Spec-4 got slowly to her feet and came towards me, careful to not make any sound as she crossed the floor. She leaned over and placed her lips against my ear, whispering very softly. Her warm breath on my skin sent chills down my back.
"They don't know we're in here," she whispered. "As long as we stay quiet, they can't find us."
I was beginning to find the chink in the Stalkers' armor. They were nocturnal and they tracked by sound. Maybe their vision wasn't any better than ours. Or maybe they only used sight and sound to hunt. I needed more information, but I was beginning to piece together a better way to defend ourselves from these things.
"There is coffee in the thermos on the table," she added, keeping her voice barely audible. "All we can do is wait until the sun comes up."
I nodded and found a seat next to the fireplace. Spec-4 sat beside me on the hearth and put her hand on mine.
"I'm sorry about Gunny," she said, quietly.
I just nodded solemnly and didn't reply. The luminous dial on my watch indicated that it was almost midnight. After all the stress of the day, I was beginning to feel fatigue seep into my bones. We were all exhausted. I could tell by the looks on everyone's faces. They were only still awake because of the dead outside. We weren't sure what was going to happen next.
Getting everyone's attention by waving my hand, I motioned towards all of us and mimed laying down my head and sleeping. That drew a round of reluctant nods. So, as quietly as we could, we all gathered our sleeping bags and picked a section of floor to call our own. The old man nodded at us and headed for one of the bedrooms. I considered posting a guard, but I figured it was a waste of time. The Stalkers weren't going to sneak inside. If they found an opening, they would come through snarling and growling.
By unspoken agreement, we all placed our sleeping bags with the heads near each other and our feet facing a different spot. This way, each person could keep an eye on a door or window, just by opening his or her eyes. It struck me how much like the old poem Beowulf this all seemed. The warriors laying in a rough circle, cradling their weapons while outside, the flesh eating creatures circled the building. Yeah, the irony wasn't lost on any of us.
"How 13th Warrior of us," whispered Snake, laying the big war-hammer within easy reach.
I just nodded and quietly removed my armor and boots. Laying my weapons within easy reach, I suddenly remembered I hadn't reloaded the old Colt. Gently, I removed it from the holster and opened the cylinder. One by one, I removed the expended brass and placed them into a pouch on my rucksack. Then, I quietly replaced them with live rounds. I wanted to give the old weapon a good cleaning, but didn't think this was the best time. I'd probably make too much noise.
Just as I started to replace the pistol in the holster, I felt the loose handle begin to come off in my hand. I'd been meaning to fix it for a while, but kept forgetting about it. Laying it in my lap, I removed a small flashlight from my pack and clicked it on. The brass screw that was holding it in place had finally come loose. I found it on the floor next to me.
Opening my pack, I took out a small tool kit and prepared to put the handle back on. When I started to replace the handle, I noticed that there was an old piece of paper folded inside the grip of the gun. I gently removed it and began to carefully unfold it. It was brittle and yellow with age, but in good enough shape that I could read it. I was astounded by the script on the paper. It read:
"Virgil, treat her right and she will never let you down. Wyatt."
I was stunned at the name on the paper. It was true. This pistol really had belonged to Virgil Earp. Not only that, it was a gift from his brother, Wyatt. There was a note inside to prove it. I wasn't sure if the inscription meant a woman or the gun, but I was holding in my hands something that had been written by Wyatt Earp. I was at a loss.
Nudging Spec-4 with my knee, she leaned over and glanced at the note I was holding out to her. At first it didn't register, but when it did her eyes flew open wide. It was sad that with humanity nearly at an end, I was sitting here holding an authentic piece of our heritage. Well, if we survived the Ragnarok of the Dead, then this gun would be a piece of our history. A tangible link to the world that we lost.
Reverently, I re-folded the yellowed piece of paper and placed it back inside the handle of the gun. Then I replaced the handle and put a drop of locktite on the threads before putting the brass screw back in. With it twisted down tight, I gently wiped the gun down with a clean rag before replacing it in the holster.
Quietly, I replaced everything in my rucksack and clicked off my flashlight. Using my body armor as a pillow, I lay down in my sleeping bag and closed my eyes. I suddenly felt more alone than ever as I found myself thinking that I couldn't wait to tell Gunny about the note in the gun. I wanted to let my emotions go and cry, but this was not the time. There would be a time for mourning, later.
In the darkness, I felt Spec-4's hand as it searched around for mine. When our hands met, she laced her fingers through mine. It was more reassuring to me than she would ever know. I suddenly remembered how I had held her on the first night we met, when she felt alone. I guess it was her turn to comfort me. Fate just loves irony, I suppose.
I lay there for a long time, listening to the gentle sounds of the others breathing. I'm not sure why this occurred to me, but the hiss of the rain reminded me of the sound of frying bacon. Only the occasional rumble of thunder or the scrape of a Stalker's claws on the wood disturbed the peace of the moment. The warmth of Spec-4's hand made me feel safe, despite the danger. Eventually, I slept.
**********
I fell asleep to the sound of frying bacon and awoke to the smell of it. The doors were open, letting light flood the room. The rain had stopped and the sun was shining bright in the sky. From the direction of the sun, I could tell it was still early morning. The old man was in the kitchen, frying bacon and actual eggs. Not powdered eggs, real fresh eggs. My stomach rumbled out it's greedy intentions.
"Good morning, sunshine," said Spec-4, handing me a cup of coffee.
I gratefully accepted it and inhaled the aroma as I brought the cup to my lips. It was strong and rich with a bitter taste to it. I recognized the bitterness. It was chicory. The old man was cutting real coffee with chicory to make it last longer. It was the same trick that Civil War soldiers used when they started running low on real coffee.
Despite the bitterness, I really enjoyed the flavor. I wasn't expecting this level of hospitality from the old man, since he didn't have any reason to help us or to trust us. It was refreshing to see that someone still acted like a person in this world. It was also dangerous for him to do it, since it opened him up to the possibility of us not being equally as good to him.
"Good morning," said the old man. "Now that everyone is awake, we can formally introduce ourselves. My name is Jay Matoskah. My mother was a Sioux and my father was Cherokee. Matoskah means White Bear."
"It's good to meet you, sir," I replied. "Thank you for opening your home to us. My name is Wylie Grant."
One by one, the others introduced themselves. White Bear seemed to take it all in, nodding at each person as they spoke. When everyone had finished, he smiled a warm smile and calmly returned to cooking breakfast for all of us.
"I think I made enough food," he said. "I hope you are all hungry."
"It smells delicious," added Spec-4.
"Everyone grab a plate," said White Bear, putting eggs and bacon into platters.
We did as instructed and started helping ourselves. Once we'd filled our plates and found seats, White Bear motioned to get everyone's attention. We looked up and waited for him to speak.
"It is only right that we give thanks for this meal," he said, softly. "The Great Spirit has provided for us all and we should be appreciative. Sheriff Grant, would you offer the prayer?"
"Uh…yeah, sure," I stammered, surprised. "I don't pray to the Great Spirit, though. I pray to the Gods of my ancestors."
"As do I," he replied, smiling gentl
y. "Each of us prays to our own Gods, in our own way. We worship in different ways, but we each pay respect to the divine beings who created us. If you choose to call him Odin, God or the Great Spirit, it is still the creator of all things. We each see him in a different way."
His wisdom was profound. If only the world had embraced his wisdom, many of our problems would not have occurred. Wars had been fought over differences in religion. White Bear's words rang true to the very core of my beliefs. The All-father would be pleased.
"Lord Odin and Lady Freya," I began, softly. "We offer our thanks to thee for this meal set before us. Blessings upon our host and his generosity, and guide us on our journey. Give us your protection and grant us victory so that we may bring peace to our kindred. Watch over our fallen friend. Grant him a warriors rest."
"Amen," said First Sergeant Gregory.
With that, we all began to eat. Other than the clinking of silverware on plates, the room was silent. After a long moment, White Bear broke the silence.
"What are your plans for your fallen friend?" he asked, a note of sadness in his voice.
"Gunny wasn't a follower of my beliefs," I said, smiling. "He always wanted to be buried with full military honors. I thought we'd do our best to grant that to him."
"I know the perfect spot to bury him," said White Bear. "It's where I go to speak to the Great Spirit."
"Thank you," I said, smiling sadly. "I really appreciate it."
After we had all eaten and the dishes were put away, we set about the task of preparing Gunny for burial. We couldn’t put him in his Marine Dress Blues, so we had to improvise. We would bury him in ACU’s. I’m sure that Gunny would make some kind of remark about them being Army ACU’s, but it was the best we could do.
When we went to the spot to dig the grave, I was amazed by the beauty of the place. It was a section of land on top of the bluff that had an awe inspiring view of the Niangua River Valley. You could see for miles, up and down river. I could tell that last night’s rain had brought the river up even farther, but not enough to cause significantly more flooding.
I knew that it would be creeping into the park, back at Bennett Springs. Another rain storm like that one and it would completely flood the park. We needed to take out that spillway before the next big storm. If we didn’t, we could lose all of the work we’d done to make the park defensible. At the very least, it would set us back by weeks.
Once the grave was finished, we lay Gunny in it as gently as we could. We each lay a token of our respect on his chest before we covered him with a blanket. We solemnly filled in the grave while Sergeant McDonald played taps on the harmonica. It’s a haunting tune, even on that instrument. There wasn’t a dry eye to be found.
As a grave marker, we made a cross out of wood lashed together with boot laces, then hung his helmet on the top. We stuck an American flag Velcro patch from First Sergeant Gregory’s uniform sleeve on the helmet and around the cross, we left his dog-tags. Anyone who passed this way would know, here lies the body of one tough old Marine.
When the last notes of taps faded away on the breeze, First Sergeant Gregory stepped forward.
“Order,” he snapped. “Attention!”
We all snapped-to with practiced military precision. Snake just followed suit. White Bear surprised us all by following the commands like someone who had once been a soldier.
“Present…ARMS!” bellowed the First Sergeant.
Crisp salutes were brought up for our fallen comrade. We held it for a long moment before releasing. We had chosen to forgo the twenty-one gun salute. We didn’t want to use the ammunition and the noise would attract too much attention. The best we could do was pay our silent tribute to a man we all admired and respected.
As we walked back towards the house, I fell into step next to White Bear. My suspicious were confirmed when the two of us matched strides. I knew that he had been in the military, since matching strides was an old habit that was very hard to break in those who had spent much time in uniform.
“So, when were you in?” I asked, not quite looking at him.
“Still shows, huh?” he replied.
“A little,” I answered, “if you know what you’re looking for.”
“I served in the Marines during the Korean War,” he said, not meeting my gaze. “I don’t usually talk about it.”
“What part of Korea?” I asked, more out of curiosity than anything else.
“I was at the Chosin Reservoir,” he said, matter-of-factly.
My jaw almost dropped. He was casually mentioning he was in one of the worst battles of the entire conflict. That battle was legendary. The Marines who fought there had to endure some of the worst fighting and worst conditions any American soldier ever had to endure. This man was a warrior worthy of anyone’s respect.
“Gunny would have loved to have met you,” I said, respectfully.
“It would have been nice to talk to another old Leatherneck,” he said, smiling slightly. “He was the kind of man I would love to call friend.”
“Yes, he was,” I replied. “He was one of a kind.”
“You know it was his time to go, right?” asked White Bear.
“I can’t help but think that if we hadn’t pushed so hard coming up the hill,” I said, softly, “that he might not have died.”
“You can’t think like that, son,” he said, reaching over and patting me on the shoulder. “I dreamed that it would happen.”
“When did you dream it?” I asked, intrigued.
“The night before you all arrived,” he replied. “I knew you were coming and that we would have to bury one of your people. I sometimes get these dreams that come true. How do you think I knew how much food to thaw out of my deep freeze?”
I wasn’t sure what to say. I had seen enough of things I couldn’t explain, to doubt him.
“It was a dream sent to me by Raven,” he explained.
“What?” I asked, surprised.
It was strange that he would mention Raven when I knew that Odin used ravens as his messengers. Huginn and Muninn.
“Raven is the messenger of the gods,” he said, not quite looking at me. “It is a common theme for both of us, is it not?”
“Yes,” I answered, perplexed. “But…”
“I saw them, too,” he said. “In my dream. A pair of ravens led you here and it was the will of the Gods that our paths cross.”
“To what end?” I asked, not really expecting an answer.
“I thought about that, too,” he replied. “I came up with a possible solution.”
“Go on,” I said, turning to face him.
“I’m too old to go with you or to fight,” he explained. “I’m just going to stay here. Once your task is completed, I wouldn’t mind if I was allowed to join your group at your new camp.”
“Of course,” I said. “We’ll come back for you, once we’re finished.”
“I have an old map of this area,” he said. “It has gravel roads marked on it. I can show you a way back to your camp without going through any towns. You can avoid the worst of the dead and make your trip in less time.”
“That’s great,” I said, smiling. “I’d love to have a look at that map.”
“I will give it to your friend,” he said. “The one you call Spec-4.”
“Alright,” I said, not sure why.
“She will be leading your group back this way,” he said, meeting my gaze with piercing brown eyes. “You will not be with them.”
“Do I get left behind?” I asked, surprised.
“In my dreams,” he said, softly, “you fall. I do not see you in my visions, after that.”
“Does that mean that I die?” I asked, softly.
“I don’t know,” he answered, breaking eye contact. “I simply don’t know. Will that stop you from going?”
I thought about it for only a moment before answering.
“No,” I said, firmly. “Even if it means my death, I won’t let them face this alone.”<
br />
“I knew you would say that,” he said, smiling. “I sensed that about you.”
“Don’t tell the others, please,” I asked, frowning.
“I won’t,” he agreed. “There is no sense worrying them. I might be wrong.”
With that, we turned and headed back to the house. The others were already there, organizing gear and checking over our weapons. Since it was already midday, we decided to wait until first light to continue on towards the lake. If I estimated the distance correctly, if we left now we wouldn’t make it to the lake until right at nightfall, anyway. No sense getting there in the dark. We might as well get there with enough light to accomplish our task and be moving away from the lake before dark.
We ate summer sausage, cheese and bread for our lunch and chased it down with ice cold spring water. White Bear was simmering a big pot of venison stew for our dinner and the smell was intoxicating. I couldn’t wait to have a bowl of it.
We spent the afternoon going over our equipment, cleaning weapons and checking over our supplies. White Bear gave us each a pair of large plastic bags filled with homemade venison jerky and dried fruit. There was enough food in those two bags to keep a person moving for a week or more, if they rationed it right. It was more than generous of him.
“Thank you,” I said, accepting the treasure. “This means a lot to us.”
“Think nothing of it,” he said, casually. “My little generator can only keep me going for so long. I had to do something with all of my venison or it would have went bad. I’m too old to live on jerky and dried fruit. I don’t think my system could handle it.”
We all chuckled and tucked our food away. I don’t know about the others, but I was looking forward to trying the jerky. I’ve liked different types of jerky since I was a kid. Hel, it was half the reason I went deer hunting every year. When I got a deer, I made several pounds of jerky out of it. The rest went to roasts, steaks and burger.
Ragnarok Rising: The Crossing (The Ragnarok Rising Saga) Page 37