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away.  She drools on them, watches them devour tiny pieces of me.  Her nails are always stabbing, creeping my boobs.  Her tongue is friendly/sharp, selfishly probing. 
                "Come, come," Celsia tells me, and I step carefully through the prickle-mud to get to her, my nudity shivering nipples hard, bumpy.
                She enters the trunk of the chokon tree, slips into its lips, twisty roots curling around the sides.  And when I arrive to its pulse-opening, the oozing scent overwhelming me dizzy, Celsia snatches my arm in her claw, pulls me deep inside to darkness, to warm meat and fluids, heating me like a womb.  And Celsia fucks slowly, absorbing the tree’s energy, and my energy, shifting up and down through the trunk’s tunnel, pretending we are a giant penis within this long friendly cavity.

CHAPTER SIX
               
     
                By nightfall, the barricade is finished and Celsia can rest.  Too tired to even fuck, she goes to stand on the roof of her rust-metal castle, towering over the nail-textured fields and tar-red sunset.  Her razor wire pubic hair raised high for all to see, glistening on her shivery skin against the dim war-lighting, fires on the horizon, an armless woman masturbating in the road with her toes, legs curled inward, broken so that they can reach her sex hole.
                The Sister is greased up rot-sweaty from dancing with corpses.  Her dirty wetness sliming over the many vaginas that populate her body, two of which have yeast infections at this moment, eyes focused on the quivering road for sign of the rapists.
                I watch from inside, spying through a hole in the ceiling.  They have left Tuma unguarded and the tiny girl, still beneath the table, looks like she has plans to dart out from hiding, capture me, take me under there with her, rub her cunt all over me.  But she hesitates.  The women might see her from the hole in the ceiling and then feed her to the rapists. 
                The two sisters wait up there all night, battle-ready, touching each other to keep warm, to keep them excited to kill, to satisfy them sexually, hook nails creeping pale scummy flesh, wet flesh.  It is dangerous to be horny with the rapists around.
                They sleep up there together also, close as they were in their mother’s guts, bathing in mind pools.  Celsia picking green snails from her legs and giving them to her Sister for a  Christmas present, and the Sister throws them over the side to pop on the ground, stinky water seeping into the asphalt.
                Sometimes there are worms in the sewer eating brains away from rapists and the living dead, sometimes they get into my brain and dance around.  But Celsia is strong.  They never get into her brain.  Her armor has spikes and razor-sharp knives.  She stares black-eyed at the moon as it smears into the color black.  She sleeps against her sister, and the Sister sleeps against her. 
                The night goes on for days and not even the rapists can do anything to stop it.
     
     

CHAPTER SEVEN
     
     
                The other day Celsia told me about how they used to breed dogs with windmill blades, creating a sort of spinning/teethy creature with a violent urge to bite at the wind, barking and squeaking.
                They must still be around somewhere, barking through tunnels in the ground, eating scraps from the people living in the under world, their garbage or maybe even bits of their limbs.
                Sometimes Celsia hears dogs growling in the fields nearby, or whimpering, perhaps they are memories of the time when people claimed pets out of nature.  Perhaps they are looking for a way back into homes, hoping their windmill blade features will not send their masters screaming.  Perhaps the dogs now prefer their wind to Man, the wind is much stronger, much more