Collateral Damage

"Anyway," she said, "I need to get myself down to the light rail station if I want to make it to the factory on time. You know how long it takes to get across town these days. Let the stew simmer for about two more hours and then you can eat it. And be sure to put what's left in the refrigerator. I put a lot of sweat into those goddamned vegetables."

"Okay, Mom," he said.

She picked up a plastic Tupperware bowl. "And fill this up and take it over to Victoria," she told him. "I told her I'd send some over for her."

"Sure," he said, unable to keep the sour tone from his voice. Victoria was their 26-year-old next-door neighbor. She was unemployed, spending all of her time taking care of her debilitated husband, who had been injured in the Battle of Viola. Since her only source of income was the paltry disability pension the government gave her, Eric's mother frequently helped her out with food donations. Eric had a hard time being sympathetic toward Victoria's plight since he and his mother barely had enough food to last between paydays themselves, but his mother — who loved to feel sorry for people — insisted on sharing what they had.

"Don't you give me that tone," she warned. "You know Vickie only gets her check once a month. If we didn't help her out from time to time she wouldn't be able to make it from one paycheck to the next."

"Yeah, yeah," he said, unimpressed, as always, with her plight.

"And don't you go giving her mostly broth either. Lots of meat and lots of vegetables. I'll check."

"Yes, Mom," he sighed. "I'll give her the cream of the stew, I promise."

She looked at him for a moment, as if wondering whether to make further comment and then decided not to. She picked up her purse, clipped her personal computer — or PC, which served as a combination cellular phone and pocket computer — to her waist, and headed for the door. She walked out into the rain toward the electric bus stop half a mile away.

+++++

Two and a half hours later, after eating three bowls of the fragrant stew and four pieces of the homemade bread, Eric packed up the Tupperware bowl with as much broth and as little meat and vegetables as he thought he could get away with and went next door to Victoria's house. It was one of the smaller models in the subdivision, a single story, three bedroom — the kind referred to in happier times as a starter house.

The front door swung open to his knock and Victoria herself stood there. Though the stress of the past few years had aged her a bit, and though Eric harbored a considerable amount of resentment toward her, he could not deny that she was still an attractive woman. Her hair was a rich brunette and her body was well formed, with feminine curves in all the right places. Her breasts, while not particularly large, were not small either. Her face was pretty in an innocent sort of way, with rounded cheekbones and a dainty nose, the sort of features women had once paid top dollar to have a plastic surgeon mold for them. Eric, despite his annoyance, couldn't help but admire her form as she stood there in a pair of gray sweat shorts and a plain white T-shirt that didn't quite cover her belly.

"Hi, Eric," she said, a smile coming to her face as she saw him standing there. "What brings you over here today?"

He pushed the Tupperware container toward her. "My mom made some stew today and she wanted me to bring some over to you."

"Oh, that was awfully sweet of her," she said, taking the container. "And it's still hot, too. You two always help me out so much. Are you sure you can spare it? Believe me, I know how tough things are these days."

He bit his tongue against the reply he wanted to give. "We can spare it," he grunted.

"Well, thank you so much," she said. "And thank your mother, too."

"I'll do that," he said, catching one last glance of her legs and then turning to go.

"Oh, Eric," she said in her patented can-you-do-me-a-quick-favor voice.

He turned slowly back to her. "Yeah?" he asked, not bothering to completely mask his annoyance.

"I'm sorry," she said. "You do so much for me and I know I'm a bother sometimes, but the ceiling fan in the living room is making this ticking noise. You're good with your hands. Could you maybe take a look at it for me?"

He sighed and considered just telling her to turn the damn ceiling fan off if it was bothering her but knowing his mother would be pissed if he did and word got back to her (as it almost certainly would — the two of them gabbed to each other almost every day). "Sure," he said, resigned. "I'll come in and take a look at it."

He followed her into the house and through the formal living room to the family room, staring at her ass the entire trip. She really did have an attractive derrière. And no one was even touching it these days. Men were scarce in the landscape and the one she had was certainly in no shape to do anything for her. Or for anyone for that matter.

John Massley — Victoria's husband — had been a civil engineer before the war, an employee of Sacramento County whose specialty was traffic-flow projects. His background and schooling had earned him a commission in the army once the war started. He had been a lieutenant in charge of a combat engineering platoon during the Battle of Viola, the decisive battle named for the small town in Southern Idaho where the Western Hemisphere forces had finally — after being ground backward for more than a year — halted the advance of the Chinese armies and stabilized the North American front into the bloody stalemate it now was.

During the most vicious fighting of this two-month battle, Lieutenant Massley had been frantically directing his platoon to wire a bridge for destruction when a one inch piece of jagged shrapnel from a Chinese 155mm artillery shell had lanced through the side of his head, destroying his optic and olfactory nerves as well as tearing out most of his frontal lobe. Incredibly, he survived his injury, despite having been triaged as "expectant," or "dead in sixty seconds" by the medics who rushed to his side. But he hadn't died in sixty seconds, instead, he continued breathing and moaning for the better part of thirty minutes before they decided to re-designate his status and put him on the dust-off chopper to the MASH unit.

Once there, the combat surgeons gave him the lowest possible priority, not wanting to waste time treating a dying man. He had lain on a stretcher for hours while they'd treated every other casualty that had come in and still his respiration and heartbeat had chugged on. Finally, with nothing else to do with him, they closed all of the bleeders in his head and stitched him up, expecting him to expire within hours. He didn't. He hung in there for six more days before — again with nothing else to do — they'd shipped him off to the VA hospital at Travis Air Force Base. The neurosurgeons there patched him up a little bit more but they told Victoria he wouldn't live a week, that the crude lobotomy would surely not be compatible with survival. They too had been wrong. It had been more than a year now and he was still hanging in there, although there were many who would say he really had died that day in Idaho and his body simply didn't know it yet.

He was sitting in his wheelchair before the television set as Eric entered the room, his sightless eyes facing the evening newscast. As always when looking at John Massley, Eric had to suppress the urge to wince. He fought hard to keep his eyes cast away but it was impossible not to stare at what had become of the man who had once helped a younger Eric fix his bicycle when it was broken, who had once owned sophisticated model airplanes he would cruise at the park around the corner. There was a jagged, zigzagging, Frankenstein-like scar on the side of his head and his forehead had a curious, sunken appearance. His eyes were clouded over, pointing in different directions, staring sightlessly forward without comprehension, without blinking. His mouth hung open, a sheen of drool perpetually running down his chin and along his neck to soak into a bib tied there. Installed in his neck was a tracheostomy tube that was always clogged with whitish yellow mucous and that made a disgusting slurping sound with each breath he took. His arms and legs hung limply in place, rarely moving, the once powerful muscles now slack and emaciated with atrophy. A urine bag connected by a rubber hose to a permanent incision in his abdomen hung from a hook on the bottom of the chair. Protruding from the top of his pajama bottoms was a blue diaper that Victoria had to change at least twice a day. Though he still had his hearing, he gave no indication that he had heard Eric enter the room. He reacted to no stimulation whatsoever, at any time. He was, in fact, a living, breathing piece of meat and little else. He was fed a liquid diet through a feeding tube installed in the top of his abdomen.

As she led Eric over to the ceiling fan, Vickie moved him out of the way as if he were no more than a piece of furniture, with no more emotion than if she had been moving the coffee table. She didn't talk to him, caress him, or even touch him. "This is the one," she told him. "Do you hear it?"

He put John Massley out of his mind (the best he could anyway) and tuned his ear into the rotating fan blades. Sure enough, there was a steady ticking noise and the entire assembly was wobbling in rhythm with the rotation. "I hear it," he said. "Go ahead and turn it off."

She flipped off the switch and the fan slowly revolved to a halt. He reached up, standing on his toes, until he could touch one of the blades. He wiggled it back and forth, finding it was loose in its mounting, a victim, no doubt, of not receiving any maintenance since the man of the house had gone off to war.

"Can you fix it?" she asked hopefully.

"I think so," he said. "Do you have a stepstool and a screwdriver?"

"Yes," she said. "I'll go get them."

She left the room, Eric staring at her buttocks and sexy legs until they disappeared around the corner. Once she was gone he turned his attention to the television set to avoid having his attention recaptured by the gurgling, living-dead respiration of Vickie's husband.

"There was heavy enemy air activity over the Sacramento region last night and in the early morning hours of today," an attractive, late-twenties woman told him and the rest of the viewing audience. Behind her, on the graphic screen, was a generic image of an F-15 Strike Eagle laden with bombs and Chinese markings on the tail. "Chinese bombers struck at Executive Air Base in South Sacramento at around 8:30 PM and again at 11:45, dropping anti-runway munitions throughout the former civilian airport. More bombers struck at McClellan Field in North Highlands at around 2:30 AM, again, utilizing anti-runway munitions in an apparent attempt to put the field out of commission. Both runways at Executive were heavily damaged and one of the runways at McClellan was slightly damaged in the raids. These two bases, as you know, are where planes of the 325th California Air Guard are based. Since these planes are the primary air-to-air defense against Chinese incursion into Sacramento area airspace, military analysts warn that a larger air raid is probably on the way, either tonight or tomorrow morning. Such an air raid would be directed against a high value strategic target, such as Sacramento International Airport, where the EA-12 AWACS aircraft are based, or the fuel storage tanks in Rancho Cordova, or, most likely, the Roseville Rail Yards, where supply and fuel trains bound for the active front in Idaho or the inactive front in the Portland, Oregon region are assembled."

"Wonderful," Eric grumbled. "Nothing but good news."

"Civil authorities tell us that old advice is good advice," she continued cheerfully. "When you hear the air raid siren, proceed as quickly as possible to your designated shelter. If you have no designated shelter in your neighborhood, remain indoors until at least five minutes after the all-clear is signaled."

"I'll do that," he grumbled, deciding that Vickie's husband was actually more cheerful to look at.

Vickie returned a few minutes later, a flat-blade screwdriver in one hand, a small stepladder in the other. She handed them across to him and he went quickly to work, arranging the ladder in the proper place and then climbing to the top step. The fan housing was now only slightly above eye level. He quickly tightened up the loose screws that held it in place and then did the same for the screws that held the blades themselves to the housing. He gave the whole thing a shake, noting with mute satisfaction that it no longer wiggled under the pressure.

He looked down at Vickie, who had been standing next to the ladder during the operation, and took in a sharp intake of breath. Her T-shirt had come away from her body and he found himself looking directly down it. Her breasts, encased in a lacy white bra, were plainly visible and the sight was more than a little appetizing.

"Is everything okay, Eric?" she asked softly, seemingly unaware of the view she was giving him.

"Uh... uh... well, yeah," he stammered, feeling himself blush. He cast his eyes away reluctantly. "Go ahead and... uh... turn it on."

She smiled. "Sure," she said, turning and walking to the wall switch. She turned the control knob and the blades whirred to life.

Eric turned away from her and looked up at the fan. It was spinning silently along, just like brand new. "I think I got it fixed," he told her, climbing back down to the ground.

"Yay," she said cheerfully, walking over to him again. "You're such a sweetie."

She put her arms around him and hugged him tightly, her breasts pushing into his chest. While he was still trying to adjust to this, she leaned forward and kissed him softly on the cheek, her soft lips lingering for several seconds. He felt the blood rush to his face again, and another burst rushing to his penis, which stirred in interest inside of his pants. Annoying or not, needy or not, her body felt nice against him and her lips felt even nicer.

She pulled her face back, her brown eyes gazing up at him, a sparkle in them he'd never seen before, her arms remaining around his back. "That's for being such a good friend," she said. "Thank you so much."

More blood rushed into his penis. In a moment it would develop into a bona fide hard on. "Uh... you're... uh... you know... you're welcome," he blurted, his own hands reaching up and just barely touching the back of her shoulders, which technically, he supposed, completed the hug.

She held the embrace a moment longer and then released him. Her face was now whimsical, almost melancholy. "John used to take care of stuff like that," she said. "He used to take care of lots of things, if you know what I mean."

He looked at her for a moment, wondering if she meant what he thought she meant. His experience with the opposite sex was somewhat limited, particularly with members of the opposite sex who were older than him. No, he finally concluded, he was probably just imagining things. "I... uh... guess so," he finally said.

An awkward silence developed, the two of them staring at each other, Vickie with that melancholy look, Eric with a growing sense of nervousness. Finally he told her that he had better get going.

"Are you sure you don't want to stay for a little bit?" she asked him. "I could make us some ice tea. Or maybe you'd like a beer? I have some in the fridge."

"Uh... no, I've got some studying to do," he said. "I'd better get going."

She looked a little disappointed but she nodded. "Okay," she said. "Studying is important these days, isn't it? You don't keep those grades up and you'll end up on the line."

"Right," he said.

They exchanged awkward goodbyes and a minute or two later he was back outside. The rain was still coming down. It didn't look like it was going to stop anytime soon.

+++++

It didn't stop. At 9:30 that night, it was still pouring down from the overcast sky in a steady stream. Eric was in his bedroom upstairs, sitting before his computer terminal, hearing it patter against the window behind him. On the screen was the text from his microbiology CD. He had a test in the subject the next day and was trying to study but his mind kept wandering to the thought of Vickie's breasts pushing against his chest, or the way they had looked when he had seen down the front of her shirt, or the way her lips had felt touching his cheek. And then there was her offer for him to stay for a little while. What exactly had she meant by that? Why would a 26-year-old woman want to hang out with a high school senior? Did she just miss having company that much? It stood to reason that John, who never spoke or communicated in any way, probably got a little boring after a while, but was she so desperate she would want to chat with her friend's son? Or was there maybe something else implied in her offer, something a little more intimate?

As much as he wanted to believe the latter was the case, he simply could not convince himself it was true. He had no illusions about what he represented to the opposite sex. He was not exactly unattractive, but he was certainly no sex god either. He was a tall and somewhat gangly, awkward in the way of teenagers. His face was still young looking — the kind of face that aunts loved to pinch — and a smattering of adolescent acne still made a regular appearance. True, he had had a few girlfriends. He had even managed to get himself laid a few times earlier in his senior year. But those girls had all been younger than him and only marginal in the physical attractive department themselves. Vickie — despite her annoying traits — was a very attractive woman, the kind of woman he masturbated thinking about but knew he would never have. In the universe as Eric saw it, hot twenty-six year olds did not toss sexually provocative innuendo at awkward eighteen year olds.

Nevertheless, the very thought, coupled with the views and tactile sensations he'd experienced earlier, now had his cock as rigid as steel and demanding some sort of release. Every few moments he would let his hand stray down to the bulge it had caused in his jeans and he would rub it a little, making it even harder and more demanding. Finally, unable to take anymore, he put his microbiology text in the background on his computer screen and stood up so he could close the blinds on his window and then lay down and lube his missile to the thought of Vickie's naked body. Before he got halfway across the room, however, there was a warning chirp from his computer.

"Son of a bitch," he muttered, looking over at the screen. Sure enough, it was now showing a warning screen sent to it by the Placer County Department of Civil Defense.

AIR RAID WARNING, the text read. FEDERAL CIVIL DEFENSE RADAR STATIONS REPORT A LARGE FLIGHT OF ENEMY PLANES EMERGING FROM THE SIERRA NEVADA MOUNTAINS NEAR GRASS VALLEY AND MOVING SOUTHWEST TOWARD THE ROSEVILLE/ROCKLIN/LINCOLN AREA. TARGET UNKNOWN. ALL CIVILIANS REPORT TO DESIGNATED SHELTERS OR TAKE COVER IF NONE AVAILABLE. REMAIN UNDER COVER UNTIL AT LEAST FIVE MINUTES AFTER THE ALL CLEAR IS SOUNDED.

No sooner had he finished reading the text than the sound of the air raid sirens began, swelling up from the north and east, the relatively slow speed of sound making the cyclic rise and fall of the various transmitters uncoordinated.

"Static," Eric muttered, continuing his walk to the window. He opened it up, letting in the cold wind and a few raindrops. His view faced to the west, toward the rail yard. At the moment, nothing was visible, but that would probably change. The Chinese were bombing the rail yard again. There was no other target in the vicinity that a "large flight of enemy planes" would be going after. He had been through this many times before and had no plans to leave his bedroom. There were no designated air-raid shelters in the neighborhood. They were just a little too expensive to build. The nearest one was at the high school, more than three miles away. The planes would be overhead in a matter of minutes. He was just as safe in his bedroom as he would be anywhere. If it was his time to die, than it was his time to die. His attitude was quite typical of those who lived near frequently bombed targets.