by Stuart Keane
But he didn’t care.
He was happy.
And right now, Thea was leaning over the desk, speed and litheness in her actions. She hitched her skirt to reveal two sublime buttocks and slender, glorious thighs. They shone golden in the dimness of the makeshift room, all curves and soft flesh. A hand roamed between her legs, enticing him. She placed the torch on the desk and groaned.
Stephen unbuckled his belt and dropped his zipper, releasing his erection. The chilled air hugged his penis like a glove, sending a shiver through his body. The sight of Thea's naked backside brought him back to reality. He straddled over to the half-naked woman, eager to fulfil his desire.
"Shhhh…"
Stephen stopped, and nearly fell over. "What?"
"Did you hear that?"
"No, what?"
"I heard a … noise."
Stephen grinned. "It might be the blood rushing to my head … if you catch my drift."
Thea looked down and smiled, impressed. She gave his penis a quick stroke with a circled thumb and forefinger. "No, it's not that, but let's revisit that at another time." She lowered her skirt again, concealing her modesty. "You sure we're alone down here?"
"I didn’t see anyone, did you?"
"No, but … the sewers are a large place." She handed him the torch. "Go look. Please?"
Stephen zipped up, and adjusted his genitals. His arousal dampened, he looked around the room. Squinting into the corners, he saw nothing but gloom and shadow. Flicking the torch in the direction of the desk, his eyes widened as he realised his error. "Thea. There's a whole other room back here…"
Thea shivered and folded her arms. "What?"
He stepped past the desk and disappeared behind a small wall, one originally hidden by the blackness. "Yeah, it goes back into the hill. It's … it's huge."
"I don’t like this. Can we go? We can fuck in the car."
"Yeah … sure. Wait a second."
Thea closed her eyes and rubbed her temples. She heard Stephen's footsteps echoing, growing distant as he disappeared.
For fuck sake…
She didn’t see the figure lunging towards her until it was too late.
It crashed into her back, sending the small woman sprawling onto the desk. Her breasts mashed against the slick surface as her ribs clipped the edge of the wood, and knocked the wind from her. Gasping for air, she tried to push off, but felt herself being held down. A weight was on her back.
She felt a hand hoisting her skirt.
Unable to resist a mischievous smile, Thea slapped at the figure that pinned her down. "Stephen … Stephen, this isn't funny. It's hot, but totally inappropriate…"
No response.
"Stop it," she moaned, half-hearted. "Get … get off."
She felt a pair of lips slicking the back of her thigh, and she groaned.
A tongue darted out slowly, lapping at the flesh. It moved inwards, leaving a wet trail on her skin. The chilled air prickled it, jabbed it. She realised he was moving towards her exposed sex.
"Well … if the mood takes…"
The tongue slid between her moist lips, lapping gently.
"Oh, fuck…"
Succumbing to desire, Thea leaned on the desk and groaned, clawing at its surface as the mouth began to pleasure her. She felt her nipples stiffen, her buttocks quiver. Moaning, a warmth began to rise within her. "Don’t … don’t stop."
Cold fingers parted her, delving deeper. She could hear them slurping inside her as her body gave way to the expertise. The coolness added to the increasing sensation. She arched her back, allowing him full access. "Fuck … the sooner you stick that cock in me, the better."
A low vibration reverberated through her as Stephen spoke, his lips and muffled words tickling her, heightening the sensation. "Fuck me … do it, fuck me…"
"Thea?"
"Yes, do it. I don't care, just make me cu…"
"What the fuck?"
Thea opened her eyes. Stephen stood before her, his eyes wide, a look of terror on his face. His skin had bleached pale, and a sheen of sweat glistened in the torch light. Thea stared in confusion, her breath ragged and raw, and the approach of orgasm nearer than she had expected. She was wet and horny; her unsated desire was building to breaking point.
And then it was gone.
Replaced with something … new.
She glanced over her shoulder as the oral sex ceased.
And saw the indescribable monster looking back at her.
Thea screamed.
She saw veins and arteries, bubbled skin that seemed cratered and contoured in places that didn’t, no, couldn’t exist on the human anatomy. A ragged thatch of hair sat atop its head, gnarled and dampened by unknown elements. A low gurgle escaped from the creature, a sound that made Thea urinate on the spot.
A strip of skin hung from its shredded lips, fresh blood sluicing down its chin. It slapped against the cracked flesh of the face—it’s a face, it has to be a face, it can't be anything else, oh dear God help me—as the dead eyes stared through her. As the urine pattered the ground beneath her, steam rising into the air, she realised her torn clitoris was dangling from the black abyss of a mouth. A thin sliver of epidermis, glimmering and fresh. A few seconds later, the pain caught up, rendering her body useless. Her crotch erupted in pain as the urine began to splash her gaping wound.
Her eyes rolled into the back of her head.
Thea collapsed onto the desk once more.
Unconsciousness took over.
THREE
A decent sense of direction had never been one of Bruce's skills, and within seconds of moving across the barren rooftop, he found himself trapped in a narrow corner. As he peered over the steep edge, the lack of a fire escape or smaller building on which to descend left him at the mercy of the approaching boys. If he jumped, the fall would surely kill him. The bare pavement mocked him silently from below, daring him to try. After a little hesitation, and realising he'd run to the wrong corner, he ducked behind a large vent.
It was too late.
"Well, well. If it isn't Brucie boy!"
"Oh yeah. Bruce, you little gobshite!"
Simon and Remy ambled over with gleeful abandon, a gallop that fell halfway between a mindless trot and an eager sprint. Wild laughter passed their young lips as they approached like a pair of lions. They stopped beside Bruce and flanked him, blocking any escape.
Remy took charge, a sneer on his face. He lifted his dirty red baseball cap, ruffled his hair, and repositioned the headgear. "What ya doin' up here?"
Simon chuckled, a sliver of drool nestling in the corner of his mouth. "Yeah. This is our spot. Everyone at the home knows that."
"I don’t see your name on it," Bruce said, defiant. He wasn't scared of the boys, despite their feeling of entitlement. He glanced at Simon, "And your parents certainly don’t own it because … oh, that's right. You don’t have any."
Simon recoiled. Remy's eyes widened before he exploded with an incredulous laugh. He flicked his gaze to his companion, patted him on the shoulder, and returned his stare to Bruce. "My, my. The boy believes he has a set of stones."
Simon shook his head. "Stones or stupid. I reckon it’s the natter."
"Natter?" Remy queried.
"He means latter. Moron couldn’t tell a banana from an apple," Bruce uttered.
Remy dipped his chin. His left hand lashed out, clipping Bruce on the side of the head with a solid thwap. The boy staggered against the vent with a loud metallic echo. He didn’t raise a hand to the throbbing that exploded across his skull, didn’t flinch, and resisted the urge to react to the pain. The law of the home. Weakness renders you a victim for life.
And Bruce certainly wasn’t one.
Instead, he composed himself. Said nothing.
"Did that hurt?" Remy asked, his lopsided grin mocking his victim. Bruce noticed his yellowed front teeth, one overlapping the other slightly. He hated that smile, and if not for his need to live in the home—unti
l a parent took him, anyway—he would have loved to adjust it. He didn’t have such a luxury. Applying his very basic knowledge of dentistry would have him shipped to another home with immediate effect, to another hovel, with new managers and nurses, with more Simons and Remys to deal with. A clean slate, but one that left him at the bottom of the totem pole. One that could ruin his prospects of ever finding a new home, or permanent parents.
"Well? I asked you a fuckin' question," Remy spat. The stench of cigarette smoke and cheap beer weaved up Bruce's nostrils, the pungent smell bringing him back to reality. He despised the boy before him, with his entire being. Again, bound by personal safety, he resisted the urge to react. Remy licked his lips, a furry tongue slipping from his mouth like a snake's. "Did it hurt?"
"No," Bruce said. "It never does."
"Good, good." Remy struck him again, with his right hand this time. The shot was harder, quicker. The thwap echoed across the rooftops, and the blow sent Bruce sprawling to the floor in a heap. The rough surface ripped open his jeans at the knees, and scraped his coat, tearing it at the lining. The cold rushed in, caressing his cold skin with icy fingers. The heat of anger rose within, soothing him somewhat. Rolling over, he wobbled and climbed to his feet. He knew he had a way to go yet, such were Remy's sadistic rituals. The grazes on his knees prickled and throbbed. He could feel warm blood trickling down his legs.
Simon tapped Remy on the arm. "He keeps getting back up. He's defeating you, Remy!"
Bruce couldn’t resist. "It's defying, the word is defying, dickhead."
Remy shook his head. "Seems you simply don’t learn, Brucie."
"Learn? You couldn’t teach a piss head how to drink his golden elixir. Education has never been your … shall we say, strong point?"
Remy smiled. "You're a mouthy fuck."
"And you're a cunt that smells of dog shit. What you going to do about it?"
Remy paused, astounded, and in that second, Bruce knew he'd stepped over the line. Remy Winter was a man of power, albeit self-imposed and earned through violent means. He earned his false respect in his own way, by punching, threatening and bullying the other boys at the home. His stocky frame allowed him to do this with a minimum of ease; boys ran in fear, and the nurses turned a blind eye, scared to receive their own share of his constant anger.
Bruce had seen it before, and he knew what it meant. The power was nothing but an elaborate façade constructed through years of neglect, and over-compensation for his own personal flaws. Unlike many boys and Bruce himself, who were actual orphans, Remy's parents dropped him at the home; to his knowledge, they were still alive, refusing to have anything to do with their abusive son. He was an unwanted child, the only such case in the entire facility. Bruce knew that ate at Remy, gave him a sense of entitlement and false hierarchy, and formed the wobbly foundation for his unending vendetta.
No one stood up to him, not even the adults.
But Bruce had, seconds ago.
He knew it was a mistake.
He saw a darkness form behind Remy's eyes, something new and frightening. His face twisted into a mask of utter hatred and spite. Even Simon backed off from his friend with a hesitant stance, placing his hands before him. Right then, Bruce knew Remy had heard those words before, probably from his neglectful father. What did they call them? Trigger words? Bruce backed to the lip of the roof, his rump pushing against it. Any further, and he would fall.
Shit.
Remy started towards him.
Bruce wouldn’t beg for forgiveness, nor would he show fear. He wouldn’t give the boy the satisfaction. Should he die, and have his miserable existence wiped from the face of the earth, revenge and karma would avenge him. Simon was the type to floodgate his traumatic experiences; if he witnessed a murder, it wouldn’t remain a secret. The boy was emotional, willing to share, a trait shared by most of the orphans.
Unless Remy killed him.
An idea that seemed logical and realistic.
Bruce suddenly realised that the inane thought, one that had existed in his muddled brain for one whole second, was bizarre, ludicrous even.
I don’t want to be avenged.
I don’t want to die.
"I'm goin' to fuckin' kill you," Remy sneered.
Bruce lunged left, but Remy tracked him, closing the gap between them. Simon followed his companion, keeping his distance. The second boy eyed the edge of the roof with terror, his worried eyes flickering in their sockets.
Bruce lunged right.
Remy paused, until a smile lit up his face.
"One less boy at the home. My, I think Mother Tyra would appreciate that. Less boys, less work. I might even get a … a reward," he finished.
"And you'd be a murderer," Bruce interjected.
"Oh well. I'll blame the folks. It's their fault I'm here."
"Don’t do this," Bruce said, betraying his own rule out of sheer desperation.
"Why, you scared? I thought ol' Brucie boy was fearless. You never backed down from me, not like the other kids. I actually admired you for it, for a while anyway. Until it became annoying."
"You don’t scare me, Remy. The thirty-foot drop does. I want to make that clear."
"Oh, I'm not going to push you, that's too easy. I think a severe kicking would be better. You get all kinds of crazies on these empty rooftops. A boy could easily fall afoul of one. It happens all the time. Tales of suburbia. What do you reckon, Simon?"
No response.
"Simon?"
Silence.
Remy spun around. "Simon, get your arse…"
He didn't finish his sentence as hot blood sprayed him in the face. Remy flinched and staggered backwards, slapping at his face as the sudden deluge blinded him. He could feel warm liquid seeping down his cheeks, into his eyes, and coating his eyelids. Slicking, dribbling, sticky. He rubbed with his palms, his hands a blur as they slipped and slid all over his crimson visage.
Bruce watched the boy for a moment, before his eyes returned to Simon.
He nearly vomited on the spot, and had it not been for the hours of horror movies, he probably would have. He took a step forward as Remy squealed beside him, collapsing to the floor. "What the…"
Simon was on his knees, his throat torn out. A large strip of sloppy flesh hung from the opening, and dangled against his chest. Dark blood coated his front and legs, and pooled on the floor before him. The wind died a little, and that's when Bruce heard the frantic gurgling, desperate sounds that emitted from his open jugular, a gaping crevice bubbling with blood and fluids. He couldn’t breathe, and his lungs and veins were pumping vital sustenance into thin air. As the dying boy flopped forward, Bruce gasped and looked up.
And saw the figure standing there.
In the dark sunlight, it was nothing but a murky shadow, mysterious and thin, tall. Backlit, it stood still, not moving. He couldn’t tell for sure, but Bruce was certain it was eyeing him and Remy. As the sunlight disappeared behind a cloud and his eyes adjusted, revealing the figure in slow motion like some bizarre competition announcement, he saw the blood that coated its entire frame, the bright red that drooled from its mouth, the fluid combining with saliva to form a pink goo.
He saw the eyes.
Yellowy white, bloodshot.
There's no way…
Bruce felt a hand on his shoulder, a sudden weight pushing him forward, towards the creature. Fighting it, he spun outwards in a sharp circle. Remy shot past him, his own momentum working against him, and stopped before the figure. The boy shrieked, frozen by the horror of the situation. His red cap toppled to the rooftop floor.
Bruce composed himself and took a step back. He tried to push me?
He glanced to the right, towards his escape. His original destination, long before the presence of Simon and Remy had thrown him off. A leap across the narrow gap between two buildings would place him on an abandoned rooftop. No fire escapes, no way down. A perfect place to think in safety, away from the clutches of the creature before him
.
He gazed forward, and Remy was turning towards him, in an attempt to escape the monster, but it was too late. With shocking speed, it bent forward, clutched the top of Remy's skull, and yanked. Bruce placed his hand to mouth as the skin from Remy's face whipped upwards like a blind. The flesh and muscle vanished, revealing a glistening skull with huge rolling eyeballs and a lolling tongue. Remy let loose a final scream, a guttural, skin-deep pierce of utter agony. The creature dropped the saggy bag of flesh and hair to the floor, no longer interested in it, and wrapped its arms around Remy, pulling him back into his clutches. Bruce turned away and ran for the rooftop beside him. The crunch of flesh and muscle filled the air, followed by the squelch of a human being devoured. Pacing himself, he caught his stride, readied his legs and leapt through the air.
A set of hands flailed uselessly from the side, missing his ankle by inches. Had it gained purchase, Bruce would have careered and toppled to the deep, dark alleyway below. He hit the rooftop on the other side, safe, his breath caught in his throat. Rolling to a stop and exhaling, he turned and glanced up.
Three figures were observing him from the other rooftop.
Watching.
Waiting.
But idle, doing nothing. Bruce narrowed his eyes.
Bruce had seen enough horror movies to know one thing. And although his brain couldn’t comprehend the nature of their sudden appearance, or the reason for their now-legitimate existence, he was certain in his brain that they were exactly what he thought they were.
The cracking flesh. The decay. The rotting stench. The wild groans.
Bruce was looking at a group of zombies.
The undead.
He was sure of it.
Straight out of a Romero movie.
God bless, Romero. He got me through many a lonely night.
"It's … it's impossible."
And it was impossible, but it was happening right before his disbelieving eyes. Bruce rubbed his face and watched with an inquisitive gaze, terrified but curious. Something wasn't right. They were zombies, he was sure of that, but they had … different traits. Was it their appearance? No, the skin was rotting and bulbous, peeling away in large flakes. Something was off … something was strange about these creatures.