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Message-ID: <27427asstr$974041804@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: Al Steiner <steiner_al@hotmail.com>
Subject: {ASSM} NEW: Aftermath by Al Steiner-Chapter 4 (Mf) 1/5
Date: Sun, 12 Nov 2000 10:10:04 -0500
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d

And here is the next installment.  I am finding as I go along here that
it seems to be taking me an average of 8 days to complete a chapter
instead of the 7 days that DIAO chapters took.  I do not know why this
is so, especially since my laptop gives me more opportunities to work
on the story than I used to have in the DIAO days.  But rest assured
that I have committed myself to taking this story to the end.  I will
continue to put the chapters out as quickly as I produce them and
nothing short of global or personal tragedy will prevent me from doing
this (or a complete writer's block, something I've yet to experience
but which I'm told all writers eventually do).  And, as always, my
sincerest thanks to all those who continue to email me with praise and
suggestions.  It is with great pleasure that I check my inbox every day
to read what people think about this tale.



AFTERMATH
By Al Steiner



CHAPTER 4



"Mitsy, get the hell out of that bathtub right now!" Paul yelled at her
angrily.

"All right, all right," she said, pulling herself off of Brett, her
voice far from regretful.  She stood, unashamed before Paul and
Jessica, stepping down and heading for the towel rack.

"Are you okay Honey?" Jessica, her gun pointing at Brett, asked her
gently.

"Okay?" she said, grabbing one of the towels and starting to pat
herself dry.  "Of course I'm okay."

"Thank God for that," she said, continuing to glare at Brett.  "How
dare you abuse our hospitality like that," she accused.  "We invite you
into our town, feed you, allow you to bathe and you repay us by
attacking the girl who was guarding you?"

"Attacking?" he said, raising his eyebrows.

"How else did she get into that tub with you?" Jessica asked.  "And
just what happened to Hector?"

"Christ almighty," Paul said, shaking his head sadly.  He put his gun
back in its holster and then turned to Jessica.  "Jess," he said.  "I
don't think that Brett attacked Mitsy, did he Mitsy?"

"No," she admitted without shame.  "It was actually more the other way
around."  She bent over to dry her legs.

"YOU attacked HIM?" Jessica asked in disbelief.

She shrugged.  "He has a nice ass," she said.  "And I was horny.
What's wrong with having a little fun?"

"What's wrong with it," Paul said, "is that you were SUPPOSED to be
guarding him.  What if he was dangerous?  What if he HAD attacked you?
Nice ass or not, we don't know this man!  Anything could have happened,
anything!  For Christ's sake Mitsy, he is in the building that we store
our goddamn food and ammunition in!"

"Sorry," she said softly, her eyes downcast now.

"Sorry," Paul repeated, mocking her.  "And just where IS Hector, your
partner in this guard detail?"

"I'd rather not say," she replied.  "He's all right though."

Paul buried his face in his hands for a moment and took a few deep
breaths.  When he looked up he noticed that Jessica was still pointing
her gun at Brett, murder in her eyes.  "Jessica, would put that
freaking gun away before you accidentally shoot something with it?"

"Put it away?" she asked.  "What about HIM?"

"What about him?" he returned.  "At least this proves he wasn't trying
to attack us from the inside, doesn't it?"

"It doesn't prove anything except that he's an animal willing to come
in here and take advantage of our hospitality by..."

"Oh please," Paul said, cutting her off.  "I hardly think it makes him
an animal because he responded to the seduction of a beautiful woman
after he's been out in the wilderness for two weeks."

"Do you really think I'm beautiful Paul?" Mitsy asked, beaming,
immediately interested.

"Shit," Paul muttered.  He turned to Brett.  "Are you about done with
your bath now?"

"Uh... yeah," he said.  "Look, I'm really sorry about all of this.  The
last thing I wanted to do was..."

"Don't sweat it," Paul told him.  "Just get out and get your clothes
on.   We'll get you a bed set up in one of the rooms."

"You're not going to let him stay here after what just happened, are
you?" Jessica asked.

"I don't see how this changes anything," Paul replied.  "You know as
well as I do that what just happened is far from unusual in this town
these days.  I probably should've known better than to have Mitsy guard
him.  I should've found two of the men.  But then I probably would've
had BOTH of them run off to screw someone and Brett would've been free
to wander around at will.  At least this way someone was with him."

"I don't think we need to discuss town business in front of him,"
Jessica whispered, although loudly enough for Brett to hear.
"Especially not... you know?"

"He already knows about it," Paul said.  "I filled him in earlier on
the various games that are played here."

"You did WHAT?" she asked, horrified.

Paul ignored her.  "Now you see what I mean, right?" he asked Brett,
smiling a little.

Brett smiled back hesitantly. "A very graphic lesson," he agreed.

"Sorry we came rushing in here with guns," he said.  "We heard moaning
and splashing coming from in here and we thought that maybe... well..."

"That I was hurting her?"

"Yeah."

"I didn't realize we were so loud," Mitsy said, embarrassed now.

"Nobody ever does," Paul said.  "Nobody ever does.  Get yourself
dressed Mitsy and then I'd like to have a word with you in the office."

"Okay," she said, dropping her towel and grabbing her clothes.  She
began to put them on.

"Jess," he said, turning to her, "can you go get Jeff from the front
and have him take over watching Brett for us?"

"You want ME to do that?" she asked with distaste, as if she was being
asked to gut a fish or slaughter a chicken.

"Yes, please," he said, just a hint of sarcasm tinting his words.  "If
its not too much trouble that is?"

"I don't like the way you've been talking to me tonight," Jessica
practically hissed at him.  "You seem to have forgotten what your place
in this town is.  Remember..."

"I wasn't a resident," he said before she could.  "I know.  You've only
told me that a hundred times or so.  And as for forgetting my place, I
think that it's the opposite that's happening here.  I think I'm just
starting to REALIZE my place as well as YOUR place."

"Are you threatening me?" she said, taking a step closer.  "Because if
you are, you'll be out of here so fast..."

"Take it for what you want Jess," Paul told her, standing his ground.
"We've already been over this once tonight, haven't we?  Now, if you're
finished, would you please go get Jeff so we can make sure that Brett
doesn't find himself in any more mischief tonight?"

"I am FAR from finished," she said angrily.  "We will talk about this
some more."

"Fine, let's just do it later, okay?  It's been a hell of a long night
and we have a lot of people to talk to tomorrow."

"You're overstepping your bounds," she warned, pointing a finger at
him.  "And you'd better check yourself."  This statement might have had
a little more dramatic effect had she not then turned and headed off to
do exactly what she'd been told to do.

"Fuckin' bitch," Mitsy, who was now completely clothed again, muttered
once she was gone.

"Enough of that," Paul told her wearily.  "I'll see you in my office
Mitsy."

"Sure," she said, sulking to the door.  Before she went out she shot an
affectionate look at Brett.  "See you later," she told him.

He gave no acknowledgment to her and a moment later she disappeared.
Once she was gone he looked at Paul.  "Sorry about all this," he told
him. "I seemed to have created some power struggles for you."

"Nothing to be sorry about," Paul said.  "I'm kind of glad that all
this happened tonight.  Jessica and Dale need to be taken down a few
notches and this struggle over you has given me the means to do it."

"I see," he said.  "Will this incident with Mitsy affect how people
feel about me staying?"

"No, not in the least.  Trust me on this, you'll be voted in as long as
I'm with Jessica when the story about you gets told.  You're a man in a
town where men are scarce.  You'd have to be Ted Bundy before these
women would vote to exclude you.  If nothing else, the rumor about what
happened here tonight will strengthen your case.  After all, they'll
know you can be seduced, right?  That's the best thing you can say
about a man in this town."

"That's good to know," he said.

"Don't be so happy about us accepting you though," Paul warned.  "Once
you're a member of this community, I'm going to move to put you in
charge of defense and training.   And then YOU can be the one who deals
with all of this guard duty crap.  I imagine it will be the toughest
job you'll ever have."


+++++


"So I hear you bagged Mitsy," Jeff, the nineteen-year-old guard that he
had first encountered at the front entrance, asked him with a shrewd
smile.  He seemed to have put his hostile feelings aside.  "How was
she?  She was one of the virgins but I was thinking about maybe giving
her a try."  They were walking down the hallway of the community
center, Jeff in the rear, lighting the way with a flashlight.

"Virgins?" Brett asked, raising his eyebrows a tad.  Mitsy certainly
had not been a virgin.

"You know," he said, "it means none of the guys have tapped her yet.
Nobody's worked their way around to her yet.  So was it worth it?"

"Jesus," Brett muttered.  "I'd rather not say.  I prefer to keep my
experiences to myself."

"Bummer dude," Jeff said sadly.  "But I can get down with that, you
know?  That's the same thing Paul and Matt do.  They don't say shit.
Sometimes I think they're out there getting more pussy than anybody."
They arrived at a small storage room near the back of the building.
"Here's your suite.  Sorry it ain't much."  He shined the flashlight
inside, allowing Brett to have a look at it.

It was pretty much a case of what you see is what you get.  It was a
windowless room with only one door.  About ten feet by ten feet, the
floor was covered with the same industrial carpet that covered the rest
of the building.  There was a rollaway bed of the sort usually found in
motels set up in the corner.  A neatly folded stack of linen sat atop
it.  On a small table next to the cot was a candle, unlit, with a pack
of matches next to it.  Brett walked inside and picked up the matches,
lighting the candle and allowing Jeff to douse the flashlight.

"So dude, you were like a cop and all, right?" Jeff asked, pulling a
pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his flannel shirt.

"That's right," Brett told him, picking up the stack of linen.  It was
soft, dry, and smelled faintly of laundry soap.  Clean linen!
Amazing.  He began to unfold it and place it on the bed.  He would get
to sleep in a REAL bed.

"Well," Jeff said, "even though you WERE a cop, I guess it's only
polite to ask.  I'm not a Bogart you know?"

"What are you talking about?" Brett asked, looking over at him.

"You wanna burn one with me?" he asked, holding up a tightly rolled
joint.  "It's good shit."

"You want to smoke a JOINT with me?  The man that you're supposed to be
guarding?"

"Hell yeah," he said, putting the joint in his mouth and pulling out a
disposable lighter.  "I ain't never smoked out with no cop before.
It'll be the bomb."  He lit it, taking a large hit and filling the room
with the pungent smell of marijuana.

"My work is going to be cut out for me here, I can see that."

"So what do you say?" Jeff squeaked, speaking and holding his breath at
the same time.  "Wanna get loaded?"

"What the hell?" Brett said, reaching out and taking the joint.  "I
guess they can't fire me now, can they?"

"You the man," Jeff squeaked, grinning at him.

Though he had not smoked any since his high school days, it really was
like riding a bicycle.  He put the smoldering joint between his lips
and sucked, drawing a medium hit into his lungs.  "This IS some good
shit," he squeaked back as he handed the joint back to Jeff.  "Where'd
you get it?"

"Are you kidding?" Jeff asked, dipping the ash that had formed onto the
floor.  "We have more than a pound of this shit in storage.  When we
went through all the houses looking for supplies we found pot in more
than half of them.  I guess these rich people liked to smoke out.  They
bought quality buds too."

"Really?" Brett said, exhaling a plume of smoke.

"And that ain't all," Jeff said, holding the joint near his mouth but
not hitting it.  "We got enough booze, wine, and yuppie beer to kill
everyone in town five or six times, enough Prozac, Xanax, and Valium to
paralyze an army, and even some coke and crank.  In one of the former
doctor's houses we even found some morphine and a box of syringes.
Fuckin' rich people.  They're disgusting, ain't they?"  He took a hit,
sucking up more than a quarter inch of the joint in one inhale.

"I guess it shouldn't surprise me," Brett said, "but somehow it still
does."  He grabbed the joint and took another hit.  "So what's your
story?" he asked once he'd exhaled and handed it back over.

"Me?" Jeff squeaked, once again talking while holding in a hit.  "I'm
from Salt Lake City.  I was here on my mission."

"Your mission?"

He blew the smoke out and handed what was now nearly a roach to Brett.
"My mission," he said, coughing a little.  "You know, for the Mormon
Church.  I was up here riding a fucking bicycle around spreading the
word."

Brett found this extremely funny.  He began to laugh, unable to stop
once he was started.  "You," he chortled, "are a Mormon?"

"Fuck no," he scoffed, laughing himself.  "But my family was.  If I
wanted my piece of the pie, then I had to play the game, right?  Now my
parents couldn't afford to send me to Japan or Russia or anything like
that, so I was doing my time here in California.  I was gonna start at
BYU next semester and major in business and be a part of my old man's
firm but the comet kinda toasted those plans."  He shrugged.  "I don't
mind though.  This is, without a doubt, the best time that I've ever
had.  I mean, I got to score some pretty good puss back in SLC, you
know, being a football player and a future BYU student, but I never
imagined anything like what we got here.  I've been laid at least once
a day since the comet hit, usually twice.  My friend, you are now
living in paradise."

"Paradise," Brett said, feeling his head reeling from the pot.  "You
ever listen to The Eagles?"

"The who?"

"No, The Eagles," Brett said.  "Don Henley, Glenn Frey, Joe Walsh."

Jeff shrugged.  "Maybe my parents did.  Didn't they sing Hotel
California?"

"That's them," Brett agreed.  "I remember the last line of one of their
songs.  The song was the Last Resort.  The line was about paradise."

"What was it?"

"If you call some place paradise," Brett quoted, "kiss it goodbye."

Jeff didn't get it.  "What the fuck does that mean?" he asked.

"It means that you people have something that everyone is going to
want.  You have paradise.  It's apparent just by watching you from the
outside but its even more apparent by watching it from the inside.
Somebody's gonna try to take this place away eventually.  It's human
nature.  And you, as members of paradise, will give it to them by your
inaction."

"Why are you telling me this?"

Brett took another hit.  "I'm a guest of yours right now," he said.
"But pretty soon I won't be.  Pretty soon, I'm going to be in charge of
security here."

"Yeah?  So what?"

"So enjoy your pot-smoking on guard duty while you have a chance my
friend.  Once I'm in charge, you won't be doing it.  Nor will you be
fucking anybody on guard duty.  I guarantee it."

Jeff started to laugh.  "Oh dude," he said, pulling out an expensive
looking roach clip and inserting the joint into it, "you don't know the
people in this town very well."

"Oh, I think I do," Brett replied with a smile.  "They just don't know
ME very well."


+++++



For most of the night Jason, and especially Chrissie, had lain awake,
tossing and turning, their minds worried sick about the fate of Brett.
Was he dead?  Was he alive?  Had he been taken prisoner in Garden
Hill?  Or had he fallen to his death from the bridge?  They did not
know, could not know and their minds, insisting upon dwelling on the
worst possible things imaginable, refused to shut down and let sleep
take over for more than fifteen or twenty minutes at a time.

Finally, after what seemed like days, first light touched the sky,
turning the blackness into indistinct shadows and shapes.  Wearily,
both of them with bags beneath their eyes from fatigue, pulled
themselves from their sleeping bags and put on the same wet clothing
that they had worn since that day at the trailer.

They ate a breakfast of spaghetti-O's, washing it down with sips of
water from their canteens.  They talked little as they ate, neither
wanting to vocalize the fear that was gripping them.  When the can was
empty and the rumbling in their bellies quieted, Chrissie felt a
familiar fullness in her lower regions.  Though their limited diet had
certainly cut back on the frequency of bowel movements in this new
life, the mail did still go through every few days or so.  It seemed
that this was going to be one of those days.

"I gotta go around the corner for a few minutes," she told Jason, using
the euphemism for "I have to drop a load" that had developed among the
three team members.

"Don't use the poison oak to wipe with," Jason warned, repeating an
overused joke between them, formulated on their first day with Brett
when he had given them an amusingly serious lecture on that very
subject.

"I'll try not to," she dutifully replied, picking up her rifle and
slinging it over her shoulder.  "Once I get back we'll climb the hill
and start looking."

"Right," Jason said, deliberately injecting a note of optimism into his
tone.  Brett had instructed them to climb the hill and keep an eye on
the bridge starting at first light.  If his plans had gone well, he
would wave them over.

Chrissie walked out of the lean-to and into the rain, feeling the first
icy sting of water on her face and wincing a little, as she always did
at the first contact of the morning.  She put her head down a little
and trudged around the rocky outcropping that they had made camp at.
It was in a wider section of the canyonside cut, about two hundred
yards from the tall ridge overlooking the bridge.  She worked her way
out of the rocks and into the area where the trees and foliage grew,
sliding in between a group of pines.  She found a relatively clear area
and then dropped her pants, squatting down over a small hole she'd dug
with the toe of her boot.  She set her rifle down on the ground next to
her, within easy reach.

It was just as she was finishing up, just as she was wiping with a
handful of wet leaves, that she began to get a very uncomfortable
feeling.  It was like what Brett had described to her when he'd sensed
the two gunmen that had attacked him on the ridges.  Her neck began to
tickle, the hairs on it standing on end.  Her pulse was suddenly
beating faster and she had the strong sensation that she was being
watched.  Brett had told her that she should never ignore such a
sensation, that non-mentally ill people rarely had such feelings for no
reason.

She dropped the leaves onto the ground and quickly pulled her pants
back up, buckling the belt just enough to keep it from unfastening.
Her eyes were looking outward as she did this, tracking over every
rock, bush, tree, and mound of dirt, searching for whatever was jigging
her senses.  She saw nothing that she consciously considered to be out
of the ordinary but, for some reason, she kept coming back to a group
of boulders that was sitting about thirty yards away.  They were just
ordinary boulders, no different than a thousand others that she had
seen, grouped in no particular pattern, but, as she looked at them, she
became convinced that someone or something was behind them.  Her
adrenaline began to flow faster, her pulse to hammer harder.  Where was
the nearest cover?

Slowly, trying her best not to look as if she was alarmed by anything,
she reached down to pick up her rifle, wanting it's comforting weight
in her hands.   Just as her hand touched the plastic of the grip, there
was movement from behind the boulders and a man suddenly emerged.  He
was wearing filthy blue jeans and an equally dirty forest green down
jacket.  His face was heavily bearded but did not have the sunken,
haunted look of starvation.  Whoever he was, he had been eating
regularly.  He carried no rifle but his right hand was hidden in the
pocket of his coat.  His eyes were looking at her as he walked forward,
his mouth formed into a broad, ain't-I-glad-to-see-you smile that
Chrissie instantly did not trust.

"Well hello there young lady," he said with obviously forced
friendliness, his eyes remaining locked on her as he continued
forward.  "Wherever in the world did you come from?"

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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