A Long Time Until Now

by Michael Z. Williamson

  “Well out of spear range, and the female prey attract male prey. They’re not going to be afraid.”

  “I am,” he said. He was shaking and wanted to piss badly.

  “Okay, we’re going to walk out slowly, stand up and be as big as possible. Watch your thighs. Armor helps with the torso, but our legs are exposed. We’re going to spread up as wide as we can, move toward them and spread out slightly so we have a good field of fire. They should decide we’re too many and too big to mess with. Otherwise, we shoot if they charge.”

  Felix said, “They may squat down like a cat about to pounce.”

  “Yeah, that,” agreed Spencer.

  The lioness didn’t seem sure how to respond. The men stood, stood tall, stepped apart, and following Spencer’s lead, raised an arm up high. She hesitated, stepping back and forth, darting but not pouncing.

  Then one of the cubs ducked down low.

  Spencer hopped forward over a hummock and kicked it hard in the head, just under the ear.

  It snarled, half-roared, batted and knocked his foot so he danced to stay upright, but he’d kicked it a good one. Shaking its head, it backed away.

  Mother let the cubs precede her, gave one last snarl over her shoulder, and departed.

  “That was close. I was afraid if we shot the kitten, mama would freak out.”

  Distant shouts came from below.

  “Well, shit, man, what do we do now?”

  Spencer said, “Smile and wave, boys, and start walking.”

  The Neolithic men did send a small war band of a half dozen. They jogged rather than ran, and were slowly catching up.

  “One hundred yards?” he asked.

  Spencer said, “Yeah. Easy shooting range. We’ll drop one if they do.”

  “Tanga.”

  “Eh?”

  “Fools. They should have learned by now.”

  “Conditioned response. Protect the territory.”

  “Should we jog, too?”

  “No, we’re not fighting, we’re walking. It’s up to them if they want a fight. We’re not being chased off, because we’re not hostile.”

  Oglesby said, “Ookay.”

  “Can you tell what they’re saying?”

  “Not really. I’m sure it’s ‘Stop, you fuckers,’ given tone and context.”

  “Keep listening.”

  Felix said, “They’re close to a hundred meters.”

  “Spears cocked?”

  “No, over their shoulders.”

  “We’re almost a mile out. Anything, Oglesby?”

  “I think I hear ‘magic’ or ‘shaman.’”

  “Hostile or demanding or requesting?”

  “I don’t think they’re about to attack.”

  “Okay, let’s talk. Turning.”

  The three faced the incoming Neolithics.

  The men carried their spears carefully, butt-first over their shoulders. That was easier to deploy than the other way. Three had clubs as well. The other three had bows.

  Oglesby said, “They want to know why we’re here.”

  “Give them a polite greeting, tell them we were looking for lions and bears. We plan to keep them like dogs.”

  Felix smiled carefully.

  “That’s inspired,” he said.

  “Thank you.”

  Oglesby translated.

  “They say they don’t want us around here. It’s phrased as a request. It doesn’t feel neutral. But I can’t tell which of us is supposed to be subordinate.”

  “Ask them if . . . wait, say we don’t want to intrude. Would they like us to bring them a lion for their camp?”

  Felix said, “What if they say yes?”

  “We fake it.”

  The animated back and forth suggested they did not want a pet lion.

  Oglesby confirmed it. “They’re being polite now. They don’t need a lion. It’s a kind offer.”

  “Then tell them we’re moving on.”

  “They offered what I think are some diplomatic courtesies.”

  “Keep an eye out as we leave. And I’m glad we’re wearing armor, but it won’t protect your thighs from them, either.”

  “Hooah.”

  The Neoliths watched coolly as they strode away.

  Trinidad kept pace. He faked looking at some gear to get a peripheral glance back.

  “They’re outside a hundred meters. We should be safe.”

  “Good,” he heard Spencer reply. The man visibly deflated.

  “Worried?”

  “Yes. I don’t seem to have a problem during an incident. I shake like hell afterward.”

  Oglesby said, “It’s almost dark.”

  “Yeah. Watch for wolves, and watch for obstacles.”

  It was quite dark as they reached recognizable landmarks.

  “Okay, do we call in, flash a light, or wait for them to ID us?”

  “I say call. We don’t want to give any intel away, if they’re following us.”

  Spencer shouted, “Ho, Bedrock!”

  Shortly, Alexander replied, “Who are you calling ‘ho’?”

  “Can you see us?”

  “Yes. Gate will be waiting. Antelope stew for dinner, if there’s any left.”

  “Hooah!”

  Ten minutes later they were inside and near the fire. It felt good to not be in the wind, and to have radiant heat.

  He debriefed the lieutenant quickly but completely. “So, not a likely threat to us, but probably to the Urushu or other Paleo people. They’ll want women, possibly slaves. They are seriously preparing for cold, though.”

  Spencer said, “Eight Point Two Kiloyear Event. But I can’t recall if that’s BP or BC. Nor how long it lasted. It’s possible they were close enough to that to feel it.”

  Elliott asked, “What was it?”

  “Temperature crash, happened in a couple of generations. Lasted hundreds of years if not a couple of thousand.”

  The LT looked confused. “I thought it was called something else?”

  Spencer explained at length. “No, first we get the Younger Dryas, then it gets warmer again, then we get the Eight Point Two Kiloyear Event, then it gets warmer still, then another freeze around the Roman times, then warmer, then the Little Ice Age, then our time. There are lots of these cycles.”

  Elliott said, “Wow. Well, we know we need to be ready for winter. We’ll keep at it.”

  “Hooah.”

  CHAPTER 22

  Martin Spencer wrapped up tighter in his parka, and rubbed his itching ankles. It was goddamned cold.

  Three days straight they’d been in the tepee, with occasional brave forays for firewood. They had meat in the tent, but they’d need more soon.

  Winter moved fast. Temperature had gone from a freezing-to-50 rang, to a 15-to-40 range in a couple of weeks. Now here they were at subzero.

  Eight cords had sounded like a lot of wood. He’d been prepared to be the butt of jokes for overprepping. Now he wasn’t sure eight cords would be enough. It was midwinter, close enough, and they’d gone through a cord in the last week. It might get chilly. Any warm days were going to be devoted to getting more wood.

  He looked up at a shuffling noise, then looked away. By the dim, flickering light of fire, iPod screens, and LEDs, he saw Caswell relieving herself in a bottle. He’d discreetly watched once, just because the mechanics were interesting. He felt rather embarrassed at having done so, and now, it was just background. It was easy to see why the Urushu had no real body modesty. Deep winter wasn’t conducive to it.

  Cabin fever had set in, then gone. Everyone lay about, listening to iPods or watching tablets and doing not much of anything. He’d watched every Clint Eastwood movie twice, including Bridges of Madison County and In the Line of Fire, though Rene Russo was hot.

  Actually, he’d watched so many movies in the last three months he couldn’t stand to look at a screen. He hated reading off screens and hadn’t brought any e-books, and his half-dozen paperbacks were completely read and falling ap
art.

  They’d bullshitted all the bull they could shit, and lay about in “hurry up and wait” mode. Snow helped insulate the west side of the tepee, and the howling wind was poor company. There was no established sleep cycle and no PT.

  Even the cat had crawled inside somehow, and huddled at the foot of Gina’s bedding. He really liked the thick fabric, and settled down on it, probably with fleas, but hey, he was a mascot. He would almost let people touch him, as long as they held out food. He might get domesticated yet, since everyone was trying to coax him. Except he’d pissed on several poles to mark them, and even after they’d been rubbed with brains and ash, the smell lingered.

  Worse than the malaise was guard duty, and he was on in an hour. They were on in pairs around the clock now, because no one was out otherwise. Given the neighbors and who knew else might show up, it was reasonable, just effing cold. They’d agreed on buddies doing ten minutes up, ten minutes inside the vehicle, which was still colder than hell, but not windy. It kept them awake and alert.

  There was no coffee. They had the black magic drink with honey and some dried fruit in it, that wasn’t a tea and wasn’t that interesting, except that it was hot and caffeinated. It helped.

  He might have thirty more years in him, though fifteen was a better guess in this environment and lacking his medication. He almost hoped for less. Their other option was to relocate south into India, on foot, and see if they could find somewhere warmer.

  Maybe next year they’d have solid wooden cabins. For now, they had a shared tent and lots of layers of clothes. Inside the tepee he wore full uniform and kept mostly in his sleeping bag, with bivvy cover, on his geek pad, that on a bed of turf and moss. Their beds ringed the central fire under a secondary ceiling that helped hold the heat. The tepee really was an effective tent.

  Getting dressed for duty took a solid half hour. He wore two T-shirts, Multicam blouse, PT jacket, gore-tex with liner and a spare liner, his head wrap and an extra hat, all to go under his helmet with the jacket hood pulled over. He actually did have long johns, though only one pair. Some of the troops had to make do with PT pants under their uniform. He used two pairs of socks and wore the rain boots he’d never planned on needing, over PT shoes. He checked on his gloves and goggles. Their guess on temperature was -15F. Thank God Alexander had stitched those goathides into a tepee cover and done that late repair. Otherwise, all their wet weather and cold weather gear would still be covering it.

  With all that he was ready to battle anyone or anything crazy enough to attack in this weather. It had happened in history. The younger troops bitched, and he hated it, but he agreed it was a necessary precaution.

  Once done, he realized he needed to piss. The ozan, the tepee’s liner, only allowed him to kneel, so he sighed, knelt down facing away from everyone, opened all those layers of clothing, and took a leak in a sport drink bottle. He was glad again he’d insisted they save everything. Later, he’d have to dump it outside without splashing anything.

  Thirty more years like this. Or maybe fifteen if he was lucky. He felt sorry for the young kids. And what would they do when they were down to three of them, aging alone among scattered primitives? What about the last one?

  “Out the door,” he announced as a courtesy, before unbuttoning the inside flap and wiggling past the outside one. There would still be a draft.

  It was black outside, too. Nighttime with cloud cover was black, even if it was snowing and the ground pale with accumulation.

  The short track to the MRAPs was worn down to ice, given enough traction by blowing snow, and hard packed. It would be a slushy mess come spring, but it worked for now. He grabbed a handful of gravel from the pile near the latrine walk, and tossed it onto the path. Eventually that would build up. He’d created some of that with a hammer and a boulder. The labor never stopped.

  This cold snap had lasted three days. Winter was likely to last another three months, and it would be late April or May before it got comfortable, he expected. Then it would likely be too hot again.

  He clambered into the back of Number Nine, past the cloth set up as a windbreak, and nodded to Trinidad.

  The Filipino said, “Nothing happened.”

  “Figures. Go rest. Take firewood in with you.”

  “Will do. Thanks.”

  “Ready to warm up, Ortiz?” he asked, as Trinidad wiggled through and out.

  Ortiz squirmed down from the gun mount. “Yeah, man. This is bullshit, Sergeant.”

  “I largely agree,” he said, as he knelt and climbed cautiously. He couldn’t feel anything between the layers and cold. “But there are historical cases of people being attacked, and we know we have a potentially hostile group. So we need to.”

  “Yeah, they’re all jerking off around the fire like we are.”

  “Most likely,” he called down.

  The wind bit his face even through the face wrap and goggles. He couldn’t see more than the faintest of shadows.

  “Have you done a visual?” he asked Ortiz.

  “Just did. Panoscan. Nada, hermano.”

  “Shukran.”

  “Wilkommen, and screw you. Sergeant.”

  “Yeah, it sucks. But it’s what it is. I feel sorry for you. I’ll be dead in a couple of decades, but you’ve got fifty years ahead.”

  “I keep hoping we might get home. But we can’t build a time machine.”

  “Nope.”

  “What was it? Some experiment? God? Side effect of an alien starship? Some asshole fucking around?”

  “We’ll never know.” They had this discussion every couple of days. It was painful. They had no idea how, or why, or who. All they knew is they were here. And it was frigid.

  Jenny Caswell didn’t find Doc to be too much of a problem. The man largely kept to himself, and was busy treating everything from splinters to chest wounds all the time. He wasn’t her type; he was a good guy on the whole, but even he had to make comments. It was ingrained into the culture.

  He used something on his phone to crunch numbers and said, “Yes, definitely Solstice today. I’m calling it December twenty-first.”

  That afternoon, Alexander held a short ritual. She would have been alone, but that didn’t seem fair, so Jenny stayed with her for it. Spencer was along, too. He wasn’t religious, and he made a point of not showing up for the Christian services, so it was obvious his interest was in Alexander.

  The ritual involved the fire, some salt, a sprig of evergreen on a log in the kitchen fire, a couple of prayers and then staring at the flames for a few minutes.

  Finally, she said, “That’s enough. Let’s go back inside.”

  “Did you do everything you needed to?”

  “Yes, my rituals are pretty short. Honestly, it was never really was that important to me. I did some stuff at Fort Meade, some during AT, but I generally didn’t bother, and I could never get any Christian chaplains interested in supporting the idea. There were other pagans and Wiccans around, but it was almost impossible to get anything organized.

  “But if we actually have reached our first Midwinter here, I wanted to do something for it.”

  “Yeah, that’s important.”

  There was so much they could lose here, just from lethargy. They needed to keep their sanitation, manners, writing . . . but for what? They weren’t going back, obviously.

  Her adjusted rotation date was in May. What was it going to feel like when May came and went, and she was still in uniform, still in the Stone Age, and still outnumbered?

  She might just want to move in with the Urushu and adapt to their lifestyle. She could be an elder for her knowledge, and arrange to be mostly left alone. With a good knife and martial arts training, she’d be well above them tactically, and could be an ambassador. With better knowledge of their language and customs, the soldiers might do better.

  It was definitely something to consider.

  Three days later was Christmas Eve. It was still cold. Jenny went with Barker as he plodded out to the
kitchen, waving to Alexander and Ortiz on watch. The cold didn’t bother her a lot, but it was cold all the time. The kitchen lean-to didn’t stop much wind, though ice and snow had sealed the walls somewhat. The open end did little to stop anything. The snowy ground glowed brilliant white under partially clouded skies.

  Bob had stashed several smoked goat carcasses here, once the temperature was reliably below freezing. They were in a cage off the ground, to protect from small pests. Large pests hopefully couldn’t get into the camp at present.

  Inside the structure, he pulled off his gloves and started untying the cage door.

  “I’m going numb already,” he said through his hood.

  “I have it,” she said. She unballed her hands, slid them into the glove fingers, pulled them out of her pockets and took over pulling at the knots.

  Even attenuated by the frame the wind was cold right through to her ass. This was like McChord, without any modern conveniences. She put her hands back in her pockets to warm slightly.

  “I wonder if we can do a straw bale house for next winter,” she said, lips rubbery and stinging.

  “Maybe, or a solid log cabin would be nice. We could even break it into small bunkies around the fire.”

  “Something,” she said.

  “I want to build a proper brick oven, too. If I have to eat the clay and crap the bricks myself.”

  They were mostly a good bunch of guys, she thought. If this had been an infantry patrol . . . she shuddered. Or some of the “allied” forces . . .

  “Yes, a proper oven would make a difference. And build the cabin around it.”

  “Well, we have fire in the tepee for now. One frozen goat to thaw and roast.” He lowered the stiff, gutted carcass to the ground and refastened the cage. “We’re running out of salt, too.”

  “I wonder if the LT would consider sending a vehicle on a supply run.”

  “Maybe. Spencer still wants to take one apart for making a still and generator.”

  “The still is all his. I know more about electrical systems than he does.”

  “Yeah, he said so.”

  “I appreciate it. Despite being a misogynistic asshole, he’s at least honest.”

  Bob didn’t meet her eyes as he asked, “Jen, why do you think he’s misogynistic?”