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

by Raymond Dean White

  He’d always been old-school when it came to weapons, arguing reliability--his revolver never jammed--versus capacity; but he was seriously reconsidering that position now. His Glock 31 was still a .357, but held 15 rounds. Thing was though, he shot better with his Smith and Wesson and when he wanted lots of firepower he used his Uzi or an M-16 he’d acquired from a dead enemy. He’d inherited the Remington from his grandfather. Enough said.

  Still, as he surveyed his firepower he began to feel more confident. If they found him during daylight he was sure he could get all of them. He pictured himself upright, leaning against a tree, rifle resting on an aspen branch, dropping them one by one as they charged, switching to pistol, spear and knife when they got too close. He saw them lying dead around him, the scattered remnants running like hell for the hills, never to bother him again. But it was night and he probably wouldn’t even get a chance to use the rifle. So he sat in the growing cold and waited for them to find him. Sometimes being a realist was a bitch.

  The wind was increasing and the available light was decreasing as clouds began to move in, dimming the moon and stars. Maybe if the dogs sensed a storm coming they would break off pursuit and seek shelter.

  No sooner had the thought entered his head than he detected a change in the sound of their baying. From the steady howls he had been hearing to a more rapid, excited yelping. They were out on the valley floor now. Within half a mile and closing. Michael uncovered the coals of his fire and prepared to throw kindling onto it. When they came upon him he wanted a good fire going. It might hold them back long enough for him to kill them by shooting at its reflection in their eyes. Hope can spring eternal, even in a realist’s breast.

  The sound changed again, rising to a fevered pitch and veering off in a westerly direction. Briefly puzzled, he listened intently as the racket receded, eventually fading out as they crossed a ridge a couple of miles away. Must have jumped a deer. Relief at his good luck almost overwhelmed him. The raw sound of his own laughter, soft though it was, shocked him into realizing how close to the edge he was.

  He covered up the coals again and lay down on the warm spot. He would risk no fire bringing them back. Closing his eyes he allowed exhaustion to claim him, drifting into an uneasy sleep, eventually smiling as he dreamed of Ellen and his kids.

  Chapter 18: The Fugitives

  Even though winters were shorter and milder as a rule than before The Dying Time, March weather could still turn in an eye-blink. Clear skies scudded over, forming a low gray ceiling. Peaks disappeared, fading into the clouds as if absorbed by a wet gray sponge. Light mist followed by heavy drip. Gentle rain followed by buckets.

  Three stormy days after he’d seen the last of the dogs, Michael hit the mouth of Willow creek where it flowed into the Elk River, an area formerly known as Glen Eden. There wouldn’t be any beaver ponds across the Elk, so he decided to build a raft and float south down to the Yampa, sparing his leg.

  At a burned-out ranch house he found shelter, tools and lumber for his raft-building project. Racing darkness he collected rope, fence posts and fifty gallon barrels, dragging them all down to the riverbank. That night sleep came easy, but soon turned fitful, marred by troubled dreams.

  At first he thought a strange noise woke him, but it was the silence. Early morning light filtered through thick fog and clouds that promised more rain or snow. The air was still as a coffin. No birdsong, no frogs croaking from the river, no ducks quacking, not even the normal rustling noises that accompany a breeze. Eerie.

  Michael spent half the day building his raft and the other half looking over his shoulder, waiting for the boogie man to jump out and get him. Part of him wanted to climb on the raft, shove off and get out of there, but the fog made floating the uncharted river too dangerous.

  The rain eased to a light spray leaving him damp, but not soaked. He managed to get a fire going and dried his clothes. The last thing he needed was to get sick.

  He ate the last of his roasted rabbit and covered the coals of his fire with soil, creating a warm spot to sleep on, trying hard to feel comfortable, well-fed and optimistic. It wasn’t working.

  His neck hairs were prickling for the umpteenth time when the chattering of an angry squirrel shattered the silence. Snatching his weapons he peeked out behind the ranch house: and there they were. Riders! Coming up from the south. Drifting through the misty evening fog like ghosts, appearing and disappearing as they wove single file through the trees. The muffled clopping of their horses’ hooves only now reached Michael’s ears.

  Help? Not likely, he thought. Not the way his gut was acting up. Instinct kept him from calling out and then his eyes confirmed his judgment. Hanging from their saddle horns were scalps, reminding him there were far worse animals around than dogs.

  Easing back along the wall Michael grabbed his gear and faded up the hillside until he found a vantage point between two boulders. They were almost on top of him but he wasn’t worried about being seen. Not only was his clothing colored in mottled browns and grays, perfect early spring camouflage, but his attitude and skills combined to make him invisible in the woods.

  Michael studied them carefully as they walked their horses past. The man in the lead had long, dirty, black hair and a hawk beak nose jutting out from a face that had seen too many horror movies. His head jerked from side to side, pale brown, beady eyes darting about too quickly to truly see any danger. His body was snake-thin and his clothes hung off his gaunt frame like rags on a scarecrow. Dirty bandages covered his left hand and the right side of his head. He was very well-armed and obviously dangerous. Michael dubbed him Scarecrow.

  The second man in line was the leader of the group. Michael knew that the second he saw him. More than his awesome size, his bearing proclaimed him the man in charge--erect, alert and proud.

  Michael guessed at seven feet tall and close to three hundred pounds; hard to tell a man’s height when he’s sitting a horse. Arms as large as Michael’s legs and legs like tree trunks shouted sheer, brute power. Even the man’s dingy red beret looked big enough to hide a basketball. Michael tagged him The Giant.

  An M60 slung across acres of back looked like a child’s toy. The horse the Giant rode went seventeen hands and must have been part Clydesdale to bear his weight. The big man held the reins loosely in his left hand. His right, resting on his thigh, was missing the end of its pinkie finger. A bloodily bandaged stump was all that remained of the digit.

  Arctic blue eyes, set too close together, searched the trees for the slightest movement.

  With a lightning-blur, his wounded right hand stripped a dagger from its belt sheath and flung it into a nearby pine. The squirrel’s scolding chatter cut off. Standing in the stirrups as he passed the tree, the Giant plucked both knife and spitted squirrel from its trunk. With an ugly smile that showed off a mouth full of discolored, poorly aligned teeth, he flicked the dead animal from his dagger, then licked the blood from the blade and sheathed the weapon.

  Jesus! Michael thought. He’d never seen anyone so big and fast. And the damaged finger didn’t slow the guy down at all.

  The third man in line was No-Ears. Michael almost did a double-take. The man obviously hadn’t died last fall when Michael and Jim rescued Sara Garcia. Long blonde hair covered his ear holes, but the jailhouse-style swastika tattooed on No-Ears’ forehead was clearly visible.

  A lead rope trailed from the pommel of No-Ears’ saddle to a pony carrying two trussed children and Michael got another shock when he recognized them, Jimmy and Mary McKinley.

  Questions flooded Michael’s mind. How had the kids ended up here? Had the Freeholds been attacked? Was Ellen okay? His children? His mind slid away from that line of thought, knowing he could do nothing for them and refusing to entertain gruesome possibilities.

  Against his will his eyes went to the scalps dangling from the Giant’s saddle horn. No blondes, he offered a quick prayer of thanks, but one drew Michael’s attention, long and black with a streak of pure white runni
ng through it. Mariko! Blood flushed his face and his eyes narrowed, pupils glowing gold like a big cat’s. Before he could stop himself the crosshairs of his scope were centered on the back of the Giant’s head. His trigger finger tensed, nerves stretched tighter than a hangman’s rope. For the first time in days he totally forgot about his leg.

  Michael took a deep breath and sighed it out slowly, lowering the rifle. Revenge must wait. The children needed him. What could he do to help them? And how far behind was the Militia? Michael knew his people and unless every one of them was dead, there would be a relentless pursuit.

  That suggested another option. If he could delay this little party long enough...

  More of them filed past. Two hard-bitten women, biker types with tattoos and piercings, then four more men, two of them bloodstained and slumped over their saddles. The group pulled up in the clearing next to the barn, dismounted and set about making camp. They picketed their horses at the edge of the woods and posted a guard.

  The rest of them moved into the barn, the only building that still had a roof, which was why Michael had avoided it. He had known as soon as he saw it that any others who might chance by would surely camp there and in his condition he didn’t care to leave any sign of his passage. He just hoped none of them would poke around the house and discover a warm spot of disturbed earth--the remnants of his fire.

  A plan was slowly forming in Michael’s mind. If he could steal their horses...best not get too far ahead of himself. For now, he would watch, listen, learn.

  Thirty minutes later the two women, the kids and No-Ears came out of the barn carrying pans and a bucket and went off toward the river to get water. Two more men came outside, headed into the woods and started gathering firewood. The guard was walking a beat between the horses and the barn, circling the barn each time. It was getting dark and Michael was betting that with this cloud cover it would be a pitch black night. He hoped so. He needed such a night.

  The women and Mary were coming back from the river. Where was little Jimmy? And No-Ears? Michael didn’t like it. He began working his way through the woods toward the river but before he’d gone far Jimmy’s screams split the air. Michael couldn’t go any faster because of his leg and because he couldn’t afford to be seen.

  By the time he got close enough to see what was happening, Jimmy had subsided into muffled sobs.

  No-Ears was using river water to wash blood from Jimmy’s rear, cleaning the boy after raping him. He stroked Jimmy’s tear-stained face and said, “That wasn’t so bad, was it? After awhile it feels real good, huh.”

  Jimmy wouldn’t look at him and No-Ears flushed. He grasped the boy’s face and forced it around, his voice harsh. “You got nobody to blame but yourself. If you didn’t bite the tip off Big John’s pinkie he wouldn’t’a give you to me. But you’re mine now, so learn to like it.” He squeezed the boy’s privates and bent to kiss him.

  Jimmy flinched from the kiss and twisted free. No-Ears swung an open handed slap knocking the boy into the dirt where his eyes met Michael’s and slid swiftly away before recognition could show. A blush spread over Jimmy’s face.

  No-Ears yanked the boy up by his hair and thrust the kid’s pants into his arms. “You got a lot to learn, slave.” He cuffed Jimmy’s head. “Lesson One: You do what I want or you get hurt. Now get dressed.”

  Michael stood trembling just inside the tree line, bowie knife bared, golden eyes hard as a brass lamp, fighting the urge to kill. His jaws clamped like a vise, face tight as a boxer’s fist; he found control he didn’t know he had, sparing No-Ears’ life only because little Mary needed help too.

  Gone were thoughts of stealing horses. Michael had to get both children out tonight. And if No-Ears got in the way...unspeakable thoughts, sick and poisoned, filled his mind.

  As No-Ears took Jimmy back to the others, Michael circled around to his hideout, grabbed his pack and hid near the horses. The boy had seen him and had been sharp enough not to give him away. But Michael knew Jimmy and his sister would be expecting a visit tonight.

  He fished the pipe grenade from his pack and set about fashioning a time-delay fuse-igniter from a book of paper matches. First he unbent and removed the staple attaching the matches to the matchbook cover, separating the matches from the cover and laying aside the staple for later use. Checking carefully for fit, he rolled the piece of paper with the matches attached to it into a tube, then folded the cover around the match-heads, making a slightly larger tube with the striking surface on the inside. He tied some string around the cover-tube so it would keep its shape. Taking up the staple he used it to secure the roll of matches to the fuse cord on the grenade. By the time he finished, the night was black as a cave.

  Time to wait, plan and prepare.

  The first step was to get in tune with his surroundings. Michael smeared damp dirt over his face to hide its winter-pale color, then closed his eyes and melded with the night. He could hear the guard as the man walked his rounds, stumbling steps telling Michael it was too dark for anyone without his cat-eyes to see. Horses shuffled and stamped, blowing occasionally. From inside the barn came periodic bouts of laughter, as if someone was telling jokes.

  Michael’s awareness expanded until he sensed everything around him. First he smelled the horses, then the guard. The fresh odor of damp, greening earth covered everything else. The life of the forest flowed around and through him.

  Jamal Rashid relieved the first guard at midnight, his nervous pacing and jittery movements disturbing the horses. They tossed their heads, snorted and stomped. Michael took advantage of the commotion to stand up and get his circulation flowing.

  While he was stretching, Jamal stepped into the woods and headed straight for Michael, who dropped flat on the ground and pretended to be a fallen branch. The King’s ambassador/assassin stumbled over Michael’s crutch, cursing it and a tree branch that poked him in the chest. The skinny man stopped, literally standing over Michael and looking down at him. Michael’s grip tightened on his bowie knife. He froze.

  The zhtt sound of a zipper preceded a stream of urine splattering close to Michael’s face. He held his breath, not daring to breathe, heart slamming against his rib cage like a hammer banging sheet metal. Michael knew if the man saw him it was all over for both of them.

  Jamal heaved a satisfied sigh, shook himself off and went back to his rounds. He cursed the darkness as he stepped in a pile of horse manure, not knowing his poor night vision had just saved his life.

  Michael lay very quietly until his heart stopped racing, then rolled slowly over and rubbed piss-dampened dirt on his jacket and pants. Jamal’s urine would mask Michael’s smell when he approached the horses, lessening the chance they would spook at an unfamiliar scent.

  No-Ears took over guard duty around two in the morning. Michael’s smile would have scared a tiger.

  By the time he moved, in No-Ears had made several rounds, enough to relax a bit and lose the edge all sentries have for the first hour or so of their watch. As he neared the horses, a well-placed marble from Michael’s slingshot knocked him cold. Deja vu. Michael dragged him up beside the horses and got busy.

  “Wakey, wakey,” Michael whispered. He’d been gripped by a killing rage twice in one day, sparing both lives for the sake of the children. Now, it was time to get them out and all bets were off.

  No-Ears moaned slightly through his gag and opened his eyes. It took awhile for him to get his brain in gear, but when he recognized Michael his eyeballs bulged. He tried to move, but he was trussed tighter than a thanksgiving turkey, lying in a semi-fetal position with his arms tied behind his knees and his bare ass sticking up in the air. He was bound between two trees growing just far enough apart to receive him. He couldn’t even twitch.

  “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 bond
s 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.