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Chapter 3

Rated M
by Bookofshadows
Tags   supernatural   horror   | Report Content

A A A A

Something very, very bad was happening out in the hallway.
 
Kathy had been scuttling around the living room floor on her hands and knees with her ass in the air and her hair in her face, frantically searching for her cell phone; suddenly, there had been the pounding of multiple running feet past her door. The runners were gasping and panting and whimpering to themselves, a litany of desperation. Kathy froze with her head halfway under the love-seat and her lacy, tanga-cut panties flying at full mast in the air above her. The runners receded away down the hall - then there was a shriek, muffled but clearly audible; "Fuck! They're coming up that way, too! Fuck!" At this point, a second herd of heavy feet bustled past her door... but these feet were slower, unsteady in their gate, like a small mob of drunkards who had decided to walk home together from the bar. And ...
 
... they were growling. They were all growling and snarling like dogs.
 
"Oh, shit, Jesus, here they fucking come behind us!" This was a man's voice, but terror made it high-pitched and cracked, like a youth's.
 
A chorus of cries and shouting greeted this observation. One quavering voice cut high above the rest, screaming, "Mary-Anne! Mary-Anne! Oh my God NO it's Mary-Anne!" over and over again. Kathy listened to all of this without moving a muscle, not blinking or even breathing. Her rounded, golden form was covered anew by a rank and heavy sweat. It soaked through her clinging, cotton-ribbed undershirt. It ran down her smooth thighs and sprang unbidden from her ass and pelvis, moulding the flimsy material of the girl's panties into a second skin which clung, transparent, to her buttocks and the firm rise of her pubic mound. The stinking sweat beaded on Kathy's exposed temple and trickled down the high rise of her cheekbone to drip, like a leaking faucet, off her nose and into the musty carpet. The side of her face that was resting on the rug began to itch and crawl maddeningly.
 
In the random and detached manner of one who is on the brink of losing their shit to extreme panic, Kathy thought of Dr. Hibbert from The Simpsons saying, "Oh, heaven's no! It had to be TERROR-SWEAT!" That's what the hot, salty discharge oozing from her puckered pores was, wasn't it? It was fucking terror-sweat, oh yes indeedy, it sure was.
 
Oh, sweet fuck, they're here. They're in the building. . The quavering voice shrieked, one final time, "Mary-Anne! Mary-AaaahhhmyyyyGOD NOOOO-", then the sounds of a fierce struggle echoed back down the hall to her apartment; there were bodies slamming into walls, grunted curses, and feet twisting and stuttering in a dance of warfare. More screams rebounded in the narrow space, mixed with shouts of false valor (C'mon, then, motherfuckers! What'cha got, you ugly fucks-), but these soon turned to screaming, as well, and then there was nothing but the heavy thudding of bodies hitting the floor, monster-roaring, and a veritable choir of voices raised to glass-shattering heights of vocalized misery.
 
Kathy heard this all, and dared not move one inch. On the TV, a harried-sounding man was imploring to a FOX anchor that everyone MUST keep indoors, please, the streets were flooded with the infected and response teams were accidentally shooting uninfected people-
 
Oh SHITBALLS, the fucking TV!
 
Kathy yanked her head from beneath the love-seat, obtaining a mild rug-burn on her ear in the process, and lunged for the remote control on the coffee table. She stumbled on cramped, deadened legs, fell forward, and whacked her head off of the sharp edge of the coffee table as she fell. Kathy saw stars, literal stars of varying degrees of brilliance that exploded, like a cosmic fireworks display, across the curtain of inky blackness that had blanketed her vision.
 
Time passed. Kathy found herself pushing up off the carpet with shaking arms, performing a crippled push-up. She had no idea how much time had passed, or why she'd lost any time in the first place. Her head was ringing and bonging, as though a dozen cracked church bells were simultaneously whamming out a dozen different odes to agony within the confines of her skull. Something hot was trickling down the side of her face. It hurt, her head did ... and something was wrong? What the fuck was going on? Why was she on her knees on the floor of the living r-
 
The remote, her mind whispered to her. The interior voice was barely audible through the many layers of pain-gauze that were wrapped around the dazed girl's head. You need to use it on the TV, because of the zombies.
 
The fuck was that supposed to mean? What was with all the noise outside the windows? And outside the door? Weak, hoarse voices, whining in agony. Animals, growling and snarling. Kathy couldn't focus her mind on the answer. Fuck, her head was about to explode. Was she hung over? Was she oh fuckin' shit turn the sound off!
 
Kathy seized the remote off of the floor and executed an awkward lunge , stabbing at the mute button frantically as she sailed through the air. She looked, for a brief moment, like a renegade police detective from a movie, who has been compelled to jump fantastically over some object whilst firing his gun at the bad guys. She landed badly on her unprotected ribs and knocked the wind out of herself, oof.
 
Zombies. There were fucking zombies out there in the hallway. They were eating people, eating her neighbors alive.
 
The phone!
 
Where was the phone? What in God's name had she done with the slim, silver little rectangular motherfucker last night, what? lt was not lost; she'd heard her text message tone go off earlier in the day, back when she'd still been marooned on the couch by the aftermath of a vicious hangover. Couch-bound and blissfully unaware ... those were the good ol' days. The little bastard of a phone was here, somewhere, lying small and unnoticable underneath a pile of clothes, or somewhere like that. She needed to call the cops and tell them that people were eating her neighbors. She needed to call Stacy and see if ... if her ... if she was feeling okay, and if she was safe out there. She even considered the need to contact her mother and, if not able to make amends under the strain of impending doom, at least give the stuffy old tit a civil goodbye, for Christ's sake.
 
Kathy sucked wind and pushed herself up off the floor once again, the world's sexiest and crappiest prize fighter. Her head was bleeding. It needed to be tended to. She cast a terrified glance back at the door and hurried to the bathroom, stripping off the soaking wet tank top and undies as she went. Naked, the shivering girl examined her poor, assaulted skull in the harsh glow of the fluorescent lights. The toothpaste-speckled mirror revealed an ugly gash that was just below her sweaty hairline. It was roughly an inch long and was steadily welling a trickle of thick, dark-red blood. Her pretty little bow-lips crimped down in dismay. The SCAR this thing is going to leave, fuck!
 
Kathy stank. She could smell herself, a horrid mixture of acrid sweat, cigarette smoke, armpits, vag and ass. It was making her empty stomach feel troubled and sour. She clamped a towel to her wound and jumped into the shower, rinsing off quickly. No time to masturbate (although a small and inappropriate part of her definitely wanted to; rubbing off was just another step in her daily shower ritual). Still wet from the shower, Kathy searched for and located the ancient First Aid kit, which had been languishing into antique-hood in the cupboard beneath the sink. Shaking, she taped a sloppy bandage over her wound, then tip-toed naked back out into the living room. She leaned in and listened at the door, her tawny skin tight and pebbled in gooseflesh. They were still out there, groaning and tottering around, bouncing off the walls and randomly banging into doors. She was trapped. I have to find that fucking cell, call the cops, call the -
 
Kathy turned back to cluttered interior of her apartment, making a mental checklist of potential rescuers to contact, then happened to glance at the muted TV. She stopped dead. On the screen, there was an aerial shot of her apartment building, presumably being taken from a FOX news helicopter. It was undoubtedly hers - the convenience store beside the building, the one Kathy often went to when she wanted to buy orange juice and blunt wraps, was also in the shot. It was on fire. In the corner of the screen there was a graphic proclaiming that the footage was being filmed LIVE ON LOCATION.
 
She looked out the window. Smoke was billowing past in a dirty, tattered plume.
 
Her building itself was surrounded by a mob of the dead, dozens and dozens of them. They were pouring in through the smashed-out glass of the big lobby doors. A few cops were shooting into the midst of the undead horde, but they were attacked and dragged to the ground for their troubles, flailing and screaming. The camera zoomed in to show the viewers huddled in their homes exactly what it looked like to be clawed and bitten to death by the dull teeth and nails of the human form. Kathy wanted to scream.
 
The caption at the top of this ghastly scene read BESEIGED APARTMENT BUILDING BEING INVADED - NO HOPE FOR OCCUPANTS?
 
Tits bouncing vigorously, the dark-haired girl ran to her bedroom and raked madly through haphazard piles of clean laundry that never seemed to get put away. Kathy flung shit around until she found some shorts, ankle-height athletic socks, a sports bra and a form-fitting tank top that was made for running. She dragged her clothes on over her wet skin and laced her runners on tightly. The roof. If she made it to the roof, she could flag a helicopter and get the fuck out of Dodge. It wouldn't be hard to capture the heart and chivalry of a male pilot, she was sure of it. What red-blooded, hetero-normative man didn't want to rescue the fantastic tits and ass of a hot damsel in distress?
 
One last thing; the hammer that Kathy kept beside her bed as a rape-deterrent (she might be somewhat free and easy with her favours, but no one likes to be awoken to being raped, not really). Armed and dressed to run her ass off, the wide-eyed girl crept lightly up to the door and had a peak through the spy-hole. The door to the stairs was about fifteen feet down the hall. If the coast was even remotely clear, Kathy was going for it. She was in great shape; the booze and drugs hadn't caught up to her yet physically, either, and she could sprint like the w-
 
Oh ... fuckin' shit.
 
The hallway was rapidly becoming crammed with the vile things. The invading mob from outside had made their way up to the fifth floor a lot faster than she'd imagined possible. They were shambling, ragged, dirty things: they were the ghouls that had once haunted the uneasy sleep of our stone-age ancestors. Many of them had chewed, mutilated faces. Some were missing both eyes and moved by flailling their arms like feelers while they sniffed the air. There were missing limbs, exposed ribcages; as Kathy squinted through the spy-hole, a male zombie wandered past her field of vision whose throat that had been chewed and worried away until the victim's head was flapping against his chest, his neck too decimated to support the weight any longer. There were things out there in the hallway that had most of their intestines hanging freely outside their bodies, spilling forth from gnawed-open body cavities like grisly rainbows. These things bore no resemblance to human beings. They were sexless, cataract-eyed demons who grinned lipless smiles and searched, unceasingly, for human flesh.
 
Kathy stumbled back from the door. She was going to faint. It was coming - the greying of her vision which was the harbinger of the shut-down of her conscious mind ... swaying like a drunk, Kathy ponderously reached up through this enveloping fog and pushed the handle of the hammer against the tender gash on her skull. The pain brought the world around her to immediate focus. She couldn't do this. There could be no fainting or curling into the fetal position on the carpet. There was not going to be any rescue from this situation, and getting to the roof was out of the question ... so it was time to think. Kathy was a drunk and was drug-dependant, but her brain was not yet fried and she was a pretty smart cookie. What were her options for escape?
 
The only other answer was the balcony. Climb up or climb down ... it was the only option.
 
Kathy's head hurt terribly. She was frightened, in shock and was still pretty hung over ... there was no way that she would make it. It would be a death sentence. No, the only real option for now was to hunker down and wait. Eventually, their numbers out in her hall would thin out. She needed to sit and wait for this and be fucking quiet. If they heard her, the zombies would batter their way in with single-minded determination. No, best to chill out and watch the silenced TV for any information on what to do after she esca-
 
RRRRRRIIIIIING! RRRRRRRIIIIIING!
 
Oh fuckin' SHIT, you've got to be kidding me.
 
It was coming from inside the couch, loud and strident, the ring-tone volume of the cell phone set on maximum. She tore the cushions off and rammed her arm into the cracks, searching past lost change and kernels of popcorn. Where is it, where is it, whereisitwhereisITFORFUCK'SSAKE-
 
Kathy grazed the slim rectangle with her fingertips and knocked the phone deeper into the crevasse. "Ah, fuck you," she hissed, then did it again.
 
RRRRRRIIIIIING! RRRRRRRIIIING!
 
"Oh you COCKSUCKER!" She slammed her arm deep into the couch and suddenly there it was, in her sweaty palm - Kathy snatched the phone out from the guts of the offending furniture ... and it stopped ringing in her hand. She stared at it with intense hatred. The missed call had been from her Mom.
 
You know what, bitch? Fuck you, I don't want to reconcile with you after all.
 
BANG! BANG! BANGBANGBANGSLAM! The fiends began to batter at her door and the intervening wall that kept their horrid teeth from finding her. They were roaring and howling. She screamed and ran for the sliding door to her balcony, her heart slamming and her sturdy legs pumping.
 
Fuck it. She'd jump, if she had to. It was a fuck of a lot better than the alternative.
 
....
 
Pagan stopped to admire his handiwork. God, it felt good to complete a challenging task.
 
The heavy bed was now flipped up and standing length-wise against the wall. Stacy was tied to the underside of the metal frame by her wrists. He'd dragged the twin nightstands over and tied her legs to them by the ankles, so that she was now in a kind of spread-eagle sitting position in mid-air. Both pillow cases had been drawn tightly over her head and fastened with a bootlace under her chin, which then criss-crossed over her face to tie her head back against the metal frame of the upended bed. Beneath her makeshift hood, Stacy's mouth was stuffed with half of a Gideon Bible that Pagan had discovered in one of the nightstands. It was heavily taped into position with the roll of duct tape that he'd found amongst the goodies in the athletic bag.
 
Stacy struggled to writhe against her bonds. It made her pointy, mottled-blue tits shake around fetchingly.
 
"I love you, baby-girl. I really do. I want to fuck your pussy, and confide in you. A man should be able to share his past with his girl. I wanna make love to you and tell you some of those nasty secrets that I've keeping for so long. I want to share with you, bitch."
 
The captor closed in on her, fat and naked. He stood between her taut, straining thighs and squeezed her breasts. They were cold and pliant in his hands. He pulled her nipples, twisted them and squeezed them ferociously. As he tortured her unfeeling flesh, Pagan told her, "When I was six, I put rat poison in my Mom's food sometimes. Just a little bit, baby, just a pinch. I wanted to see what would happen, I guess. She got pretty sick, but she didn't die."
 
He tried to spit on his cock, missed the dimunitive target, spat again. "When I was eight, I stole a cat I found wandering around outside our house, and I drowned it in the bathtub. It was an experiment; I wanted to see how long the lil' fucker could hold its breath. I don't think it understood the concept, know what I'm sayin'?"
 
Pagan used his cock as an applicator, to rub the spit around Stacy's pussy lips, which were now as grey as boiled liver. The contact caused the dead girl to strain hard against her bindings. A faint, strangled-off hahhhh sound was issuing from under the white makeshift hood that covered her head.
 
"I killed my little sister when I was ten," Pagan whispered, and he pushed into his new love as hard as he could. Her cunt felt clammy and tight around his intruding member. He could feel it twitch and push against his cock, trying to hurt the invader. He laughed and began thrusting.
 
"Even your pussy is trying to murder my ass, baby, ha! But seriously ... I killed that little bitch. She was only seven, but she'd been gettin' on my nerves for fuckin' days and days. She'd call me "Fatty Nerd" and shit like that: childish, y'know, but it would just fuckin' drive me nuts. So when my Moms was out shopping one morning, I grabbed that name-callin' bitch and I threw her down the stairs. She broke her neck in the fall. Coroner labelled it an accident." He breathelessly laughed again, warmly remembering a time when he didn't get into trouble for doing a bad thing. "When I was twelve, I raped another kid in the ass in the bathroom at school. It was during lunchtime. I followed him in and beat him up and told him to suck my dick. He said he'd bite it, so I beat him up again and fucked him in the ass with that green liquid soap from the dispenser over the sink. I wasn't smooth with bitches back then, and I was dying to fuck a warm hole... and I knew this loser kid didn't have any friends, and that he probably wouldn't tell. Got my rocks off, bitch, all that matters. I fucked him like a girl and told him he'd be called a faggot if he fuckin' snitched. Yeah ... hahhhh damn ... blew my load up his skinny white ass, I fuckin' popped like a rocket, just like right ... fucking ... now, oh God, oh shit."
 
Pagan collapsed against her, shuddering. His hands found her tits again, and started twisting them. "Next really fucked-up thing I did, I raped and murdered my aunt Desiree. My Pops' sister. I was sixteen. That bitch was all booty and big-ass tits, but so fuckin' cold, y'know? She was always on my case, yellin' at me and shit to help out around the house when she come over to visit. What a fuckin' laugh that was: that bitch never worked a day in her life, yo. She'd just peddle them big titties and booty around the 'hood to any nigger that had some game and a few dollars in his pocket. She lived in a basement apartment not too far away from us. I snuck out one night when my Moms was sleeping, and I broke in through a window. I found Aunt Dez in her bed. I beat the shit out of her with a metal pipe ... then I strangled her and cut her titties off, after I was finished reaming her ass and cunt. I put 'em into a plastic bag, and fed them to some stray dogs in an alley near the apartment we was all livin' in." The fat man stared blankly for a moment at Stacy's hooded head, reliving the final moments of that long-ago murder: his stunted, crooked cock buried in his Aunt's bleeding ass; the cartilidge in her throat cracking under the straining clasp of his smooth, chubby little palms. Pagan shuddered a little and convulsively squeezed the blue and purple breast flesh in his hands. He took a step back and pulled hard on Stacy's tits, pulled the high-set torpedoes as far as they would go.
 
"After that, I stayed on the down-low for a while. I dreamt about doing another bitch all the time, though. All the time ... damn, these things are stretchy, girl!" He pulled even harder - and suddenly the upended bed toppled away from the wall, pulled from its position by virtue of being bound to the girl whose breasts were being pulled to a punishing length. Pagan let go of Stacy's tits and tried to arrest the bed's downward plunge but it was too late, and Stacy's hooded skull smacked hard into his his own forehead, whap! Pagan's corpulent knees unhinged and the bed drove him hard into the floor. The nightstands were both knocked flying to either side and Stacy's hips dislocated with audible twin popping noises. She ended up square on top of Pagan, the bed on top of both of them, and now he had no leverage for his stubby arms to push all of this off of him. Her legs were free but incapable of supporting weight, so they twitched uselessly, splayed out on either side of the bed like oars beneath an overturned canoe.
 
Stacy's neck restraint had been jerked loose when the bed fell, and she was now free to batter her hooded face into Pagan's repeatedly. It wasn't particularly damaging, but it did hurt enough to be annoying as fuck. He sputtered curses and tried to wag his own head from side to side, but he kept getting hit, whup-whup-whup-whup, and it was driving him to fury. He wriggled beneath this indignity and sweated and abruptly his cock was inside her again. Stacy's attempts to attack him mimicked the motions of enthusiastic fucking uncannily, and Pagan found himself starting to moan and push his obese hips upwards in response.
 
"Yeah, fuck me, baby-girl, ride that cock, fucking dead whore, ride it hard you zombie slut, ride that shit!" The dead thing's firm, cold tits were crushed against his own flabby chest, and their bodies slicked against each other on a thick film of his unhealthy sweat. God-motherfuckin'-dammit, it was electric, it was feral, he was being murder-fucked by a she-beast and it was incredible. Unbelievably, he came yet again, he came so hard that he screamed hoarsely and almost seizured. Pagan came so hard that his body thrust the heavy bed and girl right off him. It flipped back over onto its legs, and the girl struggled against her remaining bonds beneath it. Pagan paid her no mind ... he'd dream up a new way to tie that dead whore up in a minute. For now, Pagan was in his own twisted version of Heaven, locked in a dark dream of necrophiliac rape, endorphins and lunatic euphoria. He was dimly aware that he never wanted this to end, never, not fucking ever.
 
Pagan lay naked on the scratchy rug and stared at the white ceiling for a long, long time. Eventually, he became aware of something, a repeated noise that was pounding through the lovely fog of sexual satisfaction that was clouding his mind.
 
It was the door. Someone was pounding on the goddamn door, and they would pay for it dearly.
 
 
 

 

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Fantasy  on says:
Too bad that I had to read from my sisters account, you know, the m rating.
Was it just me or were some of the scenes a little awkward?

Fantasy  on says:
The way you write really hooks the reader in.... Well, from my opinion. I can't say anything for everyone else lol
Oh yeah, I just laughed because decay rhymes with grey, I guess that's why I had decided to read the story....

exo-exorcism  on says about chapter 3:
my goodness this is incredible. Your writing is awesome!! Ive never read a zombie story as disgustingly detailed as this, its great!

applecyanide  on says:
Amazing writing, yo. At first, I thought this was a supernatural (the show) fanfic, but then it wasn't. Oh, well. Can't say I was disappointed though. Great story :)

arosebushqueen  on says about chapter 2:
So this was kind of disturbing....but it was so wonderfully written!

exo-exorcism  on says about chapter 2:
HOLY JESUS _____ THAT WAS AMAZING and disgusting BUT AWESOME! You're writing is fantastic!!!!!!' I do love me some zombie stories but damn that was some next level dead man walking business right there

pococo  on says about chapter 1:
This is...sending me shivers down my spine OTL
But it's good :D

DragonBreath  on says about chapter 1:
You have a really good writing style! ^^
Love the story... so far!! :D

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