it. I should have shot them all dead because it would have effortless.
But I didn’t.
I stood there, disgusted, shocked, paralyzed like a fat juicy bug wrapped up tight in a spider’s web. They had to die and I knew it, yet I think some perverse part of me just had to see how it played out.
Finally, one of them made a belching sound and pulled her lips from the boy’s neck. She looked right at me. Her face was like yellow tallow, melted, hanging in runnels and loops, her mouth smeared with blood. A low, revolting odor of spoiled meat came from her. Her naked body was covered in scabs, eaten through with ulcers. One of her breasts was flattened, the other hung low and pendulant, ghastly white, the vein lividity beneath a purple that was almost shocking in contrast.
“You are a beeeee-utiful man,” she said with a voice that scraped dryly like a shovel across a tomb lid. “So pretty, so lovely.” She licked her flaking, blackened lips with a tongue that was bloated and gray. “How about a kiss, a hot little kiss on the mouth?”
It was like deja vu. She reminded me of that other crazy Scab bitch back in Youngstown that I’d met up with at that deli. She was no less offensive, no less horrible, and certainly no less horny. What she did then I almost hate to put into words. She advanced on me, grinning with gray-black teeth, her tongue hanging out and rapidly licking the air. She put one scabrid hand between her legs and slid a few fingers into herself. The sound was juicy, repellent like somebody jabbing their thumb into a swollen, rotting peach. She worked herself, breathing faster and faster, some kind of drainage running from between her legs and striking the floor like piss. The stink of it was indescribable.
She got closer and I think I screamed or cried out. I remember jerking from the sound of my own voice. Then I remembered the gun in my hand. I brought it up and jacked a round right in her face. Tissue and blood splashed out the back of her head and she went down hard with a violent splatting sound. Her body shook with convulsions and then there was a hissing, bubbling sound and slime pooled out from between her legs with a stink of rotting fish.
It was enough to make us gag.
I didn’t want to look, but I did. And that’s when I noticed something was moving in that discharge. No, many things were moving. What I saw were literally dozens of red beetles, each about the size of your thumb. They were crawling in the slime, more of them coming out all the time and moving up over the dead Scab with a horrid, flesh- crawling clicking sound. They engulfed her, hundreds of them. Her flesh was mucid, pulpy, and they burrowed right into her.
And then the other two women came over, looking for food and for love, I assume. Their faces were gray, pocked with sores, wrinkled and sagging. Their eyes were radiant yellow like candleglow. They grinned and their teeth were very long, very sharp. I shot one of them in the head and fired at the other and missed. And I missed because the moment I squeezed the trigger on her sister, she went airborne. She hit me and knocked me flat. She didn’t seem as interested in fucking me as in feeding on me.
I heard Janie scream.
The Scab woman straddled me, greasy and undulant. It was like trying to wrestle a jellyfish. She breathed hot tomb-breath in my face. She spit on me, yellow foam breaking against my cheek. She tried to get her teeth at my throat and I punched her in the face again and again, her flesh soft and spongy. Then I got my hands around her throat. I would squeeze until her fucking head popped off, I decided. The flesh of her throat was like living pulp, seeming to crawl and ooze and flow beneath my fingers. She fought against me, scratching at my face, panting, making hideous slithering sounds.
She was strong, godawful strong.
But I had her, thought I had her. As disgusted as I was, I would not let go and I could feel my fingers and thumbs sinking deeper into her gray mushy flesh. Then there was a loud resounding bang, a flash, and she fell away, dead putrescent weight.
Janie stood there with my Beretta nine in her hands.
“You okay, Rick?” she said, truly concerned.
I brushed some of the woman’s remains off me. “I’ll live,” I breathed. Then I looked over at the corpse, smelled what flowed from between the legs, saw what crawled in it, and promptly vomited. It was an economical vomiting and lasted only a few seconds and then the waves of hot nausea passed.
I heard the sounds of fists pounding on the door.
Jesus, would the lock hold?
And then a voice, a very calm voice said, “You better come with me.”
5
The voice belonged to a graying, rather distinguished-looking man in a brown leather jacket. He was standing at the other end of the room. “I would suggest some expediency.”
I didn’t know who he was or what his game might be. But he seemed sane or close to it and there were no sores on him. We followed him to the end of the room as the door shook in its frame. Down at the end of the stacked rows of boxes there was a little ell with another fire door set in it. He opened it for us and we went in. He closed it and threw a couple locks.
“They won’t get through that,” he said, “trust me. My name is Price. And you?”
We told him our names.
“Very good,” he said. “You made short work of them out there. Nice shooting.”
“Thanks,” I said, not knowing what else to say.
We were in a storeroom, boxes and crates everywhere. There were candles flickering and a Coleman gas lantern burning away. And that’s when I saw that it wasn’t just Price in there. Over near the wall, there was a guy stretched out on a sleeping bag and he looked to be in rough shape. His breathing was ragged and hoarse. It sounded like his lungs were filled with fluid. But I didn’t look any closer, not then, because there was another guy in the corner. Some dude with a bushy afro that looked like a badly pruned bush. He had a Nikon 35mm camera. He was snapping shots of me with it.
“What’s his thing?” I asked Price.
“This is Morse,” he said. “He was a photographer once. He’s harmless.”
He snapped a few shots of Janie.
“He has no film, but it doesn’t seem to concern him,” Price told me.
Janie scowled at him. “Tell him to stop it. It’s weird.”
Morse did.
“Nice to meet you,” I told him.
He snapped a shot of me.
“He doesn’t speak,” Price said. “We’ll never know what happened to him. He does whistle sometimes, though. Now and again he’ll write something for me to read. That’s how I learned his name and his profession. Other than that…who can say?”
I looked over at the man on the sleeping bag. I could almost feel the heat coming from him. “He’s got the Fevers,” I said.
“Yes, he does,” Price said.
Price went on to explain that his name was Bedecker and he’d been a first class accountant at one time, had gotten sick only yesterday and had finally fallen down as they looted through the wares upstairs. Then the Scabs had come and they’d brought him down here. He couldn’t be moved. So they were waiting. Waiting for him to die.
Looking at the poor man, I wasn’t sure which was worse. Being out there with the Scabs or being in here with this man and his germs. His mouth was smeared with blood, his eyes bright red and glossy as he stared into space. This is what Texas Slim called Dracula eyes. His face was slack, mottled, set with expanding red sores. He looked bruised, swollen with purple contusions. Every now and then he would tremble and make low hissing sounds or he’d vomit out tarry black blood. It was all over his shirt, the sleeping bag, the floor. It smelled horrible.
“Ebola-X,” I said, very near panic.
