Finding a resting place shouldn't be difficult in a warehouse sized room full of mattresses. The problem is, each one is occupied. I can’t help noticing that the ladies here are mostly large of breast and hip, and aged from mid-twenties to quite elderly. The discerning Parasites prefer not to inhabit older humans then?
The splayed limbs and come-hither looks I receive while passing rows of beds are disconcerting. And since appearance does not affect their ability to carry a child, not many of the ladies are passably attractive. My dream of a silk draped harem full of stunning goddesses is summarily squashed. Despite the disappointment, I look forward to getting these pants off. It’s very warm in here and I feel the beginnings of a chafing rash.
Lucky stars be praised, I find an empty bed against a window. Before taking ownership I press against the dirty window to view the lava-flow of Creeps moving about below. Those ever-present tendrils, monotonously rechecking Parasite credentials, are almost background noise to me already. Still, the fact that they are absent up here is very comforting.
The sheets on this bed are well used and sitting in other people’s body fluids is objectionable, even to a slob like me. Fortuitously one of the ‘bedroom’s’ partitions is a rack filled with curtain material. I drag down a bolt of cloth and drape it across the stains, and then flop down on the crisp floral pattern. Sitting on a soft mattress is heavenly after all my exertions. As my eyes close in pleasure that weird probe extends of its own accord to keep me covered.
Before long the mental strain is too tiring. The tendril retracts and I decide to lie down, just for a few minutes. Removing my boots brings blessed relief for those poor, mistreated toes. I’m pleased to find they are only swollen and bruised, and that none are missing. The gymnastics of squirming out of leather pants and extricating my arms from the jacket exhausts me. I flop back, bone weary, intending to rest for a few minutes. There’s no way I’ll fall asleep; that would be stupid. I’m in the middle of a Parasite...
...I start awake, mid-snore. A hand that isn’t mine is caressing my groin.
“Bloody Hell, Cricket, what the fuck are y... ohhh.”
It’s not Cricket.
“I’m ready for you.”
It’s a shame the Parasite mind-fog is the driving force behind those words. I’d like to believe I’m irresistible. I blink up at the woman whose tantalising fingers are wrapped around my increasingly interested penis. Wet hair frames her full-cheeked face. Looking at her face is a fleeting moment before I notice that a nice set of heavy breasts are swinging in front of my nose.
I guess this is the bed’s designated tenant. She must have been showering when I chose to crash here. She’s returned to find me laid out. Lucky her.
She’s attractive, if somewhat worn. Middle-aged and a natural blond too, I see. I push her hand away; discomforted by the circumstances. Where’re my jocks? She’s stripped them off me while I slept.
“Hey, awww shit. Can’t believe I’m saying this, but can you not rub my dick for a moment.”
“Are you ready for me then?”
As a matter of fact I most certainly am. I’ll never get my jocks on over this erection.
“Oh yeah, I’m definitely ready. Be careful though; you’re handling a dangerously backed-up weapon there, lady.”
She reclines with my eager help and I’m seconds from docking when the clump of boot-heels comes our way. An unclothed Creep and a bewildered, stark naked, older gent appear at the bed’s door gap. Horrified at being caught in such a compromising position I roll over fast, squashing my penis in the process. I groan. For crying out loud, this isn’t a peep-show. What do they want?
I remind myself fast that the Creep is expecting to see copulation, and the old boy’s mind is fogged, so I attempt to put aside my embarrassment and tackle the task at hand. My new lady-friend has no qualms about performing for an audience. She wrestles me onto my back and then, with some deft fiddling to reinterest the sore appendage, I’m being ridden enthusiastically. The Creep pimp loses interest and moves his client on to find a vacancy further along the rows.
Sure, I should stop her now. After all I’m taking advantage... she’s acting under a compulsion. But who am I kidding? There’s no force on earth capable of stopping whats rapidly approaching.
Unfortunately, as I whip my head from side to side in ecstasy, I see Cricket. He is standing quietly in a corner, unnoticed until now. I wave a hand violently at him until he about-faces. The bubble joining us together is already giving the whole experience an unsavoury threesome effect. If any fantasies were going to be fulfilled here, I’d call for an extra woman as the third, not a Parasite infected man. And besides, this is the first sex I’ve had in years and his sad, blank eyes were threatening to ruin it for me.
Post-coitus, about an hour later I lie back, next to a sleeping woman whose name I don’t know. I can’t help but think ‘things could be a lot worse’. Then I cringe as this thought passes through my mind. It will almost definitely bring bad luck my way.
My body is not well rested but several years of horniness are sated which is adequate compensation. An empty stomach grumbles and gurgles to itself. I figure, screw it! If these hazardous surroundings can’t hold me back from a right royal rogering then I’m definitely capable of eating.
There’s an abundance of cans close at hand. I examine several for suitable content by a candle’s light and swiftly accumulate a pile of discards. Lima beans, peas and carrots, beetroot.
A familiar label is eventually exposed. Unpeeling the pull-top lid, I cut chunks of congealed Spaghetti from it using a handy butter knife. I’m starving, and can accept the unheated food as palatable. Admittedly in the past, if nothing else was on offer, I’ve chowed down on dog food without complaint.
Cricket watches me stuff my face. Our shield blocks his own ‘hungry’ signal from the Parasites’ distributor. Cricket emits an irritating monotone of begging that so far I’ve managed to ignore. Then our eyes meet and I grudgingly offer him the can, but he’s not impressed; he wants raw meat.
I shrug and burp while scraping the last mouthful out, then tidily hide my rubbish in a drawer.
I reach for my pills as habitually as a smoker lighting a cigarette after dinner. The pill container is still disappointingly empty, a catastrophe which leaves me rather too alert. I barely know how to deal with this reality and the immediacy of everything I do. These endorphins I ride, released from several gruelling sessions of sexual congress may tide me over for now, but what will I do when they wear off?
I need a beer. I need Codeine. I need to sleep.
And here’s another need that my sex-addicted lady friend neglected to mention. I stink! A shower is in order.
I remember my bed-partner had wet hair and smelled of soap when she’d introduced herself, in the most pleasant of ways. There must be a water source nearby.
To fit in I wander around naked, passing an occasional uninterested Creep who lets me cruise by, and turning away women who are all too interested. The dream-like quality of this experience is so strong I have to remind myself how vulnerable I am. My mental health is in a shocking state. Food and sex have dulled my survival instincts to a murmur. I even start to consider the trade-offs I’d have to make to live here permanently. But then I recount the negatives. No electricity. No alcohol. No pills. Screw that. I have to get out of here!
My search is becoming urgent. Damn, there must be a restroom here somewhere. Eating has initiated an emergency bowel evacuation. I’m approaching gastric Def-Con 4, and there’s a little brown bear sticking his head out of my butt-hole. I’m pretty sure it’s only a plug for a gusher too.
Where are the toilets!
I’m about to use the nearest corner when the smell of human waste hits me. I run down a short, dark corridor and skid to a stop at the first candle-lit stall; intestinal discomfort is temporarily forgotten. Cricket has trailed me and catches up as I gawp. Together we marvel at the heaped pile of raw shit filling and overflowing from the toilet bowl. The last few additions would have required some interesting acrobatics to stack it that high. It also emits the rankest smell I’ve ever endured. Except that time I trod in a rotting body.
The next stall is in a similarly revolting condition. Of the other eight cubicles, only one is barely useable. I slam the door in Cricket’s face and reverse to partake in a biblical expulsion.
Strangely, while I sit in the miasma, continuing to empty my bowels at an ever-lessening furious rate, I receive a glimpse into the future. These Creeps have no preventative maintenance program. They aren’t able to repair the most minor damage to our infrastructure, even when the benefits of doing so are obvious. They use our inventions at their most basic levels. Parasite intelligence is unable to conceptualise how refrigeration or mechanised transportation would assist them. I conclude that they will squat in the ruins of our civilisation, making no attempt to construct one of their own. They are the minions of entropy, winding up the world until the Stone Age is revisited.
Taking my mind from this depressing vision I discover I’m out of toilet paper. Cricket, my ever-loving shadow and imitator, has occupied the cubicle next to mine. He is finishing his own loud, flatulence-powered defecation with no sense of decorum.
“Hey! Cricket. Got any date roll over there?”
I send a mental image and hear him pulling up his pants. I open the toilet door, hoping he’s understood, but he stands before me empty-handed.
I know he hasn’t wiped, or flushed, and he isn’t holding a roll of toilet paper.
“You’re a useless prick, you know that?”
There’s not a lot I can do about wiping either, but I do flush, and then rush to a basin to wash my hands.
The taps work, if only at piddling pressure. No pumps would still be running so the mall must have a rainwater reservoir system in the roof. The Green craze of years gone by has saved the day for me. I hold the spring loaded handle down and mentally force Cricket to wash his hands as well. He touches me far too much to neglect his hygiene.
Less preoccupied by bodily needs we leave the stinking room. Outside I notice a wet path leading to an employee change room. Hooray, shower stalls. I enter and bang through the lockers until an ex-staff member provides me with liquid soap and shampoo. The water from the shower heads is also unpressurised, and cold, yet marvellously revitalising.
By the time I’m done scrubbing, a large handful of grit coats the floor. I step from the shower stall gleaming; looking for a towel, and making do with a roll of Chux cloth.
While making my way back to the bed I’d commandeered, a slim, nude woman walks towards me in the semi-dark, attracting my interest. Feeling slightly chipper, clean, and in demand, I am unnecessarily flippant.
“Right then, it’s back in the saddle is it? Which bed’s yours...?”
How embarrassing; it’s one of those “special” Creeps, complete with shield and head-hose. These bits hadn’t been obvious in the gloom. I clam up as her slack features lock on my face. She stops and I get an uncomfortably long examination.
Stupidly, I panic, and then do something even stupider.