Chapter 11: The First Test
The vodka bottle felt cold and slippery in my hand, the last of the good Lithuanian stuff. Ellie stood by the back door, her chest rising and falling too fast. She’d undone the top buttons of her shirt, exposing the pale swell of her breasts, her skin gleaming with a fine sheen of sweat. Nancy stood beside her, having shimmied out of her jeans so she stood in just a thin t-shirt and panties, her long curls a deliberate curtain.
“It can still bite,” Mary whispered, her voice a dry rustle. She held the crowbar, its end darkened from Phil. I had the pliers and a small hammer from the toolkit. Our surgical instruments.
“That’s phase two,” I said. “Lure and secure first. On three.”
Ellie pulled the door open. The backyard air was a wall of humidity and decay. The thing was there, just beyond the sagging chain-link, its back to us. It turned slowly at the sound. Its eyes were milky, but they fixed on the movement, on the exposed skin. It made a wet, clicking sound deep in its throat and began shuffling toward the open door.
Ellie backed up, leading it inside. Nancy mimicked her, a deliberate sway in her hips. “That’s it,” Ellie murmured, her voice a singsong lie of welcome. “Come inside.”
It crossed the threshold. The smell hit us—rot and earth and that peculiar, pungent musk. Mary and I were pressed flat against the wall behind the door. As its head turned to follow Ellie, Mary moved.
The crowbar swung in a tight, vicious arc, connecting with the back of its knees. The bone cracked with a sound like green wood. It went down hard, face-first onto the rug. I was on its back before it could push up, my knees digging into its spine. Its arms flailed, fingers clawing. Nancy lunged, sitting on its legs, her weight pinning them.
“Now, Amy!” Ellie barked, all pretense of seduction gone.
I forced the pliers into its mouth. It was like working on a machine, a broken puppet. The teeth were yellowed but strong. I didn’t think about what I was doing. I positioned the jaws of the pliers around a front incisor and rocked back with all my weight. A crack, a tear, a spurt of blackish fluid. I dropped the tooth to the floor and moved to the next. The thing beneath me bucked and gurgled. Mary stood over its head, crowbar raised, a silent promise of final violence if it threw me off.
Canine. Molar. I worked methodically, emptying its mouth. Ellie handed me the hammer. I took its hand, splayed the cold, twitching fingers against the floor, and brought the hammer down on each nail, splitting the keratin and crushing the beds beneath. I repeated it for the other hand. The process was brutal, efficient. Ten minutes. Maybe less.
It stopped struggling, lying limp except for a faint, perpetual tremor. And through it all, the erection hadn’t flagged. It pressed against the floor, ruddy and thick, a hideous paradox of life in the dead flesh.
“The shed,” I said, my voice raw.
We dragged it, a dead weight of nightmare fuel, across the gritty linoleum and out the back. The sun was blinding. The tool shed door stood open, a dark mouth. We hauled it inside, onto the old, stained tarp we’d laid out. The air was thick with the smell of motor oil and dust.
Mary secured a final chain around its ankles, padlocking it to a heavy metal ring bolted to the floor—my installation from week two of the collapse. We all stood back, breathing hard, looking at our captive.
Ellie was the first to move. Her hands went to the buttons of her shirt. “We sterilized the threat,” she said, as if convincing herself. “This is just anatomy now. A resource.”
Nancy peeled her shirt over her head. Her nipples were hard peaks in the dim light. Mary, ever practical, simply shoved her shorts down her thighs.
The need was a physical shove, a scream in the blood. There was no tenderness, no preamble. We were upon it.
Ellie went first, straddling its hips. She guided the head of its cock to her opening, already slick with her own desperate arousal. She sank down onto it with a sharp, guttural cry that was equal parts pain and profound relief.
“Fuck,” she gasped, her head falling back. “Oh, god, it’s so… deep.”
She began to ride it, a frantic, driving rhythm. The thing beneath her jerked, its hands—blunt, broken things—coming up to paw clumsily at her thighs. I watched, my cunt throbbing in time with her movements. She came quickly, screaming, her body clamping down in violent waves.
She rolled off, collapsing onto the tarp, spent and glistening. “Your turn,” she panted at Nancy.
Nancy needed no urging. She was already positioning herself, lowering herself onto the shaft still wet from her mother. Her eyes rolled back as she took its full length. “It’s hitting my cervix,” she moaned, the words slurred. “I can feel it in my womb. It’s so fucking deep.”
She fucked herself on it with an artless, brutal need, her curls sticking to her face. The shed filled with the sounds of slapping skin, ragged breathing, and the creature’s low, constant groan. Nancy’s climax was a silent, shaking thing, her mouth open in a soundless scream before she crumpled sideways.
Mary looked at me, a challenge in her eyes. She lay on her back on the tarp, pulled the thing on top of her by its shoulders, and guided it into her. It needed no further instruction. A primal reflex took over. It began to piston into her with a rough, mechanical rhythm.
“It’s… efficient,” Mary gritted out, her hips meeting each thrust. “The angle is… optimal.” Her clinical analysis dissolved into a series of broken, filthy pleas. “Oh fuck, yes, right there, you dead fucking thing, fill me up.”
I was last. My turn. When Mary was done, her body limp and twitching, I pushed the creature onto its back. I mounted it, taking its cock into my aching, empty heat. The penetration was obscene, a stretching fullness that bordered on pain, then vaulted past it into a blinding, white-hot pleasure. My logical mind short-circuited. There was only sensation, the brutal friction, the animalistic drive.
I rode it like it was a tool, my tool, fucking myself on it until my vision blurred and my throat was raw from screaming. My orgasm tore through me, a convulsive, wrenching spasm that felt like my insides were being reorganized. I collapsed forward, my hands on its cold, still chest.
Silence, but for our heaving breaths. The thing lay motionless beneath me, except for the slow, shallow rise and fall of its ribs. It was still hard inside me.
I slowly pushed myself up, disengaging. We all looked at each other, then at the creature. Our violent, shared release hung in the air, a new kind of intimacy, dark and sticky.
Ellie finally spoke, her voice wonderstruck and horrified. “It’s still breathing.”
Mary sat up, wiping her face. She stared at the evident, persistent erection. “And it’s still… viable.”
The implication settled over us, heavier than the heat. This wasn’t a one-time resource extraction.
We had caught something. And now we had to keep it.