by Tristan Vick
Gen gestured to the creature lying on the bed and said, “She’s all yours to do with as you please.” He bowed ever so slightly then discretely took his leave.
Licking his lips, the Russian tore off his shirt and quickly began unfastening his belt and, sliding his trousers down, he climbed on top of the growling girl. He mounted her violently, bringing cheers of licentious elation to the crowd.
One part voyeuristic entertainment, one part death sport, the sex trade of young zombies, both boy and girl, had been good to Gen. They didn’t call him “The Barbarian” for nothing, after all.
Zombies made the perfect sex slaves. They didn’t complain about rough sex or poor working conditions, and didn’t succumb to fatigue or disease. You could hit them, kick them, spit or piss on them all you wanted. You could do anything you wanted and they’d just keep on squirming, writhing, and snapping at you, all the same.
Gen viewed them as little more than sex-dolls that you could play out all your darkest fantasies with. They’d never walk out on you, leave the room in disgust, or call out for help. They’d never say “no.” Therein lay the inspiration for the whole thing.
Within the zombie sex trade, there was no such thing as consent. They couldn’t consent, since only the living could do that. The dead had no rights. But, perhaps more importantly, they couldn’t protest, either. As such, you could do virtually anything you wanted to them–even skin them alive while you fucked them, if you so desired—and it was all perfectly permissible. It was as Gen said to his more hesitant customers—the zombies were already dead, technically speaking, so, no harm, no foul.
“Hey, catch!” a voice called out, and someone tossed the Russian a small black bag. He opened it and smiled, then poured the white powder onto the snarling zombie girl’s chest and began snorting powder cocaine off her petite breasts.
While the Russian had his way with the zombie girl, all around him was the sound of champagne bottles being opened, the popping of corks, spikes of laughter, and the tinkling of glass which could be heard over the din of general chatter as the party continued as though nothing out of the ordinary was going on.
The corner of Maya Nishimori’s mouth curled upward in what almost could be mistaken for a sign of gratification as she watched on in twisted delight. Without taking her eyes of the main event, she quickly pulled out her cell phone and typed in a text message. Only the most powerful could afford to continue using technology, and she worked for one of the most powerful men in all Tokyo. She worked for the Yakuza crime lord Gen Koyanagi, better known as Ijin Gen or “Gen the Barbarian.” His authority, along with his sadistic cruelty were uncontested.
“I’m… I’m cumming!” the blond Russian cried out in lecherous rapture as he finished inside the snarling beast. While climbing off the growling zombie girl, the young Russian entrepreneur unexpectedly vomited all over the writhing corpse’s naked body. Something was dreadfully wrong.
The Haitian woman shrieked out in horror, “A black ting’ dis. Da’ fucking idiot just gone done himself in.”
“What is it, Edda?” her escort, a handsome young black man asked, his voice panic stricken.
“He not be wearin’ any goddamn protection!” she said, wagging her finger at the purple, uncircumcised slug which hung limply between his legs.
Panic swept over the crowd of onlookers and everyone stumbled over their own feet, frantically backing away from the vomit-covered zombie girl, who growled voraciously and snapped her jaws at the scurrying bodies which ran past her in every direction.
Staggering forward, toward the crowd, the young blond clutched his stomach from the intense pain he felt, as he reached out and cried for help. “Wait…please!” he shouted, as people retreated even farther from his outstretched hands.
But it was too late. Nobody could help him, and in any case, nobody wanted to ruin the finale. Within minutes, his steps were already hardening into a rigid gait and his shoulders became rounded and slouched. Falling to his knees, he began sobbing uncontrollably. His jaw went slack, he slumped forward and then, after some muffled mumbling, all became quiet. His arms rested limply at his sides; a foreboding white fog rolled over his blue eyes, blotting out any vibrancy they once may have held.
Slowly, the blond Russian raised his sunken face and looked up at the crowd with terrible, wraithlike eyes. He turned toward them, bared his teeth, and growled like a rabid dog. His motor functions quickly declining, he rose unsteadily to his feet, wobbling like a drunk. He let loose a terrible moan and lurched forward, arms outstretched, grasping for the nearest catch.
“He’s turned! He’s one of them!” a woman’s voice cried out in terror.
Maya rolled her eyes and then went back to fidgeting with her cell phone, as though this too were all part of the same old song and dance. Finally, she hit the send button.
Before any of Gen’s personal guards could act, a single gunshot rang out and the blond Russian dropped dead.
Ijin Gen stepped out of the shadows and into view, the barrel of his gun still smoking. Tucking his weapon into his custom-made leather holster, made from the skins of zombies he’d slain, he looked over at the crowd of cowering bystanders and said, “She’s already paid for in full, no reason to let this fresh piece of ass go to waste. So who’s next?”
Ijin Gen rounded up a few of the terrified onlookers and herded them back toward the girl on the table. Waving toward his men, he ordered them to get the dead body out of there ASAP and clean up the zombie girl for the next round of customers.
Ijin Gen smiled reassuringly at the terrified onlookers and, raising his arms above his head, informed them, “Ladies and gentlemen, fear not! This little creature is nothing more than a rabid animal—besides, it’s not like you can hurt her. She’s already dead!” Gen pulled out a red ball mouth plug, the same one he’d used on her earlier, and strapped it to the girl’s face to prevent her from biting anyone. This seemed to calm the crowd down considerably.
Gradually, the group composed itself and the circle of spectators reformed around the bound and gagged monster. At Gen’s beckoning, silver trays appeared bearing fresh glasses of chilled champagne, delicately prepared sashimi, and ripe, red strawberries.
Gen turned to find Maya by his side, and checked his wristwatch. Looking back up at Maya, he said, “Bring the car around. I have other business to attend to.”
20
Close Encounters
The Ruins of Narita International Airport, Chiba
Night vision goggles and little red laser sights stared back at Daiichi Endo, who scanned the faces of his men. They were poised, emotionless, testaments to duty, honor, and self-control. They were noble statues, much like the Samurai warriors of their ancestors, that hid their frayed nerves beneath the wash of a steady stream of adrenaline.
Commander Endo motioned for his men to break formation and split into three teams of three and sweep the area for any stragglers. That left only him to deal with whomever, or whatever, had been ghosting their steps since they’d arrived at the airport. Several times, out of the corner of his eye, he had caught a glimpse of a dark figure that always receded into the shadows the moment he shifted his gaze in its direction. And that bothered him.
No flesh-eating dead-brain, or fushimon as they called the undead in Japanese, would deliberately be so swift and illusive. Which is why he was beginning to grow worried. This thing, whatever it was, was smart…calculating. The only question was, was it friend or foe?
His men set off down opposite corridors of the terminal, the first group heading up the east wing and the other going down the west. Endo headed for the restrooms at the back of the main chamber. Once inside, he turned on the faucet and went into a toilet stall. He immediately latched the door then slid under the partition, slipped into the next stall, carefully put both feet atop of the toilet seat, and crouched down—waiting for it to come for him.
Several minutes later he heard soft, padded steps and slow breathing. Sliding his gun out ever
so quietly, he waited for it to approach the closed stall. As it drew closer, the breathing grew louder, as if the thing was gearing up for a hand to hand confrontation. Suddenly the door of the stall next to him crashed in and Endo knew that was his moment to act.
Springing up, Commander Endo drew his weapon and popped up over the top of the stall and aimed straight down over the side. “Don’t move!” he shouted, but nothing was there. “What the hell?”
Climbing down, he systematically kicked open the stall doors one at a time, searching for whatever it was he had heard come within inches of his ear. He kicked open the next door only to find yet another empty stall and wondered if his mind was playing tricks on him. Gripping his M4A1 assault rifle tightly, he trained the weapon on the very last stall and took a deep breath to help settle his nerves. Then he kicked open the door.
The stall door violently swung open and clanked against the metal divider, revealing nothing but a Japanese style squatting toilet before rebounding off the stall wall and swinging back shut.
Impossible, Endo whispered to himself as he pushed the door back open and peered into the empty space.
Scanning the bathroom, Endo cautiously moved back toward the entrance. His heart pounded inside his chest. He was playing a nerve-wracking game of cat and mouse with something. Whatever it was, it didn’t want to be found. That worried him. Only a predator that was hunting you wouldn’t want to reveal itself.
As he turned toward the row of sinks, he barely glimpsed it out of the corner of his eyes, just a brief reflection in the mirror. It was barely distinguishable, but for a slightly offset tile pattern on the wall behind him which shifted minutely. Slowly turning to see what it was, Commander Endo froze dead in his tracks. His skin bristled with goosebumps in dreadful expectation. But before he could turn around and face the terror that appeared in the mirror, he felt the warm breath of the creature breathing down the back of his neck.
21
Falling Star
Mode Gakuen Cocoon Tower, Shinjuku Region, Tokyo
Saeko grunted and dragged her way out of the wreckage of the crashed Merlin helicopter. Down on all fours, dragging one shattered leg behind, she crawled into the open street and then collapsed onto the scorched asphalt. Her lungs burned inside her chest and her head throbbed something fierce. To make matters worse, her clothes were tattered and shredded, as if she’d just been through a meat grinder. The only silver lining to it all was her strange ability to resurrect. She could already feel her wounds beginning to heal. The burn marks on her cheeks, arms, and legs quickly faded away., leaving the barest of scars which would soon disappear. Just then, she heard a horrible screeching sound of twisting steel.
She looked up towards the noise and was instantly sprayed with a hailstorm of glass. Shielding her eyes with her hands, she witnessed the upper half of the Mode Gakuen tower twist and break off from where the helicopter had cut through it. “Fuck me,” she said, bracing herself for the forthcoming impact—the second one in as many minutes.
Time seemed to slow down around her while she listened to the tinkling sound of raining glass and counted the seconds for the steel girders to crush her. In that moment of distorted time, Saeko ruminated on the fact that the Mode Gakuen tower had always reminded her of a giant Easter egg. Its glass window frames’ artistic alignment and silver tracery looked precisely like the metallic cloisonné on an ornately bejeweled Fabergé egg that she had seen in her art history textbook. It was beautiful architecture, to be sure, and now it was crumbling down all around her.
The glass building smashed to the ground with such a force that the din of the demolition rang out like thunder. Saeko was instantly engulfed by debris that exploded all around her from the destructive power of the crash.
Inside the imploding destruction, screeching and squealing metal wrenched itself in hideous contortions while glass crunched and fractured and then shot out in every direction, peppering her skin with small flecks that left her looking like a gem encrusted pop star.
After the dust settled, Saeko sat in shock amid the rubble of the building, leaning against a steel I-beam, picking shards of glass from her skin and flicking them away. Even though her body could mend itself rapidly, every little scrape and injury still took its toll on her. She still felt pain, after all, and it sucked. Big time.
Looking to her right she saw her custom Bowie knife lying just beyond her reach. Convenient, she thought to herself. She stretched her arm out, wincing from the pain, and snatched the knife up and slid it back into its sheath on the side of her leg.
Staggering to her feet, she groaned, then stumbled forward. Her ribs slowly and agonizingly slid back into place and caused her to groan again from the severe discomfort. Ducking under a large support beam, she grasped the side of her ribcage and limped away from the mountain of wreckage and into the open street.
Kuso, Saeko cursed, again. This was the last place on earth she wanted to be—ground level, in the clutches of infested Tokyo, at mid-day. Not only was she in the heart of the hungry city, but the crash would have alerted every frosty-eyed Biter for miles. She knew that she had to get out of here and fast.
Hungry moans seeped out of every dark crevice of the dilapidated city, alerting her to the imminent dangers that lurked just out of sight. Saeko spun around and scanned the buildings and all the spaces in between. She could already hear their scuffling and, before she knew it, all around her, the undead manifested from out of the shadows cast by the domineering cityscape. A hundred white glazed eyes leered at her from above clacking teeth which greeted her with their hungry smiles.
22
Ravenous Legacy
Tokyo Skytree, Sumida Region, Tokyo
Gen pulled up to the foot of the Tokyo Skytree in his black stretch Hummer limousine, climbed out of the back of the vehicle, and made his way toward the main entrance. He approached two security guards who manned their posts at the entrance doors and passed them as they bowed before entering the main lobby. He did not return their bows. As the Yakuza crime lord, he never bowed down to anyone. Such a gesture was meant only to show respect for someone you hoped to do business with or submissiveness toward someone above you in rank or status. But nobody was higher up than Gen—no one was higher than a Lord.
Gen went over to the elevators and pushed the button, cleared his throat, and watched the numbers decrease as the elevator made its way to him. As he waited for the elevator to descend and the doors to open, he ruminated on his swift rise to power and the events that had made him Japan’s most merciless crime lord.
Roughly two years ago, when the head of a rival faction of Yakuza killed his father in a territorial spat, making an opportune strike during the upheaval and chaos caused by the Resurrection Virus, Gen inherited his father’s legacy—becoming head of one of Japan’s largest crime syndicates.
After the plague broke out and the walking dead stalked the city streets, the police, along with the military, were kept busy scrambling to get any survivors they could out of the city and to safety. Everything descended into chaos and lawlessness. This opened up a window of opportunity for the crime lords of Japanese’s three main syndicates to go no-holds barred as they vied to assert their dominance over one another. It was the end of the world, after all. Only the strongest were destined to survive the apocalypse.
Retaliating against the bumbling warlord who killed his father, Gen had his rival’s daughter kidnapped, and then he personally raped and tortured her for a full week before infecting her so she’d turn.
For Gen it was more than vengeance; it was fun. And just to add insult to injury, he returned her to her father’s doorstep in her less than pristine condition. The message was clear. You mess with me or my family, I ruin you and yours. And Gen was as ruthless as they came. Hell, he was proud of his nickname, “The Barbarian,” and he did his best to uphold his title.
As expected, Gen never heard from the old man again. But he may have underestimated the old bastard. To his surprise his riv
al had one last trick up his sleeve and, like the severed head of a venomous python, was able to strike at Gen one final time from beyond the grave.
As it turned out, just before his demise, the old man had discovered the identity of Gen's girlfriend. Her and given a final set of orders to his faithful second. The woman’s name was Saori Nishimori, and she was the pretty mother of two teenage girls from a previous marriage. They were twins, Maya and Mia, as beautiful as they were cunning, and soon after bringing the three into his home Gen became romantically involved with both of Saori’s daughters.
Fulfilling a sick, longtime fantasy of his—having a three-way with his girlfriend’s twins, he enjoyed his incestuous love triangle and, even though they weren’t as young as he would have liked them to be, the sordid and debauched nature of their affair was more than gratifying for a depraved dog like Gen.
On the very same evening Gen got his twisted revenge on the old man, he returned to his apartment and went straight to his bathroom to clean the blood off his hands. After washing, he stripped off his clothes and climbed into the shower where Saori’s chomping jaws and snapping teeth met him. She nearly bit off his goddamn face, but reacting out of self-preservation, Gen grabbed the petite zombie by her neck and slammed her into the tile wall. His eyes crawled over her pale skin with unmentionable cravings, and then slithered down to the nape of her neck, down to her hoary breasts, down, down, down to the dark bush between her legs.
Something about her being tainted like that, however, excited him. Probably more than it should have. “I wonder,” he said out loud as he examined Saori’s naked body, “Are you still pink inside?”
Saori still appeared normal on the outside, all but for her disturbing, soulless, whitewashed eyes and irksome animalistic growling. Gen recalled how, in his depravity, he had relentlessly fucked his zombie whore raw in the shower. When she snapped her jaws at him and tried to bite off his fingers, he lost his temper and flew into a rage.