Rise of the Flesh-Eaters

         The pitter patter of rain drops enticed Silvia. It made her feel alive, free, and wanting. That's all she could be, in the rain. That's all she really needed to be, Winston could take care of the rest. Winston could take her away from a world filled with rain. He could sweep her away with his magnificent dick. Silvia and Winston were not married.
         She was laying in bed, that night, wearing a silk, pink teddy, just listening to the rain and wanting. She closed her eyes and thought about how much she loved Winston. She thought about how great he made her feel. She thought about how dirty he made her feel. Silvia and Winston were not married, but they had the same last name.
          They had grown up together. They had skinned their knees together. The had explored the woods together. The had explored the limits of their sexuality together, and they sure as hell would die together.
         Winston came in a half hour later. The window was broken in, but he didn't notice. The closet door was splintered and broken, but he didn't notice. His gun was on the floor, but he didn't notice. He was too busy staring into the cold, dead eyes of his sister. He was trying to make out the features that he loved so much about her, on her mangled, blood drenched body. He was trying to hold back the tears that welled up in his eyes. He was bent over, sobbing like a little girl without her Daddy.
         Standing tall behind Winston was what looked like a man. It stood high, bald, with giant, gaping holes in it's flesh, dripping with blotted, crimson blood. It's soulless, pale eyes fixated on Winston. It bent, and began tearing at his flesh, shoving gobs of oozing fat and skin into it's mouth, ripping appart his lips as he screamed for mercy, and leaving his lifeless corpse on top of his lover's breasts.
         Sixteen miles away from this wretched scene was the heart of the city, or what was left of it. Building crumbled, fires burned, and the singing of birds was suffocated by the muffled, scraping screech of the wind. The rain had stopped and the sun began to cast a dim, sallow light of the wrecked city. After a while the rain would resume, but for a few fleeting moments, the city would have light. For just a few moment, it would seem like the life of the city could return, but it was a frivolous idea. Nothing could return this city to what it was.
         Sobbing, Jane sat below the streets. Mourning, Jane held the body over her baby brother. Hiding, Jane knew that these sewers wouldn't be safe for very long. Screaming, Jane's exodus had begun.
         Through the manhole above her, Jane could see light. It shone down like the sun does at a funeral, pale and mournful. It was a welcomed change from the stampeding rain and the wailing thunder. It managed to lift Jane's spirits alittle. As long as the sun shone, she could pretend it was a beautiful day. Jane dried her eyes and stood up. She was only thirteen.
         She could remember that at four thirty this morning, her Mom and Dad were dead. No sugar coating it, they were both fucking dead, not like it affected her all that much. Mom was a drunk, complete with a permanent bottle of "Jim Beam" clutched in her craggy fist, and her father would regularly bludgeon her poor body. She hid her breasts when they appeared, because she was afraid of what that bastard would do to her. Jane heard all sorts of stories at school about sexual abuse, so she always expected the worst, but both of them were dead now, and that was the good news.
         Over two hours later, Jane learned the bad news. She woke up and found her little brother in the hall way. Her little infant brother, Thomas, was laying in the hallway. He little infant brother, Thomas, was dead. She had practically raised the little kid, and she was holding his bleeding, deformed carcass. After that, she ran. She ran as far as she could, in the pouring rain. She past a million screaming things that racked her in fear, and pressed her to run faster, to blaze the trail to safety, always holding that corpse to her chest, asif it could change all these horrible things outside. She ran too fast to really look at them, though, but she didn't need to seem them. Her eye's were coated in tears and her brother was dead. Looking would just add to her horror.
         Where had all this running gotten her? Crying in a sewer which carried the stench of untold millions of inhabitants in this dead city. There it is, she thought, staring at the streaks of fecal matter in the dirty water, narrowed down to its most basic components. The history of a city, written in shit. The time for crying was over. Everything down here was behind her, set in it's place, immutable and sober. Life was ahead of her, no matter what was above her. Jane would face it all, come what may. It was time to grow up.
         The rain had started again. It washed over everthing, trying to rinse it clean and new. The city was dark again. Clouds had covered the recherché sun with their bloated bodies. When Jane rose from her stagnant, subterranean aqueduct, the world came at her in a rush of colors and sounds. Car alarms screamed, lights flickered, and a stream of blood skulked it's way to her shaking feet. One single thought was shreiking it's way throught her mind. She had to get the fuck out of here.
         That's when she saw one of those things. The first time she really felt scared. It wasn't a hulking goliath, but just a man. Wearing a suit, torn at the sleeve to expose an arm which had been ensconced with various bodily juices, and sporting a hole in his throat the size of a small melon, still dripping with obfuscated blood, but by far the worst thing about this visage was it's lower jaw, which seemed asthough it had nearly been rived from it's comfortable setting at his chin. It had seen her.
         It screamed. It didn't moan or howl or do anything that you'd see in some crappy horror film. The damn thing screamed, with it's tongue curling as it barely hung onto the back of the beast's head. It screamed, and then it ran after Jane. For a second, Jane froze. For a solid instant Jane's grip on reality was frozen in time and she almost wanted the damn thing to tear her limb from limb, but all instants pass. With that passage, Jane took flight, runing the only way she knew now, away. Running for dear, sweet life, not even sure if she was still being pursued. She urgently sped toward some building, some seemingly archaic ruin, for some form of shelter. She found her sanctuary, where many find there own, in the holy echelons of the Catholic church.
         Jane had never been very religious, so the sight of a crucifix virtually painted in blood didn't upset her that much, she was just happy to get somewhere that wasn't out there. Granted, she had to dive through the only window that, by some whim of fate, had not been boarded up, or covered by some other apparatus. The window had been shattered by her ingression, but an oversized cross covered the majority of the hole quite well.
          Jane sat in a pew and rested her biting eyes. "It's like I'm back in that sewer," she thought to herself, only the church didn't smell so foully. Again she was alone, and again, she was in hiding. How was she ever going to get away from all this if all she was going to do was hide, crying, is some dark corner, hoping that no horrific Boogey Man would get her. The way things were going, she would just be stuck in a circle until she starved to death. Suddenly, something broke into her thoughts and attempted to drive her mad. She was not alone.
         Jane's blood froze in her veins. Footsteps thumped heavily against the rotting, splintered wood floor of the church. Her eyes stood affixed into the darkness, oblivious to the unspeakable horror which it could very well be hiding, trying to discern the slightest movement of some unperceivable monster that could be looming within. There was no question, something was there, she knew by the raspy, panting breaths and the warm, moist air all around her. It hung in the air like a hangman's nouse.
          The thought of running had occured to her, but she was begining to wonder why she should even prolong her life. Everything around her was twisting into a dark spiral of panic and aversion, so what would she live for? Death promised release from her entire nightmare. Everthing would vanish, and so she remained so that she may lay her hand on the dry, hardend face of the Pale Horse and let it seperate her from this hell, and into the next.



(Guess what. This is all I'm putting up on the net, I'm writing the rest offline. I'm trying to get it published, so you'll have to wait for the book to come out if you want more. Come now, are you going to let a skanky, English bird give this piece a one and let it stick? Do post some REAL, intelligent reviews with proper rating, perhaps to balance out this nasty tart's hit and run. -L)