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From: Al Steiner <steiner_al@hotmail.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} NEW: Aftermath by Al Steiner- Chapter 2(Mf) 1/4
Date: Wed, 25 Oct 2000 06:10:02 -0400
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My apologies to all that it took me so long to get this second
installment out. I really did intend to have it available a week after
Chapter One was posted but I left for my annual October vacation trip
before I was finished with it and was unable to finish until I
returned. My thanks to the many hundreds of you that wrote me letting
me know you liked the story and asking me to continue. And so now,
here is the next installment.
AFTERMATH
By Al Steiner
Send all comments to steiner_al@hotmail.com
CHAPTER TWO
Brett awoke, as always, to the sound of rain and wind outside the lean-
to. That was nothing unusual. What was different however was the fact
that instead of shivering alone in his sleeping bag, he had a warm body
lying atop him. Chrissie's head was snuggled into his chest, her
blonde hair cascading over his shoulder. Her right arm was clinging to
his upper torso. His own hands were still wrapped protectively around
her back, his fingertips against her smooth skin.
He groaned miserably as he remembered the events of the previous
night. What had he done? He had violated a sixteen-year-old girl!
That was statutory rape. Rape! A week ago he could have been thrown
in prison for doing such a thing, and he would have deserved it.
Brett, though a cop, had not been a fanatic on the subject of many of
the laws that he had enforced. Some of them he had recklessly violated
himself. He had been known to drive his car considerably faster than
what was legal on a regular basis. He had been known to drink a beer
while behind the wheel. He had routinely fudged deductions on his
income taxes. He had taken home batteries, flashlights, mapbooks, and
several other useful items from the department supply room. But when
it came to sex crimes against minors, he had always been a firm
believer in the law that declared those under the age of eighteen to be
hands-off. It was a good law, designed to protect young girls from
people like... well people like himself. And now what had he done? He
had slept with Chrissie. Just because the threat that the law
represented had been removed he had done something that he believed,
that he KNEW was wrong. What kind of man did that make him? Was he
any better than the bikers he had shot?
He opened his eyes slowly, noting that it was just past dawn. The
meager light that marked the daylight hours was just starting to show
itself, allowing him to see Chrissie's blond head on his chest and the
slanted roof of the lean-to above him. Chrissie, feeling him stir a
little, opened her own eyes and looked up at him.
"Hi," she said meekly, offering him an embarrassed smile.
"Hi," he returned, finding it difficult to look her in the eye.
"That was the best I've slept since... well... you know."
Brett did not admit to her that it was the best the HE had slept as
well. He let his arms fall to his side, releasing her from his
embrace. "We'd better pull our sleeping bags apart," he said. "Jason
will be up soon and I wouldn't want him to see us like this."
She didn't move for a moment. "Brett?" she said, her face troubled.
"Are you okay? You're not... mad at me, are you?"
"No," he told her, shaking his head. "I'm not mad at you. I'm mad at
myself."
"You don't have to be upset," she told him. "What we did was..."
"Wrong," he interjected. "What we did was wrong and I should have
known better. Come on, let's get separated."
Reluctantly she raised herself off of him allowing him a tantalizing
and tempting glimpse of her breasts dangling beneath her for a moment.
He did his best to ignore the sight and to try not to think about how
those breasts had tasted and felt the night before. As he slid out
from underneath her, trying to work his way fully into his own sleeping
bag, he looked over the top of her, checking on Jason, expecting to see
him still snoring away. Jason, a typical fourteen-year-old boy, was
always the first to bed at night and the last to rise in the morning.
But this time, as luck would have it, he was not. He was leaning on
one elbow, looking at the two of them.
Brett froze in place, a jolt of adrenaline surging through his body as
he realized that he had been caught. Could this morning possibly get
any worse? Would Jason pick up his rifle that he had been so recently
taught to use and shoot the man that had raped his sister? That was
certainly in the realm of possibilities, wasn't it?
Chrissie, noting Brett's sudden halt in movement, looked over her
shoulder to see what he was looking at. She too froze in place, so
surprised that it took her a few moments to realize that her breasts
were exposed to Jason's eyes. When she did realize this she slowly
reached down and pulled the sleeping bag tighter against her chest.
How long did the moment last? Brett was not sure. It seemed an
eternity that the three of them all stared at each other. Brett tried
to read Jason's face and found it impossible. There was no expression
to be read. It was as if he was looking at a baseball card or a pine
cone.
"Morning," Jason finally said, his tone strangely normal.
"Uh... good morning," Brett answered slowly. Chrissie said nothing.
"Did you guys sleep good?" he said next. "I know I did. I think I'm
starting to get used to sleeping on rocks."
"Really?" Brett asked, feeling a little like he was in the Twilight
Zone. What was happening here? Wasn't Jason upset?
"Yep," he said, nodding. "Would you guys mind turning around so I can
get dressed? I gotta pee."
"Uh... sure," replied Brett.
"Yeah... okay," echoed Chrissie. Both of them dutifully rolled over to
the other side, hastily moving as far apart as they could in the
process. Brett had a sudden worry that this was how Jason was going to
kill him; by having him turn his back to him. He listened for the
clacking of a gun being picked up. It didn't come, only the sound of
Jason's clothes jingling.
"Man," Jason told them as he dressed, "I really hate putting these wet
clothes on in the morning. Talk about cold."
Neither Brett nor Chrissie had any sort of answer to offer him. It
took him the better part of five minutes to get fully dressed.
"Okay, I'm done," he said.
They both turned to look at him again. He was carefully threading his
belt through the pistol holster, positioning it neatly on his right hip
at exactly the angle that Brett always did. He gave it a pat and then
picked up his rifle. "I'll set out the cans from dinner last night so
they can fill," he said as he wormed his way out the side. "We're
starting to get low on water in the canteens again."
"Uh... sure. Good idea," Brett told him, staring after him as he
disappeared in the rain. He then turned to Chrissie. "Did that just
happen?"
"That was kind of weird, wasn't it?" she agreed. "I mean, we were
totally busted. There's no way he didn't see us."
"It was like he didn't even care," Brett said, shaking his head in
wonder.
Chrissie shrugged a little. "Well," she suggested, after a moment's
thought on the matter, "maybe he doesn't."
"What?"
"Well, think about it. Why SHOULD he care? I'm his older sister, not
his girlfriend or his daughter or anything. My dad or my mom probably
wouldn't have liked finding us very much, but Jason is younger than I
am."
Brett rubbed his temples a little, massaging at a tension headache.
"Too much to think about right now," he mumbled, sitting up and
grabbing for his own clothes.
"Brett," Chrissie said softly, putting her hand on his bare shoulder.
He looked over at her, knowing what she was going to say, desperately
wanting to avoid it.
"What about us?" she asked. "Don't you think we should talk about it?"
"There's nothing to talk about," he said firmly. "I shouldn't have
done that. I took advantage of you last night and it was wrong."
"I don't feel like you took advantage of me," she said. "I wanted it
as much as you did."
"That's beside the point."
"No it's not!" she insisted. "Don't you like me Brett?"
"Yes Chrissie," he sighed. "I like you a lot. I like you TOO much.
You're a very beautiful, very smart girl and I am very attracted to
you. That's what the problem is. You're too young to be having sex
with a thirty-five year old man."
"Says who?" she asked him.
"Says me! What I did goes against everything that I believe in."
"Everything that you believe in is gone now," she said quietly. "You
told us that yourself. It's a completely different world now with
completely different rules. We could die at any time. Isn't it more
likely that we're going to be dead in a month than that we're still
alive?"
"Chrissie," he said, "I hardly think..."
"Isn't it?" she interrupted forcefully.
"Yes," he admitted. "I suppose it is."
"Then why shouldn't we enjoy a little affection while we're still
alive?" she asked him. "Who is it harming? It's not harming me. No
one is going to come and put you in jail for it. Why shouldn't we do
it?"
"Why shouldn't we go and kill people who have food if we need it?" he
countered. "Why shouldn't I have raped you at gunpoint the other day
instead of protecting you? We can't just go changing our morality
because there's no one to enforce it anymore. Don't you see that?
That's what those bikers are doing. They are what happens when people
just start doing whatever they feel like doing."
"You're NOT like those bikers Brett," she told him, almost angrily.
"You're nothing like them. And having sex with me when I wanted it and
you wanted it is not the same as raping someone and killing their
parents. Can't you see that?"
"It's not the same," he said, "but it's a step in that direction.
Don't YOU see?"
She had no answer for him. Before they could continue the discussion
any further, they heard the sound of Jason returning. "Why don't you
turn around so I can get dressed?" he asked. "I want to try and put
some miles behind us today."
With a disappointed look she rolled over to the other side, turning her
back to him.
+++++
The town of Foresthill had once occupied about two square miles of real
estate alongside of a simple two-lane road that ran from Auburn up into
the high sierra. It had once had a thriving population of six hundred,
a mix of blue-collar types that worked in the nearby lumber mill and
wealthy yuppies who commuted sixty miles to Sacramento to work. But
that had been before the comet. Now, three quarters of the business
section and half of the old residential section had been washed away by
mudslides moving down the mountain. After wiping out the main part of
Foresthill the mud had continued downward, eventually burying the Todd
Valley section - where the majority of the yuppies had lived in tract
houses on subdivided land - more than thirty feet deep. Now all that
was left were a few crumbling old farmhouses, a bait shop, a useless
gas station, and a church. The population had been reduced to a mere
83 people who were taking shelter in the church and living off of the
canned foods that they had managed to scavenge together.
Most of these survivors were women and very small children. Since the
comet had struck during the late morning hours on a workday, the
majority of the men had been at work and the majority of the school-age
kids had been in school. Those that had been at jobs in Sacramento had
suffered the fate that everyone else in the valley had. Those that had
been at the mill, which was virtually the only employer in town, had
been trapped in the building when it had collapsed in the earthquake
and then buried for all time when the first of the mudslides had swept
through an hour later. Those that had been in school had been thirty
miles away in Auburn, since Foresthill did not have a school of its
own, and their fates were unknown.
Still, a few men were in the group. Some had taken the day off on that
fateful morning. A few had worked somewhere in town that hadn't been
touched; such as the gas station or the bait shop. The pastor of the
church was among them, his place of employment spared; miraculously he
liked to think. And of course there was more than one that had been
simply "between jobs", as they would have put it. In all, of the 83
surviving residents of Foresthill, there were 49 women, 20 young
children, and 14 men.
That was before the convicts came to town.
They were twenty-seven strong, including six women, and they had been
camped on the outskirts of the town for two days, performing a careful
reconnaissance of the area through binoculars and rifles scopes that
had been taken from the El Dorado Sheriff's Department. They had noted
that everyone in Foresthill seemed to be staying in the church, a
sturdy wooden building near the center of the remaining township. The
security measures that the townspeople employed were a joke but the
leader of the convicts, a man named Stuart Covington, who had, once
upon a long time ago, been a United States Marine Corps infantryman,
thought it best to be sure of what they were dealing with before they
moved in. It was discovered that the Foresthill residents posted
guards armed with rifles and pistols on the outside of the church -
always men - but that they did not send out patrols of the surrounding
area. Nor did they have anybody posted in a high place to keep an eye
out on the approaches. It was a rare event indeed for anyone to leave
the church at all.
"What do you think Stu?" asked Mark Wisington, Stu's former cellmate in
the EDCCC and his unofficial second in command of the motley group.
Stu, who was staring at the church building through binoculars,
answered without taking them from his eyes. "It should be pretty
easy," he said. "Take down the guards out front and pin the rest of
them inside. I wanna capture the women if we can get them to come out
peacefully, but if they won't, we'll have to shoot some of those tear
gas rounds in."
"If we play it right," Mark opined, "they'll come out."
"Exactly." He lowered the binoculars and edged backwards a little.
"We'll move on them in one hour. You take half of the group around the
back, I'll take the other half from here. My group should be able to
close to within fifty yards or so before we're spotted if we use that
gas station building for cover. You'll be able to get even closer if
you use the trees. Keep low and keep your guys quiet."
"What about our bitches?"
"We'll have Turbo hang back and keep an eye on them. They won't be any
trouble."
Mark nodded, putting his own set of glasses to his eyes and taking a
quick look. The guard out front was about forty years old. He was
dressed in a black rain slicker and was smoking a cigarette. He had an
old bolt action rifle slung over his back. He was not even walking
around. He was seated in a damn chair. "I hope they still have some
of those cigarettes when we take them," Mark said wistfully.
"Yeah," Stu agreed. "The one fuckin thing we didn't think to grab when
we blew town."
"Still no M-16s spotted with the guards?"
"Nope. Just those old hunting rifles. I don't think they even have
that many of those. Some fuckin frontier town this turned out to be.
It would seem that if our friend is still on the loose somewhere, he
isn't here. I never thought that he would be once I saw their
security. A man smart enough to take out four of our guys and walk
away without a scratch would be a little smarter than this."
"I hope we find him someday," Mark said, lowering his glasses again.
"I really hope we do. I got a little payback I'd like to give him for
Joker."
"Be careful what you wish for," Stu told him. "You just might get it.
But for what its worth, I hope we find him too. He's dangerous. A man
like that will be able to organize others. Organization is our enemy."
"It's a small world now. We'll find him eventually. And when we do, I
wanna kill him slow."
Stu said nothing in reply to this. He had his own thoughts and
feelings on the subject of their friend, the man who had ambushed four
of their number while they'd been making a raid and had deprived them
of both weapons and needed supplies. He did not hate the man, he
feared and respected him. If he ever had the chance he would take him
out as quickly as possible from as far away as possible.
"I'm gonna gather up my group and start filling them in on the plan,"
Mark said after a moment. "We'll be ready to move when you give the
word."
"Right," Stu answered. "We're gonna party hard tonight."
+++++
Right on schedule, the two groups, divided into ten apiece, made their
move. Most of them carried M-16s - they had scored sixteen of the
weapons from the EDCCC originally but had lost three to their friend -
and those that didn't carried scoped rifles or shotguns. They managed
to box in the church building and close with it before the guards in
the front and back spotted them. When they were spotted, the reaction
by the guards was simply to stand and stare. No alarm was raised, no
warning shots were offered. This sealed the fate of the townspeople.
Stu took the honor of firing the first shot. He sighted on the front
guard from forty yards and squeezed off a single round, striking him in
the chest. The guard crumpled to the ground and Stu waved his men
forward. From the back of the building Mark, who was much closer to
his guard, took him out with a pistol shot to the head. This group did
not have to move forward. They were already optimally positioned to
cover the rear.
Stu's group spread out and found cover across the street from the
church, their weapons trained on the doors and windows. When a man
stuck his head out the front door to see what the shooting had been
about he promptly had a bullet put through it by an M-16 round. He
dropped in a heap and that was when the screaming began inside; a
chorus of feminine wails intermixed with the cries of children.
The battle did not last very long at all. From the top window of the
church, two muzzleflashes erupted as two of the townspeople tried,
ineffectively, to drive away their invaders. A brief but intense
barrage of automatic weapons fire at the window answered this attempt
at defense. The glass exploded, tinkling to the ground below, and a
series of holes appeared in the wooden frame of the building. No more
shots were fired from that window. At the back of the church three
women and one man tried to rush out the back door and flee. They were
cut down by hail of bullets before they even cleared the doorway. At
the front, a young woman carrying a baby in her hands tried the same
thing. She and her child were similarly gunned down, their bodies
thumping to the mud.
There were no more attempts to escape the church after this. Stu knew
that the townspeople had realized that they could neither drive their
tormentors away nor escape from them. They would now be setting up to
defend against an attempted breach of the building itself. Even as
dumb as these people had proven themselves to be, they were probably
smart enough to have trained every weapon they had on one of the two
doors that allowed entry. They would methodically pick off each person
as they came through if a frontal assault was attempted. Stu had no
intention of wasting either his men or his ammunition that way.
"Inside the church!" he yelled loudly, his voice carrying across the
rainy street and through the windows. "We are a heavily armed militia
group and we have your church completely surrounded by armed men! You
can not escape us! We did not have any wish to harm you, we are just
here to take your supplies! Drop your weapons, come out peacefully,
and surrender your goods to us and we will leave you in peace! If you
do not come out, we will fire tear gas into the building and kill you
as you exit! You have one minute to comply with this! One minute!"
There was no answer from inside at first. It was only when Stu began
to loudly count down from thirty seconds that someone spoke. A
hesitant voice yelled out: "How do we know that you won't kill us?"
"You don't!" Stu yelled back. "But you know that we WILL kill you if
you don't do as we say! You have twenty seconds left! If we don't
start seeing people coming out with their hands in the air by that
time, the tear gas goes in! If the tear gas goes in, we will not
accept surrenders and you will all die! Nineteen... eighteen...
seventeen..."
"All right," the voice finally yelled back. "Stop counting! We're
coming out!"
"Men first! And keep those hands in the air!" Stu reminded them.
"Leave your weapons inside! Do not try to run once you get out here or
you will be shot!"
One by one, the men emerged, hands in the air exactly as Stu had
ordered. They were led by the pastor of the church who was, amazingly
enough, dressed in his traditional black suit and white collar. In all
there were eleven adult males, ranging in age from late teens to late
sixties. One of them was wounded, suffering from a bullet in the
shoulder, undoubtedly taken during the barrage of gunfire at the upper
window.
"Lie down, face first in the mud over there!" Stu commanded. "Keep
your hands out in front of you!"
They did as they were told, none of them trying any cute moves. Stu
and the rest of them relaxed somewhat once the men were secured.
"Now the rest of you!" Stu yelled. "One by one, hands in the air, no
weapons! Do it now!"
They came out slowly, docilely, marching through the doorway and out
onto the muddy lawn. The women, like the men, were of a wide variety
of ages, everything from late teens to geriatrics. The largest age
group however, was early to late twenties. Some led small, crying
children by the hands, whispering encouraging words to them. Others
carried smaller children in their arms, holding them tightly.
"Oh yeah," the man next to Stu said as they watched. "Look at all that
pussy! We're gonna have a good time tonight!"
"Shut the fuck up," Stu said mildly, his eyes never leaving the group,
keeping a constant lookout for the slightest sign of danger.
Once everyone was out of the church, Stu directed the women to sit down
on the ground, separate from where the men were lying. They all
complied, most of them hugging children to them. The moment they were
all seated, Stu gave a hand signal to his group and they suddenly
shifted their position, moving to the left, out of the line of fire
from the front of the church. They all kneeled down once again,
finding cover behind new objects.
"Mark!" Stu yelled loudly. "They're out and under control! Move in
and secure the building!"
"Moving!" came the faint reply from the other side.
It took about two minutes before Mark and his group emerged through the
front door. "Secure," he told Stu. "And they have a buttload of
goodies in there. Canned food, dry food, cigarettes, beer, even hard
liquor. It's a motherfuckin' gold mine!"
"We'll go through it later," Stu said, standing and waving his men to
do the same. He began to walk towards the two groups of captives,
relaxing now that they no longer presented a danger. "Good job
everyone. That was by the fuckin' book." He looked over the smaller
bunch, the men. "Who's in charge?" he asked.
"I guess you could say that I am," the pastor announced, looking him in
the eye defiantly. "Just take what you want, and leave us in peace."
"You bet padre," Stu answered. "But in the meantime, I'd just like to
say that you made that way too easy for us. If you would've had a
decent defense set up here, we never woulda fucked with you."
The pastor said nothing and Stu did not push the issue.
"Where are those twist-ties at?" Stu asked his group at large.
"Right here Stu," Harley, a former methamphetamine brewer, announced,
holding up a bag of heavy duty zip-ties that they had found in the
EDCCC storage room. The cops used them for securing people's arms
during mass arrests.
"Okay," Stu nodded. "Let's get a detail formed. Harley, Zipper,
Billy, Joe, and Spanky, move the men over to the gas station one by
one. Keep a close eye on 'em and waste 'em if they try anything
funny. Do them just like we told you earlier; hands and feet."
--
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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