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From: Al Steiner <steiner_al@hotmail.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} NEW: Aftermath by Al Steiner-Chapter 3 (FM) 2/5
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Aftermath 3 2/5
Send comments to steiner_al@hotmail.com
Missing chapters can be found at www.storiesonline.net
Brett and Jason both climbed back up at first light and resumed their
positions. They arrived just in time to see the dismantling of the
cameras and the pullback of the bridge guards. Brett, peering through
his telescopic scope, noted that the guards were not the same ones that
had put up the operation the night before. These two were both
females. That meant that they had enough people to work in shifts. It
also meant that they had some sort of organized group functioning.
That was just what was needed if the human race was going to survive
another year: organization.
"We need to become a part of that group," Brett said, speaking mostly
to himself, but loud enough for Jason to hear.
"What?" Jason asked. "I thought we were just trying to get across the
bridge."
"We are," he said. "We're trying to get to Garden Hill. And it looks
like Garden Hill has made itself into an enclave. They've pulled
together, organized, and they are defending their borders from
outsiders. If they can keep themselves organized and fed, they'll live
long enough to see the sun again. If they live that long, they'll be
one of the groups whose children and grandchildren will rebuild. We
need to make ourselves a part of that."
"But how?" Jason asked. "It don't look they want any more people in
there."
"No, it doesn't, does it? So we'll just have to convince them that
they need us."
"Why would they need us?"
He smiled a little. "They need us," he said. "I'm just going to have
to show them how much."
+++++
"I don't like it," Chrissie said when they discussed the plan that
afternoon. "They'll kill you."
"I don't think so," he replied. "I've watched them all day and I'm
convinced that they don't just kill people for the hell of it. Five
times people walked up to that bridge and tried to cross it. Every
time they just fired down into the cars near the front until the people
decided to go somewhere else. They just want to keep people out."
"But those are people that are just walking across the bridge openly.
What's going to happen when they find YOU?"
"If I do it right," he said, "they WON'T find me until I'm already well
across. At that point the example that I'm trying to make for them
will be well-established."
Chrissie was not convinced. "We don't really need to be a part of this
town," she said. "We can do just fine by ourselves. We have so far."
"We can't," he told her firmly. "We've done okay so far because we
have a food supply and good weapons and we keep a sharp eye out. Our
food supply is running out though and we don't have any way of getting
more. Our luck will eventually run out as well if we stay out here.
Eventually some desperate group of hunters is going to bag one or more
of us. Our best chance of survival is to join a larger group that
holds a defendable piece of ground. This is it Chrissie. We have to
convince them to let us in."
She was struggling not to cry. "What if you don't come back Brett?"
she asked him. "What happens to us then?"
"Then you carry on," he told her. "You do the best that you can
without me. You guys are fighters now, you're a bad-ass, ass-kicking
team. But I WILL come back. I don't think I'm wrong about these
people. They're not sadists. They're just ordinary people. Even if
they reject me, they'll let me back out again. I'm sure of it."
"And what if you ARE wrong?"
He looked at her levelly. "Than I'll die. Sometimes you have to
gamble. I think this is a good one."
She said no more. She only turned her face from him and wept softly.
Beside her, Jason was fighting not to do the same.
+++++
It was late afternoon again when he departed; about two hours before
sunset. He kissed Chrissie, shook Jason's hand, and then gave both of
them a few encouraging words and some final instructions. He then left
them, climbing up the rise again. He traveled lightly, absent of his
pack and his sleeping bag. He left his M-16 and his hunting rifle
behind as well, taking only his trusty .40 caliber, which was strapped
to his waist. He wanted to be able to maneuver freely and, most
important, he did not want to appear to be an immediate threat when he
was finally discovered.
His observations throughout the day had shown him exactly where the
daytime guards of the bridge were located. They had hidden their
bunker well but had foolishly given away its location by the muzzle-
flashes of the guns they fired to keep intruders away. Predictably it
was near the crest of the hill overlooking the bridge. Keeping this
location in mind, Brett always kept boulders between it and him once he
reached the top. He then started down the far side, the side that was
not visible from the Garden Hill side of the canyon.
The going was a little rough at first and several times he very nearly
lost his grip and went sliding downward. But at last, about three-
quarters of the way to the bottom, the angle leveled out to something a
little less suicidal and he was able to move more freely. He nearly
trotted the rest of the way down until he was once more in the safety
of the trees and shrubs. Being in the open had scared him more than
the threat of falling.
Once at the bottom, he worked his way carefully, moving tree to tree,
keeping a sharp eye and a sharp ear out around him. There were
probably a lot of people about, camped out in the woods trying to
figure out a way across the bridge. He had no desire to run into any
of them.
It took him the better part of an hour to reach the road. In a way it
was surreal seeing a stretch of two-lane blacktop after so many days of
wandering in the wilderness. Though it had undoubtedly been washed out
in many places and rendered all but impassible, this section was still
intact. He paused near the edge of it, watching both directions
carefully for any signs of life. Seeing nothing he finally crossed,
doing it at a full-out sprint and diving into cover on the other side.
He kept another watch on that side for a few minutes to see if he had
attracted any attention.
When he began to move again, he paralleled the pavement, sticking to
the woods to travel but walking exactly twenty yards from the roadbed
as he closed with the bridge. In front of him loomed the large granite
ridge that had been opposite the one he and his group had observed
from. The two hills had once been connected until dynamite had blown
them in two so the roadway could be constructed.
Brett, during his observations of the Garden Hill security measures,
had noted a fatal blind spot in their plan. The crest of the upstream
hill was hidden from the view of the guards by the bulk of the
downstream hill. He exploited that blind spot now by climbing to the
top. The going was a little steeper than what he had endured on the
other side and it was doubtful that anyone with a full pack could have
negotiated the ascent, but less than ten minutes after he started up,
he was at the summit, crouching behind a rock and looking out over the
small portion of bridge that was visible to him.
He looked out over to the summit of the other hill, which was about a
quarter mile away. He couldn't see Chrissie and Jason there - they
were too well concealed - but he waved at them anyway, knowing that
they would be glad to see that he had made it that far. They did not
wave back - he had taught them better than that - but he knew that they
had seen him.
The downside of the hill was even steeper than the upside over here.
He worked his way towards the canyon, necessarily confined to a narrow
portion of the hill that was hidden from the guards' view. He slipped
several times and had to grasp for dear life onto boulders or rocks to
keep from bouncing and tumbling all the way down. For the first time
he began to wonder if this was REALLY such a good idea as he realized
that, if he fell, he would not stop at the bottom but would instead
continue over the edge of the cliff, falling several hundred feet into
the rushing waters below.
"Relax," he told himself, taking a few breaths and regaining his
equilibrium. "Just take it slow."
He took it slow. He continued to work his way downward and finally,
after nearly twenty minutes, he was resting on a narrow outcropping of
rock that protruded out over the canyon. He was below the roadway of
the bridge itself by about twenty feet. A narrow ledge led from where
he was to the point where the steel support section joined the walls
about a hundred yards away. He edged along the ridge slowly, trying
not to look down into those rushing waters, until he had gone as far as
possible without being spotted from the guards' lookout. He then began
looking for a place to conceal himself.
He forced himself into a tight ball between two outcroppings of rock
and kept his head down. From here he was able to peer through a small
gap and see the two SUVs at the front of the bridge but hopefully, not
be spotted when the guard came to set up the cameras. He thought he
was fairly safe from detection as long as they did not look directly at
the spot where he was hiding. To help minimize this threat he put his
fingers into the brownish muck that had accumulated under the rocks and
smeared it all over his face, hair, and any exposed clothing. When he
was done he was nothing more than a shadow among shadows.
He waited.
As the light faded from the landscape and night began to fall, he saw
the guard approaching the SUVs that guarded his end. It was another
female, different from the ones he had spotted the night before. She
went through the set-up procedure quickly and then spoke into her
walkie-talkie. Apparently receiving the answer that she wanted to
hear, she turned and began to move back across the bridge, passing out
of his line of sight.
He waited, staying in place as the landscape around him grew darker and
darker. He had a narrow window in which he would be able to act. He
had managed to place himself so that he could approach the bridge
without being detected by their cameras, but he could only avoid
detection by the guards themselves if he waited until it was too dark
to be seen by them. At the same time however, he needed SOME light so
he could see where he was going as he moved along the ledge to the
bridge. Trying to negotiate that last fifty yards in complete darkness
was a thought that did not even bear contemplating.
Fortunately it was easy to tell when that particular window had been
reached. When Brett could no longer see across the canyon, he knew it
was time. He pulled himself out of his hiding place and continued his
trip along the ledge, taking each step carefully and slowly. Several
times he dislodged loose rocks, sending them tumbling downhill and over
the edge. Thankfully the deafening roar of the water below easily
masked the sound that this created.
At last he reached the bridge. He ducked under one of the massive
steel supports and, utilizing the last of the light available to him,
scrambled up another ridge until he was able to put his hands on the
maintenance catwalk. This narrow access was suspended from the bottom
of the bridge by steel support beams that were located every twenty
feet. During his examination earlier that day, he had counted these
beams, finding that there were exactly 198 individual supports on each
side. Now, he pulled himself up and ducked under the handrails that
had been mounted along the length on both sides. He put his feet on
the grated metal surface and breathed silent thanks that he had managed
to make it to relative safety without falling to his death.
Just behind him was an L-shaped platform that protruded outward to the
edge of the bridge. It had a ladder bolted to it that allowed access
up onto the roadway. Brett knew that there was another such platform
at the other end of the bridge, exactly 192 support columns away from
where he now stood. The townspeople had foolishly left the two ladders
in place. He had no interest in the ladder behind him since it only
would have led him directly up to where the cameras were pointing.
But the ladder on the other end, that one he had uses for.
He began to walk along the catwalk, keeping his hands on the handrail
as he went. He stepped carefully, his boots treading along the grated
surface. Each time his hand passed over one of the support beams he
counted off silently to himself, thus keeping track of his progress.
He was disconcerted to discover that the entire catwalk was rocking
gently back and forth in the wind, the sway increasing the further out
over the canyon that he went. He began to wonder about the structural
integrity of the surface he was walking on. Was it possible that the
earthquake had loosened the catwalk but left the bridge intact? Not
being an engineer, he simply didn't know. But he had gone too far to
turn back now.
By the time he reached column 96, the light had disappeared completely,
forcing him to move by feel only. Though this was part of his plan he
still was forced to struggle with doubts about his ability to ascend
back to the roadway without being able to see. True he had obsessively
studied the ladder on the other side of the bridge through his rifle
scope that afternoon, and true, he had the layout of the platform
memorized to the last detail, but now that the reality of what he was
doing was here, worry assaulted him.
Nevertheless, he pushed on. Brett was not a quitter. The closer to
the far end of the bridge he came, the slower and more carefully he
walked. For the first time he wondered if maybe the guards up above
had another night vision equipped video camera that they used to
periodically check the catwalk with. It would be a simple matter of
climbing out of their SUV from time to time and leaning over the access
ladder to point the camera downward. Surely they hadn't completely
disregarded the possibility that someone would infiltrate them in the
manner that he was now utilizing. After all, despite a few glaring
security breaches they HAD proven themselves to be rather clever.
Oh well, he finally concluded, if that was the case then they would
catch him. There was simply no way for him to counter that
possibility. He continued on.
Nearly 30 minutes after he had started walking across, Brett's hand
finally touched the 192nd structural support beam. He stopped,
listening carefully but hearing nothing but the rushing water. This
did not make him feel any better.
He shuffled forward a few more steps, using the handrails to support
his weight while his left foot stretched out over the side of the
catwalk. It encountered nothing but empty air for the first couple of
steps but finally, right where he had thought it would be, it
encountered the grated surface of the ladder platform stretching out to
the side. He withdrew his foot and stepped two more steps forward,
turning to his left as he went and facing out over the canyon. He
moved his foot around again, familiarizing himself with the small
dimensions of the platform. It was narrower than the catwalk surface,
only about eighteen inches wide, barely enough to squeeze between the
rails.
He ducked under the catwalk handrail and made his way out onto the
platform. Moving as slow as ever, he began to move outward at a 90-
degree angle. The platform extended out a little more than ten feet,
to just beyond the edge of the bridge, and then it made another 90
degree turn to the right. This last section was only about two feet
long, just big enough to house the ladder that led up to the guardrail
and the roadway. When he reached the turn in the platform he looked
upward into the darkness, the rain falling on his face. He saw
absolutely nothing, nor did he hear anything. He took the fact that no
one was challenging him or shooting at him to be a sign of his success
so far.
He turned his body around and, groping blindly, finally found a rung of
the ladder. He pulled himself over to it and gave it a soft,
experimental tug to see if it was loose or if it was going to rattle as
he climbed. It seemed relatively solid in its mountings so he put his
foot on the first step and pulled himself upward. He climbed one step
at a time, pausing as he went up each rung, until finally his hand
touched the top of the guardrail itself.
He pulled himself up two more steps until his head was up over the
rail. The end of the bridge would be about ten feet to his left. The
two SUVs that constituted the guard shack were about twenty feet to his
right. He could SEE the closer of the two SUVs plainly despite the
darkness because of the small televisions that the guards were using to
monitor the cameras. A faint blue glow emitted from the cab, just
enough to allow him to see the outline of the vehicle. For perhaps the
hundredth time since he'd started watching the townspeople's security
measures, he wondered why, in the name of God, they had positioned
those SUVs in front of the bridge's access ladder. Had they just not
considered that someone would do what he had just done? Or had they
maybe run out of the power or coaxial cables that connected the two
ends of the bridge? If that were the case, Brett would have moved the
SUVs on the far end backward instead of moving the Garden Hill ones
forward. Whatever the reason, this lapse served to convince Brett that
he had a decent chance of convincing them that they needed him.
He looked at the outline of the SUV for a minute, trying to catch a
glimpse of the people inside. Though he knew that they would not be
able to see him even if they were staring right at the spot where he
emerged, he wanted to make sure that one of them was not off taking a
leak or something and that he didn't accidentally blunder in to him or
her as he made his getaway. As his eyes adjusted to the dimness his
brain finally began to make some sense out of the blurry shadows within
the vehicle. He identified one human head in the front seat, on the
driver's side. The head was leaning back against the headrest, moving
from side to side every now and then. On the passenger side, he saw
nothing. Where was the other guard?
The answer came a moment later when a second head popped upward right
next to the first head. This second head had a lot of long hair,
obviously designating it as belonging to a female. Brett began to
suspect where that second head had just been. Surely he was mistaken
though? Nobody would do that on guard duty, would they?
They would. This became apparent a moment later when the two heads
came together in a passionate kiss. He could not make out much detail
but it was obvious that the two guards' hands were rather busily
stroking each other.
"You have got to be fucking kidding me," Brett mumbled, shaking his
head in disgusted wonder. What were these people thinking?
Obviously it wasn't about security. After only a minute or so of
kissing and groping, the female suddenly pulled away and began making
motions that could only mean that she was removing her pants. Her head
dropped from sight once she finished this process and the head of the
male followed it down. Shortly after this the SUV began to rock back
and forth, slowly at first and then gradually picking up speed.
Brett had seen enough. No longer making any particular effort to be
cautious, he swung his foot over the railing and hopped down to the
roadway. With one last contemptuous glance at the rocking SUV, he
began to walk along the roadway in the direction of town.
+++++
The road climbed steeply upward from the bridge where it passed through
a gap between two hills before curving back down into the town itself.
Brett walked slowly along the shoulder, right where the pavement met
the dirt, using the contrast between the two surfaces to keep him
oriented in the darkness. He would step forward gingerly each time,
carefully feeling with his foot before shifting his weight forward.
His progress was slow and it took him nearly an hour to make it to the
top of the hill.
He followed the curve of the road and, once he was about halfway around
it, he was able to see faint lights in front of and slightly below
him. They were houses! The flickering softness of the light told him
that the illumination he was seeing in the various windows was from
fire, either oil-lamps or fireplaces. Fire! The very thought of that
natural warmth thrilled him. He continued to walk, moving steadily
closer, trying to get some sort of count of just how many buildings
were lit up in the wealthy subdivision that he was looking at. A
hundred? Maybe a few more? As incredible as that seemed, it was
accurate. How many people were left in this town?
His mind conjured up an image of the town as he remembered it from his
many hunting trips in the area. The actual township itself was nothing
more than a few gas stations, a motel, and some simple houses at the
intersection of State Route 63, which he was now walking upon, and
Interstate 80, which was about two miles in front of him. Until about
ten years before, Garden Hill had been nothing more than an exit sign
that people passed on their way up to Reno or the ski resorts, it's
only purpose to serve as a chain installation point and to gobble up
the money of travelers who stopped there for gas. And then the real
estate developers had discovered it and bought up all of the land
adjacent to the canyon, slapping down expensive subdivisions among the
pine trees and advertising the town as "luxurious rural living". The
yuppies from Sacramento had flocked there in droves, buying up the 200
to 300 thousand dollar homes long before they were even built. These
subdivisions were of the sort that were called "gated communities",
which meant that they had eight foot concrete walls around them to keep
the riff-raff out. They had all been grouped together on the top of a
series of hills near the rim of the canyon although, with the exception
of the REALLY expensive houses, none of them had any sort of view of
the canyon. Across Route 63 from the houses was the inevitable strip
mall; home to a grocery store, a Starbucks, a computer store, and an
expensive hair salon.
Looking at the lights now, Brett could see that they were only showing
in the nearer of the subdivisions, the one closest to the bridge. He
continued walking down the road, heading directly for it.
As the road dropped down out of the hill, Brett lost sight of the
lights once he was lower than the security wall that surrounded the
houses. He continued walking, switching to the other side of the road
until he felt he was adjacent to the wall. He then inched forward,
through the mud that made up the shoulder, his hands outstretched
before him. He touched wet, unyielding concrete with his fingertips.
He stopped. It was time to put his plan in action.
He jumped upward, his hands grasping the top of the wall and holding
on. He swung his left foot upward and hooked it over the edge, using
it to pull the rest of his body up. Once atop the wall he adjusted
himself carefully until he was seated on it, facing into the
subdivision. In front of him were two houses, both with the faint
glow of firelight showing from within them. He could not see the
inhabitants however because the blinds were closed. The light did
provide him with enough illumination to see that he was overlooking a
street that paralleled the wall.
He did not jump down. Though the wind and the rain were particularly
biting from eight feet up, he withstood them, hoping that it wouldn't
take too long for him to be discovered.
+++++
It took nearly an hour; a length of time which both disgusted and
encouraged him. What the hell was the matter with these people? How
could they be so smart about some things and so stupid about others?
He should not have been allowed to climb that wall at all, let alone
sit atop it long enough to develop hypothermia. Just as he was about
to give up and simply go find someone to surrender to, he spotted a
flashlight bobbing and weaving its way towards him from the far end of
the street.
"About goddamn time," he muttered, keeping a sharp eye on it as it
approached. It moved slowly forward, switching from the wall side of
the road to the house side with predictable regularity. It was obvious
that the person holding the light did not really expect to find
anything, that he or she was just going through the motions.
It turned out to be a she, two of them actually. He could not make out
what they looked like since they were standing behind the flashlight
beam, but they were talking to each other loudly enough for him to hear
their conversation long before they were close enough to see him.
"She's such a bitch," one of them was saying. "I'm telling you. It's
like she's happy about all this or something."
"I'm sure she ain't missing her husband too much, that's for sure," the
other one replied. "That old fart was able to bring in the money for
her pretty well but he sure wouldn't have been much help now. I wonder
what she would've done if he'd lived. How long you think it would've
been before she sent him packing?"
"Probably before the rain started," the first said, giggling a little.
"You think it would've taken that long?" the other shot back, giggling
as well.
"Pathetic," Brett whispered to himself, watching the light grow closer
and closer. Finally it swung directly over him, illuminating him for
all the world to see. He waited for their surprised squeals, for the
challenge, for the swinging of guns towards him. It didn't come.
Apparently they were so involved in their conversation that they had
not even noticed the fact that they had just spotlighted an armed man
sitting on their wall right in front of them. They continued on by
without pausing, the flashlight beam continuing to swing back and
forth.
Brett watched in amazement as they walked less than ten feet in front
of him, continuing to talk about "that bitch". He saw, in the residual
light that reflected back at them, that they were both wearing black
rain slickers and carrying rifles, which were slung carelessly over
their shoulders.
"HEY!" he yelled loudly at their backs, unable to keep a tone of total
exasperation from slipping through.
Now the squeals came. They both sounded as if they had been goosed
with a hot curling iron. They spun around quickly, spearing him with
the flashlight beam. Another squeal followed when they actually saw
him sitting there. They began to scramble for the guns on their
backs. Brett, waiting patiently, raised his hands into the air in
surrender.
"Don't move!" the one with the flashlight yelled in a trembling voice.
"I'm not," he said, keeping his hands up. "I've been waiting here for
a goddamn hour. Why should I move now?"
"Who the hell are you?" the other one demanded, her voice shaky.
"I'm Brett," he said. "The man who could've killed you a long time ago
if I had wanted to. Can I jump down onto this side?"
"What?" they both said in unison.
"Jump down," he told them. "I'd like you to take me to whoever is in
charge of this town. I need to talk to them."
This seemed to cause an overload of some sort. Neither one of them
answered.
"Hello?" he said. "Are you still with me?"
"How did you get up there?" one of them, the flashlight bearer, finally
asked. "How did you get here?"
"It was much easier than it should have been," he said. "So how about
it? Are you gonna take me to your leader, or what?"
They continued not to answer his question. Instead they stared up at
him, keeping the light on him, doing nothing. He imagined that he
looked rather frightful to them. He had not shaved or bathed in nearly
two weeks now and his clothing was clotted with filth. "Where did you
come from? What do you want?" one of them asked.
"I came from across the bridge," he replied.
"That's impossible," the flashlight holder said. "We have that bridge
guarded."
"Yeah," he said, "by a couple of guards that are more interested in
getting in each other's pants than they are in protecting you from me."
This threw them for another loop. He heard them hurriedly whispering
back and forth to each other about WHO was stationed on bridge guard
tonight. Laura and Steve? Could it be true? They had heard rumors
about those two.
"Excuse me?" Brett interrupted. "Do you think that maybe you can
update your gossip a little bit later. I'm freezing my ass off up here
and I'd kinda like to get down. I'd like to talk to whoever is in
charge of this operation."
"About what?"
"About security," he said. "I've surrendered to you, okay? Now if I
jump down there, are you gonna shoot me?"
There was a pause. Finally: "No."
"Good," he said. "Stand clear. I'm coming down. I'll keep my hands
up."
He pushed himself off of the wall and landed neatly on his feet on the
sidewalk of the street below, his knees easily absorbing the shock.
The two guards kept him in the beam of the flashlight the entire time.
He kept his hands up in the air, his arms bent at the elbow.
"Do you have walkie-talkies like the bridge guards?" he asked them.
"Huh?"
"Walkie-talkies," he repeated. "You know? Communication devices? Are
you in contact with anybody? If so, don't you think you should radio
in to let them know what's going on here?"
"No," the flashlight holder told him. "We don't have any."
"You don't have any?" he asked, exasperated. "Why the hell not?"
"Batteries don't grow on trees you know," she said, somewhat
defensively. "And nobody's going to be making any more for a while."
"I see," he said, shaking his head a little. "Well, how far do we have
to walk then?"
"About a half a mile. We'll go down to the end of the street the way
we were walking and turn right."
"Got it. Do you want me to get in front of you?" he suggested. "That
way you can keep an eye on me from behind and its more difficult for me
to attack you."
"Uh... yes," she said. "Do that."
"Right," he told her, not moving yet. "But before I do, shouldn't you
disarm me?"
"Disarm you?"
"I have a gun on my waist, don't I? Surely you can see it there.
You're not going to let a prisoner carry a firearm, are you?"
There was another long pause. "This is just too fucking weird," the
flashlight carrier said at last. "All right," she told him. "Put your
gun on the ground."
"Right away ma'am," he said. "I would suggest that you have me remove
it from the holster with my left hand. That way it will be much more
difficult for me to fire it at you in a controlled manner."
"Do it," she said softly.
He did it, reaching across his body and unsnapping the quick-release
catch. He slid the weapon from its holster and carefully placed it on
the ground. He then raised his hand back up.
"Now kick it over here," he was told.
"Uh... if you don't mind," he said apologetically, "would you just have
me step away from it and then you can come and pick it up. I'm rather
fond of that weapon and I'd rather not scratch it all up."
"Oh Jesus Christ," she cursed, obviously quite flustered. "Go ahead.
Back up!"
He backed up about ten feet, moving slowly. The woman without the
flashlight came forward to retrieve it.
"You shouldn't cross in front of your partner's line of fire like
that," Brett warned.
"Shut up!" barked flashlight. "Mitsy, do you have the fucking gun?"
"Yes," Mitsy said, scuttling quickly back over to her friend.
"Okay Mister," she told him. "Start walking. We'll tell you where to
turn."
"You're the boss," he said lightly, moving out.
--
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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