Apache Dawn, - [little bear else holmelund minarik txt] 📗

Salmon Falls, Idaho

Denny looked around his house one last time. He stood in the living room dressed in his winter hunting gear and checked to see if he was forgetting anything. In the large aluminum frame pack by the front door, he had two weeks worth of jerky and freeze-dried meals, his cold-weather camping gear, first aid, and ammo. His deer rifle, an old bolt-action .308 he had picked up at one of the ubiquitous estate sales following the Blue Flu, leaned against the wall next to his pack. Strapped to the white-and-brown-mottled camouflaged pack was his wooden hunting bow and a quiver of homemade arrows fletched with feathers off a turkey he had taken last season.

He had been watching the news, preparing, cleaning his gear, and getting ready to bug out if necessary. He couldn’t shake the overwhelming urge to leave—yet, now he was just looking for a reason to stay. Certainly nothing on the news had given him any hope. The flu was spreading and rioting was breaking out in the larger cities as emergency responders were getting sick and becoming incapacitated.

In fact, some in the media were prognosticating that it would only be a matter of time before mass hysteria set in—much like what was experienced during The Great Pandemic. They were predicting that thousands would be dying and soon, whether the direct result of the mystery flu itself or the widespread violence and unrest stemming from a general collapse of law and order.

On top of all the worry about the flu and rioting, satellite communications and television service had been increasingly spotty in the last 12 hours. It was hard to get a signal on TV or cell phone—and that made no sense. Satellites don’t get sick.

On a whim, he walked over to the mantel and took down the picture frames holding his wedding photo and the picture of Grandfather Red Eagle. He wanted to take the photos with him. After all, who knew what would happen in the coming days.

Not for the first time that day, his mind drifted to the holocaust visited upon Atlanta the day before. The chaotic news reports had few facts and much speculation, but they all agreed on one thing: Atlanta was gone. All those souls, snuffed out in a brilliant flash, all those lives and hopes and dreams, erased in a heartbeat as if they never existed.

The idea was almost too great to imagine. If he hadn’t lived through the Blue Flu and seen so many millions of people die around the world, he would have probably been paralyzed by shock. Atlanta. Nuked. It really was unbelievable. America was at war with no one at the moment, and no one claimed responsibility. He shook his head sadly.

All the news channels carried the same updates: terrorist groups were quickly lining up to say that while they were happy it happened, it wasn’t them that launched the missile. No one wanted to bring down the inescapable wrath that was sure to land on the group that claimed responsibility. Countries around the world were sending condolences and asking what they could do to help.

Denny started to pull the pictures out. He stopped. If he took these big photos, they’d just get damaged in his pack or even worse, ruined. The pictures and people depicted in them would never look this good again. He had watched his wife wither and die once before.

“I will take you in my heart.” He gently placed a hand on the picture of Grandfather and said a prayer for Mishe Moneto to watch his trail. He gently kissed the picture of Emily, his wife, and put the 8x10 frames back on the mantel.

Denny found himself staring at the tomahawk that hung over the fireplace above the pictures. Grandfather had made it for him when he was just a kid on the res and he’d kept it with him his entire life, always giving it a place of honor in his home. The eagle feathers that hung from the hickory shaft brought a smile to his face.

He took it down and tested the heft in his hands. Holding the ancient weapon of his people made him remember all of the afternoons Grandfather had him practice wielding the wicked-looking blade. It had a flat top, making the slightly curved cutting edge look off-balance. Opposite the eye—the forged socket where hickory met steel—there was a wicked-looking spike that had been covered by a cork sheath for decades.

Denny pulled the protective cork cover off and spun the tomahawk in his hands, shifting his weight back and forth from foot to foot, just like Grandfather had taught him.

“Always move, always stay on the balls of your feet, Little Spear. Never stop moving and swinging. Keep the tomahawk singing its war-song and no enemy will stand before you. Use momentum—yours and your opponent’s—to add strength to your strike and keep your foe off-balance. This is what was taught to me by my grandfather.” Grandfather’s words still echoed in his mind as the weapon sung through the air. It felt like it was a part of his arm, a part of him. It felt good.

Denny smiled and looked at the picture of his grandfather. The weight of the tomahawk in his hand was comfort from his past. “Niyaawe,” he said. He held the weapon up in front of Red Eagle’s picture. “Thank you, Grandfather.”

Standing there holding his ancestral weapon, Denny noticed lights turn on in the Andertons’ house. “About time!” he said in relief. He ran out the front door and across the yard, squinting his eyes in the light blowing snow.

There was already an inch or so on the ground as he quickly jogged across the side yard. He saw John’s Cadillac parked askew in the driveway, the right front-end crushed. There was steam coming out of the grill and liquid leaking onto the driveway, melting the snow. The windshield was smashed-in on the passenger side, a spider web of cracks emanating from a 3” diameter impact point in the upper-right corner. Something dark was smeared across the window. It looked like blood.

Denny frantically raced up the front steps, three at time. He pounded on the front door. After a few tense moments, the door opened and John stood there before him, breathing hard.

“Denny! Thank God,” he said, hastily looking up the street over his neighbor’s shoulder. “Come in, come in.”

Unconsciously, Denny secured his tomahawk in the bar holster attached to his belt. He put both hands on John’s shoulders. The older man was pale and sweating. “John, are you okay? Where’s Ruth? I was getting worried these last few days!”

“I am so sorry, Denny,” John said, nodding his head in thanks and leading Denny into the kitchen. He pulled out a handkerchief and mopped his forehead. “We just got back from the hospital—we’re both fine. Really!”

“What happened? Where’s Ruth?”

“She’s taking some pillows and sheets down to the shelter,” John said. He looked out the window and sighed. “I don’t know how much time we have, son. You may want to join us tonight, or at least lock your place up good and tight.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, we went out for dinner Wednesday night…”

“I knew it!” laughed Denny.

John looked at him oddly but shrugged, filling a glass with water from the tap. “Anyway, at dinner we heard the waitress talk to some other customers about the flu spreading out west. Then someone mentioned