A Long Time Until Now

by Michael Z. Williamson

  Armand ran over fast, was alongside, and suddenly it was a man on man hug with bawling tears.

  He saw nothing funny or unmanly about it. He was barely keeping it together himself.

  Sean Elliott felt ill. He realized he’d neither eaten nor drunk all day, and forced himself to swallow a few mouthfuls from his Camelbak. Then he chewed some jerky. He didn’t feel better, but his stomach eased off a bit, and his headache faded.

  Had he spent all day just staring into space? He was supposed to be in command.

  Spencer came over as soon as he moved.

  “Sir, can I consult with you?”

  “Yes, what is it?” He tried to make eye contact and failed. He masked his shame by glancing around.

  Spencer indicated with his thumb and head. They moved away from the group and around the back of Charlie Eight.

  Spencer looked rough. He hadn’t slept either, and might even be in shock.

  “Sir, with respect, you are not handling this well.”

  “I . . .” he was about to erupt in an ass chewing, because no one could handle this shit well, but he needed help, and Spencer was trying to offer it.

  “I’m open to suggestions,” he said.

  “Sir, it’s been almost three days. We haven’t secured food, water, shelter. Whatever dropped us here is gone. It may or may not come back, but we have to make the call to take care of ourselves here, now.”

  “I’m afraid of leaving. We don’t know when it will come back.” It had to come back. If it happened once, it would happen again.

  “We don’t know if it will come back. And we’re running out of resources. Water. Food,” Spencer repeated. “Fuel. We have limited ammo. We need to relocate while we have fuel, then settle in. If there’s some kind of time portal, and someone is looking for us, they’ll do what SAR does and find us. We can leave signals.”

  “What if they don’t know we’re here?”

  “Then, sir,” the man said, with a very deep breath, “they won’t be looking for us, will they?”

  Every time Elliott was sure he was all adrenalined out, something came along and kicked him again.

  “Yes. I agree. But I really don’t know what to do. And Spencer . . .”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Between you and me, I’m fucking scared.”

  “Well, that means you’re like the rest of us, sir. But we have what we have.”

  “I’m sorry I weirded out.” He burned in embarrassment. He was the officer, and he’d sat here doing nothing.

  “It can happen to anyone, sir. Glad to have you back.”

  “Thanks. You don’t mean that, though.”

  Spencer stuck out a hand and he took it and shook.

  “Yes, I do. I’ll run things myself if I have to, but you can see the kids don’t respect me. They never have. You, they actually listen to.”

  He nodded. “So you tell me what to do and I’ll tell them.”

  “No, sir. You’re the officer, you need to command. I’ll implement.”

  He had a moment of cold clarity.

  “There’s no way I could resign anyway. Not here,” he realized.

  “No, there isn’t, and I wouldn’t let you. They need you.”

  He noticed the man didn’t say “I need you.”

  He breathed again, and took in the impossibly fresh air. He could smell the truck, and otherwise, the clearest air anywhere. It was refreshing, but frightening.

  “Downhill, to the river, and dig in there. They can find us. But what after that?”

  Spencer said, “We try to find somewhere we can build long-term camping, like an overhead between the vehicles, and windbreaks. Hooches if we can. If there’s saplings—”

  “I can advise on building hooches, Sergeant. I’m an engineer.”

  “Yes, sir. See? You can get us comfortable and healthy. Fresh water, too.”

  “Yeah. And we have a box of soap, asswipe and toothpaste. That’ll last a while.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “We might be better walking down. These bitches are overbalanced even on a road.” He pointed at the MRAPs. They were crap off road, but here they were.

  Spencer said, “We’ll need to be careful. But they’re transport, they’re shelter, and we can rip parts out of them for survival. Hoses, metal.”

  “We could come back for parts. It’s not like anyone is going to steal them.”

  “We could. Your call, sir. But I’d like to get them as far as we can before we abandon them. It means less of a march later.”

  “I’ll take that under advisement.” Yeah. That would help. If the damned MRAPs didn’t roll and injure someone on the way. They weren’t meant for military patrol other than convoy or urban. Even dirt roads were problematic.

  First, he needed food and hydration. It was late afternoon, too. Actual sleep was called for, if he could. They’d travel in daylight only.

  Every young officer wanted a combat command and to show his mettle. Well, the good ones wanted to show it. If they managed, they held onto the title of “good.”

  This was not what he’d had in mind, but he didn’t have a choice. He’d make it work.

  Sean Elliott did sleep, restlessly but well enough. The nightmares were probably a good sign, he told himself. His brain was sorting out conflict.

  Spencer had kept things running overnight. Whatever the man said, he really didn’t need Sean Elliott. But there were few enough of them they needed everyone.

  He took another look at the terrain, and the map. The two were close enough generally. Downhill would lead to whatever watercourse there was. Assuming they were when and where they thought they were, and at least approximately in the area.

  All the troops were gathered around the protruding rock, and he could tell which side the latrine was, when the wind shifted. That was rank.

  Spencer caught his eye. He nodded.

  Spencer said, “Listen up. Informal formation. Keep eating, but pay attention. The LT and I have been talking, and he has a plan.”

  They looked at him. Some seemed curious, others hopeful, some annoyed. Well, that was his own fault. But, they did look to him.

  “Okay, what should be the Amu Darya river is twenty miles north. It’s rough terrain, but we’re going to try for it. It’s a major watercourse; that means water, power, transport, whatever resources there are. Whatever there is here is likely in that area.”

  No one said anything, but there were a couple of nods.

  He continued. “The movement will commence at once. We will thoroughly police the area of all trash or identifying material, including filling in the latrine. Do not mark it. We will stow all gear securely. We will leave a blaze in the turf indicating our direction.Charlie Eight will be the lead vehicle, and I will be aboard. Charlie Nine will follow, with SFC Spencer as vehicle commander. We will have three personnel on the ground as reconnaissance ahead. They will stay within one hundred meters of each other, and of the vehicle. We will follow at a walking pace, because these beasts have shitty balance. This movement may take up to a week, though it is possible we can accomplish it in two days. Exercise light and noise discipline.

  “The advance party will look for a clear route, paying attention to near and distant terrain. They must also be alert for dangerous animals, which is anything large or carnivorous or both. We will try to avoid interacting with animals, and retreat to the vehicle if necessary. We’ll shoot if we have to. I want both guns manned and alert. Any shooting will be by my order only, but anyone may shoot if there is an imminent threat of being attacked. ACH and armor will be worn.

  “We will rest briefly every two hours to swap out advance parties, and for latrines and food.

  “With all that covered, anyone with experience in rough terrain or ground guiding in the field should volunteer to be the lead in each shift, and I’ll assign two others to support and observe.”

  There were glances back and forth, then Barker, Spencer and Trinidad raised their hands.

&n
bsp; That was a relief. “Okay, Spencer first, Barker second, Trinidad third. That covers six hours, which is likely most of today. We’ll rotate again if needed. Caswell and Dalton, you’re up first. I’ll take second with Alexander. Ortiz and Devereaux third. Oglesby is backup. Police everything, double check with your buddy and someone else, and let’s roll. Dalton and Trinidad, do you know how to make a direction blaze?”

  "Yes, sir," Dalton replied.

  "Please do that while we load."

  "Got it.

  He decided to drive lead himself. It was effectively combat, and the lives of these nine depended on him doing everything right.

  Inside he felt utterly cold and terrified. What if? What if? What if? He couldn’t answer, so he was trying not to think of the questions. But he felt insecure even starting the vehicle. What if it stalled? Got stuck? What if three minutes after they left the area, whatever had caused the jump came back and they weren’t there for it? But they couldn’t sit on the side of a hill forever, hoping.

  After ten seconds of cranking, the engine responded, and troops started climbing aboard. He should probably double check the cleanup, but he didn’t want to get out of the vehicle now. Every bad emotion was hitting him at once—laziness, hopelessness, anger, despair. Nausea hit him again as his guts clenched.

  Out front, he saw Spencer, Caswell and Dalton. Alexander and Ortiz were aboard with him. He noted Alexander was up on the gun. He assumed she knew what she was doing. Barker, Trinidad and Devereaux were aboard Charlie Nine. Oglesby gave him a thumbsup and climbed in.

  “I’m last, sir. I count ten.”

  “I counted ten, too, and we’ll be moving at a walking pace. Let’s roll.”

  He revved the engine in lieu of a horn. Spencer turned to look at him, and he stuck a thumb out the window. Spencer nodded, waved back, and started walking.

  Martin Spencer shivered. It wasn’t cold, though even moderate temperatures got chilly if you were out in them all day, and anyway, they’d been in scorching heat until three days ago. But, as much as he liked being alone, he did not like being this far from the rest. He had an ongoing panic that the vehicles were going to disappear and leave him here with two soldiers, neither of whom he thought were that good.

  He slogged through tall grass and low scrub, like prairie set on an angle. It dragged at his boots and pants, and he left a very obvious trail. It was tough, slow going, though it would be easy for the trucks, as long as they stayed upright.

  The LT wasn’t handling things well. What he should do was roll at speed, with a good eye ahead, get to the river fast, and keep them all in close proximity. Their water and food were limited, and if this took a week, they were going to be in sad shape. The fatigue alone was killing him.

  He decided that he’d take some melatonin that evening. He needed the sleep. Though he’d rather wake up from a nightmare than be stuck in one.

  He should probably stop chugging Ripits, too. Though he probably had to. There didn’t seem to be any left. He’d chewed the coffee powder from the MREs. He’d caffeined and adrenalined himself sick.

  He kept his head swiveling. No doubt it looked to the LT that he was very earnest in his task. In reality, he wanted to keep a good eye on Caswell to the left, who was edging in closer, and Dalton to the right, who seemed to be keeping position. Dalton was also muttering to himself. The kid was probably praying. Spencer didn’t blame him. If it helped, good. He almost wished he could.

  He did keep an eye open ahead, but the ground was rolling hillside, with no terrain the vehicles couldn’t handle. He pointed at trees as he passed. Ahead was another rock outcropping. He clambered up and stood there to point it out, until the LT gave him a thumb. He took a few moments to view all around. Yes, that low line of trees was likely the river, right where it was supposed to be.

  Not reassuring. They really were in the fucking Stone Age. Were there any Paleolithic people around here yet? And were they Cro-Magnon, Neanderthal, or something older? If Devereaux was right, anyone here should be modern humans. That helped. Then he wasn’t sure if he’d rather meet other people or not.

  There were little herds of goats or such dotting the ridges. He saw something that looked like large, ugly antelope in a small family group. A hare darted through grass ahead of him. Startled, he looked around and up.

  Then he realized they’d barely moved a half mile. That was two point five percent of the trip. If that held true, this was only a two-day trip. But even then, he’d be gibbering nuts.

  Caswell was getting too close.

  “Move back left,” he reluctantly ordered.

  “Yes, Sergeant.” She didn’t argue, but looked uncomfortable moving away. He understood that.

  Ahead there were more goats. At least they’d have plenty to eat, and those didn’t taste too bad. But they had to find salt, and edible vegetables, and he’d need chalk.

  His stomach hurt like hell, but he had to ration out the ranitidine as long as he could. Once it was gone, he might manage on chalk added to all his food. Or he might start dying slowly and painfully. Or he might start puking in agony until he put a bullet through his brain.

  Fifteen years ago, he’d been a physically textbook Soldier. Now . . .

  This dip was likely too deep for the undercarriage.

  He called, “Caswell, direct them your way.”

  “Roger.”

  He pointed, she waved, the LT stuck a hand out, and the vehicles angled west.

  He took the same course, and waved Dalton to do the same.

  He made a point of drinking. It wasn’t hot, but he could still dehydrate if not careful. The sun was getting high.

  A double rev of the engine sounded. He turned and the LT waved him back. Had it been two hours?

  The ache in his legs said it had been. He started to stumble back, but the LT drove forward to his position. It made sense.

  Barker dug a hasty hole behind Charlie Nine, they took care of draining in turn, and shoveled the dirt back in.

  Climbing into Charlie Nine was a relief. It was warm, dry, and sounded like the twenty-first century. And now he was terrified that whatever brought them here would take the ground guides back. He swallowed. It was PTSD, and he’d get over it eventually. They all had it, and there was nothing to be done about it.

  The LT, Alexander and Barker moved out front to guide. He took the wheel.

  Gina Alexander shook. She could take photos under fire, but this was terrifying. Her head floated above her feet, not feeling anything. Stone Age. Stranded. She had Blake, Dylan and Aislinn at home, and knew she’d never see them again.

  She knew it was a panic attack, but they weren’t supposed to last three days. She hadn’t slept beyond nausea-filled naps, even more than she had trouble sleeping anyway. Medication . . . but when it ran out, she knew what awaited her.

  She choked back a sob. Something had to take them home. Please.

  She stepped in a dip and her ankle twisted. She winced, but it wasn’t crippling. She limped for a bit, but kept on. That, too. She wasn’t physically fit enough for this. She was a middle-aged Guardsman, on loan, for publicity photos. She could handle an occasional combat sortie. But this . . . no.

  She heard the growl, twisted and fumbled, and fell. Then it jumped on her.

  “Gaaah!”

  It was a dog, a wolf, several of them. Something was stuck on her boot, and something chewed at her knee pad. She smelled rotten breath and felt it blow wet on her head, as jaws crunched at her helmet. Claws scraped and dragged through her shirt sleeve. Hot, wet drool splashed on her face.

  She squealed again, jammed her carbine into something and pulled the trigger. The animal yowled, kicked and rolled away.

  Two more shots sounded, another fell and convulsed a few feet away, then Lieutenant Elliott stood over her.

  “Alexander, are you alright?”

  “I think so, sir. Covered in wolf drool, but no damage. They got my boot and kneepad.”

  “Stay down for a mo
ment.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  She lay back and sighed. Five minutes into her shift, and she was a casualty and liability.

  Devereaux arrived at a run, but she already knew she was fine, just freaked. He looked her over.

  “I don’t see any punctures. Do you have any strains or tears?”

  “I don’t think so.” She flexed each joint carefully. “Just overall soreness like from wrestling or PT.”

  “Okay, we’ll put you on next shift. Oglesby is up.”

  She wanted to argue, but she needed to curl up in a ball and scream.

  “Definitely wolves,” Barker said. “Big suckers. Not dire wolves, but big Asian wolves.” He toed the one the LT had shot, which still twitched. He pulled a knife off his gear and jabbed it into the beast’s throat.

  “What about that one she shot?” The lieutenant asked.

  Barker said, “It might die eventually. It also might heal. Five five six isn’t much of a round for a big animal, but it was point blank into the guts. I’d rather not try to track it down, but if you insist . . .”

  “Negative. I was just curious if we have enough guns. And we only have the ammo we have.”

  “Yeah. We need some spears and bows, as soon as we find a place to hole up.”

  They were ignoring her, which was good and bad. They weren’t worried, but they also didn’t need her.

  I am not crying! she insisted, and tightened her face.

  “Hey, Alexander!” Elliott shouted.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “They came up fast. No one saw them. You did good.”

  She wasn’t sure he meant it, but she was glad he said it.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  And now she’d be the old lady in the passenger seat.

  Bob Barker was stiff. Sleeping three across in the back of the trucks wasn’t comfortable, though it was safe, with two people up top on watch. Dalton had elected to sleep up top, and it had been dry. He wasn’t sure the LT was sleeping, and that was a problem. The man had wigged out pretty badly already.

  Bob also felt cold. It wasn’t the temperature. He liked it cool. It was an emotional cold.