"Shit!" Sheila swore as she angrily flipped the turn signal and slowed our Ford Super Duty truck to a crawl and searched for a safe place to pull off the road.

"Sky, I need my license and registration, they're in the glove compartment," she instructed as she rolled down her window with her left arm pointed over the roof of our vehicle. She waved toward the side of the road, a visual indication to the following patrol car we were pulling off the highway.

"Stash the Glock in the hump, we don't need any complications." Sheila popped open the center hideaway. I removed the unloaded weapon from its dashboard holster and deposited it into the compartment and handed her the envelope containing our truck's paperwork and her Colorado driver's license.

"Everyone, stay calm and keep your hands in sight. We don't want to give this flying tire guy any reason to be alarmed, they are already paranoid enough," she said in an oblique reference to the winged tire logo of the Colorado State Patrol.

Sheila brought our truck to a full stop before steering sharply to the right and rolling to a halt in a parking space between two cars. She had angled our Ford so that the body of the truck acted as a barrier to protect us and the approaching cop from oncoming traffic.

"Best behavior," she reminded us as she repositioned the rearview for a better view while setting the parking brake and turning off the ignition. With her hands in the eleven and one o'clock position on the steering wheel, she held her license and paperwork at the ready between the thumb and forefinger of her right hand.

I twisted in my seat and looked over my shoulder as the police officer emerged from his patrol car. He adjusted his Smokey the Bear hat while speaking into the microphone clipped to the epaulet on his powder-blue uniform. The kid could've passed for fifteen. It seemed the older I got, the younger cops became. At this rate, if I ever made it to a hundred, me and the boys in blue would both be wearing diapers.

With his hand resting lightly on his holstered service weapon, the trooper leaned down and scanned the interior of our Ford as he looked each of us in the eye.

"Do you know why I stopped you?"

"Did I just run a red light?" Sheila grinned and did a half-giggle of shy innocence.

One of the unintended consequences of the way she held her hands was that her extended arms acted like a vice and squeezed together her boobs and accented her cleavage. It didn't help much that the top two buttons were open on the flannel shirt she wore over her braless chest. Whether she intended to or not, she was giving the young guy an eye-full.

"Yes and ... do you have a firearm in your vehicle?" His eyes widened in fearful surprise as he tightened his hold on his 9mm and took a step backward. He had spotted the ammo clip in Sheila's breast pocket. The empty holster protruding out from under the dashboard didn't help ease the alarm bells ringing in his mind.

"Yes, I have an unloaded Glock in the center hump. Besides the one in my pocket, there's another magazine in the glove box. Let me get it for you," Sheila said as she moved her right hand to open the compartment and reached inside to retrieve the gun for the young peace officer.

He gripped the handle of his holstered 9mm and within the blink of an eye, he had his gun drawn and trained upon Sheila as his eyes darted about, searching for any signs of danger, his body tense, ready to fire in an instant.

"Drop the weapon and freeze!" he screamed.

"Like ice," Sheila trembled, paralyzed in time as Rigormortis of fear froze her in place. A bead of sweat trickled down from her forehead and dripped from the end of her nose.

"Keep your hands in sight where I can see them. I don't want to shoot you!" He licked his lips and tightened the grip on his pistol. "Do not move unless I tell you to do so," he said as he lifted his finger from the trigger to trigger guard, a safer resting place, but not by much. He could still react and fire in under a second. If he was more afraid than I was, we were in big trouble. I was terrified.

My boss's instinct to be helpful and courteous sabotaged her desire to comply. Fear does not mix well with bullets, only his training had held his fire.

"I'm sorry. What is your pleasure officer?" Only Sheila's lips moved as she spoke and remained frozen in place. The sweat on her brow made her look like a talking ice cube. I remembered to breathe and inhaled slowly and tried to relax. I was in the line of fire. I've seen too many YouTube videos of police shootings. When a motor vehicle stop goes bad, cops tend to go nuts and empty their clips when they let fly. If he opened fire, life in the front seat would be history.

"Using two fingers, hand me your weapon. Slowly!" the Mobius strip of time simultaneously slowed down and accelerated as he emphasized the last word with a wave of his pistol.

"I'm reaching for the weapon as you have ordered." Sheila's voice continued calm and steady while she repeated the trooper's instructions and, holding her fingers like a pair of tweezers, reached for the weapon.

"Slowly, pick it up by the muzzle." The officer shifted his balance and steadied his aim.

"Yes, sir." She retrieved the weapon and held it between her fingers like a stinky dead thing.

As she passed the weapon, the trooper's facial muscles tightened and his eyes narrowed and his finger twitched and covered the trigger.

Oh crap! He's going to shoot. I closed my eyes and cringed as my bowels turned to jelly. I held my breath and waited for eternity. It's been a blast.

"Thank you," the trooper sighed. "Don't ever do that again."

I opened my eyes and slowly exhaled. The officer had returned his gun to his holster after he took the weapon from Sheila. Good advice.

The statie flashed his blue lights and joined the flow of westbound travelers. We watched in collective silence as he vanished in the distance.

"That was interesting," Sheila frowned and shook her head. With a sigh, she tucked the ticket into a pouch over the visor and leaned forward as she checked her mirror for approaching vehicles.

"Stop over there, I need to use the can" I pointed to a Starbucks a few hundred yards ahead of us and crossed my legs and gritted my teeth. I needed a change of underwear and having none I needed to clean up before I went commando. The whole miserable encounter had scared the shit out of me and the proof was in my shorts.

"Did you just fart?" Darlene kicked the back of my seat and snickered.

"Something like that," I replied. I slid my sliding seat and reduced my lady love's leg room to a postage stamp sized chunk of carpet.

"Are we having fun yet?" Seraina muttered from the back seat

We had no problem finding a fairly private booth in the nearly empty coffee shop. As our crew settled in, I excused myself and made a hasty exit to the men's room.

I hate lumpy farts. I ignored the yuck-factor and used a handful of fresh toilet water to scrub my ass. Satisfied I was clean enough for mixed company, I stuffed my soiled whitey tighties into the trash. I didn't stop washing my hands until they glowed pink. Even though I used the air dryer I did what every guy does, I finished by wiping my paws on my pants.

"We're going to have to amend our itinerary," Sheila said as she absent-mindedly stirred her coffee with two red plastic sticks as she flipped through the pages in her notebook.

"That stop generated a police record." The director blew on her cup of coffee and placed a white packet of sugar on the gray Formica table top.

"It wouldn't look very good if our names also show up as purchasers of a half-dozen AR-15s, all on the same day." Sheila took a tentative sip of java and made a face at the steam rising from the scalding brew "Damn, still too hot to drink."

"That nugget of information, along with multiple sales of the same weapon to three groups of women is the kind of data blip which attracts attention," the colony's leader slid the salt shaker and pepper mill next to the sugar square and tapped the packet with her finger.

"Ixnay onway eaponsway, we'll skip weapons today. We'll make up the slack the next time." She tore open the tiny package of sugar and sprinkled it on her coffee. "Instead, I'll drop you, Darlene and a wad of cash off at the Toyota place in Aurora, a 100k should do the trick," Sheila said to Seraina.

"Get the biggest bang for the buck. Load up on fuel, chainsaws, and hit the tractor supply center on Wadsworth Boulevard. Grab any farming equipment you can find and return directly to the cabin. Use your best judgment," the commander ordered as she gave Darlene's and Seraina's hand a squeeze of affection.

=^.^=

"This lot comes to six-thousand-four-hundred-sixty seven dollars and thirty-eight cents. Will this be cash or charge?" The liquor store manager didn't bat an eye as he read out the total. Sheila cringed a bit and dug through her wallet and handed the man her Radiant Blue Titanium credit card. Prestige credit cards are designed to impress strangers with the owner's willingness to spend money they don't have. I smiled; even debt has class distinctions.

"Who spends six-grand on a case of booze? You got bottles in here that cost more than my first three cars. Combined," I gently dropped the cardboard box of exotic spirits on the carpet in the empty crew cabin of our vehicle. "Hell of a party you're planning," I observed with a chuckle.

"It's not for us, it's for charity, it's our annual gift to our friendly assessor. His office is our next stop," Sheila said with a laugh as she preened in front of the aptly named vanity mirror above the driver's visor.

"Is this too daring?" She fingered the third button on her flannel work shirt before she undid it and jiggled her breasts in her hands.

"Nice visual, boss. That's what I call 'cleavage with attitude.' What's the occasion?"

"Charlie's been county assessor just short of forever. He's hardcore except he loves his booze. Says it helps him forget," she said with a grin.

"Crap! At these prices, what the heck is he trying to forget?" I lifted an amber colored bottle of Highland Park 25-Year-old whiskey and examined the sales slip, "Eight-hundred-sixty-three dollars? You gotta be kidding." I let out a whistle.

"Amnesia is expensive. We're trying to get him to un-remember Liberty Mountain. We're not worried about the taxes, we don't want our geothermal capacity and server farm to be part of the official record. No point in leaving a paper trail for others to follow," Sheila said as she attached a thank you note and a bouquet of forget-me-nots to the case of bourbon and Scotch.

=^.^=

Like a good gopher, I hauled the case of ninety-proof Memory-Be-Gone into the assessor's office and stood slightly behind my commander as we waited for a hefty Hispanic woman of enormous proportions to finish her phone call.

I was tempted to hum, "I'll never be your beast of burden" but decided discretion was the better part of valor and kept my musical musings to myself. Ever since getting stopped by the cops, Sheila had become reserved and pensive as if she were pissed at herself, or the world.

The talkative woman behind the desk was all bosom and thighs. Her chest oozed out of her too-tight halter top like twin muffins in adjoining cupcake tins: plump, brown, and beautiful, in a super-sized way. As far as eye-candy went, it bit too much sugar for my voyeuristic tastes.

"Yes, thanks. I'll give him your message," the receptionist returned her phone to its cradle and with a smile turned the Sheila, "Can I help you?"

"Please, can you tell Charlie that Sheila Carson is here with a gift?" she said as she pointed toward the cardboard box liquors in my hands.

Her smile froze in place and faded into a frown, "Dios mío, you haven't heard? Charlie Masterson passed away suddenly last week. His funeral was yesterday."

The receptionist dabbed at a tear as she spoke into the intercom, "Mr. Fitzwater. There's a Sheila Carson here for Charlie, should I send her in?"

"Carson? As in Sheila Carson of Liberty Mountain?" My leader and I exchanged puzzled glances as the intercom crackled into silence. A few moments later we stood before the ornate oak door without a name tag. Sheila knocked twice on the entrance to the inner chambers of her departed friend.

"Enter," the answering voice spoke in a deep baritone rumble.

Ponderous sets of Mission Oak furniture crowded the large office. Particles of dust floated like fireflies in the solitary beam of sunshine streaming through the gap between the heavy burgundy velvet drapery covering the picture window. The light from the outside slashed across the expansive surface of Mr. Fitzwater's empty desk. With the exception of a pair of gleaming eyes peering at us from the shaded recess behind the desk, the assessor himself was as invisible as the lurking trolls who live under the bridges in fairy tales.

For several seconds Sheila and the assessor exchanged glances without speaking. Finally, the colony's leader stepped forward and extended her hand in greeting, "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mister Fitzwater."

"I don't shake hands with queers," the owner of the unblinking eyes said.

"Excuse me?" Sheila's body tensed and she blinked and narrowed as she took a step backward.

"You heard me, Ms. Carson. I will not shake your hand. You and your kind are an affront to God. I am a general in the righteous army of the Lord," Fitzwater's eyes flashed with fury as he rose from his chair and took a step forward.

The man emerging from the shadows looked to be in his mid-forties and stood about five feet five inches tall. His cloud of unruly white hair glowed like fire when he entered the light. His hands knotted and gnarled with the effects of late-stage Rheumatoid Arthritis held a manila file folder marked with the handwritten inscription, "Confidential - Sheila Carson."

"I knew your father and I remember his excitement when he found that shit-hole of an abandoned shack out in the mountains. I used to watch you take female lovers out to that place," he said as he emphasized the last word and opened the folder to scan the paperwork within the packet of documents.

"You are not rendering unto Caesar that which is Caesar's. Your taxes have not been paid and the property has not been properly appraised. Although you neglected to secure a building permit, I'm sure you've made unlawful improvements since you acquired the land," the Little General said with an almost gleeful snicker.

"Since you're here, let's schedule a time for me to inspect the property. Is next Tuesday convenient?" the assessor asked as he reached for the calendar and held his pen at the ready, prepared to write.

The CEO of the Society of Sisters blanched at the suggestion of a visit and inspection. Sheila looked like a goldfish gasping for breath as she opened her mouth to speak, closed it, and opened it again. No words came out.

"Next Tuesday?" he repeated.

"I'm sorry sir, but our holy place is forbidden to you," I said as I set the case of spirits on the floor and stepped forward.

"Forbidden?" he snarled as rage twisted his face.

"Yes, sir. You are forbidden to trod upon the Goddess's sacred soil. It is not allowed." I used a trick I had learned from my grandfather. When you're engaged in a nasty two on one debate, surround your adversary and force him to divide his attention.

"Sacred soil? Forbidden?" he sputtered as his voice rose in volume as he turned to face me. Behind him, Sheila's puzzled face silently mouthed the words, "What the fuck?"

"My lady is the high priestess of the Holy Order of Athena. We are a religious institution and as such, we are exempt from Colorado Property Tax. You have no standing in this matter," I clasped my hands together in the sign of prayer and bowed to Sheila. It was obviously a bullshit claim, but what the hell; the Society had enough civilian attorneys that they could tie the case up in court forever. I knew how the justice system worked, Mister Pisswater would be an old man before he could win a judge's mandate to inspect the compound.

"My associate is correct, we are here to file the necessary forms to register our society as a religious institution. We are beyond your authority," Sheila said as she embraced my deception. She knew as well as I did that red tape will stop a bureaucracy dead in its tracks.

The meeting did not end well. As far as that bigoted bully was concerned, we were triply damned as immoral, tax evading heathens.

The last thing we heard as we left his office was the enraged voice of Fitzwater screaming, "You'll all burn in Hell, I'm coming for you. The Lord will put an end to your wicked ways."

We missed the deadline for the rally point by two hours. A note pinned to a tree next to the trail told us that the others had gone on ahead and were likely halfway back to the cabin.

Twilight was falling and the sisterhood was out in force as we rolled to a stop amid a chorus of good-natured catcalls.

Accompanied to laughter and cheers, the Frost Queen danced to victory with her fists held high above her head.

"I won. You lost. It's going to be my pleasure to settle our bet," the lady of ice taunted us as she wiggled her ass. I winced at the thought of meeting her needs. I would rather sleep with the serpents.

"Boss, she's joking? Right?" I asked.

"Should it be so. But, a deal is a deal," Sheila answered without enthusiasm, the leader hated to lose.

As we stepped out of our vehicle, Sheila faced Frosty and the gathering and put her hands on her hips.

"Business before pleasure. Status report?" she said as she resumed the role of a military commander.

Silence descended on the women of the balcony. They assumed the posture of loose attention as Belinda replied, "All present or accounted for. We ran into Darlene and Alice at a Starbucks on our return. They're spending the night in town. Paperwork problems with the titles; they'll be back tomorrow."

"It figures. I swear paperwork will be the death of us all," Sheila said with a chuckle.

"That it will," Frosty replied with a lecherous grin.

As I groaned, "Oh, fuck!" the sky above us shimmered and caught fire, first as a flickering glow, and then as sheets of colored lights rippling across the heavens. As we watched, slack-jawed and speechless, the auroras intensified into brilliant rainbow displays of silent beauty.

I felt the hairs on my arms rise. My arms bristled like a porcupine. To my left, Sheil looked like a tumbleweed. Her close-cut hair stood straight out. On the far side of the valley, trees shimmered with Saint Elmo's Fire.

Beneath the rainbows of the night, the very atmosphere glowed like the inside of a fluorescent tube. What the hell?

We later found out we had just witnessed what would be known as the Sky Fire Event, actually a series of three coronal mass ejections which ripped from the sun's surface as a trio of sunspots aligned with our planet and erupted at random intervals over a period of thirty-six hours. Mankind got a duck's eye view of cosmic shotgun blasts as one solar storm after another sent trillions of tons of solar mass slamming into the earth's magnetic field at several thousand miles per second.

Each impact weakened our planet's protective magnetic field and deposited charged solar particles in the outermost part of the magnetosphere, a 4,000-mile-thick (6,437-kilometer-thick) protective bubble created by Earth's magnetic field. The charged particles acted like a charge of propane gas in closed BBQ grill. The next solar storm fell from the sky like a lighted match.

Radio communications were smothered beneath an avalanche of energy as the resulting electromagnetic storms overloaded electrical transmission lines with millions of volts of unwanted power. In some places, high-voltage lines sagged and melted under the influx of energy. All around the globe, millions of transformers exploded like Roman candles and everywhere, microchips in unshielded circuits sparked into oblivion as power beyond their capacity ate them alive from the inside out.

The shit had hit the fan.