The Dying Time (Book 1): Impact

by Raymond Dean White

  Otha saw Captain Silva aim a pistol at Dikeme and jumped in front of the gun taking the bullet meant for his wife, but it passed through him and hit her in her chest. Otha saw her stagger against Chad Bailey and fall, saw Jim Cantrell shoot the Captain in the head and suddenly massed fire was pouring into Viper’s army as the counterattack arrived in full force.

  Without Viper to lead them the advance halted, then withered under sustained fire. Those not killed outright broke and ran.

  Sergeant Ladell Shore tried to rally Viper’s troops but one of his own men shot him down and dashed past, fleeing into the dusk.

  *

  Otha’s legs weren’t working right but his arms still functioned. He dragged himself to Dikeme, tore open package of quick clot and pushed it inside her blouse, applying pressure to the wound.

  She moaned and roused.

  He ran one hand softly across her forehead, brushing her hair away from her eyes, and said, “You’ll be okay. You have to be okay.”

  “What about you?” she whispered, her eyes going to the blood running down his shirt.

  “Doing good,” he said.

  “Liar.” She gave him a tender look.

  “It’s bad,” he admitted, and she knew he was fading fast. “But there’s no better way for a man to go than trying to save the woman he loves.” He closed his eyes and slipped silently into death.

  “No,” Dikeme whispered, tears flowing freely. “The best way is of old age in bed with his wife after a long, full life.” She closed her own eyes, thinking that at least they’d die together.

  *

  As the last his lifeblood flowed out and mixed with the stinking mess his guts created, Viper sent a silent plea to his God. Why did you do this? You promised me victory.

  “I am Satan,” his vision sneered. “I lied. Besides, there is one in California who, though his skin is white, is darker than you.”

  Chapter 39: Aftermath

  Michael dropped beside Ellen and checked her breathing.

  “I’m okay,” she groaned and coughed, blood on her lips.

  “I disagree,” he said and when she tried to move he pinned her down. “Lie still while I check you over. Medic!”

  “The battle,” she protested, squirming. Something was wrong. She couldn’t breathe right.

  “We won,” he said. “Lie still, honey. Medic!”

  “We did?” She wheezed. “How?”

  “Jimbo rode in on his white horse and saved our butts. Now, try to relax. Don’t move.”

  She nodded. Breathing hurt like the devil. Every breath was like knives slicing her.

  “I may have a broken rib,” she whispered.

  “I’m sure you do.” His eyes slid away.

  Understanding flowed into her eyes. It was bad. “So, why can’t I breathe?”

  “Because you have a bayonet poking through your chest,” Doctor Fariq said, dropping into the trench beside them. “Now, please shut up before you do more damage to the lung it pierced.”

  Jim Cantrell and Chad Bailey slid in behind him with a stretcher.

  Michael stood by helplessly while Fariq told them to strap her to the stretcher but first he slid his hand under her back and felt along her spine.

  She gasped and moaned and he said, “Sorry. At least the bayonet isn’t attached to a rifle, so we can move you to the O.R. Bleeding is the most dangerous thing right now. I need you to breathe shallow as you can.”

  He wound layers of duct tape around her to stabilize the blade. If he removed it she’d bleed out before he could operate.

  He saw the concern in her eyes and said, “Relax, I’ve seen a lot of these injuries recently. Get some Cipro in you and a couple of band-aids and you’ll be good as new.”

  He winked at her and asked, “You aren’t allergic to Cipro, are you?”

  She slowly shook her head.

  Jim and Chad gently moved Ellen onto the stretcher, strapped her down and took off for the hospital tents.

  Doctor Fariq looked at Michael and said, “You need to get that looked at,” pointing to Michael’s bleeding chest.

  “It’s a flesh wound, Doc,” Michael said.

  “So you’re a doctor now,” Fariq replied, opening Michael’s shirt. “That’ll need stitches.” He stuck a couple of quik-clots on the wound and added, “See me later.”

  He followed the direction of Michael’s gaze and said, “I’ll take good care of her.” Fariq had proven himself during the battle doctoring or shooting as the situation required but Michael wondered if he still harbored political ambitions.

  “I know you will, Doc,” Michael said. “Thank you.”

  Doctor Fariq nodded and dashed off after the stretcher. Michael hobbled along behind. Until he knew Ellen’s fate he wouldn’t be much use to anyone.

  *

  Graves detail, Jim Cantrell thought. Books don’t talk about it and movies never glorified it but there was no doubt it was the nasty, gritty, dark underside of a battle’s aftermath. Someone had to haul the bodies and the pieces to their final resting place. Someone had to search those remains for belongings to pass on to families. Someone had to endure the unbelievable stench, the hovering, biting flies, the sheer horror of having a friend come apart in your hands. Your reward was that once in a great while you found someone alive.

  Never one to ask others to do what he wouldn’t, Jim pitched in. He was in his fifth hour when he handed cadet Dorsey McLeod up out of the trench to others and heard the groan. He looked down and saw he was standing on Dan Osaka. He jumped off of the Lieutenant so fast he slipped on the muddy bottom and turned his ankle.

  “I’ve got a live one!” he yelled and cradled Dan’s head in his lap while stretcher bearers raced to get to him.

  “Stay with me, boy,” he pleaded and didn’t realize he was crying until his tears splashed onto Dan’s face.

  He’d lose the eye for sure, Jim thought, and hoped the bullet hadn’t lodged in the young man’s brain.

  Chad Bailey found Randy McKinley still breathing and Mariko, whose skull had been dented by a bullet, regained consciousness screaming for Randy as she was being borne to the surgery tent. Doc Lewis had to shave part of her head to clean and repair the wound and when dainty, beautiful Mariko’s hair grew back she had a startling white streak amid her lustrous black mane.

  *

  As the bayonet was withdrawn and Taraq Fariq clamped a bleeder in Ellen’s chest the thought that her death might benefit him politically crossed his mind. Briefly. For while he might have disagreed with many of her policies, at heart, he was a doctor, not a killer. And she just might have been right. He could admit that now, at least to himself.

  He also recalled how she could have destroyed him but had chosen not to. He owed her for that. Besides, how much better would he look if he saved her when all knew of their rivalry.

  At least the bayonet hadn’t nicked any major arteries. Still...

  “Sponge,” he said, and as his assistant blotted the blood he began stitching.

  The greatest danger would be post-op infection, but that was why Allah invented Cipro.

  *

  Michael flinched as the needle poked through his skin and drew the stitching tight.

  “You’re the one who said no anesthetic,” Nurse Hawkins said, as she tied off the last stitch.

  For an answer he just stared at the Operating Room curtain. He’d insisted on being treated right outside the room.

  “She’s in good hands,” Nurse Hawkins said. “Seriously. Dr. Fariq has developed into a very good surgeon.” She finished bandaging his wound, noted how he wouldn’t meet her eyes and recalled how he’d intimidated her when they first met and now he looked like a kicked dog.

  Four hours later Dr. Fariq walked out of the O.R. with a smile on his face and Michael started to live again.

  *

  Provo

  Bob Young surveyed the view from horseback. Snow now capped the higher peaks but down in Provo it was dry. Stubble lined the fields
of wheat, oats and barley on the outskirts of town. Haystacks dotted other fields. Nearer to hand a pair of horses stood next to each other in a corral, front to back, muzzles resting on each other’s rumps while tails swished flies away from their heads.

  “It was a good harvest,” he said. “Enough for us, for the livestock, and seed for next year.”

  Betty’s mare, a pretty brown and white Paint turned it’s head and nipped at Bob’s leg. Betty yelled, “Manners!” and kicked the horse’s cheek, then turned to Bob and said, “You’ve been wiping your sweaty palms on your pants again haven’t you.”

  He looked away, guilty.

  “Horses love salt, Dear. Best you remember that before one of them gets a chunk of your leg.”

  To change the subject, Bob asked, “Did you hear about the beehives?”

  Betty nodded, and flipped her ponytail over her shoulder onto her back. “Davey came home from school full of the news. It’s a good idea.”

  “Agreed,” Bob said. “If we produce enough hives we may be able to resume honey production in a couple of years. Adam favors putting a beehive on the Deseret State Flag, just like on the Utah flag.”

  “So,” Betty said. “It’s a link to our past and a symbol for our future. Nice.”

  They reined their mounts around and started for home and that’s when they saw Adam whipping up the road on a motorcycle.

  He braked to a stop beside them and said, “Some fishermen just delivered a box addressed to you. They said a sailboat came up along side them and while they were preparing to repel boarders the Captain of the other boat threw the box aboard and veered off.”

  “Well, what’s in it?”

  Adam gave him a look. “I haven’t opened it, Bob. It’s addressed to you. Honestly, the first mail we’ve had since The Impact and you think I’m going to snoop?”

  “I didn’t mean it like that. It’s probably Ed Cummins’ report.”

  They high tailed it back to Bob’s office and opened the box. Inside, packed in salt, was Ed Cummins’ severed head.

  Adam grimaced and said, “Well, I guess we’ve heard from California.”

  *

  Two days after the battle, Otha Gladson was buried with the Freehold’s honored dead in a lovely green meadow west of Woodland Park. Michael planted a hand-lettered cross bearing Otha’s name at the head of his grave and looked around. White and blue lupine and red Indian paintbrush and skyrocket dotted the field. When the Aspen lining the meadow finished turning it would be surrounded by a golden halo. Pike’s Peak loomed majestic, filling the southern horizon.

  “You won’t be forgotten, my friend. I’m sure you know Dikeme is still hanging in there with us. I’m pretty sure part of the problem is she wants to be with you so I’ll have to think up something to get her interested in living again. She’ll have a home with us as long as she wants one.”

  *

  Viper’s wounded had been treated to single pistol shots to the head. There was no inclination for mercy toward cannibal slavers and murderers. Viper and his dead were searched for useful items then bulldozed into a mass grave at the base of Bluebird Hill.

  *

  Dikeme opened her eyes and saw Doc Lewis standing over her with a chart in his hand.

  “So, I didn’t die,” she said. Her gaze took in the canvas walled tent, the IV hanging from a coat rack, its tube running into her arm.

  “Don’t sound so disappointed,” Doc Lewis said, running a hand across his wiry white hair. “I lost plenty of good folks without adding you to the total.”

  His index finger traced a line down her chart then he looked at her and said, “If you’re up to it you have a visitor.”

  She thought it over, uncertain. All she really knew was that Otha was gone and she was empty inside. She had no family and, unless she counted these strange Freehholders, no friends. Finally, she nodded. Otha died fighting for their cause. The least she could do was be polite.

  Doc Lewis stepped around the hanging bed sheet that separated her bed from the one next door and Michael Whitebear limped up to her bedside. He opened his mouth to say something, closed it and sighed. He laid a hand on her forearm, gave it a gentle squeeze, cleared his throat and said, “I’m sorry.”

  Tears filled her eyes and she turned her head away.

  “He was my friend and I’ll miss him too.”

  Truth, she thought. Though Otha only knew this man for two hectic days, they’d talked like they’d known each other for years.

  “It was you who shot the guards and gave us a chance to escape the slavers, wasn’t it?”

  He nodded.

  “Otha knew you would do something to help us. He knew it.” She looked up at him. “I want to thank you for that.”

  Michael inhaled sharply. This was hard. He’d barely known the large black man but they were brothers as surely as he and Jim Cantrell were brothers.

  “I have a job for you when you’re ready,” he said, surprising himself as well as her. He really hadn’t meant to broach the subject yet, but too late now.

  “What job?”

  “Some of them got away.”

  She saw the gold highlights brighten in his odd colored eyes.

  “When you’re healed up I thought we might go hunting.”

  Deep inside her a spark fanned into flame and she found a reason to live. She nodded slowly and said, “I think I’d like that.”

  Chapter 40: Epilogue--Two Months After The War

  A light dusting of snow covered the mountainside, not quite reaching down to the valley floor. Michael took a deep breath. Pine scented air was finally overpowering the smell of charred wood. Wild turkeys called from a bare-branched willow thicket by the river. Canadian geese sailed along the pond backed up above the hydroelectric dam.

  The two way radio hanging from his belt chirped. He palmed it and said, “Michael here.”

  “Michael. Aaron. I’m out on the plains between Peyton and Calhan and I thought I’d try to raise you. Those repeaters we put up are working just fine, huh?”

  “I’m reading you loud and clear,” Michael said. “This just a radio check?”

  “No, man. I thought you’d get a kick out of this herd of antelope I spotted.”

  “Pronghorns seem to be coming back nicely.”

  “Yeah, but these aren’t pronghorns. They’re some kind of African antelope, I think, about the size of a white tail deer. Pretty sleek looking.”

  Little Steven darted out of the house onto the deck with Dikeme in tow. She overheard Aaron and said, “Sounds like Eland. Ask him if they’re tawny with white underbellies.”

  “Did you catch that?” Michael asked Aaron.

  “Sure did and she described them perfectly.”

  “What’s an Eland?” Steven asked.

  “Sort of an African deer,” Michael explained.

  “What’s Africa?”

  Michael laughed and said, “I’ll let your Aunt Di explain that one. She knows more about Africa than anybody else here.”

  He keyed the radio and said, “You should get back here before the air gets rough. Michael out.”

  “Roger that, Aaron out,” came the reply.

  “So this is where everybody’s hiding,” Ellen said as she joined them on the deck.

  “Not hiding,” Steven said. “Learning about Africa.”

  “Oh, well...that sounds important. You’ll probably want to skip breakfast then.”

  “Breakfast?” He asked.

  “Pancakes,” she replied with a smile.

  He slipped off Di’s lap, said, “Eat now, learn later,” and bolted inside.

  As they headed back inside Ellen touched Michael’s shoulder and asked, “How did he get started on that?”

  “Aaron spotted a herd of Eland out east.”

  Ellen paused by the doorway. “Aaron’s back? I didn’t hear him land...wait a minute, Elands, like the antelope?”

  “The African antelope.”

  “Ah, got it.”

  �
�And Aaron’s not back,” Michael said, holding up the radio.

  She took a deep breath and gave him a glowing smile. “If the radio’s working that far out, pretty soon we’ll be able to talk to Denver or the settlements near Buena Vista.”

  “Pretty cool, huh,” Michael said.

  “It’s better than cool. If we can blanket the East Slope with repeaters no one will ever catch us by surprise again.”

  The End

  (But keep reading for a free preview of my upcoming novel After The Dying Time)

  ####

  Hello readers,

  Raymond Dean White here, hoping you’ve enjoyed The Dying Time: Impact because I need to ask you for a very important favor. Since Indie Authors live and die by reviews I’m asking you to please go to your favorite ebook retailer and leave a starred review.

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