Skin on My Skin

by John Burks

  She was secured at the hands and feet to the bed with long, rusty chains. The fasteners were too tight and had dug into her skin. Her body was rail thin and emaciated. Her skin was covered in bruises and she had multiple scabby wounds. She shifted and I got a better view of her small breasts and, despite the woman’s obvious torment, they produced a thrill in me. It was a thrill that powered over every fear and ounce of common sense that had kept me alive over the years since the Preacher’s Plague had rushed into our world. I crept in too far, though, and she saw me.

  “Who are you?” she asked, leaning over the bed and staring into my eyes. Her face was dark and bruised, her blonde hair matted with sweat and grime. I wondered how long she’d been in the bed. I had no idea how to answer her. It was as if my mouth had quit working.

  “You’re not him. You’re not that guy. Who are you?”

  The woman did an admirable job of pushing back the tears. She stared at me fiercely.

  Suddenly I wanted to run from the room, take the stairs leading down into the lobby five at a time, grab my suit and flee. There wasn’t any treasure in the world worth being this close to another human. But I wasn’t dying. My skin wasn’t even burning. There was something about her.

  “Can you help me? Can you let me go?”

  I backed out of the room slowly, afraid.

  “No, please don’t go. I won’t hurt you. You won’t get sick around me. I’m a Toucher.”

  It hit me suddenly. I got it. She was a Toucher. She had to be. I hadn’t ever believed in the Touchers before. I thought they were a myth to keep people coming to Club Flesh. But the woman tied to the bed in the other room was simple, undeniable proof. She didn’t carry the Preacher’s Plague. Proximity to her would not kill me. I peeked around the corner and watched the desperation in her eyes.

  “Please help me get out of here. I’m begging you. I’ll… I’ll do anything for you. Anything you want.”

  She wasn’t attractive, not in the emaciated and beaten condition she was in. Not like the girls in the stacks of porn movies I had back home. But she was real… flesh… that fantasy of having a real flesh and blood girl beneath me… it was almost too much to stand. She wanted me to help her and would let me do anything. I didn’t know what to do.

  “I promise I won’t hurt you. And I won’t tell them. I’m not going back there anyway.

  There? What was she talking about? Where was there? I couldn’t find my voice to ask her. I couldn’t find my balls to say anything to her.

  “Please,” she begged again, the tears beginning to flow. “I will do anything if you get me out of there.”

  Suddenly I heard the slow grinding of electric motors and the movement of an elevator in the shaft just outside the still open front door. I panicked, knowing exactly what the sound meant, and stood. The scavenger whose home I’d invaded was coming back. The guy who kept that woman tied to a bed, no doubt brutalizing her, was here.

  “Hurry. He’s coming. Please get me loose.”

  I stared at the hefty chains around here wrists and ankles and then noticed the pad locks. There was nothing I could do for her.

  “I’m sorry.” The sound of my own voice frightened me. It was weak and scratchy, reflecting the amount of time that had passed since I’d actually used it. “I can’t do anything for you.”

  “Fuck you then,” the woman spat, her fear and hurt boiling into anger. “I hope he finds you. I hope he cuts your balls off and shoves them down your throat. He’s coming and he’s not going to like it that you’re here.”

  I weighed my odds. The scavenger would most likely be in his own suit. He would probably even be armed. He knew the layout of the apartment. He’d have every advantage. I turned to the woman once more.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, again, unable to find the words to describe what I was feeling. It was hard putting that stuff into words. “I’m so sorry.”

  I started for the stairwell just as the elevator door began to open. My escape was cut off. I turned, and darted further into the apartment. The only thing I could do, at that point, was hide.

  I slumped down behind a pile of liquor boxes stacked near the opposite wall from the bedroom door and peered through the cracks left by their clumsy stacking. The scavenger pushed through the small doorway, squatting. His suit was immense, much bigger than the standard sizes I’d seen over the years. He looked like an alien mech from Space Force Alpha, intent on destroying the world. The immense .50 caliber rifle strung across his back did little to change the image of invading alien warrior. The suited man dropped a large green duffle bag of loot on the floor and then stared through the open bedroom doorway at the woman. He just stood there, staring, and I was sure he was going to be able to feel the vibrations of my heart thudding in my chest.

  Don’t take the suit off, I silently begged. Please don’t take the damn suit off. I knew that, right then, we were close enough that if he did take it off, our mutual infections would touch off and, if we didn’t die, he’d know I was there. His burning skin would tell him.

  I was also sure the woman was going to give me away at any moment. I hadn’t helped her, not that I could. She’d do it out of spite if nothing else. I had no idea what I’d do if she did. I had no idea what I’d do about the armed man in the massive suit. I could try and just run and I decided, right then, that’s what I’d do if it came to it. I’d just run and take my chances.

  The man laid the massive rifle next to the duffle bag and began the slow process of removing his armor. I half expected some little alien thing to crawl out of the giant suit, like in an episode of Doctor Who, but it was just a man, the largest man I’d ever seen, with the absolute worst case of Plague scarring I’d ever seen, but just a man. He was naked under the bio-armor. Even beneath the multitude of plague scars, I could see his rippling muscles. Much of his body had been covered in tattoos which were now distorted by the mass of scars that riddled his body. This was a man who’d been up close and personal to the plague. His entire body was covered in the scars of old boils and blisters and, when he turned half sideways, I saw that his large penis was also scarred, turning it into some sort of twisted, brunt dildo. I’d heard of the survivors who didn’t care about the infection, who’d engage in sexual intercourse anyway. I couldn’t even imagine the act, an act where both partners were likely to die from the contact.

  I panicked with each part of armor he pulled off, sure I was about to finally fall victim to the Preacher’s Plague. I kept feeling my bare arms, fingers rolling over my own old plague scars, searching for new signs of blistering. I guess he was far enough from me, across the large room, that it didn’t catch. Ten, twenty feet was often enough space. Maybe I’d been exposed enough both from my mother and my father’s contact, in those early days, that I had a certain level of immunity. I heard that too, over the years. It could take longer now than it did in the beginning. Maybe that’s the only way any of us survived as long as we have. We just handled it a little better than the rest.

  I didn’t want to risk it, though, and hoped the man might move even further away. Maybe I could make a run for his elevator.

  He never turned and looked in my direction, as I feared, and instead continued to stare at the woman strapped to the bed.

  “Not again, not now,” the woman begged and I was still surprised she hadn’t given me up. Maybe she’d trade my presence for her freedom. “I’m all torn up inside. Look at me. I… I can’t keep this up.”

  The man said nothing, but began stroking his disfigured member. I could imagine a devious grin on a face I couldn’t see and knew what was coming next. I was torn by the urge to run versus the urge to continue watching.

  He strode into the bedroom and stared at the woman again. I wasn’t sure what he was doing then, but the woman whimpered at the sight of the disfigured monster and he lashed out, slapping her hard across the face. She screamed out loud.

  “Please, I just can’t do it again. You’re killing me,” she said between sobs. “Pl
ease don’t do this.”

  He hit her across the face again and I shuddered when I heard him laugh at the woman’s discomfort.

  “You’re killing me,” she insisted, but it was the sob of the defeated.

  The man ignored her and the crawled onto the bed, between her legs. She only screamed out once more, as he entered her with his large, twisted penis, but then began to sob quietly. The man thrust hard and quick, violently, grunting with each stroke. Each time he pushed into her she whimpered a little more. I knew that, as he was distracted, it was my time to go. I quietly stood and started for the door. Not content to leave with nothing, I scooped up a closed box of liquor. I tiptoed to the door, only pausing for a moment to make eye contact with the woman. Her eyes pleaded to me, begging me to help her. I could, right then. I could shoot the man in the back. I could end her torment right then and there and she knew it. I could tell by the way she looked at me as he ground on her. I set down the liquor and aimed the rifle at the back of the man’s head. I was close enough that I felt the skin of my fingers tingle and burn and looked down in horror as the skin blistered. I’d gotten too close to the man. Our bodies were reacting to each other.

  The only person I’d ever shot was my father. I’m pretty sure he was dead. He had deserved to die, though. This guy… I just couldn’t shoot him. This wasn’t my business and, as much as the woman’s flesh called to me, I couldn’t just kill him.

  I mouthed my apologies silently to the woman, scooped up my case of liquor, and slid into the hallway, hoping he was scared enough not to have noticed the start of a few new blisters.

  She cried out, again, and I thought she was going to finally give me away. She didn’t, though, and I slipped into the dark stairwell.

  I ran down the stairs as quickly and silently as I could. I was convinced that, at any minute, the Preacher’s Plague was going to kick in and boil me inside out. That I’d survived the nearness of the other man, outside a suit, didn’t stop me from fearing every step I took was about to be my last. I took the steps two or three at a time, holding the box of liquor out in front of me like a totem. I regretted coming to the building in the first place and the box of booze, as valuable as it was, was going to do little to make up for the encounter.

  I’d be dreaming of the woman later, but it wouldn’t be a good dream. It wouldn’t be like the dreams I had after doing a porn marathon. I’d see the fear splashed across her face. I’d see those eyes pleading with me. I’d see the monster ripping her to pieces with the club he had for a cock.

  I made it to the second floor barricade and pushed my way through, the box of liquor ahead of me. I spent a lot less time and was much less careful than I’d been on the way up, but I needed to get in my suit. I needed to get out of the building. I scraped through, cutting myself on the ragged pieces of metal and spikes to the point I had blood freely mixing with sweat on the other side. I didn’t feel any of it, though. I had to get out of there and a few cuts and bruises weren’t going to stop me. I got through the barricade, bolted down the remaining flight of stairs, and into the small office off the lobby. My bio-suit was exactly where I’d left it. It didn’t seem quite right and looked as if someone might have rifled through it. I stopped anyway, staring in panic not at the tampered with suit but the wall behind it.

  Someone had painted the Preacher’s logo on the wall near my suit, spraying over the cork board and the pictures pinned there. Someone had followed me from the coffee shop here. I checked the suit in a frenzied panic.

  Not only was someone watching me, following me, someone had taken the seals from my suit.

  Booze for Tits

  I fled through the streets, running as fast as I could, heedless of sound or security. I’d put the suit on the best I could and grimaced every time the connections flexed, metal on metal, without the seals that acted not only as a barrier, but a connector. I felt like I was running in open tin and felt exposed. The sky seemed bigger and, despite having just been within twenty feet of two other humans and survived, I was sure I was going to die at any moment. The box of liquor felt like it weighed a million pounds and I saw an assassin in every shadow, just around every corner. Someone had followed me from the Starbucks. Someone had seen me there, seen me look at the graffiti of the Preacher, and then followed me. I had no idea why someone would do that. I have no idea why someone would just take the seals to the suit. Though my old seals were extremely valuable, the suit was more valuable as a whole. You could trade whatever the hell you wanted for it. I wouldn’t likely replace it any time soon. They were the very essence of the word irreplaceable.

  I couldn’t go home. I knew that, though that was my first instinct. My stalker was somewhere around the building I’d just left. I could feel his eyes burning into me. I could see him laughing at whatever silly game he was playing. And that’s what it was. It was a stunt by someone who was bored and lonely. What more provocative piece of work could you spray paint on a wall? If you wanted to get into someone’s head and really make them doubt their continued survival, just tell them the Preacher was coming.

  The man had single handedly wiped out most of human kind, after all.

  And top that off by stealing his seals. Leave the suit but render it useless. It was a sick bastard that did that to another survivor. It wasn’t just stealing someone’s stash. It was something way more personal.

  It was a sick fucking joke but, if the guy was following me, I might accidentally lead him back to my place. And then I’d be like the apartment I just left - exposed and open. I didn’t care how big the guy was or how well armed; he wasn’t going to survive long if he kept advertising his existence. I wasn’t about to do the same.

  It had to be the scarred man upstairs, I was sure. He’d followed me from Starbucks. I wonder if he knew I was in the apartment with him. Was he that fucking nuts?

  Who is more nuts, I wondered. Me for going to his place in the first place or him for knowing I was there?

  I kept moving, ducking in shadows, squatting behind the rusted hulks of old cars. It was hard to move in the suit without the seals and I was afraid it was making too much noise. I felt like there were hundreds of pairs of eyes staring at me from the broken out windows. I felt ghosts in the wind and saw shadows in shadows. My breathing was hard, and labored. Without the suit functioning I felt like I did the day I watched my father murder my mother. I felt like I was going to die at any minute.

  The sun began to set in the west, casting long, dark shadows. I was going to be caught in the city at dark with a busted suit, unable to go home. I found an apparently empty building and worked my way into a room with only one door. I sat against the back wall, staring out that door into the dark, wondering just what the hell I was going to do.

  I ought to go back up there and kill him. I ought to kill him, free the girl, and get my seals back. I could take her home. If she was really a Toucher, she wouldn’t need a suit. She’d be okay.

  I knew better. I’d shot dad, but I wasn’t going to just shoot someone else. Not to just get property back.

  I sat for hours, trying to figure out what to do. The city was dark by the time I finally came up with a plan. I wasn’t going to go back up to the scavenger’s apartment and confront him. I’d survived our first encounter, but that had been out of sheer, dumb luck. But I could get new seals and knew just where to do that. There was a place in the city that, for a price, you could trade for anything. I patted the box of liquor next to me. It might be enough.

  Maybe the day hadn’t been a complete bust after all.

  Half a day after I left the horror show in the scarred scavenger’s apartment, I saw the lights of Fortress glowing on the horizon long before I neared the west side entrance. I heard the boom of music blaring from Club Flesh even further out. It was a siren, a call to all the lonely scavengers out in the ruins. Come to us, it said. Bring us goodies and we’ll show you the one thing you can no longer have. Bring us booze, we’ll give you boobies. Club Flesh also acted a trading
post. It wasn’t quite the Wal-Mart of my youth, but you could get just about anything inside, suit parts included, for the right price.

  It was more complicated than that, obviously, but the basic trade at Fortress allowed a scavenger time in Club Flesh, the outermost building of the walled in compound. There, depending on the size of the scavenger’s haul, you could watch the strippers behind the sealed glass walls. New York had always run on sex, to some extent, but the survivors of Fortress had perfected into an art. It was the basis of their economy.

  I didn’t honestly know much about the people inside the walled in compound. I’d heard the talk, of course, whispers on ham radio waves in the middle of the night. People said they were all Touchers inside, and had retreated to the park after it was clear there was no coming back from the Preacher’s Plague. Others said the rich of the city had retreated into the park and built the wall. Behind it they’d built sealed tunnels and enclosures similar to what my father had built back home during the early days of the plague. Supposedly there were tunnels running down the streets, divided houses… they carried on like nothing had happened. Still others said the Preacher lived in Central Park and was working on a new plague that would just kill everyone left. Others agreed that the Preacher was there, but that he had the cure.

  I had no idea what to believe. I knew, however, that Fortress was rich in parts for bio-suits and that would be the only place, short of going back and killing the scarred up, raping scavenger, to get the new seals for my suit.