The Plague Years (Book 2): At This Hour, Lie at My Mercy All Mine Enemies

by Mark Rounds

  “Then why did you bring her in the first place?” asked Little Bear.

  “Because I thought your counsel was trustworthy for one,” said Chad. “Especially in the daylight, and for another, I am tired of being on the defensive. The world our adversaries are working for is not one I wish to raise my children in. If we could move over to the offensive, maybe we could start over; have a life, to begin building something again.”

  “So where are they?” said Chris. “I’m getting the heebie-jeebies.”

  “They are here,” said Sayla.

  “Where?!” said Chad, pivoting on his heel, trying to look everywhere at once.

  “Here,” said the old woman, her brown eyes were suddenly clear and focused. “I needed to watch you, feel her mind, without you being suspicious. I apologize for the subterfuge.”

  “Little Bear said you would help,” said Amber, speaking for the first time. “I hate being hunted like an animal. Can you help us end this?”

  “Perhaps,” said the old woman. “We are far fewer in number than Nergüi and his allies. We foolishly believed that they were gone, wiped out in a war that started about the time rice was being domesticated in China. My compatriots have grown fewer and fewer. We did not recruit followers like Sayla here for we felt that was immoral. We merely guided the few newly Chosen we found to a safe life, and hoped our sad little culture would fade from the earth.

  “But our adversaries lived. And they plotted yet again to overthrow the world and rule it, for what reason, only they know. You see, we weren't very good builders, we Chosen. We lived foolishly and acted rashly with our gifts of long life and easy healing. We built empires and crashed against one another until the old kingdoms of China were no more. From the ashes, real men and women built the China you know today.

  “We hid around the edges and played at being puppet masters and king makers in many corners of the globe. And then some of our number became more enlightened. Given enough time and events, even the slowest of us do eventually grow up, and we realized that our elitist culture was doomed to fail. Some of us tried to help bring human culture into a brighter age. Nergüi and his friends struggled against us, but the struggles became fainter and fainter and we thought them finally gone, until five years ago.

  “What happened then?” asked Chad.

  “We were all but gone,” said the old woman. “But we had a few agents, fellow travelers really, like Little Bear, who informed us about changes in the Plague.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Chad who silently wished Dr. Grieb was in the room.

  “The Plague that took me and many of the Chosen,” said the old woman, choosing her words carefully, “was slow to transmit. Similar to the disease you call HIV. We only saw it in places with poor nutrition, poor medical care, and weak social support. Places where a man could die on the sidewalk and people would step over him without a glance.”

  “Mogadishu,” said the older of the two PJs, Master Sergeant Simanton. “I saw that there.”

  “Exactly,” said the old woman nodding. “But then we started seeing isolated cases in the more civilized part of the world, in the drug addicts and sex workers, people who hid from the light. We became suspicious and started to search for them.

  “Their habits haven't changed much and we found some of our old adversaries and tracked them in ways they only suspected. We found their lab in the hills east of Sacramento where they played with the Plague. Their security was tight, so all we could do was small acts of sabotage; we engineered several accidents. We hoped it would get them to stop; instead, it merely opened Pandora's box early.”

  “What can you do for us now?” asked Amber.

  “We have some resources,” said the old woman. “Little Bear here has been a trusted agent for many years. He has infiltrated their power structure to some extent. He can go ask questions, but he plays a dangerous game, that of the double agent. His help will be sporadic at best.”

  “And you, young lady,” said the old woman, “I would take you from here. To a place of safety where we could teach you about the terrible gift you have. But I believe you will not go willingly. So we will be watching. Stay guarded and move often. They need more Chosen to power their Call.”

  “I have felt it,” said Amber. “It almost overwhelmed me.”

  “If it had,” said the old woman, “you would be in their hands; helping to power that abomination. They take malleable young talent and the old ones like Nergüi twist their brains until they either become part of their Cabal or have their will and some of their very essence tortured out of them. They keep them clean and fed, but they merely sit and project. They do little else until they die.”

  “That's what they wanted me for,” said Amber almost to herself.

  “Yes, but you broke through,” said the old woman nodding toward Chris. “Thanks to your Paladin here. You are what they fear most, an uncontrolled Chosen, like us.”

  “So what can we do?” asked Chad.

  “Outlast them,” said the old woman. “They believe that they can use soldiers controlled by fear and now apparently drugs to do their bidding. It will collapse in the end, if you can hold on. It always has before.”

  “But millions more will die,” said Chris forcefully, “if we just fort up and hold out. There has to be a way to take this fight to them.”

  “That will be dangerous,” said the old woman with a sad smile, “but you are a Paladin, I expected no less. Little Bear has a source, you know him. He is called Macklin.”

  “I wouldn't trust him,” said Chad, answering before the others began shouting for his head. “He has been trying to kill us since this started and is harder to kill than a hydra. I have seen him shot at least twice. He is smart and has no compunctions about killing.”

  “But he does fear me,” said Little Bear with a half-smile. “He talks, when persuaded. I have word that he is in Spokane. I will be headed there at daybreak and find out what he knows. I will be back. Sayla or Amber will find me when I return. I will tell you what he knows.”

  June 27th, Wednesday, 7:13am PDT

  Theophilus Towers, Moscow, ID

  “I should have seen this coming,” said Bob Strickland, looking over the dam the kids had built. “The spring runoff had been plentiful, but as the summer goes on, the water flow tends to goes way down.”

  Several students had worked together to build the dam. One of the young men had been studying Civil Engineering and he teamed up with a young lady who had been studying Industrial Technology. Between them they had built a pretty good dam. It had the proper arch against the current with a rock spillway. Water was slowly backing up behind it and Mary had been able to get enough for dinner the day before and breakfast this morning.

  “This will help for a little while,” said Chad, “but Pullman is going to figure this out and they will think we did this out of spite. The only water they are getting down Paradise Creek is coming from the wastewater plant and it's not much more than a trickle. Thank God for a natural flow-through sewage treatment system.

  “How did you get water before the Plague?” asked Chad.

  “We have five deep wells around here,” said Bob. “When the power finally shut down, it was only a few days before the water tanks ran out. Then we drained the University and City pools and even Hordeman’s Pond for drinking water.”

  “Some of the folks on the edge of town have wells, but without electricity, they are having a hard time getting it to the surface.

  “And we have another problem. The sewage lagoon is filling up.”

  “Doesn't it just run off into the creek?” asked Chad.

  “Yes and no,” said Bob. “The waste water runs into series of tanks that settle out the heavier solids and digest them biologically. The water flows via gravity from tank to tank until it is relatively clean and then it flows out into the creek, but there is a hitch.”

  “And that is?” said Chad, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

  “The digested
waste products were then pumped out into tanker trucks and taken to a composting facility,” said Bob. “But the tanks are filling up. They need to be pumped soon or we will be sending raw sewage down the creek.”

  “Lovely,” said Chad. “If the lack of water will tick the 'Free State of Pullman' off, sending raw sewage down the creek will make it far worse. What do we need to avert this?”

  “Electric power,” said Bob, “a lot of it. We will have to run the pumps for hours to get all the goo cleaned out and while we are at it, we will need to pump from the wells to fill the tanks so that we can have water for a few days anyway.”

  “I’m going to talk to LTC Amos,” said Chad, “and recommend more severe water rationing and reducing the number of flushes people use.”

  “My, that will make you popular,” said Bob sarcastically.

  “I feel better suddenly,” said Chad with a smile.

  “Why?” said Bob. “Does the thought of flooding Pullman with sewage help you even some score?”

  “Nope,” said Chad. “This is the first time since I came to Moscow that you have tossed a zinger at me. Strangely enough, I missed it.”

  June 28th, Thursday, 3:31 am PDT

  South of Spokane, WA

  Little Bear had spent all night riding an unfamiliar horse. As horses were very valuable, the militia cavalry unit sent two riders with him to bring his horse back if he didn't make it out. They rode most of the day and into the night to the outskirts of Spokane. Twice they skirted large groups of Infected who were resting after a day spent foraging. They were clustered around the city as one of their primary food sources was careless people.

  “Wait for me here,” said Little Bear to the militiamen. “I will be back in two days.”

  “If you don't make it back in two days,” asked the militiaman, “we will head home. Don't be late. These Infected scare the crap out of me.”

  “Leave early,” said Little Bear quietly but with menace, “and when I get back, you will long for the days with the gangs in the field. Expect me at sunrise in two days.”

  Little Bear slide effortlessly off the horse and into the darkness. Within seconds, he was invisible.

  “That guy scares me,” said the younger of the two militiamen.

  “Me too,” said his comrade. “We’d best be here when he returns.”

  Little Bear, who was under cover but within earshot smiled. A lot of what he accomplished was because people bought into his 'Ghost Who Walks' mystique. He did have over two hundred years’ experience in moving silently and he was patient, so people often gave themselves away, but he had no super powers. Little Bear moved through the shadows like a silent thought, until he found what he was looking for. The Spokane Indian Reservation was only fifty miles west of town and there was a fair sized Native American population in Spokane itself. One of those tribal members, Jack Tuceta, had set himself up in business, selling foodstuffs from the outlying areas, including, but not limited to, the reservation, in exchange for goods they couldn't easily make.

  Little Bear had several friends and tribal members guarding the warehouse he worked out of, two of whom belonged to the local cell of his movement. With their help, he was waiting in Jack's office when the sun came up. Jack was thinking of his recent deal with some Mennonite farmers north of Spokane and didn't see Little Bear until he opened the windows to let the light in.

  “Who the hell are you?” asked Jack in irritation. He wasn't really angry yet and he was packing a Taurus 9mm, but it was in his shoulder holster while this stranger's big wheel gun was pointed right at his middle.

  “You know what to call me,” said Little Bear cryptically.

  “All I see is a little Indian with a big gun,” said Jack with some disdain. “I get shaken down for food, guns, gas, medicine, and all manner of other things almost every day. So let's get this straight, you can't win. I make one shout and there will be three guys in here with more firepower in each hand than you are packing. If there is a shot, they will come in shooting. If you persuade me to give you something, as we walk to the warehouse to get whatever it is, they will cap you from behind. So why don't you go out the way you came in and save us the ammunition.”

  “I don't want any of your stuff,” said Little Bear.

  “So then to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” asked Jack as he reached secretly behind his back for the alarm buzzer under the edge of his desk. Little Bear's big fighting knife suddenly appeared and stuck a good half-inch into the mahogany of Jack's desk inches from his hand. Jack pulled his hand back like it was on fire.

  “I don't need a gun to kill you,” said Little Bear smiling. “So nice and easy, why don't you tell me about one of your customers. He’s a new guy around here, on the big side, over six feet tall, drinks expensive scotch and goes by the name of Macklin.”

  “I know him,” said Jack, whose eyes had not left the quivering knife stuck in his desk. “Lives in a big place on the South Hill on South Wall Street. He took over Wallace's racket, selling Slash and robbing people. We have enough guns here that he trades with us instead, at least for now.”

  “What else do you know?” asked Little Bear.

  “Lately, he has been gathering a bunch of druggies and training them to be some sort of Army,” said Jack who finally looked up from the knife. “I have been moving most of my operations out of town as a precaution in case he tries to take us over. There isn't much left in the warehouse. You aren't thinking of hitting him are you? That would be three kinds of stupid.”

  “Why is that?” asked Little Bear.

  “He has three huge goons watching over him day and night,” said Jack with awe. “The black one must be a pro football player or something, he is so damn huge. And there is the smaller one, Carlos they call him, he must have been a UFC fighter or a mixed martial arts expert. The guys say they saw three toughs jump him with knives and shit right after he had finished doing a whore. Carlos was buck ass naked and he kicked their asses good. You don't want any of that.”

  “Why all the concern, Jack?” asked Little Bear. “A minute ago, you were thinking about shouting for your boys and throwing me out with the trash. Why the change?”

  “If Macklin thinks you got the lowdown from me,” said Jack shaking his head, “he might come looking. That is trouble I'd like to avoid. I don't care if his bodyguards fillet and eat you for breakfast. I just don't want them nosing around here.”

  “He won't catch me,” said Little Bear smiling. His smile turned hard and he quickly closed the distance between himself and Jack. Before he could call out, Little Bear expertly buried his fist into Jack's solar plexus up to the wrist, knocking the air out of his lungs and effectively silencing him.

  Little Bear popped him on the back of the head with the butt of his big revolver as he bent over, clutching his gut. It was not like the movies, for hitting someone with a pistol butt to the back of the head was as likely to kill the target as knock him out, but Little Bear was no TV actor, and had done this many times. Jack went down like a ton of bricks; Little Bear rolled him over and checked him carefully. He was still breathing, nice and even. He would probably wake up with a screaming headache and a minor concussion. It wouldn't do to put his operatives out of a job.

  June 29th, Friday, 1:56 am PDT

  Just outside the Compton Union Building, WSU Campus, Pullman, WA

  Phil Masterson was a cautious fellow. Living by your wits in these uncertain times made you either cautious or dead. That is why he spent the better part of an hour sneaking onto the Washington State University campus. There was a group of trees near the Compton Union and he waited there for twenty minutes, until a large young man came walking up the middle of the street. Phil waited for him to get close before he made a sound.

  “James,” whispered Phil.

  “Jezus don't do that,” said James, a former student athlete who now occasionally worked for Phil when he needed enforcement. He wasn't infected himself, but his girlfriend was, and Phil's Slash
kept her sane.

  “I need a little more from you tonight, James,” said Phil, dangling two balloons of Slash in his hand.

  “Christ, who do I have to beat up?” said James wearily. It had started out with just a little physical intimidation, but had grown more and more violent as the weeks wore on.

  “I need you to silence the Chief of Police,” said Phil.

  “Shit,” said James. “He's got guns and all kind of cops around him, not to mention all them monitors. No way, man.”

  “It's my way or the highway, James,” said Phil as he began to pocket the balloons. “I am the only local source; you know that, unless you want to try and cross the border and likely get shot. In a couple of days, you'll run out of Slash, and then Emily will start to get crazy again. The sores will burst open and everyone will know she is infected, and they will take her away to the hospital. You know that once they go in, they never come back out. Do you want that?”

  “Wait,” said James reaching for the balloons. “She is getting worse, we are almost out. Do I have to kill him or just scare him good enough that he keeps away from you?”

  “I suspect it will have to be permanent,” said Phil.

  “I'll have to get some help,” said James. “Some other guys from the team. You'll have to pay more.”

  “Consider this a down payment then,” said Phil as he tossed the two balloons of Slash toward James. “You'll get two more when the job is done.”

  Chapter 18

  June 29th, Friday, 1:12 pm PDT

  Joint Base Fort Lewis-McChord, Tacoma, WA

  “Whipkey, get in here,” said Gen Antonopoulos with annoyance. “I thought I told you to get some sensors around Gen