Sapphic Voices Fantasy

When Amazons Dream

Part One Of A Three-Part Saga
Dream I: Chainless Souls

Disclaimers: `This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the Author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.'

Cautionary Note: This Story is not suitable for underage readers. If it were a movie it would likely be rated `R'--no one under eighteen admitted.'

Library of Congress Registration: Oct. 2004

Chapter V

Beginning in the fall of 2008, ever more virulent strains of flu ravaged the cities up and down the west coast. By the middle of November 2013, everyone at The Guardian but Loren, Marty, and two copy editors were out sick. Will was in such bad shape, his doctor admitted him to the hospital for cardiac monitoring. Marty, a true believer in herbal medicine, never felt better. Loren claimed that two martini's a day kept all bugs at bay. When Will suffered a mild heart attack, she upped her dosage to three. By the third week of November, the office was shut down, and for the first time since its founding, the city's bulwark of investigative journalism missed a printing.

Home alone with a raging fever, Loren was too weak to give a damn. She couldn't even make it to the toilet to throw up the little bit of broth she managed to get down. Dehydration loomed, but the hospitals, assuming she could get to one, were overflowing with patients in critical condition. Her best hope was to turn the heat up to eighty, wrap herself in several blankets and hope that the raging fever would break.

She half-crawled from the thermostat to her bedroom closet and dug out every blanket and winter coat she had. She was too weak to drag them all onto the bed, so she curled up on the floor and pulled the whole pile over herself. When the chills subsided, Loren surrendered to a series of surreal dreams set in a wind-swept plain.

Shortly after dawn, she awoke drenched in sweat to the blare of the smoke alarm. Coughing and sputtering, she extricated herself from under the mountain of bedding and stumbled out to the living room. To her horror, flames shooting from the over-taxed heater had already blackened half the wall. They licked her hand as she struggled to turn down the melting thermostat. Pure adrenaline propelled her back to the bedroom, where she grabbed a comforter and tried to beat out the flames.

But it was no use. The suffocating smoke drove her out to the front lawn, where she collapsed in a fit of coughing. A fire truck, its siren wailing, pulled up and screeched to a stop in front of the house. Two firemen stormed past Loren and into the billowing black smoke spewing from the front door. A third knelt beside her.

"Are you injured, ma'am?"

"I have the flu," Loren sputtered, then coughed uncontrollably. The fireman got on his radio.

"Need med backup at 582 Sitka Drive. Inhalation victim, female."

"It burns like the devil," Loren groaned, clutching her throat and falling backwards onto her back.

The fireman helped her sit up. "Paramedics are on their way, ma'am, hang in there," he said.

By the time the EMT truck arrived, Loren, who was still wheezing, sat against the wrought iron fence that enclosed her weed-infested front lawn. The November Sun warmed her face as she nursed a bottle of mineral water. A paramedic approached carrying an aluminum case.

"How we doin'?" she asked and knelt down on one knee.

"We've never been better," Loren cracked wise with another sip of water.

"Take a deep breath for me," the technician said and placed a stethoscope on Loren's chest. "Lungs are a little raspy," she said and wrapped the blood pressure cuff around Loren's arm.

"I have the flu--what do you expect? Ouch! That's too tight!"

The EMT ignored her. "It's a wicked bug this year. Never seen anything like it," she said and examined Loren's eyes with a pen light.

"They burn like hell."

"I bet. Goes with the territory."

"What's your name?"

"Claire Raintree," the tech replied, pointing to her badge.

"Well, Claire, what do you think? Will I live?" Loren inquired flirtatiously before the oxygen mask covered her nose and mouth.

"I'm afraid so," the EMT replied with a smirk. "Sit here for a few minutes and breathe easy. I'll be back with some paperwork."

Loren waved her off, then closed her eyes. She tried to relax, but disturbing dream fragments kept intruding. One took her to a shadowy landscape inhabited by vast herds of mammoth bison. Women walked among them. One of them was Mariana, who motioned for Loren to join her.

"No fucking way!" Loren cried out, tearing off the oxygen mask.

"Do you need assistance, ma'am?" a deep voice said.

"Help me inside," Loren ordered.

"You'll be without heat for awhile, and there's a lot of smoke damage," the fireman said with his hand on her shoulder.

"Wonderful," Loren muttered.

"Your smoke alarm saved your life. A few more minutes and the whole structure would have gone up." Loren struggled to her feet. Leaning heavily on the fence, she watched the rest of the crew exit her house and pack up their gear.

"At least, I beat the fever," she managed between coughs.

"You're the third alarm this morning--all due to over-loaded heaters. Been with the department for twenty years, and never had so many of my crew out sick at one time. Lord help us if we have a major fire."

"I'm afraid bugs trump the lord," Loren coughed and put her mask back on.

"Not on my watch," the fireman vowed before doubling over in a paroxysm of coughing.

"You were saying?" Loren teased behind her oxygen mask. Claire returned to the scene and tried to get him to sit down.

"Take care of your patient, Raintree," the fire chief angrily commanded and motioned to one of his men, who came over and helped him up into the truck. Claire, shaking her head, sat down on her medical case and studied her clipboard. Loren, who was still standing, moved behind the raven-haired beauty to peer over her shoulder.

She removed the oxygen mask to crack wise. "Keep that on please--and sit down," Claire scolded as if she had eyes in the back of her head.

"I'm good as new, see?" her patient cheerily said.

Claire turned around and studied Loren's smiling face.

"You're coloring is sallow. Put it back on," she ordered and resumed writing. With a loud sigh, Loren obeyed, but kept standing, out of pure stubbornness.

"My bill, I suppose," Loren muttered, waiting in vain for a reply. "What are you writing, your memoirs?" she kept at it and promptly swooned. Claire dropped the clipboard and barely prevented her foolish patient from falling face first onto the cold hard pavement.


Loren came to in the back of the EMT truck as it lurched and weaved through heavy traffic. Claire's electric blue eyes slowly came into focus.

"Heaven, I presume," Loren slurred with a silly grin on her chapped lips.

"Not quite." The skilled technician checked her patient's pupils.

"On our way, I hope."

"We're headed to a convalescent facility."

"You're taking me to a nursing home?!" Loren tried to sit up, but Claire quickly eased her back down.

"Relax. It's a topnotch rehab center. They have a bed available there, and I think you need to stay a couple of nights for observation."

"I'll give everybody the flu."

"No you won't. You're temp is normal, but you need rest, and this is the only way I can be sure you'll get it."

"So you're my mother now?"

"Look, Ms. Cross, I'd appreciate it if you would let me do my job."

"I think I have something to say about...hey, how do you know my name?"

"I took the liberty of searching your house for ID." Claire replied and took Loren's wallet from her jacket pocket. Loren snatched it from her.

"How thoughtful. What else did you lift while you were traipsing through my home?" Claire dangled Loren's house keys. "You locked the door, I hope."

"Of course I locked it," Claire replied as if insulted, which belied how much she delighted in Loren's spunk.

"How much is this rehab joint going to ding me for?" the feisty patient asked with a wince. She reached for her right knee, which felt like it was on fire.

"You'll need to get that X-rayed. You landed hard on it when you fainted," Claire said and gingerly brushed a strand of sandy blonde hair from Loren's eyes.

"I never fainted in my life."

"There's a first time for everything," Claire teased. Her flirtatious demeanor didn't go unnoticed by her patient, who despite grinding pain, kept her gaze on the bluest eyes she'd ever seen.

"You have a charming bedside manner. What was your name again?"

"Claire Raintree."

"What kind of a name is Raintree?"

"It's my mother's maiden name."

"Is that where you got those dangerously blue eyes?"

"From my father."

"Norwegian?"

"Swedish."

"What does he think?"

"About what?"

"About forsaking his name."

"You ask too many questions."

"I can't help it."

"Mmmhm," Claire responded with a sly smirk on her lovely face.

"I'm editor in chief of a very distinguished newspaper."

"Is that so?"

"But the job's no fun anymore."

"Why is that?"

"Mid-life crisis, I guess," Loren sighed, then winced.

"There's plenty happening these days. It must be very interesting."

"I'm sick to death of bad news," Loren countered, once again swimming brazenly in Claire's blues. "And it just gets worse and worse. Half the population unemployed, ten-year-old kids living out of Dumpsters, mass murder, killer droughts...on and on. Everybody's desensitized. Escapism is what readers crave, not news. And I can't blame them." Loren stifled the urge to scream when a severe pain shot from her knee, up her right side and back again.

"Why not report good news, then?" the EMT asked in an attempt to distract.

"Hello--what planet are you from?" The stoic had to moan when another searing pain shot up and down her right side. "Can't you give me a shot of something?"

"We're almost there...hold on." Claire lightly rested her hand on Loren’s shoulder.

"Do you think I broke it?" Loren grunted.

"It looks like a dislocation to me."

"They'll put me out, won't they?"

"Oh, you bet," Claire lied, knowing that an anesthesiologist most likely wouldn't be available. The truck made a sharp turn and pulled to a screeching stop.

"Yeow!" Loren cried and clutched Claire's hand. "If I live, I'm going to hunt down that rotten driver of yours and punch his lights out," Loren gasped.

"I might join you," Claire said, squeezing Loren's hand. Suddenly, the back doors flew open.

"Get a move on, Raintree. Dispatch is on my ass," the surly driver demanded.


Despite Claire's efforts otherwise, Loren suffered a rough ride to her hospital room. The move from the stretcher to the bed was so excruciating she nearly passed out for the second time in her life. Claire was so angry, she nearly came to blows with her partner right then and there. Luckily, a tough male nurse sent him out of the room, leaving the dedicated EMT to give a detailed report on Loren's condition. She managed to talk the head nurse into giving his new patient a hefty dose of morphine, even though he could have lost his job over it. While the truck horn blared intermittently outside the window, Claire stayed bedside until Loren drifted into semi-consciousness.

"You're in good hands--see you later, hon," Claire whispered in Loren's ear and hurried out of the room.

Those words of encouragement, especially the last four, gave the jaded editor the strength to endure the exquisite torture inflicted by an orthopedic surgeon with the bedside manner of a jackal. After scribbling a few notes in the chart, he made a quick getaway before his patient puked her guts out.

The lingering relief afterward, in combination with the morphine and a vivid fantasy of Claire emerging from a tropical surf in a string bikini, made for a whale of an aphrodisiac. Much to Loren's frustration, however, a bubbly little aid in pink ruined any chance of undercover self-satisfaction.

"Hello, Mrs....a.." she stammered before checking the chart clipped to the foot of the bed. "Mrs. Cross. Would you like some broth?" Suppressing the impulse to tweak the young woman's ample breasts, Loren grabbed the pitcher of ice water from the aid's grasp and poured herself a cold one. The lecher gulped it down while ogling the girl's cleavage that peeked over the third button of her starched uniform.

"That's Ms. Cross, and I'll tell you what I'm in the mood for... a nice...juicy...," Loren slurred with more blatant ogling of the girl's breasts.

"Yes, Ms. Cross?" the wide-eyed honey blonde inquired, leaning closer.

"Steak," Loren half-whispered and thoroughly delighted in the blush creeping up the aid's delicate alabaster neck.

"The chart says no solid foods," the aid said. "How about some gelatin?"

"Hot diggity dog, I do love jiggly things," Loren answered with a wolfish lick of her lips.

"Very well, I'll be right back," the girl cheerfully said and turned to leave.

"Oh, miss!?" Loren called out as if in distress. The angelic aid, who Loren figured for a clueless drop-out from flight attendant school, re-approached. "Would you feel my forehead? I think I'm running a fever." The aid eagerly obliged and before she knew what was happening, her hand was being guided down her lascivious patient's neck, between her breasts and beyond. The aid recoiled.

"What do you think you're doing?" she protested with a cherubic titter.

"I'm burning up and yours is the merciful hand of sweet relief."

"You're not that hot, Miss Cross," the aid parried, folding her arms across her perky breasts.

"I'm crushed," Loren said and fluttered her thick eyelashes.

"I meant you don't have a fever," the aid said with a telltale smirk.

"Oh, but I do. It came over me the second you entered the room. I can't help it...a sweet lovely girl like you, such a welcome sight for these tired old eyes. Please, come and give me the small pleasure of looking into yours. They're hazel, aren't they?"

"Aquamarine," the girl said haughtily. For good measure, she shook her head in feigned disgust.

"Oh, yes, of course. And how lovely they are! My poor departed cat's were very similar, only blue as sapphires. How I miss her," Loren pined with a fake whimper. `This pretty little package isn't as innocent as she pretends,' Loren rationalized to herself as the girl again approached. When her hand landed ever so lightly on Loren's heaving shoulder, the shameless rake took it in hers and, pretending to sob, began to kiss it. This time, the girl didn't pull back. To Loren's surprise, she put her delicate arms around her wicked patient.

"There, there, Ms. Cross. Please don't cry," she said in a velvet voice.

"I'm sorry to be such a baby. It's just that...well...I never told anybody this before."

"Your secret's safe with me," the aid said.

"No, I shouldn't. I have no right to burden you."

"I'm here to listen." The lovely girl said, handing Loren a tissue. After honking into it, Loren continued her lascivious charade.

"I live alone now, ever since dear Buttercup died--she was my cat--I sometimes get so lonely, especially late at night, I can't sleep, sometimes I feel like...you know..."

The beautiful aid looked genuinely concerned. "Harming yourself?"

"Please, dear, would you mind closing the door? I can't take all that noise out in the hall."

Loren ogled the aid's perfect ass when she eagerly darted to the door and locked it. "Thanks, dear," the wolf in hospital issue said in a motherly voice. "Crank this bed up, would you, honey?"

"Surely," the girl said and pressed the appropriate button.

"That's perfect." The `grieving' patient patted the edge of the bed. The moment her angel of mercy sat down, Loren wrapped her arms around the narrowest of waists and resumed `weeping.' Resting her head against the ample breasts, the consummate liar spun an outrageous yarn about a miserable childhood, the trauma of losing a dear husband to prostate cancer, and the unbearable agony of sleeping in an empty bed. From there, it was an easy as pie segue into a graphic monologue about sex in general, which led to a tickle here and a tickle there. Loren, who at that point had lost all traces of decorum, took the lovely aid's sustained giggling as a clear invitation to outright sex play.

As fate would have it, the `clueless dropout from flight attendant school' was in fact the brilliant and only daughter of wealthy but tragically inept parents, who long ago unwittingly abandoned their darling child to the care of sexual predators, beginning with the family chauffeur and ending with the head mistress of one of the finest boarding schools in England.

The accidental object of Loren's lust was a master at the seduction game. Finely tuned to sexual need in others, she learned early on how to avoid those that would harm her and find satisfaction with those that desired a romping good time. She wasn't a prostitute per se, since she never needed money or accepted the lavish gifts her countless lovers often wanted to bestow. What she hoped to gain by obliging the sexual fantasies of others, men and women alike, was the simple satisfaction of being needed. Skilled as the stunning beauty was in bed, her sexual partners would inevitably fall in love with her, at which point she'd drop them like hot potatoes, driving many to years of obsession, or worse.

Loren, of course, unaware of all this and too horny to give a damn even if she were, surrendered to the girl's uninhibited and unbelievably skilled manipulation, derived from among other things, a dedicated study of the female Kundalini. After several mind-blowing orgasms, the door to Loren's room flew open. Head Nurse Hobbs, upon surveying the erotic scene, bellowed, "Ms. Chadwick! What do you think you're doing?!"

Grace Chadwick leapt from Loren's wreck of a bed, and, cramming her black lace bra in her pocket, adeptly buttoned her pink uniform. Given that the blonde bombshell was in big trouble, Loren immediately protested, "Don't blame her. I took advantage of the poor innocent's dedication."

Grace, rolled her eyes, stifled a grin, and said like the airhead she most definitely was not, "It was so awful, before I knew it this pervert, who's very strong for her age...she grabbed me."

Loren shot her young accomplice a scowl. "I don't know what came over me. It must have been the morphine. Please do forgive me, dear." Loren `wept' and looked plaintively into Grace's penetrating aquamarine eyes.

"Spare me the theatrics, you two," Hobbs snarled. "Grace, I'll see you in my office. Ms. Cross, I'm discharging you as of now. If you're well enough to hump my staff, you're certainly well enough to go home."

"Not so fast, nurse man! My surgeon said I should stay off my knee for at least a week. I can't drive, and my house is currently uninhabitable."

"Boo-hoo--things are tough all over. I've got a waiting list a mile long for this bed. An orderly will provide you with a soft cast and crutches. In the mean time, I suggest you get on the horn and call someone to pick you up. Come on, Grace," he impatiently gestured from the doorway.

"I'll be there in two minutes, Mr. Hobbs," she said, glancing at Loren, who, with her arms wrapped across her half-naked breasts, glared at the burly head nurse.

"If you're one second late, you're fired. Is that clear?" Hobbs warned.

"Crystal clear," Grace said.

As soon as Hobbs left, the voluptuous sexpert whispered in Loren's ear, "My panties, please, if you don't mind." Loren reached under her pillow and extricated a red thong. Grace's impish patient held it at arm's length, forcing the fabulous aide to place one knee back up on the bed. When Loren went for a kiss on the lips, Grace recoiled, as if in fear.

"Uh, uh, uh..no kissing..that's my one and only cardinal rule," she said, barely managing a cheerful demeanor.

"After all we've shared?" Loren embraced Grace tight around her waist.

"I said--no kissing," Grace hissed and broke the vise-like grip. When she tried again to retrieve her thong Loren grabbed hold again.

"Come on, honey, just one little kiss. I promise not to kiss back."

"Right," Grace scoffed.

"Just one--for luck, pretty please, cherry lips," Loren shamelessly pleaded. She closed her eyes and puckered. Grace, who'd thoroughly enjoyed the third indiscretion of her shift, gave Loren a dry peck. "You call that a kiss? I've had better from my canary," Loren teased, keeping her eyes closed and her lips puckered.

"You don't have a canary," Grace chided and brushed her lips briefly across Loren's.

"Now, that wasn't so bad, was it?"

Before Grace could escape, Loren tenderly kissed the gorgeous aid. "Thanks for the best romp I've ever had in a hospital bed," she said with a wink.

Grace felt herself surrendering to Loren's charm, something she could never allow.

"Damn you," she muttered and grabbed her thong, which she slipped on a safe distance from octopus arms.

"This place isn't for you. Come work for me. I assume you can write a complete sentence." The presumptuous rake felt compelled to end her brazen offer with an insult. She lay back with her breasts exposed and her hands clasped behind her head.

"Only in six languages," Grace shot back while putting on her bra, a sight that Loren would not soon forget.

"I'm always in the market for good copywriters. Come see me at The Guardian..anytime, night or day. Looks like I'll be living in my office for awhile."

"In spite of what you think, I like my job here," Grace retorted. She quickly brushed her silky fine hair.

"And you're so terribly good at it," Loren said, stretching like a cat.

"Enjoy your memories, Ms. Cross," Grace coldly said over her shoulder before closing the heavy door behind her.

"What a pistol," Loren chuckled, and without thinking, tried to swing her legs over the side of the bed. Her screams brought the orderly.

"The chart says you must use the bed pan," the shy young man said. He helplessly watched his patient writhe in pain.

"I don't give a crap what the chart says, get a hold of the surgeon and have him change the damn orders! And tell Hobbs I need more pain killer!" Loren bellowed.

"But..."

"Do it! Or I'll have my attorney sue this hell hole out of business! And get me some food, for crissakes--I'm starving!"

The orderly darted out of the room and headed towards the nurse's station, where Hobbs, having heard the harsh words echo down the corridor, called security. In minutes, he and two guards marched into Loren's room.

"You will not give orders to my staff and you will leave at once!"

"Not so fast, big nurseman. My surgeon is on the phone. He would like to speak with you," Loren smugly said. Hobbs angrily grabbed the phone.

"Yes, Dr. Webber, Hobbs here. I...yessir...but...no, she isn't...yessir, I understand. Good-bye." Hobbs looked as if he might explode. "Don't just stand there--get out," he snarled at the guards, who quickly took their leave.

"Do I get some decent food, or are you planning on starving me to death?" Loren sassed, luxuriously stretching like she owned the place.

"Gloat all you want. But tomorrow you meet our physical therapist," Hobbs ominously announced and left.


That evening, after chowing down on meat loaf and all the fixings, Loren called Will in the cardiac ward cross-town.

"Hey."

"I heard you tried to burn down your house for the insurance money," Will said with a chuckle.

"Damn lies travel fast. How are you?"

"Sick of this nut house. Can't you pull some strings and get me the hell out of here?"

"So you can go smoke your brains out at some strip joint? Not a chance. What's the doctor say?"

"Haven't seen him in two days. This flu bug is running him ragged, assuming he isn't flat on his back already."

"I heard on the evening news half the cops are out sick and the whole downtown's under martial law. And nobody's watching the store."

"Don't sweat it. I'll be moving into my office as soon as I get out of here."

"Where are you?"

"Some friggin' rehab joint. I tore the hell out of my knee."

"How long you in for?"

"I’m outta here by tomorrow at the latest. Although, it does haves its perks," Loren replied. A sexual zinger shot from her chest to her crotch.

"The nurses here are either queens or bowsers," Will whined.

"They don't want you get too excited. It is a cardiac unit, after all."

"They blocked the porn channel, for cryin' out loud."

"Poor baby. Say, do you happen to have Marty's number?" Loren asked.

"Interesting segue."

"Give me the number, jerk-off."

"Let me check my trusty black book. Here we go: 623-1869." Loren scribbled it on a paper towel. "Give me your number over there," Will said.

"240-9732," Loren, without her glasses, barely made it out from the bedside phone.

"How do you rate? Isn't that up in the heights."

"I wouldn't know. I wasn't exactly admiring the scenery on the way over here." Images of Claire belied her claim and made for a temporary lapse in the banter.

"Chief? You still there?"

"I'm here."

"As soon as I'm back on my feet, I want to do a spread on fly fishing in Canada," Will announced from the blue.

"How sublime."

"Readers are hungry for a taste of the good life. I know I am." Loren always knew he had one, but she hadn't really heard Will's nostalgic side before.

"How much good life is really left?" she bitterly asked.

"Plenty. You just have to know where to look."

"When you find it, let me know. I'm ready to quit this gig and grab my share before it's too late."

"Is that a proposition?"

"Let's see how desperate I get," Loren chuckled and again thought of Claire.

"Don't knock it 'til you try it, sport."

"You'll be the first to know if I do. Gotta go. I'm expecting a visitor. And Will? Be good."

"If you're lucky, you'll find out just how good," Will breathed heavily into the receiver for effect.

"And ruin this beautiful friendship? Pinch two candy-stripers and call me in the morning."

Loren abruptly hung up before Will could launch into more sexual innuendo. She pushed the button and lowered herself prone. Staring up at the ceiling fan, she let Claire take center stage in her thoughts. The drip, drip, drip of a leaky gutter outside the window eased her into sleep, where Mariana starred in a panoramic dreamscape. The redhead stood statuesque on the edge of a mesa, arms extended to a cloudless sky, hair blowing wildly in the wind. She seemed not quite human, yet not quite a goddess, definitely bigger than life. When a sudden cloudburst turned her to mist, Loren woke up in a cold sweat.

Except for the faint light seeping in under the door, the hospital room was dark. Terror had the dreamer in its grip. She pushed the buzzer for the nurse, but no one came. The impulse to escape was rudely quashed by the searing pain caused by yet another foolish attempt to bolt out of bed. Loren's yowling finally brought the night nurse, who switched on the harsh overheads.

"What is it?" she sharply asked and snatched the chart from its hook at the foot of the bed.

Blinded by the fluorescent assault on her dilated eyes, Loren groaned, "My knee. It's on fire. For crissakes, give me something."

"You must avoid sudden moves, Ms. Cross," the nurse scolded.

"Thanks a million for the timely advice," Loren grimaced wise.

"I'll get a soft cast. We have to keep that knee relatively mobile."

The nurse promptly left. Loren collapsed back onto her pillow. She never in her life felt more alone. The harder she tried to gather her wits about her, the faster they raced back and forth, like horses trapped in a canyon by wild fire. By the time the nurse returned, Loren was shaking. Suspecting a seizure, she rang for the resident, who determined it was a full-blown panic attack and ordered a hefty tranquilizer injection. It was a little too hefty--the patient passed out. Loren awoke late the next morning in the jaws of a monster headache, which at least deflected her attention from the knee pain. It occurred to the caffeine junkie that she hadn't had any in days. After breakfast, she sweet-talked the morning aid into bringing her a piping hot fix from the cafeteria. "I shouldna be goin' against doctors orders," the matronly aid scolded. Loren squinted to read her name tag.

"Top o' thee mornin' to ye, Mrs. Duffy," Loren said, sipping the scalding brew. "Boy, this hits the spot. I feel better already." Mrs. Duffy, who was constantly in motion straightening, dusting and fluffing, stopped in her tracks when she saw the huge bouquet of roses on the windowsill.

"Well, ain't they a breath o' fresh air. Somebody sure spared ye no expense, thet's fer shoor."

Loren, who until then hadn't even noticed them, crowed, "One of many admirers. See if there's a card, will you?" The aid searched and found a little envelope lying on the floor.

"Here ye air, missy," she said, handing it to Loren, who tore it open. Without her glasses, it was a blur.

"Read it to me, would you please?" she asked, handing it back.

"Sure is nice handwritin'. Let me see, noo," Mrs. Duffy said, putting on the glasses that hung by a chain around her fleshy neck.

"It says: `You were sleeping so peacefully, I didnah have the heart to wake ye. I'll come by again tomoorrow around noon and have lunch with ye. Be good. Claire' Well, ain't thet a fine Irish girl."

"Swedish, Mrs. D," Loren said with a grin.

"Well thet don't mean there ain't some old Irish blood rushin' inside her veins, especially with a loovely name like Claire," Mrs. Duffy countered, carefully placing the card on the bed stand. She looked around the room and peeked into the bathroom. "Everything looks pairfect, right down to the mirror over the sink. Is there anythin' else ye need 'fer I go?"

"Yes, Mrs. D., as a matter of fact, there is. I have to pee something awful and I can't get the hang of this stupid bedpan. Help me to the toilet."

"Oh, I don't think so, missy. Me back ain't what it used to be. If you was to fall..."

"I'm not going to fall. Besides, by the time the nurse gets around to it, I'll be lying in it. You don't want to change urine-soaked sheets, now do you?"

Loren gingerly lifted her right leg and eased it over the edge of the bed. "Bring me those crutches in the corner."

Mrs. Duffy was able to get her incorrigible patient to the bathroom, where she then stood at the door keeping watch for any sign of Hobbs. Loren was struggling to get back into bed, when, sure enough, Hobbs showed up.

"Well now, Cross. What is it with you and my aids? Mrs. Duffy, it's not like you to disregard the rules. This patient is restricted to bed until I say otherwise. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir. I'm sorry, sir," Mrs. Duffy muttered and darted out of the room on the verge of tears.

"Give it a rest, Hobbs. You said yourself I was ready to leave yesterday," Loren sassed. Wincing, she pulled her right leg up and maneuvered herself back into bed. "See? Nothing to it with this brace, which, I might add, I should have been issued yesterday."

"It wasn't available until late last night. Now, if you're finished telling me how to do my job, you are scheduled for physical therapy at eleven. The orderly will be down in a few minutes with a wheel chair."

"How far is it to physical therapy?"

"Too far for crutches. Now, please, don't make this harder than necessary. Dr. Webber wants you up and out of here as soon as possible, and believe me, so do I. But this isn't a country club. PT is serious business. If you insist on fighting it, you'll fall again, and your knee will never heal right."

Hobbs left before Loren could utter a smart-ass rebuttal. When the orderly arrived with the wheelchair, she laid it on him instead.

"What's with Hobbs--gender confusion?"

"I wouldn't know about that, ma'am. He's tough, but he knows his business."

"What's this physical therapist like?"

"She's tough, too. But the patients are crazy about her."

"A real looker, huh?"

"I wouldn't say that, but she's as stubborn as they come, won't let you give up, that's for sure. I broke my neck a couple years ago and I'd be a vegetable today if it wasn't for her."

"What's this chick's name?" Loren asked through clenched teeth as the orderly helped her off the bed and into the wheelchair.

"Everybody except Hobbs calls her Scottie."

"OK, beam me up, Scottie dearest, and blast me off this miserable rock!" Loren shouted out in the hall, plenty loud for Hobbs to hear.

Chapter VI

"There was a time when people lived in perfect harmony with the Earth. War was an alien concept, as was rape and brutal empire. There were no weapons, no fortifications. Slavery was unthinkable and animals were worshipped, not eaten. Nature itself was both protector and provider. All people, especially women, had intimate knowledge of Her mysteries. Life was good for everyone and lasted, on the average, a hundred and ten revolutions around the Sun. Those times still live deep in our genetic memory. They alone will see us through the last gasp of male domination."

Marty closed the ragged tome she'd brought home from work and gazed wistfully out the window of the studio apartment.

"Do you really believe in that stuff?" Robin, her lover, asked from her sick bed on the couch.

"I'd like to," Marty sighed and suffered a severe bout of coughing.

"I wish you'd go back to bed. You're going to have a relapse if you're not careful," Robin hoarsely scolded.

Marty sank into a wicker rocker. "The coughing's worse when I lie down," she wheezed.

"OK, you stay in your rocker, grandma, and I'll heat up some soup," Robin said. She pulled back the heavy quilt and struggled to her feet. "What do you want? Chicken or vegetable?"

"I don't care," Marty listlessly replied. On her way to the kitchen, Robin bent down and kissed her sweetheart's damp forehead.

"You still feel a little warm," she said, brushing wisps of raven hair from Marty's brown dreamy eyes.

"Reading that stuff gets my blood boiling."

"More than I do?" Robin ran a finger down Marty's chest.

"Go make the soup," Marty giggled.

"Sex heals, you know," Robin whispered in her ear.

"The strain might kill us." Marty wrapped her arms around Robin's neck.

"A nice way to go, don't you think?" Robin began nibbling her way to Marty's other ear.

"As long as it's with you," Marty sighed.

Robin dropped to her knees and ran both hands under her lover's robe. Deprivation immediately sparked passion's fire. In the middle of lovemaking, the phone rang and kept on ringing until Loren's voice boomed through the outdated answering machine.

"Marty--it's me. You're either dead or wishing you were. You or your holy ghost can reach me at the office. Call me. It's vital." Marty broke Robin's love grip and lifted them both to their feet.

"Don't quit on me now," Robin gasped.

"Go for it, babe, I've gotcha," Marty giggled. When Robin's knees gave out, they both ended up on the cold bare floor in extended pleasure. Afterwards, Marty held her beloved and whispered between gasps, "You cured yet?"

"Almost," Robin dreamily answered with a deep kiss.

The longtime companions helped each other to the couch and lay back exhausted. "I better call the boss," Marty said.

"By all means," Robin said with a slight edge to her otherwise velvet voice. "I'll go make the soup."

Marty had every intention of punching Loren's office number, but Robin's parting kiss initiated another round of loving that left them entwined on the couch for another hour. The phone rang and rang.

"I better answer it this time," Marty said, swooning from a shower of feathery kisses tickling her belly.

"If you must," Robin moaned.

"I'm afraid I must." The dedicated reporter lifted the receiver.

"Feeling better, are we?" a lusty voice shot through the earpiece.

"I'm still pretty weak," Marty replied. She hoped Robin couldn't see the crimson blush she knew was traveling up her neck at hearing the chief speak with such an intimate tone.

"Trust me, too much sex is bad for the knees."

Marty sat up straight. "So what's up, chief?"

"The jig if we don't get the presses up and running. Can you get down here within the hour?"

"Er..that's awful short notice."

"Put Robin on the phone."
"What for?"

"I'm offering her a chance of a lifetime."

"What do you mean?"

"I got a call from the mayor of Hecate's Cove."

"What does that have to do with Robin?"

"She's a marine expert, is she not?"

"Yes, but..."

"No buts...put her on...hotlips."

The conversation was getting stranger by the moment, and Marty began to wonder if the flu bug had left the chief a little punchy.

"She's sleeping," Marty, for the first time, lied to her idol.

"For crissakes, woman, I don't have all day! Give Robby the phone!" Close to tears, Marty handed the receiver over to Robin, who was frowning.

"What?" she grudgingly said into the mouthpiece.

"Afternoon, Dr. Walker. How's tricks?" Loren waited for a disdainful reply but got only silence. "Say, listen, I have a once in a lifetime proposition for you."

"Not interested."

"What do you know about marine mammals?" Loren asked, as if she hadn't heard the flat refusal.

"They're virtually extinct."

"Don't tell that to Cynthia McKibben."

"Who's she?"

"The mayor of Hecate's Cove. They have a creature down there and it ain't no walrus."

"What is it?"

"That's where you come in. You have first dibs on examining it."

"Sorry--I don't make house calls." Robin was more than ready to hang up.

"Hey, not so fast! This is on the up and up, I swear it. There's a hefty consulting fee in it for you, not to mention a major feather in your academic cap. Drive down there with me. Marty can play chief for a day."

"I don't know." Robin hemmed and hawed. The last time she was alone with Loren Cross, they ended up in the back of the editor's van. Although she and Marty were split at the time, Robin always felt guilty about it.

"Robby? You still there?"

"OK, OK, I'll go--and stop calling me that."

"Deal. This is all business. Besides, I have my hands full lately, if you get my drift."

"Spare me the details," Robin hissed. Loren's insufferable arrogance made her feel like slamming the receiver down. One look at Marty's puzzled expression, however, called for a more civil demeanor. "I need to be back by ten tonight," Dr. Walker said.

"No problem. I'll expect you and Marty by four thirty sharp."

As always, Loren abruptly hung up first. People who didn't know her often took this for an inordinate sense of self-importance, if not rudeness. Robin, for one, knew the truth of the matter. Loren Cross hated good-byes.

"Where are you going, hon?" Marty asked.

"Most likely on a wild goose chase."

"A what?"

"Your boss wants me to examine a marine animal at Hecate's Cove."

"What kind of marine animal?"

"That's what I'm supposed to determine. As usual, she claims it'll be the scoop of the century--bla, bla, bla."

"Are you sure you're well enough to travel?" Marty asked, checking her beloved's warmish brow.

"You cured me, remember? Besides, we sure could use the extra money this month," Robin sweetly assured with a kiss on Marty's rosy cheek.

"I'm going with you."

"I'd love that, but you've just been promoted to chief," Robin said. She slipped from Marty's amorous grasp and wrapped a quilt around her chocolate brown body.

"Jeez. Brass must be in bad shape," Marty said.

"Come on, you better get going...chief. I'll heat that soup." Robin pulled her lover from the couch.

"Make that oatmeal and molasses. I'm going to need my strength," Marty said with gusto.


The steamy shower spawned deep longings. Unlike most women in their twenty's, Marty dared to imagine a better future for herself and her beloved Robin. In a dying world where so many held to a fierce hedonism, young women were easy prey for drug dealers, pimps, and the military draft. Since 911, perpetual war had cut short the lives of thousands of female soldiers around the world, not to mention hundreds of thousands of innocent civilians. And, as much as the eternal optimist tried not to let it get her down, there seemed to be no end to the downward spiral of international animosities.

Voices of reasoned dissent were quickly silenced by the usual suspects, and democracy was nothing more than a dim memory lingering in the jaded hearts of the aged now impoverished baby-boomers cheated out of their pensions and social security. Yes, the burden of history weighed heavy on the shoulders of a dyed-in-the-wool pacifist like Marty Callado for whom the struggle for justice was at the core of her being.

The youngest of three daughters growing up on a sheep ranch in Wyoming, Marty often got into scrapes defending all manner of life forms, including worms, frogs and trees. Much to the delight of her activist parents, Marty's childhood heroes ranged from Harriet Tubman to Frida Kahlo, names without meaning to most of her peers, who regarded the young crusader as a lovable but `total geek.'

Ironically, one night in the back of her father's old pickup, the most popular girl in school, drunk out of her mind of course, introduced the fifteen- year-old geek to the joys of lesbian sex. After that, Marty spoke openly about gay rights and was suspended from school a number of times for disrupting the classrooms of the most bigoted teachers. But she remained defiant and fearless, until during one of her late-night walks in the foothills, she was left for dead by a gang of teen-aged boys high on the drug ecstasy and testosterone. Her mother, the world's epitome of positive thinking, told her baby girl it was a blessing she wasn't raped.

Nevertheless, a beautiful spirit was broken that awful night, and it was two long years before Marty uttered a word. She hardly left her room, where she hardly slept, instead writing e-mails about the grim state of the world to the editors of every major newspaper and magazine in the country. One night, the eloquent high school dropout officially began her journalistic career by sneaking out of her bedroom window at the age of seventeen to take a job as gofer for a radical lesbian underground zine in San Francisco. In a few short months, her biting essays had won a loyal readership.

Loren Cross, always on the lookout for new blood, was impressed by Marty's analysis and frequent indictments of religious fundamentalism and made the young journalist an offer she couldn't refuse. Because of that, the radical pacifist from Wyoming felt deeply indebted to her thorny editor in chief, for whom she would proudly walk through fire.

Midtown was in a state of anarchy. For the cub reporter, dodging rocks, bottles, and molotov cocktails on the way to Loren's office was a small price to pay for the privilege of sitting in the seat of editorial power. Robin, on the other hand, was a nervous wreck when they finally pulled up behind the Cascade Building. Since Marty had no key to the back entrance, they ended up climbing the fire escape to Loren's office window. The sharp tap startled the obsessed editor so badly, papers went flying everywhere. After considerable swearing and gnashing of teeth, she finally pried the grimy window open.

"Talk about your grand entrances," Loren growled, leaning heavily on her cane.

"What happened to your leg?" Marty asked when her idol hobbled back to her perpetually chaotic desk.

"Dislocated kneecap. Don't ask--it's a long sordid story," Loren replied and poured herself a martini from the fresh batch.

"It's a war zone out there," Robin, suffering a case of the jitters, managed.

"Right out of Dante's Inferno," Loren said as she gulped her favorite antidote to just about everything. "You should have been here two days ago. I had but a thin line of wet- behind-the-ears national guard between me and a cranked up mob of hooded anarchists. One poor recruit was nailed real bad with a beer bottle. Blood everywhere. Ah! Takes me back to my days of glory in Baghdad. But, I digress. Robby, pardon me, Dr. Walker, are you ready to drive me to the beach?"

"My night vision's lousy," Robin balked.

"I'll take my chances." Loren downed the remains of her antidote.

"Where's your van? I didn't see it," Marty said, eyeing the piles of fresh faxes spread along the front edge of the desk.

"Parked at a friend's. We'll have to take your car," Loren replied. "Hand me my jacket, will you, kiddo?" she asked the acting chief, who eagerly obliged.

"We can't leave Marty here alone with no vehicle!" Robin protested above the din of sirens and intermittent gunfire.

"Not to worry. This building is like Fort Knox. She'll be safer here than anywhere in the city."

"That's bull. If we got in here, surely anyone else can," Robin snapped.

"You got in because guard snipers knew you were coming. You and I will have escort out of downtown. This building is crawling with military police--it's central headquarters, for crissakes. Trust me. I don't want anything to happen to the interim chief anymore than you do," Loren said with a wink at Marty.

"I'll be fine, hon," Marty assured her lover, who looked like she might throw up the first meal she'd managed to keep down in a week.

"What about curfew? How will we get past the blockades tonight?" Robin asked. She slipped her arm around Marty's hips and held on tight.

"All taken care of." Loren grabbed her briefcase. "Ready?"

Robin gave Marty a lingering hug and reluctantly followed Loren through the newsroom. Out in the hallway Loren shouted over her shoulder, "Take a gander at the latest faxes, chief! I left you a to-do list in the middle drawer! Hasta luego!"


Left alone, Marty luxuriated in the plush throne. She spun around a few times before putting her feet up on the desk. When a fax started coming in, she sprang to her feet and read it aloud: "Have to cancel tonight. Double shift. Will call tomorrow morning after work. Crazy for you. Claire."

Marty had no sooner placed it on the stack, when another message came through: "I've decided to take you up on your job offer, on one condition--no entanglement. It'll ruin everything. G.C."

"I didn't know we were hiring," Marty muttered before tossing the message onto the stack. She once again took up smug residence behind the desk. She casually opened the middle drawer and was rifling through it when she recoiled at the sight of a revolver. An attached note read: "If need be, hold with both hands, aim, and squeeze the trigger. See what you can do with the material in the orange folder. It's front-page stuff. Take no prisoners. L.C."

Marty slammed the drawer shut and ran into the darkened newsroom. She double-checked the locks and scurried back to the office, where she tried unsuccessfully to bolt the door. Fighting the jitters, she managed to move a file cabinet in front of it. Suddenly, a volley of gunshots down in the alley brought her to her knees. She crawled to the window and peeked over the sill, just as Robin's car, escorted by a couple of Hummers, inched its way around the corner.

"Good luck, babe," she whispered, fighting tears.

To avoid being some trigger-happy sniper's target, the acting chief crawled over to the desk, grabbed the orange file and curled up with it in the corner of the office. The lights blinked a couple of times and went out. "Oh, great," she hissed, more irritated than scared. She crawled back to the sill.

As far as Marty could tell, the whole city was blacked out. "I wonder if the chief keeps a flashlight somewhere." Her heart drummed in her ears, making concentration on the contents of the orange folder impossible. She gathered up the latest wire service reports and read them aloud with the aid of a fading pen light:

"Wholesale slaughter of women and girls by death squads around the world have been linked to fundamentalist extremists on a divine mission to prepare the earth for the second coming."

The pacifist shook with white-hot rage. She scooted from under the desk, extricated the revolver from the drawer, and held it high over her head.

"Women everywhere! Rise up in holy war!" she yelled at the top of her lungs and accidentally squeezed the trigger. The recoil knocked her backwards against the wall. The gun slid across the floor. A deep voice bellowed from outside the office door.

"Loren?! What the fuck's going on in there?!"

"Go away! I'm armed!" Marty screamed and desperately searched for the revolver on her hands and knees.

"Come on, let me in!"

The moment she recognized Will's voice, Marty, whose eyes were well adjusted to the dark, lunged for the file cabinet and, with amazing strength, shoved it aside.

"Will? Is that you?!

"No, it's Santa Claus," he said between coughs. Marty was so relieved to see him, she threw her arms around his neck.

"Thank heavens!"

Will, who at that moment thought he'd indeed gone to heaven, held the acting chief in an intimate embrace.

"You were expecting saint peter, perhaps?" he teased, nuzzling Marty's neck.

"If he dared show his hairy face, I'd blow it off," Marty snarled in Will's ear with stunning venom. She wrenched free of his increasingly amorous grasp.

"Whoa! What's become of my little peacenik?" He gripped Marty by the shoulders.

"I'm not your little anything," Marty snarled and executed a self-defense move that almost knocked the weakened bureau chief to the floor.

"You play rough," he gasped. "I like that in a woman." Rubbing his burning wrists, Will somehow found his footing.

"Give it a rest, Brass," Marty commanded with an air of authority Loren would have admired. "How'd you get into the building, anyway?" To her relief, the lights came back on. Will, thin as a rail and pasty-faced, looked as if he might faint. He slapped a stack of folders from a folding chair and sat down.

"Press ID," he gasped, holding up the plastic card on the chain around his neck. "Where's yours?"

"I don't need one. I came in through the window," Marty answered with bravada.

"Wonder Woman flew you in on her back, eh?" Will struggled to breath.

"We came up the fire escape."

"We?"

"Robby and me. She and Loren went to the coast."

"Sorry, honey. I didn't know you two were on the rocks."

"FYI, she's driving Loren down there to examine some kind of marine creature."

"Now there's a line I'll have to remember," Will chuckled. Marty ignored the tedious innuendo and began gathering the scattered faxes. "Aha! The coveted orange file," Will declared and struggled to his feet. He walked unsteadily to the fax machine, which was spitting out one communiqué after another. He grabbed the freshest one. "Holy fucking shit!"

"What now?" Marty plopped down in the throne.

"Five twenty PST, all out nuclear war in the middle east. Turkish sources report that Pakistan launched three warheads at Israel, one wiped out Tel Aviv. Before it was annihilated, Israel launched two more--one hit Islamabad, the other Bahrain. There's more. According to US intelligence, China and India are on high alert and poised to annihilate each other."

"You're so full of it, Brass," Marty sneered. She sprang from behind the desk and grabbed the next fax before the ink was dry.

"Five twenty-five PST: Deadly clouds of radiation have spread across most of southern Europe and Asia," she read aloud. "Prevailing winds are expected to carry severe radiation to Japan and out over the Pacific. The national weather service expects the first cloud to reach Hawaii by midnight PST tomorrow and the west coast of the U.S. in three days." Marty sank down on the edge of the desk.

"Maybe it's not as bad as it sounds, honey," Will said. "The middle east bureau is not the most reliable outfit these days."

Marty crumpled the fax inside a tight fist. "It's all one big self-fulfilling prophecy," she grimly said, staring right through Will.

"Doomsday loonies at Pioneer Park are celebrating as we speak," Will managed to make light and snatched the next fax as it came in.

"A bible-thumper's wet dream," Marty said through clenched teeth. "Millions of degenerate dickheads in love with death, beating their meat for the rapture of Armageddon." Marty stood and moved to the window.

"Spoken like a true-blue man-hater." Will clutched at his chest.

"You got that right, Sherlock," Marty imitated Loren. She moved behind the desk and accidentally kicked the .45 revolver lying on the floor. She picked it up and pointed it at Will.

"Hey, take it easy with that cannon, honey!' he yelled as the room began to spin.

"I'm not your honey, and I'm sick to death of your pitiful come-ons. Get it through that thick shiny skull of yours once and for all, I'm not interested. Never was and never will be."

Marty savored the power her pent-up rage and the revolver in hand bestowed. She crammed the impressive weapon behind her belt and searched the desk drawer for more ammunition. She found a full box and stuffed it in her jacket pocket. When she pulled out the gun again, Will, barely able to stand, cringed behind the fax machine. Marty laughed and jibed, "Ain't that just like a man. Scratch the surface and you find a gutless wonder." She took a few steps towards her convenient scapegoat and took careful aim between his eyes.

"You don't have the balls," Will said with a quivering grin. Marty fired over his head and escaped out the window. Her only thought was to get to Robin.

Well aware that snipers had orders to shoot first and ask questions later, Will stumbled to the window and called out for her to stop. He got as far as the escape landing and collapsed in a heap. Marty, who was already two flights below, happened to look up and spot his leg dangling precariously over the edge. Without hesitation, she flew back up the stairs to save him from falling. Adrenaline gave her the strength to drag the ex-bureau chief's six-foot frame back inside the office.

Sadly for Will, his dream girl had never bothered to learn CPR. Twenty minutes after calling 911, Marty fell to pieces when Claire Raintree and crew failed to save the life of Loren's dearest friend.

Chapter VII

"Any answer?"

"Nope. Loren's battery must be shot," Marty replied, slipping the cell phone back in her jacket pocket.

"What about your friend?"

"No dice. She lost her cell on the way up the fire escape."

"How much time do you think we have?" Claire asked as they sped along the deserted highway through the coast range.

"It all depends on the weather."

"With a little luck, the worst of it will drift over the north pole," Claire tried to sound calm when nothing could be further from the truth.

"Yeah, and kill everybody in Scandinavia," Marty said before blowing her nose. Still in tears, she blamed herself for Will's tragic demise.

"He's lucky, you know," Claire said, down-shifting the abandoned four-by-four she'd hot-wired a block from the Cascade Building.

"How is death ever lucky?" Marty bitterly asked with a sniffle.

"I'd pick a heart attack over radiation sickness any day. Hold on!" Claire yelled before swerving to avoid a family of deer. The truck skidded along the shoulder and nearly went through the guardrail before she could guide it back onto the blacktop.

"Speaking of heart attacks," Marty said breathlessly. She checked to make sure the .45 was still under the seat.

"Does that thing have a safety?" Claire asked. Marty shrugged her shoulders. "I'm pulling over," the EMT said.

"And waste precious time?" Marty whined.

Claire pulled up behind an abandoned logging rig.

"Give me the gun," she demanded. Marty sheepishly handed over the weapon. After engaging the safety, Claire stashed it in the glove compartment. She revved the engine and the big wheels spewed a storm of gravel out onto the highway.

Under the circumstances, Marty found Claire's take-charge demeanor reassuring. "You and Loren have a lot in common."

"Think so, huh?" Claire fiddled with the radio dial. Nothing but static.

"Yeah, for one thing you're both tall."

"Besides that?" Claire chuckled.

"You're both cool in a crisis."

"I better be--it's been my job for fifteen years."

"Don't you think it's odd that we haven't seen a single car since we left the city?" Marty asked.

"Maybe people on the coast know something we don't."

"Like what?"

"It's just a gut feeling, that's all," Claire answered. She took a candy bar from her jacket, split it in two, and handed half to Marty.

After that, they maintained an uneasy silence until the coast highway. It was a scene of utter chaos. Thousands of people, horns blasting, some in fist fights or worse. Drivers in larger vehicles trying to steamroll over smaller vehicles had turned 101 into a demolition derby. The only order to it all was that everybody was scrambling northward. Many were on bicycles, most on foot, dragging whimpering children and transporting whatever belongings they could in everything from wheelbarrows to shopping carts.

"This is surreal," Marty said, rolling down her window. "Where's everybody going?" she asked a young man walking his bike alongside the truck.

"I'm going to Nome, Alaska," he grimly replied.

"That's one hell of a bike ride," Claire said with a tenuous smile. The young man mutely walked on by.

"He's probably counting on the radiation being less deadly up there," Marty said and rolled up the window. Claire tightened her grip on the steering wheel and stared blankly ahead.

"So what am I supposed to do now?" she asked some unseen power.

"Walk," Marty replied with renewed determination mixed with dread. She plucked the .45 from the glove compartment and jumped from the truck. Claire sat frozen, staring at the futile exodus of humanity. Marty came around to her window and tapped until the stunned EMT finally rolled it down.

"It's not that far to Hecate's Cove--come on," Marty firmly urged, opening the driver's side door.

Claire never felt so helpless. "And then what?" she asked with tears pooling in her blue eyes.

"We find our sweethearts and live it up," Marty cheerily replied. "Come on, let's go paint Hecate's Cove red." Claire wiped a tear from her cheek and stepped out onto the pavement. "And buck this crowd?"

"Absolutely," Marty said and boldly slipped her arm through Claire's.

"Wait. We're going to need a flashlight in this blackout." Claire fished out a hefty one from her medical pack.

"Shall we hit the yellow brick road?" Marty offered an arm.

The two women wove their way through the crowd to the opposite shoulder of 101. Suddenly, Claire balked.

"What if they're somewhere in this death march?" she asked Marty who was several paces ahead.

"How long have you known Loren?"

"Not long enough," Claire answered, jostled by the crowd.

"She never goes with the flow, and neither does my Robin," Marty firmly asserted and pushed Claire southward.


What seemed a lifetime passed before the two strangers spotted the bullet-riddled sign to Hecate's Cove. Like every place else, the hamlet was blacked out. Claire's flashlight had dimmed to nothing by the time they climbed through the unattended gate at the north end of Main. Except for a faint flickering glow in the window of the Sand Dollar Inn, there was no sign of life.

"Do you think anybody's in there?" Marty asked. She stood her ground just yards from the front steps to the old hotel. Claire, who hadn't said a word for several miles, ignored the query. "I thought I heard something," Marty whispered. She tiptoed up onto the boardwalk and peered in the shuttered window, but could see nothing. Suddenly, the heavy door creaked open. "Shit," Marty muttered and jumped back onto the cobbled street, stepping on Claire's foot in the process.

"Ouch!" The EMT snapped out of the daze she'd been in since beginning the long trek.

"Let's get the hell out of here!" Marty shouted. Just as they were about to hightail it up Main, someone in a hooded black duster stepped into the Moonlight that now pierced the thinning clouds.

"Jeezuz," Claire mumbled and froze, as did Marty, who clung for dear life to Claire's arm.

"Do you think he has a weapon?" Marty asked in a whisper, clutching the handle of the .45 secured behind her belt.

"How would I know? Shit, he's coming towards us."

"What do you think he wants?" Marty just had to ask another silly question.

"I'm not sticking around to find out," Claire said and began backing slowly away.

"Please, come inside," a woman's voice said. "I mean you no harm." When she held out her hand, the hood slipped from the mass of red hair that in the Moonlight took on an eerie purplish sheen.

"She's a wacko," Marty whispered, struggling to release the safety on the .45. She had just freed the weapon from behind her belt, when Loren's voice barked from the hotel doorway.

"Put that damn thing away before you kill somebody!" Marty let out a little scream and dropped the gun on Claire's stinging right foot.

"Son of a bitch," the EMT growled and quickly retrieved the weapon.

"Chief!" Marty shouted. "Wow! Am I glad to see you!"

"Sssh. Keep it down, kiddo. The constable's on her rounds and she'll take us for looters." Marty threw her arms around her boss. "Cool it. People will talk," Loren teased just as Robin came bounding out of the hotel, dreadlocks flying.

"Oh, baby, I knew you'd make it!"

While Marty and Robin savored their reunion inside a lingering tearful embrace, Claire, dancing in pain, kept an eye on Mariana, who gazed trance-like at the Full Moon. Loren slipped up from behind and wrapped her arms tight around her new lover's waist.

"Miss me?" she said with a kiss to Claire's neck.

"More than you'll ever know," Claire said. She turned around for a passionate kiss. "Are you all right?" she asked afterwards.

"I am now," Loren sighed. They kissed again. "Come on inside, I'll buy you a beer."

"How about a scotch on the rocks?"

"Sure thing. Come--hurry," Loren urged. Claire gave the .45 to its owner, who deftly slipped it inside the waistband of her jeans.

Claire and Loren joined their counterparts at a round oak table in the hotel lobby. The sound of children running in the hallways echoed down the grand staircase of the rustic inn.

"Would someone please tell me what's going on?" Marty asked before taking a swig from Robin's beer. "Who are those people upstairs? Why is everything so... so festive?"

"Patience, my dear. All shall be revealed." Loren shot a furtive glance in Mariana's direction. The redhead glided up to the table and sat down.

"Yesterday, military authorities ordered everyone to evacuate the entire west coast of Turtle Island," she grimly announced.

"Turtle Island," Claire sneered. "Did you grow up on the rez?"

"We are all daughters of Earth---past and present," Mariana snapped. Candlelight flickered in her emerald green eyes.

"So what? In a few days we'll all be puking our guts out from gamma radiation" Claire sniped, twisting the strap of her medical backpack. Loren stood and lightly placed her hands on her lover's trembling shoulders.

"Take it easy, babe."

"Don't you get it?! We're all going to die a slow hideous death!" Claire blurted out, fighting tears. Mariana abruptly got up from the table and began to pace its circumference.

"Everyone that wished to leave Hecate's Cove did so today," she continued. "Those of us who stayed are all here at the Sand Dollar. The entire coast will be virtually deserted by tomorrow."

"What difference does that make?" Marty piped up. Mariana mumbled something inaudible and exited out the front door. "Who is she?" Marty asked Loren.

"That's Mariana Morgan--local mystic. Never mind her. Look, you two, here's the deal. We can survive this thing. There's something amazing going down and it has something to do with electromagnetic grids and trans-temporal shift--that sort of thing." Claire and Marty looked at each other and burst out laughing. Marty was the first to notice the dead serious expression on the chief's chiseled features.

"Sorry, chief," Marty sobered up fast. "I know you're only trying to make sense of a senseless situation. How much time do we have left, do you think?"

"Forever...if we play our cards right," Robin interjected, also dead serious.

"You two are creepin' me out," Claire said. "I figure we have a week at the most." She clung to Loren's arm.

"There's something I want to show you," Robin said and stood.

"My feet are killing me, let's get a room first and go lie down," Marty seductively cajoled her beloved. But Robin ignored the proposition and walked towards the back of the lobby. Marty reluctantly followed.

"Come on," Robin said, motioning to Claire, who checked with Loren, who nodded.

Carrying a flickering votive candle, the marine expert led the two dog-tired skeptics down a narrow stairway to the cellar and lit a kerosene lamp that hung near the bottom step. She walked to the far end of the cellar, where she lit another lamp.

"What's that?" Claire asked, timidly approaching what appeared to be a large cage. A gurgling snort stopped her in her tracks. Marty gasped.

"Come closer, honey," Robin said, reaching out. "It's OK."

The newcomers couldn't believe their eyes. A silvery equine-like creature glistened in the lamplight. Its iridescent scales, fin-like mane and tale twitched nervously, while its large fish eyes studied the two shocked faces peering in through the thick aluminum bars.

"The creature of the black lagoon," Marty tentatively joked, with her heart in her throat. Images of Kuan Yin flashed across her mind in tandem with the mysterious symbols she'd been poring over for weeks. Everything she read about the ancients suddenly began to make sense and left her with a desire to touch the creature.

"May I?" she asked Robin.

"Slip your hand between the bars. She'll come to you," Robin gently assured.

"How do you know it's a she?" Marty asked.

"Basic anatomy, my dear," Robin replied. "Go ahead, it's safe--reach out to her."

Marty cautiously slipped her trembling hand through the bars. The creature nickered softly, bobbed her scaly head, then took a half step towards the human hand.

Gurgling and wheezing, she stretched her glistening neck just far enough to graze Marty's fingers with her clammy muzzle. Instantly, a curtain of golden light illuminated the cellar. Marty fell to her knees and wept.

When the light dissipated, Claire, who clung to the banister at the foot of the stairs, was more than ready to escape up to the lobby. She turned to do just that, when Loren rushed up and embraced her.

"Not so fast, Raintree."

"Let go."

"Since when are you afraid of a little slime?" Loren tightened her grip.

"Knock it off." Claire pushed her lover away and bolted up the stairs. Loren wanted to chase after her, but she knew Claire wasn't ready. With a heavy heart, she re-joined Marty and Robin.

"A scoop and then some, right, kiddo?" the chief said, stroking Marty's heaving shoulders.

"I saw so clearly," Marty sputtered. "there's always been another way...so simple...so perfect." Marty clung to Robin, who gave the thumbs up to Loren just as the creature let out a pitiful cry.

"We can't keep her locked up like this much longer," Robin said.

"Is she hungry?" Marty sniffled.

"She hasn't touched the fresh seaweed I put in there this evening."

"She's probably lonely for her own kind," Loren offered.

"Where'd she come from?" Marty asked Robin.

"My guess is tropical waters, judging from the scale pattern and coloring."

"Like the poor manatee," Marty said, stifling a sob.

"More of a deep-sea denizen, is my guess," Robin said.

"How'd she end up here?" Marty's inquisitive nature stemmed the tide of emotions she was experiencing.

"I have no idea," Robin replied.

"Who found her?"

"Mariana."

"Where?"

"Hecate's cove. The creature was hiding out in a sea cave. Mariana coaxed her out just before high tide yesterday, and the poor thing followed her all the way to the back of the inn and right in through the delivery door to the cellar. Mariana herself put this makeshift stall together."

"Who else knows about her?" Marty pressed.

"Everyone here at the inn."

"Have they all touched her?"

"No, just you, me and Loren. Others have wanted to, but the creature seems quite selective."

"Did you see what I just saw?" Marty asked Robin.

"And what did you see?" Robin chuckled.

"A primeval rain forest--untouched. I can hardly describe the beauty…it was..."

"Like a dream," Loren interjected.

"Yes! A dream come true," Marty sputtered and started to weep again. Robin embraced her.

"Baby, I knew you'd get it," she said, biting her lip to keep from crying.

"What about Mariana? Has she touched the creature?" Marty asked wide-eyed.

"Mariana didn't seem at all interested," Loren said.

"Why?"

"Beats me, but whatever her reason, I'm sure it's for the best," Loren assured.

"How do you know that?"

"Questions, questions, questions," Robin teased and put her hand over Marty's mouth.

"Once a news hound always a news hound," Loren said. "Believe me, kiddo, more than you ever wanted to know in a million years will soon come to light."

Loren blew out the kerosene lamp near the stall. Its prisoner's pitiful whimper weighed heavy on the hearts of all three women as they made their way back up to the dining room, where Claire sat playing solitaire by candlelight at a table for two near a shuttered window.

"Who's winning?" Loren sat down across from her.

"Nobody." Claire kept her mind on the game, even though she was dying to fall into Loren's arms and pretend that the last nine hours were a bad dream.

"I'm sorry," Loren said, placing her hand on Claire's.

"For what?"

"For making a joke of your fears."

"It makes no difference," Claire said. She cleared the cards and started to re-shuffle.

"Oh, but it does--more than you know," Loren said. She gently took the well-worn deck from Claire's shaky hands and set it aside. "Let's talk."

Loren eased Claire over to the fireplace, where they sat down on one end of a horseshoe sectional.

"Why aren't you using your cane?"

"Don't need it," Loren boasted, slapping her knee. "Good as new."

"That's impossible. An injury like yours takes weeks to heal."

Loren jumped to her feet and held our her hand. "Care to dance?" she asked with a few smooth moves.

"You're crazy," Claire grinned and stood.

Slow dancing and lingering affection drove them upstairs to a vacant room, where they spent the rest of the night making love. At dawn, Loren woke up in an empty bed and found her Claire standing out on the balcony wrapped in a blanket, her long black hair whipping on the brisk ocean breeze.

"How long have you been out here?" Loren asked with a shiver.

"Since the hour of the wolf," Claire replied.

"Did you see one?"

"No, but I saw some raccoons holding a pow wow."

"What about?" Loren chuckled.

"It's funny, but watching them reminded me of a story my grandfather used to tell about Spiderwoman weaving a new world from the old one," Claire said. She turned to face Loren, whose hazel eyes were misty with tenderness.

"She's hard at it as we speak," Loren whispered and stroked Claire's cool cheek.

"I wish I could believe that."

"What do you have to lose?"

"Not a thing."

"Are you ready, babe?"

"I'm scared."

"I know. So was I. Remember, to let her come to you," Loren said and kissed Claire's damp forehead.

The two lovers dressed and went down to the cellar. Loren lit the lamps and cautiously Claire approached the cage. The creature was very weak, but managed a gentle nicker when the human hand slipped through the bars. Breathing erratically, the magical hybrid stretched her neck and touched the tips of Claire's slender fingers. Instantly, a blinding rainbow of colors swirled around the cellar. There was a low hum, then the rainbow collapsed in on itself and became a green funnel cloud that twisted itself into a thousand light crystals that fell like snow from the ceiling.

When it was over, Claire, who until that moment knew not a single word of her grandmother's native tongue, chanted something in Lakota and started to swoon. Loren held her tight. The equid let out a mournful cry, fell to her knees, and rolled over onto her side. The cry brought Robin to the cellar door. She flew down the stairs and opened the cage door.

"Is she dying?" Loren asked.

"If we don't get her on her feet, she will," Robin replied.

"But we don't dare touch her again," Loren said.

"Mariana will," Claire said with authority.

"How do you know this?" Robin asked.

"The mare calls for her," the Lakota Swede replied and was shocked by her own declaration. "Sorry. I don't know why I said such a weird thing."

"Stranger things have happened around here, believe me," Robin said.

"You can't just let her die," Loren tearfully pleaded.

Dr. Walker darted over to the cellar stairs.

"Where are you going?" Loren anxiously asked.

"To get Mariana."

Chapter VIII

"Will that be all for tonight, miss?" the butler inquired from the library doorway.

"Yes, Barnes. Go to your family," Grace replied from behind the massive desk piled high with books on subjects ranging from archaeology to quantum theory.

"Excuse me, but are you sure you'll be all right here alone this evening, miss? There are terrible reports coming in over the telly."

"I'll ring if I need anything. Please leave me to my work." Grace adjusted her reading glasses.

"Very well. Good night, miss," Barnes said, backing out of the room and closing the huge pocket doors. A plump tabby cat jumped from the top of the sofa onto the desk. Grace, without taking her eyes off the page, reached out and stroked the overweight feline, who began to purr. The grandfather clock played a couple bars of Tschaikowsky's Fifth Symphony and started to chime.

Grace took off her reading glasses, stretched, and walked over to the window to take in the brilliant orange Moon hanging low over the blacked-out city. When the chimes stopped at eleven, she speed-dialed Loren's office.

"Cross here. Leave your number and some news I can use." The terse recording filled Grace's ear for the tenth time that evening.

"I've got news, all right," Grace said after clicking off her phone. "What a pity you won't ever hear it."

She plopped back down in the desk chair and rested her elbows on her notes. The tabby stretched her way across the desk and rubbed against Grace's alabaster arm.

"Zoe, tell me a secret," Grace implored the affectionate familiar, who rolled over on her back and stretched to double her normal length.

"Oh, come on now, play fair for once. I've told you all of mine."

Grace picked up the cat and carried her to the window. Zoe expected her favorite game, to be lugged from room to room, no small feat in the four-story mansion on the summit of Wellington Heights. But not this time.

"On this the worst of all nights, my friend, you'll have to settle for one last view of the Moon," Grace bravely said, "As will I."

Grace carried Zoe over to the French doors that led out to the balcony and set her down on the marble floor. When she flung the doors open, Zoe, who hated to go outdoors, darted back to the top of the sofa and busily preened.

"Have it your way," Grace chided and stepped out into the yellow Moonlight. Her fine flaxen hair tossed in the unseasonably warm breeze as she leaned on the ornate wrought iron railing. The elegant scholar looked like a dream in her sheer silk blouse and flowing skirt, and anyone who happened to spot her from the rose garden below would swear she was about to float right up to the Stars.

To those who thought they knew her, that was the essence of Grace--elusive, maddeningly beautiful, and certainly no slave to common convention. In truth, no one really knew Grace Chadwick. Except for Zoe, she had never entrusted anyone with her secret yearnings. And although confessing to a cat eased the deeply scarred heart of Gracie, the child, it did nothing for the complicated woman she had become.

After the escapade with Loren, Grace found it more and more difficult to convince herself that the sordid sexual favors she felt compelled to bestow on patients were simple acts of compassion. Not until Loren did she let anyone kiss her on the lips, never before had she opened to tenderness. To do so had turned her harsh view of people and the world on its head.

So when Grace learned that civilization, for all practical purposes was doomed, she awaited her fate not with terror, but with sweet relief. Curiously, she found the looming catastrophe exquisitely arousing, so much so she quit her job at the rehab center in order to spend what time she had left giving herself unending pleasure in her locked garret at the top of the spiral staircase. When the novelty finally wore off, however, she was left with an alien longing so deep it drove her to seek sanctuary in her father's library.

Reading had always soothed Grace's wounded spirit and qualified her to teach any number of subjects, from astrophysics to metaphysics. But she never gave the academic life a second thought, especially since both parents had chosen the accolades of the ivory tower over the welfare of their only child. It was only logical, then, as her string of psychiatrists often claimed, that learning for learning's sake became Grace's only way of connecting with them. How tragic that their plane went down somewhere over the middle of the Pacific before they could realize how fierce the hunger that fueled their brilliant offspring's quest for knowing.

Now, it was a different hunger that drew Grace out onto the library balcony. For reasons unknown to her, she had determined that the cold dead Moon held the key to the padlocked chains around her soul. As she studied its pocked and scarred surface, a woman's face emerged. At first, she thought it resembled Loren's, but the more she studied it, it was clear that face looked nothing like the best lover she'd ever seduced. Rather, it was the face of a stranger, or maybe someone she'd seen once in a crowd and never met.

A dabbler in the occult, Grace never found the concept of past lives particularly appealing, but there was something about that face in the Moon that was undeniably familiar.

It tugged at the core of her need to know the truth, compelled her to climb down the latticework to the labyrinth of rose gardens, out the massive gate onto Wellington Drive, and eventually down the winding deserted lanes to the ghostly city itself.

Like a sleepwalker, Grace wandered westward. Her sandaled feet became blistered and bloody, but she kept walking entranced down the middle of the deserted thoroughfares and westward past the city limits to the open highway that threaded through the foothills of the coast range. The steady incline brought chilling winds that ripped through her sheer clothing and left her breathless. But the shock to her senses only spurred within her soul a greater determination to reach the Pacific. Not since her toddler days in the plump arms of her first nursemaid had the lonely bookworm delighted more in whatever Mother Nature dished out. It was as if she were romping once again in the sprawling gardens of her short-lived innocence.

Under the light of the Moon, Grace, semi-delirious, giggled her way down the centerline of the winding blacktop. About half way to the summit, she stumbled upon an abandoned car with its keys still in the ignition. Ironically, her life of extraordinary privilege never required that she learn to drive, and unlike most teens, she never felt a desire to terrorize the roadways in fancy sports cars and such. All she knew about driving was what she observed in the front seat with her first molester, Landen, the family chauffeur.

Undaunted, she climbed behind the wheel and turned the key. Since she hadn't a clue about gearshifts, the car lurched ahead and promptly died. Purely through trial and error, Grace discovered the intimate relationship between the clutch and gas pedal. After a series of fits and starts, the old sedan finally spun its wheels out onto the blacktop, spitting a flurry of gravel. Unable at first to move the gears beyond second, the novice driver revved along at a top speed of twenty miles per hour.

Once she discovered she had other options, she recklessly careened along at sixty. Twice she nearly flew over steep embankments before reining in her newfound lust for speed.

As fate would have it, Grace ran out of gas about a mile from the summit. Since she didn't know anything about emergency breaks, the car rolled into a ditch before she could extricate herself from behind the wheel.

When the two deserters pulled up in their jeep, they found the gorgeous blonde swearing up a storm and throwing rocks at the faithless vehicle.

"It's a broad," the driver said with a wolf whistle.

"I could go for some of that," his buddy slobbered after gulping another shot from the whisky bottle. He ogled the hourglass figure silhouetted in the headlights and drooled over the voluptuous breasts exposed through the torn silk blouse. With the engine running in their stolen jeep, the two marines hopped out and approached the raging beauty, who didn't seem to notice or care about their looming presence.

"Need a ride?" the driver asked, leering at her heaving breasts. Grace knew instantly he meant her great harm and automatically used his lust to her advantage.

"Hi, there," she seductively replied, running her finger down her cleavage. "It seems I've run out of gas."

"Oh, man," the soldier with the bottle muttered, "she is too fucking hot."

"We'd give you some gas, but we're headed for Canada," the driver said, barely able to control the impulse to jump her on the spot.

"I'll give her a ride all right," his buddy muttered and staggered towards Grace, who dodged his clumsy grope with a girlish giggle.

"You boys going to the coast?" she asked the obvious. She sidled up to the driver.

"That's right," he slurred, then nearly lost his footing when Grace slipped her fingers behind his belt buckle and pulled.

"So am I," she half-whispered in his ear. "I own a little place down in Rocky Beach. You and hot stuff over there are welcome to stay and party...if you're not in too much of a hurry, that is," the expert seductress said, lightly leaning against the driver's hard-on.

"Get in," he said. When his buddy tried to climb in the front, he banished him to the back seat. Grace got in and clasped her arms around her horny chauffeur's grimy neck.

"You're going to have to spread your legs, honey, so I can shift," he said, stroking her thigh.

"Hey, don't I get any?" his drunken companion whined with his chin on Grace's shoulder. His foul breath was nauseating.

"Shut-up, Skeeter! You'll get your shot down at Rocky Beach," the driver snarled and spun gravel westward.

As they careened towards the Pacific, Grace serviced him three times and hopped in the back seat to do the same for Skeeter, who passed out with his pants around his ankles. She grabbed a pistol from the extensive cache on the floor and slipped it under the front seat before rejoining her insatiable trick, whose obscene commentary grew more violent with every mile. By the time they reached Highway 101, Grace knew he was psyched for torture and murder.

The twice-decorated marine lieutenant pulled the jeep into a grove of cedars and shut off the engine and headlights. He grabbed Grace roughly by the hair, whispered heinous threats in her ear and took out a hunting knife, which he pressed against her delicate throat. Her life passed before her eyes, but primitive outrage saved it before the first cut. She jabbed her thumbs into his eyes, which distracted him long enough for her to grab the gun from under the seat. Her assailant wrapped his hands around her throat and instantly received a forty-five slug in the heart.

Blood sprayed in all directions as he fell forward on top of his prey turned slayer. Meanwhile, Skeeter came to, saw his chance and pulled his dead buddy off of the still breathing receptacle of his manhood. Struggling to pull up his pants, he tried to drag her from the jeep, but she hit him across the nose with the .45. Enraged, Skeeter chased her into the woods and caught up with her under a massive cedar. He slapped her hard several times and tore off her blouse. He started to rape her when a loud crack echoed from the underbrush. The seasoned marine automatically ducked. Grace, barely conscious, grabbed Skeeter's pistol from its holster and pulled the trigger.

Wounded in the leg, Skeeter fell to his knees and squealed in vain for mercy. Grace emptied the entire chamber into the crucifix tattooed on his chest. The volley of shots scared a pair of elk deeper into the forest; their leaps and bounds were silhouetted against the brilliant Moonlight. Grace fell prostrate onto the forest floor, where the scent of damp soil filled her with such gratitude she wept.


Except for a few stragglers, 101 was deserted. The lunar lighting was so intense, Grace turned off the jeep headlights and enjoyed a dream of a drive down the incandescent center line. She didn't know exactly where she was going, but trusted her aching heart to know her true destination when she saw it. She brought the jeep to a screeching halt when the battered sign for Hecate's Cove, whose letters reflected the most spectacular Harvest Moon in centuries, came into view. She repeated the name silently to herself until it dawned on her.

"Of course! The missing women!" she shouted and took a hard right.

It was the dead of night when Grace drove at a snail's pace down Main right past the sleeping residents of the Sand Dollar Inn. She ended up in the parking lot at the south end of town. In despair and grinding pain from the blows to her head, she cut the engine and climbed out of the jeep. She staggered to the foot of the steep stairway and sat down.

Pulling her bruised and bleeding knees to her chest, she wanted to bawl, but her outrage wouldn't allow it. The wounded seeker struggled to her feet, flipped off the Moon, and collapsed in a heap onto the sharp gravel.

Chapter IX

With precious little time left, it was a choice only Mariana could make. She saved the sea mare with her touch and fell deathly ill. Yet she found some respite in knowing that no matter her fate, lives would be spared.

"I forbid you to go back up there alone," Sadie said with tears flowing down her ruddy cheeks.

"Mother. It's only for a little awhile," Mariana said, her voice fading.

"I'm coming with you." Sadie held tight to her daughter's hand and kissed it.

"Keeper will show up, I know he will. I have to be there when he does."

Sadie didn't have the heart to dispel the lingering illusion. "You'll come back here with him when he does?"

"I promise." Sadie broke down in her daughter's arms.

"Don't cry, mom. This is a day for joy."

Sadie lifted her head from Mariana's shoulder. "Joy?" she bitterly scoffed.

"Don't you see, soon you'll be free."

Sadie broke into sobs again. Mariana motioned to Loren, who eased the distraught widow away from her daughter's sick bed. At the doorway, Sadie balked. "You are the joy of my life, Mariana Louise."

"I know, mother," Mariana half-whispered with a stoic smile. When the door clicked shut, the tears flowed as she slipped from bed and promptly fell on the floor. Breathing was difficult, strength was waning fast, but Mariana pulled herself up and sat on the edge of the bed. With considerable difficulty, she put on her ragged denim jacket, her father's old knit cap, and her hiking boots. And when she stood and saw her reflection in the dresser mirror, she couldn't help but smile.

"I remember you," she said and pulled some stray ringlets of hair from her eyes.

On rubbery legs, Mariana made her way out into the hallway and inched her way to the exit that led to the outside stairs. Breathing was touch and go, but she was able to make it down to the courtyard, where she crawled on her hands and knees up the stone steps to Main. The chance of finding Keeper drew her from lamppost to lamppost all the way to the south end of town.

When Mariana reached the parking lot, her overtaxed heart skipped a beat the moment she saw the jeep. Certain that looters were nearby, she took the long way around to the stairway. As she approached the mud-splattered vehicle, she scanned the perimeter and froze when she spotted what appeared to be a corpse.

"Oh, no, not another murdered woman," she muttered and cautiously shuffled closer. When she bent over the half-naked body, there was a faint groan. Mariana fell to her knees and carefully picked strands of matted hair from the most beautiful face she'd ever seen. When she felt for a pulse, she suffered a flurry of slaps.

"Get off me!" Grace shrieked.

Mariana recoiled. Grace, realizing the stranger meant no harm, staggered to her feet and gathered her shredded blouse around her nakedness.

"Who are you?" she asked the redhead.

Mariana didn't answer; she grabbed for the railing and pulled herself up. After negotiating the first step, she said over her shoulder, "I suppose your friends are ransacking my house."

"I'm alone," Grace replied with a riveted gaze on Mariana's glazed-over green eyes.

"What are you doing here?" Mariana asked, fighting for breath.

"I...I..." Grace tried to form the words, but the world started to spin.

Mariana lunged from the stair and kept Grace from falling. Her head wound trickled blood. "You better take care of that," Mariana said. Barely able to stand, she helped Grace begin the long slow painful climb. About halfway, Grace fought desperately to stay conscious.

"Gotta rest," she gasped and plopped down onto the stair. Mariana gladly joined her. "How much farther?"

"Another sixty-two steps."

"That's a relief. Sixty-three would definitely be out of the question."

For the first time in years, Mariana enjoyed a good laugh. Still giggling, she grabbed the railing and tried to pull herself up, but lost her footing. Even though her own sense of balance was tenuous at best, Grace managed to save the both of them from tumbling head over heels. Afterwards, she had to chuckle.

"What's so funny?" Mariana breathlessly asked.

"We're quite a pair. Here we are, risking what's left of our lives just for an ocean view."

"I'm going home," Mariana said.

"What a coincidence. So am I," Grace grinned.

Although the glib declaration begged for it, Mariana simply didn't have the strength or curiosity to ask the obvious.

In silence, they reached the Morgan A-frame at dawn. While Grace took in what she presumed was her last Sunrise, Mariana called for Keeper, then gave up and went inside, where she collapsed on the living room couch. When Grace came in, she found her sound asleep; Mariana's breathing was shallow and raspy. Grace quietly shut the door, took the comforter Sadie kept draped over the rocking chair, and covered her failing host.

Mariana awoke to a roaring fire in the old stone fireplace and the aroma of fresh coffee. Wrapped in one of Sadie's many shawls, Grace contentedly rocked from across the cozy living room.

"Feeling better?" she asked with a tentative smile.

"A little," Mariana lied.

"I've been watching you sleep." Grace sipped her coffee. Mariana sat up and avoided her guest's probing aquamarine eyes. "I know who you are," Grace smugly announced. Without a word, the ailing mystic extricated herself from the sofa and shuffled into the kitchen. Grace followed her. "Would you like me to fix you something to eat?"

"I'm not hungry," Mariana coldly replied and poured some coffee into her favorite cup. She curled up at the far end of the couch. "Fix yourself something...if you want."

Grace sat back down in the rocker. "I helped myself to a peanut butter and jelly sandwich."

"Your wound--it should be cleaned."

"What difference does it make?"

A heavy silence lingered, during which Grace got lost in Mariana's emerald stare.

"Who are you?" Mariana finally asked.

"I'm Grace."

"You said you knew my name." Mariana studied the aqua-blues that hardly ever blinked.

"I know who you are, but I don't know your name."

"Whatever," Mariana sighed. She certainly had no time, much less any interest in games, and wished the enigmatic stranger would get bored and leave her to die in peace.

"I saw your face in the Moon last night," Grace said.

Mariana stretched out on the couch and mutely stared up at the ceiling.

"A most lovely face," Grace half-whispered, fighting unexpected tears.

"My name is Mariana," the failing host said with her eyelids at half-mast.

"How your heart aches, Mariana." Tears now streamed down Grace's grimy cheeks.

"Whose doesn't in..."

"Hell?"

"Yes. And..what...about your heart, Grace?" Mariana could hardly breathe.

"Mine stopped aching at the bottom of the stairway," Grace answered and dried her tears with the muddy sleeve of her tattered blouse. Breathing shallow, Mariana looked intently at the strange girl and tentatively held out her hand. "I can't," a child's voice whimpered.

Mariana let her arm fall, then suffered a paroxysm of coughing. Grace rushed to the kitchen and brought some water. She wanted so much to comfort and be comforted by the woman in the Moon, but `I mustn't ruin everything,' she cautioned inside herself.

"Touch heals," Mariana managed between coughs, as if she'd read Grace's mind.

"Why are you so ill?"

"The mare was dying...and...I...had to save her," Mariana gasped and choked. She was surprised when Grace seemed to take the cryptic answer in stride.

"What do you think happened to the women that disappeared from here?" Grace, who'd been diligently following the case, pointedly asked.

"They're...with...the zebras," Mariana managed, took a sip of water and braced for a fit of scornful laughter.

"Take me there," Grace pleaded, not caring at all where `there' was.

"If...only I...could," the dying mystic whispered. Her eyelids drooped, her chin fell to her chest. The glass of water tumbled to the floor.

"Oh, no! You can't! Please don't leave me here alone!" Grace cried. She fell to her knees and touched the freckled cheek. Instantly, a shimmering curtain of purple light enclosed the couch. A low frequency hum shook the house; pictures and knickknacks crashed to the floor. Mariana sat bolt upright and pulled Grace into her arms.

When the shaking subsided, the curtain snaked its way out the front door left ajar by the violent tremors. Mariana took Grace's perfect face in her hands and kissed her forehead.

"Now, I know who you are," she whispered. With renewed strength the Amazon easily stood with Grace in her arms. "I want to show you something."

Mariana carried her accidental savior out to the studio, where she sat her down at the drawing board. Grace hung on every word as Mariana explained the maps she'd drawn and read aloud from her dream journal. She even revealed in detail her recurring visions. And as the warrior mystic spoke of miracles to come, Grace anticipated every word, as if she'd dreamt it all herself.

"We go at dusk?"

"Yes," Mariana said, stroking Grace's cheek.

Grace jumped down from her perch. "Dance with me," she said.

"I thought you'd never ask."

The boon companions spun themselves silly and landed in a pile of packing material, where they spent the rest of that fateful day falling in love.

Chapter X

Cynthia McKibben, mayor of Hecate's cove for more than a quarter century, summoned everyone to the banquet hall. There was dead silence before she spoke.

"In less than 24 hours, each of you will decide your own fate, and those of you with children must decide theirs as well. Your courage has renewed my faith in the human race, and I am deeply honored to have spent these last days with you all. Your devotion to this town and our community will not be forgotten. I am certain it will be the stuff of legend for generations to come, as well as an inspiration for those who survive to carry on in a world of unimaginable destruction. I know this must ring empty right now, but remember, where there's life there's hope. I think some fella in a toga said that."

The group chuckled.

"Anyway, I'm going to turn things over to Dr. Robin Walker, our visiting marine expert, who will fill you in on important details that will help you with your difficult decision. Robin?"

Robin took the podium and cleared her throat. The ends of her dreadlocks were beautifully adorned with tiny seashells Marty had collected on the beach that morning.

"Evening, everyone...let me first thank you for your trust and invaluable help in the face of these terrible events. As you know, the creature caged in the darkness of the cellar is unlike anything known to modern science. She looks as if she pranced straight out of a fairy tale. To me, she's an enigma. Anatomically, she's not a seahorse per se, nor is she technically a mammal. From what I can tell, she is a hybrid of highly refined instinct and intelligence similar perhaps to the whale, and she probably comes from the deepest parts of the ocean, where total darkness prevails. How she got here is a complete mystery. Why she came here is the more important question, I believe. It's what I want to discuss this evening."

"I'm a scientist, which, makes me a skeptic. As much as I hate to admit it, the behavior of this creature and the profound effect she's had on me cannot be explained by logic alone, at least western logic. My grandmother, who lived her whole life in Missouri by the way, had a couple of favorite sayings she liked to pull out of the hat when us grandkids got our tails in a knot about one thing or another. First, she used to say that people with horse sense live the happiest lives. And that's because they know when they're well off."

The audience laughed.

"And the other thing she used to say was that life without magic isn't worth a plug nickel." More laughter mixed with a few `hear-hears' echoed throughout the banquet hall.

"My grandmother was a very wise woman, and she raised eight children who made her proud. And I want you all to know that her spirit is with you tonight. Maybe that creature in the cellar came here to instill in each and every one of us some good old-fashioned horse sense, or maybe she came here to make us believe in magic again. All I know is that extraordinary times call for extraordinary action and I honor yours whatever it may turn out to be."

A standing ovation shook the old-growth fir floors. Robin was pleased that she could at least bring a few smiles and a ray of hope to the otherwise grave gathering of loyal citizens, none of whom had been likewise touched by the creature in the cellar.

"Thank you, Dr. Walker," the mayor said, still clapping. "Now, I'd like to turn the floor over to Loren Cross who has some vital information. Loren?" Loren, who was sitting alone on the window ledge, stood but didn't step up to the podium.

"I'm not much for speeches, so let me cut to the chase. Before Sundown tomorrow, four of us will be gathering for a ceremony on the beach just below Raven's Bluff, that would be around four o'clock. Any of you who wish, can join us. I cannot give details about what will occur, partly because I'm not exactly sure myself. But let me assure you that whatever takes place is for the good of all. For those of you who join us, all we ask is that you keep an open mind." The audience mumbled and whispered.

"Those that change their mind at the last moment, must not, I repeat, must not interfere with the ritual. They can leave any time. That's all I have to say." Loren sat down.

"Is Mariana Morgan leading the ritual?" a woman in the front row asked.

"No leaders have been designated," Loren replied.

"Will the sea creature be involved?" a gentleman in the back asked.

"Yes. One more question."

"Is she a unicorn?" a young girl piped up.

"I don't think so, since she doesn't have a horn," Loren answered with a forced grin.

"Can I go pet her?" the girl pleaded.

Loren was losing patience, so Claire stood and spoke out from her front row seat. "You will all see her tomorrow. Right now, she needs her rest."

"What's her name?" the little girl persisted.

"Rhea!" Mariana's voice rang out from the back of the room. Everyone turned around. Sadie, who was sitting next to Claire, gasped when she beheld her daughter looking every bit the picture of health in her green riding jacket, shiny black riding boots, and breeches. Loren's heart skipped a beat when she saw Grace, also the picture of health, decked out in a safari jacket, cargo pants, and hiking boots, courtesy of the town's outdoor store. She stood with her arm linked through Mariana's, and the candle she held cast a warm glow over her lovely face.

Ever since their romp at the rehab center, Loren was undeniably enchanted by the elegant genius, who seemed at that moment nothing less than the essence of mercy in a world of pain. Still reeling from her meeting with Marty in the courtyard, where the news of Will's death had hit her like a sledge hammer, the queen of glib stood speechless and vulnerable. Sensing this, Grace approached. Loren rushed to her.

"I'm so sorry, honey," she whispered over and over, until Grace couldn't stand it anymore. She grabbed Loren firmly by the wrists and looked into those hazel eyes that brimmed with tears and said, "I'm not sorry--not at all."

"But I used you." Loren began to openly weep and hoped Claire hadn't noticed.

"Your kiss brought me to this," Grace said and twirled like a model in her new outfit.

"Huh?" was all Loren could say. Confused and painfully aware that everyone in the room was staring, she almost bolted from the room.

Claire approached and said, "Mariana wants to speak now." Loren let herself be led to a window bench, where Grace joined her and took hold of her left hand. Loren didn't know whether to feel relieved or disappointed when Claire showed no signs of jealousy. In fact, the Lakota Swede plopped herself down close and clung tight to Loren's right hand. `Am I dreaming, or what?' the jaded rake had to ask herself while basking in the moment.

"Attention everyone!" the mayor's voice boomed over the chattering audience. "All of you know Mariana Morgan. I've known her since she was a toddler running around on the beach in her birthday suit."

The audience laughed, especially Grace, who shouted out, "When you've got it, flaunt it!"

Mariana, who everyone expected to be mortified, blew a kiss to her heckler.

The audience tittered, and after a few wolf-whistles, got a good scolding from the mayor. "OK, OK! Enough already! Time is running out! Mariana?" Cynthia motioned for her to take the podium. Instead, Mariana, who never gave a speech in her life, stood beside it and with a deep breath began:

"First, a correction. There will be six of us performing the ritual tomorrow, not four as originally stated. All of you who wish to join us will strengthen the magic. If the magic succeeds, and I have every reason to think that it will, everyone here and all life on Earth will benefit."

The audience remained utterly silent in rapt attention. Mariana made eye contact with each of the faces in the dining hall, faces she'd grown up with, faces that gave solace on those darkest of days after her father died, faces now drawn with immeasurable fear and sorrow. Mariana wanted nothing more than to somehow repay them for the faith they'd kept in her, and most of all for the unyielding support they'd given her widowed mother when it counted most. Mariana cleared her throat and spoke her truth.

"I am not a preacher..far from it. But I want to talk tonight about faith. Not blind faith as preached from the pulpit, but visionary faith. I invite you--no--I plead with you to let your imagination run wild tonight, to remember your dreams. Even in the midst of this hell on Earth, I ask you to envision the world you long for. During this Fall season, the veil between life and death is thin. This allows us to see past the wreckage all around us into stunning realms otherwise invisible. The ritual at dusk tomorrow holds great promise. I hope you will all come. Our collective magic will work--I know it will. Tonight I wish you all the sweetest of dreams, for tomorrow they could very well come true."

Mariana sat down next to her mother, who beamed with pride. The audience burst into applause that lasted for several minutes and sparked tearful hugs all around.

Suddenly, Marty, fresh from a nocturnal hike in the old growth, burst into the hall and up to the front. "Snuff the candles!" she shouted. "We've got big trouble!"

Except for thin beams of Moonlight shooting between the slats in the shutters, the hall went black. Children whimpered, candle smoke filled the air as the ominous roar of cycles shook crystal and rattled windows.

"Cynthia," the constable whispered, "take everybody down into the cellar and bolt the door...and keep them very still." After the mayor shepherded the townspeople away, the constable, Mariana, and her new allies stationed themselves along the windows.

"See anything?" Marty whispered to Loren, who was peering through a crack in the shutter.

"They're ransacking the grocery story," she replied.

"How many are there?" Claire asked her lover and broke into a cold sweat when she remembered the .45 Loren had stuffed in her medical backpack up in their room.

"I'd say about a dozen or so. Uh-oh, get away from the window," Loren warned when two of the bikers started walking across Main towards the inn. Their heavy boots stomped and scraped along the boardwalk as they approached the shuttered windows.

"Let's bring that bitch we picked up last night and party down," one said, pressing his nose against the glass.

"No way! You heard what Rocket said, we gotta keep movin' or we're dead meat."

"There's gotta be a bar in there with a shitload of booze," the other said and broke the window. Shards of glass fell on Claire's head. Bleeding from a cut over her right eye, she crawled under a table just before the entire window came crashing in.

The silhouette of a scraggly-topped hulk climbed inside and promptly stumbled over a chair. "Shit! Tool, give me that friggin' flashlight!"

Tool handed it through the broken window. "Hell, there ain't no liquor in there. I'm gettin' me some beer," he said and stomped back across the street to the grocery.

The intruder got as far as the dining hall entry when Loren and Claire jumped him. When the flashlight landed at Loren's feet, she nabbed it and repeatedly beat the biker several times on the head, until he collapsed over a table.

"Jeez Louise! You killed him!" Fran, the constable, yelled and immediately covered her mouth.

"Now you've done it," Robin hissed, checking the enemy for weapons. She found a large skinning knife and a .38 pistol and gave them to Mariana, who slipped them behind her belt.

"Shit! More are headed this way. Everybody, upstairs!" Mariana commanded. The group tore up the grand staircase to the second floor exit and had just started to descend the outside stairway, when they heard a huge thud, followed by the sound of more breaking glass.

"There goes the front door," the constable said.

"Andale!" Marty shouted and led the charge down the stairs, through the courtyard and around to the back of the building. She tapped on the outside cellar door.

"Open up, it's Marty," she said, stifling the impulse to yell. Finally, the door creaked open, Sadie's face appeared.

"Oh, Lordie, what now?!"

"Mother, take this and shoot to kill if you have to," Mariana said, squeezing past Marty, who seemed frozen in place. Mariana gave Sadie the .38, which Fran quickly plucked from her old friend's trembling hand.

"I'll stay here," Fran said. "You girls create a diversion."

"That's the plan," Mariana snidely said and coaxed the sea mare out of her stall.

Grace appeared in the cellar doorway. "Hurry!" she said to Mariana. Her eyes, big as saucers, glowed in the Harvest Moonlight. "They've spotted us from an upstairs window."

"You and the others take the wildwood trail up to Raven's Bluff! Marty knows the way!" Mariana shouted.

"What about you?" Grace asked, clasping her beloved's arm.

"Rhea will take care of me," Mariana replied and led the creature outside. Multi-colored sparks flew from its scaly back the moment the fabulous equestrian touched her withers. "Grace. You know what to do. Go!"

"Remember, darling, tonight, we rest in our dream," Grace said before turning to follow the others.

In a shower of sparks, Mariana swung onto Rhea's back. "Grace! Wait!" she called. Mariana took the journal from inside her jacket and tossed it to her. "Guard it with your life! The maps are inside!" Grace blew a kiss and disappeared into the shadows.

"Go with the angels," Sadie tearfully said to her daughter, then crossed herself.

"Mother! Have everyone join hands in a circle. Instruct them to close their eyes and envision safe harbor. Promise?!"

"I promise. Good-bye, darling!" Sadie bolted the door shut.

Rhea reared inside a flurry of more sparks, then lunged around the corner of the building just as the angry gang came bounding down the outside stairway. They were so stunned by the sight, they froze for a moment, giving horse and rider a chance to charge past. Trailing a rainbow of what looked like Stardust, Rhea carried Mariana at breakneck speed south on Main. The entire gang, whooping and hollering, jumped on their cycles in hot pursuit.

At the end of an abandoned logging road, the magic mare cut off into a grove of ancient Sitkas. Spurred on by echoes of sputtering engines, she bobbed and weaved among the huge trees and out into an open meadow, where a herd of elk grazed, seemingly without a care in the world. A huge six-point stag, munching contentedly on a mouthful of grass, was caught in the headlight of one of the cycles. To Mariana's horror he was shot dead on the spot. The rest of the herd scattered into the woods, bawling in terror.

Searing rage yanked the brave rider from the safety of the mare's back. Brandishing the knife taken earlier from the intruder, the warrior mystic let out a blood-curdling battle cry and jumped on the shooter, ripping him from his Harley. Before he knew what hit him, he lay gurgling from a fatal wound to his chest.

"Off the witch!" his buddies shouted. Mariana looked for the mare, but she was nowhere to be seen. She scrambled to her feet and ran into the woods she knew so well and managed to ditch the thugs, who found the soft forest floor nearly impassible on their heavy machines. Mariana reemerged from the tree line out onto the far end of the meadow, where she found the mare casually grazing.

"So now you decide to eat," she scolded and in a shower of fiery sparks, swung onto her scaly back. With six hell-bent killers on her tail, Rhea accelerated to a blinding run across the meadow.

Mariana's new friends had huddled together on the edge of Raven's Bluff. Grace, the first to hear the sound of Rhea's pounding hooves, shouted, "This is our moment!" Pointing to the Moon, Grace desperately motioned for Mariana to hurry. The gang of cyclists was less than a hundred yards from their prey, when Rhea slid to a stop and reared in one last act of defiance before bolting towards the precipice.

Hanging on for dear life, Mariana cried out, "Now!"

The five women formed a line and clasped hands.

"Free for all time!" they shouted in unison and jumped.

The last thing the bikers saw before plunging five hundred feet into the angry waters of Hecate's Cove was horse and rider streaking like a meteor across the night sky.


Continued in  Dream II - Calling The Wild

If you have enjoyed Keeper's "When Amazons Dream - Dream I: Chainless Souls", then please be certain to e-mail her at  ghwriter[at]msn.com  and thank her for posting this Story.

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