A Brave New World: War's End, #2

by Christine D. Shuck

  He had been silent in his approach. Standing this close, she realized he was nearly half a foot taller, “When did that happen?” she asked herself. Damn it but he was close; mere inches separated them.

  “Maybe we should talk about this...” she began to say to him, her body beginning to thrum.

  “Mm hm,” was his only reply. He pulled her against him gently, sought out her soft lips in the darkness, and kissed her. Unlike their first kiss, there was no question in this one. Their tongues met, entwined, teased, and intensified.

  She made one more attempt, “The kids, they might wake up.” She felt annoyance, not at David, but at herself for even mentioning the kids. It wasn’t what she was worried about, not really. By this time they had somehow made their way inside of the bedroom. He closed the door firmly and quietly behind them and pulled Jess close to his body.

  He threaded his fingers through her soft, blond curls. She had cut it short just the one time, before their journey back to Belton. Ever since she had let it grow long, only trimming the rough split ends away, and it was now past her back, a riot of curls and waves.

  He leaned into the curve of her neck, whispering against her skin, “This has nothing to do with the kids. This is between you and me. The kids will be fine out there.”

  Before she could protest any further he pulled her down onto the bed and covered her mouth with his. She found her hands moving along his body, pulling at his shirt, sliding her hands along his ribs. Clothing melted away, her shirt tossed over there, a shoe clattered to the floor. His tongue and mouth moving along her neck, down to her breasts, sliding a hand into the hem of her pants. She stiffened, almost imperceptibly, but he felt it.

  He stopped, his voice was soft in her ear, “I love you, Jessie, and I would never hurt you. You know that, right?”

  She nodded, unable to trust her voice; the fear and memories had just hit her and then, just as quickly, passed through her. And a few moments later, the unexpected pleasure of lovemaking, not just sex, was mind-blowing. For years she had avoided men, avoided the thought of ever being close to another. But this, this was physical love, with someone she had spent the last ten years living and working next to. It was familiar, yet completely new, and she hadn’t felt anything like it before.

  Tears followed. There were so many tears that he became confused and worried he had frightened or hurt her, until she told him that she loved him too. He held her then, covered her with a quilt and pulled her close to his body until she stopped crying and fell asleep in his arms. It was now that he could see so clearly the horror that she had experienced in the enemy camp those ten years past. Nothing could erase those memories, and he knew there had been no one since, no man to show her any different. He fell asleep that way, holding her close, listening to her soft breathing.

  David was having an amazing dream; more of a fantasy, really. In it, Jess was running her mouth and tongue along his neck, stroking his chest.

  “Wake up.” He opened his eyes and saw her above him in the gloom, her hands on his chest. She nibbled his fingers and smiled at him in the dim moonlight, “I promise I won’t cry this time.”

  They made love again, her body writhing in pleasure beneath his. His heart was racing and her body, dear lord, it felt so good to be inside her. He held her close afterwards, their bodies wrapped around each other, legs and arms entangled.

  “David?”

  “Mm?” he had been slipping back into sleep again.

  “Is this...” Jess’s voice faltered, “Is this for real?”

  “God, I hope so,” David laughed, nuzzling her neck, kissing her shoulder lightly.

  Jess squirmed a little; his face was scratchy and it tickled a little.

  “How long have you, I mean, have you felt this way for me for a while?”

  “The last year, give or take a few months,” he said, kissing her again.

  “How did I not notice?” her tone was tinged with wonder and exasperation.

  He shrugged, “I did my best to hide it. I figured you wouldn’t take me seriously.”

  Jess laughed, “Wow. If that’s what I’ve been missing out on for the past year, I...I don’t know what to say.”

  “You don’t need to say anything.” And he leaned over and kissed her again, his hands caressing her body. “Not a single thing.” Their lips met in the dark and after that there were no more words until morning.

  Dark Horse Riding

  “Betrayal is the only truth that sticks.” – Arthur Miller

  Delwen rolled over, leaning away from Heimdall, and reached for the half-smoked joint. She struck a match and lit it. She had to pull hard on it; the weed was still a bit wet, the taste harsh. They had started growing the plants a few years ago. They had the slaves tend it, along with working the meth lab, and Amerika Reborn had a decent “honest” income going now that the Reformation was spreading.

  The Reformation, however, was a double-edged sword. With a return to normal life, or some semblance of normalcy, the demand for drugs that Amerika Reborn had become so good at supplying had begun to climb. However, the ways in which they produced the products, namely using the slaves, was beginning to garner the wrong sort of attention. The raids, something that had diminished significantly in the last year as more and more of the localities began to solidify their loyalties with the Allied South, were also attracting the wrong sort of attention from militias and local governments re-forming to the east. The group had begun as a few remnants of military units in the region and slowly evolved into a large governmental unit with tentacles in nearly all of the larger towns and cities that stretched through Louisiana, Arkansas, Mississippi, Alabama, Georgia, South Carolina, and the eastern edge of Texas.

  Soon Amerika Reborn would have to give up the slaves and possibly move to a different part of the country if things continued on their current trend. It wasn’t time to close up shop though; the demand for drugs was higher than it had ever been before. It seemed like everyone needed an escape from reality at some time or another.

  Heimdall’s acne had faded over the past ten years, but the scars remained. So, it seemed, had his lovesick obsession for her. He’d had it bad since they were kids, always following after her, with his greasy, lank blond hair, the occasional whopper of a bruise from his volatile alcoholic mother, always volunteering to go on guard duty with her.

  When she had first pulled him aside in the woods after a mission a few months ago he had been surprised, but responsive. He wasn’t a bad lay, she mused; he had been attentive to her needs, something that Cooper never was, and had kept his mouth shut about it, something she needed him to do until the time was right. When the first encounter hadn’t produced the desired outcome, she had pulled him aside again.

  Later, she had done it for fun, even after she was sure. Getting pregnant was her insurance policy—and finding a guy like Heimdall, all muscle, not much brains, was essential.

  Delwen’s father, Sulwyn, had made a big mistake. Despite all of her hard work, her dedication to proving to her father that she could lead, he had given the reins of power to Cooper. But that was about to change, for Sulwyn and Cooper both.

  While Scott Cooper had never truly liked her, or even trusted her, over the years she had learned to read him better than anyone. Delwen knew he was planning something, and it probably had to do with taking Sulwyn out of power...permanently. Cooper wasn’t the type to take orders. From what he said of his time with the Western Front, he had made a determined and calculated effort to kill his way to the top, and she knew it was just a matter of time before he took her old man out, and probably her as well.

  Delwen had her own ideas about who should be in charge—and after years of being ignored or marginalized by her father, just because she had breasts and baby-making equipment instead a dick and balls—well; it was time for a change. She smiled to herself, her homely face curving. Sulwyn had made a big mistake underestimating her. So had Cooper, for that matter. And she was nearly ready to give them
both what they so richly deserved. Just a month more and she would enter into her second trimester. Her father would be dead. Cooper would either be dead or on the run, and she would hold the scepter of power in her hands.

  Heimdall reached his hand out and caressed her hip. His hand was rough with callouses, but he had a gentle touch. Delwen handed him the joint and was about to reciprocate when there was a scratch at the door.

  “Shit!” she whispered, grabbing for her clothes. They had used Heimdall’s cabin for their tryst, and she felt stupid for allowing herself to relax. Who could have followed them? Was it Cooper? Or one of Sulwyn’s cronies?

  Behind her, Heimdall stubbed out the joint and was hurriedly pulling on a pair of pants. He went to the door first, easing it open, and then opened it all of the way to the person standing on the other side. It turned out to be Sully, Delwen’s six year old daughter, looking every inch of her father. She was a pretty girl, with ice blue eyes and black hair, just like Cooper.

  The girl was quiet, reserved, her intelligence kept hidden from most. With neither of her parents particularly interested in her, she had naturally gravitated toward her grandfather, Sulwyn, after Camelia had died in the outbreak of dysentery that had halved the ranks of Amerika Reborn four months ago. Camelia had become nursemaid to Sully a few months after her birth, just as Camelia was weaning Armando. Delwen hadn’t had enough patience to nurse for long, and with no formula, there hadn’t been any other real option. Long after the child was weaned, Sully had stuck close, as if sensing that Camelia cared more for her than her own parents did.

  Camelia had found it ironic, the similarities between the two children, who were, after all, half-siblings. They were the only children in the camp and Armando and Sully did everything together, something that was often frowned upon by the Amerika Reborn leaders, yet no one challenged it, no one wanted to take care of a small child. But it had all changed when Camelia died.

  Delwen and others blamed the Hispanic woman for the disease, despite the fact that several members of the AR had sickened first, and inevitably transmitted the dysentery to their one and only doctor. Alenoush, who had studied for several years under Camelia, had gotten sick as well and died just two days after the Hispanic woman, leaving no one with any medical knowledge. The Reformation’s tentacles were spreading, though, and the group hadn’t had any major illnesses since the dysentery’s spread had been halted. There was a town a few miles away that still turned a blind eye to the group’s unsavory aspects—in no small part thanks to the mayor and his ‘town council,’ who were happy to indulge in the AR’s samples of meth and weed. They had a doctor available if the AR suffered another medical emergency.

  Sully had missed Camelia deeply, but she said nothing; even at the age of six she could see the way of things. She feared her father, avoided her mother whenever possible, but had found a small measure of kindness from her grandfather Sulwyn. She stood at the doorway, understanding on a level that belied her years that her mother was engaged in something she wished hidden.

  “Grandpa is looking for you,” she told her mother, staring at the dirty wood floor of the cabin.

  Delwen nodded to her daughter, “Go to the woods out back, stay there, and pick some of them greens. Don’t come back until you have a good armful. If anyone asks, I was there picking and gave ’em to you to take over.” She said it tersely, and stared at the girl until she nodded and ran toward the woods.

  After the girl disappeared, Delwen shut the door, finished dressing and grabbed a handful of mint from a patch growing near the cabin to chew on and stuff in her pockets. It wouldn’t do for Sulwyn to smell either of her two sins on her.

  He knew what a bastard Cooper was, but had told her many times over the years, “You made your bed girl, now you are going to damn well lie in it.”

  Having an affair with Heimdall, no matter how careful they were or how uninterested Cooper was in her (he hadn’t slept with her in well over two years), was simply unacceptable in her father’s eyes. And as for the weed, her old man thought it was all well and fine for others, for the “weak” ones to do that. But heaven help her if he caught her at it. Her mother had been a crack whore on the avenues. Sulwyn reminded her of it time and again.

  “She was weak and stupid and wanton, and I did what I could to save her from herself.”

  Her mother had died when Delwen was a baby, long before she had held the name Delwen Kingmaker.

  When she arrived at the central cabin, a large meeting room that doubled as their communal dining area, she watched the old man carefully. He had sent the one lone guard away and he was looking bad, sipping at the tea she had begun lacing with belladonna months ago, his skin pale and sweaty, his pupils large. He blinked when the door opened, letting in a surge of light, and turned away. The light hurt his eyes and Delwen couldn’t help but smile; he was steadily worsening.

  Sulwyn was alone in the dark room. He barely glanced her way when she shut the door behind her and advanced toward her father. The older man’s hand shook as he waved her closer.

  “You kept me waiting a bit, girl; where were you anyway?” His speech was slurred, and he compulsively licked his lips.

  “Pickin’ greens, sir,” she answered him promptly, in the way he expected her to. He lifted the cup of tea. It settled his nerves, at least for a while, which seemed shot these days. He hated watching his fingers shake, the cup slopping liquid out as he brought it unsteadily to his lips. It seemed to him as if he was always thirsty these days, and tired, so tired. The dreams were the worst, waking nightmares of the Collapse but different. Instead of human beings, the military were actually monsters, hiding in their uniforms, pretending to be saviors and instead eating their victims alive.

  “I need that damned slave woman to come attend me,” he said, slurping at the tea and trying to ignore the stabbing pain in his head.

  Delwen wondered if she had made the last batch too strong—Sulwyn was degrading fast.

  “Camelia?” she said and tried to think fast, “She’s off with Cooper on a raid, don’t you remember?” Now was not the time to remind him that the Spic had been dead for months.

  Her old man blinked, confusion filling his haggard face, “A raid?”

  “Yessir, you said Cooper couldn’t be trusted and neither could that colored woman, so you sent them both off on a raid. You said Cooper wanted to kill you, remember?”

  His jaw was slack, his eyes confused, and he reached up one hand to his head. Everything was so confusing these days, like some kind of waking nightmare. Delwen looked at her father and realized it was now or never; he was suffering deeply from the effects of the drug, and he was now susceptible to her influence as he never would have been otherwise. She knelt down beside him and began to whisper quietly in her father’s ear.

  Painting Disappointment

  “I know he loves me, but this pain is mine. It’s mine to keep, mine to bear. If I cannot bear his children, at least I can bear the brief memories of their existence, their time inside of me. They are the faces I see on the canvas. Chris doesn’t understand why I paint. It’s to remember them. How they would have been, how they come to me in dreams. I will never get to hold them, never hear them say they love me or watch them grow up. The paintings are all I have of them.” – Carrie’s Journal

  It was her weeping that woke him. Muffled sobs in the dark. Chris fumbled for a candle and matches. Back at the main house there were solar panels and a Bloom box, signs that the Reformation was slowly trickling into the backwater towns. As the town doctor Liza had qualified for the latest in gadgets that were making their way from the East Coast, but here in the old homestead they were roughing it. The simple four-room stone structure had been steadily rebuilt over the past five years. After Liza and Carl had married and began having babies, it was easier on all involved for Carrie and Chris to make the old homestead their home.

  After all, they didn’t need as much room. In all, they had suffered four late-term miscarriages and coun
tless others earlier on. It had left Carrie devastated, and she grew thinner and frailer with each failed pregnancy. Liza and Carl’s two oldest children, Molly Ann and John Fenton, absolutely adored their Auntie Carrie, which made seeing them even harder on her. Chris could see it in the tight line of a smile and stiffness in her shoulders; even as she opened her arms and let them barrel into her. How she wanted just one to call her own.

  She hadn’t argued at all when Chris first suggested rebuilding the old homestead in the woods. It had been Fenton’s childhood home. The old man had looked positively touched when Chris first asked him for permission to rebuild, and eventually add on, to the crumbling ruin. The plan had been simple—just one bedroom, a kitchen, bathroom, and living/dining area. It followed the original plan of the building and included a loft, which had been semi-private, open to the living room below. The loft area had been Fenton’s, but now it was a place for Carrie to write and paint in. A large bank of windows, different from the original design of the house, allowed plenty of natural light in. She had taken up the writing and painting after her second miscarriage nine years ago. It seemed to help distract her and ease the pain and loss.

  Chris fumbled over the matches and struck one, lighting the lantern by the bed. “Baby? You okay?” His voice cracked and his eyes were still encrusted with sleep. Outside the darkness was absolute. He picked up the lantern and headed for the tiny bathroom. Inside it, Carrie had pulled off her nightgown, and large blotch of red stained it. “Oh, Carrie, I...”

  Carrie’s voice was strained, “Please don’t say it, Chris. Don’t say anything. Okay?”