Plague Years (Book 3): This Thing of Darkness I Acknowledge Mine

by Rounds, Mark

  Ngengi’s face became fierce with rage and he took one step toward Macklin who feared for his life. None the less, he stood his ground, knowing that retreat likely meant death. The tableau lasted for two eternally long minutes, then Ngengi’s face softened.

  “You … are right,” said Ngengi grudgingly. “You are always right. I will follow your … orders.”

  “It is … taxing to always have to explain myself,” said Macklin by way of apology. “Sometimes, we will need to move fast. I will not always have time to explain myself.”

  “I understand … master,” said Ngengi.

  “See to it then,” said Macklin who realized, belatedly, that the world had just changed.

  July 15th, Wednesday, 11:42 pm PDT

  Providence Medical Research Center, Roof, Spokane WA

  “How do things look at the front staircase?” asked Jen.

  “Not good,” said Sergeant Finkbiner. “There were a couple of rushes from the first floor. The Holy Hand Grenade of Antioch went first. We stopped the next rush with one of Dr. Strickland’s Molotovs. The papers and lab equipment we dumped in the hall on our last trip up caught fire. The fire spread to some of the carpeting and fixtures and currently there is a pretty significant blaze going downstairs.”

  “Well, at least the stairwell is blocked,” said Jen with a shrug. “The back stairwell is smoldering as well. We had to use a couple of Molotovs and before the second one, we kinda tossed some office furniture down the stairwell and that’s burning too.”

  “The building is reinforced concrete,” said Finkbiner, “so it’s likely not to collapse, just get warm for a while.”

  “Small comfort,” said Jen. Their discussion was interrupted by a fusillade coming from the back stairwell.

  “Gotta go,” said Jen.

  “Good hunting ma’am,” said Finkbiner as he headed for the front stairwell.

  Jen got to the stairwell just in time to see her troops come boiling out.

  “Sorry ma’am,” said Morton who was still in a sling. He had relinquished his M-4 to one of his troops and was defending himself with an M-9. “It got too hot in the stairwell ma’am. We had to get out.”

  “Fall back behind the barricades!” shouted Jen. Between rushes, they had gathered roof top fittings and blowers and constructed a rough semi-circle around each of the stairwells. The troops jumped behind the fortifications that, frankly, a troop of boy scouts could punch through, and Jen ended up next to Morton.

  “Casualties?” said Jen looking at Morton. His bandaged arm had started to leak blood and he was pale, but the fight was still strong in him.

  “Brinkman was hit pretty bad,” said Morton. “We got him back behind the corner over there. The PJ is working on him. If we could get a dust off …”

  “I’ll talk to the PJ in a few minutes,” said Jen. She had two other patients that would fare better if they could get them off the roof, but it was a dark night as the moon had already set. The building lights had been shut off so finding their LZ on top of the building would be tough for a helicopter, especially under fire.

  “What about you, Morton?” asked Jen

  “I’m fine ma’am,” said Morton trying to look nonchalant. He failed miserably as he couldn’t control his breathing.

  “Morton,” said Jen in her sternest command voice, “I can see blood leaking through your bandages even in the dark. You are so pale that you nearly glow in the dark and you’re panting. I know you used to be a pretty good athlete. It’s a bad sign. I’m a vet, not a human doctor, but the signs of blood loss are pretty clear. Report to the PJ. I don’t want to lose you.”

  “But what about my fire team ma’am?” said Morton almost in a wail, “I can’t leave ’em.”

  “You have grown so much since we defended the alert facility,” said Jen earnestly. “No one would question you seeking aid.”

  “I’m not doing it for them!” said Morton. “I’m doing it for him, Airman Fraser! I don’t even know his first name, but I’m doing it for him!”

  “But he would want you to live,” said Jen. “I want you to live. Go see the PJ. I’ll need you before this is over.”

  “OK ma’am,” said Morton. “But if you need me ….”

  “I’ll come get you,” said Jen. “It’ going to be a long night, and I’ll need you.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Morton. “I’ll be ready!”

  July 16th, Thursday, 12:18 am PDT

  Command center in the Commons building at the University of Idaho in Moscow.

  Chad was in the comm center, dozing off, when the sat phone access light flashed.

  “Strickland here,” said Chad blearily.

  “Strickland here too,” said Robert. “Colonel Phillips said it would be ok to call you.”

  “I’m glad you did,” said Chad momentarily at a loss for something to say, “Are you ok?”

  “Well,” said Robert, who, for a moment slipped into their old sarcastic banter, “I have been smacked around by a man, that, had he been any larger, would have had satellites orbiting him. Then I gassed myself and a bunch of others. Finally, I rode back to Fairchild Air Force Base in something called a Humvee which could more accurately be called a ‘kidney shaker’. But other than that, no, I’m fine, thank you for asking.”

  “I’m serious, Bob,” said Chad sternly. “We were worried sick and planned a mission to rescue you. The Air Force took the mission over and the preliminary reports on that operation say it was costly and no picnic.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Bob contritely. “When I get stressed, I fall back to being prickly. It’s my higher education defense mechanism. I am grateful for the rescue and I am appalled at the number of dead and wounded that sacrificed on my behalf. This is very different from a university budget fight.”

  “It is that,” said Chad, who also softened as he knew his brother’s edgy nature was in part a response to his divorce. “Anyway, I am glad you called and are apparently ok.”

  “Well,” said Bob, “remember that motorcycle accident I was in when I was 16? Well, I was hurt worse then. There is nothing that Ibuprofen and a couple of good nights’ sleep won’t fix … but all those people …”

  “That was partly my fault,” said Chad. “I should have known or figured out the value of your work sooner and moved you to a more defensible …”

  “No,” said Bob. “You know I would have resisted any interruption to my work. This is on me.”

  “It isn’t on anybody,” said Chad with sudden clarity. “Macklin hated me because my friends and I did the right thing in not turning over Amber. When he found out you had something he needed, he came after it, hoping to hurt me in the process. As it turns out, it looks like he got a pretty stout kick in the teeth. I hope it’s the end of him.”

  “I wish I were sure,” said Bob worriedly. “But I have another problem. The people at Madigan Medical Center want me to come work there. Want is perhaps a little euphemistic. They are assuming that I will come to Fort Lewis and when I started to get testy about it, they said I was in shock and we’d talk about it when I get to Fort Lewis.

  “Chad, I’m not leaving Spokane. If they want my work, it will be in Moscow. I see a colossus building at Fort Lewis. As long as everything concentrates there, law and order will be slow in coming to the rest of the region. It won’t be intentional, but it will happen none the less.

  “Besides that, my graduate students and my lab are in Moscow. With more support and a reliable electric power, I can get more done there. If we moved the team to Fort Lewis, I would have to attend meetings and provide progress reports. It would be much like having a busy body dean.”

  “I suspect,” said Chad after a moment’s thought, “that they will offer to move everything to Fort Lewis.”

  “I thought of that,” said Bob sheepishly, “which is part of the reason I called you. You know the General personally as I recall. Could you perhaps put in a word …?”

  “Some holdovers from University politi
cs?” asked Chad.

  “Some,” admitted Bob. “But I really don’t think it would be a good idea for a lot of reasons to move my research now.”

  “You have always been the smarter one,” said Chad.

  “Not smarter,” said Bob, “I just see the world differently than most. It’s more of a curse than anything.”

  “I’ll make the call,” said Chad. “When does the flight come in?”

  “Nothing until tomorrow,” said Bob. “They are organizing an airlift for the worst casualties.”

  “I’ll speak with Lassiter,” said Chad. “If I can convince him, he’ll make sure I can get access.”

  “This is still somewhat like university politics,” said Bob knowingly.

  “It’s an old game,” said Chad, “a very old game.”

  July 16th, Thursday, 1:04 am PDT

  Providence Medical Research Center, First Floor, Spokane WA

  “I think we have enough ammo for one more push,” said Ngengi.

  “Will the results be any different from the last half-dozen attempts?” asked Macklin.

  “Maybe,” said Ngengi. “In the back on one of the buses, we found some symtex, a couple of blocks.”

  “That could work,” said Macklin. “If we can sneak up to one of the stairwells without them hearing us and plant this charge, we can blow the landing and use the smoke and confusion to win a foothold.”

  “Maybe,” said Ngengi. “I’ll go myself …”

  “No,” said Macklin, “send one of the mercenaries. I’ll need you if we are going to succeed.”

  “Nergüi never said that,” said Ngengi.

  “That’s because the masters used us like toilet paper,” said Macklin, “only realizing in the end game that was wasteful. The only way we will see dawn is if we work together on this. Send the mercenaries. But also make preparations to leave. We may not have much time in either case.”

  “I will make the arrangements,” said Ngengi.

  July 16th, Thursday, 1:21 am PDT

  Providence Medical Research Center, Roof, Spokane WA

  “The fire in the forward stairwell is getting worse,” said Finkiner. “There is no way they can come up that way.”

  “Leave a listening post near it to see if things change,” said Jen. “Have them stay well back. As hot as that part of the roof is getting, something has got to give. I don’t want to lose anyone in a cave-in.”

  “It’s just as well we are out of Molotovs,” said Finkbiner.

  “Yeah,” said Jen wryly. “I don’t think this building can take any more fires.”

  “OK, I’m on it ma’am,” said Finkbiner as he got up to leave, but he was knocked flat by a sharp explosion.

  “It’s the rear stairwell!” shouted Jen. “Get the reserve fire team and meet me there!”

  Finkbiner scrambled off on all fours in the direction of their makeshift aid station. Jen went around the corner to see what had happened. She was stunned for an instant by what she saw. The entire doorway where the stairs had come up through the floor was gone, along with a lot of the surrounding roof. She could see several of her troops down. Some were moving but more ominously, some were not.

  She could also see several hostiles in the remains of the stairwell, trying to climb out. Jen drew her M-9 and took them under fire.

  “Suppressive Fire!!” shouted Jen as her pistol locked open, magazine expended. Luckily, several troops who were merely stunned began to fire. Jen cringed inwardly as two of them opened up on full auto, cooking off their magazines. Jen knew there were no reloads. However, several of the other troops were firing their weapons semi-automatically, with much greater effect.

  Initially, the hostiles were forced back; then, sailing out of the smoke and fire, arched three grenades. Most of the troops on the roof were able to take cover, but several were taken unaware and the three blasts that came in quick succession took them off their feet. In the ensuing silence, seven of the mercenaries were able to take cover behind the rough barricade the defenders had erected.

  The combat escalated to a hand-to-hand brawl, in part because the defenders were so short of ammunition. The chorus of grunts and exclamations was punctuated by the occasional pistol shot as both parties were now far too intermingled for ranged weapon fire.

  Sergeant Finkbiner took cover behind a ruined air conditioning unit. He heard something on the other side of the unit and spun around the edge of the unit pistol in hand. A mercenary had slid into the unit and was momentarily disoriented. Finkbiner pointed his side arm and fired. He was rewarded with the recoil of a round leaving the weapon and then he noticed his slide was all the way back, indicating that his weapon was empty. He looked down at the mercenary who was alarmed but apparently unhurt, the round having passed harmlessly through the folds of his uniform.

  Finkbiner dropped his pistol and pulled the non-regulation kukri from his belt and forced it down hard on to the hand holding the rifle. A finger flew off and the resultant shock allowed Finkbiner to finish his opponent. He slumped down behind the air conditioning unit. He was startled as Little Bear slammed into the unit next to him, followed by a hail of gun fire.

  “You have any ammo?” asked Little Bear, holding his pistol with the cylinder out with no rounds in any of the chambers.

  “Clocked out,” said Finkbiner holding up his knife. “I’m down to this.”

  Little Bear grunted and holstered his pistol and pulled his blade, a knife that was more probably called a short sword. The blade was at least twenty-four inches long and the hilt was brass encased in elk horn.

  “Nice knife,” said Finkbiner indicating the blade in Little Bear’s hand.

  “Arkansas Toothpick,” said Little Bear. “I like yours, but the balance is off.”

  “The balance …” began Finkbiner but he was cut off by the sound of another group of hostiles rattling up the stairs.

  Little Bear reversed his blade and threw it at the first man in the stairwell. The blade imbedded itself to the hilt in the mercenary’s throat. The man stumbled backward; too surprised to know he was dead. Then Little Bear grabbed Finkbiner’s kukri and rushed to the side of the ruin that had contained the stairwell and cut the throat of the next hostile in line, nearly decapitating him. Then he was back beside Finkbiner handing him back his knife.

  “Balance is still off,” said Little Bear, “but it’s good you keep it real sharp.”

  Finkbiner was left with his mouth hanging open as Little Bear moved to another position. There was no ammo left now and the Air Force troops on top of the building were readying whatever they had, knives, crowbars, and chunks of the building itself to try and resist the next rush.

  The hostiles came charging up the stairwell again. Finkbiner tensed himself for a rush that he never had to make for he heard a fusillade of gunfire from behind. He momentarily thought that the hostiles had somehow braved the front stairwell and he whirled around, ready to take on this new threat. Then, with relief, he saw Senior Airman Morton leading a group of the walking wounded armed with a motley collection of personal firearms. Morton, who had expended all his ammo, had a collection of concrete pieces that he had somehow pried out of the damaged cinder blocks that made up the structures on the roof with only his good arm. He was now hurling them into the mass of hostiles with telling effect. As suddenly as it began, the attack was over and all the defenders could hear was the panting of their own overworked lungs, almost as if they had held their collective breath for the entire engagement.

  Jen walked over slowly to the ruined stairwell, her M-4 clutched by the barrel like a baseball bat.

  “Is it over?” she asked in a high, thin voice.

  “It damn well better be,” said Finkbiner who stood up next to her, his knife dripping blood, “I don’t think we have ten rounds left for the entire flight.”

  “Let’s not stand around,” said Jen who was the first to shake off her shock. “Gather the rest of the newly wounded and move them over to the aid station. Then get th
ose ten rounds you talked about and spread them out so that we can at least hurt them.”

  “Yes ma’am,” said Sergeant Finkbiner.

  Little Bear was leaning back against the combing when Johnny Comes at Night sidled up beside him.

  “Somebody wants to talk to you,” said Johnny in a whisper.

  Little Bear looked over and saw a familiar figure. She looked to be in her eighties but Little Bear knew that estimate to be off by several thousand years. With the agility of a cat, Little Bear leaped over the combing and climbed down the outside of the building.

  “We need you to take us to Nergüi,” said Zhao without preamble.

  “How many?” asked Little Bear.

  “There will be four plus me,” said the old woman.

  “When do you have to be there?” asked Little Bear not questioning her motives.

  “Today if possible,” said the old woman. “Nergüi made another escape attempt.”

  “Amber is with him,” said Little Bear, “Surely she can …”

  “She nearly died in the last attempt,” said Zhao cutting him off. “We need to take him to a place of safety.”

  “It will be a little rough and cramped for the six of us,” said Little Bear.

  “I have ridden donkeys and ridden in farm carts long before you were born,” said the old woman with some exasperation. “Rattling around in a farm truck will be palatial. Do you have enough fuel?”

  “The Yakima tribe near Union Gap has some resources,” said Little Bear. “I have a friend there who is a construction superintendent and I know he squirreled away a significant quantity of diesel fuel when his job site closed.”

  “Let us be off then,” said Zhao as she turned away.

  July 16th, Thursday, 2:01 am PDT

  Providence Medical Research Center, First Floor, Spokane WA

  “Time for us to be gone,” said Macklin as the remnants of the last attack tumbled down the stairwell.