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From: Al Steiner <steiner_al@hotmail.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} NEW: Aftermath 1 by Al Steiner (Mf) 1/4
Date: Thu, 12 Oct 2000 09:10:04 -0400
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This is a new chapter story that I plan on continuing if the reaction
is favorable. It is a much darker tale than Doing It All Over, taking
place in a vastly different setting. Please drop me a note at
steiner_al@hotmail.com with any comments, criticisms, or even
suggestions. If popular opinion is that I should continue this tale, I
will try to maintain the one chapter a week pace I set with DIAO.
AFTERMATH
By Al Steiner
CHAPTER ONE
It was called Comet Fenwell. Named for the 18 year old English amateur
astronomer who first detected it as an out of place smudge of light
just past the orbit of Saturn, it was an irregularly shaped chunk of
frozen methane, ammonia, and water mixed with a scattering of rock.
Preliminary calculations revealed that it would pass alarmingly close
to the Earth after its spin around the sun, as it headed back towards
the deep space beyond Pluto from which it had come. This led to a
fever of religious conversions and mass hysteria in those first few
days as reputable scientists gleefully went on television to explain
just what this mass of ice was capable of doing if it actually struck
the planet. Though Fenwell was not a huge comet - it was just a hair
over two miles long and just a hair under a mile wide - the velocity at
which it was moving was enough to cause a global catastrophe,
particularly if it struck the ocean.
But after those first tense days things calmed down considerably when,
by unanimous agreement of scientists from across the globe, it was
announced that while Fenwell would be CLOSE, it would still pass more
than three thousand miles from the Earth. These same scientists that
had stirred up the hysteria in the first place calmed it by explaining
that the course they predicted the comet to take was based upon
Newtonian laws and was absolute. They assured the people of Earth that
there was no guesswork or speculation and no possibility of error.
Fenwell would provide perhaps the most spectacular celestial show in
recorded history and would then leave them in peace.
And so while everyone on the small blue planet settled in to watch the
glowing tail of the close encounter that October, none of them realized
that their coveted scientific community had made a terrible, lethal
miscalculation. It was just a little error, easily attributed to
mankind's lack of knowledge about the exact makeup of these strange
travelers, but it was enough.
Just past the orbit of Mars, solar radiation began to bombard Fenwell
with enough energy to vaporize the outer layer of its surface, sending
it outward behind it in the spectacular tail that was indicative of
such objects. Night after night the tail grew longer and brighter as
the amount of radiation striking it increased until finally it trailed
across more than ten degrees of the night sky. Fenwell disappeared
briefly as it reached the extreme of its orbit and was pulled around
the sun, reappearing later on the other side, this time with the tail
facing towards the Earth. Night after night, all over the planet,
people clustered outside of their homes to see the strangely beautiful
show that was being staged for them. As Fenwell grew closer still it
became possible to see the tail even during the daylight hours under
favorable conditions.
When it was just past the orbit of Venus a few scientists began to note
that Fenwell was not EXACTLY where they thought it should be. Though
the discrepancy was minute, there really was not a lot of margin for
error when you were talking about only a three thousand mile difference
in orbits. The scientists did not raise any sort of alarm at this time
since their calculations still showed the comet passing more than
fifteen hundred miles from Earth's atmosphere. Instead, they tried to
figure out just where their careful and supposedly ironclad
calculations had gone wrong. Why wasn't the comet following the basic
principals of Newtonian theory? What had thrown its orbit off?
The answer, though they would never know it, was thrust. As the comet
slowly turned on its axis while under the influence of the sun's rays,
pockets of methane and ammonia would periodically explode, releasing
pressure. These explosions were not noticeable by the many peering
instruments that kept watch on the comet, partially since they were so
small and partially since they always occurred on the sunward side.
Individually they did not do much to move the large chunk of ice. But
collectively, day after day, hour after hour, they nudged Fenwell
further and further off of its projected course and closer and closer
to a lethal intersection with planet Earth.
Two days before the pass-by, the scientists began to become seriously
alarmed by what they were seeing. Their calculations now showed that
Fenwell would pass less than five hundred miles from the surface of the
earth. That was almost close enough to skip through the thin layer of
upper atmosphere! And still they had no idea why the point of passage
continued to grow closer. On the surface of the comet itself pockets
continued to intermittently ignite and by twenty-four hours prior to
closest approach it became apparent to anyone with the ability to
perform the equations that, barring a miracle, a collision was
inevitable.
The scientific communities of the various nations on Earth all informed
their various governments of the coming impact. Inquiries were made in
each case as to whether anything could be done to either destroy the
comet or nudge it to a safer course. In every case the answer was a
firm no. Fenwell was simply too large and moving too fast. So while
the various government leaders and wealthy insiders of Earth tried to
make a mad dash to whatever underground place of safety they had access
to, it was decided that there was nothing to be gained by informing the
general public of what was to come. There really was no place for them
to hide even if it was possible to get them all there. Had there been
even a little more time, the secret undoubtedly would have leaked. A
secret as horrible and as far-reaching as this one could not have been
kept. But there was not more time.
On October 12 - a Thursday in the western hemisphere - Comet Fenwell,
moving at approximately 100,000 mph, impacted the Pacific Ocean 600
miles off the coast of Oregon. Its trip through the atmosphere took a
mere eight seconds to complete, during which time friction heated its
surface to nearly thirty thousand degrees Fahrenheit. This superheated
mass slammed through the water and buried itself in the very mantle of
the earth. The release of energy that resulted was so powerful that
the entire world's stock of thermonuclear weapons being detonated at
once would have seemed a child's firecracker in comparison. Rock and
sludge from the sea bottom was exploded outward before falling back to
earth hundreds, even thousands of miles away. An actual HOLE, more
than a hundred miles in diameter, appeared for nearly twelve hours in
the Pacific Ocean as the tremendous heat boiled billions of tons of
seawater into steam sending thick, gray clouds into the atmosphere. As
more water rushed in to fill this void, it too was boiled away to
vapor. Aside from this hole in the ocean, the impact sent huge tidal
waves outward, tidal waves unlike anything ever seen before. The first
set was more than two hundred feet high and moved at nearly the speed
of sound. They would keep moving until they struck something.
The first catastrophic effect to be felt by the inhabitants of the
earth came from the shockwaves of the mantle impact. They traveled
outward along the planetary crust, circling the globe in less than
twenty minutes and releasing the pent-up energy from every fault line
they crossed. Everywhere along the surface of the planet, earthquakes
erupted on a scale hardly even imagined. In nearly every country,
buildings and bridges crashed to the ground, underground fuel storage
tanks exploded, dams burst. Those that died quickly in this initial
disaster were perhaps the lucky ones.
At impact+45 minutes, the west coast of the United States became the
first to be struck by the tidal wave. It rolled in at a height of two
hundred feet and moving at 684 mph. As it crossed the continental
shelf it doubled in size and when it reached the actual coastline, it
reared up to nearly a half mile in height. The coastal cities and all
their inhabitants - those that had lived through the earthquakes - were
obliterated in an instant as the massive wave destroyed everything in
its path for nearly one hundred miles inland. The great metropolitan
areas of Los Angeles, San Francisco, San Diego, home to nearly a
hundred million, were erased from the landscape in the blink of an eye,
leaving nothing but a clogged mess of debris and shattered bodies near
the wave crest. The cities further inland - Portland, Seattle,
Vancouver, were similarly destroyed by the breaking of this great wave
atop them. In the great central valley of California, where water was
already rapidly rising due to the broken Shasta, Oroville, and Folsom
dams, water rushed up the Sacramento and San Joaquin River channels,
funneling into a destructive force that swept away the cities of
Sacramento, Stockton, Bakersfield, Fresno, and the many other small
farming communities that dotted the landscape. Some of the most
fertile land on Earth quickly became an inland sea upon which the
bodies of millions of humans and livestock bobbed and floated.
The west coast of the United States was only the first to be struck.
Eventually, every sea coast area in the world would be hit in a similar
manner several times as the great waves traveled back and forth across
the oceans of the world, bounding and rebounding like ripples in a
bathtub. Most of the major metropolitan areas of the planet were
located either on or within a hundred miles of a coastline. The
earthquakes and the tidal waves alone killed off a sizable fraction of
the planetary population.
But the death and destruction, as horrific as it was, did not stop
there. If it had, perhaps civilization could have been rebuilt
eventually. After all, many of the inland cities, though many were
heavily damaged by the earthquakes and dealing with out of control
flooding in some cases, were still standing when the waves finally
equalized. Unfortunately for the human race, the greatest catastrophe
was still forming over the impact site and spreading across the globe.
From the hole made by the comet in the Pacific Ocean, immense clouds of
seawater continued to boil away into the atmosphere. In all, before
the seawater finally closed the hole by quenching the tremendous heat,
more than two percent of the total volume of water on Earth was
vaporized and sent aloft. These clouds quickly spread out and covered
the globe like thick blanket, dumping rain virtually everywhere and
blocking out the sun. The rain promised to continue for months,
killing all crops, flooding every low-lying area, and disrupting the
planetary food chain in ways that would guarantee the extinction of all
but the very strongest species.
Sierra Nevada Mountains - 40 miles northeast of Auburn, California
Impact+5 days
Brett Adams trudged slowly along through the thick mud on the top of
the ridge. With each step that he took, his hunting boots plunged four
inches into the syrupy muck that the ground had become, forcing him to
pull upward to take the next. His camouflage hunting clothes were
saturated and covered with mud and pine needles. He had not been dry
since the rain started and he was on the verge of hypothermia. He was
tired beyond belief. Every muscle, every joint throbbed like a rotten
tooth. He was weak from hunger, having eaten nothing in the last five
days but a chocolate bar and some trail mix. He had no idea where he
was going or why he was even bothering to continue on. He constantly
shifted the Remington .30-06 rifle on his back from one shoulder to the
other, thinking quite often of simply sitting down, putting the barrel
in his mouth, and pulling the trigger. Why shouldn't he? Everything
that he cared about was gone now. Why was he bothering to keep
propelling himself forward?
But somehow he did keep going, his survival instinct a little too
sharply honed to allow him to simply give up. Brett, at thirty-five
years of age had lived through five years as a street cop and four
years as a helicopter cop. Before that he had flown Apache attack
helicopters in Desert Storm, striking targets deep behind Iraqi lines
while anti-aircraft gunners tried their damnedest to bring him down.
He had once been in a gunfight on the streets of Stockton during his
rookie year with the San Joaquin County Sheriff's Department. He had
once had the engine of his helicopter die on him, forcing him into an
autorotational landing. His mindset was geared to keep him alive as
long as possible, under whatever conditions or situations he
encountered. Though he was racked with grief, cold and miserable, and
quite probably going to die within the next twenty-four hours no matter
what, he kept going. He lifted one foot and placed it in front of the
other. He did it again. He kept moving through the purgatory that he
found himself in, wondering why he couldn't have been with his family
when the end came.
The rain had slacked off some in the past six hours. Of course, when
you were talking about this sort of rain, "slacked-off" was a very
relative term. It was now only slightly worse than a torrential
downpour of the sort that was normally only seen at the height of a
severe thunderstorm. Visibility was now almost a hundred yards or so.
The wind had died down to something like a moderate gale, no longer
packing the power to sweep him completely off his feet, no longer
blowing pine cones and tree branches through the air like deadly
missiles. During the first twenty-four hours of this biblical-like
event, the rain had been so thick it had been difficult to breathe at
times. Lightening strikes had flashed and exploded all around the
mountaintop like an artillery barrage. Trees had toppled in the
hurricane force winds and then been washed downhill by the mud like
toothpicks.
It had been a mudslide that had taken Carl, his best friend. Carl was
a San Joaquin Sheriff, just like Brett. They had met six years ago,
when Brett had still been working uniformed patrol. Carl had been like
a brother to him, closer in fact than Brett's own brother had ever
been. Their wives socialized together, their children attended the
same schools. The night before the impact, he and Carl had driven up
to nearby Castle Point in Carl's Toyota 4-runner to set up camp for
their annual deer-hunting trip. They had been happy, full of life,
contemplating bagging a nice trophy to take home to their families.
That first night of the trip they had stayed up late, often staring at
the night sky, which had been overly bright with the beautiful,
gossamer tail of the approaching comet. They drank beer and cooked
their simple meal before retiring to their tents for the night. At
6:00 AM the next morning, they had set off into the woods to make their
kills. That now seemed a different lifetime. Had that really only
been five days ago?
After the earthquake, and after the barrage of flaming rocks and mud
had fallen throughout the forest, setting it ablaze in many spots, they
had immediately started back towards camp, concerned not so much for
their own safety as for the safety of their wives and children back in
Stockton. They had intuited that the comet had struck the earth at
that point but they had been completely clueless about just what the
ramifications of that were. Global catastrophe is on a scale that most
mere humans can hardly fathom. As they huffed and puffed their way
through the woods, dodging fires here and there, hearing the impacts of
rocks slamming into trees, they saw the clouds to the west of them for
the first time. A thick, black, angry front was swelling into the sky,
moving rapidly towards them. By the time they made it to camp, the
wind and the lightening had started, toppling trees and igniting more
fires.
They dove into the Toyota, not bothering to pack up camp, terrified at
the fates of their loved ones, and started to head back to Auburn,
which would in turn lead them back to Interstate 80. The road they
were on curved slightly upward from Castle Point before twisting and
turning its way down to the foothills below. From the summit of this
peak was a clear line of sight out over the Sacramento Valley. Usually
it was one of the most impressive views that Brett could imagine. This
time it was a glimpse through the gates of hell itself.
When they first topped the rise they were able to see the city of
Sacramento and its suburbs some fifty to sixty miles away. Already
they were able to see huge areas of flooding caused by the breaking of
Folsom Dam and the release of a half million acre feet of stored
water. This first glimpse of isolated devastation was horrible but it
did not destroy all of their hopes like what happened next. From the
southwest, in the direction of the San Francisco Bay area, a huge wall
of water appeared. It moved forward at what seemed a slow rate from
their vantage point in the mountains but it advanced steadily. It
swallowed up everything in its path, burying the valley and turning it
into a brown, muddy sea. They watched in horrified fascination as the
city disappeared and the water reached the fringes of the foothills
twenty miles below them.
Any illusions they might have had about the possible survival of their
families disappeared at that moment. Though Stockton was forty miles
south of Sacramento and well out of their line of sight, it was in the
same valley and at the same elevation. It had been slightly under an
hour since the earthquake had occurred. That was nowhere near enough
time for Julie and Summer, Brett's wife and daughter, or Sandy and
Kevin, Carl's wife and son, to get to ground high enough to save them.
Nor was there any way any human could have lived through what they had
just witnessed.
Soon after this, while they were still staring at what had once been
the home of nearly a million people, the clouds overtook them. The sun
was blotted from the sky, making the early afternoon daylight fade to
an inky twilight. And then the rain began. It did not gradually
develop from a drizzle to a downpour like a normal rainstorm, it simply
started. One moment it was dry and the next it was raining harder than
either man had thought possible. Visibility dropped to less than ten
feet and the dirt road quickly turned to an impassable sludge of
running mud. As they'd sat there, trying to cope with the loss of
their families, wondering what to do next, the 4-Runner began to move
on its own, propelled along by a river of mud pouring down the hillside
above them. They picked up speed and finally fetched up against a
stand of trees, at which point the mud began to pile up against the
driver's side.
Brett made it out, climbing through the passenger side window and up a
small rise to safety. He didn't stop to help Carl out of the car, not
out of fear, but because he hadn't thought it necessary. The situation
had SEEMED under control at that point. It was a decision that would
haunt him later. When Carl was halfway out, a huge glut of mud
suddenly buried the truck like a breaking wave, knocking the trees it
had been resting against flat. The entire mess had continued down the
hill and over the edge of a ridge, landing in a creekbed that was
already raging with brown runoff. Tons more mud quickly landed atop
it, burying Carl and the 4-Runner for all time. Brett had not even
bothered trying to rescue his friend. It would have been beyond futile.
That first night, while the rain continued to fall and the wind
continued to blast and the lightening continued to explode against the
ground every ten to fifteen seconds, he had huddled against the base of
a tree, on the upside of a ridge. This had put him at high risk for a
lightening strike but kept him safe from being buried alive by a
mudslide. Though he was even then seriously considering ending it all
with his Remington, he had no wish to endure the same hellish death
that Carl had.
Since then he had been walking north, inching along through the mud,
keeping as close to areas of thick vegetation as he could to avoid the
rivers of mud that continually washed down from the mountains. Despite
these precautions he had almost been swept away several times when
slides passed over a spot where he had just been. As the lightening
strikes grew fewer and farther between, he worked his way onto higher
and higher ground, staying out of potential flooding. He lived off of
the two candy bars and the small bag of trail mix that he had in his
shirt pocket and his body began to grow weaker and weaker.
At night, with the thick cloud cover blotting out the moon and all the
stars, the blackness was absolute, broken only occasionally by the odd
flash of lightening. During the day it never got brighter than early
dusk or late dawn as the clouds blotted out most of the sunlight. He
sensed that, survival instinct or not, the end was near for him.
Either hypothermia or starvation would soon cart him away to join his
family and the billions of others that had undoubtedly died with them.
This was not a particularly unpleasant thought. He almost welcomed the
coming oblivion.
Now, five days after the end of the world, running on the very last
reserves of strength that he had, he sat down on the leeward side of a
pine tree and ate the last of his trail mix. It was unsatisfying and
unfulfilling but it was all he had. Would it be safe to end it now?
Could he concede that further survival in this terrible new world was
an impossibility?
The sound of a gunshot startled him out of his suicidal thoughts before
he could bring them to a conclusion. It was not terribly loud but with
the damping effect on sound that the wind and the rain inflicted, he
knew that it had to be close. He looked around him, trying to gauge
just where it had come from. He wasn't sure, and what real difference
did it make anyway? So someone was nearby, shooting at something?
What of it? Granted, it triggered his cop's instincts, but he wasn't a
cop anymore, was he? There really wasn't any such thing as a cop
anymore.
Another shot rang out, a sharp crack void of any echo. This time he
was able to tell where it had come from. It had issued from just over
the ridge above him; a ridge topped with a stand of old growth pines
that had so far managed to survive all that the comet had thrown at
them. Two more shots quickly followed and then a prolonged burst of
what could only be an M-16 rifle on full automatic. He knew that sound
from his basic training days in the army. It was very distinctive.
Another, shorter burst followed this and then, faintly though clearly,
came a blood curdling scream of anguish.
It was the scream that got him moving. That had been a woman! Though
he was weak and on the verge of ending his life, though he was no
longer a cop in a suddenly lawless world, he could not deny the cries
of a woman in trouble. What the hell was going on over there?
He pulled himself to his feet and unshouldered his Remington, checking
to make sure the safety was off. It was. Next he checked the .40
caliber pistol strapped to his waist. It was his duty weapon, issued
to him by the department to carry at work. He had packed this pistol
through five years of service on the streets and through four years as
the pilot of the northern San Joaquin valley's primary law enforcement
helicopter. On hunting trips he carried it both for self-protection
and to finish off any deer that might have managed to live through the
initial rifle round. It was a weapon that he was much more comfortable
with at close range than the bulky rifle. It was seated neatly in its
leather holster. He gave it a pat and then put the rifle at port-arms
position. He began to move up the hill.
He moved tree to tree, rock to rock, keeping a close eye before him and
to his flanks as he moved. He saw nothing unusual and heard no further
gunfire although he did hear a few more faint screams and once a barked
male voice telling someone to "shut the fuck up, bitch."
As he got closer to the top of the ridge he dropped down to his belly
and began to inch his way forward, crawling along the ground as he had
been taught in the army. He wedged himself against the base of a tree
on the summit of the hill and let his head edge slowly to the side.
What he saw down there made him forget his hunger and his fatigue.
About sixty yards down the hill, resting against an outcropping of
large rocks, was a camping trailer. It was about twenty feet long and
sitting upright, almost perfectly level, with only a small mound of mud
pushing against the uphill side. That it had come from the public
camping area two hundred feet up the next hill was obvious. Also
obvious was the fact that it had been swept down there when that
portion of the hillside had given in to the erosion of constant rain
bombardment. Just beyond the trailer was the telltale swatch of bare,
torn-up hillside that bespoke of a recent mudslide. But how had this
single trailer been separated out and spared? Looking at the path that
it had made in its journey, it appeared it had somehow become aligned
forward during its trip down the hill and had managed to roll out of
the flood of mud, where gravity then propelled it downward until it
encountered the rocks.
But the trailer itself, despite its almost miraculous existence in the
first place, did not hold Ken's attention for more than a second. In
front of the trailer was a group of four men and two women. The men
had M-16s in their hands and sidearms attached to their muddy
clothing. They had long hair and beards and looked, to Brett anyway,
like methamphetamine snorting biker types. He had seen such people
many, many times in his career and had taken many of them to jail for
various offenses. They could be very dangerous even when living in a
society ruled by civilized law. Now that the factor of civilization
was removed from the equation, they had become infinitely more
dangerous, as was evidenced by what he was seeing below him. He
wondered where they had come by automatic weapons? It wasn't like
fully automatic M-16s could be found just lying around.
The bikers were training these weapons on a group of two women and a
young boy that were cowering in fear before the trailer. The oldest of
the women looked to be in her late-thirties. The youngest looked to be
a teenager. The resemblance in the facial features of the two told him
that they were mother and daughter. The boy, who had his arms
protectively around the younger woman, was about fourteen and obviously
a son. The father of this particular family was no longer in the
picture. This was apparent by the fact that he was lying lifelessly at
the foot of the trailer, a pistol next to him, his body riddled with
bullets and covered with blood. That must have been the bursts of M-16
fire.
"I'll give you anything you want," the mother of the group pleaded with
the men. "I'll DO whatever you want. Just let my kids go. I'll...
I'll go with you."
This struck the bikers and even their women, who were unarmed and
lagging in the rear, as deliciously funny. They laughed for the better
part of thirty seconds before one of the men said: "Oh, you're both
coming with us mama. We might get around to doing somethin' with you
after we're done with this little sweet piece." He jerked the barrel
of his rifle towards the teenager.
"I'm gonna tear me a piece off a that shit right now!" one of the other
men declared. "Look at that shit. I bet she got some nice titties!"
"No," the first one to have spoken said after a moment's reflection.
"I get her first. Y'all can have sloppy seconds. Let's all take a
quick piece of her and then we'll see what kinda goodies they got in
that trailer for us."
"No!" screamed the woman, trying to get up. She was forced to sit back
down again by four rifles swinging towards her.
"Take it easy baby," the apparent leader of the group warned mildly.
"We wouldn't want to have to kill you before we had our fill now, would
we?"
"You can't do this!" the teenaged girl cried hysterically. "You just
can't do this!"
The leader chuckled a little. "We can do anything we want now, sweet
piece. The law done blew up with the comet. Ain't you figured that
out yet?"
"What about the little shit?" one of the other bikers asked, pointing
at the young boy. "Think we oughtta just kill him now? He ain't good
for nothin', is he?"
While the boy in question trembled in fear and his terrified mother and
sister moaned in terror, the leader seemed to consider this question
very carefully. Finally he answered, "Let's keep him for now and take
him back to camp. Zipper and Turbo like to slam little dudes once in a
while, don't they? Reminds 'em of when they was in the big Q."
"I guess you're right."
"I can think of a few uses for him too," said one of the women with a
lascivious grin.
"Shut the fuck up, bitch," the leader said, casting an evil glare at
her until she dropped her gaze. He then turned back to the teenage
girl. "You ever give a blowjob before, sweet piece?"
Brett watched all of this, unseen from his perch up the hill from them,
his mind whirring as he tried to think of what he could do. He
certainly had no desire to stand by and watch a young girl get raped by
a gang of bikers in front of her mother and brother, but he had nothing
more than a hunting rifle and a pistol and they had automatic weapons.
He hardly had a chance against that, did he?
But on the other hand, he had just been willing to take his own life a
few moments ago. So when you came right down to it, what difference
did it make if these biker assholes were the ones to kill him?
Wouldn't dying in a firefight to save a helpless family be preferable
to blowing his own brains out? What could be nobler than that?
Though he was not particularly worried about the state of his own skin,
Brett nevertheless was not reckless in his attack. Being shot in the
first volley would not help the family down there. Utilizing his army
training and his experience as a cop, he waited, watching the
developments below in search of the best possible time to make his
move. It came a few moments later.
"Hold this Ricky," the leader said, handing his M-16 to the biker next
to him.
Ricky took it from him and slung it over the opposite shoulder from his
own.
"And keep those two in their places," he added next, unholstering a
semi-automatic pistol and walking towards the terrified teenage girl.
Beside him, Ricky advanced a few paces and kept his rifle trained on
the mother and the son.
The leader stopped right in front of the girl, towering over her.
"You're gonna do exactly what I say, ain't ya, sweet piece?" he asked,
pointing the pistol at her head.
Before she could answer the mother spoke up. "Just do it Chrissie,"
she told her daughter. "Just do it and it'll be over soon. Try to
stay alive honey. Just try to stay alive."
The leader glanced over at the mother and grinned, nodding his head a
little. "That's right Chrissie," he said, unbuttoning his pants and
letting them drop. His small cock was already hard. "You just do what
I say and we'll get along real good. You might live long enough to
starve to death. Now suck my cock bitch. And make it a good one."
As a trembling Chrissie leaned forward to do what she had been told,
and as her weeping mother buried her face in her hands, unable to watch
the degradation of her daughter, Brett saw his oppurtunity. Everyone
was distracted by the goings on with Chrissie. Though none of them had
dropped their weapons, except the leader of course, it couldn't
possibly get any better than this.
He brought the rifle to his shoulder and peered through the telescopic
sight. He aimed at the head of Ricky, the biker closest to the mother
and son. He was the most dangerous at the moment since he was packing
two automatic weapons. Brett's scope was designed to sight in on deer
more than three hundred yards away. From a mere sixty yards, Ricky's
head, in partial profile and mostly facing forward, filled the entire
field of view. He centered the crosshairs just above his right ear.
Though the wind was blowing at nearly forty miles an hour it was not a
particular concern at this range. It wouldn't throw the bullet off by
more than a quarter inch or so. He took a deep breath, whispered a
silent prayer for the lives of the family he was trying to save, and
then smoothly squeezed the trigger.
--
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reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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