She stood and stepped back to avoid the worst of the blood, but it was too late. It had spattered her clothes, slicked her hands … so what did it matter if the widening pool on the ground touched her shoes?
She watched her husband die, surprised by how long it took for his erection to subside. But subside it did, and Edmund let out a last choked gurgle and stopped breathing.
Heart pounding, she stepped forward and pressed two trembling figures to the side of his neck. No pulse.
She stood. She felt mostly relief, although there was some sorrow and guilt as well. She contemplated what to do with his body. He was little more than skin and bones, but he was still too heavy for her to lift. She couldn’t get him in the cart, and even if she could, what would she do with him? There were no funeral homes anymore. She supposed she could bury him in their backyard, but something had happened to the grass. The edges of the blades were sharp as razors, and if you got too close they emitted high-pitched cries that sounded like tiny voices screaming. She wasn’t sure it would be safe to try to dig there. Maybe if she just took his head …
She heard the first predator then, approaching in the distance. A simian hoot-hoot-hoot accompanied by a leathery sliding, as of something large dragging itself across asphalt. The scent of Edmund’s blood had drawn it, whatever it was, and she knew it wouldn’t be the last. At least she wouldn’t have to worry about what to do with Edmund’s remains now.
She dropped the glass knife, took hold of the shopping cart’s handle, and began pushing it away from her husband’s corpse as fast as she could.
* * *
She didn’t have any metal to deliver to her Master that day, and her reward for her failure was an excruciating headache brought on by her throbbing thrall mark. Even so, when she got home she slept well for the first time since the Masters’ arrival.
She woke to the sound of pounding at the front door. As she stumbled down the hallway, she already knew what she’d find waiting for her. She unlocked the door, opened it, and stood back as Edmund—who didn’t have a mark anywhere on his body, including his throat—crab-walked inside. A thought drifted through her mind. The cat came back …
* * *
She tried three more times. She used an iron poker to cave in Edmund’s skull. She jammed a pair of socks down his throat to block his airway. Finally, in desperation, she took a screwdriver, rammed it through his left eye into his brain, stirred it around real good, and then did the same to the other eye.
He healed each time.
She had no idea if Edmund healed because of some quality his transformed body possessed or if her Master specifically healed him each time as a way to torment her. Whatever the reason, she knew she couldn’t kill him by ordinary means. To end his travesty of a life, she would need power. The same kind that had transformed him in the first place.
She began to plan.
* * *
The skin on Audrey’s right hand was raw and blistered. Pushing the cart hurt, but she couldn’t manage it with only one hand, so she endured the pain. Edmund followed behind her on the sidewalk, moving a bit faster now, with a decided bounce in his step. She’d jacked him off, and it hadn’t taken him long to come. It never did. But while what shot out of his quivering cock looked more or less like semen, it was an unhealthy gray, stank like sulfur, and was boiling hot. Getting Edmund off was a sure way to motivate him. He’d be in a good mood for hours—but she only did it when nothing else worked, for no matter how hard she tried, she always got some of his cock lava on her. Usually on her hand, but if his orgasm was particularly strong, he’d blast like a firehose, and there was no telling where she might get hit. Today, she’d been lucky. Only her right hand and a small spot on her left wrist had been burned. Painful, but nothing that would slow her down, and now Edmund was trotting behind her like an eager puppy, cock already swollen purple once more.
Audrey didn’t look down as she walked. She knew better than to gaze at the cracks in the sidewalk. Something—or many somethings—lived inside and whispered the most awful things. If they caught you looking down, they’d whisper louder. They’d urge you to do things to yourself and to others, and the longer they whispered, the harder it was to resist them. Better to not set them off in the first place.
The town’s population was sparser now. Many people died during the early days after the Masters’ arrival, and many more had died since. Some had been sacrificed to Masters, some had been killed by the new monstrous predators that roamed the world, and some died at the hands of their fellow survivors, people who’d been driven mad or had turned savage during their struggle to stay alive.
Because of this, Audrey saw few people along the route to her Master’s lair, and those she did see were sitting in alleys or on front stoops, heads down, sleeping or—just as likely—gone deep into their minds to try to escape the horrors of the World After. Every now and again one of them would look up as she passed, and she always made sure to turn her head toward them so they could see her thrall mark. That was usually enough to make them look away and lower their heads once more.
She was aware of other creatures, moving swift and silent between buildings, or crouching on rooftops and watching, motionless and hopeful. At times she even had the sense that something was looking down at her from above, but when she looked up, she saw nothing in the sour-yellow sky. The land was filled with predators now—some large, some small, all deadly in their own ways. Her thrall mark would keep them at a distance, especially close to her Master’s lair. She hoped.
Audrey had never had cause to visit the Third Street Iron and Metal Company before the Masters’ arrival. She didn’t live particularly close to the place, either. She had no idea why the Master who laired there had offered to take her on as one of its thralls. Maybe it had broadcast a general call and she’d answered. Maybe she’d been chosen for a specific reason, one she’d likely never know. Whatever the truth was, she’d come to wish she’d never accepted the Master’s offer. If she hadn’t, she and Edmund would’ve been dead by now, probably from lack of fresh water, but that end would’ve been preferable to what their lives had become. Serving as a thrall was a mistake, one she intended to rectify now.
The word company seemed too grand for this place. A high white wooden fence surrounded the property, with the business’ name painted in red letters on one of the outside walls. A section of a wall served as a sliding door which could be closed and locked, although it was always open when Audrey came here. Since the only thing that could threaten a Master was another of its kind, there was no need for simple physical boundaries like doors and locks.
Audrey’s thrall mark burned hot as fire. Her Master knew she was close, knew the metal was close, and it was losing what little patience it had. Audrey had heard about what happened to thralls that displeased their Masters. It made what had been done to Edmund look like little more than a mild swat on the hand.
She began pushing the cart once more, Edmund crab-walking obediently behind her.
The instant she set foot on the barren earth inside the fence, she felt the Master’s power wash over her. She was officially in its lair now, the place where it was strongest. The air here seemed to ripple, like the distortion created by waves of heat rising off hot asphalt. Edmund made a small bleating sound when he entered. He was never comfortable in the Master’s presence, but he always accompanied her inside anyway. She was counting on this—habit? loyalty?—now.
The ground was smooth, the path to the pit well worn, and the squeaking wheels of the shopping cart rolled easily over it. Normally, Audrey would push the cart up to the pit’s edge—not too close—and then start lifting out pieces of metal one by one and tossing them in. If the Master was especially impatient and the cart’s contents not too heavy, she might try to dump the entire load in at once. She would do neither of these things today, though.
Her Master’s impatience, its lust to feed, filled her, made her thrall mark feel as if white-hot coals had been slipped beneat
h her skin. She gritted her teeth against the pain, gripped the cart handle tighter, and started to run. She was seventy-three, malnourished and dehydrated, but fear, anger, and determination fueled her, and she ran with the strength and speed of a much younger woman. The cart’s wheels squeaked so loudly they almost seemed to be screaming. The sound of the wheels combined with the sound of her heart pounding in her ears, and she couldn’t hear if Edmund continued to follow her, if he too had picked up speed, his bare hands and feet slap-slap-slapping the earth as he fought to keep up with her. She hoped he was.
At first, she felt only her Master’s all-consuming hunger, but then she detected a hint of puzzlement. Why was this thrall approaching the pit so fast? But before the Master could command her to stop, Audrey felt the front wheels of the heavily laden cart roll over the edge of the pit. She held tight to the handle as the cart tipped forward and fell into the darkness, pulling her with it. She looked back in time to see Edmund fling himself after her, and she smiled. The Master might prefer to eat metal, but she hoped it wouldn’t mind an offering of flesh. Two offerings.
Audrey and Edmund tumbled down through black nothingness.
* * *
Audrey had no idea how long they fell. She’d lost her grip on the cart somewhere along the line, and she had no idea where it was. Edmund was close by, though. She might not have been able to see him, but she could still smell him. More, she sensed his presence the same way she’d sometimes wake in the night and know he was lying in bed next to her without having to reach over to confirm his presence.
The vertiginous feeling of falling had subsided around the time she’d lost contact with the cart, and she couldn’t tell if she still continued descending. Without so much as a speck of light, she had no way of telling which way was up and which way was down, if such directions even meant anything in this dark limbo. For all she knew, she was hanging motionless in this void, and she might remain so until she died. Or worse, she’d stay like this forever, never dying, always awake and conscious. How long could a person exist like that before going completely insane?
She tried to speak but was unable to tell if her mouth produced any sound.
I’m so sorry, Edmund. I didn’t know something like this would happen. I thought we’d die.
No reply from her husband. For once, she was glad his mind was gone. If they were trapped in this place, he wouldn’t go mad. After all, he was already there.
After a time—how long was impossible to say—she sensed another presence, enormous and terrifying. It was as if she were floating in a sea and a silent ocean liner had drifted close without her being aware of it until the massive craft was almost on top of her. She knew she was now truly in her Master’s presence.
She felt a wave of curiosity roll forth from the Master. It wasn’t a word, wasn’t even a human concept, but Audrey interpreted it as a single-word question.
WHY?
She didn’t have to ask why what.
I couldn’t let him go on living like he is. And I couldn’t leave him.
She sensed only continuing curiosity, now tinged with confusion, coming from the Master.
He’s my husband. We belong together.
The Master’s confusion and curiosity vanished, followed by a sense of satisfaction, which Audrey interpreted as a single word.
UNDERSTOOD.
Pain exploded throughout her body as her bones, muscles, and organs began to shift and rearrange. She let forth a soundless scream, but she felt a hand clasp her shoulder—Edmund’s hand—and she knew that, whatever horrible thing was happening to her, at least she wasn’t alone. And then she felt Edmund’s fingers join with her flesh, their skin flowing together like liquid putty, and if she could’ve produced sound in this non-place, she would’ve screamed louder.
* * *
Audrey and Edmund shuffled slowly into an abandoned building. The sign out front said the place once had been a nightclub called Spinners, but since neither of them could read anymore, the letters were only meaningless nonsense. They moved on four hands and four feet, two pairs of eyes scanning the debris inside the club for any metal. Poking out from beneath a splintered table, they saw a thin half circle of what looked like … Could it be? Copper! Once, Audrey would’ve recognized this object as a bracelet, but now she only saw it as her Master’s favorite delicacy. Audrey and Edmund were excited to retrieve the bracelet, but their combined anatomy made it difficult to move the pieces of broken wood. Yes, they had four hands, but their arms no longer bent the way they once did. Edmund carried a silver serving spoon they had found in a restaurant a couple blocks away, and he put it on the floor. The two of them then took hold of the table fragments with their teeth and slowly, painfully dragged them off the bracelet. When the object was fully revealed, Audrey leaned her head down to it. She used her thorn-covered tongue to lift it into her mouth, and then she gently gripped it between her serrated teeth. Audrey and Edmund couldn’t operate a shopping cart, and so they were limited in what they could gather for their Master, but hopefully their meager offering would still be pleasing. Their Master would understand. After all, hadn’t the Master made them this way?
Edmund retrieved his spoon, and they left the bar. Because of the tangled arrangement of their limbs, they scuttled and lurched instead of crab-walked, and they were more awkward than either of them had been on their own. But they’d learn to make due. Everything would be all right, just as long as they had each other. Once outside, they turned left and began heading in the direction of the Third Street Metal and Iron Company.
Together.
<<====>>
AUTHOR’S STORY NOTE
I originally created the World After for my novella The Last Mile, and I’ve returned to it several times since in short stories. The setting grew out of a single idea: when Lovecraft’s malign alien gods finally returned and reclaimed the Earth, what would the planet become? And how would people survive in this new hellish world? I was sure at least some people would make it. After all, one of humanity’s great strengths is our ability to adapt to different environments, no matter how harsh or unforgiving. But for those few humans who continue to live—or maybe I should say exist—in the World After, at what cost have they purchased their survival? Is an existence of madness and degradation better than death? Not that denizens of the World After have much time for introspection. They’re too busy scrounging, fighting, maiming, and killing for their inhuman Masters, all in hope of being rewarded with one more breath of fetid air.
LETTER FROM HELL
MATT SHAW
Published by Matt Shaw
Dear Mrs. Williams,
You do not know me and I can but only apologise for this unwelcome intrusion during these difficult times for you. With the News channels hounding you and constant police activity buzzing around your home, I can only imagine you wish to be left alone—not welcoming further intrusion from people unless to do with what happened to your young daughter, Hayley.
I have been watching the events unfold via journalistic sites on the world wide web, television broadcasts and—of course—in the papers. Something like this to happen is shocking wherever it takes place in the world but, somehow, it feels worse given the fact it has occurred in our own little community. I cannot begin to imagine the stress and worry you are currently feeling and wish there was a way for me to take away the pain for you. I do not have any children so know not of the bond between parent and child but—when little Keith Bennett disappeared, murdered by Ian Brady, I felt the same feeling of empathy for his fretful mother that I feel for you. And—to this day—I can picture Jamie Bulger’s mum running around that shopping centre frantically searching for little Jamie, hoping to find him somewhere. I wonder, had she found him, would she have hugged him tighter than she had ever done so before or would she have stood and berated him for wandering off? My guess is a mixture of both. An outward display of anger brought about by the relief of finding him and her own stupidity for taking her eye off of
him, if only for a minute.
A minute is all it takes.
Anyway, like I said, I do not like the idea of you sitting at home and waiting by the telephone in the hope that someone rings with news. With that in mind, perhaps if I tell you my story, you will manage to find some kind of peace?
My name is Laurence Tope. I am seventy-three years old but sometimes feel as though I am older. Times were different when I was young—we used to go out without feeling the need to lock the front door, children used to play unsupervised in the streets and neighbours knew one another. Nowadays, kids can never stray far from the parents, doors and windows are double-locked and everyone is too busy with their head in their phone, computer, or other electronic device to know the names of the people living on their street. It was a simpler time when I was growing up and—in some respects—all the better for it. That is not to say it was always easy though. Companies struggled and people were continually being laid off. My own father, a man named Norman, lost his job leaving our family of six living in poverty. He was a hardworking individual, a good man. It was not his fault what happened—just one of those things. We went from having three meals a day to just two and—sometimes—one of those was nothing more than gruel without even crusts to mop up the plate. Father’s mood changed for the worse the longer he remained unemployed. Daily he would go out seeking work and daily he would return home rejected. The once loving family unit became fragmented as he used to take his frustrations out on us. First he would shout and then he would hit. My brothers bore the brunt of the beatings. I guess that’s one of the good things about being the youngest but it did mean my brothers grew to resent me, looking upon me as the favourite child.
I was not the favourite though. I believe father would beat them first for no other reason than they could take a harder beating than I. He was a big man and I was not only the youngest but also the skinniest. The runt of the litter, you could call me. One punch from him and I would have probably gone down, never to stand again. My father was a frustrated man, he was not a fool.
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