The Dying Time (Book 2): After The Dying Time (16 page)

She smiled. Downstairs at Eric’s had survived because it’s over-engineered ceiling didn’t collapse when the building above it fell during the big quakes. Dying Time survivors had dug out the west entrance to loot the place and that entry was only a few feet from the river.

But right now, sitting in the clock tower, crosshairs of her AR scope centered on Godzilla as he spoke to his men, she wished he was in range.

*

Around ten o’clock, as near as she could tell from the position of the big dipper, the guards in the helicopter lot changed. Linda let another hour pass to let them settle down, then left her post in the clock tower and made her way down into the Blue River drainage. Downed trees, most of them charred from world changing fires, rusted hulks of cars and pickups that had been pushed off streets to clear them, overgrown willows and an occasional broken building, formed a twisted maze. But Linda had explored every inch of Breckenridge during her tour. She knew this place and her small size and nimble feet made quick work of a setting that would have stymied most men.

Footsteps crunched above her and she froze under an inverted F-150 until they passed. Heart pounding so loud she feared they would hear it, she moved slowly into position. The wind picked up, rustling dry willow branches and leading the guards to stand near burning barrels for warmth. She’d mentally cursed when she saw them light off the barrels around the helicopters but now she applauded fires. Staring into the flames, rubbing their hands together would ruin their night vision.

Up over the edge of the bank she slid and slowly, silently slithered to the nearest gunship. She tried the fuel inlet cap with her gloved hands and couldn’t budge it. Plan B. She slipped under the chopper and moved to the rear. There, jutting down a bit, just like on those old plastic models, was the sump drain valve for the fuel cell. In less than a minute she’d tied an old towel to the bottom of the valve and cracked it open. She couldn’t open it all the way or the fuel would splash down to the ground, making noise and alerting the guards.

Like a field mouse avoiding owls she crept to the next bird and repeated the procedure. She was almost ready to move on to the Huey when a steely hand gripped her ankle and jerked her completely out from under the Cobra.

“What the hell do you think you’re--”

Two 9 mm rounds from Linda’s Glock 19 exploded through his face into his brain. She rolled back under the helicopter, coming to her feet on the other side and dashed for the safety of the river, bullets buzzing past like deadly bees. But Linda was a small target moving very fast and they’d been staring into the fire. When one of them did manage a lucky hit it was a bullet burn across her left shoulder.

She dove into the ravine and disappeared.

Behind her, troops rudely awakened and ill informed wasted ammunition shooting at shadows. By the time the gunships rose into the air, switched on their spotlights and began searching the Blue River drainage she was a mile away hidden under the cover of dense trees, headed for the two car garage that housed her horses.

*

“Mount up,” John yelled to his men as they scrambled aboard the helicopters. They had discovered the sabotage, closed the valves and topped off the tanks--a delay of more than two hours. He’d planned on hitting The Freeholds at 2 a.m. but that was out the window.

“What have you got?” he asked Jamal as the man climbed in.

“Small tracks,” Jamal said. “A boy or a woman.”

John turned to the Cavalry commander, who was outside ducked down under the rotors, and said, “Find them, whoever it was, and string their guts from here to Frisco.”

As the choppers took off John’s thoughts turned to the attack and now the two hour delay loomed large. What if some Freeholder got away on a snowmobile? If a warning reached them the whole damned place could be primed and ready. Then he recalled his spy reporting they had no anti-aircraft defenses and he relaxed. Still...the first time his men attacked they’d been surprised by that weird ultralight air force. Today they’d been surprised by an almost successful sabotage attempt. He didn’t much care for the surprises Freeholders kept pulling out of their hats, but if he could kill Ellen Whitebear and maybe snatch Sara and Raoul Garcia it would be a very good day indeed.

*

It took Jim almost an hour to wind his way up to the ruins of the old water tower, a left-over from Colorado’s railroad days and another three hours to breast the pass. The wind penetrated all his layers threatening to turn him into a shivering human popsicle. There was no moon but the stars glittered so brightly off the snow cover he could see individual trees on slopes half a mile away.

He was staring up at the stars when motion caught his eye and the ISS climbed into the night sky. As always, the sight fascinated him. We were ready to return to the moon, he thought, and if Raoul was right, maybe we have. The thought of a human colony on the moon tickled his imagination and diverted his attention, at least for a while, from the discomfort of freezing.

The big, strong brown had labored hard up the steep pass, through belly deep snow, breaking trail for the lighter, swifter mare. Now, at least the snow cover had thinned to a few inches so Jim reigned up beside a knoll that sheltered them from the wind and dismounted. The brown was spent, standing head low, flanks heaving. Jim stripped off the saddle and gave the horse a quick rub to dry the lather before it froze. He hated mistreating animals but couldn’t take time to do a proper job. Jim mounted the mare and galloped off into South Park, hoping Linda was okay, second guessing his decision to leave her behind.

As he neared the old railroad town of Como, Jim unslung his rifle and fired three quick shots into the air to alert the outpost there. But even as he raced into town, the distinctive whup-whup-whup of a Huey closing fast came to his ears. Knowing the Cobras had to be nearby, he fired off three more rounds to warn the outpost an attack was imminent.

Evan Watson, the commander of the local squad, recognized the danger signal instantly. He leaped from his cot and raced barefoot for the radio room. He had just hit the switch and grabbed the mike when the room and the whole building exploded--a direct hit from a rocket launched by one of the Cobras. Both Cobras Gatlings whined to life and with a sound like cardboard tearing they poured lead down onto the outpost’s defenders, scything them down like stalks of wheat.

Men and women dove for cover behind logs and rocks and tumbled down buildings. With bullets kicking up dust and whining off rocks around him, Jim spurred the spirited mare for the old railroad roundhouse. It was made of stone and just possibly could withstand a missile attack. Reaching the structure, he leaped from his horse through one of the large openings just as bullets tore through the space he left behind.

Jim landed, rolled and came to his feet in one motion, rifle in hand. He took a stand behind one of the large rock columns that supported the structure and began firing at any helicopter he could see.

A mini-gun raked the roundhouse and rock chips stung Jim’s cheek. Suddenly, the gunships spun away from the town and sped off after the Huey.

Jim listened to the sound fade, his mouth tasting like ashes. All the helicopters were hugging the ground, heading across South Park, straight toward Farnum Peak. As low as they were, Jim knew the sounds of their engines wouldn’t carry a warning to the Freeholds until they popped up over the mountain and dove onto the settlement in the valley below.

So the attack is tonight, Jim thought, wondering if Linda was alive. Failure hit him hard.

He’d seen Evan Watson dart into the headquarters building just before it blew. Maybe Evan got off a quick message before he died but he couldn’t count on that.

Jim assembled the stunned survivors of the attack in the roundhouse and told them what was going on. Their numbed expressions conveyed their shock at having been crushed by helicopter gunships. No one there had seen such a weapon since before The Dying Time. No one had even dreamed that such weapons still existed. The reality was harsh. Seven dead, ten wounded, four critical. Only three escaped untouched. Two of them began caring for the wounded while Jim and the other one dug through the ruins of the headquarters building, hoping against hope that the radio was intact.

“Jim?” Ralph Watson, Evan’s brother, hobbled up behind him speaking through clenched teeth. A bullet had burned his hip.

“Yeah, Ralph?”

“A horse and cycle squad pulled in from the Freeholds this evening. That’s them over there,” Ralph grunted, pointing to a pile of bodies. “Said Ellen was sending them to Breckenridge to see if their radio was out.”

“Were they carrying a spare?” Hope flared in Jim’s chest.

Ralph held up a HAM set smashed by a 20 mm round and Jim’s last hope dove off a cliff.

He couldn’t reach his wife Jill in time to save her during The Dying Time and he couldn’t reach Sara in time to protect her, or his Freeholds in time to warn of the attack. With those grim thoughts in mind he tore at the wreckage, damning the fates that always made him late.

Chapter 15: The Raid on the Freeholds

Ellen Whitebear tossed and turned restlessly on her bed. She hadn’t slept well for days and twice now she’d suffered a bad dream that something awful had happened to Michael. Ever since then, the worry it was more than just a dream preyed on her.

The Stage Three Alert and her responsibilities to the Freeholds also weighed heavily. The increased patrols and extra guards at the outposts meant fewer hands for planting and other early spring chores. Too many jobs and too few people was the story of her life, but the alert also meant that family members were separated by their duty to the Freehold’s Militia.

People were grumbling, saying she was being unreasonable in taking such extreme precautions. More than one had hinted she was ticked off because a majority of the Defense Council voted against her and let the King’s men go, instead of pursuing them relentlessly. True, Dan Osaka had lost their trail after the escape, but she had pushed to send out search teams in the hopes one of them would cut the trail. She had argued adamantly that no one should be allowed to murder Freeholders and escape without every effort being made to apprehend them. It set a bad precedent. But it was spring and too many felt getting the first crop in should take priority.

Others agreed and mumbled she was abusing her authority by using the Stage Three Alert to punish people for disagreeing with her. Of course people were always going to grumble. That wasn’t what worried her. Any time enough people wanted her out of office she would be happy to step aside and let somebody else deal with the headaches. Besides, most Freeholders supported her precautions, even if they were less vocal in their support than her detractors were in their condemnation. Wasn’t that always the way of it? The squeaky wheel…

She rolled over and sat up, unable to shake the feeling that she’d overlooked something vital. Chad Bailey had told her the Breckenridge outpost missed its nightly check in, but then he’d added their old radio was always breaking down so it was probably nothing to worry about. Which, of course, meant it was one more thing to worry her, so she’d dispatched a horse and cycle squad to Breckenridge to check it out.

She heard someone moving in the hallway and looked at her watch: 3:30. She thought she knew who it was but she still got up to investigate, donning her clothes and belting on her twin holsters, just in case. Exiting her room, she saw her son Steven silhouetted against the stars as he stood on the upper level deck. Just as she suspected.

“Hi, Mom,” he whispered as she stepped outside to join him. “I couldn’t sleep, so I got up to check things out.”

Ellen saw the hunting rifle he carried. God, she thought, what a world, when a fourteen-year-old boy feels the need to arm himself and patrol his own home. She noted, not for the first time, that he was now taller than her. He resembled his father in so many ways, not just in looks, but in his protective attitude and in his sixth sense ability to feel danger.

“What is it, Steven?” she asked.

She had begun calling him Steven a few months before when he informed the whole family that he was now too old to be called Stevie. They grow up so fast.

“I don’t know, Mom. But it’s something really bad.” He stared up towards Farnum Peak. “I’ve been thinking an awful lot about dad, ever since I got that pain in my leg last week.”

“I’ve noticed you limping around,” she said. “What happened?”

She’d assumed he’d pulled a muscle working. He was always trying to do work he wasn’t old enough or strong enough for yet. She wished he’d quit trying to rush into adulthood.

“Nothing,” he said. Then, seeing the look on her face, “No, really, nothing. I didn’t bang it on anything and there’s no bruise. It just started hurting.” His eyes slid away.

“And?”

“And the only time it hurts is when I’m thinking about Dad,” he added in a small voice.

“Why didn’t you tell me about this?”

“You’ve got enough to worry about, Mom. Besides, Dad’s okay. You know how tough the old man is. He can take care of himself.”

She sighed mentally. Steven had started calling Michael “old man”, when Michael kept calling him Stevie. And though he’d said the last with a touch of pride, most of it sounded like he was trying to convince himself.

“You know what? I don’t think this feeling tonight is about dad. I think it’s about us, here in the Freeholds.” Steven’s voice was too loud and quivered with nervousness. His hands were locked onto the deck railing, like she’d seen his father do so many times before.

“I think we’ve got big trouble coming.”

He tore his eyes away from the peak and fixed her with a wide-eyed stare. “I think it’s coming NOW!”

Ellen had lived with Michael and Steven far too long to ignore such a strong warning. Grabbing her son she jerked him into the house behind her. She slapped a red button and the old civil defense air raid klaxons, installed all over the valley as an alarm system, blared into life, screaming their raucous warning into every nook and cranny of the Freeholds, jolting everyone wide awake.

If she was wrong about this she’d have a lot of apologizing to do. But mere seconds after the alarm began the sound of gunshots and a nearby explosion told her she hadn’t been wrong.

“Stay with the children, Steven and see they don’t get hurt,” she said.

He seemed to grow a couple of more inches and she was instantly aware that she had just promoted her son to adult status. They grow up so fast because they have to.

She grabbed a folding stock, full auto, AR-15 and some clips from the gun locker and stepped back out onto the deck. The radio shack was burning. Gunfire was erupting from all over the valley. Three dark shapes darted about the sky. One of them settled to the ground beside the McKinley homestead just south of her and began disgorging troops.

My God! Helicopters! And judging from the steady streams of fire issuing from the two that remained aloft, at least two of them were gunships. She locked the folding stock of the AR-15 into place and began squeezing off three-round bursts toward the enemy soldiers erupting from the Huey as she dashed down the path toward the McKinley’s.

*

Randy and Mariko McKinley awakened to the blaring siren. Randy grabbed his gun and stepped outside to see what was happening. Mariko opened up the gun locker and began passing out arms to her eldest son, Randy Junior and to her adopted daughter, Melinda.

She armed herself and was handing weapons to Mary and Jimmy when explosions rocked the house, shattering the south-facing windows. Randy Senior leaped back inside, knocked over a heavy wood coffee table and started firing out through the remains of a sliding glass door.

“Mariko!” he screamed. “Helicopters! They’re attacking the house! Get the kids out the back. Junior! Stay here and help me cover them, son.”

He turned back toward the enemy and resumed firing.

Junior took up a position in the kitchen, directly across the hall from his father so they could provide covering fire for each other and crossfire anybody who came in through the door. He picked his targets from among the shadowy figures swarming toward the house and began firing. With almost every shot a man dropped. He had excellent night vision and was tops in his class at marksmanship. He never saw the thin man, with the bandaged head and hand, who slid carefully up onto the deck.

Jamal Rashid smiled as he took careful aim and put a bullet in the boy’s brain, then slipped inside the house through a broken kitchen window. Now to kill the husband and find that bitch, Ellen Whitebear. He wanted more than anything to be the one who killed her. And he wanted her to know it was him.

The intensity of the gunfire pouring into his house had driven Randy back into the far corner of the living room, near the massive rock fireplace. He slammed a fresh clip into his rifle and wished for a minute that he’d grabbed one of the AR-15’s instead. Raising his rifle to his shoulder he fired steadily, dropping yet another enemy soldier.

Only when he glimpsed the grenade as it bounced into his corner did he realize it had come from the kitchen and that his son must be dead. Swifter than thought he spun and fired a shot at the skinny figure in the doorway of the kitchen. The blast killed Randy, before he could realize he’d missed.

Jamal knew the bullet had missed and by how little. Shaken, he picked himself up off the floor. Goddamn family, he thought, almost cost me my other ear. He dusted himself off, walked out of the kitchen and started barking orders at the group of men who were rushing into the house. Some fanned out, searching the house, while others set up a defense perimeter outside and engaged Freeholders, who were pouring from their homes like angry hornets.

Mariko heard the explosion from the front of her house. Her heart screamed with anguish and understanding as the gunfire from that direction stopped almost immediately. Still, her mind continued to function clearly as she herded her brood up the stairwell that led to the surface from the rear of the underground house. Grief would just have to wait. She had to get the children to safety.

Mariko was at the top of the stairwell, reaching for the doorknob when the door burst open and a grenade sailed in. With the lightning reflexes of a fourteen year-old, Melinda batted it back outside. Mariko knocked Mary and Jimmy to the floor and popped a few shots through the rapidly closing door into the cluster of men outside.

She yelled for Melinda to get down and threw herself on top of Mary and Jimmy. The blast from the grenade ripped the door from its hinges and sent it ricocheting down the stairwell, where it slammed into a man who had just opened the door at the bottom, knocking him unconscious and breaking both of his legs.

Mariko began firing into the mass of screaming, wounded and dying men outside as she tugged Mary and Jimmy through the doorway. Melinda shot a man in the neck as he lunged at her. She caught a flash of red out of the corner of her eye and spun toward the threat, looking up and freezing for the merest instant at the sight of the most enormous man she’d ever seen. His crimson beret sparkled in the starlight.

Prince John whipped a knife across her throat, picked her dying body up with one hand and threw her into Mariko, the surprise blow knocking the woman flat and all but tearing the AR-15 from her grasp. With a sweep of his other hand he sent Mary and Jimmy tumbling back into the stairwell. He stepped over to Mariko, who was struggling to bring her gun to bear on him and kicked her rifle aside. He bent down and chopped sharply with the butt of his pistol, snapping her neck cleanly. He grasped her by the hair and lifted her lifeless form from the ground.

“My, oh my, you are a pretty one,” he said, as he dangled her in front of his face. “But, unless Jamal is more full of shit than usual, you’re not Ellen Whitebear.”

He noticed the streak of white in her black hair and decided to add it to his collection. With a quick swipe of his blade John scalped her, tucking the bloody thing under his belt.

“Let go of my Mom!”

The Prince dropped Mariko, twisted swiftly and grabbed Jimmy as the eight-year-old charged valiantly from the stairwell. The boy’s small fists wind-milled as he pummeled the big man with futile blows. John laughed.

“Well, what have we here?” With one hand, he held the boy out for inspection.

“Must be another one of Whitebear’s brats,” said Jamal as he stepped from the stairwell opening with a squirming Mary clasped under one arm. “Feisty little shits,” he added, “I found this one trying to level a pistol at your head, my Prince.”

He stopped, appearing stunned as he looked at Mariko’s crumpled form. “That’s not Ellen Whitebear.” He seemed confused, as if he couldn’t believe what he was saying.

He looked up at the Prince and asked, “Where is she, Big John?”

Then, angrily, he snapped, “Don’t tell me she got away!”

John took an enormous stride toward Jamal, fixed him with a venomous glare and snarled, “You forget yourself, Jammie.”

The smaller man cringed.

“Nobody got away, you fool,” Prince John explained. “You directed us to hit the wrong damned house.”

“But...” Jamal prepared to argue the point. After all, he’d seen Ellen Whitebear summoned from this house and return to it.

“But nothing, you idiot!”

Jamal thought better of pushing the point. He knew Prince John had a hair-trigger temper. Why push his luck?

“So what do we do now?”

WHAM!

One of the Cobra gunships providing covering fire for the assault exploded in a ball of fire.

“Get the fuck out of here,” John yelled. He took off running for the Huey, little Jimmy tucked under one arm. “We’ve made our point. And bring the girl,” John shouted over his shoulder. “The brats just might come in handy as hostages.”

Prince John and Jamal dived through the doors of the Huey, which leaped into the air immediately, abandoning two of John’s personal guards whose retreat hadn’t been quick enough. Bullets thudded into the helicopter from all angles as Freeholders converged on the McKinley place. The chopper jinked a bit, then continued its climb back up Farnum Peak.

Jamal looked back down as they climbed away. He caught a flash of blonde hair near the house and tried for a shot, recognizing Ellen Whitebear. He flinched and missed, howling in pain as Mary bit his arm. In his anger he almost threw the little girl out, but a huge hand snatched her away from him and a deadly voice said, “We’ve little enough to show for this botch up, Jam. And she’s pretty. She’ll make a fine present for father.”