Tags:
Fiction,
Action & Adventure,
Horror,
Zombies,
apocalypse,
Occult & Supernatural,
Living Dead,
End of the world,
walking dead,
brian keene,
night of the living dead,
the walking dead,
seattle,
apocalyptic fiction,
tim long,
world war z,
max brooks,
apocalyptic book
the toy rack, cheap little things in crinkling plastic containers that she would open in the car as he beamed at her. He would do this to make up for the bad times. But nothing made up for them. He could have bought her a pony and it wouldn’t put a dent in his quota. Truth was she hated the toys, hated how cheap they were, but didn’t want to risk angering him even if he was sober.
She takes a deep breath as she lies half off the bed, feet on the floor, upper body resting while she shifts her head to the side and studies the man’s thigh drenched in crimson. With a gasp, she is on her feet and away from the blood. The room was familiar when she opened her eyes, but that was owed to her view of nothing but white ceiling.
It was the smell that should have given it away, should have clued her in to the fact that she was not in her usual reality.
Last night, she had been the other, and it had been wonderful.
The imagined smell of bacon is the body. Blood is congealed all over the bed, on the man, on the headboard, on the wall. She glances down at her naked body and sees drops there as well. In her hair, she is sure of it, and she is also sure that it is completely fucked up to pass out on a bed with a butchered man.
He is bound to the bed by his wrists, which are pressed tightly together and wrapped in white nylon rope. She picked the stuff because she knew from experience that it would chafe. After he had his fun, was beside himself with need, only then had he consented to having his hands tied so she could straddle his chest and take his enraged cock in her mouth—or so she had promised. She promised him she wanted to tease him, draw out his pleasure, all the while her striped back and ass presented to his hungry eyes.
They always complied. They always gave in. Tying his legs together had been a different matter. Lucky for her, he was in terrible shape and didn’t have the energy to put up much of a struggle. Not with her fondling his cock and whispering words of devotion to his livid eyes.
Even though he made her call him master, had taken a belt to her, then a flogger while she straddled a straight-back chair so that her ass hung off the end, even as the pain started, built, overwhelmed her then turned to pure undeniable bliss, even then she had still been the other. The cold, calculating bitch who would have the ultimate climax.
He started on her thighs, whipping them red while she bent over, belt lashing across them over and over until she cried out for—more. Then the chair and the flogger, on her back, across her ass cheeks as they hung over the edge of the seat. Delicious agony that was nothing like the beatings of old. She was a masochist in the truest sense of the word. She found great pleasure in pain, in submitting to the men she would later truss up like pigs.
“Was it good for you?” she asks the corpse. She studies the bloody wounds and remembers each one like a snapshot in an old photo album. The first cut had been on his leg, the next on his chest. Not deep, just enough to bleed. The next had been on his neck, each side but not close to his carotid artery. His eyes had nearly burst from their sockets when she started slicing.
The blade was razor sharp, honed by her hand the night before. She sat on her couch and ran it over a stone until it was sharp enough to lift the downy hair of her forearms. Then she ran it over the stone again.
Like a medical student learning on a cadaver, she had punctured his body at various points, but none that would cause him to die. In his thighs, calves, feet, arms, and hands. She avoided his chest for now, because she wanted him to bleed. She had straddled his chest as she said she would, and lined his eyes with black lipstick so he looked like a raccoon.
Those eyes had pleaded, no longer looking on her body with lust, his cock flaccid like an old sausage. She turned to play with it, fondle it, tease it, but she couldn’t get him up, not anymore. When he failed