Like Light for Flies

by Lee Thomas

  He turned to his left to go deeper into the building. Finally noticing a light burning on his right, he passed between two of the vats and emerged into a vast open area. A doorway across this clearing glowed with pale yellow light, flickering as if candlelit.

  Ian approached the doorway with caution. He pressed himself to the wall and peered around the edge. There, at the end of a narrow hall he saw the hulking shoulders of two cops, flanking the distant opening, but it was the movement in the space beyond that caught his attention. No music played, no lights flashed, nothing to indicate a party—only flames dancing from tall braziers. Yet this was the place. Ian saw flashes of exposed skin; naked men writhed and crawled over the smooth floor.

  Ian needed to see more. But how did he get in? Was there a ticket? A password? He didn’t know, but the heat in his balls was burning away his caution. He considered strolling down the hall, casually and confidently like he belonged there, but he discarded the idea immediately. The event organizers had paid cops for security. They weren’t going to let just anybody in.

  Backing away from the opening with his shoulders pressed to the wall, Ian went in search of another entrance.

  He walked away from the corridor, running his hands along the dusty wall at his back. He arrived at another hallway and peered into the gloom. Walking with his arms in front of him, feeling his way through the darkness, his left hand touched something cold and metallic. It was a railing, leading up. Having found the stairs, he climbed to the first landing where a dull light glowed behind a transom high on his left. Ian reached out and felt along the wall until his hand slid over the jamb and found a doorknob. He turned it and pushed.

  Across the room a rectangle—once a window, now nothing but a hole in the wall—pulsed with warm orange light. Through this opening, low groans and soft whispers played in a sensual orchestration. Eager now, he hurried across the office. His shin cracked on a low table, and Ian whispered a curse as pain shot from his ankle to his knee.

  Dangerous shards of glass formed a frame at the window’s base like a row of jagged fangs. The atmosphere beyond was alive, dancing with the flickering light of six iron braziers.

  The stands formed a rough circle around the periphery of the warehouse space below. Within the pulsing bath of ginger illumination, dozens of naked men writhed and crawled. The majority of the aggregation was young—some extremely so. Their sweaty skin glimmered. Their muscles flexed and relaxed as they struggled for position in the great mound of flesh. Without exception, the boys were aroused, but they showed no interest in one another.

  They focused their attention on the other men—the old men. Like tide pools, the youth swirled and swarmed around three aged men. Ian saw the Suburban John down on his right. He lay back on the floor, staring euphorically toward the ceiling. Ian’s Tiger Boy straddled the man, bucked his hips frantically against the Suburban John’s groin. Around them, boys knelt and bent, eager to touch the Suburban John’s skin. He was eager too. His hands reached out, stroking chest and ass and cock, drawing boys to him. At one point, half a dozen youth bent over him, covering his hairy torso like the petals of a succulent plant.

  Longing broke over Ian like an ocean wave. He wiped at his brow, suddenly wet with perspiration.

  To his left, across the room, two police officers gazed on the orgy with blank faces. Their hands were crossed behind their backs as they observed the hedonism layering the warehouse floor, which was purple-black and shimmered where caressed by the brazier’s light.

  Though his primary interest lie with the tight and glistening forms of the boys, Ian couldn’t help but notice the aged three—How did they warrant such amazing attentions? The man on his left was bone thin with sagging skin like wet paper. Fine hairs, similar to spider’s webbing covered the knobs of his shoulders. He knelt on the concrete, his mouth working furiously on the array of opportunities jutting toward him. Near the center of the room, a fat man with a short brush of white hair, was on all fours being taken from the front and the back. Young hands kneaded the doughy flesh of his back and his ass. They stroked his cheeks and caressed his scalp lovingly.

  Ian ached to join this throng. What must it cost? he wondered. Obviously “The Party” was no mere free-for-all held in the guts of a desolate mill. If it were, the aged men would surely be spectators of the event, and not its focus. No, the gray men had paid for these miraculous moments. Such attentions must be pricey, and Ian couldn’t help but think that any price was justified.

  His gaze traced over smooth, rounded buttocks and muscular backs. It lingered on erect cocks. Tight flesh, endless, supple and slicked with sweat. It was all too wondrous.

  His view adjusted to the right, where Ian noticed a row of a dozen chairs lining the wall. Sitting in these chairs were more aged men. They wore black suits with white shirts and crimson ties. Like a jury, they observed the writhing piles of flesh with interest. What part did they play in this festival of meat? Were they waiting their turn to wade into the pool of youth, or did they have other interests? Perhaps simply watching? Whatever the case, Ian couldn’t help but think their attire suggested ritual.

  Turning away from the black suited onlookers, Ian returned his gaze to the dozens of young men. His lust knew no distinction. Every smooth chest and face not burdened with experience was equally beautiful to him. In the same manner, jealousy amplified Ian’s hatred for the older men to a uniform loathing. His abhorrence for the Suburban John was no different from his revulsion for the scrawny wrinkled man with the papery skin, who now tried to stand, though the press of bodies made his task tricky.

  “Enough,” the withered troll shouted, still struggling to get to his feet.

  You’re crazy, Ian thought, wondering how anyone could possibly call an end to such a incredible occasion. Still, this line of thinking took him to the notion that once the old parties left, there would be nothing left but the spectacle of beautiful boys.

  And how do I get down there?

  “Really, now. Stop it.” The man said, slapping at the boys that tried to keep him down.

  “Enough.”

  The boys turned to face the men in black suits. Those entertaining the other two men did not cease their performance, but for those focused on the protesting man, it was like a whistle had blown, alerting a pack of dogs. Their full attention fell on the twelve men against the wall to Ian’s right. He turned as well, curious to know what signal these boys awaited.

  It was nothing more than a nod. A massive gentleman with a thick white beard dropped his chin until his whiskers flattened against his crimson tie. Slowly, he raised his head.

  A shrill cry rose before the gesture was complete. Ian spun to it, and took a step back from the windowsill.

  The kids surrounding the emaciated old man were no longer interested in his pleasure. A red headed muscle boy with freckles stippling his shoulders lunged forward, mouth open, and he bit into the old man’s arm, tearing away a chunk of skin and muscle. The old man shrieked as the boy spit the meat to the purple-black floor and lunged forward for another mouthful. Similarly, a dozen other boys, those closest to the geriatric bit into his skin. Their fingers dug into his mouth and eyes, ripping away bits of tissue. The man screamed until he gagged on the fingers probing his throat. He fell backward, disappearing beneath a wave of glistening skin.

  The other two men paid no attention to the screams, now muffled by walls of flesh, bone and organ. Gratification occupied their attentions, and all else fell outside their realm of concern. Horrified, Ian put a hand over his mouth, holding back sickness. What he’d mistaken for a heady exchange of pleasure was a fucking sacrifice. His stomach rose higher in his throat, and he swallowed hard. Light headed, Ian dropped his hands to the window ledge to support his weight, nearly slicing the tops of his fingers on the jagged jaw of glass rising from the cracked frame. He gasped deeply to suppress the ill in his belly.

  A moment later, the heavy man in the middle of the room, similarly announced his completion. He r
ocked back on his knees, grinning broadly, wiping spit, sweat and semen from his face. The second company of boys eagerly turned to the jury of men. Again, the beard dipped.

  “No,” Ian said, but his throat was so tight, what was intended as a warning scream was little more than a high airy whistle.

  This man’s destruction was even more awful, because it took longer. He was a fighter. He seemed to register what was happening faster than the withered first victim. As soon as one boy latched teeth onto his shoulder, the man swung out, connecting his broad fist with the kid’s nose.

  Another boy dove in, and the guy drove knuckles into the guy’s throat, sending him choking to the floor. But too much weight and exhaustion played against the victim. Though he sprang to his feet quickly, knocking several boys back in the process, he could gain no momentum to extricate himself from the dozens of hands, the hundreds of teeth, coming for him. A boy bit through his ample belly and spat the meat in the man’s face. Then fingers dug into the gaping wound, tearing away yellow wads of fat, liberally laced with blood. The man continued his struggle, but a lithe child with blond hair slithered between his legs and bit through his Achilles heel, sending the enormous man face down on the shiny black floor.

  The boys swarmed his carcass. Stomping and biting and gouging, flinging bits of bloody skin and greasy fat into the air as they disassembled their so-recent lover.

  Youth isn’t simple. It has to be tended, and it’s cruel.

  Ian stared at the windowsill, the sharp serrated line of glass. He breathed deeply, trying to clear the haze of shock from his mind and the sickness from his gut. Hours seemed to pass as he stood there unable to look back into the arena of sex and brutality.

  His attention was again drawn to the warehouse floor still teeming with beautiful little monsters when he heard the Suburban John say, “Thank you.” The voice carried high up in the chamber, bouncing from one steel girder to the next. “Just give me a minute to rest.” Ian looked at the unfortunate man, who lay on the floor staring upward. His ample endowment, still swollen, draped over his thigh. Around him the boys awaited the bearded man’s signal; blood lust rolled from their tense bodies in palpable waves.

  The bearded chin dipped.

  On the floor of the great room, the Suburban John rolled his head. His eyes met Ian’s, and there was the slightest moment of recognition before the whole of him fell beneath the swarm of savage boys.

  Ian had seen too much. It was time to go, time to find real cops who weren’t part of this ghastly event. He fled the window, raced across the unlit room. He stepped over the threshold into the corridor and caught a glimpse of something black tearing through the darkness at him.

  His heart flared panic. A sharp pain erupted on his forehead, and then he was falling.

  Ian came to slowly, drifting toward light only to sink again into darkness. Finally, he surfaced into consciousness and found himself in the center of the warehouse. Head screaming with a sharp ache, he blinked and winced at the flames rising from the braziers. He tried to sit up and found it required too much effort, so he sank back to the cool, oddly soft floor.

  “Help him,” a basso voice commanded.

  Suddenly, hands slid under his arms and lifted Ian to a sitting position. A boy knelt behind him, supporting Ian’s weight with his back as the two boys that had propped him up walked away. They rejoined the mob of young men, who had formed a circle around the center of the room. All of the killing youths were dressed now. To Ian’s left, he saw the Tiger Boy, regarding him as if bored. Ahead of him, the circle was open, revealing the twelve suited men, still sitting in their chairs with shadows and firelight playing over their stern features. The man with the white beard tapped his finger against the arm of his chair.

  “How’s your head?” he asked.

  This brought a round of smiles and a few laughs from the other men. A private joke, or just assholes enjoying Ian’s pain?

  The room seemed to rock to the side. Ian breathed deeply, trying to right himself on the floor, which now felt spongy and uneven.

  “I suppose it doesn’t matter,” the bearded man said. “You were trespassing, spying on events that don’t concern you.”

  “What are you going to do to me?” Ian mumbled, each syllable bringing a clang of agony to his head.

  “Such a mercenary attitude,” the man replied. His tone was light and unthreatening as if commenting on a piece of décor he couldn’t care less about.

  “I won’t tell anyone,” Ian said.

  Again, the jury smiled. They laughed. The boys in the circle added their voices to the amused chorus.

  “That’s very generous of you,” the bearded man said around a chuckle.

  Ian rolled his head against that of the boy behind him and was again struck by the strange floor covering. It wasn’t rubber, but it possessed the shiny supple quality of that material. Further, it was perfectly sleek, polished, and clean. What had become of the fragments of the boys’ victims? No tissue littered the black shimmering surface. There weren’t even bloodstains. How was that possible? How long had he been unconscious?

  “How?” he said.

  “How indeed,” the bearded man said glibly.

  “You murdered them.”

  “The world will hardly notice. Youth gave them their color; now youth has faded leaving them all but transparent. Only those very near saw them. Family. Friends.”

  “But you’re…” Ian let the sentence end, fearing he would insult this dreadful jury.

  “Old? Much older than you think.” A minor smile disturbed the edges of the man’s mouth. “But we’re comfortable in our skins. Youth is a commodity we understand though hardly value. I, for one, find the work of Pollock cold and soulless, but that doesn’t mean I won’t get a fortune for it at auction. The same can be said for our boys. We accommodate them, and in return, they use their beauty to serve us.”

  “Serve you?”

  “You do go on with your questions, don’t you?” the bearded man asked, as if speaking to an inquisitive child. “Yes, they serve. Errands. Chores. Favors. A vast miscellany of minor events that help to shape the days ahead.” The bearded man stood from the chair and extended his hands. “Boys, thank you for a wonderful night. We’re finished here.”

  Ian pushed away from the kid at his back and struggled to his feet. The floor beneath him seemed to shift as if he road a raft on gentle surf. Ian turned to the crowd of boys. They ran across the concrete toward the loading bay door. Once they reached its edge they leapt into the beating rain and disappeared—a beautiful nocturnal herd racing toward another night of life.

  Murderers, Ian thought, but was unable to see them as anything but lovely.

  “They killed those men,” he whispered.

  “We all serve something,” the bearded man told him. “The boys serve us. We serve another.”

  As if in answer to the man’s words, the floor covering crept forward, sending Ian crashing. He hit the sinuous surface and rolled as the purple-black mass shifted and rippled, moving across the concrete toward the shadows beneath the office loft. Ian’s bowels turned icy as he rolled and tumbled from the living carpet to land on the cold poured stone.

  Ian watched sickened as the grotesque shape rose like a wave. It clutched the overhang above, draping to the floor in a smooth sheet the color of midnight. A ripple rolled across the surface and then another. The skin of this impossible being wrinkled and crested until violent tremors covered it, and in moments it took on the texture of a storm battered ocean. Amid this turmoil a pale shape emerged, pushing through the tortured membrane like the hull of a capsized ship until it was fully disgorged and released to the concrete with a wet slap. A second figure appeared and then a third.

  Ian’s breath came in short, harsh gasps. The shapes—superficially human yet unfinished—writhed before him. Smooth faces, hardly more defined than porcelain masks crinkled with pain as gaping mouths shrieked through purple viscous discharge. The man with the beard cross
ed to the squirming things and gently slid his foot beneath one of the quivering heads. The incomplete boy rubbed his cheek against the man’s trousers, leaving a trail of glimmering slime on the black fabric; his piercing cries hardly ebbed. Fingers like snaking vines clasped the leg for leverage as the thing climbed to a sitting position, holding the bearded man’s thigh tightly like a child clutching its mother for comfort, all the while it continued caressing the pant leg with its cheek. The bearded man reached down to pat the creature’s head.

  “From transparent to vivid,” he said amused.

  “Those aren’t…?” Ian couldn’t finish the impossible speculation.

  “We’re finished here,” the bearded man said again. All of the jury members stood. Three came forward and each collected one of the bawling things from the floor. Then they filed to the back of the warehouse and disappeared through a narrow door. Ian turned and watched the policemen leave their posts at the entrance to the warehouse. Two more officers moved out of the shadows behind the row of chairs where the jury had sat and chatted amongst themselves, as if Ian had already been forgotten.

  He backed toward the hallway slowly, his eyes darting between the purple-black creature at the wall and the bearded man, who turned away annoyed. “Get out,” he said.

  “You’re just letting me leave?”

  “Of course,” the bearded man said. He looked over his shoulder at Ian, eyes shining with intelligence and disdain. “You’re irrelevant.”

  Ian barely noted the cruelty of the dismissal. He fled the warehouse, made his way through the unlighted mill and emerged into the downpour thrashing the pavement of the Butcher’s Block. As he raced across Wilson Drive and fell under the street lamp’s beam, his tightly knit thoughts began to unravel, revealing moments of violence wrapped around images of glistening skin. The beauty. The perversion. He tried to run faster, knocking a man out of his way, ignoring the man’s growling protest as he bolted over the sidewalk.