Apocalyptic Visions Super Boxset (195 page)

“Now, Jason!”

Bullets splintered the tree bark, and Jason finally made for the top, with Chris struggling behind him. He held out his hand and gripped Chris’s bloody palm as they made it to the wall. The fall was ten feet, and neither man had time to think about what was below before gunshots blasted behind them, but Jason took the time to look back at Robert one last time before he fell.

The mammoth was covered in blood, fallen to his knees yet still swinging his sword, fending off the three smaller creatures prodding him with their steel. Robert gave one final lunge, pushing himself to his feet before he was dropped by a bullet to his head, the ground shaking as he fell.

Jason landed hard on the firm earth and grass below, with Chris not far behind. The two stumbled into the forest, never breaking to look behind them. They flung branches and leaves aside on their sprint, Chris starting to limp the farther they ran.

With the trees and brush thick around them, they finally came to rest under the shade of a large tree, its leaves flat, broad, and green. Chris collapsed, his skin pale and clammy from the loss of blood. Jason ripped off the right sleeve of his shirt and wrapped it tightly around the wound, keeping pressure. Chris grabbed hold of Jason’s collar with more strength than Jason believed he had left in him. “You need to get back to the ship.”

“We need to find you a doctor.” Jason checked the wound as Chris clutched at his side.

“Ruiz’s men are probably already heading there. It’s your last chance, you need to go.”

Jason finished the knot around the wound and pulled it tight. Chris tried to protest, but he’d made up his mind. “I didn’t accept this job to let people die for me.”

“But I did.” Chris spoke his words with a sense of premonition to them, one that sent a chill up Jason’s spine.

Jason jutted his finger into Chris’s face, an anger welling up inside him that he didn’t realize he had. “You listen to me. You even try and think something stupid, and I’ll knock you out and drag you out of here. You understand me?”

Chris cracked a smile. “And since when have I ever listened to you?”

Before Jason had a chance to retaliate, the bushes rustled to his left, and a man flew out of the wild before Jason had time to unsheathe his sword. He was tackled to the ground and immobilized. His mouth was gagged, and before a bag was thrown over his head, he saw Chris being restrained.

Jason struggled against their captors even through the restraints until a blow to the side of his head made him limp as a wet noodle. When he woke up, he wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but the blindfold and gag had been removed. He sat in the dirt, his ankles and wrists still tied.

The room he was in had no furniture or windows, just four walls, a dirt floor, a door, and a roof. A pounding in his head refused to let him look at anything for too long, and keeping his eyes open made him dizzy. He gently grazed the back of his head where he had been hit and winced.

“I wouldn’t touch that.”

The voice caused Jason to jump, and he wasn’t sure if the figure in the light-blue dress with long, wild black hair was real or just a hallucination. “Where am I?”

She walked over to him, and when she pressed the palm of her hand against Jason’s face, he felt the same warmth that he remembered from this morning. “You’re in my camp. And your friend is with our healer.”

“Chris.” The name sent a jolt of adrenaline through Jason’s mind and body. The woman came into view more clearly, and he forced the sledgehammer in his brain to ease its clobbering. “Is he all right?”

The woman only offered a sympathetic smile. “Only time will tell. He lost a lot of blood. My people have done what they can.”

The tension in Jason’s body released. He rested his head back against the wall, his body slouching. His mind slowly retraced the events, and he knew that what men he had at the ship were either dead or captured. Recalling the way Ruiz looked to handle Jason, he guessed the former. The woman from this morning simply looked down at him, her hand still on his cheek. “Who are you?”

“Right now, I’m the best friend you have.”

Everything in the Alaskan wilderness was frigid, and the longer Dean and his men tracked the men who’d raided the fisheries, the more the cold paralyzed his body. The joints along his limbs and back stiffened to the point of breaking. Even the horse under his saddle seemed to succumb to the icy air, objecting every time Dean pushed the beast further.

The scout that Dean had sent ahead galloped back through the trees, cold puffs of air blowing from both his mouth and the steed’s. “Governor, there’s a camp on the other side of the river just north of here.”

“How many men?”

“At least thirty, sir.”

Dean had enough soldiers to take the camp, especially with the element of surprise, pending no one spotted his man when he fled. “Where can we cross the river?”

The scout turned his horse slightly southeast and pointed through the trees. “The water’s shallow and narrows. Not more than twenty feet across and no deeper than three feet toward the middle.”

“Lead the way, Sergeant.” Dean followed as the horses hurried through the trees, mindlessly avoiding the rocks and roots that could make a man who strained to watch his footing trip and fall. The closer they moved to the babbling waters of the river, the more Dean felt his body loosen. He pulled his pistol from the satchel as his horse took the first few steps into the icy river that gently splashed his legs.

The rest of the men in Dean’s unit drew their weapons, and he signaled for them to spread out, sending a cluster of men to flank the camp and prevent any escape. While setting camp along the river was ideal for resources, it made it easy to surround, already having a natural barrier to their backs. Dean was betting the commander didn’t think he’d have anyone hunting them on their journey.

The men’s voices at the camp grew steadily louder, and Dean slowed his horse, keeping the steps light. The light rush of the river and the sound of the men bustling about their morning routines offered enough noise to allow them to approach without being heard.

Finally, Dean spotted the first man rolling up his tent between the cluster of trees. The location they’d chosen was right on the bank like his scout had said, centered in a small clearing of sand and dirt.

Dean’s men slowly surrounded the soldiers, and he waited until all of them were in position. He pulled the hammer back on his pistol, and once he saw his last man slide into place, he spurred his heels into the side of his horse, charging into camp.

Simultaneously, the rest of his men followed suit, and the sudden thunder of dozens of hooves alerted the enemy to their position, but it was too late. The camp was caught off guard, and Dean and his men tore through it like hot water through ice. He cut men down as they reached for their rifles, a few of them immediately surrendering, others defiant until their last breath.

Dean’s horse trampled a pile of supplies and ran down a man trying to escape through the deep, frigid waters of the river. He swam chaotically through the waters, his body seizing up from the cold. Dean pulled his rifle from the satchel and took aim, lining the man’s bobbing head between the crosshairs. The horse kept steady. Dean exhaled as he squeezed the trigger, and the bullet sliced through the back of the soldier’s skull. The clear river water flooded with red as the lifeless body floated face down, downstream.

Those that weren’t killed were captured and huddled in a circle, disarmed of their weapons, and bound with rope. Dean dismounted, his breathing calm but his heart pulsating underneath the cover of his thick clothes. “Who’s in command?”

The bearded faces kept their eyes on the ground. Dean walked down the line, sizing each of them up until he found the officer bars on one of the men. He lifted the commander’s chin, the beard thick with dirt and grime. “You’re Russian?”

The man yanked his face away from Dean’s hand and spit on the ground, slurring a thick, drunken-like Slavic tongue at him. While Dean’s Russian was rusty, he recognized a few words to affirm the answer to his question. And while his studies had told him little about the Russian culture, he knew two things of them to be true. They loved to drink, and they were stubborn as mules. Dean pointed to one of his lieutenants then to the Russian commander. “Untie him.”

The lieutenant remained frozen. “Sir, I don’t—”

“Now!” Dean’s voice shattered the frozen air and echoed down the river and through the trees. The lieutenant quickly complied, and the Russian commander pushed himself to his feet. Dean removed his pistol, sword, and heavy jacket and then raised his fists.

The Russian smiled then reciprocated, his bear-sized paws slowly swinging back and forth as Dean circled him. The Russian made a few quick jabs but hit nothing but air. Dean’s men started a low chant, which grew louder as the dance continued. Eventually, even the Russian captives echoed their own support, egging their commander on.

Dean took a quick step inside and brought his right fist under the Russian’s jaw, sending his head up with a pop, followed by a quick left strike to the Russian’s body. The big man stumbled backward, disoriented for only a moment, then recovered and connected with a hard right to Dean’s face. The blow bloodied Dean’s lip and he spat on the ground, staining the dirty snow a light pink.

Dean’s fists ached, the cold freezing them stiff so they felt like pieces of steel and concrete. He gritted his teeth and moved in again for another combo, ducking from a haymaker the Russian threw in desperation. He pummeled the Russian’s body until he heard the snap of a rib that caused the Russian to double over in pain.

With the Russian bent over, Dean finished the commander off with a quick, thunderous strike to the chin that cracked the air like the breaking of ice. The Russian hit the ground, his mouth drooling blood and his body spasming from pain. Dean’s chest heaved up and down from the exertion, and his lieutenant quickly came to his aid, but Dean waved him off. “I’m fine.”

Dean picked the Russian up by the collar and slammed him against a tree for support. Blood trickled down his chin, and his cheeks had reddened from both the cold and the fight. “Who sent you?”

The Russian wheezed when he drew in breath, and his face strained with effort. “My commander sent me. To find you. Governor.”

“You know who I am?”

The Russian nodded. “I’m here to kill you. Just like my people killed your brother.” The smile the Russian forced only lasted as long as it took for Dean to bring his fist into the front of the Russian’s teeth.

Even after the Russian fell to the ground, Dean didn’t relinquish his strikes. He brought his fist down like a hammer. Bone crunched, and blood splattered underneath the force of his blows until the life had run out of the Russian and bled out onto the snow.

Dean’s hand shook, and his knuckles were bloody and raw. The faces of his men had turned pale, and his lieutenant jumped when he called his name. “Take into custody the one man who wants to live most, then kill the rest.” Dean stomped to his horse. “War is upon us.”

***

The parents of the boy Kemena worked on waited nervously in the corner of the room. The boy was no older than six, his hair thick, dark, and curly, complemented with a pale, freckled complexion. He looked as her younger brother did when he was a child.

Kemena pressed the back of her hand against the boy’s forehead. He was so hot she thought he’d burst into flames. She muddled a mixture of herbs and placed a damp rag on his forehead to help cool him down. Once the herbs had been ground into a fine dust, she stirred them into water and lifted the boy’s head to have him drink. He barely opened his mouth and was only able to take a few sips before he had to lie back down.

The mother rushed to Kemena, who was still holding the cup of medicine in her hand. “Is he going to be all right?” The mother’s eyes were stressed, weary from nights of praying, hoping that the doctor would be able to come save her child.

Kemena placed the glass with her remedy in the mother’s hands. “Have him finish the rest of that. It’ll help keep the fever down.” She reached back into her bag and pulled out a small glass vial of powder. “Give a pinch of this to him every hour until it’s gone. If he’s still sick once he’s finished it, bring him into town. I won’t be able to do anything else for him here.”

The mother cried, clutching the medicine in her hands, then wrapped her arms around Kemena. “Thank you. Thank you so much for coming.”

Kemena gently patted the woman’s back. “You’re welcome. Once the fever breaks, he should be fine.” The woman’s husband came and peeled his wife off her and shook her hand as well. Before she left, she looked back at the child lying in the bed, hoping he’d pull through. But she knew better than anyone else the odds of a sick child.

The carriage driver waited for her outside, and she loaded the rest of her supplies in the back then found her own seat. Normally when she came into the smaller towns, she was flooded by requests of citizens rushing up to her, but the escort of soldiers that Dean had ordered to be with her at all times since his brother’s death seemed to intimidate the crowd.

While Kemena had studied and learned from an actual physician, the truth of the matter was they just didn’t have the necessary medicines and equipment to save everyone. It was a hard fact to swallow, especially after reading old textbooks from schools before the Great War.

There had been entire organizations dedicated to healing, helping. Now, it was all Kemena could do to keep fevers down and stitch up wounds from war or fighting amongst the local drunks. She looked down at her long, slender hands. Hands that were so sure of themselves and what they could accomplish, yet limited with the resources at her disposal.

She had determined long ago that she was born in the wrong time period, and the old doctor that trained her agreed. He fed her desires with stories from his teacher, who’d worked in the world of medicine just before the fighting that changed the face of civilization began.

Hardly a night went by that she didn’t dream of the world before the bombs were dropped. In those vivid dreams, she saved countless lives, cured diseases, operated on disabled men and women, and made them walk again.

The carriage dipped in a pothole, knocking the daydream from her vision. Here in this world, she had to keep both feet in reality. Early in her career, she had made the mistake of promising more than she could give. That’s why she refused to answer the mother’s question. Her desire to save someone didn’t necessarily correlate with success, no matter how bad she wanted it to come true.

The ride back was slow. A downpour of rain had caused a few of the roads to flood, forcing them onto back roads, which took twice as long. Each village, town, or camp that she passed, Kemena watched the faces look at her carriage. They knew who she was, who her husband was. Even though Dean had been chosen in an election, as was his brother Jason, they treated her family more like a monarchy than public officials.

              War had been carved out in her husband’s family tree. Fred Mars, the eldest brother, along with his father and uncles, catapulted the Mars name into legend during the battle with the Chinese in the Island Wars years ago. While Dean didn’t join the fighting until he was slightly older, she could still hear the faint glaze of horror when he spoke about it, which wasn’t often. She’d determined long ago that the Mars men came with a powerful silence about them, especially the older ones. Jason, the youngest, was the only loud one among them, and even he bit his tongue on talks of war.

A chilly breeze blew through the carriage, and Kemena pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders. With everything that her husband and his brothers had been through, all of the fighting, death, and pain, she wasn’t sure if any of them could escape another war with their souls still intact. She’d seen enough of the battles during the war with the clansmen to know what it did to a man’s mind. Little by little, it twisted and exploited all of the good things you held dear and pure in your life until the only memories you saw were trails of death.

Kemena had seen enough death in her lifetime. She looked down to her belly and clutched her stomach protectively, where she knew a seed of life had begun to sprout. This will give him something to hold onto, something good. For both of us.