Greetings, friends. This is a contest entry. As the story unfolds, you will find a dash of exhibitionism, a smattering of BDSM, a dollop of group sex, a hint of incest, and more than a few erotic encounters. It is also a dramatic tale of crime and intrigue. I hope that something in there tickles your fancy, because I need to win that big 5 vote from you. Ready? Here we go.
Saturday
I was dreaming of love when I heard the sound. It took me a few seconds to get my bearings, and to identify the rumbling as coming from the world outside my head. I thought at first that someone was revving up a Harley outside my window. For a second I was angry, then anxious -- in these parts, having bikers outside your home is generally problematic.
As the seconds ticked by I discarded these thoughts, because the rumbling kept getting louder, too loud for a bike, and now it was joined by shaking. It was dark in my place, the kind of dark you don't find in a city dwelling. I could hear the furniture vibrate and move across the floor, waking me enough to put two and two together and realize that this was an earthquake.
I can never remember whether you are supposed to stand in a doorway during an earthquake, or whether that is actually more dangerous. I opted to remain frozen in place in my bed as the contents of my little house thrashed around for what seemed like a long time -- perhaps as much as ten seconds -- and then the quake subsided.
I picked my way carefully in the darkness through my re-arranged furniture until I found the doorway and got out of the house. I worried about possible aftershocks, which could be even bigger than the first round of shaking. It was plenty dark outside as well. It must have been overcast. I couldn't see any stars. I could only speculate on what my little abode might look like inside.
After 15 minutes or so of standing sightless in the rural silence with a chilly breeze pricking at me, I went back inside. The aftershocks didn't seem to be coming, and there wasn't much I could do until daylight. I felt along the wall for a light switch, flipped it, and was not surprised that no light came on. I navigated by touch until I found my bed again, and crawled between the sheets to get some fitful sleep.
I was awakened by a pretty hefty aftershock. Opening my eyes, I could see enough dawn to illuminate the utter chaos as my furniture did another tap dance. I chose a likely path toward the door and bolted outside the house, then stood a safe distance from the building until the jittery ground came to rest.
After another 10 minutes, I ventured gingerly back into the house. The roof had collapsed in the back where the bath was. I tried the tap in the kitchen sink, and one lonely drop came out. I knew that water must now be my primary concern. It was cool at night, but the daytime temperatures would be in the triple digits. I needed to get a little closer to civilization, because no one was going to come way the hell out here to fix my water supply anytime soon.
Now, let me explain my problem to you. I'm an aspiring writer. I want to hone my craft and get published and recognized and so on and so forth, but I find it very difficult to make any headway because there are just too many damn distractions in life. So I had propped up my willpower a little by isolating myself in this little rented house in the middle of nowhere, in a community that has no name, although it lies in the vicinity of the bustling metropolis of Annette, California. The US Census Bureau has no information for Annette. It barely exists. But, as I would learn, it sits right atop the San Andreas Fault.
To keep the distraction level down, I had arranged not to have a car. If I had a car, Bakersfield would be within range, and its nightlife might have tempted me. So I stayed put most of the time. I had a friend who lived down the road in Cholame, and he would run me in to Bakersfield once a week to shop for groceries and the like. The rest of the time I was supposed to be writing.
I had neglected to factor the danger of earthquakes into my plans, and now you can see my predicament. I tried my cell phone, but it was dead. I had read just the other day that the phone companies were switching from copper cable, which carries its own electricity, to fiber optic, which doesn't. So I was stuck in the boonies with no water, no power, and no phone.
I took stock of my available supplies. In the refrigerator,I had a 64 ounce bottle of cranberry juice, which was mostly full, and a boiled egg, which I ate. A few apples in a bowl on the table were good for a bit of rehydration. I stuffed the bottle and the fruit and a bag of tortilla chips into my backpack and set off down the road toward Cholame. I wanted to cover as much distance as I could before the temperature started to rise.
Walking through this country gave me a much greater sense of the desolation of the place than did driving. It was all hills and grass, hills and grass, the grass mostly brown but occasionally greener if there was water nearby. The greener areas were usually fenced in and populated by rather morose-looking cattle, who looked more morose than usual today. They were probably waiting for water to be pumped to them by electric pumps, which were out of commission for the time being.
The hills were curvaceous in a way that struck me as somewhat sexy -- but of course, living all by my lonesome was beginning to make a lot of things seem sexy. I hadn't been with a woman for -- I did the math in my head. Three months. Two of those months were due to my recent writing experiment. The month before those was just bad luck.
Cholame was about 16 miles away. That was maybe five hours of walking, and the later hours were likely to be pretty bad from the temperature standpoint. I wondered what my chances were of catching a ride.
I was about an hour into my trek when I heard the murmur of tires on pavement, drawing steadily nearer from the direction I had come. I turned and waved at the oncoming vehicle, hoping to look urgent but not crazy. Hopefully people were feeling public-spirited, since the earthquake had put us all in dire straits.
The car, a late model Chevy Blazer, slowed as it approached. A young couple sat in the front seat, checking me out and conferring. As they got closer, they drove more slowly and kept talking. Finally they came to a stop in front of me. I guess it was my lucky day.
The back door opened and I got into the vehicle. I discovered that I was sharing the back seat with a 40-ish woman. She gave me a slow grin, saying, "Hi. I guess we're all in some trouble, aren't we?"
I nodded soberly and replied, "Looks like it. Are you folks headed for someplace that has water?"
The driver turned to me and gave me a look that seemed a strange mixture of frank interest and mistrust. He was a young Hispanic fellow with tousled hair. "Yeah, but we don't got enough gas to get there. Do you know where we can get some?" His companion in the front seat also turned to inspect me. She was a thin brunette, wearing mirrored sunglasses that hid her eyes. She had a nice smile, though.
"I have a friend who has a small ranch outside of Cholame. He might have some gas," I replied.
"Good," he said. "Are we headed in that direction?" I nodded. He put the Blazer in gear and we headed down the road.
My companion in the back seat introduced herself. "Hi, I'm Hannah," she said, extending her hand. I shook it, noticing that her grip was confident but her skin very soft. Her fingers felt delicate and sensual. She had shoulder-length, light brown hair, and was tall and on the heavy side. She was dressed in a close-fitting burgundy top and leggings that accentuated her rather bodacious curves.
From the front seat, the brunette said, "I'm Miranda," and the driver said, "Milo." I introduced myself as Ty. My given name is Tyler, but no one calls me that.
Before long we came up to Highway 41, and I directed Milo to turn right, which took us right through Cholame, which is comprised basically of the Jack Ranch Cafe and the James Dean Monument, the spot where James Dean wrecked his car back in 1955. You'd be surprised at how many people find this interesting. I guess compared to the countryside around it, it's fascinating.
I directed Milo to turn off on a side road. We came up over a little hill to see my friend Benny's ranch, looking deserted. His spread consisted of a weather-beaten house, a couple of trees, and two sheds. I couldn't see any of his cows. I guessed that they were on the other side of the hill -- I remembered there being a little gulley, with some shade trees that might give them some relief from the heat, which was starting to come on pretty strong.
We pulled into the circular driveway and all scrambled out of the Blazer. I walked up to the front door, banged on it a few times, and hollered "Benny!" But it was clear that no one was home. I peered in the window: it looked pretty messed up inside. Although the house itself was intact, the furniture was all over the place, and not much of it was right-side up. Benny must have done the same thing we had -- took off to find some civilization.
I turned to my new companions and shook my head. "Let's have a look in the sheds. Maybe he's got some gas back there," and led the others to the nearer of the two sheds.
This shed did not look promising. It was mainly empty, with a few cardboard boxes piled up in a corner. A manual push lawn mower looked like it hadn't been used in years and had the rust to prove it. I opened up a few cupboards, just to be sure, and found them empty. Then I heard the sound of tires on the gravel outside. "Sounds like Benny might be back," I said.
We turned to go out and discovered that we had company. Four men stood in front of the entrance to the shed, big ugly fellows wearing sleeveless T-shirts and jeans. None of them were Benny. One of them was a couple of inches taller than the others, missing some teeth and wearing a Dodgers cap. He turned out to be the talkative one.
He gave me a grin that didn't look especially friendly, and said, "What are you doin' here?
"I'm a friend of Benny's," I replied.
"Who's Benny?"
"He owns this place. Who are you?"
"I'm just a guy that needs to get into Bakersfield. There ain't nothin' to eat around here, and me and my friends are startin' to get hungry. We saw you got a car out there."
Milo stepped forward and entered the conversation. "Yeah, we got a car, but it's full up. What's wrong with your car?" He sounded a bit belligerent, which I thought might not be the wisest tack to take for a guy who looked like he weighed about 140 pounds.
The guy in the hat looked down at Milo and said casually, "Nothin' wrong with our car. Maybe we jus' like your car better. Suppose you jus' relax here for a while, and we'll take your car."
"That's not gonna happen," said Milo, and I saw his body tense up.
"Oh, it's not?" said the hat guy, and took a step toward Milo. Suddenly I heard a loud bang, and the big fellow was grabbing his right shoulder and there was little gun in Milo's hand. "Jeez, he fuckin' shot me!" shouted the big guy.
"Back off, all of you!" Milo was waving the gun at all four of them, and it seemed to have the desired effect, because they all took off. The guy in the hat had a big red stain that was spreading down the side of his T-shirt, and he was swearing at the top of his lungs. They all headed for the driveway and jumped into a shiny new blue Honda, which roared to life and sped out to the road.
I took a second look at my new gun-slinging acquaintance. "It looks like you just nicked him. You must be a pretty good shot," I observed.
