A Long Time Until Now (5 page)

Out front, he saw Spencer, Caswell and Dalton. Alexander and Ortiz were aboard with him. He noted Alexander was up on the gun. He assumed she knew what she was doing. Barker, Trinidad and Devereaux were aboard Charlie Nine. Oglesby gave him a thumbsup and climbed in.

“I’m last, sir. I count ten.”

“I counted ten, too, and we’ll be moving at a walking pace. Let’s roll.”

He revved the engine in lieu of a horn. Spencer turned to look at him, and he stuck a thumb out the window. Spencer nodded, waved back, and started walking.

Martin Spencer shivered. It wasn’t cold, though even moderate temperatures got chilly if you were out in them all day, and anyway, they’d been in scorching heat until three days ago. But, as much as he liked being alone, he did not like being this far from the rest. He had an ongoing panic that the vehicles were going to disappear and leave him here with two soldiers, neither of whom he thought were that good.

He slogged through tall grass and low scrub, like prairie set on an angle. It dragged at his boots and pants, and he left a very obvious trail. It was tough, slow going, though it would be easy for the trucks, as long as they stayed upright.

The LT wasn’t handling things well. What he should do was roll at speed, with a good eye ahead, get to the river fast, and keep them all in close proximity. Their water and food were limited, and if this took a week, they were going to be in sad shape. The fatigue alone was killing him.

He decided that he’d take some melatonin that evening. He needed the sleep. Though he’d rather wake up from a nightmare than be stuck in one.

He should probably stop chugging Ripits, too. Though he probably had to. There didn’t seem to be any left. He’d chewed the coffee powder from the MREs. He’d caffeined and adrenalined himself sick.

He kept his head swiveling. No doubt it looked to the LT that he was very earnest in his task. In reality, he wanted to keep a good eye on Caswell to the left, who was edging in closer, and Dalton to the right, who seemed to be keeping position. Dalton was also muttering to himself. The kid was probably praying. Spencer didn’t blame him. If it helped, good. He almost wished he could.

He did keep an eye open ahead, but the ground was rolling hillside, with no terrain the vehicles couldn’t handle. He pointed at trees as he passed. Ahead was another rock outcropping. He clambered up and stood there to point it out, until the LT gave him a thumb. He took a few moments to view all around. Yes, that low line of trees was likely the river, right where it was supposed to be.

Not reassuring. They really were in the fucking Stone Age. Were there any Paleolithic people around here yet? And were they Cro-Magnon, Neanderthal, or something older? If Devereaux was right, anyone here should be modern humans. That helped. Then he wasn’t sure if he’d rather meet other people or not.

There were little herds of goats or such dotting the ridges. He saw something that looked like large, ugly antelope in a small family group. A hare darted through grass ahead of him. Startled, he looked around and up.

Then he realized they’d barely moved a half mile. That was two point five percent of the trip. If that held true, this was only a two-day trip. But even then, he’d be gibbering nuts.

Caswell was getting too close.

“Move back left,” he reluctantly ordered.

“Yes, Sergeant.” She didn’t argue, but looked uncomfortable moving away. He understood that.

Ahead there were more goats. At least they’d have plenty to eat, and those didn’t taste too bad. But they had to find salt, and edible vegetables, and he’d need chalk.

His stomach hurt like hell, but he had to ration out the ranitidine as long as he could. Once it was gone, he might manage on chalk added to all his food. Or he might start dying slowly and painfully. Or he might start puking in agony until he put a bullet through his brain.

Fifteen years ago, he’d been a physically textbook Soldier. Now . . .

This dip was likely too deep for the undercarriage.

He called, “Caswell, direct them your way.”

“Roger.”

He pointed, she waved, the LT stuck a hand out, and the vehicles angled west.

He took the same course, and waved Dalton to do the same.

He made a point of drinking. It wasn’t hot, but he could still dehydrate if not careful. The sun was getting high.

A double rev of the engine sounded. He turned and the LT waved him back. Had it been two hours?

The ache in his legs said it had been. He started to stumble back, but the LT drove forward to his position. It made sense.

Barker dug a hasty hole behind Charlie Nine, they took care of draining in turn, and shoveled the dirt back in.

Climbing into Charlie Nine was a relief. It was warm, dry, and sounded like the twenty-first century. And now he was terrified that whatever brought them here would take the ground guides back. He swallowed. It was PTSD, and he’d get over it eventually. They all had it, and there was nothing to be done about it.

The LT, Alexander and Barker moved out front to guide. He took the wheel.

Gina Alexander shook. She could take photos under fire, but this was terrifying. Her head floated above her feet, not feeling anything. Stone Age. Stranded. She had Blake, Dylan and Aislinn at home, and knew she’d never see them again.

She knew it was a panic attack, but they weren’t supposed to last three days. She hadn’t slept beyond nausea-filled naps, even more than she had trouble sleeping anyway. Medication . . . but when it ran out, she knew what awaited her.

She choked back a sob. Something had to take them home. Please.

She stepped in a dip and her ankle twisted. She winced, but it wasn’t crippling. She limped for a bit, but kept on. That, too. She wasn’t physically fit enough for this. She was a middle-aged Guardsman, on loan, for publicity photos. She could handle an occasional combat sortie. But this . . . no.

She heard the growl, twisted and fumbled, and fell. Then it jumped on her.

“Gaaah!”

It was a dog, a wolf, several of them. Something was stuck on her boot, and something chewed at her knee pad. She smelled rotten breath and felt it blow wet on her head, as jaws crunched at her helmet. Claws scraped and dragged through her shirt sleeve. Hot, wet drool splashed on her face.

She squealed again, jammed her carbine into something and pulled the trigger. The animal yowled, kicked and rolled away.

Two more shots sounded, another fell and convulsed a few feet away, then Lieutenant Elliott stood over her.

“Alexander, are you alright?”

“I think so, sir. Covered in wolf drool, but no damage. They got my boot and kneepad.”

“Stay down for a moment.”

“Yes, sir.”

She lay back and sighed. Five minutes into her shift, and she was a casualty and liability.

Devereaux arrived at a run, but she already knew she was fine, just freaked. He looked her over.

“I don’t see any punctures. Do you have any strains or tears?”

“I don’t think so.” She flexed each joint carefully. “Just overall soreness like from wrestling or PT.”

“Okay, we’ll put you on next shift. Oglesby is up.”

She wanted to argue, but she needed to curl up in a ball and scream.

“Definitely wolves,” Barker said. “Big suckers. Not dire wolves, but big Asian wolves.” He toed the one the LT had shot, which still twitched. He pulled a knife off his gear and jabbed it into the beast’s throat.

“What about that one she shot?” The lieutenant asked.

Barker said, “It might die eventually. It also might heal. Five five six isn’t much of a round for a big animal, but it was point blank into the guts. I’d rather not try to track it down, but if you insist . . .”

“Negative. I was just curious if we have enough guns. And we only have the ammo we have.”

“Yeah. We need some spears and bows, as soon as we find a place to hole up.”

They were ignoring her, which was good and bad. They weren’t worried, but they also didn’t need her.

I am not crying!
she insisted, and tightened her face.

“Hey, Alexander!” Elliott shouted.

“Yes, sir?”

“They came up fast. No one saw them. You did good.”

She wasn’t sure he meant it, but she was glad he said it.

“Thank you, sir.”

And now she’d be the old lady in the passenger seat.

Bob Barker was stiff. Sleeping three across in the back of the trucks wasn’t comfortable, though it was safe, with two people up top on watch. Dalton had elected to sleep up top, and it had been dry. He wasn’t sure the LT was sleeping, and that was a problem. The man had wigged out pretty badly already.

Bob also felt cold. It wasn’t the temperature. He liked it cool. It was an emotional cold.

On the one hand, he was confident enough, since he knew flintknapping, tanning, firemaking, and how to make several types of tepee and wickiup. It was really cool to have that knowledge and to know how his ancestors lived. On the other hand, doing so didn’t really appeal, but he didn’t appear to have any choice.

He heard a distant yip.

If those damned wolves were around, they’d need spears or bows. The ones that hit Alexander yesterday had been beautiful animals, and he respected them. They’d also yield a warm fur that frost wouldn’t form on.

If they were here forever, he planned to wear a few.

He wanted to change his underwear and his socks again. It was going on two days since the last change, and they were crunchy. Hygiene was important. The field was messier than garrison, but there was no reason to become lice-picking savages.

MRAPs were completely the wrong vehicles for this terrain. It was amazing they hadn’t rolled them both. The walking pace helped; had they just driven they’d definitely have spilled. Even like this, though, they constantly pushed twenty degrees of incline, and that was risky.

He had seen the river earlier. They weren’t going to die of thirst. That long line of trees was obvious. It was a long way, though, especially detouring so the vehicles could have as flat a run as possible.

There were all kinds of animals here. They’d seen a second herd of rhino. There were goats by the billions. Some large antelope things that might be saiga or a relative. Rabbits, or probably hares, popped up here and there. Wolves. They might have seen a lion. Caswell thought she had.

Devereaux whistled and waved, and pointed. He angled over that way at a fast walk.

The ground in front of Devereaux was rocky and lumpy under the scrub. Spiky stalks of bushes protruded between them. Yeah, that would have stopped the vehicle, permanently. The LT was being cautious, but he’d been right. Spencer would have driven right up on it, possibly into it, before identifying it.

“Good find. It’s clearer over my way. They’ll have to turn sharp left.”

He jogged back through clouds of bugs and windblown grass and gave Spencer that information.

Spencer nodded. “Right. I hope we don’t run into any dead ends.”

“It’s getting better. I can see the trees.”

“Yes, I can too. But that means the terrain will get rougher.”

“Hopefully the glaciers did their job.”

Spencer nodded. “Hopefully.”

If Doc was correct about when it was. If they were there.

There was no way home right now, so he tried to put it out of his mind.

Martin Spencer was chagrined. Yes, they really did need to go that slowly, and he should have known that, and he’d have wrecked a vehicle figuring it out. The fatigue and fear were affecting him as much as anyone.

They made slow progress, but it was progress. They were all together, so if anything happened they’d hopefully not wind up with three poor bastards left behind while the trucks went home, but he was afraid of that every moment he was detached to the ground. A mere 100 meters was causing him to freak out.

He scratched at his chin. The growth there was enough to be irritating, even before a helmet chinstrap. They were all looking and smelling like bums. His skin was greasy with sweat, and gritty.

A blast from the horn made him jump, and he turned, expecting more wolves.

Elliott waved him back. The trucks were at a nice flat spot he’d crossed a few minutes before. They throttled off and everyone debarked. The sun was sinking in the west over long hills. They’d been at this fourteen hours. Barker was breaking sticks and starting a small fire in a little hollow.

Elliott said, “Okay, we’ll bivouac here tonight. And we need to assess food and water.”

Water was getting critical. If they didn’t find some tomorrow, they’d be out.

“What do we do for water?” he asked.

Barker said, “We can dig a sump anywhere there’s damp rocks or a hollow. But we have to find them. If we find a stream or meadow, we use it.”

Spencer said, “We reach the river down there fast. We can see it. We need to get there. Otherwise, we need to sit out a day with a solar still over plants and a latrine and get what water we can, but it’s not going to be enough. We have to move.”

“It’s hilly down there,” Dalton said. “Ridges and stuff.”

Elliott said, “We seem to have about eight klicks to go. We’ll do it tomorrow. We have the fuel. If need be, we’ll run along a ridge or valley instead of crossing them.”

Barker and Dalton were muttering something and not paying attention.

Spencer looked over, irritated. “Gentlemen, as informal as it is, this is a formation.”

Dalton said, “Sorry, sir, and Sergeant. We were discussing something.”

“What?”

Dalton looked at Elliott. “Permission to shoot a goat, sir? At least we’ll have some fresh food, and it’ll mean the MREs last a bit longer.”

Good catch. They were down to a day’s worth, and most of the pogey bait was gone. He’d stashed a bag of chips. That was all he had left.

Elliott asked, “Can you get one?”

Dalton gestured. “Hell, they’re within fifty yards. Headshot, bang.”

“But is an M-Four big enough for one?”

Barker nodded. “Oh, hell yes. Not for anything much bigger, but it’ll bag a kid.”

“Go ahead. Ears, everyone.”

Dalton raised his rifle, took a breath, steadied in textbook fashion and squeezed off one round. Fifty-odd yards away, a goat convulsed and dropped. Some of its friends scampered away, while others merely stared in confusion.