James J. Miner
Harley was psyched. It was Friday night, and the Redarms were Burning a heretic later. He had spoken briefly to Monica last night, and she had agreed to come with him and watch. He had not been with her for several weeks. He found it difficult to concentrate on the task at hand, stealing a few potatoes from The Sect. His stomach growled its hunger, but the thought of another roasted potato was not appealing. The Sect was growing ever more watchful. It was getting more and more difficult to raid their fields. Soon he might have to fall back to rat roast. The only problem was the rats in the block had gotten wise to him. He hadn’t trapped any for several days. So tonight it would be potatoes, and then whatever he could scrounge at the Burning. He got a few pitiful, wormy spuds without raising the alarm, daring to venture only into the furthermost of The Sect’s fields. He wouldn’t go hungry, and he’d satisfy his other hungers tonight with Monica. He could hardly wait.
He decided to cut his regular rounds short. It would take too much time; roaming the block, scrounging for whatever looked edible. He had an itching, restless energy tonight, and he knew from long experience that it would not be conducive to scavenging. He thought he had just about hunted out this area anyway. It might be time to move on. There were no more easy pickings; breaking into an apartment, stepping softly past the half rotten skeletons in their beds and scarfing up some rusty old cans of soup hidden in the pantries amid the stench of decaying flesh. Rat traps with long dead rats even he wouldn’t eat. Shriveled husks of fruit like small totems on the counter top. Even the dog food and bird seed was getting scarce these days, what little left being squirming with maggots. Then again, there had been dry spells when he would gobble down maggoty dog food greedily. On such occasions, he would get the shits within hours, but that was better than the empty feeling in his stomach he experienced all too regularly. He figured that as long as he didn’t vomit it all away, he would survive. One did what one must to survive these trying times.
He inched his way stealthily from alleyway to alleyway along the deserted, ice encrusted expanse of Main Street. All was quiet. It paid to be careful. No telling when the Redarms might go flesh hunting, looking for skulking prey like himself that they could bag and take back to their camp for a Burning. There were other dangers as well, fellow renegades who might be occupying the next alley, waiting to pounce on any careless soul strolling without sufficient concern down these dark streets. Packs of fierce feral dogs, man’s best friend now deadly foe and competitor. And the cold, ever the persistent enemy.
He thought back. Once, a year or so ago, he had turned a corner during his nightly rounds and there, off to his right down a dark, trash strewn alley was a whole pack of renegades. At first he thought they were Redarms, and had tensed up for hopeless flight. Then he realized they weren’t moving. They were just sitting or lying around. These weren’t Redarms, he had told himself. Otherwise he would already be caught. He had looked more closely in the dark, with just a sliver of moonlight cutting through the shadows.
It was a family lying there in the filthy gutter: a daddy, a mommy, and a whole slew of kids. The daddy had dark splotches on his face, and from that he knew they all suffered from Plague. That had been the time when Blue Three had ravaged the area. So he kept his distance. He had survived Blue Three, but he still didn’t take any chances. He had indeed survived, but sometimes he asked himself if survival was worth the effort. Sometimes he wished he had died along with his family. But he would take a deep breath, press on, and do what it took to endure. He had removed himself from the alley, away from the doomed family.
He was fifteen years old now. He remembered what it had been like to have a family. He thought maybe he had been seven when Blue One had hit like a sledge hammer, the winter after all the electricity had gone out for good. It had all happened so suddenly. He had watched helplessly as one after another of his five brothers and sisters had succumbed, then his mommy, and finally, horribly, his daddy’s long drawn-out descent to death. That had been a rough time for him, but he looked back on it with longing, thinking about his daddy and him together, learning how to survive in this harsh new world.
They had learned together to become nocturnal animals. The cold night held its promise of disguise and concealment. The day brought only the Redarms and the Renegades and the dog packs. The day was a time of danger. They learned together to dig themselves into the deepest, darkest pit they could find during the day, camouflaging it as best they could, and falling into restive, furtive sleep. Even after his daddy started getting the grey blotches on his neck, and could no longer move out of their hole; could only lay there in his own shit and vomit. Harley would always come back, bringing whatever he had foraged during the night, all too aware that his daddy could no longer keep anything down. His daddy had taught him a lot about life. Then he had died and Harley was on his own.
So he edged his way through the dark, safe night. He would wait and listen, and then scurry out of one hiding place to the next. Then he would wait and listen again. The city was quiet. He figured he could detect the sound of human breathing from a block away; and the distinct odor of unwashed human flesh from an even greater distance. The senses of the renegade had to be sharp in the dark night. But he harbored no illusions. He knew that if his senses were keener as a result of his experiences; there were others out there with awareness even more acute. That much he had learned in his short time on the Earth.
As he kneeled in the shadows, directing the mist of his breath down to prevent detection, senses alert for any sign of danger, his mind wandered other shadows. He thought about his sister Nanette, she the youngest of the brood while he had been the second eldest. She had been the most beautiful little child. He had fallen in love with her the moment she had been born, when mommy had retired to her bedroom and panted and moaned and groaned for hours, to the point that Harley thought she was succumbing to the sickness his friends told him was devastating the city. She had forbidden him from entering the room, and he had almost disobeyed her. He had actually picked up the phone to call daddy from work to come make mommy better. But she had come out with a beautiful, crying, wiggling little girl in her arms. Nanette they named her. She was the delight of the entire family.
She, more than any of his other brothers and sisters, had been his own special little girl. He had adored her. She had adored him. With her dark hair, dark skin, beautiful little baby face and baby body that she never had a chance to outgrow. She had called him Darley, and the very thought of that baby name sent shivers of grief and longing through him as he squatted in the dark and sniffed for strangers. He had done everything for her; he babysat, he fed her, he played with her, he hugged her and kissed her and pampered her. He avoided teasing her like he did his other brothers and sisters.
His brother Joe had called him a child molester, and Harley had beaten him silly and gotten whipped by his daddy for punishment. Harley didn’t care. Nobody was going to call him a monster for what he felt for his sister. It was not sexual. Joe could just not understand how one person could love another without his dick being involved. To Harley’s mind, Joe was the monster, the abnormal one. Harley could not force himself to feel anything when Joe had finally surrendered to the plague. By that point, he was too numb to feel much of anything. Sweet Nanette had been the first to go, and some vital part of Harley had gone away when she had. He no longer had any feelings to spare as his brothers and sisters, and his mommy, had one by one fallen and deserted him. Only when his daddy had finally died did he feel something again, and then only for a short while. Now he could not afford such emotions, save only for Monica.
He came back to the present in the midst of a mad dash across a vacant lot to the next building housing the old Byers Liquor store down the street across from the fire station. The store had long ago been robbed of anything useful. He hesitated for a second. Had he looked, listened, and sniffed long enough before this sprint? He could not remember. He hastened on, diving behind a snow drift beside a dumpster to catch his breath and listen for following footsteps. Nothing. Nobody walking the streets, no soft breathing sounds in the alleys. Just the gentle breath of the winter wind. He cinched his heavy coat and pulled his cap more tightly over his ears. He had to be more careful. It was too easy to believe that these dark, quiet streets harbored no danger; that he was the last living soul in the world. That was dangerous thinking and it could kill him.
No sense brooding on the past. He had to be sharp. But as he squatted beside his dumpster, he could not help but think back to a time when the world had been safe. Back when people had been friendly and nobody was starving. Back when one could jump into an automobile and think nothing of driving for eight hours to visit with friends and relatives. Back when he had friends and relatives. He vaguely remembered hot summers and ice cream bars from the truck that came by every day after school. That was a long time ago, before the cold and the plagues. Now, the cars sat and rusted in the streets, no fuel available to run them, and there were not enough living souls left to ever begin the process of cleaning up the old hulks of a bygone era. Now, all of his friends and relatives were dead; and the only one left to him was Monica, and a few bedraggled renegades he occasionally spent time with.
He forced himself to come back to awareness of the present. He heard something, a soft clearing of the throat. He smelled something. There was somebody up ahead, in the next alley. He sat on his haunches and analyzed the smell. It was familiar. He got up out of his crouch and strode boldly down the street. He reached the alley, now walking on tiptoe. He poked his head around the corner. Down in the alley, half-hidden in the refuse, was a human form.
He knew that body, that smell, that taste. It was Monica. He had made love to that body a thousand times.
“Harley!” she yelped, and jumped up from her hiding place. She ran to him and wrapped herself in his arms.
“Shhhh”, he whispered, and tiptoed with her clinging fiercely to him back into the relative safety of the alley.
“I was going to surprise you”, she said. “I was going to jump out as you walked past and yell boo. You surprised me, instead”.
“You ought to know better than to try and surprise me”, he replied as he buried his face in her neck. “I can smell you a mile away”. He knew her so well, that wonderful woman smell that he inhaled now. He knew her every body odor, her every pore, down to the sweet fragrance between her legs. He reached down and gently rubbed her there now through her faded jeans. “How about a quickie?”
“Harley, not now”, she said with a little giggle that sent shivers of anticipation through him. “I’d wake up every renegade in the city when you made me come.” But she did not remove his hand from where it caressed, and instead she ground her hips seductively against his hand, her eyes closed and her lips parted, panting softly.
He allowed himself the fantasy of making love to her in the open a moment longer. She would do it, he knew. She would do anything he asked. All he had to do was drop her drawers and then his; bend her over and do it, right against the wall of this alley. But he knew better. It was far too dangerous, right here, right now. He thought about the evening ahead of them. They would watch the Burning, steal some food, and then retire to her cubbyhole, where their suppressed and delayed desire would finally be quenched. Nothing like a Burning to rouse the old passions, he thought.
He had come across her a year after his daddy had died. The only thing his daddy had not taught him was how to do it with a girl. Harley figured his daddy didn’t much think there would be many opportunities for that, things being what they were. It seemed like the Redarms grabbed up every female renegade; and his daddy didn’t want him going anywhere near them.
He had been introduced to Monica by Feldspar, a renegade friend who had been later captured and Burned by the Redarms. She had a wild look to her, with her curly, dark brown hair in an unruly pile on her head. She had the sexiest smile, what he called her “Mona Lisa” smile. Her eyes were sexy as well, often half closing in a seductive gesture as if she were having a silent orgasm just talking to him. She was not thin, a rarity in these starving times. But she was not fat. His daddy would have said that she had some meat on her bones. Harley had fallen in love with her instantly.
Feldspar had been fucking her then, but she moved on to Harley shortly after they met. Harley didn’t really understand why at first. Feldspar was an older guy, pretty good looking in his opinion, and a lot more experienced than Harley was. He had a very high opinion of his own sexual prowess and bragged a lot. He liked to make this gesture, like he was jerking off, and his hand would embrace his imaginary penis, too thick to wrap his fingers around, and his arm would travel a good twelve inches up and down the shaft. Harley was impressed, silently considering his own inferior anatomy. Feldspar had quite a reputation back then, when there was still a substantial population of renegades. Monica later quashed that myth. She told Harley that Feldspar was too much in love with himself, and that made him a poor partner. She said she much preferred “Fresh Meat”, like Harley, that she could mold to her liking. That’s what she called him, “Fresh Meat”. He guessed that was appropriate, since she was twenty-seven years old to his fifteen.
And mold him she did. She taught him things he had not imagined possible. They tried every position they could think of. She taught him how to make her come with his hand, with his dick, with his tongue, even with his knee. She in turn ministered to his every need; fucking, hand masturbation, oral, sixty-nine, anal; standing up, kneeling, laying down, lying sideways. Her favorite position was doggy style. He liked face to face, so that he could look into those sexy eyes as he exhausted himself. But she didn’t like it that way, saying it was unnatural. So they would experiment, try different techniques and positions, but inevitably she would turn over on her hands and knees and entice him to finish her off.
Monica had her own little den, in the basement of the old Rexall drug store, about a mile away from his. It was a warm, comfortable place, with furs lining the walls and an old mattress piled high with blankets. It was set in a crawlspace in the basement behind the old steam boiler. There was a pile of broken furniture to hide the crawlspace. She had gone to great lengths to conceal it. She had been there for several years. Harley didn’t like the thought of staying in any one place too long. Too much opportunity for someone to stumble upon it.
So far, she had been lucky. Harley had begged her to move in with him, and to move along with him every time he started feeling like the walls were watching and the Redarms were closing in. But she had refused. She liked her place just fine. She preferred her own, solitary sanctuary, with only an occasional guest to come fuck her brains out. Most of the time, that guest was Harley. But she occasionally made vague excuses when he proposed a day together. He suspected she was involved with some other renegade. He said nothing of it. It was her business. He was happy enough to be with her as often as he did. He was not a particularly jealous person. He supposed he had his own need of solitude sometimes. After all, scavenging was a solitary business; two scavengers together made that much bigger a target for their enemies. So they got together every few days for pleasure, and otherwise went their separate ways.
Harley had these thoughts as he sat in the alley, hugging Monica and warming each other up. It was a cold night, tonight. She felt so good, even through her thick down coat. It was still too early to go to the party; they could just barely hear the howls of the Redarms beginning their revels in the distance. They would wait until Priest started his sermon over the P.A. system. That gave them about an hour to get there before the Burning and the Feast.
As he sat there, he gradually became aware of the lump sticking into his side, and remembered the special treat he had brought tonight.
“Here, Monica, I’ve got a present for you”, he said.
He reached into his baggy jacket pocket and pulled out his surprise. A fifth of Jack Daniels, three quarters full, that he had found a few weeks ago and stashed for a special occasion. That special occasion had come. He intended that this night would be one to remember.
“Oooh, my best friend, Jack!” exclaimed Monica. “Harley, you’re the best. I haven’t had any whiskey in like forever. Man, you are so going to get laid tonight.”
She grabbed the bottle from him greedily and took a long draught. “Oh, that burns so good!” she said as she handed the bottle back to him. He took a small sip, and she immediately grabbed the bottle for another large swallow.
“Alright, but take it easy, lover”, he replied. He was pleased with himself, at the thought of her excitement and the anticipation of later pleasures. “We can’t get drunk yet; we’ve still got to a Burning to see.”
At that moment, they heard the unmistakable tones of Priest’s voice in the distance, amplified by a makeshift speaker system powered by precious batteries.
“Is this damn thing on?” they heard him yell. “Did you find some decent batteries, you piece of dog shit?” His voice was crackly and distorted, both by the distance and by the inadequacy of the sound system. Waves of feedback came and went.
“Okay, I guess it’s about show time”, said Harley as he put the cap on the bottle and stowed it back in his voluminous pocket. He started to get up. “Let’s hit the road.”
She dragged him back down. She wrapped her arms around his neck and planted a sloppy, wide mouthed, tongue filled, whiskey flavored kiss on him. When she finally relinquished her tight grip, she said “Harley, I love you so much. You are so much fun. Okay, I’m ready. Let’s go.”
They got up and exited the alley, resuming their stop and go trek down Main Street, turning right on Hill Street and then left on Adams Branch Road. This eventually took them to the outskirts the city. The Redarm’s compound was a few hundred yards farther down the road. Priest’s voice got louder and louder. They left the road, it being far too dangerous to be out in the open so close to the compound. The moon was full tonight, giving them good visibility in the dark and proving perfect for tonight’s Burning. They followed Adams Creek for a while. The snow was pristine, with no footprints but their own to mar its cold beauty. They left the creek, and climbed a tree-covered hill. Near its crest, they stopped; looking, listening, and smelling for any Redarms in the area. Fire light from the compound beyond the hill leaked out into the night sky, casting a milky phosphorescence in the moist air. Loud voices shouted in exhilarated abandon from the Redarms. Their voices echoed from the hills around them. They could hear Priest’s voice, coming through crisply and clearly now.
They didn’t think there would be many guards tonight. There rarely was at a Burning. They would all be participating in the festivities. The Redarms had grown strong, but they had also grown complacent. That was fine with Harley. They crept up over the crest of the hill, on their bellies in the snow, using the trees as cover. They came over the crest of the hill and looked down into the compound a few dozen yards below them at its closest point.
The wooden stockade was laid out in a large oval shape, perhaps a hundred yards at its widest. They had a clear view into the interior. Dark huts dotted the compound, and only the central lodge was clearly seen, despite the bonfires lighting up the area. The majority of the Red Arms were gathered around the central bonfire, arranged in twos and threes and sitting in the frozen ground of the freshly plowed compound. There was a whole crew of Brethren from the Sect as well, parading around in the cold in their thin robes, sandaled feet, and tonsured skulls. Their crimson tattoos glistened on their bare arms in the firelight. Priest was standing on a stage just in front of the bonfire, and his powerful voice boomed out. Harley’s analytic mind unconsciously estimated the size of the crowd. Maybe two hundred tonight. A few more than at the last Burning. The Redarms were slowly growing, and would soon completely take over the city. He figured he had at most a few more months before he would be forced to vacate. A shame. He didn’t relish the thought of starting over in a new city. And would Monica be willing to move on with him?
Priest was reaching the crescendo of his sermon. “My friends, we have but to look up to the Merciless God above us for the answers to these questions. We have been forsaken. He has turned his back on us. He sees all of our sins. He has seen us fornicating with heathens, and He passed the plague on to us through them. He has seen us coddle the niggers, and He turned the sun cold in retaliation. He has seen our bold, shameless women wiggle their bare asses for money, and He has taken away our automobiles, our electricity, our airplanes, our tractors, our computers. He has seen the base pornography we peddled out on our InterNet, may it burn, and He has taken away our friends, our kin, our way of life. We are left in desolation. We are left in a Gomorrah of our own making. The Merciless God ignores our entreaties.”
“Yet still we struggle on. Still we work ourselves to the bone, barely growing enough to feed our bodies. But what of our souls? What are we doing to feed our souls? What are we doing to bring ourselves back into the good graces of our Terrible God? You there, tell me what you have done today to deserve any notice whatsoever, let alone to deserve redemption? Nothing! You have fed your face! You have fornicated with unrepenting women! You have complained about your miserable fate. You have prayed to false gods. But have you prayed to the one true almighty Merciless God? For compassion? For forgiveness? Maybe you are the one we should Burn tonight, instead of that god-less heathen Ayrab back there in the cage.”
“I tell you all! You are backsliding. You are filthy vermin who deserve extinction. You’d better repent, or you will find yourselves in ever-lasting torment. Those of us who beg God for forgiveness will soon be lifted out of this hell and back into His welcoming embrace. Those of you who refuse will stay in this pit and will forever feel the devil’s cold whip. It is your decision. You make it today, this hour, this minute. And the consequences of that decision stay with you forever.”
This was all delivered in a non-stop, breathless, raging torrent. He then paused for breath. The crowd screamed wordless sounds, in assent, in protest, in desperate fury. Harley thought that Priest could sure deliver a damn fine sermon. All that talk of fornication was getting him horny, and he cuddled close to Monica for warmth and brought out the whiskey. She eagerly grabbed the bottle and took a drink. She looked like she was getting a little hot, herself. He took a long pull on the bottle.
“You think I’m not talking to you?” Priest screamed. He scanned the crowd, his gaze boring into each face in turn. At one point, Harley could swear he was looking right at him and Monica, although it was a little too far to tell for sure. He moved himself a little further behind the bush they were hiding behind. Monica squirmed closer to him, and they moved aside a few branches to get a better view.
“I’m talking to you, and you, and you!” he shouted, pointing to various onlookers. Harley noted with relief that Priest did not point right at them, there in their hiding place spying surreptitiously on the proceedings like the outsiders they were. Priest was a scary guy, with that piercing look that seemed to burn into your face. The only Redarm scarier than Priest was Colonel Mathers, the leader of the pack. But Harley had only seen the Colonel a few times. He had seen Priest at every Burning he could remember, going back even to when his daddy was alive.
Priest continued his sermon. The audience was enraptured. Harley figured this was as good a time as ever to get some of that food, covering three tables close to the near stockade wall. The cooks had moved closer to the center to listen, so nobody was guarding the tables. Harley reluctantly left Monica’s warming embrace, and crept along the hill to where it dove into a gulley. The gulley was formed by a small stream. This stream lead straight into the stockade. It dove under it at a small opening which was covered with a wire barrier. In the past, he had been more discreet, climbing the stockade in order to hide his tracks. Now, he figured he wouldn’t be attending any more Burnings, so he got out his wire cutters and cut through the barrier. He didn’t really care if they knew he had been here. He was now inside the stockade. He crept along the stream bed, ignoring the foul smelling water saturating his clothing. The stream came near one of the tables, and he cautiously slunk out of the stream and up to the table, while all attention was on Priest. He reached up and grabbed a few choice items: some ears of corn, some collards, and a handful of meat. He packed these into his game bag, and then crept back out of the stockade and back to Monica.
They now settled in and ate while Priest was finishing up. The corn was exquisite. The collards tasted wonderful, though a little salty. The meat was a little stringy, probably left over from the previous Burning. But it was all manna from heaven to him. A renegade could not afford to be choosy. At least it was fresh. After having eaten years old maggoty dog food, anything was an improvement. He washed it all down with a few healthy swallows of whiskey. He thought about the potatoes still in his pouch, but he figured he could save them for another time. Monica seemed to be enjoying herself as well. He saw that the whiskey was down to a few swallows. He had thought they would have some left over for when they got back to Monica’s place, but saw that was not to be.
“And now we have this heretic brought before us”, continued Priest. “This man refuses to see the light. He continues to worship his pagan god, despite the evidence confronting him. He is an Islamic, and we all know Islam is a sect of evil, terror, and war. It is a religion of Satan! The Merciless God saw fit to bring the plague down on us because we ignored the threat the Islamist brings. See what happens when we indulge the devil? So what should we do with the pagan? The answer is clear; he must be purified. We must be purified. We cannot allow his evil contamination to spread among us.”
Priest pointed toward the cage containing the prisoner. “And now, once again we see how the Merciless God treats blasphemers. Let’s burn ourselves a sand nigger! Purify him!” With that, the condemned man was led forth from his cage. He was already bound with rope, so that he could not move his arms and he could walk only with difficulty. He had a grim, defiant look on his face as he was led to the hoist beside the central bonfire. There, they tied ropes to him from the hoist, and he was lifted in the air. Harley could see his mouth forming words, but could not hear his words in the distance. The crowd heard, however, and started a low murmuring chant to drown out his words. That he could hear, the Lord’s Prayer it was.
Harley had a burst of doubt. Priest said the Ayrabs were responsible for the plague, but his daddy had told him that it was chickens instead. He tended to believe his daddy, even though it sounded improbable that chickens could cause that much sickness. His daddy had told some whoppers, it was true, like the time he told him that men had actually walked on the moon. Or the time he had told him some men had flown all the way around the entire world in 80 hours. But it was impossible for Harley to believe that his daddy had ever lied to him.
On the other hand, Harley found some of the things Priest said extremely hard to swallow. Like the Ayrabs being responsible for the plague. That theirs was a religion of the devil. Or that niggers were animals. He found especially doubtful the fact that there was a Merciless God up in heaven that had turned His back on the folks down here. His family had never been particularly religious, but what he remembered of his scant education was of a merciful and loving God. Harley didn’t see it as God getting pissed off at us and bringing down the plague. From what he remembered, we had brought disaster down on ourselves, by using too much oil, and having too many wars, and treating people savagely and getting them pissed off at us, and too many people, and too little food, and a thousand other things we could have fixed but didn’t. God didn’t really have anything to do with it, except maybe to cry as He watched it happening.
He was interrupted out of his thoughts as Monica grabbed his dick and squeezed, just as they hoisted the Ayrab over the fire and lowered him into the flames. Harley forgot all about God and everything else as he got hard. The crowd let out a furious roar. Monica was breathing hard and her face was turning rosy pink, despite the cold. Must be the whiskey, he thought to himself.
The bonfire roared to life as the Ayrab’s clothes lit on fire. He felt the warmth on his face, even from this distance. The ropes were still holding, and they lifted and pulled out a blackened, wriggling husk. The crowd let out a cheer, and they lowered the ropes and dipped him in again. The ropes gave way, and the Ayrab plunged into the ashes. He writhed a little bit and then lay still. A flurry of sparks erupted. The bonfire jumped even higher, and now Harley felt the heat sear his face. The people were singing and chanting and dancing around the bonfire, arms and legs flying every which way like how they used to dance on the TV shows he remembered from the far distant past.
The best part was over. It only remained for them to fetch the carcass out of the fire, toss it into a pit for slow cooking over the next week or so, to sustain them until the next Burning. Harley nudged Monica, she released her strangle hold on his dick, and they started making their slow, drunken way back to Monica’s den. It was a wonder they weren’t caught, the way they were staggering. But they finally made it back. They covered themselves in blankets and furs, and warmed each other with their bodies. They fucked furiously, insanely, and came together in a joyous explosion.
Afterwards, they talked as they lay in each other’s arms. Harley had some things on his mind.
“Monica, let’s you and me live together. There’s going to come a time soon when the Redarms will chase us out. Let’s go out and see what there is to see. Move on down the road to Chasey and scavenge there. I’ve heard there’s still some good pickings there.”
“Oh, you silly thing”, she said. “I’ve told you a thousand times, I don’t want to move. Besides, I’ve got some things I need to do in the next few weeks. I don’t think we’ll be seeing much of each other for a while.”
“What are you going to do, join the Redarms?” he asked.
“Don’t be silly. Let’s go to sleep.” Her eyes were already closed and her breathing slowed as she lay in his arms.
He had figured she would refuse him. He just had to give it a try. Still, he thought he had some time to work on her. After all, what was she going to do when the Redarms took over the city? She certainly couldn’t keep this place. There was a moment’s silence.
“I thought the Burning was a disappointment”, said Monica. “He didn’t scream hardly at all.”
“The way you grabbed hold of me, I thought you were going to come right then”, replied Harley.
“I did”, she said with a smile. “I was trying to make you come with me.”
“So the evening wasn’t entirely wasted after all”, he said.
“Well, maybe you’re right”, she said. “It really was worth going to see. And you were spectacular tonight, Harley, I must say. Thank you for a wonderful evening.” She then turned over and snuggled her backside against him. He wrapped his arm around her and closed his eyes.
As he drifted off, he thought yes, indeed, he had been spectacular. The evening had been spectacular. The wait had been worthwhile. But the more he ruminated the more he found himself wondering about the future. What if God had forsaken them all? What if God, in disappointment with His people, had let the sky fall? What if it was not Priest nor Colonel Mathers who were attaining Grace, but that poor Ayrab that had been Burned tonight? Just before he nodded off, he thought about Monica. She had not exactly said no when he had asked her if she was going to join the Redarms.