Read Online After the End: Survival by Dave Stebbins - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Dave Stebbins
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none, but I sure got her little shorts off in a hurry. Smiling at the memory. It was a good start.
"You tell anybody and I'll do it to you everyday," he said to the sniveling girl as they left the garage.
Little Connie avoided him after that, but there were others, and it was so easy! Talk to them, friendly like. Try to get them to talk about themselves some, so you'd know what was they thought was special. Like their hair, or new clothes, or maybe some argument they were having with their parents.
"My daddy says he doesn’t ever want to catch me wearing lipstick to school, so I put it on when I get on the bus."
"Well, Ruth Ann, I think you look so much older when you wear it. I bet you could pass for sixteen. What color red is that?"
Sincere. Complimentary. And how they like surprises!
"Ruth Ann, I want you to have this." Handing her the eye shadow kit he'd stolen from Walmart.
"Oh, you are just the most thoughtful person!" A kiss on the cheek.
And that night, him only fourteen, driving his mother's Pinto. Picking up the eleven year old girl a block from her house and driving her to the Big Spring State Park. Little bitch looks like a raccoon wearing lipstick, he thought, as they drove to the top of the hill overlooking Big Spring.
"Honey, you look just beautiful," he said earnestly to the beaming girl.
An hour later, and he was helping her wipe the tear streaked mascara from her cheeks.
"Now you just stop crying girl. It wasn't that bad. It had to happen sooner or later. You should just be glad it was me, and not some fool who didn't know what they were doing. Anyway, it was your fault, coming on to me that way. You know it just drives a man crazy."
"You hit me. You hurt me. I'm bleeding from down there."
"I know that, babycakes. It hurt me, too. I'm going to keep your panties, so your momma won't think you've started having your period." He liked that. Keeping their underwear. Sort of like winning a trophy.
"I’ve never had my period," she sniffed.
"I'll bet you start in the next year or so, don't you worry."
What a great time it was, he thought.
Then he smiled, raising his hands to shoulder level, shaking them like an actor in a vaudeville musical.
"Happy days are here again!"
Using his MURS radio, Pete called the S.O. The interview with Larry Maxwell had aired that morning and the radio announcer had followed through with his promise to air a description of the murdered girl a couple of times an hour. Pete was hoping for a quick identification but learned to temper everything these days with patience; there was no functional telephone system. For that matter, Pete mused, not everyone could listen to an FM radio. The radios were in abundance but keeping the batteries charged to power them was a problem. The area stock of AA batteries was dwindling, and new batteries in unopened packs were used in trade in lieu of money. Government officials could communicate with MURS radios that had a range of up to 20 miles. Some folks used FRS walkie-talkies for short range communication. CB radios were commonly available but ran through batteries in a hurry and had short range during daytime hours.
Guess it's time I checked my charging system, he thought ruefully. The clinic building had one of the better individual systems in the area, courtesy of the mayor. It had been built by radio station engineer Chick Barrett. Looking up, Pete observed the roof mounted wind generator turning lazily in the light breeze. Be hot up there. May as well get it over with.
Taking a couple of wrenches and some oil, he climbed the aluminum ladder that had been permanently mounted to the side of the clinic. Waves of heat radiated against his face. Walking along the roof ridge he approached the wind machine. The propeller shaft used permanently lubricated bearings, but part of the tail and high wind braking assembly was exposed to the weather and needed oil. He checked all the bolts for tightness.
The oven-like heat reflected from
"You tell anybody and I'll do it to you everyday," he said to the sniveling girl as they left the garage.
Little Connie avoided him after that, but there were others, and it was so easy! Talk to them, friendly like. Try to get them to talk about themselves some, so you'd know what was they thought was special. Like their hair, or new clothes, or maybe some argument they were having with their parents.
"My daddy says he doesn’t ever want to catch me wearing lipstick to school, so I put it on when I get on the bus."
"Well, Ruth Ann, I think you look so much older when you wear it. I bet you could pass for sixteen. What color red is that?"
Sincere. Complimentary. And how they like surprises!
"Ruth Ann, I want you to have this." Handing her the eye shadow kit he'd stolen from Walmart.
"Oh, you are just the most thoughtful person!" A kiss on the cheek.
And that night, him only fourteen, driving his mother's Pinto. Picking up the eleven year old girl a block from her house and driving her to the Big Spring State Park. Little bitch looks like a raccoon wearing lipstick, he thought, as they drove to the top of the hill overlooking Big Spring.
"Honey, you look just beautiful," he said earnestly to the beaming girl.
An hour later, and he was helping her wipe the tear streaked mascara from her cheeks.
"Now you just stop crying girl. It wasn't that bad. It had to happen sooner or later. You should just be glad it was me, and not some fool who didn't know what they were doing. Anyway, it was your fault, coming on to me that way. You know it just drives a man crazy."
"You hit me. You hurt me. I'm bleeding from down there."
"I know that, babycakes. It hurt me, too. I'm going to keep your panties, so your momma won't think you've started having your period." He liked that. Keeping their underwear. Sort of like winning a trophy.
"I’ve never had my period," she sniffed.
"I'll bet you start in the next year or so, don't you worry."
What a great time it was, he thought.
Then he smiled, raising his hands to shoulder level, shaking them like an actor in a vaudeville musical.
"Happy days are here again!"
Using his MURS radio, Pete called the S.O. The interview with Larry Maxwell had aired that morning and the radio announcer had followed through with his promise to air a description of the murdered girl a couple of times an hour. Pete was hoping for a quick identification but learned to temper everything these days with patience; there was no functional telephone system. For that matter, Pete mused, not everyone could listen to an FM radio. The radios were in abundance but keeping the batteries charged to power them was a problem. The area stock of AA batteries was dwindling, and new batteries in unopened packs were used in trade in lieu of money. Government officials could communicate with MURS radios that had a range of up to 20 miles. Some folks used FRS walkie-talkies for short range communication. CB radios were commonly available but ran through batteries in a hurry and had short range during daytime hours.
Guess it's time I checked my charging system, he thought ruefully. The clinic building had one of the better individual systems in the area, courtesy of the mayor. It had been built by radio station engineer Chick Barrett. Looking up, Pete observed the roof mounted wind generator turning lazily in the light breeze. Be hot up there. May as well get it over with.
Taking a couple of wrenches and some oil, he climbed the aluminum ladder that had been permanently mounted to the side of the clinic. Waves of heat radiated against his face. Walking along the roof ridge he approached the wind machine. The propeller shaft used permanently lubricated bearings, but part of the tail and high wind braking assembly was exposed to the weather and needed oil. He checked all the bolts for tightness.
The oven-like heat reflected from
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