[center][b]"The Patriarchists"

A Post Apocalyptic Tale of Love, Lust, and Loss[/b][/center]


Peter awoke to the sound of a young female voice speaking to him.  "Patriarch...?  Are you awake."

After a moment, his consciousness returned to him and he whispered, "I am.  What is it?"

"A Wanderer," the pre-teen aged girl said, adding, "At the gate."
 
Peter blinked his eyes open and found the hut very much still in the Black.  It was unusual -- and dangerous -- for a Wanderer to approach a Village unannounced during the night, causing Peter to ask with obvious concern, "Guarded?"

"Yes, Patriarch," the girl answered, verifying, "Four guards.  He's being good, but..."

"Yes...?"

She said with a concerned tone, "They say he's hurt.  Much."

Around him, some of those sharing Peter's bed this night stirred, some moaning with semi-conscious disappointment at being awoken at the early hour.  The nearest of the three women habitually slid a hand onto Peter's body, caressing it downward to locate his penis and gently begin kneading it to life.

"Not now," he whispered to the Breeder, gently moving her hand away.  He probably should have let her excite him to stiffness to perform his duty.  One of the lasting effects of the Apocalypse 250 years earlier was that successful breeding was now about as easy as catching and holding a river eel in your bare hands without getting spiked or bitten.  Instead, Peter kissed the ovulating woman lovingly on her forehead and told her reassuringly, "Later, my dear.  Later."

..........

Trent knew the danger of approaching a village in the Black, but he'd had little choice.  He'd been cutting over a ridge when he'd stumbled upon a brown bear that -- frightened more than anything else -- had lashed out at him with a huge paw and razor sharp claws.  He'd been sliced across the chest, then in his haste to get away, he'd then fallen down a steep hillside, rolling more than a hundred feet before colliding with the trunk of a tree.  

Trent had been on his way to a Gathering at Little Lake, two days walk to the south, but he wouldn't make it, of course.  He'd stumbled upon a well worn path earlier, and after searching found it just before sundown.  He followed it through the night, losing it several times, forcing him to backtrack.  Then, he'd heard a dog -- not a wolf or coyote -- bark at the sound of his approach.  And five minutes later, he looked up to see a fifteen foot log pole gate blocking the narrow gap between to cliffs.  He dropped onto the dirt before the gate, calling out for help.  As he sat there bleeding all over the shirt pressed to his chest, he prayed that the people behind the gate were [i]Patriarchists[/I].  If they were, they just might see him as worthy of being worth saving.  Peter had come across villages or isolated homes that had had no interest in strangers or their needs.  In fact, he still bore the scar in his thigh from when he'd once been shot as a raider, despite the fact that he'd done nothing more than eat a berry from a wild bush within sight of the cabin.

Suddenly, the black of night illuminated.  Peter looked up to be blinded by some sort of oil lantern-curved mirror contraption that sent a column of flickering light his direction.  He tried to identify himself and his situation, but instead -- as four females with bows and spears approached him -- he only smiled meekly, laid back to the ground with a thud, and passed out.