Spermjackers From Hell

by Christine Morgan

  …and she was so pretty he loved her so much loved her more than anyone her voice her laugh her perfume and shampoo and from where she was sitting he could see right up her skirt all the way up her skirt and she didn’t know didn’t know had no idea what he could see...

  …funny feelings in his tummy, and lower, funny feelings feeling even funnier when he kind of wiggled and bounced his bottom…

  …when she shifted when she moved when she crossed and uncrossed her legs the most beautiful lady in the whole wide world and he was going to marry her when he grew up…

  Grown up, grown up yes, such a fine young man, so handsome, so healthy, so virile, so strong.

  “What the hell, man? What is he doing?”

  “He ain’t whippin’ it out again, is he?”

  “Uh...”

  Offer yes offer offer and give, your love your desire your pleasure your need our need our hunger feed and give.

  …as beautiful as ever more beautiful than ever awash in a shimmering aura of liquid light reaching for him beckoning to him here with him again finally here to stay stay forever this time not leave never leave…

  Come to us come to us come be with come be one all are we all are one come to be one with us into embrace engulf envelop and enfold be immersed be absorbed be as we be as one.

  “Jake! Dude!”

  “Aw shit!”

  “Grab him!”

  Sudden grabbing and grappling. Pulling at him. Yanking at him.

  Shouting and swearing.

  “Do you fuckin’ see that?”

  “Oh jeez oh jeez!”

  Shaking him. Snapping him back to his senses.

  Jake uttered a kind of ragged shriek-gasp.

  For a terrible instant, he felt himself teetering as if on the edge of some ungodly precipice.

  Then, looking down, he saw that he was on the edge of some ungodly precipice.

  In the bygone Community Civil Readiness days, it may have been a reservoir or water-treatment plant, a cylindrical concrete pit, fifty feet in diameter and at least twenty deep, under bulky turbines and fans.

  It was something else, now.

  Something with weird waxlike formations built up in the center, clinging to the walls, depending from criss-crossing metal walkways... the substance congealed-looking, cloudy-creamy, marbled and translucent…strange liquids brimming in irregular pools and hollows…shadows moving within oblongs and bulges and bubbles…dotted with obscured and suspended shapes, occlusions like pieces of fruit in a gelatin dessert, like bugs trapped in amber…

  While there he was, standing above it on a ledge, with his dick out, his dick in his hand, sticky-wet with fresh cum still dribbling from the slit, gloving his palm, oozing between his fingers.

  As, below him, in the darkness, luminous things moved.

  As they wallowed, and squirmed.

  And hungered.

  Chapter Seventeen: Revulsion

  Images flashed through Marty’s mind, none of them quite right but each of them in some way close.

  Lifting a rock to find writhing pale grubs underneath. Maggots in the slimy bottom of a garbage can. Slugs on a sidewalk after a storm. The one time in his life he’d gone fishing, being handed a plastic tub filled with slick knotted tangles of worms. Ants roiling crazily in a kicked anthill. Those videos you saw on nature documentaries, schools of fish grouped in a shimmering undersea ball, or a billowing jellyfish swarm.

  As he, Dev, and Spence reeled Jake backward from the edge of the landing, it was all too obvious what the teeming mass at the bottom of the stairwell was doing.

  Feeding.

  Feeding on what Jake had just spurted over them.

  “Makin’ it rain!” Spencer cried in a lunatic cackle.

  Converging, crowding, the way ducks and pigeons did when someone scattered a fistful of breadcrumbs, the way guppies or koi rose to a sprinkle of flakes into an aquarium.

  Feeding.

  Competing.

  Survival of the fittest.

  Fighting.

  Marty knew—they all knew—what they were seeing.

  It was that room, there was one just like it in every game, on every sewer or factory map; that big round room with its layers of walkways and weird lighting and dangerous drops. Usually where the mission objective would be found, or the final boss battle waited, or both.

  Most of the things down there were no bigger than bullfrogs, the texture and pale-greenish color of that glow-in-the-dark slime-putty you could get in a cheap plastic egg from the quarter machines at the grocery store.

  Only, moving. Alive.

  Like living boogers, mucusy phlegm, runny snot-rockets. The keening, unformed baby-bird clamor of their hunger and greed—

  more more more more

  —caused him to think absurdly of those seagulls in that fish movie from when he was a kid, mine-mine-mine, but same basic idea.

  A few others—larger, the jiggly-wobbly half-set jello molds of their lime green and blue raspberry brighter—had begun making their way up the walls and formations in a leechlike, inchwormy, reverse-Slinky kind of hunching undulation. Their feelers wavered. They left snail-trails.

  From them, the urgent pulse of need was clearer and stronger.

  Give feed grow give come to us come for us feed and fill we are one.

  Elongated protrusions stretched from their narrower ends, probing-questing-seeking. Marty thought again of nature documentaries, anteater noses and elephant trunks, curling, prehensile.

  “Let’s go!” Devon said. “Let’s get out of here!”

  Nobody argued. They just fled, Jake cramming himself back into his pants on the run. They went without really knowing or caring which way they were headed. As long as it was away. Away from the…

  lair nest hive den

  …horror as fast as they could.

  Stumbling, bumping into walls, tripping over debris. Barely able to see in the wild waving blurs of their phones. Hindering and helping each other in equal measure.

  Marty’s foot slipped and he skidded to a knee, barking with pain. Jake caught his hand before he plowed chin-first into the floor. He was already up and running again by the time his brain registered what that tepid, tacky moistness squishing against his palm and fingers must be.

  Trying not to puke, trying not to gag and caw with disgust, he scrubbed his hand on his leg. It was on his skin, who knew when he’d be able to wash…washing wouldn’t be enough, he wanted to boil it from the forearm down, boil it and then douse it in Purell or something…it was on him, it was on him, what if he accidentally touched his face…eeuuuurgh...

  They ran.

  So turned around now, no idea where they were.

  How damn big was this place? An emergency shelter or survival bunker, okay, but, seriously, dudes, this was Fairmont, not a major city, not a military base! And would it have killed them, when they built it, to stick some You-Are-Here signs on the walls along with the rah-rah patriotic stuff?

  Finally, when they reached an intersection where there were no signs of pursuit and no movement but their own, Jake signaled a stop. For someone who’d almost jumped down a pit full of demon slug-leeches—demon slug-leeches onto which he’d shot a copious splattering wad—and had to be yanked back from the literal brink, he evidently still saw himself as team leader.

  The true irony of it being, well, he was right. Who else could be? Not Devon the new kid, sure as hell not Spencer Bodean, and as for Marty? Yeah, that was a laugh.

  “We need to rest a minute,” Jake said. “Catch our breath. Dev, Marty, turn off your phones. Conserve the batteries. Is everybody okay? You guys saved my ass back there, thanks. What’s our situation?”

  Spence laughed hollowly. “Totally fucked.”

  “There were so many,” Devon said. “Why were there so many? Didn’t we just summon one?”

  “Dude,” said Marty, shaking his head. “We don’t know what we did.”

  “We know it worked,” said Jake. “A little too
well, yeah, but it also means there’s got to be a way to get rid of them.”

  Not that anyone currently had any brilliant ideas. And not like they could go to the internet for answers; they couldn’t even use their phones as phones.

  They debated briefly whether or not to try holing up in one of the storerooms or old offices, maybe barricading the door from the inside. But the prospect of being cornered, caught in a dead end with no other avenue of escape, was even more nerve-wracking than the feeling of being open and exposed. At least the intersection offered some choices.

  It also offered one of the useless drinking fountains, as if to taunt and remind them how thirsty they were. Marty remembered—it seemed ages ago!—tucking a can of soda in his jacket pocket before leaving the apartment…but when he checked, he found it must’ve fallen out somewhere along the way in their mad crazy chase.

  All he had left were two snack-cakes, mashed flat in their wrappers. He divvied the pieces and offered them around.

  “Hostess fuckin’ roadkill,” Spence observed, not that he let it stop him from taking some.

  “At least it’s not the kind with coconut flakes,” Devon said.

  “Yeah, you’re welcome,” said Marty. “Glad I shared.”

  “Thanks, bro, seriously,” Jake said.

  Spencer and Devon mumbled their thanks too, through mouthfuls of crumbled cake and crème filling. Feeling a little less disgruntled, Marty scooped the last clumps from the packaging.

  Only as he was scraping the thin pieces of cardboard with his thumb to get every bit did it occur to him the treat tasted funny, and only as he licked a smear of frosting from his hand did he realize why.

  The reason he didn’t puke or scream was because his system was trying to do both at the same time. A swelling logjam of pressure like the worst heartburn and stalled burp ever stuck in his chest.

  “Marty?”

  “You okay, man?”

  “If you’re gonna hurl, don’t do it here!”

  He lurched from the wall against which he’d been leaning and blundered blindly down one of the halls, turning random corners, groping for doorhandles, hoping for a bathroom. The plumbing wouldn’t work, he knew that, any sinks would be as useless as the drinking fountains they’d passed. But, a toilet bowl he could puke in, and maybe some water left in the tank, never mind if it was a rusty puddle seventy years old, as long as he could rinse and spit, wash his hands!

  Or an office with a water-cooler, that wasn’t so far-fetched! Any decently-designed game would have had something! Didn’t have to be heal-packs or mana-boosts or ammo, but some sort of damn resource!

  From behind him, he heard the others, Devon calling worriedly, Spence griping how this was the exact fuckin’ thing they were not supposed to do and Beth really would give them no end of shit for actin’ just like retards in horror movies after all, and Jake seconding Spence with a we-have-to-stick-together/don’t-split-the-team pep talk.

  The nerve of that, after his earlier wait-here-guys business!

  The next door Marty came to was ajar, momentum carrying him through and into one of those long barracks-style dormitories. He could tell because a dim yellowish light came from yet another door at the far end, casting shadows of cots and bunk beds lined in rows down the sides.

  His logjammed conflicting urges to scream and to puke got shunted aside by a colossal overpowering demand for escape. For freedom, for the outside world, the above-world, the real world where awful shit like this didn’t happen and a dude could enjoy a snack-cake without getting a mouthful of another dude’s cum!

  “Marty!”

  “Fuck! Which way did he go?”

  “C’mon, we gotta find him!”

  Pausing to wait for them to catch up now that the end was in sight seemed like a really stupid way to have salvation pricktease-snatched from him at the last second. Marty ran past the bunks and through the next door, finding himself in—

  WTF really?

  the fallout shelter equivalent of a goddamn gymnasium, jogging track, basketball-tennis-vollyball courts, instant flashback to high school all over again—

  —shorts and sweat and clumsiness Coach and his whistle Coach and his commands to hustle up strip down hit the showers locker room satiric hoots at boy-boobs and snap-flick damp towel stinging ass-welts and sneering snickers FUCK YOU TROY CAHILL—

  He stumbled again and this time there was no Jake to offer him a ‘helping’ hand.

  The sound of his flab thwack-walloping the gym floor was something else that hadn’t changed at all in the intervening years; but, no, he got endless shit for preferring to stay home playing video games instead of going out for sports!

  Like it was any wonder he’d rather do something he could be good at! Where he could be someone else! Where he didn’t have to endure girls laughing at him pitying him calling him a creep!

  Where he didn’t have to face the constant rejection and humiliation, where he might stand a chance…

  A chance why wait on chance why wait when what you want is so near? Be as you are as you wish as you desire.

  Marty froze, even as a soothing warmth washed over him.

  Are you here to come for me again?

  The voice, god, that Mila Kunis voice.

  I know how you want me. I sense your desire, Hellslayer. Your arousal. I can feel it. Taste it. You ache for my touch. For my kiss.

  Llylth, lush-bodied, crimson-skinned…hair trailing and billowing and swirling like ebony smoke…the sway of her hips and the lithe curling of her tail…the hot caress of her breath in his ear…the teasing caress of her clever, supple, forked tongue…

  How your blood surges, how your cock stiffens, how your hardness throbs! Begging to be taken. Pleasured. Isn’t that what you want? What you crave?

  But she wasn’t real! It was a lie, an illusion, some sort of mind-trick or hallucinogenic head-trip!

  Shall I go on my knees for you, Hellslayer? A queen, on her knees, supplicant to your lustful urges? My mouth yours to claim, to fill and to fuck, to spill your seed as I swallow it down, every drop?

  A dream. A fantasy. A sad, sick, desperate, pathetic joke!

  Right, like he cared, so the hell what?

  None of that matters now. None of that matters. Only this. Only now. We need you. I need you.

  Looking down, looking down, and for a moment yes there yes Llylth the demon-queen on her knees, wings draped, dark claws lifting away the codpiece of his Eldritch-forged armor—an ultra-rare drop, triple-enhanced for speed and deflection, 4 levels of banefire absorbtion, 20% strength boost, and full damage set bonuses to all Tier-9 weaponry—to release his Tier-10 weapon, it was huge, proud and thick, a massive polearm of man-meat.

  Use me, Hellslayer. Use me for your pleasure. Fuck and fill me, pour your rich salt life-milk, flood me with it.

  Seeing the admiration, the eagerness in her eyes. The sensation as she slid him into her mouth, slid him deeper than deep all the way all the way and the hot slick wet suction…

  Feel the lust feel the pleasure feel how I suck yes suck drink swallow, feed me, give me of the milk of your loins.

  Looking down, and it was him on his knees, pants and underwear bunched mid-thigh, gut drooping from under his GTA t-shirt. Groping for purchase on a slippery mass as he drove his ordinary unimpressive never-touched-by-a-real-girl dick into…

  Fill me I hunger we hunger...

  Hearing the gooshy arrhythmic slap-smackings, his own fevered grunts and groans.

  We hunger yes yes we hunger feed me feed us feed us all...

  As, from all around him, sinuous sliding aquamarine luminescence, more of them closed steadily in.

  Chapter Eighteen: Diversion

  Mart-O, surrounded.

  Busy with one of the neon-jelly fleshlights, giving her mouth—or whatever—a clumsy, frantic, furious humping. Laughing as he did so, laughing or maybe sobbing, maybe screaming; Spence couldn’t tell.

  What he could tell was that the other ones, squ
elching and schlorping their eager way toward him, didn’t look likely to wait patient and take turns. They were gonna swarm his ass, bury him, suffocate and drown him in a quivering mound of goo even as they cocksucked him to death.

  “Jake! Dev! This way!” he shouted as he ran, shoes squeaking—who the fuck puts a basketball court underground?

  And where was fuckin’ Daryl with his crossbow when it’d do some damn good? Puncture those bladdersack bitches, pop ‘em like water balloons…water balloons filled with jizz, nastiest fuckin’ pinatas ever…

  But they hadn’t brought weapons or any of that. Never thinking they’d need it, morons that they were; Beth had been right, ever even seen a horror movie? Should have known, should have fuckin’ known, and instead they were scrambling around down here trapped in the dark with fuckin’ dozens of these things!

  He could smell them, their scent thick and steamy in the air, that yeasty-sour-briny-sweet-spunky-musky-doughy scent, fuckin’ vile yet also oddly a turn-on, and if he got too close they would get him the way they’d got Marty, they’d turn into the Harmon sisters again or his cousin Jolene or whatever other sick shit they dredged up from his filthy-fuckin’-mind…

  His shoes squeaked again as he skidded to a halt. Jake and Devon rushed up with their phone-beams sweeping back and forth, not adding much to what filtered down from a single wire-caged yellow bulb somehow still surviving overhead.

  “Be ready to grab him!” Spence said. “I got a plan!”

  Neither of their expressions conveyed much confidence in that, thank you very much, but Spence was already in action. Button, zipper, go; Jake wasn’t the only one who could whip it on out.

  “Hey!” he yelled. “Yo! Cumslut! Jizzabel! Whatever the fuck your names are! You want somma-this?” He waggled his junk at them, dandling the ol’ scrote like a bag of choice plums at the produce stand, pumping a curled fist up and down his semi-chub to help it along.

  “Spencer-what-the-hell!” Devon cried.

  It was a plan, though, and it worked—several of the glowing green slug-blobs immediately diverted their course toward Marty and homed in on him.