Winter

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“I-I think something’s happened….” Hutch … came to the rumpled bed and sat down. “I saw some flashes in the sky, Starsk. … And then the ground…rumbled. The wind came up… I don’t know what to think. But something tells me, deep down, that this was it.” He looked at his partner. Starsky was taking him seriously. “And L.A.,” he went on, feeling the awesome weight of it for the first time, “maybe the whole West Coast might be—” He lay back, raking his fingers through his hair.

Starsky got up then, and ran barefoot and dressed only in his navy-blue longjohns outside. …”Hutch! C’mere!”

Hutch ran outside. The sun had risen in the east, as it should. But there was an unearthly glow in the west, above the trees. Another sun or the reflection of hell.

Starsky moved close beside him, then, poignantly, turned and slid one arm around him. “Oh, God, Hutch. What— What if it’s really true?” He looked up, breathing hard, eyes so blue and wide Hutch could have drowned in them.

 

Story Notes:

Lynna Bright’s novella, “Winter,” was originally published in 1987 in the S/H zine Code 7 #4 published by Bound in Leather Press. This zine is still in print and is available, as are all four Code 7 zines, from Agent with Style (look under Starsky & Hutch). Many thanks to Keri T. for help with scanning and proofing the story to bring it to the Web, and of course, thanks to Lynna for giving permission to post it.

“Winter” deals with the aftermath of nuclear war and the profound effect it has on Starsky & Hutch’s relationship. The topic was timely when it was written. The eighties saw numerous movies with nuclear destruction themes, including David Soul’s World War III (1982), The Day After (1983), When the Wind Blows (1986), and others. Decorated for Death, an SH gen novel portraying LA after a World War, had been published in 1981. There was reason for such anxious pessimism.

By the early 1980s, according to Wikipedia, tensions between the USSR and the U.S. were high. In September 1983, the Soviet Union shot down Korean Air Lines Flight 007; the attack brought relations between the two superpowers to a new low. Europe’s Able Archer 83 exercise in November 1983, a realistic simulation of a coordinated NATO nuclear release, has been called the most dangerous moment since the Cuban Missile Crisis, as the Soviet leadership considered a nuclear attack imminent. In 1986, President Reagan initiated the largest peacetime defense buildup in United States history.

For those of us living through that time, Starsky & Hutch’s journey through their devastated world was, in spite of the terrible scenario, a hopeful one. Because throughout their trials, their relationship was still the lynchpin of the story. Even nuclear war and nuclear winter could not dim the romance and beauty of the greatest love story ever shown on TV. The unusual story line and Lynna’s unique, romantic style, makes for a compelling read.

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HUTCH

The chances for their survival-for anybody’s survival-had been like threads, like trying to grab strands of spider-web in a gale. But, among the unfortunate few, they had survived…

***

It had happened on an ordinary day in mid-summer, in the first cool light of dawn. The weather had been perfect, and that ordinary day looked to be a carbon copy of the previous two.

Hutch left his partner sleeping in their cabin. David Starsky had never really learned to appreciate the joys of early rising. Hutch, frankly, enjoyed the solitude. For him, fishing was a one-man sport, anyway.

The lake was like glass; calm, silent, mirroring the sky above and the gloomy forest surrounding. Only the barest of ripples here and there marked the presence of the trout he was after. He launched the boat, saw to his line, baited the hook, and settled down for some quiet sport.

The city seemed a million miles away. The chill air that stung his nostrils was as pure as God had made it, not a trace of smog. He let out a sigh, happy, feeling himself being renewed. He’d needed this vacation. No tension here, no newspapers or TV, and he was glad of it. All the grave-faced anchormen, all the reports of collapsing peace talks that had been filling the media every day for months, the mounting tension of yet another superpower confrontation, of threats and counter-threats; all seemed like the distant echoes of a lunatic asylum in this gentle place.

Sure, it worried him, scared him. Damned right, it did. The possibility of real war, that the politicians would allow the world to go up in flames, was something real to worry about.

But not here. Not with all this peace and quiet, Starsky back in the cabin sleeping like a child, without a care. Besides it was unthinkable that anyone would let it happen. Nuclear war was the ultimate stupidity; the ultimate crime, with nothing but victims. Who would take responsibility for causing that?

A tug on the line suddenly dispersed his reverie. He almost fell out of the boat. “Whoa!” The fish broke for the opposite shore. “Got a live one! Come on, you beauty-”

The pulse of light in the sky wasn’t enough to divert his attention from the trout. It was only at the second and third and fourth that he glanced up. Lightning on a clear morning? Several more flashes in succession lit the western sky. “What-?” For some reason, the hair crept up on the back of his neck and thighs. Some primeval part of him knew. “Oh, no…”

The display went on for several minutes and distantly, then, he heard it, felt it; a rumble, a rumor in the earth that wasn’t thunder. It was a low murmur that seemed to speak the end of everything. The birds had stopped singing, and the rod and reel slipped from Hutch’s fingers, forgotten. The wind rose, abruptly, uncannily. The lightning went on, and on.

“Starsky…” Fumbling in haste, Hutch rowed the boat back to shore. Maybe I’m wrong. I could be wrong. Dear God, I have to be! Did they finally really, really do it? Are they that insane? He hadn’t despaired yet. He was apprehensive, pleading with God-anybody-to be wrong.

He dragged the canoe onto the shore and ran into the cabin. On the sofa-bed, Starsky hadn’t stirred. Hutch hated to end his slumber, face him with what this might possibly be.

Before I do, I’ll try and get some news. There was a radio on the fireplace mantle. He went to it, turned it on. By some atmospheric trick of the mountains, they’d been getting stations as far away as Seattle, Reno, and Phoenix. Now, there was nothing but static, not even the EBS he’d been half-expecting. Just-nothing, but this dull roar.

“What’s up?”

Hutch turned. Starsky’s head had lifted under the covers. His muffled voice issued forth, groggily.

Hutch didn’t know what to say. “I-I think something’s happened. I don’t know for sure-”

“To the radio? What’s with the static? Your way of wakin’ me up?”

“No. I’m trying to find out-I don’t know what I’m trying to find out.”

Starsky pulled the covers off his head and turned over. “You sound scared to death,” he observed, worriedly. “What’s goin’ on, Hutch?”

“I don’t know! I’m trying to find out!”

“What’re you yellin’ at me for? Hutch?”

Hutch turned to him once more, came to the rumpled bed and sat down. “I saw some flashes in the sky, Starsk. It-wasn’t lightning. The sky’s clear as crystal out there.”

“Flashes?” Starsky asked, curiously, eyes clouded with sleep. “Like…”

“Too bright to be lightning,” Hutch said, trying to verify in his own mind what he’d seen, felt. “And then the ground…rumbled. The wind came up…”

“A storm, Hutch.”

“No storm. Not this.”

“Well, what, then? You couldn’t mean- Aw, c’ mon. No way.”

“I don’t know what to think, Starsk. I can’t get any news out of that radio. Maybe it’s really nothing. Maybe I’m making a fool out of myself… But something tells me, deep down, that this was it.” He looked at his partner. Starsky was taking him seriously. “And L.A.,” he went on, feeling the awesome weight of it for the first time, “maybe the whole West Coast might be-” He lay back, raking his fingers through his hair.

“It couldn’t be,” Starsky said. He looked to Hutch for guidance, assurance, an answer. “Hutch? Could it?”

Hutch couldn’t speak. He had nothing, no resources for dealing with this.

Starsky got up, then, and ran barefoot and dressed only in his navy-blue longjohns outside. Rooted to the spot, Hutch heard him yell. “Hutch! C’mere!”

Hutch ran outside. The sun had risen in the east, as it should. But there was an unearthly glow in the west, above the trees. Another sun or the reflection of hell. “Jesus Christ…” he whispered. “Oh, Jesus Christ.”

Starsky moved close beside him, then, poignantly, turned and slid one arm around him. “Oh, God, Hutch. What about my mom…Nicky… Everybody…” He squeezed Hutch tighter. “I never been so scared in my life. What- What if it’s really true?” He looked up, breathing hard, eyes so blue and wide Hutch could have drowned in them. “We gotta find out somethin’, quick,” he urged, trying for calm.

“I figure we could drive down to the village,” Hutch said, mind spinning a mile a minute.

“What about the fall-out?”

It’ll kill us. What else? “I’m not sure. We’re five, almost six hours from L.A.” He tried to remember all he’d read about the effects of a nuclear blast. “Should be two, maybe three days before any-any radiation reaches-us.” I’m not saying this, am I? His voice was shaking, on the verge of breaking. He could feel it. “Come on. Get dressed. It doesn’t make much sense to stand here speculating without knowing what’s actually happened.”

“Okay,” Starsky said, letting him go. “Okay.” He went back into the cabin, defeat and sadness in every line of his body. This, it seemed, was beyond even his irrepressible spirit.

***

They drove the three miles or so down to the township. The usually placid main street was like a mob scene, people everywhere, cars and trucks parked willy-nilly. There was no order. The truth sank home to Hutch before they even reached the scene. These people, crowding down from the hills into the only piece of civilization they had, were terrified, their voices a din. The dust that rose into the warming air smelled of hysteria.

Hutch parked the car and he and Starsky got out to walk the rest of the way. Five or six people ran past, toward town. Hutch grabbed the first one who looked even slightly coherent. “What happened?”

The middle-aged man in a plaid shirt looked at him as if he were purple. “Ain’t you heard nothin’?”

“No. We were up camping…”

“Russkies went and done it, son,” the man said. “Every damn city on the West Coast. And Chicago, East Coast, Gulf Coast… All blown to hell. We got the news from a TV station up in Crescent City ‘fore it went off the air, too. God help us all. We don’t none of us know what to do, or what’s goin’ on. We don’t even know if the United States got a chance to hit back at ’em.” He pulled Hutch’s hand from where it was grasping his arm. “I’m sorry, son. I got to go. God bless you. An’ your friend.”

The store had been partially looted, windows shattered, broken sacks of flour strewn everywhere, scattered canned goods. Sheriff Tyce was there, trying to instill some order, looking harried and desperate. He was way out of his depth standing on the porch in front of the store, rifle out, seeing to the distribution of what was left in the store. It was like trying to martial the wind.

He recognized the two detectives when they came up to him. “You two feel like givin’ me some help?” he yelled over the noise.

Hutch looked at Starsky, who glanced at him and the sheriff, and nodded. “Whatever we can,” he shout ed. “But can you tell us any more about what happened?”

“Russians got first-strike. Last I heard was on the news, night before. The United States gave ’em an ultimatum. Start pullin’ out of Nicaragua in three days, or face the consequences. The Reds didn’t wait.”

Hutch didn’t know what to say. He turned away, beyond numb. His parents, his friends, his lovers-the world he knew-was just gone. Snuffed out. He covered his face with his hand, feeling utterly lost, bereft, unspeakably sad, and unspeakably angry. “Damn…” It was all he could say in the face of this, and that in a voice that had gone empty. A ghost’s voice. ‘Cause that’s what we are. The country’s full of ghosts. Dobey and his family… Huggy… The only real thing was the feel of Starsky’s hand heavy on his shoulder. Dear God, what if he hadn’t decided to come with me? That was something he never wanted to think about.

“What do you want us to do?” Starsky asked the sheriff.

“You can help me distribute the rest of this food fairly. We’ve got about 25 five-pound bags of flour, 50 or so ten-pound. Some sugar, some tea. No more coffee, no milk, no fresh produce. When this is gone, there ain’t no more. Don’t know what we’ll do then. It’s every man for himself, I guess.”

The people of Pine Lake weren’t very cooperative. Hutch knew that if he and Starsky and the sheriff weren’t armed, they wouldn’t have been able to hold the crowd back. After the food was gone, the sheriff ordered them all to disperse, to go back to their homes and wait for any news or instructions from the authorities-if there were any more authorities. Subdued now, the men and women and children drifted away.

“Y’all got any food up there at the lake?” the sheriff asked. “I’m sorry there’s nothin’ left.”

“We’ve got some canned goods,” Hutch said. “Dry stuff.”

“Bottla whiskey,” Starsky added laconically, looking off somewhere into an inner distance. “Looks like we’re gonna need it.”

***

“Wonder how long it’ll actually take to reach us?” Starsky muttered in their car on the way back.

“I don’t want to think about it,” Hutch said. “But I-I guess it depends on how the wind’s blowing.” Already there was a kind of pall over the sun, not like clouds. The impression was more that of a polarized filter, a minor key. The world seemed very sad.

“Hutch?”

“Yeah?”

“I need you, Hutch. I mean that. Like I never did before-”

Hutch glanced at him, reached across to grasp his friend’s forearm. “I know. Same here.”

Starsky sighed. “I don’t know how or why,” he said, “but we’re together. And I thank God for it, Hutch. If there is a God anymore, I’m glad he let us be together.”

“Oh, Starsk,” Hutch sighed, stopping the car in the middle of the dirt road, folding his arms across the steering wheel, lowering his head into them. “If there was only some way-I could-” Save you. You, me, the whole damned world… There was no consolation in the wish.

But Starsky tried to provide it, sliding across the seat, arms coming around him, tightening, one hand clenching in his hair. “Just be with me,” he whispered. “That’s all either of us can do for each other.”

There was profound silence inside and outside the car, and they stayed there unmoving for a very long time.

***

That afternoon, still in silence, they inventoried their meager supplies. Or Hutch did. Immersing himself in the task was his way of dealing with the disaster. Starsky wasn’t terribly interested. His efforts were perfunctory. He spent a lot of time just sitting, staring. Hutch could sense the reaction setting in, an explosion coming.

They had enough food for three weeks if they rationed it. The bottled water, which they’d brought along for a week’s vacation, would last a week and a half.

They had two knives, fishing equipment, and their guns with an extra pack of shells for each. No more clothes than the ones they’d brought along.

“Could be worse,” Hutch decided.

“Yeah,” Starsky said dully, fiddling with the radio, trying to bring something in but getting only the same static. He stopped and sat looking at his hands. “I wish we’d been in the city when it happened,” he said, out of left field. “I never wanted a slow death.”

“Starsky…” Hutch’s words died away.

Starsky went back to turning the dial on the radio.

“…unable to verify the exact number of Russian cities destroyed in the U.S. counter-attack…” The radio had kicked in with jarring suddenness and strength. “What was achieved seems to be a virtual stalemate, both powers and many of their allies mortally wounded, crippled on land and sea and in the air, and lacking the strength and organization necessary for a decisive coup-de-grace. Again, this urgent announcement. That at 10:47 Eastern Standard Time, the United States, Britain, and France were attacked without warning by the Soviet Union using newly-developed tritium pure-fusion warheads, the so-called ‘clean’ bomb. The following is a partial list of major U.S. cities sustaining one or more of these bombs: Boston, New York, Newark, Pittsburgh, Philadelphia, Washington D.C., Baltimore, Norfolk, Atlanta, Miami, Houston, Phoenix Chicago, Detroit, Seattle, Portland, San Francisco, and Los Angeles. All, along with numerous military installations across the country, have suffered massive damage. The President, Vice President, and many, many other national leaders have been killed or are unaccounted for. The entire nation is under martial law at this time. The acting President is General Creighton Fuller, who is preparing a statement to be broadcast on this station at 8:15 P.M. Eastern Standard Time.

“Another critical announcement. Military authorities have made it clear that there is little or no danger of radiation fallout, because of the type of bomb used in this unpardonable attack. I repeat, little or no danger of radiation, due to the use of pure fusion bombs, a technology which the U.S. agreed to share with the Soviets at the Cherassky summit, three years ago. Still, it is estimated that tens of millions have died, and clouds of ash and dust still present a threat of nuclear winter, with unseasonable, possibly drastic weather changes. We are leaving the air now, but there will be further emergency broadcasts, further news and information every two hours. This is the EBS station in Vancouver. Courage.”

The radio went static once more. Starsky turned it off, then looked up at him, eyes full of conflicting emotions. Hutch stood there, gazing back. He made a move, awkwardly, forward, but Starsky made it too, and they met somewhere in the middle. They embraced simply, wordlessly. They could live, for longer than they’d expected. Now there was no other alternative.

***

That night the expected emotional explosion came, but quietly, not as Hutch had expected. Starsky cried. Sleepless himself, worrying, restless in the dark, Hutch heard him; the faint catching of breath, the sound Starsky was trying to stifle, unmistakable.

He half sat up in bed, wondering how, or whether to, approach his partner. Should I go to him, try to comfort? Would he want me to? Then he couldn’t bear it anymore; the sound tore at his heart. He rose and went to the sofa bed where Starsky slept. He reached out for the dark shape of Starsky’s head turned into the pillow and touched it. No sooner had his fingers brushed the softness, then Starsky turned over, reached up and grabbed for him desperately, pulling him off-balance down.

“Hutch!” It was a rough sob, a cry for help. “Hutch-”

Hutch brushed damp curls off his partner’s forehead, encountered wet lashes. “Ssh… Please, ssh… Babe, I know, I know how it is.”

Starsky was convulsed against him, couldn’t seem to relax or catch his breath. “S’just-so damned big, Hutch… So big, there’s no room left to breathe!”

Hutch plaited his arms around his friend, squeezed him tight. “It’s okay. I’m here with you, buddy. Breathe with me-” He pressed his cheek against Starsky’s. “Come on. Breathe with me. You don’t have to do it alone. We’ll take it easy.”

It took a while, but Starsky slept eventually, arm around Hutch, head heavy on his chest.

Hutch was still stroking him, though there was no more immediate need-in Starsky, anyway. But he still needed it. You’re scared. Well, so am I. What are we gonna do? What choices did they have? Do we stay up here for the rest of our lives? The city’s a complete nightmare, no doubt in my mind about that. City government, police force non-existent, services non-existent. Thousands dead with no one to bury them. Tens of thousands more in need of a medical system that, in any big city, probably would have been hard-pressed to handle even hundreds. Two shock-trauma units in the whole damned town, Hutch thought, and sighed. Then it occurred to him. Is that what we’ve survived for? To help?

***

Starsky was better, in the ten days following, his spirits lifting a bit. They had grieved together, come out on the other side.

But the earth had made a sudden, ominous entrance into fall. October in July. The sky was shrouded now, the air very still, cool and heavy. Every day, in fact, seemed infinitesimally cooler than the one before it.

Hutch chopped wood for the fireplace, just in case. There was enough timber up here to last for years. But they worried about food.

“Maybe some of the smaller cities,” Starsky suggested. “Bakersfield, Pasadena. We could gas up the car, scout around, bring back what we can.”

“Or, what about-?” Hutch hesitated. “What about L.A. itself? We could try to go back there, find out what happened… What’s happening… I’ve been thinking about it, about going back, for the last week. But I didn’t know how you’d-”

“It’s okay with me.” Starsky’s simple statement hung in the air.

“You sure?” Hutch asked.

“I’ve been thinkin’ about it, too,” Starsky admitted. “We still have some kind of responsibility there. Nobody’s come and taken away our badges yet, as far as I know.”

“We’d be walking into a nightmare, Starsk.”

“I know that.” Starsky nodded. “I’m willin’ t’ risk it, if you are.”

***

It was a five-and-a-half hour drive back to Los Angeles. All morning, they’d seen no other cars on the road. It was eerie, driving on Interstate 5 in broad daylight, all alone. It was conclusive proof that everything was true: the attack, the destruction, all of it.

Finally they did see another vehicle, an Army truck. It stopped them rather dramatically by swerving and blocking the roadway. Several soldiers jumped out and approached the car, heavily armed, guns at the ready.

One, a young lieutenant, poked his head into the car. “May I ask your destination, sir?”

“L.A.,” Hutch answered.

“Perhaps you don’t know, sir, that the country is under martial law. Private use of all highways is prohibited, by order of the President.”

“We knew. But we’re policemen. We thought we might be able to help.”

“May I see some identification?” the lieutenant-Hubbard, A.-asked. He looked it over and handed it back. “Detective Hutchinson, we’re going to have to commandeer your vehicle for military use. If you wish to go into L.A., we can give you a lift.” He paused, his demeanor relaxing a bit. “Just between you and me, they can use all the help they can get back there.”

No car would mean no way back to the mountains. “Okay,” Hutch answered for both of them. “We’ll take the ride.”

They drove on. A strange wall of darkness hung off their right to the west, a dark wing looming over the landscape north to south as far as the eye could see. It turned out to be a forewarning.

The city itself was more than unrecognizable. It was devastated, a place of tangible death. The natural bowl where Los Angeles had been looked like a foul ashtray, a pit of featureless rubble, parts of it still burning. Hutch stared, appalled. A thousand earthquakes hitting at once couldn’t have caused this kind of damage.

Very few buildings were left standing; none had escaped damage. The city-center must have been at ground zero. It was lost in a swirling gloom that had little to do with smog, much more to do with finality. The whole scene was eerie, terrifying; something out of a prophet’s worst dreams. Only this was no dream. It was the starkest reality Hutch had ever confronted.

Lieutenant Hubbard explained that that center section-two square miles-of the city was strictly off-limits. Radiation had been found to have reached harmful levels there. He also told them, almost in passing, that the country’s systems of communication and transport-rail, highway, and air-had collapsed. There had been airlifts of food to outlying areas, and military protection, but the remnants of the army were stretched perilously thin.

“Who won?” Starsky asked.

“Beg your pardon?” Hubbard asked.

“Who won?”

The lieutenant kept his eyes on the road. “As far as I know, we did. After the attack, we pummeled the living hell out of them. There’s been nothing from their side for over a week.” Then he looked over at Starsky. “They made a big mistake, this time.”

“Maybe we all did,” Starsky observed.

“That’s not for me to judge, sir.”

***

The city was being run from army tents set up on the north side of Los Angeles near what had been Van Nuys Airport.

Actually there was no more city to be run. What the army and remaining civilian authorities were really doing was managing total disaster.

There were an estimated 800,000 survivors in a city that had contained almost three million people. They had no homes, no food, no water. Many were in desperate need of critical care. There was none. Only seventeen doctors and twenty nurses remained to serve the entire metropolitan area, and not one hospital left standing. All the medical people could supply was the most basic medical care: cleaning and bandaging wounds, setting broken bones, treating the less severe burn cases. Blood supply was an acute problem.

There were bodies everywhere-in doorways, in cars on the freeway-which the army had only just begun to deal with.

“That’s where we need you the most,” one of the officials told Hutch. “That’s our first priority, collecting those bodies and disposing of them. Otherwise disease’ll kill the rest of us. Food and water is being stockpiled and distributed at sixteen relief centers. We’ll also need help with that. And with medical care and with rounding up and caring for lost children, and with a million other things. Gentlemen, this is a task that will take months-years-to complete.” The gray-haired, gray-skinned man looked at Hutch. “We need you two very badly. Are you game?”

So it started, like undertaking a walk down a long, dark tunnel, sixteen-hour days of back-breaking-heartbreaking-labor, collecting the dead under a dark, wintry sky. There was a freakish light snow in early August. Daytime temperatures never rose much above 70oF. Cooler weather did help preserve the bodies.

Most of the time they couldn’t work together, assigned to different details, going wherever they were told. And after working all day, it was all they could do to drag themselves back to the relief center and collapse onto a cot. They learned to live with fatigue. And horror. And screams of pain.

It was weeks before Hutch came to the realization that he and Starsky had shared no more than two dozen words in all that time. They were both exhausted, dispirited. That mental state was like an infection that had taken hold of everyone. Hutch could see it in the faces of the survivors lined up by the thousands for supplies; silent, like shadows of human beings, unsmiling, sleep-walking through their days along the broken streets. The homeless children stepped uncaring over bodies and wreckage. There was little or no reason to hope for a better future.

***

Hutch lay on his cot at the end of the day, trying to recall what a bath felt like. Most of the time he just soaped himself first, then sluiced off the grime with a bucket of cold water. Spartan ritual, at best. However, staying clean was not only vital in the kind of work he was doing, but important to him personally. Personal barriers may have fallen in this new Stone Age-all facilities were makeshift, and communal-but his own standards for himself hadn’t. In fact, they had been reinforced.

Starsky was the same way. Sometimes they bathed together, washed each other and their hair. They shared a toothbrush, too. Necessities were in short supply, like everything else.

Starsky came in then with several other men. There were 30 cots in the hastily constructed barracks, and he walked down the row, obviously dead on his feet. He still wore the surgical mask everyone in the corpse details wore, and the nondescript olive-drab coveralls. His hair was tied back with a soiled bandanna. Looking toward him, Hutch felt a gut-wrenching need to have him near, to spend some time alone with his friend, away from all this death and ugliness.

Starsky approached and sat down heavily on the cot beside Hutch’s. He took the surgical mask off and threw it aside, but said nothing, just sat grimly, staring.

“Bad out there?” Hutch asked softly.

Starsky nodded. “Yeah.” A moment passed, and then he sighed, loosening the top buttons of his coveralls. “What else is new? It’s bad collecting ’em, and it’s bad burning ’em up.”

Hutch sympathized. The night after his first time on the burn detail, he’d seen those flames behind his eyes for hours, unable to sleep. The obscene waste of life…

“Did you clean up yet?” Starsky asked.

“No.” He sat up, trying to lighten the mood. “I was waiting for you to get here to wash my back.”

“Who else?” Starsky’s smile was faint, but it was there. “C’mon,” he said. “I need to scrape this filth off.”

The feel of Starsky’s firm muscles, smooth skin… The matter-of-fact strength of Starsky’s hands… It was good to do something for themselves, for life, for simple fellowship, simple humanity. Soaping and scrubbing each other in turn seemed like a repudiation of all the death outside. Precious… For a short while all that mattered was the touch of a human hand; gentle as only a human hand could be, and a reminder that they still had each other, the comfort of a friend.

“Hurry up with the water, Hutch,” Starsky demanded, eyes squeezed tight. “The soap’s gettin’ in my eyes.”

“Oh, yeah?” Hutch dumped the bucket of water over his complaining partner’s head. He’d already been doused, and enjoyed Starsky’s usual whoop of shock when it was his turn. It had become a custom, like a bed-time story, an unwinding. Hutch squeegeed any remaining soap off Starsky with his palms.

The bathing area was enclosed, barely. Some sheets had been thrown up as a half-hearted concession to nicety.

“Wish alla your kind’d been burned up in the fire,” a gruff voice said.

Someone had come around the corner without their noticing; no way to be sure how long Collins had been watching. He stood there now with a couple of friends, watching them coolly.

“Can we do something for you, Mac?” Starsky inquired. He had little use for Collins, who was morose and a complainer, and Hutch had less.

Collins made a noncommittal sound and spat. “You guys like touching each other; why don’t you go do it someplace else?”

Hutch had wrapped a towel around himself. He turned now and looked at Collins. “I’m not in a very good mood these last few weeks, Collins,” he said. “And if you want to start something, I’d be more than happy to finish it for you.” He meant it as he had few other times before. He was past dealing with one man’s penny-ante prejudice. It seemed more than ever like some sorry relic from ages gone, out of place here. Besides all that, the man’s assumption was groundless.

“Fuckin’ fags,” Collins growled at them. But he turned and left, apparently not ready to face Hutch’s ire.

Hutch watched the three men go and kicked the empty bucket across the floor. The clatter was pleasurable. “Stupid fucker. Isn’t it bad enough?”

“Think he knows something we don’t?” Starsky asked, wonderingly. “As far as I know, a lotta the guys scrub each other down.”

“Don’t make excuses, Starsky! The man’s an idiot, too stupid to even look around himself and see what’s actually happening here!”

“Settle down,” Starsky said. “Let’s just go to bed. I’m beat.”

A ten o’clock curfew had been imposed weeks ago, but Hutch went out anyway after Starsky was asleep, walking like a shadow. It was cold, windy, the night sky as overcast as the day, low-hanging. The hulks of buildings stood like ruined ghosts, black twisted shapes. His city, once grand in its conceits, its violence, was lonely, changed, frightened. And so was he. We can’t help each other, old friend…old enemy…

A gang of motley teenagers ran hooting up a side street. Their voices sounded angry, wounded, mad; no joy in their echoing paean. The thrill was in disobeying the rules of a world that had betrayed them. He walked on. They were right. What good had following the rules done?

A couple was making love-rutting-in a cul-de-sac, the woman braced against the wall she was facing, her skirt pulled up over her bare, middle-aged hips. The noise she made was bestial, spoke of an animal’s instinctive drive to survive. Another man waited his turn, close by. None of the three seemed to know or care that he’d passed.

For that matter, neither did he, very much. He’d seen all kinds of lunacy in the preceding days and weeks. It had become a part of the fabric of the city. Old people walking naked in the cold, women carrying their dead babies. Two days ago, a woman had set herself and her dead child on fire. There were reports of men who had castrated themselves. Something in the racial psyche was breaking down with astonishing speed. Despite the army’s presence, there was more and more frequent looting, more acts of violence; rudimentary gangs forming-or reforming. A military detachment of less than 1,000 men and women couldn’t be everywhere at once.

Finding himself at the river, he walked along the embankment for a while, then sat down, looking at the black, oily water. His loneliness was mile-deep. This wasn’t desire. That part of him seemed to have died, been sublimated. He just wanted something, someone, to fill his empty soul, to heal the ache. Starsky was there with him, of course, and he was glad of that, but the love he had been looking for, his woman of song and sweetness, what chance did he have of finding her in Purgatory? And our children… What kind of world is this to welcome them into?

He sat there, shivering, until the gray sky lightened, then walked home, slowly, in a sudden flurry of tiny snowflakes. It was late September, Year Zero.

 

STARSKY

Winter came by the calendar, and with it bitter cold, like January in the northeast. The city lay under a dense blanket of dirty snow and ice.

Activity had slowed but not ceased, entirely. People walked around huddled under army-issue blankets, odds and ends of salvaged-or stolen-warm clothing. There was no capacity for heating beyond wood-burning, so it was fortunate that there was plenty of scrap lumber. What movement there was had mostly to do with collecting fuel and finding food.

Food had become more scarce. Stockpiles were down nationwide, and until there could be a planting in the spring and a harvest (as the government assured everyone there would be), the situation had to get worse before it got better. To obtain a meal meant long hours of scavenging, and that took all the energy anyone had. The corpse removal and burning details had gone by the boards until spring. Survival for the living was becoming hard work all by itself.

Starsky could testify to that. He’d been scrounging around all day long and had only managed to come up with six cans of sweet potatoes and four packages of soup in assorted flavors. He wondered if Hutch was having any better luck.

He walked down the street toward Venice Place. This was where they’d found a place to hole up for winter. Ironically, it wasn’t far from where the building Hutch used to live in had stood.

The new place was not as nice. That’s an understatement, Starsky mused. No plants, no airy kitchen or sunny bedroom. They lived in the basement of a clothing store-what had been a clothing store. The rest of the building had vanished, half of it collapsing in on itself. They only had the front of the basement, a space 16 x 25 feet. The rear was filled with debris.

But they had a window, a small one, miraculously unbroken that let in some light and kept out some cold. They had a sink, broken but serviceable, and even running water; cold, but there when they turned on the faucet. And the ocean was still there, too, at their backs, eternally unchanged. Hutch liked that.

Starsky looked about unobtrusively as he approached the place, concealing the cans inside his coat. He’d been jumped before, carrying food. Most people had adapted to becoming thieves or the victims of thieves. Few were averse to raiding a place where they knew someone lived and had supplies, however meager. So most people kept their lives-and their addresses-to themselves.

He and Hutch were no different. Though they were capable of fending off any attacks, where they lived was nobody’s business. He climbed down the concrete steps and pushed the broken door in on its hinges, pushing it back firmly once inside.

“Ah, home.” The “apartment” was no palace. It was more like a den, small and dim. But it was indeed home. They’d made it one, scraped and tacked it together out of the jumble of waste the city had become. Here were his things and Hutch’s things, all they had in the world. Bits and pieces, odds and ends: a scarred table and chair, a book or two, a teakettle and some battered cookpots, a rug, the color of which they’d tried to guess at and failed. They had one bed, a simple platform Hutch had built. He’d made the mattress, too, and had found the precious blankets. The two of them shared the bed for warmth.

It was cold, nights. The crude, wood-burning stove they’d built wasn’t enough to warm the room very much. Hutch was a much better heating system. He’d wrap himself around Starsky and seemingly will himself to radiate body heat. Starsky tried to do the same for him, but he often felt that he took more from Hutch than he gave. More solace, more protection… Only, Hutch seemed to need to give to him, and he couldn’t stop himself from taking.

He sat there on a chair, lost in thought, rubbing his hands together to get warm. The light was fading, but he was hardly aware of it until it was gone and he found himself sitting in darkness. He looked up. Where the hell was Hutch?

It was safer to light a fire under cover of night when smoke could not be seen, so he did that now. The place would be warm for Hutch when he returned home, hopefully soon. The night ain’t a good time to be out on those streets. Never was.

He pulled the cloth they used for a blackout across the window and waited. An hour passed, then two, and he spent them worrying. Sometimes, sitting here like this in the cold, one or the other of them would look up and say, deadpan, “At least we’re still alive.” It had become a standard joke. Then they’d either crack up, laughing on the edge of hysteria or, often as not, just sit there, quiet, staring at each other in mutual disbelief at the awesome joke life itself had become. These last few weeks, Hutch had never seemed so precious to him. Hutch wasn’t part of the joke. Yet, oddly, when he was with Hutch he sometimes felt lonelier than he ever had. It made him sad, more so because he couldn’t seem to share the feeling with his friend. Maybe it wasn’t for sharing.

The apprehension was too much to bear. He pulled on his coat and, perhaps recklessly, started out to search. Hutch could have been ambushed for whatever supplies he might happen to be carrying, or for a lot of less conscionable reasons. As soon as he made for the door, it swung open, a blast of cold air sending the crude lamp sputtering.

“Glad you’re here,” Hutch said breathlessly, hulking in, wrapped in his big navy-blue coat. He was lugging something, two wooden boxes, 18 x 24 inches. “Give me a hand with these. They’re heavy.”

Starsky moved quickly to help. The boxes were indeed heavy and cold. Together, they placed the two mysterious containers on the table. “What are these?” Starsky asked, curiously.

Hutch tossed his knit cap aside. His hair, much longer than it had been, created another source of illumination in the room like a bright windblown torch. “One’s a box of meat,” he said exultantly, pointing to the government stamp on the box’s side. “Believe it or not.”

“Meat?” Starsky asked. “As in flesh? As in protein?” He felt faint. “Oh, God…”

“Amen,” Hutch chortled. “Let me find something to pry this lid off.” He moved around the room, found a scrap of metal with a sharp point. “I don’t care if it’s squirrel meat,” he was saying, intent on removing the lid on one of the boxes.

“Hutch, where’d you find this stuff?” Starsky wanted to know, hovering, incredulous.

“Let’s just say it fell off a truck right into my hot little hands,” Hutch muttered, at work. He looked up at Starsky. “That’s my other news.”

“What’s that?”

“You know there’s been rumors flying from the beginning that some members of our armed forces are hoarding supplies for themselves. Well, I, uh, overheard two corporals talking today when they didn’t know anybody was listening. And apparently the rumor is true. I went down to do a little investigating on my own; went to the place these two guys were talking about. There’s a hangar on the far side of the airport. Guarded. Not heavily, but guarded. I snuck around, got in pretty easily. And sure enough-” The lid was half off, and he went to work on the other end. “Sure enough, there were twenty trucks in there, loaded with boxes. Meat, cheese, cans of vegetables, fruit… The way it was set up, I knew the whole thing had to be sanctioned from the top. I also figured that the army might not take too kindly to us outsiders knowing about it. Hell, maybe they’re saving it up to throw a big party for everybody on the Fourth of July.” He paused in his task. “I’ll admit, I thought about us first, before I thought about doing the right thing. My first responsibility is keeping you and me alive.”

“What would be the right thing?” Starsky asked. “Not that I’m really interested.”

“I don’t know,” Hutch confessed. “But right then, it was seeing your face when I got home with all this.” He finished with the lid, tossed it aside. And there it was, manna from heaven, wrapped up in clear plastic and butcher’s paper. An assortment of 100% USDA Grade A beef: T-bone steaks, sirloins, bottom rounds, ribs, all packed neatly in layers. There was also a slab of beef bacon, a twelve-pound rib roast, a mound of ground beef. They opened the second box, found cans of peaches, fruit cocktail, pineapple, cans of peas, green beans, corn, asparagus, tomatoes…

They stood there, wordless, looking from the food to each other and back.

“Pinch me,” Hutch said. “I must be dreaming.”

“Well, if you are, I am too,” Starsky said. “And I don’t wanna wake up.”

Hutch smiled. “Tonight we feast, partner.”

They feasted. And after, sat back, criminally replete.

“Well, it wasn’t the Paul Mini Special,” Starsky announced. “But it’s as near as anybody’s ever gonna get.”

“Maybe not, Starsk,” Hutch said.

“Yeah, yeah, I know your theory. That the Russians somehow restored the balance of power by bombin’ us back to the Stone Age. Mm-hmm.”

“That’s not what I said,” Hutch differed. “But it doesn’t matter. You’ve gotta admit we’re on equal terms with them now. We’re crippled, and they’re crippled, and we’re startin’ out even!”

“Yeah,” Starsky said. “Forty million dead each. And what was the other part of the Hutchinson theory? That eventually things’ll return to normal, and that people’ll reorganize the same kinds of societies they had before. Hogwash.”

“Of course not exactly the same,” Hutch insisted. “Look, it’s not like starting over at square one with nothing at all. There’s the memory of what was, the important things. We have the memory of justice, democracy, peace, love-”

“I don’t know if the memory’ll be enough.” Starsky looked down at his plate and sighed. “This is rotten after-dinner conversation.”

Hutch sighed, too. “I know. I thought I dropped my idealism when the bombs dropped.” He got up, began clearing away.

Starsky watched him for a moment or two, then got up to stand nearby. “It just seems that more and more of people’s goodness is slippin’ away,” he said. “Maybe for good. Feelings of community, of bein’ human… Hutch, we’re all turnin’ into animals, scratchin’ to survive.”

Hutch turned to look at him, gaze penetrating. “I refuse to believe that. I refuse to let that happen to me.”

Starsky returned the look, observing his friend. There was something evangelical about Hutch, shining hair, cheeks beautifully gaunt, as if his determination was burning him up from the inside. You never cried, did you? And in all this time you haven’t. When he spoke at last, he was gentle. “If you won’t give up on the world, I won’t either. Hutch?”

Hutch was busy scrubbing their utensils off in the sink with a dwindling bar of their valuable soap. The trickle of running water they had was of great value, too, but not more than the man using it. He turned again to Starsky and smiled softly. “It’ll be a lot easier saving the world with your help,” he said with gentleness.

“I guess the world’s fate could be in worse hands,” Starsky replied.

They stored the food in safe places: the cans under fallen beams in the rear of the building, the perishable meat buried in a bank of icy snow outside. “If we’re careful,” Hutch said, “this could last us a month.” He packed ice around the box.

“Then we go back and get more.”

“I wouldn’t feel right about it, Starsk, unless it comes to that. I’m not a thief. I have half a mind to go to the Citizens’ Council, let them deal with the Army.”

“The Council? That buncha loonies?” The Council was a new kind of political organization, a thorny offshoot of the holocaust born of fear and anger and a vacuum of real leadership. It was their duty, as all their hand-written leaflets attested, to “speak for the survivors.” The Council assumed, of course, that all survivors spoke with one voice: fundamentalist, conservative, and subtly racist. Starsky loathed the whole idea of a “Council.” For him, it was the Council that foretold what the new society might be like.

“Yeah, they’re loonies,” Hutch said. “But they’re the only group organized enough to have any kind of leverage with the Army.” The lawful government had bigger fish to fry and didn’t want to create friction with the Army, which kept order.

Starsky held his partner’s arm. “I don’t want to have anything to do with ’em, Hutch. I’d rather steal the food and distribute it myself. To people who need it, not just to people who agree with my politics.”

Hutch touched him, showed his understanding. “Actually, that’s not a bad idea,” he said. “Robbing the rich to give to the poor.”

“Are you serious?” Starsky asked, needing to know. If Hutch was willing, he’d go along.

“Maybe. The question is, how serious is the Army gonna be about civilians sneaking into their camp to steal from them.”

“Helluva question,” Starsky said. He shivered. “C’mon, let’s get back inside. I’m freezin’.”

“Go ahead,” Hutch said. “I’m going to make a pit stop.” He meant at the latrine they’d dug in the small courtyard behind the clothing store.

“Okay,” Starsky said. “Don’t let your dick freeze off.” He headed back in a hurry.

Inside, he took off coat and boots, stood beside the stove to feel the heat. Hutch came in, in a minute, removed his own coat. Starsky watched surreptitiously as the blond unbuttoned his thickest flannel shirt, a gray plaid, and slipped it off, tossing it. Three other shirts followed, comically, then a final T-shirt. Hutch sat down on the bed and pried off his boots. He wore several pairs of socks, but yanked them off each foot all at once. For a minute he sat there, elbows on knees, absently combing his fingers through his hair, expression distant. Then he looked down, pale hair veiling his face.

He needs something, Starsky thought, feeling not so much shut out as forgotten for a moment. Whatever it is, I guess I can’t give it to him. Maybe he’s like me; doesn’t even know how to put it in words.

For days he’d been trying to figure out what ailed him; trying to hear music that wasn’t there; eating and drinking but still hungry and thirsty…. I’m lonely for him and he’s right here. What’s wrong with me; with us, when you get right down to it? Everything seems all right, but…

“I’ll heat some water,” Hutch announced, then out of nowhere, standing, moving to the sink. When the water was hot, he filled the tarnished basin they used for bathing and brought it to the table, comfortably near the stove.

He kept himself scrupulously clean. Every night, Hutch would wash himself just like this. Drafty as it was in here, he stripped naked. Starsky turned away, began pulling off his own clown-like succession of clothes.

If he was by himself, he would probably have let his personal hygiene go by the boards. But he followed Hutch’s example, if only to avoid possibly offending the man. He even shaved every morning because Hutch did. Why not, anyway, when they still had a good supply of blades? What am I talkin’ about?

He heard the sound of water splashing behind him, couldn’t ignore it. “Wash my back?” Hutch’s voice intoned the question like a word-game.

“Sure thing,” Starsky said, turning. Hutch waited, intent on soaping the cloth. He trusts me, lets me in… There was a flicker of something inside him suddenly that hadn’t been there for many weeks. His emotions were alive, waking from a long sleep, and he was vulnerable all of a sudden; to what he didn’t even know for sure. To sharing the terrifying tenderness that was welling up in his breast? He had a guilty sense that he could be his best friend’s worst enemy right now.

“Sometime tonight?” Hutch asked, a smile in the reminder.

“Gimme a second.” Starsky went to him, took the soapy cloth out of his hands. Hutch leaned forward, braced himself on the table, giving access to his back. His body was steamy, fragrant and hard, pleasant to be near.

Starsky scrubbed the muscled back, setting his mind to the task. It was easy to be sensual, to prolong the touching. S’been so long for me, he realized. Caressing another person like this, being intimate, skin to skin, it occurred to him. I’m hungry for this. His lonely body yearned against his will for a little contact, a little acknowledgement. Mere inches from his companion, he had a secret that brought fierce heat to his face and neck. When was the last time I had an erection? He finished Hutch’s back and moved away, abashed.

“Let me wash you,” Hutch said quietly. It was more than a courteous offer. Starsky looked up, confused. Hutch’s eyes were on him, shy and needful. “It’d feel good to touch somebody else besides myself,” Hutch went on explaining.

“I-I know what you mean,” Starsky said, relaxing. Of course, Hutch understood, was willing to admit his need. And it was really nothing more than that, an animal’s need to be close to another of its kind. That hadn’t changed because the world had ended. It was a natural thing.

“Anyway,” Hutch went on as he emptied the basin, filled it with clean, hot water, “you need a bath. Not to mention a shampoo and a haircut.”

“Along with a steam, a rub-down, some decent clothes, and a night on the town. Sure.” Starsky took off the rest of his clothes, approached Hutch. “Time for baby’s bath, huh?”

“We’re going to find a place with a real bathtub one of these days,” Hutch said and smiled. “Come here, little boy.”

Starsky found himself being soaped and scrubbed like a ten-year-old-and liking it. “You’re awful good at this,” he muttered. “Ever work in a bathhouse?”

“I used to give my dog, Chris, a bath. Come to think of it, he had dark curly hair, too. Almost as much as you. Turn around.”

“Wait, don’t rush it,” Starsky told him. “Take your time…” It was a helpless request.

“Okay.” A moment or two went by, the wind seeming to rise, buffet the ruined building. But the stove radiated heat; the lamplight was soft, honeyed, like the light in a dark old master painting. “Men have feelings too huh?” Hutch asked.

“Got that right.” Starsky leaned into the steady motion of his partner’s hands on his chest. His belly was washed and then his groin area. His erection returned instantly, but Hutch didn’t seem to be shocked or inhibited by it. He was like a doctor.

“You mind?” he wanted to know.

Starsky just shook his head and let him continue, watching the bright hair, totally enchanted as one at a time his thighs, lower legs, and feet were carefully bathed. It felt so good to his sensation-starved body, he wanted to purr. The sound bubbled in his chest. “You shoulda let me do this to you,” he whispered.

“Any time,” Hutch said, rising. “Let’s get each other dry and into bed.”

That night, something was different. They were indefinably closer, and there was a certain consideration between them, a subtle tenderness that hadn’t been there before somehow.

Starsky had never felt more loved, or paradoxically under the circumstances, happier. I think 1 could spend my whole life with just you and be happy, Hutch. He reveled in the warm arms around him, knowing his fortune. Outside, the wind howled with pain and misery, but he had someone. A thankful sigh escaped him.

“What is it?” Hutch asked, softly.

“I’m just-glad you’re here. That’s all.” He was embarrassed to say what he really meant, and that wasn’t right, not after what he’d just been given. “I love you.”

There was an instant of trepidation; on both their parts, Starsky felt. Hutch stroked his hair. “I love you, too,” he whispered then. “Nothing means more to me than having you, Starsk. And I’m so damned lucky. I’m never going to forget that.”

Starsky closed his eyes, but waited until Hutch slipped into sleep before he let himself go.

***

At some inner signal, Starsky woke. It was grey dawn, wind still blowing non-stop. Hutch was stirring around. Starsky heard him relieving himself, tinkering with the stove. He came into Starsky’s view, naked, going to the window, pulling the blackout aside. White light struck his hair and shoulders, clothed his long body with cold silver. His breath condensed faintly as he took a ruminative look outside, brow creased. Then he returned to bed. Snuggling back under the covers, he noticed Starsky watching. “You awake?” he asked.

“Depends. What’s it like out there?”

“Blizzard, for sure. You couldn’t see your hand in front of your face.”

“Oh,” Starsky said. “Then I’m definitely not awake.” There’d be no movement outside today, maybe for several days. It had happened before, snowstorms lasting three, four days, the whole city immobilized. He’d become acquainted first-hand with cabin fever.

And when it was over, they’d have the laborious task of digging themselves out. Faced with the prospect, Starsky hurried back to sleep. There was no place else to hurry to.

***

He woke again, several hours later it must have been, alone in bed. He raised his head a little, looked around. Hutch was dressed, sitting cross-legged against the wall opposite the bed, reading under the stark light from the window.

They had three books-hardback copies of Return of the Native and The Sun Also Rises, and Joseph Conrad’s short stories in tattered soft-cover. Starsky supposed that it comforted his partner to have the books, whether Hutch had read them all before or not. He himself was somehow comforted by the sight of Hutch reading, by the vestige of a normal pastime. He lay there, looking, taking his own kind of spiritual sustenance from reading Hutch.

Hutch must have sensed something. He glanced up, over the top of his book, blue eyes focusing instantly on Starsky, a deep intensity already in them. There didn’t seem to be anything of great importance to say, and neither of them did. The look held, making Starsky somewhat uneasy. “Hi,” he said doubtfully.

“Hi,” Hutch rejoined softly. There was a silence, then, too long to be explained, yet too brief to try. “Glad to see you’re awake, finally,” he added, closing his book.

“Glad to be awake. What’s for breakfast?”

“This isn’t the Hilton, Starsky.”

“Tell me about it,” Starsky said, sitting up, pulling the blanket over his shoulders. “This is home, sweet home.”

They spent the afternoon in quiet companionship, Hutch involved in Return of the Native and drinking tea, Starsky content with washing and repairing all of their clothing that needed it. Over the winter, he’d tried to learn to deal with forced inactivity, with spending all of his time with one person inside four cramped walls. He’d spent a fair share of his time with Hutch before the bombs, but coexisting in bad weather was like sharing a cell. Any two men would be obligated to respect one another’s foibles, privacy, needs, stresses… Lucky the groundwork for all that had been laid for him and Hutch long ago.

Yeah. Long ago and far away. Once upon a time when there was blue sky and sun, places to go, people to see. Movies, taco stands, ballparks, beautiful women… Outlets… Suddenly his contentment had been broken into useless pieces. It had been a delusion anyway, the emperor’s new clothes. I can’t resign myself to the way thing are now… Can’t pretend I don’t see the way we’re livin’, how pathetic it is. It wasn’t enough to say, “At least we’re still alive.”

He was touched from behind and whirled, startled. His companion looked momentarily as surprised as he was.

“Did I scare you?” Hutch asked, slightly bemused.

Starsky collected himself. “You hadn’t oughta sneak up on a guy that way.” He turned back to his task, fumbled with it then gave it up, picking up a cloth to dry his hands.

“I was just goin’ to remark on how domestic you were being,” Hutch continued.

“Meaning a wisecrack?” Starsky asked crossly. “Just what I wanna hear while I stand over a washboard, scraping my knuckles, washing out your socks.”

“I was going to thank you,” Hutch said uncertainly. “What’s the matter anyway?”

Starsky sighed. “Guess maybe I was lost in thought,” he said, obfuscating. “Anyway, you know what happens to me when I can’t get outside.”

“Yeah, I do. You prowl like a tiger.” Hutch moved a little closer. “I’ve always told you, Starsky, you oughta take up meditation.” He was smiling; Starsky could hear it in his voice. “Might help. Stress reduction?”

“Hmm. The last thing I need is to climb inside my own head,” Starsky said, tossing aside the scrap of towel he was holding.

“Wanna wrestle?” Hutch asked out of nowhere.

Starsky looked at his partner, unable to dismiss the idea. Wrestling wasn’t a bad way to work off steam. The way he was feeling, he could demolish Hutch-if he could also maintain the element of surprise. Without bothering to answer the question in the affirmative, he attacked.

Fifteen minutes later he was on his stomach, sweat steaming, arm twisted behind him, Hutch riding his back. He’d been bent, folded, and mutilated unmercifully. So much for the element of surprise. “All right!” he shouted in outrage. “You win!” He tried to get another breath to speak. “God, you’re heavy. And you’re hurtin’ my arm! Dincha hear me say I surrender?!’

“Of course,” Hutch said, smiling. “I just didn’t care.” He eased up on Starsky’s arm. “Still feeling like a caged tiger?”

“Not after havin’ all the stuffing squeezed outta me. Lemme up.” He tried to turn over and Hutch allowed it, but wouldn’t release him. Arms folded across his chest, with Hutch keeping them locked that way, Starsky looked up at him-at the disheveled blond hair, opaque winter eyes shining with mischief-resigned himself to being trapped. If it makes you look like that, it’s okay with me. “You are the gloatingest winner I ever saw,” he said grumpily.

“Funny thing, isn’t it?” Hutch mused. “Only a winner can gloat.”

“Once and for all, get offa me, Hutch. I already cried ‘Uncle.’ No fair.”

“What’s fair?” Hutch asked. “I was attacked!”

“Are ya havin’ fun, Hutchinson? Go right ahead. Have a good time. Don’t let the fact that the circulation’s cut off in both my arms keep you from enjoyin’ yourself.”

“Must be a hidden side of me,” Hutch said, face soft with play. “That needs to torment the helpless.”

“Who’re you callin’ helpless?”

Hutch began to laugh, and Starsky joined in. He was released and Hutch collapsed beside him.

They lay there, close, for a moment or two. Starsky’s hair was stroked.

“Anybody’d think I’d been using you for a dust- mop,” Hutch commented.

“I couldn’t tell ’em any different,” Starsky said. He looked at Hutch. “What’re we doin’, huh? The world’s gone to hell and we’re playin’ around like a coupla kids.”

“We’re alive,” Hutch said seriously. “We shouldn’t have to apologize for feeling good.”

“Maybe you’re right. It’s like when somebody in your family dies. For months after, you feel guilty when you find yourself laughin’ at a joke on TV, or singin’ in the shower.”

“I don’t feel guilty about having fun with you,” Hutch said. “We aren’t responsible for what happened. Anyway, there’s nobody around but you and me, right?” His eyes dwelt on Starsky’s. “Who’s gonna know?” The eyes searched him.

“Nobody,” Starsky said absently. He couldn’t take his eyes off his partner’s. Last night this man had bathed him, given him that simple pleasure. He’s got so much to give, nobody but me to give it to. All they had was each other…and their separate need. A warning bell went off deep inside him. He’s lookin’ at me like-

The love was there, always had been there, deep and wide and strong, like a river. Now, suddenly, the river was trying to flood its banks. The garden where their friendship was planted, once bounded by fences, had been growing wild for days-and now there were flowers in chaotic confusion, vines in total riot, lawless, hungry weeds overrunning the path their lives had always taken. Life seeking life…

Hutch felt it, Starsky was sure. How could he not, when Starsky found himself experiencing it so powerfully? It showed in Hutch’s eyes, in the clear-carved lines of his face: the longing, a need to hold back the deluge-the same things Starsky was feeling right now.

Hutch bent over him, and he wanted it, whatever it might turn out to be, with terrifying hunger. Loneliness had changed him, turned all his priorities around. And he was letting it dictate to him. That’s all it was; loneliness that didn’t know what it wanted, just that it did want. He started away, instinctively protecting himself and Hutch from the danger he sensed. If they began, where would they end up?

“Starsky! Wait.” A stubborn hand held him, gentling when he didn’t move further away. “Wait…”

He looked down at the hand, seeming to see every detail-fine, silvery scratches on still-tanned, wind-burned skin, strong bones that had become more prominent in recent weeks. “What for?”

Hutch was silent for a long time. Then he let Starsky go. “I don’t know,” the soft voice said.

Starsky got to his feet. The rest of the day was draining, tense, even more so because they both pretended the tension wasn’t there. Time passed very slowly.

It snowed all through the day and all night, a relentless onslaught that made Starsky feel small, lying sleepless in bed. He finally sought Hutch, for comfort and warmth, and both were given to him freely. He felt the pressure of lips on his forehead, tender, startling. “Ah, Hutch-” The whisper was helpless. He embraced his friend and held on tight. Hutch asked for no more, and he himself demanded no more. They fell asleep, together that way.

 

HUTCH

A sense of insistent movement roused Hutch in the middle of the night. What was happening was nearly over before he realized what it meant- Starsky in the final grip of a wet dream, rubbing haphazardly against Hutch and the sheet. Oh, God, babe. He felt the other man’s pulsations with remarkable clarity. Hell, they were like hammer blows to his nervous system. In the guttering lamplight he watched his friend’s closed face, taking note of the knit brows, the fluttering dark lashes. Does it feel good? One of Starsky’s hands was pressed to his chest. His heart pounded into the warm palm, beating so hard it ought to have wakened Starsky. He didn’t move-didn’t dare-though he wanted to take tighter hold of his vulnerable companion, tell him that he understood, that it was all right.

Starsky growled deep in his chest and relaxed totally back into sleep. Hutch’s repose was shattered. He was as hungry as Starsky obviously was, his erection uncomfortable, beyond subsiding. Once he’d acknowledged that he was alive, his body had seemed to remember, too, and it wouldn’t be put off now, or bribed, or pacified. There wasn’t much of a decision to make-it was being made for him. He pushed the blanket aside, sat on the edge of the bed with his back to his sleeping partner. Christ, how long has it been?

He felt alone and secretive confronting his need. If he was quiet, the secret could be kept. He was keenly aware of his masculinity, of the familiarity of his body’s workings, the moist sounds, earthy odor. His cock was sensitive. Every single touch he gave it reverberated through him. He held off the outcome for as long as he could, seeing red, and at the end couldn’t keep completely silent or still. The flexing of his hips had never been so…irrevocable. Leaning heavily on one arm, legs parted wide, he caught his breath, then heaved a quiet sigh, his other hand slowing and easy on his sex. He was throbbing with satisfaction, relief.

A soft sound brought his head sharply around. To his astonishment, Starsky was very much awake and very much aware, watching him steadily. One of the slender hands gripped a renewed hard-on, stroking it rapidly toward only one possible goal. Hutch stared, mind in a whirl, embarrassed for himself and Starsky, but unable to look away. The embarrassment then changed subtly to wonder.

Starsky groaned aloud, the sound of pleasure drawn out, blue eyes never once leaving Hutch’s, holding him in place until the end when they closed tightly. In seconds it happened, the intensity of the shocks and amount of semen a demonstration of unmet need. He was-the fact hit Hutch gut-deep-beautiful, in the way a man was beautiful, falling back exhausted, face abandoned, soothing his spent cock.

Hutch couldn’t think what to say, watching Starsky cover himself with the blanket, warding off a chill. He hadn’t yet reopened his eyes. Hutch swallowed, was amazed by the dryness of his throat.

Starsky cleared his. Still his voice was a fragile whisper when he spoke. “Couldn’t help it,” he explained as if he knew he needed to. “You were drivin’ me crazy.” His eyes opened heavily, and he took in Hutch. “I wasn’t eavesdropping,” he said. “I woke up. And you were- I knew what you were doin’.”

“It’s no big deal,” Hutch interrupted. “It happens.” It’s over now; forget it. He sighed. The room was still, quiet, except for the popping of the crude stove.

“Friends share everything, right?” Starsky offered. “Hutch, we’re both horny as hell. Don’t think about it like-like we just did something wrong.”

“I don’t think that,” Hutch denied. Of course, he didn’t believe it was wrong. “It’s at least-unusual for us, you’ve got to admit. I never figured us for JO twins.” Poor attempt at humor, misplaced. He could have cut his own throat.

One of Starsky’s hands was distractedly smoothing the blanket. “I guess I wanted to share it,” he said. “Feel what you were feelin’- Somethin’… I dunno.”

Hutch looked at his friend, understanding immediately what he meant. “I know,” he admitted. “I know.” With that, his words faded away.

“It’s cold,” Starsky said. “Why doncha cover up?” He turned over, wrapping the blanket around himself, evidently putting the matter aside in favor of sleep-or escape. Or peace.

***

Following Hutch’s example, Starsky rose to take care of his body’s most immediate need, then returned at once to bed. The mood was disturbing, expectant. Neither of them seemed willing to get up and get moving-as they normally would have done even when snowed in. The need to do something was always strong. Maybe it was the fear of atrophy.

Yet they lay there; not talking, but by no means unaware of each other. It was a waiting, the forward movement of their lives suspended. Hutch felt the force of his partner’s attention, a compulsion on Starsky’s part to speak. It’s about last night, he thought. He wants to talk. But how can we talk about something like that?

The memory was sharp-edged; the long-postponed release he’d given himself, the way they’d ended up-unexpectedly- sharing the release. He remembered the sight of Starsky. Remembered? The image had been spliced onto his soul.

But earlier…earlier that day. That’s when he’d gotten the first surprise package, the one Starsky knew nothing about, and seen what it contained. I wanted to kiss you today, after we wrestled. Where’d that come from? I wanted to lean down, and show you-I don’t know-what’s been going on inside me? The things I can’t talk about; the confusion, the hunger, the hurt… Everything. He’d been shocked at how ready he’d been to kiss the man who was lying so strangely quiet beside him now. If Starsky had allowed it, he would have eagerly followed through. Am I that hard up? Maybe it is time to live again. And if that means moving on, finding another place to live, other people… He rubbed at his brow. Except having other people around means trusting them and trusting’s harder now than it ever was. Moving restlessly, not wanting to think about all of it, he risked a look at Starsky, who was laying there, eyes closed, hand loosely clenched on his stomach. The question had formed and been uttered before he had a chance to reconsider it. “Where do we go from here?”

“There’s gonna be a next time,” Starsky said, making a simple statement that went right to the heart of the matter that changed their whole scheme of things. When Hutch didn’t reply immediately, Starsky’s eyes opened, though his glance stayed straight ahead. “You agree?” he asked. “I mean, I don’t see us bein’ inundated with suitable ladies any time soon. Right? An’ the need is gonna be here; s’not gonna go away.”

“No, it’s not,” Hutch had to agree, hesitating. “But-that doesn’t mean-”

“It means that-next time, I’d want it to be the two of us together.”

“What, together?” Hutch asked, heart pounding with confusion, anxious dread. “What’re you saying, Starsky?”

Starsky’s eyes linked with his. “The two of us. Jerkin’ off.” The softness of the words made beauty out of their crudity. “Like last night. Only-at the same time. You ‘n me.” A pause; doubt. “I wanna look at you, Hutch. The way you looked at me.” He seemed to consider the notion anew. “Never thought I’d get off bein’ watched. But it was okay.” He admitted it freely. They owed each other candor at least in this new existence. “It was kinda nice. I wanted to tell you, but we were both too embarrassed about what happened. All I’m sayin’ is we don’t have to be. If it’s something we both want…”

Hutch thought he understood the thinking behind the suggestion. Starsky wanted them to share a sexual experience, even in an incomplete way, because, apparently, for him, the sharing was the important thing. But he’d also drawn an incisive line between the two of them. It was sex beside Hutch he seemed to want, not sex with him. Hutch could see the demarcation line clearly, but couldn’t bring himself to ask Starsky if he would like to dispense with it completely. He wasn’t himself all that certain. “We’d both be self-conscious,” he suggested, unsteadily. “Wouldn’t we? Too self-conscious to make-something like that work.” Who was he deluding besides himself? Under the blanket, his blood was beating by stages into a slow, stealthy erection.

Starsky sighed. “After livin’ here like this all these weeks, what’ve we got left to hide from each other, huh?” For the first time he turned fully to Hutch, breathing quickened slightly. “I was watchin’ you last night. There you were, tryin’ so hard to keep quiet, every muscle in your back strainin’ outta joint. All so I wouldn’t know? C’mon, Hutch. There’s no need for that.” He was watching piercingly for a positive reaction, and they stared at each other for a short lifetime. “Let me show you,” he offered, very softly. “I’ll show you, if you can stand the heat.”

Hutch was more than a little bit amazed. “Sh-show?” He began to speak, but couldn’t go on without a voice. Starsky took abrupt hold of his wrist. It was an unspoken command. But Hutch held back momentarily, wary of deep water. Starsky freed him, without rancor, pushing the blanket off himself instead, revealing a whipcord thin belly, contours clouded with smoky fur. He touched his own erection, carefully, through the threadbare thermal underwear. The outline of him, firm, definite, was an intrusion into Hutch’s peace of mind. The delicate hand-such a contrast to the strength of the body to which it belonged-reached inside the cloth. “Don’t,” Hutch said, not meaning it for a second.

“Never did it with a friend?” Starsky teased, eyes serious. “Ken?” The use of Hutch’s first name was a one-word dare.

Hutch felt helpless against his own need and Starsky’s. “Ah, Starsk, what’re we talkin’ about? Kid’s games?”

“Bein’ human.” Starsky drew his sex into the chill light, long lashes hiding his eyes from Hutch. He handled himself expertly, drawing in a tender breath. As Hutch watched, his dark partner began to masturbate, not disguising a slowly blossoming enjoyment. Hutch stifled a soft groan, feeling the pleasure like it belonged to him.

Starsky looked up, stopping. He inspected Hutch gently for a second, then reached out for him. Hot-eyed, deliberate, he took Hutch’s hand, moved it for him, down to his own groin, urging him to take himself. “C’mon.”

With powerful fingers wrapped around his, Hutch surrendered; after a moment’s hesitation eagerly adjusting his briefs with Starsky’s assistance. Hand over hand, they established the rhythm Hutch wanted despite himself, Starsky making a sound of approval, encouragement. “Nothin’ t’be ashamed of,” he murmured.

He was right. They were only human. The ultimate technological transgression had already happened, and neither of them bore any responsibility for it. What difference could a small, merely human act make? At least they weren’t out to harm each other.

Watching himself, watching Starsky direct his motion, his pleasure, Hutch’s breathing was tattered. He stopped trying to control it.

“F’cryin’ out loud, Hutch-” Starsky’s voice was excited, almost unfamiliar. “S’this what you were hidin’?”

“Oh, Jesus, Starsky,” Hutch began, shaken. “What’re you doin’ to me?”

“Nothin’ you don’t deserve,” Starsky said. “You’re beautiful.”

Hutch caught his eye. “I could say the same about you.” The masturbation had begun to feel more than just good-it felt natural, both their hands moving like one being on him. And it was a sharing; two very lonely men finding some point of contact that would leave them both a little dignity. Hutch couldn’t get over the fact that it was Starsky’s hand covering his so unashamedly. His friend had given him comfort, healing, protection… But never pleasure. He liked what was happening, the look and feel of it. So simple…

But then Starsky turned his attention back on himself; not coldly, but because of his own excitement. He wants to share without really sharing, Hutch remembered, watching with regret.

It was like playing music-unconsciously choreographing the speed, the kinds of touches they were giving themselves. The end-a simultaneous outpouring-came with surprising gentleness. Starsky’s deep, yearning exclamation pulled at Hutch’s heart like a silken cord. A line of his semen had been strewn across the blanket, and Hutch thought about the waste.

Unexpectedly, Starsky moved closer, buried his face against Hutch’s shoulder. Even more unexpectedly, he took hold of his penis, rubbed the head of it around Hutch’s in a slow, slippery dalliance. Startled, Hutch pushed the hand aside, and peremptorily grasped both of them, squeezing out the shudders of pleasure, finding his own face pressed against the dark curls. The feel of the two cocks in his hand was delicious, like nothing in his whole experience.

Starsky allowed all of it, grunting with surprise and involuntary enjoyment, knuckles brushing Hutch’s. When it was over, drunk on afterglow, their staggered breathing the only sound in the small space, they rested heavily against each other. The long moments passed. Starsky stirred first and moved, but not very far away.

“That – that last part was really good,” he stammered, when he seemed to find it possible to speak to Hutch. “I for sure didn’t plan on doin’ that,” he went on, apologetically. “I thought we could-”

“Why’d you get close to me?” Hutch interrupted.

“I don’t know. Felt like I had a magnet down there someplace, pulled me over to you. Felt good.” Starsky sighed with relief and a gratitude he couldn’t hide.

Too good, Hutch reflected. Isn’t that what you really mean? Like rich food… You pay for it after you eat it. He fully expected to pay a price for that moment of astonished pleasure and the aftermath. What would be the price? Starsky’s rejection? Silence? Shame?

But his friend stayed close, quiet mostly, talking only of small things, ordinary things that seemed extraordinary, like gifts he was exchanging with Hutch. And the need returned, there in their eyes when they looked at each other; abashing them somewhat before Starsky said-with no embroidery-“Fuck it.”

They spent the day in a kind of sexual haze, masturbating separately and together, watching and being watched; allowing each other to hear and see all the uninhibited sounds and shadings of their private natures; the cries, movements, deep clarity of blue eyes, sheen of bare skin, the pearly glint of semen. Though wrapped in intimacy they touched very little; Starsky probably thinking, like Hutch, that lightning couldn’t strike twice in the same spot. Or perhaps, shouldn’t, without risking fire. Finally, thoroughly exhausted, they fell asleep beside each other.

***

“Quite a day yesterday, huh?”

Hutch stirred, turned over to find Starsky looking at him. The day before was a lingering taste in his mind, the residue of an arousing dream. “Hi,” he said, feeling a little shy. “Howya doing?”

“Okay, with some of the kinks taken out.”

“I know what you mean.” There was a silence, companionable, if not exactly comfortable.

“I, uh- I guess we know each other a little better than we did yesterday.” Starsky gave him a slight smile, doubt at the corners of the soft mouth.

“I’m not sorry about any of it, Starsk,” Hutch assured.

“Me, neither.” The smile became brighter at once, unforced. “Ya hungry? I am. Lemme whip us up some breakfast, whaddya say?” Starsky got up and began dressing.

“Sure. I’ll help you.”

Starsky was at the sink, washing his hands, clanking already battered pots. “No, my treat.”

“Sure you don’t mean threat?” Hutch teased.

Starsky snickered. “Wash up, ya big ape. What I can’t do with canned sweet potatoes can’t be done.”

“Legally.”

Hutch heated some water and began to clean up. He had the odd feeling of being watched and turned. Starsky’s intent glance skittered away.

“Didn’t intend to stare,” he said, looking back to his task. “S’weird,” he said, after a moment. “I always thought I knew you so well… But it’s different, when a guy is-vulnerable, I guess. When you see him-intimately. I don’t know. What the hell-” He shrugged, then looked up.

Hutch was strangely pleased by his openness. “It’s the same for me,” he admitted. “Seeing a side of you I never saw before. I mean, we always kept that part of our lives pretty separate. Private.”

“No reason to, now.” Starsky seemed to swallow. “Besides, I feel like we’re closer than ever, ’cause we let each other see that.”

Hutch’s eyes lingered in the early morning color of Starsky’s eyes. “It could probably only work for us,” he said.

“There’s nobody else you’d do that with, is there?”

***

“It’s stopped snowing,” Starsky announced from the window. “Thank God. Sun’s even breakin’ through.”

Hutch came to stand beside him, took a look outside. “Beautiful.” He looked at Starsky, at the clear bone structure, fine features. Know something? You are, too. “Appears we’ve got shovel detail, buddy,” he said.

“Thanks for remindin’ me.”

ILLO by DARGELOS

It took the better part of the day to dig themselves out, fingers freezing, snow and ice caking on their clothes. It was still bitter cold, the sun weak and watery. They aired out the shelter, tidied things up. Hutch prepared a meal, and they ate hungrily. He’d noted that their food supply was dwindling, which meant that it was time to go scavenging again. He wasn’t looking forward to it. What he was looking forward to had nothing to do with leaving their shelter.

They made ready for bed. Starsky seemed to fall asleep at once, turning his back to Hutch. Hutch opened his book, read by lamplight for a short while, involuntarily glancing now and then in Starsky’s direction. Soon, he put the book aside and lay down, made to blow out the lamp.

“Don’t.” Starsky’s mouth was at his ear instantly. “Thought you’d never put that damned book down.”

“Starsky-” He turned. It was a reflexive response, actually joyous. The night hadn’t been far from his own mind all day. “I thought you were asleep,” he breathed.

“No.” The sexual tension was there, even stronger than the day before. “Hutch-” His voice was full of barely suppressed arousal, need that had been waiting to be met.

He’s been thinking about it, too. Waiting for the chance. “The same way?”

“I don’t think so,” Starsky whispered. “I watched you all day yesterday… Could hardly keep from touchin’ you. But I didn’t. I couldn’t presume about that…” He sought Hutch, a hungry man reaching for food. “Tell me if you don’t think it’s a good idea.”

He knows damned well… “It’s okay,” Hutch said, giving access to himself, fumbling in his own eagerness. “Anything you want-”

Strong fingers knew how and when to touch, stroke, and at the last, pull him to a rushed, shatteringly intense climax. He wanted to reciprocate immediately, to be generous to Starsky. “Let me use my mouth on you,” he breathed, meaning it. He looked up. “Starsky?”

“That changes everything-” Starsky stammered. He looked into Hutch’s eyes, saw what plainly had to be there now. “S’not the same thing…” Lamplit blue eyes followed as Hutch moved to take his friend, brooking no argument. Starsky slid, warm and thick into his mouth. Here was life, the fragrance of the sea and fresh-mown grass, ripe humus on a forest floor-the heat and taste and texture of human skin. Hutch couldn’t get his fill.

After the initial protest, Starsky wasn’t difficult to subdue. What Hutch was doing seemed to have captured all his attention. Am I raping you? Hutch thought at him, knew it would have made little difference.

Both Starsky’s hands brushed, then gathered in his too-long hair. He was cradled in acceptance. It was good; so good to be wanted and needed that pleasure leaped in his own body. Starsky gave a deep cry and the sound was yielding, helpless. Hutch realized he had won before the battle had even started. His fingers joined his mouth and tongue in giving, making sure the man he was loving had all he could possibly want.

“Ohh, Hutch…” Release began to shake Starsky’s body. “Oh, God, I love you,” he exclaimed breathlessly. “I love you-” Suddenly, he came in Hutch’s mouth.

It was a shock-and a delight. Hutch moaned with the incredible gratification of providing for his friend. He’d always thought it would be repellent to taste another man’s come, but it was quite the opposite with Starsky. What he tasted was familiar, a by-product of Starsky’s own self.

His partner had arched against him and he let his fingers smooth the tense, muscled flanks until they relaxed. He opened his eyes and found Starsky. The dark man was replete, lips parted, chest heaving. The echo of three words all at once conveyed their meaning to Hutch. I love you. His delayed reaction to them welled up in his chest, and he reluctantly let the supple man-flesh slip from his mouth.

“You didn’t mind?” Starsky wanted to know, raising his head to find Hutch, eyes dreaming. His fingers brushed Hutch’s mouth.

“Mind?” Hutch asked, dumbfounded. The question was ridiculous in light of what he’d felt while he was serving Starsky. “Loving you?”

“Yeah.”

Hutch moved up to lie beside his friend, looked at him. “Never.” He took the chance, grasping Starsky’s jaw firmly, then bending to take a kiss. With only a second’s hesitation, Starsky’s mouth merged softly with his. The kiss, chaste in comparison to most in his past, also seemed the most meaningful of his life. There was no way to name the emotion he felt at kissing Starsky; hard to find where it sprung from. Head? Heart? A crazy combination of both.

The kiss ended-reluctantly, for him. He wondered what Starsky was thinking. His friend sighed against his mouth, stroked his hair from his face, looking up at him. “What’s it mean?” Starsky asked. “Is it-just ’cause there’s nobody else?”

“I don’t want to believe that,” Hutch said to him honestly. “I think we could enjoy making love to each other even if things were like before.” Except it would never have happened, would it?

“Things ain’t never gonna be like they were before,” Starsky said. There was a coloring of sadness, almost realization, in his voice that pierced Hutch. “Not ever.” He could have been talking about their lovemaking-or the nuclear holocaust. There was nothing Hutch could do about the latter, but the former…

“However you want it. That’s how it’ll be.” Hutch was careful in his rush to smooth Starsky’s transition to this new way of loving. “I know I didn’t allow much room for debate before we started-”

“Nothin’ t’debate,” Starsky said. “I coulda stopped you, but I didn’t. I liked it.” What they’d done was obviously new to him-as it was to Hutch-and not the same, not as safe, as mutual masturbation. It was as if he were tasting the words, “I liked it.”

Hutch touched the firm mouth again with his own. “Sorry?” he whispered. As Starsky’s head shook in the negative, he stole another kiss, then another.

Starsky wrapped both arms powerfully around him, handing out a kiss of his own, open-mouthed and seeking. Hutch sank into the welcome, ending Starsky’s search.

Their tongues touched. He took that first taste of Starsky, experienced in a sudden burst every grace-note of his partner’s flavor, texture. They spent a long time kissing each other, embarking on a journey neither of them was fully prepared for. The transition to passion was like hitting rapids in a river.

Starsky made an urgent sound that was total response. Heart pounding, Hutch tried to remember when anyone had been this open to him. He began to wonder if he’d ever been touched like this. Was it Starsky or the time-span between loves that was striking him so deep?

They had nothing to hide from each other now, no more need of holding back; but they were only flesh, and the flesh would have to wait at least a while.

“We could rub off-” Starsky whispered, voice more fragile than Hutch had ever heard it. “Only-m’not-” He sighed, not needing to point out that right now, neither of them was capable of much more than just heavy petting.

“I can dig it,” Hutch commiserated. He put his arms tentatively around his partner and held him close, getting used to the novelty of holding a man for the sensual pleasure of it. “Just lie here with me,” he breathed. “There’s no hurry.”

 

STARSKY

Starsky let himself be held, thoroughly enjoying being spooned inside the angle of Hutch’s body. There was nothing outside, no substitute for this tender kind of love- no matter what the source.

His shoulder was touched, softly, by a soft mouth. The lips brushed across his skin, heat-lightning in their wake. It was good just to be alive, to feel. Once he’d taken making love for granted. Now, to be given something as sweet and simple as a kiss, to have someone who very much wanted to kiss him…

He hardly thought of Hutch being a man as an obstacle anymore: What had mattered at the start, made him doubt for a moment, was that Hutch was first of all his friend. He still didn’t want to lose that, or do anything to spoil that.

No need to fear; nothing was spoiled. Hutch didn’t want to lose the friendship either. He’d shown his own fears, given Starsky a friend’s space, all down the line. And he’d given pleasure. Starsky believed that only a friend who already knew him intimately could have delighted him the way Hutch had.

He grasped Hutch’s hand, lifted it to mouth the reddened knuckles. Works his fingers to the bone takin’ care of us. He should be lyin’ on silk sheets, hair shinin’ in the sun, not livin’ in some crummy hovel. He thought again-for about the twentieth time-about what they had shared. Maybe you oughta be with some pretty blonde lady, insteada locked up in this prison cell, gettin’ your cell-mate’s rocks off. He sighed, at odds with the desire that had awakened in him. Because guess what, Hutch? Your cell-mate wants more.

“What’s wrong?” Hutch had awakened more fully, voice drowsy. At Starsky’s admittedly less than informative grunt, the hand he’d been holding grasped his upper arm. “Turn over here.”

Starsky turned in his arms, faced him willingly.

“What’s going on?” Hutch asked.

“You really wanna know?” Starsky took a deep, preparatory breath and confronted his feelings. “I think I could fall in love with you.” Whaddya say to that, Blondie? Are you ready for it? “Meaning, I’ve always loved you Hutch,” he went on. “But-now… It’d be so easy to take what’s bein’ offered and make it more.”

“Why shouldn’t we?” Hutch wanted to know. “I could fall in love with you, too, Starsky. Cherish you. And I can’t think of a good enough reason why I shouldn’t.”

“Me, neither,” Starsky said. “Except for the fact that we never even looked at other men, and probably wouldn’t be now, if-”

“-If there were women around? And until then, we’d just be using each other?”

“We are.”

“So be it. Let’s call it love, whatever it is.”

“There’s no arguin’ with you,” Starsky said, fresh out of arguments anyway. He kissed the sleepy face. “Go to sleep.”

***

Hutch had obeyed him. Lonely, Starsky found his eyes traveling absently over the wiry lines of the relaxed body. His friend’s form was all muscle, harder than Starsky had ever seen it, with not one extra teaspoonful of fat anywhere.

And newly exciting. The strangeness of that-the trembling want he felt-was turning his head around. His desire was real to him, honest, not to be taken lightly.

He hesitated, then touched the smooth surface of his friend’s chest. It was rising and falling with comforting regularity. He stroked flat-handed down the long body, coming to rest on the muscular side where the sheet began. With anticipation, his breath began to come a little faster-no question that Hutch could raise his blood pressure. His hand on Hutch’s side slipped under the sheet, and then found what it wanted.

Hutch made a purr of awakening. The blue eyes were on Starsky when he looked to find them, tender and sleepy.

“I fell asleep,” Hutch observed unnecessarily. He reached out to stroke Starsky’s arm. “You picked a pretty effective way to wake me up.”

“Yeah?” Starsky asked. “Well, I figured I’d break the ice before you woke up so we wouldn’t have to waste any time after.”

Hutch didn’t waste time or motion, coming to Starsky immediately, taking a gentle greeting kiss to begin, then getting down to business with a more serious effort. This was the first time they’d taken it for granted. Waking up to each other’s loving was very sweet.

They rolled together, becoming involved. Hutch yanked the sheet from between them. His hair was in his eyes when he pulled away to throw the covers off the bed, his mouth the only distinct feature in that instant; soft, resolute. Starsky hurried to meet it.

***

The night wore on and ended. Day began and waned, marked off by their couplings and their sleeps, their sharing of nearly everything two men could share.

Starsky rose, moved on wobbly legs to the basin across the room. He splashed his face and body with cold water then returned to bed. He hadn’t been out of it for hours.

Hutch met him, accepted his embrace and his weary weight. “Feels good,” the gentle voice said. “You coming back.” A hand rubbed at Starsky’s back. “You’re cold as ice. Let’s see if we can fix that, huh?”

“I’m hungry, too,” Starsky said, basking in the luxury of being held tight, warmed.

“Unfortunately we’re gonna have to get out of bed sometime soon, and hit the grocery store.”

“If only it were that simple,” Starsky said. “I’d like to drive right over to Eddie’s Market, pick us up a bottle of wine and the makings of a real spaghetti dinner.” He sighed, losing himself in the fantasy. “Garlic bread… a salad…”

“Boston Cream Pie for dessert?”

Starsky lifted his head to look at his partner. I’d love to be able to give you all of that. “Mmm. And candlelight.”

Hutch chuckled softly. “A romantic evening.”

“You’re damned right.” He inspected Hutch. “Mood music and a beautiful blond.” Rethinking, he amended. “Man. A beautiful, blond man.”

Hutch returned the look, the expression in his eyes open, serious. “You’re saying you’d still want-us, this way?”

“I still want to make love to you.” He’d thought about it. “Sure, the itch is scratched; and how. But there’s more to it than that. Isn’t there?”

“A damned-sight more,” Hutch said. “It wasn’t just us being two horny bastards that kept bringing us back to each other last night and this morning, was it?”

“I stopped bein’ plain horny a coupla days ago,” Starsky admitted. “The last few times… I was doing it ’cause-” He paused, wondering how it would sound to say it and really mean it. “Because somewhere in there I fell in love with you, Hutch.” And wanting you is the most natural thing that’s happened to me since all this started. “It’s as simple as that.”

“Simple,” Hutch echoed, fingers sinking into Starsky’s hair. “Starsk, did you ever find yourself lost, but you didn’t mind being there?”

“Yeah, but there’s a difference between bein’ lost, and findin’ a place you never been before and wantin’ t’stay.”

 

HUTCH

They were laying face to face, intent on staying as close and warm as they could in the early dawn. Their legs were tangled, arms wrapped around. Hutch was stroking the gathering of baby-soft curls at the nape of his lover’s neck. They’d been lovers for a week.

“Know what I think?” he asked, smiling in the half-light. A hand covered the side of his face, fingers following the ridge of his brow, the line of his cheekbone.

“All the time,” Starsky’s dreamy voice said. “But tell me anyway, I wanna hear.”

Hutch hugged the hard, slim body closer. “I think that-somehow-we were meant to be together like this. After all that’s happened, something’s finally good. Finally right.” He listened to Starsky’s breathing, heard a catch of unmistakable happiness that made the sun seem to shine inside his own heart. “Almost as if-all of it had to happen so we could come together like this. I’m sorry for everything and everybody, but it feels-” It was so overwhelming he couldn’t speak it. So damned good, Starsky.

“Yeah, it feels good,” Starsky said, touching his nose to Hutch’s. “Lyin’ here like this, man I love in my arms. This is you ‘n me, Hutch, and we can be everything to each other. Anything we need t’be.” He looked into Hutch’s eyes, asking with the dark, beautiful pools of his and a soft interrogative. “Huh?”

They kissed, the contact piercing without much urgency, but Hutch could lose himself in it all the same. Starsky filled and surrounded and satisfied him, like no one else ever had. He had the same impression of being struck deep inside that he had every time he kissed Starsky, of being touched in a place he didn’t even know existed in him. Is it because you’re a man? He questioned Starsky silently. Is that why it’s so strong?

They shared a sigh when they finished and a quiet moment. “Gettin’ better all the time,” Starsky whispered appreciatively.

“Feel like spending the rest of your life with me?” Hutch asked, joking, but wanting suddenly, seriously, to hear Starsky say yes. “I can love you enough for a whole world of people, Starsk. Try to take the place of everything you’ve lost.”

“You already did that, Hutch,” Starsky said. “What’re you gonna do for an encore? There’s nothin’ I could want you haven’t tried to give me. What’s left probably ain’t worth havin’.”

 

STARSKY

Starsky entered the shelter, deposited his ill-gotten gains on the table. He took off his gloves, blew on his hands to warm them, looking over the eclectic variety of cans and packages he’d collected over the course of the brief day. He’d been lucky. The ramshackle grocery store where he’d collected them had long since been looted. The only reason why anything at all remained was probably that other people were scared the place would fall in on their heads.

He hadn’t been. Nothing seemed to have enough power to make him afraid, now that he had a love in his life. Hutch and me. Together they could stand against anything.

It had been hard for both of them, separating earlier that day. But it was like Hutch said; they could cover more territory apart than they could together. They’d kissed-much too briefly-and gone their separate ways.

It was late, already growing dark, night coming down like a frigid, gloved hand. He wondered where Hutch was right now. Out there somewhere, getting cold, he thought. An involuntary smile tugged at his mouth. I can warm him up when he gets here. We’ll warm each other…

He took his coat off, put on water for tea. “Hurry up home, darlin’,” he muttered, opening the canister that held the tea. He found himself humming a goofy old Marx Brothers song, and came to a pleasurable realization. God, I’m happy. I oughta be ashamed of myself, bein’ this self-satisfied. He shook his head in private bemusement. But I’m happy as a clam on the beach. And Hutch, he’s happy, too. Never could hide it.

He let himself reflect on the course of their emotions, actions. It’s beautiful. We took to it like birds to the air. Just a touch… Or him lookin’ at me, me lookin’ at him, and we… He sighed with the enormity of what he felt, of how loving Hutch had taken hold of his heart. I don’t know where we’re headin’ exactly, but wherever it is, I go with him. In a way, they’d sealed off their relationship and made it more self-sustaining, self-nourishing, more private than it had ever been. “New world,” he muttered aloud.

“Starsky!”

That was Hutch’s voice, shouting outside the door. Sounded strained, like trouble. Starsky leaped to the door just as it opened in on him, bringing with it a rush of icy air and snow.

“You’ll never believe-” Hutch rasped, out of breath. “Help me.”

“What’s wrong?” Starsky asked, alarmed. “You hurt?”

“No.” There was something bulky under Hutch’s coat, which he was holding, carrying protectively. He went to the bed and deposited his burden there.

Starsky was at his side, staring down at the little boy, who lay like a frozen sparrow in the middle of the bed. About ten, rail-thin, grimy face pinched with cold and hunger. The pale-blond hair was dirty, ends tendriled and stiff.

“He’s half-frozen,” Hutch said, breathlessly. “Let’s get these clothes off him, pile blankets and clothes around.” He was busy with his rescue mission while Starsky stood motionless, stunned.

“Is that tea?” Hutch asked, looking at the stove.

“Y-yeah,” Starsky answered, brought to himself by the question.

“I’m gonna try and get some of it inside him.”

“Where’d you find him?”

“About ten blocks from here. Under his mother. I dragged them both inside a vacant building, but she’d already been dead about two hours, I figure. Out there in that cold with him. No ID… He’ll have to tell us who he is.”

Starsky leaned down, touched the child’s cheek. It was cold as marble. “Poor little guy. Can we do anything for him besides stand here?”

“Keep him warm, that’s all.” Hutch looked at him for the first time since he’d arrived, expression thawing. “Hi. I guess we’ll have to sleep on the floor tonight.”

“No sweat,” Starsky said, holding his friend’s gaze, wanting a kiss. Hutch seemed to realize and bent to give one.

“I was walking home, heard him crying,” he said, when he’d pulled away, hands at Starsky s waist. “She must have been trying to keep the boy warm. Gave up her life for him.”

“Looks like they’d been on the streets for a while. Hand to mouth.”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll get the tea,” Starsky said, moving away.

“Wait.” Hutch held him back. They kissed again, for longer, for real, both moaning softly in their throats like a couple of teenagers.

“It’s as good as I remember it being,” Starsky whispered.

“Since this morning?” Hutch asked, smiling.

“Haven’t seen you all day,” Starsky complained.

The child coughed rackingly, distracting their attention from each other. They looked down at the tiny form buried under the covers.

“Sounds bad,” Starsky said.

They both sat on the bed, Hutch cradling the boy, Starsky holding the cup. They managed to get a few teaspoonfuls of the hot liquid inside him, before lying him down for sleep.

“He needs it,” Hutch said. “I’ll stay up for a few hours, keep an eye on him.”

“I’ll stay up, too.” Starsky looked up at his friend. This was a familiar Hutch, one he’d loved for a long time. “Keep you company,” he muttered.

Hutch’s foundling slept all through the night and all the next day. He woke up finally and accepted some broth. There was faint color in his cheeks, although the delicate flesh lay frighteningly close to the bone. His eyes were brown, bright and soft with fever.

It was dawn. Starsky was snuggled with Hutch on a pallet they’d made on the floor. He opened his eyes to the pale mass of Hutch’s hair. He pressed closer, sinking his nose into the cool, silver strands, content to listen to the gentle drone of his partner’s snoring.

His shoulder was touched and he turned over, startled. The boy was kneeling beside the pallet, peering at him. “You’re awake,” he said, surprised, glad to see the kid was better.

“Where’s my mom?” the child asked. The fever had gone, and his eyes were straight and serious.

Starsky stroked fine, fair hair back from the smooth forehead. “How much do you remember?”

The boy seemed to consider for a moment. “Looking for food,” he said. “And we were really cold.”

“And that’s all you remember?”

“I think so.”

Starsky gazed at the child for a time. The brown eyes stared back at him, wide, wide open. “What’s your name?” he asked, finally.

“Brandon,” the boy answered. “What’s your name?”

“David. Dave Starsky. Y’hungry, Brandon?” He received a vigorous nod. “C’mon. Let’s throw some breakfast together. Just you ‘n me.”

“Who’s that?” Brandon asked, sitting at the table, enormous eyes trailing across Hutch in their scan of the room.

“My friend,” Starsky informed him. “Hutch. He’s the one who brought you here.”

“Why didn’t he bring Mom?”

Starsky knew he had to tell Brandon about his mother. He gathered himself. “Your mother was dead, Brandon,” he said. “M’sorry.”

The small, solemn face didn’t change much. “I knew she was,” he said. He went back to his meal.

Starsky observed him for a minute, wondering what was going on inside his head. “How old are you, Brandon?”

“Nine.” Brandon, finished with his meal, pushed his plate away. “Are you going to take care of me?” he asked earnestly.

“It’s up to you. If you wanna stay.”

The boy’s eyes found Hutch again. “Is he nice?”

Starsky smiled. “Yeah, he’s nice. You’ll like him.”

He’d never given a child a bath and shampoo before. Hutch woke up in the middle of the ordeal and helped him, somewhere in there introducing himself to Brandon.

They converted some of their clothes for Brandon and he scampered away afterward looking like any ordinary nine-year-old. His hair was whiter than Hutch’s, shining as he scooted around on the floor, pretending a sardine can was a race car. He seemed to have forgotten about his mother, accepting her death in a purely animal way. It was a fact-probably something he had expected for a long time before it actually happened.

“He wasn’t even surprised,” Starsky said, talking quietly with Hutch. “When I told him. He didn’t even cry.”

“He’s seen a lot,” Hutch said, blue eyes gentle, understanding. “Telling him was my responsibility anyway. I brought him home. I should’ve been the one to tell him.”

“It’s all right. He asked me and I had t’say somethin’.” He sipped his tea, watching Brandon play, feeling the child’s returning life and energy like a miniature sun shining in the room. “He’s quite a guy.”

“He definitely is,” Hutch said. They both looked at him in silence.

“We gonna keep him?” Starsky asked. “I asked him before if he wanted to stay. He wanted to know if you were a nice guy.” He grinned, and watched Hutch respond in kind. “It all seemed to hang on you.”

“It’s not my decision. It’s ours. His, too.”

“What’s there to decide? We can’t toss him out in the cold.”

“Why don’t we see how it goes,” Hutch proposed. “Till he’s better.” He hesitated, the words coming out measured, thoughtful. “We’re not exactly ideal parents.”

Starsky gave that some thought, eyes locked with his lover’s. “There’s no more ideal anything, babe. We do the best we can with what we’ve got.”

 

HUTCH

It was amazing how quickly Brandon had become a part of their lives. He’d been with them almost a month. Hutch had constructed a bed for him, a smaller version of his and Starsky’s-made the same way, of odds and ends of lumber, the stuffing from an abandoned car’s upholstery, a length of canvas pilfered from the same place he’d gotten it before.

Brandon seemed to take his and Starsky’s relationship in stride. It wasn’t that he’d learned not to question-he had plenty of questions. But it was if he’d accepted them and their way of life as one whole. He didn’t need to be told that they cared for each other. He’d seen them kiss, lightly in greeting or farewell. They’d never tried to hide the fact that they slept together, enjoyed sleeping together, and that neither of them intended to alter the arrangement. They made love-as discreetly as possible-after the boy was asleep.

Their shared love-life had grown sweeter in a way, perhaps because it had had to be clandestine. In the honeyed darkness under the blankets, they rejoiced in their secret, and tried-usually without total success-to keep quiet. They were hiding their passion, but not from each other.

Though he shouldn’t have been, having known Starsky for forever, Hutch was continually amazed by his partner’s ability to give to him; not just his body with its physical gifts, but everything he was. Starsky had been the same in simple friendship. Whatever he possessed belonged equally to Hutch.

Which was just as well, because Hutch had developed a seemingly incurable greed for his male lover. He’d always been possessive, and it wasn’t a trait to be proud of, but now there was this…rapacity-fueled by Starsky’s own eagerness-that he couldn’t help. He loved the chemistry of his friend’s mouth and skin and semen, the strength of the man’s embrace, the uncluttered naturalness of sex with him.

It was all worth the price, if it brought me you. The thought was one he would never utter out loud, that scared him. He watched Starsky giving Brandon a bath, being given a steamy bear-hug. Scares me? That I would let the world go to hell all over again if it left me you for my lover? Yes. God help me, yes.

“I washed,” Starsky announced, catching his attention, profusion of curls backlit. He tossed the towel to Hutch. “You dry.”

How come I never noticed that you look like an elf? “Sure thing.” He rose and went to the tub. Brandon looked up at him, smiling, and then made a move to escape. “Come here, you.” He grabbed the wet, tadpole body, grinning at the squeal of protest.

Brandon acquiesced to being dried. He loved the attention and had no aversion whatsoever to being babied. He held Hutch’s gaze, mildly, and they looked at each other for a long moment. Then, without preface, he kissed Hutch on the cheek.

A pang of feeling shook Hutch’s heart. Brandon wasn’t his, but at this moment it made no real difference. “Hey,” he breathed, hugging the child, being hugged in return. “What’s this for?”

Brandon shrugged in his arms. “I don’t know.”

“Me, neither,” Hutch said, catching Starsky’s eye, letting him into the embrace. “But it feels good.”

Brandon pulled back and looked at him, with a child’s way of appraising a person or situation. “Are you and David going to keep me?” he asked disarmingly.

Hutch was holding Starsky’s gaze. “It’s up to you,” he said to Brandon, who hugged him again, molding his small body close. “We’re not the kind of family you’re used to, exactly.”

“That’s okay,” Brandon assured, the soft voice near Hutch’s ear. “I don’t care. I like you.” A pause, then revised certainty. “I like David, too.”

“Better get outta there, half-pint,” Starsky said. “You’ll catch cold.”

Hutch hoisted Brandon out and scrubbed his charge dry. He rose, smiling, and on his way to get Brandon’s clothing, impulsively kissed Starsky’s lips. Brandon hid his eyes behind both hands, grinning. “Yuck.” A typical reaction for any nine-year-old watching two people kiss.

“That’s right, Hutch,” Starsky chided, with a pleased light in his eyes. “Cut the mushy stuff.”

“Right,” Brandon echoed, laughing when Hutch shook a warning finger at him.

***

The thaw began. Snow turned to rain, rain melted the snow. The world emerged from its cold narcosis. It was April. Though slow in coming, the progression toward spring was natural. As the days lengthened, imperceptibly, the sun grew more radiant, and there was real life in it, kindness.

There was more activity among people, almost a bustle on the streets. But there was a strange orderliness about it all. It was the docility Hutch noticed. The people he saw seemed tamed by the dark, desperate winter, and almost eager to accept the will of the authorities-any authorities. They wanted to be taken by the hand.

Like children, the survivors lined up every day for limited supplies, limited medicine, limited information, and to fill out the new forms the martial-law government was using to take census. “Registration” was the terminology for a roll-call of the living.

Along with “Registration” came a fledgling sense of order in the city. The military was in evidence everywhere, trucks and men.

They had all three been out that morning, enjoying being outside, taking the sun and fresh air. Starsky and Brandon had even indulged in a game of hide-and- seek-easy enough to find places to hide with all the gutted buildings. Hutch enjoyed seeing his lover play-the smiles on Starsky’s-and Brandon’s faces.

In the course of their wandering, they watched as a group of olive-drab trucks passed, a familiar sight by now.

“Where’re they going?” Brandon yelled over the noise. He was sitting quite happily atop Hutch’s shoulders.

“Around in circles, looks to me,” Starsky responded, observing. “S like bein’ in an ant colony.”

“They’re gearing up for something,” Hutch said. “It’s got me worried. What’s with all the trucks?”

“Most of ’em I’ve seen’re empty,” Starsky noted. He looked at Hutch. “Well, what goes in trucks? Besides all the gas it’s takin’ to run these hogs?”

“You’re asking me? I don’t know. Boxes…crates… people…”

From the beginning, for those lucky enough to have a radio and carefully conserved batteries, there had been weekly national broadcasts from the acting president, General Creighton Fuller. They were state of the union messages, delivered by Fuller as fireside chats, in which his tone was calm, concerned, and earnestly resolved. The broadcasts had never been much help where it counted, in day-to-day survival, but Hutch had grown to almost eagerly look forward to them. Hearing that voice of authority and confidence-with its B-movie sincerity-coming over the airwaves had lent a kind of normalcy to his world. Starsky listened with a resentment that included all politicians. When Hutch sat in front of the radio, he could delude himself that the din of talk-talk-talk and music that had once spanned the entire dial still existed; that the world which had produced all the talk and the music still had a reality. Once he’d complained about the noise. Now, he sought it out.

A special broadcast had been scheduled the Sunday before for tonight, announced as the most important speech the President would have made thus far in the post-strike period.

They sat at the table with Brandon, sharing a meal.

“It’s almost time,” Hutch said, getting up to turn the radio on.

“Howdy-Doody time,” Starsky grumbled, eliciting a gale of laughter from Brandon.

“Howdy-Doody,” he echoed Starsky, obviously enjoying the sound of the words.

Starsky bent to stage-whisper, “President Howdy- Doody.” That sent Brandon into fresh giggles.

The uninflected tone that always preceded broadcasts sounded. “Okay, you guys,” Hutch said. “This is important.”

“Says who?” Starsky muttered.

The President was announced, there was silence, and then the speech began.

“Good evening, my fellow Americans. Tonight I’d like to talk to you about the future of our great country-a future that belongs equally to each and every one of us. We are awakening to a new dawn, a new beginning for America. The evil empire of the Soviet Union has been consigned, through their own actions, to the trash-heap of history, and we stand free in the light of day. We are diminished, make no mistake about that, but we are not vanquished. Where we go from here is up to you and me-to all of us. America needs the strength and mettle of its citizens as never before in its history. We must rebuild.

“Your service is deemed necessary and imperative to the welfare of the country. Your strength and skills are required now-on our farms, in industry, in construction, in the manufacture of steel, plastics, electronics, in road and bridge building…”

“Ask not what your country can do for you,” Starsky observed drily. “Ask what you can do for your country.”

“Yeah,” Hutch responded. “The steel industry was dying before, and nobody gave a damn.”

The President had continued. “We cannot depend on volunteerism to rebuild. The burden cannot rest on the private sector. We have goals that, even with 100 percent cooperation from the population, will take decades. We must now make a start. Therefore, to ensure the cooperation we need, for the good of all of us, we have taken steps to assign all eligible citizens-men and women between the ages of 18 and 50 in good health-to mandatory service.

“Over the course of the last two weeks you have been asked, on official registration forms, to list any and all skills, education, and experience you may possess. They will be needed as never before.

“Here is what mandatory service entails. Each of you, as a citizen, with all the rights of your citizenship intact, will be sent to where your particular skills are most needed. You can no longer owe your allegiance to a city or a state or a region, but to the country as a whole. We can no longer afford to think of ourselves as New Yorkers or farm-belters as housewives or corporate executives. We are the builders of the future of the United States and of the world.

“Rest assured, my fellow citizens. This is not totalitarianism; this is not dictatorship. Those who report voluntarily- and as soon as possible-to the registration centers will be rewarded. Those who do not will have every opportunity to explain their circumstances. Special cases will be given full consideration. Family units will not be scattered. A man and his wife and children, and any other members of his family, will remain together. A young man of twenty who is now the sole support of a parent or grandparent will be assigned nearby that parent, though perhaps needed desperately elsewhere.

“However, and this has taken long hours of soul-searching to decide, bonds of friendship or loyalty, though of no less intrinsic value, cannot be respected under the law, until the goals we have set for ourselves are reached.”

Starsky looked up, holding Hutch’s gaze with a matching one of his own.

“My fellow Americans, we are still the leaders of the free world. The promise of a free civilization lies with us. If there is going to be a future for our children, if they are to live free, it is we who must begin. Let us start today and move forward with hope for the future. Thank you, God bless you, and good night.”

There was silence between the adults, a dead sea of air across the table.

“That was boring,” Brandon editorialized, kicking his legs under the table. He apparently noticed his two guardians’ inattention. “What’s wrong?”

Hutch roused himself, dragging his eyes from Starsky’s. “Nothing’s wrong,” he assured, though feeling like his own foundations had been rocked. Why am I lying to him? Suddenly, everything’s wrong…

“I wanna get this straight,” Starsky began. “He means we-”

“You heard what the man said,” Hutch interjected. “Bonds of friendship don’t count.” He pressed his hand flat against the table, wanting to turn it over.

“He said ‘special circumstances’,” Starsky persisted. “That’s what we’ve got here.”

“We’re not a family unit.”

“The hell we’re not.”

Hutch looked at Brandon, the child’s eyes wide and wondering, trying to follow the emotions, obviously confused. “Why don’t we talk about it later?” he asked Starsky, who nodded, looking down at his folded arms.

“Least now we know what the trucks are for.”

***

Their semen was a bond between them that had become natural, familiar, by now. Hutch lay, his breathing slowing. He listened to Starsky breathing, with him, for him, making a sound of appreciation, gathering him in closer. They’d escaped the world for a short time, and this was the twilight before reality came flooding back. I don’t want to lose this, he thought. This isn’t just a stop-gap measure, something we do to ease the deprivation. We’re lovers, and we’re in love. We have a son.

“We’re some pair, aren’t we?” Starsky purred with the contentment of afterglow.

“None such,” Hutch murmured, absently. He chuckled, rubbing Starsky’s arm, his smile lingering then disappearing. Silence settled comfortably, but he had to speak. “I never thought I’d be happy again. Able to be.”

“Me neither,” Starsky said. He seemed to consider it. “Lost everything and found each other. Even trade.” Another silence; an angel passing, understanding in its wake.

You feel it, too. What I was too ashamed to admit to you, you come right out and say. “Me and you,” he ventured. “And now Brandon, too. That’s all I care about, Starsky. Staying together…”

“You love him as much as I do, don’t you?”

“As far as I’m concerned, he’s ours. He’s yours and mine.”

“Yeah.” Starsky took a deep breath. “Hutch, what ‘re we gonna do if it comes t’that? What’s gonna happen?”

“I know one thing that’s not going to happen. And that’s us splitting up.”

“But that’s just what that speech was talkin’ about. You, working on a farm in Texas or someplace, me doin’ construction work in East Bumfuck.” He sighed his frustration. “When we came back to the city, we said it was our duty. We still had an obligation. Okay. But what about now?” He paused. “Hutch, they don’t need us the way we need each other.”

“Starsky. There’s no way they’re gonna separate the two of us. If it does come to that-”

“You’re tellin’ me we’re gonna let it get that far? If we go down there to that registration center, we’ll be on the next truck outta here!”

“We’ve got to think, Starsky. Plan. There’s military all over the place. The city’s been sealed since Day One. The roads are off-limits. Where’re we going to go, and how’re we gonna get there?”

“Back to the cabin. On foot if we have to. There’s water up there, fish we can catch, towns nearby… It’s worth tryin’ for.” He’d raised his head and his eyes were searching Hutch’s face with a terrible intensity. “We can do it.”

***

Hutch went-alone-to the registration center, intending to glean all the information he could from the officials there. The day was sodden, sky like lead-weather to match his state of mind. The bombed-out streets seemed to sing their own misery. He saw more soldiers than civilians.

The “center” was located in one of the few buildings over three stories still standing in West L.A.

Inevitably he had to wait, shuffling in line for four excruciating hours with the scores of other “special cases”, packed into a smelly hallway like so much livestock, counting the gray and white tiles. It occurred to him that livestock was exactly what he and all the people around him were. They were to be loaded into trucks and shipped off, like commodities. The only difference was that the government said it meant them no harm, that what it was doing was for their own good.

Then it was his turn. He made his spiel to a gumball-jawed Army captain named Merriweather. The man was brusque, too busy to listen with patience, interrupting Hutch often to ask questions. Neither of them was the biological father of the boy? There was no blood relation between him and Starsky?

“No, no,” Hutch said, growing frustrated. “We’ve been friends-partners-for seven years.”

“We have a policy, Mr. Hutchinson.”

“I know what your policy is,” Hutch grated. “You’ve repeated it twice since I sat down.”

“Maybe the third time it’ll sink in, sir,” Merriweather said crisply. “You and your friend and the boy are not a family unit according to the guidelines. The boy doesn’t legally belong to you.”

“Okay, I’m adopting him right now.” He half-meant it.

“There is no mechanism in place for adoption. Did you know there are 12,000 orphans in this city, right now? All we can do is feed them, clothe them, take care of them until there’s enough of a world out there for them to be adopted into.”

Hutch sighed. “What would happen to Brandon?”

“He’d most likely be turned over to the Orphaned Children’s Authority. He’d have the best care we’re able to provide, of course, until some kind of adoption program is developed.”

“He could be there for years,” Hutch said, in disbelief.

Merriweather didn’t look happy. “I know.”

“And me? And Starsky? What happens to us?”

“Well, I don’t have your registration forms here in front of me, but it’s unlikely you’d be assigned together. Civilian manpower is limited and we have to spread it out. I’m sorry. I have no responsibility for the way things are. It’s nobody’s fault. This is the way it has to be.”

Hutch stood and looked down at the man behind the desk. “No, it isn’t.”

Merriweather held up a hand to halt him. “Mr. Hutchinson, I know what you’re thinking. Just bear in mind that life can be extremely difficult without government support.”

“My life would be impossible with it, Captain Merriweather,” Hutch said. He walked out, knowing he wouldn’t be reporting back.

***

“That does it,” Starsky said when Hutch had finished his story. “We’re gettin’ the hell outta here. As soon as possible.”

“Damn right we are,” Hutch certified, pacing as he’d been since he got back. “We didn’t survive that nightmare, together-fall in love-just to spend the next ten years apart. I don’t intend to spend one day without you.”

“I got an idea, Hutch.”

Hutch looked up, found a strange light in Starsky’s eyes.

***

The airfield was quiet, a wet fog lying low and dense. Luck was with them; surveillance in and around the base hadn’t been stepped up appreciably since Hutch was last there.

“This is it,” he whispered, coming to the sagging section of fence he’d gone over before.

Everything they wanted with them was done up in bundles, except Brandon. He’d been warned of the need to be quiet, and not so much as a peep had escaped him since they set out, hurriedly, an hour and a half before.

Starsky was the first over the wire fence and Hutch helped Brandon up and over. He threw his belongings across before climbing the fence himself.

Everything looked the same. There was the hangar, a hundred yards or so directly in front of them. Starsky bent to talk to Brandon. “I’m gonna hold your hand. I want you to run with me, fast as you can. Okay?”

Brandon nodded, mutely.

They dashed across the open space together, reached the shadow of the hangar safely. Hutch took a peek inside. The trucks were lined up, just as before. No sign of a guard. It was too good to be true, but he couldn’t afford to doubt.

Starsky was at his shoulder. “Which one?”

“Eeny-meeny-miney-moe,” Hutch said. He pointed to the third truck in the row nearest them. “Come on.”

They went to the truck and Starsky climbed in to hot-wire the engine. Hutch tossed the bags into the cab, and helped Brandon up. Looking around, warily, he moved to take a look in the back. The truck was loaded, full of boxes similar to the two he’d stolen, the far wall lined with sacks of something, but there was no time to investigate the contents of either.

He returned to the front and hoisted himself into the front seat. “How’s it coming?’

Starsky was curled around the steering wheel. “Almost. Almost…” A tense moment and, “There.” The engine rumbled to life. “You wanna drive?”

“You drive. Back this thing out of here.”

“This is as far as my plan went,” Starsky said. “Stealing the truck. What do you suggest? Teaching this heap how to climb the fence?”

Hutch looked at him. “What fence?”

“Garber? Is that you?”

The partners froze. A soldier was walking toward them, peering into the cab. Starsky set himself and got out, Hutch sliding out his side at the same time.

Starsky confronted the young private with aplomb. “Hi.”

“Who the hell are you?” Crouched low in the dark, Hutch heard the rifle bolt being pulled back. “What’s going on here?”

“I, uh, see, it’s like this…” Starsky stalled his answer, waiting for Hutch to come around behind the young soldier.

Hutch coughed, and the private turned toward him, but it was too late. They were both on him instantly. He was efficiently dispatched. They took his rifle and heaved the unconscious body into the rear of the next truck.

“I don’t know where Garber is,” Hutch said. “But I’m not waiting around to find out. Let’s go.”

Starsky backed the truck out of the hangar, turned it toward the fence. They looked at each other for a moment, exchanging hope, fear, love…

“Gun it,” Hutch ordered tersely.

The engine roared and Starsky was doing thirty miles an hour when they crashed through the fence. “We made it,” he said, sounding amazed. There were no alarms behind them.

The truck lumbered through silent, empty streets as they headed north. What they were doing was crazy, but Hutch felt a kind of relief, like waking up to find it had all been a dream. Brandon’s head was a warm weight in his lap, the boy peacefully asleep. This was being done for all of them. It couldn’t be wrong.

Checkpoints had been placed on all the main arteries out of the city. Starsky simply took a minor one, and just before dawn they slipped away, leaving L.A. behind.

And whatever safety there is, Hutch thought. But it’ll be all right. We’ll make it all right every day we’re alive.

“Look, Hutch,” Starsky said. “Trees.” The land lay around them, somber under the brightening sky, but beautiful, peaceful. “Think you’ll like livin’ with me in the woods?”

Hutch had to smile, reaching out across the seat to touch his friend’s shoulder. “Yeah. Sure.” We made it.

Starsky grinned, and the city seemed a million miles away already. “One thing’s for sure,” he said. “You won’t hear me complainin’. Ever.”

***

The sun stood high in the sky, its rays pouring over everything like liquid honey. The birds were singing. Brandon, bare to the waist and brown as a little fox, was occupied with an anthill in the clearing in front of the cabin. Hutch kept an intent eye on him from the blanket he shared with Starsky. The peace around him, in him, swelled his heart. It had been two months since they left the city.

His lover’s shoulders were warm, burnished; Starsky’s dark curls had been caught by the sun. Summer had come.

“Your hair’s got red in it,” he observed, sinking his fingers into the warm mass.

Starsky moved lazily, eyes closed, smile creeping up one side of his mouth. “Cut it out. When your voice sounds like that, anything’s bound t’happen.”

“Nothing you won’t like. A lot.”

Starsky chuckled in his throat. “Smug bastard.” He raised himself on his elbows to inspect Hutch.

“Why not?” Hutch smiled. “I’ve got everything I need. Including thirty cases of chipped beef.”

Brandon’s sobs caught their attention. He was walking toward them, rubbing at tears, and when he got to the blanket, stumbled into Hutch’s arms.

“What’s wrong?” Hutch asked, checking for scrapes, cuts, bee-stings…finding nothing. “Brandon, what happened?”

“I stepped on the anthill,” Brandon sniffed. “And I was sorry. I didn’t mean it-I just wanted to see what would happen.”

Hutch hugged him close, letting him cry, proud of his sensitivity. “It’s all right,” he soothed. “It’s okay. Ants live underground, anyway. Besides, did you ever think about it this way? That maybe they’ll find a place they like even better?”

ILLO by DARGELOS