by James Axler
The package in his back pocket suddenly felt warm, and Harold removed it. "Got this," he said, tossing the bundle to the woman. It landed on the floor between them.
Wary of a trick, Patrica moved aside and let her assistant get the package. Opening it carefully, the madam almost dropped the shotgun in shock. Inside was a pre-dark handblaster, a Smith & Wesson .357 Magnum in perfect condition, the barrel shining with oil, as smooth as winter ice. Even the cushioned grip was intact, without a single crack or tiny piece missing. Unfamiliar with the blaster, she fumbled a bit before managing to release the cylinder and check the barrel. Perfect. The damn thing might as well be brand-new. She dry fired it a few times to check the spring, the solid sound of the hammer falling music to her ears.
Shutting the cylinder with fingertip pressure, Patrica stared at Harold, standing as if braced for a whipping. He was fully capable of tearing this whole house down to the foundation, and now he stood in fear of her words. Did he know what this actually was, and what it was truly worth?
"And bullets," Harold hastily added, showing a fistful of cartridges, fearing her lack of response was an indication the blaster wasn't good enough. It was the best he could find. He was supposed to give it to her father as dowry, but was it enough to buy his wife free from the bed?
Without fear, Patrica walked closer and took the bullets from his trembling palm. "This is forbidden. None but the baron and his men can own blasters." But the madam took them and tucked them into the fold of her dress. With a blaster like this, a person could risk leaving the ville. Be free of the bastard Machine forever. Anybody could leave the ville, but outside there were many muties and animals who waited for norms to risk crossing the desert. Not many ever came back. A working blaster in this condition could have bought him the whole damn gaudy house for a week. Ten times enough to buy a retarded slut who had to be tied to the bed to keep her from rolling over and offering the wrong end to a customer.
"Enough?" Harold asked, hope burgeoning within. "We go now."
"No. This doesn't buy her, boy," the woman lied with a straight face. "A lovely quiff like Laura can earn more than this each moon for years. The baron himself wants her, and who can risk angering him?"
Choking slightly on her gag, Laura shivered on the bed, and Harold gently reached down to lay a blanket over her partially nude form. She smiled around the rag at him and closed her eyes, drifting off to sleep.
"Buy me a month," he said, staring at his wife. "A month no kissing?"
Kissing. How sweet, the poor dullard. "No, Harold. Everybody works," Patrica said, crossing her arms. "No work, no food." An animal growl started low in the man's throat, and the madam realized she had gone too far.
"But it will buy you a week off her back, if that's what you mean," she hastily corrected, smiling for her life. "She can scrub pots in the kitchen and clean the lavs. Mop the floors."
Ask for more, screamed the voices in his head. "Two weeks!"
"One," Patrica said, surprised he would even try to bargain. Mebbe he wasn't as insane as she had heard. "Plus, I don't tell the baron you found a blaster…in the ville?"
Harold shrugged noncommittally.
Damn, he wasn't talking. "However, if you want to marry her, it will cost a lot more than this one poor blaster." She pressed her thumb against the hammer and pulled the trigger a few times. "See? It's no good. Broken already."
The man frowned, contorting his face into a grimace.
"I know longblasters," he said slowly, testing each word as if they were rotting timbers on a bridge. One wrong move and he would fall to his death. "Bag full."
"A duffel bag?" Patrica asked, trying not to show her excitement.
A glum nod. "That enough?"
In the hallway, her assistant sharply whistled.
"Yes, dear Harold. That's enough. Come back in a week with a bag full of working blasters, and Laura is your wife. Working, mind you," she scolded. "Not junk, like this!"
He nodded again.
"And ammo, of course," the madam added hastily. "Blasters are useless without ammo." She smiled as sweetly as possible. "That sounds fair, doesn't it, Sarge?"
A minute passed, then two. The only sounds were of labored breathing from the customer bleeding on the floor, and the muffled noise of sex from down the corridor. A fight in another room.
"Ammo," he repeated in agreement. "All I can."
"Your word of honor?"
"Yes," he said in a perfectly normal tone.
The momentary transition to sanity frightened the madam worse than his growling. This was a dangerously unstable individual.
"Done," Patrica said, offering her plump hand for a shake. "In one week, you deliver a duffel bag of working rifles and ammo, and she's yours forever."
With a massive effort of will, Harold tried to concentrate enough to recall how many days in a week. "Six days," he said. "Back six day." He brushed past her, ignoring the offered hand and moving down the hallway as indomitable as an express train.
"What a freak!" exhaled the teenager, tucking his zip gun into his belt.
Patrica grabbed the boy by the arm. "You heard nothing," she snapped. "Not a fucking thing, or I'll whip you to death myself."
"And risk the Machine? Bullshit." The boy smiled. "I want a cut."
Impressed, she released him. "One blaster."
"Five."
"Two."
"Done."
They shook on the deal.
With a soft groan, the customer stirred and struggled to sit upright. His nose was mashed flat, and the lower half of his face was clotted with dried blood.
"Gonna kill that mutie," he mumbled, struggling to his feet. "I got an ax. That'll do him!"
Surprisingly quick, Patrica walked over and grabbed the man between the legs. He gasped as she squeezed hard.
"Touch him before the next moon," she whispered, "and I'll remove these with blunt scissors."
Nearly wetting himself, the man nodded emphatically. She released him and smiled seductively.
"Still got one coming," Patrica added, loosening the frilly top of her dress and pulling it down to expose her fat sagging breasts. She pinched the nipples, making the wrinkled bags of flesh harden. "Come on, I'll do you right here."
Yanking up his clothing, the man backed out of the room. "I'll come back later. Got to get a healer to fix my nose. Later."
As he dashed away, Patrica stepped into the hall and hoisted up her skirts, showing that she wasn't wearing anything underneath. "I'll be waiting for you, lover," she called.
Gagging and pale, the man scurried down the stairs.
"He won't be coming back." The teenager laughed. "But I'll do you, boss."
"On Tuesday, as usual," the madam stated, fixing her clothes. "Not before, Jimmy."
"Fair enough. But what about the girl?" he asked, jerking a dirty thumb at the sleeping form.
Her lips pursed in thought, Patrica slowly walked over and slapped the girl. Laura awoke with a start, struggling against the ropes.
"Just throw a bucket of water over her to cut the smell," the madam said, "and tell the boys downstairs the line forms to the left."
Chapter Four
In the kitchen of the redoubt, Mildred, J.B. and Doc were assistants with the preparation of dinner for the group. It was their turn, and having ovens at their command was making the usually odious task easy.
Especially since, while the redoubt may have been out of food, the life-support system still functioned, and everybody had luxuriated in a hot shower. After three jumps in one day, the group needed a good scrubbing to get out the sour stink of sweat. They each took turns while somebody else stood guard in the hallway. It was a basic survival plan that all members of the group were never unarmed at the same time.
Sneaking a glance at J.B. busy working at the table, Mildred remembered being joined in the shower, and they used the rare privacy to make love. Privacy was hard to come by these days. Unfortunately, the sex had really put an edge on he
r appetite.
Scrubbed and shaved, they happily found that the laundry worked fine, if somewhat noisily, and donned clean clothes afterward. As well, many of the officers' quarters hadn't been completely cleaned out, and they located replacement boots for her, a fresh shirt for Dean and underwear for everybody. Reaching inside her denim shirt, Mildred shifted the strap on her U.S. Army-issue bra. It wasn't a perfect fit, but a hell of lot more comfortable than the old Air Force one, which had been one cup size too small.
Rooting about in the cabinets, Mildred had made a lucky find of a few staples lost amid the petrified breakfast cereals and dust-filled plastic wrappers of granola bars: tea, honey and rice, items that didn't go bad with age if kept away from dampness. Keep rice dry, and it lasted forever. Not a lot of nourishment, but it would bulk up their meager meal of beans. The group needed fresh food supplies quick, or else they really would be reduced to eating their leather goods. After which, she didn't care to think about.
Lowering the heat of an electric grill under a small saucepan, Mildred placed the open jar of honey on a folded cloth lying at the bottom of the softly boiling water.
"Can't believe that stuff is still good after a hundred years," J.B. said from his work table.
The table nearest the stove was covered with full water pitchers, napkins, disposable plates and cups for the evening meal. Spread out before the Armorer at the next table over were several pairs of Army boots, and he was meticulously removing the laces from one to insert in another. His own battered boots were lying on the floor, the soles worn paper thin in spots, the leather badly cracked. His feet were wrapped in brand-new woolen socks taken from the base PX. He wiggled his toes at the sensation, savoring the feeling.
"Honey doesn't ever go bad," she informed him, lifting the lid on the pot full of rice and stirring the contents with a long fork. "Over a few years, honey crystallizes as solid as a rock, but low heat will melt it again. I caught on TV once how honey from Egyptian times had been recovered and found to be edible, and that was a hell of a lot longer than the big blow."
"Hot tea, with honey for desert," Doc observed, sitting patiently before the chugging dishwasher. "What a delightful treat. What kind is it, madam? Orange pekoe?"
"U.S. Army-issue food stuff. Classification—tea, for drinking."
"Oh." His face fell, then rose. "Still, better than naught."
"Sorry there aren't any scones," she joked, adding some water to the stew. The delicious smell was a knife in her belly, and the physician had to restrain herself from tasting it constantly. At least with the rice, they would all be able to eat their fill.
"Scones and jelly." Doc sighed. "How I miss that."
"Bananas," Mildred said after a moment. "Hurts to think I might never have another banana."
"Vids," J.B. added, finishing the first boot and starting on the next. "Back in Alaska, we found a redoubt once with a working vid player and a ton of vids."
"Denzel Washington." Mildred sighed, then stole a glance at J.B. and winked. He returned it with emphasis.
"Jeremy Brett," Doc said. "A superlative thespian, compounded by the fact that we look so similar."
"Even if you sound like James Earl Jones."
"Who?"
The dishwasher musically chimed and stopped working.
"Ah, at last," Doc cried. Opening the door, he moved aside to avoid the outpouring of steam. Using his handkerchief with the blue swallow design, he retrieved his LeMat from the drying rack and laid it on the table to cool.
"Never seen anybody clean a blaster that way." J.B. laughed, his hands weaving laces in and out. "That'd wreck my Uzi."
"Dissolve the nylon bushings, yes," Doc said, carefully replacing the wooden handle on the bare metal frame of the handcannon. "But I recall reading how J. E. B. Stuart used to boil his once a week to clean away the oily residue, while General George S. Patton soaked his in whiskey."
"Would have thought that would be Ulysses S. Grant."
"General Grant waste whiskey on a gun?"
J.B. chuckled. "I stand corrected."
"So, it's good for the LeMat?" Mildred asked, wiping her hands on a dish towel.
"Mandatory!" Doc exclaimed, juggling the hot blaster from hand to hand. "Absolutely mandatory. I seal the loading holes with grease to prevent a cross-firing. The old girl needs to be scrubbed every now and then, or else the works clog."
Scowling, J.B. opened his mouth to speak, then shut it. Doc was never going to upgrade to a decent blaster, and that was the end of the matter.
"Well, dinner is done," Mildred announced, turning down the heat and draining the excess water from the rice. A kitchen this big and no measuring cups? She poured it into a huge ceramic bowl, steam rising from the crumbling mound. "Start serving, Professor Tanner."
With a flourish, Doc slid his empty weapon back into its holster. Clean as a whistle, it was still much too warm to load. That would have to wait till later. "My pleasure, madam."
"I'll call the others," J.B. said, tying off the laces and going to the intercom on the wall. "Dean and Jak are still in the garage patching the Hummer together?"
"Last I heard," Mildred replied, lounging in a chair. Her part of the meal was over. Doc would serve and J.B wash up.
"So Ryan and Krysty are…"
She smiled. "Where else?"
Taking another seat, Doc barked a laugh, and then apologized for the rude behavior.
Smiling himself, J.B. glanced at the digital clock on the wall. "Well, okay, then. We'll give them another couple of minutes."
THE UNDERGROUND REDOUBT was designed to support a hundred soldiers and command staff, so there were plenty of private showers for the officers and spacious group showers for the troops. Ryan and Krysty had investigated the commander's private bathroom, but the stall was too small for a couple, so they moved to one of the main showers in the barracks. Exactly as J.B. and Mildred had done earlier.
Clean warm water cascaded steadily from the sixteen showerheads onto the naked couple as Ryan soaped Krysty's back in long steady motions. The suds trickled down, covering her perfect buttocks like the finest lace.
"Feels wonderful," Krysty purred as his hands moved over her shoulders, more massaging than scrubbing, then swept lightly forward to brush the outside of her breasts.
The redhead glanced backward and smiled. "You better be serious," she said deep in her throat.
"Always," Ryan replied, stepping closer to slide his hands over her slippery form to cup her full breasts. He could feel her nipples instantly harden, and the woman arched her back, thrusting her buttocks firmly against him. He stiffened in response, but didn't move, and for a brief period of time, they stayed that way, allowing the warm water to flow freely over them, easing away the rigors of the past week, savoring the moment of privacy and peace.
"Dinner will be ready soon," Ryan finally said, hating to break the mood.
Krysty turned and kissed him full on the mouth. "Then shut up," she whispered, running her hands down his muscular torso.
Breathing deeply, Ryan crushed Krysty to his chest, her full breasts spreading a warmth across him that quickly spread to his groin. In spite of being damp from the water, her long red hair moved wildly about, forming a fiery corona around them as it responded to her excited emotional state.
They kissed again, deeply, tongues and hands traveling everywhere. As Ryan cupped her buttocks and squeezed, Krysty wrapped one leg around his waist, and then the other. The man shifted position to accommodate her weight, as she hoisted herself upward and he slid deep inside her, the heat of their joining overwhelming the warmth of the shower. She cried out softly in pleasure, digging her nails into his muscles.
Vividly, Ryan remembered how he had wanted the voluptuous redhead the first moment he had seen her, and it seemed like the most logical thing in the world for them to have sex. But both were surprised when the casual fornication changed along the way, and instead they found themselves making love that night.
N
o words were needed or spoken as they gently rocked back and forth, feeling the excitement build until neither could stand any more.
Holding her tight, Ryan carefully eased to his knees, then laid the woman on the Army blanket covering the tiled floor. He started to climb on top, but Krysty forced him over instead, her velvet thighs straddling his muscular waist, the fiery snatch rubbing deliciously over his hard penis, rough and smooth at the same time.
Her magnificent breasts dangling in his face, Ryan licked a nipple and nipped the other. Raking her nails down his chest, Krysty moaned in passion, and arched her pelvis. They both inhaled sharply as he slid deep into her once more.
She rose and fell in curving motions, the soft flesh engulfing him as her unique internal muscles caressed the man in ways no other living woman could.
His hands gripped her waist hard as the gentle tempo became quicker, more urgent. She met his fervor, and thoughts of foreplay ceased, the sounds of slapping flesh masked by the falling waters of the military shower.
Softly in the background, the intercom chimed and J.B.'s voice announced dinner was ready, but neither noticed or cared. And for a few precious seconds, the two lovers enjoyed their private celebration of life and love, giving no thoughts at all to combat or death.
THE WINGED MUTIE watched the opening of the cave from the air above, waiting impatiently for the food to reemerge. Her belly crawled with hunger as her metabolism raced to heal the holes in her wings caused by the barking sticks of the two-legs. Fury welled within at the remembrance, and she cut loose a scream of rage at the meat escaping so easily.
However, the mutie knew better than to try for them in the terrible light, the most fleeting glance making her blind and helpless as if she were prey. Soon the sky fire would return, forcing her into hiding once more, and the prey would be safe to leave and travel away from the hunting ground. The thought was intolerable. There were young to feed! Then instincts flared and the rage slowly calmed. Eventually, the meat would be forced to come out, and she would gather them in the coming night before they could reach the terrible beams of light. Darkness was her mantle of safety.
