by H. L. Murphy
It's difficult, if not impossible, to describe the sound generated by an eighteen inch long rubber marital aid as it impacts human flesh at fifty some odd miles per hour, but I will cherish it forever.
“Jesus Christ,” James bellowed from the deck, the sudden deceleration of my makeshift projectile having taken him from his feet. “You hit me with a rubber dick! Who does that? That's a total violation of the man code. Oh, God, the balls have hair! I have nut hair in my face!”
“Don't act like its your first time,” I snickered, quickly losing control and beginning to belly laugh. My laughter grew until every muscle in my body hurt. Through it all, I could hear James’ creative invective becoming more and more ardent. Finally, I was able to regain control of myself and end the incessant giggling, only to observe James struggling to his feet and begin stalking toward me.
“Mother fucker, I'm gonna beat the white off your milk toast ass,” James snarled, whipping the enormous hot pink marital aid back and forth. As I watched my best friend wielding that ridiculously large dildo like a broadsword, I felt the giggles starting to return. However, not wanting to be beaten about the head and shoulders with a giant cock, I dropped to scoop up a pair of the wobbly objects.
“I am not afraid of you,” I stated, my lips moving out of sync to my words in the finest Chinese Kung-fu film tradition. “You are no match for my southern double fisted fighting cock style. Waaaaahhh-haaaa!”
Taking up the gauntlet, James ran through a series of exaggerated martial arts poses before unleashing a blood curdling scream and rushing at me, neon pink dildo held high. While I preferred a two weapon style, James focused all his efforts on a two handed power attack.
“You will fall before my North Star Thrusting Spear technique,” James returned in the same Hong Kong dubbing style. To emphasize his point, James struck a pose wherein he wobbled his marital aid like a wax wood spear. In my recent experience, there was nothing as inherently disturbing as having the anatomically correct head of a hot pink, eighteen-inch long dildo thrust at you in a violent and unfriendly manner.
In response, I attacked with a frightening ardor, and so, too, did James.
In case you were unaware, being hit with an eighteen-inch long rubber dildo hurts like a mother fucker. Each and every time the cursed thing struck my flesh it felt not dissimilar to being hit by a sledge hammer. Yes, sadly, I do know exactly how that feels. Yet, somehow James and I continued to wail upon one another with reckless abandon for entirely too long.
“What the fucking hell are you two idiots doing?” Lizzy screamed from the hatchway. In retrospect, if I had been smarter I wouldn't have turned my head to face Lizzy until after the fight had been called off. As it was, James landed a solid strike on the back of my head. Added to my list of obscenely painful experiences was the sudden deceleration of my face after its impact with the steel grating that passed for the cargo hold decking. Oh, the exquisite agony of steel grating cutting through blood, skin, and muscle to dent bone. Hooray for me, I had never hoped to go through any such thing in my life. My face leaking vital fluids, I raised my gaze to find Lizzy, Angie, and Melinda staring at the two of us as though we were the mentally retarded offspring of the village idiots. Glancing over to James, his face covered in purplish bruises, I thought about how this must have seemed to anyone not James and I.
“I'm busy kicking his ass,” I half shouted, half laughed as James said the exact same thing at the exact same moment. Beaten, bruised, and exhausted, James and I fell to laughing, as well as to the floor. Two over stressed idiots laying atop a mountain of impossibly colored, impossibly sized rubber cocks giggling their fool heads off. Stress. It does strange things to different people, especially two such strange people as James and I. As we released the accumulated stress of the past few months, I could feel the disapproving glares of the three women increasing with each passing guffaw. Judgement was being passed upon us, and we lay helpless to defend ourselves. Whatever. Let them stand in judgement. James and I had been through entirely too much to care. We needed this moment, this act of rampant stupidity to clear our collective heads and reset our resolve.
“If you bleed on my skirt,” Melinda snarled at James, ”I will rip your scrotum off like a paper towel.”
“Goddamn, that's harsh,” I giggled, and half heartedly slapped at my buddy with my remaining dildo. In return, James snorted and placed a foot way too close to my junk.
“Maybe I like it a little rough,” James snickered. “Pain spices things up, makes it very interesting. She gets those painted talons going…hoo buddy. Next thing you know, she's got the riding crop out and I'm screaming like a howler monkey.”
“Jesus fuck,” I moaned. “Never, ever say anything like that ever again. Fuck, I want to scrub my ears out with a shotgun.”
“Consider it payback for all the years you've been raping my mind with insane ramblings and half baked ideas,” James mumbled as he struggled to his feet, careful not to glance over at a fuming Melinda. Oh Jesus, did that mean she really did use a riding crop during sex? I like a touch of the naughty naughty, but a fucking whip? Before I could apply the mental brakes my cursed imagination began trotting out a series of disturbing scenarios, each more weirdly perverted than the last. I was so horrified by the vision of carnal excess I began to thrash myself about the head and shoulders with the rubber implement in the vain hope I could smash the traitorous images from my psyche. Some things, can never be unseen. “Finn, come here.”
“Why? You plan to put me out of my misery?” I muttered brokenly. Hurling the massive sexual device away I struggled up, gently massaging my aching jaw. Oh, that doesn't sound right. Shaky step after shaky step, I stumbled over to where James was staring into the Russian crate. Coughing up bloody mucus, I turned my watering eyes upon the contents of the crate…and found myself utterly stunned by lay within.
“Huhn,” I managed, and continued to stare dumbly.
Interlude One
Dane Kincaid spat obscenity after invective laced obscenity under his breath as he slid beneath the late model truck, his tool bag, and collecting pan already there. It was, he hated to admit, his turn to replenish the gas tanks. In order to do so, either Dane or Kyle would be required to slide beneath a vehicle, drill a small hole in the gas tank, allow the tank to drain into a collecting pan, transfer the gasoline into a proper receptacle, and then plug the hole if sufficient fuel remained to warrant another visit. The process was messy, time consuming, and nerve wracking for the poor bastard that had to crawl under a vehicle, leaving himself exposed and relying entirely on the other man to provide cover from the undead.
For Dane no small amount of his concern stemmed from the fact that his best friend in all the world stood against the front fender of the truck eating a Swiss roll and smoking a joint. Given Gaunt’s very genuine PTSD issues the marijuana was the simplest and most efficient means of psychological relief available, but Dane wished his friend would demonstrate a finer understanding of the concept of time and place. Dane unzipped his tool bag and pulled out a spring loaded driver tipped with a titanium drill bit. In the beginning, Dane and Gaunt made use of a cordless battery powered drill but disposed of the device after an incident involving a small gasoline fire ignited by an errant spark from the cordless drill. As it happened Gaunt had been under the truck when the fire ignited a customized leather motorcycle jacket with double heavy stitching, reinforced elbows, Kevlar inserts over the spine, and the finest embroidery money could buy. Weeks later and Gaunt was still bitching about the loss, even though he replaced his lost jacket from a Harley Davidson dealership in Stuart. The forsaken jacket, or what remained of it, resided with Gaunt’s hard saddle bag in the hopes that one day he might see the incredible embroidered portrait of Bob Marley restored to its former glory. So far as Dane was concerned it was useless thought. The instant he locked eyes on his first zombie Dane knew, in his soul, nothing would ever be the same again.
As Dane placed the drill bit against the truck’s
gas tank, a glimmer of a horrible thought reared its miserable head. Half the country away, in Little Rock, Arkansas, Dane’s ex-wife and his two boys were exposed to the nightmare without him. To be completely honest, Dane secretly prayed his ex-wife might take a bad step and be devoured by a horde of undead cannibals, even though his boys loved their mother. Despite his personal feelings towards Evelyn, Dane rode his boys to give their mother her due respect. He stabbed the spring loaded driver into the tank with a touch more fervor than was warranted as ten thousand terrible scenarios played out in his mind. Gasoline streamed out into the collecting pan, beginning the process of harvesting the necessary ten gallons.
“You ever think about whether or not those things still understand, still feel like real people,” Gaunt asked quietly.
“No, I don't,” Dane answered swiftly. “Diane was dead, brother. All you did was return ashes to ashes.”
“Yeah, I get that, but what if there's some part of them that's, like, grateful for putting an end to their suffering,” Gaunt’s voice turned wistful, almost pleading with creation itself for absolution.
“I ain't a priest,” Dane stated flatly. Gasoline poured freely into the pan while he prepped a patch to seal the tank. “But I don't think it's likely whatever power in the universe there is would let people suffer that way. It would be cruel in the extreme, and a benevolent, loving god wouldn't act that way.”
“That makes sense,” Gaunt sucked in a lungful of smoke, stomped out the remains of his joint, and blew out a long cloud of smoke. When he spoke again, his voice was hard, full of resolve. “This mother fucker right here.”
Beneath the car, Dane clearly made out the scrape of gunmetal on leather just before Gaunt leveled his artillery piece of a revolver on an unseen target and squeezed off a round. Even knowing the weapon was about discharge, Dane still jumped as the report assaulted his battered hearing. Obscenities spilled from Dane’s mouth seconds after his forehead impacted the gasoline covered tank. In a flash the former Air Force mechanic scrambled from beneath the truck to snatch up his rifle and scan for threats.
“Where?” Dane shouted over the ringing in his ears. The suppressor tipped Ruger 10/22 slowly traversed the small parking lot seeking the source of danger.
“That building,” Gaunt pointed with the barrel of his revolver towards a three story commercial office. Since most of the windows had been smashed out long before the two arrived it took Kincaid a moment to locate the newly shattered glass and the body sliding back into the room beyond. “Some asshole with a rifle. Spotted him checking out our rides. I wouldn't have shot him, but he pointed his gun at us.”
“Okay,” Dane relaxed. “We need to finish up here, then we check it out.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Gaunt agreed, while he popped the cylinder open to replace the spent cartridge. Instead of dropping the brass to the ground, Gaunt slipped it into his jacket pocket. Waste not, want not. Once the two men were settled for the evening the collected brass would be cleaned and prepped for reloading. “You hear that?”
A high pitched buzzing noise drifted towards the men. Kincaid turned his eyes to the sky, sweeping with his rifle mounted optic. Beside him Gaunt scanned the surrounding buildings. Far too often for either man’s sense of well being remote controlled drones had been used to harass them from useful supplies, or to guide other survivors to their position.
“There,” Gaunt shouted. His gigantic revolver tracked a lime green Volkswagen bug tricked out in the infamous Baja fashion, complete with a roof rack covered with strapped down pelican cases filled with who knew what. Spinning quickly, Dane leveled his rifle. Within the magnified image Dane just made out a familiar face. Close cropped hair over a heavily tanned face sporting a pitiful dirt ‘stache both Gaunt and he knew well.
“Holy shit,” Kincaid stood up abruptly. “It's fucking Mayhem.”
“Who?” Gaunt asked, not bothering to lower his revolver until the too bright car disappeared behind a fast food vendor.
“Ezekiel,” Dane explained testily. “Remember? Ezekiel Cumberland? From work? Everybody just called him Zeke, or Mayhem on account of all his bad luck.”
“You mean the guy whose truck caught on fire and he couldn't get out because his seat belt wouldn't release?”
“That's the one,” Dane smiled. “Had to wear a medical boot for like three fucking years, then his truck caught fire, then a wild boar damn near tore his knee off, he was at a Civil War reenactment and a bayonet ended up going through his left hand. All kinds of terrible things happened to that poor schmuck.”
“Yeah, I remember now,” Gaunt laughed. “He came to work the next day with his hand covered in iodine and bandages. Didn't change his dressings soon enough and his hand swelled up from infection. How the hell is he still alive?”
“Well, if you screw up enough you either die or become good at adapting to the situation,” Dane considered. “And this situation is seriously screwed up. So maybe Mayhem is more equipped to handle it than most.”
“True enough,” Gaunt allowed. “I think the pan is full, I can hear gas overflowing.”
“Goddamn it,” Dane cursed and scrambled to recover the precious fluid. Minute after invaluable minute passed, ounces of precious gasoline spilled over onto the asphalt. Finally, Dane slapped the patch in place stemming the flow. The transfer of fuel from collecting pan to motorcycle gas tanks took a solid ten minutes, including time to refill their gas cans.
“If you're done playing around in the mud maybe we can go check on the dead guy,” Gaunt teased, intentionally prodding at his friend. He received the expected answer in the form of a raised middle finger. Before responding verbally, Dane Kincaid gave his motorcycle a thorough examination. Should they need to leave in a hurry, Dane wanted his rig ready to go. Reluctantly, Gaunt followed suit. A fortuitous decision in hind sight. Especially as in the very next moment a hideous creature with three legs, four arms, two and a half heads, and a ravenous appetite burst through the door. Still hanging from the exploded head of Gaunt’s would be shooter was a wet dream inducing tactical rifle, the SCAR 17. A weapon Dane very much wished to possess, and the only thing lumbering between it and him was a walking, snarling abomination guaranteed to pump high octane nightmare fuel into his subconscious.
Chapter Three
The Prodigal Fuckwit Returns
“Well, I certainly wasn't expecting that,” I finally mumbled. Nothing in my experience encompassed the sight before me. A thousand different thoughts and suppositions ran through my mind as I struggled to accept what my eyes were seeing.
“Is that…” James started though his voice trailed off.
“Shut up,” I spat. “Help me get the lid back on.”
“But…,” he sputtered.
“Now, James,” I demanded. Amazing didn't even begin to cover what lay within, but it wasn't something I wanted everybody on the boat to know about. In all honesty, I wished James hadn’t seen it. I trusted him as I trusted very few people on all the entire planet, but the…thing in that crate could never be unseen. It would sit in the back of my mind forever, perhaps even after I shuffled off this mortal coil and was called to account for myself before that Galilean Twat, St. Pete. Thumping steps told me Lizzy and Melinda were entirely too close. The steel lid dropped into place as the women drew close, sealing away the vision of insanity.
“Hey, open that back up,” Lizzy started to protest, but I cut across her complaints.
“No,” I rounded on both women, my eyes cold and hard. “This crate stays closed. Period. No fucking exceptions.”
To say my wife was displeased is much like saying Genghis Khan was into hostile takeovers. Fire all but flared from her eyes as Lizzy stomped up to me, those deep brown eyes narrowed dangerously. Her beautiful lips parted to launch a verbal broadside.
“I do not want to hear it,” I preempted. A side long glance at James revealed my friend hadn't moved an inch, he continued to stare at the steel lid in utter disbelief or total confusion
or any of ten million different things. Whatever inner turmoil James was suffering he kept it from his face, only his unnatural stillness hinting at a problem. “Nothing good can come from seeing what's inside, Lizzy. Nothing. I saw what lays within, and I don't want it rattling around in my head.”
The love of my life studied me a long moment before speaking, ice coalesced on each syllable.
“When exactly did I ask you to be the judge of what I can and cannot know?”
“How long have we been together?” I countered. Jesus fuck, I swear the ambient temperature was dropping by tens of degrees as I seemed to dig the hole ever deeper.
“That has nothing…”
“Eleven years,” I answered since Lizzy was determined not to. “And in all that time I've never lied to you, never violated your trust, never once made you wish you weren't with me. The day your father died, I held you together while you cried oceans for a rotten son of a bitch that didn't deserve an ounce of your tears. After Hermione was born, I took off weeks from work to take care of you both, remember? Everything I've done since we fell in love has been for us. If after all that you don't trust me…”
Playing dirty? You bet your sorry bunker dwelling ass I was playing dirty. There was no way in hell Lizzy would walk away from that crate without looking inside unless she fully understood how truly shattering the contents were, which she couldn't without gazing upon the unforgettable. A Catch 22 if ever there were one, so I reached into my bag of tricks and produced the guilt card. If I played this correctly Lizzy would back off just enough to give me enough time to dump this crate, and any others like it, over the side. However, if I misjudged the situation even a little my loving wife was going to string me up by my testicles and play piñata with my skull. Long forgotten words of wisdom spoken by my long suffering father drifted back to me.