by D Krauss
*
"Hey, pretty lady."
Startled, Rosa turned. That someone on the street had actually spoken to her was surprising enough, but a compliment? Both demanded investigation.
And she immediately wished she hadn't. Two of them stood there, grinning. Vibrancy pumped through their veins and pulsed their flushed faces, and their eyes were gleaming and open. Alive. So alive.
Immunes.
Her heart picked up some beats, fear at least causing some kind of response. But she had drunk only four cups of coffee and ate only one bag of grapes and half again that of chocolate, just enough to get to the office, a block away now. Not enough to deal with this.
They exchanged looks. They knew. "I wonder," the one who spoke, blond, sallow, hawk-faced, hair falling down to his shoulders, a neck tattoo peeking out of his collar, "if you’d go into the alley here with us." His friend, dark, bloodshot eyes, buzz cut, giggled.
No, her mind said. Scream, it said. She looked at the passersby walking the Zombie Stroll on either side, some of them stopping behind, waiting. She’d heard tales of people walking up on stalled cars and starving to death, waiting for them to move. She looked where Blondie was pointing. Crying, she turned and entered, the two following.
"Far enough," Blondie said and she stopped, still crying. One more cup of coffee and she could scream, not that anyone would come, but the Immunes might be surprised enough to move on, look for a better victim. Just one more cup. Her life now turned on that.
"Turn around," Blondie said.
They regarded her, the predatory gleam lighting their eyes. "So," Blondie turned to his friend, jovially, "what should we do with this one?"
Darkling leered, “Let’s do her up the ass.” He giggled again.
"Hmm," Blondie considered, like he was reading a wine list, "all right. We haven't done that in, oh say, a couple of hours," and they both laughed uproariously. Rosa sobbed as the two pounded each other's backs in hilarity.
"Okay, pretty lady, why don’t you go ahead and take off your blouse?" Blondie smirked at her.
She did.
"Bra."
She complied.
"That skirt. And don’t forget the panties."
She stood there, naked, the breeze goosebumping her, too miserable even to sob.
“Umm, umm, umm,” Blondie shook his head in admiration while Darkling grinned wider, if that was possible. "You cold, or happy to see us?" Blondie said and they both burst into guffaws again. Rosa resumed crying.
"Tell you what you do, honey," Blondie said, "why don’t you turn around, lean forward, put both hands on the wall there, and spread your legs for us, okay?"
For a second, the fear and outrage pounded through and she lifted her head and looked at Blondie whose smile dropped, concern crossing his face, but only for a second. She did as she was told.
"Very nice," Blondie said to her back and his calloused hand slapped her butt cheek, causing her to wince. She heard zippers going down. She began to cry harder.
"You're about to feel something I’m sure you’ve never felt before. Twice," Blondie chortled, his shadow growing on the wall before her, "Who knows, it might just wake you up." And they both started laughing again.
She felt him move closer, his groping hand reaching between her legs, pulling her apart. No, please, no…
"Motherfuckers!" Mark roared.
She heard startled yelps and Darkling, "Hey man, get your own!" then whistling of air and the sound of wood on flesh. Someone fell heavily against her, knocking her to her knees, and then dropped to the side. She looked. Blondie, with half his skull gone. She stared, aghast, at the pulsing of blood and brain.
Whack! She turned. Mark was standing over Darkling, who was bent back on his knees, face bloodied, arm up as ward against the rapidly descending bat Mark wielded. She recognized it. From the 1963 World Series, one used by the Dodgers to beat the Yankees in that incredible four game sweep. One of Mark’s prized office displays. Mark screamed triumph as the velocity increased and the bat parted Darkling’s head down to about mid brow. Blood volcanoed everywhere.
She whimpered.
He looked at her, his breath coming hard, his eyes wide and bright and murderous. "Get dressed," he said. She did as she was told.
