Vanishing Manhood: Part 18

Seeds Of My Sins.

Based on ‘One In Ten’ by FinalStand. Listen to the ► Podcast at Explicit Novels.

The race to a temporary safety.

To be treasured is to be safe in the knowledge you are cared for and unsafe in the certainty your value puts your life at risk.

"Good to see you awake," Isobel Diaz regarded the woman, who was strapped down securely to the hospital bed.

"Wha; uh; why am I still alive?" Magdalena Keverich rasped at her captor. Her eyes slowly took in her circumstance. She'd been shot; in the shoulder. She recalled the military and SWAT storming her safe house. She'd gone down early in the fire-fight and had been groggy from shock and blood loss by the time she was 'arrested'. Then;

"You are too valuable," Isobel showered her with false compassion. Her eyes flickered to the tubes going into the left arm of 'Little M; which led to a humming device. Isobel struggled to understand. "Your antibodies," Isobel informed her. "Actually, Israel's antibodies."

"Ah; you're stealing my immunity," Maggie gargled.

"That's debatable," Isobel's face turned positively reptilian. "The experts aren't sure if the continuous dialysis will kill you before we extract enough of the antibodies to make you vulnerable to this new plague. That's not really important."

Maggie decided disagreeing at this juncture was pointless.

"What is important is how painful your last few days on Earth will be. You can affect this by helping me find Mr. Jensen," Isobel offered.

"Why do you think I would know where he is?" Little M's voice was dull and sounded like she had gargled with sandpaper.

"I don't think you do. I do suspect two of your associates; Brigit O'Connor and Davia Afrah Qanyare; might know where he is and if you help us find them;"

"You didn't kill Brigit?" Little M scoffed, with amusement. "I can see why you would want to find her; before she finds you."

Isobel's eyes narrowed.

"Someone blew the head off Amy Smith, manager of Industrial Maintenance Welding, then burned the building she worked in to the ground," she said.

"Oh; Miss 'staring thirty minutes at the ceiling, fuck-stunned'," the former Mob Boss mused. "I guess his cop girlfriends are both gone, too."

"Both? He had more than one?" Diaz leaned forward.

"That Passey-chick?"

Isobel didn't respond, mulling over other information she hadn't shared. Magdalena looked around.

There were three other beds in her room. In the adjacent bed was another woman in a similar hook-up with the addition of tubes going down her throat and nose. Despite the pain in her shoulder and head, she did some quick suppositions.

"He fucked her, too?"

"What?" Isobel's eyes flickered from Little M, over to the comatose form then shrugged. "Yes. Debra 'something'. Sadly, she had nothing useful to contribute except her antibodies. The second, fourth, fifth and sixth women he inseminated are still at large." Magdalena recalled Israel's first sex partner in the city had been a woman named Debra. Sex partner two had been the cop. She was the third. 'Fuck-stun' was the fourth. Maggie was less certain who the fifth and sixth were.

"Israel warned me what he had was a death sentence for me," Maggie related.

"He is annoyingly intelligent at times. Now answer my question. How do I find Miss O'Connor and Qanyare?"

"Let me think on it," Little M' requested.

Isobel didn't look all that patient.

"Listen, I've just woken up and am in a truckload of pain. I need to think over what I recall about Industrial Maintenance Welding and Miss Smith."

"I will give you five minutes," Isobel allowed. She rose up; she had been sitting in a chair at Little M's bedside; and walked out the door.

There were no other active people in the room. Maggie shook her wrists and ankles. She was very securely bound. No soldiers, or police. Certainly no lawyer of any kind. Most likely the world thought she was dead. She was in a small medical facility under Isobel Diaz's control. That realization was horrific news.

It wasn't as if she could expect Brigit and Davia to come to her rescue. They weren't those kinds of 'friends', and Maggie figured 'The Outfit' was dead. Mom? If Isobel had any sense left, she would have arranged for Maria Keverich's death already.

Maggie had spent her years in charge of the Keverich Mob, trying to ferret out who betrayed her mother to the feds and had come up empty. She'd gone to Isobel's party and Isobel had tried to 'mend fences', which hadn't worked. No daughter of Maria Keverich would ever trust a cop, or those who served them. None of that mattered.

Isobel returned to the room.

"Well?"

"The night of the MAL Rally disaster, Brigit picked up Mr. Jensen. They hung out at the unfinished overpass for about an hour. At the end of their 'stay', she told me they encountered two women with military-style hardware. It was insinuated there was a sniper as well. The ladies on the bridge said they were with a person called 'Zara', who Israel appeared to be familiar with."

"Zara? That's not much to go on, Magdalena," Isobel studied her.

"Give me something solid to eat and I might recall more about their little meeting," Little M suggested. "Being shot sucks."

"You are alive because I told them to take you alive. You remain conscious as long as I find you useful, Magdalena," Isobel frowned. "If I find you are holding something back;"

"At this point, I don't have any option except working with you, Isobel," Maggie attempted to smile.

"You aren't working with me. Outside of Israel's antibodies, I don't think I need you anymore," Isobel grinned, shark-like.

As a final, utter humiliation, Magdalena Keverich, once one of the most feared women in the city, was reduced to a past-acquaintance of a man, a legal notation of him fulfilling his legal duty as a sperm donor.

'You are not on the short; very short list of women whose opinions and expectations mean crap to me, Magdalena' she recalled Jensen telling her.

Isobel caught the slight shift in Maggie's countenance.

"What is it?" she asked.

"Bring me that meal, or bring on your torturer," Maggie glowered, "because I'm not telling you shit until I either have my fill of either food, or pain."

While Isobel considered her options, Maggie Keverich went over the small list of women who did matter to Israel Jensen; women who might either provide keys to his thinking, or women he might be trying to save; as crazy as that sounded. 'On second thought, maybe it isn't so crazy', Maggie thought.

Brigit and Davia might have very well found Israel. Odds were good his cop girlfriend was with him, too. If you added the three armed women on the bridge; Jensen was putting a good deal of guns around himself; and that was the best hope of salvation she had.

Markham Federal Hospital For The Criminally Insane, Outside Of Madison

The female interrogator walked into the room with one corrections officer and two members of the HRT (FBI's Hostage Rescue Team) she had hastily been assigned to work with.

"As promised; one near-vegetable." The corrections officer pointed to the fifth person in the room.

"This is Verona Hedwig 'Hedy' Salenko?" the interrogator despaired.

"Yes; the Aurora Slasher herself. Not much to look at now, is she?"

"Why have you kept her so sedated?"

"Because she's fucking dangerous. She damn near escaped her first month in custody. Put three prisoners and two guards in the hospital. Would have been more except for the shock collar," the corrections officer explained.

"I; need to talk to her," the interrogator explained.

"She's a monster. The dosages we have her on won't cycle out of her system for six days; minimum," the CO stated.

"This is a matter of national security," the interrogator stated.

"For this monster?" the corrections officer scoffed.

"No." The interrogator bit down on her rage. "For Israel Jensen. Perhaps, you've heard of him?"

"The one who lived; he's the same Jensen who brought down the President?"

"Precisely; and the one we desperately need in custody."

"Why?"

"I can't explain that to you right now; this being a matter of national security," the interrogator simmered.

"I'll see what the infirmary can do," the corrections officer shrugged. Off she went.

The interrogator gave her one minute, then gave a hand signal to the FBI officers in the control room to cut the feed from this room.

"Greetings Miss Salenko, I am Special Agent Winthrop and these are Special Agents Carver and Lewinsky," the lead investigator began.

No response whatsoever.

"Israel Jensen," the interrogator repeated. She had spotted a slight reaction from the subject when she had first said his name. This time; nothing. Still, the interrogator had few options. She took a seat opposite the deranged psychopath.

"I'm your only chance to get out of this hell hole," was her next ploy.

Nothing. She played her last card.

"Israel is in serious trouble, Miss Salenko. Trouble which could get him killed; or worse."

It was like watching a snake uncoil from within its 'human skinsuit'. Miss Salenko; the Aurora Slasher; popped her neck vertebra; first right then left before centering her head atop her neck. Precisely so.

"My Israel is in trouble?" she asked politely.

"Yes."

"Please explain," Verona requested.

"I was wondering what insights into his personality he might express which would make it easier for the government to find him."

"That's not an explanation," the Aurora Slasher stated. "Please try again."

"Okay; have you heard about the men vanishing across the country?" the interrogator asked.

Verona nodded.

"We are afraid he has fallen in with them."

"Oh; has my Israel been a good boy?"

This was a tough one for the interrogator. Her problem was the nature of her subject. She was brilliant; a career police officer on the fast track to success when a terrible incident had robbed her of her uterus and ovaries. Incident reports after her 'take down' by the serial-killer-profiling squad suggested she was a narcissist with sociopathic tendencies and homicidal delusions before her wounding, and had become much worse afterwards.

Literally speaking, she had become a homicidal maniac, who had developed a romantic relationship with one of her victims. One Israel Jensen was, indeed, 'lucky' to be alive, if a psychologically scarred young man.

Here she had to determine how much information to spoon-feed Miss Salenko without putting their mission at risk.

"No. No, he hasn't been a good boy," the interrogator answered.

"Oh; what happened to him after you subjected him to one of your 'fuck farms'?"

"Fuck farms?"

"Oh; what you call rape rehabilitation centers. Where you teach young men to become fuck pigs for the greater glory of society." Verona smiled, eerily.

"Help me and I'll help you," the interrogator established the ground rules.

"He goes west," Verona stated, confidently.

"How do you even know where he is; was?" SA Carver blurted out.

"I watch the news just like everyone else. I've seen my Israel doing his thing in the city, know the geography, and know the entire government is looking for him. Hardly rocket science when everyone around me thinks I'm a drooling idiot."

"Oh-kay," the interrogator nodded. "He has had sex multiple times since he left you. By your definition he has been a 'bad boy'."

"Contrary to your mental assessment of my Israel, he will have attached himself to violent women. He learned that violent women equals life from me. Now, has he had sex more than once with the same woman?"

"Why would you want to know?"

"That would be emotional cheating and I wouldn't stand for that," Verona smiled again. It was just as eerie as it was confident.

"Eighteen."

"Names," the Aurora Slasher requested.

"So you can escape and kill them; no thank you," the interrogator shook her head. Despite the Aurora Slasher being chained by multiple ankle, waist and wrist cuffs, she still gave off the aura of absolute menace.

"Besides, I gave you a piece of information so now you have to give me something."

"Give me more to work with," Verona stated.

"What do you need?"

"His sexual history," she related.

"So you can get the names of those women? Again, no thank you."

"Fine; give me the list from one year back through his time in the city. That should suggest who is with him and what their relationship is," Verona explained.

This was part of the process which really sucked for the interrogator. She wanted to leave the room and give this monster nothing, but her political mistresses didn't want her to come back with 'nothing'. She had to break protocols and hand the information over.

Silently the Aurora Slasher went over the data on a tablet set aside for such revelations.

"I doubt he is with this Keverich woman," she began after fifteen minutes. "The power dynamic is too much against him. He wouldn't go to her seeking safety. My educated guess is he is with the cop; who he had intercourse with four times in one day; bad boy. Very bad boy. Also; something is wrong with my Israel."

"How so?"

The Aurora Slasher weighed her response.

"My Israel is as delicate boy. He is having sex when mandated; when he couldn't buy out of it. His reviews are stellar; but until this police officer, he never goes back. What did you do to him?"

Gut-check time for the interrogator. She would be putting multiple lives at risk by saying what she needed to say next.

"Recent interviews suggest he was raped multiple times at a sorority function in college. He tried to report it, but his claims were rudely rejected by campus security. Information suggests he was brought to the function by his then-girlfriend. They then broke up; of course."

"Of course," the Aurora Slasher whispered. There was a pause. "Your 'fuck farm' turned my Israel into a fatted calf who was then sacrificed at that sorority; and then you simply expected him to blithely get along with his life. And you call me a monster." She gazed upon the interrogator and her accomplices.

"So you believe his story; that he was raped?" the interrogator played along.

"Of course. Otherwise, he would have betrayed me in a way most foul and I would have to kill him when we meet again; but this is all your fault; you and your law enforcement types. Israel; my Israel;" she choked out.

"He's not 'your Israel'," the talkative HRT woman growled. "You held him in a basement and raped him for eighty-four days. I doubt --"

"Enough," the interrogator stopped her subordinate.

"I protected him," Aurora gave her side of events. "Where else but my basement would he have been safe from the rest of you? You would have turned that sweet young boy into a whore. I gave him the purity of monogamy."

"Don't." The interrogator stopped the HRT woman from getting into this game of semantics with the brilliant, but deranged, subject.

"I want to come along," Verona 'Hedy' Salenko requested.

"Out of the question," the interrogator shook her head. "You are a very dangerous detainee."

"The more information you give me about your case, the more detailed response I can give you about my Israel," she reasoned.

"No thank you. What I can offer you is being removed to a less odious place, or perhaps you would prefer solitary confinement?"

"I already know I know something you haven't even begun to consider and it is answered in this one question; why would Israel Jensen have any say in a group of women about where they would be going?"

That stumped the interrogator, which she knew to be a bad thing.

"Why would my Israel have such an impact in their decision-making process?" Verona inquired. "Am I coming with you, or are you going to be one serious step behind the entire time?"

"I would have to check with my superiors first, and don't even think you would ever be unchained," the interrogator's eyes narrowed.

"This is a freebie," the Aurora Slasher smiled. "My Israel is going to be a father; to all, or at least most of the women he is with and that dynamic is working its way out. He is becoming their patriarch."

"The patriarchy is dead," the interrogator stated as fact.

"It is a fire I stoked within him while we were together," Verona answered. "The power of the patriarch; of men seeking fatherhood; is greater than any of you realize; though you are just starting to figure it out with the abolition of marriage. Men want to be fathers and fathers are the core of any stable family structure. I know this to be true."

The corrections officer returned to the room, cutting off the conversation. Verona immediately shut down.

"Sorry," the corrections officer sighed. "That drug regimen is virtually foolproof and takes six days to work its way through her system. There is no other cure for it which doesn't risk frying her synapsis."

"Don't worry about it," the interrogator said. "We will be taking her with us."

"You will need an order from someone pretty high up," the corrections officer blanched.

"How about one from the Acting Attorney General of the Federation? Will that do?"

"Yeah; yes, that would suffice," the corrections officer's head bobbed. The rest was mere formality

Thursday Evening.

We stayed at Jethro's all morning and most of the afternoon, while Casper sent a drone westward to check out our possible exit path all the way to the Mississippi River. Everything looked good. On television we watched the world slowly become unhinged. Bizarrely, while the government collapsed, the federation's Constitution continued to function; namely in the area of freedom of the press.

This was more a result of the turf war between the civilian administration, the EMM (Emergency Management Administration), and the Military Command Authority than anyone's slavish devotion to a piece of paper. Globally, GNN kept us abreast of various nations' and people's attempts to stem the seemingly unstoppable tide. In the city, an attempt by the RMC (Regional Military Commander) and city council to bring the 'order' to the various disparate voices of the press led to unexpected chaos.

Only three outlets decided to resist the new government directives. One was a collegiate pro-environmental site. Another was a proto-communist news group. The third was the Sentinel, the city's largest independent media enterprise. Apparently the Mayor's Pubic Relation's Office quit en masse, so the folks in charge were forced to simply shut down the centers of opposition.

They forgot one guy; quite literally. I'd left Doyle Crane in the midst of GNN with Eloise Granger, hotshot Sentinel journalist and eternal foe of Isobel Diaz, and Dimples, who was more than capable of figuring out who the 'bad girls' were as the situation was unfolding.

Doyle wasn't the Voice of the Resistance. No; he gave a voice to those who were resisting, be they a daughter angry her father was being dispossessed, a factory worker furious her home area's male quota was grossly under-staffed, or a man worried about all the other men being arbitrarily arrested.

I doubted Doyle had the experience, staff, equipment, or expertise to evade police location for long, or to keep his internet site evading the government censors; yet, he and it, remained doggedly on-air through a long, harrowing afternoon and evening. I was willing to bet a good number of Isobel's people had wished they'd had the space to inter the Sentinel staff by sunset.

By nightfall, many sectors of the city figured out that if there were going to be any effective protests over what was going on (whatever they thought it might be), they'd have to organize locally. All the while, doom stalked ever closer.

Exodus, Part One.

"Holy hell," Jen muttered. I looked her way. We had eaten an early dinner, cleaned up and been loading the vehicles for our nighttime dash to the Mississippi. Jen had been going over 40 years of papers, medical journals and even pay vouchers for St. Jerome's Research Hospital.

"Yes?"

"AM is Alligator mississippiensis." She grinned at me. "That maniac shot you up with a derivative of alligator blood."

"Holy shit," Brandi came her way, looking over Jen's shoulder. "They never cleared any of that for human trials."

"Why?" Capri asked.

"Well; alligator blood is one of the most effective anti-biologicals in nature. Biologists proved it could even kill normally resistant forms of bacteria. In concentrated doses, it even killed HIV."

"What is HIV?" I inquired.

"It was, is, a sexually transmitted disease which caused auto-immune disorders. It was prevalent in the latter quarter of the twentieth and first quarter of the twenty-first centuries. It was one of the things we cured when trying to find an answer to the Gender Plague," Brandi delved back into her college lore.

"So this is a good thing?" Kuiko snuggled up to me. Following some code more ancient than my first date and stronger than my numerous psychoses, my arm instinctively wrapped around her shoulders and pulled her tight.

"Brandi, why did they stop using it?" Jen looked at her teammate.

"Blood toxicity. In doses large enough to be effective in a human being, it is too toxic for us, a case of the cure being worse than the disease," she enlightened us.

"My dick didn't explode; why?" I moaned.

"No!" Kuiko squeaked. "Not that!"

"No, your dick wouldn't have exploded," Brandi snickered. "It would have most likely been necrosis. Now, let me think." She began pacing.

Casper stopped by.

"Time to move out," she stated cautiously, taking in Brandi's mood.

"We think we have a clue to what makes Frank special," Jen related. Seeing Kuiko's 'angry face' she added, "Extra Special."

"We were looking in the wrong place!" Brandi exclaimed suddenly. "It didn't happen in his balls. It happened in his liver!"

That didn't make sense to me.

"Frank," I wished she'd call me Israel, "I think the Carbolix-37 mutated the AMSA then turned part of your liver in a viral factory; which produced the variant of the Gender Plague you have; the Israel Cure."

Okay, that was better.

"That is what I theorize everyone is missing. Why Israel didn't die and why his variant turned out to be something that, as Doctor Vasco said, killed everything."

"How sure are you of this?" Casper tensed up.

"This is only a working theory, Boss. Still, Alligator Mississippiensis antimicrobial peptides are the Kiss of Death in the natural world and the Gender Plague is Death to humankind. We have no clue why it has, until now, only killed males. I think the Aurora Slasher played Russian roulette with all our lives five years ago. By pure accident of mutation, the alligators won so we all get to keep living too."

"Wait? I have alligator blood?" I gasped.

"No; no; no." Brandi placed a hand over my heart. "The Carbolix-37 latched onto the AMSA, mutated and in doing so, copied its ability to kill shit."

"Really?" I was skeptical.

"When was the last time you were sick?"

"Huh?"

"Caught a cold?"

"I was fourteen?" I struggled to recall.

"Do you ever have a cut get infected?"

"No."

"After the brutality at the hands of the sorority, did you suffer any ill effects; physically?"

"No."

"Israel," she said, finally using my name, "after that, did you get any infections?"

"No."

"You didn't go to the university infirmary, or a hospital, so how do you explain it?"

"I can't. I had other things on my mind."

"Israel, are you okay?" Angel edged in. She'd been outside seeing to our group's belongings being stowed away. Apparently, I looked totally freaked out.

"Something is wrong with my blood," I mumbled.

"Nothing is wrong with your blood," Brandi grinned. "His blood is wonderful. I need to get him to a facility where we can examine his liver to test my theory. If I'm right, we have the answer to how Carbolix-37 mutated. I imagine that turf war would have left some scars there."

"Israel has liver damage?" Angel grumbled.

"Clearly, his liver is functioning just fine," Brandi assured, us. "The human liver is very resilient and we can function with portions damaged, or even destroyed. The thing is, had the AMSA and Carbolix-37 duked it out in his testicles, there would have been some necrosis, the tissue damage the earlier researchers noted. It had to happen somewhere else and the liver is contestant number one as the most likely savior of us all."

"But the new strain is transmitted by his semen?" Angel pointed out.

"Now," Brandi corrected. "After the creation of the Israel Cure; it cleaned house, so to speak; wiping out both the AMSA and the Carbolix-37 and set up shop in his testes."

"What about the lessening of the pain after the injections?" I wondered.

"That most likely was the result of the C (50) H (73) N (15) O (11) doing its job which is, among other things, lowering blood pressure," she reasoned.

"What's next? Do you need to cut me open?"

"No," Brandi scoffed. "There is plenty of imaging equipment which does the job without any invasive surgery."

"Relate this to our current mission," Casper commanded.

"Short term; nada. Medium term; we have something to trade with Dr. Fremont," Brandi frowned. "Long term; we could attempt to take a tiny portion of Frank; Israel's liver and graft it to compatible recipients, in an attempt to recreate the second phase of the incident which created the Israel Cure. We really should seriously consult with actual doctors and biologists first, though, Captain."

"Good enough. Everyone, the sun is setting so time for us to go. Mr. McFarlane is on an ever-shrinking list of friends of friends of Frank so every extra second is tempting fate," Casper reminded us.

As the rest of us headed out, Jen packed up the last of her gear and headed for our ride. Brandi and Jen would stay behind long enough to booby trap Jethro's place. Even if no one came sniffing, a fire would engulf the dwelling around 4:00 a.m. tomorrow morning.

There was no way to otherwise hide the signs of so many of us having been there. We had gathered up all our trash, but burning the place to the ground was the best chance we had of voiding pursuit. Also, according to the weather service, we could expect rain between three and six tomorrow morning, further hiding our passage.

Departure.

Our vehicles hummed to life. We were taking a back road away from Jethro's which connected with an old railway clearing (rails and tracks removed) which would take us to a road about fourteen miles away. From there, we would travel along largely neglected blacktop to the abandoned town of Keithsburg and the hidden ferry.

The reality of the first leg of our escape was both pulse-pounding and anti-climactic. We didn't come across anyone heading west, the ferry struggled for four separate trips across the Mississippi to Wykerts Landing. Finally, via remote control, the boat made its final journey halfway back, where Brandi scuttled her with remote charges (boats were 'her' according to Jethro) and then we were once more off before sunrise.

At 6:05 AM central time, we received our first hiccup. The Federation Government announced me as a 'Person of Vital National Interest' and declared I was to be taken alive by any law enforcement body and handed over to the military immediately, under penalty of death. The nice Air Force Major spokeswoman then went on to lay out the legal grounds for my detention and the government's right to execute those interfering with this directive.

That wasn't the end of it, Oh No. What followed was a list of civilian and military personnel who were also under either a shoot-to-kill order, or an automatic detention-authorization order. We had ourselves the beginnings of a civil war. I was watching the broadcast as we headed across the open farmland, the names streaming beside the commentator. Four names stood out.

Enola Treyvon; I expected. I was glad to hear she was still 'at large'. The news that her mother, Flora Treyvon, was still running around, I was unsure about. Neither had any titles listed before their names, suggesting they were no longer government employees. None of Dimple's (my nickname for Enola) FBI crew was on the list yet, but since she wasn't in custody, I guessed they were on the run with her.

The third & fourth names to stand out were Freya and Narfi Passey; no longer 'Metropolitan Officer'; and her infant son. Sadly, that implied Debra, the first woman I had sex with in the city, was already in federal custody somewhere. With those misconceptions in mind, I diverted the list to a different page and reexamined it, racking my mind for the names of every woman I had sex with in the past two years. A stunningly large number of them were on it; either still free, or in someone else's custody.

We had our first 'encounter' as we passed through Morning Sun, Northwest Mississippi Province (part of old Iowa) as we were rolling down 'Old Highway 78. Law enforcement had thrown up a roadblock across the road (two cars parked in a 'V') with a sheriff's patrol car behind them. The town of Morning Sun was evident off to our north, made clear by the grain silos rising above the flat terrain.

Jethro pulled up short, allowing the rest of the convoy to move past him. It would be up to Casper to deal with the sheriff holding up one hand, while keeping her shotgun slung under the other arm. Besides the stylistic cowboy hat, she also had on a black armored vest marked in white letters 'Sherriff' with the tan uniform shirt underneath. Still, in this morning heat, she had to be sweltering; just like the rest of us here.

Oh yeah, all of us guys were outfitted just like the female soldiers, minus any weapons. We rolled up so close I could no longer see the events unfolding once Casper got out of the front-passenger's side of the first vehicle. They were talking over something all peaceful like, when suddenly, Lowry decided to take events in his own incapable hands. Fuck it all! There were women out there facing us with guns!

Zara had just gone up into the copula with binoculars in one hand, scanning the surroundings and speaking in a quiet whisper into her headset, while her other hand was gradually moving her sniper rifle up beside her, without yet revealing it to the locals. I made a futile snatch at Lowry, just missing him. Pierre was utterly at a loss about what to do. He at least appreciated the danger we were all in.

"Hello there!" Lowry shouted. "I'm Israel Jensen!"

With a sickening sense of the upcoming disaster, I was momentarily paralyzed. Even as he kept walking downslope, then hopping the drainage ditch as he cut a large arc around the convoy, he looked back and shot me a vindictive look, then mouthed 'fuck the bitches'. The moron!

My name worked like magic among the sheriff and her posse. One woman broke cover and started a crouched run toward Lowry. The unit chatter for Casper's command went nuts. In my vehicle, Jen opened her driver's-side door and slipped into her own kneeling stance, aiming in Lowry's direction. I almost missed Zara lifting her rifle up onto the roof as I made my own decision.

Like an utter ignoramus myself, I ducked out Lowry's door and raced after him.

"Lowry, get down, you idiot!" I screamed.

He looked back at me, that sinister smile written large upon his face when the first two shots rang out. Later, I was told those had been Zara taking out the two-woman sniper team on the grain silos; half a mile away in less than a second.

While the sheriff had her shotgun out and was bringing it up on Casper, Casper fast-drew her pistol and shot the law enforcement officer in the face; twice. Even as she did that, she fell to her side because, unseen by me, was the sheriff's deputy in one of the 'V-formation' cars also armed with a shotgun. While that brave woman was coming out her vehicle to shoot Casper and avenge her fallen boss, Prince leapt into the forward vehicle's copula and opened up on the car with its fifty-caliber machinegun.

As that vehicle was being shredded, we began taking fire from both sides of the road. It turned out the sheriff had quite the ambush set up with the grain-silo sniper team and three women on each side of the road, camouflaged in irrigation ditches. Our vehicles were, for the most part, bulletproof; even the tires. That didn't do me much good, or Lowry either.

The woman coming after Lowry was made of sterner stuff than most, racing toward Lowry and beckoning him to come to her. He did so, but that only placed them both in the heat of the crossfire on that side of the road. Our third vehicle began spewing grenades from an automatic grenade launcher in its copula, against those in the ditch opposite to where Lowry and I were. The fourth Hummer began spewing fifty-caliber death toward the town itself.

The Special Forces couldn't risk firing with either heavy weapon to where their menfolk were, so it fell to Jen and Zara to neutralize the three women there. That took time. The running woman was the first hit. For a second, I thought she had dove for cover in the field of young wheat, only to see Lowry run past her and keep running. The first shotgun blast the other two enraged women shot was at, well, an almost likely uniformed 'me', and hit Lowry in the chest instead.

The second one, most likely aimed at me as well, caught him in his left hip, causing him to spin sideways and crash to the ground. I kept racing toward him. Something buzzed passed my right ear. Fuck it all, I had been shot at, but that hadn't occurred to me yet. I slid to a stop next to Lowry, and immediately tried to get him to stand back up. He tried, then cried out in agony and crashed halfway back down. In a flash, Roni was at my side.

With our combined strength, together, we dragged him back toward the five-vehicle convoy (the four Hummers and Jethro's motorcycle). Next thing I knew, Jen was at my side, firing short bursts of her weapon as we dragged Lowry to our destination. I vaguely recalled hearing Jethro's motorcycle racing ahead of us, trying to get to the next intersection of the town before they could mount an effective counterattack. He made it, and began using his shotgun as suppression fire so the rest of us could make our getaway.

Jen, Roni and I got into our ride, but Lowry was already looking pale and hyperventilating. The moment Jen had us inside, she jumped into the driver's seat and off we shot like a bullet. We were holding up our escape. It was a rough ride considering we were still taking loose fire from the town for over a minute. We passed Jethro, but not for long. He was racing ahead once more after we had put Morning Sun behind us.

Meanwhile, Zara had dismounted from her stance, and was with Roni and me, trying to plug the ghastly wound in Lowry's hip and groin area. There was so much blood.

All the while Lowry, kept chanting, "Don't let me die; don't let me die!" in a gasping, desperate voice. What could we do with his wound pumping out blood between my fingers, even as I pressed down with all my strength?

Zara was injecting him with something, while Roni wove her fingers between mine, trying to locate that shredded artery which was the wound killing him. Sadly, I caught what Zara reported over her headset, despite the human catastrophe before me.

"He's had it," she reported.

Right then, Lowry went into cardiac arrest. Roni immediately went into CPR mode, as hopeless as that was.

When I regained my senses, we had stopped moving. Roni was; I didn't recall. We had crossed the bridge over the Skunk River, so we had some breathing room. People were moving all around me. Jen replaced me, applying pressure on Lowry's leg. As I fell back, someone grabbed me by the back of my body armor and yanked me out of the vehicle. I found myself looking up into the eyes of a furious Casper.

"What the fuck were you doing?" she shouted at me.

"Lowry was in danger," I mumbled.

"You couldn't have saved him, Israel," she stared at me with cold, flinty eyes. "I was about to give the order to kill him myself. With what he knew about our plans, we couldn't have afforded leaving him behind no matter what. Do you understand that?"

"No," I suddenly felt so fatigued. All our weaponry and Lowry had still died.

"Well, next time realize the sole purpose of this mission right now is to keep you alive. Nothing else matters. If we lose you, Israel, the whole world dies," she battered me with her truth.

"But;"

"But nothing. Do something like that again and I will be forced to have you restrained; at all times! Clear enough?"

"I'll try to do better," was all I could come up with.

"And Israel;" she added, with a sense she was softening.

"Yes?"

"What you did was terribly brave. It just so happens we can't afford for you to be brave. You are too important. My command knows that as does Mr. McFarlane. I think your other honeys are coming around to our thinking as well."

"Chain him to Kuiko," Flame jokingly commented, even as she rolled a spare tire past my head.

"Huh?"

"They put spike strips on the other side of those cars and the first Hummer ran over them," Casper explained. "And I might just take that psycho's advice. You aren't likely to drag Miss Sano into a firefight, now are you?"

"Let's not do that," I pleaded. "She's got to survive this, too."

"Then don't fuck up again, or I just might," she hardened once more.

"What about Lowry?"

"Dead. Lucky him because I would have murdered him myself even if he had made it intact back to the convoy," Casper cautioned me. "I had the sheriff handled, damn it!"

"What do we do with him? His body."

"Jen is stripping him of all useful equipment as we speak then we will toss him into the river here. Welcome to the war zone, Mr. Jensen."

With that, she got up and walked back to the front vehicle. With her departure, the rest of my ladies were able to close in. Only then did I realize how I must have looked, covered in blood from mid-thigh to neck.

Kuiko was crying and Angel was positively grim. Only Capri was thinking on her feet. She brought me a change of clothes and some bottled water to clean off with. It was a welcome relief which sheltered me from the pain of Lowry's death and the shock the other two surviving males were going through. As a final indignity, the race to the Iowa River was then on. The authorities were being alerted as to my last known sighting; along with some concern I had been wounded during the firefight in Morning Sun.

Personally, I perversely decided I would have felt better had I actually been wounded. The yelling and screaming, Lowry begging us to not let him die; and letting him down. All the Vanishers' training and somehow, Lowry had still found a way to make himself dead. Me; I felt dead inside. My bravery had accomplished nothing. Nothing at all. I hadn't felt heroic and I came to feel so hollow. Even Casper's threats meant little to me at that moment.

Mind you, the Federation wasn't the only group marshalling forces for what was to come. In the city, as well as Madison, Memphis, and the Caribbean, women were preparing for a final, desperate grab at me. A fifth force was also alerted, though; the Vanishers themselves. Currently, one of their units had me, and if the Vanishers were going to save a select group of humanity in North America, then they needed to be sure they kept me.

Memphis

"Things are as tense as the last string on a fiddle," the local mob boss greeted Maria Keverich, in the back room of a pool hall. Attendance was down a bit, both because of the national crisis and the threat of an oncoming plague but she still was the local dominant criminal figure; there were no crime families in Memphis, just crews with varying size and reach.

Currently, Maude Riley, that local dominant figure, was truly curious what Maria was doing out of jail and sitting opposite from her. Sure 'the city' was a mess from what reports Maude was getting, but still. There was that, plus, quite frankly, Maria scared her.

"That's understandable. Likewise, I know some trains will still be running and I have a large piece of my organization I need to move from here, across the Mississippi and around the south side of the capital to Kansas City; either one."

"How many people are we talking about?" Maude nodded.

"A hundred."

Had Maude been drinking her coffee, she would have spewed it. She was thinking twenty; twenty-five max.

"That's a lot of tonnage," she remarked, instead. "What is your timetable?"

"Tonight," Maria announced, as if it was nothing.

"That's;" Maude shook her head. "That's going to cost heavy. We are talking about north of a million for those kinds of bribes. We are talking about creating new invoices in the Cross-Provincial-Rail computer systems, bribing the railroad workers to supply the railcars; and all before sunset; tough."

"Here is how I'll pay you," Maria said. "Within ten days, people in Memphis are going to start dropping dead from this new plague coming in from the West Coast. I know where the cure is, but we need to catch it before we all become the walking dead as well. You pick six other people to come with us when we depart town. I assume you will want to come along, as well?"

"Serious as fuck?" Maude gulped.

"Damn straight. Worse, the cure is on the move and we have to catch up with it before it vanishes into the Rocky Mountains forever," Maria explained.

"How do you plan to get it? How much of a head start does the package have?"

"We are currently matching its speed, but we will start falling behind tonight, if we can't get on the move. There is no way I can get across the Mississippi with the company I'm keeping, so it is you, or we have to blast our way across the river and split up; except some of 'my people' are tied to some South American concerns, so I can't trust them as far as I can throw them."

Maude nodded. Already her mind was going into overdrive. This was going to be fatal to her organization, but there was no way around it. Families kidnapped, traceable break-ins, and a shit ton of resources abandoned. Then there was the matter of her personal crew having twenty-one members. Trimming that down; she decided to take her boyfriend along because sharing him would be a bargaining chip for later. Taking a look at Maria reminded her she would need two, or three, serious killers; that meant only three professional career criminals.

"Time's a wasting," Maude declared, as she stood up. She readied one of her many disposable phones and got the ball rolling. Gambling debts were being forgiven, favors called in, and the kidnapping duos prepared to snatch up the proper individuals.

"Joanie," Maria motioned to one of the stalwarts, "get one of those mercs and start lining up the group for lunch and an early dinner. Odds are we will miss breakfast."

Joanie had been in for assaulting eight males and five federal cops in a drunken rampage three years ago. She had earned a lighter sentence due to a 'brain imbalance', or so her lawyer got the jury to believe; thus was serving time in a minimum-security prison, as opposed to time in solitary, somewhere far colder than Florida. She went out while the She-Wolf spoke into her headset, most likely providing the 'support' to get those meals to the troops.

When Maude finished her first barrage of calls, Maria made another 'request'.

"We are going to need twenty-three long arms, too. The mercs have some sweet toys and I don't want to be too under-armed if shit goes south."

Maude merely nodded. She received a call, which had her working on how things were going to play out.

By four o'clock in the afternoon, Maude had everything worked out in a blistering display of why she was such a successful criminal dominating a relative backwater like Memphis. They would board trucks at the warehouse they were currently hiding out at. The trucks would roll into the rail yard at five-ten, pass inspection which would take fifteen minutes (the inspector was bought and paid for), then they would be loaded into three adjoining freight cars making the run from Nashville to Kansas City. All the paperwork and computer details would be in order.

Unless someone scrubbed away at the details, this plan would work, Maude assured the people she was working with. The members of her crew, who weren't part of the exit strategy, would gather at a separate location to board the barge, which wouldn't be waiting for them; 'sorry gang'. She would be boarding with the others in the rail yard, her six lucky members with her.

Maude even made sure the prerequisite firearms would be waiting in the cars for Maria and her group. The majority of the mercs would be in the second and third cars while their leadership (plus eight) would be in the first car with Maria and Maude's group. It was risky, but they had little choice. On the other hand, the mercs had their helicopter pilots with them, being unwilling, or unable, to leave them for the authorities to sweep up later.

Achieving Arkansas.

As the railcars began rolling over the Mississippi River Bridge linking Memphis with West Memphis, six bodies were thrown from the train to fall into the sluggish river current heading south. Maria decided it was worth keeping the male around a while longer for the enjoyment of the troops. Maude had already served her purpose.

As for the guy, he went from the mob's coddled boy toy to community property inside of five seconds. As the terror began to sink in, the first of the stalwarts pulled him over and began stripping him down.

"You aren't going to need these anymore." She meant his clothes; the others laughed.

"You going to partake?" Maria asked the She-Wolf.

"Scared little boys don't do it for me," she replied. He heard that over the laughter, too.

In A Long Range Helicopter West Of Madison.

"Morning Sun;," the head of the FBI team muttered. "Well shit."

"I am not into 'I told you so's, Special Agent Winthrop, so the next thing to determine is where next along the line he is with who else is in pursuit," Hedy mused. She looked totally comfortable in her heavy-canvas jumpsuit with a built in leather belt. All her chains and handcuffs were linked to that belt; except for her shock collar.

"Who else do you imagine is in pursuit?" Winthrop didn't know if it was paranoid delusion, or some part of reality Verona had stumbled across first.

"One; whomever has Dr. Fremont will be sending something unlooked for. Two; the North American Federations; Armed Forces (NAF-AF) of course; he is in their backyard and he's one of their citizens after all. Three; every criminal outfit between 'the city' and their destination. Then there is 'us'; the remnants of the Federation Civilian Government."

"Dr. Fremont was last seen in the Caribbean. The CFS then," Verona nodded to some internal analysis. "They will now have to move along the most westerly roadways. They can't afford to be struggling through the backroads with every satellite in the Northern Hemisphere looking for them."

"You just; made that up," Special Agent Carver scoffed.

"No," Verona mused. "I am also willing to bet that the satellites will come up empty. See, the Vanisher must have some way of negating the Federation's technological advantage and the easiest way to consistently do so is from the inside."

"The inside?" Winthrop worried.

"Yes. I imagine the vast majority of Vanisher personnel are walking around with active security clearances, as well as access to your communication networks; thus being one step ahead of you until now."

"Wait; the Vanishers are a government conspiracy?" Winthrop gasped.

"Of course. Who else could pull all of this off? Perhaps some people from Witness Protection to snatch and grab the missing men, though Special Forces are trained in the same techniques in their 'protective detail' programs."

"That's insane," Carver snapped. "I'm former Special Forces and what you are describing is treason on their parts on so many levels. Wouldn't happen."

"Former Special Forces warrior in the FBI; hmm; I imagine you have a rather high security clearance yourself, don't you? You'd qualify as a Vanisher, Special Agent Carver," Verona's eye contact was totally unsettling.

Suddenly, the six armed women passengers aboard the helo were drawing their weapons. Carver combined her maneuver with a kick to Winthrop's chest thus completing her quick draw first. Winthrop realized she was about to die when Verona slammed into Carver, causing her bullet to go astray; straight into the pilot's chair and into that woman's back!

Seconds later, the other four women in the HRT unit began firing as well; at each other, or in this case, numbers two, three, and four were firing at the fifth member who managed to wound one before soaking up a good many bullets at close range. Winthrop's shot rang out belatedly and also went astray. In this case, it impacted Special Agent Carver's forehead and exited out the back of her skull.

The helicopter jerked wildly and then began to plunge toward the ground. The Aurora Slasher coiled her body up as a prelude to slamming both her feet into the agent closest to her, violently propelling that woman into the one beside her. That agent's gun fired, missing the copilot's headrest and blowing through her helmet; killing her instantly.

The pilot knew she was dying, but not why. She was pure FBI so had no clue what was going on behind her. Still, she fought for control of her copter, saving everyone from a messy end, or so she hoped. Behind her, Winthrop emptied her ten millimeter automatic pistol into the final two members of the HRT who weren't already wounded.

She was also in awe of how Verona kept pummeling the Vanisher agent beside her with her feet until she broke that woman's neck. And then, as the old joke goes, the ground came up and hit them;

Glenhaven; Wrong Side Of The Mississippi River

"Excuse me, good citizen," Special Agent Fraklos greeted the family of five, who were about to take their boat onto the river for a day of family fun. "We are in need of some assistance."

"Yes," the grandmother-matriarch of the clan replied cautiously.

"We need you to take us across the river."

"Why don't you use a bridge?" the elderly woman countered.

"We have a wanted fugitive in custody, but don't want that person handed over to the military quite yet," Fraklos continued weaving the deception.

The lady responded by rolling up her right sleeve revealing a '3rd Amphibious Brigade' tattoo with the Federation Marine motto 'Semper fidelis' ("Always faithful") beneath it.

"Do you support the means the military chiefs have used to seize power?"

"Well; no," the retired Marine shook her head. Fraklos waved the rest of the team over, out of the two cars they had 'requisitioned' to get this far. While the rest looked around cautiously, Enola looked straight ahead. The primary issue was she was so slender the handcuffs she was wearing barely fit. She made a strong contrast standing in front of former-Metropolitan Police officer Freya Passey, who cradled her infant in a sling in front of her.

"Hey, isn't that; the woman who brought down the President?"

"Yes ma'am," Fraklos confirmed. "We need to get her to the capital with no one else the wiser, so she can be properly interrogated. The other woman is a material witness in our investigation."

"Damn," the matriarch and boat pilot muttered. No one said anything for nearly a minute then, "I'll get you across the river. Bring that traitor to justice."

"We need to be so careful because her mother is Deputy Director of Operations in the Ministry of Security, Flora Treyvon; well was 'Deputy Director' anyway; thus our caution."

"Damn," the lady repeated. "Now, I understand. Those gals in 'Security' are some bad bitches."

"Oh, and you never saw us if anyone comes around asking. They hounded us out of the city, where we were going to ride out the crisis, but; things changed."

"Oh, I understand," the retired female Marine commiserated. "Back in North Africa during that insurgency thirteen years ago, we; my unit; came across some of those 'Security' types. Lots of dead bodies with no accountability. Staff Sergeant Winslow Peterson, retired," she identified herself. "Four years ago I would have been called up too."

"Well, Staff Sergeant, we would prefer to not become some of those unaccounted for dead bodies," Fraklos grinned.

The matriarch grinned, too.

"Let's go." The retired Marine gave a curt nod; something in her was exhilarated to be 'back in the action' once more.

Fraklos waved for the others to hurry up. Two stuck with Enola and Freya while the rest helped the family get the boat in the water. Boarding was a wet endeavor, but satisfactory though none of Dimple's crew let down their guard.

Across the Mississippi they went, accomplishing through diplomacy and some serious bullshitting what Jethro had taken twenty years to pull off. Instead of waving Fraklos off, the retired-Marine staff sergeant saluted, as she turned her boat away from the closest dock they had found. For the former-FBI Special Team, it was a simple matter of stealing two vehicles before heading out.

All they had was a general direction; west; but as they tuned into the radio and picked up on the local Wi-Fi networks, they realized they were correct in their estimations. Finally, Enola shot off a message to one 'Mary Wollstonecraft'.

"Hello," the foreign voice answered.

"I am Enola. I was told to call this number by Israel," Enola jumped into the information void.

"Ada," was the coded response.

"Lovelace," was Enola's rapid-fire counter-sign. It was a wild guess.

"What do you need, former-Special Agent in Charge Treyvon?" the voice on the other end inquired.

"Well, as you might have noticed by now, I'm a wanted fugitive, and me and my team are on the run. We need a safe haven."

The pause, while only a few seconds, was deafening.

"Location?"

"Passing through Clayton Center; a ghost town; heading west."

"We will call you back in fifteen," the woman on the other end of the connection stated then hung up.

Enola absently noted there was no opportunity of a trace given the limited time of their conversation. She had to wonder precisely who Israel had been dealing with. Who were these Vanishers?

Fifteen minutes later, 'MW' called back.

"Keep heading west. You are cleared to cross the Turkey River at Elkader. From there, take Federation Highway 20 West to Sioux Falls. You will have to pass over the Missouri River on your own. After that, proceed to Shirley's Diner, Winner, South Dakota when we will contact you again."

"Why are you helping us?"

"A; You brought down the President, and B; the longer you are a wanted fugitive, the more likely are our other teams to extricate themselves from the current chaos. Mary; out."

"We really did that, didn't we?" Vabishi chuckled. "We did the Vanishers' job for them when we brought down the damn government."

"Most likely, though, I am beginning to consider the reality that they were prepared to do just that themselves when they murdered the Attorney General and implicated the Vice President in a treason plot. They rapidly adapted to our actions, though."

"Special Forces?" SA Sosa queried.

"Most likely," Dimples confirmed.

"So, they are traitors," Sosa frowned. She was ex-military after all; a former Army Ranger.

"Maybe not," Enola contemplated. "It could be that many of them still think this is a sanctioned mission; beyond the military operating on home soil."

"A 'secret' executive order would temporarily cover that," Vabishi shook her head.

"Yes, it would," Enola congratulated her underling. "That would give those military personnel ninety days to operate before facing Congressional oversight."

"Damn," Fraklos repeated, "and the Vanisher conspiracy has been going on; as far as we can tell; eighty-two days."

"Current missing males equals 2,228; so just over twenty-seven a day nationwide," Enola calculated. "Between Special Forces and Security Special Operatives they could easily accomplish this. I wish I could contact the lead prosecutor {the one Flora Treyvon aka 'Mom' killed last night} on this case and exchange data."

"Well, Special Agent Sosa is constructing us some new internet personalities, but until she's done, we are half-blind and speeding toward a wall in the fog," Vabishi griped.

"Are we really going to admit Israel discovered the roots of the Vanisher conspiracy before we could?" Enola smirked.

"Yeah, I'm not worried about Israel rubbing it in, but his lawyer wouldn't give it a rest. Damn, but that Capri O'Hara is one smart cookie. Just not as smart as us," Fraklos joked.

"Correct," Enola nodded. "Now we need to figure out where Special Forces operators would dig in as the lights went out. What location, or locations, would support the roughly five thousand of them and their captured males?"

Outside Des Moines, Late Afternoon.

We had made excellent time since the catastrophe at Morning Sun, as Jen and the other computer operators began using false IDs which allowed us to pass through various local law enforcement checkpoints; warning them in advance of our convoy and the necessity of allowing it to pass through unmolested. We had to jump to various 'old' highways, as no one road lasted all that long. Short bridge after short bridge dropped away behind us as we sped toward our next major hurdle.

Then, as expected, all traffic over the Missouri and Mississippi Rivers was blockaded under a quarantine order promulgated by the Emergency Management Ministry, enforced by whatever Reserve, or National Guard, units were closest. Fuck provincial boundaries; the Missouri-Mississippi River line was a border they could hope to enforce. Every bridge heading east was packed with people fleeing the theoretically genocidal pandemic. There was no way we could make it across the quarantine line before dark.

If we couldn't make it there, the forces we feared to be converging on us since Morning Sun would catch up. Currently, Jen, with the help of other 'former' Nasa and NSA ladies, was spoofing the satellite imagery making that convergence harder. Of greater concern, two South American concerns were moving their satellites in our direction, too.

The rest of the Federation had noticed this as well. Angry messages were flying back and forth between the three capitals with the various affected RMC, having to redirect their forces from pandemic response to a military one. Oh yeah, and it seemed the entire Caribbean Federation of States' (CFS) fleet was steaming with all due haste for the Texas coast; intention; undefined.

Suddenly, the naval commanders who had been fleeing RMC commands along the Atlantic Coast, were being told to reverse direction and race for the Caribbean as soon as possible. In the capital, going to war with the CFS was being added to their plate of woes. Already they were finding it hellishly difficult to conduct diplomacy because; their ambassadors were wanting to talk to the head of the Ministry of State first.

And that worthy; the Foreign Minister; was currently besieged in her office with her own armed security services making sure she didn't end up arrested, or dead. She was also warring with the Secretary of Defense, over who was in charge of the civilian government. Normally, by the existing chain of command, it was 'Defense' then 'State', but with charges of treason looming large over the Minister of Defense's malfeasance; my attempted kidnapping; and flight to the province of 'Ole' Mexico; no one was sure about much of anything anymore.

To be continued

By FinalStand for Literotica