Market Garden

by Peter Loaf
inspired by the art of Shorterbus

- do not use without the author's and artist's permissions.

In the dark days following the bio-war, the surviving few lived like scavengers, looting the stores and empty houses, living off the wealth of the now defunct civilization.

Because the most effective biological weapons had been developed in the third world, the white people had suffered far worse than their dark skinned cousins. Those few who survived at all had been brain damaged beyond any hope of recovery. The dark skinned people suddenly found themselves the Masters of the world, such as it was.

The surviving white people didn’t mind, hell they didn’t even notice. The virus that swept through their billions had rendered the survivors about as intelligent as oxen. Which was fortunate, because nearly all animal life had died as well, especially the large draft animals who’d died in the first attacks.

The war had started when the whites had tried to steal the dwindling stocks of fossil fuels, using their high tech and nuclear weapons to attack any country that tried to stop them. The poorer countries had but one way to defend themselves, bio-weapons. Keying these weapons to exploit genetic weaknesses in the enemy populations, the dark skinned biologists had found the perfect weapon in a genetically modified strain of flu. Before the West knew what was happening it was too late. The few survivors had been reduced to scavenging, fighting like jackals over the scraps of their once mighty countries.

Needing draft animals to replace the fuel starved machines, the winners sent “rescue parties” to Australia, Europe and North America where they captured wild whites and trained them to work the fields to earn their food.

This is the story of Goldie, a mare from Detroit who has been “rescued” by her Mistress, Miranda Umbaga, a Zulu potato farmer in South Africa.

Goldie strained against the yoke, pulling the heavy cultivator across the potato field. She didn’t know why, but she knew to refuse would bring the whip and she didn’t want that. She was, of course, naked, her strong mare’s body well developed and perfectly conditioned after her months in harness.

She liked it here better than the place she was before because here it never got cold and she never had to fight for food.

Her Mistress was kind and seldom used the whip except to correct the worst of her errors. Sometimes, when Goldie was horny, Miranda would have her serviced by the stallion, owned by the Indian soy farmer next door. Goldie liked that and worked hard to make her mistress want to reward her that way.

Not having the intelligence, she never wondered why she didn’t get pregnant, she only knew that being serviced felt wonderful and she wanted it often.

Sometimes her mistress would strap on a big dildo and service her mare herself. Goldie liked that as well. It was all the same to her. She especially liked it when her Mistress would take the time to prepare her for servicing by licking and sucking her sensitive places before beginning.

Today they were cultivating the South field. It was hard work for the mare but she kept at it, straining to pull the heavy cultivator down the rows of potato plants, her bare feet digging into the good rich soil as the tines uprooted the weeds.

This well watered and fertile farm used to belong to a wealthy Boer who’d been one of the first to fall ill after the virus was released into the air above Johannesburg. He’d thought modern medical science could save him and his family so he’d taken a jet to Amsterdam in the hope of finding a cure. By the time the plane had landed, every person on it was infected and spreading the virus further. People of color caught the virus the same as whites but for them it was no worse than a head cold, over in less than ten days without lasting after effects, except that they were then carriers of the contagion for the rest of their lives. By the time the Dutch authorities realized their danger most of the population of Europe was infected. Within thirty days of infection 90% of Caucasians were dead. Another four percent had forgotten they’d ever been human beings. The final six percent were those lucky enough to have unknown non white ancestors. It was a strange thing to see how many of these had formally been members of the Aryan Brotherhood and other Racial Purity nut jobs. A sizable percentage of these killed themselves out of self hatred. The rest thanked their lucky ancestors and went on with life.

Before the airline industry stopped flying, due to lack of pilots, every continent on Earth was being swept clean of White people. There was a huge rush out of the cities, everyone fleeing the contagion and thus spreading it even faster. Some isolated villages set up defensive perimeters in a vain attempt at keeping the infection out but it did them no good. The virus was airborne and could travel long distances on even the slightest winds.

Goldie knew nothing of this, of course. To her, life was simple. You ate what was given to you to eat, you slept when and where you were told to sleep, you did what you’d been trained to do and once in a while you got fucked.

Much like it had been before the war, only now, she was happy.

At the end of the row her Miranda looked up at the gathering storm clouds and decided to head in. Tomorrow was market day and she had a wagonload of potatoes to take into town. If she wanted to get top price for her produce she needed get there early.

Lifting the cultivator tines from the soil, Miranda clicked her tongue at Goldie and they headed for the barn. Before they reached shelter the rain began to fall. It felt wonderful in this formerly semi-arid land to have so much life giving rainfall. Due to climate change this part of Africa was now a Garden of Eden, fertile, productive and mild.

Not so in other places. The rising sea level had destroyed vast coastal areas where 90% of humanity used to live. Many islands had simply slipped beneath the waves, taking their population with them because there was no fuel to power the fleets it would have taken to save them. Vast areas that had formerly been productive were now dry and dusty deserts, like North America’s wheat and corn belts.

Once inside the barn, Miranda unhitched her mare and gave the big female a warm soapy sponge bath, marveling at her mare’s strong muscles rippling beneath her tanned skin. It was too bad, Miranda thought, soaping the mare’s big bouncy breasts, that the same virus that had robbed Goldie of her intelligence had also sterilized her. What a brood mare she would have been otherwise.

She thought about how the “rescue mission” had been able to gather and tame the survivors. Once they’d built the sailing ships, gathering had been easy. They’d simply sailed into North American, European and Australian ports, made contact with the non-whites who were by this time in charge and traded food for livestock. The non-whites were glad to rid themselves of what they considered pests and eager to get the food.

Taming and training had required a little more effort but they’d discovered the same, time-honored techniques that had been used on slaves worked even better on draft whites, due to their lack of intelligence.

Finishing Goldie’s shower with a soft towel rubdown Miranda put her mare into her box stall and went to fix her something to eat. Because Goldie had been so good today, she decided to put some raisins into her oatmeal.

Perhaps tonight she’d give her mare a ride on the old strap-on. After all, she’d earned it.