Free Last Ranger by Craig Sargent Page A

even harder if he should try something but the woman seemed too good, too strong. He knew somehow she’d killed
     before and wouldn’t hesitate, even though she seemed to get along with him in a way. Stone wouldn’t have a chance. It took
     about two hours to get to her encampment and the sun was just setting as they arrived at the edge. Stone didn’t see much at
     first other than about two dozen cycles parked in a circle, but as they drew closer up to several fires that others of the
     gang were standing around, he saw with amazement that they had dug their homes in the earth itself and topped the holes with
     windshields from cars, trucks, whatever. He could see the lights of candles and lanterns sending up jaggedly dancing illuminations
     from within some of them. They were spread out over the dark field past the two main fires, with car doors well-built right
     into the earth that could be swung open and closed. Talk about functional architecture, Stone thought, impressed with the
     cleverness of the operation. Just a hole in the ground—some automobile wreckage of which there was plenty around—and presto:
     instant all-weather home.
    But if the earth homes were unique, Stone’s eyes opened wide when he sighted the bizarre shape that stood between the twin
     bonfires. A mound of mud and earth stood nearly fifteen feet high. But more than a mound, a phallus, carved into the shape
     of a male organ at full extension. And two more mini-mounds below that stretched out for yards. Around it women were venting
     their spleens, slashing at it with knives, spearing it with long staffs, shooting at the head of the thing, which, with its
     many holes and pockmarked craters, had obviously been attacked many times like this. What in God’s name had he stumbled into
     here? Suddenly Stone’s groin area tightened up like it was going into deep freeze. The whole kit and caboodle knew something
     was up. You couldn’t hide a thing from Martin Stone’s body parts, no siree. That was one of the things he really liked about
     himself. He was so sensitive.
    The mix of hate and desire sent by the flashing eyes of the other women nearly sent Stone toppling off the bike as he brought
     it, under Raspberry’s command, to a full stop about twenty feet from the main fire. Seated around the blaze on various car
     seats half fallen apart were the leaders of the band. Stone could see that immediately by the garishly painted antennae the
     leaders held in their hands like royal scepters, and the fact that all the other women were standing while the three of them
     reclined. The trappings of power were obvious in the strangest of places.
    “Well look what Ms. Thorn done gone and snagged herself,” one of the seated women spoke up with a nasty laugh. “A man.”
    “That’s right a man,” Raspberry snapped back as she stepped off the bike keeping the knife carefully around Stone’s throat
     so he had to step slowly off too. “And he’s mine. He saved my ass. The Jalopios were about to get my sweet tail but good,
     when this dude showed up on the scene and kicked butt. I mean he sent them into ketchup city, girls. So I want him.”
    “You know it ain’t that easy sugarlips,” one of them said, rising up and swaggering around waving her antenna. “We
all
gets to share. This here sisterhood is a de-moc-ra-cy. I say it would be more fun to roast the son-of-a-bitch. We ain’t roasted
     no man for a long time now.”
    “Roast your clit, Rose Spike,” Raspberry snarled as she kicked out a leg and tripped Stone down on the ground like one might
     trip a calf in a rodeo. So unexpected was the move that Stone went down, though he was able to stop himself before he hit
     hard with his arm and thigh. The camp filled with laughter and his face turned bright as a baboon’s rear end, though none
     could see it in the waves of light and shadow from the fires.
    “Don’t you just wish you could,” Rose Spike said, reaching down to the seat