The Dying Time (Book 2): After The Dying Time (44 page)

“Perkins? Belsen?” The questioning voice barely reached Michael. He knew the line had entered the clearing.

“C’mon, guys! This isn’t funny!” The voice was becoming alarmed. It was also getting closer, as the man moved to investigate.

Michael sighted the M16 on a gap in the trees. He switched the fire selector to single shot. Maybe he could decoy this idiot. Michael placed a bandanna over his mouth and said, “I had to shit! Gimme a minute, will ya?”

“Belsen? Jesus, man, you had me freaked. I was about to...” Just then the man’s head came into Michael’s sight picture and a round took him through his right eye.

Michael slung the rifle over his shoulder and as the first cries of alarm sounded from the enemy, sent two 40 mm grenades into the first line and two more down toward the second. Screams followed closely on the heels of the explosions.

That ought to stir things up a bit. He dropped over the edge of the ravine and slid down a trough into the cover of the trees below as enemy return fire whipped through the air overhead.

“He’s over here! He’s over here!” a man yelled from the top of the ravine. Whoever it was died as he tripped one of Michael’s booby traps.

“Aim low, you idiots,” screamed another man. “Remember your orders!”

As soon as he reached the bottom, Michael was on his feet, darting between the trees, leaping from rock to rock, his mottled elk-hide clothing blending perfectly with his surroundings. He dashed through the forest and down the ravine for 40 yards before veering up the south side of the canyon, away from the side that both lines of troops were on. He raced up over the lip of the ravine and threw himself flat, then peered over the edge, examining his back trail as he eased into a crouch. What the hell did the guy mean, “aim low?” Did they want him alive?

His eyes scanned the narrow gulch below. By now they would have men down in there who were both above and below his position. He could hear others crashing through the brush as they sped to encircle him. The trees and brush were so thick that when a man stood upright he couldn’t see for more than ten feet, even less when lying flat: crouched over like Michael was, he could see for two or three times as far. He spotted movement down in the gorge, some up canyon and some down canyon. The two lines of men were closing on each other fast. Good!

On either side of him, he could hear troops moving up at his level on the hillside, trying to contain him, but they weren’t within sight yet. He pulled the pins from two of his remaining hand grenades and lobbed both of them down into the ravine in different directions. The confined walls of the gorge magnified the results of the twin explosions, decimating the clusters of men the grenades fell among. Michael lobbed his last two hand grenades into the trees on either side of him and just after they went off screamed, “There he is! He’s running south!”

As soon as the words were out, Michael jumped over the edge back down into the gulch, heading north. He dropped swiftly down the slope to the bottom, landing on a wounded soldier, finishing him off with a knife. Michael pivoted left and right, bloody knife in one hand, M16 in the other, but everyone else within sight was dead. The M79 thumped against his back when he moved and he took a moment to tighten the sling that held it in place. He paused a second to listen. The sounds of pursuit were fading to the south. Sporadic gunfire came from that direction and Michael’s lips curved in a mirthless smile as he realized they were either shooting at each other or at imagined ghosts. His dark side was beginning to enjoy this.

He took a walkie-talkie from a man who no longer needed it, crossed the ravine and headed up the north side.

If he was the enemy commander, he would make sure the third and fourth lines of searchers remained on this side of the canyon. As Michael climbed, he could hear them coming up from below. They seem to have stayed in skirmish-line formation. Michael headed back up and across the mountain ahead of them, pausing briefly to retrieve a dud grenade from his other booby trap. It had been tripped but hadn’t gone off. He pocketed the dud. Never could tell when one might come in handy.

An hour later, his breath was coming harder and a fine sheen of sweat had coated most of his body. He had worked his way north, past the end of the area the enemy was searching. Intermittent gunfire still reached his ears from down south. He circled back to his arms cache and pulled out a few more grenades, deciding it was time to find a place where he could lay low and eavesdrop. A mixed stand of spruce and ponderosa pine on a nearby knoll suggested itself. Michael climbed into a pine, sat on a thick limb, rested his back against the trunk and extended the radio’s aerial. He stuffed the earphone in and switched the set on, listening for half an hour to garbage before he learned anything interesting.

“What the hell do you mean, you need more men!” The voice blasted so loudly from the earphone that Michael winced and turned down the volume. This guy was obviously broadcasting from a base station. The reply was garbled, but the officer who’d requested more troops was explaining about the rough terrain, the ambushes and a few other assorted accidents that had cost him men.

“I’m not interested in excuses, Colonel...” he paused for a moment as if he couldn’t remember the Colonel’s name and had to ask someone, “Janko, only results. We’re trying to break out of Springville and I need every man I’ve got.”

The static-filled response was unintelligible except for the words “shoot to kill” and “Your Highness.”

“Goddammit! Listen to me, Janko! You tell your men that whoever kills that Whitebear sonofabitch I’ll...I’ll turn him and his commander, over to the Royal Inquisitor. That shit killed my brother and no one is going to deprive me of the pleasure of personally taking my revenge. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”

“Yes, Sire!”

This time Michael heard the answer so clearly he could hear the fear in the Colonel’s voice. Well, now he knew for certain that whoever “Your Highness” was wanted him alive. That knowledge might be useful. Michael was surprised they knew his name, but reckoned they’d either monitored his radio calls that morning or learned of him from Martin Dinelli. Michael was also surprised to learn the Prince he’d killed had a brother, who was evidently in command of the King’s army.

“That’s better,” the voice Michael had identified as Your Highness said. “And after you hit them with the stick, you can offer them a carrot. Tell them that the man who captures Whitebear can have his choice of one hundred slaves and will be elevated to nobility, complete with lands and titles.”

Michael couldn’t resist the temptation any longer. He keyed the mike, saying, “He’ll still need more men, you Royal Asshole.”

“WHAT? Who is that?” the voice bellowed.

“It’s Michael Whitebear, shithead. Who’d you think it was? Your mother? And since you seem to know who I am, just who the hell are you?”

“Whitebear!” John recovered quickly. “This is Prince John, commander of the Army of Peace. If you surrender now, we can work something out.”

Michael choked back a laugh. Yeah. Sure. So he calls himself Prince John, huh? Then who had Michael killed?

“How can I trust you when you won’t even tell me your real name?” Michael replied. “I killed Prince John more than two weeks ago.”

“That was my twin brother, Anthony.”

Twins! So that explained about “the next time we meet it’ll be your turn to die.” Michael had been unable to forget those chilling last words. Now he could see that Anthony had been trying to set a trap of his own. Attempting to plant a suggestion that could cause a fatal moment of hesitation, should Michael ever come face to face with John. Michael shook his head. That almost-admirable, kill-you-from-beyond-his-grave, bastard!

“Whitebear? You still there?”

“Yeah.” Jesus! Twins! Michael thought, no wonder he wants me so bad.

“Listen, I know it was you who took those kids back from me after the Freeholds raid. As a Royal Prince, I can’t ask any favors of an enemy, but as one fighting man to another, could you tell me how and where my brother died--so I can retrieve his body.”

For a second, Michael almost felt sorry for John. In that instant, the Prince sounded almost human. Losing a brother was hard. Losing a twin brother was probably harder. But then losing Minowayuh had been hard. Losing Randy and Mariko and the rest of the McKinley’s and Aaron and the Kirkwell’s and Wayne Anderson... None of them asked for this.

Michael wondered if Prince John still carried Mariko’s scalp as a war trophy. He decided to find out.

“You still have that scalp with the long black hair and the white streak?”

There was a pause while Prince John digested the change in direction of the conversation.

“Yes,” John said, but his voice sounded mildly confused.

“You give me your word as a Royal Prince and a fighting man that you’ll cremate that scalp with full honors and I’ll tell you about your brother.”

“You would bargain with me over the details of my brother’s death?” The Prince sounded outraged, as if his superior morals were suffering an affront.

“Don’t get snippy with me, you Royal Bastard. I happen to know it was my wife’s hair you were after. You just got Mariko’s because you’re an incompetent shit.” The blazing fury behind Michael’s insult carried well over the radio.

There was another pause, this one somewhat longer.

“Very well.” The Prince’s voice was tense and tight-lipped, spoken through clenched teeth. “You have my word.”

“Your brother died like a man,” Michael said. “He fought ferociously and well. I tried to take him alive, but when he found out who I am, he lost control and charged my gun. I think he did it, at least partially, to avenge your honor.”

“That sounds like him,” John admitted. “Now, tell me where you buried him.”

It was Michael’s turn to pause. He didn’t want to sound like he was apologizing. After all, he hadn’t left Anthony unburied deliberately out of malice. He’d simply been too busy at the time.

“The fight took place southeast of Nephi, on the east side of Horse Heaven Mountain. Your brother saw to it that I had wounded and dead friends to attend to. By the time I was done with them, well, I was too tired to bury him. It was night. The animals got him.”

“You...you left my brother for the...”

“The living are more important than the dead,” Michael interrupted.

“You will pay dearly for that outrage!”

“I already have,” Michael snapped. “I didn’t start this goddamned war, but I am going to end it. Mark my words, one fighting man to another. I’m coming after you John and there’s not one damned thing you can do to stop me. See ya.”

With that Michael jammed the transmit button down, blanketing that frequency with carrier wave squeal. It was time to get going. No telling if they had radio directional finders or not. He climbed down out of the tree and headed down the east side of the mountain, a grim look on his face, his rage fueled by the memory that Prince John had tried to kill Ellen and the rest of his family. The sonofabitch will die for that, he promised himself again.

He had been sorely tempted to demand the release of prisoners before revealing the details of Prince Anthony’s demise, but he’d thought better of it when he realized the word of a man like John was undoubtedly worthless in any event. No sense bringing the Prince’s wrath down on helpless prisoners. He put that out of his mind and concentrated on what he was doing.

First, he had to borrow an officer. He needed information, the more the better, but mostly he just wanted to know whether Prince John was in Payson or Spanish Fork. The strength of the walkie-talkie’s reception meant it almost had to be one of those places. At least he had several hundred men to choose from. He sped through the forest like a wraith, his eyes once more showing flecks of gold.

*

Back at headquarters, Prince John slammed down the receiver and went on a rampage.

“He has the gall to threaten me...ME! He left my brother to feed the scavengers!”

John paced back and forth, swinging his great arms. Others in the room cowered out of the way. “He presumes to dictate terms to me, to call me foul names in front of my subordinates!”

It never occurred to John that Michael might swear at him just for the purpose of provoking him beyond control.

“It isn’t enough to kill this one. Oh, no! We must teach him the meaning of respect, first. And he must know pain...great pain!”

John was unaware he was ranting like a madman.

He strode to a trophy case and snatched Mariko’s scalp from a shelf, throwing it to an officer who stood nearby.

“Take this scurvy thing and burn it. No! It seems to mean something to him. Feed it to the dogs.”

“But, Sire...” The man wilted under John’s gaze.

“Yes?” John’s voice was suddenly silky smooth and sibilant. He had found a target for his ire.

“N...Nothing Sire,” the man’s voice quavered.

“No. Really. Go ahead. You were about to say something.” John seemed to be back under control now, reasonable. He put one arm over the Major’s shoulders.

“Well Sire, you g...gave your R...Royal word,” the man stammered.

The arm about the man’s shoulders tightened convulsively, snapping the Major’s neck. John supported the man by his hair. He grabbed Mariko’s scalp from the man’s lifeless hands.