Win.
He tried again to slow down. His legs weren't slowing to a walk yet and he sent the message down again. He smiled. Run too far and the body just doesn't want to stop.
The legs continued to pull him forward. Rain was drenching down from the sky and Andy was soaked to the bone. Hair strung over his eyes and mouth and he coughed to get out what he could as it needled coldly into his face.
"Slow down," he told his legs. "Stop, goddammit!"
But his feet continued on, splashing through puddles which laked, here and there, along the foggy road.
Andy began to breathe harder, unable to get the air he needed. It was too wet; half-air, half-water. Suddenly, more lightning scribbled across the thundering clouds and Andy reached to stop one leg.
It did no good.
He kept running, even faster, pounding harder against the wet pavement. He could feel the bottoms of his Nikes getting wet, starting to wear through. He'd worn the old ones; they were the most comfortable.
Jesus-fucking-God, he really couldn't stop.
The wetness got colder on his cramping feet. He tried to fall but kept running. Terrified, he began to cough fitfully, his legs continuing forward, racing over the pavement.
His throat was raw from the cold and his muscles ached. He was starting to feel like his body had been beaten with hammers.
There was no point trying to stop. He knew that, now. He'd trained too long. Too precisely.
It had been his single obsession.
And as he continued to pound against fog-shrouded pavement, all he could hear was a cold, lonely night.
Until the sound of his own screams began to echo, through the mountains, and fade across the endless road.
Ménage a Trois
12:38 a.m.
Heat.
Midnight fingers.
They wipe warm metal. She reaches with needful tears.
He gently takes her in his arms. Her back arches. Nipples lift.
He stabs her. She shudders, clutching air.
"Yes," she moans, crying; helpless.
2:15 a.m.
She awakens, gently kisses his fingers.
He opens eyes. Feels it cut his chest. Feels wetness slither down ribs. Strands of perfect muscle.
"Deeper." A groaning whisper.
She pushes harder, placing her ear to his skin. Listening to it tear open. They hold hands. Smile softly.
Their two bodies braid. Sleep.
Bleed.
3:40 a.m.
He wants to watch. Just the two, doing it for him. She lowers eyes, lips a vulgar bow. He waits, fixed. She spreads, runs the bevel along her inner thigh; makes ghastly red licorice.
Running onto sheet. Legs an obscene note written with private ink.
He kneels, gripping himself. Breath speeding.
Her teeth part, tongue reaching.
His eyes close in soundless convulsion. He collapses.
She strokes his hair. Holds him close. Cuts his face open.
"I love you."
He clings like a baby, soaking her breasts red.
4:14 a.m.
They hold each other in candlelight.
Sweet body oils; their personal sea, seeped into sheets.
The knife rests between them.
They take it together, run lips over it. Faces touching. Lick mirror sharpness, kiss thick stem; ecstatic slowness.
Their tongues spread open, bleed.
They giggle.
6:35 a.m.
The candle burns.
They moan. Turn to face each other.
Both want more.
He begs with sounds; eyes.
She sits on his chest, raises it over him. His eyes close, letting it happen.
Hot-red freckles them. He smiles up at her.
She slices him.
6:50 a.m.
They sleep.
Bloody blade nestled between his stomach, her back.
She stirs. Can't sleep.
Something is wrong.
A feeling.
She begins to resent them as three.
The rivalry. It's become ugly.
Obscene.
She quietly turns. Takes the knife lover. Moves it to his throat.
The candle dies.
Incorporation
The black Rolls passed through the gate, wound its way through the grounds of the estate, and parked before the immense mansion.
The driver came around, opened the door, and Joel slid from the leather seat.
"He's waiting," advised the driver.
Joel nodded and approached the mansion's imposing front door.
After all this time, why would Longstreet want to talk to him, he wondered? He'd always done well for the old man's corporations. A good company man, thought Joel. That's me. So, what on earth did Longstreet have in mind? He lifted the brass knocker on the front door and it came down with a rich thud.
After a moment, the door slowly opened and a tall butler, with a dour face, stood looking down at Joel.
"Please come in."
Joel passed through the doorway, with an uneasy smile, and stood in the entryway of the enormous mansion. Around him, statuary and classic paintings loomed. Tapestries and chandeliers hung in silence. A home of wealth, thought Joel, eyeing it all. Unbelievable wealth.
"Mr. Longstreet is waiting for you, in the library," said the butler, gesturing with open palm, toward a door down the main hall.
Joel walked behind the butler and absently reached to straighten his own tie and vest. He cleared his throat once, and the butler turned a bit, glancing. Joel tried to not look apologetic.
"Through here, sir," said the austere servant, directing Joel to the half-open door.
Joel smiled thanks, which was not returned, and quietly knocked on the door.
"Come in," answered a commanding voice from within.
Inside, he was met by a beautifully paneled room, with roaring fireplace at one end and books covering three walls. Standing before the fireplace was Longstreet. Sixty-five, handsome as a movie star.
"Joel. I'm pleased you could keep our date."
"Wouldn't have missed it, sir," said Joel, shaking Longstreet's hand.
But missed just exactly what, he wondered.
"Drink?" offered Longstreet.
"Great," said Joel, noticing the monogram on Longstreet's silk dinner jacket.
HML.
Horatio Miles Longstreet.
He remembered the full name from that first meeting, when Longstreet had hired him for his international sales division. It was only one of Longstreet's many corporations, but he could still remember his excitement. Working as a young executive for H.M. Longstreet.
The richest man in the world.
Longstreet handed Joel a crystal snifter.
"Brandy alright?"
"Perfectly," answered Joel, relaxing a bit at the cordiality. "Joel," said Longstreet, "I've brought you up here so we'd have an opportunity to talk, free of the distractions of the office."
Joel breathed the aroma of the brandy, holding the snifter close to his nose. He nodded as Longstreet spoke, listening attentively. "I've been watching you, you know," said Longstreet, looking at Joel.
"Watching?"
"And observing," said Longstreet, moving to the fireplace and reaching in with a poker to stir the hot logs. "I think your work with the corporation has been absolutely first rate."
Joel brightened, visibly.
"Well, Mr. Longstreet, that's wonderful." He was unable to restrain a sincere smile.
"For both of us, Joel. You see, I'd like to talk about your future with me."
"You, sir?"
"Well, I mean my business, of course. But then, I am my business, after all, aren't I?"
Joel smiled at the comment.
Longstreet laughed and Joel took another sip of brandy, his impatience driving him crazy. This was it and he knew it. Longstreet was getting at something big.
Very big.
/> "I think it's time we get down to specifics, Joel," suggested Longstreet, as Joel's ears perked, "I want to incorporate you into my inner circle of executives."
He patted Joel on the shoulder and walked over toward the bar. "Refill?"
“Thank you,” said Joel, trying to mask his astonishment, as Longstreet poured another brandy.
He realized this was turning out to be more than just a simple raise or promotion. Longstreet was offering to incorporate him into the whole thing. Straight to the top.
“Come, I’ll explain further,” said Longstreet, opening the door to another room.
Joel followed behind, his inside frothing with excitement. Was Longstreet kidding? Had Joel done that fabulous a job? He remembered the sales pushing up when he joined on. Winning the annual award for most outstanding division manager. But . . . this was a total shock.
The two men entered the den, off the library, in which another fireplace blazed. Hung throughout the room were several, portrait-sized paintings of young men, dressed in conservative jacket, vest and tie, all projecting vitality and determination.
“Other young men in my organization who have been incorporated into the business,” said Longstreet, anticipating Joel’s question. He waited for Joel to say something.
“I’m deeply flattered, Mr. Longstreet. But I really must confess, I wasn’t prepared for this offer.” Joel shook his head, impressed. “I’m stunned, sir.”
“Why? You’re young, intelligent, gifted in business, ambitious. A leader. All the things I admire most in a man. The thing that makes me want to incorporate any young man into my business.”
As Longstreet spoke, Joel was suddenly swept by a leaden density. Eyes losing focus.
“What will my new post be?” he asked, struggling to concentrate through dizziness.
“Why, none,” answered Longstreet, watching Joel carefully . . .
Joel’s legs started to fold.
“But you said you wanted to incur . . .?” he couldn’t finish and moved to a thickly tufted chair, collapsing into it, near unconscious.
Longstreet moved closer.
"That's right," he said, "I do. I think it makes me stronger as an executive to have young men in the center of my business. But you forget what I said before, Joel."
Longstreet moved to the fireplace and pushed a button which activated an immense, motorized spit, suspended above the crackling logs. It groaned as it began to turn, large enough to hold a sizable animal.
"I am my business."
The Film
The theater loomed in deadness.
It rose like some vast ship, wrecked on ash nowhere; rusted steel clawed by sick wind. Marquee letters rattled in the howl and glowed: THE FILM on endless night. Beneath were six riveted doors; locked, massive. Parking for those who'd made it, in Detroit scrap, was to one side.
The rest walked; somehow managed. Two men directed cars, when an '89 Taurus junked-in, hammering stomp-chomp.
There were four. Oldest, twenty.
Names: Blue, Janey, Ameyl, Marg.
Met on the diseased veins of what was left.
Blue and Marg fled the East Section when the Boscos guzzed everything. Escaped slaughterhouse pain, took chewed Interstate, squirting toward poison nowhere.
Picked up Janey and Ameyl, hanging thumbs outside Tulsa: now missing; a mesquite boneyard. On their way to ". . . see the motherfuckin' movie!"
They tongued at Blue and Marg like meth-snakes, all about TheFilm . . . not that they'd actually seen it. Had two extra tickets for the theater, 1100 miles west. But they'd swap for a ride
And like that, the four were over charscape, throating blister. "Behold the flicking fuck-palace," Blue yelled, staring at the hulking theater; a fortress in zero.
"We late?" Janey looked to Ameyl, her face still beautiful despite everything.
Ameyl puckered lips like a bullet in skin, gave an obscene kiss. Janey looked away as his laughter raked. Blue turned to look. Bloodshot.
"Forty-nine hours, a few secs . . . ," his smile was a foul hole. His breath stank; Boscos rooting.
"Sex?" Ameyl eeled fingers into Janey's pants. She said nothing; didn't care.
Blue looked up at the theater, dropped eyes to swelling line. "Us. Now. I want up close."
Nearby, sky vehicles roamed barren hills, dropping anti-bacterial plumes. Faint screams of the diseased could be heard, fleeing yellow mist.
Marg hugged Blue as they joined the line. "I feel sick," she whispered. "Took extra Nummers."
He nodded as Ameyl and Janey came up behind, feet raising ash. Around them, the crowd stirred.
Impatient misery uglied faces, wore tempers. Sour arguments started, ended.
Blue watched them all, loathing. "Fuckin' head spiders, man." Ameyl had fingers down throat, like tweezing guts. "Welcome to the Gargle, baby." He tried to laugh but everything hurt.
Above the hundreds who waited, the huge red letters clung to the marquee, making faces below look bloody.
"Ameyl . . . ?" Janey sounded weak. "Is it scary as everyone says?"
"It's fuckin' nerve damage," said Marg, rubbing at her belly that vised with pain.
Ameyl licked lips. "Okay . . . met a guy . . . we did needle at this shitpit, East Shore. Said it's like fuckin' Boscos chewin'. Said he'd seen The Film hundred times."
"Hundred?" Blue smirked; decay fume. He wiped runny eyes, nose slowly bleeding. Yelled: "I wish this fucking line would fucking move!!"
Janey needed a Nummer; sickness, worse than the others. She slid capsule down throat, closed eyes, waited for guts to stop begging.
". . . they're late," said Blue, paying no attention to Janey coughing blood. He glanced at her, nudged Ameyl and Marg. They stared away.
". . . fucking Boscos," said Marg, to no one.
Most in line did the same, hacking bad-red, downing Nummers. But Janey had last-stage and dropped two more capsules into raw stomach. In seconds, the dose kicked; warm-dead. She tried to smile at Marg and trickles of blood ran from mouth corners.
"Vampire!!" yelled Ameyl, pointing at her.
Janey wiped her mouth, smearing sick blood.
Overhead, a deep voice spoke from giant speakers welded to wall. "Doors will open in a moment for the next screening of The Film. Present tickets at the door. Once inside, be seated immediately. The show will start once all are seated. Thank you."
Ameyl's eyes popped. "Bout fuckin' time!"
As the line moved, rain fell. Acid drops hissed ground and the audience raced to entry doors, where two ticket takers waited. Their black Sealer-Suits protected them head-to-toe, and they stared through ruby slits. Their eyes couldn't be seen and they validated tickets, nodding each audience member in.
As the four stepped to the doorway, Janey had the crawl-bad, reached for another Nummer. One of the ticket takers noticed, stopped her, examined her expression.
"You alright?"
She managed a nod.
"How many you taken?"
She looked trapped.
"I'm alright," she said.
The ticket taker remained silent. Exchanged an eyeless glance with the other one. The second gave no sign. The crowd behind began to complain and the first taker finally placed Janey's ticket under a validator, gestured the four in.
The lobby was cold. Four doors led into the main theater. Marg wondered what was upstairs; there seemed to be an entire other floor.
"Welcome to fucking amazing," Ameyl yelped.
The crowd moved into the theater and someone was shoving. Blue turned, knocked an old man behind him to the ground. The man was covered with sores. Stared-up, eyes pleading, hands covering face.
Blue spit on him. "Zombie."
The nervous crowd cattled into the theater's seating area, filled with metal seats. They shivered, steel-chill sticking, and Janey rubbed arms, staring at the concrete ramps between rows of seats that led to the giant screen/wall.
Silent ushers shone turquoise flashlight beams, indicating for a
ll to sit. The four took seats and Ameyl peered around. Wrung raw fingers. Marg rested her head on his shoulder.
He stared forward, saying nothing.
Wondered how scary The Film would be. He'd never felt much in his life; only depression, dread. Endless gnaw. Nobody left was different.
Except the old ones.
It's why they all hated them; they'd seen good things. Could close tired eyes, remember trees, oceans. Could forget the vacant, septic ill. At least for a moment.
Maybe The Film would grind-off the pain. Replace disease and death with a good scare. Maybe he could forget, too. Maybe he could finally. . .
"Start the fucking movie!" some zombie was yelling. Marg pointed. "Lookit that fuck."
"Meatcan," Blue sneered; dark, insolent. Vile anger filling eyes. It was insane to Ameyl how long Blue had made it without Nummers. "Weeks," he'd said, during the trip. Had to be a lie.
Minus enough Nummers, despair became hate; animal rush. "Fuck him!" Blue screamed.
Around them, people glanced without interest, lost in sickness. Other fights started; furious, violent. Huge ushers separated the last of the arguing audience; made them sit. The ushers left. Closed doors.
Lights began to dim and the audience quieted, staring ahead. A few screamed excitedly, and everyone laughed; pumped. They sat impatiently, waiting for the wall to flood with terrifying images. A horrid soundtrack. Jolting edits.
But it remained dark.
Silent.
The crowd started to yell.
"Start the fucking movie!!"
They stood, outraged cameos, wanting to know what was happening. One by one, people began to breathe wrong.
"God . . . the air," Marg said.
Ameyl stared up at the projection windows that should've been spraying light. Thought he saw faces, watching; look away. Heard vents throughout the theater softly inhaling.
"Fuckers!" he screamed. "They're pumping it out!"
The audience was gasping for air and began to scramble up the ramps to the locked doors, beating on the metal. The smell of panic was everywhere in the gigantic theater, and bodies struggled, some thrown to the floor; trampled, calling out in disbelief.
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