Doa Ii

by David C. Hayes

  Just beyond the wall, I heard a witch sniffing the air. His nose was guiding him closer to the bar door. His eyes peered through the crack, but he would only see the barrel of my 9mm. One bullet split his head into two equal parts. The loud noise from the gun drew the attention of the horde of witches to the door. They clawed and splintered the wooden blockade to gain access. As they poured in, like an avalanche down the slope of a mountain, the room lit up with gunfire. We all just unloaded and tried to make every bullet count. There were no kill counts being tallied, there were no egos being boosted by mounting a witch corpse to the front of a truck. These were basic survival tactics at their finest. The bar filled with the aroma of gunpowder and lead with a hint of flesh and blood. Even when the witches stopped approaching and the heated metal of our guns burned our hands, we still continued shooting. Huddled together against the back wall of the bar, we all just stood there. With all the firepower that we released, we did indeed kill a lot of witches, but, unfortunately, we also took out the entire front wall of the bar. Another horde of witches stood just on the outside looking in. They were hesitant to enter past the mounds of their own dead. About twenty-five bullet-ridden, mangled corpses formed a dam of flesh between us and the new wave of creatures.

  It was like a Mexican standoff in a western town with both sides waiting for that first move to occur. Matty Laughlin decided to be the instigator. With the sights of his .45 staring down a single witch, he pulled the trigger, but there was no bullet in the chamber. That was the loudest empty sounding Click-Click that I’ve ever heard, but it wasn’t the last. As everyone pulled their triggers, it was apparent that a pause in the action was needed for us to reload, a pause that the witches did not understand as they inched closer. Everyone dropped their firearms and pulled out our secondary weapons which included machetes, buck knives, butterfly knives, and even bottle openers. It was about to get up close and personal.

  We stood our ground and decided to let them climb over their dead comrades. With machete in hand, I was about five feet away from a real nasty piece of shit. The renewed flesh on their faces was not quite established and it was dangling all over the place. I couldn’t stand looking at the bitch, so I took a few steps forward and buried my blade deep into her forehead. Her tongue exited her mouth like I had hit the jackpot and her head was the slot machine. Now, I never knew that once you crack someone’s skull with a blade that you might as well forget about getting it back. That fucker was dug in deep. I did all I could to pull it back out and damn near tore her head completely off her shoulders. It wasn’t until I allowed her body to fall down that I was able to put my boot on her face and extract it. Good thing too; I loved that machete.

  I was about to slice through another one, when the front of Bubba’s truck came steam rolling through the entrance of the bar. The grill spikes staked through the witches and sprayed us all with blood. The flickering headlights cut through the darkened bar and provided us with a rallying point. Bubba shifted into reverse as the large tires ground up the piles of the dead. You would have never known that his truck was originally painted yellow.

  Everyone leaped into the back with Scott, the bartender, grabbing the Gatling gun. He held down the trigger so tight, I could have sworn that the amount of rounds released could have ripped a hole in the atmosphere. Bubba floored it and blazed through the courtyard, collecting any unfortunate witch in his way. Down a dirt road we tore, weaving through the gravel with a horde of witches in hot pursuit. They leapt through the trees like a bunch of wild monkeys and the mounted gun was unable to tilt on its axis to get a good shot. The acrobatic bastards made their way onto the truck, but each one was met with a swift exit. Bubba had collected so many corpses on the front spikes of his truck that the wobbly heads made it difficult for him to see through the windshield. The shifting weight of all of us in the tail bed, combined with the uneven dirt road, caused the truck to fishtail and eventually flip. The force sent everything and everyone soaring through the night sky. It felt like a human slingshot, but it was nothing each of us hadn’t experienced before. Guns, knives, and bodies all flew off into the darkened woods like a grenade being thrown into a ball pit.

  Once the dust settled and we could establish where we were, we took off through the peach orchard toward Old Man Albie’s farmhouse. Bubba detached the mounted gun and we all grabbed whatever ammo we could scavenge. Our renegade group leapt the fence and ran through the rows of peach trees. The witches were close on our heels, so we had to stop and lay down the law every few minutes to give us some breathing room. We approached the old man’s house like kids to a candy buffet, but that old geezer had different plans. A shot rang out from inside and left a large hole in the front door. We threatened to skin him alive if he didn’t stop shooting and let us in. His hospitality manners changed instantly and we all funneled in through the front door.

  We quickly decided on a plan to trap all the witches in the basement because it was well known that the old man brewed illegal moonshine down there and had stored hundreds of kegs in case the apocalypse were to occur. We needed to get them down there and burn them once and for all. We had someone posted at the front door, the hallway, the basement door, and the stairs so that we could guide them to their alcoholic gravesite. The idea was to flood the basement with moonshine, lead the witches down while we all escaped through the outside cellar door, then light those fuckers up.

  We opened the front door, ran through the hall, then down the stairs and into the flooded basement with the witches clawing at our backs. Those ugly bastards sped down those stairs like a pack of horses on a mountain trail. We all exited through the cellar door and sealed it up tight. Anton had carried a keg of moonshine out of the basement and we all sat down as Matty lit the match. Our excited mood quickly changed as we saw him lose grip of the lit match and dropped it on the ground, setting the grass afire. Covered to our ankles in moonshine, we all watched the fire trail approach us and ignite our shoes. The smell of rubber soles burning took hold of the breeze as we each struggled to take our pants off. Bubba unclipped a grenade and tossed it toward the cellar door. Everyone ran further into the fields. A few seconds later, the house exploded into a fiery ball of red smoke under the clear night sky. A smaller secondary explosion occurred from the keg sitting with our pants and shoes.

  As we sat in our underwear, covered in blood and moonshine in the peach orchards, we all just stared at the massive bonfire fueled by illegal liquor and witches. That night, we had switched roles. We became the hiders and they become the seekers. They followed our festival with one of their own. All we had to do was burn the witches. There was only one thing that we all could agree upon. We couldn’t wait to do it again next year.

  UNDER THE PRETEXT OF PROPENSITY

  Anton Cancre

  Selena was a vision of radiance, of pure youthful sexuality, as she stepped from the shower. Water cascaded gently through her deep red hair, curving in gracefully along the back of her neck and softly over the curve of a milk white shoulder. Droplets rolled down the v of her clavicle to climb the buoyant, pert mounds of her breasts. Large, but perky, defying gravity as if by the force of will. One lone bead of moisture hung from the tip of a jutting, impossibly pink nipple. More of its brethren followed the pull of gravity through the valley of her breasts down to the slight bulge of her belly, caught periodically on the light, downy hair. A bit of silver glistened in the fluorescent light: a small silver hoop in her navel. Just enough to snag attention, but not enough to scream for it. Not more than a few inches below that, incandescent pearls caught the light amid the light red fluff of her pubic hair.

  “Oh…fucking…God!” Jordan exclaimed. Electricity ran through his veins. Explosions of light erupted behind his eyes. He hadn’t cum with such force in years. Thick ropes of semen floated lazy circles in the toilet bowl.

  A twinge of shame hit him as he looked at the image frozen on his phone’s tiny screen, stopped just before she ruined it by covering herself in the nearby t
owel to dry off. He knew he shouldn’t have surreptitiously recorded her like that. It was wrong from just about every angle he looked at it, but he couldn’t help himself.

  It didn’t matter that she was only fifteen. Or that she was his stepdaughter. That he had known her as a child, crying over skinned knees and broken dolls. None of it mattered. He was obsessed.

  He had taken to staring when she wasn’t looking. Tracing the firm bulge of her ass through tight shorts as she pulled weeds in the yard. Catching a glimpse of the creamy, speckled tops of her breasts through the unbuttoned top of her shirt as she reached across the table during dinner. Following the tight, muscular thighs as they rose to their inevitable apex between her legs as she stretched out on the couch.

  Despite his shame, his horror at his own thoughts, he had to talk to someone about it before he cracked up. Maybe, if he had just kept his mouth shut, he would never have thought of using his phone on his own. Maybe he would have worked through the obsession without it going that far.

  “That’s your big problem?” Lance had said, slapping his hand down on the table and laughing. At only three years older than Jordan, Lance had walked him through the confusion and terror of puberty in the way only an older brother could: by making a joke out of it at every opportunity. Still, he was the source of all sexual knowledge during those formative years and had given Jordan his first pornos. Lance had even shown him some pictures of his own ex-girlfriend en flagrante. Jordan couldn’t think of anyone else to bring his problem to.

  “Your stepdaughter’s hot,” Lance continued. “I don’t want to speak out of turn or offend you or anything, but there it is. You’ve finally picked up on it.”

  “But what kind of creep looks at his stepdaughter that way?” Jordan said, fiddling with his glass. “Imagine what Genevieve would think of me if she knew the things that have been going on in my head. She’d leave me in a second. After kicking me in the balls a few times.”

  “Look, bro, women will never understand the desires that can fucking overwhelm a man. They’re biologically wired to find the most suitable mate and stick with him to make as many of the best babies they can. To hold onto him tightly as her own. That’s why they freak out so much over the monogamy bullshit. Their need for stability comes from a genetic need for breeding.”

  “But men…” Lance continued, leaning back in his chair and locking his eyes on Jordan’s, “we’re wired to stick our dick anywhere it fits. To spread as much seed as possible in the hope that it’ll take root somewhere. Besides, a woman’s reproductive viability declines faster than a man’s, so it makes sense that we’d be attracted to younger ones as we get older. We can’t help it.”

  “This isn’t checking out someone’s ass while we’re shopping,” Jordan leaned in over the table, dropping his voice lower and staring down into the amber liquid swirling in his glass. “This is her goddamn daughter.”

  “You’ve got to stop beating yourself up over this,” Lance said, tossing back a quick swig of whiskey. “Sure, lust is a horrid bitch, but it’s an uncontrollable one. Hell, she’s not your own flesh and blood daughter. And as far as her age goes, a century ago fifteen would have been considered prime age for marrying and breeding. You can’t tell thousands upon thousands of years of evolution to go fuck itself because some new fangled societal moral compass says it’s wrong. Like the man once said: ‘anatomy is destiny.’ We can’t control our own biology.”

  “But…”

  “But nothing. You love Genevieve, right?”

  “Yeah,” Jordan responded, moving the ice around in his drink with his finger.

  “And damn well you should.” Lance threw his arms into the air. “Bitch is hardcore. She stood by you through some serious shit and never left you hanging. Granted, her mother’s bat-shit crazy—”

  “She’s not crazy,” Jordan interrupted. “Just traditional…she’s from the old world.”

  “Yeah, whatever. What’s important is that Genevieve’s hot! No disrespect, but if you weren’t married to her, I’d be begging just for a chance to hump her leg. Especially after you told me about what she did with the hot oil and ice… Damn!”

  “Shit. I am a douchebag,” Jordan said, laying his forehead against the table.

  “You’re missing the point,” Lance said, grabbing him by the ears to look him in the eye. “You love her. She rocks every part of your world. You’re not planning on leaving her or fucking around on her. Am I right?”

  “Of course.”

  “You’re just freaking out because her daughter grew tits and you can’t keep your eyes off of ‘em. I have yet to meet a pair of tits I can keep my eyes off of. As I said: you can’t fight biology. It’s no big deal.”

  “I just,” Jordan said, looking over his shoulder to make sure no one else was close enough to hear, “I can’t get past it, or over it. It’s all I think about anymore and I’m afraid I’ll do something to act on it. Make a move on her or something. I don’t know how to get it out of my system.”

  “Damn, you do have it bad,” Lance said, shaking his head and laughing. “I’ll tell you what. There was this chick I used to have a huge hard on for. Just a raging pillar of bulging meat in my pants every time I saw her. I couldn’t stand the sound of her voice, but her body… damn. I just couldn’t get her out of my mind. I eventually realized the only option was to get her drunk enough to shut the hell up and fuck her just to get it out of my system.”

  Jordan started to get up out of his chair. “I am not going to f—”

  “Calm down and listen, bro,” Lance said, easing Jordan back into his seat. “I’d never tell you to do that. I’m just suggesting you do the next best thing, just to work this obsession out of your head.” He leaned in across the table, speaking in a quiet tone for the first time. “You take that fancy little phone of yours and you accidentally leave it in the bathroom next time she takes a shower. You’re always leaving your shit everywhere, so it isn’t like anyone will notice. Set it to record some video and you’re sure to end up with a little something to beat it to. You’ll have seen everything she has to offer and it won’t be a mystery to you anymore. You’ll be able to move on and stop acting like such a nervous little tool.”

  “That’s sick,” Jordan responded, shaking his head and sitting up straight. “That’s something a stalker or a pervert would do. That’s fucked up.”

  “Is it? Would anyone get hurt? Would it be worse than you finally giving in one night and grabbing at her tits?” Lance was pointing his fingers in Jordan’s face. “I’m not telling you what you have to, or even should, do. It’s just an idea to think about.”

  Jordan was determined not to think about it, certain that the idea could lead to nothing remotely good. Superficially, he succeeded. However, over the next few weeks he found himself keenly aware of Selena’s schedule. That she spent a good forty-five minutes primping herself in the morning had been a matter of frustration to him for several years but he never before paid attention to the fact that she showered at almost exactly nine o’clock every night. Then she would take around an hour.

  He started making a point to use the bathroom five to ten minutes before then, regardless of whether or not he needed to. While sitting on the toilet, instead of reading some minor bit of trashy literature, he found himself checking lines of sight. Looking for places his phone could rest without looking too conspicuous while maintaining a good view. The few times he was consciously aware of what he was doing, he excused it as a silly mental exercise. He’d never actually consider recording Selena in the shower.

  Until he finally did.

  Even then, he didn’t dare look at the video. For two days, he repeatedly told himself that he would erase it. Never even look at it. Act like it had never happened. Treat the whole thing as a momentary bit of weakness. Several times that first day, he pulled it up and started to delete it but didn’t hit the second button to confirm.

  Finally, he found himself in the bathroom, with no one else at home. The
file pulled up. He hovered over the decision: view or delete.

  It isn’t like it’ll actually hurt anyone, he thought as he pressed the button, blood flowing in a rush to his groin.

  And now he was standing in the bathroom, shame and guilt still coursing through his blood, wondering if he would have made the recording on his own, had he not talked to Lance. Now he’d never know.

  ~

  Selena didn’t come home that night until dinner. Luckily, it had been long enough for Jordan to work out the guilt he felt over masturbating to her image. He had calmed down and felt relaxed for the first time in months. Certain that, for once, he wouldn’t have to be vigilant over where his eyes drifted. Wouldn’t have to force his attention on the mashed potatoes and run out to work on the car the second he finished forcing food into his mouth.

  I’ll be damned if Lance wasn’t right.

  They all sat down around the table and conversation was trite and dull, but he was excited to be able to focus on it. Genevieve was angry at some stupid bitch at work who was angling for her position. Selena passed the geometry test she spent two weeks studying for, but barely scraped by with a C. The numbers themselves were never a problem for her. She aced both algebra and chemistry, where she said the numbers knew their correct placement and order. He guessed it was the shapes, but she muttered something about simple, predictable Euclidian angles. Then she smiled and said that they would have to accept the existence of other possibilities sometime. Still, she understood the deal they had running, that she would be able to visit her grandmother over the summer only if she passed all of her classes, so she had to learn to play by the rules of those “stupid Euclidians.” Selena adored the old woman, bat-shit crazy as she was, and it made for a great bargaining chip when she turned stubborn. Jordan talked a bit about the customer he didn’t punch, but very much wanted to. All in all, nothing special.