Eric Flint - Time spike

He wanted the wolf to think he was scared, running. It worked. The large man with full sleeves-snake tattoos running from shoulder to wrists on both arms-hooted and followed him toward the open area away from the guards. Cook sped up, forcing the man behind him to break into a trot. When he was sure the guy was closing in, he stopped and turned around. He could see other prisoners a dozen yards away. They weren't here to help with the beating; they were just sightseers along for the fun. One on one, then. He had a chance. The man coming toward him had a pillowcase in his hand. James knew it would be filled with batteries, scrap metal or something equivalent. That was okay. It wasn't a banger. He had a chance. He pulled his hands from his pockets, slow and easy. He wanted one fight and one fight only. He wanted the rumors that followed this fight to tell he was bare-fisted.

The small pebbles he had tucked into his right hand wouldn't be visible. There were about a dozen of them, none bigger than a BB. He waited. He would let his assailant throw the first punch. That was for the audience. He knew the way he wanted to do his time. He wanted to be a man others felt safe around. A man who didn't look for a fight.

But he would also be a man who wouldn't run. One who could inflict some damage when pushed. The big man hesitated. He had expected the Indian to turn and run, but he hadn't. Instead, James brought his fists up in an exaggerated fighter's stance. The big man sneered and swung his pillowcase, aiming for the head. James had counted on that.

A man this much bigger than he was would assume that his weight and strength would be enough. And he wasn't likely to know that James had done a lot of amateur boxing. He dodged the blow easily, then sent a left jab into the man's face, followed by another. Quick-quick. He had good speed and reflexes. Most important of all, he'd boxed enough to know you had to control the adrenaline. Watch. Take that extra split second to see what the opponent was doing before you threw another punch. If you lost that control, the adrenaline took over and you just started swinging madly. Against a man this much bigger, that was hopeless. His assailant was surprised, then furious. He howled something and drew back the pillowcase for another blow. His face was wide open. James hurled the pebbles right at his eyes. The man howled again and clutched his face. James kicked him in the groin. Not the full swinging kick he'd have used on a football. Just a quick snap-kick. Everything had to be quick. It was his only chance. It wasn't the kind of blow that would collapse a man, but any kind of blow to the testicles hurt like hell. The guy's hand came away from his face and went to his groin. Again, his face was open, but that wasn't James' target. The man had the sort of square heavy head that would just break knuckles if James tried a full punch. He gave him two more left jabs. Quick, stinging blows; designed more to confuse the opponent than hurt him. The man roared with fury and charged. Now.

James met the charge with his first full punch. A right cross with everything he had and all his weight behind it. But his hand was open, the thumb and fingers forming a vee, and he wasn't aiming for the face. The throat below was completely exposed. It was a blow that might have killed a smaller man. This one's neck muscles were just too thick for the impact to collapse the throat. But it took him down, it surely did. Down hard, and down final. James looked down at his assailant for a moment, gauging whether he needed to start kicking him. No. He was on his side, clutching his throat, gasping for breath.

His eyes were bulging. The fight was over. It hadn't lasted more than a few seconds. That would do more for James' reputation than any amount of pointless stomping. He just turned and walked away.

Carefully, keeping his face calm and expressionless, he headed toward the infirmary. The crowd parted, letting him walk through. Just as he reached the door to the infirmary he heard someone say, "Injun, you in deep shit now. That was the Butch. Luff's favorite boy." James stopped and turned around, to see who was talking. Making sure to turn easily-no spinning around, nothing that looked excited or nervous-and keep his face expressionless. But whoever it had been was not inclined to speak up again. Good enough. After a second or so, James went into the infirmary. Later, as he scrubbed the counter with the foul smelling mixture he had been given by Barbara Ray, James wondered what the nasty stuff was. Back home, when he cleaned the equipment at the firehouse, they used a bleach solution. This was not chlorine or alcohol based. The familiar odor of antiseptics was not present anywhere within the infirmary. Barbara, the LPN on duty, had told him they were out of the regular cleaners. They were using stuff from the machine shop and hoping it would do the job without causing too much damage. According to her, they were in the process of producing a little alcohol. So, hopefully, they would have at least one of the old tried and true products within a few days. The infirmary had changed since he first arrived. Its six beds were now reserved for C.O.'s and inmates who were critical. Now, inmates needing nonintensive medical care were housed upstairs in what used to be the psych ward. The psych patients had been returned to the general population or moved to X-row. The beds situated inside the holding cell just outside the examining room were occupied by two female guards and an infant. The C.O. with the baby was Kathleen Hanrahan. The other bed was occupied by a young and very pretty black woman who looked to be in rough shape. She had to be Elaine Brown, the one who took it in the gut right after the shit hit the fan. There was also one patient tied to a gurney inside the examining room he was cleaning. The guy didn't look like a guard or an inmate. And he looked like he'd been busted up pretty good. After a few minutes, the man gave a small moan and mumbled something Cook couldn't quite make out, so he moved closer, his heart in his throat. It had been a long time since he had heard Cherokee. His great-grandmother was the last one he had heard speak it, and she died when he was fifteen. But even so, he was sure that was the language the man was using. Its familiar rhythm caused his chest to squeeze tight in an ache for home. It took him a minute to translate what was being said. The man was in pain. He was also thirsty. Cook looked around and found a cup, then filled it from the water pitcher sitting on the medicine cabinet. The old man gulped the warm liquid down in three gulps, then gratefully patted his hand. "How did you know what he wanted?" asked Jenny Radford, the nurse practitioner who ran medical. She was standing in the doorway. Captain Blacklock and Lieutenant Hulbert were behind her. "He speaks Cherokee." "Heis an Indian, then. I thought he might be." Hulbert was nodding his head. "And you can understand him." "A little." Jenny's grin was almost contagious. "Great!" James shook his head. "Lady, you don't understand. I was a kid the last time I heard someone speak Cherokee. I haven't spoken it or heard it spoken in years." "Try," said Captain Blacklock. "Try hard. I want to know who shot him." Cook shrugged and looked at the man. "Who shot you?" he asked in English.

He had no idea how to phrase the question in the old language. The old man looked at him then tugged at the straps holding him in place. He spat out a string of words and Cook shook his head. "Go slow. I can't catch what you're saying unless you slow it down." The old man surprised him; he slowed down and repeated himself. He was now speaking so softly that James had to bend over and put his ear just a few inches away. James still didn't understand. He shook his head.

"Say it again." The man repeated himself. Then, said it in English.