The Dying Time (Book 1): Impact Page 28

  “So that makes it okay for you to become like them?” Ellen couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “That makes it acceptable to kill us and take what you wouldn’t work together to build? You didn’t run out of strength. You ran out of courage. What happened to your morals?”

  Few prisoners could meet her gaze, but Alexi Federov’s anguished voice answered her. “I ate them when I ate my children!”

  *

  “You can't do this! I have rights!” Alexi Federov screamed as Michael Whitebear slipped the noose over his head.

  “That's right,” Michael agreed, surprising Alexi into silence. “You have the right to die with dignity if you'll let yourself.”

  “No!” Alexi howled, trying to twist away. “I have the right to a trial. I have the right to live.”

  Michael was in no mood to argue. He just stepped back and kicked the barstool out from under Alexi Federov. It wasn’t pretty. None of the Freeholders had experience tying a hangman’s knot and the stool wasn’t tall enough to provide sufficient drop so instead of breaking his neck, Alexi strangled at the end of a slowly tightening noose. He kicked and writhed for several minutes before Ellen shot him.

  She was shaken. “He's right, you know,” Ellen said, slipping her pistol back in its holster and taking Michael’s hand. “We should have had a trial. Without it we are technically murderers. We need law.”

  “Sorry, darling,” Michael disagreed as they walked away. “We need order. He was caught red-handed leading the attack. We're struggling to survive here. We don't have time for lawyers, and judges and appeals. He had as much trial as he deserved--more than he gave our neighbors.”

  “And what if he hadn't been caught in the act? What if he was just drifting through like he said and got caught up in the attack? Stranger things have happened.”

  “Did you believe that?”

  Ellen shook her head wearily. “No, but it seems so abrupt. We didn't even give him a hearing.”

  “Jesus, Ellen. We heard what he had to say and we didn't believe him. Isn't that a hearing?”

  Randy and Mariko McKinley nodded agreement but Ellen wasn't satisfied and seeing this Mariko chimed in. “He’s right, Ellen. We can’t afford trials. We’re too busy trying to stay alive to bother with anything more than pioneer justice.”

  Ellen gave Mariko a sad smile.

  “Ellen’s right,” Jim Cantrell said. “In the long run we need a Constitution, a foundation for our new civilization. We need laws and courts and due process and proper procedures. But right now, short run, we did the right thing because we need all our energy to survive.”

  “In that vein,” Michael said, “We’re all due back at work.” The river was still rising.

  “Sandbagging detail,” Randy moaned. “My arms are already three inches longer from lifting those bags.”

  “Trade you,” Michael and Jim spoke together. Digging mass graves was a horror.

  “No, thanks,” Randy said quickly. “I guess sandbagging is better than drowning.”

  “You could always grow gills,” Ellen offered, accepting the change of subject for now. Her thoughts turned back to the prisoners. Use their labor as war reparations, feed them enough to keep them alive until the danger of flooding passes. Then drive them out--and kill them if they return. Except for the children. So many Freeholders had died that they could take in the refugee’s children. No one on the Council had the heart to turn them away.

  Chapter 28: Spring

  “Glad, do you have any idea where we are?” Dikeme stood in ankle deep ash amid a forest of charred tree trunks, looking downhill at a gray, sludge-choked river twisting through the hills. Fresh green poked up through the ash, here and there, a promise that the forest wasn’t totally dead.

  Otha looked into the antique brass sextant he’d salvaged and sighted on the dull orange ball as it appeared, then disappeared behind the heavy haze.

  “Well?”

  Glad sighed, and smiled. “North America,” he said. “I think.”

  She socked his shoulder then joined him chuckling. Nothing could conquer his sense of humor. Not the horrors they’d witnessed, nor the roving gangs they avoided. Not even, when, forced ever southward by lava flows, they had been unable to reach his family farm in Illinois.

  “Probably Southwestern Missouri, but…” he shrugged. They’d been lost before. Compass headings were so wobbly and unreliable he wondered if the asteroid was magnetic. Their rare glimpses of the pole star showed it much lower on the horizon than was reasonable. Near as he could tell Earth’s tectonic plates had shifted so far that Canada, which he was used to thinking of as North of the US lay sort of West and unless he was totally crazy the latitude of the entire continent of North America was much more equatorial than before.

  “I understand,” she said.

  When they’d crossed the frozen Mississippi River last winter above St. Louis only Otha’s Rand-McNally Road Atlas and a rusted sign that read “Lock and Dam No. 25” let them know where they were.

  At least the sun was on its way back after an interminable winter.

  Not back yet, he thought, looking again at the orange blob, but the weather was definitely warmer and spring-like new growth showed here and there.

  Glad slipped the sextant into a flap pocket and shouldered his pack. “Let’s get on over this hill and find a place to camp.”

  Di nodded and followed his lead, slipping a moistened bandanna up over her nose to filter the ash-dust their passage stirred. She hoped they’d be well out of this before the next wind came up.

  An hour later they crested the hill and stopped to rest. Otha dug out his binoculars and began scanning the valley below and the hills around them. He sneezed as a dust devil blew by and when he opened his eyes it was there, a glint of water on the horizon.

  “Must be a lake, or another big river out there,” he said with another sigh. He hated river crossings. They were so exposed.

  “It appears to be quite large,” Di responded in her British tones, lowering her own binoculars. “And unless I am mistaken there is an inhabited farm over there.”

  She pointed to a wispy column of smoke rising from a house set in a cleft between hills at least a mile away. “It looks rather isolated. Shall we risk a visit?”

  Otha nodded reluctantly to her bright-eyed request. She obviously wanted to check out the farm. They’d been shot at so often since The Dying Time began that they rarely attempted contact with others. But occasionally they would risk it just to talk to someone else for a change.

  They spent the rest of the day scouting around the farm, looking for signs that would indicate the inhabitants were hostile and finding none. As always, they would approach at dusk. It was easier to get away in the dark, if things went bad. The only people they saw were a woman and a boy; though they could see two fresh graves in the small cemetery behind the house. One bore a carved wooden marker that read, “Dr. Harold Garrison--He fought to save the world.” The other grave marker said simply, “Jonathon Hicks.”

  The woman and boy had spent almost the entire day working in a large, well-tended garden. Rows of pole beans and squash were up but the plants were sickly looking in the pale light and far from ready for picking. The two, obviously mother and son were weeding and harvesting early spring crops: lettuce, spinach, beets, radishes, turnips, snap peas and broccoli. Di tried to remember how long it had been since she and Otha had eaten anything that didn’t come in a can. Movement attracted her eye.

  “Is that a nanny goat?” Di pointed to a pen beside the barn.

  “Yeah,” Glad answered. “And those are real live chickens and geese free-ranging the yard.” His mouth watered. Neither of them had tasted fresh eggs in the two years since the Impact.

  A squealy-grunt came from inside the barn. Pigs.

  It took hours for them to figure out that what had them spooked about the farm was its apparent normalcy.

  The geese honked in alarm as Otha approached.

  “Hello, the
house,” Glad called out.

  The woman answered, her voice cautious. “Who’s there?”

  “Sergeant Otha Gladson, ma’am, with a lady friend. We’re peaceful and more than willing to work for food.”

  Sheila Garrison laughed, opened the door and stepped outside. The rifle in her hand was pointed at the ground. “Robby and I were wondering if you two were going to introduce yourselves or just keep skulking around.”

  “Just being cautious ma’am,” Otha responded, wondering how they knew.

  As if she had read his mind Sheila nodded and answered, “It was the geese, you know. They watched you circle the place all day. Well, don’t just stand there. Come on in.”

  Di and Otha stayed for two weeks, during which time they swapped history and news. Sheila told them how her family had survived a hurricane, found this abandoned farm, and how Harry died of pneumonia. They told her about new volcanoes in Illinois and Ohio and about their meeting on the Empire State building. And when the newfound friends left there were tears in their eyes as they said their good-byes.

  Otha saw Dikeme looking back over her shoulder as the farm disappeared from view, but said nothing. Both had agreed to leave the safety and peace of the farm to follow his dream of mapping the new world.

  *

  California

  Air force

  Joey the Giant thought for a second he was in heaven as he and his men rolled down route 83 into the Chino Airport. And he was--war bird heaven, for Chino Airport houses the Planes of Fame Museum, hangars full of perfectly restored, flight ready, military aircraft dating from World Wars I and II, the Korean War, and Vietnam. Joey began a whirlwind tour.

  In the jet hangar his eyes roamed over F-8 Crusaders, the last jet built for dog fighting, which sat side by side with F-86 Sabres, an F-11 Tiger, and an F-104 Starfighter. There also were Mig-15's, 17's and 19's.

  Another hanger housed P-51 Mustangs, a pair of Messerschmitt BF-109's, a Japanese Zero, a couple of P-47 Thunderbolts, and an old P-40 Warhawk, complete with shark-mouth paint job. Gull-wing Corsairs, P-38 Lightnings, the list went on, a treasure house. Joey's eyes watered. God had delivered to him a great gift.

  Of course, none of the planes were equipped with weapons. They were the lovingly restored toys of wealthy private-pilot collectors, people who couldn't bear to see them rust away or be melted down for scrap. But installing guns was a mere detail as far as Joey was concerned. Here was his Air Force!

  Earthquake and tornado damage was minimal at Chino, though the runways were broken and buckled. He would order slave gangs to repair them immediately.

  His main concerns were a support staff of mechanics knowledgeable about these old birds, and pilots skilled enough to fly them. Here again, he had come to the right place. Faded signs above a pair of small hangars proclaimed them the home of Aero Traders and the Military Aircraft Restoration Company. There would be records of employees and pilots there and if any still lived, he would find them.

  *

  The Freeholds

  “Mommy, what’s that?” Steven asked.

  Ellen Whitebear laughed when she saw what he was pointing at. “That’s your shadow, honey,” she answered. Imagine, she thought, four years old and he’s never seen his shadow in sunlight.

  She basked in the warmth of the sun on her skin. Right now nothing mattered except the sun was out, oh glorious day! Ellen Whitebear whirled her laughing son around in a circle and sat him down.

  Farther down the valley she could see roofs being mended, gardens being tended, and school aged children, including many they’d taken if from the refugees who’d attacked them, playing as if they didn’t have a care in the world. A large shadow whipped past and she said, “Wave at daddy,” as Michael flew in the Pegasus, heading out on patrol. They’d not be caught by surprise again.

  *

  Stanford, California

  Sara Garcia picked a weed from between radish seedlings and wiped her brow, smiling at the shadow her arm cast. She had always found gardening relaxing until it became a matter of survival. Placing one hand against the small of her back, she groaned as she straightened up. Now it was just hard work. Still, she surveyed the tender young leaves poking up from the dark soil and inhaled the odor of rich earth, gardening was rewarding and things could be worse. At least the incessant rains had stopped.

  Weather was still unpredictable to say the least, with hideous storms blowing in off the Pacific, but the quakes had mostly stopped and the fires were mostly out. Along with the sun! She glanced up at the bright yellow ball, closed her eyes and enjoyed its warmth. A slow smile spread across her face. She couldn’t get over how good it felt to be alive.

  “Sara!”

  She twisted around at his approach and said, “Hi, Grandpa.”

  He was looking better as Spring blossomed. She figured his eyes would always appear sad, knowing he would never see Ariel again, but his sense of purpose had put strength back into his stride.

  “Come here,” he beckoned.

  She pushed herself up and followed him to a small group of people standing near the summit of the hill.

  “This is Will Benton,” Raoul was saying. “And he has some good news for us.”

  A balding man with a heavy brown beard and mustache held out his hand. “Pleased to meet you, Ma’am.”

  Sara took in his gap-toothed smile and felt the calluses on his palm when they shook hands.

  “My wife, Clarissa, and my daughter, Trish,” Will said.

  A large blonde woman whose clothes hung off her like she’d lost too much weight too fast, gave her a wan smile. The girl, who looked to be in her mid-teens, had her mom’s blonde hair and deep blue eyes, but hers were alert and intelligent.

  “We just escaped from down south,” the girl said in a take no prisoners tone.

  Sara tensed. No one in Stanford welcomed anyone from the South. Cannibals!

  “It’s okay, Sara,” Raoul said. He turned to Will. “Please continue.”

  “The Scarlatti’s have big trouble,” Will announced gleefully. “There’s some really nasty bug thinning his ranks and he’s run into a National Guard outfit almost as big as his ‘Royal’ army.”

  Noting Sara’s ashen pallor, Raoul interrupted. “What is it?” But Sara was already questioning Will.

  “What symptoms are associated with this bug?” she asked.

  She was a doctor and all through the winter there had been outbreaks of Typhoid Fever, Dysentery, and Flu. She’d lost patients to diseases she could no longer conquer with the correct injection. Most antibiotics were well past their shelf life. With so many dead bodies lying around and improper sanitation, with exploding populations of rats and ground squirrels…and now as Will explained the symptoms she paled further. It sounded like a cross between Ebola and maybe Anthrax or Bubonic plague with some flesh eating virus thrown in for good measure. Something like that almost had to be an escaped militarized virus, and she wondered who had been so stupid as to design such a thing.

  Even more, she wondered how in the world she was supposed to fight it.

  *

  Southern California

  Pestilence

  Joey stepped out of the reeking hospital tent and drew a shaky breath. He wiped sweat from his brow with his sleeve. Hard to believe what he had just seen.

  Doctor Jason Merriman pushed through the flap and joined him. Joey turned to the man. “What is it? What can do that to a man?”

  It wasn’t like Joey to show it when he was rattled, but this!

  “I wish I knew, Your Majesty,” the doctor answered, then continued. “I think it’s more than just one epidemic.”

  Joey flinched at the word, but the doctor went on. “Sometimes it looks like bubonic plague, which we could expect with all the rodents around. But then it looks like flesh eating Strep or Ebola. Hundreds of the men have flu-like symptoms. Several dozen have Typhoid because of the unsanitary conditions around here. Twenty are down with Cholera, which is deadly enough in it
s own right. Three even have Rabies.” He threw up his arms. “My staff is being overwhelmed.”

  Joseph Scarlatti, King of California, didn’t like excuses--didn’t accept them from his military advisors, but this was an enemy he didn’t know how to beat.

  “Recommendations?”

  Jason Merriman looked up into those ice blue eyes and summoned his nerve. “Evacuate.” The Hippocratic oath meant nothing to this particular physician.

  “Where too?” Joey wondered aloud. Mexicans, fleeing horrendous conditions in their own country, were pouring across the Border joining surviving Americans in stripping Southern California’s carcass. East of the San Gabriels his son John and the bulk of his army was fighting desperately to hold back a well-trained and well-equipped National Guard unit. North was nothing but ruins and desolation for as far as his scouts had ventured. His empire was threatened before it was even established. What the hell had he done to deserve this? Wouldn’t God ever tire of testing him? Stop that, he scolded himself. He just wasn’t looking at this from the right perspective.

  Joey paced back and forth for a moment, his right hand stroking his golden beard. “The Plague is worse down toward San Diego, right?”

  Merriman nodded.

  Joey spun toward Jamal Rashid. “Tell John to break contact. Withdraw north along the coast. We’ll meet at the Paso Robles ruins. Go!”

  Joey grabbed Anthony’s arm. “Tell the Crips and Bloods La Raza is coming in from the South. Tell them to hold the line from Riverside to Huntington Beach.” Anthony nodded uncertainly. “Tell them we’ve beaten the Guard to the East and we’ll join them ASAP.”

  Now Anthony was obviously puzzled, and Joey’s grip tightened painfully on his arm. “Don’t you get it? The gang bangers will kill themselves off fighting turf wars and the Guard will roll over the survivors--right into the plague. When the dust settles we’ll walk back in and mop up.”