The Dying Time (Book 2): After The Dying Time (13 page)

Chapter 12: The Tigress and the Snake

The Freeholds

Late February, 13 A.I.

Tap, tap, tap.

The knuckles of Sara Garcia’s right hand rapped against Randy and Mariko McKinley’s door. Her backpack held her medical kit. She stepped back to await a response, slipping a bit on the melting snow before catching her balance. She scooped up some snow and rubbed in over her face, as if that could erase the dark circles under her eyes. She was about to knock again when the knob turned and little Jimmy McKinley opened the door.

“Come in, Dr. Sara,” he said, subdued.

She placed her hand on his head and stroked his hair as she stepped into the mud-room entryway. The normally lively house was too-quiet. She stamped more snow off her boots, pulled off her backpack and hung her coat on the coat rack. Jimmy turned back toward the kitchen where the other three children, Melinda, Randy Junior and Mary, were packing school lunches. Their solemn demeanor revealed how worried they were about their baby sister.

“Where’s your mom?” she asked, fighting the impulse to whisper.

“She’s in my...Cindy and my...our room, end of the hall on the left,” Mary answered.

Sara nodded her thanks and started down the central hallway. Her eyes were drawn to the many Japanese silk-screen prints that decorated the walls. The doorways leading off the hall were folding screens similarly painted. Mariko, a fourth generation Japanese-American, was keeping alive an ancient tradition. The paintings were as delicate and lovely as she.

Voices floated down the hall from Cindy’s room. As Sara neared the doorway she heard a heart-wrenching sob and Mariko burst out of the room. Her long black hair with its distinctive white streak was disheveled and her face twisted in a grimace of grief, her mouth open in a silent scream. Sara dropped her medical kit and hugged Mariko. Through the open doorway she saw Ellen Whitebear pulling a blanket up over five-year-old Linda’s face.

“Oh, God! I’m sorry, Mariko. I got here as fast as I could,” Sara offered. She hadn’t slept in three days; too many sick, too many dying.

Ellen joined them in the hall, wiping tears from her cheeks. She closed the bedroom door behind her and Mariko turned from Sara to cry on her best friend’s shoulder. In response to Sara’s raised eyebrows, Ellen nodded and said, “Typhoid.” She bowed her head. “Just like the others.”

There had been forty-eight confirmed cases in the past ten days and fourteen deaths counting Mariko’s little girl. People were scared.

Ellen looked back up. “Have you isolated the source yet?”

“We think so,” Sara replied. Then she gave Mariko a handkerchief and asked, “Have Cindy, or any other of your children been over to the Allen place recently?”

Eric and Marcia Allen’s freehold was one of the most remote homesteads in the valley. Nonetheless, it was a popular gathering place because of the hot springs pool that had formed behind their place after the cataclysm.

“We had a family picnic at the hot springs last week,” Mariko said, wiping her eyes and blowing her nose, regaining control.

Turning her eyes back to Ellen, Sara said, “We think the pool’s been contaminated.”

As the full implications of that statement hit her, Ellen blanched, then asked, “You mean somebody did this deliberately?” In her mind she heard Jason Merriman saying the King had used typhoid in Flagstaff. She prayed they weren’t about to get hit with anthrax or something worse.

“All but eight of the victims have been to that pool within the past two weeks,” Sara stated, then added, “Temperatures in certain parts of the pool are ideal for growing bacteria, but Doc Lewis, Raoul...none of us believes the bacteria that causes typhoid could have been introduced accidentally through the geyser that feeds the pool. It’s too hot. I wish Jason Merriman was here. We could certainly use his help on this.”

“What are you doing to contain the outbreak?” Ellen asked, cutting to the heart of the matter as usual.

“We’ve cordoned off the pool and posted it with warnings. Doc Lewis dumped several gallons of chlorine bleach into the pool to disinfect it. We’ve quarantined everybody who’s been diagnosed with the fever. However, we’ve got another problem. We’re almost out of antibiotics.”

“Oh God, no!” Mariko whispered, thinking of her other exposed children.

Sara looked helplessly at Mariko. Ellen spoke up, her voice strained. “Sara, what about the pharmacology lab you started last November. Any results?”

“We’ve got some weak bread-mold type penicillin growing and we have some sulfa, but nothing left that will touch this strain of typhoid,” Sara replied. “This epidemic’s used up everything we’ve developed and if any more cases turn up...” Sara’s voice faded as she contemplated being unable to stop an epidemic. In such a small, tightly knit community as the Freeholds a disease like typhoid could wreak havoc.

“Elizabeth put together an herbal mix that promises to keep people hydrated. It might slow the disease down long enough for their immune systems to gain the upper hand, but...” She shrugged.

“Any chance we can retrieve viable antibiotics from medical warehouses in Denver, or Colorado Springs?”

“After this many years? Sorry, Ellen, but antibiotics have a short shelf life. That’s why we started the lab, remember?”

“I know,” Ellen’s mind was running a thousand miles a minute, struggling for answers as she comforted her friend, “but what about the folks at Provo?”

“That’s a thought,” Sara was ready to jump at any decent suggestion. She slung her pack over her shoulder and headed back towards the door.

“Get Chad Bailey to give them a call and see if they can help,” Ellen said. “Have him issue a general bulletin canceling school. No more large gatherings until we have this epidemic whipped.” Sara nodded her understanding and left.

Ellen helped Mariko up the hallway toward the stricken children. With each step, Mariko’s spine stiffened and her head came up. By the time she and Ellen came to the children she was in control again. She had to be, for them. She was The Mom and she had to explain the death of their sister without going to pieces.

Thirty minutes later, as Ellen finished brewing some tea for Mariko, Dan Osaka arrived.

His single somber eye met Mariko’s. “I’m sorry to intrude, but I need our President.”

He turned to Ellen. “We’ve got company,” he said. “There’s a party of men at the Meeting House who claim to be ambassadors. Our outriders disarmed them and escorted them into the valley.” Dan’s voice turned grim as he added, “I don’t like the looks of them.”

“Thank you, Dan,” Ellen said. “I’ll be right there.” She turned to Mariko and added. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

As she stepped out the door Ellen noticed a flash of light coming from the Meeting House, as if someone was spying on her through binoculars. Normally, being spied on would have upset her, but the little girl’s death, so fresh in her heart, overwhelmed petty grievances.

She and Dan were almost to the Meeting House before he spoke again. His body language betrayed his agitation.

“Ellen, there’s something odd about these guys,” he said. “I can’t quite put my finger on it, but their attitude--it’s like they’re looking down their noses at us. They say they won’t talk to anybody but the boss and when I tried to explain that we have a President, not a boss, they just sneered.” Dan’s fierce independence, so typical of the Freeholders, had obviously been insulted.

Dan led Ellen into the small crowd that had gathered around the newcomers. A small space separated the four men from the Freeholders, as if the people of the settlement instinctively desired to keep their distance. Three of the men were tall, with medium builds and undistinguished features. The fourth was different. Of average height, he was thin to the point of emaciation. His dark skin was pockmarked. Long, thinning black hair parted around jug ears and a huge hawk nose jutted out of his gaunt face. Nervous, beady brown eyes, gleaming with the fires of fanaticism, darted about, never seeming to fix on one spot. Even standing still he appeared to twitch. A pair of field glasses hung from around his neck.

So he was the watcher, Ellen thought.

“Men,” Dan couldn’t bring himself to use the word gentlemen, “This is Ellen Whitebear, President of the United Freeholds.”

The skinny man, apparently the leader, stepped forward, looked Ellen over briefly and said, “Jamal Rashid, ambassador from the court of His Most Imperial Majesty and Lord of All He Surveys, King Joseph the First.” He issued the statement with pride amounting to arrogance, thinking, a woman? This would be too easy. He couldn’t believe his luck.

An angry murmur ran through the crowd as his words sunk in. People hadn’t forgotten the Haleys.

“You’re in charge here?” he asked with raised eyebrows, the surprise evident in his voice.

Ellen’s smile of welcome turned brittle. “No, the Freeholders are in charge here. I’m just their figurehead.”

“No offense,” he leered. “We just didn’t expect such a pretty little thing like you to be running this place.”

Ellen stiffened like she had been slapped; but her left arm shot out to restrain Dan Osaka, who had started forward. It had been years since she’d encountered that attitude. Her hazel eyes turned cold. To have to put up with this tripe while her people fell ill and died...

“If you came here to insult me and my people, you’ve succeeded and you may now leave,” Ellen said in a frostbitten tone. “If, on the other hand, you have something relevant to say, spit it out.”

“What I have to say that is relevant,” the anger flashing in his eyes emphasized the word as much as his tone “is best said in private. Perhaps we could discuss this inside.” He gestured toward the Meeting House.

“I have no secrets from my people. We’ll talk here.”

The ever-growing crowd rumbled its assent.

“I’m afraid I must insist,” Jamal replied, “I was sent to speak to a leader, not to a mob.”

The adults in the crowd bristled anew at being referred to as a mob. Ellen noticed how large the crowd was growing. The thought that this might be a diversion preparatory to an attack crossed her mind. She signaled Wayne Anderson out of the crowd and whispered to him to have Chad, in the Radio Shack, broadcast a Stage Three Alert, thankful once again that they’d repaired the radio repeaters. Then she turned back to Jamal.

“You demand nothing in this valley,” she said. “Speak or get out.”

He glared at Ellen and she met his gaze unflinchingly until he looked away.

“Very well,” Jamal said. He glanced quickly over the crowd, seeming to realize for the first time how angry this “mob” was. He pulled a sheet of paper the King himself had given him from his jacket pocket and began to read.

“The blessings of His Imperial Majesty, King Joseph the First, be upon you.” His voice gained strength as he read the salutation and his fidgeting decreased. “King Joseph, being magnanimous to his subjects and having only their best interests at heart, seeks to extend his domain over you so he may offer you the services and protection you require and the benefits of living under the Imperial Peace.”

Jamal was warming to his subject now. He ignored the scornful expression on Ellen’s face and played to the crowd.

“Know you that King Joseph commands an army in excess of one hundred thousand men, numerous tanks, warships and aircraft.”

Worried looks and concerned murmurs rippled through the crowd.

“Know you that my liege, King Joseph, seeks to employ this vast and invincible force to protect and defend his subjects from the depredations of the marauders who have ravaged this land since The Day of Divine Revelation.”

Oh great, Ellen thought, he means the day the asteroid struck. Sara said this King was crazy. Just what the world needs...another power mad nut case.

Jamal continued, his eyes blazing with conviction, his voice so loud it seemed impossible for that blaring racket to erupt from such a skinny frame, “Know you that on the Day of Divine Revelation, when God Himself anointed my Liege, that God put into my King’s hands vast stores of fuel, food and,” he paused significantly, looking at Ellen, “medical supplies.”

The knowledge, clear, sure and certain, lanced through Ellen that these men were responsible for spiking the hot springs pool with typhoid. These men killed Mariko’s daughter! Her cheeks flushed and her hands clenched into fists before she could control them. Her eyes narrowed and if looks could kill... She seethed white-hot for less than a second before reasserting her self-control. Her fists relaxed and the tension left her shoulders. As Jamal spoke, her anger ebbed, replaced by a deadly, icy calm. Michael called it her calm-before-the-storm look.

“Know you that my Liege has commanded me to freely share these truths that you may understand the futility of standing against the Will of God.”

In spite of the Stage Three Alert, the crowd had grown larger as he spoke. Their angry mutterings increased with each sentence.

“Know you further, that in order for all of you to enjoy the benefits of my King’s affections, which include the restoration of electrical power to your, um, Freeholds and the repair and maintenance of all roads in the vicinity, you have only to perform these small acts: lay down your arms, they will not be needed under the King’s Peace; house and care for such part of his army as may be necessary to establish and keep the Peace; pay such small taxes as are required to maintain the Army of Peace; and swear fealty to King Joseph. In return, the King shall protect and defend you, minister to your needs, and,” once more there was a slight pause, just to drive the point home, “see to your good health and well being.”