Flies

There was an old lady who swallowed a fly…

The laboratory was sweltering. The greenhouse-glazed windows were sealed, and an extractor fan from the fume-cupboard was not meant to double as an air-conditioning unit.

‘Go on, open the window.’

‘Not a chance.  If there’s a leakage or anything, then we’re fucked.’

‘What can go wrong?’

‘I don’t know. Why don’t you open it?’

‘I can’t reach. Go on, help me out here. I’m a woman, for God’s sake.

Helpless and defenceless…’

‘Hah! There’s nothing helpless about you. God help any man who crosses your path on a Friday night.’

‘Go on… I’ll go out with you this Friday. I promise…you can reach the latch.’

‘Oh… okay then.’

The window slid up and a brief blast of cool air relieved the oppressive heat.

‘See…. isn’t that better?’

‘Are we still on for Friday?’

‘It’s a date, lover boy.’

He stretched out in the chair, pushing it back onto two legs. The
chair legs slid back with a screech and man and chair fell backwards
with a crash. The shattering of broken glass echoed an instant later.

‘What the fuck….’

‘You clumsy idiot! Better not do that on Friday.’

‘What was in that jar? The one on the bench?’

‘Don’t know. Just a couple of flies.’

‘Thank God for that.’

 The housefly’s life cycle can last as little as ten days. In a year, a single pair of Musca domestica can breed ten generations, over a trillion insects if the full breeding potential is realised. The male mounts the female from
behind and they fuck
 for a few seconds.


 There was thunder in the air. She opened the living-room window to clear the stifling air. A couple of flies buzzed lazily into the room.
There wasn’t a newspaper lying around. ‘Shit!’ She trudged into the
kitchen in search of insecticide spray, reaching under the kitchen
sink. A rusty can was wedged towards the back. She shook it as she
walked back into the living room, listening to the liquid slosh
inside. Then her mouth plopped open.

The living room was full of flies. They circled and buzzed in a
sandstorm swirl, in the centre of the room. Then they swooped on her.

Daylight was blotted out in an instant as swarming blackness engulfed her, seeking moist caverns and flesh, bristly legs probing into nostrils and a gagging flood of crackling blackness forced its way into her mouth and gullet, coating her tongue with a dusty insect putrescence.

‘Gaa…..gaggg..’ Bile rose in her throat and met a sea of chitin
crawling downwards as she choked. Her hands flailed blindly and she staggered around in a frantic daze, grainy forms scraping her eyeballs as they sought the delicate pink tissues at the corner of her eyes, crawling into her ears and filling her brain with a dull drone.

The small forms were crushed and crunched as she stumbled out of the house and into the street, retching and choking, trailing a cloud of flies behind her black-swarmed face and hair. She collapsed to the ground and, as blows shook her body and the flies departed, daylight returned just to fade into darkness once more as numbing shock overtook her mind.

The voices crept in through the haze of sedation.

‘She’s dehydrated and in shock. Other than that, she’s okay.’

‘How old is she?’

‘Forty-five.’

‘Bloody hell. She looks seventy.’

‘That’s no surprise after what she went through.’

‘What caused the swarm of flies?’

‘We’re not sure. Possibly an electromagnetic disturbance, because of the thunderstorm, or maybe the heat. The entomologists at the
university are looking into it. They’ve got an ongoing research
programme anyway.’

‘What injuries did she suffer?’

‘It was mainly shock, dehydration and asphyxiation. Some neighbours beat at her with towels, like they were putting out a fire, and that seemed to drive the insects away. She’s got abrasions to the soft tissues in her mouth, nostrils and throat, and on her corneas. We had to irrigate the cavities to wash out the dead insects and eggs, so there will be some lingering swelling, maxillofacial pain and tinnitus.’

‘Eggs? They laid eggs in her?’

‘That’s what they do. But they normally wait until the host is dead.
You can sometimes see them in the corners of the eyes of corpses, like creamy clusters.’

‘Were they cleaned out as well? The eggs?’

‘Yes.’ A pause. ‘There’s only so far you can go, down the oesophagus.

Peristalsis will carry any residual matter down to the stomach, for
digestion.’

‘Yuk.’ Laughter. ‘Fly eggs for lunch.’

‘Very funny. It’s time to go. There’s a group of students due shortly.’

Each female fly can lay around 500 eggs, in batches of up to 150.
Within a day, these will hatch into maggots, between 3mm and 9mm in length. The maggots live for at least a week and feed on organic material.

She didn’t feel well.

‘Are you not eating today, Mrs Brooks?’ The auxiliary nurse looked at her with concern. ‘You need to get your strength back if you’re being discharged tomorrow.’

‘No,’ muttered Mrs Brooks. ‘I really don’t feel up to it.’ The tray
lay untouched on the bed’s swing-table.

‘What’s the matter?’ Nurse Yeboah’s  rich African accent, warm smile and formal manner were usually reassuring. ‘I can call for the sister, or a doctor, if you wish.’ She pulled back the curtain with a brisk swish.

‘I don’t know…’ She couldn’t explain it, but waves of nausea were
pulsing from her stomach, abdomen and all through her body, behind her eyes, up her spine and into the base of her skull. Flecks fluttered in front of her vision and her tongue was thick with mucus.

Suddenly she convulsed and heaved, jerking on the bed, her mouth wide open in a retching grimace, the tendons in her red-flushed neck stretched to breaking point as she grabbed the side-rail of the bed.

Nurse Yeboah reached for the emergency call button, but froze in horror.

Floods of bloody maggots spewed from Mrs Brooks’s mouth. They writhed frantically in the dark-red soup of bloodclots, bile, and pus. The woman heaved and retched, but there was no end to the flow and they burst across the bed and spread across the ward floor in a sea of larval gore. Mrs Brooks collapsed like a string-cut puppet and slumped forward across the bed, sighing with what was either relief or a death-rattle. A crimson fountain soaked the bedsheets in a bloody wash, flooding onto the floor and around the writhing maggots.

Nurse Yeboah’s mouth hung open in a silent scream. She leaned forward to turn over Mrs Brooks, gagging at the sour-copper stench of blood and bile.  Then she screamed out loud, as the other patients on the ward stared across in horror.

The face of Mrs Brooks was swollen beyond recognition. Frantic maggots crawled from the corners of  her eyes, one after the other, plopping onto the blood-washed floor. They slid eagerly from her nostrils, and dropped from her ears, large creamy maggots oozing lazily from between her gore-flecked lips. Then, in a sudden spasm, she jerked back into life, heaving retching with a growing wail of agony.

But the sound was insect, not human. A flow of glossy pupal fragments was followed by a swarm of buzzing flies, freshly hatched from their flesh-warm confinement. The dull buzz grew to a roar as the cloud burst into the still air of the hospital ward. Hundreds of black forms darted around the ward, seeking shocked-open mouths, terrified eyes and moist nostrils, to begin the cycle all over again.

By Iain Paton
http://blackdogstories.wordpress.com/

Hair Ball

“You have a mass.”
If you’re not a priest, those are NOT words you’re ever wanting to hear.
“What?”
The doctor cleared his throat.
“You have a mass, in the left side of your scrotum. We don’t think it’s cancer, it’s not like it on the screen, but we need to go in and take a look. I think that’s best, don’t you?”
No. “Sure, whatever you need.”
“First I’d like to examine you again. Up on there, please, shorts down.”
I lay back, hating him, hating her, hating here. Scared shitless and hoping amongst all of this that I wouldn’t drop a fear bomb while he was down there. My girlfriend, Lizzie, had been sucking me off in the shower, tickling my balls just so, just the way I like, when she stopped. Slurped off and left me hanging, staring at my crotch as water dripped and her fingers stopped tickling and started exploring. Pinching and squeezing. S and M’s never been my thing. But she’d found a lump, and she was scared, especially since she’d just had her mouth down there, and God knows I’m not a virgin, nor particularly careful. I guess it’s only right I gave in to her demands and got myself and my errant ball checked out.
She isn’t here. She’s got work. And maybe she understands, in that witchy way of hers, that I can cope better by myself. That I don’t want her here, stirring post-shower boners, triggering horrible blood spattered memories of the time she nicked the end of her nipple when I slapped her arse just as she was moving the razor to her pits for a shave. The end healed white. I don’t suck that side now. Fair’s fair, she’s not sucked me since our little shower adventure, either.
I concentrated on the gore, not her hot, soft, wet, vacuum cleaner lips, and felt the physician’s hands palpate and move my sac, and his coffee breath as he bent so close to my thighs I could count the dandruff flakes on the crown of his head. Don’t fart. Don’t fart.
“There may be an ingrowing hair here – that wouldn’t cause this size of mass, but there’s a small possibility it led to pores becoming blocked, a sebaceous cyst forming, something of that kind. I’d like to try and clear it, if that’s okay?”
It was unsettling, seeing his pale blue eyes peering up at me from between my thighs. I thought of flesh-eating zombies and guys I’d ‘known’ at college, and grunted my reply.
“I’ll spray a little local anaesthetic on it, take away the sting.” It was cool, and I felt my penis shrivel away from it. I’d have liked to have done a runner, too. “Give it a second to take effect. Then I’ll try some gentle squeezing, and if that doesn’t release the hair, a little scrape and some tweezers should do it.”
A few minutes later, him humming Crowded House tunes as he washed his hands, me wondering if Lizzie would ever go down on me again, he re-appeared between my legs and smiled. He had lots of teeth. Lots of them, more than he was meant to, I think.
Down he went. The pinching didn’t work, so he tried the tweezers. They worked, boy did they work. He pulled, and pulled, and stepped away, and pulled. Still it kept coming. Lizzie was always complaining that I had a lot of hair ‘down there’, generally when she found herself gagging after a blow job, but hey, what’s a guy to do – trim it? Don’t think so. I’m not taking sharp stuff anywhere near there.
He measured it, checked online later, wrote me to let me know it was THE longest pube ever discovered. He said my left ‘testicle’ visibly deflated before his eyes. Apparently, I only ever had the one – the hair grew in and filled the space. I picture it coiling up like a sleeping snake, or a thousand rats’ tails, in the dark warmth of my scrotum. My phantom bollock.
At least it wasn’t cancer.
At least I get my blow jobs back.
And we’ll never have to buy dental floss ever EVER again.

By Gill Hoffs

It’s Just a Thought

‘If I put a knife

against your throat

would you fear

and run away

or would you stay and play?’

‘If I stuck the knife

into your throat

and gave it a gentle turn

would you cry out in pain

or moan in ecstasy?’

‘If I laid you on a bed

and slid a knife

just over your thighs

then up between your legs,

would you think me insane?’

‘And if I slid that knife deeper

into your sopping snatch

and cut out your womb

then glued it on my tombless cock,

would you worship me?’

I’ve watched you for days

spent nights writing you

beautiful things in thought, in poem,

and lastly,

drawing you pictures of you

just like that

with that knife so razor sharp

just the thought

of severing your flesh,

just the thought

of stealing your last breath

just the thought

of coming in your wounds

‘ooh’. . .like I said, it’s just a thought.

By Devlin De La Chapa

http://boyslut.wordpress.com

The Chase

I ran. What do you do when you see that? You run right? You pick up your fucking feet and jet, no time to play hero when you see that. Fuck, I’m a coward, I could’ve helped. No it was over before it began, so I worked every muscle in my legs and pumped my way to the club district. Hoodie soaked by the light  drizzle,  jeans feeling tighter with the damp seeping though and my shivering skin ignited by the midnight dash.

“We’re going out tonight!” I called up at my mother’s bedroom, she would be somewhere between Ambien and sleep anyway. Krystal grabbed my hand and smiled, “This is gonna be fun, promise.” We sauntered out of the house with a devil-may-give-a-fuck walk, giggling at the world around us because we were ready to tease our way into several free drinks and dance like possessed cabaret stars.

The club was new, it was on the outskirts of our usual dives, which made it more enthralling. There was a danger to its very existence, and we thrived on that. Who could do the most fucked up thing, that was how Krystal and I had always played. Hang from the train bridge, like the Lost Boys had, stand at a railroad crossing backwards until the beast’s hot breath was on the back of your neck and hope you didn’t wait a second too long to get out of the way. A lot of our misadventures had to do with the train tracks, I was scared of them and Krystal knew it, that’s why she always dared me to them. She was fearless and she liked us to face things as if we had brass balls and a golden dick wedged somewhere between our slender thighs. Men, she would scoff, always think they’ve got the most machismo. Nothing beat us, we were the town’s resident bad asses. From spending nights in graveyards, to playing chicken with my mom’s Acura, fuck off you’re making us laugh. So we sprinted in the falling mist to our new spot.

Club Dead is what it had been lovingly named around town, because of all the violent crimes that took place in the neighborhood. The building itself also had a reputation for giving paranormal investigators a hard-on. Apparently a shitload of people died there, but our little town did love to cover things up, so we wouldn’t know anything about that. It was said to have been the old asylum, for the record I’ve never seen an asylum in our town so this could all be bullshit, and apparently some orderly went all Andrew Kehoe and decided that there was a fire sale and everything must go! They say he poisoned the administrator with cyanide and the shot the guards in the head, then he went to town on the staff and patients. When the cops finally arrived on site, the orderly, supposedly a man named Douglas Fennick, had tortured and killed the entire 187 people who were trapped in the building. I’m talking blood on the walls, people tied up by their intestines, women shot to Swiss cheese, patients hooked to the electroshock therapy at high voltage, execution style shootings in the shower room, pieces of everyone everywhere. The fucker was creative. This is a story found only by people like Krystal and me, everyone else goes on believing that it was a warehouse for a corrupt antique dealer who left it vacant once the cops booked him. Until three weeks ago the place was surrounded by razor wire and an electric fence. Yeah, I’m sure it was a warehouse.

Club Dead loomed in front of us, just as nightmarish as we had expected it would be. While walking towards the flat black entrance, Krystal lost her footing and hit the sparse grass and rock lawn surrounding the building. “Mother fuck!” she shouted and leaned over to tend her battered knee. “Smooth moves, bitch, you’re gonna wow em on the floor!” “Hey shut the fuck up I tripped on something.” “Yeah those stripper heels.” She began checking the area where she’d lost her balance and pulled up a half buried defibrillator paddle. “What the fuck?” “I guess this place really was a hospital,” she grinned widely at me. “Whatever, some crackhead could’ve brought that or something, bad joke.” “Now you shut up! Where the hell is a crackhead gonna get an 70-year-old defib paddle?” Good fucking question, the thing was ancient, but unmistakable. “Fuck it!” I threw my hands in the air and started toward the door.

The place looked deserted at first glance, a thin layer of smoke hung in the air and seemed heavier along the floor. The walls seemed to be black, there was almost no light, except at faint pink glow further out in the distance. “Great plan, Krystal, a smog machine and one fucking club light.” The music was gothic hard metal, not even our scene. “Let’s get out of here we’re like the only people anyway.” “Shut the fuck up this is great.” Krystal plunged further into the darkness towards the reverb and slight illumination. I followed weakly into the belly of the cryptic building. The farther inward I moved the more people I began to notice. Almost smoke-like themselves, they were mounting each other and grinding slowly in the deep drop beat. Naked women with black hair and dark smudges on their bodies moved through the fog with thick cocktails. Men reached for them and began spreading their legs on the dance floor, reaching inside of them, smearing more darkness on their bodies. Krystal was gone and I was in the center of something otherworldly. A tall form approached me and began stripping my clothes off in a sardonic manner, I said nothing as he undid my jeans and peeled off my shirt, unhooked my bra and let my breasts fall freely. His mouth came in close but the face was not there, I could see no features just the idea of a face existing before me. Moving his mouth to my bare chest I felt the first awakening moment, needles attempting to penetrate me, a whole mouth of points biting into me. I shoved him off with my boot and ran.

Outside in the rain I screamed for Krystal but I knew she was still in there, in that twisted blasphemous reality, their den, whatever the fuck it was. I put my shirt on and pushed through the door of the club screaming in agony for Krystal. They looked at me silently and kept their rhythm. I pushed past them, fighting my way through what seemed like hundreds of faceless monsters, moving all the way to the back of the club where I escaped the massive terror that was attempting to overtake me. Then there she was, naked and blood soaked with something not quite human with its snout in her belly, rooting through her insides, my Krystal’s insides. I ran.

The downtown clubs still had some stragglers outside the bars, but it was a weeknight and they were closing shop early. I tried to approach several couples but my hysterical ramblings left me sounding like a drunk college student and they shooed me away to sleep it off. No police anywhere in sight and I was beginning to feel frantic, panic striking me in my gut like a fist. That’s when I heard it, the grunting breath. The guttural groan from what had been submerged in my friend’s vital organs moments ago, demon creature of indescribable horror. It had followed me. I barely had time to push myself through a back alley before its long clawed fingers reached out to snare my arm. At first I had judged it as human-like, but upon closer approach it was evident that this was nothing but a vile consort of hell. I didn’t believe in hell, but I believed in the disfigured fiend salivating at my heels. I turned off the side street from one of the clubs and darted into an alley, but the thing was fast. It dashed after me and I had to keep pace. I felt fatigue aching through my bones. I felt that I’d been running for ages, and I couldn’t stop. That’s when I spotted it, like an old friend, like Krystal guiding me to my last dare, the train tracks staring at me in the distance.

My watch read 1:07; there would be a 1:15 passing those tracks any minute. I’d long ago memorized the train schedule, to make my dares more bearable. I always knew when they’d approach and there was something comforting in the knowledge. I made it to the bridge in less than two minutes. This was the last test — give it a go or surrender to death at the ends of the needle teeth I’d had pressed into my skin earlier. It approached me in a playful way, stalking me down, grinning with its grotesque jaws, leering, knowing I was trapped on the tracks, on a bridge over a river and a drop that would kill me. But I stood where I needed to stand. I knew where I needed to stand. Checked my watch: 1:15.  Fuck, where was it? The thing was on top of me, face nearly pressed into mine as it opened and closed its foul mouth, sniffing me. “You almost escaped,” it said with a voice that sounded not like a human voice but like an animal that somehow made its vocal chords work to form words. Then I felt the shaking, the bridge platform moving, and the train speeding across, eating up the tracks, closing the distance between us and it. “Fuck you,” I spat, and then I dropped, right as I felt the engine on my back, just in time to miss the hit. I clung to the underside of the bridge with all my muscles screaming. I heard the train collide with it, and saw oozing blood start running down the girders.

After the train passed I loosened my death grip on the girder and hoisted myself back up to the platform. The carnage was spread across the bridge, pieces of the demon wedged in the tracks, leaking off the edges and dripping down into the river. There was no body left to be found. I made out an arm and what could’ve been a mutilated torso . . . or something, but clearly the train had taken its victim. I looked down the tracks and noticed that a vehicle had stopped up ahead about a mile. Filled with the adrenaline of my daredevil escape, I jogged towards it. Upon approach I knew they’d noticed something had been hit after the fact. I sidled next to one of the workers and tried to make out their hushed conversation before interjecting. “What happened?” I forced out with my calmest and most curious voice. It emerged like more of a squeak. “We hit something,” the conductor muttered. “I don’t know what we hit, but it was something, something big. Its body is stretched from here all the way down the bridge. At first I thought it could’ve been a man, but it’s just too damn big!” I looked at him square in the face with wavering eyes and quivering lips. “You didn’t hit a man. I saw it. It was something else, I don’t know, but whatever it was there was nothing human about it.” “BOSS!” called one of the workers. “Come here now!” We all raced to the worker whose head was poking under the front engine. “Look,” he pointed. We stared down at the once breathing putrid face that had slit open Krystal and gorged itself. Its teeth were in a permanent snarl and its face was smeared with black blood. “What the fuck is that!” the conductor exclaimed. No one said a thing. I reached in and pulled out the severed head of the beast, then I punted its wretchedness as far off into the river as I could. “It’s dead, that’s what the fuck that is.”

By Emily Smith-Miller

My ………… mouth

My ………… mouth,

 

devoured the arms of children,
………… their sweet ……
and …….. juices.  Their short
prickly …… lodged themselves
in my plaque-stained …….

 

Their thighs tasted the ……,
………… when rotisserie rare,
the blood seeped through the ……
in my ….. and pooled off my …..

 

But on ……., the …. of ……, I
ate the brains of a ….. little
bastard.  They were gray …. sour
… reminded me of ……. onions.
………., ………, the …………
brains enlightened me … to this day
children have …… passed vampire lips.

 

By Andrew J. Stone
http://andrewjstone.blogspot.com/

Leroy and His Love Affair

Girlie magazines dating back to 1972  are scattered across the floor.

 The skeletons of two pet canaries lie dormant inside a wire cage.

 

Bessie Mae died 8 months ago.

From her lips, and from her eyes comes nothing like before.

 

Leroy, her lover and her only friend, the man she lived with for

 

Leroy has no friends to detect anything that might be suspect.

He wants nothing between the two of them at all, and no one

comes near to interfere.

Their bedroom is padlocked, stale, stagnant with mildew, looking

the way it did before she died.

 

Foul odors ooze up through their bedroom ventilation ducts,

Leroy contends that a dead rat in the basement is causing the odors.

 

Leroy loves to lie about his sacred love affair.

 

Layers of dust blanket over the mahogany floors, and the maid doesn’t

come here anymore

 

Bessie Mae’s remains are wrapped in a scarlet housecoat,

Dried blood sleeps in a small pool beneath her bed.

 

In time they both will sleep, sole witnesses to the fiasco

their lives will catch them in; enduring it, holding

their tongues till time matters no more.

 

Nothing appears changed, lovers unwilling to depart.

By Michael Lee Johnson

http://poetryman.mysite.com.

Flatliner

There she is.

She looks fucking dead, man.

I know she LOOKS dead but she’s fucking not.

What did you do to her?

I didn’t do shit. I was working late last night and this tasty bitch comes in and I’m about to go all autopsy on her when the little slut opens her fucking mouth and tries to bite me!

Tyler, you do too many fucking drugs dude. Like stop taking that shit you sound like Evan.

Fuck Evan, that fried piece of shit! He owes me 20 bucks and a blow job!

Evan owes you a blow job?

NO MAN! I paid him 20 for this fine bitch to . . . You know what nevermind just check her out.

Uh I’m checking her out Tyler and I know you huff everything at that goddamn hospital you work at so necrophilia is probably totally straight but it’s not my fucking scene alright?

You are fucking dumb just wait a minute.

They stare down at her, obvious blunt trauma to the head, probably a car accident, most likely internal injuries, but her high cheek bones and aristocrat nose give away the fact that she’s absolutely beautiful. Her body is fine toned and elegant, with pert breast, perfect C cups. After staring mesmerized for a moment Tyler takes his hand and strokes the left breast feeling its abnormally cold sensation yet exquisite shape.

Mmm! She’s so tasty!

Tyler she’s fucking dead.

Her head jerks up and with violent reflex tries to rip at Tyler’s arm.

WHAT THE FUCK MAN!

HA HA! I fucking told you, where’s my money?

Jared hands him a crisp $20 and circles the steel table looking down on the girl who had moments ago been undeniably dead, her blonde hair matted with blood and her eyes unfocused, all that seemed active was her chomping mouth. The sound of teeth striking teeth made Jared shudder.

What is this man? What did you do to her? Why is she like THIS?

I told you J, she came in, she layed  on my table and as I put the scalpel between her titties she nearly took my fucking arm off. Voila.

She’s fucking dead.

No shit ass wipe. I did more tests on her than on a fucking lab rat and lights are on but no one is home! Her vitals are zero, flatlined, she’s got nothing happening, and yet here we are trying to keep her bitey bitch mouth from snacking down on our dicks!

Zombie.

Zombie.

No fucking way. What are you gonna do with her?

Well, I was gonna spread her little legs and stick my cock right up there until I blow my load all over her deceased tits. But, I don’t know what the fuck this is, which is why I brought you down here, I mean if I fuck her do I become all Night of the Living Dead?

You want me to do a toxicology report on her?

Yeah Mister Chemistry! Tell me whats going on in that sadly departed snatch.

You’re a sick fuck Tyler.

Taking blood and tissue samples while trying to avoid the avid nibbles of Miss Zombie USA, Jared studied her closely, noticing the marked bluish skin of a days worth of death setting in. Her motor functions were choppy and awkward, probably from the setting in of rigor mortis taking its toll. No there was no mistaking this girl was fucking dead, fucking worm bait, a goddamn cuntalicious corpse. What the fuck? He was starting to think like Tyler, he could feel his dick getting hard as he took the samples and tried to hide the desire he was feeling towards a decomposing Venus.

Got it?

Yeah. I got it. I have to take it back to my lab across campus I should have something by tomorrow.

That’s my boy!

Tyler slapped his shoulder and handed back the 20 Jared had given him for the doubts he posed. Jared walked to the lab while the clock was edging towards 3 AM. Sitting at the lab stool he pulled out his samples and started going over anomalies in their girls tissue and DNA. She was as fascinating under the microscope as on the table, her blood components had extra DNA identifiers and the tissue samples proved to react even though they were separated from their host organ. Jared managed to isolate the real intruder though, it was a clear virus he found in one of his samples. The virus was multiplying and replicating DNA strands with the added identifiers which meant the samples were in fact GROWING right before his eyes. They were growing separately from their host, it almost seemed as if they were trying to build a whole new girl, create some way to spread themselves. He picked up one of the lab rats and injected him with the smallest amount of her blood, then put him back to wait. Within 20 minutes time the rat had died and reawakened snarling and snapping viciously. 

Fuck.

Jared headed back to the basement where he knew Tyler and his new girlfriend were holed up. He just hoped that the dumb fuck hadn’t done something monumentally stupid.

Tyler! Fucking TYLER!

Tyler rounded the corner at Jared with sickly skin, holding his stomach.

Tyler what the fuck is wrong?

I wanted her so bad Jared . . .

You didn’t.

She was just lying there tied up with her legs open, that sweet pussy man . . .

You didn’t.

I had to Jared! I was dying and you were taking forever! I figured what was the harm. . . .

Tyler slumped down grasping the wall for support.

I found out what it is Tyler, what she is. She’s infected on a massive level with a lethal virus.

Fuucckkk. . .

I don’t know what I can do Tyler.

What do you mean what you can do . . ?

Well you’re infected. This is a bad virus. I was hoping it wouldn’t come to this but I came prepared because I know what kind of fuck up you can be . . . all the fucking drugs Ty.

You came prepared with wh-wh-what?

Jared opened the duffel bag slung around his shoulder and pulled out the 9mm Glock his grandfather had left him some years ago, he’d never thought he would have a use for it. Most things aren’t anticipated.

FUCK YOU JARED! PUT THAT SHIT UP!

Tyler lunged for him, but his motor functions were deteriorating quickly, he was dying.

I told you Ty, don’t be a dumb fuck, don’t screw around with things you don’t understand, don’t stick your dick in a FUCKING ZOMBIE! You never fucking listen to me, and the worst part is this isn’t even gonna do it. This is just gonna kill you and knock your ass out, like pretty jaws over there.

Jared please . . . I know I’m a fuck up but I don’t deserve to die . . .

I’m sorry Ty, you’re already dead.

Jared shot Tyler point blank in the head. He pulled out a body bag and nitrile gloves. Stuffing Tyler in the bag was oddly satisfying. Fucking dick, he thought. Then he moved onto her. One in the head knocked her down and he repeated the process. The basement had a path straight to the incinerator, but dragging the bodies together was hard and Jared didn’t know how long they would stay out. He dragged one for a little while, then went back and dragged the other. As Jared rounded back to pick up Tyler’s bag he looked on at the empty bag covered with blood.

Tyler! I know you’re here! You don’t understand Ty I had to kill you like that! The virus was already taking over!

Jared spun around looking up and down the corridor, frantically gazing in all directions at once. Then the mind numbing bite came at his calf as Tyler’s zombie form pulled him down and began to tear at Jared’s flesh while he struggled to free himself.

NO! NO! NO! Noo noooouggg. .  .

Tyler was digging through his intestines eating greedily at them and ripping at his internal organs, stuffing himself on his friends innards. Then a sound made Tyler look up from his meal, the bell for first class release and the sound of raucous co-ed voices piling above him. He began moving in a different direction.

By Emily Smith-Miller