Rotter

“Hey bitch! Hey rotter!”

The live boys laugh as they mock my shambling gait. There’re about six of them, white, I think. My eyes aren’t as good as they used to be. They’re slumming. You don’t need twenty-twenty to read that from their body language. Bystanders awkwardly avoid us as the boys follow me, walk ahead of me, still laughing.

“Hey, are you a girl or a boy, rotter?” asks the live boy I assume to be their leader. “Are those supposed to be tits?”

“Ghnarrghl,” I came back, unable to help myself.

“Fuck you, rotter!” dares one of the lesser boys in return

Their paths start to worry me; they’re closing me off from the street, steering me towards the entrance to an alleyway.

“Come on, let’s have some fun, rotter. In the name of human-rotter relations,” says their leader, sneering. I am human, just a dead one, but I can’t say so. Doesn’t matter, wouldn’t register with this lot.

I try to push back and regain my initial, stumbling route, but I have nothing near the coordination that the live boys have. No one else on the street notices, or cares, that a bunch of live boys herd a lone rotter into a dark alley in broad daylight.

“Thrrghl!” I try to protest, but I am shoved now, grabbed, pulled to the fence at the alleyway’s end. I turn on the leader, snap my teeth. Bravado, and he knows it, slapping me in the face.

“Keep her held down, guys,” he says. “We’re going to find out—” he gropes my crotch “—yes, it is a rotter girl! I thought I smelled rotter pussy.”

Some of the live boys hoot and holler at this, take turns grabbing my decayed vulva, the remains of my tits. A few stay back, awkward.

“This is too fucking gross,” says one, letting go of my shoulder. Another live boy is on me before I can push for my freedom.

“Pussy!” shouts the leader. “Fag!”

“Whatever, dude,” says another.

“Rotter-lovers!” accuses the leader.

I hear murmurs of the dissenting live boys, unwilling to help me, God no, but weirded out regarding how watching another live boy fuck me makes them feel about themselves. They flee, but there are enough left, malicious enough to hold me down as their leader unzips his pants audibly. He’s more than ready to do all the things he ever wanted to do to a live girl but couldn’t.

“Nrghl,” I hear from the street. “Argh.”

Fuck. I am relieved, infinitely, but just… fuck.

“What—” says one of the live boys, and then he sees what I know lie at the alley’s opening. “Oh shit,” he says.

“Look what you got us into, you dirty cunt!” screams their leader, his pants still down.

I cannot see, but I can hear, the shuffling of a dozen feet amongst the filth of the alleyway.

“Grrghl!”

The live boys are penned in against the oncoming micro-hoard of my fellow undead. They let me go, I collapse to the pavement, and they start to climb the chain-link to their escape. I can hear and feel the live boy leader struggling with his pants, thoroughly fucked. The undead move around me and the live boy screams as they do… whatever. I close my eyes. A tentative touch brushes my shoulder, helps me to my feet.

“Gurghl?” she offers.

I try to hiss my displeasure. All that comes out is “Hwqwahqw.” I open my eyes again. Her rotted face is friendly, but I am in no mood to accept her kindness. I had forgotten, willfully or not, the cardinal rule: safety only in numbers. Why should it be so? How is it fair to live tethered to the herd? But it is the way it is, and we literally have no voice to make it different. C’est la vie.

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