After

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This book is for sale to ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It contains substantial sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which may be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.

All sexually active characters in this work are 18 years of age or older.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover Design: Varian Krylov After © 2008 Varian Krylov eXcessica publishing All rights reserved

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After By Varian Krylov

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PART I: EVA ~ YEAR THREE

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CHAPTER ONE

They have been waiting, and she is the first. Wary, creeping closer. A girl or young woman. Something catches her eye. Furtive, she looks around. Then slow, cautious, she approaches a fruit tree. Out of place among the dense stand of cedars and maples until a wider view reveals a poorly kept old orchard. Fat apples sag the branches of the smallish tree. Skittish, the girl looks about her once more, then reaches up and plucks one heavy green fruit. Mouth stretched wide, her teeth puncture the bright, specked skin, tear into pale flesh, release clear juice. Devouring the crunchy flesh she has taken into her mouth, she raises the maimed fruit to her nose and draws in the sweet-sharp scent. In seconds there is nothing in her hand but a whittled core, already browning. She tosses it down in the sparse, tall grass and tugs another apple from its branch and begins devouring it with the same fierce relish. By the time she hears a rustle of grass, the crunch of earth, it's too late. Men. Three men in military fatigues. She runs, dropping the half-eaten apple. But she is slow, and they are fast. The one who catches her smiles as his fingers lock around her arms. He touched her first, so he gets her first. They worked this out long ago, hoping but not believing that eventually they would see a woman again. His smile fades. Its birth, life, and death pass in the span of a second. He throws her to the ground and is on her. She screams. An animal howl, terrifying and loud. She hits him hard in the face. He hits her back. A second man is there, now, pinning her arms, eager to help so his turn will come sooner. The one on top

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of her rips open her jacket. The sound of thread snapping. Hands yank up her shirt and bra. “Get him,” the one on top of her growls. The other lets go of her wrists, boots thumping over hard earth. Seconds later he is back, the muzzle of his gun nuzzled into the neck of the third. “You're staying here with us, kid,” the one on top of her says. “And you're taking your turn, when it comes.” The one with the gun makes the runaway take his place, holding her wrists. The one on top of her is pulling down her pants, tugging at her underwear. She is sobbing. Convulsing with sobs. Then a horrible dull impact sound. And again. Something is wrong with the one on top of her. Blood runs in a stream over the stubble, down his temple, dripping in a sticky warm rivulet onto her face. Then a boot flashes into and out of her frame of vision and the man on top of her arcs backward. He is off of her. They are all off of her. A shadow passes over her, and a figure looms between her and the sun-smeared sky. He stands over her, panting, face fierce, body rigid. Her eyes follow wide shoulders out to thick arms down to large hands, one closed in a fist, the other clutching a blackjack, the end gory with blood and hair. She tugs at her sweater, covering herself, scrambles to her feet. She does not take her eyes off him as her trembling hands struggle to do up her pants, then as she crosses her buttonless jacket and then her arms defensively over her chest. He watches her, then scans the men littered about them. One is unconscious, another is hunched

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over, cradling his bleeding head. The third—the unscathed runaway—is watching. The man with the blackjack is considering something. He steps toward her, reaches for her. She makes a hopeless little noise and turns, runs from him with all her strength. But it isn’t much strength. He catches up and catches her, a big forearm clamping down across her waist, trapping her against him. She thrashes. It's futile. He lets her struggle and beat at him until her tiny store of strength and hope is spent and she gives up, sobbing. He grips one of her thin biceps in his huge hand and begins dragging her off somewhere, the eyes of the two conscious men following them. She seems resigned until the walls of a compound come into view, and then a gate. The sight of a destination renews her terror, and she begins struggling once more, fighting to wrest her arm free. He tightens his grip. They are almost to the gate. She will no longer walk, so he drags her. Her struggle is tiring him. He stops and looks down at her. He speaks in a low, stoic voice. “If you won’t walk along cooperatively I’ll throw you over my shoulder and carry you in.” She lets him march her through the gate. Soldiers are posted inside the gate, and others stop working in a field near the path up to a large building looming ahead. None speaks or leaves his post, but they look at her like a fabled creature whose reality is not to be believed. The big man takes the girl into a squat, square building. Dim light from the small windows is unaided by electric lights. Their steps echo down a long corridor. At a door

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the man halts and knocks. A voice says enter. He turns the knob, draws her through the door, and closes it behind them. Behind a big metal desk, a man rises from his seat. He is tall, slim, and something in his look and his bearing suggests the eagle. He shows no sign of shock. A cool smile that barely curves appears. The girl is stood before the desk, her captor’s hands rest possessively on her shoulders. “I’m Major Smith,” the eagle says, his tone cool. Polite. She goes on, trembling in silence. Major Smith looks to her captor. “Who’s your friend, John?” “I don’t know.” “How did she come to be in your company?” “Riggs and his men had her out by the old orchard.” “They didn’t…hurt her?” “Looks like one of them punched her pretty hard.” “John.” “Rape her you mean?” Smith gives John a challenging look. John is silent. “Did they?” “No. But if I hadn’t come—” “All three of them?” “Yes.” The eagle’s fair face darkens. He turns from John to the girl.

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“I’m sorry for how my men have treated you. I assure you they’ll be severely disciplined. What is your name?” After a long pause she answers. “Eva.” For some reason the eagle looks pleased. “That’s a lovely name.” Then, after a wistful pause, “Are you hungry? You look like you’ve had it rough for a while out there. I’ll have some food brought in.” He picks up a phone and tersely orders a meal brought to his office. “Which direction have you come from, Eva?” “From the north.” “How long since you’ve seen anyone?” “Months.” “How have you been surviving?’ Eva shrugs her shoulders. “Well, you’ll be well looked after here. We’re most of us army, what's left of the soldiers stationed here. But John here is civilian, and so is Jake. You’ll meet him in just a bit. There’s plenty of food and water here. Don’t worry, we won’t induct you,” Smith says with a teasing smile, “we just have a strict set of rules that everyone must comply with, to ensure order and everyone’s safety. But we can go over all of that a little later.” A knock at the door. A man enters with a tray of food. “Well here’s Jake now, one of your fellow civilians. Just leave the tray on my desk. Jake, this is Eva.” Jake wilts, all of the air let out as he stares at her. “Hello, Eva,” he finally says, just audibly.

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“Thank you Jake. You may go.” Jake wrenches his gaze from her and leaves the room. “Don’t be shy, Eva. Eat up. We’ve already had our lunch.” With the look of a dog expecting a kick she begins devouring the food before her. When she finishes the major speaks. “I’ll have a room made up for you, Eva. In the meantime, you can use my room to shower and have a rest. I imagine it’s been a long time since you’ve slept on a proper bed. You can go, John. I’ll get her settled myself.” John does not move, but stands statue-like just where he has been all this time, right behind Eva. Unable to see John, she watches the eagle. His expression calcifies. “You’re dismissed, John.” John quietly leaves. Eva’s whole body seems to soften slightly. “Come along, Eva. I’ll show you to my room.” And like that, the softness is gone. Rising, the major, goes to the door and opens it, gesturing for her to step into the hall. She looks apprehensive, but she stands and steps out the door. Together they go down the corridor, her arms tense and ready for battle, he with his hands clasped leisurely behind his back. They leave the office and the cluster of austere military buildings and cross the campus to another building. It looks like an old mansion on a southern plantation—a strange and stark contrast to the squat and square buildings adjacent. They pass through a formally appointed foyer to a wide staircase. At the top are several doors. The major opens one, revealing a large, sparsely furnished room. He enters. She follows, staying close to the door.

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“I'll get out of your way in just a moment, so you can get cleaned up and have a rest.” Smith is using a quiet, careful voice, miles away from the voice he has used with John and with Jake. “Before I go, though, I need to ask you a few questions. About what happened this afternoon. It will help me in deciding on disciplinary measures.” She nods. He gives her a reserved but reassuring smile. He asks things, she answers, her body stiff, her answers terse. No tears. No talk of fear or anger. Just information. Naked facts. Three men. One taking the lead, giving orders. One who ran, came back at the point of a gun, held her down. The other's gun holstered. John's blackjack and jackboots. While he deposes her, Smith pokes and prods at her statements with due interest, but it's her that has him curious; it's obvious in the way he cocks his head slightly, the way his sharp eyes focus on her hands, hanging at her sides but kept still with visible effort. On her eyes that constantly seek his, never evading his gaze. When the eagle runs out of questions he thanks Eva for her testimony. Then, his gentle tone giving way to a cold staccato. “You’ve been outside for a long time, Eva, so I know you understand how dangerous it is out there. John arrived here almost seven months ago. Then there was no one until about two months ago when Jake arrived. Then no one until today, when you arrived. You say you’ve seen no one in months. For all we know, then, there’s no one else left. But the danger is still there. Here it’s safe. But only as long as everyone does their share and follows the rules. John and Jake have learned to follow the rules, and I’m sure you will, too. “The first rule is obvious. No one goes outside the compound. The only exception is the orchard detail, but that won’t be your duty.

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“The second rule is strict food rationing. We have the orchard, and we have planted crops on the grounds here in the campus, but most of them aren’t producing yet. One of the bittersweet consequences of what's happened—there were over three hundred soldiers stationed at this facility, and now we're only eighteen, nineteen, now that you're here—we have about a three year supply of grains and canned goods, but that’s assuming no additions to our group, and no spoiled food. “Third. I’m in charge. Any order I give must be obeyed without question. Most of my men knew me a long time before all this happened, and have learned to trust me and my decisions. It’s harder for you civilians, who don’t understand military authority and haven’t known me as long. But the rule applies to you just as it does to the men. Anyone who disobeys an order goes into solitary for a week, and has their rations cut. The second time someone disobeys an order, they’re turned out. To the outside. Do you understand these rules?” “Yes.” “Good.” He smiles, his military stiffness slipping away. “Well. Please, just make yourself comfortable. The bathroom is right through there. You can have a shower. Actually, if you don’t mind my saying so, I’d prefer that you did, before you use my bed.” His smile is amiable. She is filthy. “There’s a robe on the back of the door you can use. Just put your clothes outside in the hallway, and I’ll have someone collect them and launder them for you. You can have a nice long nap. Help yourself if you see anything you’d like to read. I must get back to work. Is there anything you need? Fine, I’ll send someone round in an hour to collect your laundry.”

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“Major,” Eva blurts as he's about to leave. He halts, gives her his steady attention. “You said before, nineteen, counting me.” “Yes.” “And,” she keeps her hands still, keeps her head erect, her gaze steady, but her voice chokes and warbles, “how many are women?” “Only you, Eva,” he answers, his voice solemn. He leaves, locking the door behind him. Her rigidity seems to soften slightly. She goes into the bathroom, and locks that door. There is a beige flannel robe on a hook. When she catches sight of herself in the mirror she goes still. Stares with curious awe similar to how the men had looked at her as John marched her through the compound. She goes on staring, astonished, as she gets her clothes off, and after. Runs thin fingers over protruding collar bones, the corrugations of her ribs, her hollow belly. She showers, taking a long time just to shampoo, rinse, and shampoo her hair again, working her fingers into the tangle of thick black curls, scrubbing her itchy scalp. The hot water is pounding her back, and she sways for long minutes, moving the jets back and forth over her skin before taking her time with the soap, massaging and rinsing and doing it all over again and again. Turning the water off she towels dry and pulls the robe down from the hook. She smells it. Then she presses her whole face into it and draws in a long breath. Then she puts it on, stroking her arms through the soft flannel, enveloped in it. She finds a comb and, after examining the red welt over her cheekbone ringed in blues and yellows where the soldier hit her, begins the painful struggle of unknotting her hair. Half an hour later

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she has won, and she goes to the eagle's bed, collapses upon it, and falls asleep, not even getting under the covers. Hours later, as evening falls, the eagle knocks softly at the door. She is awake, having slept all afternoon. As he unlocks the door and enters, she quickly backs away from him. He sits down in an armchair and motions for her to sit down opposite him on the bed. “Feeling rested?” “Yes.” she replies warily. Then, “Thank you.” With visible effort she manages a kind of smile. The eagle is looking at her intently. She looks away. “Forgive me staring. It's just...Eva, may I ask how old you are?” “Sixteen,” she answers after hesitating a moment. “So young,” the eagle comments, almost wistfully. Then a faint, mirthless laugh. “I didn't see it before, under all that dirt.” He looks like he's thinking something over. Then he returns. Becomes present. “I know you've been through a terrible ordeal, out there. And today. And there will be times when it's very hard for you, here. But I promise you, I am looking out for you.” Eva produces another smile and says, “Thank you.” The eagle rises and turns his back to her, saying, “You're underage. But that hardly seems to matter, under the circumstances.” He opens a cabinet at the base of the built-in shelves housing his small library, and brings out a bottle and two glasses. “You've survived all on your own for the last eighteen months. It doesn't seem you should be treated like a child.”

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“No.” There's a cynical edge to her voice. She rises as he uncorks the bottle and fills the glasses. The eagle turns and hands her one. “Cheers, Eva. To you,” he says, and they clink glasses. Eva takes a tentative sip. Then another. And another. The eagle takes in her eager drinking, but doesn't make a comment. She notices him watching her, and she meets his gaze. And a few seconds later her eyes fill up with tears. “Eva?” “I'm sorry,” she says, smiling, but when she blinks the tears escape down her cheeks. “It's just, I've been by myself for so long. I didn't know if I'd ever see anyone again. And now I'm here, washed and rested. Drinking wine.” And then she adds, “With you.” And then she presses herself against him and wraps an arm—the one not holding the wine—around him. The eagle is taken aback, but after a few seconds he sets his glass down and puts his arms around her, tentatively, at first, then pulls her close against him. He strokes her hair for a moment. Then he gently sets her away from him. She seems confused. Almost unsettled. But she gives him a smile, then begins diligently sipping from her glass again. But then she sets it down, only half empty. Smith looks from the glass to her, dismayed. But he says nothing. He takes two steps toward her. She stiffens, but doesn't back away. And then a few seconds later she touches the palm of her hand to his chest. She's swaying a little where she stands. Her pupils are huge. “Eva,” he says in a low, gentle voice, “would you do something for me?”

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Smith picks up the bag he'd left by the door, and brings forth some beige cloth. When he rotates his wrist the piece of cloth unfurls toward the floor and becomes a delicate, translucent nightgown. “Would you put this on for me?” Watching her face, he looks surprised when, after just a brief hesitation, she nods and comes to take the garment. She teeters into the bathroom and swings the door closed. Just seconds later she comes back out. “Does it look all right?” she asks in a quiet voice either full or void of artifice. “You look lovely.” His words are incongruous with the sad tone of his delivery. Her look of apprehension escalates to restrained alarm. “Here,” he proffers her abandoned wine glass. Her hand is shaking as she takes three big swallows, like it's water or medicine. Smith finishes off the contents of his own glass, then watches as she does the same. “Good girl.” He takes her empty glass from her slack grip and sets it on a shelf. “Now, come and lie down,” he says, coaxing her down onto the bed. Her breathing has quickened and her eyes are glued to him as he leans down to help her get settled. “Try and rest a little more. I've got a bit more work to do yet. I'll see you soon.” Her eyes go wide and her hand clamps onto his wrist. She's starting to cry a little. “Please, stay here. Stay with me.” Her voice is shrill. Panicky. “Shhhh. Try to rest,” he whispers, gently prying her fingers from around his wrist. “Wait!”

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Smith's hand slips from the doorknob. He turns. Faces her. She is sitting up, swaying slightly like a rooted water plant in a gentle current. “Please.” She gestures for him to come back to her. After a long hesitation Smith moves closer, sits on the edge of the bed. Her eyes lock on his, anchor her swaying body there. Slowly but perceptibly, Smith hardens. “Don't do it,” she says, plainly trying not to cry but failing, obviously trying to be hard, but shaking. “You don't have to. And it's not right.” “Don't do what, Eva?” His voice is low. It has a choked sound it hasn't had before. She reaches for his hand. She's off by a little, like she's having trouble focusing. But then she finds his hand with hers. “Please,” she says, her voice tear-choked, her mouth straining to smile. “You stay. I won't fight you. I'll try. I don't know how, but I'll try to be good.” “Eva. What do you think is going to happen?” “You drugged me.” “Yes.” “You drugged me. You dressed me in this thing. And you're leaving.” Smith is still and silent. “You're—“ Her angry accusation withers. Fades to a terrified prophesy. “You're giving me to them.” She is breaking apart. “Ssshhh, Eva.” Smith pulls her to him, puts his arms around her, rocks her slowly, back and forth, like a frightened child.

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“Nothing so awful. I promise,” he soothes. “Listen to me, Eva.” He sets her a little away from him, his eagle's gaze trying to pierce the fog of her buzz. “For two years now, every effort of mine, every thought, has been for the men. Keeping them alive. Keeping them safe. Keeping them from going crazy with fear. Trying to give them hope. That we're not the only ones left. That we're not going to grow old and die, trapped here, never even knowing if anyone else is alive out there. And I will still do that. Look after the men. But Eva, now that you're here, nothing, nothing is more important than keeping you safe. I am not going to throw you to the men like a scrap of meat for them to fight over.” In her eyes, there's a change. Like an explosion resolving to billowing smoke, silent and slow. “What's happening, then?” She seems to be teetering at the edge, clinging to hope, struggling not to drop into the abyss of her terror. “Eva.” She doesn't speak or move, really. There's just a faint change, like she's braced herself. He tells her, in a voice almost as soft as a whisper. Maybe he thinks it will scare her less, hurt her less, if he says it quietly. Not saying anything, Eva just shakes her head, slowly, for a long time. Her look of horror, her tears, the no, no, no turning of her head back and forth doesn't stop him. When he is done, for a minute Eva is mute, just shaking and crying but trying to hold herself together, erect. “Smith. Smith, please. “ She is trying to be calm. Rational. To carve the terror and anger from her voice. “There's another way. There is. We just have to think.”

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“I've had two years to think this through, knowing there was a chance someone, you, might turn up here one day. I've had months and months of seeing what the men are becoming to realize what sort of crisis we're facing.” “You keep saying...what are the men becoming?” **** The hall guard tells Smith John is waiting for him in his office, then listens to the low murmur of Smith's voice, and the raised, angry voice of his visitor. The low and raised voices parry for a number of minutes, then the door opens. Smith emerges, calmly issues an order, then walks off toward the mess hall. Twenty minutes later the company is convened—eleven men, not lined up in rows on the benches at the tables, but sitting in a broken, irregular circle on benches ringing the room. Eva's attackers are present, sitting apart, wrists bound in plastic handcuffs. One—Riggs, the leader—has a big bandage on his head. One bench in the circle is empty and Smith repeatedly looks up from the papers on the table in front of him to eye that empty space. Some minutes later John enters the room and takes the empty seat, and the line at the edge of Smith's mouth smooths. Another minute later the final two soldiers enter, with Eva between them. She's wearing the nightgown and shaking visibly, and except for Smith's, all eyes in the room lock onto her. There are no shouts or whistles or laughter. Her eyes drift over face after face, all so young, so hard. Complexions of boys, eyes of weary men. Hungry men. They look as though they are devouring her life with their stares. “Jake.”

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Jake steps before the eagle. The major hands him a large ceramic jar. Jake takes the jar and stands before the first man in the circle. The man drops something metal into the jar. Jake moves around the circle, every man dropping something into the jar when he stops before them. John looks at her as he opens his fist over the jar and his token plinks down among the others. When Jake stands before the man with the bandage, the eagle speaks. “Not him, Jake. Riggs and his men have forfeited their participation.” The man grabs the lip of the jar with both cuffed hands and opens his mouth to protest. But he does not speak, and after a moment he releases his hold, letting Jake move on around the circle. When all the tokens have been collected, he returns to the eagle, proffering the jar. The major puts in no token, but takes the jar from the man's hands. He shakes it hard a few times, stirring the metal tabs around inside. “Aaron Velden!” The major’s voice rings out like a sentence. Irrefutable. “That’s John’s tag.” A din rises as the men begin talking and shouting angrily, not daring to challenge the eagle, but bickering and complaining to the air. John—jaw clenched, chest heaving—locks eyes with Smith. They are gripped in a contest of wills while the rest of the room erupts in a frenetic swarm. The men are bickering and joking nervously as they rearrange tables and chairs and jostle the three handcuffed men into the center of a knot of soldiers. Eyes still locked on Smith, John stands, and the other seems to be daring him, with a look, to defy his will. Eva, clutched firmly between the two soldiers who walked her in, is trying to focus, now on Smith, now on John, now on Smith again. John turns and strides toward

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Eva or toward the exit, and for just a moment there's a crack in Smith's calm. His expression settles back into willed serenity, though, as John, his face gray and damp, his eyes red and wild, takes hold of Eva's arm and pulls her from between the two soldiers. “No!” she screams, trying to jerk her arm free of John's grip, trying to make eye contact with Smith. “No!” she screams again, swinging her fist at John's face, thrashing against his grip as she tries to kick him, to knee him, to wrench herself free. Somehow she slips out of his grip, slips past the soldiers, and flings herself against Smith, who rises and catches her in a tight embrace. The soldiers that delivered her to John leap at her, trying to pry her from Smith. “Stand down!” he barks, startling them with his uncharacteristic heat. “Ssshhh,” he coos in her ear, holding her, petting her, rocking her. “It'll only be John. Just John. After tonight, he'll be your...like a husband. This part will be over soon. Soon.” Smith's face is a stoic mask, but his eyes are wild and his voice wavers. “John.” John steps up and helps Smith peel Eva free. Like he dragged her through the orchard up to the gates of the compound John drags her now. Her desperate struggle hardly slows him. Soon he has her at the center of the room, beside two tables that have been pushed together, with a thin, narrow mattress thrown on top. And just as she'd suddenly panicked at the site of the fort, when she looks down and sees the mattress and the way the men are closing their circle around her, Eva's strength seems to triple. She convulses and lurches and even wrenches her arms free of John's hands

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once, twice. But he seizes her again, more and more brutally, and finally pushes her down onto the mattress and pins her wrists down by her shoulders. “Eva,” he pants against her cheek, his chest swelling against hers with every breath. “Stop. Stop fighting me. Us struggling, it's just getting them more riled up.” She squints her lids closed over her dilated eyes. The frenetic din of male voices booms and echoes throughout the hall, built to seat two or three hundred. “Not Nichols!” Smith's voice cannons into the throng. One of the handcuffed men is dragged from the fray, shoved aside at the edge of the room. “It'll go faster, easier, if you just let it happen.” Johns voice is cold. Matter-of-fact. But his eyes are sparking. He wrestles her the rest of the way onto the mattress and in one quick gesture flings the hem of her gown up. She is not wearing anything underneath. And as if he's severed some connection to her brain she goes soft. No more screams. Pathetic little whimpering noises squeak out of her now. As John mounts the makeshift bed and plants his knees between hers, unzipping his fly, getting out his stiff cock, Eva focuses her bleary gaze on him. “Please,” she sobs, to just him now, and not the whole room. Not to Smith. “Don't do this. Please don't.” John catches her two wrists in one hand and pins them over her head, then takes hold of his cock and moves into position. “No!” she shouts, starting to flail again. “Don't! Don't!” she screams one last time before he clamps his hand over her mouth and thrusts between her thighs.

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Her eyes go wide. Tears pool at the edges of bloodshot whites and golden irises and cavernous pupils, then drain away down her temples, then pool up again. He thrusts again. She just sobs quietly into his palm, now, as his hips pump between her legs. The men are ringed all around them, watching from a few feet away. Some bark at John, “Tits! We wanna see her tits!,” and “Feed her your cock! Make her suck it!” The two prisoners are snagged in a pulling, tearing, gripping mesh of soldiers bending their prey over, kicking them to their knees, ripping at their belts and pants. John thrusts faster. More urgently. Eva cries quietly under his palm. She's soft and static, now. He grunts, his pumping frenzied, then groans, long and loud, and his body slumps over hers. He keeps his grip on her wrists, keeps his hand clamped down on her mouth while he pants oxygen into his taxed blood stream, then as he lifts himself and locks eyes with her. Then he lets go. Gets off. Eva just lies there, eyes fixed on the empty space where John was a moment earlier, not trying to cover up. The insides of her thighs are shiny and smeared. She turns her head toward the cluster of ass and mouth raping, and that pathetic whimpering noise starts leaking out of her again. John tugs the hem of her gown down, then, when he's done zipping and buckling up, he scoops her off the mattress and carries her past Smith, whose gaze doesn't shift a single millimeter from the bed, and out of the hall. Still, quiet, she sags in his arms as he carries her into a building, up some stairs, and into a room. She stays still and quiet as he lays her on a bed, and as he walks away. He comes back with a small towel and sits on the edge of the bed and she stays still.

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“I'm just going to get you cleaned up,” he says quietly. She doesn't move or say anything as he lifts the hem of her gown, or as he parts her legs, or as he wipes the slick mess from her thighs. When he rubs the cloth against her sex she just moans softly. John rises from the bed and rinses out the towel before throwing it into the hamper. Then he returns, tucks her into bed, and gets in beside her. She's pliant as he curls up behind her, spooning her, stroking her hair and murmuring quietly, “It's all right, Eva. You're all right. It's going to be all right.” When Eva wakes the next morning, John is gone.

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CHAPTER TWO

“You drugged her.” “Yes.” “With what?” John is taut, vibrating, as if his rage is about to explode. Smith is lax. Except for his eyes, sharp, alert. “A glass of wine laced with a bit of tranquilizer and a little mood elevator. Not enough to make her sleep through it, but enough to take the edge off, I hoped. Does she remember anything?” “I don't know. She was asleep when I left.” “I know you'll be careful of her, John. Try to help her...adjust.” “You rigged the draw, too.” “Yes,” Smith concedes after a few seconds' hesitation. “It was awful to do to you, when you so vehemently opposed this entire arrangement, but I'm sure you understand that I couldn't just let chance decide who'd get her.” “You could have let Eva decide.” “John, we've been through this. You know I value your opinion, and I've heard you on this. But this isn't a democracy. I have the dubious responsibility of ensuring that this little den of wolves doesn't tear itself apart. Especially now that she's here. ****

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A gentle rapping. Eva snaps to standing. White-knuckled fists clenched at her sides, she stares at the door. There's a sound of deadbolts sliding and clicking back, and the door opens. John stands in the aperture. “May I come in?” Her chest heaving, she lifts her chin in defiance. “No.” For a moment he doesn't move or say anything. Then in a soft voice he says, “,” and shuts the door. The deadbolts slide and click back into place. She stands there, shaking, staring at the door for a long time, like she can't believe he really accepted her refusal. But he doesn't come back. Not until the following day. “May I come in?” “No.” Longer than the day before, he's quiet and still after her answer. But finally he steps back and starts to close the door. Fists clenched by her sides, breathing hard, shaking, she says, “Wait.” Then, when he opens the door again and looks at her, she says, “Wait.” Then, “Come in.” John steps inside and closes the door. When the guard outside locks it, she flinches a little at the click of each deadbolt. Taut and trembling she watches him come nearer, then pull a chair back from the little table by the window. “Is it all right if I sit down?” She nods and he sits. She seems to be stretched a little less tightly. “I came,” he begins, his voice soft, his look direct, “because I have things to tell you. But first, if you have anything—“

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“What's going to happen to me?” Still holding her gaze he pulls in a deep breath and lets it go. “The other night. You remember the lottery?” “Why wouldn't I?” she accuses. “Because Smith drugged you.” “Why?” Now, on the strength of a single syllable, she sounds enraged. Exasperated. “To make it easier on you,” he tells her in a flat voice. Tears are sliding down her cheeks. She seems to be out of questions for the moment. “We...” He is still meeting her eyes, but the matter-of-fact voice is hitting bumps, now. “We drew lots. For you. Remember?” She nods, shaking. “Sort of.” “And I...my tag was drawn. That's why I...” Her jaw muscles flex and her breathing speeds. “It was all decided ahead of time. Long before you turned up. Before I came here. How it would go, if there was ever a woman. Whoever...whatever tag was drawn, that's what the man was supposed to do. I would have spared you that if—” “What's going to happen to me?” She sounds impatient of his extenuating circumstances. “You live. Here. With me.” Pacing back and forth, keeping the little table between them, she breathes hard through a few long minutes of near silence. “What?” she finally forces through clenched teeth. “Like your concubine?”

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“Yes.” “And the others?” “No one but me is allowed to touch you.” “So that's the price I pay. For getting to stay here. To live. I'm your whore for the rest of my life?” “Even if you wanted to leave, to try surviving out there, on your own, Smith, the men, they wouldn't let you go.” “Why? Why should they keep me here, just for you?” “None of this is 'for me.'” For the first time in her presence, he sounds angry. He smooths his voice out and goes on with, “I was compelled to take part, the other night, against my wishes. And the only reason I went through with it to the extent that I did was because I...” He takes a deep breath. “Riggs and his boys. Out in the orchard. They aren't the worst here. Not by a lot.” “If only you get to fuck me, what do they care if I stay or go?” “Because,” he says, looking seasick, “of the spectacles. Like the other night. And because, if anything happens to me, they'll have another lottery, and someone else will get you.” Like he might say something more, his mouth opens, but it closes on silence. Arms crossed over her chest so they rise and fall with her frantic breathing, she stares out the window, across the expanse of compound, toward the perimeter wall beyond which gray sky and the forest treetops are visible. After a long while she turns back to John. He is sitting, very still, hands folded on the table, looking at her. Keeping her eyes on him she pulls back the empty chair. He stays still. She sits down.

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“The other night, when you...” her eyes are tearing up and she bites her lip. Tries again. “when you had me pinned down. You didn't. Did you?” “No.” “I don't remember much of that night. But the next morning it didn't seem...feel like you had. But it was...my thighs were sticky,” she comes back, her voice full of suspicion. “I did the least I could. But I had to make the men think it was real. So I,” his eyes shift away and he forces them back to face her. “I rubbed against you until I came. If I'd walked out of there with a hard-on, they would have known. I tried to get you washed up,” he says and she blushes fiercely. “Why?” she asks, crying now. “Why'd you fake it?” “Because. I'm not a rapist.” ”And for what you did the other night you risked what?” “Banishment.” “Death.” “Yes.” “So, what? If I tell you to piss off, you'll just go away and leave me alone?” “Yes.” She glares at him, challenging him. He says, “But then there'll be another lottery.” “Not if we lie. Pretend. Like the other night.” Her voice is like an instrument, a probe, to gage him. “Maybe. We could try. But it'll be hard.”

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He looks up toward the ceiling, drawing her gaze up and around the room. There is a camera mounted in each of the four corners. “The orgy in the mess hall,” he says with palpable distaste, “was a one-time thing. Smith's idea of an emergency pressure release. But we're expected, we'll be forced to provide the men with entertainment.” Even after everything, this insult seems to stun Eva, and she is shaking. “That's what I wanted to discuss with you. It's horrible. I know,” he says in a careful voice. “I've argued and argued with Smith—even before you got here. But he's unmovable. I've thought all through this. There are options, but none of them are very savory. We fake it and take the very real chance of getting caught, which for me means exile—so death, probably—and for you means being handed off to one of the other men. And I'm about certain that any other of the men would take full advantage. Except Smith. But he won't take you. “You’d defy Smith and risk that? Exile?” “Yes.” She's gone quiet. “We could try to get out of here,” he says, “but I expect that would end with me shot and you back in the same situation. Even if we get out, it would seem our chances of survival are about nil. Do you agree?” “Yes,” she answers in a small, defeated voice. “Or we can do as we're expected to do, and try to stay human through it all, somehow.” He is looking at her. “If you have an idea I haven't thought of, I'd like to hear it.”

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He sounds earnest. She shakes her head. No. “It's a lot, I know. To take in. Deal with. I'll leave you alone, come back later, and we can talk some more. "Why did you come? Now I mean? To talk to me? "You deserve to know. To have a chance to think. To decide. I can't, I mean, I wouldn't decide for you. I did it the other day, when I brought you here. And part of me is sorry I did that. I won't do it again." He sounds more determined than apologetic. She regards him with cold stoicism. “I should go,” he says. “Wait.” He waits. Visibly bracing herself, she says, “After the lottery. While you had me...while I was on the table. And after. I think I saw. The two who tried to rape me in the orchard. What was happening to them?” she finally gets it all out. “It's the punishment now, for rape. Or attempted rape.” “Smith let the men...” “Ordered them to.” She looks like she might vomit. “Did you?” “No. Not me. Not Jake.” “You said 'now.'” “What happened with you, in the orchard. That wasn't the first time.” “Oh.” Her voice is small, broken.

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"I'm sorry,” he says. “I have to get back to work. If I'm late, the others will have to work late with me tonight." She is wearing another sheer negligee. These garments, left behind by the dead wife of a dead general, are all she has been given; there are no other clothes in the room. John has a bag. He hands it to her. Inside are military-issue pants, a t-shirt, and underwear. **** Toward the end of the morning shift, as he hacks into stubborn earth with his spade, John stops and straightens as Smith's aid comes toward him. "Smith wants to speak with you." Quenlin speaks curtly to the man panting, sweating, towering over him. "Sure." John sounds guarded. "I'll see him before dinner." "He wants you now." John stares a moment at the clerk before finally answering. "All right." They go together. Smith is sitting at his desk, and coolly regards John as he enters. “Sit down, John.” To the aid, “Shut my door, Quenlin.” Then, in a quiet voice, “What are you playing at, John?” John sits silently, his voice and face quiet. “We had an agreement. I thought you understood the risk I was taking for the sake of my magnanimous impulse.” Smith leans across his desk, and whispers, “I rigged that lottery so you would get her, because I was convinced that leaving her fate to chance, condemning her to the

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clutches of any one of those brutes, was inhuman. And it eased my conscience to think that I could maintain order here without completely sacrificing the girl, knowing that you would treat her decently. But you know, you know damn well that if the men realize you haven’t consummated your union…” “What are you talking about?” “Don’t fuck me around, John.” “What makes you think I didn’t do it?” Smith brings forth a small cassette. “From the security system,” he says, then pops the tape into a player on the credenza behind his desk and hits a button. There's a small clicking sound as the internal mechanisms go into motion, then a faint hiss of tape noise. Then, “The other night, when you...when you had me pinned down. You didn't. Did you?” “No.” John's and Eva's voices squeak and hiss into the room on ancient media. “I did the least I could. But I had to make the men think it was real...” Smith taps the button again and the clicking and hissing and unintended confessions end. “You said the cameras were off. That you're not spying on her every fucking second.” “Yes, well. I meant it. But after we spoke, it occurred to me I'd better keep the room monitored. Not for prurient reasons, but to ensure neither of you do anything foolish, putting yourselves, or each other, in unnecessary danger.”

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“Smith, you are a master of rationalization. Your self delusion—“ “What if she tries to kill herself?” John is silent. “Now listen to me, John. I was happy with the arrangement we’d made. I still think it can work. Of everyone here, after me, the men fear and trust you. She’s safer with you than with anyone, and her safety is the safety, the future of the community. But the men have to believe. We can’t jeopardize everything because you’re afraid to pop some girl’s cherry.” “Don’t trivialize it. I caught that poor girl out in the woods and dragged her in here like some fucking POW. What I’m afraid of is raping her.” John’s chest is heaving. “I’m a fucking coward. I should have just let her go while I had the chance.” “John, she would have died out there. Who knows how she survived for so long, but you saw how weak she was with exhaustion and hunger.” “Maybe she’d have been better off.” “It’s for the survival of the group, John. Maybe even the survival of the species.” “Smith, all I’m asking for is time. Time to let her know me. Like me a little. Fear me less.” “No. It’s too big a risk. Now listen carefully. The poor girl has been through hell. And despite my precautions, and yours, I'm sure the other night was traumatic. So I'll give her a little time. But the night after tomorrow I intend to give the men a show, via the cameras. If you don’t do it, really do it, I’ll make a new arrangement.” John is glaring. His fury is a frightening sight. Smith is cool and firm.

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“When the monitors come on, I want her stripped naked; I want the men to see your hands on her, your mouth on her. I want them to see penetration. You understand? Give them the real thing, not the R rated version.”

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CHAPTER THREE

By now Eva understands that 'her room' is a prison cell. Locked and guarded. The glass removed from the windows, replaced with heavy wire screening. When it's cold she has to close the shutters. Opening closets and cupboards and drawers, she has failed to turn up anything sharp, or even a glass that could be shattered. Nothing she could use to defend herself. Or hurt herself. As he has before, when John comes to Eva, he asks permission before he enters. The same guard gives John the same look as he knocks. He hesitates before putting key to lock and slowly opening the door. He steps through and closes the door softly behind him and the deadbolts slide into their locks. “In the orchard,” is how she greets him, “when you beat those men off of me, I watched you look at me, look at them. I saw that you were considering something. At the time,” her voice goes hard, “I thought you were about to rape me, that them watching stopped you. But that wasn’t it. What were you deciding?” “Whether I could let you go.” “Why didn’t you?” “I don’t know.” “You do.” “It was just a few seconds. A lot of thoughts went through my head. I don’t know what made me decide. I thought you would die out there if I let you go. I thought if the men saw me let you go that I’d be turned out. And I thought…I thought…” “What?”

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“That maybe you were the last chance for a new beginning.” The implications of that statement echo off the walls. “I promise you, Eva, I won't ever do that again. Choose for you.” “I think I know. What I want to do.” She draws a breath. “When...” “Night after tomorrow.” “If I...if we...I’m scared. I don't want to get pregnant. Is there something we can do? Do you have anything?” John stays silent. Eva looks at him. He still doesn't say anything. “What?” she presses. “Smith didn't tell you.” ”What?” John takes in a deep breath and lets it out in a huff. Then he speaks very softly, very gravely. “We have six months. If you’re not pregnant in six months, Smith will hold another lottery.” Pale, silent, shaking, she hovers there, just looking at him. Finally she speaks. “Next, I suppose, someone will tell me you’ve all decided to harvest my organs. That it’s for the good of the community.” “I’ll go along with you, Eva, if you want to avoid it. I can manage it, I think. But I’d like you to listen to the reasoning.” “An excerpt from Smith’s manifesto on post-apocalyptic communal living?” “I know his zealotry is hard to take. But if he weren’t here the men would become a mob. At least this way there’s hope.” “Hope for what?” “That we’ll survive. And now that you’re here…”

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“What? We can people the earth with a fresh strain of humanity, born here in this militarized Eden?” “Don’t you want us to survive? As a species?” “Why?” “Why?” He sounds as though her question has hurt him. But then he comes back, his voice soft and quiet again. “If we do this thing, two nights from now, and after, it’s up to you. There aren’t any condoms—I’ve looked. But I can be careful not to,” he draws a breath with obvious effort, visibly steels himself, “not to come inside of you.” A little tremor ripples over her. Her jaw flexes and her mouth goes tense. “Come back tomorrow sometime. Not when you’ll have to be back to work.” “All right.” **** She is standing by the escape-proof, suicide-proof window, almost in the same spot where he'd found her the previous afternoon. Now the evening sun paints her nightgown a dusky orange. She stiffens before his eyes, shaking visibly, her already red eyes glistening with fresh tears. Her symptoms seem to pass to him, his body begins to tremble, his eyes grow pink and shimmery. Slowly, very slowly, he begins to move toward her. She doesn't step back, though maybe her rigid body stiffens even more, maybe her panicked breath quickens. He takes another tentative step or two, until he is near enough to whisper and be heard. "You didn't have to wear that." "I thought…" she tries and gives up on a smile, "…if I wore this, you wouldn't have to ask what I'd decided. This way, I don't have to say it." He gives her a sad smile.

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She looks away, out the window. “I don't know how to do this,” she says, looking out the window. “How to do what?” he asks cautiously. She looks at him. Her body is rigid. “I can't say it.” Her eyes are bright and wet and her chin is quivery. “We have time,” he says in his low, soft voice. “For this evening, for tonight, we can just get used to each other. You can get used to me...getting close.” his statements come out as questions. “I don't want...” “What, Eva?” “When they're all watching, I don't want it to be the first time.” He comes close. She is still, for the most part, but flinches away a little when he moves his hand like he might touch her. “You're afraid of me.” She doesn't deny it. “I'll be gentle with you,” he says, then laughs. “God, what a line. I don't mean...that. I mean always. We encountered each other under some crazy circumstances. But, believe it or not, I'm basically a gentle person. I wasn't stomping around with a blackjack two years ago. And I don't enjoy doing it now. I don't expect you to trust me. The things I say. Or to deal fairly with you. Not until you've had time to see. To know me. For now, I'll just do my best to make this easier on you. And you can tell me, any time, the best way for me to do that.” “I think...”

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He waits patiently until she starts again. “I can't get out of my head, for even a second, what's going to happen. So please, let's just start it.” He reaches forward a few inches and touches her hand with just his index finger, and she sucks in her breath audibly. “Have you had a lot of lovers?” she blurts out in a shaky voice. “A few. Not so many,” he answers quietly. “How old are you?” she asks next, putting off what she asked to begin. The tip of John's index finger is slowly exploring the contours of her hand. “Twenty nine.” She nods her head. “You're sixteen,” he says, his voice a little sad. “Smith told me.” ”No,” she says after a few seconds. “I told him that, I thought maybe if he thought I was that young, he wouldn't... I'm eighteen.” John nods, looking relieved. Grateful. “It's kind of you to tell me that.” She doesn't smile or say anything. “Can I ask you something, Eva? Something personal?” “Okay.” “Have you had sex before?” “Please,” she says like he's the dumbest person alive. “I was in fucking tenth grade when the world dried up.” Her chin dimples and her eyes go bright and wet. Tentatively he touches her shoulder, then draws her to him. Puts his arms around her. She stays stiff at first. Then she softens, presses herself against him. In the circle of his arms, her body heaves with silent sobs.

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“I'm sorry. It's bad enough, the whole situation. But I'm sorry this is how your first time has to go.” “It's not such a big deal,” she says with a forced smile he can't see, and a sour laugh. “Nothing adolescent girls haven't been going through for centuries, right? Being given to complete strangers. Just a little virgin bride syndrome.” She lets him hold her for another minute or so, then breaks out of the circle of his arms. She wipes at her tears with the back of her hand. “Really. John,” she tries using his name. “I can't take this. Chatting and hugging, knowing what has to happen. So I'll quit weeping. And you...” He gives her a small smile of understanding. “All right, Eva.” Then he moves closer. "I know it's a small thing, compared with…everything else,” he says. “But…we can do this however you want." She doesn't laugh. Or yell. Very slowly he moves close to her, brings his hands lightly to her shoulders. He looks at her a moment, then leans in, kisses her hair, just above her ear. He pulls back, gazes at her before he places one soft kiss at her temple. Then her cheek. Then, just at the corner of her mouth. Then, one small, uncertain kiss on the lips. "Would you rather I not kiss you?" he whispers at her ear, then draws back to hear or see her reply. She stays still. Quiet. He draws his hands in from her shoulders, to her neck, gently cradles her jaw. He gives her soft warm mouth a soft warm kiss. "I promise, I'm not assuming…but I can't guess what you want. I'll just…do it this way, my way, unless you tell me differently.”

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“Okay,” she manages, sounding low on air. Slow, slow, he moves in again, brings his mouth to hers, barely brushing his lips over hers, then pressing them more warmly, until she brings a hand up and curves it at the back of his arm, holding him near. Little by little he makes his kiss more ardent, touching her only innocently—trailing fingertips through hair, tracing her jaw with his thumb as he draws her bottom lip between his, lets it go, then sucks it gently in again, then finally, tentatively, lets the tip of his tongue gloss the pretty, curving underside of her top lip, then her bottom lip, then teases its way into her mouth. At first she is still and stiff, and the only sound she makes is the strained in and out of her breathing. But as his lips touch and press and part hers, her breaths get heavier, little by little, with shy, quiet sighs. John stops. Draws a few inches back. Looks at her. Her eyes have that slightly unfocused look of arousal, and he gives her a small smile. Then she glances down. When she looks at him again she seems...startled. “I can't help that,” he says, frank and calm. “But I'm in no rush.” Holding her gaze he combs her hair back with his fingers, away from her face, off her neck and shoulders, then dips down, nuzzling her cheek, kissing the delicate golden crescent of her ear, then the tawny, velveteen flesh of her neck. First with just soft, warm presses of his lips before rousing her with wet, hot, sucking kisses, teasing her with his teeth and tongue. Now she's panting and wiggling a little in his arms. Making soft little noises. When he brings his mouth back to hers she seems eager. Hungry. Her hands move to the back of his head, fingers sinking into his thick, dark hair, and she presses her body against his, almost writhing.

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Breaking off their deep kiss, he draws her over to the love seat opposite the bed, coaxes her onto his lap. She's rather tall, for a woman, but he's got six or eight inches on her; now that she's straddling him, they're more on par. He leans back, and with a touch, asks her to come to him. Her body curves forward against his and she brushes his lips with hers. He answers her shy little kiss, but doesn't deepen it. Over and over she offers soft little kisses, and over and over he accepts them. Returns them. But he waits. Only when she parts her lips does he part his, so their kiss goes deeper and longer. And not until she seeks his tongue with hers does he go into her mouth, hot and hungry. As they kiss, his fingertips trail over her sleek skin—neck, collarbones, shoulders, arms, and down along the delicate fabric of her gown, down her back, over her hips, along her thighs, and off the edge, back to bare skin—the firm curve of calf muscle, and up. Up. The tips of his fingers slide the weightless fabric up, baring two or three inches of thigh above her knee. When he interrupts their hot, panting kiss to look at her, she looks apprehensive. And absolutely ravenous. He gives her a little smile and she mirrors it. Locking eyes with her he slips his fingers under the diaphanous fabric, trailing tickling fingertips up the length of her thigh then down again, slow, slow. He does it again, using his nails this time to faintly rake her smooth flesh, and she sucks a breath between clenched teeth, then smiles through a blush. His fingers keep wandering the length of her thighs, teasing their way within a few millimeters of the edge of her panties before gliding back down.

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Then he touches her, his caress brief and light and mediated by the smooth fabric of her underwear. She stills. He touches her again, as briefly, as gently. Then he curves his hand under her and rubs his fingers against her in small, slow movements. “Wait.” He calmly withdraws his hand and looks at her. “I don't,” she falters. “I know we're going to...” There's a little crease between her eyebrows and she's looking off toward the empty corner of the love seat. “You'd rather I not touch you. Like that,” he offers. “It just feels so...intimate, I guess.” She tries to meet his gaze. “I thought you'd just lay me down and be on top of me. I don't know why, but that sounds easier, somehow.” “I want to ask you something,“ he says. “Another indiscreet question.” “Okay.” “Have you orgasmed before?” Her eyes flicker, then she blushes. Then smiles, looking down, away from his probing gaze. “Maybe. But I don't think so.” “You're not sure?” he pursues in a gentle voice. His grin has a teasing bend at the corner. She shakes her head. “I'm pretty sure I can make you come,” he says, walking a fine line between objectivity and seduction, “just touching you softly like that. Over your panties. I thought it would be good to let you feel that—the pleasure—before I...”

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“Pop my cherry?” she says, her taunt tinged with real anger. “Yes.” There's no trace of his teasing grin now. Then, “I know I can't make this— what's being done to you—there's no way I can make it right. But I thought it might be better to try to give you one experience of pleasure before I take your virginity. Since that can hurt.” She nods. “I understand what you mean, about touching this way seeming intimate,” he goes on. “But it's also small. Quiet. This little touch between one part of me and one part of you. Sex—however gentle or slow—it's large and loud. I mean, all of my body moving against yours.” He smiles, then lets out a soft laugh. “It's sort of the difference between wading in a foot or two of water, and diving into the sea.” She doesn't say anything. “But I'll do what you want me to do.” After a long quiet she says, just audibly, “It felt nice. What you were doing.” John smiles. Presses one small kiss to Eva's shoulder. “Good. I'm glad,” he whispers into her hair. It's quiet. They're still, their cheeks almost touching. Her chin settles on his shoulder. His hands, soft and unmoving, are on her hips. After a minute or more has gone by she touches the back of his hand with her fingertips, moves his hand down, between her thighs. Then she circles her arms around his neck and pulls herself close against him, her face hidden against his neck. He barely seems to be moving. Just his fingers dance delicately between her legs. At first she's quiet, but then her breath comes quicker, then it rasps faintly, then she starts to make a low, soft, whining sound as he touches her. And then, just subtly, her body is moving against him, her thighs pressing against his, her hips twitching. John

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curves his free hand behind her head, holding her to him as her body flexes and she makes a sound like she's crying. But that noise only comes a couple times. Now she just sounds winded. His hand stays, still, pressed against her, for another moment. Then he wraps his arm around her waist and holds her and she presses herself against him. He strokes her hair. Rubs her back. Then, after minutes have gone by, he kisses her neck, just soft little touches of lips. “All right?” he asks in a whisper. She relaxes her arms and leans back to meet his look. “Nope. I'd definitely never orgasmed before.” Then she smiles, and he smiles back, but she's blushing and looking down. “You're good at that,” she laughs. “It doesn't sound like you've got many people to judge me against.” “Well, you're better at it than I am. And I should be the expert, shouldn't I?” “Now that you've...I bet you won't have a problem getting yourself there again.” She looks at him like she's unsettled by him. When he gives her a quizzical look, she looks away. He leaves it alone. His hands slip away as she shifts to rise. His eyes follow her over to the side of the bed. She turns to face him, and then he rises, too, and moves toward her. “If we wait a little while,” he says, “I can try to get you excited again. How you were, before you came. It'll make the sex nicer for you.' “No. Let's go ahead, John.” Like it's the first one he gives her a careful kiss, lingering a long time on her lips. Then a tentative try at a deeper kiss. She yields to him. Lets him. He is all restraint, and

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she is all doubt. Hesitantly he fingers the straps of her gown, but then he pulls his hands back, touches a button on his jacket. "Is it better if I get undressed first?" She nods a faint yes. He strips. When he's down to his shorts, which hint blatantly at his erection, he stops. Looks at her. Waits. “It's not going to work if you leave those on,” she kids mirthlessly. He slides his skivvies off and stands before her naked. Hard. His big frame is heavy with muscle. She's blushing. Her eyes slide down from his face, and lock onto his cock. Staring at it like she's making a study, she finally looks back up to him, and grins. “Sorry. I guess I've never seen one before. In person.” “That's all right.” Now that he's naked, it's obvious that his breathing is tense. He's working to keep it even, to keep his voice smooth. “Can I...touch?” she asks, her eyes darting away from him. “If you want to,” he answers in a soft, smoothed voice, his abdomen quivering. She moves nearer. So near the fabric of her gown wafts against his shins, now and then, on some faint breeze in the room. With just the tips of her fingers, she touches him, and he stays quiet—maybe he's holding his breath—as her fingers curve around and she draws her hand slowly up, along the length of him, over all the textures and contours of him, and off. She steps back. “It's so...delicate.” “It is, in a way.”

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While John watches, Eva pulls up the hem of her gown and slides her panties down and off, the skirt of her gown draping modestly down the whole time. She looks up at him. “I don't want to be undressed. I want to do it like this.” She gets on the bed and lies down. He lies down beside her. “I'll start like before,” he says, running the pad of his thumb along her jawline. “All right?” “Okay.” With tentative caresses, tender kisses, he begins. When he draws her to him so their bodies press together, she lets him. Soon she's the one deepening their kisses. Running her hand along his naked side, exploring the curves of his hips, his waist, the muscled length of his arm, his jaw, his chest. When she brushes her thumb across his nipple and gets a soft, low groan, she does it once more. He keeps his touches innocent. Just her face, her hair, her arms. Nothing hidden under the gown. Breaking a deep kiss and looking at him Eva says “Can we? Now?” He gives her a smile and a soft kiss on the lips. Eva seems to clamp down on her breath as he draws up the hem of her gown, just to mid-thigh, then coaxes one knee aside and slips over her. Like a doctor considerate of his patient's modesty he holds her gaze as he slips the gown up the rest of the way, to her waist, as he coaxes her to raise her knees and plant her feet on the bed. His hand goes between them, and she sucks in a sharp breath as he rubs himself against her.

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“All right?” he asks. She nods her head, holding her breath again. Her body is cadaver-stiff. “I know you're scared, Eva. But if you can, try to relax. Does this feel good?” After a pause she says, “It feels...strange. Different from what you did before. Intense.” “Direct contact,” he whispers. Her chest is rising and dipping with her rapid, shallow breaths, and a moment later she starts making her soft moan, muffled behind tightly closed lips. Her body softens a little, is quivering a little. He takes his hand away, then, and curves both his long, strong hands against her head. He traces her eyebrows, her temples with the pads of his thumbs. “When I go inside you, it might not hurt. If it does, though, the pain shouldn't last long.” He kisses her brow. “All right?” he asks, and she nods. His back flexes, and his hips shift almost imperceptibly and she sucks in a breath. He pauses, then continues on the same trajectory, his movement slow. Restrained. Her eyes go wide and she makes a small squeaking sound. Now she's panting as his hips press down, closing the final distance. John goes still, then plants little kisses down the side of her face, then looks at her as his hips draw a little back, then press in again, driving a small sound from her. “It hurts?” “Not so much. I'm okay,” she says in a reigned-in voice. “Okay.”

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His body is trembling as he moves slowly over her. Inside her. He tries a kiss and she yields to his mouth, parting her lips. Her fingers uncurl from the wads of sheet she'd clutched at her side, and she puts her arms around him, indifferently at first. But soon she's holding him to her, and her mouth seems more eager than acquiescent, now. Now he looks at her, holding her gaze as he moves against her body, his ass flexing as he pumps slowly between her thighs. Her full lips are parted, so now her little sighs are liberated. His hips seem to be seeking those little sighs. They move until they get one, then work to the tune of her voice until it goes quiet, then his body shifts and flexes until he gets his accompaniment again. When a little crease dents the plane between her eyebrows he smiles. “Don't,” she says. “Don't watch me like that.” “All right,” he sighs in her ear, then mouths, licks, sucks her lobe, getting more of her sighs as his body flexes and writhes against hers. Her hands are pressing into the flesh of his back, and underneath him her body is flexing, moving, seeking, and the room is filling with her little groans. John's mouth is on her throat, now, lips and tongue and teeth teasing the flesh just under her jaw, down by her collarbones. And then he's on to her other ear and the silken neck below it. For a moment she seems to pull herself up against him, and two long, high notes hum through bitten lips. He holds her close, pressing and holding himself still against her while she shudders and pants, then finally calms, her fierce grip on his back going lax, her body softening and sinking beneath him. “Go ahead,” she tells him.

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He starts to move. “No,” she says. “I want to see you.” He lifts himself so his face hovers a few inches above her, and gives her a strange little smile. He starts moving again. Still slowly, but with a different angle, a different rhythm. Almost on the first stroke her body tenses and her eyes go a little wide, startled. “You okay?” he whispers, and she nods her head. “It doesn't hurt?” She shakes her head, then says, her voice soft, almost kind, “Just intense. Don't worry about me. Just do it the way you like it. I want to see, feel what that is.” His fingers in her hair, his other hand slips down, under her waist, and holding her to him he begins to move, back and thighs and ass flexing. She watches his face as his body gets taut, quivery, and his breathing goes shallow and irregular. “Are you always quiet like this?” she whispers. “No.” “Let me hear you,” she coaxes. He goes still. Breaks eye contact. Breathing heavy. “You being quiet doesn't change anything. You're still fucking me, getting off. So let me hear you.” His eyes come back to hers and there's a still, quiet moment between them. And then be starts, his body working against hers. He tips his forehead until it touches hers, and his serrated panting fills, breath by breath, with a low, feral growl. She curves a hand at the back of his neck, sanctioning this closeness. Her other hand settles at the small of his back, over the undulating muscles there, then glides down, up, from the valley of his waist to the swell of his ass.

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“I want,” he pants, “I want to kiss you.” She parts her lips and takes his mouth in an eager kiss. Like an electrical connection has been made a current seems to shake his body in a fit of convulsive shuddering and his low, rasping growl swells to a long, plaintive groan and she breaks their kiss and holds his face between her palms for a few moments, watching him as he lifts himself over her and her eyes flicker and she sucks in her breath as he withdraws and with a few urgent strokes spills over onto her belly. She looks down, eyes moving over the pattern of puddles, at his cock—vivid and slick—still caught in his fist. “You all right?” he asks. He is being careful not to touch her, now. “I'm fine.” She sounds calm. Almost hollow. “I'll get a towel.” Without touching her at all John gets off the bed. The water runs for a bit in the bathroom, and she pulls the sheet up as far as she can without getting it dirty. “It's warm, but not too hot,” John tells her, then carefully mops up the little puddles with the damp cloth. As she gets out of the bed and moves toward the window, the filmy fabric of her gown unfurls, covering her indifferently. While she stands there, staring out, John pulls on his uniform, his socks and boots. He goes to her slowly. Her gaze stays fixed on some point in the distant dark. “I don't know if you remember. Your first night here, after...the mess hall. I brought you back here. You were only semi-conscious, and I was worried for you, so I stayed. I slept in your bed with you. Held you. It would be nice to sleep like that again, holding

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you, sometime. If you ever think you'd like that. Just tell me, if you ever want me to stay.” “Okay,” she says. “But now I want to be alone.” She doesn't come to the door to say good-bye. Her habit is to stay away from the door. John reaches for the first deadbolt, hesitates, then turns back toward Eva. “I'm okay, John,” she says, still looking out the window. “I just need a little time to myself.” “Sure. I understand.” His voice is low and sad. “Tomorrow night,” his voice trails off. “I know.” He hesitates for a moment, then says, “Goodnight, Eva.” When the door shuts and three deadbolts click into place, Eva turns out all the lights in the room and pulls a chair up by the window. She sits there, staring out, for hours, and only goes to bed after watching the sun rise.

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CHAPTER FOUR

In what used to be the officers' conference room, which, on Smith's orders, three of the men have converted into a kind of theater, a bank of monitors blinks to life. The din of male voices goes silent. Fourteen men fix their stares on the twelve screens, peering anxiously at four facets of Eva's room. There's no movement. No life. No flesh. Only the austere planes of floor and ceiling and walls, intersections in corners, the cold angles of furniture. **** John knocks. No answer. He unlocks the door, opens it, steps through. The little red lights glowing below the lenses mean the cameras are on. But they're always on. Eva's nowhere in sight. When he calls her name, her voice emanates from the bathroom, telling him to come in. He enters, then closes the door. Behind him, locks scrape and click into place. Eva emerges from the bathroom and locks eyes with John. A little tremor runs through him. As he stands there, already panting, his expression morphs from surprise bordering on alarm to what might be admiration. She is naked. When she moves toward him, John takes a small step back, then, with visible effort, roots himself. “Get undressed,” she tells him in a low, even voice. Her eyes wander over his body as he removes his clothes. ****

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In their makeshift theater the men watch four shots, from four different angles, of John entering an empty room. Most of them are already hard. A few are rubbing their hands over their crotches, though none have opened their flies yet. All the faces are tense—some with anticipation, some with violence just in check, some with fear. Smith is not there. But this room, like Eva's, is monitored, and the men know it. So probably everyone is safe. **** “You're hard,” Eva says, her eyes fixed on his stiff cock. Then she looks up at him. “Do you want to fuck me?” John flinches a little. Then, after a long, still silence, he answers. “Yes.” “Come over here and fuck me, then.” Her words clash with her voice, soft and vulnerable. John takes her hands in his and takes her toward the bed. Stepping backward he leads her forward. He sits down and pulls her to him. Looking more brave than eager, she comes close, straddling him, leaving barely an inch between his chest and her bare breasts. Her full lips are curved in a teasing grin, and one eyebrow arches up boldly. But something in her eyes gives her away. She moves the tiniest bit and kisses him. The way he kissed her at first—just the faintest brush of her lips against his. Then warmer. Deeper. When Eva looks at John again the coquette is gone. Her gaze is kind. Tender. He gazes back at her like she's a wondrous sort of alien. “Touch me,” she says, her voice doing even more than her eyes to undermine the illusion that she is only eager.

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Holding her gaze John brings his hands up, touches her face. Her lips. The faintly downed curve of an ear. Her neck. Then he kisses her. His soft, tentative kiss becomes deep, seeking, aroused. And then it is excited, hungry when she answers him with slowly warming welcome. As they pant and kiss into one another's mouths, John's touch plays over her smooth skin. Fingers explore back, in from hips, up from waist, palms pressed to fine muscles, pinkies swimming the shallow canal of her spine, up, up, out over shoulder blades, then swooping, slow-motion, down the inward curve leading to her waist, thumbs almost meet by her navel, palms press her hot, fluttering belly. Then up, hands gently cup her breasts, then caress. Her exhales are whispered sighs. He kisses her again, caressing her, warming her with his mouth and with his hands. Then she moans a deep and breathy moan and he almost echoes it as he mouths her neck and, with delicate fingers, learns the contours of her breast, tracing smooth swelling curves, rising, dipping, circling, gently holding, warming, withdrawing a moment, letting her hot skin feel cool evening air, then coming back to warm her again, to caress and tease. When he touches her nipple she sighs and shudders, and he takes her mouth again with his. Smith has told him the men must see. Her arms are around his neck, her body pressing against his, against his hand. Still kissing he seeks her wrists, draws them down, back, puts her hands behind her, on his knees, coaxing her to lean a little back. She is pliant, her body lax, her breath heavy, her eyes void, almost, of fear, almost drowsy in arousal.

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Now her back is arched, her breasts lifted to his gaze, to his mouth. To the cameras. He kisses her nipples, first with sweet uncertainty, going lightly, then, when she doesn't protest, no resistance, taunts her with his tongue, sucks them, hard and swollen, between his lips, making her whimper softly. **** Their eyes fixed on the wall, darting from monitor to monitor, most of the soldiers are fisting their hard cocks. But at the back, near the door, two of the soldiers, and Jake, seem torn between the spectacle displayed in the monitors, and the hard breathing, the small frenzied movements and taut bodies in the room. **** Standing, John lifts Eva with him, lays her down, lies down beside her, kissing her breasts, touching her lightly between slightly parted thighs. He cups her sex in his gentle hand and feels her writhing beneath his touch. John moves over her, bringing his hips between thighs he has gently parted, sinks slowly into her. She is panting. He does not pull out and thrust again, but stays still inside her for a while, then begins a quiet pulsing, a gentle throbbing inside of her. She softens beneath him, breathes again. His little pulses gather and build until he is slowly making love to her. **** In the theater the men watch as John rises to his knees, revealing to them the girl, her face, her breasts, her swelling and dipping belly, her dark triangle. They see him fucking her, the X-rated penetration shot. ****

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After just a second John comes back down to join Eva, to kiss her, to caress her. When he touches her breasts she moans softly, and he begins to explore her pleasure. Now she whimpers quietly as his rhythmic pulses rock her. One hand at the back of his neck, one arm around his waist, she is pulling him to her, and with her body seeking him. Now she is clinging to him, her quiet moans echoing with an urgency. And now the shudder, the relieved panting, the trembling. He holds her close in a comforting embrace, motionless for a very long time. Then she moves beneath him, urging him to finish. It is a matter of just a few slow, deep strokes. They lay together for a long, warm moment. Then John gives her a small soft kiss, and rises. He steps into his shorts and grabs his pants. “John.” He looks back. “Do you still want to spend the night here with me?” He turns and smiles at her. “Yes. But only if you want me to.” “It sounds nice, feeling you next to me while I fall asleep.” He lies back down beside her. More so than at any moment that night, she seems shy, now. Under the covers he touches her hand, traces the outline of her fingers with his fingertip, then leads her to him. At his coaxing, she lays her cheek on his chest, presses the length of her body against his, curves her arm along his waist. He holds her to him, cradling her head against his chest, stroking her hair. **** Smith stands erect just inside the locked door of his office, hands clasped behind his back, his thumb absently playing over the tiny rubbery keys of the remote, vacant eyes fixed on some arbitrary point low to the floor across the room. With cold,

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mechanical gestures, like taking target practice, he points the remote at the ancient VCR below the television, and the blackish snow resolves into four facets of Eva's empty room. About three minutes in, two quarters show a door opening. John entering. Then, after the door is shut, Eva materializes in two of the images from another quadrant. Naked. Smith's tempered facade melts from stoicism to some intense but suppressed and ambivalent feeling. At first, he might be about to cry. Then he seems to be almost laughing. Smith moves closer to the set and touches a button, swelling one of the four facets up to the full width and height of the screen. When he hears Eva direct John to get undressed Smith's mouth bends into a definitive smile. And when she tells John, in a voice suddenly quiet, to fuck her, a little tremor seems to ripple through Smith's frame. He watches it all, and only takes aim at the VCR one last time a moment after he has watched John's naked arm stretch forth from the bed to switch off the lamp on the night stand, and all four facets of the room have dimmed black. **** In the morning, not long after John has left, Eva hears a perfunctory knock, then the bolts slide in their locks. Smith enters. She retreats from him, backing away, keeping her eyes on him. “I hope you’ll learn not to be alarmed by my presence. You can be sure that I won’t lay a finger on you.” She stops backing up, but her chest is heaving violently. “I’ve brought you something. A gift.” “You’re a fucking monster.”

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It looks as though rage has stepped in for fear to make her tremble. Her hands are balled in white-knuckled fists at her sides. Her eyes are red and wet, but no tears spill. He sets aside the bag he's brought. Meets her eyes. “I don't deny it, Eva. I sacrificed you. I stole your liberty from you. I subjected you to...what happened in the mess hall; it was tantamount to torture. And now, a kind of slavery. When what I'd wish for you is...well, a very different fate. “I know this is madness. I know it. But the world has gone mad, and we can’t be sane and survive. The men have been locked up here for more than two years, now. In all that time, since the dying, you’re the only woman they’ve seen. We had all but lost hope that any women had survived. The day of your arrival I know you saw first-hand how strong a reaction your presence stirred in them.” Standing stiffly by the bed, she breathes hard as she listens to what he is saying. “I devised this plan in order to protect you, and to preserve order among the men. I want you to know that I did not come to this decision lightly, that I considered every possible way of dealing with this situation, and that I based my decision on what I believed would be best for the community, as a whole, in the long term. Under the circumstances, it just isn’t possible to look after the interests of each individual in the way I would if things were different.” She is pale, shaking. “I could think of no way to protect you from the men completely, short of locking you away in an ivory tower. What happened in the orchard, despite the men knowing how they'd be punished,” Her jaw flexes, “makes that plain. However carefully I tried to ensure your protection, each and every one of them would be awaiting his chance to

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catch you off guard and attack you no matter the consequence. No matter what punishment I threatened. “So I chose a different way. I know it seems perverted. That it is perverted. But I am convinced it is the best way, both to protect you and to preserve the delicate balance we depend on for our survival.” She is mute, shaking, glaring. Smith comes nearer to her. “Eva…” She steps back and bumps up against the nightstand. “listen…” He puts his hand on her shoulder. “Don’t touch me!” she growls. She pushes him away with all her strength. He pounces on her, clutching her arms in his talons. He pulls her to him. Their faces are an inch apart. Hers full of murderous wrath. His firm, stoic. “I notice,” he says with quiet calm, “that you’ve already learned not to mind him too much.” She tries futilely to shake him off of her. “And I’m glad. None of this is being done to hurt you or frighten you.” He lets her go and takes a seat in the armchair by the window. “I was thinking you might like to have some work. No doubt you're going a little mad, locked in your room all day, with nothing to do.” She is silent. “Do you have any skills?” “I have a lot of experience fighting off men who are trying to tear my clothes off. But I don't seem to be very good at it.” “We could start by giving you a bit of administrative work. Setting the men's schedules, reconciling the inventories, things like that.” “How gender appropriate.”

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“I can’t give you work in the fields or around the compound, I’m afraid. It wouldn’t be safe to have you out among the men.” “So I’m stuck in this room for eternity? Prison laborer by day, concubine by night?” “I won't compel you to do the paperwork. In truth, Quenlin barely has enough to keep him busy. Let me know, though, if you change your mind. Having a sense of purpose has a way of making time bearable.” For a while she is quiet, gazing at Smith as if she is weighing him with her eyes. “Don't you think being the mother of the human race should be enough of a purpose for a humble girl like me?” She says it like a challenge, as if she's daring him to confess this latest sin. “Yes, I suppose it would be. For any of us,” he says, somberly. He rises to go, but seems to remember something. The bag. He picks it up, reaches in, extracts a small stack of books. “I don't know if you enjoy reading,” he says, “but I thought you might like to have a few books.” With an indifferent gesture, she takes the volumes from his hand. But her voice wavers, heavy, laden with feeling. “Thank you.” **** When John gets in after his day of work he pays Smith a visit, then makes his way to Eva's room. “Come in,” she says with a small smile when she sees it's him.

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“You know we don't have to do anything tonight. You don't have to invite me in, if you'd rather be alone.” Her smile gets bigger. “No. I'm glad to see you. Really. Come in.” “I convinced Smith to let me escort you out, if you'd like to get out of this room. Stretch your legs.” She looks like she might be about to cry. She puts on her shoes and they leave her little prison. They walk out to the perimeter wall, then begin strolling, circumnavigating the compound. At first they walk in silence. Then John speaks, quietly, watchfully. “How are you doing?” “It’s not a tenable situation. I can’t go on like this, day after day.” “Maybe…I hope that as we get to know each other better it won’t be so hard on you.” “I didn’t mean that. I mean being a prisoner in that little room, locked inside twenty four hours a day.” “I know. I think Smith's right about the men, though. I don’t think you’d be safe working in the common areas.” He crashes on the word ‘safe.’ “Of course you’re not safe in your own room, are you?” “Not really.” A few men emerge from the mess hall. First one, then all stop stone still, eyes fixed on Eva. Her breathing speeds. John's body goes taut, his hand goes to his side, curving loosely over a heavy bulge beneath his jacket, but he says to her in a soft, calm voice,

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“Don't be afraid. They've all got too much to lose, now. They won't try anything.” “You think Smith's right.” It's an accusation. “I think he's adept with the carrot and the stick. But right in the moral sense? No.” They keep walking, John's hand at the ready like an Old West gunfighter, Eva tense and watchful. “Would you rather go back in?” he asks. “No. It's bad enough, being as much of a prisoner as I am. I won't be driven into my cell by that pack of hyenas. By fear. It's probably good. Them seeing me out. Doing something other than fucking you.” As twilight creeps over the compound they head back toward Eva's. As they approach, the guard watches them. “Will you come in with me?” she asks John. Eva is outside, so the door is not locked. They go in, the guard's curious gaze following them. “Excuse me a minute?” She slips away into the bathroom, then returns with a smile she only ever shows to John, even if the others get to glimpse it, now and then, on the monitors. “Your dinner's been brought. I should go so you can relax and eat.” “I can relax and eat with you here. But I don't want to keep you, if you'd rather go.” John looks at her for a moment, like he's studying a problem. “No. I'd like to stay,” he finally says, smiling. They sit down at the little table near the window. “Have some,” she says, “they always bring me too much.”

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Her portions are the same dished out to the men after a day of hard physical labor. “I've eaten. But thanks.” “Given Smith's obsession with orchestrating everyone's lives and fates, I'd think he'd optimize the rations a little more cautiously.” Eva spoons a dollop of reconstituted mashed potatoes into her mouth, then notices John studying her again. “What?” she asks, hiding her mouthful of potatoes behind her hand. “You are aware, aren't you, that you don't talk like a normal sixteen-year-old.” “Eighteen.” “Yes. But. When you were left on your own.” “Fifteen, then. And I am aware. But as a rule, only other fifteen-year-olds tease me about it,” she comes back with a good-natured smile. “I understand it's a consequence of having two professors of literature for parents. Growing up in a home humming almost non-stop with discussion and debate warps a girl's speech habits, apparently.” John is grinning. “What's that look for?” “Nothing.” He tries deflecting her with a smile. “Come on, John.” “I tend to be drawn to exceptionally intelligent people. Like you. Like Smith.” She cocks an eyebrow. “You do remind me of him. A little.” Eva is silent. “I'm sorry if that offended you.” “It didn't.”

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“You must wonder how I can like a man like that. Think of him as a friend.” She shrugs. “No?” “I was so, so scared that first day. But Smith. I don't know, even through my fear, he was...compelling, right away. Seductive. Not even in a sexual way. If that makes sense.” “I know what you mean.” “He came to see me this morning.” “He told me.” ”Hearing him defend everything that's going on here, I can see—god, it's so twisted, so wrong—but he actually had me half believing in his intentions.” “That's the scary thing about Smith. His gift of persuasion. Especially his knack for convincing himself.” Eva is done eating; she's decimated the mashed potatoes, having used them to camouflage the unsavory looking peas and carrots, shriveled and gray. The mysterious piece of meat lays untouched at the edge of the plate, vaguely resembling a bit of flesh flayed from a squirrel or raccoon by the friction of a tire and some pavement. When she stands, John rises. “You know,” she says, pressing her palm to his chest, “what I said before, outside, about the men seeing me doing something besides fucking you. You know, when I say things like that, I mean the arrangement. I never mean anything against you.” “I know. Mostly. But it's nice of you to tell me. It's hard not to feel guilty.” “I know.”

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Eva's other hand cradles John's jaw, and she goes up on her toes and brings her mouth close to his. Inviting him. His fingers weave themselves into her hair and he takes her up on the offered kiss. A tender, lingering press of lips. Then he breaks gently away. “I should go.” “You're invited to stay.” Smiling, lingering against her, he may be considering. “Will you be all right for tomorrow if I don't?” She nods. “I'm going to go, then,” he whispers, and with a final, soft kiss, he is off. **** “I'm sorry about last night, Eva,” John tells her when he arrives after his shift and before the monitors come on. Smiling, she approaches him, takes his hand, brings it to her lips, kisses his palm. “No need to apologize.” When they have given the evening's performance, John invites her out for a walk. Looking eager, even happy, she dresses in her olive drabs and they set out. Both are quiet as they stroll the cement paths that wind through the campus, between barracks and mess hall, improvised field and storehouse, and along the perimeter path below the towering, curving brick wall encircling the compound. None of the men are in sight. “May I come in with you?” he asks before they reach the threshold of the mansion. “Yes, if you want to.”

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Inside, she drops onto the love seat, and with a look draws him down beside her. She smiles at him, studying his face as she draws an index finger down the inside of his arm. “John,” she begins with a little laugh that makes her seem nervous. “I know you're trying hard to make things as easy for me as you can. But you shouldn't...I don't want you to feel obligated to hang out when we're not...when you don't have to.” He gives her a melancholy half-grin and takes her hand in his. “I enjoy your company, Eva. It's no chore, spending time with you. Being with you,” he adds with an affectionate little nuzzle into the canopy of hair draping her neck. “It's just a little hard, sometimes, letting myself get so close to someone.” Eva nods and smiles and puts her arms around him, pulling him to her. Kissing his hair. They pass a quiet evening together, John reading, Eva writing in a journal he obtained for her when she asked. Now that she gets to leave the room, each time she finishes writing, she carefully, furtively leaves something—an eyelash, some crumb— among the pages she's penned before closing the notebook. When they go to bed, John curls up behind her and she snuggles back against him. His arm curves over her waist, and they lie there, close and still and quiet. In the morning John wakes first. He carefully folds back his side of the blanket, leaving her covered, and slides to the edge of the mattress, preparing to prepare for work. She wakes, turns over. They look at each other. The blanket, folded down near his waist, is not hiding his chest. She is looking at it, and he can see that she’s looking at it. Broad, hard, defined, smooth, almost no hair. Her gaze moves down to his belly, muscular yet vulnerable with its shallow navel and a

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fine trail of dark hair running away under the covers. She puts her hand on the blanket where it rises and falls over the center of him. She looks up for a moment to let him read her face, to read his. Then she looks back down and pulls the blanket back. She has exposed another inch or so of that little trail, hiding now under the white ribbed snugness of his underwear. She stares at the topography of that white landscape, the long rounded crest of hill that starts suddenly just below the elastic band, curving slightly into a soft swelling mass and dipping away over the horizon between his legs. “Is it always like this when you wake up?” “No.” She lays her hand on it. The vulnerable belly flexes. She looks up to his face. Alarm. Confusion. Excitement. She moves her hand up a little. Down a little. The belly is bouncing fast and shallow. Up, down, first with the touch of a spirit that might not have been there, then with delicate softness, then with questioning firmness. “Is that okay?” “What are you doing?” “I want to learn how to touch you. Am I hurting you?” “No.” “Are you afraid I’m going to hurt you?” “No.” “It seems strange. I've hardly touched you. I want to learn. Does what I’m doing feel nice?” From behind his look of uncertain fear he smiles.

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“Yes,” in a gentle voice that puffs out on a pant. She goes on touching him, varying the path and power of her touch, watching his face and gauging his breath by the clenching, rising and falling of his belly. She explores the firm length of him and the delicate softness below. Then her hand leaves him and she teasingly fingers the very edge of the elastic striping across his abdomen. “I’d like to see you. Touch you,” she says, looking up at him. His hands go down to his hips. He studies her face for a moment, then pulls his underwear down on this thighs. Prometheus unbound. She stares at that strange, exciting, frightening, gorgeous configuration of flesh. Then she carefully begins to touch it. Her eyes go from his cock up to his face with a little look of surprised wonder, then turn back to the task at hand. She asks and he tells her what feels best. She does it to the death. A flex. A flex. A flex. Pearlescent threads and droplets on his belly and chest and neck. He watches as she takes some with the tip of her finger, looks at it, then makes it disappear between her finger and thumb. He looks at her for a long time, then touches her cheek and invites her into a kiss. “Will you let me...would you like it if I touched you the way you've touched me?” She hides her face against his shoulder and quietly answers, “No.” He cradles her head against his arm—pulling her to him would risk getting her dirty—and says, “It's good, you telling me no. I hope you know that I'm your friend. You don't have to play at being my lover to keep me on your side.” He presses a kiss to the crown of her head, and starts to rise.

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“John.” He lies back down. Meets her eyes. “I didn't do that just now to...manipulate you. I wanted to. Part of me...I'm curious. And I...like you. I woke up feeling your body, your warmth. I woke up wanting...something. Maybe it's dumb, because we've fucked—does that sound ugly?” “No. Not when you say it.” “Maybe it's dumb, but it's hard for me to let you touch me. It makes me feel vulnerable. But when I touch you, when I hear you, see your body shudder, I feel...strong. A little in control, I guess.” “It's not dumb. I understand. I enjoy giving you pleasure—or imagining I am,” he kids, smiling, “but I never mean to push you.” Eva nods. John snatches his watch from the nightstand and checks the time. “I'm late.” He gives her a smile, then speeds through a shower. He does not say goodbye as he goes, but she sees him pause by the door and gaze at her a moment before he knocks and mumbles to the guard outside. The bolts scrape back and the door opens, closes, and the bolts slide home again.

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CHAPTER FIVE

The cameras are rolling. With a coquettish grin Eva pushes John back, and crawls onto his lap as he drops down onto the love seat. She is nearly writhing under his mouth when he brings his hand to her knee and lightly draws it up her thigh. Then over, down, up again, along the underside, palming the contours of her ass, then tracing a delicate fingertip along the crease where thigh and pelvis meet. Their bodies close and warm, their kiss a tender union, her breath growing each moment quicker, husky. “I want to,” she breathes between kisses. “Can we? Like this?” She reaches between them, cradles his cock against her naked belly, moving her body against him as she watches him, then goes for his mouth again, still sliding her belly up and down the underside of his cock. Her hand deserts his cock so she can capture his head between both palms, holding him captive, her kisses almost fierce, her whimpering sighs leaking from between their mouths as she chafes her sex against his. Rising up on her knees she shifts her hips—a little this way, a little that way—until things align. Holding her breath, then, she sinks down, only letting out a little squeak when she hits bottom. In his arms, against his body she shudders and, their kiss broken, her expression suggests she's startled. John watches her for a second, then averts his eyes, as he always has since she told him not to watch her. “Heh,” she laughs breathily near his ear. “It feels different like this. Like, completely different.”

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Quivering, gripping John against her, Eva starts to move, making her little excited noises almost from the start. When she loosens her desperate grip on him, John presses a little kiss to her shoulder. Then, when he brushes his lips against the smooth curve of her breast she rakes her fingers into his hair, taking him prisoner again, demanding more. He kisses, licking, sucking, provoking louder, more plaintive sounds and frenzied movements—small, but desperate. She leans back and he releases her flesh from his mouth. John's hands slide over her back. She watches his face as she fucks him. He keeps his eyes closed. Eva cups her palms over his eyes. “Open your eyes,” she whispers. A moment later she hinges her hands away from his face and their eyes meet. The palms shutter closed over his gaze again, then open once more, and she laughs. Kisses each of his eyebrows. “It's all right,” she says, her voice soft. “You don't have to look away.” For the first time she lets him watch her pleasure. It comes quickly, and it rolls over her, long and gentle. She hums her climax against bitten lips, then stills, shuddering, then starts moving against him again, her little flexes almost invisible as she milks a few more spasms of pleasure from their connection. Then she collapses against him and he wraps his arms tight around her, now and then kissing her shoulder, her neck. When she begins to stir again he loosens his hold on her. “Do you want me to try to make you come?” she asks, “Or should we do something different, now?” He laughs. “Try, nothing.”

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She smiles, tips her forehead to his, watching his face as she writhes over him. “Faster?” she asks. “No, no. But can we...” he pants, then with his hands suggests an altered angle to her hips. “Does that work?” “That works,” she breathes back. Rolling, rolling, her hips work over him, John's breath catching, speeding, filling and going heavy with low, rough sound. She kisses his parted lips, cradling his head in her hands as he clutches her against him as he stiffens and shudders and growls out his climax. “Do you know the big picture?” she asks him later, between mouthfuls of corn, beans, and rice. “The big picture?” “Smith's grand scheme. The long-term plan.” With visible effort, John goes on facing her. “No.” “If you asked him, would he tell you?” “Maybe. Yes, I think so.” Later they are lying in bed, still as two spoons in a drawer. Then something makes Eva stir. Reaching back, between them, she curves her hand against the hardness she finds, stroking him gently, wordlessly. When he's breathing hard she draws her hand back, then rolls over to face him in the dim moonlight slanting through the window. She draws her thigh up, over his, pressing her groin against his, brings her mouth to his. Panting, he gives in to her kiss, and everything else.

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“I like being with you. Always, but especially when it's just us,” he tells her after. “Me too,” she answers, lax and damp and panting. They curl up into each other's warmth, nuzzling and caressing and kissing. Little by little they calm, sinking down into the dark quiet. “Eva?” he tries in a voice too soft to disturb sleep. “Hmmm?” “There's something...I'd like to tell you something.” “What?” “I was married. When it happened.” In a soft voice after a long silence Eva says, “You loved her.” “Very much.” “Were you together a long time?” “Five years.” “And,” Eva starts, then stops, then starts again in a voice hesitant and low, “did you have kids?” “Amy and I had a little girl. Juliette.” “John...” “You don't have to say anything. I just wanted you to know. So if I'm a little weird sometimes, distant, or reclusive, you know it isn't because of you.” They are quiet a long time. Then Eva says, “It must be so strange, so sad for you, this farcical little domestic arrangement Smith's imposed on you.” “What's strange is that Smith could force me, practically at gunpoint, into the bed of an eighteen-year-old girl, and that this girl—god, you were really just a kid when you

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were left all on your own—that you should be this scary-smart, unbelievably strong person who's somehow managed to hold on to her dignity through an arrangement degrading beyond anything I could have imagined, before. And that after everything I've been through, I'd find myself here, with you, feeling so . . . much.” “Do I remind you of her?” Eva asks. He laughs softly. “In most ways, you couldn't be less like her. Except that you're both smart. And kind. But in very different ways. It's strange, how we can be drawn so strongly to such different kinds of people.” “Do you feel guilty?” “About what?” “Being with me. More than Smith forces you to be.” “No. Amy...well, if she could see all this, Amy would love you for the solace, the happiness you've given me. Really, she'd be glad. I just...” “Hmmm?” “After Amy, the idea of being so close to someone again. It terrifies me.” In the dark they are invisible. He pulls her a little closer and gives her face a gentle nuzzle, then a tender, lingering kiss. “Why are you crying?” he asks. Her voice breaks on a sob: “I'm so sorry, John. Sorry you lost them.” John wraps Eva tight in his arms, lets her shuddering sobs shake his body for long, dark minutes before he breaks down, clinging to her as his sobs and tears flow into hers. ****

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Right away as John emerges from Smith's office it's obvious something is wrong. The pallor of his face. The rigid jaw. But by the time he's reached Eva's door he is composed. She greets him, naked, warm. Ardent, even. There's just one moment, as her gaze catches on a split in John's upper lip and a swelling bruise under his eye, that worry clouds her eyes. But then it's gone, and in a few hot, silent seconds she has John naked, on the love seat, caught in her kiss. After a little while he ends the kisses, the caresses. “Eva.” She looks at him and waits. “There's something. Something specific we have to do.” Her flush of arousal pales and her languid eyes sharpen. “What's that?” she asks, her voice tight. In the frank manner he uses to confess to her whatever he's ashamed of, “I'm supposed to make you go down on me.” For a moment she is like a statue—as if she had been frozen the moment before he spoke—and no reaction registers in her expression. Then she watches him as she asks earnestly, “Before, with your lovers, they'd do that?” “Yes.” “Do you like it?” After an unsettled pause, he answers “Yes.” She scoots back a few inches on his thighs and watches her own hand. John studies her face as she resumes her caress. “I've never done it before. Do you mind teaching me?”

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“No,” he breathes. His hard cock is twitching under her hand. “Then tell me,” she says, her voice just soft and earnest. Not playing the coquette. “Tell me you want me to.” He pulls her to him. Holds her tight, almost desperately against him and breathes at her ear, “I want...” Her hand goes on working over him, despite the constraint of his embrace. “Tell me what you want me to do. Use your words.” “I want to feel your mouth on me.” She slips out of his arms, off his lap, and onto her knees on the floor where she's framed in the V of his thighs. From this new angle, much closer than the times before, she looks at it a moment, then tentatively, carefully, takes it in her hand. While he watches, his belly fluttering, she brings her mouth to the flushed, full dome. She caresses him first with her lips, sensing his velvety skin, his warmth. Smelling his smell. Then she tries using her tongue, just tentatively at first, touching it faintly to him, leaving the petal-soft skin wet where she's been. And then she parts her lips and takes him between, first just bringing him a little way into the heat of her mouth, holding the rigid girth of him in the loose curve of her hand while gingerly nursing at the head. Then she sinks down on him ambitiously, eagerly. He gasps, tenses. He seeks her free hand with his and holds it. With his other hand he reaches down to caress her hair. Little by little she goes from tentative exploration to eager, ardent caressing. And then she withdraws. “Talk to me,” she says. “Tell me what feels nice. What you want me to do.” She takes him in her mouth again. He is quivering, quietly panting.

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“Your tongue there,” he says a few seconds later. “There,” he repeats when her tongue finds the spot again. His hand closes more tightly over hers. “What else?” she demands in a husky whisper, leaving his spit-slick cock swaying an inch from her reddened, glossy, slightly swollen lips. “Here,” is all he says, but he takes her hand and molds it over his balls, then uses his own hand over hers to teach her how he wants to be fondled while she goes back to work on his cock with her mouth. Sucking gently at the head for a while, then sliding the tight ring of her lips up and down his shaft, working her tongue over him. “Does it feel good? What I'm doing?” “Yes,” he whispers in a strained voice. ”Then let me hear you.” He unclenches his jaw, parts his lips, lets her hear his sighs. Then his moans. They are clues that lead her back to certain places, reward her for particular kisses. He tells her to stop, stop, stop. She stops. Looks at him. “Come back to me. Let me finish myself,” he pants. “No.” “I'm going to come. Any second. You don't have to...” “What? Swallow?” “Yes.” She grins and takes him into her mouth once more, more excitedly, her whole body writhing as she brings him over the finish line. She sits up. Breathing hard, trembling, he watches her swallow. Watches her face like the face of an infant trying a

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new pureed vegetable. Then like a child who has just eaten something on a dare. Mischievous. Proud. Then a demure little grin. Still panting, quivering, he coaxes her up to him. “You should have let me…” “No. I like it.” “The taste?” She gives a sarcastic little laugh. “Having you so in my control like that. The taste of power, I guess.” “You’re a strange girl.” He says it with a tone of affection. Then he kisses her, tenderly. Deeply. Then he stops. By her ear, so the others won't hear, he whispers, “If it would feel safe for you, if you wanted it, some time, when it's just us, I'd love to reciprocate.” She blushes so intensely her eyes water. But when she sees his warm smile fade, when he draws a little away from her, she pulls him back and kisses him. “We've done what we were supposed to do,” he says. “For the cameras. So we don't have to, you don't have to kiss me.” She looks at him for a long moment. “Aren't we past that? I like kissing you,” she tells him, her voice and her smile more shy than they've been all evening. “I'm glad.” The sadness is not gone from his voice, but he smiles. He tells her, “I'm sorry about tonight. That you had to do that. That I couldn't tell you sooner. Smith only told me when I was on my way. He's got this idea.”

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He goes quiet. She waits, but his clenched jaw gives no sign of unclamping. “What?” “That it will help to keep the men in check if they can...sort of be with you, vicariously.” “By watching you with me.” “Yes. But also by making us act out their fantasies.” “So, what? One of the men wanted to see me do that? That's why...” “Yes.” “And when one of them wants to experience me vicariously by having you beat the shit out of me?” “Smith swears he'll strip any violence out of the...scripts. On that, I trust him.” “I'm impressed,” she says, her voice tight. “I couldn't have imagined how this could have gotten any more twisted.” She is quiet for a while. Then, “You shouldn't come to me feeling like...” Her eyes flick up and meet his. “A rapist,” he says. “You're not. If you've been honest with me—and I believe you have—then you're not. It's Smith and the others hurting us, not you hurting me. Yes?” It sounds like she's demanding allegiance rather than asking a question. “Yes.” “A lot of this...It's hard, letting myself like being kissed, being touched by you. I hate not having a choice. I want to hate it completely, you know? But I don't hate you.” She strokes his face. “I...I’m fond of you, John. I trust you. And after all those months on

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my own out there, with no contact with anyone, being touched by you, holding you, sharing a bed with you feels good. You know that, right? I mean, you can tell, can't you?” He gives her a tender smile. “Yes.” “So if you can, stop feeling like our every encounter is a rape. It doesn’t feel that way to me. Okay?” “Okay.” His voice is small. He looks worn down. Sad. “John?” She touches his bruise, locking into his gaze. “What happened?” He gives her a weak smile. “Nothing. Nothing to worry about.” “Please don't do that.” “What?” “Keep things from me. To protect me.” “I don't, Eva. Not things that are about you.” She pins him with her eyes, then gives him a gentle smile and nods. “Come to bed with me.” When she holds her hand out to him, John takes it. She leads him to the bed, pulls him in after her. She combs her fingers through his hair, the path of her touch like a lazy river winding and trickling over his scalp. And then, in the dark, in a soft voice that may be below the reach of the camera mics, she says, “John. Tell me. What the men have done?”

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CHAPTER SIX ~ YEAR ONE

At reveille, a wan sun cast the men's washed-out shadows across the asphalt. The twenty-three of them still alive eight months after the dying and after the three patrols that had gone out and never returned, lined up every morning, their posture as straight, their uniforms as neat as they'd always kept them. The Major tolerated no breach of protocol. Smith scanned the men, looking for shoddy presentation. Giving the occasional dressing-down for minor infractions reminded the men that there was still a hierarchy. That he was in charge. Which kept chaos at bay. And it seemed to comfort them. Setting them these small expectations, giving them these little tasks that they could work at and accomplish each day so they had something to think about other than their dead families, their dead girlfriends, their dead comrades. Wondering how long until they were dead, too. But while he called the occasional man out on some minor infraction of the dress code and doled out some small punishment, he peered into the lines of men, scrutinizing their faces. Searching for signs of worse things than a disregard for the futile regimen of keeping buckles and buttons and boots properly polished. Looking for cuts and bruises. For eyes sparking with fresh terror, or hollowed out by resignation. ****

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“You look different to me today, Baldwyn.” Huh. Lott hardly ever said shit. “Yeah?” Lott just sat there, rubbing at his boot with a blackened rag. “Different how?” Baldwyn asked. “For a month now, you been tight as a drum. Today, though, you seem calm. Soft.” A hot little twitch grabbed at him. “What do you mean, soft?” “Like I said. Calm. Soft.” Sometimes Baldwyn hated that little fuck. He hardly did or said shit, but he had a way of rubbing you the wrong way. Soon as you were ready to bust his jaw, though, he'd say some little thing, and you wouldn't feel like it anymore. “Know what it seems like?” Lott asked. Baldwyn couldn't see if Lott was smiling or not, to know if he was yanking his chain, because he was still bent over that boot, his blond hair hanging down, hiding his face. “Reminds me of how a guy'll be all wound up when he hasn't gotten any in long time, then one day he's all at ease with himself in the world, and it turns out he got the lay of his life the night before.” Baldwyn laughed because he had to do something, but it felt like a big snake was coiling up in his gut. “You didn't get yourself a little last night, did you?” Riggs asked, and Lott finally looked up from that goddamn boot so you could see he was having a good fucking laugh. “Yeah,” Baldwyn came back, “you wouldn't believe the tight little cunt I've got tied up under my bunk. I drag her out every night, and when I'm tired of fucking the bitch's throat, I bend her over and shoot a fat wad into her hot, tight ass.”

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The guys laughed. “Her name ain't Kosinsky, is it? Or Nichols?” Riggs yelled above the laughter. “What the fuck are you saying?” Fuck if Baldwyn wanted a brawl with Riggs, but no way could he just take shit like that. “Just that they're the prettiest girls left, and maybe you got tired of waiting for Britney Spears to come walking out of the wasteland,” Riggs said with a big shitty smile. Baldwyn stepped up to Riggs. Sure as shit he was about to get a broken nose, but fuck if he'd let anyone make him out to be a goddamned homo. “That whore? She'd let everyone left on base have a poke at her used up pussy. I like a girl who kicks up a little fuss. Makes me work for it, you know?” A rush of hot anger shot through his nerves. “Bet you'd like me to show you what I mean, eh Riggs?” Baldwyn worked at holding his ground with Riggs leaning into him. “You wanna know what a broken jaw feels like?” Baldwyn clenched his fists, knowing damn well even if he blocked the first swing, Riggs would keep at him until something was bleeding. But then there was the sound of Lott laughing. Laughing his goddamned ass off. “What's so fuckin' funny?” Riggs growled. “The two of you,” Lott said. Baldwyn always wondered how a guy like that, not scrawny, but no muscle-man, either, was never scared to shoot his mouth off. Never. “So dang sensitive, both of you.” “I don't think it's funny. Guys saying shit like I'm some kinda faggot,” Baldwyn got in. Better him and Riggs against Lott than Riggs pounding him into the floor.

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“Sweet Jesus,” Lott said in that slow Southern way of his, “nobody thinks you're queer, either of you.” Lott laughed, real soft, under his breath so you didn't really hear it, just saw his shoulders and chest moving. “Fact is though, a man's wired to fuck, and none of us is likely to be satisfied with our greased fists for too much longer.” “What the fuck are you saying, Lott?” Riggs snarled. “Baldwyn's ass starting to look good to you, is it?” Baldwyn could let that go. That was against Lott, not him. “I'm saying, we all better watch our backs, so to speak. Time's coming when it's fuck or be fucked, I figure.” **** One night, nine months after the dying, thunder exploded Evan's fragile sleep. Real thunder. On the roof, on the windows, rain rattled, heavy, then fainter, then heavy again, like handfuls of pebbles thrown against the building when the wind swelled up. Rain and thunder and lightning, those things didn't scare Evan. But he'd been dreaming bad things when the sound had woken him, and the fear, the awful dread of his dreaming was still on him, prickling the backs of his arms and legs, heavy in his belly. In the dark he crept the well-known path between the rows of empty beds, the concrete floor cold and smooth under his bare feet, a fine grit of dust and dirt sticking to his soles. He'd sweep tomorrow. When he got close, he touched the corner of Diego's bed with his toe, to make sure of his distance, to make sure he wouldn't bump the frame and wake him. Carefully, silently, he sank down on his heels and leaned back against the wall. It helped,

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sometimes, after the nightmares, feeling the presence of this other man, close and alive. Sometimes he'd squat like that for five, ten minutes, just listening to the sound of Diego's deep, rhythmic breathing. Sometimes, if the moon was bright, Evan would watch Diego sleeping, his black hair pillow-matted, his dark lashes making two perfect crescents on the delicate skin just below his eyes, his mouth soft, relaxed. His jaw shadowed with stubble if he hadn't shaved in the last day or two. His tan shoulders naked above the covers, his chest, rising, falling, rising, darkened with hair between his muscular pecs. Sometimes, above the white sheet, a tawny nipple. Tonight, though, there was no moon. But Evan could tell from the cold quiet that Diego's bed was empty. After the dream, the empty bed seemed ominous. An icy, heavy dread pooled in Evan's belly, trying to sink him down on the cold hard floor. He listened. Nothing but the rain pelting the roof and the windows, and behind those scattered pebble notes, the continuous hiss of millions of drops falling into the dirt and grass, water touching water, doubling, tripling itself from droplets to rivulets to puddles widening, widening, creeping out and out until, in places, there was no grass or dirt on which to plant a boot, except under water. Even though it wouldn't wake Diego, since his bed was empty, Evan didn't like the idea of turning on a light. Even without an enemy, somehow turning on a light in the middle of the night felt like putting out a beacon. Beckoning danger. So, in the thick dark, he walked the memorized path to the door, into the dark hall, to the latrine. When he pushed the door in, light slashed into the dark hallway, stabbing his eyes. Squinting, blinking forward into the white tiled fluorescence, his chest went tight.

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On the floor, in the corner past the last sink, Diego. Big Diego curled up so small he looked more like a child than a man, at first, hugging himself, his knees drawn up. Getting closer, Evan calmed. Diego was all right. Or, not all right, but not hurt. Diego knew he was there. He had to have heard the door. But he didn't move or look up or say anything. When Evan sank down onto the cold tile floor next to him, Diego met his eyes. “I fucking hate it here,” he seemed to breathe. His lips barely moved. “Yeah.” It was hard, seeing Diego scared and hopeless. Evan had gotten so used to Diego being steady and strong. Through boot camp. Through the dying. “All day, all I want is for night to come so I can go to sleep and stop. Stop hearing. Stop seeing. Stop thinking. And then night comes, and I just lie there, stuck in my head. I can't even get out of this place by falling asleep.” You sleep sometimes, Evan thought. “What are you doing up?” Diego asked. “Thunder woke me.” “I thought,” Diego said, and his eyes went bloodshot and wet, and Evan knew he was about to cry in front of him for the first time. Even during the dying, he'd never seen Diego cry, “I'd never miss them. My folks. The kids from the neighborhood. That whole world, the stupid parties and lame jobs and church and reality shows. I couldn't fucking wait to get away. To anywhere. And now I think I'd give anything to go back, even just to die along with all of them.

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“But now, now that I'm stuck here, every day wondering if we're all going to die from some after-effect, knowing that if we don't, this is it, that nothing's ever going to be any different, that tomorrow is going to be just like today, over and over, for the next ten years, for the rest of my life. I hate this place. I hate this.” Even at that moment, as Evan pulled Diego to him, letting him sob as he held him, Evan didn't know what he was about to do. When he'd joined up for his two-year stint, he'd decided to put that part of himself aside. It was practical; maybe official policy had changed, but the culture hadn't. He wasn't going to spend his tour being fag-bashed day and night. And part of him liked it. Keeping himself in check, like a saint. It made him feel strong. And he knew, no one would have guessed. Not even Diego. But now, there was nothing, except this. This love he'd felt and hidden for two years. Diego's cheek was wet and the wet tasted of salt. “It's not all terrible. Is it?” Evan asked him. Diego looked like he'd been slapped—that still, violently awake look of someone in shock. “No,” was all he said. When Evan touched Diego's naked arm, trailed two fingertips down his taut, warm flesh, Diego just kept staring into his eyes, breathing harder and harder. “But,” Diego finally breathed, “you're not...” “You're wrong.”

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Slowly, Evan leaned in, not to kiss. Just to be a little closer. Closer than he could, before. Until he felt soft waves of hair touch his forehead. Until he could smell his skin, feel the heat of him against his face. “But I'm not wrong about you. Am I?” After a while Diego whispered, “No.” He'd known. He'd known Diego wanted him, loved him, before Diego knew it. And before he'd known he loved him, that way. Now Evan looked at his friend, into startled, hopeful eyes. Diego's dark curls were soft. Had he ever felt anything that soft? Maybe, but not in years. And his jaw was rough with a couple days' growth of dark beard. And under that stubble, under the delicate, amber skin below his jaw, Diego's pulse throbbing wildly. To Evan's lips, Diego's naked shoulder was smooth and hard as the curve of a spoon, but warm. Warm, and giving off his faint, tempting scent. Under his lips, Diego's sinewy neck, throbbing with life, that swollen pulse speeding with want, with fear, fear of Evan, fear of himself, fear of how this moment was changing everything. His hair smelled of the shampoo they all used, but underneath, his own, warm smell. Diego's mouth. His lips were parted with shock, with panting, and Evan could see the sharp bottom edges of his top teeth. Gentle, like a question, he touched Diego's lips with his. Diego's lips stayed soft, open, passive. Only his panting breaths kissed him back. There, on the floor of the john was a bad place to do this. It would be bad if someone came in. They could lie about the last two or three minutes, but there'd be no hiding his hard-on. Worse if Diego was hard, too.

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So Evan stood, then held his hand out to Diego. When Diego finally took it and got to his feet, they turned off the light and went back to their room. In their room, Diego walked toward his bed, pressed himself back against the wall, then just stood there, waiting. A more blatant invitation that Evan was expecting. Their first kiss. Fuck, he tasted good. Warm and wet to his tongue. Just yielding, at first, then coming back after him with all his surprised want, all the need he'd been driving down for more than a year. God, yes, this warmth, this togetherness, so safe. So good. Lost in that first kiss, long minutes slipped by before Evan broke free, and panting, said, “Get on the bed.” In the dark, Diego was still. His breathing was all Evan could hear. “Don't be scared,” Evan told him. Diego sat down on the edge of the bed, then lied back. When Evan climbed over him, Diego's breathing got faster, louder. But he took Evan's kiss with as much hunger as before. And he just kissed and moaned and shook while Evan stroked his chest and belly, and when he finally touched one small, stiff nipple. But then Diego stopped the kiss and panted, “Wait. Don't. I'm not ready.” “Not ready for what?” “I've never...I'm not ready to...” “Don't worry. I'm not going to fuck you.” Diego was just lying there, panting under him. “All right?” Evan asked. “All right.”

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Evan brushed his lips over Diego's. Teased him a little with his tongue. Then he reached between them, ran his touch over the hard length he'd felt pressed to his belly since they'd started kissing. “But you're ready for something, aren't you?” Diego didn't answer. But when Evan curved his fingers and rubbed him a little over his shorts, Diego groaned and flexed up into that touch. He shuddered, thrashed, almost, when Evan kissed his nipples, and when Evan got Diego's shorts down and kissed that hot, hard cock, Diego groaned out loud, so loud Evan clamped his hand over his friend's, his lover's mouth, afraid someone would hear them over the racket of the storm. After. “You've done that before.” Evan answered, “Yeah.” “With... Here?” “No. Not since I joined up.” He nuzzled into Diego's neck, kissing, smelling him. “In my head, though, I've done it to you about a thousand times.” “Me too,” Diego said after a while. “But I'm not...” “You're not ready. That's fine.” Evan kissed Diego's cheek, to reassure. “You've never been with a guy?” “No.” “But you've known.” “I don't know,” Diego said, whispering like Evan. “I mean, I've thought about it with you. A lot. For a long time, now. But I never did before.”

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“Seriously?” “I don't know. Sometimes, thinking back, I think I just didn't let myself.” “You know we can't let on. It doesn't matter, the official line.” “No. You're right,” Diego whispered. It was understood among all the soldiers—if not when they signed up, then by the end of week one of boot camp—that the official policy of the U.S. Army permitted, and to some degrees protected the existence and practice of all sexual orientations, but the reality was that no one dared admit openly that they were gay, that the fresh recruits who were suspected of being homos were brutally convinced of their fellow soldiers' disapproval, and the few who went limping and bleeding to their C.O.s were usually laughed at until they gave up on any hope of getting justice, if they were lucky, and sometimes convinced a little more, if they weren't. No reason to think Major Smith, who'd taken command of the few straggling survivors from the various divisions that had occupied the base before the dying, would be a different story. For another hour or so they cuddled and kissed and whispered and touched. Then Evan slipped away, back to his own bed. **** Kosinski would hardly meet his eyes. Smith did these meetings with everyone. But he had a bad feeling about Kosinski. “How's it coming along, with the south field?” Smith asked him. You had to start with these banal questions. Duty shifts. Mess rations. “Fine, sir.” “From Riggs' report, seems like work's ahead of schedule.”

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“Yes, sir.” “Your crew, everyone pulling their weight?” He could say “his weight,” now. Now that all the soldiers were men. Now that all the women were dead. “Yes, sir.” There was no pride, no reluctant hint of complaint in his voice. Every answer came out like he hoped there wouldn't be another question. “You know, Kosinski, it's been awful for everyone since the dying.” “Yes, sir.” “But I can see. Things have been harder for some than for others.” Respectful silence. “How are you holding up?” “Fine, sir.” “And the barracks?” Fuck it. He was desperate. None of these guys were going to come crying to him. Kosinski's gaze slipped away. “Any problems?” “Problems, sir?” “Any trouble you'd like to report?” “No, sir.” “Off the record?” “No, sir.” Hell. He was shit at this. “Fine, Kosinski. You're dismissed.”

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The private rose from his chair and saluted, looking like he was about to wet himself he was so anxious to get out of there. But as Kosinski turned and went toward the door, on impulse Smith went up to him and put his hand on his shoulder. Smith's gut went tight as the kid hunched against the door, his hands coming up on reflex to guard his face. “Christ, Kosinski,” Smith said, trying to make his voice soothing, but knowing he was probably failing, “what did you think I was going to do to you?” Kosinski gave an unconvincing little laugh. “Nothing, sir. You just startled me.” He straightened up and turned around, but he wouldn't look up from the floor. And he was shaking. “Look, kid,” Smith said, trying to catch Kosinski's evasive eye, “I know the drill. You're part of a team. You don't snitch on the guys in your unit. A lot of C.O.s, you tell them someone's shirking, they'll make you feel like a crybaby who needs their mommy to fix their problems. You tell them other things are going on, and you're likely to get a lot worse. But my way of looking at things is this. You're part of a team. If the other guys are making your life hell, they're the ones who need an attitude adjustment.” Kosinski just kept on staring at his boots. “Kid, you've gotta tell me. It's not going to end until you do.” Kosinski looked up, his green eyes red and wet, his pale skin all blotchy. “Tell you what, sir.” It was no question. It was a flat statement: “I'm not telling you anything.” ****

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During the day it was tough. Evan and Diego never did anything, no matter how sure they were of being alone. Never even called each other by their first names. Evan would be next to Diego at mess, or turning over the soil on the south lawn where they were preparing a field to plant corn, or in the latrine, showering or brushing his teeth, and he'd feel this urge to touch his hand or kiss him under his ear, where his blood pulsed. Cold panic would trickle through his body at the image of doing those things, a weird little fear like he might forget himself, forget that he had to wait until they were alone in the dark, even to whisper, “I love you.” But night after night they switched off the lights and got into their own beds, always waiting twenty or thirty minutes before one of them would pad over to the other's bed and slip under the covers and into the other's open arms. Between kisses and caresses they whispered their long-hidden affection, confessing to each other the moments that had made them fall in love, little by little. Evan took it slow with Diego. It was hard, after going without for more than two years, furtively getting off in the latrine or under the covers after lights out. But it was good, too. How his want tortured him now that he'd tasted Diego's mouth, tasted his skin, his cock, his come. Now that he'd felt Diego's naked chest against his own, felt Diego's arms around him. Now that they were lovers, and it was just a matter of time, of patience. Not some impossible fantasy for jacking off, for staving off nightmares. Their second night together, Evan stroked up and down Diego's naked arms, his smooth, hairless side, his hard, defined chest, loving the promising pain of his hard-on when he felt Diego's nipples stiffen under his fingertips, when he felt Diego's rigid cock flex and twitch under his touch. For a while he stroked him over his shorts, using a

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feathery touch at first, then teasing Diego, gripping the girth of his hard-on, giving his balls a gentle tug, loving how he'd go rigid all over, then twitch, panting, eventually trying to thrust into his hand. Even though he wanted to draw it out, to tease Diego, it was over in a couple minutes, Diego clinging to him like he was drowning, panting hard, little sobs coming every few seconds until he caught his breath, then stifled his final groans against Evan's shoulder. For a while Diego lay there in his arms, shuddering a little, now and then, for the first few minutes, before he went lax and still, his breathing quiet and regular again. The first time Diego really touched him, Evan sucked in his breath hard in surprise. It had been forever since someone else had touched his cock. He lifted his hips so Diego could slide his shorts down, spread his legs so he could fondle his balls. “Kiss me,” he said, surprised at how his voice wavered. Still stroking and caressing, Diego kissed him. Just lips, at first, then his tongue teased in and touched his tongue. God, it felt so amazing, being held and kissed and touched. Like heaven. A little bubble of pleasure and happiness that made the hell he lived every day and dreamed every night disappear. It was a good feeling, warm and safe, Diego's body, naked, pressing down on his. The smooth curve of his ass, the dip of his sleek waist, his broad back, muscles flexing, Evan couldn't touch enough. And Christ, the way their stiff cocks were pressed into each other's bellies, brushing together now and then as they moved. Even that first night, Diego had been excited, but he was always reserved, always holding back, passive, letting Evan start every kiss, never touching until after Evan had touched. Sometimes allowing more, but never giving more. But tonight Diego

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was so hot, so eager, writhing over him, his wet, penetrating kisses insistent. Demanding. Both of them were panting, straining for each other's caresses. “Diego?” Evan's heart was hammering with need, and now his chest went tight. “I want...” He swallowed. Why was he so fucking nervous? “Do you want to?” Diego half-groaned, half laughed. “God.” But then, “You mean...” “Please, Diego. Fuck me. I want you to.” “Even if...” “Yes. Just, please . . . “ He'd top Diego when he was ready. He could wait for that, for lots of things. But every nerve, every muscle, every blood vessel in his body was screaming for this, to feel Diego inside of him, to move with him, to milk his lover's next climax from him with his whole body. “Ever done it before? With a girl, I mean? Like this?” “No.” “Here.” Evan lubed up Diego's cock with the cooking oil he'd nicked from supply, stealing the chance to enjoy the feel of that hard length slipping through his grip, slicking his fingertips over his contours. Fuck, he wished they could turn on the light, that he could look at Diego's cock as he touched him. Then he dribbled a puddle of the viscous fluid into Diego's palm, and guided his hand down, between them, down. “Just get me slick first, here,” he guided one finger between his cheeks, slid it up and back over his hole, “then start with one finger.”

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He hoped it wouldn't freak him, fingering his asshole. In some ways, he remembered, that had been stranger, more different, than fucking, the first time he'd been with a guy. Oh god oh god, Diego's finger pressing, opening him, sliding inside. Evan sighed, groaned, pulled Diego closer. Kissed his cheek. He was scared to say anything. His want was so big, if he screwed it up, if it didn't happen... “Am I doing it right?” Diego asked in a whisper. “Fuck. Yes.” “I'm not hurting you?' “No, love. No.” Love. The first. So good to say it, finally. After pretending not to for so long. Diego pushed into him, slow and gentle, with a second finger, opening him wider, filling him fuller. God he wanted the rest, wanted it all. But wait. Wait. He'd let Diego take his time, do things at his own pace. No rush. Even the wanting, the waiting was so good. So fucking delicious. “Can I? Now? I mean, do you want me to...” Evan kissed him, caught his bottom lip between his lips, slid his tongue against Diego's tongue. “Yes.” “I can...like this, can't I?” Diego asked, leaning between Evan's legs, bringing his cock against him. “Yes,” Evan whispered, struggling to keep his desperate need from his voice.

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He felt Diego shivering, heard him panting, shallow and fast, as little by little, he sank into him. Wrapping his arms around Diego, pulling him closer, Evan breathed through this piercing, this filling. And then, slow, but coming on with a quivering need that rippled through his whole body, Diego started moving over him. “God, love, you feel so good inside me,” Evan sighed, meaning it. **** He was having a damned hard time finding fault with anything, this morning. But the men stank of trouble. Baldwyn and Riggs looked about ready to piss themselves with fear, which with them could only mean they'd done something, and were scared shitless of getting caught. And Lott. Christ, that one gave him the feeling of worms wiggling over his skin, just looking at him. Nothing natural about a grin like that. Not now. Not in this place. God fucking dammit, why had it taken him so long to notice? “Kosinski!” Smith called out, but everything in him was already going cold. Cold and heavy. “Kosinski!” he hollered again, in a tone meant to sound like he was berating a truant child. Even to his own ear, though, he sounded scared. Scanning the men's faces, he could have sworn Riggs went pale, and that Lott's grin got bigger. Then one of the others moved. Narrowing eyes. Sagging body. Then an urgent, combat-ready extension of arm and index finger. And Vallar shouted, “Sir!” Smith followed the trajectory of the gesture, and peered up into a fifth-floor window in the building opposite his assembled men. Even after the dying, what he saw

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made him wonder for a moment if he'd gone mad. Or if, considering the dying, the impossible was now possible, and ghosts were real. The pale likeness of a human floated—judging by its position relative to the window—three or four feet above the floor. Fading away, into the shadows, then drifting toward the window like it would float through it, its face, like a man's, was twisted. Ghoulish. Like Munch's “The Scream.” And then he understood. He ran, knowing it was pointless, as fast as he could. Crashed through the heavy double doors. Scrambled up the stairs, not even noticing if it was hard or not, taking all those flights at top speed. Pointless, this desperate haste. He'd get there, and he'd be dead. No. Maybe not. Maybe he'd just done it, just then while Smith had been looking at Lott and Baldwyn and Riggs. He'd get there and the kid would be convulsing, but it wouldn't be too late. They'd get him down and Smith would give him mouth-to-mouth while Vallar or one of the others did CPR, and the kid would recover. And then he'd tell him everything. What they'd done to him. Why he'd tried to kill himself. “Cut him down!” Smith ordered, wrapping his arms around the hanging man's thighs and lifting, knowing someone else had made it into the room almost as fast as he had, because he could hear him. Vallar. Vallar righted the chair and sprang atop it, and shouted to the men as they came in, “A knife! Someone! A knife!” The kid was dead. Not cold, but good and dead. Smith had seen a lot of dead people. There was a quality about the dead that was nothing like actors lying still, pretending to be dead, nothing like sleeping men or injured men who'd lost

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consciousness. It was too late to save his life. All Smith cared about now was getting him down and covering him up before the cowards who'd bullied him to death got the satisfaction of seeing he'd shit and pissed himself. The thought of the men congregating in the latrine laughing at the state of the poor kid's corpse made Smith want to put a bullet in every last man left. Putting the final bullet into his own skull would be the easiest thing in the world. Christ, he'd have liked to have done it months ago. Above him Smith heard the sound of a blade sawing through threads, of fabric ripping, and the full weight of Kosinski's body dropped onto him. He staggered, lowering the body to the floor as carefully, as gently as he could. “Get me a blanket.” Someone, Dunn, handed him a blanket, and he hurried to spread it over Kosinski, just up to his chin. You have to; you can't just trust your eyes, your instinct, so Smith put his fingers to the kid's throat. He was so sure, he might have been more scared than relieved if he'd felt life throb in his jugular. “He's dead. Isn't he?” Vallar asked, adding “sir” as an afterthought. “Yes.” God fucking dammit. The poor kid. Smith had known. He'd known he needed help, and just watched him float away. Like he was already a ghost.

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CHAPTER SEVEN

“What are you lookin' at?” Riggs growled. That boy needed a good punch in the mouth. That would wipe the grin off his face. That would teach him to stare. “What the hell you do to that Kosinsky boy, you and Baldwyn?” Lott asked through that shitty grin of his. “I didn't do nothin' to that little faggot.” “No?” “Not my fault he was too much of a pussy to stick it out when things got tough.” “Things got tough for him, did they?” Why'd Lott have to be such an asshole? “Yeah. Everyone died, remember? We're all stuck here on this shitty base, eating shitty food, digging in the dirt and fucking our fists. Tough.” Fuck it. He didn't have to listen to Lott's bullshit. Little ass-wipe didn't know shit. He'd go to the weight room. It would feel good, the cold weight of the barbells in his grip. Straining. Burning. Sweating. He'd do a lot of sets. He'd flex his arms, lift the weights until his muscles shook, then more, until his arms felt soft and weak, and then he'd make himself go another three sets. Even now, so wound up, he could picture how he'd feel tired after. Tired and empty. It would feel good. **** In his gut, Smith was dead sure Kosinski had been tormented past his limit, that he'd hung himself out of terror or unbearable humiliation or sheer loss of faith that life

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could ever be better than awful. That someone, or some group of someones, had driven him to suicide. But there was no note. No marks on the body, at least none his untrained eye could detect. And he'd looked damned carefully, feeling, in the end, like he'd committed another violation on the corpse of that poor kid. And he'd called in every man, asking one after the other, discreetly as he could, if they'd noticed anything. Had his behavior changed suddenly? Had he said anything? Was there some incident that coincided? He was about as good at playing detective as he was at impersonating a shrink. Except for some squirming and evasive eyes he got nothing out of the likely suspects. And all he learned after the rest of those twenty-one interviews was that in the months since the remnants of the soldiers stationed at the base had been thrown together, no one had really gotten to know Kosinsky. He'd been quiet after the dying, and he'd stayed quiet. Some of the men were shaken up; as with the patrols that went out and never came back, it was hard, seeing their small number dwindle further. But no one seems sad about Kosinski in particular. Most of the men seemed to think he'd killed himself out of sheer depression at what had happened. Christ, they were all mad as hell, scared as shit, going out of their minds. And since Smith could find no evidence that it was anything else, he let the men believe that Kosinski had hung himself because the end of the world had been too much for him. Not like he was the first. The others had just done it so early in the aftermath, they'd gone almost unnoticed. ****

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Evan. Beautiful Evan. So good, warm and safe, holding him this way, in the dark, the two of them curled up together. In his arms he felt Evan shudder. Was he crying? Diego felt guilty about it, but he couldn't stop hating Kosinsky for doing that. Didn't he know, didn't he care that it just reminded all of them how close they were to death? Diego kissed the back of Evan's head and pulled him closer. Worrying over Evan was easier than thinking about the other stuff. Kosinsky. The whole world shrunk down to twenty-two men and that small corner of the base. “When did you know about me?” Diego whispered, eager to talk about something happy. To help Evan not to hurt. “That you loved me?” That wasn't exactly what he meant, but he said, “Yeah.” “When Jen died,” Evan said, and Diego could hear from his voice that he really had been crying. “When I told you, and you saw how much her death hurt me; the way you were looking at me, I knew you were feeling more than sympathy. It was like my pain hurt you as much as if it was your sister who'd died in that accident.” Diego buried his face in Evan's neck, feeling embarrassed and also just wanting to be closer. Thinking back, Evan was right. Diego hadn't even known, then. Not until months later, when there had been talk of their unit deploying, and he'd realized he wasn't even afraid for his own safety. That the thing that scared him was the thought of Evan getting injured, getting killed. Now everyone was dead, and they were still alive.

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“It seems so unfair,” he whispered against Evan's neck, against that soft skin he knew was pale with one little freckle just below the hairline, even though he couldn't see it now, in the dark. “You had to go through that, losing her, thinking about how her life ended so young. In the end, she didn't lose so much time.” “No, I'm glad. She got to die quickly. No pain. Even my parents, I'm glad for them. They didn't have to watch her go through the horrible dying.” “You're right,” Diego whispered back, stroking Evan's arm under the covers. “It was a mercy, her dying that way.” **** Padding, silent, Evan slipped between tidy, empty beds, the empty beds of dead soldiers, soldiers like him, like Diego, and slipped into his love's bed. Diego greeted him with a kiss, soft and sweet. Not hungry. “I think maybe tonight you should stay in your own bed,” he told Evan in a gentle voice. “What's the matter?” “Nothing. Just, tonight, it's better.” Was it over already? Had Diego gotten bored with him so soon? Or had someone said something to him? Scared him, somehow? “Diego. Please. Just tell me what's bothering you.” Evan heard Diego draw a deep breath, then let it go long seconds later. “It bothers me. I'm not a good...” Another deep breath, another long, shuddering exhale. “I'm not a good lover to you, Evan.” “Diego...”

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“I want to be. I want to give you the kind of pleasure you give me. I do. But I can't.” “Why not?” Diego was silent for a long time. “My family, where I come from, men don't do those things,” he finally said. Evan laughed. “I'm not stupid,” Diego came back. “You know what I mean. If you do them, you're not a man. I mean, what we've done, it's not so bad. For me, I mean. But to...” “What?” Evan whispered, “take a dick in your mouth? Let a man fuck you?” “I don't think I can.” “Come on, Diego. You have to let go of that crap. The culture that tells you you're not a man because you're with the person you love? That's shit. Flush it.” “Christ, Evan.” He was still whispering, but there was anger in his quiet voice. “It's not easy like that.” “I know that, Diego. I know it's not easy.” Evan pulled in a deep breath and let it go. Calmer, he said, “You think it was easy for me? You grew up with Latin machismo, and I grew up the son of a 4th-generation Army man who couldn't even hear about someone being gay, or see something in a sit-com without telling us all it made him want to puke. You think that wasn't in my head the first time I kissed a guy?” “I'm sorry,” Diego whispered after a while, pulling Evan closer. “I know. It's all right.” That night, until Evan had to go back to his own bed before they fell asleep, they only held each other, each thinking their own thoughts.

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**** When he thought about doing it, his gut dropped, then went tight. At the same time, though, he'd get hard. And the idea of feeling Evan close, of their kisses, that did something else to him. Made him feel scared and soft and safe all at once. A hot, full feeling he'd never had in the past, thinking of the women he'd been with. Fear could be overcome. He'd gotten past his fear of jumping from the crane platform. He'd shut off his fear during the dying. He knew how to push his fear down and move forward. After almost a week, not kissing, not touching, not whispering all the thoughts and little stories they'd saved up during the day, Diego went to Evan. Evan didn't say anything. But he pulled him close, kissing his face over and over, like he'd reunited with someone he'd feared was dead. Evan didn't try to really kiss him, though. Didn't touch him, except for wrapping his arms around him and holding him close. Scary to think of it. But fear could be overcome. “I love you, Evan.” “I know, Diego. I love you, too. You're the only one. The only person I've ever loved like this.” Until the actual moment when he kissed Evan's cock, he was scared. Sometimes it's like that. As long as you still have a choice and you can decide not to jump, not to join up, the chemicals in your brain keep you scared.

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But then you jump, and you're free-falling and it's all sensation—that rush of adrenaline as you drop, the wind pulling at you—and your brain turned on a thousand percent, ready to pull the rip cord at just the right second, just the right altitude. When he felt the soft, warm skin of Evan's cock head touch his lips, Diego's fear vanished. All he knew at that moment was that Evan's scent, the firm heat of his cock, the sound he made—something between an exhale and a groan—made him feel fucking amazing. His brain switched on, aware of every sound, the crickets outside, Evan's uneven breathing, the whiff of the sheets chafing against their skin as they moved, aware of the way Evan smelled, a strong smell that made Diego's dick harder, made him want even more, and Evan's taste, salty and animal. Never. He'd never guessed it could be so hot, so intense, giving pleasure to someone else. Just feeling Evan twitch and hearing him sigh was better than half the blowjobs he'd gotten. Diego licked, sucked, used his lips and his tongue, knowing just what each caress of his mouth was doing to Evan even before he groaned and flexed and thrust. “Oh. God. Diego,” Evan whispered, digging his fingers into Diego's hair, and Diego tasted his lover's come, and proud, happy, swallowed it all. In his head it had seemed foreign, alien, strange. Doing it, though, it was like being a kid again, disoriented in the woods, and stumbling accidentally onto a familiar path, and realizing he wasn't lost. That he was almost home. **** “Yeah?” Baldwyn yelled toward the door after the second barrage of knocking. Since when did they knock and wait for an engraved invitation around here?

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The door opened a little and Lott stuck his head in. “All clear?” “All clear, what?” Lott finally came in and shut the door behind him. “Well,” he drawled, grinning as usual, as if he was thinking of some joke he'd just heard, “I don't much like the idea of surprising people, these days. I suppose it's best to give folks some warning before entering a room.” “What? We're a bunch of fucking debutantes now? Afraid you'll catch us in our bras and panties?” “Something like that, I guess. Now that folks is pairing up, I fret I'll interrupt you and Nichols here making love some afternoon.” “What the fuck are you talking about, Lott?” Shit, were some of the guys really... “Nothing. Shit, it's only natural, isn't it? No women left. I said before it was coming. Now it's started, it's just a matter of time, I figure.” “A matter of time for what?” “Just, it won't be long for those ways to spread around. Two guys getting all the suckin' and fuckin' they can handle. Who's gonna hold out for old age and death, or for the Lord to drop a few angels in our lap?” “I fuckin' am.” “'Course you are.” Lott was laughing now. Something about that laugh made Baldwyn's gut clench up. ****

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Grabbed hard. Torn from Diego. Yanked up from his knees. Dragged through the dark, into the light. Behind him, Diego's voice, shouting. Then not shouting. What had that other sound been? They shoved him along the hall. When he turned around, a knee to the nuts dropped him. Air gone. Gut seizing. There were three, maybe four with him. Black ski masks pulled down. Terrorists. Like you'd see on T.V. with hostages. Except it was them. Other soldiers. Men he knew. He wanted to puke out the pain in his gut. Boots kicked his ass, the backs of his legs. Evan struggled up, to his knees, to his feet. No words. They just shoved him forward, through the door to the stairwell, up, up, up. All these floors were empty. Unoccupied. Kicked and shoved from behind, Evan went through the door, into the dark room he knew was the shower for that floor. His heart was exploding. Where was Diego? Fluorescents flickered on, hurting his eyes. The door opened and another pack of masked men crashed through, knocking Diego forward, naked, blood running from his nose, over his mouth, dripping from his chin, down his bare chest. The two of them, Evan and Diego, stunned, naked. Seven of them, masked, dressed, jack-booted, circling like hyenas. One swerved in and punched Evan in the gut. Evan doubled over, but kept his feet, gasping. Out the corner of his eye he saw one take a swipe at Diego. Diego bobbed out of reach, then landed a brutal blow on the masked jaw. Three of them

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jumped on Diego, pounding him with fists, kicking him with boots until he curled up on the floor, hiding his face behind his elbows. When he tried to get to Diego, hard bodies, masked faces got in his way, hands caught his arms, dragged him back, boots kicked behind his knees, hands got him down, held him down, wrenched his arms back, cuffed his wrists together. The tiles were white and clean and cold under his shins, against the tops of his bare feet, and he was sad. He didn't want to die in this sterile, abandoned latrine. Smith and the others would find them, cold and stiff, their cuts and bruises horrible in death. Peering between legs Evan saw the others dragging Diego closer, getting him up on his knees. Diego's wrists were already secured behind his back, bound in the disposable cuffs they'd been trained to use when detaining enemy combatants. POWs. “Goddamned faggots,” someone said. Who? Who's voice? Muffled behind the mask. Or something in his mouth, masking his voice. “You like it up the ass, homo?” another one said, words garbled. “You like a big, fat, hard dick up your ass, huh faggot?” That one kicked Diego's legs apart and started undoing his fly. A scream came out of Evan. Diego was silent. “Not him!” Evan yelled. “Not Diego. He's not!” “Get that fuckin' ass in the air, homo!” He couldn't. He'd die. His heart would stop or explode and he'd die if they did this to Diego. “He's not gay!” Evan screamed.

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“What you sayin'?” One of them asked, cold and quiet. The one hanging back, leaning against the white tile wall. “He's not,” Evan sobbed. Tears and snot were warm, running down. “He only,” he blubbered, trying to get a hold on his voice, “I, I, I wanted. I begged him. I told him he didn't have to even look at me. Just close his eyes, think of his girlfriend while I did it.” “You begged him to let you suck his cock?” He knew that voice. That drawl. “Yes.” Evan looked at Diego looking back at him, his brown eyes wild with rage and terror, now welling up with tears. Diego's lips, crusted with drying blood from his broken nose, opened. Evan tried to shut him up with a stare. Maybe it worked. “And he let you?” They'd seen. “Yes.” “What else he let you do? He let you fuck him?” “No! No.” “He fuck you?” “No.” “He suck your cock?” “No.” God, please. Please. Don't let him hear the lies. “He's still a fuckin' homo,” the one behind Diego said, low and mean. “Letting a guy suck him.” He got on his knees behind Diego.

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“Don't. Don't. Please don't,” Evan begged, crying so hard he thought he'd puke. “If he don't do your friend, he's gonna do you,” the still, quiet one by the wall said. “Yes,” Evan said. Things went dark and light again and he thought maybe he was going to faint. “Besides,” the cold voice drifted in from out there in the dark white, “everyone's having a turn. You can't save him from every one of us. Can you?” “Yes.” Evan made himself still and firm, and looked at Diego. “Yes,” he said again. “I'll make you this deal, then. None of us touches your friend. Only you.” “Yes.” They could kill him. Rape him to pieces. Anything rather than watch them gangrape Diego. “But if I do this for you, you gotta do one thing for me.” Evan stared at the black-masked figure, smudged-looking against the white wall. “You do him.” The hard floor went soft. He was cold and floating, like a snowflake. They don't move themselves, just drift where the wind blows them. “You don't,” the mask said, slow, teasing, even, “an' I think maybe Vallar there gets the works, and you get to just watch. Evan was saying, “Please, please,” but he couldn't even hear himself. Something lifted him. Not hands. He was just a snowflake, so it was only the wind picking him up, blowing him toward Diego.

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Around him there was a lot of noise, like a train close and coming on fast. Men on Diego, hands and bodies jostling him, shoving him toward Diego, elbowing him back. Through the growls of the men and his own sobs, he somehow heard that low, slow voice drawl from its place by the wall, “Nah, you'll see, my way's more fun.” Another man, the big one, stomped away from the soft-spoken one by the wall and grabbed the one on Diego, yanking him up. “You that eager to get your dick in him?” the big one asked. The other man shook the big guy off, then skulked away. “Go on,” the man by the wall said to Evan. Something, some force moved his body. He sank down on his knees behind Diego, collapsed down over his love, sobbing. “See?” said the blur by the wall as something cold touched Evan's wrist and hand, and his arms came free of the cuffs. “Don't do it, Evan,” Diego ordered in a low growl. “Ssshh,” Evan, shaking, sobbing, tried to comfort, “it won't be bad. I'll make sure,” he whispered. “Don't you fucking do it!” Diego barked, trying to shake him off. But he did. He had to. And after, the masked men dragged him off, held him down and took their turns while Diego watched, never once turning away or closing his eyes, so big and dark and deep, endlessly leaking tears. **** Diego waited until he'd heard the door to the stairwell slam shut, until the clomping of their boots on the stairs told him they'd gone down two, maybe three floors,

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then he went on his knees to the pocket knife one of them had left on the sink. On purpose, and on the sly, Diego had thought, watching him pull it from his pocket as the masked gang clustered by the exit and started sifting out. Why would he do that? The knife clattered on the tiles when Diego knocked it from the sink. Scared the noise would have startled Evan, he looked back. He was still, his eyes open but not tracking anything. Like a corpse. Diego got ahold of the knife, and fumbling awkwardly behind his back, got it open and sawed through the plastic cuffs. Evan didn't look at him, didn't even seem to know he was there. Diego reached out, but he didn't want to touch him. It made him a little sick, the idea of touching that naked shoulder. Evan was damp with sweat, stinking of piss, but that wasn't why. And he was afraid. He'd touch, and Evan would flinch, or cry or scream or try to hit him. “Evan,” he said in his softest voice. Diego went to the far corner and turned on the last showerhead. Evan didn't make a move or a noise as Diego picked him up and carried him into the spray of warm water. Sinking down, holding Evan close, he washed him clean. **** Christ in hell. Not again. Rather than shout out the name of the truant, Smith approached Vallar, a sickening chill oozing through his veins as he noticed the broken nose and, glancing down, the bloodied knuckles. “Corporal Vallar.” “Sir.” “Where's Dunn?”

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“In his bunk, Sir.” “Sick?” Vallar's dark eyes turned to meet his. Not another muscle so much as twitched. “Dismissed!” Smith barked to the assembly. Then, to Vallar, “You're with me.” Not Vallar. He wouldn't. Smith hadn't known him any longer than he'd known the others, but from day one he'd seen in Vallar the sort of soldier he could rely on. Trust. Not just to follow orders. Vallar was the sort who was a good soldier because he was a good man. But if he'd... “Sir.” Vallar stepped in front of Smith, barring his way down the hall. “I'm going in there, Corporal.” “Sir. Yes, sir.” God damn it, Smith didn't like that look on Vallar's face one bit. That fear. “Permission to speak freely, sir?” Smith gave him a nod. “Corporal Dunn...” Vallar's jaw flexed and Smith could see the man was making an effort not to cry. “Just, please go easy with him, sir.” Smith let Vallar go in ahead of him, heard him call out in a soft voice, “Evan, it's me. Me, and Major Smith.” The big spare room was flooded in morning light. Twelve empty bunks, eleven neatly made, one rumpled, the white sheets stained with blood. Dunn was in the corner, fully dressed, trying to muster the rigid, salutary stance, but lopsided and hunched, maybe in fear or maybe in pain. “At ease, son.”

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When had he started calling the men “kid” and “son”? Hell, he was only thirtytwo. He went over to where Dunn was, and Vallar kept right with him. He had the feeling Vallar was going to put himself up like a shield in front of Dunn who, he could see now that he was closer, was sweating and pale and staring at him in absolute terror. He wanted to tell him to settle down, that he didn't need to be afraid, but just telling someone that never makes them feel better. So he just asked, “You want to sit down, Corporal?” “No, sir.” “Vallar. I see you've been in a fight.” “Yes, sir.” “Dunn do this to you?” “No, sir. “Who did?” “I don't know, sir.” Standing at rigid attention, Vallar gave the impression of a steel girder vibrating with repeated hammer blows. “Why don't you know?” “They were wearing masks, sir.” Smith stayed quiet for a moment, careful to keep his expression smooth and his voice even. “How many were there?” “Seven, sir.” He looked at Dunn. Not a mark on his face. “They beat you up, too, Dunn?”

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“Some, sir.” Dunn's voice was hollow and quiet. “I'm going to ask you boys a hard question. I hope you both can trust me enough to give me an honest answer.” Vallar seemed to stiffen. Dunn, well, Dunn looked somehow like he was losing mass, going transparent. “Vallar. Those men who beat you up. Did they rape you?” “No, sir,” he answered, his jaw clamped tight. The question hadn't surprised him. Probably he was lying. “Dunn.” Tears swelled up in the soldier's blue eyes and spilled down his cheeks. “Those men rape you last night?” His lips moved, but hardly any sound came out. “Yes, sir.” “But not you, Vallar?” It still surprised Smith, sometimes, how he could stay calm through a horror. “No, sir.” Dunn tried to catch Vallar's gaze, but Vallar evaded, and Smith still wasn't sure Vallar wasn't lying to him. “Are you badly injured?” he asked Dunn, feeling woozy but confident he was hiding it. Dunn looked down at the floor and shrugged. “I'll be okay,” he said, barely audibly. “Before this happened, anybody say anything to either of you? Threaten you?” “No, sir,” from both. “You're lovers?”

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Dunn went on staring at the floor. Vallar went taller and tighter and met his eyes, like a challenge. “Yes, sir.” “You've been keeping it quiet? Behind closed doors?” “Yes, sir.” “This is a lot to ask of you, right now, but don't. If you're open about it, someone will say something openly, too. It'll give me a chance to lay down the law. Where'd it happen?” “Here. Then upstairs. One of the unoccupied floors. Sir,” Diego added. “I'll have you in more secure quarters before lights out. And I'll give some thought to determining who the guilty ones are, and making good and sure they regret what they've done.” God, it sounded so flaccid. So puny next to what Dunn had suffered. “Is there anything you need?” Smith asked, hoping some request, some thing he could provide would make him feel less like he'd failed these men. “No, Sir,” Dunn said, finally looking up and meeting his gaze. Smith couldn't tell if he saw something like gratitude in his eyes. Just wishful thinking, probably. “A gun, Sir,” Diego said.

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CHAPTER EIGHT ~ YEAR THREE

When he's told her what he knows about Kosinski, and about Evan and Diego, John tells Eva about Jake. By the time he's done telling her about Jake, she has slipped into a silence that is like absence. Like she is gone. “Eva?” She takes his hand between both of hers, but stays quiet. It's a long time before she speaks. “It's so strange to think of things that go on, side by side in time,” she finally says, like she's talking to herself. “I thought what had happened to me was so awful, while I wandered through the empty world. But in a way, I was safe. Cold, sometimes, usually hungry. But, once everyone was gone, really safe. But all that time, without knowing, I was coming here, every day coming closer to that day in the orchard. To this. And all that time I was wandering the empty world alone, these things were happening. And Smith was wondering how to make it stop; he was here, planning my fate. And we hadn't even met, yet.” Eva turns to John, almost as if she's just remembered he is there. She touches his bruised cheek and her eyes go bright and wet. “This. They didn't...hurt you?” she asks, her soft voice wavering. John gives her a sad smile. “No.” “You can tell me, John.” She looks at him, holding him in her steady gaze for a long time, like she's trying to read him, or like she's making a silent promise.

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Then she whispers, “Have you been raped?” Stroking her hair, he whispers back, “No, Eva. Really. Nothing like that.” “I don't just mean tonight.” “I know,” he tells her. “I've been lucky. They've left me alone.” After a while she asks, “So, what happened tonight?” “A while back,” he whispers, “before Jake showed up, before I knew what had been done to Evan and Diego, I started seeing things. “The first time, I thought it was just a clandestine rendezvous, a couple of guys sneaking off for a bit. I didn't even really see for sure who it was. But the second time, I saw someone leave the supply during a shift—no one should have been in there. I hung around a few minutes, and saw Evan coming out. Clearly shaken up. And when I went up to him, he was obviously scared. Not like I'd report him. Like I was going to do something to him. “I asked if he was all right, and he tried to pull himself together and act like everything was fine. I knew there was something fucked up going on, but he stonewalled me. “So later I tracked down the other guy. Mentioned seeing him and Evan. He played coy for a bit, but finally said something about if I ever needed a little release, Evan would help me out. And then the guy added something about, if Evan didn't feel like helping me out, I should let him know, and he'd get Evan straightened out. “I waited for a chance to talk to Evan alone. And I really meant to just talk to him. But I'd sort of cornered him in the mess—he had K.P. duty—and before I'd really said anything, I don't know, this expression just came over his face, a kind of resignation.

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“Evan was shaking, and I felt bad. I wanted to tell him I wasn't going to hurt him, but then he'd never tell me what was going on. I remember he looked like he was going to cry, but he didn't. And he said something like, 'You too, huh? I figured it was just a matter of time.' His mouth was turned down while he said it, so bitter, and in my life I've never felt so hated. Then he got on his knees and reached for my fly. “I backed away. Told him to get up. It took a while, but I finally got it out of him. What I told you already, about the gang-rape. And later, how two of them had cornered Evan on his own and told him if he didn't do what they wanted, they'd give Diego the treatment they'd given him in the latrine that night. They'd been blackmailing him for months. Jake, too. Not just the ones who'd participated in the rape. Almost every man one base, Evan said. “When I asked if he'd gone to Smith, he said Smith hadn't kept him safe, so he knew he couldn't keep Diego safe, so there was no point. He told me Diego didn't know anything about it. And then he begged me not to tell either of them. He was terrified that if Smith found out and punished the men, they'd take their revenge on Diego. And if Diego found out, Evan had this idea he'd probably kill a couple of the men, and end up dead himself, in the end. “So I do nothing. Most of the time. But tonight I happened to walk in on something.” “You stopped it?” Eva asks. “I couldn't just turn around and walk away. But I hope I haven't made things worse for him, now.” ****

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“John?” “Hmm?” “Does Smith have a confidant?” “I don’t know. Me, maybe.” “He considers you a friend?” John hesitates before telling her, “In a strange way, I’d say we’re friends.” “Friends?” “Yes.” “You don’t despise him?” “No.” “You agree with him?” “No, but I respect him. He isn’t the monster you think he is. The monstrous things he’s done he’s done from conviction.” “One could say that about all history’s monsters.” “He’s doing his best to do what is best for everyone, in the long run. Even for you.” “So he listens to you. You influence him?” “I’ve had some sway in the past.” John shrugs. “I don’t know about now.” “Why?” “It’s been hard, since you’ve been here.” “You’ve fought about me?” “Disagreed and fallen into silence.” “I think you should reconcile with him.”

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“Why?” “I think he needs you, John. It’s important that he not be alone in determining the fate of this little group. Will you go and see him tomorrow?” The following day John and Smith recommence their old tradition, longestablished before Eva’s arrival, of sitting and conversing for an hour or so each evening, after the work day was finished, before the dinner hour. Almost a week later, five days after their reconciliation, John stops by Smith’s office before going home to Eva. “You sent tonight’s scenario to Eva, I suppose?” John asks, his quiet voice full of accusation. “Yes.” John says, “She got her period this morning.” A hint of a frown suffuses Smith's stoic countenance. “I see. In that case, we’ll have a few days’ hiatus in the programming. “Look, Smith. The men have had their fun. What are you going to do, keep her under the cameras for the rest of her life? Don’t you think you can put a permanent end to it?” “I’ve been thinking about it. But it’s too risky.” “Smith, this sexual slavery scheme is no way to keep the imaginary wheels of progress churning. What kind of example are you setting for the men, like this?” “I don't have the luxury of being a good example. If I take this away from the men, if I deprive them of a sanctioned channel, they’ll find other outlets for their fear, their depression, their rage over what’s happened.”

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“If they get out of line, punish them. But you can't prevent exploitation and cruelty by holding your own up for them to watch three times a week.” Smith’s face is pale, his body taut. “I know you think I’m some kind of maniac, with my elaborate schemes of sexual servitude. But do you really think I just decided, upon laying eyes on Eva, to force her into sexual bondage? It was neither a whim, nor some twisted fantasy of need or desire that I came up with. As you're perfectly aware, on more than one occasion, involving more than one group of individuals, the men were preying on each other. And there is no way that I can keep the obedience of the men in anything if I cannot ensure that they are safe from each other. With everything that’s happened, the men need to feel that they are stronger than something, that they have control over something. It’s sad. It’s a tragedy, but Eva fills that need.” They both fall silent. “John…I know it’s only been a few weeks, but you and Eva…you are trying, aren’t you? Because there’s no rigging the second lottery.” “I know.” **** “Eva?” “Mmmmm?” “I wanted to ask you...” John looks like he wants to retreat. But he doesn't. “Have you thought any more about getting pregnant?” She goes cold and still, pulling into herself until her body is no longer touching his, and says, “I don't know how you can ask me that.”

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“I know it's scary. You're so young—“ “It's not that. I mean, yeah, it's scary. I'd be scared. But I'm not thinking so much about me.” She is shaking. “How can you think I'd want to have a baby? Here? After what they've done? To Jake and Evan and Diego? To us?” After a long quiet John says, “I know. But...” “But what?” “Could you really let it end? Here, with us? The whole human race?” She shrugs indifferently, but her eyes fill with tears. “Why not? We did it to ourselves.” “Not 'we'. A few people. Insane people.” “Maybe,” she says, “but it's always like that. People have always done awful things. They were just more thorough this time.” In a soft voice John says, “You sound like that's all there is. The ugliness. But there’s art, literature, science. There’s love. There’s kindness.” His fingers touch her hand, asking to hold it. “I’m naive to say so, I know, especially considering the circumstances, but I believe, I really believe that it’s possible to leave the brutality behind, to start over with a real gentleness.” “Nothing gentle can come out of this.” “It can. You’re here. I’m here.” “We’re prisoners, being forced to work and fuck and procreate against our will. And Jake and Evan…”

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His carefully guarded stoicism cracks. “I know,” he says, his voice is full of sadness. “But you have to remember, Eva, this is not the world. This is one group of twenty men. Soldiers. Most of whom are really boys.” Eva gives John a sad smile. “I wish I could be as hopeful as you are. But I'm not. I'm sorry. I won’t be a breeder for Smith’s cherished community.” **** When they wake up it's just starting to get light. Eva turns onto her side and gazes at John. His eyes are open, fixed on the ceiling. “You never seduce me,” she whispers. He stays quiet. “Not when we're scheduled,” she says. “And not when we aren't. When we're like this.” “No,” he whispers back. “I know. Would it be better if I did?” “Not if you don't mean it.” He rolls onto his side, finds her hand under the covers, traces the outlines and contours with the tip of his finger. “I don't when they're watching, because, I don't know, I want you to feel I'm on your side. Not like I'm panting for it when you're just trying to hold onto yourself.” “I don't want you to put on some big act,” she tells him. “But if you're...eager, it'll be better, I think, if you don't try not to be.” “All right.” “About the new arrangement,” she says. “With the men getting to dictate what we have to do. I have an idea.”

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“What's that?” “When you're supposed to do something, like what we did last night, if it's something you'd like, normally, something you've done with your lovers, or something you've wanted to do, try to forget that someone else has told you to do it. Just come to me, like a real lover, and start it. And I'll try to forget the cameras and the men somewhere watching us, and just think about you.” “All right.” “If it's something you wouldn't want to do, just write it down. That way, it's for both of us to work out. You won't have to feel so much like you're doing it to me. Do you think it'll be easier that way? For you?” He cups her head between his palms and presses a kiss to her forehead, then pulls her to him. She lets him hold her for a long time. “I don't know how you can be like this,” he whispers to her. “Like what?” “So...rational, I guess. Or how you can find room to be so...careful of me.” “I can imagine how things would be, if I'd been stuck with Riggs or one of the others after Smith's fucking lottery. You've been...good to me. And I see how it hurts you, what Smith's making you do.” She studies his face a moment, runs her fingers slowly down from his temple, over cheek and jaw and chin, then presses a lingering kiss to his forehead. “And when we're on our own?” She asks. “How do you want me to be?” “Do you ever want me?” she asks, her voice soft, her cheeks and chest flushing.

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“Yes.” There's a soft laugh in his whisper. “I mean, I'm not saying it's an all-access pass. But it's okay to ask. To make an overture. Give me a chance to say 'no' and get away with it,” she teases. “Sounds dangerous to my ego.” “Well, since you're fragile, I'll promise to take it easy on you, the first time.” And she does.

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CHAPTER NINE

“Ready to be seduced?” he teases as they begin their next scheduled performance for the four cameras, for the sixteen men. Or, seventeen, counting Smith, who will watch the rerun in the privacy of his office. Eva laughs, then waits with a playful smile. He comes on as slow as ever, but now his slowness is a taunt. He lingers a millimeter from a kiss, his caress hovering over her body, stroking her arms, her hands, her hips and ass and back with little more than the heat of a promised touch. By the time his lips touch hers she is taut, and by the time his touch feathers down her throat and over just the peaks of her breasts, her breaths are vibrating with a hum of want, of anticipated pleasure. For long minutes he goes on teasing her, until she drifts after every receding kiss, every withdrawing touch, until she writhes against every little contact, seeking more. Then he coaxes her onto her knees on the bed and kneels down behind her, pulling her back against him, cradling her to him with one arm, his free hand wisping up and down her arms, over her quivering belly, her aroused nipples, her damp sex. “Will you let me feel what my caresses have done to you?” he asks her. She stays mute, but nods her head. “Open your thighs,” he whispers into her hair, and she does. With the softest imaginable touch he discovers her wet heat, and teases her for long, fraught minutes, until her hips are flexing, seeking more. “I want you, Eva. Do you feel?” he whispers, and she nods again.

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“Remember how different it felt, the first time you were on top?” “Yes.” Her voice is a low groan. “You liked that.” “Yes.” “I want to take you this way, from behind. I think you'll like that, too. You'll feel me more deeply.” She is still. Quiet. “Nothing else different,” he whispers, caressing her arm. She nods. Little by little he coaxes her down, onto hands and knees, down, onto forearms, staying with her all the way, his huge body curving over hers. When her head touches the mattress, he combs her hair aside, gets her to turn her head, lay her cheek on her forearm, so he can see her face. Kisses her eyebrow, her cheek, the corner of her mouth. She looks scared. “Just a new position,” he coos by her ear. “Trust me?” She closes her eyes and nods. On her shoulder blade he plants a little kiss. At the nape of her neck, another. Then he moves on to the fervid nerves behind and below her ear. And her ear lobe, teasing with his teeth, his tongue until she is quivering, panting. On the mattress, his fingers weave into hers. When he goes into her, she makes a small noise, something between a whimper and a groan. Then her stiff body shudders and softens. John nuzzles into her hair, kisses her ear.

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“All right?” he asks her. “Yeah,” she sighs. And smiles. At first he takes it slow, just flexing into her as he goes on teasing her with kisses all along her hairline—little brushes of his lips at her temple, wet, provoking kisses under her ear, across her nape. Then, watching her face, he comes on hotter, harder, thrusting deep. Her lips part wider, her exhales voiced and shuddering. He backs off, goes slow and easy, then pumps into her again, watching her brow furrow, watching her grip the sheet with one hand and clench his fingers with the other. “Too much?” he pants by her ear during a pause. “It's a lot,” she breathes back. “Intense.” She smiles. “But not too much.” “Good,” he purrs. Then, “God, you feel good to me, Eva.” His face hovers inches above hers, and through it all he watches her, reading her as he pumps into her, jarring her, shaking her moans from her. When he reaches under to tease her nipples she gasps, then greets his next round of deep thrusts with needful grunts. A minute later, though, she gasps out, “Wait! Wait wait!” John stops. “I need to pee.” He laughs a little. “I don't think so.” “Really. Let me up. I need to go.” He slips out of her, straightens up, pulling her up with him, cradling her against him. “How about now?” he asks.

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“I don't know. Maybe not.” “Did it feel kind of weirdly good, that sensation? While I was inside you?” “Too good, if that makes sense,” she pants, laughing a little. “Don't worry. You're not going to wet yourself.” He nips her ear playfully. “Ride it out. I want to watch you come while you're feeling that almost too good feeling.” Blushing, smiling, she bends down, lays her cheek on the mattress, gazes up at him as he caresses her hips, holds them steady, goes into her. Now he's fucking her, fervent, almost anxious, and she's fretful, panting, whimpering, clutching the sheet. Slipping a hand under her, he brushes a delicate touch over her clit, and she bites her lips, muffling a startled, needful grunt. “Yes?” he breathes. She nods her head. “Yes?” he teases her, touching her, fucking her. She huffs out an uneven little “Yes,” and he goes on, driving those little sounds from her parted lips until she lets out a feral groan, long and loud, then startled cry after cry, and, suddenly, furtively, John pulls out saying “damn” under his breath and coming into his cupped palm. Panting, quivering, he huddles against her, kissing into her hair behind her ear. “Maybe I should revert to holding back,” he whispers to her later. “I kind of lost control at the end, there.” Eva doesn't say anything. She just looks at him for a long while, then touches his face and smiles.

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Later, when they are curled up together, lights off, almost ready for sleep, she says, “I'm sorry I kind of froze up on you tonight.” “Please don't apologize, Eva.” “I told you to just be a lover with me, and then I got all uptight.” “It's all right. You were scared it was going to be...something else.” “One of these nights it will be,” she says. He is silent. “You know that, right?” “Probably. Yeah.” “Have you done it before?” “Have I...” “Had anal sex?” “Yes.” “Do you like it?” she asks him. “Yes.” “The women you've done it with—was it with women?” “Yes.” “Did they like it?” John grunts out a little laugh. “Well, I know my first attempt wasn't very impressive. But I had one girlfriend; it was her thing. So, with her, I got a lot of practice. After her, I even managed to convert a serious skeptic.” She doesn't ask him if he's talking about Amy. “Does it scare you?” he asks, his voice gentle now, “thinking of doing that?”

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“Before, you know, before the dying, when I'd think about having sex, I always figured I'd kind of give everything a try. That, too. But the way things are, here, if I don't like it, if it hurts or something, it's not like you can stop.” “If we have to do that, it won't hurt you. I promise. It might feel weird to you, you know, maybe it won't be your favorite sensation, but it won't hurt.” “Okay.” They lie there, close and quiet. “John?” she whispers. “Hmmm?” “Even though it makes me kind of nervous, the idea of it—you doing that to me— turns me on.” There’s a gap of quiet before he asks her, “Does it? Really?” “Really.” **** “Eva,” John says late one evening She lays down her pen and looks up. “Can I ask you something?” She gives him a bemused grin. “When they're watching, when we start, you're always naked.” Rising from the table, she goes to John, sinks down beside him on the love seat. She leans in close to him, brings her mouth near his ear. This is how they talk, sometimes, now that they know the cameras are always on.

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“I don't like the gowns. And I don't like the idea of them watching me strip, or watching you undress me,” she tells him, her voice soft and low. “Being naked, I feel...vulnerable. But I think it's less...titillating. Provocative. I don't know. I have this idea; if I don't dress up like that, I look more...human. It's not you, dressed like them, in your khakis, and me looking like something off a porn site. This way, when you get undressed, it's just two naked people fucking.” “Yeah.” “Maybe if I just stay naked all the time, they'll get bored of even looking at me,” she teases, smiling. “I seriously doubt it.” **** It doesn't happen right away, but soon, like they thought, John gets the usual slip—typed up by Quenlin, maybe so John never knows who's requested it, maybe so John can't pretend later that he'd misread someone's messy hand-writing—telling him to “fuck Eva up the ass.” With the slip of paper John gets a bottle of wine—transferred from its potentially suicide- or murder-facilitating glass bottle into an emptied water bottle—and two plastic cups. “Apparently Smith is afraid my seductive arts aren't up to the task, tonight,” he kids Eva, but he's pale and fraught-looking. “So, tonight's the night, eh?” she comes back, almost playful. “Is that Smith's famous roofie cocktail blend?”

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John laughs, but mirthlessly. “I asked that, too. It was sworn to me that it's an innocent bottle of Cabernet.” Eva takes the bottle and the plastic cups from him, and sets them on top of the dresser, then comes back to him. “I don't need that,” she whispers, up on tiptoe, nuzzling his cheek, caressing his belly. “Sure?” “Mmmhmmm. We'll have some after, if you want,” she purrs, “just for fun.” “You're not...nervous?” he asks. “A little, maybe. But that's okay,” she whispers back, looking up at him from under her dark lashes, teasing him with a little grin, undoing his belt, his fly. He pulls her into an embrace, holds her a little while, then kisses the crown of her head. Then he buries his face in her hair, nuzzling into her neck, kissing her again. With gentle fingers he brushes her hair back so he can kiss the warm skin of her neck, then her ear, then her jaw, then her mouth. She is tremulous as she kisses him, a hot, eager kiss, and over his boxers she begins a gentle caress. ”I love this. The feeling of you getting hard in my hand.” He is panting in her ear as she touches him. “I love the feeling, you reacting to my touch, feeling your body warm to me.” She looks down, seeing what her hand is doing, what it has done. “Do you want to fuck me?” she asks, her voice soft and shy. “Yes.”

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“I want you to. I want to feel this,” she gives a gentle squeeze for emphasis, “inside me.” He is trembling, moaning softly now and then as she strokes him to real need. He folds her in his arms, lays her down, presses their bodies together. In a deep kiss he goes into her, melting her before he caresses and kisses her breasts, barely teasing her sex, waiting until she is moaning and seeking his hand before sliding one finger inside. He spends long minutes there, making her writhe, evoking her whispering whimperings before he withdraws, then moves his slippery finger back, over the ultra-sensitive middle ground, over the virgin spot that makes her gasp with fear-not-yet-pleasure, beyond and back, then back again, a slippery sliding, a teasing, a gentle promise of gentleness. Then a little pressure. There. Pulsing pressure, a teasing circle. “John,” she gasps. “Eva?” “Talk to me. Tell me what you’re going to do. I’m just nervous.” John gives her a sympathetic smile, kisses the corner of her mouth. “You have a lot of nerves there. Does it feel good when I touch you like that?” “Yes.” “It doesn’t hurt?” “No.” “When I put pressure there, then take it off, does that feel nice?” “Yes.” “Now, just a tiny bit, I’ll go inside you. Just half an inch. Relax your body. Relax your muscles there.”

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She is breathing fast as he slowly works just the tip of his finger into her. “Is that all right?” “Yes.” “Breath normally. Relax your body. Be soft. Soft.” A little of her rigidity melts. “Now, you feel me moving? It’s just that little bit, the very tip of my finger, pulsing in tiny movements, in and out. You feel that?” “Yes.” Her breathing is calmer now. “Now, little by little, with each tiny thrust, I’ll go deeper.” Slow and gentle he is giving her more and more of his finger, withdrawing, going deeper with each return. Slowly he pulls all the way out; slowly he goes all the way in. Her exhales are sighs. “It feels good,” she confesses, all breathy. He goes on for a while, taking her soft moans with his caresses. Then, with a second finger, he enters her wet cunt, gets her natural lube, then comes back to her tight clench. He gives her that finger, in and out, slowly and gently. “Now, Eva, I’m going to give you two fingers, very slowly.” He pushes in, bit by little bit. She is panting again. “Am I hurting you?” “No.” “Remember, stay relaxed. It will feel nicer.” He gets both fingers deep inside of her, and gently fucks her this way. After every few strokes he varies his angle, letting her feel the stretch, the pressure, in a different direction. Then as he fucks her virgin ass with his fingers he pushes his thumb into her

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cunt and she gives a sudden moan. She is writhing now against his hand, going after his touch, panting. ”First, something familiar,” he says with a sweet smile. He moves between her legs, lifts her knees, holds her to him, enters her, moves with her, inside of her for a few moments. “I’m all slippery now, so it will be nice and smooth.” He kisses her tenderly on the mouth. He is still inside her as he reaches back and lifts her feet up, draping both her knees over his broad right shoulder. “I’ll go slow. I’ll be gentle. I won't hurt you.” “I know.” She gives him a nervous, encouraging smile. He withdraws from her, takes himself in hand. Tiny bit by tiny bit, very slowly, very gently, he enters her. Then, with cautious calm, he withdraws a little way, and again, slowly and gently, seeks her depth. **** “What the fuck is he doing? That’s not what I wrote.” In the dim glow of the monitors in the makeshift theater, Baldwyn is glaring at the screens. “That’s not what I fucking wanted. When I said, ‘Fuck her up the ass,’ I meant bend the bitch over and fuck her up the ass.” Baldwyn cannot see that Diego is smiling. Eyes fixed on one monitor, through clenched teeth Baldwyn mutters, “Fuck that fucking bitch. Fuck her ass. Fuck her.” **** Eva gives John a shy smile. He smiles back and turns to press a kiss to her knee

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With a slow, sensual rhythm his hips begin to dip and rise, hinging out and in from his waist. As they watch each other, he puts his hand on her belly and slides it down in a tickling caress to her sex, and soon she's moaning and writhing as his hips pulse against her. **** In the mess hall, the men watch as John undulates against Eva, as she writhes beneath him, his hand caressing her, his eyes watching her as she moans soft little moans. They listen as she tells him she is going to come, that his hand and his cock are making her come. They watch and listen as her cries come closer and closer together until they are one, long, unrelenting cry of joyful release. They hear her ask him to fuck her, tell him she wants him to come inside of her. They see him move differently now, now that he is seeking his climax instead of hers. They hear him groan his pleasure, see him lay down beside her, take her in his arms. They watch as they hold each other in what might be an eternal embrace. Long minutes later, John and Eva are still wrapped up in each other’s arms, and the men are still there, in the mess hall, watching still silence, kissing silence, caressing silence, whispering silence. **** “You’re all right?” “I’m all right.” She smiles abashedly. “I was kind of silly. I’m sorry I was so nervous.” “You were scared. Don’t apologize.”

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“That particular thing, the idea of that one thing always scared me. I don’t know why. But it was fine. It didn’t hurt as much as the first time, losing my other virginity, actually.” “No?” “No.” He gives her a sad smile. She kisses his sadly smiling lips. “You like it?” she asks. “Like it?” “Anal sex—you said you’ve done it before.” “Yes.” “Maybe we can try it again sometime.” He caresses her hair. “I never know if you’re sincere.” “I’m always sincere.” “You’re sincere in wanting to protect me. Saving me from my guilt.” “I came. I always come. I love fucking you. Sincerely.” She kisses him. “I love kissing you, sincerely. I love holding you and feeling you hold me, sincerely. I love sleeping next to you, waking up next to you. Sincerely.” She lays there, looking at him for a while. “I love you. Don’t say it back to me. I just wanted to tell you. I don’t even know if I mean I’m in love with you. I just mean, you’ve earned my love. You’re so good. Unbelievably good, and here, where it’s impossible to be good. Your strength and courage saved me; your kindness saved me. If it had been anyone else, John, I think I’d have killed myself by now. Just because, except for you, everything here is so ugly. But

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instead of drowning in that ugliness, I feel like we have a kind of happiness. It’s incredible. Literally incredible.” **** The men have retired to their quarters. Smith has taken the tape to his office. Eva and John are lying in bed, close and quiet in the dark. “Ever think about how ironic it is? What's happened?” she asks John. “What do you mean?” “About how, just when it seemed like people might get to live practically forever, the dying starts. I mean, I don't remember, really, how it was before, but of course we learn, in school, and just hear about it—heard about it,” she corrects herself, “all the time. How there used to be cancer and AIDS. And in other places, famines and droughts. And they finally fix everything—at least, made it seem that way—and then the dying. And now this. Smith's menagerie of perversion.” “Yeah,” he says. “I think about it.” John is quiet for a long time before he goes on. “I thought my little girl was going to grow up in this perfect world. That she'd never have to be afraid of terrorist bombs or nuclear accidents. Or cancer. AIDS or herpes. I thought she'd get to live to be a hundred, a hundred and fifty, in good health.” “God, John, how can you be so...why aren't you more bitter? More angry?” “At who? Smith didn't do this. Riggs and the men didn't do this.” “But why aren't you more cynical?” “You mean, why do I think it's worthwhile, starting again?” “Yes.”

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“I guess because I was happy, before. I had a good, a beautiful life. I know not everyone did. But I believe—I don't know how not to believe—that that's how it's supposed to go. That the worst suffering that's gone on—that humanity put in motion— was a mistake. A mistake of history. Maybe if we start again, those mistakes won't happen. Maybe most people will have a life like my life was.” She is quiet. Quiet and still. “Eva...” It's a conciliatory pronunciation of her name. Like he's back-treading. “What?” She smiles, sad-looking. “You can't say 'is.' I know that.” **** Hovering over her, John gives Eva a little kiss on the forehead, then goes back to looking at her. They are naked. His bare ass is nestled between her lax, parted thighs. They haven't kissed, yet, or really touched. “What's that grin for?” “Because. I'm about to give you the best orgasm you've ever had.” She laughs. “Kind of full of yourself tonight, aren't you?” “What? It's not bragging when I'm only talking about improving on a personal best, is it?” “And what makes you think, at this stage in the game, that I'm not competition?” she teases. “Mmmm,” he purrs, almost growls by her ear. “I hope you are. I'm going to enjoy trying to outdo you.” Sinking down, he teases her lips with his, promising a kiss, but keeping it from her, until he dips down and nips her bottom lip with his teeth. Then a tender little kiss

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where he's bitten, then back to teasing. By the time he gives her a real, deep, kiss, she's straining for it. He goes on, teasing her with his warm breath, barely touching down with lips, with tongue, drifting over her mouth, her neck, her ears, her mouth again, her throat, her breasts. Slipping down, kisses tickling her belly, teasing her nipples, then sucking them rigid, flushed and full, making her grunt and pant. Her belly quivers under his tongue until he's kissing the tender flesh just inside her hip-bone. Down. “John.” He looks up. “Please. Let's not do that.” “Eva,” he says, grinning, raising a rakish eyebrow. “Trust me. You're going to like it.” “I don't want to,” she says, an angry edge making her voice sharp. “Come on, let's just do...whatever it is, for tonight.” “Eva...” His grin, his teasing voice are gone. “Oh,” she says, her voice small. Hurt. Then, resigned, “Okay.” He comes back to her, petting and nuzzling. Without breaking eye contact he finds her hand with his, brings it to his lips, kisses her palm. “I know you're shy about this,” he whispers to her, “so I haven't pressed. But this is something I love doing. And I've been wanting to, dying to, with you. So you don't need to feel embarrassed.” Eva nods and even smiles, but she doesn't quite manage to hide the effort it costs her.

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“I promise you,” he says, a little of the teasing tone back in his voice, “I'm going to love tasting you. The feel of you under my mouth.” She is still and quiet. “Close your eyes,” he whispers, stroking her hair. “And I'll keep my eyes closed, too. Hmmm? Now it's just us, in the dark.” He kisses her cheek. “It's just us. You and me.” “Okay,” she says, almost mastering her voice, producing a nearly-believable smile. She keeps her eyes closed and he keeps her hand in his as he goes down, planting little kisses along the way. When the tip of his tongue touches down on those delicate, dewy crenelations, a little tremor ripples through her body and the tiny muscles of her eyelids. Breathing, deep, slow, rhythmic. Eyes closed. One hand in his, the other stiff, open, flat on the bed beside her. Under her lashes, at the corners of her eyes, crystalline beads gather, gather, merge and spill, slinking down her temples, into her hair. But she keeps her face smooth, her breathing steady. He sighs, moans as he licks her, maybe to reassure her, maybe because she has told him to show his eagerness. He licks her, and she makes a little noise, now and then, that might be for pleasure. Little by little the tentative, delicate touches of his tongue get bolder, explore deeper, until his whole mouth is working over her, eager and hungry.

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Eyes closed, legs open, she gives in. Her lips part, her breaths come in ragged huffs as her tears gather under her lashes, roll down into her hair. Gather and roll, gather and roll, her thighs and hips flexing, lifting her cunt to his hungry mouth. He holds her hand, cradles, caresses her hip, her thigh, kissing and sighing over her wet, blushing sex until she's twitching, bucking under his mouth, sobbing her climax through clenched teeth, tears streaming into her hair. After, he kisses his way up her belly, back to her. “Eva,” he practically sobs when he sees. “What else?” she manages in a choked voice. “For the cameras? Nothing.” “I don't want them to see. I don't want them to know I'm crying.” He wraps her up in his embrace, pulling her into the crook of his neck, holding her to him. “It's all right. They can't see,” he whispers, keeping her hidden from the cameras as she cries. Hours later, in bed, in the dark she says, “It was dumb of me. For some reason, I thought they'd never ask for that. I had this idea that that was one thing I could keep for myself. One thing I could really give you when I was ready, by my own choice.” In the dark he pulls her closer, holding her, kissing her face, a little trail of kisses from temple to chin. “The thing I have to remember,” she says, her voice even, cool, “is to never put any of my hope, my sense of my self in the things they can take away. My body isn't me. Smith can do whatever he wants to my body. I suppose he could put me in a coma and

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just use me as a living incubator, if he decides to. The only thing they can't touch is me. Inside. The person I choose to be. They can't degrade, violate me, unless I let them.”

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CHAPTER TEN

Eva and John startle and stir. Blinking against the morning light, they fix bleary gazes on the door as the deadbolts clack back. The door opens, and Smith steps through. He gives the guard a terse, “Eyes front, soldier,” as he shuts the door. “Please pardon my barging in after such a perfunctory knock,” he says to the couple in the bed, “but I don't have much time this morning.” He locks eyes with John. “Please excuse us. I'd like to have a few words with Eva in private.” John says nothing. He only rises from the bed, naked, and puts his towering, muscled bulk between Smith and Eva. “It's okay, John,” Eva says. “Go ahead.” When John has dressed and gone, Smith turns his attention to Eva, still in bed, sitting up, the sheet tucked up under her arms. Smith gestures toward a straight-backed chair by the window. “May I?” he asks. “Please.” Eva's voice is cool and low. “How are you getting on, Eva?” “I'm not sure what you mean.” “I understand that things aren't as you'd like them, but under the circumstances, are you reasonably comfortable? Are there supplies you need that we didn't think to provide you?” “If I think of anything, I'll let you know.”

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“Good. Do.” Eva swings her legs over the edge of the bed and rises. She is naked. Smith stiffens, but doesn't turn away. He watches as she walks to the dresser with an unhurried, natural gait, pulls a pair of white cotton underwear from a drawer, steps into them, slides them up her calves, up her thighs, over her bare ass. Smith's voice is almost normal, just a little tight. “There is something else I'd like to discuss with you.” “What's that?” “You understand, don't you, this arrangement, the real point of it; the critical thing is that you get pregnant.” “And the live porn is just gravy. John told me.” She pulls the hem of her t-shirt down, veiling her breasts and belly. “And you are trying?” “Why ask me? You've got hours of video footage to consult. I can't imagine you'd trust me more than photographic evidence.” “No.” Eva tugs her pants up on her hips and zips. Smith's eyes follow her as she navigates around the corner of the bed, draws near, slips by, and lowers herself onto the chair opposite him. “As you might imagine, I have consulted the evidence,” Smith resumes. Eva smiles an ironic, one-sided smile. “Pardon me for being blunt, Eva. But it's necessary.” “I'm sorry this is so difficult for you.”

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“In some of the recordings, it looks like John is pulling out.” “Pulling out?” It's hard to tell if she's really unsure what he means, or if she's just playing with Smith. “When you and John have sex, Eva, does he ejaculate inside you?” “Even when his cock is in my mouth,” she says, meeting Smith's eyes. “Has John explained what will happen if you're not pregnant when six months have gone by?” “You're going to hold another lottery.” “Yes.” She smiles, then waits until her smile provokes the hint of a perplexed expression. “But you'll do that, anyway,” she finally says. He freezes in place. Silent. “When I've had John's baby, you'll pair me with someone else.” She gives him a moment to deny before she goes on. “If you really believe we might be the only ones left, if you really mean for us, for me to give rise to the next generation, and the next after that, that's what you'll have to do. It's necessary. For genetic diversity.” “Yes,” he says after a long, still silence, his voice low but firm. “And after that, you'll pair me with a third man. Then a fourth. If I haven't died in childbirth by then.” “Yes.” “Right through, down to the last man on the base.”

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“Yes,” he breathes. “And John doesn't know.” This time Smith hesitates before he confesses. “No.” “And my children. My daughters. As soon as they get their period, at fourteen or twelve, it'll be the same for them.” “Yes.” Smith peers into Eva for a long while, as if he is trying to read her thoughts. “I understand, Major, that after some period of time, if you decide I'm willfully defying you, you can make my future even less pleasant than the scenario we've just discussed. Don't worry. I won't do anything to force you to keep me in restraints twentyfour-seven, being force-fed and enduring my conjugal visits while tied down.” This small speech makes Smith turn away from her eyes. Eva smiles. “Smith.” She waits for him to face her again. “Do you have a first name?” “Avery.” “May I use it?” “If you'd like.” She rises from her chair and leans back against the window frame, gazing out for a moment before she turns and locks eyes with him. “Avery,” she says, testing his name with a soft voice. It's hard to say how his face changes. Maybe it's just that it's possible to see that he is working to keep it composed.

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“The day they caught me, your men, then John, the day you brought me to your room. I thought it was going to be you. I thought as the leader here you’d claim me as your own prize.” Smith's body stiffens. His face seems, somehow, to become more like marble. “I was so frightened, so tired and shaken up; my memories of that day are vague except for a lot of impressions. Feelings. “I remember, scared as I was, that when you left me alone in your room, I felt for the first time in more than two years that I was in a home. A warm room with furniture and water and soap and books. And when I went into the bathroom to take my shower and I saw your robe, I remember pressing my face into it and smelling it. I was terrified of you, but the smell of you, another person, was such a comfort. And then I resigned myself to what I thought would be my fate. I even convinced myself that when you came back for me, I wouldn’t fight. I would give myself to you quietly.” Smith’s face is enigmatic stone. “Did you consider it? Keeping me for yourself?” He doesn't answer. Eva goes on, “Left alone in your room that afternoon I imagined what was going to happen to me when you came back. I was really terrified. I don’t know if you can guess what it’s like to be a girl, knowing you’re completely at the mercy of twenty strange men. I promised myself, over and over, that it wouldn’t be a…that it wouldn’t be all of you. But I knew something was going to happen. I figured it would be you. I comforted myself that you seemed…I don’t know, not violent. Not like Riggs and those men. Not like John seemed to be. I told myself that you wouldn't be violent or cruel. And

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I remember hoping that you’d keep me, not just use me for a day or two then throw me to the pack. “I pictured the whole scene. I would be sitting on the bed in your robe. You would come in, close the door, look at me meaningfully. I imagined you sitting down beside me on the bed, me frightened and reticent, but resigned. You would kiss me, I would submit, knowing that fighting would only make the inevitable more brutal. I imagined your kiss would be tender, and that even through my fear I would feel something else, a little. Then, maybe, I thought you would take off your shirt before pulling at the sash of the robe—your robe that I was wearing—so that I would feel a tiny bit less vulnerable because you were undressed, too. “I don’t think I really imagined what would happen after that. Only that I would be very quiet, very submissive, so that it wouldn’t be too hard.” His face is still stone, with the suggestion of a very fine, nearly invisible crack. “But when you gave me to John, I didn’t have the strength to be quiet. I misjudged him, very badly. I would do anything, now, not to see him hurt.” “As he would for you, I think.” “Are you at all afraid for him?” “Why?” ”Because of me.” “A little.” “You're really fond of him, aren't you? I mean, you consider him a friend.” “Yes.”

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“But still, in a few months, if he hasn't made me pregnant, you'll break us up. You'll have another lottery. Give me to someone else.” ”Yes.” He says this quietly, firmly, looking calmly into her eyes. “And who will win that lottery?” His record skips at her scratch. “Do you ever regret, Avery, not keeping me with you?” He is silent. “Do you think, maybe, if it comes to another lottery, maybe you…” “A leader who takes too much for himself isn’t trusted for long.” **** “Why the fuck did he barge in here first thing in the morning?” John's voice is soft and low as ever, but even so the tinge of rage can be heard. “He could have come any time. It's not like he's got a heavy schedule to work around.” “My guess? He's testing you.” “Gauging where my loyalty is.” “You know, you don't have to be afraid of him raping me,” she says. “No.” John curves his hand against her waist. “He'd never touch you, not like that. But god knows what he'll think of. What he's capable of doing. If he decides it was a mistake, putting us together...” “It's important, John, that he not imagine we're in league against him.” “In league?” John laughs. They do that, sometimes, laugh at painful moments. “Hey, spawn of lit profs, remember?” she teases. “He knows I care for you. That I won't do anything to hurt you.”

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“That's fine. But he has to believe that you think the best way of looking after me is to go along with his ideas.” John gives her a nod and a sheepish look from under his brow. “And really,” she says, “that's pretty much the truth. So it shouldn't be so hard to make him believe it.” “No,” he says as if he is confessing a crime. They are quiet together for a while, and then John asks, “Was there something else? He didn't come here just for that. Just to test me.” “No. He grilled me for a while about whether we're really trying.” “You convinced him?” “He doesn't need convincing. He'll bide his time, and if he doesn't like the results when our time's up, he'll stick me with someone else.” John doesn't say anything after that. After a long quiet between them, Eva touches him in the dark. “Don't be afraid for me, John.” “I am afraid for you. And for me, too. I don't think I'll be able to do it, let Smith raffle you off to one of them.” “He won't let me go to just anyone. I'm too precious. He'll be sure I end up with someone safe.” “And what? You'll be fine? It's all the same to you, if it's me fucking you for the cameras, or if it's Nichols or Washington or Baldwyn?” Eva is quiet. She just reaches out in the dark to touch John's face, stroke his hair, pull him to her.

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“John,” she whispers to him, “why are you saying these things? Just say what you really mean.” After a long silence he says, “I don't want to be parted from you.” Eva kisses his face. “I know,” she whispers. “I know. I don't want us to be separated, either. But I won't make a child to protect myself or to keep us together.” “I wouldn't either. You know that, don't you?” he asks her. “John?” “Hmmm?” “You really want to be a father again? After the way you lost Juliette?” There's a long silence before John says, “Honestly? For myself? I didn't think so. I don't think we should give up on humanity. But for me, fathering a child, I thought it would be a kind of sacrifice. Not because I wouldn't love the child. Only because...” “You're afraid.” “Yeah.” “But?” “It's scary, caring for you so much, with things so fucked up, knowing we have so little control over what will happen to us. But it's still better. Better than before. Not caring about anything anymore. And even though it broke my heart, watching Juliette get sick, watching her die, I wouldn't erase that pain by undoing her birth. I'm glad I got to be her daddy for almost three years. And I want that joy again. Being a father. Holding a baby in my arms. Seeing her smile for the first time. Hearing her first word.”

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CHAPTER ELEVEN

The cameras are going, and in the other building the monitors flicker and resolve into four familiar facets of Eva's room. Rapt, hard, the men watch Eva, naked, sink to her knees, watch John press his cock to her lips, watch him drive his hard length into her mouth, watch his fingers rake into her hair, watch him pump his hips. Soon he his panting as he fucks her mouth. His body goes stiff, his hips thrust forward, his cock deep in her mouth. Eva's hands slide up the backs of his thighs, grip his ass, pull him hard to her. Someone in the room mutters, “Damn.” John sinks down and the lovers smile and tip their foreheads together. They are talking, but not loud enough for the men to hear. Then John nudges her gently onto her back, holds himself weightlessly over her, kissing her mouth, her face, her neck, her shoulders, breasts. When he kisses her belly it flutters and she gasps. Eva looks a little uncertain, almost afraid as John coaxes her legs open. When he puts his mouth on her, she cries out softly. She looks down, watches what he is doing, then collapses back on the pillow, closes her eyes. She moans quietly with each exhale, her hips writhing in the gentle grasp of his large hands. When she tenses and cries out, he takes her all the way through long moments of pleasure. Then, when she relaxes and her breathing goes quiet, he takes her into his arms and holds her. They look at one another, their faces very close together. Her eyes shift from his eyes, down to his mouth. A languid smile bends her mouth. “I smell myself on you.” She touches his lips with two delicate fingers. “Kiss me.”

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He kisses her lightly on the lips. She parts his lips with hers, deepens their kiss, ends it, and smiles like a naughty little gnome. She invites him, and he makes love to her. After, they curl up in each other's arms. In the mess hall most of the men rise and leave. A few stay behind to watch Eva and John cuddle and whisper in the fading light. Night after night, the soldiers watch John and Eva enact one of the fantasies they have submitted to Smith. At first the fantasies are simple. Instructions referring to positions, to body parts to be exposed and touched, with a smattering of adjectives directing how hard and how fast she is to be grabbed, pinned, licked, bitten, penetrated. Many suggest coercion. Most of the epistles are written as directives to John: “You bend her over and fuck her doggie style…” Some are written in abstract third person perspective: “He squeezes her tits and sucks her nipples...” One is written in the first person: “I shove her onto the bed. She tries to fight me but I rip off her panties and spread her legs…” One evening when John arrives at Eva’s, she greets him with a warm kiss, but she cools and withdraws as he holds out the evening's instructions. “It's nothing bad,” he hurries to assure her. “But this one I think you should read.” I come to Eva. She smiles at me with that sweet smile of hers. The smile I’ve never seen except through the camera because she hardly ever comes out of her room, and because when she comes out she doesn’t smile. Because we scare her. But she smiles at me, and I smile at her, and I realize I never smile anymore. She reaches out with both of her hands, and I put my hands in hers. Her hands are small and warm and

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soft. I can’t remember the last time someone touched me. She steps forward and I put my arms around her. Then I feel her arms around me. I didn’t think I would ever get to hold someone again. It feels so nice, I’m afraid I’ll cry. We take off our shoes and get in bed. I lay my head on her belly, and she strokes my hair and my face for a long time. It reminds me of when I was a little boy and my mom used to tuck me into bed, and she’d stroke my hair for a while before she turned out the light and left. It reminds me of when my wife and I used to lay in bed and talk and touch and sometimes make love, sometimes not. Eva strokes my hair like that for a long time, and I finally fall asleep, and this one night, with Eva holding me, I don’t have any bad dreams. Then there are a few days of the usual fantasies: “her on top so we can see her ass and her tits while you fuck” “sixty-nine,” “he pins her arms over her head and fucks her good and hard.” Then, one day, there is another peculiar epistle: You come home to her. You know that when she sees you she’ll embrace you, and she does. You talk to her in a soft voice. The voice of a lover. And she talks back to you in her lover’s talk. You lay down together on the bed. You look at her. You touch her and she touches you. You pull her close against you, and her warmth is a comfort. You just lay there like that with her. Her presence, her kindness, the way she touches you and looks at you makes all the rest of it bearable. You hate everyone a little less. Then, after a while, you forget your hate altogether. You have a friend. You feel safe. You feel hope. ****

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Usually in the morning, John slips quietly out of bed to avoid waking her. Today he watches Eva sleeping for a moment, then wakes her with a few soft kisses on her cheek. She stirs and gazes at him, her eyes groggy and heavy-lidded. At last, she is awake. She smiles and kisses him. “I have a little surprise for you.” She waits with a sleepy smile. “I’ve convinced Smith to let me take you along to work today.” “I get to go with you? Work outside?” “Yes.” She looks as if she might actually cry. “It’s not a permanent change—just today, then if everything goes well, he said maybe you could go out with me once or twice a week.” “I’ll get dressed.” **** “John,” she says one evening as they sit beneath a tree after a long day of work. “Yes?” ”I don't think we're alone.” He looks around, then looks at her. “What do you mean?” “I mean, I survived. You survived. And Jake. And the others here. That's not just four separate sets of survivors—we're just the ones that found each other. Even though I saw whole cities that seemed empty, even though there's been no radio communication, no other sign, there's no way there aren't more survivors.”

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“No. You're right. There's bound to be others, holed up in some fortress somewhere, just like us. Probably there are a dozen or fifty or hundreds of little outposts scattered across the continent. Nevermind everywhere else.” “And if I lived, then probably I'm not the only woman.” “Probably not.” After a long silence Eva says, “So I don't think me having a baby or not having a baby is going to mean the difference between survival and extinction.” John gazes at her, then gives her a sad smile. “You've decided. You won't get pregnant.” “I wonder what's going on out there,” she muses. “Is it like here? Worse?” “I don't know.” “I keep thinking, somehow, almost all the survivors are men. That everywhere some cluster of people find each other, the women are outnumbered—I don't know— three-to-one? Twenty-to-one? What do think is happening to them?” “I don't know,” John breathes. “Societies always make up rules to order the chaos. All the groups that have come together, they're deciding how to order their little worlds. Just like Smith decided how to order this little world.” “Yeah.” “And over time, these little worlds are going to bump up against each other, destroy or absorb or merge with each other. And the stronger groups will impose their rules on the others.”

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After a long quiet Eva picks back up. “You know, when I first got here, after all those months on my own, wondering if anyone besides me was left, this place seemed so fucking awful. The men in the orchard, the lottery, what you've told me about Evan and Diego, about Jake.” “Eva....” “But I keep thinking, what's going on out there, it's probably worse than what's happening here. Maybe a lot worse. And here, I think things can be better than they are. Our little group, we're not the seed of the human race. But what we do, what happens here is important. More important than my happiness or yours. It's bigger than whether Jake and Evan and Diego are safe or not.” For a long moment Eva looks and John, her eyes glimmering and red. “If,” she says, then stops. She is rigid and pale, her eyes wide and fixed. She looks scared. “If I get pregnant,” she draws a slow, deep breath, “you do understand, John, what will happen? That I must have girls. And when they reach sexual maturity, they'll be in the position I’m in now.” “I know.” “No matter what, a child is going to be vulnerable, here. If I give birth to a girl, the men are going to see her as a ripening prize. If the baby is a boy, I'm scared they'll look at him as a future threat. Competition who'll be getting stronger as they get older and weaker. “So it's important that any child born here must be the child of the whole community—everyone must share in loving it, raising it, protecting it. You and I are

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strangers, outsiders, apart from Smith and his men. I'm scared that no child of ours would be accepted as part of the group.” John's voice is soft. Steady. “You want someone else to father the child.” “I’ve been giving this a lot of thought. I haven't thought about much else, really, for weeks. This decision must be made very carefully, not just for the sake of the individuals immediately involved—me, the father, the child—but in anticipation of what is going to follow, in the long run. She pauses. As things are now, I am your property.” “Eva—” “I’m not accusing you. But Smith's been very careful to ensure that one man, and only one man, has fucked me. I don’t believe that it’s out of concern for my delicate feminine soul. It’s to be certain of paternity. So that when I bear a child, it has a father. “The way things are, there’s some sense to that. Genetically, I mean. Whoever fathers my child won't be able to father the next generation. But there’s a long, awful history that’s linked with the concern over paternity. Women kept in more or less pleasantly disguised sexual slavery so that a man could always be certain he was the father of his children.” She goes quiet, looking at John like she's taking a reading before she goes on. “If I'm going to do this, if I'm going to get pregnant, if I'm going to be responsible for the expansion and continuation of this group, I want to be as sure as I can that my son or daughter will be safe, and also make sure that we're not putting some fucked up cycle of sexual enslavement in motion. Because we're off to a pretty shitty start.” “Yeah.” “I have an idea for getting around these two problems.”

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She waits for him to ask, “What?” “I'll choose three men. And these three will all be the possible fathers.” John is silent. “Maybe you should say something now, John.” “How would you choose the men?” “I thought before going into detail, you might like to accuse me of being insane.” “I think the worst I could accuse you of is a frightening rationality. And strange courage.” “It makes sense to you? What I'm saying?” “Your conclusion seems radical. Unorthodox. But the things that are worrying you, scaring you, they've been scaring me, too. So I’d like to hear the details. How would you choose the men?” “Based on two criteria. Age, and allegiance—for lack of a better word. Happily, I suspect the two overlap conveniently. Who are the three oldest men? “Smith. Myself.” John pauses and pales. “And Riggs.” Eva's expression remains unchanged. “So, in those three men, we have you, the civilian, representing the interests of me, Jake, and possibly any future arrivals. We have Smith, respected leader of the men. And we have Riggs, one of the boys, so to speak.” “You can’t be considering letting Riggs…” “Why not?” she flares, her voice high and tight. “Better me than my thirteen-yearold daughter.” John flinches, then looks down at the grass.

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Eva comes back, her voice low and soft this time. “If he fathers the child, the child is, one hopes, safe from him. And by my count, there aren't many men here not guilty of rape.” “So, you propose that the three of us…” “I have sex with all of you until I conceive.” “And then…” “And then, our baby has one mother and three fathers. It can't be just a sperm donation. It only works if all three of you love and help raise the baby, and if the others see the child as all of yours.” “Yes. I mean, I agree about that. But I meant...” “Us?” “Yes.” “I don’t know. That’s sort of up to you.” “What do you mean?” She puts her palm to his face, kisses his lips. “Whether you want to go on living with me.” “You want me to?” “Yes.” “Then I will.” “I don’t want you to do it for me, just because it’s what I want.” “I want to be with you, Eva.” He puts his big hands gently to the back of her neck and draws her near for a kiss. It's getting dark. The cool air seeps into their clothes, chilling their skin. “Have you thought about what will happen, about the labor, Eva?”

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“Yes.” “You know, no one here is a doctor.” “Alas, no epidural for me. Hopefully someone will come forward and say they’ve trained as a Lamaze coach.” “Eva…” “I’m sorry. I’m scared, so I'm being flip. I’ve thought about the pain and the danger. And now I don’t want to think about the pain and the danger anymore.” John gives her a sympathetic smile. Then a kiss on the crown of her head. “Trying to get pregnant at this age…I never would have imagined.” “You’ll be an amazing mom.” “Maybe.” “How are you going to persuade Smith?” “I don't think I will. I wanted to be up front with you. I don’t feel much obligation to do that with him. Or Riggs.” “Riggs won't be a problem. But Smith is going to be tough.” “I'm not his type?” she teases, smiling. John laughs. Then, tenderly, “Eva, if the odds were reversed, you'd still be irresistible. But Smith is basically discipline incarnate. I can't see him breaking a rule he expects his men to follow.” “I'll figure it out.” John grins. “I have no doubt.” “So,” she says, nervous again. “We’ll start right away?” “Whenever you say.”

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“Tonight, then,” she says with questioning eyes. He smiles, and she smiles back. There is no laughter. They go to their little room. They only do the fantasies, only fuck for the camera, three nights a week now. This night is their own. Together they shower off the dirt of the day in the field, then towel dry, then get into bed together. When they make love, they are very quiet, very tender. After she is still and faraway. **** Two days later Eva goes with John to work in the field. At the end of the day, they go together into a supply building, and there they find a corner where she can hide, tucked away behind boxes of stored goods. John takes up a position near the barracks and waits until he sees Riggs leave, on his way to the mess hall for dinner. John intercepts him, almost colliding with him. He and Riggs have not spoken, or been in close proximity since the day in the orchard. Riggs nervously backs away from John. “Hey Riggs.” John’s tone is an ominous beige. “John.” Riggs avoids John’s eyes as he moves to walk around him. “Would you help me get something from the supply?” “What?” Riggs’s face goes a bit gray. “The beans were off. I told Jake I’d bring him a couple more cases. If you carry one I won’t have to make two trips. Come on.”

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He has made no effort to give Riggs a believable lie. John makes no effort to hide his smile as Riggs becomes more fearful. He puts his hand on Riggs’s shoulder in a gesture that suggests they will be going to the supply room together, however unhappy the thought might be making Riggs. They walk toward the building. John opens the door and gestures for Riggs to enter. Riggs looks as though he is being shown to the electric chair. He steps inside. John follows and shuts the door. “Down at the end, Riggs.” Riggs plods forward, pale, damp, weak-kneed, into the trap. Eva steps out from her hiding place. Seeing her, Riggs halts like he’s hit a brick wall. Breathing hard and fast he looks from her back to John, whose huge body virtually fills the narrow corridor between the boxes lining the walls. Now Riggs is shaking, panting panic as he turns back to Eva. She is walking toward him slowly. When she is about three feet from him, she stops and looks at him for long, silent moments. “What?” Riggs blurts. It's almost a sob. Riggs is red, shaking with fear or rage. “We're not planning on hurting you,” Eva says. “If I can trust you not to hurt me, John will go over there and wait by the door while we talk.” She studies Riggs for a minute. “You're not going to hurt me, are you?” “No.” Eva gives John a look. He hesitates, but then he turns and moves off toward the entrance. “I know about the arrangement you guys have,” Eva says to Riggs, her voice soft, her look steady. “I know what you're doing to Evan and Jake.”

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Riggs crosses his big arms across his wide chest and looks away, toward the floor somewhere off to his right. “I want to make a deal with you.” She waits. After a while, without looking at her, he says, “What?” “If you'll leave them both alone from now on, I'll fuck you.” His head snaps forward and his eyes lock onto Eva's face. “Here,” she adds. “Now.” “Bullshit.” “No. I'm serious.” “I'm not fuckin' stupid.” “I know what I'm saying is strange. But I mean it.” “Yeah. As soon as I drop my shorts, John'll split my skull with his blackjack, and you'll tell Smith I jumped you.” “No,” she says, her voice low and even. “Why the fuck would you?” “I told you. I want you to leave Evan and Jake alone.” “Why the hell would you do something for them? You don't even know them.” Eva locks eyes with Riggs, and undoes the top button of her shirt. “Does it really matter?” “Smith'll cut my goddamned dick off,” Riggs breathes, staring at her fingers where they've lit on the next button. “No. He won't.”

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At the other end of the room, John turns away as she goes on, button by button, until her shirt hangs open and a narrow band of bare, amber skin is visible. Riggs fixes his eyes on that exposed flesh, breathing hard. Eva touches his elbow and his eyes flash up to meet hers. But his body stays stock-still. She draws her fingers down his forearm, to his wrist, and brings his hand toward her, guides it into her open shirt, and cups his hand over a breast. For a minute it's like he's paralyzed, standing there with his hand inside her shirt, not breathing. But then he's panting. And then he's moving, cupping her tit in his hand, fingertips roaming back and forth over her nipple. “Promise me,” she says, her voice tight. “Yeah,” he says. She catches his wrist and pries his hand from her body. For a second it's like he might swat her hand away and take what he wants, but he seems to check himself. “Promise me,” she says again. He looks wide of her, like he can't meet her eyes. “I promise.” “You won't touch them again. Diego, either.” “No.” “Or help anyone else.” “I promise.” “From now on. Even if you never see me again.” This time he hesitates. But finally he says, “Yeah.”

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Eva twitches a little, like she's bracing herself, then pulls her shirt aside, baring one taut, dark-tipped breast. Eyes fixed on her tits, Riggs is motionless except for the heaving of his chest. “You can touch me,” she says, her voice even but fragile. Riggs shoots a last glance down the length of the room, as if to make sure John is still safely out of range, then seizes her breasts in both hands, kneading the smooth flesh, pinching, tugging her nipples. Eva's face contorts, eyes shut tight, lips bitten, maybe in pleasure, maybe in pain. Riggs fires another look toward John, standing in profile, not watching, except maybe out of the corner of one eye. Squeezing her tits, Riggs bends and buries half a breast under his open mouth, licking and sucking. Maybe he's forgotten about John, now. Riggs lets go of Eva's tits, first with a wet slurping noise, then releasing them from his squeezing, kneading hands. His eyes drop down to her fly just long enough to get his bearings and start working it open, then his eyes are fixed on her tits again, one nipple glazed with his spit. Touching again, gentler now, fingers teasing and tweaking one nipple, his other hand works its way down the front of her pants, into her underwear. Eva lets out a little whimper as he works a finger into her. Eyes closed, now, he leans into her, groaning his exhales as he fingers and fondles. Then, suddenly, as if he's logged his quota of foreplay, or maybe verified her body is ready for his, he puts his hands to work getting her pants and panties down, struggling to strip them past her boots, then stares at her cunt as if hypnotized while he rushes to get his belt and fly undone and brings forth his ruddy erection.

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For a moment, it's like he's not sure what to do, as if he doesn't believe, after all, that she will let him. Eva perches on the edge of a large carton and draws Riggs to her with a hand at his waist. Breathing hard, he goes into her. Riggs makes a low grunting noise and John turns away, pressing his forehead against the door. Riggs leans forward, drives Eva back onto the carton. Holding her tits in both hands, he pumps into her, grunting with each thrust, the thrusts and grunts coming faster and harder. It's over in less than a minute. He pulls out and zips up. He is looking at his feet, shuffling in place. Eva touches his arm and says in a quiet voice, “Help me.” Riggs squats down and threads the leg of her khakis over her boot. She slips down from the carton and tugs her pants up, zips and buttons. Then she catches his hands, guides them to her shirt. Button by button, Riggs finishes dressing her. “Thank you,” she says. “I still don't know why you did that,” Riggs says. “Not to hurt you. Don't worry.” Then she says, “It's important you don't tell anyone. Okay?” “Yeah.” “Come back here, the same time, just before dinner, one week from tonight.” “I don’t understand.” “Will you come?” “Yeah.” “And keep your promise. Leave Evan and Diego and Jake alone.”

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John watches Riggs walk down the length of the shed, and keeps his eyes on him as he steps aside and lets him leave. Riggs scurries away, flooding the building with the fading evening light as he opens the door to flee. Riggs keeps his eyes down and never once looks at John. When the sound of the door closing echoes down the corridor, John goes to Eva. John's approach is slow. Cautious. They watch each other, their eyes locked. “Are you all right?” he asks her, and she nods. He reaches out, but pulls his hand back before he's touched her. “You don't want to touch me, now?” she asks in a wounded voice. “No. I just don't know if you want to be touched right now,” he says, his voice soft. Eva steps forward, lays her cheek on his chest. John wraps his arms around her, pulls her against him, holds her. They wait until o-eighteen-hundred, plus a couple more minutes before sneaking back to their room while everyone is in the mess hall eating. Eva wants a shower. She doesn’t want to be alone. They shower together. She lets John hold her, lets him stroke her back beneath the pounding spray of water. “Maybe we should forget about next week, Eva.” “No.” “You don’t need to put yourself through that again. You’ve been with him. And once you’ve been with Smith…” “I’ll keep it up until we know. We won’t know for a while, and if there’s a big gap, if the timing isn’t right, then this will have been for nothing.” “It hurts you. I hate it.”

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“It wasn’t…it wasn’t personal. It’s just that, looking at him, he was so scared of you, so nervous with me; he just seemed so…human. He just looked like any man in his mid-twenties, and I was thinking, is he just like everyone? Do we all have it in us, to do what he’s done? To be what he’s become?” “I don’t know.” “The ways people hurt each other. Yugoslavia. Rwanda. Men with AIDS told to rape the enemy women. It’s like societies just manage to check the brutality of human nature, but as soon as there’s a tear in the fabric, fear, hate, horrible violence come spilling out.” She goes still and quiet. John is quiet too. “I don't understand the difference. Do you know?” she asks him after a while. “What?” “Why you haven’t done what the others have done? And why you didn’t just take me when they gave me to you?” “I don’t like hurting people.” “Yeah. But why? Why do you hate hurting people, and others get off on it?” “I think…I don’t know. Different histories. Different environments. Different ideas about strength and survival.” “Do you think there can ever be a community without a scapegoat? Without an outsider to define the group against?” “I don’t know.” “I feel like when they look at me, I’m not even a person to them.”

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“They’re just boys, most of them. Twenty. Twenty-one. A lot of them here fresh out of juvy. Maybe they’ve never really known a woman. Never loved anybody.” Eva doesn't touch her dinner. She sits down at the little table by the window with her journal and pen, but doesn't write. Several times she gets up, stands in one corner, moves to another, takes her seat again, then leaves it a few minutes later. “Eva,” John says in his softest voice, touching her arm. “I'm glad he didn't want to kiss me,” she whispers. “I wouldn't have been ready for that. Funny, huh? That I could let him fuck me, but would have been afraid to kiss him.” “Kissing can be a more intimate thing,” he says. “The whole time, he never looked at me.” She is not crying. Doesn't even look like she will cry. But she's stretched tight, so tight it seems like she might begin to tear. “Eva? What can I do?” She looks up at him. Even though they are just inches apart, it is like she is looking at him from very far away. Or through a thick pane of shatter-proof glass. “Eva.” She turns away and, barely perceptibly, shakes her head. “Please,” he says. She meets his gaze, her eyes filling with tears. “Erase him,” she breathes. For a moment, John looks at her without moving. Then he brings his hands up, touches her face with his fingertips, his breath curls into her hair as he kisses her crown. Again he looks at her, as if to make sure, then he kisses one eyebrow, then the other. The bridge of her nose. Her cheek. Her ear. He takes her lips in a gentle kiss, then sinks deep, kissing her and kissing her and wrapping her up in his arms, enfolding all of her in his heat and strength.

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When they are naked and on the bed he lingers over every last inch of her, stirring her nerves with feathering fingertips, warming her skin with languid caresses, rousing with kisses, touching everywhere with his lips, with his tongue. Their eyes are locked and their lips are faintly touching when he goes into her, slow, deep. As they begin to move together, they kiss, tender, urgent, lingering. Tonight for the first time, neither can get enough of the other, and every time one of them comes close, they go still and quiet, drawing it out, over and over.

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CHAPTER TWELVE

“What's this?” Smith asks John. “It's from Eva.” Smith grins. “Yes. But what does it say?” “Why ask me?” Smith scowls, then opens the folded sheet of paper—there is no envelope, no seal—and reads Eva's note aloud. Avery, I wonder if you might loan me some novel from your library—something written by a woman. I’m feeling lonely for a feminine voice. Gratefully, Eva “If you come back by my office after your shift, you can take her what I've got,” Smith tells John. “I think it would make Eva happy if you brought them yourself.” Smith is quiet for a minute as he studies John. “Yes, fine. I'll stop over there a little later.” **** In the early afternoon, there is a knock at Eva’s door. Following the chafe and clack of locks turning and sliding, the door opens and Smith appears. Eva is standing by the window, the sunlight streaming through her sheer garment. Smith is burning the outline of her form onto his retinas.

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“I’ve brought a few books for you. Two Brontës and a Woolf, I’m afraid, are all I have to offer.” She gives him a warm smile. “I’m very grateful.” She steps forward to take the books from his hands. Her fingers touch his for a moment as she does so. She lays the books on the nightstand. “It's nice that you brought them yourself.” “Your note was so melancholy. I thought you might like some company.” “That was thoughtful of you.” “I realize it must be very difficult for you, cooped up alone here so much of the time.” “It gives me a lot of time for reflection. Sometimes that’s not such a good thing.” “No.” He perches on the edge of the bureau. She comes and sits beside him. “What do you think about, Avery, all your long hours alone in your room when your day’s work is done?” “Mostly about the next day’s work, I suppose.” “Keeping our happy little family together.” “Yes.” “I want you to know, Avery, I’ve had something of a change of heart where you’re concerned.” “How so?” “I can’t agree with what you’ve done, but I’m beginning to believe in your noble intentions. And I can’t deny the good that’s come of it. John is really very good to me. And though I hate to admit it, I think your video scheme has turned out to be a bit of

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mad genius. I sense it’s been cathartic for the men. Though not in the way you had planned. “No?” “You wanted to give the men an outlet for their sexual impulses.” “Yes.” “But something more has happened.” “That’s true.” “It’s not just what the men write in their fantasies.” “No. Things are going as I'd hoped. The brutalities that have been going on for two years seem to be abating. You were forced to make a big sacrifice. But Eva, you've done a great deal of good.” “Are you saying that it’s all happening according to your prescient plan?” “I suppose we all seem like a pack of cave men to you. And perhaps we’ve earned that impression with our treatment of you. And the boys. And yes, I admit that in my considered opinion, ensuring the men a minimum of sexual release is critical to maintaining the sanity of the group. But the men are more complex than that. They need some warmth of human contact. Seeing you and John together provides at least a sense of that, since I cannot conceive of a way to ensure they get it first hand.” “No,” she says with a smile that is hard to figure. “You know, Eva, you’ve surprised me as well.” “Have I?” “You astonished me, actually, the way you’ve adapted to…your situation.” “What do you mean?”

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“I mean how quickly you took to John, and to your role.” “You didn’t expect it?” Smith chuckles. “No.” “Because I’d half wondered whether it was all part of your careful plan. Making John a victim too, so I’d be more cooperative, feel sympathy for him, become more brazen to lessen his hardship, conveniently falling into a role more conducive to your purposes than would have been the case if I’d been paired up with one of the others, someone who would have had fewer qualms about forcing me into his bed every night.” Smith gives her a weighing look. “You give me too much credit.” Eva grins. “I doubt it.” Her grin fades as she pins Smith with a sharp stare. “May I ask you a…more personal question, Avery?” “Yes.” “Do you watch us?” “I've told you I do.” “No. You've told me you study the tapes to see if we're complying with our obligations. I'm asking if you watch us. For your...entertainment.” Smith's face hardens. “Come on, Avery. John and I have bared so much to you and the others. Surely you can spare me a harmless confession or two.” “Yes.” “Yes?” “Yes, I watch the tapes.” “With the others?”

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“No. Later.” “And do they excite you?” “Yes.” “You get yourself off, watching them?” “Yes.” “Which ones excite you the most?” “Eva—” “Don’t be shy, Avery. I’m pretty sure that nothing can shock me anymore. I’ve been wondering; I’d really like to know if anything I do gets to you.” “Oh, Eva,” he says, with a charming smile he had probably used to great effect in times past, “everything you do gets to me.” “When I read the fantasies, I try to guess whose they are. Each time I’ve wondered, ‘Could this be his?’ I wonder if it’s you, imagining your mouth on my mouth, is it you fantasizing that you’re touching my breasts, kissing them. Is it you combing your fingers deep into my hair, then curling your fingers into a fist, is it you who wants to finger my ass as you fuck me…” She is very close to him, looking at him with her large amber eyes, her full lips parted for a kiss that is easily within reach. He does not kiss her. He sits, rigid, a faint sheen of sweat beginning to shine his face as he looks at her face, not at her body, hardly concealed in her sheer garment, her shoulder against his shoulder, her thigh against his thigh, her breasts standing out in perfect little peaks, like twin mountains beneath a faint cover of snow.

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“…or are you the one who presses his lips to the soft skin of my neck and breathes in the scent of my hair?” “I'm a pragmatist, Eva. I’m the one who doesn’t get caught up in fantasies of the impossible.” “Being with me isn’t impossible.” “It is.” “No. It just goes against what you’ve decided. Your rules. Break them.” He gives her a strained smile. “No, Eva.” She slips from the edge of the desk and stands before him, her feet planted between his feet. His hardness like wood becomes hardness like iron. His hands lay on his thighs, probably putting sweaty palm prints there. She folds her hands behind her back as she leans forward to whisper in his ear, their faces touching, or almost touching. “Avery. Be my lover.” “I’m going to go now, Eva.” “No, you’re going to stay.” She looks at his eyes, then down, then back to his eyes. “I see plainly that you want me.” “What I want doesn't matter. What I want hasn't mattered for almost three years.” “Yes, you’ve proven to yourself that you’re strong enough to resist your desire. But you’re going to stay, because if you try to leave before you’ve made love to me, as you go toward that door, I’m going to tear my gown and begin sobbing, very convincingly. And when you open that door I’ll scream a stream of vile names at you,

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and the man guarding the door will see me, and hear me, and before dinner time every man in the camp will believe that you came in here and raped me.” “Don’t be stupid, Eva.” “Excellent advice. I’ll take it. I’ll be smart. I have my own plan for ensuring the peaceful and prosperous future of our little group. And in my version of peace and prosperity you get to abandon your rigorous chastity.” “Eva, let me go.” He puts his hands gently but firmly on her arms and pushes her slowly back, away from him. She pushes back with her body, pins him against the dresser. He is being careful of her, and she uses his gentleness to her advantage. She is pressing herself against him, her delicate garment against the starched stiffness of his uniform. “I want to touch you, Avery. I want to taste you, fuck you.” She puts her hand to his groin. He is hard. She strokes his bulge through his pants. He grabs her wrist to wrench her hand away but lets go suddenly as if burned. “Careful you don’t bruise me, Avery. You know, I don’t need to prove my case in court. Merely sow the seed of suspicion.” He shoves her away and charges toward the door. From behind him comes the sound of fabric ripping—a long, slow howl as long successions of inches of filmy gauze is rent. Smith halts two feet from the door. He turns. Her gown is torn wide open, from the neckline down well below her belly. He can see her breasts, her navel, the dark hair peeking out from behind the frayed threads her hands have snapped apart. He charges back to her, pulls her to him, holds her against him, whispers a frenzied plea.

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“Please, Eva. Please don’t do this.” She wiggles out of his anaconda arms, holds him back from her a few inches. He is white, trembling, his eyes fiery red. With one hand she puts his hand on her breast. He does not jerk his hand away. With her other hand she caresses the traitorous bulge at his groin. He is still. Except for the trembling. “Stop it, Eva.” His voice is different. Soft. She goes on stroking him. “Stop it!” His shout is a whisper. He yanks his hand away from her breast, out of her hand. He shoves her other hand away from him. With both hands he grabs her head. He looks like he will smash her face against the desk or the bureau. Sudden fear transforms Eva’s face. She grasps his wrists, trying to pry his hands from her. He is fierce. Immobile. Panting hard. Still trembling. Suddenly, brutally, he kisses her. It is like a blow, violent anger. At first, she seems to think he has really hit her. She is stunned, then she lets out a little whimper. Even as she succumbs, she is trying to wrench his hands from her head. It's futile. Even as their kiss becomes less combative, more tender, he does not release his grip, but holds her helpless in his powerful hands. Finally, he does not let her go, but his fingers soften, cradling jaw, caressing face, stroking hair. Her hands slip from his wrists. She curves her fingers at the back of his neck, pulling him in to deepen their deep kiss. It is an eternal kiss. It goes on and on, like waves rolling in, one after the other, now turbulent, now gently swelling, coming in, receding. He is pulling her body against him now, softening as their bodies seek and mold to one another. Like their mouths, their bodies, their breathing moans twine and writhe against one another.

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Never breaking their kiss, she gets his belt undone, then his fly. Then, caressing his stiff cock, she draws back until their lips part. Panting, she looks up, into his gaze, his eyes bright and sharp like a hunter's even now. Eva slips the gown from her shoulders. The torn garment falls indifferently to the floor, and she is naked. Taking his hands she leads him to the bed, laying him down and then lying astride him. She tries to slip down, as if she might take him in her mouth, but he stops her, pulls her back up to him. “I want you here, with me.” He kisses her and she takes him inside of her. She moves over him, slowly and quietly. He watches her face, her body as she makes herself come. Then he is quivering as she goes on. “Wait,” he says. “Not yet. Not yet.” He rolls their twined bodies, then holds himself still, trembling over her, inside her, his eyes fixed on hers, tearing into her with his gaze like he's devouring her. In this fierce stillness after her climax, Eva begins to tremble, to breathe in shuddering gasps, her pleasure-hazed eyes brightening, glistening. When he moves inside of her, slow, slow, their joined bodies vibrating like two strings singing under the stroke of the bow, Eva begins to whine, to whimper, her voice a delicate note just above silence. Every flex of his body provokes some little tremor in her, some new note from her parted lips. With her eyes, her limbs, her sex, she seeks him, goes after him, pulling him into her. Smith comes on, fierce, hungry, a predator consuming dying prey as she convulses and her mouth goes wide with a long, silent cry. His eyes probe her, taking

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her startled pleasure for himself. All through her quivering recovery he watches her— how her lips meet, then part to pant, baring a glimpse of her teeth, how her pulse thrums at her throat under her delicate amber skin, how her heaving breaths lift and lower and lift and lower her breasts, her plum-colored nipples, hard and raised. When he starts to move again, still holding her in his gaze, still cupping her ass in his hand, holding her to him as he flexes into her, she works her hips under him, seeking him, seeking his pleasure. “Please,” she breathes, “let me. I want to.” She coaxes him over, onto his back. Astride, now, she milks him, her body taking him in, wringing every bit of pleasure she can get from him, delaying his climax over and over until he goes fitful, grasping, trembling. “Wait,” he says, “not inside of you.” “Yes, inside of me.” She overwhelms his meager struggle and makes him come. She stays on top of him, laying her head on his chest. He holds her. His voice is quiet and sad. “You’re not pregnant yet.” “No.” “That’s why…” “No. Or, only in part.” She lifts her head to look at him. “My desire was real. I just wouldn’t have been so coercive for that alone.” He runs his fingers lightly up and down her back, then embraces her. “Does it feel good, having me in your arms?” she asks him.

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“Yes.” “I wanted to give you that. The goodness of being with someone.” “Of being with you. Eva.” Smith lies there, holding her, for just another minute or two, stroking her skin, breathing her scent. Then he seems to turn off his senses and pull into himself, and seconds later he pushes her away and sits up. He starts fastening and straightening his disheveled clothes. “Avery,” she says in a gentle voice, touching his arm. “I've betrayed John,” Smith says solemnly. Eva's voice is quiet. Gentle. “You haven't.” “You might not think so.” “John doesn't feel I belong to him.” “You know him so well after all of five weeks?” Still gentle, she says, “Yes. Ask him, if it'll make you feel better.” “And the men? I imagine you've taken a poll.” “I'm none of their fucking business.” He turns on her. “Can you imagine what would happen if the men knew I'd been in here fucking you today? I'm guessing you can, since you used that potential outcome as a bargaining chip to get me into your bed.” “No, Avery. I used your fear as a bargaining chip. Personally, I believe that a man who can convince his men that raffling a woman off is the way to ensure everyone's health and happiness could as easily convince everyone in earshot that it was fair and right that he get conjugal visits with the last living woman on earth while the rest of the

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boys have nothing but their rosy palms for company. Though you might want to rephrase.” “If you have need of anything, in future, I'll do my best to see your needs and wants are met. Get a message to me, and I'll have John bring along whatever it is you desire.” “Avery,” she says in a low, gentle voice. When she brings her fingertips tentatively to his arm Smith shudders, then goes rigid. “Avery. We want the same things. We don't have to be adversaries in this.” He turns to her. Any tender expression of paternalistic protectiveness or lover's desire he's ever let her see is buried, now, under a rigid facade of militant stoicism. **** “You're wondering if he came,” Eva says to John. He's been even more quiet than usual, and his eyes have been following her, but flicker away each time she tries to meet his gaze. Now John faces her and gives her a melancholy, confessing smile. “Did he?” “Yes.” John moves in close, touches her arm, whispers, “Are you all right?” “I'm doing fine. But I imagine Avery's dipping into the emergency wine supply tonight.” “So he...” She just grins and cocks an eyebrow. “And you're all right?” He asks her again.

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“I'm fine, John.” Eva gazes into John's clouded eyes, touches his cheek. Quietly asks, “Are you okay?” “I just,” he starts, then cuts himself off. “It's okay, John. Tell me.” “Did you like it? Being with him?” She stiffens. Sets her expression. “Yes.” John curves his hands at the small of her back and pulls her to him. “I'm glad,” he says, his voice soft and warm. “Are you?” “I'm not jealous, Eva. I just couldn't stop thinking, all day, hoping it wouldn't be like it was with Riggs. I didn't want you hurting like that again.” “It was nothing like that, John,” she soothes, combing her fingers through his thick dark hair. **** “I don't know your name.” “Riggs,” he growls. “Your first name, I mean.” “James,” he finally says as if he'd rather not tell her. The last time, he'd seemed thrown off, unsettled. Scared, almost. Now it's like he's angry. “You don't want to be here,” she says. Like he's knocked off-kilter by her simple acknowledgment of his reluctance, he goes back to evading her eyes, and he backs away from her, the soles of his boots shuffling over the cement floor.

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“John's not here as an enforcer. If you don't want to, we won't.” Still dodging eye-contact he looks her over like an appetizing steak. “It's not that,” he mutters. “I just don't get it, and I don't like being dicked around.” She hesitates. Regards him for long, silent seconds. “I have this idea,” she says at last, “that if the people who've hurt each other can get along, this place won't be such a hell hole.” “And you fucking me, that's your idea of getting along?” “It's a start,” she says. She steps close to him. So close, their bodies almost brush against each other. “Do you want to leave?” “No.” “You want me to fuck you?” There's a subtle cock of his head, twitch of his brow, like her phrase has struck him wrong, but he growls out a “Yes.” Eva cups her hand against his groin, rubs the bulge swelling under his fly. He towers over her, almost as much as John. “James. Sit down,” she breathes, nudging him back toward a low crate. When he sits she goes forward between his knees, unbuttons, bares her breasts to him. He looks, touches, mouths. Her head bent, she watches him. He notices and ducks away from her eyes, working his hand between her thighs, rubbing her through her pants as he goes back to sucking one dark, erect nipple. Eva raises a hand and seems about to comb her fingers into his hair, but she hesitates and her hand just hovers there by his head. He looks up and finds her looking at him again.

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“I can't do it like this, with you staring at me like that,” he grouches. “Okay.” She sounds small and let down. “We can do this any way you want.” Riggs rises to his feet and Eva surges back, like water displaced by an enormous log. When he moves forward, she is pinned between him and a worktable. His eyes fixed on his hands; he works her fly open, then turns her away from him. There's a moment where nothing happens—maybe Riggs is waiting to see if Eva or John will protest with words or cudgels—and then he shucks her pants and underwear down until her ass and the tops of her thighs are bare to him. At first he doesn't touch her. He's busy getting his own pants undone, then fisting his erection for a few seconds as he stares at her bared ass. Then he presses himself against her, really pinning her now against the table, leaning over, driving her forward until she catches her weight on her forearms. She faces straight forward, away from him, and even if he wanted to meet her eyes now, he couldn't. She is biting her lips and her eyes are wide and red and wet. From the end of the room, from his post by the door, John watches, his hands clenched in fists, his knuckles white. He has promised her he won't come near unless she calls for him. Riggs uses his feet and knees to spread her legs, and uses his hand to bring his stiff cock to her wet cunt—brought to its flushed and open state by Eva herself before their appointment. With a heavy grunt he drives her against the table and sinks into her. He's less frenzied than the last time. He humps her for a bit, then eases off so he doesn't finish so fast. When he's ready, he fucks her hard, one heavy hand pressed

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down on the small of her back, the other curved over her inner thigh, holding her open to his pounding thrusts as he grunts and ejaculates. This time, when they get back to their room, Eva doesn't have to ask it of him. John simply draws her gently to him, holds her, kisses her, touches her, and little by little, tender, careful, he erases the other man. **** Smith has not come back to her room, nor has he invited her to his. And so, one night, John takes Eva to Smith’s quarters. He knocks on Smith’s door. Smith shows no surprise at seeing him, and only a fleeting glimmer of something when he sees that Eva is there, too. He puts on a smile and invites them in. They exchange brief pleasantries and small talk. Then Eva throws down the gauntlet. “It’s been very dull, Avery, on my long days in my room, since you’ve stopped paying me visits.” “I’m sorry you’ve been bored. It’s difficult for me to find time during the day to pay social calls.” “I understand. That’s why I asked John to escort me here. And of course, with John here, the men are less likely to be suspicious.” “Of what?” Deadpan. “Of you taking liberties with the prisoner.” He makes no reply. “With John here, I could stay for hours and no one would think anything of it.” Looking at Smith, she smiles sweetly and tentatively touches his hand with one seeking finger. His hand twitches out of reach. Still gazing at Smith, Eva reaches her

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hands behind her. John steps close and takes her hands in his, looking at Smith over her shoulder. “John,” she says, regarding Smith coyly, “you’ve been the object of everyone’s voyeurism for weeks now. What would you think about watching for a change?” Smith’s face is hard. Smiling mischievously at Smith, John says, “I might enjoy that. For a change.” “What is this, John? Are you afraid you can’t get her pregnant? Afraid of losing her at the end of your six months?” John only gives Smith an enigmatic shrug. Smith looks at John with exasperated contempt. “There’s no point in depriving yourself, Avery. Not after indulging once already.” Her words make his eyes flash. He looks at John. There is no surprise to find in his face. “Avery…” She pulls her hands from John’s hands, touches Smith’s cheeks, then lightly kisses his lips. “Don't you want me?” She kisses him again, softly. Inviting him to kiss her back. He pulls away. “And what are you going to do, John, stand here and stare at us? Sit in the armchair and read a book?” “I’ll do whatever you and Eva want me to do.” Smith turns to Eva and allows a patient smile to erode his cold expression. “It’s ridiculous. I can’t make love to you with him hovering over us.” “You’d be surprised, Smith, what you’re capable of,” John says. “You might even find it…stimulating.”

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John reaches around and, watching Smith watching, begins unbuttoning Eva’s drab olive military-issue shirt. He pulls it down her arms and drops it on the floor behind him. Then his hands circle her waist from behind, unbuckle her belt, unbutton, unzip. Smith’s face, dominated by a look of carefully contained arousal, seems gradually to register reluctant acquiescence. He steps forward. Gives her a small kiss on the mouth. She smiles. John withdraws his hands. Smith catches John’s wrists. Looks at John. Looks at Eva, caught between their arms. London bridges. Smith presses John’s hands to her belly. Kisses her deeply. Cups her breasts in his hands. Looking at Eva, Smith says, “Touch her.” With one arm John holds her gently to him. His other hand dips down the open fly of her pants to caress her. She shivers, sighs as the two men touch her. Touching her, Smith kisses her again, long, deep. Eva is trembling and smiling as both men take her to bed. Some hours later, Eva and John are alone in their own bed. Almost nervous, it seems, she kisses him. He draws her to him, and there's tender warmth, even a charged heat, in the kiss he gives back to her. Then they go still, laying there for a long time, just looking at one another. She grins, then, a mischievous little grin that comes over her once in a while. He's provoked, grins back. She cups her hand over his mouth. “I love you,” she says, bright and giddy. She takes her hand from his mouth and kisses him eagerly, lingering a long time, sweet and deep. ****

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Smith's eternally hard expression looks somehow exceptionally sharp and stony. He raps once, and enters. The room is empty, but the sound of running water can be heard behind the bathroom door. Smith erects himself like a statue by the window, looking like years and disasters could pass and he would wait, unmoved, until the end of time. But then there's a faint trembling, as if the statue was being vibrated by a minor earthquake. Then the statue comes to vivid, violent life. Eva starts, jumping back into the farthest corner of the shower, defending herself from attack with outstretched arms when the door flings open. Seeing it's Smith, she lowers her arms and smoothes away her terrified expression, but her chest keeps working fast, like a hunted rabbit's. Smith's face is composed, but Eva looks more and more uneasy as he goes on staring at her without saying anything. “Hello, Avery,” she says in a voice that further gives away her fear. Smith says nothing. Pinning her to the white tile with his sharp eyes, he stands there, still and silent. “Avery. What are you doing?” Keeping her fixed in his cold stare, he begins unbuttoning his jacket. He strips naked. When she sees that he is hard, her rigid body softens a little. When he steps into the shower, she reaches for him. Like he's deflecting an attack, he catches her wrists and pins them hard over her head. He watches the water streaming over her sleek skin, skirting and gathering around and between her contours. She pants as he comes in close, brings his lips against hers, just enough to convey contact. “Why don't you tell me to leave?” Smith breathes against her wet skin.

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He looks like he's staring into his own grave. Eva smiles. “Because I want you to stay.” “I didn't come here for this,” Smith tells her, still holding her wrists overhead in his fierce grip. Then, like he's drowning, helpless and unable to swim in a violent sea, he sinks into her. They go at each other, fierce and hungry, mouths devouring, fingers clawing, arms grasping. When he hoists her up, she wedges her feet against the close wall opposite and he grapples for a fit, then thrusts into her, his pumping urgent, frantic, never growing cautious even when his feet slip an inch or two now and then on the slick tile floor. When they finish she moves to step from the shower, but Avery blocks her exit. Pushes her back against the cold tile. With a soap-slick hand he works over her, scrutinizing every millimeter of her flesh as he goes, as if he were sculpting her from clay. It is not a tender caress, an intimate exploration after the act of love. And it is not the study of some beautiful creature who must be looked at and touched because it is irresistible. It is an attempt at taking possession. His touch goes everywhere, everywhere leaving a swath of white and clear and iridescent froth floating down, riding the streams cascading over her. Fingers trace the delicate whorl of one ear, then the other, thumbs mirror one another out from the center of her lips, over her chin, down her throat. Suds stardust across her collarbones, whorl outward from dark nipples, textured areola, smooth breasts, sleek belly, rich white foam in the triangle of thick black curls.

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His hand curves under, and she lets out a little whimpering gasp as he drives two fingers inside of her. Drawing his hand back, he watches the water wash their viscous, whitish fluids from his long pink fingers. Smith moves her under the showerhead, rinses the soap from her body, then sinks to his knees. Parts her thighs, presses his mouth to her. A pleading moan groans from her lips as he grasps the backs of her thighs and licks into her still-swollen, throbbing folds. Shuddering, she tries to shake him off, to break free of his grip, but Smith braces his arms against her legs and forces her back against his mouth. Belly flexing fast with her frantic panting, she grips the showerhead in both hands and gives her body over to its tremors and spasms. When Smith drives his fingers into her again, still lapping at her hungrily, she bucks and grinds over the penetration, against the torturing tongue, and sobs out, sounding startled. Almost wounded. Smith lifts her down, into his arms, holding her to him as she trembles, still moaning softly, burying her face against him. When she's calmed he drives his fingers into her hair and kisses her, fierce and urgent, as if she'd never yet let him touch her. “I should never have touched you, Eva,” he exhales before taking her mouth again, biting and sucking and tonguing like a dog at a bone it fears will soon be taken away. “I won't know how to leave you alone, now that I've had you.” **** For days, Smith hasn't seemed himself. It's not that he has been less attentive to the operations of the base, that his sharp eye has failed to discern that Washington turned up late for laundry duty, or that the southwest corner of the cornfield wasn't tilled

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properly on Thursday, as ordered. And it isn't that Smith has been any softer or any harder on the men. It's just that lately he looks like a man who hasn't slept in a very long time. His hazel eyes are bloodshot. His skin is pale. His movements are less sure, less fluid than usual. At this particular moment, though, he looks like a man struggling under an awful weight, as if he is straining to keep the tonnage of a car from crushing someone he loves. Lott stands at rigid attention across the desk from Smith, his usual grin straightened out so that, with the exception of an amused glint in his blue eyes, he appears to be showing all due, grave respect. After being admitted, Lott had opened with, “I hope I'm not out of line, sir, but I seen something. I thought you'd want to know.” And when Smith had told him to go on, Lott had said, “It's to do with Eva, Sir.” That was when Smith's body began to quiver, as if his heart were driving the blood through his veins in a quantity and at a speed too great to be endured. “I'm worried now I should have said something sooner. But the first time, week before last, really I wasn't sure if it was important, what I'd seen. And I didn't want to bother you for nothin'.” Lott's obsequious words come in stark contrast to his manner. Even in his rigid stance of attention, it's plain he's at ease. And if one looks closely, it's possible to see that he is more interested in watching Smith, observing the impact his words are having

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on him, than he is in efficiently delivering pertinent information to his commanding officer. “And then, the second time, well, I know what I saw. But it didn't make no sense.” “Lieutenant!” Smith is terse, but not heated. He still has that much control. Watching Smith, just managing to hide his pleasure, Lott recounts his observations, doling out his words like a dollop of honey, slow, slow to come, but sure to be sweet. “I don't suppose you have any proof of these allegations, Lieutenant.” “Nah. Nothing to show that's true, what I said about last week and the week before.” Smith's rigid trembling lessens a little. “But, reason I come to you just now is so you could see for yourself. You should hurry, though.” Smith hurries, but all he sees, as he nears the building where Lott said to look is Eva walking with John in the direction of her room. Holding herself, her eyes are down on the ground just ahead of her feet. John has an arm around her shoulders, and when he notices Smith approaching, he pulls her in a little closer and says something to her. “On your way home?” Smith asks as he intercepts them. “Yeah,” John answers. “Late, isn't it? Your shift ended almost thirty minutes ago.” “We went for a walk.” Again, it's John answering. “A walk? After all that physical work in the field?”

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“Just a quiet stroll. We're never in a big hurry to lock ourselves in that little room,” John says. “You all right, Eva?” Smith touches her shoulder. Eva seems to want to flinch back from his hand, but roots herself. She meets his eyes, lets him probe into her. “You seem on edge.” “I feel a little off,” she says, her arms going tighter over her middle. “I think I just need to eat something.” “Well, you'd better get back to your room, then.” The trio parts ways, Eva and John continuing toward their room, Smith walking at a brisk clip in the opposite direction, past the makeshift granary, until the tool shed is in sight. From a discrete position he waits and watches until the door opens and a soldier glances left and right, then leaves, heading in the direction of the mess. Charging, Smith catches his prey. “Corporal.” The soldier halts and turns. Riggs. Smith had to have known; Riggs is the only man in uniform who is that tall, that wide. But Smith looks like he's been punched in the gut. “Come with me, Corporal.” Smith turns on his heel and heads for his office. Riggs should be right behind him, but he hesitates, and has to scramble to catch up. He looks like a man going to his execution. Terrified. Hopeless. ****

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With kisses and caresses John is cleansing her, washing every inch of skin clean of the other's saliva and sweat, imprinting on every nerve the sensation of his body, his touch, fading the sensations of the other from her sense memory. When his semen spills into her, it spills into the semen already there, so that after, anything that seeps from her, slicking her thighs, staining the sheets won't make her shudder, won't make her sick, because it's John's. Only what takes root will belong to Riggs as much as John and Smith. “He knows.” Her words to John are the first they've spoken since before they entered the tool shed. “Yeah. Maybe.” “What do you think he'll do?” “God, Eva. I don't know.” “John. Will you promise me something?” “What?” “If he, if things get ugly, promise me you won't get yourself killed trying to protect me.” “Eva...” In her softest voice she pleads, “Please, John. There's nothing you can do against Smith. He has the men. Armed or not, if it comes down to anything physical, you can't keep me from him. The best thing you can do for me is keep yourself safe, then reason with Smith, if he gives you the chance. Even if he doesn't, knowing you're safe will be a comfort to me. If I imagine you're dead, I don't know how I'll cope.”

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“And what comfort do I get?” he asks, broken-sounding. “No matter what, Smith will be careful with me. You know that.” “Does that comfort you?” Eva cups John's face in her hands and holds him steady in her gaze. “I won't pretend I'm not scared. But I promise you, Smith could give me to the worst of them, and I'll be okay. Anything I have to endure, now, I feel like there's a reason. So I'll be okay.” They curl into each other, fingers, whispers, limbs, the lengths of their bodies. It's usual, after Riggs, for Eva to want, to need John again and again. But tonight they seek each other with the desperation of a farewell. **** Done with her shower, Eva steps from the tub. Before she takes a towel, she stares at her naked form in the mirror, turning to study her profile, running her hands over her breasts, over her belly. She's not as wasted and bony as she was the night she'd showered in Smith's room after all those hungry months in the woods, but still thin. Thinner than she had been before the internet and phones and televisions had gone dead, and everyone she knew had died. She does not look pregnant. Eva towels off, then indifferently tugs one of several gowns from a hook at the back of the bathroom door and slips it on. She opens the bathroom door, which she shuts habitually whenever she is in the bathroom, perhaps to evade the cameras. She steps into the bedroom and freezes. In a few brief seconds, she composes her expression of alarm to steady calm.

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“I wondered when you'd be coming for a visit,” she says to Smith, her voice less composed than her face. “Yes, I'm sure,” he says, his voice tight as he turns from the window to face her now that she's spoken, though he must have heard her emerge from the bathroom. Then, in a voice that's softer, almost gentle, wavering a little, even, with some small, faint hope, “You and Riggs.” Her body is still, her expression unchanged. “Eva. Did he rape you?” “No.” “Eva.” The way his body is tilted toward her, the way his hands twitch forward for a moment, it's as if he'd like to touch her. Maybe take her in his arms. But he stays cemented to his spot across the room from her. “Rape isn't always a physical coercion,” he says, barely finding the air to carry his words. “If he made some threat—“ “Riggs didn't threaten me. He didn't do anything to force me.” “What have you done?” he breathes. “I went to him and I let him fuck me,” she says without bravado, her voice earnest. Sad. “Eva? Why?” “Avery. Think. If I get pregnant, if I have a baby, and John is the father, what will happen?” “You know what will happen. When she's old enough...”

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“She? What if it's a boy? You think they won't do to him what they've done to Jake and the others? Or my little girl—what if the men don't wait until she's old enough? What if they don't feel like lining up single file and waiting year after year after year for their turn with her to come?” “Eva. I'll keep your children safe, just as I've kept you safe.” “And what? You're not mortal? God, Avery, what if something happens to you? Has that even occurred to you?” “So. You came up with this...paternal triumvirate to watch over your child.” “Yes.” “And John. He went along with it. Helped you to fuck Riggs. The way he helped you get to me.” “Yes.” “I misjudged him,” he says after a still quiet. “It was careless of me, given what I know him to be capable of.” Smith lets out a defeated sigh. “Damn it, Eva. I thought you understood. I've thought all this through very carefully, with a view, in particular, to ensuring your relative safety. I know it's not ideal, but—God, Eva—under the circumstances, can you really say your...marriage to John is too cruel a fate? You really have no idea the damage you've done, playing these games of yours.” Eva keeps her eyes fixed on Smith's, and when she speaks again her voice is steel. “Try to grasp, Smith, that you are not the only person left on our decimated world who's capable of thinking about things beyond their own immediate happiness or pain.” Smith is rigid and silent.

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“As for games, that's your forte, not mine. Believe me,” her voice pitches upward and her mouth twists, ”the steps I've taken, I've forced myself to go through, even when just the idea of it—never mind actually doing it—made me sick.” Smith's composed expression slips, and for a moment he looks sad, which is rare, but also hurt, which as far as Eva has seen, could be a first. Smith turns his back on Eva and stares out the window. Dark, pregnant clouds are rolling in from the east. “You're a clever girl, Eva,” he says without turning to face her. “You made strategic choices.” “Yes.” “Riggs. Me.” When he turns to face Eva, Smith's expression is as it always is. Except shattered, somehow. His eyes are fixed on her as if he were training a laser sight at the center of her forehead. Like a weapon. Something he will use to obliterate her. Unhurried but determined, like a big cat stalking but not yet chasing its prey, Smith circles the end of the bed, closing the distance between them step by step until his body is almost touching hers. “Eva,” he says when he's cuffed her arms in his rigid grasp, in a voice low and soft but threatening, like a growl, “you're trembling. What do you think—that I'm going to hit you?” “No, Avery.” She keeps her face composed, but her voice is always first to betray her. “Slit your throat, maybe?” This actually makes her half smile. “No.”

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Maybe the smile pisses him off. Smith shoves Eva back against the wall and pins her there. “No,” he echoes, letting his mask slip away for a moment, letting Eva see some strong feeling distort his face. Tears are reddening and glossing his eyes and he is trembling, almost shaking as his claws dig deeper into the thin flesh of Eva's arms. “No,” he says again, “I suppose what you fear is that I've come here to fuck you. To kiss you and touch you, as you've let me do before. And now that you've had enough sperm donations, and my seed isn't needed, any longer, to help your plan along, the thought of being touched by me makes you sick. Makes you shake this way and look at me with that expression of...revulsion.” As if they are mirror images of one another, their first tears slip down their cheeks in near perfect sync. “What I'm afraid of, Avery, is that I'm about to find out that I was very wrong about you.” His claws abandon her arms, leaving behind pale yellow imprints as he grabs two fistfuls of her hair and crushes her between his body and the wall behind her. Pressing his wet cheek to hers he hisses, “You're afraid I'm about to rape you?” She says nothing. Fat tears keep streaking down her cheeks. “No, Eva. I'm not going to knock you down, hold you down. Wrench your knees open...” Smith is shaking, crying, forcing his words out, syllable by syllable through clenched teeth. “Just touching you this much,” he tears his fingers from her hair, “sickens me, now that I know.”

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“Now that you know what?” she asks, her sudden calm almost spooky beside Smith's agony of emotion. “Now that I know you...you feel nothing for me. That you never felt anything for me. Except maybe hate. Contempt.” “You seem awfully sure of this theory of yours. This theory you haven't tested.” “I don't need to perform laboratory experiments. All I had to do was review the evidence.” “Such as what?” “Such as that insane plan you hatched out behind my back. A plan in which I see I play the same role as Riggs.” “Avery...” she says, warmth flooding her voice, her gaze. “Don't call me that, anymore. Even my name sounds like a lie on your lips.” Smith tears himself from her and leaves, straightening and slowing himself before opening the door, which he closes and locks with quiet calm. **** “What do you think?” she asks John when she's told him about Smith's visit. “I think he's hurt.” “Are you hurt?” she asks. “Have I hurt you?” “No, Eva. You've never hurt me.” He gives her a weak smile, and kisses her forehead. “But you trusted me. You brought me on board. But you played Smith.” “More than he played me?” “No.” “Besides. That's not really the difference. Is it?”

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“Between me and Smith? No.” “What do you think he'll do now?” she asks. “Honestly, I don't know.” They are quiet together for a long time. “John?” “Yeah.” “What did Smith mean? What he knew you were capable of?” Her question hits him, shrinks him. “I don't know.” John tips back against the wall, hugging himself, and with obvious effort, meets her eyes. “He probably means Amy and Juliette,” he says, his voice frail and hollow. Eva steps near, but doesn't touch him because when she tries, he retreats further against the wall, further into himself, shrinking. His mouth opens, but for a long time no words come out. “Amy was a med student,” John finally says, his body trembling, barely vibrating, like it is resisting the pull of the past, anchoring him there in Eva's room. “She was doing her residency at Grady. When the virus broke out, it didn't take them—the medical community—long to figure out what it was. A chimera. A bio weapon. A man-made virus with properties of smallpox and ebola.” “Yeah,” Eva says. The news had been everywhere for twenty-four days. “There'd been some work done, going back decades, working up vaccines against weapons like that. There wasn't nearly enough to inoculate the general population, but at Amy's hospital they worked up batches of the vaccine as quickly as

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they could. And I guess it's the usual thing, staff and their families got that chance that most people didn't get. Amy, Juliette, me, we all got the vaccine.” John is silent again for a long time, his red eyes filling with tears, his vibrating body beginning to shake. “For a while, seventeen days, we thought we were okay. I mean, the world was coming apart all around us. But we'd boarded up the house; we had food. We didn't seem to be getting sick. We promised each other the virus would run its course, and we'd find the other survivors—even if it was just half the neighborhood—and we'd bury the dead and put out the fires and put the world back together again. But then—“ John's voice cracks. He starts again. “But then Amy got sick. All the early symptoms. And then Juliette. The disease went slower, with them, probably because of the vaccine. But by then we knew what would happen. Weeks of it on the news, and no one who'd gotten sick had survived. It was always the same. Pain, then...horror. Then death. “We'd promised each other, Amy and me, that if we got sick, we'd end it before it got bad. Before the bleeding and the madness. Amy'd made up three injections. But we'd talked about it like it would be all of us. The three of us together. Dying that way, it hadn't sounded so bad. “Juliette got sick after Amy, but the disease worked faster on her. It was just three days, and we could see the bruises all over. And she was crying more than usual. We knew we couldn't wait. That it was just going to get worse for her. And Amy—“ John's words come out torn and wet.

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“She didn't want to...to stay, after Juliette. So we huddled together, the three of us in our bed. Juliette in Amy's arms, Amy in mine. Amy was going to give Juliette the injection, and then herself. But in the end, she couldn't. Couldn't kill her little girl. “So I did it. Injected Juliette. And after she was gone, gave Amy her injection.” **** Deep in the dark of the storming night, Eva and John sleep, curled up in the warmth of each other's bodies. By the time the ruckus of the soldiers entering wakes Eva and John, the men are on them. Flashlight beams cut through the night, blinding the couple. Men seize them, drag them naked from their bed. “John,” Eva says just below a shout, “Right now. Let go. You have to let go of me.” He lets go. Lights flick on. Two masked soldiers aim their weapons at John and back him into a corner. He watches, taut, crouched, ready to spring as four more masked soldiers get Eva up against the wall. Eva and John look frantically around the room. Then at each other. Smith is not there. Pinned behind the muzzles of two riffles, John watches the soldiers bind Eva's wrists behind her back, watches them stuff black cloth into her mouth, then tie a gag between her teeth and pull a black hood over her head and drag her away.

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CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Eva has stopped struggling against the plastic cuffs locking her wrists to the iron bars at the head of the narrow bed. For hours she has been sitting still, eyes open, breathing in a steady, even rhythm. It's getting light. When there's the sound of a key scraping into a lock, though, she stiffens and her breathing quickens. The door opens. A man Eva doesn't know enters. Tall. Muscular. Dark hair. Dark eyes. The soldier closes the door behind him, and Eva's breathing goes frantic. Maybe without knowing it, she tugs uselessly against the plastic cuffs again. “I'm not going to hurt you,” he says in a quiet voice. He has not come any closer to her since shutting the door. “The Major sent me to check on you.” Eva's rigid, trembling body stills, softens. Little by little, her panting slows and deepens. “I can get you some water, if you're thirsty.” Eva is silent. The soldier goes behind the canvas drape to the right of the door, and there's a sound of water gushing from a tap. He emerges with a plastic cup. As he approaches, Eva locks eyes with him. She is shaking. “You must be thirsty,” he says, and extends the hand with the cup of water. Eva leans forward and drains the cup the soldier puts to her lips. “More?” he asks. “No. Thank you.”

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Her body and her voice are taut. “If you need to,” the soldier pauses to choose his words, “use the can,” is the phrase he settles on, “I can let you up for a couple minutes.” Eva looks toward the canvas drape. “No. I'm good.” “Sure? I won't be back for two hours.” “I'm sure.” “Later, I'll have some food for you.” The soldier goes toward the door. “Diego?” she breathes. He turns. Smiles. “That was dumb of me, not to introduce myself,” he says. “This is strange. Guess I'm nervous.” Then, an afterthought, “How'd you know my name?” “This—Smith ordered it?” “Yes.” Tears run down Eva's face, but she doesn't seem to know she's crying. In a quiet, nearly normal voice, she says, “John's told me about you. All of you. You and Evan are the only ones Smith would let near me. Unless he wanted to...” she trails off. Diego comes near, hesitates, then sits on the edge of the bed. “Major Smith doesn't want you hurt.” “What about John?” “He's all right.”

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“How do you know?” she asks, her walls crumbling. “It was me and Evan on John, when we went in. Smith wouldn't have let anyone else near him.” “The way they took me out. He'll think...he'll think...” Eva is falling apart, tears pouring through her shattering dam. “Eva,” Diego tries to get through the veil of tears washing her away. “Eva. He knows. John knows you're all right.” “How?” “Evan snuck him a note.” Eva stares at Diego with red, tear-bleared eyes. “You're sure?” “I'm sure. He knows.” “Smith. Did he say how long I'd be here?” “No.” “Can you try to see John?” “Sure. I'll try to see him.” “If you do, tell him I'm okay. I'm not hurt. And tell him it's you, checking on me. That I'm not scared, now.” **** “What's happening to her?” “The same thing that's happening to you. She's getting a little taste of anarchy. Of what she can expect if she won't cooperate to ensure I can maintain order, here.”

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“That didn't look like anarchy, Smith. This is a goddamned police state. Your goons come in here and carry out your orders like fucking brown shirts.” Smith smiles. “Tell me she's okay.” “That depends on you, John.” “Tell me she's okay,” John's voice shoots up. He is shaking and ropey veins bulge from his neck. Smith relents. “No one's hurt her.” John's rigid body sags. A heavy silence hangs between the two men in that small room. “I'm surprised you'd come in here alone,” John finally says, not like a threat. Like a statement of plain fact. “Without Eva? Or without men?” “One or the other.” “I'm safe with you, John. With you locked in here, who would keep Eva safe if something happened to me?” “You don't keep her safe. You've never kept her safe. It's you she needs to be protected from.” “Me? Do you think Riggs and his men were acting on my orders when they tried to rape Eva in the orchard? What do you think would have become of her, if I hadn't intervened? Even you couldn't have kept her safe from them for long.”

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“So? What? That gives you absolute dominion over her? You keep your fucking soldiers from raping her to death, and that gives you the right to dictate who she fucks? And where? And when and in which position? I swear to god it's beyond me why she...” John swallows the end of his sentence. “You know that's not it, John.” Smith goes on in a choked voice. “It's not fair. And I wish the burden didn't fall so heavily on her. I wish that with my whole heart. But John, she is the future. And it's my burden to protect that future.” Smith straightens and hardens. “And with that in mind, I have an ultimatum for you.” John squares off, meeting Smith's eyes, glowering. “Since she can't be trusted, Eva's been moved to more secure accommodations. I'm afraid I can't afford to leave her in the relative luxury of this room. Or to let you go on living with her, coming and going as you please. And of course there'll be no more working outside, or strolls around the grounds for her. But I will allow you to finish out your term as stud, if you agree to the conditions.” “Which are?” “You will visit her only for the purposes of inseminating her. And I will be present, to ensure you make a sincere effort.” John laughs. It's a broken, cynical laugh. “And, since the two of you have demonstrated how ready you both are to deceive and defy me, and I would be remiss if I put undue trust in your cooperation, she will be tied down for the duration of your conjugal visits. I can be sure you won't try anything heroic, with her cuffed to a bed.” “You're fucking kidding me,” John sobs.

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“I wish such ugly measures weren't necessary. But you and Eva have made it impossible for me to be more lenient.” “That's fucking bullshit,” John seethes through clenched teeth. “You're not taking precautions to ensure a prosperous future. You're punishing us.” John's chest is heaving as he glares at Smith like he's trying to fathom a mad mind. “No,” John starts again. “Not us. Her. You're punishing her. Not for hurting your precious possible future. You're punishing her for being unfaithful to you.” Smith flinches and pales, as if John's words have opened a mortal wound. “Don't be ridiculous, John.” “Ridiculous? You know damn fucking well she was doing what you wanted. Trying to get pregnant. She just wasn't doing it your way. She hurt your ego. Have you even thought about whether she was right? Whether her plan was better than yours? Or were you in too big a hurry to crack the whip to examine what's really going on?” Smith doesn't yield a single dent under John's barrage. “Even when you've scared me,” John starts again, reigned in, quiet, slow, “your cold rationality, Smith, I've always respected you. Trusted you, in a way. Trusted you to be straight. Moral. But this. You're becoming the worst kind of tyrant. The autocrat who uses his powers to satisfy his personal whims. You don't even see it. You're hurting her, you're risking everything you pretend to protect, because...” “Go on, John.” “I know you, Smith. I know you want to do good. To be good. Please. Please, take a long look at what you're doing.” “What's that, John?”

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“Oh god,” John breathes. “You really are. You're torturing her. Punishing her. Out of fucking petty jealousy.” Smiths voice is cool. Vacant. “No, John.” After a long, desperate look at Smith, after defeat has worked over John's expression, after that look of defeat is worn away by a sudden realization, John says, “No. No. I should have realized. It's not her you're punishing. It's not her you're bringing into line. It's you.” Some painful current shakes Smith. “This. This cruelty, this torture, you're determined to prove to yourself that you haven't been corrupted. That you'll still hold Eva to your law, in cuffs, if you have to, even though you've...you...” **** Looking hollowed out, drained of life, Smith approaches Eva, still cuffed to her bed. They lock eyes, hers fierce, seeking, his vulnerable, like it's him lashed down, helpless to evade the pain of looking on her. When he comes near, she doesn't flinch away, or stiffen, or yell. Without touching her, he cuts through the plastic cuffs, releasing one wrist, then the other. He examines but doesn't touch the red indentations where the weight of her arm made the plastic dig into her flesh. But there are no welts, no chafed, seeping wounds. She never struggled enough to hurt herself. As soon as he's liberated her from the restraints, Smith moves away. Eva gets off the bed, goes behind the beige canvas curtain. The sound of her urine streaming into the water in the bowl fills the little room. Something is going to be said. Or done. Eva waits for it, pacing the room, working her muscles after hours on the bed.

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“I've been unjust, Eva,” Smith confesses, his posture and his expression suggesting he's facing a firing squad, not a prisoner. “Cruelly unjust. I admit: I wanted to scare you. Terrify you, even. But really, it wasn't meant as punishment. To hurt you. I only wanted to show you how awful it might get, if things go really wrong. I believed, when I did it, that I was making you live through a sort of cautionary tale. “Because, in my blindness, I imagined you didn't take the danger seriously. But I was wrong, I think.” With a look, he pleads with her. “Yes,” she says. “My crimes are too grave. I don't ask you to forgive me. But I want you to know I'm sorry. Sorry for all the fear, all the pain you've suffered here. You and John, both. Because of me.” “Your apology isn't worth much,” she says. “But I'll forgive you. When you've earned it.” “How would I do that?” “You know how. But we can talk about that later.” “What should we talk about now?” “Riggs.” “Why?” “I was never with Riggs the way I've been with you.” For a long, long while Smith goes blank and quiet and still. A sudden, vertical catatonia. Eva rides out the silence like one who's learned patience cuffed to a bed, waiting to endure her fate.

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Finally, Smith speaks, his voice hoarse, his words slow. “Just smelling you on him, god, I could have murdered him. Because, of course he denied it. Pretended nothing had happened. So it wasn't until I smelled your cunt on his fingers that I had my proof. “That moment, Riggs standing there, so big and strong, scared and weak, loathsome, and your scent, your sex working on me. I could picture it, you going to him like a warrior into battle. Enduring him. My gut seized up like I'd puke.” Another vast silence. “And the next moment, I realized. That's what you'd done with me. Endured me. You suffered me, my lovemaking, like a wound.” Something is shaking Eva. Squeezing her. Wringing her until her eyes fill with tears. “I don't even know what to say to that.” Eva's voice is choked. “God, Avery, I'm eighteen, and I'd never even dated, much less had a lover before seven weeks ago. But I know John cares for me. And I know you do, too. Know it beyond doubt. Despite what you've put me through. Do I accuse you of fucking me just to get off? Or to satiate your massive ego?” Rough and blunt, Eva's voice ratchets up. She wields her words like weapons. “But you? I really doubt you cloistered yourself behind the walls of your military fortress as an eighteen-year-old virgin, keeping yourself pure until I—wicked whore that I am—seduced you there in my little prison room. Haven't you been in love before? Don't you know what it feels like? Do you really think I've just been faking it? When I've kissed you? When I've touched you? Held you?”

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“Yes,” Smith fires back, “I have some experience with women. Enough to know, from both sides, that it's not so hard to mistake pleasure and warmth for deeper things. “I was foolish, Eva, to imagine you could care for me in spite of what I'd done to you. But I would be quite the idiot, now, to let myself believe your warmth, your tenderness has been anything but a means to an end. And I can hardly blame you. What other means did you have at your disposal, but the ones you've used so adeptly?” “It's your own fault, Avery. All by yourself you've made a lie of the few warm moments you and I got to share. It's because you really did leave me no alternative that you can only doubt me, now. If you'd let me live here, an equal with all of you, there'd be no reason for you to suspect that I—yesterday you said 'hate,' didn't you—that I hate you. That I hated you every time I lay next to you while you kissed and caressed me. That I hated you while I held you to me while you were inside of me. I've been honest with you. At least as honest as you've been with me. We've both kept our agendas close. But I've never pretended anything with you. “You're a flawed man, Avery. And things you've done horrify me. I've never pretended otherwise. And I'd have done anything I could to change that. And hopefully, I have. “But that's separate from whatever this thing is between us. Just like you giving me away to John like a fucking stray dog.” Avery is staring at her like he's trying to look through her eyes, through her skull, into her brain. Her heart. He pulls her against him, hard, holds her there, close, his arms and hands encircling and grasping.

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Smith's features are little different from their usual configuration—pale, composed, rigid. But his eyes look wild, and a trail of tears flows steadily from them, over the high, defined cheekbones, from the sharp jaw. She presses both palms to his wet face, her eyes locked on his, seeking something in him, or maybe offering up something of herself. “Don't,” he says, his voice cool and even, even as his tears leak between her fingers and over the backs of her hands. “What?” Her voice, her look earnest. “I'm cold. I'm hard. But you—you're cruel.” She presses a kiss to his mouth. Slow. Soft. Warm. Then asks, “How am I cruel?” “It's like divine justice, I suppose. A kind of inadvertent masochism.” “Avery. You're not making sense.” She has begun undressing him. He is lax, almost indifferent as she unbuttons his shirt and slides it from his shoulders, as she raises the hem of his tank and pulls it over his head and down his arms. He tells her, “I'm not the first. It's a common literary motif, as I'm sure you know.” “What's that?” “The man who creates the monster which subsequently destroys him. Stop it, Eva.” She's got his belt undone, now, and is getting to work on his fly. He catches her wrists, wrenches her hands away. “It's not me that's afraid, Avery. Of being touched.”

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Eva relents and Smith's eagle talons release her wrists. Her gaze is tender but her act is defiant: she strips the gown from her body in three quick swipes. Smith lunges. Pounces on her. He traps and bends and pins her, kneeling and immobile on the floor in front of him, her naked form crushed to him. “It can't work, Eva. You can't milk the heat from me with your body,” he pronounces against the nape of her neck. Then, wrapped around her as he is, he freezes immobile, trapping her naked body in the confines of his marble frame. “Avery,” she says some minutes later. “I'm cold.” He seems to rouse himself from catatonia. “Eva. You're shivering. Get a blanket from the bed, but come back to me.” She pulls the blanket from the bed, letting it trail on the ground behind her as she walks back to Smith. Only when she's settled between his legs, nestled back against his bare chest does she spread the blanket over his legs and hers, so that even when she pulls it up under her chin it does not come between them. Like vines blindly seeking support his limbs twine around her. “When John brought you into my office that day,” Smith breathes, as if to himself, “I hardly even saw you. You were simply the embodiment of an anticipated event. My mind was busy working through the plan I'd come up with almost a year earlier, and while it worked, my eyes hardly saw anything but the expected outward manifestations of your ordeal. You were weak. Starving. Filthy. Scared half senseless. All as I'd expected, if a woman ever actually ever crossed our threshold. And not much different than your predecessors. Of course your fear was of a different quality, after Riggs and his men. I saw right away you were terrified of John. And suspicious of me.

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“Then, when I came back to my room, and you'd showered and put on my robe, all the dirt was washed away, your matted hair was clean, and I saw how frail and how young you were. I couldn't see you except juxtaposed beside my plan. “My plan. It felt so separate from me, like it had been dreamed up and set in motion by someone else, and I was just an automaton, going through pre-destined motions. It never occurred to me to change course. But, looking at you—you were so thin, then, and my robe made you seem even smaller—I wanted to protect you. Hold you, comfort you after everything I imagined you'd been through, keep you safe from everything I knew was coming. “But the thing about you that really took hold of me, that first night, was that, starved and worn out as you were, young as you were and apart from people for all that time, you'd calculated just where you stood. I saw you make your appeal, trying to play on some combination of my pity and my lust, to keep you with me. You knew you were in for something, knew I was your best chance of escaping some horrific fate. “I'd planned long before—when I'd come up with the idea of that first ritual fuck to release the inevitable violent pressure I knew would descend on the camp if a woman ever arrived—I'd come up with the idea of drugging the sacrificial lamb. So I laced your wine as I'd planned all along. “But I couldn't believe how I wanted to keep you with me. Not to trade your reprieve from the lottery for the use of you. I wanted—more than I can remember wanting anything before—to be your asylum. To keep you, unmolested, in my bed. To hold you and feel your anxious trembling subside as you came to see I'd just comfort and protect you and never demand anything of you.

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”But it seemed impossible. I was sure it would be the end of my command. That the men would mutiny. And I had a very clear vision of what would become of you in that case. So I went through with it. When you grabbed my hand and begged me to stay, I told myself that I was saving you from what I guessed you feared. “Then, John. That was a gamble. An improvisation. I thought I could assuage the men, and still spare you. Almost. But even though I was sure he'd be as careful with you as I would have been, Eva, I'd never felt such agony as I felt when you broke loose and threw yourself against me and held on to me like I was your last hope of survival. I knew what you imagined—that he would just be the first—I tried to make you understand that none of the others would touch you. But god, I wanted to just hold you to me, take you back with me, let you fall asleep, safe and untouched, in my arms. But I let him—made him—tear you from me and consummate your counterfeit union. “I've done horrifying things before, as you say. I'm a soldier. I've been to war. By definition, just doing my duty I've committed atrocities. But I'd never felt myself to be a monster before that night in the mess hall. “I made myself stay, not jut to ensure order prevailed, but to force myself to witness what you went through, to endure the sound of your screams and sobs. Somehow it had been easy, before you'd made your quiet, gentle appeal in my room, to believe that the drugs would nearly numb you. That it would be bad, but not too bad, compared with the broader horror of the apocalypse. Compared with the safety it would buy you. But in the mess hall I saw your terror, even through the haze of your buzz. When John carried you out unconscious, I hoped for a moment that you'd passed out before he'd...That you hadn't felt anything. But I crushed that hope as soon as I felt it,

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forced myself to assume, instead, that you'd endured the whole ordeal, fully aware, and had only fainted when John had finished with you, out of terror you were about to be handed off to the rest of them. “When I heard you and John talking in your room two days later, and understood from your conversation that he had managed to spare you the actual rape, I can't remember ever having felt such relief. Joy, even. But the next second, I was in agony again. It would all have to be endured again. John had meant to be kind, to spare you the brutal horror of being raped, surrounded by that pack of leering, drooling men. But you'd gone through all that terror, and now the rape was yet ahead of you. John had tried to be kind, to prove himself your friend, but in the end he'd have to pin you down and violate you. And even if it would be in the quiet isolation of your own room, it seemed almost more awful that you would be raped by John after he'd spared and befriended you. Because cruelty at the hands of a stranger or an enemy isn't a betrayal. “But it was impossible to avert the tragedy. The men were so heated and frenzied by your arrival. Just hiding you away, it would have been like going among a pride of starving lions covered in the scent of blood. “I didn't dare watch your first taped encounter along with the men. My stoicism had been stretched far beyond its limit in the mess hall, and it wouldn't do, letting the men see me. So I waited until they'd had their viewing, then took the tape and watched in the safety of my office. I was prepared for a painful spectacle. John, having no choice, finally forcing himself on you, or, perhaps, you reluctantly allowing him to do what you had to know you couldn't prevent.

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“When you appeared before John—before all of us—naked, not crying, not shaking, not a victim, and took control of John, of the whole encounter, you rescued— not just yourself, but all of us from a worse degradation of our humanity than we'd already suffered. And me—I know you didn't mean to, that you couldn't have cared, that I didn't deserve it, but Eva, you delivered me from hell. I brought that tape to my room to deliver myself into the purgatory I'd earned for myself, and you—my victim—you saved me. “I'd believed for a long time, that I had to make myself a devil to save the people in my charge; that in order to preserve human life, the actions I would have to undertake would estrange me from myself so far that I would be eager for the end of my own life. My one consolation was that I don't believe in god or hell. Except hell on earth, of course. And the hell we make for ourselves in our own minds and hearts. “You spared me the agony of knowing I'd taken a frightened, hunger-weakened girl and brutalized her by proxy. I was in such awe of you—I often frighten and alienate people with my cool hardness, and with the ways my brain is never deterred, in working a solution to a problem, by obstacles of emotion or morality—but I was in awe of you, Eva. How you somehow put aside the horrific indignation you had to have felt at the position imposed on you. Put aside your fear and embarrassment, and instead of being martyred, you took all the power being wielded over you and made it yours. “I didn't realize it that night, or for a long time after, but that—you appearing that way before John and orchestrating your encounter with him—that was the moment I began to fall in love with you.” It sounds like he is speaking of being diagnosed with an illness.

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“I didn't guess it, didn't even consider so...impossible a thing, until the day we...Until I'd made my first sperm donation. It was no surprise to find, when tested, that I desired you so intensely it felt like going mad. I knew I was astonished by you, that the way I'd seen you were with John was the most enticing image of sexual allure imaginable to me—a genuinely eager appetite tempered by that incredible sweetness you always show him—even when you're tearing the reins from his grasp. “And even as you defeated me in that first battle, there in your room, I allowed myself to admire you as a worthy adversary, but never for a second did I let myself even wonder if your seduction was anything but a piece of strategy. Maybe to make me violate the cardinal rule, so you could blackmail me. Or maybe just to lure me into your bed where, perhaps, you thought you'd earn some influence with me, so you'd have some hope of directing your own fate to some small degree. “Then, when you kept me inside you as I finished, I knew—at least in part—what you wanted with me. “But then you held me so tenderly, after. And the way you looked at me—there was no smug triumph in your expression. No contempt. You looked... I imagined, in that moment, that you actually liked me. “I didn't permit myself to dwell on it. Even to wonder. I resolved that it was only a ploy. Then, you and John coming to me. I wanted to feel ensnared. Tricked. Held hostage. “But those evenings, the three of us. I felt sure, watching you all those weeks before that you really cared for John. Even loved him. And when we were all together, and I'd watch you a while with him, and see how tenderly you'd look at him as you

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touched him, made love to him. And when you'd come to me, I thought you looked at me just as tenderly. “And when I came to you later, on my own, I even imagined your need with me was fiercer that I'd ever seen it with John. I imagined that you... I imagined that you loved him differently, but not more than me.” Smith falls silent. Eva says, “I was wrong. You don't doubt me because you think I need to manipulate you. You doubt me because you think you're unlovable.” Eva extricates herself from Smith's desperate embrace. The blanket slips to the floor as she turns and kneels, her eyes fixed on his, her hands stroking his hair and face. “It must hurt, so much, being touched, and kissed, and never feeling cared for. Just feeling used. But Avery, I'll love you, if you'll let me. But I can't make you believe it. You have to work out for yourself how to do that.” Against Smith's wet, burning cheek Eva brings her lips in a slow, gentle question of a kiss. Smith doesn't flinch or recoil, but he is so hard, not even breathing; it's like he's steeling himself against an anticipated hurt. She touches his face with her lips again, wetting them with his tears. Her fingertips comb into his close-cut hair, just above his ear, and her lips follow, kissing his temple, his hair, the upturned pink crescent at the top of his ear. “You're wrong about me, Avery,” she says low and soft, “I'm not cruel. Any more than you are.”

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She draws him into her arms, holding him to her, their bare chests pressed together. “Let me, Avery. Let me be tender with you. Let me love you.” When he releases his caught breath, he convulses with sobs, shaking her. She holds him tighter, lets him squeeze her to him in his desperate grip. When he calms and softens, she pets and kisses him, stroking his hair, his shoulders, his back, pressing her lips to the pale, sinuous curve of his neck. When she leans back to look into his eyes, then touches her lips to his, he is trembling. Then, as if he's decided to throw himself from the precipice he's been hovering near, he hurls himself full force into her kiss, against her body. His tongue and lips and teeth on her lips, her jaw, her throat, her breasts. “Avery,” she pants. “Avery, wait.” When her words fail to cool or slow him even a little she wedges her elbows between them, pries him from her. “I love how hot and hard we fuck, Avery. Sometimes I go a little insane, wanting it, having to wait for you. But tonight I want to be tender with you.” He stares at her, the hurt, crazed look in his eyes flickering, then softening. She kisses him again. He yields with a soft mouth, and when he folds her in his arms again his embrace is gentle. Between kisses she looks at him, lets him read her. With quiet calm, she moves back the few inches necessary, and undoes his fly. They collaborate to get the constraining fabric out of their way, then she rises up on her knees and takes him in.

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She trembles as she makes love to him. Sometimes they watch each other. Sometimes they kiss. But after a while they are holding each other tight and close, all their flesh meshed and twined until she sobs and twitches through her climax, then cradles him through his. After, she brings him to her prison bed. “What do you want from me, Avery?” He looks at her for a long time. “John,” Smith says. “You really do love him. Don't you?” “Yes.” “You know I don't mind that, don't you? That I don't feel some need to...possess you. Keep you from him.” She is quiet. “Or even to try to wrestle some sign from you that you love me more than him. It's enough for me, possibly more than I'll know how to bear, if you sincerely love me.” “If you can learn to believe it, you mean.” “I suppose so.” “I do love you, Avery. If you'll stop looking for reasons to doubt it, maybe you'll feel it, it will feel real to you someday. But you'll never feel it, as long as you hate yourself. The things you do here in the name of saving us. “You can be a good man, and a good leader, both. That's what I want from you.” Smith smiles, and in his smile, in his eyes, there's more fear than joy. “I'm trying, Eva,” he breathes. “I know.”

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She looks back at him with almost the same fear-laced smile, strokes his flaxen hair. Then she presses his palm to her lips, brings his hand to her breast, guides it down, holds it against her taut, flat belly. “There's one other thing I want from you,” she says. “Be a good father to your child.”

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CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Smith escorts Eva back to her old room, back to John. When Eva goes through the door, he watches her go to John, watches John pull her to him, kiss her hair, whisper to her. Before Smith closes the door John meets his eyes and, a moment later, looking sad and fatigued, smiles. “You're all right?” John asks her when Smith has gone. Eva smiles up at him and nods. “They didn't hurt you?” “No. No one hurt me. What about you?” “No.” They pull each other close again, hold each other for a long time. “I told him,” Eva says later. In his calm, quiet way John says, “Good.” “I was afraid you'd be unhappy.” “No. If you told him, you trust him.” “Yes.” “And he brought you back here. So you were right to. Probably.” Later, they are damp and hot and naked, twined together, panting their fatigue. Eva had started it, and John had yielded, warm, tender, like always. “Are you going to him tonight?” he asks her. “No.” “Tomorrow?”

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“Maybe.” “Eva.” John looks at her, smiles. With one finger, he touches her hand, connecting them. “It's all right, I mean, I'll be all right, if you want to be with him. Instead of me.” Eva's eyes go bright. She clenches her jaw. “Is that what you want?” “I want you to do what makes you happiest.” “What do you want? For yourself?” she asks him. “You. As much of you as you really want to give.” “Then I stay with you.” “Only as long as you're happy.” She smiles. “I am happy.” Then, “It feels weird to say it.” “I wish I could love you the way you need to be loved,” John says. “You do.” “No. I don't.” “John.” She nestles against him, their faces just an inch apart on the pillow they're sharing. “It's just that you don't need me. He loves me like he'll disintegrate, blow apart if he can't have me. You love me like you'd suffer anything for my sake. Like you feel my needs before your own. “Your love holds me safe. Warm. You, your love, you... You're my joy. My hope.” **** “Avery.” “Eva.”

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Smith looks at her, his grin teasing, his eyes glinting. His naked body is pale and smooth as marble, and even though he's slight of build, his finely muscled body is so sleek he looks like he might be as hard as marble, too. “I don't want to sneak off and do things behind your back any more.” The grin and the glint fade. “Good,” he breathes. His focus sharpens. “I'm going to go to Jake.” “What do you mean, 'go to' him?” “Avery. You know what I mean,” she says, her voice gentle. Smith sits up, leans over Eva, naked, undefended. Just gazing up into his eyes. He closes in, opens his mouth. Then retreats, silent. “I was going to say you can't be serious,” he finally tells her, “but I know you are.” Another long silence. “Why do you want to go to Jake?” “Avery,” she says, her gentleness tinged dark around the edges. “You know how horribly he's been hurt.” “Yes.” “Think. How hurt, how alone he is. Think what it would be for him, to have someone be his friend. To be held.” “And what it would mean to him to fuck you.” Her gaze is steady, her voice is soft. “Yes.” “Eva. It's a bad idea.” “Why?”

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“If he was victimized before, how do you think he'll be treated if the men catch on? Especially now. John, fine. He won the lottery. The men might be bitter, but they at least believe it could have been them. That it still might be them, next time. But now, they know about Riggs. I'm sure they suspect as much of me. It's one thing for them to be wishing they'd been the lucky one. But every time they learn someone else has been with you, they'll feel more and more left out. Like, if Riggs is so lucky, if I'm so lucky, then they should be so lucky, too.” “Maybe they should.” “What?” She smiles. “Be so lucky.” “You're not serious. Eva. Really, you can't be.” “Avery,” she says, quiet, slow, “we know what's going to happen after I have this baby. Unless we happen across a survivor population in the meantime, I need to get pregnant again. And that means another three men. And for a third pregnancy, another three. Where's the sense of letting the men's resentments, frustrations, their loneliness fester until their turn for a shot at fatherhood comes up?” Eva goes quiet. Avery sinks down into the bed, beside her. “What's the point?” he sighs. “There's a big difference between being paired up with someone for a few weeks while you're trying to get pregnant, and...subjecting yourself to...to that, with all of them...what? What will it be? One of them every day? Two a day? What sort of schedule do you have in mind for sating the needs of twenty men?” “I don't know,” she says, fear threading her voice.

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After a long quiet she goes on. “This is about more than getting the men off. Like you said, once, they're more complex than that. I think it will do good, them just having someone they can touch, someone who'll put their arms around them, someone they can let see them weak and sad and scared. Maybe I won't be able to. But I think I can. I managed, with Riggs. And they can't all be like Riggs.” “No. A couple of them are worse.” “Well. They can think about whether they want to be crossed off the list, and stuck watching old tapes of me and John while the others get to enjoy my company now and then.” “You need to be thinking about the baby. Taking care of this pregnancy.” “Of course, Avery. But I could only do this now, while I'm pregnant, when paternity's not an issue. Where's the danger? I'm having sex, anyway. With you. With John.” “Yes. And we're gentle with you.” “Gentle? Really?” she teases Smith. “Eva. There's rough sex, and then there's rough sex. If one of them hurts you—“ “We'll work something out so I'm not alone with them. I was never alone with Riggs, you know.” Smith lies on his back, staring up at the ceiling in silence for a long time. Eva is quiet, too. “You—“ he starts, then starts again. “I don't want you to, Eva,” he says, his voice soft. A lover's voice. Not a commander's voice.

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“I know. But you not wanting me to won't stop me.” “I won't let you,” he says in the other voice. “It's not for you to decide.” “I'm not telling you as your lover.” “No. I know.” “I'm still in charge of the base, Eva. I hate for things to come to me giving you orders, but I'm in charge of you, too.” “Avery. I'll listen to anything you have to say. But I won't take orders from you on this.” “God, Eva. Don't do this.” “Did you mean it, Avery, when you said it was wrong of you to give me to John? That it was wrong of you to make us perform for the cameras?” “Yes.” “Telling me who I can't fuck is as bad as telling me who I have to fuck. It's the flip side of sexual slavery.” “Christ, Eva. Don't exaggerate.” “I'm not exaggerating,” she says, calm, soft. “The only person who has a right to my body is me. If you keep me locked away, if you control who has access to my cunt, you turn my cunt into a piece of property. It doesn't much matter if it belongs to you, Avery, my lover, or to the state, Major Smith.” **** The next day, John takes Eva to Riggs, and she tells him that she's pregnant. That he and Smith and John are going to be fathers. He is blank as she tells him.

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“Are you unhappy?” she asks. “What do you mean, we're all three going to be fathers?” “I mean, I hope that all of you will help to take care of the baby. Hold her. Or him. Talk to her. Teach her to walk. Play with her. Help keep her safe. Love her.” Riggs looks over at John for a minute. Then looks at Eva. A rare, lingering moment of eye contact. “For a daddy to your baby. You really want me?” he asks, his voice low and ragged. “Yes. But only if you really want to. No one's going to make you, if you don't want to.” “I didn't think I'd ever get to be a dad,” he says. “You know, after the dying.” **** Eva raises her fist, but pulls back her hand before her knuckles strike the dark, varnished wood. She hesitates, then calls out, in a soft voice, too quiet at first to penetrate the door. Then just a little louder. “Jake?” There's no need to announce herself. Who else sounds like that? Hers is the only female voice. Behind the door, footsteps. Then silence. It's almost a minute before there's a sound of a lock clicking, the knob turning. Between the mahogany door and its frame, a darkness appears and widens. Only the pale light from the hall reveals the face of a man in the shadows.

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“Hi,” she says, back to her quietest voice. When he stays silent, when the aperture into his room stays fixed at the few inches he's opened it, she asks, “Can I come in for a minute?” He stares at her for a while, then opens the door barely enough for her to slip through, and shuts and locks it behind her as soon as she is inside. He does not turn on a light. Only the residual glow from a lantern outside his window makes edges and curves visible. “I've been wanting to see you,” she says, “talk to you. But I haven't had the chance.” If one works at picking past the shadows, Jake is standing, looking at Eva, his arms crossed tight over his chest. “I hope it's okay, me coming here. I realize it's kind of strange. But I don't have many people to talk to. And I figure you probably don't, either.” Jake is still. Silent. “But I'll go, if you'd rather be alone right now.” Jake still doesn't say anything. Eva gives him a sympathetic smile. “I'll go,” she says, and moves toward the door. “Stay,” he says in the dark. There's a long quiet, the two of them standing there, a few feet apart, facing each other in the dark. “I know a little about what's happened to you. From John.” Jake doesn't move. Doesn't say a word. “It must be hard, awful, being alone, here. No one to talk to. You can talk to me. About anything. If you want to.” When she reaches to touch his hand he slips out of

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reach, retreats further into the darkness. “I know I've been lucky, compared to you,” she says. “But... Well, you were there, that night in the mess hall. And I'm sure you heard about the orchard. So, the things you've been through. I'll understand. If you feel like talking about those things.” From within the dusky folds of night there is a wet, choked sound. Eva drifts toward Jake's shadowy form. This time he stays still and her fingers touch the back of his hand. It's clutching his bicep, making a shield of his forearm, but he lets her draw him into her arms, and moments later his body is shaking and he is sobbing. She holds him close, stroking his back. When he finally lowers his defensive shield and puts his arms around her, his embrace is a desperate, crushing circle. Eva just tightens her own hold on him, holding on as he melts against her. He goes soft, then softer. By the time he's out of tears he is limp. Eva holds him, gets him to bed. Lays him down, covers him with a heavy quilted bedspread from a bygone era. “You'll be okay, Jake,” she whispers, caressing his hair. “Goodnight.” She straightens and turns toward the door. “Eva,” he calls out like he's scared she's already gone. “What, Jake? I'm right here.” “Please don't go.” She sits. Lets him lay his head in her lap. Like a mother with a frightened child she strokes his hair. “Every time I hear a sound,” he whispers, his voice wet and choked, “a floorboard, a branch scraping the widow or the wall outside, a door slamming

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somewhere, I think they're coming for me. All of them. Like the first night. I'm so scared. All the time, I'm so scared.” His body is rigid, and now and then, he shivers convulsively as Eva goes on holding and petting him. When he goes soft and still, she rises, strips off her boots and socks and pants and over-shirt and gets into Jake's bed. She lies down on her back and pulls him to her, cradling his head on her chest, stroking his cheek, his hair, his arm, until the heavy even sound of his breathing confirms he has fallen asleep. In the middle of the night Eva wakes. The room, the building, the compound are still and quiet. In sleep their bodies have shifted; Jake is curled against her, his chest pressed to her back, his knees tucked in behind hers. His warm breath gathering in her hair isn't steady and rough with sleep. It's jagged and hitches every few breaths, then speeds to catch up with itself again. His hand is under her tank, pressed flat and soft against the hot skin of her belly. Eva stays still as Jake's soft palm inches over the soft curve below her navel, wandering up and back down again between her hip bones, circling that little swelling again and again, each lap requiring a minute or more. When his palm glides upward, his fingertips trace between her ribs, skirt the vulnerable hollow they outline. She keeps her breathing even and quiet as his touch comes up, as he fits the curve of his thumb and index finger under the curve of her breast. His hand is still for a long time, his body taut behind her, his abdomen shuddering irregularly against her back, maybe with the effort of smoothing and quieting his breathing. Then his thumb moves just half an inch or so, following the smooth curve of her breast up from her ribs, before it descends back

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down. She stays still. Except for his quiet struggle with his breath, he doesn't move again. When she shifts and turns to face him in the thick velvet dark Jake sucks in his breath and pulls his hand away. Now he is panting hard and she says nothing. Just draws a gentle hand down his arm, finds his hand, presses it to her belly, holding it to her, and when, except for his trembling and panting he stays still, she draws his hand up, over her swelling-dipping-swelling-belly, and up against the full swell of her breast, up, until his palm is curved over the stiffening peak. Abandoning his hand, she pulls him gently to her. He stays still. With one finger she furrows into his fine, wavy hair, tracing faint abstract shapes over his scalp with her nail. Gently, then, almost to the point of defying perception, Jake touches her; the curve of his palm and fingers follow her breast's curve, warming the surface so delicately there is no more impact on her flesh than if she'd draped a piece of silk over it. Then, like the brush of a feather, his fingertips move over her taut, velveteen skin, circumnavigating the base, gliding up the sleek warm slope. Tracing the outline of the responsive flesh at the summit. Eva kisses his smooth, hot forehead. Jake's fingertips gather to stroke and stiffen her nipple. Eva finds his other hand hidden shy and quiet on the mattress between them, and puts it to her other breast. Jake cups and caresses as she kisses and cradles him. When she pulls the hem of her tank up, baring her breasts, he makes a soft warm sound, but doesn't put his mouth to her until she flexes and lifts her breast to his lips. He kisses her, at first, like an icon. Reverently. Tremulously. Like a supplicant, desperate for mercy and solace but afraid of tarnishing what his lips touch. But after a

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while, as she kisses and cradles his head, holding him to her, kissing and sighing against his hair, his mouth goes seeking, needful, like an infant after comfort and nourishment. His touch soft like the caress of draped silk goes firm; the curve of his hands tighten, swelling her soft flesh against his lips; his pious kiss goes hungry, he suckles greedily, needfully, as if his life depends on her sustenance. Until now she has been soft and quiet, gently offering her tender warmth. But now that he is sucking, her breath is speeding and sounding; her warm, pliant body starts to flex and shudder as his tongue works over her hard, swelling nipples, her beatific expression contorts, her brow goes fretful, her serene smile fades as her lips part with frantic breath. When she sinks down, onto her back, he follows her, never breaking contact. When she pushes him gently from her, he lets out a broken little sob. But then he pushes himself up, off of her, goes still and silent for a moment before shifting himself away. Her hands arrest him, her knees rise to pen him in. Now, while he holds himself over her, she flexes and wiggles out of her underwear. Then, except for stroking his hair and kissing his brow, she is still. At first he does nothing. Then, shaking, breathing hard, with one hand he undoes his belt and fly and gets his pants down low on his hips. He sinks against her body and for a moment he just lies there, cradled in her arms and softness and warmth. When he does go into her, he goes deep, then goes still. She combs fingers through his hair, runs her hand in slow trails down and up the length of his quivering back. Panting, he clings to her and starts to move, thrusting fitfully, sinking deep, then lingering, leaving the depth of her warmth only long enough to allow for the return thrust. When she comes,

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she only groans softly, but keeps her caress gentle and steady, keeps her body soft for him. And when he comes she wraps her arms around him, holding him close but not tight. He stays inside her, wrapped tight around her, clinging to her nurturing heat, his face burrowed in her thick ebony hair, in the curve of her neck, for more than a quarter of an hour. Then he slips down beside her and she holds him close until a long while later they slip back under the surface of their broken sleep. “I'm usually afraid to go to sleep,” he tells her in the morning, “but today when I started to wake up, I didn't want to. I was afraid maybe last night was just a really nice dream.” Eva is lying naked next to Jake, the covers down to her waist, the sun's slanting rays heating the room and her skin. She ha been watching him sleep. Following the amber waves of his fine hair with her eyes. When he was asleep he looked young. Seventeen or eighteen. Now that his eyes—which are hazel and have the look of someone who has been to war—are open, he looks closer to thirty. Jake smiles. Jake looks saddest when he smiles. **** Eva tells Smith what she needs, and once he's thought of the best place—what was once a pair of adjoining classrooms in a building now out of use—Eva and Smith and John bend it to their purpose. Install two cameras. Disable the lock in the door between the two rooms. Put chairs and a table in one, and a bed and enough other furnishings in the other to make it passably hospitable. “I'll take bodyguard duty, for the first one,” Smith tells John. John grins.

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“Did you ask Eva what she wants?” When they ask her she asks them to do the first shift together. “I don't have a problem with him watching,” she tells John later, when they're alone. “But I'm afraid he won't be able to stand it, watching me with someone else. Someone other than you. That he'll charge in and break it up.” “Yeah.” “I figure you can calm him down, if he gets upset.” “I can try.” “Thank you. Again. For everything.” Her smile wavers. “I ask so much of you. We all ask so much of you. Too much,” she breathes. The next day, John and Smith cloister themselves in one room, and in the two monitors—pilfered from the now-defunct theater—re-assure themselves they can see enough of the second room, and watch Eva get ready for her first guest. “Do you really think this is a good idea,” Smith asks, “or did Eva bully you into this, the way she bullied me?” John smiles. Then his smile fades. “Good for the men? For the base? Yes. Good for Eva? I don't know.” “I don't know how she can do it. Just go ahead and fuck them all like it's nothing. Especially Riggs.” Smith glances from the monitors to John, and shrinks and pales, like he's lost a lot of blood, at the sight of his face. “You wouldn't say that if you'd ever seen her, after.” “No,” Smith says, his voice small. “Probably not.”

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Through the wall and through the archaic security system a knock can be heard faintly. Both men fix their eyes on the monitors as Eva ceases her nervous pacing and answers the door. “Hi Jason,” she says to Nichols with an amused grin. When she's closed the door behind him she says, “Is it okay if I call you Jason?” “Yeah,” he laughs. “'Course.” A blush flares from his throat, up his cheeks. “Here. Let's sit.” She gestures to the rather austere leather couch pilfered from the building's lobby, from among an assortment of furniture originally chosen for functionality rather than comfort, and they sit. His eyes lock on her, not like he's stripping her naked in his mind, but like he's watching her for cues, the way he might have watched the rigid mother of a new girlfriend his first time in her sitting room. When she reaches over and takes his hand in hers, he catches his breath and fixes his eyes on her with even more careful attention. “You know,” she says, “I've thought about you a lot since that day in the orchard.” Now he really blushes. “I saw, I remember, Jason, that you didn't want to... That you only touched me because they had a gun on you.” “I just didn't want to hurt you.” “I know. That means a lot.” “Is that why I'm here? Ahead of the others, I mean.” Eva smiles, and after a while, Nichols smiles back.

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“When I joined up,” he says, “I thought I'd be doing good. Helping people. Protecting what's good.” “Yeah.” “After it happened, even then I thought we'd do something important. Rescue survivors. Start to rebuild the world somehow. Not doing the things we've done.” “Well,” she says, “you did good, that day in the orchard.” “No. I just ran away. Like a coward.” “You slowed them down. It made all the difference.” She is still holding his hand in hers. “There's always a choice to make. Always a chance to be kind instead of cruel. To help instead of hurt.” “Yeah.” She slips her hand free of his, leans in, and caresses his face. He's watching her in that cue-seeking way again. Blushing again. “You're so pretty,” he says, like suddenly he can't believe he's this close to the woman he's been watching at a distance for weeks. Or maybe he only says it to end a difficult silence. She rises to her feet, extends her hand, and draws him up with her. He's breathing a little fast. With another little amused smile Eva steps close and puts her arms around him. After a few seconds, he wraps his arms around her. It's a stiff, awkward embrace at first. But little by little they soften against each other, and soon he's cradling her head to his chest, pulling her tight against him with the arm at her waist. His breathing speeds, gets heavy. “God, it feels good. So good, just holding you,” he sighs.

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She pulls him a little closer, caressing his back as they hold each other. Then she lets go, backs out of his arms, shoots him a teasing grin. “Does that mean you're not interested in the rest of the evening's program?” Nichols smiles and blushes and raises his eyebrows. “Well, I wouldn't exactly say that.” Smiling, then, watching him watch her, Eva strips out of her pants and stands there facing him in her t-shirt and panties. Panting, and with a nervous little grin, Nichols pulls his t-shirt over his head and drops it on the floor. Gazing up at him, Eva trails her fingertips through his hair, over his cheeks, down his neck and chest and belly. Even before her touch brushes his nipples, his lean abdomen is quivering, and his erection shows in plain relief under the trim cut of his military slacks. “Do you want to touch me?” she asks him. A smile is his only answer. “It's okay,” she says, and lifts his palm to her lips, kisses, then places his hand on her neck. Slow and careful he begins to touch. Hard, belly quivering, he strokes down the length of her arm, her throat, her cheek. Then, still watching her for cues, he brings his hand to her breast, and gently traces her contours over the khaki cotton of her tee. “You can undress me, if you want to,” she tells him. He looks away for a second, then looks back. “Would it be too weird if...” “What?” “Could I maybe kiss you?” There's a tick, then she smiles.

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“Sure. Jason. Yes.” He leans in close, brings his mouth to hers, and gives her one soft kiss. Then comes back, warm, slow, deep, and tastes her. In the next moment he looks at her, checking in, and takes the hem of her tee in his fingers. When she raises her arms, he lifts her shirt, baring her belly, her breasts, then pulls her tee over her head. Then he sinks to his knees, fingers the border of her panties, and, when he gets the smile, slides them down her legs. He wraps his arms around her naked hips, kisses her bare belly, inhaling the scent of her skin, tasting her flesh. When he lets go, Eva sits on the end of the bed, then scoots back. Lies down. For a while, Nichols just stands there, gazing down at her, disbelieving or savoring or hesitant. Then he strips, and, on hands and knees, crawls over Eva. He brushes his lips across one nipple, glances up at her, gets the smile, and descends in earnest, parting his lips, teasing his tongue over her rising, swelling nipple, sucking, releasing, sucking, tonguing until Eva is sighing and writhing under him, raking her nails through his fine, sandy hair. Almost gasping for air, now, Nichols abandons her swollen nipple and, watching her, maneuvers his hips into position between her thighs, and with his hand, guides his stiff cock to her wet sex and sinks into her. Then he goes still, and for a moment it's like he's too startled to move. But then he does. He moves, first slowly, then with an eager needfulness, harder and faster until he's whining his exhales and gripping her hand in his and panting as he thrusts. He stops. Catches his breath. Watches her.

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Sinking against her, pulling her to him, he whispers to Eva, “I thought I'd never feel this again. Never touch a woman again. Never feel a woman's touch. Never see anyone look at me, smile, while we...” He smiles. Laughs. Blushes and hangs his head. Eva touches his cheek and he meets her eyes. “It's good. Isn't it?” she asks him. “Yeah,” he sighs. “Yeah.” Eva smiles that amused smile, like she's laughing at herself, or something near that. Then she tells him, “I like how you touch me. How this feels.” His smile gets bigger. “Yeah?” She nods. Little by little he starts up again, moving his body against hers, kissing her breasts, her lips, watching her as she shudders with the pleasure he gives her, then sinks down, pulls her close, buries his face in her hair, and succumbs to the pleasure of their union. After, she slips into her t-shirt and her panties, then tells him, “Don't rush off, if you want to stay.” He steps into his boxers, pulls them up, gives her a grin. They go back to the bed, and for an hour or so, lounge there, just talking. In the adjacent room, John watches every moment, Eva's and Nichols's smiles often echoing on his lips, while Smith fixes his eagle's gaze on the monitors for a while,

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then stares down at the floor or over at the blank of beige wall each time the pair embark on a new stage of intimacy. “This isn't like with Riggs. This isn't hurting her,” John says. “No. It's not.” “There's nothing to be jealous of, you know,” John says. “Probably not. And I know very well, was even prepared, at one point, to make the speech to you, that there's no way for one man to expect to keep her all to himself, while the others are left with nothing. But it's still hard. Watching.” “She needs us to be able to do this without making it about us. And without judging her.” “Don't misunderstand me, John. Eva is so selfless, sometimes I'm just in awe of her. And if she can feel some pleasure, experience some joy with someone like Nichols, amidst all this, I'm glad.” “But watching her smile with him, watching him make her come, for you, it diminishes what you have with her.” “No. Not diminish. It just makes me wonder.” “Smith.” When their eyes meet, John says, “You know, don't you, you have something with her that even I can't touch.” When Nichols leaves, Eva takes a little time to herself, then opens the door between the two rooms. Smith and John walk her back to her room. “Avery,” John says as Smith turns to leave. It's the first time he's used his first name. “Come in with us.” Smith looks at Eva. She smiles, takes his hand, draws him inside.

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Smith observes as John draws close to Eva, touches her fingers with his, looks into her eyes, touches a light kiss to her crown, then whispers to her. “What do you need?” While Smith goes on watching this part of their ritual, Eva smiles, tells John she doesn't need the other erased. That she's only eager for him. For both of them. To be with her lovers. Then she blushes. With a shy smile she says to Smith, “I'll take a shower.” Smith catches her hand as she turns toward the bathroom. Eva looks perplexed, and then her eyes glisten and pink. Smith draws her to him, seeks her kiss, gets it. Then he is running his fingertips up and down her arm, her back as she invites John to kiss. To touch. And Smith, too, touching as she touches them, kisses them, takes them to her bed, all naked. John is tender and patient, and Smith, who has never been anything but urgent and demanding, is, too. Slow and gentle in every kiss, every caress. So much so that their tentative touches, their cautious caresses provoke Eva to go after their deeper kisses, to draw them both to her when they leave her and each other too much space.. In the end, John cradles her from behind, nuzzling into her neck, kissing her shoulder, tracing a light touch over her belly, caressing her hip, raking his nails over her thigh, her ass while she moves with Smith, taking her orgasm and then milking his from him. And then, without even a shift of bodies, when they coax him, John comes into her from behind, still slow, still gentle, teasing her now with an arm draped over her hip and a hand between her thighs while Smith kisses her lips, her breasts, her lips again, holding her close as John provokes her next climax and finally takes his own pleasure.

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**** When Jones comes to her, he can't get hard. Somewhere between rage and sorrow, he tries to dress, to leave. But Eva brings him with her, back to the bed, coaxes him to lie down with her, both of them still naked. She curls up behind him, pressing her body close, and for an hour or more strokes his hair, his cheek, his neck, his arms, his chest, his side and hip and thigh. Under her hand, he goes from strained and rigid to soft. Quiet. Before he leaves, he hugs her, holding her tight for a long time before he finally opens the door to go. Another night, it's Private Hutchinson. Eddy. He's eager enough, earnest enough. Nervous, but not evasive or malicious. But the moment she asks him, “Would you like to undress me?” he goes into a still and silent state of shock. “Or, we don't have to...” she says. Touches his arm. Seeks his eyes. “I just...” He looks at her hand on his arm. Keeps looking at it. “No. I want to. Everything. Just...” “What?” she whispers. “If I say something, promise you won't tell the Major?” “Okay.” “Or John?” “Promise,” she whispers. “I've never... I mean, some fooling around in high school. But not actually...” He blushes and gives her an awkward smile. 'Don't be embarrassed. It's sexy.” She cocks an eyebrow. “I've never slept with a virgin.”

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He blushes all over again, and she takes him to bed. **** “I didn't think there'd be one of these little rendezvous for me.” Eva and Lott have been in the room for more than a minute; these are the first words between them. She has been looking at him, studying him, and he's been watching her do it. “Why's that?” She knows he is twenty four, but he has the face of a sixteen year-old boy. His skin and hair and eyes evoke a Midwest afternoon sky—warm and clear. “Haven't they warned you off of me?” He has an Alabama drawl and a deep molasses voice that mismatches his pretty face. Flaxen hair. Cornflower blue eyes. “Yes.” “But you come anyway,” he says, smiling, like he's paying a compliment or like he's found her out on a secret. “Yes.” Eva, whose voice always gives her away, sounds calm. Easy, even. “And why's that?” He launches himself from the wall he's been tipped against, watching her as he begins slowly circling the room, circling her, forcing her to do a slow pivot if she wants to keep her eye on him. “That 'cause you're maybe a little bit curious, what it's like, being with a hard bastard like me?” His orbit decays from a wide circle to a narrowing spiral and Eva must turn faster to keep him in sight as he comes closer. Closer. “You get a little flutter in your belly, wondering what kinds of nasty things I'll do to you?” he asks now that he's close

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enough to touch her if he wants. “Everyone's so scared of John. But he's just a soft little pussy cat, isn't he?” Eva doesn't answer. She just keeps watching. Listening. So calm and cool it's like he's not spoken of anything to do with her. Like she's studying a piece of glass that has melted into a strange shape. “You want to see what it's like, to be laid down and spread open and fucked hard. Cruel. By a man who'd sooner come watching you cry than moaning from pleasure?” “Not particularly,” she comes back, flat except for a hint of bored disdain. “Not particularly,” he echoes back, smiling and still closing in. “Then why are you here?” He has stopped shark-circling and he's as close as he can get without their bodies touching, his head bent over her defiant, upturned face. “I'm going to everyone. You're not so special you merit an exception.” “That so, little girl?” he threatens, his face bright and benign, like a child about to open a present. Then it goes serious. Considering. “No, you're not the sort of girl who gets off on feeling hurt and used. You're the sort of girl who won't be told what to do. The sort who wouldn't be warned off me, but has to come and see for herself whether I'm the sort of nasty character John makes me out to be.” He touches her. She keeps looking up at him and keeps still. The tip of a finger grazes her cheek. “So, if I pretend to be a good, nice boy, if I don't scare you I'm gonna get rough, if I don't say anything too nasty, you're gonna spread for me. Let me fuck you.” “Whatever you do or say, I'll stay here until I don't want to be here anymore.”

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“Yeah, but what would it take, I wonder, for you to go before I've had my little seizure between your caramel thighs.” He's brought his face so close to hers, his lips brush her cheek as he goes on, “'Cause if you run off, leaving me all hard and unsatisfied,” he rubs his palm over the bulge swelling to the left of his fly, “it'll be like I sort of beat you. Scaring you off.” “Being scared's nothing to be ashamed of.” “Oh no?” “It's just nature's survival programming. There's nothing heroic in reckless 'courage.'” “Maybe. But you try hard to hide it, just the same, little girl.” “Are you nervous?” she asks. “You're talking a lot.” “Oh, it's not that. It's just I'm an old-fashioned boy. I like to get acquainted before I go pumping a girl full of my seed.” Watching her face, he pinches the olive cloth of her shirt between thumbs and forefingers and slowly pulls the tucked-in hem free of her pants. He ducks both hands under her shirt and cups her breasts, giving both nipples a firm pinch. “You've got sensitive breasts,” he drawls when she flinches a little. “I'll be more gentle.” Under her clothes his hands work over her breasts while his eyes study every inch of her face. Then he laughs. “You're one of them girls can come just having your nipples sucked,” he tells her.

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She's keeping quiet, but her face gives Eva away. He pulls his hands from under her shirt and closes in on the top button. Her hands fly up, not to arrest him, but to take over. Regret flickers across her features. “Put your hands down,” he says, his eyes steady, his playful drawl suddenly flat and cold. She drops her hands to her sides. “I don't mean to be so bossy,” he says, the light back in his eyes, the warmth back in his voice. “It's just my way, I guess.” “It's okay,” she says, calm and quiet. “It's whatever you want. To a point.” “Such tender hospitality,” he says, pushing that top button through its hole and moving on to the next. He undoes button after button until her shirt hangs open, the inside curves of her breasts hinting at the rest of the package. When he pulls her top open he blatantly assesses the flesh he's exposed. Her tits. Her belly. “Shit,” he says, laughter creeping into his voice. “You're pregnant.” He palms her belly like a basketball. “You don't show a bit under your clothes,” he informs her. “But I did notice your tits seemed bigger. I thought maybe it was just that you wasn't so starved, any more. Your figure filling out how it was meant to.” She's avoided it until now, but he's maneuvering her back, back, until she's pressed between him and the plain pine dresser opposite the door. He curves his hands under her breasts, slowly closing the aperture of his grip, the pressure driving her touchand cold-swelled nipples forward. “That's why you're so sensitive. Tender,” he says. Then he ducks down and draws the flat length of his tongue across one nipple, then closes his lips over her dark,

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swollen flesh and begins to suck. He lets her go with a wet slurping sound. Looks at her mouth, her parted lips, her startled eyes. “You like playing whore, don't you, little Eva?” He flicks his tongue against the other nipple. “So, what will you let me do to you, my little whore?” he sighs by her ear, watching her face from the corner of his eye. He rubs his cheek against hers, like a cat marking territory. “Are you going to let me fuck you?” “If you ever get around to it, and I still want to, I will,” she tells him with almost perfect derisive calm. He smiles. Touches her bottom lip with the pads of two fingers, parting it from its mate, baring a few of her teeth. “Will you let me put my cock here, between your lips? Will you let me empty my come into your mouth?” “Sure.” Something—maybe her easy indifference, makes him laugh a little. “And,” he says, pressing his body against hers, reaching behind, gripping her ass, driving a couple fingers against the center seam, sinking between her cheeks, “will you let me bend you over, my little whore, and fuck you up the ass?” “If you're not rough about it. Sure, if that's what you want.” “And would you,” he lets go of her ass and brings both hands up, sinking his fingers into her hair, gripping it in his fists, “let me kiss you?” She doesn't answer. He's already touching his lips to her, slowly pressing soft little kisses from her hairline, along her cheekbone, toward the corner of her mouth. When his lips touch hers it's a delicate, querying kiss. Small and soft, he puts tiny kisses

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at each corner of her mouth, at the apex of her upper lip. Kisses her lips open. Sucks gently at her underlip. Licks into her warm mouth. She kisses him back. As if her warmth is melting him, he softens and sinks against her, into the soft wet heat of their kiss. Drawing away he says, soft and slow, “It's not the whore you're playing at, is it?” He drives his body against hers, drives her against the hard lacquered pine angles behind her, closes one hand over her breast, and spreads his other palm and fingers wide over the small firm swell of her pregnant belly. “Not the whore. The martyr. The beneficent, self-sacrificing saint.” He embraces her, and for the first time, with him, she shudders. “Coming to each of us to give your few lukewarm drops of love, to heal our despondent souls, cure our blackened hearts of evil,” he whispers in her ear like a tender endearment. “And what a poor martyr you'd be, if you didn't come to me like all the rest. I need you more than any of them, don't I?” “Maybe,” she answers solemnly. By her voice it's obvious she's at least a little frightened. But she doesn't try to push him away. Doesn't ask him to let her go. But he opens his arms and moves a few feet away from her. “Get undressed,” he says, slow and low. He stays quiet as he watches her bend down to unlace her boots, as she stands and works them off with her feet, as she braces herself against the dresser as she raises one foot, then the other to her hand to tug her socks off, as she drops her shirt to the floor and strips perfunctorily out of her pants and underwear.

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“Not shy anymore, are you, Eva? Not like that first night with John for the cameras. You tried so hard to be brazen in your nudity. But it was plain, how hard you was working to stand there naked in front of him. Now it's easy for you.” He closes in. Touches the back of his index finger to her navel. “Step your feet apart for me, darlin'.” Eva widens her stance. He draws his finger down her abdomen, through her thatch of dark curls, and underneath. There's a sound of her sucking in her breath, the wet sound of his finger going into her and coming out again. “Damn, girl. You sure know how to flatter a fella's ego.” The one finger working between her thighs is their only contact. Except for that initial penetration, he does not go inside her. He just works his finger back and forth along her wet folds. “Don't do that,” he tells her as her head sinks down. “Let me watch you.” He sinks his splayed fingers up into her hair from the base of her neck and forces her to turn her face up to him. A smile blooms and withers on his lips as he holds her exposed, watching as his finger teases and rubs, changing her expression, her breathing. “Will you let me make you come?” his voice drips, sweet and heavy. “Yes,” she gasps in a short, voiceless breath. Still fingering her sex, still holding her captive with his fist in her hair, he whispers something to her. “Yes,” she huffs again. His breath and voice play against her ear again, and again she breathes, “Yes.” And then, after a subtle movement of his jaw and his throat,

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her final “yes” comes out, high and wavery, and her body spasms above and below the hand in her hair and the hand between her legs. He brings his hand to his face and draws a breath, then licks the wetness from his finger. “Get on the bed,” he says. A little unsteady, she walks past him and perches on the edge of the bed. “Lie down.” She swings her legs onto the mattress and lies back. He walks to the foot of the bed and takes hold of her feet. She sucks in her breath hard and audibly, and he smiles as he drags her toward him until her ass is at the edge of the mattress. He plants her feet at hip width. Her toes hang over the edge. “Spread your legs.” Eva props herself on her elbows. Breathing hard, her belly fluttering, she parts her knees. “Wider.” She spreads her legs wider. “Not cured of all your modesty,” he says, and with his hands forces her legs open still further, bringing her inflamed, wet cunt into plain view. Apprehensively, she watches as he goes down on his knees, and his face is just a few inches from her sex. He leans in another couple inches and inhales her scent. Then he puts his thumbs on her mons and pulls her flesh taut and watches as three final spasms pulse through her sex.

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And then he parts his lips and brushes the tip of his tongue against her clit. Eva gives a startled grunt and her body flexes rigid, like she's been hit with a jolt of current. “You were really something, that first night John ate your pussy,” he says now, not looking at her, but watching his finger sink deep into her swollen cunt. ”That was my doing. Some girls, they just have a thing. About getting licked.” His finger slides out of her, all shiny, and he goes back into her with two fingers, making her pant. “O'Neil figured you were gonna get worked up over the blowjob. But it was just delicious, little Eva, seeing you frettin' and fidgeting and looking away while John spread you and licked your cunt. I was real pleased, seeing how you were about it, knowin' you'd never let him do that before.” His eyes are roving up to take in her expression, and down to take in the sight of his two fingers pistoning her cunt. Then he pulls his fingers away, grips her thighs in both hands and sinks into her, sealing his mouth against her, and she writhes and fails to stifle a loud groan as he begins licking her wet, swollen folds. He works over her slowly, like he's savoring every taste, dragging the width of his tongue along her warm, wet sex, making his tongue firm, then letting it be soft. Then, as he licks her, he gets his pants undone, and just lightly, teases his erect prick with a few light touches. Now he takes his mouth off her, and watches her eyes go bright and wet with shock as he slips his fingers from her cunt and, without prelude, drives his slick index finger into her ass. After a few firm, deep thrusts he drives his thumb into her cunt, and she pants as he fingers her vigorously with both digits.

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“I wonder,” he drawls up at her from between her splayed thighs, “when John and the major both have you in bed, do they fuck you at the same time?” She fails to keep the shock from her face, and only manages to wipe it away after he's smiled at seeing it. “Well, if they haven't tried it on you yet, maybe this'll inspire you to instigate it for your next rendezvous.” He keeps up the pumping, one finger buried in her ass, the other in her cunt, and brings his tongue back to her slit, lapping at her folds, hitting her clit only now and then, pinning her back down to the mattress each time her hips buck up. She just pants, her breath loud and raspy but voiceless for the longest time as he works his fingers inside of her, works his mouth over her. Finally her breaths fill up with low, desperate, growling sounds, and when her belly flexes and she curls up with a kind of howl, he springs up, lunges, and thrusts his hard cock into her, to the hilt. Her mouth and eyes go wide as she convulses through her orgasm, his narrow ass flexed, driving his cock in to its limit, pressing his groin against her spasming sex, his own expression rapt as he gazes down on her expression of overwhelming sensation and shock. “I do love that,” he says when he's been inside her for over a minute, and her tremors have subsided. “Feeling a hot, wet cunt gripping and quivering around my cock.” He works his knees underneath her, lifts her, and resettles her so his lower body has sufficient purchase, his cock never leaving her body.

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“Well, my little Eva. Now that I've given you your pleasure, twice, I'm going to take my pleasure from you,” he says, still hard and deep inside of her, but still, except that he's caressing her face with both his hands, roaming over her features with his eyes. “That seems only fair, don't it?” “And my whole point in coming here,” she says firmly, earning herself one of his little bemused smiles. “No, little Eva. You come here to give me something. But I'm not the sort of man you can give what you been peddling all over this base. The only pleasure I know, I take.“ He grasps her wrists and wrenches them above her head, pins them to the mattress. Settling over her, pumping into her once with a single flex of his hips he gives a low, growling grunt, then pants at her ear, “Deja vu. Just like your first night here.” Another flex of his narrow hips between her splayed thighs. “How John pinned you. Tell me, Eva, that night, when he raped you, you were a virgin, weren't you?” She says nothing. Just goes taut as she studies his altered face. For the first time that night, he seems aroused. “I never gave John too much thought. But that night, he impressed me. How he dragged you so sure and steady to that table and snatched up the hem of that little nightie you was wearin', and hard and calm as you please, tore into you while you laid there under him, cryin' and beggin' him not to do that to you.

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“Cryin' and beggin,” he echoes himself as he slides his cock in and out of her a few times, slow and deep. “I s'pose he explained later how he didn't really have a choice, 'cause if he'd begged off, the major would have just raffled you off to the next guy, and nothing woulda changed for you. I guess that's how come you can stand to let him ride you every night, let him put his dick in your mouth. I guess that's how you can bear to carry his child. Tellin' yourself he wasn't really raping you that night he held you down and fucked you in front of us all while you whimpered and cried and begged.” As he pants and pumps into her, Eva is stiffening under him. And her eyes are wide and dark with rising fear. But she doesn't struggle. And she doesn't look wounded. “My god,” he says, giving a little grunt, then, as he grinds against her, “how you must have hated him. And Major Smith. Your two sort of husbands, eh? For putting you through that,” he pants as he fucks her, still slow, but thrusting harder now, driving his hips hard between her thighs. “But it was all of us, really. All of us wantin' to be in John's place. All of us watchin' him hold you down, stickin' it to you, half ready to defy the major and snatch you clean out from under him, each of us itchin' to have a go. If we hadn't been sure Smith woulda put a bullet in the first man to try, you'd have been raped half to death that night, by the fourteen of us. You know that?” He lets her wrists go and reclaims his two fistfuls of hair, studies her face as he fucks and talks. She looks horrified. Revolted. Afraid. But he seems to be searching for something else in her. Something he's not getting.

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“And now. All those men who were dying to rape you that night, now you're going 'round, offering yourself to them like your cunt was a batch of cookies you baked up for the neighborhood picnic. Little Eva, the madonna whore, the patron saint of Fort Campbell. You think you're somethin' so special, just 'cause all the boys want to get into that little bit of wet heat you got between your thighs. “I see how you come to me today, thinking you're so good, so proud of yourself for giving up some little piece of your soul to make me a good man. Isn't that so, little Eva? But it don't make you big, us wanting you. Needing you. That don't make you something, any more than a stale piece of bread is something because it's the only scrap of food, and men would kill each other over it.” He jolts her with a few hard, deep thrusts, his feral grunts shaking loose with each pump of his hips. Her jaw is flexed and her little staccato breaths huff out through her nose. “Heh,” he laughs, “you just lie there, letting me bang you, telling you I think you're shit.” “I'm patient,” she says in a voice straining to be cool, “I figure eventually your mental masturbation will get you off.” “Little Eva. Smart, aren't you? I can see by your face you want me off of you. Out of you. But you don't say so. You don't try and shove me off, try and get away. 'Cause you figure it won't be so easy, shakin' me off. And you know I'll like it. You kickin' up a fuss, and me gettin' to settle you back down. So you just lay there quiet, trying to hide your hate and disgust. But I see it, Eva. I feel it, your body all stiff and cold under me.”

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He says this with a sigh and a soft smile, as if she's done the tenderest, most seductive thing possible. “But I give you credit for tryin', though. Trying to keep from me that dark pleasure I seek in you. Most don't. Most just give it all over to me right off. Like Evan and Diego. Like Jake.” For the first time, Eva's eyes hint that her armor has been pierced, and as Jake's name moves over his lips, the man on top of her quivers a little and sinks down against her, his face almost touching hers. “His was the best,” he whispers against Eva's cheek, but he seems cocooned in the sound of his own voice, “the best, his gift he didn't mean to give me. His wet, salty, limp fear.” Lott closes his eyes, and for a moment there's just the sound of his aroused breathing, and the wet sounds of their connected bodies as he moves over her. “That first night. How he woke. Asleep, so still, so quiet. All safe and warm. Our hands woke him. Gagged him half into his first scream. Tied him to his bed, arms spread like wings across the headboard, ankles tucked under him, spread wide, tied to the frame under the mattress.” Lott's breath accelerates. It seems an effort to check himself, stay calm. He stays still inside Eva. Not thrusting. Just telling. “I shooed them other boys away so I could take my pleasure slow. He knew. 'Course he knew. Just like you knew in the mess hall. Only Jake was right about it being all of us. But first, just me. Just seeing him there, his face all wet with tears and snot, my heart felt big in my chest. My cock all hard and sore straining in my pants.

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“'Cause I understand a boy like Jake. The world's gone, but it's still in him. Boy like that, winning trophies and nailing pussy, that's being a man. Boy like that, only thing worse than being a girl is being a faggot. Knowing he was about to get fucked by every man on base, he was crying, knowing he'd never feel himself to be really a man again. A man like that, it's like they go out of their way to build up something you can take from them.” Tears are pooled, swelling and shimmering at the edges of Eva's lids and Lott's body quivers like a taut string just plucked for a note. He starts moving now, slow, savoring. “His mouth was so hot. Maybe fear induces fever. I coaxed him gentle. Made him believe if he'd do what I wanted, the others would leave him be. I brought my cock to his lips and just stroked his cheek, his hair, all gentle, and after a bit he put his mouth on me. All his sobbing and gagging, I could hardly get hold of myself. Don't think I lasted two minutes.” When she blinks her tears slide over her temples, into her hair, and his next exhale is throaty. Tender as a lover his fingers caress her face, his mouth is on her, lips brushing over tears, touching, parting, nursing at her lips. She endures it all. “When I crawled up behind him on the mattress and slit the drawstring of his pj’s with my knife, he started really bawlin'. I slipped those pj’s of his down and greased him up with some lard I stole off supply. His little whimpering sounds,” Lott says, his voice catching on his unhinged breath as he flexes into Eva's still, rigid body, “were so provoking. I imagined how he'd cry out when I penetrated him, I wanted to hear it, but I checked myself. Held back. I leaned up against him, listened to how his breath

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changed, stopped dead, then came on again so fast, so hard I thought maybe he'd pass clean out. “I felt so close to him, then, like we were brothers, or like Tom and Huck or something, about to do something amazing, something to change us forever. I pressed my face into his hair, and breathed in how he smelled, and wrapped my arm around him to hold on to him tight. And then I eased into him. Slow. Gentle. He thrashed and cried, but he was tied down good and his bawling didn't put me off any. When I got inside him he let out that little sound I'd been waitin' for, and I had to hold real still, even in spite of having just come so soon before. Making him make that sound, it was like being God.” Lott is working over Eva, hot and panting and thrusting, searching her eyes the whole time, kissing her mouth between recounted memories, now working his hands down, under her ass, lifting and tilting her hips to an ideal angle. Hot. Hard. Sweating and shuddering. “I fucked that boy. Not hard and angry, like a rape. Tender, like a lover, because it hurt him worse, that way. While I fucked him, I greased up my fingers again and reached around and got his dick in my hand. Christ, that boy's hung. And I told him I was glad we weren't doing things the other way around. I kept on pumpin' my dick in his ass and started stroking him, just how I'd stroke myself. He cried some more at that. I wasn't sure how it would go, but it didn't take long and he was hard as anything. Hard, and panting different, now. I wanted him to come, wanted it bad, 'cause I figured he'd hate it twice as bad, and feel more ashamed, looking back, if he'd come while I fucked him.”

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Eva's fractured calm has shattered. She quietly sobs under Lott's writhing, fevered body as he pants out his story, long gaps of strained breathing and frantic kissing breaking up his words. “When I felt how he tensed up under me, when I heard how he'd catch his breath some, then it come rushing back out of him again I knew he was close, and I worked my hand over his cock just how I'd do mine, and I started really fuckin' that boy, sliding my cock up into him hard and deep, and grunting loud so he'd hear how much I liked fuckin' him. When he came, he let out this long, sobbing whimper and that drove such a thrill into me, such a thrill, Eva, fuck.” Grunting, straining, shuddering, Lott comes undone. As his taut, quivering body slowly stills and goes lax he goes on watching Eva cry. Not even trying not to, now. He lowers himself onto his elbows, lets the length of his lithe body settle against hers, touches her tears with his fingertips. Kisses her wet lashes. Then her lips. She doesn't seem to notice him touching her, care that he's still inside her. “I knew, little Eva, you'd let me take my pleasure, eventually. You made it sweeter, how you made me work to find the way. It seems right, that it had to be about Jake, since this was the sweetest pleasure I've had since that night.” “Are we done?” she asks, trying to sound calm. He slips out of her, off the bed, and offers his hand. When she takes it, he helps her up to standing. “I enjoy savoring my anticipation,” he says, his drawl thicker, more lethargic after his exertions. “I'll save chapter two of Jake's story, with its larger cast of characters, for our next visit, little Eva.”

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She opens her mouth but closes it again, having said nothing. ”Do you know what I wish, Eva?” She stiffens as he puts his arms around her, pulls her naked body against his, nuzzling under her hair, against her neck. He whispers in her ear. “I wish we were alone. In my room.” Eva makes a small effort to pull away, but Lott holds her. Close and still. “Don't get all riled,” he sighs. “It's not that I'm wishin' I could do something to you. Hurt you. Nah, little Eva, it's just that it's too rousing, the idea of you walking across the base, all by yourself, covered in my smell. I like thinking of you taking the winding path back to your place, like Little Red Riding Hood, and all the bad, hungry wolves sniffing at you as you go, and knowing you been under me. I like the idea of you goin' back to John,” he hisses, his lips almost touching hers, “smelling of me.” When Lott closes the door and she is alone, Eva looks around, almost spinning as her eyes roam the room until she lunges for the corner, drops to her knees, and clutching the rim of a metal trash can, throws up. Behind her the door to the adjacent room opens and Smith rushes to her, kneels down beside her, touches her back, then caresses as she heaves again. “Sit tight, and I'll run down the hall and get you some water and a damp towel,” he says when she's done. “Don't. Please, I just want to go home,” she says. Eva gets dressed. As they are about to leave the little room, she brushes Smith's arm from her shoulders.

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“Don't coddle me,” she says, her voice brittle. Then, softer, “I don't want to look hurt, weak when I leave this room. I don't ever want them thinking they've worn me down.” When they're inside her building Smith asks her, “What did he do to you, Eva?” “Nothing,” she says, then meets his eyes. “It's just morning sickness, I guess.” Smith grasps her shoulders, searches her eyes. “You're sure?” “Yeah.” “Lott didn't seem to be doing anything...rough. And you didn't signal me.” “No. It was fine.” “Watching, you looked so stiff, so miserable. Not like you were with Nichols.” “He just... He's strange. He made me uncomfortable. That's all.” Smith walks with her, up the stairs, to the door to her room. “Let's just make sure John's here. Then I'll go,” Smith says, his voice sad. When the door is shut and they are alone, Eva's breaks down, sobbing into the hand she clamps over her mouth. John goes to her, wraps her in his arms, sinks with her to the floor, holds her as she cries. “Lott,” she finally says. “It was him. What they did to Jake. Diego and Evan, too, I think. But Jake, god, he bragged over it. Every little detail. And I let him. I let him get off, fucking me, gloating over how he terrorized Jake.” For a long time John is silent, just holds her, lets her cry. Lets her be weak. Needful. “I thought Riggs was scary,” she says, her voice shuddery. “But with him, it's just that he doesn't care what it does to other people, going after what he wants. Lott, though. He just probed and probed until he

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found what hurt me. All he wanted, the only thing, today, was to hurt me. That's what got him off.” After a long quiet, Eva says, “Ever since I got here, I've been wondering how there could be so many hard, cruel people in this little handful of men. Now I think I get it. I think maybe Lott's been playing this game with all of them. Touching their sore spots.” “Like with Smith?” “Smith?” “It was Lott. He told Smith about Riggs.” Eva pales. “Smith will take care of him,” John says. “No.” John is patient. Waits for Eva to say what she means. “Lott's too smart. He didn't tell me that just to get off. He wants me to tell Smith.” “Why?” “I don't know. To stir things up. Disrupt the peace.” “What, he's just playing a game? And risking... Do you know what Smith would do to him?” “I don't know what he's thinking. But I'm sure, almost, he was trying to provoke me. To get me to make Smith take some action. And I have this feeling playing into that would be a bad mistake.” **** “Spread your legs.” Eva hesitates, then parts her knees.

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Both John and Smith have tried to convince Eva to take some time before rendezvousing with another man after Lott. Smith has even tried—again—to talk Eva out of the entire enterprise. And even when she was adamant, saying in her irrefutable way that she would go to every one of the men at least once, they tried hard to convince her to wait before taking on Baldwyn. To Smith, Eva merely said that she'd rather get it over with, that taking all the easy ones early on and saving the less savory men for last was not her idea of making things easier on herself. To John, she said that taking on Baldwyn—the one who'd helped Riggs in the orchard, the one who'd brought Nichols back at gunpoint, who'd forced Nichols to hold her down—was the best way to show Lott he hadn't wounded her. “You like showing off that filthy cunt of yours, don't you?” Eva brings her knees back together, but the soldier with the shaved head grabs them and pulls them apart again. Lying naked on the bed, Eva doesn't struggle. She just watches him, quiet. “Rub it.” Eva is still. “Get your hand down there and rub that pussy for me,” he orders. The whites of Eva's eyes go pink, and she is still and quiet. The man holding her legs open, watching her tear up, smiles. “Take your hands off me,” she says. “You aren't the one giving the orders here, you little bitch.” Articulating her words, keeping her voice steady and low, she tells him, “If you don't take your hands off me, men are going to come in here and escort you out. And if they do that, you won't be fucking me today, or any other day.”

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At first he doesn't move. But after a little bit, he takes his hands off her knees. Eva rises from the bed, and leaning casually back against the dresser, faces the soldier on the bed. “I think you're confused about something, Baldwyn. You're here because I chose to invite you. But you don't have one single thing that I need. So, if you want to stay, you need to make sure I'm having a nice time. Understand?” He is breathing hard. His angry eyes challenge her. “Do you want to stay?” she asks. There's no answer. “If you don't feel like answering me, you're welcome to go.” Through clenched teeth he eventually says, “Yes.” “If you can't get off without calling me 'bitch' or trying to embarrass me, there's no point. You sure you want to stay?” “Yes.” “Good,” she says, and offers him a smile. He doesn't smile back, but the flex in his jaw softens. Holding his defiant gaze, Eva approaches. Slides a knee onto the bed beside him. “I like to be on top,” he says, stern and gruff. “Well, tonight it's lady's choice,” she says, her voice soft. Almost sultry. “But if I enjoy myself with you tonight, maybe I'll let you have more say next time.” Baldwyn stays quiet, now, as she slips atop his thighs. Straddling him, she bring her hand between them, and when she wraps her fingers around his semi-hard cock, he twitches and grunts. As if she'd already taken him inside she writhes, so the motion of

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her body moves her hand over his stiffening prick. When he's hard, Eva rises up on her knees, then lowers herself, slowly envelops his cock in the grip of her wet sex. It takes her a long time to finish, but she doesn't let him come until she's climaxed. By then, he's grunting, flexing, panting for it, and when he finally lets go, his groans are almost sobs. **** Joey Washington comes to her like a john to a whore. Her efforts to joke, to connect, to flirt all roll off him. He's just there for the sex. Eva lets him slip his hand up under her tee to caress her breasts, lets him slide his hand into her panties, lets him rub and finger her while he licks and sucks her nipples. Once she's naked, she even lets him go down on her, and after, when he asks her to, she takes him in her mouth. But she doesn't let him finish. “Please,” he says, trying to coax her back to his cock with a hand at the back of her head. “Please.” “Not like that,” she says, and smiles. She reclines on the bed and holds her arms out to him. “Come here.” Washington hesitates, but not for long. Soon he is inside her, pumping his hips. Little by little he winds himself around her, fingers weaving into her hair, an arm sliding around her waist, holding her against him as he writhes between her thighs sighing breaths of “Baby, oh, god, baby.” Those whispers soft as breaths flush and fill out as she curves a hand against his neck, as she strokes his back, pulling him close, stroking his sweat-slick skin. “Please, Baby. Please.” And, as he pants and groans and comes, shuddering and clinging to her, he whimpers, “Baby. Oh, god Baby. Please.” Wrapping her up tight in his arms he sobs, “Please. Please, Baby. Jen, Baby.” He goes on clinging

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and crying, “Jenny. Jen, Baby. Please. Please.” Eva holds him as he weeps three years of tears.

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CHAPTER FIFTEEN

When there's a knock on her bedroom door, Eva puts away her journal. Draws and releases a deep breath. Opens the door. Riggs stands there, nearly filling the entire aperture, looking hostile. Almost angry. Eva makes an effort to smile. “Hi, James.” He doesn't say anything back. “Will you come in?” When she steps away, he comes through the door. “Thanks for coming.” Riggs looks around. “Where's John?” “He isn't here.” For some reason, this information seems to unsettle Riggs. His sullen silence is eating away at her calm. Now Eva sounds nervous when she says, “I know you work a long day. So I appreciate you letting me cut into your evening.” “Nothing else to do, anyway.” “Mind if I ask you something?” He shrugs. “Are you still happy about the baby?” Riggs clenches his teeth. His whole body goes stiff. And his breathing gets heavy. “James?” Eva looks calm, but sounds scared. “Why?” he growls. “Why are you asking me that?” “Because.” She pauses, and when she starts again, she's mastered her voice. “I see a lot of John. And Major Smith. I mean, they both get to see me.” She rests her palm over her baby bump. “How big I'm getting. Sometimes we talk about the baby. Sometimes they talk to the baby. I thought maybe you'd like to do that, too.”

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Riggs huffs and turns his head away, back toward the door. “I didn't get you here to lay a bunch of demands on you,” she tells him. “I just wanted to give you a chance to start to get to know your baby. You don't have to do anything you don't want to, though.” Still keeping his back to her he says in a rough voice, “I thought you were going to tell me it was off.” “What?” “Me getting to be one of the fathers.” “No.” Cautious, Eva steps toward Riggs, reaches out until her fingers touch his. He jerks his hand away and turns on her. Eva leaves her hand extended. After a few seconds, Riggs puts his hand out. Lets her touch him. Lets her draw his hand toward her. With her other hand she lifts the hem of her t-shirt, bares her swollen belly. He stares as she presses his palm over the taut roundness bulging out between her raised tee and her low-slung slacks. “I figure I'm four months in,” she whispers, still holding his hand to her. “Have you been sick?” “Just a little, right at first. But I feel good now.” “My brother's wife, she was sick as a dog both times she was pregnant.” “Yeah. Guess I'm lucky.” Riggs says, “That's good.” Then, “Are you scared? About having it?”

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“The birth? No. Not really. Maybe a little nervous.” Riggs doesn't say anything after that. They stand there in the thickening silence. “Do you want to talk to the baby?” she asks him. “What do you mean, talk to it?” “Before they're born, babies can hear the sounds around them. If you talk to her, or him, they get to know your voice. Know you.” This is something John has taught her. Riggs takes his hand away and crosses his arms over his chest. But then he looks up, meets Eva's eyes. “John does that? Talk to the baby?” Eva smiles. “Yes.” “Major Smith, too?” “Yes.” “I don't know what to say.” “Here.” She leads him to a chair beside the window and gestures for him to sit. Raising her tee back up, she steps between his knees. “Say anything. It's just so he hears your voice.” Riggs sits there, silent, staring down at her full belly. “I feel stupid,” he says in a low, soft voice. “No. Tell her about yourself.” “Okay.” He takes a deep breath. “I'm James Riley Riggs. I'm a corporal in the Army.” He clears his throat. “I'm thirty-one. I joined up kinda late. Um...” “Where'd you grow up?” Eva asks.

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“So, yeah, I was born in California. In San Diego. And we moved to San Bernardino when I was four, and that's where I grew up.” “Were you an only child?” “I had four brothers.” “All boys, huh?” “Yeah.” “And what do you want? A boy or a girl?” Riggs's eyes stay fixed on Eva's swollen belly, like the life inside has asked the question. “If things were different, I think I'd want a little girl. But not here. How things are. I hope you're a boy.” He's quiet for a while. “I don't know. I guess things are hard, either way. Boys. Girls. Maybe it doesn't matter so much.” Another long silence. Then, still gazing at her belly, in a quiet voice Riggs says, “You know, my dad was a real son of a bitch. And I haven't been such a good man. But I'm gonna be a good father. Boy or girl, I'm never gonna hit you. I'm never gonna tell you you're nothing. I'm never gonna tell you I wish you hadn't been born.” Then, looking away from the baby growing in Eva's womb, away out the window, “Boy or girl, I'm gonna love my kid.” When he comes again the next week, when he runs out of things to say to the baby, Eva asks him, “James? What do you think of Lott?” “I don't know. Why?” “He's sort of...strange, isn't he?” Riggs stays quiet for a while before he says anything more. “Honestly? I fuckin' hate that guy.”

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Maybe Eva wasn't expecting such an earnest assessment from Riggs. She startles a little. Goes a little pale. Then smooths herself out. “Why?” she asks. “I don't know. Don't know what it is about him, exactly.” “Is he mean to you?” “Him? Mean to me? That little boy?” Riggs laughs. “He knows damn well I'd pound him if he ever...” Riggs bites off the end of his sentence. “But you hate him?” “He's always, I don't know. He's trouble. Every bad thing that happens, somehow it's like he makes it happen.” “Like what?” Riggs shrugs. “James? Please.” “Like what happened in the orchard.” Riggs doesn't say, ”What I did to you in the orchard.” And he doesn't look at her. “I'm no saint. I know that. But I never did anything like that before. And every time I think about it, every time I wonder why it happened, I think of him. Lott.” “Why?” After a while Riggs answers, “A long time ago. Pretty soon after the dying, a bunch of us were talking. And Lott, I remember him saying something about how none of us were every gonna get to touch a woman again. That the lottery was bullshit, just some lie the major made up to keep us calm, and how if a woman ever did turn up here, she'd belong to Major Smith, and probably the rest of us would never even set eyes on her again once he got his hands on her. I remember he said something then, like, 'The

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only way any of us is gonna get a taste of pussy again, is if we take it soon as we see it, before the major sniffs it out.'” Riggs actually blushes. “After that, all the guys were talking big, you know, how guys talk, about what they'd do if it was them that found a woman. And the talk got bigger and bigger. Dirtier, you know. And I remember Lott just sitting there, listening and smiling that fucking shit-eating smile of his. And somehow I have a picture of Lott like that in my head for every ugly thing that's happened here. “Even for what Smith did to you that night. The night you first came here.” **** Smith locks the door as he leaves his office, his movement clean, efficient. As he goes from the administrative building to his quarters, his step is brisk, his gaze sharp. But it's not until he unlocks the door to his room and steps inside that he seems really there, breathing and warm. Alive. “Eva.” She smiles. She's been waiting. “I wanted you to come. I thought, hoped you might be here,” he says. He closes in on her, cages her between his body and the wall. Her smile fades; her lips soften, part. But he doesn't kiss. When she leans forward, he fades back. Already, they are breathing faster. For thick, heavy seconds, they merge without a touch, Eva holding and opening him with her eyes, Smith breathing her in, the breath from her parted lips, the scent of her skin, her cheek, her ear, her throat, her hair.

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Finally he lets her have his mouth, just touches her lips with his, lingering, lingering before he draws her full upper lip into a mere taunt of a kiss. Eva's gaze is seeking, her breath is stopped, caught, in suspension. Then, slow, slow, he sinks into her, giving her everything in that deep, lasting kiss. They kiss like they are feeding. Like they are drawing life from the heat, the contact between them. When she tries to touch him, Smith catches her wrists and pins them to the wall. “Please. Avery,” she breathes. “Not yet.” Now he won't even let her have his mouth. He just holds her pinned, leaves her untouched. Except where his fingers shackle her wrists. “Do you know, Eva, this pain, this aching need for you, when you're so close I can smell you, when I can feel the heat of you on my skin, when I see you looking at me that way, like you'll die if I don't touch you,” he draws a deep breath, pulling in her scent, “except for having you, this pain is the most delicious pleasure I've ever known.” The next morning, Eva wakes before Smith. For a while she lies still, gazing at his sharp features, less fierce in sleep. Then she draws the white sheet down, baring his pale body, his finely-muscled chest rising and falling with the steady rhythm of his sleeping breath. His lean belly, the skin there so smooth, so soft, a valley of tender flesh between those marble hip bones. And that thatch of light brown wool. And his cock. Pink and half-hard, full, heavy against his long, lean thigh. The heat and scent of him rising up to her.

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He is still asleep when she takes him in her mouth. By the time he opens his eyes, he is moaning. When he stirs, when he sinks his fingers into her hair, whispers her name, says, “give me your hand,” she looks up into his seeking, startled eyes, takes his hand, then coaxes his thighs apart so she can caress his balls as she goes on sucking until that alabaster belly flexes, those lean thighs quiver, and he calls out, “Eva, Eva,” and she nurses his climax from him. “Come here, come here,” he pleads, and still shivering, pulls her into his arms, seeking her eyes, their faces touching. When he's calmed, he kisses her forehead. Her lips. Then, after a long, deep kiss says, “That's quite a way to wake up. What got into you?” “I wanted to do that. Feel you harden in my mouth. Feel the shape of you. Taste you. You never let me.” Smiling, Smith says, “I just always want you close. Here, with me. Where I can see your face, what my touch is doing to you.” “I know.” **** “I don't want to.” “What?” “Have sex.” Eva smiles, and Diego smiles back. Then his smile fades. “I'm sorry for what I did, before. I mean, I feel bad. Holding you prisoner.” “Don't feel bad. Almost anyone else, I would have been terrified. I'm glad it was you. You were very. . .” she pauses, “reassuring.”

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“I'm glad.” Diego's eyes fix on her baby bump. “Do you want to feel it?” Diego looks startled. Nervous. But he doesn't say no. When Eva puts out her hand, he takes it. She presses his palm to her swelling middle. Diego's mouth spreads in a wide, warm smile. And then, again, his smile fades. “Are you happy?” he asks her. “About the baby?” She laughs. “Weirdly, yes. I mean, I wanted to. For a lot of reasons. But I'm surprised how deeply good I feel about it, just for myself.” Diego's warm smile is back, all dimples and white teeth and lit-up brown eyes. “How are things with you?” she asks, her voice soft, tentative. “Okay,” he says, cooling, drifting away. Eva reaches out, takes his hand. “Obviously, you don't know me. And I know you have Evan. But if you want to talk. About whatever. You can talk to me. Vent.” He shrugs. “Things are okay. Better lately. Because of you, I think.” “Really better?” She searches his face, his eyes. “Before, you said that John told you about everyone.” “Yes.” “What did he tell you about me?” Eva levels her gaze with his. “That some of the men here have hurt you. You and Evan.” Diego's mouth turns down, his chin dimples. “What else did he tell you?” Eva shakes her head, her eyes filling with tears. “Sorry,” Diego whispers. “Sorry.”

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“No.” When she touches his arm, he flinches away. “It's okay.” She reaches out, like she might try again to touch him, but she pulls her hand back. “Tell me. Anything.” “There's nothing to tell.” While Eva watches, Diego seems to melt, softening, shrinking down, smaller and smaller until he curls into himself, silent, shaking. Eva puts her hand on his shoulder. “Get away from me!” he howls. Eva leaps back, away from Diego's bloodshot glare. “You're wrong,” he says, barely audible, now. “I don't have Evan. And the men never hurt me. I don't have Evan because the men never hurt me.” “What?” she breathes. “What do you mean?” For a minute, two minutes, he stands there, his body a knot of quivering strain, panting as if the life is ebbing out of him. “I'm a coward,” he finally says, not to her, but like an admission to himself. “No. Diego—“ “You don't know!” he growls. “Tell me.” “What? Why?” “Whatever it is, you can't carry it. Shouldn't.” “I just came to be nice. To get to know you.” “I know.” “You're not my priest.” “No. But...” “What?”

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“I'm not one of the men. The other soldiers. And I'm not Evan. And I'm not a man.” He fixes her in the heat of his glare, and like he's working to burn away her kindness, her forgiveness, he tells her, “They all hurt Evan. Not me. I just kept my mouth shut while they all hurt him, and left me alone. I could have said three words, and half of them would have left him alone. But I didn't. I stayed quiet.” Diego isn't crying. His pain is beyond crying. “God, they hurt him so bad. And now he'll never...” “You don't...” she breathes. “You and Evan don't have sex anymore.” “No,” Diego chokes out a bitter laugh. “No. But I was going to say, now he'll never love me.” “Oh, Diego.” His pain settles on Eva's face like a mask. “You're wrong. You're wrong.” That night, Diego finds Evan in his room. The room is small, but Evan is far away. Cold and quiet. Until he sees. Diego is shaking, his big brown eyes are red and swollen. Evan comes close, looks into the eyes of this man who was his friend for such hard, long years, who was his lover for such brief, joyful weeks, this man who has been almost a stranger since the night in the barracks latrine, and his fair face pales, his blue eyes pink. “What did they do?” he asks in a shattered voice. Diego just shakes his head, tears rising and spilling. “Diego.” Evan reaches to touch the other's cheek, but pulls his hand away. Diego watches Evan's hand recede.

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“I'm sorry,” he chokes out. “I'm so sorry, Evan. All this time, I never said it. All this time, you've been...you've been...” Diego moves to touch Evan's arm, but stops short. Drops his hand. “Don't, Diego. Fuck. Don't apologize to me.” “What else can I do? I know what a coward I was. I know. I deserted you. I know I can't make it up to you. Undo that night. And now I find out, it wasn't just that night. You've been... Over and over, all this time. Saving me. After I betrayed you like that. Why, Evan? Why do that? Hurting yourself for a coward like me?” Evan's eyes go cold, hard. “What are you talking about?” “Please, stop it, Evan. I know. I know what they've been doing to you. I saw Eva today. She—“ “You went,” Evan breathes, his body shrinking. “I wondered if you would. Since you won't, I mean, you can't...” “What?” “Forgive me. Be with me.” “Forgive you?” Diego's sorrow-inflamed eyes fill with confusion. “For what?” “For what I did to you that night.” “Did to me? God, Evan. You saved me.” “That isn't what it felt like.” Shaking, Evan opens his mouth like he'll speak. Stops. Swallows. “It felt like I raped you.” “Oh, god,” Diego sobs. “Oh, god. Please. Evan. You haven't been carrying that for all this time?”

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“After,” Evan says, “you helped me. That night. For days after. But you were so far away, you know? You'd be right next to me. And I'd look, but it was like I couldn't find you.” “No. No no no.” Diego's hands twitch like they want to touch, but he reigns himself in. “Never. I never blamed you. Oh, god, Evan. I was only ever ashamed. So ashamed for what I let happen. You saved me from them, and I just stayed silent. I should have said it. I should have said it,” Diego sobs, melting. Even now, both of them contrite, both forgiving, Diego drowning in his tears, when Evan reaches out to touch, he can't quite penetrate the barrier between them. “Don't, Diego. Don't say that. Don't wish it. Please. I couldn't have lived through that night if they'd touched you. You saved me. By keeping quiet. I asked it of you. I needed you to do what you did.” Still they don't touch. But for the first time since the rape, they stay together, in the same room, close, talking. “Evan?” Diego asks later. “What have they been doing to you?” “It doesn't matter.” “It does.” “No. It's stopped, now. Since she's been here.” Evan is telling the truth, excepting one small omission, the night John intervened. “Really? You promise?” “I don't know why. All too scared Smith would cross them off the list for the next lottery, I guess. At least at first. Now, though. She's made it so they really have something to lose.”

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“Yeah.” Evan's blue eyes darken, like seas under clouding sky. “Evan,” Diego whispers. “I didn't go to her like that. For sex.” “It's all right, Diego. I want you to. You deserve some joy. Some pleasure.” Diego gives Evan a sad smile. “I don't want her, Evan.” Later, much later, when it's time for lights out, they still haven't touched. Evan asks, “Do you want to stay?” “Yes.” Diego moves in close, until they can feel the heat of each other's bodies. With both hands he reaches forward, and with just the tips of fingers, touches Evan's hands. That tiny connection, fingertips to fingertips, and they are reunited. For a while they stand there, barely touching, basking in their nearness, eyes locked. Diego waits, stays still, lets Evan come to him. Slow. Their lips touch in a faint, gentle kiss. Lingering and soft. Then slow, quiet, they drift apart, strip to their shorts, and both nervous, both trembling, they go to bed. That night they only relearn how to touch and be touched, remembering the scent and texture of each other's hair, their skin, how their bodies fit together when they hold one another. How Diego's smooth forehead and rough cheek feel under Evan's lips, how hot and soft and quickening Evan's belly is against Diego's palm. Remembering want and warmth and whispers. It's weeks later, after they've laughed together, after they've slept and woken in each others' arms, when Evan says to Diego, “Is it all right if I really touch you?” and Diego says “Yes,” and Evan holds his lover's gaze as he curves his fingers over his stiff

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cock and slow, soft, moves his touch over him, their bodies faintly writhing, barely rubbing, their excited breaths mingling. They take everything slow. That first tender caress to climax. The first time, a night later, when Diego takes his lover in his mouth and kisses him to his first bliss since the night they were taken from each other. And, long, tender weeks later, when Diego asks, pleads, and takes Evan in, kisses and whispers and holds him as Evan makes love to him for the first time. **** “Your daddy does a mean two-step. At first you'll be too little, but when you're bigger, I'm gonna teach you.” Eva laughs. Riggs pulls his hand away. “I'm not laughing at you,” she says gently, pulling his hand back to her big belly. “I just think it's funny, people from California doing country western dancing.” “It's big where I'm from. Was big, I mean.” “I never learned any of that,” she says. “When I don't look like I've got a beach ball stuffed under my shirt, maybe you'll teach me, too.” “Sure.” That moment, Riggs looks at Eva. Really looks at her. And smiles. His hand is up under her nightgown—a couple of the more voluminous nighties are the only things that fit her, now. Eva rolls onto her side, fits her back against Riggs where he's lying next to her, propped on his elbow, facing her. Under the now-taxed billows of sheer white fabric she finds his hand and guides it, down the swell of her belly to her ribs, up the swell of her breast. Behind her, Riggs goes tense. His breathing changes. Eva guides his hand over her breast, fuller than it was seven months ago, her

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nipples bigger, darker, more sensitive. Already her flesh is responding to his warm touch. “What are you doing?” he asks, his voice strained. “Do you want to?” she asks. He doesn't say anything back. Still holding his hand to her breast she shifts against him, writhing back against the erection straining for her through his slacks. Riggs yanks his hand out from under her gown. Jumps off the bed. “Don't do that,” he says. Smoothing away her surprise, Eva gives him an understanding smile. “It's fine if you don't want to. I realizes I look more like the pumpkin than Cinderella these days—“ “It's not that. That's not even true,” Riggs says, backing away toward the door. Eva rises from the bed, smoothes her gown down over her heavy belly. “What is it?” “I know you're just trying to be nice. You don't really want to. For yourself, I mean. Do you?” “No,” she breathes. Riggs takes a deep breath and lets it go. “I know you have your own reasons for what you did. Picking me to be one of the fathers. I know it wasn't 'cause you liked me or trusted me. But still, you choosing me, and how you let me come here to get to know the baby, it's probably the nicest thing anyone's ever done. You letting me be a daddy to this baby, honest, Eva, it's the best thing, maybe the only really good thing that's ever happened to me. It's nice for me, coming here. Talking to the baby. Talking to you. I don't want to mess that up.”

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Eva nods and smiles, her golden irises bright with tears, and Riggs leaves. Outside her door, at the top of the stairs leading down to the main entrance to the old mansions, Riggs pauses. Closes his eyes. Breathes and waits until his erection wilts. Then he thumps down the stairs and out the door, fists clenched, double-timing it away from the house. Away from Eva. Away from her warm soft skin, her swollen breasts, her lifted gown, her writhing hips. By the time he's half way back to the barracks, his balled fists and clenched jaw have relaxed, his fierce pace has slowed and lightened. His fiery eyes clear. Brighten. And then his hard mouth softens into a small smile. Twenty paces on Riggs breaks left, and stops amidst a cluster of storage and supply buildings. One of these buildings might be where he impregnated Eva. If he's really the father of that baby growing inside her. Rotating a slow three-sixty, he looks around, peering between the buildings, into the shadows and doorways. Riggs kicks his combat boot against a patch of sun-baked earth, scuffing up cakes of dirt and a billow of dust. The next moment he taps one toe a few times, finds a rhythm, and breaks into his Texas two-step, his jackboots and military cap passing for a pair of pointy-toed calfskins and his cowboy hat. A spatter of clapping halts him dead. “Pretty fancy there, Riggs.” Rigg's smile fades even before he spots Lott leaning against the corner of the tool shed, draped in the long, heavy shadow thrown over him by the evening sun. “You following me?” Riggs growls, nailing Lott to the side of the building with a hard glare.

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“Just out for a stroll. Walkin' off tonight's beef stew. Getting pretty tired of canned meat,” Lott sighs, patting his lean belly. “So, what was that you were doin'? Some kinda tango or somethin'?” “Nothing,” Riggs says, his eyes dropping to the dusty earth, turning to walk away. “You sure been in a perky mood, lately,” Lott chides, jogging to catch up, then falling into step next to Riggs. “You just comin' back from Eva's?” Riggs is silent for a moment, then sighs, “Yeah.” “Girl's getting' big as a house. Baby must be comin' soon.” “Three more months.” “Her in that state, and she's still letting you have a poke, eh?” “Watch your fuckin' mouth,” Riggs growls, not turning his head or slowing his pace. Lott laughs. “My apologies. Wasn't so long ago you were braggin' over having her bent over the workbench. But I guess you're feeling a bit more chivalrous, now she's carrying your baby.” Lott waits a beat. “Well, yours. And John's. And the major's.” They are in sight of the barracks, now. Riggs hurries his pace. “Can I ask you somethin', Riggs?” Lott doesn't wait for an answer. “You really think they're gonna let you play Daddy to that baby of Eva's?” Riggs stops dead. “What do you mean?”

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“John and the major. You don't really believe they'll ever let you near that little baby, do you?” “I'm that baby's father, as much as they are.” “Maybe. For all anyone knows, that baby's yours, a hundred percent. Well, yours and Eva's. But that don't matter.” “What are you saying?” “Well. Eva's a strange one. She has her peculiar little ideas about raising us up from our ugly ways. So maybe she really does want you to be her baby's daddy. Or anyway, a third of a daddy. Who knows why. “But the major? John? I bet they'd sooner see you dead than see you hold that tiny little girl in your arms. The two of them, they look at you, you know what they see?” Riggs just stands there, silent, shaking. “They see a rapist. The man who broke Smith's cardinal rule, and tried to take the one woman left on earth, their beautiful angel, and fuck her like a common whore. They think if John hadn't been there that day in the orchard, maybe you and your boys woulda raped poor Eva right to death. Now, what man would let someone like that touch his daughter? Much less look after the tiny little baby that's meant to be our salvation from extinction?” Riggs stands there, mute, lips pressed tight, knuckles white, eyes blood-red. Lott smiles and a shudder ripples over Riggs. Looking down on Lott, so pale, so slight, looking somehow like a delicate flower under those coarse fatigues, for a moment it seems as though Riggs will beat him to a bruised and bloody mess. Or maybe scorch

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him with a breath of fire from his heaving chest. But Riggs turns and leaves, disappearing into the barracks. **** “I love looking at you,” she says to Smith. “I could lie here all night, just watching you breathe.” He smiles. “I love looking at all the things that are different, after we've fucked.” “Mmmm? Like what?” “Right after, your eyes look different. And how your chest and belly move up and down, when you're still catching your breath, and I can still see your pulse throbbing in your neck. And your sweat. The beads here,” she traces a fingertip along his hairline, “and here,” she says, fingering the hair under his upraised arm,” how it's darker and twined and curled together. And this,” she holds his gaze as she traces her finger against the base of his cock. “How it stays flushed and heavy, after. And how you smell. Like always, but more, and mixed with my smell.” For a long time they're quiet, Smith staring up at the ceiling, Eva lying on her side, her eyes roaming over his alabaster skin, her hand resting on her pregnant belly. “Avery?” “Hmmm?” “The base. The rest of it, I mean. Is there a hospital?” “Quite a large one. Yes.” “Does it, did it have an obstetrics wing?” “No.” He kisses the faint furrow between her eyebrows. “We'll get what we need from the city.”

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“What?” “I'll send two men to Nashville to get everything.” “Avery. Don't.” Smith turns onto his side, meets Eva's eyes. “It's been over a year since anyone's gone out. It's time, anyway. This errand is only a convenient catalyst.” “Avery, if something happens to the patrol, the men will resent it. Me. The baby.” “No.” Smith smiles, caresses her ebony curls. “It'll be a stealth op,” he says in his teasing voice. “Only the men going will know about that part of the assignment.” “Who are you sending?” Smith hesitates, then answers, “Baldwyn and Lott.” Eva is silent for a long time. Finally she says, “Avery. The other patrols. You're sure the men were killed? That they didn't just...” “What? Go AWOL? No. They died.” “How do you know?” “We were in radio contact. We heard.” “Where?” “Where?” he echoes. “How far did they get?” “Twelve miles. The nearest town.” “When? How long before I came?” “Almost six months.”

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She goes quiet again. Then she says, “Avery. Don't send those two.” “Eva—“ Smith cuts himself off. Takes a breath. “Why not?” “It's a bad message. You send two men you'd as soon be rid of. If they die...” “You think it's better if I send two of the good ones? So that if they die, we're left with Lott and Baldwyn and Riggs, against even fewer people that can be trusted?” “I know. That's a bad risk. But what about the task? What if they just take the truck, and take off? Or what if...” “What, Eva?” “What if whoever goes finds other people? What if there's an enclave of survivors in the city? Do you really want those two to be our emissaries? You're going to send them, loaded up, I assume, with weapons, into some huddling group of refugees?” “What do you think I should do? Should John and I go? Should I send Vallar and Dunn—they're probably the best soldiers I've got.” “No,” she says, breaking away from Smith's fiery stare, then meeting it again. “No. I think you should send the two you can most easily trust, and afford to lose.” **** At o-six-hundred, Smith is saying, “Take one of the Hummers.” Nichols and Hutchinson stand at attention as Smith gives the orders. Even though it has been well over a year since anyone has been allowed beyond the orchard, and even though the three patrols sent out after the world ended had never come back, neither gives a look or makes a sound.

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“Take the highway to Nashville. The list of supplies is in your orders. You'll find the texts at the medical school at the university. The other supplies you'll get at the hospital.” Smith's orders are crisp and clean—irrefutable by virtue of his certainty. But his cold, sharp voice drops and softens on, “The formula. Get that at whatever big drug store you come across first. Check the date. And if there isn't enough stock at the first place, find another. Go to as many as you need to, to get all of it.” Then his voice goes cool and hard again. “You're to be back by eighteen hundred. And I'll expect a full report on the state of the town.” “Yes, sir,” they say, almost in unison They return Smith's salute and quit his office, their orders under their arms. **** A pen lies abandoned on the ink-scarred page of Eva's journal. She shakes her hand, then clenches and unclenches her fist as she gazes out the window at the encroaching twilight. A little sound creaks from her throat. Eva jumps up, knocking over her chair, and without pulling a jacket over her thin t-shirt and swollen belly she flings her door open and speeds down the stairs and out the front door. She runs—not like a pregnant woman, but like a high school track star—and intercepts the party en route to Smith's office. Nichols is beside Hutchinson, and in Hutchinson's arms is a woman. No, a girl. The girl is crying. When she sees Eva, the crying girl kicks and writhes, and Hutchinson

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can no longer hold her. As soon as she's on her feet, the girl flings herself against Eva, clinging to her, sobbing against her. “We didn't touch her. I swear,” Nichols says to Eva. “She was happy as anything to get in the truck with us. Just when she saw the base she started to freak out.” Eva is holding the sobbing child, looking for the lie in the faces of Hutchinson and Nichols. Soldiers are converging from the corners of the base. “Eva,” Hutchinson says warily as she turns and starts walking away with the girl. “We have orders. We have to take her to Major Smith.”

“I'm taking her to my room. The major will understand. She's upset. She'll feel safer with me.” Nichols and Hutchinson let them go. They all let them go. John, sprinting up from the far field he's been working, doesn't have to threaten with his blackjack or a word or even a look. He starts to walk after them, but then he stops and, like the rest of the men, and just watches them disappear into the house.

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CHAPTER SIXTEEN

When she hears a knock, the girl drops the pencil she's holding and rises to her feet, slow and watchful. Eva does a passable smile of reassurance and comes to stand beside her as Smith and John enter. The newcomer watches them apprehensively, but she's quiet and still. “Well, Smith?” “Well, Eva?” he comes back with a taunting grin. “Oh, don't look at me that way, Eva. This is a happy day. I don't mean to do anything to spoil it. I promise.” When he smiles, she smiles back, but her eyes are searching him. Then she turns to the copper-haired sylph. Takes her hand. Tells her, “This is Major Smith. And this is John.” The newcomer smiles, looking more shy than afraid now. “She hasn't spoken,” Eva tells them. “She seems to hear and understand okay, but I haven't heard a sound out of her. I was just seeing if I could get her to write anything. But…” She holds up the piece of paper the newcomer was bent over when they'd knocked. Under Eva's “I'm Eva. What's your name?” are some delicate and fantastical drawings of flowers and animals. “Well, she's a tidy little thing, anyway,” Smith teases. “Doesn't look as though she's just slithered out of the tar pits, like the two of you did when you washed up on our shore.” Then, soft and serious, “Has she been hurt, do you think?” “I don't know. I don't see any marks on her. She was upset outside, but she calmed down as soon as we got in the house.”

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“Maybe we should invite her along to dinner in the mess this evening. See how she is around Hutchinson and Nichols. See if further investigation seems merited.” Contemplative, Eva nods. When she turns to the newcomer and shrugs off her solemnity to give the girl a smile, the other beams back at Eva with an easy, radiant warmth that seems to light and warm the room. “Well, mystery girl,” Eva says, “what should we call you?” The newcomer just goes on smiling, looking from Eva to John to Smith to Eva again, her smile infecting them all in turn. John is quiet and watchful. Smith suggests, “Sunny, or perhaps Joy. Given her significance and her apparent disposition. And that lovely mane.” Sunny Joy, with her copper tresses, goes on smiling at the threesome. “Maybe something less...Felicity? Or,” Eva goes melancholy. “Hope.” Hope's smile widens and brightens, and that's what they call her after that. It seems prudent, they all agree, that Hope stay with Eva, at least until she begins talking, or they see she's reasonably self-sufficient. When Smith leaves, he tries to draw John along with him on some pretext. “I'd like John to stay,” Eva says in her cool, firm way. Smith looks like he might balk, but he bends his mouth into a small smile. “Very well. See you all at dinner, then.” Hope is no blushing violet, and when Eva takes her into the bathroom and begins running a bath, Hope gamely strips out of her sweater and slacks and underwear revealing her pale body in tentative blossom. Not seeming to notice Eva scrutinizing her,

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the girl settles herself in the tub and contentedly begins soaping then soaking, sinking down in the steamy sudsy water, closing her eyes and humming softly. “She doesn't seem bruised. Or traumatized,” Eva tells John when she leaves Hope to her bathing. Eva lies down on the bed. “How old do you think she is?” Eva sighs. “Twelve? Thirteen, maybe.” John just nods, his face grim. Then he gives Eva a melancholy smile. “You haven't gotten your nap today,” John says, lying down beside her, kissing her cheek and caressing the firm swell of her belly. “Mmmm.” she sighs, and lays her hand over John's, pressing it to her. Her eyes stay open a long time, and he strokes her forehead, her cheeks, her temples, her hair until her lids sink lower and lower over her topaz eyes. When Hope emerges in a cloud of steam from the bathroom, she takes in the scene on the bed. Her eyes meet John's and she smiles. Cat-soft she pads around to the far side of the bed and lies down beside Eva, curving an arm over her in the valley between belly and breasts, and falls quietly to sleep. **** Smith has never looked more the eagle. Sharp gaze darting from man to man, group to group. There is only one topic on their lips. When Eva and John enter the mess, Hope between them, all eyes lock into them, save Smith's. The eagle's head pivots, eyes catch, then flick over the men. They watch as Hope takes them all in, quiet and still. Then her smile spreads wide and she breaks from between Eva and John.

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She drags sixteen pairs of eyes after her as she skips over to Nichols, sitting on a bench, drapes herself over his back and wraps her arms around him. A second later Hutchinson gets the same treatment. Hope plops down on the bench beside him, then looks around the room at all the faces turned to her. Her smile fades into a look of startled confusion, until Eva and John and Smith converge on her table and her smile blooms bright again. Smith is studying his two men, but they are watching Eva. When she smiles they soften. “Well, it seems our sphinx has exonerated you both with a smile,” Smith declares. “Still giving everyone the silent treatment, Brit?” Hutchinson teases, smiling now that he seems to feel he's survived judgment day. “Brit?” Eva queries. “We were calling her Brit. Actually I wanted to call her Jennifer, but she seemed to like Brit.” “So,” John says, his voice soft. Careful, even. “What's the story?” “I've heard the story,” Smith tells them, rising. “I'll get us some food.” “The city is awful,” Nichols says, his voice and face dark. “Awful.” “I mean,” Hutchinson picks up, “we probably saw the worst of it. Because we were at the hospital. It's not like there are corpses littering the streets like in some zombie movie.” “But there's no one,” Nichols comes in again. “The deserted highway didn't bother me so much, but to be in a big city, those office towers, restaurants and shops all

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around, and nobody. Just silence. Emptiness. I don't know how she stood it,” he whispers like he's afraid he'll wake a ghost, turning his eyes to Hope. Hope beams back at him with a warm smile. “And how'd you meet up with her?” Eva asks. Hutchinson laughs. “She was shadowing us.” “We came out of the drugstore, from getting the—“ Crashing a metal tray to the table, Smith returns, then with characteristic grace and a gentle smile, hands plates heaped with steaming food to Hope, Eva and John. “From getting the supplies,” Nichols resumes, his face red and voice uneven. “We started loading up the truck. Then Eddy signals me he's seen something. We drew weapons and kept sharp for a bit, but there was no more movement. No noise. We were going to go and check out some other stores, get a few things, you know, food, some booze. Some books. Clothes. So we finished loading what we had and moved on. Then I saw her, reflected in a window; she was across the street, following along but hanging back a bit, mostly staying behind lampposts and garbage cans and mailboxes. We just pretended not to see her, but kept our eyes on her, you know, while we did our thing. She kept it up, block after block, store after store.” “Then,” Hutchinson kicks in, “when we came out of Powell's with our sacks of books and magazines, she was just standing there in plain sight in the middle of the street. Waiting for us. We didn't draw our guns or run up to her. We just stood there, still and quiet for a long time, and she just stood there, watching us. Then she smiled, like she does. So I smiled. We both did. And waved. And she just walked right up to us and...”

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“And what?” Eva asks. “And touched us.” Hutchinson blushes. “She stood there, smiling, and reached up with both hands and touched our faces. Like maybe she wanted to be sure we were really there. “ “And she never spoke?” “Not a word.” **** “Smith.” “John.” “What was that about, with the tray?” “John, it's not very kind, making me relive my clumsy blunder.” “Please don't,” John says, hard and cold. “You shut Nichols up. Tell me why.” “I asked him to get something for me. I didn't care to have it aired to everyone in the mess.” “What? What did you have him get?” “Am I entitled to no privacy?” John laughs, but it's a cold, hard laugh. “No.” “No. That's fair,” Smith says, sounding sad. Then he laughs, but it still sounds sad. “This is silly. There's no reason it should be a secret. I don't even know why. . . Formula. I had them bring back some baby formula.” “Why.” John looks, sounds almost out of his mind. “Because Eva asked me to try to get some, as long as I was sending a truck for supplies.”

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“Eva asked for it?” “Yes, John.” “Why?” “In case. Just in case. If her milk doesn't come in.” “In case she dies, you mean.” “Jesus, John. Eva's not going to die. She just wants to feel sure she's doing everything she can to take care of the baby. That's all.” **** While Eva watches, John strips out of his clothes and joins her in the shower. “She's in there reading,” he tells her. “Yeah. She just took that book from the top of the stack on the dresser, without reading any of the titles, and started reading. At first I wasn't even sure she was really reading it. But if you watch her, her eyes go over every word, and she reacts. You see it in her face. I wonder why she doesn't talk. Why, if she can read, she won't write?” John soaps up a washcloth and brings it to her nape. “I was thinking, maybe I should move out for a while. She needs looking after, but the men...” “You can't imagine they'd think... Even if she was older, they know better than to imagine you're hording a harem. Every one of them knows what Smith intended, that if any of them had been in your shoes, things couldn't have been more...equal. I think it would be a mistake, letting them see us change our domestic arrangement because of her. It's important we not seem afraid.” “Maybe so.”

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She sighs as he goes on massaging her back, her shoulders and arms, gently caressing her breasts and belly with the soapy cloth. Then he curves his arms around her, pressing one spread hand to the curve of her belly, pulls her back against his chest, tips his head to kiss her shoulder. “Eva.” “Hmmm?” she sighs, sounding drunk from his caresses. “You know, don't you, you can talk to me, if you're feeling scared. About having the baby.” “I know.” “You're too careful of me. I don't want to be protected.” She pivots in the circle of his arms, smiles, kisses his lips, water-beaded like the rest of him. “I'm not scared. Just nervous. Not looking forward to the pain. And it calms me, trying to plan, getting ready. But I'm not dwelling on a thousand what-ifs. I'm just not that way. Hopefully the guys got the books and the supplies, and we'll get as ready as we can. Beyond that, there's not much point in freaking over what's beyond our control. So I don't.” He gives her a tender smile. “Good.” She kisses him again, first a lingering, reassuring kiss, then warmer, deeper. Then she watches his face as she slides her hand over his smooth, wet skin—between his pecs, over the taut contours of his belly, then up again to brush over one pink nipple, and again, and again and it stiffens and his eyes close and his smile changes. When she touches the tip of her tongue there, chafes the hardening nub, then closes her lips

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against him and sucks gently, he groans and pulls her tighter to him. Shuddering, he flexes into her hand as she reaches for his stiffening cock. They are slow, quiet, tender in their coming together, sinking under the water to the floor of the tub, him cradling her as she settles over him, soft and seeking as she presses her sex against his, sighing at the friction. When she takes him in she rocks and writhes, taking her pleasure first, then giving him his. Panting and softening after, they hold each other, kissing, nuzzling, laughing softly at nothing but their warm, close happiness. Smiling and nuzzling, caressing and kissing he sighs. “God, I love you, Eva.” It's the first time he's told her. His smile, even the expression of his eyes, promise he's happy. When they emerge from the bathroom, Hope is asleep, curled up at the edge of the bed. Eva curls up behind her, and John behind Eva, matryoshka dolls nested together. But Eva can't sleep. After an hour of laying there, staring past Hope's tousled hair, into the night sky, Eva extricates herself from the little nest, tucking the covers back around the girl's shoulders, and curls up on the love seat. The next morning, that's where John finds her, still sitting up, wide awake. “You didn't sleep at all?” Eva shrugs. John sinks down beside her, strokes her hair, kisses her shoulder. Taking her hand in his, putting an arm around her shoulders, he sits there quietly with her. “You're scared,” he says a long time later. Eva confesses with a nod.

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“I thought I was done being scared,” she sighs. “Why couldn't she be seven? Or twenty-seven? She has to be this fucking mute Lolita,” she breathes. John pulls her into his arms, holds her. She is shivering, but won't let John get a blanket. “John? Don't go to work today. Okay? Stay here with us.” After a heavy silence he says, “You're that worried about Smith?” “Yes.” So, when Smith shows up two hours later, John is there. Hope, silent and watchful, seems to darken, as if the fear and tension in the room are tinting her fair skin, her copper hair, her moss-green eyes. “Good morning, Hope,” Smith says, getting only her silent gaze. No smile. Then, “Strange finding you here, John, given that your shift started almost an hour ago.” His teasing grin undermines his mock severity. “I suppose the others can manage without you for one day. But I do need to talk to Eva. Maybe you could give Hope a little tour of the grounds.” John looks at Eva. Smith grins, his expression darker than it was a moment before. “You trust him on his own with her. Don't you?” “Hope. John's going to take you for a walk, all right?” Hope looks from Eva to John, then goes to John, giving him her hand. “From the looks of things, I should have come as soon as I made up my mind,” he says when they've gone, “even if it was two in the morning.”

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Smith touches Eva's cheek, but pulls his hand away when she stiffens under his touch. “She's safe, Eva. I'm not going to shackle that child to a marriage bed in six months or a year, when her ovaries kick into gear.” Eva's stiff stillness dissolves. Tears well and spill, and she gives in to her trembling. “You see,” Smith says, his eyes going red, “it's not just them you've changed.” Eva nods and leans against Smith's chest, wraps her arms around him. He holds her close, closer, kisses her crown. “I'm sure I've deprived you of a chance to make a fiery speech. I'll want to hear it later,” he teases. After a lot of talk and some heated argument, Smith gives in to yet another of Eva's plans, and moves into the house with her and John and Hope. Hope is given a room next to Eva's, and Smith takes the one beyond, so that Hope's little nest is wedged between those of her de-facto guardians. Smith had protested that it was a bad idea, him taking up residence in the dead General's mansion with the only two women on base while the men were left to the austere angles of the barracks. But to Eva's counter-argument that with Smith there, Hope would be flanked on two sides by her three worthiest protectors, Smith laughed and suggested that Eva might have had a distinguished career as a military strategist, in addition to her already-established reputation in the realms of social engineering and politicking. In her silent, smiling way, Hope takes up residence in her own room, humming, off and on, as she diligently arranges the books Eva gives her, and forgetting everything

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else and plunking down to draw, intensely silent, when Smith presents her with a coffee mug of colored pens and pencils he's scrounged up from somewhere, and a thick pad of clean, white paper. At lunch and dinnertime, Eva and John take Hope to the mess hall. At lunch, she chooses the table where Nichols and Hutchinson are sitting. At dinner she smiles to her two friends, but picks a seat across from Jake, who is used to eating alone. For some reason he flushes red as she sits there, smiling at him while he chews a piece of buttered bread. He smiles. Her smile gets bigger. Jake is as silent as she is. At bedtime, Hope contentedly settles under the covers of her own bed in her own room. In the morning, Eva wakes and finds John smiling at her. “Morning,” she says, voice and eyes drowsy. John kisses her forehead. “Morning,” he whispers. Then, grin widening, still whispering, “I really need to pee.” Eva grins and cocks an eyebrow. “Thanks for the bulletin.” “I'm pretty naked.” Her grin turns into a smile. With a gesture of his head and a pointed glance, John gets her to look. Hope is curled up behind her, copper tresses roping over the white pillow. Eyes closed. Breathing slow and even. “Just hold it. I'm sure she'll wake up in an hour or two,” Eva teases. “Cruel.” “Just go,” she says, smiling but earnest. “Seriously?”

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“We can have the 'why not' discussion another time. Waking her just to shoo her back to her room seems a bit much. And if you're shy about her getting a look at your ass as you retreat to the bathroom, I'm guessing you don't want me to leave you naked in bed with her while I get your shorts for you.” He goes, dipping along the way to snatch his shorts from the floor. Later, when Hope has woken and shuffled off to her own room to dress, Eva asks John, “Do you think it would be a bad thing, letting her see you naked?” John doesn't answer right away. “I don't know. Not necessarily, I guess.” “I think maybe it would be good.” “Good?” “Not making a big production out of it. But if she sees you, now and then, and it's just normal.” Eva drifts off, is quiet for a bit, then says, “You know, it's kind of scary when you're about to have sex for the first time, and you're suddenly confronted with all that.” She gestures at the full height and width of John's body. And then she gestures at his crotch. “And that.” “Yeah,” he says, his voice edged with a guilty note that hasn't been there in a long time. “It's hard to think of it now; she's such a child. I mean, of course her body, but her way of being. If she's twelve now, she's been on her own since she was eight or nine. But sooner or later, one way or another, she'll have to...or she'll want to. . .” “Yeah.”

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“I just want to make everything as easy, god, as good, as happy for her as possible. Maybe if we don't freak out and make a huge thing out of her seeing us naked, or even fooling around, sex won't seem like such a big scary deal.” “Yeah. Maybe.” “John?” “Hmmm?” “You know, she'll start to get curious.” John is silent. “About sex. About men. If she ever gets curious,” she pauses, smiles, “with you. . .” “Eva, what are you saying?” “There aren't any boys here, kids her own age. I think it wouldn't be a bad thing if her first . . . experiments were with you.” “Eva—“ “No, listen. I'm not saying you should instigate anything. I'm just saying, if she ever . . . does anything, you should pull back gently. Or not, even. She'll be safe with you. I mean, not just safe from being hurt.” Eva sucks in a deep breath and lets go with a heavy sigh. “It's always been a problem. But with how things are, here, it's important she not feel like sex is dangerous; okay this way, but bad that way. You know? That kind of bullshit's poison; the situation we're in.” “Eva.” John pulls her to him, kisses along the side of her face, kisses and nuzzles her hair, her ear, her neck. “You haven't swallowed any of that poison, have you?” “No. I'm very careful not to swallow the water while I swim.” ****

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“Has the kid said anything yet?” Smith asks, gazing off toward the patch of grass where Eva and Hope are lounging under the vast and verdant canopy of an Elm. Eva is reading aloud from some novel propped on her belly. John grins. “Not unless we've missed it, and she hums in Morse code.” “Frustrating. So much she could probably tell us. She just reads and hums and draws those wild pictures. Like she's taunting us.” “Come on, Smith. Think what she's probably been through. She's not fucking with your head. Just because she has working vocal cords and understands written language doesn't mean she's capable of speaking. Of telling us anything. Just because she smiles like that, it doesn't mean she's okay. Happy.” “No. I know,” Smith says, sad or contrite. “Just, you know what it means? Her living there all this time? She's the first, of all of us, from a big city. Maybe there are others there. Maybe she knows where.” “Maybe she wasn't there when it happened,” John says. “Maybe she just ended up there, after.” “Maybe.” Smith heaves a sigh. “Look at them, John. Can you believe how much Eva looks like a mother? Strange. They're probably not more than five years apart, the two of them.” “Mmm. If there was anything left of Eva the child, after the dying, we managed to kill her,” John says. “I did, you mean.” John meets Smith's gaze. “No, Avery. That's not what I mean.” ****

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“John.” “Mmm?” “Teach her to fight.” “All right.” He goes on rubbing Eva's bare feet. “You never asked me to teach you.” “Teach me after I've had the baby.” “All right.” “Firearms, too.” “He'll never let you have a gun.” “Not to hide under our pillows. But he'll arm us if we need to defend the base, the group, against someone outside.” “Poor Eva. Do you ever stop worrying?” She smiles. It's a big, hopeful smile. “Honestly? I don't worry that much. Actually, these days I have a pretty bright vision of the future. But we each have to take responsibility for ourselves. I don't like it, feeling like Hope and I need to count on you and Avery to keep us safe. I want to have some faith that Hope can take care of herself. She can't talk her way in and out of everything, the way I do.” **** Riggs goes red as Eva opens the door when he shows up promptly at six-thirty for his weekly visit with her and the unborn baby. “Hi,” she says, smiling. “Hi,” he says, coming back from a furtive glance at Hope, reading in a corner.

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“I was thinking it would be nice to be outside, tonight,” she says. “Yeah. Sure.” “Mind if Hope tags along? She's been cooped up in here since lunch.” Riggs just shrugs. Eva calls for Hope, and the child sets down her book and comes to the door. “Hope, this is James.” Hope gives Riggs her trademark smile. He tries a grin and sort of nods. “James and I are going to go for a walk. Want to come?” Hope smiles and puts her hand in Eva's. Almost as soon as they're outside, though, Hope dashes ahead, squatting to inspect a dandelion, its white head half torn away. Hope puckers her lips and blows, not hard enough to disperse the remaining fluff, just watching the delicate fronds bend and part under her breath. When Eva and Riggs catch up, she walks along beside them a few steps, then charges ahead again, caressing the long leaves of the low-hanging willow branches. “Kids need time outside,” Riggs says. “Yeah. John's been taking her with him to work, but it didn't work out, today.” “I hear she can't talk,” he says in a whisper. “No, she can speak. She's just a really quiet kid,” she says, even though she's never heard her. They wander on, strolling between buildings, over hard-packed earth and patches of lawn, along concrete walkways, Hope flitting about, entertaining herself like a child used to doing so, checking every minute or so to make sure Eva is still in sight. As the light fades, the trio make their way back toward the house.

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Riggs has been too embarrassed to talk to the baby while they were wandering the base, so Eva climbs to the third step toward the porch, and Riggs touches and murmurs against her big belly while Hope shuffles and twirls back and forth on the porch in an improvisational blend of ballet and moves retained from the days of music videos. “The kid's got moves,” Riggs says, smiling the first big, easy smile Eva's ever seen from him. “Oh yeah. She can go for a good hour or two, like that.” Then, grinning, she says to Riggs, “So, how about showing us your moves?” Riggs goes red. “Nah.” “No?” “I need music.” “Not even just few little steps? Come on, you need to stay in practice if you're gonna teach this one,” she says, patting her belly. Riggs looks over his shoulder. Then, as if convinced by the screen of trees partitioning the house off from the rest of the base, joins Hope up on the porch, and shuffles and turns his way through a few silent measures of music. Hope ceases her twirling to watch, her eyes flitting from his feet to his hand to his hips, her smile huge. When he stops, Hope claps, bouncing on her toes. “Come on, James,” Eva says. “A little more?” He goes again. Three steps in Hope scurries over, lines up beside him, and does her best to shadow him. Without stopping, Riggs goes through the same series of moves three more times, until Hope is doing the same routine by his side, not even

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needing to watch him. When he stops, Hope does the jig twice all on her own, then stops, joins the others in clapping for herself. “Kid's a born dancer,” Riggs says to Eva, smiling. Hope scurries over, catches Riggs's hand, and lines him up for round two. Going red again, Riggs pulls his hand away. But just as Hope's big smile starts to fade, he shows her a new move, and a moment later she's copying his steps and turns, smiling again. Then giggling. Bouncing and turning and watching Riggs, laughing, her voice ringing, high, sonorous, as pretty as when she hums.

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CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Baldwyn shovels a spoonful of canned peas into his mouth. Chewing, his green eyes light on something, and one corner of his mouth comes up in a smirk. Riggs smiles across the table. “What?” “How'd you like to have a go at that?” Baldwyn says, his eyes fixed on something a way off. “Bet she'd be lively as anything. I can just about hear her crying, feel her writhing under me, just looking at her.” Riggs looks back over his shoulder, then turns back to Baldwyn, his smile gone, his eyes dark. “I ever hear you say an ugly thing like that about that little girl again, I'll beat you unconscious. And if you touch her,” he says, breathing hard, “I will fucking kill you.” Baldwyn is pale, rattling with adrenaline as Riggs rises and stomps off. **** Hours after he and Eva have gone to bed, John wakes up. Through the walls, through the dark, the sound of crying seeps. John slips from under the covers, gets into his shorts, grabs his blackjack, and is in the hallway in seconds. After three soft raps he calls out, “Hope, it's John. I'm going to come in.” In the soft warm glow of her bedside lamp, Hope is sitting up, shoulders shaking, face wet with tears. With a broken, terrified look, she seems to be pleading with John. “Is someone in here with you?” he whispers. Tears rolling down her cheeks, Hope shakes her head. John goes to her, sits on the bed with her, touches her shoulder.

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“Was someone here?” Another no. “What's wrong? A bad dream?” he asks, his voice soft, his eyes searching hers. She goes on pleading with her eyes, like she's trying to pull him into her silent world. She's crying so hard she's gasping for air. Locked into each other's gazes, John's eyes are reddening, filling with tears. “Hope, honey, I want to help you,” he says, “but I don't know what's wrong.” From under the covers she brings forth a blood-smeared hand. “Okay. Okay,” he says, going pale. “Let me look, okay?” Hope watches John's face, not looking down as he pulls the covers back. His panting and her sobbing fill the room. Her white panties, the white comforter, the white sheets are all spotted and soaked with blood. Her white thighs, too, are smeared with blood. “Oh, god,” John breathes, sounding broken. “Oh. God,” John breathes, something near a smile bending his mouth. “No one was here?” he asks her again, hope, fragile joy, even, threading through his voice. Again she shakes her head. Now John really smiles. He cups her face in his hands, gets her attention all on him. “Hope. Sweetheart. You're not sick. You're not dying.” Tears keep sliding down her cheeks. “Honey, you're okay. You just got your period. This happens to all girls. It's normal. You're not sick. You won't die.” He holds her gaze as her crazed look of terror fades. “Understand, honey? You're not sick. You're not sick.”

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She stops crying. She is staring at John. He smiles. Takes her blood-smeared hand in his. “It's a good thing, Hope. It means you're growing up. This blood, it's part of being a woman. There's nothing to be scared of.” Hope's expression wavers, her chin dimples and smoothes, her smile flickers on and off. Little by little she calms and softens, shuddering through the aftermath of her terror. John puts his arms around her, strokes her hair, rocks her back and forth. “It's all right,” he coos, “you're okay.” Little by little her breathing slows and steadies. “Okay?” he asks, pulling back to look at her. She nods. Gives him a tentative smile. “Okay.” He gives her a big smile. Maybe because Eva is really sleeping for the first time in three nights, John doesn't wake her. “Come on,” he says to Hope, “let's get you cleaned up.” Hope nods her assent, and goes with John into the bathroom. “You hop in the shower. I'll go check to see if Eva has some things you'll need. I'll be right back. Okay?” Hope gives him a fragile smile and a nod. John kisses her crown and leaves her to her shower. In Eva's bathroom he finds what he's looking for. Carrying two small boxes, John returns to Hope's room. The shower has stopped. John knocks softly on the bathroom door. Waits. Slowly pushes the door open.

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Hope is standing in the tub, wrapped in a towel. A trickle of blood running down one leg. “Here.” John sets a fresh T-shirt and panties on the counter. “Here,” he says again, holding up the two little boxes. “I got these from Eva. There's instructions on the boxes. I've never used these, either. So maybe I'll just let you read them. Is that okay?” She nods. “If you need anything, just knock, and I'll come back, okay?” She nods, and John quits the bathroom. Sits on Hope's bed and waits. A few minutes later she comes out, looking small in the big man's t-shirt that serves her for pajamas. “Did you figure everything out okay?” John asks, and she nods. Getting up, John says, “Sit tight a minute, okay? I'm going to see about finding you a clean bed to sleep in tonight. We'll change your sheets and everything tomorrow.” Leaving Hope perched on the edge of her bed, John steps into the hall and closes the door. When he turns he comes face to face with Smith. Glaring. Livid. Holding a handgun. “Well?” is all Smith says. “Well, what?” John's voice is quiet. Calm. “Don't, John.” “What do you think, Smith? I heard something. Just like you.” “And?”

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“She got her period.” “Oh. Jesus.” Smith is almost laughing. Strained, relieved laughter without a trace of joy. “Poor thing. She really thought she was dying. All that blood. It'd be scary enough. But after she probably watched her mom and dad and everyone else she loved hemorrhage to death...” “But she's okay, now?” “Yeah. Shaken up, tired, you know. But she's okay.” “Eva's in there?” “No. No, I let her sleep.” “You didn't wake her?” “She hasn't had a good sleep in days.” “Hope will need...supplies.” “She's got them. I took care of it.” “You?” “Yes.” “Don't you think she needs Eva?” “She's fine. Eva will talk to her tomorrow. But Hope needs a clean bed for tonight. I was thinking, maybe you should go to Eva's bed. And Hope and I could take your bed.” “I don't think that's such a good idea, John.” “What? Letting Hope sleep with me?” “Don't pretend you don't get it, John.” “What do you think? I'm going to molest her?”

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“You know I don't think that, John.” “Look. Eva's going to give birth any day. She needs her rest, and she hasn't been getting it. If I take Hope in there, Eva will be up all night. And no way am I leaving Hope alone tonight, after what she's been through. You should have seen her. She really thought she had the disease. That she was dying. I'm not just going to dump her in a strange bed and leave her to her nightmares.” John goes back for Hope, and takes her to Smith's room. He gets in bed with her, lies back, pulls her close. They fall asleep like that, her head on his shoulder, an arm draped across his belly. Smith goes to Eva. As he slips under the covers, slides over to curl behind her, she is breathing in the slow, heavy rhythm of deep sleep. The moment he touches her, though, she stirs. Purrs and nestles back against him. Kissing her hair, nuzzling into her neck, he touches her hand. She pulls it to her mouth, kisses his palm, sighs, “Avery.” In the dark she turns to him, pulls him to her, seeking his mouth with hers she touches him, caressing all the hot smooth skin her hands can reach, lingering where she feels his body responding to her. His stiffening nipples, his hardening cock. When she pleads, he moves between her thighs, frames her hips between his knees, and goes into her. Seeking each other's mouths, they curl toward each other around the vast swell of her belly. When Eva wakes as the first sunlight sneaks between the slatted shutters, she smiles at Smith, watching her, smiling back at her. Then she startles, looks around her. “What's going on?”

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“John's with Hope. Everything's okay.” “Last night...” Eva laughs. “It was kind of surreal. I think I thought we were in your room.” “I didn't even think you were really awake.” “No,” she says, “Not really.” Then, “Why the musical beds?” “Hope got her period.” “Oh.” She sounds sad. Disappointed. As if she'd hoped the girl would remain a child forever. “And John's with her? She's okay?” “I think it scared her. When it happened. But John took care of her.” “Poor thing. God, I should have talked to her. Prepared her. It's not like she's been around a dozen other girls going through that. And she was too young for her mom to have thought of. . . God, she must have thought...” Eva goes pale. Her eyes fill with tears. “She must have thought she was sick. That she was dying.” **** That night Eva tucks Hope into bed. Then climbs up and lies down, curling up like Hope's mirror image, their knees and foreheads touching. Stroking Hope's soft, straight hair, Eva smiles, and Hope mirrors her smile. Almost. Hope's smile is bigger. Retains a trace of innocence. “I'm sorry, Hope. I'm sorry I didn't tell you about your period, before it happened to you,” Eva whispers. “I'm not very good at this. Looking after you. But I'll try to be better.” Hope's smile lights up again, and she caresses Eva's hair, the way Eva is stroking hers.

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“Before, did you have a sister?” Eva asks. Hope looks at her for a long time. Then turns her head back and forth. Just as she did for John the night before. This is new. “Me either. But you and I can be sisters. Do you like that idea?” Another smile. And this time, a nod. “I'll try to be a good big sister to you. I'll try to tell you the things you need to know. And if you ever want to know something, if you can figure out a way to ask me, I promise you I'll tell you the truth. And if you're ever afraid, or hurt, no matter what it is, I'll do my best to help you.” Then Eva goes quiet, just gazing at Hope wistfully. “You remember, when I go into labor, when the baby's ready to come, Diego and Evan are going to look after you for a day or two?” Hope nods. “You like them, don't you?” Hope smiles. Nods. “You won't be scared, not having me and the Major and John for just a couple days?” Hope gives Eva a brave smile and shakes her head. **** Eva and Hope and Riggs leave the mess hall. Riggs is flushed and his light brown hair is darkened with sweat. Even more than usual, Hope is smiling, her forehead dewy, her cheeks pink. They proceed slowly across base, toward the mansion, Eva

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stepping carefully, balancing her body against the weight of her heavy belly, Hope gingerly holding the boom box that Riggs has agreed to let her carry. “You two are going to have to put on a show for everybody, when you iron out those last couple of rough spots,” Eva says. Riggs buries his hands in his pockets. “I don't know about that. Sure is fun, though, watching her. She picks everything up so fast.” Hope beams up at Riggs. “James.” Eva stops, her face blanched. Hope and Riggs halt. “Is it the baby?” Riggs asks. “I think. I think maybe...” Eva's voice is tight. A moment later she pants. Laughs. “Ouch,” she says, smiling down at Hope. “I guess we'd better get me back to the house,” she says, her breathing evening back out. Riggs put his arm around her waist, and they start walking again. A few moments later Eva halts, muffles a whimper behind bitten lips. When the spasm passes, when the color starts coming back into her face, she says to Riggs, “I thought there'd be more time between contractions, at the beginning.” He looks scared out of his mind, but he says, “Don't worry, Eva. We'll have you back at the house in a couple minutes, and I'll get John and the major for you. Don't worry.” When she's caught her breath, they move on a few more steps. Then Eva stops again. “Another one?” Riggs asks. Eva shakes her head.

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Ahead, off to the right, Lott is leaning back against the wall of the barracks building, watching them. A moment later, the door to the barracks entrance opens, and Baldwyn emerges. From where they're standing, Riggs and Eva can see Lott say something to Baldwyn, can see Baldwyn's gaze fix on them. Ignoring the cement path, cutting across a rectangle of lawn, Lott and Baldwyn head toward the trio. Eva looks around. No one else is in sight. “James. I want you to take Hope with you. Get Smith.” Riggs looks from her to Lott and Baldwyn, and back to Eva's face, contorting under a fresh spasm of pain. “Eva, no, I can't just leave you here like this.” “I'll be okay. You'll get Smith, I won't be alone for long.” Riggs casts another glance at the men by the barracks. They're already a quarter of the way to the trio. “James, please. Get Hope out of here.” “Okay.” Riggs squats down. “You know where Major Smith's office is?” he asks Hope. When she nods, he says, “I'll race you there. Here, lets give this to Eva.” He takes the boom box from Hope. Rises. “Just so she doesn't make a fuss,” he whispers to Eva. “Soon as we're gone, leave it.” To Hope, then, “Ready? Set! Go!” They take off running, Riggs letting her pull ahead, keeping her in his sights as they dash toward Smith's building. Eva starts walking again, until a fresh spasm shakes her. As she pants, eyes watering, Lott and Baldwyn draw nearer.

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**** As Smith is quitting his office for the day, he catches sight of Hope, copper hair streaming and bouncing, cheeks flushed, fists balled, running full-speed. When she sees him, her eyes go wide, seeking, pleading. And then, rounding the corner, bearing down on her, his face hard, determined, Riggs. Smith charges forward, and as Hope lunges for the safety of his arms, he sweeps her aside and back, and hurls himself at Riggs, thrusting him against a wall and pinning him there with a forearm pressed to his throat. Eyes blazing, chest heaving, Smith looks down at Hope. She is turning her head, over and over, no, no, no, tugging at Smith's sleeve and pointing desperately toward the setting sun. Smith lessens the pressure on Riggs's windpipe and asks, “What?” Hoarse and panting, Riggs answers, “Eva's in labor.” A warm smile blooms on Smith's face. “We gotta hurry,” Riggs says. “Lott and Baldwyn were hanging around.” “Where is she?” Smith doesn't waste time asking the inessential things, like, “How could you leave her alone?” “We were just past the barracks, on our way back to the house from the mess.” “I'll find Eva. You get John. He should be at... Fuck. His shift's long over. I have no idea where he is. Look. Get Vallar. He's cooking for mess tonight. We'll find John after we get Eva and Hope settled.” “Yes, Sir.” Riggs reaches for Hope's hand.

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“Hope will come with me,” Smith says, stepping between them and taking hold of Hope's hand. “Sir—“ “Now, Corporal!” “Yes, Sir.” Riggs sounds defeated. Deflated. But he turns and heads off at a run. “Come on, Hope.” Hope gazes up at Smith, her eyes wide and reddening. She tugs her hand free of his, but sticks by him as they rush toward the house. **** “Your friends sure took off in a big hurry,” Lott drawls as he intercepts Eva. She locks eyes with him. “I seem to be in labor. They went to get Major Smith.” “Damn! The big day is finally here, then!” Lott says, a big, bright smile lighting up his boyish face. “You hear that, Baldwyn? Eva's about to have her baby!” Baldwyn says nothing. Just levels a dark look at Eva. “Well, here,” Lott says, “let us help you, 'til the cavalry comes.” He pries the boom box from Eva's clenching grip and hands it to Baldwyn. “Here, Eva, put your arm around me.” Lott draws her hand across his shoulders, curves an arms around her waist. “That better?” “Yeah” she pants. “Thanks.” Eva lets Lott walk her along, toward the house, Baldwyn flanking her other side, carrying the boom box. Eva manages a calm expression, which distorts every few minutes when a contraction hits. But as they near the house, she glances around more and more frequently. When they reach the steps of the mansion, Eva halts.

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“Come on, Eva. We'll get you inside. Take you upstairs,” Lott says, grinning. “No. I just want to wait for John and the major here,” she says. Lott leans in close, whispers by her ear, “Eva, darlin'. You don't need to be scared of me and Baldwyn taking you up to your room. All I mean to do, Eva, is to look after you until your men come to take care of you.” Eva meets Lott's gaze. “The last thing I want to do is go upstairs and shut myself in that room the second my labor's starting. I'm going to be stuck in there long enough, when things really get serious. I'll stick with the fresh air, for now.” “Suit yourself, little Eva.” Her eyes sweep the perimeter, trying to penetrate the fringe of trees. “Don't be anxious, Eva. Much as Riggs might like to take advantage of a few minutes alone with that rosy little fairy child, I don't think even a chance to drag her into some shed and making a woman of her would deter him from his present mission. He's too eager to be a daddy. Isn't he? I'm sure he's runnin', hard as he can for the major. 'Cause even though Riggs gets out of line from time to time, he looks up to the major. Riggs likely figures that Major Smith can deliver babies just as good as he can orchestrate battles. “'Course, then again, Riggs ain't so much of a thinker. Is he, Eva? To his mind, there isn't much to it. Women are made for having babies. So if he takes his time, all that'll happen is Smith will be a few minutes late lighting up a celebratory cigar. No reason why a little thing like that should put him off a few minutes of fun with Hope.

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“She's so warm, so trusting, I bet that sweet child would smile up at him right until he got inside her and the pain let her know he was takin' something from her. Hurting her. Has she said one word since she's been here? I wonder if that little girl can scream?” “Your scenario would be a lot scarier if it wasn't so obvious that you know Riggs would never hurt her.” Lott laughs. “Damn, girl. This is why I like you so much. Even sweatin' and wincin' with your childbirth pains, even with your little fairy child and Riggs together, and clean out of sight, you got such spunk.” Lott moves in close, until they can feel the warmth of each other’s bodies, and whispers, “I know how much Riggs wants to be good. But even Riggs himself don't know that he won't hurt that girl, so quiet, so full of trust and love, lookin' to give it to everyone who comes near.” Eva has kept her expression calm, but now, when she sees John, by contrast it's obvious how hard she was working to seem composed. “Congratulations, John,” Lott says, drifting back as John comes to Eva's side. Ignoring Lott, John looks at Eva. “Seems like my labor's started,” she tells him. John's smile transforms his entire aspect. As Lott and Baldwyn fade away, John goes into midwife mode, timing her contractions. “John, maybe you should get me inside. I sent Hope off with James to get Smith. I think you should go and—“

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Eva doesn't finish her sentence, because Smith and Hope have emerged from the fringe of trees. Seeing Eva, Hope comes bounding to the porch, distraught, and nestles into Eva. “What's wrong?” Eva asks, stroking Hope's hair. “Everything's fine,” Smith says. “Riggs and I just had a small argument. But he's gone to get Vallar. They should be here any minute.” When they turn up, Hope hardly seems to notice Diego smiling and saying hello. She goes straight to Riggs and tries to put her arms around him, but Riggs steps back, out of the closing circle of her arms, and turning away from her, says, “You go on, with Diego. He's gonna look after you for a bit.” Hope just stands there, gazing up at Riggs, his back turned to her, her eyes filling with tears. “Avery.” Eva's lips are curved in a kind of grin, but her voice is hard. “What argument did you and Riggs have?” He comes in close, tells her under his breath, “It looked like he was chasing her. I thought she was running from him.” “What did you say?” “Honestly, not a thing. But I pushed him. A bit roughly,” he admits. “Avery,” Eva says, her voice even, but stretched thin, “This is supposed to be a joyful day. For Hope and James, too. Please go over there and apologize to him.” “All right, Eva.” “And let Hope hear you doing it.” Smith makes his way over to Riggs. “Corporal.”

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Riggs turns his body to face Smith, but doesn't manage to meet his eyes. Hope stares up at the two men. “Riggs. I want to apologize for putting my hands on you, before. I misread the situation.” His lips pressed tight, Riggs just nods. “Are you hurt?” Smith asks. “Your throat?” “No, Sir.” Riggs's voice is on the verge of breaking. “Well. Thank you for alerting me. And for looking after Hope.” Riggs nods. “Come on, Hope,” Smith says, “Diego's going to take you to dinner.” But Hope won't take his hand. Won't walk along with him. “Do you want to stay with Ri—, with James?” Hope nods. “All right. You can stay with him for a few minutes. But remember, Eva's about to have her baby. And she wants James with her. So don't keep Diego waiting too long. Okay?” She gives Smith a solemn nod. “Give the poor child a hug, for god's sake, or Eva may postpone the birth indefinitely,” Smith says under his breath to Riggs before going back to Eva and John. Riggs stands there, jaw still flexed, body still tense, eyes still fixed on some distant nothing, breathing hard until the redness in his eyes fades a little. Then he looks down. Hope is gazing up at him, her green eyes teary. A tentative, hopeful smile curves her lips. She reaches up, and after a moment, when Riggs doesn't pull his hand away, she touches. He smiles down at her. A weak smile, the effort behind it obvious. Hope

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presses herself to him, wraps her arms around his waist, squeezing, holding tight until he puts his arms gently around her. A moment later he lets go, backs away. Hope's chin dimples as she reaches up and touches the red mark across Riggs's throat. “Don't worry about that,” he says. “He didn't hurt me. And don't you be mad at him. The major was only trying to take care of you. To make sure nobody hurts you. And I want him to look after you like that. Understand?” Hope nods. “Well, I guess it's time for Eva to have her baby. Maybe you should go give her a hug, before you go with Diego.” Hope nods, and gives him her big, guileless smile, and dashes back to Eva. For some reason, Riggs, who is used to avoiding the eyes of everyone who might pass judgment on him, turns and meets Diego's steady gaze. **** Eva's labor is shorter and easier than any of them had dared to hope, and her son, weighing in at just over eight pounds, kicks and screams to everyone's satisfaction. As the mother and three fathers have agreed, they name the baby Gareth.

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CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

“You haven't held your son, yet.” Riggs shrugs. “He's so tiny. I don't know why I thought he'd be bigger.” “It's okay, James. You won't break him.” Riggs stares down at the sleeping infant, its pink face peeping out from the white blanket in which it's been nearly mummified. Then, he bends down and gingerly works his thick fingers under the little bundle, and slow, holding his breath, lifts his son. Gazes at the tiny face, the shut, puffy eyes, the little snub nose, the red lips. The sparse tufts of dark hair peeking out from the edges of the blanket. “Sit down. It'll be more comfortable, holding him.” Riggs cautiously makes his way to a chair, sits, figures out how to cradle the baby in his arms. “James?” She takes a moment to find her words. “The major told you he was sorry?” Riggs breaks away from her gaze. “Yeah. He didn't have to, though. I know what he thought. And I know why. It's fair, him not trusting me.” “Is it?” “What do you mean?” “You would never hurt Hope.” “You don't know that.” “Would you?”

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Riggs lets go a heavy, sad sigh. “I think I'd rather have my arm cut off than see her hurt. I'd never...I swear to god, it makes me feel like throwing up, just thinking of that. Of anyone hurting her that way.” “I believe you, James. Why do you think I trusted you to go off alone with her?” “I figured you were rolling the dice. Maybe I wouldn't do anything bad. And if I did, it would be just me. Not Lott and Baldwyn, both.” “You know Hope likes you? That she's your friend? That she thinks you're her friend?” “Yeah.” “It would hurt her a hundred times worse if you did something like that, than if Lott or Baldwyn did. Even together. Even brutally. If I'd thought there was the least chance I couldn't trust you with her, James, I'd have risked the two of them.” Riggs looks down at the baby, hiding his face from Eva. “I mean it. I know, I trust you with her.” “Okay,” he says, still staring down at the baby in his arms, sounding close to tears. “I hope you'll still be her friend. It'll hurt her a lot if you push her away because you're worried what people think.” After a long silence, without looking up, Riggs asks in a hushed voice, “Eva?” “Hmmm?” “Does she know?” “What?” “What I did, that day in the orchard? What I did to the others?”

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“No.” “When she finds out, she won't want me to be her friend any more.” **** “I wonder if this is some kind of record,” Eva says to Smith. “What's that?” “Gareth is four days old. And I have yet to change a diaper.” “Well. You carried him for nine-plus months. And gave birth to him. And breastfeed him every three hours. I suppose wiping his bottom is the least the rest of us can do.” “True.” Smith gets all the cracks and crevices clean with his characteristic efficiency, embellished every few seconds with an adoring glance, or a look of quiet wonder. Then he tapes the diaper to a snug fit and lifts his son to his chest, grinning down at the wiggling, squeaking infant. When he comes to Eva with the baby in his arms, Smith watches her eyes fix on the infant, watches an expression of joy suffuse her features. “You're happy. Aren't you?” he asks tentatively. Eva meets Smith's eyes. She smiles. “Avery. You didn't make me do this. I chose it. I wanted it. And yes. I'm happy.” A small smile bends Smith's mouth, and a melancholy fog clears from his eyes. “Would you like it—“ he starts before blurting, “I want to stay with you tonight.” She laughs. “Avery. I'm in no shape to—“

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He shakes his head. Laughs, sort of. “I just want to feel you next to me, Eva, as you fall asleep tonight. And as I fall asleep. I want to wake up with you beside me.” **** Eva and John are curled up on the bed, facing one another, the newborn cradled in the hollow between them. Stroking the fine, dark strands crowning the baby's head, John is gazing down at his son like he's utterly in love. And then he looks at Eva with that same rapt, adoring expression, like he might cry, but with a smile curving his lips. Eva's serene smile goes wide and warm. “I didn't think it was possible, that I could feel this way again,” he says. “So, so happy.” Careful of the sleeping baby, John leans forward, touches Eva's lips with his, lingering, parting for a deep, tender kiss. “Thank you,” he sighs. She laughs. A shy, nervous little laugh. “I don't mean,” he stammers, laughing at himself, “I know you didn't do this for me.” He casts a glance down at the baby. “And that's not what I mean. I mean everything. Just how you are, what we have. I don't know what I thought the rest of my life was going to be like, after I ended up here. I think I had some feeling that, that was it. That my existence was just going to be...well, that, I guess. Existing. Not living. Not really. Just getting through day after day and night after night, trying to hold myself together, hacking at the ground with a spade every day, trying to grow enough food to sustain my body, when my brain felt numb and my heart felt dead. And now,” he laughs again, “I don't know. I just feel full. Happy. Because of you.” ****

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There's a quiet knock, and Eva pokes her head out the bathroom door as Smith enters the bedroom. In silence, they exchange smiles before Eva goes back to dressing after her shower, and Smith sneaks up to the crib and peers down at the sleeping infant, a smile suffusing his expression at the sight of those tiny fists, those impossibly long lashes and smooth skin, those pink lips, that tiny body, arms and legs akimbo, sweetlyfrog-like in the little yellow onesie. When Eva pushes the bathroom door open, Smith joins her in the lingering, thinning steam, and they smile at each other's reflections in the mirror while Eva combs her fingers through her heavy, wet hair. Her smile fades as he brushes her hair aside and touches her neck with his lips. A moment later, he kisses again, his index finger sliding her shirt, inch by inch, baring her neck, her shoulder to his mouth. He coaxes her and she turns to him, lets him kiss her ear, her cheek, lets him nuzzle into her damp hair. Lets him touch her lips with his. Then he grins, his hazel eyes seeking her through a fog of arousal. “Eva,” he breathes, holding her gaze, pressing his warm body against hers. A smile flashes across her lips, then fades. She nestles against him for a moment, then slips away. “Mind watching Gareth for a bit? I'd like to go for a run.” “A run? Yes, of course. I'll look after him.” “Thanks. Hope's off with John, so it's just the baby.” “We'll be fine. Enjoy your run.” There's only a trace of disappointment in his voice.

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When she comes back, her olive drab tank darkened, her forehead beaded with sweat, Smith is perched, straight and watchful, at the side of the bed. Eva casts her gaze around the room. “No sign of John and Hope?” “Not yet.” “Guess I need another shower,” she says. “I'll stay,” Smith says. “In case he wakes up.” “Okay.” When she emerges, clean and dressed in fresh clothes, the baby is still asleep, and Smith is still perched on the edge of the bed. “Eva.” She looks at him. But she doesn't go to him. He rises and goes to her, where she's standing by the open window, cooling in the breeze after her run and her hot shower. “I want to ask you something.” She smiles. He smiles back, but as his mouth curves, his sharp eyes seem to dim. In a quiet, tight voice he asks her, “Have your feelings changed?” Her smile fades. “Changed?” “When we're around the others, and you look at me, I don't think so. But when we're alone, I feel like you're constantly eluding me, pulling back, slipping away.” Eva is slowly shaking her head, back and forth. “Please, Eva. Don't pretend anything with me.” “No, Avery.” She smiles through tears. “I swear. I love you the same as before. Except more, maybe.”

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Smith's effortful firmness dissolves and he kisses the tears from her cheeks, pulls her gently to him. Then he sets her away, caresses her wet cheeks, seeks her eyes. Gives her a tender smile. “But something is going on,” he says. “I just,” she starts, then laughs, tears rising again. “Wow, this is stupid. I just feel like I've been transplanted into an alien body. So when you touch me...” Smith looks like his heart is breaking. He cups her face in his hands, kisses her lips, her cheeks, her nose. Her mouth again. “You have no idea, Eva, how beautiful I find you. Even more now, than when you first arrived. You looked such a child then. I've seen you flower into such a gorgeous woman. Every day of your pregnancy, you were more alluring. And now—do you have no sense of how much I desire you? How hard I've fought to restrain myself the last few weeks, trying not to be a complete cad?” This time when Eva laughs, there's real mirth in her eyes. Her voice soft, almost shy, she says, “It's not that I feel ugly. Or insecure. It's really just what I said. My body doesn't feel like . . . my body. I feel sort of like I'm visiting. Borrowing. Everything feels so different. I feel different in my skin. Kind of...a stranger to myself.” “Well,” he says, twining his fingers into hers, nuzzling her neck, then holding her gaze, “don't you think it's time you were reacquainted?” Later, he will think, She gave me that. On purpose. I'd never known her like that—unsure, so shy as she yielded to each kiss, each touch. John had and I hadn't, so she gave me that.

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And it's true. Eva—who, her second time, took control of John, who coerced Smith their first time together, who handled Riggs like a horse under reigns and a whip—trembles and blushes and catches her breath as Smith brushes his lips against hers in a soft hint of a kiss, as his breath and the faint touch of his lips mingle to stir nerves along her jaw, her hair line, as he strokes the soft bare skin of her neck, her arms, as he moves close, enfolding her in his heat. **** “James?” He looks up from the baby in his lap. Eva smiles. “What are you thinking about?” Her voice is gentle. Riggs shrugs. “Nothing.” “Sometimes, when you look at him, you look so sad.” “I guess I was just thinking, when they're little like this, it's easy. You feed them and change them and hold them, smile at them, and they love you.” “Yeah.” “When he gets older, though, he'll learn stuff. I guess maybe he won't love me, when he learns the things I've done.” “You've done bad things, James. And there's no hiding from that, from your past. Not really. All you can do is choose to be a good person, now. The way you've been good to Hope. And me. And Gareth. He'll grow up, seeing that every day. I think it would be awfully hard to undo his love for his father, after a lifetime of knowing you, being good and kind.” ****

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“How did I miss it all this time?” John laughs, nuzzling into Eva's neck, making her squeal and giggle. Now that she's wound up, wiggling with laughter, squirming under John's kisses and little bites, every inch of her body seems to be unbearably ticklish. When she's panting hard, tears gathering at the corners of her eyes, John relents, waits, takes her in a hot, deep kiss. But when he touches his lips to her belly, just inside her hip bone, she writhes and gasps and is laughing again, all her nerves taut and ticklish now. They laugh and struggle and come together, her tormented writhing driving them both crazy as they fuck, John pinning her wrists against her desperate flailing as he licks and bites her neck, riding her like a bronco, holding on for dear life. When they finish they collapse, lax, sweaty, panting, laughing at themselves. Neither notice the pale face, the green eyes, wide, intent, or hear the door close softly as they come unjoined and settle into mirthful whispering. **** When Eva opens her sweater and lifts up her tank top to give the baby her breast, Riggs turns away. Eva smiles, but doesn't say anything. “I can't believe how big he's getting,” Riggs says. “He's a big boy.” She beams down at her son, eagerly taking her milk and grasping her finger. “James.” “Yeah?” He's still got his back to her. “You don't have to be embarrassed, watching him nurse.” Riggs turns around. “I'm not.” But his eyes evade the bared breast, the suckling baby.

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After a while, Eva switches the baby to her other breast. Gareth fusses for a moment when she takes the first nipple away, but soon he latches on and settles down, sucking contentedly. “Kid's sure got a thick head of hair,” Riggs says. “Mmm Hmm.” Eva strokes the fine, dark hair. “And notably lacking his mother's kinky curls.” “That's kinda too bad.” “Yeah?” Eva laughs. “Think he'd look cute running around with a little 'fro?” “Yeah,” he says, smiling, “I do.” “Do you want to burp him?” she asks, tugging her top down when Gareth has grown bored of nursing. Riggs smiles, throws a blanket over his shoulder, and takes the baby from Eva. Long for his three months, and plump, the baby that looked huge in Eva's arms seems tiny in Riggs's giant hands, and curled over his massive shoulder as Riggs pats him gently on the back. Another night, Riggs fidgets, but doesn't get up and turn away as Eva unbuttons her nightgown to nurse the baby. “I'm kind of glad now I didn't burn these hideous things when I first got here,” she says, tugging at the fabric with an air of mild disgust. They're kind of gross as lingerie, but they make decent maternity-wear. I guess there's something to easy access, after all.” Riggs turns a little red and gives her an uneasy smile. They fall quiet as the baby drinks his dinner.

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“You want to put him down?” She asks Riggs. “You go ahead,” he says, looking off somewhere to the right. Eva laughs. “Come on, James. Take your son and tuck him in.” “Please, Eva. I don't want to.” “Okay,” she gives in, giving Riggs a sympathetic smile. Kissing the baby ten or twenty times on his crown and his tiny palms, she lays him in his crib and drapes his blanket over him. Then she sits on the edge of the bed, and pats the spot next to her. Riggs reluctantly comes and sits beside her. “James.” Her voice is soft. Gentle. “It's okay that you get aroused, sometimes, seeing me nurse.” His eyes are fixed on the wall opposite. “It's not just you. It's normal. So you should feel embarrassed. Ashamed.” Riggs is quiet. Just breathing hard. “Okay?” “Okay.” His voice is tight, and his eyes stay fixed on that wall, as if he's wearing blinders and Eva is invisible. A disembodied voice. “You don't sound okay.” “I don't like it. Making this dirty.” “Is that what you think? That sex is dirty?” “No. But it's perverted, thinking that stuff about you when you're nursing.” “Why?” she asks. “Sex is how he got made.” She laughs. “You know what I read in one of the medical books?” “What?”

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“Some women have orgasms, just from nursing.” “Nah.” “Really. I haven't, but I can definitely see how it could happen,” she tells him. He laughs and finally looks at her. His face goes red again, and he gets up, goes across the room. Eva's gown is still unbuttoned, her swollen, heavy breasts partly visible between the gapping fabric. She looks down, blushes, laughs. Looks over at Riggs huddling in the corner like a punished schoolboy. “James. Come here.” When he sits down beside her again, she touches the bare back of his arm, just below he sleeve of his tee. “I don't want you to ever feel bad for feeling aroused, from looking at me, or for thinking about me. Your desire isn't bad. It isn't bad, if you get hard, or if you fantasize things about me. The only bad thing is making people do things they don't want.” She strokes the back of his arm, caresses his back. His heat, his muscles scantily veiled under the thin t-shirt. “You shouldn't do that,” he says. She pulls her hand away. “You don't like it? Being touched?” “It's not that.” “What is it, then?” Silence. “Are you afraid you'll want to hurt me?” “No.”

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“It's okay,” she whispers. “You don't have to be scared.” She touches his hand, traces up his arm, brushes her fingertips over the nape of his neck, combs them into his hair. He sits there, shaking, breathing hard, his eyes going red. When she touches his cheek, his jaw flexes. It seems like he's stopped breathing. “Is it so strange,” she whispers, “being touched like this?” He's quiet for a long time before he unclamps his jaw and breathes, “Yes.” “But, does it feel nice?” “Yes.” “It's okay. You can touch me,” she whispers. He stays still for a long time, as she goes on stroking his hair, caressing the bare skin above the collar of his t-shirt. Then, finally, he reaches over, and his fingers light on her hair, so carefully she can't even feel his touch. Again, he seems not to be breathing. After a long while, his thumb brushes lightly against her cheek. Then he pulls his hand away. “I shouldn't,” he says. “Why, James?” “I think it hurt you, before. Letting me touch you. In the storage shed, those times.” She gives him a smile, but he's dodging her face again. “James. That was a long time ago. We weren't friends, then.” He turns a little farther from her gaze. “We're friends now. Aren't we?” He nods his head.

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“It's okay,” she says, bringing his hands to her neck. “I want you to.” She touches her lips to his cheek. Riggs closes his eyes. Lets go of a shuddery breath. Touches her. Fingertips trailing feather-light over her throat. Out to her shoulders. Down, tracing the outcurves over her breasts. He freezes. “Eva.” “What?” “I won't be how I was. In the shed. I promise. I want it to be nice for you.” She smiles. Catches and holds his gaze until he smiles back. Then she draws the front of her gown open, fully baring her breasts. Riggs brings his palms underneath, gently cups the weight of her full breasts. Faintly caresses the taut flesh. He scrupulously avoids her dark, swollen nipples. She brushes her fingers over one. “They're tender. But if you kiss gently, it'll feel nice.” He blushes and shoots a look at the crib. “He won't mind,” she says, grinning. Riggs kisses, and after a moment or two, gets a deep, breathy moan. “Take your shirt off?” she asks. He gives her a sheepish smile, as if he's embarrassed not to have done it sooner, and tugs his t-shirt over his head. While he caresses and kisses her other breast, she touches and teases up and down his brawny chest. When she cups her hand over his hard-on, he groans out loud. When they're both naked, when he's holding himself over her, poised between her parted thighs, she kisses his cheek, strokes his hair, puts her arms around him. He lets out a strange, startled whimper as he enters her. As he moves, he trembles. She

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can feel the shuddering quivering of his muscles as she holds him, as she caresses his back. He still has trouble looking at her, meeting her eyes. But she smiles as he nuzzles against her neck, kisses her shoulder, caresses her hair. All his touches, all his movements are gentle. Careful. When she makes a little whimpering sound he goes still and whispers, “I'm sorry.” Now Eva cups his face in her hands and makes him look at her. She smiles. Kisses his forehead. “Don't be sorry. It feels good. You feel good to me.” “Oh.” He is trembling again, his hands shaking as he pulls her close against him, moves with her the way he was before, and now each time she makes that noise, that little whimper, a shudder runs through him. His eyes closed, his brow furrowed, sweat sheening his back, he drives that little whimpering sound from her again and again until she keens and writhes up against him, shuddering under him, clutching him against her and he groans, deep, guttural, then pants, practically sobbing his breaths. “I wish I'd known you sooner. When I was younger,” he says to her later, when they've dressed and he's kissed his son goodnight. “Maybe I'd be a better man.” She gives him a sad smile. Shakes her head. “I was just a spoiled kid, before the dying. Besides, I haven't made you a better person. You have.” He shrugs. “Well. I should go.” Not long after, there's a soft knock, and Smith comes in. He gazes down at the sleeping infant, and a melancholy smile widens his mouth. Then he finds Eva in the

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shower. As Eva watches, he strips down. Joins her. He comes to her slowly, and in a cautious, tender voice, asks her if she's all right. Eva smiles. Takes his hands. “I'm fine.” He pulls her to him, wraps her up close in his arms. “God, Eva. Why?” Eva breaks the circle of his arms, backs away, gets his gaze. “I want him to be happy.” “You think he deserves that?” She's quiet for a bit. “I don't know,” she says, finally. “I don't even know if that question makes sense. But he's the father of our baby. He's a member of this group of survivors. It can't do us any good, shoving him out to the margins, keeping him an outcast. Treating him like a leper.” “There's a lot of room between ostracizing someone, and taking them to bed.” Smith sounds wounded. “I know that,” Eva says, a crack in her patient voice. “Avery, I haven't forgotten what he's done. What he's capable of. But that's not all he is.” Eva pulls in a deep breath and sighs as she lets it go. “Don't you see it, sometimes? How scared he is? I'd guess that every awful thing he's done, he's done with the feeling his back was against the wall. And when he's with Hope, and sometimes when he's with me, that fear that I see in him fades, a little. I think it's good for him. I think him feeling...cared for, included, is good for all of us. For the whole group.”

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“So, what? It's not enough, now, that you give yourself to every man on base, give them all their ration of comfort? The special cases get you for a part-time wife, as well?” “Don't.” She pulls him to her, strokes his wet hair, his wet back. “You're susceptible, too,” she says gently, still stroking him. “Don't let your fear, this irrational fear of yours, turn you ugly.” **** “Avery.” It's a plea. He has her pinned. Immobilized. Wrists caught in his fierce grip, her torso pressed into the hot damp sheets under the weight of him, her legs caught, helpless, wrapped up in the twist of his shins, ankles, feet. Like this, trapped under him, she can't touch, can't writhe and flex with him. Can't give pleasure, or seek it. Eva is at his mercy. For minutes at a time he keeps her in suspense, makes her feel him, hot, deep, quivery, but only a tease, a hint, provoking her need, over and over, holding her open, keeping her full, swollen, careful never to rub out the itch he stirs with every little movement. And all that time he holds her, caught in his gaze, probing her through every twitch of need, seeking, catching every glint of hope, of surrender. “Please, Avery.” When he gives her one small taste of mercy, of real, deep pleasure, her taut straining ruptures and she howls, sudden, loud. Smith clamps a hand over her mouth, smothering her next startled cry of pleasure.

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He makes her come like that, her wrists caught and pinned under one hand, her mouth covered by the other so she can cry her pleasure with abandon, her body straining, helpless under him, her only pleasure, all her pleasure given to her, none of it taken for herself. And he, so caught up in the rapture he is working on her that he loses himself to his own ecstasy almost at the moment her body succumbs to the spasms his body provokes at last. After. They are still holding each other in lust-clouded gazes. Then Eva's eyes flash and fix on something past the foot of the bed. Smith takes his hand from her mouth. “Hope.” Eva breathes the girl's name, then works her mouth into a smile. “Honey, it's okay.” Smith has let her wrists go, and Eva reaches her hand out to the staring girl. Silent, watchful, Hope glances from Eva's face to Smith's. He blushes and shifts. “Don't,” Eva says in a quiet voice, holding Smith to her, penning him between her knees. When Hope comes near, Eva takes her hand. Hope looks scared. Like she's near tears. Eva's smile gets bigger, warmer. “Were you afraid Avery was hurting me?” Eva asks. Hope looks from Eva's warm smile to Smith, who forces himself to meet her gaze. She turns back to Eva and gives a small nod. “Well,” Eva says, stroking the girl's sleek copper tresses, laughter deepening her soft voice, “he wasn't. Avery and I were just,” she pauses, “playing together. Having fun together. Nothing for you to be scared about. Okay?”

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Seeing Eva's big happy smile, and Avery's embarrassed grin, Hope gives in to a smile of her own, and nods her head. “Why don't you go and see John and the baby? I'll come in a little bit. Okay?” Hope casts a quick glance at Smith, then smiles at Eva and scampers off. “You couldn't have let me, ahem, slip away, just a few inches away, for that conversation?” Smith asks. “I didn't want her to think we were pretending anything with her. I wanted her to see us, as we were, that I was fine. Happy. Not like kids in a fight who fly apart to opposite sides of the hall when a teacher walks up.” “I should have been more careful to lock the door,” he says. “No. I think it's good she sees. She doesn't have school friends to talk to. No tawdry paperbacks to sneak and read. No internet. It shouldn't be some big mystery. Don't you think?” “Well, we don't want to traumatize her, do we?” “Course not. And we won't, as long as we don't freak out like crazed Puritans when she gets curious.” “Have you had a real talk with her?” “No,” Eva sighs. “I need to. Keep meaning to. I just don't want it to be some big heavy thing. And I don't want to hide anything from her, but I don't want to scare her either. I'd like to see her start her sexual life eager and curious, not weighed down by all the baggage I grew up with. “And at the same time, I don't pretend to myself that we can keep her a hundred percent safe. It's possible,” Eva locks into Smith's gaze, “someone could hurt her,

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someday. I want to say the right things to her, so she understands that her body is hers, that no one has a right to it, unless that's what she wants, but without burdening her with the shame, the embarrassment that comes out of making sex such a big deal. This allimportant, precious thing. She should never feel dirty, feel like less, because of someone else's crime.” A murky sadness wells up, darkens Smith's eyes. “What I did to you. I know I hurt you that way.” “Yes,” she whispers. “I wish I could undo that. Of all things, all my life, I wish I could undo making you feel...” “Less than human.” She fills in the blank for him. “But, you know, what doesn't kill you, etcetera, etcetera. You're almost solely responsible for the monster I've become.” “I'm glad. But it doesn't do much to relieve my guilt.” “Good. I'm counting on your guilt, on how you refuse to forgive yourself, on the way you torture yourself daily with your penitence, to keep you in line.” Her teasing grin fades. For a moment she is bare and sad. **** When she leaves Smith, Eva finds Hope in her room. “Hey, Sweetie.” Hope answers her with her luminous smile. “Can we talk for a minute?” Hope nods. Gazes steadily at Eva, waiting.

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“You were upset, seeing me and Avery. I don't want you to feel scared, if you see me like that with him. Or John. Or James. Probably it looks strange, but it's something...” Eva laughs, which makes Hope smile, and tries again. “Hope, did anyone ever explain to you about sex?” Hope goes on gazing at Eva with a small, placid smile. “You know I love John, right?” Hope nods. “And Avery, too?” Another nod. “Sometimes, with some kinds of love, people express it by kissing. By touching. And doing what Avery and I were doing. And that's how we made Gareth. John and Avery and James and I.” Hope gets up off the bed, and coaxes Eva up to her feet. Then she flips the covers up, baring the mattress with a white sheet fitted over it, and plunges under with one hand, burrowing until she's in up to her shoulder, and comes back with a thick book, its red leather binding worn and tattered. Holding her treasure under her arm, Hope takes Eva's hand and leads her to Eva's room. Sets her mysterious tome on the little table by the window. Pulls a stack of books from the nearby shelf, exhumes three small notebooks. Sets them on the table next to her one, heavy book. Then Hope looks at Eva, hands her the red book. Still holding her gaze, asking something with her eyes, Hope picks up Eva's journals. “You want to trade?” Eva asks her. Hope gives a nervous smile. Nods.

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After a few moments, considering, Eva says in a quiet voice, “Most of what's there, it's me working through how I'd like things to be. It's my little manifesto, principles for living together, for keeping each other safe, and free, and cared for. But honey, those journals, there's some sad things in them. And some scary things. Things that happened here. Things about us, me and John and Avery. Are you sure you want to read them?” Looking sure and serious, Hope gives another nod. “Okay. You're getting to be pretty grown up. And I don't think keeping things past a secret is ever such a good idea. So you can read them.” Eva is still and quiet for a moment or two. “Hope. When you're reading, I want you to remember, these things that happened, things were different here, then. It wasn't like it is now. Bad things can always happen, and there's always some people who are dangerous. Mean. But now, we're all pretty safe. It's like the normal world. How it was before the dying. Will you remember that?” Hope nods. “Okay. If you read anything, and want me to explain more, just bring it to me and show me. All right?” With one final nod, Hope is off with the journals, back to her own room. And Eva sits down at the table and lifts the cover of Hope's big red book. The first cream-hued page is covered edge-to-edge with a drawing, unmistakably Hope's, a figure caught in motion, blurred like a movement too quick for a camera's shutter speed, a woman, bleeding, dark brown-red smears at toes and fingertips and at the corners of her large mouth and rimming her moss-green eyes, wide, mad behind a hanging veil of copper hair. And at her feet, still, unblurred, the white, bruise- and blood-marked body of a man.

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His profile, his nose so like Hope's he could be her twin, except for his ash-blond hair. And crouching in the corner, a little girl with copper hair. For a long time Eva stares at that first drawing, letting tears run down her face. Finally she turns the page, witnesses what Hope has witnessed. Crazy people lighting cars on fire, all the cars, until whole streets seem to be lined with signal fires. Fires to light a path. The sick putting out their dead. Mass graves. People killing other people with guns and knives. Looting. Beatings. People jumping from tenth-floor windows. Then, the empty city. Day. Night. Empty. Except. There's one group, four men and a woman. From a distant perspective, through windows, these five eat and sleep and come outside. They recede into the distance. Disappear around a corner. Reappear with heavy bags, frame themselves in the window again, drink wine. Eat. And one window to the left, the woman and one of the men in bed. Him on top. Her on top. His face between her thighs. Him, sitting on the edge of the bed, her on her knees in front of him, her back to the window. The weather turns. A new perspective, a different window in a different building— brick, now, instead of wood, and a higher floor. As if Hope had followed, and again moved in across the street. To watch. Together, but apart. Did they ever know she was there? And then, a rupture. A schism in the family in the window. One man beats another. The woman's lover is sprawled on the floor, unconscious or dead. The man who beat him holds the woman down, bent over the dining table where usually they all drink wine and eat dinner together. Then a second man comes. And the third.

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The lover isn't dead. There are more pictures of the five of them sitting together. Eating together. Now there are only small fights before the other men take the woman. Sometimes it's just one of them. Sometimes it's all three. There are no more drawings of the lovers having sex. **** Gareth has fallen asleep in Smith's arms. They all give the baby a last look, a last kiss, and Smith sets him down in his crib. The three of them go on talking for a while. About Hope's drawings, the clues they give. Patterns. Survivors. Ratios. About The Plan. Eva's plan. Finding others. Growing their little community. Saving the stranded.

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CHAPTER NINETEEN

Gathered around a heavy conference table—a simple rectangle assembled from thick oak planks—Eva, Smith and John are studying a map of the area, along with Diego and Evan. “Pembroke. Trenton. Guthrie.” Smith taps his index finger against three points on the map. “That'll be it for the first recon. Information gathering and diplomacy only. Excepting special circumstances.” Evan and Diego have already been briefed on what scenarios qualify as ”special circumstances.” “First sign of real trouble, get out and get back,” Smith says, driving the order home with a piercing look for Diego, then Evan. “Yes, sir,” they come back, almost in unison. Just after dawn, Diego and Evan set out with Washington and Jones, and just after sunset they return. Now it's seven around the big oak table. Jones is agitated, and the others bring an air of excitement with them into the room, but they reign themselves in. Tense, quiet, they let Diego make his report. Nothing in Pembroke. Signs of life in Trenton—garbage and human excrement in the streets, houses with furniture free of the accumulation of dust and cobwebs that have turned the interiors of uninhabited buildings dim and gray—but whoever has been eating from those recently-discarded cans and doing their business in the streets kept themselves well-hidden from Diego and the rest of the foursome. The soldiers had tacked up the pre-typed message at a spot that seemed well trodden.

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Guthrie, though. Five men. Slow to come out, but curiosity seemed to have won out over fear, in the end. All of them under forty, Diego and the others figured. One old man had survived the dying, but had passed the year before. No women. At least, that's what they'd said. But it seemed odd that, hearing of Eva and Hope, five men who hadn't seen a woman since the dying showed nothing but suspicion toward the group of survivors at the nearby military base. But maybe they'd thought it was a trick of some kind. As planned, they'd arranged to return, to meet the little group again in three days' time. The Guthrie men had not suggested that Eva come, and the Fort Campbell men had not indicated she would. But that's the plan. On the appointed day, a different envoy sets out: Eva, Smith, Diego and Evan. The Guthrie men are waiting for the emissaries at the spot Diego and the others had chosen as a site well suited to avoiding ambushes. No telling if five was really their number. The five smile and wave in greeting as the humvee rolls up, but they hang back, their postures stiff as Smith and the others emerge from the truck. When Eva steps down, it's as if there's a change in air pressure, in the direction of the wind. The rigid reserve of the five, the Guthrie men, softens. Their energy turns outward, all focused on her. “I'm Eva,” she says, her smile broad, her voice easy. She goes and shakes hands with each of the five Guthrie men while Smith and the others watch, vigilant. “Major Smith,” the eagle introduces himself when Eva has stepped back into the safety of the fold.

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“You were crazy to bring her,” Bill, a squat, muscular man with dark hair and a trim beard says to Smith. “It's not safe for a woman, out in the open.” “Even here, with all of us?” Smith asks. “If you're smart, you'll keep her hidden away. Always. There's men—not from around here—combing the whole country for women. Willing to pay. Just as happy to fight and kill to get them, if the men won't give them up.” “And they...” Eva doesn't manage to finish her question. “Take 'em west and sell 'em. That's the rumor. Enjoying them along the way, no doubt.” It's hard to read his eyes, his voice, whether he's revolted or envious or numb. “And here? You've seen them come? Take someone?” Eva asks. “Not seen. Here in Guthrie, none of the women, none of the girls survived.” The nine settle around a picnic table. Smith tells the tale of the base—the dying, the failed early forays out from the base, the arrivals of John and Jake and Eva and Hope and baby Gareth. The Guthrie men all fix their eyes on Eva, looking at her with new intensity as they hear of her pregnancy, of the birth of her son. There are omissions. Smith doesn't explain the paternal triad, and is silent on the darker dynamics in the history of the base. The Guthrie men tell their tale in turn. The dying, the burying—first in individual graves, then in a mass grave when the dead outnumbered the living to the degree that burying them one by one was impossible—isn't much different from the story Smith has just told. Since the dying, they've stayed put, mostly because about a month in, a group of nine rough men had come charging through town, going building-by-building in search of the one thing scarce in a world where most everyone had died, leaving behind

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an eternal supply of canned food, not to mention flour and livestock and fruit trees: women. They'd tied the six Guthrie men up—the old guy was still alive, then—and turned every house and store and office building upside down in search of women, then disappeared when their hunt ended, no prey found, leaving their hostages to struggle free of their ties. When Smith asks if they've seen anyone else, the five hem and haw, and eventually it comes out that there's another small group—three men, no women—holed up in the next town. There's no real animosity between the two groups, but each would rather stick to their own. Then Bill—the Guthrie spokesperson—goes silent. Eva's eyes have gone wide, sharp, fixed on something off at the edge of the little clearing. Silent, she rises from the bench. A face is peering from the shadows, the person there nearly hidden behind the red and green foliage of a scruffy laurel hedge. Two of the Guthrie men jump up, rush to flank the hidden onlooker. Bill plants his squat, muscular body in Eva's path, halting her. “Please,” Eva says, her voice wet and choked, “couldn't I just talk to her? No one here will hurt her. I promise.” He doesn't seem to see her. Hear her. He stays still and solid as a wall, eyes fixed on Smith. “Please. Bill.” Eva's gold-and-amber irises are bright, glimmering. Her hand shakes a little as she touches his arm, her smile wavering. “I haven't spoken to another woman. Not for years.” Smith steps up behind Eva, puts his hands on her shaking shoulders.

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“It's true. Our little Hope is hardly more than a child, and hasn't spoken a word.” Smith gives Bill a smile; warm, utterly disarming. “As you can see, it would mean a lot to Eva, if you'd allow her a few moments with the lady.” Bill scrutinizes—not Eva—Smith with his blue-gray eyes, cloudy, veiled. “This one can go over there,” he says, pointing a stubby index finger toward the laurel hedge, “if she's that eager.” Behind enemy lines. “I thought this was neutral territory.” Smith touches the picnic table. “We're all safe here, aren't we?” “I'll go over there,” Eva says to Bill, “but could we have some space? It'd be nice to be able to talk, just us girls.” “Yeah. Okay,” Bill says, still looking at Smith. Bill signals the two men flanking the woman by the hedge. They come forward, half way to the picnic table. “Stay where I can see you,” Smith says, quiet, firm. Eva walks off, between and beyond the two Guthrie men, toward the woman. She's pale and blue-eyed, her blond hair tied back in a ponytail. Her hands fumble at each other as she stares at the approaching stranger. Eva's mouth spreads in a wide smile, then fades, and she throws her arms around the woman. They hug. Then part. “They say there's two of you. Two women,” the blond says, looking Eva up and down. “Me, and Hope. And here?” “Just me.”

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“You haven't seen anyone else?” Eva asks. “The other woman shoots a glance toward the men. “There's another group. In the next town. No women there, though.” “What about you?” Eva asks in a quiet voice. “I'm not their hostage. Is that what you mean?” Eva nods. “It's easier, sticking with them. Safer.” “Safer,” Eva echoes. “But not safe?” The woman shrugs and looks down. “I'm Karen,” she says a second later, changing the subject and meeting Eva's eyes again. “Eva.” She smiles, her gold eyes swimming in unspilled tears. “It's you two women,” Karen says, “and how many men?” “Eighteen.” Karen pales. Shakes her head. “And you both—“ she whispers. “All of them? Or?” Eva smiles. A true, easy smile. “No.” “No?” “None of them touch Hope. She's barely a woman. And I've...well, no one's forced me. There've been tense times. Hard times. But I feel safe. I'm happy.” “Happy?” Karen sounds incredulous. “Karen.” Eva strokes the woman's arm. “While we're alone, I want to tell you something.”

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“What?” Karen's voice, her expression suggest there can only be bad things to tell. “We're going to invite you—all of you—to come back with us. To the base. It's not perfect there. The people aren't perfect. But my life is my own. Hope's is hers. If you wanted to come, it would be the same for you. You wouldn't have to pay for your safety with sex. I just wanted you to know. It'd be hard, saying that in front of them.” “Yeah,” Karen laughs, mirthless. “Will you be able to talk with them there? Anything you want to tell me? Ask me while it's just us?” Karen shrugs and looks down at the ground, but in a quiet voice she asks, “They really don't make you do anything with them?” When Eva and Karen move toward the table, the two Guthrie men shielding her from Smith and the other soldiers cut her off, hold her back. “She's not allowed to participate?” Eva asks. “What are you doing, Karen?” the younger one, with dark kinky hair and big brown eyes asks. “I want to hear what they have to say.” “You were gonna stay out of sight, remember? Make it easy for us to keep you safe.” “Well, now I want to talk to them. So let go.” He gives no sign of doing so. His jaw and his grip just seem to tighten. “I know it feels risky,” Eva says. “It feels that way for us, too. You saw the four of us drive up in a truck. That we're alone. For all we know, there are another ten or twenty

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of you laying low, waiting to ambush us. But we think it's worth the risk, trusting you. It doesn't make sense, all of us keeping to our isolated little groups.” Now Bill and the other Guthrie men are circling around Karen and Eva. Smith, Diego and Evan are up and taut, but they hang back. “You just get over there with your men,” Bill says, his face just two or three inches from Eva's. “And all of you stay away from her.” Eva looks at Karen. Karen stays silent. Watching the Guthrie men. Eva says, “All we want is for all of us to sit down and talk. None of us wants to make Karen—or any of you—do anything she doesn't want to do.” “I'll tell you just once more. Get back to your men. 'Cause we're taking Karen home now. And unless you mean to come along home with us, Miss, you need to get out of our way.” “Bill.” Karen finally speaks up. “I want to sit down with them. Hear what they have to say.” “You do, do you? Haven't you put yourself, put all of us in enough danger already?” “Come on,” Karen coaxes. “Let's go in, where it's safe. I trust Eva. They're not going to cause us any trouble.” “Fine. But don't expect us to risk our necks if things go hairy, not after your little stunt.” On that note of hospitality, the whole entourage makes its way to a small hotel on the main street of the modest downtown—hardly more than three blocks of little shops, a diner and a Mexican restaurant, and a little library—all deserted. Lifeless.

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In the dining room—built to accommodate more guests than all the survivors of Guthrie put together, much like the mess hall at the base—the Guthries treat their visitors to cold fried chicken from the coop they have out back, and beer. During the meal, they mostly make small talk. What they have plenty of, what they miss. What they think caused the dying, what they imagine is going on in L.A. and New York—not a soul left—those were key targets, carefully decimated; only the little piss-ant towns got away with a handful of survivors)—what's going on where survivors are hiding out, grouping together, eking out some kind of existence. Only when conversation and full bellies and mugs of beer have soothed tensions does Smith broach them with their invitation. “Our hope is to build up a real town. A community.” “At the base? Doesn't sound like much of a place for that. This is a real town. With homes.” “Yes. But we're quite secure. I gather that's one of your graver worries, here. But the base, as you can imagine, is well armed. Not just handguns and rifles, which I'm sure you have here. And the base itself is designed to be defended. Anywhere else, a group where there are families, women, from what you've said, we'd risk being alluring and vulnerable to those slave-traders.” “Even so, I don't know who would want to go there to live under some kind of martial law. To be ruled by a bunch of soldiers.” Smith smiles, humor sparking in his hazel eyes. “No,” he says, “I don't imagine anyone would be excited by that prospect. Unless they were desperate.” There's a quiet moment, Bill locked in Smith's sharp gaze.

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“We're doing all right, here,” Bill comes back, blustery again. “So far, so good,” Smith says, still smiling. “But it seems to me that you're not the one with the most to lose.” He turns his gaze, his smile on Karen. “But in any case, I've had quite enough of being a military dictator. We have a sort of constitution, and the whole group has a say in instituting the laws, and all of us are held to them. If you decide to join us, you'll have the same rights I have.” “And you'll have the same rights I have?” Bill retorts. “I don't want to misunderstand you, Bill, so you'd better clarify.” “He wants to know if you'll consider yourself entitled to Karen,” Eva says. “Certainly not,” Smith says, his voice soft, his eyes locked on Karen's. “No one is entitled to another person. Though everyone is free to give themselves to whomever they wish.” “That's a pretty kind of morality you're building your great society on,” Bill growls. Karen's eyebrows go up and she snickers, but without looking at Bill, or anyone else. Then, after a moment of tense silence Karen asks, “What would we have to do?” “What do you mean?” Smith asks her. “I mean, like, for work? Or to earn our keep.” “Honestly, there isn't so much to do, as things are now. There's a rotation for the various duties. A week of field work, tending the corn and vegetable gardens; a week of laundry and K.P.; small administrative tasks, and the like. If we do manage to get a lot of others to come and join us, we'll have construction projects, refitting barracks to function more like apartments, things like that.”

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“And where would I—we—sleep? What sort of accommodations?” Karen wants to know. “Well, we'd work that out together, depending on how many of you decided to come, and what sort of arrangement you'd want. We have dorm-style rooms with multiple beds, or we could easily set everyone up with rooms of their own. There's a lot of flexibility. Only a few of our buildings are even in use, now.” “Jesus!” Bill is smiling, but his eyes have gone red, and he glares at Karen as he talks at her through gritted teeth. “You actually thinking about going off with them?” Karen hangs her head and shrugs her shoulders. “What's the matter? Five men not enough for you?” he spits. “Maybe five is too many,” Eva intervenes, her calm making his sputtering rage even more ridiculous. “Karen, if you believe those military boys are going to take you under their protective wing for nothing, you're going to have an ugly surprise.” When Karen lifts her head to look at Bill, her cheeks are streaked with tears. “How many did you say you were?” he asks Smith. “All together we're twenty-one. Eighteen are men.” “And how many of those eighteen men have fucked you?” he says, finally addressing Eva. “All of them,” she says simply, without bravado. “Well, all of them who wanted.” Bill laughs, an ugly, retaliatory laugh. “Ha! You see? Not such a pretty bargain now, is it?”

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Eva meets Karen's eyes. “I want to be honest with you. I don't want to pretend I landed in some utopia, there. Lure you with some fairy tale.” She exchanges a glance with Smith, who gives her a bolstering nod. “It was hard, bad for me, when they first found me.” “I made it hard for her,” Smith says, meeting Karen's startled glance. “But,” Eva goes on, “No one's raped me. And things are good, genuinely happy for me, now. I go to the men because I want to. No one will expect that of you, Karen.” “So, if we go, if I go, the only thing I have to do is my share of work?” “And adhere to the laws, like any society,” Smith adds. “Don't worry, it's not a cult, or some fiefdom where we charge you three fourths of what you grow, in taxes.” “You're really thinking about it,” Bill seethes. “You really wanna go there. Go and live with twenty soldiers, like that little whore.” “Don't you dare, Bill.” Smith's voice is so soft, it's just audible, even though they're all gathered close around the table. He looks like he might claw the man apart with nothing but his gaze. “Don't you dare to try to make Eva's courage, her kindness, ugly.” “It's all right,” Eva says, touching Smith's arm but fixing Bill in her gaze. “Bill's just scared. He and these other men have kept Karen prisoner all this time, using her fear of an even worse fate to keep her cooperative. Is that right, Bill? And now, he's trying to shame her into staying here, as their personal comfort woman. The hypocrisy is so pathetic, it's almost funny.” Bill looks at Smith. “You'd better make that little bitch shut up.”

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Smith rises from his chair. Calm, with a trace of amusement turning up one corner of his mouth, he says to the group at large, “Well, it seems our welcome here has worn thin, so we'll be going. Any of you who'd like to come with us is welcome. Even you, Bill. Though I'll warn you that you'll find yourself without many friends at the base, if you keep up that tone.” Eva takes Karen's hands in hers. “Come with us.” Karen looks sideways at Bill, and sits, hunched and silent for a while, but finally she nods her head. “You ungrateful bitch! All we've done for you, risking our goddamned lives, after the beating Joey and Bret took, you think you're just gonna go traipsing off with a pack of strangers? You're stayin' right where you are.” Through gritted teeth Karen spits out, “I don't owe you a goddamned thing. None of you! You took your pay for your troubles. Pay, and then some!” Eva touches Karen's shoulder. “I'll come with you, if you want to pack some things.” “Well, anyone else coming?” Smith asks the Guthrie men as Eva and Karen disappear into the lobby, and their steps reverberate overhead as they climb the stairs. “You really asking us? After all this?” Joey says. “None of us are innocent,” Smith says. “I have no interest in punishing anyone for past sins. I only expect that from here on, everyone work in earnest to treat each other with respect and kindness. And understand that attacks, coercion of any kind will be punished. Don't come imagining you can get away with the sorts of things that have been going on, here.”

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The men fall into an uneasy silence. Smith is watching Bill like the proverbial hawk. Diego and Evan have taken up positions at opposite corners of the room, casting alert glances over the Guthrie men and at Smith, waiting for any cue to action. “Where the hell are you going?” Bill puts himself between Rick and the door. “I'm gonna pack a bag.” Bill laughs, but it's a mean, humorless laugh. “What the hell for? Karen isn't really going. She'll chicken out at the last second, like always.” “I don't think so.” Rick pushes past Bill's shoulder and a moment later he's clomping up the wooden stairs. “I'm going, too,” Joey says, surging up from his chair, out the door, and up the stairs before Bill says anything. The others stay, Bill circling the dining table, arms crossed over his barrel chest. Then he stomps up to Diego, gets right up in his face. “I knew. I knew I shouldn't have trusted you.” “Bill.” He turns from Diego and meets Smith's eyes with a fiery glare. “We're not your enemies. Our invitation is for everyone here. It's safer for all of us if we come together, work together.” “Bullshit. You're getting exactly what you want. And you split us up to get it.” “We're not splitting you up. Karen wants to come with us. It's her choice. And it's your choice, if you decide to stay.” A clatter of footfalls overhead, and the Guthrie deserters appear, bags in hand.

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“All set?” Smith asks, and they nod. “Karen.” Bill strides past her and calls back, “Come here a minute. I want to talk to you.” She seems rooted to the floor, as if anchored down by her bags. “All our months together, all we've been through, and you can't give me a couple minutes in private?” he growls. The bags slips from her hands and land on the floor in two soft thuds. She goes to him. He takes her arm, leads her out of the doorway, into the far corner of the lobby. Diego looks for a nod from Smith, gets it, and moves into the doorway to keep an eye on them. In a gruff whisper, “Don't do this, Karen. It's nuts. You can't trust these people just because she says you can. You don't know her. What she has to gain or lose. For all you know, they'll get you behind the gates of that base, and you'll find just the kind of slave camp you've been so terrified of all this time. You don't know there's only eighteen men there. Maybe there's a hundred. Maybe that girl's so eager to give her sales pitch 'cause she's hoping a few more women will lighten her load. You think of that?” “Yes.” Karen's voice is barely more than a breath. “I've been that bad to you?” “Yes.” A tear wanders down her cheek. “No. I just, this, I know there's worse. But I have to believe there's better. Otherwise, I should have just killed myself as soon as it all started.” “Jesus, Karen.” Bill cups Karen's face in his broad hands, brings his face in close to hers. She is quiet, still. Neither of them seem to notice Diego go tense, ready to

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spring. “Haven't I always been gentle with you? I never hit you, did I? None of us did. And haven't I kept you safe, all this time?” “Maybe. Yes. But that doesn't mean you own me. I can go, if I want.” “Course I don't own you. I never said that.” “Well. It's how I've felt.” “No, Karen. That's wrong. We're family. We help each other, the five of us. And we stick together.” “That isn't how it's felt to me. More like I've been in your debt. Paying you what I owed. And you damn well knew it. You all stick together, if you want to. I'm going.” She wriggles past him, out of the corner he's half-trapped her in, and snatches her bags up off the floor. The procession files out, Evan on point, Diego and Smith bringing up the rear. Just before she makes it to the door, though, Bill snatches Karen from the line, hurls her back, threatening the rest with the gleaming, serrated blade of a hunting knife. “I've been keeping Karen safe for a long while, now. I'm not about to let her get duped by the lot of you. Now go on and get out. She's staying here.” “You'd keep her here against her will?” Smith asks, his voice even. “At knifepoint?” “The knife isn't for her. It's for the first one of you that tries to get past me and take her.” “But we're not taking her, Bill. She's asked to come. And we won't let you keep her here, a hostage.”

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“Good. Come here, then. I haven't had a chance to use this on a man, yet, but I'll tell you, it cuts through deer meat like butter.” Karen croaks out a little whimpering noise and lunges, trying to break free of Bill's grip on her arm. The second he turns to deal with her, Diego is on him, and Smith throws his body around Karen like cordon. In three blurred moves, Diego has Bill bent over and pinned down on the reception counter, the knife—the gleaming blade darkened red, now—still clutched in his fist. “Drop the knife,” Diego pants. When Diego loses patience, Bill groans as the soldier wrenches his other arm up behind his back. “Don't make me break it. Drop the knife.” His fist unclenches, and the weapon clatters down on the counter. Smith snatches it up, eyes the blood-stained blade for a moment, then tucks the knife away in his belt. When he's got Karen out the door and safely encircled by the others he says to Diego in a steady voice, “Let's go.” Diego lets go and, tense, watchful, backs away from Bill, but Bill doesn't leap up, spin around, swinging for a fresh fight. He just lies there, panting or sobbing, while they leave him. Outside, Smith catches up to Karen, flanked by the others, all on the way to the truck. “Are you hurt?” “What?” She's shaking, pale. But not crying, now. “Did he cut you? Are you hurt?” “No. No, he didn't cut me.” Smith drops back. To Diego, “You're wounded.”

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“Nothing serious. We can deal with it once we're on the road.” Blood is dripping from his fingers, spattering the asphalt streets and concrete sidewalks of Guthrie. When they get to the truck, once they've got Karen and the two Guthrie men settled, Evan goes for the driver's seat. Smith touches his shoulder and says quietly, “Let me drive. Diego's hurt.” It's a first, Smith calling Diego anything but “Vallar” or “Corporal.” Eva's already noticed the blood, and when Evan climbs into the back, she has the med kit out, and is getting Diego out of his jacket. “It's just my arm,” Diego hurries to assure him. “I'm all right.” Evan clasps Diego's face in his hands, searches his eyes, his face for proof that he's really all right. Then, holding his gaze, he helps Eva get him out of his shirt. Below the sleeve of his tee there's a gash, and blood is running down Diego's forearm. Evan touches the blood-slick skin near the wound, examines the cut. “It's deep,” he tells Diego. “But it doesn't look too serious. We'll get you bandaged up, for now. You'll need stitches when we get back.” With Eva's help, Evan cleans and dresses the wound. Then, the emergency past, Evan goes soft, pale. Shaking, he cradles Diego's face in his hands again, tips his forehead to his love's. Diego smiles, strokes Evan's hair. Gentle laughter humming through his words Diego says, “It's all right. I'm fine.” “You are. I know.” Evan looks like he's fighting not to cry, his eyes red, his jaw tight. “For a second I was scared he'd cut an artery. I was scared...I was scared...” he breathes at his love's ear. Diego puts his arms around him. “No, Ev,” he soothes. “I'm fine, I'm fine.”

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When Evan calms and settles onto the seat beside Diego, he notices three pairs of eyes fixed on them. Staring. Going stiff, he levels a stony stare at the Guthrie refugees. Karen 's voice is a hoarse whisper. “Thank you.” Diego smiles his wide, radiant smile. “You're welcome.” When they get closer to the base, Eva tells Karen and the two Guthrie men, “The base is kind of imposing when you first see it from the outside.” She focuses on Karen, gives her a reassuring smile. “But don't worry, we'll get you settled in a cozy spot.” Maybe to put the Guthries at ease, to give them the sense of security that comes from knowing what will happen, she calls up to Smith, starts a conversation on how they should proceed when they get back to base. Diego insists he's fine, that Smith and Eva get the newcomers settled right away; Evan can drive Diego back to their quarters and stitch him up there. “Maybe, if you're not too anxious about getting settled, we can take you to the house, first. You can meet John and Hope and the baby, and then we could all have dinner out on the porch.” “How old is he? Your baby?” Joey asks. “Four months.” “You have a baby?” Karen breathes, her eyes wide with astonishment. Then sadness. “But you're only a baby yourself.” “No,” Eva says. “Not really.” She is beaming. Then, an unconscious gesture: she runs a hand over a breast. It's the first time she's missed a feeding, thought they've done trial runs with the bottle.

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Smith brings them onto the roundabout in front of the lawn that leads up to the house he shares with Eva and the others. Evan hops into the driver's seat and pulls away in cautious haste with Diego reclining in the back he has all to himself, now, as the rest make their way across the lawn toward the old house. Already, Hope has abandoned her easel and brush and palette, and John has scooped little Gareth up from the blanket spread out on the lawn. They pull together, John putting a reassuring arm around Hope's shoulders, and they come to greet the newcomers. Hope casts her beaming smile over the whole party, then, as she did with Eva months earlier, and as Eva did earlier just that day, throws her arms around Karen, and they hold each other tight in a long hug. When they let go, Hope gives the same treatment to Joey, who stiffly reciprocates and casts a fleeting glance at John, and to Rick, who simply puts his arms around her and sinks into that warm, welcoming hug. “Well,” Smith says, “you've just met Hope. And this is John, and little Gareth.” To John and Hope, “Our new friends are Karen, Rick, and Joey.” Rick and Joey greet John, but Karen just stares at the baby in John's arms like she's been hypnotized. “Would you like to hold him?” She nods, still gazing at the baby, who is looking around with big gray eyes at all the new faces. When she takes him, she holds him close, nuzzling her cheek over his fine, dark hair, smelling him, pressing her lips to his crown. Hope, who isn't used to being separated from Eva for so long, puts her arms around her and rests her head on her shoulder, and while the little group makes tentative conversation, John and Eva quietly touch hands.

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When Gareth starts to squirm and fuss, Eva says, “It's past time for his evening meal. And if I don't nurse soon, I'm going to burst.” Karen gives Eva a melancholy smile and gives the baby up to his mother. “Hello, beautiful,” Eva says, her smile wide and warm, her eyes lit up as she gazes into the eyes of her son. Karen follows the baby with her eyes all the way over to the elm where Eva sinks down, unbuttons her shirt and gives her breast to him. The Guthrie men both keep their eyes averted, and Joey keeps nervously shifting his feet. “Given it's such a lovely evening, we were thinking a dinner party on the porch would be nice,” Smith says to John. “Good idea.” “Diego and Evan should be back in a bit. So we'll be nine. Hope, would you mind setting the table?” She smiles, but then she takes both of Smith's hands in hers and stares up at him with a questioning gaze. “What is your desire, my cryptic princess?” Smith teases. “I'd guess she'd like to set the table for ten,” John says, and Hope's smile widens and her eyebrows go up hopefully. Smith sighs. “Yes, all right. When Evan and Diego get here, I'll go get him.” Hope bounces up and down on her toes a couple times, squeezes Smith's hands, then bounds off, into the house. “She got a boyfriend?” Rick half-jokes, but the look Smith gives him chills his humor.

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“More like an adored uncle,” John says with an easy smile. “Well,” Smith works his mouth back into a smile, “tonight's a special occasion. How about a glass of wine before dinner?” He dashes into the house and returns to the party with two bottles and a stack of nine ordinary drinking glasses. A moment later he has a bottle open, and John is passing glasses to the newcomers. “Eva won't drink. But we should wait for her before doing a real toast. For now, just let me say, welcome.” The five in the circle raise and chink their glasses and take a sip of the wine, dark red, but black-looking in the fading evening light. Karen, almost hidden in the shadowy corner where the porch and the stairs mounting to it intersect, takes the first sip with the others, but then she clutches her glass in both hands, stiff, watchful, silent as the men drink and chat and laugh. While grinning and playing the charming host, Smith studies the two Guthrie men, the restive fidgeting of the one with dark hair and blue eyes, the joviality and earnest thirst of the other, ruddy and built like a lumberjack. John's gaze settles less often on Joey and Rick. Every few seconds his eyes go back to Karen, who seems to be sinking deeper and deeper into her dark corner, small, her blond fairness almost ghostly pale, almost translucent in the dimming dusk. At first, she'd been watchful, too, her eyes scanning over the faces of the four men fanned around her, two strangers, two familiar. But now her eyes are wide and fixed and vacant. The glass clutched in the web of stiff fingers and white knuckles has tilted. The dark liquid is lapping at the lip; nearly half has spilled away.

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John turns out from the circle, catches Eva's eye, calls her over with a small gesture of his hand. Then, when he catches sight of Hope above them on the porch, he calls her down to them. When Hope comes, he draws her into the circle, in front of him, bends and whispers to her, “stay with Karen for a little while, all right?” Hope looks over at Karen, reaches out, takes her hand. At the contact, Karen startles, turns a terrified gaze on John. But then she sees Hope, sees that it's Hope touching her, and she gives the girl a fragile smile. “Well,” Eva says, nudging Rick aside to stand next to Karen. “He's fat and happy, again.” She looks at Karen's pallid face, her still-wild eyes, and gently strokes her back. “Want to hold him?” Karen nods, and Eva puts the baby in her arms. “I think I'll go around back, get a few logs,” John says. “Later, we can have a fire.” “Let me. Rick, give me a hand?” Smith leads the lumberjack off on their quest. Holding the baby, half asleep in her arms, flanked now by Hope and Eva, little by little Karen seems to come back to herself. Eva gives her a minute, then says, “I think Mr. Stinky there needs a diaper change.” “Here,” John says, “I'll get him cleaned up.” But Eva says, “I'll go. And Hope and I can show Karen the house.” Still holding the baby, Karen goes with Eva and Hope. “Sorry about that,” she says when they're in Eva's room. “Nothing to be sorry about.” Eva shucks the baby out his dirty diaper. “No one could blame you, being on edge, after everything that happened today, being in a new place with strangers.”

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She gets little Gareth cleaned up and into a fresh diaper and a yellow onesie, and mother and child join the others on the bed. All of Karen's attention is on the baby, lying on his back, grabbing at his feet. “Can I ask you?” Eva's voice is careful, quiet. Karen meets her eyes. “Joey and Rick. You're afraid of them?” Karen glances at Hope, then gives Eva a probing look. “Hope's okay to hear. She knows what goes on.” Karen shrugs. “Those two aren't so bad. The two of them on their own probably wouldn't hurt a fly. But Rick's...thoughtless, I guess. Doesn't see the line between carousing and...worse. And Joey, he's an odd one. He can be so thoughtful. Sensitive. But he's weak. He just sort of drifts with the flow, like a dried leaf on a river's current. The boy's got no will of his own.” “So, when Bill was around...” Eva prompts, her voice gentle. Another shrug. “Sometimes I think I don't have it so bad, with them. Didn't,” she corrects herself. “Didn't have it so bad. Compared to what's happened to others.” “Rumors? Or have you seen things?” “Both,” Karen says, her voice like a faint echo from somewhere far away. “I've never seen where it is, what happens, where they take them.” “But you've seen something?” Karen nods her head. Whispers, “My sister.” Then, in a dry monotone, like a bus driver naming stops on a route, “We both survived. Strange, because no one else in Pembroke did. Maybe it was our genes. But a few months after, it happened. She'd gone out for food, to the grocery store. Always empty now, all the food you'd want, all for

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free. And I was just pottering in Jennie Amstrom's garden. She'd always grown things, tomatoes, carrots, things like that. And we'd taken over tending the vegetables, so we'd have some things fresh to go with the canned stuff from the store. And I heard this strange sound. It was a minute or two before I remembered. It was a motor. A truck. I hadn't heard that sound since the plague, you know, there in Pembroke, after maybe half the people had died, a few of the sick ones had burned and blown up every car, truck, and motorcycle they found. Just like in Guthrie. And Trenton. When I realized what it was, I ran to the gate to see. At first there was nothing, just the sound moving around. They must have been one block over. “And then I saw. I saw. Annie. Running. She came running faster than I could believe around the corner, running toward me. And behind her, the truck. Playing with her. Swerving side to side across the road behind her, slowing down to hang back, then revving up, almost running her down. And then, suddenly, she stopped. Like she realized she was leading them to me. I don't know why she didn't turn a different way, run into a yard or something. Not until it was too late. They were out of the truck, coming toward her. Then she tried to cut across a yard, but she wasn't quick enough. One of them got her, dragged her back out to the road. “And right there, in the road, they did it. All seven of them. And I just watched. I mean, back at our house we had a gun. I could have gone and gotten it. But they all had guns. I didn't think I could do it without getting us both killed.” “Probably not,” Eva's voice wavers. “When they finished with her, I watched them tie her wrists behind her back, and put her in the back of the truck. And then, starting with the house where she'd tried to

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run into the yard, they went down the street, house by house, searching. I didn't know what to do. They took a long time in each house, it seemed like they were being so thorough, I was afraid they'd find me wherever I hid. So I ran. Toward Trenton. Made sure all the way I always had cover, somewhere to duck and hide the second I heard that engine. “Turns out they'd already been through Trenton. Those men in the truck were headed the other way. In Trenton, I had one quiet day and night. Only I didn't sleep, because of Annie. The next day I went to look for food. The town was so still, so quiet, I felt sure it was empty, that everyone there had died, just like everyone in Pembroke had, except for me and Annie. But almost as soon as I went into the store, I heard something. And there were three men in there with me. Not the men from the truck. Just these three guys. They sort of pretended to talk to me, you know, asking where I'd come from and had I seen any other survivors, but they were sort of circling and closing in at the same time, like they were testing me. Or themselves. When I ran, that decided them, I guess. They ran after me, all three of them. Somehow, winding between buildings, I got ahead of them, and I ducked into a house. And when I didn't see or hear them come after me, I let go, just started crying and crying. And then I heard this sound, and I turned around, and there was a man, standing there all still and quiet, with a great big shotgun pointed right at me. And that was Bill. “For a minute he didn't move or say anything. And then he asked me, 'Someone chasing after you?' and I guess I nodded, and he said, quiet and gentle, 'Well, don't be scared now. We won't let anybody hurt you.'”

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“It turned out that Bill and Joey and the others had been in a sort of feud with the three men from the store, over this goddamned mansion. Have you ever heard of anything so dumb? Eight men left alive in the entire town. Every one of them could have had ten houses all to himself. But I guess people will find something to go to war over, no matter what. Anyway, Bill and the boys had seen the chase, and came to intervene. All armed, they stuck it out with me, all quiet until the three from the store showed up and tried to get in. Two of them stuck by me, then, while Bill and two others went out and told the men from the store that they'd have to deal with them before they could get to me. That seemed to discourage them, all right, and after some angry words they left off and went away. “I was scared to death of all of them, after what I'd seen the day before. But they were all polite. Friendly. No one grabbed at me or said anything lewd, like the men at the store had. So, when they felt it was safe and they wanted to go back to the mansion, and they promised to keep me safe, I went with them. They gave me a bedroom, said I could stay as long as I wanted, and later they served me a nice meal. “And then,” she says, her dry monotone turning damp and wavery, “that night, after I'd left them to go to bed, Bill came to my room. He knocked, but then he just let himself in. Of course, I knew what he was there for. But how he did it. I'd never imagined anything like it. He just came up to me, real close, like we were married or something, and puts his hands around my neck, not like a threat or anything, just how a lover would, and kissed me on the mouth. I think I started crying. He took his mouth off mine and said something like, 'No, don't worry. I'm not gonna hurt you. None of us will hurt you. All of us will be nice and gentle with you.' And then he started touching me, and

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said, 'See?' And after another minute or two he said, 'It's not so much to ask, if we're keeping you safe. Is it?' And then he got me undressed and,” Karen looks at Hope, then turns back to Eva and just says, “you know. And after, he left, and not ten minutes later, Rick came in, probably with five or ten beers in him. And then Joey. As soon as Joey touched me I started really crying. “Not that the others had hurt me, physically. I was just horrified. Humiliated. At first he just tried to calm me down, telling me it was all right, he was last for the night. Bill had told the other two they had to wait until the next day. Real gentlemanly, eh? But Joey couldn't stand me crying like that, and the next minute he promised he wouldn't do anything, and that he'd stay there with me and make sure everyone else left me alone for the night. And he didn't touch me that night, just like he promised. But in the end, he took his place in line, along with the others. After the first two nights, one per night. Every night now for the last, —what's it been—almost two years?” When Karen starts crying, Hope puts an arm around her, strokes her hair. “I'm ashamed of myself, crying like this, when I know, I saw, whatever's happened to Annie, probably to dozens or hundreds of others, is a thousand times worse. I don't even know what I'm so upset about, all of a sudden. After a while, it all felt kind of...normal.” “No,” Eva says, stroking Karen's arm. “Don't feel ashamed for being angry, being sad, for how you've been treated. It's not just those who've endured the worst outrages that have that right.” Karen nods, wipes at her tears. “What about you?”

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Eva tells her story, about the lottery, being given to John, the feigned rape, about the cameras. The one thing she hides from Hope is the name of the man in the orchard who first tried to rape her. “God,” Karen breathes, shaking her head. “You poor thing. You poor baby.” “No. I'm really okay. It could have gone a different way, but things turned around. No one's hurt you, have they, Hope?” Hope shakes her head. “Or me either. Not for a long time, now. I feel safe here. Truly. And hopefully, it'll keep getting safer, and for more and more women. And the men, too. In time.” “Is that why you were there today? In Guthrie? Looking for women to rescue?” Eva just smiles. “That's good. God, that's good,” Karen says, tearing up again. “Imagine this whole place, the whole base filled up with women! And those slaver bastards stuck out there on the other side of that wall.” “That's the idea. I mean, we didn't know about the slaving. But we figured, any women left were probably in a situation like yours, or worse.” “You shouldn't go, though, Eva. Let the men go, bring the women back here.” Eva smiles. “Would you have come out if I hadn't been there? Would you have gotten into the truck with four strange men?” By the time they go down to rejoin the group, Diego—properly stitched and bandaged—and Evan have arrived, and Smith has gone to get Riggs and the food. When she sees her friend, Hope runs to intercept Riggs and give him a big hug, then dashes back to help John finish setting up the extra chairs.

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Eva introduces Karen and Riggs, then furtively whispers to Riggs, “She's nervous, all these strangers. Holding Gareth takes her mind off it.” She gives him a grateful smile and a reassuring caress across his shoulders. Riggs nods and almost manages to hide his eager need to hold his son. Soon they're all seated and ready to eat. Smith makes a toast. “To the newest members of our little community: to Karen, Rick, and Joey.” People clink glasses and start dishing up food from the big stainless steel serving pots Smith and Riggs have brought from the mess, but Karen taps her fork against her glass for a second toast. “I'd like to make a toast to Diego, for putting himself in harm's way to help a stranger. And to Major Smith and Evan, and especially Eva, for risking their own safety on the chance they could help people in trouble. And all of you, for letting us join your community, here.” When she sees that Hope has finished eating, Karen relinquishes the baby so she can get to her own food. Hope holds him for a moment, then with a big smile passes him to Riggs, who is gazing down at the child with obvious, pained want. “Thanks. I haven't seen him all day,” he says, really smiling for the first time all evening. “That kid's going to be some egomaniac,” Smith laughs, “All of us fighting for his attention day and night.” “No,” Karen sighs, “I think he's going to grow up to be quiet and sweet. Thoughtful. Like his daddy.”

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Riggs smiles shyly, keeping his eyes fixed on the baby. If it weren't so dark, anyone looking would see him blush. “You know he's your spitting image?” Karen says across the table to John. John gives her a startled little half-smile, then looks at Riggs, his shy smile gone, still staring hard at the baby in his lap, but hiding some other emotion, now, then at Smith who meets his gaze with a knowing, ironic grin. Later, Karen seeks out John, doing the washing up in the kitchen while the rest of the party gathers by the fire in the living room. “I guess I said something wrong, earlier.” John leaves the water running, raising a thickening sheet of suds in the steaming sink, and turns to Karen with an easy smile. “Well, things aren't as simple, here, as they might seem at first. I'm Gareth's father. And so is Major Smith. And so is Riggs. James.” “You mean, you don't know which of you is the dad?” “No. I mean all three of us are his dad.” “Oh. Well, I'm sorry if I...I didn't mean to...” “No, it's all right. How could you know?” John gives her another smile, a bigger, warmer smile. It seems to melt some of Karen's uncertainty. John shuts off the tap. Turns to fully face Karen. She starts to shrink away from his eyes, but then she seems to firm up. To rise to his gaze. “What?” “You lost a child,” he says in a soft voice. As if he's struck her, she turns aside. Then, again, she seems to solidify.

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“Two.” “I lost a little girl,” he tells her. “Juliette. She was almost three.” She's crying now. “My little boys were four, and thirteen months. Eric and Jason.” “I'm sorry.” “Yeah.” She goes on crying for a little while, then smiles. Looks at John. “You're lucky. Having Gareth, now.” John laughs, soft, almost sad. “I am. Yeah. In a way, it changes everything.” “You're lucky,” she says again. “But you...” he starts, then stops. “No.” Her voice breaks over that one, jagged syllable. “No, I guess not. I'd have been pregnant by now, if I still could. I'm only thirty-four. I don't know why. The dying. Maybe that had something to do with it.” “I'm so sorry, Karen.” John moves like he might put his arms around her, but she tenses and he backs right off. But then she looks at him for a second or two, watching his face, and sinks against him. Wraps her arms around him. Lets him hold her. Strokes her back. Then they go out and join the others by the fire. When it gets late, Diego and Evan leave with Rick and Joey, with directions from Smith on where to get them settled. After he puts Gareth down for the night, with a distorted version of a remembered fairy tale and a good-night kiss, Riggs fades away into the dark night, too. “We figured you'd be most comfortable staying here at the house tonight,” Eva tells Karen. “Tomorrow we can figure out where you'd like to stay long-term. For tonight,

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we can set you up in Avery's—Major Smith's—room. Or, if you'd rather not be alone, your first night in a strange place, you're welcome to sleep with me. Gareth's usually good about sleeping through the night.” “I'll be fine on my own.” Eva leads Karen upstairs, to Smith's room. In the hallway they bump into John. “Are the sleeping arrangements sorted out?” “Karen's taking Avery's room.” “All right. Good-night, Karen.” He gives her a smile and slips away into the room he shares with Eva and Gareth. “There you are,” Smith says as they enter. “I've just put fresh sheets on for you.” “Thank you. For giving me your bed. For everything,” she says, a little stiff, nervous. “It's my pleasure. We're all so glad you're here.” “I hope I'm not putting you out.” “Please, don't worry about me. I'll be quite comfortable,” he assures Karen with a playful grin. They all say good-night, and as Smith and Eva go down the hall, Karen pokes her head out, watches them clasp hands, then turn in to join John in the bedroom.

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CHAPTER TWENTY

Thick with the scent of them, the air is still. Close. Quiet. Like them, quiet, close and slow-moving. Their lust is not frenetic or urgent, but languid, indulgent, as if they are gods in their heaven, celebrating their act of creation, and all time is theirs. The sun will never rise. They will be together, wrapped up in each other, forever. Avery draws back, panting, his lips flushed, swollen, and with a touch, coaxes John to Eva's still-parted lips. Down, they sink deep into their kiss, John and Eva, open mouths warm and wet and soft and seeking, Avery nestles into Eva's neck, Eva's hair, cradles them both as they kiss. The three of them touch and taste, trembling, raising sighs, provoking tremors. Leaving nipples peaked and wet, making goose flesh rise over teased nerves, drawing forth sighs and groans and laughter. Thick, languorous hours into their kissing and whispering and touching, John draws Eva across Avery's prone body for a kiss, then lets her go, watches her take Avery in, caresses her hair as she kisses her flaxen hawk, moving over him. Then Avery stills her. Kisses her hot, damp brow. Asks her, “Would you like to feel us both with you?” Her eyes go to John. She doesn't ask, “Will you?” He has never denied her anything. Instead, she searches his face, smiles at his small smile, and breathes, “Yes.” When John is inside her, too, Eva goes still, with parted lips, shut eyes, a fretful brow. She pants out a “No,” when Avery asks her in a whisper, “Is it too much?”

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Then her mouth blooms white and plum in a joyous smile. “It’s perfect. We’re perfect.” They are one, merged, a single body with three currents, rolling in and out, swelling, rising, crashing, spilling. After, they are quiet, still, close and warm as cubs in a nest, breathing in the air thick with their union, their damp bodies clinging together. Kisses, caresses, whispers later, the three of them fall asleep, Eva last of all. **** When Eva wakes, Smith has gone to check on Joey and Rick, and John is sitting by the window. Gareth is on John’s lap, practicing standing on wobbly legs. For a moment Eva doesn't stir; she just lies there, watching her lover and her son smiling at each other in the morning sun. Later, when she's nursed, Eva takes Gareth down the hall to the room where Karen spent the night. When Karen opens the door, she beams at the baby, but evades Eva's eyes. “Sleep okay?” Eva asks. “Fine. Thanks.” Karen tugs at the pillowslip, staring down at the bed. “If you tell me where I can get clean linen, or wash these, I'll put fresh sheets on.” “No, don't worry about it. We'll see about getting you settled into your own room. You'll have plenty of housekeeping to do, getting yourself settled. Hungry? John and I can take you to the mess hall. Everyone should be there now. We can introduce you and the others to the guys.” “OK,” Karen says again, still avoiding meeting Eva's gaze. “Karen?”

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“Hmmm?” “Are you okay?” “Fine.” “You sure? Did something happen?” Eva asks, touching Karen's arm, trying to catch her eyes. “No. I'm fine.” Eva gives Karen a sympathetic smile, but Karen probably doesn't notice. “I just need to grab a blanket for Gareth, and we can get some breakfast.” Karen follows Eva toward her room, and lingers in the hall while she gets Gareth bundled up. When she's got the baby snug in his little cocoon, Eva emerges into the hall, and comes to a halt. “What?” she breathes. Karen's eyes are fixed on the rumpled bed, her eyes welling with tears. “How? How can you?” she asks, her voice hitching. “What?” Eva's voice is gentle. “Last night?” “You said you were happy.” “I am. So happy. Especially now that you're here.” “But I don't understand how, when, last night you had to...” “Karen,” Eva finally catches her gaze, finally manages to give her a reassuring smile. “Nothing bad happened to me last night. I promise.” “Don't. You don't have to. I heard.” “From your room?” Eva asks, a blush tinting her cheeks. “I came down the hall.”

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“Karen. I can imagine what it must have seemed like. But it wasn't...I love them.” “Both?” Karen asks, her face turned doubtfully aside. “Yes. Both.” “Your John is...well, I swear, I've never known a man like him, before the dying or since. How intuitive, careful, gentle he seems to be.” Eva smiles. Blushes again. “But the Major...” “What?” Karen looks up and down the hall, whispers, “He's so hard. And the way he fixes his eyes on you. It's scary.” “Avery—Major Smith—is the most stringently moral person I've every known. He'd let himself be torn apart before he'd let anyone do evil if he had the power to stop it. But that hardness you see, part of it is, he expects the same of everyone else. And it's hard for him, admitting that good and evil aren't absolute, that other people's definitions are different than his. And, yes. I love him. Like a part of myself. Like, if he were gone, I wouldn't know how to live without him. And when it's the three of us, me and Avery and John, that's when I feel safest. Happiest.” Karen hugs herself and looks away. “I haven't been through what you've been through,” Eva says, her voice soft. “It must sound strange to you.” After a long quiet Karen looks up with red eyes and says, “Well, I'm just glad they weren't hurting you.” ****

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One afternoon a little more than a week after the arrival of the Guthries, when John comes in at the end of his day of work, Eva gives him a nervous, sheepish glance. He smiles, presses a warm kiss to her cheek. When he's perched on a chair he's pulled up close to where she's seated on the love seat, Gareth in her arms, sucking eagerly at the yellow-brown nipple of a bottle, he asks her in a soft voice, “Your milk stop coming in?” She smiles. Then her eyes go red, and tears spill down her cheeks. One drops from her chin, streaking little Gareth's forehead. She shakes her head. “Eva,” John says in his softest voice, “what's wrong?” Really starting to cry, now, Eva says, “I think I'm pregnant.” “Pregnant?” “I've been throwing up.” “Oh. God.” John slips onto the sofa to cradle Eva in his arms, stroking and kissing her hair. “I feel so stupid. We should have been using something. Fucking breast-feeding as birth control, my ass. I'm not ready to do this again.” She sobs against John's chest for a minute or two, then pulls herself together. “I'm okay. It's just, everything's been so good. I mean, our little family, I feel like it's right in balance, you and me and Avery and Hope and Gareth. And James, even. And we're just getting going, finding others. Now, in a few months I won't even be able to go. And no one, no women will get in a truck with a bunch of strange men. I fucked up, and now they'll be left out there...” “Shhh,” John rocks her. “When you can't go, maybe Karen will go.” “We can't ask her to do that.”

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“Eva,” he laughs. “You're not the only brave one. The only selfless one. She wants to. She already told me.” “Really?” “I think it'll be good for her. You know, she still feels so guilty. About her sister.” Eva nods. Then says to John, “Don't say anything to Avery about me crying. It's just the timing. It's not that I don't want the baby.” “His baby.” “Yes. Probably.” **** When she tells Avery, showing all her joy and hiding her regrets, his hazel eyes don't light up, he doesn't beam. In answer to Eva's probing look he pulls her gently to him and whispers, “I'm sorry.” She pushes him back. “Sorry?” “I should have been more careful of you. It was selfish of me, counting on you being infertile as long as you were breast feeding.” “You're not happy?” she asks, her voice breaking over a suppressed sob. He sighs. “Oh, Eva. Another baby, it's wonderful. I'm just sorry it's happened so soon. For your sake.” “I thought you'd want...” “Well, we know now. It's not just us. A big family is still a good idea, but we don't need to turn you into a baby factory.” “No. But...”

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Avery smiles. Touches her lips with his. Lingers there. Then he drifts back, and they lock eyes. “Eva. Gareth is John's child. Anyone can see that. Well, anyone who isn't James Riggs. And I've always been glad. For whatever reason, John needs to be a father; childless, he's incomplete. So, even though he'd no doubt have loved your child as his own, in any case, it always makes me happy, looking at little Gareth and seeing John's eyes gazing back at me. “I don't need a child of my own. A biological daughter or son. Gareth is our son. And this baby will be our child. And John's. And if she has John's eyes, too, don't ever imagine I'm waiting for my baby. In this life, all I need is to do some good, and for you and I to love each other.” **** “Can I talk to you about something?” Eva asks Karen. “Sure.” Eva smiles, takes a moment to find her words. “The day we met, when I was telling you what it was like here, remember I told you that I go to the men . . .” Karen goes stiff and still. “That's where you've been, lately, when you and John have been out in the evenings.” “Yes.” Karen goes even more rigid, like she's bracing herself. “I know there's some painful history between you and Joey and Rick. But . . .” Her face goes red, and choking on a rising sob, Karen says, “You said I wouldn't have to do that anymore.”

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“You don't Karen.” Eva gives the other woman a reassuring smile. “That's not what I'm asking. I just wanted to make sure it wouldn't be . . . I don't know, hurtful to you, if I . . .” “What? You're going to go to them, too?” “If you don't want to, yes.” Karen stares at Eva as if she's some kind of alien life form, unfathomable. Terrifying. “Karen?” “I don't understand. I don't understand how you can let them touch you. Put their mouths on you. How you can let them climb up on top of you.” Karen's voice wavers and hiccups. “Well,” Eva says, her gentle voice roughened on the edge of some sharp feeling, “it would be hard, it would probably fucking kill me, if I were being made to do it. But I'm not. And it's not some awful sacrifice I make. It's good for me. Every time I go to one of them—even the ones who scare me—I prove to myself that they can't hurt me. They don't have any power over me. “But that's not why I go. I don't go for me. And I don't go for them, really. I go because I want Hope to have a lover, someday, to know how... god, how unbearably wonderful it is to be loved, to be touched and looked at by someone who loves her. To make a life with someone she loves. I want all of us to have that. But no one will, as long as they're all chewing themselves apart, chewing each other and us apart out of sheer terror. And when I go to them, when they get to touch someone, hold someone, tell someone, for once, that they're scared, when they can cry and fuck—all of it—it takes away that terror. And I need to believe that when they're not so scared—when we, all of us—aren't so scared anymore, we can be decent people.”

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“Well,” Karen says, shaking, tears streaking her cheeks, “you're braver than I am.” “Or just luckier,” Eva says, her voice soft again. When Eva goes to Rick, he doesn't hide his surprise. Or his eagerness. When he'd decided to come with Karen and Joey, he tells her, he'd figured that was it for his sex life. But with Karen leaving Guthrie, that was over, anyway. After, they are breathing hard and sweating, and he grins up at her. A huge, guileless grin. “Damn, woman. You are something else.” “Oh?” she teases. “I mean, if you were putting on an act, just don't tell me.” She laughs. “No, I wasn't putting on an act. Sex should be fun, right?” For a second he looks stunned. Then he laughs again. “Well, you can bet it's been a while since I . . .” His grin fades, and looking away he says in a lower voice, “Well, I don't mean anything against Karen. She's great. I mean, she was real good to all of us. But she sure didn't do none of the stuff we just did.” A half-smile bends one corner of Eva's mouth. It's hard to guess what exotic activities he could mean, unless it's that she'd teased his nipples, or that she'd been on top. “Well, not having a choice takes the fun out of it,” she says, her voice quiet. Matterof-fact. “What did she say? That I forced her?” Rick sounds horrified. “I didn't. Never.”

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Eva dismounts. Sits beside the prone, glistening lumberjack, gazing down at him, hugging her knees to her chest. “There are different kinds of force. You didn't have to threaten her or hold her down for her to feel like she didn't have a choice.” A couple days later when Eva goes to Joey, there's no surprise. And no eagerness. “Rick said you'd be coming,” he says with a shy smile, then backs away from the door and invites her in with a gesture. “Are you settling in okay?” “Yeah, thanks.” He nudges his thick black-framed glasses a millimeter or two higher on his nose. “Diego and Evan and the others have been great.” “You're not regretting coming?” After a moment he says, “I'm glad you all turned up, that Karen's here, now. I'm still working out if I think it's a good idea for me to stay.” “Why?” Joey gives Eva a long, steady look. “I think it might be better for Karen if I go.” “Did she say that?” “Not to me.” “Not to me, either,” Eva says. “Has she told you? How it was with her and Bill and us?” “A little.” Joey gives her a little nod and pushes at the bridge of his glasses. “I think maybe me and Rick have done her enough harm. Maybe it'd be easier for her to make a new

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start here, if we weren't around. Really, I only came in case she was getting herself into trouble, coming here.” “You did that for her?” “It's a pretty small thing. Everything considered.” “Have you talked to her since the day the three of you moved here?” “Not really, no. I've steered clear of her. Just to give her space, you know?” “Want me to ask her for you? If she'd rather you and Rick left?” “No. It's all right. She'd never say it, even if she wanted us gone.” “Maybe not.” Eva catches his hand on its way down from nudging his glasses. Gives him a smile. “I hope it works out for you to stay.” Then she gives him a close, warm hug. Joey sinks into her embrace, wrapping his arms around her, resting his cheek against her head. When she pulls away to smile up at him, when she tries to caress his face he catches her hand. “Rick told me you'd come. I mean, he told me that you'd . . . But I don't think we'd better.” “You know I'm here because I want to be, right? “ “I'm glad. Glad it's not like it was, with Karen. But I guess I'm feeling a little fucked up about things. Guilt's not much of an aphrodisiac.” “Want to talk about it?” Eva asks. “No.” He nudges his glasses up to the bridge of his nose and gives her a sad smile. Not two hours after Eva leaves, there's another knock at Joey's door. Karen.

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“Do you want to come in?” he asks her. When she steps forward, he backs away, opening the door wide. He doesn't shut it, so she does. “Eva says you're thinking of leaving.” “Yeah.” “And she said you wouldn't . . . You turned her down.” Joey doesn't say anything to that. Just looks down at the floor. “Why didn't you sleep with her?” Joey meets her eyes. “Karen.” “Is it because you'd rather be with me?” “Karen. Please. I know it's worthless, telling you I'm sorry. And I know it's late, but I'm trying to do the right thing.” “You figure you owe me?” “Yes.” “Then answer me. Would you rather be with me than her?” “Yes.” She tells him, “Take your shirt off.” For a long time he stands there, still, staring at her. He looks scared. But he does it. When she pulls her t-shirt over her head and drops it on the floor, then reaches back to unclasp her bra he says, “Karen? What are you doing?” She doesn't answer him. She just slips the straps of her ivory bra down her pale arms, and drops the second garment on top of the first. Shaking, his eyes welling up and going red, Joey moves toward her, slow, careful, puts his arms around her, pulls her gently against him, their bare chests pressed together. “I thought you wanted me,” she says in a small voice.

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“You don't have to do this, Karen.” “That's the point.” She writhes out of his embrace, looks into his face. “Kiss me.” In a series of slow motions Joey pulls off his glasses, sets them aside atop a tall dresser, never taking his eyes off Karen, then brings his hands to her face, barely touching her cheeks with the tips of his long, pale fingers, leans in, and gives her one soft kiss on her cheek. “A real kiss, Joey.” His hands shaking, his bloodshot eyes filled with fear, he leans in once more, and touches her lips with his, gives her the faintest hint of a tender kiss. She laughs. Then, clutching his head in her hands, she pulls him to her, presses her mouth to his, finds his tongue with hers, sucks at his lips until he melts into her kiss. Still kissing, she drags his hand from her waist, presses it over her bare breast, then cups her palm over his cock, rubbing it through his pants. “Karen,” he pants when he manages to pull back from her mouth, “wait. Please.” “Get undressed, Joey.” “Come on, Karen. You don't want this.” Her voice a low growl, a heavy threat, she says, “Don't you dare tell me what I want. Get undressed.” While she watches, he strips out of his pants and briefs. Karen goes next, prying her shoes off with her feet, then sliding her jeans down, taking her socks off with them as she works them over her feet.

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They stand there, Joey watching her face, Karen staring at his semi-erect prick, fingering the elastic of her panties, as if any second she will pull them down. But she freezes there. “Karen?” When she doesn't move or speak, Joey comes closer. And as he comes closer, her shoulders, her whole torso starts to shake, a faint trembling, at first, like a vibration, then a violent, convulsive shuddering. “You do it,” she breathes. “Take them off.” He comes close enough to touch, touches her arm, whispers, “It's okay. You're safe. I won't hurt you. I won't let Rick hurt you. I promise. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Karen.” She starts to cry and he puts his arms around her, carefully, like he's afraid she might shatter under his touch. Little by little he pulls her close, against him, rocking her gently in his arms. Holds her as she cries. Then he takes her to the bed. Lays her down. Lies down beside her. She is shaking as he pulls her close, so the lengths of their bodies are pressed together. He combs her hair back with his fingers. Kisses her cheek. Her lips. “You're safe here. With me. I promise,” he tells her. “Why don't you?” she asks when she's done crying, her voice small, as if she was far away. “You said you wanted me.” “Not like this, sad and scared.” She laughs. “I know,” he says. “I never knew you were so sad and scared, before. I never let myself. I guess I convinced myself it was all right. That you were all right, how things

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were. Convinced myself it was different with us, you and me, not like with the others. That your nights with me were a reprieve. Thinking about it since we've been here, though, I think every time I touched you, really, it was a rape. I was raping you.” Joey is crying as he says this to her. “I don't know how I could have been so... Because I meant it, every time I told you I loved you. I did. I do. Maybe I just needed you so badly, I tricked myself into believing you were loving me back, all those months, all those nights. Tricked myself into thinking my big crime, all that time, was not getting you away from Bill and the others. “So, now, I'll hold you. You can sleep here in my arms, if you want to. But I won't touch you. And in the morning, I'll leave, and I'll convince Rick to come with me, if it'll make it easier for you to start fresh, here.” When Joey wakes up the next morning, Karen is awake, still in his arms, looking at him. Once he's awake, though, she doesn't want to stay. Without saying anything, she gets up, gets dressed, and leaves. Another day she tells him, “You weren't so wrong. I didn't know what to make of things, myself, things between us, back in Guthrie. Most of the time, I felt like you were my friend. And sometimes, when you were in my bed, it felt good. How you'd hold me. Kiss me. Even your touch, the way you were with me, I felt we were making love. It was never like that, with the others.” For a long time she's quiet, and Joey waits. Finally she says, “That night I came here, I wanted to make you fuck me.” Joey's face goes red. She's never said “fuck” in front of him, before.

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“That's how I mean it,” she says. “Fuck. I wanted it to be ugly and bestial. I wanted you to make me hate you. I wanted to punish you for all those nights in Guthrie when I wanted what we had to be love, but instead, it felt like I was a whore. Like you were just using me, because I was the one who happened to be there.” “I hate that it felt like that to you,” he says, brushing a single finger over the back of her hand. “I'm so angry,” she says. “I remember what it was, being in love. Feeling loved. Feeling like I belonged to myself. I don't know if I'll ever feel that way again.” It's a long time—days, then weeks—but one night after dinner in the mess, after an evening walk together, after Joey escorts her to her room, Karen invites him in. “I don't know how I'll be. That night I went to your room, I thought I'd be so brazen, and I just fell apart.” Karen's fingers fidget. Her shoulders hunch. She struggles to steady her gaze level with Joey's. “But I think I'd like you to stay.”

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CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

“They ain't back yet?” Riggs stops chewing. Scowls up at Lott. “No.” Lott slides onto the empty bench across from Riggs. “Been gone a long while, haven't they?” Riggs shrugs, staring into his bowl of chili. “You know, I can't understand how the Major and John let little Eva go off on these rescue ops. One of these times, instead of them coming back here with new folks, someone out there's gonna be going back to wherever, our little Eva in tow.” After four months and thirteen excursions, the rescue parties have, on three occasions—four, counting the Guthrie mission—returned with survivors. Including Karen and Joey and Rick, there have been seventeen additions to the community. Four women, thirteen men. “Stop trying to rile me up, Lott. Your head games don't work on me, anymore.” Lott laughs. “Oh, no?” “No.” “Then how come you're not eating?” “Just not hungry. That's all.” “'Course.” Lott laughs again, a soft, bemused chuckle. “Probably you were worried already, them taking so long getting back. You didn't need me to point it out to you. Just like you don't need me to point out what'll happen, when the day comes she doesn't come back with them.”

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Riggs looks up from his coagulating dinner. “That girl's got a real sweet spot for you. Don't she? Long as she's around, you get to play Daddy. Get to be Uncle James to Hope. Funny, isn't it?” This time when Lott laughs, it's a nasty wheeze. “Of all people, our Eva's brought you into her little nest. Given you a family. But you already know, without my having to say a word, the day that girl gets snatched up and carried off, that's the last day you'll hold that baby. That's the last day John and the Major let you within a hundred feet of that green-eyed faerie.” Riggs's fists clench until his knuckles turn white. When he lurches to his feet, Lott doesn't flinch. He just waits for the blow with a grin and a look of expectation. But Riggs stomps off without punching Lott's teeth in. When he gets to his quarters, when he's locked the door and found a dark corner, he sinks down, holding himself, shaking, his eyes reddening in rage. Or fear. **** Still, quiet, Eva watches Hope, flitting, humming, her eyes bright and quick, lighting on this and that as she arranges her paintings—each one like a vivid amalgam of Basquiat, Bacon and Van Gogh—on the wall by the two cribs. Now and then, Hope glances toward Eva, and beams when Eva gives her a serene smile. When she's turned the entire wall into a mural-collage of bright colors and fantastical creatures and realms, Hope scampers over to Eva and plunks down beside her on the love seat. “You're so talented, Hope. I'm almost glad there isn't anyone to teach you, that you're not studying past masters and wandering through museums every weekend. I've never seen anything like your paintings. I'd hate for anything to cloud over the way you see things.”

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Eva combs her fingers through the silky strands of Hope's copper hair, gazing into the girl's glinting green eyes. They all do this, like they are trying to fathom the pattern of her silence. The depth and texture of her hidden thoughts. Smiling, Eva says, “Sometimes I wish you would talk.” Hope gazes back at Eva, and after a moment, her lips, curved in a placid smile, part. Eva presses her fingers over the girl's mouth. For a long while, Eva sits there, staring, startled. “Your silence is a kind of power, Hope. Keep it as long as you need to. The first time you speak, you'll be heard.” **** Late one night, when Eva is in her eighth month, she tells Smith, “This time, I think Hope should stay with James.” “Not Vallar and Dunn? Why?” “Because. She's friends with James.” “And she doesn't like Vallar and Dunn?” “Sure. She likes them fine. But they're not really friends, are they? They don't all spend time together, just because they want to.” “Well, maybe Hope should make some other friends. Besides Riggs.” “Maybe so. But that's not what we're discussing.” Smith laughs, exasperated. “Fine. What do you think is going to happen if we send Hope off to a sleepover at Riggs'?” “I don't know. What do you think is going to happen?” “You know damned well what I think.”

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“I don't, actually.” Eva is studying Smith. Her eyes tracing over the particular bend of his mouth, the arch of his brow, the challenge in his look. “Do you think he's going to rape her?” “Maybe.” “Really?” “I don't know. No, probably not. But give that man ten minutes alone with Hope, and I guarantee you he'll be seducing her.” “Seducing her?” Now Eva laughs. “James couldn't seduce a prostitute with a fivehundred dollar bill. I doubt if that man ever got laid, except by a woman pretty much jumping him.” A hot sting reddens Avery's cheeks and eyes, as if she's slapped him. As even as he is about the others, he can never discuss Eva's encounters with Riggs without a pained reaction. “Well,” he says, measuring his voice, “suppose young Hope decides to seduce her 'friend.'” “Suppose she does?” Eva comes back, her voice gentle. After two years with him, Eva has learned how to push Smith to his limits without letting him lose his temper. “What, Eva? You're okay with Riggs fucking her?” “Is he the man I'd pick out for her? Maybe not. But,honestly? I don't think it would be such a bad thing. She adores him. And he adores her. And,” she adds, carefully, “I know he'd touch her, do everything as gently as anyone's ever been with another person. He likes making her happy. Making her laugh and smile.” Smith stays quiet, lost in his thoughts, or crafting his retort.

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“But,” Eva says, “what I think isn't the point. Hope's been here for over a year. She's had a chance to get to know everyone. To spend time with people she likes best. And if she's old enough to have sex, she's old enough to decide who with. It's her choice. Not ours.” Another thing Eva's learned is when to stop. Smith's habit is to stick to his guns as long as anyone is arguing with him. It's only later, when he's had time to think over Eva's words, or John's, that his mind sometimes changes. “Anyway,” Eva says,” that's not what we're really talking about. All we're talking about is where Hope should stay when I go into labor.” **** “Riggs.” “Sir.” “Have a seat, please.” Smith studies his corporal as he sits down across the desk from him, his posture rigid and awkward, his hands restless. But Riggs holds Smith's gaze. That's something. “Riggs, how are things with you and Hope?” Riggs blushes. “Good. Fine. I'm not sure—“ “I mean, Riggs, what kind of relationship do you have with her?” “I think we're friends,” Riggs says, his voice gone quiet. Smith scrutinizes the slump of Riggs's shoulder, how he seems to keep twitching to cross his arms, and forcing his hands back to the armrests.

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“Hope isn't the child she was, when she turned up here. She's a woman, now. Not by the legal standards we were accustomed to, before the dying. But physically. And in many cultures, she'd be old enough to marry.” Riggs's chest bellows and his fingers wrap around the arms of his chair, his knuckles going white. “What is it, Riggs?” “Sir. You're not going to do a lottery?” Smith is still and quiet, watching the man opposite him. “No.” Riggs's hands unclench. His breathing slows a little. “No,” Smith says again, “Hope will be, or, rather, Hope is allowed to do as she pleases. With whom she pleases. Does that seem reasonable to you?” “Me?” Riggs sounds like he's been asked a trick question. “I guess so.” “You and Hope spend a lot of time together.” “We're never alone. Eva's always there. Always.” Smith grins. “You and Hope have...a rapport. She likes you. Doesn't she?” “I think we're friends.” “Yes,” Smith sighs. “So you've said. Listen, Riggs. This isn't some trick to get you to confess a crime. I realize that you know how suspicious I've been of you, where Hope is concerned. But I'm telling you, now, that if Hope wants a different kind of relationship with you, if she wants to be more than friends, I'll allow it.” Riggs goes crimson. “The crucial point there being if she wants it,” Smith emphasizes.

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Shaking his head, Riggs breathes, “Sir...” “What?” “I don't...I wouldn't...” “What? If Hope took your hand, begged for a kiss, asked you to take her to bed...” “No, sir. I wouldn't.” “Really?” Smith says, dubious. “Why is that?” “Because. I like how it is with us. I like being friends with her. I don't want things different.” “You've already been thinking about it.” Riggs stares down at his lap. Mumbles, “Some. Yes, sir.” “You know, it wouldn't mean things would change between you and Eva,” Smith says, watching Riggs's expression, the fresh blush, the darting glance. “Either way,” Riggs says when he's settled down some, “I like how things are now, with Hope and me. I wouldn't want to hurt her feelings, or anything, but it's better for her and for me if we stay just friends.” **** “I talked to Riggs today,” Smith tells Eva. “Mmm? About what?” “That man sat there, looked me in the eye, and told me that if Hope wanted him to make love to her, he'd turn her down.” “Do you believe him?” “Are you joking?”

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“Come on, Avery. Not the knee-jerk response. Was he telling you the truth?” “Well,” he says. “He may well believe it. But that's not the same thing.” Eva smiles. “You're not even surprised.” “Not so much.” “Please enlighten me, my love.” “James loves Hope. Like we all do. She's sweet and strange, and her smile could just about fix anyone's bad day. She radiates happiness and oozes love. And she's gorgeous. I'm sure most of the men are passing a lot of dull hours with all kinds of fantasies. But for James, I think the reason he loves being around her, loves her, is that she is so like a child, still. When he's with her, he sort of gets to be a child, too.” Eva strokes Smith's face, gives him a sad smile. “James doesn't talk much, you know, but I get the feeling he didn't really get much of a childhood. Not a happy one, anyway. I think Hope gives him some of that back—a chance to play and laugh, not having to prove himself all the time. Prove he's a man. And sleeping with her, he'd lose all that.” **** One morning, the seven men digging up potatoes from a field at the southeastern edge of the base cease their work, one by one, rising from their knees, wiping the sweat from their brows with dirty sleeves. Two women—possibly a mother and her adolescent daughter—have quietly crept up, and are standing a dozen yards inside the gate, alert and ready to flee. Nichols is the one who comes forward, welcomes them, escorts them to Smith's office. The older of the two women tells him they'd heard rumors about the base,

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skeptical talk of a kind of safety, there. They both look like they've gambled their lives, like they don't know if they've won or lost, until Eva shows up, heavily pregnant and absolutely glowing. Proof that their gamble will pay off. **** John flexes, stretches, lengthening his torso, pointing his toes under the white sheet, turns over, reaches for Eva. Opening his eyes, pinpoints of black squeezed down at the center of gray irises behind eyelids squinting against the early sun, he looks and feels for Eva, but her side of their bed is empty. Sitting up, he scans the room. Between the dresser and the crib where baby Gareth stands, gripping the vertical bars penning him in, staring at Mommy, Eva sits on the floor, huffing, arms cradling her swollen belly. Seconds evaporate. John is there, with her, putting a strong arm around her. “Are you in labor?” She half grunt, half laughs. “Apparently.” He finds her gaze. Kisses her, gingerly, just for comfort. Then a deep, ardent kiss. His lover. She takes their love, and brings forth life. Glancing at the clock, John says, “Avery's at his office, by now. I''ll get Hope and Gareth to Riggs, and bring Avery back. All right?” Eva's face is sheened already with sweat. She gives him a pained smile and nods. “Or should I get Avery here first?” “No,” she huffs. “It's a long while off. No rush.” John scoops up the baby and holds him out to her. Eva takes him, kisses him, making him squeal and giggle. Then, for a moment, she goes still and serious. Gazes at

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her son, who looks back at her, his big gray eyes wide in wonder, the way babies marvel at their world. She tears up, but smiles, her baby's wonder reflecting back at him. Then she whispers, “I love you, Gareth.” And kisses the warm, baby-smelling crown of his head, pressing her lips to his dark, wavy tresses before she hands him back to John. “I'll be right back,” he promises. Eva's second labor is not like the first. Not fast. Not easy. It goes on, all through the day, and into the night, until Hope has fallen asleep in the extra bed set up in Riggs's room, and Riggs plucks Gareth out of his crib and holds him on his lap, maybe to keep himself from pacing—as he has been all evening and night—so he won't wake Hope. Sitting there, his elbow resting on the ledge of the open window, he watches Gareth watch him, watches his lids sink lower and lower over his big gray eyes with every drowsy blink, until they finally close, and then Riggs watches him sleep, letting the baby out of his sight only briefly and rarely to glance around the moonlit grounds, or up at the moon itself, luminous, full and heavy in the starry sky. Over an hour later, the sound of footfalls on the gravel path draws Riggs's attention. Careful not to wake the sleeping baby cradled in his arms, he leans into the warm night and spots Karen and Joey, their tread slow, her feet scuffling over the gravel with each step. As they pass under the window, as their voices drift up though the thick autumn air, Riggs pales. Under his growth of dark stubble, his pulse throbs, faster, faster. His hands are shaking as he lays Gareth down in the crib, as he twists the doorknob and pulls the door closed silently behind him. Stealthily, he speeds down the hall, down the stairs, out of the building, then runs to catch Karen and Joey.

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The threesome drifts apart. Karen and Joey continue shuffling toward their quarters, and Riggs turns, pale, slow, and wanders, zombie-like, back into his building. He doesn't go back upstairs, back to his room, back to Gareth and Hope. Instead, he drifts into one of the unoccupied first floor rooms. In the murky dark, he stumbles toward a bed. Sinks down. Down, down, until he's hunched double, his hands woven together behind his head, like he's taking cover. When he emerges from that dark room, into the fluorescent glare of the hall, he looks hollowed out. Like he hardly has the strength to bear his own weight, to climb the stairs, to turn the knob and open the door. But as he does, as he steps into his room, his swollen, bloodshot eyes go sharp, the breath comes into his lungs, the blood surges through his body, pumping every muscle to violent readiness. Riggs lunges. But Lott gestures like he might let Gareth fall through the window and says, “Close the door, Riggs. And sit down.” Riggs's eyes dart. Gareth. Hope—what little he can see of her. Gareth. “Sit down.” Lott is still grinning, his voice still has a trace of laughter to it, but the juxtaposition of his cold gaze and his grip on Gareth's little arms is terrifying. Riggs sinks onto a chair. “All night I been watchin' your window. Your door. Hoping you'd step out just long enough,” Lott gloats. Riggs stares into the far corner, where he can just glimpse Hope—her copper hair, her thin, pale legs bare under the hem of the oversized man's t-shirt she sleeps in—screened behind Baldwyn.

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“You know,” Lott says, bouncing little Gareth on his knee, but watching Riggs, “I used to think you were a real simple kinda man. And even this last year, while you been running around playing Daddy and Uncle, and defending Eva's honor so chivalrously, I didn't see much surprising in all that. What man don't like to suck at the tit of human kindness when it's offered? I admit, though, you give me kind of a shock, tonight, not bedding that little faerie soon as you had her here, all vulnerable. Even willing, I'd guess. Now, James Riggs, I've got an idea you've been trying to become something different from what you are. I've got an idea you think maybe you can be some kind of good man. Is that right?” Riggs doesn't answer. He just glances over toward the corner, then back to Lott, tears running down his cheeks. “See, now you're surprising me again. Not that you don't answer me. But that you don't beg, just a little. Say 'please.' I guess you're smarter than I gave you credit for. Guess you know it won't make no difference.” Lott laughs and gestures with a nod toward the corner. “She hasn't begged none, either. But I don't suppose she can.” Just then, from that corner, there's a muffled little whimper. Like the sound a brave child determined not to cry makes at the doctor's office when the syringe pierces his skin, sinks into his flesh. Riggs jumps up. “Sit!” Riggs's head snaps toward the voice. He sits. Lott takes his hand from around the baby's neck.

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“Now, now, Baldwyn. Don't you go putting your fingers in the pie when the rest of us aren't ready to sit at the table, just yet.” His back to the room, Baldwyn lets out a nasty little chuckle. Hope is silent. “Come on out from your corner, Hope,” Lott says, as if she were being rude, giving all her attention to one guest, ignoring the others. “The four of us should have a little chat.” She emerges from behind Baldwyn's towering body, a skein of her hair wrapped so tight around his fist that she can't hold her head straight, her eyes clear and focused. Not one tear has touched her cheek. Riggs's jaw flexes convulsively. “Maybe you heard us talking,” Lott says, his smile, his gaze different now that he's addressing Hope, rather than Riggs. “I was just telling your friend James how he surprised me, tonight. Not fucking you. I wonder if it surprised you some, too.” No blush. No change of expression. Hope just keeps her green eyes focused on Lott's. “Don't think you can keep me from my pleasure, little faerie, by playing the deafmute with me. I know you hear me. That what I said provokes you. And if you leave me too curious as to how, I have other ways of finding out.” Lott seems to forget about Hope, then, and looks down at the baby on his knee, looking up at him, his only expression one of curiosity. Lott laughs. “This is the quietest goddamned baby I ever saw. He ever cry?” No one answers. “Have you noticed, Riggs, how the little guy looks just exactly like John?” At this, Riggs winces.

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“Well, you knew, right? I don't figure I'm telling you anything new. No way anyone could look at the kid and not see John in him. All the more reason you won't be playin' Daddy anymore, anything ever happens to Eva. How do you suppose her labor's going? Taking a long while this time, isn't it? She popped this one out in record time.” Riggs is shaking, now, like he's palsied. Lott gives him a conspiratorial grin. “But we were talking about you and Hope, anyways. So, why is it, when you got her here, alone with you in your room—except for this little guy, I mean—you didn't part her virgin thighs and make a woman of her?” Hope's cheeks remain snow-white, but Riggs blushes crimson. “You staying quiet on this won't do you no good, Riggs. That pretty blush gives you dead away. You thought about it. Truth is, you've thought about it, over and over, since the day Nichols and Hutchinson turned up with her. Isn't that right?” Riggs turns to Hope. Turns his head back and forth, over and over. “No.” “You big faker,” Lott laughs. “Nothin' to be so coy about. Way this girl looks at you with her big cow eyes, it's easy to see she's thought it, too. I'd bet you my stripes, first time she lied there under her covers and rubbed her hand between her thighs, it was you she thought of.” Now a delicate rose hue tints Hope's cheeks. “You love your Uncle James, don't you Hope?” Lott asks her. She doesn't acknowledge Lott. But she gives Riggs a faint smile. “I wonder, Hope, did anyone ever tell you how your Uncle James and Eva first met?” Riggs stays dead still. “You suppose she knows the story, Riggs?” Silence.

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“When I ask you a direct question, Riggs, I want you to answer me. You suppose she knows the story?” “No.” “Funny, Smith not telling her, just to put her off you. I think he actually hates you more than he does me.” Lott takes a moment. Looks at Hope. Looks at Riggs. “You tell her, James. What happened in that orchard, the day Eva came here to the base.” Riggs doesn't plead or resist. He just looks at Hope and starts talking, tears rolling down his face. “Me and Baldwyn here, and Nichols were just outside the wall, heading for the apple orchard,” he says, his voice rough and low. “And we saw her. The three of us. It was winter and she was all bundled up in this big jacket. It was hard to tell, from where we were, if it was a man or a woman, or, when we got closer, how old she was. If she was a woman, or just a kid. “We spread out in formation. And I caught her.” Riggs looks like he's steeling himself. Taking a breath. Steadying his gaze to meet Hope's. “I was going to rape her. We all were. The three of us. I got to her first, and I knocked her down, and started ripping her clothes. Nichols got scared and ran off, and Baldwyn here chased him down and brought him back. And I was gonna make him do it, when me and Baldwyn were done. But before anything really happened, John showed up. He saved her. Saved her from us. From me.” Hope pales. Quivers. But she doesn't cry. “Now, tell her what you done to Evan and Diego. And what you done to Jake.”

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Tears rolling down his face, Riggs tells her. How they made Evan rape Diego. How, after, they all raped Evan in front of Diego. What he and all the others did to Jake. Now Hope is sobbing. Behind her, his fist still wound into her hair, Baldwyn's mouth is an amused smile. “You see, Hope?” Lott says. “Riggs isn't what you been thinking, all this time. He likes to pretend he's like John. Like the Major. But he isn't. He's really just like Baldwyn, here. Like me.” Lott levels his gaze with Baldwyn's. Grins. “Let go of her.” Baldwyn lets the rein of copper hair fall from his grip. “You're upset, honey,” Lott says to Hope. “If you want to go to your Uncle James for a hug, it's okay with me.” Hope takes a couple steps away from Baldwyn, who's kept himself pressed against her for the last fifteen minutes. But then she stops. Stands there, alone, at the center of the three men, quietly crying. “So scared. So vulnerable. And she'd rather stand there by herself than let you touch her,” Lott says to Riggs. “But you'd like to touch her, wouldn't you?” Looking at her, Riggs says, “I've never wanted to hurt you, Hope. I never wanted to do anything bad to you. I swear.” “I think maybe we'll let you go first, Riggs. Let you pluck that ripe little cherry. That won't interfere none with what Baldwyn's been pining for, all this time. And you know me. I'm not so particular about the wheres and hows. Its mostly just her little soul I'm most interested in poking around in.”

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“You're crazy,” Riggs's voice shudders. “You know what Smith and John'll do to you if they catch you in here?” Lott grins. “Nobody'll do a damned thing to me while I've got hold of Eva's baby.” “I won't touch her,” Riggs says, leveling a determined gaze at Lott. But his voice is thin as air. “Why not?” Lott laughs. “You got nothing to lose. One way or another, after tonight, you'll never see anything but hate and fear when you look into her eyes. After tonight, your two choices are gonna be to run as far from this base as you can get, or to get lynched by every person on this base, led by John and the Major. Cause there's only one person on this base who'd believe you didn't take her, first chance you got. When they see what's been done to her, every single soldier on this base—never mind the Major and John—is gonna be fightin' for the privilege of being the one to castrate you.” “I don't care. I won't touch her.” “I wonder, Riggs. I wonder who you love more. That faerie, there, who's maybe the only person that's ever shown you pure love and trust, not tainted by old hate and fear. Or little Gareth, here. Who you love like a son, even though he isn't yours.” Riggs just sits there, crying, looking from Hope to Gareth to Lott. “Go on, now. Get Hope over there on the bed.” “Go to hell!” “You do what I tell you, Riggs. No questions. And no sudden moves. Cause from now on, if you do anything I don't like, if you don't do like I tell you,” Lott raises one of Gareth's arms and grips one tiny pinky between his thumb and forefinger, “I'm gonna snap one of these delicate little bones in two. Starting with this wee little pinky, here.

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Just to show I'm serious. Second time you anger me, I'm gonna cripple this chubby little arm.” Riggs' jaw drops open. He stands there, gasping, looking like his whole body will crumple to nothing. “Now,” Lott says, “get Hope on the bed.” Except for shaking, it looks like Riggs is frozen. Incapable of moving. But Hope moves. Steps up close to Riggs, until their bodies are pressed together. Takes his hand, touches his cheek. Opens her mouth. “Don't be sad. I'm not scared.” “Well, my, my, my. The little faerie speaks!” Lott exults at the sound of her first words, as if he's just discovered he can do magic. It's Hope who leads Riggs to the bed. Who sits him on the edge of the mattress, who steps close, between his knees. It's Hope who brings her mouth to his, who touches his lips with hers. Who makes the kiss deep, while he goes on crying. “I've always wanted it to be you, my first time,” she says to Riggs, her soft voice melodious, like distant song. “Don't be scared.” Then she gives him a smile—full, radiant. It even brightens her green eyes, as if they are lit from behind. The smile, her look, work on Riggs like a drug, calming and cooling him. He goes almost lax. “No,” Lott says, cold and firm. “On second thought, maybe Baldwyn should go first. I'm afraid this little bedtime story is getting so dull it's going to put all of us to sleep. Don't fret, Riggs. He'll get her in the proper mood for you. Go back and take your seat.”

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But Riggs won't let go of Hope's hand. “Please. Don't let him hurt Gareth. I'll be okay,” Hope lilts. Hope practically pulls Riggs up from the bed and sends him off, toward his chair. As Riggs crumples onto his seat, Baldwyn moves on Hope, hard and sudden, like he's going into combat. Riggs sobs out loud as Baldwyn brutally knocks Hope onto the bed, twists her around, yanks her up onto her hands and knees. He catches a wad of hair in his fist and wrenches her head back and breathes something into her ear, too quiet for the others to hear. Something—the pain of him yanking her hair, or whatever he whispered—makes tears well and spill down Hope's cheeks. “Please,” she gasps, “I don't want him to see.” Lott asks, “Who? Riggs? It's nothing he ain't seen before.” “No. Gareth.” “Ah,” Lott grins. “You afraid of tarnishing the little guy's innocence?” Lott hoists the baby up to eye-level and peers into his big, gray, wondering gaze. “Well, I'm willing to honor such a humble request. But,” he says, rising from his seat by the window and moving alongside the bed, settling on his haunches just beside where Baldwyn has her face pressed to the mattress, “personally, I prefer this view. Where I can watch everything that happens behind those jeweled eyes of yours.” Lott plunks baby Gareth down on the edge of the mattress, his back to Hope and Baldwyn. When he needs his hands for other things, Baldwyn lets go of the rope of hair he'd been using to pin her down.

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“Keep your eyes here with me, Hope,” Lott says almost seductively, his breath coming faster, now. “I want to see every second of what's about to happen, every touch in those green eyes.” Hope does what he's asked. Locks her gaze on his. Steady. Lott grins. “Little darling, you're something else.” He touches her cheek. Her lips. Behind her, there's the scrape of a zipper opening. Still holding Lott's gaze, in a clear, high voice, like the note of a flute, Hope calls, “James!” That same second, Hope swings her arm out, sweeps it back, pulls little Gareth under her, collapses down over him, making her body, her arms and legs and head a shell around him. She stays still and hard as Baldwyn punches her hard in the side and tears at her hair, trying to hoist her up off the baby. She stays rigid, a hard little ball, as Lott tries to wrench her arm aside. Riggs is up. He grasps Baldwyn in his two massive paws, tears him off of Hope, kicks him hard in the knee, hurls him to the floor. Then he leaps on Lott and flings him against the wall as if he were made of straw. Lott sinks into a crumpled heap, and Riggs goes back for Baldwyn as he's struggling to his feet, kicks him hard in the face. Again. Again. Stomps down on his gut with his jack-booted foot. The sound of glass shattering. Hope springs up, gets Gareth into his crib. Then stands sentinel. Riggs throws a glance over his shoulder. Lott is still crumpled against the wall. Hope and Gareth are safe. He sobs down at the man under his boot, “I told you, if you

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ever touched her, I'd kill you.” His knee levers up, his foot hovers over Baldwyn's chest. But then he sets his foot back on the floor. Looks back at Hope. Grave, still, Hope says, “Yes. Kill him.” The knee levers, the foot rises, then comes down, sinking down between ribs and pelvis, up and down again, cracking ribs, up and down again, shattering the sternum, up and down again, fracturing the jaw, breaking teeth. “Die, you fucking monster!” Riggs screams, tears dropping into blood, his black boot a sticky dark red. And then he turns, looks. A broken whimper creaks out of him. Hope is pinned between Lott and the crib, her green eyes wide with shock, her pale face, her hair, her lips, her arms all flecked with blood. Riggs leaps, pulls Lott back. Doesn't even turn to deal with him. All he sees, knows, is Hope. Blood-spattered. Hyperventilating, sobbing, he roams over her, every inch of her with his eyes, searching her up and down, running his hands over her face, her neck, her arms, smearing her in streaks of red. Lifts her right hand, drenched, coated, clutching a jagged shard of glass. He turns. Lott is standing, his fair complexion waxen white, thick blood surging between his fingers, every beat of his heart pumping a fresh flood from his artery. His knees, his hips collapse; he sinks to the floor, folds in three. He looks like he's in prayer. Riggs glances at Gareth, standing in his crib, looking back at him, unharmed. Not even crying, after all that. Just flecked, here and there, with Lott's blood. Then Riggs puts his arms around Hope, pulls her to him. Holds her. Strokes her hair.

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Whispers, “You're all right, Hope. You're all right. Promise. They can't hurt you now. You're safe.” She lets him hold her. She doesn't hug him back. She doesn't cry. She just stands there, staring down at the bodies on the floor. He sets her away from him. Searches her eyes. Glances over her, down, up once more. “Are you cut? Hurt anywhere?” Her fingers are bleeding. Cut on the shard of glass she has used to kill Lott. She holds out her hand. Shows Riggs. “Okay,” he breathes. “Here. Let's get you fixed up.” In the bathroom, he runs cold water over her hand. The cuts aren't deep. He finds his first aid kit, but his hands are shaking so much, he can hardly get her bandaged. Back in the bedroom, Riggs stands there, trembling, looking from the gory corpses on the floor, to Hope, still blood-smeared, to Gareth in his crib. Again and again, Riggs's eyes go from one to the other, back and forth. Around and around. Hope finds a ballpoint pen and a scrap of paper. Bent over the dresser, she writes, then finds a hammer and a nail in the toolbox sitting atop that same dresser, and nails her note outside the front door. Riggs is still standing there, shaking, staring at Gareth. The flecks of blood have dried and turned dark. Hope lifts Gareth from the crib, sets him on her hip, slings the diaper bag over her shoulder, and takes Riggs's hand. Leads him up one flight of stairs to a room identical to his own, except there's no crib.

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Hope lays the baby down, unsnaps a dozen snaps and slips him out of his bloodspattered onesie. In the metal cabinet that stands against the same wall in every bedroom in that building, Hope finds a stack of towels. She takes two and carries Gareth out the door, down the hall to the showers. Zombie-like, Riggs trails them down the hall, into the shower room. It's a lot like that room, in that other building, where the pack of them had tortured Diego and Evan. Riggs watches Hope turn on one of the showers, watches her get Gareth out of his diaper. Then he shuffles out of the shower room, closes the door, and then stops, right there in the frame of the door, and waits. Hope strips off her bloodstained shirt, steps out of her underwear, and carries Gareth into the shower. Holding him to her, she watches the water dissolve the flecks of dark, dried blood from his face. Watches water bead red on his honeyed skin, and trickle and stream, faintest pink, down his length. This little baby, with his small, fragile body. This child with his curious gaze, so eager to smile and laugh. Once, those men were like him. When she sets him down, Gareth stands, wobbly, hugging Hope's knee as she washes the blood from her hair and skin. Then she scoops him up, dries him off, rubs at her wet hair with a towel, then wraps it around herself and sets Gareth on her hip. When she opens the door, Riggs is still there, filling the frame with his massive body. Still trembling. Together, the three of them wander back to the strange bedroom. It's hours past his bedtime, and Gareth's sleepy eyes barely peep open now and then as Hope diapers and dresses him and sets him in the center of one of the beds.

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Now she stands there in her towel, staring at the floor. Maybe she is thinking of going back to Riggs's room to get her overnight bag. Riggs comes close, stands in front of her, pulls his t-shirt over his head. Still, panting, Hope clutches her towel to her, her gaze tracing up Riggs's heavily muscled torso to his bloodshot eyes. “Here.” He lowers the t-shirt over her head, draws the fabric down, over her towel. “I don't know what to do,” he says a few minutes later. “I could take you to Karen. Or to Evan and Diego. I wish I could take you to Eva,” he says, his voice breaking, tears rolling down his face, “but I can't.” Without a word or a smile, Hope gets into the empty bed. She closes her eyes; she lies still, but doesn't sleep. After a while, Riggs unlaces his boots, the right one still sticky, strips off his jeans, and gets into Gareth's bed, curling his massive body around his tiny son, who is gently snoring. Gareth sleeps through the shuddering of Riggs's body, through the stifled sobbing. But Hope rises from her bed, and slips under the covers behind Riggs. Curls her arm over his waist. Presses herself close. Riggs's sobbing grows louder. More convulsive. When he's calmed, he says to her, his voice still shuddery, “I've never deserved the love you've shown me. I should have known one day you'd find out what kind of man I am, and your love would hurt you. I was wrong, thinking I could be around someone like you, and never hurt you. Two things I wanted most in my whole life was to be good to you, and good to Gareth, and for the two of you to love me. Eva, too. I don't

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know how she could forgive me, but she did. And if things could be different, I'd give anything to keep her safe, I'd sacrifice anything before I'd hurt her, just like I would for you and Gareth. But it's different, with the two of you. 'Cause Eva knew what I was when she let herself...I don't know. Not love me, but show me love. “But with you, if I'd made myself a good man, like I meant to, I wouldn't have let you love me. But I'm not good. I still let the things I want get in the way of looking after what's best for you and Gareth. I'm sorry.” He goes on whispering, almost chanting, “I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.” When Hope wakes in the wan morning light, she runs. Runs from that room, out of that building. Runs, bare legs blurring, bare feet leaving their impressions in damp earth, muddy prints on gray-white cement. Runs up the steps, runs across the porch, runs up the stairs and flings open the door to the room Eva and John and Gareth share. And then she stops. For a few awful, silent seconds, Hope and John stare at each other. At the mere sight of John sitting there by the window, his eyes red and swollen, his face twisted in pain and loss, a newborn baby cradled in his arms, Hope starts to cry. Broken, wrenched sobs. **** Later, Karen will tell Hope what she'd told Riggs the night before. How long, how hard the labor was. How, finally, the baby had come. Surprisingly strong and lively, after such a rough birth. She'd even taken Eva's breast, and everyone—Eva, John, Smith— had been relieved, knowing the infant girl was getting that vital first milk.

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But Eva was bleeding so much. Minute by minute, going pale. Gray. Fading. The baby nursing was supposed to help, to stem the flow of blood, but the blood kept coming. And Eva seemed to know. She kissed the tiny infant at her breast. And then she looked at the Major and whispered that she was sorry. He'd read her pallor, her limp hold on her newborn, and already his hazel eyes were red, fixed on her in desperate terror. But John kissed Eva, so gentle, so sweet, and smiled his placid smile, and lulled by her ear that everything was all right, that Eva had been perfect, made a perfect baby girl. Whispered that he loved her. That she'd made him happy. And then he told her again that it was all right. All right. Avery, though, was white as snow, and shaking, and he stared into her with his red eyes and begged her to stay with him. Please. Please. Please. But she was gone. **** Hope stares at John, shakes her head, pleads, “No.” Not seeming to notice that Hope has uttered something aloud, John's eyes hone on her bandaged hand. Her bruised arms. Rage and fear pull him from his chair. Hope makes her words slow, clear. Tells him, “James is gone. He took Gareth.” **** A Humvee is missing, too. Four parties in four trucks comb the surrounding region for them, but find nothing.

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After, Smith and John are left with their memories of Eva, and her infant daughter. And the drawings Hope does, day after day. The drawings are unlike any of Hope's other art. These are done in pencil, and from a close distance, they deceive the viewer with an impression of black and white photographs. Eva reclining against the trunk of the elm, a book propped on the swell of her pregnant belly; Eva asleep in Smith's arms; Eva nursing little Gareth; Eva and John, lying in bed, naked and laughing; Eva at her little table by the window, writing in her journal, head cocked to the side, her mouth firm and set, her eyes intent and determined.

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PART II: NIX ~ YEAR TWENTY-SIX

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CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

”Wait. Let's give her to Artel.” “Yeah,” the younger one laughed, holstering his gun. His knuckles were stained with drying, rust-hued blood. Cement. Cement floor, walls, ceiling. Stairs. Smooth, cold angles knocking her feet, tripping, so she kept almost falling. But the big hands dragging her hoisted her up, yanked her along. A phlegmy laugh. “You didn't like your prospects back home? You didn't like us? Let's see how you like having The Sadist for your husband, subvert bitch.” Stupid pigs. After everything they'd done, laughing now at their dumb attempts at arousing her fear. She stopped trying to lift her feet, and sagged into their big, cruel hands and let them wrench her up. Six flights. Cement chaffed the tops of her feet as they dragged her thirty yards down a dim, sterile corridor, past twelve doors. At the thirteenth they stopped and she forced her limp, tortured body to straighten and stand. “Cunt,” one hissed while the other worked a key, angry she had the strength to hold herself up. The door swung in, and they shoved her through. Hard. Wanting her to fall. To arrive crumpled and low. She kept her feet. Shaking. Swaying. But standing. A man turned from the window and looked at her. Then at them. “We brought you a little treat,” the pig to her left wheezed.

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When the pig to her right touched her face, pulling her hair behind her shoulders to display her nakedness more convincingly to the man by the window, she managed not to shudder. With a final loose rattle in his lungs, the tubercular pig tossed a lacy garment onto the floor. Then the heavy door clanged shut. The man by the window moved toward her. She straightened. Hardened. Body taut. Fists clenched. Why did he have to be so goddamned big? Didn't matter. She could hardly stand. Closer. Closer. Her stomach clenched and she choked down the bile rising in her throat. No slobbering, giggling pig like them. Rigid and cold. A stoic face, unreadable eyes, hard and gray. Like the concrete all around them. He swooped in. She flexed for the futile fight. But he blurred down to the ground and up and away without touching her, the white scrap of lace that was the only clothing they'd give her in his hand. His eyes scanned it, then her face before he stomped over to the fireplace and threw it on the flames. The Sadist. That's what they'd named him. So now, instead of that humiliating scrap of lingerie she was supposed to wear to keep her in her place, she'd have nothing. Fine. She'd rather be naked than wear the uniform of a sex slave. The Sadist blurred out of focus. Bad. She strained her eyes until he was one and his lines were sharp. Opening a drawer. Fear making her cold. Pushing her down, toward the floor. What did a person do to earn the name “Sadist” from men who'd hurt her the way they had?

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He came at her. In his hands he had whatever he'd gotten out of the drawer, but she was watching his face. Angular. Scarred. Blank. Moving in. In his hands, something square. Dark. Soft. Clothes. Clothes like his. It was a trick. No spluttering giggling, but he was playing. So close the soft folded corner brushed against her ribs, right under her bare breast. But then he pulled back. Took away the clothes she knew he'd never let her wear. Held them back, behind, while he leaned in close and sniffed her air. “You stink of them,” he said, his voice blank like his face, and low and rough. Like asphalt. “Clean up in there.” With blank gray eyes he suggested the alcove behind her. She'd go. She'd do everything he said until the moment came to fight. The floor lurched under her but she pleaded and her body took her into the alcove. A toilet. A sink. A shower. Alone. Four walls and steam and water needles stabbing her cuts and bruises. Hard to stand, hard to see, but alone—that was good. But soon he'd come, and this was a bad place to fight, cornered and dizzy on slick tile. Better to face him out in the main room. There was a chair she could wield. And a lamp. She almost walked past without noticing. The square of folded clothes next to the sink. A trick. The Sadist. Maybe he played with you like that. But she wanted too badly to care. She started to black out when she bent over to step into the briefs. For this, she'd crumple to the floor. Briefs. Pants. Tank. Flannel. Dressed. Human.

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She stood. Maybe. But then she was down, cold tile punching her cheek, something wringing her stomach like it would rip her in two. Puking. Maybe literally puking her guts out. Pain that teased with a promise of death. But then the pain backed down and she tasted bile mingled with what she'd been forced to swallow before. When she opened her eyes, when she resolved the blurred blacks and whites, there were two big boots by the puddle of beige vomit. He bent down over her. She pleaded, but her body betrayed her and stayed crushed to the floor. But she wouldn't cringe like a cornered animal. She'd face him. His hollow voice. “Don't waste that hate on me.” He scraped her from the tile, carried her to a bed and laid her down. Her brain ordered a fight but her body deserted. Before she passed out for good she felt him wiping her mouth with a wet cloth. **** Probably he'd fucked her while she was out. No way to pick his bruises out from the others. Maybe not, though. Where's the sadism in raping an unconscious, unfeeling body? A man like that would want to see her cry. Hear her beg. Scream. As if she'd give him the pleasure. For three days, he left her wondering. He let her eat half his food. Let her sleep in his bed while he slept on the floor. “When you're better, we'll take turns.” He demanded nothing of her. Took nothing from her. Even her name.

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“My name's Artel,” he told her that first morning as he thrust toward her a plate with a half-eaten roll, a half-eaten apple, and an unidentifiable hunk of charred meat, gnawed away at one side. When she didn't offer her own name or take the plate, he set the dish down on the bed and went back to his place by the window. From that window, she realized when she looked out and saw that it overlooked the center of the compound, he might have watched everything they'd done to her. “There are two people in this cell, and they brought us one plate of food. What's there is yours, not mine,” he said when she'd left it all untouched for nearly an hour, unwilling to take anything from him, sure he'd use it against her later. So she ate. Not because she trusted his words, but because they made it possible for her to do the prudent thing—eat, regain her strength, so she could take care of herself. It would come. The attack. Maybe when she was stronger and could put up a fight. Maybe when he imagined she'd come to trust him. Maybe that was his sadistic pleasure—giving hope of something other than cruelty, then ripping it away. She waited. On the fourth night it happened. Two rough hands tore through her sleep— always thin and sensitive, like a spider's web—and started ripping at her clothes. Fighting back her rage and panic, she checked herself. Let him grope her flesh and tear her clothes and lick her mouth until her chance came. When he rose up over her passive body to work his fly open, she caught the dangling buckle of his belt and yanked it free of its loops, planted both feet square on his chest and launched him from the bed. She sprang, pinned him, noosed the fucker in his own belt and yanked back hard, with all her hate. So hard they went over backwards together, until she was pinned under his flailing weight. He bucked and squeaked, and she drove her knees into his

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back and yanked harder, the image of tearing his head from his shoulders driving a surge of adrenaline through her pumped, pounding body. Then light poured over her, blinding her, then showing her. Artel crouched over them with clenched fists. It was not Artel's life she was choking off with the belt wound around her fist. The man flailing against his own belt, against her knees in his ribs and spine, gave up on his struggle to claw the leather away from his windpipe, and reached toward Artel with desperate, seeking fingers. “Please,” she heard a choked, desperate plea squeak out of the man, slackening now against her shins. Artel's cool gray eyes scanned over her—donated clothes torn and askew—then locked on the face she hadn't seen. Pumped and shaking with her effort to finish her murder, she waited. Artel just stared down at the man, indifferently watching the life fade out of him. The left arm stuck out and clawed at the air, and her eyes found what the hand sought: a knife laying at the edge of the table where they ate their meals. Hope gave the dying man a final surge of strength and he hurled himself forward, his finger nudging the indifferent knife before she managed to yank him back. Artel put the tip of his index finger on that knife. Patience. Patience. Let go now, and she'd have both to fight. Finish. Finish. Then it would just be her against Artel. He'd win, but not before she'd hurt him. But then Artel, who was still staring coolly into the eyes of the dying man, slid the knife a few inches back from the edge of the table, hopelessly out of reach, then dropped his hand to his side.

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There was some convulsing, then a dark stain seeped over the crotch of the man's pants, below the open fly exposing the dirty gray of his briefs. “He's dead,” Artel said indifferently a few minutes later, and she realized she was still strangling the corpse. Afraid he wasn't really dead. Afraid of what Artel would do now. Artel bent down and grabbed the corpse's ankles and dragged him off of her. She stood, took her fighting stance. Watched as Artel slid open the window, hoisted the corpse up by his belt noose, and dropped him six flights onto the courtyard below. “He wasn't supposed to be here, and there's twenty five units in this column. They won't be able to prove who did it. Even if they did, they couldn't admit it. But they'll know he was killed here. The next man will think twice.” He sank down onto the chair by the window, folded up the knife and slid it into his pocket. “Why didn't you shout for help?” he asked in a tone so indifferent, only syntax suggested a question. Her first words to him: “I thought it was you.” And besides, she knew better. Fucking sharks. The smell of blood, the thrashing noises of struggle—what did it ever do but provoke their hunger? Artel scared her. The others hurt her, disgusted her, made her hate, but none of them scared her. It was Artel, whose behavior didn't map onto any understanding she had of men, that made her afraid. What kind of man gave away his food and his clothes, much less doing so without demanding she fulfill her ”duty”? That he'd calmly watched

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while a woman took the life of a man—even a stranger or enemy caught taking what wasn't his—was that much farther beyond the limits of her comprehension. But he'd taunted the man. Calmly looked down as the man begged for his life. Cruelly edged the knife just inches beyond his reach, then watched him suffocate and die. Maybe that was pleasure for a sadist, watching a man dying at the hands of a woman, his last awful moments filled up with the knowledge that the scrap of cunt he'd come to fuck had bested him, ended his life.

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CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

“You're an idiot, Dorset.” “A suicidal idiot.” The two guards grunted and chuckled at the man, but covetously eyed his bribe. “Borden was the idiot, going in there commando style, thinking he could sneak a little pussy right under that psycho's nose. Shit like that offends a man's sense of entitlement. I plan on showing all due respect. Why should he mind renting her out for a few minutes, if the price is right?” “Alright. I don't mind smoking a dead man's cigarettes.” The guards let him by and started divvying up the loot. **** Her chest went tight and her stomach dropped at the metallic rapping. Without looking her way, Artel went to the door. “What?” It was a demand. An obsequious voice oozed through the doorframe, into the cell, “Hey there, Artel, it's me, Dorset. Can I have a word?” Artel unlocked and opened the door. The man in the hall was not especially tall, but very wide, with a very square jaw. Like a cartoon of a boxer. The man stepped back. Then, when Artel didn't move or say anything, he started squirming a little, and said in a low voice, “Can I talk to you? Out here?” “Go ahead and say it, whatever it is,” Artel answered in his low but irrefutable voice.

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The pugilist shot a look at her, and her nausea started creeping up her throat. “What's she dressed like that for?” the visitor hawed. Artel stayed silent. When he realized he wasn't getting an answer the man said, “Don't worry, I won't say anything. About the clothes, I mean.” He shrugged nervously and cleared his throat. Then, nodding in her direction, “I thought maybe you'd like to do a little business.” No hesitation. Artel just said, “Maybe,” then stepped aside to let the man in. “Tell me what you have in mind.” “I can get you three cartons of smokes, and two bottles of vodka.” “In return for what?” “Half an hour.” Artel laughed, all rough and downhill. “What? You didn't get enough of her the other day?” “I was out on patrol. I missed it.” “I don't want garbage. Booze and smokes.” “What do you want?” the guy asked excitedly. Like he hadn't been sure if Artel would barter. She'd been waiting for this. The knife was in Artel's pocket, but the shiv she'd hidden under the mattress was just three feet ahead on her left. “The keys.” “I can give you the building key.” “All three.” “Artel—”

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“I know you've got them.” “Yeah, but—” “That's the only way I'll let you have her.” The pugilist rubbed his hungry look all over her. “An hour, then.” “Keys first. And I get to stay and watch.” “Alright.” The pugilist fished deep down in his big front pocket, pulled up a ring of keys, and pried three from the steel circle. Artel scrutinized the objects and dropped them into his pocket. “Sixty minutes.” Taut and ready, her veins primed with fresh, bitter hate. Wait. Wait. The pugilist set his jaw and started toward her, but Artel touched the man's shoulder and with that small brush of his index finger, brought the man to a halt. “First, tell me what you're going to do.” “You didn't say anything about conditions,” Dorset whined. “No conditions. It's whatever you want. I'd just like to hear you say it.” A huge, disgusting grin spread over that square, stubbled jaw. “Yeah. Alright. Just so it's not cutting into my sixty.” “It's not. Don't worry. I'm going to enjoy your sixty every bit as much as you are. More, maybe.” The boxer kept looking her over. Artel's eyes never went near her. Fuck, she was going to enjoy killing him. Maybe not today, but when she got the chance. “She good with her mouth?”

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Artel shrugged. “'Cause I've been dying to have my cock sucked.” “Yeah?” “Fuck yeah.” “Not scared she might take a bite out of you?” “You kidding? You know how to put a stop to that, don't you?” Artel just stared, waiting. The other reached back into that deep front pocket that ran most of the way down his thigh, and brought out a large wrench. Brandishing his weapon he tutored, “You just got to let her know, if she can't keep her teeth off your cock, you'll knock ever last fucking tooth out of her mouth. Maybe she wouldn't be so pretty, then, but she'd be a custom-built cock-sucker, eh? Trust me, it's very convincing. No bitch has bitten me yet, who's gotten that little warning.” She'd smash his fucking brains out of that thick skull with that wrench when her chance came. She waited through his long, psychotically detailed description of how he was going to make her suck him, fantasizing his brutal killing to keep from throwing up. He'd been hard almost from the beginning, when he'd described how he'd have her on her knees while he pulled his dick out. It would almost be worth having every tooth knocked out to take a chunk out of that worm's meat and hear him scream, knowing he'd never stuff his putrid sausage into another mouth as long as he lived. Artel just stood there, soaking it all up, probing, now and then, for some embellishment on the already horrifying detail on the violation being described. “Think that's going to take up your whole sixty?” Artel demanded when the boxer had finished orating his rape fantasy.

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“Well, if it doesn't, we can improvise with the time that's left over, eh?” “Sure.” “Shall I get started, then?” Artel consulted his watch, then said, “Be my guest.” The boxer let out a nasty little chuckle, and turned on her. “You ready for me, sweetheart?” Damn fucking right. Her shiv was going to be six inches into that watery blue eye of his. “I know you got a lot of practice the other day, sweetheart, so I expect this to be an A-plus cock-sucking.” He took his first step and she flexed to lunge for the stashed blade, but his second step landed him face down on the floor at her feet. Artel was on him, hog-tying the fuck with his own bootlaces, then frisking the grunting, writhing pugilist, tossing screwdrivers ands keys and a switchblade onto the bed. Then he hoisted the man onto his knees and slapped his cheek a few times with the flat side of his own wrench. “Your sixty's probably looking pretty long now, eh Dorset?” “What the fuck?” Dorset huffed, straining pointlessly against the knots binding his wrists to his ankles. “God, Artel, what is this?” “I don't know. What shall we call it?” Artel looked at her over his shoulder, and for the first time she saw him smile, and it made her skin prickle. “We could call it 'turn about's fair play.' Or we could call it 'Give as good as you get.'” “Jesus, Artel. Come on. I gave you the keys. They're legit. I swear.” “I'm counting on it.”

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“What? Christ! What do you want?” “You're asking the wrong person.” She didn't understand why Artel was looking at her. What that look meant. “It's up to you,” he said. Impossible. She was wrong. Or he was playing with her. “Please. Artel. Anything. Fuck, anything. Just tell me, and I'll get it for you.” Artel turned away from her silence, sank down on his knees in front of his captive, confronting an expression of uncomprehending terror with an amused smile. Cringing and struggling against his bonds, the prisoner shrank back as Artel moved in close and tenderly stroked a rough cheek. Her own taut body shuddered as Artel leaned in closer still, letting his lips brush against the man's ear as he whispered in his abraded voice, “I like this. Seeing a man, big and hard as you, so soft and quivering. So vulnerable.” “God dammit,” the guy forced a menacing voice through a clenched jaw, “stop fucking with me, Artel.” As if the man had said nothing, Artel sank his fingers into the short tufts of hair— like summer-yellowed grass—sniffing and mouthing him. Jerking back as the Dorset thrashed, splitting his tormentor's lip with his forehead, Artel slapped the man brutally across the face, stunning him to a momentary stillness. Then his bloodied mouth was on the man's mouth, a wet tongue probing lips shut tight over clenched teeth. “I want a nice, soft kiss, Dorset.” “Fuck you!” Dorset screeched back, tears trickling down his reddening face.

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In a few fast, rough movements Artel had Dorset's pants undone and down, and his limp dick pulled taut in his fist. Now the blade of his knife glinted in his other hand, millimeters from that pathetic tube of flesh Dorset had meant to force between her lips. “I want a nice, soft kiss, Dorset. If I don't get it, I'm going to cut this scrap of meat off and shove it down your throat.” “Aw, God. God, Artel,” Dorset blubbered. A violent surge pulsed through her veins each time her heart banged in her chest as Artel brought his mouth to the others' lips again. When the mouth clenched and the head flinched away the gleaming blade touched the veined, pink-gray flesh stretching from its woolly base. A terrified howl, the likes of which she'd only heard coming from women's throats, filled the cement cell, and the next moment the howling mouth softened, its jaws and lips parted to receive. Artel's mouth came soft, lips caressed, tongue teased while the other whimpered and shivered, fighting to be still and soft so the blade pressed to his cock wouldn't slice in. “You've had my kiss, Dorset. Now I want yours.” The prisoner's chin dimpled and quivered as he pressed his lips to Artel's mouth, as he forced his tongue to answer Artel's tongue. Then there was a long, soft, deep, wet kiss, Artel's breath a panting growl, speeding, while Dorset snuffled sporadically. It went on for a long while, that tender kiss bought with such a violent threat. Then their wet lips and tongues parted, and Artel put his mouth by Dorset's ear and growled, “Now, Dorset, you're going to give me an A-plus cock-sucking.”

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The fresh expression of horror on Dorset' face flushed her with a nauseating thrill. “If you're going to say anything, Dorset, say it now, so I don't stand up just to have to get back down to cut your dick off.” Artel tapped the flat of the knife against the stretched length of flaccid cock, and Dorset just looked—in golden silence—between his threatened manhood and the other's face with tears and snot running down his face. “So you want to suck me?” Artel growled. Dorset's chin dimpled up and his mouth twisted down, his bottom lip shiny with drool. “If you don't tell me, Dorset, I won't know which you'd rather have: my dick in your mouth, or your jewels in a jar by my bed. So if you want to suck me, Dorset, you'd better let me hear you say it.” “I want to suck you,” Dorset bawled, stuttering and shuddering. “Mmmm. I like the way you say that, Dorset. You want to taste my cock, don't you Dorset.” A small, wet “yes” gurgled out. “Tell me.” “I want to taste your cock.” In a kind of elated horror, then, she watched Artel rise to his feet, undo his belt, and open his fly with the scratchy noise of metal zipper teeth releasing. She saw Dorset recoil and turn his face away as Artel bared his rigid cock and curved his fingers almost tenderly against the scraggy jaw of the kneeling man to turn his head forward again. “I won't prod you again, Dorset. Get eager, or I'll get on my knees, and your dick comes off,” Artel lulled in a terrifying, sweet voice.

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Fat tears dripping down his cheeks Dorset opened his mouth and closed his lips just behind the head of Artel's cock. Dorset's body convulsed, like he was dry heaving, as he slid his mouth an inch or two down. “There you go,” Artel cooed, gently petting and stroking the head of the man fellating him. She was shaking. Her gut rolled and clenched spastically and her throat had that wet, salty feeling. But she couldn't turn away. Fuck, she didn't want to turn away. Why should this make her sick, anyway? She should be fucking clapping. Shouting. Like they did. “That's nice, Dorset. But use your tongue a little. Underneath. You know where it feels nice.” She half wished Artel would give the fucker a good throat-raping. But in a way, this was more cruel. “Good. Like that,” Artel groaned softly, still stroking and petting the other's hair, his cheek. “Now, take me in, all the way. Just relax and take it slow,” he soothed when Dorset gagged and coughed around Artel's cock. “All the way down, Dorset,” Artel's caressing hand slid around to the back of Dorset's head and pulled him against his pelvis, forcing the length of his cock all the way into the other's mouth. As she stood there, frozen, staring, Artel made the guy do everything he'd described making her do a few minutes earlier: he held him down on his cock until she wondered if he'd pass out, he'd been deprived of air for so long. Then he let him have just two gasps before he forced him down again. And again. Dorset's face had gone reddish purple and water streamed down from his eyes. Then he made him suck his balls, and something

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about that made Dorset start to dry heave again. But at least the oxygen was circulating again and he stopped looking like a hairy eggplant. “Now, Dorset,” Artel said especially tenderly, “take a few good, deep breaths. Good. One more. Now, try to stay relaxed, but keep your lips nice and tight on my cock.” Artel started pumping between the other's lips, and Dorset began making some little muffled animal-like sound and huffing and sputtering as he desperately sucked at the air every time Artel's cock left his throat. She could see from the way his body had gone rigid, the way his breaths were quick and shallow, that Artel was close, and she was anticipating what noise, what face Dorset would make when the thick, pungent warmth spurted into his mouth. “Fuck, Dorset,” Artel growled, “your mouth is like a hot, tight cunt.” Artel's hips thrust at the other's face a few more times, then: “I'm going to feed you my cum now, Dorset. Don't swallow. And don't spit. Hold it in your mouth for me.” Then Artel grunted and pumped his hips and growled and thrust, then took a fistful of the other's hair to hold him still as he drew back and let out a long, guttural moan. A soggy sound came from Dorset's throat and his eyes, shut through everything, wrinkled into a hard squint. Artel let out a long, low sigh and pulled his dick out of Dorset's mouth, and as Artel stroked his cock, two final spurts of cum glopped onto the other's hair and cheek. Artel took his time tucking away and doing up his pants before he said in his usual, indifferent voice, “Alright, Dorset. Let's see. Dorset opened his mouth just a little. “Wider.”

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She knew his jaw was stiff and sore. He opened wider. “Tongue out.” His tongue was battered with cum. “Alright. You can swallow now.” His adam's apple bobbed, but it took a few tries before he managed to swallow. He retched noisily a couple times, but managed to keep it all down. Or at least in. “He's all yours,” Artel said with a glance over his shoulder, in a drained voice. The foreboding retching sounds had stopped and the guy looked small now, all crumpled at Artel's feet, with the sort of destroyed, shell-shocked look she'd seen on so many faces, but never on a man's. “Probably you've been given to men before,” Artel said, low, somber, when some time had gone by and she had neither moved nor spoken. “Now I'm giving this man to you. But this,” he held his knife out to her, glinting in the open palm of his hand, “is just a loan.” She reached out to take the knife, anticipating the feel of its weight, the cool smoothness of the polished handle in her grip. His throat would open in a too-wide grin that would laugh, sputtering red. Or better, he'd scream, a shriek indistinguishable from that of a woman or an animal as she sliced the blade through the thin sack of skin holding his balls, then through the thick, meaty flesh of his cock. Her hand still hovering over the knife, her second words to Artel were: “He'll be switches now?” “If they find him like this, yeah.”

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Better. Let him see what it was like to be thrown to the animals, day after day, like a gnawed bone. Meanwhile, she didn't want to do anything to take his mind off what had just been done to him. A knife blade cutting had a way of diminishing the aftertaste of semen. Now what she wanted was on the bed. Artel was quiet and still as she plucked the prisoner's pocketknife from the blanket, still and quiet as she dropped it into her pocket and waited for Artel to protest. But Artel just pocketed his own knife and brought forth the three keys he'd gotten from Dorset. “I'm getting out tonight. I'd say the chances are fifty-fifty. Maybe better. Come, if you want.” No better chance was going to come. **** “Think anyone's following?” he asked her when they'd run a mile or more. She went very still, looked back, waited for their breathing to quiet, listened. “No.” “My plan is to head east. There's an abandoned farm, three miles from the nearest populated town.” “You'll be safer on your own.” “You won't.” She had her doubts. “Why risk getting caught with a subvert?” “I'd miss your conversation.” There was something like a smile bending his mouth. After a long quiet, he added, “My word can't mean much, I know, but I'll never make a claim on you.”

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“I'll make my own way.” “Alright. Be safe, then.” “Thank you.” He headed east and she went north, wondering for a moment if he'd understood that those two words hadn't been for his parting wish, thinking how she'd lost the ability to express thoughts in words. Words failed her. Then her mind turned toward a destination. Away from there was no destination. Another was needed. Fingering the knife in her pocket, she wondered why it was so hard to end a life so full of pain, so empty of anything else. Death would make a fine destination. A place no one could burn down, from which no one could drag her away. A place she could choose for herself and stay forever. But it was impossible and far; her life swelled too big and hot in her veins. Where, then? Hot blood pumping into her muscles decided for her, even before reason acknowledged the sound of voices, of booted feet hammering the earth and shattering leaves and fracturing twigs. She ran. She always ran. Never away. Always toward. Toward the laughter. The hate-heavy shouts. The grunting noises men always make when they are beating or raping. Crouched low, she crept, silent, and found them. Seven ringing someone on the ground. The seven were spitting curses, kicking, stomping. Twice, the person on the ground knocked someone from the seven down. Then the sounds changed—whoops for the spunk of the victim, taunts for the felled comrades.

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By now, normally she'd be there, too, risking everything the victim was suffering, or about to suffer. By now, normally, one or two of the seven would be dead by her hand. But she knew. It was not a woman they had. It was Artel. He was one of them. Soured, maybe. Even repentant. But probably he didn't deserve to live. Even if he'd let her kill one. Even if he'd tortured and condemned that other. She fingered the knife in her pocket. Their laughter and howls pitched up to frenzy. Below, the faint groans of the man under their boots. Invisible in Artel's fatigues, she crept toward the orgy, her blade out. The first one or two were always easy, like this. The pigs were so loud they never heard her; so full of their power, seven on one, being hurt was beyond the distance of their imagination. The first was always the same. A stab in the back. A fierce jerk between two vertebrae. His scream, even his fall unnoticed amidst the grunts and howls and brawling. The second. Two quick swipes severing tendons at the backs of knees. As the third whirled to find the attacker, she sprang at him and slit his throat before his eyes had even picked her out from the still dark. Now, there were just four. And Artel was up. He caught one on his way to her, and dispatched him in seconds. The last three woke up to the uncertainty of their power and started reaching for their guns, but too late. Certainty of victory, a lifetime of being the one with the advantage in weapons and number never bred good soldiers. She was cut, but if it was bad, she hardly felt it. But when the last man fell, when she'd plucked from his twitching hand the gun he hadn't had time to use, when she'd put

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a bullet in his head, and done the same to all the others and collected their weapons and ammo, she had to drag Artel back onto his feet. She half carried Artel all the way to his abandoned farmhouse. “You're bleeding,” he said when she'd found and lit a few candles. She shrugged. “You're the wounded one.” His face was bruised and bloody, but all that could wait. She undid the first button on his shirt, and his hand clamped the fabric closed. “I dislike the idea of you seeing my body,” he said quietly. But then he unclenched the defending fingers and let his arm fall to his side. “It's such a hard body,” he went on as she undid the next button. “A violent body. A body made for hurting and killing.” He was quiet for a while. She finished unbuttoning, pulled the shirt open, baring a chest and abdomen carved like a Roman plate of armor excepting raised scars, slid the shirt down heavily muscled arms. “It's good that you should see it, though. Just like I'm glad you saw what I did to Dorset, even though I hated for you to see it. It's good that you know what I am.” “A raper of men.” “Yes. Well, a raper of rapists. If a distinction can be made.” When she washed the blood away from the wound under his arm she found it not too deep. “I'm not a good man. I take pleasure from feeling my power over another. A perverse pleasure. Erotic. Compelling. The only difference between me and Dorset, me and all of them, is who we choose to hurt. It eases my conscience to think I'm punishing

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people who deserve it. But I won't pretend what I've done—what I do—is only about justice.” “So you choose them for what they've done. Not because...” “Yes. Not because I don't desire women. You should know that, too.” “Try to lie still,” she admonished as she helped him to lie down on the narrow, spartan cot. “The cut wasn't bad, but you might have internal injuries, the way they were stomping and kicking you.” “Yes, doctor.” “Nix.” If they were going to hole up together, he might as well know her name.

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CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

“It's really lovely. This place,” Artel murmured from his sick bed. “Yes.” “You don't like it here.” “No.” “No one else will want it.” “I know.” “I doubt the camp will be sending anyone else out. We've been too expensive to them already. Makes them look bad. All we have to worry about is general sweeps.” Still, the farmhouse was so lovely she hesitated to stay. Living anywhere that might start to feel like a home meant risking fresh loss. The less one had to lose, the easier it was to fight. “If they come, we'll say you're my wife.” She leveled a look at him, and he met it. “I don't say you are. I told you I'd never make a claim on you. I only suggest we have a story ready.” “You think that'll make a difference this far from town?” “If it doesn't, we'll fight.” “Yes.” No matter which way one went—north or east, with the flow or against it—there was always a fight.

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“You sound so weary. But I've seen what a fighter you are. If you fight so hard to live, isn't it worth fighting to live happily?” “It's worth fighting for what one believes in. I believe in myself. My body. My life. I don't believe in happiness, or anything else I've never seen any evidence of.” **** Artel didn't seem to notice her come into the room. He had something in his hands. Down by his lap. A book. When she came closer, he looked up. “They let you read?” she asked, and he nodded. “I'll teach you, if you want.” She came closer, nudged the spine of the ragged paperback. “Jane Eyre,” she said aloud. “You know it?” “No.” “I think you'd like it.” **** “Artel?” He looked up from his book. “I'm going to the south-east field. I'll come back in two hours.” He'd asked her to tell him these things, so he wouldn't be left wondering, worrying, when she was gone for a while. Artel checked his watch. “Alright.” She pulled on a sweater and opened the back door. “Nix.”

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She stopped. Looked. “Artel, my surname, that's me, the fighter. Here I don't want to be that. Would you...I'd like it if you'd call me Gareth. My given name.“ **** Blue framed all around in glowing, waving, tufted spikes of gold, the hardness under her warm and steady. She liked to feel herself part of the earth, like a mound of dirt, or a great, flat stone, or a low shrub. Or a fallen tree. But the stones poking into her back, the prickle of the plants, the scurrying legs of insects tickling her skin reminded her she didn't belong. Couldn't stay. For now, though, there was pleasure. Her lax body pressed between the warmth of sun and earth, a whole field of vision filled up with sky and wheat, no sound but the rustle of green and gold things brushing against each other in the fresh breeze. If this small piece of time could be stretched to cover a whole life, maybe that would be happiness. **** “Unbutton your shirt.” Nix opened the makeshift first aid kit and started prepping a fresh dressing while Artel bared his lacerated side. “Looks like it's healing alright,” she told him as she peeled away the old bandage. Talking helped. Distracted her from whatever it was she felt when she was so close to him. Fear. Anxiety. Some unpleasant emotion to do with wanting to get away from him at the same time she felt something else. A pull. Like gravity.

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She could smell him. It was always bad, someone being close enough you could smell him. His sweat. His breath. The soap he used. As she worked, in her peripheral vision she saw him gazing up at her and the feeling got worse. Heavier. “You've done this before,” he said. “Tended the wounded.” She met his look, then turned back to taping the sterilized scrap of cloth to his skin and pushed images of old battles out of her mind. When she'd gotten him taped up she retreated into the still, quiet womb of the basement, taking a thick stump of candle, finding her way with its weak, stuttering light. There, in that cool silence, the anxiety that had coiled round and round her while tending Artel slipped loose and fell away. Now she could breathe. Think. Instinct assured her, no one could surprise her down there. Artel or anyone else. Every step above, she'd hear long before they reached the stairs. And already, she'd memorized every inch of the space down there in the soft, safe dark. Every shadowy nook where she could hide and wait, her candle snuffed out, and cut down the hunter before he could even scream. She went to work. Laid out the seven sidearms she'd gotten off the guards she'd killed. All semiautomatic pistols. One by one she disassembled, inspected, and cleaned them before getting each one fully loaded, checking their action. Two, she holstered on, their weight and bulk comforting. The rest she wrapped up in a satchel with the extra ammo and hid in a cubby by the door at the top landing where she could grab it quick if they were ambushed. If it came to that, maybe she'd give one to Artel. **** “Gareth.”

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This other name still felt strange to her mouth. He looked up from his book. Strange, how his eyes had seemed so blank to her, before. Now they seemed faceted and changeable. Like two glimpses of a dark sea, reflecting the clouds rolling above and hinting at life teeming below the surface. “In a few days, when you're stronger, I'll be leaving.” The crystal gray of his eyes seemed to fog. “Alright.” After a moment he turned away from her, back to his book. But as she ate, after a while she felt his look was on her again. “Going back to—I don't know what you call it—the resistance.” She weighed his look. Their history. “Yes.” He left it at that until later that night. “Your resistance. There are men.” “No.” “I've heard stories. Men caught with resisting women.” So had she. And the rumors of men posing as collaborators so they could learn where the women were hiding, their tactics, identify the leaders so the underlings could be rehabbed. “Not in the cells I've worked with.” “Led, you mean.” Her blood pumped for a fight. “Your brand,” he said in his softest voice.

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Her scarlet letter. “I work alone, these days.” He looked like he didn't believe her, but he just nodded and dropped it. But his look, his questions left their mark on her. Like an imprint in the shape of a hand after someone lets you out of his grip. His look, something in his voice gave her that feeling, like he was after her for something. The cold knotting her veins snapped, and her whole body went hot. But she kept still. Hid it all. The scream, then the laugh clawing its way up her throat died there, silent. So, that was it. Why he hadn't fucked her, back in his quarters, when she'd been next to helpless. Why he'd helped her escape. Why he'd made his weird little confessions. To win her trust. So she'd bring him inside. That was worth a couple lives— the pugilist, and that first one. Two men counted for nothing against the damage her group had done. All those women. Maybe the others had been some kind of mistake. Maybe they hadn't known who he was. His mission. Once she'd reigned in the urge to spring, to accuse, to annihilate, those strangling coils of anxiety finally, really slipped away. She could breathe. Her heart felt strong, steady in her chest. It was not knowing that had been so unsettling. Now that she knew, he didn't scare her anymore. His strangeness made sense, now. He was just another enemy. So it would be easy. It even soothed her when, the next day, he was on it again. “I've been thinking.” Then, when he knew he had her attention, “A pair, like us. We could work a town.”

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“What do you mean?” “We could go in, like we're relocating. From wherever. Make a study. Do some damage. Liberate a few women.” “You and me?” “Yes.” “No.” “You don't trust me” “I told you. I work alone, now.” “You don't trust me.” Sometimes honesty was a good weapon. “No. I don't trust you. Not enough for that.” “I'll earn your trust, if you let me.” “I thought you didn't want to be a fighter anymore. Gareth.” “I don't want to be just a fighter. Here, in this place, with you, I'd like to just be a man. At home.” He went quiet, then after a while: “It's alien to you. Wanting that.” He waited for a while, but she had nothing to say to that. “But,” he said, “even though I like it here, like this, I couldn't stay. Doing nothing.” “About what?” she had to ask. “What goes on. What they do to the women.” “They?” “We.” “What do you care about that?” “It's wrong.”

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She laughed. “I must sound naïve.” Fuck, he was good at this. So earnest, never mind the stoic face, the cynical gaze. “But I know I'm right. You're right.” As if his games gave him the right to put himself on her team. “The way I feel in the world, every town I've ever lived in, passed through, like I'm an alien in the wrong environment, breathing, drinking, eating poison. Reading books from before, that's the only time things seem kind of right. And being here. With you.”

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CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Even though she was sure she'd figured him out, that he was her enemy, she couldn't leave him, too hurt to look after himself, after what he'd done for her. She cursed whatever weakness made her feel some pang of loyalty, but she stayed. But when it had been four nights and three days and no blood in piss or shit, and nothing coughed up, she let Artel up from his sick bed to have his meal at the table. Seeing him sit up, eating with a hearty appetite drained off some of the anxiety that had been swelling inside her, making her sore and tight. He was well enough to look after himself. She could go. When Artel had been asleep for more than an hour, she slipped out into the black night, thankful for the violent wind lashing the maple branches against the house, camouflaging the scrape of her boots on the roof, the thump of her drop to the ground below. Thankful, but anxious, too; the thrashing leaves, the bang of the old aluminum screen flapping in its casing would trick her, too. Hide the approach of danger. She crept around the side of the house and slid her pack from beneath the porch step where she'd hidden it after dinner, and ran into the inky dark, blind to everything more than two or three feet ahead, but used to this, sensing what was ahead and behind by the feel of the terrain under her boots, the rough caress of branches and leaves on her face and arms. Moving quickly but conserving energy, settling into a pace she could keep for an hour or more before slowing to a brisk march. Now and then she stopped. She'd go still and listen for footsteps under the howl of the wind and the groan of the bending, swaying trees, look behind her for the glow of

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a lantern, the flicker of a candle, or the slanting sword of cold white light the old mechanical torches threw, when someone could scavenge up the batteries. Each time, the embrace of perfect darkness assured her she could keep going. After an hour, she cut over toward the road, keeping to the ditch that ran alongside. Her thoughts abandoned Artel, and shifted to the patrols that crisscrossed between towns, hunting runaways. Now, instead of a warning snap of a branch, or the stomp of a man's boots closing in, she turned her ear for the clatter of hooves on the pavement. When the black sky diluted to a thick, heavy blue, she crept away from the road and nestled into a cradle of tall grass among some young birches to sleep where she would be hidden, but still able to hear and see anything passing along the road. As the sun's reds and oranges swam over the edge of the world and licked her closed lids, burning through those thin veils of skin, into her memory, her sleep was stained red. The thick, warm red of spilled and emptied life. Her soul went to sleep in the quiet, watchful corpse of a young blond girl, bleeder, breeder, and through dead, blue eyes she floated out, into her rapist, felt his loss, his rage, his sickened terror. But before and after that, always, she was the one with the knife. The clean knife, cold and hard and heavy. The hot, heavy knife, hidden in its sheath of viscous red, thick as gravy. **** Under a high, white sun she crept alongside the road, a lingering scar on the belly of that healed, wild country, and before the night swallowed her, she'd reached the enclave. First, though, she went in the false door, the one that took her into the wrong building. If she'd been tracked, they'd ambush her there, alone, and the others would be

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safe. But no one came. So, in the dark night, hardly able to see her own hand against the sky, except that stars blinked on and off behind it, she entered the base. Gave her signal. A white beam lanced the pitch dark and held her, blind, in its circle while the guard approached. A woman she didn't recognize led her on. “Nix!” Char breathed as if she were invoking the name of a ghost, and crept up slowly, trying to read in her eyes what they'd done to her. Then she put her arms around her. Nix found the strength to embrace her briefly before backing out of her arms. Nix hugged herself, rubbing at the nauseating tingle lingering where Char had touched her. “Sorry,” Char said. “No. It's alright. I'm alright.” “You got out,” Char said, her voice exuberant, now. People were gathering around. Familiar faces. A few new ones. Nix made herself smile. Her coming back, it was good for morale. Important. The ones she knew smiled back, even if their eyes were full of fear and hurt. Her being there, her smile only showed they hadn't killed her. They all had a fair idea what she'd been through. So no one would ask. The only question, asked by a dark-haired girl Nix didn't know, when they'd all sat down to eat, was, “How'd you get away?” “One of the Guard. He snuck me out.” It wasn't unheard of. Now and then, one of them did the unfathomable. Betrayed his kind to help a woman. Usually for sex. They seemed to think it would be different, sex given in gratitude. Maybe it was, sometimes. “Where's he then?” Char asked.

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“Ditched him about forty miles back.” No one asked if she was sure. Not even the new ones. Her rep was solid. “So,” Nix steered things away from her and the last few days, “what's on the menu?” Jan leaned forward. “Day after tomorrow. The orphanage. They've got transactions scheduled.” “How many?” “Five. And one of them bleeds.” **** Five were dressed in the simple, draping gowns of white traditionally worn by women in that town, on the day their virginity would be taken. Only one of the five knew this. She had lived ”off the books,” as they said in that region of the country, among resistance women until she was eleven. Then her cell had been infiltrated, and she'd been wrenched from her mother's arms and taken to the orphanage. All the years since, Andrea kept the truth of the world outside the walls of the institution a secret from the other girls. Let them have their peace. When they came of age, they'd lose it forever. Even the ”lucky” ones. The bleeders. As soon as they were robed, Amy was taken off on her own, nervous, but more excited than scared, and Andrea felt sorry for her. Andrea thought of her mom and figured that, really, Amy had it the worst of all of them. Even if her first wasn't so bad, as soon as she'd had her baby, she'd see. Old Miss Mary herded Andrea and the other three downstairs, into a dark and polished chamber furnished differently than any of the rooms the girls were normally

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allowed to enter, with upholstered chairs and sofas, colorful drapes, and wooden tables with gleaming surfaces and ornate legs. “Be still and quiet, now, until we're summoned,” Miss Mary ordered in a hushed voice. All the times she'd thought of this day, Andrea had imagined how she'd be brave. Not scared. It was just her body they'd own and use. Her self, her soul, would always be hers. But waiting in that somber room, it was hard to believe in the distinction. The thought of some strange person, a man with a rough face and rough hands, licking and touching and lying on top of her twisted her insides in a knot. The waiting, there in that foreign room filled with all their nervous uncertainty, her hands were ice cold and damp. She felt a little dizzy. A heavy knock on a door by the window rattled her body under that heavy white gown. “Keep quiet now, girls, and do just as you're told,” Miss Mary admonished for the hundredth time, and led them through the door. **** Keeping her ears tuned on every little sound around her—Char's nervous breathing, the faint crunch of gravel under boots whenever one of them shifted their weight where they squatted—Nix checked her watch again. Why was Anna so late? By now, they'd probably started. Nix stared at the kitchen door, willing it to open, and tried to push away the images of the scene inside. ****

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Silent except for the rustling of the white cloth draped around them, the four followed Miss Mary into the adjacent room. Then there was a small sound, like the sucking of air from a room just before the wind slams a door shut. The sound of four women catching their breath. Andrea fought to keep her gait even, to do as Miss Mary was directing, but the stares of all those men, it was like a wave rushing at her, pushing her over, sweeping her feet out from under her. It must have been worse for the others. At least Andrea had seen men before. As the four took their places, lining up along a wall papered in russet hyacinths on a yellow background, Andrea counted them. Eleven. Like she remembered from before the orphanage. All of them bigger than the largest of the girls or their watchers. Taller, wider, older, rougher. Would they do it right here? With Miss Mary watching? Would it be all of them at once? Or would three girls watch what they did to the first, each knowing her turn was coming? Andrea glanced over at the others, and regretted her silence. The last few days of peace weren't so precious they were worth the shock, the terror they'd endure, now. She should have told them. Should have coached them, the way her mom and the others had coached her. Just a body. Just a body. Just a body. “Let's start.” Andrea followed the strange bass voice to the man sitting at the center of the semi-circle of chairs. Blue eyes. White hair. Older, smaller than the others.

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“Tamara.” Miss Mary took the first girl's arm and led her before the crescent of men, their eyes following her, locking on her as Miss Mary let go of her arm and retreated to the wall, beside the other three. From there she instructed, “Tamara. Remove your gown.” Again there was that soft, quiet sound of air pulled from the room. Tamara stood there, her arms at her sides, fingers twitching to clutch at the white cloth or ball into fists or cross over her torso. They hadn't been trained to undress before strangers, but they'd been conditioned, ruthlessly, to do as they were told. Always. But she seemed frozen there, except for those twitching fingers, and her chest, heaving up and down under the folds of her gown. “Tamara.” If they hadn't been in the presence of the men, she wouldn't have gotten that warning. Andrea breathed, “I'll go first.” “Shhh!” Miss Mary hissed back. Tamara seemed to fix her gaze on the gold tassel at the end of a braided cord adorning one of the curtains behind the men staring at her. Her hands shaking, she undid the clasp behind her neck, and her gown fell to the floor, leaving her pale form naked to the eleven men. She brought her arms back down to her sides to stand as she'd been taught, except that her hands were balled in two tight fists. The men's eyes scanned over her body. In her stern, quiet voice Miss Mary commanded, “Turn around.”

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Keeping her light gray eyes fixed on the wall across from her, after a moment of hesitation Tamara pivoted slowly around, giving the men a chance to examine her from every angle. When she was back to facing that gold tassel, Miss Mary told her to pick up her gown and return to her place by the wall. Some of the men started writing on white, rectangular cards. “Go on,” the watcher said to Andrea when Tamara had rejoined the others. Trying to look calm, to keep her hands still and her gait steady, Andrea stepped before the men. All of them were looking at her, some studying her face, some already appraising her body through the folds of her gown. None of them seemed to actually see her. Except one. One, three over from the left, with dark hair flecked with gray that matched his dark gray irises. He met her eyes. Miss Mary's voice. “Your gown.” Facing those eager, unseeing eyes, focusing on taking deep, even breaths, Andrea kept her hands steady as she unclasped her robe and bared herself to the men. Even as she turned, she kept her eyes on them as long as she could, daring them to really face her. Then she picked up her gown and returned to the others. “Jessica.” Even though nothing so awful had happened to Tamara or Andrea, Jessica just stood there, shaking, ashen, like she was deaf or paralyzed. Andrea touched her wrist, and she shuddered, then moved forward, so unsteady Andrea wondered if she'd fall down. When Miss Mary gave the order, Jessica touched the clasp at the back of her neck, then froze, tears rising in her eyes, spilling down her cheeks. “Don't embarrass us, Jessica,” Miss Mary threatened.

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God, Andrea wanted to punch that old bitch in the face and tell her to shut the fuck up. Jessica let out a shuddery, wet sob and crumpled down to the floor, hugging herself as if to cling to the gown she expected would be torn off her any moment. Miss Mary lunged forward, her switch already raised. Andrea braced herself for the crack of the lash and Jessica's scream. But there was a bang. The thick wooden door flung open, and struck the wall behind. Watchers and girls poured in, pointing guns and barking orders. Only they weren't watchers and girls. They were strangers, dressed in their clothes. “You! Men! On the floor! Face down!” A tawny hand pushed back the red hood as the woman's black eyes swept over the room. She caught Miss Mary's arm and hurled her toward the men, then placed herself like a wall in front of Andrea and the others. “You, too. On the floor.” Andrea choked on a breath as the man with the gray eyes and salt-and-pepper hair pulled a gun from under a sofa cushion. One by one he took aim at the men who had not dropped to their knees, and fired. Andrea remembered what gunshots sounded like. But this was quiet. And there were no screams. No blood. After a few seconds, though, the men who'd been shot fell to their knees, sank onto their hands, and finally collapsed. And then he shot Miss Mary, and her sharp eyes dimmed and closed. “Char, get this one over to the others,” the black-haired, black-eyed stranger called to a younger woman wearing the simple black dress the girls usually wore. Char caught Jessica by the arm and dragged her to the others. “All of you. Get out of those robes, and put these on.”

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She unfastened and upended a pack, and shook out a pile of dark clothes. Shirts and pants. Socks and shoes. When she'd dressed, Andrea helped the others with the unfamiliar garments, looking up every few seconds to watch what was happening. Four of the eleven men were still standing; the man with gray eyes, and three others. She waited for more shouting, for the loud bang of gunfire, but then she understood; those four men were with the women. “Who's our hostage?” The black-eyed woman asked. “This one.” The man with gray eyes pointed his gun at the white-haired man who'd sat at the center of the semi-circle. “Nice of him to be so small. Give the others a triple dose.” “If I do, they'll—“ “Any reason I should feel bad about that?” The black-eyed woman asked. “No. No, they're all in the game.” “Go on, then.” Some of the men on the floor were crying, shouting, “No. Don't. Please.” Saying things about money. The man with gray eyes fired his quiet gun at each of them. Now that they were all still, Andrea could see three little red tags protruding from their clothing. The black-eyed woman checked her watch. Andrea had seen those before, too. “Nix? Where's Jan?” Char asked. “Just brief them. She'll be here.”

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Char told Andrea and the others, “We're going to get you out of here. As soon as the others come, we'll leave by the kitchen. We've got horses out back...” Andrea watched Nix, how her eyes kept sweeping the room, the man with gray eyes keeping watch over the hostage, the rest of the men and women, guns in their hands, peering between barely-parted curtains, watching the grounds. “I want to stay here,” Jessica mumbled through tears. “Why? So they can auction you off to the next pack of slavers?” Nix asked. There was a round of knocks, a staccato pattern, and the door flung open again. Now, a sea of women and girls flooded into the room. “Jan? What is this?” “We've got to take them, Nix.” “They're too many. We can't take the young ones. You know that.” “We can't just leave them here. We may never get another chance like this. You know what'll happen to them.” Nix, to the tide of girls churning by the door, “Who here is thirteen or older?” Four raised their hands. “Twelve?” Two more raised their hands. “You six, wait over there with Char,” Nix said, pointing. Then, to Jan, “That's all we can take. We don't have enough horses to take more.” “The men can each ride with one of the bigger girls. The horses can take a woman and two of the smaller girls.” “It'll slow us down. We risk losing everyone, like that.”

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“Come on, Nix. With the ones who are of age gone, they'll bend the rules. You know what'll happen to the others. What do they care if they're only eleven or ten?” “They wouldn't risk it. Not knowing if they're breeders. They're safe, for now. The others aren't.” “You're a heartless bitch.” “You don't mean that, Jan. You know I'm just trying to keep everyone safe.” “I can ride,” Andrea piped up. “If it helps, I can take two of the younger ones.” Nix turned. Looked her over. “You're a wiry little thing. What do you weigh?” “Barely a hundred pounds.” “You can really ride?” “Yes.” Nix sighed. “Alright. Two more.” Only one child was eleven. Three were ten. Nix chose the tallest. The likely one for being passed off, illegally, as soon as she could pass for a woman. “Okay, that's it. The rest of you, you have to stay here. People are going to come. Men. Looking for us. They're going to ask questions. They're going to be mad. Don't be scared. They won't dare to hurt you. Just tell everything, just like it happened, and everything will be okay. Just one lie: Miss Anna was asleep in the hallway by the dining hall, the whole time. Just like Miss Mary and these men are, here. If you weren't in that room, if you wouldn't have seen her, you don't know anything about Miss Anna. Alright?” A dozen small voices echoed back, “Alright.” “You four, you were given traveling cloaks for this afternoon?” Andrea told her they had been, and Nix had her run and fetch them.

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“Put these on. Keep them closed, so The Guard don't see what you're wearing underneath.” When Nix gestured, the four men who'd watched Andrea and Tamara disrobe, then shot the other seven, came over. To the girls, Nix said, “You're going to leave with these men, in pairs, just as if they'd bought you. But they're your friends. They won't hurt you. They may have to say some ugly things to the guard, but it's just a trick. Don't let it scare you. Alright?” The four nodded. Except for Jessica, the one who wanted to stay. “They know the plan. How to get you to where it's safe. So listen, and do what they tell you.” While Nix talked, four of the resistance women were putting on the red, hooded robes of the watchers, drawing the crones' cloaks close around their young faces. “You,” Nix said, “the one who can ride. Can you shoot?” “Yes.” “Yeah? What are you used to?” “Small arms. Pistols. Revolvers.” “What's your name?” “Andrea.” Nix leaned in close, asked in a confidential hush, “Ever killed anyone, Andrea?” “I'm not sure. I fired. I hit a couple. I hope they died.” “Here, then. You take this. You know how the safety works?” “Yes.” “Keep it well hidden until you're outside the gates. Then keep it ready.”

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In threes, twelve went out, each group—a man, a cloaked girl, and a counterfeit crone—waiting several minutes before they followed the one before. Each group was met at their carriage by a pair of guards with the dubious duty of ensuring no orphan girls left the facility without authorization, despite being forbidden from looking directly at the virgins in their ceremonial cloaks. To scrutinize the face in the shadows of the red crone's hood would be to invite suspicion of lasciviously ogling the youth by her side, so the guards had long since adopted the habit of obsequiously holding the gaze of the girl's new owner, content in the knowledge that their rank ensured them the privilege of being among the first to plunder the riches of the young woman, even if they could never afford to be the very first. To strip the ceremonial robe from those smooth, trembling shoulders. As each trio mounted their carriage, the man locking the virgin and the crone inside the windowless cab before taking the reins, they made their way to the end of the drive, where a quartet of guards swung open the high iron gate. Four carriages rolled over the gravel drive, and turned their teams toward town. But the first rig seemed to have a loose wheel, and the three behind were obliged to halt behind it. One by one the men hopped down and came to the aid of the man with the first carriage, taking turns inspecting the faulty wheel. High and long, a whistle sounded from inside the gate. On cue, the four men by the faulty wheel drew their pistols and shot their darts into the four men guarding the gate. The guards had time to draw their weapons, but were already sagging toward the ground, vision and muscle control gone, before a shot could be fired.

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Locked inside the carriage, Andrea waited in the dark, heard the whistle, listened to the scuffle of boots on gravel. Then the heavy thrum of hoof-beats. Images of The Guard descending on them gnawed at her courage. Her caught breath swelled in her chest, burning her lungs, at the sound of a key scratching at the lock in the carriage door. Light slashed at her eyes. Squinting, she let the man with gray eyes lift her down. Char hopped down behind her. Hopeful chaos. Resistance women galloping through the gates, girls in black shifts clinging to their waists. Men and red-cloaked women unharnessing the steeds from the carriages. Two red-cloaked women holding the silver-haired hostage, limp, between them. “Andrea!” A huge, black-muzzled, roan stallion trotted forward, and Nix said, “Get that cloak off.” Then she bent from her mount and offered her arm. “You ride forward.” Nix hoisted Andrea to the front of the saddle. Maggie, the smallest of the escapees, was wedged between them. “Got your gun where you can reach it?” “Yes.” Nix held their restive steed back as the others, mounted up, charged off the road and across the adjacent field, toward the woods. When they'd gained a lead of a few hundred yards, Nix gave a kick, and the horse surged forward. “Andrea. Take the reigns.” Her fear, her hope, the weight of the smooth leather in her hands, the power of the animal bearing them forward gave Andrea a sense of life she'd almost forgotten. Feeling their stallion respond to her heel, to the touch of the reigns primed her with a feeling of strength. Power.

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“Keep him back a bit. Let the others get ahead. That's it. When it's time, he'll close the gap,” Nix coached as they bounded through a blur of high, yellow grass. A sound. And echo of the pounding of their own mount's hooves. “Don't look back,” Nix ordered. “Keep your eyes on our group. On the terrain.” Andrea fought her urge to spur the horse on, to flee at top speed the thunder chasing them down, closing in on them. “When I say so, let him fly. Fast as he can. And no matter what, don't slow down. Don't look back. Promise me.” Andrea nodded her head. “Okay. Now. Fly home!” Andrea let out the reins. She didn't even have to kick. Their stallion flew into the wind, closing in on the other horses and riders, pulling away from the thunder behind them. “Fly home!” Nix cried. “Say it with me. Fly home!” “Fly home! Fly home! Fly home!” they chanted together, the three of them. There was a gasp, little Maggie sucking in her breath, then a pitch, a shift in the haunches of their steed. Then they were flying faster, faster, as if the big roan's hooves didn't even touch the earth, faster, faster, and there were only two voices, “Fly home! Fly home! Fly home!” **** Her body slammed down on rocks and hard earth. Bruised bones. Cut skin. Not the graceful landing she'd hoped for. Nix lay still in the tall grass. They'd seen her fall. The first would come right to her.

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Closer. Closer. Hooves drumming the hard ground, their beats thrumming through her body. Closer. Closer. Then slower. Black hooves, white fetlocks. Stirrups and boots. One of those boots kicked her rather gently in the thigh. She groaned. He laughed. “Heh. Not one of them fresh young virgins. All the better for me. No penalty for tapping into the rebel well.” Hands slithered over her pockets, and for good measure, over her breasts and crotch, just in case she had weapons stashed in those hills and valleys. Finding her unarmed, helpless, he laughed again, scooped her up, and threw her over his saddle. By the time he'd mounted, his comrades were catching up. “What're you slowing down for?” Nix's captor hollered, “This one isn't what we're after. Get after them girls!” Three horsemen went galloping past, and the guard who'd caught her slapped her ass, laughed and said, “I'm going to have a real good time, getting you to tell me where your friends are taking those girls.” It must have been a surprise, and a cruel disappointment when, as he brought his horse around and dug his heels in to drive it toward town, Nix snatched his gun from his holster, flicked back the safety, touched the muzzle to the man's chest, and pulled the trigger. She was disappointed, too. The dying man had clutched her hair, and dragged her with him, back to the rough, hard ground. By the time she got to her feet, the three who'd charged on for the girls and their rescuers had been brought around by the sound of gunfire, and she could see them, hear their voices, even if she couldn't glean the

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words. Probably deciding: punish her, or keep on after the others, getting further off, deeper in the woods with each second, harder and harder to catch. She was a sure thing. And from behind, more guards on horseback. Hiding the gun, she waited. Hooves scuffled to a halt. Boots hit the earth. And as two others galloped by, intent, still, on the girls in the woods, her guard tore her shirt from her shoulders. Then he fired. Into the air. Thundering hoof-beats fell silent. He yelled, “Subvert!” From ahead and behind, all five guards converged as she spun, finger on the trigger. He caught her wrist, wrenched the gun from her hand, threw it to the ground behind him. Smiled. Artel.

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CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Motherfucking bastard. He'd followed her. Tracked her to the resistance base. Artel laughed. The way he'd laughed with Dorset. “I guess your instincts were right. Not trusting me.” All of those girls. And her comrades. She'd doomed them all. “No,” he teased, “don't do that. Get all crushed. It takes all the pleasure out of this, if you go all soft on me. I want you hard. Full of hate. Like that first day, when I picked you up off my bathroom floor.” The five guards were off their horses, now, circling her like wolves around wounded prey. “I know this one,” Artel told them. “Been tracking this little bitch for days, from four towns over.” “Guess we can use our discretion, working out how to get it out of her, where the others have gone,” one of the guards joked with Artel. “We don't need her, for that. I know where the base is.” “What? You just let them pull that job today?” “Good training, if you ask me. You see how fucking sloppy things are getting? Don't worry. We'll have those girls safely tucked into bed before night falls,” Artel growled, watching Nix's eyes. Then, under his breath, just to her, “There it is. That murderous hate. Much better.” To the others he said, “No reason we can't enjoy ourselves a bit, before we get back to business, eh?”

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He pulled his pistol from its holster, racked the slide, and touched the muzzle to her lips. The sadist. “It's been a few days, hasn't it? I'll let you practice on this, so you can get the kinks out.” Grabbing a fistful of her hair, he worked the barrel between her lips, between her teeth, and the cold, hard barrel slid over her tongue, smooth and tasting of metal. She'd never been scared they'd kill her. Women were so, so rare, it was hard for them, destroying what could be fucked. Artel, though. He really might. Even through the choking, chilling terror, she willed him to pull the trigger. Fucking her mouth with the gun, Artel slid the smooth, metal barrel forward and back over her tongue, between her lips. “That's enough practice.” Strange. He wasn't smiling. Or hard. His grey eyes locked on hers. “Are you ready for the real thing?” He pulled the gun from between her lips, and shoved her to the ground, facedown in the tall grass. Shot after shot after shot. Nix crawled through the grass, looking, feeling for the gun he had pried from her hand and tossed away. When her fingers brushed over a cool, squared cylinder, she snatched the pistol, rolled onto her side and sought a target. Through the screen of swaying yellow blades she took aim and caught one in the forehead. The next was moving around too much. She aimed for his chest. He went down a little soon. Maybe

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Artel had gotten him first. Now the only man still standing was Artel. When she pointed her gun at him, he lowered his firearm, and waited. She scanned the horizon, three-sixty. No sign of anyone coming. “If you're not going to shoot me, we should go,” he said. He'd forced his gun into her mouth. Tricked them. Killed them. Tracked her. Saved her. Discovered the others. Helped them. The urge, the want was still there. Squeeze the trigger. Be sure he couldn't take her in. Expose the others. He offered his hand. When she tried to stand, pain tore through her knee, so she took his arm, let him hoist her to her feet. “Are you alright?” he asked. Then, when she didn't answer, he asked, “Can you ride?” Her right leg wouldn't take her weight. “Yeah. But I can't walk.” The horses, startled by the gunfire, had shied off, but hadn't gone far. Artel holstered his gun and started toward the sturdiest-looking, rather than the nearest steed. She let him help her into the saddle, then watched Artel pick his mount and canter toward her. “You going to them? Back to the base?” he asked her. “You really know where it is?” “The low gray building two miles southwest of town. You went in by the cellar door on the east side of the structure.”

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How could she have gotten so sloppy? If his intentions had been different, the girls would be going through another auction tomorrow, and the others would be getting branded, and worse, and it would have been her fault. “I can't go there. I'm too much of a liability, like this. They'll have it hard enough without having to take care of me if something goes down.” “I know a place, maybe seven miles off. I think we'd be safe there.” “Another picturesque farm?” “No. More of a haunted house. A wreck of a hotel just off the old highway. That, plus a gas station, a restaurant and a market were probably a pit stop between towns, once. But from the look of things, it was a ghost town long before the dying.” Still no sign of movement from the direction of the town and the orphanage. But time was short. She could worry about what he was up to, what he wanted, later. She said, “If we lead the rest of the horses, we can create a false trail. Get whoever comes next off their scent. Or at least split up the search.” Leading the five riderless horses, they delved into the woods, then cut east. Every shift of her mount beneath her sent a surge of burning pain through her knee. When she put any weight into the stirrup, it felt like something was sawing through her tendons. Twice, her vision had blanked, and she'd almost lost consciousness. When her horse halted, it took her a moment to realize Artel had the reins. “You can't ride like that. You're going to fall off, and cripple the rest of you. If you don't crack your skull.”

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He dropped down from his black beauty and pulled a length of rope from the saddlebag and looped it through bridle after bridle, until the horses were linked in a single, long chain, the gleaming black at the lead. Artel came close. Gently slipped the stirrup from her useless foot. Holding her gaze he planted his own foot in her stirrup. Did he know that look? That particular stiffening of the body that meant resignation? It felt like this. Giving in to them, when there was no choice. He swung up behind her. “Okay?” he asked. All along her back she could feel him. In her gut, that familiar knot, pulling at her insides. Making her nauseous. “Okay.” Artel guided their mount alongside the black mare, leaned out and got hold of her reins. “Just to keep you from falling,” he said, then hooked his forearm around her middle. “Alright?” So he wouldn't hear her voice hitch, she just nodded. She felt the flex of his body against hers as he gave the horse a kick. She could hear his breathing, feel it in her hair. Feel the flex and sway of his body against hers as he kept them balanced. But, even at a gallop, the pain was less, now that she wasn't using her injured leg to sit her mount. She held her hurt arm against her belly, reluctantly letting it rest atop Artel's forearm, and easily managed the reigns with her good arm while he kept control of the other horses. They traveled until there was only the dim, flat

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blue of twilight illuminating their surroundings. When they'd stripped the horses of bits and saddles and set them loose, she made her familiar bargain with herself and let Artel carry her the final few hundred yards through the wilderness that had crept from the woods, inch by inch, month by month, year after year, finally swallowing up the four buildings at the edge of the narrow highway where, long ago, before the silent war had stopped the machines and killed the people, men and women and families had driven past in fuel-powered cars, or stopped along their way to somewhere, and bought a tank of gas, or stayed for half an hour to eat a hot meal. Families. It was almost a lost word. “It can be locked from the inside,” Artel told her as he swung her near so she could lift the rusty iron latch, then carried her over the threshold and set her down at the bottom of a wide staircase, just visible in the last faint bit of fading light. She could hear him shuck off his pack, root around inside. The flare of a match lit his fingers and his face as he touched the flame to a wick. Handing her the lit candle, he said, “You have a bad habit, don't you? Sacrificing yourself to let others get away. Just how many lives do you think you have?” He lit a second candle and made a survey of the ground floor. More dust and spiders than furniture. But the doors were solid, the windows intact. Best of all, he told her, even from the road, the little row of buildings was almost impossible to discern among the overgrowth of trees and shrubs. He climbed past her to check out the upstairs, and returned saying it was all clear. “I should take a look at your leg.” “It's sprained. I should lie down. Elevate it.”

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“Let me get you upstairs. To a bed.” “It's better if I stay down here. Better chance of getting out, if they come.” “Alright. I'll bring a mattress down for you.” When he'd made up a bed, Nix let him carry her over and lay her down. Her way of testing herself. Like holding her hand too close to a candle's flame. “We should get this off,” he said, touching her boot. “Alright?” When she'd unlaced, she let him pry the boot from her foot, holding her calf stable so her knee was hardly strained. A stack of pillows served to elevate the swollen leg. “I'll see about a compress,” he said. In the dark, she could hear his steps reverberating through the empty building, see the yellow light from his candle flutter over ceiling and walls, raising and banishing hordes of shadows, stretching up walls and windows, shrinking away into dark corners. A door opened and closed, and his boots clomped around the perimeter, back to the door. “Found a tub almost full of rain water out there.” A clatter of metal in the kitchen. The door. The clomping. The door. Artel appeared at her bedside, a fancy silver bowl filled with water, a sheet, and scissors. “One thing we're not lacking is linen. The stuff in the closet isn't even that dusty.” He snipped the edge twice, then tore two strips off the sheet, and submerged them in the water. Then he went still.

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After a long pause he said, “You should take your pants off. So they don't get wet. I'll go upstairs and get you a sheet to cover up with.” She laughed, anger, hate coiling around and around in her belly. “Why? Do you think I'm shy?” “I don't know.” Swallowing her futile rage, she said in an even voice, “Get my other boot off.” This time she let him unlace it. He pulled the second off as gently as if that knee were sprained, too. She unbuttoned, unzipped. Then looked at him, and lifted her hips from the mattress, careful not to put any pressure on the injured knee or wrist. Artel leaned in and slid her pants off her hips, down her thighs. Then, raising the unhurt leg first, then the injured one, he worked her pants the rest of the way off. He kept his eyes fixed on her swollen knee, mottled gray and green in the candle's light, avoiding the sight of her bare thighs and the thin gray fabric covering her sex. She fought the urge to laugh at his embarrassment. Then another surge of bitter anger flooded through her. With the ruined sheet folded under her leg to absorb the excess water, he wrapped her knee in the soaked bandage while she watched. Then he did her wrist. “I'm sorry about the gun,” he said, his rough voice at its softest. “It gave you the advantage. They're all dead. And we're here.” “Yeah.” “So. Thank you.” “You're welcome.” “Artel. Gareth.” He fixed his gray eyes on her.

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“There are women, resistance women, even virgins like the ones we freed today, who would offer themselves to you now. As payment. Or just from gratitude. But I won't.” “Alright.” She smiled, and even she didn't know if it was because she was relieved, or mocking him. “That's not why I did that, today. That's not what I'm here for,” he said. “What are you here for?” “What else would I do with this life?” It angered her, somehow, his answer. It was her answer. “And,” he said, “I'll risk sounding naïve, risk another one of your amused smiles, and tell you: I don't even want that. You fucking me, for payment, for gratitude.” “No?” “That's no different than the rest. Is it? If I want someone to fuck me because they owe me, I can get that at the sex hotel.” She couldn't help it. Her mouth curved. One of her amused smiles. “Am I the only one?” he asked. “I was right, before. You had men with you, today. What do they get for their troubles?” “Today wasn't my plan. I just went to help out. I don't know those men.” “But you trusted them enough to put those girls in their care.” “No. I trust—“ She'd almost said a name. “Someone else that much.” His voice quiet again, the challenge gone he asked her, “Have you ever known, ever met even one good man?” She took her time. Honestly thought about it.

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“No.” **** Every half hour, all through the night, he came back to her, first to remove the compresses, let her skin breathe, then to wrap her knee and wrist again in the cold, water-soaked bandages. By morning, her wrist was almost back to its normal size. The knee, though, was still swollen and mottled purple, yellow, red and green, and so stiff she could barely bend it even an inch or two. She felt caged, knowing she was stuck there, probably for a week, maybe longer if she didn't want to wreck her knee forever. A sick, nervous feeling crept through her, like always, when she thought about what it would be like when she couldn't run, couldn't ride, couldn't fight anymore. In the morning, he came to her with a roll of toilet paper—another article of which there was a welcomed abundance at that long-deserted outpost—and she let him pick her up and carry her outside. He set her on her good leg by a big tree a good hundred yards from the building, and wandered off to give her privacy. When he'd carried her back inside and helped her to get settled in an upholstered armchair he'd taken outside, earlier, and swept clean of years of dust, she said, “You've risked a lot, helping me.” He looked up from the strip of soaked cloth he was winding around her knee and gave her a small smile. “You know what they'll do to you, if they catch you with me like this?” “I think so.” “You know what to tell them, so it goes easier for you.” “I don't care about that.”

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“You fucking will care when they're raping you half to death. Or cutting your balls off. You tell them you found me here like this. That you thought you'd have a little fun with me, before taking me in. They'll forgive that. That's just part of being in the club.” “I can't do that.” “You can.” “Really? When I say that, what happens?” “You know what happens.” “Tell me. So I know I understand.” “You host a little party.” “No.” “It's not a big deal. I'll live.” “Well. You're tougher than me.” “I've been through worse.” “I know you have.” He went quiet for a long time, avoiding her gaze while he finished the bandaging. Then he locked his gray eyes on hers. Not soft. A harsh quiet, that voice. Rough air. “I know why they were so cruel, that day, before they brought you to me.” While a sickening shudder went through her, she fought to keep herself blank and still. She willed him to go, to leave her alone. He looked away, and went. The hot pulsing of her knee under the cold bandage was something to focus on. The pain. She swiveled her hand, aggravating her wrist. Too practical to risk the knee.

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Even now, with that memory chewing at her, there was no urge to cry. Just a horrible dryness, like she'd been eviscerated and filled up with sand. Too much sand, so the dryness overfilled and stretched her. Pulled her skin tight. **** Carrying a beautiful, strangely-shaped object, Artel clomped down the stairs looking as odd as the thing he was holding. His smile, the way he bore the thing, like a treasure he wanted to hold near, the way he seemed strangely conscious of her noticing him and his prize, made Nix think of a child taking possession of a man's body. She waited for him to bring her the treasure and explain his perplexing exuberance, but he just grinned at her as he dashed by, and darted out the door. Through the window she could see him striding off, among the trees, out of sight. Ten or fifteen minutes later he emerged from the screen of trees. When he came inside and pulled a wooden chair up beside her, she saw that its surface, the part that reminded her vaguely of the shape of a woman's body, was glossy, a warm, tawny yellow. There was a long, straight handle with wires running down its length; that part was dark brown. “What is it?” Artel laughed. A different-sounding laugh than she'd heard from him before. “Are you serious? You've never seen one?” “No.” Smiling again like a child masked and costumed in the face and body of a man, he said, “It's a guitar.”

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He arranged the fingers of one hand on top of the wires near the end of the handle, then brushed the fingers of his other hand across the strings above the hole in the tawny, glossy wood, and sound, humming, vibrating sound poured out of that shadowy aperture. Then his fingers starting moving, the ones up the handle lifting and pressing and sliding up and down along its slender length, the others flicking over the wires in a blur, and a thousand notes swelled around her, twining around and around each other, filling the room with music. When his hands stilled and the vibration of the untouched strings ceased, the music faded to silence. She remembered that feeling. A feeling from childhood. Joy. “I took it outside to tune it, so it would be pretty when you first heard it. It still doesn't sound right. The strings are too old.” “How do you know how to do that?” “My dad taught me. You've never heard it before?” “Where I was raised, the orphanage, we had a piano.” “You played?” “Sort of. Not like that. That was...” She laughed for some reason. “Will you play it again?” He smiled, touched the wires, and different music came from under his fingertips. Slower, sadder music. “My fingers aren't used to playing, anymore,” he said, setting the guitar aside and rubbing his hands together. “It hurts; the strings dig into your skin, until you get calluses.”

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Her eyes traced over the gleaming surface, the intricate pattern of yellows and browns decorating the edge of that hole, the different thicknesses of the wires, the six spindles at the end of the handle, where those wires wound round and round. “Here,” he said, holding it out to her, “want to try?” It was so light. It had looked heavier. The thickest wires were rough when she ran her fingers up and down their length. But the tawny surface felt as smooth as it looked. When she tweaked one wire with her thumb, a note thrummed out and vibrated through the air while the wire blurred between its neighbors. “If you want, when your wrist is better I can teach you a song.” Later that night, and three or four times the next day he played for her. And every time, that smile widened and curved his mouth while his left hand squeezed the strings down on the neck and the fingers of his right hand plucked and strummed the strings. While he played, his right toe went up and down in a steady rhythm, noiseless when his boots were off, slow or fast, in rhythm with the song. “You really love music, I guess,” she said when he'd put the guitar back in its brown leather case. “Yeah. Well, I guess it reminds me of being a kid.” They were both quiet for a while. “I don't usually think about it,” he said after a few minutes. “I guess I was happy, then.” “With your dad.” “Yeah. It felt like such a small world. The two of us. We traveled around a lot, I remember, when I was little. But it still was just us most of the time, on the road, in

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whatever house or building, where we stayed the night or the week. It's strange to think back to those years. Things must have been like they are now. But my little world felt so...quiet. Safe, I guess.” **** It wasn't hard, learning the patterns, which strings to hold down over which fret, and which to strum. The hard part was turning her wrist and angling her fingers so she only held down the strings she wanted, while leaving the other strings untouched. But soon she had a whole, short song down pat. Over and over she played it, until there were no long gaps between the notes while she got her fingers into place, and all the notes flowed out, strong and even. “Does the song have a name?” For some reason, she hadn't thought to ask, before then. “Ode to Joy.” **** Her wrist was a hundred percent. The knee was taking longer, but at least she could get around the room. Get off her ass for a few minutes at a time. Off her back. Still, she forced herself to wait three more days before venturing outside for even a brief, cautious walk. However close the walls seemed to shrink in on her, how caged she felt, trapped in that dim series of adjoining rooms, how strange it was, spending every hour, day after day, in Artel's sight, she wouldn't risk delaying the return of her strength. Or worse, only healing halfway. Walking away from that place slower, weaker. Only when she could walk without a twinge of pain nipping at her knee did she make a tentative foray out. Even then, she forced herself to ask Artel to come, too, so

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that if she'd misjudged, he could carry her back, and she could avoid doing herself another injury. The first time, they just circled the old hotel, and she breathed in the fresh air and remembered how it felt to walk on ground that wasn't perfectly smooth and level, and to be surrounded by light. Later that day they circumnavigated the whole row of buildings, keeping behind the screen of foliage partitioning their hideaway from the road, even though they'd have heard horses coming in plenty of time. Each day, every morning and evening, they went a little further, sometimes along the road, sometimes into the woods, and even though she was confident of her limits, even though she'd thought one of the reasons she'd wanted so badly to get out was to get away from Artel, just for a little while, they always went together. Feeling her strength, trusting her independence, his presence didn't weigh on her, now, as it had. She liked their walks together. **** She'd let it happen. Even willed it, maybe. That unfamiliar, sweet heaviness low in her belly when he came near to look at the tiny blue egg flecked with browns and grays she'd plucked from the lifeless nest that had fallen from the elm and lay askew at their feet amidst serrated yellow leaves. The warmth of him, the faint feel of his breath playing over her skin, heating and vibrating her body. His smile that made her think, at that moment, of a child, because she hadn't seen a smile like that since she'd left the school. She'd thought it before it happened. She'd watched his eyes turn from the delicate, almost weightless egg cradled in her palm, toward her face. While he looked at her, his smile had changed. Then faded.

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Her heart thumped once, hard, then seemed to go still. Then Gareth had bent toward her and his lips had parted and then he'd stayed very still, just an inch away, and she'd known but she hadn't moved. Knowing, she'd just waited. And then, lighter than the weightless, lifeless thing in her hand, his lips had touched hers. They lingered for a second, then left her. It was bad. It hurt. This feeling—like melting—eroding everything. Her. “Nix?” His asphalt voice didn't like asking questions. Her jaw ached where her molars were crushing down on each other. “It wasn't a threat, Nix. It was just a question.” “I know.” “Then why are you crying?” Fuck that. She wasn't. If she didn't blink, no tear would touch her cheek. “All this time, Nix, I've never once seen you cry. Even that first day. How could you hold up through all that, everything they did to you, never once crying, until I . . . ” Another of his aborted questions. “You,” she started. Then stopped. His face was blurred, and there was no fucking way she'd give in. She bit down harder and pulled in her breath until the pain in her chest stole from the other pain. “You make me almost want...” God. Fucking. Dammit. She hated that feeling she hadn't let herself feel in almost twenty years. It made her feel like such a fucking girl, that revolting, nauseating tickle running over her cheeks. The muscles of her face out of her control. “But I can't.”

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“Then we won't, Nix. I won't.” He didn't get it. It wasn't fear of him wearing her down. Erasing her. Making her cry like a fucking girl. She made everything hard—her jaw, her tight fists, her stomach, all her body's muscles. She'd win this. “I'm sorry,” he said quietly. “I meant to be careful of you. Not to hurt you. You're so strong, it's hard for me to keep it in mind, how awfully you've been hurt.” He touched her hair, and she made everything even harder. “Nix. It's safe to let go. For once.” The tips of his fingers were still close to her face, but not insisting on making up the inches she'd drawn back. “Promise me something, Gareth.” “Alright.” “Promise you won't touch me again.” Behind his eyes something seemed to break, and for a moment his expression contorted with some large feeling, but then his eyes dimmed and his face went strangely blank. Like a corpse. “Alright. I promise.” “If you break that promise, I'll be gone.” **** She should have gone anyway. From the way he looked at her, the way he spoke to her, she knew he'd seen something. That he believed that she wanted what he wanted, at least in some small way. Now his eyes and his voice were filled with a tender hope, palpable and sickening. But even with that pain filling their hideout like a fog, she

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didn't have the strength to walk away from an existence there, in that little ghost town hotel, with him, that was the only kind of peace she'd known since childhood. Day after day, though, it got worse. His eyes following her, tracing her every gesture. If she had to go near him—to pass by on her way to another room, to reach for some thing she needed—he seemed to be waiting for her to deliver herself to him, to yield to that kiss. So when she returned one afternoon from her elms with their serrated yellow leaves and her ferns and moss and her warm, hard ground and blue sky to find Artel at the kitchen sink, next to naked, doing his washing, it felt as though she'd been snared in a trap. Flushed, breathing shallow and faster second by second, he confronted her, then watched as she noticed. He was getting hard. “You're usually gone longer,” he said, just audibly. Now she had it. Proof of what she'd known since the kiss. Before that. All along. He wanted to fuck her. Shaking, her mind wiped blank by rage, she cornered him. As she moved in, he pressed himself back, into the V of the counter, his gaze leveled on her like he was working her out, his erection angling blatantly upward under the snug white cotton of his shorts. Close, just a few inches between them, the smell of him in her nostrils, his heat firing her nerves, she ran her fingertips over the bulge in her pocket, fingering the hard oblong shape of the knife against her thigh. She locked eyes with him, then curled her fingers over the waistband of his shorts. His hands flashed toward hers, then stopped. Just a breath. “Nix.”

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The want driving her, flooding her veins, pumping her heart wasn't desire. Not that warm, sweet want that had writhed through her belly as she'd felt his kiss before he'd given it. This was the white-cold, red-hot want of battle, the fierce need to punish. To annihilate. To hurt. To make scream. When she tugged his shorts down his hard cock bobbed free, looking red and dark against the background of his pale hip and belly. That spear of flesh, ready to stab. To open and hurt. Their weapon. Their cause. Their need. He wielded it, just like them. All of them. Driven to hurt with it. Because of it. Again she caressed the hard weight of the knife in her pocket. But something made her hand change course. Strange, she'd never seen it, thought it before. That weapon. That fierce hardness. Counterpart to her wound. Her vulnerability. An impulse jolted through her, and behind it a surge, a vast, euphoric wave, a certainty of power. She smiled. “Nix. Please.” So, so soft against the tips of her fingers, that flushed flesh. Delicate. Vulnerable. Artel flinched. “I don't want this.” “No? What do you want? My mouth? You want between my thighs?” Her touch changed the contours of his face, made his gray eyes go bright. “Please, Nix. I don't want there to be anything ugly between us.” She hardened herself against his words and his pleading look, and slid the tight circle of her hand over the hot, hard length of his erection, watching him shudder,

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hearing him clamp down on a groan. Locking eyes with him, she began fisting his cock in a slow, determined rhythm. So, they could be torn open, too. Invaded. Heat throbbed through her sex. A tingle tugged at her spine. It wasn't long—less time, even, than she'd expected—before his lips parted and he gasped and swallowed, and just before she knew he'd have flexed and shuddered, and in the next convulsion a squirt of cum would have spurted forth, she stopped. Her fingers still wrapped tight around the base of his cock, she watched him. The slouch of let down anticipation, the panting through unmet need, the eyes demanding answers. Redress. But the hands were still, gripping the counter hard enough to whiten nails and knuckles. She waited. He didn't let go. So she started again, sliding the ring of her fingers up and down, watching something like fear creep through his look of focused control before everything was wiped out by hopeless, needful anticipation. This time when she had him there, he groaned and maybe he said, “please,” but she ceased her stroking and watched him crumple a little more than the time before. Three more times she took him to the edge and left him there. Finally she was about to let him slip through her fingers and walk off, but a fresh angry surge tightened her grip, and this time when his body went taut, when his belly flexed and his breath rushed then caught, she pried his hand from the counter edge and held it between them. The next second he groaned out loud and she watched the first spurt of white

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launch into his cupped hand. A hot, violent rage was shaking her. She yanked her hands from his wrist and his twitching cock and ran for the woods. **** “I'm glad you came back,” he said as softly as his growl of a voice could go when she stepped in from the porch, ready for a brawl. “I didn't think you would.” She dodged him, went to the kitchen. It was her turn to make the meal, but she saw that he'd done it while she'd been gone. From the foyer she heard the old couch springs groan, then his footsteps. Coming near. When she turned, he was standing a couple feet away, looking at her. The fight would come now, but she wouldn't fight it. For the first time. No. The second. “I think I know why you did it.” He hadn't come any closer. She waited. “Living here with me, you're beginning to want something. You're afraid to want it, I think, and even more scared to have it. It would be easy for you to get it. Having it would be hard, though. But no matter how terrified you are, even though you're too scared to take it, you can't get yourself to walk away from it, either.” Like a bellows, her chest was pumping. She tried to look calm, to smooth her breathing. “A quiet place. Not a prison. No one hurting you. How can you run away from that? Knowing that a day or a week from now you'll get caught in the woods or some town and wind up chained to a tree somewhere with five or ten guys tearing you apart. Or locked up, working a barracks or a factory. Maybe even if you manage to stay safe,

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maybe living alone in the woods or a cave or even a little house like this somewhere on your own is starting to look lonely and scary. But you're still so afraid of this thing you want that you need something to force you out, so you won't take it.” Hot tears burned her eyes and stung her somewhere deeper. “You're out of luck, though, if you think you can provoke me into giving you an excuse to run off. My dick gets hard. I don't have much control over that. But I promised I wouldn't touch you, and I haven't. I won't. Until you say I can. Not to hold you down and satisfy a need, no matter how cruelly you've aggravated it. And not to shove you off me when you've got me backed into a corner, since that's probably all the excuse you'd need to disappear.” She felt small and weak and queasy. “I don't like it. Feeling this way,” she whispered, not looking at him. “Ashamed. Guilty.” “It's a bad feeling. And it sticks. But you can use it. Like a lesson to yourself.” “What do you feel guilty about?” she seethed. “That bastard Dorset?” “If you want me to,” he said, his voice low, quiet, “I'll tell you the thing I'm most ashamed of.” Artel leaned back against the mahogany molding framing the doorway, rough and faded from lack of care, and began to speak quietly. “When I came of age, my dad told me it was time for me to become a man. I had a vague idea of what that meant, that it had to do with my cock, and with lying down with a woman. I'd grown up mostly on the road, so we didn't get to know many people, anyway, and in the towns where we seemed to settle a little longer, segregation was

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almost total. I'd seen a few women, but I'd never been close to one, or even heard a woman talk.” “You were born after the dying?” “Four years after.” Just twenty-two. She'd thought he was older. More like thirty-two. The men didn't usually age like that. He told her his story in the tone of a painful confession given without hope of absolution. “That night of my birthday, my father took me to the sex hotel. It wasn't the worst example, by any stretch. The women there each served maybe five or six guys a day. A pricey place. I guess my dad wanted me to be able to take my time, and with someone not too badly broken. “The girl he bought for me was no older than I was, but she was already branded for public work. Dad got me in there with her, and right away I sensed that she was afraid, like a boy cornered by bullies, who knew he was about to get an awful beating. I was so ignorant. I didn't know what it was she was afraid of, exactly. I had no idea what she'd probably been through, what she probably went though every night in that place. And it didn't occur to me to ask. The way I'd heard women spoken of all my life—you've heard it all, I don't have to tell you—she was supposed to be just a body. Even though I realized, right away, she was reading me, feeling things that I might feel, I was too dumb to get that she was like me. A real person. “So I started, like my dad had told me. Undressed her. I wasn't rough. I wonder sometimes, if she'd fought, if I might have been worse. I really don't know. But she was

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quiet and still while I got her things off. And you can imagine, or maybe you know, a man, hardly more than a boy, his first time . . . even though I didn't know, going in, what I was doing, my body got it. I was hard and scared and frantic, but trying to go slow and do it right. My dad had told me what to have her do, what would feel good. He'd told me since I was young and hadn't done anything, the first time would be quick, but that I could go two or three times. So first, I had her get on her knees and use her mouth. She did that the way she'd let me undress her—quiet and easy. Even with how worked up I was, and how unprepared I was for how it would feel, I don't think I touched her, except to feel her hair with my fingers, because the most delicate touch of her mouth got me off so fast it never occurred to me to try for a different rhythm or anything else. “When I'd had a minute to get over it, my dad sort of laughed and congratulated me, then he went to take his turn. I watched him get his dick out—not hard, yet—then he grabbed a fistful of the girl's hair and start rubbing his flaccid cock against the girl's face and mouth. Then he told her to suck it. She took him in her mouth and went to work, pliable and earnest. As soon as he was the least bit hard, my dad got both his hands on her hair and started fucking her mouth, brutally, and a look I'd never seen before came over his face, like he hated that girl he'd never seen before. Like he'd kill her as soon as fuck her. He looked like a monster. “But,” Artel's eyes flashed up, and he met Nix's gaze for a second before going back to staring at the floor, “watching his dick pistoning between her lips, hearing those wet sounds, even hearing her gag, my dick was already getting hard again.

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“Dad kept at her for a while, and then, still holding her down on his cock, he asked me if I was ready to go again. I don't think I said anything, but he could see I was hard. He pushed her away and told me to get her on the bed and get on her. “Without me touching her or saying anything, she got on the bed and laid back, and I went and climbed over her. And I remember not really knowing what to do. Really, I was that dumb. That innocent. And she pulled her knees up on either side of me, and still I was just holding myself over her, half worrying over not knowing what I was doing—knowing my dad was watching, maybe laughing at me, which was a strange thought, because my dad was never like that—and half starting to really notice her. You know, all the time, growing up, everything I heard had me thinking of women as something so different. Like another species. Something alien. But that girl under me, looking up at me, was like the boys I'd known. Like me. “Then I heard my dad, 'Jesus, kid, are you really that clueless?' I felt this sickening panic, then. Knowing what my dad expected of me, while this other feeling rose up in me, a bad, scared feeling something was very wrong, without knowing what it was, or why it felt so bad. My dad's voice was like some kind of background noise, then. I don't remember what he was saying. Just giving me shit. And the girl under me put her arm around my waist, and with her other hand, she guided me, until I was inside her. I think that poor girl actually felt sorry for me. “Once I was inside her, instinct took over. I pushed myself into her, and it was so different from how it had felt when she'd used her mouth on me. My need was so urgent, my body wanted to pump, hard and fast. But my brain was fascinated with her.

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Each time I moved, there was an echo of what I'd done in her expression. Changes in the sound of her breathing, the pressure of her hand on my back.” Artel looked up at Nix. “I don't kid myself that I was giving her any pleasure. It's just that I felt, suddenly, intensely, how what I was doing was happening to this other person.” Then his gaze sank down to the floor again. “I didn't get the big picture, though. At all. Feeling her responding to my body just added this rush of heat to the physical pleasure I was feeling, and slow as I was trying to go, it was over in a couple minutes. “I liked lying there with her, looking at her, feeling her warmth, the weight of her hand on my back. But almost as soon as I'd stopped jerking over her my dad said, “Move over, champ, and let the old man have a go.” Her face changed. She was afraid of my dad. I wanted to stay with her, because it felt nice, and because I felt bad, her being scared of my dad, but I pulled away from her. Got off the bed. “My dad climbed up, tugging at his flaccid dick, and straddled her, making her suck him again until he was hard enough, then he fucked her. It went on and on, his desperate, jerky pumping, harder and harder the longer it went on. By the time he finally finished she was damp and limp, and her face was sort of blank. “I felt sort of sick and sad, and wanted to go. But then my dad says something about how he has a surprise for me, something about saving the best for last. 'You can get it up for one more go, can't you kid?'

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“Then he tells her to get on all fours and this look of real, miserable terror comes over her face. I really didn't know what my dad had in mind, what made her sort of crumple like that, but suddenly I wanted to turn and run out of that room. “I didn't, though. When she'd turned over and my dad shoved her head down on the mattress so her ass stuck up in the air, when he told me to come over, I went. He grabbed one of her legs, down by her knee, and yanked her legs open. “She was scared. Genuinely scared. I started to see that her fear was what had my dad so worked up, and my sick feeling was getting worse. But I sat there, on the edge of the bed, with my dad on the other side of the girl telling me to watch while he fingered her ass. Every time he pushed his finger into her she let out this small, pathetic little cry, and I wanted her to stop and be quiet, because it seemed like her sounds were just getting Dad more excited. “After a while, when he'd had enough of fingering her, Dad said, 'Go on, kid, take her for one last ride.' “I didn't want to. My stomach felt so bad I was afraid I might actually get sick. And in that room, with that girl, my Dad seemed like this crazy stranger. I'd never seen him like that, never felt scared of him like that, before. I knew my dad had paid a lot of money, and I felt like if I didn't do what he expected, he'd be ashamed of me. And I was too young, or just too dumb, to see that his being ashamed of me would be something to be proud of. I wanted my dad to love me. To be proud of me. I wanted him to think I was a man, like him. So I got on my knees behind her. “He told me what to do—to fuck her the regular way first so my dick would be wet enough to go into her ass. So I did that, went into her cunt from behind, and she stayed

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down, soft and quiet like she'd been with me the whole time. But when I pressed the head of my cock to her other hole, she went all stiff. I'd gone into her cunt so easily, but my cock didn't just slide into her ass. I pushed against her opening, and she made this little whimpering sound and jerked away a little. It seemed so difficult, I was worried I was doing it wrong. Dad said something like, 'A tight little ass like that's a little work getting into, but wait 'til you see how it feels.' “I felt cold and weird, but knew we wouldn't be leaving 'til I'd gotten Dad's money's worth. I tried again, pushing the tip of my cock into her, and now her body yielded, and I pushed through. The girl let out a yelp and jerked away so suddenly I wasn't inside her any more, and scurried away, to the other side of the bed. My dad laughed and said something about how she was perking up now, that it was more fun that way, that I'd have to hang onto her if I was going to get my way. “I just wanted to get it over with and get out of there. I went around the bed and reached for her, and she didn't try to get away or put up a fight. She just let me position her back on her knees and move up behind her. But when she felt my cock poking her ass again, she jerked away. This time I caught hold of her. Now she started really struggling, thrashing and kicking back and trying to claw her way away from me. Her struggling like that, the feeling of grabbing hold of her, holding her down did something to me. Like a fight at school, or a race, all this adrenaline pumped through me. I forgot my nausea. All I felt was how hard and wanting my cock was, and the more she thrashed and the harder I had to hold her, the more I wanted inside her. I heard her starting to cry, but I didn't feel bad for her any more. I belted her against me with one

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arm and used my hand on my cock to get into position, and went into her. And then I fucked her, hard, until I came. “The second I finished I felt it. I'd been running on some weird, dark rage. I felt sure my face had been how I'd seen my dad's—like a monster. Mean and ugly. The nausea came back over me, and my hands were shaking while I got dressed, and the girl was lying there on the bed, curled up on her side, not crying now, but just staring at the wall like we weren't even in the room with her anymore. I finished dressing as fast as I could and rushed out before she turned and looked at me.” When Gareth ran out of story, he looked up at Nix, waited for judgment. “So,” she said. “I'm not the only one who's tempted to run away.” “I didn't tell you that hoping you'd hate me. It's like being glad you saw what I did to Dorset. Glad you know I get hard, sometimes, being near you. It would be a kind of betrayal, me having you imagine I don't want to touch you. And if you come to...like me, be my friend, thinking I'm something other than what I am, what's the point?” She was mute. “Maybe someday you'll tell me something about who you are.” After a long silence she said, “So, what—that was the last, the only time you used a woman?” “No. There have been other times. I was too much of a coward, in the beginning, to risk defying my dad. The Order. But that was the only time I've been that sort of monster with a woman. Since then, I save the monster in me for the men. “After the time at the hotel, I wanted to forget the whole night, forget that girl's fear and how I'd hurt her. Forget seeing my dad like that, and feeling afraid of him. But I

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couldn't stop thinking about it. Studying, working, eating, trying to fall asleep at night, the images from that night forced their way into my head a hundred times a day. And every time I felt my face like that monster's mask, and I'd feel my face go hot and red. When I got tired of trying to forget what couldn't be forgotten, I finally started to think about it. What I'd done. Why I'd done it. About that girl, and why she should be stuck in that shitty little room, a parade of monsters like my dad and me coming through every day to hold her down and make her cry. “For a while, I tried to make myself feel better, trying to believe my dad, the other men, how they talked about women and the fucking parties. Like it was the natural order. But the sick feeling in my stomach wouldn't let me. I was still clueless, but I knew it was a big lie to make us all feel all right about everything. “After that night, too, there was something different about my dad. And it seemed like, all of a sudden, I just never saw him smile again. He started drinking, which he'd never done much before. Everything changed, between him and me. He avoided me, avoided looking at me when we were together. And all that just made me even more sure it wasn't just me. The whole thing was messed up. Wrong. “Then, this one day, we were walking through town, and we saw there was a crowd gathering. My dad tried to hurry me along past, but these three guys saw us and hollered for us to come over. So we started to head that way. And I saw there was a woman. Heard her. Screaming. A pack of men were ripping her clothes off while the rest were shouting and laughing. “I looked over at my dad, and that second, I saw his expression shift from fear, horror, to that monster's mask. He turned, and when he saw my expression he caught

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my arm and told me to come on. But I couldn't. That woman's screams, the way the men were laughing, it terrified me. Already I felt like I was going to throw up. I jerked away from my dad, and ran. “I guess he went. Took his turn. When he came home, he cornered me. Told me I could get away with that once, but the next time, he'd make sure I went and acted like a man, not some goddamned switch. And then he explained to me, what that meant. What they'd do to me, if the town labeled me switches.” The sun had sunk so low, Artel had become a shadow on the wall, dark and still. “Then, maybe a month later, they caught three runaways, and there was a branding party. When I tried to beg off, my dad shoved me against a wall and hit me in the face. If I didn't go, he said, if I didn't let the men see me fucking the runaways, they'd brand me switches, and I could spend the rest of my life in a little room sucking cock and getting fucked in the ass like that girl we'd done on my birthday. So I went, and I did what I was expected to do. “And while I was there, I watched. Saw how a lot of the men wore that monster mask like my dad's, how their pleasure only came when the women would cry or scream, or when they would laugh with the other men, doing their best to humiliate. There was one guy—I won't even tell you the things he did that day, though I know it wouldn't shock you. I just watched him, the whole time thinking he didn't deserve to live. “After, every time I saw him in town that nauseous feeling would come up in my belly. At night I'd try to fall asleep, but I'd keep seeing what he'd done, how the woman had cringed and cried. And I started to fantasize doing to him what he'd done to her.

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When I imagined him crying and begging and screaming, I felt the nausea, but underneath was this euphoric rush. “And then one night I jerked off, thinking about it. After, I couldn't fall asleep because I'd decided I'd actually do it. My brain was making plans, too busy to sleep. And a few nights later, I broke into his house and did it. And when I was done, I dragged him out into his front yard, tied him to a tree, naked, down on his knees, an old cop's night stick stuffed up his ass and my cum splattered on his face. The next day, they found him and branded him. And I knew, because of me, he'd never be able to do a thing like that to a woman again. “After that, every branding, I'd go. If I got called out, cornered, I'd do my part, as humanely as I could, and I'd pick someone. There was always a group that was nastier than the regular crowd, and more often than not, one sick fuck was the ringleader. Next chance I'd get, I'd go to his house and do my best to turn every shitty word and act I'd seen him use at the branding back on him, then string him up somewhere public, so he'd get found and branded.” All his words, the damp disappointment, the jagged rage, the loss, the terror churned in her gut. She felt sick. “I only told you all that,” Artel said, looking at her, now, “hoping, like I said, to be honest with you. Because I want you to know who I am. And because, I guess, after what happened today, I'm scared you're going to leave. I don't know if I thought telling you that could make you stay, or if I just wanted, for once, to be able to tell someone. Before you're gone.” Later that night she asked him, “Where's you dad, now?”

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Artel gave her a sad smile. “Dead. Not long after that day he dragged me to that branding party, he killed himself.”

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CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

She found him in his room, lying on his back, staring toward the ceiling, arms folded behind his head. Even though he must have heard her, even seen her coming in, he didn't speak or turn his head. Even when she sat on the edge of his bed. “I'm sorry.” It wasn't as hard to say as she'd thought. He turned to look at her. “So sorry, Gareth.” She didn't even mind that she was starting to cry. He just stayed still, looking at her, waiting. “In my entire life, since I was a little girl, you're the only man—practically the only person—who hasn't been vicious with me. I've never been ashamed before, of what I've done. I hate that I've been cruel with you.” “It's alright. I told you; I understand why you did it.” They were quiet for a while, him lying there on his back, her perched on the edge of the bed. If he would reach across, pull her down with him, weigh her down with his body, open her mouth, open her legs, everything would be simple again. Fight, or give in. “Nix?” She waited. “I want to ask you something. Maybe you won't want to answer.” Again, she waited. “I'd like to know your story.”

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“Why? It's the same as everyone's.” “In the resistance,” he said, “you've known people. Been close.” She thought of Jan. So like her. All fight. And Char, young and still hoping. She shrugged. “Except for my dad, I've never really known anyone. We moved around all the time when I was a kid. And since he died, I guess I've just kept moving.” He laughed. “So, the only people I've ever known, really, are the people in the books I've read. And my dad. But he was full of secrets, so really, I never knew him, either. So, I'd like to know you a little.” She didn't like talking about herself. Or, no. She'd just never done it. It was an unspoken code among the women she knew. They didn't ask each other questions. If someone whispered or screamed out what had happened to her that week or ten years earlier, the others would listen. Hold her, if she'd let them. But no one went looking to open old wounds. “I won't push, though, if you don't want to,” he said. “What do you want to know?” “You grew up in one of the orphanages,” he prompted. “You were born after the plague. You never knew your mother?” she asked him. “No.” “I was born before. I remember my mom and dad. Together. I have memories, images like photographs, of them laughing together. Holding hands. Lying in bed together. When I was five, before the plague, my dad died. Then, less than two years later, the lights went out and the cars stopped and the plague came, and my mom died.

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“They put me in an orphanage. Not like now. There were boys and girls together. Maybe twenty little boys, and three of us girls. When I was twelve, the segregation started, and I was moved into a girls' facility, and when I was of age, I was given to a husband.” She pulled air into her lungs and let it out, not sure why she was telling this untold story. Thinking of that time, so long ago, it was almost like imagining someone else's life. That girl, Nicolette, Nikki, was a different person. Soft and hopeful. A delicate alien. “You must have been scared,” he said quietly. “I wasn't as innocent as most first-brides these days,” she told him. “I'd seen things between my parents. I had an idea what sex was. I was terrified at the thought of being given to someone I didn't know, but I understood that things worked that way. I had this idea that maybe we could be like my mom and dad. So I went quietly. Like your girl in the hotel.” Gareth was quiet, patient and still, as Nix slipped under a wave of memories. **** When she'd been led before him, she'd felt suddenly small. From the oldest girl at the facility, surrounded by smaller girls, watched over by women no bigger than she, to that. At least a foot taller than her, and twice as wide. All of him a strange, washed-out color, indifferent. Like sand. She'd thought he'd talk to her a little. That there would be some kind of ceremony. For some reason, she'd pictured them sitting at a small table beside a large window, or outside on a patio, surrounded by trees and flowers, drinking tea.

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But he was not a man for anticipation. For savoring. That afternoon, before he took her to bed, she watched him eat a steak, sliced efficiently into six large pieces and devoured perfunctorily, without relish, and later thought that was how he'd devoured her. As soon as the custodians from the orphanage left, he took her into her bedroom, and with no sign of joy or even hunger, started to undress her. He didn't kiss her. Hardly even looked at her: her unusual black eyes, her glossy black hair which, with her intuitive understanding that the degree to which this stranger valued her was vital to her well-being, she'd hoped would make up for her lack of full breasts and hips. As if he were unwrapping a parcel, he unbuttoned her dress, pulled it from her shoulders, dropped it to the floor. His indifference had hurt her feelings; knowing she'd be a wife before she'd have a chance to love, she'd comforted herself with fantasies of being cherished, if not for any exceptional beauty or grace, at least for her rarity. Women were scarce enough, but a virgin youth—only a fortunate few men would ever have that chance. So, when he cupped her breasts in his hands, even though she'd sworn to herself she wouldn't, she started to cry. She kept silent as tears blurred her vision and tickled down her cheeks. Finally, then, he spoke to say, “Hey, now. No need for that. There's nothing to be scared about. I'm not going to hurt you.” Then he laid her down on the bed and climbed over her, and she could feel how his body strained as he shifted his weight onto one elbow so he could squeeze a breast in his free hand, and bend down to lick and suck her nipple. That feeling, the warm wet

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of his tongue, the rubbing, then sucking, startled. Sudden pleasure tickled along her nerves, feathering over her skin, chilling and heating at once. But looking at him, she had the feeling she wasn't there with him. Even though she could feel everything he did to her, it was like looking through a window into another room. He never saw her face, her seeking eyes. Only her nipples, her belly lifting and falling, her sex. He sat up on his knees and pulled her underwear off, then pushed her thighs open. Even when she whimpered, he didn't look up from his hand, her sex. Once, he brushed his fingers through her dark curls, then started rubbing between her thighs. There was something like pleasure, but then he worked his finger inside, and it was scary and uncomfortable. He pulled his finger out, and she watched as he undid his fly. The thing he had there looked wrong. Not like the penises of the little boys at the orphanage. She knew. He'd push it inside her. It was supposed to be smaller. Not all hard and red and swollen and veined like that. She closed her eyes tight, then, and tried to keep quiet as he drove that thing into her, then as he lay down on top of her and started flexing and grunting, tearing into her, ramming his hardness in and out of her, panting, straining, slow and even at first, then faster, shaking her whole body, until he groaned and his stiff, straining body went limp on top of her. No appreciation, but great appetite. With that man, that husband, it was the same in all things. Sex. Food. Things, the vast and swelling mass of treasures pilfered from whatever corners of the country his stubby fingers penetrated, first-hand or by proxy.

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Vases and paintings and sculptures, platters and tureens and pitchers, tapestries and rugs, ornately carved articles of furniture, all dark and heavy and brightly polished. He collected everything, and cherished nothing. And he drank rare bottles of aged scotch, fine champagnes and wines the way the guards she encountered later drank beer—by the liter, and without much thought for the palate. Half the time, he went to her too drunk to fuck. Those times, he'd coax her, with his usual lack of brutality or sensitivity, to use her mouth on him, and after the first few of these encounters, she knew to expect that he would be unconscious, snoring, before she'd made him come. Sometimes before she'd even managed to get him hard. **** To Artel, Nix just said, “It didn't feel like it, then, but I was lucky. The man they sold me to wasn't cruel. He never hurt me on purpose. He just came to me to sate his need once or twice a day, and the rest of the time, mostly, he left me alone. But I wasn't with him for long.” “You were accused. Branded,” he prompted her. **** Once, locked in her room while he had company, she'd lain down on the burgundy carpet and put her ear to the vent and listened to the voices of her husband and the four or five men drinking with him downstairs in the study. “So, this wife of yours, what's she called?” “Nikki. And she's not my wife. My wife's dead.”

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In the silence wafting up to her through the vent, she heard the truth of her lot. Husband. Wife. They were just words they used to make it seem okay. She wasn't his wife. She was just a thing, like the Harley David that he kept perfectly polished but couldn't even ride because there was no fuel for it. “Well, is she pretty?” one of them asked, then. Her owner sighed. “Eh. She's more strange looking than anything. Not as pretty as half the whores at the hotel.” There was a time when that would have hurt her. But not now. “Why don't you bring her down. Let her serve us our drinks, or something, so we can get a look at her?” “Nah. She's shy. You lot'll just scare her.” After the men left and he came up to her, while she was working her tongue and lips over his reluctantly stiffening cock, she'd felt a strange sort of gratitude. It was a regular thing, that crowd coming over. Sometimes all five of them. Sometimes just two or three. And she'd always lie down on the floor with her ear over the vent, because their drunken banter was the closest she ever came to a social life, except for the visits from her owner, who never really talked to her. One night, when it was just two visitors, and the party dragged on hour after hour, round after round after round of scotch, she fell asleep, her cheek resting on the vent. It was the silence that woke her up. The sudden absence of the low drone of masculine voices. Behind her, a key clicked and scratched in the lock and she scurried to the bed, not wanting to be caught at the vent, afraid even that bit of contact with the world would be taken from her.

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In the dark, she thought she saw the silhouettes of two figures. Her heart stopped. What was he doing? The shadows closed in, and she braced herself for this next betrayal. But the light beside her bed clicked on, the dark figures filled in their shapes and colors. Her husband wasn't there. Before she could scream, one of them had his hand over her mouth. “If I was you, sweetheart, I wouldn't scream,” the other one said. “I wouldn't make a sound. Because if your husband comes up here and finds you with us, do you know what happens?” The dark-haired one still had his hand over her mouth. “Do you?” the blond demanded. She shook her head. “You get branded a whore, and sent to work in the sex hotel,” the one with his hand over her mouth whispered in her ear. “Five guys a night. Minimum. Every night. You want that?” “Nah,” the other said. “You don't want that. So be quiet. And be nice. And we'll be nice, too. We know damn well you're not having any fun with your Roger. I can tell, just by the way he talks about you, he doesn't appreciate you the way he should.” The clamping pressure over her mouth lessened, little by little, both of them watching her. She stayed quiet. “That's a good girl,” the leaner, dark-haired one breathed right against her mouth, all sweetly fumy, like her husband after a few hits of scotch.

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“Please. Please go,” she whispered. “He'll come up. He always does. Every night.” “Don't worry about Roger, little Nikki. He's out cold.” The dark-haired one smiled, holding her gaze, and something tilted in her brain. This one saw her. “I'm Jack. And this is Arnie. Say 'hello.'” “Hello, Jack,” she breathed, doing her best not to cry. “Hello, Arnie.” Jack smiled again, his teeth looking strangely white against the dark stubble around his wide mouth. “Good girl,” he sighed. He touched her face, tracing over her features. It was strange, being touched that way. With the tip of a finger he parted her lips, then put his mouth over the bottom one, and the feeling of his tongue, warm and wet, brushing over it made her suck in her breath. He groaned and sank both hands into her hair and pulled her into a deep, penetrating kiss that made her feel more invaded, more possessed than being fucked by her husband ever had. When he released her from that kiss, Jack murmured, “Good girl,” again, then slid around behind her and snaked his arm around her belly, holding her against him while Arnie came in for his kiss. Arnie tasted like something sour and burnt—cigarettes, she understood later—and his kiss was shallow and dry. While he licked her mouth and tongue, Jack's fingers slid under her nightgown and strummed over her nipple. When he pinched and tugged and all that feeling flowed down into her belly and her sex and she whimpered, he growled and said, “Yeah. You like that, don't you, little Nikky?” “Here, now, take this off,” Arnie said, tugging at the silk nightie.

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“Please. Please, you've got to go,” she whispered, starting to cry, fear wearing her down. “Shhh,” Jack hushed her, pulling her hair aside, kissing the nape of her neck. “We're not gonna be rough with you. And if you're quiet, we'll be quick. Roger will never know.” She eyed the lamp, pictured cracking it over their heads. Getting the key. Running downstairs. Waking Roger. But she just stood there and let them pull the nightgown off. Arnie clapped, sending a jolt of terror down her spine, and over Jack's “shhh!' said, “Shit, sweetheart, you have got the sweetest little titties.” They dragged her onto the sofa, and Arnie got beside her and started sucking a nipple while Jack got down on his knees on the floor in front of her and pushed her knees apart. Rapt, he stared at her sex as he spread her open, then leaned in and touched her with his tongue. When she whimpered, they both seemed provoked. Arnie leaned across to suck her other nipple, and Jack splayed her legs wider, sealed his mouth over her sex, and stroked his tongue through her folds until that aching, needful pleasure in her belly ruptured. “That ever happen with Roger?” Jack asked with a self-satisfied grin. Bewildered, feeling more naked, vulnerable than ever, she just shook her head. They took their turns, then, and left. When she heard the front door open and close, she knelt down by the vent. Heavy, even, she heard her owner's familiar snore. Still terrified he'd wake any second and come up for her, she washed herself carefully,

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put the night gown back on, and got in bed. He didn't come until morning, sick and foultempered and sluggish, but determined as ever. The next time, Jack made her suck him while Arnie fucked her from behind. After, Jack licked her again until she came. They made a routine of it, these surreptitious visits. Once in a while it would be just one of them, Jack or Arnie, but usually it was both. She thought probably they went as a pair to the sex hotels, too. They seemed to like it, the dynamic of the two of them, taking turns thinking of things to make her do, watching each other, having an audience. Whenever Roger locked her into her room, now, she knew he'd have company, and all evening she'd lie by the grate, listening for that pair of voices, then wait, wound tight, sick with fear, until they came to her. Jack would be on top of her, inside her, watching her face as he slid in and out of her, and she would lie under him, shaking through those anxious minutes, knowing sooner or later they'd be caught, that something awful would happen to her. At the same time, some small part of her liked having them come to her. The sex with them gave her physical pleasure, which Roger's disinterested conjugal visits never did. But mostly, she was grateful that they talked and joked with her. When they were there, she felt less lonely. And nearly human. Then there was the night, after the familiar drone of male voices died down, after the sound of footsteps on the stairs and the key scratching at the lock, the door opened, and just one man came in.

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“Hello there, Nikki.” A lean, wiry man with auburn hair and blue eyes was standing there, a mean little smirk on his lips. “Your friends Arnie and Jack let me in on their little secret. Said you wouldn't mind if I paid you a visit.” “Well,” she huffed, trying to sound brave, “I do mind.” “That so?” He took a few steps toward her. “Do you think you get a say?” When he came close enough to touch, she grabbed for the lamp and swung, hard as she could, aiming for his head. But he was strong and fast and ready. He caught the lamp and took her down in one blurred move, crushing her scream out under his palm. “Who are you gonna call for? Huh? Roger? He'll send you out for branding and the whorehouse so fast, this night with me will look like a slice of heaven.” She still struggled, tried to scream while he pinned her on her belly under his weight, yanked up her night gown, wrenched her legs open with his knees, yanked her hips up off the mattress. Once he was inside her, she stopped fighting, gave up on screaming. Through the hate and frustration, she hardly felt him pumping, pawing at her tits, his hand wedged between her chest and the mattress. After a while he pulled out, caught a fistful of her hair and shoved her face-down into her pillow, holding her down so hard that terror pumped through her, thinking he was trying to suffocate her. Then she'd screamed her whole strength into that pillow as he forced his cock into her ass. The first brutal thrust felt like being ripped open. As he started fucking, it was like he was tearing, burning her flesh. She sobbed and screamed and choked through it all. When he was done, she was drained. Limp. Without another word he pulled out, took his weight off her, zipped up and left.

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The next time, Jack came alone. She stayed limp and indifferent as he put his arms around her and kissed her cheek. “I'm sorry about Jonathan,” he whispered. “He'd found us out. I only let him, so he wouldn't report us. I don't mean just me and Arnie. I mean, I figured, better one night with him, for you, than the hotel.” Jack set her away from him and scanned her face. “Did he hurt you?” “What are you apologizing for?” “I just didn't want you to think me and Arnie—“ “What do you care what I think? I'm not even a person to you.” “Come on, Nikki.” “None of you. Buy me. Sell me. Lock me up like a bear in the zoo. Threaten me. Force me. Do you apologize to your dog? Worry what he thinks of you?” “Nikki,” Jack said, his voice and eyes serious. “What do you want?” “Get me out of here. Take me somewhere safe.” “Honest, Nikki. I don't think there is anywhere safe. And trust me, you don't want to be caught as a runaway.” “Fine. Then leave me alone.” “Don't say that, Nikki. We have fun, don't we?” “If you stay, if you come back and fuck me, don't pretend to be my friend. Not if you think sticking your dick in me is worth what that man did to me. Not if you're willing to risk me getting sent somewhere where that will happen to me every day.”

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Jack left without fucking her. He and Arnie stayed away for a couple weeks, but one night they came back, and both of them pretended nothing had happened. Limp and dull, she let them do what they wanted. But for her there was no more joking, no more talking, no more pleasure. It had been going on for a few weeks when, just as Jack finished and Arnie was getting ready to take his turn between her thighs, the door swung open. Her whole body went icy, and she just lay there, frozen. Roger and another man, old and oddly tall, stepped into the room. “Just as I told you, Roger,” the old man said in the deepest baritone she'd ever heard. Arnie was up and off her, squeezing himself into the farthest corner, struggling to get his pants zipped. “I saw you, Jack,” the old man said, pointing an accusing finger, “slip something into Roger's whiskey last week. And again tonight. You know the penalty for debauching another man's wife?” “She's not my wife,” her owner breathed, barely audibly, not looking at her, even now. The old man turned to Roger. “I'll make the arrangements. You needn't do anything, Roger.” As they left, the old man said, “The authorities will be here within the hour. I defy you, in that time, to find any pleasure together that will be worth the price you're all about to pay.”

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Then he turned the key on the three of them, and less than an hour later, true to the old man's word, a pack of black-uniformed men showed up. **** “I don't know what happened to the two men,” Nix said to Artel when she'd told him, simply, that her husband's friends liked helping themselves to his things when he wasn't looking. “But I was taken from my gilded cage to a less pleasantly disguised prison for the night. The next day, they inked over my husband's mark.” She touched the two-inch wide band of greenish black circling her upper arm, “then the guards cuffed me and took me to the town square. There were maybe fifty men there. A few had brought their wives, a sort of cautionary tale. They looked faceless in their hooded cloaks. Like they were just shadows in there. “Two of the guards carried me over to the platform they'd set up, and latched my cuffs so my arms were locked over my head. Then they stripped off the robe they'd dressed me in. Then the first one got started. Later I found out, they did it by lottery. Chose which men would punish me for being raped in my husband's house.” She was hyperventilating, and could only get two or three words out on a breath, but she couldn't stop. The story was spewing out of her now like vomit, like some muscle down inside her was squeezing it from her, and she couldn't keep it in if she'd wanted to. “You know, they let you think it will be all of them. Laying there, chained down, I thought I'd lose my mind, that Roger or Jack or Jonathan times fifty, the ugliness of it, the feeling of being reduced, erased would wear me away to nothing before it was over.

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“I remember, when the first one got on me, at first I didn't really feel him, even once he'd started fucking. It was the crowd that I felt. All those eyes watching him do that to me. Even the shadows under those hoods, knowing there were women in those cloaks, hidden, watching. Maybe they believed what the men said, that I'd betrayed my husband. Maybe they thought I deserved what was happening. Or maybe they just watched, knowing that soon, that would be happening to them. And the men, shouting things. So pumped up to see me there, getting my 'punishment.' So eager, I thought, for their turn to come. “When it was over, when the fifth one finished, and they unclipped my cuffs from the bolt and picked me up, and I was still me, I just...” She glanced at Artel. He looked full of pity. Wounded. She reined herself in. “Well. So, I lived. They dragged me off to the hotel. I endured that for a few weeks. First chance I got, I ran. Since then, I've spent most of my life off the books. Free.” “But not all your time,” Artel said, his voice soft and sad. “It was strange, the first time I was caught. I was so puffed up on all this strength I thought I had.” She laughed, not bitter, a genuine laugh at how naïve she'd been back then. “I thought I was so tough, indestructible, just because I'd eked out an existence hiding in farm houses and country stores in the no-man's land between towns. Just because I'd gotten away with a couple close calls.” The laughter drained away from her voice, from her eyes. “But when they got started on me. The frustrated rage, the anxious helplessness I'd felt before, with Roger and the others, even that first punishment in the square was

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nothing compared to what I endured when they did that to me, after I'd been free. Once I'd belonged to myself for all those months. It felt like they were killing me. Ripping me apart. Rubbing me out. “The first time I was on my own, I got hold of a gun early on. Carried it with me everywhere. Slept with it. I had fantasies of aiming it at whoever might find me, try to take me back to town, threatening to shoot them. Getting away. That first time on my own, I thought the gun would save me, without ever having to hurt anyone. “But after they caught me, after they marked me a runaway and turned ten of the town's fine young men loose on me for a couple hours, after they locked me up in another hotel, I knew, when I got away, when I got a gun, I'd kill the next man who came near me. I wanted to kill. I promised myself, I'd shoot as many as had raped me. I kept count.” “And did you? Kill the next man who came near you?” Artel asked. “No.” Almost. Her gun was cocked and aimed. “He was with a cell of the resistance. I'd never heard of it. He told me what it was. Said he was there, scouting for safe houses. I followed him, my gun aimed at his back, to a huge white farmhouse. He gave a signal, and I thought I'd walked into a trap. But way off across the field, I saw the front door open, and three people came out. Women. “They taught me how to really fight. And the men there, seeing them work, die to help us, I decided I'd only kill the men I knew were hurting us.” She waited, then, for him to ask her about the night before they'd given her to him. But he stayed quiet. He just sat up, beside her on the edge of the bed, gazing down at his knees.

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“I wish I could undo all the hurt that's been done to you,” he said. His hands were on his knees, still and lax, but she had the idea he was working hard at not reaching over. Putting his arms around her. “You haven't asked me not to touch you.” Now he turned. Looked at her. “No.” His hair was soft. For some reason she hadn't thought it would be. Softer than hers. And warm. But his cheeks were rough with a day's growth of beard. The roughness was a comfort, somehow. Maybe because it was what she'd expected. His gaze held hers as she traced the angles and contours of his face with her fingertips. When she took her hand away, he stayed still, looking at her. “I know you want a friend, Gareth. And you deserve one. I just don't know how.”

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CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Ghosts haunted thoughts. Spiteful tongues licked at her brain. Mid-sleep, at the thick dark center of night, a frail sound crept through her dreams. The distant chirp of a cricket was a trick. Really, the stridulation of wings was the chafe and cry of two planks of red oak under the weight of a man. The clank of the rusty iron latch, the catch of the door were more honest. Someone had come in. Or someone had gone out. Out, yes, or the symphony would have played in reverse. From the window, Nix saw Artel's tall, broad figure, a shadow haloed in shuddering yellow, fading into the woods. Bitter salt rose up from her gut, choking her. Pants. Boots. Knife. Gun. In just her tank, she snuck into the chill autumn black, an unlit candle and matches in her pocket. Invisible, she sought his light. Alternately, his haloed shadow, or a tiny point of brightness, fluttering and bobbing like a faerie in the story her mother had read to her, once, danced out from behind a column of black, beckoning her deeper into the dark forest. Then the shadow man faded to invisibility, and the faerie dove to earth, lit upon some unseen perch, and stilled. She crept ahead, in her mind begging the twigs and leaves for silence. Nearer and nearer that sleeping faerie, that yellow flame still in the still night, unmolested by the spent clouds and dormant wind, she stealthed, the wet forest floor silently swallowing her every step.

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Close enough at last to see the man painted yellow by his candle's light, she peered from behind a stout tree trunk, watched his movements, strained to see whether he would leave a note or some marker, or whether he would go still, cross his arms over his chest against the chill air, and wait for the others. The men he'd betrayed her for. Her skin went tight, as if in that silence, in that dark parted only for the few feet within the frail grasp of Artel's lone candle, the invisible hairs on her neck and arms sought to feel the vibrations in the air, like antennae, to alert her to danger. To her prey. The gun was heavy in her hand. Cold and hard and comforting. His delicate yellow light wavered from its nest of writhing roots and variegated leaves, up the rough girth of a stalwart maple, its bark dark and thick and fissured, and held Artel there, too, in that golden aura. His fingers, long and pale against that brownblack bark, touched that rough texture, traced with the tip along a crack where the maple's umber skin had split. His caress went so lightly over the arbor's scaly flesh that at first she thought he only let his hand drift through the air near the trunk, as if to sense whether it gave off warmth. From the way his fingertips lifted and sank over the scars of seasons and age, though, she knew he was touching. His eyes followed as his fingers went along, then as he brought his whole hand against the thick, insulating crust. The shadows playing over his features were burned away as he tipped his face down to the candle's light, and bent his brow to his maple. His arms circled around, his head turned toward her and her heart cramped, but his eyes were closed as he pressed his cheek to the bark. His stillness danced in the fluttering light at his feet. When he turned again, when his soft lips grazed the rough bark, when his lips parted and touched the bark again, her face went hot, and in her gut there was an echo

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of the shame she'd felt the week before, at embarrassing him, hurting him, making him come. He shrugged off his jacket, his shirt, and embraced the tree again, letting the rough bark dig into his naked chest and belly, the tender white of his inner arms, his cheek. Where his hand reached around, almost lost to the candle's light, his fingers caressed, light as ever, up and down. As tenderly as one would stroke a newborn kitten. When he'd stripped naked and even his feet were bare and sinking into the mud and the wet, soft leaves, five fingers of red and yellow clinging to his blue-veined feet, to the hollow between tendon and ankle, he offered himself to the embrace of a low branch, sliding his waist into the crook where the tree's arm angled out from the trunk. He clung, naked and shivering in the shuddering light of his candle, the bark digging into his tender flesh, chaffing over his soft, parted lips, scraping over his brow, lined like an older man's, over his cheek, shaded with two days' growth of his dark beard. For a long time, he let the tree hold him that way. The dark swallowed the man, the tree, the clinging stemmed stars of yellow and red. The night swallowed them all, and spit them up again as wax hissed against flame. His pale hip hollowed dark, a shadowed valley sank into his thigh. Breath steamed out from between parted lips, from flaring nostrils. His whole body a slowed heart, pulsing its bloody rhythm, his hips hollowed, he carved that shadow into his thigh, nestled into the clutch of the tree, trailed fingertips up and down the bark, seeking the rise and fall of that dark, rough flesh, breathing it, sighing into the mouth of a lost limb, trembling in the crook of that gnarled arm, chafing himself raw in that embrace his sap flowed over the maple's dark husk, spilled among the clinging stars and dark earth and

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worms and flowed into the water to be drunk by thirsty, writhing roots, pulled up vertical veins to feed the fresh green stars in spring. As if that spilled sap had been the force holding his body erect, he sagged, and his stalwart maple caught him. Except for the silhouette of his drooping frame, the sides of his star-stuck feet, his calf, his flank, his scarred and muscular side, his arm lifted overhead, hiding his face, he'd sunk into shadow. But she could see the flex and shudder of his belly. Hear the first few dry rasps, then the deep, wet sobbing. **** He was lying there with another one of his ratty old paperbacks. “Do you know what they used to call pairs who fucked?” “What?” “Lovers.” She laughed. Lightly, at first. Loving and fucking were like polar opposites. Then her laughter turned sour. It didn't have to be that way, but that's how it was. **** “Nix.” He'd come close, but that was all. He was almost as careful of her name as he was of her body. He'd voiced it only three or four times since she'd given it to him. She waited, but he was quiet until she met his gaze. “I don't want to hurt you.” An inauspicious opening. She went on meeting his gaze. Waiting. “But,” he paused for a long time, staring into her eyes like he was taking a very precise measurement, then went on, “there are things I want. From you.”

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The muscles in her abdomen went tight and it got hard to breathe. “I would have kept quiet, I would leave you alone, if I didn't think sometimes that you want these things, too.” He was quiet for a long time. Her nerves were wound tight and her muscles were all flexing against nothing and her body felt cold. Shaky. His hand moved in an aborted gesture. Maybe he'd been about to touch her. But he drew his hand back and folded it under his arm, against his chest. “Reading that book I found upstairs, thinking about what you said about your mother and father, being here with you,” he'd looked away, over at some picture on the wall or some knick knack on the little table, but now he brought his eyes back to hers. “I feel like I haven't been a human being, ever. And I feel like I could be one, with you. And I want that.” Her jaw ached. She tried to stop clamping down so hard. “Do you want that?” he asked. “I . . .” All she'd done was open her mouth. Make that one small sound. And tears were streaming down her face. But she was tired, fucking exhausted, of being so hard, so dry, so closed. Of fighting her own feelings on top of everything else there was to fight. So she unclamped her will, and let go. Let herself be small and soft and weak. Let the tears fall and fall, warm and wet, down her cheeks, running down her neck, dripping from her chin, dropping onto her chest. “I think,” she sobbed, and gasped in a big breath, “you should go to town,” the words shook out of her, “and steal someone. Someone young. Not a wife. Someone on

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the way down, but not too badly damaged. Someone like your first girl. You'd be saving someone from an awful life. At least for a while. And you could be human with her.” “I could have done that years ago if all I wanted was to be with someone. That's not what I'm saying. What I want is to...be close with you. You, Nix.” “I don't think I can.” “Nix.” His voice was soft and low. It seemed to wash under her, then rise up around her, warm and gentle. Like bath water. “I know. For you, being touched, being hurt, there's no getting those things apart. They're the same, for you. Maybe that can change. I don't know. I don't expect things to go a particular way. I just want to know if you want me close, or if you want me to keep away.” He was looking at her through his usual, stoic mask, but behind it his eyes were bright with feeling. It was hard to move, she was so scared. As scared, now, as she'd been of him the day they'd delivered her to him. But she made her body move. When she touched him, he went still. Even stopped breathing, maybe. The feel of his skin—warm, yielding under her fingertips—sent a jolt through her. Warning. Life. Something big. She kept herself from pulling back. Down the inside of his forearm she ran her fingertips. And he stayed still. Not breathing. Only when her fingers moved over the heel of his hand, across his palm, and along his long fingers did he move, the tiniest bit, like he'd thought she might hold his hand. But her fingers dropped away, and he didn't try to catch her hand. ****

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That night she heard him again, creeping over the creaking floor, coaxing the rusty latch from its catch. The image of him flexing into his hand in that surge and ebb of yellow light, of him sinking into darkness, the sound of his sobs singed her cheeks with shame, for following, full of hate and accusations, for watching through it all, long after she knew he hadn't gone to sell her out. But there was still a pull, half fear, half want, tugging at her, coaxing her back into the woods. She fought it. Stayed. Heard him return thirty or forty minutes later. The next morning, after they'd eaten, she stared past her dirty plate, past his, watched his eyes move across the words printed on the yellow-brown pages of his book. Then they flashed up, caught her stare. He didn't smile, exactly, but his mouth softened. “Have you ever...” He waited in silence for her to ask her question. “Have you ever had a lover?” In the long, dark quiet she waited for his answer. “My whole life—at least as long as I can remember—no one has ever really touched me. I've never just held someone. And all the times I've touched someone, it's never been their choice. Not really.” **** They were nearly out of food. The canned goods that had sat on the shelves at the grocery down the road would be a gamble at best, after all these years. And the citizens of that little oasis in the middle of nowhere hadn't thought to leave them an apple tree or carrot patch, the way the farmers had. So Gareth trekked into town.

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“Be careful,” she warned before he left. “I will.” “I don't just mean... On your own like this, you know you're vulnerable, too.” Men without money, men who needed more sport than a sex hotel or a pillory offered hunted strays. Men. In pairs, in threes and fours they hunted the drifters. Men who found life among the people of the towns so unbearable that they risked living outside the safety of their borders. “I know.” He smiled. “I'll be careful. For both of us.” When he was out of sight, she gathered her things and set out for the woods. She'd gone, promising herself it wasn't because she didn't trust him, that it wasn't images of him talking to the men in town, telling them where she was, that drove her out of their little nest in the ghost hotel. It was just that, this way, if someone followed him back, she'd see. Or if they figured out who he was, if they beat him, tortured him, forced him to lead them to her, she was saving herself from his weakness—the weakness they all shared, in the end. Saving him from hurting her, when he meant to help. Now that she was out of the hotel, away from him, among the tall trees with their fluttering golds and crimsons, there was a pull, an urge to move. To go. To sling her pack onto her back, to take her bearings, to leave him and find the others. But it was too soon. Waiting there, waiting here, tactically it made no difference. But she told herself it was too soon. So, she set her back at the base of an old oak, and settled in. Just before sunset he emerged from the woods on the other side of the field. Alone. Unfollowed. ****

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“Gareth.” He turned his gaze to her, and she almost lost her courage. But she willed her voice. “You don't have to be so careful. Never to touch me,” she finally managed, her voice evened by effort. His face stayed bust-like for a few seconds, then a smile bent one corner of his mouth. “Alright.” Until two days later, it was like she'd never said anything. Even when there might have been some accidental, incidental contact, his body would bend or drift away, as if they were mutually repelling magnets, and they never touched. But then late one afternoon, she was standing by the window, watching three crows hopping and flapping and cawing and tearing at something out in the yard. Gareth came up beside her. He just stood beside her, gazing out at the twilit world, like her. He was quiet. She was quiet. Having him near, lately, made her feel strange. Physical sensations in her chest, in her gut, that she'd never felt before, except when she'd imagined a love like her parents' love and dreamed of a first, future lover before she'd been turned out into the world of men, and those few, early minutes with her husband, before he'd hurt her. And that time Artel had kissed her. The feelings gave her a strange urge to touch Artel. To move closer to him. Two or three times she had even imagined, for a few seconds, what it would be like to let Artel have her. Then a flood of sickening rage would crash over her. An objectless rage that made her think of a tired child that cries and screams and shakes despite being fed and warm.

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Now his look was on her and she turned. Watched his hand float toward her, found his eyes searching her face. She waited. The tip of his index finger touched her shoulder, just over the blade. Her brand. She forced her body to be still. Her heart hammered so hard and fast her chest hurt. “The day they brought you to me. I watched from my room. What they did to you down in the courtyard when they brought you in. They were so, so hard on you. Not just the warped ones that always get off on being as vicious as they can be. The whole pack. While I watched, I wondered what had them so riled. Later, before they brought you up, I heard men talking in the hall. Heard what you'd done. Then, in our room—I don't know how you could even stand—you turned to walk to the shower. And I saw this.” His finger slipped under the strap of her tank and traced the ring of scarred flesh. Traced the encircled S within. Still. Stay still. “All my pity drained away. I was in awe of you.” His finger left the brand. Left her body. She took a breath. “And I still am.” **** She waited for days, until he went to the woods again. After, when he'd crept up the stairs and gently shut the door to his room, she went to him. She gave his door two soft knocks, and went in. He was awake, reading by the light of his candle. Breathing hard, he fixed his gray eyes on her. Watched her come toward the bed.

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She took his book from him and set it on the table beside the candle. “Roll onto your side. Face the window.” She wondered at his look of sad horror until he said, “Nix. I wasn't doing anything out there. Nothing to betray you.” She laughed. Not at him. At them. “Gareth. I'm not here to shoot you. Do you see a gun? Or a knife?” She put her arms out in a 'T' and turned three-sixty. Her tank and panties didn't offer many places to hide a weapon. In the warm light of the candle it was hard to tell, but Gareth may have blushed before he smiled and rolled onto his side. She blew out the candle. For a minute, she just stood there in the dark. She felt weighted down, like a small boat that's taken on water, that can't resist sinking, finally, below the surface. Down, down, away from light, through all that cold water, down to the murky sands where fish have no eyes. He stayed still and quiet, even when she dragged her fear to the edge of the bed, and sat. Even when she lifted her feet from the floor, pulled the covers over them both, and lied down beside him. Even when she turned onto her side, slid against him, molded her body against his, and put her arms around him. The only movement she felt from him was the swell and shrink of his back as he breathed, rapidly at first, then slower, slower, until she could feel the faint trembling of his body. When she crept away in the morning, he didn't stir. Later he found her in the kitchen. With an amused smile: “I think maybe I had a strange dream last night.”

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“I hope it didn't cost you a good night's sleep.” “Maybe a little. But it was worth it. It was a nice dream.” That night she went to him again. Even though he hadn't been to the woods. After she knocked, as she came near, Gareth gave her a warm, lingering smile, then rolled onto his side. Turned his back on her. Even though he couldn't see it, she smiled. When she'd blown out the candle, slid under the covers, and put her arms around him, there was a long, still silence between them. Then he whispered, “You like it, too. You don't do it just for me.” “Last night, when I came up, maybe. But not tonight. I liked how it felt.” “Me too. I've never felt this good. Not since I was a kid.” She liked how his hair smelled, the way it tickled her nose and cheek. And the warmth their two bodies made in the pocket of air under the covers. And the feel of his skin against hers. His smell, his heat, the feel of him, she'd dreaded it all, but come anyway. Strange, now, how it stirred that low, sweet, heaviness in her belly, how that feeling was bigger than the tightness in her gut that stretched taut through all her limbs. That strain she always felt when there was a man close. When anyone touched her. If he'd invited her to go upstairs with him the next night, she wouldn't have gone. But he just said “good night” the way he always had. As if he expected nothing. So she went up again. This time, while he lied still in her arms, she brought her hand up, and touched the soft waves of his dark hair, first just noticing how a curl would curve against her finger, as if it would hold her there, then letting her fingertips sink into that soft, yielding warmth, tracing lines and curves over his scalp.

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The next day she said, “In bed, it's good that you don't touch me. Are you still glad I come?” He smiled. “Yes.” “When we're like we are now, not in bed, you can touch me, if you want to.” He smiled again. “There are lots of times when I want to. I don't, because... I don't want to scare you. Or hurt you.” “You won't.” It was strange to see that rough, scarred face, with those cynical gray eyes, go shy and sheepish. Holding her gaze, he reached out and brushed the back of a finger lightly over her hand, coaxed her fingers away from her forearm, slid his palm under hers. Later, when he told her good-night, she asked, “Should I come up with you?” He smiled. There was a pause. “Give me ten minutes.” She smiled. Laughed. “Don't do that, tonight.” Quiet, serious, he answered, “Alright.” They climbed the creaking stairs together. She watched him get out of his jacket and shirt and socks and pants, and he got in bed and turned to the window while she stripped down to her tank and underwear. Why was she? To test herself? Hurt herself? Console him? She could back out. Turn and leave. Sleep alone. Or stay, but only like before. Press herself to his back. Comb her fingers into his hair. Breathe him in. Sleep in his still warmth.

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Heart thumping hard, she turned back the covers and slid under. The sheets were cold against her skin, but even across the empty inches of air she felt his heat. With the tips of her fingers she touched his bare back, ran her touch over his skin, smooth and warm. By the candle's light, just behind his right shoulder she could see the white weal, heavy and bunched at the center, tapered and smooth at the ends. She feathered her finger up and over, and with a gentle pull, coaxed him to turn toward her. Beneath her the mattress creaked and shifted as he lifted and turned his body toward her and settled down on his side. Strange, eye-to-eye. They'd been this close. In bed. Out of it. In bed, it was always his back. Out there, he had almost a foot on her. No part of them was touching. “Are you hard?” Long, silent seconds. Then, “Yes.” The words were in her mouth, but they wouldn't be born. “It doesn't matter, Nix. All I want is this. You, close. Or, if you want to put your arms around me.” “Give me your hand.” He put his hand in hers. Warm. Large. Soft, except he already had calluses on some of his fingers from playing the guitar. She coaxed his hand down between them, molded his palm and fingers over his erection. “I'll hold you. You can put your arm around me, too,” she said. “Nix. I don't need to.”

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“I want us to.” “You want to lie here with me while I...” To reassure, she gave him a smile. “I don't want to if you'll think it's scary. Or ugly,” he said. “I won't.” “I can put my arm around you?” “Yes.” “Is this alright?” He threaded his hand, his arm through the hollow between her neck and the bed, and his hand lit lightly on her bare shoulder. She smiled. “Yes.” “Do you want the light out?” “No. Do you?” “No.” They left the candle burning. For a long time he was still, just looking at her, until she brought one hand up and touched his face. Combed her fingertips through the dark waves framing it. Traced the shape of his ear. His lips. Looking startled, almost afraid, he moved his hand a little, rocking it across the hard flesh bulging under the gray cotton underwear. Under her hands she could feel him straining. Trembling. She gave him a smile. Touched a light kiss to his forehead. Hurled by a rough wind, rain spattered against the window, a staccato rhythm cascading and fading in arrhythmic bursts following, matching, slipping back and racing

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ahead of Gareth's frantic breaths, the wax and wane of his tense quivering, his body going lax. She kissed his shoulder. Bared his sex. Gazed at it a moment, then coaxed his hand back, watched his fingers curve over, feather up, slide down. She'd touched him so roughly, that day in the kitchen. The way he touched surprised. Slow. Soft. Fingertips brushing here, there, differently. She'd always thought of that part of a man, treated that part of a man like a simple thing. An undifferentiated pole of flesh. Watching Gareth's fingers move over that upturned spine, that flared ridge, that ripe crown, she wondered if his was unique. No cock had ever looked that way, before. When he finished, panting, shuddering, she put her arms around him, pulled him close. Held him through all his trembling. Held his gaze when he looked up and met her eyes. The next night, after he'd lain in her arms and shuddered and spilled his sap, when he'd turned on his side, toward the window again, and she'd nestled in behind him, trailing touch over his bare arm, he asked her, “Nix. Do you ever...” “No.” “And that pleasure. What I feel when...” “I've felt it. But not in a long time. Not since I was a wife. My first few months out of the girls' facility.” “Maybe you could feel it again. With time.” “Maybe. I'm not sure I want to.” He turned to her and said, “I like feeling it with you. Even if it's me, making it happen. When it happens I feel small. Weak. And I like giving up my strength with you.”

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He gave her one of his small smiles, which made him look sad. “I can see why you wouldn't want that.” They were quiet for a while. “Gareth.” He stayed silent. Just smiled. “In a few weeks, there's a rendezvous. I'll be leaving in the morning. Going to rejoin the others.” His smile faded, then came back altered. “Alright.” “If you want, I'll bring you.” Now his smile faded completely. “You're sure.” “If I weren't sure, I wouldn't ask you.” “Then I'll go with you.”

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CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

In the morning they packed weapons and supplies and set out into the early, slanting light. East. Always east. The gray drizzle hissed overhead on the leaves that hadn't fallen yet, and underfoot, on the carpet of yellow and red. Before the first hour had passed, their clothes were wet and heavy. Gareth said, “Tonight, I can get us a couple horses.” “We're better off on foot. Horses are too visible. For a start, stealing them gets everyone on the lookout. They're easy to track. And half the time, there's nowhere to hide them at night. We have plenty of time to make our rendezvous.” “Your knee's holding up alright?” “Fine. We'll only do half a day's travel today.” He laughed. “Yes, General.” Heat rose and tightened her chest. She'd let him come along. To be nice. Maybe he could fight. Shoot. But she was the one who'd been fighting this guerrilla war for the last fifteen years. Fuck if she was going to take orders from him. He was still smiling, walking beside her, keeping her pace. When he felt her gaze and glanced over, his gray eyes were light two shimmering, sun-lit pools. That tight heat dissipated. She laughed. “I'm bossy. I know. I'm used to working alone, and leading. I'm not used to consulting much.”

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Smiling, he said, “Most people try to make it seem like everyone gets a say. Then they just do it their way, anyway. Boss me around all you like. This is your thing. Your op. I don't know how to fight, the way you fight. And I've never lived, needing to hide.” But Gareth, who'd crisscrossed a vast expanse of terrain all the years she'd been plodding her way east, knew the area better than she did. They only had to make it past one large town, its one-time population of twenty thousand, spared worse carnage thanks to its remoteness from any large city, merely whittled, in the dying, to a few thousand. In the decades since, that population had nearly doubled, as travelers fleeing more decimated cities and towns found the relatively populous berg comforting. But, for the first few days' travels, once they slipped past the village fifteen miles east of their ghost town hotel, they would be fairly safe traversing country that was rural and sparsely populated, even before the dying. Miles of empty land and abandoned structures would give them easy passage and plenty of spots to rest where the odds were against discovery. By the time the sun was at its zenith, the rain had stopped and the clouds had cleared, leaving everything clean and dewy and brightly lit where the tall trees yielded to the sun, letting it pass to the life below. Nix and Gareth clung, always, to the edge of the woods, where they could retreat at the first sound of hoof beats. Beyond that veil of trees, though, Nix spotted a small lake, still, smooth, a perfect reflection of the blue sky above and the greens of the pines and the yellows and reds of the maples and oaks and the scrubby grasses fringing its border. So often she'd seen something like this, still, peaceful, a beauty that almost hurt her eyes, her chest, and wished that it were the

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whole world. That people, men and everything they'd made would vanish, and she could live out her life alone among the trees and stones and grass and birds. They filled their canteens and returned to the shelter of the forest, going on until the sun was at their backs and the nearest town was a good twenty miles behind them. When one of the hundreds of farms scattered through that region came into sight, Gareth went on alone. Nix crept a little deeper into the woods and settled onto the trunk of a fallen tree, lifting her foot into the fork of a branch straining toward the sky as if the dead oak's leaves could still drink the nourishment of the sun's light. Already Gareth was just a dark spot against a white rectangle in the distance. Twenty minutes later, he reappeared, and she watched that dark smudge grow and resolve into a man. Before he got close enough to see her there in the stretching afternoon shadows, she lifted her stiffening leg from the prop and walked to meet him nearer the edge of the woods. “All clear,” he said. The barn was so dilapidated, boards long stripped of any paint rotting away and falling down to make houses for worms and beetles and pill bugs, that it was easy to look through from one side, and see the fields and the woods beyond on the other, and if she turned her gaze upward, she could see blue sky through the holes rust had eaten through the tin roof. Between that structure and the house was a graveyard of trucks, tractors and back-hoes, their rusted corpses sunk toward the earth on their lumpy beds of exhausted tires. The house didn't look much better than the barn and the machines. But it was good, going into a strange place while the sun was still up. Even after all these years, she could never sleep in a place she hadn't seen in daylight. It was like being a little girl

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again, never sure there wasn't a monster under the bed, in the closet, behind some forgotten door. Even though Gareth had gone through already, she had to check it all out herself, from the root cellar up to the attic before she could relax enough to sit down. Just about every place has a hidden treasure or two. Like the linens and toilet paper, at the ghost town hotel. Here it was an old Coleman stove and a couple full bottles of propane. Never daring to light a real fire and risk luring curious guards and bounty hunters with the smoke, the find meant a rare, hot meal. When they'd eaten, they watched the sunset from the back porch. “Do you ever wonder about your mother?” she asked him. “Probably every day.” “It must be strange, not knowing what happened to a parent.” “I know what happened to her,” Gareth said. “She died giving birth to me.” “How do you know?” “My father told me.” “And after everything, you believe him?” Gareth turned away from the sunset. Gave her a smile. “My dad wasn't a very honest person. I mean, it's not that I caught him in a lot of lies, but he was always very hidden. All my life, the whole time he was alive, I was the only person he ever allowed to know him. And even with me, he didn't talk much about the past. But I know, I mean, I truly believe he loved her.” “Maybe. But even if he'd wanted to keep her, for the three of you to be a family, he wouldn't have had a choice.” Gareth just nodded, and turned back to the purpling sky.

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“Something I haven't asked you, yet,” he said, then. “No. I don't bleed.” “You're glad.” “If I did, if I'd ever been pregnant, I'd have killed myself at the first chance.” “Yeah.” His graveled voice was so soft she almost hadn't heard him. “I don't know how they survive it. Having their babies taken.” “What do you know about it? Mothers and their babies?” “Nothing, I guess. Just what I've read. Made up stories. Not about this life, but before the dying. They make you feel it, how deep that love is. How bad a mother or father hurts, when they lose a child.” Nix told him, “It's terrible to see. A mother after her baby's been taken. We see them a lot. They're ready to risk just about anything, when that's happened to them, so that's when a lot of them run away. Come to the resistance. Especially when it's a girl that's been taken. Because all the mother can think about, the dream that haunts them every night and even all day, is their baby girl suffering everything they've suffered. Being sold. Raped. Going through the agony of childbirth, then having that one time of real happiness, that year of holding her child, nursing it, singing to it. Then the shock, the terror of waking one morning to find it gone. Or having it wrenched from her arms and taken away. “And I've seen...” “What, Nix?” “I've seen women kill their own babies.” Gareth went pale, his gray eyes cold and hard, like two stones.

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“They must...everything that's been done to them, it must make them crazy,” he breathed. “No. They weren't crazy when they did it, the women I've known.” “Nix, how—“ “They just knew. If that little baby lived to grow up, that her life would be just suffering. Or, with the baby boys, those mothers couldn't live with the idea of raising a son, knowing sooner or later they'd be found, caught, that he'd be taken away, raised by men. Raised to do the things men do to us. Those mothers couldn't stand looking at those little babies, loving them, knowing what they would become.” “But the mothers, they'd run away,” Gareth said. “They were free. Their children were free.” “Yes. But it's a lot easier to get free than to stay free. There are plenty of horror stories, women who've lived off the books with their children for a year, five years, ten, then been caught. Watched a pack of men drag their little girl away. If you ever find a success story, a girl who's grown up with her mother, off the books, and never been sold, never been raped, please tell me about her. I could use the inspiration.” They spent the night together, her curled up behind him, breathing in the scent of his hair, his skin, feeling his warmth, how his body moved as he breathed while he slept. At first light, they rose and ate and set out again, faces to the sun. That night they holed up in yet another farmhouse, forty miles further east, forty miles nearer their destination. Gareth never asked where or what it was. Just like he never asked her to touch him or kiss him or sleep in his bed. He only smiled and accepted what she offered.

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In the middle of the night, the screech of an owl woke her. The heavy shape of a pale man leaning over her tore a sound from her throat, or maybe it was the owl's screech again. Gareth. Just Gareth, paled by the moon, propped on his elbow, watching her. Watching her tears drip into the sweat trickling over her scalp. “You're alright,” he whispered, finding her hand under the blanket, weaving their fingers together, squeezing. Whose scream? Not her own. The girl with blue eyes. Gareth said, “You were dreaming.” The owl shrieked again. She let Gareth put his arms around her, hold her while she closed her eyes. It was easy to push away the pictures while she was awake. She lay there in that warm embrace, silently asking the girl with blue eyes to please stay out of her dreams. **** “Get undressed.” Without asking if she would take her clothes off, too, he unlaced his boots and stripped out of his things. And then he stood still, his gray eyes steady, watching her look. She'd never seen him naked before. She'd hardly seen any men naked. They seldom bothered to go to the trouble. Her husband had, but usually in the dark. Not hard yet. Balls and cock hanging, red-brown and heavy, a ripe cluster. She almost wanted to touch. There, or along his hip, along that shadowed ridge between thigh and body, trace that river of blood, that heavy vein that surged up from smooth skin just above the thatch of dark curls and coursed up, gray-blue, toward his navel. Or

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all those shaded valleys merging at the corners of those plateaus of muscle all up his belly. His tawny nipples crinkled in the chill air. That moved her, for some reason. “Sit down.” She meant it as an invitation, but heard it come out sounding like one of her orders. But he smiled and lowered himself into the armchair she'd gestured to. His gray eyes turned up, following her while she stepped near, loomed above looking down at him, naked, his cock swelling a little, slinking up from his thigh, toward his belly. She planted her knees outside his thighs, lowered herself onto his lap. Watched his chest rise and fall and rise and fall. “I like your smell,” she sighed. “I've never liked a man's smell, before.” He smiled. “I'm glad. I like your smell, too.” “Show me again,” she said, “how small, how weak you can be.” She cradled his head on her shoulder, held him to her while he worked his hand over his stiff cock, panting, whimpering, flexing under her, holding onto her, almost clinging as he shuddered and groaned. After, when his breathing calmed, when his trembling stilled, when he opened his eyes and lifted his head from her shoulder to look at her, and she saw how startled, how vulnerable he let himself be with her, she leaned forward and touched his lips with hers. He stayed still. Soft. For a few brief seconds, she felt the wet warmth of his mouth. Tasted him. Then she slipped away. Into the woods. The still, dark night. A half moon and a million, million stars showed her the trees and the grass and, when she looked back, the old farmhouse,

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weather-bleached and pale. Step by step, the anxious dread and the warm, heavy want drained away, and she felt light again. Able to breathe again. When she went back inside, she stripped down to her tank and underwear and got under his blanket. Curved her arm over him. Found his hand and laced their fingers together. **** “There are rules. You need to learn them, before we meet up with the others.” “Alright.” The terrain here was tougher than it had been. Uphill, rocky in patches, dense with tangles of roots and shrubby undergrowth in other spots. “First, about the girls,” Nix said. “We've got somewhere safe to take them. But it's a trek. We might not make it. If they're caught, they'll be treated as stolen. Rehabbed. It's important they stay virgins. They have a better chance, that way, of getting an easier placement. If you fuck one of them, and we're caught, instead of being sold to a husband, she'll end up in a sex hotel. So the girls are off limits.” “Alright.” “Another thing, we talked about before. But if you're going to come with me, you have to take it seriously.” “Okay.” “If you're caught with me, or with us, you have to make them believe you're on their side. If it's just the two of us, it's easy. You were just having a little fun before you took me in.” Stony silence.

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“Aright?” “No.” He didn't say it defiantly. Didn't sound smug. More like scared. Hurt. “Gareth. If you come with me, you have to be ready to do hard things. We all make sacrifices. We make them because the end goal is worth it. Peace, safety from harm is easy to find.” She took a breath. Pulled it together. “Some women, they want that more than anything. Once they've had a taste of freedom, of belonging to themselves, the most important thing in the world, for them, is staying free. Never being owned. Never being forced. Those women, we know what they want from us, if the bounty hunters or the guards show up. If we can't win. “If the thing I cared about most was dying free, never having to endure some man holding me down and all the rest, I could have found some isolated spot and spent my life at peace. Even if I'd stuck with the resistance, if my top priority was making sure they couldn't hurt me, I would have used my gun to end my life, the other day. And now, instead of what I'm asking you, I'd be giving you orders to kill me, if we're caught. But I won't end my life until I'm too old, or sick, or injured to fight any more. “A long time ago, I knew that for me, there's no happiness to cling to. I don't fight for my safety, for my freedom. All I care about, all I fight for, is to break their system. Kill the men. Free the women. One by one, for now. Until we can do more.” They went on for a while in silence. She let him process. He wasn't like her. Like them. How could he understand? “If you're too weak to do it, too afraid, then they'll probably kill you. But first, they'll probably make you rape me, anyway. That's really a favorite, with them. Making men

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rape the women they care for. Be glad you're not off the books with a daughter. And they'll probably rape you. Probably cut pieces off of you. And, with you dead, I'll end up at the pillory, and then I'll be meat for the guards again. I'm branded. The luxury of the sex hotels isn't for me, anymore. “So, if you're going to come with me, I need to know you can do that.” He was silent for a long time before he breathed out a raspy, “I don't know.” She said, “You said you've done it before. Done your part at brandings. A way to spot the worst of them. Punish them. It's no different.” “You can't say that. Not after...” “What?” “How we've been. Close. Together.” “What? You can't do to me what you've done to other women, now? Because you know me?” “I don't just know you, Nix. I—.” “Don't.” For a minute she was too angry to speak. Her rage used up all her air. When she could breathe again she said, “You told me you know why they guards were so rough with me, that day we met.” “Yes.” “Those women. They were mother and daughter. I'd ended up with them by accident. Just like everything's by accident. Like the way I stumbled into the resistance. Like the guards giving me to you that day. I was on the move, and wandered into their hideout.

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“The girl was fourteen. A bleeder. She'd lived her whole life off the books. Her mother confessed to me, once, that she'd almost killed her when she was born, seeing it was girl, knowing what she'd go through. Jordan was Ella's second. So she'd been through it all. Given birth to that first child, a baby boy, loved and nursed it through its first year, then woken up one day and found him gone. She never even saw her husband again. Just a pair of guards who dragged her out of her room, away from the empty cradle, and dumped her in an isolation cell for a week before she was delivered to her next husband. When she realized she was pregnant again, she ran away. Almost starved to death. But found a spot, holed up, made it through the pregnancy, through delivery. She told me she was still sorry, sometimes, that she hadn't killed Jordan that night. That she was ashamed she hadn't, that it was selfishness, keeping her, knowing what she'd probably suffer. “But they'd made it, all those years. I'd never met one, before. A woman who'd never been in the system. “And Jordan was nothing like any woman, any girl, I've ever known. So light. Nothing dark under her smile or in her eyes. She was quiet, shy from living in isolation all her life with no one but her mother around, but there was no fear in her. No hate. “One time Ella asked me, if I had a daughter, would I rather see her die, or join the resistance. It surprised me, how hard it was for me to answer. For me, it's always been simple. Not even a choice. But looking at Jordan, so easy, so happy in her tiny world, the thought of her enduring things I'd been through made me feel sick. And thinking about what it had made me, all the things they'd done to me, all the things I'd done, what I've seen, what I know, when I thought about Jordan becoming like me, it

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was like imagining someone opening her up and cutting out her guts. Chopping off pieces of her. Compared with her, I felt so broken. Emptied out. Cut apart. “I told Ella the truth. That I think all of us have a duty to fight. That when one of us hides to keep ourself safe, or commits suicide, it hurts the resistance. It means the men, their society, their system has one less enemy. One less person to slow them down. Kill them off. That every woman who hides or kills herself lets them get away with the raping, with the torture. With forced impregnation and baby stealing. But would I wish my life on my own child? Would I wish it on Jordan, who smiled every time one of us looked at her? No. “I told Ella I could get her and Jordan to a safe place. Not a damp basement or a drafty attic in some abandoned house in the middle of nowhere. A place with people. Where Jordan could have a life. But it meant travel. Discipline. She thought Jordan could do it. That she could do it, keep an eye on her, keep her in line. “Jordan was so curious, though, so eager, finally out of that small, hidden world where her mother had kept her for as long as she could remember. Ella and I were asleep one night. Jordan went out on her own. They spotted her. Followed her back. We managed to get out in time, get away. But they had our scent. Trailed us for days. Ella was going crazy. Sure we'd be caught. She had her own gun, but she'd never had to use it. I gave her some training, but she wouldn't let me teach Jordan anything. Didn't want to kill off that innocence. Turn that gentle girl hard, I guess. Even though it meant leaving her defenseless. “But Jordan wasn't stupid. Reckless, sure, but not dumb. When her mother left her alone with me, she told me how much she understood. Most of it, really, even if she

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hadn't seen anything first-hand. And she wanted to know how to take care of herself. Take care of her mother. So I showed her how to use a gun, how to use a knife. How to use her fists and feet. “And for days, the men tracked us, Ella falling apart more every hour. When she thought Jordan was asleep or out of earshot, she'd tell me, she knew they'd get us. She was sure. I thought our chances were all right. Told her that even if they really got to us, cornered us, half the time, a situation like that, I got away. Tried my best to convince her not to give up hoping. Me, dispensing morale.” Nix laughed, a dark, hollow laugh. “Finally, they did really corner us. Got us into a ravine, hounded us until we were trapped, cliffs above us on three sides, the men closing in from the fourth. There was a cave, though. It was all we could do, hope it let out somewhere else. So we went in. It went deep, twisted and turned, and we crawled along, hoping every time we found a bend in the tunnel that we'd see daylight. But all we found was a dead end. “I left them there at the end of the cave, told Ella I'd do my best to kill the men off as they came. I had a pretty good idea there were seven of them after us. Figured if I set up well, I'd have chance. I took cover behind a big outcropping of rock with a long, straight approach from the direction of the cave mouth, and sat there in the perfect dark, and waited. They were easy to spot with their flashlights. It took watching my bullets knock the first three down before the others got smart and turned their lights off. But I still had the cover, and they had nowhere to go. And even then, they didn't fire a shot. So determined not to kill what could be caught and fucked and sold. In the end, I got all seven. Finished off the wounded when I thought it was safe to come out from behind the

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rock. Slit their throats to save bullets. Took their guns. All like usual. Then I went back to them, to Ella and Jordan. “They were crouched in a little nook, huddled into the rock like maybe they hoped they were invisible, camouflaged there, like the men would look at Ella's back, hunched over where she was wrapped around Jordan, and be tricked into thinking they were just another lump of rock. “I didn't want to say anything. If we were silent, we'd hear if any more were coming. I touched Ella's shoulder. She just flinched, didn't even turn her head to see who it was. So I whispered her name. “She started sobbing. I made myself stroke her back, her hair. Trying to calm her. Then she straightened up a little and looked at me. “There was blood everywhere. Everywhere. It took me a minute. Thought maybe her gun had gone off by accident. But that wasn't it. “Jordan was still crumpled on the ground under Ella. Still. Dead still. I asked Ella what she'd done. She said now she knew for sure, they'd never hurt her little girl. “I thought maybe there was a chance. I got Ella out of the way. Laid Jordon on her back. Her mother had cut her throat. A deep, determined, final cut. Jordan was dead. “Then Ella said, 'Kill me.' She said, 'Please.' Said, 'I killed my little girl. Please. Please. I don't want to live.'” Nix made sure she had Gareth's eyes. “I did it. I cut her throat. Held her while she died, the way she'd held Jordan. Then laid her down by her daughter.

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“I didn't even hear the guards coming. I didn't even get a shot off. After all that, two guys took me down and had me cuffed before I knew what was happening. And they and their buddies spent the next night and day punishing me for depriving them of two breeders.” ”You feel guilty.” Nix laughed. “Guilty? For killing Ella? No. Giving her death when she asked for it, letting her decide that one thing about her life was the very least she was owed. I'm glad I did it. Relieved I wasn't too weak to do it when she asked.” “It's hard to imagine you weak,” Gareth said. “No. It isn't.” She told him, “A long time ago, maybe a year after I'd first gotten involved in the resistance, I knew a woman. Had a friend. Anne. “She was like me. Young. Angry. Dying to kill as many men as she could. But she made me promise her, made all of us promise her, if things ever went bad, not to let them capture her. She wanted to die rather than let even one man rape her again. “That was how we were different from each other, me and Anne. My body belongs to me, it's mine, but it isn't me. They fuck my body. They don't fuck me. But Anne, for her, she told me once that when the men were on top of her, raping her, they were chewing up her soul. “When we were caught, it was just the two of us. And I had the chance. Could have done it for her. She begged me. Sobbing, hysterical as the men closed in. We were out of bullets and she begged me to use my knife. But I couldn't. Too weak. Too scared to end the life of this woman who was my friend.

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“So they got her. I watched five men rape her at the branding. Watched them drag her off to the sex hotel after. The whole time, from the minute they cuffed her to the platform, before the first man had even gotten between her legs, she never stopped screaming. I've never heard anything like it, the way Anne screamed as they raped her. Like they were tearing the flesh off her body.” Nix looked at Gareth, his gray eyes like fractured ice, shattered and melting. “You understand what I'm saying.” “I think so.” “Love makes people vulnerable. It makes us weak. I couldn't do that to Anna. Couldn't do it for her. It was selfish of me. For her, death would have been better. “And for a while I thought Jordan's mother had made the hardest sacrifice. Killed what she loved most, more than her self, what she'd spent half her life nurturing, risking everything to keep safe. But Ella was weak, in killing. Just like I was weak, not killing. For Ella, it was easier to end Jordan's life than to live with the fear she'd be hurt the way Ella had been hurt. She didn't even give Jordan a chance to understand, to decide for herself. “I need you strong. Selfless. I'm asking you to make a sacrifice. For me. “This one sacrifice buys a lot,” she said after a while. “If you let them see you raping me, if you tie me down and offer them a turn, you live. That's not selfishness, or cowardice. If you live, you might get the chance to kill them, to get me out. “With me, it's easy. I won't even be there. I know, by now, how to leave my body. The only thing I can't bear, now, is to lose my freedom. Not to be able to fight.” Artel was silent.

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“It's just like with Dorset. Just like on that field, when you put the gun in my mouth. You play a part. When it's over, you've helped me. Us. The movement.” He nodded stiffly. “If we're with the others, it's harder. You, the other men, you have to convince the guards that you infiltrated. Give your details from your old unit. Hopefully there won't be anyone who knows you or your squad. “If we're with the others, the hardest thing, there, is the girls. They're valuable, so the guards shouldn't do anything to them. Probably won't make you do anything to them. But their discipline isn't that good. They don't always follow their own rules. If that happens, you just have to remember, in the long run, you're helping them. Even in the short term. Seeing men in the movement, feeling betrayed, it brings out the worst in the guards. The bounty hunters. They'll take it easier on everyone if they believe you're on their side. Looking pale and sick, Artel nodded again. “Alright. That's enough for now. We can go over everything else in the next few days.” **** At sunrise they set out, as always, to the east. By late morning they'd descended into a valley, into a thick, pale mist that flooded between the yellow leaves overhead and touched their fallen, frost-glazed sisters underfoot. As far as she could see, there was only the white fog, the white snow, the yellow leaves above and below, and narrowing, receding, sleek black trunks stretching between the twins, carpet and canopy, the same sunny yellow.

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They stopped to eat and rest, retrieving their food before sitting down on their packs. Before he lifted a bite to his mouth, Nix touched Gareth's hand. “Are you cold? Now that we're sitting still?” she asked. “No.” “Are you very hungry?” He set down his hunk of dried meat. “Food can wait.” It was easier, out in the open, the mist settling in her hair, the chill caressing her cheeks and neck, feeling the heat of his skin under her fingertips, the brush of his lips against hers, the wet warmth of his mouth. The thing coiling through her gut never wound as tight. This time she gave in to it, his kiss, her want, that sweet heavy feeling pooling in her belly. “You never ask me for anything,” she said after their kiss. “That's not true. I asked you for this.” “If you weren't afraid of hurting me, of scaring me, what would you want right now?” He looked at her for a while before he answered, “I'd ask to hold you.” When she stood, he rose to face her. The frosted leaves crunched under her foot as she stepped toward him. She looked up, and he smiled, then stood still as she moved in a little closer, pressed herself to him, put her arms around him. After a few seconds she felt a light pressure, his hands on her back. Then his arms circled behind her, just barely holding her. He only shrank that circle, pulled her a little closer when she hugged him tight and nestled against his broad, hard chest.

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There was a little thrill of fear, but that anxious coiling in her gut was drowned under a wave, warm and filling. Not that sweet heaviness, that longing that always settled, eventually, in her sex. This was a sort of euphoria, a swelling happiness. It reminded her of being a child, held by her mother. His embrace dissolved. “What's wrong?” He said, “You're shaking.” “Hold me tighter.” His arms went around her again, a tight embrace, pulling her against him, holding her there. There was an ache in her chest, as if she were on her back and there was too much weight on her, but it was a happy weight, grounding her. He felt warm and solid. Safe. And she thought maybe that feeling, being in his arms, that warm swelling grounded feeling was love. Not love between them. Not her loving him. Just love, itself, finding its way into her for the first time since her mother had died. At the end of the day's hike, when they'd found a place and made their nest, Gareth said, “I want to show you something.” From his pack he extracted a clear plastic pouch, and from the pouch he drew a rectangle of yellowed paper. He handled it carefully, as if he were afraid it would tear or crumble, unfolding it from itself until it became two separate pieces of paper. He laid them on the floor next to the candle, side by side. One had a drawing of a scene, a woman with a baby and a man with a guitar. The man with the guitar and the woman with the baby were both laughing. A happy family.

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The other was covered in heavy scrawl. It was hard to make out the words. “He was drunk when he wrote it. I found him passed out with a bottle and this letter one night, not long after that night at the sex hotel. Read it.” The first two words were easy. Dear Eva. After that, she had to pick through, word by word, or letter by letter, to decipher what had been written. What did I do? I was so scared, when I found out you were dead. They were going to take him away from me. I was sure. And it wasn't fair. I loved him as much as them. I didn't even know I could love anything that much. I loved you, too. But you were dead. I never would have taken him from you. I swear I wouldn't. But you were dead and I was so scared. I would have died if they'd taken him away. And I meant to be a good daddy. But now I think I made a bad mistake. All that love, he could have had. And I took him from it. And even though the Major and John would have been so mad, I would have taken him back right away if I'd figured it out sooner, how bad things were outside. I was so scared of John coming after me, though, I never stopped to really look around. We kept so much to ourselves; by the time I understood, it was too late. Oh, god, Eva. I'm so sorry. What have I done to our son? From your heaven, Eva, I hope you weren't looking down, I hope you didn't see. The thing I made him do. But teaching a boy to be kind, to be good, it'll only get him hurt. So I've taught him to be bad. To keep him safe. The girls, I feel bad for them. But it wouldn't change anything, us not doing it. But it feels so bad, Eva. I don't care, for myself. But what it does to Gareth. I know if you saw, you'd cry. But you'd cry, too, if they branded him and did those things

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to him. God, Eva, it's so awful, here. I took him away from that place where he was loved, and brought him here. All I do now is wish it undone. Wish we'd stayed, where he'd have been safe. Every day I think maybe I'll die. I'll shoot myself, so I don't have to wish that anymore. But I'm so scared that when I die, I'll see you. I don't want to see how much you hate me for what I've done to our son. Nix looked at the drawing again. The laughing man and woman with the baby. “Do you know the place he means? Where he took you from?” she asked. “No. I tried to ask him a couple of times, just asking questions about my mother, where I'd been born. But he'd never talk about any of it. He'd just shrug and say something about 'back east.'” Gareth was quiet for a long time. Then he said, “I think I remember, when I was really little, my dad would talk about her. I don't really remember the exact things he'd say. But I grew up with this image, this idea of her. I know it came from him. This woman, the smartest person Dad had ever known, and strong. Strong-willed, I mean. But kind. I think he talked about her all the time when I was little, and then he stopped. “I remember there were a few times I asked about her and didn't get an answer. He'd shrug, or change the subject. And then one time,” Gareth went quiet again, then finished. “One time he said, 'She's dead. She was a just a woman. What's there to say?’”

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CHAPTER THIRTY

As they went farther and farther east, deeper and deeper through autumn, the air got colder, the ground harder. Sometimes, there were flurries of snow; not enough to slow them, but it worried Gareth. The possibility that they'd get caught miles from anything, that they would freeze to death out there, that the snow would thicken under their boots and make them miss the rendezvous, that a storm would come up, and they would lose their way. But Nix was glad. When the snow kicked up, they were invisible to anyone more than fifteen or twenty feet away. And the dusting of white made everything pretty. Like the forest had been showered with diamonds. She'd seen diamonds when she was young. Her husband had some. Under the snow, even the broken old buildings and rusted out tractors and trucks looked pretty. Clean. Pure. Like there was nothing dirty or ugly anywhere on earth. “What's that?” Now, though the ground and the trees were dusted with fine white powder, the sky was blue and clear. But in the distance, smoke. They kept to the trees, watching, listening. Creeping along, camouflaging themselves under the cloak of shadows woven from denuded trees, they steered themselves wide of the smoke, their guns ready. Every time there was the crunch of snow under her boot Nix's skin went taut and her heart squeezed, but whenever Gareth glanced back she showed him a calm expression. Now and then they'd stop and listen to the silence, reassure themselves that theirs were the only footsteps in those woods.

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There was something strange about the smoke. It didn't roll up in undulating billows. It wasn't an opaque column of charcoal or dove gray. It was a translucent white veil, like fog. But too concentrated in the center of that blue sky. Gareth turned back to her and said, “It isn't smoke. It's steam.” “From what?” “Look over there. See that?” Against the swoop and roll of snow-frosted hills and rocks she noticed the rigid angles. A crisscross of shadows, and above them, a bridge of faded wood. Now that they'd stopped, now that she'd fixed the point of concentration, as she strained her ear, she could make out the sound of running water. While she watched from the cover of trees and shadows, Gareth crossed the white-dusted hills, rising, sinking, and finally disappearing beyond the higher ground. The old anxiety slithered up the backs of her legs and got inside her, coiling around and around her gut, constricting until she thought she'd throw up the chestnuts she'd eaten that morning. Too long. He should have dipped down and risen right back up. If there were men over that hill, if they'd seen him, he'd have to talk. Answer questions. Couldn't leave right away or they'd be suspicious. How long would he be gone? What if someone over there had seen them? What if they were keeping Gareth there with guns and rope? Maybe they were waiting, hidden, watching, to see what she would do? She tried to beat back the idea that he'd give her up to them.

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When his figure rose, dark against the impossible white of the snow under the afternoon sun, she willed her breathing back to normal, promised herself she was safe. They were safe. “It's a hot spring,” he said, almost looking like a little boy again. The way he had with the guitar. Her anxiety fell away. “The spring feeds into the lake.” He was panting, catching his breath after jogging back to her over those hills. “And there's a cave, and the spring comes up in there, too.” His eager grin provoked her to smile. “It feels like eighty degrees in there.” The sun was a good two hours from setting. But they'd been making good time. She figured they were easily a day ahead of schedule. “Well,” she said, helpless to resist mirroring his child-like smile, “how about we call it a day.” “What? And stay here?” “I could stand to bathe. And I could stand for you to bathe.” He laughed. “Just ask, and I'll scrub myself with a handful of snow.” “Alright. Scrub yourself with a handful of snow. I'll be over there in the warm, steamy water.” The thing she didn't like about it was the cave was a dead end. No back door escape. And the image of their footprints in the frost, a trail leading to their one door, kept prodding her belly like a blunt stick. But, god, it was so warm in there. She hadn't

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even known how cold she'd been all day, all the day before, until she felt that moist heat loosening her tight muscles. Along the south wall of the cave, a pool ran for ten or more feet. Dipping a finger in to test, then submerging her hand, she found it not too hot. Even there, the lake water mixed with the subterranean waters. “You go first,” Gareth said. “I'll take first watch.” He settled a few feet inside the mouth of the cave, his back to her and the steaming pool. It was easy, stripping out of her clothes. Standing naked for a minute, just looking at the back of him silhouetted against the afternoon sky. He wouldn't turn around. She knew. Even if he did, it wouldn't scare her, being naked in front of him. He wouldn't be driven by the sight of her naked body to do wrong, to hurt, even to ask something of her, finally. All at once, she knew this about him. Was sure of him. Standing at the edge, feeling the slick, damp rock with her bare feet, she closed her eyes. Wet warmth slinked up the font of her body, clinging to the fine hair on her shins, thighs, her belly and breasts and face. Sheathed in mist, she perched on the edge. The black-gray rock wasn't too rough under her bare ass, and she tentatively dipped a foot into the water, almost black in the dusk of the cave. Inch by inch she sank into that buoying heat, almost unbearable at first, then soothing. All her taut muscles softened, her sharp alertness dulled. Gareth's silhouette was still. Only his hair ruffled and waved in the occasional breeze. She submerged. The nerves of her scalp woke as her hair floated up. For a moment, she curled into a ball and left her body suspended, weightless in liquid space.

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When she surfaced, the humid air inside the cave that had felt so warm when they'd come in felt cool. Her wet hair hung heavy, pulling on her scalp. “Gareth.” He twisted toward her, but kept his gaze on the ground. “Come here.” The backlit silhouette rose, almost blacking out the dimming sky. He came to the edge of the pool. Squatted down. “Come in with me.” “Alright.” He stripped out of his clothes, then walked, naked, to the mouth of the cave, stepped out, scanned the horizon. He felt it, too. The vulnerability of the dead end. It wasn't rational, she knew that, but she'd have been more anxious if she'd been holed up in a basement with a single exit. But nature comforted. Even if it was a tactical travesty, the cave made her feel safe. Strange. At the point farthest from where she was perched on a submerged outcropping of rock, he lowered himself into the water. That boyish smile spread his mouth wide. “Takes a little getting used to,” he huffed. Strained stoicism faded into blissful calm as his body adjusted to the heat. “Come here.” He went to her. When she touched his shoulder, he turned his back to her, let her guide him down, until he was reclined on top of her, his head resting on her chest. So soft, his hair. Touching it, she felt that he was young and fragile. Tilting his head back, so

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his dark curls undulated under the water like delicate jellyfish, like the finest of waving, dancing plants rooted in the sand and reaching for the sun, she combed her fingers through his hair, circled her nails over his scalp. He sighed. Her mother had washed her hair like this, in the tub. Touching him this way, she felt like mother and child, both. “Your touch feels so nice,” he said. She trailed her fingers down the nape of his neck. Up and down his arms. Back into his hair. When she coaxed him up he retreated again to the far end of the pool. He gave her a strange smile, then said, “It would be nice if we didn't have to leave here in the morning.” She swam toward him. The pool was shallow, there. When she stood on the shelf of shale, the water just covered her shoulders. “Hold me again. Like you did in the woods.” “Alright.” His voice had a waver to it. They wound their arms around each other, pulled their bodies together. It was strange to feel so much of him, the frame of his bones and the shape of his muscles, his skin, nothing between them. The rough stubble of his neck against her forehead, his chest, smooth under her cheek, his heart thumping under her ear. His cock, stiff, nestled between them, burrowing into her belly. It wasn't scary. It didn't even make her angry. Only a little sad, maybe. When she kissed him he sighed and kissed her back, and let her loose from the circle of his arms. His hands lit, light, gentle, at her waist, and stayed still. While they touched their lips together, nursed at each other's lips and tongues and the heat in her belly gathered mass, she wondered how it would feel. His hands on her breasts. His

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mouth on her nipples. His weight on her. His hips between her thighs. That hardness pressed to her belly, inside her, churning. Her eyes closed, their mouths open and hungry and seeking, she imagined those touches. His tongue seeking and touching and brushing over hers felt good. Why, when she imagined the rest, did it feel like she'd eaten a basket of unripe cherries? Like a violent, vomit-inducing cramp. He'd stopped the kiss. His hands were off her. The only thing touching her, now, was the water, and the stone under her feet. Gareth's gray eyes were back to cool stone. “What?” she asked. “You were shaking.” “I'm alright.” “No. You're not.” The way he was looking at her. She blanked her face. The way he had. But she knew how it had looked. That the disgust fermenting in her gut had twisted her expression. “It's not you,” she whispered. “I know. I'll get out. Let you have some time.” The muscles along the backs of his arms and down his sides bulged and flexed and he hoisted himself from the pool. She'd wounded him. The stony eyes were to hide that. His ass was paler than his back. Wet prints of his feet followed him back to the mouth of the cave, and he stood there watching the slow death of day, letting the water run down his body.

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It disappointed her, the comfortable warmth of the cave, even after the heat of the pool. She'd counted on the shock of cold air enveloping her steaming body to pull her from her thoughts. She wrung her hair out at the edge of the pool, and dressed. Wet or dry, they'd reach some equilibrium with the air in the cave. Dryer, wetter. It didn't matter. When the sun abandoned them to darkness they ate, both silent. When he made up a bed, she asked if she could sleep with him, and he said yes. For the first time, she turned her back on him. Asked him to put his arm around her. She liked it, the weight of that arm. The warmth of his body. The soft sound of his breathing. The feel of the swell and fall of his chest and belly against her back. “I don't think I can love you,” she said. “I don't expect you to.” “You want me to.” “Yes. I want to have love. I want it with you. But this friendship, walking together, sharing our memories, feeling your arms around me when I fall asleep, I didn't think I'd get a happiness like this. I don't need more. If there's happiness for you in this, with me, Nix, I'll give it to you as long as I'm alive.” **** The price they paid for their night in the humid heat of that cave was a forced march in damp gear the next morning. A heavy consequence, given the frosty temperature before the sun burned through the clouds. But they were lucky; by midmorning they were descending rapidly, and every ten minutes seemed to earn them another degree of warmth.

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That afternoon they made camp in an aluminum barn, which had endured the years better than the wooden house, half devoured by termites and sun and rain. But the bounty of the fields more than compensated for the pitiful structures. That evening they had peanuts, pears and carrots. The heartiest feast they'd enjoyed in days. The roots and nuts would keep, too. In their eagerness, they collected more than they could possibly manage to eat and carry. They feasted mostly on the pears, which would bruise and spoil in their packs before long. Nix bit through the brown skin, into the firm white flesh, sucking the sweet tart juice over her tongue as she chewed, while Gareth sat there, running his fingertip over the fine roughness of the skin, lifting it to his nose, breathing in its scent. She laughed. He looked at her. Smiled. Then gave in to laughing, himself. To keep warm they huddled together under a blanket, and Gareth told her the story of a man who woke one morning to find he'd become a beetle the size of a person but with all the appetites and weaknesses of an insect. This man had worked hard until the morning he'd woken up a bug, but now that he was a beetle, his family was afraid of him, ashamed of him, and all the time they fed him the rotting scraps from the table, they were wishing he would die. And finally he did die, and the family was happier without him. Nix thought it should have been a sad story, but the way Gareth told it, it was strangely funny.

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CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

As they made their way around to the eastern slope of a hill, Nix caught sight of a large town nestled in the valley below them. A grid of brick cubes set between rigid lines of gray-brown. “Jonesboro.” Gareth stretched an arm and pointed. “See that big square at the center of the town? There's a statue there. A memorial. I remember it from when I was a kid. Asking my dad what 'veteran' meant.” They were closer than she'd thought. Hell, they could have spent another day and night in their little cave, with their steaming pool. Today, they could have gone for a swim in the lake where it was warmed by the spring. She hadn't swam in years. That would have been nice. Maybe two miles north of the main highway that ran adjacent to Jonesboro, on the other side of a line of railroad tracks was a narrow dirt road that served the seven or eight houses that had sheltered odd families that hadn't wanted to live in town, all those decades ago, and where no one but fugitives would dare to stay, now. As good a place as any to nest for the night. “I should go to town. Get us some food.” “Yeah.” He left. This time it was easy. There was no snake coiling in her belly. He'd be back. Alone. And she wouldn't run away. She'd wait for him and he'd come back alone and they would eat together. Then, maybe, he would read to her. Or tell her a story, one of the ones he remembered from all the books he'd read. And then they would go to

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bed. Together. Warmed by each other’s body. Lulled by the intertwining ins and outs of their breaths, their hope and want and joy stirred, caressed by a single fingertip tracing along the curves of a jaw, tracing the inside crease of an elbow. Only. Instead of the snake in her belly there was a strange feeling in her chest. Like her heart and lungs were gone. Or stopped. The center of her felt empty. Light. He'd be okay. He had his gun. Sure, it was sketchy traveling alone, drifting too far from town. Men with guns and urges too dark for women. The wrong kind of brutality meant punishment and death. Only sanctioned rapes and tattoos and brands allowed. So sometimes they took men. For sport. Out of poverty. But he had his gun, his wits. He'd be fine. She watched the sun sink below a fat, heavy cloud cluster, turning the sky into a beautiful bruise, all bleeding blues and violets. Sometimes the world didn't look real. Now, with the sky like that, and the trees all the wrong colors, the dying of the leaves more lovely than their verdant birth and life, it was like nothing could be true. Everyone hadn't died, really. Bleeding like those clouds from their mouths and eyes and noses and ears and fingers. Her mom hadn't died like that. Those bloody bruises rolling over the white sun, those wrong-colored trees weeping red and yellow tears, a scarlet 'S' and her cunt watered with the sperm of a hundred men were just brush-strokes of a crazy man hung on a wall in the gallery her mom had taken her to when she was six or seven. Her bladder ached. It would have been nice if every barn and abandoned shack had cupboards overflowing with rolls of snow-white, feather-soft toilet paper, like their ghost-town hotel had. And clean sheets. This joint at least had one roll, still nested in its wrapping of clear plastic, sagging in emptiness in the decades since the first three rolls

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had been torn from its membrane. She stuffed a wad into her pocket and after glancing out the windows, traipsed into the woods. The hiss of liquid hitting leaves. That smell. The cold air on her face and bare ass and thighs and crotch. The sensation of urine gushing from her body, the pressure pushing it out, the easing of her bladder. Life. Her fragile, brief life in those old, enduring woods. It would be nice to be a bear. Bears have big claws and teeth and don't carry guns to shoot people with. Cold heavy smooth metal, perfect for her hand. Like a glove. A baby rattle. No wind, but the yellowed grass danced in her path as the tall blades caught fat drops of rain, bent under the weight, dropped it, and unburdened, sprang back up. Dark spatters exploded inches of dirt on the porch planks under patches of missing roof. Rushing to get in before her clothes got wet with no way to dry them, not wanting to choose, again, between setting off in the morning in damp gear, or stuffing everything into her pack to mildew, she noticed too late. Something wrong. A wrong smell. A wrong sound or silence. Or the air felt too full. Someone was there. Not Gareth. Safety off. Still, breath held, she listened. That wrong silence. Gun leveled on the dark, she backed toward the still-open door. Listening. Looking for shadows moving in the dark. But everything was silence and stillness. Back. Back.

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The dull gray shape of their packs bent the dark just past the slanted rectangle of light thrown through the door, onto the floor. Not scavengers, then. A dull clomp, the sound of her boot heel meeting wood. Clomp. Clomp. Something brushed against her ankle, dull and numb through the high-laced leather. She glanced down. Caught her breath and kicked at the corn snake curving around her ankle. Fuck. No. A curve of rusty metal. The iron snake struck, yanked her feet from under her. The floor pounded her shoulder, her head. She aimed her gun at the blank dark. A blur flew by her eyes, squeezed her throat. She arched her back, craned her neck, looked back, got a shot off. But something struck her hand. Now her arm was pinned, a big black boot crushed her wrist down on the floor. The noose on her neck choked. The man standing on her arm pried her fingers back. Took her gun. Three. She kicked hard, got her toe into a kneecap and one thumped to the floor. Screaming. Up. Almost. But the noose yanked her down. When one leaned in, she swung. Broke his nose. To get leverage on her leash, she rolled, caught the rope, kicked at the one holding it, got his elbow and another scream. It didn't matter. They got her inside, lashed her noose to the radiator, got her hands tied. Got started. There was something about a woman. They hadn't been sure. They were glad.

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But by the time they had her pants and underwear down, before the first one was inside her, she was gone. Gone from that body, under that man, gone from that rotting house in that dead outpost. It wasn't an act of will. Something she did. It just happened to her. It always happened to her. For a while there was nothing, or almost nothing, nothing but a lot of gray, mostly dark gray almost black. Shadows, just shadows that shifted and sometimes they moved apart or other times came together, they overlapped and turned into the same shadow, twice as black. Blackness would fade a little, and around it or inside it there would be gray and also a sound, some sounds that were like the panting of an overworked dog, ribs showing corrugated through its short black coat, lolling long pink tongue hanging, quivering, drool dripping from the rounded, curling tip. The nothingness receded as her head slammed back against the plank floor and for a second, she knew everything. It was the third one inside her now, his fists tearing her hair out and pounding her head on the floor and screaming at her because she was too still, too soft, her eyes too vacant. The nothingness was gone and he beat her head against the floor again and his eyes were bloodshot and his face was red and when he breathed out a clear dribble of snot advanced out one nostril. He kept hammering her head against the floor until he came. Then he stopped and there was nothing again, nothing but blacks and grays pulling apart and covering each other up. Then she was bleeding. Bleeding everywhere. Warm wet spreading over her chest and belly and sex, her hands, her face. But it wasn't hers. It was streaming down on her. Wet and warm, streaming down. It didn't smell like blood, though. They were pissing on her.

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So they'd kill her. Because men don't piss on what they're about to fuck. And if they weren't going to fuck her any more, they were going to kill her. When the shot came, it was strange because she thought they would have done it with their hands and also she could still feel the hot urine splashing down on her and she didn't feel any pain, not bullet pain like something ripping through her body but maybe she was just numb, still, with nothing. But gunfire clapped through the place again and again and the rain of piss stopped and there were footsteps and another shot. Hands on her face and a voice in her ear, her name. His voice. The nothing rolled back a little and her neck burned where the rope had rubbed her skin away, left the flesh raw. Gareth's fingers barely brushed her temples and he whispered her name. At the center of the grays and blacks there was a color, warm like honey. And points of pink. When she swam up, broke the surface of the nothingness, it was his face, his hand, his eyes like two puddles of blood each with a large silvered stone at the center. Even when she tried to focus, she couldn't unblur his fingers. But it wasn't her. His hand was shaking. He whispered, “Nix.” His voice crashed and shattered on her name. When he touched the rope, she felt his trembling fingers fluttering against her throat. It took a long time because he was being so careful, but after a while, she felt the strangling noose loosen. Not letting it touch her face, he lifted the loop of rope over her head. Then his shaking hands lit on the rope at her wrists but he couldn't get the knot untied. His red eyes. His shaking hands. All of him tight and pale and shaking.

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She said, “Use your knife.” It looked like the sound of her voice hurt him; he flinched and shuddered and fixed his stones-in-blood eyes on her eyes, held her gaze as he fished the knife from his pocket, then focused on his blade and her bonds, and cut through the rope. She wanted to get up, needed to get the clinging stink of their urine off her bruised skin, but excruciating sharp pain drilled through her head when she lifted it an inch from the floor. That wouldn't have stopped her, but Gareth was kneeling there with his red eyes and shaking hands, dying to do something for her, terrified to touch her. Afraid his touch would hurt her. So she rescued him. Said, “Help me.” He met her eyes and nodded and touched his fingers to her wet, torn shirt, closed it over her. “No,” she said. “Get me out of all this piss-soaked gear.” Now that he had a clear mandate, something simple he could do for her, a way to be better than useless, he worked efficiently, still terribly gentle. Got her boots unlaced, got them off. Looked into her eyes to make sure, then worked her pants and underwear, bunched at her ankles, off. Then she let him lift her from the floor, cradling her head with one hand, her back with the other, leaned on his chest as he slid her urine-drenched shirt off her shoulders, down her arms. He lifted her from the puddle of piss and carried her outside, into the pouring rain. Sitting down on a patch of grass, he cradled her in the basin of his crossed legs and helped the rain to wash their urine from her hair. While he combed his fingers through the matted strands, slowly, gently, over and over, she settled against him, soft and still.

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Gareth kept leaning over her shoulder, checking to make sure her eyes were open, afraid she would slip away from him because there was blood mixed with the piss that was running in rivulets from the ends of her hair, down her back, down her arms, over her chest and belly. The icy rain was good. She didn't even feel cold. Just cleaner with each drop that fell and pelted her skin. But Gareth was shaking. Maybe it wasn't that he was cold, though. Rattling, like a lid on a pot of boiling water. She told him, “I won't cry. I just don't, I mean. When this happens, I never cry, anymore. You can cry, though. If you're sitting there trying not to because of me.” There was that same trembling where her back pressed against his chest, his fingers quivering as they combed through her hair. After a while, though, he reached down, touched her wrist, just below the seeping red wound where the rope had chafed through her skin, and convulsed and folded in on her, his arms encircling but barely touching, his mouth pressed to the crown of her head, his hot breath seeping through her wet hair. And then he broke. Soft wet choking sobs she could hardly hear. What had he seen? Just three arcs of urine, steaming in the frigid cold, lit up bronze and gold by the setting sun? Or had he seen the third, beating her senseless as he fucked? She let him go on holding her, his tears streaming into her hair with the rain. Then she let him pick her up, carry her inside, get her a set of clothes from her pack. Let him put her socks and boots on for her because bending down hurt her head so bad she thought she might throw up. The bandages he put on her wrists made her look like a failed suicide.

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Gareth dragged the bodies into the field. There, the coyotes and vultures would take care of them. The whole time, dragging them off, one by one, the noose they'd slung around her neck cinched tight around each man's ankles, he backed away from the house with his burden and returned without it, never taking his eyes off the doorway, framing her watching him. It worried her. For a long time to come, he would be afraid to let her out of his sight again. Neither of them could eat the food he'd bought in town, the reason he'd been gone when those men had come. Instead, Nix took a candle and searched all the drawers in all the rooms for any clothing that would serve in place of the shirt and pants they'd soaked in their piss, and Gareth drifted along behind her, room after room, sliding down the hallways like a shadow, dark and silent. She found a long-sleeved tee—gray with the cryptic letters UAMS in black across the front—that looked like it would fit all right. And two pairs of pants, the kind she liked best with big pockets on the thighs. Too big, but not by much. No way would she be able to fall asleep, but what was there to do but get in bed? No point wasting candles or sitting in the pitch dark. So she made a bed and got under the blankets. Gareth stayed perched on a hard wooden chair, pretending to look out the window when really he was watching her out of the corner of his eye. “Come on,” she said. “Come to bed.” Through the dark, she heard him come to her, felt his body near hers, but not touching. When he'd settled and stilled, she felt her way and nestled into the crook of his arm, laid her head on his bare chest. He put his arms around her, so carefully she could hardly feel their weight. He was trying to be quiet, but a few minutes later she felt

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that particular shudder ripple through his chest and belly. Heard that catch and quiver in his breath. When she touched, his temple was wet. She said, “I'm alright. Don't lie there worrying about me. Something like that happens, it just reminds me how lucky I am. Not to be locked in a room at the hotel, going through that five times a day.” In the dark, for a long time there was just the strained flexing of his belly and chest, his uneven breath catching and breaking free. Then Gareth spoke, his raspy voice quiet, even with his lips so close to her ear. “I understand the sex. I even understand the drive to take it. But I don't understand the hate. The cruelty. Why they would hurt you the way they did. Why they would...” He couldn't even say it. “They see a woman free, maybe they blame me for the scarce supply. It's my fault they've never had a chance at a wife. My fault they only qualify for the sex hotel twice a year. So they wanted to punish me.” She couldn't stop smelling their piss. It was probably just in her head, but even telling herself that, she smelled it in everything. Even in the blankets that had been tucked away in their packs on the other side of the room. “Or maybe they're just filled up with hate, with rage, and I just made a convenient target. Like you said, how you grew up, never hearing a woman speak for herself. We're not really human, not to the people who grow up, who live their lives every day in the towns. We're just things that some people get to use more than others. Hurting me,

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maybe it's just their way of screaming so they get heard. Because it takes something away from the men who treat them like shit.” It was a long time, but somewhere in the deep dark Gareth stopped crying and fell asleep, still holding her in his arms, cradling her head against his chest. There in that deep dark, she stayed awake. Even now she liked the smell of him, his skin, his sweat, his breath. His smell calmed her. Lulled her. But underneath, sticking with her, fucking with her, their smell. Subtle, elusive, sneaking away just to ambush her again a few seconds or a few hours later, the faint reek of piss. There was another smell, the stench of lack, of rot. Eating away at everything, hour after hour in the dark, in the light, in the sun and wind, in the rain, in the cold, in the endless humid heat summer after summer after summer. Under her fingertips the wooden floor was smooth by the blanket. But when she spread her arm straight, made half a snow angel in the dust, she found a wound, a soft seeping sore in the wood. She poked her finger into it, into the mossy moist of that oozing slit of decay. Once the wood, the house, the world had been whole. Rooting, scraping her nail over that festering sore, she picked a bit of scab away. Looking for the hard, healthy flesh. The solid wood from when the world was whole. Scraping, digging, scratching at the mushy rot until a splinter pierced her finger and embedded itself under her nail. Proof there was something solid, something whole, still, in all the decay and rot. Crawling from the bed she settled over that soft, moist hole, clawed at the diseased flesh, the gangrenous rot that would eat and eat and eat away at the wood, plank after plank until the whole floor gave way and the sickness spread to the skeleton of that house, until the walls and the roof and the frame were all devoured and it would

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spread, spread to every house, swallow up the fields and forests and nothing would be whole and firm, anymore. If she could get it all, scrape away every bit of blackened ooze, the furry growth digesting the strength, the smooth beauty of that old wood someone had sawed and planed and laid and polished, that someone had swept and mopped, where children had crawled and had tantrums and played, she'd know, she'd know, it could happen, it could. “Nix.” They wanted to stop her, but fuck them; she'd dig, she'd claw, she'd scrape until it was done, until the festering rot had been torn out, until there was nothing left but the firm, the real, even if the edges were rough and splintered, even if they were all splintered and scarred, she'd get it all. “Nix.” Hurry, hurry, before they come. It's not ready yet. Still moist and soft, here. They were coming. There was a torch, big hot flame and the smell of sulphur. “Nix, stop it. You're hurting yourself.” But she had to finish. Even if they'd beat her on top of everything else. Even if they'd press the red-hot metal against her skin again and hold it there until she could smell her own flesh cooking. They grabbed her and dragged her off but she screamed and kicked and clawed and got back to the hole, the seeping soft black hole and dug and scraped.

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Big rough hands clamped on her wrists and pulled her away again. Voices said things and she tried to get away but they held her wrists against her belly and she couldn't kick, couldn't shrug off the man on her back. “You're okay, you're okay. God, Nix, what have you done?” He was sad and her nails were all broken and her fingers were bloody, and they don't sound sad, and when she said, “Let me go,” he let her go, and they don't do that either. She crawled away from him, away from her soft, rotting hole, curled up in the corner. There was no torch. No brand. No pack of men. Just a candle, and Gareth. For a minute, he didn't do anything. Then he said, “You're shaking.” He pulled a blanket from the bed and came toward her. When he was still a few feet away, he stopped and in a soft voice he said, “I'm not going to hurt you.” He came the rest of the way and put the blanket around her. Then he backed off. A few minutes later, still with his careful voice, he asked her, “What were you doing?” She held her fingers up and looked at her torn nails, at the blood. “Going crazy, I guess.” He found some water somewhere and dug an old cotton t-shirt from one of the dressers. When he squatted down and reached for her hand, though, she cringed and shrank away from him. Hid her chewed up hands from him. “Nix?” It was good that he was so hard-looking. That he was scarred and big, with that large straight nose and that wide, stoic mouth. Even now she could almost trick herself,

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believe that his gray eyes were cold and blank. That his graveled voice wasn't full of feeling. “Will you let me help you with your hands?” “I can't fix it.” He looked over his shoulder at the splintered hole in the floor. When he turned back to face her, she put her hand out, let him touch and examine it by the candle's light. He started washing away the blood and the fetid ooze crusting her fingers, caked under her torn-up nails. Then he started to digging splinters from her fingertips. When he'd finished, he carried the candle off and came back with an old tin of bandages. One by one he peeled them from their yellowed wrappers. Translucent strings like saliva stretched in the candlelight as he picked the waxy backings from tan-colored membranes. The adhesive had gone thick and gooey and seeped through the backs of the strips, but they worked well enough. “I told you.” “What?” “I told you I wouldn't be able to love you.” A veil of tears rose up, shimmering yellow with the candle's light over his gray irises, and when he put his arms around her, gently pulled her to him, it felt good to feel tears spill and wet her cheeks, even if they weren't her own.

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CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

In the morning they started off, just as they had each morning since they'd abandoned the ghost town hotel. The sun's light dug into her eyes; it struck every drop of dew on every blade of grass, every twig and branch, shattered, and all the shards cut into her. That, plus the high whine hovering around her, an endless, nagging screech, had Nix sore and raw. Telling herself it was just a concussion, that the crushing pain in her head would fade was barely a comfort. Something—dogs or coyotes—had already been at the corpses in the yard. Seeing those men gray and gnawed, a softening, an easing, went through her. Not glee. Not a sense of justice. Just a vague relief. She was their last. Their ruined corpses were odds in someone's favor. Even though she had woken up in Gareth's arms, today she couldn't bear to have him near her. Hated the sight of him. The sound of his voice. Something heavy and cold churned in her gut, and she kept feeling the urge to hit him. To lift a heavy length of iron—an old pipe, a lug wrench—and swing with all her strength. She remembered the rope. That was why her neck and wrists were so tender, why they were bandaged. She wasn't sure what had happened to her fingers. But she knew there was something wrong with her. **** It was cold, sleeping alone. Without him there, the warm scent of him coming into her with each breath, she smelled the decay of the old house, of all the old houses and barns and shops and cellars she'd hidden in night after night after night for all those

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years. The clammy rot of sweating wood, the moldering of musty mattresses and sofa cushions, pillows and blankets and clothes. Women's clothes and men's clothes and children's clothes. The rotting clothes of three hundred million corpses. **** Another night. Another dead house in a dead village ten or twelve miles outside the nearest town. In the dark, she stared out the window, scanned the landscape for flickers of lights through the naked branches of trees. “Nix.” He was so far away—all the way across the room—and he'd spoken so softly she'd hardly heard him. “I'm sorry.” Even though he was so quiet and so far away she heard the bump in his voice. “I'm sorry I wasn't there.” Her throat started to close, but she forced herself to answer. “I'm not. Odds are, if you'd been there, we'd both be dead. Instead, we're here, and they're meat for the coyotes.” “If I'd gotten back sooner—“ “What? You could have protected me? Saved me? You're not my fucking chaperon. My watcher. My husband.” “No. I know that. I'm just sorry. Sorry they did that to you.” Hadn't they done this already? She'd let him bathe her, cradle her, hold her through the night. She didn't have the strength, now, to walk across the room, take his hand, look into his eyes. Reassure him. She wanted him over there. Far enough away that she didn't have to breathe him in. Feel his warmth. And the thought of touching him,

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of feeling his arms around her, made her want to scream. Made her wonder if there was a baseball bat or a cane around somewhere, something that would leave bruises. Break bones. “I think it's hurting you. My being here.” He asked, “Do you want me to leave?” Yes. Go. Get the fuck away from me. Fucking gentle eyes. Gray velvet eyes, always worried and sad and watching. She made herself say, “No.” **** “Gareth.” He met her eyes. “I want you to memorize the plan.” “Alright.” His voice was just a gritty whisper. She told him everything she'd kept to herself all this time. The place and time of the rendezvous. The signals and passwords. The diversion. What would be coming from the west. What they would find in the east. What was at stake. The cargo. His gray eyes, clouded with fear and hurt all morning, sharpened and flashed. The promise of her words rippled through him. Now he looked less wrung out, worn down. Taller. Stronger. “Really?” he breathed. There was something close to a smile animating his mouth. “I knew, I mean, I had an idea it was something big. But that's...amazing.” It was. She'd thought it, too. But now she didn't feel it. She just felt like her whole, long march east, like every step she took now, she was walking into a fading mirage.

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“It's important,” she said. “I'm...” What? What was she? “My head isn't clear. Don't let me do anything...anything to jeopardize the mission.” He gave her a smile. “Don't worry. I'll keep an eye on you.” **** “You've never been there,” he said when they'd settled into a basement to escape the rain that was coming through the roof and the first floor of the house they'd picked for the night. “Where?” “East. The place we're going.” “No.” “I wonder what it's like.” He had that look again. Like a child, the way he'd looked with the guitar. Except there was a shadow on that boyish exuberance. Worry. “Yeah. Me too.” She was trying not to show how much his nearness, his voice grated. He was quiet for a while, and she could tell there was something he wanted to say. Finally he asked her, the way he asked things without questions: “You're worried. It could be a trick.” She just looked at him, and watched how whatever look she had on her face wiped that boyish exuberance away. **** As they neared the rendezvous, they were forced to emerge from the safety of the woods and sneak alongside the highway to get their bearings and find their way to

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the designated spot. Soaring through the sinking mists, piercing the belly of the somber sky, the blackening spire of a gray stone church beckoned from the corner of the graveyard. They waited for the night to blacken, to keep them hidden, and crept between the headstones, running their hands over the damp, moss-coated grave markers when clouds dimmed the moon's light. “Here.” Picking gray from black, her eyes had brought her close, then, like a blind person she traced over eyes and nose and lips with her fingers, found the stone infant in the stone arms. Together they rotated the marble slab atop the marker behind the statue and retrieved the pouch hidden beneath. Crouching down against the gravestone, shielding the message with their bodies, they risked a moment of light to read it, then slipped it back into the pouch and hid it again where they'd found it, and set off. Through the cemetery, past the church, on for another two miles and into the walnut orchard. Now that Nix was tucked away, out of site again, Gareth hurried out to the road, found the sign post, and turned the diamond-shaped sheet of metal a hundred and eighty degrees so the side painted black faced the orchard, and the side painted white faced the road. Then he dashed back to Nix. They waited. About a quarter of an hour later, there was a sound. Footsteps. Two solid shadows closed in, then halted. One of them clicked out a series of flashes on the ground with a mechanical torch, powered by rare, precious batteries. Nix hammered out the response with a pair of stones she'd found in the dirt while they waited, then dropped them and rested her hand on her gun. The shadows came to life again, moved nearer. Two men. Men in the uniform of the Guard.

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Gareth raised and aimed his gun. “No,” she whispered. She touched his arm, coaxed it down. “You Nix?” one asked. “Yeah.” “Who's this?” “Artel.” “We weren't expecting him,” the ersatz guard said to Nix as if Gareth weren't even there. “He's alright. He's killed a lot of men, helping me.” “Look, we have to be careful. More careful than usual,” the same one said again. The other shadow stayed silent. “He had intel, before. Could have undone the orphanage op back in Goodland. Could have gotten those girls rounded up, and the rest of us chained to the pillory. But he helped them get away. And saved me. He's an asset.” “This op. There can't be any mistakes.” Nix said, “In fifteen years, I've never brought a man into the resistance. I know what's at stake. I wouldn't risk him if I had any doubt.” After a frustrated silence, the man sighed, “All right. Follow me. No lights. No talking.” He led them through the orchard, away from the road, across the railroad tracks, and into the damp cellar of an ancient mansion. All Nix's skin went taut, all her hair prickled.

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“Where are the others?” “Another site. Nearby.” The man in the guard uniform checked his watch. “They should be here in thirty. Just sit tight.” Who the fuck did this ass think he was? Telling her to sit tight like she was some virgin rescued on the eve of her first marriage. She'd fucking orchestrated half this goddamned op. “I'm sorry,” the man said when he'd lit a lantern and saw her face. “It's been a tense day. We've got a lot of very scared, very young women. I've spent the last few hours just trying to keep them from panicking and doing something reckless.” He smiled, mocking himself, she thought, and said, “I'm Miguel. And that's Jason, back there.” She made herself nod. Smile. “And your reputation precedes you,” Miguel said. “You've been doing this a long time. Gotten a lot of women over the line. And never come, yourself.” His smile, the dimples and creases framing it, his brown eyes and his closeness were smothering her, pressing her back, weighing her down. She fished her gun from her pocket, checked for the tenth time that it was fully loaded. “But you're coming along this time, right? You won't believe it. It's like a different planet.” She faked another smile. Caught Gareth watching her. All of them watching her. The three of them. Not in a cave, stone and moss, natural things. Buried alive in another dank basement, under another rotting house.

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Gareth was too close. Almost touching. She should have known he wouldn't keep it up, giving her space. Letting her breathe without inhaling his scent. At least Miguel drifted away and turned his focus to a pack he was filling with rags and bottles. The arson kit. But the other one closed in on her. Blond and fair and green-eyed. Just a boy. “You're wounded.” Buried alive. The stench of rot, the muck gripping her boots, holding her down, and the heat of them, those men, their breath and sweat seeping into her, filling her throat, choking her. The blond one reached for her, tried to touch her. She blocked with one arm, snatched up her knife, caught herself. Just. Noise. Loud and deep and male. Voices. Gareth. “Nix. He wasn't trying to hurt you. He was just going to check your wound. Put the knife down.” The blond kid was panting like a hunted rabbit, tears rising up over those green eyes. She lowered her knife, let the kid go. Gareth's voice, syllables and sounds chafed and swirled by her ear, and over there, smile and dimples and creases gone, Miguel had the kid by the arm, brown eyes burning into green, saying, “You know better. You know what she's been through, what they've all been through. Someone needs tending, you ask. You wait. You don't touch until you have permission. Got it?” The kid with blond hair and tear-veiled green eyes nodded. “Tell the kid I'm sorry,” Nix said to Gareth. “Tell him about the other night, if you think it'll help.”

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Kid. She laughed at herself. He was nearly as old as Gareth, probably. Eighteen, nineteen. But he'd never killed. Never even seen anyone killed, maybe. Or the public gang rapes. Or the brandings. That's why he looked so young. Like a child. While Gareth talked to Jason, Nix approached Miguel. “It won't happen again.” “Good.” He sounded stern. Like the commander he was. But then he smiled, wide and white-toothed, and those dimples and creases came back. His brown eyes were the warmest, the kindest-looking eyes she'd ever seen. There was a strange hiss, and Miguel reached for his belt, put a black rectangle of plastic or metal to his ear. Nix could hear a voice, small and shallow, come out of the device. Miguel said “Check,” pushed a button, and holstered the thing. So it was true. They had radios or phones or whatever that was. “They're en route. Five minutes. Four from the resistance, three more of us, and forty-three refugees. We lay low here for less than an hour. Then we're off. It needs to go smooth and fast.” “I'll consider this a crash course in taking orders,” Nix said, forcing another smile to her lips. Trying to erode some of the anxiety she'd provoked. Fuck if she'd gone on dozens of raids, marched hundreds of miles, done the things, endured the things she had just to see things go sloppy because she'd made a rough situation worse, panicking, waving her knife at that pale kid. Looking at the pack Miguel was zipping up, Gareth asked, “What's the diversion?” “The granary,” Miguel told them. “Two miles outside the town. We’ll burn it. It's most of their food for the winter, so almost every soul in town will run over there, and if

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we do it right, it'll keep them busy much longer than we'll need. And the ones that don't run off to fight the fire will have something pretty to watch. It'll keep their backs to us. Noisy, too.” “Who's going?” Nix wanted to know. “Actually,” he turned to Gareth, “I was hoping to recruit you.” Gareth looked at Nix. Looked back to Miguel. “I don't think I should.” Nix said, “I'll go.” “No. It's too risky. If I send you, anyone sees you just walking, you're in trouble. And the whole thing falls apart. It's got to be a man. Someone who won't be accosted for just walking through a field. And, unfortunately, I'm short on men. So,” he turned back to Gareth, gave him a teasing smile, “You mind volunteering?” Gareth looked at her. She gave him a nod. A smile. “I'll go,” Gareth said, “if you have better uses for your guys. They know your equipment. The people. Know more details of the plan.” Miguel gave Gareth his wide smile. Handed him the pack. “You've got a gun?” “Yes.” “You a good shot?” “Decent.” “You may not need to shoot, but it's good to be ready.” “Yes.” Miguel walked Gareth through his course in basic arson, featuring the tried and true molotov cocktail. Then he called over to the other, “Jason. Let Artel have your watch, would you?”

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The kid slipped the watch off his wrist and passed it to Gareth. “At ten fifteen, light her up.” The wide, white smile wilted, the dimples disappeared. “Then get your ass back here. We can't risk a delay. There's no waiting. When we're loaded, we roll. No matter what.” “No. I understand.” “And, I know it's obvious, but you can't be followed. If you lead someone to us...” Miguel trailed off. “I understand. I won't do anything to get them hurt.” “Good.” Miguel smiled and gave Gareth a pat on the back. Then he checked his watch and said, “You should go ahead and get going.” “Yeah.” Gareth caught her eyes, held her gaze. Checking to see. “I'm going to be pissed if you're late,” she tried to tease. Inside she felt like dough, cold and thick and beige. “I won't risk getting you mad,” he teased back. “I'll be here.” He moved in close, and she forced herself to stay still, not to back away from him. He whispered, “Sure you're alright here?” With Miguel and the other. Jason. Men she didn't know. She nodded. Smiled. She wanted him to go. She wanted him to come back, but for now, there in that basement, until the others came, she wanted Gareth gone. He went. Ascended from the rot and mush of the basement, into the cool clean air that came rushing in to them for the few seconds the door was open. Less than ten minutes later, the others came. A pack of women and girls, gray and quiet. Used to being shut in, hidden, hunted, they filed through the door, neat and

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somber, and sank to the floor along the walls. They looked thin and tired and ragged, like they hadn't had enough food or sleep in days or weeks. They were well rehearsed in following where they were led. Even though they were so many in such a small space, there was no order to impose or maintain. Just a wretched silence. Not hopeful. They didn't believe. Didn't trust. And why would they? Nix felt her heart beat, her blood warm and pump with fresh fight. Fresh want. It would happen. They'd make it happen. If men came, if they tried to stop them, she'd shoot, she'd stab. She'd throw herself under their horse's hooves, grab and hold on, let them trample her if it would slow them down. Over the line. They'd get there. With or without her. In the corner farthest from the door, there was one woman, grayer, more hollow, more transparent than the others. Eighteen. Maybe twenty. Nix asked Jason, half to make amends, “What's her story?” “A baby. Taken from her just last week. She's only been off the books three days. Ran off after they delivered her to her second husband.” “Here? In this town?” “Yeah. She's local.” No wonder. Her baby, just there. One mile, two miles away. Crying for her arms. Her breast. Her voice and her smile. She'd be borne away to freedom. Away from her baby. The hot surge, blood in her veins, swelling, compelling her beating heart. Even when she squatted down right in front of her, the woman's body didn't shift. Even her eyes were still. Dull and unfocused. Nix leaned in, touched the woman's pale

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hands, touched her hair, pulled her in, put her arms around her. There was no chill. No burn. It was like that, with people so wounded. That was how she'd endured Gareth, those few days. Those few days he was more hurt than she was. Back and forth they whispered. Hard to believe anyone could sneak away from a small rectangle of space with fifty pairs of eyes. But she'd been practicing invisibility for almost fifteen years. The clouds had slipped off to the west, and a million stars punched through the night sky. Out of that close, humid basement, the world spread out so, so big. With no people around, everything seemed vast and clean. The big black star-pricked sky stretching all the way to that distant cradle of moon and beyond, the earth, just visible under her feet, going on and on and on, offering nests to rivers and lakes, reaching out for the sea on every side. Once, she'd seen the Pacific. With her mom and dad. It had smelled like salt and life and death. Had Gareth made it to the granary? Was he crouched down next to a tree, or by a low wall, watching the hand on his watch circle toward the three? Or had someone seen him? She listened for gunfire. For shouts. But the night was silent, even as she crept over the highway and squatted down in a thatch of tall grass within sight of the first buildings at the edge of the town. She fixed her eyes on the part of dark earth and dark sky where she thought the granary was, and waited. She waited until she saw the flames, an explosion of fire lighting the sky and the lone building at the edge of a flat field, then a yellow glow low to the ground, climbing up, up the side of the building, reaching for the black sky as another burst of sparks and flames exploded against the other side of the building. Behind her, doors slammed.

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Shouts and cries of the men in town volleyed between buildings, echoed down the streets until horses went galloping, until men with no horses went running. There were stragglers, men slow to wake, slow to drag their boots over naked feet and calves, men less efficient than others at locking their women into escape-proof rooms, or cuffing them to furniture so they wouldn't run off while the town was practically empty. And some men didn't leave at all. The suspicious ones who would guess that the fire was a diversion for some bigger plot, and even the men who just never trusted anything or anyone enough to leave the woman they'd paid good money for unattended. A fire like that, everyone running off, that's just the kind of opportunity some loser who can't afford his own woman is waiting for. So she clung to the shadows where the glow of lanterns and torches couldn't reach, and kept her finger on the trigger of the gun hidden in her pocket. In her hat and jacket and boots, she knew from experience, men saw her as a man; they were so unused to seeing women in anything but the garments they dressed them in, the gowns and shoes that make it hard to run or even walk without effort, but provide easy access. Past the emptied pub that had just vomited out a horde of panicked men, past the shops selling clothes and shoes and saddles manufactured decades earlier, past the shelves of magazines and books printed by a dead generation, past the park, past the church, then over one, two, three streets, then north, up the road marked by the big brick house with yellow double doors and a swing on the porch. Behind her, a door slammed and she heard the thud-thud-thud of soles on cement, the whiff of cloth on cloth. Her chest cramped as she turned to see who was

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running at her, but the tall, wide figure turned off, running for the fire. He hadn't even noticed her. Here and there, a face peered from a window, women and girls locked up tight while the men ran off to douse the fire. In the world, it seemed they were so few. And sometimes it felt like so many had gotten away. How could they be leaving so many behind? She found the house with the curved stone path leading from the cement walk, through a rectangle of lawn, to a brown porch with white columns. The front door was unlocked. In their haste to get to the fire, someone had probably just flung it shut as they ran out. Maybe the baby wouldn't even be there. Inside, it was quiet. In the distance, she heard the shouts of men, the clatter of hooves on the asphalt streets, but inside the house there were no voices, no footfalls. She crept up the stairs, and flinched when one step creaked under her boot. Everything else stayed quiet, though, and she took the next step, up, up to the landing, her gun drawn, her finger on the trigger. The hall and most of the rooms were dark. The cries from the field where the winter's grain was burning and spilling from the wreck of the blaze, into the mud, drifted through the still house as she crept along the carpet runner, past dark rooms and closed doors. Near the end of the hall, a door was ajar and light seeped into the corridor. She checked behind her, then with a fingertip, nudged the door open. By the window, a man stood looking out at the conflagration, at the men scurrying around it like bugs. He turned. As if he'd sensed her there, or maybe seen her reflection in the window. Saw her. Saw her gun.

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In his arms, a baby. “Put him down,” she ordered, keeping her voice low. “In the cradle.” The man looked down at the baby in his arms, and back at her. He opened his mouth as if he might say something. Threaten. Maybe beg. Instead, he turned and set the baby in the cradle. “Over there. Get on the bed.” He was already starting to sweat, clear beads glistening across his high forehead. When he sat on the edge of the bed, she ordered him to lie down. Why hadn't she shot him? Like she'd planned. There was no time for this, tying him up. Making him cry. Making him scream. But what he'd done. Filled that girl up. Hollowed her out. He'd earned himself a few memorable minutes with her knife. When she had him tied down, she straddled him. Something, his dusky skin, his kinky hair, the shape of his mouth, reminded her of the other night. The one who'd pounded her head against the floor as he'd raped her. But that man was dead. The man under was sweating, shaking, whispering, “Please, please, please” while she scraped the blade of her knife over his nipple, making it stiffen under his thin white shirt. Splayed in a vulnerable X on the bed, he was hard to resist. That's how it goes. Powerless, you're a magnet. You pull them against you. “What? What?” he gasped. Under his pants, his cock was soft and small. The whole soft cluster, balls and cock, fit under her palm and fingers. She squeezed and he whimpered. They whimpered, too. Fear made their eyes wide and made their eyes squint tight, eyelashes poking through crinkled lids.

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She unbuckled his belt, unzipped his zipper, unbuttoned the button, worked his pants and briefs down to his knees, baring the puff of black curls, the fat slug of flesh the color of a cooked beet, the balls drooping and wrinkly, like two peach stones under the black fuzz. “Was she a virgin?” He panted, panted, “Who?” “Your wife. Your baby's mother. Was she a virgin when you bought her? The first time you fucked her?” “Yes.” “Did she cry?” “No.” A gurgle in the back of his throat. Maybe he was going to vomit. “She liked it? The way you fucked her?” “I. I didn't. Um. I tried to make it not too bad for her. You know?” “Uh huh.” “Please.” Maybe he didn't know that every time he said “please” like that, it just made her want to hurt him. The way they'd always hurt her when she still used to ask them not to. So little, so soft. Delicate. Nothing like what they raped you with. She wanted to take it when it was hard, when it could scare and hurt. Not this pathetic little bit of soft flesh lying helpless in its nest like a baby bird with no feathers, too weak to fly, too weak to even lift its head. In the cradle of her hand it was warm. Warm and soft. Remembering how Gareth touched himself, she stroked the crown with the pad of her thumb. Caressed the part

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that reminded her of the groove in a plum. His eyes locked on her hand on his cock, and his chest and belly rose and fell, lifting and dropping his shirt. She stroked her thumb along the faint ridge running down the length of the shaft, into the fuzz coating his balls. Already the little slug, the crippled baby bird was looking bigger, stronger. “What are you doing?” he breathed. He wasn't crying yet. That part would feel good. His tears. His screams. Now the cock was standing up all by itself, the turgid shaft thick and long, the crown flushed and swollen. When she dropped a gob of spit onto it and smeared it over the length of it, rubbed the clear and white froth over the fat, cleaved head and made it shiny, the whole thing twitched in her hand. Thick and heavy in her grip, she coaxed it, caressed and rubbed it until the man's breath changed, until the panic in his eyes shifted and flared. He'd stopped writhing his wrists in their restraints. Now he wanted it. At least a little. She gripped the knife handle harder. Gripped him harder too. Hurt him. He made a hurt sound and the baby started crying and everything fell apart. The man saw the want, the fierce need in her eyes, need for pain, need for blood, and the fear and the sound of the baby made him soften in her hand. The hard, thick cock was gone, the thing that scared her. Now there was just the limp, fat slug. She let go, let it flop down into its little nest. “What's your name?” she asked him. “The name they tattooed on his mother's arm?” “Anderson. Mark Anderson,” he stuttered. “And what's her name?”

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“Who?” “Your wife. The mother of your baby. What's her name?” “Melissa.” Nix ripped Mark Anderson's shirt open, surprised that the sound of threads snapping was the same, even when it was a man having his clothes torn off. “What? What are you doing?” “I'm carving Melissa's name into your chest. Nice and deep, so the scars don't fade.” “Please!” His body clenched and shuddered under her as she touched the tip of the cold blade to his naked chest. But he didn't scream. Didn't call out for help. Strange how men almost never did. She pressed, and the razor-fine point pierced the smooth, firm swell of his flesh, just by his nipple, and a crimson drop swelled up against the blade. Her body went hot. Wanting. A wail, high and long. A choking, gagging scream. The baby. The hot want in her drained away. Left her cold. Nix jumped off the bed and plucked the squalling infant from the crib. “Please. Please. Don't hurt him.” Mark Anderson started crying. Hurt him. Put the blood-marked blade to that soft neck, those little rolls of fat under that chubby chin. Slice into that honey-colored skin and see the crimson come out.

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That's what the father thought. A baby boy. Fit for the knife, guilty of crimes still years off. “I'm not going to hurt the baby. I'm going to give him back to his mother.” “Melissa? She's alright? They told me she'd run off. I was scared she'd...” The baby squawked and wiggled, its face turning red, its fists bunched and flailing. “Is he sick?” she asked. “No. Just tired. He'd just gone to sleep when all the shouting started.” Mark Anderson was looking at her with terror-tinged hope. Tied down on the bed, his face twisted, his eyes red and leaking tears, it seemed impossible he was a man. She bounced the baby a little, to make it stop crying. It kept making its wet little guttural sounds, and she laid him against her chest, patted his back. So little. Warm and soft. A bundle, really, like the expression. Bundle of joy. A trickle of Mark Anderson's blood zigzagged down the blade of her knife. The baby stole her heat, her want. Drained her fierce need to put the point of the knife against the father's dusky skin and tear Melissa's name through it. She set the baby back in the cradle, found a sock and stuffed it into the father's mouth, and tied off the gag with a square of cloth from the top of a stack of neatly folded squares. The baby's diapers. Then she took the baby and left. Now that she was running, running away from the father, away from the fire, the baby was quiet. Heavy and small and warm in her arms. Now that she was out of that house, away from the man, out in the big world, the cold air, the starry night, she was scared. She'd forgotten time. Taken too long. Playing with Mark Anderson. She should

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have shot him the moment he'd set the baby down. Snatched it and run. If she got left behind, fine. But the baby. What could she do with it? There'd be no one left to give it to. She ran. Hard. Holding the baby tight against her, willing her feet, her legs, her stiff knee, to go faster, faster, faster. Please. Please. She heard something. Someone behind her. Stopped, turned, grabbed her gun. It was nothing. No one. Maybe she'd kicked a rock, heard it scuttling over the ground. The gun clutched against the baby's back, she turned and ran again. Gareth. Her chest seized, picturing his face when he gotten back, realizing she wasn't there. If he'd gotten back. What if someone had been nearby as he threw that first bottle, it's wick aflame, against the side of the granary? What if he'd been shot in the back, never even had a chance to fight? Or the wave of townspeople pouring into the field had spotted him? Chased him down? She gripped the baby tighter, ran harder. Air gone. Legs soft. Go. Go. Through the thick, vast dark she heard something. Something else. Not a rock. Not a man or a horse. A hiss. Low and rhythmic. A fresh flood of panic hit her heart. Too late. They were already moving and she'd ruined it. Melissa wouldn't get her baby and she'd stay like that, transparent and hollow. And Gareth would never understand, never know. Or, god, he'd stay behind, give up his chance to go over the line, to escape the barren hell his father had dragged him into all those years ago. A different sound. A high whine. Like the scrape of a knife down a piece of metal pipe. Not too late. Not.

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They were all there, clustering by the tracks, a churning mass, the excitement finally infecting them, waking them from their stupor of doubt and loss. Their backs were to her, their eyes fixed on what was coming. But in front of all of them, facing the town, waiting, eyes fixed on her, now, Gareth. He'd shout. Fine. She'd done a stupid thing. Risked his safety. His escape. No. He wouldn't. His eyes were red and she watched the tears rise, blurring those irises like two storming seas. “You're here.” He'd breathed it and the tears spilled over. His hands came up, like he'd touch her, but he pulled them back. “You're alright,” he said, one of his unasked questions. “You made it.” She showed him the baby. “What's that?” “It's a baby.” It wasn't funny but they both laughed. “Why?” he tried this time. She just smiled, then wandered among the women until she found Melissa. Put the baby in her arms. Melissa stood there, holding her baby, trembling, staring at the nearly bald head crowned with fine, ash-hued fuzz, at the hazel eyes. Then she pulled the baby to her chest, cradled and rocked him. From the west, from the night, the iron beast emerged, a black beauty belching steam into the cold night air. A great metal caterpillar to bear them all away. Already, they knew, most of the cars were full, full of women and girls and maybe a few resistance men from the west and north and south. A door opened, a woman

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hopped down before the train had fully halted, and silently gestured toward the empty car. The aimlessly churning crowd converged, still silent, still orderly, on the narrow door and started filing through. Jason, then Miguel were last, behind Gareth and Nix. Then the woman who'd stepped off the train stepped back up, signaled with thee blinks of her flashlight up the length of the chain of cars toward the engine, and the iron caterpillar hissed and groaned, and lurched forward.

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CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

In the belly of the iron caterpillar, they crept forward, hardly faster than a comfortable march. How had they made it across the girth of every state from the Pacific to there, across Nevada and Utah, all through Colorado and Kansas and Missouri, the thing crawling along on its belly at that pace? Nix wiped a swath of steam away with her sleeve and peered out the window, her pistol ready for the first glimpse of men converging. The huff and hiss of the train aggravated her; she'd never hear the horses over that asthmatic panting. “It's slow going at first, but when we're up to speed, we'll be going forty, forty-five miles an hour,” Miguel assured her. “Even if they saw, even if they come after us, no horse can catch us.” Minute by minute, they picked up speed, just as Miguel had promised. By the time they wound their way out of the dark rural emptiness and surged up on the first town, points and rectangles of yellow glimmering from windows and lanterns, they wooshed by so fast that the few men who'd heard something and come out of their homes, out of the local tavern hardly had time to get to the tracks to see the metal beast soar past. There was no light inside any of the cars, so those curious men were left to stand there, wondering what mysterious cargo the sleek black train belching its steam and smoke was bearing east. Hope. Nervous joy. All around her in the dark, whispers and tentative laughter. But Nix felt sick. Her gut heavy and overstuffed with dread. And nothing to pin it to.

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It hadn't been a trick. The train was real. The tracks had been cleared, the coal coffers and water tank filled and refilled. The engine tuned and coaxed to life. They hadn't been herded by the dozens into that basement only to be bound and dragged away, doled out to husbands and patrons of the sex hotels. So the mecca, the paradise, it was probably real, too. Of course it was. Jan had seen it. So why, why was she nauseous with fear? It was starting to get light out. With daylight creeping over everything, they'd be seen. But they wouldn't be expected. That was the key. The secret of the op. The oneshot beauty of the thing. What could one man, or a little cluster of men do about a train snaking through the country faster than a horse could run for any great stretch, when they didn't know it was coming until it was practically there, when they had no idea why it was chuffing its way east? Still, she kept watch, ceaselessly scanning the horizons for the dust clouds that hooves kick up, every second expecting to see an equine head, a determined rider edge his way into the frame of the window at her shoulder. Even though there were doors at the front and back of the car, and it was possible to go through them, to walk to the next car and the next, to see liberated women and rebels who'd boarded in Sacramento and Salt Lake City and Denver and Topeka, the doors only opened twice, and both times it was the strangers, the men from the east, coming through to whisper to their comrades, and to announce in patronizingly soft tones to the huddled masses that everything was going well. The refugees, the runaways and freed women Nix had boarded with were at the front of the car, clustered together in a tight little bunch, instinctively maintaining a comforting distance from the men who'd helped orchestrate and execute their liberation.

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In the midst of them, Melissa and another woman huddled on a bench with their infants. Melissa's little boy was at the other woman's breast, taking the milk his mother had lost in the week of their separation, while Melissa cradled the other woman's baby, probably just two or three weeks old. At the back of the car sat the men from the east; the men who'd brought the radios and the engineers, who'd restored the train and cleared the tracks. Nix smiled to notice she'd chosen them, not the women. She didn't belong with any of them. But the unease of being near the men was easier to bear. Except Gareth. He was hard to bear. Even in a train car steaming with people, whispers and nervous laughter echoing all around her. It was like an anchor dragging her down under cold and murky waters, his shy, silent seeking, that anxiety coming off him, pungent as sweat, now that they were hurtling over miles of track, away from the desolate emptiness where they only had each other. “I was scared,” he whispered. “I'm sorry.” She wasn't, really. Melissa had her baby. A minute or an hour of Gareth's fear was a light price. When she wanted to, though, she knew how to give people what they needed. Like letting Gareth hold her and bathe her that night. Letting him wash her clean of their piss. “I shouldn't have gone. I should have made Miguel find someone else. I promised I'd keep my eye on you. Keep you from getting yourself hurt.”

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“No you didn't. You promised not to let me fuck up the op. If I hadn't come back, everything would have gone ahead as planned. Melissa wouldn't have her baby. That's all.” He nodded, but she caught the glint of defiance in his eyes. “Get over it,” she said. “What?” “This idea you have that you need to protect me. That you can protect me.” He turned away from her, but she'd already seen the hurt ripple through those twin gray pools. “It's not that,” he said, staring down at his hands, gripped together in his lap like he was fighting to keep them there. “So? What, then?” “You're having a hard time,” he said softly, bringing his gaze back to hers. “Since the other night. I just want to help you through it.” Had she really liked the smell of him once? Now the scent of him, the sight of him choked her, shrinking her throat, filling it up with bile. “Do you know how many men have raped me, Gareth? How many times I've been held down and fucked? What happened the other night doesn't matter. It hasn't mattered in years. I told you before. I told you. I wasn't even there when it happened. I don't remember their faces. What they said. How it felt. They raped an empty corpse. They never touched me.” Again, that defiant glint. “Don't call me a liar in your head, Gareth. Say it to me out loud.”

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“It's just, it did hurt you. You're. . . struggling. You know it. It's why you asked me to keep an eye on you tonight.” “Gareth,” she breathed through the choking bile, through her closing throat, her lungs, everything inside cold, almost frozen, “it's not what they did to me. It's you.” His face turned white and his eyes turned red. She saw that he was shaking, and thought it was like looking in a mirror before she realized she was shaking, too. Even hating him, she felt guilty. Felt pity. “I can't do it, Gareth. I can't make myself soft for you, can't let myself feel with you, and do what I do. I can live through nights like that, three men roping me like a fucking hog and raping and beating and pissing all over me; I can live through it twenty times a year. But not with you. I can kill slavers and rapists; I can liberate orphans before they go to the auction block and rescue pregnant women, but not with you. I can only do it, earn my brand, do the one thing that makes any sense, that makes surviving worth anything, by keeping myself cold and hard. “I told you. I can't love you.” Vaguely, she could remember how it used to feel, pleasantly empty inside, hollow. Everything in her making room for instinct, for fight. Not this weight, this tender mess tangling up with everything. “People,” Miguel's voice hummed through the car, soft like the start of a chant, probably so he wouldn't startle the refugee women, “have a look outside. You're about to cross the line.” Stretching away from the train to the left and right, the landscape was a vibrant palette of earthy hues: sedate browns, warm yellows and reds and oranges, vibrant

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greens, all climbing over each other, scrambling up steep slopes to claim the peaks thrusting into the gray sky, while ahead, off in the distance, the earth seemed to be imitating the sea, belts of peaks rising and dipping and rising and dipping, all blues and grays and violets, with mists like foam cradled between their waves. “The Blue Ridge Mountains,” Miguel said. “You'll have a nice view of them from the city.” “What city?” Nix asked. Going to a city, that wasn't part of the plan. In an instant, everything went black. The day was gone and the train sank into total darkness. Then, just as suddenly, light poured through all the windows, lit up the dozens of faces staring out as the train shot back out of the tunnel. Miguel laughed. “I guess it's not really a city. We just call it that, the campus. You can't see from here, but just to the north is the main base. We won't stop there. We'll keep on for Sewanee. That'll be home for most of you, at least for a while. Believe me, you're gonna like it there. Prettiest place I've ever seen.” Four hours later, the train scraped and screeched and huffed to a halt, and the passengers, the sixty of them in Nix's car and the hundreds that poured from the narrow doors of the other fourteen segments of the iron caterpillar filed out and made their way to the nearby road. An uphill hike of less than seven miles got them to their destination: a picturesque university campus founded in the middle of the nineteenth century, whose many residential halls, voided of students during the dying, now offered idyllic communal residences for refugees from the west, and whose thousands of acres of rolling grasses, placid lakes and majestic trees promised quiet sanctuary.

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In groups, some as small as twelve, some as large as forty-six, they were guided to the halls that had housed young men and women for their four college years, before the dying, when to be eighteen was to be still almost a child. In ones and twos, according to their preference, the women occupied the small, tidy rooms, each with one or two narrow beds, and a complement of simple wooden dressers and armoires, though no one had enough belongings to fill more than half a drawer. When she was asked, while Gareth and the other men had been led off on some pretext, Nix told the woman that she wanted a room to herself, but in the one mixed dorm, where the few resistance men were housed with the few resistance women who were close to them. Little as she wanted Gareth too near, the thought of living among a dozen or thirty shell-shocked, trembling refugees was revolting. Alone in the clean little room that was all her own for however long she ended up staying, she shut the door and wondered at the marvel of a door that locked from the inside. A lock for preserving her own privacy, for ensuring her own safety. Not a jail cell. She remembered the girl, the wiry orphan, Andrea, and wondered at her feeling of nausea that had been eating at her the whole time she'd been trapped in that humid, whisper-filled compartment on the train. In Andrea, she'd seen a little sister. She'd seen courage and strength and hope. Why, now, when she looked at the others, did she see only weakness and fear? A lack that repelled her, made her sick. Voices in the hall. So far, she hadn't seen any of the resistance women she knew. Jan. Kat. Jaden. Rain. Taryn. Kade. Char. Mel. On the road, she'd tried to spot them, but in the swarm of hope and fatigue, it was hard to pick individuals from the crowd. She unlocked her door. Three women, two who'd made their way from Colorado, one all the

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way from California. Yes, they were done. They'd stay. No, they didn't know the women she was looking for. Nix retreated from the hallway, back into her room, behind her door that locked from the inside. In the hall, the voices of the three women swelled again after the brief silence left in the wake of her too-abrupt departure. Swelling, dipping, all around her, in the hall outside her door, in the rooms above, the rooms below, voices, voices, dozens of women and a few resistance men murmuring and laughing. It surprised her—she liked her little room. Small and spare and clean and whole. The ceiling and walls and floor intact, no reek of rot, of mildew. And from the large, paned rectangle of glass, she had a view of the gently sloping grounds, adorned with grand, towering trees still holding on to their bright leaves, and the other residential halls, some of dark reddish brick, others of gray stone, all nestled among trees and shrubs that had probably once been much smaller, neatly manicured to maintain a sense of man's power over nature, but which now nearly hid the buildings from view. A soft knock on her locked door. She expected Gareth, but it was a woman. Not one of the resistance women, not one of the refugees. Young and bright, light, no darkness, no weight to her. She'd lived all her life this side of the line, Nix figured, or had crossed early enough in her brief life to still be whole. Her smile and her eyes, a soft brown like a walnut's shell, were warm. “Welcome,” she said in a voice as soft as her smile and her warm brown eyes. “I'm Kayla.” “Nix.” She made herself smile. “Is your room alright?”

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“Yes. Perfect.” “There's food downstairs. People are going down to eat. Come join us?” She'd forgotten to say “Thank you,” for the room. She should have said, “Thank you.” Now it was too late. “I'm not hungry,” Nix replied, then rushed to add, “Thank you, though.” “Are you sure? I could bring a plate up for you,” the light, bright woman said in her warm, soft voice. “No. Thank you.” Kayla gave Nix a wide, bright smile. “I'll let you have your rest and quiet, then.” The tension wrapped around Nix like a coil of wire slackened a little, but cinched tight again when Kayla turned away from the door without opening it. “They told you about the bathroom, right?” “No.” Kayla let out a laugh, lilting and pretty. With each second, the woman seemed more and more like an alien. “I guess we're not doing such a hot job of making everyone at home. Here.” She sprang toward a second door and swung it open to reveal a toilet, sink and tub, their porcelain and the sage and white tile of the floor and even the grout all pristine as fresh snow. “It's probably been a while since you've enjoyed running water. It all works. Have a bath, if you want.” With one last smile, Kayla disappeared, closing the door silently behind her. Hot water and soap and a perfectly laundered wash cloth. She was the alien, not Kayla. Transported to an alien world with doors that locked from the inside and houses that weren't rotten and women who laughed as though they've never cried and cakes of

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almond-colored soap perched on the edge of tubs with taps that spouted running water, hot and cold. After more than two days and nights with less than a couple hours sleep, she should have been exhausted, should have fallen into deep, empty sleep when she slid between those alien, pristine sheets on that soft, clean-smelling bed. All around her, though, voices swirled, a cacophony more and more animated by the hour as the cynical rebels gradually came to believe that the mecca in the distance wasn't a mirage, as they'd all feared, openly or secretly. Lying still, sitting still, standing still, it was all painful to Nix. Another soft knock. Really Gareth, this time, saying, “I won't stay, if you're not in the mood for a visit.” Without having to force it, she smiled and waved him in. “It's getting pretty merry out there,” he said. “So I hear.” “It's good to see. They're so happy. All these women who've fought so hard for this.” It felt like a rebuke. Like she was a child on her birthday, not grateful enough at receiving a gift she'd begged for. “Have you seen the others? The refugees?” “It's the same in the other halls. A few of us made the rounds, just to check up on things.” “Good.” Her own complacence, her lack of concern for the others, shocked her a little.

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“There's a dinner on in a few hours, for everyone to get together, meet and celebrate. The refugees and the rebels and the founders.” What, as in Founding Fathers? Her gut went tight. “I hope you'll come,” he said. “Sure.” He gave her his sad smile. It pissed her off, that sag of guilt in her belly for not putting on an act, making him feel better. “What you said earlier. That it's me hurting you.” She could hear that he was working at not crying. “I want to believe that will change. That here, where you're safe, that with enough time, it won't hurt you to let yourself feel. And I'm willing to wait, as long as it takes. Weeks. Months. Years. Anything, Nix. To be with you. To find that small happiness we were making together, before, and grow it. But if you tell me it won't change, that me being here hurts you, that it's always going to hurt you, I'll go. You've earned your peace. More than earned it. I won't be the one to hurt you, now that you're here. Now that you can finally be safe.” “No. You should stay.” A fragile, hopeful smile widened his mouth and that sag of guilt in her gut went hard and sharp. She hadn't meant to trick him. “I'm going back, Gareth.” “Back? Where?” “Over the line.” No glint of defiance. No sign of surprise after the first, split-second ripple of shock. He hadn't thought of it, but her words pierced him with sudden, total inevitability.

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Only his own want had blinded him to the obvious certainty of it, from the moment she'd revealed the plan to him. Now his face just sagged in total, final defeat, in sadness. “I had to see. Faith wasn't good enough. But now I know. When I help a pregnant woman or a pack of girls from the orphanage or the sex hotels go east, they're not just running into some other slavery. Now I know it's not for nothing.” “You'll go soon,” he said. “I need a rest. I know that. I'll stay for a few days.” “And you won't let me come with you.” “No.”

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CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Before the communal celebration, Kayla came back, with her warm smile and bright eyes. “Have you gotten a chance to sleep with all this commotion?” she asked in her low lilt. “I'll sleep tonight.” Kayla slipped a bag from her shoulder. “I noticed earlier, your bandages. If you'll let me have a look, I can dress them properly. We have a good supply of medicines here.” One thing Nix knew, sometimes the easiest way to neutralize someone was to give them what they wanted and get it over with. So she surrendered to the woman's ministrations. Let her peel away the dirty bandages Nix had haphazardly re-applied after her bath, let her smear her pungent salve over the abrasions on her neck and wrists with her fingertips, so small and delicate compared with Gareth's huge hands. Each time the other's lambent eyes turned up to find hers, Nix expected the inevitable question, the pledge of understanding. But Kayla left her waiting, never asked, “What did they do to you?” or “I know what you've been through.” When she'd finished with her neck and wrists, Kayla stooped, touched Nix's ankle, and brought her foot onto her lap. “You walked a great distance.” Her soft, warm voice poured over Nix, smooth and soothing as the salve she was touching, now, to the spots where her boots had rubbed her skin away. Then Kayla wrapped her delicate hands around the arch of Nix's foot. Startling, the strength in those smooth, thin fingers. With the pads of her thumbs Kayla found every ache and knot in the ball, the arch, the heel of Nix's foot, in every toe, in her

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ankle and calf. The pain that had sprouted under the strength of those small hands softened, warmed, melted into a lulling fatigue and flowed through her. The late afternoon light seeping through the window behind Kayla put a halo in her black curls. How did she do it? Make her presence, her looks, even her touch so painless, when the nearness, the voices, the glances of everyone else chafed so? Big brown eyes, all light and mischief. Impish, Nix's aunt would have said. Maybe there was a drug in the ointment she'd used. So that when she set Nix's feet on the floor and slid around behind, Nix let Kayla sweep her hair aside, brush her fingertips along her nape, caress and rub her neck and shoulders and back until her whole body was as soft and lax as her feet and calves. Swirling, warm and light, Kayla's caress feathered over her skin, but somehow Nix didn't feel she was being touched. It was like the bath, water enveloping her, seeping between every finger and toe, filling her navel, all her creases and hollows, or the wind, how it would wash over her face, tug her hair back, slip inside her shirt, waking nerves at the base of a million invisible hairs. But the water, the wind, there was no seeking, no want behind the touch. That's how Kayla's caress felt. Undemanding. Like Nix didn't have to do or give anything. Fingertips feathered through her hair, across her brow, her temples, her eyelids, the lobes of her ears, her cheeks, her lips, her chin. That selfless touch. Nix stiffened. Her gaze sharpened. Kayla lifted her fingers, broke contact. Her gaze soft, defenseless, with her impish smile Kayla said, “Was it relaxing?” “Very.”

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“I'm glad.” It was a trick of the light, that halo, but where she was standing, her back to the window, to the pink and gold of the setting sun, Kayla seemed to be exuding luminance. “I'll go now, if you'd like to be alone. Or I'll stay, if you'd like.” “And do what?” Nix asked, the warmth, the ease Kayla's touch had worked into her leaking away. A wide, warm smile. “What would you like? We could talk. Or, if you'd like to lie down and rest, I could sing something, just softly, to distract you from the chatter out there.” “And if I want you to keep touching me?” “I'd like that,” Kayla said, her lilting voice mellowing, softening. “And if I want to touch you?” Smiling, Kayla drifted across the few feet separating them, touched Nix's hand with one slim finger, read her gaze, then lifted Nix's hand, and laid her cheek in her palm. “You're offering yourself to me,” Nix breathed. Kayla lifted her lids, fringed with impossibly long, thick lashes, and gave Nix a lingering, soft, warm gaze. Nix tore her hand away from Kayla's cheek. Backed away from those huge eyes. “They sent you to me. And to how many others? To...what? Thank me for my years of service to the resistance? By showing me it's no different here? Not really.” “No. I've done a poor job of explaining.” Now Kayla's smile was small and hid her teeth, but her gaze was still warm. She was as light, as bright as ever. “No one made me come to you. It was my choice. Something I wanted.”

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“Just me?” “No.” “Just you?” “No.” “So you, some number of you, you'll go to all of us?” “Yes.” “Some kind of rehab?” “Maybe. I suppose that's a way of seeing it. I think of it as a welcome. A way for you to feel safe, to feel good. Nourished. Like the room and the food. Some women come here, they've never felt a touch that didn't hurt, that wasn't about wrenching something from them. When we go to them, and they learn to be touched, what it's like to feel warmth and gentleness, for some women, for a lot of them, it's a first step into life. To feeling their body is something more than a cage against their spirit, a solid thing that can be locked up, tied down.” “And what happens to you, if you decide you don't want to do this welcoming, any more?” “I suppose I'd find another purpose. But it's hard to imagine what else I could do that would bring me as much joy.” “No one forces you?” “No.” “But it's organized. Someone keeps track. To make sure everyone who comes over the line is...welcomed.”

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“Yes. And to ensure that everyone knows the solace of loving touch, now and then, as long as they live.” “Loving touch. Sex, you mean.” “Sometimes. Some people never want that. But they enjoy being hugged. Held as they sleep. Enjoy the kinds of touches you let me give you today.” “And you go to the men, too?” “I do. Most of us do. But not all. And some go only to the men. None of us go to anyone, not wishing to. If I'd decided, earlier when I came to invite you down to the meal, that I didn't want to offer myself to you, I wouldn't be here.” “Today, tonight, you and the others are going to the resistance men?” “Do you have a man here?” “I know someone.” “If there's a bond, we won't intentionally trespass—“ It seemed to startle Kayla a little when Nix laughed. “I'm not jealous. The man I know, it would be good for him, someone like you going to him. Offering him...your welcome.” Kayla's soft gaze went bright and moist. “You care for him. Selflessly. That's rare, I think, in any place or time, even under the best of circumstances. Love is so often selfish. And when I meet someone, like you, a resistance woman, I'm amazed; I'm in awe that you could learn to care for a man, at all. For anyone.” Nix didn't say, “I don't.” Or, “I can't.” Denials like that, they're just invitations. Provocations. Confessions.

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“And for you?” Kayla asked. “For me?” Kayla gave her warmest smile, her softest gaze. Moved close, but didn't touch. “My welcome. Now that you know it's truly mine, will you accept it?” **** As the dozens of women and the few men from her building poured out the doors and slipped into the confluence of people streaming from the horse-shoe of buildings, over the rectangle of rolling lawn toward the great hall where dinner was to be served, Nix found Gareth in his room. Even though he looked sad, his body sagging slightly, his gray eyes clouded dark, he smiled when he saw her. Silent, they walked together down the stairs, through the double doors of dark, polished wood, and let the stream of women bear them along toward the dining hall. Little by little as the procession flowed forward, the happy chatter, the fragile laughter died down, until the river of women surged on in tense silence. They'd all been told ahead of time what to expect. Though the train had been packed full with refugee and resistance women, and the horse shoe of residence halls had been set aside for the newcomers and reflected the same demographic, the campus as a whole looked more like the rest of the world. Mostly men. Still, it was a little startling, that sea of men lining bench after bench from one side of the dining hall to the other. Sitting among them were a few women, women like Kayla, light and smiling and bright-eyed, at least one among the ten or so men at each table. One-by-one emissaries from each table greeted the crowd at the door, each leading a small group—a resistance woman or man with three or four refugees in tow—

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back to his table. The Sewanee men nodded and smiled, but seemed to be keeping themselves in check, their gestures small and infrequent, their voices quiet, soft, in an effort not to overwhelm the newcomers. Still, in her gut, Nix felt the familiar cold coiling, constricting. The room, despite it's soaring ceiling and myriad windows smelled of men, was warm with their bodies and breath. However softly they talked, their baritone murmurs filled the air, settled on her like a net. “Welcome. I'm Brian.” Shorter than Gareth, but even wider across the shoulders, a blond youth with eyes blue as a summer sky. Unless invited they weren't supposed to touch, Nix knew, and young Brian's hands stayed by his sides, not reaching for a shake of greeting, not touching the back of an arm to guide as he parted them from the others by the door and led them to his table. Along with three others, holding their babies tight against their chests, Melissa and the young mother she'd befriended followed Nix and Gareth to Brian's table, where a dozen men greeted them with smiles and soft murmurs of welcome. The Sewanee woman in their midst, blond and blue-eyed as their usher, cast the light of her bright smile over them. In a voice surprisingly rich and timbered for such a gossamer beauty, she told them her name was Marjory, and introduced the rest of the men to the newcomers. It was hard to eat, even though the bounty and the aroma of the food was beyond her imagination after eking out an existence by digging up roots and nuts and plucking berries, pears and apples when she could find them. There was too much in

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her belly, already, coiling and flexing, heavy and cold, so each time she took a small bite and tried to swallow, the food seemed to stick in her throat. She distrusted these Sewanee men. The lightness, the brightness which in Kayla and Marjory inspired a feeling of awe, of wonder, in the men provoked suspicion. They were guilty. Had to be. Most of them, anyway. So what if they were reformed? It was obscene that they should be there, eating so well, living surrounded by the enduring beauty of the campus, none of them too burdened by their past to look right into the faces of these women who'd endured such horrors, and smile without shame. “He's a cute little guy,” the man across from Melissa said, his broad smile pushing his cheeks up so a fan of deep creases opened by each eye. Melissa clutched her curious baby, grabbing for the gleaming spoons and butter knives, tight against her chest. The smile and fan of wrinkles fading a little the man said, “Mine's just over there, with Adel.” He pointed to a plump, buxom brunette three tables away, a baby with a thick head of dark curls at her breast. “Bet they're about the same age. Thirteen months?” “Twelve months, two weeks, three days,” Melissa said, not taking her eyes off the crown of her son's head. “She's more fun every day, that little one of ours. Smiling, laughing. That jibber jabber—she can go on for an hour.” He laughed. “Just like me. What's his name?” Eyes still fixed on the top of her baby's wispy head, Melissa shrugged. “Doesn't he have a name?” the man tried again, his voice gentle, coaxing.

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“It was Mark. After his father,” Melissa said, so quietly it was hard to hear her over the din of the hall, even for Nix, sitting right beside her. “But I don't want to call him that now.” “Sure,” the man said in a kind tone, “you should call him by a name you like.” “How is it decided, here, who gets to be a father?” Nix asked the proud papa sitting across from Melissa. “Well, I guess it goes pretty much the way it used to. Women and men getting to know each other, coming to love each other. Of course, it's bound to be a little different, with so many of us, and so few of you.” “Yeah.” She said it like an accusation. “With us, it's like it is with a lot of families, here. My little Madison has three daddies.” Melissa finally spoke up on her own, “How three?” “Just, there's three of us...close to Adel. She chose us. Invited us into her bed. And now, there's our little Maddy.” Nix looked past the bobbing waves of revelers to mother and child; Adel's eyes, her smile had that same brightness that Kayla's and Marjory's had, that same lightness that cast doubt on the possibility of awfulness in her world. Adel felt the weight of the stare and turned. When she saw the other babies at her man's table, her smiling mouth moved, saying something to her companions, then she wove her way between benches loaded with people and tables laden with platters emptied except for crumbs, scraps, and dribbles left behind by the voracious diners, and brought little Madison to her father.

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“David, why don't you take her for a bit? She can get to know her little peers, there, and I can eat a little something.” The crinkles fanned out by David's eyes again. “There's my girl!” The baby squealed and bounced a convulsive little jig, her naked, chubby feet prancing along David's thighs. Adel swooped down and kissed David's forehead, offered the others a brief, wide smile, then returned to her table. Tightening her grip on her own baby, Melissa stared after Adel, unable to comprehend the nonchalance with which she'd given up possession of her infant. “You live together, the five of you?” Nix asked David. “Oh, well, Adel's a pretty independent sort of person. I think it would drive her a little crazy, living with someone full-time. Even little Mads here, maybe. We all have our own rooms, two and two on either side of a hall in the Benedict residence. We all take turns, looking after Mads.” “And take turns with Adel?” Nix said. “Well,” David said, his smile paler, “maybe that's a way of saying it. When she's in the mood for company, sometimes Adel invites one of us to spend the night in her room. It's nothing like what you're used to. Nobody has a claim, a right, to anyone else here.” The meal went on, the Sewanee men doing their best to make innocent conversation. But nothing was innocent. Even babies could not be discussed without raking open a recent wound or an old scar. There were toasts, toasts of welcome, toasts to a lifetime of happier days for the women who'd just arrived, toasts to bringing those still on the wrong side of the line to safety. By the time the rolls and the ham and the greens and potatoes and carrots had

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been mostly devoured, most of the refugee women were smiling, laughing, chatting again. Even Melissa was less stiff, clutching her baby boy less desperately. But the cold heavy thing in Nix's gut was still writhing and coiling. “Nix!” A high solid voice carved through the night as she and Gareth walked back toward the residence. From the sea of women scattering over the lawn into the buildings at its edge, a girl broke through, slight and blond, waving. “Nix!” The child ran forward, threw herself against Nix, clamped her arms around her waist. When she let go and backed off and looked up she said, “It's you. I thought they caught you. We all did.” Not a little girl. Andrea, the young woman from the orphanage. She'd made it. All the way from the auction block to here. Maybe untouched, even. “I'm glad to see you. You're alright?” Nix asked, hearing how stoic she sounded, even though she'd meant to reflect back at least a fraction of Andrea's emotion, some sign of joy at seeing her alive. Andrea nodded. “I'm alright. You? They didn't really get you?” “No. They didn't get me. Thanks to Artel, here.” Gareth smiled down at the wispy young woman, and Nix watched Andrea force a smile back. Untouched or not, she didn't seem too eager to give her trust to the men. “Where are the others?” Nix asked. Andrea's wan smile faded away, and the thing coiling in Nix's gut unwound and slithered all through her. “They're not here?”

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For a few seconds Andrea stood there, stiff and straight. Then her mask cracked, her mouth split in a grimace of loss, and tears flowed down her cheeks. “Char and Jan,” Andrea said, just audible. “What? Caught?” Andrea shook her head. Nix just stood there, shaking like she was dying of not knowing. If she had the name of a town, a description of where they'd been caught she could go, find them, get them out. Bring them here. To safety. Andrea's clamped-down tears dampened her words. “They made us promise.” Andrea caught her breath, wiped her face dry. Her voice still shuddered, though, as she said, “They sent us on with the others. And this time I looked. Looked back. They held the men off for a while, but they got hold of Char. And she'd made us promise. All of us.” Nix, white and still, breathed, “I know.” “The men had her. They were hurting her. And Jan, I saw her. I saw. She shot her. In the head. And then she put the gun in her mouth. And she was dead, too.” To outrun whatever was erupting inside of her, Nix forced herself to say, “But you made it. You and the others from the orphanage.” “All of us. We're here.” “Well,” Nix was holding it together, somehow, “if we could ask them, Jan and Char would tell us it was worth it. Their lives for your freedom. Worth that, and more. Your freedom, you and the others, it's all they lived for. What gave them purpose. Meaning.” Andrea nodded, but it was plain that Nix's words didn't undo her sadness. “Where are you sleeping? Do you want to come to our building?”

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“No.” Andrea glanced across the quad. “No, I should get back to the other girls. They're still nervous.” Nix smiled. A little trooper, that Andrea. All ninety pounds of her. “Alright. I'll look for you at breakfast tomorrow.” Andrea nodded and smiled and scampered off. “Your comrades. Your friends. I'm sorry,” Gareth said. “Come on.” They made their way to their hall. She'd leave. Maybe tomorrow. The next day at the latest. Knowing that, it hurt less being around Gareth. When he halted on the second landing, she touched his arm, and he followed her up to her floor. “Get undressed.” He smiled, but it was the saddest smile she'd ever seen. Still, he started taking off his things. His jacket. His boots. The heavy flannel he wore over his t-shirt. But then there was a knock at the door. Probably Kayla, Nix figured. When she opened the door, though, it was a different woman, tall and lean, with cocoa skin and hazel eyes. Her smile was wide and bright, but her gaze was graver than the other Sewanee women's. “Nix? I'm Nadia. I'm sorry to disturb you, but could I come in for a few minutes? I have something I'd like to discuss with you.” Half glad for the interruption, Nix gestured her guest inside and closed the door. “Hi. I'm Artel.” “Hello.” The visitor stared at Gareth, a strange expression melting her smile. She seemed to tear her gaze off him with effort, and turned to Nix.

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“I realize you've just arrived, and probably everything that's happened, and these new surrounding are a bit overwhelming, but I didn't dare put off speaking with you, and some of the others as well.” Nix gave the woman an indulgent smile. “You don't need to worry about overwhelming me.” “No, of course.” Nadia flashed her wide smile again. “You and the others of the resistance who've landed here, I understand many of you only came as chaperons, to see the others to safety. And, perhaps, to make certain that the promised land is what it is rumored to be. A few of your comrades have already made it clear they don't wish to stay. That they will be going back across the line before the week is out. So my haste in speaking to you now, so soon after you've come, is out of a concern that I miss my opportunity altogether. ” As she spoke, Nadia kept glancing furtively at Gareth. “May I ask, do you intend to go back over the line, yourself?” “Yes.” “To continue with the resistance?” “Yes.” “I'm glad to hear it. Not that you'll be leaving, of course, but that the resistance hasn't lost such an asset. But I'd like to ask you to consider staying here a little longer.” Nadia paused, Nix guessed, because she felt she was doing too much talking. So Nix asked, “Why?” Nadia smiled. “Of course you're aware of our role in the railway operation. That we'll run transports, now, until the slavers figure out what we're up to and destroy the tracks. But that's just the first wave. A tiny element in a much larger plan. You'd be a

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valuable asset in executing that plan, Nix. You would be able to do a lot more good, to help far more women, if you were to decide to stay and work with us, rather than return to the other side and work alone, or with small, under-armed guerrilla groups again.” “And what is this grand plan?” Nix asked. “Honestly, I think you'll have to see to believe. If you're willing, in three days' time I'll bring you and the others to the main base. You'll see everything, there. And if you decide you'd rather go back across on your own, go back to the resistance you know, the returning train can take you as far as you wish to go. You'll only have saved time.” It was hard to trust. Even women. Even a woman with eyes as earnest and a smile as easy as hers. But the need to hope, to believe was as strong as her doubt. “I'll think about it.” With another of her wide, bright smiles Nadia said, “Good. Good, I'm glad. We'll be leaving on Thursday morning. I won't press you for an answer in the meantime, but if you want to talk before then, I'm in Hodgson Hall.” Nadia turned to Gareth. “And what about you...” “Artel.” Without any obvious change of expression, Nadia's gaze seemed to sharpen. “Artel. What is your story? You're with the resistance?” Her voice sounded suddenly deeper, and wavered, now, looking at him. “I'm with Nix. The others don't know me.” “I see.” “He's not afraid to kill the enemy. And he can be trusted,” Nix said.

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“Well then, the invitation I made to Nix is extended to you as well. If you still wish to fight, but with less danger and greater success, come with us to the base on Thursday.” “She acted weird with you,” Nix said when Nadia had gone. “The ways she looked at you. And she pretended not remembering your name.” Almost indifferently, he said, “I thought so too.” Nix smiled. Touched Gareth's hand. The first touch she'd given him in days. “It's alright, Gareth, if she came to you before. You don't have to tell me. And you shouldn't feel any guilt.” Gareth gave her one of his sad smiles. “She didn't. But someone else did.” “I'm glad.” “I refused what she offered.” “Why? Out of some kind of loyalty to me? You should accept. The women here can give you things I can't.” “No. You can give me something they can't.” “Gareth—“ “Nix. I don't push. I only want what you want to give. If you ask me to go, I'll leave. If you want to go, I won't stop you. But don't ask me to touch those strangers. To let them touch me. It would hurt me to settle for a gift of custom, however kindly it's meant, instead of what we've shared. Instead of struggling together, with you, to find the things that have been taken from us.” Before Nadia turned up, before this little speech of his, Nix had meant to let him spend the night. She'd thought she'd be leaving in the morning, or the next day at the

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latest. She'd wanted to give him one more night of closeness, of human warmth, of being held. But now that there was this other possibility, them traveling together to the base, maybe working at close quarters for another week or month, his nearness was tiring her out. Chafing her raw. Wearing her down. She told him, “I'll see you in the morning.” That sad smile. “Alright.” **** At breakfast, Kayla came and sat with them. “I'd like to request a favor of you both,” she said. In spite of another night without sleep, Nix had a sense of being enveloped in Kayla's luminous warmth. Even so, Nix was stretched too thin to play at being friendly and eager and curious. Rather than prompting her, she just waited for Kayla to go on. “There's a sort of ceremony I'd like you to attend. For us, it's nothing out of the ordinary. It's one of our usual practices. But it's important that the refugees start participating—only as observers, I mean—and for them it will be rather difficult. Delicate. And it will reassure them, having you there.” Once Kayla had explained it to her, the idea of the ceremony horrified Nix. But she'd go. She'd go and see what all was going on in this so-called paradise. Nix and Gareth and other resistance men and women arrived ahead of the refugees, as requested. Kayla sat quietly while another—Mahal—explained what would happen during the ceremony, and what was expected of the observers. The resistance and refugee women and men were to remain silent and still, but would be allowed to quietly leave the room if anyone became too distraught to keep watching. After, the observers would have a chance to speak at will. The presence of the resistance women

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and men was meant to give the refugees a sense of safety, and also, it was hoped that those who had fought so bravely and endured so much so stoically would set an example of calm during the ceremony. Kayla's counterpart delivered her instructions with the air of beatitude, like the Virgin Mary in the painting that had hung on Nix's bedroom wall when she'd belonged to her husband, the collector of things and people. First, the refugees arrived. Funny how her protective instincts still kicked in. Nix took Andrea under her wing as soon as she saw her come through the door. No sign of Melissa. As instructed, they arranged themselves in a circle around the platform. The bed. Refugee, resistance fighter, refugee, resistance fighter. So all of the girls—that's who'd come, the girls from the orphanage and others who looked the same age, who didn't have the shell-shocked, worn down look of the women a few years older who'd had husbands, who'd lost children, who'd been locked inside the sex hotels—so all of them would feel safe, bolstered on both sides by one of the people who'd rescued them. Except Kayla came by and asked Gareth to switch places with the girl next to Nix. Now that she was between Gareth and stalwart little Andrea, Nix felt like she was the one being protected, and it irked her. The ceremony involved more ritual than Nix had witnessed since before the dying, when she had gone with her mom and dad to the wedding of a friend in a Catholic church. Now, sitting hand-in-hand with Gareth and Andrea, Nix noticed two doors open in almost perfect synchronicity on opposite sides of the room. Light poured through the two apertures from outside, then was largely cut off by a person stepping

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into each doorway. For a minute or more, the two figures were still, then in near unison moved forward, and the doors closed quietly behind them. Now that the sun's light wasn't turning them both into black silhouettes, the two figures were revealed to be a woman and a man, each dressed identically in a single, thin white garment which hung, shapeless, down to their feet. For the first time since she was a child, Nix thought of angels. Matching step for step like echoes of one another, the robed woman and the robed man converged on the center of the room and stood still, facing each other. He was young, maybe twenty or twenty-two, with impossibly smooth, umber skin and deep brown eyes. He had the look of the Sewanee women, light and bright. She was taller than the man and older, maybe thirty. Her light blue eyes, locked on her counterpart, were red as if she was about to cry. She put both hands out, as if to receive a package, and he laid his hands in hers. “I want to give myself to you,” she said in a tight, high voice, so quietly Nix just barely heard her. “I want to give myself to you,” he echoed, his voice warm and smooth. He gave the woman a smile, radiant in spite of being reserved, and she answered it with her own fragile smile. Hand-in-hand, they turned toward the bed, and the circle briefly broke to let them pass. Inside the circle, they mounted the bed and knelt, facing one another. Again she held out her hands, and again he took them. In the same soft, tight voice she said, “I want your kiss.”

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Holding her hands in his, holding her gaze with his warm, dark eyes, the man leaned forward and touched his lips to the woman's cheek. He lingered there for a few seconds, then slowly retreated and sat back on his heels. “I want your kiss,” he said, his honeyed voice slow and thick and warm. When she leaned forward, she took his full bottom lip between her lips, kissed, and did the same to the pretty, bowed upper lip. The youth received every touch of her lips with a yielding warmth that surprised Nix. He never leaned forward or parted his lips to deepen the kiss. Just submitted to her. When she sat back on her heels, ending their kiss, her voice was fuller, but it wavered. “I want your touch.” Her shimmering reddening eyes, her determined mouth were met by his luminous gaze, warm and bright, and a soft smile. Everything about him seemed lax, warm, quiet. In his voice like warmed honey, he said, “I want to touch you. You've been violated. I want to offer you comfort and safety. You've been a prisoner. I want to let you feel how you belong to yourself. Your body has been hurt. I want to help you find pleasure.” “I want your touch,” she said again. With his beatific smile and gentle gaze, he reached out and touched her face, cupping her cheek in his palm. Simple, warm contact. When he took his hand away she said it again. “I want your touch,” and he put his fingertips to her temple and feathered a soft caress down the side of her face. When he took his touch from her, she repeated her mantra again, and the man rose up on his knees, leaned close, and with both hands

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combed his fingers through her hair, again and again, until her lids closed over her shimmering eyes and the tension in her face ebbed away and, little by little, she sank forward until she was cradled against him while he stroked her hair, the backs of her arms, her neck, her back. She never said, “I want to touch you.” Only, “I want your touch. Touch. I want.” On the dais the woman sank back and the man touched, Nix thought, as gently, as carefully as Gareth had always touched her, except under that veil of diaphanous white his caress explored far beyond the flesh Gareth had tried. From the corner of her eye, Nix looked at Andrea. A glance told her the tightening of the girl's grip on her hand wasn't from fear. Her lips slightly parted, her chest rising and falling rapidly, her gaze was locked on the couple, following every flex and movement of the man's hand under the woman's gown. To Nix's left, Gareth's expression was almost a perfect copy of Andrea's rapt arousal. The woman under the man was lax, now, soft and yielding, sighing now and then as his touch stirred her nerves, and when she blinked, her lids sank down and lifted, revealing eyes focused on nothing but an inward symphony of sensation. The knot of rage and resentment in Nix's belly hardened. When her mantra changed the man lifted the woman's robe and bared her naked body to the circle and to his kisses. Nix watched his umber lips brush across her skin, the color of butter. His umber lips and his pink tongue. Her belly, her thighs, between her breasts. She said her mantra and his kisses crept up the swells of her breasts, mounted the nut-brown peaks, nuzzled her rising nipples as she blinked and sighed, the pink all gone from the whites of her pale blue eyes.

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Gareth's hand was hot and damp in hers. Such a big, strong hand. He'd touched her, held her, washed her with that hand. Maybe the heat and damp was hers. Either way, it was too hot, too wet. She wanted to pull free. The woman on the dais didn't need her. The robed woman 's mantra had turned into a series of pleas, and the man glossed her nipples with his tongue, sucked them up between his lips, let them go, wet and peaked. He kissed down the length of her pale belly, kissed the soft pale flesh of her inner thighs, kissed between while the woman whimpered and sighed, her eyes wide and startled at the sensation of his tongue licking over her pink folds. Another plea and he rose, lifted the front of his gown, and settled his hips between her thighs. All soft languor and whispered pleas she rose to his warmth, sought his smile and his warm brown eyes with her hazy gaze, sought his lips with her mouth, and pulled him to her, took him in. Beside her, Nix could hear Andrea's shallow little rasps of aroused breath, felt her small hand twitch now and then. Between her own hand and Gareth's it felt like they held a hot ember. She didn't know how to leave herself, anymore. It was torture, watching that pair writhing, their limbs wound up in their fucking, tangled in their robes, their kisses and sighs and the wet joining of their bodies filling the air. Finally it was over; the pair on the dais collapsed in a warm, damp, panting heap. Swallowing against the sour nausea creeping up her throat, Nix willed herself to stay still, to leave her hands in the cloying grasps of Gareth and Andrea, made herself keep breathing that humid air that reeked of copulation.

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The woman on the bed gestured, and Mahal rose, and the circle rose up after her, an undulating wave of bodies, and she led them to the door, out of the sweltering, redolent air, into the breeze and sunlight of the courtyard. Nix was dying to escape, to flee from the midst of people and buildings, into the trees, to walk along the banks of the river that ran below the window of her room. But their part of the ceremony wasn't over yet. There on the grass they resumed their circle, sitting on woven mats set out ahead of time. Again, they all joined hands. Nix forced herself to take Gareth's hand, to keep her face blank. From the corner of her eye, she saw him turn his head to look at her. She felt him seeking her eyes, but she kept her gaze fixed on Kayla. All holding hands, they sat in what Mahal called “quiet meditation” for three minutes, Nix resisting the urge to scream, to tear her hands free of Andrea's and Gareth's hands. Then Mahal told them to open their eyes and Nix fixed her gaze, her anger, her bitter sense of betrayal on Kayla's lit-up brown eyes, that soft smile. “That woman...” one of the orphans said when Kayla invited the circle to discussion. “Lauren,” Mahal told her. The young woman asked her question, and Mahal answered in her warm, soft voice. Beside her, Andrea's high, confident voice rang out. Nix hardly heard the words, her brain didn't bother to process the significance of the answer. It seemed to go on and on, that call and response, the untouched young ones from the orphanage and even the older, scarred ones from the resistance full of curiosity, hope, and dull anger. “Why?

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Why the audience? Why him? Had she really chosen it? Really wanted it? Would they be expected to? But if they wanted? Finally it was over and Nix broke free. Tore loose of Gareth's and Andrea's hands, and stalked off for the river. What the fuck did those Sewanee people want from her? From all of them? Watching one scared woman in a white robe melt and sigh and shudder under a man wasn't going to undo a lifetime of slavery and torture. Having Gareth's hand in hers, sweaty and hot and twitching at every gasp and cry wouldn't keep her there, wouldn't undo the hurt she felt when he was close. It just made it worse. When she heard the tramp of feet in the gravel behind her Nix wheeled around, ready to scream her rage at Gareth. But it was Kayla. Kayla with her infuriatingly gentle eyes, her exasperating smile. “I came here to be alone,” Nix said, clinging to the last shred of her self-control. “I know.” Kayla's easy voice was as steady as her gaze. “In a moment, I'll leave you. I only wanted to tell you that I'm sorry. You weren't ready for that. I misjudged, and it's hurt you.” “Don't worry about me, Kayla. Worry about Andrea, those girls from the orphanage, the refugee women who were being bought and sold and raped last week. You can't just stick them in a circle, tell them to hold hands and watch some brainwashed woman in a robe getting fucked. It's cruel.” Kayla's soft smile shrank until her full mouth was almost a perfect circle. “It's not meant to be cruel.” “Well, it is.” “Would it be better to hide our practices from the newcomers?”

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“There's a middle ground between keeping something secret, and rubbing their faces in it.” “We try very hard, Nix, to find a good balance, here. To help the newcomers adjust, without disrupting the harmony that exists among those who've been here longer. And we've been doing it a long time. For twenty years, we've been integrating refugees. Not in such great numbers, of course. But we have a lot of experience helping women and men from west of the line let go of old fears, old hatreds, old habits. The ceremonies are part of the adjustment.” “Maybe some of us don't want to adjust. Thought of that?” Kayla gave Nix her serene smile. “Yes.” “Why, after what they've been through, would any of these women want to let some man climb on top of her, rut over her?” Nix was hoarse, shivering, her eyes red, her hands bunched in fists. Kayla stayed quiet. “These ceremonies. You do them with the men from across the line, too?” “Yes.” “The one's who've bought wives? The ones who've used the girls in the sex hotels? The ones who've gang-raped and branded the resistance women?” “Yes.” “Like that? With robes and one of you...you ethereal beauties? You kiss them? Touch them? Let them fuck you?” “Yes.” “Why?” It was a hoarse scream. “Why reward that cruelty? That torture?”

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Kayla waited until a moment of silence passed before she answered, her brown eyes shimmering. “Because, Nix, it's important; it's everything, making sure what's happened across the line never happens here. To make sure the women who come here are truly safe. And the only way to ensure that, to ensure there is peace here, is to make certain everyone's needs are met. When people are starving, they steal. It isn't the only reason, but lack, hunger are powerful forces. Nothing can be done until those are answered.” Kayla's coy metaphors were twisting Nix's gut into a knot. “The men who've done the things I've seen,” Nix said, “don't need a fuck to make them docile. They need a bullet to shatter their skull. A knife to slit their throat or their belly open. To cut off their dick and their balls. That's how you know for sure they'll never hurt a woman again.” “Should we kill all the men? Should we kill Artel?” Cold. Nix was so, so cold, but a trickle of sweat tickled down her back. All her clothes were heavy, damp and clinging to her. It felt like Kayla had taken a razor bladed a traced a groove around and around each of her organs, that horrible “yes” seeping out of her lungs and heart, bleeding from every vein and artery. “Nix, it would be inhuman to ask you to forgive what's been done to you. No one expects it. But killing every man who's been part of that horrible wrong can't be the answer. Men aren't born evil, any more than women are. If they were all truly, inherently evil, then what happened after the dying would have happened before. That would be our whole history. But it's not.

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“Exterminating the males of the species—it's against nature. Just as what life became on that side of the line was against nature. Because it was against nature, what happened twenty-five years ago. The dying, how few women survived. But it won't be that way forever. Already, the gap is closing. When the babies being born now grow up, their generation will be balanced. And here, those children are growing up with love, with forgiveness. Not vengeance and punishment. “I look at you, Nix, and want so much for you to have peace. My heart hurts with wanting that for you. But you can't make peace with the blade of your knife.” “Maybe not here. But I'm not staying.” “Not out there, either, Nix.” Nix laughed, the air and the sound tearing up her insides. “Out there? Sure I can. I've been making peace with my gun and my knife for years. It's easy. It feels good. It's the only thing that feels good.” “And watching Lauren and Michael feels bad.” “Yes.” “And being close to Artel. Him loving you. That feels bad.” “Yes.” “How bad?” Her cold, raw body started to shake, her sweat and tears melting her. “It's fucking killing me.” Down in the grass, Kayla wrapped herself around Nix, shaking and sweating and sobbing, and somewhere beyond the cut-up-with-razors agony, Nix had the idea that if

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Kayla weren't wrapped around her, she would really melt and just soak into the earth, a puddle of dissolved flesh and blood loosed from disintegrated veins. “Please,” Nix said when she trusted her voice again, when the shaking had stopped. “Leave me alone, now.” Kayla gazed into Nix's swollen, burning eyes. Then she smiled and nodded. “All right.” Kayla rose and walked off, so graceful even on the uneven earth that she seemed to float above it, paralleling the river. Poison. They were all poison to her. Gareth. Kayla. Lauren and Michael. Adel and her three husbands and their little Maddy. The peace and beauty of the mecca she'd hardly dared to believe in. Forget rest. She'd never close her eyes and sleep through a night here, Gareth two floors down waiting for her to come to him, strange luminous women giving themselves to rapists to buy a chance at peace for Andrea and the others. She'd go. Today. Right now. Over the line. Do the one thing she was fit for. Fight. The moment she decided to leave, the sagging weight that had been crushing her lifted, warmth came back to her blood, air filled her lungs and she breathed deep as she could, over and over, as if she'd been suffocating ever since she'd boarded that train. The hum and chatter of voices and a dozen conversations quieted, and finally, finally, her own thoughts came together. It felt so good, having her mind back, she felt her mouth widen into a smile, while the gold and russet leaves drifting down like snowflakes and the brown-black trunks and branches blurred against the blue sky.

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One thing twinged her belly. Gareth. Maybe she should just go. Skip the painful closeness, the good-bye. Not risk the confusion. He'd try to convince her to wait. To go with him to the base. Just the thought weighed as much as a sandbag. Nix stopped. Hid. Caught her breath and peered around the trunk of the ash she'd hidden behind. Two men. The big one with dark hair had the other pinned against a tree, had the smaller man's wrists gripped tight overhead, and ground his groin against the pinned man's ass. Heart hammering, Nix crouched and slipped her switchblade from her sock where she'd kept it hidden since they'd asked everyone to give up their weapons. Good thing they hadn't searched her room. Good thing they never frisked her. She'd known it. All Kayla's talk of peace. But you couldn't stop it. Clean, whole buildings and pretty grounds wouldn't save you. Men like that, they'd snatch a girl first chance they got. And if that chance never came, a boy would do. While the tall, wide man yanked the other's jeans open and bared his narrow ass, Nix silently hinged open her blade. It would be easy, like this, with them both facing that tree. A quick slash of the achilles, then the throat would be easy. Shit. The big one dropped the other's wrists and spun him around. Facing out like that, his face would give her away. Days without sleep. Her nerves, her strength were shot. But she'd risk it. Not for the man getting raped. Who cared? What was one, even a dozen of them against all the women they'd tortured. Not for him. Just to feed her own need. Heal her own hate.

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She braced herself for the charge, but halted hard before she sprang from her hiding place. The one facing her now, delicate blond, green eyes, laughed. The hot hate swelling her veins ebbed. “Jesus, you're hard,” the big one's bass sifted past the trees and fallen leaves, and he palmed the blond's crotch through the sagging jeans that were falling down, just held up, now, by that big, fondling hand. Their mouths locked and that big hand kept rubbing over that crotch, the jeans indifferently shifting up and down. Their kiss ended with a wet noise Nix could hear all the way back in her hiding spot. “Please, Daniel. Please,” the slender blond pleaded. “Please, what?” she heard the darker man ask. “Please. Fuck me.” The big one laughed again. “So impatient.” He went on rubbing him, but more slowly now. “I'll fuck you. When I'm ready.” Still fondling, he tugged up the blond's sweater and t-shirt and latched onto his pale pink nipple. Pale, slender fingers swept into dark brown waves, the slight blond clinging hard to the man licking and sucking and stroking. “God, yes,” Daniel huffed, “you're so fucking hot and ready. Do you know how bad I need you, Ty?” The dark one, Daniel, sank to his knees, and with a tug the jeans fell to Ty's ankles, baring his slender, pale legs and an ambitious erection for so slight a man. “God fuck, Ty, I'm going to eat you alive.” The entire pink erection vanished between Daniel's open lips and the blond groaned and pulled the other's head hard against his pelvis.

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Nix had never seen anything like this. Nothing. The eager, frenzied seeking, both hungry and wanting and urgent. Neither reluctant nor afraid. It did something to her. Made her soft and warm and wet. Made her stay, hidden and hardly breathing while Daniel went on nursing at that pink cock, while Ty kept sighing, almost whimpering. “No, no,” Ty pleaded, suddenly pushing the other away. “No. I want to come when you're inside me. Please, Daniel. Fuck me.” Daniel sprang to his feet saying, “God, yes,” and took Ty in a hard, deep kiss that went on and on. They were both out of breath when he spun his lover to face the tree again, dropped a gob of spit on the ends of his fingers and slid them up between the cheeks of Ty's pale, narrow ass. Hard and urgent as they'd been until now, when Daniel got his jeans open and the cherry crown sank into the shadowy cleft of Ty's ass, he slowed, and eased himself inside with gentle patience that almost undid the painful knot in Nix's gut. “Alright, baby?” she heard him whisper to Ty. Ty groaned out a throaty “Yeah, yeah,” and reached back to grip Daniel's ass and pull him harder to him. “Fuck, you feel so good, Ty.” Daniel was moving so slowly, to Nix the pair looked almost still. Little by little, though, Daniel's rhythm sped, the thrust of his hips deepened. One big hand dug into Ty's blond hair, the other wrapped around his stiff cock. Ty sighed and whimpered while Daniel bit and sucked his ears, his neck, his shoulders, fucking him, stroking him, panting and grunting his effort, his need. When the big hand slipped out of the blond

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tangle and went around Ty's narrow chest to tease his pink nipples, the tenor of Ty's cries altered and Nix waited, expectant. “Come for me, baby. While I fuck you. I want you to,” Daniel panted, teasing and stroking and fucking, his face flushing red and starting to gleam. “God, baby, please,” he huffed, fucking harder, faster. When they came, first Ty, then Daniel, almost at the same time, Ty's sap spatting against the dark tree trunk in startling abundance, trickling down along the fissures in the bark, and they slumped together, panting and sweat-slick, Nix slumped, too, and realized she was panting, catching up on oxygen after holding her breath through their grunting, humping climaxes. While they kissed and laughed, she crept off, feeling like a traitor. A spy. West of the line, men caught at that would be branded switches and fed to the worst of the brutes—the sadists and the outsiders who didn't have enough credit or cash to get a woman. Under the guilt, something else churned, warm and thick and heavy. Her own want. Somewhere, under the rage and fear, something in her demanded that pleasure, that joining. Her body urged her to go straight to Gareth, right then. She could have clawed through the solid wood of his door, her need was so fierce. But her brain felt sore and tired and that familiar cold something was coiling in her belly again. Seeing him would just make it worse. Only vaguely remembering she'd decided to leave, she stayed. Hoping desperately that she wouldn't see anyone who knew her, Nix slipped through the door of her building, crept upstairs and shut herself in her room. She stripped naked and crawled into bed. Images beyond her command, images of the two men in the woods, of

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Gareth and her merged and divided and merged again as she writhed against her hand and shuddered through her first climax in more than ten years, somewhere between awake and dreaming. **** When she went to Gareth's room in the morning, soothed from more than ten hours of sleep after days and days of insomnia, feeling warm and tender after a week of feeling bitter and hard, Nix found Nadia there with him. A bad feeling, something new and painful went through her like a saw. Her habitual suspicion, she told herself. Her habit of seeing conspiracy everywhere, after a lifetime of betrayal. But some deep, dim part of her knew that wasn't it. “Sorry to interrupt. I'll look for you after breakfast,” she told Gareth, and turned to leave. He said, “Stay.” Nadia flashed her wide, warm smile, but her hazel eyes were red and glistening. “Nadia just showed me this,” Gareth said, and passed over a drawing done in pencil. It looked vaguely familiar. The style of the drawing, frenetic but somehow immediately true. And the man. He was familiar, too. “Do you recognize him?” Nadia asked, her tear-glossed eyes fixed on Gareth. “My father.” Nadia let out a broken little laugh, and tears spilled down her face. “When I saw you the other night, I thought you look so much like him, you had to be... But it seemed so impossible. I didn't even know how to ask. But when I left your room,” she said to Nix, “I heard you call him Gareth. Not Artel. And I knew.”

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“Knew what?” Gareth asked. “Gareth. Do you remember your mother?” He got up, went to his pack, fished out his treasured artifact, and handed it to Nadia. She looked at the picture, obviously drawn by the same hand as the one she'd shown him. “Your mother?” she asked him. “Yes.” Smiling, tears streaming down her face, she said, “Mine too.”

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CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Nadia's broad smile was parenthesized by two gleaming tracks of tears. “Did your father ever tell you that you had a sister?” Gareth shook his head. “This must seem so strange to you. A sister you've never heard of. But all my life I've known about you. Wondered where you were. What had happened to you. I can't believe you're standing right here. That I can just reach out and touch you.” Nadia's slender arm extended as if she would just touch Gareth's arm, as if she wanted to make sure he wasn't just a mirage, but then she pressed her whole body to his and wrapped her arms around him. After a few seconds of startled stillness, he hugged her back, held her as she cried against his chest. Then she was up on her toes, straining to kiss his face, pressing her lips to his cheeks, his lips. When she relented and backed away, Nix was startled. Gareth had that gray look, cold and blank, the way he'd looked to her the day they'd given her to him. She'd forgotten how hard he could be. “I'm sorry,” Nadia whispered, all her warm light suddenly extinguished. “I should have waited. They'd have done it better. I'm too excited.” “No,” Gareth said, the effort of forcing himself to speak obvious. “Just, tell me more.” “I don't know what you know. About our mom. About home.” Gareth shrugged. “Dad never wanted to talk about that. All he ever told me, really, is that she died when I was born.”

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“No. No, she died when I was born. You weren't even two years old.” He still looked hard and cold and gray. A day earlier, it would have taken a weight off of Nix, that solidifying, that cooling. Nadia went on, “Riggs, your father—“ “No. You've got the wrong person. Artel. Artel's my dad.” Nadia plucked Gareth's drawing up from the bed. “This man?” “Yes.” “Believe me. I know him. I mean, I never met him, but this picture, there are a hundred of them. All of you together, Riggs on his own, playing his guitar. He must have changed his name.” “Changed his name. Why would he change his name?” Nadia's smile came back, small and hesitant. Her voice soft, gentle, she said, “I think he loved you a lot. I think he was scared he'd lose you. So he took you, and left. And I suppose he changed his name so no one would find you. Take you from him.” “Who would want to take me from him? If my mother was dead...” “Do you love him?” Moment by moment Gareth looked harder, colder, and Nadia seemed softer. When she asked him that question, she seemed almost afraid of him. “Yes.” Gareth's voice was sharp and hard. But that little word seemed to crack his rigidity. Rough, hoarse, his gray eyes going red he said, “But our relationship was complicated.” “Was?” “He's dead.”

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“I'm sorry.” Nadia was quiet then, tears rolling down her cheeks, making her seem suddenly very young. Like a child. Finally she managed a smile and said again, “I'm sorry. And I don't want to say anything to hurt your memory of him. But you should know. You still have family. Besides me, I mean.” Nix sensed that Nadia kept fighting an impulse to touch Gareth. Her hands fidgeted in front of her. “Your mother and Riggs, Artel, were friends. But the man who raised you wasn't Eva's husband. He wasn't really her lover.” “Are you saying he wasn't my real father?” Gareth sounded wounded, like the foundation under his feet was rupturing and giving way. “I'm saying you had three fathers. The man who raised you, and two others. It was a complicated situation. When Eva died giving birth to me, Riggs—Artel—had reason to believe that the others wouldn't let him go on in his role as one of the fathers. So he took you.” “From this place?” Gareth asked, his gravel voice just audible. “Not right here, no. But a place more like this than the other side of the line.” “And these other men. They...what? They both consider themselves my fathers? “Gareth, they love you. It broke their hearts, your kidnapping.” Gareth flinched. “It was a bad time. They both loved our mother so much. She'd just died; I'd just been born. But Dad—John—he went out looking for you. The first time, he was gone for weeks, but there was no trace of you. He had no way of knowing which direction Riggs had taken you. There were no leads. Just nothing. He came back home, but he went back out, over and over, for weeks, sometimes longer, trying to find you.” She took a breath, sighed. “You look so much like him.”

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“So my dad, the man who raised me, he wasn't really my father?” “Yes, he was really your father. But you're Dad's. I knew the moment I saw you.” Gareth looked like he might crack in two. “I'm sorry, Gareth. I'm not doing this right.” Nadia laughed, but she looked hurt. “I had this idea I'd tell you, and you'd be so happy. As happy as I am to have found you. As happy as Dad and Papa will be, knowing you're alive and well and here, over the line. They'll be so, so glad. But it's different for you. You didn't even know we existed. And I'm telling you all wrong. I should have waited.” “No. Nadia. It's alright. I'm glad you told me.” Nix watched Gareth produce a smiled and touch her arm. “But I need a little time. Please. Leave me alone for a while.” He looked at Nix. “Both of you.” **** Soft but rapid, the rap of knuckles on her door pulled Nix from her dark thoughts. Nadia, her eyes red. Nadia, all startled and brittle. She slipped into Nix's room through the crack of open door and closed it softly behind her, then, almost whispering, said, “Gareth. He's...something's wrong with him.” Stupid girl. She'd gone back. Why couldn't she have left him alone like he'd asked? Nix reached for the door, but Nadia swept her hand away from the knob. Nothing Nadia said made sense. Gareth wouldn't do that. Nix went, shrugging Nadia off when she tried to stop her. The door wasn't locked and Nix opened it when Gareth didn't answer her knock or her voice. Naked. Like Nadia had said. Naked, and leaning onto the long mirror on the wall, facing himself like an enemy. No sign he knew she was there.

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“Gareth.” He turned and lunged. Stopped short. Staring, his eyes cold and hard, like concrete again, how they'd been that day they'd given her to him. He backed away. “Nix.” His voice scraped. “I though you were her.” Gareth went back to the mirror, back to the enemy there, naked and scarred, tall and wide and lean and hard. “That girl, that soft, lit-up girl thinks I'm one of them.” His laugh was a terrible contrast to his hard, red eyes. “And I almost believed her. That it could be true. That I could go with her to that place, have a family. The sister and the two fathers I lost twenty years ago.” “Why can't you?” “They're so soft, here. Like wet paper. If I touch her, I think she'll tear. And she kept touching me. Kept trying to put her arms around me.” “So you scared her off?” “I had to remind myself,” he said. “What I am.” “What are you?” “I'm this.” The mirror shattered where his knuckle hit the reflection of his stony eye. “She doesn't understand. I'm not like her. I thought I could go by Gareth, be a person. But I don't think so. I'm Artel. I'm like him. My father. The monster.” “You believe that?”

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Gareth stared at his shattered self, his stoic face twisting, his stony cold eyes flooding. “It was them. They made this place. My mother. Those men Nadia says are my fathers. And all I've ever done, all my life, is hurt people.” “Who?” “Everyone I've ever touched.” His hard, naked body shook. “That girl in the sex hotel. The women at the brandings. All the men I've punished.” The tears spilled. “You.” “No, Gareth. That's a lie.” “No. It isn't.” “It's my lie. You've never hurt me. I've been scared. Not of you. Of me. Things inside me.” “That's not true, Nix. I feel it. I feel you cringe away from me, now. I could feel it yesterday, through that whole ceremony; it made you sick, feeling my hand in yours. And I know, this morning when you came to my room. You came to say good-bye..” “No. Gareth. I want to stay. I want to go to the base. That's what I came to tell you. I came to tell you...” Her throat closed around her words, but she forced them out. “I want to stay with you.” “I can't be like that. How they want us to be. Like that man in the ceremony yesterday. Smooth and soft and full of light.” “Do you think I can? I look at these people, Gareth; they're all aliens. I can't even believe we're the same species. I don't want you to be like them. I need you to be what you are.”

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“This.” He turned away from his shattered face, his cracked, fissured body. All hard, that dark, angled jaw, those sharp-looking eyes, his muscled breadth. His cock, though, hung heavy. “The sadist. Remember?” “You're not bad, Gareth. You're a fighter. Like me.” “No. Not like you. Nothing like you. You defended yourself. Killed your enemies. I hunted men and tortured them. I got off on it. Remember Dorset?” “Gareth. You're not a monster.” “Yes. I am.” “Prove it.” She pulled off her sweater and tank and shucked off her pants and stood there, mirroring his nakedness. Tears spilled from those stony eyes, slid down that hard face. “Show me what a monster you are.” This would be it, finally. Once and for all. Proof of darkness. Or its lack. God, she could be wrong. But she believed. Believed with her whole self. “You think I won't?” his voice scraped. “I will.” He knocked her to the floor. She didn't fight. He pinned her, face down. Under his weight it was hard to breathe. “And when I'm tearing you apart, remember, even though I know you need this so you can walk away, even though I know it's easier for you, for a fucked up bitch like you, being used than being loved, this isn't mercy. It's hate. It's hate,” he growled in her ear, “and I'm not going to let you float away. Not for one second of this. You're going to stay here, with me. And when I'm done, you'll tell me the truth. You'll tell me what kind of monster I am.”

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The last of his softness was hard, now, and her faith slipped. She waited for the push of his knees to drive her legs open, for that hardness to tear into her. His weight came off her. All her skin was untouched, bared to the air and cold after the heat of his body. Like a child he was curled up, a tight, shuddering ball tucked against the side of the bed. She wrapped him up in her naked heat and held him while he wept. When his fear and rage drained and left him limp, she got him into bed. His lips tasted like tears. His lips, his eyes, his neck, his chest, all wet salt. **** Now that Gareth had promised her he'd go to the base, Nadia was the lightest and brightest of all the aliens. Her smile never faded, her hazel eyes were always lit up. Every now and then, she threw her arms around Gareth and held him like she was afraid if she opened her arms he'd disappear again, the way that baby had disappeared twenty years before on the night of her birth. He was getting used to it. Now he didn't startle each time Nadia touched and kissed and embraced him. Hour by hour, he was getting lighter and brighter, too. They stuffed their few belongings into their packs and in the early morning, fiftythree of them set out on horseback. It was strange, traveling free. Nix couldn't stop feeling that they needed to get off the road and into the trees, couldn't stop searching the horizon for packs of guards and bounty hunters. But they ambled on at an easy canter, out in the open among the falling leaves and the soft-sifting snow, and never saw a soul. The settlements—college campuses and small, picturesque towns—had been chosen for their seclusion from the main roads in the years before the line dividing slavery and freedom had been secured.

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Night had fallen when they arrived at an iron gate set into a stone wall twenty feet tall. Nadia called out a signal and two armed soldiers appeared. A man and a woman. They greeted Nadia with a warmth that seemed incongruous with everything Nix associated with uniforms, and unlocked the gate to admit them all. “I so want to take you to the house right away,” Nadia said to Gareth, “but it's been a long day. I'll let you get settled and have a shower and a rest. I'll come around to get you in a few hours, and take you to meet everyone then. Alright?” Gareth said, “Alright,” his voice flat. Almost cold. Gareth had gotten more and more silent, more and more grave as they'd ridden, and hadn't eaten anything that day, Nix had noticed. Nadia beamed and squeezed his arm in lieu of a hug; she was keeping Gareth a secret. Leaving them all in the care of her counterpart, Nadia galloped off. “If it's alright with you, I'll see if we can share a room,” Nix said. Gareth seemed to startled out of some deep dark thought. He looked at her and smiled. They left their horses at the stables near the gate, and followed their guide across the campus, a maze of paved roads and low concrete buildings, teaming with uniforms, mostly men. That familiar heavy cold coiled in Nix's gut. It reminded her of the Guard facility out west. Where she'd met Gareth. The group was given an entire floor of a barracks. Apart from Gareth, there was only one resistance man. The rest were all women, and most elected to sleep in pairs or fours. The Sewanee woman who'd been their escort took a single room at the end of the hall nearest the stairs, a strategy of reassurance, Nix guessed.

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“You doing alright?” Gareth asked her when they'd locked themselves into their room. “Yeah.” “It's not like Sewanee,” he said. “No.” They took turns in the shower. When Nix came out, she found Gareth lying on one of the narrow beds, arms folded behind his head, staring at the ceiling. She lay down next to him. She thought she probably knew what he was thinking. If they knew what he'd done, what his life had been, they'd reject him. Fear him. Hate him. He'd have to tell them, the way he'd told her. Shown her. What he'd done to Dorset. What he'd done in that sex hotel, his father goading him. All the times between. “Gareth.” She touched his face. So familiar, now. Familiar and a comfort. “You're the only man I've ever trusted.” The magnet inside her was pulling her to him, tugging at her. Under the thin cotton t-shirt she could see the slopes and swells of his torso. She rested her palm on his firm belly. “In all my life, you're the only man I've wanted.” She brought her mouth to his ear and whispered past the rock in her throat. “I love you.” It had been so hard, saying that, but the breath that she pushed from her lungs, up her throat, over her tongue, past her lips left a euphoric warmth in its wake. They clung to each other for a long time. Then they got up and dressed, and when Nadia came, they went with her.

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Excepting those few minutes of terror, Nadia, who'd come to them so serious that first night, with her official mandate, recruiting rebels to her army, had seemed such a child since she'd figured Gareth out. Now it was as if Gareth had never scared her. Nix watched her try to quell some of her ebullient enthusiasm, to soften her irrepressible smile, to quiet her excited chatter because Gareth was so cool, so quiet, even though he hugged Nadia back every time she put her arms around him, even though he smiled each time she pressed a kiss to his cheek or his forehead. When Nix gave Gareth her hand to hold, his fingers were as cold as the snow that was sifting down, melting as it touched the ground. Nadia led them past a screen of tall, narrow, denuded trees and along a stone path that bisected a broad lawn, toward a structure unlike all the other buildings Nix had seen since entering the base. A real house. Inside, it was the homiest place Nix had set foot in since fleeing her childhood home during the dying. Nadia ushered them to a sofa in a dimly lit sitting room, beside a blazing fire, and then flew off to fetch the others. Above the mantel was a quartet of photographs, black and white pictures. Some included an infant, some one or two men, but Eva, Gareth's mother was the central subject of all of them. A moment later Nadia returned, pulling two men along with her. Nix's belly knotted. Nadia, impulsive child, had kept it all a secret. Gareth's hand was limp, cold and damp in hers. “Here. I've brought someone you'll want to meet,” Nadia said, excitement pulling her voice up, high and tight.

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The two men with her stepped into the room, into the light of a lantern hanging opposite the hearth. Left of her, a wiry man with eyes the same shade as Nadia's, but which cast a sharp, even a fierce gaze where hers was soft, seemed to be waiting with stoic patience for the revelation. On her right, the other man was mirthful, infected by Nadia's excitement, eager to learn what had her so ebullient. Nix's belly fluttered. She saw what Nadia had seen, looking at Gareth. Except for the gray peppering his hair, and the lines aging his face, the man was nearly Gareth's twin. The same gray eyes. That same angled jaw. The same mouth. Gareth rose from the couch and gravitated toward his sire. When he moved into the lantern's light, both men's faces altered, the wiry, hazel-eyed man's slightly, still constrained by habitual stoicism, the darker man's suddenly, totally, the whites of his gray eyes turning red behind rising tears. Nadia whispered, “It's really him. It's Gareth.” “Gareth?” the darker one whispered, then wrapped his arms around him, tight, gripping, like he was afraid his long-lost child was about to disappear again. Holding on, crying, he whispered his son's name over and over, “Gareth. Gareth. Gareth.” “John.” The wiry man touched the other's shoulder. “I'm sorry,” John said, letting Gareth go and giving an apologetic smile. Gareth looked shell-shocked, pale and shaking. “So, the prodigal son's returned.” The slighter man's hazel eyes looked mischievous, kind, now. “Nadia had us wondering, with her mysterious exuberance. Had us making some pretty silly guesses. We half thought she'd fallen in love with one of her resistance heroes and was bringing him home to meet the parents.”

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“Papa!” Nadia punched his shoulder. “And who's this hiding in the shadows?” The piercing hazel eyes sought Nix out in her dark corner, pulled her into the light. “This is Nix,” Nadia said, rushing over to put her arm around her waist and bring her into the fold. “Gareth's friend. And legend with the resistance.” “Always a pleasure, meeting a legend,” he said wryly, offering his hand. “Papa,” Nadia scolded in a whisper. He drew his hand back. “Forgive me. I don't often come in contact with people from west of the line.” Nix put her hand out. “No. It's alright. I'm happy to meet you...” “Avery.” He shook her hand firmly, like a comrade. “Everyone just calls him 'Major.' From his Army days. But it's more of a nickname, not really a title anymore,” Nadia told them. “Daddy,” she nudged John's beefy arm, “say 'hi' to Nix.” John forced his eyes from Gareth, and gave Nix a fragile smile. “Hi, Nix.” “John.” She felt an immediate warmth for him, he looked so like Gareth. When she put out her hand he clasped it between his big, warm palms and held it, as if he loved her just for being his son's friend. They settled around the warmth and light of the fire, Nadia coaxing Gareth into an armchair at the center of the seating arrangement. He hadn't said a word since they'd entered the house. “You're with the resistance,” the major tried to draw him out. “No,” Gareth said, his graveled voice quiet. “I came east with Nix.”

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“On the train?” the major asked. “Yes.” “How many did you say, Nadia?” “Eight hundred seventy-three.” “An auspicious prelude to the next phase,” the major grinned, one eyebrow arching above a sharp, hazel eye. “Did Nadia tell you? It was her idea. Barely twenty, and already a burgeoning military strategist.” Nadia looked at Gareth, beaming. Wanting her big brother to be proud of her. “Well, look who raised me.” The major may have flinched behind his enduring mask of composure. Gareth was sallow. Sinking back into the wings of his chair as if he wanted to disappear. “Gareth,” John said in a gentle voice. “I have so many questions for you. But I don't want to bombard you.” “Ask. Ask me anything. It'll be easier, actually.” John's smile made Nix's chest hurt. “Riggs. Your father.” It looked, it sounded like it hurt him, calling him that. “Was he good to you?” “He loved me. He took good care of me, mostly. I had a happy childhood.” John's gray eyes were veiled in tears. He smiled and nodded. “And now? Where is he?” “Dead. He shot himself.” John flinched. “I'm sorry. When? How old were you?” “Sixteen.”

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“That's a terrible time to be left on your own like that.” “Maybe.” John went quiet, and for a few seconds he seemed, like the major, to be trying to read Gareth's soul in his eyes. Even Nadia was subdued, now. Still and quiet and watchful. “It's not an interrogation, you know. You're allowed to ask questions, too,” the major said with a hint of a teasing grin, again trying to put Gareth at ease. Gareth said, “Dad was almost silent about the past.” Nix watched a smirk appear and fade from the major's lips. “Until Nadia, I'd never heard of any of you. This place. Nothing, except a couple words about my mother. Eva. I want to know everything. Everything about her. About her and my dad. All of you. Where I fit in, before we left.” “You didn't leave, Gareth,” the major seethed. “He took you.” “Avery. Please.” In a fraction of a second, that heart-broken man's gentle, teary eyes flared, and Nix watched the major's body soften in contrition under John's reprimand. “Don't,” Gareth said. “Don't pretend anything, or try to protect me. He was so secretive, my father. I don't like secrets. I don't think there's any truth as dangerous as lies and secrets. If you think he was a bad person, if he was an enemy here, say so.” John sighed. “It's hard for me to be objective. To me, he's the man who took my son from me. To Eva, your mom, he was someone who wanted desperately to love and be loved, and who'd been deprived of it all his life. Most of us didn't, but she saw goodness in him.”

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“Did she love him?” “She cared for him. In the end, she considered him a friend.” “But they weren't...lovers?” “No, Gareth.” “But you and she were?” John smiled. That smile was so warm, so deep it almost lifted the sadness from the room. “We were. And Avery and Eva were. All of us, terribly in love.” “And she was happy? It wasn't like it is out there?” Gareth's rough voice cracked, but no tears spilled. “When you were born, Eva was...” John laughed, remembering, “God, she was so happy. So full of love and hope. And she loved you. Utterly.” For hours they talked, exchanged life stories. But threaded through everything were the secrets. Gareth's secrets. Secrets wound around every sentence shaping the history of the base. Eva's arrival. One lone woman appearing to a desolate pack of armed young men. Nix wondered if Gareth heard those silences, too. She looked at Nadia and wondered how innocent they'd kept her, a couple hundred miles east of where virgins were sold at auction and runaways were branded and raped for a penance. Watching Gareth slowly going quiet, turning gray, his crimes coating him, weighing him down, pulling the heat from him, Nix swallowed against a thick bitterness rising up her throat. They'd make him chose, these fucking hypocrites. Wear his crimes like chains, or throw away this mirage of family and love.

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“Say, Captain,” the major said with his teasing grin, nudging Nadia's foot with his. “Don't you have a report to make to your commanding officer?” She laughed. “Come on, Papa. That can wait, can't it? I think Gareth's arrival trumps military protocol.” “Do you? Does that include you taking charge of tomorrow's tour of the facility with the potential recruits?” Nix watched the bubbly girl transform into an ambitious officer, jealous of her prize assignment. “Well, I'll see you in the morning, right?” she asked Gareth, then relapsed for a moment and sank against him for a long, close embrace. When she finally let go and rose, John stood and gave her a tender hug, kissing her hair from her crown to her ear. “Goodnight, sweetheart,” he whispered. “I know you know how much this means to me.” “I know, Daddy.” She kissed his rough cheek. Nix was about to get up and leave with them, to give Gareth some time alone with John, but the moment she shifted to rise Gareth caught her hand, held it tight, gave her an imploring look. She squeezed his hand and settled back into her chair. The major said his more reserved good-byes, and they left. John gave Gareth a confidential, almost conspiratorial smile, when they'd shut the front door. Then he sighed and, still smiling at them both, said, “We don't hide things from Nadia. She knows what happens out there. And she knows what's happened here. But it'll be easier to talk now.” Gareth's pale rigidity seemed to soften.

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“I don't like secrets either, Gareth. I worry some things will be painful for you. But I'll be open with you about everything. I'll never lie to you. “Good.” “And you should know, I've spent time over the line. I know what goes on over there. Not from third-hand refugee stories.” John gave him a small, sad smile. “I know how boys are raised over there. What they're raised to think. What they're raised to do. So you don't need to be scared that I've got some naïve idea that you've led an innocent life.” Stiff again, pale and bright-eyed, Gareth whispered, “I've done some awful things.” Nix and John were quiet. Let Gareth spill his sins before them. The girl in the sex hotel. The branding party. The men he'd paid back with their own cruelty. The pleasure he'd taken in it. He stood up, his back to the fire, crossed his arms tight over his chest and leveled his gaze with John's. “I know you've missed me all these years. You've wished you could have your son back. Imagined a day like this. I know you must wish I'd never turned up. I'm sorry I'm taking away your nice dreams of that little boy you lost.” John rose, cupped Gareth's face in his hands. Tipped his brow to his son's. “Never, Gareth. Nothing you've done makes me regret you're here. Nothing you've done makes me regret it's you, that you're my son.” “I'm just sorry.” Gareth shuddered and broke and tears poured down his face. “I'm sorry I'm not better.”

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John pulled Gareth to him, wrapped his arms tight around him. “God, Gareth. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. I'm sorry you didn't get to grow up here. You belonged here. I let you go. I didn't keep you safe. I'm sorry.” For a long time they held each other, the father and the son, sundered for two decades. It was after midnight, and the fire had burned low. John asked them, and they agreed to stay there at the house rather than return to the barracks. Leading them upstairs, John said, “I know you want to hear more about your mom. And there's a lot to tell. But it's better that you hear her side, rather than just mine. Here, this is my room,” he said, and went through a door at the top of the stairs. He plucked a few slender notebooks from between other volumes on a shelf, and held them out to Gareth. “Her journals. She wrote down a lot of what happened when she got here. You'll see that Avery and I have not been blameless, in things. I want you to know everything, now instead of later.” John clutched the notebooks to his chest, looking nervous. Sad. Then John gave Gareth a sad smile, but Gareth was starting so hungrily at the notebooks, he probably didn't see. “You'll find, in her later journals, that almost everything we've done, everything we're doing, the sanctuaries like Sewanee, bringing refugees over the line, and the military action that's about to unfold, they're all plans she put in motion.” Gareth took the notebooks from John's hand. “Come on. We'll get you settled down the hall.” John stopped in front of another door a few rooms down. “I'm sorry,” he said, an embarrassed smile tugging at a corner of his mouth. “Would you like two rooms? Or one?” “One,” Nix said.

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John seemed reluctant to leave them, to let Gareth out of his sight after being lost from him for so long, but after asking twice if they needed anything, and reminding them three times that he was just down the hall if they did, he wished them a good night and softly closed their door. Nix watched Gareth carefully place his mother's journals, unopened, at the edge of a dresser. After sweating through the trial of meeting his estranged fathers, Gareth wanted a shower. A moment after she heard the sound of water surging through the pipes and pattering into the tub, she quietly slipped out the door, down the hall and knocked on John's bedroom door. “Gareth's having a shower,” she said in response to John's surprised, querying look. “And there's something I wanted to say to you. May I come in?” “Of course.” John gestured her through the door, and she closed it, doubting he would. He was too aware she might fear him. All of them. “Gareth needed to tell you those things. It's important to him that you don't welcome him back under any false pretenses.” John had the same sad smile as Gareth. “I know. I understand. And we have our own confessions to make, here.” “Gareth won't tell you the good things about himself. But you should know those, too.” John nodded, eager, hopeful. “The way we met. Your son and me. A pack of guards had just finished with me.” She watched the sadness weigh down John's features. No shock, though.

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“They gave me to him, to Gareth. Delivered me naked and almost unconscious. Can you guess the first thing he did?” “No.” “The first thing he did was give me clothes. Not a gown. Clothes like this.” She tugged at the leg of her pants. “He risked a lot, doing that.” John nodded. “Even when I'd cleaned up, he never touched me. And more than that, he treated me like a person. Here, that may not sound like much. That may sound normal, like the way people should act with each other. But there, where we were, it's not normal. It's unheard of. “Gareth risked a lot—I don't know if you understand what they do to men who help women like me—he gambled his safety to get me free. He did it more than once. And he's been...I don't even have a word for it. Just, he's never been ugly or selfish, not even careless in all the time we've been together. And a lot of the men who are in the resistance, however much they mean to do good, they also expect to be heroes. And they expect demonstrations of appreciation. Gareth never has. He doesn't even expect gratitude. It startles him. “So, even though he's done hard things, even though in some ways he's a hard man, you should know Gareth's also a good man. The best one I've ever known.” “I'm glad. Thank you for telling me.” John came a step closer and in a quiet voice said, “Nix. Is it alright if I ask you something?” Even though she felt some intuitive affinity for him, this man who looked so much like Gareth, who had so many of the same mannerisms, when he stepped toward her,

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when he whispered, the cold snake that lived in her belly coiled and writhed. She nodded, trying not to let her apprehension show. “Is he alright?” “What do you mean?” John smiled, embarrassed. “I don't know. I guess, tonight was hard for him. I understand. Just, I want him to be happy.” “Well, it's not so easy, is it? But I've seen him happy. And I think if things are what you and Nadia say they are, then finding his family will be good for him. And so will what's coming. This advance you've got planned.” “It must mean a lot to him, your friendship.” For some reason, John saying that made Nix feel ashamed. She'd tried so hard, so many times, to push Gareth away. “I'm scared he won't stay,” John whispered. He looked so sad. So afraid. “That it'll be too hard for him, all these strangers trying to suddenly be his family. I'm scared I'll wake up in the morning, and he'll just be gone. But it'll be easier, if that happens, knowing you're with him. That he's not alone.” Nix tried to smile, tried to nod. “But I do hope he'll stay. At least for a while. I know you're his friend, not mine. But I hope, I mean please, please don't let him go before we've had a chance to get to know each other.” When she got back to their room, Gareth was still in the shower. The notebooks stacked at the end of the dresser were tempting. But they were Gareth's treasure, not hers. Nix stripped out of her gear and got into bed. Behind the bathroom door, she

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heard the squeak of a valve, the sudden silencing of the humming pipes, the drip and plop of the last few dribbles of water. A minute later, Gareth emerged in a cloud of steam, wearing a t-shirt and pants. Looking at her, he smiled. “Alright if I come to bed?” “You're not going to look at the journals?” “Not tonight. I'm tired. And I don't want to rush through this. Meeting two fathers is enough for tonight. I'll meet her tomorrow.” “Then come to bed.” Looking uncertain, Gareth stripped off his pants and came toward the bed. “Take that off, too,” she said, waving an index finger at his tee. He pulled the shirt over his head and tossed it onto his bag, slumped against the wall by the dresser, and climbed into bed, carefully clinging to the edge, his back to her, giving her space. After his shower he was radiating heat; it filled the air between them, between the mattress and the covers. Pulled to him by those magnets, buried inside each of them, she touched his arm, coaxed him down onto his back, and slid against him. “Is that alright?” He looked at her, smiled and nodded. As she touched, running her fingers along the length of his arm, he softened against her, sighed faintly at the sensation of her fingers in his hair, her caress on his face, his neck, his shoulders, drawing out whatever anxiety the shower had left behind. “They seem different, John and the major,” he said. “Not like the men west of the line, and not like the Sewanee men, either.”

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“Maybe they're like how people used to be, before the dying.” “Maybe.” He was quiet as she feathered her fingers over his chest, his arm, his side. Then he said, “I really look like him, don't I?” She laughed. “More like a clone than a son.” “So I guess it's really true. He's really my father.” “Yeah.” “So, maybe I'm not like my dad, the one who raised me. Maybe I'm like him.” **** In the morning when they went downstairs, Nix and Gareth found John, the major and Nadia gathered around the table in the nook off the kitchen, eating breakfast. Nix hadn't seen a scene like that since the dying, the family meal. “We didn't want to wake you. Join us,” the major said, rising and pulling out two chairs. He smiled at them both, but Nix caught the probing gaze that settled on Gareth. “Did you two sleep alright?” “Fine. Thanks,” Nix said, feeling genuinely grateful for her second decent night's sleep since she'd been attacked. “And you, Gareth?” Again, Nix sensed more than politeness behind the major's question. Gareth met his gaze and returned his smile. “Yes. Fine.” The unasked question, had Gareth read the journals, thickened the air, but Nadia and John and even the major were all smiles as they passed over platters of eggs and the loaf of bread and the basket of apples and pears while Nadia hinted excitedly about what they'd see in the course of the morning's tour of the facility. Listening to her, John

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beamed, reaching over now and then to pet her hair or stroke her arm, while the major just listened with a bemused grin. At the end of the meal, John and Nadia cleared the table, ardently declining Gareth's help when he offered, and when it was time to rendezvous with the others for the tour, John hugged and kissed Nadia good-bye affectionately. The major merely smiled from his chair and gave a teasing admonishment that he expected a minimum of a ninety-percent recruitment rate from the resistance group. “John is very...loving with you,” Gareth said to Nadia as they walked to meet the others. “And the major, not so much,” she said, smiling, but Nix thought there was a sad twinge in her voice. “It's hard for him, I think. He doesn't mean to blame me, but she died giving birth to me. And I look so much like her. Sometimes I can see it in his face, it hurts him, just looking at me. Papa does love me, though. Even if he's not as demonstrative as Daddy.” “You think of them both as your fathers?” Gareth asked. “Both of them are my fathers. West of the line, I know paternity's a big deal. Each man wants his own child.” “His own son,” Nix corrected. “Yes. His own son,” Nadia ceded. “Here, it's different. My mother wanted it to be different for one reason, but it's taken on another purpose. For her, things were so volatile here, this small group of men, different factions—military and civilians, authority and the masses, so to speak—all on the brink of conflict. It was partly a strategic choice,

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mom's decision to have John and the major and Riggs father her child. Father you, Gareth. It was for your protection. Which turned into a tragic bit of irony.” “And you?” “Oh, I was an accident.” Again, that subtle undertone of sadness. Nix actually felt a little sorry for that buoyant, glowing girl who seemed to feel her mother hadn't really wanted her, and that she'd killed her being born. “Now, though, with the men outnumbering the women eight-to-one, and so many of the women unable to get pregnant, it's a way for most men to get to father and raise children. And this way, too, the little ones have a nice big family to love them.” “But don't you care? Whose you are? Whose blood is in your veins?” Gareth asked. “I'm Papa's. Is that what you want to know?” “But you love John as much as the major?” “It's like any kind of love, I think,” Nadia said, sounding a little far away. “They're different people. I love them differently. But I don't love Papa more, just because I have his eyes. And if I try a little harder to make him love me, it's not because I'm his biological child. It's just that Daddy loves me so easily. Without meaning to be, Papa is a little harder.” She smiled and looked up at Gareth. “And even though you're Daddy's, I know Papa is as excited as he is, you being here. He's missed you, worried about you just as much, even if he doesn't let you see it.” They arrived at the meeting site, a low gray concrete cube. Through the glass double doors, down a long hallway of linoleum floors waxed to gleaming and walls painted the same yellowy beige, lit from above by luminous rectangular panels.

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Electricity. They had electricity. Nix had almost forgotten what it was. Almost forgotten that as a child, she'd lived in a world of televisions and computers and air conditioners and lights that turned on and off when you moved a little switch with your finger. “It's one of the big civics projects,” Nadia said as she kept herding them down corridors. “Finding engineers to train others and get power and water, the sewers, all that working again. Same with medical personnel. We have a teaching hospital set up in the city, and doctors deployed in all the settlements.” Inside a rectangular room walled entirely in glass along one of the longer sides, the others were waiting for them, animatedly talking and devouring a breakfast identical to the one Nix and the others had just eaten. All her bouncy girlishness evaporated as Nadia called for the group's attention and tersely outlined the day's agenda. Nix wondered how anyone could alter their manner so suddenly and so completely. But Nadia's change in demeanor was good. Effective. That pack of resistance women wouldn't be inclined to put much faith in the bubbly girl she'd been the night before, introducing Gareth to her fathers, or this morning at the breakfast table. While Nadia spoke, a vast wave crashed down on Nix, heavy and cold, knocking her back against the wall. Char and Jan should have been there. Especially Jan. She'd fought so long, so hard. That feeling of being crushed, of being washed away to cold, dark depths. She couldn't breath. So cold, no air, all that weight. Gareth saw and touched her hand under the table. That warm, soft touch and that cold, drowning pain. You couldn't pull them apart. Nix opened her hand and let Gareth weave his fingers between hers.

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**** Down in the sterile cool of the Faraday bunker—more vast than the base itself had seemed while they were above-ground—Nix's heart pounded. Her veins swelled, gorged on adrenaline, her blood surged hot as her heart pumped, each pulse coming harder, harder, faster, faster. Just standing there in her worn-down boots on that perfectly smooth, perfectly uniform concrete, no enemy before her, no knife, no gun in her hand, she gasped with that sudden surging sense of her own power. Row upon row upon row, fifty columns deep, grid after grid of monstrous, squat, armored vehicles, their motors preserved against the EMPs beneath their protective shield, their engines modified to run on the biofuel produced and stockpiled for decades that side of the line. Tanks, Nix recognized from a picture she'd seen once. The others Nadia called “Humvees.” Massive guns angled out from turrets above toothy tracks, and on the Humvees, heavy steel brackets waited to cradle their own artillery—the stockpile of weapons Nadia had shown them two hours earlier, a bulk of which Nix had silently dismissed as too cumbersome for an army, however rich in horses, to lug across a thousand miles of enemy terrain. Four women with two of those vehicles armed with those weapons could hold back an entire town's worth of guards and bounty hunters while a crew got every last captive woman into a train like the one that had carried her over the line. Nadia stood between the resistance recruits and the machines that could carry them to victory after victory, her voice unfurling in the cool, sterile air, images rolling over them like cloud shapes, visions of a vast, trained army ready to man the machines, to

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roll over the entire west and destroy the slave world, house by house, hotel by hotel, town by town. If they wanted to, they could stay, train to drive the tanks, to fire the guns. Nix hardly heard the volley of questions and answers. She was gone, strapped into a convoy whisking dust into the air over a brown-gray ribbon of highway stretching west.

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CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

After spending a few hours with the resistance recruits following Nadia's pitch, Nix returned to the house and found Gareth sitting beside John on the porch bench swing. Again she was struck by how alike the two men were in looks and demeanor. John older, Gareth harder, but so alike. When they retreated to their little room at the end of the hall, they didn't ask each other what they'd do. If he would stay, if she would go. She took a shower, and after, Gareth picked up the stack of notebooks from atop the dresser, found the first of them, and started reading. So Nix would know everything, too, he read aloud. Except for his voice lifting Eva's words from the pages of her journal, they didn't speak. Now and then Gareth turned his eyes from that page to look at Nix, his chest swelling and sinking as his breath sped. So, they'd raped her. All three of them. Every one of Gareth's fathers, more or less. It almost comforted her, somehow. Knowing that this side of the line wasn't some fairy world beyond her capacity to believe. It should have comforted Gareth, too; suddenly the bar wasn't so high. But he looked hurt. Crushed under that heavy truth. Under a pang of sympathy for Gareth, Nix felt hope bloom, warm and bright. Here, it had started just as it had there. A pack of men had taken possession of the lone woman. Made her theirs for sex, for sons and daughters. So, if there could be a place like this, an army with women commanding men, a place like Sewanee, then maybe things could change there, too, on the other side of the line.

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But then her hope faded. Withered. Eva was impossible. If that was what was needed, the world would never change. It would go on, seething and spreading until it buried Sewanee and everything east of the line under its putrid stench. How? How could she? John, maybe. Nix could almost understand forgiving him. Almost. But Riggs? No. And the major. Smith. Eva's Avery. If it had all been a strategy, Nix could have understood. In the end, though, she'd loved him. Loved him even more than John. He'd used all his power against her, and she'd made him her lover. Father of her children. And then he'd changed. Major Smith had given in to her, given her a say, let her guide him. Had let her go to the others, even though it hurt him. Had risked precious fuel and men at her request, taken her in search of survivors. Started rescuing women. All alone, Eva had done it. Bent twenty men to her will. Saved not just herself, not just the child, the girl that had turned up in the seventh month of her pregnancy. She'd started it all. The rescues. The asylum east of the line. She'd done it all in little more than two short years. And she'd done all of it without a knife, without a gun, without even once strangling a man to death with his own belt. **** In the dark, beside her, heavy and deep and even, Gareth's breathing. But all her muscles were taut and twitching, her heart beating hard, her mind racing. All that power, those heavy, cold machines under the earth, waiting to conquer the west.

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Nix crept down the hall, past Smith's door and Nadia's and John's, down the stairs, down into the dark warm belly of the sitting room. Dark and warm and quiet. Not silent. Something in the not-silence, in the dark heat made her go still, made her core go icy. The not-silence made her touch the healing rope-burn at her throat. The dark smelled like her first man. The collector. She touched the knife in her pocket. Near the fireplace, heat still radiating from a few fading embers, a voice, thick and male, said, “I promise you don't need that. I'm only hiding, not lying in wait.” The wick of a lantern flared and pale, slender fingers and sharp eyes appeared. The major. On the table at his elbow, a bottle, empty except for a few remaining inches of an amber liquid, and beside it, a half-full glass. Nix pulled her hand from her pocket, but her heart kept hammering at her ribs. “Trouble sleeping?” he asked. “You wanted to be alone.” She turned to leave, but he said, “The marks on your neck, on your wrists. They're recent.” Her throat closed around a “Yes.” “There was a time when I thought human beings were better than animals.” A shudder rippled down her back as Smith swallowed a mouthful of amber liquid. “Given the way you're looking at me, I gather you've read Eva's notebooks,” he said.

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A little of her rage, some of the fear that had welled as he entered the room ebbed behind her surprise. “Yes.” “I suppose history will judge me no better than Riggs.” Nix wondered if he'd have said that if Gareth were in the room. Or John. “Should it?” she asked. Smith smiled. His smile was nothing like Gareth's, nothing like John's. Their smiles ranged from sad to warm, but were always earnest. The major's always seemed wry. Like he was laughing silently at some secret joke. “I think so, yes.” She did, too. And so had Eva. What had she said in the journal? That his worst sin was trying so hard to make the world right, at the expense of making himself horribly wrong. But none of his reasons, none of what he'd done after, dissolved Nix's anger at what he'd done to Eva before she turned the tables. “I regret every second of fear, every moment of pain Eva endured as a result of decisions I made. Orders I gave. But after twenty years, not one of which has passed without my reflecting on my choices, I am at a loss to think what I ought to have done differently. And, even if it's due entirely to Eva and to luck, I can hardly wish to undo the outcome those choices ultimately wrought. The one thing I would undo was not a choice, but an accident. One unfortunate slip, which destroyed six lives. Or perhaps only five. I haven't decided yet, about Gareth.” Nix caught herself smiling, cynical and resigned. Gareth wasn't even his, and he'd trade. “Please, tell me,” he said, that ironic grin bending his lips.

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“You mean Nadia.” The ironic smile changed subtly. “Yes. It's another of my unpardonable sins that I'd undo her birth if it would put things back the way they were.” “So you and John could have Gareth back.” Smith laughed. It was awful. Heart-breaking. In a sad, quiet voice, then, he said, “No. No, so I could have Eva back. Others, too, of course. But Eva especially.” His wistful expression altered, registered whatever he saw in Nix's eyes. “Yes, I know how awful I am, saying that. Even under the auspices of a truth commission, a man who admits he'd sacrifice his daughter to have his lover back is a monster. All other sins must be confessed, but that one should always, always stay hidden. But how many men wouldn't choose the life of their beloved over their unborn child, if her death could be foretold?” He took a deep drought of the amber liquid in his glass. “But it's not entirely selfish, I assure you, this hypothetical devil's bargain of mine. If Eva had lived, if Riggs hadn't stolen Gareth, others who suffered would have stayed safe. The pure could have stayed innocent.” He seemed to float away on the fumes rising from the glass in his grip, drift off into reverie. But he pulled in, solidified, focused. “We'd have accomplished more by now. Our dark swath of the world would be less awful. Eva's death, Gareth's disappearance...well, I wasn't much for action, for strategy, after that. Not for a long time. We'd have done more by now, with Eva at our side.”

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Nix said, “Maybe you wouldn't have done as much.” Smith nursed his drink, and after a few seconds, arched an eyebrow. “Perhaps. Perhaps you're right. All that, putting her plans in motion, pulling the women we've found from their chains, metaphorically speaking—usually, at least— integrating the men willing to adapt to this way of life, forging the safe zone, town by town, it's all been my way of keeping her close. Of letting her vision, her work, live, even though she died. Yes, perhaps you're right. Possibly I'm as bad as Riggs, then, after all.” Another deep swallow of the pungent liquid. “I'm being rude. Can I offer you a glass?” Her stomach turned at the thought. Just the smell made her gut clench. “No. Thanks.” Her throat was tight. “You have an aversion to alcohol.” He grinned. “Or is it an aversion to me?” He stood, the bottle in one hand, his glass in the other, and took a step toward her. She'd cringed back, she realized when he froze in place, then stepped back again. “I'm sorry. I didn't intend to startle you,” he said. “It's not you. When I was young, my husband, my owner, he drank a lot. The smell reminds me of him.” “In that case, since you have unhappy associations with my vice, I'll put it away.” He squatted down with surprising agility, given how much he'd drunk even just since she'd arrived, and a panel in the side table swung open, revealing a concealed cabinet. He stashed the bottle inside. The glass, too. He straightened and rose to his feet like a man of fewer years and fewer vices, turned to her and smiled. “Will you sit with me for a few minutes longer?”

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“Alright.” He gestured to the chair nearest the dying embers of the fire, and when she'd sat, he sank into the chair opposite. “Please,” he said, smiling a disarming, charming smile unlike the smile of any man Nix had ever known, “tell me about my son.” When she went back to their room, Gareth was awake. Sitting in a chair by the window, the moon's cool, pale light pulling a swath of him from the dark, he smiled, and the magnet at her center pulled her. She went to him. Touched his naked shoulder. Pulled him to her, cradled his head against her belly. His arms wound around her. Strange, so impossible, that strong arms could feel so warm, so safe. That his heat, the feel of his soft hair under her fingers, the warmth of his breath seeping into her shirt could stir that ache of want. In bed, she touched him. That hot, heavy want swelling and seeping, she felt the shape of his jaw in the cradle of her hand, felt his soft lips give under the faint pressure of her thumb as she traced their shape, felt his hot belly sink and rise, felt his nipples stiffen. He was already hard when she slid her hand down and curved her fingers over him, firm and warm under his snug underwear. As she cupped him in her hand, followed the hard length of him down between his thighs, he sighed and pulled her closer. Strange. Impossible. She wanted, needed him inside her. “Touch me.” His fingertip lit on her shoulder and feathered down the length of her arm, traced the outline of her fingers, tickled up the inside of her wrist and the crease of her elbow. With the softest touch, he sketched the features of her face, the whorl of her ear. From a

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faint touch of lips, she coaxed a deep, urgent kiss from him. Hot. Wet. Curving her fingers around his wrist, she brought his hand down and pressed it to her bare belly, then guided it up, under her tank top, to her breast. “I don't want to hurt you,” he breathed. “You won't.” His breath hitching, his fingertips brushed over her delicate skin, circumnavigating the base of her breast. “So soft,” he sighed. When he touched her nipple, sudden sensation gripped her breast and radiated down her torso. Her nerves sang out, cried out with a sundering pleasure laced with a dozen years of pain. His warm touch slid away. “I'm alright,” she whispered. “I'm scared. I'm scared of hurting you.” “You won't, Gareth. You can't.” In the faint moonlight, she smiled, then slid out of her top and underwear. When she coaxed him, he stripped out of his briefs, then lay down beside her. Under the hand she pressed to his chest, she felt his heart thumping fast and heavy. Down lower, he was still perfectly hard. She kissed him, deep, on and on. When they broke apart, panting, she coaxed him atop her, cradled him between her thighs. It was all new, the want so strong it hurt, the warmth that came from his body, enveloping her, but felt like joy coming from inside herself, rising to her skin, singing all her raw nerves. Needing, seeking, she pulled him

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down against her, rocked her hips, rubbed her cunt along the length of his hard cock, felt him shudder, heard him gasp. Whispered, “Please.” Between her legs, he shifted, the hot skin of his sleek hips slid against the insides of her thighs, and his sex glided over hers, brushed over a million nerves with startling pleasure. Pleasure. A miracle. His body touched, nuzzled against her, seeking to enter. Against him, she felt how wet, how open she was. Her body's “yes.” Against her, his body flexed and her heart pumped a surge of hot adrenaline through all her veins. His body flexed. He shuddered and sighed but she was empty. Still waiting. He shuddered and groaned and sank down on her, still apart from her, her still empty body. Warm, wet, his face, warm, wet fell, drop by drop, wet her lashes, her brow, her cheek, her lips. His tears. “What?” she breathed. “Gareth?” “I can't. Please. I can't do it.” He sank down on top of her, wrapped his arms around her, pulled her so tight to his hot, hard body she felt she was being crushed but it was almost a comfort, a consolation for that painful emptiness. Against her breasts, her belly, even her sex, she felt his body shuddering. His tears wet the side of her face and slid down into her hair where his hot breath rushed and gathered. While he cried, she stroked and kissed and cradled and regretted choosing this night, when he was flayed raw from finding his family, his past. She whispered, “It's alright. It's alright,” and went on caressing his neck, his shoulders, his back. “I never want to hurt you.”

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“I know.” “Every time I've been inside someone, I hurt them. Every time I've seen a woman with a man, he was hurting her.” He'd seen the ceremony, but maybe that didn't count, for Gareth. It hadn't counted for her, either. That pair, it didn't feel real. Not like sex. Not like the pair of men in the woods. “Even though you're my friend, even though I love you, Nix, even with my heart full of love, when I tried to move, to go inside you, my body, my brain, they keep tricking me. It feels like the second I'm inside you, moving inside you, I'll be... I don't want to feel like I'm raping you. I don't want it to feel that way to you.” “It didn't feel like that to me,” she said gently. “Not even a little.” In the dim night, he lifted his head and gave her his sad smile. “I'm glad.” “If it feels bad, being like this, we can get up. Get dressed and talk.” “I like this,” he whispered, his gravel voice rougher than usual. “Lying here with you. Like this.” “Me too. I like how your body feels against mine.” “You do?” He sounded like it couldn't be true. “Yes. You're so warm.” That sounded stupid. It wasn't what she meant. “I mean, it feels, you feel...like life. Like a part of me that isn't always there, like I need to get closer.” Like she needed him inside her. Still. Painfully. He said, “All my life, all I've done with this body is hurt people. It's strange to think of it feeling good to you.” “Do I feel good to you?” she whispered.

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“Yes.” “Maybe it's the same. You feel as good to me as I do to you.” “I worry...” “What?” she asked when the silence stretched out, second after second. “I worry that when you touch me, when you hold me while we sleep, you're doing it only for me. Not because it's something you want for yourself. I've felt it from the beginning, from that first night you came into my bed and held me while I...” “No. Back then, maybe. You're right. I wanted to be kind. To give you something you needed. But now, no. I never thought I could, I thought I never would, but I want. I want you.” “Whatever happens between you and me, Nix, I don't want it to be like it would have been with that woman in Sewanee. I want everything between us to be for you, for both of us. Please. Promise me you won't give anything, do anything only to be kind. Please.” “Alright, Gareth. I promise.” She kissed his palm, the inside of his wrist. Sensing his warm flesh against her lips, her want welled up under the sadness wrapped tight around her, squeezing her. So bad, so much, her need, this sudden overwhelming want. But beside her, in her arms, against her body, Gareth was more hurt, more scared than needful, so she wrapped him in her warmth and held him until he fell asleep. **** It was a rush, fucking exhilarating, feeling tons of metal surge to life at the turn of a key, feeling it thrust forward when she put a little pressure on the fuel pedal under her

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foot. Like the first time she'd ridden a horse and felt how the kick of her heel, the tug of the reins in her hand made the animal respond. But this truck was imbued with a power, a magic she felt in her blood, in every muscle and nerve. This army, her army, had it. The men of the west didn't. In the afternoon, the big guns she and Gareth trained on, along with the other resistance people in the afternoon felt the same way. Like pure, intoxicating power. Sure, weapons like those had been found, horded, traded on the black markets over the line, but in the average town, the men had nothing bigger than their private caches of shotguns, rifles and pistols. When they saw that one shell from the big artillery could blow a granary to burning bits in a single blast, when they realized that the bullets from their sidearms couldn't penetrate the armored vehicles of their enemy, the townsmen would be wetting their pants. The thought made Nix smile. “Nadia tells me you're an ace shot. A proper marksman,” the major said to Nix with one of his wry grins when she and the family had sat down to dinner. The grin faded and he added, “You've had a great deal of practice, I imagine.” “If you call killing people 'practice', yes.” The major gave her a weighing look, and came back in a soft voice. “No. If I'd chosen my words more carefully, I might have said 'experience'.” John was listening, but since they'd gathered together, he'd been tense and quiet, just as he had been over breakfast. Nadia seemed to feel the strain, but Nix wondered if she knew its source. The major turned his piercing gaze from John, taut and miserable, to Gareth, and in the blunt manner Nix had already come to expect from him said, “Nix told me last

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night you've read Eva's journals.” Noticing Gareth's surprised glance at Nix, he added, “We had an accidental rendezvous in the living room. It's where we insomniacs are compelled to gather.” The way John and Nadia were looking at Smith, Nix wondered how many times they'd found him sitting in the dark with a bottle of scotch. “Yes. We read them.” “All?” Smith pursued. “Yes.” “Well,” Smith said, smiling now without irony, his hazel eyes lit up, “what do you think of your mother?” Gareth smiled, looking sad. “She was smart. And brave.” Smith laughed. “Yes.” “And generous.” “Terribly. No one knew that better than I. Except perhaps your other father. Riggs. It took me a long while to believe she'd forgiven me for what I'd put her through. And though I did eventually believe, I never understood how she could. Or how she could find it within herself to be kind to James Riggs. But she had that power. To see good in people who'd done bad, to give herself to make people happy.” “The things she wrote in her journals. It's all true,” Gareth said in his usual way of not asking things. “Of course, all stories have more than one side,” the major answered, “but yes, she was faithful to the course of events here. Even, to the best of my knowledge, to the ones she didn't witness herself.”

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“Then you really gave her to John. In front of all those men.” John flinched, but the major didn't. “Yes.” “You're not ashamed of it.” “Shame is a funny thing. It casts a strange light on one's judgment of the past when one knows the future. I knew then it was an ugly thing to do. But I regret other choices, innocuous things I've done, far, far more. I did that hard thing, put Eva through twenty minutes of hell, and quite overnight, she changed from a frightened girl into the strategist, the nurturing woman who is largely responsible for Sewanee and the other sanctuaries like it, and for the liberation of thousands of women. And in her brief life, in the short years after that night, Eva fell in love with the man I gave her to, and with me, and was happy. When I lose sleep—and I'm a chronic insomniac—it isn't that night I compulsively relive, again and again, changing it each time. That night when I was so hard, so cruel, out of desperation to do good. It's the days I didn't do the hard thing. And the days I did nothing at all. If things had gone differently though, I'd probably never look back on those days. Never be ashamed of my choices, of my inaction.” Nix's chest went tight. Had the major been drinking again? Was he going to start wishing aloud, right in front of her, that Nadia hadn't been born so he could have Eva back? “I'd like to know what happened. How my father took me,” Gareth said. Maybe he thought that was what the major meant. The major was silent. John spoke up, instead. “It was all planned. When your mom went into labor, you and Hope went to stay with Riggs. It's what Hope wanted. And

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he was one of your dads. Avery and I weren't all that happy about it, but by then Eva really trusted Riggs with you and with Hope.” The cold, flexing snake started coiling in Nix's belly. That silent girl. “It was a long labor. And when Eva died, we were both too... we were in no shape to collect Hope, to tell them she was gone.” So many years later, and there was still a pained edge to John's voice. “I never even went to bed. It was just getting light when I heard the front door, heard Hope bounding up the stairs. Excited, I imagined, to welcome the new baby. I couldn't get out of the chair. I just sat there, holding little Nadia,” John gave Nadia an adoring smile through the tears gathering in his eyes, “and tried to pull myself together, so I could tell Hope what had happened. But the door opened, and Hope looked hollowed out and scared and her hand was bandaged and there were bruises on her arms. Finger marks. And she said you were gone, Gareth. That Riggs had taken you. It was so strange. They were the only words I'd ever heard her say.” “He raped her. He raped that girl,” Gareth said, his voice low and rough. “Then took me.” “No, Gareth. It's what I thought when I saw her, but no. It was two other men. Lott and Baldwyn. They broke in, tried to make him rape her. Tried to rape her themselves. But Riggs killed one and Hope killed the other. She got you away from him and killed him. “Riggs, your father, knew Avery and I didn't trust him. And Hope had never spoken, never written a word before. He couldn't have imagined she'd speak up for him.”

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The regret was so thick in John's mouth, it seemed hard for him to form words. “He must have thought we'd blame him for what happened. Suspect him of raping Hope. He probably thought we'd take you away from him. If Eva had been alive, she would have listened to him. But he already knew she was dead, that the one person who would have trusted him, defended him, was gone. You were his whole world. I guess he felt like he had no choice.” “I'd like to meet her. Hope. All of them. Diego and Evan. Jake.” “A lot's changed,” John said. “Jake's here. He and Sarah have three girls, all teenagers, now. But Evan and Diego moved away a few years ago, to the coast.” John rose from the dinner table drifted toward the mantle, looking at the drawings mounted above it for a long time in silence. “I killed her,” the major said in a voice so low, maybe he was talking to himself. “With foolish mercy. And then, so wrapped up in my love. I didn't think. Didn't take care. Killed our beautiful girl. Our Hope.” Nix shuddered. The man was coming unhinged, right there, right in front of Gareth. “You mean Eva,” Gareth whispered. “No,” John said, his back to them still, his eyes fixed on Hope's drawings. He sighed, then, and turned to face them. When John smiled, Nix thought his welling tears would spill, but they didn't. “I don't know how well it comes through in Eva's journals, but Hope, I've never known anyone so made for love. To love, to be loved. And poor thing, everyone she loved, she lost. First the dying. Then that night. She lost Eva. She lost you and James Riggs.”

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John smiled that terrible, heart-breaking smile again, and Nix felt the startling urge to cry. “God, she loved that man. Even more than she loved Eva, I think. Maybe because she intuited how desperately he needed love, how little he had, when Eva already had so much.” He sighed. “In the middle of the night, when she finally fell asleep after nearly being raped, after cutting a man's throat, Riggs left her. Took the child she loved like a brother, and disappeared.” “And we were hardly any better,” the major broke in. “Of course, John was doing all he could, looking after the newborn and looking for you, Gareth. It was necessary, him being gone all those weeks. But I merely disappeared. Without going anywhere or doing anything at all.” John said, “Diego and Evan took Hope in. I know they were kind to her. Spent time with her. But really, she was alone. Abandoned by everyone she loved just when she'd lost you and Eva, just when she'd been so hurt and taken a life. I can look back and remember seeing her for a few minutes one day between my expeditions, searching for you. She barely looked like the girl we knew. Thin and still and...gray, somehow. I remember it, but I didn't notice, then. “One afternoon,” John said, the tears rising in his gray eyes again, “Evan and Diego came home from their duty shifts, and found her. She'd papered the whole bathroom with her drawings, pictures of Eva, pictures of you, Gareth, of James Riggs. Pictures of the three of you. Her family, after losing her mom and dad in the dying.

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Drawings of them, too. In the tub, surrounded by all those pictures, her drawings of all the people she loved, she cut her wrists. When they found her, she was already cold.” Except for the snap and hiss of the fire, the room was silent. “Hope's suicide,” John said finally, “is what finally brought me back here, kept me here.” He met Gareth's eyes. “It's when I stopped looking for you. I'd wanted you back so badly, I'd neglected everything else. Even Nadia. When Hope died, I decided to face the fact that I'd probably never be able to find you, that there were other people who needed me. We both saw that,” John said, looking at the major. “I knew Riggs really loved you. He'd always been good with you. Protective. Warm. Playful.” John laughed, a little bitterly. “He was like a stranger when he was with you, a different man than the one I'd known for three years. I hoped he'd be a good father. That you'd grow up safe and happy.” His voice thick, heavy, John said, “So, I stopped looking for you. And that's when we really went to work. Rescuing, recruiting, expanding the safe zone.”

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CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

“Nix.” She turned away from the dark, moonless night, the sky flecked with stars, and in the faint glow of the lantern seeping into the night from the living room window, met Gareth's gaze. “When the op starts, you're going,” he said. “Yes.” “Will you let me come with you?” “Yes.” He closed his eyes, leaned in, rested his forehead on her shoulder. “I was scared to ask. I was sure you'd say 'no'.” “You don't want to stay with them?” “I'd like to get to know them better. Let them know me. It would be nice, having a family. People to come home to. But I need to go and fight. Help. And...” “And?” “I need you. More than I need them.” He sat up and smiled down at her. “That sounds so selfish. But I think you need me, too. More than they need me.” “Maybe what they needed most was to know you're here. That you're okay.” Gareth sighed. “Coming here, I thought they'd be this happy little family. These saints in their Eden. Like Sewanee. But god, there's so much sadness. John. The major. Even Nadia. I think my being here makes it harder for them.”

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She touched his arm. Kissed his neck, soft and smooth under his ear, rough with a day's beard along his jaw. “You showing up, it's stirred their memories. Memories of happiness, memories of hard losses. But they're glad you're here. They want you to be their son again.” **** Gareth knocked on the door—already open a crack—to John's room. When John saw him, a warm smile widened his mouth. “Gareth, come in.” He pulled the door fully open. Whenever Gareth was close, John seemed to want to touch him, maybe to put his arm around his shoulders, or to ruffle his thick head of dark hair. But he seemed to be making an effort to keep his distance. Gave Gareth his space. “There's something I want to ask,” Gareth said, his rough voice soft, hesitant. John's smile widened. “What's that?” “Maybe it's too strange.” “It's alright, Gareth. Ask.” “In her journals, she talks about being filmed. With you.” John's expression cooled and hardened. But he kept the remains of a smile on his lips, and his gaze was still kind. “Yes.” “I'd like to see her. Hear her.” John drifted back, silent. Gareth said, “I shouldn't have asked. Those tapes are private. I understand.”

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“No. It's alright that you asked. Really. It hadn't occurred to me.” John cleared his throat and looked off toward the window for a few moments, like he was trying to decide what to say. “I've never seen them. If they still exist, Avery would have them. I'll ask him for you.” “Maybe I should ask him myself.” John's smile came back, softer, warmer. “Alright.” Gareth moved toward the door. “I'm sorry we were so maudlin tonight,” John said. “I don't want you to think we sit around moping all the time, feeling sorry for ourselves. Sad things have happened, but our lives are good. Full.” “No, I understand. It's painful for you, for all of you, having me here. Having to remember things.” John came close and, for the first time since their reunion, put his arms around Gareth. “It is hard, remembering some things. But it's not painful having you here. I'm so, so happy you're here. We all are. It's the most wonderful, unexpected joy, you finding us.” John released Gareth from his embrace and held him at arms' length. “I don't want to take anything from you, your feelings about your father, about Riggs. And I don't want you to do anything that doesn't feel right. But if you want, when you're ready, I hope you'll come to think of me as your father, too. And Avery. I know he would like that.” **** The major's mouth bent in one of his wry grins. “Oh, yes. I have the recordings.” He studied Gareth's face for a few long moments. “I suppose I shouldn't be surprised.

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Three decades ago, in most families the idea would have been scandalous. Well, perverse. But, like most of your contemporaries, you hardly have any notion of 'family' in the traditional sense of the word. Those taboos are rather silly, under the circumstances.” “John says he's never watched them.” “Well.” The major retrieved a wooden box from a low shelf of a book case, and hinged the lid back, revealing neat rows and columns of clear plastic boxes with hand-written labels on the edge. Eva day 1. Eva day 2. A tape for each day, weeks' worth. And then, in the bottom right corner, three tapes that were different. All three bore the simple label, “E & A.” “For John, these tapes document a dark aspect of his relationship with Eva. They were made when she was a prisoner. When you watch, you'll see, he was never anything but gentle and tender with her. But because she had no choice, for him, in these tapes, he is raping her. Even if he had no choice, either. To watch these would taint his happier memories, I think.” “But you watch them.” The major grinned. “You have the most unique way of asking questions, Gareth. Yes, I watch them. I've watched them so often, it's possible I have every gesture of Eva's, and even of John's, memorized.” “They don't remind you of a dark time between you and her,” Gareth said. “A little, yes. But in them, in most of them, I see her happy. I see her pleasure. It gives me joy, pleasure, watching them.”

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“Even though it's her and John. Not her and you.” Another wry smile. “Oh, Gareth. It was very hard for me, watching her with him, then. And there's a great deal I would sacrifice if I could expand the little time we shared, even by a single day and night. But that doesn't alter the fact that I find comfort—and other things—in watching these tapes of them together.” Smith went quiet for a moment, then said, “All these reminiscences, I must seem like a bitter old man. But I'm not. I want you to know that. She loved me. We loved each other, and the two of us, along with John and Nadia and the others, we've changed things, made things better. It's very close to everything I ever wanted.” The major placed the wooden box in Gareth's hands. “These are copies of the originals. I have others. Keep these as long as you'd like.” Gareth smiled. “Do they play by magic? Or will I need some equipment and instruction?” Smith laughed and put his hand on Gareth's shoulder. “So. You do have a sense of humor.” **** “You don't have to watch them,” Gareth said. “I'm alright.” She wanted to see his mother. The voice in the journals attracted her, that voice so full of fear and rage that had turned, page by page, into determination and hope and love. Gareth stared at the rectangular device—matte plastic the color of a gun's muzzle—and pressed the tiny button in the shape of a triangle. She remembered this,

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from being a kid. TVs and remotes. The screen flickered bright, and a few seconds into static-fuzzed lead, a room appeared, filling the screen, with two people by a window. A younger John, and a woman. Eva. “God. She's so young,” Gareth breathed. Except for the amber irises and head of dark, tight curls, Eva looked nothing like the woman in the drawings. Here, she was slight, almost gaunt. In that undernourished face, her eyes were huge, giving the impression of an orphaned child. “The major said they didn't know they were being watched, this first time,” Gareth told her. Her first time. Because John had spared her in the mess hall. Nix had seen so many rapes, apart from the ones she'd lived through, herself. She'd never seen a virgin taken, though, like she'd been taken by the man who'd bought her for a wife. Her owner. But this was different. John was different. She watched him touch Eva's hand, watching her face. And the way he kissed her. Not like she'd been given to him. He didn't think of her as his. The cold coiling in Nix's gut softened into a warm, bitter knot. So, it could be done. Even when the man was a stranger, even when she'd been stripped of her choice, a woman's first time could be warm. She could experience pleasure. When the thin girl's brow creased, when she whimpered under the man moving over her Gareth said, “He's hurting her.” “No. He's not.”

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After, there was a gap of static-tinged black, and the room—empty this time— flickered back into view. After a minute or so John emerged from one door and, a moment later, Eva appeared from another. Naked. Transformed. Nix recognized the strategy. With no control over her fate, Eva had taken control of John, of the scene they were being forced to play out. Undressed herself so the man wouldn't strip her clothes from her, bare her body. Gave herself so she could not be taken. Scene by scene, as the weeks went by, as her fragile frame gained flesh and strength, things changed between them, John and the girl. Gareth's mother. Touches, kisses, looks and smiles were full of want, belied tender affection. More and more, their fucking, their lovemaking was like that pair of men Nix had seen at Sewannee. Full of love and need. “It's different,” Gareth said. “I've never seen sex like this.” “They want each other, now.” “Her, too,” he breathed. “Her too,” Nix echoed. When they watched the last tapes, the tapes of Eva with the major, Gareth went stiff and still, lost all the warmth that had crept over him as he'd watched her with John. Their sex was hard. Desperate. Almost violent, sometimes. At first, Nix thought he was hurting her. But no. They were just that fierce together, like they almost needed to claw their way inside each other to sate their want. “It's both of them,” she said to Gareth.

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In the last tape, Eva was heavily pregnant, and it was all three of them. Eva, John, and Smith. Hungry. In love. Happy. **** Sleep was impossible. That woman, her frightened eyes staring from that gaunt face, her sleek, strong body, her smiles, her moans, her joyful eagerness, her swollen belly had all seeped into Nix's blood. Those hungry mouths, those hot bodies writhing, breaths, voices surging together, a secret piece of life Nix had never known. Like she'd lived all her years among people lying in perfect stillness and suddenly seen someone move. Or heard someone speak for the first time. Beside her, Gareth stirred and turned. A moment later he sat up, slow and smooth, trying not to wake her. When she touched his arm, he sank back down beside her and she could feel his warm breath on her cheek. For so long, for her whole life, it felt, she'd been angry. Enraged. All the times she'd been hurt. Raped. Spat on, pissed on, beaten, tied, locked behind doors that opened every time a man who'd paid someone else wanted to fuck her. And then Gareth. His gentleness, his loneliness had stirred a warmth she'd never imagined she could feel for a man. For anyone. In return, she'd wanted to give him a little comfort, a little pleasure. But now. Now she'd seen. Eva with those men. Nix was missing something. All her life she'd been missing something. Something important. Something hot and deep and full, some crucial piece of her life. They'd taken it from her. Robbed her of it. From Gareth, too. Nix wanted it back. She'd fight to have it back, this thing that belonged to her, that she'd seen in Eva and John and Smith.

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“I want what she had. What they had together. I want you to have it.” Gareth was silent. “Do you want it, too?” His warm breath, his rough voice in the dark. “Yes.” She asked him, “Do you trust me?” “Yes.” In the dark, she moved, pressed herself against him and touched his lips with hers. That first faint sense of his flesh, his mouth, filled her whole body with sudden heat. Then she asked, “Do you want a real kiss?” “Yes.” She kissed his lips, parted them with hers, tasted his mouth. Second by second, they sank into each other, pulled each other closer, breathed each other. He felt so good, his strength pressed along the length of her, his hot, wet mouth taking her in, tentatively seeking her when she teased and withdrew. The feel of his skin, his scent, the sound of his quickening breaths, the taste of his mouth, all of him was a comfort at the same time he provoked a pain, a sharp longing. When she reached between them, he caught his breath and went stark still. Slow and gentle, she molded her hand over the hardness under his briefs and caressed the warm length of him. The way his breath stilled and raced in response to her touch moved her. Made her want flare. “Take them off.” When they were both naked in the faint moonlight seeping into their room, she looked at him watching her, waiting, passive. When she curved her fingers around the

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bare length of his cock, he stopped breathing again, until she began exploring the contours of his sex—smooth, veined, firm, warm, the thick thatch of dark curls at the base of his erection, finer over his full, heavy balls—and he groaned and panted to catch his lost breath. Some want, some wave of tender feeling compelled her to lie down beside him, to press her lips to the delicate skin, so soft and warm, to kiss the hard cock in her hand. He gasped and went stiff. “Don't. Don't do that.” “I won't. Just this,” she breathed, and kissed again, just a tender press of lips to that firm, sensitive flesh. His scent, faintly spicy, filled her as she kissed along his rigid length, from the root of his cock in its warm nest of dark hair to the full, flushed crown. She'd wanted to, so badly. Needed to. A welcome. Absolution. A gentle proof that she wanted, loved that part of him, too. She ran her fingertips down the center of his chest, feathered them in a circle around his navel, through the narrow trail of hair below. “This feels good?” “Yes.” When she pressed her body against his, when she flexed and stretched so their skin touched and rubbed, when she asked again he said, “Yes,” again. When she kissed and asked he said, “Yes.” She coaxed him, and he sat up in the bed and she straddled his thighs. She whispered, “I promise, I won't let you hurt me. Alright?” “Alright. But...” “What?”

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“John and Eva, he knew what to do. How to make it good for her. I don't know how to be a good lover for you. How to give you pleasure.” “You will. I'll show you.” She pressed herself to him, pressed her breasts against his chest, her belly, her sex to his. “Is this good?” “Yes.” She touched his face, surprised at how doing that, at how his nervous, hopeful look made her insides go tight and warm. With a fingertip, she traced the shape of his eyebrows, followed the line of his nose, touched his soft, full lips. She drew her touch down, over his jaw, down his neck, over his collarbones, and feathered her fingertips over his nipples. When he swallowed, her eyes followed the up and down of his adam's apple. She found his hand, brought it to her mouth, kissed his palm. “You've always touched me so gently,” she said. “You remember the night you touched my brand?” “Yes.” “That touch. Since that night, I've thought of that moment when you brushed the strap of my tank with your finger and traced that 'S' burned into my flesh,” she whispered, her lips almost touching his warm skin. “When I'd remember you doing that, barely touching me that night, I'd get this feeling. That ache. You know?” “Yes.” “That touch, that night, it was my first. The first touch I wanted. The first touch that felt good to my body and my heart, both. That made me want more.” She pressed his hand to her neck.

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“I want you to touch me.” She drew his hand down, until her breast was cupped in his palm. His uneven breath came and went in little warm gusts. And then his touch. Soft. Stirring her nerves. Just lightly, she touched her lips to his. She waited, then kissed, a soft press of lips. In the warmth of their bed, their kiss deepened, breath by breath. In the circle of her arms, pressed hard against her body she felt his chest and belly swell with each hungry breath, and his hard sex nestled against hers. When she flexed, rubbed herself against him, he shuddered and his breath hitched. She pulled out of their kiss to look at him. In the dim night, his startled eyes fixed on her. “I won't if you don't want me to,” she said. “Should I not? Should I stay still?” “No.” His voice sounded like his throat had closed. “Not if it feels good to you.” She smiled. She did it on purpose, to reassure him, but when she did, thinking she was making herself, it felt more like she'd been working hard to keep it back. Keeping it back from him all day, god, for days, for weeks. It felt good letting it go. Letting him see her smile her joy. Her pleasure. Still smiling into that startled gray gaze, she moved again. Gareth gasped, then smiled, laughed at himself. That boyish smile, that boyish laugh that was such a startling contrast to his concrete stare, that was part of why she'd started to love him, back at that ghost town hotel. God, she really did. She loved him. Wanted to love him. “Does it scare you? Me doing this?” she said, hearing the waver in her own voice as she flexed her thighs, flexed her hips, slid her sex up his length, then down it again. “No.”

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She rose again, then settled over him, feeling the crown of his hard cock nudging at the hungry mouth of her sex. “You're not afraid?” “No.” She whispered, “Do you want me to?” “Yes.” She took him in. Sank down. Drew the full, hard length of him inside. Everything changed. The facets of his irises, the shape of his mouth, the way he was holding her. As if suddenly she'd become terrifyingly fragile. And inside. Her body, full with him. But the fullness went all through her, beyond the places where her nerves told her he was touching her. Like he was filling her whole body with his warmth. When she moved, he caught his breath and pulled her closer. Cradled in his gaze, she milked his pleasure in the tight grip of her body. Behind his eyes, joy and pain seemed to chase each other while he trembled against her. When she brushed his lips with a soft kiss, when she touched his tongue with hers, he sighed and sank into her, hungry, desperate. They writhed together, whimpering, groaning into each other’s mouth. Gareth broke away, panting. Startled. The way he was looking into her eyes, it was like he was trying to read her. She whispered, “You feel so good, Gareth. It feels so good, having you inside me. Holding me.” His kiss-wet lips brushed hers as he asked, “And will you, can you... I don't know how to give you that pleasure, the pleasure I feel when...”

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She leaned into him, drove him back, brushed her lips against a tawny nipple, feeling it start to peak under her kiss as she writhed over him, loving that sense of him filling her, his body touching all those hidden nerves. When she licked, his nipple stiffened, swelled up under tongue and as she sucked and pulled that hardening nub of flesh between her lips Gareth made a low, soft growling noise. She let him go, arched back and said, “Do that to me.” First, he brushed his lips over her jaw, down her neck, kissed and nuzzled under her ear while she writhed over him, finding a pleasure close to sweet deep pain each time she brought the full length of him inside her, each time she rubbed her swollen clit against him. When the soft wet tip of his tongue touched her nipple, a spark of pleasure burned under his mouth and swept through her core, down into her sex. Gently at first, so she hardly felt it, he licked the tip of her breast. Her sensitive flesh contracted under his tongue, her nerves firing, her pleasure swelling, rising. When he sealed his hot mouth over her nipple, when he sucked, a bolt of pleasure shot through her. She shuddered and whimpered and he let go, leaned back to look at her. She smiled and his startled eyes calmed. They kissed. Then he took her other nipple with his mouth, kissed and licked and sucked. She keened and pulled away because she wanted to be looking at him, wanted to bare herself, give herself up to him when it came, that surge of pleasure that swelled and swelled then burst and radiated through her in pulsing waves. He watched her, held her as she succumbed, as she fell apart and melted, exalted and weak, and as she caught her breath, gathered her strength, and writhing, brought him over the edge after her, groaning, panting, clutching.

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In the days after, they would mobilize, surge forth with a vast army that would pull the line west behind them, town by town, state by state, until all the resistance women and men were out of hiding, until the wives were freed from their locked rooms, until the girls emerged from the humid dark of the sex hotels. In the years ahead, they would struggle, and John and Smith and Nadia would come behind with the peacekeepers and the engineers and the doctors, with the Red Men and Red Women who would give and teach love to a generation that had been lost to it. But all that night, they were tender and warm as they learned how to touch each other, as Nix and Gareth discovered what it was to be lovers.

THE END

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ABOUT VARIAN KRYLOV Since her girlhood in a sunny coastal town in California, Varian Krylov has nurtured a love of words and a curiosity about the deep, dark forces at work in human nature, especially sexuality, and how they often paradoxically twine with our tenderest impulses. Her stories tend to explore the sometimes fine line between what arouses, and what frightens, what we’re driven to, and what we’re ashamed of.

If you enjoyed AFTER, you might also enjoy:

ABDUCTION By Varian Krylov For years, college student Devan Astor has penned erotic stories based on her dark fantasies, but when she’s abducted, she is faced with the real terror of being at the mercy of a cruel stranger. She flees, but in the remote cabin where she takes refuge, will she encounter a danger even more frightening than the kidnapper who is still hunting her? At the end of her ordeal, will she be left scarred by the experiences that so closely match her own fantasies, or will she discover fulfillment she never imagined? Warnings: This title contains elements of non-consensual sex, anal sex and m/m sex.

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Excerpt From ABDUCTION: He knew she would let him do anything, have anything. Anything. It was that thought—that he could do what he wanted—that made him so hard, so hot, rather than any particular thing he could think of actually doing. That this strange, quiet girl would let him touch her, take her, look at her any way he liked, and yield to any thing he might do with nothing but breaths and sighs and that look of hers. Somehow her pigtails seemed perverse. He wanted her hair loose. Quietly, calmly, like a child with a doll who will neither judge nor protest, he took one pigtail in the loose circle of his fingers and worked her wet hair free of the elastic band. Then he did the other. He put the bands around his wrist and, with both hands, combed his fingers through her wet hair until it hung heavy and wet in thick strands over her shoulders and down her back. But he missed the nape of her neck, pale and whisped with baby-fine hairs in two Vs, so he twisted her hair up in one hand and drew it up, bending her head forward, elongating the back of her delicate neck, making the pale skin go taut over the smooth rounded curves of her spine. Christ, he hadn’t even really touched her yet, and he was rock hard. What was it with this girl? He leaned into her, let his face brush against her neck, heard her suck in her breath, felt her quiver as his chest pressed against her back. Breathing in the smell of her skin, feeling the heat of their bodies warming the wet cloth between them, seeing the tiny hairs—the soft blond down of her ears—he was momentarily aware of how on, how tuned into every sensation his body was in that moment, as if he could taste and see and hear molecules of air, of rain, of her and he felt oddly happy.

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It was exciting to touch, to run fingers along the bare wet gooseflesh of arms, to peel the wet, sticking sleeves back to reveal her upper arm and the first hint of her shoulder, to brush his lips against her there without kissing, to think of licking and biting her tender flesh, to feel the excitement of anticipation, the little twinge of denial. The t-shirt she had on was soaked and clung to her like gray skin, and he took in the shape of her tits, her dark areolae, her hard nipples, the vague ripple of ribs, the slight hollow of her belly. He came to her, his body pressing her, his thigh parting hers, getting a little sigh from her as his leg pressed against her cunt. After that little noise she turned her face away and closed her eyes, and he smiled, amused by her shyness. He leaned into her, her body soft and trembling, mouthed her ear, felt her panting breath with his chest, and whispered, “What do you want, Devan?” One of her wrists he let go, let his hand come down into her hair to feel its heavy thickness between his fingers. Her other wrist he brought down, down, and pressed her hand to his hard, aching cock. “Is this what you want?” She only answered with a breathy sigh, her eyes closed, her lips parted. Still holding her hand to his swollen cock, barely moving it over him, he mouthed her ear again, gently bit her jaw just beneath it, kissed her neck, breathing in the smell of her hair and her skin as he tasted her flesh. He heard his own excited breathing, panting against her face, her neck, her jaw, tasted his own saliva as his mouth moved back to the places it had been already, tasted the salt of her skin—salty chin, jaw, neck, cheek. Strangely so, when her ear hadn’t been, or the smooth neck beneath, under the

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canopy of her wet hair. Not thinking, just feeling, feeling his way around her, he tasted the rain dripping from her chin, trickling down her smooth cheek, wetting her lashes. But the rain on her lashes was all salt…

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