Author’s Note:
This is an unedited, ongoing serial that will eventually be published in novel form. Plot/characters/elements are subject to change as it is being written. It’s currently in 1st person/present tense, but I may change it to past tense, excluding the first chapter which will act as an intro. Read at your own discretion and take note of story tags below.
Genre: Post-Apocalyptic sci-fi
Tags: prostitution, graphic sex, large age gap, violence, theft, drug/alcohol abuse, depression, rape, gang rape, cannibalism, murder, incest, child/infant death and abuse, general abuse, (more to be added as the story goes)
In the center of the room, a man is hanging upside-down, suspended from his ankles from a metal frame, his legs held apart. A woman in high heels is helping another man feed a big chain into the first guy’s ass. I wince, watching the thick greased links slip into his body one at a time. The thing’s gotta weigh twenty pounds at least. I can’t imagine what that does to your intestines. The man’s face is covered in a black mask and his body is shiny from sweat. No way to tell if he’s enjoying this or not. The last foot of chain disappears into him, his belly visibly distending, and I think I hear a moan. His thighs start twitching, from pain or pleasure or both, and I shake my head, cracking open another bottle of beer. The shit people get off on, I swear.
I take another look at the woman in heels. She’s young and pretty with big antigravity tits, but her most interesting trait is the long tail, like a cat’s, grafted to her backside. It sways as she walks, the end swishing from side to side as she smiles and gestures to the chain-filled-man like he’s some sort of prize we’ve all won. There's a metallic glint near the tip of her tail where the fake fur has worn away from brushing against the ground.
The performers get a smattering of applause as she bows, and I snort, shaking my head again. At that moment, the woman makes eye contact—I sigh, thinking about her shabby tail, so give her an apologetic smile and dutifully press my thumb to the closest of the small screens mounted on the bar, transferring her a few credits. After all, I’m loaded now, aren’t I? Might as well spend it while I got it… it’s not like we have three mouths to feed anymore.
Fucking hell. I down the bottle of beer and push the cracked button for another. A second later, a hole opens up in the bar and another aluminum bottle emerges. I grimace as I twist off the cap. Drinking beer from the bottle is always going to feel a little perverse after seeing what Apple gets up to. Oh goddamnit. How do I keep my idiot brain from revisiting him every chance it gets?
The trio on the stage are cleaning up. I missed the part where they pulled the chain out of the fella, but I can’t help but notice there’s a little pink in the spatter of lube on the shiny chrome platform. Maybe it’s better I didn’t see.
The bar has a few so-called “relief stations” to keep the patrons from getting overexcited from the non-stop porn show—in a place like this, a fist fight could easily turn into a bloody massacre—and I’m sorely tempted to use one. I’m tense and irritable and I think the beer’s actually making it worse. Maybe a little “relief” is just what the doctor ordered—since I’m not working anymore, it’s been days since I’ve had any.
The closest relief station to me is a naked young woman strapped facedown to a padded bench, ass hanging off the end, free for the taking. After a few seconds of my dick hemming and hawing about using the girl, I decide against it... she’s fast asleep.
I’m still staring when a tall skinny guy in lemon-yellow coveralls walks right up to her, squirts a bit of lube into his palm from the convenient dispenser, and sticks his dick in her ass like he hasn’t a care in the world. I can’t help but watch for a bit, surprised that she doesn’t wake up as he really starts ploughing away at her, then it occurs to me that they probably pay her more to take it unconscious.
Lip curled, I turn away, my finger tapping the worn whiskey button twice. Fuck beer. It’s too slow for what I need right now.
The next act is already up on stage by the time I’ve tossed back the first glass, the whiskey cheap and stinging in my throat, and I sit back in my seat to watch, only mildly interested in the proceedings.
“There you are.”
I turn to Pytre, frowning. “What are you doing here?” The words come out a touch slurred and I realize I might actually be a little drunk already.
“Looking for you.” He rubs the bright copper fuzz on his head, his attention turning to the stage. A crease appears between his brows.
“Hey, you uh, shouldn’t be in a place like this,” I say, but fuck me if I'm not happy to see him.
“What are they… doing?” he asks in a strangled voice, his eyes wide.
I turn back to the stage. “Well… right now she’s… uh”—there’s a clear bag hanging on a hook over the performers, filled with a milky liquid—“getting an enema. Then, I’m guessing those two guys are going to stick everything on that table up her ass.”
“Who in the loving Rime would enjoy this?” Pytre says, looking away from the display, his cheeks visibly flushed even in the dark of the bar.
I laugh. “Klismaphiles and sadomasochists? I don’t know.”
“Are you enjoying this?”
When I first met the ex-Rimer, I’d tried to shock him over and over to no avail, but now that I see him so obviously flustered, I sort of feel bad for laughing. I take a sip of whiskey, and shrug before answering.
“Honestly, I can take it or leave it.” I think back to the necro blood fuckers I saw, months ago it feels like—now, that bar makes this one look like church. “But no. Not really. Just came for a drink.”
Pytre just stares at me for a few moments before saying, “Don’t worry, Asher. He’ll come.”
“We’re leaving tomorrow.”
“He’ll come,” he repeats. “I know it.”
“Why? Have you been praying?”
Pytre’s expression hardens. “I don’t pray anymore.”
“Right. Sorry,” I mumble, breaking away from the bitterness in his eyes to stare into my empty glass. I think faith is bullshit, but I can’t help but feel sorry for him. “I hope you’re right.”
The woman on stage lets out a squeal and I look up to see Pytre watching the show, his mouth slack. Is that me, or do I see a hint of… interest in his expression? I grin. Maybe there’s hope for us yet. Not that fucking him is really a priority anymore. I think—and I might be wrong—but, I think I just want him around.
Fucking him would be nice too…
I frown, adjusting my semi with my free hand. My libido’s working overtime, what with my newfound freedom from whoring and no Apple around to help me out with my needs—dammit. I close my eyes, holding my dick through my pants, my brain playing a crisp projection of Apple riding my cock that last night. If he does come back… was that just a goodbye-fuck? A one-time offer? I grit my teeth and take a deep breath through my nose, turning away from Pytre and the stage.
There are two young attendants at the relief station now, untying the sleeping woman. One of the boys presses a device to her shoulder and her lids slowly lift. She yawns, rubbing her face sleepily as she sits up and stretches languidly. The taller boy drapes a pale-blue silken robe over her shoulders and she ties it at the waist with a loose bow. Smiling at the boy, she says a few words, some friendly banter, and he laughs. The other boy places a wine glass in her hand and she pats his cheek, a loving little gesture that is so completely at odds with the surroundings that it hits me with a weird pang. I clear my throat, blinking fast because my vision is swimming. I haven’t slept well in days and it’s starting to affect me.
As the young woman walks away, a tall boy with curly blond hair is led to the padded bench by more attendants and, because my eyes are still blurry, for one or two long seconds I think it’s Apple. But no. This boy’s not half as pretty as my Apple.
My Apple. Shit.
“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” I growl and grab Pytre by the collar of his jacket. The ex-Rimer lets out a surprised squawk as I start dragging him out of the bar—he grabs my wrist with both hands as he skips clumsily sideways to keep up with me.
“Hey, let go,” he says, tripping over his feet, but I just pull him through the doorway and then shove him into the narrow alley next to the bar.
I’ve got him up against the yellow bricks in a heartbeat, my mouth crushed against his so hard that his teeth press painfully into my lips, but when I try to thrust my tongue into his mouth, he surprises me with a solid knee to the groin.
I fall like a stone, my hands cupping my screaming testicles, and I feel like the beer and whiskey might make a comeback… but the nausea passes after a few shaky breaths and I lay there, blinking up at Pytre.
“Sorry,” I mumble.
“I get it. You’re angry. You’re hurt—”
“My balls hurt, yeah.” I wince, but the pain is good. It’s cleared my head, for one… stamped out the ugly thing that had risen up in me just now, the thing that only knows how to break and destroy. The thing that sabotages anything good in my life because it knows I don't deserve it.
“That’s not what I meant,” Pytre says, reaching out a hand. I let him help me up and, ashamed, I watch him try to straighten the collar of his jacket.
“Sorry,” I say again.
Pytre stares at me in silence for a moment, his teeth worrying his bottom lip. His are the most expressive eyes I’ve ever seen and right now they’re full of judgment and… something else. He takes an audible breath and steps towards me. My back hits the wall and I grunt in surprise as he reaches up to touch my face. Confused, I let him pull my head down towards his.
“What are you—”
Pytre shakes his head, shushing me before touching his lips to mine. It’s a gentle kiss, nothing at all like the crap I’d just attempted, but so much more. I’m afraid to move lest the kiss ends, and it feels like my heart wants to burst out of my ribcage. I let out a groan, my hands circling Pytre’s waist on their own—it’s odd, his body is so familiar to me even though we’ve barely touched before. It takes me a sec to realize that the noise I hear is coming from me, a pathetic sounding whimper—I swear to god, if this turns out to be another goodbye, I won’t survive.
Drawing back, Pytre looks up at me, his eyes wide and cheeks mottled pink. “Let’s go back to the room.”
“Are you sure?” I don’t think my feet are touching the ground anymore.
Brow furrowed, Pytre cocks his head at me—maybe I’ve misunderstood his intention—then his eyes get real big again. “Oh.” Pytre’s whole face goes dark red. “Oh, I didn’t mean we’d… uh, I just meant… we should get back. It’s late.”
“Yeah, me too. That’s what I meant too. Let’s go back to the room,” I say, my voice a bit hoarse. “That’s a good idea.”
Pytre turns and leads the way out of the alleyway, and I follow along silently like a dog on a leash. What the hell just happened?
We climb the mesh-metal steps to our floor, and as he’s keying in the code to our room, I cough into my fist, side-eyeing Pytre. I want to ask… but what the hell do I say?
Obviously sensing my confusion, Pytre lets out a little sigh before he pushes the door open. It’s dark in the room and the air is stale and hot. “I don’t know what I want, all right?” He looks over at me. “But it’s not you forcing yourself on me.”
“Ok,” I reply, chastened. “I got it."
There’s a rustle from somewhere in the room and I’m immediately on the defensive, pushing Pytre behind me to keep him safe. I hear a snuffling noise and for one weird second, I think an animal’s broken into our room, but then the lights come on overhead. It’s Apple.
I’m on my knees in front of him, hands clutching his shoulders so I can hold him still while I stare in shock at the ruin of his face.
Pytre gasps as he falls to his knees beside me. “Rime help me.”
Both of Apple’s eyes are swollen shut, blood leaking from the corner of his left one, and there’s an egg-sized lump over that temple. His nose is broken, that much is obvious, and he’s stuffed some tissues into his nostrils to staunch the bleeding. The hardest to look at is Apple’s mouth. His bottom lip is swollen and purple, and the right side of his mouth has been ripped open, creating a ghastly, jagged grin.
Apple shudders, reaching for me blind, and lets out a wail that tears at my heart. Some of his fingers are clearly broken but that doesn’t stop him from clutching at me in desperation. I wrap him in my arms, trying to be careful, but the fury in my guts makes it hard not to crush him against me. After only a few moments, I relinquish my hold on him, pushing him roughly into Pytre embrace before getting to my feet.
“Where are you going?” Pytre says, stroking Apple’s back. He doesn’t even really know Apple but tears run freely down his cheeks for the wounded boy. Pytre’s a good man.
“I think you know.” I clench my jaw, wishing I hadn’t had that second whiskey. “If I don’t come back, you take Apple and you leave. Understand?”
Hazel eyes wide, Pytre hesitates for a moment. Then he nods.
Without another word, I leave them—I’m going to need a gun if I’m going to kill that fucker Turk.