The Dying Time (Book 2): After The Dying Time (19 page)

Luxury!

Tomorrow, he decided, he would hunt and prepare some food, rig the rain fly as a knapsack; and get ready to head down the mountain.

*

The next day dawned bright and mostly clear, with a few wispy white cirrus clouds, floating high in the pale blue sky. Stirring around the remains of his horse, using a shoulder blade to shovel away the snow, Michael found a few more of his precious belongings, including a paracord bracelet and one of Jim’s pipe grenades.

He was thinking about food when a small rustling sound caught his attention. A fat snowshoe hare peeked out from beneath a tangle of dead limbs. Windfalls make great shelter for small game. The hare took a couple of quick hops, then sat down and started scratching behind his ear with one of his huge hind legs.

Easing his slingshot and a marble from his pocket, Michael fitted the marble into the pouch, drew back smoothly and released. The hare flopped over, its hind legs kicking spastically and Michael had made an early start laying in a food supply. By day’s end he’d bagged four more rabbits.

He ate half a rabbit for dinner and roasted the others. He’d made a backpack out of horse ribs and his rain fly and a holster for his .357 out of dog fur. He’d been hobbling around all day and even though he was getting the hang of it he was exhausted and his leg throbbed like a toothache from hell. The bright side was the movement had improved his circulation, allowing some of the swelling in his leg to go down.

His final chore for the night was to jam a shield he fashioned out of branches into the doorway of his bunker. He desperately needed a good night’s sleep and he wasn’t going to ruin it by worrying about those dogs coming back and killing him while he slept. He wrapped what was left of his sleeping bag around his legs and feet, lay back and dropped off into a deep, sound slumber.

Two days later, he was midway down the valley nearing another in a series of beaver ponds when the pain in his leg convinced him to call it a day. Sweaty and shaking with effort, he set up camp next to an enormous boulder in a small grove of aspen. He intended to flop down and rest, but the lure of a nearby beaver pond was too strong. The ice was mostly off, the water crystal clear. He could see at least a dozen trout and even briefly glimpsed some beaver near their lodge before the whack of a beaver’s tail slapping water warned them of his presence and sent them scurrying for cover.

A few ducks and a pair of geese were on the far side of the pond eyeing him nervously. It was that time of spring when they would be nesting and though the thought of fresh eggs was tempting, he was too tired to locate their well-hidden nests. Besides, trout would make a refreshing change from rabbit.

Limping back to the aspen grove, he uprooted an eight foot long sapling and trimmed it into a barbed fishing spear. Once back at the pond he circled around to where the stream entered it and struggled through the willows to a sandbar that jutted out into the water. With patience and a quick arm, he speared two cutthroat trout for dinner. Some tender young dandelion greens, wild onion and dried rosehips would add flavor and vitamin C.

The snow had melted off the sandbar and the sand was dry and warm. He took off as much of his clothing as he could manage without disturbing his splint and washed them and himself, spreading clothes and self out on the sand to dry. The stink relief was incredible. He lay there absorbing the warmth of the sun, wishing Ellen was enjoying this with him.

His thoughts drifted to the last time he’d seen her and the angry words they’d exchanged. He wished he’d stayed a little longer and tried to reason, but instead he’d gone ballistic and stomped out.

Her angry words came back to him. “Go on then!” she’d yelled. “Run off into your precious mountains. You’d rather be there than here with me and the children anyhow!”

The truth of her accusation cut deeply. Not that he liked being away from her and the children, but that he enjoyed being alone in the woods. It was a part of his heritage from his Blackfoot grandfather and he knew he wouldn’t be the man she loved without that heritage to guide him. He was simply doing his duty as he saw it. She would’ve understood that once she calmed down. Or at least it made him feel better to think so. Right now, though, not even the heat of the sun penetrating his skin and relaxing his muscles would feel as good as a hug from her.

Soon, shadows were stretching out over the valley and evening’s chill forced him back to his camp where he steamed the trout in his campfire coals. Suddenly, he stiffened and straightened up, cupping his hands around his ears so he could hear better. Faintly, on the wind, it came to him again--a distant howling that froze him in place and sent goose bumps racing up and down his arms. That was no pack of harmless coyotes yipping at the moon rising over the mountains to the east, nor was it wolves gathering to hunt. Those he would have welcomed. They seldom bothered men. But DOGS!

From the sound they were up-valley and upwind of him; but he couldn’t afford to deceive himself. If they were on his trail he was in big trouble again. And from the baying, they were on something’s trail.

He thought of the distance he had come from his log-fall bunker, of the downed trees he had labored across, of hopping precariously from boulder to boulder and wading in small streams to hide his scent. He thought of the melting snow that might just have washed his scent away and of the glaring scent trail he had left between the beaver pond and his camp. He thought most of all of how rapidly they could dash over the ground he had struggled so painfully over the past two days and of how they could be upon him within minutes if they were on his trail.

His jaws clenched unconsciously and his hands balled into fists. He was really beginning to dislike dogs and that came hard, having been a dog lover all his life.

He damped the fire and covered the coals. The hot coals would remain alive throughout the night, ready to be uncovered and rekindled instantly should the need arise, but he didn’t want a flickering flame drawing the dogs from afar. He ate his fish as he sat with his back to the boulder, eyes scanning between the trees, ears tuned to the baying that drew steadily closer.

He checked and rechecked his weapons, wondering if he had enough ammo to kill them all and if he would get a chance to reload. His .357 held six 158 grain hollow-point bullets and he had found four of his speed loads. The rifle was a .270 bolt action Remington, clip fed, with eight rounds per magazine and two extras. He was second-guessing leaving behind his AR 15 and its thirty round clips.

He’d always been old-school when it came to weapons, arguing reliability--his revolver never jammed--versus capacity; but he was seriously reconsidering that position now. His Glock 31 was still a .357, but held 15 rounds. Thing was though, he shot better with his Smith and Wesson and when he wanted lots of firepower he used his Uzi or an M-16 he’d acquired from a dead enemy. He’d inherited the Remington from his grandfather. Enough said.

Still, as he surveyed his firepower he began to feel more confident. If they found him during daylight he was sure he could get all of them. He pictured himself upright, leaning against a tree, rifle resting on an aspen branch, dropping them one by one as they charged, switching to pistol, spear and knife when they got too close. He saw them lying dead around him, the scattered remnants running like hell for the hills, never to bother him again. But it was night and he probably wouldn’t even get a chance to use the rifle. So he sat in the growing cold and waited for them to find him. Sometimes being a realist was a bitch.

The wind was increasing and the available light was decreasing as clouds began to move in, dimming the moon and stars. Maybe if the dogs sensed a storm coming they would break off pursuit and seek shelter.

No sooner had the thought entered his head than he detected a change in the sound of their baying. From the steady howls he had been hearing to a more rapid, excited yelping. They were out on the valley floor now. Within half a mile and closing. Michael uncovered the coals of his fire and prepared to throw kindling onto it. When they came upon him he wanted a good fire going. It might hold them back long enough for him to kill them by shooting at its reflection in their eyes. Hope can spring eternal, even in a realist’s breast.

The sound changed again, rising to a fevered pitch and veering off in a westerly direction. Briefly puzzled, he listened intently as the racket receded, eventually fading out as they crossed a ridge a couple of miles away. Must have jumped a deer. Relief at his good luck almost overwhelmed him. The raw sound of his own laughter, soft though it was, shocked him into realizing how close to the edge he was.

He covered up the coals again and lay down on the warm spot. He would risk no fire bringing them back. Closing his eyes he allowed exhaustion to claim him, drifting into an uneasy sleep, eventually smiling as he dreamed of Ellen and his kids.

Chapter 18: The Fugitives

Even though winters were shorter and milder as a rule than before The Dying Time, March weather could still turn in an eye-blink. Clear skies scudded over, forming a low gray ceiling. Peaks disappeared, fading into the clouds as if absorbed by a wet gray sponge. Light mist followed by heavy drip. Gentle rain followed by buckets.

Three stormy days after he’d seen the last of the dogs, Michael hit the mouth of Willow creek where it flowed into the Elk River, an area formerly known as Glen Eden. There wouldn’t be any beaver ponds across the Elk, so he decided to build a raft and float south down to the Yampa, sparing his leg.

At a burned-out ranch house he found shelter, tools and lumber for his raft-building project. Racing darkness he collected rope, fence posts and fifty gallon barrels, dragging them all down to the riverbank. That night sleep came easy, but soon turned fitful, marred by troubled dreams.

At first he thought a strange noise woke him, but it was the silence. Early morning light filtered through thick fog and clouds that promised more rain or snow. The air was still as a coffin. No birdsong, no frogs croaking from the river, no ducks quacking, not even the normal rustling noises that accompany a breeze. Eerie.

Michael spent half the day building his raft and the other half looking over his shoulder, waiting for the boogie man to jump out and get him. Part of him wanted to climb on the raft, shove off and get out of there, but the fog made floating the uncharted river too dangerous.

The rain eased to a light spray leaving him damp, but not soaked. He managed to get a fire going and dried his clothes. The last thing he needed was to get sick.

He ate the last of his roasted rabbit and covered the coals of his fire with soil, creating a warm spot to sleep on, trying hard to feel comfortable, well-fed and optimistic. It wasn’t working.

His neck hairs were prickling for the umpteenth time when the chattering of an angry squirrel shattered the silence. Snatching his weapons he peeked out behind the ranch house: and there they were. Riders! Coming up from the south. Drifting through the misty evening fog like ghosts, appearing and disappearing as they wove single file through the trees. The muffled clopping of their horses’ hooves only now reached Michael’s ears.

Help? Not likely, he thought. Not the way his gut was acting up. Instinct kept him from calling out and then his eyes confirmed his judgment. Hanging from their saddle horns were scalps, reminding him there were far worse animals around than dogs.

Easing back along the wall Michael grabbed his gear and faded up the hillside until he found a vantage point between two boulders. They were almost on top of him but he wasn’t worried about being seen. Not only was his clothing colored in mottled browns and grays, perfect early spring camouflage, but his attitude and skills combined to make him invisible in the woods.

Michael studied them carefully as they walked their horses past. The man in the lead had long, dirty, black hair and a hawk beak nose jutting out from a face that had seen too many horror movies. His head jerked from side to side, pale brown, beady eyes darting about too quickly to truly see any danger. His body was snake-thin and his clothes hung off his gaunt frame like rags on a scarecrow. Dirty bandages covered his left hand and the right side of his head. He was very well-armed and obviously dangerous. Michael dubbed him Scarecrow.

The second man in line was the leader of the group. Michael knew that the second he saw him. More than his awesome size, his bearing proclaimed him the man in charge--erect, alert and proud.

Michael guessed at seven feet tall and close to three hundred pounds; hard to tell a man’s height when he’s sitting a horse. Arms as large as Michael’s legs and legs like tree trunks shouted sheer, brute power. Even the man’s dingy red beret looked big enough to hide a basketball. Michael tagged him The Giant.

An M60 slung across acres of back looked like a child’s toy. The horse the Giant rode went seventeen hands and must have been part Clydesdale to bear his weight. The big man held the reins loosely in his left hand. His right, resting on his thigh, was missing the end of its pinkie finger. A bloodily bandaged stump was all that remained of the digit.

Arctic blue eyes, set too close together, searched the trees for the slightest movement.

With a lightning-blur, his wounded right hand stripped a dagger from its belt sheath and flung it into a nearby pine. The squirrel’s scolding chatter cut off. Standing in the stirrups as he passed the tree, the Giant plucked both knife and spitted squirrel from its trunk. With an ugly smile that showed off a mouth full of discolored, poorly aligned teeth, he flicked the dead animal from his dagger, then licked the blood from the blade and sheathed the weapon.

Jesus! Michael thought. He’d never seen anyone so big and fast. And the damaged finger didn’t slow the guy down at all.

The third man in line was No-Ears. Michael almost did a double-take. The man obviously hadn’t died last fall when Michael and Jim rescued Sara Garcia. Long blonde hair covered his ear holes, but the jailhouse-style swastika tattooed on No-Ears’ forehead was clearly visible.

A lead rope trailed from the pommel of No-Ears’ saddle to a pony carrying two trussed children and Michael got another shock when he recognized them, Jimmy and Mary McKinley.

Questions flooded Michael’s mind. How had the kids ended up here? Had the Freeholds been attacked? Was Ellen okay? His children? His mind slid away from that line of thought, knowing he could do nothing for them and refusing to entertain gruesome possibilities.

Against his will his eyes went to the scalps dangling from the Giant’s saddle horn. No blondes, he offered a quick prayer of thanks, but one drew Michael’s attention, long and black with a streak of pure white running through it. Mariko! Blood flushed his face and his eyes narrowed, pupils glowing gold like a big cat’s. Before he could stop himself the crosshairs of his scope were centered on the back of the Giant’s head. His trigger finger tensed, nerves stretched tighter than a hangman’s rope. For the first time in days he totally forgot about his leg.

Michael took a deep breath and sighed it out slowly, lowering the rifle. Revenge must wait. The children needed him. What could he do to help them? And how far behind was the Militia? Michael knew his people and unless every one of them was dead, there would be a relentless pursuit.

That suggested another option. If he could delay this little party long enough...

More of them filed past. Two hard-bitten women, biker types with tattoos and piercings, then four more men, two of them bloodstained and slumped over their saddles. The group pulled up in the clearing next to the barn, dismounted and set about making camp. They picketed their horses at the edge of the woods and posted a guard.

The rest of them moved into the barn, the only building that still had a roof, which was why Michael had avoided it. He had known as soon as he saw it that any others who might chance by would surely camp there and in his condition he didn’t care to leave any sign of his passage. He just hoped none of them would poke around the house and discover a warm spot of disturbed earth--the remnants of his fire.

A plan was slowly forming in Michael’s mind. If he could steal their horses...best not get too far ahead of himself. For now, he would watch, listen, learn.

Thirty minutes later the two women, the kids and No-Ears came out of the barn carrying pans and a bucket and went off toward the river to get water. Two more men came outside, headed into the woods and started gathering firewood. The guard was walking a beat between the horses and the barn, circling the barn each time. It was getting dark and Michael was betting that with this cloud cover it would be a pitch black night. He hoped so. He needed such a night.

The women and Mary were coming back from the river. Where was little Jimmy? And No-Ears? Michael didn’t like it. He began working his way through the woods toward the river but before he’d gone far Jimmy’s screams split the air. Michael couldn’t go any faster because of his leg and because he couldn’t afford to be seen.

By the time he got close enough to see what was happening, Jimmy had subsided into muffled sobs.

No-Ears was using river water to wash blood from Jimmy’s rear, cleaning the boy after raping him. He stroked Jimmy’s tear-stained face and said, “That wasn’t so bad, was it? After awhile it feels real good, huh.”

Jimmy wouldn’t look at him and No-Ears flushed. He grasped the boy’s face and forced it around, his voice harsh. “You got nobody to blame but yourself. If you didn’t bite the tip off Big John’s pinkie he wouldn’t’a give you to me. But you’re mine now, so learn to like it.” He squeezed the boy’s privates and bent to kiss him.

Jimmy flinched from the kiss and twisted free. No-Ears swung an open handed slap knocking the boy into the dirt where his eyes met Michael’s and slid swiftly away before recognition could show. A blush spread over Jimmy’s face.

No-Ears yanked the boy up by his hair and thrust the kid’s pants into his arms. “You got a lot to learn, slave.” He cuffed Jimmy’s head. “Lesson One: You do what I want or you get hurt. Now get dressed.”

Michael stood trembling just inside the tree line, bowie knife bared, golden eyes hard as a brass lamp, fighting the urge to kill. His jaws clamped like a vise, face tight as a boxer’s fist; he found control he didn’t know he had, sparing No-Ears’ life only because little Mary needed help too.

Gone were thoughts of stealing horses. Michael had to get both children out tonight. And if No-Ears got in the way...unspeakable thoughts, sick and poisoned, filled his mind.

As No-Ears took Jimmy back to the others, Michael circled around to his hideout, grabbed his pack and hid near the horses. The boy had seen him and had been sharp enough not to give him away. But Michael knew Jimmy and his sister would be expecting a visit tonight.

He fished the pipe grenade from his pack and set about fashioning a time-delay fuse-igniter from a book of paper matches. First he unbent and removed the staple attaching the matches to the matchbook cover, separating the matches from the cover and laying aside the staple for later use. Checking carefully for fit, he rolled the piece of paper with the matches attached to it into a tube, then folded the cover around the match-heads, making a slightly larger tube with the striking surface on the inside. He tied some string around the cover-tube so it would keep its shape. Taking up the staple he used it to secure the roll of matches to the fuse cord on the grenade. By the time he finished, the night was black as a cave.

Time to wait, plan and prepare.

The first step was to get in tune with his surroundings. Michael smeared damp dirt over his face to hide its winter-pale color, then closed his eyes and melded with the night. He could hear the guard as the man walked his rounds, stumbling steps telling Michael it was too dark for anyone without his cat-eyes to see. Horses shuffled and stamped, blowing occasionally. From inside the barn came periodic bouts of laughter, as if someone was telling jokes.

Michael’s awareness expanded until he sensed everything around him. First he smelled the horses, then the guard. The fresh odor of damp, greening earth covered everything else. The life of the forest flowed around and through him.

Jamal Rashid relieved the first guard at midnight, his nervous pacing and jittery movements disturbing the horses. They tossed their heads, snorted and stomped. Michael took advantage of the commotion to stand up and get his circulation flowing.

While he was stretching, Jamal stepped into the woods and headed straight for Michael, who dropped flat on the ground and pretended to be a fallen branch. The King’s ambassador/assassin stumbled over Michael’s crutch, cursing it and a tree branch that poked him in the chest. The skinny man stopped, literally standing over Michael and looking down at him. Michael’s grip tightened on his bowie knife. He froze.

The zhtt sound of a zipper preceded a stream of urine splattering close to Michael’s face. He held his breath, not daring to breathe, heart slamming against his rib cage like a hammer banging sheet metal. Michael knew if the man saw him it was all over for both of them.

Jamal heaved a satisfied sigh, shook himself off and went back to his rounds. He cursed the darkness as he stepped in a pile of horse manure, not knowing his poor night vision had just saved his life.

Michael lay very quietly until his heart stopped racing, then rolled slowly over and rubbed piss-dampened dirt on his jacket and pants. Jamal’s urine would mask Michael’s smell when he approached the horses, lessening the chance they would spook at an unfamiliar scent.

No-Ears took over guard duty around two in the morning. Michael’s smile would have scared a tiger.

By the time he moved, in No-Ears had made several rounds, enough to relax a bit and lose the edge all sentries have for the first hour or so of their watch. As he neared the horses, a well-placed marble from Michael’s slingshot knocked him cold. Deja vu. Michael dragged him up beside the horses and got busy.

“Wakey, wakey,” Michael whispered. He’d been gripped by a killing rage twice in one day, sparing both lives for the sake of the children. Now, it was time to get them out and all bets were off.

No-Ears moaned slightly through his gag and opened his eyes. It took awhile for him to get his brain in gear, but when he recognized Michael his eyeballs bulged. He tried to move, but he was trussed tighter than a thanksgiving turkey, lying in a semi-fetal position with his arms tied behind his knees and his bare ass sticking up in the air. He was bound between two trees growing just far enough apart to receive him. He couldn’t even twitch.