A Long Time Until Now (39 page)

CHAPTER 20

Felix Trinidad sat on guard, spinning wool and watching the barren landscape, along with ten Urushu moving logs under Spencer’s direction. He felt much better as the remaining wall came along. That still left gaping holes along the stream bed, but with more wall and fewer trees, and the leaves off the ones remaining, they had better field of fire and visibility. The stream was uneven, and would slow intruders a bit.

It wasn’t just the possible Neolithic response. It was that stampede, and the bear that had wandered through, and the lions who’d drunk from the stream right at the upper corner near the kitchen and sweat lodge.

The LT said he had a plan for bridging the stream. Though he still thought it would have been easier to put the wall on this side with a small people gate. But the fresh water and waste removal was a very good feature.

Looking to the future, they’d have better housing with shake roofs. He’d stayed in wood huts back home. He’d be comfortable enough here. Then he’d really want someone to be with. Losing your family was worse when you didn’t acquire new relations.

But convincing the mates to live with them was one problem, then raising the kids to be more modern was another. Unless they organized a school, most of the modern knowledge would be lost, and make only a minor ripple in the development. They could make themselves reasonably comfortable for their life sentences. They couldn’t change this world.

And he’d screwed up and made the yarn too thick again. He sighed, unspooled a section, rolled it between his fingers, re-wrapped, and continued.

If they ever did get back, he thought, he’d hunt down some of those “The simpler life was better” types in America and smash them in the face. They’d not last ten minutes in Bataan, and this was notably more backward.

Overhead, the flag snapped in the wind. He pulled up his gore-tex. It was getting much chillier. It wasn’t bad here overall, but he was tropical, despite some time at Fort Lewis. They figured it was early December. It wasn’t terrible, with daytime temperatures in the 50s, but that was cold when you were in them all day. Then at night it froze.

Had it been less than three months? They’d done a lot of work, undistracted by internet and TV. He wasn’t sure it felt like home, but it did feel like a base.

He wasn’t sure he
wanted
it to feel like home.

However, he could do without wolves and badgers ripping apart the bodies of the abandoned Neolithics. That was creepy and ugly. That they did it in daytime a couple of hundred meters from the camp was disturbing.

Spencer and Barker changed back to setting poles again, with Dalton and Ortiz and a bunch of natives.

He yelled down, “Hey, next time we need to drag the dead a bit farther away, hooah?”

Barker climbed up the rise at the bottom wall and looked.

“Holy fuck, yes.”

“Want me to shoot or scare them off?”

Spencer also took a look, then the LT climbed up the ladder.

Elliott said, “No, not for now, they’re . . . mostly done. Definitely next time, though. Then there’s the ravens and buzzards.”

“And ants,” he said.

Martin Spencer was twitchy with the mixed camp. He expected the Neoliths to come back in supplication or force. They and the Urushu might fight each other, or the Neoliths might attack someone in rage or desperation.

Or if he was lucky, they might just run away.

But the burly little bastards were good at setting poles, and a couple of them had learned shovel and axe. They really liked the tools.

With Oglesby translating, they asked about the magic material.

“Heh. Simple steel. Tell them it’s special ochre treated with magical fire and lots of prayer.”

“That’s actually pretty close, isn’t it?”

“As close as I can get to explaining to a primitive with no modern terms. It almost feels like I’m giving scripture.”

Oglesby said, “Well, I don’t have many of their words myself. Their language is more structured than the Urushu, and that actually makes it harder. I’m using babytalk as it is.”

“Hooah.”

One of the badly wounded Neoliths died that night. His shoulder was too damaged, and he’d kept bleeding and possibly gotten infected.

Oglesby translated, “They want to carry him home, but aren’t strong enough. They would like to grant us safe passage.”

“Can they guarantee it?”

“No.”

“Then no. But any who are fit to travel can do so, and either drag him on a hide or bring back five to help.”

After some back and forth, two of them decided to limp their way home.

Trinidad said, “I’ll overwatch them for about a mile. Just to make sure they’re safe from predators.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Keep me covered from on top. I can run fast if I have to.”

Martin knew he’d never have the courage to volunteer for that. He liked staying near the rest, still dreading a reversal that would leave him stranded.

“Stout man. Half a mile. It may help; it’s a good gesture.”

“Hooah.”

That evening, a party of ten came back, and removed the body, as well as three well-eaten ones. Oglesby expressed that the spirits allowed and encouraged the fair treatment of brave warriors, and that exposure was considered honorable in these conditions. He didn’t sell it well, but the Neoliths seemed scared of their magic weapons and weren’t disposed to trouble. That was apparently why they hadn’t come back yet.

The walking prisoners all went with them. Two with bad legs stayed, and two fit ones stayed with them. They worked as requested and didn’t cause trouble. They built their own wickiup, very similar to the Urushu one built near it, just outside the east wall. Hell, it was similar to the Lapp tents, the tepee, and a dozen other cultures. Pile up sticks, wrap in hide.

By the end of the week, the wall was done.

Elliott seemed much stronger. He’d been quiet and alone for a couple of days, but apparently the challenge of bridging the stream got his brain moving. As to the mercy killings, he’d never mention it to anyone. Even the three who came back didn’t have details, though he suspected Caswell and Dalton had guessed. Oglesby he wasn’t sure about.

“What I want to do,” Elliott said, pointing at his laptop screen, “is drag two good-sized logs across, touching. We’ll dig them in and set them with a box of rocks. That might need more timber as reinforcement. I want it about eighteen inches above the water. We’ll bevel the bottom of the pickets and set them through. If it looks like we’ll get flooding, we’ll cut a hole above the cross timbers, too. But in both cases, small enough it’s hard for someone or some beast to crawl under.”

“A box culvert.”

“Exactly.”

“You could have just said that, sir,” he grinned. “But the explanation does help. What about a bridge right behind it, as a firing platform?”

“Yes, that’s on the blueprint, too,” Elliott said, pointing at his screen.

“Hooah, sir. I’ll get the peasants working.”

The Urushu changed every couple of days. They built a second hide-covered wickiup inside the wall but across the stream, and it became a de facto embassy. Alexander and Caswell moved into the tepee with the men. It made sense with the chill anyway. That freed up their hooch as a recovery room for anyone Doc worked on.

Devereaux fixed a couple of broken bones, occasional animal tramplings, infected cuts, torn nails. The Urushu took a beating even with thrown spears. But they appreciated the help, and brought hides, edibles and game.

Martin and Barker moved more into supervision, with Dalton, Oglesby and Ortiz handling labor with the locals. He’d select trees and rocks, they’d work, he’d help. Up above, Alexander covered everyone as her foot healed, switching off with Trinidad.

“This amuses me, man,” Felix said. “And ought to piss me off.”

“What?”

“I went back fifteen thousand years to become a TCN Escort.”

“Yeah. That you did. Better than being a corpse.”

Martin Spencer stood and stretched his spine. The work never stopped. Nor was it easier in gore-tex and liner.

There was regular frost on the ground before the wall was finished, but it was ready for winter. The digging was a little harder, but the post holes were neater from the chill. Another small gate was installed, big enough for a person with a bundle of stuff, or an animal.

It was 12 December when the last pile dropped into a gap, then had to be hammered and shoved and pried into place.

“Watch fingers!” he shouted, as Trinidad stood atop the scaffolding and stamped it in place. It slid inch by inch until flush.

Then Trinidad tied it in place with bark, and hammered a peg in to set it, as Barker did the same near the ground. Dalton had two of the Neoliths shovel dirt into the hole and stamp it down.

They stood back.

The wooden culvert spanned the stream. The wall followed it, and now connected to the far side, at uphill and downhill. They had a solid defense on four sides. They were done.

Elliott said, “We’ll want to build a diversion in front of the main gate so no one can charge through. Just a few feet. Zigzag.”

Done, until the next stage. Then the next . . .

“Can it wait until springtime, sir? We need a shit ton of firewood and smoked food before it really gets cold.” Snow was blowing from a gray sky.

“Yeah, I agree. Is that secret juice of yours good for a toast tonight?”

“It’s consumable, sir, but it’s sour. If you’re used to muddy French wines, it’s drinkable. For most people, it’s rough. But I don’t mind decanting some.”

“What proof?”

“Probably like any strong wine. Fifteen to twenty.”

“Let’s do it.”

“Hooah, sir. And we have ribs for dinner. It calls for beer, but we’ll see what we can do.”

He raised his voice, “Dog off, motherfuckers, it’s chow time. We’re done.”

Everyone stretched, cheered, smiled, shook hands and wiped brows. You could overheat even in winter.

The cooler was in the back of the smoke hut, out of sight, though Barker knew it existed. As everyone gathered around the fire, he went to get it.

“You’re pulling it?” Barker asked.

“I am. Celebration.”

“Awesome.”

He carried the cooler out on his shoulder, and set it down carefully to avoid disturbing sediment.

“This is something I’ve been working on,” he said.

Alexander said, “Oh, my gods, is that beer?”

“Wine.”

Ortiz said, “Wine?”

Then everyone was talking about it. So much for a dramatic presentation.

“Well, it’s a mixed fruit wine. The local fruit is quite tart, and so is this. But it’s safe to drink and it’s alcoholic.”

“Are we serving the Urushu?” There were three in camp. One lightly injured, two escorts.

“If they wish. They can share a cup, or do they have their own?”

“Carved wooden bowls.”

“Bring them out.”

Caswell had taken it on herself to learn a few words, and went to get them. The one limped slightly, supported by the others, and joined them at the fire.

Martin unscrewed the lid carefully, and Barker handed him a canteen cup. He lowered it, let it fill, and started pouring as everyone ran up to shove cups at him.

One cup each shouldn’t be too debilitating, and he wasn’t going to serve Oglesby, up top, until his shift was done.

Everyone else being served, he raised his canteen cup and said, “To Lieutenant Elliott for his design. To Barker, and, I guess, me for heading up the operation. To the rest of us for laboring on it. And to our guests, for invaluable help.” He tilted his cup in toast to them, made eye contact, and sipped.

It was tart, sour, cool in temperature but warm in sensation, and full of sediment. He wasn’t a heavy drinker but no lightweight. Two swallows in, though, he could feel the buzz.

Dalton said, “Dude . . . Sergeant . . . hot damn, this is good.”

“It’s passable.”

“Given you had nothing to work with, it’s good.”

“Thanks. Well, if anyone wants to consecrate a little in a bottle, you can use it for Communion.”

Ortiz said, “Thank you. That’s very decent of you.”

“Not a problem. Alexander, do you need a little for ritual?”

“A little. Yes. And a little more.” She held out her cup. She was smiling and a bit loopy.