How Does Your Garden Grow?
Copyright© 2017 by Mark Gander
Chapter 50
Science Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 50 - David Howard is fed up with his life in the Mafia-controlled state of New Jersey, even if it is the only state with a working government in the post-apocalyptic world that exists since Fireball Day. Between his mob-loving (literally) wife Andrea and his psycho gay ex-friend and boss with benefits, Steven, David is more than ready to call it quits. He just won't get to do it alone.
Caution: This Science Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Ma/ft Fa/Fa Fa/ft Ma/Ma Mult Consensual Gay BiSexual Heterosexual Crime Humor Science Fiction Post Apocalypse Paranormal Demons Cheating Sharing Slut Wife Incest Uncle Niece BDSM DomSub MaleDom FemaleDom Rough Group Sex Harem Orgy Polygamy/Polyamory Swinging Interracial White Male Hispanic Female Indian Female Anal Sex Analingus Cream Pie Exhibitionism First Oral Sex Petting Pregnancy Squirting Voyeurism Menstrual Play Public Sex Nudism Politics
1235 hours, local time
Monday, 1 June, 2015
Dubuque County Courthouse
Dubuque, Iowa
“By all accounts, the near total collapse of the Justice Party Militia lines has commenced. They have been struck on all sides by enemies, virtually guaranteeing that they will be destroyed in time. They now control a corridor between Vandalia, Champaign, Decatur, Springfield, and Peoria, and that’s it. That real estate is shrinking even as we speak, completely encircled,” Tozroman, now Secretary of War, informed the Prophet David Howard, who was also the interim Governor of the Iowa Free State.
The Prophet smiled softly as he absorbed the news. Reports filtering in confirmed the Justice Party fascists were getting hammered on multiple fronts. Havenite forces were pushing hard from Cairo in the south and consolidating gains from Wheaton in the north. Simultaneously, the North Illinois Liberation Front was tearing through their flanks from the east, while the disciplined Wisconsin State Militia hammered them relentlessly from the northwest. The noose was tightening visibly, hour by bloody hour, moving the entire state irrevocably towards liberation from the fascist grip. It was a symphony of coordinated pressure, each note played perfectly.
David Howard, Prophet and Governor, pushed aside the strategic map overlaying his desk and lifted the lid of a plain metal lunchbox. Inside lay a thick slice of homemade rye bread, a wedge of sharp cheddar cheese, corned beef, and a small jar of pickled beets – simple Iowa fare. As he chewed thoughtfully, his eyes scanned the detailed recruitment and training reports stacked beside his plate. The numbers were promising: over 15,000 new volunteers integrated into the Iowa Free State Militia in the past month alone, swelling its ranks significantly. More crucially, the integration of the disparate urban militias – the Cedar Rapids Defenders, the Des Moines Liberty Brigade, the Davenport Free City Battalion – into the unified command structure was proceeding with remarkable efficiency. Training logs showed accelerated firearms proficiency courses and successful joint field exercises near Iowa City. The old rivalries and turf wars were fading, replaced by a shared purpose forged in the crucible of necessity.
Karissa, the newest junior logistics analyst assigned to the War Council, moved with practiced silence. Her dark skirt whispered against the polished oak floorboards as she approached the Prophet’s desk. Without a word, she knelt gracefully beside his chair, her eyes downcast but her movements deliberate. David Howard paused mid-bite, his gaze shifting from the report to the top of her head. A ripple of low chuckles and knowing glances passed among the assembled deputies – Secretary Tozroman, his sister/wife and Secretary of State Serena Kurtz-Howard, Lieutenant Governor Casper Novak, Treasurer Clement Howard, and Attorney General Constance Buck, and several of David’s wives observing from plush armchairs near the tall courthouse windows. Karissa’s hands rested lightly on his thigh for a moment before she leaned forward, her blonde hair falling like a curtain. The Prophet exhaled slowly, his fingers tightening slightly on the edge of the report, his attention momentarily diverted from troop deployments and supply lines. The room held its breath, the only sounds the faint rustle of Karissa’s movements and the distant signs of drilling troops and traffic whistles.
The sharp rap on the heavy oak door shattered the quiet tension. Karissa instantly withdrew, melting back into the shadows near the ornate fireplace as Lieutenant Governor Novak barked, “Enter!” A young communications officer, his face pale beneath the brim of his cap, hurried in clutching a flimsy sheet of paper. He snapped a salute, his eyes wide. “Priority flash from Greater Sudbury, Your Excellency!” Novak snatched the message, scanned it rapidly, and his usual stern expression tightened into granite.
“Prophet,” he announced, his voice cutting through the stillness, “Radio Manitoha reports a major Sacred Dominion counter-offensive launched near Peterborough. Heavy armor and infantry elements striking out of the Kawartha Lakes region. They’ve punched through the Michigander Coalition forward observation posts along Highway 7 and are advancing westward.” Novak paused, letting the unexpected news sink in. “This comes after Dominion forces were pushed back towards Greater Sudbury just last week and the Maritime Coalition’s advance toward Rivière-du-Loup. The Adventist forces, the Grand Covenant Army, have been the hardest hit so far, creating bulges in their perimeter.”
Novak’s eyes scanned the room, settling on Tozroman. “Their initial thrust seems aimed at splitting Michigander lines before they can consolidate their gains. They must be desperate to secure their left flank prior to counter attacking in Quebec. This shows a bit of residual strength for their state and military for now ... though it reminds me of Hitler’s last gamble know as the Battle of the Bulge. That failed ... one hopes that this one will be repulsed as well.” The Lieutenant Governor’s knuckles whitened on the message flimsy. “Our scouts reported Dominion troop movements were minimal yesterday. They must have moved reserves under heavy cloud cover or night conditions.”
“Their last reserves, I believe,” the Prophet/Governor David Howard uttered confidently, “in any case, they suffer reverses in Quebec against the Maritime Provinces Coalition.” He took another deliberate bite of his rye sandwich, chewing slowly as he absorbed Novak’s report. “We mustn’t panic. This Dominion thrust is a gambit born of desperation, not strength. They’ve exposed their flank.”
“Another factor is that the Michigander coalition has overextended their forces, stretching their supply lines. They’ve left themselves vulnerable to this kind of attack,” Tozroman observed coolly.
“Meanwhile, the Evansville Compact forces have taken Bloomington, and they are seeking new weaknesses in the Indianapolis/New Democratic Movement perimeter to exploit,” Allen Shapiro-Howard noted, demonstrating a wider grasp earned by experience than his chemist background suggested.
Karissa reappeared silently at the Prophet’s elbow, placing a steaming mug of chicory coffee beside his lunchbox. Her fingers brushed his wrist as she withdrew—a fleeting, deliberate contact. David Howard met her gaze briefly; a silent understanding passed between them before she retreated once more. The Prophet’s wives exchanged veiled glances near the windows.
The radio operator burst in again, this time without knocking. “Flash traffic from Memphis relay, Governor!” Howard intercepted the flimsy, his eyes narrowing as he read aloud: “‘Real Government of Tennessee forces launched a full-scale assault on Memphis city limits at dawn. Armored columns advancing down Highway 51 and I-55 under heavy artillery barrage. Free City militia reporting heavy casualties along the Wolf River defenses.’”
A murmur swept through the room—delicate negotiations had begun with Memphis, and this “Real Government Army” offensive could put them right back at square one.
David Howard’s expression remained impassive as he crumpled the Memphis flimsy. “The Tennessee revanchists,” he stated, his voice low and resonant, “have chosen the exact moment when Memphis was considering our offer of mutual defense against Klan, black nationalist, fascist, and Christian nationalist incursions.” He tapped the discarded paper. “This assault isn’t just against Memphis; it’s against our nascent alliance. They fear a unified Mississippi Valley.” His gaze swept the room, “regrettably, there is little that we can right now ... but our communities in Missouri could lend them some aid ... just not as much as we’d like.”
“But we will remember and avenge them ... liberate them some day,” Denise Howard declared.
David Howard’s gaze drifted from Denise to the map pinned behind his desk—the Mississippi Valley corridor, thick red arrows converging on Memphis. “Denise speaks truth,” he murmured, his voice low yet carrying. “But vengeance requires patience. Our Missouri friends already have to keep an eye on the Church, Commonwealth, and Army of the New Covenant to their west, after all.” He tapped the Tennessee border. “Send word to our liaison in Cape Girardeau: divert surplus medical supplies—antibiotics, plasma, field dressings—across the river. Quietly. Use the Fulton County ferry after dark.” Treasurer Clement Howard scribbled furiously on a notepad, the scratch of graphite loud in the sudden quiet.
“If there is nothing else, let us adjourn,” the Prophet proposed calmly.
“One more thing ... the northern Indiana front has seen substantial gains by the Fort Wayne and South Bend forces, who are cutting westward through badly weakened Black Panther forces. Granger appears to be the focal point of the offensive, a very narrow, but efficient operation that has the Black Panthers reeling now,” Serena told her brother now.
Karissa’s fingers brushed the Prophet’s wrist again as she refilled his chicory coffee. This time, her touch lingered—a silent question in the stillness. David Howard met her eyes, reading the plea beneath her lowered lashes: Get me out of here. He gave an almost imperceptible nod. “Karissa,” he said aloud, his voice cutting through Serena’s tactical assessment of the Granger salient, “retrieve the updated casualty figures from the Springfield front. The ones Sergeant Hollis compiled.” Her relief was a ghost of warmth against his skin before she vanished through the side door.
Outside, the courthouse lawn buzzed like a kicked hornet’s nest. Recruits in mismatched fatigues drilled under the watchful eyes of grizzled instructors, their boots churning the damp grass into mud. A convoy of repurposed school buses, engines growling and belching diesel smoke, idled near the limestone steps, packed with fresh volunteers bound for the Peoria pocket. Someone had hung a bedsheet banner between two oak trees: “IOWA STANDS. IOWA FIGHTS.” The rum-tum rhythm of distant artillery practice echoed from the river flats—a dull, comforting heartbeat beneath the chaos.
Inside the War Council chamber, the tension snapped back like a released bowstring. Lieutenant Governor Novak cleared his throat, the sound harsh in the sudden quiet. “Prophet,” he began, unfolding a fresh flimsy printout still warm from the dot-matrix printer, “we’ve intercepted a priority bulletin routed through the Omaha mesh network.” He smoothed the paper on the polished oak.
David Howard paused, his rye sandwich halfway to his mouth. “Go on.”
Novak’s knuckles whitened on the flimsy. “It’s Rao. Russell Rao.” He scanned the dot-matrix text, translating its jagged urgency. “His forces have completely engulfed Lincoln, Nebraska, taking the very last suburbs. There is no escape.” The Lieutenant Governor’s voice dropped, grim, “now, all they have to do is take the city proper, and a full third of that has already fallen. The urban defense forces are fighting them block-by-block, street-by-street, house-to-house.”
“Very stupid of Rao. He should have left a narrow escape route. Human psychology ... if there is an exit, people will seek it ... unit cohesion and discipline might well collapse. He should have also used more artillery at greater distances first, to soften up their defenses. Both blunders mean a punishing, grinding, gradual advance, hemorrhaging men and munitions in the process,” the Prophet noted grimly.
“Like Stalingrad and Berlin,” Tozroman recalled from the Second World War.
David Howard nodded grimly, setting down his sandwich. “Exactly. Rao’s grinding his own army to dust against Lincoln’s desperation.” He paused, his gaze drifting toward the window where Karissa had vanished, “But as Napoleon once cautioned, it is impolite to interrupt your enemy while he is committing an error.” A ripple of dry laughter passed through the council.
Outside, the rumble of departing buses merged with the staccato bark of drill sergeants. Near the courthouse steps, a cluster of volunteers argued fiercely over deregulations printed on a crumpled broadsheet—debating whether Iowa’s emergency fuel rationing applied to farm equipment. Their voices sharpened by urgency, one man jabbed a finger at the text: “Passim exemptions for harvest vehicles, Clyde! Or we lose the soybeans!” The scent of diesel and damp earth thickened the air.