A Long Time Until Now - eARC

by Michael Z. Williamson

  “Yes, that.”

  One of them produced some gauzy linen.

  “That will do.” Good, they had some idea. That would help a lot on recovery. He sutured around the exit where the flesh had torn in a four-pointed, irregular star, then forced the edges of the round hole in front together and poked a knot through that. He wrapped it carefully with the bandage, which was neutral colored but seemed clean enough, and sat back.

  It was morning with a hint of pending sunrise. They turned off lights and blinked as their eyes adapted.

  The phone said, “We’ve got more incoming. Seems to be the Roman leadership.”

  Barker said, “Understood. We have it.”

  They rose, stretched, and stood back with their weapons.

  Spencer’s voice said, “Yeah, if you’re done treating them, I want the dead guy’s gear. It’s useful for study, and it’s more metal we can use.”

  “Hooah.” That made sense, but the concern now was the squad of Romans striding over the rolling ground.

  It appeared to be the same NCO who’d met them the first time.

  “Ave,” he said.

  “Ave,” Ortiz agreed. “Medicus sanar,” he said, and pointed at the two wounded, barely conscious men.

  The centurion came forward alone, slowly, and they gave him room to look at his men. He jumped and cursed in surprise when Barker shone a weapon light on the thigh wound. He shielded his eyes, stared at the light, at the rifle, and then turned slowly to look at the injury.

  He seemed quite impressed by the repairs, or perhaps at the nature of the wounds. He leaned back and looked upslope, trying to be discreet.

  He was obviously examining the shattered logs. His gaze was carefully neutral, but lingered on the holes. He clearly understood that American guns could shoot through logs and kill whoever was beyond them. They could shoot right through his walls, or out their own.

  Armand didn’t think any of them would cause any more problems.

  He and Ortiz walked toward Barker, as Barker covered them with his rifle. Then they all strode slowly around to the front gate in rising sun, as Spencer covered them with the M240B.

  Sean Elliott had wanted to be down up close, but he was needed in camp. When the second party had shown up, he knew he was in the right place.

  Now he looked down from a palisade platform at the Romans. They were stoic, but sober. He wondered if they’d have to escalate to grenades or the .50 to convince someone.

  The Urushu had never been disposed to violence. They’d been looking at the bullet holes and the M240B, and then realized the soldiers had magic lights that shone like the full moon.

  He didn’t think they’d ever be a problem. The Neolithic Gadorths had accepted the superiority of the U.S. Army, but those damned Romans were stubborn.

  The Roman centurion talked to the three effectives and then the two casualties. His gestures were firm, with the classic knife hand and a stomp of a foot.

  Then he drew out his sword, leaned over and hacked open the throat of the poor bastard with the butchered leg. With that wound added to the others, he gurgled, thrashed and died.

  Spencer muttered through his phone, “Expected.”

  “Can you elaborate?”

  Ortiz did. “That was the instigator, and that word is the same. The gist of it is he’s saying that they’re never to mess with us again. They have disgraced Rome. I think it’s partly from losing, and partly from disobeying orders. But I don’t think they’ll do it again.”

  “I hope not. Spencer . . . well done. I hate wasting resources and fighting our neighbors, but well done. I think that’s all you could do.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  He felt sorry for Doc and Ortiz, having done all that work for nothing.

  The Romans turned two shields into a stretcher for the remaining survivor, and six of them lifted him and started tromping away. The centurion faced up and held his hands out.

  “He wants to parlay.”

  Yeah. Do we bring him in?”

  “I say no. He’ll recognize vehicles and wonder why we’re not using them. We don’t want anything to suggest we have any weaknesses at all.”

  “Okay, I guess I go out.”

  He went out as Doc and Barker came in. As he rounded the corner, the Centurion removed his helmet, so he did the same. Ortiz was waiting as well.

  “Ave, Tribune.”

  “Ave to you, Centurion.”

  He followed that the Romans apologized for the breach of discipline, and would return home. Would they dispose of the two dead?

  Ortiz said. “I think those small pouches are personal belongings. You should return those, sir.”

  Elliott pointed, and Ortiz untangled them from the bodies, then brought them forward. The centurion accepted them with a nod.

  “We will inter them with respect and honor,” he said. “Funerari?”

  “The centurion shrugged and said, “Sepelite.” He placed his helmet back on, and extended a hand.

  Elliott took it, shook, and stepped back. The Roman about-faced perfectly, and marched back to his men, secured his shield and spear, and kept walking.

  Spencer said, “Strip those bodies. I want everything. We bury them naked just in case of discovery. We’ll use everything else.”

  Elliott was getting tired of dead people. These poor bastards were even more outclassed than Afghans. There were no bragging rights to it, it was complete domination and extermination, every time they fought.

  He hoped this was the last, but feared it wasn’t.

  CHAPTER 30

  By May it was getting hot during the day. Rich Dalton found more chores in camp, so there was variety. He was still primary hunter, and would be for several years until they had proper ranching set up. That was his task this morning. He led his two partners out the east gate and onto the slope. The bow he carried was one of Barker’s, and it actually seemed to have gotten heavier with use. That was apparently a function of wood fibers being compressed and strained.

  It was a very simple bow, not like the compounds he’d grown up with. It was a D section of fibrous hardwood, rubbed with oil and with a leather wrap as grip and arrow rest. It did, though, shoot arrows consistently. That was the important thing.

  As they walked, he took a glance behind them. Their village actually looked like one, now. They had the goats, with troughs for feeding and watering, that the Gadorth had burned and chiseled out from logs for them. The animals also had a better shelter against weather.

  The kitchen was an open log cabin now, too, with a stone hearth and an oven of piled slate. They could fry, roast and bake. Boiling was still done in the ammo cans, now looking rough and distorted. They wouldn’t last forever.

  Caswell had lashed everyone a chair, and the firewood piles doubled as resource piles for shingles, poles, binding bark, anything timber related.

  Rich was taken a bit aback. Alexander had taken a bunch of rawhide thong and started crocheting what he thought was a fishing net. Then one morning she stretched it between the truck and her cabin and it was a hammock. She gave it to Barker, who slung it between two poles in his tent and seemed delighted with the comfort.

  He felt blessed. Regardless of what or why they were here, God was soothing his spirit. He appreciated each moment more than he ever had back home. Even the cold and wet were experiences to be enjoyed.

  Ortiz went hunting with him carrying an M4 for backup. Also along was O!ofa, who was a heck of a sneak and had a fine cast with a fletched javelin. He wore a minimal breech cloth and carried a smoked skin as a shoulder wrap under one of the Army rucks. It was no longer odd to see people almost entirely naked. It would never be Paradise, but that was another trapping of artifice gone.

  He still wore his eyepro, though. There was the UV, and there was the dust. That was a mix of sand, dried grass fragments, bugs and God only knew what else.

  It was necessary to walk longer for hunting, especially the plains beasts. They were getting cagier. At le
ast the wolves and lions had learned to avoid the Americans. They didn’t come nearly as close as they had, or to others.

  They were a good two miles out when O!ofa pointed at movement.

  “Well, we have that antelope there. Is that saiga?” It was about fifty yards away.

  Ortiz said, “Or something very like it, yes.”

  “I wonder where the . . . ah, I see the herd. That’s actually a pretty fit one.”

  “Stringy, but we can stew it.”

  “Okay. I can hit it this range. I’m going to try to cripple it, since I can’t pierce the skull.”

  “Yup.”

  He eased out of his ruck, knocked an arrow, rose slowly, sighted carefully, breathed and steadied, and rolled the arrow off his fingers.

  The shaft whistled as the string thrummed. A few seconds later, the antelope staggered with its thigh run through, and started screaming. It staggered and tried to run.

  “Okay, out of its misery.”

  O!ofa knew his cue, and already had his javelin in the air. It was weighted with a small stone, but had the bone bleeder point the Urushu liked. It sank into the beast’s neck. The antelope staggered twice and fell over.

  Ortiz was still the man at gutting animals. He had a steaming pile of entrails in minutes, two slabs of rib, the liver and heart, all four haunches and meat off the back.

  Rich eyeballed the stack. “That’s a week’s worth for us, five days with guests.”

  “And it’s just past lunch. Let’s get back.”

  “Yeah, I see cats and vultures ready for lunch.” It never took long for the cleanup crew to arrive. There were several types of raptor in the air. He didn’t see any cats, but knew they were there. Then there might be hyenas later. They were scarce here, but did exist. And the wolves.

  Ortiz said, “They’re welcome to it.” He’d even cracked the skull and the other thigh so the scavengers could get to brain and marrow.

  The meat stank, but it was something they were all used to, now. He’d rinse off the blood and goop after they delivered it to the kitchen slab for processing. O!ofa carried his share wrapped in a loop of hide he’d had under his shoulder wrap. The Americans had their rucks.

  Ortiz suddenly twitched and said, “Dude, nock an arrow fast.” He whipped his carbine around and unsafed it fast. O!ofa muttered something and held up a javelin.

  On their line between here and home, was a lioness.

  They took an orbit around to the south, uphill and keeping a good two hundred yards from her. She sniffed, noticed them, but turned her head toward the remains of the kill and padded that way.

  “Close,” he said. That could have been bad.

  “Yeah,” Ortiz agreed.

  They kept eyes open and scanned the horizon all the way back, in case more of the pride was around.

  The COB did feel like home, and give structure. Through the gate, the bridge and cabins were signs of real progress. They’d get there.

  Barker and Spencer had been messing around with some sawhorse-table thing all day. He figured it was some kind of rack for drawing hides or something. They chiseled and tapped, pushed stuff around and back.

  “Here’s antelope,” he said.

  Caswell called, “I’ll get it as soon as I tie this off.” She was working on another chair, probably for trade goods.

  Nothing would happen to it on the planks, so he left it there and rinsed off in the stream. Christ, it was cold. Refreshing, but cold. He reminded himself to be thankful. It was clean, fresh water. Though the rocks were protruding more.

  “The water level’s dropping,” he said to Ortiz.

  “I noticed. I wonder if it’s seasonal or more than that.”

  O!ofa said, “A!ka, sun,” and spread his hands in almost a poofing gesture.

  Rich said, “Sounds like seasonal drought. I wish we’d asked earlier.”

  “We may need a well.”

  “Yeah. Hey, sir, have you been tracking the water level?”

  Elliott said, “Yes, I noticed. I’m figuring we need a well.”

  That was good. The man really was smart.

  “Where?”

  “Up in what used to be that ditch. If I remember my geology, there’s likely some seep there.”

  “If not, we can haul water every morning, but it will suck.”

  He flicked off drops and went to see what Spencer and Barker were doing.

  They were bending a sapling over, with thong tied to it.

  “That’s a lathe,” he said.

  Spencer said, “Yes, a springpole lathe. For now, it’ll work with files, stones and knives. Eventually I’ll forge some chisels.”

  Spencer demonstrated.

  “You rough the material with a hatchet, peg it to this axle, and boring that hole took half a day. There’s a dead center here if needed for longer pieces. I hope to make a pin base for turning longer stock. Then you step on the pedal,” he demonstrated. “And hold the tool against the work. Release the pedal and the spring takes it back.”

  “Nice.” That was functional. “How did you come up with this?”

  “This was standard in most villages from Biblical times to the sixteen hundreds. If they didn’t have industry and water wheels, or slaves, they used this.”

  “Damn.”

  Barker said, “I found some nice walnut. We’re going to start on some proper eating bowls.”

  “Oh, hell yes!”

  “They won’t last more than a few months, even if we smoke the wood to preserve it. But they’re easy to make.”

  “You guys rock,” he said, and meant it. They actually were pulling stuff off here.

  Maybe Spencer could build that forge, given time.

  By June it was hot, dry, and obvious they’d need a well. They also had to relocate latrine functions outside the wall.

  Sean felt needed technically. That was better than just being the commander. Certainly that was important, but it felt different from this.

  The well didn’t need to be that deep. They dug about six feet into the loam and slate in the ditch, using the pick then detaching the head to use it in close quarters, and a folding saw of Barker’s and an axe to chop roots left from the downed trees. It took two days of heavy, sweating work and he did his share. It felt good to work real muscles. It was much more than morning PT.

  At that depth they had a muddy little puddle. That was a good sign.

  “Okay, we need a good three feet so we don’t churn up dirt when we draw water out. Work the slate down in a circle and keep dredging the muck out.”

  They lined the sides and bottom with courses of flat slate, then carefully started filling dirt in around it, placing more rocks and straight limbs as vertical reinforcements.

  Trinidad spent most of the time down in the hole, seemingly comfortable in the tight confines, and letting Dalton and Spencer haul him up for breaks. He was three feet below the ground and comfortable. Sean couldn’t imagine that. There were fewer roots at this depth, because he’d picked a spot with smaller trunks, juggling water table with ease of digging.

  “Easier than in the PI,” Trinidad said. “We dug wells because they were safer than river water. But we usually had some power tools.”

  In three days, it was done, complete to a sweep atop and a shingled roof to keep rain and bird crap out.

  Barker said, “We’ll need a cover, hide over a frame, to keep animals from drowning. It’ll also limit bugs.”

  “Got it. Can Ortiz or Alexander do that?”

  “I’ll ask.”

  The remaining dirt was tamped back around, with another load of stream slate to make a dry standing area and walkway.

  “Now this is important,” he said. “Oglesby, explain as thoroughly as you can to our guests that a well is taboo. No one is to eliminate on this side of the COB. Downstream is the only acceptable location. The spirits will blight us all with sickness in the guts if they do so.”

  “Hooah, sir. They’re actually pretty good about it anyway.”
>
  “Yeah, except I’ve seen them pissing in the dry streambed. Below the bottom wall is the only allowable location. That’s part of why we have guards at night.”

  “Got it.”

  They had cabins, a well, a lathe, a smoke hut and a wall. They really were doing it, bit by bit. At some point, if Spencer really could forge something, or turn it on the lathe, he wanted a proper handpump. He remembered flap valves could be made with leather.

  As they returned to the COB, though it was really more of a village at this point, he smelled dinner.

  “Oh, man,” he said. “We’ve got steak?”

  Once inside, he saw the circle was packed. All the troops, save Ortiz on watch, along with three visiting Gadorths, and four Urushu guards plus two patients sporting leather bandages. Doc had been busy.

  “We have steak,” Caswell said. “Along with salted, fatted and roasted roots, a dandelion and burdock salad. The dressing is wine, cheese, salt and mulberry juice.”

  “Holy shit.” She and Barker were amazing in what they managed to turn out.

  “I’m going to say it again,” he said. “Your knowledge of edible plants, even with what we’ve learned locally, is a godsend. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome, sir. I tried my hand at the lathe, too.”

  His salad came in a wooden bowl, followed by steak and roots in another one. The bowls were mostly symmetrical, rough to the touch and heavy, but it was better than trying to use flat chunks of split wood full of splinters and bugs.

  “So we’ve got water again,” he said. “Goddam, this salad isn’t bad. I guess I missed greens more than I thought I did. Anyway, one hundred fifty yard safe zone around the well. Latrine is in the stream when we have water, and outside downstream when we don’t. We’ll probably have to maintain it every year, too, between frost and floods. But we’re getting there.”

  He wondered why all the guests were present, too? Usually they fed themselves. All the Stone Age people were delighted with the salad, wiping up the dressing with their fingers and sucking them clean. He shrugged and did the same.

  “Save some room for dessert, sir,” she said.