"What d'you think I should do? Wake 'im?"

Consciousness, which had fled me at the first opportunity, returned reluctantly. I was still slumped forward on the picnic table, but I was stiff and uncomfortable. Some sixth sense warned me not to move, though, and so I sat there, as motionless as a troll turned to stone.

The voice I'd heard posing his tremulous query was answered by the squawk of a walkie-talkie. "Does he appear dangerous?" the respondent asked.

"No–no," the guy said uncertainly. "But he's awful big. He could flatten me with one hand if he wanted to."

I frowned inwardly at this (who is he talking about?) as I tried to determine the location of the speaker. He seemed to be some ways to my left. My mind was a little cloudy, but I guessed that that was where the path came out onto the observation deck. Forest ranger, most likely. All these highlands were national forest.

"Folks ain't s'posed to sleep in the picnic areas," came the sonorous response through the walkie-talkie. "Just tell him to move along and have a nice day."

"Roger that." I heard the crackling of stepped-on twigs and leaves as the man walked toward me.

At that moment I raised my head and looked straight at him and he froze, his eyes filled with fear and amazement. He was young and not unattractive, only a couple years older than I was, kitted out in a dark green ranger's uniform. I tried to speak gently, but my voice boomed as if amplified. "I heard what you said," I said. The guy just stared at me. "I'll be on my way, I promise."

I stood, but it was difficult to do so because I was wedged into a picnic table that had somehow become too small. I made myself straighten up, forcing the seat I'd been sitting on the snap off. It seemed to take a long time to stand, partly because I was so stiff, and partly because—well, because when I was done straightening out I towered head, shoulders, and chest over the awestruck ranger.

I stood there, and he stood there, and he stared at me and I stared at him staring at me. I could tell he was trying very hard to look only at my face, but his eyes kept trying to stray down. He glanced down a couple of times, then snapped his eyes right back up at my face, though it looked like he took in a quick flash of the landscape on the way up.

I glanced down myself to see what he was looking at. I'd somehow registered that I was a lot taller than this guy, but I'd let myself think it was because he was really, really short. I was six-two before, and I'd gotten the tall thing for a long time, since I'd shot up at puberty. From the looks of things, though, I'd shot up again. Looking down at my naked body I could tell it was shaped different—my legs, arms, and torso were all longer than they should have been. There was something else that was longer, too—a lot longer—and that was evidently part of what caught my new friend's attention, especially since my inevitable morning hard-on had only partially deflated. I tossed him a crooked smile, which he returned nervously, and looked back down at my body.

I looked like a basketball player. In fact, I looked like Yao Ming—really tall, lanky, toned muscle. Maybe a little beefier. I forced myself to guess how tall I was. If the dumbfounded ranger was average height, I had to be about Yao's height—around seven and a half feet tall. My (filthy) feet were huge and powerful-looking. So were my hands.

I decided there were only two things I could do. I could run away, in which case this guy would be returning to his base with stories of a huge naked guy running around Scotch Woods. Or I could make nice.

I was really lonely and afraid. Even a withdrawn, introspective 17-year-old geek can make friends if he's desperate enough.

My hands were still a little out from when I was examining them. I extended the right one toward the ranger. "My name's Hank," I said hesitantly.

The ranger swallowed and returned to normal a little. It was funny, I could sort of watch it dawn on him that he was staring at me. His mom had probably told him that was rude. He blinked and looked up at me in a different way, contrite, and shook my hand. "Randall," he said, a little gruffly. His handshake was warm and strong. It was my first human contact since my accident and I didn't want to let go. Neither did he, it seemed, but after a couple of silent moments we disengaged.

"Well, Randall, I seem to have misplaced my clothes," I said. "I'm sure you don't want naked guys running around your forest. Do you think there's anything you could do?"

Randall shook his head in wonder. "I don't think we have anything that would come close to fitting you." He clicked his tounge three times, looking me over a little more objectively this time. "Maybe I could find something. You lost your clothes? Where?"

"Um, back in Torrence."

"Torrence? You came all the way up here from Torrence with no clothes? When, last night in the rain?"

"Um, yeah." I was growing increasingly uncomfortable, not only with his questions but with the reminder of what had happened, which the encounter with Randall had kept out of my mind.

"You're lucky you didn't catch your death," he said, and I almost laughed—my grandmother had admonished me in those very words umpteen times. "How?"

"What?"

"How'd you lose 'em?" He wasn't belligerent, just amazed.

"Erm," I stammered, "I, I was, erm. It's kind of hard to explain."

"I'll bet!" He defintely wanted to hear this story.

"Um, yeah. About the finding me something?"

"Yeah, let's get you indoors. You must be freezing. There's a ranger station just over the crest." He turned and led the way, pausing only to look back and beckon to me as he reached the path. I followed thoughtfully.

What I was preoccupying me was that he was right. I should have been cold. High up in the hills in early spring it would have been pretty chilly, but I was quite comfortable, even naked as I was.

It was starting to become clear to me, as I slogged up the path behind my new benefactor, that something had happened to me. That lightning bolt had changed me. But how? It seemed to have to do with energy. I had discharged a large amount of energy in the barn. Maybe I was storing it, or channeling it. Maybe, I proposed to myself, the energy I had inside was also affecting my cellular make-up—pushing my cells apart, either expanding them or causing them to multiply. Was that possible? I tried hard to remember cell propagation from bio lab, but I couldn't concentrate.

Something had caused me to build up so much energy that it exploded from me. Something had made me grow. And something was keeping me warm in the cold.

It was very early. Dawn had come only a little while ago. Normally I was a groggy morning riser, whacking off half-asleep and then stumbling into the bathroom (which, to my lasting gratitude, gave off my room and was not shared with my brothers) for a shower. Today, though, I was bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. I tried really hard to gauge my feelings, and my alertness, and I gradually became sure that the energy level I'd felt build up intolerably in the barn was still there. It felt like it was on a low simmer.

Part of me was trying to convince the rest of me that this was amazingly cool. In fact having something like this happen to me was the fulfillment of a lifelong fantasy. But it made me sick to my stomach that I couldn't control any of it. I kept picturing my home being blown to smithereens, my family blown up. The school, friends I cared about, all destroyed, gone, killed by me and this stupid thing that had happened to me.

Soon we reached the crest. We emerged from the trees into another Forest Service clearing. There were markers, more seats and tables, and those observation viewers you have to put a quarter in. These were arrayed in front of a small visitor's center, so constructed as to look like an old-fashioned "gen'l sto'" (Why did they do that?), but there was (thankfully) no sign of any visitors. A brisk wind blew steadily across the tiny plaza. Randall kept marching, until a couple more low buildings were revealed behind the faux trading post. He made directly for the furthest one, a nondescript wooden building of unguessable function.

He unlocked the door and ushered me in. Just in time I remembered my freakish height and ducked low to enter the doorway. Randall followed me in and relocked the door.

I straightened up cautiously. The ceiling in the room seemed about eight feet high—there were a few inches' clearance over my head. The interior of the building was entirely taken up with a fairly small, squarish studio apartment, covered from wall to wall with an ugly industrial grade carpet the color of stale coffee. We were standing in a living area, framed by two uncomfortable-looking beige couches positioned at right angles to each other, both facing a small portable TV set on a box near the door. Just beyond were several sets of louvered closet doors. There was a large, empty, rectangular space directly in front of them; I guessed (rightly) behind some of those doors was concealed a Murphy bed. The far corner featured a sliding glass door that opened onto a tiny patio and a small kitchen behind a bar-height counter. Two worn wooden barstools were the only other furniture. The air smelled a little like old, well-used sneakers.

"You live here?" I asked incredulously, surprise getting the better of my tact.

"God, no," Randall said. He was already opening the louvered doors. "This is just a crash pad if we're on long duty." He hauled the bed down. It was dressed in coarse white bedclothes.

"C'mon," he said, smoothing out the sheets and pulling the top one back, "let's get you in bed."

Without thinking I retorted, "At least buy me dinner first!" (I'd heard the line in a movie once and thought it was funny.)

Immediately I started my self-chastisement routine, an almost daily occurrence for me, not unlike the flagellants of the Middle Ages who whipped themselves over their own sins. But when Randall glanced up, he was, to my surprise, red-cheeked with embarrassment. "No, I mean—you were out in the cold—you're going to be sick—" He gave up, muttering to himself, and hurriedly started rummaging in the closet next to the bed, eventually hauling out a thick blanket. He started unfolding it onto the bed.

"I'm not tired, and I'm not—" I began to protest.

Randall had finished spreading out the blanket. "Just get in," Randall said, half impatient, half pleading. "I don't want it said that some guy I found wandering in the forest during the worst storm in years up and died of pneumonia after I sent him on his merry way."

I grinned at this and docilely complied, crossing over to the bed and climbing cautiously in. I had to lie on my side and fold my legs, almost fetally, to fit. I felt ridiculous, but Randall gently drew the covers over me, covering my nakedness for the first time, and I was comforted. It felt nice to be taken care of.

"I'll make you some soup," he said, but he lingered over me after pulling up the covers, showing no sign of moving away. That was fine. His face was quite close to mine, and I observed now how masculine it was. There were only a few years between us, but they had made a difference. He seemed mature: strong features, bright eyes, firm full lips. I was intrigued by his eyebrows: they weren't bushy, but they were manly, dark and dynamic, like Tom Cruise's. They were quite close now, and I was able to see the individual hairs. They seemed thick, like his lashes, thicker than his (very nice) head hair. I took a deep breath and noticed cologne for the first time—very faint—or maybe it was after-shave. His cheeks were perfectly smooth, but I noticed a tiny black hair he'd missed near his jaw...

It was while I was thinking these things that he slowly, imperceptibly, closed the distance between his lips and mine.

His kiss was so sweet, so gentle, that for a moment I didn't realize I was melting into it, luxuriating it, kissing him back gently. It was the most natural thing in the world. I had never kissed a man. I had never kissed anyone. I closed my eyes and was lost in the deep pleasure suffusing me, my body, my soul.

I opened my eyes when I felt him climb in next to me. Somehow he was naked now, and he pressed his tight, firm, warm body against mine. My cock was hard and was pushing insistently against his abs; his was too, and I felt it pressed against my loins. It was burning hot, and felt big and thick.

Every fuse in my mind was blown. I couldn't think, I could only feel. I was overwhelmed with the passion, not just of a man's first time, but of a very lonely, very young man who felt an urgent need to be loved and needed and protected. We kissed forever, and then slowly his hot mouth made its way down my body until it found my quivering erection. He immediately took as much of it in his mouth as he could and stroked the rest. The combined sensation drove me immediately to the edge, and though I tried hard to hold out he wouldn't let up, and before long I could feel it welling up in my balls and surging up my long shaft. He pulled off just in time and watched, fascinated, as my monster cock spewed a quart of cum in four separate payloads. I was amazed in my turn—I never came that much—but I didn't care. I was completely drunk with passion and ecstasy, and completely sated, sprawled out on the bed with my feet planted on the floor and my hands hanging over the sides. My eyes drifted closed, but flew open when I heard a little yelp. Randall was nursing his right index finger.

"What?" I said. "Are you O.K.?"

"Yeah," he said, an edge of wonder in his voice. "It's just—your cum is really hot. Like, burning hot." He showed me his finger. The tip was very slightly red. I frowned. "Isn't it burning you?"

I shook my head. Gingerly I touched the cum with my own fingertip. I could sense, at a level slightly removed from pure touch, that the cum was indeed very hot. But my finger reacted as though I'd touched a puddle of luke-warm water.

"Huh. Well, glad I got off you before you came, that's all I can say," he said with a smile. "Let me get you a towel. Then I've got to get back to work." He headed around the bed toward the closets.

My eyes followed him. He looked better naked than he had with clothes. "Don't go," I said.

He flashed me a smile as he drew out a towel and tossed it to me. "Don't worry, I want to see you again very soon." He started picking up his clothes, then stopped and grinned at me. "Hey, how 'bout that dinner?"

"Great!" Boy, there sure was a lot of cum to mop up. I might need another towel, I thought, not without some satisfaction.

"Great," Randall said. "I know a great place in Mooresville. The Yellowjacket, on Marie Street, near—oh, what is it?—Pike Street. Think you can find it? I'll meet you there at 5:30, right after I get off. Deal?"

He was already dressed and about to go. I missed him already—romantic fool that I was, I think I'd already given up my heart to this stranger I hadn't known only a few hours ago. But when he said "Mooresville" my cheer evaporated and my heart sank. The city's name unlocked my internal debate of the night before. It all came flooding back—especially the part about not knowing whether I'd be safe anywhere from blowing people up.

Maybe the thing with the barn was just a dream. How desperately I wanted to believe that. I nearly convinced myself. But at some level, deep in the back of my mind, I could still sense it, the thrumming energy wall that was now a part of me. It was louder than before.

Randall was looking at me funny, his head cocked to one side. Quickly I said, "Sounds great. I'll meet you there."

I'd made it my New Year's resolution not to lie, after I got caught fibbing about my brother's girlfriend and an entirely fictional date I said I'd seen her on with some other guy. I was just rattling his chain, but my story led to fights and totally screwed them up. Anyway, I'd made a resolution not to lie any more. This was the first time I'd broken it.

Before I knew it Randall had kissed me goodbye, and then he was gone, leaving me with nothing but the silence of the forest. A single tear welled up in my left eye and started to trickle slowly down the side of my nose. I devoted all of my attention to tracking that tear. As long as I did that, I couldn't think about anything else.

Continued in Shockwaves 3