Incest/Taboo Going Home

This is likely to be viewed as a return to my darker side - it certainly turned out much differently than I initially conceived it. I will be keenly interested in your feedback. As always, it is a work of fiction and all characters exist only within the confines of the story and my head. Enjoy!

The doorman cradled a sawed-off double barrel in his arms, swinging it my way as I approached the entrance. His eyes swept warily over me, not liking what he was seeing -- not the least being, I was armed...heavily armed and that he was assuming -- quite correctly -- that I was new in town. The rusty and begrimed barrels swung in my direction. "You got money?" he said in a gruff voice.

I nodded and slowly reached into a haversack on my shoulder. Just as slowly, I pulled out a can of beans -- the label still un-faded and clean. His eyes went wide as I said, "I have more than just one."

He nodded as he lowered the shotgun, saying with a little more respect. "No trouble now...we run a nice, respectable place here." I nodded, feeling his eyes on me as I went through the entrance, down a long dark corridor and emerged into a dim, smoke-filled room where in front of me a woman was bent over a table and a large, fat man was angrily thrusting his erect cock into her cunt. She was moaning in response, though if it was pleasure or pain, I couldn't tell.

The part of me that hadn't been with a woman since last winter on the high plains of Wyoming roamed appreciatively over the parts of her I could see -- large, meaty breasts flattening out against the dirty surface of the table and long, well shaped legs and the moons of a firm ass. I tore my gaze away from the exhibition and focused on reconnoitering the room.

Most of the room's light came from dozens of rows of old Christmas lights that spelled out the words, "The Step Right Inn" hanging on the wall above the long, authentic bar that ran along the far wall. Behind the bar was maybe the greasiest man I'd ever seen -- his very skin seemed to gleam and his hair almost seemed to drip with grease. He had it combed back into what my granddaddy would have called a "D.A." He frowned at me as he cleaned a glass with a rag almost as dirty as he was.

Several men were scattered about the room -- sitting two and three at a table. In the corner I would have liked to have placed myself -- the one with the best field of fire and sitting in shadow, smoke emerged and the glint off something metal, like a shirt button or the end of a pistol barrel. I opted for the best table I could find against a wall and no one sitting closer than five feet away. Still too close for comfort, but one doesn't always get one's way.

The bartender stared sullenly at me for a moment, apparently disappointed that I didn't come to the bar. Some of the crowd stared my way for a bit, but then turned back to their own business or eyed the couple fucking with a mix of amusement and envy. The woman's face was shrouded by thick and tangled locks of peppered hair. Her ragged fingernails clawed the tabletop as she moaned while the fat man sweated profusely -- his anger replaced by a blissful, almost idiotic look on his face.

To spur some service, I reached into my haversack again...moving slowly, and drew out that can of beans again and then a larger one of sweet potatoes. The bartender's eyes widened but he made no move to come take my order. Instead he turned and glowered at the couple fucking, finally yelling in a high pitched voice, "Goddammit, bitch -- make that dumb farmer cum already. You got customers to wait on!"

Several of the other men in the room chuckled at that, their laughter abruptly stopping as a deep, edgy voice rumbled from the shadowed corner, "Get your own ass in gear, Howard. You're making a paying customer wait and the bitch has two more to take care of after Wilbur there. Besides...you know how much Alice looks forward to Wilbur's big cock each month -- don't be hurrying her."

Greasy Howard paled at the man's words and scurried around the bar and came to me. "Whatcha want?" he said, his hand hesitantly reaching out for the cans and then pulling back.

"Whiskey if you have it and food -- cooked and clean," I replied.

"We got moonshine up from Tennessee -- smooth stuff," he replied, "And we make a mean rabbit stew -- raise 'em right out back," Howard replied. He turned and looked at the shadows, "Got beans and sweet taters, Boss," he said. He raised a hand and I heard the calm tick of a hand held Geiger counter. "They's clean, too."

The dark voice seemed to mellow as he said, "Pays for all the whiskey you can drink tonight and supper and breakfast. You got another clean can -- you can have a woman for the evening too...all to yourself."

I nodded and pushed the cans towards Howard and said, "Fair deal on this...I'll think awhile on the woman." I heard a grunt of assent from the shadows and the bartender scooped the cans up and hurried away. He came back in a moment with a dirty glass filled with an almost clear liquid. After I took a sip, I wasn't worried about the dirt -- nothing was going to live in that white lightning.

While I waited for my food, the fat man -- Wilbur began huffing and puffing -- increasing his thrusts while the woman keened with what sounded to me like pleasure. Certainly, she was now thrusting back to meet his cock. Several men began betting on how long it would take him to cum. I felt a tightening in my pants as my own cock began responding to the woman's deep moans. Something in her plaintive and clearly carnal moans touched me in a way I couldn't define. The table began scraping along the floor as the fat farmer really began throwing his meat into the woman's pussy and then both screamed as he began to cum and she threw her head back, hair still covering most of her face, but unable to conceal the sneer of pleasure on her lips.

Several of the other men clapped or slapped their tables with their palms and a few chinks of metal -- mostly bullets were passed to an older man who grinned and held them up to the shadows across from me. A minute or two went by before Farmer Wilbur stepped back, making the woman groan as he withdrew what turned out to be a sizable chunk of flesh from her pussy with a very audible noise of sucking wetness -- his slowly shrinking shaft dripping with their combined juices. A minute more and the woman staggered up and wobbled to the bar -- moving with slightly bowlegged movements and I imagined that Wilbur's big dick wasn't the first she'd had today or would be the last.

She took a sip from a glass offered by Howard and then wiping her mouth, turned and gazed around the room through thick strands of black and gray hair, displaying unashamedly, a mature and fine looking body to everyone in the bar. Large, pendulous breasts hung with some sagging on her chest -- thick nipples protruding prominently from wide aureoles. Her stomach revealed some age -- a few faint stretch marks over a mostly flat stomach -- showing off that small pooch that most women never shake after childbirth. Nice legs traveled upwards to end in a thick patch of black bush, currently split wide by swollen labia -- Wilbur's seed spattered and leaking from her spread open pussy. My cock lurched in my pants and I began to consider that maybe I could spare a can of food after all. She was a bit dirty -- like everyone here, including me, a bath would have done her good. Her hair was a mare's nest of tangles, hanging down over her face, obscuring her looks. And again, something about her seemed to speak to something deep within me.

"Nick's next, bitch," the voice in the shadows barked, making her jump slightly.

She nodded and in a voice almost too soft to be heard, replied, "Yes, Master." The woman walked to the table where the old man who'd won the bet was waiting, his cock already out. "How may I please you?" she murmured...both dread and anticipation in her voice.

"I'd appreciate a good blowjob," the old man said, his voice rising with excitement. The woman nodded and slowly went to her knees and with movements born of long experience took him into her mouth -- slowly and luxuriously began to suck his semi-erect penis. They were both in profile to me and I inwardly groaned as I leaned more and more towards giving up another can of my precious supply.

Even as my attention was mostly on the woman, I sensed movement from the shadows and out of the darkness emerged a lean, tall man with black hair and a wild, black beard. He was wearing biker's leathers over a T-shirt and jeans, a length of chain wrapped around his waist that didn't appear to be for looks and a holstered Glock automatic on his hip. He moved my way like a cat easing up on his prey. Unlike the rest of the men in the room, he was relatively clean.

"You look like a man that appreciates a fine piece of pussy," he said, a toothy grin splitting his beard. "Mind if I join you?"

I gestured towards another chair at my table, willing myself to relax even as I studied him for any sign of trouble. That's simply become a normal survival trait these last few years. He looked towards the woman on her knees, her heavy breasts moving ever so slightly as her head bobbed up and down on what was now a proud erection. The old man's face resembled the blissful look of Farmer Wilbur. The black bearded man sighed appreciatively and said, "Ayup, that bitch of mine is one fine fuck and she can about suck the life from a man. She's a natural born whore." He turned his gaze back on mine. "Offer still goes -- you want a woman all night -- cost you just a can of food. You can even have Alice there if you don't mind your pussy a mite used."

I smiled and said, "Is that her name, Alice?"

He laughed harshly and said, "Hell no, I don't bother remembering my bitches names -- they's all Alice to me...well, excepting one." He winked and said, "I got one that's special...maybe you'll see her before the evening's out."

"Oh yeah? How much for the special one?"

He snorted and said, "More than you can afford, stranger...less'n you want to part with that artillery there," gesturing towards the rifle slung over my shoulder -- one quick movement from resting in my arm and dealing more destruction than these folk could dream. "That's one of those M-142s, ain't it? I got checked out on them when I was in the Army."

"Yeah, it is and no, I'm not looking to part with it. Maybe I'll just settle for Alice there," I replied. The older woman was now slowly deep-throating the old's man's cock, making him giggle like a kid as she tickled his dick with her tonsils.

"Well, no harm in asking," the black bearded man replied, looking wistfully at my rifle. "So was you Army?"

I shook my head and replied, "Navy."

His eyebrows went up. "Oh yeah? Where was you when it all went to hell?"

I sighed and said, "On a sub off the coast of China. The USS George Custer...a missile boat." Memories of our boat shuddering as each of its twenty-four MIRV missiles launched -- likely doing nothing more than adding millions more to the millions, maybe billions already dead, flashed through my mind -- Commander Vance's face pale and drawn as he ordered each missile's launch.

"Goddamn -- reckon you did your part then." I wasn't sure if that was a compliment or an accusation. "So, do you know who started the whole clusterfuck?"

Shaking my head, I replied, "Not really. We got intelligence that it was Pakistan and India exchanging nukes and then Iran and Israel blew each other to hell and then maybe either the Russians or the Chinese got nervous and said, 'What the fuck,' and took out our eastern seaboard. After that, it was just a race to see who could hit the other guys the hardest."

"And after," the black bearded man asked, leaning in, eyes full of interest.

I shrugged. "We went silent and deep for a long time during the long winter as per orders. We had to sink three other subs that attacked us...a Russian for sure, a Chinese sub maybe and what we thought was a French submarine. It was almost two years later we made radio contact with the R.U.S."

"H'mmph. I heard about that so called "Reconstituted United States." You think they're for real?" His eyes gleamed, anxious for knowledge.

"Yeah -- they have control of the West Coast from Northern Mexico up past British Columbia and west into Idaho. Doubt if they get this far for decades though."

He nodded, satisfied. "You come out from there?"

"Yeah, Seattle. Five us started out together after we were discharged -- all of us wanting to find family." I sighed. "Been working our way east for nearly two years."

Black Beard squinted and glanced around. "Is there more of you?" He tensed a little.

I shook my head and replied, "Not anymore. Tomas died of a strange fever -- ugly, bleeding black boils erupting all over his skin, the fever burning his brain out -- he was singing nursery school songs at the end. We burned his body on the plains of Nebraska as a mixed herd cattle and buffalo watched us."

Black Beard grunted and said, "Yeah, they call it Black Betty -- some said it was a souped-up version of that Bubonic Plague."

"We lost Luchessi in a firefight with a raider gang near Sioux City. They got Luchessi at the outset when we walked into their ambush...afterwards, we left none alive. We didn't want to after we saw evidence that among their other sins, they'd reverted to cannibalism." My table guest frowned at that.

"Understand -- we weren't walking the land as heroes meting out justice like some fucking movie. We tried to follow the credo live and let live. We...I saw a lot of things that made my blood boil -- abuse and Ra*e and slavery..." I glanced over at the woman on her knees -- the old man's prominent adam's apple bobbing as he was approaching his climax. "But, it aint the old world, is it? We were all just trying to get home -- find our families." The dark man nodded and relaxed a bit.

"Winer committed suicide when we reached the remains of Saint Paul -- just shucked his gear and jumped off a bluff into the Mississippi River. We'd known what we'd find -- folks along the way had told us the mushroom clouds had sprouted over Minneapolis-Saint Paul, but Winer insisted he'd find his family -- his eyes getting crazier ever day we got closer until the truth reared up to bite him on the ass.

"I said goodbye to Nate Rafelson on the banks of the Wabash River -- up north of here. I planned to follow it south to home and he was going north into Ohio before striking further east towards Pittsburgh. I reckon I'll never see him again." I stopped then, not telling the black bearded fellow about giving Nate a copy of the directions to Vance's old vacation retreat and telling him I'd see him there hopefully in a year or two.

We'd shook hands, Nate and I -- knowing we'd likely never see each other again. Parting from that tall, lean African American was tough -- of all our party, he'd been the most level-headed and reliable. After over a year and half on the road, I knew how to survive...with a little bit of luck, but I did miss my old crewmate and friend watching my back.

"Goddamn, that's sure as hell something...walking all the way here to southern Indiana from Seattle," he said, sliding his chair back and standing up. "Hell, I'm gonna let you have Alice there for free tonight! Least I can do for a serviceman."

We both turned to look at Alice as we heard her gobbling as the old man began to moan. A long string of jism dribbled from her mouth as he shot his load -- her throat working to swallow his sperm. She rose up as he finished, the dribble of semen running down her chin to splatter on her huge breasts -- nipples swollen like fat, ripe cherries ready to burst. Again, I felt my cock throb achingly between my legs.

I looked up at the black bearded man and held out a can of tuna I'd palmed during our talk. "I appreciate that, but I like to pay my own way."

He didn't take offense at my words -- instead he seemed to be on the verge of drooling as he eyed the still fresh looking can of fish meat. He reached out and took it from me, his hand trembling slightly. "Fuck me...for that you can have Alice all night long and tomorrow night too. I'll even have her take a bath first, get all the filth and jism off of her."

The can disappeared into a vest pocket and he grinned down at me. He held out his hand and said, "Stranger, what be your name?"

I took his hand and we both demonstrated we could give and take a hard squeeze. "I'm John," I replied.

"Pleased to meet you, John. I'm Tom...Tom Johnson, but most folks call me Black Tom." I tried not to tense up at the name, but I reckon my eyes betrayed me or maybe my grip tightened up a bit too much. He grinned and said, "You heard of me?"

As he released my hand, I replied. "Been hearing about Black Tom for weeks now. They say you rule everything around these parts."

Black Tom rolled his eyes and said, "Well, maybe everything between what used to be Louisville and Cincinnati -- they're both just burned out ruins now. Mostly folks just know not to fuck with Black Tom. Remember that and we'll get along fine." He took pride in saying the words, you could tell he liked saying them, but it was also a warning to me.

Very evenly, without a trace of hate in my voice, I replied, "I'm sure we'll get along just fine, Black Tom."

We smiled at each other like two predatory sharks in the water and he nodded again and moved off, pausing to reach down and jerk Alice to her feet by her hair and whisper something to her. She turned her head my way and then whispered something back and then slowly shuffled towards a door behind the bar her voluptuous ass swinging enticingly while Black Tom bellowed at his bartender, "Go get Alice -- we still owe Chicken Al a fuck!"

A middle aged fellow with streaked denim overalls turned at his name and grinned toothlessly at Black Tom while Howard looked at his boss with confusion for a moment, glancing at Alice as she passed by him before asking, "Um, which Alice, Boss?"

Black Tom picked an empty glass off a table and slung it at Howard, narrowly missing him and snapped back, "Fuck, I don't care -- a cunt is a cunt -- get Red-headed Alice off her ass." Howard scurried out of the room while Black Tom joined another group of men and began playing cards.

In a few minutes, a skinny young red-headed woman, naked as the day she was born, except for a pair of fire-engine red high heeled shoes, strutted out into the room and after being pointed towards Chicken Al, proceeded to go over and skin his dungarees off and mount his small erect cock. She was loud and vocal and unlike the earlier Alice, not completely convincing.

Time passed. Howard brought me a large bowl of stew with some actually tasty meat and some vegetables floating in the thick broth, accompanied by a bowl of home-made biscuits. It was all I could do to not eat it greedily, savoring each bite and watching for signs of being tampered with. No matter what else might happen, I was glad it wasn't...it was the best meal I'd had since my friends and I had wintered in Eastern Wyoming in a village of folk that claimed to be a mix of Cheyenne and Sioux -- led by a black man who called himself Crazy Horse II. That had seemed so long ago, before Tomas had gotten ill and we'd lost him and Winer and Luchessi. It was hard to imagine that it had only been about eighteen months or so.

People, all men came and went -- I gathered that most were locals who came to barter goods with Black Tom, some taking alcohol, others trading for sex or gambling capital. Over the next hour or so -- a few more Alices emerged from the back -- one was older than the first Alice -- short, brown hair and skinnier than the redhead. Another was a short, chunky girl -- maybe eighteen or nineteen -- about as old as my sister would be now if she was alive, with eyes that looked ten times as old.

My heart ached to think about Pammy -- a bright, pretty teenager-- looking forward to high school when she and my folks had seen me off at the beginning of what was my last cruise.

"Hey sugar, looking for a good time?" I looked up to see a naked black woman swaying slowly in front of me, dancing to some unheard music, an intelligent fire in her eyes. Large pert breasts bounced slightly and her long, lithe and muscled body almost gleamed with health, despite several scars on her shoulders and arms. She looked to be in her mid twenties and reminded me of a singer who'd been popular before it all went to hell.

"Knock it off, Alice," roared Black Tom. "I done got Alice soaking in a tub for him. Go peddle that black ass elsewhere."

Alice nodded and said back, "Yes, master!" She turned back to me and said, "Oh baby, you got THE Alice tonight...that gal can outfuck anything on the planet" She wrinkled her nose at me and laughed as she strutted away. "You are one lucky motherfucker!"

In a bit, Black Tom strolled back over and sat down as I finished the last of my stew. "Hope you don't mind waiting. I told Alice to get good and clean for you." He leaned in and said in a low, conspiratorial voice, "You're in for a treat. When I found her, she was a tight-assed housewife, but by the time my crew got through gangbanging her the first time, she was screaming for more. She may be past prime to some, but she's a MILF...you remember that term? My Alice was born to be a cockslut whore!" He reared back his head and laughed like it was the biggest joke in the world.

He called for more drinks at my table and I let him talk -- mostly bragging about his setup. For a stretch of maybe seventy or eighty miles along the Ohio River he was the king man -- not much different from those butchers that had killed Luchessi. He told me how he'd been a bartender in a rough bar in Cincinnati before the end of things and when the government collapsed, he'd organized some of the lowlifes that hung out with him into a gang of raiders and thugs. "Like a fucking Viking raiding party, we was!" he proudly proclaimed.

Now Black Tom had several establishments like this strung out over his domain, a combination king and pimp. Strongmen kept his peace and continued to raze the countryside -- capturing new women for his prostitution racket and for his personal pleasure, as well as anything of value. Locals mostly farmed or raised livestock -- paying tribute to him to be left alone or to feed their various needs for vice.

Part of me wanted to lean over and pull my K-Bar from its scabbard and cut his fucking throat while part of me anxiously awaited the arrival of Alice -- I found my gaze often drifting towards the door behind the bar.

A commotion came from outside and I felt him begin to tense, noting that Howard's hands dropped below the bar and then six really nasty looking customers came in, hauling large sacks with them and two weary looking teenage girls on leashes, their blonde hair stringy and dirty and running nearly down to their waists. Both wore torn and ragged dresses -- torn to reveal nearly identical small and pert tits. This group unlike the grungy customers so far, looked downright dangerous...as dangerous as the man sitting next to me. They appeared to be road weary, but very pleased with themselves.

"Hot goddamn," crowed Black Tom. "Them's my boys -- my best crew back from the road -- went down to Tennessee for a spell!" He stood up and said, "I'll introduce you later, John. And I'll get a fire lit under Alice's ass -- not that she'll need much of one -- got a pussy hotter than hell!"

Off he went, roaring a greeting to his comrades, giving each one a bear hug and then roaring with delight as they pulled various prizes from their bags. I saw electronic parts and canned foods and the whole place went silent when their leader, a swarthy looking fellow with a broken nose, pulled two full pints of Jack Daniels from a sack -- prompting Black Tom to order the African American Alice to give him a blowjob on the spot.

Moments later, Black Tom's voice rocked the rafters as he exclaimed, "Really are fucking twins?" He was like a child on Christmas as he examined the new girls, ripping the remnants of their dresses from them and laughing as they blushed from head to toe while a couple of dozen men ogled their nubile bodies. Finally, he had Howard lead them away, pausing to slap on of them on the ass, making her cry out fearfully which led to an amused laugh from most of the crowd.

Black Tom's face was animated as he moved among his crew before he announced to the entire room, "By God, I'm proud of my boys! Tonight, each gets a turn with my special little pretty!" He eyed me and called out to me, "Hell, John, I might let you have a taste too if Alice ain't enough for you!"

The room cheered and as they cheered, his crew each cast eyes my way, sizing me up appraisingly -- their leader studying me closely as a grinning Black Tom whispered in his ear. I began to feel trouble peeking over my shoulder. Not for the first time in the last few weeks, I wished I had Rafelson here to watch my back.

As the hubbub died down, with Howard busy serving drinks and the Alices working hard, my Alice came slowly strutting out of the back. She looked a lot cleaner -- her body lush and glowing with sexuality. Black Tom stepped up and talked to her, his hands idly wandering over her hairy pussy -- not so much because she aroused him, but because he wanted to remind her of who owned her. Her hair had been washed and some of the tangles combed out, but it was still an immense mane of peppered black hair obscuring most of her face.

She nodded as he talked and then he returned to his crew and she began walking my way -- no longer so bow legged, but confidently strutting up to me as a hunting cat stalks up towards its prey. Her large breasts swayed hypnotically, nipples growing larger as if the prospect of fucking me truly excited her. My eyes couldn't help but be drawn downwards to her thick bush, already divided by a wide gash of pink, her labia flowering from her boss's attention and perhaps more.

Alice strolled up to me, tongue rolling over lush, full lips and said in a voice that touched me deep inside. "Hi, sweetie -- they told me your name is John. Everyone calls me Alice, but you can call me Carol if you want to." As she spoke, her hands moved to brush her wild hair back, revealing her lovely face and I found myself looking into the clear, blue eyes of my mother.

Two days after we docked in Seattle, I went to Commander Vance and told him I was going home. The man -- not more than forty-five years old but who's once black hair was now a shock of white and who looked twice his age nodded and said, "Son, you're not the first to come ask me. Are you sure? All the reports say it's all gone insane out there."

I nodded and replied, "Yes, sir. Whatever else...I have to know. If Mom and Dad are..." I paused, my voice choking a bit. "If my family's dead, I can deal with that, but I cannot stand not knowing...at least without trying to find out."

I don't think a moment since the war had begun had I had a true moment of peace of mind. I was haunted by the faces of my mother and father and my kid sister. We had always been a pretty close knit family even though through my teenage years my father and I had been pretty much on the outs. After the Pakistan Incursion, I'd given up my plans to attend college on a football scholarship, desiring to enlist and defend my country, barely able to agree to wait until I'd turned eighteen.

For Dad, it was a bitter pill. He'd worked hard in a sawmill in our southern Indiana town his whole life, never having reached high school. He was a weary and worn man by the time I was a teenager and me passing up the chance to go to college to go fight in an unpopular war just about killed him.

Mom had been my greatest supporter, carrying on a tradition that seemed to go back to childhood. I was truly Mom's favorite and as I'd grown into a teenager I'd become a surrogate husband in many ways. It was I who sat with Mom during church services -- Dad being an avowed agnostic. Mom dragged me to many functions in his place when he complained of work tiring him too much to go out. Mom was fairly religious and went to many workshops and church sponsored concerts and lectures and I went with her -- not caring about where or what we were doing, but just happy to be spending time with my mother.

In truth, I'd had a bit of a crush on my mother -- she was, after all, the best looking mom on Exeter Street -- the fantasy of most of my friends who unanimously voted her their favorite MILF of all time. Long black hair, often wound up in a pony tail or a thick bun, those brilliant blue eyes and a body that even her dreary, conservative dresses could not disguise as being anything but awesome. It was no wonder I enjoyed spending time with her...on those 'dates' as she called them, I could pretend that I was her boyfriend or even her husband and I cherished those moments more than anything else.

I sometimes felt guilty, lying sweaty in my bed at night having masturbated about my mother, but I couldn't stop. It wasn't until I was in the Navy and had seen much of the world and lost my cherry (and for a while, my heart), to a little Filipino hooker, that I was able to get past my lewd thoughts for my mom.

Commander Vance took my file out of a file cabinet behind him in his tiny office and opened it. He read silently for a moment. "Well, if anyone can survive, you're as likely a candidate as any. I'll assume Gantry taught you well?"

I smiled and said, "Yes sir. I'm not a SEAL, but I'm the next best thing or at least Bosun Gantry says so." My job in the old days was electrical systems repair. I'd performed maintenance on those nasty looking tall missiles. Once we'd launched them, I'd been reassigned duty under the meanest son of a bitch on the boat -- Bosun's Mate Leo Gantry -- a death dealing SEAL team leader. Over the next two years, he'd trained many of us in as many skills of the commando profession as possible. It had helped to pass the time those long months at sea and it had been Commander Vance's hope to hone us into instruments that could survive whatever challenges lay ahead..

Vance sighed and said, "Consider yourself discharged, son. We'll equip you as best we can and who knows, maybe your people are fine. I'll give you the firepower to give yourself a chance to find out." He stood and shook my hand. His voice was thick with emotion and pride. "Good luck, sailor."

Two days later, I was outfitted and ready to go. I wouldn't be leaving alone. There were five of us that were determined to get back to our families. As he had promised, Commander Vance's had Boson's Mate Gantry equip us with everything possible to help us get home.

The evening before I left, Gantry laid out my equipment -- lightweight, but highly nutritional rations, a Colt 45, K-Bar knife and, "My favorite toy from the late and great Department of Defense," growled Gantry -- a short and wiry man in his thirties -- head shaved bald, choosing not to hide the scar from the Pakistan Incursion of 2018. "The M-142 Plasma rifle." He handed me the compact and lightweight rifle and grinned at me as he added, "Or as I like to call it -- 'The Finger of God."

It had been in use for three years before the war -- to be honest, I'm not sure of the physics -- all I knew was that it fired short bursts -- bullets if you will, of high energy plasma akin to lightning that at short range could tear lethally through a man and at longer distances, injure and paralyze him long enough to deal with him with more conventional methods. Best of all -- it used a solar charger to work -- no ammo required. I would be carrying two chargers with me as I headed East.

Gantry also handed me a satchel of "party favors" as he called them. Small, lightweight mines and explosive packs that while appearing tiny, packed massive punches. He hefted a small block of C-19 that he could comfortably in his palm. "This shit can take out a large building -- set a trip wire up to a detonator and you gotcha a A-1 deterrent to anyone following you!" He grinned evilly as he packed three small blocks into the satchel.

Going east with me were Marine Sergeant Tomas who'd left a wife and three daughters down near Austin, Texas, Winer and Luchessi, both from Minnesota and Rafelson who's wife had given birth to their son three weeks before we began our last cruise -- he was hellbent on returning to Pittsburgh to find them.

The morning we were to leave -- heading east with a R.U.S. patrol to the borders of their domain, Commander Vance took me aside and handed me a map wrapped in heavy plastic. "You can use this, sailor...John, isn't it? Or you can throw it away or give it to the others."

I looked at it curiously, turning it over. It appeared to be a roadmap with handwriting in black marker. "Sir?"

Vance looked down at it and said, "When the wife and I first started out, she inherited from her grandfather a hunting camp in the western part of West Virginia, way the hell back in the middle of nowhere -- a cabin with a natural spring underneath. It was already pretty formidable as a hideout retreat and we built it up some into a decent vacation home and as a place, well, just in case we ever got stupid enough to do what we did." He looked at me with eyes that had known terrible knowledge for far too long. "It has its own solar power generator and enough dry/can goods to feed an army. If...you find your family or even if you don't, it'll make a hell of a place to live and maybe start over..." He left the rest unsaid.

I was nearly speechless and stammered, "Sir...I can't. Maybe your family is there, maybe they got out."

Vance held up his hand to silence me. "I spoke to Jenny when we surfaced that last time just before it suddenly went to hell. She was in our house in Baltimore two hours before D.C. got taken out." He made a pushing motion with his hand. "Put that map someplace safe and use it if you can. I won't ever go back. I'll try and get on with my life here if I can." He looked off away past the dock where the Custer was tied up and suddenly I realized how fragile his own hold on life was...how heavily things must be weighing on him.

He looked back at me and shook my hand. In a thick voice, he murmured, "Good luck, sailor. Find your family." He turned and walked away, heading for the gangplank. I never saw him again. With the others, we climbed aboard a Hummer Mark 9 and with several other vehicles started out on a long range R.U.S. patrol. We rode with them as far as Lewiston on the Washington-Idaho border and then struck east on foot across the Bitterroot Mountains, working our way across neglected mountain roads towards our fates never imagining the losses we would take.

After parting ways with Rafelson, I made my south, following the Wabash until it emptied into the Ohio on the border of Illinois and Indiana. I turned east then and began to follow it upstream. Although it teemed with wildlife -- waterfowl and more fish than I could ever remember, the great river looked haunted -- rarely walking the span of more than a mile without seeing the ruins of some great river barge jammed against a bank or hung up on a sand bar or seeing the broken wreckage of a highway or train bridge, severing the link between Indiana and Kentucky.

Two weeks later I finally came home. What was once a small town of maybe three thousand was now a mostly burned out ghost town. Sticking close to shadows, I worked my way across town -- abandoned cars and debris littering the streets. My stomach tightened as I came across more than a dozen skeletons on the steps of what had been my high school -- badges gleaming on the ragged cloth of two skeletons. My eyes widened as I read a nameplate, Claus. Frederick Claus had been the chief of police here longer than I'd been alive. My eyes skittered across the signs of a nasty firefight...the limestone steps scarred with gouges from bullets.

With growing dread, I made my way down Exeter Street where my family had lived. A prickling sense on my neck hinted that I wasn't alone -- that there was at least one set of eyes peering at me as I walked along, my M-142 at the ready. I sensed that they weren't a threat, but simply watching me to see what I would do.

I reached my house, my heart beating anxiously even though I cannot say I was shocked to see it looking abandoned -- front door broken -- still hanging from the lower hinge. I walked up the sidewalk, the yard's grass was knee high and choked with weeds -- a ball of pain lodged in my throat as I recalled countless days mowing the yard while Mom worked on her hands and knees in her flower beds -- conjuring feelings of nostalgia and a little horniness as I recalled Mom's lush butt weaving in the air.

As I reached the front porch I could see the remnants of sandbags up in front of the bay windows framing the door. A skeletal arm reaching from inside the house was draped over one pile of sandbags. My blood ran cold as I looked around the porch noting all the bullet holes in the wood siding around the windows.

Taking a deep breath I stepped inside to find my once familiar living room looking like both a bomb had gone off and a refuge for wild animals...animal scat littering the room. To emphasize its new status, a huge yellow tom-cat looked up from a mildewed cushion from the old sofa and hissed at me before springing up and out through a window.

I found myself alone with the rest of the skeleton -- remnants of an old chambray shirt and paint splattered trousers fluttering around the bones -- many of which were broken or shattered. Next to the skull which was partially caved in were a broken pair of eyeglasses and I gave a soft moan of pain as I spotted one earpiece wrapped in weathered duct tape. I'd found my father. Mastering my despair, I slowly searched the house, finding it looted and wrecked from top to bottom -- some furniture smashed -- some missing -- clothes now scattered and rotting across the floors. A larger version of the family portrait I still carried in a waterproof pocket had been slashed to ribbons. There was no sign of the rest of my family.

I admit, I huddled in my old bedroom for a while, sitting against the wall on the ruined remnants of a mattress and cried for a bit. Finally, I wiped my face and got up and got on with what I knew I had to do. I found an old, stained blanket and went downstairs and gently moved my father's remains into it. I carried them outside to the back yard -- once his meticulously tended pride and joy and now a riot of weeds and wildflowers. I found a shovel with a broken handle and dug him a grave, spending most of the afternoon providing him a final and proper resting place.

Afterwards, I knelt there for lord knows how long...considering my father and myself. We'd never been friends. We'd never been close. Maybe it was because he'd thrown himself into his work or it was the generational differences...he and his Generation X bullshit. Maybe it was simply I'd been closer to my mother, preferring her loving company over his gruff, practical ways. All I knew was that he was dead and any chance I'd had of saying anything to him -- of making things right, was gone.

"He went down fighting, you know. You'd of been proud of him." I was rolling and coming up with the Colt in my hand before he'd finished the second sentence. I was shocked by my complacency -- stunned that I'd allowed someone to catch me with my guard down.

It was an old man, standing near the corner of the house -- rail thin body swimming in ragged and dirty overalls. He was carrying a piece of wood with three nails pounded through it, but he held it low, his other hand raised in a gesture of peace. "Yes sir...Don gave them raiders a good fight, must've killed five before they shot him and bashed his head in." The old man -- hair gray and stringy with milky blue eyes seemed to stare right through me as if he was reliving the fight. "You'd of been proud of your father."​