What if there’s someone living with her? She did mention a Charlie. For all I know, someone’s standing down here with an ax… Things I should have considered before coming down alone.
I take in the empty basement. There’s no place for the cat to have gone but that mess of concrete, drywall, and wood in the corner. The little dancer seems to like places like that, and when I root around, I find another opening. This one is a tighter fit, but once through, I find a black-out curtain blocking the entrance.
Pushing it aside, I’m greeted by light. Not bright light, not like you’d see with curly bulbs or sunshine, but it’s still light. She’s set a large mirror on a tabletop, and she’s rigged a couple dozen water batteries up to LEDs. These lay on top of the mirror. A clear piece of glass—a window most likely—rest on supports, and on this rests a half-dozen plants. On top, facedown, lies another mirror.
She grows her own food. Clever girl!
The thick pallet of blankets calls to me. Knowing I’ll regret it, I pick up her pillow and inhale her scent. Surprisingly, I catch only a faint essence of unwashed hair. She’s cleaner than I thought.
A further search reveals four college-ruled notebooks filled almost full with tiny print—the same print I saw in the letters. I hunker down for a read.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Amelia
I’m so hungry I shake. Seeing that boy, the snipers too, it pushed me into hiding. I went out the next day and caught a mouse in one of my traps, but now every time I pull back the black-out curtain, I shake and change my mind. I go out exactly once a day—just after dark-set. I go about two blocks away and do my business down what once was a street drain. Humiliating, but I can’t do it where I live. For one, I don’t want to smell it, and two, it’d bring every predator out there right to me.
But if I don’t get something to eat, pretty soon I won’t be able to get up. I’m already going a little nuts. At night I dream I’m being kissed. It’s so, so real. Other times it feels like someone’s standing over me, watching, but when I wake up, no one’s there. It’s the hunger, that and the dread of being found. Right now there’s nothing edible on the table, and Charlie has only offered his company.
Either I do this, or I die.
This is my third apartment tonight. I don’t have the strength to climb the balconies, so I only visit the first-floor apartments. I have no idea how these soldiers don’t hear me. Do they take drugs? Of course, not having any shoes on probably helps, but really, as sick and weak as I feel, I’m sure I make mistakes.
Pushing my wire through the gap between the window and the frame, I snap the lock open, then climb through and land as softly as I can. The scent of comfort greets me. There’s no other way to describe it. Every time I enter this apartment, just this one, I feel like I’m right where I’m supposed to be. It smells good—like strength, like being wrapped in a warm blanket, but something more too. I shake my head, pull my knife out of my pack, and creep to the bread box. The last two places, the bread was fresh with the heels still on so I couldn’t take any. My luck changes when I raise the lid; the loaf’s already been cut. My hands shake as I cut off the thinnest of slices. I know I shouldn’t, that I should wait until I’m home, but I cram the whole thing into my mouth, and I can’t chew fast enough. After swallowing it down, I wait for the relief, but my stomach cramps up. I bite my lips and clutch my middle, willing myself not to throw it up. Please, anything but that.
The pain eases, and I go back for a second slice. This goes in my sack.
On the floor beside the table I discover a burlap sack. After a good long argument with the knot, I withdraw a potato. A potato! I haven’t had one since I was twelve. I cup one gently and place it in the bottom of my bag, right beside the bread. My mouth fills with spit, so I allow myself a second. I’d take the whole bag if I thought I could carry it. After retying the knot, I get to my feet, and mentally prepare myself to leave.
And then I see it: a plastic two-liter bottle of Pepsi.
Pepsi!
I concentrate on breathing normally. These people have civilization. They have electricity, food, and Pepsi. Tears flood my eyes as I think of all the years I’ve spent eating rats while they had potatoes and apples and soda.
Who are they?
There’s a tumbler on the table three-quarters full of the stuff. My mouth goes dry, and I run my fingers over flaking lips. I want it. I ache for the sweetness, the rush, for all the things it represents. Is it worth it? One sip will never satisfy me, and it won’t bring back all the things I lost. But it’s the only time I’ll ever find the stuff, I’m sure of it. Tomorrow I’m back to carefully filtered ash-snow and rat, if I’m lucky.
I set my pack on the floor. With both hands I take up the cup, shut my eyes, raise it to my nose and sniff. It’s real.
I sneak a peek around, feeling as though something is egging me on, but other than the tiny LED over the sink, there’s barely any light. I listen, but I hear nothing but my own heartbeat. I make out the faint outline of living room furniture. That’s all.
I take a sip.
It’s warm, and it’s not as fizzy as I remember, but it’s incredibly sweet. It tastes like riding in a car, bright electric lights, and a mother’s love. I let it settle on my tongue, absorb it into every crevice, and I let my teeth bathe in it. When I swallow, it only takes a moment before the tears come. I set the cup down, and for a brief second I can’t let it go.
A bowlful of pears sits on the counter next to the icebox. I never did like pears, but I’ve eaten mice, so I’ll pretty much eat anything. I take one for the road, one for home, and sling my bag up over my shoulder.
The Pepsi calls to me.
The whole twenty-first century is in that cup, and I’ll never find it again. I take another sip. I’m not even sure I like that much sugary sweetness, but I need it. I down another mouthful as I carry it into the living area. Whoever lives here has a couch with cushions on it. He has a fireplace too, even though there’s no fire in it. How is it warm in here without fire?
Another sip and I narrow my eyes at the lovely, cushy couch. I doubt I’ll see anything this luxurious again. These people can drift into peaceful sleep without worrying that their screams will bring hunters. I’d be willing to bet they’re not worried they’ll have their throats slit while they lie, helplessly dreaming of fast cars and sunshine.
The bread was not enough. My limbs feel heavy, and I start to shake. The sugar should pick me up soon, if I remember correctly, but right now I don’t feel so good. My tongue feels like it’s grown double in size, and I gulp down more memories.
Shoot.
It was almost full when I found it, and now there’s less than a quarter left. I liked this place, but now I can’t ever come back. The person living here will almost surely notice the difference in what he left last night and what he finds in the morning.
I make my way back to the kitchen and practically stumble over the metal strip that divides the carpet from the tile. Kneeling down beside the table, I untie the burlap sack with shaking fingers and take a few more potatoes. If I can’t come here again, I might as well get a couple of meals out of it.
I could have had tons more meals, and instead I drank worthless soda just so I could feel like I was home again.
And I don’t.
Imagining all that lost food makes me dizzy. I stagger to my feet. No more apartments tonight. I’ll be lucky if I make it home with as little energy as I have. I take one last sip of my downfall and carefully place the cup on the table, exactly where I found it.
The living room. If I’ve sold my soul for a taste of sweetness, I’m going to take it all. Leaning on to the counter for balance, I make my way to the couch, and sink down into heaven. I rest my head against the back and try to summon another memory of my old life, but I can’t. I’m absolutely certain this is the best and the worst moment of my life. My eyes blur, and I squint as I try to focus. The side wall seems blotchy. Why? I haul myself to my feet and almost
puke. I leave my pack on the floor and ghost closer.
Drawings. Now I get it. White paper and black charcoal pencils. Art was never my thing, but other students seemed to like it. I squint at one. Then another. My heart picks up, and horror roots in my chest as I take in one after the other.
Every single one of them is me.
The last one is a drawing of me sleeping against a pallet of blankets, and there’s a gag over my mouth. Whoever he is, he’s been in my home.
It’s the last thing I see before I pass out.
CHAPTER NINE
Jackson
My heart pounds as I flick the light on, rush into the room, and toss the goggles onto the couch. She’s fallen face forward onto the carpet, and my muscles tense as I flip her over and check her for injuries. I didn’t hear her hit anything, but I have to be sure. This time she smells of unwashed hair and old sweat. Not her fault, I know that. It’s too dangerous for her to go out and she’s been hiding in her little church for weeks. I brush the hair away from her face. Her skin is rough as though it’s taken a beating by the wind. Either that or a poor diet. For a moment I hold her, savoring the feeling of her pressed against my body.
She’s mine.
I actually shake at the surge of power this brings. It shoots through my muscles and into my chest, and I grip her tighter.
I’ve longed for this moment.
Whether she knows it or not, this girl controls me. I’m going to clean her up, and then I’m going to use her in every way imaginable. I’ll fuck her until she bleeds, until my dick is raw and I can’t even think of getting it up again. I’ve got to get her out of my head.
And then I’ll kill her.
Yes, I feel bad about it. But she’d be dead anyway if it weren’t for me. I’ve saved her more times than she knows. Now that I’ve got her, there’s no way I can let her go. I can’t afford to let anyone know what I’ve done. What I am.
I heat several pots of water on the stove top—water I’ve stockpiled over the weeks. Five minute showers are short, but you should see what a two-minute shower is like. As each pot comes to a boil, I dump it into the bathtub and begin again. In the end I have almost five inches of water. That’s a lot.
She’s worth it.
I peel her coat away and toss it to the side, a double set of knit shirts too, and as her face pops free, I spot a tiny flat mole under her collarbone. My mouth fills up as I imagine kissing her there. Living in the wild provides few luxuries, I suspect, and I find a full growth of hair under her arms. My gut clenches. It shouldn’t be sexy, but it is. Her breasts are full and round. Not large like some implant-contaminated cow, and at the first sight of her small pink nipples my dick throbs. I tug off her jeans, and when I peel away her underwear, I find her bush as full as her underarms.
Back before the Ash, girls shaved everything. So did men. We were programmed, I think, to prefer bald. But this girl is all woman. Well-set shoulders, perky tits that beg to be sucked, a waist so small I could snap it, and hips built for breeding. And right there in the middle is a dark mass of curls that practically begs for my cock. I turn her over, and she flops like a wet towel. Her ass is every bit as firm and round as I thought it’d be. She’s skinny, way too skinny, but she’s perfect.
The clothes go into garbage. She won’t be needing those, and I don’t want her getting any ideas about escaping.
Picking her up, I carry her to the bathtub, and carefully set her down so she rests against the slanted back.
Soon, little dancer. Soon.
The washcloth I dunk in the water, and then I grab a bar of soap.
She looks so young. Innocent. Although I can’t be sure, I’m almost positive she’s not one of the tainted ones. What I’m about to do is disgusting. Back before the world went nuts, I’d be in jail by now. If I get caught with her, my company will kill her and I’ll lose everything.
But the compulsion in me is stronger than reason. There’s no stopping me once the monster takes over, so it’s pointless to feel guilty. She’s mine now; that’s all there is to it.
I run a washcloth gently over her face, her neck, her ears. I cover each area twice. She’s so beautiful. Delicate features, a body made for sex, and an air of innocence that I need to destroy. I can do anything I want to her. Anything. I run the cloth over her breasts, under her arms, and down her torso. Again. Again. I try not to think about this as rape. She probably hasn’t had a bath in years. This is a treat, whether she’ll admit it or not. When I’ve covered absolutely every inch of her body and scrubbed it raw, I reach for a bottle of the cheap shampoo they give us and lather it into her hair. It’s long, well past her waist, and looking at the strands as they cling to her breasts sends a flood of warmth to my gut. More blood surges into my dick. I rinse her hair, and remembering how much I hate shampoo in my eyes, I’m careful to wipe any moisture from her face.
She’s clean, but I’m not. The pink tips of her breasts peek up from the water, and my balls rise and tighten. When I begin to massage her breasts, my cock goes full mast. It strains against my pants, painfully almost, but I relish the sensation. I’m going to fuck her.
After soaping up my hands, I run them up and down her body, learning her curves. I shake as I spread her legs and begin stroking her folds. Hot waves ripple across my skin, raising goose bumps. She is completely at my mercy. I picture her mouth wrapped around my cock, and I groan. I lift her, stroke her ass, the tight pucker, and it’s all I can do not to turn her over and lick it. She the only thing that exists. Everything else is a blur. I rub her cunt again in the guise of getting it squeaky clean, and then carefully lifting her, I spread her legs wide, and I take in her scent.
Sweet, clean, innocent, and faintly of soap. Before setting her back in the water, I run my tongue up between her folds and settle my mouth over her clit. God, she tastes sweet! I swirl my tongue around, relishing the taste of her soft, pink flesh.
She moans. It doesn’t sound like fear, like protest either. It sounds to me like she’s enjoying it. This is my undoing. I settle her into the water and lean back on my heels. She’s out cold. This isn’t right. Still, I give her pussy another stroke; I take her clit between my fingers and pinch it—not hard though. She moans again, and this time she spreads her legs wider.
Fuck. Fuck. Hating her, hating myself, I let go and jump to my feet. I’m a goddamn asshole. I run my hands through my hair. I should put her clothes back on. I should take her back to her hovel and let her wake up in her own bed. I won’t, though. I’m going to do everything I said I’d do, but I want her awake. It won’t do her any good, but she should at least have her chance to say no. Here, like this, it’s not rape. It’s necrophilia.
I’m a sick perverted bastard, but I’m not completely lost. Not yet.
Unzipping my pants, I shove them down around my thighs, and with a hiss I cup my balls. They’re so tight, the pressure in them so intense. I fist my cock, and even though it’s nothing, just my hand, I groan. The little dancer shifts ever so slightly, and my balls answer her. I can feel the pressure building as I beat my meat. I like to savor the moment, but that’s not in the cards. My sac knots up, and there it is. An agonizing, squirting pleasure as I pump streams of cum onto her pussy.
Yeah. Fuck yeah.
Bile rises at the back of my throat as I shove my junk back into my pants. She didn’t participate. It was all me, like some loser freak at a frat party who drugged a girl lifeless for a quick fuck.
I need her awake, pleading. I need her fighting, bucking against me as she tries to get away. I need to master her until she finally understands who she belongs to.
After rinsing my cum from her snatch, I lift her out of the tub. I dry her off as thoroughly as I can, and then I go to town on her hair. There’s so much of it. She almost reminds me of a doll as I place her between my knees and I comb the knots out of her hair. God, I can barely wait. My balls are already full again.
When I’ve freed her hair of knots, I place her on my bed. I’ve m
oved it so it rests in the middle of the room, where she’s least likely to be heard. I place a ball gag I made out of leather, a golf ball, and a whole lot of determination in her mouth and secure it firmly. Just the sight of it almost makes me come. Once I’ve handcuffed her wrists over her head and attached her to the frame, I spread her hair out around her.
Then I begin to draw her. God, she’s beautiful, so fucking innocent. I’ve never felt anything like this, not with any of the girls in my past.
When I’m done, I drop a blanket over her and cover her mouth with an extra gag. I can’t afford any mistakes.
The couch is nowhere near as comfortable as the bed.
CHAPTER TEN
Amelia
My shoulders ache. I try to move my arms, but I can’t. There’s something weird in my mouth too.
When I open my eyes, the room spins, and for a minute I feel like I’m going to vomit.
I blink against the bright electric light. Even though my legs are free, my hands aren’t and they’re filled with pins and needles. Oh my God. Frantically I search with my fingers, and I find metal. Handcuffs.
Someone gagged me, handcuffed me, and tied me to a strange bed. I can’t get enough air. Who did this to me? Are they here?
I hear a creak and I stiffen.
I still can’t catch my breath, and I begin to see spots.
Five O'Clock Shadow: A Standalone Dark Romance (Snow and Ash) Page 4
