 
**Icicles And A Warm Breeze**

Jeff Lassen

Including

' **Desert Creek'**

Icicles And A Warm Breeze

Including 'Desert Creek'

Published by StreetWise Publications

22 Waikanda Cres, WHALAN,

NSW 2770 Australia

http://streetwisepublications.info

Copyright 2011 The Estate of Jeff Lassen and Perry Gamsby as Literary Executor

ISBN: 978-1-4657-6016-6

Smashwords Edition, License Statement

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Disclaimer: The people and events described herein are fictional and any similarity unintentional.
Introduction

'Icicles And A Warm Breeze' is a collection of short stories and other writings by Jeff Lassen, author of 'Desert Creek' and 'This Poor Collection'. It is something of an eclectic anthology as the stories are about very different times, places and people. They were written across Jeff's lifetime, drawn from events and memories lived through in places as far afield as Jamaica, Ghana, the Philippines and of course, the USA.

When Jeff first asked me to be his literary executor in 2009 I was not sure if I was up to the task, never having been entrusted with a man's lifetime of writing before. I have tried to offer Jeff's oeuvre to the world as I felt he would like it to be but I know I have included a few 'bits and pieces' he probably didn't expect me to include. I have done that in order to give the reader as broad a view of the writer as possible.

We all who are born, die, and sadly Jeff knew his time was short when he sent me his work and asked me to act on his behalf. Another great story teller, Louis L'Amour, said that no man can know the time of his passing, but he can do something about the way in which he goes. I hope Jeff leaves us feeling proud he has left behind a worthy legacy, his writing and his poetry and we are all the richer for that. Thanks Jeff,

Perry Gamsby

Sydney, Australia, October 2011

Icicles And A Warm Breeze

Table Of Contents

Icicles and a Warm Breeze

Mother, Charmin and Dr. Kevorkian

Sisyphus

Fairytale -The Magic House

Green-Eyes

Roadblock

Kwabena's Hunt

Smiles

Easy Writing

Dear Mitch,

Love: Honesty, Trustworthiness, Loyalty and Honor

On the Essay as a Form of Communication

I Will Be the One

Desert Creek

About The Author

I asked Jeff to write his own bio-blurb. He left out how he has travelled the world, been married eight times, fathered four children, earned a Bachelor's Degree and, in his own words;

"Worked at a vast number of different jobs in many fields including alcohol/drug counseling, apartment management, building cleaning, camp counselor, carpentry, casino worker, computer programming, copyreading, counselor training, factory, farming, fast food, fire fighting, gas station, labor, lawn care, motel, office clerical, restaurant, sales, shipping and warehouse, state/federal government worker, stevedore, tile-laying, well-drilling

here is Jeff's 'authorized' bio-blurb:

" Jeff Lassen was born in 1943 in New Jersey at a very young age. He was an active alcoholic until 1972 when he began his recovery. He died with 39 years of continuous sobriety.

He started writing from age 10. Thankfully, none of this early work is extant. His published works included articles in a number of periodicals, and one work of fiction. He always wanted to write stories, and hoped to pursue that more in his retirement.

Among his final wishes were that his works, especially his fiction, might be made available for others to enjoy.

Foreword

My first work of fiction was a story written at about age 10. Thankfully it is not included in this collection. What is found between these covers are 9 stories which cried to be born.

Stories have a life of their own. The author assists them, a little or a lot, to reach the page. Some stories pour out, seemingly of their own volition, almost effortlessly. Some require much in the way of agony and tears in order to drag them forth. Some reach maturity in hours or days; some have a very long gestation period. Those here are a mix of these types.

Through years of writing – poetry because I had to; articles because occasionally I got paid to; and many lines of code because I wanted to eat – I always had the dream of "making it" as a fiction writer. Retirement was to be the opportunity to finally write what I so passionately wanted to write – fiction!

Life had other plans for me! And now, about to lay down my pen for good, these few stories which would not stay unwritten are going to make a public appearance. This is happening through the efforts of a man who believed in me, my editor and friend, Perry Gamsby. Thanks Perry.

I'd like to dedicate this volume to Jason Mitchell Tecumseh Lassen, b. 4 AUG 1966, my "lost" son, whose name appears in so many of my characters.

So, readers whoever you may be, here are the stories I have been privileged to help into being.

Jeff Lassen, 10 JUN 2010

Sisyphus

This story lived within my head for many years. One day, finally, I typed it out. It has collected more rejection slips than anything I ever wrote, because I believed in it and continued to try. I still do.

Desert Creek

The idea for a science fiction story had been in my head for a few years but it didn't turn out to be sci-fi really. The first draft was written over a couple of weeks in my van camping on the banks of Desert Creek in far western Nevada. It was late autumn 1990, cold nights, and fingers so cramped I could barely type on the old portable typewriter. I remember shouting with elation into the cold mountain night about 3 am. It was the first story I had actually "completed".

Green-Eyes

This story took about 40 years to arrive. The green-eyed girl briefly glimpsed on a bus, and the story she wrote in my head, refused to let me be and I finally gave in and wrote it.

Mother...

This was very easy to write, once I thought it through and discarded plans for a very different "mystery" piece. So I've written a eulogy instead. My mother helped through memories of her acerbic wit. I just fictionalized it a bit, and my brother still doesn't want to talk to me.

Icicles...

This one just happened. I was talking with a friend one day about education. Back when there was such a thing. About significant influences in school. Mrs. Miller was one of mine! That night the story just flowed out unbidden.

I Will Be The One

As I remember it, Perry started some fiction in his newsletter, and invited others to submit. Thus, my first published piece of fiction! It is so easy to find interesting subjects here in the Philippines.

Roadblock

A demonstration, I learned later, because of traffic killing school children. Two bigshots were to come through on their way to the town I lived in. The roadblock almost caught me instead! I had to write something about it, and it just flowed. Probably the least effort of all the stories.

Kwabena's Hunt

The trek into the bush was hilarious and I really liked Kwabena. The story put itself together after a while, and I got it down onto paper. Ghana was an amazing place for story ideas.

Smiles

This story went through several versions and major changes before settling down. The little village entranced me when I first visited there. The girl with the eyes made an impression, as did the father and daughter. Most of the rest built itself in my mind, and developed slowly. I didn't always like where the story was going, but I finally got comfortable enough with it to call it "final".

**Icicles and a Warm Breeze**

As a disorderly fifth-grader I met her for the first time. On my third trip to his office in a month, the frustrated principal had sent me to the eighth-grade classroom with a note. You only got sent to Mrs. Miller if you were very bad.

Opening the door fearfully, I saw a short, thin old woman at the blackboard. Her students turned to look at me with pity. She turned, fixing me with a stare which made me quake. Silently she strode toward me, her head held as high as her five-foot frame allowed. Hair in a neat gray bun, she wore a drab button-front dress and oxfords. I smelled Gardenia as she reached me.

"Aren't you ashamed." It was a statement. Her voice was steel, hard and cold, each syllable enunciated deliberately. "You have disrupted these children who are trying to learn. Are you so important?"

I could make no answer at all. The nervous glances of her students filled me with dread.

Slowly she took the note from my shaking hand. Carefully opening the envelope and unfolding the piece of paper, she regarded me with withering scrutiny. Donning the gold-rimmed spectacles on a chain, she read the principal's indictment. She sighed and gazed at me over the top of her glasses several times. Then she carefully refolded the letter and replaced it in the envelope. She removed her glasses and the gray-blue eyes looking out from her wrinkled face pierced me like icicles.

She looked down on me. My knees were weak, ears ringing, stomach full of writhing snakes, and my mouth as dry as the classroom geraniums after Christmas vacation. I was sure I was going to die.

"Jeffrey, I don't think that you care very much about getting an education." The same slow, deliberate voice continued. "I do not want to see you in here again wasting the time of these children."

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Miller," I croaked.

There was a giggle from one of the students, and the icy stare was turned on him for a moment. She sighed again, then turned and walked slowly to the front of the room. I waited, still shaking, wondering what was to become of me.

Taking up the chalk, she resumed diagramming a sentence, explaining some fine point of grammar. Now her voice was a warm June breeze flowing over her class. No one looked at me. She had the interest of each of her students.

She turned from the board, in the midst of the explanation. A sparkle and a smile gave way to a steely stare and grim frown as she saw me. Her voice changed from warm breeze to icy gale as she spoke.

"I told you I didn't want to see you again. Go. Learn!"

Finally my wobbly legs carried me into the hall and I breathed a sigh of relief. I vowed to quit school and run away from home before I reached eighth grade.

**Mother, Charmin and Dr. Kevorkian**

It was like every day. The help-line phone rang constantly. One call after another, claimants wanting to know where their benefit checks were. Look up their account in the computer. Give them the answers they didn't want to hear. Their claim card was not received, not signed, no benefits left in their account. Their check had been mailed on the usual day. Each expected that his call would magically cause his check to issue from his phone right then. Eight hours of unhappy callers one after another.

"Jason, you have a call on Connie's line."

I almost never got personal calls at work. But I knew what this one must be. I went into the boss's office.

"Jason?"

"Yes, Creigh, it's me."

"Jason. Mom died this morning, about an hour ago. They just called me from the nursing home a little while ago. They said she just went quietly in her sleep after breakfast. She's at peace now, Jase!"

"Thanks, Creigh. Bye."

There didn't seem to be anything else to say. It was not unexpected. She had been starving herself to death for the past three weeks, refusing to take any food at all. She had been tired of fighting.

I quietly returned to my desk. I stared at and through my computer screen. The phone continued to ring unheard, the calls answered by my many co-workers.

She'd had fifteen good years after she had first been diagnosed. She'd had a double radical mastectomy, radiation and chemo-therapy, and had remained cancer-free for fifteen years.

Then the cancer had returned. She had fought valiantly for about five years. Then she had given up. At the end her body was riddled with cancer. She had just had her seventieth birthday a month and a half ago.

I was sitting quietly at my desk with tears streaming down my face.

"Jason, are you alright?" asked my supervisor, Bob. "Was it your mother?"

"Yes. I'll be alright."

"Why don't you go home, Jason?" "No! I think I need to be here right now. I just need a little time, Bob. Life goes on." We had both lived in Carson City, Nevada. I visited her often, especially on Friday nights. She was still working, in Reno, and drove the 30 miles each way. On Friday she would do her food shopping on the way home from work. But she was too exhausted to carry her few bags of groceries upstairs to her apartment. She would bring the frozen stuff, leaving the rest in the trunk of her car. No matter how many times I offered, she would not call me for help. Fiercely independent to the end! So I just showed up on Friday evenings, took her keys and checked her trunk, bringing up whatever remained.

About four months ago on a Friday night we were playing Yahtze. Mother and I had always played games. She was a ruthless competitor. But not very good at most of the games she had taught me. I was beating her at gin rummy by the time I was eight years old. Still, she enjoyed our games.

But she couldn't seem to concentrate that night. I asked her what was the matter. She told me that she had had an accident on the way home that night. She had run over a curb and bent the rim of her tire, deflating it. She had to wait for AAA to come fix it so she could come home. I talked to her a bit about the circumstance and she couldn't remember how it happened. This was the third little accident in the past couple of months. I had been increasingly worried by her driving. I told her that it wasn't good for her to be driving anymore if she couldn't remember things. It wasn't safe. She said what did it matter, she was going to die soon anyway. But there are other people to consider. You can't endanger everyone else on the road just because you are going to die soon. Oh yeah, she responded.

I called my brother in Reno. I told him what had happened, that I was going to take Mother's car keys, and he should come down the next day and we should all talk it over.

She was furious! How was she going to get to work? I told her that we would get things worked out between all of us.

Mother moved in with Creigh and his family that weekend. We all had a few visits with her various doctors in the next week. We hadn't realized just how bad things really were. She had so many little tumors in her brain that it was amazing that she functioned as well as she did. Most of her organs were involved. But, strangely enough, nothing in her lungs. A heavy smoker for fifty years, and no cancer in the lungs.

A week later she quit her job. Her doctors had advised her to give up work six months before. She said it was just too much of a problem for Creigh and Emma to drive her there and back.

I saw more of my brother in the next few months than I had in the past several years. I visited one day every weekend. Mother and I continued to play games, when she was able to concentrate. But that became less and less possible to her. I watched her steadily decline.

One day we were playing Uno. She kept putting the wrong cards down. When I corrected her, she looked ashamed of herself. Mother, it's alright. We don't have to play. But she wanted to continue. And she concentrated fiercely. You could see the strain on her face through the wrinkles.

Let me have a puff of your pipe, she asked. She loved the smell of my pipe. But you're not supposed to be smoking, I said. What's the difference, she replied. I'll be dead of the brain tumors before the tobacco can get me. Oh how she savored that single puff of smoke!

A few weeks before her birthday I was there when my brother and his wife returned from the shopping. He walked in with a huge package of toilet tissue. Mother looked pleadingly at my brother. Please can't I have Charmin in my bathroom? Her body seemed to sag nearer to her impending death when he said that he'd just bought 24 rolls of toilet tissue at a wonderful bargain.

The creases and folds around her eyes seemed to deepen until she seemed almost to disappear within them. With a deep sigh - either of despair or resignation - she croaked But that is so rough! Waiting to die, having to live in her son's home for her final days, could she not have one part of her body which was not painful? Slowly turning to gaze at me her eyes rolled upwards and I feared she was going to die at that instant.

Mother, I said, if you want Charmin you shall have it. Glaring defiantly at my overly frugal brother, I added If you won't buy it for her, I shall!

Mother's eyes slowly rolled down again, and the creases and folds of her face smoothed somewhat as she beamed at me with a broad smile, vacant of teeth but no less bright, and her eyes sparkled with glee.

The week of her birthday she was too ill to accompany me to dinner. I had always taken my mother out for a lobster dinner to celebrate her birthday, and for mine a week before. We had both been looking forward to it. But she had been getting more chemo and was not able to eat anything.

We already had reservations, so my brother went with me. When we returned, Mother demanded to sniff my beard and moustache as that was as close as she was ever going to get to lobster again. She sniffed and smiled with joy as she nuzzled into my beard.

A few weeks later she had to be hospitalized to stabilize some of her medication. I think this was the point at which she really gave up. She had a living will which forbid any extraordinary measures. She made sure everybody knew it. Now she refused to take any medication except that for relieving pain. My brother, his wife - who was a nurse - and I were all there in her room with her major attending physician and her cancer doctor.

They were trying to explain why it was important that she should continue to take her medication. She said that she didn't want any more medication. She was going to die, and they couldn't stop it. They said that they would have to administer it through the IV if she wouldn't take it willingly. At this mother ripped the IV feed from her arm and told them she wanted her other doctor. What other doctor was that, they wanted to know. She had so many different doctors. Dr. Kevorkian, she replied. I had to laugh in spite of the situation.

Since she wouldn't take medication they couldn't justify keeping her in the hospital. She was moved to a nursing home, an intensive care sort of terminal facility. She went downhill very fast. She refused to eat. She took only water and a little fruit juice.

I visited every other day for the month she was there. At first she would ask me to not let them force her to eat. I talked with the staff, and they did bring her a tray three times a day, but nobody forced her to do anything. As if anyone could! She was not getting any medication except for pain. And she was in more and more pain as time went on.

Gradually she communicated less and less. When she did speak, it was often garbled, but sometimes an extremely forceful and lucid sentence would ensue. I tended to communicate more with her. I would hold her feeble hand and tell her that I loved her. I would assure her that her wishes were being followed. And I gradually came to accept that she had a right to die rather than to continue to fight this terrible battle.

Mother had long made known her wishes that she have no funeral, no memorial, nothing like that. She didn't want anybody visiting her grave or keeping her ashes on their mantle. She had donated her body to the local medical college. She had often said there was so much wrong with her that the good medical students could make better use of her body than any undertaker. And it would save us the cost of a trash bag. Her words!

Two days before I had sat at her bedside holding her hand. She had not responded at all in the half hour I was there. At first she appeared asleep. Then her eyes opened, but still she didn't move or try to speak. As I was prating on about nothing she suddenly squeezed my hand strongly. She said very clearly, No funeral! She looked at me with the clearest eyes I had seen in her face for months. No, Mother, no funeral. Just as you have always wished. With that she smiled, and closed her eyes again. She slept, and I left.

Goodbye, mother! May God bless you.

The help-line phone was ringing. Automatically, I reached for it. "Benefits. May I help you?

**Sisyphus**

The decision was quickly taken. There seemed no hope, no anything except pain and emptiness. The sleeping pills would work. Twenty remained in the bottle. That would be too many, would make him sick to his stomach before they had the desired effect. Ten of them should do nicely. His last thoughts before the blackness enveloped him was that at least the pain, the emptiness and loneliness would end.

His eyes fluttered open. He was immediately blinded by the stark whiteness of his surroundings. He had no idea where he was, nor of how he came to be there. For that matter, he had no recollection of anything at all for the first few minutes.

"Oh! You're awake now, Mr. Mitchell."

Not only was his memory blurred, but his eyesight as well. Then the shape before him finally resolved to that of a woman in a white uniform - a woman who bore a certain resemblance to someone he couldn't quite remember.

"We thought we might lose you for a while there, Mr. Mitchell. You're really a very lucky man."

Then it all began to flood back in on him: his wife gone; the utter hopelessness of life; the aching hollowness, loneliness; the pain of realization that he couldn't even succeed in killing himself.

Life was unfair! No matter how he tried, he seemed to fail at everything. The one thing which had kept him going was Barbara. With her he had found hope. That one so young and beautiful loved him seemed to say that he was alright, that things were worthwhile despite his constant failures. Then she was gone, and all hope with her.

He remembered making the decision, remembered taking the pills. What had gone wrong? He should never have awakened. But here he was in a hospital of some sort.

How?

He never got an answer to those questions. The nurse gave him no facts. She never mentioned the episode at all. He saw no one else during his stay. His time was spent thinking about the futility of his life and wishing he could not think at all. The anguish within him built steadily.

"I think you can be released today, Mr. Mitchell. But you will be more careful of yourself, won't you?"

The pain he felt was intense. The bland attentions of this nurse who resembled his beloved Barbara made things so much worse inside his churning head. There was but one thing possible for him: release from the torment of his thoughts. Hating his hopeless life more than ever, he resolved to do better this time. Hating himself, he determined upon a more violent and surer method.

Reaching his depressingly empty apartment - empty except for the memory of failure - he went directly into the bathroom, climbed into the tub, and swiftly pulled the sharp blade across his wrist, then across his throat. With that effort his rage, his frustration with life, gradually ebbed into the blurring hope of an end to pain. As he watched the red river against the stark whiteness of the porcelain he slowly slipped again into the peaceful blackness.

Upon opening his eyes the same theme of red and white was repeated: the glaring whiteness of the room and the uniform, set off with the red piping on the cap and the red of her lips. The nurse's full red lips reminded him vaguely of someone.

"Well, good morning Mr. Mitchell. And how are you feeling today?"

Gradually the memories returned, and the mind-pain with them. How could he have failed again? Certainly his life had been pumping out of him as he watched. No one could have come for him; no one knew where he was, or what he intended. No one cared! Only Barbara had cared, and she was lost to him forever. How then did he again find himself in this white room with the nurse who didn't seem quite like a nurse, but so much like his Barbara?

"You had a close call there, Mr. Mitchell, but you're going to be fine. You certainly are a lucky man!"

He didn't feel lucky at all. His only luck had been when Barbara had come into his life. Only then did life seem to hold some promise of happiness for him. This beautiful girl whom he loved so completely, so helplessly, had eventually only contributed more pain, more frustration to his already excruciatingly painful existence. Her loss had been the loss of everything. With her gone, the pain was too great to bear, the last flicker of hope gone.

Life seemed a crooked game. No matter how good the hand he held, he always came up a loser. And it was a rigged game with a penalty for early withdrawal, a dealer who wouldn't let you cash in your chips and leave. He wasn't sure there was a god, or a heaven. Hell he knew - from a lifetime of experience. If there was some god presiding over this life then he must be a sadistic tyrant. Only such a deity would give such happiness, only to take it away again. Still he doubted that there was any god who would care if he left the game early. He was willing to gamble on it. His determination to end the pain of his existence grew as the time in the white room passed.

The nurse was the only person he saw. It gradually dawned on him that she never discussed his wounds, nor the circumstances surrounding his coming to this place. Aside from his arm being swathed in bandages, he was not really aware of his wounds. He felt no physical pain at all. He had not been aware of any treatment being given him. The only awareness of anything outside his tortured memories and his foggy thought was the occasional visit from his white-clad keeper.

Her increasing resemblance to his wife was beginning to torment him more with each appearance. The more she brought to mind his lost Barbara, the worse the emotional pain became, the more acute the sense of loss, the more unbearable the hollow feeling within him.

Her banal cheerfulness, her loving manner, irritated him. He thought she should realize that life was hell for him, that all he wanted to do was to escape the pain of the present and of all the years to come. He couldn't be happy; he couldn't succeed at anything, no matter how hard he tried nor how good his intentions; and he was sure he couldn't ever have the love he craved so insatiably. But he could die! Although his attempts so far had not been so successful, next time would be different. His resolve deepened, and he began to make plans for a better attempt upon his release.

Which soon came. Or it seemed soon, although he really had no clear sense of time. All seemed to be a fog, with nothing certain. Although the room was brightly lit, and the nurse a clear form, it was as if everything was slightly blurred and unreal. The day - or hour - finally came. The bandages came off, and he was able to move. It was strange that he could not remember having moved in the time that he had been there. Now, without even a scar to mark his recent attempt, he was up and ready to leave the painful prison of this white room.

Being free again, he had but one thought: a more certain way to end his anguish. The gun was readily obtained, and soon he was on the bed in his memory-torturing bedroom, the pressure of the barrel against the roof of his mouth momentarily uncomfortable. Then he was aware of half of a loud noise, followed by black nothingness.

Consciousness returned. He was staring at the same dazzling white walls. Not again! This wasn't possible.

"Well, Mr. Mitchell, you seem to be doing alright now. You're a very lucky man."

There was his Barbara-faced nurse again, his painful reminder. How could she be so cheerfully accepting of him when it must be so very obvious that all he wanted was to escape from the constant reminder of his lost wife. All he wanted to do was die.

In any real hospital they should have been inquiring, prying into his reasons for suicide. They would certainly be asking him questions and trying to counsel him, to talk him out of his firm resolve to seek an end to his painful life. But nothing of the sort had happened, and that was quite puzzling.

How could he have survived three ever more serious and violent attempts with no permanent damage? Why would they simply release him again and again?

"Mr. Mitchell, you'll soon be fine again, and you'll be able to go home."

Home. Nothing there but memories he didn't want, nothing but reminders of his hopeless life, of his lost Barbara. But there, at least, he'd have a chance to escape from this incessant reminder of her, this white-clad double for his beautiful wife. There he could try again. He was already planning for an even more certain method: explosives. He'd be damned if he'd give up his determination to escape his life without Barbara. He'd keep trying if it took him forever.

**Fairytale -The Magic House**

Once there was a man named Olen, who was traveling to a far land. He was a poor man, having only a small purse with barely enough for his journey. And he was alone.

Olen had left his own land to search for something, but he wasn't sure what it was that he sought. In Mare he had never felt comfortable. The things which were important to his countrymen did not seem of very great importance to Olen. Perhaps in Icafar he would find a way of life which appealed to him.

But the new land was strange to him. Everything was unfamiliar, he could barely understand the language of the people, and things were constantly happening which he couldn't explain. There was a sense of expectancy in the air, as if something important was about to occur.

Olen came to a large river, which was uncrossable without a boat of some kind. On the bank was an old woman, gazing across the waters and wringing her hands in anguish. Summoning the few words of Knaa which he had learned, and trying for pronunciation which would be understandable, he approached her and spoke.

"Fine morning, Mother! What is the trouble which has you so upset?"

As the form turned toward him, Olen was unable to clearly see the woman's face, for she was wrapped in a robe with a cowl-like hood. But his impression was that she was very old, being bent and stooped.

"I must cross this river, and the ferry is coming now. But I haven't the money for the fare.", she answered in a wavering, cracking voice. "What am I to do? There is no one to help me."

Looking across the water himself, he saw a small boat - a raft, actually - which was pulled across the turbulent river by ropes. As it neared the shore, the ferryman called out.

"Begone, crone! I have told you these last three trips: change yourself into a crow and fly across, but you'll not ride my ferry without paying me two deci for the fare. Your magic does not scare me at all, old one!"

With that, the raft ground to the shore where the old woman and Olen stood.

"Ah! A paying customer, perhaps. Here, Gentleman, let me help you aboard. Away, hag! Leave the gentleman alone."

"The lady is my guest, ferryman. Please assist her." Olen had not even thought before uttering these words. The despair of the old woman had touched him, and the ferryman's harsh words to her had brought forth his defense. Reaching into his purse he brought forth his last coin. "Will this cover our fares, boatman?"

The ferryman took Olen's coin, bit it, weighed the unfamiliar foreign piece in his hand, and pronounced "Just the right amount, it seems. Aboard! Aboard!"

Both men helped load the few baskets and bags that the old woman had standing on the ground with her. And then the barge began its journey back across the river, pulled by the muscular arms of the ferryman. The trip was not long, but the river was deep and fast. It took all the strength and concentration of the boatman to manage his craft and he said not a word on the traverse. Olen and the old woman likewise maintained silence until the other side was reached.

After they disembarked the old woman thanked Olen for her fare. She sat on the ground surrounded by small parcels. Laboriously she slung a bag over each sloped shoulder, and grasped the two baskets. Struggling to gain her feet, wheezing with effort, she finally stood after a fashion.

"Are you traveling this road ahead, Mother? Perhaps I can help you with your load." Olen had lifted the packages from the barge, and their weight was considerable. How the woman could have managed them alone was beyond his understanding, but many things here in Icafar were strange.

She handed him a heavy basket. With his own small pack on his back,there was enough of a load for him. But the woman asked him to put one of her bags into the basket he carried. When he did so, the load became lighter by half. Then the other bag, which further lightened the whole. Finally, the last basket fit inside the first, and the accumulated baggage of the old woman was of no more weight than his purse, which now was totally empty. Even his own pack seemed lighter. And so they progressed along the road toward what destination Olen only barely knew.

"I don't know very much about magic," Olen stated, "for in my land of Mare there is no such thing. But you certainly seem to have some uncanny ability. Why did you not simply lighten your load? It is clear that you were struggling under it."

Still from under the hood, with wavering tones, the old woman answered. "It is not permitted to me to perform magic for my own benefit. But when it was to lighten your load, which you took upon yourself, then it was permitted. You have a good heart, Olen, to assist me so."

He marveled that she knew his name. Olen was sure that he had not spoken it in her presence. This was truly a different and strange land.

They continued down the road, with little conversation. It was almost fully dark when finally they reached the side of a small stream where they stopped to rest.

"And where will you go now, Olen? It is late, but there is a village ahead about an hour's walk. There you may find a place to spend the night.

"But I have nothing with which to pay, for I gave my last coin to the ferryman. I shall stay here tonight, and in the light of a new day I will seek out some form of work in this new land. For now I will stay by the streamside and sleep. What of you, Mother?"

"I must go on. But you are a very kind man, Olen, to have spent your last coin on my fare across the river. But perhaps you are mistaken, and it was not your last. I think there may be another in your purse."

Olen felt the purse around his neck, and showed a look of surprise as he felt the coin within. He loosened the drawstring, and took out an identical coin to the one he had given the ferryman - completely alike, even to the tooth marks. "How is this here, Mother?" he asked.

The greedy man must have taken it out to admire how he robbed you on the way back across the river. That coin is worth at least 10 deci, but he told you it was just enough to cover our two fares. He must have dropped it into the river, I would think. He will not suspect that his greed made it fly back to you."

**Green-Eyes**

I remember a young, part-black girl with green eyes on a bus in Kingston, Jamaica, back in 1966. She made such an impression on me that the memory is still vivid. I have carried the vision of her all these years, and the dream of what we might have experienced together.

She was of a dark cinnamon colour, and of very comely features. Her hair was sort of blonde with some red highlights, but her lips were pleasingly thick, and her nose acceptably broad. She was only a budding woman, probably no more than twelve or thirteen. But the look in those startlingly beautiful green eyes said that she was ready to learn of love, and I was more than ready to teach her.

She kept gazing at me for the entire trip into town. When I boarded the bus and walked back to an empty seat I couldn't miss her youthful beauty nor her steady stare. Those green eyes, shining out from her beautiful brown face, seemed to smile of their own accord. I chose a seat directly across from her, and drank in her beauty with thirsty eyes.

Her breasts were the size of small, hard tangerines, and through her simple shift of thin cloth her nipples poked out erect - from the heat of my gaze, I like to think, and in anticipation of my mouth gently closing over them.

Her legs protruding from the bottom of her skirt were of the same fine colouring as her face - thin, little-girl legs. But as much as I could see of her exposed thighs told me that she was beginning - just beginning - to fill out into a sensual young woman. And I was certain that between those delightful young-woman thighs I would find a delicious morsel, covered with the first downy growth of pubescence.

Aware of my interest, and not the least embarrassed by it, she shifted in her seat and recrossed her legs, exposing a bit more tempting thigh and causing her enticing young breasts to jut out to their best advantage. She continued to gaze at me, green eyes smiling brightly, with a mixture of girlish coquetry and womanly invitation.

I was too dumbstruck by her youthful sensuality, and too busy with my hands in my lap trying to cover the evidence of her effect upon me, to correctly read the invitation there until it was too late. She arose from her seat with a toss of her pert, round bottom - Ah! Such delights to be experienced there! An impatient glance at me, a final glance with the smiling green eyes, and she left the bus before my destination. I was on my way to an important appointment and did not follow her as I should have.

Over the years since I have forgotten what was so important about that appointment. But I have never forgotten that sweet, young, green-eyed girl who was so ready to give herself to me. I still dream of being the first to part her tender lips with my tongue and drink deep of the first-fruit juices of her newly awakened womanhood, to eat that special meal from her virgin pussy. I still wish I had left the bus with her, and undertaken the beautiful and sacred honor of being her teacher in the arts of love \- to initiate her to the ecstasy of release for the first time with my thick hard cock thrusting inside her, bringing her to the heights of passion and spurting the juices of love deep within her, satisfying her completely in her initial sexual encounter.

Oh God! Why didn't I? I wonder if she ever thinks of me.

**Roadblock**

I wasn't afraid at first.

I had been cruising along at about 130 clicks from my home in Berekum, and my visor was flecked with bug guts. As I slowed my cycle coming into the village of Nsoatre I saw what looked like a lot of debris in the road. I figured that a truck had overturned or something. A lot of people were hanging around at the edge of the road.

I slowed still more as I approached the nearest of the obstacles, a piece of tree trunk. People were shouting and waving me back. The fact that I do not understand the local language, Twi, didn't help. I figured they were trying to warn me about the debris-strewn road. Cars were pulling to the side. But my bike can manoeuvre where a car can't. I've ridden on worse obstacle courses. I went on.

As I rounded the curve into the center of town, I saw a virtual sea of people, and a street littered with clumps of dirt, rocks, trees and smashed cement blocks. There were a lot of young men - boys, really - crowding about in the road and hurling further obstructions into the way. There were a few men in ceremonial cloths. Women and children milled about the edges of the road.

There was no overturned truck. No traffic accident. For some unknown reason the usually peaceful people of Nsoatre, Ghana, had decided to block the main road through their town. And it was the only route from my home in Berekum to anywhere, except out of the country. I wanted to check my post office box in Nsoatre, and then I was on my way to Sunyani, the Regional Capital, to purchase an item for my computer and to access my email at an internet café.

Ghana is a pretty peaceful country. While there is fighting somewhere in Africa most of the time, and currently in the neighboring country of Ivory Coast a horrible civil war is going on, Ghana has not seen much violence for many years. Yes! With numerous coups in earlier days, there had been some bloodshed. That, however, was pretty much a political thing, and the victims were usually members of the previous government or of their political party.

Even an anti-American demonstration was unthinkable here. As far as I knew I was one of only two Americans in Berekum, and one of only a handful of whites altogether. In Nsoatre I had never seen a single white face. And now I was decidedly a minority of one in what was beginning to look like an angry mob.

I had no way of knowing what was going on, why the disturbance. Had something occurred locally? There were always instances of discord over the vacant stool of a deceased king. There were often instances of tribal friction. There were even occasional outbreaks of violence of a religious nature, but these usually occurred further in the north of the country. All of these infrequent events were between specific factions, and I was a member of none of them.

In the seven months I had been living in Berekum there had been no problems. On occasion a drunk or crazy person would accost me in the street, but then there were usually four or five people shooing him away and apologizing to me.

The people usually accepted me as what I am, a crazy American who had chosen to retire and live in Ghana. They all wanted to go to America or Europe. The people of Ghana are the reason I chose to live here. They are, generally, the most friendly people of anywhere I have ever been. Not the 'friendly to tourists \- give me your money' friendliness so often seen in various destinations around the world. And Berekum certainly couldn't be considered a tourist destination. No! The people I met were definitely friendly and made me welcome.

Now I was at least uneasy. I looked over my shoulder and saw a larger crowd than when I had come through. There appeared to be no going back. Ahead were patches of debris, interspersed with relatively clear areas, and crowds of young men mostly at the fringes of the debris-strewn areas.

I slowly edged forward, weaving around the obstructions. Boys were coming out into my path and shouting into my face. Revving the engine, I would steer in whichever direction seemed indicated by the obstacles in the road, whether away from the individual, or toward them. I kept my face set and my eyes moving, especially in my mirrors.

The first cement block crashed inches from my clutch foot and spewed fragments over the whole area around my front tire. Only accelerating managed to keep me from foundering on the many small pieces. Amazingly, I found a path through the larger of the pieces, and again slowed to a crawl. A quick look in my mirror showed a boy with a rock in his hand directly behind my bike. There was a loud crack as it bounced off my helmet seconds later.

Now I was afraid! I had been personally attacked by someone who didn't know me, for nothing other than riding down a street I had traveled many times in the previous months. There was an empty feeling in the pit of my stomach. I was actually in danger of being physically harmed. And I didn't even know why!

I briefly wished for the old days, when I had been afraid of nothing. I longed for the feel of a pistol in my belt and a knife in my boot. But only for a second or two. Then I realized that in the old days I wasn't sixty-two years old. Quaking inside but maintaining my calm, hard exterior, I proceeded forward.

Another block shattered near my rear tire. Somebody punched me in the shoulder. But I had reached a somewhat clear area of road and was able to accelerate out of a near lay-down.

The next patch of rubble-filled street seemed to be the last before the post office, and the edge of town. A group of boys was standing almost completely across the road however. Nothing for it but speed! I gunned the engine and, keeping it in first gear, accelerated directly toward the largest of the group, my bike making a fearful roar even though not traveling that fast. He leaped out of the way just before I would have struck him.

I had to immediately roll off the gas and brake to manoeuvre through the final group of debris. Right at the end I felt a strong tug at the small pack I was carrying, and my bike began to go down. It leaned so far that I had to speed up drastically to keep from laying it down. A tight circle in the direction of the initial pull had me looking into the eyes of an angry youngster of about eighteen. As I revolved around him, with his arm and my pack straps as a pivot, his look changed to surprise, then fear.

I finally straightened my wheel and braked. "Let go, Boy!" I said, in the most coldly authoritative tone I could muster while looking directly into his eyes. He released my pack and stepped back.

Revving wildly, I released the clutch and shot off down the now unobstructed road toward Sunyani. Back up to 130 until out of sight of Nsoatre around the next curve. Then, with nothing but bush on all sides, I pulled my bike to the side of the road and went behind a tree. I squatted there for a very long time.

**Kwabena's Hunt**

The young man glowed with pride as he stood beside the antelope hanging outside his house. He was clad only in cutoffs and sandals. Young muscles rippling, he aimed his rifle at his prize and snarled fiercely. I took his picture and he grinned.

I was visiting the village of my wife's uncle. When the young man had returned from his hunt I was called to record the event on film. Everyone always wanted his picture taken.

Kwabena stood beside me now, eyes downcast, brow furrowed with thought. His wife Ama was speaking to the boy's mother and plainly envious of her. There would be red meat in that family's pot tonight while we had eaten only chicken and fish since my arrival. When I looked around again Kwabena had slunk away.

We were the same age but Kwabena appeared older. We had become friends at once although we were not able to communicate except through an interpreter. He had no English at all and my Twi was limited to "Good morning" and "Thank you".

My young nephew Kwaku appeared as we were on the path back. "Uncle Kwabena says to get ready. You are going to the forest." I hurried to the house to put on boots and get the rest of my camera equipment. I had been looking forward to this opportunity.

Carrying the heavy camera bag, I was drenched with sweat long before we reached the forest. The heat and high humidity were oppressive even though the path through the cocoa plantation was shaded. The sweet odour of cocoa in flower and rotting vegetation was almost overpowering.

Beside me strode Kwabena. He was dressed in sneakers, a pair of slacks which were more patches and tears than anything else, and a short-sleeved shirt which had lost its buttons and collar. Over his shoulder was an ancient percussion-cap muzzle-loader and around his neck hung a pouch with packets of powder, shot and caps. At his belt hung a large knife. A small, sinewy man, his stride was shorter than mine and I had to slow my pace to remain beside him.

Finally we reached the edge of the forest and a path leading into it but Kwabena began to turn aside. By hand signals to supplement the English which I knew he didn't understand, I made known that I wanted to enter the forest to take pictures. Reluctantly he led the way.

The path was more of a tunnel with vegetation close on both sides and overhead. I had to stoop to walk along behind Uncle Kwabena. He gazed apprehensively in all directions, rifle held at the ready. Twice he halted and motioned to return along the path the way he had come. The third time he refused to continue, edged around me in the narrow passage and began retracing our steps.

I was disappointed. It was too dark for photography, even if I could have seen anything in the dense growth. But I could see clearly that Kwabena was uncomfortable in the forest.

A cocoa farmer, not a hunter, he was more at ease when we regained the edge of the plantation. Walking along the border between the forest and the groves, Kwabena constantly looked up into the forest canopy. What could he be watching for, I wondered. Panther, I guessed, but I had no idea of the local wildlife.

Suddenly he stopped and pointed into a tree with a finger to his lips. He raised and aimed his rifle in a most unusual manner. Rather than hold the stock against his shoulder he braced it against the heel of his left hand and held the grip with his right. As he squeezed the trigger there was a resounding boom and a billow of smoke.

It was plain he had missed. His smile disappeared and his head hung. Again, by signs, I asked what he had shot at, and he managed to convey a squirrel. The way he pantomimed the bushy tail would have made me laugh if he had not been looking so dejected.

We had come quite a distance from the path so Kwabena cut through the groves towards home. I felt sad for my usually happy friend as I followed him between the trees. His shoulders slumped and his eyes were on the ground. The rifle trailed casually from his hand. I would have liked to console him, but without a common language it was impossible.

Suddenly he was happy again, grinning and pointing, and talking rapidly in Twi. There under a cocoa tree was the largest mushroom I had ever seen. The crown, fluted like a fancy parasol, was about a foot in diameter. Kwabena seemed overjoyed although I couldn't understand why. First he used his knife to cut a forked branch, then carefully cut through the mushroom's stalk which was as thick as my ankle. Handing me the rifle, he mounted the huge fungus on his stick and hoisted it to his shoulder. Of course he wanted his picture taken.

We returned to the village in a triumphal procession, Kwabena striding proudly with his find. As we neared his house the children joined us. One ran ahead to tell Ama. As we entered the compound she came forward and accepted it from him, smiling broadly. Young Kwaku informed me that this species of mushroom was prized for its good flavor and its medicinal qualities. One this large was extremely rare. Our soup would be flavored with a portion of it this evening.

It was amazing to see the change in Kwabena. He seemed as happy and proud as the boy with the antelope. Everyone in the village had to come see the mushroom and congratulate him. And Ama was soon seen returning with a shoulder of antelope received in trade for half of the mushroom.

That evening around the fire Kwabena recounted the tale of his hunt for one and all and Kwaku translated for me. I did not dispute the many differences from the trip I had experienced. It was enough that my friend had no shame now, and that we would have red meat in our pot tomorrow.

**Smiles**

The last hour had been spent crammed into a mini-pickup truck: semi-enclosed, wooden benches, twenty-four other people, a sloshing cask of palm wine, various produce, and a live duck which I was bringing with me as a gift to my host. Racing at breakneck speed down each hill, and praying for the ancient truck as it labored to make it up the next, we had careered over a dirt road with reckless disregard for the overloaded, top-heavy vehicle's ability to stay upright, veering around potholes and swerving to avoid pedestrians. We avoided some of the holes; I think we missed all the people. My legs were cramped, my behind was sore, I smelled like I'd been on a week-long drunk, and I was extremely happy. I'd reached the end of the line for this lorry, and had only about a mile of track to reach the small village of Nyame Bekyere for my visit of several days.

We crawled out of the cramped lorry. Retrieving my belongings, I was happy to stretch my legs and rest before beginning the last leg of the trek. The prospect of walking laden with my camera equipment and a duffel of clothing was not pleasant. At least I had let Kwasi talk me out of the typewriter. As a writer it seemed wrong, but it was only for a few days. The camera had seemed more necessary. I had pads, and would have to resort to longhand for my notes.

This village of about a dozen houses, Nkyeribono, was the home of Kwasi's wife. He stopped to greet everyone, and to give news of Vida. I was introduced to everyone and welcomed by his in-laws. As always, I was a curiosity - especially for the children who flocked around and proved their bravery by touching me. Everyone wanted their photo taken. The adults were somewhat reserved about it, the adolescents just insinuated themselves into the edges of whatever picture I snapped, but the children crowded together, begging to be captured on film, smiling broadly. I accommodated many, faked more to save film, and searched the sea of faces for something special.

She was about thirty feet away when I first saw her, almost completely hidden at the back of a crowd clamoring for another photo. All I could see through my lens were her eyes, frankly staring at me. Not smiling, really, but inquisitive - and beautifully expressive. I zoomed in on her face and shot. Several more. If only I could get her to pose apart from the others! I followed her with my camera, but every time I shot others crowded in.

"Kwasi, do you see that girl, in the blue shift? Could you talk to her for me?"

My friend gave me a strange look, but called her over. Most people spoke one of the many local languages, although the official language is English. What little I heard was incomprehensible to my ears, so Kwasi interpreted not only the local Akan, but also whatever English was spoken to me.

Formality seemed the best approach; these are a very formal people. "Ask her, my brother, what her name is, and tell her that she should not be offended. I intend no wrong. She has very beautiful eyes. I tried to take some photos of her, but other people were in the way. With her permission, I will return here tomorrow and take a whole roll of photos of her alone."

All the while I spoke the young lady was unabashedly staring at me, which is uncommon for females in that culture. Her large eyes looked almost sad, but not quite that. There was a question mark where her pupils should have been. I fought to keep from staring too obviously myself, for she was probably attached. Not pretty but definitely attractive, she would certainly have been taken by some young man.

As Kwasi began to speak in Akan the girl held up her hand and spoke. "My name is Ama. I knew." I almost understood her. I did catch the name. But as she went on I turned to Kwasi for help, a puzzled look on my face. She stared straight at me and answered in English of which I caught only some. Kwasi told me that she accepted, that she would be happy to have me take photos of her, and that she was not offended. She had known that it was her I was trying to photograph, but that if I wanted her alone the photos would have to be indoors.

Having made plans to return to Nkyeribono on the next day, and turning down several offers of hospitality there, we started up the track towards Nyame Bekyere. We were expected by my "uncle" Kwabena. I should not have worried about having too much to carry; I could have brought six typewriters. We travelled with a horde of people, many young boys vying for the honor of helping me carry my things.

When we reached the village, Kwabena was in the track to greet me. "Jason, Akwaba. You are welcome."

"Medase, wofa Kwabena. Thank you, Uncle."

I liked Kwabena more than anyone I had met since coming to Africa to visit my penpal and to get story ideas. When Kwasi had suggested my adoption into his family, I was happy to have him as a brother. Uncle Kwabena had been a bonus. At the adoption ceremony in Br'Koom, he had warmly welcomed me to the family and invited me to visit Nyame Bekyere.

My belongings were placed in a room. The buildings were of mud-brick, reinforced with sticks. Tin roofs covered them, with open eaves and bamboo-slat ceilings. The floors had a patina of cement, but patches of packed dirt betrayed the real material of construction. A netting hung in the doorway, outside of which was a small porch with a chair on either side. The room was about eight feet square and the most primitive place I had been in years. And the most comfortable! I felt immediately at home.

The house was arranged around a courtyard: several unconnected low buildings of two to three rooms each, with an open shed at one end of the quadrangle. On the side opposite my room were the kitchen and storerooms. More cooking was done outside, and aromas filled the courtyard.

Coming out of my room I saw a sea of smiling faces. The whole household was assembled, along with many children from the rest of the village. I was formally introduced to Kwabena's wife, Ama, who greeted me, and to his children, nephews and nieces. Then he took me to each of the other three houses in Nyame Bekyere, children following and running ahead. I was greeted and welcomed at each. All were related in some manner; at one was Amiah, another uncle of my adoption ceremony, who had the largest house and appeared the most influential man of the village.

Kwabena's house was the poorest - and the happiest. When I returned there, tired from my long and uncomfortable journey, I wanted only to lay down and rest. But the sea of smiling children's faces begged to be photographed first. I spent some time capturing friendly, beautiful children on film, making them all very happy. Then came my nap, with a lizard watching over me above my head.

I awoke to small sounds, rustlings. Reluctantly opening my eyes, I discovered someone going through my duffel. Grabbing an arm, I was surprised to find the girl of the beautiful eyes. I must have cried out, for in moments both Kwasi and Kwabena were at my door asking for admission.

Only a piece of netting hung at the doorway. Yet custom is such that it is not passed without an invitation. While it is perfectly possible to see within, the fiction is that the netting is solid. Nobody would think of looking. Such is the provision of privacy where none actually exists.

When I bade them enter, they were not surprised to see me holding onto a young woman - at least not that one. Kwasi gave me another strange look, then explained about Ama. Being related to Kwabena's wife, of the same name, and to people in Nkyeribono, her dead mother's home, she stayed with various people in either village. She was different, but tolerated generally. When she became a pest, she was sent away from one village to the other. Ama, however, had a mind of her own, and appeared where and when she wished.

"Ama, why were you going through my things?" I asked. Those beautiful eyes staring back were my only answer.

Kwabena apologized for her coming into my room unbidden, once he realized I had not invited her. I had a worrisome minute or two while Kwasi translated back and forth, wondering if my uncle thought I had lured this girl into my room. But he explained that she was only trying to help me by unpacking my clothes and hanging them for me. Half my things were strung over a beam, as seemed to be the usual practice in this house without closets. But Kwabena must have thought I considered the helpful, strange girl a pest, for he shooed her away, leaving after her.

"Kwasi, my brother, I am confused. Help me understand. I thought Kwabena would be angry with me. But he wasn't. He looked sad, not angry. That is strange to me. That girl is strange also. She stares at me all the time. How old is she, anyway?"

"Ama is 'of an age'. Kwabena may have thought that you had chosen her."

These people do not talk of sex or the taking of a partner readily. Getting information from Kwasi was like interrogating a hostile witness. I had to ask very specific questions; sometimes I got a terse answer, and only because he was my friend. Although almost fifteen years my junior, he was the closest I had to a confidant, and my only possible source of answers to these questions. Kwabena, though only months older than myself, was still my uncle and my elder.

"Do you mean, Kwasi, that no one would mind if I had invited her into my room? Ama is too young for me. But if I asked some other girl, would that be alright?"

"Jason, every girl in both villages, and in several more as well, is hoping that you will smile at her. You are different, and that is exciting. You are a famous writer, and you have come here to visit. All hope that you may want to take them back to America with you. Any would be willing."

"I'm not a 'famous writer', my brother. I've published some articles and a few short stories. My first book is still looking for a publisher. And I'm not looking for anyone to take back to America. I'm not even sure if I want to go back. I may stay here in Nyame Bekyere, or in Br'Koom. I'm happy here, and I love the people. I love my family."

"But you are a writer. And you do interest all the girls. They all hope for what you can give them. You came here with gifts, and brought food. Most visitors to this village come with empty hands and empty bellies. They think you are rich. You are rich, by their standards. Be careful!"

"I would prefer to be wanted for myself, not what I can give. But I am lonely! Tell me plainly, Kwasi, how may I know who is available to me? How old must a girl be for it to be proper? I don't want to offend anyone. What will Kwabena think about my bringing some girl to his house?"

"The girl will smile at you. In a special way. You will know. Many will smile at you. Don't smile back at too many in one place. The girl who smiles at you is 'of an age'. We have a greater difference in age between a man and a girl than in your culture. Sometimes! Vida and I are only eight years apart; that is close. Most are farther. Don't worry about age. And Kwabena likes you. He is your friend also. If only you could talk to him. But he will be happy for you if you choose a girl here. Any girl. But especially if you choose wisely!"

That was quite a speech for Kwasi, but I was still unclear about many things. "How do I show a girl that I am interested in her? How do I ask her, without offending? What do I do? Help me understand, Kwasi."

"Jason, I can't tell you everything! Just smile at her. She'll know!"

Talking about dating with Kwasi was as informative as a talk I remember having with my father when I was twelve.

Dinner was a special treat: the duck which I had brought, with palm nut "soup" and a loaf of fufu. A lump of this sticky dough is taken on the fingers and dipped into the spicy soup, then eaten. I had become almost proficient at eating with my fingers, without making too much of a mess. But I still got laughed at good-naturedly. My meal had been prepared by Kwabena's wife, and served to me by his daughter, Akua. She waited on me, sat and stared at me, and smiled whenever I looked her way - the happy smile of a child being recognized.

I ate on the porch of my room, alone except for Akua waiting. When I offered to share my meal with her, she refused. When I had finished, she brought me a small pot of water to wash my hands. Then she ate from my dishes. Later she cleared the dishes away. I smiled my thanks, and she went scurrying off to the kitchen.

After dinner I sat writing my journal, recording the events of the day. A crowd gathered around to watch. Some young men and women had come in from another small village a short way further up the track. Children were in a circle around me. As I tried to get down the most pertinent facts and impressions of the day, dusk fell. Someone brought a kerosene lantern and held it for me as I wrote. I was frequently interrupted by introductions or questions, but finally had written all I could. When I looked up I was completely encircled by smiling faces, leaning close. Everyone smiled all the time, it seemed. Never have I met friendlier people!

But Kwasi was not there, so my communication was hampered. Nor was Kwabena there, but he soon appeared along with Amiah. By gestures they made me understand that I was to go with them. The moon had not risen, the path to Amiah's was dark, and I soon was in a muddy ditch up to my shins. I was too embarrassed to call to my uncles ahead of me, so I just kept following their dim shadows.

At Amiah's there were some lanterns in the courtyard, a fire, and a battery-powered tape player with music blaring. There was no electricity in Nyame Bekyere, but there was always music. A large group was awaiting my arrival.

I was seated on one of several benches around the fire. Kwabena was dancing with his youngest daughter as she stood on his toes. The love I saw in that little girl's eyes as she smiled up at her father confirmed what I already knew of my uncle. He was having a bright time, lit by some palm wine he had while waiting for the people from the other village to get ready. He had gone there to bring them to my welcoming party.

Amiah was urging me to get up and dance. He was dancing with his wife and two girls, and kept pushing one of them towards me. But it was his wife who first noticed that I was muddy. She exclaimed about it; everyone looked and I was embarrassed. The darkness hid only partially the deep blush which covered my face and neck. She went off to get something to clean me with.

The girl had smiled and come to sit next to me. Very pretty, wrapped in a flowing cloth, with jewelry glittering in the firelight, she had her hair painstakingly arranged in a complicated pattern of braids. Her teeth gleamed in plain sight. It was hard to see well, but she appeared to be in her early twenties. Her figure was quite good, though rather more busty than my taste.

There was little room on the bench when she sat down, so contact was unavoidable. I thought I could detect more pressure than just the crowding would account for from her hip against mine. She spoke her name, Abena, and the third time I understood.

Now I was sure of it! I felt a definite varying pressure as her leg touched mine, withdrew, touched again and pressed against me from her hip to her knee. She smiled broadly and, before I even thought about it twice, I smiled back.

The feel of water on my other leg was a shock. Amiah's wife stood before me. Kneeling at my feet in a simple wrap, Ama gently washed the mud from my foot and calf and stared up into my eyes with the same quizzical look.

"Thank you, Ama." I said as she finished and rose to go empty the basin. I didn't notice her return.

For now that I had been cleansed, my smiling new companion determined to get me onto my feet. When I did not immediately respond, she got up to dance with Amiah again. Actually this was an excuse to stand and undulate before my nose. Eventually the lure proved sufficient to overcome my shyness of dancing, and I rose to her invitation.

This was sexy dancing! Not fast and hard like the music itself, but slow and sensuous. And Abena was made for it. So were several others of the young women I danced with that evening. There seemed to be a contest going on, with me as the prize. I must admit that I enjoyed being the center of that kind of attention. But Kwasi's words echoed in my thoughts and I kept my smile for Abena alone.

When Kwabena and his little daughter left, I thought it must also be time for me to return to my room. I bid a formal farewell to Amiah, with thanks to him and his wife for the party. I said goodbye to everyone there generally, and individually to the few whose names I knew or remembered, including Abena. I couldn't help myself. I returned the huge smile she flashed me as I bid her goodnight. And then carefully I made my way back up the path to Kwabena's. The moon had risen, and I managed to avoid the ditch.

When I reached my room there was a lantern burning inside, and Ama sitting on the porch. Laid out on the bed were a clean cloth to wrap myself in, a towel, and my soap.

"What are you doing here, Ama?"

Again her quizzical stare, and a single word for answer: "Bathe." She picked up a pail and went to fill it from a barrel at the corner of the courtyard, while I went inside to ready myself for my bath.

The bathing facility at Kwabena's house is a small unroofed semi-enclosure at the other end of my side of the building. Three and a half sides are chest-high walls of mud brick. The floor is dirt, with a large flat rock in the center. As I undressed and wrapped myself in the cloth, Ama set the bucket of water she had drawn on the rock, then returned to my porch. As I came out of my doorway she again said "Bathe" and pointed. Until then I had not known how this was to be accomplished.

While splashing water and soaping myself, Kwasi called to me. I answered and called him over. As I bathed we talked.

"Ama said you were here." I could sense the questioning look in his eyes even though I could not really see more than his outline over the wall. "I must leave in the morning, early. I have business in Br'Koom that I must attend to, but I will return for you in three or four days. If you wish to leave before then, Kwabena will send his son Kwame with you."

My friend, leaving me alone here! Of course I was still among friends and family. "But how shall I be able to talk to anyone without your help?"

"You'll manage, Jason. Ama can help you."

"Ama? I don't understand her."

"But I think she understands you. How do you come to be bathing here?"

"Kwasi, that girl disturbs me! Always showing up, doing things for me. Nice things, thoughtful things. But silent, staring at me all the time. Those eyes are haunting me! And she never smiles!"

"Jason, my brother, you understand so little. I have told you that Ama is different. She does smile. And when you are ready to understand you will see it. But if she makes you uncomfortable, send her away. I will go now."

"Madwo. Good night, my brother. And a pleasant journey. Take my greetings to Vida."

"I will." He started to move off, then paused. "Jason, be careful! And choose wisely." He was gone, and I was left to ponder again his caution as I rinsed and towelled myself.

Wrapping myself in the cloth as I had been taught, I returned to my room. The porch was empty, the lantern barely glowing within. Sitting on my bed was a form, dimly seen through the netting. This was too much! Somehow I had to make Ama respect my privacy. Bursting through the curtain about to explode at the girl, I was surprised to find Abena instead. Startled at my abrupt entry, she recovered quickly and showed her bright teeth in a broad smile. Then she looked down.

"Well, Abena, I didn't expect to see you again so soon." She looked up at me, slightly uncertain, for a moment, then smiled again. I couldn't help myself; I smiled back!

But smiles were all that were being exchanged. I was sure she had come to my room to "smile" together, but how to get around to it? I didn't want to trespass on any unknown customs, or offer unintentional offense. I bent down and kissed her full lips, and she accepted but did not noticeably respond. For all the sensuous dancing earlier, there was little passion evident at present. When I reached to put my arms around her, my cloth came unwrapped and fell to the floor. Abena giggled, and looked down at the floor. But when I reached to retrieve my wrap, she took it from me and folded it at the foot of the bed.

Unwrapping herself and laying her own cloth aside, she spoke for the first time. "You love me? Yes?"

I stood before her, looking down at a beautiful girl with a beautiful body. Firm everywhere, smoothly curved, soft, glowing chocolate skin. Her hair shone with oil, and the lantern light glittered from her necklace and earrings. Her beautiful mouth with warm, full lips was inches from me. Conversation was obviously not the answer. I said "You are a very beautiful girl, Abena. Kiss me!" as I pulled her towards me.

She shook her head free of my hands and turned her face to the side. Then, laying back on the bed and spreading her legs, she beckoned me to her. And smiled in invitation.

She was soft and smooth. She was delicious. She had firm muscles everywhere. She let me do whatever I wanted to her. But although I'm sure she was pleased, I got no real response, no sign of her pleasure. Other than a smile. I tried until I was exhausted. I truly tried!

Just before I drifted off to a satisfied yet still unfulfilled sleep, I thought I heard her say "You take me to America? Yes?"

My answer, "I take you to America, no!" was probably only in my dreams. But I didn't fall asleep with a smile on my face.

And what dreams! I remember almost nothing from the next few days. In the middle of the night I became ill, delirious most of the time. I can recall a nightmare which seemed to go on and on: swimming in the sea with a whole school of little fishes, all with Abena's smiling face. They kept nipping at me, forcing me to keep swimming to America.

Days later, after Kwasi returned to Nyame Bekyere and I was recovered from my first bout with malaria, I was able to piece together some of what had happened. In the small hours of the night Abena had come rushing from my room and tripped over Ama who was asleep on the porch before my door. The cries and noise brought Kwabena, his wife, and almost everyone else out into the courtyard. They all got to see Abena leaving in a hurry.

Ama had gotten untangled from Abena and rushed into my room. She took over. For three days she was always with me. She bathed me, changed my bedding, administered medicines. As far as I know she attended to all my bodily functions. From my few lucid moments I have vague memories of her face, those haunting eyes that never smiled.

Others helped. Akua did laundry. Kwabena's wife, fixed food for Ama, and Ama for me. Kwabena sent for medicine. But Ama allowed no one else near me. Nobody entered the room until Kwasi returned on the third evening. He overruled her objections and came to see his brother. Later he said to me that I had been in the best hands possible, and seemed about to come out of it. He left me in Ama's care.

The next day I remember waking about midday. I had an almost clear head for the first time in days, but I was exhausted. Equally worn-out, Ama lay beside me, staring at me with her haunting, questioning eyes. I immediately fell back to sleep - to restful sleep, rather than fitful, feverish delirium.

When I awakened again in late afternoon I felt myself - more or less. Ama was not there, for the first time since I had become ill. But she appeared in moments with a bowl of pineapple and orange slices which she fed me by hand. As she lifted each morsel to my lips, her beautiful eyes bored into mine with a burning question, not to be ignored.

"Ama, you have been very good to me. You've been here all the time, haven't you?"

"You needed me.", she answered.

"Yes, I did. You're a very wonderful girl, and you've been good to help me!"

The smile lit up first in her eyes. Perhaps it had been there all the time, but I saw it now for the first time. Then it overflowed to her cheeks, her lips. Her teeth appeared. Ama was smiling at me, with joy, with happiness.

And I smiled back, beaming at her with appreciation of her devotion to me. "Stay with me, Ama."

"I love you!" She let her wrap fall to the floor.

It was as if I was seeing her for the first time! The girl - No! Make that young woman! - had a slim, almost skinny body, with the beginnings of curves in all the right places: small, hard, proud breasts; and two handfuls of the cutest round bottom I'd ever grabbed.

I had only a moment to admire her, for she was on top of me, kissing me on the mouth, on the eyes, the shoulders, my chest, my nipples, then my belly, then... And then I truly smiled!

We made love gently. We made love with a frenzy. She took most of the initiative as I was still weak. She was delightfully responsive. And she talked a blue streak. I caught some of it - at least when she said she loved me. Finally she collapsed on top of me, both of us very happy, fulfilled. Smiling with contentment!

Later I asked her how she came to do what she had done. I loved her mouth, but I was curious. How did she know?

"I saw what you wanted. Abena wouldn't. She wanted America. I wanted you!"

The little imp had been spying on me! Well, Kwasi had warned me that she was different. And I liked the difference.

When we came out of the room the whole household was in the courtyard. Kwabena came over to us and I had a moment of trepidation. He looked at me, and at Ama, scowling. Then clapping me on the back, be beamed at us with the broadest grin I'd ever seen. Everyone was smiling, a sea of happy faces, happy for me, happy for Ama, smiling with approval.

Kwasi took me to the chair on my porch. As I sat, he knelt beside me and looked me square in the eyes. "You are smiling, my brother. You have chosen wisely."

"Yes, Kwasi, I am smiling. I am happy. Very happy! But I did not choose. I was chosen."

Ama came up to us and sat on the edge of my chair. Her eyes smiled at me as she reminded me of my promise. "You said you would take a whole roll of photos of me alone. When?"

Had it been only a few days ago that I had first been fascinated by those beautiful eyes? It seemed a lifetime! "Tomorrow, Ama. I promise! Tomorrow."

**Dear Mitch,**

I greet you, my brother, from the village of Nyame Bekyere, the site of four houses and about 45 of the happiest people I have ever known. I know that you expected me back long before this. The month I planned in Africa to generate ideas for my writing may be considerably longer. Some things have taken place which changed my plans. In fact, I may never come back.

My pen friend Kwaku in Br'Koom had been as friendly and helpful with my plans to visit and write in Africa once I arrived as he had been in his letters. His mother Diana welcomed me to her home as a son. Their landlord had provided a room to use for my writing at a very reasonable rent. Kwaku's young sister, Martha, had been my almost constant companion. She followed me around, carried my food to me if I was working at my typewriter, sat and watched silently as I kept my journal. She would have waited on me hand and foot if I had allowed her.

Kwaku's "brother", who was really a cousin, had been the one with the idea that I should be a member of the family and not a guest. Kwasi and I had been friends from first meeting, and I think he just wanted me to be his brother. And uncle Kwabena, while visiting in Br'Koom, had been the one to accept me. He was Diana's brother, the nearest adult male relative.

The rites of acceptance into the family were strange, fascinating, and at times scary. There were other "uncles" to meet and approve, gifts to give, and a libation to the ancestors. And speeches! I was totally dependent on Kwasi to keep me informed as to what was being said and what I was to do. All these "uncles" appeared very solemn and formal, and very unfriendly. Kwasi argued that he wanted me for a brother, and Diana claimed me as a son. But the sea of disapproving faces and the tide of unfriendly speeches went on until Kwabena came over to me with his grim face. Through Kwasi he told me to relax.

They were just pretending to be against it; it was all a pose, so as not to appear too eager to accept me. Then he smiled privately to me, and returned to his seat still scowling for public view. Eventually all agreed, Diana greeted me as her son, each uncle shook hands and formally welcomed me to the family, and Kwasi embraced his new brother. They all toasted me and each other. Kwabena was smiling publicly!

When he heard that I wanted to visit a small village I immediately had an invitation. Diana had a room in his house, although she seldom occupied it, and I was welcome to stay in it and be his guest for as long as I wanted. Several days later, after he had left Br'Koom and I had finished and mailed some articles, I started my journey. Now I was greeting my host, my uncle and friend, at his home.

In the past few months I've gotten my typewriter from Br'Koom and installed it in another room of Kwabena's house. I've gotten a gas lantern to give me adequate light to work at night. I've been writing steadily.

These wonderful people, and their activities, are a never-ending source of inspiration. There is always something new and interesting. And Ama attends to my every need, so I have all the time I could want. I can really write here! And I feel at home, and accepted in a way I've never felt before.

The photo-essay of Ama has sold, and will bring enough to take care of us for a year. Her eyes aren't the only expressive part of her. Another story has been accepted and there is finally a publisher interested in my book. It looks like I'll be able to support us here. It doesn't take too much. And I'm able to help some of the others.

But it is hard to handle the business end of writing from here. The mails are slow and uncertain. I need an agent in America, so I can continue to write and enjoy this very different and wonderful place and the people in it. Will you handle my business for me? Whatever you feel fair!

Oh yes! Your sister-in-law Ama greets you. Your brother Kwasi greets you. Your uncle Kwabena greets you. If I forget to send their greetings I will not feel right.

Kwame is going to Br'Koom later this week, and I will send this with him to post. I'll look for your answer in about a month.

Until then,

Love, Jason

**Easy Writing**

I am tired of retyping every story several times. It strains my limited typing skills. There has to be an easier way.

I see word processors in a local discount store and begin to think about spending $400. I read an article in Writer's Digest about another *thrifty/cheap writer's quest for a computer. Under $500 gets him all the system he needs. All he wants to do is write.

I talk to my brother, the computer expert, who says I'd be a fool to buy a word processor. A computer will do so much more. He suggests a 986 super wocka-wocka with all the bells and whistles for $2500. With that I'll be able to publish my own books, and listen to built in stereo while I play video games in another window. Or something!

I tell him I can get a word processor for $400. and might be willing to go $500. for a computer. I show him the article. He frowns.

A few computer books help me decide just what I do need. I shop, and Mr. Expert does also. Sure, he can have it built for me. Trouble is, in spite of the WD article, I can't do it for $500. That writer already had a printer, and the necessary software. He was only replacing his old computer. Maybe used?

I make a great mistake. I begin to think that I know what I'm doing. Finally I locate and buy a real bargain. Used. Old. Works...sometimes! Weeks of playing with it, trying to learn how to use it, typing all the stories and articles I have in the works. Something in it dies. The system is from an older "architecture". While I don't need the most modern technology, I'm forced into newer types because they don't make parts for the old ones. Rebuild it part by part, or junk it.

I find that I can still use the monitor. I buy a new processor, new keyboard. Then I take a week or two getting used to the new machine and software. Starting over with the writing, retyping everything I had put into the old computer and lost, I begin to learn Word Perfect. It should make writing, and rewriting so much easier...if I ever learn how to make it do what it is supposed to do.

It's frus

trating! I have

this great idea for an arti

cle. But every time I try to write

it, every

thing comes out

looking like

this.

Still waiting for parts for the new machine, I've got a borrowed this, and a loaner that, and nothing seems to work with my printer yet. But Mr. Expert says not to worry. It's a great system!

Meanwhile, I just have to write something. Where did I put my old typewriter? It isn't as easy, but at least I'm getting something down. And if the computer expert ever gets that machine fixed, perhaps I can revise it there.

But seriously! A computer is a very useful tool for a writer, once the learning period is completed. My biggest mistake was thinking that I would be producing acceptable work on my new system as soon as I had it in my den. Not!

I spent a month before I could make Word Perfect do the limited things I wanted it to do. And I've continued learning new wrinkles since.

The computer also makes submissions, and keeping track of them, much easier. Each story I write has a directory which contains my notes for the story, various drafts and revisions, submission letters, a list of possible markets and a submission record. All in one place!

I did complete this article on the machine. Much easier than three or four times through the typewriter, with bottles of "Oops Goop". It would have been easy writing, as well as easy rewriting, if I had begun it on the computer.

Cheap is not the way to go! I learned my lesson. What I really needed would have cost me about $400. less if I had gone out and bought it to begin with. New equipment, and the support services which go with it, are well worth the price. It need not be the latest, state-of-the-art machine. And it does not have to do everything. For just writing, much less technology is needed than is currently available. But don't expect to get a machine on your desk, with printer and software, for much less than $1000.

Here are the particulars on the computer I eventually got.

386 SX processor 120 MB hard drive

1 MB RAM 3 1/2 & 5 1/4 Floppy Drives

LQ printer Monochrome Display

This provides all I need for my writing for a very long while. I can even play chess now and then.

**Love: Honesty, Trustworthiness, Loyalty and Honor**

These qualities are important to me. They define my character, who I am. I am not going to say that I perfectly exhibit all of these qualities at all times, but I strive to do so.

I truly believe that honesty, speaking the truth, is important to all relationships - personal, family, business, political, international. When I say something, it is almost always the truth. I would rather say "It is none of your business." or "I'd rather not discuss that." than to lie in answer to a question.

To be trustworthy is to earn the trust of others, because when you give your word about something they know they can rely upon it. I try very hard to keep my word. If I say I am going to be somewhere, then I am there if at all possible. If I say I am going to do something, then I do it. If I have made a promise - an even more dramatic way of saying I will do something - then I will keep that promise, even if it might later happen that keeping my promise will actually hurt me.

I believe that loyalty to ones friends and family is the cement that binds relationships. If you are my friend, then you are my friend - period. If you are my family, then you are always my relative. If you are my wife, you are still my wife when I see someone who attracts me. My loyalty to these relationships goes on even when the person has done something I do not agree with or approve of, when they are angry with me for some reason, or when they are acting particularly unlovable! Loyalty is the natural result of commitment.

Honor is a combination of all these and much more besides. It is what lets me look into my eyes in the mirror and feel alright about myself. It is knowing that I am true to my own beliefs, that I am the type of person I would like to meet and interact with throughout the day. Honor is being able to stand upright before anyone, and know that regardless of what that person may say, do, or think, that I am a good person.

All of these qualities are involved in love. Without these qualities I do not believe love is possible. And love is a choice, and a commitment. We choose to love our families, we are not forced to do so. We choose our friends. We choose our spouses. And that choice carries certain responsibilities, including that we act honorably in that relationship.

And all of these qualities are habits which must be practiced over and over again to make them truly part of my character. They are choices I make in the way I wish to act, and then actions which I take to follow through on my choices.

If I lie to someone, then I may lie to anyone. If you know I have lied to someone, then you have no reason to trust me when I tell you something. But if I tell the truth generally, and people know that I speak the truth, then you too may have faith in the truth of what I say.

If I say I will do something for anybody, and then do not do it, then my word to nobody is believable. If I keep my word to others, then you may believe that I will keep my word to you also.

If I swear that someone is my friend, and then because it is inconvenient at some point, decide that they are no longer my friend, then you might not care to invest yourself in a friendship with me either. If my family is only of concern to me when they can do something for me, or when I want something, but when they require something then they are no longer important to me, then you may not wish to become part of my family. But if you see that I am loyal to my friends and family, then you may rely upon my loyalty to you as well.

If I conduct myself without honor with others, why would you believe that I would be honorable in my dealings with you? But if it is seen that I honor myself, and my friends and my family, then you might reasonably expect me to honor you also.

So, what sort of person do you want for a friend, or family member, or spouse?

**On the Essay as a Form of Communication**

We seem to have a communication problem! Sometimes I just don't understand your thinking, or your actions. Sometimes you may not understand the words I say, or the meaning of the words. Perhaps writing an essay will help in the understanding between us. Perhaps not!

I have noticed that you do not have a lot of studying to do. Every time I look into your room, you seem to be relaxing. So writing an essay will be a good exercise for your writing practice, for thinking and organizing your thoughts into written form, and for communicating your thoughts on a particular subject to me in a way that is understandable and unambiguous. Your essay should seek to clear up my current confusion.

For example, when I punish you by telling you to remove your stereo and the television from your room and put them in Maame's room, my expectation is that I should be the first to know that the restriction has ended, as by my saying, "Richard, you may have your stereo and TV back now!"

Imagine my surprise to find you laying in your bed, watching the TV and listening to your stereo. I realize that I am the one lacking understanding here, so that is what I would like you to explain to me, in your essay. Why was I not the first to know?

The form of the essay permits a variety of approaches to your subject. For example, this, my essay, is written with a slightly humorous voice, or perhaps more accurately, ironic. Remember, though, that the purpose of the essay itself might tend to suggest the proper approach. Since the one purpose of your essay will be to determine how long you shall be without a stereo, an overly-humorous, or sarcastic, or defiant tone would probably be a poor choice. Then again, done well, it might just work. How well can you write to pull it off? I might have been tempted if it was me that was the teenager asked to write an essay.

The point is that it is your essay. It is your chance to communicate with me, to get across your point of view. And it is your one chance to convince me that you should ever again have a way to listen to music. You can write it any way you wish, any way you feel it will be effective. You can get in any information you wish concerning the topic. You can plead your case in any manner you wish, provided that you remember this is an essay. It is not a letter, nor any other form of writing but an essay. Stick to the proper format, and you can get in whatever you wish.

Talk to me!

Sometimes our communication seems rather one-sided. For example, tonight I asked that you try to get the one bulb on the porch working. The bulb is still not lit. That is not the problem, however. You never came to me and said what the problem was, what would be needed. You never communicated at all. This essay is your opportunity to talk to me on a topic which I assume to be of importance to you. Make the most of it!

Due to the lowering of the current tonight, as usual, it was impossible to finish this essay until late. I considered whether to change my expectations of receiving your essay on Friday night. However, a deadline is a good thing. And if you can supply the essay on time, and properly done, and maybe even convince me, the whole weekend will be ahead of you.

**I Will Be the One**

I had never been happier in my life! Living a comfortable life on a pension which would have had me in poverty back home; sunshine, usually; balmy ocean breezes; the beach; friendly people; beautiful young women everywhere: retirement in the Philippines was my idea of paradise!

I had rented a little house on the beach on the outskirts of a small town near Ormoc, Leyte. It was an idyllic setting! Palms were all around and the water was almost at my door. Peaceful in the extreme. What more could I want?

Well, someone to take care of me and the house. I let it be known to my friend in town that I would like to hire a helper.

The next morning I awakened to a gentle tapping. When I had managed to throw on a pair of shorts and opened the gate, there was a delightful young woman looking shyly at her toes.

"Good morning, Sir! I am Angelisa. Uncle says I will be the one to take care of you."

I invited her in to conduct an interview. She wouldn't perch anywhere, just wandered around the kitchen area opening cupboards, getting the lay of the place. I kept asking her to come sit so we could talk but she seemed to not understand at all. Soon she presented me with a cup of tea and some crackers - all she had been able to find in my poorly stocked kitchen.

She stood shyly by until I finally convinced her to sit down.

"I do need a helper, Angelisa," I said.

"I will be the one!" she replied.

It seemed that the interview was over! Short of being very rude to her, I had found my helper.

We did manage to communicate a little: set her salary; discovered who Uncle was - a neighbor and acquaintance of mine already. We had a small disagreement about where she should sleep. She had started to unpack her few things in my bedroom. It took some time to convince her that she was to have her own room. After a little insecurity and pouting, she seemed to finally get the idea that I truly wanted a house helper - a maid.

That first day she took care of everything! I hardly had to ask and the house was cleaned. The meals were prepared. The laundry was done. She was pleasant but unobtrusive, most of the time. In the evening she sat and we tried to talk a little.

Her English wasn't as bad as it seemed, once she got past the shyness of speaking it with a foreigner. She said that she had graduated from high school but had not worked since. There were no jobs locally and the family didn't have the money to send her to Manila or overseas for employment. She was a good girl. She respected her Uncle who raised her after her father died.

Shortly after I retired to my bed I heard the door open and saw a shadow slip into my room.

"No, Angelisa!" I said. "Go to sleep in your room. Please!"

The next morning I awoke to the sounds of a conversation at my gate. Even though I didn't understand the Bisayan words, I could tell from the tone that it was an argument. Although it wasn't actually loud, it did awaken me.

Slipping on my shorts, I went out to see. Angelisa was peering through the little trap-door in the gate. She struck a stubborn pose like a security guard. Nobody was going to come in, nobody was to have access to me, without her approval. I did not want to be protected like this!

"Angelisa, who is there?"

She glanced around, startled at my presence, then looked like she had been caught with her hand in the cookie jar.

"Oh! Sir! Just some girl who wants to be your helper," she answered.

From outside I heard a pleasant voice, in reasonable English, refute that. "I certainly do not want to be anybody's helper."

"Let her come in, Angelisa. Let's find out what this is about."

Through my gate walked a truly beautiful young woman! The brazenness she had shown while arguing with Angelisa was now replaced by shyness. I said hello. She briefly touched my hand in greeting, all the time admiring her toes.

"I am Chuchi. Uncle says that you need to make friends, and learn Bisayan. I will be the one to be your guide and tutor."

We went inside to discuss my lack of desire for a guide and tutor. She was a charming person. Her English was very good. I enjoyed talking with her. Her desired wage was quite reasonable: she wanted nothing except a place to sleep and her meals. She just would not understand that there was no job available.

That afternoon she brought her things, and was settled in my other spare bedroom. If I wound up hiring any more help, I would have to build a nipa hut in the yard to live in.

There was a marked change in Angelisa. She became still more demure and shy, but even more helpful. She deferred to Chuchi, who happened also to be a distant cousin. For her part, Chuchi always treated Angelisa with respect, although she maintained a certain detachment.

I didn't do very well with learning Bisayan. I did meet quite a few more local people with Chuchi as my guide and translator. I enjoyed her company. Soon she was a friend.

One night as I was going to bed, my door opened. Chuchi entered, shyly looking at her toes.

"Chuchi, what are you doing here?"

"Uncle says that you are lonely. I will be the one to be your girlfriend." She smiled shyly. "I will make you happy, and not alone anymore."

"But I don't want a girlfriend, Chuchi," I said. "And if I did, I would choose her myself."

"Okay! You choose me then!"

She was in my arms. I suddenly realized that I had been lonely. She moved her things into my room the next morning.

Chuchi pleased me in every way. I was wildly happy, ecstatic! A beautiful young woman wanted to be with me!

Angelisa became completely self-effacing. As she went about her tasks with quiet efficiency you hardly knew she was there. From time to time a shy smile might have shown, but I could never be sure.

The next couple of weeks are a blur. How did we ever begin talking about marriage? I felt myself being moved along by events. Since I had come here everything had been taken care of for me, but I thought I had made all the choices myself.

"Jason," Chuchi said one morning, "I have to go visit my grandmother to help me plan the wedding."

"Okay, honey-ko."

"I will try to come home tonight, but you know the mountain is far and the jeepney takes so long."

"Aw! I miss you already!"

That night Chuchi had not returned when I went to bed after drowning my loneliness in a few San Miguels.

I had a nightmare. Chuchi came home late, crawled into bed, and began to play.

"I will make you happier!"

Then she began to change into Angelisa, because in the dream Chuchi was standing in the door of our room shouting. I don't know where the bolo came from. Now screaming. Soon there was blood everywhere.

Then I woke up. Covered in blood. Angelisa lay on the floor. Covered in blood. I heard the gate slamming shut.

First the barangay tanod showed up. Then Uncle. My friend. Neighbors. Then the Philippine National Police. I told the story so many times that night. Everyone seemed so understanding. Both my friend and Uncle helped with the authorities.

Chuchi was nowhere to be found. It was thought that she had run to the mountain. Angelisa's body was taken away.

At last I was able to get cleaned up. I finally got back to sleep, with the help of some Tanduay.

The next day, a bit bleary-eyed, I awakened to a tapping on the gate. There stood an adorable young lady looking shyly down at her toes.

"Good morning, Sir! I am Cristina. Uncle says I will be the one to take care of you now!"

**DESERT CREEK**

Foreword

'Desert Creek' is a novella, being nearly 28,000 words which is more than the 20,000 word maximum of the short story and less than 50,000 where the novel apparently begins. Novella's have fallen out of commercial favor in recent years although at one time great writers like Steinbeck, Fitzgerald and L'Amour made their livings with novellas and short stories.

I like the novella format as it gives you a bit more time to get a feel for your characters than with the short story yet you can read a great yarn in a couple of hours. Short fiction is sure to make a comeback among today's ever more 'time challenged' reading public.

This story has all the elements necessary to give the reader an enjoyable read. Moreover, as the person Jeff asked to be his literary executor I feel it is a fitting companion to his poetry anthology, "This Poor Collection".

Perry Gamsby,

Sydney, 2010

About The Author

Jeff Lassen has spent sixty years of his life writing. He has created an oeuvre, or body of work, that includes stories both complete and unfinished and a wealth of poetry that tells the story of his life and his loves.

Having lived in many places within the USA and without in Ghana, Jamaica and the Philippines, Jeff has brought his lifetime's experience in living the life he was given to the very full.

Jeff is currently living in the Philippines with his eighth wife where he takes each day as it comes.

Desert Creek

I. THE REFUGE

1. MITCH

I could hear the slamming screen door before I reached the site of the washed-out bridge. There hadn't been a camp there this morning. The sudden addition of neighbors was unsettling, even though my camp was a half mile upstream, and then up a narrow canyon. The area was not one to attract casual visitors; it was much too difficult to get into, the one-time road now little more than a track. I thought I'd best check out the site from a safe distance, rather than walk into an unknown situation.

It had been weeks since I'd seen another human being, and I was happy with that situation. Ever since the crisis, I had been extremely leery of contact with other people. In the two months that I had been in this little corner of wilderness I had seen, from a safe distance, only three others - a group of two men and a woman in a jeep. I'd had no desire to make their acquaintance at closer quarters, and they had remained in the area for only a few days, then moved on. It was evident to me that they were searching for people in the area. They had never suspected I was near. My camp was too well hidden, and I stayed out of sight.

Now there were other people in what I had come to look upon as my private retreat from the disintegration of civilization and I damn sure wanted to know who, what, and how many of them there were.

I knew there was a small flat on the other side of the creek, just downstream from the site of the bridge. I had considered it for my own camp, but decided that it was too accessible, with a real possibility of someone coming upon me unawares, much as I had just now come upon this camp. I would have no warning at all.

There was plenty of brush between me and the camp, the stream bottom thick with clumps of bush-height alders. I was able to reach the rocks and climb to a vantage point without any need for real stealth, but I was careful anyway. From a few hundred feet higher I had a clear view of the camp on the flat.

I struck off the track still on the other side of the creek trending toward an outcropping of rock which overlooked the bend of the stream and the crossing. There was plenty of brush between me and the camp, the stream bottom thick with clumps of bush-height alders. I was able to reach the rocks and climb to a vantage point without any need for real stealth, but I was careful anyway. From a few hundred feet higher I had a clear view of the camp on the flat. The scope on my 270 afforded a reasonable ability to scan the scene.

There was a large utility truck and a utility trailer still hitched, a camp trailer, and a tarp shelter which appeared to be a cover for a pile of gear. The truck was also full of what appeared to be junk: lengths of pipe, a couple of gas cans. It had two flat tires. The camp trailer, about eighteen feet, not too new, also had flat tires. The door was open, but no one was visible. The utility trailer had a tarp over it, giving no idea of its contents except for a few protruding pipes. Two trailers and only one vehicle aroused my curiosity.

Going back over the camp more slowly through my scope allowed me to see some more details. The tires weren't really flat; the wheels had been dug into the sand so as to appear to a casual glance to be flat. The intent was to make it look like the camp had been there for a while. But I knew it had been put up during that day, for I had been by here the night before. The effort at making it seem other than it was had some purpose, but just what it might be escaped me. My curiosity had now turned to suspicion and I settled down to wait and watch, and figure out about my new neighbors. One thing was certain to me already - there was another vehicle somewhere, and I would wait until it returned.

A figure appeared at the open door of the trailer, indistinct within the shadow. The barrel of a rifle emerged from the door, followed by the hesitant form of a woman. Another slam was heard as the door closed. Not too much could be told at this distance, but she was young, built, and had flaming red hair. She looked carefully about the camp, then waved in my direction. "What's this?" I thought. "She can't know I'm here!"

I spotted movement and soon saw a boy, perhaps about 10 years old and clutching a small rifle, emerge from the tarp-covered pile of gear. Good boy! I thought. I'd have never known he was there. Not many young ones can sit that still. Protecting mom! She didn't look old enough to be his mother, seeming now in the full light to be in her early twenties. Still more mystery about my neighbors.

They seemed to be talking with each other in the small space between the parked trailers and truck, but of course I could not hear what was said from three hundred yards away. The redhead went into the trailer and brought back a glass of something for the boy, and he drank thirstily. They talked some more, and then the boy hefted his gun, probably a 22 from the looks of it, and crawled back into his hiding place among the stacks of gear under the tarp. He just disappeared, even when I knew where to look for him, although I had no doubt he had a clear view and a clear shot at the area outside the camp trailer.

2. DEBBIE

Debbie went back into the trailer, careful of the screen door as Jon had warned. She sat in the chair facing the open door, the 30-30 across her knees, wishing Frank would hurry up and get back with the other trailer. He had said there was nothing to worry about, there wasn't anyone else in the area, but she was afraid nevertheless. Just her and Jon left in camp. If anyone did come, what chance would the two of them have. True, they were positioned well for surprise if someone came snooping around the camp. Frank had said to shoot first, but she wasn't at all sure that she could shoot anyone. Even with all the terrible things she had seen at her parent's house the night they left, she hadn't been able to shoot. Just stood there frozen in shock, and scared to death, while Frank had opened up and shot two of the crazies while the others ran. But Jon would shoot, she knew. That boy would protect her with his life, with the ferocity that only a eleven-year-old left in defense of the camp can muster. What if there were a group of them? Surely Jon couldn't gun down more than one or two, and she still didn't know if she could fire the gun at a person - even one of the crazies. If only Frank and Dawn would come back.

Frank was such a good man. He'd been good to her since they had first met at school when she was only 15. He'd been about to graduate, and she had been only a sophomore, but he'd really been attracted by her long red hair and her big boobs. Even then they'd been large, and she'd been ashamed of them at first. But they had caught Frank - he hadn't been able to take his eyes off of her. From the first day she'd caught him looking, she'd flashed him a big smile, and tossed her hair, straightened her back to push them out a little more, and she knew she had him.

She'd kept him too! Debbie had done what was necessary to keep his attention, even when he graduated and she still had two years of school left. She had done everything to make him happy. She'd given in to him after the first few dates, and had been amazed to learn that sex, which her mother had treated like a distasteful chore, was so excruciatingly wonderful. She couldn't get enough! But Frank was easily pleased, and what with work, and then trying to build his own plumbing business, he just didn't seem to want as much as she did. She had found ways to fill her own needs, without Frank ever suspecting a thing. The blind fool, he was so in love with her big boobs that he couldn't see around them. Still, he had been a good husband to her for the past five years. They were married the day after she graduated. He had provided well for them. He'd been willing to take in Jon, her dead sister's boy, and treated him just like the child they couldn't have. If only he had more appetite for lovemaking, he'd be perfect. What was she to do about her needs now, out in this wilderness with no one but Frank and Dawn. And Jon! Oh, she'd find some way to disguise her greater need. Or perhaps, out here with nothing else to do, Frank might get more interested.

Damn it! Why had Frank had to take Dawn with him. She actually felt jealous. She'd been out with Dawn a number of times, when Frank thought that just the two of them were going to a movie or something. She knew how Dawn could operate. Oh, she was sure that Frank wouldn't really go for Dawn, with her little girl look. Hell, she didn't even fill an A cup. Frank would never trade her 40 D's for that! Actually, Frank would never trade her for anyone. She was sure he'd never been unfaithful to her. Still, Dawn was with him right now, and if she was instead, maybe...

He had been so angry about the loss of the car she'd been driving - her parents' Plymouth. But it wasn't her fault. It hadn't been meant for that trail they'd been driving over, and it had that heavy trailer, and she didn't drive all that well even on the highways. She wasn't supposed to have to drive.

It was to have been her mother who would have been pulling the trailer with their big 4WD Suburban. But her mother was dead. And her father. The crazies had burnt the suburban. All that was left for them to take was the Plymouth, and she had to drive.

Somehow it didn't seem only two days since they had discovered her parents dead, the group of crazies taking turns with Dawn, and Frank shooting while she stood there unable to move. The memory was so cloudy, it might have been years ago. Hurry back, Frank! I need you, even if you don't want me as often as I'd like. You're all I've got left.

3. MITCH

I settled down to wait for the return of the other vehicle. I was sure that there was no one else in the camp below; the way the redhead and the boy had been standing out in the open and talking, anyone else there would have joined them. There was at least one more person to this group, the driver of the missing vehicle, and perhaps more.

It was times like these that I missed tobacco the most. I had wanted to give up smoking anyway - for a long time. Now it was out of my hands. I had been out of tobacco for over a month now, but the pipe was still in my pocket and I took it out and chewed on the stem. When would the desire ever leave me, I wondered. I'd almost been crazy enough to return to the nearest town - twenty-seven miles each way - to try to get more. But the thought of what might be going on there now, two months after I had fled the approaching chaos, kept me from smoking but not from craving.

I thought back to how I had come to be here. As the craziness had moved from the coast into the cities of northern Nevada I had seen that it was going to get much worse. The news from the coast - what little of it there was then - had all told of rampant lawlessness, the total breakdown of any governmental control, and of general barbarism. I knew I had to find a bolt-hole, and this wilderness area, which had always appealed to me anyway, seemed ideal. There were fish aplenty in the stream, and enough deer about to be sure not to starve.

I hadn't intended to be alone. Even though I had spent much of my time alone over the years, since my wife had died trying to give birth to our daughter, and was used to solitude, and to the aloneness of mountain camping and fishing trips, still my plans had included my brother and his family. Events had moved more quickly than either of us anticipated, and I had heard last from him as the crazies took over Las Vegas. He told me it looked bad, but he'd try to make it out to Silver Springs to meet up with me at my cabin. My efforts to call him again were met with a recording that said there was no longer any telephone service to Las Vegas. After three days of waiting for him to show up I reluctantly accepted that I no longer had a brother, and left by myself.

I had prepared well, amassing some provisions and weapons and ammunition. Alone I could not carry everything. But then, alone I would not need everything either. I took what seemed most important to me at the time, loaded in my van, and quietly left my small cabin for the foreseeable future. Now I was fairly comfortably established in a small camp in a side canyon, well hidden from view, about a quarter mile off the track, and easily defensible if it came to that. I had all that I needed for the time being, except tobacco. I wanted for nothing in the areas of food and gear. I was used to living under worse conditions than these outdoors, and was even enjoying myself in the autumn days, with the leaves of the trees in the creek bottom turning color in the early morning frosts, and the warmth of the afternoons, the clear blue skies, and the icy creek my only companions. I was happy walking down the stream each afternoon, searching for fresh meat to conserve my very adequate supply of canned and dry food. But I was horribly lonely when I returned to my camp each evening.

Now here were neighbors, in my general area, and I had to fight all my instincts for human companionship because it was just too risky. They wouldn't be crazies, but refugees like myself most likely. Or perhaps others who had moved out from the cities in search of those less well-armed and more well-prepared than themselves. From what I had heard on the ham radio in my van, the crazies were pretty well sticking to the cities still. It had been a month since any broadcasts at all. The last I'd picked up had been a ham in Yerington, who said that even his small town was about to go under. I never broadcast, just listened. I was tempted to tell him to get out and head in my direction. He seemed a decent guy, but who knows who else might have picked up my broadcast. So I stayed silent, and stayed alone. For the past month, not even the one-sided comfort of listening to others on the air. No! The risks were too great to take the chance of making acquaintances of my new, and as yet unknown, mysterious neighbors.

Coming out of my reverie, I resumed my scanning of the camp below me. I saw movement from the corner of my eye: a chipmunk on a rock near the door. No one else was visible in the camp, the boy well hidden under his tarp, and the young woman presumably inside the trailer. The boy remained still and out of sight, but watchful I was sure.

4. JON

Jon lay under his tarp shelter, in among the boxes of gear, and thought what a neat way to spend the afternoon this was. Before Frank had left, he had told Jon that he was the man of the camp, and he had to protect Debbie if anyone should come around. They had arranged his hiding place, well out of sight, but with a clear view of the center of the camp, and especially of the trailer door. Jon had a man's job to do, and knew he would do it bravely and well, if necessary. His 22-250 was the perfect rifle for the job. Powerful enough, but light enough for him to handle. He'd have liked to have the 30-30 instead! He knew Debbie wouldn't use it anyway. Oh well! He'd probably do better with his own gun anyway. He could hit a rock chuck at 200 yards; he surely could hit a man at 50 feet. Frank had given him the gun the year before for his 10th birthday, and he had practiced and practiced, whenever he had been able to get out in the country, or to the shooting range. Frank had taken him out with him often.

Frank and Debbie had been awful good to him, since his mother died three years before. Debbie had been his mother's baby sister, about six years younger than her. He'd always liked his aunt Debbie. After his mother had died, and he'd come to live with her, she had become more like his older sister than his mother or his aunt. He still loved her, and he really liked her too. She was fun and always very nice to him. Frank had become like the father he had never known. He did everything with him. He was always ready to teach him things, to take him places. Frank had talked to him about the plans to go away, just like Jon was a grown man. He sure wouldn't let Frank down on this job of guarding the camp. Frank had told him all about the crazies, and how the cities weren't safe any more, and they had to go someplace safe. Up in the mountains, like pioneers.

Jon had really been shocked the night they had gotten ready to leave Carson, and had gone to meet Grandma and Grandpa to go with them. He'd never seen anyone dead before. It was terrible, and bloody, and horrible. He'd sworn that he'd kill any crazies that tried to hurt them. He'd loved his grandparents, and he was looking forward to them all being up in the mountains together. And now they were dead.

He couldn't sleep at all that night. He stayed awake, watching out for any crazies, even though he knew that Frank had been awake and on guard too. The next morning he had gotten into the back seat of the car with Debbie and slept all the way into camp. Even when they changed he had curled up and went right back to sleep with his head in Dawn's lap.

Now instead of his Grandma and Grandpa they had Dawn with them. He had known Dawn forever, it seemed, but not very well. She was a cousin, he guessed. Her mother was the daughter of a sister of his Grandma's. That made her a cousin, didn't it? Well, she was some relation. But Dawn was different. He knew she was older than him, but sometimes she seemed just like an older sister, or a girlfriend. She was so nice to him, and he had a mad crush on her. Cousins could get married, couldn't they? He knew she wasn't just a little girl, even though she looked about twelve; he had heard things around town. Everyone in Carson seemed to know Dawn.

It wasn't just that she was part black. There weren't many blacks in Carson, so all of them stood out in a crowd. He had been told about how her mother had gotten pregnant by a black man, and then came home to Carson to have the baby. She had planned on leaving Carson when the baby was born, but had stayed anyway. Some people in Carson hated her, and hated Dawn because she was part black. Jon knew that was wrong, to hate people who were a different color. But that wasn't the only way Dawn was different. She was just plain different!

Dawn was friendly. To everyone. Even those who seemed to hate her. She just smiled and went on. And she was always fun! She was good to people, she cared about people. Nothing seemed to bother her. She was always making jokes, flitting

about like a happy butterfly, and making everyone around her - or almost everyone - happy too. Jon didn't know how she did it, but she did. She made Jon happy too! She treated him like they had been best friends for years, and like she was his girlfriend too, and really liked him.

Dawn was beautiful too. It wasn't just Jon who thought so. He had seen the way people looked at her on the street. Men stopped to stare, and their wives pulled their arm to get them to stop looking at Dawn. She was a beautiful light brown color, sort of like cinnamon, and her skin was smooth looking. Her hair was sort of blonde with some of the family red in it. She had some freckles across her nose, which was broad like most blacks, but seemed to fit her face perfectly. The best part of her face was her green eyes. They just shone out at everyone, like they were smiling all by themselves. When Dawn looked at you with those beautiful eyes, you just had to look back and smile too.

She was a little girl, not much taller than Jon, and thin. Her titties were so little you almost forgot they were there. There were some girls in sixth grade in his school who had more than Dawn did. But none who were as pretty or as nice. She had this cute little round behind that wiggled whenever she moved. Some of the girls at school tried to walk like that, but Dawn didn't try. It was just how she was. Jon, along with almost everyone who saw her, thought she was beautiful. Now, with just the four of them, he and Dawn were going to be together a lot. Jon liked that idea!

Jon returned his attention to watching the camp. He saw the chipmunk, and sighted on it through the scope of his rifle. He knew he could hit it with no problem, but that would give away his position to anyone who was around. He had to stay quiet and still, hidden carefully to protect the camp – to protect Debbie - until Frank and Dawn got back.

5. MITCH

I began surveying the area as far as I could see. From my vantage in the rocks I had a view downstream about a quarter mile, to where the creek and the track curved into a small canyon. At this point I could also see where Jackass Creek came down a side canyon. There had once been a road down that canyon; some years ago I had driven it down, but it was only a cattle trail and a dry creek bed then, and I had thought I'd tear the bottom out of my van before I got through it. Now it was impassable by any vehicle short of a tank. Nothing coming from that direction.

The track which followed the stream had been a fairly decent road then. It had deteriorated with time, and the decline of use by weekend campers. No cattle were ranged here any longer, and the road had become overgrown, washed out in places, and was now a barely negotiable track. Still, as I had gotten the van in, and this group had even managed the camp trailer, it wasn't all that impassible. Downstream, to the north, it had always been rougher, and now there were bridges out. At the foot of the mountains, some twelve miles away, where the creek flowed out onto the valley floor and was diverted, and canalized, and ditched until it disappeared, there were two ranches. Or had been, but I thought they were probably still there - like fortresses, guarding the northern access to my private wilderness. Those ranchers were a tough and stubborn breed, and they would probably stand against the chaos long after all the towns and cities had been leveled to the ground. Good neighbors for me, as long as I didn't try to go calling. I was sure that anything which moved along that road - for as far as the ranches it was still road, not track - was sure to be riddled with gunfire. The old west was making a comeback in Nevada.

Upstream was a different matter. I had come in that way. So had the previous group I had seen. This group must also have approached from the south. The stream, and the track which followed it, ran through a fairly deep ravine, or canyon. Deep enough that the sun set at six o'clock even in the middle of the summer. Now it was dark by six in the canyon, although the sky still shone for another half hour afterwards. There were numerous side canyons, on both sides of the stream, mostly with dried up creek beds at the bottoms of them. Maybe they ran with water in the spring when the snow melted, or after a big storm, but I had never seen any water here except in the creek through the main canyon. Fed by the few springs which still ran after years of drought, it always had a good flow year-around.

In one of these side canyons, about a half mile upstream, I had my camp. There had been a road once, leading to a mine which I guess had never amounted to much. Probably played out quickly. There were five holes straight into the side of the mountain. The longest shaft only went in about thirty feet.

The road was still passable, over the hard rock and through the sagebrush. No evidence of my passing was visible the next day. Now I had my van, my home on wheels, and a large storage area in the mine. I would finish boarding up the mine entrance to make it weather proof before the winter hit, and make my home there. All was hidden from the track, and to approach it meant coming through a narrow spot in this little canyon which was in clear view of the mine entrance. Clear view, and a clear shot, with whoever was approaching in a bottleneck. I felt safe there! The only drawback was that I couldn't see the track from there, and so couldn't constantly monitor the traffic. I had kept watch for the first few days, by going down to where my side canyon bends to afford a view of the track. After a while I had given up, not having seen anyone. Now I had neighbors who had sneaked in while I wasn't looking. That was why I took my daily walks up and down the track, to check out my territory, and to make myself aware of any newcomers just as I was now doing.

About another quarter mile south and upstream from my side canyon, the track bent away from the creek. It climbed through a steep canyon, over some high meadowland, then down through another canyon on the other side, and out to join a paved road. The track was quite rough and overgrown at least to the meadow, about three miles. A definite discouragement to travel, but obviously not a bar. I'd thought of completely closing the road with a rockslide - I had the dynamite to do it with - but then how would I ever get my van out when the time came to leave here. If the time ever came that it was safe to leave here! I did intend to close it with a snow avalanche, once there was enough on the mountains. That would at least give me some protection, some rest from watchfulness, closing my front door until the spring thaws. By then perhaps the crisis would have passed, the crazies would have killed each other off, and those of us who remained alive could go about rebuilding the world - perhaps even a better world. I really expected to be alive to find out. Or at least I'd go down fighting. I had confidence to remain hidden here at least through the spring. Some of that might depend on my new neighbors, and how many others might come into my canyon before I could close the track with the snows.

II. THE AMBUSH

6. GEORGE

"Billy", George said, "you get down on the side of the road and lay down like you was hurt. Take your pack with you and lay it down beside you - open a little. Don't move, and don't say nothing - just moan a little. He'll stop. We'll get him - and everything he's got!"

The boy was about thirteen, skinny, and no obvious threat to anyone. The man who was giving these instructions was one of the new breed of ruthless outlaws. For thirty-six years his basic tendencies to violence and lawlessness had been pretty much held in check by society. Now, since the crisis, there was no effective brake upon his impulses. Like so many others, he had left the cities of the coast, and made his way eastward into the small towns and isolated ranches of the Sierra. He had fared well, taking what he needed and wanted, by subterfuge or force as the occasion demanded. He had done better than most, for he still survived. As the exodus from the cities had swelled in numbers, the small towns had become fortresses, isolated farms deserted or heavily armed. Many similar marauders were now dead. Some towns had taken to hanging their bodies at the gates to discourage others with the idea of plundering. George was still alive.

A large part of the reason for his continued survival was that he had understood the progress of the panic, and managed to stay two steps ahead of the worst of it. Further and further into the mountains he had gone, now on the Nevada side. His targets had changed as well. Rather than attempting to attack a town, or be temporarily admitted to a farmstead, he was now preying on other travelers. It was amazing, he thought, how many who fled the crisis had come away well supplied with food and goods. But many, it seemed, were unprepared for defense against those like George who would take all of it from them.

The second reason for his survival was Billy. Like George himself, the boy was a natural born con man. He could play any role, on a moment's notice. While he lacked the ruthlessness of the older man, and was somewhat uncomfortable with the grosser acts of violence that the two had committed, he was willing, and he knew that he had little choice. If he was to continue to eat, he had to have a strong protector.

George was strong, and cunning. He really seemed to like the boy - as much as he was capable of liking any other human being. The boy was useful to him. People's hearts went out to the pathetic, skinny waif, at least long enough for George's purposes. On occasion he had been admitted to a farm house, only to let George in later. The father and son routine had ceased working after the first few times but this roadside casualty ploy was a steady producer recently. Hopefully it would be effective today as well, for George and Billy needed new transportation, and food stocks were getting down as well. Perhaps they'd even find another gun of some sort, with sufficient ammunition. George was down to only four shells left for the 357 revolver. They were dangerously low on their own protection.

Billy had spotted the little caravan of two trucks and two trailers that morning. Through the binoculars he hadn't been able to tell much detail, of course, but there appeared to be three people - the man and two women; or perhaps a woman and a boy. They had seen no one else in the two days that they had been camped at the head of a canyon. Billy had kept watch on the track below most of the time while George had tried to fix the truck they had acquired several days earlier. The truck was hopeless, a loss. Billy had called George and shown him the back of the last trailer as it rounded the bend in the track to the north, told him what he had seen. George said they'd go check on down the stream later in the day, see if they could find where the camp was. Two trucks and two trailers sounded like a big outfit to George - maybe too big for them to handle with only one gun and four rounds. The boy had only seen three people, and one of them a woman, and one a kid. Maybe they could manage to attack the camp, but it wasn't George's favorite action.

Then things had changed. About two hours later, while George had still been trying to fix the truck and getting more and more frustrated, Billy had called him again. Scurrying over to Billy's lookout point, George had caught sight of one of the trucks going back upstream on the rocky track. Billy said he only saw one person in the truck, and he thought it was the man. That left the woman and the kid at the camp, wherever it was. With a truck, and two trailers worth of supplies. The odds were getting better.

George had considered for a minute. If the man had left the woman and the kid at the camp, he would be coming back. The broad would be wary and armed at the camp, that he was sure of. If George had left his woman in camp, while he went to do something or get something, he'd sure have put her on her guard. He had to assume this guy had done the same.

When the guy came back, with whatever he went after, he would have to pass right below them again. The idea of a roadside ambush, with the help of Billy's casualty act, looked the best way to go. Then they could go to the camp afterwards, in the guy's own truck. Surprise factor. That was the way to do it. So the trap had been prepared, just waiting for the return of the man in his truck.

7. FRANK

Frank drove carefully back up the track. His big 4WD pickup negotiated the rough terrain easily enough, but he concentrated on his driving just the same. It was that, or be aware of Dawn of the laughing green eyes beside him. As always, and with everyone else he knew, it was hard not to be aware of Dawn. She just did something to people - especially men. He was the last man in the world to think of cheating on his wife, but with Dawn he did \- think about it, at least. He'd have to make sure that's all he did!

Frank rolled over a rock and the truck lurched. The 357 which had been lying on the seat beside him slid onto the floor. "Dawn, please pick that up and hold onto it", he said. "By the way, do you know how to use a gun?"

She leaned down to retrieve the gun, brushing against his leg as she did. Frank felt an involuntary tingle run up his leg to his groin in reaction. Dawn sensed it and smiled up at him. "I can shoot", she replied. "Cousin Harry took me out to the shooting range often, but it was just an excuse to feel me up, helping me to hold the gun and aim. I always had more shots in the target than he did!"

It wasn't that Dawn did anything especially to excite him. She didn't have to! She was just Dawn. She made Frank feel so good whenever he was around her. She seemed to affect nearly everyone that way. It was like when she was around you, you knew you were important to her and you had her complete attention. You just knew she liked you, that she'd do anything for you. It made you feel real good!

Dawn was always at ease and natural, seemed always to be happy and full of fun. By reputation he knew that she was a sexual dynamo. He'd heard about her from his friend Jerry. He'd also heard from a couple of guys who said she was perfectly nice to them, just like with Frank, but they hadn't ever been able to get anywhere. There was just no figuring Dawn! Yet it seemed to Frank that the offer was always there for him. Never anything overt. She just looked at him with those laughing green eyes and waited for him to ask. But he never would! Especially now with the four of them in close quarters, he'd have to be real careful not to let her get to him.

God! What was he thinking about? Here he was trying to avoid being aware of her, and his thoughts were filled with nothing else. She was cute enough, he guessed, but not really his type. Her mixed ancestry was exotic, especially in a place like Carson, and she certainly attracted notice. That wiggly little round butt of hers worked like a signal. But she had almost no tits at all, sort of like the girls in school he'd tried to get into before he met Debbie.

The thought of his wife, like always, made him smile. Frank considered himself the luckiest man in the world. In his eyes, Debbie was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Those air-brushed centerfold girls had nothing on his wife. God! she was sexy! He still remembered that first day, in his senior year in high school, when he'd first seen Debbie. She had just moved to town, and every guy in the school had been giving this new red-head with the huge tits the eye. They'd all been making come-ons to her. Frank had been too shy to talk to her, just staring steadily in his history class. When she had flashed that big smile of hers, and he knew he'd been caught looking, he had blushed. He'd been so embarrassed, and he was sure she'd never pay him any mind. It had been Debbie who had struck up a conversation with him after class. She had actually asked him out on their first date, although at the time it had seemed as if it had been his idea.

The second date had been his idea, alright, but what happened at the end of it had been hers. He was so surprised when she took her sweater off, and that beautiful pair of tits popped out at him, that he didn't know what to do. Just staring with his mouth open. She soon directed him in that matter, and his open mouth was filled, first with one creamy mound and then the other. They were perfect - firm and smooth, - and he was in love totally and forever.

When she had slithered out of her jeans and panties, and began fumbling with his fly, he knew what to do alright. But not here, in the car. It was a warm night, and the area around Mexican Dam was secluded enough - except for the possibility of other teenagers with similar pursuits in mind. They took a blanket from the back seat, and went out onto the sand beneath a stand of trees beside the river.

It had turned out that she didn't know what to do. It was her first time, although she certainly seemed to learn fast. And she loved it! She couldn't get enough, and soon they were screwing at every opportunity. From that first time Frank had been sure that there was no other girl for him, that if he could just have Debbie for his own, he'd be happy for the rest of his life.

He had been. He'd worried that he'd lose her when he graduated. He had gotten a good job with a plumber who had known him since he was just a little kid. The job kept him pretty busy. But Debbie had been there for him, every weekend. They talked on the phone almost every night. It really seemed, for whatever reason that Frank couldn't ever figure out, that she cared for him as much as he did for her. They decided to be married when she graduated, and Frank worked hard at learning the plumbing business, and at making Debbie happy in every way possible. She was a wonderful girl, a fantastic piece of ass, and her tits were the greatest! Frank had it made, and he'd never give her up.

Things had been great between them until they had gotten married, the day after her graduation. God! He hadn't wanted to wait a minute longer than necessary! She hadn't wanted to wait either. She'd told Frank on their wedding night to forget his "protection"; she wanted a baby. So they'd screwed their brains out for the next six months, and nothing had happened. Of course it had sure been fun trying. Never before had Frank failed to give her anything which she wanted, and it made him feel bad. He felt even worse when the doctor told them that he wouldn't be fathering any children. He really felt less than adequate. It seemed to affect his desire for lovemaking too. He just didn't want to as much as before. Debbie acted wonderful, telling him that it really didn't matter that much, but he knew she was disappointed. Things were still good between them, but Frank knew he wasn't really making her as happy as he should, and that made him feel guilty. When Debbie's sister had died, and she had wanted to have Jon live with them, he'd agreed immediately. Debbie had seemed to brighten up at once. Even if Jon wasn't theirs, at least Debbie could have a child to care for, and he had given Jon all the love and attention that any real father could provide. He loved the boy, both for himself, and for the happiness which he brought to Debbie. But Jon's inclusion in their family didn't help his feelings of inadequacy, or his interest in sex at all. He'd been worried for a while now that Debbie would go looking elsewhere. He didn't really think she would cheat on him, but she was a highly-sexed lady with a great need. Now at least, up in the mountains, there wouldn't be anyone else around to worry about. Maybe he could get over his feelings about not being able to father a child by thinking on how he had planned this escape for his family, and had brought them out of the chaos of the city to safety here in the Sierra. Frank frowned. Maybe, just maybe, being around Debbie all the time, instead of at work, would rekindle the fires of passion which they had shared before. Maybe! But Frank really wasn't too hopeful.

8. DAWN

"What's the matter, Frank? You're frowning. Is something wrong?"

"No, Dawn. Just thinking." Brought out of his reverie, Frank was now glad of Dawn's presence, for he had fallen into thoughts of areas too painful for him to consider. Dawn, as was usual, immediately made him feel good about himself.

"You know, Frank, this has all happened so quick. For most of the past two days I've been alone driving this truck, and I still don't really know what we're doing here. Or how you managed to have so much planned and ready. I do know that if it hadn't been for you I wouldn't be alive now. You came along to Auntie May's at just the right time! Another few minutes and they would have been tired of me, and I wouldn't be here talking to you now. You were really good to bring me along with you and I want you to know that I really appreciate it! You've been so quiet that I thought maybe you wished I wasn't with you." She flashed him that strange little smile, and turned those beautiful green eyes on him, waiting for him to answer.

"No, it's nothing like that. I'm glad to have you with us. You'll be company for Debbie, and a help too. I sort of wish you were a man though. I was counting on Debbie's dad to help with the hunting and the work." He glanced sideways at the slip of a girl beside him, and smiled. "Well, maybe I don't wish that after all." Frank thought that the last thing he needed right now was some other man around Debbie. Thinking this, he became uncomfortable again and sought to get back onto safer ground. "How did you happen to be there anyway, Dawn?"

"Well, I asked you a question first, but I'll go ahead and answer, if you will promise to tell me all about this trip and your planning afterwards. Okay?"

"I'm sorry. Yes, alright."

"Do you know that my mother has been gone from Carson for about a year now? No? She just couldn't take it any more, I guess. To her it always seemed that everyone was talking about her and pointing fingers. Anyway, I was staying with my grandma, trying to help her out a little. She's not been doing too well since Grandpa died. Of course, she's got Mary Ellen and Harry living with her too, but she seemed to like having me around. Mary Ellen didn't though; she thought I was going to jump into bed with Harry. He didn't make any secret of the fact that he'd like that."

"You seem to affect a lot of men that way, Dawn!"

"Do I affect you that way, Frank?"

"Uh, well..."

"I think a lot of you Frank. I've always liked you, and I think that you're a good man. If you weren't married to my favorite aunt, I might have made a play for you. I know that you are so in love with Debbie, and her chest, and that I haven't got any way to compete with that, even if I wanted to. Still, Frank, I care for you, and if you've ever got a problem, I'm willing to listen, or to do anything to help."

He looked over at her, and met those beautiful green eyes with a quizzical look in them, and he wondered if he was that transparent. He blushed under her gaze, and tried again to get the conversation back on events and away from himself. "Hey, you were telling me how you came to be over at Grandma's - Aunt May's. Get on with it, will you?"

"Okay, I'm sorry if I upset you. I just wanted you to know that I do care. Grandma - Debbie's aunt Millie - sent me over to Auntie May's to stay with them for a while, since they were alone. Maybe she just wanted me away from Harry for a while too. Anyway, I had just gotten there that day. Uncle Jack told me about planning to go away to the mountains with you and Debbie and Jon. He didn't explain much, but he asked if I wanted to come with them. Said it wasn't safe for me - or anyone - in Carson anymore. Soon, he said, it would be as bad as all the cities in California."

"That's Jack for you. Debbie's dad has one of the biggest hearts I've ever known. Here we have a big secret between us, and he invites you along. So you'd have been coming with us anyway, I guess, even if I didn't have to save you."

"Well, anyway, I still appreciate it Frank. Jack said it was all your idea, your planning, this spot that you knew about where we could all stay safely through the winter. So I'd have been very thankful to you, even if I had come along with Auntie May and Uncle Jack. I said you're a good man, Frank. To have thought up this plan, and gotten it all ready - that's pretty smart. How'd you know what was going to happen?"

"Oh no you don't, Miss Dawn! I didn't know what was going to happen. I still don't know what happened at May and Jack's house before I got there. Are you going to tell me the rest of your story, or not?"

"Well, it's not something I really want to think about."

"Maybe talking about it will make it better."

"Nothing is going to make it better, Frank. It happened, and it is over. Thanks to you, I'm still alive. But Auntie May and Uncle Jack are dead! Nothing is ever going to make that better."

It seemed to Frank that Dawn was losing her usual calm, cool manner for the first time he had ever witnessed. Was that a tear in the corner of one green eye? "I'm sorry, Dawn. If you don't want to talk about it, that's okay."

Dawn seemed to have regained her composure. She smiled at Frank, and the laugh was back in her eyes. Nothing seemed able to keep her indomitable spirit down for long. "It's alright, Frank. I guess you've got a right to know. You cared about them too. And you are my leader now, aren't you?"

She grinned playfully, and continued. "I got to their house about one o'clock. It wasn't too much later when you called to tell them to get ready to leave tonight. It was then that Uncle Jack told me about your plans to head for the mountains. I helped them load supplies in the trailer for most of the afternoon. It was starting to get dark, and Uncle Jack went into the house for a light, and for a gun. I was pouring gas from some cans into the suburban, and waiting for when you would all arrive so we could leave. Then someone came up behind me and grabbed me. There were more of them, all around. The one holding me pulled me away from the car, and another poured the gas all over and lit it.

"Just then Uncle Jack came back out, and started shooting at them. I guess he hit several of them before he ran out of ammunition, and then they jumped him. They poured more gas on him, and heaved him into the flames. Auntie May must have heard the shots, and came to the door just as they were throwing him into the fire. She screamed and tried to run to him, but she must have had a heart attack, for she clutched her chest and fell just a few steps from the back door. At least those bastards didn't get to hurt her!

"Then they dragged me into the house. I think there were four of them then. I could hear the roar of the flames, and poor uncle Jacks screams as the first one took me. Then I couldn't hear much except for them. They are crazy! Kept saying that I was the one to blame. That I deserved whatever I got. That they were the real victims. I don't really know what all they said. I was trying to block out what they said, and what they were doing to me. Then, when the last one, I think, was getting ready, and I knew that they would kill me afterwards, I heard a loud explosion. I thought it was the gas tank of the suburban, but I saw one of them gush blood and fall, and then another. The others ran, and there you were in the kitchen doorway, with the pistol still smoking in your hand, and Debbie, holding that rifle pointed at the floor with a look of horror and shock on her face. I think that Debbie was in more shock than I was! Of course it was her parents. Or maybe she was just shocked that her Frank was getting such a view of my charms, little as they might be!" The old Dawn was back, with a mischievous smile and a twinkle in the lovely green eyes.

9. FRANK

Frank was embarrassed and blushing again. He had actually seen little of Dawn's charms, exposed as she had been. He had been much too busy with shooting, and then worrying about Jon alone in the truck outside. When he came back in with Jon, Dawn was covered with a bathrobe which Debbie had gotten for her.

"When we drove up, and saw the flames, I parked the truck out front, and Debbie and I came around back with the guns. I knew something was wrong, and when I saw May lying there, and the back door open, I just edged up carefully. Debbie was sort of in shock after seeing her mother, and I was worried about her too. Then I saw those guys, and you on the floor, and I just started shooting. I really didn't see anything, Dawn, and I wouldn't have looked anyway."

"Tell that one to Debbie! I know how you love her, Frank, but I also know how you look at me. You may not have seen much, but you'd have looked. And you will look, too. We're going to be in close quarters this winter, and you're bound to get a look. Go ahead and enjoy. It's alright! Loosen up a little. It'll be good for you."

"We won't be in that close quarters." Frank was blushing again. "With this second trailer, there will be room for you and Jon, and Debbie and I will be in ours."

"Jon and I, alone together? You know that Jon has a crush on me, don't you? Not that I mind. He's a good boy. You are doing wonderfully with him. Anyway, you're bound to get to see me. The only bath facilities are in your trailer. So you better stop being so up-tight! I'm not going to rape you or anything. Not without your permission!" The grin and the laughing eyes were again turned on Frank.

They had been driving about fifteen minutes, along the track beside the stream, then through the canyon up to where they had hidden the third trailer the night before. It took them a few minutes to hook up the other trailer - Jack's little twelve-footer that he used for hunting trips. It was a useful addition, even if it was small. Now it was stocked with boxes of supplies - food enough for the four of them through the winter, and well into the spring, even if they didn't supplement with wild game and fish. Soon they were on the way back towards camp with the heavily laden trailer in tow. Frank drove very slowly over the rough road. He didn't want to chance losing the majority of their supplies.

10. BILLY

Billy lay by the roadside with his pack beside him, a few cans spilling onto the dirt of the track. He'd arranged the pack with care, so that it looked natural. He'd made sure that several brightly colored cans were in the track, sure to attract attention. It looked as if he'd fallen, from injury or weakness, and he lay still just at the edge of the one-time road. It seemed like he'd been lying there for hours, but it could only have been about 15 minutes. He hoped the truck would return soon, but knew that it could be a long while. The hour was late afternoon, and this made him expect that the man would be back along soon, not wanting to leave his wife and kid alone after dark.

He'd done this act before, and it had worked. But not yet in such an out of the way place as this. It had only been in the past week that George and him had gotten off the real roads. George had wanted some time to rest, and think where they were going from here. Pickings had gotten thin lately, and they were all the way over the Sierras on the Nevada side now. George thought maybe they had come too far. Billy thought that this place was just fine, if only they had some more supplies. At least there weren't any others for them to worry about. A rest from having to keep on stealing, and from some of the other things George always wanted to do, would be fine by him.

Finding food, and taking it from someone if you had to, that was okay. Getting weapons and ammo were an important part of life in this new world they had to live in. Killing someone who was trying to kill you was just natural too, Billy guessed. Survival of the fittest! They'd been teaching him something about that, and someone named Derwin, back in school - back when there had been schools. That seemed like a long time ago, but really, Billy thought, it had been just about a year ago. In that year, Billy had to do some things that he'd never dreamed of. Yes, he'd done this act before, and many others. He'd stolen, and even killed. But he'd never liked it!

George seemed to like it! He liked killing. He got a strange look on his face, like he was coming or something, and he beat people to death. He didn't have to kill them - not all of them, anyway. Even the women; first he played with them, and then, when he'd finished, he killed them. No reason. He seemed to enjoy killing them even more than what he did before. Billy never wanted to watch. He usually said he'd stand guard outside wherever they were. A couple of times George had made him stay. He even wanted Billy to do something with the women. But he couldn't. He was too bashful, and didn't really know what to do. George had made one of the women, the last one they'd found, do something to Billy; it had felt funny, sort of good, almost like he was playing with himself. Then George had said he was to do something else, and he had gotten embarrassed, and soft. George had screamed at the woman that she was a no-good cocksucker, and had killed her right then. Billy didn't want his first woman, the first time he really had a woman, to end in her being killed. He'd just wait. Sometime there would be a woman, or a girl, without George there to kill her. Then maybe he would. George enjoyed killing, but Billy just didn't like that.

George had been good to Billy, if not to anyone else. For some reason George seemed to want to take care of him, and teach him. Together they were managing, and that was good in this day. Most of the people back in California weren't surviving - and not just those that George had killed. Everything had gone crazy. People running around just killing and burning things, for no reason. Oh yes, he'd heard about the disease, and the crisis, with more and more people dying. Why go crazy and try to kill everybody else? Just didn't make sense to Billy. What George and him were trying to do was stay alive. The crazies seemed to be out just to destroy everything and everybody. They knew they were going to die anyway, so it wasn't in order to survive like George and him.

When the crazies had come to his folks farm, he had been sent to hide in the shed. Instead, he'd hidden in a ditch behind the house, and watched everything. His dad had killed several of them, but they had just kept coming, and finally caught both his dad and his mom. The crazies tied them both to the back of the hay wagon, and then set fire to it. They just stood there and watched them both burn up, screaming at them. He could still hear the screaming crazies as he had from his ditch. What for? They didn't even take anything from the house. Just burnt it to the ground. Why?

Billy had sort of wandered around in shock for several days. He didn't really know how long, didn't really remember much of what he'd done until he met William. Or rather, until William had found Billy sleeping in a barn. William had thought it funny that Billy and he had the same name - but it was always William, never Bill, or Will, or Billy. William was like George in some ways, trying to survive. But William was different too. William had used Billy like a girl, and he'd hurt him bad. Hurt him in how he felt about himself. He'd made him do things that Billy didn't want to do, and he said he'd kill him if he didn't. Billy wasn't sure how long he'd been with William. He was still pretty foggy about things, but it hadn't been long. Then George found him.

As Billy remembered, it was vivid, and just like he was telling the story to someone. Found William and me, in another barn. I was face down in the straw, crying, sort of, and William was doing his thing, and George just walked in on us. George said, "What the hell do you got there man? Some little sweetie?" I looked around, and there was George with a big gun in his hand. When he saw me, I guess he was surprised, or something, >cause he sort of turned red and started hollering. Only time I ever saw him mad - really mad.

"Get the hell up from there, you sonofabitch!" William was already getting up, with his pants just half way up, and the fear on his face as he looked at that big pistol pointed at him made me feel good for the first time since the night my parents burnt up.

Then George got that funny look on his face like when he's about to hurt someone, only I didn't know it then like I do now. He said, "Drop em, sweetheart! Seems like you don't know the proper use of that tool you got there! Someone should have taught you. But ain't no use trying to teach a faggot nothing, is there?" Then grinning like he does, he just shot William right there. Shot it off, he did, or a piece of it anyway.

William sort of sat down real quick, and started looking white. He was bleeding quite a bit, and didn't say nothin', or move at all. Just lookin' at me, and then at George, like he just couldn't believe what happened. Still grinnin', George asked me "You want to finish him, kid? For what he done to you? Ain't right, what he done." He handed me the gun, handle first, just like he knew I wouldn't do nothin' to him. I took it, and I shot William, I did, right in the chest. In the heart, I guess, 'cause he never said nothin' else, and he never moved once he fell. I hated him that much!

George took good care of me. I hadn't eaten much since my parents, I guess. George fed me, and he got me some clothes. We started getting things together. I started to come out of the fog I was in, and George and me would make up these little acts, like a play, and we'd get what we needed to survive. George always talks about surviving, about being strong, about being able to eat when we want because we're smarter than the rest. And George is good to me, too! He never wants me to do nothin' funny, like William did, except that he wants me to do it to a woman. Well, someday I will, but not when George is there. I don't want her dead afterwards.

11. FRANK

"Well, Frank, it's your turn. How did you come to plan this getaway. When did you have the idea, anyway. You can't have gotten all this ready overnight."

"Alright! Keep your eyes open and help me watch the road. That's why you're along to begin with."

"I know you wanted to take someone with you to get the trailer, but why me? You know Debbie is eating her heart out with jealousy right now. Why not her? Or Jon?"

"I needed someone who could drive this. Especially while I was hooking up. Debbie really doesn't drive well at all. That's why you had to drive this truck with the trailer last night. Aside from the driving, she's still pretty shook. I wanted to leave Jon in camp, just in case!"

"That makes sense, but I hope you'll tell her why. I'm sure she's wondering. Tell me, what was in that other trailer anyway? It looked like you were towing a battleship all the way up here. You didn't go very fast, even on the highway. Once we hit this road, it was just crawling all the way."

"That's why I was in the lead. We were in no real hurry. Care was much more important than speed, once we got under way. Even with the back routes we traveled, avoiding all but the little towns, I still thought we might run into trouble along the way. Speed wouldn't help us avoid it. Only stealth. That's why we spent yesterday up in the hills behind Wabuska, and continued around Yerington only late last night. Too much risk in the daylight, at least around a place as big as Yerington. I don't think anything has happened there yet, but who knows? Safer to just avoid it. Anyway, we got here safe. Even if we were later than expected. Oh yeah! Propane."

"Propane what?"

"The other trailer, behind the deuce-and-a-half. Under all that camouflage there is a 5000 pound propane tank - enough to keep us going all winter. Both trailers, heaters, stoves, lights, everything. That was the first thing I got put together once Jack and I decided to go. In the truck, there is a large tank of gasoline. Also most of our weapons are there. Jack got them together, but wanted me to keep them. He thought it was safer out where we were, than right in town at his house. Guess he was right."

"That's pretty clever, Frank! I'd have never known what was in that truck or trailer. Looks like a bunch of pipe and stuff, junk - all covered with a tarp. I guess unless someone wanted to steal a bunch of plumbing supplies, it was pretty safe."

"Well, that's what the deuce-and-a-half was for. I used it in my business to carry the heavy stuff for major plumbing jobs. I had to really rework the bed to accommodate the gasoline tanks. We'll need those plumbing supplies to hook up both trailers to the propane. I can rig up running water for us too."

Frank began to warm to the telling of his plan, and his preparations to lead his family to safety in the mountains. It was Dawn's attention that did it. She communicated her interest, and made him feel like he was important, valued.

"That trailer is really a very good piece of equipment, although I fixed it up to look like a piece of junk. Underneath those shabby sides I put on, it's top notch. I beefed up the suspension, and double braced each joint in it. I was sure it would get in here alright.

Jack was to have driven this rig, while May towed this trailer behind their suburban. We'd have made it alright, too. This truck isn't that hard to drive, and we didn't load our trailer very heavily, just for that reason. May and Jack were getting older, but they could drive just fine - much better than Debbie. If May had been driving, we wouldn't have lost the car and had to leave the trailer."

"Now Frank, don't be too hard on Debbie. She feels bad about this as it is. It wasn't her fault. You know she really doesn't drive much. If May and Jack had been with you, then you wouldn't have even had that Plymouth. It just wasn't made for this type of a road, or for this great a load."

"I know it wasn't her fault."

"Well then, why don't you tell her that? You acted so angry, and then you went off with me to get the trailer back. I'm sure she's worried sick!"

"Okay, I'll apologize to her. I was so afraid when we lost that car. Almost all our food is in this trailer. Without it we're lost. When I'm afraid, I act angry. What the hell, she should understand that. I'll explain it to her. I sure don't want her upset any more than she is already - after her parents."

"I told you you're a good man, Frank. Takes a good man to admit that. So anyway, when did you first come up with this scheme?"

Basking in the glow of her approval, Frank began to talk more freely. He told her of his seeing what was happening on the coast, while the crisis was still building. More and more lawlessness, and less and less governmental control. Things were getting crazier and crazier in California, and many people had left there for the relative safety of the northern Nevada cities. Las Vegas had gone down about two months ago, right after Los Angeles. He had seen that it was only a matter of time until the craziness took over here also. Reno was already crazy enough without the influx of unwanted refugees and Carson was then beginning to get just as bad.

He had the thought of taking his family away somewhere safe, and remembered the relative inaccessibility and seclusion of the Desert Creek area. But he couldn't go with just Debbie and Jon. First, the group was too small to manage. Second, he lacked the necessary resources. His business had fallen off to almost nothing with the approaching crisis. People were worried about many things, but their plumbing didn't seem to be one of them. While he had some money saved, the things they would need for a winter - equipment, +food and supplies - would more than exhaust his savings.

He had always been close to his father-in-law. Jack had seemed to like him from the start of his relationship with Debbie. Frank was always worried that Jack would find out he was screwing his baby girl, that he thought Frank was too old for her. But there was never a hint of disapproval. Either he didn't know, or just accepted it as inevitable. In any event, Jack seemed to truly like him. When Frank had gone into business for himself, Jack had put up a good chunk of money to make it possible.

So he took his thoughts to Jack, and they discussed the looming crisis, and the solution for the family. It had seemed to them both that the problem was relatively short term. By spring the crazies would have been killed off, or died out. Whether or not civilization had completely gone under, whether there would be anything to come back to, they didn't know. By spring it should probably be safe to come out of hiding and see. If there was little left, surely they could find somewhere to begin over again.

Jack supplied much of the money, and ideas, and contacts. As food and supplies became more and more difficult to find, Jack always seemed to know someone who owed him a favor. It had been Jack who had gotten them their weapons. Oh! Between them they'd had a number of rifles and shotguns, and one handgun. But Jack had thought they might need something more, to protect themselves against others coming to their place, or for when they traveled to the valley, or came out of it in the spring. So he'd arranged to get two AK-47's from a friend in Colorado, and several more handguns - two 357's and two small automatics for May and Debbie. They'd been flown out by private plane. Guess that guy had really owed Frank some favor! And ammunition. Cases of it. Some gotten locally, some also from Colorado. They had enough armament to start a small war. Frank hoped they only had to worry about using ammo for the hunting rifles to provide game for their meals. Still, he was ready and able to use whatever he had to protect his family and their hideaway.

Frank had done the work on the equipment. The trailers they had already would suffice, but he had upgraded both of them with heavier insulation, better suspension, new tires. He had built the propane trailer. He'd installed a propane heater in Jack's little hunting trailer, still leaving the wood stove. He'd added a wood stove to his own twenty-two footer. The two trucks and the suburban had also been gone over thoroughly. They were ready to go at any time.

In July it seemed that they had months yet to worry about things getting bad enough to leave. By August 1st, they both thought they were still alright until the first of October. On the morning of September 7th Reno had gone up in flames, and they both knew the time to leave was then. Now it was the 9th, and Jack and May were both dead from the very craziness they had planned so hard to avoid, and Frank and Debbie, and Jon, and Dawn, the last minute addition, were facing a winter in the wilderness.

Still, they were well prepared. They had food enough to last well past the winter. With only four instead of five, it would go even further. Now Frank would be left with most of the work; he would miss Jack's help. His friendship, and the companionship of another man would be even more of a loss.

Jon was a big lad, although he was only eleven. Strong and smart, and willing. He'd be some help for sure. Why even now, Frank felt better knowing that Jon was back at the camp, protecting home and Debbie with his rifle. He was pretty good with it too!

They'd soon be back at camp, and get the gear unloaded and this trailer set up for Dawn and Jon. He was tired, and looked forward to being able to rest. It had been a very long couple of days.

12. MITCH

I had been surveying the camp occasionally while I waited. All was quiet below. It was nearing five o'clock, and the sun would soon dip behind the mountain, casting the camp below into shadow. Dark was not far behind. I wondered when the missing truck would return. I really wanted to know more about my mysterious new neighbors. I'd stay a while longer, at least until full dark. The weather was still warm, with the promise of another lovely evening.

Scanning through my scope upstream I could see about half a mile, to where I would leave the track for my camp. Beyond that there was a turn around a spur of the mountain, and I could see no further. Just this side of my path I could see two figures next to the track. I couldn't make out much detail at this distance, but the one alongside the track appeared small, and was laying down. Something lay beside him. Then coming around the spur of the mountain I saw the missing truck, towing another trailer.

As I watched, the truck came to a halt just short of where the figure lay. The passenger door burst open, and another small figure jumped down and ran to the one in the road. I heard one shot, and the man behind the rocks came out of hiding. I couldn't see who had been shot, but assumed it was the driver. I quickly scanned back to the camp below, and saw the redhead come out of the trailer and look around. She motioned towards me - towards the boy who remained hidden under his shelter - and returned inside. Back up the track, there appeared to be a tussle of some kind going on between the two figures on the road, while the man looked on.

13. FRANK

Dawn was shouting "Stop, Frank!" He responded to the order without thinking, and Dawn was out the door before the truck came to a full halt. He saw her bending over the boy beside the track - the first time that he had realized the dark form was a person - and reached for the gun on the seat beside him. There was a loud noise through the open door, and Frank felt a stab of pain in his chest. Then he felt warm all over, briefly, and then couldn't seem to breathe. He thought of nuzzling between Debbie's marvelous tits, the time she pinned his head there and wouldn't let him loose for what seemed like hours. So soft, so warm! He blushed for one last time, and went to sleep happy as always with his beautiful wife.

14. DEBBIE

Debbie was becoming more and more anxious as time passed. It seemed that Frank and Dawn had been gone for hours. In fact, it was barely more than thirty minutes. She was lost in thoughts of Frank and herself, of Frank and Dawn, and of her fear and loneliness, and was imagining Frank returning to hold her and nuzzle her, and tell her that everything was going to be alright. She was visualizing how they would make love that night when she was jerked back to reality by the sound of a shot.

Startled, she got up so suddenly that she forgot the carbine across her knees and dumped it onto the floor. Had the shot been at a distance, or Jon's little gun outside? She peered cautiously outside. All still seemed quiet in the camp. She went out the door and walked towards Jon's tarp shelter.

15. JON

"Don't come over here, Debbie. You'll give me away if anyone's watching", Jon half-whispered. "Get back inside and get ready. Something's going on!" He noticed that she had come out without the gun - just about what he'd expected!

Jon had heard the shot too. It seemed to be from further up the road, the direction Frank and Dawn should be coming. What was going on? Maybe Frank had shot a deer. Jon didn't really think so. Frank had said he'd be back as soon as possible. He wouldn't stop to hunt. Something must be the matter! Jon sighted at the other trailer through his scope, searching for a target. He knew he shouldn't point the gun at something he didn't want to shoot, and he had the safety off too. But heck, soon he might have to shoot someone. This was different! He determined to be even more alert until Frank got back and he found out what the shot had been about.

Jon soon was back thinking about Dawn, as he had been before he heard the shot. He wondered about where everyone was going to sleep. Always when Frank and Debbie and he went camping, they all stayed in the trailer together - Frank and Debbie in the big bed at the back, and Jon on the bunk that made up from the dining table. So was the trailer they were bringing back now for Dawn? Jon didn't like the idea of Dawn out there all by herself. What if something, or someone, came into camp during the night He decided he'd better volunteer to stay out there with her to protect her.

16. DAWN

Dawn had leapt from the truck and bounded to the boy laying beside the road. She leaned over him, and put a hand on his shoulders. "Are you alright?" she started to say, and then heard the shot. Not again, she thought. She glanced quickly over her shoulder and could not see Frank inside the truck. She turned back to the boy, wondering if whoever had shot Frank had also injured him. He was just looking up at her with his eyes wide in a sort of worshipful stare. She'd seen the look before. Then he pulled at one of her arms, and brought her down, rolling on top of her, all in one smooth motion. He lay closely atop her, not moving, and staring down into her eyes. Dawn thought quickly that the boy hadn't tried to hurt her yet, and that maybe she could use a friend. So she gave him her best "I really like you" smile, and arched her back a little to let him feel her against him. He immediately smiled back - and blushed.

17. BILLY

"Get ready, Billy," George had called from behind the rock where he had been hiding. "I hear the truck. They're coming!"

Billy had been ready, for he'd heard the truck too. He'd been ready for quite a while, and now he just wanted it to be over with quickly. At least he wouldn't have to do anything but lie there. Once the truck stopped, George would take care of the driver. He hoped that the truck's driver would see him and stop, but he was prepared to roll quickly out of the way if he didn't stop. Once a car had almost run over him while he was laying beside a road.

The truck stopped, about ten feet before him. He'd been preparing to roll. Billy was really shocked when the girl had come flying out of the passenger side door, and run over to him. There should only have been the driver! He was sure he'd seen no one else when the truck had gone up the track, but here she was. Then the shot, and she had looked around, scared. As she turned, he had been reaching for her, for he knew his job: he had to keep any second person tangled up until George had finished off the first and could come to help. In reaching for her as she turned, he brushed against her, and felt delightful girl beneath her shirt. Then he thought quickly that this girl, seemingly about his own age, was maybe the one. George would probably shoot her any minute if she was on top of him. So he flipped her, and wound up laying on her, staring full into her face. Then she sort of pushed against him, and smiled. She likes me, Billy thought, falling into her flashing green eyes, and I want to keep her!

III. THE ATTACK

18. GEORGE

"What you got there, Billy Boy?" George stood over the two of them, grinning. "Looks like you found us a little treat! Think you can let go of her long enough to check out the guy in the truck, and pick up his gun? I know you don't want to get off her, but business first, right Billy?"

Billy went to the truck and retrieved the driver's gun, another 357 just like George's. He was dead, as Billy had known he would be. George wouldn't have sent him over if he wasn't sure. Billy checked over the truck and trailer too. That was part of his job. "Hey George!", he called, "Come look at this!" George came back to the trailer door with Dawn held by one arm, the gun in his other hand. She wasn't struggling. Just went along easily, with a queer little smile on her face until she saw Billy inside the trailer. When she saw the gun in his hand, her smile changed. Not disappeared, just changed. "Look at all the food here." Billy said. "The trailer's full of it. We got enough for a long time now!"

"Any more guns and ammo?"

"Nothing in here but food. I got the one from the driver - just like yours, George. Maybe he's got more ammo in his pocket."

"Should have checked, Billy. This little gal must have got you all shook up. You're falling down on the job." George sort of chuckled. "That's alright, boy, there's probably more at their camp. There's that other broad there too. We're going to have us some fun tonight, Billy boy! Yassir, some real fun!" That strange look came across George's face, and Billy saw it and was scared.

"Here, boy, you take charge of our precious little package here. We'll get on down to their camp, and see what other goodies are waiting for us. We'll come back for our stuff tomorrow - if we need any of it. Let's go!"

Billy led Dawn to the truck, while George hauled Frank's still blushing carcass out of the seat and got behind the wheel.

As they all got into the truck, George reached over to Dawn beside him and cupped his big hand over one of her small breasts, squeezing roughly. "Lookie here, Billy boy. Sweet little chocolate cupcakes. Hardly nothin' there. Oh baby! Got me some young stuff!"

Dawn grimaced from the rough handling, and felt Billy tense up beside her. She looked over and seeing his face, with a mixture of anger and fear upon it, gave him what she hoped was a reassuring smile. George had seen the look on Billy's face too. "Don't worry, Billy. There'll be plenty for both of us. Maybe the other one back at the camp will have some bigger tits for you to play with. You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

Billy gazed into Dawn's smiling green eyes, and felt that somehow everything would be alright. "Yeah, George." he said. "That would be fine."

George started the truck, then turned and looked at Dawn. Gone was the joking manner, all business now. "Where's this camp, sweetie? I know it can't be far, and I know they got one. The boy here saw them coming in, and then saw him come out again. So don't try to lie to me. Just don't try it! Where is it?"

There was a determined and evil look to this George, Dawn thought, and she'd better seem like she was being helpful. "Just down the creek about a half a mile, right after where the road crosses the stream."

"Who's in the camp?"

Dawn thought quickly of Debbie, and of Jon in his hiding place. She hoped he still was there, hidden. Jon seemed her only hope now. "Just that guy's wife." she said, gesturing past George to where he had dumped Frank's body.

"What have they got there? What kind of setup?"

"Two trailers and a big truck. I don't really know what all. There were supposed to be more people, and I only got to come along at the last minute. Everything happened so quick! I just don't know!" If this guy wanted to see her as a little girl, so much the better. She could play that game, and use it to her advantage. She wouldn't know that much if she was a kid.

"What about guns? Does this other broad have a gun?"

Dawn thought of all the guns Frank had told her about. She didn't know exactly where they were, or if they were loaded. Still, that was another chance. And then there was the other gun, the little automatic Frank had given to her for the trip up. It was still in the glove box. Things were looking more hopeful all the time. "Yes, she has his hunting rifle, but I don't think she knows how to use it." Dawn didn't think she could hide everything from him, but saw a chance to make him less worried about danger. It might just save Debbie's life - at least for a while.

"Where will she be? In one of the trailers?"

"One is a travel trailer. She'll probably be inside. I don't really know. That's where we left her. She was so scared of being left alone, she's probably still there. The other trailer is just full of junk - sort of like a U-Haul."

"Well, she might have heard the shot, and she'll be on her guard. But maybe she'll be even more scared too." George thought for a moment, a plan building in his mind. He didn't like this situation, attacking on someone's home ground. But if what the girl said was true, then there should be a way to get the wife out in the open. Then it would be easy. Even if he had to shoot her.

"Alright, sweetie, here's what we're going to do. When we get to the camp, you tell me where to pull in so she can't see the truck. Can we do that?"

"Well..."

"Look, girl, I'm going to take that camp. Now I can do it easy, and no one gets hurt. Or I can just kill her, and take it all anyway. It's up to you which one. If you help me, she won't get hurt."

No, no one will get hurt, thought Dawn. Unless you call what you're planning to do to Debbie and me later hurting. But you wouldn't think of that. Maybe, if I work this just right, Jon will get his chance, and it will be you who gets hurt. "Please don't hurt my aunt Debbie!" Dawn pleaded, adding to her little girl role. "I'll help you. Just please don't hurt us!"

"That's more like it, sweetie. Everything's going to be fine. Now, can we get into the camp where she can't see the truck?"

"Yes, I think so. If she's inside the trailer. If we go past, and then come in from the other side. That's the best way in anyway. That's the way we got in to start with." That leaves us out of sight of not only Debbie, but of Jon too, she thought. Until we get up in front of the trailer. They'd be going there for sure. Then Jon would get his chance. If he was still in his hiding spot under the tarp. He would be, she knew. He was the brave little soldier protecting his home and family until Frank came back. She knew he'd be there!

"Okay! After we pull in, give me a minute, and then get out of the truck and call to her to come help you. What was her old man's name?"

"Frank."

"Well, you just say "Debbie! Come help me quick! It's Frank!" Like that, sort of excited and scared. Can you do that?"

Dawn repeated the phrase, with the proper tone, and George was pleased, it seemed. "Lookie here, Billy boy, we got us a little actress. She's got a starring role in our little three act play. Boy, I can't hardly wait for act three! Whooee! Can't hardly wait!"

Billy had been sitting quietly while George outlined the action. All the while he had been aware of the pressure of Dawn's knee and thigh against his, of her arm and shoulder up against him, and the occasional brush of her hand on his knee. When she glanced at him with those startling green eyes, and smiled at him, he felt funny all over. But he'd been listening carefully to George, trying to find his part in this play. He hadn't heard it. "What do I do, George?" he finally asked.

"Billy, can you drive this truck? Because I want to be behind the trailer when we come into the camp."

"Well, I never drove a truck as big as this, but I guess I could." Billy said. His voice didn't sound that sure.

Dawn thought that if she were to be driving, it would give her a measure of control. Perhaps she could bring it far enough forward to give Jon a clear view. She didn't think so, but it was more chance than she had otherwise. "I can drive it." she said. George looked at her strangely. "Well, you said if I helped you, you wouldn't hurt Aunt Debbie - or me."

"This is a big truck for a little girl. What makes you think you can manage it?"

"Uncle Frank let me drive part of the way up here - when he got tired. It's got power steering and everything. It's easy!" she chirped in what she hoped sounded like a little girl trying to sound grown up. She was really getting into this role. If the stakes hadn't been so high, she might even have enjoyed it.

"Okay, sweetie, let's see what you can do!" They all traded places, with Dawn sliding over into the driver's seat, Billy moving into the middle, and George going around to the passenger side. Billy, by George's direction, had held the gun more firmly, and pointed in her direction. "Don't try any tricks now, honey. Wouldn't want to have to hurt you. Just let's see you drive this."

Dawn had moved the shift lever into drive, and started forward smoothly. At George's order she had stopped, after going about fifty yards. Also smoothly.

"Now lets see if you can back it up."

She turned to look over her shoulder, brushing her breast against Billy's arm as she did so, then realized that the trailer was behind her, smiled at Billy and turned the other way. She backed carefully along the track, for a few yards until the trailer started to skew around toward the edge of the narrow track. "I never had to back up with a trailer before." she said.

"That's alright, sweetie, you won't need to back up at the camp. Gutsy little gal, Billy. I can't even back up a trailer too good. Even on this little road, she just goes ahead and tries. Yeah! Gutsy little filly! She's gonna be fun, I'll bet!"

Dawn thought how close she had come to blowing the whole thing. She hadn't even thought about the trailer. Lucky she hadn't run it off the road. George would have ended it right then, she was sure. But it seemed to have come out alright anyway. Better than alright! He even seemed like he trusted her a little. Her little girl act was working just fine!

That feeling of being trusted rapidly disappeared when George continued with his plan. "We'll stay here a little while longer until it's darker. Not so dark we can't see, but dark enough so she can't see us too well. When we pull into the camp, I'll get out and walk along beside the trailer, out of sight. Then even if she's outside, she'll only see two shapes in the truck. With the girl driving - yeah, it's even better that way. Billy, you slump down a little, and it'll look like Frank's been hurt, if she can see anything. We'll turn the headlights on, so we can see her, and she won't be able to see much of anything looking into them. Then you, girl - what's your name, anyway, sweetie?"

"Dawn."

"Yeah. Dawn - I like that! - Sweetie, you get out and call out like I told you. Remember?"

"Sure I remember." Dawn repeated her line.

"Good! Now don't go very far towards her; make her come to you. And Billy? If this little sweetie - if Dawn does anything other than what I just told her, or says anything else - shoot her. Hear?"

"Yes, George."

Dawn sensed a change in Billy suddenly, as if he had just gotten the cue he needed to remember his part in the play. She shone her green eyes at him and saw a different look on his face. She just didn't know about this boy; one minute she thought he was on her side, and the next he seemed to be ready to do anything George told him. She wondered if Billy would shoot her or not.

"I know you don't want to shoot her, Billy. I don't want to either, least wise not before we have some fun. But they got what we need in that camp, and just one broad between us and having it. We're smarter than them, Billy, and we'll get it all \- and without having to fire a shot.

AYou keep this little gal covered good. Be ready to shoot her if you got to. It's up to her. But don't worry boy, she's not going to do anything dumb. Are you, sweetie?"

Dawn felt Billy poking the gun against her side and thought, yes, he probably would. She had to play her role just right, for all their sakes. If she could just get them into sight of Jon! Maybe, once George got out of the truck at the camp, she would get a chance to gain ground with Billy. Maybe!

As they waited for dusk to deepen a little, Dawn thought of what she would do when they reached the camp, Billy worried about what would happen after they had gotten there, and about this girl beside him, and George, with a strange grin playing over his face, and glancing sideways at the slip of a girl with tiny tits and flashing green eyes, ran through in his mind a preview of the delights which lay ahead of him that night. He had no doubt at all that everything would go as he had planned.

19. MITCH

This was getting to be a very crowded place for a wilderness. I wondered just how many others might be about that I didn't even suspect. I would definitely have to be more vigilant in the future. As soon as I figured out just what was happening here, with my new neighbors, and now this other pair as well, I was going to dynamite the road in from the south. Just too much traffic!

I was never going to be able to figure it out from this position. Too far away to see, too far away to act. I had seen the ambush up the track, but I couldn't tell who any of the players were from this perch a half mile away. While I could see the camp below me well enough, I couldn't help much from several hundred yards away. I needed to get closer.

It seemed that the redhead and the boy might need some help too. If, as I thought was the case, it was her husband who was the driver of the truck, she'd be pretty much at the mercy of those two. The boy in hiding might be of some use, but with his little twenty-two it didn't seem he'd have much of a chance against both of them. Here I was one minute afraid to make the acquaintance of my new neighbors, and the next I was wanting to help. The situation had changed with the addition of the ambushers.

They appeared ruthless. The trap had been laid, and the execution had been smooth. The truck was barely stopped before the driver had died. Execution was a good word - swift and cold-blooded. They were good, practiced. I didn't like them a bit.

They had a prisoner too. From the size of the passenger it had to be another kid. They were definitely going to the camp. A woman alone with a kid, and another kid as hostage - they definitely needed help. It wasn't any of my business, I tried to tell myself. But I wouldn't listen. I'd probably regret it, might even get killed in the process, but I couldn't leave Red and the kids to face the ambushers alone.

The sun was still shining on my lookout point in the rocks, but both the camp below and the truck on up the track were already in shadow. Dusk was coming on fast, and that might work to my advantage. If only I could get into position to have a good view of the clearing, without being spotted by Red or getting shot by the defending boy. I plotted my course, planning on a spot on a small island covered with brush where the creek split into two small branches. It would afford me a view of most of the camp from just upstream, and it should look directly into the trailer door from about fifty feet. Perhaps I would get to see what Red really looked like. I started to make my way carefully down the hill.

20. DAWN

As they turned into the campsite, George had gotten out, and walked alongside the trailer. Now, Billy saw, he was walking along the fringe of a clump of brush which protruded into the campsite. Good cover, and the trailer in which the woman presumably still hid had its front end, with no window, facing them. Dawn had told them right, Billy thought. Maybe this would come off without a shot after all!

Dawn brought the truck to a halt about twenty feet from the front of the trailer. Billy could see the entire camp \- the other pickup, full of old pipe and stuff, just as she had said; a tarp-covered utility trailer, that looked like junk itself; another tarp over a pile of stuff; and then the trailer ahead of them. He could also see George getting into position right at the front of the trailer. There was no sign of the woman. Things were set even better than he had thought possible.

"Billy," Dawn said in her best husky voice, "Don't let him hurt us. Please!" She leaned over, brushing herself briefly against him, and kissed him full on the mouth. While Billy sat there dumbfounded, Dawn tumbled out of the truck and took a few steps forward, mindful of George watching her from only a few yards away. She couldn't get far enough forward to be in Jon's view. "Debbie! Quick! Help me! It's Frank! Hurry!"

Billy recovered from his shock and stepped out the passenger door, aiming the revolver in the general direction of Dawn. He sure hoped she wouldn't do anything foolish so he'd have to shoot her. He really liked this strange little girl with the laughing green eyes, but George had given him the job of covering her, and he knew he had to do what George said. The plans George made had always worked out good for them in the past, and Billy had always done his part well.

As he was thinking this, he saw the woman come running out the open front door of the trailer, and shifted his aim from behind the truck door to her. She had flaming red hair, and her flannel shirt stuck way out in front, and jiggled as she ran the few steps to where Dawn stood.Great, Billy thought, she doesn't have a gun and really nobody will get hurt. Then as he watched George step away from the trailer and move towards the woman and the girl, and saw the familiar grin on his face, he wasn't too sure about later.

As Dawn saw Debbie coming towards her, and George already moving away from the trailer and circling behind her, she thought that she would have to act now to get into Jon's range of vision. She was glad to see that Debbie didn't have the gun with her, or she probably would already have been shot. Moving to meet Debbie on the way, she grabbed her by the arm and quickly told her that Frank was dead. Brutal, perhaps, but their survival was of most importance at the moment. She continued toward the trailer, facing George only a few feet away.

Now for the performance of a lifetime, she thought. "See, George, I helped! There wasn't any trouble at all! You promised not to hurt Aunt Debbie or me, and you didn't!" This in her best smug, self-satisfied little girl manner. Then she just kept right on going, guiding Debbie along with her, towards the door of the trailer. Passing George she flashed him her best smile, and amazingly he let them pass.

Dawn stopped outside the open trailer door, and said softly "I'm sorry, Debbie! Try to play along with me for now." But Debbie appeared to have undergone too much, far too much, in the past few days. She seemed to be in a trance, with a totally blank look on her face. Then George caught up with them.

21. GEORGE

He ducked around them with his gun hand stretched out before him, and peered through the trailer door. He assured himself that no one else was within but saw the 30-30 carbine laying of the floor by the bed. ABilly, you go get that gun. I'll watch these two for a minute. They ain't gonna make no trouble, right?," he said, grabbing a fistful of red hair and pointing his gun deliberately at Dawn. Billy quickly retrieved the gun, and as George told him, took all the shells out of it and threw them into the brush, then put the carbine into the truck.

"That's right, Sweetie," George responded at last to Dawn's statement. "No trouble at all, ain't nobody hurt, and you're just a great little gal. Now if you're as good at playin' as you are at actin', we're gonna have us a great time. All of us!"

With his hand still gripping the gun he reached around and tore open the front of Debbie's shirt, the buttons popping from the thin flannel and her magnificent breasts bursting forth for all to see. Debbie seldom wore a bra. Dawn had seen them before, of course, and understood why Frank had been so entranced. They were beautiful - smooth and full, with the nipples sticking out like miniature flagpoles on top of two big round hills. They were almost as firm as Dawn's own tiny twosome. Not that she would want anything that big to carry around in front of her all day! She did fine with what she had.

George was admiring also. Still holding her long red hair in one hand, he now pawed her breasts with the other. "Whooee, Billy! Look at these. That'll be enough to keep you busy for a while, won't it boy? Lookit them knockers, Billy! They're whoppers!"

Dawn stood watching this, looking from George's leering face, to Debbie's blank one, and to Billy, blushing beside her. Now while everyone was busy looking at Debbie's chest was a good time to make some move. Perhaps the automatic in the truck's glove box, only a few paces away. She started to edge away from Billy, standing with his gun hanging limply by his side, and his mouth open, very red of face.

"Hey, Billy! Want to bet me on whether she's a natural redhead or not?" George reached, gun still in hand, for the button on Debbie's jeans. Billy stared, blushing redder.

"Hey!" George shouted angrily. "Grab that little bitch!

She's gettin' away from you!" He pushed Debbie, raising his gun hand from her pants to the ready, and swinging.

Billy jerked his stare from Debbie. He'd been absolutely mesmerized! Never had he seen anything like that before. George's angry growl brought him back to reality quickly, and the vision and the fantasy faded. He turned to see Dawn only a step away, looking back over her shoulder at him with those entreating green eyes. He reached out for her, almost gently, with his right hand, the one that still held the almost forgotten pistol. Dawn stood still and stared back at Billy, and over his shoulder at George.

She silently whispered "I love you!" to Billy. Keep him off base, she thought, but don't count on him too much.

22. JON

Jon had heard the truck drive in. He had heard Dawn call out for Debbie. He had seen her run from the trailer - without the gun again, he noticed - and he had almost come out of hiding then. Something in Dawn's voice made him wonder. He'd edged forward under his shelter just a little. He'd seen the two strangers, the big man and a boy about his age or a little older, both with guns. He didn't see Frank! Jon edged back further into hiding, knowing that the time had come for him to do some protecting and wondering just how he was going to do it.

He watched as they all came up in front of the trailer, and looked for a clear shot at one of them. Which one first, he thought. Could he get off two good shots quick enough to get both of them? If not, then what? maybe the big guy first. Dawn might be able to do something with the boy. He didn't look very menacing anyway, the gun held loosely at his side. Jon didn't have a safe shot at either of them. The big guy was behind Debbie, and the boy was in front of Dawn. He could hit either one of them by mistake, he thought. His scope was sighted for a hundred and fifty yards. About three inches too high at this point-blank range. Too risky! He'd better wait!

Jon also watched as the big man ripped open his aunt's shirt. He'd had glimpses her chest in the years when he'd first come to live with Frank and her but never a look like this. He was looking through his scope, and could see real clear, even as the guy grabbed her by the titties. Jon wondered what that felt like. Boy, he knew Frank would be mad! He didn't know where Frank was, and he had been left to protect Debbie. All he needed was a clear shot!

Then he saw the man's hand reach for the opening to her jeans. That he hadn't seen before. Jon was as curious about such things as any eleven-year-old. He stared. Suddenly there was nothing in the scope. He looked around it at the whole scene in front of the trailer door. His aunt Debbie lay on the ground at the big man's feet, and he was pointing down at her with the gun in his hand. Clear! And there was Dawn, a few feet from the boy, who was also pointing his gun at her. Also in the clear. Jon raised his rifle, sighted carefully three inches below the heart of the one threatening the person most important to him, and squeezed the trigger just as Frank had taught him.

He heard his gun fire, but he couldn't tell if he had hit his target or not, because he had this terrible pain in his shoulder. He thought to himself that his rifle didn't kick that hard, and then realized that the pain was in the other shoulder. Jon looked up and saw Dawn, looking in his direction, and those smiling green eyes, although there was a sad look in them now, made him feel everything was going to be alright. Maybe he could look at her titties when they went to their trailer tonight. Maybe he could touch them! He'd sure like to, he thought. His last thought, for then he had a very brief, terrible headache, and fell asleep never to get his last wish.

23. DAWN

Dawn stared in horror as Jon stared back at her from his hiding place, not quite hidden enough. Then his head exploded before her eyes, and she fell to her knees retching. Poor Jon! Poor, dear, brave, little Jon. Defending his home! Why? She glanced up and saw Billy, with blood running from a gash on the top of his shoulder, the gun still in his hand, but now hanging at his side. She saw George striding angrily towards her, while Debbie was struggling to her feet behind him. She looked back towards Jon's shelter, then quickly away again. Oh Jon, poor Jon, my last hope! Why? Oh why didn't you shoot at George.

Well, she thought, maybe not my last hope!

24. DEBBIE

Debbie had been sitting inside, worrying more and more ever since the sound of the shot. Why didn't they come back? What was taking them so long? Oh! Frank, I need you! Then finally she had heard the truck pull into the camp, and had been about to go out when she had heard Dawn call to her. Something about Frank. What? Was he hurt? Dawn had told her something, but she couldn't quite remember. Something bad? That couldn't be, because here was Frank, playing with her boobs again. Just like always. Not out here in front of Dawn! Well, Dawn knew. But that was a new one for Frank! Maybe he was missing her as much as she was him. Oh yes, Frank! Play with them!

Then she thought about Jon out there watching too. Not in front of Jon! She'd been about to object when he had pushed her down onto the ground. Oh! Rough style! Alright! But not out here in front of Jon - and Dawn! What had that trip with Dawn done to him anyway? What had they been up to? Then he'd walked away from her - again! Oh Frank! Don't lose interest now! Please!

There'd been those noises - three loud bangs. She got up, and saw everyone looking towards Jon's shelter. She saw Jon! Gunshots! That was what the noises were. AOh no, Frank! Not Jon! I wouldn't have done it with Jon! Not Jon! Not Jon!" Muttering, over and over again, "Not Jon!", she walked over to the others, staring blankly.

25. GEORGE

It was all going perfect! Not a hitch! The dumb redhead had come out of the trailer with empty hands. No gun! No one else inside. Smooth! The little black gal had done fine. She had done so well that George was even considering making her part of his little acting troupe. Be sort of nice to have a little girl in the act. Come in useful sometimes! She'd be useful in other ways too. He'd have to have a good talk about her with Billy though. George had noticed that Billy seemed sort of protective of her. None of that stuff! Share and share alike, that's how he and Billy had always been. Billy was okay, he'd understand and go along. He always did what George told him to, did his part real good. If he was sweet on those little chocolate cupcakes, he'd be happy that George was going to keep her around.

Now this other one, the redhead, was something else. What a pair! Seemed kind of strange though. Well, maybe she knows her old man is dead. Still, doesn't seem to mind my playing with them. Matter of fact, she's loving it! "Whooee, Billy! Look at these. That'll be enough to keep you busy for a while, won't it boy? Lookit them knockers, Billy! They're whoppers!" George chuckled to himself at his little attempt at poetry.

The boy sure was looking. He was standing there with his mouth open. Bet he's never seen any like that in his life. Come to think of it, I ain't never seen any to beat that pair myself. And a redhead! Probably hot as blazes, once you get her started. Be a good one for the boy, for his first time! Oh! I'll get some playing' in myself, George thought, but I want that sweet, young black ass for me tonight. Boy wouldn't know what to do with it! Red will suit him just fine!

George was just about to have some fun, discovering whether Red was a real redhead, when all hell started to break loose. First that little gal was moving away from Billy, and the kid was so wrapped up in these big tits that he didn't even notice. He yelled at Billy. At the same time, he saw movement out of the corner of his eye, over by that tarp-covered gear. A rifle barrel! Shit! A quick shot. Another, better aimed this time. Bingo! Just a kid, he'd seen just as he'd squeezed off the second round. It didn't matter, George thought. That rifle made him a grownup, and George had made him a dead grownup.

George was mad. He was mad at himself, for not checking around before he started to play. He was mad at Billy too, for not paying more attention. But what the hell, he thought, with that pair of knockers who could be blamed? As he looked, and then started towards Billy and the girl, he saw that the kid had been hit. Shit! He needed Billy. Didn't look too bad. That left the little bitch!

"You lied to us, you little shit!" he screamed at her. "You okay, Billy? Look around, huh!" Yanking Dawn by the hair, with the gun still in his hand, George backhanded her with his other. "Now how many more are there around here?"

Dawn was terrified! Her act had played out, Frank was dead, Jon was Dead. Debbie was totally out of it. George was ready to kill her. Billy just looked at her with disbelief in his eyes, blood oozing through his shirt. No help there, she thought. "There's no one else, honest!"

"There better not be! Or you're dead! Oh! I'm gonna make you pay for that lie, sweetie. With your sweet little brown ass!"

Still holding Dawn by the hair, for otherwise she would have slumped to the ground from his blow, George strode up to Billy. "Here, kid, let's see how bad that is. Just a little flesh wound, a crease. You okay? You look a little pale. Let Red here fix your shoulder. She'll put the blush back in your cheeks in no time." As Billy looked at Debbie, standing there slightly aside from the rest of them with her shirt still open and her bounty in full view, he did begin to regain a little color.

"Billy, is that gun loaded?"

"Five rounds, George. I checked."

"Well, trade with me then. I got to look around. You take Red here inside and get that shoulder fixed up. You won't bleed to death, but no use getting' blood all over Red there. I want to see if she's red everywhere. Don't want to get confused lookin' at your blood." The bantering George was back, at least to Billy. "Don't let her pull nothin', Billy. Shoot her if she tries anything. You can shoot, can't you boy?"

"Sure, George!", Billy answered, shifting the 357 to his left hand. "She won't do anything though. She's out of it." Debbie had walked over to Billy, and was dabbing at the blood with a corner of her open shirt, her breasts just inches from his face. She was still muttering "Not Jon!" over and over. His face now as red as a beet, Billy began to walk toward the trailer, with Debbie following.

"Be careful, boy. Can't trust broads at all. Who'd of thought our little starlet here would have been acting with us?" At this George, still holding Dawn by the hair, but with the gun in his free hand, jerked her toward the tarp where Jon's body lay. "I got to check the rest of this place out. Watch her!"

"Don't worry, George. Once is enough. Nobody's going to hurt me again. Nobody!" Billy and Debbie went inside the trailer while George hauled Dawn through the camp, with the gun against her head, looking into everything. Occasionally he reminded her that she was going to pay. Was she going to pay!

IV. CONSOLIDATING THE POSITION

26. MITCH

I had reached the brush at the base of the mountain when I heard the truck pull into the camp across the double stream and the island in the middle of it. They had been quicker than I had figured, or in my attempt not to be discovered, I had been slower. Either way, now there were two stands of brush in my way and I couldn't see the camp at all. I heard doors open and close, and a girl's voice call out for Debbie, and something else. I heard other voices, but couldn't make out anything at all. I figured that if they were talking, they wouldn't be able to hear me moving through the brush. If I was careful. I got to the first half of the stream. Almost small enough to step across, and with a rock midway just two yards upstream. I moved upstream, quietly, and began to step to the rock.

There was the crack of a twenty-two, or something just a little heavier. Oh no, not yet boy. Wait 'til I get there, I thought in a split-second as my foot plunged into the icy stream. There immediately followed the thunder of a bigger gun, then again. I dove across the rest of the stream onto the island, on my belly in the brush. Noisy, but who was to hear as the ringing in my ears from the two heavy shots slowly died away. I was wet to one knee and the other ankle.

I still couldn't see. The island was only about five or six yards across, but there were thick clumps of alders, and I had no view across into the camp. The island was also quite dark under the brush, and I figured they couldn't see me either. So I inched ahead on my belly between clumps of brush, until I was within about two yards of the other half of the creek. It was about two yards wide, and directly across it was a pickup and utility trailer still hitched. Through the open space between I saw a boy, with some sort of handgun, and the redhead entering the trailer. And a man, the ambusher I guessed, holding a young girl by the hair, and a gun to her head, disappearing from my view to the right behind the pickup.

The light was fading fast, and I couldn't really see much detail. I could see their feet underneath the truck as they moved toward the tarp shelter. I thought of the boy standing guard there, and knew what they'd find now. The brave little fellow had gone down fighting to defend his mom. Must have been this one that got him. Too bad the little guy missed. I began to hate him even more! They moved into view, but in the bad light, and with him having a gun at the girl's head, I couldn't take a chance. I'd just have to stay out of sight, and hope for a better chance.

He pulled the tarp away, and the girl began to sink to her knees. He hauled her back up, then kicked at the boxes and other gear. Then he slung the tarp back over the body of the defeated sentinel. They began to walk in my direction, feet visible under the truck again. In this light my rifle with scope was useless anyway. So I let go of it, laying it on the ground beside me, and unholstered my 44. And then I lay very still, my gun arm stretched out before me, praying that he'd let the girl go long enough for one shot. At this range, and from prone position at that, I couldn't miss. As they stopped between the trailer and pickup they weren't more than 7 yards from me, and they were perfectly silhouetted against the lightened doorway and windows of the trailer beyond. The two were so close that they appeared almost as one shape against the light behind them, and I had no chance at a shot.

"What's in here?" I could hear him ask. I could also hear a sweet little-girl voice answer him. "Old pipes and junk." And I barely heard him say, in a different voice altogether, something about young pipes and later.

Then they went on, and he must have lifted a corner of the tarp over the trailer. At least that's what it sounded like just before he said, back in his loud voice, "Glad I didn't hit that with a ricochet or something'! That'd of made quite a bang!"

He dragged her all over the camp for another ten minutes or so, poking into every area. As they went away from me, I began to breathe easier, and to plan what I would do next. I couldn't really see them any more, but I could tell from an occasional snatch of their voices about where they were.

If I couldn't see the man and the girl wandering around the dark campsite, I had no trouble seeing the redhead and the boy inside the trailer. It was brightly lit with several propane sconces on the walls. Must have run off the main tank. These weren't lanterns. It was as bright as a normal house's living room. Through the large window I could now almost see what Red really looked like.

It was a little too far. I reached behind me carefully and picked up my rifle, drawing it forward quietly and raising the scope to my eye. The boy was sitting on the bed at the rear of the trailer. Big bed, much larger than the little bunk in my van. Boy it would feel good to stretch out in a real bed for just one night. He appeared to have been wounded, in the shoulder. Well, the little guy didn't miss after all. Good for you! And the redhead was putting a bandage on it. Her back was towards me at first, and all I could see was her flaming red hair hanging down as she bent over his shoulder, and what looked like the reflection of her hair in his face. Unless it was all covered in blood. Then she turned around to reach for something from the shelf beside her, and I couldn't believe my eyes. I hadn't seen that much woman since I walked into my grandmother's room when I was ten years old while she was trying to squeeze into her corset. I hadn't looked on purpose. She had been mad, and I was afraid because she was never mad. But this wasn't anybody's grandmother, and I did look - on purpose. Beautiful!

I also saw the gun in the boy's hand, pointed in Red's direction. A 357, I could plainly see through the scope. A lot of gun, especially at such close quarters. It could easily blow a hole through someone as big as one of Red's beautiful breasts. So could my 44 mag. Even bigger! But not from here.

Then I saw the other one, the one I had come to think of as the ambusher, drag the girl into the room. Damn! She was still a baby. Looked to be about eleven or twelve. He sure was being rough with her. At least he didn't have the gun at her head any longer. There was some moving around, some talking apparently, and then the girl was getting out of her clothes.

I didn't want to watch this! The man was now out of sight, between the window and the still open door. I couldn't chance a shot through the window, even if I could see them both. Now was the time to get closer, if I was to be any help to these two at all.

If I moved just slightly up or down the stream, then I would be in the cover of the truck or the trailer. The travel trailer they were in sat down slightly in the shelter of a hollow, about ten feet lower, and maybe thirty feet across. No way to cross that. All they had to do was for one of them to look out the window. If I went downstream to where the boy's body lay under the tarp, crouching low so that my silhouette didn't show on the horizon, and then went around behind the truck they had ambushed, I could sneak along the brush at the other side of the campsite and come up on the blind front end.

The brush was too thick to move along the shore of the island. There was only one way. I was already cold from both feet being wet in the icy creek water, but I knew I had to wade downstream if I was to get there in time. A last glance through the scope showed me a slim tan body with a large hand clamped on one round cheek. I slung the rifle, hefted the 44, and crawled forward two yards through the brush before sitting up and swinging my legs over the bank into the swift, chill water. I took two steps, cautiously, and on the third I slipped.

27. DEBBIE

When Debbie went inside the trailer with Billy, she was still mumbling "Not Jon!" Still in shock, her mind still not able to accept all that had happened, the only thing she really understood was that this boy was hurt and she was to tend to him. Her mother instincts, often frustrated, came through the shock intact. She may have been mixed up about who was Frank, or who was Jon, or if this was either of them, but that part of her that recognized hurt and pain in Billy responded to his need. She gently took the shirt off him, and began to dress his wound.

She had gone to the kitchen sink for a wet towel to moisten the shirt around his wound so that it would come away cleanly. The blood had started to clot already. When she returned to him, a stray, still indefinable impression of something not quite right passed across her clouded mind. Now she again went the few steps to the kitchen to get the first aid kit, and when she came back she saw something, and her mind cleared. This boy was pointing a gun at her! Then Dawn's words came back to her, from where they had been hovering just out of reach on the fringes of her clouded consciousness. "Frank's dead!" And also, "Play along with me!" Then it all came clear! Frank gone; Jon gone; Dawn with that beast outside - the brutal monster who had pawed at her boobs \- no, at Frank's beloved boobs - and then shot Jon. The horrible scene flashed in her mind. She said "Not Jon!" once more, but now the clarity held. Now as she dressed this stranger's wound, and her lips mumbled "Not Jon!", her mind repeated like a chant "Play along. Play along." Mantras are supposed to be healing, soothing, and Debbie's helped her to go on playing the role of the shocked widow while she planned her revenge for Frank - for Jon. "Not Jon!" she continued to mumble.

As she finished bandaging the wound, which really was just a furrow in the skin and flesh of his shoulder, she sat on the edge of the bed beside him, and smoothed his hair as she would have if Jon had been hurt. She continued her mumbled litany, and her silent mantra. Then she remembered the automatic which Frank had given her, and tried to teach her to use, a month ago. It was in the drawer in the base of the bed, at present only inches from her heels. How to get it, and keep the boy from using his? What about the monster with Dawn?

Just then he came in the door, pushing Dawn before him, still holding her by the hair. He looked, Debbie thought, like he really wanted to hurt her. Maybe Debbie herself too. "Play along" went her mind. She had no choice, as he waved the gun around the room. She had trusted Dawn before, many times. Dawn had always played along with her little games. Now it was her turn. "Play along. Play along. Play along!"

V. THE SPOILS OF WAR

28. GEORGE

George dragged the girl into the trailer by the hair, and surveyed the scene with his gun pointing between the two giant tits of the redhead. "Everything alright, Billy?", he asked. He had really been concerned for the boy, and about whether he'd still be in control of the situation when he returned from the survey of the camp.

The boy sat straight, eyes clear, face still red from blushing, but the big revolver pointed straight at the redhead and his finger lightly touching the trigger. "Sure, George, I'm okay. I told you I could handle her. Besides, she's still out of it. Thinks I'm that kid out there."

Shouldn't have worried about Billy, George thought. "Handle her, Billy boy? Is that all you did was handle her? The way she was sticking' those tits in your face, I thought you'd have your mouth full by now. You don't mean to tell me you haven't gotten one of those in your mouth yet, do you?"

Billy just sat there, turning redder by the minute.

"Well, boy, if you don't want her right now, let me borrow her for a while. I want to make sure she knows what she's doing before she gets to you. Tonight you're gonna be a man, Billy boy, and she's the one that's gonna make you one. You're gonna be good to him, aren't you Red? It's his first time, and that's important. It ought to be extra good, 'cause he got shot today. And it will be, Billy. It will be!"

"Well I don't know, George..."

"Well I do! You're gonna get laid tonight, if it kills me! Now, keep them both covered, Billy, while we get ready for some action. Both of you get out of some clothes - all of them. Billy, my boy, were about to settle our bet! Let's see it , Red! Is it, or isn't it? And then get your beautiful big tits over here. I'm hungry!" With that, George let go of Dawn's hair, and dropped his jeans and his shorts down around his ankles. Billy sat watching, red from his forehead to his neck, and pointed the gun first at Debbie, and then at Dawn.

29. DAWN

Dawn was still not free, even though George had finally let go of her hair, for he still held the gun, and Billy held another. But the relative freedom felt good, and the pain of her hair being pulled was ebbing. He'd hurt her. He'd enjoyed it too. Dawn knew that what was about to take place would hurt even more. He'd made plain to her what he meant to do, and that he meant to hurt her doing it. To teach her not to lie, he'd said.

Dawn peeled her T-shirt over her head. As she slipped her jeans off, as ordered, she watched Debbie taking off her jeans and what was left of her shirt. She wasn't wearing panties; seldom did. As Debbie's jeans fell, George exclaimed "See! I told you so Billy. Natural redhead. Hot mama, get over here!"

Debbie stepped out of the puddle of jeans around her ankles and said, "Yes, Frank." As she walked toward the big man, who was now leaning back against the dinette booth with his pants on the floor, one gun in his hand and another beginning to rise before him, Dawn thought that Debbie was so far out of it that she didn't even know what was happening. A blessing, really! Debbie would be having one last time with Frank. Dawn knew that what awaited her was not going to be any blissful illusion, but a real painful reality.

"You too, sweetie! All the way! Let's see that little thing you're hiding in there."

As Dawn shucked her panties down over her slim hips, and her full bush came into view, George grabbed her by it and turned her to face Billy. "Lookie here, Billy boy. She ain't such a baby after all. Might not be as little as I figured. I'll bet I do know what's little though. Ain't it, sweetie?" He let go of her hair and ran his free hand up over her belly, grabbing first one small breast and then the other, squeezing painfully. "And I don't just mean these little things, do I sweetie?"

Dawn caught a quick glimpse of Billy's face. Something seemed to come over it, like a cloud, and almost all the redness disappeared. He stared at her, or past her, with a look she hadn't seen before. He still pointed the gun, straight at her it seemed, but something was different. It was just a glimpse, for George spun her around and grabbed her round bottom and pulled her close up against him.

Now he was slobbering over Debbie's breasts like a baby with a pacifier, and Debbie was cooing "Oh Frank!" She wondered if Debbie would ever be alright again. Then she wondered if she would ever be alright again as George, holding her tightly against him with his one arm, insinuated one large finger between her cheeks.

She wiggled, not at all in pleasure, but to avoid his probing digit. "Like that, do you? Oh yeah! Tight!" Dawn tried not to give him the satisfaction, but a sound of pain escaped her lips anyway as he achieved his goal. It hurt. "You ain't felt nothin' yet, baby cakes!", he said.

Then, having already wandered away from his playground on Debbie's chest to kiss and bite and suck on various parts of Dawn's face and neck, he pushed down on Debbie's head, with his gun hand, and said "Okay, Red, let's see what you can do." Dawn watched as Debbie slowly sank to her knees and said "Oh yes, Frank! You do want me, don't you baby?" The last was somewhat muffled.

30. BILLY

Billy had sat watching, on guard. He would have rather been outside on guard, as at other times, but George had said to keep them covered, and Billy was doing his job as usual. It was hard to keep them covered, and yet not look at what was happening. Billy really didn't want to see what was happening. Or what he was sure would happen later.

He'd had a hard time not really looking when George was showing him what Dawn had down there. He'd almost wanted to look, but he didn't. Not really! He'd looked at George, and he'd seen the look on his face. He'd almost gotten up and went outside. But George would have been awful mad.

Then he had sent the redhead back over to Billy telling her what she was to do to him. She said "Yes, Frank.", and came over and sat there on the floor between his knees. Then she looked back at George and sort of wailed "Not Jon!", but he waved the gun at her, and she turned back towards me, and my lap was filled with red hair, flowing softly over my legs.

George stood there watching, and sort of cheering her on, with his finger poking into Dawn. I almost felt sorry for her, she seemed to be hurting. It was her own fault! If she hadn't lied to us, then nobody would have gotten hurt, nobody would have gotten killed, and George wouldn't have been so angry.

"That's it, Red. Take him that way first, so he won't go off so quick when you give him his first piece. Good, isn't she Billy Boy?"

He sat there, watching the sea of red hair moving in and out between his legs, and thought that it was like the other time. It felt good, but after this? Oh, please don't go soft! I don't want her to die too. Then he looked down again, and caught her looking up at him, and he blushed.

VI. THE COUNTER-ATTACK

31. MITCH

I crawled downstream, and emerged shivering on the bank just past the tarp shelter where the body of the boy now lay, no longer vigilantly guarding his camp. Brave kid. I liked him. I caught a glimpse of moving bodies through the open door of the trailer. A moon was beginning to rise and I felt safer when I had crossed into shadow again, between the truck and the small camp trailer. I moved quietly up to the front end of the travel trailer and peered cautiously around the corner. I was shivering so hard I was sure they could hear my knees knocking. That creek was cold!

The door was only about four feet from me, and I could see a sliver of the inside. Craning my head out just a little farther, and holding my 44, still dripping water, ready to bring to bear in one quick movement, I surveyed the scene. The movement caught my eye first, a head of red hair bobbing up and down. Then I saw the boy, below and beyond her. The man was standing with his back to me, watching the scene as I was. I couldn't see the girl at all, until he suddenly turned to the side, holding her by the neck, and pushed her up onto the dinette table. She was naked. I'd caught a brief sight of her tiny body as he jerked her around, but now all I could see of her were two round cheeks showing above the seat back, pointing at the ceiling. And I could see him and what he was about to do. I hated him more than ever!

I crouched very low, and began towards the door. My 44 was cocked and held steadily, except for my shivering, ahead of me.

32. BILLY

Billy, lost in thoughts and worries about his continuing stiffness, and looking down at the undulating red hair in his lap, almost missed it. After meeting her eyes he looked up again, embarrassed, and saw George toss Dawn onto the table. He watched as George lay the gun aside on a shelf, and with one big hand reached down and pried her apart back there, and with the other hand held himself ready. He could see Dawn's green eyes over the back of the dinette seat. He stared straight into them for a moment, and then a ***WHAT***motion caught his attention. Billy calmly and steadily raised his hand and aimed.

33. DEBBIE

Debbie stared into the boy's eyes without missing a stroke. "Play along!" went the mantra in her mind. In and out flowed the mane of her long red hair, obscuring his view beneath. Now was the time! She couldn't know what was happening behind her, but George had stopped shouting his commands, and she had just heard a thump. Probably busy with Dawn now. "Play along!" I am playing along, Dawn, she thought. I hope you're ready to get into the act. She edged open the drawer, grasped the handle of the small automatic, and slowly withdrew it. Debbie held it firmly between her breasts and started to straighten up.

34. DAWN

Dawn was already sore from George's rough handling, and it was about to get even rougher. As he shoved her onto the table, again grabbing her hair, she looked back and saw him place his 357 on the shelf above her. She also saw him grasp his other weapon, while he let go of her and pried her cheeks apart with his other hand. This guy liked to pull hair, she thought incongruously, and it made her mad. As she turned her head back, she found Billy staring at her. She stared back and smiled, for one last time. Never hurts to try!

Then there was a deafening explosion within the close

confines of the trailer, and Dawn felt George's grip begin to relax. She was already rolling, and reaching above her for the gun, when he fell beside her and rolled off the table onto the seat of the dinette. He stared up into her eyes, and then stared into nothingness. Dawn grasped the gun and continued to roll, finally coming to a sitting position facing the door. She was covered with blood!

35. GEORGE

"Easy, sweet cakes. The harder you fight, the worse its gonna be. Loosen up, sweetie!" George was ready. Watching that redhead bob up and down in Billy's lap had gotten to him to the point where he didn't want to wait any longer. Just in case! As he continued to pry her sweet brown buns apart, and held himself ready to thrust into her, he looked for one more bit of inspiration from Billy and Red.

A huge force pushed George to the side, as if someone had swung a bat at him and connected right across his chest. As he rolled sideways, he caught a glimpse of his rapidly diminishing manhood against a backdrop of round, brown ass. Not again, he thought. Not now! Then he landed on his back on the seat, and for just one brief moment stared into the most hate filled green eyes he had ever seen. But only for a very brief moment.

36. MITCH

I was at the door, and starting to straighten up out of my crouch when I saw the man's hips start to move forward. From my low position he was the only one I could see. That was enough. I would continue to rise, and then the boy would be visible too. He was probably not at his most alert just at the moment. I aimed and squeezed.

As I straightened and stepped into the trailer, still deaf from the roar within the small space, my 44 was pointed at the boy. Pointed at me were three different weapons, held by a boy with his pants around his ankles, a beautiful young woman built like a red-brick outhouse - a natural red-brick, that is - and this birthday-suit-clad little girl who was staring directly at me with the most incredulous look in her beautiful green eyes.

"Drop them, now!" I roared in the most authoritative bellow I could manage through my chattering teeth. The boy's gun dangled between his legs, where it was in good company. The redhead's was laid gently between her legs like a votive offering at an altar with the fire burning on it. Little Annie Oakey, Jr. here didn't drop the gun she held. She calmly took it by the barrel in her other hand and reached out with it toward me butt first. She grinned a huge grin at me, sparkling green eyes smiling into mine.

"Okay, miss!", I said, smiling back in spite of myself. "How about you go and collect those other two guns, and bring them to me. Carefully!" As she was doing that, I checked to see that the 357 which she had handed to me was loaded. Five shells, one empty chamber. I holstered my soggy 44. I was busy with the guns, but I couldn't help notice the pronounced wiggle as she went across the room. Nor the view on the way back. Nice. But I felt like I'd just caught my sister's youngest daughter sneaking from the shower to her room without a robe. Guilty!

She brought back the other two guns, another 357, and a 25 auto. She stood unashamedly before me, still grinning widely, still staring boldly. "Ladies", I begged, "would you please put some clothes on. You are distracting me severely! And son", I said, as he sat blushing, but unmoving, "You too. Please cover that before you die of shame. Then I would like to find out just what is what and who is who."

AI've got that bastard's blood all over me. Can I shower off first?" , asked Dawn. AAnd you're all wet. Let me get you something dry to put on." She opened a closet and brought me a thick terrycloth robe of Franks. After checking out the tiny shower stall in the corner of the room, I let her go ahead. I sat upon the back of one of the seats, and tried not to watch as they complied.

I inspected the guns. The revolver had four expended rounds, two empty chambers. The automatic didn't even have a clip in it. Of the three, only the gun I now held in my hand had posed a threat. I had been pointing at the other end of the room, alert against two unloaded weapons, while a mere foot or so from my face was the only real threat. I had been feeling very smug a moment ago. Here I held the only gun in the room, or the only one in evidence or in reach at least. I was sure that no one else was around. Or reasonably sure. My track record of certainty on that particular issue was rather weak today, it seemed. I had felt myself pretty well in control. Now I wasn't so certain.

I looked the three of them over, all clothed now and sitting on the end of the bed side by side. I still held the gun pointed in their direction, but not aimed - just pointed. Now I didn't see any threat at all. I saw a young boy, looking down at his toes, red-faced with shame, and afraid. Yes, the fear was plain in the way he held himself, in his clasped hands. I saw a very distraught young woman, quietly sobbing into her hands. First relief, from a horrible ordeal. Now the grief. And I saw a girl - well, I wasn't too sure about that, but at least quite a young woman - who was still boldly staring at me. The grin was gone, but the beautiful green eyes still smiled. Self-assured - that was the word for her. Used to things turning out her way. No real threat from the rest of them. She was the one I would have to watch. If I crossed her somehow, I'd better watch my back trail.

"Well, folks, let's start out with names. I'm Mitch."

VII. THE DEBRIEFING

It took quite a while for me to get the whole story. Nobody had it all. Each one kept asking questions until it all got pretty much filled in. Dawn knew most of it, and did most of the talking. Billy knew a lot too, and told us all about George, and even about his own past history. Even some really terrible things that had happened to him before he met up with George. Seems that hateful as George was, there must have been some good too. He had some caring in him anyway, even if it came out kind of warped like.

He wasn't too free in telling his part in today's events. Scared. Billy wasn't really bad. He was just a follower, and a pretty good one at that. He'd follow any strong leader who took care of him and who didn't push him too hard. He'd be alright. Debbie didn't really know very much at all. She'd been away from it all for a while. She did help out with the final act, and with a lot of the background about Frank and the planning, but she broke up every time she mentioned his name. Still, she'll come out of it in time. She's so full of love looking for an outlet that she was even trying to cheer Billy up before we were through.

Then there was work to be done. I took Billy with me, and we collected Frank's body from up the road, and Jon's from the camp, and covered them with the tarp in the back of the truck. It was too late for burying tonight; morning would be soon enough. George I took down the road around Jackass Creek, and left for the coyotes. Good enough! I didn't make Billy help, but I had him along because I didn't want him around the women when I wasn't there. Not just yet! Besides, I wanted to have a little private chat with him. That turned out to be a very interesting chat!

When we got back to camp, the girls had cleaned up the blood, and had some cocoa ready. Then Billy and I took the tarp off the other trailer - and found a huge propane tank underneath. We pitched that tarp as a kind of tent, and I hauled out a big sleeping bag for myself. The little camp trailer was too full of stuff to get into, and I was just too tried to try to move it. And I sure didn't want to sleep in the big one. Not with those two women.

Billy was supposed to come out with me, but Debbie wouldn't hear of it. He could have Jon's bed - the made-down dinette. Rather than ruffle mother hen's feathers, I gave in. But I told Billy that if he even looked cross-eyed in his sleep, that would be the end of him, and that I'd be right outside. I think he was still scared enough.

Debbie tried to get me to stay in too. She even made up one of the chairs into a bed for me. I put my foot down, firm. And on the way to the door. I barely escaped!

I stopped at the door, and looked back. I met Billy's scared eyes, and Debbie's still red from crying, and Dawn's laughing green ones. "Good night." I went and bedded down alone.

VIII. TAPS

It was that time halfway between sleep and being awake when my mind plays with the events of the day. Damn. Such a peaceful time, and yet I never seem to fall asleep afterwards - something always intrudes and brings me back to the harsh reality of wakefulness.

This had been some day. On awakening in my well-hidden and protected camp I had believed myself to be completely isolated and safe from the growing crisis. No one was within many miles of my little corner of wilderness. Yet here only eighteen hours later, I had been involved in a gunfight and seemingly acquired three people for whom I was now responsible. What was I to do with a young new widow, a twice-orphaned boy, and that unfathomable young lady Dawn. If I had any sense at all I'd get up from my blankets now, and return to my own camp. At least I hadn't told them where that was, and this lot would never track me down. They could manage somehow. But I knew, even as I plotted my leaving, that I couldn't do that. Like it or not, I now had three people depending on me.

Some sound which didn't fit with the noise of the creek brought me out of the peaceful reverie. A shadow fell across the small open space before the tarp shelter, and I cocked the 357 which I had taken off the dead man.

"Mitchell! Don't shoot. It's me, Dawn! Mitch?"

"What are you doing wandering around out here? Get back inside the trailer."

I had to go. She's fussin' over that boy in there, like he was the one who saved us, instead of one of the ones who attacked us to begin with. Mitch, can I come in there and talk to you?"

"Come on in. Maybe he did save you. You might be surprised.

"The boy is alright. He was just doing what that other one - that George - was telling him to. He didn't seem to be enjoying it - just afraid of George! Besides, taking care of Billy is part of Debbie's way of getting through her shock and grief."

"I've had a bit of shock today myself", said Dawn. "Two men shot and killed in front of me. Well, one in back of me, but he fell dead right on top of me. If you'd waited just a second longer, Mitch, he'd have been in me, too. Don't know if I could have handled that."

As I listened to her, I was very aware that she had on only a nightgown, and the bright moonlight showed her slim young body in silhouette. How old was this girl anyway. Sometimes she seemed older than any of them, and other times seemed a pre-teen. Certainly to look at her in the light of the full moon, with the silhouette of her tiny hard breasts made her look about twelve. But earlier as I had been preparing to pull the trigger when George had her bent over with her backside in the air, I'd been looking at some evidence of more mature feminine charms. She was an enigma, and it bothered me that I couldn't figure her out.

"Mitch, it's cold out here. Can I snuggle up with you under the blankets? I just need someone to hold me - I'm so shook up and scared. Please!"

She pulled down the front flap of the shelter, and then I couldn't see her any longer - just a darker spot in the darkness. Then all at once she was pressed up against me, half laying on top of me. My arms went around her of their own accord, and she wiggled into them, closer than I'd been to anyone in quite a while. She kissed me full on the mouth, her tongue intruding between my lips, and I responded without thinking.

"Thanks, Mitch, I needed that. I need to be close, to be held, to be loved! I need you, Mitch!"

With that she slid her hands down my body, touching me in a very knowing way, until she grasped the part which was already showing signs of response to the closeness of this suddenly passionate child-woman.

"Stop that, Dawn!" In a rare moment of restraint I pulled her hand away, and grasped her by both arms. I could feel nothing but bare skin, her hard breasts rubbing sensuously against my forearms as I held her. She had slithered out of the nightgown without my even knowing it. "You were almost raped just a few hours ago. Damn, girl! A man was killed to save you from that!"

"It wouldn't have been my first time, Mitch. But I don't like being forced. I'm glad you killed the bastard!

"But I didn't..." , I tried to say, but she kept right on.

"And I want to show you I appreciate it."

"You don't have to do this to show me your appreciation. You're just a baby - much too young for me, Dawn. God knows, you sure are acting grown-up right now, but it just isn't right!"

I released her arms, and she lay across my chest, tracing circles lightly with a finger tip. "Not right by what rules, Mitch. Who's making the laws now. I'll tell you who. Anyone with a gun. I was right by George's rules. I was right by the rules of those crazies who killed my grandparents, and who all took me. You're the maker of the rules here now, Mitch. Nobody else. There's only you! And I want you. I want to thank you for being good, for being kind, for saving me from George. I want to give you something which will make you want to keep protecting me from George's kind. Because without you that's who I'll wind up with - or die. I need you, Mitch. And I wanted to get to you before Debbie does!"

"Debbie! She's a new widow. She's not going to be coming after me. She's in grief!"

"She may be a new widow now, but it won't take her long to see the current situation. If she hasn't already. I'll bet she's being comforted by that Billy right now. She was liking it before you shot George, I could see it on her face. She always did like it! Poor Frank, poor dumb Frank. She was good to him, but he never did know the half of what she was up to. She's my aunt, and I like her, and we've had some fun together sometimes. I wanted to get to you before she did. I may have to share you with her later, but at least I will have thanked you first."

With that she licked across my chest, and down across my belly, and took me into her mouth. I lay there in shock for a moment, unable to summon the resolve to stop this determined child-woman from giving me the pleasure I craved. Finally I did, grabbing her by both sides of her face and gently lifting her from me. "Just how old are you anyway?"

"Is that still bothering you, Mitch? Okay, I'm twenty-one - if that makes you feel better." She came forward and kissed me long and passionately, then teased one baby nipple across my lips. "Here, let me show you my ID", she said huskily as she lowered herself over me, enveloping my swollen flesh, and moving up and down with practiced motions. As I lay back, giving myself to her loving ministrations, I reached around and grasped the perfect round globes of her bottom, but otherwise let her do all the work.

I was tired, and happy, and still quite a bit confused. But right now I was enjoying the affections of this seeming child, who was definitely all woman.

Later, after she had drained me of any passion I had left, and lay down atop me and then rolled so that we were laying side by side, still joined together, I looked ahead to tomorrow. I'd have to take them all to my camp. All these provisions would have to be carted up the hill. We'd have enough to take care of us all through the winter at least. I wondered if we could get the propane trailer up and hidden.

I'd have to see about the boy. Keep him on probation for a while, I guess.

I'd have to clean the 44, get the mud out of the firing pin, so I didn't have any more misfires.

The main thing was that there was no doubt in my mind now - I was no longer going to be alone!

