The Dying Time (Book 1): Impact Read online

  The corpse was mummified by the intense cold and dry air, its eyes shrunk to raisins. Parchment-like skin covered with dried sores stretched over the skull. Her long hair was stringy and brittle, like straw too long in the sun. Gripping her withered hand in his her mate lay beside her, similar in appearance except where the rodents had gnawed on his ears and nose. He had died first, then the children, stacked like cordwood on the small bed in the crypt-like room. The ground far too frozen to allow burial and cremation--well she just couldn’t. Together in death as in life. Alone in the cold. Their chimney showed no smoke and that was sufficient to earn fearful glances from the few who passed by the Quist homestead.

  The Plague gripped the Freeholds like a terrier grabs a rat, shaking the community to its core. Whole families and sections of the Freeholds died. Once prosperous homesteads were burned with their dead inside. Others lay in ruins, abandoned when the occupants panicked and fled, trading death by disease for freezing and starvation. All seemed lost.

  Ellen Whitebear led by doing. She and Michael placed Steven in the temporary care of the McKinley’s in case the worst happened. Then they donned gas masks and homemade isolation suits that they burned after tending the dying. They used buckets of bleach to sterilize salvageable food and useful items from the homesteads of the dead. The two of them held the shattered, dying remnants of a once thriving community together by sheer force of will and brutally hard work.

  But the day came at long last when the plague ran its course, the cold loosened its frostbitten hold, the sky lightened from midnight black to a dark somber gray, and the sun peeked down more frequently through breaks in the shroud, warming the snow to rain. The larder was all but bare and several scavenging trips to Colorado Springs were planned. To do it right and make it easier on themselves they now needed a road.

  *

  “Jesus Christ,” Michael swore as the tip of a limb whipped back into his face, splattering him with snow.

  “Welcome to Colorful Colorado,” Ellen laughed back at him, quoting the State’s unofficial motto. “Look different from ground level?”

  Michael had scouted their path in his ultralight plane the week before. “The going’s easier at 12,000 feet,” he admitted, moving past her. It was his turn to break trail through the deep white powder.

  The two of them along with twenty other volunteers were hacking a path through a wilderness of downed trees and landslides around Firebreak Lake, just downstream of the Freeholds. Their goal was to cut a trail that reunited the upper part of Tarryall Road as it wound through the Freeholds and out to South Park, with the lower part connecting to Highway 24 and Colorado Springs.

  Michael and Ellen were blazing the trail while behind them others labored with shovels and chainsaws clearing a path. Eventually Michael hoped he could fire up the little D2 Caterpillar bulldozer and do a proper job of it but at present they didn’t have enough fuel. He sighed as he lopped off a branch, marking the pine for felling. Diesel fuel, another item to add to an ever-growing scavenger list.

  As she labored along behind him, blazing trees and shrubs, Ellen’s thoughts ran along similar lines. But she took the long view, not just realizing, but also planning for the day they would run out of salvageable resources. Before that happened she intended to see to it they could manufacture whatever they required. Right now there was undoubtedly a inexhaustible supply of bottled aspirin waiting for them in unburned stores in Colorado Springs. But what about Ampicillin, Cephalexin, Cipro and other antibiotics with limited shelf lives? What about vaccines for TB, measles, and a hundred other diseases? Not even the alternatives they got from pet stores and feed supply houses would last forever. What about gasoline, and paper, and…she slipped on an icy patch. “Lord,” she muttered, catching herself. “We don’t even know how to make Portland cement.”

  Well, that’s part of what this expedition is about, she thought. We need how-to books as desperately as food, fuel, medicine and tools. Michael’s library, as good as it was, simply wasn’t adequate. She had organized a civic council as a sort of temporary body of authority to maintain order in the Freeholds. She shied away from the word government--that word seemed too permanent. Along with many others, she wasn’t quite ready to admit that the U.S. government wasn’t going to show up someday and offer to help.

  “Breakthrough,” Michael called from up ahead. Within minutes, she stepped out of the forest and joined him on the old road. They were on the crest of a hill and she could see down the valley for two or three miles.

  “My God, Michael,” she said as he draped an arm around her shoulder. The roadway was in pieces, chunks of broken asphalt scattered about, whole sections washed away or buried under mudslides. The three bridges she could see were down.

  “I tried to warn you,” Michael said quietly. He’d seen it all from the air while flying to Colorado Springs. He knew those sections of road not destroyed entirely were choked with abandoned autos and trucks. The last time Ellen had been this way everything had been buried under a twenty foot deep blanket of snow.

  Her sad hazel eyes found him. “You said there was heavy equipment at the county maintenance yard in Lake George?”

  “Yeah,” he shrugged. “Aaron and I can fly the gyrocopter there. See if we can get a Cat running, maybe cut a new roadbed between there and here. We’ll have to build fords across the river.” He hesitated, then added. “Probably take several months.” Ellen nodded. She knew he didn’t like the idea. What were his words? “Someday we’ll get visitors up your new road we’ll wish we could keep out.” But even he admitted if they didn’t salvage supplies from the Springs they wouldn’t last another year.

  Through the thick gray clouds of this never-ending winter they could tell the sun was setting. Michael slid his arm around Ellen’s back and hugged her to him. “We’ll start tomorrow,” he said softly and was rewarded with her smile.

  *

  Kansas

  Harry dashed rain from his eyes and strained against the tiller, trying to keep the boat pointed into the wind driven whitecaps. Robby huddled beneath sodden woolen blankets on the deck, blue-lipped and miserable. Sheila's father, Wes had died of a heart attack three days before, less than a week after rising waters forced them to abandon the farm.

  Spray stung Harry's cracked lips. Salt. He still couldn't believe it. He knew Kansas had been below the ocean several times in the past. He just hadn't expected to see it in his lifetime. What the hell were they going to do now? Out of gasoline for the motor. Wind too vicious to set sail. Almost out of food and nearly out of strength, not to mention hope. Only the sea anchor he’d thrown out and his own desperate struggles with the tiller kept them headed into the waves so they didn’t capsize.

  He saw Sheila falter at the bilge pump, her arms hanging like lead weights, palms bleeding from broken blisters. She hung her head for just a second then clenched her jaw and took the tiller so he could man the pump.

  Hours merged together. Dark clouds writhed in a charcoal gray sky, whipping buckets of rain at them. If there’s a bright side to this, thought Harry, it’s that the sky is lighter since it started raining. He swallowed a sodden cracker and tried to remember the last time he’d been dry. Two weeks or more.

  The day stretched endlessly, wind rising to a shrieking gale, mountainous waves blending with an evil sky.

  Hurricane, Harry thought, unable to disengage his scientist's mind. More likely a Hypercane. It has to be. The rains are clearing the skies but so much heat has been pumped into the atmosphere monstrous storms will form for years. The knowledge gave him no comfort.

  He glanced at Sheila, back at the pump, and caught her watching him, love and determination in her eyes. Whatever happened, at least they would face it together.

  The rogue wave came from nowhere, engulfing their frail boat, sucking them down into black waters. Harry held onto his breath and his son, pinching Robby’s mouth and nose shut. He didn’t know if the boat would ever come back up.

  *

&nbs
p; New York

  “It's time to move,” Otha said.

  Di nodded slowly, regretfully. She looked around the smoke-stained room. The building had kept them alive through a truly endless winter. Food from vending machines and the warehouse. Water from rain and melting snow. Warmth from burning broken furniture, the once white walls blackened from smoke. It was home--the only home they had, but he was right. It was time to leave. They couldn't live here now.

  She placed the bundle in her arms on the small funeral pyre in the center of their bedroom. Their son hadn't lived a month, dead because there was no doctor, no hospital to help them.

  Otha touched a flaming torch to the wood until it caught. He placed an arm around her and they walked outside into the unknown, heads bowed against the steady downpour.

  *

  California

  Lola was beginning to realize she’d never escape from Joseph Scarlatti. He’d welcomed her with open arms, enjoying the verve with which she’d sought him out.

  She accompanied him to “State” functions, the King’s eye candy, and everyone but Joseph treated her like his Queen. He seemed to be trying to win her affection but she was now certain he was incapable of loving anyone but himself. She knew he savored her fear of him and fought to hold it in check, something he also seemed to enjoy. But she also feared he might tire of her, so she lived balanced on the razor’s edge between pleasing him and boring him.

  Mostly, she fought to accept her fate without surrendering her essence. She’d be his toy as long as he desired her. So, like Scheherazade, she must always be entertaining to survive. And the surprising thing about that, she decided, was that she wanted very much to survive, at least long enough to see him fall, or kill him.

  *

  The Nation of Deseret (formerly Utah)

  Adam Young shoveled wet sand into bags and passed them to others to stack in the truck. His boots squelched and rain poured off his hat brim like a waterfall. The Provo River was out of its banks and threatening the city, its brown swirling waters greedy for what little they’d managed to save from the quakes and fires. Ceaseless rainfall was the current challenge. The Noah Rain, he’d heard it called, and him without an Ark.

  “I didn’t know there was this much water in the world.”

  The words surprised him and he turned to see his brother Bob drop a shovelful into a bag.

  “When did you get here?”

  “Just now. We found more sand over by the rail yard and sand bags at the National Guard depot.”

  “Good. Looks like we’ll need all we can get.”

  “Damned rain.” Bob rarely cursed.

  “Hey, little brother. Look on the bright side. At least it’s warm enough to rain.,” Adam said.

  “Yeah,” Bob agreed with a quick nod. “Now we can drown instead of freeze.”

  *

  Luna City

  “Waaaah!” The baby squalled as Doctor Sari Vindushanti cleaned him and wrapped him in a soft blanket.

  “You have a son. All fingers and toes accounted for,” she said to his exhausted mother.

  Pavel Yurimentov stood beside Ludmilla, holding her hand, looking somewhat green and very proud.

  “What are you going to call him,” Sari asked, as she lay the baby in Ludmilla’s arms.

  “We’re naming him Yuri, after his great-grandfather,” Ludmilla said, glowing as she beheld her child.

  “Yuri Gargarin Yurimentov,” Pavel said. He ran two fingers gently over his son’s head. Gray eyes like his mother, sandy hair like me, he thought. “You just made history, Yuri,” he said tenderly. “As your Great-grandfather was the first man in space, you are the first child.” He beamed like a spotlight, then stopped and said. “He is the first isn’t he? Have we heard from the Station?”

  “Christine was still in labor, the last I heard,” Sari said.

  *

  The ISS

  “Push!” Aeriella said. The crown of the baby’s head was showing between Christine’s thighs. Droplets of sweat and blood floated about the cabin.

  Clark Kent swiped at them with a towel but it was a losing battle--a very messy losing battle. Having a baby in zero gee is a lot of work, he thought, then looked at his wrung out lover laying strapped to the exam table and mentally kicked himself for the thought.

  Christine grabbed his free hand and almost crushed it in her grip as she groaned.

  “That’s it. Keep pushing,” Aeriella said. The baby’s shoulders were out now and suddenly so was the rest of...her...floating, tied to her mother by her umbilical cord.

  “It’s a girl,” Aeriella said. As she checked the baby’s mouth and nose for blockages the little girl started breathing peacefully on her own. Cleaning the child would be fruitless until the entire cabin was wiped down so Aeriella placed her in Christine’s waiting arms and started tying off the umbilical.

  Clark flexed his sore hand as he floated over his daughter, taking in her wisps of blonde hair and her bright blue eyes. “Angela,” he said, his voice soft as goose down, “You are beautiful, just like your mother.”

  Chapter 26: Rainy Day Blues

  California

  Lola winced as Joseph Scarlatti slapped her naked rear and Joey grinned. He was done with treating her like a Queen. He still paraded her before his subjects, proud of consorting with a movie star, and had even thought for a while he was in love with her. Fooling himself.

  Then, slowly, things had changed. She challenged him in subtle ways, refusing to eat long pig, wearing dresses she liked instead of ones he told her to wear, submitting to his lust rather than joining enthusiastically. Nothing overt, and she certainly never undermined him in public. But inside he knew she didn’t love him, knew, in fact, she couldn’t stand him. She tried, but she wasn’t that good an actress. That was okay with Joey. She didn’t have to love him. She had to obey. He grabbed her tiny waist and pulled her onto his bed. The flicker of fear he read in her eyes aroused him.

  *

  Western Missouri

  Harry and Sheila Garrison huddled under their overturned boat on the muddy shore slowly feeding a small fire. A hard rain drummed on the wooden boat. Robby slid in beside them, returning from a nature call, and pulled some mostly dry branches from beneath his jacket. As he added them to the fire he said, “I found something.”

  “What?” Harry asked.

  “I should show you,” Robby said, and for the first time his parents noticed the excitement in his voice.

  “We’re just starting to dry out, Robby,” Sheila said. They’d been wet for weeks.

  Robby shrugged but his sly smile was intriguing, as was the use of subtlety at his young age.

  “You think it’s worth getting wet?” Harry asked.

  Robby thought that over for a second, smiled, and said, “I think it’s worth you and mom getting wet. I still am.” The mischief in his voice was unmistakable.

  “Well, it is a bit cramped under here,” Harry said.

  “Okay, let’s go,” Sheila agreed.

  Robby dashed ahead, ignoring the rain, climbing the hillside through the charred oak forest. When he reached the summit he hunkered down and gestured for them to hurry.

  Harry looked over his shoulder as he trudged up the slope. Their boat was plainly visible less than two hundred yards away. Then caught up to Robby and peeked over the crest.

  “A farmhouse!” Sheila gasped.

  “I don’t think anyone’s home, mom.” Robby looked up at his dad. “There’s no smoke in the chimney,” he explained.

  Harry nodded and placed a hand on Robby’s shoulder. “We’ll watch for a few hours to be certain,” he said. “You did good!”

  Amazing! Harry thought. Roof looks to be sound. None of the trees around the house burned. Barn’s still standing. Even the pasture looks untouched. And, is that a garden patch? How in God’s name could this place be standing?

  A small stream, swollen to its banks ran through the meadow close to the house. An old John Deer tractor and a Ford
pickup sat side by side in an equipment shed.

  He heard a hen squawk and a motion caught his eye. A red fox darted from the barn with a dead chicken in its mouth. A large white goose honking loudly gave chase.

  “Well, I’ll be,” Harry muttered. Other than fish, those were the first living animals he’d seen since the waters forced them off the farm.

  Two hours later they approached the house but saw no sign of movement inside. Harry knocked on the door then pushed it open and stepped inside when there was no answer. The faint smell of corruption stopped him. He stepped back outside before his family could enter.

  “Honey, why don’t you and Robby stay outside while I check the house?”

  Sheila understood at once. She took Robby in hand and said, “We’ll look over the garden. I think is see something green over there.”

  Harry went back inside and started looking for the source of the smell. It didn’t take long. A skeleton dressed in a formal suit sat in a bloodstained lounge chair. A shotgun lay on the floor nearby and on the table next to the chair was a note held in place by a Bible. Harry picked up the note and read.

  “My name is Jonathon Hicks and I’m sorry for the mess and the smell.” Harry gave a start and stepped back, then continued reading. “I thought about opening a window but figured anyone coming in here could air the place out. And if I left a window open animals would get in and my Mabel always kept a neat house. So, like I said, I’m sorry for the smell.

  “I buried Mabel, my wife of 52 years, two days ago and I won’t live without her. I’m asking whoever is reading this to please lay me out beside her. I’d have done this at her graveside but she wouldn’t approve. I already dug the hole.

  “In exchange for burying me I’m deeding you the farm. It’s okay. Our son and his wife were vacationing on Cape Hatteras so they won’t be coming back. Don’t know how much legal papers will mean now that everything’s gone to hell, but a signed deed is in the middle drawer of the hutch in the kitchen along with keys to the house and vehicles.