Chapter 2 Charlie
Ipinch Clay hard and he hisses. I finally get my arms between us, pushing him back so I can suck in a breath. “Someone’s here!”
“That’s not going to stop me,” he says, a manic tint to his tone as he picks me up and literally tosses me on top of the dead body on the gurney, so I’m laid on him in a sloppy cross, my back on his front.
I manage to roll over, but Clay just tightens his hold on my hip and thrusts against my ass, adjusting until his cock slides between my thighs again against my wet panties. He moans and I turn my head only to see him stroking the dead man’s cock.
“Clay, what the fuck!”
“I know you want him too. You’re going to wrap that naughty mouth around a dead man’s cock and choke on it. You’ll only get to breathe to tell me how much you love it, you filthy fucking whore,” he snarls.
I lift my head and swat at him until he grabs my head and tries to force me closer to the half-hard cock waiting for me. “STOP IT! IT’S TOO – I DON’T WANT HIM!”
He groans and nods. “That’s right. Scream for me. Fight. Nothing is going to stop me, Charlie. I want you. I’ve waited for you. Starving and settling for a few tastes when I want to devour you. You’re mine to fuck. Mine to own. You’re going to learn that.”
I try to squeeze my thighs shut, definitely not into this, not when multiple people who don’t belong here are coming into the room. I manage to get my head free from his grip, even though he rips out a chunk of my hair.
“STOP! NO! CLAY!” I scream.
“Look at our slice of perfection. Pure temptation, sinful, decadent,” a man who’s scarred with too-large eyes and a face sharpened from battles and malnutrition says. He looks like a man who hasn’t been able to escape the horrors of war.
I turn around to try to see the voice, but my attention is stolen when I see Clay.
His skin is going red, blisters form across his face. He’s shaking hard, his sclera going all red, like he’s crying blood. I try again to push him away, but he only twists me and bites my breast so hard that I scream.
I kick his upper thigh, forcing him backwards and into the scarred guy, while revealing my knife. As I finally get down on the floor, I pull my jeans back up. “Get out! All of you! GET THE FUCK OUT!”
An older man walks in. He must be in his forties …
maybe. His eyes look ancient, like they’re exhausted and he’s lanky, but I can see an edge of sharpness in his gaze along with lean muscle.
He doesn’t need the cane he’s using. He barely leans on it.
He sizes me up slowly, reminding me exactly of how small I am.
Clay doesn’t even look over, he tries to get me again, his teeth gnashing, drool rolling over his bottom lip as his skin starts to slough in places. When he grabs me and I twist away, some of his skin clings to me.
I scream and shove him back again. He touches his chest like I broke a rib, but anger is stronger than pain. “You fucking bitch. Walking around like you’re better than anyone else!” Clay screams. “I’m fucking starving for you!”
“Starving,” a third man echoes. He’s heavier set, thick lips, large nose, big hands, but there’s something hollow in his gaze and his teeth are a little too big.
I slash at Clay with the scalpel when he gets too close and stumble back against the dead body. If there was ever a time for the dead to rise …
Am I seriously hoping for a zombie apocalypse to save me?
A fourth man rolls in. His wheelchair is sturdy and it hardly looks like he needs it. I recognize the pitted scars of smallpox, along with the cloudy sheen to his eyes. His lips are thin, his breathing ragged. A man on his last leg, metaphorically.
Clay almost wrestles me into the position he wants – with me bent over the dead man again, but then he makes a wet, sticky, wheezing sound.
It’s like a death rattle, but … violent.
Slowly, I turn to look at him. There’s something like a scythe stuffed into his throat. The curved point works against Clay’s chin as his hard cock rubs against my lower back.
“Distractions don’t have a place here,” the man in the wheelchair rasps while Clay’s ears and eyes bleed. Blood boils over his bottom lip, pouring like a fucking waterfall as the scythe keeps cleaving upwards, as if tracing his spine.
I want to look away. I want to run. I want to do anything, but all I can do is stare at the almost surgical precision of it as Clay’s eyes roll back, showing the sclera as the capillaries burst and bloody tears wet his cheeks. From red to pale in seconds flat.
This isn’t possible.
It can’t be.
But he looks like he’s coming down with bubonic plague, plus smallpox, maybe Ebola, and the worst radiation poisoning I’ve ever seen all at once … with a scythe bobbing in his throat.
Old Leather Man jerks the scythe back towards him, but the tip must catch on Clay’s skull based on the horrible wet scraping sound I hear and how Clay’s body jerks back like a broken marionette.
“God,” I breathe.
“Oh, he’s not here. Just us now, like it should be,” the scarred man says, reaching for me while Old Leather Man finally dislodges Clay from his scythe.
Four men. They killed Clay – the would-be rapist – but I don’t think they have anything better in mind. I raise my scalpel in a shaky hand while trying to stuff down every ounce of fear I feel. “You only belong here if you’re dead. Then I’ll take care of you. Until then, out!”
“You don’t have a say. We need you,” the man in the wheelchair wheezes. “And now you owe us.”
“How about you fuck each other and leave me out of it,” I hiss. “Me and …” I glance at the dead man. A John Doe. “And my angel here.”
That one comment sets off a chain reaction. Apparently, these four aren’t familiar with ‘no.’
The silent man charges me immediately. I stab him in the eye, shocked at how easily the thin blade thrusts in. Then I gag as blood and white ocular fluid gushes out.
“Oh fuck!” I gasp, stumbling back towards the man I’m supposed to be protecting.
They don’t normally bleed!
Gore is one thing. I’ve seen bodies mangled.
I don’t do the mangling!
The large, scarred man reaches out for me, not bothering to help his friend. I grab my bone saw and hack at him.
He easily grabs my hand, twists my arm, then puts the saw to my throat. “Now, now. Play nice, sweet girl. We have someone you’ll want to meet.”
The heavy one blocks my view and licks my cheek. “You’re meant to be with us.”
I fight the hands on me with everything I’ve got. They’re all wrong. They feel dirty, like they’re slicked with oil and grit or asphalt, or something that I’ll never be able to wash off.
A groan draws some attention away from me.
When the big man looks over, his hand moves towards my face and I bite him as hard as I possibly can.
I drive my elbow right into the appendix of the dude behind me.
When that doesn’t work, I go for the diaphragm while shaking my head and trying to lock my teeth together.
I ignore the metallic taste of blood and let it drool out of my mouth as the large dude tears his hand away.
My teeth ache as he jerks back, but before I can savor my victory, I’m tossed to the floor, making my shoulder ache.
I grip the edge of the gurney and glance at the door before the man in the wheelchair puts himself there. “Come now. We don’t have all night. Let’s make this easy.”
“Boss won’t like damaged goods,” the scarred one says.
My mind is screaming, my heart is begging me to run away, but where exactly am I going to run to? They’re blocking the only exit and I’m no expert in combat!
The one with the scythe rolls out his neck, ignoring his ruined eye.
I scuttle backwards, trying to find something to defend myself.
A prayer that tastes too salty lingers on my tongue when a thick arm wraps around me, I’m tossed onto the gurney, nearly forcing the wind out of me.
I dig my nails into the metal to keep from falling over the other side.
All four men stumble back a step while I stare as the dead man stands in front of me, fully naked. His tattoos seem to ripple as he stretches his muscles and for a second … All I can do is stare.
Massive, standing, and so tattooed.
All the way up the back of his thighs, angels crawl, scream, worship with filler of religious looking texts between them.
Holy fuck, he can’t be real.
As he rolls out his shoulders and his neck, the larger angels along his side seem to arm themselves, and move into battle-ready positions. But there’s two festering scorch marks jutting out from near his spine, right between his scapulas. His fingers curl into his palms and he plants his feet.
“This isn’t real,” I whisper. “It can’t be real. It isn’t real. It isn’t.”
“Fuck off,” the pissy, scarred one snarls. “We’re entitled to her.”
The dead man takes two punches, stumbles, but grabs the edge of the gurney, keeping himself from falling on me.
I scuttle under it, then curl up in the fetal position.
I grab my hair, pinch myself, try to ignore the sounds of blows landing, the wet squishes that tell me someone’s had their blood drawn in a non-consensual way, and the near deafening crunch of bone.
Is it supposed to be that loud? It can’t be that loud.
No. It’s not real. I’m just … dreaming.
A really fucking real dream. Or … or hallucinating or-
“Get her!” One of the men screams.
The old man with the scythe turns his gaze on me. I stumble up, tripping twice and dodging an entire metal tray as it whistles through the air. The collision is loud, echoing more than the thunder outside. I grab the fire extinguisher and hold on, hoping if I hurt myself enough, I’ll wake up.
But the old dude with the scythe nearly grabs me (not cuts me, which I don’t get), and I rip the extinguisher from the wall and throw it as hard as I can.
It hits him in the throat and he falls backwards.
I grab the circular saw we use for brains and take it to his arm.
I make myself look away from the carnage as my fingers go slick with blood and the hot spray splatters across my neck and chest.
I let go and kick my bone saw over to the glorious zombie that’s mid-battle with two men and, by the looks of things, not doing well.
“Angel!” I yell.
He picks up the saw and wraps his open and raw hand around the hilt, then he drives it into the heavy dude’s belly, slicing even though nothing seems to fall out.
No, it’s not a ‘seems’ situation. It’s factual.
Nothing comes out of him at all except blood that’s too black to be anything but poisoned.
“Wrong,” I breathe.
Even with a solid layer of fat, things fall out of bellies sliced that wide. A soft, high-pitched squeal echoes around me as the wound stitches itself up. My legs suddenly have all the integrity of a wet paper bag. I gasp and watch the zombie man slice and dice, even though the dudes don’t die.
Wheelchair man breaks my train of thought as he drags himself towards me.
He grabs my calf and starts to tug. No matter how I kick his face, his nails dig deeper into my skin like a mark that I belong to him.
His jaw has to be broken from the force of my sneakers against his face, but he’s still there, still pulling me closer, while spitting out teeth.
“Let’s go!” Scarred man yells, punching the attractive angel (clearly sounds better than zombie) in the face, so he lands on top of me.
My angel’s eyes are gorgeous. I’ve never seen a blue like that exist anywhere.
It’s electric, yet the kind of deep blue that almost looks black at the same time.
Constantly shifting, impossible to pin down.
He continues staring at me, but suddenly the heavy guy lets go of me as something cracks and squishes and my ankle is released as a wet wheeze echoes.
All I can do is stare at the man on top of me. The world moved too quickly, and now it’s at a stand-still. Only his eyes exist. His hair curtaining us away from the rest of the world until I suck in a breath and my breasts rub against his hard chest.
His eyes flit between fury, unforgiving ruthlessness, then cold apathy. It makes me shiver. The next second, I’m against him. He’s warmer than the dead; actually, he’s fucking feverish.
And he’s standing.
He’s cradling me, moving, somehow alive and dead at the same time.
My vision starts to go black at the corners, while sound stops making sense.
Then … Nothing but warmth, an embrace so comforting and right that I’m second guessing the way I’ve isolated myself from others. The idea I’ve been missing out on this … it’s like never having sweets as a kid and suddenly realizing how good sugar is.
If this is the reward for surviving a nightmare, I’m ready for the next one.