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of adults and should not be viewed by those under the legal age.

   This is a story of casual, unprotected sex, and is a work of fiction. 
In real life, use a condom, damnit!  Unwanted babies, HIV and all sorts of
lesser sexual diseases await the idiot who "dips his wick" or "rides the
rod" without protection.

   --

   The Lost Tribe, Part 8 (nosex) by Krosis of the Collective
(krosisofthecollective@gmail.com)

   --

   "Daddy!  Daddy!"

   Jason turned from his usual evening vigil sitting on the beach to regard
the young blond blue-eyed boy as he ran up.  "Hey, Al...what's up?" His son
was visibly upset.

   "Jasper said I'm not really part of the family because Makayla's not my
mom!"

   Jason cursed under his breath.  Allie had passed away from an infection
after giving birth to the little boy, and Jasper had arrived a few weeks
later, named after Makayla's favorite uncle.  Al was, of course, named in
honor of his mother, who he never knew.  While both boys were raised
together as siblings, the tribe was small, so Jasper must have overheard
someone talking out of turn.

   "C'mere." Al knelt and Jason put his hands on the boy's shoulders.  "Do
you think that Gina isn't part of her family?  You know I'm her dad, too,
even though Uncle George and Auntie Joan take care of her?"

   Gina had resulted from the one time that Jason had cum inside of Joan
while pretending to have intercourse with the lesbian.  Once she discovered
that she was pregnant, she had taken to the idea of motherhood with gusto.
Strangely enough, George had also readily stepped in as "dad".  Even though
the homosexual leaders of the tribe weren't "together", they were rarely
apart.  Gina, once she started speaking, had developed a bizarre but cute
half-Texan accent due to George's influence.

   Al thought hard.  "Umm, well, her full name is Georgina, so people think
she's Uncle George's."

   Jason sighed.  Joan had made sure that Jason knew he himself was Gina's
father, but some tribe members still thought that it was George, as weird
as that seemed.

   "Mommy Makayla loves you just as if you were her own, buddy, and you
came first.  So why don't you tell your YOUNGER brother that he's full of
shit?" He turned Al round and gave his son a swat on the butt as the young
boy giggled at the forbidden swear word and ran back to camp, his
adult-sized shirt hanging on him like a tunic.

   In the distance he could see little Barbara watching him from the edge
of camp with her slightly Asian almond eyes.  When the tribe had finally
determined that Sister Nancy was pregnant a few months after the comatose
nun had been incarcerated in the cage with Rodney, they had banished the
raping bastard once and for all.  Barbara, named for the nun who had died
during the crash, was the result a few months later, and Sister Nancy's
body had finally given up after the birth and she passed on.  The product
of a madwoman and a rapist, nobody in the tribe had shown little Barbara
much love.  The poor girl grew up insular, seeming almost feral sometimes.
He waved.  She slipped into the brush and out of sight.

   Kids...so many kids, Jason mused.  Tina and Dylan had a couple of
miscarriages, but now she was nursing baby boy Tristan with her now-massive
boobs.  Makayla was likewise nursing her and Jason's brand new baby,
She-Who-Is-Yet-to-be-Named.

   Mary and Brad had gotten together but then broke up, and now Brad was
with Karen.  Karen looked like she might be pregnant, or maybe she was just
getting fat.  Jason knew well enough not to ask...well, not after that time
he had asked Tina.  His shoulder still ached from that punch when it
rained.

   Mary had asked him just the other day if he and Makayla had room for a
third member in their relationship.  After Allie died, though, Jason and
Makayla had agreed to keep it traditional.  Still, now that a few years had
passed, maybe he'd see how his wife felt about the idea...

   Something out on the horizon caught Jason's eye.  What was that?  The
moon reflecting off of the waves?

   He grabbed his walking stick and grunted as he pushed himself up onto
his good foot, cursing the day he had broken the ankle of the other one
chasing down a boar.  It had never healed right, ending Jason's job as
chief hunter.

   Dylan had taken over Jason's hunting duties, and was due back from
today's hunt soon.  Jason considered the evolution of his best friend.  A
couple of years ago Dylan had returned to camp from one such hunt to report
that Rodney was dead, but wouldn't provide any details.  Still, since that
day, Dylan had seemed a lot more confident.

   Now upright, Jason squinted his eyes at the horizon.  A light flashed,
and then again, a regular rhythm.

   "Holy shit!" he yelled, pulling the flare gun from his waistband.  He
cocked the hammer of the device that had taken poor Abe's life years ago.

   He raised it up and pulled the trigger.  Click!  Nothing happened.

   "FUCK!" He leaned on his stick while popping open the gun to swap out
what he was hoping was just a bad cartridge with the last remaining one.

   "Please work, please work..."

   He held the gun aloft and fired.  The phosphorous projectile shot high,
lighting up the beach and surf.

   After a few agonizing seconds, the ship's horn sounded across the waves.


   They were going home!

   --

   Krosis' home on the web: /~krosis

   Fans or pans?  E-mail Krosis of the Collective
(krosisofthecollective@gmail.com).