Fiend Read Online Free

doorway, staring at us. It runs back to the bedroom. I follow. I’m cautious, I know whatever I see will be bad, and Typewriter is behind me, which I’m glad about.
    The bedroom door is open a slit.
    I nod to Typewriter. He nods back. I push open the door.All three hundred pounds of Rebecca is splayed out on her bed. Her slew of cats look over at me, their mouths covered in blood and flesh.
    Jesus Christ, I say. I turn back to the hallway.
    What? Typewriter says. He looks inside. He says, Fucking shit, man, they’re eating her. The cats are fucking eating her.
    I want to cry. To throw up. To go back to Typewriter’s house and have my only concern be trying to find a minute alone to smoke a dime piece.
    Let’s get gone, Typewriter says.
    I follow him to the door. One of the cats stares at us like we’d just interrupted something sacred. It keeps licking its bloodied whiskers. I’m beginning to grasp the reality of our situation and I just need some sort of confirmation. I need somebody to tell me this is real. That everyone I’ve ever known has died or disappeared somehow. That we did, in fact, crush the skull of some possessed child. That it was okay because we had no choice.
    I knock on the door to Svetlana’s, the Russian tenant.
    Bro, let’s get ghost, Type says.
    She’s got Internet. Just need to see what the fuck is going on.
    She’s gonna be dead.
    The door is locked. I kick the shit out of it. The wood splinters on the first kick. We go in. It’s the same smell and we both pull our shirts over our faces and I walk over to her computer. An old Soviet flag hangs on the wall. I sit on a ratty brown couch, right next to about seven dildos, a bottle of lube, and a butt plug thicker than a baseball bat.
    Typewriter gives a chuckle. He says, Bitch be loving dick, huh?
    Did those webcam shows, I say.
    He’s holding the black butt plug. He gives it a tentative sniff. I think about telling him to grow up. He’s smiling though. I sit and get the computer going. The shit takes forever to get warmed up.
    You ever hit it? Typewriter asks.
    I shake my head.
    Bullshit, some Russian debutante sitting up here all day fiddling her pussy, and you never hit it?
    Windows loads. I don’t tell Typewriter I can’t remember the last time I’d been sober enough to get a hard dick. I click on Internet Explorer. He’s on to the dildos now, holding them up to one another, maybe mentally comparing where he would stack up in the equation.
    Finally, the Internet is up and I’m at her home page, 18toplay.com, and I see my face streaming on the screen. I really do look like hell, nothing but scruff and scabs and eyes sunken like the
Titanic
.
    You streaming? Typewriter asks.
    Yeah, guess so.
    I move the cursor to click to a news site.
    Hold on, he says. He sits next to me, giving me a shove. His face streams online. He’s the only fat meth addict ever. His cheeks take up the whole screen.
    He says, Is anybody out there? Anyone? Is there any single motherfucker left alive in this world?
    Stop, I say.
    Type keeps going, overenunciating like he’s talking to a retarded kid, We are in St. Paul, Minnesota. There is nobody left. Maybe some little girl but she was—
    Fucking stop, I yell. I push him out of the way. You stupid?
    Typewriter balls a fist. Part of me hopes he swings, hopes this can be the logical end to our relationship. He relaxes his hand. He says, There’s got to be somebody out—
    A chime comes from the computer. I look at the screen.
    BIGHRYBALLS : wtf u do w Russiandoll69?
    Another chime.
    BIGHRYBALLS : she ok?
    Typewriter yells, Hello, hello?
    BIGHRYBALLS : don’t tell me she’s gone.
    I say, Can you hear me?
    BIGHRYBALLS : did she turn?
    Can’t hear you, write something, Type says.
    I peck on the keyboard. It chimes.
    RUSSIANDOLL 69 : Who is this?
    BIGHRYBALLS : is she walking?
    Typewriter says, What is this guy talking about?
    RUSSIANDOLL69 : What is happening?
    BIGHRYBALLS : you kill her—y or n?
    I’m hoping