Flicker of Doom

by Paul Kenyon

  There were twin glints of gold in the dimness of the alley, behind the man. A tasseled bra. The bra dipped, and there was a dark hand under the man's chin and another on the gun, prying the hand from the grip safety so it wouldn't fire.

  Skytop stepped forward to help, but before he had a chance, gun and whistle had dropped to the ground and the man had lolled into unconsciousness.

  Yvette straightened up in her belly dancer's costume, her tassels swaying. Her dark body was barely visible in the gloom, but the costume caught the stray light coming from the back entrance of the Moroccan Palace.

  "Thanks, doll," Skytop said. "What did you give him?"

  "Etorphine," she said. "I painted my fingernail with it. I just gave him a little scratch. He'll be out about a half-hour."

  Etorphine was about ten thousand times more powerful than morphine. They used, it in tranquilizer darts to knock out hippos and elephants.

  "That's giving him the old finger, all right."

  There was an outburst of Arab music from inside. "That's me," Yvette said. "I'm on." She paused to look at the other two figures sprawled on the alley floor. "Did you kill them?" she said.

  "Hell, no," Skytop said. "They're supposed to be on our side."

  "Hold it," the Baroness said.

  Geoffrey Farquhar held it. It must have taken a lot of self-control. It was extended a good eight inches, rigid as a pick handle and throbbing powerfully from the preliminary attentions she'd lavished on it. Most other men would have been driven to distraction by now, blindly attempting to jam themselves home without waiting for further refinements. But Geoffrey was patient, obedient and tireless. He was willing to go along with anything. He followed directions marvelously, and his superb physique was equal to any task one put to it. It was like owning a screwing machine.

  "All right," he said, waiting. "But what on earth shall I do with it?"

  "Let me think," Penelope said. "Geoffrey, how many push-ups can you do?"

  "I don't know. I've never counted beyond three hundred."

  "That's good enough. I don't want you to let me down flat when we're half finished."

  "Finished with what? I must say, Penny, that you're full of surprises."

  They were sitting facing one another on the enormous round puff that was her bed in the Imperial Suite. Leave it to the Moors! She could see herself and Geoffrey in the big wall mirror that slanted toward the bed. Their bodies were well matched. They were both big people, superbly formed, their skins glowing with health. She could see her tumbled black hair, the columnar neck, the fine deep chest with the breasts like taut fruits, the nipples and surrounding areas flushed with desire. The image showed Geoffrey's back, broad and tawny, the huge bunched trapezius muscles and deltoids hinting at enormous controlled strength.

  "Just lean back, darling. That's right, put your hands behind you on the mattress to support yourself."

  She leaned back, facing him, and squirmed forward on her bottom.

  "Now just spread your legs, darling," she said.

  "But, Penny, won't we make a better fit if you spread your legs. With my legs around you?"

  "That's the point, darling. We'll want a tighter fit."

  He spread his legs obediently. She got between them and put her feet up on his shoulders. She clasped him round the back of the neck with her toes. The blunt end of his cock was pressed against her belly, making a dimple in her flesh. She reached with one hand, supporting her weight with the other, and levered his stem downward until it was nosing the entrance to her vagina. She shivered involuntarily. Geoffrey gave a loud gasp, then mastered himself. She could feel the end of his tool, a round knob in her vestibule, radiating heat.

  She lifted her behind an inch and swung herself forward. Her smooth white forearms became corded, showing muscles that no one would have suspected were there. She bowed her leg's as she lifted herself, opening her channel wider. His thing slid smoothly into the buttered passageway.

  She closed her legs again, clamping down on him. He shivered and clenched his teeth.

  "My word, that was a near thing," he said.

  "Keep your cool, darling," she told him.

  She tickled his ear with her big toe. His ankles were crossed behind her back. Her breasts were resting on his knees, which were painfully bony. She shifted her position slightly.

  "Now put your legs up on my shoulders," she said.

  He swung his legs upward. His meaty, bulging calves were now resting on her shoulders, his big feet projecting up behind her head. From the side, with their bottoms coming together, their legs draped over one another's shoulders and their hands behind them for support, their two conjoined bodies made the shape of the letter M.

  "Now lift," she said.

  He raised his rump off the mattress. They were now suspended several inches above the coverlet, a flesh-and-blood contraption resembling nothing so much as an old-fashioned porch swing.

  They began easily at first, swaying gently above the sheets. Geoffrey's handsome, ingenuous face showed delight at the arrangement.

  "I say, Penny, this is ingenious. But it couldn't be done if we weren't both athletes."

  She rocked back and forth with him. "How long can you keep it up?"

  "The arms are no problem. They'll hold out longer than my thwacker will."

  The long shaft slid back and forth inside her like an oiled piston. Their easy rhythm was interrupted by bouts of trembling. They stopped a number of times to steady themselves and catch their breath.

  The human porch swing swayed faster and faster. There was a rhythmic creaking sound from the mattress. They both were panting now. Sweat trickled down their naked bodies and rained on the sheets beneath. Geoffrey's expression had grown glazed. Only his obliging, gentlemanly nature had kept him from coming.

  She added a new refinement. Pressing her thighs together, she rubbed them back and forth against one another. With his shaft deep and tight inside her, working away, the combined sensation was indescribable. It must have been delicious for him, too, with the fleshy walls of her vagina crawling round his post.

  Too delicious! He began a deep, bull-throated "Uh, uh, uh," and stopped rocking, poised for orgasm. In the mirror, Penelope could see the weighty pouch of his scrotum as it stopped swaying beneath their joined bottoms and began contracting into a tight ball.

  His face was in torment, straining with the effort of holding back when he knew he couldn't. She took pity on him. She was in torment, too. The sweet ravishment of her nerves had reached the point of bursting.

  As if a signal had passed between them, they both dropped to their elbows. They bounced once off the mattress, and then the letter M raised itself into an arch as they pushed themselves into one another. Their shoulders on the bed, their bottoms raised high, they both came at once.

  Penelope could feel the hot outpouring of semen, its warmth indistinguishable from the heat of the spasms that now wracked her. They went on and on, one contraction after another dissolving her into a shuddering jelly. The convulsive movements were draining the last dregs of pleasure from Geoffrey, too, and he continued to push himself blindly into the furthest reaches of her scabbard. The arch sagged, and they were lying flat again, his knees clamped on her rib cage, her legs stretched the length of his massive chest, her toes ending up at his ears.

  They pulled themselves apart. Geoffrey sat up, looking mortified.

  "It took me by surprise," he said. "It hasn't happened like that since I was seventeen. Penny, you were just too exciting."

  She patted him on the cheek. "You have nothing to apologize for, darling. You were fine. Just what the doctor ordered."

  * * *

  After Geoffrey had gone, Penelope went to the glass doors and looked out past her little strip of private beach toward the ocean. Nude, she pushed through the doors and ran into the surf. The water was cool and refreshing, stinging her with its salt. She returned to her suite, toweled herself off, and got under the covers. In less than a minute s
he was asleep.

  She never knew what woke her up. But she was suddenly completely, tinglingly awake. And something told her that she mustn't move.

  She was lying on her back, the sheets down to her waist. She could feel the cool sea air on her breasts. That was it. When she'd come in, she'd shut the glass doors.

  She opened her eyes. A creature was squatting at the foot of the bed, its dark bulk silhouetted against the moon that shone through the open doors. There was no sound but the soft swish of the waves. The creature didn't move.

  It was enormously wide-shouldered, with long arms, and knuckles that trailed on the floor. A coconut head was hunched between the shoulders. She couldn't see eyes in that shadowed outline, but she knew they were there, staring at her.

  In that moment of transition between sleep and awakening, she'd thought of an ape — one of the Barbary Apes who lived just across that stretch of dark water, on Gibraltar.

  It saw the flutter of her eyes, and bounded forward. It scrambled with its long arms up onto the foot of her bed. But the Baroness had bounced up herself, taking the sheet with her.

  Her shoulder collided with the hard bulk of the intruder, and she was whipping the sheet over it like a net. She pulled and grabbed the corners, and she had the creature wrapped up like a bundle of laundry.

  It was enormously powerful. It thrashed around inside the sheet, thumping against her body and bruising her. There were muffled squeaks and roars. A hairy hand ripped through the fabric, groping for her.

  With an enormous heave, she swung the thrashing bundle around in an arc and smashed it against the wall. There was an outraged howl, and then the creature was emerging from the tangle of sheets and scuttling toward the open glass doors.

  It was a man. A funny little man with a great bald head. He had a huge torso for his size, and little bandy legs. His hands were enormous. He was wearing a dark double-breasted suit, but he was barefoot. He flung an arm across his face, as if to keep from being recognized, and then he was through the doors and running across the sand.

  She chased him a few yards, then was aware of windows opening in the upper floors of the hotel and heads popping out. She stopped. Being seen in the nude didn't bother her, but she couldn't let all those people see the Baroness Penelope St. John-Orsini battle an ape-man barehanded. It would be bad for the image. It might start the wrong people thinking.

  Reluctantly, she let him go. She went back to her suite and looked out through the glass doors, out of sight of the people above. Windows began to slide shut. She could see the little baboon of a man splashing barefoot into the water, hopping into a rowboat. The long, powerful arms began to work the oars. He was heading straight out to sea. She watched him until a cloud covered the moon, obscuring the boat and its squat oarsman. When the cloud lifted, the boat was gone.

  7

  "The apes is acting up," Corporal Willoughby said.

  "I'm not afraid," Fiona said. She moved closer to him and took his arm.

  "I don't know," Willoughby said doubtfully. "I don't think it would do for us to get too close."

  Her breast accidentally touched his upper arm. She was ravishing in a pale blue chiffon sun dress that set off her flaming red hair and creamy skin. There was a lot of skin to set off; the dress was hardly more than a slip, with thin straps that bit into her bare shoulders. She'd thoughtfully removed the little jacket that went with it, and was carrying it carelessly over her arm.

  "I feel safe with you," she said. "I'm dying to take some real close-up pictures to take home with me."

  Corporal Willoughby looked around. There were lots of tourists with cameras scattered around the rocky face of the cliffs, some of them getting closer to the apes than they ought. A number of British sentries were present; they'd been posted since the last ape incident. They were tactfully trying to manage the crowd, but it was hard to control them, particularly the Americans.

  "Well, maybe just a little closer," he said. She clung to his arm while they climbed the rocky slope. The holstered .45-caliber automatic slapped against his thigh, a reassuring symbol of protection. Actually, he'd never dare use it; the OCA would have his hide if he harmed one of his precious apes.

  They stopped at a little ledge.

  "Close enough," Willoughby said, although a number of other tourists were closer.

  Fiona got the pocket Instamatic camera out of her handbag and looked the apes over.

  There were about a dozen of them visible, sitting on their haunches, searching for fleas, or moving in bored fashion along the ledges. They were smallish creatures with a greenish brown fur and round, low-ridged skulls. They looked almost human.

  Fiona snapped a picture. "They don't look very dangerous," she said.

  "Oh, they're not, generally. Tame from being fed, don't y'see. But lately they've been nervous-like."

  "What could cause that?" She snapped another picture.

  " 'Oo the ruddy hell knows," he said. "They're just apes." He sank into a glum silence.

  She'd been pumping him all morning. So far she'd found out that the veterinary surgeon was inclined toward the view that the apes had suffered a simultaneous attack of some mysterious brain virus, akin to distemper, and had spontaneously recovered afterward. The OCA was conducting an investigation. Evidently it hadn't turned up much so far, but whatever it had turned up, she was going to worm out of Willoughby tonight. She'd worked him halfway to the point of asking her for a date.

  "Look at the ruddy fools," he said.

  He pointed to a bunch of tourists who were clambering over the rocks toward the apes, acting boisterous, waving and making noises to attract the apes' attention so they could take pictures. The apes paid no attention. They were jaded when it came to tourists. The sentries were gesturing uneasily for the tourists to come back, but the tourists ignored them.

  "Deserve to break their necks," Willoughby said. "Not like that lot up there. They know how to behave themselves."

  He looked back toward a group of Arabs, decently dressed in neat European clothes. There were several family groups, with women in Western dress and little children.

  "And they're Arabs, too," he said.

  There was a young man on the fringes of the group. He didn't seem to be attached to anybody. He wasn't as neatly dressed as the others; he wore jeans and surplus combat boots and an open-necked khaki shirt. But he was very expensively equipped with photographic gear. He was pointing what looked like a Nikon with a long lens. There was an electronic flash attachment and an electrical cable that led to a gadget bag he was carrying over his shoulder.

  Fiona wondered about that. The young man couldn't know very much about photography if he thought a flash would do him any good at that distance in the bright Spanish sunlight. If he'd been closer, she'd have assumed the flash was for fill-in. But no, she could see it blinking, almost like a strobe, as he snapped one picture after another.

  She turned to the group of boisterous tourists. They were Americans: a couple of portly men in colorful sport shirts and full shorts that showed scrawny legs; a couple of women to go with them, big-assed in tight slacks; a teen-age boy with a scraggly attempt at a mustache; a feral young man in jeans; a slat-thin blonde girl in tube top and sailor pants.

  The boy was having a fine time imitating the apes. He was bouncing up and down in a half-squatting position, scratching his belly. The girl was laughing. The two portly men were taking pictures.

  And then one of the apes started twitching. He bit himself. The tourists thought it was very funny.

  Another ape started to twitch. He cowered in fear, as if he were seeing something.

  "My Gawd!" Willoughby said. He let go of Fiona's arm and stood up straight for a better look.

  The apes were fighting among themselves. Two of them were down, having convulsions. The air was filled with their shrieks.

  The tourists were starting to act uneasy. One of the women pulled at her husband's arm, trying to get him to go back.

  And then th
e apes were swarming over them.

  The women screamed. The men were beating at the apes with their cameras. The boy who'd been doing the imitations was down, an ape chewing on his ankle.

  "Wait here!" Willoughby said sharply, and then he was bounding over the rocks toward the tourists. He was shouting and waving his hands, trying to distract the animals, but they didn't seem to notice. They seemed unaware of their surroundings.

  Three more of the attacking apes had succumbed to the strange convulsions. They were out of it, rolling around and twitching. But the tourists were still under attack by four of the snarling beasts. One of them was riding the back of the fallen girl, trying to get at her throat.

  Other tourists were screaming, running away. The ones who were at a safe distance, like the Arab families, stood transfixed.

  There was the sharp crack of a rifle, and one of the apes went down. Fiona turned and saw one of the sentries, his rifle at his shoulder, taking aim again. Willoughby had stopped, a horrified expression on his face, and was making gestures to the soldier not to shoot.

  The rifle cracked again, and another ape fell.

  Willoughby was kneeling over one of the fallen apes, his ear to its hairy chest to listen for a heartbeat, while one of the portly men pulled at his arm, trying to get him to look at the blonde girl. The attack was over; all of the apes were writhing on the ground or, more ominously, lying still. The soldiers were bounding over the rocks toward the group.

  Fiona looked over toward the Arab families. The young man with the camera was gone. She scanned the slopes and caught sight of a dark, bushy head bobbing among the rocks.

  She ran down the slope, almost knocking over an elderly tourist. The Arab photographer was a couple of hundred yards downhill, walking casually. She hitched the chiffon skirt up above her thighs and bounded over the rocks, nimble as a mountain goat. He turned and saw her coming, and began to run.

  He was scrambling over the limestone crevices, trying to get away. She was gaining on him. She lost sight of him for a moment, and then realized he'd entered one of the Rock's many natural caves. She gave a Botticelli smile. He'd trapped himself.