yard with a shotgun in his fleshy mitts. He ran right up to the ice cream man, pointed the shotgun at the man’s chest and fired.
Boom!
The ice cream man flew backward and landed on the asphalt, his arms akimbo, the white of his shirt blasted dark and wet. The man with the shotgun stood over him and
(Boom!)
blew his face away.
“C’mon, man, we gotta boogie,” Josh urged. “They’re killin’ everybody.”
“My car…” James sputtered and blew a mushy chunk of vomitus off his lower lip.
“Fuck it. It won’t start. C’mon. They’re all buggin’.”
More gunshots rang out somewhere close by. The man with the shotgun started blasting the Moo Goo truck, scattering the marauding kids.
“Fuckin’ combat zone,” James said, his voice hoarse with awed wonder and foul-tasting phlegm. He got to his feet, and he and Josh ran toward the street.
“The bell,” he said as they ran side by side down the centerline. “That fuckin’ church bell. Runnin’ people crazy.”
* * *
Candace drifted through dimensionless darkness. The pain was there, lurking just below the oily surface. She didn’t want to wake up because she knew the pain would be more than she could bear. Better to stay here in the dark, hidden from the demons and the torment of pain. Hidden from the world’s evil. The goodness had to survive. Had to be protected. Had to be nurtured. Evil would abort the good before it could be born. The demons were everywhere, sniffing out innocent prey, intent on murder and degradation.
Abomination.
Voices seeped into the darkness, opening dirty channels of distortion, filthy light.
“…’s dead.”
“…sh’ain’t dead.”
“…lotza blood.”
“…cuntz.”
“…titty…”
“Sheeit…”
“…mama…”
Crack.
She felt the sting on her cheek.
Light flooded the darkness.
She opened her eyes and the pain rushed in with infected light. Fierce inflammation suffused her flesh and bone and palpated the inner core of her being with rude fingers.
The demons hovered above her, leering down with wicked teeth and scum-dripping eyes. A blade flashed steel lightning. The copper scent of fevered blood misted her nostrils and coated the back of her raw throat.
She had no mouth with which to scream.
So she screamed with her entire body. Blood shrilled from her pores. The fine hairs in her flesh sent signals of agony. Her dislocated spirit called out in desperation to God.
Hell’s bell shuddered the whole world.
Something broke loose deep within her engorged belly.
My baby. God help me.
* * *
Daisy Winter downed the last of the vodka, worked up a belch that pleasantly burned the inside of her nose, then pulled her elastic slacks over her wide hips and stepped into her sandals. She didn’t bother to run a brush through her hair or to check her make-up in the mirror (she didn’t think she was even wearing make-up but she couldn’t remember for sure).
She was sure of only one thing: She had to walk across the street and go to the place where the great iron bell was still ringing.
The train of rolling orgasms had left her legs weak and wobbly, but they had also energized her in some strange way. She surmised that by releasing all that pent-up sexual energy through manual stimulation she had recharged her psychic batteries in ways only sexperts could explain. Like the guy she’d seen on Oprah last week who talked about “orgone” or some such. Said it was this invisible sexual energy that flowed around the body and sometimes got blocked, and when it was blocked, you were fucked—not literally—and you needed a good fucking to get the stuff flowing again. Otherwise, you would stay frustrated and bitchy as hell. It made sense to her. Masturbation had its place, but it was a poor substitute for fucking your ass off. And Daisy knew that what she needed (and wanted) now was some serious fucking. Someone to lay the pipe to her and drill her eyeballs out.
She touched her injured eye as she mounted
Boom!
The ice cream man flew backward and landed on the asphalt, his arms akimbo, the white of his shirt blasted dark and wet. The man with the shotgun stood over him and
(Boom!)
blew his face away.
“C’mon, man, we gotta boogie,” Josh urged. “They’re killin’ everybody.”
“My car…” James sputtered and blew a mushy chunk of vomitus off his lower lip.
“Fuck it. It won’t start. C’mon. They’re all buggin’.”
More gunshots rang out somewhere close by. The man with the shotgun started blasting the Moo Goo truck, scattering the marauding kids.
“Fuckin’ combat zone,” James said, his voice hoarse with awed wonder and foul-tasting phlegm. He got to his feet, and he and Josh ran toward the street.
“The bell,” he said as they ran side by side down the centerline. “That fuckin’ church bell. Runnin’ people crazy.”
* * *
Candace drifted through dimensionless darkness. The pain was there, lurking just below the oily surface. She didn’t want to wake up because she knew the pain would be more than she could bear. Better to stay here in the dark, hidden from the demons and the torment of pain. Hidden from the world’s evil. The goodness had to survive. Had to be protected. Had to be nurtured. Evil would abort the good before it could be born. The demons were everywhere, sniffing out innocent prey, intent on murder and degradation.
Abomination.
Voices seeped into the darkness, opening dirty channels of distortion, filthy light.
“…’s dead.”
“…sh’ain’t dead.”
“…lotza blood.”
“…cuntz.”
“…titty…”
“Sheeit…”
“…mama…”
Crack.
She felt the sting on her cheek.
Light flooded the darkness.
She opened her eyes and the pain rushed in with infected light. Fierce inflammation suffused her flesh and bone and palpated the inner core of her being with rude fingers.
The demons hovered above her, leering down with wicked teeth and scum-dripping eyes. A blade flashed steel lightning. The copper scent of fevered blood misted her nostrils and coated the back of her raw throat.
She had no mouth with which to scream.
So she screamed with her entire body. Blood shrilled from her pores. The fine hairs in her flesh sent signals of agony. Her dislocated spirit called out in desperation to God.
Hell’s bell shuddered the whole world.
Something broke loose deep within her engorged belly.
My baby. God help me.
* * *
Daisy Winter downed the last of the vodka, worked up a belch that pleasantly burned the inside of her nose, then pulled her elastic slacks over her wide hips and stepped into her sandals. She didn’t bother to run a brush through her hair or to check her make-up in the mirror (she didn’t think she was even wearing make-up but she couldn’t remember for sure).
She was sure of only one thing: She had to walk across the street and go to the place where the great iron bell was still ringing.
The train of rolling orgasms had left her legs weak and wobbly, but they had also energized her in some strange way. She surmised that by releasing all that pent-up sexual energy through manual stimulation she had recharged her psychic batteries in ways only sexperts could explain. Like the guy she’d seen on Oprah last week who talked about “orgone” or some such. Said it was this invisible sexual energy that flowed around the body and sometimes got blocked, and when it was blocked, you were fucked—not literally—and you needed a good fucking to get the stuff flowing again. Otherwise, you would stay frustrated and bitchy as hell. It made sense to her. Masturbation had its place, but it was a poor substitute for fucking your ass off. And Daisy knew that what she needed (and wanted) now was some serious fucking. Someone to lay the pipe to her and drill her eyeballs out.
She touched her injured eye as she mounted
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