Once we realized those two were AWOL, we sent women and dogs on ahead, toward lake at end of valley, doubled back to find our friends. Sal had sense enough to activate the beacon on his stealth pack before we left. Without that action, we never would have found our gear in the foggy blizzard that hit midday. And none of us would have survived the storm without all the warm capes, boots and mittens in our packs.
Unlike me, Corporal Salvatore Bolzano brought his A Game.
Was surprised he could keep up. Matched me stride for stride up the rocky valley. We located sounds of a skirmish, followed them about 200 yards up narrow, side ravine. Gray Beard and Tomon were pinned downhill of seven enemy, including sub-leader Babeck, who managed to slip the fuck away. Neutralized one hunter with atlatl bolt, then Corporal Bolzano and I launched assault to force rest over edge of cliff. Corporal Bolzano obeyed orders to guard my back to the letter and was in position to keep me from falling right along with Babeck’s idiots.
Was slipping with no chance of stopping. Thought I’d try a jump for one of the trees growing up out of the ravine. Knew I probably wouldn’t jump far enough, and even if I did, how the fuck would I get down? Was gonna give it a try anyway. Threw my arms back to get a good leap and something solid slaps into my hand. I grab hold and it’s Sal’s club. Turning, I see he’s stretched out wide barely holding onto a tree. Wasn’t easy, but we made it back up to flat ground. Not sure if Sal’s figured how close he came to gettin’ pulled down with me. Man risked his life to save mine. Should feel bad for all the crap I’ve given him, but I don’t.
Gray Beard never did say how they ended up in that ravine. Too worried about the women to stand around talking. Babeck was on the loose, but we never did see any tracks. He didn’t show his ugly head until later.
TRANSMISSION:
Jones: “Old man’s talkin’ about staying.”
Bolzano: “Staying here?”
Jones: “Ride out the night. Try’n make it back up to caves at daybreak. Before snow drifts too deep.”
Bolzano: “So we can slug it out with Babeck? I was under the impression the lake would be frozen solid.”
Jones: “So was Fralista. Guess they mostly come down in spring when ice is three feet thick.”
Bolzano: “The open water doesn’t seem to faze the dogs.”
Jones: “Women say mutts’ve been walking right up to edge, getting’ drinks all afternoon.”
Bolzano: “I think we should risk it. If we stay to the edges, the ice should be thick enough to support our weight.”
Jones: “Hopin’ you’d say that. Corporal, time to gear up.”
Bolzano: “Gear up?”
Jones: “Put your suit on.”
From the log of Salvatore Bolzano
Firefighter II
(English translation)
As the temperature dropped, so did the wind. Snowflakes big as the palm of my hand floated down through the fog by the millions, muffling the valley into silence. Though my companions turned up no sign of Babeck’s footprints, the knowledge of what he would do to our clan mates if he caught them alone kept us moving with a true sense of urgency. Following the streambed, we traveled down the valley farther than Jones or I had ever explored. Once we retrieved the heavy packs, the going was a bit rougher, but at least we had gravity on our side. During one of our few breaks, Leonglauix insisted we shed our soggy moccasins and don our warm new boots. What a relief.
As the fog slowly cleared, we were afforded an opportunity to better gauge the land we passed through. The trees petered out as the valley walls thrust higher and pinched together so closely it felt as if we were walking through a cathedral hallway. Jones commented that the canyon would certainly be no place to be during a flash flood, and I said a blizzard would be no stroll in the park either. We wound our way through the serpentine canyon for more than an hour before emerging on a promontory overlooking a perfectly round lake nestled in a volcanic caldera about a kilometer in diameter.
Breathing sighs of exhausted relief, we saw our women and dogs safely huddled together for warmth. There was no sign of Babeck, and no place for him to be hiding. Rushing to their side, we distributed the winter jackets, hats and mittens.
We had been led to believe the lake would be frozen sufficiently to allow us to skate across to reach a switchback path leading down out of the mountains to the Rhone River Valley below. What we saw was open water. The lake was frozen along its edges, but a large patch of slate gray water sat in the middle, a huge immoveable obstacle blocking our only way out of the valley.
Plunging through the ice would bring certain death. An attempt to spend winter on the exposed mountain without proper shelter would be suicide. In the end, our choices were simple–press on or turn back.
At Captain Jones’ suggestion (order), I unearthed the jumpsuit from my pack and donned it. Cold and stiff, unfolding like thick leather, the garment fit, but just barely. What a teeth-chattering transition that was, from warm furs, to buck-naked, to human robot. I wobbled about like a stick figure for a moment or two, colder than I have ever been. A few deep knee bends and calisthenics got the electricity flowing, however, and soon the jumpsuit warmed up to boost my energy and flood my entire being with a feeling that is indescribable. Something akin to perpetual déjà vu.
Captain Jones and I wear our modern helmets quite often when we are in the field, but that does not compare to the overwhelming sensations elicited by the suit in its entirety. Consciousness times 20, it is hard to say who is doing the thinking, me or the suit? The jumpsuit issued to Captain Jones is buried inside a kayak somewhere in Bordeaux. It no longer functions, having been damaged by two bullets fired by former commander Lorenzo Martinelli.
Jones allowed me a moment to become acclimated before ordering me to inspect the ice. Unbidden, a crystal clear thought arose. I could beat the snot out of Jones and everybody else. Break his knee to start, follow with a slash to the windpipe and bash his head with my club. It would be easy.
This clothing is an evil contrivance indeed.
TRANSMISSION:
Jones: “Run, Sal.”
From the log of Capt. Juniper Jones
Security Detail II
Watched plenty beagles work their way through mine fields back in the day. Tails wagging slow and steady, nosing out danger, more’n half the time making it safe to the other side. Corporal Bolzano reminded me of one of them dogs when he stepped out onto that semi-frozen lake. Cocking his head to the sounds of the ice cracking, takin’ it slow, he walked about halfway to open water, then stopped and slowly retreated backwards. We could hear the cracking all the way from where we stood high on the bank.
Not first time I sent a soldier into a dangerous situation, but still found myself holding my breath as the Italian looped round the lake’s eastern rim. Sal’s not fat as I’ve seen him, but he’s still a pretty big guy, bit taller and heavier than me. Whole time he’s out there, natives onshore were going batshit with worry, jumping and shouting for him to come back, screaming at the dogs to stay away.
Sal was about a third of the way around when the ice gave way. If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, never would’ve believed it. Man went all the way through the ice, made a big hole where he fell. All of a sudden he comes flapping up out of the water like a penguin or something and lands on his belly. That ice started breaking and he jumped to his feet, high-stepped it, basically ran on chunks of ice and open water, to reach a firm spot. Never saw a man move so fast. Sal didn’t even stop to catch his breath, just set off for the western rim.
Played a hunch with Corporal Bolzano’s life, bet on the jumpsuit and won. Just had a feeling the thing wouldn’t let him die, at least, not without one hell of a fight.
Dark was setting in and snow was really dumping when Sal returned. Could barely see him coming. Wasting no time, he flipped up his visor and called out in Green Turtle dialect for everybody to huddle up. Told us he found way across lake and also the trail down. Left decision up to us. In e
nd, we laid it on the new parents, Tomon and Gertie. They had the most to lose. Course Tomon and Gertie think the world of Sal. They figured if their friend said it was OK to go, it was OK. Fact Sal was a different guy at the moment didn’t register.
Sal ordered us to cough up all our rope, tied about 50 feet of line together, told us to spread out and hold on.
“Jones, you take the rear. Lash our packs to the end and drag them.”
Didn’t distract him by pointing out who the superior officer was, and who should be dishing out orders. This was Salvatore Bolzano’s party and the man was on a roll.
Ice was going off like gunshots underneath us as we shuffled across the edge of the snow-covered lake. Long electric sizzles like the shit you hear right before thunder. Had lot of time thinking how being last in line meant ice was probably weaker.
Halfway across, a baseball-sized stone skittered past my feet. Turning, I saw Babeck pitch another rock as he stumbled toward the lake. Man looked all wrung out.
“You stole my treasure!” he screamed into the falling snow. “You killed my people!”
Gray Beard cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted back, “Your people were snakes. I have your treasure right here, snake! Come and I will give it to you.”
“Swim! Swim! Swim!”
With each word, Babeck bombed a rock onto the ice. Bolts sizzled beneath our feet. Green water began to seep through the largest cracks. Bolzano turned to retaliate, but I barked at him until he got back to his job, leading us to safety.
Ice grew thicker as we pulled out of range. Only thing Babeck could hit us with was threats. “I’m gonna kill that baby. My family will eat your livers.” Shit like that. We made it to the far rim of the caldera to where a U-shaped channel worn by water fed a stream trickling down the side of the mountain. Fralista said a trail followed alongside the stream, which was basically a thousand waterfalls, all turning to ice.
And then Sal was charging back out onto the ice with a spear–all of us yelling at him to let the cocksucker freeze to death. Wind howling, snow pounding down, he ignored us, walked right up to where Babeck’s rocks had opened clear water all the way to the sheer cliffs of the caldera’s western rim. Sal studied the edge like a robot, trying to find a way to his enemy that didn’t involve takin’ a swim. Finally gave it up and returned to lead us off the mountain.
Without helmets, we never coulda done it. Switchback trail was so socked in, natives were blind. Kept ’em strung out between us, holdin onto the rope. Midway down started snowing so hard I couldn’t see shit even with my helmet. Didn’t stop Sal. Man led us through the night, stopping every hour on the hour to rest for five minutes and make us each eat a handful of goat/mammoth pemmican. Not my first all-night march, but a memorable one.
We reached the wide green waters of the Rhone River about an hour after sunrise, me and rest of crew dragging feet. Almost too tired to keep our eyes open. Dogs had been left to fend for themselves, but one by one all four trickled in. Sal coaxed us to a stand of pines growing hard against a hillock, a natural windbreak. Wasn’t much snow on soggy ground–yet. This low, it had been raining until a couple hours before.
With Sal leading, we spent the morning squaring away camp. Even bone tired, folks knew how to throw a shelter together in quick time. Like most stands of young pine, there were plenty dead trees easy to rock and break off at the base. The men collected firewood and trunks for the lean-to while the women hauled armfuls of ferns and pine needles for the floor. They also gathered a lot more foodstuffs than I would have expected. Frozen grubs and berries, nuts and two unlucky squirrels.
Sal has a stout oak club some kid made him back in Italy. He used it to shear pine boughs off trees like a machine. I nodded off listening to him weave a thick outer layer of limbs around our lean-to like a shell. By time storm blew down off the mountain to start dumping serious snow in the valley, we had a warm nest.
Don’t know how long Sal worked, but he was out of his suit and sound asleep when I woke. He slept the night and through next day before he sat up and asked, “Is that roast deer I doth smell?”
CHAPTER TEN
TRANSMISSION:
Duarte: “Brrrrr. It’s only a couple degrees above freezing.”
Kaikane: “Close your visor.”
Duarte: “Then how do I eat?”
Kaikane: “You don’t.”
Duarte: “I’m hungry.”
Kaikane: “Why not wait ’til dark? If one of these guys spots you, figures out we’re here, we would be in for one helluva of a fight.”
From the log of Paul Kaikane
Recreation Specialist
The burning limb was spinning toward the Neanderthal’s camp, hadn’t even hit the ground, and I already knew our travel plans had turned to shit.
Short of dragging Maria back to shore, strapping her to a kayak and towing her out to the island, there is no way she is going to leave Gibraltar until she sees how this “social interaction” plays out. To be honest, I’m more than a little bit curious myself. It sure beats watching these dorks eat seal blubber and berries.
We’re hunkered in the lee of a tall sand dune about 200 yards from Grammy’s camp. It’s cold, rainy and windy as hell, products of an Atlantic storm that blew in from the west last night. Every once in a while the wind really whips up to rattle the bushes and make the rain come down just about horizontal. If not for our jumpsuits to keep us warm and dry, we would be miserable.
From this vantage we can see what Grammy’s bunch are up to and also zoom in to catch a glimpse now and then of Blondie’s gang up at the cluster of inland caves where they booted everybody out and took over. In this weather, most everybody is inside their caves, doing who knows what? Sleeping, eating and fucking probably. What we should be doing. Every hour or so, somebody braves the rain to run out and take a dump or piss in the swollen creek.
After visiting both days since they arrived, today Blondie and his crew have yet to wander over and stir the pot with Hercules and the other males of Grammy’s clan. The whole clan has moved in with the old lady. Looks like a tight fit with all those families in the cave, but I guess nobody wants to be caught out in the open to face those Meh-meh-meh knuckleheads alone.
The goofs hadn’t been in Grammy’s camp more than an hour before the first fight broke out. And what a fight. As brawls go, it was a real beauty. No technique or style, just brute strength and ferocity.
Without asking for permission as far as I could tell, Blondie and his crew fed the clan’s entire stockpile of dry wood to the fires. Once things were really ripping, the new boys started circling the fires with a dance of aggression and taunting. Wearing no clothes or jewelry, playing no flutes or drums, they jumped and whirled, hooted as they flopped their nut sacks toward onlookers. Thankfully, their weapons, mostly stout spears and driftwood clubs studded with shark teeth, had been confiscated by their elders.
Backed up by the heat and gyrations, Grammy’s kin shared nervous glances as they edged into tight defensive packs. Their spears and clubs were close at hand, though nobody had thought to pick one up. Like some kind of nervous truce or something.
Hercules and Grammy were the only ones who didn’t seem put off by the ruckus. Resting on a skin close enough to a seal carcass to reach out and break off its rib bones and suck their marrow free, the young man watched the action through groggy, half-closed eyes. His grandmother invited the two visiting elders to drag the weapons over and join her on a pile of skins and furs at the mouth of her cave. Ignoring the hollers and shouts, sounds of gear being knocked to the dirt, the old-timers dipped their heads together and, I imagine, caught up on the news. As usual, Grammy’s granddaughter was right there by her side, silently taking it all in with wide, yellow-green eyes.
Their conversation was held mostly in hand sign, a strange little island of calm in the growing tension by the fires. Blondie and his boys were now openly jeering the men and making grabs for the women. Bucking their hips, they circled the fires wi
th growing menace. On one circle, Blondie swung wide to join the elders by the cave. Kneeling close to the man and woman of his tribe, he asked a question, which I figured was something like “How much longer?” Or, “Can we beat the crap out of these turds now?”
When he didn’t get the answer he wanted, Blondie grabbed the granddaughter’s hand, pulled her to her feet and turned to drag her toward the central fire. I hadn’t even seen Hercules stand up, but there he was blocking Blondie’s way. With a roar, the young man bellowed something to the effect of “Let her go, asshole!” By then, all the dancing, taunting and elderly chit-chat had dried up.
We didn’t need the amplifiers in our helmets to hear the growling deep in both of their throats. Maria had hung the name Hercules on the young hunter because he’s so much bigger than everybody else in Gibraltar. Blondie had him by an inch in height and looked to be about 10 or 15 pounds heavier. The hair on the backs of their shoulders stood up like surly dogs as they began to circle. Blondie kept his left paw locked around the girl’s wrist, used her as kind of a shield. The poor girl grimaced, cried out as he forced her to circle with him. I noticed that each time around, Hercules was backed closer to the largest fire.
“Let her go, asshole!”
Blondie laughed as he used the crushing power of his grip to force the screaming girl to her knees. He waited for the boy to shift his attention. Soon as Hercules glanced down toward the girl, Blondie leaped. Hearing cries of alarm, the boy looked up in time to see the light-haired giant on final approach. The crash sent them both sprawling within spitting distance of the fire.
Gibraltar Page 16
