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Message-ID: <28064asstr$977933404@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "Al Steiner" <steiner_al@hotmail.com>
NNTP-Posting-Date: Wed, 27 Dec 2000 03:17:16 EST
Subject: {ASSM} NEW: Aftermath by Al Steiner - Ch 9 (MFf) 1/2
Date: Wed, 27 Dec 2000 11:10:04 -0500
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d

AFTERMATH
By Al Steiner
Chapter 9, Part 1/2
Send all comments to steiner_al@hotmail.com
Previous chapters can by found at www.storiesonline.net








It had been 12 days since they had observed the strange battle for Garden
Hill and Lieutenant Bracken's platoon was now nearly in sight of home.
Weary from more than three weeks out in the field, they emerged from the
heavily wooded hills above town and onto the black surface of Interstate 80,
near an exit sign for Bell Road, which skirted the edge of the foothill
community.  Less than a mile ahead of them was the outer defensive perimeter
for the town, a perimeter that was aligned along the Foresthill Road exit,
which led to the strategic bridgehead that they held.  Bracken, lingering in
the rear as he usually did, knew that the guard positions ahead had probably
already sighted his men.

"Keep it slow up there Stu," he said into his radio, talking to the sergeant
of the squad that was on point.  "We wouldn't want to get shot at by our own
sentries, would we?"

"Slowing up," Stu's voice answered back a moment later.

This had been a good trip in many ways, not the least of which was the
discovery of the vulnerable and seemingly rich Garden Hill community.  It
had also given Bracken more oppurtunity to evaluate the effectiveness of Stu
and his people.  There had been some doubts raised about how the former
convicts would fit in with the militia's operations.  Though he was perhaps
overly aggressive on certain matters, and though his squad, which was made
up of the ten best of his men, were constant disciplinary problems, Stu had
kept them under control and had followed the commands that were given to
him.  In all, he seemed a satisfactory leader with a fairly keen sense of
tactics and strategy.  He had performed well in combat conditions when
they'd taken Colfax prior to this deployment, and he had done equally well
on the long-term recon mission they'd just finished.

"I'm switching over to the hailing channel for a minute," Bracken radioed to
Stu.  "Stand by for movement orders."

"Standing by," Stu replied.

Bracken dialed in the switch on his short-range radio to channel five, which
was dedicated for communications between approaching friendly troops and the
guards.  He keyed up.  "Auburn perimeter, the is third platoon, reporting in
from Interstate and Bell."

"Ten-four third platoon," came a voice back.  "I see you out there.  Who am
I talking to?"

Of course corporal Hansen, who was in charge of the eastern perimeter force,
knew exactly who he was talking to, but procedure was procedure.  He had to
establish that it was his own troops approaching and that they were not
under duress of any kind.  Failure to do so would have earned Hansen three
days in solitary confinement for a first offense, banishment for a second.
"This is Lieutenant Bracken here.  All members of the platoon are present
and accounted for.  No prisoners or supplies."

"Understood Lieutenant," Hansen replied.  "What is the password you were
given upon departure?"

"Hydroshock," Bracken replied.

It took a moment for Hansen to look that up in his codebook but finally he
confirmed it.  He gave third platoon the go-ahead to come in.  Bracken
thanked him and then switched back to his tactical frequency.  He gave Stu
the order to move in and a moment later all forty men started walking down
the blacktop.

They came to the main line of defense ten minutes later.  The Interstate
passed between two rolling hills before descending into the town.  Atop of
each of the hills were sandbagged emplacements where two-man teams of guards
armed with rifles and automatic weapons kept watch on those approaching.
The rifles had come from either personal stocks or from the town's gun and
bait shop.  The automatic weapons had been taken from the Placer County
Sheriff's Department building (more than one of the militia members had once
been with the PCSD).  At the narrowest point of the road itself, the way was
hampered by an extensive maze of sandbags and barbed wire.  Stu's squad
entered the maze and worked their way through it in less than three minutes,
the rest of the platoon following.  It was relatively easy to walk through
the maze and get to the other side as long as nobody was shooting at you
from the hillside above.  Had the platoon been hostile however, not a single
man would have made it through alive.

Once on the other side of the maze they continued down the Interstate.  The
town of Auburn had once been much bigger, both in geographic size and
population.  Like so many other mountain or foothill communities, the bulk
of the male population had been down in the valley when the comet had struck
and the bulk of the town itself had been either washed away or flooded.  A
little bit of the downtown district had survived but virtually everything
north of the Interstate, which included the ritzy Auburn Gully area, had
been buried for all time.  What survived had been the lower rent district on
the south side of the freeway which consisted mostly of smaller houses, a
few apartment complexes, and several strip malls.

As they entered the town itself teams of women could be seen moving here and
there, performing their daily chores.  In Auburn the women, who outnumbered
men by approximately four to one, did all of the day to day chores such as
wood gathering, food gathering, and, of course, laundry, childcare, and
cooking.  This left the men free to handle such duties as guard detail,
weapons maintenance, and militia operations.  This division of labor was not
just a matter of the townspeople following traditional gender roles, it was
a law, handed down by Colonel Barnes himself, and it was strictly enforced.
In the new world that followed this one women would KNOW their place and
would be kept in it.

Third platoon marched to Auburn High School, which stood on a small hill
overlooking the canyon, and assembled on the soggy soccer field, all of them
standing at rigid attention.  Bracken put them at ease and then gave a short
speech lauding the success of their mission.  He then ordered them into the
gym for weapons cleaning and storage.  This took the better part of an hour
to accomplish.  Once all of the ammunition was accounted for, all of the
rifles and pistols stripped, cleaned, reassembled, and placed in locked
storage, Bracken dismissed them, telling them to get themselves cleaned up.

Most went with enthusiasm, anxious to wash the mud off of their bodies and
find their women.  Being out in the field for three weeks without any
females made one extremely horny.  And many of the men had negotiated trades
of one wife for another while they were gone and were anxious to try out
their new acquisitions.  Such trading of women had evolved in the town over
the past two months and was now the most popular subject of conversation, at
least among the men.  Colonel Barnes, who had initially been somewhat
reluctant to allow such a thing, had finally seen the wisdom of it and given
the go-ahead.  Since then, some women had been traded four or five times,
being passed from one male to another like a baseball card.  For their part
the women were learning to live with it.  After all, what else could they
do?  Where else could they go?  It was the Auburn way or starvation.

Bracken took another hour to clean himself up and change into fresh clothing
(as well as assure his four wives that he had not traded any of them on this
trip).  One he was presentable he donned his rain jacket and ventured
outside, making the short walk back to the high school.  Two armed guards
stood outside of the administration office, the interior of which blazed
with electric light that was provided by the diesel generator at the back of
the building.  The guards, a private and a corporal, both straightened up
and gave him a sharp salute.

"Good afternoon lieutenant," the corporal barked with crisp military
courtesy.

"At ease," Bracken said after returning the salute.  "I'm here to see
Colonel Barnes for mission debrief."

"Yes sir," the corporal replied.  "I'll pass your request along sir."  With
that, he picked up a portable radio and keyed it, talking to Sergeant
Lovell, who was Barnes' assistant.  A few minutes later, Bracken was given
permission to enter the building and go to the main office.

"Thank you corporal," Bracken said, snapping off one more salute in return
to the two that were offered him.  He then mounted the steps and went
inside.

Colonel Gregory Barnes was fifty-three years old and been both the founder
and the leader of the pre-comet Placer County Militia Group, an organization
that been very high on the FBI's "keep-an-eye-on" list.  A West Point
graduate from the Class of 1969, Barnes had cut his teeth leading platoons
into battle in the dying days of the Vietnam War.   Following this he had
been first a company commander and then a battalion commander in the 7th
Light Infantry Division.  Though his tactical thinking and his leadership
ability had been top-notch throughout his military career, his political
savvy had not.  He had stagnated at the rank of Major, finally forced to
retire in 1992 in the wake of the Persian Gulf War and the resulting
downsizing of the military.  Using his military pension he had opened Auburn
Bait and Guns in his hometown, taking on the role of small-town businessman.

A staunch supporter of Second Amendment rights, Barnes had slowly turned
from the blind patriot he had been his whole life to an anti-government
militia organizer.  His views were fueled both by the year by year
crackdowns on the weapons he sold and by the strong-arm tactics employed by
federal forces at such places as Ruby Ridge and Waco.  He became convinced
that a revolution would soon occur in his country - a forcible return to the
traditional values that made the country great - and that the feds, in an
attempt to derail this revolution, were conspiring to deprive all Americans
of their right to bear arms.  The PCMG, founded in 1996, had been his
response to this, and there had been no shortage of volunteers to join in
such a town as Auburn.  And now, though the revolution had never
materialized, its evolution interrupted by the chunk of ice from space, its
ideals were needed more than ever.  America would have to be rebuilt and
this time, Barnes vowed, it would be done right.

Maintaining control of the town after the impact and the disaster that
followed, had not been difficult.  He and his militia members had already
been the second-best armed group of people in town, the first being the
Placer County Sheriff's department.  While the various members of the
sheriff's department had been out trying to deal with the catastrophe or
return to their houses to check on their loved ones, he and his men (many of
whom had been "between jobs" on the day in question) had simply assembled
and seized the building, capturing all of its weapon stores without firing a
shot.  Following the seizure eight of the fifteen deputies that had worked
there on that day had joined his ranks voluntarily.  The rest had been shot
and tossed into the canyon to keep them from organizing a competing group.
The townspeople of Auburn, most of whom were either women, unemployed men,
or small business owners, had fallen right into line after that.  What
choice did they have?  Barnes and his group offered safety and stability;
they offered food and shelter.  The only alternatives were death or the
unknown fate that awaited those outside the town.

Barnes was a harsh disciplinarian but he liked to think that he was fair.
Everyone, men and women alike, were expected to pull their weight for the
food they consumed.  There would be no welfare in his new society.  And,
though women were not allowed to work at male oriented jobs and though men
were allowed to trade them back and forth, it was against the town's law to
rape or to beat a woman without just cause.  What could be fairer than that?
Everyone had their role in society and as long as they played by the rules,
everyone got along and was treated well.  Those who did not play by the
rules - those who were lazy, who were rebellious, who complained about his
laws - were dealt with harshly, in a manner that would serve as an example
to others.  It was the only way to keep order in this new reality.

Barnes' office was on the top floor of the administration office, where the
heat provided by the propane-fired system was greatest.  When Bracken
entered he was sitting behind his oak desk going over some inventory figures
on a computer terminal.

"Lieutenant Bracken reporting for mission debrief," Bracken said, giving a
salute.

Barnes returned the salute almost absently, without even standing up.  "Have
a seat Lieutenant," he said.

Bracken took the chair in front of the desk, setting down a digital camera
he had used to snap shots of Garden Hill and a folder full of maps that he
had made.  The debriefing began.  Barnes listened carefully, not asking many
questions, as his subordinate described his mission in chronological order,
sometimes using his maps or photos of the area that he put into the
computer.  He nodded from time to time but his face did not change
expression at all, not even when the battle with the group of hunters was
described.  Only when Bracken was finished did he show any interest at all.

"So you think that there are how many people in Garden Hill?" he wanted to
know.

"We couldn't get an accurate count of course," Bracken replied.  "But maybe
two hundred adults, mostly women.  I don't believe that there are more than
thirty men there, even before the attack killed some of them."

"And the women are attractive you say?"

"From what we could tell by looking through the binoculars."

Barnes nodded thoughtfully.  "More breeding and trading stock," he said.
"We can always use that around here.  What about food stocks?"

"Impossible to tell.  It looks like they have all of it stored in the
community center.  They always gathered in there to eat and we never saw
anyone carrying food over there from elsewhere."

"But they sent out no hunting parties, no gathering crews?"

"Not a single time," Bracken said.  "The only time anyone left the walled
portion of the town at all was when they manned the defenses near the
bridge."

"They must have a full cupboard indeed," Barnes said.  "It sounds like
Garden Hill will be a worthwhile target for our attentions.  You think a
company of troops will be needed to take it?"

"I think so," Bracken said.  "As I told you, their defensive positions are a
joke.  If not for a little bit of good luck, those untrained barbarians that
attacked them would have taken the town themselves."

"But you also say that their commander, this man that our convict friends
are acquainted with, was able to rally the people into a formidable
defense?"

"I'm only assuming that it was him that did it," Bracken said.  "We have
confirmation that he was there but I don't know who is leading them.  In
answer to your question however, they were able to put up a well-executed
defense of their community center.  It was obviously coordinated and the
groups were put in exactly the perfect places considering the terrain they
had to work with."

"And how does this factor into your estimation of force needed?"

"That is why I want a complete company to make the attack," Bracken said.
"Good defensive execution or not, I don't believe they'll be able to stand
up to 160 armed men.  Of course, ideally, I will be able to make contact
with them and convince them to surrender to us like we did the convicts at
Foresthill and the people at Beacher's Grove."

"Yes," Barnes agreed, "that would be best for all concerned.  Especially
since they are using their women as soldiers.  It would be a shame to have
to kill good females just to take the town."

"And I think that this man that the convicts told us about, this man who
probably coordinated the defense, would be a valuable asset to us as well.
If he could be convinced to join our side he may eventually rise to command
a platoon or a company in the militia."

"Oh, I think we could convince him," Barnes said.  "A man like that would
understand power, and WE are the power in this region.  And when he
considers the alternative to joining, why wouldn't he?"

Bracken gave a doubtful look.  "He might be like those men in Colfax and
Georgetown."  At those two towns, after their surrenders, a handful of the
men had chosen death rather than the militia way of life.  Though it was
common for the women to protest their new reality at first, the fact that
men would do so was perplexing to many of the militiamen.  Wasn't it the
ideal world that they were being offered?  A world in which men were the
kings and women were the property?

"If he's like them," Barnes said coldly, "then we'll just have to do without
him.  If he doesn't realize the opportunity that we represent, then we're
better off without him anyway."

"Yes sir," Bracken agreed.

"Okay," Barnes said, cracking his knuckles.  "We have 2nd and 4th platoons
out hitting Grass Valley right now.  They left three days ago so we can
probably expect them to return in about two weeks.  As soon as they get back
and get rested up, I'll assign them to you, add 1st platoon, and put you in
charge of the Garden Hill operation.  I'd like to see detailed plans by day
after tomorrow for your assault on the town if such a thing becomes
necessary."

"I'll have them to you by tomorrow," Bracken said.  "With those pitiful
defenses that they have, its no more than a matter of pouring fire on their
guard positions with one platoon while the rest breach the wall."



+++++



The lean-to's had been built and the light was rapidly fading from the sky.
Brett, Michelle, Jason, and Matt had just finished their dinner of canned
pork and beans and were sitting in the relative dryness of the shelters they
had constructed.  Their weapons were within easy reach and their flashlights
had just been energized with fresh batteries.  It was their eighth night in
the wilderness, twenty days since the bloody
attack on Garden Hill by the hunters.

"So you think we'll get there tomorrow?" Matt asked hopefully as he puffed
on a cigar.  He, like Brett, had developed a considerable growth of beard
since their departure.  Unlike Brett however, it made him look disturbingly
Manson-like.

"If I'm reading these maps right," Brett answered, "and if we keep up the
pace we're maintaining, we'll get there by late morning or early afternoon."

"Thank god for that," Michelle said a little sourly.  She was not enjoying
her little adventure outside the walls of Garden Hill.

The "there" that they were referring to was the town of Cameron Park, or
specifically, the Cameron Park airport.  It was there, Paul had told Brett
on that fateful night, that the California Highway Patrol had kept and
maintained H-22, the patrol and medivac helicopter assigned to the northern
mountain division.  Though H-22 had not been the primary helicopter that CDF
fire station 2417 had used to air-lift patients, nor had it been the
closest, Brett had chosen to make the effort to recover it instead of the
closer Cal-Star bird that had been based in Auburn.

The reasoning behind this was twofold.  First and foremost was the fact that
Cal-Star was not very likely to be intact or recoverable.  The Auburn
Airport, where the chopper was based, had been located right next to the
Auburn town reservoir according to the maps.  It seemed almost a given that
the airport would now be under no less than six feet of floodwaters.  By
contrast the Cameron Park airport was located atop a plateau that stood
nearly two hundred feet above the town itself.  Though Cameron Park was
probably buried under tons of mud and water, there was a better than even
chance that its airport was still standing.  In addition to the likelihood
of H-22 still being there, it was also a more desirable chopper to have.
Though the Cal-Star bird was bigger, that was not necessarily an advantage.
Helicopters were very high maintenance machines and there were no helicopter
mechanics in Garden Hill; Brett, who was not the most mechanically inclined
person in the world, would have to do it himself.  As such, he would be much
more likely to be able to keep the single engine on the CHP helicopter
running for any length of time than he would the two engines on the Cal-Star
helicopter.

Brett, upon hearing about the possibility that there might be a running
helicopter within reach of Garden Hill, had been very anxious to set out and
find it.  With a helicopter at their disposal, gathering food, hunting, and
defense would all became much less of a challenge.  Only the pressing need
to boost up the town's defensive plan while public opinion had been in his
favor had kept him from setting off the very next morning.

As it was, he was glad that he had taken the time to do so; it made him much
more comfortable leaving town with a squad of his best warriors.  In the
twelve days between the attack and his departure, he had run sixteen
volunteers through his two-day training program and had another sixteen
scheduled to go through upon his return.  Though, due to shortages, they had
not been able to expend as much training ammunition as he would have liked,
his first group had shown considerable promise and a willingness to learn
that had been unheard of prior to the attack.  There was nothing like the
shock of an armed invasion to jolt people into action.  Seeing the grisly
display of burying the bodies of their dead had added an additional jolt,
particularly the corpses of Mitsy, Jeff, and Lenny.  Not only were the
townspeople more eager to sign up for guard duties now, they were
considerably more alert during them, even on the night shift.

The static defenses had also been greatly improved prior to his departure.
While it was true that there were still quite a few things that needed to be
done, the basic upgrades had been constructed and were in full operation.
On the hills overlooking the town, four large emplacements had been dug and
surrounded by sandbags (a large supply of which had been available at the
fire station) full of dirt and then covered with mud and pine branches to
camouflage them.  Each emplacement was strong enough to withstand a close
mortar round hit and was capable of housing 6 people, their weapons, and
their ammunition, although typical staffing was only two at a time.
Carefully constructed ports in the sandbags were used both for lookout
positions and to fire through without danger of being struck by return fire.
Each position was equipped with a radio, one of the automatic weapons
(except for the bridge approach, it was only given an AR-15) and two hundred
rounds of ammunition.  This was in addition to the standard issue of a
scoped hunting rifle for long range shots.

So far, with sixteen more people trained up, he was able to keep at least
one in each guard position at all hours.  In addition, those of his trained
force who were off duty at any particular time were given both a rifle and a
pistol to keep in their houses.  They would be a fast-action team, their
instructions to report quickly to the community center for deployment in the
event of another attack.  Their call to arms would be the wailing of the
fire engine's siren, the sound of which all sixteen lived in range of.  From
the community center they could be moved to wherever they were needed,
either as reinforcements for the guard positions or as a mobile force to
block a penetration attempt.  Brett thought the town would now easily be
able to handle an attack up to twice the size of the one that had already
hit them without allowing the attackers inside the wall.

Jessica, during all of this frantic digging and building activity, had been
strangely quiet with everyone, not trying to regain the favor she had lost,
not trying to reestablish her place in the town.  The investigation into her
activities had been put on hold for the time being so that more important
things could be taken care of, and she remained on suspension from the town
council, but she did not protest this either officially or in a gossip
circle.  She had been assigned to digging detail both for the bodies of the
dead and for the defenses and she had done these jobs unprotestingly and
well, not quite being a part of the camaraderie that developed between the
other workers, but not being a nuisance either.  Brett, as well as several
others, found themselves vaguely uncomfortable with this new Jessica.  It
was too out of character for her.  The general consensus was that she was up
to something, although no one could hazard a guess as to just what that
might be.

He supposed it was possible that the attack had had the same effect on her
that it seemed to have on everyone else.  Anything was possible.  If the
other women could go from demanding Brett's or Stacy's exile one day for
corrupting minors to demanding the public hanging of the captured prisoner
the next, why couldn't Jessica?  If the other women could go from disdaining
any work in which they might break a fingernail to enthusiastically digging
trenches in the side of hills or crawling around on their bellies in the mud
as part of Brett's training, couldn't Jessica make a similar transformation?
Was she completely beyond redemption?  Brett didn't know.  Neither did
anyone else.  He vowed however, to keep an eye on her as time went by.  She
might be playing nice now, but he didn't trust her.

As had been the case during their previous trek through the woods, Jason was
the first to undress and climb into his sleeping bag.  Before complete
darkness could envelop them, he was snoring away contentedly, his AR-15 next
to him.  Michelle and Matt watched this with envy.  They were both having
considerable trouble sleeping at night, unaccustomed as they were to the
hard ground and the cold, damp air.

"It's amazing how fast he can fall asleep," Matt said, shaking his head a
little.  "And he sleeps like that all night long.  I know, because I hear
him snoring while I'm laying awake."

"Little bastard," Michelle said jokingly.  "If I can get two broken hours a
night, I consider myself lucky."

Brett, who did not have a lot of trouble sleeping outside, kept mute.  He
yawned and stretched a little, shifting the AK-47 on his lap.  Another thing
that the attack on the town and his follow-up speech had accomplished was to
take the pressure off of Jason and Stacy.  They had been living together in
apparent harmony, sharing the same bedroom, walking hand in hand on the
streets in daylight, and nobody said a thing about it, not publicly, or
even, as far as Brett had heard, privately either.  Not only was he left
alone to pursue happiness, as it were, he was treated with considerably more
respect.  Most of the townspeople had ceased treating him as a child to be
coddled, protected, and sheltered from the unpleasantness of the world.
They stopped calling him "hon" and "sweetheart" and "little dude" and
started calling him by his name.  He had even told Brett that his guard duty
partners - all of them men much older than he (for the time being, the same
sex on guard detail rule remained in effect) - were even asking him serious
questions about tactics and deployment.  With a woman in his life and
newfound respect from those around him, Jason seemed to be quite happy these
days.  The only sour part in his life had been the extended fight he had had
with Stacy about coming on the helicopter acquisition mission.  He had been
the first to volunteer and he had done so without consulting his better half
first - a common mistake made by those new to intimate relationships.  For
three days prior to the departure it seemed that two lovers were not
speaking to each other much.  But things seemed to have worked out in the
end.  As they had assembled on the bridge to begin their trip eight days
ago, Stacy had been there right alongside Chrissie and Maureen, Matt's
official woman, tears in her eyes.  She had given him a big hug and a kiss,
telling him to be careful and to come back safe.  He had promised that he
would.

"I really hope we find that friggin' chopper when we get there," Matt said,
his hand massaging the part of his shoulder where his heavy pack bit into
it.  "I'm not too keen on marching back another eight days."

"Actually, it would be more like twelve days," Brett felt compelled to point
out.  "Remember, we've been going downhill.  Gravity has been working for
us.  On the way back, it would work against us."

"Well you're just Mr. Silver Lining, aren't you?"  Michelle asked with a
groan.

"Sorry," Brett said, anything but.

"I just feel so far from home out here," she told him.  "And some of the
things we saw."  She shook her head, trying to keep the images from taking
her away.  "I can't believe how lightly we took the thought of exiling
someone before.  I can see why you said it was a fate worse than death."

Yes, there had been some very disturbing sights seen on their eight-day trek
through the woods, things that had the power to rob sleep.  Unlike when
Brett, Jason, and Chrissie had been out before, there were dead human bodies
littered throughout their path.  These bodies were found singly, in pairs,
once in a group of five.  They were in various stages of decomposition, some
relatively fresh, some more than a month into the process.  Not all of them
were the victims of starvation either.  The group of five had been
particularly upsetting.  It appeared that they had all died from a single
gunshot to the back of the head.  They had been dead maybe a week, maybe
more.  It was hard to tell because their bodies had been neatly skinned and
stripped of muscle tissue, leaving little more than skeletons.  It was not
the sort of stripping of meat that animals would have done.  The cuts were
too even, too smooth to have been made by anything other than a knife.  The
thought that there was a group of survivors subsisting by organized
cannibalism made everyone, including Brett, shudder.

And then, two days later, while traversing a rise, Matt, who had been on
point, had spotted a group of men picking their way through the woods.  The
four travelers hid themselves for nearly an hour, guns trained outward as
the twelve scraggly, bearded, filthy men, all armed with rifles, made their
way past them and disappeared up the hill.  Had they been the cannibals?
There was no way of telling for sure without making contact - there was,
after all, still the occasional deer or bear to be found - but everyone
strongly suspected that they were.

"We really have it soft in Garden Hill," Matt said, thinking of all he had
seen.  "I always knew that intellectually, but until I saw what others are
doing to survive..."

"That's hideous," Michelle said, not wanting to discuss it.  "Eating human
flesh.  Killing people in order to do it.  What have we come to, us humans?
What have we come to?"

"We've come down to basic survival," Brett said.  "And hopefully our group
will come out on top of the chain."

"I would kill myself before I would eat another person," Michelle said
sternly.  "I just couldn't do it.  I think that my soul would die."

"You never know what you're capable of until you're faced with it," Matt
said.  "What about the Donner Party or those rugby players that crashed in
the Andes?"

"I would still rather die," Michelle told him.  "But in any case, that's
different.  They didn't go out hunting for people and shoot them in the back
of the head so they could eat them."

"At least not as far as we know," Matt said.  "Truth be told, I'm not quite
sure what I would do if I was faced with either starvation or cannibalism.
I hope I never have to find out."

"Amen," Brett said, finding the entire discussion somewhat disturbing.  "And
if we can get that chopper tomorrow, hopefully we won't ever be faced with
that choice."

The last of the light left the sky, signaling bedtime for those still awake.
Matt and Jason shared one lean-to and Michelle and Brett shared the other.
Everyone stripped down to their underwear and climbed into their sleeping
bags.  In the case of Michelle and Brett, they both climbed into one large
sleeping bag that had been formed by zipping two together.

"Keep me warm," Michelle said with a shiver, pulling her body against his,
sharing her warmth with him.  As had been the case before with Chrissie,
neither one of them smelled particularly good after eight days out, and
Michelle's legs were quite scratchy with stubble, but the pleasure of
touching flesh to flesh made the aesthetics of the situation a secondary
concern.

"Mmmm," Brett whispered to her, his hands on her bare back.  "This is the
advantage of taking your woman with you on an expedition.  Guaranteed
warmth."

"Is this how you and Chrissie used to sleep?" she whispered back, pressing
herself even tighter against him.

"Pretty much," he agreed.  "We would usually end up with her cuddled up on
top of me by the end of the night."

"She told me that you used to make love every night while you were out
there.  Every night?"

Brett shrugged in the darkness.  "What can I say?" he asked lightly.

"You haven't done me a single time out here," she said next.  "What's up
with that?"

"When I was doing it with Chrissie," he replied, "I didn't know that others
could hear us.  Now, thanks to some straight talk by Jason, I do know that.
It's not that I don't want to."

"I can feel that," she said teasingly.  "I feel you get hard against me
every time we lay together."  She slid her hand down and grasped his
erection through his underwear.  "Like right now for instance."

"Michelle," he said, making no move to stop her as she squeezed and kneaded
him.  It felt so damn good.

"We can do it quietly," she told him, kissing his ear.  "And if they hear
us, so what?  I want you Brett.  I need you inside of me."

He gave in, as she had known that he would.  Over the past twenty days she
had come to know his triggers fairly well.  She slid her hand into his BVDs
and began to fondle him in earnest.  His own hand found its way under the
elastic band of her panties at the crotch.  She was very wet and slippery,
her clit a hard little bump.  He pushed his underwear down to mid thigh and
climbed slowly on top of her, taking care not to rustle the sleeping bag too
much.  She spread her legs for him and pulled the crotch of her panties to
the side, giving him the access he needed.  He put the head against her slit
and slowly pushed forward, sinking into her warmth inch by agonizing inch
until he was buried in her body.  Her hands on his butt pulled him tightly
against her.

"So nice," she said softly into his ear.  "Eight days is too long to go
without."

"I agree," he said as he slowly began to move in and out of her, his hips
rising and falling carefully, silently.

In truth, going eight days without had been almost akin to torture after the
pace of his first twelve days as part of a polygamous marriage.  All three
of them had been swept up in an almost honeymoon like atmosphere and if
Brett was called on to perform his husbandly duties only once a day, it was
a slump.  Usually he would make love at least twice, sometimes three times;
something he would not have thought himself physically capable of.  Having
two women to pleasure and be pleasured by did wonders for the libido it
seemed.  Though no firm rules had been set, as had been agreed upon from the
beginning, a pattern of sorts had developed nonetheless.  Typically he would
make love in the morning to whichever of the two women that he had not slept
with the night before.  This would usually take place on the marital bed in
the master bedroom, and usually the other woman was in the bathroom at the
time, getting cleaned up and ready to face the day.  As Michelle had
predicted, they were rapidly losing their modesty around each other and,
while making love to one woman while the other was combing her hair and
putting on her deodorant was still very exciting, it no longer seemed
strange or perverted.  And though both women never discussed these things
openly, it was quite obvious that both of them enjoyed surreptitiously
watching the other in the act.

At night, when they went to bed, another session, a more private one, would
typically occur with whoever's turn it was to sleep with him that night.
These sessions tended to be longer, more drawn out, more intimate and
loving.  It was during such sessions that new things were tried, that new
techniques were explored.  It was during such a session that Brett learned
of Michelle's affinity for anal sex.  She loved it when he slid it in and
out of her in the missionary position long enough to get both of them
thoroughly wet and then slid his cock down to her other hole and used this
natural lube to put it into her tight back passage.  It was during the night
session that he learned that Chrissie loved to straddle his head, her wet
and dripping pussy on his face where she could rub it back and forth over
his tongue.  Chrissie was also quite fond of being taken from behind, in the
doggie-style position, while Brett grasped her roughly by the waist and
pounded her with all of his might.

So far, though the two women had seen each other in the act many times, and
though they walked around naked in front of each other without a second
thought, they had shown no leanings towards touching each other or even
sleeping in bed with him at the same time.  Though having two women at once
was every man's fantasy, Brett was a glass is half-full kind of person and
was therefore quite pleased with the fact that he could simply have two
women separately.

In other aspects of the relationship, things were going better than they had
had any right to expect.  So far there had been a few minor squabbles over
things such as who was in the bathroom first or whose turn it was to do the
laundry, but no major battles of any kind.  They were in a discovery phase
of their new relationship and all three were making an impressive effort to
make things work out.  So far, things seemed to be working well and the two
women seemed to be becoming best friends with each other.

Like with Jason and Stacy however, the subject of the trip to Cameron Park
had created the most turmoil in the relationship to date.  Chrissie had
wanted desperately to be the one to accompany him, making the argument that
she already had experience outside the walls and was therefore more
qualified than Michelle.  Strangely enough, that very argument was the exact
reason that he wanted to take Michelle and leave Chrissie behind.  Chrissie
had already done her time outside the wall and he wanted Michelle to gain
the experience that moving a long distance as part of a squad offered.
Chrissie had pouted about this for a few days but had eventually seen the
wisdom of his decision.  The blow was eased further when Brett put her in
charge of the security division in his absence.  He was interested to know
just how she was doing in that capacity and just how the members of the
detail and the rest of the town were taking being directed by a sixteen year
old girl.

"A little harder," Michelle whispered excitedly, thrusting her hips up at
him.  "I'm almost there."

"I'm going as hard as I can without making noise," he whispered back,
already cognizant of the thick smell rising around them and the distinct
squishing noise that accompanied each thrust.  Nevertheless, his instinct
was to please.  He put just a little more power behind his thrusts, twisted
his hips just a little bit more to grind into her clit.

This did the trick.  He felt her pelvis bucking beneath him felt her nails
tightening on his ass, felt the spasms of her vaginal muscles around his
cock.  She bit into his shoulder to keep from crying out as she peaked.

"Your turn now," she told him, pulling him still harder against her.  "I
want to feel you come in me."

It didn't take him very long at all, so pent up was he.  He released the
mental block that had kept him from blasting off prior to this and within
seconds the waves of pleasure were spreading from his groin outward.  His
muscles clenched almost painfully and he could not help but let a small
groan escape as he began to shoot his seed into her receptive body.

"Very nice," she said when he was done.  "I knew you had it in you."

"Actually, I had it in YOU," he said, giving her a kiss.  "Hopefully we'll
be in our own bed tomorrow night and we'll be able to do it right."

"I can't wait," she said.  "Let's get some sleep."

"Right."

They rearranged themselves slowly, still trying to avoid making noise, not
knowing that they needn't have bothered.  Both Matt and Jason had heard the
entire thing.


+++++



The next morning, back in Garden Hill, Chrissie was out in the rain near the
old grocery store with a group of seven women.  These women were not part of
the Garden Hill guard force.  They were mostly wood gatherers, children
watchers, or fire tenders.  Chrissie was teaching them the basics of the
firearms that the town possessed, showing them how to load, unload, shoot,
and clean each variety.  She had just finished with her last demonstration
of the lesson - the shotgun.

"So you see," she told her students as she held up a Remington model for
their perusal, "the shotgun, for our purposes here, is a weapon of last
resort.  It is good only for close-in fighting at less than ten yards or so.
And while we hope that any combat we find ourselves in doesn't degenerate to
the point that we're that close, if it DOES, this could very well be our
saving grace.  This weapon, when loaded with the double ought buckshot
rounds, packs quite a punch and will easily mow down any person within its
range with a minimum of aiming."

Maggie, the woman that had stood by Chrissie during the battle, raised her
hand timidly.  "So all you have to do is point it and shoot?" she asked.

"That's right," Chrissie said.  "You'll see what I mean when we shoot it.
You just point the barrel at your target and fire.  The ten pellets in the
round will do the rest."

For the next half-hour they all took turns examining the shotgun and
learning to take it apart.  They all practiced loading it, unloading it, and
clearing chambered rounds.  Chrissie watched over them like a mother hen,
occasionally stepping in to demonstrate if someone was having trouble.

It had been Brett's order, approved overwhelmingly by a community vote, that
every person in town learn to shoot, whether they wanted to or not, whether
they were a part of the guard force or not.  Though the guard force would
serve as point defense in any battle, Brett had argued - quite successfully
now that he didn't have Jessica countering his every word - that if push
came to shove, EVERY person in town would need to know how to fight.  "We
might never be faced with such a situation," he had said.  "And god willing,
you folks may never have to use this knowledge, but if we need it, this
basic firearms training just might make the difference between us standing
and us falling."

Brett, after running the first sixteen guard force volunteers through his
two-day regiment, had trained up many of the non-guards himself.  But now
that he was off in the wilderness looking for a helicopter, the
responsibility for training up the rest of the town had fallen on the acting
security chief.

At first they hadn't wanted to listen to her.  Several of them had even
refused to show up at their assigned times, forcing her to enlist the aid of
Paul and his threats of house arrest to bring them to her.  But once they
were there, once she went into her lecture, their condescending attitudes
had gradually changed to respect.  Chrissie had a gift for coming across
like she knew what she was talking about, especially when she DID know what
she was talking about.  She laid down her instructions in simple, easy to
understand terms and utilized a lot of hands-on training.  So far, not a
single person had walked away thinking that her class had been a waste of
their time.  Like with Jason, she had proved herself well enough that they
stopped calling her by cute little terms of endearment and started calling
her by her name.

"Okay girls," she said when they had all finished handling the weapon and
were all reasonably competent with its mechanics.  "Let's go to the firing
line, shall we?  You're gonna fire three rounds apiece from ten yards at the
body silhouettes."  She opened a box of .00 buckshot shells and took three
out.  "Any volunteers to go first?"

"I will," Maggie said, standing up and taking the rounds.  She grabbed the
shotgun in her other hand, carrying it, as she had been instructed, with the
barrel pointing up and the action open.

"Very good," Chrissie said.  "Let's get it on."

The firing line was the open space against the eastern wall of the grocery
store.  The wall of the store was pockmarked with hundreds of bullet holes
from previous training sessions.  Chrissie hung up one of the silhouettes on
the wall with a nail and a hammer and then showed Maggie where the ten-yard
mark was.

"Got it," Maggie said, sliding the three rounds into the magazine.  Her
manicured hands worked the pump on the weapon and jacked one into the
chamber.

"Now point and shoot," Chrissie said, putting her fingers in her ear to
muffle the gunshots.  "Remember, this is a weapon of last resort.  That man
is charging your position and you need to stop him."

Maggie, who was a shorthaired blonde with surgically enhanced breasts,
socked the gun into her shoulder and pulled the trigger.  She did not flinch
or squeal as the sound of the shot shattered the quiet and the weapon kicked
harshly against her.  A spray of six holes appeared in the silhouette's
chest.

"Not bad," Chrissie said.  "Again."

She jacked the next round into the chamber, the expended casing flying out
and dropping to the ground at her feet.  She sighted quickly and fired
again.  This time all ten of the pellets found their mark.  Her third shot
also hit the mark.

"Very good Mag," Chrissie said, offering her a smile.  "You killed him
deader than shit, as Brett would say."

"That's what it's all about, right?"  Maggie responded, obviously quite
pleased with Chrissie's praise.

"Right," she answered, looking at her.  It was very strange to see this
cultured woman striving for her respect.  Before the attack on the town,
Maggie had been on her top ten list of most irritating women in town.  Not
quite a crony of Jessica's, she had always tried her damnedest to gain her
favor, adopting whatever opinion happened to be tossed around in any
particular week, and spreading Jessica's gossip with the zeal of one who
strives to be accepted.  However, after being in combat that day, after
shooting that man with her rifle, she had changed somehow, in some
fundamental way.  It was almost as if someone had slapped the shit out of
her and made her realize what the important thing really were.  Though many
of the townspeople had been similarly affected by the battle and by Brett's
speech, Maggie was perhaps the most extreme example.  In the battle and the
aftermath, Maggie seemed to have found some sense of purpose.

It was after all of the other women took their turns with the shotgun -
their success with it ranging from horrid to not bad - and after Chrissie
had dismissed them to go back to their duties, that Maggie approached her.

"Do you really think I did good with the guns today?" she asked her, lending
a hand piling the weapons and ammo boxes into the back of the Land Cruiser
that she had used to transport them out there.

"You did real good," Chrissie assured her.  "Better than any of the other
non-guard women so far."

"Good enough for the permanent guard force?" she asked slyly.

Chrissie gave her a shrewd look.  "Brett turned you down in the first round,
didn't he?" she asked.

She shrugged.  "I think he had some questions about my loyalties," she said.
"I used to be... you know... kind of friendly with Jessica."

"You used to try to BE Jessica," Chrissie corrected.  "You used to go
directly to her with every new piece of gossip that passed your way."

Maggie didn't deny this.  "I was dumb," she said.  "Like Brett said, I was
stuck in a different life and I followed different ideals.  I was a
follower."

"And now you're not?"

She shook her head.  "Not like I was before," she said.  "Chrissie, you know
me.  We fought together during the battle.  I killed one of those men
myself.  I want to be on the permanent force.  I can do it."

"You also were one of the women that was ready to vote Brett out of here for
sleeping with me," Chrissie told her.  "I heard you passing the word that
day, and that was AFTER the battle."

Maggie looked shamed at her words.  "I'm sorry," she said softly.  "I was
wrong, as wrong as someone can be.  Don't you believe that people can
change?  That they have a desire to make up for their past mistakes?  Don't
you realize that a big part of the reason we were so against Brett on that
day wasn't anything personal against either you or him, but was a desperate
attempt to try to pretend that things were still civilized after what had
happened?  It wasn't so much Jessica that turned us against him but our own
minds trying to pretend we were still in a society with the same morals we
used to have."

Chrissie looked at her in surprise.  "That's some pretty deep shit you're
spouting there," she said.

Maggie smiled.  "I have a bachelor's degree in psychology," she said.
"Going to UC Davis was a good way to snare the appropriate husband, wasn't
it?"

"I guess you learned a few things there, didn't you?"

"Yes, mostly how to psychoanalyze myself.  Look, I'm being sincere here.  I
was wrong before, about you, about Brett, about your brother, and about how
desperate our situation really is.  The battle opened my eyes.  We live in a
hostile world now where pampered rich women like I used to be don't have any
place.  I want to help us survive.  All I'm asking for is for you to put in
a good word for me with Brett.  You've seen me on guard duty; you've seen me
trying to learn out here.  Won't you at least talk to him?  Please?"

Chrissie, who had become fairly attuned to the moods and motivations of the
Garden Hill women in her time there, could sense no deceit in Maggie's
words.  She seemed to be sincere enough.  "I'll put in a good word," she
said at last.  "The rest will be up to you."


+++++


"Son of a bitch," Brett said, looking through binoculars at what remained of
the Cameron Park Airport.

They were on a small hill overlooking the town, or what was left of the town
anyway.  Cameron Park, once a booming residential and commercial center
along Highway 50, was now nothing more than a flooded mud pit, buried under
the eroded hillside that had once been poised above it.  The trunks or
branches of trees stuck up here and there, but other than that, there was
nothing.  The airport, on the other hand, as had been predicted, was still
recognizable.  All the same, it was in no shape to conduct flight
operations.  All over the tarmac was the wreckage of planes - mostly single
engine private aircraft - that had been flipped over and tossed around by
the high winds that had followed the impact. Those same winds had knocked
flat a good portion of the hanger complexes on the south side of the
property.  The runway was full of potholes and cracks from the earthquake.
Still, about a third of the hanger space was still standing.  It was
technically possible that the helicopter they sought was still in there.

"What do you think?"  Matt, who was lying on his belly next to him, looking
through a pair of his own binoculars, asked.

"It's pretty trashed," Brett said doubtfully.  "But all hope is not lost
just yet.  We need to at least go take a look."

"How do we get in?"  Michelle wanted to know.  "There's no way we can move
through all of that mud on the hillside."

"We'll have to go north for about a mile and then cut over," Brett told her.
"It looks like we can work our way down that hill over there to the
perimeter fence."

"No sign of people?"  Jason asked, thinking about the cannibals and just
where they might be based.

"Not that I can see," Brett replied.  "That doesn't mean that nobody is
there though.  Let's keep a sharp eye out as we move."

It took them the better part of two hours to march over to the north side.
On the way they passed through an abandoned residential area, half of which
was nothing but rubble.  They saw no signs of current human habitation but
it was clear that the houses still standing had been poked through many
times since the impact.  A few bodies, all long dead, were rotting in front
of some of them.

They stayed in position by the perimeter fence for more than thirty minutes,
hidden carefully in the dead brush, watching the airport and looking for
signs of life.  There appeared to be none but the airport was nothing but
flat, open ground - killing ground if it were being defended - and Brett did
not want to take any chances.  At last, with nothing to gain by waiting
further, he ordered Jason and Michelle forward to penetrate the fence.

They used a set of bolt cutters that had been taken from Paul's fire engine,
making a neat hole in the chain link.  Then, while Brett and Matt covered
them, they went through it, keeping low as they dashed to the wreckage of a
Piper about fifty yards inside the fence.  Once they were in position, Brett
and Matt made their own dash, diving through the fence and moving quickly to
another wrecked aircraft in front of the first one.

In this manner, leapfrogging past each other, they moved across the airport
until they were near the still-intact hangers.  Nobody shot at them or
otherwise made their presence known.  If anyone was there, they were keeping
well hidden.

The hangers were shed-like buildings constructed of corrugated steel.  They
were of rather flimsy design and it was only because they were on the
leeward side of a hill that they had been spared from the wrath of the
hurricane winds that had accompanied the initial rainstorm.  Brett gave hand
signals to Michelle and Jason, telling them to hold in place and keep them
covered.

He and Matt then made the last dash across the open ground, ending up safely
in front of the first of the hangers.  Its large, roll-up door was open, its
interior empty except for standing water and a few engine parts.  They moved
on to the next, which was closed and locked.  Five minutes of work with a
pair of channel-lock pliers and a screwdriver took care this problem, but
opening the door revealed nothing but another empty space.

"Shit," Brett muttered, stashing his tools back away.  "I was hoping this
would be the one."

"Let's try the next one," Matt suggested.  He was standing with his back to
Brett, his weapon trained out over the tarmac.  "It looked like it was
open."

"Right," Brett said.  He gave a signal to the cover troops, letting them
know they were on the move again, and then they made the dash.

The roll-up door was indeed partially open by about two feet.  While Matt
took up a firing position to cover the inside, Brett grasped the bottom of
the door and heaved it upward.  It went reluctantly, screeching out a shrill
protest as its unlubricated mechanism was forced to move, but up it went.
As soon as it was high enough, Brett stepped back and pointed his rifle into
the interior.

"I'll be goddamned," he said as he saw the inside.

"Will you look at that," Matt echoed beside him.

Inside of the hanger were two aircraft sitting side by side.  The first was
a Cessna 150 with black wings and a white body.  The emblem of the
California Highway Patrol was prominently displayed on its doors.  The
second aircraft was a McDonnell-Douglas 500, single engine helicopter, its
doors marked with the same symbol.

"Paul was right," Brett said.  "Goddamn if it's not here."

"Will it fly?"  Matt asked, looking at it almost as a religious object.

"I'll have to look it over to tell," he answered.  "And before I can do
that, we need to make sure the rest of this airport is secure.  Let's get it
done."

"Right," Matt said.

With that, they moved to the next hanger, and then the next.  They found two
more Cessnas and a Piper parked in them, one of the Cessnas an impressive
twin-engine model capable of carrying ten passengers.  They found no people,
nor did they find any signs that people had been there recently.  At last,
Brett waved Michelle and Jason forward, giving them the all-clear signal.

"Is it there?" both asked in unison as they came close, their faces strained
with anticipation.

"It's there," Brett told them.  "Now let's go have a look at it."

It was the classic teardrop shape that was associated with McDonnell-Douglas
light helicopters.  Mostly black, with white trim, its high clearance skids
sat atop the ground handling wheels that allowed it to be pushed in and out
of the hangar.  It's four-bladed rotor stood idle, the blades hanging down
with an almost imperceptible droop.  Paul, when describing the helicopter to
him, had told him that it was "one of those quiet ones that don't make any
noise".  Brett saw now that he had been entirely correct.  It was a NOTAR
model, meaning it had no tail rotor.  Instead of a propeller to counteract
the torque from the main rotor, it blasted air out of a port on the back of
the tail.  Since the distinctive chopping sound of a helicopter was produced
by the collision of air from the main rotor hitting the tail rotor, this
aircraft would be almost silent when it was in flight.  Mounted on its belly
were a high intensity spotlight and a forward looking infrared pod, or FLIR,
which would be able to see in the darkness.  It's doors were standing open
and it was obvious that someone had rummaged through it at some point,
looking for useful supplies.  But it did not appear, at least at first
glance, that any damage had been inflicted upon it.  It still had the two
helmet headsets sitting on the front seats, still had the removable patient
litter and the medical supplies neatly stored in its cabinets.

"Darling," Brett said, stepping forward and putting a kiss upon its
windshield, "you are the most beautiful thing that I've ever seen in my
life."

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