by David Wayne
“Goodness no. I’m Catholic. I grew up around the Church. Nuns are…sweet,” I said, adding a smile.
“But wouldn’t two people complement one another on such a long road trip? There’ll be plenty of domestic chores, which I’ll be happy to perform. Look at it as payment? What do you say?” she said in the most innocent way possible. I almost caved. Almost.
“Yes, you’re quite right. There’ll be plenty of chores that could be split up,” I said. It was time to nail this issue shut. I felt bad manipulating her, but I’m a trained professional in this sort of thing. I placed my hand on her shoulder, pulled out my best earnest face and heartfelt voice, and said, “I’m sorry, Sister, but Father recommends that I use this time for a spiritual journey, to heal what’s broken in here,” I said, tapping my heart. “I’m sure you understand?” I was startled when she swatted my hand off her shoulder. It actually hurt, and I rubbed my knuckle.
“I’m afraid I do understand. This has nothing to do with the value I bring to the table. This is all about me not sleeping with you on the road, isn’t it?” she said, barely controlling her fury.
That was a curve ball I didn’t expect. “Well… I mean, let me explain. It’s a journey—”
She cut me off with a wave of her hand. “No need to explain or concoct some silly story about a personal journey. I get it. You don’t want to travel with a nun, you want a floozy. I live in a church, Mr. Ryker, not under a rock,” she said. She was all but yelling at me—the woman had a temper streak in her.
This was rolling off course quickly; I needed to get her contained. “Sister, quiet down, and be reasonable here. And quit referring to…that. It’s unnatural or unbecoming or… un-something,” I said.
For a moment, she just stared at me, eyes spewing fire. Suddenly, she appeared to form some type of conclusion and abruptly stood up. I braced myself for a tongue-lashing, praying her verbiage would at least be in context to her station. Being cussed out by a nun was not what I needed right now. But at least I had her controlled and handled; I’d closed the deal.
She unfastened her habit, removing the white wraparound and placing them on the ground beside her. She had several buttons of the black dressing undone before her intent registered in my exhausted noggin.
My God, she was undressing.
Chapter 5
I leaped over and grabbed her hand. “What in heaven’s name are you doing? Put your clothes back on.” I looked around, hoping no one was watching. I wasn’t exactly Mr. Popular around here; people felt I was skipping out on them. It wouldn’t take much for the mob to string me up. They’d write on my tombstone: Here lies a bastard who raped a nun.
“I’ll thank you in advance for removing your hand from mine,” she said, grabbing my wrist and giving it a rough twist, freeing herself from my grip. Smooth move.
“Ouch, that hurt,” I said, shaking my hand. The sister stood there, eyeballing me warily.
“If the price of admission is my flesh, then I have no choice but to pay it. I require safe passage to Atlanta, so I find myself at your mercy. I admit I have no skills in this area, but I’m a quick study. I’m sure I can satisfy your manly lust if that’s what it takes to save my life; it can’t be that complicated. Now, if you will allow me, I will disrobe and offer you whatever pleasures you demand,” she said, like a waitress asking if I wanted fries or potato salad with my cheeseburger.
I was getting pissed. This damn woman— Oops, I can’t say that about a nun, even in my own head. This woman was leveraging me, putting all her chips on the table. Well, if she thought she was going to handle Max Ryker, she had another thing coming.
“All right, Sister, hang on here. Let’s both take a deep breath, sit down, and discuss this like adults, okay? Can we do that?” I asked.
“If you’ll drop the condescending tone and speak to me as an adult rather than a fifteen-year-old child. Can we do that?” she asked.
Training taught me when a direct attack doesn’t work, flank. “Okay, tell you what. Tomorrow, at the Leaders Group meeting, we’ll discuss—”
“Father told me you’d be sneaking out in the morning. He sent me over tonight because he wants us to travel together.”
I frowned and shook my head. “He’s mistaken. I never said I was leaving tomorrow.” I hated lying to a nun. That had to be bad luck.
“Sorry. You can’t fool the father; he’s been reading people like you for over thirty years. I must say, you have an annoying tendency of overestimating yourself, Mr. Ryker. You’re not nearly as slick or deceptive as you presume.”
I didn’t speak the comeback that popped in my head. “Look, is there no one else you can travel with? Check around. I’ve heard plenty of dissention these last couple days,” I said.
“I wish I could say I chose you because you’re the Marlboro Man, but here are my options. A sixty-two-year-old man with a walker, two teenage boys who expect pizza on the trip, and an overweight lesbian who wants to help me overcome my repressed sexual issues. And that leaves you.”
I was getting annoyed. Mr. Marlboro Man, blah, blah, blah. Whatever.
“Shall I disrobe here or in your tent, Mr. Ryker?” This woman was supposed to be a nun, yet she was squeezing my balls like a pro. I had to admit, for a sister, she was a bit of a looker.
“All right, Sister, enough’s enough. If I can take your word there are no other legitimate travel companions, I’ll take you to the next town, at which point I’ll hook you up with like-minded folks, then off I go, on my own. This is not a negotiation; it’s my bottom line.” I crossed my arms and stood my ground, quite firmly, I thought. “What will it be?”
For a brief second, I saw a triumphant smirk cross her face. A millionth of a second long, but I know I saw it. Or maybe it was just a flicker of the fire in the pitch-darkness. It didn’t matter. She had my terms. It was my way or the highway.
“Mr. Ryker, if I can take your word, I accept your offer. Albeit reluctantly and under the pretense that you’re my only option, as it were,” she replied back flatly.
"As it were,” I mimicked under my breath, walking toward my tent. Before entering, I looked back and said, “This train leaves the station at six a.m. sharp. If you’re standing here, packed and ready to go, I’ll take you to the next town. Otherwise, I’m gone.” Compelled to leave things on my terms, I added, “And, Sister, leave your lipstick case at home. You won’t be needing it. Good night.”
As I crawled back in the tent, I got the distinct feeling that Sister Susan had just slapped my ass and sent me on my merry little way. The master smoothie just got handled.
Chapter 6
My eyes popped open at five a.m. Sister wouldn’t be here for over an hour. I had everything packed except for my cheap plastic tent and sleeping bag. I was bringing my go bag, which included fake IDs and passports, domestic and foreign currency, and other items required when on the lam. I probably wouldn’t need it, but who knew? I had a handful of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches pre-made and would eat one as breakfast once I got on the road.
My Catholic guilt was kicking in, and I felt a jolt of it for deceiving the sister. But it’s not like I’d be bumping into her next week at the mall, so I would never have to face the music for ditching her. These were hard times that required hard decisions, and I’d just made one. I didn’t need a high-maintenance travel companion; I was in a fight for my life. The sister could travel with the congregation. As I rolled up my sleeping bag and tiny pillow, the line from that old Marshall Tucker song, “Heard It in a Love Song,” came to mind, and I started singing quietly to myself, “Wish you could come but I don’t need no woman tagging along.” I shoved my loose gear into an old army duffel bag, fighting my way out of the pup tent, while all thoughts of Sister Susan evaporated from my mind.
Until I almost ran smack into her.
“We're in a crisis, and some of us sleep all day. I made breakfast, which is getting cold. I’d like to get an early run of it, Mr. Ryker. I’ll wait over here while you pull yourself t
ogether,” she said.
“What are you doing here, Sister? It’s only five. I said be here at six.”
“Father gave us a few of the remaining eggs and several scoops of coffee, advising me to arrive early because you would slither away, like a snake—my words, not his. I came back at midnight and slept under the tree,” she said, pointing, but I didn’t bother to look. Then she stalked off.
I stared at her back. The aroma of hot coffee brewing and a ready-made breakfast helped to ease my anger. I had to hand it to Father, he was pretty perceptive. I took a deep breath and let out a loud sigh. Then it hit me. My stepfather used to do that at my mother, and it drove me crazy, absolutely buggy. She would bitch, after which he would take a deep breath and then make a long sighing noise. I think you finally accept you’re getting old when you recognize your old man’s traits in yourself. And for all intents and purposes, he was my real father.
We headed north up Old Birmingham Highway, toward the Alabama Hiking Trails. The old pothole-filled road once served as the major artery into the city but had been replaced with a four laner some twenty-years ago. The trees and landscaping were beautiful, but there were no sounds. It felt eerie, like watching television with the volume muted. We saw no one, but we smelled a few as we walked past stalled cars containing stiffies. The Event killed people wherever they happened to be, including in cars on an old highway. As we passed a beat-up truck with the windows down, an awful stench caused my esophagus to burn and eyes to water. I held back a dry retch.
“You need some help, Mr. Ryker?” Sister said, speaking for the first time. “You look sick.”
Noticing she wasn’t physically reacting, I said, “Of course not, I’m fine.” I picked up the pace.
We spotted an old couple sitting on their front porch, staring blankly at nothing. As we approached, they didn’t speak, wave, or even glance in our direction.
“Hi, folks, beautiful day. How are you?” Sister said, as if we were on a morning stroll and the world hadn’t just collapsed.
The old woman briefly glanced our way but didn’t appear to see us. Everything about her was sagging—eyes, mouth, and body. When Sister waved, instead of returning in kind, the woman simply stared past us.
As we approached the two-hour mark, we passed a sign reading Alabama Hiking Trails – 2 Miles. Researching in the public library, I’d stumbled upon a copy of the Hikers Guide to Eastern Alabama. It showed undocumented trails and navigation routes throughout eastern Alabama, with a specific focus on stores and businesses that supported hikers and campers. I expected to find food and supplies in those off-the-grid stores. The ones close to major roads would already be picked clean. The mouth of the trails was a dirt road, leading to an empty graveled parking lot. A semi-rotted wood sign marked the entrance. Welcome – Hiking Trails was etched in dull gold letters that were presumably once bright yellow. I walked toward a picnic table, suggesting we take a brief break. I was out of breath.
“Sure, if you need one,” she said, not out of breath in the least.
I didn’t respond, instead heading directly toward the trails. I set a faster pace, figuring on burning her out, but that never happened. By lunchtime, my legs were aching and she was humming and singing to herself. I stopped, throwing the heavy backpack to the ground, and said, “Let’s do lunch.”
Okay, now was the time of reckoning. I’d been fighting the urge to check Sister out. After accepting myself as a horny bastard, evil and sacrilegious, I made myself a little deal. I’d check out the goods and then respect that she’s a nun and move forward. One good ogle and then never indulge again. Besides, it’s natural to give someone a once-over; I’d do it even if it were a man.
I would be discreet and subtle, of course, but I wasn’t worried. She was a nun, naïve to these matters, and probably wouldn’t realize she was being checked out even if she caught me—which I’d ensure she wouldn’t.
Her habit and religious garb were gone, replaced by shorts, a red-checkered flannel shirt with the buttons undone low. It covered a white undershirt. She wore hiking boots laced tight and, to my surprise, long hair in a tight braid that fell two inches above her belt line. I’d say five five or five six, maybe a hundred thirty pounds, give or take. Thin but athletically built, she was clearly in good physical shape. So, those were the basics now on to the main course.
She had a nice ass, plain and simple. I wished I had a better way to frame it, she was a nun, but I didn’t; that puppy was round and firm. She didn’t have big beasters, nor small bumpies. They were firm, raised high, and wouldn’t be screw-ons. Natural beauty was her dominant feature, more so than any single attribute. No makeup or fancy ribbons in her hair, just a bright, friendly natural face surrounded by a long charcoal mane. The basic girl-next-door look, except next door was a convent. When she smiled, it was sincere and warm. Her sudden conversation broke my assessment of her assets.
“Mr. Ryker, all morning long you’ve avoided looking or talking to me. Apparently, you’re angry and pouting. Now, during this break, you seem resolved to lustfully assess my body, as a patron might admire tomatoes before selecting one. So, have I passed your mental score card? Are my breasts big enough, my rear the right shape, is my hair a half inch too short or too long for your approval?” She mimicked check marks on a score card as she rattled off the list.
The sudden shot across the bow threw me off, but I caught my balance and flung one back. “Sister, are you always so blunt and direct? Don’t they teach subtlety in nun school?”
"There’s no such thing,” she said, frowning at me. “We utilize a process called novitiate.”
The funny thing was, she was standing on a hill, her body cocked sideways, and the angry look didn’t match her crooked body stance; she looked like the scarecrow from Wizard of Oz. I started laughing.
“So now I’m a joke, Mr. Ryker, is that it? A piece of flesh for your eyeballs to enjoy and a joke for a man’s belly laugh? Be advised, I intend to dump you for the next competent companion I can find, which I’m hoping is quickly.” She started unpacking some things, apparently fixing lunch.
After slamming around for a few moments, she addressed me again. “I’m preparing some food, Your Highness. Do you have a request? I have potted meat with ketchup and potted meat with mustard, all at His Excellency’s pleasure,” she stated and then did a curtsy.
Rising above the rhetoric, I said, “I’m fine, thank you very kindly. I have a little lunch already prepared.” I then began munching out, deciding to ignore the pointless taunts from the woman. She had a submissive complex. I never acted like a king. I checked out her ass. So what? Get over it. Then I noticed storm clouds blowing in. Shoot, it was going to pour a doozy. I slammed the sandwich and began immediately building a lean-to, facing opposite the direction of the storm.
She attacked. “Sorry, fella, it’s a little early for this girl to quit. Why don’t we just take it nice and slow for you and log some more miles?”
When I was a kid, my leg was almost severed in a car accident. Ever since then, whenever wet weather was blowing in, my leg ached—and right now it was screaming. “A big storm’s on its way, and we need cover, and we need it quick,” I said.
She frowned at me. “Well, let’s trudge on through the rain, shall we? We’re not made of sugar, so we won’t melt.”
I stopped building and faced her. “You aren’t hearing me. We have to take shelter. We’re already caught with our pants down, but we’ll be okay if we move quickly,” I said, collecting what was at hand to build a basic shelter, which wasn’t much.
“Caught with our pants down. It’s always sex-based analogies for you, Mr. Ryker, isn’t it?”
She had persisted with her irritating habits of calling me Mr. Ryker and pouncing on everything I said as being crude, suggestive, or otherwise inappropriate. I was over her, big-time. But this storm had me worried, very worried. Alabama could have severe gushers; flash floods had killed many unsuspecting souls in these parts. I was going to make su
re we weren’t one of them.
“Sister Susan, this is very serious. Please, give me a hand.”
My use of her full name, and the sudden burst of lightning, seemed to pop her anger bubble—and for the first time, she took in the blackish-grey clouds. Moments ago, the air was hot and humid—now it blew cold and chilly. A flock of crows scattered from the treetops, cawing loudly as they flew opposite the storm.
Finally, she said what was written across her face. “Max, we better hurry.”
Chapter 7
We built a basic lean-to against the hill, facing opposite the storm. It would shield us to some extent, at least against the most severe wind bursts. Given the short amount of time and lack of proper materials, our little make-do covering wasn’t very sturdy—and wouldn’t withstand much abuse. We used her tent as a tarp and set my pup tent underneath it, trying for belt-and-suspenders protection.
The rest of the day and into the night, rain pounded in heavy sheets—severe gusts of wind challenging our covering. Lightning bursts filled the sky like Roman candles. Building against the side of a bluff did minimize wind, but water gushed down the hill and into our tent like a mini-river. We dug shallow trenches to divert the water, but they filled quickly, and water poured in anyway, the cheap polyester fabric doing nothing to protect us. If conditions weren’t so miserable, I would have laughed at the ink-smeared label sewn into the tent base: Water-Repellent Material.
We had to go out every fifteen minutes and push the roof tarp up, as it filled with water and sagged heavily in the middle. During one such excursion, lightning struck a nearby tree, not fifteen feet from us, setting it ablaze. The static electricity from the bolt ran through our bodies, causing Sister's hair to stand up at least two inches—it became all frizzy. I would have made a joke except I thought I was having a heart attack. My right hand got slightly burnt, and my left arm tingled for over an hour. Not very funny.