by Dick Gear
Teddy glances at me. “Well?”
I look at my phone. “Nice talking to you, dad,” I mutter. I put the cell back in my pocket.
***
Shep’s house is in the suburbs, about twenty minutes outside of the city. He doesn’t live in a very good neighborhood. One of those streets where every other yard has a car rusting on blocks or a guy with a potbelly sitting out on his stoop drinking a forty ounce beer.
But it’s a good place to throw a party because nobody around here much cares how loud you are or how late it goes.
There are only about five or six cars here, so maybe it’s not that big of a party, which is sort of a relief to me. I’m not in the mood for anything too crazy. But I could use a beer or two, something to take the edge off things.
I scratch at my crotch absentmindedly as we climb the steps and ring the doorbell.
From inside, I can distinctly hear the sounds of FloRida and loud voices trying to be heard over the music.
The door opens and Shep himself greets us enthusiastically. “My boys! Yes!” He grabs us both and pulls us into a bear hug.
“Okay, okay, calm down,” I tell him, pulling away.
“Look at you,” he says, glancing me up and down. “Gorgeous as ever.” He smacks his lips and does his over-the-top effeminate voice. “You’re so sexy when you dress casual.”
Teddy laughs hysterically at this.
I recognize only one or two other people in the house. I think they’re co-workers of Shep’s.
“So what brings you to Casa De Shep?” he asks, ushering us inside.
“We thought it might be fun to hang, man,” I say, not wanting to get into the real reason just yet.
He looks at us with a curious expression on his face. “I thought you both were working tonight.”
Teddy opens his mouth but I silence him with a look. “It was dead at the garage so we got let off early.”
“Oh. Cool.” Shep grins. “Let’s get you both some libations.”
The three of us walk through the house into the kitchen and Shep gets each of us a beer from the fridge. He lowers his voice. “You guys definitely came at the right time.
A couple of these girls are getting pretty drunk, and I know for a fact that one of them loves to take it in the face.”
Teddy high-fives Shep. “That’s what we were hoping for, baby!”
It never ceases to amaze me how Teddy can think only of sex, no matter what else might be going on around him.
I drink my beer, a long cold series of swallows. The burning sensation is pleasant. Normally I’d be all over Shep’s slutty friends, but right now I can’t think about that.
Shep leans back against the counter. “What’s wrong, amigo? You aren’t yourself.”
I meet his gaze. Unfortunately, Shep isn’t quite as clueless as Teddy Foreskin.
It’s harder to pull the wool over his eyes. “I had an…an argument with my grandmother.”
“Aw, that sucks. “
Teddy belches. “Yeah, and what really sucks is that he punched her like twenty times in the face and she never went down. So now we know Danny hits like a bitch.”
Shep’s eyes widen. “You’re joking.”
“Of course he’s joking,” I say, trying to play it off. “He’s a fucking moron.”
“No I’m not. I saw him do it,” Teddy says. “She was tough, though. I’d say she’s got to be top five pound for pound in the world, for women over seventy.”
Shep looks at both of us. Then he notices the scratch on my cheek. “Shit, you do have a cut on your face. That’s from your grandmother?”
I look at Teddy. “You’re a fucking idiot, you know that?”
He laughs. “I might be an idiot, but at least I don’t beat up old ladies.”
“Tell me what happened,” Shep says.
I’m about to try, but just then one of the girls comes in the kitchen for another drink. She’s wearing low-rider jeans and one of those teeny tiny t-shirts that barely covers her stomach. “Hey,” she says, smiling at us. “I’m Fergi.”
“Nice to meet you,” I say.
Teddy starts wiggling his ass. “What you gon' do with all that junk? All that junk inside your trunk? I'm a get, get, get, get, you drunk.”
Of course he’s singing a Fergi song, trying to be funny.
Shep slaps his own forehead in mock disgust.
At first Fergi just stares at Teddy like he’s the lowest form of life she’s ever encountered. But then she begins dancing. “My hump, my hump, my lovely little lumps,” she sings.
“That’s right!” Teddy shouts and puts up his hand for a high-five. She slaps his hand.
“What do you want to drink?” Shep asks her.
“I brought some Bicardi and Cokes.”
He digs in the fridge and pulls her out one, and she promptly swigs from it. Fergi is actually hot, I realize. Nice ass, perky little tits, long brown hair, brown eyes, olive complexion. She looks a little like Kim Kardashian.
“This party’s turning into quite the sausage fest,” she says.
“Isn’t that how you like it?” Teddy says. “I hear you like a big old sausage for breakfast.”
Fergi glances him up and down. “I get the feeling your working with a cocktail weenie. So, definitely not interested.”
Teddy turns bright red. “Believe me, honey, I’ve got a damn kielbasa in my pants. You couldn’t handle it.”
“If I had a dime for every little dick-having guy who talked smack about his huge penis, I’d be Donald Trump.” She turns and leaves the room.
“Owned,” Shep guffaws. “She just served you like she was Roger Federer, bitch.”
“She was right about that cocktail wienie shit, too.” I guzzle more beer.
Teddy just shakes his head angrily.
“Tell me what happened with your grandmother,” Shep says.
“Fine.” And I start to tell him the story, beginning with her coming home from the market with her wounded finger, and ending with the brutal fight and her chasing us down my street as we drove away.
Shep often can’t believe what he’s hearing, but Teddy Foreskin verifies as much of it as possible.
By the end, Shep’s at a loss for words. “That’s some crazy shit, bro,” he says finally, slaps my shoulder. I’m thinking he might not quite buy my story. “You definitely need to get laid and try and get your mind off things,” he says.
“Yeah.” Then I remember my other problem…and the itch comes back full force.
I can barely restrain myself from scratching the shit out of my balls right in the kitchen.
“I need to take a piss,” I lie.
I quickly make my way to the bathroom. When I get there, Fergi is just coming out. “Hey,” she says, smiling at me. “Has anyone ever told you that you look a little like Robert Pattinson?”
“I might have heard that before,” I say. The truth is, I have gotten that remark three or four times since Twilight came out. Strangely, only hammered chicks seem to see the resemblance. Every girl who told me that later had my cock lodged deep in her throat.
“You’re kind of hot,” she says.
“Thanks. I thought you looked a little like Kim Kardashian.”
She makes a face. “Ugh. That chick is the worst.”
“It’s not an insult.”
“I know. I just personally hate her.” Fergi moves out of the doorway. “Anyway, enjoy your piss or shit or whatever you’re doing in there.”
“Pissing. Just taking a piss.”
“I bet you’re going to leave a big brown stain in that toilet,” Fergi cackles, stumbling away.
Wow, she’s a weird chick. I go in the bathroom and lock the door. Then I quickly take my pants down and sit on the toilet. My rash looks positively ghastly. It’s almost purple now, and the zits and stuff are huge and wet, like blobs of tiny jellyfish hanging off my flesh.
I get to scratching. It burns and itches and soon I’m bleeding and puss is splattering
everywhere. I can’t believe that stupid bitch gave me a venereal disease. I need to get to a clinic. I need antibiotics fast.
I dab some wet toilet paper on my open sores and then toss it in the bowl and flush. “Fuck,” I whisper, staring at the bizarre mess on my genitals. It looks a like bowl of rotten Spaghetti-O’s.
Pulling up my pants, I stifle the urge to sob like a baby. I need more beer. I want to get blackout drunk and forget tonight ever happened. Tomorrow morning I’ll go to the clinic and get this shit checked out.
Where will you go after that?
I’m still hoping that I’ll be able to go back home.
I still don’t know what’s going on with Nana. Hopefully she’s okay and dad checked on her. Maybe whatever temporarily got into her is over with now.
But deep down I know that Nana isn’t okay. Whatever went wrong with her—I can’t imagine it’s gotten better by now.
I walk out of the bathroom and Fergi is watching me from the hallway, a twinkle in her eye. “That was no piss,” she yells at me, pointing. “You were in there way too long. You took a shit!”
“I did not.”
“Let me see that brown streak,” she says, walking toward me aggressively. “Out of my way, shitboy.”
“Hey, take it easy.”
She tries to push past me, but I don’t move. Now she’s pushing at my chest. But she’s doing it in a really odd way. Kind of…sexual. Half-fighting me, half-groping me.
Suddenly her mouth is on mine and her tongue pushes between my lips. “Oh, Robert,”
she moans.
“My name is Danny.”
“Shut up. You’re Robert Pattinson. Call me Bella.”
Her hand strays down to my groin and I move away. “Hey, take it easy,” I chastise.
She stares at me with a confused look. “What? Are you nervous because I made those comments about cocktail wieners to your friend? You think it means I need some huge dick to satisfy me?”
“No, I just—“
“Robert, I don’t need a big dick. Cocktail wieners are fine too. What I love about you is your face. I want to sit on Robert Pattinson’s pale vampire face.”
“Listen, you’re fucking drunk. You’re wasted. I don’t fuck with wasted chicks. I don’t feel like getting accused of date rape tomorrow.”
Her eyes narrow. “Go fuck yourself, Robert. I’m not that drunk. You’re just chicken shit.” She spins and walks off. “And I smelled that shit you took in the bathroom!” she yells over her shoulder as she goes.
Christ, I think. This is by far the worst night of my life. If my balls didn’t look like a pepperoni pizza right now, I would have taken Fergi into the bathroom and bent her over the toilet. Instead, I got nothing. I feel like a complete loser.
“What’s that?” someone yells from the living room.
“Turn down the music!” Someone else yells.
The music is turned off.
And that’s when I hear it. Someone is screaming outside.
I run to the living room where everyone’s gathered by the windows and staring outside.
“What the hell is that?” A girl shrieks.
“Jesus, that’s fucking sick!”
“Oh my god! Oh my god!”
Pandemonium. I make my way to the window and squeeze in so I can see what’s happening. Across the street, in the neighbor’s yard, two people are locked in a struggle.
But it’s not a fair fight. A fat, naked man is on top of a smaller, clothed man. And the naked man is eating the other guy’s face. Literally.
I stumble back from the window along with everyone else.
Someone pukes. Their puke splatters over Shep’s green couch.
Another person faints dead away and hits his head on Shep’s coffee table. A gout of blood pours from his temple as lies twitching on the floor.
Shep is standing there with his mouth open, his eyes like two saucers.
Teddy points at me. “You were right, Danny! Holy shit, you were right!
Fucking zombies! Zombies!”
Everyone looks at me.
“What’s he talking about?” Shep asks.
“I think—I think people might be turning into zombies,” I say.
Someone kneels down to help the guy who fainted. “He’s bleeding bad. Call an ambulance!”
Two people are already on their phones.
“No service!” One girl says.
Fergi is on her cell also. She seems to get through. “Hello, I need help. Please send the police. There’s a man attacking another person outside. And we have a person with a head injury inside….Don’t you want the address? Hello?” She looks up at us.
“The 911 operator just hung up on me. He said “stay inside, lock your doors.” And then he hung up on me.”
Shep gulps. “Holy fuck.”
Teddy runs back to the window. “There’s more of them,” he says. “There’s three people eating that dude in the front yard.”
Everyone just looks at each other. I’ve never seen such horrified, pale, sweaty faces before.
“They just pulled his intestines out. His intestines are black, like little black ropes. Someone’s eating his arm like it’s a fucking chicken wing.”
“Will you shut up!” A curly dark-haired guy yells at Teddy. “Just shut up, man.
We don’t need a play-by-play.”
“Sorry,” Teddy says. “I just—“ and then he lets out a horrified squeal. And a shriek. He runs away from the window, pointing outside. “They saw me! Those zombies saw me!”
“Calm down,” I tell him. “You’re not helping.”
“But—but---they’re coming over. They’re coming this way!” he cries.
I go to the window and see them shambling across the street. Actual shambling zombies, just like in the movies. They’re heading right for us.
“I think we might be in trouble,” I say, but it only comes out as a whisper.
TO BE CONTINUED….
Book 2 in the Filthy Apocalypse Series, REGURGITATED, is available at Amazon. Pick it up today. And if you enjoyed SICKENED, please leave a review at Amazon and let us know!
