Day Nine

by Clayton Spann

July 1: 5:15 a.m.

  Bryant almost wept with relief as dawn arrived. She at last released her grip on the gun. She needed sleep badly, but sleep could wait. First she needed some food. As her nerves uncoiled, the torment of hunger was rapidly replacing that of fear.

  She eyed the black hole in the tawny canvas. Sometime during the endless night she had fired the LeMat revolver at that spot in the tent wall. The spot where the snout of a growling wolf pressed the canvas. Where the wolf and his companions had tried to get at the human meat inside.

  The wolves had prowled the campsite the previous night, but not pressed the matter. Perhaps they had settled for the garbage they dug up. Jack had said she must bury cans and scraps at least three feet deep. But her hands were blistered from previous shoveling and her arms were sore. She settled for a foot.

  She vaguely remembered her ears ringing after she fired. Despite her terror, she had been able to hold the gun level. And not jerk the trigger, just as Jack instructed. Two hands on the grip kept the recoil from bringing the hammer into her nose. In the dark she could smell but not see the gun smoke.

  The roar of the shot was followed by a yelp. Horrible cries of pain followed. The cries thankfully grew fainter as the wounded wolf fled, along with his pack. She wondered how far they had retreated.

  She willed herself to untie the front tent flap. Chilly air rushed in. She took hold of the LeMat, then peeked outside. Above the crater like depression she saw only brush and woods. She heard only birds.

  Pee she must, but first things first. She opened a can of pork and beans, then greedily spooned in the pasty contents. She didn’t care if it was cold. She washed breakfast down with tepid tea from a canteen. She took a final swig, churned the tea between mouth and cheeks, then spit outside.

  With revolver at side she stepped from the tent. She immediately saw blood on the ground near the tent wall. She followed the trail to the rim of the depression before deciding that was far enough. She hoped the wolf had died badly, to serve as deterrent to his buddies. Let the word go out near and far—don’t mess with Chloe Bryant.

  She had never liked guns, but she adored this one. It was a perfect weapon for her. Jack had chosen well. The LeMat weighed a bit less than the Colt, and it packed a lot more punch. Nine bullets for the top barrel, plus twelve gauge buckshot for the bigger barrel underneath.

  Jack had left her a real shotgun, a rifle and a Navy Colt as backup. Plus two knives. She was surprised he had not included a cannon. The LeMat alone was just fine. It was designed for up close defense and here in these dense woods the LeMat was made for order.

  She left the depression to go pee. A bowel movement she hoped to avoid. She would never complain about outhouses again. They certainly beat squatting in the woods, grabbing a bush for balance, praying to not lose that balance, then having to bury the mess. But her main staple of pork and beans made number twos inevitable.

  After peeing she took a quick walk around the perimeter. She again came across blood, which trailed toward the western slope of the mountain. She didn’t see a carcass. Good. Let the bastard and his bunch get well away from here.

  She looked back toward the depression that housed Transit One. From where she stood, thirty yards out, the depression and the tent were completely out of view. Any people—of which she had seen none—would have to stumble on her to find her. Wolves, of course, didn’t need to stumble.

  It was gloomy in these mountain top woods. Even when the sun shone the shadows kept this area dim. Since arriving the days had been mostly cloudy with too many periods of rain. And it didn’t get that warm up here, even if summer. Most of the time she had to wear the frock coat.

  But enough complaining. The morning dawning without her a midget meant Jack was still alive. That was the only thing that really mattered. Out of all of this, only that. As long as he came back she didn’t give a damn who won at Gettysburg.

  Where was he now? Had he already killed Jackson, and was racing here? Would he later today scramble up the slope and bound into view? Or was he in the hands of vengeful Confederates after a failed attempt on Jackson? Or had he not found Jackson, and was readying for a suicide mission at Gettysburg?

  God, she wished she had pressed the matter their last night together. Made him take her; she knew he wanted to. Just firm pushing on her part and he would have yielded. The electricity between them that night had begged for release.

  She prayed that she would again get the chance to press. She vowed they would go all the way.

  A tree with five carved lines in its smooth bark stood near the rim. Spaces between the lines were progressively larger. The gap between the bottom two was just over an inch.

  With queasy stomach she pulled a knife from inside the frock coat. She stood with back against the tree, lifted the knife to the top of her head, then sliced the trunk.

  She had to force herself to turn around. When she did she saw the gap had grown. Not much, but the difference was still over an inch. She had to be under five feet now.

  Jack was probably still several inches over it. But how much time more did they really have? A week? A week would be just past two months since they arrived.

  She wished she could take consolation that Naylor and Price were doing worse. But were they, even if they arrived three days earlier? They had been a committed couple well before this began. That solid commitment would surely buy them more time than she and Jack would get.

  Jack cared for her, yes, but not the absolute way he did Kim. Or Teri. Jack and Teri would have set a record for longevity here.

  She heard drops of rain hit the overhead leaves. She cursed. She didn’t want to go back into that tent so soon. In there she felt even more isolated than outside.

  The pelting picked up. She groaned and went inside the tent. She kneeled facing the entrance. She opened a tin of crackers and began chewing. They were about as appealing as the chilly pork and beans.

  A squirrel scampered into the depression. It paused to look at her. Its nose sniffed the air, probably homing on the crackers she ate. She tossed the squirrel a piece. The squirrel cautiously approached the morsel.

  The little furry creature vanished.

  She flinched. Then she realized the squirrel had edged into Transit One.