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From: rache <rache696@yahoo.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} The Post-Apocalypse Dream by Rachael Ross (M/F, Slow, No Sex)
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Date: Thu, 26 Apr 2007 06:10:06 -0400
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The Post-Apocalypse Dream
By Rachael

Copyright 2007 Rachael Ross all rights reserved
Story Codes: M/F, Slow, No Sex

The Post-Apocalypse Dream

The sun was hot and all around me there was nothing but wheat. Great
golden seas of it rolling in the wind. A group of crows wheeled across
the sky. It was blue, mostly, but off to the north I could see a line
of darkness coming. Early summer in Nebraska, but still springtime up
in Canada. It was going to rain and I needed a hole someplace.

I nudged the mare with my heels and she bobbed her head a little,
ripping off a mouthful of grain and chewing it while we moved, like a
little brown and white boat, leaving a wake of bent wheat behind us.
I'd had her almost a month and if she'd felt any animosity towards me
for killing the guy who'd owned her, Hubcap didn't show it. Maybe she
knew he'd had it coming. Maybe if she knew who I was, she'd figure I
had it coming too.

We stayed clear of roads. They were dangerous and unpredictable and we
both knew it. When we came upon one we had to cross, or maybe follow a
little ways, Hubcap would stop and whinny and turn her big black eyes
to look at me. I'd just shrug and give her a cluck and a kick and
apologize later. We didn't do a lot of talking on the roads either.

I checked my compass and my map and there was a town just over the
next couple hills. Someplace called Stewartville, population small. I
glanced over my shoulder and the clouds were closer. I couldn't do
with another night in the rain. The first couple had almost killed me,
but I hadn't known a whole lot then either. But anytime you get wet
and cold it's a bad thing. I remembered when I was a little girl
dancing in the rain.

"Anybody do that anymore, Hub?" I asked her, but she ignored me. It
was a dumb question anyway.

There were a few cars, mostly gutted for parts or burned out shells. A
couple buildings with windows smashed out. Looked like somebody had
torched the gas station, but that wasn't unusual, none of it was.
There was a big building that looked like a castle keep, sort of. All
stained red brick and chalky mortar with a flat roof. I studied it
through my eyeglass, which was just half a pair of binoculars. The
other half I'd traded for penicillin and aspirin when I'd really
needed those.

There was smoke coming from the building, or maybe from just behind
it, I couldn't tell. Somebody was there, cooking maybe, or trying to
make something, who knows. I'd found a guy in South Dakota who was
making glass. He'd always wanted to learn how to do it, he'd told me,
and now he finally could. He made the worst glass in the world, but he
was happy. He'd given me a little shot glass, yellowish and crooked,
when I'd told him I was leaving. We'd been together for five days and
a week later I couldn't remember his name.

I rode down slowly, approaching across a field overgrown with weeds.
There wasn't anything else I could do, really. I wasn't going to sneak
in, and I wasn't going around. I needed to trade and rest and talk to
somebody. You go two or three weeks without hearing another person's
voice and it does things to you. You start talking just to hear some
words, to stay in practice, and then you wake up suddenly, finding
yourself in the middle of a conversation with nobody at all. It isn't
real madness, not yet, but it makes you nervous, you know?

I had my rifle unslung; sitting across the saddle so whoever was in
there would see it. They wouldn't like me any less for having a gun,
and they'd be suspicious if they didn't see one. Everyone had a
weapon; most people had two or three. Hub was my only real concern. A
horse was valuable, mostly for its meat, but also if you wanted to get
someplace. I removed my hat, a wide-brimmed felt fedora damp with
sweat, and shook my hair loose, glad for that hot sun momentarily. It
would catch the yellow in my hair. I wanted them to know I was a woman
and so I was worth more than my horse, maybe. It was what I'd come to
trade and I figured they'd know that, whoever it was.

I was about a hundred yards away and I hadn't seen anyone, or even
heard anything for that matter. Just some magpies up in the air,
screeching a little because we were riding through their broken field.
I came to the edge of town, where the weeds ended with a little ditch
and an oil stained gravel parking lot started. The place used to be a
Texaco once, now it was black and twisted. Across the way, some 40
yards and across the main street was the brick building. It was the
"Stewartville Armory 1923" according to a bit of masonry above the
main doors. They were big wooden doors, banded and charred from the
looks of them. There was even a pole for a flag, but there wasn't any
flying of course, just some old frayed cord dangling in the breeze.

I sat there on Hubcap for 5 minutes or so while they wondered what to
do. I didn't imagine Stewartville got very many visitors. Most of the
stragglers were dead by now, or had found a community someplace or
just made one of their own. I shifted a little, feeling my ass getting
sore and Hubcap tore at the grass under the weeds, tearing clumps of
dirt and roots out of the soft black earth.

One of the big doors opened finally and a man stepped out, shielding
his eyes. He was tall, I thought, thin but not skinny. He'd been
eating well and that was a good sign. He wore old jeans, faded but not
holed or anything and a chambray shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He
walked towards me slowly and I didn't see a weapon, but I had to
assume there was somebody marking me, probably through one of the
second floor windows. I didn't move a whole lot, content to wait for
him and he didn't look back. A lot of people will, when they're
nervous or scared, but he didn't.

"Howdy." He said and he was 20 feet away, standing with his hands
empty at his sides. He had good skin, healthy and already a little
tan. Black hair going to grey, mostly on his face though. He didn't
have a lot of beard, just a scrappy inch maybe, and it suited him I
thought.

"Hi." I nodded. "I'm ridin' through." I couldn't say much more than
that, asking for something isn't the way it's done generally. And I
didn't have anything for trade except me, and he could already see
that much.

"Kay." He seemed to shrug, or maybe I just imagined it.

We didn't speak for half a minute or so, maybe more, and if he wasn't
interested I really would have to ride on through. Either that or
fight. The birds had settled and there wasn't much more than the
occasional sound of the breeze blowing through the weeds, and that
wasn't very loud. I moved as if to pull the reins, yanking Hub's head
so we could go around, but the man stopped me.

"Storm's comin' up." He observed, jerking his head just slightly
towards the dark horizon.

"Yeah." I looked that way, turning more than just my head. More than I
needed to, sitting a bit straighter and trying to show myself off a
little. When I looked back he was nodding at me.

"Put your horse round back of the armory, there's a little spot,
you'll see it." He didn't wait for an answer, he just turned around
and I gave him a good head start before urging Hub onto the gravel.

The back of the armory was a pleasant surprise and well hidden from
anyone approaching the town. There was a largish garden planted and
air was thick with the smell of ripening vegetables. There was a row
of tomatoes, the plants bound with wire to a section of weathered
picket fence, the white paint peeling and littering the ground like
snow. The fruit was just starting to show red, and my mouth watered at
the sight of them. There were peppers too, small and green, and onions
and other plants I couldn't identify. It was a good garden and I knew
some people back where I'd come from who would have killed for a tenth
of it.

There was a shed too, like a small garage with the door missing and
inside were a couple sheep and a ram, tied in crudely constructed
stalls. A small area was enclosed in chicken wire and there were
chickens pecking at the old dry straw that covered the rough dirt
floor. A couple barrels of rain water were nearby, old rusty 55 gallon
drums with the tops cut off. An empty one had already been set up
beneath the gutter of the shed's roof. I found a spot for Hub towards
the back left corner and walked him inside, tying his bridle to a
support and set to work removing his pack and saddle.

"I got hay, if he'll eat it." I heard the man's voice and I turned my
head to look at him.

"She." I corrected him lightly. "And she'll eat anything."

I grunted as I pulled the saddle off Hub's back and dropped it a few
feet away, close to the wall. I grabbed the pack and moved it close
too, leaning my M-16 within easy reach as I undid the leather straps.
I grabbed the little shoebox, tied shut with string, and my clothes,
all rolled up and tied as well.

"Here." He'd come back dragging a ragged half bale of green and golden
hay, still fresh it looked like. "I reckon you'll want to sleep out
here tonight, but you don't have to." He was rubbing his chin, like he
was trying to remember his manners. I sat there on my heels looking at
him. "Outhouse around the corner there and uh, there's water too for
washin' yourself up. Drinking water's inside and I got some stew on."

"Thanks." I stood up and he looked at me uncertainly.

"Okay." He seemed to think better of saying anything more and he
turned around, walking through the back door of the armory.

I fed and watered Hub, then took care of myself. Hanging my rifle on a
handy nail and stripping out of the clothes I'd been wearing for the
better part of a week. I washed them first, my trousers and shirt, my
panties and socks, even my hat. I set them aside and went to work
checking myself for bugs. I used my little mirror, a folding compact I
kept in the box with all my other bath stuff, looking around my 5'4"
frame carefully. I frowned a little at the weight I'd lost. I used to
weigh a hundred and thirty, as I recalled, and I'd thought I was fat.
Now I was maybe 105 and my ribs showed beneath my pale skin, my hips
too, if I tilted them just so. I had a tan face and arms and neck,
down to the tops of my breasts, but that was it. The rest of me looked
like a ghost.

I washed myself next, not really wondering too much if anyone was
watching. I couldn't do anything about it if they were, and I needed a
bath. I opened my shoe box and frowned at the little cake of soap. It
was wrapped up in big oak leaf that had been green and soft, but now
it was yellow and brittle. I washed myself thoroughly, front and back
and then my hair. It was a luxury and wasteful, but I needed it. I
looked around and found some rhubarb, tearing off a leaf and wrapping
my little bit of soap back up.

I shaved under my arms for the first time in more than a month, using
short slow strokes since the blade was old and dull. I didn't bother
with my legs, they'd never needed shaving. I more or less shook myself
dry, wiping down my skin and shaking my hands. I bent over scrubbing
at my shoulder length hair, trying to comb my fingers through it. I
brushed my teeth with a bit of baking soda and brushed my hair with my
old hairbrush, frowning and jerking my head against the tangles. By
the time I'd finished that I was dry enough, and hopefully worth a
little more to whoever lived there.

I dressed quickly, putting on the only dry clothes I owned. Heavy
socks and a pair of real dungaree trousers and a man's corduroy shirt.
They were all in good shape and fit me okay, just a little loose. I
fitted my belt through the loops, sliding the leather sheath for my
folding Buck knife so it hung over my left front pocket. I packed my
shoebox and slung my rifle over my shoulder after checking the safety
on. It was just for show now, I was deep in it and I'd been feeling
that funny euphoria of adrenalin since I'd crossed the street an hour
before.

My wet clothes hung over the chicken wire in the shed and I checked
Hub quickly, chiding myself a little for not doing that first. Her
shoes were okay, that was the good thing about traveling open range,
but I'd need to file her hoofs sometime soon. The horse was happy
enough though, and she'd be sleeping soon. I was tired too, although I
wasn't really feeling it right then. I was taking my time, putting off
the inevitable.

I entered slowly, keeping my gun pointed down at my side. It was safed
and I kept my fingers a long way from the trigger. I didn't know who
would be in there, or how many of them. Part of the reason I'd taken
so long was to make sure they were happy about letting me in. They'd
had plenty of chances to do something about it if they weren't.

"Feel better?" It was the same man, standing at a large heavy wooden
table, cutting vegetable it looked like.

The back door led right into a large room that might have been an
office or a classroom once. There was a chalkboard along one wall and
a world map on the other. The opposite wall had a couple open doors
and a homemade fireplace from the looks of it. Shiny aluminum
stovepipe ran up through the ceiling and the hearth wasn't much more
than a slab of concrete with some rocks mortared around it. For all
its ugliness though, the fireplace did seem to work and there was a
blackened pot hanging over the coals and a rich good smell filled my
senses.

"Yeah, I do." I offered him a smile. "I probably look a little better
too, huh?"

He let that go and walked over from the table, wiping his hands on his
pants and then holding the right one out. "I'm John Arcadian"

I took his hand and it was warm and calloused and dry. "I'm Lonnie."

"Just Lonnie?" he smiled too, finally and let go of my hand after a
long count to ten.

"Or Eleanor Fallon, but I'm not much for that." I looked around, not
hiding my curiosity.

"Okay, Lonnie. Uhhh...You don't need that, I don't think." He was
gesturing at my rifle.

"I like to keep it handy." I shrugged. "I'll put it over here.
Alright?" I moved to hang it by its strap on an old brass hook near
the door and John nodded. "Just habit." I said, mostly because he was
quiet and just watching me. "Smells good in here." I walked towards
the fire.

"Making some Mulligan stew there." John walked over too, meeting me
close to the fire and using the handle of a big spoon to lift the lid.
"Little bit of everything in there. I'm making a salad too."

I'd leaned close and the fire was warm. The stew bubbled thickly and
my stomach growled. I looked at the man, sitting back a little, and
rolled my eyes. "I haven't had a decent dinner in awhile."

"Well, there's plenty for the both of us." John was putting the lid
back in place, having given his stew a good long stir.

"Just the two of us?" I looked at him and he looked back.

"What do you mean?"

"Isn't there anyone else here?" I looked around.

"Nope, just me." He looked around too and then corrected himself.
"Just us, I should say."

"Oh." I was a little surprised at that. He hadn't looked like much of
a poker player when he'd come outside to meet me, but it had been a
pretty good bluff.

"Had a few folks here, back at the Turn, but they headed off for
Omaha." He went back to his table and I followed him, finding a sturdy
wooden chair to sit on while he chopped some cucumbers, carrots and
onions.

"Too bad for them." I said, not meaning it to sound as uncaring as it
did. Omaha was a big hole in the ground now, along with about 200
other places I'd never see.

"Yup." He shrugged. "You're the first person come by in, oh...5 or 6
weeks I guess. You said you were passing through." John looked at me.
"Where ya headed?"

I took a little breath and pursed my lips, thinking about it. "I was
thinking Arizona maybe. Try and get into Mexico."

"They're saying Mexico's having a revolution." John was using the
blade of his knife to pull the vegetables into a big plastic bowl.

"Who says?"

"Radio people. I can get the New Republic sometimes, after eight or
so. They said Mexico declared itself neutral and some folks didn't
like it. Bombed el presidente' or some such. Anyway, they took about
ten million people down there." His eyes were gentle, but sad. "I
reckon they might take one more." But he didn't think so and
truthfully, neither did I.

"Well, it isn't like I have a lot of choices." I shrugged and got up
to grab some plates out of a cabinet John was pointing at. It was an
old country cupboard and I found some flatware in one of the drawers.

"So where ya coming from then?"

"Chicago." I shrugged, watching as he tossed our little salad.

"I heard that was gone too." John said.

"Yeah." I looked down at my hands. I hadn't been anywhere near
Chicago, but my parents had lived there.

We ate quietly after that, making small talk about how good the food
was, how the weather had been, that sort of thing. It was almost
normal and I had vague memories of meals like this from before, but
thinking of them only made it worse.

"Starting to rain." I said, standing at his makeshift sink, ladling
water into a large and shallow plastic bowl so I could wash the
dishes. There was thunder in the distance and the sound of rain
pelting against the windows was relaxing.

"The shed's dry enough, might get cold though." John was watching me,
standing against the wall.

I just shrugged, washing the dishes slowly and stacking them on the
table. It was a long metal thing, the sort with folding legs. It would
have been nice to have a real kitchen, I thought, but this wasn't bad.

I glanced over my shoulder a minute later and John was still there.
He'd found a pipe someplace, but it wasn't lit. He just played it
across his teeth while he watched me.

"It's been a long time since I watched a woman doing dishes." He said
softly. "A long time."

"It doesn't hardly make up for you taking me in like this." I said,
choosing my words carefully. "But I do what I can..."

"Nah, it's no big thing."

"...with what I got." I turned from the sink, drying my hands on a bit
of rag that was nearby. I was waiting for him, offering myself if he
wanted me. If he didn't that would be okay too, although it had been
awhile for me too and he was nice enough to look at anyway.

"You want to listen to the radio? See if we can't get some news?" John
asked me and I nodded.

"Is it gonna work in this weather?" I asked him.

"We'll see." He shrugged. "Hell, some days it doesn't want to work
when the sky's crystal clear. I think it's more them than me. Come on
back here..."

I followed him out of the kitchen, around a corner and into what was
obviously his sleeping area. There was a mattress on the floor, made
up with clean bedding. A lot of books and some candles. John lit one
with a wooden match and he gestured at his bed.

"It's the only furniture I got, sorry about that." He offered me an
apologetic smile.

"It's okay," I smiled back and sat down. "Maybe I oughta take off my
boots though."

It was comfortable enough and I wiggled my toes, setting my boots
aside while John played with his radio. There was a lot of static, but
every now and then we could hear a scratchy voice and John patiently
moved the dial back and forth, zeroing in on the weak signal.

"...are set up east of the Mississippi River..."

"There we go." John smiled at me. "We have something tonight." He sat
down next to me, both of us leaning back against the cold cinderblock
wall.

We listened to the news, which was interrupted for a few seconds every
now and again by lightning. It was the first broadcast I'd heard in a
month, maybe longer, but it sounded much the same as I remembered.
Martial law was in effect, the New Republicans had established a
central government in Nashville, food was being rationed. All that
sort of thing which sounded good, but we'd seen no signs of any of it
where we were.

"Six war criminals were executed today for crimes against humanity.
The six were identified as former air force colonel ..." The radio
continued, listing the individuals by name and rank and where they'd
been assigned. What they'd done was obvious.

"Not sure I agree with that." John said, giving me a little look, but
I said nothing. "Hanging people for following orders."

"Would you have done it?" I asked him. The radio had fallen silent
with another crash of thunder. The storm was almost upon us now.

"Pushed the button?" He shrugged. "I don't know, maybe not. That's
what we paid 'em for though. What we trained 'em for. The order comes,
flip the switch, drop the bomb."

"They could have said no." I offered, hugging my knees to my breasts.

"And then what?" He sighed. "Let's get a blanket, huh? It's getting
chilly, in fact...." He hesitated.

"Can I sleep here?" I asked him, feeling very alone suddenly. "With
you?"

"Well, sure." He said slowly, rubbing his jaw. "But you don't have
to..."

"I want to, John." I swallowed hard. "Please? Just hold me for a
little bit, okay?"

"Yeah." He said softly. "I'll do that."

He was shy and tender and gentle, and everything I needed right then.
I wept in his arms and he thought it was because of my family, I
think. And it was. My family and his, and a million others just like
them. I wept for myself mostly though and when I finally fell asleep
the dreams came, as I knew they would, reminding me that I'd once been
Air Force Captain Eleanor Fallon, assigned to the Strategic Air
Command and the missile ranges of North Dakota...and I'd done my job.
Pushed my button, dropped my bomb.

end
rache696@yahoo.com
www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/rache/www/index.htm

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