Regurgitated (Book 2) (The Filthy Apocalypse)

REGURGITATED

Book 2 in The Filthy Apocalypse Series

By Dick Gear

© 2012, All rights reserved.

It turns out these zombies aren’t very smart.

Right now there are about five or six of them wandering outside Shep’s house, occasionally walking up to the windows and staring inside at us, pushing their mouths and noses against the glass like little kids at the zoo.

Their eyes are vacant, seeming to stare at us and through us simultaneously. We try to ignore those faces pressing up against the windows. Eventually they float back into the darkness again, only to reappear sometime later, pressing against the window once more. Maybe they’re hoping we’ll just open the window and make it easier for them to climb inside the house and eat us.

Shep’s party has turned gloomy.

Most everyone stopped drinking beer and the music has been turned down in favor of having the news on at all times.

In my own world of breaking news, my genital rash has ratcheted up a few notches and I’m constantly running to the bathroom, pulling down my pants and scratching. People must be convinced I’m either a serial masturbator, or that I have a case of the shits that doesn’t let up.

I doubt any of them have imagined the kind of disaster that’s occurring beneath my boxers.

It almost seems as though the state of my genitals is a reflection of the world and around me. After all, my sack began itching and burning right around the time the first zombies started to appear, and as the crisis has worsened, so have my gonads. My balls might be some kind of oracle—Nostradamus’ has reincarnated himself in my bait and tackle.

Right now, sitting on Shep’s couch and itching my sack as inconspicuously as possible, I feel like the nuclear wasteland surrounding my penis is a harbinger of future events—and the future is grim, folks. If my balls are the new Groundhog, then we’re looking at a very long, cold winter indeed.

“Fuck you!”

I’m startled out of my reverie.

“I said, fuck you!” A Japanese guy that everyone calls Nips pushes his own face up against the glass and looks like he’s kissing one of the zombies as it opens its mouth and tries to devour him through the closed window. “Fuck you, motherfucker,” Nips says. He backs away and gives it the finger. “Stupid fucks.”

The zombie in questions begins clawing excitedly at the glass and the windowpane shivers from the pressure.

“Easy man,” Shep tells Nips, looking exhausted. “Don’t get it excited, it might accidentally break through.”

Nips shakes his head. “Fuck them. Let them try and come in here and eat me.

I’ll fucking eat them first. I’ve eaten raw horse, dude. You think I won’t bite a motherfucking zombie’s dick off?”

“Why it’s dick?” Fergi asks, her face a mask of disgust.

“Why what?” Nips says.

“Why would your first thought be to eat the zombie’s dick?”

“Because,” Nips says, “That would let them know I mean business.”

Everyone starts talking at once. Shep is asking everyone to calm down, while Fergi is saying that we need to make a plan.

“I think we should make a run for it,” Verne says. Verne is the curly dark-haired guy who yelled at Teddy earlier in the evening. Teddy’s been sulking ever since—he’s nursing a beer on the couch with a big puss on his face.

“Run to where?” I say.

Verne kind of shrugs. “The police station is only a couple miles from here.”

“They’re not going to do shit,” Teddy mumbles. “The police don’t give a fuck about us.”

“It’s better than sitting in here waiting for those things to get in and try and make us Sunday dinner.”

“It’s a shit plan,” Teddy says and puts the beer to his lips.

“Hey, shut up—someone’s talking about it on CNN!” Fergi screams. She turns the volume louder on Shep’s TV.

The headline on screen reads: MAYHEM IN MASSACHUSETTS

Anderson Cooper is on screen with his typical calm, smarmy face, and his slick grayish/whitish hair. “Thanks Wolf,” Anderson says. “We’ve been talking with Massachusetts officials, the state police, and the CDC, and so far they still aren’t sure just what’s to blame for the rash of violence reported in Boston and outlying suburbs.”

Wolf Blitzer puts on his most concerned voice. “Anderson, do they have people in custody?”

Anderson nods. “They do. But again, they aren’t commenting on whether any of these people are sick with some bizarre kind of flu virus—“

“There’s a lot of chatter on Facebook and Twitter that these violent people are behaving like zombies,” Wolf Blitzer says.

“I know, and if you can believe it, nobody’s laughing about that right now.”

“Nobody’s laughing because it’s fucking not funny,” Nips yells at the TV, his eyes wild. I give him a glance, wonder if he’s about to go completely loony in here. He makes me nervous.

I turn back to the television as Anderson Cooper continues. “The CDC states that it doesn’t appear to be a viral outbreak, and Governor Patrick has gone on record as saying that panic and hysteria are to blame.”

“What about some of the video footage we’ve seen on YouTube? Are they calling that footage a hoax?” Wolf asks.

“Again, Wolf, nobody is really sure about anything right now. The footage we’ve seen appears very realistic, disturbing, and would have been very difficult to have staged,” Anderson says. “But both the President and the Governor have urged people to remain calm and not to jump to conclusions.”

“Thanks Anderson,” Wolf says, turning to the camera. “Republican Senator Dornan has come out and said that he believes this is a well-timed terrorist attack. And that the video footage of apparent “zombies on the rampage” is part of a disinformation campaign geared toward creating panic, hysteria and a breakdown of government.

Dornan has even gone so far as to call for martial law, strict curfews, and that anyone posting false videos of zombie attacks on the Internet should be arrested…”

Fergi turns the TV down. She looks at all of us. “How can they be saying this is a hoax?”

Nobody answers at first.

Verne stands up. “We need to go to the police station right now. This is a public emergency. They’ll tell us what to do.”

“I think the police have better things to do with their time, like fight zombies,”

Fergi replies.

“I bet you anything that people are going to schools, just like they do in floods and hurricanes,” Verne says. “We should go where there are more people.”

I’m scratching my crotch again. My hand is actually down my pants, scratching the bare skin. It burns and stings.

“What does everyone else think?” Shep asks the group.

One of the other girls—her name is Casey—nods. “I agree with Verne. We can’t stay here forever.”

Teddy gives Casey a look like she just called his mother a dirty pig. It seems as though his hate for Verne makes him hate anyone who so much as agrees with the guy.

Shep pulls out his cell and checks it. “Has anyone been able to get service on their phone?”

Nobody has. A couple of calls were made right around the time Fergi got hung up on by the 911 operator. Martha spoke to her mother for a minute or two before the line went dead. And then that was it. Nobody’s had any service since. We can’t get on the Internet either, but for some reason the TV is still working. People have theorized that the government has purposely shut down the Internet after the YouTube clips of zombies got posted.

We can’t seem to come to a decision about what to do next, so everyone just sits and watches CNN and tries to ignore the zombies clawing at the windows.

Fergi walks over to where I’m sitting, leans down and whispers in my ear. “Can we talk in private?”

“Sure.” I get up and the two of us head to the spare bedroom.

Normally in this situation, I’d be measuring the distance between her mouth and my cock. But this is different. We’re in a life and death crisis—also my dick needs serious medical intervention.

Fergi closes the door and looks at me. “What do you think we should do?”

I should stuff my cock down your gullet, and you pretend to be a seagull trying to
scarf down an entire fish.

“I have no clue,” I tell her, deciding that she’s probably not in the mood for any sexy role-playing at the moment. “I doubt going to the police station will help. Unless we find some way to get ourselves arrested, they can’t do anything for us.”

Fergi nods, her face strained like she’s trying to stay in control and is just barely hanging on. Either that, or she’s severely constipated. “I think we should try and get to a store and get loaded up with weapons and food and then come back here and barricade ourselves in.”

“Shit, that’s actually not a bad idea.” I scratch my chin. I hope that sick fucking rash isn’t going to spread to other parts of my body now. “Maybe we can try and find a better headquarters. A basement apartment or something with less windows would be ideal.”

Fergi becomes suddenly enthusiastic and the constipated expression changes to wide-eyed mania. “We need to try and take control of this situation. We need to take charge,” she says.

“Why us?”

“Have you taken a look around at who we’re stuck with? That Nips guy? Your friend, Tommy Foreskin?”

“His name is Teddy.”

“Whatever. I’m just saying, the combined IQ out there is probably lower than the speed limit in a school zone. We aren’t exactly working with candidates for MENSA right now.”

I sigh. “And what about that guy Verne? He gives me serious douche chills.”

She licks her lips and hesitates. “He’s my ex.”

I wince. “You were with that guy?”

Fergi nods sullenly. “It was a big mistake.”

I sit down on the bed and pat the spot next to me. “Sit.”

“Why should I sit?”

“Because, this is important stuff.”

“Fine.” Fergi sits. I sniff and smell her shampoo and perfume. She smells fresh, clean, and I bet her pussy is fucking immaculate.

“We need to deal with this Verne situation,” I say. “He’s a fucking liability.”

“He’s friends with Shep.”

“I can handle Shep.”

“What do you want to do about Verne?” she says. She looks at me and we lock eyes. My raging, burning, itchy penis stiffens instantly.

“I don’t know just yet. But I think he’s going to be a problem.”

Fergi continues looking at me. “Don’t be jealous. It’s not a very attractive look for you.”

“I’m not jealous.”

“We’re in a really dangerous spot. Do you want to help me or not?”

“I do want to help.”

“I don’t really give a shit about Verne, other than the fact that he’ll probably try and discourage people from listening to me.”

“So you want me to back you up?” I say. “I’ll have your back one hundred percent.”

And then when the time is right, I’ll stuff my cock one hundred percent in your back end, I think.

“It would be nice to have a decent sized group to help us go out and get supplies.

We might have to fight off a couple of those…whatever they are.” She looks at me with those dark brown eyes of hers.

I lean closer to her. “It’s funny how a crisis like this can heighten our emotions.”

“What do you mean?” she asks, leaning away.

Look at those cock-sucking lips, I think to myself. “You know what I mean,” I tell her. “Danger, excitement, adrenaline. Not knowing how long we’ll be alive.” I reach my hand out and caress her face.

“Not now. Come on, I don’t have time for that shit.” She slaps my hand away.

“I guess you don’t have time for love. Even if it’s the last night of our lives.”

“Are you going to help me or not?”

“Yeah. I’ll help you.”

She pats my chest. “Good boy. Now listen, let’s go back out at separate times. I don’t want to make it too obvious that we were in here together planning this. It will make people suspicious. Especially Verne.”

“Okay. You leave first…Bella.” I lean towards her again.

“Please. You had your chance when I was drunk.” She shakes her head, gets up and leaves the room without looking back.

I wait a couple of minutes and then I head to the bathroom to make it less obvious we’ve been in here together.

Besides, I want to check out my rash and do some heavy ball scratching.

Safely in the bathroom, I sit on the can and pull my pants down, shocked at the purple mess in my underpants. It looks like a purple pen exploded all over my balls and lower belly. I ferociously scratch the festering rash and then pull my pants up, wash my hands.

When I come out of the bathroom, Teddy Foreskin is standing there with a beer in hand. His eyes are bloodshot. “You been in there forever,” he smiles strangely. “Must have had to shit out an oil tanker.”

“I wasn’t shitting. It was…you know..the other thing.” I motion to my lower extremities.

He nods. “Getting worse?”

“I need antibiotics, fast. It looks like a Cambodian prison down there.”

“Shit. That sounds bad, Danny.” He sips his beer and burps in my face. The sick fuck.

I decide to let Teddy in on our secret despite my better judgment. “Listen, I need to tell you something, but you gotta keep it on the DL.”