Spermjackers From Hell Read online

  SPermjackers

  From Hell

  Christine Morgan

  DEADITE PRESS

  P.O. BOX 10065

  PORTLAND, OR 97296

  www.DEADITEPRESS.com

  AN ERASERHEAD PRESS COMPANY

  www.ERASERHEADPRESS.com

  ISBN: 978-1-62105-247-0

  Spermjackers from Hell copyright © 2017 by Christine Morgan

  Cover art copyright © 2017 Jim Agpalza

  Interior art copyright © 2017 Jim Agpalza

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written consent of the publisher, except where permitted by law.

  Printed in the USA.

  For my family ... especially my daughter Bex, who I know is just so proud,

  whose friends will be so impressed,

  and who will never be able to live this down, ever.

  “Let’s summon a succubus, he said. It’ll be fun, he said.”

  “Shut the fuck up!”

  “You’re the fuck-up!”

  “Both of you, shut up already!” Jake strafed Marty and Spencer with an auto-fire glare, of which Devon—who hadn’t made a peep—caught collateral damage.

  It worked, though. They did shut up. Or maybe it had more to do with Marty needing to bend over and catch his breath with his hands braced on his knees, while Spencer backed into a corner, covering his face like a little kid at a scary movie. Except, most little kids, when backed into a corner covering their faces, probably wouldn’t keep silently mouthing a litany of fucks.

  Being down here…being chased this way…hunted this way…it’d be a miracle if either of them made it out.

  If any of them did, for that matter.

  Devon wasn’t too wild about their chances. All he wanted was not to die down here. To not end up like those others they’d seen…

  “I think we ditched them,” Jake said. Whispering, like it mattered what with Marty huffing and puffing and gasping and wheezing.

  “Great,” said Devon. “So, where are we?”

  This time, it wasn’t auto-fire glare but a single sniper-shot, with nothing collateral about it. Devon flinched. He hadn’t been trying to challenge Jake or piss him off; he honestly had no idea.

  They’d been scrambling around this claustrophobic labyrinth for what felt like hours, sometimes with nothing to go on but the pale shine of cell phones, sometimes groping through blackness in a terror of giving away their position.

  And sometimes, worst of all, in the eerie, shimmering, blue-green gleam of…

  Shuddering, Devon forced himself not to think about that.

  He raised his phone—how much longer on the battery? He didn’t dare check, because he knew the news would be grim. The wan light made them all look like post-apocalyptic infected maniacs. The disheveled state of their clothes didn’t help, nor did the bruises, scrapes, and scratches on their skin.

  But they still looked miles better than they could have, all things considered. Compared, to, say, the unlucky ones. Or, what was left of them. Okay, so, maybe the hobos hadn’t been in the best shape to begin with, maybe had barely looked human and alive when they were up and moving around, but still…

  He tried to shake the images from his mind but they came back like mental pop-up ads. Their faces were the worst. Their expressions. Their horrible, hideous, dead faces.

  Well, their faces were the worst he’d let himself look at. He hadn’t been able to bring himself to look…lower.

  Again, with a physical headshake to go with it this time, he tried again. Not going to think about that. Not going to see that in the shadow-scape of his mind. Not now. Not ever.

  Except in nightmares, but, for there to be nightmares, he’d still have to get out of here with body and soul together.

  Right now, the four of them were alive, relatively unhurt, and still mostly fairly sane.

  If Jake was right with his “think we ditched them,” they might be able to stay that way a while longer.

  “I just mean,” Devon said apologetically, “you told us you knew your way around—”

  “Forget it.” Jake turned away to listen. “Yeah. I don’t hear anything.”

  “Jesus fuck,” Spencer said, sagging into his corner. “Jesus H. Titty-Fuckin’ Christ. I was sure as shit we were dead as shit.”

  “Oh, man.” Marty mopped his face with the bottom of his GTA t-shirt, showing a view of hairy gut Devon could’ve done without. Not that he hadn’t already seen way more of everybody than he’d ever wanted. “Can I puke now?”

  “No puking,” Jake said. “We’ve got enough problems.”

  “Those bodies back there—” Devon said.

  Spencer held up a palm-out. “Don’t, or Mart-O here won’t be the only one pukin’.”

  “But—”

  “Spence is right,” Jake said. “Don’t. Like I said, we’ve got enough problems.”

  “Okay, okay,” Devon said. “You do know where we are, though, right?”

  “We’ll figure it out.”

  “You mean we’re lost?”

  “He doesn’t mean we’re fuckin’ lost!” Spencer shot to his feet. “We been down here a bunch of times, Jake and me, and we’re not—”

  “Shhh!” hissed Jake.

  They fell silent, Spencer snapping his yap closed, Marty struggling to control his breathing. Devon, his mouth dry, tried to swallow and heard the rasp and click loud inside his own head. He heard the quick thump of his heartbeat, an irregular echoing drip from somewhere, the faint scuffle of a what might have been a rat or cluster of roaches…and nothing else.

  Nothing else.

  The tension began to ebb from Jake’s shoulders. Marty loosed a shaky exhale that turned into a sour burp. Spencer mouthed a few silent obscenities of relief.

  False alarm. Only a false alarm. Maybe Jake was right.

  “Are we—?” Marty began in a hoarse whisper.

  “I think—” Jake’s words cut off.

  A low sound rolled in like ground-fog from the stillness. A throaty chuckling. A murmuring, a rustling. Feminine. Seductive. A sound made to curl around nerve endings and caress senses. To entice with promises of pleasure, to stir memories and desire.

  “Oh, fuck,” said Spencer.

  “Move it.” Jake grabbed Marty’s elbow and propelled him past Devon, then turned to hoist Spence from his corner.

  Marty stumbled, almost faceplanted, recovered, and began to run in a heavy, lurching lumber. Devon, Spencer, and Jake followed, hoping to find something, anything. A dead end would be bad. An exit would be good.

  Instead, they came to an intersection, where Spencer stopped short and moaned in dismay. “You gotta be shitting me.”

  “What?” Marty mopped his face with his shirt again. “What now?”

  “We been here before.”

  “What?!”

  But there was no denying it, as they shined their phones for a better look. If the familiarity wasn’t enough, the fresh snack cake wrappers were a surefire giveaway. They had been here before. Now, their hectic scrambling had brought them back, and what Devon couldn’t remember was which way led out…and which led toward…

  The lair, something in his mind suggested.

  He shuddered.

  The den. Come into my parlor said the spider to the fly.

  No, thanks.

  Slip into something more comfortable.

  Stop it.

  You’re so tense, you should relax, relax and think nice things.

  It occurred to him that nobody had moved, all four of them just standing there, as the
brightness of the screens weakened into milky blurs.

  Won’t hurt you wouldn’t hurt you you’ll like it it’s nice.

  Sure, tell that to those hobos.

  Devon shuddered again. He shook himself. “Guys!”

  Spencer jumped. Jake blinked. Marty went, “Huh?” Then awareness dawned on each of their faces, awareness with dread hot on its heels.

  “Still after us,” Jake said. “And close.”

  “So let’s get the fuck gone!”

  “Yeah, but which way?”

  Jake’s eyes bugged, and for a second or two, Devon thought he was finally going to crack and abandon ship on the whole big-balls leader routine. Which way? Screw that, every man for himself! If they each took a different direction, hell, maybe some of them might make it!

  Then the no-man-left-behind one-for-all-all-for-one mentality set in again, and Jake found a sudden decisiveness. “This way!”

  Swearing, Spencer took off after him. Groaning, so did Marty.

  Devon hesitated for an awful moment, half-convinced they were now heading full-speed right toward their doom. But, if he didn’t follow, he’d get left behind. If he got left behind, he might never get out. Gripping his own phone tight in one clammy-sweat-slick hand—no bars, no service; useless as anything but a light source and even that was fading fast—he broke into a run.

  Stay it’s nice love you love you make you happy make you feel so nice so happy and nice warm and relaxed and pleasant and nice.

  It was wrong.

  It all had been wrong.

  Wrong from the start. Wrong as a joke, as a just-for-the-hell-of-it, just-for-the-fun, when none of them seriously expected it to work.

  Wrong to get involved. Wrong to go along.

  Any pretense at stealth was abandoned as they ran, change jangling in their pockets, the soles of their shoes slapping with flat echoes, phone displays bobbing and casting weird streaky glimmers.

  A joke, for the hell of it, just for fun.

  Why hadn’t they done something else?

  Why hadn’t they listened to Beth?

  Forget her forget her she doesn’t see you know you love you understand, she can’t make you happy can’t make you feel nice not like this not like us not like me so much better so much much much better.

  Stronger now and closer. Too strong and too close.

  “We’ve got to buy some time,” Jake said.

  “How?” asked Devon.

  “You know how.”

  “Shitfuckfuckshit.” Spencer cupped his hands to his crotch. “I can’t, sincerely, my dick hurts, I can’t.”

  Marty laughed. It was a terrible, un-funny laugh. “I’m running on fumes, here, bro.”

  Their three faces, awash with shadows, all turned toward Devon.

  “Who, me?” he yelped.

  “Somebody’s got to!” said Marty.

  “Yeah, go on, get with the fuckin’ program and do it already!”

  “Jesus, Dev,” said Jake. “Take one for the team, huh?”

  What we want, what you want, what I want, what we want, you’ll like it it’s nice.

  It wasn’t in Devon’s ears but between them, not in his mind but below it, a thrumming undercurrent to thought and reason.

  Horrible.

  Beautiful.

  Promising pleasure.

  Incomparable, irresistible, unbearable pleasure.

  “Hey! Fuck yeah!” Spencer suddenly cried. He’d pulled into the lead, the wiry rat-bastard, overtaking Jake, outdistancing Devon, leaving Marty lagging in his dust. As the others drew nearer, they saw what he was pointing at.

  “Ohthankgod,” panted Marty.

  “Told you it was this way!” Jake managed a grin, regaining some of his swagger. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “Fuckin’ A,” Spencer said.

  Get out, yes. But then what? Who would believe them?

  That could wait. Discussion later. Anywhere but here.

  They hadn’t gone half the distance toward the beckoning beacon, the promise of salvation, when the sounds reached them again. Murmuring, chuckling, rustling, a low and intimate whispering.

  Feminine sounds, sounds to sway and stroke and seduce. Cooing and crooning.

  Sleek. Terrible. Supple. Sexy.

  None of them spoke. Spencer didn’t bother to swear. They just ran again, ran like hell, ran like rabbits, ran in a headlong panicked final sprint.

  As, behind them, clear blue-green gleams appeared, rippling shimmers of sun-on-tropical-shallows turquoise, an enticing and intoxicating promise, wonderful wet warmth, and a shining, deadly, hellish hunger.

  Before...

  Chapter One: Inspiration

  “Dude,” Marty said to Brendan, tearing open a pillowcase-sized bag of Doritos. “I keep telling you, you’re wasting your time going after tourist girls.”

  “The fuck would you know about wasting time, Mart-O?” countered Spencer. “You been trying to Nice Guy your way into Cynthia-Lynne Abbott’s pants since sixth-fuckin’-grade.”

  “I have not!” He flushed.

  “You totally have,” said Beth, leaning forward from a swaybacked old junker plaid sofa to snag herself another beer.

  “Who’s Cynthia Abbott?” asked Devon, who’d only moved to Fairmont a few months ago when his parents decided to try their luck opening a little bakery/bistro, and remained very conscious of his status as the new kid in their circle.

  “Cynthia-Lynne Abbott,” Marty said, with a quickness and emphasis that only proved Spencer and Beth’s points. His flush darkened toward maroon.

  “Blonde,” said Spencer, an expression of busy rodentlike concentration twisting his narrow face. Dried green makings and papers were strewn on a card table in front of him as he rolled with industrial assembly-line precision. “Not much for tits, but legs like holy-Judas-whoa.”

  “Dude!”

  “What? They are.”

  “They are,” Jake said.

  “I’d give her a seven, maybe an eight,” Brendan said.

  “Poor Mart-O could only give her about a three and a half,” Spencer said. “If he ever got the chance, which he won’t, on account of she’s stuck his ass so far in the friendzone he needs a goddamn passport.”

  Marty threw a chip at his head like a nacho-cheese ninja star and missed by a yard. It skittered off somewhere into the apartment’s general litter and clutter.

  “She’s dating Troy Cahill,” Beth told Devon.

  “Of Cahill Cellars?”

  “Who the hell else?” Brendan said. Sounding bitter, and with good reason. His parents made money, yeah, sure, but they weren’t Fairmont-elite. And if Brendan was bitter about such totem-pole bullshit, the rest of them weren’t even in the running. Jake’s job at the golf course paid okay but was seasonal, Marty’s at the Shop-N-Go was strictly crap hours and minimum wage, Beth did part-time at the lock shop, Devon’s folks had all they could do to keep their heads above water, and Spencer…

  Hell, Spencer was a Bodean, which said it all.

  “That jerk,” Marty said. “I don’t know why she keeps going back to that jerk.” His thumbs blurred across the controller. On the screen, a dozen gibbering yellow-eyed demonic imps exploded in a succession of gooey black and red bursts.

  “Because he’s Troy-fuckin’-Cahill of Cahill-fuckin’-Cellars,” Spencer said.

  “He doesn’t appreciate her. He doesn’t deserve her. She’s always saying how insensitive he is.”

  “Tell us again how you’re not Nice-Guying,” Beth said.

  “I’m not!”

  “Girls say stuff like that,” said Jake, popping some frozen corn dogs into the microwave. “They say they want someone who’s smart and funny and considerate—”

  “Yeah!” Marty blew away more imps and a rotting cadaverous thing dripping acidic ooze. “They say that, but then they go for assholes like Troy-fucking-Cahill! Won’t even give someone decent a chance! Whoa, shit!”

  A larger demon, this one a greenish behemoth spor
ting huge bone horns and scythelike claws, had appeared in the passageway. Its maw opened in a huge, screen-shaking, but near-silent, roar. The volume was turned way low because the guy in the unit next door—a behemoth himself, with shaved head and neck tats—had informed them in a deceptively soft, polite voice that he worked odd hours and would appreciate it if they kept it down. Needless to say, nobody argued.

  “Banefire spell,” Beth said.

  “I know, I know, shut up, I know!”

  “Another one behind the rubble.”

  “Aaargh!”

  The gaming chair rocked and shook as Marty lunged side to side, death-grip on the controller, leading with his elbows. A ball of sulfurous flaming energy shot from his avatar’s gauntlet, stunning one demon before he swung around to engage the other.

  Several violent seconds and a couple of extremely close calls later, it was over. Jake clapped Marty on the arm. “Nice save, there, man.”

  “Hate those horny bastards,” Brendan said.

  Exhaling, fortifying himself with a big swig of his Mega Guzzle, Marty relaxed and picked up where he’d left off. “This one time, at some party, they got into a big fight, and he ditched her, and she called me, and I walked her home—”

  “Was that the time she puked on your shoes?” asked Beth.

  He nodded, watching as two sections of wall crumbled to reveal a fiery chasm spanned by floating chunks of jagged stone bobbing at irregular intervals. “Yeah. She was really drunk, crying, upset. I held her hair and everything.”

  “All that, and you didn’t even get a blowjob.” Spencer tutted. “Sucks for you. Or, should I say, no sucks for you.”

  “Anyone else would’ve tried something,” Brendan said.

  “Hey…” Marty finished traversing the fiery chasm by jumping across the floating stones in the correct pattern. “... I’m not the kind of scumball who’d take advantage of a half-passed-out girl!”

  “That’s good, though, right?” said Devon.

  “You’d think,” said Beth.

  “And how’d she thank you for it later?” asked Jake, in the tone of one who already knew the answer.

  Marty’s shoulders slumped. “She told me I was a really—”