Oedema: An Apocalyptic Horror Novel

by Stuart Keane

  Robert placed the crumpets onto a dirty, sauce-smeared plate with a clink, slathered them in watery butter, turned to the kitchen table, and spurted heaps of tomato ketchup on top to complete the dish. He paused, sniffed, then lifted the ketchup bottle into the air and nibbled at the stiff, congealed sauce around the cap, rolling his tongue around it slowly. It stuck to his teeth and tingled on his tongue. Once done, he shoved his hand into a box of stale Fruit Loops and sprinkled them over the toasted crumpets.

  Content, he smiled, grabbed his plate and the Coke, and walked into the living room.

  A meal fit for a king, he thought.

  Robert carried his breakfast across the small living room, precariously stepped around the mouldy takeaway boxes and the spilled contents that littered the floor, and slumped into his beaten armchair. The defeated cushions wheezed beneath his weight. He placed the plate on his coffee table, knocking aside some empty porno DVD cases, and sighed loudly. A couple toppled onto the carpet.

  What a day this was turning out to be.

  He gagged, the taste of the stale water still tickling his throat. He popped the tab on his Coke and guzzled a huge mouthful of the fizzy drink, grimacing as the bubbles ignited the back of his gullet. He felt a tear roll down his face, his eyes watering. The soda tasted sweet and syrupy; it made Robert smile.

  The bitter taste still remained.

  Did those kids put something in the water?

  They wouldn’t have the brains.

  Would they?

  Robert took a bite of cold crumpet, his furry teeth crunching into the crispy dough and sauce. The excess ketchup smeared across his lips, tingling them a little. He licked it away, dripping the ketchup and butter onto his vest. Again.

  Every time, without fail.

  Fuck sake.

  Robert brushed the crumbs from his chest and put the plate down on the coffee table. He sighed, leaning back, his mouth working on the food. He was still irritated from the encounter with the two boys. He fidgeted in his chair, unable to get comfortable.

  Until he saw the unopened brown box on the floor, discarded, leaning on top of an overturned pint glass. His piggy eyes lit up. After a moment, he looked left and right and shuffled from his chair, kneeling down to collect it. Using a dirty fingernail, he sliced through the brown seal with ease, and dumped the contents onto the floor.

  This week's pornography delivery.

  Two DVDs – Teenage Cunts of Fury and Dollhouse #5: Big Ass White Chicks.

  Robert felt his penis stiffening as he looked at the glossy covers, both of which were gaudily decorated with young, naked women, pink bubbly letters, a couple of exposed, lubricated arseholes, and fake cartoon splashes of semen. He shuffled sideways, spreading his legs, groaning as he read the brief, irrelevant blurbs.

  He ripped the plastic from Teenage Cunts of Fury, plied the box open and removed the silver disc. He dropped to his knees, fumbled the DVD into the player beneath his TV, and waited for it to load. He scrambled back to his chair and resumed his position.

  This day just got a lot better…

  Robert scooped the remote from the coffee table, accidentally brushing it in the sauce of his crumpets. With a groan, he licked the oily condiment from the sticky plastic, leaving white saliva smears along its length. The back of his throat still tingled, and he gagged. He shook his head, ignored the sensation, wiped the remote on his boxers, and turned the TV on.

  A loud groan of sexual pleasure played on repeat, tinny and loud. On the screen, a still image of a plump teenage girl greeted him, all oiled up and horny, legs wide while sliding two fingers into her exposed vagina. Her all-but-innocent blue eyes stared at him, through him, enticing Robert. Her tongue licked the corner of her mouth.

  Robert smiled, feeling an intense wave of unceremonious lust.

  His hand slipped beneath the limp waistband of his underwear.

  Curled around his semi-flaccid penis.

  He pressed play as he began to stroke.

  The movie began. Black faded in, revealing a dingy, obviously staged police station, with three desks, a chair and a misplaced bookshelf. A teenage woman in a tight police officer's uniform strutted her way onto the screen, all hips and sex appeal. Her black skirt barely covered her lack of underwear, the curves of her pert buttocks sliding into view with every provocative step. Her gun belt held only a pair of pink fluffy handcuffs and a monster black dildo in a holster. If Robert understood any concept of such a thing, he would have recognised the heavy cliché. Instead, he groaned, working on his developing erection.

  Robert slipped his fist from his boxers, curled his hand – fingers upwards – and snorted a blob of amber, ketchup-infused snot and phlegm into his palm. He pushed his hands together and worked the fluid into his palms, smeared the slimy mucus around, and cupped his penis once again. He groaned as the warm fluids coated his grubby foreskin, lubricating it from his stiff, calloused flesh. His genitals tingled, probably a side-effect of the ketchup, which added to the sensation.

  That's better, he thought.

  He eyed the hide-and-seek buttocks and licked his lips, drooling. The woman bent over the table, and spread the cheeks wide, exposing her toned thighs and bleached arsehole.

  What I wouldn’t do to shove my face between those cheeks, shove my tongue in.

  Robert began to masturbate furiously; short, sharp, deft strokes that thwapped his knuckles against his boxer shorts. The mucus provided a slippery, slapping soundtrack to the endeavour, his foreskin squelching against his bulbous head. Robert arched his back and pressed his legs together. He groaned.

  The female officer turned. An older woman in matching attire entered the room, heels clacking on the tiles. Brunette hair cascaded down her back, enhancing both a curvier build and shapely hips. In her left hand, she held a riding crop. In her right, a blue dildo that glistened beneath the studio lights.

  The teenager feigned surprise and horror, holding a hand to her surgery enhanced lips. She backed off, her thighs resting on the desk behind her. Her legs spread a little, almost exposing her sex. Robert groaned once more as his tongue slapped at his slippery lips.

  He realised his makeshift lubrication was wearing off.

  Fuck, he thought.

  He hacked in his throat. Dry, nothing doing.

  Shit.

  What can I use…?

  His lustful eyes settled on the crumpets, and more specifically, the sauce that topped them. Robert hesitated, cock in fist, and considered the option. He'd done it a couple of times before, but with mustard. Barbeque sauce worked too, and piccalilli, but he'd never tried ketchup. He remembered the tang that ketchup left on his chapped lips, the slight sting it caused on raw skin, and then realised that the previous sauces had delivered the same effect. Something to do with the seasoning or something. He bit his lip as dribble slithered down his weak chin. In his peripheral vision, he saw the brunette step forward, her thigh easing between the teenager's open legs.

  Time was against him.

  Fuck it, but if I'm going to do it, I'm going to do it right.

  Within his boxers, he created some space by pushing his fist outwards, stretching the material, and relaxing. With two sticky fingers, Robert peeled back his foreskin, exposing his slippery, engorged head. A cracked fingernail scraped away the white crust beneath the curvature of the bell end. He flinched a little at the sharp nail's touch, mixed the crust into the remaining lubricant and smeared it on his fingertips. Some glistening pre-cum already daubed the shaft, so he collected that too, mixing the two together. After a few seconds, his fingertips were completely coated in excess smegma.

  With a smile, Robert slipped the coated fingers into his mouth slowly, sucking hard, rolling his tongue around his slimy fingertips, devouring his own ejaculate. The sweet, sickly taste did nothing to cure the tickle at the back of his throat, but he didn’t care. This prime masturbation opportunity only came around on a three-week basis, and to enhance the semen's flavour, via built-up body sweat and
grime, showers were not a part of his routine. Once every three weeks was the key.

  He leaned over and slammed his open palm onto the crumpets, crushing them, smearing the oily red sauce all over his hand. He swirled his palm about a bit, closing his fingers inward, ensuring his hand was coated and slippery. He felt the damp cereal topping crunching lightly beneath his fingers.

  Robert lifted his hand away, the cold dough sucking to his flesh, flicked the food across the room and lowered his hand into his boxers, dripping ketchup and Fruit Loops all over his blotchy pale thighs. The crumpet slapped the wall, slid an inch, and dropped to the floor, echoing against a crumpled kebab box. Stale donor meat and maggots spewed onto the carpet.

  He resumed his stroking. The teenager was sliding two fingers inside herself as the brunette licked her thighs. Robert felt his eyes closing, his head nodding back in ecstasy. His free hand wiped his forehead quickly. As it pulled away, he noticed his palm was covered in excess sweat. It oozed and dripped from his fingers, splattering onto his thighs.

  Strange. I didn’t realise I was that hot.

  Robert chuckled and slipped his boxers down his legs, kicking them off. The pungent stench of excrement and the black stains of crusty skid marks, did nothing to put him off his stride. With his free hand, he cupped his scrotum and squeezed, the hot sweat refreshing on his pimpled, hot skin.

  Oh yeah, that's the ticket.

  Robert began stroking vigorously, sliding the condiment along his shaft. His hand slipped and slid on the slippery flesh, flopping away from his erect penis on several occasions. His touch became electric, the makeshift lubricant adding a new dimension to the pleasure of the sexual act.

  "Want to fuck me?" The teenager asked, in a voice that had clearly sold a million copies.

  Robert nodded. "You have no fucking idea…"

  He laid his head back, tensed his neck muscles and stretched his legs out. Robert flexed and straightened his toes, closed his eyes, and masturbated like a man possessed. His skin felt slippery, and the stench of body odour soured his nostrils. His fist pumped his throbbing erection hard and fast, and his testicles flopped up and down with the impact, the ketchup liquefying and sluicing along his knuckles. Sweat dripped from his brow, pattering his chest. Sharp slapping sounds filled the room, becoming faster and faster as he neared a raging climax.

  Why am I sweating so much?

  Without pause, Robert pulled his left hand from his testicles and reached for his forehead. He stopped short, his eyes narrowing. A sliver of fear crept along his spine, freezing him. Still, his hand continued to pump.

  His palm was slick with a pink transparent liquid.

  He moved his hand to his nose and sniffed it, tentatively. The smell of dirty, sweaty scrotum lingered as normal, clawing at the back of his tingly throat, but there was a coppery tang to the smell. One familiar, one that Robert couldn’t place.

  He wiped his brow and flicked the cloying sweat onto the floor. It spattered the carpet loudly, like someone had turned on a garden hose.

  What the hell is going on?

  Despite the growing concern, Robert continued to masturbate, his climax slightly delayed by the strange occurrence. His cock was thoroughly lubricated now, slick and effortless, the way an erection should be. He imagined burying himself deep in the teenage porn star on the TV. Imagined fucking her, spanking her pert arse, eating her slippery slit deep. The concern forgotten, his arousal returning, he moved his free hand back to his testicles.

  And howled in agony.

  "Fuck!"

  He withdrew his trembling hand and spotted sheared lumps of masticated flesh and fresh, dark blood. Pulped scrotum, complete with curled pubic hair and wrinkles, dangled from the creases in his fingers. The blood oozed and, as it neared his soaked wrist, became translucent, clearer. Crimson into baby pink, as if water was mixed into the concoction.

  Robert felt a spike of pain strike his back, and he bucked wildly.

  His right hand came away, an automatic reaction.

  His foreskin tore away, splitting his erect penis down the middle.

  Blood sprayed across the living room in an elaborate, looping arc, drenching the curtains, wall and TV. The screaming teenage porn star, the brunette's head buried deep between her thin legs, disappeared behind a sheet of slippery, black blood and molten flesh.

  Robert cried out, white-hot agony crippling every inch of his body.

  He gazed down, tears blurring his eyes, dreading to observe the damage.

  And saw the remains of his mutilated penis, still erect, a gaping laceration down the centre, torn with the vicious removal of the frenulum. It had split like a sausage with the skin peeled aside, the veins and muscle raw and throbbing. Blood gurgled from within, jetting down and across his sweaty thighs. He noticed the coarse hairs flowing in the crimson stream, which was gushing, vehement. The foreskin was completely gone, still curled in his closed palm, and that's when he realised his fingers were congealed together. He tried to pry them apart, but couldn’t, the pale skin of each digit merged into one another, the floppy pink remains of his ketchup-smeared foreskin dangling from within. As he pried at the fist with his spare hand, the flesh began to trickle away, dripping to the carpet below.

  This can't be happening, it's impossible.

  He looked down, glancing at his arms and torso and legs.

  Robert realised it wasn’t just his hand.

  His flesh, on every inch of his fat, pale body, was dripping away.

  Oozing away.

  He placed a trembling left foot onto the floor, in an attempt to stand up, and his toes turned to a bloody, pulpy liquid, soaking red into the threadbare carpet, like five strawberry ice lollies melting in the summer sun. The foot began to throb and pale and change shape, from the molten toes upward. It began to widen, to pool out along the ground, slowly and painfully. Solid bone and webbed veins cracked and spluttered and liquefied like cheap jelly, merging into one large, pink puddle. The nails washed away and stopped inches from him, inert, discarded completely as his foot vanished beneath him, soaking into the stained polyester.

  Robert howled, and wobbled, trying to remove his weight from the limb, to take it out of the equation, and stand on his other foot. He placed his right leg down, and hoisting his left leg – which was dripping away violently from the distorted ankle upwards, his calf paling and twisting forwards, – he collapsed and fell as the right leg buckled like a pole vaulter's pole, bending at the knee, the bones no longer holding any density. His balance compromised, and his standard anatomy no longer in play, he tumbled forward, his large body weight propelling him towards his coffee table.

  His head connected with the edge.

  And exploded like a meaty water balloon.

  Rubbery skull fragments coiled into the air, ruddy globs of brain and muscle splattered the scratched wooden surface and carpet. Pink, fleshy water sprayed and drenched the living room, hitting the yellowed ceiling and bare light fixture, and soaking his battered armchair. The TV fizzled and died as the watery remains of Robert's cranium dripped into the exterior crevices.

  As his body melted into the carpet, lost forever, there was a quiet knock on the door. A voice beckoned from beyond. "Anyone there? I heard a noise…"

  The question went unanswered.

  SIX

  "I think your time in the forces has severely impaired your ability to rock at Mario Kart."

  Luke lifted his controller closer to his face in concentration, and snorted, "Really?"

  "Yeah," Nicky chuckled. Her tongue flicked out as she skilfully guided her speeding character around the final sharp bend. "Look, it's the home stretch, boyo! How the fuck do you feel?" She adopted a mocking tone and threw her arms into the air as her vehicle zoomed across the finish line, uncontested. The celebratory music began as the cable to her controller whipped sideways, startling her brother. Nicky clutched her side, winced, and let out a whoop, "Fuck yes. I owned you!"

  Luke dropped his controller on the
coffee table in defeat, and sipped his Pepsi with a wry smile. Memories of their happy childhood materialised in his mind's eye. The reveal of the new console for Christmas in the early 90s, the resounding screams of joy and flying wrapping paper, hours spent in front of the TV – legs firmly crossed, eyes up, tongues out, attention oblivious to the real world around them – and the many heated arguments that would ensue. The taste of his mother's jam sandwiches and orange Capri Sun, their preferred treat, would always linger fondly in his cerebrum because of those cherished days. Luke looked at his drink and sighed.

  Memories. They don't make them like that anymore.

  "You okay?" Nicky asked as she shuffled her position on the couch.

  "I'm fine. Just remembering the good ol' days. You never lost it."

  She nodded. "Greatness is never lost, bro!"

  "I had you at one point. That damn pipe got in the way."

  "Excuses, excuses." Nicky smiled and adjusted her hair. "Want another chance? For me to kick your arse, I mean."

  "Sure, in a second. I need another Pepsi. You want anything?" he asked, jabbing his thumb towards the kitchen.

  "I'm good."

  He stood up and left the room, taking his empty glass with him. Nicky watched him go, reset the game and set up the next race.

  Luke wandered into the kitchen, lowered his glass into the sink, placed his hands on the worktop and sighed. He closed his eyes and pushed down against the slick black surface, felt his skin puckering to the granite. He flexed and felt his taut muscles bulge beneath the tight fabric of his t-shirt. A coarse stream of warm breath rasped across his pursed lips.

  The persistent throb of a migraine pulsated at the base of his skull. Luke blinked and struggled to maintain his composure as he fought unwanted tears born from a deep, dull twinge rooted inside his brain. The minor pain was more than familiar; he'd suffered from it for the past few months, but it was now becoming more prominent, more aggressive. His life was starting to revolve around it as it interrupted his usually routine sleep pattern, altered his placid mood, and caused him a great deal of mental discomfort. What had started as a small tremor was now forming a permanent ache in his cranium, and putting a severe crimp in his daily life.