Fiend Read Online Free Page A

this guy is fucking with me. Maybe he’s some narc trying to uncover the murder of that little girl. At least this is what I’m telling myself. Like it’s so much better to be wanted for murder than for … shit, I don’t know, whatever the fuck the alternative is.
    RUSSIANDOLL69 : Of course didn’t kill anyone.
    BIGHRYBALLS : she didn’t reanimate?
    Ask him where everyone is, Typewriter says.
    RUSSIANDOLL69 : Please tell me what is happening.
    Where is everybody?
    BIGHRYBALLS : dead
    My stomach drops out of my ass with this chime. Typewriter is saying he fucking knew it. I’m thinking about the little girl and about this guy’s comments about
walking
andI tell myself that it’s only in movies and comics where people can come back and eat flesh. I’m thinking about every show I’ve ever seen, every film, about arms outstretched, moans, and decaying flesh, and ghouls and living dead.
    I’m muttering
no, no
.
    BIGHRYBALLS: u kill her?
    RUSSIANDOLL69 : I said no.
    BIGHRYBALLS : why not?
    I hear something resembling a two-pack-a-day fit of laughter. I scream. Standing maybe ten feet away is a naked Svetlana. Her blond hair is matted to the side of her face, which is half dark, like her blood has pooled there and there alone. She just keeps laughing. Typewriter and I run to a corner of the room. He’s holding on to a giant black dildo like a sword.
    She takes a step forward.
    The computer chimes and chimes and chimes.
    She rolls her head and we hear a cracking of vertebrae and she’s smiling, laughing, walking toward us. I’ve envisioned my death countless ways, none of them at the hands of some walking dead Russian whore. She’s getting closer. I need to do something. I’m looking for weapons. Typewriter throws the dildo. It bounces off her chest. This really gets her going. This is my chance; she’s distracted, thinking how that rubber dong would do anything but annoy her. I reach for the coffee tableand shove it with everything I’ve got. It bumps into her knees, sending her back a few steps. Then in one motion, she kicks it to shit, shattering the glass across the floor. A jagged piece shaped like a slice of pizza clatters at my feet. I grab it.
    Fucking run, Typewriter says.
    I try to grab him before he sprints for the door. It’s too late and he’s running and she turns and claws at his back and there’s blood and I’m not thinking, just acting,
reacting
. She’s got one hand on his shoulder and she’s clawing and scratching and he’s flailing and crying, begging for God to save him, for his mother, and I’m behind Svetlana, and I don’t know the first fucking thing about arteries or jugulars but that doesn’t matter. I stab the shit out of her neck. She seems to go limp for a second. I do it again. Thick, oil-like fluid oozes out of her. Then she’s on the ground and I’m screaming and still stabbing. I feel something break and I think it’s the glass but no, it’s still in one piece in my sliced hand. I look down. The end of her spine juts out from the top of her neck. Her severed head rolls in a semicircle.
    The computer keeps chiming.
    Her naked body gives soft jerks. I think of KK falling asleep, how her path to sleep was violent.
    I’m holding on to Typewriter’s arm and we’re running down the stairs. We’re outside and the sun is about to set behind the small river valley of St. Paul and we’re not alone anymore—the streets have started to fill with what looks like the usual haggard motherfuckers of tame midwestern ghettos—and we get in Typewriter’s Civic and they are coming toward us, these people, these walking dead motherfuckers,all of them probably having reanimated and broken down their doors, and we’re driving away from them all.
    I tell Typewriter to give me what he’s holding.
    He starts with some shit about not knowing what I’m talking about. I pound the dash. I say, Give me your shit.
    He reaches into his pocket.
    It’s a decent-sized thirty rock.
    I pull