by Eric Flint
Each and every one of us." He shrugged. "I'm not asking for a free pass, Blacklock. Any crimes committed from this day forward will be a different story." "Uh-huh. And who, exactly, will see to that? In case you hadn't noticed, we don't have a police force. No judges and juries, either." "For the time being, I will. Eventually, we'll need to set up our own justice system. But that'll take a while." He gave Andy a somewhat eerie smile, that was impossible to interpret exactly.
"Don't worry about it, Captain. You'll probably have more trouble keeping the peace than I will. My boys are right law-abiding, these days. That's because if any of them cross the line, I already told them I'd just have Geoffrey shoot 'em." Geoffrey Kidd. Now employed in law-enforcement, no less. "Strange world, isn't it?" Cook's smile got some actual humor in it. "But I'll keep my end of the deal. Now, what is it you want?" "We need to take back the prison. Until that's accomplished, you and your men have to be under my authority or the authority of anyone I delegate. And no bullshit about it. I can order men shot too. And I will, if I have to, in a combat situation." "And what else?" "For the time being, that's it. Afterward… To be honest, I don't know. But I don't know about what we'll do with regard to anything, in the future a ways." He nodded toward Watkins, still sitting and chewing on his twig. "The Cherokees, for instance. Will they decide to set up with us, or will they want to keep their own town? I'm figuring the latter, but who knows? And assuming they do keep their own setup, what relationship will they have with us? I have no idea. And I'm not losing any sleep over it, either. First, we've got to get the prison back from Luff and his thugs." "Luff and his crazies, better way to put it," chimed in John Boyne. He looked at Cook. "Sounds like a deal to me, boss." "Yeah, me too. But we'll put this one to a vote." He stood up and motioned for the other Boomers to gather around. Once they'd done so, he said: "Captain Blacklock is offering us a deal. He'll agree to-" He cocked an eye at Andy. "Pick the term." Andy shrugged. "You may as well use 'pardon,' I guess. I'm short of parole officers anyway. Haven't gone a one." "Right. Okay, boys. Here's the deal. The captain gives us-all of us, each and every one-a full and complete pardon. No strings attached. In return, we put ourselves under his military authority until such time as the prison is taken back from Luff." He waited for a few seconds. "Any discussion?" Kidd spoke up. "Yeah. Can I shoot Luff myself?" That brought a low laugh from everybody, including Andy. Cook shook his head. "Whatever Blacklock says, is the answer. But I imagine there's already a long line for that assignment. Any other discussion?" He waited for a few more seconds. "Okay, then. We'll take a vote. All in favor, raise your hands." He and Boyne started to count hands, and then stopped. "Let's do it the other way," said Cook. "Anybody opposed?" Not a single hand went up. Cook nodded and sat back down.
"Okay, Captain. You've got your deal. On our side"-here he actually grinned; a no-fooling, nothing-hidden grin-"it was unanimous. Don't know how well it'll go on your side, though." Andy grinned back. "I don't need to take a vote. For the time being, anyway, I'm still the boss." "Figures. Leave it to convicts to have to introduce democracy into the Age of the Dinosaurs." "I'll take Kidd and Cook himself," said Rob Hulbert. "They're the two cons in that group I can trust to stay level-headed." Andy scratched his jaw. "Cook, yeah.
But… Kidd?" "Sure, he's a cold-blooded killer. But that's the whole point, Andy. In this situation, the operative term is 'cold-blooded.' Look at it this way. Kidd was in our custody for a little over eight years. How many times did we have to take him down, in that stretch?" "Not once. The two times he got into it with another con, it was over before we even knew about it." "Right. How many times did he get in a confrontation with a guard?" "Not once. Okay, I see your point. I just…" Rod smiled. "Relax, Andy. The truth is, I'm more comfortable with this deal you cut with the Boomers than you are.
Look, we both knew-so did Joe Schuler, because we talked about it once-that sooner or later we were going to have to start freeing some of the inmates." "Yeah, fine, but I was thinking in terms of the ones convicted of nonviolent crimes. Or something like manslaughter. Not murderers in the first degree, for Pete's sake." "There's first degree murder and there's first degree murder. The law may not make that distinction, but I do-and so do you. You know perfectly well that the reason the prosecutor went for a plea bargain with Kidd is because the only people he ever killed were thugs themselves. We're living in a world that has dinosaurs in it, not to mention saber-toothed tigers and God knows what else." Hulbert shrugged. "I can live with it. What I can't live with are the likes of Adrian Luff-who wasnot convicted of murder, remember-and his stooge Phil Haggerty. Now there's a piece of work. Who, I remind you, was convicted of a nonviolent offense." Andy made a face. Haggerty had been convicted on charges of state-tax evasion. That was the only way the police could get him behind bars.
Even though they knew perfectly well he'd been guilty of at least three brutal hijackings, which had left one person dead and several others badly injured. The fatality had been a fourteen-year-old boy run over by the getaway car and left to die, bleeding and mangled in the street. "All right, point taken. Cook and Kidd. You got 'em."
Rod's negotiations with Kidd were more complicated. The first part went well enough. "How many rounds you got left?" Hulbert asked him.
"Two." "You'll need more. Youmight need more-but keep in mind that we're just trying to do a reconnaissance. If all goes well, not a shot will be fired." He rummaged in his pack and came out with two magazines for Kidd's pistol. Fortunately, all the firearms in the prison had been standard issue. They didn't have to fiddle with matching a lot of different calibers to different guns. "Thanks." Kidd stuffed the two magazines away in a pocket he'd jury-rigged. "Now we got to deal with a different problem." "What's that?" Kidd pointed.
"Them. The three kids. They're already anxious, figuring something's up. As soon as they see me leave, they'll start hollering like you wouldn't believe." "Jesus H. Christ," Rod muttered. "When did baby-sitting get added to my job description?" Kidd chuckled. "When did it get added tomine?" Rob scratched his head, considering the problem. After a while, he said: "I'll talk to Hanrahan. She's good with kids, and she misses the three she left behind." In the end, that worked out pretty well. The three kids were still unhappy at Kidd's departure, but by the time he left Kathleen had them ensnared in a fairy tale. How she managed to get the meaning of the story across without sharing a word in common was and would remain forever a mystery to Rod Hulbert. Even in the Cretaceous, "earth mother" was still not part of his job description.
Chapter 48 Jenny stroked Joe's feverish forehead. He had pneumonia, and was bleeding internally. She planned to open him up and see what she could do, but she didn't have a lot of hope. The small amount of pink-tinged froth he coughed up every few minutes scared her. The same thing went for his color. He was as white as a sheet and too weak to even sit without help. She was amazed he was still alive.
She gave him a sip of the whiskey the Cherokee Kevin Griffin had given her, about a half a swallow. He had to hold it down or they wouldn't be able to do anything for him. "What are they going to do about the prison?" he asked. "We can't leave Luff in charge. The man's crazier'n a loon, under that mild-mannered exterior. I can't imagine what's happening to those poor bastards still inside, the ones he has it in for." "Chief Watkins and his people, plus the army personnel that were with them, say they'll help us take it back." He nodded and the slight motion caused a wave of nausea to engulf him. A jaw-clenching minute later, he mumbled, "Sorry," rolled to his side and vomited. He didn't lose much, but only because he didn't have much to lose. Once his stomach was empty, the dry heaves continued for almost three minutes.
Jenny wiped his forehead with a damp cloth. "It's okay," she lied.
"I'm dying," Joe said, matter-of-factly. "You can't stop it from happening." Jenny knew he was right, but didn't like the idea of just sitting on her hands doing nothing. It felt wrong. This wasn't an old man who had lived his life. Joe was young and strong. He should live another thir
ty or forty years. Maybe even fifty, as healthy as he'd been. "Joe, it's up to you. I can try to operate, and if we're lucky, I might be able to do something." "You said the left lung was collapsed." Jenny nodded. There was no air going in or coming out of the left side of Joe's chest. No lung sounds. The right lung was doing it all, and it was damaged. She could hear the sounds-much like crackling paper-that indicated more trouble than she could fix. She knew if the situation had been reversed, if the right lung was silent and the left filled with fluid, he would have already been gone. The slight difference in lung size, one side to the other, was all that was keeping him alive. And that difference wasn't going to be enough to let him survive much longer. "If you can't fix it, just sit with me. I'd rather not die that way, cut open and out of my head. And I also don't want to die alone." "Are you religious, Joe?" He gave his head a slight nod. "Nazarene." "Would you like me to pray with you?"
"Too late now," he whispered. "I have to go on my record and hope I got it right." He coughed then moaned. "Man, this hurts." Jenny stroked his face. He reach up and took her hand. "Don't leave me." She looked at him and then at Barbara Ray and Lylah Caldwell. The two of them were looking at her, their eyes filled with tears. They were waiting for her to do something, anything that might help him. Part of her wanted to sayto hell with it and dive in. She wanted to at least try. But she couldn't do that. Joe had the right to refuse. It was his death; he should be able to decide how he would do it. "Sure, Joe. Of course we'll stay with you." "I heard about the little girls," he said. "The ones that Geoffrey Kidd rescued. What a twist that is."
Jenny nodded and told him about Hulbert and Bailey's pups, and laughed aloud when she saw the sparkle in his eyes. She squeezed his hand and whispered, "This place is horrible, but we're going to make it. And it's going to be a real world, a real home." She kept talking after that, about anything that came to mind. Occasionally his eyes would close, but if Jenny quit talking they would pop open filled with panic. So she talked. She told him about the trees and the bog and the medicine woman. She even told him about the tools the Cherokees had.
Using cloths that Barbara and Lylah kept moist with frequent trips to the river, she did her best to keep him cooled as she talked. The day was long, drifting by in spurts and stops as he struggled to breathe.
"How will we destroy the prisoners?" Jenny didn't know the answer to that one, so she gently adjusted the makeshift pillow behind his back.
She then took a fresh cloth from Barbara and applied it to the back of his neck. The cool water felt good on her hands, and she knew it felt good on his fevered flesh. Suddenly, his eyes seemed to focus on her face. "You said we have keys. Which ones? Can we get into the supply house?" Jenny nodded. "Marie had a complete set. We have keys to every lock inside the prison." "You mean that, literally?" "Literally,"
Jenny answered. She placed a fresh cloth over his eyes and forehead and the two of them sat silent. The only sound was the lieutenant's labored breathing. Several minutes passed and then Joe tried to sit up. "No, Joe. Lie still," Jenny told him. Joe reached out and gripped her upper arm. "Okay, but you tell Andy, about the supply house.
There's… stuff… for bombs. Little bombs… but it would be enough to… make them surrender." "I'll tell him, Joe." She wondered how long this stage of the dying would last: the mental confusion. He was bleeding internally and his lungs weren't functioning properly. That meant his brain wasn't getting enough oxygen. It was no wonder he was talking a little crazy. And it would probably get worse. "Please, Jenny. Tell him." "I will, Joe. I promise I will." She would, too. Even though she knew there were no bomb parts hidden inside the prison, not in the armory and not in the supply rooms. Still, she would tell Andy everything his friend said and did before dying. "Paint, cleaners, bleach and ammonia." His breaths were labored. "Tell him!" He rolled over, his body shaking with the effort of coughing and dry heaves. Minutes passed. When it was over he moaned and said, "Glass jars with lids. Tell Andy about the jars and the nails. And gasoline. And tell him to ask the Boomers about it." He coughed again; it almost sounded like a laugh. "If there's… anyone in the world knows how to jury-rig a weapon, it's a con." "I will," Jenny said. "I will. Now you have to rest." But Joe didn't. He struggled to a sitting position. "No. I can't. You can't.
You have to tell him now," he whispered, his eyes dancing with fever.
"Now." Barbara Ray moved from the cave entrance over to where Jenny sat. "Go on, tell Andy what he's saying. I'll stay with him." Jenny reluctantly moved toward the small opening. She was afraid to leave, afraid he would be gone before she could return. Just as she got to the cave's entrance, Joe called out, his voice weak and raspy, but his eyes focused and determined. "I need to talk to him. And to Edelman.
We might even… have what we need to gas them." He coughed a deep, body-wrenching cough. He moaned and held his ribs. He then whispered,
"Catapults. I bet the Cherokees could build them. Tell them we can do it. We can take the prison. Hurry. I need you to hurry." Jenny stared at the man lying on the cave floor and then at Barbara Ray who was holding his hand. The lieutenant's eyes were clear. "Catapults.
Homemade bombs. Gas them," Joe whispered. Andy was easy to find; he was sitting next to the fire, talking to Chief Watkins. Edelman wasn't much harder to locate. He was asleep under the ledge, curled between two other guards, soaking in their body heat and snoring loudly. When she said his name he came instantly awake, and scrambled toward her.
It took less than three minutes. But those minutes were long and Jenny was scared. Andy Blacklock and Jeff Edelman stayed with Joe Schuler until he became unresponsive and his breaths changed to the silence, followed by short rapid breaths, common to the dying. Joe had talked in soft whispers for twenty minutes. The two men had knelt beside him, their ears almost on his mouth in order to hear. Occasionally he would stop his labored whispering and cough up the red-tinged froth that was everyone's reminder that they had to hurry. Several times Edelman would ask a question, or Andy would say, "You have to talk a little louder, Joe." And the man would take a labored breath and say one or two words loud enough to be heard by everyone inside the cave, but then the low whisper would return. At times the men were forced to hold their breaths in order to hear his words. It was a struggle. But they did hear, and when he finally fell silent, they understood what he meant. When the last rays of sunlight began fading away and the cave was almost dark, Joe took his last labored breath. Moments later, Barbara, Lylah and Jenny left the cave. They didn't say anything to those who watched them crawl out of the small opening; instead they sat next to the fire and quietly cried. Andy Blacklock and Jeff joined them, dried-eyed but looking haggard. After a while, Andy and Jeff got up and walked over to the Boomers. Without asking for an invitation, they sat down next to John Boyne. Andy got right to the point. "Before he died, Joe Schuler told us he thought there was enough stuff in the supply house at Alexander to make bombs. Maybe poison gas, too. I think he may be right, but it's not something I really know a lot about." He hooked a thumb at Edelman. "Neither does Jeff. Show him a rock and he can tell you what it had for breakfast two centuries ago. But he says he doesn't know much about what you might call practical chemistry." He stopped, and waited. Boyne tugged at his ear. "And you think we do." "Yeah. I figure you do. Some of you, anyway." Boyne smiled. "Captain Blacklock, if I didn't know you better, I'd think you was implying we have criminally inclined tendencies." "God forbid. Come on, John. You got your pardon.
Everything that happened in the past is a wash. But that doesn't mean it didn't happen-and I'm damn sure some of you know what I'm talking about." "Probably. I don't, myself. But…" He turned his head and gestured to one of the men sitting a ways back. "Front and center, Leffen." A bit reluctantly, a wiry man in his early fifties sidled up to the campfire. He had a wizened face and skin color like really old coffee with cream. Gray-brown, almost. "Yeah," he said. "I heard. I guess I might know a thing or two." "Cut it out, Carter," said Boyne tonelessly. "They nailed
you for aggravated assault, but you know and I know and every alley cat in the south side of Chicago knows that you really made your living as an arsonist. Burning down tenements for slumlords looking to collect the insurance." Leffen looked alarmed.
"Hey! I never hurt nobody." "Didn't say you did. I said you burned down buildings. Even managed to make the fires look like an accident."
Andy had wondered about that. There had always been rumors that Carter Leffen was a professional arsonist, although the police had never been able to pin anything on him. Leffen looked mollified. Even a bit self-righteous. "Well, yeah. But I never hurt nobody. You can't, you wanna get a good reputation in the trade. A fire's a fire. The firemen put it out, the owner collects the insurance, and what else are insurance companies good for? But somebody gets killed…" He grimaced. "There's all hell to pay. Got to be careful not to set a fire so bad it'll kill a fireman, neither. Even hurt 'em. Then there's really hell to pay." Under the circumstances and all things considered, Andy decided this was not the time and place to get into a discussion of ethics with an arsonist. "Can you do anything with that stuff?" "What's in there, exactly? You guys always kept the supply room locked tight." "You bet your sweet ass, we did. I'm not sure of everything. But I know there's paint, and cleaning solvents of various kinds. That includes bleach and ammonia." Leffen's eyes closed, as if he were falling into a trance. After a minute or so, he said: "Yeah, I can manage something." His eyes popped open. "This ain't gonna hurt my pardon, is it?" "To the contrary," said Edelman solemnly. "You will have the thanks of your nation." "We a nation now?" That was a very good question, actually. One that, if they survived the next week or two, Andy thought they'd probably be spending the rest of their lives trying to answer.