Hitch turned the fresh droppings over in his fingers. Still warm. He peered up the game trail through narrowed eyes, ears listening for any sound of the deer he'd tracked since the night before. Hearing nothing, he dropped the scat and rose from his crouch, exhaling vapors into the cool morning air.

He was many miles north of his usual hunting grounds. Since the previous fall, deer had been difficult to track down. Where there had once been bounty, he found only scant signs of their passing. Hitch had no idea why this was so, but it made his regular search for fresh meat a lesson in frustration. He'd decided a week before to see if he could find his prey further north and had spent four nights in the bush, finally spotting a group of three fat does just before dusk the night before. He picked up their trail at first light and thought they must still be close. It had been almost six months since he'd killed his last deer.

He stalked the trail carefully. Despite his forty-nine years, Hitch still moved easily through the woods, silently for a human, listening and adjusting his footing instinctively as the game trail moved over rough terrain. He carried his ruck over his shoulders, his favorite rifle, a stainless Weatherby Vanguard S2, held in front of him, ready for a crack shot which would bring him much-needed fresh meat. He kept his Marine Corps-issued M9 Beretta along one thigh, his bush knife on the other. The modified M4 Carbine hung over a shoulder just inside his field jacket.

Compared to the hell of combat, days spent in the mountains of North Georgia, Southeastern Tennessee, and Southwestern North Carolina were paradise, even on cool mornings like this one. He tried never to stop and reflect on how much horror he had experienced in The War, but it was always there, unable to wash away from his thoughts. Hitch took a small swig from his canteen, settled his mind, and started in the direction he was certain his prey had taken.

He followed the overgrown path up a small rise, then down into a gully, finding more fresh scat as a brace of quail exploded from a low bush. He thought about attempting to bring one down, but was much more interested in securing deer meat than the spare nourishment offered by the quail. Hitch watched the birds flap furiously beyond the treeline, then crept forward once more.

For almost an hour, he kept up a brisk but quiet pace, cresting a moderate rise and seeing one deer through a small clearing, head down, drinking from a calm pool pushed out from the side of a good-sized stream which flowed rapidly as the snows from the upper elevations continued to melt in the warmer April sunshine. A light fog permeated the air over the water.

Hitch slowly dropped to one knee and took aim. His eye opened onto the scope, the deer in focus and upwind from him. He waited until it brought its neck up and sighted his rifle to the perfect spot. His finger slid over the trigger. He let out a measured breath.

Bushes shuffled to his left front, the sound of movement, and on instinct, Hitch was prone and trying to identify the source of the noise. The deer bolted further down the stream and was lost immediately. Hitch let out a quiet, frustrated curse, then used the scope to look to where the sounds had originated.

He heard movements that years of training assured him was a single human being. It took a few moments before Hitch saw a dark-haired head move through the foliage. He watched through the scope as the figure drew into the clearing and moved towards the pool of water below him. It was young woman or girl. She had long, black hair pulled back into a pony tail and secured by a dozen or more tight, colorful bands. The woman wore a flannel jacket which overhung her thick brown corduroy pants, a pair of tufted leather boots on her feet.

Hitch eased into a crouch and leaned his rifle against a tree, pulling out his compact binoculars to watch as the young woman approached the water. She carried a small basket on one arm, a much larger one slung over her right shoulder. The woman sat the baskets near the edge of the water, then squatted down and dangled her hand into the pool. She pulled it back slowly.

Hitch assumed the water, like all the water in these mountains, was chilly. All but a few of them sourced from the melting snow which overwhelmed natural springs and runoff from higher-elevation lakes this time of year, and the result was water generally too cold to bathe in.

To Hitch's shock, the woman shrugged off her jacket and sat, pulling off her boots. It was then that he realized that what he had thought was settling fog was instead steam rising from the pool. It was a warm spring, the first he'd seen since moving into the area. He watched as the young woman pulled off her shirt, her back to him, then slipped down her pants.

She stood there, working one band after another out of her hair. Hitch stared at her naked body. He had no idea her age and for the moment, he didn't care. Her hips had a natural curve that suggested she was not a child, but more than that, he couldn't tell. He wanted a better look.

While the woman worked on her hair, Hitch moved off the trail and crept around the west side of the clearing, drawing to within a couple dozen yards of the woman. He could clearly see her from the side now, and he found her very beautiful, if youthful, in appearance. Her skin was cinnamon, a rich brown and bronze and clearly darkened from exposure to sunlight, not uncommon for those who worked hard to survive. She was on her last band, pulling it free from her tousled, silky black hair which hung low over her back with some strands waving down her upper arms.

The woman's breasts were small and puffy, nipples a light brown, small dark-brown freckles dotting the skin over her areolae and running up her long neck to sprinkle near her eyes and over her shoulders, further creating a scatter-plot of beauty marks on her forearms. She turned slightly as her hair came free, and Hitch could see her face clearly for the first time. She had a thin, slightly-upturned nose and her eyes suggested she had a strong Asian heritage, her eyebrows dark like her hair, and the skin on her cheeks smooth and rich. Narrow brown lips were held slightly open, dark eyes lidless above.

She turned a moment, reaching down into her smaller basket, and Hitch saw sparse, dark pubic hairs rising over the young woman's mound. The more he saw, the more he was certain this was a girl blossoming into a woman, likely in her mid-teens. The way she moved suggested strength, as did the way her arm muscles showed clearly as she tensed and relaxed. The young woman had spent time doing hard work, and it showed in the way her thighs and upper legs were taut even as they held subtle curves which were still wholly feminine.

As she stood straight, Hitch saw that the girl's pubes did not hide her sex, the dark reddish-brown labia pressed together in a thin slit which trailed back between her thighs, just a hint of the genitalia visible from a distance, but he had seen enough to become aroused.

The young woman held a bar of rough soap in her hand a moment, then set it along the edge of the pool. She slid into the water and sank below the surface. Hitch finally let out his breath, seemingly holding it as he watched the beautiful, sensual creature from a few yards away. She surfaced, facing him, and then leaned her head back a moment, soaking in the warm, natural spa. Hitch longed to go to her, to kiss her, to touch her tender flesh.

It had been too long since he'd known that pleasure. The first year or two he'd been in the mountains, living as a recluse, he masturbated regularly, though it was more about relieving stress than any sexual experience. The last couple of years, he'd barely so much as grown hard, giving up on ever having another opportunity to know the soft curves of a female. His last time with a woman was the year he and his wife Julia had been called up for duty in 2019. He'd not had sex in thirteen years, and hadn't had an orgasm, even from his own hand, in close to two.

It was a surprise to look down and see that he was holding his erect penis in his hand, slowly stroking it from where he'd opened his fly. Caught up in the moment, Hitch gazed back upon the young woman. She had risen up a bit, working soap into her hair, her breasts hovering just above the water, nipples tight and hard above puffy mounds. God... what a beauty... what a beautiful woman...

Hitch masturbated the way he stalked deer. Every movement was deliberate and necessary, or not done at all. His arm moved only at the wrist, his body tense and on edge, but not bucking, not humping, not rocking. His eyes focused on what he desired. Those young breasts... God, those young breasts... so soft... so soft... Behind the tree line, he was easily hidden from her view, but part of him wished she would notice him. I want her to see the pleasure I feel, that she could know how beautiful she is to my eyes...

Hitch strained as the young woman rinsed the soap from her hair and he watched as she ran her hands under the water. She's washing her pussy... oh, God... that young... sweet... pussy... Ejaculate fired out of his penis and splattered onto the grass. He didn't moan, didn't flinch, stopped moving completely. The only sound was his measured breathing, and Hitch was certain that didn't go beyond his own ears.

He flushed with pleasure and almost lost his control enough to groan, but even as the last drops of semen dripped out of his cock, Hitch did nothing to give away his presence and soon tucked his deflating dick back into his jeans.

He didn't move, continuing to watch the girl as she finished washing her front and moved a hand to her backside.

There are a lot of sounds in war, some of them Hitch could have identified in his sleep. Sounds he reacted to without thought. The solid click of a safety being set from 'safe' to 'kill' made him drop to his heels and spin, grabbing his M9 from its holster and was about to bring it up towards the direction of the sound when he heard a gravelly male voice softly command, “easy, mister. Dun' make me kill anotha' man ou' 'ere... Easy...”

Hitch knew he'd be shot if he moved, so he froze, looking up at the man standing a dozen feet away. He was an older man, weathered, his skin a brown leather, his beard white and wild and down over his neck. What remained of his stringy, white hair was sticking out around his woolen cap, dark flannel jacket and tired blue jeans covering his body. He held an old rifle, perhaps a Winchester, Hitch thought, and its barrel was aimed directly at Hitch's chest.

The man's eyes stared into him a moment, then the man said, “slowly, now... slowly pu' it away, see? I killed men quicka' 'en ya. Jus' pu' it away slowly...”

Hitch hesitated. Long years of kill-or-be-killed situations made him understand that he was giving the man control if he holstered his sidearm. But he'd already lost. The man could have easily killed him by now, and the fact that he hadn't suggested he was open to an alternative ending to the engagement.

Hitch slowed his breathing. His training and experiences left him full of adrenaline, but in control. Edgy but not nervous. He'd more than once found himself at the end of a barrel, and so far, he'd survived every time. He just needed to stall until he could recover the advantage.

Slowly, Hitch slid the safety on and holstered the pistol. He looked back at the man for instructions.

The old mountain man kept his rifle steady a moment. Hitch watched his eyes work him over, and he knew the man was adding up all the clues to Hitch's life visible on his body and on the things he carried. The man's eyes darted to the ground behind him, narrowing, then up to the water behind Hitch where he could still hear the light sounds of the girl bathing.

He looked back at Hitch and finally lowered his rifle towards the ground in front of and to the left of his body, still close enough to rise and fire if it became necessary to kill him. “Wha's yer name? Wha'cha doin' up in 'ese parts?”

“James Hitchens. Hitch, if you please. I was tracking deer,” Hitch said, gesturing slowly in the direction up the rise, towards the game trail, “followed them to this water source when I...”

The man nodded slowly, glancing back towards where the young woman was soaking in the spring, “when ya saw sumthin' ya wan'ed more 'an deer...”

“Sir?”

Soft laughter was his response. The old man glanced back at the water. Hitch could no longer hear her moving in the hot spring, and he wished he could turn to see if she was once more naked in the cool mountain air. “Where ya stayin', Hitch? Ya drifta'?”

Again, he pointed to the south. “Four days that way. Less if you aren't following game. Over that far ridge you can just make out there.”

The man looked briefly, but kept his face where he could watch Hitch. “Followin' game, ya say.”

“Yes. See, my rifle.” Hitch pointed to where he'd leaned his Weatherby against a tall pine.

“Could jus' as easily hun' a man with tha'. Or a woman...”

Hitch let out a long breath. “I've seen men killed with everything from a butter knife to a MOAB. I suppose a hunting rifle is more humane than either. At least it's quick and doesn't cause collateral.”

The old man lowered his gun further. “Marine or army?”

“Semper Fi,” Hitch muttered with less enthusiasm than ever before.

“Semper Fi, my brother.” The man clicked the safety off and shouldered his rifle.

Hitch thought that was an unfortunately trusting decision. He'd known any number of Marines who had lost control, who would have, in that moment, attacked the man, killed him, raped the girl, and made off with what spare items of value they'd had on them. Fortunately for him... and her, Hitch thought, I'm not one of those men.

“You saw action in The War, as well?” Hitch asked, stalling for time, noting the numerous scars on the man's forearms. Looks like shrapnel scars...

“Sum, though no' with tha Corps. I was in Desert Storm, then served in'a half-dozen stations. Made Firs' Sergeant when I retired at ma twenty. I expect they'd'a called me up, even in ma fifties, had tha whole goddamn system no' gone ta hell.” The man took a step forward, offered his hand in greeting. “Jefferson Miller. I prefer Sarge or Miller, all tha' same.” He eyed Hitch a moment. “Ya dun' strike me as enlisted, Hitch, no' with tha' M9.”

“I was a Major in The War. 2-2-Bravo. Those were my boys. Boys. Heh. Those were men, every damn one of them, even if some of them were too young to have polished the wax off their nuts yet.”

Miller snapped a rusty salute, which Hitch mimicked without a thought. Miller smiled and Hitch felt like they'd just crossed a hurdle. “So, Major Hitchens, ya came ou' har' on tha hunt, an' wha' ya bagged instead was'a eyeful, righ', Sir?” There was just the slightest hint of amusement in the old man's tone.

Hitch finally turned back towards the water. The young woman had put her clothing back on and was picking up her baskets. She turned and strode off to the North beyond the trees and disappeared. Hitch felt a pang of disappointment.

“Whelp, Major, canna' blame ya fer shoo'ing yer main gun instead'a yer rifle. She's a beauty, no doubt. Canna' believe they make 'em tha' young with all tha good parts, righ', Sir?”

“Sarge... Miller, please...” Hitch said, “I left The War behind five years ago. I'd prefer it, honestly, if it stayed behind. Please, just Hitch.”

Miller nodded slowly. “Yes sir. Uh, righ'. Well, Hitch... I'm ou' 'ere lookin' fa' game, myself. Shall we hun' together a spell?”

Hitch replied, “I'd like that, thanks...” He looked back to where the young woman had walked into the woods. “Take it you know who she is?”

Miller smiled with ragged, parched lips, said “I do,” but didn't offer to explain.

- - -

They located the deer in under an hour, and together they stalked their prey. They'd said little, both men's minds focused on the mission at hand. Despite his long-held desire to avoid people, Hitch found he wanted to talk to Miller, if only to compare notes. He'd meant what he'd said about The War, but he still felt compelled to talk about it now that he was in the presence of a fellow Marine. He wondered silently what action the man had seen, how he'd gotten his wounds, what loved ones and combat brothers he'd lost along the way.

They found the deer a couple of miles down creek around midday. Hitch spotted them, three females. They were close together, one drinking from the creek at a time while the others watched. Hitch settled onto one knee, and brought his rifle up, Miller beside him in the same position. Hitch whispered, “I'll hit the one on the left, you get the next. If we get lucky, we get a third shot.”

Miller replied, “I'll hit tha right. Dunna' kill tha middle one. She's'a carryin'.”

Hitch was an experienced hunter but he had no idea whether Miller was right about the middle one being pregnant. Regardless, he took aim, sighted high on the doe's neck, and fired, Miller's shot cracking just a split second later.

Miller's deer fell immediately, while Hitch's spasmed and stumbled, legs splayed awkwardly. The third scattered and disappeared before either man could think to offer a second shot. The men hustled ahead. Hitch watched the one he'd hit sway and fall, twitching. He knelt next to it, pulled back its head, and smoothly slid his bush knife along its throat. The deer was dead in seconds.

Hitch glanced back to see Miller doing the same. The men smiled at each other. A good kill, Hitch thought, unlike so many others I've made next to other men.

They field dressed the brace of does in silence, each man feeling proud of his kill. It had been months since Hitch had downed one, subsisting on smaller game, such as rabbits, squirrels, and quail, fresh trout and trash fish from the cold-water streams, as well as some of the dried beef, canned vegetables, and assorted dry grains he'd bartered for over the previous months. He'd harvested plenty of blackberries, cherries, apples, small plums, and a variety of wild onions, mints, and other herbs to maintain a healthy diet, but there was nothing like fresh venison steaks, stews, and chilis to fill the stomach on cold nights.

Miller offered him a drink from his canteen, but Hitch refused, wiping his hands on a towel at his waist, then rinsing his fingers to remove the wet blood before sipping from his own. “Gonna be a haul ta get tha' back ta yer camp, Hitch,” Miller said as he peered back up the trail.

Hitch nodded. “Yeah, but I've humped worse. At least no one's shooting at me this time.”

Miller stared at him a moment, a dark understanding passing between the veterans. “Amen ta tha'. Whelp,” he said, pausing to take another sip of water, “my cabin's jus' up above tha' knoll, pas' tha spring. Why dun ya come up an' spend tha nigh' with me. Get tha' meat ready fer tha hump. Wha' ya say?”

Hitch replied, “I'd like that, thanks. Further out than I usually go. Deer have been scarce this winter.”

“Jus' chance, I thin'. Plenty still 'ere. Come, le's go ta my cabin an' shar' sum whiskey, if ya're no' a temperate man, Sir.”

Hitch shrugged, “rarely indulge, but I'm a Marine. I don't turn down a drink offered freely.”

- - -

The hike to Miller's cabin took a couple of hours. Each man carried his deer over shoulders, the cuts along each abdomen sown back together to keep the carcasses fresh and closed to flies and other scavengers, holding in the heart and liver which remained inside. A thick towel caught what blood drooled out before it soaked into Hitch's jacket.

Hitch had brought back dozens of deer this way, and he relished the warmth it provided on cold hunts. This day was turning out to be above normal temperatures, and for the first time in months, Hitch began to sweat as the heat of the dead deer continued to warm his upper body.

The aging log cabin was nestled into a small grove of apple trees, set back against a knobby hill with a large clearing below. The back of the structure was pressed into the earth, forming a natural insulation along much of its length. The front side featured a raised, narrow porch and treated wooden chairs along with an old hammock strung along one corner, and its movement suggested someone was reclining there. Smoke rose lazily from a short stack on the roof, the smell of roasting meat making Hitch's stomach grumble.

Miller directed Hitch to an area along one side where a well-used stone slab held blood stains from years of use as butcher's table. Miller tied his deer up to hang nearby while he brought out carving knives. The man excused himself and left Hitch to work his carcass alone.

The cuts were automatic and came easily. Hitch let his mind drift while he worked quickly, fingers dancing across the sections of meat he wanted separated, sliding around ribs to divide steak from bone, hide from carcass. So used to divorcing slaughter from other thoughts, Hitch's mind slipped back to the spring, to the young woman he'd seen earlier, her sensual nudity, her innocence, the play of her hair on her cinnamon skin, it was a memory he knew he'd keep close and intimate for a long time.

The work was done quickly and Hitch looked with satisfaction on the large piles of red meat on the end of the stone slab. He glanced around, realizing he had no obvious cold place to begin aging the meat while he stayed, so he expected he'd smoke the meat instead in order to render it capable of staying edible longer.

Miller returned and suggested, “smoker in tha' hutch,” he said, pointing to a small wooden building sitting down the hill a few dozen meters, “I'll get it goin' once I get this girl cut up. Wha dun ya wash up an' nip inside fer sum coffee. My wife's inside, make yerself at home, Hitch. I'll break ou' tha' whiskey soon.”

Hitch thanked him and used the hand pump to draw water, quickly washing his hands and arms before rinsing down the butcher stone. He walked around to the front of the cabin, stepping up the rough planks. The hammock to his right creaked and Hitch froze.

The young woman from the spring sat with her legs hanging over the edge, dark eyes measuring him evenly. Her face was soft and firm at once, her youth showing through in her lean features, small, dark freckles sprinkled unevenly across the bridge of her nose and over her cheeks.

“Hello,” she said brightly, “who are you?”

“Hitch.” He replied quickly, flashing back to the way the young woman's nude body had drawn him in hours earlier. “I'm Hitch, friend of Miller's.”

“I'm Kieu-Linh, but you can call me Linh. I'm his daughter.”

“Very nice to meet you...” Hitch tried not to let his erotic memories show on his face. “Your father directed me inside...”

“Ok... come on,” she replied. The girl jumped off the hammock and swung in front of him, opening the creaky screen door and stepping inside the cabin. Hitch followed her, keeping his eyes from seeking form beneath her loose clothing.

Inside, the cabin opened into a high-ceilinged room, a sink and wood stove along one wall, rough wooden chairs settled around a large bear-skin rug and a stone-lined fireplace. A small table and stools were along the back wall. An opening near the rear of the main living area led into what appeared to be a bedroom, a second opening seemed to lead to stairs down to a cellar or basement.

A woman turned as they entered. She could have been Kieu-Linh's older sister, the woman's face and arms a touch more weathered, the same cinnamon-bronzed skin looked as warm and lovely as Kieu-Linh's, more prominent Asian features drawing distinct lines across her expression. She wore a plain off-white robe and dark blue jeans, thick deer-hide moccasins on her feet. He placed her age much lower than Miller's, perhaps in her early-30s.

“Hello, Hitch,” she said warmly, “welcome to our home. I'm Kim-Ly, Jefferson's wife. I see you've met our daughter, Kieu-Linh.”

“Thank you, Ma'am. Very kind of you to offer me your hospitality.” Hitch tried not to stare at the woman's dark eyes as she smiled at him. “You have a very nice place here.”

Kim-Ly nodded and replied, “thank you. We do our best. It's been our home for many years, a sanctuary against what is going on out there.” She swept her arm out towards the front of the house. “I expect we're in much better shape than many people right now.” There was a touch of sadness in her voice.

“I expect so.” Hitch said quietly.

He and Kim-Ly watched each other a moment, then she said, “where are my manners? Here,” she turned and poured steaming liquid into a ceramic mug, “coffee?”

Hitch took a few steps towards her and accepted the mug, saying, “many thanks.” He sipped the scalding bitter fluid. “Wonderful. It's been a long time since I've had coffee. Where did you come by it?”

Kim-Ly raised her head a bit, “traded for it last winter, up in Waynesville. Cost us a good deal of apples, but it was worth it.”

“Waynesville...” Hitch knew of the town in what was formerly western North Carolina, now part of the borderlands claimed as New World Empire territory. “How's the resistance there?” He couldn't help himself from seeking information despite his years spent away from The War.

Kim-Ly shrugged, “non-existent. I've heard most of the Patriots moved east to join up with the brigade in Asheville. Mostly, it's just a few dozen old folks trying to survive. A few traders moving around at times. We got lucky enough to meet one on his way into town, got a few things we needed.” the woman picked up a mug and sipped it slowly, “you were in The War?” The way she spoke as if it were in the past resonated with Hitch. Even though The War continued, he had accepted that it was no longer the battle of opposing powers and instead a matter of determining the new status quo.

Hitch nodded, “yeah. Then again, who wasn't?”

Kim-Ly drew a tight smile, “very true... are you just passing through, or...?”

Hitch replied, “I have a camp a few days south of here. I followed deer to the north, they've been scarce the last few months, no idea why.”

Kim-Ly didn't reply, her eyes soft and inviting. Hitch felt a bit uncomfortable in the awkward silence. Finally, she said, “well, you are welcome here as long as you wish to stay. In these times, it's nice to spend time with others... beyond the three of us, we rarely have company, and when we do, it sometimes isn't friendly...”

“Imps, or raiders?”

Kim-Ly nodded. “Raiders, desperate men, half-dozen times, at least. Usually just someone starving and looking for an easy meal. If they come and ask, we give them shelter and food, but too often, they come with violence. We will defend what is ours, Mr. Hitchens, though I sympathize with those in need.”

“Amen, Ma'am. I'm not here to take without consent...” Hitch realized he was staring at Kim-Ly's eyes again, sexual tension suddenly bubbling and causing him to look away.

The smell in the room was heavy with the aroma of warm bread. Kim-Ly turned back to the wood stove and said over her shoulder, “almost ready. If you're hungry, Hitch, we'll be taking a meal soon. Please stay and join us.”

“I appreciate that, Ma'am.”

“Please, call me Kim,” she turned back towards him briefly, eyes softening further, “I hope you'll stay a night or two, would be very nice to talk and enjoy each other's company.”

It had been so long since Hitch had interacted with a beautiful woman that he couldn't tell if he was reading more into her words than he should. Her eyes and body language suggested an easy, almost intimate, interest, but he couldn't bring himself to accept that interpretation. Kim-Ly was Miller's spouse, and Hitch was not the sort of man who would put himself in a position of temptation around another man's wife. “I'll stay tonight, yes, thank you. But I plan to head out at first light. I've got two or three nights in the bush before I make my way back home.” He looked around, “this place looks very cozy. I'll certainly appreciate a night under your roof.”

He realized that Kieu-Linh had said nothing during the conversation, the young woman leaning against a wall, eyes watching him with genuine curiosity.

Kim-Ly nodded towards the porch. “Feel free to get comfortable, Hitch. We'll eat once my husband comes in.” The woman pulled a long, cracked loaf of bread out of the oven, then slid a large, oval crockery inside. The smell was making Hitch salivate.

Kieu-Linh stood straight and said, “wanna go out front?”

Hitch nodded and followed the girl out the screen door, holding the warm mug between his hands. She settled back onto the hammock and Hitch sat in an old rocker nearby. He could see smoke rising from the building down the rise and saw Miller step out of it, rubbing his hands together. The man strode back to the side of the cabin, and Hitch heard the sounds of water being pumped.

“You have a good well, then?” Hitch asked Kieu-Linh.

“Yeah. 'Deep and clean', my dad says. It runs into the sink and the outhouse, too.”

“I don't have that where I live. But I do have a clean creek nearby.”

“Where do you live?” The girl asked, shrugging off her jacket and settling back on the hammock. Despite the loose, rough fabric of her shirt, Hitch could see Kieu-Linh's small, braless breasts pushing up from her chest. He tried hard not to stare.

Hitch pointed to the south, “a few days that way.”

“In a house? Or a cabin?”

“No. A bunker I built into a ridge line. It's cozy enough for me, lots of room for storage, keeps me warm in the winter. Hard to get to, so I don't get visitors or raiders.”

Kieu-Linh watched him a moment, glanced at his left hand, then said, “where's your wife?”

Despite Julia's death over a decade earlier, Hitch had never removed his wedding ring. It brought him both warmth and pain each time he looked at it, but he'd never considered removing the last thing which tied him to his dead wife. Hitch shook his head. “She died in The War many years ago.”

Linh offered a small frown and looked sad. “Sorry... so... just you, alone now?”

Hitch nodded but said nothing.

There was silence a moment which left Hitch longing for an intimate touch. He missed Julia tremendously, still. He'd have given anything to hold her again, to touch her hand, to lock his fingers in hers. All the losses he'd suffered, even the death of his daughter, couldn't compare to the hole his wife's death had left in his world.

“Don't you get lonely?” Kieu-Linh said softly.

Hitch had never been a man to display his emotions for others. The warrior in him had long-ago learned to betray nothing which resembled weakness. As an officer, he had to set the tone, to lead by example. Fear, confusion, terror, pain, shame, and guilt were fed into the lives of Marines regularly, and it was Hitch's duty to ensure that he showed none of those when leading his men and showing them how to take control of what they could and let go the things they could not.

Still, Kieu-Linh's question, the sympathy on her face, made him swallow hard twice before he replied. “I've accepted that to survive. Lonely is just a part of not dying.”

Linh watched him again, then rose and sat in a rocker next to him. “I'm sorry you're alone. Aren't you scared? Not having someone with you?”

Hitch found himself suddenly uncomfortable discussing the subject. Years of training caused him to put force on his depressing mindset and try to bring back the steel and polish which had helped him get through the horror and terror of combat and survival. His head pounded suddenly, making him feel dizzy. Seconds passed as if hours, his mind unfocused and raw.

“Mr. Hitchens?” Kieu-Linh's voice said softly, strangely distant. When he turned his head to look at her, his eyes feeling heavy, she said quietly, “there you are.” He shook his head to clear it.

“I'm a Marine,” Hitch replied carefully after a moment, as if that designation explained away her concerns.

“Dad was a Marine,” Kieu-Linh said, and Hitch almost believed she understood what he meant.

“He's still a Marine,” Hitch replied. “Once a Marine, always a Marine.” He heard the water shut off beside the cabin. “He seems a good man, your father.”

Linh smiled as she turned towards him. “Yeah.” The girl switched gears and said, “are you staying with us?”

“For tonight, yes. I'm heading out in the morning, though, so long as my meat is ready for transport. Long way to my station.”

Kieu-Linh looked sad, “oh... I was hoping you might stay a while. I don't get to meet very many people.” Her lidless dark eyes watched his face carefully. “You seem nice, too.”

Hitch flashed to the moments earlier that day where he'd watched the young woman bathing, masturbating himself for the first time in almost two years. He felt himself stirring to stare into Kieu-Linh's eyes, and was immediately ashamed of his thoughts and actions.

Miller pounded up the steps with a big smile on his face. “I too' tha liberty of settin' yer venison ta smoke. Should'a be ready by nigh'fall.” He reached his long arms around Kieu-Linh's shoulders and they hugged a moment, then his eyes met Hitch's. “See you've met my daughter.” Hitch knew there was more in his words that was spoken directly. “She's a beauty, yes?”

Hitch felt a weight press on him, realizing for the first time the full context of what had happened earlier when Miller had seen him watching his daughter bathe naked. His shame and guilt grew heavy, not the impression he would ever want to give to anyone, suddenly understanding that he'd been the desperate pervert preying on an innocent girl. He could only nod in response, awash in self-loathing.

Miller didn't dwell on that moment, saying, “well, wha' say we see wha'sa cookin'?” He stepped inside the cabin.

Kieu-Linh looked back at Hitch, and he wondered if the girl could see his guilty thoughts on his face. She showed nothing but innocent kindness, standing quickly and taking his hand before he could react. “Come on, aren't you hungry?”

Hitch let the young woman lead him inside, only dropping her hand when she sat at the small table. Kim-Ly carried over the bread, cut open and steaming. She said kindly, “please, don't wait for us, eat it while it's hot. Here's some butter and a bit of clotted cream.”

“Butter and cream? Where did you come by fresh dairy?”

“We have a half-dozen milk cows. They're down in the lower field today. Usually, we have them up closer, but the grass needs some time to recover from winter.”

Cream. Hitch couldn't remember the last time he'd had milk, cream, or butter, but it had been much longer than his last cup of coffee. Kieu-Linh broke off the heel of the loaf and offered it to him. He smiled for the first time, forgetting his guilty thoughts and smearing a pat of soft butter onto the end, then spreading a small bit of clotted cream onto the bread.

His first bite made his tastebuds explode in joy. Hitch devoured the bread in three large mouthfuls, managing to exclaim, “my God... this is delicious.”

Kieu-Linh bit into a piece of her own, smiling with delight.

Kim-Ly chuckled, “so nice to be able to share that with you, Hitch. I'm happy to share any comfort you desire while you're in my home.” Again, Hitch didn't know how deeply to read into her words, but Kim-Ly's eyes watched him with an intelligence which suggested she had chosen her words carefully.

Whatever her meaning, Hitch soon took another hunk of bread and downed it greedily, butter and cream dripping down his fingers. He used his tongue to lap up the salty, creamy delicacies and realized that Kim-Ly had stopped ladling something into bowls to watch him. He finished quickly and looked away, made uncomfortable by the way the woman's beautiful, dark eyes played over his face even as her husband sat next to him.

Miller said, “any news from tha south, Hitch? We get sum when we go into town, bu' I canna' tell fact from fiction anymore.”

As Kim-Ly settled a steaming bowl of what looked like venison chili in front of him, Hitch replied, “little. I haven't gone down to Mountain City in eight months at this point. Imps been poking around that way, not in force, but they're probing again, taking measure.” Marines had taken to calling the enemy 'Imps' during The War, originating from the moniker New World Empire. “I doubt they'll move on the mountains, but they are largely unopposed these days, even with the Patriots sometimes sticking them with needles.”

“Tha heart's gone outta tha resistance roun' 'ere. Asheville Patriots use'ta pu' up'a fight, bu' even tha' seem ta have los' tha will,” Miller said between big bites of bread dipped in his chili. “Whole damn area's been bled dry. We were damned lucky ta fin' anathin' fer trade in town, Empire's finally suckin' up tha las' of it. Cos' us'a goddamned load'a meat an' leatha tha last time. Migh' be tha las' barterin' we do thar fer a while.”

“Do you hump or do you have a vehicle?”

“Ole rust bucket truck,” Miller said between mouthfuls of chili, “had to convert 'er ta run on grease an' drippin's, breaks down regular-like, bu' she still ge's us goin' places in'a pinch.”

“I have one as well,” Hitch replied, “gasoline has been hard to find in town, but I've managed to pinch enough from abandoned cars to keep it full most of the time. Couldn't have gotten supplies to my camp without it.”

“So, it's jus' you, Hitch?” Kim-Ly asked quietly.

Hitch nodded and replied, “it is. I led the Turtletown Patriots for a while, but we bled and died to nothing. Parted with my men and haven't seen any of them in the five years I've been hunkered near Mountain City. A few are around, I'm sure, but...” Hitch let the statement end without conclusion, thoughts of his former Marine comrades still painful and sharp.

“Damn shame tha way tha' wasted Marines,” Miller spat, “throwin' 'em away like so much rabble.” He slammed his fist on the table. “Damned shame!”

Hitch watched him a moment, then replied, “I used to blame the generals for the losses, but it was out of their hands from the start. Losing those sats, that killed the C-oh-C from the top. Pretty amazing how long we kept up the fight given how many Imps we faced. Marines did themselves proud. It was only when we were down to a couple of able squads per company that we finally conceded the field. Even then... many of us fought on in the Brigades.”

Kieu-Linh asked, “where did you fight?”

Hitch stared at her lean, youthful face a moment, then said, “I was at Lake Mead and the First and Third Colorado. Later, in Tulsa. Once that became untenable, I took what was left of my company into north Georgia for a while. I lost a lot of good men and women along the way...”

Miller replied, quieter, “I fough' with good men an' women in Chattanooga a few years, Kim-Ly too.”

Hitch eyed the beautiful woman a moment, saw for the first time scars down her neck and around her left eye. Goddamned shrapnel. It did nothing to destroy her sensual features. It might even make her more attractive to me...

Miller continued, interrupting Hitch's thoughts, “broke my leg six years ago, an' Kim-Ly too'a grenade in tha face while we defended'a river crossin'. Sent us both ou' of tha figh'. I wanted ta go back, ta do my duty, bu' we 'ad Kieu-Linh ta thin' abou'. It was tough, Hitch, ta make tha' call, ta leave behind my brothers an' sisters still in tha fight.”

Hitch nodded, glancing briefly at Linh as her eyes stared back at him. “I know. By the time I headed up the mountain on my own, I knew it was the right decision for me, but I still wonder about the Marines who chose to join the other Brigades and keep up the fight. Some days... some days I feel very guilty.”

Kim-Ly reached across the table and took his hand, sadness evident on her face, “I get the impression you've given everything in this fight, Hitch. I don't think anyone could ask you for more.”

Hitch felt defensive a moment. “I'm a Marine. There is always more I can give. Leaving the fight to others... that is against my nature.” He withdrew into his seat, chili bowl empty. “But... I lost the will. I lost the certainty. Even when we'd lost the Colorado, even when I saw my company butchered around Tulsa, I still held out hope that we'd rally and recover, that we'd once more find, fix, and kill the enemy. But I lost that when I realized that there was little to cling to, that the forces left were not advancing to our lines, that we were well behind enemy lines, and... even if we fought on and killed them in ratios that would make any Brigadier piss himself with joy, we didn't have enough Marines to keep it up. There was just nothing left to cling to...”

Miller stood and reached into a cabinet, pulling out a dusty bottle. He removed the cap and pulled out four mugs from the back of the counter. He tapped a healthy amount into one and handed it to Hitch, then poured some for the others, including Kieu-Linh. Hitch stared at the brown liquid and slung back a large swallow.

Fire burned down his throat as the rough whiskey tasted burnt and sour on his tongue. Hitch coughed, nearly choking, finally catching his breath slowly. Miller chuckled, “shitty whiskey, bu' it does tha trick.”

Hitch stewed a moment, calming himself as the effects of the alcohol worked into his system. “I left The War behind me when I went up the mountain. I've tried hard not to think about it in the five years since. I'm sorry if I've made this a less-than-gracious conversation.”

Kim-Ly smiled, still holding his hand, softly stroking his fingers in a comfortable manner. “No offense taken, Hitch. Jefferson and I have had each other to talk to since we got away from it, you've been so alone...”

Hitch felt warmth spread through him, and it wasn't just the alcohol. Kim-Ly was openly caressing his wrist and lower forearm even as her husband and daughter sat a couple of feet away. Hitch pulled back suddenly, feeling uncomfortable. “Yeah, well... yeah. I'm not used to being around people much any more. I certainly don't wish to drag us down into a subject that still burns me too hot.”

Miller smiled thinly, “yah, agreed.” He eyed his wife a moment, then said, “I believe I coul' use a bath, wha' say ya join us down at tha spring? I believe my daughter was jus' thar' earlier.” Miller's eyes danced with amusement as he looked first at Kieu-Linh, then at Hitch. “Come?”

Hitch agreed, shaking memories of the young woman's nude body from his mind. He finished his whiskey and coughed again, then thanked Kim-Ly for the delicious meal. “If I can repay you folks for your kindness, just tell me how.”

Miller waved him away, but Kim-Ly stared at him with a longing which left a strong but unspoken impression that there was something she wanted from him. Hitch tried his best to ignore her eyes as he rose and followed Miller out the front door.

James "Hitch" Hitchens, Male, 49

	- US Marine Corps and Turtletown Patriot officer, veteran of The War

	- 6'0, 180lbs, tanned beige skin, cropped brown hair

Kieu-Linh Miller, Female, mid-teens

	- Daughter of Miller and Kim-Ly

	- 5'6, 130lbs, cinnamon skin, shoulder-length silky black hair

Jefferson Miller, Male, early-60s

	- US Marine Corps Sergeant, veteran of The War, Father of Kieu-Linh, husband of Kim-Ly

	- 6'2, 195lbs, tanned pale skin, white unkempt hair

Kim-Ly Miller, Female, mid-30s

	- Mother of Kieu-Linh, wife of Miller, veteran of The War

	- 5'9, 150lbs, cinnamon skin, shoulder-length black hair