Tainted Mind

by T J Christian

  He shakes his head—he should have realized. Even before the world went to shit, there have always been bad people. There’s no reason to think if any of those bad people survived that they would no longer be bad. Did he really think they’d all turn from their evil ways, band together, and fight the good fight as a team? Talk about being delusional.

  With that mindset, he’s surprised he lasted this long. He’d been lucky if Harvey was the first bad apple in the last ten years. Better late than never, he thinks. It’s definitely a lesson learned. He’d never be that naïve again.

  Retrieving the knife from his boot, he settles in to wait. Hopefully, the girl will come along soon—before Harvey gets antsy and starts things on his own.

  Cowboy wouldn’t have to wait long—and it wouldn’t be the girl that gets everything started.

  * * *

  She told herself her shaking body results from the cold water in the shower—but that was only part of the reason. It was cold, that was for sure, but Chris’s touch warmed her in ways she never thought possible. No, her shaking was because she was nervous.

  Chris pulls her close and hugs her, but then his arms seem to loosen. She sensed some apprehension in his touch—as if he were too rough, she’d break.

  Hoping to break that tension, she tilts up her head and meets his lips for the second time that day. This differed from the first time though. There was passion in this kiss—need. And she reciprocated that need. A fire burned within her and she didn’t know what to do about it. All she knew was that it was a fire that she wanted to grow—she longed for the inferno and moaned into Chris’s mouth.

  His hands, light against her back, suddenly push her back. Concern floods his eyes. “Are you okay?” he asks.

  “I’m fine,” she says, pulling him to her with as much force as she can muster considering that they are both wet. “You’re not going to break me, Chris.”

  That’s all it took. It was as if that simple statement broke a spell. He was an unbridled horse, seeing a prairie for the first time and wanting nothing more than to run, run, run. Backing her up, he presses her against the glass. His hands weed through her wet hair, grasping it, pulling it back to expose her neck where he’d lean in and kiss that tender spot where her collar bone blended with the side of her neck.

  She melts into his arms. When he kissed her neck, she kissed his. When he met her lips, she opens her mouth to receive his tongue. His warm length presses against the front of her—the glass shower at her back. Wedged in place, she takes advantage of the position, lifting her legs and wrapping them around his waist, locking her ankles at the small of his back. Her center is open to him now. He is ready. His hardness presses against her as she grinds her hips into him.

  He takes a half-step back. Her back arches, pressing her shoulders against the glass as her chest heaves between them. He lifts her easily. She hugs his head to her breasts. His lips wrap around her right nipple, his fingers around her left. She presses tighter to him as his sucking mouth ignites nerves she didn’t know she had—electricity shoots from her breasts and down into that most sensitive area between her legs. That spot—she’d touched it many times, but never had it ever felt this good…this addictive. She didn’t want this to stop.

  His hands are back on her ass. He squeezes her, spreads her, while she clings to him, forcing her tiny nipple into his mouth. She loosens her legs and slides an inch or two down his body. His erection remains poised at her center. All she has to do is lower herself a little more and his hardness will fill that space within her. She wants it—wants him so bad, but delays. She wants the moment to last, too. Just the pressure of him against her is exhilarating.

  She kissed him again—pressed her mouth to his, so hard its borderline painful. With panting breath, she puts her head against his shoulder, kissed his collar, his neck, his ear. Then she whispers, “I want you inside me. I want you inside me now.”

  Their bodies relax. Between her legs, his swollen member pulses against her opening. All she has to do is slide down just a little farther—but she waits on him. Whatever happened with him and that other woman, she knew it frightened him and she did not want to force herself.

  She meets his gaze, sucks in her lip, and bites it in an attempt to control herself. All she wants is him inside her—to slide down just those few more inches until he fills her. His eyes ask an unspoken question. She nods, reassuring him. Kissing him, she whispers, “It’s okay.”

  That’s all the reassurance he needs.

  His hips rise, pressing himself against her. She adjusts her hips, feeling him pressing against her opening, seeking access to her most intimate of intimates. They come together, merging into one. He meets resistance, but she forces herself down. Something within her tears, a sharp pain erupts but just as quickly, it’s gone. All she can feel now is the fullness of him inside her.

  Her body rocks against his, their rhythm a thing of perfection. A flower of warmth ignites in each nipple. Grabbing his head, she pulls it to her chest and he sucks a pink nipple into his mouth. The sucking causes the warmth to increase and spread. Panting, she grinds against him—harder, faster. The mound of pink flesh between her legs grinds against the hair around his swollen member. She didn’t believe it possible, but he seems to grow larger within her.

  His scream of pleasure scares and excites her at the same time. Within her, there’s a growing flame. It surges and erupts, sparking another round of electricity that travels through every nerve in her body. His manhood grows limp and slides out of her, but her hips grind with more vigor as the pink mound between her legs rubs vigorously against the hairy thatch of curls above his cock.

  It’s her turn to scream with release as her muscles convulse with waves of spasms.

  When it's over, she clings limply to him—most of her weight supported by his arms and hips. She pants into his neck and kisses his skin between breaths.

  His hand slides through her hair, grabs it and pulls her head back so he can put his lips to hers. She breathes him in and whispers into his mouth, “More…”

  He shuts off the shower and carries her to the bedroom. Before she came into the bathroom to join him, she’d stripped the bed of all but the bottom sheet. He tosses her onto it, stands over her, and grins. “You’ve been planning this, haven’t you?”

  She grins. Sliding one hand down her body, her fingers disappear between her legs. Chris’s manhood responds and rises once more.

  “Maybe,” she says, teasing herself—teasing him.

  He lays down beside her and she climbs on top. They merge again—this time; she takes it nice and slow.

  * * *

  Lethargic, Quincy rises and falls into unconsciousness. During those moments of wakefulness, his eyes do nothing but follow Harvey as he paces back and forth across the living room. He holds the shotgun like a club and pounds it into his palm with growing intensity. Over and over he hits himself and doesn’t seem to realize a purple bruise is growing there.

  He’s also talking to himself and Quincy can’t make out what he’s saying. Each syllable runs together like something from a foreign tongue.

  Harvey stops, turns to Quincy. His pupils are wide and though he addresses Quincy directly, his eyes seem to look right through him. “You really look like shit…you know that?”

  He makes like he’s going to walk away but abruptly turns back, using the shotgun for emphasis. “Do you want to say something? What have you got to say to me, old man?”

  Quincy has done nothing to provoke him—he’s confused at what’s going on. Sure, if he had the strength, he’d get off the couch and try to overtake Harvey. However, even on his best day, he doesn’t think he’d ever be able to take Harvey down—not without the element of surprise.

  “What do you want with us?”

  “Us?” Harvey mocks. “I don’t want to have anything to do with you, old man. You are nothing but a means to an end.” He leans close—too close for Quincy’s comfort. He can tell immediately that Har
vey has had nothing to do with any sort of oral hygiene in quite some time. The smell as he speaks is like rotten eggs mixed with onions and set out in the sun for a day. The odor is so pungent, Quincy gags as bile stings his throat.

  He tries to turn his head, only to have Harvey grab his chin. “Don’t turn away from me when I’m talking to you. You asked me a question and the least you can do is show some respect.”

  Harvey is crazy—it’s the only thing that makes sense to Quincy. Whether it's been the extreme isolation of this new world, or something else, he doesn’t know. Probably a mixture of things.

  “That’s better,” he says. “Now, in answer to your question…there is no us. There’s only me and your granddaughter.” He leans closer, and it’s all Quincy can do to keep from turning away. Harvey hisses, “Do you know what it’s like to not have a woman? It’s been so…fucking…long!”

  Harvey’s eyes lose focus again but that’s not right, really. Quincy squints, trying to focus through his own vision inhibitions. Harvey’s not losing focus—his right eye is drifting. A lazy eye. But Quincy doesn’t believe this is normal. Something is causing it.

  Quincy flinches as Harvey raps the shotgun barrels against his head. “I’m really tired of waiting.”

  He stands, hurries across the room, then rushes back like he forgot something. Face red and eyes flaming, he gestures repeatedly at Quincy with the gun.

  “So…fucking…tired,” he mumbles. Then louder, “So…fucking…tired!”

  He kicks the chair over, grabs Quincy by the shirt, and drags him to the floor. “Sorry, old man. I’m tired of waiting!”

  * * *

  Muffled shouting emanates from the house across the street—the house where Harvey holds the girl’s grandfather captive. So far, there’d been no sign of the girl and by what Cowboy can hear, Harvey’s tired of waiting.

  The screen door bangs open and there’s Harvey, shotgun in one hand and dragging an old man across the floor with the other. He steps out onto the porch and jerks the old man with him. “Heeyyy…Little girrrll…” shouts Harvey. “It’s time!”

  Cowboy doesn’t know what it’s time for, but he’s certain it’s not good.

  While Harvey continues to call out, he picks up the old man and forces him into a kneeling position near the edge of the porch. If the granddaughter was hiding nearby, she’d hear his shouting with no problem. Cowboy doesn’t think she’s here though—if she were, and seeing her grandfather being treated that way, she surely would have made herself known by now. Does Harvey not understand that?

  “What’s her name?” Harvey shouts, putting the barrel of the gun against the grandfather’s head.

  The grandfather mumbles something that Cowboy can’t hear but it’s obviously the girl’s name. A sinister grin stretches across Harvey’s face. “Oh, Kaaarennn!”

  He stands there looking up and down the street. When nothing happens, he tries one more time. “Last call for Karen.”

  The waiting—listening.

  Still nothing.

  Cowboy wants to stand up and rush over—to put a bullet in Harvey’s brain and call it a day. But he’s definitely outgunned now. If Harvey does indeed have a working shotgun, then all bets are off. He can’t risk his using a handgun against a man wielding a shotgun—especially when he has no idea if his bullets will work.

  Across the street, Harvey leans over Quincy and says something to him. The grandfather opens his mouth as if to cry out, but no sound comes from his mouth. He places his hands to his eyes as if to keep himself from seeing something.

  Then Cowboy realizes why. In one swift motion, Harvey stands, puts the gun against his should, and then leans forward to place the barrel against the back of the grandfather’s head.

  Before Cowboy can rise from his hiding spot behind the hedge and say anything to stop it, there’s an explosion.

  Cowboy falls all the way to his knees, leans over, and vomits.

  * * *

  They both lie on their backs, looking up at the flaking paint and stains on the ceiling. They are both spent and Karen wants nothing more than to close her eyes and sleep for a few hours. There’s no sleep for either of them though as a loud boom echoes through the town.

  Chris bolts up. “What was that?”

  Karen springs out of bed, a sudden surge of panic flooding through her. She’d heard that sound before—recently.

  “Karen? What’s wrong?”

  “That was my grandfather’s gun.” She dresses quickly.

  “Hold up…wait for me,” Chris says, pulling on his pants. She already has her boots on and is gathering her backpack and ax.

  “Hurry, Chris.” She’s pale—as if she’s seen a ghost. Tears form in the corners of her eyes. She’s apparently already fearing the worst.

  He shrugs into his backpack and grabs Karen before she can run out. “Karen,” he says, holding on to her shoulder and turning her to face him. “You can’t go rushing into something you know nothing about. Let’s just take this nice and quiet, okay?”

  “But…” she begins.

  Chris cuts her off, “No…I know you don’t want to hear this but if something bad is going to happen, then it’s probably already happened. It also might be nothing?”

  Karen is shaking her head. “Something’s happened, Chris. I know it. He doesn’t shoot unless there’s trouble.”

  “He shot the mailbox when I arrived.”

  “Yes,” she agrees. “But you were still an unknown. Shooting the mailbox warned me since I wasn’t around.”

  “Okay…but we have to take this nice and easy. We can’t rush into it.”

  He gets her to nod.

  “Now, stay behind me and follow my lead, all right?”

  She nods again and he leads her down the stairs and out into the street. They turn towards the place she calls home—although she’ll never live there again.

  Chapter Eleven

  Bob couldn’t sit still. The waiting and watching dragged on and on. When nothing continued to happen, he decided to take a risk and sneak into Quincy’s house and see if he could confront Harvey on his own. Harvey was a bigger man, but Bob was younger and quicker. He figured he could end all this now with no innocents getting hurt—namely the grandfather or his granddaughter. Harvey could go fuck himself—he’d dug his own grave when he turned on the group.

  He stood before the back door, ear pressed to the rough, paint flecked wood, listening to—silence. He couldn’t hear a single thing from within and almost convinced himself that maybe he had the wrong house. Then he finally heard something from within. A groan—someone was hurting.

  Did Harvey already harm the old man? Life is already tough on its own, but to have power-hungry people like Harvey added to the mix is completely unnecessary. Surviving is too hard as it is. He didn’t know why—but Harvey’s actions were really pissing him off. People shouldn’t be this way. They shouldn’t want to bring hurt on others just so they can feel superior. Bob, always so passive, took offense to this, and it drove him to want to end it.

  Simply put, he’d had enough. He didn’t know why this sudden need to set things right had come over him—it was overpowering. He’d never felt this way before. But the need to put Harvey in his place felt like his responsibility and his alone. Why did Cowboy think it was okay just to wait? It was like he was using the grandfather as bait—and that was wrong too, wasn’t it?

  It never occurred to him that Cowboy would use the girl to draw Harvey out of the house—to get him on more even terms. As it stood, they had no way of knowing what Harvey was doing inside and what kinds of weapons he’d stumbled upon.

  This is why Bob’s not a leader—he’s a follower. He was good at taking orders and following them. He should have stuck with that because thinking for himself is a good way to get himself killed. Bob is blind to that—all he can see is hate.

  * * *

  Before Chris and Karen could even get out of the house, another distant shotgun blast rumbles through town
. Pausing at the doorway, they share a quick look, then Chris takes off at a full sprint, Karen close on his heels.

  * * *

  “No!” Cowboy shouts. He couldn’t hold it back this time. Rising from his hiding spot, he pushes through the shaggy bush that hid him. Across the street, Quincy’s body barely settles to the ground when a shadow appears in the doorway behind Harvey.

  It’s Bob, and he has a knife in his hand.

  Even with the shout, Harvey didn’t hear Cowboy. His attention was on whatever Bob said behind him. Without a word, a shout, a curse, or any other threat or warning, he points the shotgun and pulls the second barrel’s trigger. A giant red rose blossoms outward from Bob’s chest and he falls backward into the house.

  Already, Harvey was digging in his pants pocket to retrieve more shells. He breaks open the gun. Exposing the breech ends of the barrels, he removes the spent shells, slides home two fresh ones, and locked it back in place. As he does this, he spins back toward the street, seemingly noticing Cowboy for the first time.

  Several houses away, Poker Jack also makes his appearance by stepping out onto the cracked street.

  Harvey sees him too and calls out, heavy condescension paints his words. “So, Poker Jack…what’s it going to be?” The way he said Jack’s name sounded like a curse.

  Jack hollers, “Not with you, you psycho.”

  Cowboy smiles. He’s glad. He really likes Jack and it would be a shame to kill him along with Harvey. And that was his intention now—there was no choice. Harvey is as good as dead.

  Now, though, all Cowboy needed was a plan of action to make that happen. That shotgun really put a kink in things.

  * * *

  Chris comes up short. Karen almost runs by him, but he sticks his arm out to catch her before she can blindly race across the street. Someone stands in the road, not too far from them. He didn’t seem to hear them as his attention remained on Karen’s house.

  Somebody shouts from the front porch of Karen’s house, but from here, they can’t see anything but the front yard and part of the roof.