Chapter 8: Ghosts

Warning: This chapter is much darker and gorier in tone than the main story. Sex is still a central element. However this chapter is primarily about character development through trauma, which, depending on your tastes, may come at the expense of the eroticism. If this sounds like too much of a turn-off and might sour your experience of the story, feel free to just skip ahead to the next chapter, once it's posted.

The endless banality of the grey, thick forest was disturbed only by the sounds of its foreign intruders. The constant scrape of a mattress being dragged along the ground served as a backing for two pairs of sneakers marching through the brown, leafy undergrowth, out of sync with one another. It was like music being played by a trio with no souls.

Sometimes when Marcy looked back at the mattress she was pulling all she could see upon it was death. It was hard to articulate what death looked like exactly, except that it was bloody and ugly, but she just knew that the thing she was looking at was death. Even though her mind kept assuring her that it was Karen.

Other times when she looked back, Marcy saw the bubbly blonde freshman she'd met on her first week of college. A beautiful broad grin shining upon her face, excited about all the new experiences she was about to have, without a worry in the world.

Surrounding them, at a distance of about 100 yards, a darkness consumed the forest. It wasn't like a shadow cast by a cloud. This darkness twitched and swirled as if everything out there was completely covered in a layer of black insects.

Marcy recognized this darkness as well. It too was death, for death came in many forms.

With a casual glance, it looked as if the distance to the darkness remained constant. But when she really looked, Marcy could tell that the darkness was getting closer, one inch at a time. It was patient in its advance. It had no need to chase her because there was nowhere she could go to escape it - she was surrounded.

By the same token, Marcy felt no compulsion to run or scream because she knew it would do her no good. So she simply continued toting the heavy load of someone too frail to flee from the darkness without her help.

The lone contrast in her macabre surroundings was Paul. He marched beside her, his hands latched firmly upon the other corner of the mattress. The sleeves of his dark blue sweater bulged handsomely where his biceps swelled from the effort of carrying his childhood crush. He was like a virile bull the way his legs powered tirelessly on; the way the hot, heavy breath snorted from his nostrils. It gave Marcy a precious sense of comfort to have this sturdy specimen of masculine strength by her side in this awful time.

Every now and then, she'd look ahead to their destination: the shabby little log cabin at the top of the hill. The incline before her seemed insurmountable: it felt like they were trying to climb Mount Everest.

She would look ahead to her destination only briefly, before turning her gaze to other aspects of her surroundings. But each time she checked to see how much farther they needed to carry Karen, it seemed like they'd barely made any progress at all.

Then Marcy finally realized what the problem was. Her legs were moving at a normal rate, but her actual forward movement was as if she were trying to run in a swimming pool.

Nonetheless, she carried on in this fashion for several minutes, refusing to let the futility of the task deter her from doing 'what she was supposed to do'.

Then, for no particular reason, she decided that it was all ridiculous. There was no point trying to carry Karen away from the darkness. Death was already inside her. There was nothing in the cabin that could save her.

Marcy dropped her burden without a word, leaving Karen to be consumed by the darkness where she lay. She continued on ahead. Without even looking back, Marcy knew that Paul would likewise drop the mattress and follow her, because she wanted him to. She didn't know how or why, but at this time, Marcy had control over him. She could feel his unwavering gaze upon her butt as she walked. It was like he was some kind of mindless thrall in a trance.

Before she knew it, Marcy was back at the cabin. She turned the knob of the flimsy door, which had been nailed together from uneven planks, and stepped inside.

It was a pitiful little sanctuary, with only one room: a bedroom. Fortunately for Marcy, that was the only kind of room she needed to find a little comfort in these final couple of hours.

The bed, an antiquated piece made of cast iron, was pressed flush against the back wall and centered beneath a small window. It was a mess; the blood-red floral quilt had been tossed to one side and the sheets and pillows were all rumpled. Appropriate, Marcy thought, considering how the world around the cabin was crumbling to pieces. Why should the inside be in any better state?

All the same, the soft mattress looked extremely inviting. It called to her, promising a comfortable place to rest her weary legs.

She walked over and sat upon the bed in a position that was halfway between laying in repose and curled up in the fetal position. Resting an elbow upon the window sill, she gazed out into the wilderness. The darkness was still out there, still encroaching upon her. The cabin was no defence whatsoever against its advance; it was merely a more welcoming place for her to await the inevitable than the cold, dirty woods.

Without even thinking about it, she pulled one of the pillows over and held it close to her body. It was a poor substitute for Whipsie, the plush, sky-blue toy cow she had embraced for comfort in her formative years, and more than once after the crueller days of high school.

Behind her, the door opened and soon after closed again. There was no need to turn around to see who it was for there was only one other person beside herself in this godforsaken place who wasn't paralyzed with sickness.

"We're all gonna get it," Marcy lamented aloud. "We're all gonna get sick and Jeff's in the woods getting drunk."

The tired old bedsprings creaked in protest as Paul sat down by her side.

A warm hand landed atop her thigh. Marcy's legs were used to the contact of men's hands. It was quite often one of the later gestures she'd receive as they came on to her. But this time, the connection felt different. It rested upon her gently; there was no squeezing, or fondling. This was a gesture of support, not persuasion.

"No," Paul declared, barely louder than a whisper, but with a staunch confidence in his voice. "Bert's gonna get help. Karen will be fine, I promise."

The resolve in his voice actually made her feel a little more secure. A little, but not enough.

"It's like being on a plane when you know it's gonna crash," she responded, shaking her head slightly in denial of his words. "Everybody around you is yelling and screaming 'We're going down! We're doing down!' and all you really want to do is grab the person next to you and fuck the shit out of them. Because you know you're gonna be dead soon, anyway," she told him.

She spoke without an ounce of hesitation. The gathering darkness made restraint and even self-respect seem absolutely worthless. If her proposal was rejected, then so be it. But right now the only thing of value she had left to lose was the time she would waste by beating around the bush.

She gave her words a second to sink in, before she turned to Paul to check his reaction.

Marcy was surprised by Paul's expression. There was no passion reflected in his face; neither outrage, nor lust or delight. Instead, it showed only a sense of mild curiosity. He looked like a young child who had been confounded by something a world-wise adult had said, and was trying to work through it in his own mind. For a split second, the naivety she saw made her feel guilty about what she wanted to do. But then she saw the other side of Paul, the side that she had stolen glances of earlier as he powered up that impossible hill. The lively, powerful masculine side of him.

With a heavy sigh and an adamant decision that she would enjoy her "last meal" for everything it was worth, she pounced. Her lips landed upon Paul's so swiftly that he had no time to react until it was too late. His arm jerked away from her, but otherwise Paul didn't react to her hungry kisses. It was as if her warm lips were laced with venom and each attack they made paralyzed him even more.

Marcy found Paul to be incredibly malleable. With only the slightest pressure of her hand she could move him as she wished. When she didn't push him, he would hold still for as long as she wanted. With Paul completely under her control, it was easy for Marcy to get them both undressed quickly. As she had hoped, Paul's member had rapidly risen to the occasion and was ready to service her.

A sense of spirit returned to him and he pulled her naked body firmly against his own which Marcy found invigorating. They kissed passionately while Marcy struggled to maneuverer within his constraining grasp. She could feel his maleness being pinned between her mons and his own belly.

But after a few seconds she was able to position her moist opening right over his glorious rod and drop herself on to its complete length. With a brutal sense of purpose Marcy hurled Paul down on to the mattress and began riding him like a machine.