The Shamber Chronicles, Part 5
By Chaucer mawgren@hotmail.com
Accomplishing the task and escaping is smooth as silk, almost.

Greg's delight and upbeat spirit took a sudden downturn.  Inevitability 
stared him in the face. The clock had turned into a serious enemy.  To save 
time he sent her off along the correct path before explaining.  "You may be 
sketchy on this, Shamber.  We didn't go over it much because the plan 
called for you to be out of here before now." Everything he did had urgency 
to it.  He didn't flip switches or press buttons, he slapped them, or at least 
he slapped at them.  "Please get there fast; and avoid any kind of 
confrontation if at all possible.  We haven't the time for distractions." 

"Gee like give a girl a break for a change.  You're not a husband but you 
sure can act like one."  Shamber moved in the shadows as though she were 
dressed in black instead of white.

The thought occurred to Greg that she had no first hand knowledge of 
husbands. But then, her first hand knowledge was limited in most things.  
"They only record information on their illegal arms shipments during this 
shift.  We had to wait until late in the shift to make sure everything was 
entered, but we need to extract it before they launder the computers."  Greg 
spoke calmly.  His voice showed enthusiasm but he knew it could never 
happen.  "In a few minutes, it will all be gone."  Shamber would step in it.  
Somehow there'd be a delay. Thomas' words about her attracting too much 
attention haunted Greg.  That pompous windbag was right.  Sending 
Shamber in here was like walking into a lawyer's convention on crutches.  
To his disbelief, in just the wink of an eye, she was at her destination.  To 
his disbelief, the door opened without complaint to a bank of servers. Greg 
held his breath and ordered his trembling fingers to pull the switch bringing 
the video feed online.  It suddenly seemed epoxied in one position.  When 
he managed to get this little thing done, he clamped his eyes shut waiting 
for the intercept alarm to sound.  To his continued disbelief, it didn't; not 
even a peep.  The video came up more quickly and clearly than it did during 
a sales presentation.  He directed Shamber to the correct server and to the 
exact spot on the panel. She placed the device exactly where he needed it to 
be.  He only had to tell her once.  To his amazement (disbelief had become 
way too tame) the transmission whirred and rolled as though the data were 
fighting amongst itself to be the first to get to him.  As soon as the last 
straggler electrons toddled home, he slammed all the feeds offline except 
for audio.  It was done.  It really was.  It was.

Now, he had to get Shamber out safely.  The important part was over.  So 
then why did he feel as though the important part was just beginning?  He 
sent her through the maintenance wing on a path that seemed ridiculous.  
But, Baker laid it out, so that's the course they took.  Within moments 
Shamber approached a door, an open door no less, a propped open door, 
with the most glorious of sights on the other side-daylight.  Greg wanted 
to cry; well, he didn't want to but he almost did. The disaster had quickly 
turned to victory.

She shifted into 21st century nonchalant neutral and strolled to the opening.  
The light dimmed as a huge, muscular guard stepped into the doorway from 
the outside.  He was as stalwart as cedar and nearly as tall.  Shamber almost 
laughed.  He seemed straight from Hollywood: sunglasses, shaved head, 
scraggly near-beard, no shirt, camouflaged fatigues, and big boots.  All he 
needed were dog tags on a chain from his neck to complete the picture.  She 
almost laughed; almost, but not quite.  His non-shirt revealed massive 
shoulders, a thick, muscular barrel chest, washboard abs, a V back and 
bulging arms holding a cruiser shotgun at the ready.  

"Shamber, don't mess around.  We're out of time."  Gregg's rollercoaster 
plunged down the big hill.  Victory was turning, once again, to disaster.

"Well, if I did mess around, this would like be the guy." Shamber walked 
directly to him, stared straight up into his leering smile, licked her lips in a 
display of four hundred horsepower lust, and punched him in the stomach.  
She could tell by his face that her attack hurt.  But he didn't flinch, and it 
seemed to her as though she had just struck a sand bag.  "Uh-oh." 

Greg reacted like a microwave full of spoons.  "What do you mean, uh-oh?  
We can't have that.  Not now.  No uh-ohs!"  He ignored his series of nine 
thousand dollar synchronized, atomic-linked, corrected-every-five-minute 
clocks to glare at his Bozo Supreme watch from the dollar store.

The behemoth tossed his shotgun aside, smiled broadly, and raised his fists, 
"Cool." He nodded repeatedly, mesmerizing her with his shining white 
teeth.

"Omigosh, omigosh.  He's the strong silent type! Omigosh."  Shamber was 
swooning at the most ridiculous moment.  Greg couldn't decide if he 
wanted to shoot her or himself. After circling briefly, the goon shot a 
mighty jab into Shamber's face which she sidestepped at the last second.  
"Omigosh he's strong, omigosh."  

"Shamber will you quit this nonsense and get out of there?"  Greg felt 
monumentally foolish.  He also wasn't about to stop. But then he 
remembered his own rule.  Don't distract her when she's in a tough 
situation.  Her goofy infatuation aside, this was a tough situation.  As it 
turned out, though, Shamber wasn't all that infatuated.  This guy made a big 
deal of prancing back and forth.  It irritated her.  He made a big deal of 
covering his face, as though any hint of carelessness would result in instant 
death.  She recognized ridicule when she saw it.  On most any day, ridicule 
found a quick path to Shamber's fists.   She scorched a punch under his 
guard into his mid-section.  Again she struck a sand bag. He fired another 
jab which wasn't quick enough for her.  Good thing, too; one solid blast 
from this lug is all it would take. But she had reason for setting up his jab.  
While his arm was extended, she snapped a quick uppercut into his chin. 
For a brief moment it seemed as though he had been struck by a hammer.  
The lights went out and quickly came back on.

"Like don't worry Greg.  Mr. Stone Belly here has like a glass jaw.  This 
won't take long."  The goon stopped smiling.  He was no longer amused.  
He moved in quickly.  Her habit of talking to thin air irritated him.  He 
knew ridicule when he saw it.  Shamber decided to do a little prancing of 
her own.  After all, she knew ridicule when she saw it.  She could also tell 
that what he saw didn't exactly irritate him.  A woman who looked like 
Shamber, prancing around in a short skirt met no one's definition of 
ridicule. At least, it met no guy's definition of ridicule.  

Suddenly she stopped prancing.  "Uh-oh."  As expected, her words sent 
Greg into palpitations.  It dawned on her that he had taken a long step to fire 
off his last punch.  He also leaned forward.  Both of these moves brought 
his head closer to the ground.  And, she had connected with his jaw at the 
full extension of her uppercut.  He may have a glass jaw but it was on a 
shelf she couldn't reach.  "Uh-oh."

"Will you shut up!"  Greg realized that he had finally crossed the line.  All 
his careful avoidance of saying the wrong thing went directly into the trash 
at that moment.  And, it was an in-the-heat-of-battle moment besides.  He 
was dead.  He was dead meat.  "Shamber, I'm trying to save you, I'm trying 
to get you out of there safely and QUICKLY!"  Yeah, right.  That was 
going to work.

If her fists couldn't get up to his chin, she'd have to figure out a way to 
bring his chin down to her fists.  She hopped a quick two-step and sent a 
vicious kick arching towards his crotch. He saw it coming and moved down 
to block it.  The instant his face opened up her fist was there to shut it down.  
He staggered backward and yelled out a strange sounding "OOOP!"  She 
whisked another ball of knuckles into his face before he stood upright.  He 
flinched and managed to deflect it, but the second ball connected.  He fell 
hard against the wall and immediately covered up.  His defense frustrated 
her because of his big strong arms and huge fists.  She tried to work low.  
The bad news: it didn't help.  The good news: it didn't help all at once.  It 
helped little by little.  As his frustration increased, his attacks increased.  As 
she kept hovering lower and lower, his attacks moved to meet her.  
Whenever she saw an opening, along with a reachable jaw, her fists were 
there to say hello.  

But, the overall progress was grim.  Just being shoved and bumped by this 
monstrosity was painful.  Shamber was having difficulty timing everything, 
pressing her advantage when it arrived.  That's because she was losing the 
fight, slowly but surely.  And then, he stumbled.  Perhaps there was uneven 
ground, or rather, uneven black sand.  Perhaps a stone or a misplaced tool 
found its way into his path.  Or perhaps it was just one of those dumb 
things.  But his face was well within her reach and it was moving towards 
her rapidly.  She planted her feet, twisted from her sturdy legs through her 
hips to her shoulders and crackled a boulder-splitting punch directly into the 
point of his chin.  He reacted as though a tiny explosion detonated in his 
mouth. She stepped in and drove her fist into his cheek.  His head spun to 
the side, too far to the side, it seemed.  Howls of pain rushed from his lips. 
And he dropped to his knees in front of her.  He really did, she couldn't 
believe it.

His mind was spinning, occupied by things totally unrelated to his present 
predicament.  But he knew the score.  He knew that this little irritating 
broad was hurting him.  He knew his punches were now too slow to help 
him.  He tried to put the sole of one boot flat on the ground to begin 
standing.  Nothing moved.  He did the only thing left open to him. He 
placed both of his enormous fists directly against the skin of his face as a 
guard.  

"Oh my, like how lame is that?"  She laughed in defiance and blew a hard 
roundhouse directly into the back of his hand.  She expected the force to 
transfer to his face.  It didn't. She blistered his hand again with the same 
result.  The waste of time allowed his foot to cooperate.  He was beginning 
to rise.  She punched his defense again.  It didn't care. Not knowing what 
else to do, she grabbed his fists, pulled them down away from his face and 
blasted his chin quickly. The resulting inner turmoil dazed him long enough 
for her to rock his world with a longer heavy punch.  Misery poured from 
his mouth, and returned him fully to his knees, but he was able to cover up 
again.  Again she pulled his hands down.  This time he covered up before 
she could launch another missile.  "Oh, for heaven's sakes!"  She pulled his 
fists down to his crotch, crossed them and held them there with her right 
hand.  She pulled her left way back and saw his eyes follow her knuckles 
into his chin.  She pulled way back a second time and sent an awesome jolt 
into the same spot.  He fell backwards into the open doorway, part of him 
outside the building. She had knocked him out.

Silence was a good thing to Greg; a very good thing.  "All right, Shamber! 
Well struck."  He waited for the subtle sounds of her walking away into the 
brilliant sunshine.  He didn't hear them.  "Step lively, ladies and gentlemen, 
the train is leaving the station."

But Shamber was kneeling beside her fallen foe, gliding her hands across 
his chest and over the huge mounds covering his shoulders. "This guy's 
muscles are way hot."  Exasperated, Greg implored her to leave, striving to 
keep his voice from squeaking and his anxiety from exploding.  "Like I 

wanna stay here and feel him."  She slid her fingers easily along the side of 
his ribcage, enjoying the rippling and the strength.  Then she traced the lines 
defining the powerful rectangles of his stomach.  Greg had a million things 
to say, but nary a word actually found its way out of his mouth. "Oh . . . my 
. . . go-o-o-osh." Her purring needed no work now.  It flowed from her like 
molasses.  Greg felt vaguely nauseous.  "I can't believe his legs!"  She was 
probing and exploring eagerly through the camouflaged fabric of his pants; 
enjoying the thick chords of muscles traversing his thighs.  "The way they 
must move and bunch . . . I can't stand it."  He could almost hear her 
drooling.  "It's a shame you can't know what it feels like to have thighs like 
these pressing down against yours, Greg."  Perhaps he couldn't.  But he 
sure could imagine what it feels like to press his thighs down against 
Shamber's. 

"Lis - sen   To   Me . . . You  Must  Leave  Now . . . They  know  you  are  
Hee -  ere." Greg didn't know what else to do.  Shamber paused and 
withdrew her hand.  It had been on the way to discovering the non muscle 
that acts like a muscle during arousal.  She sighed and absorbed the erotic 
sight displayed before her without blinking.  She cursed the things she has 
to do for rent payments, and left, unknowingly on her way to face the 
adversary she could not defeat.