House Divided: The Stewards of History

By Gary B. Boyd

Brett Stamos loved his job, he loved his country, but most all, he loved his wife. When he allowed his curiosity to override his good sense, he lost all three.

Brett found out that written history does not always match up with real history. Unwittingly, he uncovered that a monumental hoax had been perpetrated on the American people. He discovered original history books that debunked six decades of misinformation that kept President Makluas government in power.

Slated for termination on charges of sedition, Bretts sure death is averted when he is rescued by people that he once disavowed as invaders and trespassers. The simple Forester becomes the face of an underground Liberty Movement whose mission is to return the United States to its former glory as a beacon of freedom in a dangerous world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Oct 28, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524647728

Gary B. Boyd

Gary B. Boyd is a story teller. Whether at his cabin in the Ozark Mountains, at his desk in his home or on his deck overlooking Beaver Lake near Rogers, Arkansas, he writes his stories. His travels during his business career brought him in touch with a variety of people. Inquisitive, Gary watches and listens to the people he meets. He sees in them the characters that will fill his stories … that will tell their stories. A prolific author with more than a dozen published titles and a head full of tales yet to share, Gary submits to his characters and allows them to tell their own stories in their own way. The joy of completing a novel doesn’t lessen with time. There are more stories to tell, more novels to write. Gary expects to bring new characters to life for years to come. www.garybboyd.com

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© 2016 Gary B. Boyd. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 10/27/2016

ISBN: 978-1-5246-4773-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5246-4772-8 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2016917998

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Dedication

Preface

Chapter 1 A Forester and a Nurse

Chapter 2 A Forester and a Box

Chapter 3 A Forester and a Book

Chapter 4 A Forester and a Warning

Chapter 5 A Forester and a Traitor

Chapter 6 A Forester and a Plot

Chapter 7 A Forester and a Mission

Chapter 8 A Forester and a Complication

Chapter 9 A Forester and a Spy

Chapter 10 A Forester and a Chance

Chapter 11 A Forester and a Strike

Chapter 12 A Forester and a Friend

Chapter 13 A Forester and a Beginning

Chapter 14 A Forester and a Change

Chapter 15 A Forester and a Revelation

Chapter 16 A Forester and a Disruption

Chapter 17 A Forester and a Reconciliation

Chapter 18 A Forester and a Dilemma

Dedication

No task of this size can be completed alone. Help comes from many different directions. Without intentionally disregarding any assistance received compiling, writing and editing this novel, I wish to acknowledge the following people for all they have done to bring this project to fruition:

my wife Shirley for finding those pesky typos; my daughter Angela for ensuring the storyline stayed true; my daughter Tina for editing the flow and monitoring the author’s sanity.

Preface

History can be described as a collection of memories. It can be defined as a series of snap shots in time. Regardless, history is expressed as Ones and Zeroes in a computer file.

Or, is history the record of human events, crafted by imperfect beings, forged in triumph, tempered with failure, and seasoned with emotion?

It is said that history is written by the victors - the winners. If so, then perhaps it is neither a collection of memories nor snap shots in time. Perhaps history is nothing more than the documentation of human events as captured by writers of fiction.

American history tells us that our first President could not tell a lie, and that our sixteenth President was so sincerely truthful that he was known as Honest Abe. If history is correct, we are left to wonder what has happened to America as the nation ages, because we delight as our leaders expose themselves in one lie or dishonest deed after another. Maybe we would be better served if we questioned our history as strongly as we question our modern politicians; after all, our politicians, our leaders, our Presidents, are the winner. They are the victors.

At first glance – and a second or more - it would appear that our history is nothing more than legends perpetuated by the elitists who rule us. Nothing can be believed about history other than – maybe – the findings in anthropological digs. The bones of the Pharaohs clearly show they lived and died, wrapped in the luxuries afforded by the labors of those they ruled. And, those they ruled lived and died also. History has taught us nothing. We still provide luxury for our Pharaohs and we die in poverty without complaint; held in place by our history.

But, history can not be denied. It happened. It was real at the time it transpired. The only thing false about history is the telling, not the events.

A nation’s history is nothing more than a series of talking points established by the victors (the leaders) to support the narrative of the government (the stronghold of the leaders). Heroes are identified and indemnified. Heroic efforts and magnificent victories are recorded as proof of the struggles and sacrifices of the founding leaders. The vanquished are painted as the villains the leaders need them to be so that future generations of patriots can fully vilify those who tried to abort the birth of the nation.

In America, to assure the private citizens who never aspired to or ever achieved the heady roles of leadership, our Founders presented themselves as Honest Men filled with compassion and virtue - as opposed the King who ruled with heartless corruption, taking the wealth of the colonists as his own. Even into the future of the Founding, two and a half centuries later, the citizens are unable to discern the lies by politicians because our history reinforces the notion that our leaders are honest. We vote for them without regard, as long as they reiterate the aphorisms of patriotism.

Brett Stamos was a simple man, a Forester. Even more, he was a compliant citizen. He cared for his forest land, the Government’s land, with a passion. He followed every rule and regulation so he could retain his land and feed his passion. He was a married man. He loved his wife with a passion. He vowed to protect her from harm at any cost to himself. Brett Stamos was a patriot. He loved his country and accepted his duty to protect his country against all enemies, domestic and foreign.

Brett Stamos, like all citizens, knew his country’s history; he knew its heroes and he knew of their heroics. Like any good patriot, he defended the USA without question – until the day he read a different history than he had been taught.

Brett Stamos found himself to be the focal point in a battle to regain the hearts and minds of the citizens of America. Through his efforts, the American people prepared to move back to their true history – the history written by the Founding Fathers and their followers.

Chapter 1

A Forester and a Nurse

A gentle breeze pushed the tree leaves into motion. Brushing seductively together in the high boughs, their gyrations did not go unnoticed. Sunlight, blocked then revealed by the undulating greenery, shined through like spotlights on an actor’s stage, dotting the moldering brown leaves of the forest floor with dancing lights. As if with a purpose of their own, the spots of light engaged in a mesmerizing waltz with the shadows as they chased one another with carefree glee.

Unseen by the sightless trees and blind bushes, a graying doe advanced through the woods. The ephemeral and engaging dance was ignored by the deer, merely a part of the never ending background of sights. With caution borne by instincts, the unceasing search for food and an acute awareness of the surrounding dangers filled her primitive mind as she continued her slow, hesitant walk through the woods. Browsing on the leaves of the low bushes and an occasional mushroom, she flicked her tail in tune with the breeze fluttered leaves so she could blend in with background. One step, then two; head up to look apprehensively, expectantly, in search of the predators that relentlessly stalked her kind. Nostrils flared, inhaling the scents of the forest; testing each nasal full for unfamiliar smells and, even more diligently, for the tell tale odors that would warn her of a known predator.

Brett Stamos admired the simple fluidity of the dance, the undulating and variegated light patterns on the fallen leaves of years past. It became his temporary pastime. The art of hunting can be classified into two categories: tracking and ambushing. Stealth is paramount in both. The ability to be comfortably idle is highly advantageous to an ambush practitioner. In either case, reliance on vision alone seldom results in taking the prey; the other senses are required to make the hunt successful – those and luck.

A rustled leaf, crispy dry atop soft humus that was too long without rain, broke the moment of reverie. Quickly, the hunter’s eyes diverted from the mystical dance of light and shadow toward the sound. More times than not, such shifts of attention are wasted on a squirrel, scurrying and shuffling through the leaves in its ceaseless search for food. At first, the deer went unseen. Refocused eyes searched for the telltale form, the outline that did not fit trees or bushes or moss covered rocks or rotting logs. Staring without blinking to allow maximum light to enter his pupils, the hunter remained focused. Brett knew the deer would freeze briefly to survey its surroundings before it moved again. He could not blink or he might miss the next movement.

Satisfied that the noise it made was interpreted as nothing more than normal forest movement, the deer flicked her tail and dipped her head to nuzzle dead leaves away from a discovered oak seed morsel. A click - a breaking stick or a falling acorn - was ignored while she used her lips and tongue to adroitly pull the tannin laden and protein filled bit into her maw. She raised her head to survey her surrounding as she prepared to chew the acorn, tough shell and all. A twanging vibration broke the relative silence of the day. Her body was shoved sideways toward the ground. Nimbly, with power driven by a sudden burst of adrenaline, her hind legs catapulted her forward into the air in an effort to escape whatever had slammed into the side of her chest. Her front legs failed to support her weight when she landed. She stumbled and tumbled forward. Weakening rapidly and with only her back legs responding to her brain’s commands, she tried to regain her footing. Her efforts were in vain. Without a bleat and without ever seeing her assailant, her eyes become blank glassy orbs as her life blood forcefully spilled out to be sopped up by the dried forest floor.

Brett’s heart pounded mercilessly as he stared, still unblinking, at the spasmodic dying dance of the doe. His arrow was well placed. As a hunter, he was pleased with himself for delivering a quick death to the beautiful creature sprawled on the dead leaves. He watched as the deer’s hind legs offered up one more series of jerky kicks before the body became completely still. His heart rate declined. He exhaled and blinked. The deed was done. He was partially pleased, partially saddened. He had done his duty to remove an infertile doe from the herd. Besides, he knew he would be allowed to keep a portion of the meat for himself and his wife. He assembled his gear and prepared to climb from his hunting stand, his hand made and strategically placed ambush site. With shaking hands and unsteady knees, he descended to perform the task of butchery that he knew was necessary. He had done it a few times before; remorse would have to wait until he completed the task. Otherwise, the meat would spoil in the late summer heat.

A Government Forester’s job was more than just keeping the forest clear of dead and diseased flora. The indigenous fauna required selective culling as well. Brett Stamos loved his job. He was licensed and permitted to use a compound bow to eliminate non-productive and diseased animals that lived in the well manicured woods and leas on the one-hundred sixty acres of forest land that he called his. The only part of his job that shuffled his mind was ridding the forest of interlopers, human scavengers who thrived on taking what was not theirs to take.

Because of his loyalty and honorable service during his conscripted time in the Army, Brett had earned the right to be chosen for the job of Forester. He had proven that he would stand firm in the face of danger to execute his duties. That was needed when people tried to trespass and forage edibles - steal food - from the forest that was his. He had stood firm against intruders with only his wits and hands as defensive weapons more times than he cared to remember. He felt both loathing and compassion for the bedraggled souls who risked their lives to steal from his land, his Government’s land. He always prevailed, and reported them to his boss. Where they went after an encounter was unknown to him. He only cared that they did not return. He sometimes wondered why those lost souls were unwilling to comply with the needs of the nation and behave as good citizens.

Brett preferred outdoor work to inside jobs. His parents had raised him on a collective farm. His body was strong and lithe, barely an ounce of fat could be found on his thin frame. He was not suited to factory work, nor was he capable of office work. He felt a connection to the soil, the earth sustained him. By and large, he did not like dealing with people or being stuck in a crowd. Unlike his wife, a Nurse, he was an introvert. Aside from a small group of friends in his apartment building, the only people he dealt with on a regular basis were fellow Foresters and his boss, the Regional Senior Forester, for a daily review of the status and condition of his forest land. Any other contact he had with people was the occasional intruder who encroached on his forest land. He used his uncomfortable feelings to his advantage when he coldly escorted – or more often, chased – the intruders from the forest.

Even though he officially owned the land, his boss, Carlos Torres, directed his every action based upon Government regulations designed to ensure the land was kept environmentally pristine. That phrase meant that no one other than the Forester walked the grounds or harvested any bounty from the one hundred sixty acre tract, commonly referred to as a quarter section of land. It was Brett’s duty to do necessary work as permitted by regulations. The property deed was non-transferable. Brett could not sell the land. Brett’s child, if and when he had one, could not inherit his land. It was his only as long as he satisfactorily performed his duties as Forester. That made no difference to Brett; he loved his responsibilities and, more importantly, he loved his land and the freedom owning it provided. His parents never had ownership of the farmland where they worked, where they raised Brett, and where they died. Factory and office workers owned nothing other than personal effects. Even Gwen, a Registered Nurse, owned nothing other than the clothes on her back – so to speak. Though he lacked high status, he was content with his station, a higher station than his upbringing would have suggested.

Because his wife was a Nurse, her status allowed them to live in an apartment reserved for people of higher station than Forester. His work colleagues did not live near him. By good fortune, Saul Bergman, his sergeant while in the Army, lived in the same apartment building. Saul and his wife were both Instructors at a regional education center. When time permitted, the two men visited. Saul was one of few people that Brett trusted. Sergeant Bergman was a Communications Specialist in the Army and his squad was charged with maintaining and defending military communication systems, especially micro-wave relay towers. The Government preferred the tower technology because it was less susceptible to remote hacking than satellites, even though physically protecting and maintaining them required more human resources.

Brett quickly separated the quarters of meat from the carcass and carefully wrapped them in plastic lined butcher paper that he had stowed inside his backpack for the task. The two long backstraps were treated with near reverence as he removed every morsel of the tender muscle that extended from beneath the shoulder blades to the hip bones. Carlos knew how the butchered meat should look if excised properly, how much a large doe would yield. Any suspicion of missing backstrap meat could result in termination from his job, or worse. No one knew what came of Foresters who took backstrap meat for their own use – or violated any of the myriad of rules and regulations that defined the Forestry Service. That particular cut of meat was reserved for the Government; for dignitaries far above Brett’s pay grade – above Carlos’ pay grade as well.

The spine, ribs, liver, kidneys, heart and any other entrails he desired were Brett’s, as the land owner. He only took the ribs, liver, kidneys and heart. He used the ribs to form a cage to contain the organs inside a paper wrapped package. The broadhead arrow had cut the heart in more places than one would immediately assume. The doe’s instantaneous reaction to the bone shattering steel intrusion was to twist her body. Her movements, which were meant to escape the cutting pain, actually exposed more of her heart muscle to the four razor sharp edges of the arrowhead as it slide through her body with nominal resistance.

The offal, head, feet and hide would feed the carnivores and carrion eaters of the forest. Brett carefully removed a plastic tag from the doe’s left ear and placed it into a small plastic bag. Proof of which deer was killed was required by Government regulation. He pondered and shuddered at the memory of a fellow Forester who was removed from his post in disgrace when a poached deer’s remains were found on that Forester’s land. He shook his head to dislodge the thought. A Forester’s duty was to maintain control of the land and everything on it, even the actions of intruders. He then wiped the blood from his knife and hands with a towel. He hoisted the heavy backpack onto his shoulders and grasped the lightweight composite bow. He quickly hiked to his Forester shed, where he parked the four wheel drive cart that he used for hauling tools and dead wood.

As a Forester, he was allowed to use the gasoline powered cart as transportation between the Regional Forestry Service headquarters and his forest land. The cart and tools he used to perform work on his forest land were Government property. He rode a route bus from his apartment to the headquarters; a forty mile round trip daily. The cost of the bus ride was deducted from his paycheck. It was a convenient arrangement. He did not have to worry about late payment for the Government transportation service, and the Government got its fare in a timely manner. Gwen had to ride a train from the apartment to the medical facility where she worked. Brett hated the trains; they were too crowded and the people were surly. The rural buses were also crowded but the people - outdoor people – his kind of people - were much more to his liking.

The half mile hike to the shed was not wasted. Brett used the walk to survey trees as he quietly made his way to his shed. Once the doe was discovered to be in his forest, he had dedicated ten days to tracking and studying the doe’s movement so he could ambush her. A good rifle would have made the task easier and quicker for the Forester, but citizens were not allowed to have firearms. Carlos’ agitation about the Foresters’ failure to cull her was growing stronger every day. The Senior Forester did not like unfinished business, especially business that was reviewed regularly by the Forestry Commissioners. Because of his focus on the doe, Brett had not been able to do his routine forest inspection duties. As he walked, he saw some windfall branches that required disposal. He also noticed that the limb from which they fell was covered with withered leaves. The large limb needed to be removed. He would report it to Carlos so a Woodsman could be assigned to the task of removal. Only a Woodsman was allowed to actually cut trees or limbs from trees. Only a Woodsman was authorized to possess and use gasoline or battery powered chainsaws. Brett could use pruners and hand held wood saws to remove smaller damaged branches and excessive tree sprouts that would only clutter the forest, but only with regulatory approval from Carlos.

Brett’s cart sputtered and bounced as he approached the Regional Forestry Headquarters. All of the Region’s Foresters operated out of the center and stowed all Government equipment and tools inside adjoining sheds and garages. The low Headquarters building was aesthetically pleasing to eyes that appreciated the outdoors. It was crafted from native stone and forest logs gathered from the surrounding forests. It blended with its surroundings. The only thing that detracted from the pristine view was a tall steel truss tower in a clearing near the paved road that passed through the forest land. Brett parked his assigned cart in its designated garage area. With studied precision, he entered the cart’s serial number into a small computer terminal. He passed his forearm through an attached scanner so his code would be entered along with the serial number to indicate that he had returned the vehicle. As he approached the entrance, Brett fantasized about living in a house that looked like the Government building surrounded by forest. He did not like the small, utilitarian cookie cutter apartment that was assigned to him and Gwen by the Government. He shrugged off his daydream and entered the front door. At least, with Gwen’s status and pay as a Nurse, their apartment was larger and afforded more amenities than most citizens were offered. He occasionally thought about the one room structure assigned to his parents as crop Farmers. Even though the payroll deduction for the larger apartment was higher for rent, he and Gwen would have room for the child they planned to have when their time was right.

The receptionist smiled at Brett as soon as he entered. Wrinkles around her eyes and mouth were indications of her normal good nature, not just her age. She apparently loved to smile, and hers was an infectious smile. Were you successful? Sienna Patterson knew the Foresters had been charged with removing a barren doe from the population. She was often the recipient of a generous portion of the venison when a Forester was successful. That particular doe had eluded removal for almost a month after it was designated to be culled.

Brett grinned and cocked his head to indicate his backpack, Always…eventually. You will have a good roast for supper tonight, Miss Sienna, and a side of ribs if you want them. The gray-haired woman was married to a Government office worker but was shown respect with the seemingly diminutive honorific when addressed by the Foresters.

Sienna pushed her roller chair away from her desk and, with a twinkle in her eyes, approached the Forester with arms extended. She was prepared to help him remove the backpack. She knew the meat needed to be put in the cooler quickly.

The two carefully and reverently removed the six packages of meat from the backpack and carried them to a large refrigerator located in a small adjoining anteroom. As soon as the task was completed, Brett moved toward a washroom to wash away the blood that the wipe towel did not remove from his hands and forearms. He did not have proper cleaning facilities in his forest, only a rustic privacy station – once referred to as an outhouse – and a spring fed pond. Sienna walked down a short hallway to locate Senior Forester Carlos Torres.

Sienna returned to her reception area about the same time Brett came from the washroom. Senior Torres will be with us momentarily. She smiled and seated herself at her desk. Rather than use the entire title, the Senior Forester allowed his reports to address him as Senior Torres so they would always recognize his status in relation to theirs. Only close friends and his superiors called him by his first name.

Carlos stepped into the room and waited for Brett to acknowledge him.

All hail America, Brett automatically stated as soon as he saw the Senior Forester.

Carlos’ bright blue eyes studied the Forester until Brett’s feet moved nervously. Assured that he was being properly recognized, Carlos smiled slyly, In the name of liberty for all. I suppose you have finally completed your assignment?

Brett studied the man’s face. Even though Carlos was shorter than Brett, the red-haired man seemed taller. Authority did that for some people. Brett read the teasing nature of the question and exhaled. He smiled and answered with mock exasperation, Finally. She was a wily creature, experienced by years of survival. In the end, it was quick and painless. She barely moved ten yards from the point of impact.

Carlos nodded appreciatively and continued in a voice that sounded far more masculine than he looked. A clean kill is always the best. I hate to hear of them suffering unduly. His eyes searched around the room. I suppose the meat is in the refrigerator?

Yes, Senior Torres. Miss Sienna made me hurry. Brett smiled toward the receptionist. I hurried from the forest to here as rapidly as my legs and the cart would carry me.

I would expect nothing less from either of you. Let’s have a look at the meat.

The two of them walked to the anteroom under the watchful, and expectant, gaze of Sienna. Brett pulled out the package that held the backstraps first and carefully opened it so Carlos could see the dark red strips of meat. Only a thin sheath of fascia on one side, called silver skin, marred the rich crimson color. He knew Carlos was inspecting for any signs of pilferage.

Carlos’ eyes widened. Wow! She was a large deer. Those are at least thirty inches. Beautiful meat! You did an excellent job. The Commissioners will be pleased. Let’s look at the rest.

Carlos nodded appreciatively as Brett exposed each package for his review. Brett carefully pointed to the two shoulders as he showed them. The arrow did very little damage to the meat as it cut its way through the flesh and bone. He then opened the package with the organs. It tore her heart to shreds, which is why she fell so quickly. Fortunately, the liver and kidneys were undamaged. Do you want the liver? The question was always asked. It was expected. Also expected was a refusal. The killing Forester always received the organs. That was traditional.

Carlos’ pale, freckled face reddened slightly as he mulled the question. He remembered the taste of fresh deer liver from when he was a Forester with his own land. The organs are yours to do with as you wish.

Brett saw the hesitation. Senior Torres, I would like for you to have the liver.

Carlos smiled and studied his Forester. I will accept half. No more. I am beholden to you for your generosity.

The two men sorted the meat packages, repackaging some for sharing between themselves and Sienna. They all knew that they were among the more fortunate citizens. Though their jobs did not offer high status or pay as well as many others, there were perks that they enjoyed. Foresters were allowed to harvest nuts, berries, greens and edible mushrooms for their personal use…after sharing a defined portion with the Senior Forester and the Forestry Commissioners.

Senior Torres, Brett said as he prepared to leave, I have need of a Wood Cutter. A large red oak has a withering limb that needs to be removed.

Carlos pursed his lips before he cautiously responded. I will assign a Wood Cutter for tomorrow afternoon.

Brett stood at the bus stop with his backpack firmly in place. Other Foresters who reported to Carlos stood with him and waited. They all congratulated Brett for his accomplishment, aware of his good fortune. Brett always felt self conscious about receiving venison when his fellow Foresters had none; but they did not share when fortune smiled on them. None expected the others to share. Red meat was at a premium for the average citizen.

Brett had rewrapped the organ meat within the protective shell of the ribs. The hind quarter, the haunch as it was often called, was wrapped separately. He put several extra layers of the impervious butcher paper on each package. He did not want blood to seep through. Most of the bus riders were regulars and knew he was a Forester. His uniform with its official patches declared as much. But, the sight and smell of blood could cause undue attention, if not concerns. Sienna had taken the shoulder of his half of the deer. He graciously offered her the hind quarter, but she took the lesser cut of meat, as they both knew she would. Both were pleased with the arrangement. Carlos and the Commissioners were the real beneficiaries.

With a practiced and often repeated motion, Brett passed his forearm through a scanner as he boarded the bus. The fare was deducted from his pay account immediately; he would never miss the amount because he never saw it. The same could be said for the various taxes that were withheld from his pay. Everyone paid a flat fifteen percent income tax, known as the Fair Tax. Additionally, anyone who earned more than the national average paid a five percent Equity Tax, meant to ensure everyone was treated fairly by the Internal Revenue Service. Twenty percent was withheld to cover the Healthcare Tax; everyone received healthcare when needed without cost at the time of service. The School Tax, Military Tax and Road Tax required a combined nine percent of all income. The tax that disturbed him more than any other was the 20 percent Pension Tax; it assured the citizen of continued support in his waning years after sixty-five, but he had never known anyone other than Government leaders who lived much more than sixty years. Anyone who made enough money to afford private transportation paid a hefty one-hundred fifty percent of cost in Excise Tax on top of the standard ten percent Sales Tax. So called Sin Taxes were also added to certain items at point of sale, such as alcohol, tobacco, marijuana and red meat. Strengthened by a steady flow of tax money, the Government was able to fulfill its duty of regulating the lives of its citizens and ensure that almost everyone had a paying job so they could contribute to the good of the country.

Brett exchanged greetings with regulars as he slowly moved toward the back of the bus, pausing long enough for Sienna to settle into a bench seat near the front. His was one of the later stops, so he chose a hand strap near the back to allow easier unloading of the passengers near the two doors. He seldom sat in a seat, respectful of the females who preferred to sit rather than be spooned and inappropriately touched by lecherous males when the bus was too crowded.

As much as Brett enjoyed the work he did, if not the job itself, he was exhausted by the time he reached his apartment. The bus ride, confined with relative strangers, required more than forty-five minutes each morning and evening. That coupled with a ten hour day meant that he was gone nearly twelve hours every day. Truth be known, he would have spent even more time in the woods, simply wandering and enjoying nature if he could live in his shed like some of the single Foresters did. Bus schedules and the requirement that he return the cart and tools by a specified time each day kept him from idly gamboling through his forest. Besides, he enjoyed his precious time with Gwen.

Brett met Gwen Braymer while in the Army. She served her tour of duty as a Nurse. They were both stationed at the same military base. Even though she was an officer, a Second Lieutenant, they became acquainted and enamored. The smooth beige skin of her face was accented by her short cut brown hair. A ready smile crinkled the corners of her blue eyes. Brett could not resist the urge to woo her; even though he knew his lower status would be an impediment to bringing his desires to fruition. He settled for a flirtatious relationship while in the service. When their tours ended, they hooked up and allowed their romance to grow even though Brett was beneath her station in society. Their union was blissful and stood firm after almost five years. Their desire to have a child was kept on hold while they both worked to create careers that would allow them to enjoy raising a child with a reasonable degree of comfort.

Housing was the greatest concern for a family. Brett had seen young married couples raise their child in substandard housing because they did not wait until their careers were developed enough to provide larger apartments in areas suitable for child rearing. Food and fiber were often taken as a given by most young people, but even in an environment where the Government tried to assure equality for everyone, that equality was tempered by status and station. All those things required earned credits to pay for them, so saving credits to support the child they were allowed to have was critical.

Brett cleaned loose hairs and any stray forest detritus from the meat he had protectively carried home. He used a small saw that he borrowed from the Forestry tool crib to saw through the bones in the hind quarter of the deer. With expert slices and saw cuts, he soon had several thin steaks and a few thick roasts ready for individual packaging. He used the clean, extra layers of butcher paper he had wrapped around his transport packages. Some things were easy to borrow; others not so much – but where there was a will, there was always a way to get what was needed. He washed the organ meats and sliced them in preparation for use before he wrapped most of the cuts for refrigeration. He set aside a generous amount of liver to cook for supper. He thought about inviting Saul and his wife to share supper, but delayed the idea because something else crossed his mind.

Gwen arrived just as he finished his task. He greeted her at the door with amorous enthusiasm. The success of the day made him uncharacteristically giddy; fresh meat was rare for people of their status. The two clung together for several minutes. Heat built through their clothing where their bodies touched. The day’s events were forgotten. They melted into each other’s arms and walked in unison, face to face, toward the couch. The liver would wait until they satisfied their need to be entwined naked on the cushions. Peripherally, Brett was glad they did not have a child in the apartment yet.

Spent, though not exhausted, Brett pushed his chest and head up so he could look into Gwen’s blue eyes. His lower body still cradled by her legs. He smiled impishly and kissed her again. What got into you?

Gwen playfully swatted his backside, You. Couldn’t you wait until bed time? She giggled at him as his pelvis lunged forward as if to escape her swat. Are you ready for more? She raised her hand to gently trace along a small scar that split his left eyebrow, a reminder of his first attempt to fire a scoped rifle while in boot camp.

Brett disengaged and rolled onto the floor from the narrow couch. Later, Baby. Later…if you don’t fall asleep on me. He chuckled. Come look. I’ve got something for you. He reached for his clothes and began dressing while sitting on the cool faux wood floor.

What more could you have that could top that? Gwen laughed and sat up, gathering her clothes into a bundle.

Meat.

Gwen erupted in a teasing giggle. That’s all you think about. She leaned forward and kissed his scar then rose to her feet. I’m going to take a shower.

Brett was dressed from the waist down. He scrambled to his feet and grabbed Gwen’s hand. No, really. I have meat. I harvested an old doe today. Liver and onions for supper. He led her to the kitchen to show her the liver slices.

Gwen’s eyes widened and her mouth formed into a smile. Wonderful! I’ll shower and come cook it. She loved how his Midwestern voice grew an octave or two higher when he was excited.

Brett pecked her on the cheek and said, I’ll start it while you shower then you can finish it while I shower.

With a pretended pout, the pretty woman lowered her head and cut her eyes up to look at her husband and lover, Wouldn’t you rather take a shower with me?

Brett grinned and playfully swatted her bare behind, "Yes, but this meat will spoil if I don’t do something with it right away." He watched her twist away toward the bathroom. He knew she wanted to shower early before the other tenants in the apartment building started drawing from the barely adequate supply of hot water.

**

Gwen passed her forearm through the scanner as she moved through the turnstile. The train was late again. She knew Doctor Gamble would be unhappy if she did not arrive on time…again. The man was never satisfied with anything around him. He apparently thought he would achieve far more in his five decades than reality had yielded for him. He was unrelenting with his demands and disapprovals. His face was wrinkled, testament to an unceasing and skin creasing scowl. His deep brown skin easily revealed the grayness of his whiskers by the end of each eight hour day at the hospital. That grayness stood in stark contrast to the blackness of his dyed hair. Vanity was his core; disappointment was his reward.

The hospital loomed ahead. Gwen loved to render aid to people; she was born with a servant’s soul. Time in the job had revealed that the hospital atmosphere, the medical atmosphere, was not what she had hoped it would be. She was sometimes disappointed by the level of care she was allowed to give to some people. She often wondered if some were simply allowed to suffer and die because they lacked value, either too ill or too old. But, she learned to push those thoughts from her mind and help those she could. She knew there were decisions that had to be made for the greater good; made by people above her pay grade. The uniformed Nurse passed her forearm through a scanner to register her arrival. The clock over the scanner indicated that she was only ten minutes late. She knew the nurse she relieved was covering anything that needed to be done; besides, Nurse Kaufmann was ten minutes late when she arrived at the end of Gwen’s twelve-hour shift. The trains were almost always late. Their schedule dictated everyone’s schedule in the crowded city. She envied Brett’s ability to escape the press of humanity every day.

Sheila Kaufmann was standing attentively behind Doctor Gamble as he pensively checked the medical charts at the Nurses’ station. After sharing understanding smiles and without a word, the two Nurses exchanged positions and Sheila scurried away for her twelve hours of free time.

Doctor Gamble turned to offer a chart to the attending Nurse. He paused and scowled deeper before he handed the clipboard to Gwen. Glad you could make it, he growled. His word pronunciation and speech timing clearly indicated his north central roots, probably Minnesota.

Gwen responded quickly, All hail America. She knew the intonation would require him to respond and detract his immediate ire. Her New Mexico ear did not like the sound of his voice.

In the name of liberty for all. Doctor Gamble’s scowl lessened slightly. I need to see Kimberling first. I doubt he is going to make it much longer. His cancer has not responded to treatment.

Yes, Doctor. I will prepare him for your visit. Gwen turned to walk away toward the ward that housed Steve Kimberling and other terminal patients.

I’m not going for a visit, Doctor Gamble growled. I’m going to see if I can ease his pain and help him meet his fate. There is nothing more I can do.

Yes, Doctor. Gwen hastened to the ward. Even the despair of the patients in that ten bed space was better than the disgruntled attitude of the dayshift Doctor.

Moans greeted Gwen when she walked into the room. Two Orderlies were working together to change sheets on the beds that had been soiled during the night. The smell of sick flesh and human excretions swept over her like a wave. The wards did not retain the antiseptic smell of the rest of the hospital; too many ill bodies in a confined space. Her breath momentarily caught in her throat. She breathed through her mouth to reduce the impact of the smell.

Gwen’s brow furrowed angrily. Be more careful, she commanded to the Orderlies. We do not inflict pain. We try to ease it. She saw the sideways glance between the two while they pretended