by J. N. Morgan
“Well I’m SORRY!” She snapped again, whispering this time at least. “You know how I can get… sometimes I… just get really horny.”
“A crying fetish… well I’d make a comment on how weird that is, but I’ve learned something about myself while with him, you know… I’m calling it a ‘daddy’ fetish.”
“He’s younger than you though.” The one in boots pointed out to the shorter, plumper female still wearing slip-on shoes.
“Yeah but… well… he’s pretty manly… and though his sense of humour can be a bit… almost juvenile, in bed… God… he might indeed be younger than me but he is clearly a man of experience...” it was said lustily and knowing it was in regard to a male, Veronica scoffed in disgust as though she said her favourite flavour was black liquorice, which the black woman hated.
“Well you can keep him… I don’t need no dick in my life.”
“Well I want one in mine, and nothing else, get me?” Nicky’s left arm was elbowed… hard… pointedly making sure that it sunk in that Tiff didn’t want any pussy.
“Ow, alright, I got it… damn… what’s a bitch gotta do to get some snatch around here?”
They were crossing the bridge now which still had trails of decayed matter on it. When they crossed it, their guest stopped, squatted down, and picked up a casing that read…
“Half load?...” she read aloud, looking down at the brass and checking the back of it. “OHHHH! .303 British!” Now looking at the possibly pregnant woman, she said it as though it were a perfectly normal and obvious thing to say. “That was a Lee Enfield he had! I didn’t notice… mentioned it was like 70 years old or something. I believe it. Those rifles are like… ancient… from before even the AK-47, which is 1947.”
“God, you’re sounding like him now…” it was Tiffany’s turn to scoff, shaking her head. “He can go on forever about guns…”
“Really? So if I sound more like him, would it get you all hot and bothered?” The casing was pocketed.
“Nicky…” another word of warning, but again, it didn’t stop her. With a mockingly deep accent, she began.
“Look at me, I’m a big dumb man, I need big guns because my penis is small. I’m white so I rule the world. Go pick up my brass, monkey! Go fetch!” She said it almost like she was a caveman, and though it was insulting to her man, the white woman couldn’t help but fail in trying to stifle her laughter.
“Fuck off, Nick, he’s not like that… HAHAHAHA! FUCK OFF, FOR FUCK’S SAKE, YOU’LL MAKE ME PEE!” She then started walking around down low while squatting, right hand holding her rifle by the stock, left arm flailing about, acting some monkey.
“OOO-OOO-OOO! Yes massa! Right away massa! Can I lick yo boots massa! Thankee massa!” By the fourth time saying ‘massa’, the joke had gone from hysterical, to painful.
“Alright, enough, stop… look, he’s seriously not like that. He hasn’t said a single thing about you being black in all this time! I mean it! Also, doesn’t it like… offend you, to act like a monkey, when it’s such a common racial slur against black people?”
“Fine, fine… I’ll admit… he doesn’t seem like that bad of a guy, but I don’t trust him. I can tell you’re head over heels for the dude, but hey, he’s still a man, and he’s still white.”
“So am I!” She replied defensively. They got to the fire pit and sat down where they had sat before, ignoring the morning dew.
“A white woman.” Somehow this specification had explained her logic, though for her it obviously hadn’t or at least it didn’t right now. There was a time when she’d nod her head in total understanding, but she’d changed since then. “As for the ‘monkey business’, I know you’re not racist, Tiff. You’re a GOOD woman, and I respect you. I know you don’t think badly of me for being black, and you know that I don’t think badly of myself for being black. Hell, I’m downright fuckin’ proud of it, and I’d never want to be anything else! I’m a woman, I’m black, I’m gay, and as far as I’m concerned, I’m perfect just the way I am, so if acting goofy and making myself look silly gets a laugh out of you, hey, I think it’s worth it. Just seeing your smile, let alone hearing you laugh, is enough to make me happy, Babushka.”
A right arm in a white jack came around the taller woman’s shoulders, a deep sense of respect of what she’d said, and also touched at the sweet words at the end. “Easy on the sweet talk there, bull dyke… but I appreciate it… seriously though… never again… ok?”
“You got it… and again… honestly… I’m really sorry about that. I don’t know what got into me.” Staring down at the dark circle where there was once flames, there was clear regret. “God I miss coffee…”
“Me too…” the Sun was still fairly low in the east off to their left, Nick’s arm came up to meet Tiff’s shoulders just as she had done seconds earlier. They sat for a time in silence, then talked for a bit as slowly the Earth was warmed up, talking about what each other thought about the other disappearing for a time, asking if anything good was found in the town while she was away, any close calls, and so on. Standard things when day to day life was a struggle.
CHAPTER 4
“Yeah, I just about jumped out of my skin! Still, this poor old man, Charlie I think it was; he just keeled over next to me. I was trying to comfort him, I mean his wife was right inside, stumblin’ around, dead, and when the shot rang out in the back yard even though he asked Richard to do it… down he went.” The two were walking around outside where Tiff had seen the man shooting, looking down into the grass for shiny brass, almost gold-like but not nearly as glistening.
“Shit… that’s intense…”
“Yeah, I mean he was like RIGHT there, no farther from me than I am from you!”
“So like, did you drag them off in the woods or somethin’?”
“You seen that pan thing in the backyard?” They were between the house and the river, she gestured southeast towards the back of the house.
“Yeah… what?... you mean that’s like a tombstone or something?” She started laughing at the concept, jogging off to the left so she could see round the corner of the house to see that pan or plate or whatever, and laughed harder.
“Hey, come on, that’s not nice; he made that! Or at least, he punched the holes in it. Here, come look!” The two headed towards it to have a look, and she became more solemn upon seeing it.
t
R.I.P
Charlie
and
Denise
Winters
Aug or Sept
2017
“So like… were they old?” Standing a respectable distance away from the ‘grave pan’ to keep from standing over the bodies themselves, they looked upon the crude handiwork.
“Yeah, 70s at least, possibly 80s. Richard buried them, didn’t even ask for my help, just took it upon himself to do it.”
“Did he know ‘em?”
“Nah, but for some reason he just felt compelled to give them at least a somewhat proper burial. No casket, not 6’ under, no proper headstone, but you know as well as I do that this is more than most people get.”
“No kidding…” she scratched her thin chin, “I’m beginning to think you’re right… maybe he isn’t… so bad?...” it was posed as a question because for around two years, all she’d heard from the short, squat woman who stood next to her was that men are pigs, men are rapists or at least sexist, whites are all racist, cis gendered people are transphobic, and so on. Cis being, essentially, a man who identifies as a man, or a woman who identifies as a woman.
“No… no he isn’t… and honestly, Veronica… I’m pretty sure I love him. I was wrong about all the things I said about hating men. I meant it at the time, I really did, but… with him… it’s like… when I hated, I was sailing in rough seas with the wind and rain in my face. When I got to know him, it’s as though the storm passed and instead of my vision only seeing a few meters in front of me I can see for miles and mi-”
To this she was stared at
wide-eyed, and the back of a dark hand came swiftly to her forehead though not so swift that it struck her. The solemn look on the white woman’s face, the serious features of someone professing their love for a man to a friend they were confiding in, turned to a grin as she realized what Nick was doing.
“I’m not ill…”
“You’re somethin’, I know that much… Christ, you sound like some kind of… what’re they called? ‘Romance movies’…” the hand came away and they walked back where they were looking for brass until she heard the weak call.
“Oh shit…” she muttered, “COMING! I gotta go check on him, but I’ll come back out when he’s ok, alright?”
“God, he doesn’t sound very good… he was dancing and everything just a couple days ago…”
“Everything is right…” To this, the plump woman gave the air a pelvic thrust, which spurred a loud laugh from Nicky followed by a snort, which in turn got a laugh from Tiff. She unlocked the back door, went in, and locked in behind her, just like she did with the front door earlier.
“Sorry, baby… been catching up with Nick. You want some water or something?” A smile was on her face as she came to his side, he looked happy to see her in such high spirits, left hand coming up towards her, though not rising from the elbow.
“Heeeey… yeah I’m… getting hungry… and… well…” she had knelt down beside him, taking his hand, feeling it go limp once she took the weight since the strain of holding it up had been clear in his shakiness. “I have to… God damn… it…”
It wasn’t a pleasant experience, as you can rightly imagine. First, to get it out of the way, the easy one; she relieved his bladder in a glass, and put it off to the side. Then, formulating a plan for the other issue, he was hesitant about it the whole time but once he seen her approaching with the bucket, he shook his head, stirring, and in spite of groaning loudly with the pain continued to try to sit up. She ran to him. “No no no no nooooo you don’t. Just stay still, you need to heal. Look, there is nothing shameful about this!”
“NNH! Fffffffuck… bul-LSHHHHHIT! Agh…” Resting back down, unable to push against the hand she held at his chest which lightly applied pressure, he writhed in the self-inflicted agony. He really would have tried getting up, too, if she hadn’t stopped him, but it was clear now that he wasn’t going anywhere. “Fucking Hell…” his eyes were tearing up yet again, left hand coming up weakly and dropping to his side in frustration. “This isn’t… dignif… ied…”
“Richard… Richard-Richard-Richard.” She said the name quickly, trying to get his attention, to wrench him out of this self-loathing and self-pity he was filling himself with. “Listen, I know… I’m not a particularly young woman anymore… alright? No! God, you’re such a sweetheart, but no, I’m 36 years old, alright? It took meeting you before I could let a man in my life… it took your touch to show me what I had been denying myself all these years… and you? You’ve made me feel more amazing than anything I’ve ever felt before. Everything you’ve done so far… well… save for the slaps, heh… but all the other things that we’ve done…” she recalled the punch in the stomach he gave her once but decided not to bring that up in this mostly-truthful pep talk, “… no. All the other things that you’ve done… that you’ve done to me… was amazing.
“The licking, the rubbing, the suckling, the squeezing, the nibbling, the pinching… you have given me more pleasure in less than a week, than I’ve experienced in the rest of my lifetime!” She meant every word, too, and he could see that, and it touched him. “You’re more man than anyone I’ve ever known… even when we first slept together and you were… well… so ripe, haha!” He smiled at the memory, recalling how he was incredibly unwashed and musky. “There was something about it I just… MMM!” Her shoulders lifted, closed eyes going up, mouth in a smile, clearly relishing the thought.
“So you cut out this self-depreciative bullshit…” her right hand came forward, wiping he tears from his face, and the smile went from him, ashamed that he even had them there in the first place. “You’re a man… one Hell of a man… and…” she leaned down closer to him, whispering now, “… you’re the man who’s children I want growing inside me…” they were so close that all he could see of her was her green eyes, and they were full of undiluted lust and as the face slowly grew farther away, the features that presented themselves around those powerful eyes also betrayed that desire; his body went rubbery. Nobody had ever spoken to him like this before… ever… he’d gotten compliments on his ‘performance’, of course, but nothing like this.
“When you’re better… when you’re up and about… doing your manly things… hunting, fishing, fighting, making sure your guns are in order…” he ignored the fact she once again used the word ‘guns’ instead of ‘firearms’, “… and most importantly… fucking me silly every God damn night…” he bit his lower lip at that, “then this unfortunate memory will be far behind us, forgotten, and you’ll be right back where you belong… between my welcoming thighs. So, sweetcock,-” ah, her typical rebuttal when he jokingly calls her sugartits… he loved it… “-let’s do what we have to do to get you back on your feet, because none of this is going to change how hot the thought of your masculine body makes me. I mean, God damn, you survived getting shot by a RIFLE! Something they use for like… deer and moose and stuff! Can’t stop YOU though, can it?”
He was grinning widely at her now, more widely than he typically can from how weak from bloodloss he was, but the grin inevitably faded as he reminded himself of what had to be done. “Thank you, baby… you don’t know… how much you mean… to me.” Her hand came forward again, stroking his short-cut dark brown hair back. “Now… I can’t lean… on my left… so I… NNH-AH!” He tried for his left, but struggled heavily.
Outside, as Veronica found the main pile of .303 brass where he had knelt and shot many of them to the west across the river, the first 7 or so that fell, she heard his cries of pain. At first, hearing a man scream, she smirked, but knew that Tiff was right next to him, worried about him, and the face become saddened as the casings were picked from the grass and put into her coat’s pocket. The fucker knew how to handle a bolt action, that’s for sure. She had heard the rifle fire, it was so fast she was sure that it must have been a semi auto, and that likely they weren’t hits. Yet wading over to the west side of the bridge when she had been in hiding, peeking around the corner to where the undead approached the river, she seen them falling one at a time. He was still a slimy, disgusting man… but she had been impressed.
“It’s… no use… can’t… stay… on my side.” He was breathing heavily, she didn’t know what to do, there was such pain on his face, and reflected that his bandages were QUITE bloody and probably had to be changed. “You have… to push… me. Keep me… on… my side…”
“Richard, I…” he looked at her through the pain, it was pleading.
“Just… just do it… please… give me… my belt… in mouth.” She muttered things to herself, not believing she was doing this, taking the thick leather belt from beside his ‘mattress’ and folding it up at one end. She brought it to his mouth.
“When I… heave to… don’t stop. Just… get… the bucket…” Tiffany nodded, and fed the leather into his mouth once he opened it to accept it. He cried out into the leather as he gave a lurch to his left away from her. Her left forearm went to his hip, just above his buttocks, and pushed to aid him in his leaning. His scream was let out anew, muffled by folded leather but still clearly audible to Nick outside, who was trying to keep her focus on the grass; every cry driving home that it was what she did that gave him this pain. It made her wish the shot was fatal, if for no other reason than at least she wouldn’t have to hear all this.
The screaming teetered out, replaced by muffled groaning due to exhaustion, and Tiff seen the blood dripping down from his shoulder along his back as well as the incredibly blood-soaked towels beneath him. He had to be redressed… for sure… and she would be glad when this
‘business’ was done so she could take on that slightly less disgusting job, though still anticipated it to be incredibly nasty. It was while doing this, hearing his cries and groans, helping him stay up, trying to keep the bucket in place to collect his… waste… that she tried to convince herself that she had taken those fictional nursing classes. After it was all done, after she had completed the last ‘finishing touches’ with the TP nearby, her left arm finally came away and he gave one last shout of agony upon flopping back down onto his back.
“I’M SORRY!” She said aloud hurriedly to try and let him hear it over his own screams. He started grunting, shaking his head repeatedly, quickly, and turning the face left, managed to force the roughly decade-old leather from his mouth.
“Hahh… hahh… God… no. Hahh… hahh… thank y-… you… thanks… thanks…”
“Ok, ok, just… please, just rest…” her nose was wrinkled from the contents of the bucket, but felt sorry for the guy, sweating now from the discomfort of what just happened. He deserved better than this, he really did. The contents of the glass were tossed out first. Nicky watched her passing hastily while carrying something but thought better than to call her over after what just happened. Once the contents of the bucket was tossed to let the river take it away she got a couple good sized stones from beneath the surface, clunked them into the bucket then left it in the water, angled towards the running water to let it clean it out. Going a tiny bit north, upstream of the bucket, she rubbed her hands even though they were ‘clean’. It had been a most unhygienic experience.
On the way back to the house, she caught Veronica’s eye. “You are SUCH an asshole…” she said, her voice broken, nearly to the point of tears. The blood, the screaming, the grunting, the things she was now forced to do for him even if she did them willingly, it was her fault, and it was then, in that one sentence, that it truly sunk in. Somehow it took all this time for her to truly understand she nearly killed him, the one her friend loved, and now she had to do all manner of unsightly things to help keep him alive, to nurse him back to health, and from their chat earlier she knew their supplies were dwindling.