The Dying Time (Book 1): Impact

by Raymond Dean White

  Of course, good looking women and strong men were spared, having other uses, but now they were running low on slaves, with just a thousand or so left.

  They began to worry. Who would they eat after all the slaves were gone? They eyed each other nervously.

  To make matters worse they had also become accustomed to letting slaves do all the real work, such as scavenging for food and supplies. Most of what male chauvinist pigs used to call “women’s work,” from cleaning quarters to preparing food and looking after children, became “slave’s work,” beneath the dignity of any true follower of Mustapha. The thinkers in Viper’s army knew this meant not all the slaves would be eaten before their turn came. Rumors began to fly.

  Leroy Parsons, who now only allowed a select few to call him Mustapha or Leroy, brooded in the library of his opulent Cherry Hills mansion. He leaned his head on his fists, elbows braced on top of the dark mahogany conference table where he was seated. A twelve-foot tall, arched-top bay window looked out over Denver rooftops, down into the valley of the Platte and up to the foothills and snowcapped Mount Evans. His followers were restless, bored even. He didn’t want to think they were lazy, but they weren’t even trying to build the new and better black civilization of his dreams. The new order he’d been preaching to them about for months now. No! All they were interested in was lording it over their slaves and collecting baubles.

  Viper laughed, his eyes scanning the leather bound volumes on teakwood shelves, the stained glass and cut crystal lamps, the bejeweled Pharaoh’s scepter he had taken from the Natural History museum and now used as a symbol of his power. Even this palace is a bauble, he thought. No one was immune to the corruption of power. He remembered it had taken a dozen slaves two weeks to repair the windows in this mansion, clean it out, and manicure the grounds.

  Is this why our Dark Lord smote the world?

  Viper concluded it was time to move on. He had wanted to check out Colorado Springs, which could provide more slaves and then investigate these Freeholds he’d heard about last year, but the darkness, the cold, and the rain conspired to keep him stuck in Denver. Well, the rains had finally stopped and the sun was out.

  He rubbed his hands together, anticipating a report from the scouting party he’d sent out last week. According to the road atlas it was only about a hundred miles to the Freeholds. Even with the bridges out and the roads all broken and blocked they should be back within the next two or three days. While he was waiting, he should start the push toward Colorado Springs.

  He hesitated. Every time he decided to head south he felt a sense of wrongness that he couldn’t deny. Events even had him rethinking basic policy. At first his all-consuming hatred of the white man had driven him to excess. Enslave or eradicate. But now he’d come to realize that the white man’s world was truly gone and they no longer posed a threat.

  It was like blinders lifted, opening his vision. Blacks could build a beautiful civilization without the petty hates and injustices of the white civilization God had destroyed. If he could get them off their asses and make them do it. Meanwhile to quench the discontent and get their juices flowing again he had to get them moving, not just because they needed more food, but because if they weren’t growing they were stagnating. “Marcus!”

  In the sitting room next door Marcus Robitaille, formerly of Turner and Shields, Attorneys at law, specialists in Affirmative Action EEOC lawsuits, climbed out of a Louis XIV chair and walked to the door. He had been forced into Viper’s organization at gunpoint, but, opportunist to the core, it didn’t take him long to rise near the top and become one of the privileged few who could address Viper as Mustapha, or even (in private) as Leroy.

  He even looked a lot like Viper, same medium-muscular build and six-foot height, same finely chiseled, almost feminine features, same attitude toward the white oppressors that didn’t quite know what to do with itself now that they were gone. Viper had commented on more than one occasion that Marcus would make a useful double.

  Of course, Marcus had other ideas and this recent softening he’d detected in Leroy could play right into his hands.

  “What’s up?” Marcus asked as he entered the library.

  “Weapons status, Marcus?” Viper’s question caught him by surprise. Leroy hadn’t been paying that much attention to weaponry lately, being more concerned with getting some farms going. But just because the question came out of nowhere didn’t mean Marcus didn’t have the answer. He opened his briefcase and pulled out a folder.

  “Darnell and his patrol hit the Federal Center yesterday. It’s damn near untouched. I mean there are more than a dozen tanks, twenty APC’s, and fourteen Bradleys. The biggest problems are ammunition and fuel. The armory burned during the firestorm and most of the ammo with it. As for diesel fuel, well, these vehicles have always been gas hogs.”

  Viper nodded for him to continue.

  “I have Darnell, Lifter and Cadillac checking the Conoco refinery in Commerce City and looking for unburned truck stops, but I think we may have to put some slave details to draining fuel tanks in abandoned trucks.”

  Viper shifted impatiently and said one word, “Planes.”

  Bastard always scratches the open sore, Marcus thought. “Well, DIA, Centennial and Buckley were completely destroyed. We haven’t located an intact plane of any kind and we’ve checked as far north as Loveland Municipal. Maybe Pete Field in Colorado Springs fared better, but we won’t know’tilwe head south.”

  That last was as close to a dig as Marcus dared. For reasons known only to him, Viper had delayed moving toward Colorado Springs. Probably those “voices” he claimed to hear.

  “Glad to hear you say that,” Mustapha smiled, “because heading south is just what we’re going to do.” He beckoned Marcus over to the large Colorado map spread out over the conference table. He ran his finger down I-25 to Colorado Springs, circling it with a red magic marker.

  “Get those slave details draining fuel tanks and filling tankers. Have the road teams start clearing and dozing on I-25.”

  Marcus was jotting notes on a legal pad.

  “And find out what intel has on the Springs.”

  “I’ve already got that last one, Leroy.” Marcus opened his brief case again and extracted another manila folder. “Population guesstimates range from two to ten thousand. No scout reported seeing more than thirty people at a time. No one was overtly hostile. Organization is very loose if there is any, but no organized resistance is expected. Seems to be a functioning hospital in the Center of town. Fountain Creek was in flood stage when the Springs was last scouted so they couldn’t check out Fort Carson, but last time the scouts saw nothing to worry about. One new item of interest is that there seems to be some military activity at the Air Force Academy. Marching drills and that sort of thing. Looks like they have some light artillery too.”

  “Then we’ll hit them first,” Viper said.

  *

  The Freeholds

  “Are you crazy?” The way Ellen looked at him, Michael knew the question wasn’t rhetorical. “You want to go to Colorado Springs and Denver when you know Viper is out there with his army?”

  “That’s it exactly,” Michael agreed. “We need to know where Viper’s army is and what it’s up to. Specifically, we need to know how long we have to prepare.”

  In the past two years Ellen’s stock among Freeholders had risen to the point where she was their de facto leader. Her only real opposition came from Doctor Taraq Fariq, a refugee from Denver who preached pacifism. He told his followers that The Dying Time was a message from God, a chance, perhaps our last one, to turn from violence to a new beginning of brotherhood and goodwill. He enjoyed a growing influence among recent immigrants to the valley, who would soon be a majority.

  Taraq’s ideas were seductive, but Michael suspected pacifists wouldn’t live long around people like Viper. To make matters worse, Taraq wanted to go to Denver and talk to Viper to see if conflict could be avoided. “There are so few of us left,”
he would say, spreading his palms and shrugging. “We should try.”

  Those with first hand experience warned that Viper would talk to Taraq, but would listen to no one.

  The point was moot as far as Michael was concerned. He wasn’t taking anyone with him but Jim Cantrell, and they were flying the gyrocopter.

  Ellen wasn’t giving up yet. She pointed her finger at him. “What makes you think you can scout him without being caught?”

  He raised an eyebrow and she looked away. “Okay,” she admitted. “You’re an expert tracker, good in the woods. But this is in town! And you are the wrong color to blend in. Why not let Terrell Johnson go? At least he’s black, and he’s had army experience.”

  “Sweetheart,” Michael paced their kitchen, where he’d foolishly brought up this subject while fixing venison spaghetti. He stopped a second to stir the sauce. “Terrell was a helicopter pilot and mechanic, and while he can undoubtedly fly that gyro better than Jim or I, he wasn’t a grunt. He doesn’t know how to set an ambush or fade away without a trace.”

  “But…” she began.

  He whirled on her, throwing up his hands, splattering spaghetti sauce in the process. “Why are we having this argument? You know we need this information. Our very survival could depend on it. And I’m the best qualified to get it, and…” he stopped, looked at the spaghetti stain on the floor, on the countertop, on the cabinet. “Damn!”

  He caught her eye. “Don’t you see?”

  Ellen stepped into his arms and hugged him, her blonde head snuggling under his chin. Her sigh was as heavy as the world. “I know,” she said in a small voice. “I just don’t want you to go.”

  That night a flickering orange glow appeared on the eastern horizon. Colorado Springs, or something near it, was burning.

  Ellen stepped outside and joined Michael on the redwood deck that overlooked the valley. Silently, she watched the glow with him, her hazel eyes sad. Finally she looked up into his weather-lined face and whispered, “Go.”

  The next morning Michael and Jim Cantrell rolled the gyrocopter out of the barn, where it was kept safe from both elements and prying eyes, and took off into a clear blue sky. Bright sunlight glinted off patches of snow in the high peaks, the highest of which were completely snowcapped. Early season gardens dotted the valley floor and as they eased up into the Tarryall Range a herd of now-wild horses bolted at the sound of their engine.

  “Wish we could have taken the Pegasus,” Michael yelled.

  “Could have, if you’d gotten a two-seater,” Jim responded. In the Pegasus they could turn off the engine and soar silently. If they turned off the motor in the gyrocopter they would soar like a rock.

  “Look!” Michael pointed. Bighorn sheep scrambled along a cliff face, their white rumps bobbing and weaving. Deer and elk were also making a comeback from The Dying Time and Michael wondered how many species would recover. He smiled recalling the elephants. Here and there the men spotted cattle and sheep, always in small numbers. They had been bred for centuries to be stupid and docile--bad traits to have in bad times.

  Everywhere they looked signs of rebirth encouraged them. Charred pine forests were awash in seedlings--many conifers needed forest fires to re-seed. In the meadows tall green grasses rippled in a light breeze. A vee-shaped ripple gave away a muskrat swimming across a beaver pond.

  All of which stood in stark contrast to the quake churned roads, broken bridges, burned-out shells of houses and rusting hulks of autos blocking Highway 24--more as they closed on the Springs. Columns of smoke still wound upward into the sky and hundreds of refugees were fleeing up Ute Pass. Michael spotted the white lab coat of Doctor Lewis and waved as the gyrocopter zipped by overhead. The Freeholds was facing a flood of new refugees and Viper’s army. Michael sighed. Problems love company. They never come alone.

  He said, “Things must be pretty bad in the Springs for Doc Lewis to give up his hospital.”

  “Gotta be Viper,” Jim said. “I hoped we had more time”.

  Another problem occurred to him and Michael nudged Jim. “How do you plan to keep Viper’s troops from hearing us?” The gyrocopter was noisy as a lawnmower.

  “I figure Viper came straight down I-25 from Denver, so we’ll veer south around Cheyenne Mountain, then drop low and land at Fort Carson. There’ll probably be some gas there and we’ll have to refuel before the return flight.”

  “Good idea,” Michael agreed. “I’ve been wanting to see if any armor or artillery survived.” Michael’s last scavenging expedition to the Springs had once again focused on nonperishable food, antibiotics, tools and how-to books, in that order. He’d had no chance to check out the Fort.

  “Emil spent some time at the Fort before heading for the Freeholds,” Jim said. “According to him there’s not much there worth scavenging.”

  “I know,” Michael admitted. “But it’s a big base.”

  The few hundred people he’d encountered in the Springs on scavenging missions had been isolated and disorganized, but not hostile. As Michael and Jim rounded the peak echoes of cannon fire reached them from the North. Jim landed, rolling to a stop next to an abandoned jeep and Michael hopped out.

  “Sounds like whoever is up there is putting up a good fight,” he said. “Must have got organized since last year. Why don’t you siphon some gas out, fly up there and look around.”

  Jim pulled out a siphon hose and said, “Without you sitting second seat I can get high enough they won’t hear me. ‘Course with all that racket going on they might not hear me anyway. You gonna poke around here ’til I get back?”

  “I’ll start here, but I might head on into town.” Michael pulled a flare from his pack. “If I get in trouble and you can help I’ll pop red smoke. Meet me back here tomorrow morning, okay?”

  “Gotcha,” Jim said and rolled for takeoff.

  Three hours later Michael had determined that every big gun on the base had been spiked or otherwise destroyed before the soldiers deserted for home. That agreed with what Emil had told him. Some of the small arms lockers had been looted or destroyed, but a few appeared secure and he found an overlooked case of grenades. He was about to leave for town when Jim buzzed back overhead and landed.

  “You aren’t going to believe this,” Jim yelled as the gyro rolled to a stop. “The fighting is coming from the Air Force Academy! There’s a battalion of cadets holed up on the ridge south of the Chapel and they’re giving Viper fits.”

  Jim’s eyes were glittering and Michael caught the fever. He held up the case of grenades and asked, “Think we can help?”

  “Some,” Jim answered. “But I gotta tell you, the situation’s grim. Viper must have raided the armory at the Federal Center. He’s got several Bradleys and tanks and a self-propelled howitzer.” Jim looked at the grenades and their rifles. “Nothing we’ve got will touch that.”

  “How about the cadets?” Michael climbed in and sat the case of grenades on his lap.

  Jim shook his head. “Howitzers, mortars, LAWS, and small arms. The only thing saving them is Viper’s tank and gun crews are lousy shots.”

  “No Air power?”

  “None for Viper. The Cadets have a couple of trainers sitting on their airstrip but those things aren’t armed.”

  “Think they can hang on ‘til we find some wide-mouth jars?”

  Jim didn’t get it.

  Michael picked up a grenade. “If I pull the pins and drop them from altitude they’ll blow before hitting the ground,” Michael explained. “And if we go low enough to be effective we’ll get our butts shot off. Pull the pin, put the grenade in a jar small enough to hold the spoon down, drop the jar…” he smiled.

  “Jar hits the ground and breaks,” Jim continued. “Three-seconds later--BOOM!”

  It took them almost an hour to find canning jars in the Commissary and get airborne. Raiders were swarming over the North end of Colorado Springs like locusts in a grain field. They were following Fountain Creek; which, with bridges out and autos and tre
es blocking broken roads, was the only relatively clear path through town. Where necessary they shoved autos into ravines and their tanks rolled over them, makeshift bridges. The Cadets had been flanked and they didn’t know it.

  Just as Michael was wondering if they were ever going to reach the Air Force Academy the main campus appeared below them. The Chapel was in ruins, and the entire cadet area from the field house to Sijan Hall was aflame. But so were several of Viper’s tanks; victims of artillery and mortar fire. Bodies littered the ground. The self-propelled gun, well out of range of the cadet’s artillery, was repositioning, tending crew and ammo carrier behind it.

  “Get over the gun,” Michael yelled. “We can’t hurt it, but we can sure as hell discourage the crew.” He began furiously pulling pins and stuffing grenades in jars.

  “Careful, man,” Jim said as they came to a hover over the big gun. “Wouldn’t want one of those to get loose in here.” In the skeletal, open framework of the gyrocopter anything Michael dropped would likely fall right through.

  Michael handed a jar to Jim, grinned and said, “Bombs away!” The jars seemed to fall forever, the light breeze affecting their path only slightly. Michael and Jim had six more on the way before the first two exploded, wiping out the gun crew. The other grenades blew, killing or wounding some men around the ammunition carrier. Almost immediately a squad of cadets ran from the woods and slapped charges on the gun. Seconds later it exploded, barrel describing a majestic arc before landing on the tender.

  The twinkling of gun barrels told Jim and Michael they were being fired upon, but they were too high for small arms to reach.

  A hot battle raged around the North end of the airstrip. Michael could see the Cadets defending the two Trainers falling until only a few were left. Viper’s troops advanced toward the aircraft. Suddenly, the planes exploded, the remaining Cadets disappearing in the fireball along with many of Viper’s men.

  Michael looked at Jim and shook his head. They’d been too far away to help, but that wasn’t true for the kids who’d blown the gun.