The Dying Time (Book 1): Impact Page 26

  “Now if it’d just stop raining we could take her up,” Terrel said.

  Aaron looked out through the open door of Jim’s garage at the rain, sparkling in the light from the garage, and shrugged. “Might be better if it was a yacht,” he said. The river was so high parts of the valley of the Freeholds looked like a long, narrow lake.

  “At least the rain’s eased some since last week,” Terrel grinned, white teeth shining against his blue-black face. “Besides you ain’t sugar.”

  “True,” Aaron agreed, squinting into the downpour. “Least you can see through it now.”

  “Yeah, I’ve noticed. You think maybe the cloud cover’s thinning?”

  “Some,” Aaron agreed. “Say, I heard the refugees pulled out.”

  “Yesterday morning,” Terrel said. “I was on barricade duty. Saw it myself.”

  “I thought we’d have trouble with them for sure,” Aaron said, still worried.

  “Still might, man,” Terrel’s tone made it plain he hoped otherwise. “Just ‘cos they left, don’t mean they gone.”

  “You’re a natural born skeptic,” Aaron chuckled, then cocked his head toward a distant popping. “What’s that?”

  “Gunfire!” Terrel said through clenched teeth. “I think our friends are back.” He bolted out into the rain screaming, “Spread the alarm!”

  *

  Michael Whitebear couldn’t hear the gunshots over the roar of the front-end loader. He dumped a bucket-full of sand on top of the levee and backed down the ramp. Weary sandbaggers began filling bags and stacking them. Farther south, down the river, Randy McKinley and Jim Cantrell ran small bulldozers shoring up the levee.

  “Michael!” Ellen’s voice cut through the din of the engine and Michael throttled down, opening the door to the cab. She appeared through the rain, her blonde hair and white jacket plastered against her, Steven strapped to her back in a baby pack.

  She climbed up onto the machine and poked her head inside the cab. “The refugees are invading! They’ve breached the barricade. There’s gunfire upstream and reports of some homesteads burning.” She thrust his holstered .357 at him, propped his AR-15 against the seat, and dumped several magazines of ammo on the floor.

  “I’m rallying folks at the stables,” she added giving him a quick kiss. “We’ll form up there and push north.”

  “Grab Randy and Jim,” Michael said, pointing to the bulldozers. “Tell’em to stop here and collect sandbags. You get the cavalry mounted and we’ll provide the armor.” He cupped her face in his hand. “Be careful, sweetheart.”

  Her smile warmed him as she pulled back out of the cab and jumped to the ground, slipping in the mud before catching herself and setting off at a run.

  He strapped on his pistol, gunned the loader up the ramp and jumped out onto the levee. “Wayne!”

  Wayne Anderson, a one-time medic and founding member of the Freeholds sloshed up to him. “What’s up?”

  Michael swiftly explained and climbed up into the machine adding, “Toss me some sandbags up here.” He popped open the windows for firing ports and began stacking sandbags inside the cab.

  Wayne climbed inside and grabbed Michael’s AR and the boxes of rifle ammo.

  “What are you doing?” Michael asked as he dropped a bag in place.

  “You need a gunner,” Wayne said, noting Michael’s eyes were turning yellow.

  “Only room in here for one,” Michael objected.

  “I know,” Wayne agreed. “I’m riding outside. When I climb in, tilt your bucket back.”

  Michael took off his faded blue and orange Denver Broncos ball cap and handed it to Wayne. “This’ll keep the rain out of your eyes a sight better than that thing you’re wearing. Wayne’s felt cowboy hat was sodden and shapeless, drooping down over his eyebrows. He pulled it off and put on the ball cap.

  “Thanks.” He clapped Michael on the shoulder, hopped out of the cab, ran around to the front of the machine and stepped into the two-yard bucket. The metal-sided bucket would stop bullets better than sandbags, but he threw some of them in too.

  Five minutes later, Michael was encased chest high in sandbags. A few 2x4’s and some plywood braced his ‘armor’ in place, allowing Michael just enough room to operate the machine.

  “Do the same to the dozers, then grab your guns and head for the stables,” Michael yelled to the sandbaggers as he rolled back down the ramp and headed for battle. He turned on the windshield wipers and cursed the darkness and rain. The gravel road, graded smooth only yesterday was already full of potholes, causing the machine to buck like a bronco. He thought of Wayne and grinned. At least he was halfway dry.

  Michael’s running lights cut a swath through the rain and soon he could see flashlights swinging around the stables, illuminating the corral and Ellen, who was standing on a branding chute addressing the crowd. As he pulled to a stop he saw the man he’d been looking for.

  Iskos Theodoratus operated heavy equipment for twenty-two years before an accident cost him his left leg and converted him into a machinist. He claimed the artificial leg he crafted for himself was stronger than the one it replaced. Whether that was true or not he could certainly run the front-end loader far better than Michael. It took less than a minute for Michael to persuade Iskos to take over.

  Michael’s mare was already saddled. He slapped Wayne’s hat on his head and swung aboard. The mare was small, only thirteen hands, and agile as only a cutting horse can be. She sidestepped as Michael settled into the saddle, his hiking boots slippery in the stirrups. He patted her neck to soothe her nerves and pushed through the crowd.

  People were milling around in confusion, big-eyed and jumpy with fear. He could hear Ellen saying something about murdered homesteaders and the invaders only having small arms but the rest was lost in the confusion. Ellen was trying, but she had never had to take command of a panicked crowd.

  He inhaled, sucking breath deep into his barrel chest and bellowed, “LISTEN UP!” The effect was immediate. Silence rippled away from him.

  When the crowd quieted he continued. “I know things are a little tense right now.” Nervous laughter sparked here and there in the crowd. “But Ellen has information we all need to hear. so I think we should simmer down until she’s done.”

  Ellen climbed onto her own horse, a palomino gelding, and stood up in the stirrups so the crowd could hear her better. Michael noticed Steven was no longer on her back and knew she’d stashed him somewhere safe. Her voice was clear and steady and his heart swelled with pride as she spoke.

  “We seem to be up against rifles, shotguns and pistols,” she stated. “The people attacking us are desperate and therefore very dangerous. We know they’ve overrun four homesteads already, murdering the occupants. They will kill you and your family if they get the chance! When I’m done speaking I want everyone who has a horse to mount up. You’re the cavalry. Everyone else is infantry. Master Sergeant Emil Smolensky is commanding the infantry and he will address you when the cavalry pulls out.

  “Cavalry! Jacques Lachelle will be our bugler. You’ve all heard a bugle sound the charge in old westerns. That’s the only command we’ll need. There can be no retreat. We will form up in columns of two and march down the road until we close with them. At that time we will swing into a single line and charge!

  “Watch your mounts closely. The gunfire, even the bugle, will probably panic some of them. You have to maintain control, keep up with the rest of us, shoot straight, and for God’s sake don’t shoot anyone on horseback.” More nervous laughter trickled through the crowd.

  “Our infantry will be wearing white armbands so keep your gun-sights off them as well.” Gunshots were closer now, no more than a mile away. Some of the horses snorted and tossed their heads. Ellen pointed down the road. “Our friends and neighbors need our help. Those murders will kill us all if we let them. Are we going to let them?”

  “NO!” the Freeholders yelled.

  Ellen shouted, “Cavalry! Mount up!”


  As Jacques and Denise Lachelle and the other men and women swung onto their mounts Michael pushed through to Ellen.

  “I’ll ride point,” he said.

  She nodded and said, “Steven’s with Mariko.”

  He leaned over and pecked her on the cheek, realizing she was telling him in case anything happened to her.

  He kicked his horse ahead. As he fell into the rhythm of the little mare’s gallop he checked his pistol. Three speed loads on his holster and a pocket full of loose ammo. Like a lot of people he’d taken to wearing a sheathe knife on his belt as it was such a handy tool. His was an old Marine-issue Kabar. He wished it was a saber.

  He passed Freeholders fleeing the fighting with their children, and others running toward the battle. Men and women who hadn’t been ordered to fight, but who instinctively understood the stakes. He warned everyone to tie something white on their arms so their friends wouldn’t shoot them. Most of the fleeing men passed their children on to others and turned back toward the fight.

  He could see burning buildings now, hissing and sputtering in the rain. Distant, shadowy forms crossed in front of the flames. He forced himself to look away, not wanting to destroy his night vision.

  The mare slipped on a patch of greasy mud and saved Michael’s life. Gunshots buzzed by like angry hornets, one tugging at his jacket sleeve, another ripping Wayne’s hat from his head. He fired at gun-flashes as he whirled the mare around and goosed her back up the road as fast as she could run.

  He leaned over her rain-soaked neck, heart beating wildly as bullets whipped by. She rounded a curve and he spotted Ellen and the rest of the cavalry. He sat up straight, yelling, “Yeehaw!”

  He hadn’t felt so alive since the last time he’d been shot at.

  He reigned in, pretending not to see the relief in Ellen’s face. “Two hundred yards past the bend,” he reported. “We can’t wait for the equipment.”

  She nodded agreement. The earth-moving machines were too slow.

  “Line abreast,” she said over her shoulder. “Pass it on.” She, Jacques and Denise pulled out of the column while the line formed. It wasn’t pretty, but then they hadn’t practiced such maneuvers. After a few seconds jostling around the line stabilized. Michael joined Ellen and the Lachelles as they rode to the center.

  Ellen looked around her. Michael was on her left, Jacques and Denise on her right. The line of horses seventy strong stretching from where the river hugged the eastern side of the valley to the roadside bluffs on the western side. She couldn’t believe she was doing this. She didn’t know the proper command, but she knew they couldn’t just start at a gallop.

  “Just keep pace with me.” The command passed down the line and the line fell apart as horses and riders started at different times. Within a hundred yards the line reformed.

  She edged her mount to a trot. Again the line struggled and straightened.

  She moved to a lope. They were getting better.

  She tried not to sound like John Wayne when she said, “Bugler, sound the charge!”

  Trumpet notes split the air and the horses surged forward, hooves thundering even on the muddy ground. Michael’s eyes flared yellow as the cavalry pounded around the curve. And there was the enemy, a thousand strong, perhaps two thousand. They filled the valley.

  Ellen’s heart leapt to her throat and a nightmare vision of the Charge of the Light Brigade flashed before her. Seventy men and women on horseback screamed and opened fire. Gunshots zipped by and suddenly she was pointing her .38, shooting, seeing her enemies fall.

  These weren’t seasoned troops she was facing. These were starving men and women, angry at being spurned by the Freeholders. And while it was easy to pick off isolated homesteaders, they had never seen a cavalry charge coming at them. No one had faced a cavalry charge since World War One.

  It’s a terrifying sight. The ground trembles as the horses charge, kicking up bits of dirt and mud with their razor sharp hooves. Hooves the enemy can almost feel slicing and trampling. And the riders. Moving so fast they are hard to hit. Screaming battle cries and firing and roaring at you like a wave of death--getting closer and CLOSER!

  Here and there among the invaders a man or woman with extraordinary courage knelt, took careful aim, and sent a rider spilling from the saddle. But at fifty yards most broke and ran from something totally outside their experience. Ran like hell was chasing them with flaming breath. The front lines first, spinning and jamming against those pushing forward from the rear, creating chaos.

  And then the cavalry slammed into them and the screaming began in earnest.

  Michael’s mare bucked wildly as she tried to avoid trampling the men under her, and for an instant Michael had his hands full just staying in the saddle. He regained control and kicked her ribs, urging her forward toward Ellen. Michael fired into the faces of men and women who, a lifetime ago had been accountants, lawyers, store clerks, and garbage collectors, salesmen, personnel managers, and baby sitters. He didn’t waste bullets on those who were running. His pistol clicked empty. He holstered it. Already out of speed-loads. No time to fumble in his pocket for more rounds.

  A gaunt-faced woman aimed her shotgun at Ellen and Michael lunged his horse into her, snatching the gun from her hands and cracking her head with its stock. He blasted twelve-gauge buckshot at a group of men in front of him and marveled at the path it cleared. The Remington Pump was a superior weapon for close in work. He clenched the reins between his teeth so he would have both hands free, pumped in another round and shredded a man who swung his rifle at Ellen’s mount.

  Her palomino whirled from the carnage and Ellen had to grab the saddle horn. Michael emptied the shotgun into the men near her, then grabbed the hot barrel and swung it one-handed, like a polo mallet, breaking a man’s shoulder and collarbone.

  Ellen realized her riders were getting separated, slowed and stopped by the mass of men and women surrounding them. She saw a rider dragged from his horse and killed. She had to pull them back together, keep them from stopping. A man snatched at her reins and she blew the top of his head off in a bloody spray.

  “Jacques! Sound the charge!”

  Jacques and Denise were busy, fighting side by side; but he heard Ellen shout and brought the trumpet to his lips.

  The brassy notes speared through the battleground. The remaining cavalry realized the danger and spurred their mounts to a gallop, pressing back together.

  The invaders had thrown down their weapons and were dashing back up the valley, panic-stricken.

  She raised her right arm and slowed her palomino. The other riders kept pace with her, allowing their terrified foes to flee. The Cavalry rode past a flaming homestead, firming her resolve to push the enemy out of the valley. Any who stopped would be shot.

  A motorcycle roared up behind her, Don Haley on Michael’s Harley Sportster. He slid to a stop, yelling, “It’s a feint! The main attack is at the South end. They’re pouring up the valley and there’s thousands of them. They’re only three miles from your place.”

  Ellen stopped, stunned. She had committed all her forces to repel this attack without thinking about defending the rest of the Freeholds. Stupid! She cut herself short. No time for this now. She had to think! Think like a military man. Her home was in the middle of the Freeholds. There was a bottleneck in the valley a mile south of her home. If her horsemen could beat the enemy there…

  Michael asked, “Where’s our infantry?”

  Don Haley answered, “Heading south. Except for two hundred the Sergeant sent after you. Jim Cantrell and the armor are headed south too.”

  Ellen broke in. “I want you to dash back to those two hundred and turn all but fifty of them around and then come back here. Go!”

  He sped off.

  She stood up in her stirrups and surveyed her riders. Maybe fifty left. “Count off ten from the right!” Terrell Johnson was among them. She pointed to him and said, “Terrell, take charge here. I want you to merge with our infantry and chase thes
e bastards out of our valley. Then take up defensive positions and wait.

  “The rest of us are heading south. Let’s go!” She kneed her palomino to a gallop and the rest followed in a disorganized mob. She decided if she lived through this she would study military tactics. If the Freeholds had a reputation as a Garden of Eden there would be others striving to pick the apple.

  Don Haley blasted around a bend and skidded to a stop. Ellen waved the rest of the riders on and pulled up. She swung one leg over the saddle and dropped to the ground, handing Don her reins.

  “Switch with me, Don. I have to get down south fast and see what’s happening.”

  She kicked the Harley into gear and peeled out spraying a rooster tail of mud behind her.

  *

  Sergeant Emil Smolensky sized up the terrain on the run, hoping like hell his leg wouldn’t give out. He’d only been in the Freeholds for a week, but he knew the valley narrowed and widened in several places below the central cluster of homesteads. He had to get his troops dug in at a bottleneck and hold on until the cavalry arrived.

  Troops, he thought, amazed at the collection of computer programmers, ranchers, gardeners, musicians and engineers who comprised the bulk of the original Freeholders he’d met. Not a single army or marine officer among them. Just a few former enlisted men like Michael Whitebear, Jim Cantrell and Terrell Johnson who had actually seen combat.

  The trust these people placed in him after knowing him so short a time spoke volumes. If he had been an enemy infiltrator he could now do them no end of harm. His weather-beaten face cracked into a small smile. Perhaps the fact he wasn’t out to hurt them meant they were good judges of character.

  He was surprised to be put in command of the infantry and surprised again that the mob of starving refugees had enough gumption not only to attack the Freeholds, but also to plan and execute the pincer movement. Never underestimate your enemy.