Invasion (7 page)

Shit. Double shit.

Now I have no choice, without peroxide on hand there’s only one way to cloak my DNA in the car. I have to compromise it and hope to high hell that I
’
m not in CODIS. Grateful for my ever present hunting knife, I double check that she is indeed dead. The stain of piss on her jeans confirms she’s lost muscle tension and I do what has to be done. While she’s warm and her blood is viscous I slice her arms down the veins, releasing a swift torrent of hemoglobin, and rapidly wipe it everywhere I’ve touched, utilizing her sweater as my rag. Using my hands could inadvertently leave a fingerprint behind. Every door, every surface, and her entire body, coated in her blood like a malicious sacrifice to some evil cult.

That’s a brilliant idea. Misdirection is the oldest tool in the book. Being random I make a sigil on the hood of the car with her blood. Amazing, isn
’
t it? To hide your DNA simply coat it with another
’
s. To prevent a manhunt point fingers at some random group of fuckwits.

I contemplate cutting open the branded cunt to extricate my DNA, but I
’
d rather move on than spend another second out in the open. I’m feeling exposed, it
’
s time to go.

Honestly, I never intended to kill her. Not really. I like killing, this I’ve discovered, but I just wanted a hard fuck, a deep and brutal balm on an emaciated appetite. A substitute until a flight arrives from Hanover and the true target comes home.

There’s no choice but to take her back and incinerate her the way I got rid of the intruder. With her slung over my shoulders, wrapped up in my shirt so as not to bleed evidence along the way, I start the swift sprint back to the basement, to clean up and fill my stomach with sustenance again. Inflicting such damage sure does leave a man hungry.

There’s an amazing rush to running with a dead weight on your shoulders, like I’ve done it before many times. Rugged and ruthless, it seems my nature is nasty. It warms me up, my nose burning with cold air, my stride long and sure, my timing admirable. I’m supremely fit, not even breathless with the added baggage. I murdered another. I’m hard in these fucking jeans, again. I need to get home and fap off to Carly’s home movies until I’m drained of jizz.

Immediately my thoughts return to
her
. To my cum in her cunt on her DVD. Men can ejaculate eight feet at twenty-eight miles per hour.

We know how to hit a target.

Every pun intended.

Giving trust is the ultimate hardship.
Such a gift is often exploited.

Does it hurt Carly? Do you like it, babe?

Ask me nicely, precious pixie. Ask me nicely and I’ll hurt you. I’ll hurt you so good.

The paranoid can detect the scent of a stranger

You are only naked when in deepest slumber

David:

R
eadying for her return I’ve expunged all signs of my activity from the environment. Out of the boxes beneath deck I have a small collection of freshly laundered clothes which marginally fit my build and height.

The flannel shirts were a fantastic find, but I have a reservation. If and when I meet her, will she recognize these threads as Mark’s? Or will she chalk it up to coincidence?

I’m not sure it’s worth the risk, so to be sure I pawned some of the shit in the ‘cocksucker’ boxes; enough to buy me a stash of everyday gear – tees, vests, socks, black jeans, and a decent selection from the variety of threads at the army surplus store. They have insulating clothes, made with pride and excellence, at extremely affordable prices. Plus I now have a duffel to store and lug them around in. When I move on from here I’ll at least be more prepared for survival than I was coming in.

My dumb plan to show up as a handyman for hire seems lame, plus arriving in Cocksucker’s clothes is avoidable sabotage; no brainer. Why ambush the first meeting with bad juju? Fuckwits do that. I may be many things but fuckwit doesn’t make the shortlist.

I’ve scavenged all I need to survive undetected beneath her periphery, creating a veritable hibernation nest, a haven, a respite from whatever the hell it is I was running from. Food, water, compost potty, wall of boxes as a barricade shield, hurricane lamps, stun gun with flashlight function, hunting knives from the fishing tackle box Mark has in the garage, and the essentials from her storage cupboard. It’s supposed to be a linen closet but this lady is a hoarder.

She has two years supply of shower gel, razors, soaps, toiletries - which also fall into the Mark category, hand towelettes, baby wipes, toothbrushes and toothpastes, whiteners, mouthwash, eye drops, nasal sprays, floss, lip balm, creams and potions, tissues, birth control, condoms, spermicide, spermicidal sponge, vaginal flora douches, thermometers, cough syrups and cold and flu meds, sleeping tablets (which I pocketed), medical lotions for a smorgasbord of ailments, plasters, bandages, disinfectant, migraine medication, homeopathic healing balm, she even has the odd addition of two home medical kits which include surgical scalpel, curved needle, medical grade sewing gut, surgical spirits – and get this, a piercing gun!

What the fuck does she need a piercing gun for?

Seriously this woman has doomsday prepper issues if she keeps this much in her backup closet. She lives alone and she’s got enough bog roll to keep the local high school in supply for three solid years. I don’t know if she’s afraid of marshall law returning or the Isis crisis turning into the next great depression, but she’s prepared. Like crazy-I-need-therapy-because-TEOTWAWKI prepared. (The end of the world as we know it).

There is a backup plan for her backup plan when it comes to home supplies, the kind for WROL or a pandemic. Just what the fuck? (Without rule of law.)

She’s a little ‘unique’, or has spent so much time under ROT, well never mind rule of thumb, more like
rule under Mark’s thumb
, that she’s freaky with fear. But her fear is my gain. It’s like there is a heaven (with or without gates is debatable), and it’s got my six like a bogey trying to shoot me down. It’s got me so covered I could hide out here for an entire year and never need to leave the reservation.

Then I found the survivalist kitchen twin in the back of the pantry. Hallefuckinglujah. She’s a weirdo. A health nut of note. Protein shakes, roasted nuts by the bag, health breakfast bars in boxes piled up to the ceiling in the storeroom, enough fruit juice cartons to stock a Walmart, every nutritional and vitamin supplement under the moon, and an all-natural cleaning supply nook packed with gazillions of bottles of soapwort housecleaning supplies – and twenty-three bottles of hydrogen peroxide! She has them behind a craft-project cardboard sign that says; To make whites whiter. Use on Mark’s shirts.

Well fuck Mark and the bitch he road in on.

She doesn’t need this any longer if it’s for
Mark’s shirts
, so she sure as shit isn’t going to notice that I’ve depleted half her supply of the magic potion.

Laundry is done, and my clothes are ironed. Seems I have a hidden talent and am the world’s best housekeeper. Speaking of which, she has one. This could be the thorn in my side and possibly my next victim – time will tell. Freda has December off because Carly is away, and then it’s family time for most of the nation. She’s a nice boss because I read her budget sheet and she gave Freda a $3000 bonus for xmas. So the weird woman also has a generosity gene.

Her intimates, sheets and towels, have all been laundered with hydrogen peroxide, the house swabbed clean with it with such meticulous attention to detail that I think I might’ve had a past life scrubbing boat decks with the tiny brush once supplied to clean the needle on a vinyl record player. Then I had to move through this cozy abode to switch on those stupid plug in aroma diffusers, to camouflage the sterile scent of my cleaning spree and the OCD need to clean away every fingerprint I’ve recklessly left on everything.

I don’t know what the hell I was thinking, opening and closing CD cases, DVD cases, going through the supplies in the freezer. Now at least I know why she has so many frozen meals, she’s preparing for Armageddon – or the Apocalypse.

While sweeping the house like a mafia mechanic (cleaner) I came across something I should’ve spotted the first time I did recon in here. I don’t know how I missed it, but to be safe I’ve turned the device so it has no sound feed and is staring at a brick wall. I am nothing if not efficient and detail oriented. And I am now intimately acquainted with each nook and cranny of Carly’s crib.

I’ve watched every one of her home DVDs; I know how she likes her sex, know she’s open to almost anything including bondage, masochism and anal, and have become mildly obsessed with thirty-two year old Carly Carmichael and her fetishes.

As part of my daily homework (research your target until you know more about them than they do), I booted up her computer and read through her emails, scouring the breakup between her and Mark. They got divorced four months ago, and by the looks of her calendar and emails has buried herself in work.

She negotiates for the recovery of missing women, suspected to be abducted into human trafficking rings. Amnesty International is her life now, well that and the rabbit with three way penetration in her bedside drawer. She even has stimulating lube for extra heat and tingle. I’m wondering if that goes in her ass or the fuck puck.

For two weeks I’ve made myself intimately familiar with the contents on her Macbook, and the porn on her hard-drive was eye opening.
She has it buried in an invisible folder in her INVOICES partition; I have had an education. I’ve had a digital schooling of men (and women) docking and porting, found her snuff porn collection, and discovered what she needed the piercing gun for.

She has a nude collection of selfies, particularly close ups of her boning herself with a roided dildo, and both meat flaps have piercings. She also has one in the hood above the clit, holding it up and away from her ‘business’. Well well, that little lady must be in a permanent state of wet and wanton.

I love her, she turns me on like a meat grinder. Every second I’m staring and discovering I’m so painfully engorged all it takes is a firm hand and her computer was formally baptized David’s Cum Cup.

Sitting in her lumbar support leather office chair I found the shit not burned to DVD for public consumption in the lounge. I’m not sure if Carly is altogether sane. She’s filmed herself, for someone else or for herself I can’t be sure, but it’s a revelation that has me itching for a rabid fuck and a spot of mayhem.

She harnesses her neck to a dog leash tied to the wrought iron headboard of the bed in the second bedroom. It has a knob protrusion in the center of the elaborate metal decorations, and she does doggy on that metal protrusion while choking her face purple. The choker chain seems to get her screeching like a dolphin in a red tide, riding an inanimate object like she’s practicing for when she hits the third level of her afterlife hell.

Then I opened the next video which was so closely filmed that at first I thought it wasn’t focussed. It was before the clit-cloak piercing, and she had her fingertip completely covered by the flap, pushing into her piss hole, three cucumbers in her snatch, clamps on both nipples attached to a piercing through the middle of her nose, and was moving up and down on her roided-cock dildo up her anus.

I lost so much semen watching that that my man-card has been revoked, because the hormone nazis couldn’t detect any testosterone left in my blood.

Just thinking of it now has me so horny I need to sink into something tight, and wet, and I don’t really care who it’s attached to. Weird fact: gel pain-packs make a great fap fold. They’re hot and soft, wonderfully pliable like a cunt, slippery as fuck with a bit of Carly’s tingle lube, and a great relief to one particularly incessant aching muscle.

Carly has made me hard, desperate, ready for her to get home so I can stick my finger in her piss hole and dock with her.

One evening I discovered the memory trunk containing her old school photos, albums, random paraphernalia from medals to memorabilia of her bachelorette party, and diaries! As much as I’m fixated on boning her to the next dimension I also now have an insider’s view into the life she’s lived. It’s not pretty.

Her face is so sweet and attractive that it’s hard to imagine how much pain is behind her sensual smile. Her mom and dad were dead on the 23
rd
December six years prior, and because of it she has hoarded every birthday card ever given to her from them. She has journals jammed with her life before and after Mark.

Call me nosy, with too much free time to burn, because I read them all. She has neat handwriting, and sometimes puts hearts on her i’s instead of dots. It’s this subconscious throwback to more innocent times that unravels the thread to the tapestry I’ve accumulated on her intel, on Carly, who I erroneously am already thinking of as
my
Carly. She’s manic as fuck in the bedroom, but everything else is ruin and hardship. She’s got no one, and the family she should’ve had weren’t family at all.

I know what he did. Fuck do I know what he did, and he’d better hope I never meet him in a dark alley. Just thinking about him makes me want to go out and slaughter a cocksucker. It’s the holidays and they’re meant to be happy. Carly’s holidays have been anything but. Christmas is the time of year when grandmothers whine about not having grandchildren, of no presents for babies under the tree, so she’d stick it to Carly by giving her only baby presents for the impending pregnancy each year for her birthdays and christmases.

What a spiteful tart. She also banned Carly from alcohol consumption or recreational drugs. Poor babe, that bitch sure wanted a baby bitch to call her bloodline, her prodigy, her legacy. Carly put out more often than a McDonald’s drive through, but she just didn’t win the ‘we are pregnant’ pageant. Didn’t stop the bitch from using Carly to scratch her malicious itch, though. Carly was her scratch post and mother-in-law has claws.

Christmas is supposed to represent a time of love, of forgiveness, instead Carly had to suck up barbs and jibes, given bottles of folic acid and onesies, and How To Please Your Husband / Be a Good Wife manuals. I have no fucking clue what my home life was like, or if I even have a home life waiting for me, but I do know if my mother treated my wife the way Carly was treated I’d have moved us to the other side of the world. I’m a vicious bastard but even I know a man protects his woman, from everything.

Everything!

Completely at home I tried watching TV, then killed that faster than the pope kills heretics, then I tried the radio. Same shit. Christmas carols, Boney M, Michael Buble, and every cheesy xmas tune accosted my hearing. The only time I left it on was when someone had the foresight to play AC/DC’s Mistress for Christmas. Now that’s a sentiment I can solidly get behind. Every pun intended. It’s unfortunate but listening to xmas gives me bile inducing rage, because now I associate it with Carly’s tear stained journal entries. I have no memories, but I have hers.

Maybe I’m a guardian sent to her in her hour of need. I hope so. It’s nuts, but I’ve got no one and she’s got no one – so why can’t we just rebuild something solid without all the fuckery?