’t all bad. There were light and positive moments every day. But every day was a reminder that they had too few people and a complete severance from their world.

  Dalton came over to retrieve his sharpened knife. By then, Martin had four of them honed and was working on a fifth. Gina’s Ontario tanto was damned near a machete, and she had the Spyderco and her SOG Tool out as well. That left the small non-brand knife on her hip, the push dagger around her neck, the dagger in her boot and the RAT-7 on her body armor, off to the side, and that huge custom bayonet. She had good taste in knives, too.