She snapped them off in one bite and bent her head for more.
One of the reanimated Frobisher children joined the fray then. It was the girl, the one the Bird Brothers had called Nancy. Rachel spilled into the basement stairwell and reached for the doorknob as the redhead went on all fours on top of Crow and bit into the wailing man’s nose.
As unobtrusively as possible, Rachel eased the door shut. She waited on the top step, hands over her mouth, to see if they would come after her, but the Frobishers were more interested in the brothers. Two birds in the hand always trumped a scrawny-looking bird in the basement.
Brother Crow screamed for a minute longer, and then he fell silent. After that there were only chewing sounds, and the undead family’s low groans of pleasure.
Rachel tried to walk down the stairs, but her legs were too wobbly. She finally had to scoot down the steps on her rear, one riser at a time, like a toddler.
On his cot by the canned food shelf, Charles cocked his hooded head and made a questioning sound.
Rachel weaved drunkenly to the far side of the basement and sat in the corner by the stove. She pulled her knees to her breasts and rocked back and forth, staring blankly at the wall.
11 . Labor of Love
At some point, she slept. She didn’t know when she’d fallen asleep, but she woke several hours later.
She got up off the floor, moving gingerly. Her joints were stiff and achy from sleeping on the bare concrete. She looked down at herself and grimaced. She was naked from the waist down, her belly and thighs smeared with dried blood.
She needed to wash up. She would feel much better if she were clean.
She found some plastic totes labeled “clothes” among the Frobishers’ supplies and dumped out their contents, hoping to find something she could change into. Ma Frobisher’s outfits were at least ten years out of style, but she was petite like Rachel. She figured there was a good chance she’d find something that fit.
Rachel sorted through the dead woman’s garments, tossing dresses and sweaters and jogging pants back in the totes. Her eyes felt dry and scratchy and her cheek stung where one of the brothers had slapped her, but sorting through the clothing had a soothing effect on her. She finally decided on jeans and a summery blouse, and slid the totes back on the shelf where she had found them.
The bathroom facilities in the Frobisher’s fallout shelter were crude. There was a gravity potty to make her toilet-- waste dropped into a pit like at a park restroom—and a small tiled cubicle with a drain in the floor, no running water but it was good enough. She disrobed and used several jugs of water to wash off her would-be rapist’s blood.
Rachel felt better after she’d cleaned herself and put on some fresh clothes, but there was still Charlie to contend with. And he was starting to get ripe.
She went to her bunk and sat on it with her legs crossed, wondering what to do about him. She realized the part of him that made him Charlie had been stripped away. The Phage had cored his soul like a fruit, leaving the flesh to waste away, but she couldn’t bring herself to harm him… not even the empty vessel that remained.
He got progressively stinkier the three or four days that followed.
At first she tried to ignore the smell, and then she tried to stifle it with a rag tied around her face like a stagecoach robber. The rag worked for a little while, but eventually she could smell him even through the cloth. It wasn’t simply a rotting smell either. It was musky and organic, like a yeast infection that had run riot, and there was a metallic undertone, like pennies or fresh blood. The smell finally got so strong that she dreamed of choking when she slept, and she returned again and again to the door up the stairs, praying the Frobishers had gone away so she could escape the basement and her malodorous roommate.
But she was trapped. The Frobishers had reclaimed their home after killing the thieves who had come in the night. Rachel had barely escaped with her life, but she knew they’d rip her apart just as mercilessly as the men who had tried to rape her. Her only hope was that they would wander away, give her a chance to lock them back out again, but every time she crept up the stairs to check, she could hear the Frobishers shuffling around in the house.
All day long, she listened to the floorboards creak above her head. Every now and then there was a crash as one of the clumsy creatures knocked something over in their wanderings. They did not seem to realize she was nearby, or try to break through the basement door. At least there was that.
Lucky me, she thought bitterly.
She didn’t know for sure how long she was trapped in the basement, only that she had slept four or five times, but finally she couldn’t stand her husband’s smell anymore and decided she would bathe him. Perhaps he wouldn’t stink so bad if she got him out of his filthy garments and washed him. There was plenty of water stored in the bunker, and even soap and washcloths and towels. The idea was mad, she knew, but its appeal grew in pace with his fragrance.
She found a sewing kit with a pair of scissors inside. She knew she’d have to cut his clothes off if she wanted to remove them. The real question was: would he let her do it? She filled a bucket with water and tossed in a rag and a bar of soap, then cautiously approached the man tied to the cot.
She was afraid he would get violent, but he remained docile through the entire operation. It was probably the hood. He only groaned a couple times when she was working the scissors up his pants legs, slicing them open. He whimpered in confusion then, and shifted around uncertainly, but that was the extent of his reaction to her manipulations. He was like a trained falcon, she mused. He only attacked when the hood was removed.
She didn’t dare speak, and was doing her best not to breathe too much, being so close to him. She expected him to lunge at her at any moment. She took off his sneakers, and peeled his smelly socks of his feet, but he just lay there, and he actually lifted his hips when she pulled away his pants.
She sat back on her haunches, eyeing him thoughtfully. She was tempted to call his name, curious to see if he would reply with something other than violence. But, no, she decided. Bath first, then maybe she would… experiment with him.
His body was so cold. She touched the flesh of his belly and it was like caressing a piece of meat that had just been taken from the refrigerator. It was kind of… squishy, too. Overly pliant. It was losing its elasticity, she thought. Getting flaccid and crinkly.
Charles twitched as she slid her palm across his stomach, and she drew her hand back with a shudder.
I’m going to scream, she thought, with a weird sort of horrified rationality, but she didn’t scream, and eventually the feeling passed.
You’re going to do this, Raye, she thought.
For some reason, she thought of the woman in the Bible who had washed the Lord’s feet with her tears.
The most unnerving thing was that he didn’t breathe. He moved. He would suck in a breath if he intended to groan, which seemed to be the only sounds these creatures knew how to make, but aside from that he did not breathe. The fabric of his hood did not stir at his mouth. His chest did not rise and fall. He was a lifeless animatronic doll, like those hideous robots at the Epcot Center in Disneyland.
But these things will rip your face off if they get half a chance, she reminded herself. The robots at Disney just sang and danced around.
Yes, and she was procrastinating.
She turned the scissors on his underwear then, snipped through the cotton fabric at his hips. Her tongue came out as she sliced. She was being careful not to cut off anything… delicate.
Snip, snip, snip—down the left side, and then the right.
She’d never seen his penis. She’d felt it on a few occasions-- when they were making out, dry humping on her parent’s couch or on his bed at his apartment. She’d caressed him down there, seen the evidence of his arousal straining the fabric of his zip, but she’d never actually seen it—and what a stupid, selfish bitch she’d been, insisting on waiting until they were married to ma
ke love.
Cock-tease, she harangued herself. Snooty little princess!
They could have shared so much joy and pleasure, but now he was dead… worse than dead, actually: he was undead!
Perhaps this was her penance for tormenting him all those months. How many times had she gotten him all worked up, so desperate for relief he was begging her for it, only to shake her head prissily and say, “Nuh-uh… Not until there’s a ring on this finger, mister!”
She tugged the dirty cotton fabric of his underwear out from under him (ignoring the filthy stains in them) and thought: Well, huh… that’s not so scary.
It was just a penis, like in her B.F.F. Christy’s Playgirl magazines, which they’d sometimes looked through together, pointing and giggling at all the dingleberries.
Not particularly large or remarkable. Just an average, uncircumcised penis, sort of vulnerable-looking, with the requisite hairy sack hanging below.
Had she really been scared of this little thing, or did she merely use that as an excuse to conceal her manipulations?
No. What she had really feared was getting dumped after he’d gotten what he wanted. That was what her mother always told her. Give them what they want and they’ll throw you out like yesterday’s newspaper, her mother was always saying. She had drilled it into Rachel’s brain as far back as she could remember. Mama’s mantra. Men are dogs. Men are no good. You can’t trust them. You can’t depend on them. And her dad, sitting at the kitchen table or in his recliner, glancing unhappily at her out of the corner of his eye. Her dad had never left mother, or even raised his voice to her, so far as Rachel could remember. Of course, dad wasn’t the one mother was talking about all those years. Mom was talking about the man she had really wanted, not the one she’d settled for. It had taken Rachel eighteen years to realize that.
Rachel reached down into the bucket of cold water and took out the rag and bar of soap. She lathered the washcloth and brought it to his chest.
Charles jerked, made a feral growl deep in his chest.
She waited to see if he would get all spastic, but he didn’t-- just tensed his body and growled at her-- so she began to wash him.
She soaped his chest and stomach, going slow so she didn’t upset him. He had a pretty chest, nice pecs with a bit of curly hair swirling from nipple to nipple. Not too much hair. He was no monkey boy. Just the right amount, in her opinion.
She tried to ignore the unnatural blue tint of his skin, the coldness that radiated from his flesh, and she was extra careful of the wounds he had received when he fought with the mob of infected people at the gas station. There were bruises on his shoulder and upper chest, several deep scratches on his left bicep and his hands. She dabbed lightly at them with the washrag, expecting him to flinch, but if there was pain, he did not show it. He didn’t even twitch.
The water in her bucket was already cloudy and gray. She poured it out in the latrine, refilled it with fresh water and returned to her husband’s side.
Charles snarled when she moved down his torso, but he settled when she started on his thighs. She washed his upper legs and shins without getting a reaction from him, but he kicked his legs when she cleaned the soles of his feet. He also made a hissing noise that sounded a bit like laughter.
“Sshhhh,” she hushed him, smiling a little.
She froze, her heart leaping into her throat, afraid her voice would incite him to violence, but he quieted at her scolding, and she felt a surge of elation.
He had responded to her shush! And in the appropriate manner! He hadn’t gone wild, thrashing against the ropes that bound him, as she had expected him to do.
Rachel swallowed, then said very calmly, “I’m going to wash your private area now, Charles.”
Her husband tensed, snarling savagely under the hood, but he did not thrash.
She rinsed her rag and brought it to his groin. She washed his pubic hair and then gently swabbed his penis, turning it upwards so she could get the underside. She remembered that boys were supposed to pull their foreskin back and clean underneath there, too, so she lifted his organ and retracted the delicate flesh to clean the tender bulb beneath.
Her husband made a whining noise as she did, and she realized he was growing erect. Shocked and a little embarrassed, she glanced up at him, her lips twitching, but she couldn’t see his eyes. He was wearing a burlap sack.
“It’s okay,” she said, returning to her task. Her cheeks were burning, but she finished cleaning him—maybe a little too well, if she was being totally honest with herself. She stroked his organ with her bare hand then, sliding her fingertips up the shaft to the tip.
He was fully erect now-- but cold. Cold as ice.
How could a dead man get an erection?
How do they come back after they die? she thought.
She finished washing him and emptied the bucket again. When she returned, he was still erect. Trying not to look at it, she gathered up his filthy clothes and carried them in a bundle to the wood stove at the far end of the basement. There was fuzzy stuff growing on the fabric. Vile green and yellow, with little tendrils threaded through the weave. Opening the grate, she stuffed them in. There. Maybe now he wouldn’t stink so bad, she thought with a shudder.
She washed her hands with soap, then sanitized them with rubbing alcohol just to be safe, and returned to her cot.
He was still hard as a railroad spike.
She tried not to look, and then she thought, Oh, what the hell! and satisfied her curiosity.
She wondered what it would have felt like sliding inside of her. If they had enjoyed their honeymoon like they were supposed to, if the whole world hadn’t gone crazy, she would have known. As it was, the only thing she’d ever felt inside of her was her own finger. Well, that and the speculum her gynecologist had inserted in her a couple times.
It struck her then that virginity was just the prize they gave to the girls who came in last place. What did you call it? Oh, yeah, the booby prize.
She imagined opening her legs to him, giving joyfully to him what those other men had tried to take from her by force. She imagined his weight settling down on her, his organ easing apart the moist lips of her pussy as his tongue eased apart the moist lips of her mouth.
She had planned to give him everything that first time: her mouth, her pussy, her ass. Whatever he wanted, it was his for the asking.
For loving her.
For waiting.
Rachel got up, grabbed a clean sheet and spread it over his naked body.
12 . Consummation and Climax
She ran out of fuel for the Coleman lantern later that night. Rachel rose, went to one of the shelves, and took down a box labeled CANDLES. She set out several of the candles as the mantle of the Coleman lantern slowly dimmed. She found a box of safety matches in one of the drawers in the kitchenette and lit the candles, knowing that she was going to have to use them sparingly. They would not last long, and then she would be trapped down there in the dark.
Trapped in the dark… trapped in the dark…
The words circled in her thoughts, making her feel desperate and frightened.
“I’ll go crazy,” she whispered, holding her knees to her chest in the wavering light.
Charles twitched and let out a soft growl at the sound of her voice, but he was getting used to it. She had been talking to him since his bed bath, her voice low and soothing.
She watched the shadows dance on the walls as the candle flames flickered. She felt like she had fallen asleep without realizing it and was having a particularly melancholy dream. She hummed quietly to herself. There was a thump as one of the Frobishers walked into the wall or knocked over a coffee table upstairs.
Finally, she rose.
She pulled her shirt off over her head, shucked her jeans down her legs.
Charles growled as she pulled the sheet off his body.
I don’t want to be trapped down here in the dark, she thought.
Her husband snarled and lurched
on the bed as she swung her leg over him. She straddled his hips. She tried to shush him, but he was having none of it. He thrashed, jerking at the cords around his wrists. And he was so cold! It was like sitting on a block of ice. She began to grind her hips on him anyway. After a few minutes, she felt him swell between her thighs. She gasped as he bucked his pelvis beneath her. Her heart was clenching like a fist in her chest. Her pussy, too. Clenching… and aching.
“Ssshhh… it’s okay,” she murmured.
She was moist enough for him now. She used her fingertips to angle his cock up, positioning the icy bulb of his organ in the groove of her sex. Steeling herself for the pain, she settled down on him, but the piercing was painless. He glided in as if he belonged inside her.
Another of Mother’s lies.
It was suicide, she knew. Surely this folly would infect her. How could it not? Yet what better way for her to end this pain? She didn’t want to live without Charlie, so let the consummation of her love be the consummation of her life, the climax of both, both literally and metaphorically. They had made promises, swore them before God, and now she meant to keep her side of the bargain, as he had kept his.
‘Til death do us part.
Her hips found their rhythm by instinct, and she threw back her head and laughed in delight. He was so cold, but he filled her up, stem to stern. She squeezed her own breasts, rocking hard enough to make the headboard clang against the concrete wall.
And Charles… each time she sank on him, he let out a grunt. She whipped the hood off his head, feeling crazed and reckless. His eyes swiveled toward her, his lips splitting back from his teeth, but he didn’t go wild. He simply stared at her, his snarl frozen to his face, making a whoof! sound each time her rump slapped down in his lap.
Did he feel pleasure in this act? Did he understand what she was doing? She could not tell in the jumping light, but she felt no doubt, had no second thoughts. She wanted him to kill her. Fill her up with his poison so she could escape this terrible pit. She wanted to fly free of this dying world, twine herself around his spirit in whatever world awaited them beyond the veil of death.
'Til Death (The Fearlanders) Page 6
