The Dying Time (Book 2): After The Dying Time by Raymond Dean White Page B
Authors: Raymond Dean White
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just before he fell, or the way he rolled ass over tea kettle, cursing, into a cluster of wild roses that set Michael off. His laughter added insult to injury and he’d been fielding Jim’s barbs ever since.
Suddenly, a metallic whistle split the air. “Damn!” Michael muttered. “For people who are taking such pains to hide a fire they sure don’t care how much noise they make.” Sure enough, below him all was hustle and bustle as men scurried to form ranks. A tall black man wearing the uniform and insignia of a U.S. Army Captain strode crisply from the tent Michael had been watching.
For just a moment hope flared that perhaps some remnant of the U.S. Government survived and this was some sort of military expedition to contact surviving citizens and survey damages. Well, he thought, it isn’t entirely beyond the realm of possibility. But then he was brought back to reality as a burly hulk of a man wearing a sergeant’s stripes stalked from the same tent dragging a naked woman by her hair.
He sensed Jim stiffen as he trained his field glasses on her. She hung limp and unresisting, her buttocks and feet scoring lines in the dirt. Her face, breasts and belly were covered with bruises and burns. She was bleeding from her ears, nose, mouth and from between her legs. Either she knew something they wanted to know or, even worse, they were just having fun.
The sergeant jerked her to her feet and when she started to collapse, backhanded her viciously across the face. She steadied herself and from somewhere deep within found the strength to hold herself erect. Her head came up and she looked at her tormenters with a mixture of contempt and pity. Even battered and naked the woman projected a sort of proud dignity that quieted those who had sniggered when she was first pulled from the tent. Michael didn’t know her, but he sure admired her guts. He doubted if she had ever been very pretty, but right now, facing her torturers with courage, she was glorious. Her expression faltered slightly and then she smiled with relief, almost gratitude.
Michael turned his glasses onto the sergeant. He was slowly drawing an automatic pistol from its holster.
“Do something!” Jim hissed.
“Like what exactly?” But he had already put the binoculars down and swung his rifle around, stripping the cover off of its Redfield scope as he brought it to bear on the Sergeant. At this range, a good 800 yards, he had very little chance for a hit, much less a clean kill. Maybe when he was younger, much younger, say, back during his old Marine Corps days. But not now and certainly not in fading light.
The most he could hope for was a distraction, he thought, as he centered the crosshairs on the Sergeant’s head, then lifted his sights to the very top of the man’s cap to allow for the distance, a nice distraction that would bring about a hundred men down on he and Jim and for what? She was welcoming death as an end to her misery. Maybe she’d like it better if he didn’t interfere.
He’d learned a long time ago never to fire a rifle when he was arguing with himself; he’d miss every time. He sighed bitterly and eased off the trigger. Better, perhaps, to let it happen.
As if they had shared the same thought, Jim reached out and laid a hand on his shoulder.
“I guess we wouldn’t be doing her any favors,” Jim said. His binoculars were locked on the woman, an expression of intense concentration on his face. “But it’s a damn shame. She’s grand.”
The sergeant had the pistol cocked and leveled at her head. Michael ground his teeth. She fell, but--he checked again--no silencer on the pistol and no report from the gun. “What the hell?”
From the way the sergeant was shaking Michael could tell he was laughing as he put away his gun.
It didn’t make sense, unless... “Mock execution,” he said.
“To break her will.” Jim nodded in agreement and relief. When the sergeant pulled the trigger and the hammer clicked onto an
Suddenly, a metallic whistle split the air. “Damn!” Michael muttered. “For people who are taking such pains to hide a fire they sure don’t care how much noise they make.” Sure enough, below him all was hustle and bustle as men scurried to form ranks. A tall black man wearing the uniform and insignia of a U.S. Army Captain strode crisply from the tent Michael had been watching.
For just a moment hope flared that perhaps some remnant of the U.S. Government survived and this was some sort of military expedition to contact surviving citizens and survey damages. Well, he thought, it isn’t entirely beyond the realm of possibility. But then he was brought back to reality as a burly hulk of a man wearing a sergeant’s stripes stalked from the same tent dragging a naked woman by her hair.
He sensed Jim stiffen as he trained his field glasses on her. She hung limp and unresisting, her buttocks and feet scoring lines in the dirt. Her face, breasts and belly were covered with bruises and burns. She was bleeding from her ears, nose, mouth and from between her legs. Either she knew something they wanted to know or, even worse, they were just having fun.
The sergeant jerked her to her feet and when she started to collapse, backhanded her viciously across the face. She steadied herself and from somewhere deep within found the strength to hold herself erect. Her head came up and she looked at her tormenters with a mixture of contempt and pity. Even battered and naked the woman projected a sort of proud dignity that quieted those who had sniggered when she was first pulled from the tent. Michael didn’t know her, but he sure admired her guts. He doubted if she had ever been very pretty, but right now, facing her torturers with courage, she was glorious. Her expression faltered slightly and then she smiled with relief, almost gratitude.
Michael turned his glasses onto the sergeant. He was slowly drawing an automatic pistol from its holster.
“Do something!” Jim hissed.
“Like what exactly?” But he had already put the binoculars down and swung his rifle around, stripping the cover off of its Redfield scope as he brought it to bear on the Sergeant. At this range, a good 800 yards, he had very little chance for a hit, much less a clean kill. Maybe when he was younger, much younger, say, back during his old Marine Corps days. But not now and certainly not in fading light.
The most he could hope for was a distraction, he thought, as he centered the crosshairs on the Sergeant’s head, then lifted his sights to the very top of the man’s cap to allow for the distance, a nice distraction that would bring about a hundred men down on he and Jim and for what? She was welcoming death as an end to her misery. Maybe she’d like it better if he didn’t interfere.
He’d learned a long time ago never to fire a rifle when he was arguing with himself; he’d miss every time. He sighed bitterly and eased off the trigger. Better, perhaps, to let it happen.
As if they had shared the same thought, Jim reached out and laid a hand on his shoulder.
“I guess we wouldn’t be doing her any favors,” Jim said. His binoculars were locked on the woman, an expression of intense concentration on his face. “But it’s a damn shame. She’s grand.”
The sergeant had the pistol cocked and leveled at her head. Michael ground his teeth. She fell, but--he checked again--no silencer on the pistol and no report from the gun. “What the hell?”
From the way the sergeant was shaking Michael could tell he was laughing as he put away his gun.
It didn’t make sense, unless... “Mock execution,” he said.
“To break her will.” Jim nodded in agreement and relief. When the sergeant pulled the trigger and the hammer clicked onto an
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