Maelstrom

by Susanna Strom

  “All right, I’m game.”

  Fifteen minutes later Levi and I set out on our wild turkey hunt. Took less than half an hour to track down one of the huge black gobblers with a bright red wattle. Levi carried the shotgun and made the kill. He skinned the bird and carved out the breast and thigh meat. Back at grandpa’s place, he cooked the meat over the outdoor grill. Added some canned vegetables and fruit from the basement stockpile, and we had the makings of a good dinner.

  We gathered around the cinder block firepit in the backyard, our enamel camping plates piled high. The turkey was a little tough—Levi said we should have aged it a couple of days—but the fresh meat tasted damned good. Hector wolfed down every tidbit we threw his way.

  Since it was late in the day, we decided to spend the night at Grandpa Kurt’s, bunking down in the barn to avoid cougars and other predators. Kyle and Sahdev studied Uncle Mel’s map and plotted our trip to Valhalla. We’d retrace our route through Bend and Madras, then veer east toward Antelope and Fossil, before heading off on the narrow unpaved roads that wound their way to the isolated ranch.

  We assigned watch—in case the assholes who trashed the place came back—and spread out our sleeping bags. Sahdev volunteered for first watch. Mac and I found a more or less private spot in a corner of the barn, unzipped our sleeping bags, and piled them together to make a double.

  When I turned off the lantern and crawled into the bag, Mac rolled on her side to face me. “Can you believe it? After weeks of the worst luck, things finally break our way. Levi and Hannah want to stay with us. By tomorrow night, we should be safe at Valhalla.” In the dim light from Kyle’s lantern, I saw her smile falter. “That is, unless something else goes wrong.”

  “Here on out, we’re gonna make our own luck. We’re gonna be smart and careful and do whatever it takes to survive.”

  Mac nodded, wriggling under my arm, so her head rested on my shoulder and her hand lay flat against my stomach.

  “Hannah doesn’t think that she needs to learn how to shoot,” I said, remembering my conversation with Levi. “You think you could talk to her about that? Talk some sense into her?”

  “I can do that.” Mac’s fingertips began to trace circles on my skin.

  Kyle switched off his lantern and a blanket of darkness fell over the barn’s interior. Mac’s breath caught, and she stilled. “I’m here, Mac. You’re safe,” I whispered.

  Tension eased its grip on her body. Once again, her hand moved, gliding lower, until her fingers flattened against my cock, which twitched and hardened beneath her touch. Her lips grazed my ear. “I can also do this.”

  Mac slid down my body, pressing open-mouthed kisses against my chest and abdomen. Kneeling between my legs, she gently cupped my balls. When her tongue tickled that smooth, sensitive spot on the underside, my hips bowed. She dragged her tongue up the length of my cock, and I bit back a groan. Mac was shy and wouldn’t want our friends to know she was blowing me not thirty feet from where they lay.

  I tangled my fingers in her hair and tugged, anchoring her head above my straining cock. I sucked in a deep breath and shoved my dick between her pliant lips. My cock slid into the warm, wet cavern. Nice. I stifled another moan. My hips rose and fell as I silently fucked her mouth.

  The muffled squelching sound couldn’t be helped. Apparently Mac didn’t notice, and I was too far gone to care. Few seconds before I came, I jerked her head back, just enough that she wouldn’t choke when I flooded her mouth with cum. She swallowed, then rested her cheek on my thigh, gasping.

  I gripped her shoulders and hauled her up my body.

  “My turn,” I breathed into her ear.

  She shook her head back and forth, frantically rejecting the declaration.

  “I can’t,” she hissed in my ear.

  “Why not?”

  “I can’t stay quiet when you go down on me.”

  Still shy. I sensed everybody else in the barn purposefully ignoring us and the noises we were making, but telling Mac that wouldn’t help one bit.

  “All right. I won’t go down on you.”

  Rolling onto my side, a physical barrier between Mac and our friends, I slid a hand down to her pussy.

  “Ripper.” She breathed a protest.

  “Shhh,” I soothed. “Remember how I marked you that night at the bed and breakfast?”

  Her head bobbed when she nodded. “Yes.”

  “Want you to sink your teeth into me here, on my shoulder. Bite down as hard as you need to, to muffle the sound when you come. I wanna wear your mark, the way you wore mine.”

  “Okay.” After a moment, her lips, warm and soft, pressed against the base of my neck. After another moment, her teeth nipped my skin. I dipped a finger into her dripping slit and dragged the wetness over her clit.

  Mac gasped and her teeth clamped down harder. I smiled fiercely into the darkness, triumph zinging through my veins. Woman was gonna mark me. I’d make sure of that. Wear the bruise as a badge of honor, a point of pride, proof of how under my hands she devolved from uptight nice girl into an unabashed wanton.

  Wanton. A funny old word. My grandma used to drag me to church when I was a kid. I remember the priest railing against “loose” women, calling them shameless wantons. Even back then—before I’d ever laid hands on a girl—I knew that he was full of shit. Nothing wrong with a woman who loved sex. A wanton woman was a most excellent thing.

  Mac’s breath hitched, and she arched her hips as I pushed her closer and closer to orgasm. She whimpered and bit down hard on my shoulder, her back bowing when she came. With a gasp, she unclenched her jaw, then gently fingered the spot on my neck.

  “Good girl,” I murmured, assuring her that it was more than all right. “You gave me exactly what I wanted.”

  I flopped onto my back and pulled her close. She snuggled against me. Soon, her deep, regular breathing told me she was asleep.

  Took me awhile to join her, my thoughts full of the day to come. Tomorrow we’d reach Valhalla and begin a new chapter of our lives. Safety in an isolated refuge, a sanctuary from a world coming apart at the seams.

  So why did my back brain urge caution, warn me not to let down my guard?

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Kenzie

  My butt was killing me.

  When we stopped to stretch our legs, I grunted, climbing off the bike, then hobbled across the gravel, my knees splayed outward like a bow-legged chicken.

  “Maybe you should ride in the jeep,” Sahdev suggested, frowning at my awkward gait.

  I shot him a smile, then removed my helmet and sighed with pleasure when fresh air touched my overheated head. Resting a hand against the jeep’s door, one at a time I shook my legs in an attempt to banish the stiffness. I managed a deep knee bend, wobbled upright, then bent over, pressing my hands flat on the gravel. I groaned. Stretching my sore muscles felt good.

  When I straightened, sensation was returning to my abused body, but the prolonged vibrations caused by riding on the back of a bike over very bumpy roads made my skin itch. I scratched in vain over my butt and thighs, but my jeans got in the way of any real satisfaction.

  Ripper shoved his goggles out of the way and cocked a brow. “You all right, Mac?”

  “Yeah.” I smiled at my man. “My butt hurts and my skin prickles like crazy, but I’m great.”

  Nothing but the truth there. I might be sore and itchy—and coated head to foot with road dust—but no mere physical discomfort could negate how stinking happy I was to be traveling with my tribe.

  “We still got miles to go, and the roads are only getting rougher. Maybe you should take Sahdev’s advice and ride in the jeep. Least for a while.”

  I shuffled over to Ripper, then recoiled when I caught sight of myself in the Road King’s mirror. I’d tucked my ponytail into my shirt, but the hair clinging to my skull was lank and sweaty. Powder-fine dirt clung to my face, except for around my eyes where the visor had somewhat protected my skin. I looked a fright. Narrow rivulet
s of sweat cut channels through the caked-on dirt.

  Ripper, on the other hand, looked dusty and sweaty, but in that sexy, scruffy, disheveled way that some men could pull off. Instead of being turned off, I wanted to lick him clean. Road dust didn’t diminish his appeal one iota, while I looked—in Aunt Debbie’s words—like something the cat dragged in. Or puked up.

  Not fair.

  I wiped my lips on the back of my hand, then fished in my pocket for some lip balm.

  Ripper wrapped both arms around my waist and pulled me close. “Seriously, Mac. Take a break and ride in the jeep.”

  I shook my head. “You eager to get rid of me?”

  He ran a finger over my grubby cheek, then wiped it on his jeans. “Nah, darlin', but if you don’t take a break, you won’t be able to stand up straight or walk when we get to Valhalla.”

  “We’ve missed spending time with you, Kenz.” Kyle walked up and handed me a bottle of water. “Ride with us. Hector has missed you, too.”

  Hector. Kyle knew my weak spot. And I was tired of bouncing over the punishingly bumpy roads. “Well, if Hector needs me, I’ll ride in the jeep for a little while.”

  Ripper’s teeth flashed white against the dust coating his face. He swatted my ass, then bent over to speak in my ear. “Don’t want you worn out and sore tonight. Least not before we get started.”

  I rolled my eyes, but couldn’t suppress my grin.

  Ten minutes later we were back on the road.

  The land we drove through resembled an alien landscape, nothing like the lush, verdant Willamette Valley where I’d grown up. I was accustomed to the sight of emerald ferns dotting the terrain or cascading from tree branches, droplets of water sparkling on their fronds after the rain. Here, dry, silvery tumbleweeds skittered across the road ahead of us and wedged against the fences built to keep cattle from wandering the roadway. Nature painted the world here with a different palette. The arid hills of the central part of the state glowed a rich golden hue, burnt umber dappled with scraggly juniper and pine trees.

  Our small caravan stopped three more times to consult with the map and check Bear’s instructions for how to find his family ranch. He’d told Kyle that the ranch was at the ass end of nowhere, and the description was apt. We wended our way along increasingly narrow, unmarked lanes. At one point, Kyle checked a compass before pointing to the right-hand fork in the road.

  Valhalla’s isolation had to be a good thing, didn’t it? Where better to ride out the breakdown of society than an out-of-the-way cattle and hay ranch. Bear had told Kyle that they had wind turbines to provide electricity, solar panels to power a dozen interconnected wells, buried pipelines that fed water tanks for the stock, a creek, and a huge garden. The Rasmussens had owned Valhalla for over a hundred years. They had to know how to survive and thrive without all the modern amenities. And they’d operated a guest ranch, which meant they should have enough bedrooms for everybody. The prospect of a bath and comfortable bed made me positively giddy.

  Sahdev sat shotgun, checking and double checking the map. In late afternoon, he tapped the map and turned to Kyle. “We’re getting close.”

  Kyle flashed the jeep’s lights, the signal for Ripper to pull over.

  We parked the jeep and joined the others for one last consultation before arriving at our destination.

  “The road curves to the west a mile up ahead. Less than a mile after that, we should see the turnoff to Valhalla,” Sahdev said.

  “Bear told me that you can see the ranch gate from the road, but the driveway is long, and the house and outbuildings are hidden behind a low hill,” Kyle said.

  “I want to ride the rest of the way on the back of your bike,” I told Ripper.

  “Maybe I should go in first,” Kyle suggested. “It might be a bad idea for a bunch of outsiders to descend on them unannounced. They might think we came to loot the place. One man showing up would be less threatening. And if I don’t see Bear, I could tell them that I’m a friend of his, so they know I’m not some random stranger up to no good.”

  Ripper nodded slowly. “Maybe. I wanna get the lay of the land before we commit to a plan.”

  Hannah danced over and hugged me, her eyes sparkling with excitement and a wide smile on her face. “Do you think they have horses? I’ve always wanted to ride a horse.”

  “Bear was a rodeo star. He must have grown up with horses, so I bet they do.”

  She squealed. “Maybe he’ll teach me how to ride.”

  “Maybe he will.”

  I climbed on the bike behind Ripper, and we led our caravan over the final miles toward our destination. When we saw the gate to Valhalla, we all pulled onto the gravel turnout. Ripper cut the engine, but we didn’t dismount. Instead, we stared at the entrance to the ranch.

  The ranch gate looked like something out of the Old West. Three sturdy tree trunks—two upright and one horizontal—formed the framework for the gate. In the center of the horizontal post, Valhalla was spelled out in wrought iron letters on a wooden plaque. Two old wagon wheels flanked the sign. Substantial wrought iron gates guarded access to the property. Two padlocks secured the swinging gates. Decorative iron pineapples, an old symbol of hospitality and welcome, topped the gates.

  The friendly welcome symbolized by the pineapples contrasted starkly with the crude warnings spray painted on plywood and affixed to the swinging gates. TRESPASSERS WILL BE SHOT ON SIGHT read one and KEEP OUT the other. Beneath the KEEP OUT were the words Wilcox Brigade and a swastika.

  A swastika. Our safe haven was in the hands of a bunch of Nazis. My stomach clenched, and I tightened my arms around Ripper’s waist. He laid a hand atop mine and squeezed reassuringly.

  “I got you, Mac.”

  The Wilcox Brigade had made news a couple of years ago when their founder, Eben Wilcox, had been arrested for throwing a pipe bomb over the fence of a Jewish day school in Portland. Luckily, the bomb failed to detonate, and outraged neighbors chased down and apprehended Wilcox.

  During his well-publicized trial, he ranted about Judgment Day, when fed-up citizens would supposedly rise up against the “mongrel” government and establish a white ethnostate. He expected his family brigade to play an important role maintaining order in the new, all-white state. To his public defender’s obvious despair, Wilcox kept disrupting the trial by leaping to his feet and shouting Sieg Heil! The press ate up the spectacle.

  After his conviction, members of his sorry crew—his son and nephews—had posted flyers and dropped banners over freeway overpasses proclaiming FREE EBEN. Their attempt to turn Wilcox into a folk hero failed miserably. Nobody bought it, or at least, nobody who wasn’t a racist asshole bought it. In prison, Eben must have mouthed off to the wrong guy. Within three months of his incarceration, somebody stabbed him. I’d assumed that his ragtag band of losers had disbanded after their leader’s death.

  Apparently not.

  In the distance, past the rolling hills that hid the ranch house, a cloud of dust rose into the air.

  “Somebody’s coming,” Ripper announced. “We gotta be outta here before they get to the gate.” He switched on the engine while everybody else ran to their vehicles. We tore away from Valhalla, leaving behind our own cloud of dust.

  As we rode away, I kept twisting my head around to see if they were following us. After a couple of miles, Ripper must have concluded that no one was in pursuit. He signaled a stop. We huddled together on the side of the road.

  “What happened to Bear?” Kyle dragged his hands through his hair. “Those assholes better not have hurt him.”

  “Nazis, huh.” Levi planted his hands on his hips and squinted at the distance. “So, are we going to leave Valhalla in the hands of freaking Nazis?”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Ripper

  After driving away from Valhalla, we backtracked for a couple of miles, then turned onto another long, curving driveway. Around a bend, out of sight of the main road, we found a house and barn. We lucked out. No bodies to deal wit
h. The owners must have packed up and headed out when the flu hit.

  We parked our vehicles in the barn, then carried supplies into the house, everything we’d need to set up camp, plus all our weapons. No way I’d leave Grandpa Kurt’s stash unprotected in an outbuilding. Place had a well. The electric submersible pump was dead in the water, but it had a hand pump. Couldn’t light a fire in the wood-burning stove—the smoke would announce our presence if the brigade was looking for us—but we pumped water to drink, to prepare dinner, and to wash off the road dust. We set up a two-burner camp stove, powered by a small propane cylinder, and fixed a big pot of dehydrated chili for dinner, along with a skillet cornbread.

  Decided to take Levi along when I scouted out Valhalla that night.

  “Seriously? You’re replacing us with a seventeen-year-old?” Kyle demanded when I broke the news. “Just because the kid can build booby traps and knows the difference between an AK-47 and a Tav...Tav…whatever it is.”

  “Tavor.”

  “Right, a Tavor. Just because he knows weapons doesn’t mean you can count on him more than you can us.” He pointed at Sahdev and himself. “Honestly, that’s damned insulting.”

  “Levi knows firearms and how to build booby traps,” I agreed. “Ain’t the reason I’m bringing him along to reconnoiter Valhalla. I know that I can count on the two of you.” I pointed at the men. “What I don’t know yet is if Levi’s temperament matches his skill set. He’s young. I wanna spend some one-on-one time with him. See if he keeps a cool head on a mission. If he follows my orders, or if he gets pissy and argues when I tell him what to do.”

  Nobody elected me, but I was in charge. When push came to shove, every group needed a leader, a final authority when a decision had to be made. I was it, especially when it concerned strategy and keeping us safe from outside threats. Nobody else had my experience or was capable of my brutal efficiency.

  “I need to be there,” Kyle argued. “Bear is my friend. I have to find out if he’s alive or if those bastards killed him.”