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Message-ID: <47263asstr$1081163404@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "Al Steiner" <steiner_al@hotmail.com>
Subject: {ASSM} NEW: North of the River by Al Steiner (Mf,war)
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Date: Mon,  5 Apr 2004 07:10:04 -0400
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
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Author's Note:



This is another story that takes place in the timeline of a major world war.
It does not pick up where Collateral Damage left off, but is rather another
slice of life from the time period I've envisioned and actually takes place
earlier than Collateral Damage, during the most desperate portion of the
war, when the enemy is driving into the United States, seemingly
invulnerable.  For those of you who wrote telling me you found Collateral
Damage too "dark" of a story to be enjoyed, I would suggest you not read
North of the River.  It is even darker.  For everyone else, please let me
know, as always, what you thought of it.  As with all of these stories I'm
posting, they are all self-contained stories capable of being enjoyed by
themselves, and all potential first chapters in an ongoing series.  I make
no promises as of yet to continue them.





NORTH OF THE RIVER

By Al Steiner







January 12, 2010

Vancouver, Washington





It had once been an office building, a modern, uninteresting four-story
structure that had housed half a dozen doctors' offices, three or four
lawyers, a dentist, an orthodontist, and a private investigation service.
Now it was an empty shell, most of the windows broken out, part of the
southern wall partially collapsed, the second and third floors gutted by
fire, the rest looted by vandals.  Conner Boreman supposed it was no longer
structurally sound, that it was within the realm of possibility it would
collapse under its own weight at any time.  This thought was not worrisome
to him, however, as he lay next to a shattered window on the top floor,
looking out to the northeast.  He had cheated death so many times in the
last six months that the thought of dying in a building collapse was almost
amusing.



Nor was the view to the northeast appalling to him although to any
red-blooded American raised in the feverish patriotism of the post 9-11 era,
it certainly should have been.  Nearly every building he could see was
damaged at best, a pile of rubble at worst - blasted by Chinese artillery
rounds, pounded by Chinese bombs, destroyed by Chinese tanks.  Smoke came up
from hundreds of places, the fires producing it unchecked by a civilian fire
department, undampened by the rain that had been falling from the sky all
morning.  What had once been a fashionable suburban area now looked like
Stalingrad or Berlin during World War II.  But Conner had seen too many
American cities in this condition since joining the army six months before.
He had fought in Bellingham, in Seattle, in Tacoma, in Olympia, he and his
comrades relentlessly and brutally pushed southward by the advancing
Chinese.  The sight was too familiar to be depressing.



Vancouver was lost, of that there was no doubt.  General Li Chang's forces
had already taken all of the ground in Washington State between the Cascade
Range and the Pacific Ocean, smashing forward with two complete armies
concentrated in this sixty-mile wide corridor.  They had ten tanks for every
one American tank.  They had fifteen planes for every one American plane.
And they had twenty soldiers for every one American soldier.  A day when the
Chinese advanced less than ten kilometers, when less than ten thousand
American soldiers were killed, when less than a hundred tanks were destroyed
by the Chinese swarming tactic, was considered a good day in this war.  The
fighting retreat of the American forces was nothing so organized as a
trading space for time strategy such as the Soviets had utilized in World
War II.  Until now it had been little better than a complete and total rout.



The only thing left in American hands in western Washington were the two
bridgeheads across the Columbia River in the southern section of Vancouver.
This was where Interstate 5 and Interstate 205 crossed over from Portland on
the south side of the mighty river.  Every other bridge between Astoria and
the Cascade Locks had been blown by American engineer battalions, dropped
into the frigid waters to keep the Chinese from advancing into Oregon.
These last two bridges were the most critical and would be the last to go.
Portland was a vital road junction, where I-5 and I-84 met.  If the city
fell, the Chinese would have no natural defensive barriers until well into
California.  They would also have an easy route east, through the Columbia
River Gorge to eastern Oregon and eastern Washington.  They had to be
stopped at the Columbia River or there was a good chance the entire west
coast of the United States would be under Chinese occupation by spring.



As it stood now, the Vancouver Pocket was in the process of collapsing.
Chinese forces were pushing in from all directions, attacking the perimeter
forces with tanks, attack helicopters, aircraft, and hordes of dismounted
infantry troops.  The air was filled with the sound of desperate battle as
the American rear guard forces tried to hold them off long enough for the
main combat units to withdraw across the two bridges and get safely south of
the river before they were blown.  Machine gun fire and small arms fire
echoed back and forth through the rubble.  Tank guns and the explosions of
anti-tank missiles joined in with depressing regularity.  All of this was to
the background of exploding artillery shells coming from the bridge
approaches themselves.  The Chinese had been raining 155mm shells down on
the fleeing Americans for hours, shredding vehicles filled with wounded
soldiers and civilian refugees, snarling the roads, and creating a traffic
jam unlike anything ever seen before.



Conner and his platoon were part of the rear guard.  The former office
building they occupied stood on Northeast 28th Street, a half-mile east of
I-205 and mile north of the river.  From this position they were supposed to
hold off whatever armored forces tried to push their way through a six block
corridor for as long as possible.  So far, no Chinese had shown their faces.
Conner and the men under his command knew that couldn't last.



"My platoon," Conner mumbled to himself as he shifted his M-16 nervously and
wished for a cigarette.  3rd Platoon of Alpha Company of the 32nd Armored
Calvary Regiment was a platoon in name only.  It consisted of fourteen men
out of the original forty.  They had eleven M-16 rifles, a single M-60
machine gun, and two AT-9 anti-tank missile launchers.  They were out of
food rations, out of fresh water, and were down to less than six hundred
rounds of ammunition and six AT-9 rounds for the missile launchers.  They
had no medic and no medical supplies save the first aid kits they all
carried.  They had two working radios, both of which were beeping steadily
with the low battery warning, not that there was anything coherent coming
across the fucking things anyway.  For the past two hours, as they had been
attacked and forced from one desperate position to another, the chain of
command had seemingly broken down - at least on the communications level.
He hadn't had contact with Captain Rearsy, the company commander, in more
than an hour.  Conner himself was only nineteen years old and was
technically still a corporal, although the former platoon commander,
Lieutenant Jenkins, had promised a battlefield promotion to sergeant.  That
was before Jenkins and eighteen other men had been mowed down by a
combination of machine gun fire and 20mm cannon fire during their last
withdrawal.  Yes, he had finally achieved command all right.  He only hoped
he would live long enough to be proud of it.



He looked around at the gutted floor for a moment, making perhaps his
hundredth check of the positioning of his men.  Corporal Billings - who had
been a member of 3rd Platoon for two months now and was now the second most
seasoned man after Conner himself - was in the northeast corner with the
M-60, where he could cover the most likely avenue of approach and switch
between two different windows.  Privates Jenkins, Callahan, and Stinson were
on the north windows, their rifles ready.  Three newbies whose names he hadn
't even bothered to learn were on the east windows.  On the roof above were
the rest of the men, the two AT-9s and the remaining missile loads with
them.  Conner thought his positioning was as adequate as it was capable of
getting.  They had had already driven off a platoon sized force of Chinese
fifteen minutes before - a force that Conner knew had been only a probe,
which had served its main purpose of locating their position.  The real
attack would come next.  He was surprised it was taking so long.



"Jesus fucking Christ," said one of the newbies, his eyes wide with terror.
"How much longer do we have to stay in this fucking city?  We need to get
across the bridge before they fucking blow it!"



"We stay out here until they give us the fall-back command on the radio,"
Conner told him.  "They're trying to get our tanks and wounded out first.
That's why we're out here.  To buy them time to do that."



"How do we know they haven't already blown it?" the newbie demanded.  "You
haven't heard from command in an hour!  Maybe they already gave the command
and we missed it!  Maybe the fucking chinks already took the bridgehead!
Maybe."



"Maybe I'll blow your fucking head off and toss you out the window as chink
bait," Conner said, his voice calm but menacing.  "Now shut your ass and
keep your eyes open.  If you wanna live long enough to cross that bridge, we
need to hold this pocket."



The newbie looked at his commander's face for a moment, decided he just
might be serious about blowing his head off, and did as he was told.



The sound of jet engines swelled up from the north of them, becoming louder
until the entire building was shaking.  Conner and the rest of the platoon
tensed up, their eyes searching through the sky, hoping they weren't the
target.  None of them bothered speculating whether or not the aircraft would
be friendly.  If it was flying, it was more than likely not American.  The
Chinese had air superiority for two hundred miles on either side of the
line.



Sure enough, when the two aircraft came into view, streaking over the
rooftops less than a thousand feet up, they were F-18s with Chinese flags
painted on the twin tails.  Napalm canisters hung menacingly from the wing
pods.  The planes shot over the top of them, climbing to attack altitude,
their goal undoubtedly to drop their load of jellied gasoline on the
entrenched soldiers on the south side of the river.  The American commanders
had assembled quite a force over there and the Chinese were doing their
damnedest to soften it up.  Conner didn't waste any time feeling pity for
the poor bastards.  He had enough troubles of his own.



"I got movement over here, Sarge," reported Billings, his voice steady.  "A
couple of chinks just came out from behind that old Starbucks there at your
two o'clock."



Conner looked over there just as the two figures - both dressed in urban
camouflage BDUs and packing AK-74s - disappeared behind a pile of rubble in
the abandoned strip mall.  No sooner were they gone than two others slipped
out from the other side of the building, their weapons held at ready, their
movements the careful, quick motion of men who had lived through many
battles.  They dashed from one pile of rubble to the next, taking cover,
keeping themselves exposed for no more than three or four seconds.  As soon
as they settled in, two more groups of four soldiers emerged on either side.
These Chinese moved more awkwardly, with the nervous gait of newbies.  Most
would never live to become veterans.



"Open up," Conner ordered, his voice loud enough for everyone to hear.
"Drive them back behind the building."



Billings was the first to fire.  The M-60 roared to life, spitting out
rounds and spraying them over the group on the left, mowing three of them
down before they even knew they were under fire.  The rest of the platoon -
those with rifles anyway - joined in a second later, blowing down the
remaining soldier in the group on the left and two of the group on the
right.  Conner himself sighted in on one of the Chinese still standing and
squeezed off a three round burst, taking the man directly in the chest.



Before he had a chance to savor this first round victory, two pairs of
armored personnel carriers came out from either side of the smashed strip
mall.  They were BTR-80s, the workhorse of the Chinese armored forces.
Conner felt his blood go cold at the sight of them.  He keyed up his radio,
which was set to transmit on the tactical channel.  "Logan, Mears," he said
to the men on the roof.  "Take out those fucking BTRs or we're seagull
 food!"



"We're on it," Mears' voice replied, scratchy with static.



A second later, there was a muted explosion from above them.  An AT-9 round
streaked out, propelled forward by its rocket motor, guided by a targeting
laser.  The range was so short it barely had time to arm itself.  It struck
directly below the turret of one of the BTRs.  There was a double flash and
the turret went flying in the air.  The BTR began to billow smoke and flame.



At the same time, the other three BTRs opened up on them, plastering the
building with the heavy machine guns in their turrets.  14.5mm bullets
ripped through the walls like they were paper.  Two of the newbies -
including the one who had been near hysterics - were mowed down, their
bodies torn open and flung backwards.  Everyone else hit the ground out of
instinct, although this only made them marginally safer.  The bullets
continued to slam into their position.



Conner, laying on his back, his rifle clutched desperately to his chest,
keyed up his mic again.  "Logan, Mears," he said.  "We really need you to do
something about those BTRs."



"Firing now," came a terrified voice.  From above came the pop and whoosh of
another missile taking flight.  "Good hit," the voice said, calmer now.
"Working on the third. oh fuck!"



"Oh fuck what?" Conner demanded.  "What are you oh fucking about?"



"Choppers!" the voice said.



No sooner was the word out of his mouth than Conner heard the menacing growl
of Chinese attack helicopters approaching.  He could tell just by the sound
that they were Mi-35s, the Russian-designed helicopter gunship that had
proven itself time and time again during the war, everywhere from the Middle
East to the European line to the rout that was now taking place in the
Pacific Northwest.  "Get off that fucking roof!" he screamed into the
microphone.  "Displace!"



It was too late.  Explosions began to rattle the entire building as the
helicopters plastered the roof with high explosive rockets.  Everyone up
there was dead in less than four seconds.



"Let's get the fuck out of here!" Conner said, rolling across the floor.
"Everyone displace!  Regroup outside.  Let's go!"



But again, it was already too late.  Having eliminated the missile crew on
the roof, the helicopters now went after the infantry squad they knew was
positioned on the third floor.  They opened up with their 23mm nose guns,
raking their fire back and forth.  The holes these bullets made in the walls
made the BTR rounds seem like mother's kisses in comparison.  They rolled in
with an evil sounding whine, chunks of lead nearly an inch in diameter, six
inches in length, and moving at three times the speed of sound.  Billings
and Stinson were the first to be hit.  Their bodies literally exploded,
spraying blood, bone fragments, internal organs, and limbs throughout the
room.  The last newbie - staring at this in horrified hypnotism - took one
right in the throat.  It ripped his head right off of his body.



The last semblance of control broke down at this point.  Everyone still
capable of it rushed towards the stairwell at the rear of the room.  Most
were shredded before they made it three steps.  Conner made it by crawling
along the floor, his weapon dragging after him.  He threw himself down the
stairs, tumbling downward, bumping and sliding.  When he landed at the
bottom of the second floor landing in a heap, Private Jenkins - the only
other man to have made it that far - came tumbling down atop him, his body
spraying blood.  Conner looked at him and saw his right leg had been torn
off just above the knee.  Blood was spurting from it and spraying all over
the dusty landing.  Jenkins himself was already fading, his skin white, his
eyes glazed over.  Conner took the time to strip the two unfired M-16
magazines from Jenkins' belt and then stood and ran down to the bottom of
the last stairwell.  A quick turn and a jog down a short hallway and he was
at the ragged rear entrance they'd used to access the building.



The helicopters had stopped firing and were now moving off to the north.
 From the other side of the building Conner could hear the popping of the APC
guns and the chattering of AK-74s.  That was covering fire, meant to support
the advance of infantry troops towards the building.  There were none in
sight at the moment but he knew they would be there any second.  He needed
to get the fuck out of there.



He ran, his combat boots crunching over broken glass and bits of concrete.
Across the main street he went, leaping over a pile of rubble that blocked
the way, heading for a smashed mound of corrugated steel that had once been
a gas station.  Just when he thought he was home free he heard the sound of
bullets whizzing over the top of him and plunking into the pavement around
him.  The chinks had spotted him and were trying to take him down.  Though
he didn't think it possible, he ran even faster, zigzagging back and forth,
until he dove over the outside of the rubble pile, unmindful of what might
lie on the other side.



Blind luck allowed a good landing.  He didn't hit anything sharp or anything
that exploded.  The air was driven from his lungs and he rolled over twice,
a piece of rebar sticking him painfully in his side, but he was uninjured as
he came to a halt.  The bullets continued to whiz over his head and kick up
puffs of dust all around him, but he had complete defilade from the chinks -
at least for the moment.  He took a few seconds to let his lungs refill with
air and then began to scramble westward, hoping that the enemy would lose
interest in him now that he was out of sight.



It was a hope that turned out to be a correct one.  He made it across the
next street and down one block without being fired upon, without seeing any
Chinese soldiers.  He had no sense that they were pursuing him.  He rested
up against the remains of bicycle shop for a few minutes, trying to catch
his breath and think through what to do next.  From all around him, the
volume of gunfire and explosions seemed to have picked up.  He could hear
tanks and other armored vehicles rumbling around, could hear the growl of
more attack helicopters.  He knew what all of this meant.  As a soldier in
an army that had been in a constant state of retreat since its very first
battle, the sound of a defensive pocket collapsing was very familiar to him.
The Chinese were pushing in fast and the remaining American forces were now
in complete disarray.  He needed to get to the bridge and across it before
it was either blown or fell to the enemy.



He tried his radio, hoping to get someone, somewhere to provide him with the
best escape corridor, but all he heard was a garble of confused messages as
dozens of platoon commanders walked all over each other.  Most of the words
were unintelligible but all were undercut with the unmistakable tone of
panic and desperation.  Conner could sympathize.  He was feeling pretty much
the same.



He stood up and began to work his way to the southwest, towards the I-205
bridge approaches.  He moved more carefully now, block by block, dashing
from one bit of cover to the next.  He had no way of knowing whether the
Chinese had broken through into this area yet but suspected that they might
have.  He saw no one as he fled - no one living anyway - but the booms and
bangs and rumbles of the battle continued to grow louder all around him.
More Chinese helicopters filled the air, traveling in pairs, frequently
firing their rockets or their nose guns at some building, occasionally
launching an anti-tank missile.  None of them came close enough to Conner
that he needed to take cover.  They probably wouldn't be interested in a
single man anyway.



At last he made it to an overlook position about three blocks from the
riverbank and about half a mile east of the bridge approach itself.  The
sound of falling artillery was constant now, the ground vibrating with the
concussions of the exploding shells and the louder secondary explosions of
exploding vehicles.  Three abandoned American M1-A4 battle tanks were in
positions around the overlook, all three of them burning feverishly, sending
greasy black smoke into the air, the obvious victims of Spiral anti-tank
missiles fired from a flight of Mi-35s.  Two bodies, both burned beyond
recognition, were lying on the ground next to the closest of the tanks.
Another appeared to have been caught trying to extricate himself and was
half in and half out of the hatch, his blackened skull forever frozen into a
horrified scream of agony.  Conner ignored these sights, which were as
common as ants in an ant farm to him by now, looking instead out to the
west, to where the bridge was.



"Still there," he whispered to himself.  And indeed it was.  The twin span
of the interstate bridge stretched across the gray water of the Columbia and
into downtown Portland.  Its roadway was choked with tanks, half-tracks,
deuce and a half trucks, and countless pedestrians all trying to flee the
advancing Chinese.  Smoke rose from multiple places where vehicles or armor
were burning out of control.  But the bridge itself was still there, still
capable of taking him to the relative safety of the south side of the river.



And yet, even as part of him reveled in the continued existence of the
bridge, another part of him saw that escape across it was not going to
happen.  On the northern approaches, where a hideous traffic jam of
vehicles, soldiers, and civilians had gathered, all waiting their turn to
move across the span, chaos had broken out.  Chinese infantry troops and
armor had appeared, their numbers increasing by the second.  Firefights
raged back and forth as the soldiers took what was basically a last stand.
Tank rounds and anti-tank missiles flew back and forth, exploding vehicles
and slamming into buildings.  Civilians, trying to flee, were caught in the
middle of the two groups and were being blown up and shot down.  It was
clear that this last stand wouldn't last more than ten minutes or so, that
the Chinese would overwhelm the remaining resistance quite easily.



Conner watched helplessly, his hope fading, as the volume of fire picked up
to a vicious ferocity and then began to slack off as the American units
surrendered to the Chinese one by one.  That was the final signal for the
commanders across the river.  The bridges were within minutes of being
captured.  Somewhere on the other side, probably from the safety of a
reinforced concrete bunker in South Portland, an order was given by someone
with stars on the lapel of his undoubtedly clean uniform.  Seconds after
that order was given, buttons were pushed and electricity was sent coursing
through a series of wires to a series of high explosive charges that had
been installed on the bridge days before by combat engineers.



It was over in less than five seconds.  Conner saw flashes detonating all
along the bottom of the roadway section and the spans crumbled, falling into
the river below with a tremendous crash, water spraying hundreds of feet
into the air.  Hundreds of tanks and armored vehicles and thousands of men,
women, and children went down as well.  Most of the people were killed
outright, either by the initial explosions or by being smashed in the
debris, but many - particularly those in the armored vehicles - survived
long enough to drown.  In all, less than twenty people would emerge on one
of the riverbanks.



Conner watched all of this in horror, not at the tremendous loss of life but
at the loss of his only escape route.  Further downstream, through the haze
of smoke, he could see that the I-5 span had been dropped as well.  He was
now trapped on the wrong side of the river and there was no way to get
across.







+++++





The first light of the next day found Conner alone, sequestered beneath the
partially collapsed roof of what had once been a Macy's department store.
The store itself, along with the rest of the fashionable shopping mall it
was attached to, had long since been destroyed by artillery and bombings and
looted of anything even remotely useful.  Before him was a multitude of
concrete debris mixed with dismembered mannequins, overturned display
shelves, and broken cash registers.  The smell of spilled perfume and
cologne was heavy in the air.  From above the sound of heavy artillery
shells streaking overhead continued unabated as the Chinese pounded the
American positions on the south side of the river, softening them up for the
inevitable forced river crossing that was in the works.  While working his
way to this position of relative safety, Conner had seen hundreds of Chinese
amphibious tanks and APCs moving towards staging positions near the
riverbank.



Whether or not the Chinese would be successful in their river crossing was
no longer much of a concern to Conner.  He was trapped on the wrong side of
the line, with no way to get back where he belonged.  All organized American
resistance on this side of the river had collapsed with the bridges.  The
Chinese had captured or killed all of the large groups and were now roaming
the city in trucks and APCs, gathering up stragglers and securing their
occupation.  Conner was amazed he had made it through the night without
being mopped up himself.  He had moved from building to building all night,
trying to work his way east, towards the residential section of the city.
He had dodged patrol after patrol, mostly by blind luck since his night
vision gear had been left in the building where his platoon had been
massacred.  Four times he had been fired upon and twice he had actually
returned fire, expecting to be killed at any moment, but always managing to
fall back and lose his pursuers.  The fact that he was alone was probably
what helped him more than anything.  The Chinese occupation troops weren't
going to waste much energy chasing after one scared kid with an M-16.
Finally he had ended up here, less than two miles from where he'd watched
the bridge go down.  He didn't dare go any further now that it was getting
light.  Not that he had any idea where he should go anyway.  He wondered if
there was even any point to fleeing.  Wouldn't it just be easier to drop his
weapon here and go find the nearest Chinese patrol so he could surrender?
He had no food and less than a cup of water in his canteen.  He had lost his
helmet sometime during the night.  He was armed with two frag grenades and a
grand total of 43 rounds for his rifle.  His radio had long since died of
battery failure.  He hadn't slept in nearly forty-eight hours now.  The
prospect of being captured was actually starting to look like the sanest
thing he could do.  At least he'd get some chow and some sleep once they put
him in a barbed-wire cage somewhere.



He decided his mind was not working coherently enough to make such an
important decision right now.  He couldn't do anything about the hunger, but
he figured he was in a safe enough place to catch some badly needed sleep.
Maybe after an hour or so of slumber he would be able to think clearly, to
put his unenviable situation into perspective.  He yawned and then leaned
back against the support pillar he was sitting next to.  He closed his eyes
and listened to the ominous roaring of the artillery shells passing over his
head and the distant thumping of their explosions south of the river.  It
was about as effective of a white noise as he was likely to get in Vancouver
and within moments he began to drift towards sleep.



Before unconsciousness could completely claim him he was jarred back to
alertness by the sound of something thumping to the ground in front of him.
Her jerked his head up, his hands instinctively picking up the M-16 from his
lap and socking it to his shoulder.  He looked towards the sound and saw a
fat white seagull lying on the ground about twelve feet in front of him.
The bird was dying fast, its beak opening and closing spastically, it's
wings twitching as if in seizure.  There was a large bloodstain on its
breast.



"What the fuck?" Conner whispered to himself, his eyes going from the bird
to the open roof from which it had fallen.  Seagulls were fairly common
around here, particularly since there was so much carrion for them to feast
upon these days.  This one had seemingly been perched near the roof opening
when. when. something had happened to it.  But what?  There had been no
gunshot, at least not close by.  Had a stray bullet from somewhere else
struck it?  That didn't ring true in Conner's mind.  What would the odds of
something like that be?



He heard a shuffling footstep from behind a pillar deeper in the store.  He
turned his rifle in that direction, his finger tightening on the trigger,
his eyes peering down the sight.  One squeeze would send a three round burst
into whoever was approaching him.  The range would be less than twenty
yards, practically point blank for a man who had become skillful enough with
his weapon over the last six months to effortlessly shoot down moving
Chinese soldiers from nearly three hundred yards.



But it wasn't a Chinese soldier who appeared from behind the pillar.  It
wasn't a soldier at all.  It was a girl, a teenager by the looks of her.
She was dirty and disheveled, almost as dirty and disheveled as Conner
himself.  She was dressed in a pair of designer blue jeans that were now
tattered and torn, with holes in the knees.  On her upper body was a forest
green winter jacket that was smeared with enough mud, dirt, plaster dust,
and other unidentifiable stains that it had achieved a fairly decent state
of urban camouflage.  Her light blonde hair was dirty and uncombed, falling
loosely around her shoulders.  In her right hand she held something that
Conner immediately recognized from his own days of youthful innocence -
before the war and the death and the destruction that was now commonplace.
It was a metal slingshot.



"Don't move," Conner ordered, his voice just loud enough for her to hear.



She nearly jumped out of her skin at the sound of it.  Her eyes locked onto
him and she let out a startled scream.  She tensed as if about to run.



"I'm not gonna hurt you," Conner told her.



"Then. then. why are you pointing your gun at me?" she squeaked, her voice
terrified.



He realized he was indeed still pointing his rifle at her, his finger still
on the trigger, still exerting several pounds of pressure in fact.  He eased
up on it but kept the sight centered on her chest.  "Are you alone?" he
asked.



She didn't seem to know how to answer that question.  Her eyes shifted from
Conner's gun to the passage that she'd entered from and then back.  She
swallowed nervously.  "Uh. yes, I mean. uh no. I mean. I mean."



"You're alone," he said, convinced more by her demeanor than anything else.
He lowered his rifle, setting it back in his lap but keeping his hands
resting on it.  "Don't worry. I'm not gonna rape and murder you or anything
like that.  I'm too fucking tired to rape and murder anyone right now.  I
just wanted to make sure there weren't any chinks with you."



She shook her head slowly, her eyes remaining riveted on his face.  "No
chinks," she said.  "I'm just here. well. you know, getting some. some
 food."



"Food?" he asked, his eyes dropping to the seagull - which had now stopped
its death throes and was lying still.



She nodded sadly.  "Food," she confirmed.  "They seem to have closed down
all the McDonalds'."



A smile touched his lips.  The first one in. well. in forever.  "Yes, I
guess business hasn't been too good for them lately, has it?"



Something that almost looked like a smile touched her lips as well.  "No,"
she agreed.  "It really hasn't."



He looked down at the bird again.  "Pretty good shot with that slingshot,"
he told her.



She took a step closer to him, seeming to relax a little.  "I've had more
practice with it than I really should have to admit," she said.  "Thank god
my older brother left it in the house before he. well. before he left."



"He's in the war?"



She shook her head.  "Not any more," she said.  "He got killed in the Battle
of the Border.  Napalm."



Conner nodded sympathetically.  "I was there," he said.  And he had been.
The Battle of the Border had been the near-fanatical last stand the American
forces had taken just south of Vancouver, British Columbia, two long months
before, as they had tried in vain to prevent the Chinese from becoming the
first foreign armed force to enter the continental United States since the
War of 1812.  Tens of thousands of American men and women had died there, as
well as maybe a hundred thousand Chinese.  And it had all been for nothing.
The Chinese had pushed through them in less than 100 hours, shattering the
crust defense and capturing five times as many men as they'd killed.  Conner
had barely escaped, making it through a choke point less than ten minutes
before the Chinese had closed it off.



"Glad to see you made it," she said, a scowl on her face.  "Can I get my
bird, or what?"



"Go ahead," he replied, nodding towards the carcass.



She walked over to it and kneeled down, her eyes keeping a careful, though
furtive watch on him.  She picked the bird up by the neck and stood again.
Her blue eyes examined it for a second and her face turned sour.  "I don't
suppose," she asked, "that you have anything else to eat?"



He shook his head.  "We ran out of MREs two days ago, when the chinks
started hitting us hard.  The last thing I had was a can of ravioli sometime
yesterday."



"A can of ravioli?" she said, nearly drooling.



"I bought it from a sergeant before everything went to shit," he said.
"Cost me ten bucks but it was the best goddamn thing I've eaten in months."



"I'd kill for a can of ravioli," she said in envy.  "I haven't had any real
food in almost a week now, since the chinks started pushing in hard.  That's
when I had to. you know. start living off the land."



He looked at the bird carcass.  "What do those things taste like?"



She rolled her eyes.  "Like greasy, stringy, tough chicken that's been
overcooked and then left to sit on the counter for a week or so.  And that's
if I cook it right."



He laughed - a tired, pitiful laugh, but a laugh nonetheless.  "You should
go into food sales, you know that?" he asked.  "You have a way of selling
things."



She laughed as well.  "What's your name?" she asked him.



"Conner," he said.  "Conner Boreman.  I'm either a corporal or a sergeant or
a lieutenant.  I kinda lost track somewhere."



"I'm Meghan," she said.  "Meghan Richards.  Do you want to join me for
breakfast, Conner Boreman?"  She hefted the bird invitingly.  "It ain't
much, but it's all I got."



He looked at the bird carcass in distaste once more but the rumbling in his
stomach pushed it to the side.  "Thank you," he said, standing and slinging
his rifle over his shoulder.  "I'd be honored."





+++++





She led him through the bowels of the Macy's store, through a maze of debris
and rubble, until they arrived at a set of elevator doors.  She used her
hands to push them open.  Inside was the dead and dark elevator car.



"Up here," she said. "Follow me."  She stood on a packing crate and pushed
on the access panel at the top of the car, shoving it to the side.  She then
climbed through the hole in the ceiling, her legs disappearing from sight.
"There's a ladder up here," her voice told him.  "You can't see much, but
just grab it and keep climbing until you get to the top.  And be sure to
push the panel back in place before you climb.  This is the only way up to
where we're going since the stairs are collapsed."



He looked up doubtfully for a moment but finally climbed atop the plate and
pulled himself onto the roof of the elevator car.  The smell was dank and
oily.  He stood and pushed the access panel with his foot until it clanked
back in place.  The darkness became absolute.  He groped blindly around.
His hands contacted several cobwebs before finally finding the rungs of a
steel ladder.  He pulled himself upward until he was able to get one of his
feet on the rungs.



"You still there, Meghan?" he called.



"Keep climbing," her voice said from somewhere above him.  "You'll know when
you get to the top."



He climbed, his arms and legs pushing him upward until they began to get
sore.  He knew the store was three stories high, which translated into about
ninety feet.  He tried not to think of the drop below him as he ascended.
Finally a shaft of dim light appeared and he found himself next to the
partially opened doors of the third floor elevator stop.  Meghan's face was
looking out at him.



"Now step across over to here," she said, holding out her hand.



He took a few deep breaths as he pondered the drop he would suffer if he
missed his step.  Finally he screwed up his courage and stepped across,
taking her hand and pulling himself through.  It was easier than it looked.
He was now in a dim hallway with office doors on both sides.



"I've been staying up here for about a week," Meghan told him.  "In the
security office.  No one has found me here."



"I can see why," he said, following her down the hallway.  "How did you find
out about the ladder and all that?"



"I was chased in here," she said.  "A squad of soldiers out on patrol saw me
and my friend Ashley when we were getting water from the old fountain
outside."



"Our soldiers?" he asked, although he knew it would have to be.  A week ago
the Chinese were still on the outskirts of the city.



"Yes," she said softly.  "A squad of them.  They were drunk and they
surrounded us, started telling us to. well. do things for them.  We ran from
them.  They caught Ash outside but I ran into the store and found the
elevator and shut the doors behind me.  I heard them looking for me and. and
that's how I found the trap door in the top.  Then I found the ladder and
climbed up to the top."



"What happened to your friend?" he asked.



She sniffed a little.  "I heard them raping her down on the bottom floor,
just about where you were lying.  She screamed for the longest time, begging
for help, but there wasn't anything I could do.  When they were done with
her. they."



"Shot her?" he asked, unsurprised.  He had witnessed such atrocities many
times himself though he had never participated in them.  Many of the
draftees fighting this war were criminals who had been given a choice
between remaining in jail under wartime conditions or fighting.  The fact
that the girls they were raping were American citizens and the houses they
were looting were American houses didn't seem to bother them in the least.



"I found her body the next morning," Meghan said.  "She was lying naked down
there, all bruised up, her head blown off.  I buried her over by the
fountain."



"I'm sorry," he said, although he wasn't sure just what it was he was
apologizing for.



"You didn't do it," she said with a shrug.



"No, I didn't," he agreed.  "I'm surprised you invited me up here though.  I
am wearing the same uniform, ain't I?"



"You're different," she said.



"How do you know that?"



She barked out a little laugh.  "Maybe I don't," she admitted.  "Maybe I'm
just so tired of being alone and scared all the time that I just don't care
anymore."



He nodded thoughtfully.  He could certainly sympathize with that point of
view.



The security office was not a large room.  It was maybe fifteen feet by
twenty.  It was windowless, but a two-foot hole had been blasted in the far
wall - probably by an air-launched rocket - allowing basic ventilation and a
view to the outside if one stood on the bench just below it.  The bench ran
the length of that wall and had steel rings installed in it where
shoplifters could be handcuffed.  On the other wall was a bank of security
monitors - all dark of course - and a complex control panel for controlling
them.  A few writing tables were next to the door.  Sitting on one of them
was a camp stove which Meghan had apparently lit before she'd come down
after the seagull.  Sitting atop the flame was a large, stainless steel pot
full of boiling water.



"Is the water from the fountain?" he asked.



"Uh huh," she said.  "This one is for cooking.  If you need canteen water I'
ll boil you up some more later."



"Thanks," he said, sitting in one of the chairs and setting his rifle down.



He watched curiously as she carried the dead seagull over to the boiling
water and, holding it by the neck, submerged it in the water.  She held it
there for a few seconds and then took it out, shaking it a few times to get
the excess liquid off of it.  She then sat down in the other chair and
pulled a small garbage can over so it was between her legs.  She began to
pluck the seagull, her ragged fingers pulling the feathers out in clumps.
"The hot water makes the feathers come out easier," she explained when she
noticed his interest.  "And then, once it's cleaned, I can boil it up in the
pot."



"Where did you learn to do that?" he asked.  There weren't many modern
teenagers who would know the cleaning procedure for a seagull.  "Did you
grow up on a farm or something?"



She rolled her eyes to the ceiling.  "As if," she replied.  "Before the war
I was the daughter of a lawyer living in a house overlooking the river.  I
was in the most popular clique in a private high school.  I had my own Jetta
and I was dating a pre-med student in his second year at WSU.  And now look
at me.  I'm plucking a fuckin' seagull so I can fend off starvation for
another day.  The only reason I know how to do this is I went on a mission
for my church once down to Nicaragua and saw how the poor people fixed their
chickens.  I never thought I would have to do it myself."



"What happened to your parents?" he asked.



"Dead," she said simply.  "About two weeks ago, when everything started to
go to shit here and the chinks started blowing everything up along the river
with artillery, our house got hit.  The shell came down right in my parents'
bedroom."



"Do you have any other family?"



"My grandparents are in Bend.  I was going to go live with them but I was
never able to get across the river.  First, all of our tanks and trucks were
coming across the bridges to hold off the chinks.  And then they all started
to go back in the other direction.  And then, when they started evacuating
the citizens across I was too scared to go.  The chinks were shelling people
as they tried to leave."  She shrugged.  "I guess I thought it was safer to
stay."



"Well. you're still alive," he said.  "Maybe you made the right decision."



She shrugged again.  "How much longer will I be alive?" she asked.  "Am I
supposed to wait out the rest of the war right here?"



"When the chinks get across the river the fighting will move further south,"
he said.  "There will just be an occupying force here.  No more bombing and
shelling - at least not like it is now."



"Will they get across the river?" she asked.  "The last news reports I heard
said we were going to stop them here."



Now it was his turn to shrug.  It was a bitter gesture.  "I don't think
anything is going to stop them," he opined.  "There's so fucking many of
them.  I've watched them take every position we've held, every city we've
tried to save.  They swarm over us like army ants.  We kill thousands of
them on foot, we blow up hundreds of their tanks with the AT-9s and with our
own tanks, and they still keep coming.  We hardly have a chance to dig in
and take a stand against them before they're overrunning us.  And when their
tanks and foot soldiers aren't advancing, their helicopters and their arty
and their airplanes pound the shit out of us.  They drop napalm on us.  They
drop cluster bombs on us.  They strafe us with their choppers."  He shook
his head.  "The Columbia is a big river, but I don't think it's going to
stop them."



She shook her head sadly.  "This fucking war," she said.  "Why the hell didn
't we nuke them when we had the chance?"



"Because we never thought they would get this far," he said.  "We could've
annihilated China, India, and Japan back in the beginning without them being
able to annihilate us back, but we didn't do it.  No one wanted to make the
decision to do it.  And now we can't.  They have all those Russian nukes
under their control now.  The first time someone fires off a nuke, it's
holocaust city."



"And is this better?" she asked.  "Destroying every city they go through.
Killing hundreds of thousands with tanks and machine guns and airplanes
instead of nukes?"



"I don't know," he said.  "I don't even care anymore.  I'm just a foot
soldier, some stupid ass kid who thought it would be static to sign up for
the army and go kill some chinks for my country.  I'm not much older than
you.  I was in high school this time last year, starting to think about
where I wanted to go to college."



She smiled nostalgically at his words.  "I remember what that was like," she
said whimsically.  "I was gonna get a cheerleading scholarship, can you
believe that?"



He looked at her.  Despite the dirt on her face and the filth on her
clothes, despite the tangled mess that was her hair, he could tell she was a
very pretty girl, far prettier than any he had ever touched.  She was the
epitome of the high school elite.  "Yeah," he said with a smile.  "I can
believe it."



"What about you?" she asked.  "What were your plans?"



"Computer systems engineering," he said.



She raised her eyebrows at the mention of this.  "You mean you were a. a."



"A nerd," he said.  "About as nerdy as they come.  I was captain of the
chess team, founder of the computer club.  I used to carry a PDA with me to
class.  Beer used to make me throw up.  The only time I ever smoked pot I
had an allergic reaction to it.  The only girls who would have anything to
do with me were the ones who wanted me to do their math homework for them."



"Wow," she said, trying to equate the image of the former Conner and the
present one.  "You seem so. so. un-nerdy now."



"Six months on the line will do that to you," he said.  "I feel like I'm
forty years old now.  Like I've seen everything, done everything a man can
do."  He shook his head.  "It's not really a good feeling, you know?"



"Yeah," she said, plucking another clump of feathers free.  "I know."



When she got the last of the feathers free from the bird she reached inside
one of the desk drawers and pulled out a large butcher knife.  She chopped
off the bird's head and neck.  "This is the gross part," she said with a
wince.  She then forced her small hand through the hole in the top and began
to pull out the guts of the bird, dropping them in the garbage can.  Conner
watched her impassively, unable to be disgusted by bird entrails.  He had
seen too many human entrails lately.  At last, she pronounced the bird clean
and dropped it into the pot of boiling water.  She adjusted the propane flow
a bit and then covered the pot with a lid.



"How long will it take?" Conner asked her.



"About two hours," she said.  "Think you can wait that long?"



"I think I'll make it," he replied, stifling a yawn.  "Do you mind if I. uh.
kind of nod off for a while?  It's been a few days since I got any sleep."



"Go right ahead," she said.  "Do you want me to wake you up when the bird is
done?"



"Yeah," he said.  "I'm looking forward to a home cooked meal."



She laughed and started to say something else, but before it could come out
of her mouth Conner was half asleep in his chair.



"Here," she said, reaching under the bench and pulling out a sleeping bag
and some blankets.  "Go ahead and lay down here."



"I couldn't," he said, eyeing the sleeping bag like it was a feather bed.
"I'm filthy."



"You're no dirtier than I am.  Go ahead.  I insist."



"Well," he said, standing, "if you insist."



The rumpled sleeping bag and pillow was the most comfortable surface he'd
laid on in the past month.  This time unconsciousness did not just creep up
on him, it assaulted him.  Within three minutes he was snoring loudly, his
rifle curled up next to him.







+++++





Her hand on his shoulder brought him awake.  He sat up suddenly, going
instantly from deep sleep to full alertness, his hands snatching up his
rifle, his eyes tracking for trouble.  He felt his heart hammering
alarmingly in his chest as it went from 56 beats a minute to 130.  Meghan
was the only person in the room, her blue eyes wide and startled.



"Jeez," she said, a little defensively.  "I didn't mean to scare you or
nothing.  I just thought you'd better eat."



He took a few breaths, allowing himself to calm down.  The ability to wake
in an instant was something he'd developed in his first week of combat,
something he feared would stick with him forever, even if he did somehow
manage to survive the war.  "Sorry," he told her.  "Sometimes you have to.
you know. jump up and start shooting when you're on the line."



"It's okay," she said.  "You just scared me a little."



Outside, the sound of artillery shells, jet aircraft, helicopter gunships,
and muted explosions went on and on.  But there was something about the
quality of the light coming in from the window that didn't seem quite right.
It was too dim.  And then there was the fact that he felt almost rested, a
sensation he hadn't been familiar with in quite some time.  "How long was I
asleep?" he asked.



She gave him a sheepish smile.  "Almost ten hours," she told him.



"Ten hours?" he asked incredulously.  He hadn't had ten hours of sleep at a
stretch since before leaving his parent's home in Omaha.



"I know I shoulda woke you up when the bird was done, but you were, like,
way asleep.  You were snoring and everything.  You seemed like you needed to
sleep more than you needed to eat so I. you know. just ate the bird myself
and then went out and got you another one a couple hours ago."



"You mean. you left here and then came back. and I never woke up?"  He
wouldn't have thought that even possible, so attuned to the sound of nearby
movement was he.



"You didn't even move," she said.  "You stayed in the same position the
whole time."



"Damn," he said wonderingly.  "I really must've been tired."



"Your bird is done now though," she said brightly.  She picked up a plastic
plate with a skinned and boiled seagull sitting atop it.  "And I boiled up
some fresh water for you too."



He smiled, putting the rifle over his shoulder.  "Thanks, Meghan," he told
her.  "But. uh. before I eat, I kinda have to. you know. use the latrine."



"The latrine?" she said, confused for a moment.  Suddenly, she brightened.
"Oh, you mean the bathroom."  She then blushed.  "I've uh. like. just been
using. uh. the manager's office across the hall.  There's not an actual
toilet or anything in there, so you have to. you know?"



"Go on the floor?"



She nodded.  "It's kind of. uh. messy in there."



"Believe me, it can't be worse than some of the places we've had to use on
the line.  Which way?"



She pointed and he got up, leaving the security office and walking across
the hall.  He opened the door and the smell of latrine hit him immediately.
He found an unused corner and took care of his business.  When he returned,
Meghan was still blushing, obviously embarrassed at what he'd seen in there.
He thought about offering some reassuring words to her but thought better of
it.  Deep down inside he was still an awkward teenager from the computer
club and she was a member of the high school elite.  He had killed hundreds
of chinks, survived everything they could throw at him, and had become about
as hardened a combat veteran as a man could become, but he still had very
little experience with girls. He sat down in one of the chairs and put his
rifle on his lap.



"Here you go," she said, handing him the plate.  "I'm sorry there aren't
any. like. knives or forks or anything."



He shrugged.  "I guess you won't get as much of a tip then, will you?"



That earned him another smile.  He returned it and then dug into the bird.



The meat was every bit as greasy, foul tasting, stringy, and tough as she'd
promised.  But it was food, something his body was crying out for, and he
ate it gladly, peeling long strips from it and sticking them into his mouth
by the handful.  He chomped and chewed aggressively for the better part of
twenty minutes, destroying the breast, both legs, and the wings.  He would
have gone after the meat on the underside as well but Meghan warned him it
was unpalatable.



"Thank you, Meghan," he told her as she wrapped the remains in a plastic bag
for later disposal.  "That was the best goddamn seagull I've ever had."



She giggled.  "I aim to please," she told him.



The light was nearly gone from the sky now, imparting a dim duskiness to the
former security office.  Conner left the desk seat and settled down on the
floor, his back against the wall.  He yawned, surprised to find he was still
tired.  Maybe seagull meat had that same natural sedative that turkey meat
had.  Anything was possible, wasn't it?  Meghan settled against the wall
across from him, her tennis shoe clad feet nearly touching his.



"How long will that go on?" she asked, nodding towards the window, where the
sound of explosions and artillery shells continued.



"For a while," he told her.  "Two or three days maybe.  The chinks are gonna
pound the shit out every defensive position they can identify south of the
river.  They'll hit them with arty, strafe them with helicopters, and drop
napalm on them with planes.  They'll want to kill as many of us as they can
before they try crossing the river."



"It must be horrible," she said, shaking her head.



"It's not a picnic," he agreed.  "I'm sitting here wondering if I'm actually
safer on this side of the river."



"So what happens now?" she asked him.  "What are you going to do?"



"I've kind of been avoiding thinking about that," he said.



"Sorry."



"It's okay," he assured her.  "I guess maybe I have to.  I can't stay here
forever.  You can't either.  Even if the chinks don't find you in here, you'
re not gonna be able to go on living off seagulls for very long.  You'll get
scurvy.  And eventually, someone's gonna come along and blow this building
up on general principals."



She looked a little frightened at this thought, which obviously hadn't
occurred to her.



"Anyway, I'm sure I've been listed as MIA by now, that they've sent my
parents the email explaining I'm just another soldier presumed killed or
captured in the pullback from Vancouver.  The army has already written me
off."  He shrugged.  "They won't miss me much. The army that is, not my
parents.  They're probably worried sick about me, wondering if I'm dead or
on my way to some chink POW camp."



"My grandparents are probably wondering the same thing," she said.  "Is
there any way to get out of here?  To get back to our own side?"



"Not to the south," he said.  "All the bridges across the Columbia have been
blown.  If the chinks push across they'll put up pontoon bridges once they
secure a bridgehead on the other side, but I don't think they'll be letting
us walk across them.  It's a little too cold and a little too far across to
swim, and even if we tried, either the chinks on the north side or our guys
on the south side would just pot us out of the water anyway."



"So we're stuck here?" she asked.  "Behind the lines?"



"That depends," he said, an idea starting to occur to him.



"On what?"



"On how well you know how to climb mountains."



"Mountains?" she asked.  "What do you mean?"



"The chinks are driving down a narrow corridor," he explained.  "They're
contained between the Cascades and the ocean.  As they move further and
further south, they leave a few reinforced battalions behind to seal up each
pass through those mountains to keep us from hitting their supply lines and
getting forces in their rear.  We're guarding the other side of each of
those passes to keep them contained in their corridor.  If we can get to the
other side of the Cascades, we'll be back in friendly territory.  But the
only way we'll be able to do that is to stay well away from the passes.
That means going over the mountains in the most impassible place possible,
where it's completely inconceivable that any vehicles could get through.
There won't be many troops guarding a place like that.  Probably not any,
just random helicopter sweeps."



"How long would it take to do something like that?" she asked.



"This is your home," he said.  "You tell me."



She ran the geography of the state down in her head.  "It would take a long
time," she finally concluded.  "A few weeks I think, if we're just walking."



"That's about what I figured," he said.  "And I'll add on a few more weeks
because we won't just be strolling along.  We'll have to hide and slink and
move mostly at night.  Hell, I'm not even sure we'll be able to get out of
Vancouver without getting captured.  And even before we try it, we're gonna
have to secure enough food and warm clothing to carry us through.  We're not
talking a cakewalk here."



"No, it doesn't sound like it."



"You might not want to come with me," he said.  "I have to get out of here.
Or I have to try at least. I'm a soldier and if they find me they'll either
kill me outright or send me to some fucking POW camp for the rest of the
war.  You're a civilian caught in an occupied area.  I don't imagine it's a
lot of fun living under chink occupation, but you might stand a better
chance of living through the war if you stay put."



"No," she said immediately.  "I'm going with you."



He smiled again, feeling warmth inside, but also a fear - fear at being
responsible, fear at being a failure in front of such a beautiful girl.
"Okay then," he told her.  "At first light tomorrow we'll start thinking
about a way to get our hands on some supplies.  How does that sound?"



"That sounds static," she said, beaming.  "In the meantime, though, we're
about to lose the last of the light.  I'm gonna get some sleep, if that's
all right."



"By all means," he said.  "I think I'll do the same.  I know I just slept
all day, but I still feel like crashing out."



She took off her heavy jacket, revealing a flannel shirt beneath that was
only marginally cleaner.  She kicked off her tennis shoes and then unzipped
her sleeping bag, folding it all the way back.  She lay down on her back and
pulled the blankets over herself.  She looked up at him as he unzipped his
tattered boots and kicked them off.  When he started to head towards the far
corner of the room, she asked, "Where are you going?"



"Just over here," he said.  "Hopefully I won't snore too loud."



"It gets, like, really cold in here at night," she said.  "Why don't you
share the blankets with me?  You'll be a lot warmer."



He felt himself blushing.  Was she actually offering to let him. let him
sleep with her?  In her bed?  "Uh. well. uh, that's okay," he said.  "My
BDUs are pretty warm.  I've been sleeping outside all winter."



"I would be a lot warmer too," she said softly, her eyes bright and
inviting.  "Please?"



He swallowed, all of his high school awkwardness flooding back to him, his
brain screaming at him to just leave, that this was some sort of a cruel
setup, a practical joke precipitated by one of the jocks, a joke that would
end with his underwear around his neck or his head in a toilet.  But another
part, a part that had faced battle, that had seen many of those same jocks
blown to pieces because they were too big and too clumsy and too dumb to
survive, that part gave him the confidence he needed.  "Well," he said, "if
you really want me to."



"I really want you to," she said, pulling the blankets back and patting the
space next to her.



He set his rifle down on the ground next to the bed and then unclipped his
web gear, shucking it off.  With it went his extra magazine (which only had
13 rounds in it), his two frag grenades, his canteen, his first aid kit, and
his radio with the dead battery.  He set it next to the rifle.  He then
unzipped his BDU jacket, shrugging it off and setting it on the desk where
he'd eaten earlier.  He winced a little as he caught a whiff of the odor his
body was giving off and wondered for a moment if he should put the jacket
back on to cover it.



"What's the matter?" Meghan asked him, seeing his hesitation.



"I. uh. haven't had a shower in a few weeks," he said slowly.  "Maybe I
should just sleep over there after all."



"You can't possibly smell any worse than I do," she said.  "I haven't had a
shower since our house blew up."  She patted the bed again.  "Come on,
Conner.  Come lay with me.  I promise not to be offended."



"Okay," he said slowly.  He walked over and let himself down, putting his
body next to hers.  He felt his leg touching the side of her jeans, his hip
touching hers.  He tried to scoot away but she wouldn't let him.



"It's okay, Conner," she said softly, putting her hand on his hip and
forcibly pulling him against her.  "It'll be warmer if we, like, kinda
cuddle up, you know?"



"I. uh. I guess," he stammered.  He remained on his back, relishing the
sensation of her next to him.  Even through all of the clothing, she felt
soft against him.  And even though he could smell the sour odor of girlish
sweat clinging to her, it was not exactly unpleasant.  He felt his penis
hardening in his pants as it realized this was the closest he'd ever been to
such an attractive girl.



She rolled up onto her side, facing away from him and then looked over her
shoulder at him.  "Well?" she asked.



"Uh. well what?"



"Are you going to cuddle me?"



He swallowed nervously.  He had never cuddled a girl before and wasn't
exactly sure how one went about it.  He had never had a girlfriend before,
had never even had a date.  His entire history with the opposite sex
consisted of two visits to a whorehouse outside Dallas, Texas during basic
training.  And, while he had gotten himself laid, the whores had treated the
entire relationship like what it was, a business.  Their goal had been to
get him in and out - so to speak - as quickly as possible.  They had most
definitely not been into cuddling.  "I. uh."  He swallowed again.  "I mean."



Meghan seemed to pick up what he couldn't say.  "Just roll up against me,"
she told him.  "Put your arm around me and pull the blankets over us.  That
way, we'll, like, share body heat."



Slowly, hesitantly, he did as she said, rolling up onto his right side, so
his front was pushed against her back.  He kept his hips back a little,
fearful that she would feel his erection pushing against her if he made
contact.  He then took his left arm and draped it over her stomach.  Her
body felt extremely nice against him, soft and curvy and very feminine.



"Mmmm," Meghan sighed.  "That's nice, Conner.  Very nice.  It feels good to
have a man hold me.  It makes me feel. you know. safe."



"I'm uh. glad I can. uh. help," he said, memorizing the feel of her soft
stomach against his forearm.



They lay there silently, not moving as the last of the light disappeared and
complete darkness conquered the room.  Outside, the artillery barrage went
on and on but Conner barely heard it, so enraptured was he to be actually in
a bed with a pretty girl and holding her body next to his.  His penis
remained hard within his pants, begging to be ground up against Meghan.  He
resisted the urge, keeping it well away from her.  What would she think if
she felt it?  Probably disgust.  She would probably kick him out of her bed,
possibly even out of her room.



Despite his efforts to keep it away from her, he soon found out what she
would think.  She squirmed a little in her bed, pushing her rear end
backwards until it contacted him.  The bulge of his crotch was now pushed
firmly against her ass, exactly where she couldn't help but feel it.  He
tried to pull back away from her, horrified, embarrassed, but she moved with
him, keeping the junction firmly together.



"It feels like you like me," she said softly, her tone indecipherable.



"I'm sorry," he blurted.  "It's been a while. since. you know. and. and."



"It's okay," she whispered.  "I kind of like it."



"You. you. do?"



"Yes," she said with a naughty giggle.  "It makes me feel. like. pretty,
attractive.  You know what I'm saying?  I mean, I must look and smell like
absolute shit, but I can still give an older guy a. you know. a stiffy."



"Uh. yeah," he said, licking his lips.  "It's a. a stiffy all right."



She giggled again.  "Do you want to. touch me?" she asked him.



"Tuh. touch you?"



"Uh huh," she said.  "You know? Like. under my shirt?  Under my pants?"



"Uhh." he started, unsure how to respond.  Nothing even remotely like this
had ever happened to him.  Was she really inviting him to. to. touch her?



"You can," she said, squirming a little against him, putting more pressure
on his erection.  "I kind of want you too.  It reminds me of. like. the
past, you know?  Before the war.  Of being in a car with my boyfriend.  Will
you touch me, Conner?  Just for a little while?"



"I. uh. guess I could do that," he said through a dry mouth.  "If you really
want me to."



"I really want you to," she said.



He felt her hand atop of his, the one he had on her stomach.  She grasped
it, pushing it downwards, under the bottom of her flannel shirt.  She then
pulled it up, setting it on the soft skin of her bare stomach.



"Go ahead," she whispered.  "Touch me.  Feel me.  Anywhere you want.
Anywhere."



Trembling, excited beyond belief and nervous as hell, he began to rub his
fingers around on her stomach.  He passed over her bellybutton, over her
flanks, felt the bottom of her ribcage.  Her skin was silky smooth, so soft
and pliable.  She cooed a little as she felt his touch, her hips grinding
just a bit against his hard-on.  He moved his hand further upward, onto the
bra cup of her right breast.  He squeezed softly, getting the feel of it, in
awe that he was actually gripping her tit.  It was about the size of a
grapefruit, soft, yet firm, as if it had been made to be squeezed.



"You can put your hand under the bra," Meghan told him gently.



Conner knew an order when he heard one.  He brought his hand downward again
and then squirmed his fingers under the bra cup.  Soon he had her bare tit
in his hand.  The nipple was hard, pushing insistently against his fingers.
He felt it, pinching it lightly.  Meghan took in a sharp intake of breath as
he did so, obviously enjoying his ministrations.



He decided to take a little initiative.  He ground himself a little more
firmly against her body, sending pleasurable tingles throughout his groin.
Meghan seemed to like this so he did it a little harder.  As he moved his
hand to her other breast, he moved his head forward.  With his free hand he
pushed her hair out of the way and began to kiss the back of her neck.  He
had read in the many Internet porn sites he'd perused over the years that
girls liked it when you did that.



The Internet porn sites were apparently right.  The effect on Meghan was
nothing short of dramatic.  She arched herself more firmly against him and
her breathing speeded up to a near pant.  "That's nice," she said, desire
clearly in her voice.  "Very nice, Conner."



"Yes," he panted back, still unable to believe this wasn't a wet dream he
was going to awaken from at any moment.



Suddenly she was squirming into a new position.  She twisted herself until
she was on her back.  "Suck them," she told him.  "Suck my nipples, Conner.
I want to feel your mouth on me."



He made a growl in reply, his mouth incapable of forming speech at the
moment.  He extricated his hand from her shirt and then began to tug on it,
rucking it up to her neck.  She reached down herself and pulled up her bra,
releasing her breasts from their confinement.  He lowered his face down,
operating by feel only since there was no light.  He felt the jiggly flesh
against his cheek, the nipple pushing into his chin.  He adjusted himself
and slurped the hard protrusion into his mouth.



"Oh yessss," Meghan sighed, her hand going to the back of his head.



As he suckled first one nipple and then the other, he put his hand back on
her stomach and began to move it downward, towards her crotch.  She had told
him he could feel her anywhere and he figured that standing order still
applied.  He grasped the button of her jeans and, when she didn't protest,
pulled on it until it opened.



"Mmmm, yessss," Meghan moaned in his ear.  "Do it, Conner.  Touch me.  Feel
me up."



He found the zipper and pushed it down, opening the pants enough to allow
his hand admittance.  He pushed his fingers in the opening and felt the
silkiness of her panties.  He allowed this sensation to register for a few
moments and then moved onward, forcing his fingertips under the waistband of
them, onto the skin of her lower stomach.  He found the going a little
rougher than he'd anticipated here but, with persistence, he was soon
touching the crinkly hair of her pubis.  He pushed lower until he
encountered wetness and her slippery lips.  Though he was inexperienced, he
could tell she was incredibly turned on by what he was doing to her.  This
gave him confidence unlike anything else that had happened.  He had actually
turned a woman on!  He had!  The boy who had once thought that even the
Dallas whores would refuse to sleep with him.



He pushed even lower, until his middle finger was firmly entrenched between
the lips of her vagina.  He rubbed up and down for a bit, smearing her
juices around, drenching his finger, and then curled the finger inward,
forcing it inside of her.  She was tight, he realized excitedly.  Incredibly
tight.  Her muscles gripped at his digit, trying to pull it in further.  Her
entire pelvis rose off the ground, assisting in this effort.  She was now
panting like an engine, her breath rushing in and out, occasional moans
punctuating his efforts when he touched her in a particular way.  His
engineering-oriented mind quickly learned to duplicate these sensations and
expand upon them, bringing further pleasure to her.



She suddenly gripped his forearm in hers, almost hard enough to cause pain.
"I want you to fuck me," she told him.



"Huh?" he stammered, his awkwardness coming back in an instant.  Did she
just say what he'd thought she'd just said?



"Yes!" she said, pulling his hand out of her pants.  "I want you inside of
me.  Oh God, fuck me, Conner!  I'm, like, so fucking horny right now!"



He heard her squirming around on the bed beneath him.  Though he couldn't
see her, it didn't take a genius to figure out what she was doing.  She was
taking her pants off.  She was not kidding around, not teasing, not
participating in some elaborate practical joke.  She really did want him to
fuck her.  He heard the pants slide down her legs, heard her kick them off.
The smell of her crotch hit his nose at the same time.  It was a thick,
musky, sweaty smell, obviously made much stronger than it was meant to by
the lack of recent bathing.  It should've been overpowering, even gross, but
it wasn't.  It was the most erotic thing he had ever smelled in his entire
life.



"Come on, Conner," she pleaded, her bare leg raising up and rubbing against
his flank.  "Do me, baby!  Get your pants off!"



That kicked him into gear.  He rose up and began fumbling with his belt.
His hands were trembling so badly it took him three tries before he was
finally able to open it.  She wanted to fuck him!  And he hadn't even paid
her!  At last, he was able to get the buttons undone and the zipper pushed
down.  He rolled over onto his back and pushed the pants down and off, his
filthy GI underwear going with them.  His cock was as hard as it had ever
been before, was wet and dripping pre-cum.  He had a momentary fear as he
realized he wouldn't last very long but Meghan stifled it by reaching out
and wrapping her fingers around him.



"Oh yes," she said, jacking it up and down a few times.  "It's a nice one.
Nice and big and hard."



Nice and big?  Had she really said that?  In all of the porno stories he'd
read over the years, the guys all had cocks of at least eight inches.  His
was only seven.  Was she just trying to stroke his ego?



"Come on," she said again, pulling at him.  "Get on top of me.  Please?"



He rolled atop her, getting into position exactly as he'd done in the
whorehouses.  At least those experiences had done something for him.  He
slid between her spread legs and felt her hand tugging his cock forward.  He
felt the head touching her wetness, felt her smearing the tip up and down.
He had another momentary fear about pregnancy - after all, they had no
condoms - but that too disappeared once she seated him between her lips and
began to pull on his with her hands on his ass.



"Fuck me," she said.  "I want to feel it!"



He pushed forward, finding the going extremely difficult at first.  She was
very tight, almost too tight, certainly nothing like the whores he'd fucked
before.  He felt the head penetrate her and then stop, refusing to go
further.  He pulled out a little and then pushed in again, going deeper this
time, about a half an inch past the head.



"Yesssss," Meghan moaned.  "That feels so good.  Put it all the way in.
Allllllll the way!"



He pulled out and then pushed in further, sinking deeper this time.  He did
it again and then again, going deeper into her body with each thrust.  Soon
he was balls deep in her, his pubis mashed against hers.  Both of them
sighed at the penetration, Conner in particular as he felt her tightness
gripping him like a sheath, putting pressure on his entire length.  He began
to rut in and out of her, moving smoothly and precisely for about twenty
seconds, enjoying the caress of her passage, enjoying the feel of her smooth
body moving beneath him, of her contented pants in his ear.



"Yes, yes, yes," she moaned as his butt rose up and down, as he slid in and
out of her tightness.  "Fuck me, fuck me, fuck meeeeeeee!"



His thrusts quickly became erratic as he heard her pleasurable moans, her
obscene words.  Though the whores had whispered such sentiments as well,
they had not even made the attempt to pretend they were sincere, nor would
he have believed them if they had.  But with Meghan, she really was sincere.
She really was enjoying what he was doing to her, the feel of his cock in
her pussy, the feel of him fucking her.  Fucking her!



The orgasm hit him so quickly and so powerfully he didn't even have time to
try to prevent it, to try to think of war bonds or Allied strategies or
computer code.  One second he was in control, the next, pleasure was
exploding through his body and he was spurting blast after blast of hot
semen into her body, his hips rising and falling spastically, his mouth
biting at her neck to keep from screaming.



"Ohhhhh, Godddddd," he groaned as he poured himself out into her.



"Ohhhhh, yesssss," she moaned as she felt it.



It was only after the last spurt had shot, only after the immediate pressure
was released, that it occurred to him he'd just put in a pathetic
performance.  Meghan hadn't cum!  Though he had never experienced a female
cumming as a result of his ministrations, he was reasonably sure the event
had not taken place.  She was excited, sure, but orgasm?  No.  Though his
natural inclination was to stop thrusting, to collapse atop her and whisper
sweet nothings in her ear while his cock slowly shriveled up to normal size,
he fought it.  He continued thrusting, driving his wet cock into her
overflowing passage.



"Ooooh," Meghan said, surprised.  "You're not gonna. oooh, you're. oh!"



He began to move faster and harder, moving his cock in such a way that the
sensation caressed it firmly enough to prevent it from shriveling.  He found
it was exactly the manner in which Meghan enjoyed him moving as well.  Now
it was her words that became incoherent, her body that began to thrust up
and down in an out of control manner.



"Oh my God, Conner, you're gonna. oh. you're gonna.. Ohhhhhhh!"



He redoubled his efforts, slamming in and out of her, grinding at the bottom
of each stroke, rubbing himself on her exposed clitoris.  She began to
tremble beneath him now, her fingernails biting into his back through his
T-shirt.  When she finally came, it was an amazing thing to be a part of, an
experience that would forever shield him from being fooled by a fake orgasm.
She had a near seizure beneath him, her legs tightening around his ass.  Her
vaginal muscles clenched down on him, nearly hard enough to bridge the gap
between pleasure and pain.



"Ahhhhhhh, Goddddddd!" she screamed out, loud enough so that any passing
Chinese soldiers on the street below might have heard her.



She relaxed against him but he wasn't done.  He kept thrusting, slamming in
and out and grinding his body.  By now his cock was once again very
interested in staying in the game, was begging for another release.  There
was no way he was going to stop now.  He put his mouth to hers, kissing her
for the first time.  Though he hadn't brushed his teeth in quite some time,
though he had been eating seagull for dinner, and thought she had been doing
the same, he didn't care, and neither did she.  Their tongues came together,
swirling against one another, probing each other's mouths.  She came again a
few minutes later, the spasms and groans indicating it was even more
powerful than the first.  He came shortly after, his orgasm weaker than the
first, but certainly nothing to complain about.



At last, both of the sated, he collapsed atop her.  They shared a few more
deep tongue kisses, their remaining passion grounding like an electrical
current, gradually easing off to more affectionate kisses of lovers, of
friends.



"Wow," she said at last.  "That was, like. you know. wow."



"Yeah," he said, already feeling the pull of sleep trying to take him.



"I've been, you know, like fucked before. but never like that," she said.
"No one has ever made me cum before."



He shrugged, as if satisfying lovers was something he did a couple a times a
day.  "I guess you just haven't found the right man," he said.



"I guess not," she said with a giggle.  She took a few more breaths, her
hands continuing to caress his back.  "I think I can sleep now," she told
him.  "I feel nice and relaxed.  Safe."



"Me too," he said, truthfully.



"Will you still hold me tonight?" she asked, her voice very much that of a
little girl.



"Yes," he told her.  "I'll hold you.  I'd love to."



They repositioned themselves, neither bothering to put their clothes back
on.  She snuggled up against him, his arms around her.  Within minutes, both
drifted off, neither thinking about what tomorrow was going to bring.







Al Steiner

March 25, 2004

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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