Scarla Page 12

  “What?”

  He smirked with self-satisfaction, spoke deliberately. “It means … I am the giver … of death.”

  She nodded, tired of fighting, white hot shots of pain electrifying her skull. A surefire mother of a concussion. “Well, let’s have it, Adolf,” she slurred.

  He studied her with pursed lips, shaking his head, sparing the death blow still. “Humanity. Such a vile and repugnant species. So weak, so offensive, so worthy of the extinction coming to you.”

  He used you, as if he were something else. Something other than human. She let him continue. The room spun slower, the stars dimming a bit.

  “And you … the Whore of Babylon. You can’t honestly tell me, after what you’ve done to yourself, that you disagree. If you do, you’re the worst example of self-justification. To so willingly sacrifice what little dignity and virtue you had, and for what? Do you even know? Do you even care?”

  Ok, fuck it. Let’s play.

  “I did it for love. So he wouldn’t be remembered as a monster,” she whispered. “I thought I could make a difference. But it changed. Everything changed.”

  Smith straightened, pondering her words. “Landon Caulner.” He smiled again. “That’s what you named love, correct?”

  She nodded, still lying flat. He could’ve been oiling a chainsaw, it wouldn’t have mattered. She just didn’t care. He scoffed at her confession, clapping his hands. “Oh, the self-importance! Do you really believe your ordeal is unique? There’s one of you in every city now. Sacrificing, to make a difference. To make it better. For your own selfish reasons. Poor misguided sheep.” He leaned close again. “And for every one of you, there’s a thousand of us. Two thousand tomorrow. It’s too late. All your best and worst efforts will only come to futility.” He eyed her body, a peculiarly long tongue flicking his lips. Like a lizard. “Did you offer your body and soul because you felt too much? Or because you felt nothing at all?” She realized, for the first time since waking, she was naked. The butterflies fluttered in her stomach, nerve endings tingling head-to-toe, gooseflesh rising on her thighs. She saw his eyes on her body and it made her wet. Careful what you ask for, you might get it. He shed his coat on the floor, undid his tie, unbuttoned his shirt. “It doesn’t matter now, the gestation is complete. It’s finally time. The law of natural order is upon you. You, the virus species. So ignorant as to refute your own animal status, while at the same time being completely unable to control the basest instincts that drive you. Your helplessness is our strength. The strong devour the weak. The reaping is upon you, and for this you should be thankful. Thankful to be saved from your own extinction. Saved from the obsolescence you brought upon yourselves, and transformed into something greater. Something—,” he undid his belt, “—magnificent.”

  She watched him unzip, saw his pants drop around his ankles, heard the hiss. She didn’t process it at first sight, blinking as though she were hallucinating and it would disappear, but she wasn’t. And it wouldn’t. It hung past his knees, over two feet long, as thick as his forearm, its head dark, bulbous, roving. It didn’t move like any dick she’d ever seen, slithering around, sidling against his right thigh, snaking along his left, arcing up to stand fully erect, then sidewinding back down, as if it were surveying its surroundings. Or hunting prey.

  Smith stripped his shirt, kicked off his pants, stepped over her in nothing but his socks. He yanked her jeans from around her ankles and threw them aside, leaving her in nothing but her boots and bandages. The thing stretched back between his legs, curling along his ass crack, head swiveling. She swore it was watching her. Its big sphincter yawned wide, snapped shut, yawned again. Like a hungry mouth. She stared into the black hole, dumbstruck. Run! Fight! Scream! were just some of her brain’s commands, but her body wouldn’t listen. She’d never been in shock, as far as she could remember and throughout everything, so she guessed it was finally introducing itself. Talk about bad timing. Smith kicked her feet apart and knelt between her legs, petting and stroking the thing, as it purred and writhed of its own accord. “I’m going to enjoy this far more than you will, I can assure you of that,” he gloated. She still couldn’t move but was dripping wet, heart racing as he hiked her legs up. “Thank you for your service, Ms. Fragran. This city greatly appreciates your sacrifice.” He positioned himself and the thing plunged in on its own. She opened her mouth to scream, whether in terror or ecstasy not quite clear, but no sound came. The shaft rippled, digging deeper. She held her breath, eyes on the ceiling. Smith placed her legs on either side of his face, licking her calves with his freakishly long tongue, glazing them with saliva. He pounded her salaciously, harder with each thrust, but somehow seemed to be just along for the ride, the thing pulling him more than he was pushing it.

  Scarla winced, feeling it snake impossibly deep inside her, and against all sane logic, she liked it. She reached around to grab Smith’s cheeks and force it deeper still, screaming, her neck veins bulging blue. He watched her with wide eyes, drool oozing from his mouth. He could’ve orgasmed right there, but he wasn’t in charge. It was. It said when he could cum. It said when he’d had enough. And it said keep fucking her, she likes it, she wants it, she needs it, fuck her faster, fuck her harder, fuck her deeper, fuck her ’til she cries, fuck her ’til she begs, fuck her ’til she bleeds, fuck her to death, kill her, eat her, kill her, eat her, kill her, eat. He bit her calf, drawing blood with the new teeth he’d sprouted since entering her. She felt the sting and raised her head, watched a crimson trickle escape his lip, streak over her knee and up her thigh, disappearing in the soft wet mound that was being brutalized between her long legs. He watched her dazed expression, grinning with bloody teeth. She met his gaze with blazing white eyes. His face dropped. She clamped a leg scissors choke around his neck and pushed up on her hands, lifting off the floor and flexing her whole body, trapping the thing inside her with powerful Kegel muscles. It bucked, thrashed, tried to pull out, swirled around in her vaginal canal looking for escape … and felt great. Smith tried to scream, but her legs squeezed tighter, cutting off what air he had left. His face went purple and he tried to bite, but couldn’t turn his head far enough either way to find flesh. He swung at her with long clawed fingernails. She caught his wrist and broke it. He couldn’t scream. He swung the other arm, she broke it too. She squeezed harder, watching him turn blue, and the thing inside her went wild. She feared it would burst from her stomach if she didn’t get it out, but it felt so strange, especially when it panicked, she couldn’t help hanging on just a bit longer to explore the sensation. And just like that, she came.

  Her body stiffened, shuddered, mouth open in silent ecstasy. She arched up on her shoulders, snapping Ray Smith’s neck like an afterthought. Auf Wiedersehen, du Arschloch. Wait, you don’t know German. It didn’t matter. Smith fell limp, but the thing inside her was still very much alive. She felt it coiling and springing, jabbing at her insides, trying to punch its way out. She opened her legs, letting Ray Smith flop like a rag doll, still puppeted by his monster appendage. Truth be told, it was a monster, the best fuck she’d had in forever. But all good things must come to an end. She put her boot heels on Smith’s chest, tried to kick him off, but the thing dug in like it was trying to burrow out the other side. Fine, have it your way. The hard way. She eyed Harris’ surgical instruments on the table behind her, started walking backward on her hands, dragging Smith’s dead weight between her legs. The thing kept plunging furiously and she had to pause halfway to cum again, fists clenched, eyelids fluttering. Goddamn. She knew deep down something was very wrong, she’d have to kill it and get out of there, find a safe haven to take stock of the damage, and there very well may be nothing left to salvage when all was said and done. But a wise man once told her a fight wasn’t over until you couldn’t get up, so never back off, never back down, never give up. Live by that shit. She reached up, grabbed the tabletop, pulled herself up. She wondered if Smith’s dead weight would drag the thing out, but that was too easy. His body j
ust came along for the ride as the thing burrowed deeper. They were as one, for the time being. She flung herself facedown on the table and held on, groaning as the thing jackhammered her bladder. Urine splattered Smith, ran down her leg, mingled with the blood on the floor. She hoisted him, laid him on the table and climbed on top, straddling his corpse on the cold steel. She could see just fine, though her eyes were still eerily pupil-less. Marlene Schneider stared from across the table. She smacked the bitch, sent her head bouncing across the floor. The surgical tools were in front her. She wondered if the thing was aware, if it knew weapons were within her reach. Don’t be stupid, just kill the fucking thing.

  She grabbed a pair of shiny forceps. It was a start. Her midsection hurt like hell and she wondered if her stomach lining was punctured. She reached down between her legs, clasped the shaft with the forceps, squeezed it hard. It flushed red, bulging like a balloon about to burst. She looked for something sharp. Some girls paid a lot of money for this. She almost laughed, grabbing a heavy duty bone saw with her free hand. Thanks for the memories, sexy. She lowered the blade, sliced, and was blasted by excruciating pain, the likes of which she’d never felt in her life. She dropped the instruments, threw her head back, screamed at the top of her lungs. A geyser of blood gushed from the stump where Smith’s dick used to be. It bit her. The fucking thing took a bite of her and was still latched on, somewhere inside. Not only did it not die as planned, it was severed clean and lost. She scrambled off the table in a panic and fell, taking the instruments with her. The indescribable pain rocked her again, and she curled into a fetal position on the floor, shaking uncontrollably. She vomited thick bile, heaving violently, unable to stop. For a moment, she thought she might hack the damn thing up. Instead it bit again, trying to devour her from the inside out. She screamed and writhed, went into a seizure. She felt it thrashing in her abdomen, selecting only the choicest cuts. She remained conscious and tried to stay calm, though her muscle control was going south fast. Her eyes combed the scattered surgical instruments for anything helpful, while the Ray Smith fountain on the table steadily rained bright red. Needles, knives, probes, saws, shears, scissors, and there it was … the curette. Long and spoon-shaped with a sharp edge, it was used in cleaning procedures, including abortions. Perfect. She crawled for it, flopping like a dying fish, her twitching hand sloshing through the blood, trying to grip the slippery steel handle. The thing inside bit again and she felt her stomach flush hot. Internal bleeding. She grabbed a bloody towel, wrung it out, stretched it tight. She pushed it into her mouth and knotted it behind her head, to keep from swallowing her tongue. It was do or die time.

  She laid back on the floor and spread her legs wide, propping her feet up on the Chief, digging her boot heels into his back for traction. She white-knuckled the curette with both hands, arms lurching uncontrollably, felt the thing shift in her belly—to the left—and plunged the instrument deep between her legs. The stainless steel was like ice, but her pussy had gotten used to cold in the last six months and the lab was so arctic she couldn’t feel her face, so it didn’t bother her much. She felt the thing race around, swirling, kicking, pummeling her organs in a vain attempt to escape the scrape. She pushed the curette deeper, pivoted around, biting the towel hard, banging her head on the concrete as she convulsed. It felt like she was goring out her insides, chasing it in circles, until her hands spasmed involuntarily and she jerked the scraper up, hooking the little monster. It writhed violently and she knew she had it, carefully extracting the curette until its bloody bulbous head appeared. Her seizing eased and she struggled to sit up, staring at it. It hung limp, impaled just under its fleshy helmet. She wondered if it was dead when it suddenly hissed, bucking wildly on the end of its stake. She yanked it out, threw it at the wall, it stuck with a splat. She looked around, saw everything drenched in red, sat on the floor, nude, hurt, bleeding … hungry.

  * * * *

  Sometime later, the elevator doors opened. Facil stepped out and froze, staring grimly. It took a moment to identify her. Rattan was on his back, stripped naked, torso sliced down the middle, ribcage pulled open, insides gone. Scarla hunched over him, eyes white, movements feral, jackal-like. She didn’t bother looking up to see her visitor, mouth full, gore hanging from her chin. From where she knelt between the rib bones, she looked like she could be playing in a baby’s crib. He watched her, waited.

  23

  * * *

  They emerged from a coded-entry staircase, Scarla hanging limp in his arms, nude save her bandages, still bloody from head-to-toe, leaving a trail of splatter noticeable enough to put the building on red alert the second someone saw it. She was semi-conscious, eyes fluttering, mouth slack, arm draped around his neck. He knew the cameras would spot them as soon as he opened the door, so he hustled post-haste through the sprawling parking garage of the first sub-level. The Grand National was at the far end, directly under a sickly yellow light that popped it like a shining beacon. There was no one else in sight and it was a straight shot. They just had to get there, floor it, and be out before the boys upstairs could shore-up and go into lockdown. That was the plan, anyway. He didn’t notice the other blood streak, rolling under the row of cars on the left.

  He heard the roar too late, just over his shoulder. It sounded like a cougar. He spun in time to see the woman leap from between two parked cars. It was Lisa, the clerk from the elevator earlier, though Scarla was in no shape to recognize her. She’d become cat-like, with a short blunt snout baring long fangs, blood splattering her face and shirt, shoes and skirt gone, creme-colored panties still pulled aside, showing-off the weekend’s wax job. A mauled officer in uniform hung upside down from a car’s open backdoor, face unrecognizable, throat destroyed, pants around his knees, blood soaking everything within splashing distance and still pumping from his shredded torso.

  Lisa hit Facil full-force. He dropped Scarla and fell back, wedging his arm under her chin at the last second, before she went for his throat. Her strength was superhuman for her size, and it was all he could do to keep her at bay. He caught a glimpse of the officer’s holstered weapon, just out of reach. His arm muscles strained under the assault, her gaping maw sinking closer. Suddenly, she was bowled over by a freight train and went tumbling across the concrete. She sprang up, snarling at Scarla, who was poised over Facil. He laid flat, shaking in his boots. She looked down at him, cocked her head. He held his breath, certain he was about to be slaughtered by the two of them. Lisa must’ve thought so too, charging in for her share of the kill. Scarla slashed her across the face with a lightning swipe of the hand and Lisa dropped like she’d been shot, looking up with wide white eyes, four new deep gashes in her cheek, one extending her mouth to the earlobe. Scarla stood and flexed bloody black claws, baring sharp teeth that still had shreds of the Chief stuck in them. Lisa rose to the challenge, baring her own and unleashing a primal scream that echoed through the garage. Between them wasn’t the place to be. Facil scrambled away on his hands and knees, disappearing behind an SUV.

  Upstairs, a desk cop named Reynolds eyed the security grid on his computer, frowned, brought the parking garage to full screen. He leaned closer, calling to his partner who stood behind him, texting. “Hey, check this out.”

  The other cop leaned in, eyes widening. “Isn’t that the broad from seventeen who left a little while ago?”

  Reynolds nodded. “Lisa whatshername, yeah.”

  His partner scoffed. “Rowr! Who’s the naked bitch?”

  Reynolds shook his head, grabbed the phone. “I got a 240 in the east sub-garage, we need someone down there right away.”

  The other cop pointed. “Look, there’s LeTour.”

  Scarla and Lisa lunged at each other, but it wouldn’t be close. Scarla suddenly dropped on her back, slashing the inside of both Lisa’s thighs. Blood sprayed from the severed arteries. She jumped up, grabbing the clerk between the legs with one hand, around the throat with the other, hoisting her off her feet and slamming her hard on the con
crete. Lisa was dazed for a moment, then her eyes gleamed and she lunged up, fanged mouth open wide. Scarla tore her throat out with one white-knuckled grab. Blood sprayed and Lisa dropped. Scarla heard a click, turned. Facil stood over the dead officer, gun aimed at Scarla. They both stared, unblinking. She nodded to the car. He lowered the gun. They ran for it.

  24

  * * *

  Night in the suburbs. Trimmed trees, manicured lawns, well-kept houses. Safety in numbers, security row. In the distance, the city fires still burned, a hellish halo glowing bright over downtown, black smoke smothering the stars. Facil cut the headlights, rolled to the curb. He got out, padded through the front yard, rang the doorbell. Turkovich answered, looking younger in a tee and boxers. Facil held up a wad of bills. Turkovich eyed it. “I could’ve waited ’til tomorrow, y’know?”

  Facil shook his head. “I couldn’t. Thanks again for your help, Dom.”

  Turkovich took the cash, didn’t bother counting it, saw a woman in the Grand National, her face obscured by dark hair. “Scarla?” he asked.

  Facil turned, half afraid he’d see a wolf on the lawn. “Yeah.”

  Turkovich nodded. “I’d say hello, but I’m not decent.”

  Facil smiled wanly. “Neither is she.”

  Turkovich smirked. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.” He reached in his pocket, held up a key. “Don’t burn the place down.”

  Facil took it, glanced at the horizon. “Same to you. Be here when I get back.”

  Turkovich scoffed. “They haven’t killed me yet.” He sniffed the air, smelled fire on the wind. “You’ve got about a two hour drive, get outta here before I change my mind.” Facil turned away. Turkovich called after him. “LeTour.” Facil stopped, looked. “You owe me double.” He nodded and went back to the car, his ribs killing him.