A Long Time Until Now

by Michael Z. Williamson

  The shouting increased as the men worked themselves into a battle frenzy and got closer. They were passing out of sight as they neared the gate.

  “I wonder if they scouted us out and realized how few we are,” Elliott asked.

  Martin said, “Possible, if they did it in daytime. Would we catch them at night?”

  Elliott looked around.

  “Maybe. Depends on when we were looking and where they were.”

  “Should we try not to fight?”

  Shaking his head, Elliott said, “Given that they’ve already been hostile twice, I say we need to fight. It’s all that’s going to work. We already killed three, yes?”

  Martin said, “Yes, and they may think that was magic, or some god thing, and having sacrificed properly, their gods are stronger now.” Savages anywhere tended not to be rational.

  “Noted.”

  From the southwest corner up near the ditch, Trinidad shouted, “They’re passing around here!”

  Something rose up over the palisade.

  “Look out, rock!” Martin shouted back.

  Trinidad dodged and the rock bounced off his helmet. He staggered and recovered.

  Ortiz said, “They’re coming around the south corner.”

  Very calmly, Elliott said, “Open fire.”

  Martin hated shooting people, especially when they had no idea they were outclassed. He raised his weapon, put the optic over some dude at a dead sprint toward them, and shot. The man piled up and dropped forward. Cracks on either side beat his ears, and two more fell.

  Good shooting, he thought. Then an arrow arced toward him and he flinched. It missed.

  He shot again, got another, he thought. The guy was wearing hide pants and tunic with a pointy hat, carrying three javelins. Those scattered across the ground.

  Elliott shouted, “If they come round more than two at a time, M Two Forty.”

  Ortiz said, “Hooah,” and charged the gun with a loud clack.

  Uphill and south, Trinidad was firing through chinks between the logs, while dodging other thrown rocks.

  The M240B opened up with its cacophonous clatter, and bodies burst.

  He glanced back to see Barker in the northwest corner near them, kneeling and shooting along the north wall toward the stream. Yes, there were some coming in there, too.

  “Giant ball of suck,” he said.

  They’d spread out and were all over the place.

  That little bastard in the wolf fur was trying to light the tepee on fire. Martin took aim, fired, and shot him through the neck. He fell thrashing, did the Curly Shuffle, and stopped.

  Trinidad obviously didn’t like his position, and came out running, with a bayonet mounted on his rifle and a machete in the other hand. He swung at someone and scored blood. Escrima? Kali? Some fighting form.

  Alexander stamped her foot at the edge of Number Nine’s roof, shouted, “Motherfucker,” and fired straight down at someone, then stabbed down with that tanto bayonet of hers. Then she screamed, “OW!”, staggered back against the turret and said, “Ow!” again as she bent over it and flailed. Devereaux got in front of her, heedless of her blade and the loaded weapon, and shot down the side.

  The rest had had enough. They ran whooping and hollering, leaving the dead and wounded.

  Elliott said, “Everyone stay here and keep alert.”

  Martin surveyed the area. Across the river, the fence was down and the goats were gone. No problem. That was fixable. The sweat lodge had a huge dent in the side. Fixable. The fire was out. No biggie, but likely socially significant to the Neoliths.

  The survivors moaned and cried. A couple limped or crawled around, looking shocked. What had happened was beyond any comprehension to them.

  Alexander had a gash through the sole of her boot.

  All the soldiers were alive.

  Ortiz asked, “Do we want to pursue, or should I fire after them? They’re within range.”

  “Negative, conserve ammo,” Elliott said. “Keep them under observation. Doc, start with Alexander, then the others. Probably Spencer next.”

  “Huh?” he said stupidly. Elliott pointed at his right arm.

  That arrow had ripped his shirt and the skin underneath. It wasn’t deep, but would need cleaning and dressing at least.

  “Now it hurts,” he said.

  “You’re welcome.”

  Heedless of that, he hopped across to Number Eight, and carefully took Alexander’s weapon. That bayonet was a tanto almost a foot long. Custom and ugly. It had blood and hair on it. She’d stabbed someone in the skull.

  Her boot had a hole about two inches long and an inch wide. Someone had jabbed something big up there.

  “How did that happen?” he asked, helping her take off her helmet. He wanted something to go under her head, but there wasn’t anything.

  A tap on his shoulder was Elliott with a patrol pack. That would work. He eased her head up and slid it under.

  She said, “They were poking up at me and nnngggh!” as Devereaux worked her boot off. “Tried to stomp on it. Poking at my kneeeees.”

  “Must have been a long spear,” he said.

  “He was taller than most.”

  As the boot came off, blood flowed freely. Doc cut and ripped her sock off, sacrificing it to get to her quickly.

  Doc said, “It’s not too deep, and I think I got all the rock out. I need to flush it with alcohol. It smells like they shit on their spear tips.”

  Martin put his hands down for her to grip, and she braced her head back. Devereaux took a large syringe and started squirting and swabbing.

  “That means those are dedicated weapons, then, not for hunting. Unless they really don’t understand hygiene even that much.”

  “Filthy fuckers,” Trinidad opined.

  She had adequate hand strength, he thought, as she clutched down and he felt bones grind in his hands. Teeth gritted, she panted then growled, tendons standing out on her neck and turning red with white streaks. Not pretty.

  Doc said, “Done. No bone damage I can tell. Expect a lot of oozing, bruising and swelling. We need to keep her off her feet. Carve some crutches fast.”

  Barker, leaning up over the edge, said, “Yeah, we can do that.”

  She collapsed limp, barely conscious, sweat exploding from her pores and her head lolling.

  Doc looked at Martin. “You’re next.”

  He was concerned about Gina, but she wasn’t going to fall off the vehicle and wasn’t in danger of bleeding out. So he forced himself to worry about other things.

  He rolled up his sleeve, wincing as he brushed the wound. It had bled profusely, but was all superficial. No veins that he could see.

  “This is gonna hurt,” Devereaux said, as he folded some gauze.

  “Yeah, go for it.” He turned his head.

  Wet heat rushed through his arm to his head. Fuck. Doc was scrubbing and it felt like sandpaper. My turn to growl, he thought.

  Then the scrubbing stopped, and the pain turned to a long, slow burn.

  “It feels so good when you stop, Doc,” he said.

  “Good. Wrapping it now.”

  It ached and throbbed, but he figured it was nothing on a spear into the foot.

  “That boot’s no good anymore, is it?” he asked.

  Barker was up top now, too.

  “Maybe,” he said. “We can try pine resin to seal it. Possibly a plug out of some of the leftover plastic.”

  “I have another pair,” Alexander slurred groggily.

  Barker said, “Only one pair. And now a spare left boot.”

  Martin said, “Ah. And you all mocked me for insisting we keep everyfuckingthing.”

  Barker shook his head. “I didn’t. You were right. If that doesn’t work, maybe we can melt it closed.”

  He hoped one of those would work. Likely, though, that boot was shot. He knew how to make leather moccasins in theory. He’d never done it without a kit. Or a needle.

  Ortiz said, “Sir, we have a
lot of wounded down there.”

  “Yeah, we’ll need to deal with that. What about the dead?”

  Martin brought his brain back online.

  “Burial practice is common, sir. We’d be insulting to just toss them out, which may be what you want to do. Or we wait and try to communicate that they can take them back. Or we toss them downstream and let scavengers take care of it.”

  “Pile them outside for right now,” Elliott ordered. “I want a count of how much ammo we used, as much brass as we can recover, and a body count.”

  “You heard the LT,” he said.

  Barker dropped back down and got to work. Good man.

  “I want to know why they didn’t stop. Hopped up on drugs?”

  He replied, “Or religion, sir. Especially in Africa, some groups believe being naked, or dressed a certain way, or drinking certain things, makes you immune to death. If someone dies anyway, obviously he didn’t do it right.”

  “They figure it out when enough die?”

  “They figure they were doing it wrong. Then they try something else.”

  “Christ. How many do we have to kill?”

  Martin followed his gaze around the wreckage and wafting smoke from the stomped fire, at the squirming bodies. They were bleeding into the grass and looked macabre.

  He said, “Until they figure nothing works, or believe we’re superior, or they get pissed off and hang their own boss man.”

  “What a fucking waste.” Elliott looked angry, and a bit ill. He trembled.

  “First major engagement, sir?” he guessed.

  “Yeah. I wish I could say it’d feel different with modern insurgents, but I don’t guess it would.”

  “No, sir. Everyone dies the same, and anyone behind the tech curve has no idea what they’re facing.”

  Yeah, I’m an expert, Martin thought. Two previous firefights. Yay, me. But it was likely half of them here hadn’t actually exchanged fire before.

  Elliott asked, “Doc, how do you want to triage them?”

  “How much of my stuff are you willing to use, sir?”

  “Not much.” Elliott shook his head and looked sad.

  Doc shrugged and frowned. “Then anyone with a solid torso shot is likely to die. We can cauterize and hope it works. We can leave them to moan and scream. We can take care of them while they moan and scream. Or we can put them out of their misery.”

  Martin had heard of people going ashen, but had never seen it until now. Elliott was that pale, that fast.

  “Good Christ, I can’t kill them now they’re down.”

  Devereaux said, “They’ll be in worse pain if you don’t, sir.”

  “Sort them first.”

  “Will do. Soap or just water for washing?”

  Elliott clenched his jaw and sighed.

  “Goddammit. Use soap. Do the best you can without using actual medical supplies.”

  “Hooah, sir. I’ll need to rip their leather clothes into bandages.”

  “Oh, keep weapons live, in case any are feeling heroically suicidal.”

  Devereaux said, “If you can’t find a pulse, I can’t do anything here. Drag them and lay them out down by the latrine. Let me know on the rest.”

  Since Barker was taking care of bodies near the base of the vehicles, Martin dropped down and started by the fire. The men there had been hit by 7.62mm from the M240B.

  “These two are alive,” he said. Their eyes were open, and they were in absolute shock. One next to them, though . . . dead to the touch. And another had his torso ripped open. Dead.

  The ones around the truck had fared better. One had a shattered shoulder and wasn’t likely to regain any use. One had been hit through the foot and would likely recover. Overall, there were twelve dead, four expectant, eight seriously wounded who Doc might be able to save, and thirteen limping and fixable but infection was always a possibility.

  The attack had been fast, and they’d had no idea what the weapons could do, or at what range. The return fire had devastated them.

  Devereaux looked over the three with gaping gut wounds and one lungshot.

  “There is nothing I can do for them,” he said, looking frustrated. With modern gear and evac, most of them would survive. Here, nothing. “Gently as you can, place them on the flat ground over there.”

  It was hard to be gentle with a man with ribs blown away. Barker took the legs, Martin folded the man’s arms across his chest and took the shoulders. With Barker leading, he just made sure the guy didn’t drag. A ruck or sleeping bag would make this easier, or a spare hide. They’d been converting hides to shelter as fast as they could scrape and smoke them. There weren’t any spares.

  Devereaux said, “On the minor ones, start with washing and debriding. Two people per in case they struggle.”

  Martin said, “Walking wounded first. We need to corral them, and make sure they understand it’s medicine.”

  “Yeah.”

  They found one guy with a crease through his arm, and washed and bound it. He was surprisingly lightly hurt, but clutched at his head. Inspection showed a contusion where he’d run into something.

  Ortiz took care of most of the minor wounds, treating them apparently like livestock. That made sense. He scrubbed, washed, pulled, and wasn’t any too gentle, but didn’t seem to be trying to hurt them.

  The one with the perforated foot seemed to grasp he was being treated, and clutched at himself as they rinsed the outside. His foot had already swollen and bruised. He wouldn’t be walking for days. The bullet might have broken bones, but had passed through. The whole instep was an angry purple mass and soft to the touch.

  “Hey, Alexander, you got payback.”

  She called back, “I’m thrilled. I’d rather have a working foot.”

  “What about this shattered shoulder?” The bullet had destroyed the clavicle and the whole thing was a blood-drenched pile of hamburger.

  Doc said, “I could attempt surgery, but I’d have to open it up a lot and he’d get infected. I’m going to jam the bones as close together as possible, and we strap him down. Maybe it’ll heal. Maybe he’ll be gimp. Maybe he gets infected and dies.”

  It was scary. This could happen to any of them, with spears, hooves or a falling log. Doc’s resources were limited.

  With two buddies gripping his patient’s other hand and legs, Devereaux ran fingers along the bones around the bullet wound, then massaged and pushed until they appeared mostly straight to Martin’s eye, though it was hard to tell with skin in the way. Then he slipped a do-rag under the arm and tied a figure eight, followed by strapping the arm down to the chest with gut. Shrugging, he held up the alcohol bottle.

  “Will hurt, ow, ow.” He poured a splash into the wound and was rewarded with a pained, “NNarrrgh!”

  That done, with Ortiz guarding the ones who were mostly functional, they turned to the tough part.

  “Okay. Now those four expectant. We’ve got to do something.”

  Elliott asked, “What ‘something’ can we do?”

  Scratching his bushy hair, Devereaux said, “Either I use some of our painkiller, we cover them with blankets and wait for them to die, or we euthanize them. That’s all I can come up with.”

  “How long do they have?”

  He shrugged. “Minutes. Hours. Possibly days. If we give them water, they might last a week before infection and hunger do them in.”

  They all stared uncomfortably at each other. Alexander was limp and on the truck. She was probably exempt.

  “Draw straws?” Martin offered, feeling ill.

  Ortiz said, “I can do it, I think. I’ll just have to close my eyes and think of cows.”

  Elliott took a very deep breath.

  “No. No one under my command is doing something that could be considered a war crime.” His voice was cold.

  That sucked for the casualties, but he understood the logic. “Yes, sir.”

  Still without emotion, Elliott said, “Give me the sharpest knife we have. Wher
e do I cut?”

  Devereaux said, “From here to here, sir,” and indicated on his throat.

  Martin fumbled out his bowie. It was big, sharp, and perfectly balanced. He shook as he handed it over, hilt first.

  Elliott took it, hefted it, turned and walked toward the four men.

  They didn’t fight. They might have been in too much pain, or just accepting. One at a time, he pulled their heads up, placed the knife, and sliced. One of them twitched, one gurgled, the other two were probably close to death anyway. Pools of sticky blood soaked into the ground under their necks, and kept dripping from the deep cuts. It was almost black in the twilight.

  The man came back looking completely stoned. He held the knife out at arm’s length, and Martin had to move around him to take it from the side.

  Then Elliott slumped to his knees and burst out bawling.

  Martin Spencer felt like crap, but with the LT down, and he wasn’t blaming the man, he took over.

  “Okay, keep eyes on them. I need three volunteers, you with the light wounds there, there, there. Yes, you. Come with me.” He indicated with gestures.

  He grabbed a shovel and took it along.

  “Your dead friends. What do you want to do?” He pointed and shrugged.

  He showed how to dig with it. Then offered it to them.

  “Or the fire,” he said and pointed. “Oh. Crap. Barker, light a fire fast. Show them what we can do.”

  “Hooah.”

  Barker jogged to the truck, came back with a propane torch, and had flames in ten seconds.

  “Burn?”

  They looked back and forth, and one of them pantomimed piling stuff up.

  “Ah. Mound burial. Makes sense in that terrain. Here? There?” he pointed at the ground and in the direction of their camp, then shrugged.

  Hesitantly, one of them pointed back toward their camp.

  “You can do that,” he nodded and indicated, or tried to. Point at body, wave arms toward camp.

  They didn’t seem to grasp that they were free to go. They huddled together, obviously afraid of these superbeings who could call lightning down to rip holes and kill.

  They weren’t going anywhere at present, it seemed, even if they had all been fit.