Time spike

by Eric Flint

  To start with, they were usually filthy. The care was frequently worse than no care at all, since it consisted of things like bleeding that often made the patient's condition worse. A person actually had less of a chance to survive if they entered one than if they stayed home and weathered it with nothing but the help of a friend or family member. And the death rate in childbirth of wealthier women who used doctors was far worse than that of poorer women who just used the help of a midwife. "You do not make your own medicines, though, he said.

  That seems strange to me." "No." She decided not to try to explain, right now, all the complexities of a modern medical and pharmaceutical industry. "In my day, that was specialized work. It was done by doctors called 'pharmacists.' " The American Medical Association would scream bloody murder if they heard that. But the AMA wasn't here and Jenny's opinion had always been that a good pharmacist was worth ten mediocre doctors anyway. "I know a few of the old remedies, but not many. And"-she waved at the woods around them-"those I do know, I don't know how to find." Fisher nodded. "Yes. It is the same for me. I know some of the old ways, but not all. And the plants I used are now gone." They sat silent, grieving for their losses. Fisher for her small herb garden, and Jenny for her telephone and pharmacy. "If there is fat left over after making the pemmican I will make an oil to keep away the insects. I do not know if it will work with these strange bugs, but I will try just the same. This place is so different from home, but it is also the same in many ways. There is a bog not too far away. A half-day's walk from here. It will be very useful." Jenny's estimate of the little Cherokee woman's medical skills went up steeply. It would be foolish-really foolish-to underestimate Susan Fisher. Because she was right. Bog-water and moss were the two most sterile things on the planet now. Her mind was racing. A bog was the first step. It would give them sterile dressings and an antibacterial rinse. Her thoughts twisted and turned. "Sea water. Do you know how far we are from the ocean?" In a pinch seawater would work as an I.V. solution for short-term stabilization of a patient. Doctors, caught in the middle of battle without their usual supplies had resorted to ocean water. It hadn't worked as well as whole blood or plasma, but it had saved a lot of lives. Salt water had also saved more than one burn victim. Fisher shook her head. "We have not seen the ocean. Not even any big lakes." "That's okay. There has to be an ocean. In fact, Jeff Edelman says the world today probably has a higher sea level. There was even a big sea some of the time, he says, in the center of-"

  Luckily, she caught herself before she said United States. In Fisher's time, the United States ended at the Mississippi River-and the land beyond it had been promised to the Cherokee. Another promise that would eventually be broken. "In the middle of North America. If it's there, we'll find it sooner or later." Jenny stretched, feeling her gloom vanishing. "Most medicines from my time still came from plants and animals. If we put our heads together, I bet we could get some of them back. We will just have to experiment a little."

  Chapter 39 "Stay low," James Cook whispered to Boyne. He used his left hand to wipe the sweat from his brow. The sun had set an hour ago, and a small fire flickered and glowed in the darkness. From the small rise he and John were hidden behind, they could just see down into the clearing below them. There were a half dozen strangely dressed men sitting around the flames. They were wearing some kind of body armor too. It looked like metal. "Did you see the shape they left that couple in?" Boyne made the sign of the cross. "Man, they're worse than the animals back at the prison. Jesus, Mary and Joseph. That poor woman was raped and mutilated. And her man, he died even harder. I think they were trying to get him to tell them something. God knows what. Those people didn't look like they had a pot to piss in." James didn't answer. Boyne was hissing between clenched teeth and the sound was barely traveling to him, but he still wished he would shut up. He needed to think. He'd thought the men in the camp were Mexicans, at first, but Boyne said they weren't. They had the wrong accent-the "s" sound was almost a "th"-and he could make out most of what was being said. The men were Spaniards and they were following somebody they called de Soto. Apparently, they weren't happy with his leadership, but they weren't willing to buck him. James tried to figure out what to do. The easiest and simplest answer was just to leave. The six men sitting around the campfire weren't maintaining any guard. That seemed strange to James, since there was always the risk of huge predators even if they weren't worried about people. But everything about the way those men carried themselves exuded arrogance. Whatever the reason, the Boomers could avoid them easily. Except for him and Boyne, the rest of the group was waiting about fifty yards to the rear. All he and John had to do was slip back, collect the others, and they'd be on their way. There was a partial moon, which gave enough light to see. They could travel through a good part of the night, even carrying Elaine, and be a mile or two away by sunrise. On the other hand…

  Jamesreally wanted their weapons. Sure, they looked like antiques, but those were still guns. They had swords, too, and some sort of odd-looking spears with big blades on the end. Odd-looking or not, though, they were obviously far superior weapons to the spears the Boomers had jury-rigged. Those were nothing more than sharpened branches or poles with shanks attached to the ends-and not too well attached, at that. He knew they'd been lucky, so far. In the two days since they made their break from the prison, they had only encountered one large predator. And that wasn't a dinosaur or anything nearly that big. It was just a big, chunky looking cat of some kind. About the size of a lion and scary enough, with its huge canine teeth. But they'd stood their ground with the half-assed spears they'd made, and after growling for a while the cat went on its way. The problem was that while the men at the campfire seemed arrogantly careless, James didn't have any doubt at all that they were tough and experienced fighters. All of them had their swords readily available, and all but one still had their guns in their hands. Even caught by surprise, this could be chancy. All the Boomers had was the pistol Bostic had given them. True, it was a good weapon. A Glock Model 22 with fifteen rounds in the magazine. Still, it would be one gun against six. Then, there was a third factor, that he was sure wouldn't have bothered Danny Bostic in the least but bothered him a lot. The Spaniards had three captives. Children, a boy and two girls, the oldest of them maybe ten and the youngest maybe six. They were probably the children of the couple that had been murdered. James had wondered what they'd want with such young children. It was conceivable they were keeping the girls for sexual pleasure, even though the youngest was no more than eight years old. But although the kids looked bruised up a little, they didn't seem to have been harmed otherwise. John Boyne cleared up the mystery for him. "They're planning to sell them into slavery when they get back to the coast," he whispered. "I guess the stupid fucks haven't figured out yet that the Caribbean isn't there any more." That made sense. James knew from stories he'd heard from his grandfather that the Spanish had enslaved Indians when they first stumbled across the New World. They didn't start bringing black slaves from Africa until later. "Oh, screw it," he muttered, more to himself than Boyne.

  "John, slip back and get Kidd up here. I need the expert's opinion."

  Boyne flashed a smile, quite visible in the moonlight. "Okay, but I can tell you what it'll be." Geoffrey Kidd arrived soon. As dark-skinned as he was, James didn't spot him until he was less than five yards away. The man moved almost silently, despite his size.

  Boyne came up behind him. When the two of them were squatting next to James, just out of sight of the men in the clearing, James explained the situation. "If we fight, you'll have to do most of it, Geoffrey," he concluded. "You've got the pistol." Kidd had wound up getting the pistol because the general consensus of the Boomers was that Kidd was the best gun-handler among them. It turned out the reason he was serving a life sentence was because he was a contract killer for whichever set of gangsters met his price. He'd been charged with only one first-degree murder, though, after he was finally caught, even though the police suspected h
e'd done at least five. He still might have gotten the death penalty except the prosecutor didn't really care that much. Everybody Kidd had murdered had been a gangster also. Life without parole was good enough. Kidd didn't say anything, for maybe a minute, as he studied the men sitting around the campfire. "Don't need anybody but me," he said. "But I'm warning you. There won't be too many rounds left when I'm done. With that armor they're wearing, I'll have to double-tap all of them." He smiled thinly. " 'Course, I'd do that anyway." James wondered if he was bragging. Probably… Not.

  The fact that Kidd was openly gay convinced him he wasn't boasting.

  James had never hung around with gangsters and didn't really know that much about them. But what he did know was that being macho was pretty much a given in that crowd-so it stood to reason that a gay man who could make a living at it was probably every bit as good as he claimed to be. "Okay, then. What do you want the rest of us to do?" "Boyne's already here. Bring up Dino and Elroy. All three are real good with shanks. Them and you can follow me in and cut whatever throats need cutting. I probably won't need 'em but I might, and by then I may have run through the magazine. But-I'm stressing this, so pay attention-make sure you don't move until I holler. While I'm shooting, I don't want anything around me but targets." "Be careful of the kids." Kidd curled his lip. "I ain't worried about the kids. They're off to the side, tied up to that tree. I'm worried about Injuns rushing in. Crazy Injuns, like the kind that would threaten a man holding a gun with a pitiful little shank. Down in a fucking basement, where the ricochets would get anyone the shooters missed." James smiled. "Okay. We don't move till you tell us to." He turned to Boyne.

  "You heard him, John. Get Dino and Elroy." By the time Dino and Elroy got there, Kidd had disappeared. He'd just taken a few steps and vanished. "How soon?" Morelli asked. "Hell if I know." James' headshake was a rueful sort of thing. "I was an E.M. T, remember?

  Don't ask me how contract hit men go about their business. I never even had to clean up after one. I did get plenty of shootings and knifings, but they were just hothead stuff." "Just wait," Boyne hissed. "Won't be that long. Kidd's probably set already. He's just waiting to give you two a chance to get here." About a minute later, it all broke loose. James didn't even see Kidd coming out of the darkness until he'd already shot the first Spaniard. The first thing he saw were the gun-flashes. The gunshots didn't sound like much, really. Bang-bang and one Spaniard went down, gushing blood from his neck. James was sure he never saw the man who'd killed him. Bang-bang.

  Another Spaniard down. Some of the blood spouting from his neck went into the fire and started hissing. Bang-bang. Another down. The same neck wound. James was a little surprised. He'd thought Kidd would go for head shots. The men still had their body armor on but they'd taken off their helmets. Bang-bang. Another down. This was the first man who'd started reacting before he got shot. The other three had been killed so quickly that James didn't think they'd had any real idea that they were in danger, beyond-starting with the second man-a completely unconscious rush of adrenaline. But even the fourth man hadn't managed to do more than start getting one leg under him. The fifth man had good reflexes. Instead of trying to get up like the other one had, he just grabbed his gun and flung himself to the side.

  Bang-bang. The man screeched and clawed his leg-but still didn't let go of the gun. "Well, fuck you too!" Kidd snarled. Bang-bang. And that was that. The last man was on his feet, bringing up that big clumsy rifle. No, it was probably a musket. Kidd moved quickly, circling to the man's right, making it awkward to bring the musket around. James was expecting the same double-tap, but Kidd shot the man in the leg instead. Right about mid-thigh. That was enough to stagger him, even if he somehow managed to stay on his feet. But he dropped the gun.

  Kidd almost shot him, then. It would have been an easy kill, given his deadly marksmanship with a pistol. The Spaniard wasn't more than fifteen feet away. James could see Geoffrey struggling with his training and instincts. But, after maybe a second, he lowered the pistol a little, strode up, and sent the man sailing onto his back with a tremendous cross-step sidekick. "Come on down and cut his throat, guys!" he yelled. "I only got but two rounds left. That one bastard made me miss. Worthless motherfucker." James was still trying to figure out if they wanted to keep the Spaniard alive for questioning when Elroy made it all a moot point. He'd gotten so used to the Boomers that he sometimes forgot just what a murderous crew they could be. The first thing he did when he got down to the clearing was go over to the children. They watched him coming, wide-eyed and obviously petrified. He made what he hoped were reassuring gestures and sounds-that's all his words would be to the kids; just sounds-and started untying them. The knots weren't too hard to get undone, fortunately. He hadn't wanted to pull out his shank to just cut the ropes, figuring that would terrify the poor kids even more. After he untied them, he rose and stepped back. They stared up at him, still wide-eyed and still saying nothing. Suddenly, as if they had a single mind, the three kids lunged to their feet and raced into the woods.

  "Oh, hell!" James exclaimed. He was an idiot. He should have realized the kids would be as scared of the Boomers as they were of the Spaniards. They obviously belonged to some sort of primitive Indian tribe. The boy, not more than eight years old, already had decorative tattoos on his face. Not many-nothing compared to the tattoos that had adorned the corpse of his father. But not even lifers in a maximum security prison tattooed their faces that way. The older girl had had a small tattoo also, on her chin. God only knew what they made of the firearms. Geoffrey's murderous gunplay must have seemed like black magic to them. Boyne came up. "Do we go after 'em, boss? Maybe we oughta. They won't last long in the woods, just by themselves. Not with dinosaurs and who-all knows what else roaming around out there."

  James hesitated. That had been his immediate inclination also. But the children would just think they were being pursued, and would race still further into the woods. "No. That'd backfire, I think. Let's just make camp here, and hope the kids will come back eventually."

  By the time the Boomers got Elaine there, on her litter, James had been able to move the bodies to one side of the clearing. But that was about it. He didn't know what to do with the corpses, though. Digging a mass grave would be a lot of work for people who were already tired from a long day's march. Even if they had shovels, which they didn't.

  Gathering enough wood for a big funeral pyre wouldn't be much less work. They didn't have axes. Those weird-looking half-spear/half-axe things of the Spaniards didn't really look like they'd serve too well for the purpose. They were obviously designed to chop flesh, not wood.

  When her litter was set down, Elaine stared at the small pile of corpses. Then, stared up at James. "Did you…?" "Well, no. Not exactly." Kidd came up, grinning. At least, "grinning" was the technically correct expression. Personally, James thought that grin would send a great white shark racing for deep waters. "I shot 'em,"

  Kidd explained. "It's what I do, girl. Well. Did, anyway. But it's like riding a bicycle. Once you learn, you never forget." Amazingly, the grin widened. By now, the great white would be looking for an underwater cave to get away from the monster. Elaine might have swallowed. It was hard to tell, in the dim and flickering light throw out by the campfire. But all she said was, "Yeah. I guess." Geoffrey turned to James. "Me and John found a decent sized creek just a little ways off. Probably why they made camp here." "Good. We need water."

  Boyne came up in time to hear that. His grin wasn't much better than Kidd's. "Better get what we need now, then. Pretty soon, that creek's gonna be where these bastards sleep with the fishes. You won't want to be drinking from it after that, I guarantee you." "Huh?" "Think about it, boss. With all the damn critters running around, we can't just leave the bodies here. And there ain't no way we're digging a big grave. We got no shovels. Come morning, there's likely to be some huge dinosaur chomping on 'em-and not being any too particular whether what he chomps is dead or alive." "It's a big creek," Kidd chi
med in. "Not big enough to carry the bodies downstream, but at one spot nearby there's a good sized pool in it. We weight the bodies down with some rocks-we can use the same rope they used to tie up the kids-and they should all wind up sinking below the surface. Maybe not more than a few inches, but we'll be gone soon enough that shouldn't be a problem." It was a grisly proposal, but it seemed the most practical.

  And it wasn't as if James had any sentimental attitude about the corpses. Those men had been as vicious as they come. Serve them right to wind up as fish food. James looked over at the corpses. "Okay, fine. But I want to save the rope, if we can. Rope's likely to be useful. I think we can just loosen that body armor they're wearing, stuff some rocks in, snug 'em back up, and that'll be enough." "We don't want the armor?" asked Boyne. "Boss, that's a lot of steel. We could make stuff out of it." "With what?" demanded Kidd. "We ain't got no tools that'll work metal." He shook his head. "Fuck the armor, John. We can't do anything with it and just the way it is, as armor, you saw how much good it did them. I got some great big dinosaur chasing me, the last thing I need is to be hauling around thirty-forty-fifty pounds of steel on my body. I bet I can dodge a dinosaur, if I have to-but not wearing that crap." James was doubtful that dodging dinosaurs was all that easy. But Geoffrey did have a point. It wasn't likely any dinosaur's jaws would be slowed down all that much by the armor. Whatever it was called. He thought the term might be "cuirass," but he wasn't sure. "Okay, let's do it. As far as the steel goes, John, if that creek's not big enough to carry bodies downstream, it sure as hell won't be carrying any steel armor either.

  If things work out right, we can always come back and get it out later." Carrying the six bodies to the creek took about ten minutes.