Afterworld: Into the Arms of Darkness Ch.8
Title: Afterworld: Into the Arms of Darkness
By: Pink Rabbit Productions
Chapter: 8
Date: 8 September, 2010
Disclaimer: Hmmm, characters, not mine, situation, mine, though with the proviso that certain scenarios owe a major debt of gratitude to George Romero. Sex? Likely. Genders involved? Likely all female (at least anything on camera). Also there are likely to be very bad things in this story. I'm not one for prodigious amounts of gore, but this is horror and there is likely to be ickiness and things that might disturb some folks. Seriously. If it's gonna bother you, move along.
Summary: When the dead rise, civilization falls.
Author's Notes: Awhile back, just for fun, I did a faux movie poster that set Otalia in a horror setting and used some elements from an idea I've had running around for ages (what can I say---it was the Halloween season). See the poster here: http://altfic.com/artgallery/otalia/glafterworld01b.htm . Sooo, at some point, it seemed like fun to take a gander at writing them in that universe. I've quite deliberately tried to break away from my usual style and make it a bit faster moving, with frequent chapter breaks, deliberate cliffhangers, shorter scenes and more directed pov. We'll see if I can keep to one pov per chapter (well, they are short chapters...lol).
Previous Chapters: | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 |
Afterworld:
Into the Arms of Darkness
Chapter 8
Olivia was distantly aware of the creaking wood and increased banging sounds. Then the timbre of the creaking changed and was punctuated by several sharp cracks. She had no time to process the meaning before she was suddenly shoved through the door ahead of them. She tried to maintain her balance, but the world spun so violently that she never had a chance. Already overstressed muscles gave way and she tumbled. Her hands and then her body crashed into sharp-edged stairs, knocking the air from her lungs and most of the fight from her body.
A whoosh and a click, then dim light became no light.
The softest of rustling sounds echoed in the darkness.
Brain not firing on all thrusters, Olivia drew breath to say something-she planned on figuring out what when the words were actually leaving her mouth-when a body came down over her back and a narrow hand pressed flat over her mouth.
"Not. One. Word." The words were growled softly, the communication as much a matter of lips moving against the sensitive skin near her ear as actual sound.
Olivia felt her pulse hammer into overdrive and found herself wondering if she'd just become too much of a liability and was about to feel the kiss of the knife.
"They're in the house. I don't think they saw us...and the door's barred, but if the crowd starts pushing..." The dark lady didn't need to explain what could happen. Doors simply didn't hold up to that much pressure, no matter how strong or well locked. "That means we need to get up these stairs...hide until they go," she continued in that same, near-silent way. "I can't carry you..."
Olivia understood what she was being told. No matter how hard it was and how much it hurt, she had to help out, had to move herself up the damn stairs.
And she had to find a way to do it quietly.
The door behind them rattled gently, bumped by something, the sound emphasizing the hissed commands.
The hand remained across her mouth, soft lips near her ear. "Nod if you understand me."
Olivia nodded.
"And you'll do as you're told?"
Never her strong suit, but then there was the knife as an unspoken alternative. Olivia nodded again, then breathed a little easier as the hand across her mouth slipped away to find fresh purchase under her arm. She felt the shift as long fingers dug into the side panel of the flack vest and had to bite back a curse as it jarred bruised ribs.
That soft whisper vibrated her skin again. "It's about twenty steps...steep ones...goes straight to the attic. I'll help you as much as I can."
Olivia would never remember much about the hellish journey. Nearly overwhelmed by the collected agonies of trying to move her battered body up stairs that felt like they were edged in razor blades, the only comfort came from feel of soft lips against her cheek, not quite whispering, but communicating simple commands and an occasional bit of encouragement.
Finally, the hands at her sides eased off and a surprisingly gentle finger brushed her cheek. "I've got to open the door. Rest for a moment."
Then Olivia was alone again, the air so silent around her that it seemed the dark lady must have wisped away into smoke and left her behind. Strange to feel slightly bereft at the loss of someone that had been on the verge of killing her only minutes before. Or was it hours? Olivia wasn't entirely certain. Consciousness was coming and going, washing in and out like waves on a beach, never solidly there, but never quite gone either.
The come-and-go awareness warped time and created a feeling strangely akin to her one experience in an isolation chamber during their brief period of social trendiness. She'd instantly hated the lost, disconnected feel it engendered, and the sensation was no more pleasant this time than it had been the first. Pity she couldn't once again just fire some poor dumb bastard at the bottom of the corporate food chain for coming up with such a stupid idea.
Now there would be a unique fix for Armageddon. Sorry, not acceptable, take it back and try again. And get it right this time.
Of course, somebody might just decide that meant they hadn't meant the end of the world quite horrible enough. There was an idea that didn't bear contemplating.
Then the mental wave ebbed out again and she lost track of her surroundings until the dark lady ghosted back into existence behind her and strong hands gripped the flack vest under her armpits.
"Not much further." A whisper-caress brushed Olivia's cheek near her ear.
And then she was returned to the ordeal of climbing the razor-bladed stairs from hell. How the fuck could wood seem so damned sharp, she wondered as her knee caught edge of a tread, probably reopening the gash that felt like it went to the bone. Another tread scraped a bruised hip with agonizing intensity, then scratched its way down her thigh. Every inch gained seemed to add some new bit of discomfort or flare an old one to life.
Then suddenly the stairs opened out onto a smooth wood floor.
Feeling the last of her energy drain away, Olivia pushed herself the final distance, rolling free of the narrow stairwell, then splaying randomly on the floor, almost completely limp. A thin sliver of moonlight fell across the floor, just barely illuminating a room that was made up more of shadows than real world brick or wood. Blinking, she tried without success to brings things into focus, then looked down as she felt her lower legs pushed aside by her will-o-the-wisp savior.
The dark lady reached up, did something with a rope and then the trap door magically lowered itself to settle silently into the floor. Yet another trick to pull out of her hat, Olivia mused wryly. Who the hell was she, the second coming of Rube Goldberg? She did something else. Locked it down more firmly maybe. Olivia wasn't sure and couldn't summon the mental power to work it out.
The wave ebbed out, then flowed in again and she found herself peering up at a dark silhouette leaning over her. It probably should have been frightening, but somehow wasn't.
Which was rather strange, really, since she could've counted the non-frightening things that had happened in the last months on one hand and still had fingers left over.
"C'mon, Olivia. I need your help," the dark lady was imploring, her voice soft, but commanding enough to intrude on Olivia's attempted escape into unconsciousness. "I need to get you up and clean as much of the blood as possible off your skin and hair...so there's less chance of the smell drawing them here."
Good luck with that, Olivia wanted to say. She was made of blood. It was everywhere. In her hair, ground into her skin, caught on her lashes and under her nails. The damn stuff went down to her very soul. Good luck cleaning that off. But the words didn't come. She could only stare.
Until finally she couldn't even do that any more.
And the tide ebbed back out to sea...
* * * * * *
Warmth on her face. Pale, golden light.
Olivia blinked, confused eyes taking in the pastel colors of flower-print wallpaper and antique-white furniture.
Daylight.
She squinted as she realized it was coming in through a dormer window draped in some kind of gauzy fabric, then frowned as she tried to clear the roughness on her tongue.
It took an extra beat for her to realize she was gagged, rough fabric tied across her mouth and caught between her teeth. She tried to yank it away only to find her arms caught over her head and trapped.
Panic sliding through her, she tipped her head back, quickly spotting her own wrists where they were lashed together with plastic zip ties, then bound to an antique brass headboard with more zip ties.
She was already pulling at the impromptu bindings when she tried to kick her feet and roll into a different position only to realize her lower body was similarly restricted. She looked down to find her ankles bound together and latched to the bed's brass footboard with more zip ties.
But it was the fact that she was naked, badly bruised flesh on display with only the lightest of sheets tossed across her midsection, that utterly chilled her blood.
Visions of the things she'd seen the night before-of the undead woman tied up much the same way and the torments she'd suffered-playing in her head in a Technicolor display of depravity, she went wild, yanking on the bindings, twisting and turning wildly in an effort to get free.
Emma, Jesus, God, Emma. She might well have served her daughter up as the main course for a feast of debauchery, foolishly trusting the dark lady. That she'd been injured and pushed to her limit was no goddamned excuse. She'd made the mistake of having a measure of faith in a world where any kind of trust was likely to be a fatal error. And god only knew what hell she'd consigned her child to in her folly.
Frustrated tears filled her eyes and blurred her vision as she strained against her bonds. Tough and sharp-edged, the plastic ties sawed at the flesh stretched taut over her wrist bones. Accumulated sweat and blood quickly slicked her skin, but the ties held firm. In a rage, she jerked hard against them, screaming through the gag and kicking wildly in hopes that maybe she could take the bedframe apart and get free that way.
She was still struggling without success when a cold chill suddenly slid down her spine and she rolled her head around, searching the room until green eyes clashed with brown.
Not alone any longer. The dark lady stood a few feet from the bed, her expression grim, a shotgun in hand...
* * * * * *
TBC