Chapter 32: Just A Touch (infect)
by CollinsKid
Mummy's all right
Daddy's all right
They just seem a little weird
Surrender
Surrender
But don't give yourself away...
- Cheap Trick, "Surrender"
it's not enough
just a touch...
- the smashing pumpkins:"eye"
.*.*.*.
Voice-Over (Alexandra Moltke): "My name is Victoria Winters. A storm has come
to Collinwood, but the people who live there are only just beginning to feel
its effects. A horrific force lies in wait deep in the heart of the Great
House, and at a preordained date and a preordained time, it will rise from its
slumber and strike in violence. Now, as the air turns cold and the plants die,
as the skies become dead and black, every single person in the Great House of
Collinwood is slowly, inexorably on a collision course with destruction."
.*.*.*.
amy (the first things)
Something was watching Amy.
Sitting there on the divan, looking out the drawing room window into early,
sun-drenched dawn in her lavender nightgown, she could tell. She could feel
it. Over the past couple of days, over the course of her entire short tenure in
Collinwood, really, Amy had become slowly gripped with the encroaching,
insidious sense that she was being watched -- tracked -- targeted. She saw it
when she looked out the windows. She saw it when she looked into the hallway
at night, after everyone else had gone to bed. She saw the shadows, and she
knew she wasn't imagining it.
Could a house be alive? Amy'd seen one too many "spook movies," as her dear
brother Tomgodresthissoul had called them. She'd snuck in while her brothers
and their friends had watched them, or insisted on coming along when they went
to the marquee in Bangor. She'd seen the ones with the big scary houses with
their big scary rooms, and curtains that cackled in the wind, and bedroom
shadows that came to life. But that was all make-believe, Tom had insisted;
bad houses don't really exist.
Maybe it wasn't the house, then, but something...in it. Something so old,
something so poisonous, something that had been there so long that she mistook
it for being one with the place. Some...thing. Living in the walls. Hiding in
the shadows. Creaking the boards at night. Some monster. Monsters weren't
real either, Tom had said.
But Tom had been proven wrong about that.
Even here, in the blinding morning light, Amy could feel the little
shiver-worms creeping down her spine. She *wasn't* imagining it. Something
was here, and it was taking *people* -- she could already see it in Mr.
Collins, David's father. She could see some sort of taint, some sort of black
mark, and when she went into town she could see it was spreading, making the
sailors' catch bad, making the seas boil, and the harbor stink -- she was
starting to see it everywhere.
(but you can't have me.)
"Are you *still* here?"
Amy turned. David, still in his blue pajamas, was standing in the doorway,
glaring at her, hands on hips. "I thought they would've sent you back to the
crazyhouse by now." He stomped into the room. "Don't you have better things to
do than look out *my* window?"
Amy got off the divan, doing her best to summon up all of her fragile courage
in the face of this boy whose answer to every "no" was nearly breaking her arm.
"I-it's not *your* window," she said meekly. "It's your family's."
"It's my family's, so it's *mine,*" David snapped, eyes full of fire. "I
*always* look out that window." He paused, seeing her ashen complexion, and
cocked his head. "Hey, what's wrong with you anyway?"
"Nothing," Amy said, completely without conviction. She turned away from him.
"You're losing it, *aren't* you? Gee, I don't know what your problem is."
"I don't *have* a problem," Amy said, spinning around. "I'm *fine.*"
"No, you're not," David persisted. "It's always something. The clock in the
foyer makes you jump; Miss Winters makes you nervous; you're afraid to talk to
Aunt Elizabeth. You're such a fraidy-cat. I hope *I* never get like you."
"You won't," Amy said softly. "You're just -- you're just *mean!*"
The boy's mouth curled into a vicious red sneer. "You're going crazy again,
*aren't* you?" Amy pulled away, but David advanced on her like a cat. "That's
it. Your whole family's dead *trash,* and you're crazy. You can't even stick
up for yourself. You never could, 'cause you're just a fraidy-cat and a
*girl.*" Amy's chin was quivering, and her eyes were welling, hot and wet.
David kept going, hate in his eyes. "I'm better than you. I'll always be
better than you, because you can't help being a *nothing.*"
He ran off triumphant, leaving Amy to finally shatter into sobs.
.*.*.*.
infection (pain)
Quentin was watching the men pull up the latest catch in their big fishermen's
nets. Inside, he could already see and smell the results -- a lot of rotten,
diseased fish.
Something was going very wrong, down here at the harbor, and even Quentin could
see it from his spot on his motorbike, at the top of the hill leading down to
the cannery, the harbor, and the boardwalk. The skies were lead, there were
patches of black frost and ice and sludge littering the ground, and a lifeless,
freezing rain pounded the streets daily around two or three. What's more, the
rank smell of pollution, of *infection,* was rising up from the now-brackish
seas and into town. The fisherman opined that it was oil, or even nukes, and
some went so far as to blame "Russian sea bombs." Quentin knew better. He'd
seen this effect before -- it was the trace of the coming storm. And he was
sitting here, watching it on this dead morning, waiting for the hammer to fall.
"I remember that bike."
Quentin turned. Maggie was there, in a midnight blue minidress, with a purple
jacket slung over her shoulders and large shopping bags in her hands. Her eyes
were venom. "But I only got one ride," she said. "Months and months ago."
Quentin watched her cautiously. "What is it you want from me, Maggie?"
"I want what I deserve," Maggie snapped, drawing closer. "I'd gotten so used
to never getting it that I'd forgotten how good it felt." She held up a full
boutique's bag of fashionable clothes in emphasis.
"Clothes?" Quentin said dubiously. "You deserve clothes?"
"Clothes are the least of my needs," Maggie said. "Luckily, Nicholas fulfills
all of them, so I think it works out well."
"Your father called me," Quentin said. "Said he was worried about you. Hasn't
seen you much -- "
"Pop? Worried?" Maggie laughed, sharp and grating. "Pop's worried I won't fix
him breakfast or bail him out of the drunk tank, that's what he's worried
about."
"He loves you, Maggie -- "
"He loves the bottle," Maggie nearly shrieked into his face. "And you love
Vicki Winters, so why don't you both stay *out* of my affairs." She moved to
stomp off.
"Nicholas Blair?" Quentin asked. "Is he your affair?"
Maggie turned round, and a sinister smile crept across her face. "On the
contrary, Quentin," she breathed into his personal space, and Quentin tasted
violet -- "he's so much more."
"Is he responsible for this?" Quentin asked, unfazed.
Maggie blinked, then looked down at the pier. "Oh, you mean *that?* Well, no,
I don't think so. Nicholas has better things to do than pollute the beaches.
He'd rather kill you and your whole family, and your little *chippie.*"
"Wouldn't you rather kill me instead?" Quentin sighed, looking at her with
wistful eyes.
Maggie let out another little scalpel-laugh. "Don't flatter yourself. I've
got better things to do with my time. And better men." She stepped back onto
the sidewalk.
"It doesn't appear that way," Quentin said drolly. "Looks to me like you're
just obsessed, Maggie."
Maggie Evans' eyes were black ice. She spun on Quentin, hate on her lips -- "I
wouldn't know, Quentin. Why don't we ask your dead, *mad* wife?!"
Quentin winced.
Maggie was gone.
.*.*.*.
the ghost in you (i'll never let you go: until you're mine)
and he was kissing him his lips his neck his eyes his chest nipples abs down
past his waist his SOUL...
Their sex was magnificent. By firelight; on the table; on the couch; on the
rug; in the bedroom; in the closet. They went on for hours, and went on
together until they didn't know which of them was which, or how, or when, or
where...
And now, there they were on the rug next to the crackling fire, basking in the
afterglow at 3 o'clock in the fucking AFTERNOON, and Chris was wearing Joe's
clothes and Nathan was wearing Todd's clothes. Chris had let Joe cradle him,
let the man knead his shoulders and his forehead, let his head stay in Joe's
lap. He'd been used, he'd been discarded, and he'd been picked up and used
again...and he loved it.
A piece of charcoal flared. Nathan kept his arms wrapped round Todd's neck.
"How do you feel?"
Chris sighed. "I don't know...I don't -- really think I'm thinking much right
now." He chuckled.
Nathan allowed a lopsided smile. "You were fantastic."
Chris cocked his head, looking up at him. "You're not just saying that?" He
thought back to Tom, thought back to summers and cliff-jumping and puberty and
boys under waterfalls....how do you ever compare...
Nathan smiled greedily. "No." He kissed Todd's nose.
Chris smiled cautiously, not really able to believe what he was being told.
"Even with things...the way they were before."
"Doesn't matter," Nathan said, nibbling on his ear.
Chris squirmed. "It *does,* Joe. It matters. *Tom* mattered. There's so
much
-- "
"Water under the bridge," Nathan cut in, kissing his neck. "I hate water under
the bridge."
Chris sighed. "Not now."
"Now."
"I'm not a machine."
"Aren't you?"
Chris pushed Joe off of him softly but firmly, then stood, buttoning Joe's
shirt that he now wore. "No," he said. "I'm *not.*" He stoked the fire, then
went over to the pocket kitchen and opened the drawers, looking for late late
brunch ingredients. "I don't know that I like this."
"What's not to like?" Nathan asked, eyeing Todd like a lioness from his spot
next to the fireplace. He looked like Mephisto by the crackling flames.
"I'm not a blow-up doll, Joe," Chris said, putting down a can of beans and
walking over to Joe. "I'm here. I'm me. You take in what I say, but you don't
listen, you don't hear. You just smile and nod, as if talking isn't allowed in
whatever fantasy you're playing at. Well, I'm not Tom, Joe. And I won't *be*
Tom. Not for you. Not for Amy. Not for anybody."
"I'm not asking you to be," Nathan said, doing his best to look and sound
wounded. "I just want you."
"Then you should want all of me," Chris shot back.
Nathan smirked, an imp in his eyes. "But I *do,* Mr. Jennings," he purred,
his voice like cream. He wrapped his arms around Todd's waist, pulling him
close. "And then some."
Chris rolled his eyes and mentally sighed as he let himself be pulled -- once
more -- into that cobra's kiss. It was shallow, it was unreal, it was alien
and frightening in some way he didn't understand. But he couldn't resist. He
could never resist.
The two lovers pulled away from their kiss -- only to see the front door wide
open, and David Collins staring up at them with an open mouth, gaping.
Chris instantly pulled back, and did his best to look and sound as Strong Young
Man as possible. "H-hey...um...Slugger! What's....what's shakin'...David?"
David was still gaping. Finally, noise issued from his throat. "L-lawn," he
mumbled, then resumed gaping.
Chris nodded quickly. "Oh...oh, uh, right, right...sport...um, yeah, I'll get
right on that lawn for Mrs. Stoddard. You run along now -- um -- pardner."
Chris hastily closed the door with a desperate smile.
David crept away, walking backwards, still gaping. He disappeared into the
woods.
Chris spun on Joe. "Goddamnit, Joe -- if that kid says one word -- "
"He won't," Nathan purred, wrapping his arms around Todd again. "He won't know
what to say. Did you?"
Chris wanted to protest, wanted to say it wasn't like that, had never been like
that, and Joe and Tom had never been like that, but then Joe was pulling him
down to the ground again, and he could feel his hands turning him to fire, and
everything else fell away.
.*.*.*.
walkingdead (roger)
(night fell, and that was when he finally made it back to the house.
staggering across the lawn, shambling, his car back downtown -- his suit was
rumpled, bloody, torn.
they were in his head again, scraping away at his brain with their little
scalpels and forks, their *teeth,* their *nails* -- he could feel them scraping away the core of *him,*and replacing it with their whispers, their hissed commands, their frightening
*insistence* and all he could think of is CAROLYN IS INSANE --
"most times, i would cut off your face, and feed it to you for what you have
seen," she hissed. "but there is a conflict of interest. so you get to live,
and *rot.*" and then she'd cut him. cut him in his side -- not lethal, but
painful, but that crimson spilling out of him and staining his chambray shirt
was nothing compared to the bleeding in his skull -- feeling them deconstruct
him piece by piece -- how could he not have seen -- all these months and now it
was SO CLOSE --
he tottered up to the doors, and opened them with much effort. staggered into
the foyer, dropping his coat and stumbling over himself, crashing to the
ground.
he'd wanted to run, but there was nowhere left for roger collins to go.
nowhere but here -- back into the belly of the beast. it would never let him
die.
he felt rather than heard the clicking of julia's heels and her saying "roger,"
and then he grayed out on the world.)
and somewhere, deep in the bowels of the house, a rhythm was generating...
.*.*.*.
fraidy-cat (amy finds her way)
...And there they were, in the dining room, and it was sunny summer again and
orange light was pouring in through the windows and the shades smelled of
taffeta and roses. The house was all bright and itself again, the wallpaper was
pretty pastel blue and white and yellow, and the cows were lowing in the yard
and the birds were tweeting and it was just *SO* nice.
Amy's brothers were bustling around the table busily, in their good Sunday
suits. Looking down, Amy could see she was also in her good dress. At either
end of the table, at the head chairs usually reserved for Mother and Daddy,
were two blacksuited individuals whose heads were bowed, and so Amy could not
very well see them, now could she?
"I hope you didn't load up on that candy again, small fry," Tom said to her,
putting down plates. "We've got quite a supper prepared."
"I didn't," Amy said. "Who are our guests?"
"Oh, *you'll* see," Chris said, setting down three huge silver platters --
covered -- on the tabletop. "It's too good to spoil."
The twins sat down. Amy frowned. "Aren't we going to wait for Mother and
Daddy?"
"They got waylaid," Tom said. "Tough times, you know."
"Aren't you forgetting they're dead?" Chris asked her quizzically.
Amy paused, her brow furrowing. "Oh, that's right," she said absently. "Never
mind."
There was a flash of light, and all of a sudden the room was covered in black,
shiny wallpaper and the outside was dark, storming night. Amy realized with
some detachment that the walls were actually bleeding, as were whatever was
under those platters.
"It must be rare," Amy opined to no one in particular.
Tom turned to one of the shadowy figures at the head of the table. "Is it
time?"
The figure raised its head, and Quentin Collins smiled magnanimously. "Yes,"
he hissed. "It certainly is."
Huge gusts of snow and hail smacked against the windows noisily, and Chris and
Tom pulled the tops off the silver platters to reveal three dead, butchered
sheep, their fur covered in arterial blood, their stomachs gutted, entrails
lolling out. At the other end of the table, a pale, gaunt, black-gowned
harridan with scarlet hair and white eyes turned to Amy and smiled sweetly.
"Don't be afraid, darling. This is how it has to be."
Amy turned to her brothers. Tom's mouth was bared, and his teeth were huge,
jagged knives. Chris was gone, replaced by a huge, hulking beast covered in
black fur, blood in its eyes and on its maw.
"I'm not afraid," Amy said. "I should've expected this." She looked down at
her hands. One of them was clad in a sleek, black glove.
The sheep were gone, and on the table lay David Collins, bleeding and gutted,
but somehow still alive.
Amy glared at him, raising her gloved hand. "I hope *I* never get like you,"
she said balefully.
And then she and her beast-brothers and Quentin and the woman in black all
rose, and dove onto David like a sacrificial lamb --
.*.*.*.
mean (david sees the light)
The fire was raging out of control in Mother's dank little motel room here in
Phoenix, and that rinky-dink little fan she'd bought at the general store was
doing *nothing* for the heat now. David sat on the edge of the bed, staring up
in awe as his mother went up in a pyre. On the TV, amidst the smoke and ash and
poisonous air, Bugs Bunny was abusing Donald Duck yet again.
"Don't worry, darling," Mother said. "I've seen it all before. Try just
breathing in."
David was losing oxygen by the gallon and could barely see his mother now. "I
have -- I have to recite the -- the -- story..." He coughed violently, and
scooted further back onto the bed, away from the growing bonfire.
He tried to begin:"The...the phuh-Phoenix rises...t-to the highest palm
tree...a-and...and lays its...its eggs..." He started to cry, softly. "Mother,
I don't *like* this -- !"
"Well, I don't *like* dying by fire, but it's something I have to do," Laura
sniped as her face fell off. "Like renewing your license."
There was a banging on the door. David spun from his spot on the flaming bed.
Father and Miss Winters. Screaming. Banging.
"David!" Father howled. "Open up, for the love of God! I'll give up women and
*most* gourmet liquors!"
"David," Vicki sobbed, "if you open this door I'll abolish math!"
"I don't care about you!" David screamed about them. "I'm with my mother!
That's all that matters!" For no reason in particular, he looked down, and with
a gasp saw that his right hand was now covered in a sleek black glove. With
horror, he looked over to his mother. "Motherrrr....!"
"It's a mark, David," Laura said, now a pyre of ash. "I know that mark," she
said, her voice everywhere now. "You're *tainted.* You can't go with me."
David was mortified. "But Mother -- !"
And all of a sudden, his mother's perfect face was right in front of him, and
her body was half-woman and half magnificent, flaming bird, and he heard the
scream of a falcon as she floated above him. "You think I go to the 'highest
palm tree!' I *don't!* I go into the depths of Hell, and I
*burn* and *burn* and *burn,* and then I'm reborn, remade, good as new, perfect
as can be! And I breed, and I abort! Again and again! I'm perfect! You're
by-product. All that love, all that cuddling, all your carefully constructed
myths about Poor Dear Mother -- it's a ploy. You're nothing to me if you're
not in this fire, *burning!*"
He was sobbing like a baby -- like *AMY* now. "Mother, *PLEASE* -- !"
"You want me?" Laura screeched, and she had wings now. "You want the Phoenix?
The Great Devourer? Did you want to be *loved?* Do you want to know what love
is?"
"*No!*" David screamed, hysterical.
The room was falling apart. Laura stared at David with burning, vicious red
orbs. "You love me," she said softly, serenely. "And you disgust me."
And then she was really *was* the Phoenix and her maw opened up, jaws jutting
over his head, and the room melted to slag and the world exploded and David
screamed, and screamed, and screamed --
.*.*.*.
touched
Amy opened the door to David's room, and found him standing there, dazed,
quivering. The boy looked more off-guard and frightened, more weak and
milquetoast than she'd ever seen him.
Disgusting.
Amy walked into the room in her flannel nightgown and softly closed the door
behind her. She stared at David, her eyes set and even.
David looked back at her, quaking and confused -- but something was between
them now, even to an unskilled observer. Something indistinct, intangible,
invisible, untouchable -- but something very real and very there. Some beast,
shambling in the middle of the room, roaring. There was a connection.
David almost spoke -- and then Amy was pushing him to the ground with a hard
thump. He tried to get up, but she pushed him back down against, slamming a
hard foot into his stomach, keeping him there.
Amy stood over David, hair in her face, eyes black diamonds. "It's close," she
said flatly, metal in her voice.
"Yes," David said, softly -- meekly.
"It's his time now."
"Yes."
"You'll do as he commands."
David nodded, looking up at Amy with wide, docile eyes. "Yes."
Amy stared down at him with crackling contempt.
"I'm better than you," she hissed. "I'll always be better than you. Because
you're *nothing.*"
David bowed his head in submission.
TO BE CONTINUED ...
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