by J. Morgan
“A lady? With a mouth like yours? I think you swear in a day as much as I do in 3-6 months!” The picture was picked up from the carpet; a younger Charlie and Denise standing in the front porch of this very house, several children standing in front of them, all of them facing the camera. What an old camera it must have been.
“Oh, and women can’t swear? Huh?” She was going back into her old routine; feminist beliefs in arguments that have to do with the genders.
“No no, women can swear, but ladies don’t. Don’t call yourself a lady if you’re going to swear so much that it’s liable to burn any church within earshot down.”
“Ohhhhh, so ladies can’t swear but gentlemen can, huh? Yeah, great logic ther-“
“Again, no; gentleman don’t swear, but like women, men can. How does your mind work to make these leaps in logic? You think the world is this big, bad, super-sexist planet where everyone, everything, and every syllable spoken has to do with putting women down? You. Are. Paranoid! That’s coming from an ex-stoner, too, so I know a thing or two about paranoia.”
“Know a thing or two about being sexist…”
“If you want me to go and stab that walker so badly, why don’t you let me practice on you?” Since she had completely ignored any point he had made just for the sake of insulting him, he decided to return the favour.
“Ohhh, violence against women, very funny…”
“Weren’t you the one asking me, a man, to go and risk my life in a violent confrontation that could mean my death for NO reason, not 2 minutes ago?” It was the truth, after all. Meanwhile, though they were no longer looking out the living room window, the shambler was becoming more and more difficult to see as it roamed farther southeast at its slow and steady pace.
“Men have been waging wars for thousands of years; violence against men is practically normal.”
“Like the kind of violence where a woman tries to shoot a man? Is that normal?”
“What about when a man ties up a woman and rapes h-AH!” He had back-handed her while she was facing the window… hard… and she fell to the floor towards the steps that lead upstairs. He stared down at her without sympathy. She stared up at him holding her cheek, a bit of blood at the corner of her mouth; she could taste it from where the inside of her cheek got cut on teeth.
“YOU JUST KEEP PROVING MY POINT! YOU DON’T CARE ABOUT WOMEN! YOU- NO!” She stopped, holding her hands before her, kicking herself away from him; he was walking towards her menacingly but now stopped. It seemed like he was going to hit her again.
“You’ve attracted walkers to me twice but you will not do it a third time, and if I didn’t care about women then I wouldn’t be making you meals. I wouldn’t have gave a SHIT about you last night in bed when I made you cum, what was it, three times? I wouldn’t let you drink my water, I’d have forced you to help me dig that nice elderly couple’s grave, and I would have went into your room and taken you last night because believe me I had a HELL of a hard-on once I got comfortable in that bed. If I didn’t care about women, I would have beaten the ever-loving shit out of you LONG ago because of how terribly disrespectful you are. Believe me, that little ‘love tap’… that’s nothing compared to what I can do to you with my bare hands. Get up.”
Such a menacing tone, deep, low; he did NOT have to speak loudly to be intimidating. Tiff apprehensively got to her feet. “Do I care about women?...” The words were said clearly and carefully so there would be no way she could misunderstand even a single syllable. She wasn’t answering. “Food, water, work, bath, bed, where have I proven myself to hate women? To not care about women?”
“… you came in me two ni-“
“You were literally calling yourself ‘mommy’ and had your legs wrapped around my hips to the point that pulling out was impossible in spite of having tried at least twice and telling you I was about to cum. Next. Where have I proven myself to hate or not care about women?”
Her face was beet red at being reminded in such detail the events that happened the night before last. Anger and embarrassment coming; one fueling the other. “Don’t use that against me…”
“Don’t tell me what my stance is on women and women’s rights when you don’t know a damn thing about me. Don’t bring up rape with me again lest you truly want to be taken against your will. In fact if you can’t keep your extreme-left, hardcore, third-wave-feminist bullshit in check, then one day you’re going to turn your back and when you turn ‘round again, I’ll be gone. You know good and well that you won’t last long out here without me, so watch your Goddamn tone. As much as you might hate it, you’re still alive, and you’re still fed, because of me, a man. In fact not only that but my life has been put in danger because of you. Twice!”
Tiff did not respond. She was shaking. She wanted to lash out at him verbally and physically. There was nothing she could do though, and she hated it. Indeed, even if she got to this house without him, she wouldn’t have been able to deal with Denise so as to gain access to the food and safety inside. She probably wouldn’t have been able to prevent Charlie from coming back after he had died as well, meaning there would be a threat both inside and outside the house. Then a look of sudden realization came to his face.
“I could have met her… if not for you I could have possibly spoken to Denise. I lost an evening and possibly some of an afternoon of travel because you brought the walkers to me. I had to spend the night in that truck, and it wasn’t until the next morning that we hit the road again. She might still have been alive if I got here a day earlier, maybe, and I might have been able to put her at ease enough that she would still be here. That means Charlie might still have been here as well…”
Disbelief; she stared at him with disbelief. To put all this on her shoulders like that, and it was all ‘what ifs’. There was the possibility though, as much as she might be in denial of what he just said, it’s POSSIBLE. Looking at her with disgust, with anger, he turned to look through the window at the walker. It had not seemed to notice her yelling, and then he turned to the kitchen, intent on putting more wood on the fire. She went upstairs to get away from him.
He passed on having a bath, reasoning that one good scrub can last him at LEAST two days so perhaps tomorrow he’ll get some fresh bathwater to replace what remained in the tub from yesterday. She bathed for the second time in two days, happily, even if it was rather cold room-temperature water. So tired of arguing, he was. Yeah it was good busting a nut in her, and getting his cock sucked again was great in spite of her inexperience, but no bitch was worth this much drama or this much stress. Fucking feminist… they never used to be this bad, not to his knowledge. First-wave feminism back in the 1910s-20s or so, that was all about gaining the right to vote, right to own land, right to get advanced education, and stuff like that, right? Second-wave, perhaps 1950s-80s, was about equal pay, equal opportunity between the genders, and so on… or something like that.
They had it! Before the world went to shit, the first and second-wave feminists had won, and GOOD on them! It’s this modern third-wave feminism bullshit that was just that; bullshit. The wage gap? If you took all women and averaged out how much they made in a year, then all men and averaged out how much they made in a year, then yeah, women would make about 77 cents or so to a man’s dollar. Why? Simple; they make different decisions, different choices. Men were more likely to work full time, more likely to work overtime, and more likely to work the dangerous jobs which is why workplace accidents/fatalities involved males over 90% of the time.
Women got safer jobs typically, were less likely to work overtime, and more likely to not even work full time though many did. If a woman and a man went for the exact same job at the exact same place with the exact same hours (since someone working full-time generally made more than someone working part-time) then they would make the EXACT same amount of money, OR the person who is given less can take their employer to court. Open and shut case. In short; there’s a difference between wages and earnings. Not onl
y did women have equal opportunity for advanced education, but MORE women were going to post-secondary than men if he recalled correctly. Perhaps it was because there were many women-only scholarships, while as for men-only, he doubted if things like THAT even existed.
Richard stewed over this as he went upstairs after stocking the fire, just wanting to be away from her; locking himself in the master bedroom. Still a few hours of daylight left, at least that walker was out of their hair. He picked up his rifle, feeling that smooth oval-shaped wooden stock, running his left hand from just in front of the action, out towards the end, and back. Even the sling felt right to him; if he could never have another rifle on this planet, only allowed to own one, then the No.4 Lee Enfield would definitely be a strong contestant. It was leaned against the night stand once more. Down onto his hands and knees, he took a peek under the bed for monsters. Not really, it was just curiosity. Perhaps the old fellow used to hunt once upon a time, and since he lived a long ways from civilization; from cops, kept a firearm for home defence under the bed?
No rifle or shotgun was found, but there was a box; flat, but long and wide, it was pulled out from under the blanket that draped over the side of the bed, like Fred Penner taking out his hidden guitar. Opening up the top half of the box, his eyes flashed open at what was uncovered. A uniform, clearly Military, many badges stuck to the left breast. He didn’t know what they meant but imagined that, since it would mean he will have served so long, a few of them must stand for involvement in war. Korea perhaps; he didn’t think Charlie was ‘old’ enough to have served in WWII unless MAYBE he joined SUPER young and only towards the end in 1944/45 or so, but that was unlikely.
In the attic; clues to this would surely have been in the attic, but fuck that. All due respect to the old serviceman he buried in the backyard, the man who had more than likely been trained on the No.4 Lee Enfield sometime in the 1950s, but he wasn’t about to venture yet higher in this house. Maybe the fellow even continued using the Lee Enfield later if he had spent time in the Canadian Rangers which used the No.4 right up until around 2015-16, but he just wasn’t about to head upstairs and brave whatever creepy crawlies await him there. As tempting as it was to see old black and white pictures of him in uniform, to see where he had served, maybe even to find the very rifle he served with which would probably have been a No.4 Mk.I* made in Longbranch which was based in Ontario if he remembered right, but he just couldn’t go up there for mere curiosity’s sake.
This was foolish… it was damn silly, and it was foolish… it was raining out, and it was foolish. Locking the bedroom door behind him, he headed downstairs with rifle in hand, a loose round of .303 British he had just reloaded tonight in his right jean pocket with his pocket knife. It wasn’t raining BADLY, but just enough to get wet. This wouldn’t take long anyways. The Sun was low in the west; not a whole lot of time left. He didn’t know the proper ceremony for this, but knew he didn’t have enough rifles and was unwilling to spend as much ammo to make it ‘official’ if a civilian even COULD officially do what he was about to. Tiff eyed him unhappily as he passed her in the living room from where she sat on the couch after her bath; he didn’t bother even looking at her.
Out the back door, he positioned himself on the west side of the grave, facing east, holding the rifle as professionally as he could. The safety was flipped off. Damn, should have put on his ear protection before going out; the safety was reengaged, ear plugs inserted from a jacket pocket, and then it was disengaged again. Standing at what he hazarded to call ‘attention’, stamping his right foot on the dirt which was well off to the side so he knew he did not stand over the recently deceased, he shouldered the rifle, aiming upwards at about a 45 degree angle.
It was missing 20 guns and he wasn’t about to spend 20 more rounds of ammunition, not to mention being a civilian he probably had no place in giving a salute of any kind, but his modest ‘one gun salute’ was made. Rifle came away from his shoulder, still holding it as best as he could imagine it being the ‘proper’ way to do so, about-faced to the left, and walked back inside. She had crept over to the back door to watch him in the dim light, tempted to lock the bugger out but knowing he’d just kick down one of the doors if need be, or break through a window, and so crept back to the couch in the living room as she seen him approaching.
Door locked behind him, opened the bolt slowly, recovered the brass casing, put it in his pocket while fishing out the fresh live round, clicked it onto the top of the magazine, and so chambered it by stripping it off said mag. Safety engaged, and then headed back towards the stairs. “Do you do that for EVERYONE who dies?”
He stopped, still looking forward while holding the rifle by the stock which was balanced in just his right hand, but did not turn his head to look at her. “He was in the Military, and by the amount of badges on the uniform I found upstairs, he had served for an awful long time. I did it out of respect.”
“You served?” It was a fair question, considering the things he knew about firearms and ammo, as well as considering what he had just done. Still, it wasn’t said in an overly friendly or particularly convinced manner.
“I was trying to join when it all went to Hell, tried to get recruited, but didn’t even get the chance to do my medical and interview… I had wanted to join for years, but I was too late.” Silence enveloped them, an awkward silence; she didn’t know how to respond, and he didn’t give enough of a fuck about her to continue this conversation right now.
“Richard?...” she made him stop on the stairs, seen his eyes close, a sigh of frustration coming from him. After a moment they opened, head turned faintly, he gave a side-long look to her. “Can I sleep in the big bed again tonight?...” it was asked meekly, gently, for it was clear she wasn’t in the best light at the moment in his eyes.
“No.” The answer came without much hesitation. In truth he wanted her to, but mostly for her body because he wanted to fuck, but he was angry with her. Angry at all the shit she was putting him through. He could feel his loins heating up, wishing to swell up his manhood at the simple thought that she wanted to spend the night with him again, but he mustered the courage quickly to refuse. To deny him what his body desired, and so continued upstairs with the single syllable being said. It was said coldly. Two steps up and he stopped again, crouching down a little so that he could still be seen below the first floor’s ceiling. “If I want you, I’ll come get you, since you think so low of me as to simply take what I want. That’s the best you’ll get, though. I’ve had enough of the sweet and gentle, lovey dovey, bullshit that went on before.”
It had hurt her, but she did not show it, and did not answer. Part of her JUST wanted a fuck, like he just offered, but a part of her wanted that tenderness he showed when he held her. When he said quiet little sweet nothings to her, and genuinely seemed to care for her. It was the most intimacy and sweetness that any man had ever showed to her. Yet another part of her, a big part, a part that didn’t want to show weakness, a part that made her think that he was a slimy creature who just wanted to use her precious body for his own pleasures, hated him, and didn’t want anything to do with him. Although that was probably the strongest of those three parts, it was still capable of being outnumbered by the first two, and so she sat there alone in the dim living room thinking on what he had said before finishing his march upstairs.
It sounded like he would use her and though that menacing third part of her, the feminist part, would prevent the thought from ever entering her mind… was she not using him as well? The feminist in her would only make her see herself as a victim, and him, a cis white male, as a possible aggressor, an oppressor; a source of evil even if she adored how he treated her that night they slept together in bed. Still, she had tried to shoot him, and complained when he didn’t share his food because she attracted the dead twice and scared off a deer. She had done little for the past two days while he had been utterly busy, yet still she expected him to feed and protect her. Now she wanted him to pleasure her,
to show her compassion, intimacy, and tenderness, even though she argued with him regularly still.
So why should he show her his softness; his sweet side? His inner romantic that wanted to hold a woman, to do as he did by protecting and providing for her, then at night keep her close in his arms as well as to satisfy her womanly desires just as he required satisfaction or his manly ones? He was clean now too, as was she… she wasn’t OVERLY fond of how he had smelt before, but now he should smell GOOD! Not as musky perhaps, but the musk would still be there on his crotch, but more subtle… and she even… for the first time… shaved her pussy. Of course her mind told her she just did it for herself; to try it out, but subconsciously the fact remained buried deep in her mind that she did it for him. Done it while thinking it would make him more likely to give that amazing cunnilingus once more, and that it would make her nether region look more desirable.
It was a good half hour before she decided it was time to leave the living room. Outside were some long shadows, but dim, and reaching the top of the stairs she looked out to the north through the window in this end of the hall. Peering a bit more towards the west, the sky was red. It should be a good day tomorrow in spite of the rain which was pelting down on the roof of the house, pattering on the windows that the wind blew it against. Would he make pancakes again tomorrow morning? They were a bit lacking without butter and syrup, but she still kind of liked them. The thought of spending another night alone in that room was unpleasant... he was crass, he’d struck her again, and she should hate him for it. However at the same time she wanted that warmth and security of his arms, of his manly chest… and also liked the thought of him servicing her like before, and even vice versa.