by James Evans
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Two days after he’d volunteered to go on patrol, Kevin headed to the security cart with Tony. It was electric, enabled through the generosity of Jake, who supplied the battery and solar charger. Tony drove the cart around the neighborhood and along the waterfront. “I go the same route every night,” Tony said, “I cruise down every street within the city limits. I want people to know we’re looking out for them. People get restless when they’re insecure.” As they drove around, Tony pointed out who lived in which house until Kevin’s mind was such a whirl of names and houses, he couldn’t keep them straight. Kevin showed him the house he wanted to move into, and Tony nodded. “That house used to belong to Pumpkin Ed, a world-renowned pumpkin carver,” he said. “Every October his front yard would be filled with humongous pumpkins—like, a thousand pounds each! He’d carve them into incredible jack-o-lanterns.”
At dusk, Kevin remarked on how quiet it was. Tony agreed.
“It’s like this at sunset. No matter what time of year. For a half-hour or so, things get real quiet. A shift in the town demeanor. A quiet, reflective mood. Once it gets dark, activity picks up again.”
They made another tour of the residential section then headed west on Main Street.
They didn’t notice Sammy, hidden in the shadows of the gas station.
They drove to the turnaround and were waved down by a couple of older teens. “Hey, Tony, could you give us a hand? Daniel’s sick.”
“Hey, Jack. Sick like how?”
“Like he had too much homemade hooch and is throwing up.”
“What do you want us to do?”
“Can you take him home?”
“Yeah, but your dad will be pissed. He hates having his sleep disturbed the night before a sermon. Maybe Daniel should sleep it off somewhere else.”
“Could he sleep here on the beach? I have a pup tent in my truck.”
“You know sleeping on the beach isn’t allowed… but I’ll make an exception.” He turned to Kevin. “We have a rule against sleeping on the beach. We want people to sleep indoors where it’s safe, rather than out in the open. Now and then we have to wake someone up and send them on their way.” He turned back to Jack. “I’ll pass the word along to the next shift, let them know the situation. He should be all right. You sure it’s just too much booze?”
“Booze and some weed. He’ll be fine tomorrow.”
“Maybe late tomorrow. I suspect he won’t be feeling so hot when he wakes up, and even worse when he gets home. I’ll have to tell your Dad about this, but I’ll wait until after church.”
“Thanks, Tony,” Jack said as he turned away, cursing his older brother. There was no doubt they’d both be in trouble. Again. Then Jack smiled. They’d get in trouble tomorrow, so he might as well have fun tonight. He walked back to his friends around the fire.
“So kids come here to party every night?” Kevin asked.
“Yep, pretty much. Usually they have a beach fire, sometimes they don’t. We’ve had a couple of alcohol-fueled brawls, but for the most part they just do what kids always do: drink, smoke, laugh, eat, and make out. Just like I did when I was their age.”
“And the town turns a blind eye to it?”
“What’s there to turn a blind eye to? They’re not breaking any laws, they’re fairly quiet, they aren’t causing trouble. We know where they are. It’s not like they’re driving drunk on the wrong side of the road or anything. Hell, I even go down and join them sometimes when I get off work, especially if I’m not tired. One of them—I suspect it’s Rick’s daughter, Cecilia—makes some excellent moonshine.”
Kevin was silent, remembering his summer nights on the beach at Lake Menekaunee. Beach fires, coolers of beer, singing and laughing. These kids were dealing with reality as well as they could.
“Let’s take a tour of the beach, just to be sure,” Tony said. They removed their shoes and socks and walked to the shore. The surf inside the breakwater was just a murmur, a chuckle of sound as the wavelets broke on the sand. Kevin could hear quiet surf on the other side of the breakwater, too.
There were two beach fires, one surrounded teens. Tony pointed to the other group. “I usually join them,” Tony said, “They’re mostly college-age, early twenties.”
“They don’t mind you being there?”
“Nah. It’s not like I’m a cop. I’m more like the lifeguard at the pool, keeping an eye on everyone and helping out now and then. I’m not The Man. I’m just Tony.”
They walked partly out on the breakwater. The sky was overcast, so there were no stars. The beach fires barely provided enough light for Kevin to see so he suggested they turn around. They walked up the beach one more time before returning to the cart. “Our shift is about up,” Tony said. “I’ll drop you off at the guesthouse.”
Michelle was already asleep. He crawled into bed beside her, kissed her shoulder and whispered “Every night with you is a victory!” She stirred, but didn’t awaken. He grabbed his journal, wrote a quick poem by the light of the lantern, then fell asleep.
Details
Should I live to be an old man
I may not recall this night.
May not recall how I
slipped into bed
beside my pregnant wife
spooned her warm body
and lightly cupped her breast
as she slept.
I may not remember how I wanted
to pull her closer, tighter,
but didn’t want to awaken her.
May forget how the sound of
Michelle breathing
and the distant sound of Lake Michigan
felt like call and response.
Should I live to be an old man,
my memory may grow dim
and fade into wisps
My prayer, dear God:
Let me remember the sacred trifles
of this night.
Chapter Seventeen
Earlier, Sammy had been in a bad mood. He glowered at the people in Stormcloud. He’d been a Frankfort resident since October, but still felt like an outsider.
Sammy’s idea of a bad day was taking crap from somebody without being able to pass it along. His wife, son, and daughter were either dead or zombies. Back in October, just before the grid went down, he packed the car and left. He didn’t bother to call in to work and didn’t have any friends worth saying goodbye to. His family . . . they got what they deserved. Except maybe his daughter. He felt kind of bad about that. He could have brought her with him. At least then he’d have someone on whom to let off some steam. Sure, he had the cellar he called the Dungeon, but after a while, keeping a zombie captive was kind of monotonous.
That morning he was the last one to show up to work on the boat. Everyone was waiting for him so they could cast off. A couple of the guys gave him a hard time, but that wasn’t unusual. He was the least-experienced so he had to take the shit they gave him. He was always getting yelled at for being too slow or clumsy. But it was a job and he got to keep some of the catch. They’d left the bay early in the morning and were getting a decent catch when the fucking engine blew. Another trawler towed them in, but that was it. He was off the clock, he wasn’t getting paid, he wasn’t doing shit.
Credits were tight. He barely had enough to cover a few pints of beer. He could drink at home from his liquor stash, but he hadn’t gotten laid since October and Stormcloud was the most likely place to find a woman. He’d had a few dates, but they were all stuck-up bitches who ditched him before he could get past first base. He hadn’t had fun with them, not the kind of fun he liked the most.
One of the women must have spread lies about him, because suddenly none of the women would give him the time of day. He had hoped to earn enough credits today to loosen a woman up with a few drinks, maybe one of the newcomers. That was one good thing about Frankfort; there were always new people in town. So when the First Mate said he couldn’t guarantee any work tomorrow, Sammy’s day turned dark
. He needed to pass his darkness onto someone else.
He looked around the room. Over in the corner were a couple of ladies, laughing and talking, yucking it up. They were probably lesbians. He could just imagine them lapping each other’s quim. Fuckin’ dykes. To their right was a former middle-class couple, splurging a few credits on dinner and drinks to remember how life used to be. They looked tired and shell-shocked.
One table had possibilities. A woman sat alone, reading some kind of book. A nearly-full pint glass was in the middle of the table near her hand. Her hair hung down, obscuring her face. He recognized her as the pharmacist. She was usually alone. Sometimes the smart, quiet girls were the ones who were most surprising behind closed doors.
He remembered how she bent over to get in the canoe, how her blouse hung down to reveal her bra and most of her breast. Y’know, I’ll bet she did that on purpose. I’ll bet she knew I was there.
He got up and walked to Carolyn’s table. “Hey, there! Aren’t you the pharmacist?” he asked.
Carolyn looked up. “Yes, I am. I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Carolyn.” She held out her hand and Sammy shook it limply.
“I’m Sammy,” he said. “I’ve seen you here before. You’re usually alone. Would you like some company?” He held her hand a bit too long.
She withdrew her hand and barely succeeded in hiding her distaste. She hated a weak handshake, and something about his touch was off-putting. His name had a familiar ring to it. She studied him for a moment, then remembered.
Six weeks earlier she’d attended a regular town council meeting when Tony had taken the stand. He seemed very nervous.
“I’m not used to talking to groups of people. Sorry if my voice shakes a little,” he said to the small crowd. Town council meetings were well-attended.
“We’re all friends and neighbors, Tony, you don’t have to be nervous. In speech class we were told to picture our audience sitting in their underwear. It’s hard to be nervous talking in front of folks in their underwear.”
“Yeah, but Paul doesn’t wear underwear,” one man jibed, poking fun at a fellow councilman.
“TMI, Stan, TMI!” Carolyn said with a blush.
“So, anyway,” Tony said, “I was on patrol last night and I saw a Peeping Tom. He was peeking through one of the Kitchings’ windows. They have a seventeen-year-old daughter named Vicki. He ran and I chased him, but he lost me in the alley. I got a pretty good look at him. He was short and stocky. I think it was Sammy, but since I didn’t catch him, I can’t prove it. He’s been brought to our attention before. We’ve heard rumors that he likes to play rough with the ladies. Girls won’t give him the time of day. I just thought you should know.”
Carolyn had never met Sammy, so it took a moment to register when he introduced himself. When she remembered Tony’s report, her face looked like she smelled something bad.
“No thanks, I’d rather be alone,” she said, returning to her book.
“Are you sure? I’ll buy you a beer!”
“No, I was about to leave,” she said.
Sammy looked at the nearly-full glass of ale.
“About to leave, eh? What about your beer?”
“I guess I’m not in the mood for beer tonight,” she said.
“How about a glass of wine? Or cider?”
Carolyn sighed. “Look, Sammy, I’m trying to be nice. You asked if you could join me. I said no. You offered to buy me a beer. I said no. Since you don’t seem to take hints very well, I’ll just say it: I’m not interested in spending time with you. I’d like to be left alone.”
“What is it, you some kind of dyke or something?” Sammy said, his voice louder than he intended. Brian came over from behind the bar.
“Everything copacetic over here, Carolyn?”
“Yes, I’m fine. I was just trying to get some reading done and was interrupted,” she said, taking a draw from her pint. Brian led Sammy over to a quiet corner.
“Sammy, I told you not to bother the ladies. I’ve never had to ban someone from Stormcloud, but I’m telling you: this is your last warning.”
Sammy put both palms up. “Okay, fine. But all I did was offer to buy her a beer. I don’t see what’s so wrong with that!”
“I also heard you call her a dyke. And you were starting to make a scene. So unless you want to get your beer somewhere else,” Brian said, knowing Stormcloud was the only bar in town, “I suggest you cool it. Just take it easy, Sammy.”
Sammy clicked his heels together and thrust his arm out in a Nazi salute. “Ja, wohl, mein kapitan!” he said in a bad German accent, then returned to his table and sulked. Brian shook his head and went back to the bar. He’s going to be the first guy I kick out of here, he thought, and it won’t bother me a bit. He gives me the heebie-jeebies.
Sammy went back to people-watching. He found something to ridicule in every guy and pictured every woman naked. He played a game he liked to call Think She Swallows It?, where he’d watch a woman and then guess whether she would or wouldn’t.
It was time for a change. He could feel it. It was time for something to happen. Something to make a little stir, shake people up. Like maybe if the naked body of a dyke pharmacist washed up on the beach.
A young lady in her mid-twenties walked in carrying an overnight bag. His eyes lit up when he saw the triskelion design on the older girl’s V-neck t-shirt.
CHAPTER eighteen
Back when Sammy lived in Midland, he was briefly part of the D/s (Dominant and submission) scene. There were parties, demonstrations, and a gay nightclub with once a month swinger parties. A lot of the Doms and subs had triskelion tattoos, pendants, and t-shirts. Sammy learned that the triskelion had become the international symbol for people who enjoyed kinky sex. Many couples looked pretty vanilla, like they had liked Fifty Shades of Gray and wanted to pretend they were kinky. They weren’t serious about D/s. They weren’t living the lifestyle. They were just playing. It was a novel way to get off.
Not Sammy. Until he was banned from the parties and from the nightclub, he’d had a great time teaching women and a few men what it truly meant to be Dom. None of this safeword shit.
In the D/s scene, wearing a collar indicated a submissive’s willing possession by a Dom. During Sammy’s final night in Midland, he noticed a blonde without a collar, indicating she was available. She looked a little nervous and out of place. He figured she was new. He watched her for an hour, saw her flirt with a few men and noticed her fascination with some of the bondage furniture. He was wearing a leather harness across his chest. It was adorned with studs and straps and buckles. Below that he wore a leather jock. He thought it made him look intimidating, but most women secretly thought he looked ridiculous. Behind his back they snickered at him. He walked over and grabbed her by the wrist.
“You’re mine,” he growled, leading her across the room.
“Yes, sir!” the woman said with a smile. Then she whispered, “My safeword is Red Flag! What’s your name?” Like he gave a shit about her safeword. Hell, it’s not even a word, it’s two words, you stupid cunt. He ignored her question. He didn’t care what her name was and she didn’t need to know his name, either. Sir or master was all she needed to know.
He led her to a Saint Andrew’s cross, ordered her to strip, then secured her, face first, to the frame. He blindfolded her and stuck a ball gag in her mouth. Her face was flushed.
He opened his tool bag and removed his leather flogger. It was made of elkskin and felt amazing in his hand. It wasn’t his heaviest flogger, but was good for a warm up. Something to get him going. He swung the flogger and lightly whipped the blonde’s ass.
She giggled and moaned through the ball gag, but he could tell she was only pretending. Soon she wouldn’t be pretending. He took another swing and the leather tails struck her across both ass cheeks. She moaned louder, but was only pretending. Sammy didn’t like that.
He began flogging her harder, ignoring her cries. It took a long time to be thorough. Sometimes
he wanted an all-day event. Other times he wanted wham-bam-thank-you-Sammy. Usually he wanted a flogging event to last an hour. By then, if the sub was experienced, she’d be in subspace and would do anything he asked, no matter how humiliating. He’d been thrown out of more than one party for going too far, but he didn’t give a shit. It only enhanced his reputation with some of the hard-core Doms and sub freaks.
He was in a mean mood. He wanted to give her a night she’d never forget. He didn’t even care if he had sex with her. It wasn’t about orgasm for Sammy. He didn’t get off on getting off. He got off on delivering pain to a subject, controlling them against their will.
He started flogging her in earnest, randomly striking her back, ass, and legs. Red stripes crisscrossed her skin. Sammy was working up a sweat.
He stopped to take a drink of water, and whispered into her ear, “You have no idea who you’re dealing with. If you’re lucky you’ll wake up in the hospital. If you’re not so lucky you’ll wake up in the morgue.” The blonde got a look of fear in her eyes and shook her head violently, but the ball gag prevented her from speaking. Sammy gazed into her eyes; it was the look he relished.
He got back into position and began flogging her again, harder this time. Welts were showing on her skin now, and a crowd gathered to watch the fun.
In this club, it was not uncommon to see public spankings or floggings. For some reason, being spanked or beaten felt good to some subs, especially because they knew, despite appearances, they were in charge. All they had to do was whisper or cry their safeword and all activity stopped. In a healthy D/s scene, power can only be given, not taken.
Some women craved the endorphin high that a spanking or caning caused. If too much time went by between sessions, they’d start getting irritable.
Sammy wasn’t interested in a healthy relationship. He only wanted to make a woman suffer. If she willingly suffered, that was okay, but it was even better if she suffered against her will.
