Kismet (3 page)

I lay out my sleeping gear before grabbing an MRE, otherwise known as Meals Ready-to-Eat, for dinner. I open the pack and bring out the various contained food items, glad I ate the last of the pork patties a while ago. Eating those things requires lots of water because they’re dry as sand. So are the cakes and breads. I like it when I find either M&Ms or Skittles in the MRE; that’s always a nice treat. I pull out the food heaters and toss them into my backpack. If a little water is added to the heat packages and put in the main meal, the water interacts with chemicals to heat the food. Those heater bags make great little bombs, though they’re more noise than anything when the contents of the chemical are poured into a plastic bottle. And sometimes a little noise is a great distraction.

Mmm, tonight I have spaghetti with meat sauce. I have been eating these for a long time now, even though I read somewhere a person is only supposed to eat them for twenty-one days. Guess I went slightly over on that timetable. I got my present rations from a survivalist group in Utah a few months ago when I kept their arsenal from exploding.

I sit with my back against the rear tire eating my food and sipping some water. I can’t help but feel restless, and I hate that feeling. It’s a useless, frustrating feeling, and I always seem to get it at the most inappropriate times, like now, when I need to get some sleep. I have been driving for days through the New Mexico and Arizona deserts with temperatures around 116 in a four-wheeler that has no air-conditioner. To say I am tired is beyond an understatement.

But this feeling that’s nagging at me, that has been bothering me for quite some time, wipes away my appetite. I give up on my food and pack it away and take one last sip of water before strolling the perimeter of the broken rest stop. The moon is high and clear, the stars coming out more and more as night falls deeper. There is the occasional howl of a coyote or wolf somewhere in the far distance followed by the answering call of its mate.

Perhaps my edginess stems from knowing I am about to enter a war zone on the morrow. I’ve never been to Southern California, but I’ve come close, and the reports left me hoping I’d never set foot in the torn-asunder region.

After the virus ran amok, the entire Western seaboard got hit with an earthquake. But not any old earthquake. It was “the Big One,” the one that scientists and doomsayers had been predicting for ages. What little had been spared became hopeless because there simply wasn’t anyone left to help.

Now unfortunately, due to my gift, I am heading right for that nightmare. Los Angeles is a place ruled by gangs, absolute lawlessness roaming free. If it was anyone else but Seek and Galloway, if it were at all possible, I would turn myself around and hightail it right back into the desert. But something bad is going happen to them.

I try not to think of the dream, the one where I’ve been shown their deaths. But like heartburn, it keeps rising up to make me sick. For days now I’ve been gripped with urgency and an odd sense that time is running out.

Perhaps I should jog around to burn off this brittleness I feel.

Perhaps I should just get my rocks off.

I clean up my site, think about setting up my tent before discarding the idea, and wiggle my way into my sleeping bag, shoes and all. You never know when you’ll have to wake up in the middle of the night with guns blazing, and believe me, then is not the time to regret the decision to have removed your boots for comfort.

At first I just lie there and gaze at the dark sky above me, letting my mind wander freely. There are so many stars in the heavens there’d be no way to count them all. It’s times like this I wish I knew how to find the astrological sign constellations, because I just know they’re there. But unless it’s Orion the Hunter or the Big Dipper, I’m clueless.

Seek and Galloway come to mind. Where are they now? What are they doing? Staring at the same sky as I am, wondering? Wondering what? Do they dream of someone to love, someone to hold? It’s moments like this that I feel the emptiness of my traveling, of being so alone. I like helping people; I feel blessed to have the ability I have. But I miss companionship. I miss having love.

My stomach clenches as I imagine both men being with me here, lying under the stars. Just the three of us as I am finally allowed to unleash my own pent-up passion. I would undress them, licking every inch of skin that is revealed. Both are tall and handsome, strong.

I unzip my pants and slide my hand inside, under my panties. I slide my middle finger up and down my damp slit, pressing in to find that little nub of nerves so I can milk it for pleasure. I picture both men sandwiching me, cupping me, taking nips and bites. Licking me. Soon, I have the most delicious hunger deep inside, an almost quickening spurt of pleasure as I start to rock my hips. In my mind, I’m rocking into two cocks. I’m chasing that ebb of ecstasy, so I grind myself a little harder on my fingers. I press my knees inward, the pressure acting to both alleviate the almost unbearable ache and to bring it sharper into focus.

With my other hand I reach up under my sports bra to clutch the crinkled skin around my nipple. I trace the little bumps before taking the peak between my thumb and finger to roll it gently. This is a little hard to do since the bra doesn’t have a lot of wiggle room, but I manage to find the right angle.

As I pinch my nipple, the shock sends a jolt straight down into my cunt. My finger brushes over my clit, causing my heart to hammer as a light sweat dusts over my upper lip. My touches are light, beguiling, as I finding a matching rhythm with my two hands.

I don’t have the control to make this last long. I’ve never had a reason to prolong the pleasure of teasing myself. I know that with the right person sex can last for a very long time, but I’ve never had a partner, and I’ve never felt the need to torment myself. So I allow my middle finger to slide inside while my index finger starts to rub my clit harder. I bend my index finger inside, finding that one sweet spot that sends my senses into another world. I moan, and my hips start pumping like mad. Up and down I hump my hand, my knees tightening even more. I twist my nipple painfully as I grind my finger onto my clit. I couldn’t stop this even if I wanted to. Everything working together sends me over the edge, the orgasm sweeping through me in a white-hot flood. I can feel my pussy contracting around my fingers, sucking them in and wanting more. Wetness oozes down my fingers.

As I pull my hands out from my clothing, lethargy replaces the tension that had been in my muscles earlier, and in a matter of seconds, I know no more.

Chapter Three

I open my eyes a little before daybreak, feeling like I could sleep the whole day.

Man, I’m tired. It’s been a while since I’ve had a decent sleep, and my body feels the effect of my insomnia. Ever since I had that nightmare, I’ve been restless and edgy. For a moment I let myself imagine how nice it would be if I were on a beach somewhere, lounging in the sun with a cute little fruity drink in my hand. No worries, no cares. I could sleep all day and night if I wanted to. What would it be like to be free of responsibility?

That is a question I’ll probably never know the answer to. Even as a kid I had to take care of my mother, who moved from guy to guy like she changed T-shirts. I had many “uncles” and one pervy “daddy,” but I stayed for her, because I was the only one who really knew the demons that drove my mother into insanity. In the end, it was the virus that took her, but it was almost a blessing when she passed.

I stretch out my muscles before rising, dragging my sleeping bag out of the tent to fold it up. The dawn air is chilly, and I shiver a bit before reaching into one of my duffel bags and grabbing a zipped hoodie. I put it on, flip up the hood, and bundle down into the warmth for a moment. I resume packing, folding up my tent and storing it on the flatbed. I grab a freeze-dried meal, breakfast fare of eggs, pancakes, and bacon; use my gas-fueled hot plate to heat up some water for the instant coffee; and then sit at one of the rusted picnic tables to watch the sun come up over the desert.

I’ve never lamented the circumstances of my life. I might complain and bitch about them, but it is what it is. Perhaps knowing that I am destined for a great love has helped me cope, unlike my mother, who spent her whole life searching for “the one.” Maybe if my mom had had a gift like mine, she would have been able to see and follow a different path, instead of landing in the wrong lap every time. For all her faults, though, I loved her. I may not have liked her much, but I never did figure out how to stop loving the person who gave me life.

I finish my breakfast and rise from the table, using the chipped and broken trash receptacle to throw my stuff away. I no longer need to be cautious, because in a few hours I will have disappeared into a city labyrinth. From my camping equipment I grab the shower bag I have, filling it with the required two and a half gallons of water it holds. I grab some soap and a change of clothes and head to the facilities building. Inside I am able to hang the bag and take a quick shower, even brushing my teeth. One thing that I have learned is to be frugal with water, so I shower every second or third day. Even though the water is tepid, it still feels nice to wash the grime off. Once the water is gone, I dry off and dress, then pack up all of my stuff before heading outside.

I top off the tank with my stored gasoline, double-check that everything is secure on the flatbed, and then plop the sunglasses on my nose. The sun has awoken, bathing the land in brightness. I must admit the desert is beautiful, stark in dried-up grass and dust swirls, but the absence of color actually captures my appreciation. I like simplicity.

Shaking my head against such frivolous thinking, I take off down the road, instantly forgetting my outdoor hotel for the night. I have about three hours left in my journey to Los Angeles, which will put me there around nine, so that will give me plenty of daylight left to scout out a hiding area, secure my four-wheeler, and go trolling for the guys.

Seek and Galloway. There had been one dream, long ago, where they had been at a bar, someplace crawling with military men. Women had been there aplenty, the kind hoping to bed someone with many stripes on their arms. I watched them that night from my spirit plateau. I really hated those particular dreams, when I know men will be men and fuck whatever catches their fancy. Galloway had been a real ladies’ man, with his dashing good looks, charming dimples, and his willingness to let a woman’s pleasure exceed his own. But that night it had been Seek who had caught my attention. I was so used to watching Galloway, it took me a few minutes to realize how much Seek was holding back, how he was nursing a beer in a corner and avoiding everyone.

I couldn’t quite understand him. What was he doing there? Why wasn’t he mingling with others, dancing with girls, trying to cop a feel at every moment? Instead, he shied away from all contact. A ghost. Like me.

I enter Los Angeles from the east, driving on what used to be Interstate 10. Broken, abandoned cars rest like forgotten tombstones up and down the sides of the road. The earth has started to engulf the remains. I soon come to a halt because I’ve hit the area so devastated my trusty steed can’t navigate it. I remember hearing about the earthquake, of course; it was one of the few things that had managed to overshadow the virus on the news channels. I remember being ambivalent because Los Angeles was a long way away and I had enough on my plate, but now that I am here, I can’t help but feel an overwhelming sadness at the decay that has never been cleared. There had been no resources to help, so everything that had fallen still lay in rotting, rusting heaps, tombs for the people who never made it out.

Even though I am wearing sunglasses, I still shade my eyes as I search the nearby area for a great place to hide my Cat. My eyes fall on a half-collapsed building that reminds me of a small warehouse. I leave the road and drive over the bumpy ground toward it.

It takes me about an hour to move various pieces of large junk to make a cozy little nook for my four-wheeler to reside while I’m off in La-La Land. Sweat drips off me and runs down the back of my shirt. Once I think it will be safe, I take my black backpack and fill it with provisions I anticipate I will need. I check that my two GLOCKs are loaded and stuff them in the holsters on each of my ankles under my pants. Next I take my small daggers and sheathe them in the leather halter that is attached to my left forearm. I glance at my recurve bow before deciding against it. In this situation, in this area, I’m pretty sure rapid fire is going to be needed more than finesse, even though I might regret not taking it. A couple of years ago, I had been in Tulsa, Oklahoma and ran into this group of really nice homesteaders who taught me how to hunt ducks with a bow and arrow. Which, believe me, can be done but is very difficult. I had been hiding from them, watching them, when I had gotten a vision. I managed to rescue one of the children from getting bitten by a snake, saving her from what I knew would have been her death, to the everlasting gratitude of her parents.

I stayed with those homesteaders for several weeks. They had shunned everyone when the virus hit, choosing instead to secure themselves their own way. They included me in their lives, teaching me how to farm and different ways to snare animals. Being with them gave me a sense of peace I never had. I came from a very dysfunctional life and hadn’t a clue how love actually worked, but each night, I saw the adoration between these people and their commitment to survive together.

I grab a protein bar and munch on it as I make my way over lots and lots of debris. The horizon is dotted with burned-out skyscraper shells. All that real estate had to go somewhere when the earth shook itself mad, and lucky me, was now traversing over it. Come nighttime I bet this decimated city looks a lot like the world of
Resident Evil
, and I’m hoping I don’t run into any zombies.

At that moment, the ground shakes violently under my feet, catching me off guard and sending me sprawling. I miss a chunk of rusty spikes protruding from a twisted hunk of concrete by inches. When the shaking stops, I get to my feet, trying to ignore the knocking in my knees. My heart hammers like a nest of angry wasps.
Goddammit
! I hate fucking earthquakes! Especially when I have the vision screeching through my head!