Dear reader, I've had a slightly less craptastic day, but you didn't come here to listen to me bitch. You came here for some Church and Shawn adventures!! That's why I'm here to. I love escaping to Solum. Life seems easier there...better maybe. I'm glad you're here with me, dear reader. Let's jump in the Crown Vic and head off together. Things are happening and we need to find out what they are. Enjoy!!
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42
Loading the Car and a Much-Needed Drink
The next half a week was heavy on logistics and light on training. Shawn and I still spent each morning climbing. Afterward, we joined the rest of the team for mission meetings and other what-have-you. During that time, the new year passed without a whisper said about it. It seemed Solumites didn't see the calendar change as a reason to celebrate. The lack of revelry didn't bother me. I was glad not to be surrounded by drunken parties. It was getting easier not to drink, but I wasn't cured.
During that time, the Dux brothers got very comfortable around us. We discovered Vulp had a filthy sense of humor. His silence made the infrequent comments bite hard. He always picked the worst times (for everyone but him that is) for a throw-away one-liner.
One good example of Vulp's ability to get everyone in trouble but himself, was a mission progress meeting held for the whole team and Ars. Ars said something about being surprised. Vulp hissed in my ear, "that's not a surprise, a surprise is a fart with a lump in it."
I laughed so hard I gagged. The whole room looked at me like I'd lost my mind, including Vulp. I vowed to get him back, but it was impossible. He had the stoic act down to a science. He defeated me on a regular basis, but I liked him immensely. The best was when I manipulated Shawn into sitting next to him. For me to burst into unexplained hysterics, was a little embarrassing. For Shawn, with his rigid discipline and strait-laced manner, losing control was mortifying. Vulp got Shawn good in front of Shawn's uncle. When Shawn stopped laughing, he apologized like he'd run over someone's cat. Vulp sat like a statue of innocence and let him.
In spite of the occasional unexplained laughter, the Dux brothers were a very welcome addition to the team. They fit like they were the missing piece of the machine. I quickly came to feel like I'd known them for years.
Then there was Bem. The romp that Shawn and I had with him was a huge lesson in the art of pleasure, with the fact that pleasure was indeed an art, being part of that lesson. Bem had taught us both specific techniques and general principles. One example was Bem's lesson on rimming. Shawn had introduced me to the act, and I enjoyed both aspects of it, but both Shawn and I treated eating ass as little more than a prelude to anal. Bem taught us that rimming was an act on its own. A source of pleasure and something not to be shortchanged. A feast to be savored instead of an appetizer to gotten through.
That was just one of the specific lessons he taught. The larger lesson was about taking one's time during sex. Exploring each individual act for all the pleasure that can be achieved through that act, be it kissing, touching, licking, whatever. Bem taught us that fucking is the smallest, and in some respects, the least satisfying part of sex while play is the biggest. Shawn already knew some of these things, but I knew none of them. After our session with Bem, the lovemaking that Shawn and I shared took on a new dimension, rose to new heights of intensity. I thanked Bem daily for his lessons...I mean, I thanked him in my mind. I didn't dare thank him out loud for fear of turning his full focus on me.
I'd hoped that `romping' with Bem, to use his word, would take the pressure off and reduce his innuendo. It had the opposite effect. His pursuit of another session was relentless, and his constant comments took on a raw edge that they hadn't had before. The Monday after our session, the team was settling into the conference room to go over our progress and get our marching orders for the week. Cy, in an attempt at small talk, asked Bem how his weekend was.
"I had sex, TONS of sex, with those two." Bem announced to the room as he pointed shamelessly at Shawn and me. Shawn wasn't bothered by the announcement, but I wanted to crawl in a hole and die. "Church fucks like a champ." Bem continued. "I thought it was a little weird when..."
I didn't know where Bem was going with his story, but I suspected from the malicious look on his face that he was about to make something up to tease me. I knew I had to think fast. I got some magic ready.
"...he asked me to put that horseradish on my, my, my, my, my...ooooooohhhhhh."
As soon as Bem said, `horseradish,' I slid the magic into his pants. Because I'd had sex with Bem, and I had seen his entire body in every position imaginable, I had a good mental image of his anatomy. That meant I could touch him with my magic in ways that weren't possible before. I slid an imaginary hand down, between his ass-cheeks, grazed his hole and taint with light fingers, and tightened the hand around his balls. The expression on Bem's face after he moaned...I saw real fear in his eyes for the first time. I gripped him just a little tighter before I released the magic. "Do we understand each other?" I asked across the table.
"I'll be good!" He squeaked.
Cy shifted a puzzled glance between us. "It's better you don't know." I told him, and he didn't press the matter.
The implied threat of my action took the hard edge off Bem's constant teasing but didn't stop it completely. I was happy it settled to an endurable level. I had to take my victories where I could get them.
The teasing wound up not being a big deal because, most of the time, Bem was serious, as was the rest of the team. During that period, we worked, and we planned, and we did little else. Gradually, as we worked, the big issues became small details, and the small details became things we could either resolve or had to ignore. In that manner, the plan crystallized. When it couldn't be rehashed any further, we set the date for our departure.
On Thursday, January 2nd, 2020, we loaded a heavy military transport with everything we thought we could possibly need for the trip, including sixty gallons of an alcohol-based industrial solvent that Neb found as a gasoline substitute. She was familiar with it because it was sometimes compounded into military-grade explosives. We tested it in the Vic and the old girl didn't seem to mind the change in diet at all.
The Vic also sported new provisions for carrying additional luggage and gear. Gold metal tubing made up a new roof rack, a trunk-mounted luggage rack, and hood-mounted tie-downs. We'd loaded the car as a test to make certain everything fit, and that the old suspension would support the load of our gear and six people.
Luckily, I'd done quite a few upgrades over the years, including coil-over shocks, oversized sway bars, and light-truck tires, to help the car deal with heavy loads, rutted construction sites, and towing welding machines. It squatted a little but maintained enough ground clearance for the nameless plains.
When I saw it, all decked out with its new tie-downs and gear, I was reminded of the photos I'd seen of WWII jeeps outfitted for desert service, with gas cans, shovels, and equipment strapped all over. The visible gear consisted of the weapons, including the heavy machine guns, that were strapped to the hood, the fuel in rectangular purple-plastic containers on the roof, and two cases of rations that were strapped to the trunk. The tents, ammo, water containers, and other equipment filled the trunk. Personal items were limited to a change of underwear, a toothbrush, a washcloth, and a shirt. There wasn't room for anything else.
I gave the entire team driving lessons in the yard of The HALL. If I was incapacitated, or worse, I wanted whoever was left to be able to get back. Shawn already knew how to drive Earth vehicles and the others learned quickly. Beyond starting an engine instead of pressing a power button and shifting an automatic transmission instead of flipping a direction lever, much of the process was the same.
The team's reaction to the pile of junk the car's trunk disgorged, prior to receiving its load for the trip, was interesting. As I had been laid off my last day on Earth, the car was full of the tools of my old trade, both owned by me or stolen from the company. The pile eventually grew to include a tri-stand pipe vice, pipe wrenches, a spud wrench, a portable band saw, two angle grinders, welding lead, both stinger and ground, a TIG torch, vice-grip style clamps of every description, more wrenches, files, chipping hammers, regular hammers, a three-pound maul, a five-pound maul, leather gloves, fire-proof jackets, a welding shield, an oxy/acetylene torch rig with gauges and hoses, a two-foot level, a magnetic torpedo level, two metal squares, a box of soap stone, and other miscellaneous crap.
Cy picked up the welding shield and tried to look through it. "What did you do with all this stuff?"
"I built things from metal, steel mostly."
Neb held up one of the greenish fire-proof jackets, the one with the most holes burned in it, and stuck her fingers through the singed fabric. "What did you build?" She asked.
"Factories, power plants, steel mills, trash to steam plants, all kinds of piping systems, I worked in glass-houses, chemical plants, oil refineries...the dirty but necessary side of modern living. Well, modern living on Earth. I've seen the documentaries here. Your factories are crystal palaces compared to the ones I worked in."
Bem held up the torch and hoses. He'd draped them between his widespread hands and over his shoulders like a carnival snake handler. "What's this?" He asked.
"That's a cutting torch." I unwound him and explained the pieces of the rig. "A flammable gas comes from a tank and runs in one hose. Pure oxygen comes from another tank and runs in the other. You light the torch with acetylene, the flammable gas, then adjust the flame and pull the lever. That feeds in the oxygen. It intensifies the flame, makes it hot enough to melt through metal."
"Sounds barbaric." Bem observed, stretching his vocabulary.
Shawn shuddered. "It is. Don't think about it too much. The fire and sparks, smoke and noise, the heat and the cold and the long hours...I don't know how anyone survives."
Cy picked up the five-pound maul and hefted it. "The way you describe it, I have this image of you in this helmet thing and one of those jackets and you're walking away from a background of huge fire. Maybe you're holding this hammer up, like you're gonna use it to save the world or something."
I laughed and shook my head. "Yeah, Cy...uhm...not quite. It was just a job like a lot of other jobs. For better or for worse, it's a job that's as relevant to this world as a tailor is to a nudist colony."
Vulp spoke up, raising his voice for the benefit of all present. "Know how you tell a blind man in a nudist colony?" He asked. "It's not hard."
Bem's lewd cackle helped the rest of us connect the dots on the joke and we all got at least a giggle out of the low brow humor that seemed to be our teammate's specialty.
I slapped Vulp's massive back in appreciation for the joke and set about gathering the stuff together and loading it in a carton to be stored. I also did my best to clean up the car's interior and empty the ashtrays to reduce the reek of cigarettes that permeated the upholstery. It was an odd feeling, packing up all the trappings of my old career, my old life. The tools felt both familiar and foreign under my touch. It hadn't even been that long. If I was still on Earth, I would still be laid off, spending everyday chain smoking and every night drinking myself blind in my shitty rowhome. Instead, here I was, loading up the Crown Vic for a mission to save a parallel world. Every-time I thought about it, it sounded ridiculous, but then I looked around and knew it was true.
We finished the pack-up. I disconnected the Vic's drive shaft from the rear end, secured it to a frame rail, and made sure the car was safely hitched to the transport. The last thing we did, was secure a heavy black tarp around the car. A driver and a tow vehicle would pick it up in the morning to start the four-day journey to Oppidum. We were to remain in the capital to continue our work for another three days. On the fourth, we would take Ars' private plane to the mining town and meet up with the transport. The following morning, we would set out for the mountain and whatever fate awaited us there.
The time for action was drawing close.
"I've been thinking about what you said to me when we were on the ledge at our last mock battle." Shawn said. It was the night before we were supposed to leave for Oppidum. The days between had been spent in continued planning and training, but it had gotten to the point of being redundant. There was no new information about Pravus, his minions, the barrier, or anything else. The plan was made, the date set, and there wasn't anything left but the job.
I was happy that Shawn brought the topic up. It was after dinner. We'd made love in bed and were holding each other under the sheet like if either of us let go, the other would float away. I was happy to have just about anything else to focus on that wasn't my crippling self-doubt. It was like performance anxiety, shot up with steroids and a line of crank. We were both so scared, it was impossible to tell whose anxiety belonged to who.
"Intellectually, I knew they'd taken life, but I didn't think about it." Shawn said referring to every member of the team that wasn't us. "How can they be OK with it?"
"They're not. That's why they're not cold-blooded killers. Accepting something as part of a job doesn't mean you're OK with it. Neb says the first man she killed still haunts her. She'll never get over it, not to the point of forgetting."
"I'm really fucking scared, Church." Shawn turned into me, hiding his face in my neck. "I don't know if I can do this."
My brain shouted at me. `It's a little fucking late for that!' What I said was less confrontational. "Talk to me."
"How can I do it? How? Tell me how I can kill someone. Tell me how you can. How can you?" He pleaded with me.
"I can't." I admitted and confused Shawn. "I mean, I can't imagine doing it, but," I squeezed him against me as I got ready to explain the thought I'd been clinging to, the thought that allowed me to justify an action that revolted every fiber of my being, "but, if the choice is between your life, and someone else's, I will do what I have to do to make sure you keep your life."
"Why?" He asked, then tried to explain his question. "Why is it about me?"
"I don't value my life."
Shawn filled his lungs to argue with me, but I stopped him. "Let me finish. I'm too fucked up to see any value in my life...too broken maybe. Once we come back, after all this is over, maybe you can help me fix that, but for now, it's your life I'm fighting to protect. That's what I'm holding onto. That's the only thing that I have to justify what I might have to do. Does that make sense?"
"Sort of." Shawn raised his head so he could meet my eyes with his. "What do I do then?"
"You have to decide what you're trying to protect. In the mock battles, you were told to guard me. If someone was getting ready to kill me, and you were in a position to stop them, but to stop them, you had to kill them, could you do it? Do I mean more to you than a stranger?"
"Of course, you do."
"You have your answer then."
"But...but it can't be that simple." Shawn argued.
"It has to be." I insisted. "Shawn, it has to be that simple. That's the only reason that anyone uses to end another person's life, anyone who isn't a cold-blooded murderer, I mean. They kill to protect. The question becomes, them or me.' In my case, the question is you or them.' If that's the choice I have to make, I'll do whatever I have to, so I make sure you live. If that means killing a stranger, I'll have to deal with my conscience later, because in that moment, their life, whoever they are, is going to be over. If the circumstances force you into that choice, them or me, will you choose me over them?"
Shawn didn't hesitate with his answer. "I will choose you, always."
"And I will choose you, always, and that's as simple as it is." I tried to sound confident, but I wasn't, and Shawn knew it. It really was that simple though. It had to be. `It has to be.' I reminded myself.
I felt something shift in Shawn's emotions. He seemed to settle, slightly. I hoped that meant he'd resolved to do what he had to do, if he had to do it. I hoped so anyway. I also realized that no amount of talking about it would give him any more confidence than he already had, or that he didn't have, so I didn't belabor the point. Shawn and I held each other in silence for a little while, each lost in our own fears and contemplations.
"I am so fucking scared." Shawn said again to break the silence.
The swear, especially that he'd used it again, surprised me. Shawn usually didn't swear. I agreed with his sentiment...completely. "Yeah...me to. I've been telling myself to do my job and let them do theirs, but it's not making me any less worried. The `what ifs' are pounding through my brain like you wouldn't believe. I hate to say it, but I really wish I had a drink."
A different worry flared in Shawn's emotions amid the worries he already felt. He gave me a quick squeeze. "Don't drink. I'll put you to sleep like I do every night."
"No, don't. I'm not going to leave you alone if you're afraid. Either we'll figure out how we can both sleep, or we'll both stay up and worry."
We clung to each other and passed anxiety between us until I couldn't stand it anymore. I heaved myself out of bed, desperate to shut my consciousness down. "Listen," I said, "how about just five or six to take the edge off? I'm not talking about getting really wasted, just enough to numb the mind so we can sleep. Would you be OK with that?"
Shawn sat up. "I guess so," he said tentatively, "but that sounds like way too much."
"You can stop after two or three. I'm a lot bigger than you and have a big tolerance. I don't think you changed that when you took the addiction. A month sober isn't enough to wipe it out. I'm not saying this is any kind of a solution, but this is one time when maybe it's OK to shut the lights out any way we can."
Shawn got up, crossed to the kitchen, and brought up the beverage menu on the culinarian. "Whiskey?" He asked.
"Yeah, bourbon, if possible, neat, straight, double."
Shawn pressed buttons and waited. The machine chirped and spat out a glass of amber. Shawn handed it to me and pressed more buttons. The machine chirped again and came up with a glass of what I took to be white wine for him. He picked it up and clinked glasses with me. I hesitated and stared into the amber. I realized that I didn't like the idea of drinking. I didn't want to get drunk. I assumed that meant I was getting better...on my way to recovery and all that. I shoved those thoughts aside and dropped the drink down my throat in a lump. Shawn threw the wine back. I handed my glass to him with one word. "Again."
He filled them up again. Another clink and another drink went down fast. I handed the glass back. "Pour two more and let's wait ten minutes."
He did as I asked, and we sat at the island to wait. The amber warmed me from the inside. Calm began replacing the worry and Shawn's nerves seemed a little better. I reminded myself that what I was feeling was not a good thing, but a necessary thing. I didn't want my mind to think the habit that I'd given up was anything to be missed. With that caution considered, and momentarily tossed to the wind, I held my glass out toward Shawn. "Well?" I asked.
He clinked his wine glass to my rocks glass and inhaled his last drink. I threw mine down my throat with equal enthusiasm. "Bed, now." Shawn said and took a deep breath to steady himself as his drink hit bottom and affected him visibly. We went back to bed and wrapped ourselves around each other between the sheets.
For once, the alcohol served a noble purpose. Between the gentle whiskey fog and Shawn's warm embrace, I relaxed. We both did. Sweet oblivion found him first, but I wasn't far behind.