A Long Time Until Now

by Michael Z. Williamson

  She lifted her camera bag. “Twenty-four, seven, sir. But I’m talking about regular old Forty-Two Alpha administration, orderly room style.”

  “I’ve got enough of that already. It’s burying me.” God. PowerPoint in the Stone Age. He still couldn’t get over that.

  She was trying to sound confident but not managing, as she said, “But that’s why you need me, sir. You need to know what we have, a charging schedule for phones, maps, lists of edible foods, a calendar and almanac, journals of what we find and learn to manufacture. We need reliable, regular schedules for duty, long term, because the seasons are going to matter. Farming will definitely require documentation.”

  He hadn’t really thought of it, and it still sounded secondary. But she was right, they did need records of weather and farming at least.

  “I can have everyone write a log in the evening,” he said. “It’s a good idea.”

  “Yes, sir, but then it needs collated so you can find it. No, the search function isn’t enough. You remember college texts. They have a bibliography and index. That’s my civilian job. Companies call me in on contract to sort their files, define their positions and create databases and SOPs.”

  “Well, what do you think we need?”

  “All the things I said, and whatever else I can come up with. I have to see what people log and build the database as I go.”

  That made sense. Admin was necessary to run a unit, though it was hard to think of something the size of a squad needing that much support. And they did need muscle power. But . . .

  “You do have a training in this, I assume?” Her job description suggested it.

  “Three degrees.”

  “. . . three?”

  “Bachelor’s in IT and financial management, and a master’s in forensic accounting.” Before he could ask, she explained, “I go into their files and find the missing figures. IRS auditors hate me.”

  And she held three MOSes, or two and an Air Force AFSC. Regardless of her physical condition, she sounded like a formidable mental asset.

  “Then go ahead, define what we need and do it.”

  “Thank you, sir.” She gave a professional nod.

  “May I ask a personal question?”

  “You can always ask.”

  “Why aren’t you an officer?”

  She said, “I was too old when I came back in.”

  “Understood. Though you should be a senior NCO at least.”

  She looked mildy annoyed as she said, “Well, that depends on a Guard unit having its shit together. If they lose files enough, no one’s promotion paperwork gets to Brigade. I can’t find what hasn’t been entered into GFEBS, iPERMS or AKO.”

  “I see. Well, have at it, though I’ll still call you if we need backup labor, and your other technical knowledge.”

  “Yes, sir. I’d like to brief everyone this evening.”

  “Agreed.”

  “And I can still do physical stuff, including guard duty and hauling or chopping. This just makes me more useful in ways I can be, rather than pretending I’m as strong as Dalton or Ortiz.”

  She climbed up into Number Nine and started moving stuff around.

  “Is that going to be the Orderly Room?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  It would have been nice of her to ask, he thought.

  On construction, Spencer was a decent manager. The logs came over steadily, carried by troops and locals. When a few feet worth were ready, the ditch and rampart were dug, the bases burned, ash dumped in, and the logs erected. The fill was tamped down with the shovel and a ball bat from the Hajji-Be-Good box in Number Nine. The brush pile grew. Visibility got better as the trees came down.

  It was muddy in the morning, but better by afternoon, though cooler, probably 60s.

  He took a turn chopping, enjoying the feel of his biceps and core flexing and straining. He panted for breath, sweated and felt invigorated, as his hands went numb from the impacts, and chips flew past his legs. He took down three uprights and pruned them smooth.

  “You’re pretty good with an axe, sir,” Dalton said.

  “Thanks,” he replied as he swung and sheared a limb, twisting as the axe descended to throw its velocity at an angle. That was a physics trick, though he’d learned it long before at his uncle’s cabin. Uncle Walt was long dead, but he missed him even more now.

  “How do you do that twist?”

  “Like this,” he said, raised the axe, lowered his body, twisted and raised his elbow as if batting. He did it slowly and just nicked the next limb. “Let gravity bring it down, twist it like batting, and follow through the same way.” He took another swing and severed the limb.

  “Damn. Good stuff, sir. Let me try.”

  He let the axe drop, bit down, and passed it over handle first.

  Dalton got it within a couple of swings, and turned his brawny shoulders into it. He fairly walked along the down timber, cutting limbs every couple of steps.

  “Damn, I came out here to help,” Elliott said. “Not to be outclassed.”

  “Ah, hell, sorry, sir.” Dalton seemed embarrassed.

  “No problem. Use it tomorrow,” he replied. It wasn’t as if they were going to run out of wood to cut.

  He went back to pruning.

  Food was improving. Barker and Caswell really knew this stuff. That evening, there were several edible grasses chopped up in the small cooler lid, and more greens. It was a sort-of salad. The stalky things were probably cattails. He bit into one. It tasted a bit like cress. At least it was juicy and not meat. The variety helped.

  “What’s this?” he asked about something green and leafy.

  “Sorrel,” she said. “The long stalk is wild plantain, and is a bit like asparagus.”

  Barker said, “The meat is deer of some kind, roasted in herbs with wild onions. But I really need to find a salt lick, sir.”

  Yes, that would help. “We’ll need to make a recon patrol.”

  Spencer said, “I’m going to need ground bone meal. My stomach meds are running out, and that’s the closest I’m going to find, unless I eat actual chalk daily.”

  Barker said, “Damn, that sucks, dude.” Others made comments of support.

  Spencer shrugged. “I can last a couple more months. I always knew it was an issue. Are we going to tan the deer hide?”

  Barker said, “Yeah, hair on. It’ll make a nice rug or wall hanging, but that’s going to take some work. You can chew the bones for calcium.”

  “I was thinking of the bones for tool handles and eating utensils. We may be able to trade for a few, too. It’s not like the Paleos lack them.”

  “Good.”

  Oglesby said, “They’re called the Urushu. Singular and collective both.”

  “Got it,” Spencer said. “Urushu.”

  If there was anything Elliott was going to thank God for every day, it was that he had troops with these skills. Without them, they’d be reduced to living with the Paleos and depending on charity. This world was so alien to him it might as well be another planet, but Alexander, Spencer, Caswell and Barker knew how to make it work.

  “Okay, formation for the evening. Everyone listening?” He looked up to Caswell and Ortiz on watch. They thumbed up. “Good. Sergeant Alexander is going to be our admin, logistics, armorer and readiness NCO. Go ahead, Alexander.”

  She looked around, stepped slightly forward, and spoke.

  “Just as the lieutenant says, we must account for everything. I’ll be using Number Nine as the HQ, office, armory, whatever. Everything will be stashed in there. If you need something, see me first. If I’m not around, neatly take what you need and log it. There will be an open notepad on the laptop. Don’t try to update the spreadsheets. I’ll do that. Just write it and sign it so I can look you up if I need to.”

  She stepped back. There was muttered assent and hooahs. Everyone seemed to understand.

  “Let me reiterate,” he said. “I know a lot of you don’t think of admin as serio
us. It is. The Romans became the world power they were because of documentation. Otherwise, everyone else was barely above our neighbors here.” Emotionally, he wasn’t convinced, but mentally, he knew she was right, and that he’d appreciate it in future.

  That got quiet but attentive nods.

  She added, “I can log enough information we can find a growing season. That means better food. I can map out salt, rock, timber, edibles. I’ll have walking times to reach them. Everything. It means you won’t have to scratch your head and think, or try to find someone else. I’ll have the info. You just have to give it to me.”

  They seemed to understand.

  She said, “Look, let me give you background. Some of you know this, but I don’t want to tell the whole story ten times. I was active duty Air Force in the early nineties. Airborne Intel equipment operator aboard an AWACS. I came back in the Army Guard after September Eleventh. I’ve been in Iraq, Kosovo and here. I’m a photographer and an admin, and I have college degrees in management. But I’ve got bad ankles, bad knees, bad wrists and thyroid problems. My medication will last about three months. After that,” she sighed. “After that, my memory will get fucked up badly, my attention will slip, I’ll have trouble sleeping, my blood sugar will get chaotic, and I’ll probably gain weight, too.”

  She sounded tired just from sharing that.

  Next to him, Dalton muttered, “Can Caswell make a wooden wheelchair?”

  She heard him.

  “Corporal, when you’ve survived a forced landing in an E Three, a car wreck, two kids, surgeries on your joints and are forty-three years old, you get back to me.”

  Elliott cut in fast. “Yeah, easy on the jokes. We’re all going to get old and worn out,” he said, with a firm glance at Dalton.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Bad attempt at humor.”

  She said, “Accepted. And I’m sorry to be sensitive about it. For now, I can keep up, and there may be some dietary workarounds. I can use an axe. I can haul wood.”

  “Good.” Was there any way to work around that medication? Probably not. And yes, he was assuming they were here for life, because he didn’t think there was anything they could do about getting back. He had no idea how they got here, so getting back was the second problem, and he didn’t think they had any control over it. And there was something else, but he couldn’t remember it.

  Armand Devereaux was on watch at sunrise two days later, ready to grab a bite. They had fifteen feet of the north wall done, the corner reinforced with a mound of earth and two buttresses. He felt a bit more secure.

  Off to the closed side, he saw movement, and called, “Natives approaching from the west. Five people, three with spears.” They didn’t seem troubled, but they weren’t really enough for a hunting party.

  Caswell and Dalton went out to meet them through what would eventually be the front gate, but for now was a framed opening with a sill. He kept them covered from the hatch.

  Caswell was good. She graciously offered to carry their spears, and then they were disarmed. She came in and stowed them in Number Nine, along the floor.

  “I think you’re needed,” she said. “I get the impression one of them is sick.”

  “Okay, want to cover me?”

  Barker clattered up and said, “I will.” He climbed up the outside as Armand wiggled down inside.

  Caswell was back and talking to the woman, with Oglesby translating. He was getting pretty good at their language, and maybe they should all learn some. Something might happen to him.

  “What’s up?” he asked.

  Oglesby said, “This is Ai!ee. She’s been cursed with illness in her genitals. They stay inflamed and leak poop smell, I gather.” He blushed.

  Caswell said, “Oh, goddammit. Ulceration of the vaginal canal. Happens in Africa. The women tend to work until they pop. Strain can cause abrasion, and then add in delivery. The tear is from the vaginal canal to the rectum.”

  That wasn’t something he was trained for.

  “So she’s leaking feces through a fistula.”

  “Basically, yes.”

  He thought about it. He wanted a reference book, but that sounded straightforward enough. “I can do minor surgery. My concern is sterility, anesthetic, and I’ve never done a procedure like that. Sort of a high-end episiotomy repair.”

  Caswell said, “I’ll help.”

  “First you’ve got to explain it to her.”

  Oglesby was clearly embarrassed and uncomfortable.

  “Okay, what do I need to say?”

  “First I need a look. Caswell, do you know what we’re looking for?”

  “Sort of.”

  They led Ai!ee into the back of Number Eight, and he grabbed a flashlight.

  “I don’t have anything resembling a speculum,” he said, as Ai!ee pulled her skirt aside and leaned back.

  “Spoons,” Caswell said, and ran to grab two MRE spoons.

  Using those to spread her hair, her labia, and the vaginal canal, he could see a discolored area, and got a definite whiff of bowel.

  “That’s it, yes?”

  Caswell bent over and took a look.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Okay, we’ll do surgery. We can fix it with knives and sutures. She has to purify herself for two days with only water. Then she must purify herself afterward with a special diet. This is in accordance with the spirits.”

  Oglesby spoke slowly to Ai!ee and her friend. It took a good fifteen minutes back and forth, between him and them, and then between each other, to come to an agreement.

  “She asks if you can actually fix an inside tear. They seem to know what the problem is.”

  “Tell her yes, we can do it. It will be sore, and it will have to heal, but it’s doable.”

  After a few more minutes, Oglesby said, “She asks about fever spirits.”

  “We should be able to keep fever and infection controlled. We can’t guarantee it, but we’ll work hard on it, and the spirits often listen to us.”

  “She says she will bring two speakers with her, to talk to the spirits. They will also guard her to make sure she stays pure. She asked about her family. I said they should pray at home, that separation increased the odds.”

  Caswell said, “Good, we don’t need spectators. We will also wash her with special soap against the spirits, when she returns.”

  There were some pleasantries which he took in with half his mind, while trying to remember more about this type of thing. If he opened the edges of the tear and sutured it closed, it should heal. He didn’t know much about plastic surgery.

  Caswell seemed to have some idea. He’d need to talk to her.

  The natives had brought some sausage, stuffed into cleaned animal intestines, and a decorated hide that obviously was significant to them. He smiled and thanked them, and did look at it for a few moments. It held geometric designs and images of stick figures.

  Caswell retrieved their spears and sent them on their way.

  He said, “I need to figure out how to do this.”

  She said, “We need to make it ritualistic.”

  “Well, we have clean clothes, gloves, masks, hats. That’s pretty ritualistic. But I meant the surgical process.”

  Oglesby said, “Sorry I’m twitchy about it. I really don’t like stuff that personal.”

  “You did fine.”

  “Thanks. And they said there’s salt north and east of here, toward that rise.”

  Barker overheard and came over. “Really?”

  “‘Blood rock,’ they call it. Salt.”

  “Goddamn, we’re in business.”

  “Yeah, that’ll be a nice plus.”

  “It’s not just a plus. Cooking. Food preservation. Curing leather. Several other processes. We need salt. I’d even think about taking a vehicle, but we probably can’t risk it. We’ll need a sizeable party or several trips, though.”

  “Okay. Well, I’m glad the information helped.” He still sounded embarrassed.

  Spen
cer arrived and said, “Yeah, I need that, too, and it’s just possible there’s coal around. Otherwise, we have to do a charcoal burn. And by that, I mean several tons of wood.”

  “One thing at a time, dude.”

  “Yeah, I know. And bone meal. Nice, tasty bone meal to settle my stomach.”

  Armand asked, “Having trouble?”

  “Not yet. I have enough Zantac to last another three months. But once it’s gone, it’s gone. I thought we discussed this.”

  “Ah, you want to test the idea first. Very wise, old man.”

  “Thanks. And I’m not an old man, boy.”

  “Heh. Sergeant, I’m trying to figure out how to do OB-GYN surgery on an injured woman. My brain isn’t all there.”

  “No problem. You work on that, I’ll find something to chop.”

  Regina had Number Nine full in short order, with the solar panel up top and the laptop up near the turret. She brought the panel in at night and during rain, religiously. Once that was gone, they had no power unless they burned fuel. Her charger could handle batteries for Spencer’s two flashlights and night vision, her own flashlight and camera powerpacks, her laptop, and it could trickle charge the truck batteries. It would also handle AAs, as would the small 110v charger Caswell had, with six batteries that worked in two more flashlights. With her USB kit she could charge all the phones and tablets.

  She set up a schedule to keep the phones going, since those served as entertainment, note-taking devices, clocks, alarms and nightlights. The night vision in the trucks and on Spencer’s rifle had to be kept up for security. The lights would only need periodic charging. The other lights would all be useless once their batteries were exhausted. She had a bin for them, and spreadsheeted them by brand in case any spare parts could be scavenged. Otherwise, they were sturdy, waterproof containers.

  Pens, pencils and paper were precious, but as long as their devices worked, they could use those.

  There was probably some way to rig a wireless network. She’d covered that briefly in school, and tried to recall if she had enough equipment here to create a wireless router. It wouldn’t have much range, but photos from the perimeter, and text messages, could be useful during any kind of attack.