Vile Men Read online

  My fingers flinch over the puzzle pieces.

  “Do you really want to stay here?” he asks.

  I look at him, his gaze the first human one I’ve seen in days.

  He says, “You don’t have much of a choice, do you?”

  His voice is gentle, but my stomach tightens at the sound of his masculine tone. He slides the can across the table and I stare at the beans, little organs floating in red.

  He says, “Don’t worry. Judah will take care of you.”

  The grit on his sheets rubs against my skin.

  He tosses and turns in the dark, his presence warm beside me. He reaches across the bed and grabs my wrist. My muscles tense.

  “Take your clothes off,” he says.

  “No, please.”

  He climbs over me, his darkness heavy. His hair hangs in sweaty strings over my face. He slips his fingers under my shirt. A whimper shakes up my throat as he forces my arms through the sleeves. I moan, but he covers my mouth.

  He says, “You don’t want them to hear you, do you?”

  He presses his hand down the front of my jeans. He yanks them down, pries them off my ankles before he shoves me back.

  He says, “Spread your fucking legs.” He looms over me, waits until I open up, and he rubs there, rough fingers in my folds, pushing in. My shaking, he likes it. He gets hard. He forces himself on me.

  He says, “Stop crying.”

  I bite my lip, wincing when he pulls my knees around his waist. The mattress creaks and his laboured grunts echo in the empty room. I distract myself by thinking of the zombies. When he comes, his groan sounds just like them.

  It’s barely dawn and the sound of motorcycles echoes outside, spit sizzling on hot pavement. Judah jolts from the bed. He grabs his gun from the nightstand and tucks it into the waist of his jeans.

  Glass shatters in another room. Heavy footsteps echo through the halls. This was how my apartment was lost. Looters. Bandits. Men in leather, with aggression, more agile than the undead.

  I pull the sheets around me. My limbs stiffen. Judah picks up the crowbar beside the bed. He grabs my wrist and drags me behind him just as the bandits tear into the room. Judah pummels the first with the flat side of the crowbar. Then he pulls out the gun, cocks it. The second bandit backs away, holding his jagged metal pipe raised. He’s young, blonde, and he screams, “What you got, faggot!”

  Judah points the gun, finger on the trigger. “I’ve got a whole lot more than you,” he says.

  The blonde holds his arms up, pushes his chest out. “Go ahead,” he says. “You’ll have a hell of a time disposing of my corpse out there, shithead.”

  Judah tenses.

  The bandit on the floor heaves. He grasps the edge of the table with the Thailand puzzle and he pulls himself up. He staggers back, his gaze falling on me.

  “Do you want to fuck her?” Judah asks. “You wanna fuck my bitch? You’re not looting any of my shit, but you can fuck her and then you can leave.”

  The blonde bandit says, “What?”

  The gasping bandit hesitates, staring stupid, struggling to take a breath. “You fucking serious, dude?” he asks.

  I look at Judah and his face is expressionless, empty. A tightness burns through my chest. I shake my head. My eyes are hot, wet, stinging.

  Judah says, “Do it.”

  “No.”

  “Let them see you.” He kicks me forward. I turn back to look at him but he points the gun at my face. “Serve our guests,” he says. He grabs the sheet and pries it out of my grasp.

  The bandits take turns.

  The blonde bends me over a puzzle of the Eiffel Tower, the pieces sticking to my chest, crumbling. Then the second bandit shoves me back on the Empire State, the force of his thrusts tearing the building apart. The blonde joins in, pulls my head over the edge of the table, forces my mouth around his dick so I’m fucked both ways in the rubble.

  They leave satisfied, calm, and it’s not until their motorcycles grunt outside that I gather my breath and slide off the table.

  Judah looks up from Thailand. He’s already opened another can of beans.

  He says, “You saved us. You did your part.”

  The bandits come back. They want more. They empty their backpacks of luxuries: toothbrushes and mouthwash and razors.

  Judah smiles and says, “Sure, do whatever you want with her.”

  He shaves while the bandits ride me. They take out their aggression on my flesh, hitting my face, my ass, my tits. Then they leave, burning heat on the pavement, spit and semen on my face. Judah cups my chin in his hands, his face fresh, smelling of aftershave, his new gaze darker, taking ownership.

  He pushes me on top of Thailand. He’s got a bottle of perfume, the glass cut like a diamond. He holds it up and he sprays the delicate pink fragrance in my face.

  He says, “You smell like a unicorn now.”

  More men, different men. The word spreads and I get taken over and over again.

  The apocalypse isn’t about the zombies. The men bring liquor and cigarettes and luxury and Judah gets all primped up while I get fucked in the Swiss Alps, in the Mayan Rivera, in the middle of Westminster Abbey.

  The space between my legs is a dull ache. My tits are darkened with bruises. My throat’s hoarse, rubbed raw. The solarium is littered with puzzle pieces, the world a wreck.

  At night Judah dresses in his new silk bathrobe. He takes me to Thailand and says, “There’s no better place than here.”

  He always gets his turn.

  He says, “You couldn’t do this alone.”

  He says, “Without me, you’d just be a dead little unicorn.”

  He says, “Say you’re my little unicorn. Say it.”

  Survival.

  The next time the bandits come, one of them spits on my asshole and shoves his dick inside. The tight ache winds into my stomach. All I do is scream. Afterwards, Judah sits beside me on the mattress. He strokes my hair and I wipe my tears on the lapel of his robe.

  He wraps a sheet around me. We eat canned beef ravioli paired with vintage Chianti and we put Thailand back together. He works on the land and the sky and asks me to piece together the lilies and the water. I have to lean forward because it hurts too much to sit.

  He says, “The next time you scream, I’ll fuck you with my crowbar while holding a plastic bag over your head.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  I fit together two pieces, the biggest pink flower in the river.

  All the returning visitors attract the attention of the undead.

  Judah’s got his fingers in my ass, teaching me how to take it without crying. Over my whimpers is the sound of pounding, undead hands on the boarded windows downstairs.

  He says, “You moan too much. They probably heard you.”

  He brings his crowbar outside and he kills the zombies in his bathrobe, standing back so he can take them out one by one, swinging the bar at their faces, taking them to the ground. He stands over them, defiant, driving curved titanium teeth into flesh and bone. The sound of the cracking vibrates through the window.

  Judah returns angry, his chest heaving, blood splatter all over his robe. He takes it off and holds it up, shaking the stained silk in my face.

  He says, “You’re going to get me a new one.”

  It’s all my fault. I’m a bad little unicorn, bent over Thailand. He punishes me, forces his whole fist up my backside.

  The sunlight beams in through the solarium windows. Outside there’s groaning.

  Judah’s asleep in his new plaid flannel robe. It’s not as nice, but I did my best.

  He says I can do better.

  I spray perfume on my neck. I smell like magical lilies in spring water and I tiptoe down the hallway with a crowbar and a switchblade hung from a string around my neck. I climb down the rope and stand outside for the first time since earning my survival.

  Goosebumps form as the breeze hits my naked flesh.

  The switchblade hangs betwe
en my breasts, bobs with my chest, my aching heartbeat.

  There’s a lone zombie, a former male with a dead gaze, his arms outstretched, wanting me. His footsteps waver over the uneven ground as he approaches. He groans, makes it so easy to lift the bar up, to let everything out because he sounds just like all the grunting men.

  I pry hunks of flesh from his face, one swing at a time. I knock him over, mashing his skull into a red mess, kidney beans and lukewarm beef ravioli in tomato sauce. Then I open the switchblade and I cut through the meat, digging in deep, covering the knife with blood and infection, Chianti red.

  I fold up the knife and I take it with me, tucking the streaked metal underneath my pile of collected river pieces. Water and lilium.

  I can do better.

  Judah gets out of bed and pushes me back on the table. I wrap my legs around him. I dig into my pile of puzzle pieces. I wrap my arms around his broad shoulders and I hold him close. He fucks me hard, too preoccupied to notice the knife clutched tight in my grasp, too preoccupied to feel when I cut through the flannel and into his flesh.

  He says, “You love it when I ride you in Thailand, don’t you, little unicorn?”

  I tell him, “Yes, I love it. I love it. I love it.”

  We rebuild Thailand.

  I finish the river. All the pieces are sticky with bodily fluids, blood and semen and sweat. Across the table, Judah reaches behind him, trying to scratch his back. He winces and unties the sash of his robe. He stands and takes it off, taking notice of the stain, the circle of red on the back. His finger slips through the slit in the fabric.

  He looks at me.

  He doesn’t say anything because it’s too late.

  My toes curl as he sits down. He bites his lip and he picks up another piece of the puzzle. It’s a part of the bell monument, a piece of grey brick. His fingers start to shake as he tries to fit the piece in place. The vein in his neck throbs. His face goes red. He exhales, heavy. He makes a fist and pounds the table, shoves the puzzle at me, the pieces flying. He knocks the table over.

  “You cunt! You fucking cunt!”

  He smacks my face and tackles me to the floor. He snatches my wrists and he holds me down, his shaking grasp vibrating through me.

  “I’m going to eat you,” he says. “I’m going to fucking devour you! I’m going to chew your fucking snatch off, you fucking shit whore!”

  I writhe out of his grasp, crawling to the mattress, reaching for the nightstand where his gun is. The trigger is cold and hard. He grabs my ankle, digs his nails into my skin. I groan and turn over, aiming the barrel. My finger tightens and a deafening bang fills the room, making a hole in his shoulder, red filling in, spreading.

  His groan echoes loud, guttural. A male cry.

  He says, “I fucking saved you.” He groans and heaves, showing his pain, gritting his teeth. “I protected you. You’d just be another dead little bitch out on that highway if it wasn’t for me.”

  I shoot him again, this time in the knee. He starts heaving. His breaths become moans. His body shakes when he tries to stand, but I grab his crowbar and I swing it against his forehead. He falls face down, letting out one hopeless moan before his head hits the floor.

  It takes all day for him to turn. I finish Thailand while I wait, fitting together the soggy pieces while he shifts and shudders, his skin fading to a bruised shade of grey. His lips purse and sputter nonsense.

  Bitch. Cunt. Whore. Unicorn.

  He comes to and breaks into a fever sweat, his forehead greasy, hair hanging in strings down his face. He moans, chokes up vomit, and it spreads; a bile yellow river, the puzzle pieces floating like lily pads.

  He tries to stand but his limbs are stiff.

  I fill a backpack with canned food and bottled water. He watches me get dressed.

  He says, “You’ll die out there. You can’t survive on your own.” He groans and lifts his head, the vomit trickling off the sweaty ringlets of his hair.

  I pick up the crowbar and I stand over him.

  He’s still human, his gaze still dark, still angry. He says, “Not yet.”

  He tries to say my name but it just sounds like he’s coming. His groan fills the room and I swing the crowbar over his head, cracking his skull, making a hole big enough to fuck him. I dig deep, chipping at the bone until his groan drowns in sick. It’s just like beating the other zombie, only Judah’s dead gaze has humanity. I take it from him. I cut it from him. I gut his stomach. I flood the floor with his gall.

  The heat burns in my lungs and I heave. The tears streak down my cheeks, flushing my dry skin hot.

  My bike’s still where I left it. I pedal out into the summer heat. There are zombies on the horizon, walking in the sunset like strewn puzzle pieces. The highway’s quiet and long.

  There’s no better place than here.

  HISTORICAL HOTTIES

  Mr. Allen announces the final assignment for our unit on World War II. He uses the words “poster project” and “pairs” and I sit stalling as the rest of the class shuffles around my desk. They’re all buddies and best friends, already making decisions, already writing their names on the board at the front of the class.

  I take one look over at Mr. Allen, thinking maybe he’ll let me do this one alone for once, but he doesn’t make eye contact, doesn’t pay me any attention. Laughter erupts around me, that of excited plans and ideas. I pick up my textbook, adrenaline rushed and frantic.

  I turn in my seat and glance over at Zoey, always scrawling indifference at the back of the class. She’s drawing swastikas in her agenda, her head down, black fringe shifting as she scribbles. Her veil of hair covers her expression, but she digs her pen into the page, her fingertips whitened with her hardened grasp. I approach her desk, reminding myself that she needs a partner just as badly as I do. It’s not until I sigh in front of her that she glances up from her agenda.

  “Hey,” I say, projecting casual, trying to soften my posture against the hard surface of my book. “I was just wondering if maybe you’d want to do this together.”

  She closes the agenda and leans back in her seat.

  “There’s really nobody else left in the class,” I say.

  She glances out at all the pairs with a grimace.

  “Yeah,” she says. “I guess there isn’t much choice.” She looks at me and smiles before retracing the lines of the swastika, sinking its shape even deeper into the pages. “I don’t wanna do Hitler, though,” she says. “Hitler’s too obvious. Everybody’s gonna do Hitler.”

  “We could do Joseph Stalin,” I say.

  “Yeah, sure,” she says. “I don’t know a lot about him, though.”

  “I do,” I say. “My dad has a bunch of books about him.”

  She looks up.

  “He’s really interested in history, like wars and stuff.” My voice drops and I resist the urge to bite my lip over her lack of a response. “We won’t even have to use the library.”

  “We can’t do the project at my house, though,” she says. “My mom hates it when I have people over. Just give me your address.” She hands me her red pen and pushes her agenda across the desk.

  I click on the end and write between all the swastikas.

  I consider taking down the pictures above my bed before Zoey comes over, but she arrives before I’m able to, and I bring her up to my room, with its lilac walls and white antique furniture and floral covers. My plush bunny rabbit still sits atop my pillow. She looks at it all but doesn’t scowl.

  “Your room could be like totally Gothic in a southern kind of way,” she says. “You should paint your walls a darker colour. Like mauve, or even just a darker purple.”

  “I don’t know.” I say. “It’s always been this colour.”

  “You should,” she says. “I’d totally kill for this room.”

  “My mom decorated it,” I say. “She’d probably get mad if I changed anything.”

  “That sucks,” she says. “It’s not like it’s even her room.” She lets
her backpack slip off her shoulder and takes a seat on my white canopy bed. She runs her hand over the floral quilt and leans over to pick up the plush bunny rabbit on my pillow.

  “I’ve had that since I was a baby,” I say.

  “Oh yeah,” she says, poking at the rabbit’s plastic eyes. She drops her backpack on the floor and nods at the black and white photos of the men above my bed. “Are those, like, relatives of yours?” she asks.

  “No,” I say. “They’re historical figures.”

  “Why are they on your wall?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “They’re people I admire.”

  “You don’t admire normal guys? Like singers and actors?”

  “Not really,” I say, hesitating. “I just like these pictures more. There’s a story behind each person. It’s kind of nice to think about sometimes.”

  I climb on the bed and point to the nearest photo. “See, this is Ernest Hemingway when he served in World War I. He was pretty cute, right?”

  “I don’t know,” she says, shrugging. She runs her hand over her black fringe as she gazes over the other photos.

  “That one’s a postage stamp image of Nathan Hale,” I say. “He was the world’s first spy during the American Revolutionary War, but then the British caught him and hung him.”

  “Sucks for him,” she says, studying the other photos before reaching up and pointing. “What about him? What’s his deal?”

  “That’s Nicola Tesla,” I say, waiting for her to recognize the name.

  “I like his gaze,” she says. “It’s kind of seductive, like he’s going to buy you a drink or something.”

  “I guess,” I say. “He was an inventor, though.”

  “Sometimes I forget that you’re like, super smart.”

  “Is there something wrong with that?” I ask.

  “No,” she says. “It’s kind of cool, actually, that you’re only into dudes who are dead.” She takes a seat on the bed, digs into her backpack and pulls out her notebooks. They’re all covered with upside down crosses and pentagrams and sayings penned by her aggressive hand.