Apocalypse Alley

by Don Allmon

  But that didn’t happen.

  The base of an immense oak tree had a pit beneath its bole black as pitch. And Buzz, whose Irishness extended no further than his hair color and freckles, still thought of old sidhe and faerie mounds, and the sight of that pit struck a fear in him far disproportionate to what it ought.

  The woodwoses threw him into it.

  He crashed through mossy roots and clawed out to stop his fall but got no purchase. He hit bottom with a whump, unhurt because so much of the forest’s debris had fallen through also. The tiny cave wasn’t big around, but it was deep. The hole above was just a couple of meters across, if even that, but a full twenty meters up.

  Stars cleared from his eyes, and he caught the wind back in him. His eyes adjusted to the darkness, and when he looked up, spitting autumnal debris from his mouth and tasting dirt, he saw Comet.

  Roots and vines held him, transfixed, spread-eagled to the wall of the oubliette. So many vines wrapped his arms that, even with his modified strength, he couldn’t move at all. Sunlight from above cast a small oval across him. Buzz could see that oval of light move. He could see the shadows over Comet’s body shift. Comet breathed heavy and muscles bunched and his veins bulged and he barely moved a millimeter.

  The sun would move quickly, then it would be dark here. Utterly dark.

  Buzz scrambled over to him and tried to grab hold of some of those vines that wrapped him, to give Comet a fighting chance, but more thin strong roots sprang from the ground and tangled Buzz’s feet and drew his wrists back behind him and Buzz fell face-first into the cool rotting loam.

  He kept trying. He turned himself around and sat so his fingers could get to the roots that bound Comet’s ankles to the wall, but he couldn’t get a good grip, and backward like he was, he couldn’t get any leverage either. It was the wrong angle for everything.

  He struggled against the wall and stood. He attacked the vines at Comet’s wrists with his teeth. He tore away bits and pieces and spat them out, but the roots and vines were too thick and Buzz’s teeth were only human and not meant for chewing through wood. But he was fuming mad now, and he attacked the roots harder, like he was rabid and crazed, and Comet said, “Buzz. Buzz, it’s okay. You ain’t a beaver. It’s okay.”

  Buzz yanked hard and his teeth slipped and he fell backward, and pain shot through his mouth, and he landed on his ass in the loam. “It’s not okay. We’re here! We killed Valentine! It was all supposed to be over! They’re gonna kill us, don’t you know that? They’re gonna burn us in a wicker man, or cut our hearts out on some freaky altar. It’s not okay!”

  He sat there trying to catch his breath. He prodded at his teeth with his tongue to see if he’d broken anything—no, nothing. His eyes blurred from frustration. Comet glowed through the haze. Comet hung on the wall in his little spot of sunlight bound by stupid plants. They were only stupid plants! And there was nothing Buzz could do. He wasn’t strong like Comet was. He wasn’t resilient or fast or anything. And all this was his fault anyway. If he hadn’t stolen the Blue Unicorn to begin with, none of this would have happened. Comet wouldn’t be here, hurt and waiting to die.

  Buzz would never have met him.

  The angle of the sunlight was sharp. As Comet breathed, shadows thrown by the cobbling of muscle on him went short and long, short and long.

  And Buzz remembered JT on a San Francisco rooftop and something he’d said about priorities when you’re about to die.

  So he crawled back over to Comet, and there was his big-ass belt buckle. For a big-ass belt buckle made to be gaudy, it wasn’t all that bad. Buzz caught the edge of it with his teeth and gave it a tug and the buckle popped free.

  “What do you need my belt for?” Comet said.

  Buzz caught the leather loop in his teeth and pulled and shook his head like he was a dog on a bone. The rich taste of leather filled his mouth, reminding him he hadn’t eaten in a really long time, and his mouth went watery.

  “You got an idea?” Comet said.

  Oh, Buzz had an idea, all right.

  He finally got the belt open and it hung there, buckle to one side, loose strap to the other.

  Comet’s jeans were button-up. Buzz took the corner above the top button in his mouth. The jeans were poly-cotton and the synthetic fibers felt just like real cloth on his tongue. His nose bushed Comet’s stomach. It felt like he’d nudged a statue. He popped the button.

  Comet said, “Oh.”

  And what if Comet told him no, what would he do then? But Comet didn’t, and Buzz took another mouthful of cloth and freed four buttons pop-pop-pop-pop softly, and it was a good thing Comet wasn’t wearing no boxers or anything because this here, Buzz wasn’t going to be denied this at least. Maybe his teeth couldn’t tear through wood, but he’d have eaten right through a pair of boxers if he had to.

  He sat back on his bound heels. The dark of Comet’s jeans made a V and the hem of his T-shirt made it into a triangle and the top of the triangle was filled with thick short hair that curled like flames, the coloration like everywhere all over his body, and Buzz could see the thick root of Comet’s cock.

  Of course Comet was thick and of course Comet was a shower and the rest of his cock was still tucked in his jeans. Buzz dug his tongue under Comet’s cock, the bit of it he could get to, and sucked and burrowed into the cloth and Comet’s crotch like some wild animal burrowing. Comet tasted clean-sweat tangy. Sucking, Buzz tried to pull Comet free, and he came free a little bit, but Comet was starting to go hard. If Buzz didn’t free that cock soon, Comet would go really hard, and then Buzz would just have to suck him through the cloth, and that wouldn’t be as good as what he intended to do. He tugged on the jeans with his teeth but the jeans were too tight and that got him nowhere, so he said out loud, “Sorry,” then bit down on the loose skin and pulled.

  “Ow!”

  But if the bite had hurt Comet, his cock didn’t show it. It went stiff as steel, free.

  Buzz nuzzled beneath it, felt the weight of it across his cheek, the smoothness as he turned his head, and Comet hissed from the brush of sideburn along him. Buzz tongued Comet’s nuts, still trapped in the jeans, and he tried to work them free the same as he’d done the guy’s cock. When he finally gave up and took Comet’s sac by the teeth and tugged it free, Comet didn’t say ow. He just sighed like it was a relief.

  Buzz had been afraid Comet would have one of those crazy-modded cocks—Duke had seemed the kind of guy who’d go for that—but he didn’t. He wasn’t too far outside of average. It could have been natural. It could have been what he’d started with, only rebuilt. It was thick and just nudged at long-ish. He was uncut. The foreskin wrapped tight and thin. The very tip of his head peeked out, the color of fresh rust. The head was thick like the rest of him, no taper at all, and Buzz thought, Battering ram, because he’d read that somewhere, some bit of 1980s imagery passed down a hundred years from sleezy book to sleezy vid to sleezy sim to Buzz right now.

  Buzz’s wrists dug into vines as he tried to reach for Comet, forgetting for a moment he was as bound as Comet was. He’d have to do this all with his mouth.

  He kissed alongside the root of Comet and buried his nose into hair that chemical dyes had made soft. He took a good whiff and thought, That’s Comet’s smell, remember that, all acid and zing. Then he traced the length of him slowly, the gentle zigzags of veins down the right side of him, retracing and memorizing. Same to the bottom of him, the thick ridge of his half-buried urethra. Same on the left, and all the while Comet’s cock jumped and flinched and Comet’s foreskin retracted millimeter by millimeter until it seemed to catch on the flare of his head and wouldn’t draw back any farther. Buzz flicked it free with his tongue, and it settled to where it was supposed to be.

  There was pre-come beading. Buzz touched his tongue to it, then pulled away and let the wet string glisten between them like a bridge, like a network cable jacking them together.

  Comet’s blue glowing eyes closed to mere slits.

>   Buzz opened wide and exhaled hot air over him before closing his mouth around Comet slowly until his lips touched cock and his tongue touched head. He set to bathing it with his spit, washing it, rolling it, pressing it against the roof of his mouth so when he rolled his head one way, he could tongue him the other, and vice versa. And when his mouth was good and full of his own spit and Comet’s pre-come, he pushed himself farther down on him until Comet hit the back of his throat.

  And it was like Duke had measured Buzz’s mouth and built Comet’s cock to fill it and then just a bit more. Like Duke had said Buzz had to work for it and deserve it.

  Buzz’s tongue was pressed down flat. His jaw was already aching. He couldn’t fuck himself on Comet. He couldn’t move his tongue the way he wanted, and he tried to shift his angle to something more comfortable. He also fought at the viny bonds at his wrists because, damn it, he wanted to hold onto Comet. He wanted to hold his balls and hold those legs (muscles straining), or grab hold of that ass that tightened and twitched.

  He wanted something to hold onto when he took Comet deep.

  He looked up at Comet while he sucked him, while the burn of his jaw went hot. And he couldn’t tell what Comet was looking at through those monochrome blues: escape, far wall, or Buzz sucking him.

  And he tried to figure what kind of guy Comet was, ’cause some guys, they liked it when you choked on their dicks, and some guys, they liked it when your eyes went beet red and the tears streamed. And some liked it better when you took it all without any show at all, like you were meant for them.

  Well, he was meant for Comet, wasn’t he? He took Comet deep and let Comet’s head rest against the back of his throat, soft against soft. He relaxed best he could and pressed on down best he could until that thick head popped on through, his throat open wide, a bit of an ache like when you swallow too big (well, yeah, exactly like that), and kept pressing farther because that was the ache he wanted. His nose finally buried in flame-colored hair, and his chin nestled into the soft tight sack of his nuts, and Buzz was home. Cock halfway to his gut, stretching, the pop of cartilage or something, he didn’t know.

  This was Comet he had in him.

  And Comet said, “Ah fuck, Shaggy. Ah fuck, baby. Fuck.”

  Shaggy alone would have made Buzz laugh. Except more than that, no one had ever called Buzz baby before. No one had ever called him any pet name, and he wondered if Comet called everyone baby. He would have smiled if his mouth weren’t full of cock. But he couldn’t, so he went back to sucking. He pulled himself free and then took it all again and again, enjoying the punch of Comet’s head to the back of his throat and the deep sore stretching. He caught breaths when he could, and his neck went sore and his jaw went numb, and Comet was trying to fuck his hips forward but he could hardly move, and he cursed the vines that held him tight and kept saying, “Shaggy, baby.”

  Buzz made it wet and noisy. He made it messy. Spit dribbled down his chin and stuck to Comet’s balls and made sloppy loops that broke against Comet’s folded-back jeans and Buzz’s T-shirt.

  “Shaggy, kiss me. Stop and kiss me.”

  Buzz didn’t want to stop. He wanted to watch Comet writhe in the vines like he was doing. He wanted to hear Comet cuss and beg, because no one had ever begged Buzz for anything before, and he liked it. He liked it especially from this guy here.

  “Fucking vines. Fucking druids!” Comet said.

  Buzz barely heard him. All he could hear was the churning of spit and pre-come.

  What kind of guy was Comet? Did he like to watch himself spray a guy’s face, watch it liquefy, run and hang in heavy drops? Did he like to come deep so it wasn’t even swallowing, no choice at all? Did he like to shoot in the mouth, a race: can you swallow as fast as I can fill you, or will you overflow? Was Comet’s come even come, because Duke could have made it anything. What did it taste like? Had Duke chosen that too?

  Comet said, “I’m shooting.” And his cock spasmed dry a couple of times and then came the flood.

  It felt like come, thick and runny. It tasted like come, mild, neutral, bitter maybe, salty maybe, something else, no more time for tasting, and Buzz had to swallow or it would overflow. Comet bucked and spat more. He was a racing kind of guy, and this was a race Buzz wanted to lose. He wanted all of the above: he wanted it down his throat, in his mouth, all over him. So he kept fucking himself on Comet, deep and hard and fast, and Comet’s cock churned jizz and spit into a froth and spat more and rammed it down his throat with its length and shoved it out of him with its width so it bubbled down the front of him and splattered the ground between them.

  Comet came forever, that was what Duke had done to him. And when Comet was done, he hung breathless and dizzy from his viny Saint Andrew’s, cock stiff as ever, a dripping foamy mess. Buzz tongued it nice and clean.

  Buzz sat on his heels. All the aches rose: his throat, his shoulders, his neck, his jaw. His tongue cramped, finally. He knew it would. He belched, tasted come, and swallowed it back down to where it belonged. He was a mess. He couldn’t clean himself off. He didn’t want to. He wanted to stay just like this, and when the druid came back and found them like this, well, fuck it too.

  “Shaggy, kiss me.”

  No, that wasn’t what he wanted to hear. He didn’t want to think there might be more to this than sex. Not now while they waited to be horribly killed. He didn’t want Comet to kiss him, not even by way of a thank-you. He wanted to sit here in the dark and enjoy the lingering flavor of him.

  “Shaggy? Baby?”

  Goddamn it. Why now? Was anything fair?

  He fought his way standing, and Comet had the faintest smile and his eyes were a soft glowing blue, and he leaned his head forward a bit, as far as he could, and Buzz met him the rest of the way. They kissed, and Comet licked clean Buzz’s nose and lips and chin and filled both their mouths with his taste. Honeydew. That was the other part of him. Could come actually taste like honeydew? And what if Buzz hadn’t liked honeydew? What then?

  But somehow Duke had made Comet for him.

  Comet whispered, “I wish I could hold you.”

  And against all better judgment, Buzz opened a channel and he spun out a space between them, and he shared the sensations and the response packages, all the sims they needed to sense touches neither of them could give. They kissed in the real world. In the virtual they held one another, and Buzz’s head fizzed with a whole new kind of despair he wasn’t ready to feel: he was going to lose something he’d only just found.

  The roots and vines entrapping them spasmed. From above, more dropped to them and pulled Buzz away. “Comet!”

  Comet’s bonds unfurled, and he fought like a wolverine but that got him nowhere, until they were both vomited up from the oubliette onto the forest floor. The druid stood there with its birch-tree staff. Beside it stood the wizard Firelight.

  Firelight reeked of smoke like the stink that fell over inland California during the dry season, and something chemical like what fell over battlefields. He was dressed in pure melodrama: Robes black, cowl black, and the elaborate and arcane trim lining his clothes with runes was just another black in another texture. His robes burned. Flames licked upward from the hem that dragged the ground and made the leaves he walked upon smolder. They licked up from his daggered sleeves and left holes in the cloth. His hands burned. Skin blackened and went shiny and his nails curled and split. And then the tongues of flame passed to another part of him and left pristine skin and cloth behind like it had all been an illusion. But it wasn’t an illusion, and his hands trembled and clenched into fists, and the horrible smell of his own roasted meat lingered.

  From within the cowl, more flames. Sparks fell from his parched lips when he spoke: “You promised me the orc and the elf if I stopped burning your forest. What is this?”

  “Bait. Means to acquire them. They are friends of the orc.”

  “That was not our agreement. Where are the orc and the elf?”

  “I don’t know.”

>   —Did it just lie to him? Shaggy sent.

  —Sure did. The two of them lay where they’d fallen disgorged from the oubliette. Shaggy didn’t move, just looked up at the two beings looming over them. Comet discretely buttoned himself up and then didn’t move either.

  “You are lord of these woods. You surely know if there are trespassers.”

  —So it’s on our side?

  —I don’t think I’d go that far.

  “Austin Shea is druid trained. I cannot find him.” Urushiol nodded toward Comet and Buzz. “Take them and hold them hostage. Austin and JT will come for them.”

  Comet felt Shaggy’s warm hand take his. But Shaggy hadn’t moved. They were still linked, and it was just a simulation.

  It wasn’t enough. They were free from their bonds now, and if he took Shaggy’s hand for real, what could Firelight possibly do to stop him? So he reached out and took it, and though they say there’s no difference between a simulated sensation and the real thing, that the distinction is impossible to perceive, Comet knew that wasn’t true. Nothing could replace this.

  Firelight watched their fingers thread together as if it were some insignificant and impotent reflex, like the dying kick of a bug. “Yes, they will try to save them, won’t they.”

  Urushiol glanced up to the sky. It had darkened with storm clouds and smoke. A heavy drop of rain slapped into the leaves so close to Comet’s nose that it splattered him. More drops followed. The druid began to walk away. “Then take them and leave.”

  “So you can scheme your vengeance against me with Austin Shea, student of your own student, one of your own lineage?”

  Urushiol slowed and stopped walking. “Austin Shea is a failed student of our path. He is nothing to me. Our business is concluded, yours and mine. Fire is part of the cycle of things. I have no further grievance with you.”

  Firelight’s quivering hands took the edges of his cowl and drew it back. He was a white man. He was bald. Flames ate at his face and scalp and ruined him, and then they vanished and he was repaired. He let the cowl fall to his shoulders.