Little Death

Damn, but Janel gets horny after a fight. Something about all the dying and the dead makes her want to live, to keep her heart pumping after the adrenaline's worn off, to feel someone else's warmth against her. Find a flat surface, a willing partner, and maybe something to enforce privacy: those are the necessities. And there's the floor, and there's Cathrine, and there's a curtain, so life is good. It's not making love, and it's barely even sex, even if it's love: it's fucking, impure and simple. There's nothing gentle about it, but there's not much gentle about them.

Something's not right here, though. Cathrine tastes funny, although, okay, none of them are all that clean and zombie guts don't wipe off easily. And the groans are to be expected, since Janel knows what gets Cathrine off in a hurry; a mouth like hers, hands like hers, she knows what she's doing here. Cathrine's not usually a snuggler, though, but Janel allows it, relaxing microscopically, leaning in for support, letting Cathrine nibble romantically on her ear as she listens for Cat's heartbeat.

Except. The pheromones are clearing to reveal another smell, one way too familiar, even more primal than sex. Okay, they came from a fight and everything stinks of bodies now anyway, no matter how many frou-frou air fresheners Barb finds. Perfectly normal.

Except. Except. Cat's skin. It's cold. Her pulse. Slowing, fluttering now, light and faint and then it's gone.

And Cathrine's mouth is on her neck, and she feels teeth.

Janel's never been a big thinker, but give her enough ones and she can put a few of them together.

Ew. I just fucked a zombie.

She pries Cathrine's jaws out of her throat, and now she can see the marks on the back of Cat's neck, parallel to the spine that's all too visible. Now she remembers the ambush two blocks from their hideout, and the decaying thing that had crawled onto Cathrine's back. Barb had pulled it off, reported only superficial damage, especially given that Cat hadn't tried to eat their brains at that point.

Great. Just what they need. Zombies that don't immediately show what they are.

She puts a hand to her neck where it aches and throbs dully. Something feels slick, and her fingers are crimson when she removes her hand.

Oh, shit.

Before she really thinks about it, she licks her hand clean, and she's not thirsty anymore. Everything smells- God, everything smells. Death is like a background buzz, and something is sharp and hot and alive. She tries to follow it, but it keeps moving. Oh. It's her. She needs a bath. She needs to die. Maybe she can bash her head in before it's too late.

Cathrine- wordless, groaning- was that what she'd been asking for that whole time? If Janel's thinking now, Cathrine had to be thinking for a while.

She can't. She smashes her head against the wall over and over, trying to think about anything and trying not to think about what Cathrine could have said, and she only gets it half right. By the time she screams for someone to kill her, words aren't what come out.

And then there's only hunger.