The Grand Adventure

By James Peters

After the fall of Empire Nika, Hater, and Nastya cross the Wasteland in search of a pure water source. Along the way they experience many erotic adventures, including Hater being kidnapped by women warriors and Nika Savage finding the proper mistress to whip her flesh and cure her soul. The fun and funny conclusion to The Savage Trilogy, which includes The Denizens of Night and The Girl in the Golden Tower.

• Language: English
• Publisher: James Peters
• Release date: Aug 10, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310207167

James Peters

I've worked as a teacher for many years. The Denizens of Night is the first novel in a planned trilogy.

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The Grand Adventure

A Novel

James Peters

Copyright ©2015 by James Peters

Smashwords Edition

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Chapter 1

In the middle of nowhere we cleared stones cactus and scattered brush to create a graded stretch of level land smooth enough for a mass grave. The borders of the burial mound formed an irregular rectangle encompassing row upon row of oblong pits roughly symmetrical. We planted the children’s bodies in opposition to Powersby himself who judged their lives not worth nurturing. Together Hater and I dug holes amounting to no more than a few spadesfuls of earth. The Sisters Sans Merci swaddled the dead infants in clean white cloth and carrying them from the orphanage to the field fast becoming a cemetery laid each bundle with exact gentleness into a nameless plot.

Out of respect we leaned on our shovels until the nuns with heads bowed finished mumbling their say. As they returned to the main building Nadezhda placed at the head of each burial mound a smooth stone scavenged from the Deadland. The nuns had clapped a straw hat on her head to protect such delicate features from the depredations of the scalding sun. Clever as ever she discovered a way to do her part by finding headstones for commemorating the termination of so many innocent lives.

Drifting between us like a departed spirit herself Rachael Cozy followed the nuns or in other odd moments joined Nadezhda in searching for suitable glowstones or she took a seat in the weary shade of the church building for an exhausted moment’s repose. I witnessed her dark reveries as though she was drawn into some black hole from which no emotion might escape.

Since I first told her the truth that day concerning the death of her child and Hater carried her limp body to the ramshackle rented room and laid her down on the mattress on the floor her shining soul contracted until the light from her eyes dimmed and she ceased to be Rachael Cozy. Gamely I tried to arouse an interest in her for the tribulations of this world. Lamely I exhorted her to join us on a grand new adventure sure to lead somewhere, who knew where.

No. Oh no, she thanked me, shaking her forlorn locks. The more time she spent among the Sisters the greater she resembled them both in their habit and demeanor. The cruelty of the world lodged in her spirit and toward the end of our days together I realized how much these poison experiences, the blows delivered against a defenseless woman by the Powers That Be, critically wounded her and ended yet another epoch in her life. She was no longer a girl because you could read her sad history in the creases where time runnels cracked the corners of her sorrow filled eyes.

We finished the infant burials within the space of a single week. On the final day of toiling the rotating earth obscured the sun. The gathering gloom starkened into darkness. We stood with our feet firmly planted on the body in motion while the stars appeared to swirl in the ink black sky relative to where we huddled together motionless and still. In the pitch-black night our eyes dilated revealing in the enveloping shadows the stones Nadezhda had arranged emitting their spectral glow.

Standing behind Nasty I wrapped my arms around her and nuzzled her neck in appreciation of her sensitive and creative homage to the poor and innocent dead. Even scientific Mr. Hater wiped away a boyish tear.

We retired to separate beds the nuns prepared for us and waited discreet moments listening to the sound of their footfalls fade before Nadezhda crawled in with me and by rubbing in muffled joy we washed away our silent grief. Afterwards lying in my arms Nadezhda squirmed about until she ended up facing me.

Now time is. We go. I no in dis place stay. Dry up and blow-da-way, ole tumbleweed. We no belong here, Sasha my savage. Tomorrow. Early. Our tings we pack. Say bye-bye. See you later. And we go.

Where exactly do you expect us to go?

I don care where. Not here. Anywhere another place is. I not ready to die. I no wanna go bad person. But I need life. And you need life. Here no life is. Only dead. You did-did good ting for old friend. I’m wait around for dat. Now over is. You no love her. You love me. So now we go to get her. Where at, I don care. Away from dis place, someplace else. Any someplace else.

I questioned the lump in the bed next to us: What do you have to say about the matter, Mr. H.?

Without shifting his bulk, the lump replied, I think Nadezhda makes a good point. We can’t do anything more for Rachael, and we can’t take her with us.

If we leave her with the Sisters of Sans Merci they’ll turn her into a zombie.

The Powers That Be reduced her to a vegetable state, Nika, not you. The Nuns will make sure she’s fed and clothed. She’s in good hands. Face it, girl. There’s no future for us here.

At Hater’s slang and accurate appraisal, I blubbered blobby tears, the last I would ever shed for the one and only Rachel Cozy.

Hater rolled out of bed and trotted over in his boxers accentuating that six-block and he snuck into bed to lie between the sheets among us girls. He and Nadezhda comforted me and so I stopped crying.

Maybe we could cross the border and go hang out with black people. We had come so far and were in fact very close to the border.

Those boys aren’t always happy to see white people, considering the way they were deported en masse.

I think you’re not supposed to call them boys. There’s history there, and it isn’t polite. It’s not nice to say black boys.

Nadezhda emerged from a reverie and spoke with a dreamy vision in her voice:

Black boys are delicious.

Hater looked at me in expectation of my reply.

The exception tests the rule. I looked away for a moment to clear my own thoughts before resuming. I know you guys are right. We have to go. I can’t stay in this place, either. We’ll leave first thing in the morning. I tried to sit up but for some dumb reason they both pulled me down and that silly maneuver started us laughing. It just makes me mad, I said, growing serious again. How they can hurt a fellow human being like that and get away with it.

Hater said, So do something about it.

Like what?

I don’t know. Think about it. You’ll come up with something. You always do.

We puffed our cheeks and scratched our heads displaying the outward manifestations of logic and reasoning; in reality our posturing was a bluff. Then Nadezhda spoke, in a meek tone.

You say, one time, we three of us to get her make baby.

Not here, though, I clarified.

Oh no, not here, Nastya agreed.

Ever the pragmatist Hater declared, We need to find a pure water source first.

We can’t very well roam the Deadland looking for some mythical well, I said.

We’ll have to secure one by other means.

Armed insurrection?

Coup de ta.

Revolution! Nadezhda squealed. Hater and I clapped our hands over her mouth and we suppressed our bubbling laughter like virgin novitiates in some lubricious dormitory.

It could work, I said.

What’s to stop us? Hater wanted to know. How much longer does the planet have to live anyway?

The supreme act before we die.

We made a vow so heroic we grinned like fools and held our breath against sniggering laughter and without any further expressions of idealism my friends returned to their separate beds and we slept until our wobbly planet swung head-on into the beam of the blazing yellow sun and thus Rosey-palmed dawn and her five lascivious sisters arose.

Chapter 2

We ate our morning ration followed by implicit cooperation in packing and preparing ourselves for leaving the orphanage and once again venturing into the bleak unknown. Considering our basic plan involved capturing the Ramparts of Empire I figured any way we headed would be a step in the right direction. We emerged into the cool dawn and while the other two waited in the desert air I snuck into the sacristy and peeked in on Rachael. She was sitting alone on one of the front benches where it looked to me as though she was silently imploring the crucified figure, for what, exactly, I’ll never know. Support, surcease of sorrow, forgiveness for sins both real and imagined, a desperate plea to stop the pain because she had suffered as many shocks as her poor mortal soul could possibly withstand.

Before intruding on a private moment I pondered whether or not to simply leave her be and quietly depart without saying goodbye. A second of reflection convinced me such a course of action would be cruel or at the very least not in keeping with the spirit of friendship; plus, she had suffered enough losses to occupy her for the rest of her life without my silent desertion. She didn’t need me rollicking through her head as well. I’d travelled far and endured too many hardships not to say a proper goodbye. I scuffled up behind her so she could hear me coming and placed my hand on her shoulder.

Peering upward, she said, Thanks for coming, as though I’d just dropped by for a chat in her bedroom back at The Club Abattoir. I wouldn’t have made it without you.

You’re going to be okay? The things we say, I swear.

The question turned out to be more than she wished to consider. The query too rough. Her emotions too raw. I bent down to kiss her cheek and then I walked away leaving her to commune with her favorite mannequin wearing his tiara of sagebrush while strapped to an electric power pole. By stepping outside, I rejoined the ruined world and my friends also I rejoined.

This situation is too wretched for me to cope, I said, shaking my head as though to clear my mind of the sadness written within.

Without knowing the specific radiation content in the air that day we donned our protective eyewear, took a slug of reclaimed water, and turned our faces to the warm wind blowing across the Deadland. One foot after another and we wheeled off church property in no time, or as they say, in the time we had at our disposal.

We hadn’t traversed the straightaway very long before we heard in the distance the whump whump whump of the whirly blades treading air and saw the deadly drooping thorax body pendulous underneath. That the world had run out of fossil fuels could not be entirely true. Powersby must have horded enough for his own purposes because anytime he wanted to travel from point O to point X he found plenty of energy to take him there. Exactly how much he held in reserve nobody knew for sure. They had cut the supply to the general public generations ago. At the time solar energy had posed such a credible threat to the power structure they issued orders to their Senatorial sock puppets to pass legislation making it illegal. Long after the dirty black goo ran dry those laws remained on the books and the ancient animosity passed down from one generation to the next and so we lived in perpetual darkness as slaves to an anachronism.

Yet Powersby somehow found enough gasoline to power his favorite toys from time to time. This desert bird stalked the same path we were traveling and the most we could do was await its overpass. If you stopped, they might open fire. If you suddenly ran, they were certain to open fire. We lapsed into single file without having to say a word. Me first, Hater last, and Nadezhda tucked in the middle for safekeeping.

The chopper passed us on the left. Craning my neck, I tried to make eye contact. Along the bay door various troopers reposed with their legs lodged securely against the landing carriage support struts or dangling freely into space. They each cradled their own weapon except for the trooper with the skull and crossbones stenciled onto his oversized helmet. With both hands he gripped the handles of a T44 Liquidator, so called because a blast of its beam boiled the human body down into a pile of hot steamy goo.

To my great relief the desert bird passed us by and only then I realized my airflow had stopped, not exactly a full-blown panic attack but I had to struggle to regain normal breathing. Sand kicked up from the rotor blades found its way into my mouth as fine particles of grit scraping between my molars. I spit and took a slug from my water canister, swished my mouth, and spit. Then I remonstrated with myself for having wasted a swallow’s worth of liquid. Having gained the lead on us the dirty bird turned sideways across our path and hovered in midair for a moment and gaining its precarious balance slowly settled onto the road directly in our path. Amid the blow blast of sand the chopper kicked around I noticed the crew had stenciled on the nose of their warship Carrion Comfort.

A formidable looking sergeant in full black battle armor hopped down from the bay door to the ground and advancing a few steps towards us he cradled his Stingray locked and loaded with his finger running aslant the trigger while keeping the muzzle pointed at the ground. He waved at us in that stiff military forearm manner indicting ‘move forward this way’. I don’t know why, a gesture of good faith, I suppose, I raised my hands into a posture of surrender and stepped lightly towards this beckoning daemon. The Sargent patted the air directly in front of him to indicate I needed to lower my hands so the copter blades wouldn’t slice them clean off at the wrist. The closer we approached the louder their elliptical gyrations clipped the air and we had to lean through the gust until we penetrated to the eye of the storm.

The Sargent had the vocalizer on his battle mask turned up really loud. When he spoke it sounded like he was shouting through a megaphone. We could certainly hear him above the whine and wubba wubba wubba of the whirligig.

The insurgents are massing in this area. It isn’t safe for you to be traveling on this road. We’re on recon, but we also have evacuation of civilians as a part of our COMSAC directive. For worthy citizens, that is. You look worthy. Are you?

Oh absolutely! I cried, bobbing up and down on the balls of my feet. The trooper reached out and placed a suppressing hand on my shoulder. He again pointed to the rotating blades.

Better not to jump up and down underneath the blades, the Sargent bellowed, before reverting to the subject at hand. I thought you were good people, I could tell just by looking at you, and plus, you didn’t run.

He looked Nadezhda up and down and under the glare of his appraisal she curtsied. Metallic laughter crackled through the battle masks of the troopers loaded on board. Imagine if buzzards had the power of expressing mirth electronically. He then turned his attention on Hater who in the moment had turned quite pale.

You’re an engineer, the Sargent declared as though assigning him a new identity from now on.

Yessargent, Hater replied.

What are you doing out here?

Field work. Relief mission to Sisters of Misery. To restore their power. Their coal burning unit had malfunctioned.

The battlemask betrayed no response to this information. My intuition told me the trooper had no idea what Hater was talking about. Neither did Hater until the second before he spoke.

We can use you, The Sargent finally responded. Nothing like good clean coal.

I’m at your disposal, of course, Hater said. I’ll help anyway I can, but you know, there’s really no such thing as clean coal.

That same cackling erupted from the ship’s crew.

"Right, good one. Climb aboard people. We need to remove ourselves from this sector, roger dodger."

Obediently we did as ordered and clambered aboard the helicopter. Four benches, the one in the back facing forward, two in the middle back to back facing in either direction, and the one in the forward area near the cockpit facing rearwards created two compartments and we were directed into the rear area by helping hands outstretched. Our bid to conquer the world was not even two hours old and already we had been waylaid and taken into custody ostensibly for our own protection. In the forward area crouched the boots as yet not on the ground. Out of politeness or to ease the process of chatting us up they unhooked their battle masks and pulled that protective gear aside. In our section of the carriage we were elbow to elbow with a very young looking lieutenant whose recent assertiveness training course led him into a delusion concerning Nadezhda as though he might actually have a sexual chance with her.

The Sargent wore a saucy expression on his sunburned face. Two provocative and merry blue eyes drew my attention away from his stern jowls. The civilian in the squad, a political officer by the looks of him, leather proletarian cap and thick-lensed spectacles, had been running his gaze over us as well, but more in a professional manner, in particular analyzing our clothing.

The whirlybird whined into high gear lunging us upward and forward in one queasy surge. In reaction to the G-Force my vital organs compressed like a sack of offal. For a moment the air pressed out of my lungs. Once the copter achieved cruising altitude the Sargent yelled out conversation loud enough to be heard over the whirring blades and the whooshing wind:

What are two pretty young things like you doing wandering around in the Deadland?

In response to the compliment Nadezhda smiled with the simplicity of heart typical of her naïve and gentle nature. I found his arrogance and condescension off putting personally and yet I smiled by way of response. Hater was our companion, after all. He might have been my boyfriend as far as the trooper knew. Hater remained composed sitting next to me. He kept watch on the trooper since the trooper was busy reckless eyeballing Nadezhda and me. I knew he was analyzing details. With one hand stuffed into his bomber jacket and fondling a Taser, Hater studied the weak points and pressure points on the war monger’s body. Like a lot of nerds, he was dying to put theory into practice.

We were returning from a mission of mercy, I yelled, just making myself audible above the din.

The Sargent was on the verge of making what I’m sure would have been another witty observation when the Political Officer blocked him.

I couldn’t help but notice your clothing. I’m wondering how it is you come to be wearing state issued trooper gear. Your trousers, your boots: where’d you get them?

The flirtatious atmosphere suffered a buzz kill as every soldier present narrowed his eyes and regarded our footwear.

We bought them in a bizarre outside the city, I yelled above the rushing wind.

Selling trooper gear is strictly prohibited by law, the Commissar murmured, and yet I could hear him clearly.

If you want, I’ll go with you to point out the guy who sold them to us, I said, entering upon a dangerous fiction in the process.

The Political Officer didn’t flinch. He said, Not much chance of going near the city on a goose chase like that. The place has fallen into lawlessness.

But we have the Sargent to protect us.

The Political Officer retracted his head down between the upturned lapels of his leather coat.

An dis nice man here, Nadezhda said, taking charge of the lieutenant by patting his arm. The young leader’s face turned positively sanguine.

It’s illegal to buy state issue, the Politico said, persisting in his killjoy routine.

You should arrest that evil gypsy for seducing two innocent young virgins into a life of crime, I said, kicking heel to toe in the style of the old soft shoe, from a sitting position. Oh yeah, and when I said the word ‘virgin’ a tick twitched the skin on the Politico’s cheek just below the right eye. Nadezhda recognized the steps of the old soft shoe and joined me in attracting the attention of the troopers in the forward compartment who scrambled and crowded facing backward on the bench to enjoy the show. Our diversionary tactic worked its magic on everyone but Killjoy Was Here.

How do I know you didn’t strip them off the body of a dead trooper?

What the helleryou talkinabout? They’re just kids, the Sargent snapped. He’d been annoyed since the Political Awful Sir first interrupted him. Now a tension developed between the two of them. I would have been satisfied with encouraging the Sargent as my champion and watching him blow the brains out of the nasty little man wearing a leather jacket and representing Powersby although I’m sure he would have been considerably less gallant after a pint of whiskey, my champion. This squabbling became moot and my secret machinations to set these two at each other’s throats halted in the next violent moment.

Chapter 3

Later Hater explained to me what hit us was called an RPG, in his opinion not a sophisticated piece of ordinance and hence a very lucky shot. It didn’t matter how many times I told him the story. Neither Hater nor Nadezhda would believe me. Nadezhda never sided with me anyway; she always believed Hater, no matter what he said, when I claimed to have seen the projectile ricochet a spark off the roof and land behind the eight troopers who were on their knees backwards over their seats watching Nadezhda and me goofing with our feet. They died with smiles on their faces. Their meat splattered in every direction. Then the chopper listed to one side and their various body parts slid out the open cargo door and spiraled toward the sand. Eight guys sliced into four or five parts each. That’s quite a payload splattering to Earth and pattering the sand like vomit.

Once they dearly-departed I could see into the cockpit where both pilots slumped dead in their seats. Across from me the Sergeant tightened his safety belt. On our bench Hater did the same for Nadezhda and me, cinching us both so tightly we gasped in turn. I put my arms around her and kissed her full on the mouth. At that point who cared? We were going down. Hater and I both hugged. I noticed the Political Officer experiencing his own existential moment dangling sideways out the cargo bay door. He had not tightened his belt properly and he had slid sideways dangling out the door over the roving landscape rapidly approaching impact.

The sergeant laughed baring his teeth and bracing himself by planting his clod hoppers squarely on the floor and folding his arms tightly across his chest as though there was nowhere else he’d rather be than riding in a troop carrier crashing onto hardpan. We bowed our heads between our knees as the copter careened onto the desert floor and skidded across the sandy terrain.

Whippo-whang whoppa-wee! The overhead blades snapped off and flew away with decapitating intensity. A suffocating spume of sand and dirt curled into the cabin area like a scoop of deadly mocha ice cream entering our cabin area and threatening to fill it to the brim and bury us all. We struggled to breath in the thick and gloomy dust as metal screeched to a halt. The Sargent’s closed fist smashed his seatbelt buckle and it collapsed into pieces releasing him from his seat before either Nadezhda or Hater could pry their eyes open and then suddenly the Sargent loomed in midair and pulled Hater up to the bay door opening skyward. While I clawed away at the desert sand burying me up to my waist he motioned for Nadezhda, whom he hauled up next. She squawked and I stretched my arms up and shoved her towards the two men who stood above grabbing her arms. Only then did I realize the young lieutenant who only a moment before had been sweet on Nadezhda lay lifeless and buried alive next to me. Hater disappeared ostensibly to aid Nadezhda in sliding off the carriage to the ground below as Sargent Rock climbed down into the wreckage again and unbuckled my belt. I was having trouble uncoupling and I slid sideways which is to say downwards and then we both grabbed ahold of the Political Officers ankles and feet and yanked his body skyward essentially unearthing him. The Sargent must have tripped the lieutenant’s safety buckle. He slung the body over his shoulder and climbed skywards with the dude dangling lifeless. I followed, copying his use of toeholds and hand holds. In fact I followed under my own power all the way to terra firma. Sure enough Hater was attending to Nadezhda by washing her dirty face with bottled water. Poor thing. Her eyes glowed bloodshot red and her hair stood out in clumps gnarly with dirt and twigs. I shouldn’t talk. I’m sure we all looked equally traumatized.

The Sargent laid the Politico on his back flat on the ground. Taking off his own backpack he dropped it and pulled bottled water out and proceeded to pour most of it onto the guy’s face as though expecting him to splutter awake and open his eyes amazed. He just lay there with a pendulous drop of water clinging to his dead beak. You couldn’t see it with him lying there face up. The back half of his head had been shaved away. I’d seen the damage underneath when I was following the Sargent up and out of the crashed helicopter.

I joined my friends and removed my own pack and dropped it on the ground. Extracting a tortoise-shelled comb with spaced teeth I picked at Nadezhda’s hair while she and Hater performed the same cleaning for me and like three happy monkeys hunting for lice with our fingernails we cleaned and pruned one another back to some semblance of humanity.

We barely had enough time to pull ourselves together before the Arabs appeared at every swing of the compass point. They resembled Bedouins of some sort. Nomads. Desert Jackals. Extremists. Jihadists. Behind them straggled pack beasts loaded with their nomadic swag and women draped head to foot in muslin and children wrapped in cotton and chintz supervised by the very old. The Warriors traveled aboard camels stolen from a zoo because those beasts were definitely not indigenous to these parts. Muslims appeared everywhere in the final days even the least likely of places stirring up a whirlwind of trouble wherever they camped. Always trying to enslave free people by threatening them into silence, their mullahs using religion to justify their lust for penetrating defenseless young girls and treating their women in a way you wouldn’t treat a dog. In this regard they were as bad as Christians.

His demeanor hardening the Sargent allowed his weapon to slide though his fingertips until the butt struck the ground next to his boots and toppled over sideways landing lengthwise on the hardpan with a metallic clatter. At this sign of surrender the Jihadists let loose a hellborn howl in disparate unison and swarmed over the prisoner of religious war. Several sets of dark desert-worn hands with cream-colored palms patted his body and rifled his pockets for matchsticks cigarettes chewing gum and chocolate bars.

Once sure the Sargent was restrained and couldn’t hit back one of the insurgents slapped the prisoner across his face causing the rest of the tribe to erupt in jubilation. The light dimmed in the Sargent’s expression. Neither passive nor aggressive his mind executed a tactical redeployment to a safe area behind his eyeballs. In this way he allowed his antagonists nothing in return, nothing they could joke or brag about later on that night when they gathered around the communal supper dish. No emotional reaction. No satisfaction. Nothing. The Sargent remained hard. Obdurate. The Arab warriors took note of this attitude and remained alert and aloof amid the tribal cacophony keeping their late model foreign made high caliber Chomp-Chomps trained on their living target.

One of the desert jackals unzipped a side pocket and discovering a map he ripped it forth and dutifully trotted this restricted document over to the Sheikh sitting high upon his mount who without deigning the least perusal snatched the item and plunged it deep inside the voluminous folds of his tribal robe as