Chapter 25

Mike Messina was a maker. A tinkerer. An engineer. A designer and builder of intricate, electromechanical complexity. His antecedents were men like Hero of Alexandria, Al-Jazari, and Leonardo da Vinci, but his spiritual mentor was Pierre Jaquet-Droz, a Swiss-born watchmaker who handcrafted the Writer, the Musician, and the Draughtsman. Mechanical automata of such exacting precision that their fluid, human-like movements appeared supernatural, and filled those who witnessed them with wonder, and even fear.

Like all of Mike’s heroes, however, most of the objects and devices he designed and built were frivolous. Objects of curiosity whose primary purpose was simply to delight others. They were rarely useful or practical, and never built to last. For most of his career, Mike built toys. They were big and sophisticated and oftentimes dangerous, but they were toys nonetheless.

To take his mind off the horrors of the invasion, and give his hands something to do, Mike channeled his talents into creating something useful and long-lasting for once, by helping the girls of the Robotics Club rebuild their beds. The multitude of broken pieces could never be fashioned into functional bunk beds that would ever be safe enough to use, but they could at least be repurposed into something better than a simple mattress on the floor.

It was the first time he’d been alone with them since that fateful day in the basement, when all of their lives changed forever. To call it awkward would be an understatement, but the events of the past week had brought them all some perspective, allowing them to at least work side by side, albeit with the discomfort of their shared experience looming over every interaction. They spoke, but didn’t converse, and none of them would look him in the eye for very long. None but Endora Hardin, whose intense gaze he found disconcerting.

He owned very few non-electrical shop tools. Hammers, screwdrivers, and wrenches, of course, but as far as Amish-approved woodworking tools went, all he owned were a chisel set and a cheap miter saw. Screws and nails, however, he had in abundance, and with the help of his seven - no, eight - favorite students, they managed to fabricate a functional bed for each of themselves in very short order.

As he carried his large tool bag through Overton’s entryway, on the way to return it to his lab, Kali popped out of her bedroom to intercept him. Over her shoulder, Mike saw Theresa, still recovering in Kali’s bed.

“Mike, I need to talk to you,” she said in a quiet voice.

“Can we walk and talk?” he asked, lifting the bag.

“It’s important,” she said, and her expression would have told him that, even if her words hadn’t. “Marcus is on orderly duty. Can we talk in your room?”

Kali sat on his bed and he took a seat across from her in one of the small desk chairs all the students had.

“I’m worried about Theresa,” she said.

“Why? What’s wrong!” he asked, alarmed by her tone. “Is she okay? Is she bleeding internally or something?”

She put her hands up and shook her head. “No, it’s nothing like that,” she said, much to his great relief. “Her physical wounds are all superficial. Except for a cracked rib, I’m pretty sure she doesn’t have any other broken bones or internal injuries. She should heal just fine.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“It’s not her physical injuries I’m worried about, Mike. I’m worried about her mental ones.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“I’ve been talking to her whenever I can,” she said, pushing her glasses up on her nose. “At least, when she’s lucid enough for conversation. She has no memory of what happened to her.”

“Is that ... normal?” he asked.

“I’m not a psychologist, okay? This isn’t my specialty. But I would think she’d remember something.”

“Could she have a brain injury?” he asked, then immediately regretted the question, because now the idea haunted his thoughts.

“Maybe. Without doing an MRI, there’s no way to be sure. But ... I don’t think so. Maybe a concussion, but that still wouldn’t explain the things she’s saying, Mike.”

“What things? What is she saying?”

“She thinks the two of you had sex that night.”

Mike blinked several times. “She told you that?”

Kali nodded. “It’s all she talks about. According to her, you came into the room, and the two of you had sex. In fact, she believes that her vaginal and anal tears are because the two of you ... went at it all night long.”

Mike leaned backward in his chair, dumbfounded. “But, we didn’t-”

“I know. You weren’t even here. I think she must have ... I don’t know, disassociated, or something. Constructed this false reality to help her cope with the trauma. Like I said, I’m not a psychologist. Whatever the mechanism, though, she’s convinced that you’re both in love with each other, and that you consummated that love that night.”

He leaned forward and put his elbows on his knees to hold his head. Then he lifted his eyes to Kali.

“What do I say to her?” he asked.

“I don’t know. I wish I could tell you exactly what to do, but this is as much a mystery to me as it is to you. She’s constructed this fantasy to protect herself, so that she doesn’t have to face what happened to her. I’m guessing here, of course, but regardless, I don’t think this is healthy. She needs therapy, Mike.”

“Won’t she eventually, you know, remember what happened?” he asked. “On her own?”

“Who knows? Maybe. Look, the only reason I’m telling you all this is because she’s going to bring it up to you at some point, and I want you to understand where it’s coming from, so that you can decide how to handle it.”

Mike shook his head and sat up in the chair. “I can’t make that kind of decision. What if I say the wrong thing? What if I make it worse?”

“I know this is a difficult spot to put you in, but it is what it is. You’re part of her fantasy now. She chose you. She obviously has very strong feelings for you. I can’t tell you how you should handle it, other than to say that you should be consistent, whatever you decide to do.”

“What would you do if you were in my position?” he asked her, desperate for a lifeline.

“I’m a pharmacist. I’d probably give her drugs. That’s what I do. Unfortunately, we don’t have those kinds of drugs here, and even if we did, it would only be putting a Band-Aid on the problem. Unless a rape counselor comes walking down that path one of these days, you’re the best we’ve got.”

What would he say to her? How should he react? That night, when they talked, she told him she loved him. I’ve always loved you, she said. If he denied her constructed reality, might he not just break her heart, but also shatter her psyche? He didn’t want to be responsible for that, but he couldn’t avoid her forever.

Kali brought him to the present. “Speaking of drugs, there’s something else I wanted to talk to you about.”

“What?”

“I know this is terrible timing, so feel free to tell me to fuck off.”

“What is it?” he asked, tilting his head. He was curious now.

“The past couple days have been the most stressful of my life, by far. I’m not just Kali, the friendly neighborhood pharmacist anymore. Now I’m Sergeant Kaliyanei Sayavong, M.D. I’m expected to be a pharmacist, and a doctor, and a medic, and a soldier, and I’m starting to lose my fucking mind.”

She took a deep breath and sighed. “I used to deal with this kind of stress in a very unhealthy way. I drank a lot, and I did drugs.” She looked at him and grimaced. “I know. Shocker, right? A pharmacist doing drugs. But I did. A lot. You’d be shocked by how many doctors will write you a prescription if you’re in the profession. I’ve been sober for a few months now, thankfully, but I’m slipping, Mike. I’m getting those old cravings again.

“Fucking you calmed me down, and took those cravings away. I felt like I could cope with the mountain of shit that’s been heaped on my shoulders. But it’s been days since we’ve been together. Your dick is the best drug I’ve ever taken, and I need it now. I need you to fuck me. Hard and fast, like you used to.”

“You mean, like, right now, right now?”

“Marcus is on rotation for another couple hours,” she said, removing her pharmacist’s coat, “and Renata’s coming on shift. Like I said, tell me to fuck off if this is just the worst timing in the world for you.”

Like Mike, and most of the rest of the faculty, Kali had one set of clothes that she hand-washed regularly. He knew every garment she owned. The coat; a gray, low-cut t-shirt; a hefty support bra; black, stretchy pants; a pair of red, full-cut panties; a pair of short, black socks; and comfortable, black shoes. The bra, he noticed, was missing. A few moments later, so was everything else.

Kali laid down on the bed and pulled her leg back, causing her dark, engorged labia to part, revealing the glistening pink slit between them. She reached between her legs to massage her clit.

“Fuck me, Mike. Please. I’m begging you. I need it.”

How could he possibly say no to that? He stood and slowly removed his clothes, watching as she stimulated herself. They’d had sex dozens of times, but there was something different about her this time. She seemed more vulnerable. More sensual. She told him she wanted to get fucked hard and fast, but he wondered about that.

When he was naked, he approached her, but rather than guide his cock straight into her pussy, as he normally would, he kneeled at the edge of the bed and put his face between her legs. Her gasping reaction and throaty moan told him that he’d made the right call.

Her need was evident in the abundance of her secretions, and the pungency of her aroma. He flattened his tongue and slowly dragged it over her entire vulva, from the edge of her perineum to the top of her prominent clit. Not just tasting the tanginess of her feminine lubrication, but feeling it tingle on his tongue. Kali tossed her head back and opened her mouth when he flicked her sensitive nodule, before briefly returning his tongue to her vaginal well to burrow as far into her depths as he could reach. Then he kissed her pussy, nibbling and pulling on her delicate inner labia with his lips.

Her pussy was a buffet, and he wanted to sample every dish. Not just with his tongue, but also with his fingers. He pushed two of them inside of her, sideways at first, before twisting them to orient his fingertips against the anterior wall of her vagina. When his lips closed around her clit, she let go of her legs to hold his head in place.

“Oh, Mike...”

Licking, and flicking, and sucking on her clit, while his fingers danced over her g-spot, caused her hips to undulate beneath him. She ran her fingers through his hair, occasionally gripping handfuls of it when the stimulation became too much to bear. Her breaths became pants, which in turn became moans, rising in pitch and frequency, until she nearly sang the words “oh shit” and “oh fuck” to him over and over. The final crescendo of her orgasmic aria found his head sandwiched between her substantial thighs as she squeezed them together with an explosive gasp of air.

“Oh god!”

Mike pulled his head back and smiled at her, pleased with himself. His fingers still moved inside of her and she looked at him with wild, wanton eyes.

“Get up here and fuck me,” she gasped

She pulled him off the floor by the wrist, but as his cock appeared over her pussy, rising like the sun over the Appalachian foothills, she had an abrupt change of heart. She used her grip on his wrist to instead pull herself into a seated position, and took him into her mouth.

She was hungry for him, and he was eager to feed her. Her hand and lips moved purposefully over his shaft, sucking and stroking him with a fervent urgency that begged for a response. He ran his fingers through her long, straight, black hair and gathered into his hands. She moaned and grunted her approval, looking up at him as he began to move his hips in concert with the motion of her lips.

Then she released her grip on his shaft, and moved her hands to his ass to pull him toward her. As his stroke lengthened, the movement of her head diminished, until she held herself still while he fucked her open mouth.

He pulled out his cock and moved his eyes lower. “Your tits,” he said, bending his knees to bring himself to the proper level.

“Took you long enough to ask,” she said with a twisted smirk

She lifted and wrapped them around his impressive instrument, and watched his face as he fucked her tits. Every so often, she lowered her head and opened her mouth, and he dutifully filled it with his cock, fucking her mouth before returning to the enveloping warmth of her deep cleavage. Despite how good it felt to explore her body in these new and stimulating ways, however, he was eager to fill her pussy with his cum again.

“Lie down,” he said, and she did, pulling back her legs in preparation.

Normally, their time together was manic. He held her down by the backs of her thighs and fucked her as fast and as hard as he could to drive them both over the edge. He didn’t want that this time. He wanted to experience her. So he went slowly, withdrawing all the way, then slowly sliding back inside of her, until his pelvis ground against her clit. A slow, sensual fuck, where every sensation could be appreciated to its fullest.

When the time came to deliver his load, the powerful release weakened his knees. He collapsed on top of her, and she wrapped her arms and legs around him to hold him inside, and they stayed that way until it was time to do it again.

The mission to rescue Layla Sanders, Zoe Peterson, and Ashley Hendricks didn’t exactly go as Sgt. Fulton Chapman envisioned. As usual, Staff Sgt. Charmagne Pollard’s mission plan was short on details. Shock and awe, she told them, and that’s precisely what the unsuspecting residents of Morgan Creek got that morning.

It started out well enough. Staff Sgt. Pollard led the small convoy in the recovered police cruiser, its emergency lights flashing, with the Beast and the Deuce - it was “the Deuce” now, capital D - trailing behind in a V-formation. Only three militia policemen manned the checkpoint, and the sight of the cruiser allowed the guardsmen to close to within a hundred yards before the first man unslung his weapon. By then, it was too late.

Cpl. Ibarra and PFC Skansi let loose with the M240s, and cut them to ribbons before they could get off a single shot. After a brief stop to relieve the guards of their weapons and ammo, the Deuce made short work of the flimsy barricade, and the three vehicles rolled the rest of the way down Murphy Hill Road, unobstructed and unopposed.

With Cpl. Adrián Ibarra manning the turret, Chapman was forced to simultaneously drive and navigate from a paper map, with key landmarks denoted by students familiar with the town. Their first stop was the Morgan Hill Police station on Main St. A small, brick, municipal building, just a couple blocks away from Doc Murphy’s Soda Fountain, where Sgt. Kaliyanei Sayavong used to work.

After softening up the building with a barrage of 7.62×51mm rounds, Staff Sgt. Pollard led Chapman, Ibarra, and Draper inside through the front door to take the four shellshocked militia cops captive, while Sgt. Sayavong and PFC Haylee Skansi secured the exterior.

“Where are the fucking girls?” Pollard asked a middle aged good ol’ boy with a goatee and keg-sized beer gut. He lay handcuffed on his side, because he was too obese to remain seated on his own.

“What girls?” he asked.

She kneecapped him with her sidearm. While he writhed and screamed in pain, she moved down the line to the next person. A young man who couldn’t have been much older than twenty, with shoulder-length brown hair and a thin, scraggly mustache.