Joseph rose to his feet and, as usual when that happened, he commanded the attention of all in the room. Decisions such as these made men Kings or relegated them to the scrap heaps of history. His troops were exhausted from months of continuous hard fighting. Plague had hit them hard. Supplies were running low. Even so, his instincts said to attack, but he doubted he could get anyone to move back toward LA and the plague.
“Double the scavenging parties--emphasis on arms and food as usual but what we really need are more bodies so triple the slave draft. We make our stand here,” he said.
*
Stanford
Sara Garcia had been in surgery for more than a day. None of the clocks worked so she had no idea how long. The community militia was taking casualties from armed gangs up north in San Francisco. One operation after another, the wounded kept coming. She was so tired it was hard to keep her eyes open. Some time before, she wasn’t sure exactly when, her hands began to tremble, so she turned the scalpel over to her trainee, a Nurse named Alicia Diggs, and stood at the woman’s shoulder guiding her through the procedure.
“Forceps,” Alicia said. She held out her hand and the assisting nurse placed a pair of forceps in her palm without Alicia ever once looking away from her patient. She used the forceps to extract a third piece of shrapnel from the patient’s perforated intestine. The sound it made clanking into a metal tray was grim. Without antibiotics such injuries were most often fatal.
“Sponge,” Alicia ordered. The suction device was down so nurses had to sponge away the blood so she could look for more fragments. Without power there were no X-rays to guide her.
The patient moaned and before Sara could speak up Alicia barked, “More drip!” They were reduced to using ether as an anesthetic.
Sara placed a hand on Alicia’s shoulder and squeezed gently. Nothing like being thrown into deep water to teach you to swim. She was proud of Alicia. The woman was her star pupil. Another few months at this pace and Alicia would be teaching others the basics. She watched carefully as Alicia stitched the hole in the intestine, flushed the wound, waited while it was sponged out, and checked for foreign objects before closing.
Several patients later, Sara could no longer function. She needed sleep and food, and since her house was less than a block from the hospital she decided to go home. Placing her bloodied scrubs in a laundry bag she staggered out.
Sara opened the door and stepped inside the small ranch-style house she shared with Raoul. Instantly an intriguing scent claimed her attention. She inhaled deeply letting the delightful aroma wash away the weariness she wore home from the hospital.
“What smells so good?” she asked.
Raoul’s voice drifted to her from the kitchen. “Nothing much,” he said dryly. “Just chicken teriyaki with herb and butter rice.”
Her mouth watered. “Are you kidding?” she asked, suddenly energized.
Silence from the kitchen.
“Are you kidding?” She asked again quickstepping toward the kitchen.
Raoul stuck his head out around the corner. “Would I kid my favorite granddaughter?”
“With your last breath,” she replied, entering the kitchen. She stopped, stunned. He wasn’t kidding!
Her mouth gaped like a fish before she found her voice. “Where did you get all this?”
The back half of the kitchen was littered with treasure. A twenty-pound propane bottle fed a gas grill, on which, Raoul was basting chicken breasts and thighs with teriyaki sauce. The rest of the chicken cooked in a pot of boiling water on the other end of the grill. The rice simmered in a large frying pan between them. All the windows and doors were open for ventilation.
On the floor were three tins of tuna, a few cans of beans, a pair of flashlights, packages of batteries, a case of Rice-a-Roni herb and butter rice, candles, a box of wood matches, what appeared to be down sleeping bags, a pair of backpacks, a lightweight tent, a bag of flour and, she gasped, a five-pound bag of sugar.
“Am I dreaming?” She turned to Raoul with a smile. “And if I am, don’t you dare wake me until after we eat.”
Raoul grinned back and said, “It’s no dream.”
“But…” she gestured helplessly.
“The Council has the chicken coops running well enough now to cull hens that stop laying.”
Well, that explains the chicken, she thought.
“And the rest are donations from your patients at the hospital. I’ve been saving it up to surprise you.”
She stared at him blankly.
“Hellooo,” he said. “Happy birthday!”
She broke out a smile and gave it to him. “How did you know when I’d be home?”
“Alicia sent a runner about an hour ago to let me know you were out on your feet. By the way, Will Benton gave us the sugar after you removed Trish’s inflamed appendix.”
Sara shook her head sadly. “I’ve asked folks not to do that. We can’t keep all this.”
Raoul turned the chicken on the grill and basted it again. He removed the cover from the frying pan so the rice wouldn’t get soggy, grabbed a wooden spoon, and stirred the chicken boiling in the pot.
“These gifts came from people whose lives you saved Sara,” he said. “They want you to have them.”
“But…” she pointed at the pile. “It’s too much. These things are irreplaceable. No one makes batteries or matches anymore and who knows how long it will be before someone does.”
“You are absolutely correct,” Raoul said. “But, Sara, we live in a barter economy now. Your patients needed to give you something for their own self-respect. We swap goods and skills we have for those we don’t. And your skills save lives. You may be the only Board Certified Thoracic Surgeon in the entire world! No one can put a price on that knowledge.”
“The gardeners, scavengers and fishermen provide the food that keeps us all alive,” she responded. “Our militia defends us from criminals and marauders. The repair crews fix our homes. Are their contributions less important than mine? They certainly aren’t paid as well. I’m giving it back.” She took two plates out of the cabinets and set them on the table.
Raoul snorted. “Fine. Go ahead. Insult them. Show them your wishes are more important than theirs.”
Sara pursed her lips, then sighed as she saw his point. He was right. She reached for the silverware, wondering if she would ever win an argument with her grandfather. We can always donate most of it to the Community Food Bank, she thought.
The aroma of the food caressed her nose and she smiled again. Alicia had once told her she was tougher than cured concrete but right now her will power felt more like melted butter.
*
Eastern Colorado
The shot came out of nowhere. Otha and Di reined their horses in and sat very still. The shot was well-aimed kicking up dust between them. Whoever it was could have killed one of them.
“That’s right! You just sit there!”
Otha saw some tall weeds move and a white-haired man holding a very steady rifle stepped from hiding.
He alone? Otha wondered.
“We can take him if we have too,” Di whispered.
“Don’t get any ideas,” the man said, stepping closer. “There’s others covering you.”
“You ain’t from around here,” the man said, cocking his head. “But you look familiar. Where you from?”
Otha saw the man’s fingers tense on the rifle, as if the answer was important.
“Illinois originally and the Army most recently,” Otha said, friendly. “Dikeme here is from Zululand in Africa.” The man’s eyes widened, but his fingers relaxed. “She was with me in New York City when The Dying Time began.”
The man raised an eyebrow.
“I might look familiar because I was on TV for a while before everything went to hell. Otha Gladson’s the name.”
“Uh huh,” the man nodded, seeming to make up his mind. “Well, if you’ve come all the way from New York you must be hungry. You want to step do
wn from those horses, my place ain’t far. You’d be welcome; mostly because I’m dying to hear some news!” He stepped close and held out his hand as Otha dismounted.
“Name’s Earl Baker,” he said as they shook. “Sorry about the greeting, but there’s some Black folks up around Denver…” He paused and shook his head. “Well, just don’t go near there.”
“We appreciate the warning,” Dikeme said.
As they led the horses after Earl a teenage girl, two small boys and a woman stepped from the weeds and joined them. All were armed and all had been invisible until they showed themselves.
“Can’t be too cautious nowadays,” Earl said. “This is my wife, Bobbi, my daughter Marci and my two sons, Lake and Zeb. My family and I mostly stay up in the mountains around Buena Vista and the Freeholds.”
“Freeholds?” Di asked.
“Yeah,” Earl said. “Group of folks have some homesteads up west of Colorado Springs. Good people.”
Otha and Di nodded, filing the info for later use.
“Anyhow, as I was saying, we mostly stay in the mountains but we come down in the spring to plant a garden and come back in summer for harvest.”
“Don’t the deer eat it all?” Otha asked.
“Deer population’s coming back slow so we don’t eat much venison. Besides the garden’s fenced off good. Prairie dogs, rabbits and birds give us more problems.”
He chuckled. “Be having prairie dog and rabbit stew for dinner.”
“Sir,” Dikeme said. “You are a lifesaver. We haven’t had much fresh meat since we were in Missouri.”
“We do have some smoked fish we could share with you,” Otha added. “Caught plenty crossing Kansas. No albacore or swordfish.” He sighed theatrically. “Will sea bass do?”
“Sea bass?” Earl’s wife exclaimed. “From Kansas?”
Otha exchanged an amused glance with Dikeme. Wait until we tell them about the rest of the Eastern U.S.
*
Near the Freeholds
Ellen Whitebear’s horse snorted and shied away from the trees. A flash of motion caught her eye between the pines, then another. Too quick to ID. She turned her mare away from the woods. What was in there? It almost felt like something was stalking them.
“Mommy?” Her four-year-old son, Steven, rode behind her holding to her waist while she made a short side trip just over the ridge from camp to entertain her son and maybe find something useful.
“Yes, Honey?”
“Why are the dogs playing with us?”
Her skin crawled at his words, and she kicked her horse into a trot. Steven had never had a pet dog. Dogs had gone wild after The Dying Time, formed packs, scavenged corpses, then turned to live prey.
First they went after livestock. Domestic cattle and sheep, bred for centuries to be docile, lacked the instincts to survive in the new world and were easy pickings. They didn’t last long. Now wild dogs ate anything they could pull down, horses, longhorns, buffalo, llamas and people. They were shot on sight.
The valley was narrowing and she no longer wanted to enter the gorge at the end so she slowed her horse and looked around. A small creek ran down the middle of the valley and where there were streams there were willow shrubs lining them. Dense thickets, all but impenetrable. Motion from there too.
God, how many were in this pack? And how had they survived the long winter? The answer flashed across her mind: frozen corpses.
She headed her horse around, back up the valley and immediately saw them across her path--a line of heads bounding toward her in the grass, now coming from the trees and willows, closing on her like a school of barracudas. Dozens of them.
She pulled her rifle from its scabbard and Steven, having known nothing but perilous times sensed the threat and tightened his grip on her waist. Ellen was an instinctive shooter, sharp and quick, but more important she stayed cool and steady. She pulled the 3030 to her cheek and levered three fast shots.
Three dogs fell, a small gap in their line.
“Hang on tight, Honey,” she yelled as she spurred for the break.
She emptied the rifle, widening the gap. But these dogs had done this before and there was no quit in them. They charged faster.
Ellen’s hat blew off; her long blonde hair streamed behind as she leaned over her mare and yelled encouragement. The horse blasted through the line and flew up the valley, clods of dirt flying off its hooves.
“Wheee!” Steven screamed, his eyes bright with joy.
The Rottweiler that leapt at her mare’s throat seemed to come from nowhere. The horse shied violently and before she could react Ellen was thrown to the ground.
“Mommy!” Terror, this time.
Instantly, Ellen was up, pistol in hand. The Rottweiler’s head exploded with her shot as it lunged for her son. Her horse was racing away head turned to the side to avoid stepping on the reins. She snapped a shot that dropped it. The closest dogs would go for the horse first.
She snatched Steven up with her free arm and dashed for the nearest trees, three large aspen at the edge of the meadow. She didn’t have to look to know the pack was almost on her.
She heaved Steven into the nearest tree and screamed, “Climb!” Ellen whirled to face her attackers, pistol spitting bullets, dogs dropping, pistol clicking empty. She heaved it at them, pulled her camp knife with one hand and picked up a fallen tree branch with her other.
Sweeping the branch back and forth to keep the space in front of her clear, she set her back against the aspen. A large poodle yelped as it tried for her arm and got a nose-full of branch instead. She swiped her knife at a German Shepherd and missed. Two mongrels and a Husky lunged at once.
She bashed one with the branch and felt her knife bite deep into another. Then fangs tore into her calf and side. Agony flared and she fell. More dogs swarmed over her, snapping, and tearing at her. At least they wouldn’t get her son.
Gunshots volleyed into the pack and like magic the dogs disappeared. She raised her head. Men on horseback were chasing dogs among the trees killing them.
Michael slid off his horse, pulled the dead Husky off her and started checking her injuries. She couldn’t speak.
“Get Wayne Anderson,” he bellowed. Wayne had been a medic.
And then Ellen was hugging him, shaking and crying.
“Bravest thing I ever saw,” Michael spoke softly as he held her and stroked her hair.
A noise in the branches above caused Michael to look up. Steven stared down with big eyes.
“Is mommy okay?” His voice quivered.
Michael smiled up at him. “She’s a lot better than that, son. A lot better.”
Confidence restored, the boy slid down out of the tree. He kicked the bloodstained husky, said, “Bad dog,” then snuggled between his mom and dad.
Ellen hugged Steven too fiercely and he wormed out of her grasp, a small boy bright-eyed with an important question.
“Mommy, when I get older will you teach me to shoot like that?”
He was too young to understand either his father’s chuckle or his mother’s tears.
*
Provo, Utah
Adam Young looked out over the gaunt faces of his assembled militia with pride. “No one thought we’d have to last more than four years before we could start growing fresh food again, but we did it. We scavenged and foraged and fought when we had to and now we face other challenges but we’ll overcome them too.”
He saw their shoulders straighten under his praise. They’d given their sweat, tears, blood and occasionally their lives to help fellow Mormons and gentiles survive The Dying Time and now he had to ask them to perform another mission.
He pointed to his brother, Bob, who sat at a table in this former High School Gym, and said, “Bob there has a bunch of envelopes for you. I’m asking each one of you to take one, but I’m not ordering anyone to do this. I want volunteers only.
“We need to send out scouting parties, farther than we’ve ever gone before. We need to map
our new coastline, to make contact, peaceful if possible, with other survivors, but above all else, we need to know what other forces may be out there.
“As some of you may know, we got visitors a couple of days ago. These folks came to us in a sailboat from California and they were in a real bad way.” He saw a few heads nodding among his troops and was not so much surprised the word had leaked out as by how few seemed to know.
“Anyhow, according to them there’s some cannibal King in California going around enslaving folks, murdering any who won’t submit. They say he’s intent on taking over the rest of America.” His people were looking at each other now, traces of alarm on their faces.
“And to make matters worse there’s a plague over there like the one that went through here and we want nothing to do with it. So this is the worst mission I could ask you to go on. You’ll be facing unknown dangers and God knows it’s hard enough just going to Salt Lake and back. I want you to know I won’t think less of anyone who won’t go--but we need this information badly.”
With that he said nothing more, just walked over to Bob and picked an envelope at random from a large box. His brother had argued with him about this but he’d be damned if he’d ask anyone to do something he wasn’t prepared to do.
Silently, his militia did the same thing, to a man.
Chapter 30: Battle for Empire
California
Jamal Rashid counted the campfires in the valley below. Thirty-two at an average of fifteen men per fire. 480, and they mostly looked like Marines. Joey wasn’t going to like this one bit. This force was far enough east of Scarlatti lines to flank them.
“Captain Carswell,” he whispered, as he scratched a note in the moonlight. “Have one of your men get this to Joseph or John. We have to warn them about this situation.”
That isn’t all Joey needs to know, Jamal thought. Earlier that morning he’d glimpsed open water off to the East--a large body of water--and he could swear he’d smelled the sea. Was California an island now?
The Dying Time (Book 1): Impact Page 30
