Eric Flint - Time spike

If things work out right, we can always come back and get it out later." Carrying the six bodies to the creek took about ten minutes.

Loosening the armor and weighting the corpses with rocks stuffed inside took at least twenty minutes. They had to hunt around for suitable rocks. But, eventually, it was done-and into the creek they went. Fortunately, Geoffrey's estimate concerning the pool's depth was about right. They had to shove the bodies around a little bit with one of the spear things. What Morelli said was called a "halberd." But it didn't take long before all of them were submerged. Before they pitched them in, of course, everybody drank their fill and they topped off the leather pouches the Spaniards had possessed in the way of canteens. Nobody wanted to drink from that creek afterward, not even upstream. That night, again, James slept alongside Elaine. He insisted on keeping her wrapped up in the sheets. Between that and her wound, there wasn't going to be any sex involved, of course. Still, they could cuddle and kiss plenty well enough. It was frustrating, maybe. But James was just as glad that, willy-nilly, they'd have some time to get to know each other better. Mostly, they talked about their former lives. Elaine chuckled, at one point. "I think you're supposed to go out on at least one date first. You know, before you get engaged." When Morelli woke him up before sunrise, to take his turn standing guard, the tall convict was grinning. "Take a look," he said, pointing to one side of the clearing. James looked over, and couldn't help from laughing. The children had returned, some time during the night. All three of them were bundled up under one of the Spanish blankets with Geoffrey Kidd. "Guess they figure he's their magic protector," said Dino. "Yeah, some. But I think it's more the tattoos.

Black or not, he must seem like something a little familiar." Kidd's eyes opened. He stared at James and Dino, without moving a muscle otherwise. If he had, at least one of the kids would have been dislodged. They were pressed as close to him as puppies. "It's a strange world," he observed, and closed his eyes again.

Chapter 40 The weeping willow stood tall in the midst of weeping cherry and dwarf apple trees, its long tendrils stretching to the ground in a curtain of green. "How the hell…" Hulbert looked at Jeff Edelman. "Can you explainthis? We haven't seen anything since we left the town except ancient vegetation." Edelman shook his head. "I have no idea, Rod. But this isn't the first time I've seen something like this. Whatever the Quiver was, it seems to have moved some other pieces of land besides the one Alexander sat on and scattered them all over the place. Nothing very big, though, not even close to the size of the prison's area." He pointed a finger. "Look at the terrain. It's not just the trees that are out of place. That land doesn't really match the surrounding landscape either. It looks tilted a little, and you can see where that stream undercutting the bank is recently formed." "Will they bear fruit?" Andy asked. "The dwarf apples should.

I'm not sure about the weeping cherries. Some do, some don't. Whatever fruit they do bear won't be very big, though, and probably won't taste that good." "Who cares? That's what the word 'horticulture' is for."

Andy smiled wryly. "Not that I know much more than that about the subject. But what I do know is that if we have something to start with, we can eventually breed fruit trees that will bear good fruit."

"Take a few generations," Hulbert said doubtfully. "And what else have we got?" Andy was half-tempted to leave some people behind, to guard the small grove of precious fruit trees. But he didn't want to run the risk of weakening their forces before the upcoming battle with the Spaniards. He still didn't know exactly how many men were in de Soto's expedition. They might be outnumbered as badly as three to one. "Too bad they're not maples," said Rod. "I love maple syrup." "And what would you pour it over?" asked Jeff. "No wheat, remember? No pancakes." "Don't be silly. If that corn the Cherokees found survives, you can make pancakes using cornmeal. That's how the Mexicans do it, usually. Except they call them hotcakes instead of pancakes. I've had some. They're not bad. If you've got maple syrup." "So we'll make corn syrup instead," Andy said, a bit impatiently. "That's assuming we live past tomorrow. Speaking of which, let's get moving again." He almost said "let's get the column moving again," but refrained out of a lingering sense of embarrassment. He was hardly William Tecumseh Sherman leading the march to the sea. Andy had served a tour of duty in the Marines, but he'd never been in combat. He hadn't been old enough to join until the first Gulf war was over, and had left the service before the second one started. By one of those odd quirks of fate that seemed to be inseparable from military service, he'd wound up spending half his time in the Corps guarding the U.S. embassy in Paris. Boring as hell, while you were on duty, sure-but once you were off duty, you were a young man in gay Paree. "And you can have your maple syrup," he said. "Me, I wish I was back in Paris chowing down on a croque-monsieur. God, I loved Paris." "What's a croque-monsieur?" asked Jeff. "Grilled ham and cheese sandwich, basically. It's the French equivalent of a hamburger, except it's maybe eight times better." Hulbert looked sour. "I don't like the French." "Have you ever met a single Frenchman in your life, Rod? They're pretty thin on the ground, in southern Illinois." "No. So what? I know what and who I don't like." Even if they hadn't been on campaign, there would have been no point to pursuing the debate. Andy liked Rod, but like most survivalists Hulbert's political attitudes tended to be somewhere to the right of Genghis Khan, insofar as Hulbert was interested in politics at all, which he generally wasn't. Still, Rod knew the basics. Liberalism was the work of the debbil, the right to own guns was maybe second to godliness but a long way ahead of cleanliness, both coasts were dens of iniquity inhabited by wimps and fops-never mind that one of the men on the extraction team came from Oakland originally-and the French were the ultimate source of the world's wickedness. Well, the world's liberalism anyway, and the difference couldn't be pared with a razor. On the other hand-such are the quirks of human nature-Hulbert didn't have any problem with abortion, and had serious doubts about prayer in school. "Let's get going," Andy said.

Hulbert nodded, and turned his head. "Form up the column!" he bellowed. "We're moving out!" Hedidn't have any qualms about playing soldier. Barbara Ray's name tag said she was an L.P.N., but for the last five days she had been doctor, nurse, councilor and mother to sixty-three worried, frightened prison guards, a downed lieutenant, one newborn baby and an overworked, ill R.N. And at this moment she was playing the role of pastor, praying with two C.O. s whose faith had been shaken by all that had happened. Frank Nickerson watched her and sent a short prayer of thanks of his own. Without the woman's calming effect things would be a lot tougher to handle. She had been the one who patched him together after that bastard Taylor got him with the toothbrush. As she sewed him up, she had done a good job calming his nerves with jokes about the scar's location and the stories he could tell. An occasional gentle pat had let him know that she was genuinely glad it wasn't any worse than it was. She was old-school, tough-a thing to be proud of. But everyone had their breaking point, and Frank was guessing she was getting pretty close to hers. Marie Keehn was another woman who was old-school tough. But a lot of the guards were newbies, including Frank himself. They were getting anxious from the wait. They had too many hours on their hands and too many worries on their minds. They needed something to do. The truth was, so did he. Nickerson crossed the clearing; it was time to check on the guards posted at the camp's perimeter. Judith Barnett would need to be relieved. She wasn't old-school. She was too busy grieving to be reliable for more than a short stretch, and that pissed him off to the point he hated to talk to her. And he sure as hell didn't want to look at her. She hadn't stopped crying since Marie Keehn left. It was like the plumbing in her eyes had let go and she had a leaky faucet. Drip. Drip. Drip. Frank wasn't natured up like the L.P.N. He was more like Lylah Caldwell. Barnett's wet face, bloodshot eyes, and snotty nose made the R.N. mad every time she saw the C.O. He had pretty much the same reaction. Barnett was driving him nuts. He was grieving too. He'd lost a wife who was barely more than a bride.