What Do You Think Happened?
Chapter 9

Copyright© 2006 by Tony Stevens

Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 9 - This story is a little bit offbeat for me. It's intended as an homage to a couple of excellent stories with similar themes published earlier by a couple of the best writers on SOL. Readers will recognize the genre as the story develops, but I don't intend to give it away at the outset. Warning to strokers: This story has some sexual content, but it is limited and slow to develop.

Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa   Consensual   Heterosexual   Slow  

In early afternoon of the third day after we'd left New York City after dark, we arrived in front of the Hubert H. Humphrey Metrodome in downtown Minneapolis.

It was a congested urban area, with railroad tracks and streets going every which-way around the big indoor stadium that rose high above us. I wasn't even certain that this was the "front," but Bridgett assured me that from our location we were, indeed, looking up at the main entrances to the facility.

There was no sign of our Canadian visitors, and, of course, there was no sign of anyone else, either. I wasn't surprised, anymore, by the silence of big cities. I preferred complete silence to the alternative we sometimes encountered -- the cacophony of howling dogs, traveling in packs and, quite possibly, even now reverting to a dangerous, feral state.

"Our" beagle, Tuesday, had not reverted to the wild. He was a good citizen of our traveling show, house-trained (thank God!) and a proven asset as a watch dog. His diminutive size made me worry about leaving him outside when we closed up the RV overnight, but I'd eventually solved the problem by putting him inside a protective cage that we carried along, lashed to the back of the RV when we traveled. Tuesday wasn't fond of being placed in the cage, but, whether he knew it or not, it was for his own protection.

We had consulted a detailed map of central Canada and had located Lake Winnipeg and Grand Rapids, Manitoba. "It's up there a ways," Bridgett said, "but if they left the following day, they should be close."

I worried. I was our designated worrier. I had tried, with absolutely no success, to re-contact Ingmar by radio on the two nights we had been driving from New York to Minneapolis. This failure seemed strange and somewhat frightening. The signal should, if anything, have been stronger as we came closer together. Perhaps something bad already had happened to our newfound Canadian cousins.

Having nothing better to do, I tried reaching them by radio during the daylight hours. I had heard that radio signals traveled much farther at night, but if Ingmar and Company were getting close to us, perhaps they'd hear me, anyway.

Nothing.

Bridgett prepared the RV's second bedroom for her individual occupancy, and moved her personal belongings into it. But when night fell in Minneapolis, she joined me in the back, in the bed we had been sharing.

There were large hotels nearby, but we thought it would be better to wait for Ingmar's arrival before leaving the RV. They might arrive at any time.

They didn't arrive for two more days. It was Day 14 since what Bridgett had begun to call "The Virus." I adopted the same term for it, although neither of us knew what had killed off most of the people in North America, and, perhaps, the world. "The Virus" sounded better, somehow, than "Death Ray" or some other pseudo-scientific term. It was also perhaps more likely, as an explanation.

We would, perhaps, never know.


Ingmar drove up beside us in an RV not that dissimilar to our own at around 11 a.m., almost two full days after we'd arrived in Minneapolis.

He turned out to look not at all similar to the grizzled lumberjack I had imagined. He was a smallish, gray-haired man with a light gray beard. He was in good physical shape, and looked a lot younger to me than his 56 years.

His son, Roald, emerged from their RV and shook my hand. Roald, Ingmar had told us, was 31. He, too, looked a bit younger than that, and he was taller and stronger-appearing than his father. But both men, to my considerable relief, appeared to be solid-citizen types.

"Here's Uncle Harry," Ingmar announced, and an elderly fellow gingerly climbed down the stairs from the RV to shake my hand. "You're the lad with the radio!" Harry said. "Good on ya, to broadcast your call, out to the world like that!"

"I'm pleased to meet you, sir." Bridgett, who'd been cautiously observing the arrival from the relative safety of the RV, came on outside and greeted all three men.

They met her and treated her with the courtesy one would have expected -- in the Old World. The New World may be a vastly different place, but, so far at least, the old amenities were being observed.

Uncle Harry, it turned out, was 78 years old, and somewhat frail. Evidently whatever had killed off the vast majority of mankind hadn't always discriminated in favor of youth and vigor.

Ingmar explained that while they had been able to hear my nightly broadcasts during their trip south, they had been unable to make their own transmitter function at all. "We are all novices," he said. "Perhaps we didn't re-wire it appropriately when we moved the radio into the RV."

"It made us worry plenty," I told him, "but at least we're all together now."

"I have some frozen beef stew that we were able to preserve," Bridgett told them. "It's not prepared yet, because we didn't know when you would come. But give me an hour, and I'll cook us up a decent meal. Carter? Could you turn on the generator so that I can run the stove?"

"No need, m'am, Ingmar said. "We've got a portable propane stove in our vehicle, and plenty of fuel. If you like, I'll set it up for you outside, here."

Bridgett agreed that Ingmar's stove would work better, and more quietly, than our generator-run electric model. I wondered why I hadn't had the presence of mind, much earlier, to secure a gas-operated stove.

Well. On my next shopping excursion.

We found a Starbucks across the street from the stadium, with outdoor tables and chairs already in place and not looking too much the worse for having been left outdoors for two weeks. It was no great trick to move our banquet to those tables, and the five of us gathered, just over an hour after the arrival of our new friends, for dinner.

Using one of the quiet little portable Honda generators, I was able to hook up one of the Starbucks coffee makers and, after producing a couple of bad batches, turned out some first-class brew for the group, using gallon jugs of bottled water. It wouldn't be as big a hit as Bridgett's beef stew, but it was going to be well-received by all five of us.

When we sat down together at dinner that first time, nobody offered to say the blessing, but old Harry did ask us to have a moment of silence before we consumed Bridgett's beef stew. "This is a strange new world we're in, my friends," Harry said. "It's going to take some getting used to. But we're not alone. Not anymore. We've found Bridgett and Carter, here, and they've found us. There will be others. I'm sure of it! And we'll make a new home for ourselves -- for all of us, in this strange new world."

"Amen," Bridgett said, although it hadn't been, strictly speaking, a prayer.


After dinner, Ingmar suggested we all sit down together, inside Starbucks, for a meeting. The generator hummed softly in the back room, keeping the coffee urn warm.

"There is much for us to discuss," Ingmar said. "Where we will go? How we will get there? How we will work to enlarge our group?"

"We must decide how we are to govern ourselves," Bridgett said. "Let me begin by suggesting that all of us -- all five of us -- be considered as equals, for purposes of decision-making."

"That is fair," Harry said. "Young Carter, here, may only be 17, but he is a man, and he has shown leadership qualities already. Bridgett has told me the story of how she found you -- how you led her to where you were. That was brilliant of you, Carter. And your acquiring this high-powered military radio! Brilliant!"

 
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