Going Home

My heart ached to think about Pammy -- a bright, pretty teenager-- looking forward to high school when she and my folks had seen me off at the beginning of what was my last cruise.

"Hey sugar, looking for a good time?" I looked up to see a naked black woman swaying slowly in front of me, dancing to some unheard music, an intelligent fire in her eyes. Large pert breasts bounced slightly and her long, lithe and muscled body almost gleamed with health, despite several scars on her shoulders and arms. She looked to be in her mid twenties and reminded me of a singer who'd been popular before it all went to hell.

"Knock it off, Alice," roared Black Tom. "I done got Alice soaking in a tub for him. Go peddle that black ass elsewhere."

Alice nodded and said back, "Yes, master!" She turned back to me and said, "Oh baby, you got THE Alice tonight...that gal can outfuck anything on the planet" She wrinkled her nose at me and laughed as she strutted away. "You are one lucky motherfucker!"

In a bit, Black Tom strolled back over and sat down as I finished the last of my stew. "Hope you don't mind waiting. I told Alice to get good and clean for you." He leaned in and said in a low, conspiratorial voice, "You're in for a treat. When I found her, she was a tight-assed housewife, but by the time my crew got through gangbanging her the first time, she was screaming for more. She may be past prime to some, but she's a MILF...you remember that term? My Alice was born to be a cockslut whore!" He reared back his head and laughed like it was the biggest joke in the world.

He called for more drinks at my table and I let him talk -- mostly bragging about his setup. For a stretch of maybe seventy or eighty miles along the Ohio River he was the king man -- not much different from those butchers that had killed Luchessi. He told me how he'd been a bartender in a rough bar in Cincinnati before the end of things and when the government collapsed, he'd organized some of the lowlifes that hung out with him into a gang of raiders and thugs. "Like a fucking Viking raiding party, we was!" he proudly proclaimed.

Now Black Tom had several establishments like this strung out over his domain, a combination king and pimp. Strongmen kept his peace and continued to raze the countryside -- capturing new women for his prostitution racket and for his personal pleasure, as well as anything of value. Locals mostly farmed or raised livestock -- paying tribute to him to be left alone or to feed their various needs for vice.

Part of me wanted to lean over and pull my K-Bar from its scabbard and cut his fucking throat while part of me anxiously awaited the arrival of Alice -- I found my gaze often drifting towards the door behind the bar.

A commotion came from outside and I felt him begin to tense, noting that Howard's hands dropped below the bar and then six really nasty looking customers came in, hauling large sacks with them and two weary looking teenage girls on leashes, their blonde hair stringy and dirty and running nearly down to their waists. Both wore torn and ragged dresses -- torn to reveal nearly identical small and pert tits. This group unlike the grungy customers so far, looked downright dangerous...as dangerous as the man sitting next to me. They appeared to be road weary, but very pleased with themselves.

"Hot goddamn," crowed Black Tom. "Them's my boys -- my best crew back from the road -- went down to Tennessee for a spell!" He stood up and said, "I'll introduce you later, John. And I'll get a fire lit under Alice's ass -- not that she'll need much of one -- got a pussy hotter than hell!"

Off he went, roaring a greeting to his comrades, giving each one a bear hug and then roaring with delight as they pulled various prizes from their bags. I saw electronic parts and canned foods and the whole place went silent when their leader, a swarthy looking fellow with a broken nose, pulled two full pints of Jack Daniels from a sack -- prompting Black Tom to order the African American Alice to give him a blowjob on the spot.

Moments later, Black Tom's voice rocked the rafters as he exclaimed, "Really are fucking twins?" He was like a child on Christmas as he examined the new girls, ripping the remnants of their dresses from them and laughing as they blushed from head to toe while a couple of dozen men ogled their nubile bodies. Finally, he had Howard lead them away, pausing to slap on of them on the ass, making her cry out fearfully which led to an amused laugh from most of the crowd.

Black Tom's face was animated as he moved among his crew before he announced to the entire room, "By God, I'm proud of my boys! Tonight, each gets a turn with my special little pretty!" He eyed me and called out to me, "Hell, John, I might let you have a taste too if Alice ain't enough for you!"

The room cheered and as they cheered, his crew each cast eyes my way, sizing me up appraisingly -- their leader studying me closely as a grinning Black Tom whispered in his ear. I began to feel trouble peeking over my shoulder. Not for the first time in the last few weeks, I wished I had Rafelson here to watch my back.

As the hubbub died down, with Howard busy serving drinks and the Alices working hard, my Alice came slowly strutting out of the back. She looked a lot cleaner -- her body lush and glowing with sexuality. Black Tom stepped up and talked to her, his hands idly wandering over her hairy pussy -- not so much because she aroused him, but because he wanted to remind her of who owned her. Her hair had been washed and some of the tangles combed out, but it was still an immense mane of peppered black hair obscuring most of her face.

She nodded as he talked and then he returned to his crew and she began walking my way -- no longer so bow legged, but confidently strutting up to me as a hunting cat stalks up towards its prey. Her large breasts swayed hypnotically, nipples growing larger as if the prospect of fucking me truly excited her. My eyes couldn't help but be drawn downwards to her thick bush, already divided by a wide gash of pink, her labia flowering from her boss's attention and perhaps more.

Alice strolled up to me, tongue rolling over lush, full lips and said in a voice that touched me deep inside. "Hi, sweetie -- they told me your name is John. Everyone calls me Alice, but you can call me Carol if you want to." As she spoke, her hands moved to brush her wild hair back, revealing her lovely face and I found myself looking into the clear, blue eyes of my mother.

#

Two days after we docked in Seattle, I went to Commander Vance and told him I was going home. The man -- not more than forty-five years old but who's once black hair was now a shock of white and who looked twice his age nodded and said, "Son, you're not the first to come ask me. Are you sure? All the reports say it's all gone insane out there."

I nodded and replied, "Yes, sir. Whatever else...I have to know. If Mom and Dad are..." I paused, my voice choking a bit. "If my family's dead, I can deal with that, but I cannot stand not knowing...at least without trying to find out."

I don't think a moment since the war had begun had I had a true moment of peace of mind. I was haunted by the faces of my mother and father and my kid sister. We had always been a pretty close knit family even though through my teenage years my father and I had been pretty much on the outs. After the Pakistan Incursion, I'd given up my plans to attend college on a football scholarship, desiring to enlist and defend my country, barely able to agree to wait until I'd turned eighteen.

For Dad, it was a bitter pill. He'd worked hard in a sawmill in our southern Indiana town his whole life, never having reached high school. He was a weary and worn man by the time I was a teenager and me passing up the chance to go to college to go fight in an unpopular war just about killed him.

Mom had been my greatest supporter, carrying on a tradition that seemed to go back to childhood. I was truly Mom's favorite and as I'd grown into a teenager I'd become a surrogate husband in many ways. It was I who sat with Mom during church services -- Dad being an avowed agnostic. Mom dragged me to many functions in his place when he complained of work tiring him too much to go out. Mom was fairly religious and went to many workshops and church sponsored concerts and lectures and I went with her -- not caring about where or what we were doing, but just happy to be spending time with my mother.

In truth, I'd had a bit of a crush on my mother -- she was, after all, the best looking mom on Exeter Street -- the fantasy of most of my friends who unanimously voted her their favorite MILF of all time. Long black hair, often wound up in a pony tail or a thick bun, those brilliant blue eyes and a body that even her dreary, conservative dresses could not disguise as being anything but awesome. It was no wonder I enjoyed spending time with her...on those 'dates' as she called them, I could pretend that I was her boyfriend or even her husband and I cherished those moments more than anything else.

I sometimes felt guilty, lying sweaty in my bed at night having masturbated about my mother, but I couldn't stop. It wasn't until I was in the Navy and had seen much of the world and lost my cherry (and for a while, my heart), to a little Filipino hooker, that I was able to get past my lewd thoughts for my mom.

Commander Vance took my file out of a file cabinet behind him in his tiny office and opened it. He read silently for a moment. "Well, if anyone can survive, you're as likely a candidate as any. I'll assume Gantry taught you well?"

I smiled and said, "Yes sir. I'm not a SEAL, but I'm the next best thing or at least Bosun Gantry says so." My job in the old days was electrical systems repair. I'd performed maintenance on those nasty looking tall missiles. Once we'd launched them, I'd been reassigned duty under the meanest son of a bitch on the boat -- Bosun's Mate Leo Gantry -- a death dealing SEAL team leader. Over the next two years, he'd trained many of us in as many skills of the commando profession as possible. It had helped to pass the time those long months at sea and it had been Commander Vance's hope to hone us into instruments that could survive whatever challenges lay ahead..

Vance sighed and said, "Consider yourself discharged, son. We'll equip you as best we can and who knows, maybe your people are fine. I'll give you the firepower to give yourself a chance to find out." He stood and shook my hand. His voice was thick with emotion and pride. "Good luck, sailor."

Two days later, I was outfitted and ready to go. I wouldn't be leaving alone. There were five of us that were determined to get back to our families. As he had promised, Commander Vance's had Boson's Mate Gantry equip us with everything possible to help us get home.

The evening before I left, Gantry laid out my equipment -- lightweight, but highly nutritional rations, a Colt 45, K-Bar knife and, "My favorite toy from the late and great Department of Defense," growled Gantry -- a short and wiry man in his thirties -- head shaved bald, choosing not to hide the scar from the Pakistan Incursion of 2018. "The M-142 Plasma rifle." He handed me the compact and lightweight rifle and grinned at me as he added, "Or as I like to call it -- 'The Finger of God."

It had been in use for three years before the war -- to be honest, I'm not sure of the physics -- all I knew was that it fired short bursts -- bullets if you will, of high energy plasma akin to lightning that at short range could tear lethally through a man and at longer distances, injure and paralyze him long enough to deal with him with more conventional methods. Best of all -- it used a solar charger to work -- no ammo required. I would be carrying two chargers with me as I headed East.

Gantry also handed me a satchel of "party favors" as he called them. Small, lightweight mines and explosive packs that while appearing tiny, packed massive punches. He hefted a small block of C-19 that he could comfortably in his palm. "This shit can take out a large building -- set a trip wire up to a detonator and you gotcha a A-1 deterrent to anyone following you!" He grinned evilly as he packed three small blocks into the satchel.

Going east with me were Marine Sergeant Tomas who'd left a wife and three daughters down near Austin, Texas, Winer and Luchessi, both from Minnesota and Rafelson who's wife had given birth to their son three weeks before we began our last cruise -- he was hellbent on returning to Pittsburgh to find them.

The morning we were to leave -- heading east with a R.U.S. patrol to the borders of their domain, Commander Vance took me aside and handed me a map wrapped in heavy plastic. "You can use this, sailor...John, isn't it? Or you can throw it away or give it to the others."

I looked at it curiously, turning it over. It appeared to be a roadmap with handwriting in black marker. "Sir?"

Vance looked down at it and said, "When the wife and I first started out, she inherited from her grandfather a hunting camp in the western part of West Virginia, way the hell back in the middle of nowhere -- a cabin with a natural spring underneath. It was already pretty formidable as a hideout retreat and we built it up some into a decent vacation home and as a place, well, just in case we ever got stupid enough to do what we did." He looked at me with eyes that had known terrible knowledge for far too long. "It has its own solar power generator and enough dry/can goods to feed an army. If...you find your family or even if you don't, it'll make a hell of a place to live and maybe start over..." He left the rest unsaid.

I was nearly speechless and stammered, "Sir...I can't. Maybe your family is there, maybe they got out."

Vance held up his hand to silence me. "I spoke to Jenny when we surfaced that last time just before it suddenly went to hell. She was in our house in Baltimore two hours before D.C. got taken out." He made a pushing motion with his hand. "Put that map someplace safe and use it if you can. I won't ever go back. I'll try and get on with my life here if I can." He looked off away past the dock where the Custer was tied up and suddenly I realized how fragile his own hold on life was...how heavily things must be weighing on him.

He looked back at me and shook my hand. In a thick voice, he murmured, "Good luck, sailor. Find your family." He turned and walked away, heading for the gangplank. I never saw him again. With the others, we climbed aboard a Hummer Mark 9 and with several other vehicles started out on a long range R.U.S. patrol. We rode with them as far as Lewiston on the Washington-Idaho border and then struck east on foot across the Bitterroot Mountains, working our way across neglected mountain roads towards our fates never imagining the losses we would take.

After parting ways with Rafelson, I made my south, following the Wabash until it emptied into the Ohio on the border of Illinois and Indiana. I turned east then and began to follow it upstream. Although it teemed with wildlife -- waterfowl and more fish than I could ever remember, the great river looked haunted -- rarely walking the span of more than a mile without seeing the ruins of some great river barge jammed against a bank or hung up on a sand bar or seeing the broken wreckage of a highway or train bridge, severing the link between Indiana and Kentucky.

Two weeks later I finally came home. What was once a small town of maybe three thousand was now a mostly burned out ghost town. Sticking close to shadows, I worked my way across town -- abandoned cars and debris littering the streets. My stomach tightened as I came across more than a dozen skeletons on the steps of what had been my high school -- badges gleaming on the ragged cloth of two skeletons. My eyes widened as I read a nameplate, Claus. Frederick Claus had been the chief of police here longer than I'd been alive. My eyes skittered across the signs of a nasty firefight...the limestone steps scarred with gouges from bullets.

With growing dread, I made my way down Exeter Street where my family had lived. A prickling sense on my neck hinted that I wasn't alone -- that there was at least one set of eyes peering at me as I walked along, my M-142 at the ready. I sensed that they weren't a threat, but simply watching me to see what I would do.

I reached my house, my heart beating anxiously even though I cannot say I was shocked to see it looking abandoned -- front door broken -- still hanging from the lower hinge. I walked up the sidewalk, the yard's grass was knee high and choked with weeds -- a ball of pain lodged in my throat as I recalled countless days mowing the yard while Mom worked on her hands and knees in her flower beds -- conjuring feelings of nostalgia and a little horniness as I recalled Mom's lush butt weaving in the air.

As I reached the front porch I could see the remnants of sandbags up in front of the bay windows framing the door. A skeletal arm reaching from inside the house was draped over one pile of sandbags. My blood ran cold as I looked around the porch noting all the bullet holes in the wood siding around the windows.

Taking a deep breath I stepped inside to find my once familiar living room looking like both a bomb had gone off and a refuge for wild animals...animal scat littering the room. To emphasize its new status, a huge yellow tom-cat looked up from a mildewed cushion from the old sofa and hissed at me before springing up and out through a window.

I found myself alone with the rest of the skeleton -- remnants of an old chambray shirt and paint splattered trousers fluttering around the bones -- many of which were broken or shattered. Next to the skull which was partially caved in were a broken pair of eyeglasses and I gave a soft moan of pain as I spotted one earpiece wrapped in weathered duct tape. I'd found my father. Mastering my despair, I slowly searched the house, finding it looted and wrecked from top to bottom -- some furniture smashed -- some missing -- clothes now scattered and rotting across the floors. A larger version of the family portrait I still carried in a waterproof pocket had been slashed to ribbons. There was no sign of the rest of my family.

I admit, I huddled in my old bedroom for a while, sitting against the wall on the ruined remnants of a mattress and cried for a bit. Finally, I wiped my face and got up and got on with what I knew I had to do. I found an old, stained blanket and went downstairs and gently moved my father's remains into it. I carried them outside to the back yard -- once his meticulously tended pride and joy and now a riot of weeds and wildflowers. I found a shovel with a broken handle and dug him a grave, spending most of the afternoon providing him a final and proper resting place.

Afterwards, I knelt there for lord knows how long...considering my father and myself. We'd never been friends. We'd never been close. Maybe it was because he'd thrown himself into his work or it was the generational differences...he and his Generation X bullshit. Maybe it was simply I'd been closer to my mother, preferring her loving company over his gruff, practical ways. All I knew was that he was dead and any chance I'd had of saying anything to him -- of making things right, was gone.

"He went down fighting, you know. You'd of been proud of him." I was rolling and coming up with the Colt in my hand before he'd finished the second sentence. I was shocked by my complacency -- stunned that I'd allowed someone to catch me with my guard down.

It was an old man, standing near the corner of the house -- rail thin body swimming in ragged and dirty overalls. He was carrying a piece of wood with three nails pounded through it, but he held it low, his other hand raised in a gesture of peace. "Yes sir...Don gave them raiders a good fight, must've killed five before they shot him and bashed his head in." The old man -- hair gray and stringy with milky blue eyes seemed to stare right through me as if he was reliving the fight. "You'd of been proud of your father."