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Message-ID: <58672asstr$1236341402@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: Dreadpirate Tom <dptom@live.com>
Importance: Normal
Subject: {ASSM} New Story.  A Fresh Start.
Lines: 1970
Date: Fri, 06 Mar 2009 07:10:02 -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


Story codes:  MF, nc?, sci fi, slow
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Windows Live(TM) Contacts: Organize your contact list. 
http://windowslive.com/connect/post/marcusatmicrosoft.spaces.live.com-Blog-cns!503D1D86EBB2B53C!2285.entry?ocid=TXT_TAGLM_WL_UGC_Contacts_032009
<1st attachment, "A Fresh Start2.txt" begin>

This story was never really intended as erotica.  The core of the story was
written for some English lit class or another way back in my college days
and was intended to portray apocalyptic events from the perspective of a
fairly ordinary man with limited resources and knowledge.  I came across it
while cleaning out my desk and decided to expand it and make the sex scenes
a little more graphic.  There still isn't a lot of sex and what there is
doesn't come along until fairly late into the story.  So, if you're looking
for a penthouse forum type tale, you probably want to move on.  As always,
if you're a minor, go tell your mother that she needs to smack you around
and pay more attention to what you're doing.  If, however, you're an adult
who's interested in reading what is, based on the comments of my old
professor, a fairly poorly written bit of science fiction, please enjoy.

   If you have any comments, please direct them to the ASSD newsgroup.  I
don't have usenet posting privileges through my isp, so I won't be able to
respond directly, but I will be able to read them.

   A Fresh Start

   By Dread Pirate Tom

   Back in the days before everything fell apart, people were always
talking about "Saving The World".  What a poorly worded sentiment.  The
Earth itself was in no need of "saving".  The planet had gotten along fine
without us for more than four billion years.  Time and again, it had been
subjected to cataclysms well beyond any which we could inflict upon it. 
Each time some life survived and, after a few ticks of the geological
clock, grew to diversify and flourish once more.  So, what people really
meant by "Saving The World", is the far different, and far more selfish,
idea of maintaining the planet in a condition that would sustain us.  The
underlying assumption was that as long as we didn't destroy ourselves, our
species would continue in perpetuity.  However, the one lesson of
evolutionary biology that we always seemed to ignore is that extinction
comes to most species eventually.  When a species becomes too comfortable
in its niche, even when the environment is stable, nature adjusts to move
things along.  Nothing lasts forever.  The belief that a species that had
been around for a mere million years would somehow be above all this just
because of a slightly larger and more wrinkled brain was nothing more than
sheer hubris.  In one of those funny twists of fate, the source of our
arrogance turned out to be the avenue of our end.

   The instrument of our undoing was a virus that infected certain tissues
of the brain.  At some point before the end, the nasty little mass of
nucleic acids and protein was named, appropriately enough, the Apocalypse
Virus.



   Patient zero died on December 21, 2012 in a small town outside Chicago.
I still recall seeing the story on the news.  The poor guy, after working
all day without incident, had gone to bed complaining of a headache shortly
after having dinner with his family.  When his wife had gone to check on
him a few hours later, he was dead.  This story, while sad, would never
have made the national news were it not for the manner of his death.  The
man's eyes were so bloodshot that they were little more than pupils in a
sea of scarlet.  Even worse, by the time his wife found him, he had nearly
bled out completely through his mouth, nose and ears.  The man's family
didn't have much time to mourn.  Within a few days, they, too, were gone.

   By Christmas, a thousand more had died all across the Midwest.  Panic
grew exponentially.  Even though no one knew where AV had come from, there
was a growing amount of speculation.  As my granddaddy had always told me,
"Never let your own ignorance keep you from speaking up and telling it how
you see it." Some said that it had gotten loose as the result of an
accident at some big government lab.  Others said that it had been created
and released by terrorists who didn't realize just how potent a weapon they
had wrought.  Still others said that it was a curse placed upon us by a
wrathful deity to punish us for our sins.  Of course, the nature of the
sins for which we were allegedly being punished varied widely depending on
where you were.

   By the end of January, the death toll had risen to over a million with
cases reported in more than one hundred cities world wide.  It was about
this time that we had our first two survivors.  Sort of.  There was one in
Australia who survived the disease with no ill effects other than
permanently bloodshot eyes.  Based on my few Aussie friends, he probably
didn't even notice the difference.  The other survivor was from California.
He wasn't quite so lucky.  The illness robbed him of all higher brain
functions.  No, he wasn't a vegetable.  The best explanation I can give is
that he was left with pure id, without ego.  The base drives were all
there. He wanted to eat and mate and instinctively knew how to do so. 
However, these drives were completely unconstrained by anything resembling
reason, morality, or intellect.

   By April, roughly a third of the Earth's human population was gone. 
Entire cities had completely dropped off the grid.  While there were also a
growing number of survivors of the illness, the vast majority of them fell
into the nearly brain dead category.  Martial law was in effect in every
country which still functioned as a nation.  Any travel was discouraged by
frequent checkpoints manned by men with gas masks and automatic weapons. 
As a result, most of those who were left who had not yet contracted the
disease sealed themselves in their homes in the hope that the disease would
pass them by.  Others, like myself, kept going about their usual business,
at least as much as was possible, out of habit and out of a deep abiding
belief that the government would surely find a cure before too long. 
Unreasoning faith in authority is, after all, one of the defining
characteristics of our species.



   I'm an attorney.  To be more specific, I `m a corporate lawyer employed
by Pittsburgh Plate Glass, a company which, despite the name, produces a
lot of glass coatings but very little actual glass.  On April 12, 2013, the
CEO, our third in the last two months by reason of attrition, asked for a
volunteer to take a sample of a polishing compound to the CDC's main
research lab in New York City.  It seems that several of the individuals
who were exposed to the compound on a regular basis as a part of doing
their jobs had survived the disease with brain functions intact.  There
was, of course, a high probability that this was just coincidence and they
would have survived anyway, but our species was circling the drain and we
couldn't fail to explore any possibility, however remote.  After all,
random accidental discoveries had brought huge advancements in the past. 
Like Post-Its.

   A few months earlier and the sample could easily have been sent by mail
or Federal Express.  Now, however, those services were all but nonexistent.
Those who worked in jobs with a high amount of contact with the general
public, and those who worked with these people, had been among the first to
get infected.  While the USPS still did its best, the screening procedures
that had been implemented for all mailed items and the ongoing loss of
personnel meant that any package sent by mail would take more than a month
to arrive at its destination, if it ever did.

   I volunteered.  Yes, I know it was foolish to go into a major metropolis
during the height of a global pandemic, but I was young and still had that
irrational belief in my own immortality which is exclusive to the very
young and the very foolish.  Besides, it had been strongly implied that if
I succeeded in this task, undertaken at such great personal risk, I would
receive a significant promotion and pay raise.  What can I say?  Even with
a third of the world's population dead, money still talked.

   The plague had wreaked havoc on our transportation industry.  With most
of the consumer base either dead or holed up in their homes, there wasn't
any real demand for plane seats.  So little, in fact, that all of the
commercial airlines had shut down even before martial law had been imposed.
The government had, fortunately, stepped in to provide limited domestic
service but this was available only for travelers with tasks the government
deemed essential.  Given the nature of my business, I apparently passed
this test.  After a blood test and a few hours, my supervisor presented me
with my very own bright and shiny travel pass.

   On the bright side, getting through security was a breeze.  The few TSA
staff still on duty simply waved travelers along while eyeing them
fearfully over the top of their medical masks.  The fear of infection
apparently overrode the sadistic glee which they had formerly taken in the
zealous, or overzealous, performance of their duties.  Besides, the mere
presence of a person in an airport meant that they had been screened and
were on business that the government considered critical.  Not exactly a
high terrorist risk.

   The flight itself was uneventful.  I was one of only three people on the
plane, dispersed to provide the greatest possible distance between us. 
There was no small talk and no flight service.  After all, conversation
risked contamination

   I had been to LeGuardia Airport a number of times in the past.  This
time was much different.  Gone was the hum of thousands of separate
conversations blended together.  Gone were the throngs of people anxious to
be about their business.  In their place were a handful of silent
travelers, anonymous behind their white medical masks, hurrying through the
airport to be about whatever task they thought was critical enough to risk
their lives over.  While there were a few civilians like myself, most of my
fellow travelers wore either the cheap black suits or the rare biohazard
containment outfits that stamped them as belonging to some government
agency or another.

   Even the great airport itself was suffering from the effects of the
plague.  Despite the greatly reduced traffic, the floor was dulled with
scuff marks.  Every level surface was covered with a fine layer of dust,
marred only by the occasional hand print.  The windows were smeared and
dirty, and peering through them I could make out more than a few weeds
sticking from the tarmac.

   There was supposed to be a courier waiting for me, but there was no sign
of him.  After waiting for the CDC representative for more than an hour and
getting no response when I called the contact number I had been given, I
decided that I would have to take the sample to them.  As one would expect,
the car rental agencies were sealed up tight and there were no taxis to be
had outside the terminal.  Fortunately, by some miracle, the MTA still had
the M60 bus in service, the driver outfitted in what appeared to be an army
surplus gas mask and chemical protection suit.  I was the only passenger
the entire way to Broadway and 106 St.

   Flanked by boarded up and vacant buildings, this portion of Manhattan
was much like the airport had been.  The street was every bit as desolate
as one of the wild west ghost towns I had visited on vacation a few years
ago.  All that was needed to complete the picture was a tumbleweed blowing
down the street.  As with the airport, other life was taking advantage of
reduced human activity.  Weeds sprouted from the myriad cracks in the
pavement of the streets and sidewalks.  Some small scavenger, either a cat
or a possum, rooted through garbage cans across the street.  Silently I
wished the beast luck; from the look of things, pickings would be meager at
best.  The air was still noisome, although for a far different reason than
in days past.  Faded to the point of being nearly imperceptible was the
overpowering combination of car exhaust, endless varieties of ethnic food
and the colognes, perfumes and body odor of thousands upon thousands of
people which had been omnipresent during my previous visits to the city. 
Now the air was filled with the smell of decay, so powerful it nearly
triggered my gag reflex with every breath I took.  Apparently, I reasoned,
here, like in most major cities, services had broken down and the bodies of
the plague victims were left where they fell.  This last thought was
punctuated as I spooked a small flock of crows on my way to the subway.  As
they flew away, I caught sight of the object of their feast: a human arm
and hand, stripped of flesh to the bone in places, protruding from a small
alleyway.  I clutched my mask tighter to my face, averted my eyes and
continued on my way.

   I took the subway to Union Square, feeling fortunate that the train
system had been fully automated a few years ago.  Here, closer to the
financial district, there was some traffic in the streets and a few people
walking along the sidewalks.  Most of the latter wore paper hospital gowns
over their clothes in addition to the omnipresent medical masks.  There
were metal barrels in front of every building in sight.  I looked at these
in confusion for a moment until one of the other pedestrians used a barrel
to dispose of his paper gown in a gout of flame before entering the
building.  As with the rest of the city that I had seen so far, the shops
and bars were boarded up.  Sadly, I saw that Pete's Tavern was among these.
I had many fond memories of grabbing a beer and filling up on bar food
there before the plague.



   It took me a while to find the CDC lab.  The place hadn't been there the
last time I was in town, but had sprung up almost overnight to take
advantage of the vast medical expertise, and, as the cynical side of me
noted, the vast number of potential patients, available in the huge city.
When I did find it, I have to admit that I wasn't very impressed.  They had
simply retrofitted a small office building with an airlock and filtration
system and added some caulking to make the windows airtight.  Near the
airlock was a small intercom system and a camera.  I pressed the call
button and waited.  After a few minutes had passed, I pressed it again,
much longer this time.  A few more minutes passed and I pressed it
repeatedly.  There was still no response.  Just for the hell of it, I
stepped over to the door and gave it a tug, almost falling over backwards
when it unexpectedly opened easily.  I stepped inside and was immediately
doused with a strong smelling disinfectant dispensed from what looked like
a standard sprinkler system.  After my soaking was complete, I tried the
inner door and found it to also be unlocked.

   The lobby of the building was dominated by a large security desk manned
by a single security guard in a medical containment suit.  A hose snaked
from his suit to a series of pipes which had obviously been installed
recently and with little regard for aesthetics.  The guard was semi
reclined in his chair with feet on the desk, head back and arms folded in
his lap.  His automatic weapon lay casually on the desk top next to his
feet.  Dripping wet and pissed off, I went to wake him.  When I shook his
shoulder, his head flopped forward and I stared into his unblinking eyes,
pin points of black in a field of red.  Fearfully, I backed quickly away
from him, belatedly noting the large flashing words on the terminal in
front of him, "Biohazard Containment Failure".  I'm ashamed to admit it,
but I fled the building.  Even though I possessed what might be the
salvation of humanity, I didn't look for survivors.  I simply beat feet.

   I ran through the streets for at least an hour before my panic began to
subside.  There had to be other labs, right?  All I had to do was find out
where one was and get the sample to them.  First, though, I needed to find
something to eat and a place to sleep.  The original plan had been that the
CDC was going to put me up for the night before I caught a flight home the
following day.  So much for that.

   I walked for another two hours before I found a hotel that was still in
operation.  Checking in was complicated slightly by the thick sheet of
plexiglass that had been erected to separate customers from the manager. 
The port that had been installed in the transparent wall to allow the
exchange of a key card for cash was a makeshift affair that was,
apparently, quite prone to jamming.  Once checked in, my room was
everything one would expect from a five star establishment, although
everything from the toilet to the bed covers was sealed with plastic wrap
festooned with a bright red paper ribbon that proudly proclaimed that the
item had been sterilized for my safety.  After splashing some water on my
face, I placed a quick order to room service and pulled out my laptop to
check the news and find an alternate CDC lab.  I did try turning the tv on
to CNN, but, as in Pittsburgh, it consisted of nothing but inefficient
scrolling text and loud Emergency Broadcast System announcements.  Live
news shows had been pretty much universally discontinued the previous
month, but one can always hope.

   There was no good news.  Over the past few days, communications from the
Peoples Republic of China, Bangladesh, Singapore...  hell, all of the most
densely populated countries, had abruptly ceased entirely.  Across the
country, the institutions, mostly prisons and mental hospitals, that had
been caring for the mindless survivors of AV were closing their doors to
additional patients.  Apparently, even though census numbers for those
places were down significantly, staff levels were also down and it was much
harder to care for people who were rabid, cannibalistic sex offenders. 
Sadly, I also learned that AV wasn't limited to humans, but had spread to
other primates as well.  Mountain gorillas, chimpanzees and the like, were
now all but extinct.  There was, of course, still no reliable vaccine and
no cure in sight.

   I also discovered that the closest CDC lab still in operation was in
DuBois, Pennsylvania, a town less than a two hour drive from my home. 
Although I was a little upset that I had been sent to New York instead of
there in the first place, I figured that there must have been a good
reason. I sent them an email, copied to my employer, telling them of the
fate of the NYC facility and requesting instructions concerning the sample
I possessed.

   My reading was interrupted by a knock on the door accompanied by a
muffled voice calling out, "Room service." When I opened the door, all that
greeted me was a plastic tray sitting on the floor.  No one was in sight. I
guess the hotel staff member who brought it didn't think that any potential
tip I might give him was worth risking his life over.  Looking down, I
groaned in consternation: The fare offered to me by this fine five star
hotel consisted of a vacuum sealed microwave dinner and a bottle of water.
It was steak, though, just as I had ordered.  Across the plastic covering
my meal were again stamped the words, "Sterilized for your safety and
ours."

   After eating, I popped a couple of aspirin to take care of a minor
headache I could feel setting in and went to bed.

   I awoke in such pain that I tried to scream in agony.  Really, I tried.
For at least ten minutes I tried and tried and tried again.  All that
emerged from my parched lips was a rasping croak.  It didn't help that my
swollen tongue was quite firmly adhered to the roof of my mouth.  With
great difficulty, I managed to open eyes coated with a crust so thick it
felt like cement.  I shouldn't have bothered.  Even with my eyes open there
wasn't much to see as the room was just barely lit by a soft orange glow
coming from the window.  Standing was out of the question, but I did manage
to roll off of the bed to the floor.  With my fingertips, I laboriously
clawed my way to the garbage can where I had deposited the remains of my
last meal and retrieved the half empty bottle of water.

   That first sip of water was better than the finest wine I had ever had.
Greedily, I gulped down the entire remaining contents of the bottle.  Big
mistake.  I immediately threw it back up.  From somewhere, I had a dim
recollection of hearing that in severe cases of dehydration, it was
necessary to rehydrate extremely slowly.

   Even the little water I had managed to retain had restored some of my
strength and I was able to crawl slowly to the bathroom on my hands and
knees.  I turned the spigots on the sink and...nothing.  Same with the bath
tub.  In desperation, I turned to the only other source of water available
and used my hand to scoop some water from the toilet bowl to my parched
lips.  Things were a blur for a while after that.  During each period of
semi-clarity, I did manage to choke down at least a little water.  I have
no idea how much time passed, but when I was finally able to retain
consciousness, the toilet bowl was nearly empty and the room was much
brighter.

   Standing shakily, I moved into the main room and discovered that it was
still night, or maybe it was night again.  Hard to say.  Either way, the
source of the brightness was the glow I had noted when I originally awoke.
The source of the glow was readily apparent.  The entire skyline was in
flames!  For a time, I was so overwhelmed by horror that I could do nothing
but grasp desperately at the bathroom door frame.  How was such a thing
even possible?  How could fire spread so profusely among those towering
edifices of glass, steel and concrete?  Why had no one come for me?  I went
to the bedside phone to call the front desk, but there was no dial tone. 
The only real option available seemed to be to go to the lobby to see if
there was an evacuation procedure.  I flicked the light switch so I could
collect my necessities, but there was no power.

   Working by feel more than sight, I managed to dress and gather my
briefcase, a change of underwear and some toiletries.  I couldn't find my
watch.  Thus provisioned, I headed into the windowless hall.  It was pitch
black.  I had noticed a number of emergency lights when I had arrived, but
they were lifeless.  Again, I wondered how long I had been out.  Surely it
couldn't have been too long or I would have died from dehydration.  Putting
these thoughts aside, I felt my way down the hall.  I have no idea how I
managed to feel my way through the lightless corridor and then down ten
flights of steps without breaking my neck, but I made it.

   The lobby was vacant.  Even the plexiglass shielded manager was nowhere
in sight.  I beat on that barrier as fiercely as I could with my fists, but
there was no response.  Mentally striking myself on the forehead, I pulled
my cell phone from my briefcase.  No service.  A quick glance around the
lobby revealed that this hotel had followed the standard practice of
removing all public phones.  Such easy avenues of infection could not be
permitted.



   After a few moments of thought, the best idea I could come up with was
finding a police station.  Although I did not recall passing one during my
wanderings after the visit to the CDC lab, there surely had to be one close
by.  With this tenuous plan in mind, I stumbled out onto the sidewalk.  The
air outside was thick with smoke and the tall buildings around me allowed
only a diffuse glow to penetrate to street level.  I shouted for help
several times, but there was no reply.  Was I the last person left in the
city?  I was not familiar with this part of the city and hesitated for a
long while before choosing a direction of travel.  Even though my life
could quite possibly depend on finding help fairly quickly, I ended up
basing the decision on a hastily muttered, "Eenie, Meenie, Minie Moe".

   As I stumbled down the street, still weak from my illness, it occurred
to me that I had survived infection by the Apocalypse Virus.  The
hysterical laughter that bubbled up from deep inside me was so violent that
I had to stop for a moment and grab hold of a lamp post to stay upright. 
My certainty in my own immortality had been validated!

   An explosion followed by the sound of collapsing masonry dispelled my
mirth, and I continued on my path.  Through gaps in the buildings, I could
see the flames roaring into the sky just blocks away.  Under my breath, I
muttered, "I did not survive the damn AV just to get roasted alive", over
and over again like a mantra.  Repetition did not help me to believe.

   It had never entered my mind that I was in any personal danger, aside
from that posed by the fire.  So, when I heard footsteps pounding towards
me, I happily turned towards the sound, raising my hand in greeting.  Any
gleeful exclamation that I might have uttered died on my lips.  The man
racing toward me was dressed only in a tattered, filthy hospital gown,
darkly stained down the front.  As he grew nearer, his lips pulled away
from broken teeth in a silent snarl.  Throughout his approach, I stood
dumbly, hand still partially raised.  The brief hope I had felt replaced by
fear so intense it turned my knees to water.

   Then he was upon me, the stench of him so overpowering it made me gag.
He ran into me without slowing, his momentum carrying us both to the
pavement.  The feel of his fingers closing on my throat finally broke
through my mental paralyzation.  Any thought of pleading for my life was
dispelled by the look of animalistic fury in his bloodshot eyes.  There was
nothing of sanity there, only rage.  From flat on my back I drove my fist
into his face and had the satisfaction of feeling his nose break beneath my
fist.  Hot blood rained down on my face and chest.  He gave no sign of
having felt my blow but tightened his grip on my throat while slamming the
back of my head into the pavement hard enough that I saw stars.

   Again I hit him, this time even more ineffectually.  I couldn't breathe!
As the edges of my vision began to blur, I grasped at his hands, trying to
break his grip on my windpipe.  His hands might as well have been steel
bands for all the effect I had.  In a final act of desperation, I humped my
hips upward as violently and quickly as I could and was rewarded by seeing
him tumble over my head, his hands torn from my throat.  Mentally I thanked
the trainer at my old gym who had insisted that I finish each work out with
multiple sets of ab crunches.

   Gasping for air, I rolled in the opposite direction, trying to gain my
feet before he came for me again.  I had managed to get to my knees when I
saw him rushing at me.  Out of the corner of my eye I saw my heavy
Samsonite briefcase lying on the edge of the sidewalk a mere four feet
away. I lunged for it and grasped the handle with the tips of my fingers
just as he connected with my midriff in a full body tackle, sending us
tumbling again.  As we both hurried to get upright, I brought the briefcase
around as hard as I could.  He saw it coming and started to pull back, but
the corner caught him on the temple with a satisfying crunch, sending him
back down to the pavement.  As he pushed himself to his knees, I struggled
to my feet and kicked him in the stomach with all of my remaining strength.
The air left his lungs in a loud "Humph!" and he fell backwards gasping for
air.

   Grasping my briefcase in both hands, I looked down upon him.  Had there
been fear in his bloodshot eyes, I would like to think that I would have
stopped.  But there wasn't.  There was only bestial fury.  Raising my
briefcase high above my head, I brought it down as hard as I could, falling
to my knee to put all my weight behind it.  I cannot describe the sound
that was made when the heavy luggage connected with his head, but there was
a resonance of dreadful finality to it that tore at the very foundations of
my soul.  He convulsed once and was still.

   Gasping for air and clutching at my bruised and abraded throat I again
struggled to my feet.  I looked with revulsion at the blood spattered
briefcase I still held with one hand and threw it violently from me.  I was
a murderer!  A killer!  The fact that I had no choice was but small
consolation.  I drew a breath to call again for help, but was silenced by
the thought that there might be others out there.  Others like him.  It
took some time, but eventually I regained my composure.  Before continuing
on my quest, I walked over to my briefcase and removed the sample, placing
it in my coat pocket.  I couldn't bring myself to reclaim the luggage
turned murder weapon.

   Less than a hundred yards from the site of the struggle, I found a
police station.  Through the sooty windows, I could make out some dim
lights, giving me hope that, even if the place were vacant, I could at
least make a few calls before the generator gave out.  When I opened the
door, I was assailed by an intense odor of rotting meat, ending any hope I
had of finding living assistance.  The reception room was fairly large with
rows of wooden benches facing towards a service counter.  To the left of
the service counter was a door leading, presumably, to the inner portions
of the station.  It was, of course, locked.

   Still retching occasionally from the intense smell of putrification, I
hopped up on the service counter, reclined to avoid the half window and
swung my legs to the other side.  As I eased down to the opposite floor, I
almost stepped on the source of the smell.  A police officer, still in
uniform and with a gas mask in place, lay stretched out on the floor
surrounded by a large area of dried brownish blood that he had leaked out
in his final hour.  From the look of him, he had been there a few days.  I
hesitated for a moment, thinking that I should do something for this man
who had obviously continued to serve his city until death claimed him.  In
the end, I realized that there was little I could do in the time I had and
he would soon be getting cremated in one of the grandest funeral pyres in
all of human history.

   It took less than an hour to search the station.  I found a steel gun
cabinet, but it was locked and the keys were nowhere in evidence.  The
phones, each accompanied by a large can of disinfectant, were dead.  In the
back of the station, I found a short wave radio.  After a few moments of
studying the device, I figured out how to turn it on and dial through the
channels.  I stopped on each channel and asked, "Can anyone hear me?  Is
anyone there?".  At least I think I did.  The radio was fairly complicated
and I had never used one before.  In any event, I didn't receive any
response.  I had just about given up when I heard a voice.  I keyed the
microphone and said "Hello!  Hello!" a few times before realizing that it
was a recording.  It was some reverend from the Mid-West making the now
familiar claim that God had caused the plague to punish us for our sins. 
He then went a step further by exhorting his righteous listeners to travel
to the cities and burn them to the ground.  He reasoned, and I use that
term loosely, that after these bastions of sin and inequity were destroyed,
God would surely realize that the survivors had repented and would, in His
mercy, end the plague.  Well, at least it solved the mystery of the fire.

   Ransacking the radio room further produced a Sangean portable shortwave
radio receiver that I decided to take with me.  Further search in the other
rooms produced a small duffle bag, a crowbar, a first aid kit, a large
flashlight, some batteries, and a few MRE's.  With the bulging duffle bag
slung over my shoulder, I left the station and its smell of rot, stopping
only to take the dead police officer's service revolver and the ammunition
he had on his belt.  As soon as I was outside in the very slightly fresher
air, I dug into one of the MRE's.  The main course was beef enchilada.  I
ate it cold and it was delicious.

   Feeling much better with some food in my stomach and some supplies on my
back, I decided that it was time to find my own way out of the city. 
Walking down the street, I couldn't help but notice that while the shops
were locked and boarded up, looting had been almost nonexistent.  With a
few applications of the crow bar, I had some sturdy hiking boots on my feet
and a few changes of clothes and a number of bottles of water in my duffle.
When I finished my little looting spree, I discovered that I had made a
potentially fatal mistake.  While I had been trying on clothes, cackling
gleefully at the delicious lawlessness of it, the fire had spread.  I don't
know if the wind had picked up and shifted or if the good reverend's
faithful were still at work, but there were now flames to my north, east
and south.

   As near as I could figure, I was in or near Greenwich Village.  A review
of my admittedly woefully inadequate mental map of the city revealed that I
was pretty much fucked.  The fires to the north and east cut me off from
all of the bridges that I knew of while the fires to the south cut me off
from the Battery tunnels.

   Half a block from me was an exotic car dealership.  Five minutes later,
after making quick work of the showroom window and the key lockbox with my
crowbar, I was heading west in a new Porsche.  Shortly, I had passed the
warehouses and reached the docks lining the Hudson River.  Giving the
Porsche a fond pat farewell, I jogged quickly out to the end of the longest
dock in sight and peered up and down the river.  All possible land routes
for escape were indeed cut off.  The far side of the river was also in
flames.  There would be no escape to Hoboken or Jersey City even if I could
manage to swim across the Hudson in April.

   There were a variety of water craft along the waterfront.  I wasted a
good hour searching among the non commercial boats for one with a key in
the ignition, cursing the fact that I didn't have the vaguest idea of how
to hot wire anything.  All the while, the flames grew closer, blown to
greater and greater heights by a fierce wind that had kicked up.  Finally,
I found a small open hulled boat that had a twenty-five horsepower outboard
with a pull start and a full tank of gas.  I looked dubiously from the boat
to the river with its three foot high waves, but I really had no choice. 
It was secured to the dock with chains and padlocks, but, with my crowbar,
I managed to pry the cleats from the dock.

   Now all I needed was a destination.  I knew the little boat wouldn't
make it very far with the waves as high as they were.  Peering down the
river through the thick smoke, the choice suddenly seemed obvious.  The
trip to the Statue of Liberty seemed to take an eternity.  I imagine that
riding down the River Styx would be similar with fires burning high on each
side of me and the air thickly laden with acrid smoke.  I made the entire
journey with one hand gripped white knuckle tight to the side of the boat
and the other alternately adjusting my course and bailing out the water
that was entering my wave tossed vessel at an alarmingly fast rate.

   The wind howled for a week.  I spent the entire time hunkered down at
the base of the great statue, breathing through a t-shirt soaked in
brackish river water and watching the greatest city on Earth go up in
flames.  I think I went a little mad before the end.  I know that when I
left Lady Liberty bore a new engraving along her base in crude, foot high,
crowbar carved letters: "I am Ozymandias, king of kings: Look upon my works
ye Mighty and despair!" Thanks, Shelley.

   On the morning that I left the winds had not only died down but vanished
completely, leaving the Hudson as smooth as I had ever seen it.  This was
fortunate as I had finished my last MRE and bottle of water the night
before and I would have had to leave soon, high waves or not.  The waves
had swamped my little boat, but the Styrofoam under the seats and in the
sides had kept it afloat enough that the engine hadn't gotten too wet.  I
spent a half hour bailing it out and then started up the river.

   From what I could see through the thick smoke, most of the buildings on
both sides of the river had collapsed.  The few still standing were nothing
but burned out skeletons.  Although the bulk of the fire had died out,
flames still shot up here and there and the entire area smouldered.  By
mid-day I finally passed into areas untouched by the great fire.  I pulled
into shore and, with a little help from my trusty crowbar, managed to
secure some more fuel for my boat, food, fresh water and a few blankets. 
There was no sign of any living people, but the ever present smell of decay
made it clear that there were plenty of dead ones.

   I continued up the river until I came to the place where interstate 87
crossed the Hudson.  I tied the boat up to the shore and continued inland
on foot.  Near the river I found one of those areas that seem to exist for
no other reason than to provide nearly every conceivable service to
travelers on the interstate.  As in the city, there had been almost no
looting and there were no people in evidence.  Fortunately for me, the
multitude of shops included a GM dealership.  A few applications of my
crowbar and I was the proud owner of a new Hummer V.  Designed and
manufactured by GM after President Obama made the auto industry's receipt
of bail out money contingent upon them producing vehicles with vastly
improved fuel efficiency, this baby could get 60 miles to a gallon of fuel
and could run on anything from straight gasoline to cooking oil.  It wasn't
as reliable or powerful as the old Hummers, but it still had respectable
off-road capabilities.  Its amazing how innovative the car manufacturers
became when their future survival depended on it.

   After a quick tour through the shopping plaza, I was well provisioned
with canned goods, bottled water, a few boxes of ammo and a Coleman stove.
At Walmart, I also found a hand pump with 50 feet of hose, which I thought
might come in handy if the service stations along the way were abandoned
and had no electricity.

   As I was finishing loading my vehicle I heard the sound of foot falls
approaching me rapidly from behind.  I whipped the service revolver from my
waistband and spun around, ready to shoot any mindless son of a bitch who
dared attack me.  It was a dog.  A dog that had the features of a German
Shepard but had fur that was likely cream colored under the thick layer of
grime that coated it.  Despite the fact that it was not a zombified human
as I had expected, it was still apparently a threat, so I pulled the
trigger.  Nothing happened.  Cursing, I fumbled for the gun's safety. 
Before I could find it, the dog was upon me.  When it jumped up and started
frantically licking my face, I was forced to reach the conclusion that it
was not actually a threat.  With a great deal of ear and belly scratching,
I finally managed to calm the dog down.  Sitting at my feet, the dog looked
at me with desperation in her eyes.  Looking her over, I could see that all
of her ribs were showing and her eyes had an unhealthy flatness to them.  I
wondered at the obvious signs of starvation: there was, after all, a lot of
meat laying around.  Is it possible for a dog to be squeamish about eating
human flesh?  There was no question of leaving her to her fate.  Sighing, I
headed back into Walmart to grab a few bags of dog food and, after thinking
about the smell, some pet shampoo.  She followed me into the store, so I
broke open a bag of Iams and spread it out on the floor.  She ate
ravenously as I loaded the additional supplies into a cart.  Despite her
obvious hunger she broke away from the bag of food and followed me without
prompting when I headed towards the exit.  I decided to name her "Heidi".

   In a few short minutes, I was easing the Hummer up the exit ramp and
onto the Interstate, Heidi perched happily in the passenger seat, her head
hanging out the partially opened window.  I tried the radio, but could get
nothing but static.  As we reached the highway, I was astounded by the
number of cars that sat, apparently abandoned, at odd angles all across the
interstate.  The highways had been essentially unused since martial law had
been imposed, so I wondered what had occurred that could explain the
profusion of vehicles.  As I began to weave the big SUV through the
vehicles, I quickly learned that they had not been abandoned at all.  The
drivers and passengers were still there.

   With all of the obstacles, we made poor time, although stopping to give
Heidi a quick bath in some nameless reservoir to reduce the stench and
stopping a few other times to let her out to do her business didn't help.
By the time darkness fell we were barely halfway to I-80 down I-287.  I was
too tired to continue further, so I pulled off to the side of the road, fed
myself and the dog and walked a bit to stretch my legs.  Before settling in
to sleep, I decided to play with the Sangean to see if anyone was talking
other than the mad reverend.  To keep Heidi occupied, I gave her a rawhide
bone that I had snagged when we were at Walmart.

   After twenty minutes or so of fiddling around, the dog happily chewing
away at my side, I found a broadcast from a man named Ian Fitzpatrick of
the University of West Virginia.  The news he had was devastating.  He had
been part of a fairly broad network of shortwave users and, through them,
had learned that the reverend's faithful had started fires in every major
city in North America.  I guess even the Canadians weren't immune to a bit
of religious extremism when the going got tough.  The inhabitants of those
cities, or what was left of them after more than four months of the plague,
had, of course, tried to flee.  There was no place for them to go, really,
but instinct demanded that they be anywhere but where they were.  The
result was that there had been more people packed more closely together
than there had been in months.  The plague had spread even faster than the
fires.  Ian speculated that the virus' incubation period was inversely
proportional to its concentration.  In other words, the more virus there
was in the air and, thus, in the victim's bloodstream, the more quickly it
moved into its final, terminal stage.  He said that this explained why
people had walked around for days after infection back in the beginning of
the plague but now succumbed within hours.

   Ironically, the arsonists who had come to bring God's wrath to the
cities had taken the plague back with them to numerous small towns that had
previously gone more or less untouched by the epidemic.  The result was
horrible beyond comprehension.  Ian had lost contact with every other
member of his network, and couldn't pick up anyone else, on any form of
media, domestic or abroad.  He feared the worst.  He concluded by asking
anyone who could hear him to contact him.

   I played around with the shortwave radio a little longer but couldn't
figure out how to broadcast or even if the little unit was capable of
broadcasting.  After a while, I gave it up as a lost cause and reclined in
the passenger seat to get some sleep.  With a little prompting, the dog
crawled into the backseat and settled down with her bone.  I went to sleep
to the rhythmic and comforting sound of gnawing.

   The following day we made it to I-80 by noon.  Pillars of smoke to all
sides marked where cities, great and small, had died.  As we moved west out
of the major population areas, our rate of travel improved markedly as few
of the people fleeing the cities had made it this far.  Passing into more
rural areas, we began to see massive earthen mounds on either side of the
interstate.  Mile after mile of mounds.  I had seen them before on the
news, back when there still was news.  Up close they were far more
intimidating, far more...ominous.  We were passing the mass graves of the
early victims of the plague from Philadelphia, New York City and their
environs.  Layer upon dirt and lye encrusted layer of dead bodies
surrounded me on all sides.  Not all the mounds were complete.  Standing
counterpoint to the smooth, grass seeded, finished graves were vast empty
wounds in the earth, heavy machinery rusting around the periphery.  Others
were partially filled and the stench suffusing the area made it clear that
some had layers that had not been fully covered.  I hurried through the
area as fast as I could manage, several times barely avoiding collisions
with "abandoned" vehicles as I went around a curve or over a hill.  It took
hours, but, eventually, the last of the huge graves faded in my rearview
mirror.

   Shortly after nightfall we reached DuBois.  Well, we reached the area
where DuBois had been.  Heidi and I stood along the highway and gazed at
the smouldering ruins.  Some of the local bumpkins had obviously decided
that the large town qualified as a city and brought the reverend's judgment
down upon it.  A small whine interrupted my reverie and I knelt down to hug
the dog's head to my chest.  "We humans aren't doing such a good job of
things these days, are we girl?", I whispered.  I then sobbed out my
despair into the soft fur of her neck.

   When the wracking sobs finally faded, I realized that I had absolutely
no idea what to do next.  The odds of finding a working internet connection
to locate another CDC lab seemed pretty slim.  Hell, the odds of there
still being another CDC lab were likely pretty small.  I pulled the vial of
polishing compound from my pocket and regarded it silently.  Which would be
worse; if the compound had no effect on the disease and my entire quest had
been a desperate pipedream or if the compound did work and I had been just
been a little too late?  Having no purpose and no plan, I still knew that I
couldn't stay the night in sight of the source of my despair.  With a heavy
heart, I climbed back into the Hummer and continued down the highway. 
Within a mile, I came to a place where the interstate crossed over a finger
of a large lake.  The bridge was clogged solid with cars.  As near as I
could tell, the barrier had been put in place deliberately, perhaps to keep
the survivors fleeing DuBois from going to the home towns of the arsonists.

   With a shrug of my shoulders, I turned the big vehicle around, headed
back to the last exit and drove north to St.  Mary's.  Any hope I had of
finding survivors in the small isolated town was dashed by the darkened
windows of every house in sight.  I began looking for a place to stay the
night.  On the outskirts of the little community I came across a small
stone house that struck my fancy.  I pulled into the driveway and forced
entry with my crowbar.  The lack of smell showed that I had gotten lucky
and the place was free of bodies.  A quick walk through with my flashlight
revealed two bedrooms, a bathroom, a small kitchen, and a medium sized
living room with a large fireplace.  On the back porch was the biggest gas
grill I had ever seen.  Perfect.  Realizing the dog was no longer with me,
I backtracked through the house and finally located her laying on the bed
in the master bedroom.  It seems the decision had been made.

   The following morning, I made a more careful search of the house.  There
were some canned goods in the cupboards, but not many.  The contents of the
refrigerator were questionable at best.  For the hell of it, I tried the
kitchen faucet and was pleasantly surprised when water splashed, pure and
clear, into the basin.  I walked outside and looked around until I located
the medium sized water tower.  If it were anywhere near full and had been
chlorinated anytime recently, it, along with gravity, could certainly keep
me supplied with fresh water until winter, at least.  Assuming, of course,
that I was the only person in town.  With that question in mind, I spent
the rest of the morning going house to house.  I found more than a few
bodies, many of them fairly fresh, but no other living people.  As I was
doing this, I realized that I was proceeding under the assumption that I
would be staying here indefinitely.  Well, why the hell not?  It's not like
I had anyplace better to go.

   In the afternoon, I drove the Hummer to the small general store in the
center of town to stock up on supplies.  After gaining entrance with my
trusty crowbar, I was perusing the shelves when I heard a crash and a growl
from the back of the store.  Running back, I found Heidi and a young woman
in jeans and a T-shirt circling each other.  Both were snarling.  As I drew
to a halt at the edge of the conflict in the making, the woman turned
toward me and lurched in my direction.  Her sunken bloodshot eyes were so
devoid of reason that there was no room to doubt that she was one of the
Mindless.  Her movements were so slow and labored that I would have bet
money that she had only recently succumbed to the disease and was in
roughly the same place that I had been in that hotel bathroom in NYC.

   As she moved toward me, Heidi ran in from her flank and savaged her
ankle.  As the woman turned to attack my dog I brought the crowbar around
and struck her in the side of the head with a solid "thunk".  Even though a
last second qualm had made me pull the blow, she dropped bonelessly to the
floor.  A quick check showed that she was still breathing and her injuries
were, in fact, quite minor.  I stood and lifted the crowbar above my head
to deliver the coup de grace.  A sudden thought stopped me in mid blow. 
What if she was the last person I would ever find alive?  I lowered the
crowbar and bit my lip in consternation.  Even if she were, how could I
possibly take care of her?  On impulse I bent and went through her pockets.
In her back pocket I found a student id.  Her name was Susan.  In better
times, she had been a student of Clarion State University.  It was hard to
reconcile the perky smiling girl in her picture with the animal that lay on
the floor before me.

   Coming to a quick decision, I quickly searched the store until I found
some rope.  After securing Susan's hands and feet, I went to see if I could
find what I needed to implement my hastily thought out plan.  On a dusty
shelf in the sportsmen section of the store, I found three large canine
training collars.  Exactly what I wanted.  Throwing them in the box with
the rest of my scavenged supplies, I carried the box out to the truck
before returning to retrieve Susan.

   Once we were back at my new residence, I carried Susan into the second
bedroom.  Shortly, I had all three collars affixed to her slender neck.  I
hesitated before undoing the restraints, but I figured there would never be
a better time to do it and, if things didn't work out as I hoped, there was
always the crowbar.  I also put a bandage slathered with antibiotic
ointment on her ankle, but, without ice, there was little I could do for
the bump on her head.  Next, I went to the kitchen and fetched a large bowl
of water and a clean dishrag.  I spent the next hour slowly dripping water
onto her lips in an effort to rehydrate her.  I had locked Heidi out of the
room as her presence would surely complicate things once Susan awoke, but
the occasional scratch on the door let me know that she remained interested
in our guest.  I was bending to refresh the moisture in the towel when I
caught a flash of movement in my peripheral vision.  Jumping back, I barely
avoided Susan's gnashing teeth.

   I grabbed two of the collar remote controls and pressed the buttons
while firmly saying, "No!".  Susan convulsed and fell back to the bed with
a squeal.  After she recovered she lunged for me again.  Again I shocked
her and told her "no".  Four times we repeated this until finally she
remained crouched on the bed, staring at me with an expression of fury but
not attacking.  I reached my hand out to her slowly and barely managed to
pull my hand back in time to avoid her snapping teeth.  It took a few more
shocks before I could touch her.

   For pleasure and pain conditioning to work, there has to be pleasure. 
Once she had allowed me to touch her without biting, I was momentarily at a
loss for how to provide the pleasure part of the conditioning.  Acting on
impulse I moved my hand slowly to the back of her head and began to gently
rub her with my fingers while talking to her in a soothing voice, much as I
would scratch Heidi behind the ears.  I felt mildly embarrassed doing this
to a human, but it seemed to work.  The rage in her eyes was slowly
replaced by confusion and then shut slowly in pleasure as she pressed her
head back into my palm.  I continued to rub her for a few more minutes and
then slowly withdrew my hand.  When she continued to offer no violence, I
lifted the water bowl and held it in front of her.  She merely looked at it
for a few moments until I snaked a finger over the rim and splashed.  She
quickly leaned forward and stuck her entire lower face in the bowl, sucking
greedily.

   As she drank, a foul odor assailed my senses.  Its source was obvious.
Mentally I placed housebreaking Susan at the top of my list of priorities.
Once she was done drinking, I locked her in the room, and went to prepare a
bath for her.  I partially filled the tub with cold water and then used the
propane grill to boil a few pots full of water.  Soon the tub was full and
steaming.  Now for the hard part.

   When I entered the second bedroom, I found Susan pretty much where I
left her; sitting on the edge of the bed in her own filth.  As soon as I
opened the door, she came at me with a snarl.  This time it only took two
sets of shocks before I was again able to touch her.  After rubbing the
back of her head for a minute, I threaded a piece of the rope that I had
previously used to bind her through one of the collars.  This done, it was
easy to lead her to the bathroom.

   Pulling her to stand next to the tub, I began to undress her.  As I
pulled her shirt up over her head, she let out a howl and caught me across
the face with a flailing arm.  Spitting out a mouthful of blood, I zapped
her with all three collars simultaneously.  While she was incapacitated
from the shock, I stripped her of the rest of her clothes and, with a
heave, tumbled her into the tub.

   The next ten minutes gave me a good idea of what it would be like to
bathe a mountain lion.  She did her best to bite and scratch me, lashing
out at me over and over again.  I didn't dare use the collars on her while
she was immersed in water, so I instead attempted to calm her with a
soothing tone and gentle restraint.  It didn't work as well as I might have
hoped.  Fortunately for me, she was still weak from starvation and
dehydration and exhaustion soon took its toll.  She settled back into the
tub panting, obviously still not happy with the situation, but no longer
actively resisting.

   I continued to talk to her in soothing tones and gently rubbed the back
of her head until she had calmed completely.  Grabbing a washcloth and a
bar of soap, I began to clean the filth from her body.  It quickly became
apparent that Susan was a lovely young woman with round full breasts and a
flat toned stomach, which flared out nicely at the hips.  Her
attractiveness was marred somewhat by the fact that her skin was loose on
her flesh as a result of her recent lack of food and water.  .

   She sat in the bath tub docilely as I washed her back and face.  When I
reached her chest, her head fell backwards and she let out a soft mewl of
pleasure.  Intrigued by her response, I continued washing her breasts well
after they spotlessly clean.  Eventually, I gave into temptation and
abandoned the washcloth, taking one of her tits into each of my hands,
kneading them gently while running my thumbs over the nipples.  In
response, she threw her legs as wide as they could go in the confines of
the tub and plunged her hands into the water between her legs.  Although
the water was entirely too murky to see clearly, it was obvious that she
was masturbating furiously.  We continued in this fashion until she
shuddered briefly in release.  I then washed the rest of her, continuing to
eschew the use of the washcloth.  She let out another small moan when my
hand went over the stubble covering her mound- in better days she must have
kept it cleanly shaved - and down into the soft open lips of her sex.  I
lingered there for a moment, guiltily enjoying my first feel of female
flesh in quite some time, before moving on to the rest of her.

   Once she was clean, I helped her stand and get out of the tub.  She
stood listlessly as I dried her off, again not able to resist taking my
time on certain areas of her anatomy.  It was then that I realized that I
hadn't scavenged any clean clothes for her.  Putting her soiled clothes
back on her was certainly out of the question and I had no idea how I would
manage to do laundry without electricity - I dismissed with a snort the
sudden image I had of smacking our clothes against the rocks of some
mountain stream.  After a moments consideration, I decided that, since she
obviously had no modesty or shame and the days had become pleasantly warm,
I would just let her stay nude, at least until she was house trained.  Self
justification is a wonderful thing.

   Thus decided, I led her back to her room, held the bowl of water for her
while she drank deeply and reapplied the bandage to her leg.  I then tucked
a blanket around her and went to the kitchen to heat up a few cans of Dinty
Moore beef stew.  While the stew was heating, I dug through the linen
closet and found a plastic sheet for her bed.  Apparently bed wetting was
nothing new for this house.  I wolfed down a bowlful of the stew and
carried another bowl and the clean linens back to Susan's room.

   The finer points of being fed with a spoon escaped her and we ended up
making quite a mess.  I was fairly certain, though, that I had at least
gotten marginally more stew into her than on her.  Although she really
could have used another bath, I contented myself with wiping her off with a
damp cloth.  I then changed the sheets on her bed, putting the plastic one
down first, and tucked her in.  I sat beside her and rubbed her head and
belly until her eyes grew heavy.  When she began to snore, I left the room,
locking the door behind me.

   Noticing that the sky was starting to darken, I took Heidi outside to do
her business and then threw a stick for her to fetch until dusk turned into
dark.

   The following morning, Heidi and I were awakened by howls of rage and
loud beating on the walls and door of the adjacent room.  With a sigh, I
scooped the collar remotes off the night stand and went to the door of
Susan's room.  Predictably, when I opened it, Susan ran at me with arms
outstretched, fingers convulsively opening and closing.  I held the remote
up with my finger poised over the button and said, "No.  Bad Susan!"
Surprisingly, she came instantly to a halt and her hands went to her own
neck with a whimper.  The conditioning was taking hold far more quickly
than I had dared hope.  I approached her slowly and rubbed the back of her
head and her belly until she appeared more calm.  Then the training began.

   The next month was perhaps the longest, most frustrating of my life.  At
times I despaired of teaching her even the simplest things.  Each morning I
endlessly repeated instructions while guiding Susan to perform the desired
action.  I rewarded success with food and affection and punished
transgressions with a quick zap from one of the collars.  In the
afternoons, I walked and played with Heidi and scavenged about the small
town.  Luckily, I found a large generator in one of the other homes.  Over
the course of a few weeks, I also managed to scrounge up enough fuel that I
was able to run it for a hour or so each afternoon to do laundry and run
the vacuum cleaner.  At first, I would use the short periods of electricity
to also run through all the channels on the tv and radio, but quickly gave
this up as futile.

   I also discovered that Ian of WVU broadcast on the shortwave for about a
half hour each afternoon.  I became an avid fan.  It wasn't that his
broadcasts had much substance after the first time; often he would just
tell rambling stories of his childhood or of his family before the plague.
The fact of the matter was that the sound of a human voice that was not my
own was more precious than gold.

   By the end of the month, I had taught Susan to hold her bowels and
bladder until I sat her on the toilet.  Teaching her to wipe herself was
beyond my abilities, but I was grateful for what I had accomplished.  I had
also trained her to sit and stand on command and come when she was called.
Her violent periods had gradually diminished in frequency and duration
until I felt comfortable removing two of the three shock collars.

   Treating another human being in such a manner sickened me at times, but
what was the alternative?  Killing her?  Letting her run loose in the
forest like an animal?  Even if she was not being treated with the dignity
she deserved at least she was alive and healthy.  I knew for a fact how the
Mindless fared in the wild.  During my afternoon walks I had come across a
van owned by the Pennsylvania Department of Corrections which, based on the
clipboard I found inside, had been in the process of hauling a group of
Mindless from one institution to another.  I had found the remains of
several of them.  A few had apparently died of starvation while the others
had been savaged by either one of the packs of feral dogs that roamed the
area or some other predator.  Without higher brain functions and tool use
we just couldn't compete with creatures that had evolved to hunt with tooth
and claw.

   As the rigors and stress of training tapered off and Susan became more
acclimated to her environment, she began to express a more hedonistic
aspect of human instinct.  In other words, she masturbated almost
continuously.  All along we had followed the ritual that had begun with her
first bath; each evening when I bathed her I would spend some extra time
"washing" her tits while she worked her pussy to release.  At first that
had been it.  Now, when I came to her room in the morning to take her to
the bathroom, I would almost invariably find her lying on her bed, legs
splayed wide, with one hand rubbing frantically on her clit while she
plunged two fingers of her other hand feverishly in and out of her hole. 
She had no inhibitions, no restraint, and no shame.  When she finally
reached her release she would let out wild cries before settling back with
her eyes half hooded in satisfaction.

   At first, I merely watched, waiting patiently until she finished. 
However, my restraint was short lived.  The wild abandon with which she
pursued her pleasure was simply too sexy, too primal, to resist.  On the
fourth day that this occurred, I could no longer just watch.  I still
couldn't bring myself to touch her sexually without the justification of a
bath.  She was in no state to give meaningful consent and that would make
any such action rape.  Instead, I pulled a chair to the foot of her bed and
sat stroking myself in time with her plunging fingers.  From this vantage
point I could see that the pistoning of her fingers was so vigorous that it
turned her copious juices to a white froth.  I came with such force that my
seed spattered over her thighs and lower stomach.  She didn't seem to
notice.

   Once she had reached her own orgasm, I sat on the bed next to her and
slowly pulled her into an embrace.  After the intimate moment we had just
shared, I was in dire need of human contact.  She didn't resist as I held
her.  She also didn't reciprocate or show any other form of response
whatsoever.  Still, it was something.  It was only later that I realized
just how close my undefended throat had been to her teeth.  The thought
sent cold shivers down my spine.

   The voyeuristic masturbation sessions quickly became part of my morning
routine.  It was generally enough to keep me sated.  Not Susan.  Any time I
left her unattended, I would usually return to find her stirring the juices
that seemingly welled up endlessly from her depths.



   Within two weeks, I had abandoned the chair and sat on the bed with her,
thigh to thigh, as we brought ourselves to release.  At the start of the
third week, I gave in to temptation even more and reached out to caress her
turgid nipples in the middle of our session.  She immediately let out a
keening wail, her body thrashing in an orgasm far more intense than those I
had previously observed.  The wantonness of the undulations of her nubile
young body brought me quickly to my own climax, my cum shooting across her
tits and chin.  I reached for the rag that I had taken to keeping by her
bed for such cleanups when she extended her tongue and licked my seed from
her face, smacking her lips as she took it in.  Briefly I contemplated
placing my cock in her mouth but quickly abandoned the idea.  Such an act
would be far more likely to end in excruciating pain and severe injury than
pleasure.

   For the next few days, as soon as I joined her on her bed, I would reach
out with one hand to massage her breasts while stroking myself with the
other.  With the added stimulation of my touch, she quickly reached orgasm
and fell back, momentarily sated.  Unfortunately, this left me without the
lascivious display that I found so erotic.  Even with the extra pleasure I
received from feeling her breasts, it took me quite some time to reach
orgasm and, when I did, it was strangely unsatisfying.

   Such was the case a week after I had first touched her outside the
bathroom.  She had almost immediately reached climax and had instantly
ceased her frenzied masturbation.  I was having far more difficulty. 
Frustrated and crazed with lust, I'm ashamed to say that I put my moral
qualms aside.  Sitting up next to her, I gently rolled her over and
elevated her hips.  She went docilely; as compliant and emotionless as a
Barbie doll.  Easing in behind her, I ran my cock up and down her slit,
which was still dripping with juices from her earlier efforts.  As I
circled the head around her clit, she moaned softly and pressed back into
me to increase the pressure.  Pulling the shaft upwards, I positioned
myself at her entrance and started to push forward.  I had barely gotten
the first inch inside her tight wet hole when she went wild.  She thrust
her hips violently back into my loins, taking my member in to the hilt. 
She then began to exuberantly hump and roll her hips, churning my cock in
her depths and causing it to touch every single square millimeter of the
walls of her vaginal passage.  The feeling was exquisite.  It was only a
matter of minutes before she brought me to the peak of pleasure and I
emptied myself into her welcoming womb.  The feel of my seed splashing
against her cervix must have set her off too as the muscles of her interior
began to rhythmically contract and release, milking me of every last drop.

   Afterward she collapsed panting and shaking on the bed.  Tenderly I ran
my hands up her flanks and massaged the tired, quaking muscles of her back.
After a time I gathered her in my arms and held her gently to me.



   The following morning, I resolved to return to the chair at the foot of
the bed.  Even if she had gotten pleasure from the act, it still wasn't
proper to treat the girl in such a manner.  However, when I entered her
room her eyes locked on me and, with a soft moan, she rolled over on her
stomach and stuck her hips up in the air.  Her hips rocked gently from side
to side in obvious invitation.  My resolve melted away.  I quickly moved to
join her on the bed and again experience the things she could do with the
twisting and churning of her hips.

   After that day, Susan rarely masturbated again.  Instead, when the urge
arose within her, she would simply turn her back to me and bend over,
rocking her hips back and forth in invitation.  I accommodated her to the
fullest extent that I was physically capable.  Often I had no choice as she
would refuse to move from the spot until her needs had been fulfilled.

   While all this was occurring, we gradually developed a routine outside
the bedroom as well.  In the mornings, after our activities in Susan's
bedroom, I would take Susan to the bathroom and then get Heidi and her fed.
I would then put socks and shoes on Susan's feet and take Heidi and her for
a walk.  Initially, I used a leash.  On Susan, I mean, not Heidi.  After a
month or so, though, she seemed to lose her inclination to chase after
animals glimpsed in the woods, so I dispensed with it.  I have to admit
that a large part of my motivation for getting rid of the leash was the
shame I would feel if any traveler happened upon us and saw me leading a
naked young woman around with a lead attached to a shock collar.  Those
walks through the beautiful wooded mountains of northern Pennsylvania, with
Susan following docilely a few paces behind me and Heidi romping through
the woods chasing squirrels real and imaginary, quickly became the high
point of my days.  Well, the second highest point, anyway.  In the forest,
unaffected as it was by the ravages of the plague, I could almost forget
that more than six billion people around the globe lie dead and unmourned.

   In the afternoons, I would either fire up the generator, clean up the
house and do laundry or split some logs in preparation for winter. 
Afterwards, I would take Susan back outside and sit her in a lawn chair
protected from the Sun's rays by a large umbrella.  I would lay on the
grass near her and read a book, with frequent pauses to throw a stick for
Heidi or to satisfy Susan's carnal urges.  In mid-afternoon, I would put
aside the book for a half hour or so and listen to Ian on the radio.  Then,
shortly before dark, we would all go inside and eat and I would bathe Susan
and then myself before bed.  While we didn't have air conditioning, the
cool mountain breezes kept us comfortable enough if we left the doors and
windows open.  It wasn't exactly an ideal existence, but it wasn't bad.

   In this way, the days passed quickly and May turned to June and June
faded into July.  In mid-July, I was sitting in the yard with Susan and
Heidi fiddling with the Sangean in preparation for Ian's daily broadcast
when I came across a channel with a man speaking rapidly and angrily in
some foreign language.  I listened for a moment without comprehension and
then, with a shrug of my shoulders, switched channels to listen to Ian.

   Ian's report began, "Hello.  For those of you who don't know me already,
my name is Dr.  Ian Fitzpatrick and I'm broadcasting from West Virginia
University.  As some of you may have noticed, there's a new signal in the
air today.  For those of you who don't speak Farsi, let me give you a
translation, as what they have to say is.....well, lets just say it's
important.  The broadcast is by a group that calls itself the Final Jihad.
They claim that many of the so-called western powers have been pooling
their mentally intact survivors of the plague together in single
communities.  I can confirm that this is, in fact, the case.  Most of the
survivors of the United States, Canada, Mexico and many of the South and
Central American nations had been brought to Southern California so that
they would have the widest possible array of skills and resources available
to begin rebuilding our civilization once the plague has run its course. 
The Final Jihad claims that it learned the location of this site, as well
as corresponding collaborative sites in England, Germany, Greece, Israel,
India and the Ukraine."

   Ian paused for a moment and obviously struggled with himself before
continuing, "The group claims that they sent teams into Russia and China
and seized control of a number of ICBM's.  They...they say that they rained
the holy fires of Allah down upon these communities, to ensure that the new
world is built by those that follow Allah and his prophet, Mohammed."

   Ian again paused and, when he continued, it was apparent that he was
holding back tears only through Herculean effort.  "I would normally
discount such stories as blatant propaganda, but this one has been
indirectly confirmed.  About an hour ago, I picked up a military broadcast
which stated, and I paraphrase, that we initially aimed our retaliatory
strike at the survivor communities in Russia and China, as these are the
nations from which the ICBMs were launched.  When the Final Jihad began to
broadcast, we launched a second strike at a number of former population
centers throughout the middle east.  The fallout from the explosions is
expected to sterilize the entire region."

   Ian sighed sadly and concluded, "I can not bring myself to continue
living in a world in which we continue to wage war on ourselves even as the
very existence of our species is threatened from outside.  Assuming there
is anyone actually listening to my words, I wish you luck and pray that God
will be with you through the trials that are surely to come.  May you prove
to be stronger than I." There was the brief report of a pistol and then
there was only silence.

   I called Heidi to me and gathered her and Susan into a tight embrace,
for once not caring in the slightest if Susan went for my throat.  Heidi
licked at the tears that were running freely down my face for a moment
before picking up her stick and drubbing me with it in the hope that I
would throw it.  Susan, as always, showed no sign of any emotion.  I envied
them their ignorance.

   But life goes on, even when we wish it wouldn't.  Routines followed long
enough become habit which we continue to obey even in the absence of hope.
If my response to Susan's carnal overtures was not as whole hearted as it
had been, she certainly didn't seem to notice.  If I didn't throw Heidi's
stick as frequently or as far during our afternoon play, she didn't care. I
had never felt more alone.

   On August 14, 2013, I had again stumbled through the daily routine more
by ritual than by desire.  At the end of the day, I tucked Susan into bed
under a light sheet.  Seized by sudden impulse, I bent and kissed her
tenderly on the forehead.  As I withdrew, I saw that not only were her eyes
focused on me, but the edges of her mouth were quirked upwards into the
very slightest of smiles.  I basked in the light of that smile until her
face eased in sleep.

   Dazed, I stumbled to my bed and, after nudging Heidi over to her own
side, collapsed onto my pillows.  There hadn't, of course, been any long
term studies of the Mindless.  There hadn't been time.  Could it be that
the mindless state was only a temporary condition?  Could that little smile
be the first sign of returning sentience?  If it were, would she hate me
for what I did to her?  Would she want to actually build a life with me?  A
true life rather than the farce I currently lived?  These questions, and
variation thereof, raced through my mind over and over again.  It was a
long time before I finally fell into exhausted sleep.

   It was well after dawn when I awoke.  Although Heidi usually awakened me
if I made any attempt to sleep in, it didn't initially trouble me that she
hadn't done so today.  As close to truly happy as I had been in months, I
walked to Susan's room and threw open the door with a hearty, "Good
morning!" She wasn't there.  Dumbly I stared around the room until I saw
that the screen in the window had been burst out from within.  I rushed to
the window and my heart rose thudding to my throat at what I beheld. 
Without reason or any thought of my own safety, I rushed through the house
and out the front door, noticing in passing that the screen in the door had
also been torn asunder from inside.  I ran around to the back of the house
and took in the grim sight.

   The scene was dominated, at least in volume, by the torn and bloody body
of a large elk.  The multitude of paw prints around it left no doubt that
it had been hunted and brought down by one of the packs of feral dogs.  I
can only surmise that the sounds of the kill had brought Susan to the
window and the sight of such large prey being brought down had invoked an
instinctive desire to join in the feeding that the training I had given her
could not quell.  Her torn and broken body gave grim testimony as to the
reception she had received from the hungry canines.  Tearing my eyes from
her tattered form I noticed for the first time the mound of bloody cream
colored fur on the other side of the elk.  Heidi must have heard the
commotion and come to defend Susan.  She had failed and had paid for that
failure with her life.

   I spent the afternoon digging a deep grave for the two beings that had
been, such a short time before, the center of my existence.  As I finished
filling in the hole, I noticed several feral dogs peering at me from the
edge of the woods, waiting for me to leave so they could return to the elk.
I raised the gun and took careful aim but found I could not pull the
trigger.  They had only acted according to their nature.  There had been no
malice in their actions.  Revenge upon such creatures would be meaningless
and empty.  I lowered the gun and watched as they closed in on the fallen
carcass of the elk and resumed feeding.

   I stood mutely at the side of the grave for hours.  Nothing I could say
could begin to express the depth of my loss.  No words would bring them
back or add meaning to their deaths.  Numbly I returned to the house and
began to pack my meager possessions into the Hummer.  I could not bear to
stay even for the night.

   When I pulled out of St.  Mary's that night, I had no destination in
mind, only the desire to be far from that place.  I mostly traveled south,
making frequent detours or backtracking to avoid areas where the road was
blocked by rock slides, fallen trees or collapsed utility poles. 
Eventually, I found myself on Route 28 south.  The familiar road gave me at
least an inkling of a plan.  Perhaps I would travel to Pittsburgh to see
what remained of my home city.  Perhaps I would end my life in the place
where it began.

   Near dawn, I was driving the Hummer down a steep hill at the outskirts
of a place called Kittanning, a town nestled in a broad flood plain
bordered by the Allegheny river to the west and hills to the east, when I
saw to my right a sight that I hadn't seen in months and hadn't believed
that I would ever see again.  The whole town of Kittanning was brightly lit
with street lamps.  With hope flaring brightly in me, I abandoned my
thoughts of suicide and turned the truck towards the town.

   That hope diminished greatly as I drove down the front street.  The
harsh light from the streetlights showed that the grass in the river front
park and the small lawns of the homes was at least thigh high.  Thousands
of weeds and saplings sprung from the cracks and deep potholes in the
streets and beat a steady staccato rhythm on the underside of my vehicle as
I drove along slowly.  While many of the homes had light shining from
windows, there was no sign of movement.  At one point, I had to stop and
wait while a small herd of deer slowly and fearlessly crossed the road in
front of me.

   Stopping at the best lit of the river front homes, I exited the vehicle
and knocked loudly and repeatedly on the door.  When I got no response, I
tried the knob and found it unlocked.  The interior of the home had been
recently and lovingly restored.  After a quick search of the house, I found
the nearly mummified bodies of a couple lying in one of the upstairs
bedrooms, arms still locked in their final embrace.  Going back downstairs,
I stretched out on their couch to get a few hours of sleep.  I didn't think
they'd mind.

   When I awoke, I spent the remaining daylight hours walking up and down
various streets, yelling "Hello" over and over again.  There was no
response.  Finally, I gave up and walked to the large castle-like court
house at the center of town, its classical architecture seemingly out of
place among the run down businesses that lined the street in front of it.
There, I found answers to at least a few of my questions.  After the first
months of the plague, Kittanning, like many small towns, began to isolate
itself from the rest of the world as a sort of large scale quarantine
effort.  This town was well suited for such an endeavor as a hydroelectric
generator had been installed in the nearby dam across the Allegheny river.
They had tied that generator directly into the local power grid and then
isolated that grid from the outside.

   They really had made an astounding effort to become self sufficient. 
From the fliers that covered the walls of the courthouse foyer, the local
government had offered its citizens classes in subjects ranging from
hydroponic gardening to small engine repair.  They had organized groups of
citizens to provide road repair and others to maintain the power generator.
They had emptied the county treasury to stock up on supplies for their
sewage disposal plant and had prepared an area for use as a landfill.  They
had established guard posts and roving patrols with instructions to turn
all outsiders away.  Unfortunately, like so many of humanities efforts to
stem the spread of the plague, this one, too, had ultimately failed.

   Disheartened, I left the courthouse and began to walk back to the house
in which I had taken shelter.  As I grew near, I heard the sound of metal
rhythmically and repeatedly striking stone.  Creeping down an alleyway, I
found an older woman wearing only the tattered remains of a skirt and a
thick layer of filth slamming a tin can onto the edge of a cement block.  I
must have made a noise during my approach as she turned to me and clutched
the can protectively to her chest.  I stopped and, when she offered no
violence, began to talk to her in a soothing tone, introducing myself,
asking her name, and asking if she needed assistance.  Her bloodshot eyes
gave no hint of understanding and her grasp on the can never faltered. 
With a sigh, I turned and resumed my journey.  After Susan's death, I had
no interest in trying to train another Mindless.

   The following day, I searched through garages until I found a large
wheelbarrow and a shovel and then gathered up the former owners of my new
abode, careful not to break their embrace.  I took them to the park across
the street and buried them, still entwined in each other's arms. 
Afterwards, I hauled their blood caked mattress a good fifty yards from the
fresh grave and, after clearing a large area of grass, burned it.  After
taking a shower with real hot water, I spent the rest of the evening
watching dvd movies on their large screen LCD tv before retiring to what
had been their spare bedroom.  As I drifted off to sleep, I decided that
central air conditioning had certainly been one of the greatest
achievements of mankind.

   In the middle of the night I was awakened by a commotion outside my
window.  Rising from bed, I pulled the curtain aside and peered out into
the harshly lit alleyway.  A large, hairy naked man had cornered the woman
I had seen earlier.  With grim amusement, I saw that she still held her can
tightly in her grasp.  With a snarl, the man lunged for her.  She ducked
under his arms and made a break for it down the alley.  She wasn't quite
fast enough.  The man caught her and threw her face first into the ground.
As he dropped on top of her, it became apparent that killing her wasn't his
intent.  He pushed her chest more firmly into the street with one hand and
pulled the remains of her skirt up over her back with the other.  He lunged
his hips forward and she screamed in agony.  When he reared back, I saw
that he had missed his mark and was firmly ensconced in her anus.  He
didn't notice or didn't care.  Furiously he began to rut back and forth as
she screamed and cried below him.

   After millions of years of evolution and thousands of years of
civilization, we had been reduced to this: two animals fornicating in the
street while the products of our genius decayed around them.  The worst
part was that the fall from our pinnacle to this sorry state had taken less
than a year.  My reverie was interrupted when the woman cried out again. 
Only this time, she screamed, "No!  Please stop!  It hurts!" I was halfway
down the steps before the last of these words passed from her lips.  I ran
around the outside of the house and found the tableau unchanged.  The man
was so engrossed in his rape of the woman that he never heard me coming.  I
grabbed his long greasy hair and heaved him backwards, tearing him from the
woman.  All that log splitting in St.  Mary's had left me stronger than I
had ever been in my life.  He quickly regained his feet and all of his fury
focused on me.  I brought up the service revolver and shot him at point
blank range.  The back of his head erupted outwards in a gush of blood,
bone and brain.  He fell dead to the ground, finally at peace.

   I gently took hold of the woman's shoulder and helped her to rise. 
Taking her arm in mine I guided her back to the house.  She came meekly.  I
couldn't help but notice that most of her ribs were clearly visible.  Once
inside, I sat her at the kitchen table and busied myself heating up some
canned soup.  I placed the bowl of soup, a glass of water and a spoon on
the table in front of her.  She simply stared for a moment and then dug in
with gusto.  I noticed that she had no problem using utensils.

   While she was eating, I went upstairs, ran a hot bath, and dug around in
the master bedroom until I found a pair of sweat pants and a t-shirt. 
Depositing the clothes in the bathroom, I went down to see how she was
progressing.  Finding that she had finished her meal, I said quietly, "I
have a bath and clean clothes ready if you want them.  Here, take my hand
and I'll show you where to go." She stood and slowly reached out to grasp
my fingers.  I led her upstairs to the bathroom and then left so she could
bathe in privacy.  Almost an hour had passed before I heard her come down
the stairs.

   When she entered the living room, I wouldn't have recognized her if
there had been any other women in the area to confuse her with.  Now that
she was clean, I could tell that she was a lot younger than I had
originally guessed, probably in her late twenties or early thirties.  Her
hair, surprisingly, was blond; before the bath, it had been so dirty that I
had thought that she was a brunette with more than a touch of gray.  She
was very pretty, in a girl-next-door kind of way.  The feature which most
stood out were her ears, which managed to be both large and delicate at the
same time.

   I gave her the most reassuring smile I could manage and asked, "Feel a
little better?" She nodded mutely in response.  I then asked, "Can I get
you anything else to eat or drink?" She shook her head slightly from side
to side.  Finally, I asked, "Is there anything you need?" She hesitated a
moment and then, in a voice so low I could barely make it out, muttered,
"Hurts." I nodded sympathetically, "Have a seat and I'll go get some
Tylenol and a glass of water." She sat very gingerly and it suddenly dawned
on me which part of her was in pain.  While grabbing the painkillers, I
also picked up some band-aids and Neosporin to treat some cuts and scrapes
I had noticed on her face and hands.

   By the time she had taken the painkillers and I had bandaged every wound
I could find, I saw that her eyes were drooping shut.  "Come with me and
I'll show you to a bed," I told her.  After that was done, I settled on the
couch and quickly fell asleep.

   When I woke in the morning, I went to check on her and found her still
asleep, curled up tightly in the fetal position.  Closing the door softly,
I went back downstairs, put some coffee on and went about making breakfast.
As I had assumed it would, the smell of brewing coffee brought her
downstairs shortly before breakfast was ready.  As she sat at the table, I
placed a cup of joe and plateful of instant pancakes and fried spam in
front of her.  As she started eating, I said, "By the way, I'm Tom." She
looked at me for a few seconds and then in a voice so low I had to strain
to hear it, "Michelle." I held my hand out, "It's a pleasure to meet you,
Michelle." She stared at my hand so long that I was about to withdraw it in
embarrassment when she reached slowly forward and took my hand lightly in
hers, "It's a pleasure to meet you, too."

   Once she had finished eating, she asked, in the same barely audible
voice, "Would it be ok if I took another bath?  Still not clean." I nodded
in understanding, "Of course you can.  Treat this home as your own."
Magnanimous of me, considering that I had never even seen the place until a
few days before.  After making sure that she would be able to draw the bath
on her own, I told her that I was going to try to find a mattress for the
other bed and would be back in an hour or so.

   Before heading to the furniture store, I decided that it would probably
be a good idea to dispose of the Mindless's body.  Originally I had planned
to bury him, but the more I thought about how he had brutally attacked
Michelle, the less I believed he deserved to have his remains treated with
respect.  In the end, I dragged his body down to the river and threw it in,
watching his bloated corpse drift in the current until it was out of sight.

   Obtaining a mattress turned out to be even easier than I had expected.
The furniture store that I had noticed on the main street of town was well
stocked with mattresses and the flat bed delivery truck at the loading dock
was fueled and had the keys in the ignition.  I was muscling the mattress
up the stairs when Michelle emerged for the bathroom in a cloud of steam.
She took a few tentative steps in my direction and then, more surely, took
hold of the end of the bedding to help me.  In her weakened state, the
assistance she gave me was more spiritual than physical but it still meant
everything to me.

   I spent the rest of the day exploring the town.  I had asked Michelle if
she would like to join me, but she had responded with a shake of the head.
I found a few grocery stores, but they were pretty much stripped bare.  Oh
well.  What I had brought with me together with what I had found in the
house would feed two people for at least a month.

   When I returned home, I found Michelle curled up on the couch with tears
rolling down her face.  I glanced to see what dvd she was watching and
recognized it as "Pretty Woman".  Not much to cry about there. 
Nevertheless, I asked, "Sad movie?" She gave me a wan smile and wiped the
tears from her eyes.  "No.  It's just that it's so innocent.  All they
cared about was making money and finding someone to love.  They had no
concept of what it's like to watch your entire family, all your friends,
and everyone you know die.  They had no idea what it's like to be so hungry
you hurt, of being...of being..." Her words were cut off by deep, wrenching
sobs.  After a moment's hesitation, I sat down next to her on the couch and
folded her in a gentle embrace.  She buried her head in my chest.  The
tears took a long time to stop.

   Late that night, I was wrenched from sleep by screams of terror.  I
grabbed the service revolver from my bedside and, wearing just my boxers,
sprinted to Michelle's room.  As I ran, more screams split the night.  I
threw the door to her bedroom open and jumped inside, tracking the gun from
one side of the room to the other.  I knew all those cop dramas I watched
would come in handy one day.  There was no one in the room but Michelle,
who had stopped screaming but was now looking at me with wide terrified
eyes, her lips pursed in an "o" of surprise.  Embarrassed now, I lowered
the gun and mumbled, "Sorry, I heard you screaming and thought you were in
trouble.  I apologize for the whole madman waving a gun around thing." She
visibly relaxed and said, "It's me who should be apologizing.  It seems as
though the nightmares start the second I close my eyes.  I'm sorry I woke
you."

   She settled back down into bed and I turned to leave.  I was in the hall
reaching to close her door behind me when her timid voice emerged from the
room, "I hate to ask, but would you be willing to sit with me a while?" I
responded, "Of course.  Do you want me to join you in there or should I go
put some coffee on and meet you in the kitchen." I could hear the smile in
her voice, "Coffee sounds wonderful"

   Fifteen minutes later, we were seated comfortably at the kitchen table
in our bathrobes, steaming cups of coffee in our hands.  She closed her
eyes in bliss as she took a sip and then set the cup down with a sigh.  She
raised her eyes to mine, "Considering how we met, you haven't asked me a
whole lot of questions.  I know I would be curious in your shoes."

   "Of course I'm curious, but I figured if there was anything you wanted
me to know, you would tell me in your own time.  Since the start of the
plague, I've done a lot of things I'm not proud of, so I completely
understand if you'd prefer not to share."

   She regarded me in silence for a moment.  "You know, when you killed
Rick, I figured that I was trading one rapist for another who was just a
bit cleaner and could talk.  Especially, when you put me here in this very
chair naked and then looked like you were planning on giving me a bath."



   I guess it shouldn't have surprised me that she knew her Mindless
rapist's name, but it did.  I responded, "I never really thought about how
last night would look from your perspective.  I'm sorry that I did anything
to scare you.  I was more than a little freaked out by the whole experience
and wasn't thinking very clearly." Seeking to lighten the mood a bit,
perhaps inappropriately, I raised an eyebrow in indignation, "What do you
mean, `just a bit cleaner'?" She responded to my poor joke with a polite
chuckle.  Very polite.  I resolved to renew my acquaintance with deodorant.

   She shifted in her chair and gazed down into her coffee, but her eyes
were far away.  In a monotone voice, she began to speak.  "I grew up in
this town.  The only time I ever lived anywhere else was when I went to
school for physical therapy.  As soon as I got my license, I came straight
back here and got a job at the local hospital.  Within a few months of my
return, I married my high school sweetheart, Robby.  Rick and his wife,
Sharon, were our next door neighbors and best friends.  Life was good."

   "Then the plague started.  Even when it became apparent that the plague
was going to be the real thing and not just another attempt by the media to
scare us, like they had with the avian flu, everyone here was still
confident that we would be able to avoid the worst of it.  We were, after
all, a small community that was fairly easy to cut off from the rest of the
world.  The county commissioners, usually so concerned at simply
maintaining the status quo so they could win reelection, were surprisingly
proactive in making sure that we had the skills and means to survive in the
long term.  Well, you saw the pamphlets and fliers at the courthouse, so
you know about that."

   "We were successful at keeping the plague at bay until mid-April, when
the nut-jobs started burning the cities.  We saw the huge clouds of smoke
and knew Pittsburgh had probably been razed.  We weren't sure about the
towns between here and the `Burg, though.  Our guards had driven off more
than one pickup truck full of wannabe arsonists and our police had cooled
down a lot of local religious hot heads who wanted to join in the burning,
so we feared the worst.  Then, one day a road guard radioed into the
courthouse that there was a survivor - of the plague not just the fire -
from Pittsburgh at his post who wanted to pass through to get to a camp he
owned up the river.  One of the commissioners told the guard to ask the man
to wait and went up to speak to him in person.  After the commissioner
heard what the survivor had to say, he asked the man to stay the night and
give his news directly to all of us at a town meeting.  The man agreed. 
That night we learned that the arsonists had gotten to every part of
Pittsburgh and most of the large towns around it."

   "After the meeting, the survivor decided to continue on his way rather
than stay the night.  We all went back to our homes and beds, sad over the
fate of the neighboring communities but inside we were happy that we had
been spared.  I woke up next to my husband's body, in horrible pain and so
thirsty I couldn't talk.  I managed to crawl down to my kitchen and laid on
the floor for days mourning my husband's death and regaining my strength."

   "Eventually, I came to my senses and went outside to see how the rest of
the town had fared.  The first thing I saw when I stepped outside was Rick,
walking aimlessly around his yard.  I called out to him.  As soon as he
turned towards me, I could tell it wasn't really Rick anymore.  I tried to
run, but he caught me easily.  He...he beat me.  He hurt me so bad, I was
sure that I was going to die.  Then he suddenly stopped hitting me and
started tearing at my clothes.  Then...then...the motherfucker raped me! 
Right on the front steps of my own home!"

   Michelle suddenly broke off from her story and began to weep.  I took
her hand in mine and held it sympathetically as she relived the horrible
memory.  After a few minutes she swallowed a few times and continued, "When
he...finished, I tried to crawl back into my house.  He kicked me hard
enough to knock me into the yard.  From then until the time that you came,
he was always nearby, always watching.  Anytime I tried to go into a
building, any building, he would beat me.  A few times I managed to slip
away while he was sleeping or eating, but he always found me and made me
hurt.  He...took me...two, three, sometimes five times a day, every day. 
It was hell, pure and simple.  I had always wondered if crazy people knew
that they were crazy.  Now I know.  I could feel my sanity slipping away.
In fact, when I first saw you, I was sure that you were a delusion, come to
torment me more."

   I gave her hand a slight squeeze before responding quietly, "I have
encountered a few people like Rick, people left mindless by the plague.  I
had just assumed that you were one of them.  I'm so sorry."

   Michelle considered this for a moment before saying in a low voice, "I
was almost mindless, it just wasn't from the plague.  At least not
directly." She was quiet for a minute before announcing, "I really need to
get some sleep." I agreed that I could use some as well and we stood and
went upstairs.  As I was preparing to enter my room, she turned and,
shifting nervously from foot to foot, said, "Tom, I hate to ask this, but I
don't want to be alone.  Would you lay with me?" Then, in a rush, "If you
wanted, we could even...be intimate."

   From the tone of her last statement, I could tell that it was the last
thing that she wanted, that she had made the offer only because she thought
that was the only way I would be willing to stay with her.  I stepped up to
her and gently took her chin in my hand, raising it until her eyes met
mine, "Michelle, I haven't had another person to talk to in months.  I was
beginning to think that I never would again.  Just to hear the sound of
another person's voice is pure heaven to me and I can't begin to tell you
how grateful I am to have found you.  Anything you need from me, I will
happily provide to the best of my abilities.  If you ever want to..be
intimate, I'll be here.  If you don't, that's fine, too.  The important
thing is what you want."

   Her eyes searched mine for a moment, and apparently she found what she
was looking for.  The sides of her mouth quirked upwards in the ghost of
what promised to be a spectacular smile, "That may be the corniest little
speech I've ever heard.  Come on, lets get some sleep." With a laugh I
followed this amazing woman to her room.

   The following morning, I told her my story, leaving nothing out.  While
curious about the signs that Susan showed of recovering, she did not
morally condemn or even question any of my actions.  Later, as we were
lingering over breakfast, Michelle suddenly asked, "Would you mind going
with me to my old house?  The thought of Robby...just lying there...is
killing me.  I feel I should...no, that's not right..I need to do something
for him." I, of course, said that I would.  Before we left the house, I ran
down to the basement and grabbed a tarp and the shovel I had used for this
house's former occupants.  She noticed the tools, but didn't comment.

   Soon we were standing in the doorway of her old bedroom.  After all the
time that had passed, there really wasn't much left of Robby.  Michelle
stood numbly staring at the remains until I gently asked, "Do you think he
would have liked to be put to rest in the park overlooking the river?" When
she nodded mutely, I said, "I'll go get things ready while you pay your
respects." A few hours later, I stood back at a respectful distance while
she wept over the fresh grave.  It was well after dark when we headed home.

   That night, shortly after I had eased my sore body into bed, Michelle
came into my room and, without a word, crawled in next to me.  She noticed
me wince as I moved to make room for her, "Thank you for doing all the hard
work today.  If you roll over on your belly, I think I can help with that
sore back." I gladly complied.  I had never gotten a massage from a
licensed physical therapist before.  It was wonderful and I soon drifted
off to sleep in contentment.

   A few hours later, Michelle woke screaming.  I held her and rubbed her
back until she calmed down enough to return to sleep.

   That day set a precedent.  For the next month I spent my days clearing
the town of its dead.  After realizing the volume of remains involved,
Michelle and I decided that cremation and mass burial of the remains would
have to do.  I used a municipal backhoe to dig the hole and then used the
flatbed to haul firewood to the park.  The fire burned day and night for
the entire month.

   While I was doing this, Michelle, who had taken the hydroponics course,
was turning the attic into a garden.  She promised fresh vegetables within
two months.

   It wasn't all work and no play, though.  Every few days we would take a
break and go canoeing on the river or swim in a nearby pool that we had
reconditioned.  I suppose that we could have just swam in the river, but
the occasional body that still drifted by made us squeamish.  Other days
she would come with me while I searched for remains and we would poke
through the houses, admiring or ridiculing the former owner's taste in
furnishings and decor.  Sometimes we found caches of food and she would
haul them back to our house in the Hummer while I dragged the bodies we
found to the pyre in the park.

   In the evenings, we would watch movies before cuddling up together in
bed.  There was still no sex, but the time we had together was still more
satisfying than that which I had spent with Susan.  As the days went by,
Michelle's nightmares grew less frequent and, in time, faded away
completely.  Nevertheless, she still seemed to find comfort in my presence
at night.

   Eventually, I managed to clear the town of its former inhabitants.  When
the fire burned low and went out, Michelle helped me shovel the ashes into
the grave I had dug.  We discussed saying a prayer over the grave but,
after the events of the past year, neither of us was inclined to believe in
the existence of a benevolent deity.  Instead we stood hand in hand by the
freshly turned earth and she told me of the family members, friends and
neighbors whose remains we had interred, of their hopes and dreams and
foibles.  On the way home, we raided the liquor store and drank toasts to
the departed long into the night.

   The following morning, Michelle told me that we would be having fresh
green beans and tomatoes with dinner that night.  At loose ends now that
the deceased had been put to rest, and too hung over to consider any more
arduous task, I decided that I would try to add fresh fish to the menu.

   I hadn't been fishing since I was a child, and it showed.  Still, after
spending most of the day clearing snags and snarls, I did manage to land
three nice sized walleye.  I triumphantly took my catch home and set about
trying to clean and filet them.  After watching my fumbling efforts in
amusement for a time, Michelle took the knife from me with a muttered,
"City boys, pfft.", and made quick work of the task.

   In the following days, I alternated between fishing and using a large
push mower to restore the park and the lawns of the neighboring homes to
their former glory.  In my spare time, I learned how to operate a true
shortwave radio that I had found in one of the homes that I had cleared.  I
took to broadcasting every evening, telling any survivors who were
listening how to find us and inviting them to join us.  There was never any
response to my broadcasts and no one ever came.

   In mid October, the temperature plummeted precipitously.  On October 20,
we stood at the window and watched as masses of soft fat snowflakes fell to
earth.  I couldn't recall the last time we had snow so early.  Michelle
surmised that the vast amounts of smoke in the atmosphere from the burning
cities might have had an overall cooling effect.

   That night as we snuggled into bed, Michelle twisted around until she
was facing me, took my head in her hands, and brought her lips to mine. 
The kiss rapidly grew more passionate, and I felt her tongue flicking
across my lips before seeking, and being granted, entrance to my mouth. 
The kiss went on and on, each tongue sensuously caressing its twin. 
Finally, Michelle pulled back slightly and breathlessly whispered, "I've
decided that I'm ready.  Please be gentle with me." I pulled her back to
me, resuming our kiss.  Our hands, which had been idle in a simple embrace,
began to rub gently up and down the other's back.  I gradually extended my
caresses until my hand passed beneath the hem of the oversized t-shirt she
had worn to bed to the warm soft bare flesh of her nicely rounded bottom.
"Where are your panties, you naughty, naughty girl?", I whispered in her
ear.  She responded with a throaty giggle and pushed me over onto my back.
Then, with a move that would have made any professional wrestler proud, she
was suddenly straddling me.  I could feel the heat and moisture of her sex
through the thin material of my boxers.

   Sitting up straight, she grabbed the hem of her shirt and pulled it up
over her head.  She sat there for a moment, grinding her hips slowly into
my crotch and smiling slightly at the look of appreciation that I know was
on my face.  Lowering her chest to mine, she again kissed me, before
trailing her lips across my face to my ear, where she whispered, "I've been
thinking about doing this all day and its made me sooo hot.  Would you mind
if we just kinda skipped the foreplay?" Without waiting for a reply, she
lifted her hips slightly and reached between us to fish my swollen member
out through the slit in my boxers.  While looking me in the eyes, she
everso-slowly straightened my cock upwards and I felt the head graze over
the hard nub of her clit before sliding down the slippery wet folds of her
labia.  When my tip reached the center of her womanhood, she swirled it in
circles around her entrance, causing us both to moan in desire.

   She then sat up astride my body and began swiveling her hips in little
circles, each rotation sending my flesh a little deeper into hers.  Soon
her pelvis met mine with a soft, wet smack.  I looked down at the point of
our union and thrilled to the sight of my manhood buried to the hilt in her
hairless sex.  I ran my hands up slowly up her thighs and rubbed my thumbs
down over her smooth mons, dipping one to lightly rub her clitoris.  "Mmmm,
you shaved.", I commented.

   She responded with another giggle, "I wanted to look pretty for you.  Do
you like it?"

   "Oh god, yes!  You are so beautiful.", I replied.

   She then started to raise and lower herself over me and speech became
impossible, the only sounds in the room now were low moans and the soft
impacts of skin against skin.  I slowly ran my hands from the firm flesh of
her ass up the soft, smooth skin of her flanks to the fullness of her
breasts.  I paused there for a moment, rubbing my palms over the hard
points of her nipples, before making the return journey.  She quickened the
pace and I began to lift my hips to meet her halfway on each thrust.  She
leaned forward slightly and her soft hair brushed up and down across my
upper stomach and chest with each of our thrusts.

   The sensations were too much.  Suddenly realizing that we weren't using
any form of birth control, I cried out, "I'm going to cum...".  She dropped
her body fully on top of mine and kissed me savagely without slowing the
motion of her hips.  Pulling her lips from mine, she lustily moaned out,
"Cum inside me!  I want to feel you cum!" Taking her buttocks in my hands,
I pulled her down upon me while thrusting upwards with my hips and exploded
deep inside her.  She ground her hips into my loins and cried out, "I can
feel it!  I can feel you cumming!  Ohhh, it feels so good!" I felt her body
tense and shiver against mine and she collapsed on top of me, gasping for
breath.  I held her to me for an endless moment before pulling her lips to
mine.  "I love you.", I said before pressing in to kiss her.  As I said it,
I realized that it was true and had been for quite some time.  She hugged
me tightly as she returned my kiss passionately.  Disengaging slightly, she
then raised herself to look deeply in my eyes.  "I love you, too.", she
said simply.

   We laid there long into the night, hands rubbing softly up and down each
other's bodies and talking softly of inconsequential things until sleep
finally took us.

   When I awoke the next morning, I found her beautiful nude body still
pressed up against mine, dispelling any notion I had that the previous
night had only been a wondrous dream.  Slowly, so as not to wake her, I
eased her over on her back and went to the bathroom to empty my bladder and
brush my teeth.  When I returned, I found her snoring softly, still splayed
out in the position in which I had left her.  Crawling up on the foot of
the bed, I lowered my face to the juncture of her thighs.  Applying only
light pressure with my lips, I kissed and nibbled at her inner thighs,
causing her to shudder slightly and murmur in her sleep.

   I moved my lips inward towards her center and used my tongue to trace
lightly around the petals of the flower of her womanhood before dipping my
tongue in the moist recesses of her center, enjoying the pungent, womanly
taste and smell of her.  I could already see beads of her nectar appearing
on the unfolding lips.  As I gently ran my tongue around the hood of her
clit, she moaned loudly and I felt her fingers running through my hair. 
"Ohh my, this is an even better way to wake up than coffee.", she muttered
sleepily.  From her, that was the best compliment imaginable.  Now that she
was awake, I returned to my task with diligence and was soon rewarded with
her thighs clamping around my head like a vise while she pulled my face
hard into her flesh.

   Afterwards, she grasped me by the sides of my head and gently but firmly
pulled me upwards into an embrace.  Reaching between us, she moved to again
join us as one.  We didn't make it downstairs for breakfast until well past
noon.

   When we did finally manage to get out of bed, we discovered that there
was more than a foot of snow on the ground.  We looked at each other in
delight before bundling up and running outside to frolic in the snow like
children.

   As the winter wore on, the snow kept piling up until there was nearly
four feet of it on the ground.  To keep boredom at bay, most mornings, I
used pamphlets purloined from the courthouse and an old lawnmower to teach
myself small engine repair while she tended her attic garden.  I had
initially tried to assist her until she firmly forbade me and my black
thumb from coming anywhere near the attic.  In the afternoons, we both
worked together to learn woodworking, using wood we had taken from the
lumberyard before the snow got too deep for the flatbed.  In the evenings,
we played chess and cards, and watched movies.  I continued to make my
shortwave broadcasts, though they grew shorter by the day.  On other days
we only emerged from the bedroom for food and visits to the bathroom.

   On Christmas, we gave each other our amateurish woodworking creations,
laughing at our meager skills.  We had wanted to put up a tree, but there
were no evergreens near our house and the Hummer was so deeply buried in
snow that there was no hope of moving it.

   On New Years day, I awoke to fine myself alone in bed.  Stumbling
sleepily down the stairs, I found a note on the kitchen table, "Went
outside for a while.  Be back soon.  Don't worry!  Love, M." I got myself
cleaned up and was sitting on the couch reading when I heard her stomping
the snow off her feet and legs out on the porch.  When she came in the
door, I saw that she had a rifle over her shoulder and the sleeves of her
coat were covered in blood up to her elbows.  I jumped up in alarm,
eliciting a laugh from her.  "Our diet has been a bit dull lately, so I
went out to get us some variety.  Now get your butt up and help me drag
this to the basement to be butchered", she said with a smile while cocking
a thumb over her shoulder.  I peered out the door behind her and, sure
enough, there was a large field dressed buck laying on the porch.  I had to
laugh, even after all the time we had spent together, this amazing woman
still managed to surprise me.

   In mid February, Michelle sat me down and informed me that she was
pregnant.  It was easily the happiest day of my life.  n We immediately
started to turn the second bedroom into a nursery.  For a while, I did my
best to pamper her and keep her from exerting herself until she finally
told me, in no uncertain terms, that she was not made of china and, if I
continued to treat her as if she were, she would prove it by kicking my ass
from one side of town to the other.  After that, I still tried to do my
best to pamper her, but did so as surreptitiously as possible.  She
tolerated my efforts with grumpy good humor.

   By mid-March, the snow had finally started to melt.  One night we were
awakened by a sound like all the freight trains in the world running by us
at once.  We ran outside and watched in awe as huge masses of ice ground
there way down the river.  The flood resulting from all the melting snow
was the worst either of us could remember.  When the water began to lap at
the front steps of our porch, grinding chunks of ice the size of small cars
into the light posts across the street, we moved to higher ground for the
duration.  Fortunately, that turned out to be the crest of the flood and we
didn't suffer any major damage to the house we had both begun to think of
as our own.

   Unfortunately, the flood and ice had knocked out the hydroelectric
generator.  We lived by candlelight near the fireplace for a month, while I
studied the books on generator repair and we waited for the waters to fully
recede.

   In mid April, I donned a scavenged scuba suit and ventured into the
still icy waters by the dam.  The damage turned out to be minor and, with
my new found knowledge, I was able to get the generator working again. 
Still, I decided that I should probably make the journey to the place were
it was manufactured to secure replacement parts before next winter.

   With power restored, the days again flew by.  We spent many of them
reading every book that we could find in the public library on child
bearing and rearing.

   In early June, we were working happily putting the finishing touches on
the nursery when Michelle suddenly doubled over in pain and fluid splashed
around her feet.  We had trained ourselves well for this time, and the
birth went smoothly, though we both avoided any mention of how alarmingly
prematurely the child was coming.

   An hour later, I held my stillborn son in my hands, his blood red eyes
staring sightlessly upwards.  Suddenly everything clicked into place from
the outbreak in this town immediately after the visit from the survivor to
the fact that our eyes remained permanently bloodshot.  We weren't just
survivors of the disease, we were carriers.  Even worse, there was
apparently no hereditary resistance to the disease.

   How many survivors were left after the nukes had flown?  With an average
survival rate of just a few per million, how many children would each
surviving woman have to have before there was even one child who survived?
I pushed these thoughts aside with the realization that the woman I love
was in need of comfort and support, needs that I shared.

   Michelle and I clutched each other desperately for hours, sobbing our
grief into each other's shoulders.  Eventually, we gathered our son into
our arms and laid him to rest near Michelle's former husband.

   After Michelle recovered physically, we discussed the matter, and I
learned that Michelle had the same thoughts as I.  But, we asked ourselves,
what if our first child was an aberration?  What if there were high odds
that two survivors would bear a resistant child, but those odds just
weren't perfect?  Clinging to this beacon of hope, we decided to try again.
The second pregnancy was far different from the first, marked by fear
instead of joy.  Michelle gave birth to a daughter just as the winter snows
were starting to fall.  The first child had not been an aberration after
all.

   After the stillbirth of our daughter, apathy consumed us both and we
became listless and withdrawn.  Whole days would pass without a word being
spoken.  One afternoon in early November, I returned from fishing to find
the house ominously silent.  Overcome by a feeling of nameless dread, I
grabbed the old service revolver from the mantle and began to search the
house.  I found her on the back porch, swaying gently in the cold breeze.

   I cut her down and held her lifeless body to my chest, numbly rocking
back and forth for hours.  Finally, I found the strength to read the tear
stained note which had been protruding from her front pocket: "My dearest
Tom, I love you with all of my heart.  The short time we had together was
the best of my life despite everything that was going on around us.  Out of
love for you, I have tried my best to carry on, but I just cannot live in a
world without hope.  A world without children, a world in which children
aren't even possible, is just that.  The thought of growing old with no one
to carry on after us is unbearable to me.  I am sorry for the pain I know
this will cause you and I hope that you can find it in your heart to
forgive me.  With all my love, Michelle."

   I carried her to the park and buried her next to our children, piling
each of the graves high with stones so no scavenger could ever touch them.
Afterwards, I sat on the riverbank and watched the water flow by through my
tears.  As dusk fell, I noticed a racoon working the ice crusted riverbank.
Was I looking at the ancestor of the species that would rise to replace us?
Millions of years from now, would his distant decedents find some remnant
of the works of mankind and wonder about us?  Would they learn from our
mistakes?  For that matter, would we be replaced?  Was sentience an
inevitable consequence of evolution or were we a unique aberration?  I
saluted the beast with my pistol.  It started at the sudden motion and
turned to stare at me through the gathering night.  "Well, little fella,
whatever the case may be, one thing is certain: my race is doomed. 
Whatever your destiny may be, humanity will not stand in the way.  Now I'll
do my part to give you what you deserve.  A fresh start."

   I placed the gun under my chin and pulled the trigger.














   

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