At first there was the salty taste of flesh; then that of blood. The guard beat at the man, attempting to make Matt release him, but Feargal deepened his commitment and would not be shaken off. Once his teeth met Feargal shook his head violently and the flesh gave way. In doing so he toppled backwards, violently—assuming in this that he’d been thrown from the victim. Landing on his back his head struck the carpeted floor and in the moment he’d accidentally swallowed the flesh. Matt rolled to his side and attempted to gag this up, but it was too far down his throat. At that one of the guards must have kicked him in the stomach because the pain was as a blunt knife in his lower intestines. Following this was the support he’d not counted on—his stomach convulsed and he vomited over the carpeting. Not a cannibal—not yet.
“Master.” The voice was remembered but not immediately identifiable. There followed a pause, or he could not make out what was being said.
“He will be available for what I need.” This was Shaitan’s new voice.
“But he mayn’t be able to answer questions.” It was Hannah.
“We need to be able to question the boy.” Shea’s insertion surprised him—he was certain she’d have killed him given half a chance.
“Shut up.” There was that tingling he got whenever Botrous threw more magic and there followed a whumping sound of something slammed into a wall. “Sterile whore.”
“Master, you gave her to me—to do what I wished with.” Shea again, and a silence followed.
“Perhaps,” following the silence, “I should send her back to R&D.”
“I’ll make certain she is punished—but remember she may be useful leverage against the boy.”
Matt knew this wasn’t the case and Shea’s voice didn’t seem to believe Zakara would buy it. However, there followed a soft exchange which he could not make out. From this he could hear the voices slowly rise. Words began to come through—genetic, DNA, interrogation, experience, terminus, connection, China Bob, Leonor, Cinn, gate, reproduction, and others of a language he could not place. Slowly, ever so slowly, the words began to piece themselves into meaningful wholes. “The material may still be useful if we can unlock the DNA.” Shea encouraged.
“Yes, yes—but this has been tried before. Many times.” Zakara’s voice petulant.
“But we did not have the man.” Another voice from against the wall. Matt thought this one of the Cabinet which had survived.
“You suppose,” Botrous’ voice softening, “this may be possible?”
“There is no way to be certain,” Hannah’s voice weak and uncertain from the blast, “but we will not know until we try.”
“Short of that,” the Councillor again, “the Thin Men might be able to use his supercharged material to create some interesting Thought Experiments at R&D.” That last did not sound good. Was he going to be turned into something like those Lilacs, a Finnerin, Llama, Meta-Spider—something else? At the thought his arms flopped spasmodically in an attempt to push himself up and run. The attempt was useless and he slipped backward, again nearing unconsciousness.
“He’s aware.” A smile in Zakara’s voice.
“Return him to R&D—and lock him up securely. Understand Shea—no escapes.” Matt felt what must have been the tentacles wind about his waist, then torso. Lifted, roughly, he lost himself again. Awareness did not entirely desert him, however. There were flashes of light and the sound of traffic, voices, and a heavy miasma—almost feral. What cities like London, Paris, and New York must have been before the combustion engine made its way off of Ford’s assembly lines. Following the observation, there was one final hope—that whatever Cynthia was going to do—what he hoped she’d do—she would do so quickly and cleanly before his dad got the Thin Men to do whatever it was there were considering. With that there was nothing.
Coming too, after how much time he’d no idea, Matt was staring up through slats at the smiling, and much recovered, face of Hannah Burda. “Honey, you’re awake.” Reaching down through the slats, which turned out to be bars, the woman stroked his forehead. There was a tingling sensation which washed out from her touch and down his body. With this his consciousness, which was hovering on the edge of a knife, clarified and became fixed. Gingerly, and with great pain, he rolled over and attempted to push up, but slipped back down onto soft bedding—yet it wasn’t bedding, the material was something else. Reaching out he grasped some of this and brought it forward into his still blurry field of vision.
“Straw?” A choked whisper.
“Thin Men have an unpleasant sense of humour.”
“Animal?”
“You are considered something much worse.” Rolling to his side, which almost cost him his consciousness, Matt looked up.
“What am I considered?”
“An abomination.” There was no sly attempt to disguise her agreement with the sentiment, but it was not offered with rancour.
“You always were a twisted skank, Hannah.” Smiling she took hold of his wrist and pulled Matt to the edge of the bars with no effort. This happened so fast he’d barely time to yelp at the pain.
“Yes,” stroking his face tenderly, “and you always liked it.”
“You were always more interested in the ganja.”
“Not always, Matteo—not always.” Lifting the hand closest to the bars she ran a long tongue over this and the touch was electric. The woman recognised the reaction and smiled—this was deep and unnatural.
“You thought China the only one with party tricks?”
“Hers weren’t tricks.”
“And they needn’t be with us, either.”
“Not going to happen.”
“Look where you are, honey. You don’t really have much to say about anything.” For the moment, he thought, but didn’t need to offer the woman any more than she might already have gleaned. Even this thought he’d buried behind a lot of psychic noise. His time with China had taught him a few tricks and since then he’d several opportunities to remain in practice.
“I could make it difficult.”
“Which would only make it more fun—you wouldn’t believe the things I’d like to do with and to you?”
“Really, Burda, I doubt it would be all that inventive.”
“I’ve grown.”
“Sunk—you mean.” That earned him a slap—hard and flat on the face. With that the woman wrenched his face up to the bars and mashed hers against it.
Driving the tongue to the back of his throat, Matt gagged in response. Then, as he grew accustomed to this the taste became obvious. The taste of sex—a great, musky, oceanic burst of flavour flooded him and he felt himself being drawn into this. At first unwillingly, but then the man returned the kiss and could feel the other hand undoing his pants. With his member in her hand, as hard as China used to make it, there came a curdled scream from behind and the woman was pulled from him. “What good are you to him—or any man? How many useless shits have you raped in that cage now—hundreds.”
“Thousands, at least.” Burda smiled up at Shea, wiping a string of saliva from her mouth. “He tastes better than most—better than you.”
Feargal could have done without the last. That there was something omnisexual in Shea had not surprised him. His personal experience of this had proven to him that her sexuality was more an act of revenge than anything else. Every man she’d ever fucked was an attempt to get back at the man who’d dumped her—Zakara. That she had transferred this to women and, he assumed, just about anything else was not much of a shocker, but he didn’t want to hear about it. Then as this occurred, Shea was unbuckling her trousers. “Here, whore, eat me.” Hannah, fear on her face—perhaps shame as well, shied away. “Here!” Emphatic more than loud; with that Burda crabbed across the floor, avoiding Matt’s gaze.
He wanted to pull away; not to look. This just didn’t seem possible—how is it possible to turn the gaze from the pornographic. There wasn’t any, no matter how sick, that he could not continue watching. Memories of zombie porn f
looded back—still had nightmares about that. As Burda came close the tentacles reached out and grabbed her. Shea, holding the woman in the air just beyond the floor, turned sideways, so Matt could see, and smiled at him. The woman’s sex, which he’d seen numerous times over the years, had morphed into something transsexual. The pubic hairs had been converted into small but aggressive tentacles, while from the vagina came a pseudopod which she inserted into the woman’s mouth and held there with the tentacles of the pubis as Hannah struggled and gagged. “I’ve been put in charge of your testing, child. But when we’re not busy poking and prodding you I don’t see any reason we can’t have some fun.” She smiled.
After a moment she looked back at her son. “Why wait? Maybe we should break you in now.” Burda smiled up at Shea and his mother turned to the cell—carrying Hannah behind her.
There was no key. Matt noticed this when she reached for the cage door. What he was in was no cell; this was a cage much like what is to be found in zoos—right down to the straw bedding. With Shea’s touch an internal lock mechanism released; taking her hand from this the door swung out. Matt attempted to scuttle across the straw, but still recovering from the beating his arms and legs were only just beginning to work—though rapidly improving. With Hannah suspended by a tentacle the woman, or whatever Shea now was, stepped into the cage—pressed against the far wall next to a latrine pail the young man’s eyes saucered.
With another tentacle the woman reached toward her son. Feargal, however, didn’t notice any of this—it being beyond him to take his eyes from the pseudopod with its opening and closing proboscis. This revealed the hollow interior which was lined with small suckers and dripped a thick, clear liquid that smelt, heavily, of sex. This triggered both an erection and revulsion in her son. The woman appeared to sense the sexual confusion and her smile widened into a preternatural leer, far deeper than should have been possible. This tightened the lips so they pulled back revealing teeth and pink gums—the teeth were becoming pointed, almost canine, and had a yellowish tinge to them. The long Meta tongue lolled from the mouth. The woman had become utterly alien—and although she had always been depraved and wilful, until Matt was too old and big to be bullied by her or her lovers, this was of another magnitude.
Matt worried that what was coming next he’d not survive psychologically and, perhaps, physically. As this occurred, the tentacle which had been reaching for him wound about his ankle and dragged him slowly forward as the proboscis took blind notice and extended itself toward him, its salivating mouth dripping. Feargal kicked feebly at the binding and as the pseudopod closed on his face—he recognised the woman’s intention—he reached up with what strength had returned to him and grabbed this behind the mouth. Shea squealed half in pleasure and half in pain at the feeble assault and slapped her son back with another tentacle as she dropped Hannah beside him. Free, the woman crawled toward him tentatively, uncertain how Shea would react. Seeing her, the woman smiled. “Hold his head and open the mouth.”
With a wheedling cackle of laughter, Hannah grabbed Matt’s hand and wrenched it from the mother’s phallus. Burda’s grip had been stronger than he’d expected, and his hand released the pseudopod. Doing so this darted forward toward his face, but with his head still free he wrenched this to the side and the faux-cock missed its target and slipped, greasily, over Matt’s left cheek. Then it wound about his neck and tightened—pulling him forward. Once Hannah was behind him, she grasped his head firmly in and the saurian phallus released his neck rubbing itself against his mouth. “Make it open, whore.” Putting her hand on either side of the jaw Burda squeezed with a strength which took Feargal by surprise.
As the teeth parted the pseudopod narrowed itself and extended, gently, between these. The taste of what he took to be female lubricant filled his mouth and his cock hardened even though he was now fighting the urge to vomit. Considering this might put them off he released the contents of his stomach and these spilt over the cock and out of his mouth. Hannah cursed, but didn’t release him, and Shea laughed—high and long.
Just as she did so there was a loud, low rumble and the lights flickered; then failed. Following this a hard tremor shook the building so that windows cracked, walls flexed, cabinets toppled, and tables skittered over the floor. With what strength he had, Matt broke from Hannah’s startled and loosened grip. Bracing his feet on Shea’s ankles he pushed back hard and Burda slammed into the wall. Grabbing the pseudopod, with a strength rapidly returning, Matt wrenched this forward. This time there was no pleasure in the screech as his mother toppled forward and over Hannah. Unsteadily Matt staggered for the door.
Outside of this, Feargal pushed it closed and the mechanism gave a snick. Then the first explosion came. Spitting on the floor, he turned from the blast and back to his mother. “Hear that?” Shea looked from the direction of the blast and back to her son. “Airstrike.”
“But...”
“The first explosion was the power station—I’m not alone.” Shrieking, the women lunged at the door, but fell over each other in their rage and panic. By this time Feargal had staggered out the laboratory door and into the hallway. Even as he reached the exit he heard behind him the crash of the lab’s door and the shriek of Burda and Shea. Running down the street, the intersection exploded in brick, dust, and screams. At this he looked up and a drone was disappearing south—what he now took to be south if they were back in US space.
“Matteo!” Feargal turned back to his mother, now at the entrance to the R&D Complex.
“Yeah, I called the strike!” Taking off into the intersection and the cloud of dust. He needed to find a ride, or lose them somehow. If Shea caught him again, it’d not be a rape he’d have to survive. Turning right at the crossroads, he slowed to a fast walk. He was still very weak and the adrenalin was wearing off. Halfway down the street, Burda shouted for him to stop and the two were pounding after him. At this moment there was a vague buzz from overhead and a building exploded. The street was filled with rubble.
As the roar dissipated, Matt could hear the pair screaming. “You okay, mom?” Trying to keep the smile from his voice. “Can I help?”
“Come here,” Shea called back, “there’s no way to get out of town.”
“Sure, mom. Just you wait there and I’ll be back with help.” Turning he staggered up the street. The drones had bought him some time, but not much. Shea would find a way around and when she caught up the woman mayn’t be able to contain her spite. Perhaps it was rage—but the woman never had been good with that in the past. She preferred to wound through a grinding, never exhausted desire to inflicted moral and psychic injury. Yet, she’d been transformed—physically—in ways that were beyond reckoning; wouldn’t it follow that there’d been a psychological shift as well?
At the next block he turned left and then right; afterwards he was twisting and turning blindly through streets and alleys. Finally he rested a moment and squatted down on a stoop while another drone buzzed overhead. The better part of a block disappeared in an ear shattering explosion a couple of streets down from his position. As the ringing in his ears eased there was screaming coming from behind him; turning it was Hannah and Shea. Still unsteady on his legs, Feargal took off toward the ruined street. The smell of high explosives was heavy in the air; then there was the familiar buzz overhead. He wasn’t certain whether or not he should be able to hear them, but they sounded exactly like a light aircraft. Considering this there was a series of short, but odd, reports coming from the next street. Turning, this too disappeared.
The shockwave blew him off his feet and the sound of the women was lost in the roar. Gagging on brick dust and the stench of explosives, Matt rolled over and spat out a mouthful of phlegmatic ash. Half blinded by this, Feargal dragged himself up and lurched forward. The women couldn’t be far behind. Stumbling onward, again, he tripped and only just managing not to fall. Turning back, to see what he’d almost fallen over, it was a Meta guard—with what looked like one of the weapons he’d
seen them carry. He’d no idea how it worked but he picked it up, and what appeared extra magazines, and continued on. The device was very light and felt almost like a polymer, but it had a give and warmth that wasn’t right.
As the debris cloud cleared and the air began to clear of dust, Matt waited for the women to catch up. First he saw Shea, tentacles flailing, and the shadow of Burda behind her. Kneeling on the crest of a mound of rubble, he fiddled with the few capacitive controls until the device hummed to life and what looked like a charge metre went from red to yellow; then green. Flipping off what Matt took to be the safety he adjusted the optical sight on his mother’s centre mass. With the cloud little more than strips of wispy whorls he waited. As he squeezed the trigger, Hannah jumped forward in a blurred rush through the optic—Shea and she disappeared from his sight just as the weapon discharged. There was no recoil, but there was a bright-ish flash of coloured light.
This disappeared past the crossroads and vanished down the street. Lowering the weapon to see where they gone the pair had disappeared—probably behind one of the number of piles of rubble littering the street. With the weapon he was feeling a little braver and climbed down his mound to swing wide, over to the sidewalk which offered the greatest distance from the tumuli littering the streets. “Come on out, mom.” There was a scuttling noise from a far tumulus and the women broke cover—running for the crossroads. He discharged what he thought of as a couple of rounds at them, but they were moving too fast, or he’d not adjusted to the weapon. There would have been a time, just prior to the R&D incident, that Feargal would not have been able to shoot to kill either of the women. That time was now past.
End Times, Inc. (A Great & Continuous Malignity) Page 37