KingOfNowhere

"The Last Plague" (closed)

"Well, there's plenty of work," Allison said when Frank vowed to earn his keep through labor. She began gathering the leftovers, which he thought would be heading back inside with her. Instead, she put them on the ground for the dogs and commanded, "Eat!"

Again, Frank cringed a bit as the working dogs surged his direction. He laughed, though, relieved when he saw they devouring the scraps without contemplating devouring him instead. One day, maybe soon, he might get over his fear of canines.

Allison took him into the house through a small changing room in the back and commanded, "Strip."

Frank laughed, surprised. For a moment there, he thought maybe Allison's loneliness was about to show itself in a dramatic way. Then, she explained that she needed him to dispose of his clothes which were possibly carrying life viruses and thoroughly clean his body to eliminate the little bugs on him as well.

She apologized for likely not having a change of clothes for Robert, to which Frank said, "Luckily the little guy isn't a Primadonna regarding his wardrobe. Anything warm and soft will do, I'm sure."

Allison left him standing in the hall, closing the door between the mud room and the kitchen. Wanting to keep the bathroom I-55 free, he stripped to his skin right there, then did the same with Robert; the infant, who had always enjoyed baths, laughed joyfully as his clothes were stripped away. Frank put the clothes in the bag his hostess had pointed out; he included his shoes, hoping Allison's father wore something close to a ten-and-a-half.

The bathroom was of an old style, as Frank presumed the rest of the old country house was. Tile walls and floors and copper pipes greeted him beyond the shower curtain. It took a couple of minutes for the hot water to reach him, possibly due to poorly insulated pipes and a basement-located water heater.

Stepping into the hot stream was like stepping into a dream. Frank couldn't even remember the last time he'd had a hot shower or bath. Jennifer cleaned up daily with Robert, of course, and once in a while Frank had been invited to get naked with the pair, which was often nice.

He sang to the infant as they twisted and bounced in the showering water. Washing with just one free hand was a challenge, but Frank managed. Allison had been correct about the hot water heater, with the temperature of the stream eventually beginning to chill. He turned the water off, found a towel, and dried them both. He donned the robe his hostess had left him and wrapped Robert in one of the large, thick, cotton towels. He found a pair of slippers in a corner and slipped into them, then headed for the kitchen.

"I feel like a new man," Frank told Allison with a wide smile. "How long for the water to heat up so I can go again. Do I need a special ticket, like they have a Disneyland?"

Allison escorted Frank to a bedroom in the back of the house where her grandparents had slept for decades. She'd been right about the fit of the clothes; her grandfather had been just a single size larger than Frank, so picking out something that fit was a snap. He chose a cotton tee, a long-sleeved flannel shirt, and overalls; they had a bit of a high water aspect to them, something Frank learned was the result of his being a few inches taller than the McGee patriarch.

In contrast to Allison's grandfather being shorter than him, the man's feet had been a half size larger. Frank found a pair of comfortable work boots, as well as other shoes that would suit him for other situations. Once downstairs, he held his arms out wide and turned around for Allison, asking, "Do I look like a farmer? Cuz honestly, I don't know what I'm supposed to look like to work outside. But, I am ready to begin earning my keep. Just point me in the right direction."

(OOC: It can be assumed that Frank will more often than not be packing Robert around in his chest pack or some kind of carrier that Allison provides, unless he is left inside to sleep or whatever. We can make this simple.)

"The Last Plague" (closed)

Frank was up and about when Allison emerged from the country house, carrying a platter of what he presumed was breakfast. He watched her from the his side of one of the propane heaters, on which he was warming water for Robert's formula.

The night had been surprisingly comfortable for both of the male guests to the McGee estate. The pad and bedding had kept the two of them warm and cozy, accompanied by one of the closed-flame propane heaters that received air from an opening in the tarp near the ground and exhausted gases through similar gaps at both the bottom and top of the doghouse. Frank had taken Allison's warming about carbon monoxide buildup seriously; he'd seen people kill themselves by burning charcoal in an enclosed space, unaware that they were both depleting their oxygen and accumulating the odorless, tasteless, invisible CO.

Allison apologized again for leaving Frank and the baby out of doors, then asked if they'd stayed warm. He responded, "I totally understand. And yes, we were plenty comfortable. Thanks for the extra bedding and heater.

She explained about Jennifer's body, then invited Frank to the picnic table for a hot breakfast. "I don't really know much about what infants eat."

"This one will eat about anything," Frank told her. "He's not picky, I've learned."

Allison talked about being the eldest of her generation of McGees, to which Frank laughed. "Ironically, I was one of the youngest. I have 32 older cousins and 4 older siblings. The only family members younger than me were Connie and Hanna, my sister and cousin, both two years my junior. We all lived in the Denver area, so we saw each other a lot, not just for holidays and family reunions."

Frank dug into the food before him, trying not to appear as if he'd never seen food in his life but likely failing. He would stuff his mouth with something, then tend to Robert a moment; once his mouth was clear, he'd repeat the steps again.

"This is amazing," he told Allison, nodding his head toward the spread. "I haven't seen pork products in months--" He chuckled, continuing, "--and even then, I think it was one of those small cans of Vienna Sausages. Thank you for this. Really. This is great."

They continued eating, chatting about the farm surrounding them, mostly to make conversation. Frank wanted to ask if there was anyone else here with Allison, perhaps hiding out until they'd decided whether or not it was safe to reveal themselves. Perhaps right now, someone was watching him through the optics on a high powered rifle.

"I have a room in the house for you and Robert," Allison said after Robert told her he just couldn't and shouldn't eat anymore.

She explained with a serious tone that she'd been alone on the farm for two months and that she didn't function well alone. Robert understood that. Human Beings were a herd animal, a social creature; they weren't meant to be alone for long periods of time, be them months, years, or more.

"I don't know you, Frank," she went on. She talked about his paternal care of Robert and how that had affected her, telling him, "If you want, you can stay here a while..."

He listened as she finished, then considered the offer before him. He and Jennifer hadn't had a destination in mind, other than north, possibly all the way to Canada. He had no where to be, which led him to respond, "I'd like that ... to stay, I mean. Couple of days ... more. As long as you'll have me. And I'll work, of course. I'll earn my keep, my room and board. I'm not a slacker, and I know things. I've been a Handy Man off and on during my life. Started out helping my father with home repairs, joined the Navy as a Machinists Mate, then got out and..."

He hesitated a moment, smiled, and laughed. "To be honest, I had trouble keeping a job for several years, so I bounced around from one job to another. Bad thing about that is you can't get ahead. Good thing about it is that you learn to do a lot of things. I'm sure I can help you around here, though, honestly, I don't know the first thing about running a farm. Or do you call it a ranch?"

"The Last Plague" (closed)

Hearing Allison talk about how many of their animals had been slaughtered for their own consumption literally caused Frank's stomach to roll over with the anticipation of the first decent meal he would have had in months. Of course, he had no idea how many people had been living here or still lived here. He'd only met Jennifer thus far. There could be a dozen or a score or many more people here who he simply hadn't yet met.

He doubted that, though, as Allison hadn't made mention of anyone in a present sense. She'd talked about her grandmother, but only in past tense, or so he thought he remembered. He was almost giddy with thoughts of freshly picked vegetables and jerked strips of beef or freshly barbequed chicken breasts and thighs.

When Allision directed him into one of the dog pens, Frank's joyous mood dissipated in an instance. He looked at her with shock, asking, "Are you shitting me?"

She was serious, though. And the only thing that kept Frank from becoming belligerent about it was the reason for locking him up: tending to his dead lover and friend, the mother of the child he carried in his arms.

He hesitated before moving to the pen's entrance, and once there hesitated again. He looked it over, finding it just as clean and seemingly unused as it had looked from afar. It was chain link on all sides and above as well -- to keep leapers from escaping vertically -- and had a concrete floor into which the lower edge of the fencing was very securely attached. It was a good ten feet across and twenty feet long, plenty for several dogs.

Inside at the far end was a doghouse perhaps four feet cubed, with most of the front side open. Looking at it, Frank found it to be the only truly unacceptable aspect of it. He looked to Allison, complaining, "We're not going to be warm in that. Wind ... draft. I mean, if you're going to leave us out here over night."

Frank entered the pen, even pulling the door closed behind him. There was a padlock hanging open on the gate, but he left securing that to Allison. He listed, "Blankets, water, food ... a stove like you offered. Maybe a pad if you have one, or more blankets to act as a mattress." He hesitated, adding, "I don't mean to sound demanding. Am I sounding demanding?"

Robert began crying again, not for any particular reason other than maybe he was hungry or needed changing. He again addressed the situation, saying, "I understand fully why you need to lock me up, I do. But ... I hope that when you get back with Jennifer ... I hope that you will allow me to be part of the service. She--"

His voice cracked with emotion, and for a moment Frank thought he was going to tear up. He fought it, though, never having been a publicly emotional type. He finished, "She was important to me, and I'd like to take care of her myself."

"The Last Plague" (closed)

"It's my family's property," Allison answered, adding more about the generations of McGees who'd lived on, farmed, and ranched the property. "It was all timber then, not like it is today."

"That sounds about right," Frank responded, clarifying, "Without timber, we'd all be living in sod houses, I guess."

As they continued forward, he was amazed at the diversity of livestock occupying the pastures and pens, as well as how many of each there were. He asked, "I imagine the number of head is based upon how many the land will serve?"

When they were closer to the house, something moved in the shadows of a gigantic walnut tree, catching Frank's eye. He hesitated, unsure of what he was seeing, then stopped cold as he realized that the creatures were running at full speed his direction. He took a step back, wrapping his arms more tightly around little Robert as he realized that the creatures were dogs and that they looked ready to take him and the child down and eat them both alive.

Of course, his fear was unfounded as each of the three Australian Shepherds zoomed past him to circle excitedly around his hostess before only then coming back his direction to look him over and sniff at him. Frank's heart was beating hard, even now that he realized he was in no danger; he'd had more than his share of incidents with vicious dogs in his childhood and early adult years, resulting in a deep fear of them, regardless of size, breed, or personality.

"Scared the shit out of me," he confessed as the dogs danced around energetically. He looked to Allison with a smile, then nervously reached a hand down to the dogs, battling his fear of being bit. He was licked excitedly instead, though, leading him to speak to them, "Good dogs, nice dogs."

They continued onward until they were nearly to the ranch style house, at which time Frank turned to once again ask about his departed traveling mate. Allison reassured him, "We'll go back and take care of Jennifer properly. Jennifer, right?"

"Jennifer Connors," he responded. "Thank you."

"We're not going to leave her like that. I promise," Allison told him.

"I understand why we left her there in the first place," Frank told her, "I really do. You don't know me. You didn't know her. I ... I appreciate what you did for us. You saved my life. You saved Robert's life." He hesitated a moment before adding, "There was nothing you could have done for Jennifer. She was hit as she got out of the car ... long before you involved yourself. I just ... I just thought you should know beyond a doubt that you couldn't have saved her."

"The Last Plague" (closed)

The woman who'd saved him but who was now pointing a pistol at his head asked, "Is she okay ... he ... whatever?"

"He," Frank clarified regarding the child's gender. The child had been crying occasionally during the speedy drive across the countryside and had erupted in wails after the crash, but Frank had picked him up and somehow calmed him down as he'd watched their savior near. "He's fine. Great car seat, apparently. I'd give them a thumbs up on their Amazon page ... if there was an Amazon anymore."

After he asked what was next, she told him to sit still until she came back. He did as told, only standing when she'd stepped out of his sight. He didn't move but just a few feet, tracking her until he again lost sight of her, this time beyond the burning pickup truck.

Frank flinched when he heard a single gunshot, hurrying up onto the pavement for a sign of what had happened. The woman was walking his way, reaching him to ask, "You're Immunes?"

"Yes," Frank said without hesitation. He lifted the infant just enough to indicate who he was talking about before saying, "Robert, too."

"You've been infected then?" she continued her questioning. "That's how you know for certain. It isn't that you just haven't caught it, right?"

"No," he answered, then corrected, "I mean, yes ... yes, I've been infected. Early in the pandemic, before they even knew what I-55 was or had even given it its actual name ... H5-N5. I was sick for a while but came through. I was infected a second time by one of the variants. Flue symptoms. Nausea, sweats, and the like. Still, came through just fine. I've been around people with at least four different variants, in Denver ... Sheridan and Billings."

In the past, people didn't typically talk so proudly about diseases they'd caught. But in the case of I-55, it was better to have caught the originally and/or its variants and survived than to have not caught any version of it at all.

"My name is Allison," she said after studying him a while. "Allison McGee."

"Frank," he told her, smiling a bit. "Frank King."

She looked to his car and said, "Gather what you need, and let's get out of here."

She indicated their direction, after which Frank hurried to the car to do as told. He and Jennifer had secretly gathered some supplies during the dark of last night, hiding them in the trunk of the sedan. He forced the sticking door open, found the chest carrier for Robert, put the baby in it, and slipped the apparatus over his shoulders, buckling it in place.

Retrieving the keys from the ignition, he hurried to the trunk and grabbed several backpacks and a handful of cloth shopping bags. He soon realized that he wasn't going to be able to handle the weight for a long distance. He looked to Allison, asking, "Can we hide these in the woods and come back for them later?"

She responded, and Frank acted accordingly. He slammed the trunk lid down, turned -- and saw Jennifer's body once again. He felt instant guilt for having forgotten about her. Yeah, sure, there was a lot going on at the moment, enough to occupy and confuse any mind. But this was the woman he'd been traveling with for months, the woman he'd been sleeping with, the woman he'd concluded he would marry if ever she asked him about their long term future together. And he'd left her laying in a ditch while he gathered canned foods, bottled water, and a jar of freeze-dried coffee.

"What about Jennifer?" he asked Allison. "I can't just leave her here like this."

They made plans to deal with the other woman, and after a moment of looking to Jennifer in solemn silence, Frank headed the direction in which Allison had ordered. Once he was across the ditch again, he felt gravel beneath his feet. The driveway was slowing being reclaimed by nature, but where it entered the forest a clear though narrow road was still obvious. It had been disguised to an extent, with some trees fallen across it and some plants put in the ground in an attempt to appear natural. Still, anyone with half a brain could look at the clues and concluded that there was a property, likely a house, beyond the woods.

Just a dozen yards into the trees, Frank gestured to his right and left the drive to hide most of the bags and packs. He kept only the one with baby supplies and fished the coffee out of another pack, saying, "This stuff's gold these days."

Moving back to the drive, he turned again in the indicated direction and continued. After a moment, he asked, "So ... where we're going ... it's your pre-pandemic home ... or did you just sort of occupy it?"

"The Last Plague" (closed)

It took Frank King a dozen seconds or so to fight through his disorientation and understand his current situation. The crash and, subsequently, the explosion of the airbag into his face had knocked him out for a moment. Adding to that, the car he'd been driving was being riddled by bullets shot by the men who'd been pursuing him for nearly an hour.

"Jennifer! Jennifer! Keep your head down!" he hollered as he fought to release his seat belt. He searched for the now missing pistol he'd previously had secured under his right thigh, eventually finding it on the floorboard under the brake pedal. As he fought to retrieve it, he ordered, "[i]Jennifer, keep you head down. Get down into the floorboards!"

When he heard no response from the woman in the backseat, Frank suddenly feared that she might have been harmed or even killed by the crash or barrage of gunfire. He turned to look, finding the rear driver's side door open and both Jennifer and little Robert already outside the car.

He ducked again as more bullets hit the vehicle. Fighting to get the damaged door open, Frank extended the pistol out before him and fired off a half dozen shots. He leapt out, sliding down the bank of the ditch until he reached the bottom, then turned to find Jennifer. She had curled around the back of the car and was hiding, fear and desperation in her expression.

"We'll be okay! We'll get out of this!" he told her. "They're not going to hurt us."

Despite how this might have looked to an outside observer -- say, a woman hiding nearby in the woods -- the men pursuing Frank and Jennifer had no intentions of killing them. The barrage of bullets had initially and successfully been intended to bring the car to a stop, and the continuation of the barrage was simply to keep the pair at bay.

As proof of this assumption of his, Frank heard the leader of their pursuers holler, "All we want is the woman and the child! Give'em up, and we'll let you leave with all the stuff you stole from us."

Frank responded, "They're my family! My wife and child!"

That wasn't entirely true, of course. Frank had only met Jennifer six or seven months ago, while living with a community of Immunes outside Sheridan, Wyoming. Neither of them had liked the living situation there, but liking each other just fine, they'd decided to stay together when Frank said he was heading north for Canada.

Just as Jennifer wasn't Frank's wife, the infant wasn't Jennifer's child either. Baby Robert's parents had both died of the I-55 virus just weeks after his birth, and Jennifer had assumed care for the baby. She'd expected it to die soon enough as well, but -- like she herself -- Robert had turned out to be immune to the virus that was killing off most of humanity.

"They're Immunes!" the man in the truck called. "They're what we need to start over."

"You're not taking my wife and kid!"

Frank rose to take some more shots at his pursuers. The pistol's slide remained back after the last shot, indicating that it was empty. Frank stared at it for a moment before tossing it away in frustration. He slid down again for cover, then moved to wrap his arms around the woman who, in turn, had her arms around the child.

The gunfight was over, he thought to himself, which was good news. The bad news was that the men would now take Jennifer and Robert and, likely, kill him on the spot. He dreaded the idea of Jennifer going back to that compound from which they'd fled. She would be subjected to forced pregnancy over the years to come, the thinking being that if she was an Immune, her offspring by other Immune men might be as well.

As he waited to be captured, though, Frank heard a gunshot from too far away to be from their pursuers. He heard panicked voices, then another gunshot, and poked his head out to see what was happening. Just then, a third shot sounded across the open ground surrounding the crash seen, its origins apparently from the nearby woods. Frank saw one of the men jerk and collapse, joining another body already on the ground near it.

Then, for the longest time, there was silence. He looked for the remaining men but from where he and Jennifer hid, he could see no one. He scoured the woods for the shooter, again finding no one.

Then, his attention was pulled away as Jennifer said softly, "Frank, I ... I think something's wrong."

He looked to the woman with whom he'd fallen in love and found her face white, her eyes unfocused, and her head tilting to and fro. He suddenly realized that the arm he'd wrapped around her felt wet, and pulling it out to view it, he found it red with blood.

"Oh, Jesus, no, fuck no," he murmured in panic.

Jennifer's backside was stained with blood from a gun wound neither of them had realized she'd suffered during her exit from the car. Frank took Robert from Jennifer's arms and set him carefully down, then pulled her blouse up to reveal the wound. Blood was pumping from the bullet hole low near her kidney. He tried to stem the loss with pressure, but other than that there was little he could do for her. It didn't take a doctor to know that she was in her last moments of life.

Gunfire resumed, first from a new location in the woods and then from the pickup truck as the last two compound men fought for their lives. Frank rolled Jennifer to look into her eyes, only to find them already closed. He felt for a pulse and found it weak, nearly nonexistent.

An explosion drew his attention away, and when he looked back to Jennifer again, she was gone. Frank lost track of what was happening around him until a woman stood over him with a pistol pointed at him.

"Run away or move closer to me, and I'll kill all three of you, including the kid!"

Frank just stared at the woman for a long moment before raising his free and bloodied hand up into the air. He said simply, "She's already dead."

Laying Jennifer back carefully against the ditch's bank, Frank retrieved little Robert, stood, and looked around to gauge the current situation. Carefully and slowly, he climbed up the ditch's bank to the pavement and looked toward what remained of the pickup truck. Even though it was entirely engulfed in flames, it was still more or less intact, not entirely devastated like the automobile explosions of Hollywood movies. Bodies surrounded it on all sides, not a one of them showing any signs of life.

He looked back to the woman with the gun. She looked to be in her mid- to late-20s. She was pretty, beautiful even. She looked serious, too. She had, of course, just killed six or seven men and blown their vehicle to smithereens. That qualified as serious to Frank.

Unsure exactly of his new situation, he asked simply, "So ... what's next?"

"Revolution: Wilderness"

Roger had already seen Kimmie in his bathtub on half a dozen occasions, and yet each time he laid eyes upon her like this, it made his heart skip a beat and his cock head instantly toward full excitement status. Stepping farther into the bathroom only provided him an increasingly better view of her delicious body only partially obscured by the gently rippling surface water.

"I see you've upgraded," she said, indicating Roger's water heating system. "Efficient."

"Thank you," he said before wondering whether Kimmie was giving him a sincere assessment of the new utilities or simply filling the silence with words. "Gloria was getting tired of hauling buckets of water from the kitchen, so..."

The water heating apparatus Roger had had installed here just a couple of weeks ago was essentially the same as the one in the kitchen: a cast iron, 1990s-era wood stove that featured a water heating coil that circulated water between it and an 80-gallon metal tank that sat between it and the bathtub. A pair of elevated 50-gallon rain barrels just outside the bathroom's exterior wall fed the stove, and in turn the tank fed the tub and nearby sink when needed by its user -- or users, Roger hoped.

Looking to the food he'd brought with him, Kimmie told Roger softly, "Thank you."

"Of course, I thought you might be hungry," he responded with a smile. As soon as he'd said it, Roger wished he hadn't; more than just implying that it had been a while since breakfast, his words could have been seen as implying that Kimmie couldn't keep herself -- and possibly her family -- properly fed. He quickly pointed out some of the offered items, somewhat of a boast of what Bentonville -- and Roger -- had to offer to those who lived here, which unfortunately in Roger's opinion didn't include Kimmie. He finished with, "Can I make you a cracker stack?" He smiled again and chuckled. "That's what my grandmother called'em, cracker stacks, you know, crackers with cheese and meat and..."

He was about to end his description, realizing how silly it was beginning to sound, but it was the sight of Kimmie scooting up the sloped back of the tub and exposing the beautiful, perfect womanly curves of her bosom that really silenced him. Roger ogled his lover's breasts for a long moment, admiring how the water droplets either streamed down her flesh or clung to her darker nubs.

"Would you like to join me ... or ... should I finish up so that we can go to your bed?"

Roger didn't immediately answer; he was stunned by the perfection before him, despite having had this very view so often before. When he finally did speak, he couldn't believe what he was saying: "No, um ... no hurry. You enjoy your bath. I'll just ... sit and watch ... if you don't mind."

He knew what her answer would be, of course, which left Roger without fear of being sent away. He set the platter atop the closed lid of the toilet, which like the rest of the bathroom was spotlessly sanitary due to the professionalism of Roger's maid. He made a cracker stack and handed it out toward Kimmie, saying about the dried fruit bits he'd added, "Gloria cut these up 'specially for you, Miss Wright. She seemed to recall that you liked these."

"Revolution: Wilderness"

Roger was very proud of the home he'd created for himself. He'd been one of the original 14 members of the armed group that would ultimately become the Bentonville Militia. This had given him privileges that most people in this post-blackout world could only dream of. Most of the lower ranked militiamen didn't have their own homes, either sharing a home with multiple men from their Unit or living in one of the three troop-occupied apartment buildings, often with at least one roommate.

This concentration of the militia into a limited number of buildings was partly about Unit cohesion and the rapid spread of orders. The depletion of resources, though, was also a key element of the decision. There simply wasn't enough heating fuel, lighting oil, candles, clean water, and food to be dividing it up amongst a vast array of bachelor or even bachelorette pads.

While one might think that all of what Kimmie saw was exclusively due to Roger's compensation as a Major in the Militia, it went deeper than that. While many of the other officers and enlisted men barely covered their outgo with their income because of drink, women, and other vices, Roger was very much a penny pincher, not that pennies were part of Bentonville's currency anymore. He had made a decision to spend his hard earned Chips -- casino chips, Bentonville's form of currency -- on creating a comfortable place for him to live and, when possible, entertain.

"I'll get bathed," Kimmie said, heading directly for the bathroom door off the hallway to the kitchen.

Roger watched her walk away from him; her mentioning of a bath almost immediately caused him to get physically aroused. He told her, "I'll check on lunch."

He followed behind Kimmie down the hall, hoping that when he reached the door he'd get a look at her undressing beyond it. But she closed the door before shedding anymore than her coat. He went onward to the kitchen, finding his housekeeper and cook putting the finishing touches on a meal fit for a king. They chatted a bit before dropping a $5 casino chip on the kitchen island and telling her with an appreciative tone, "You've done me right again, Gloria, thank you. Feel free to take off. I won't need you again until breakfast."

She thanked Roger, found her jacket and purse, and slipped the chip into the latter with yet another verbal expression of her appreciation. She left, and Roger picked up the tray of snacks and a couple of bottles of beer made here in town. At the bathroom door, he knocked, asked if he could come in, and -- without waiting for an answer -- did just that.

"Revolution: Wilderness"

Roger was arriving at the open door of the clinic just as Kimmie was flashing the pass he'd given her to the doctor and informing him, "I'm a guest of Major Hamilton."

It didn't take a genius to know what had brought about her statement; in this day and age of rampant illness and injury, doctors had become even more important than their pre-Blackout predecessors, and this particular doctor -- like many men -- enjoyed using that importance to get his dick wet.

In truth, Roger wasn't much different. He didn't consider himself a misogynist, as Kimmie herself thought of him. The true definition of the word was a person who dislikes, despises, or is strongly prejudiced against women. That wasn't Roger; he loved women. His problem, of course, was that he was in love with -- or at the least in lust with -- a women who liked other women and not men.

Did Kimmie hate men? Was she a misandrist, a person who hated men? Honestly, Roger wasn't even aware of that word, so it had never occurred to him to think of the woman as a person who dislikes, despises, or is strongly prejudiced against men. No, Roger knew why Kimmie hated and despised him, of course. She was a lesbian and had a female lover, and yet most of the visits she made to Bentonville included him inviting her to his bed to pay for services, goods, or a combination therein.

You're a pig, Roger had told himself on numerous occasions as he thought of what he often forced Kimmie to do simply to keep her family fed, healthy, and relatively happy. But, he just went on, maintaining the status quo between himself and the beauty from the north because it made him happy.

The doctor caught sight of Roger standing just beyond the doorway eying him critically. He ceased his attempt to gain payment for his services from Kimmie, telling her, "Your daughter will be fine. She's having a reaction to a tick bite is all. She needs rest and medication, which I'd be happy to furnish to a guest of the Major."

Kimmie's response was a simple "Thank you, Doctor."

"Yes, thank you, Doctor," Roger repeated as he entered the clinic. He smiled to the woman in his friendly manner, asking, "Have you eaten this morning, Miss Wright?"

Before she could answer, though, he quickly asked the doctor, "Would your patient benefit from an overnight stay and observation from you, doctor? We want to ensure that the child is healthy and fit before she and her mother return home, don't we?"

The doctor knew which direction Roger was steering him, of course, and while he would have preferred that he himself spent the evening sweating up a pair of sheets with Lizzie's mother, he said exactly what was expected of him: "Yes, Major. For the child's health, she should not be moved until tomorrow."

The doctor glanced Kimmie's way for her reaction, then -- as if Roger's ventriloquist dummy -- told her "Your daughter should be kept here until tomorrow morning for observation. She has a bacterial infection from the tick bite which should be watched, and -- to be honest -- the drugs I am using to treat her are, well, old ... pre-blackout."

"Miss Wright, come, let's get you some food and clean water," Roger said, offering a hand to Kimmie. The odds that she would actually take it were a billion to one, just as they had been when he'd offered it to her on multiple times in the past. If she didn't take it as expected, Roger would simply use it to gesture toward the exit, saying, "My cook is preparing a meal for us. Shall we?"

Kimmie had no choice, of course; payment for services was due, and Roger was intent on collecting immediately. It was barely past noon, so this was not dinner and drinks followed by dancing and maybe the question your place or mine?

Outside the clinic, a man in his thirties or so was dutifully waiting with a pedicab; they were actually common in Bentonville, where a company that had made them had once been located. They were almost exclusively for use by the Senior Officers of the militia, thereby relieving some of the work put upon the horses that were used mostly outside the town.

This particular pedicab had been altered a bit. Its handlebars had been turned 90 degrees to accommodate the cabbie, who was missing his right arm from just below the elbow. He nodded to Kimmie -- almost a bow, actually -- smiling wide as he said, "Nice to see you again, Miss Wright."

Roger took Kimmie's hand this time without inquiry as to whether she wanted help and assisted her into the rickety rickshaw. He then took his own seat next to her, putting them very much in contact with one another. He slipped his hand around her back, telling the cabbie, "Take us home, Mister Sykes."

"Yes, Major, right away," the cabbie responded, standing tall on the pedals to get the pedicab moving. He repeated as he often did, "Right away, Major."

The cabbie had ignored the uninvited nickname Roger had given him long ago, brushing it off as easily as shooing away a butterfly that had landed on his shoulder. His actual name was Peter Cramer, not that anyone in Bentonville called him that anymore. Peter had been in Bentonville only a couple of days when -- in a drunken rage -- he stabbed one of the Major's militiamen, killing him. After that, he was tried and given a choice: hanging or the lost of the arm that had wielded the blade. A coward at heart, fearful of death, Peter had taken the latter.

He'd then essentially been enslaved by Roger, and for the past four years Peter had been the man's 24/7 servant. The name by which Roger called Peter had been unknown to him until his new master explained it: it had been the surname of the one-armed assassin in the 1993 motion picture remake of the 1960s television series, The Fugitive. Peter hadn't liked the reference, but then, he hadn't had much of a choice to reject it either. So, for the past for years, he'd been known as Mister Sykes or -- when Roger was pissed -- simply Sykes!

A dozen or so blocks later, the pedicab stopped in front of a small but well-kept home in a neighborhood that looked almost as if the blackout had never occurred ... almost. There were large, deciduous trees out front on the verge of exploding in new spring leaves. The lawn was green and well-kept, another of Sykes's duties which he performed with tools adapted to his disability. The exterior of the home needed paint, as did most structures these days, but all of the windows were intact, the decorative shutters were still in place, and large plant boxes along the walkway had perennials in them, some of which were evergreens and offered the home a touch of normalcy in a very abnormal world.

"Shall we?" Roger asked as he offered Kimmie a hand from the sidewalk. He looked to Peter and said, "Get back to the clinic. Anything the doctor needs, you get him. There is no need for you to report back to me unless there is something important to report."

That, of course, was Roger's way of saying, I'm going to be very busy with this beautiful woman, so don't you dare fucking interrupt me ... while I'm fucking.

"Yes, Major, report to the doctor," Peter answered, again putting force on the pedals and, as he departed, calling back, "Anything the doctor needs, Major."

Again, as he offered his hand and/or alternatively gestured toward the house, Roger asked, "Shall we, Miss Wright...?" And as he always did once he was alone with Kimmie, he added, "Kimberly?"

"Revolution: Wilderness"

(OOC: I used Carla as you directed me to do. I'm assuming you're going to correct it in your first post?)

Roger Hamilton was at the north gate entrance to Bentonville dealing with a situation when he looked up to see a woman on a three wheeled bike heading toward him down the cracked, weed-choked blacktop road. He knew it was Kimberly Wright immediately, from both the mode of transportation and her appearance, even at this distance. He smiled, both on his face and in his heart, at the thought of a visit from her.

"Deal with this, Sergeant," he told the man supervising the security team at the check point. More to himself than anyone else, he murmured as he began walking north, "I have more important things to deal with."

Although he was wrong, Roger thought he knew more about Kimberly Wright than anyone else in town. He'd been with the Bentonville Militia since its beginning, just weeks after the Blackout that had so dramatically changed the world and the lives of everyone living in it. As a senior officer in the force -- today he was a Major -- he'd had the opportunity to interview the woman who went by Kimmie when she first began trading in the town. He'd also put out the word that upon her arrival at Bentonville, he was to be informed immediately, regardless of whether he was occupied with other important work or not.

To put it simply, Major Roger Hamilton was infatuated with Kimberly Wright.

"It's nice to see you again, Miss Wright," he greeted her as she slowed her bike to a stop, not needing to put a foot down because of the number of wheels. He waited for her reply, then asked, "And how is the family...? The twins growing up, becoming young adults...?"

Roger had made it abundantly clear as early as 2 years ago that he was eager to see now-18-year-old Nicolas join the Militia soon. He promised Kimmie, "We'll make a man out of him. I'll take personal charge of his training and safety, I assure you. And, of course, you'll be compensated ... paid."

The members of the Bentonville Militia were some of the best paid men and women in town. Only such professional positions as Doctor, Scientific Researcher, Weapons Technicians, and such were compensated as well as those who put their lives on the line to keep Bentonville secure.

Roger had an interest in Nicolas's sister, Carla, as well. Of course, the position he envisioned for the incredibly beautiful, incredibly curvy, and now-adult-age redhead was not one of militiaman but one of bedmate. That wasn't likely to ever happen, of course, and Roger was enough of a realist to understand that. Kimmie had kept the young woman away from Bentonville after she'd once caught Roger ogling her with a hungry expression on his face. The last three or four times he'd laid eyes on her had been at the family's property, when he and his escort had been out and about collecting taxes for their security services.

"Your friend, Laura..." Roger began, hesitating a moment to see if Kimmie would correct his description of her. He was very much aware that the two were lovers. He'd once taken an inconspicuous ride out to their little homestead once for his own information gathering purposes and found them in an intimate situation that left no doubts as to their relationship status. He continued, "She's taking care of the little one I presume ... Lizzie, correct?"

Roger studied Kimmie's reaction to his name dropping and other displays of gathered and recalled information. He had a yearning for knowledge about the people around him, a yearning that was almost as important to him as was his revealing to those people that he had that knowledge. Knowledge is power, his father used to tell him. Knowledge ... and the knowledge of how to use it!

He'd expected Kimmie to have trade goods in the cart behind her trike and, thusly, he hadn't paid much to the cart until there was movement under the blanket tucked around its edges. It wasn't a chicken or kid or rabbit that moved, though, but was little Lizzie instead.

When he learned the reason for Kimmie's visit, Roger didn't hesitate to jump into action. He turned and whistled to the Sergeant who was still dealing with a man who wanted to enter Bentonville without any trade goods. He told him, "Get Miss Wright and her girl to the Doctor ... now!"

He looked back to the matriarch of the farm located to the north, smiled, and reached his hand out. In it was a blue, rectangular poker chip, the style of which -- as far as the non-gambling Roger was aware -- had normally only ever been used in casinos in Europe and the Orient. Bentonville had once been the home of the company that had made these chips and hundreds of other chips specific to individual casinos around the world.

These days, this particular chip was used by visitors to the town as a pass, allowing them access to most of the town's facilities and services. There was a second such chip, this one red, which was more restricted in nature, so much so that Roger wasn't even allowed to have one on his person without the expressed permission of his superior, the Colonel, who was, of course, the leader of Bentonville and its Militia.

"Do I have to remind you not to lose this, Miss Wright?" he asked kindly. He knew he didn't, but he would have been remiss to not ask. The last person who had lost such a pass was still in a cell at the Sheriff's Department. (Of course, that wasn't so much because he'd lost the pass and was more about the fact that he'd transferred it to someone else without authority.) He told her, "Go with the Sergeant, Miss Wright. He'll get you to the Clinic. I'll come check on you shortly."