Women Scorned (10 page)

Before she could let herself get angry, it happened.

On her back, darkness hiding her. “No, don’t, I said no.” A loud ripping sound, then gray duct tape blocked her mouth. No more screaming, only muffled cries. Couldn’t breathe as the weight of him crushed her. Hard hand across her face, cheek throbbing. Stars. So many stars above the trees. “Shut up, bitch, you know you want it this way,” hissed in her ear, drool falling from his lips, cold on her neck. Favorite panties slashed off with his knife. Cold blade pressed to her throat. Him, hot and dry inside her, tearing her, pain beyond pain as he panted and groaned, rocking his force into her. Truck creaking on its shocks. Tears streamed down her face. He bit her lip. His muscles flexed. Pumping stopped. Eyes staring, he dragged the blade over her throat. Red droplets sprayed his face. He screamed. Loud, but far away. Throbbing inside her, gushing red outside. Where did the red come from? Panic fades. Body relaxes. Sky goes black. Loud ringing in her ears as world fades. Laughing.

She heard him laughing as she died.

Camilla stood in the middle of the road and screamed. Her howl echoed from building to building. Her hands flew to her throat. No blood there, no wound. It had all been a nightmare, a vision. Not real, at least not to her. But it had all felt real. Crying, she gagged and ran for the bushes. She dry heaved, remembering the fear, the look of hate in his eyes, still feeling the panic, still feeling her death. No, not her death. Someone else’s. She was okay, still here. Alive. The vision, the sensation of being someone else, experiencing another woman’s panic, pain, had only lasted a second but in her mind, it felt like several minutes.

“What the fuck?” she whispered, hands on her knees, spit hanging from her lips. She ran the back of her arm across her mouth and stood. Extending from her belly button, a glowing red cord shot into the distance, moving back and forth like a compass, pointing her body due north. She stared at it, hands on either side.

“What the fuck,” she said again. Her arms shook next to this strange new appendage. Steeling herself, she tensed her muscles and ran her fingers around the smooth surface, ready to jump back at the slightest hint of pain. When nothing happened, she swiped her fingers through the cord, tried to grab it. Nothing. It just protruded from her body, red light. She looked toward the other end. The thing seemed to connect her to the man she’d seen drive away. The man from her vision. She didn’t know how she knew this, but the idea felt right.

She ran her fingers through it again, this time slowly, relishing its presence, and licked her lips. She gazed in the direction the man had gone. For the first time in several days, she found herself hungry and knew what she craved. But it was different somehow, more intense than any hunger she’d ever felt. She rubbed her belly, but that wasn’t where she felt the churning appetite. Something deeper, something in her core screamed out to feed, but on what? She followed the line of light, in no hurry to find its end, knowing her destination would come soon anyway. Led by a craving and her own curiosity, she trudged on, no longer questioning the strangeness of her situation. As she proceeded, the blood between her legs oozed.

“Come what may, I will feed tonight,” she whispered. The thought, the voice seemed to resonate through her more than from her. She welcomed it as the stronger part of her core and kept her thoughts focused on her newfound goal.

*  *  *

Libitina followed the zombie for the entire day. Sometimes, if she made too much noise, the creature paused but never did turn around. She stopped trying to jump behind the bushes whenever Jane stopped walking. The thing didn’t seem to care that she was behind her. “In fact,” she whispered into her recorder, “I’m pretty sure she knows I’m following her. Why doesn’t she attack me? Or is she leading me to something more sinister?” Libitina had to admit, if only to herself, that she enjoyed the fear she felt when thinking about what this creature might do to her. Adrenaline kept her going long after she should’ve been tired.

They were getting closer to town. As the corpse shuffled past what looked like an abandoned building, a man ran out and hopped into a white truck. Just as he passed the zombie she jerked, then tensed. Her eyes rolled back into her head and spittle dripped from her bottom lip. The intensity of the movement only lasted a second. When it was done, the damn thing lurched into the bushes and gagged several times, producing horrid retching sounds.

Libitina held her hand cupped over her mouth during the dry heaves, suppressing her own gag reflex. Just hearing the episode made her stomach turn. Cerberus whined at her feet. When the creature finally finished, it had a new look on its face.

“She looks hungry now,” Libitina said into her recorder. “I don’t know what just happened, but it looks like her desire for food is so intense it’s making her sick. I’m still going to follow her. I want to see how she feeds. Question: is the zombie disease—that’s how I’m classifying this for the time being—anyway, is it transmitted through saliva and/or blood like they show in the movies? Will the person she feeds on also turn into a zombie?”

She thought for a moment and watched as the creature began lurching forward again but this time with more purpose. She had a direct path, an intent look about her that wasn’t there before. Libitina took the time to pause. She didn’t need to rush. It moved, well, like a zombie.

She began speaking again. “If the disease spreads, they will need to be destroyed. If she looks like she is going to kill someone, I will try to destroy her before she can do damage. I cannot allow her to feed, even in the name of science.” She sighed. “I don’t know. Maybe I should just observe her behavior, watch to see if her mind deteriorates or if her body begins to rot. So far, there are no signs of decay, only the wounds that won’t heal. I want to know how accurate everyone’s ideas are about the walking dead.”

She kept moving but kept her distance. If the creature was hungry, she could be targeted as Jane’s next meal and she didn’t want to risk that.

Dwelling on food consumption made her realize she was famished. She pulled a stick of beef jerky from her backpack and munched, not tasting its salty flavor. She gave some to Cerberus then pulled out a bottle of water and took small sips. She cupped her hand and let her dog lap some from her palm so as not to waste too much. Refreshed, she moved along, only to have a brief moment of panic when she turned a corner and the zombie wasn’t in sight.

She jogged ahead thinking Jane Doe had limped ahead a bit faster than before, but didn’t find anything. She ran back to where she’d been eating jerky and scanned the trees. There. In the distance. A glimpse of white through the brush. It had gone into the forest.

“She’s so bloody,” Libitina whispered. “How is she still bleeding?” From the distance, she could see the runnels of red on her thighs and calves coming from the wound between her legs. Would her blood be contagious?

Libitina picked up Cerberus and followed the zombie into the forest. The dog, tired from walking all day, slept in her arms.

*  *  *

The vision again, the death, every sensation as intense as fire, burning her from the inside with hatred. He raped her. He cut her throat. She died, listening to his laughter.

Shaken, Camilla stood among the trees, coming back to reality, reminding herself that she was not the woman from the visions. She gagged, head down in the bushes, nothing coming out but spit. With every part of her being, she hated this man. The visions had to stop. She would stop them and she would feed. The red cord pulsed with intensity as she got closer. This was the third time the man had raped and killed her, the third time she resorted to dry heaves on the side of the road. It had to end. She didn’t know how much more of this she could take. The closer she drew, the more intense her hunger became.

She felt drawn by this person, assured that whatever he had was something that would satiate her desire.

She suddenly became aware of something else. If she did what she felt she had to do—whatever this was—the visions would stop. She needed to meet with him somehow. Something would happen, she would feel satisfied, and the visions would cease.

She quickened her stride, as difficult as that was. Her legs didn’t want to cooperate, but she forced them on anyway, refusing to be left behind with these awful thoughts.

When she reached a town, more like a village with its quaint buildings and back country feel, she forgot about not being noticed. Though she was bloody and naked, still leaving red footprints in her wake, no one turned to look, no one asked to help. She didn’t even attempt asking for aid anymore. All her focus was on the man, the visions, and her hunger.

By the time she reached his house, the setting sun streaked the sky with pink and orange. She knew the murdering, rapist fuck-face waited inside. Did the world know what he did? She didn’t think so.

She couldn’t handle another vision. Walking through the streets, she’d needed to stop several times, shaken by the assaulting images. By now, she would do anything to destroy the meek-looking rapist. She felt like clawing his eyes out.

But no. What she had in mind would satisfy her in a way mere violence couldn’t. Though she wished him severe harm, she needed more from him. And she would have it.

Once she was on his lawn, the visions halted, replaced by the most intense fear and loathing she’d ever felt. Her body shook. She peeked through windows, waiting for him to turn out the lights. At night, she would creep in, but not until then. She clenched and unclenched her fists as she crouched under his window, rocking back and forth, squeezing her head.

Night fell. She felt the air around her cool and heard insects thrum to life around her. She stood and peeked through the window again, staying hidden though it wasn’t necessary. As he walked past the glass, he flinched, looking directly at her, but through her. He squinted and bent forward, still not seeing her. He shook his head and continued to his bedroom. She listened as he showered. She pressed her ear against the window, obscured by the fog of her breath.

Suddenly she felt herself passing through the wall. It startled her, as she appeared in his living room. She looked around, then back outside. The mist on the glass faded. She didn’t question how she’d gotten into the house. It didn’t matter. What mattered was her hunger, her only motivating desire, propelling her onward. The closer she came to him, the more insistently the red cord throbbed. She could feel it pulling her.

Down the hallway, it drove her toward the sound of running water. Moist air hung around her head, condensing on her skin. His bedroom door laid open. She walked inside, body hunched, head bent, listening, waiting in the shadows behind his bathroom door. Steam curled from the open bathroom, the scent of soap hanging in the air. The man farted. She didn’t smile.

He turned off the water.

She peered through the gap between the door and the frame, face above the center hinge. He shaved, examining his bald spot, experimenting with different styles in a vain attempt to conceal it. She watched as he flexed his muscles, checking his profile. He looked no older than thirty-five and was in relatively good shape, a fact hidden within the overly-large clothes he wore. Once through with his mirror ritual, he came into his bedroom, closing the bathroom door behind him.

Her crusted thighs stuck together as she shifted away from his closet to avoid his touch. Stains lined his carpet where she’d stood. The scent of toothpaste and aftershave wafted from him as he dug through his clothes. He picked his wardrobe, no more than a foot away from her, humming to himself.

Looking at him filled her with a deeper fear than she’d anticipated. She wanted to run away, beg for mercy, but something within her wanted to get what she came for, whatever that might be. Her belly knotted; she felt like crying, laughing, screaming, dancing; she reached out to him, her hand coming within an inch of his cheek, but then pulled back at the last second, repulsed.

She sighed, looking down at her feet. What her body told her to do didn’t make sense. She wanted to kiss him, to breathe him in. Whatever she needed from him, whatever her body craved, was in his breath. She could taste it from within the small space between them.

When he shifted away from the closet—shirt, tie, and pants in tow—she looked up at him and squinted. She longed to taste this intangible part of him, needed it filling her. But what would it do to him? Hate spurred her forward, a few steps closer to where he stood, arranging his clothes over the back of a lounge chair in such a way to avoid wrinkles. She could do it. She could take this intangible element from him, leave him here and never look back. It didn’t matter what happened to him. Nothing mattered. All that mattered lived in his breath, and she could have it all with one simple kiss.

She scuttled to him, licking her lips, reaching out to him, fingers like claws clenching and unclenching, ready to grab.

He straightened from his task and turned, facing her.

“Hello?”

“No one’s here,” she whispered. He looked through her bleeding face, looked around the room. Air caught in his throat.
I could take it
, she thought, but held herself back. She moved close to him, leaning upwards, inhaling his scent in one long motion. As she exhaled in a slow sigh of pleasure, she closed her eyes and licked her lips again, leaning forward as if to put her head against his chest. “No one’s here,” she whispered again. “I am no one.” She didn’t know what that meant or why she said it, but it sounded right.

Senses on the alert, he slid into bed as naked as Camilla and clicked off the lamp on his nightstand. She stood in the dark watching him, unable to move, mind working in several different directions at once. A sly grin spread over her face. He twitched a few times as he passed into sleep. She paid no attention to this, fixating on the slow in and out of his breathing.

She bent down and placed her hands on the edge of his bed, moving the comforter, the mattress caving with her weight. He shifted, scrunching his face.