No signs of life 1 – Pandemic

After an apocalypse, a teenager gets to fuck the boy of his dreams, but it comes at a massive price.

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No signs of life 1 – Pandemic

I crouched behind my dream boy and worked my cock slowly into his tight hole. I wondered if he had ever had a prick up there before. I very much doubted it. I expect he was still a virgin like me. I wanted to ask him but I knew that he would not answer.

For some reason I expected him to be cold inside but he was warm; more than warm, hot. I had fantasised about this boy for so long, but now that we were together, I doubted I would ever risk asking him to suck my dick, so this was the only heat from him I would ever get to enjoy.

As I started to thrust my lubed cock in and out, he gave no sign that he was uncomfortable, or that he was enjoying it. I looked up at the mirror in front of us. His eyes stared straight ahead, unfocussed. His mouth was slightly open, his expression blank and dispassionate. I wondered if he even cared that I was fucking him. I didn’t care that I was taking him without his consent, but his complete silence was unsettling. I wondered if I would ever get used to it. I would learn to. I had lost so much that getting to play with Ellis seemed like fate’s way of compensating me.

One month earlier

“Would you like coffee mom?”

My question was met with silence. A chill ran down my spine but I forced myself to look at my mother. She was staring blankly ahead of her. That was how quick it happened. One minute we were having a normal conversation over breakfast – as normal as it could be given our circumstances – and the next she was gone. I couldn’t tell if she was dead gone, or just zoned out, like someone lost in thought.

I lost my shit. I shouted, slapped her face, shook her, desperately tried to bring her back to me, but she had gone the same way as my father nine days before. That was what was so terrifying about the Blank Virus. There was no warning, no antidote, and no vaccination. One second a person was perfectly normal, and the next they were not.

Blank had only existed for a couple of months. At first we thought it was bio-engineered by the Russians, but when 90 percent of the Russian population succumbed in just a week, suspicion switched to the Chinese, the North Koreans, and then ISIS, but nobody was safe.

North Korea accused South Korea, and a huge army was despatched to wage war. South Korea and the Allies rallied even larger armies to defend, but long before the North Korean army got close, its numbers – and those of the leadership directing them, were decimated by the virus, and the war fizzled out before it had even begun.

That was the weird thing about the virus, it followed no clear pattern. The North Korean army suffered almost a near 100 percent contagion, but so did remote jungle tribes in South America, and well nourished cities in Europe. There were no genetic, weather, or cultural correlations between the hot spots, and those that succumbed more slowly.

After the first couple of weeks, suggestions that the virus was created by aliens started to seem less ridiculous.

For about 30 percent of the victims, the virus simply blanked them. They lost all autonomous thought. Inevitably, the virus was dubbed the Zombie Virus, and some people were so freaked out by its effects that they took to killing any victims that they found.

But the victims were not zombies. They didn’t move, they didn’t attack, they didn’t make noises, they just waited, standing, sitting, and laying down, in whatever position they were in when the virus struck them. But they could respond to commands. There was obviously still basic comprehension, but no ability or desire to make autonomous decisions.

Then there was the other 70 percent. My father was one of them. At first I thought of them as the unlucky ones. They didn’t simply lose their higher brain functions but their lower functions too. One second they were alive and well, and the next their hearts simply stopped pumping and their lungs stopped moving.

In the early days, those who were unaffected tried to support the 30 percent. We took them to hospitals, we fed them, looked after them just like we would for any invalid. The infected were initially brought to care centres: schools, hospitals, churches, anywhere large enough to care for lots of people at once. But as the ratio of infected to uninfected rose, the task became more and more difficult, until ultimately it was impossible, even if we were still willing.

Fears grew that concentrating the infected like that increased the risk for the rest of us, and people gradually ceased to turn up to help, returning to their own homes, to care for their own loved ones.

Moreover, we quickly recognised that the global farming industry had collapsed overnight, and we were going to have to tend to our own needs. Mom and me started planting in our back garden, and we poured our energies into that, as well as building water collection systems.

Mom was gone just like dad. For the first day I laid her on the couch, hoping that she was simply blanked not dead. I put a light sheet over her and talked to her trying to get her to react, but she could not. I slept on the living room floor that night, afraid to abandon her, and even more terrified that I would also be afflicted.

The next  morning after a fitful sleep I awoke and immediately rose and looked at my mother. Her face had started to discolour. Pale, with veins showing. I went to the bathroom and returned with a cosmetics mirror. I held it to her nose then looked at it. Nothing. No sign of moisture. I tried to lift her hand but her arm was stiff.

Crying all the while, I went to the front yard and dug a shallow hole then buried her, and when it was done I had never felt so alone in my life. 99.9 percent of the neighbourhood was dead or blanked. Almost certainly everybody I knew. I was one in a thousand. And with the TV, radio, phones and internet down, I had no way to check other than going around to the houses of the people I knew.

I dug up flowers from our yard and transferred them to the top of my mother’s grave. They looked too bright for what they masked, but my mom deserved to rest covered in beauty.

For the next three weeks, I tried to distract myself by working on our garden. I dug up the back lawn, and converted every spare inch into plant beds.

Although he was not a full on prepper, my father had always had a little of that mindset, so we had enough canned and dried food to feed the three of us well for three to six months. Alone, if I rationed it, I could probably extend that to several years. More than enough time to get the crops growing.

The first week the virus had started, my father headed not for the food stores, but for the garden centre. He had the foresight to recognise what would be really important. He bought hundreds of seeds and young plants home, but before he ever saw the benefit, he was gone.

As I hit the start of the fourth week after mom passed away, I had started to branch out, exploring the houses of my immediate neighbours. There was no chance that I dared to expend the energy of keeping them alive, but I wanted to discover if any of them had escaped infection. I also wanted to increase my stores of food.

I would knock, and when there was no answer, I would call through the letterbox, then explore the rear of the house, before issuing a final warning and breaking in. Most houses were already empty, and I took whatever food I found. I wasn’t sure how long you could eat canned food, but if it remained edible, towards the end of the fourth week, I had collected enough to last well over a decade.

I ferried it back to my house and took it down to the den. I was careful to hide it behind furniture in case any other survivors happened by. I also left a dated letter on the front and back doors warning others that the house was occupied.

In some houses, occupants remained. One, rarely more than two people. Most dead but some blanked. The dead people were a tragic reminder of my own loss, laying, rotting wherever they had fallen, but the blanked ones were worse. Some were on the verge of death, others were still quite healthy. I debated killing them rather than leaving them until their bodies gave in from lack of water and they died. What if they still had thoughts inside their heads? Feelings? And were simply trapped inside unresponsive bodies? But then what if I started killing them and a cure was found, or relatives returned?

In the end, it was a moot question because I didn’t have it in me to shoot these living zombies. I took what I found and left them untouched. And I had nightmares about them, waiting around to die, unmoving night and day in their silent homes turned mausoleums. One night I awoke screaming to find my bed surrounded by all the people I had left, silently standing. I blinked and leapt up, bashing my head on the wall behind my bed, and as I blinked, the vision returned to the silent pitch darkness of a world without power.

This morning, I found him. The only person that I was willing to save. I had seen him around school for months and I had wanted more than anything to get to know him. More than to know him. But I was afraid to speak to him. He was two years younger than me, and it would have been weird if I had simply befriended him, much less start a relationship. At that age, two years was a lot, and my classmates would have commented, and in the gossipy social cauldron of the school, I could get a reputation that was impossible to live down.

I had always known he lived in my general part of town, but I never knew exactly where until now. As I approached his home, I saw two graves in the front yard. It reminded me with a painful pang, of my own loss. I went through my usual routine before cautiously going around the side of the house. In the back yard was another grave. Much smaller. It caught me by surprise. I sat with a bump and started crying, choked at the tragedy of it all.

I almost walked away and left the house unchecked, but when I got my emotions under control I entered. As always I went through the house double checking, before starting to loot supplies that might be needed to keep someone else alive.

I entered the living room, and that was when I saw it: a photograph of two bare-chested boys in shorts. Both had very light brown hair. A boy of perhaps 5 to 7 with a joyful expression on his face riding the shoulders of the other. That would account for the grave out back. The other boy was laughing as he looked at the photographer.

My heart jumped. It was Ellis. Almost as quickly, my heart plummeted again. There were two graves outside and nobody home. Ellis was likely gone like everyone else. But I had to be sure. I walked through the house. Up the stairs to the bedrooms. The first was clearly the younger boy’s. It would never be used again. Opposite was a communal bathroom. I walked to the end of the short hall and looked through the open door. Bright early summer sunlight streamed through and filled the empty room with its large double bed. I was struck by the contrast between the bright sunniness of the room, and the tragedy that its emptiness represented.

I walked to the room at the other end. The door was shut. I opened it and there he was, sitting in a black and blue gaming chair at student desk. A comic book rested in his lap and he was staring straight ahead.

I swallowed hard.

“Ellis?”

No response.

“Ellis can you hear me?”

Nothing.

I approached and felt him to see if he was still alive. He was warm and there was no visible decay, but I could smell urine. I looked down at his lap. His blue shorts showed the stain of dried urine. He blinked slowly. I could see his chest rising and falling slowly. I tried again more urgently.

“Ellis, it’s Will, from school. Are you still with me?”

He didn’t move.

I begged him.

“Ellis, please look at me. Are you still alive?”

I needed him to be conscious. Not because he was the source of desires, but because I needed another sentient human being to ease my loneliness.

He turned his head in my direction and his eyes focussed on my face. His expression showed nothing.

“Ellis, please talk to me.”

His mouth opened, but then as though realising he didn’t know HOW to talk any more, he closed it again slowly.

“Ellis, I want you to stand up.”

He did as he was told.

“Follow me.”

Again he complied.

We got to the stairs and I went first. He looked down the stairs, then stepped down. I looked up ready to help and on the third step, he missed his footing and tumbled forwards. There was no look of panic on his face, no shout of alarm, no hands thrown up to save himself.

I reached out and caught him. Then I carry-dragged him the rest of the way. At the bottom of the stairs I put him back onto his feet, and he followed as I lead him to the kitchen. I went through the pantry, stuffing as many cans into my backpack as possible. I noticed a packet of Froot Loops. I wondered who ate them, him or his little brother. Then I wondered if he had blanked before his brother had died. I hoped so. I didn’t want him to have endured that pain. Then I realised that there were three graves. He must have seen all three of his loved ones die. My heart ached for him, and for myself again.

I had as much as I could carry. I prepared to leave, then I realised he would need clothes. I was a little larger than him.

“Stay here,” I said.

He showed no sign of acknowledgement but he didn’t follow as I raced back upstairs to his bedroom. There was a backpack by the desk. I emptied it with pointless care onto his desk. Schoolbooks he would never need. Study he would never use. As I emptied his life onto his desk, I noticed a book already on the desk. A journal. I opened it and flicked through to the last entry.

“So lonely since dad died. The last straw. Don’t know how much longer I can keep going. I can’t even go out the back door any more since…”

The sentence was unfinished. I knew what Ellis wasn’t saying. His little brother. So happy in the photo. Now just a mound of dirt in the back yard.

I went through his drawers and picked out a selection of clothes that I thought he would have chosen for himself. A cross between beach and skater style. He wore briefs. Sexy. I grabbed half a dozen pairs and stuffed them into the pack, then ran back down to the kitchen. Ellis was standing exactly where I had left him.

I picked up the larger food pack.

“Come on Ellis.”

I walked towards the front door to spare him the sight of his brother’s grave. For a moment, I actually considered going out of the back in case the sight might trigger some sign of emotion, but it seemed too cruel and heartless, even to a near zombie.

I reached the front door and turned. Ellis wasn’t there. I walked back to the kitchen. He was still standing.

“Come on Ellis,” I said in a louder voice.

He still didn’t move. Maybe he didn’t understand?

“Follow me Ellis.”

He turned and walked towards me. I was going to have to be very precise with my language.

As we passed through the front door, he tripped over the step and landed on his knees. I reached down and helped him to his feet. His knees were skinned and over the next hour would grow to show deep bruises. It must have hurt but he showed no sign.

We passed the graves that I presumed were his parents and headed back to my house.

Ellis had no trouble keeping up. At first I walked slowly, expecting him to shuffle like they did in the old zombie movies, but the more I increased my pace, the faster he walked. Strange that he could walk so confidently yet have such trouble with a little thing like steps. Then I realised why. His gaze was fixed on me. I had ordered him to follow me and that was exactly what he was doing.

We got back to my house and I opened the front door.

“Come inside Ellis. Be careful of the step.”

I pointed at the small step. He looked down and stepped over it without a problem. I steered him to my living room.

“Wait here.”

I went to the den and emptied the food backpack, then I returned to Ellis. He stood where I had had left him, breathing calmly.

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” I said, talking to him as though he understood every word. “Take your shorts off.”

He pulled his shorts down. His underpants came a little way down as well, revealing his genitals, but he made no move to cover himself. I had wanted for so long to see this boy naked, and now here it was happening casually without fanfare. It was almost an anticlimax, except for the possibilities that lay ahead.

I stared at his nudity. His cock had been curled inside briefs that had gotten wet then dried on him. It was small and the wrinkled skin of the shaft was a little sticky looking, forming rings along its short length. He was circumcised, with a rounded scrotum nestled beneath. He had a patch of light brown pubic hair. I was surprised at how small and neat his bush was.

I felt a momentary wave of shame wash over me for looking at him like this, taking advantage of his mental incapacity, but I immediately brushed it aside. This was a whole new world where the old rules didn’t apply, and without me, he would be sitting alone in his bedroom, paralysed, with nothing but the sound of his own breathing as he slowly dehydrated and died.

His shorts were on the floor. He stood up straight and made no move to pull his underpants back up.

I couldn’t help myself; I stepped forwards and cupped his compact genitals.

Looking into his face I said, “I’ve wanted us to be friends for so long Ellis. I wish it wasn’t like this, but I’m so glad you’re here.”

I gave his genitals a tender squeeze. He stared straight ahead, his expression unmoving.

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