The Dying Time (Book 2): After The Dying Time Page 8

  “You are Michael,” Daniel said, extending his hand.

  “How did you know?” Something, almost a shock, traveled up both men’s arms as they shook hands. Brown eyes sought and held gray.

  “The Spirits told me,” Daniel explained. “They showed me two white bears and said my people should seek them in friendship. But...,” he looked into Michael’s eyes again.

  “Yes?” Michael prompted.

  “I expected your eyes to be yellow, or gold.”

  Michael felt goose bumps running up and down his back. Then Jim hummed, “Doo-Dee-Doo-Doo,” the ancient theme from The Twilight Zone. Ellen burst out laughing and Michael and Jim were swept up in it. Daniel, sensing they were sharing an inside joke, not laughing at him, allowed himself a puzzled smile.

  “I’m sorry,” Ellen gasped, being the first to recover. She put her arm around Michael’s waist and gave him a quick hug. “His eyes change color,” she explained and this time when she laughed Daniel joined in wholeheartedly.

  It wasn’t long before any lingering reservations were swept away and they were carrying on like old friends. Ellen insisted Daniel and Jim come over for dinner. Michael had started venison stew in a solar oven that morning. There would be plenty and it would be done by now. The children would still be out playing with their friends. The four walked up the hill to the Whitebears’, but before they sat down to eat, Michael excused himself and went back to a storage room.

  When he returned he carried a large bundle wrapped in elk-hide, which he held out to Daniel.

  “A gift from my people to yours.”

  Daniel hesitated briefly. Gifting was serious business, concerning honor and obligation, but the Spirits had said to seek these people in friendship. He accepted the bundle, carefully unwrapping the hide, revealing an ancient medicine hat made with the skin and hair from the head of a buffalo cow. Next to it lay four arrows, wooden shafted, feather-fletched, stone-tipped arrows, two for hunting and two for war. It was Daniel’s turn for goose bumps.

  His hands shook slightly as he gently rewrapped these ancient and most sacred relics of the Cheyenne tribe, the soul of his people. His throat tightened. He looked up at Michael.

  “How...? Where...?”

  “Ruins of the Natural History Museum in Denver,” Michael said, answering the second question first. “Didn’t seem like something that should be left to rot.”

  “But...how did you know?”

  Michael smiled, recalling the gut feeling that day that said, “Take these,” and the one tonight that said, “Give.”

  “The Spirits told me.”

  Daniel nodded, of course. “You could have had every horse in the tribe for these. Why didn’t you trade?”

  Michael opened his mouth to speak, then shrugged and looked helplessly at Ellen.

  “Some things are too precious to trade,” she said. “Some things can only be given. Those belong to your people.”

  Daniel accepted her wisdom. He clasped his medicine bag with his left hand, holding the sacred bundle with his right and bowed his head in prayer.

  They passed the meal and half the night enjoying themselves, laughing at each others jokes, discussing their peoples’ similarities and differences, thinking of ways to build an alliance that would last.

  *

  Two days later the Cheyenne, accompanied by the Troubled Land Band, arrived and set up camp. Also in the group were a couple of mountain men and their families and a traveling hospital with a physician and a pharmacist. The lack of qualified doctors and the almost total absence of antibiotics and other drugs made the arrival of Dr. Jason Merriman’s Traveling Diagnostic and Treatment Center a particularly welcome event. If Doctor Merriman had a beard he would have looked like Santa Claus, pudgy and pink-fleshed, with long white hair.

  Introductions and intermingling began at once and a party-like atmosphere reigned. Michael and Ellen toured the Cheyenne camp and saw a lot more modern technology than they expected. Many tipis were constructed with walls made of breathable rip-stop nylon, heavy duty waterproofed canvas floors and a rain-fly of waterproof nylon. Zippered mosquito netting was draped over all openings and on many the whole thing held up by a framework of lightweight metal poles instead of lodge pole pine, just like a backpacker’s tent from the old days. However, Cheyenne tipis were pitched in a circular pattern with an opening to the East, toward the morning sun, the same direction all the tipi flaps faced, a return to tradition.

  Solar reflector ovens and Rocket or Volcano stoves were as popular as open fires and Dutch ovens for cooking. Portable composting toilets, a pop-up camp trailer that had been converted into an infirmary and an equally mobile water purification plant offered further proof these people weren’t just idealistic or romantic fools yearning for past glories. They also had a few portable solar generators which they claimed were mostly for powering their CB radios, though Michael saw several LED light bulbs and small electric appliances, even a computer, as he and Ellen walked through their camp.

  The Cheyenne also had several wagons filled with trade goods and these caught the eyes of almost everybody. The shopping instinct isn’t confined to the female of the species, Michael thought as he drooled over a cart filled with tools and weapons. Ellen and he split up to do some early Christmas and birthday shopping.

  Michael swapped ten gallons of methanol fuel to a warrior named Raymond Stormcloud for a beautifully crafted double-edged tomahawk. He knew his friend, Jim Cantrell, would love it and Jim’s birthday was coming up.

  At another cart he traded a yearling appaloosa to Susan Redfeather for 200 skeins of wool yarn. The price was steep, but good wool was very rare and one of Ellen’s many talents was the ability to knit warm, comfortable house slippers, sweaters, stocking caps and mittens.

  Susan’s shy smile and large, doe eyes on her otherwise plain face appealed to Michael. He could sense her strength of character, a trait common among the Cheyenne he was meeting. It was while he was laughing and haggling with her over the price that he noticed Raymond Stormcloud’s eyes following her and thought...aha.

  At another trade table he exchanged thirty silver dollars and two dairy goats for a still in the box hand cranked Model 275 Grain Maker Grain Mill with a complete accessory pack. His old Country Living Grain Mill had given up the ghost the previous year after more than a decade of hard use.

  But the best deal he made that day, though he didn’t know it then, was when he traded flying lessons to Mitchell, “Call me Mitch,” Stonehand. The handmade, perfectly balanced, Bowie-style fighting knife he received in return complimented his combat dagger perfectly. The way the big man’s solemn-looking eyes lit up when he and Michael zoomed around the Freeholds in the two-seat gyrocopter that afternoon put a smile in Michael’s heart. And when Mitch took the controls and buzzed Daniel Windwalker and Ellen as Daniel was introducing her to the tribal elders, Michael’s smile burst forth full blown. It was exactly the kind of irreverent prank he would pull.

  By early evening, Michael had practically worn a path from his house to the trade wagons. But he had acquired gifts for all the kids and had made a few new friends in the process. He considered it a day well spent.

  Doctor Lewis, the Freeholds resident physician and Dan Osaka, the one-eyed commander of the valley’s outrider patrols, had even managed to convince Jason Merriman to stick around for a while after the Cheyenne left. The Freeholds could always use another doctor, especially since Doctor Taraq Fariq, who had once saved Ellen’s life, but who constantly opposed her politically, had left to set up shop in the Buena Vista settlements. Also Ellen wanted Merriman’s pharmacist to help establish a pharmacology lab to produce antibiotics, locally, in the Freeholds. The herbal medicine the Freeholds practiced combined with good diets and plenty of exercise kept most Freeholders fit and healthy but Ellen recalled the plague year too well to take anything for granted.

  That evening, the Cheyenne and Freeholders formally exchanged all of the news they had gathered since The Dying Ti
me. Though most of this news had been related informally during the days trading activity, there were a few surprises. The Cheyenne mentioned that herds of buffalo, longhorns, wild horses and packs of wild dogs appeared to be on the rise. They had heard rumors from the Ute tribe about a large settlement of peaceable people near what used to be the Great Salt Lake in Utah, now part of a vastly expanded Gulf of California.

  Terribly disturbing however, were the experiences related by the ex-slaves. Tales of torture, rape and murder, of families torn apart and of fearsome weapons, the likes of which hadn’t been seen for years, were commonplace.

  Jacques and Denise Lachelle, who led the Troubled Land Band and who were old and trusted friends of the Whitebears, told of being warned away from an ambush involving the King’s Army by Doctor Merriman’s small group, who had then joined up with them for mutual defense. The Doctor related how he and his hospital had experienced a close call with the King’s Army themselves, having escaped from Flagstaff, Arizona, just before it was taken by the soldiers.

  A piece of information here, a rumor there, a jigsaw puzzle of distress that when put together led to a nasty conclusion. The six hundred men who attacked the Cheyenne were just a small part of a very large and well-equipped army belonging to a man who called himself King Joseph.

  He was apparently attempting to establish an empire in what was left of the Western United States. His Army reportedly had tanks, flame-throwers and planes. Ellen and Michael questioned several of their guests and newfound friends closely to determine the King’s military capability, but when they got to Dr. Merriman they got a shock.

  “From what I saw in Flagstaff, the King has biological weapons,” the Doctor said.

  “My God,” Ellen exclaimed. “Why didn’t you tell us about this immediately?”

  “This is the first opportunity I’ve had to speak to you in private,” Merriman explained. “I didn’t want to start a panic. I was...”

  Michael butted in. “Are you sure about this, Doctor?”

  Merriman’s double-chin appeared and disappeared as he nodded. “Dead sure. I saw typhoid and cholera, diseases I haven’t seen since right after The Dying Time, when too many unburied bodies were lying around. And there was something else...I’m not sure what it was, but it looked like a strain of anthrax. It was deadly, damn deadly.”

  Michael and Ellen exchanged a glance. Another reason so many communities were hostile to strangers was the fear of disease.

  Ellen asked, “Have you told anyone else about this?”

  “No! Like I said, I don’t want folks to panic. Hell, the Cheyenne would have kicked us out if they’d known we’d been exposed to any diseases. But there wasn’t any danger. My staff has been vaccinated against everything but the anthrax and it was so quick-acting if any of us had contracted it we would have died before we met up with the Band, much less the Indians.”

  “Thank you, Doctor,” Ellen said as she showed him out. “I would appreciate it if you kept this confidential.”

  She turned back to Michael. “We need to talk to Daniel.”

  *

  The magnitude of the threat posed by the King convinced Daniel Windwalker and Ellen Whitebear to form a mutual defense pact between the Cheyenne and the Freeholds. The new community voted three courses of action. First, they would contact the folks in Utah to see what kind of people they were and find out if they knew any more about the enemy. Second, they would send envoys to other settlements to see if they were having problems with this King. Third, they would scout for, locate and spy upon the King’s Army.

  The King had attacked the Freeholds, the Cheyenne and Flagstaff, more or less simultaneously. Who else had been hit? How large was this King’s Army that he could waste battalions on probing attacks? And most important when and where was the next attack coming?

  *

  The man with the answer to that question stood on a ship in the Gulf of California, watching his men roll over the defenders of Nephi, on the west coast of Utah. He had landed several companies of Rangers to the north and south and the pincer movement had cut the town off before he launched the assault on the beach.

  He raised a pair of Zeiss binoculars to his eyes and swept them from one end of the town to the other. Moonlight sparkled off the diamond in his crimson beret and glistened from his highly polished boots. His lips spread in a rotten-toothed smile as the popcorn sound of gunshots reached his ears. The invasion was going well.

  As soon as his troops secured the town and surrounding area, he would put slaves to work repairing the roads and bridges and building a government center. He would transform Nephi into the capital and chief seaport of these lands.

  Prince John lowered his binoculars and turned to Jamal Rashid. “Take charge of the left flank. It looks like they may try to break out toward Provo.”

  “Yes, Sire,” Jamal said as he started for the motor launch.

  “And Jam?” Jamal stopped to listen. “When this is over, I only want the leaders of the resistance executed. Offer everyone else amnesty.” Even in the moonlight he could see Jamal’s raised eyebrows.

  “This is a new land and for the time being, we need friends,” he explained.

  “Of course, Sire,” Jamal said before he stepped into the boat.

  Next, John turned to his brother. “Have you heard from Bonetti?”

  “Not since he told us his spies penetrated Provo and the Freeholds,” Prince Anthony answered.

  “No word on the Garcias?”

  “Nothing, baby brother.”

  John clenched his teeth. He hated being called “baby brother.” Two lousy Goddamned minutes. “Well, tell him to send out more search parties, dammit. I want them found!”

  Chapter 8: The Enemy

  Maroon Bells Wilderness, Colorado

  Late October, 12 AI

  From high among the tumbled rocks that lined the walls of Castle Creek Canyon, Michael Whitebear and Jim Cantrell peered through field glasses at the large group of men making camp below. He and Jim were one of several teams sent out to locate and spy upon the King’s Army, while others contacted the Mormons at Provo. After more than two weeks of tracking everyone but the King’s army, Michael hoped they’d hit pay dirt this time.

  Several patrols rode out as others came into the camp. The smell of cooked food drifted up, reminding Michael of how long it had been since he’d had a decent meal. His stomach rumbled. To quiet it he bit off a piece of venison jerky and washed it down with a swallow from his canteen, offering both to Jim.

  Michael could tell the men below were at least fairly well-disciplined. They had set out sentries and as soon as they were done cooking the fires were put out. Also, they used dry, almost smokeless, wood for their fires and had lit them at dusk when smoke would be even harder to spot. No doubt about it, the quality of this outfit was far superior to any others he and Jim had observed in the past two weeks. Their tents were laid out with military precision. The largest was obviously the mess hall, but one other tent attracted his attention. It was sited in the middle of the camp.

  Michael nudged Jim. “I bet that big tent belongs to their leader.”

  “Well move over Sherlock,” Jim deadpanned. “Did you figure that out all by yourself?” He winced as he rubbed a large bump on his head.

  “Look, man, I said I’m sorry I laughed.” Michael quickly faced back toward the men below so Jim couldn’t see the grin he was failing to suppress. A few hours earlier, an honest to God tiger had spooked Jim’s horse. It bolted and while he was struggling to stay in the saddle an “incredibly hard” branch decided to make the acquaintance of his head.

  Whack! Pleased to meetcha.

  Maybe it was the way Jim’s eyes crossed just before he fell, or the way he rolled ass over tea kettle, cursing, into a cluster of wild roses that set Michael off. His laughter added insult to injury and he’d been fielding Jim’s barbs ever since.

  Suddenly, a metallic whistle split the air. “Damn!” Michael muttered. “For people who
are taking such pains to hide a fire they sure don’t care how much noise they make.” Sure enough, below him all was hustle and bustle as men scurried to form ranks. A tall black man wearing the uniform and insignia of a U.S. Army Captain strode crisply from the tent Michael had been watching.

  For just a moment hope flared that perhaps some remnant of the U.S. Government survived and this was some sort of military expedition to contact surviving citizens and survey damages. Well, he thought, it isn’t entirely beyond the realm of possibility. But then he was brought back to reality as a burly hulk of a man wearing a sergeant’s stripes stalked from the same tent dragging a naked woman by her hair.

  He sensed Jim stiffen as he trained his field glasses on her. She hung limp and unresisting, her buttocks and feet scoring lines in the dirt. Her face, breasts and belly were covered with bruises and burns. She was bleeding from her ears, nose, mouth and from between her legs. Either she knew something they wanted to know or, even worse, they were just having fun.

  The sergeant jerked her to her feet and when she started to collapse, backhanded her viciously across the face. She steadied herself and from somewhere deep within found the strength to hold herself erect. Her head came up and she looked at her tormenters with a mixture of contempt and pity. Even battered and naked the woman projected a sort of proud dignity that quieted those who had sniggered when she was first pulled from the tent. Michael didn’t know her, but he sure admired her guts. He doubted if she had ever been very pretty, but right now, facing her torturers with courage, she was glorious. Her expression faltered slightly and then she smiled with relief, almost gratitude.

  Michael turned his glasses onto the sergeant. He was slowly drawing an automatic pistol from its holster.