Kismet

by Beth D. Carter

  So I wait there, my arms folded across my chest, as I watch the truck stop in front of me. The windows are rolled down, giving me an unobstructed view of the two men inside. They are young, obviously just kids when their world collapsed. Perhaps they had already been wild things, bullies on the playground who grew up always in trouble with the law. I can see a lack of feminine influence in their dirty teeth and unwashed hair.

  “Well, lookie here, JayJay.” The brother in the passenger seat, the one nearest to me, whistles.

  “Yep, I see her, Stevie,” JayJay mutters back. “Where’s a pretty thing like you been all our lives?”

  I reach up and remove my sunglasses, letting them get the full effect of my icy blue eyes. “You boys have come to do a bit of mischief.”

  “Aw, sweet thing, that’s what we do best.”

  They give me grins, thinking I’m going to be charmed. All I want to do is gag.

  “Why don’t you throw that baseball bat you have under your seat out of the window nice and slow.” It wasn’t a request.

  They blink as their tiny minds digest what I’ve asked them to do. The slimy smiles immediately fade from their faces, and they lose their affable relaxation.

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Stevie asks with a growl.

  I move my right arm fractionally, and I reveal the three small daggers I have in my fist. “You might be thinking that these small blades are no match for the force behind a swinging club of wood, but I doubt you simpletons are fast enough to hit me quickly enough before my sharp little friends tear through your flesh.”

  Again, there is a second delay as they both try to digest what I’ve said to them, and when it does sink in, both sputter in a tirade of outrage.

  “What did you call us?”

  “Why, you little bitch!”

  “Who the hell do you think you are?”

  JayJay throws the truck in park and bangs out of the driver side. He storms around the truck toward me, and before he can blink, a dagger embeds itself into the tender spot right above his armpit. He howls and steps back from me. He yanks the little dagger out, and as I watch him look from it to me, I see the fury explode in his eyes.

  He does something incredibly stupid at this point by raising the dagger and taking another step toward me. Obviously it hasn’t sunk it that if I hit the spot I was aiming for, then it stands to reason I know how to use these blades. I toss another one, which imbeds in his hand. He screams in pain and drops my dagger to the ground. He falls to his knees, tears streaming down his face as he sobs in pain.

  I walk over to him and calmly pick up one dagger from the ground before grabbing the hilt of the one protruding from between his knuckles.

  “This is going to hurt,” I tell him and then quickly yank it out of his flesh. He screams again and stays there dripping blood onto the dusty street. I hear the truck door slam, and I instinctively know that Stevie has the baseball bat in his hand, getting ready to use it on me. So I crouch down and whip my arm out, letting the third dagger fly from my fingertips. I see it embed itself into Stevie’s thigh, at which he promptly cries out and falls back. The bat hits the ground with a clatter. I rise and walk over to him, watching for a moment as he moans in pain and clutches the area, which is bleeding profusely.

  Like I did with his brother, I yank the dagger from his flesh. He manages not to scream, but I catch him puffing deeply from the pain. Tears leak from his lashes.

  I wipe the blades on his shirt, capturing his attention.

  “Another inch and this blade would have hit your femoral artery,” I inform him. He just stares at me in part mixture of horror and hatred. “And in case you don’t realize what that means, you would have bled out in about four minutes. I imagine it would have just seemed like four seconds as your heart pumped out your blood with each beat, causing you to get weaker and weaker until there wasn’t any more left to sustain your body. I wonder what your last thought would’ve been, eh?” I fall silent, letting that thought marinate for a moment. “People say your life flashes in front of your eyes just as you’re about to die.”

  With those words lingering, I stand up and stare down at both men. By this time, a small crowd has formed around us, watching.

  “Stevie, JayJay, there may not be any law in this town, but that won’t stop atonement from creeping up on you,” I tell them. “I came here for a reason, so don’t go thinking you’re not being watched.” I pat them both on the shoulder and leave them there, bleeding and moaning.

  I know my work is done. I’ve managed to effectively take their minds off revenge against Nessa, and maybe at the same time I’ve put a little consciousness of consequences in their minds. Who knows? Stranger things have happened.

  As I pass by the restaurant doors, Nessa comes racing out.

  “Wait!” she calls to me. “How did you know? How did you know they were coming after me?”

  Ah, the moment of truth. “Did you ask God to protect your unborn baby?” I ask her, and by the way her eyes widen and by the way she places a protective hand on her still-flat stomach, I can guess her answer. “He heard you.”

  I don’t know if this is the truth, of course, but I like to think it is. I like to believe that in a world full of ugliness and brutality, there is one beacon of hope and light. That if someone prays hard enough, then a higher power is listening and sending me problems to fix. Wouldn’t that be a wonderful notion?

  I get into my Cat and, without looking back, zoom out of Badlupa and resume my journey.

  Chapter Two

  My little side trip only took about forty-five minutes total, but by the time I hit Interstate 40 again, it’s late in the day. I don’t like traveling at night, especially as a woman alone, even though I am equipped with a small arsenal. Though the roads are mostly deserted during the day, when the sun sets it’s a whole different story. I find this especially true in the desert states such as New Mexico, Arizona, and Nevada. I suppose it has to with the temperature; just like all creepy-crawly things, the poisonous population of mankind comes out when it’s cooler.

  I have a slight headache, a minor side effect of the vision. Usually, I can handle them. Hell, I’ve been living with this my whole life. But the glare of the fading sun shimmering off the hot sand manages to puncture through my dark glasses, and it’s really annoying. So when I come across a forgotten and abandoned rest stop, I pull off the highway. In the twilight I can see the place is deserted. The sidewalks are busted up, as are the bathroom facilities. The metal picnic tables are rusted through, a most impressive feat since the average rainfall in this area is less than what I’ve peed today. But the one nice thing that’s remained standing are the trees that obviously were planted here some time ago to add a comfortable and inviting touch, back when people actually traveled the freeways. I drive my ATV around until it rests behind the fattest tree base. I cut the engine, sit in the driver’s seat, and wait. I am listening for anything out of the ordinary, some sign that I have been followed. But all I hear are the mating calls of crickets around me. After a few more minutes, I am satisfied and exit my vehicle to retrieve my sleeping gear from the flatbed. All of my worldly possessions are packed well and tied down under waterproof tarps and ropes—my tent and sleeping bag, food rations, clothes, extra water, and various odds and ends from my many years of traveling. Also included is a fifty-gallon drum of gasoline. I don’t have much in the way of possessions, but I don’t need much.

  I lay out my sleeping gear before grabbing an MRE, otherwise known as Meals Ready-to-Eat, for dinner. I open the pack and bring out the various contained food items, glad I ate the last of the pork patties a while ago. Eating those things requires lots of water because they’re dry as sand. So are the cakes and breads. I like it when I find either M&Ms or Skittles in the MRE; that’s always a nice treat. I pull out the food heaters and toss them into my backpack. If a little water is added to the heat packages and put in the main meal, the water interacts with chemicals to heat the food. Th
ose heater bags make great little bombs, though they’re more noise than anything when the contents of the chemical are poured into a plastic bottle. And sometimes a little noise is a great distraction.

  Mmm, tonight I have spaghetti with meat sauce. I have been eating these for a long time now, even though I read somewhere a person is only supposed to eat them for twenty-one days. Guess I went slightly over on that timetable. I got my present rations from a survivalist group in Utah a few months ago when I kept their arsenal from exploding.

  I sit with my back against the rear tire eating my food and sipping some water. I can’t help but feel restless, and I hate that feeling. It’s a useless, frustrating feeling, and I always seem to get it at the most inappropriate times, like now, when I need to get some sleep. I have been driving for days through the New Mexico and Arizona deserts with temperatures around 116 in a four-wheeler that has no air-conditioner. To say I am tired is beyond an understatement.

  But this feeling that’s nagging at me, that has been bothering me for quite some time, wipes away my appetite. I give up on my food and pack it away and take one last sip of water before strolling the perimeter of the broken rest stop. The moon is high and clear, the stars coming out more and more as night falls deeper. There is the occasional howl of a coyote or wolf somewhere in the far distance followed by the answering call of its mate.

  Perhaps my edginess stems from knowing I am about to enter a war zone on the morrow. I’ve never been to Southern California, but I’ve come close, and the reports left me hoping I’d never set foot in the torn-asunder region.

  After the virus ran amok, the entire Western seaboard got hit with an earthquake. But not any old earthquake. It was “the Big One,” the one that scientists and doomsayers had been predicting for ages. What little had been spared became hopeless because there simply wasn’t anyone left to help.

  Now unfortunately, due to my gift, I am heading right for that nightmare. Los Angeles is a place ruled by gangs, absolute lawlessness roaming free. If it was anyone else but Seek and Galloway, if it were at all possible, I would turn myself around and hightail it right back into the desert. But something bad is going happen to them.

  I try not to think of the dream, the one where I’ve been shown their deaths. But like heartburn, it keeps rising up to make me sick. For days now I’ve been gripped with urgency and an odd sense that time is running out.

  Perhaps I should jog around to burn off this brittleness I feel.

  Perhaps I should just get my rocks off.

  I clean up my site, think about setting up my tent before discarding the idea, and wiggle my way into my sleeping bag, shoes and all. You never know when you’ll have to wake up in the middle of the night with guns blazing, and believe me, then is not the time to regret the decision to have removed your boots for comfort.

  At first I just lie there and gaze at the dark sky above me, letting my mind wander freely. There are so many stars in the heavens there’d be no way to count them all. It’s times like this I wish I knew how to find the astrological sign constellations, because I just know they’re there. But unless it’s Orion the Hunter or the Big Dipper, I’m clueless.

  Seek and Galloway come to mind. Where are they now? What are they doing? Staring at the same sky as I am, wondering? Wondering what? Do they dream of someone to love, someone to hold? It’s moments like this that I feel the emptiness of my traveling, of being so alone. I like helping people; I feel blessed to have the ability I have. But I miss companionship. I miss having love.

  My stomach clenches as I imagine both men being with me here, lying under the stars. Just the three of us as I am finally allowed to unleash my own pent-up passion. I would undress them, licking every inch of skin that is revealed. Both are tall and handsome, strong.

  I unzip my pants and slide my hand inside, under my panties. I slide my middle finger up and down my damp slit, pressing in to find that little nub of nerves so I can milk it for pleasure. I picture both men sandwiching me, cupping me, taking nips and bites. Licking me. Soon, I have the most delicious hunger deep inside, an almost quickening spurt of pleasure as I start to rock my hips. In my mind, I’m rocking into two cocks. I’m chasing that ebb of ecstasy, so I grind myself a little harder on my fingers. I press my knees inward, the pressure acting to both alleviate the almost unbearable ache and to bring it sharper into focus.

  With my other hand I reach up under my sports bra to clutch the crinkled skin around my nipple. I trace the little bumps before taking the peak between my thumb and finger to roll it gently. This is a little hard to do since the bra doesn’t have a lot of wiggle room, but I manage to find the right angle.

  As I pinch my nipple, the shock sends a jolt straight down into my cunt. My finger brushes over my clit, causing my heart to hammer as a light sweat dusts over my upper lip. My touches are light, beguiling, as I finding a matching rhythm with my two hands.

  I don’t have the control to make this last long. I’ve never had a reason to prolong the pleasure of teasing myself. I know that with the right person sex can last for a very long time, but I’ve never had a partner, and I’ve never felt the need to torment myself. So I allow my middle finger to slide inside while my index finger starts to rub my clit harder. I bend my index finger inside, finding that one sweet spot that sends my senses into another world. I moan, and my hips start pumping like mad. Up and down I hump my hand, my knees tightening even more. I twist my nipple painfully as I grind my finger onto my clit. I couldn’t stop this even if I wanted to. Everything working together sends me over the edge, the orgasm sweeping through me in a white-hot flood. I can feel my pussy contracting around my fingers, sucking them in and wanting more. Wetness oozes down my fingers.

  As I pull my hands out from my clothing, lethargy replaces the tension that had been in my muscles earlier, and in a matter of seconds, I know no more.

  Chapter Three

  I open my eyes a little before daybreak, feeling like I could sleep the whole day.

  Man, I’m tired. It’s been a while since I’ve had a decent sleep, and my body feels the effect of my insomnia. Ever since I had that nightmare, I’ve been restless and edgy. For a moment I let myself imagine how nice it would be if I were on a beach somewhere, lounging in the sun with a cute little fruity drink in my hand. No worries, no cares. I could sleep all day and night if I wanted to. What would it be like to be free of responsibility?

  That is a question I’ll probably never know the answer to. Even as a kid I had to take care of my mother, who moved from guy to guy like she changed T-shirts. I had many “uncles” and one pervy “daddy,” but I stayed for her, because I was the only one who really knew the demons that drove my mother into insanity. In the end, it was the virus that took her, but it was almost a blessing when she passed.

  I stretch out my muscles before rising, dragging my sleeping bag out of the tent to fold it up. The dawn air is chilly, and I shiver a bit before reaching into one of my duffel bags and grabbing a zipped hoodie. I put it on, flip up the hood, and bundle down into the warmth for a moment. I resume packing, folding up my tent and storing it on the flatbed. I grab a freeze-dried meal, breakfast fare of eggs, pancakes, and bacon; use my gas-fueled hot plate to heat up some water for the instant coffee; and then sit at one of the rusted picnic tables to watch the sun come up over the desert.

  I’ve never lamented the circumstances of my life. I might complain and bitch about them, but it is what it is. Perhaps knowing that I am destined for a great love has helped me cope, unlike my mother, who spent her whole life searching for “the one.” Maybe if my mom had had a gift like mine, she would have been able to see and follow a different path, instead of landing in the wrong lap every time. For all her faults, though, I loved her. I may not have liked her much, but I never did figure out how to stop loving the person who gave me life.

  I finish my breakfast and rise from the table, using the chipped and broken trash receptacle to throw my stuff away. I no longer need to be cautious, b
ecause in a few hours I will have disappeared into a city labyrinth. From my camping equipment I grab the shower bag I have, filling it with the required two and a half gallons of water it holds. I grab some soap and a change of clothes and head to the facilities building. Inside I am able to hang the bag and take a quick shower, even brushing my teeth. One thing that I have learned is to be frugal with water, so I shower every second or third day. Even though the water is tepid, it still feels nice to wash the grime off. Once the water is gone, I dry off and dress, then pack up all of my stuff before heading outside.

  I top off the tank with my stored gasoline, double-check that everything is secure on the flatbed, and then plop the sunglasses on my nose. The sun has awoken, bathing the land in brightness. I must admit the desert is beautiful, stark in dried-up grass and dust swirls, but the absence of color actually captures my appreciation. I like simplicity.

  Shaking my head against such frivolous thinking, I take off down the road, instantly forgetting my outdoor hotel for the night. I have about three hours left in my journey to Los Angeles, which will put me there around nine, so that will give me plenty of daylight left to scout out a hiding area, secure my four-wheeler, and go trolling for the guys.

  Seek and Galloway. There had been one dream, long ago, where they had been at a bar, someplace crawling with military men. Women had been there aplenty, the kind hoping to bed someone with many stripes on their arms. I watched them that night from my spirit plateau. I really hated those particular dreams, when I know men will be men and fuck whatever catches their fancy. Galloway had been a real ladies’ man, with his dashing good looks, charming dimples, and his willingness to let a woman’s pleasure exceed his own. But that night it had been Seek who had caught my attention. I was so used to watching Galloway, it took me a few minutes to realize how much Seek was holding back, how he was nursing a beer in a corner and avoiding everyone.