Invasion (5 page)

Yes, Carly! You will wear me! Part of me will become you!

The skin is the largest organ and it absorbs most of what is put on it. She’ll have me closer than her eyelashes, and not know it. I’ve been in her shower, rubbed her monogrammed towel all over myself, inside the sanctum of her privacy.

I smooth the remaining creams over my body so her scent will sing me lullabies after stirring my jizz inside her cream. Leaving the bathroom I jump on her bed, tumbling over her soft beige down-duvet.

The sensation of clouds beneath my now sated body leaves me gratified while my fingers pluck
the cotton comforter. An unfamiliar sound disturbs the tranquility. My unconventional sexual release flees as my ears become my best friend. Still completely naked, I tiptoe out of Carly’s bedroom carefully. The ligaments, tendons, and muscles in my legs and feet have me responding like a combative predator. An able and camouflaged one who knows unerringly how to react in a crisis.

I am David Hearse. Unstable, yet put together. Insane, but systematic in technique. Stealth mode is engaged while I seek the disturbance.

As I reach the bottom of the stairs, I lay on my belly, leopard crawling like a soldier who is advancing on
his opponent. Another racket reverberates at
the kitchen window as my naked skin reacts to the cool tiles of the kitchen floor.

Without hesitation I become shadow, thieving two knives from the butcher’s block, shielding my presence with adept ease. Testing they’re honed by wet stone I unintentionally slice the pad of my finger, and I’m sucking on it while watching an intruder trying to jimmy the lock that I picked without effort. Pathetic.

He’s going to scuff the metal, alerting the damsel to invasion when I need to remain undetected. If I don’t stop the fuckwit right this second he’ll blow my cover when she returns.

I just got warm and relaxed, dipshit! You’re going to pay for making me open the door to below freezing temperatures while naked and clammy.

Sidling against the section of wall next to the door I remain concealed while watching the silhouette through the six panes of glass occupying the top half. Next he’ll break the window because he can’t pick a lock, then I’ll have to break his legs before I end him. He should’ve stuck to picking his nose.

In one fluid move I unlock the door, step onto the cold concrete and stab the first blade directly to the carotid, the second I thrust through the assailant’s eye. Releasing the handles of both I clamp a hand over his mouth, maneuver behind him and lock his neck in arm muscle, squeezing until the muffled shriek of shock and pain ceases. The entire strike only took two seconds. God damn I’m faster than black lightning.

With him slack in my hold, I shuffle, doing my best to alleviate the fresh assault of ache riddling up through my shins, cramping the tendons to my toes.

Fuck. Now I’ve got blood on me, am cold, have dirty feet, and his body just relaxed post mortem and the smell is sour enough to make my eyes water.

So who am I? Well it would seem that I have one answer.

I am David Hearse.

A proficient killer.

There is nothing quite like the stench of defecation. Corpses disgust me. The fact that we lose all dignity once spirit is severed from the meat-suit is revulsive.

All I can smell is offensive
shit
.

Man, this dude must’ve eaten chicken feet and poo-infused beer before stopping by to break into my den. Wrong house, motherfucker. Just because there’s n
o
‘
beware of the dog’ sign doesn’t mean a rabid beast doesn’t dwell within.

It’s too damn cold to bury a body; the ground will be too hard and way too much effort to unearth. I can’t exactly leave him here, I’m gonna have to move him to the basement until I figure out how to discreetly dispose of him.

Assholes never think. This is inconvenient and not on my agenda. He has the choice of the entire neighborhood and he chooses this house to burglarize. Fuckenhell, it’s balls. Balls, baws, and bollocks.

Hefting him onto my shoulders it strikes me again how my strength and agility is ingrained and effortless. I’m a machine, like I’m trained to fight, powerful and lethal.

Catching my reflection in the kitchen window I pause, the cadaver slung across my shoulders like fresh prey:
Who are you? How do you know how to disarm and slay with such ease?

Shaking off talking to my counterfeit image I hurry us indoors, pausing once more on the threshold to peruse the perimeter. One can never be too cautious or vigilant.

Nothing moves, the breeze has withered to stillness, the stink of death lingers like mustard gas. Tough luck, it is what it is.

Moving with stealth and speed I storm inside and secure the door, carrying the slain down to the basement.

Winter is a bitter bitch, she really is. Upstairs is cozy and climate controlled, down here is like entering the morgue. I’ll never age in the basement, it’s so frosty I’ll be cryogenically frozen before dawn breaks. This status has to be corrected.

It’s clear by the dust on the steps that she never comes down here. It’s a home for me until other arrangements can be made, until good fortune joins my bed and blesses my palms. She’s holding me hostage and I can’t pay a ransom for a life I can’t imagine. I must have a home somewhere, but until I remember something useful this is as good a place as any.

First off I have to dust those steps so my footsteps aren’t noticeable, then rearrange the clutter on the left. Those cocksucker boxes piled high, if I shift them closer by a few feet I can make a cardboard fort she won’t see me behind, a lair for the bogeyman. Clearly Mark isn’t getting his stuff back anytime soon, so logic dictates that’s the pile to bunk behind. He might want in her pants but if he wanted his gear he’d fucking have it, wouldn’t he?

But this cold, shit, it’s cruel and punishing.

Dumping the asshole I go snooping deeper, rummaging behind a maze of clutter, and hit the jackpot! There’s a boiler down here, one with a furnace. I can light the burner and kill two deer with one bullet. Heat
and
cremating the dude, boom, problem solved.

See that, I’m a problem solver. I was probably some lost fart working in IT. Nah, maybe not. Do lost farts have tattoos and the physique of Zeus? Maybe I was a vain boy more in love with himself than pussy, using every spare moment to pump iron and pose at the gym.

Ha!

Anything’s fucking possible, but seeing Carly’s photo sure interested my ravenous hormones. I’ve had the itch to fondle an orgasm out of the awkward bulge for an hour now.

Plus murder makes me hard. This I’ve now discovered. I’m surprised I can remain upright I have so much blood flowing to my wood.

Leaving the fuckwit in front of the boiler, I hunker down, searching for the pilot light. Perfect. It’s got two systems set up, one is obviously the backup plan in power outages. She’s got the old school furnace fully loaded with wood and anthracite, which burns so hot it’ll melt the skin right off your face. Naturally I select old school.

It takes some doing but I get the pyre going, leaving it to get storming hot before I dump the deceased into it to hide my crime.

Resting my hand on the boiler, I snatch it back just as fast. It’s still blistering. That means I can have a hot shower and sterilize the stink of feces from my sinus cavity. Excellent.

Stepping over the crumpled dude in black, double checking by bending down to test for a pulse, satisfied he’ll be as cold as this room shortly, I head on upstairs like the king of Croatia.

If there is one thing I fucking hate in this life it’s doing something twice for no good reason.

After this shower I’m hitting the food again, and the beer, and maybe I deserve some RnR with a DVD for saving her home from a common criminal. I earned it, didn’t I?

See Fate, I’m earning my keep already.

No need to thank me, I’ll get my dues.

Why the fuck do I talk to fate? Fate’s done nothing but fuck me. No more of this shit. I want to snoop, to hold the clothing in Carly’s closet to my face, inhaling her while I fuck her lingerie drawer. I want to fuck everything that belongs to her – then I’m gonna fuck her.

One way or another.

I fingered far more than your possessions

I fondled your hidden screams and dreams

N
ow that I’m warm and clean I head back to the basement, this time taking supplies with me. As tempting as it is to sleep in her bed I worry about DNA transference. If I can find money stashed away I can buy myself new threads
and
get peroxide to add to the laundry. Everyone knows hydrogen peroxide destroys DNA evidence.

Everyone knows this, right?

Or is it just me?

What the hell did I do for a living that I know this?

So yeah, I’m taking the old bedding left at the very top of the closet in sealed plastic bags, so she won’t notice they’re gone anytime soon. Quilts, blankets, and duvets. It’ll provide some insulation against the merciless elements, and padding against the hard floor.

If I find money I can get peroxide, lots of it, then I can sleep in a real bed tonight, in the one with the electric blanket in the room with underfloor heating.

Hitting my cocksucker-fort of boxes I arrange my bed, then rifle through more boxes looking for thermal clothing. This house was inhabited by hobbits, they’re all so tiny that it seems Mark had a fat phase where he outgrew the stuff hidden down here. In the photo he’s trim, the clothing stashed down here would fall off him now. Luckily fortune is smiling on me because my thighs are thick, but not with fat, and his fat phase fit me by the merest margin. Putting the clothes in a neat pile, I continue with my current agenda.

I’ve now seen my naked form in a mirror and I’m admirably shredded. Even I’d bone me. I’m good looking, built like a dictator, and have a charismatic aura. I can’t define it but I look like I own the world, which is a paradox because I own exactly nothing. My eyes are sharp, like I’ve seen too much and have been a pillow friend to pain for many years. I didn’t even know what color my eyes are. Now I at least know. Bland and brown. I’m bulky with muscle, like I train as an obsession. Yet I don’t move like a bodybuilder, I’m fluid and graceful. It’s frustrating the fuck out of me trying to define myself, when in this world the one person I should know inside out is me.

The more I think about it the more I am leaning toward me being mafia, or some high up criminal figure with impressive connections.

After rummaging around I move back to the furnace, using the wooden handle of the pick I found in the garage to open the door.

The heat blisters out in a warped mirage, hazing the atmosphere with incinerating fervor. I look at the ready funeral pyre, then the skinny dude in black. I’m not sure he’ll fit easily in one go.

Fuck my life.

Pissy, I go stomping back to the garage, selecting a chisel, mallet, and then stopping in the kitchen to grab a trash bag and the meat cleaver.

I’m still in a fucking towel, but know I’ll get it washed before my pixie damsel returns to her castle. Reaching the bottom step I head into the deep recesses of her rudimentary basement. Half of it has shelving and cupboards, which I’ve examined at length, pleased she’s got someone who loves to do canning, enough for nuclear fallout and three years underground. Maybe this is gonna be her panic room? Her bunker for WWIII? But, it means I can eat even when she’s home. She’s one person and there’s no way she can get through this stockpile on her own. She’ll never miss what I pilfer.

Halting at the dead dude, looking from him to the furnace door, I choose the extremities first. Lining up the wide chisel under his kneecap I use significant force with the mallet, popping the kneecap off and severing through tendon. A few brutal clefts later and I have the meat cleaver through the joint and muscle.

Making short work of removing the bottom half of his legs, those go in first. Thank god dead dudes don’t bleed like a live body does. When the heart is pumping, blood gushes, but it’s cold down here and he’s been chilling for a good hour already. It helps the blood coagulate, making it sticky rather than viscous. The trash bag does what I need it to, and he’s a good boy now, not making too much mess.

Fucking inconvenient asswipe.

I’m loathe to remove the femurs because at the top where they join the pelvis I know the asshole crapped his pants, and I’m not keen to touch that filth. Chucking the lower limbs into the furnace, poking it about with the chisel to make sure there’s room for all of him, the singeing of my arm hairs is warning enough that this anthracite is dangerously recalescent.

I step back, choosing his arms next, then the neck.

Decapitating is surprisingly easy. Three chisel whacks to the atlas vertebra, a sharp chop to the tendons with the cleaver, and the man is headless. I chuck that in with his arms, leaving just his torso and thighs remaining.

The smell in here is suffocating with blazing hair and scorching flesh. His eyeballs are already melting, the marrow is sizzling out of the bones, and something just popped so loudly it sounded like a gunshot. Thank fuck this room has no windows or the light and sound would travel.

The great thing about basements is they’re below ground, which makes the traveling of sound waves near impossible. Sound travels forever in space because there is no dense matter in the way to kill the wave. A basement is surrounded with earth and rock which serves as soundproofing. Subterranean detonations are only heard if they’re massive enough to fell a mountain or building, simple nocturnal activity like I’m engaging in will go undetected by all but the most sensitive of ears. An owl might hear this, a dog might too, but humans will remain oblivious.

Confident no one will investigate the unusual disturbances I heft up his torso and cram it into the inferno, bending his thighs up so they dislocate, and with effort I get the reinforced door closed and latched. Now I just have to make sure that thing burns until he’s nothing more than a pile of ash.

I’m glistening with exertion, the unfortunate reaction to the raw heat of the afore-opened furnace. Wiping myself down with my bath towel I’m hungry and thirsty, and too hot for clothes. The plastic bag remains, I’ll take care of it later.

For emergencies I have hurricane lamps in my cardboard den, a few weapons I uncovered around the homestead, and the blankets I’ll have against my skin are incredibly soft mink-feel. Only one pair of shoes fit me in the boxes down here, but a few oversized flannel shirts fit like they were tailored for me. I’m sorted and can hide quickly should someone arrive unexpectedly. I just need to destroy the idiot who tried to break in, then I can extinguish the furnace fire and no one will be any the wiser.

After that phone call I’m half expecting Mark to show up in the next few days. I’ll be ready when he does.

If he gets in, he won’t be leaving alive.

In nothing more than a towel wrapped on my hips because I’m a bastard who turned up the climate control so I’m warmer than the equator, I peruse the DVD selection, a cold beer waiting on the glass table next to the La-z-boy, another frozen dinner freshly nuked and balanced on my palm.

Some chick named Aunt Jackie left a shipment of homemade dinners in the freezer, and my god this woman needs a man to go down on her so hard heaven hears her screams, cos if I had a woman who can cook like this I might never let her leave the kitchen.

After being deep in the grit for so long I’m finding this sojourn into luxury and plenty a balm on my corroded soul.

Chick flicks with cute main characters and dorky dudes make up the bulk of her movie collection. Sleepless in Seattle, When Harry met Sally, Bridget Jones blah blah blah, and then the unmarked collection are uncovered behind her box set of Harry Potters. Bingo!

Selecting the top one I pop it into the player, move to the leather throne of luxury, and hit play after a deep slug of frosty brew. Goddamn I’m happy being a squatter.

With a heaped spoon of lamb curry and rice halfway to my mouth, the moan of ecstasy from the sound system mummifies all thought. When a woman reacts to sensual sensations and releases a primeval coo of appreciation, it’s primordial. It’s basic instinct, it is the celestial song borne of blood for the reptilian brain. The urge to fuck is an involuntary reflex; my towel tents with enthusiasm while my appetite obliterates. My veins are flooding with sex steroids and my gonads impulsively tighten.

I don’t give a shit about my undernourished stomach, even my brew is put down when I lean forward, elbows on knees, taking in the scene like a peeping sleaze freezing my eyeball looking in a wintery window.

Carly’s cute little body, her gasp so pained and exquisite.

“Mark, it hurts.”

I’m loving Mark’s talent as a cinematographer. He zooms in on her on all fours, pussy facing the camera, walking closer, the camera panning to penetration, stretching the little pink hole wide, and her moans are enough to shatter any thoughts I had of sobriety.

Mark’s got a spiked collar against her throat, her head confined to the mattress, everything else hanging free, wet and sweet and forbidden. He’s pillaging like a Viking in a Saxon camp and I can’t help but be him in this moment, imagining the constriction and warmth, with all that sexy stimulation lubricating every thrust.

The camera pans and I see the hook in her nose, keeping her still, her palms poised above glowing hotplates. If she falls she’ll burn.

Jesus!

She’s straining to hold herself to maintain slack on the fishhook in her nose, so it doesn’t sever the flesh between her nostrils, but every time he stabs into her with his cock she shunts, barely staying off the cauterizing pain of the ember-hot discs. She’s got sweat basting her spine, her muscles spasming with effort, and yet still she evicts these keens of lust like the danger is her pinnacle, her climax space.

I’m stroking myself so hard at this imagery I’m surprised I haven’t chaffed myself a palm of blisters.

Fuck!

Yes!

She’s whimpering, he’s roaring, her eyeball is so close to the spike-strip at the end of the bed that she’s got blood under her eyelashes and I erupt in a shattering explosion of jizz, shooting it clear across the room like a sniper, hitting the screen, watching my cum drool down her cunt while I’m depleted of essence and sanctity.

The moment is perfect, he’s closing into the view inside her, at the cum leaking out of her, and it’s meeting mine and becoming a cohesive living moment.

My heart is thrashing, my blood is boiling, my breath is quivering out of me like I’ve been tortured, and I collapse back into the padding, shaking, trembling like a druggie, finally noticing the leather straps, the crop welts on her tush, the bruises inside her thighs.

“You like it when it hurts, don’t you Carly?”

“I’m burning, jesus christ Mark HELP ME!”

“What do you say?”

She’s sobbing, a faint haze of smoke emerging from the front of the bed.

“What. Do. You. Say?” demands Mark, the coaxing tone forgone.

“I love you. I need you to hurt me. I’m a slut. Sluts deserve to know hell because that’s where I’m going.”

She elicits a squeal of terror, of surrender, drenched in a hopelessness that spits in the stoup of my soul.

“What do you say, Carly?” he snaps, with his palm now on the back of her head, pressing down, driving a spike under her eyeball.

Fuck! He’s going to blind her if he doesn’t cut that shit!