Free Slag Attack by Andersen Prunty

hand for lubrication. He’s leaning with one hand pressed on her ass cheek. She thinks about fighting back but, as she continues to pay attention to the television, she continues to wonder if there is even a point in fighting back.
       “ Los Angeles. Portland. All under quarantine. All infected. The CDC and the government have both advised you to stay in your homes. If you see any signs of slags, these maggot-like organisms, in your saliva, vomit, stool, or discharge, do not go to the hospital. I repeat: DO NOT GO TO THE HOSPITALS. They are all full and desperately understaffed. They will not be able to help you. You will only spread the infection.”
        Vincent presses against her. It hurts. She grits her teeth. She opens up and he keeps going.
       “ No hope,” he says. “No hope at all.”
        And he thrusts into her, slowly, tediously, painfully.
        On the television, the anchorman says, “Really, what’s the fucking point to all of this?” And then the television cuts to video footage. Traffic jams. Fires. People dead in the street. Armies in haz mat suits mowing crowds down with flamethrowers.
        Vincent wraps his hands around her arms and pumps harder.
        The television cuts back to the anchorman. His nose is bleeding and he looks even more disheveled. He’s reading from a piece of paper: “If you are in the southwestern Ohio viewing area and you are not yet infected. I repeat: NOT YET INFECTED, then you are ordered by the power of the United States government to report to Hollow City. You are needed...”
        Vincent lets out a growl and she feels him come into her and she wonders if she’s infected. If Vincent is infected, it seems like she should be.
        He pulls out of her and she can feel the slags wriggling around deep inside her bowels.
       “ I have to go,” she says to no one in particular. She rolls over on her back, sits up on her ass, and presses her thighs together. She can feel the slags moving beneath her.
       “ You’re sure as hell infected now.”
        He’s standing there in front of her, the television flickering against his waxy skin. He’s holding his penis in his hand and working it until it softens. She can see the slags peeking out the tip, crawling in and out, around the head. He pulls his underwear up and smacks her in the face. He drags her back to the corner and shoves her face in it.
       “ Don’t move from there. HEAR ME! I need to figger some things out.” He coughs and spits on the back of her head.
       “ Bruce Dickinson,” she mumbles.
        She hears him grab his knife from the top of the television and he slices her with it.
       “ SAY IT! SAY IT! SAY IT!” he shouts before having another coughing fit.
       “ Vincent Severity!” she yells.
       “ That’s fuckin right.”
        He grabs the television and throws it at her before leaving the room. It smashes on the floor at least two feet before her.
        The lights go off and she knows that the next time he enters the room has to be it. If he ever enters the room again. If not...
        What if he dies while he’s out there?
        No choice. She has no choice.
       
    9.
       
    Time seems strange. She thinks maybe he really isn’t coming back or maybe it’s just her mind playing tricks on her. He’s already fucked her, so what is the point in him coming back? It was a desperation fuck. She knows this. He didn’t delude himself into thinking he was fucking Wanda. It was just something to do before he died.
        Before he died.
        Leaving her in this room with the bones of a dead dog and the slags covering the wall.
        The light comes on and she gets her hopes up.
       
    10.
       
    She feels dead with hunger when the door actually opens. Maybe it won’t be him. Maybe it will be someone there to rescue her.
        No.
        It’s him.
        Go for the eyes, she thinks. That has been her mantra ever since