Enjoying the Apocalypse - Tyler Ch. 02

Editor's note: this story contains scenes of non-consensual or reluctant sex.

***

Back in the shelter, Tyler sat in a chair, looking across the bunker to where he had secured the zombie to a metal shelving unit bolted to the floor. He had secured it - her, his brain insisted - at a dozen or more points. Zip-ties secured her ankles and knees to the shelves, her wrists and elbows similarly fastened to the shelves high over her head. Bungee cords were wrapped tightly over her slim hips and flat belly, over her ribs, just beneath her breasts, and over her upper chest, the elastic cords taut and fighting back against her attempts to struggle in her bonds.

He had changed clothes - the trousers and underwear he had been wearing were hanging off to one side, damp, dripping quietly onto the concrete floor, having been washed thoroughly after his natural reaction from her twitching before he had moved her into the bunker. Her energy levels spent, she hadn't fought when he picked her up and carried her down into the hideout. Every time she regained enough energy to move at all, she would burn that energy off immediately with a few weak thrashings, going still very quickly afterwards.

His impulsive decision may have been foolhardy, but Tyler wasn't stupid - once he had her secured, he had clipped her nails down to the quick, and had stuffed a rag into her mouth, being very careful of her teeth, securing that with a short bungee wrapped around her head. She was...well, not safe, by any means, but he'd done his best to reduce her threat as much as he could. She thrashed now, but weakly, continuing to burn off her strength as soon as it returned, resulting in perhaps thirty to sixty seconds of frantic struggling, then a long period of stillness.

"What are you doing?" Tyler demanding of himself, shaking his head, chewing on a piece of beef jerky. "Tyler...what are you thinking? This is...insane." He stood up from his chair, walking over to where she stood, looking her over. Her hair was a mess, dirty and ragged, a mop of muddy-colored tangles that might once have been a fetching, cute little pixie bob. Her eyes, although bloodshot and blank, had once been a pretty blue, deep and crystaline. He had checked her clothes, a half-shredded tank top and pair of boyshort panties, when he had brought her down, and found no sign of any identification.

"Well...I've come this far. May as well see what happens."He looked up into her eyes, squinting, seeking for any humanity, any connection. "Can you hear me?" he asks, slowly and clearly. "Can you understand what I'm saying?" No response. Her eyes just flicked about, like a trapped animal, her struggles feeble, twitching in her bounds. "Hey, you. Anyone in there?" he asked, lifting a hand to pat her cheek. Still nothing, no sign of any recognition.

Sighing again, he turned away, walking over to open a drawer and taking out a pair of shears. He cut her top up the front, straight up the middle to the neckline, and let it spring open to her sides, baring her chest and belly. He caught his breath softly when her skin was exposed - her body was near-perfect, a young woman in her prime, belly flat, almost hard, her breasts firm and high and round. Just enough to fill his hand completely with no overflow, he discovered, when he lifted his free hand, cupping one of them, fitting it neatly in his grip. "Fuck," he murmured, his body responding to soft female flesh in his hand, his erection rearing its head, a throbbing in the front of his pants.

He released her, reaching his hand down to rub at the hardness in his pants, groaning softly. He couldn't wait - tossing the shears to the side, he reached down, opening his pants, slipping his hand in to take hold of his aching cock. He hauled it out, his hand moving along its length steadily. He was no virgin - he'd slept with two girls in high school, one after the sophmore dance, in a hurried, clumsy crash of bodies in his parents' house after the event, the other on his seventeenth birthday, in his car in the park after his party, just over a year ago. But his body, not quite at the end of its second decade, was needful and easily aroused.

The porn magazines had been unsatisfying, if oft-utilized. Mechanically, he'd gone through the motions, looking at the overdone women on the pages and thinking about the two girls that had given him their bodies. This...was something, at least. She might be unthinking, she might be devoid of any real personality, but she was here, and, if one could see past the layers of grime and filth, beautiful, if ragged. And she was his. All his, no one else's, at his mercy and whim, for anything he wanted. If only he could figure out how to be...safe.

It didn't take long - his hand working along his cock, Tyler, groaned heavily, lifting his other hand to cup her breast again, squeezing, gently mauling it, pinching her tight, hard nipple until his orgasm burst out of him with very little warning. Making nonsensical little 'hunh hunh' noises, he thrust his hips forward at her, his balls drawing up tightly, squirting pent-up, pearly cum on her skin, decorating her flat belly and the front of her filthy panties.

Panting, he staggered back, his cock still held in his hand, quickly deflating after his intense climax. He fell back into his chair, cum dribbling from the tip of his cock, shivering and shuddering as post-orgasm malaise took hold of him. Settling in, the eighteen-year old closed his eyes, feeling the lethargy of exhaustion overcome him.

He started awake abruptly, jerking to awareness in the bunker, the lamp that he'd left burning still throwing a warm, flickering light around the shelter. He jumped up from his seat, cursing himself under his breath. "Idiot," he growled. "Fucking moron. Falling asleep with her in here. What the fuck, Tyler?" he demanded of himself. A quick glance told him that she was still in her spot, still pinned to the metal shelving. He approached her gingerly, slowly, checking all her restraints - still in place and snug.

Realizing his pants were still open, he quickly stuffed himself back in his pants, closing his trousers and zipping up. He paused, and laughed softly at the ridiculousness of the situation - trying to maintain modesty in front of a creature that was perfectly willing to roam the streets in her panties, with her breasts half hanging out of her top. Shaking his head, he crossed his arms, looking her over. "All right...I wonder what your name was," he mused, searching her face with his eyes. "You look like an Amanda," he said, with a smirk. "Amanda it is. All right, then, Amanda...maybe let's get you cleaned up."

He picked up the shears again, and made quick work of her top, leaving it in rags on the floor - she just got better and better. Her breasts, rounded and firm, with tight little pink nipples, her frame petite but athletic - he wondered idly if she'd been a cheerleader, perhaps. She didn't look familiar, so he was pretty sure he'd never seen her in the neighborhood, or at school - odds were that he'd never really know who she'd been.

Then, her little boyshort panties, the thin material giving way easily under the sharp scissor blades. Her sex was as pretty as a it could get, her lower lips small, barely more than a little slit between her thighs, a dusting of fine, downy curls just above it.

One problem - now that he was thinking clearly, and not controlled by his hormones, Tyler realized that she was rank. With her panties off, the girl frankly stank - it wasn't hard to believe that she'd not been washed in a month or more. He backed off, waving his hand in front of his face, frowning deeply. "Amanda, honey...you need a bath." He looked her over, brow furrowed in thought, then went to fetch a large bowl and a jug of water, along with a wash cloth, some liquid soap and a packet of wet-wipes.

He poured the water into the bowl, dribbling a bit of soap into it, then setting it aside. "May as well get the dangerous part first," he murmurs, opening the wet-wipes and taking one out, lifting it up toward her face. She thrust her head forward, snapping her teeth at his hand through her gag as it approached, and he recoiled by reflex. "Okay, look - I'm trying to wash you," he said, although he had no belief that she would actually understand him. He lifted his other hand, thrusting it into her hair without warning, the greasy, filthy mass slick and sticky between his fingers. "Oh, fucking yuck," he complained, gripping her hair as well as he could and exerting himself, pushing the back of her head back against the shelving. Holding her pinned there, he lifted the wet wipe and quickly, without much care or gentleness, scrubbed at her face hurriedly.

The first wipe was spent quite quickly, turning grey, then almost black before he'd even finished wiping her brow. It took a further eight wipes to clean her face and neck and brow - as he washed the grime away, she got even more pretty, a fact which he did not fail to notice. "Geez, girlie - just not fucking fair, is it?" he asked, then released her hair, pulling back quickly. He wiped his hands quickly with wet wipes, scrubbing the grease and dirt transferred from her hair. "We've got to wash your hair, honey." He paused, looking at the greasy, rancid mop and stared briefly, wondering just how long it had really since it had seen shampoo and water.

He considered for a moment, shaking his head. "How the hell am I going to do that?" he wondered, and glanced around, chewing his lip in thought. The floor had no drain, so he couldn't just pour water over her. He didn't really dare unfasten her restraints. He...would figure it out later. For now, he set out to wash the rest of her as well as he could. The washcloth, wetted from the water in the basin, was soaped until it frothed, and he scrubbed her body, starting at her neck and working his way down. She actually didn't seem to mind that much - probably because she was burned down and exhausted from her earlier run-around and her attempts to break free of his far too-secure restraints. He certainly didn't have any illusions that she liked it.

He continued to wash her, being as thorough as he could be, using the soapy towel to scrub every inch of her skin, from her neck down. It took quite a while - occasionally she would twist in her restraints and struggle, feebly, but he soldiered on. He couldn't resist groping at her breasts while he was washing her, pinching her nipples, which made his formerly spent cock rise again under his pants. She, however, didn't respond, at least not that he could tell.

Her little slit was another source of interest to him - having washed her down to the hips, he made sure to get a fresh washcloth, and a fresh bowl of water. He had very little idea what issues a woman could face concerning her sex, and no idea at all if zombies had to worry about such things at all, but he was determined to do the best he could. This poor creature deserved, if it came to it, to die clean, like the lovely young human girl that she had been, rather than the ravening beast she had become.

He washed the outside of her sex intently, but was careful not to scrub her raw., wiping slime and just gunk off of and out of her folds, the cloth quickly becoming nasty. Repeated dunkings in the soapy water eventually resulted in her finally coming clean, and then he had a thought - girls needed to be clean inside, too, didn't they? Did girl zombies? Did it matter?

He decided it did, and, taking up another clean cloth, drenched it in bottled water, and used the gentlest soap that he had. Watching her intently, he lifted the cloth, pressing it against her snug little passage and pushed, watching with fascination as his finger, with the small towel wrapped around it, pressed into her body. Her hips twitched, and he jumped, withdrawing the cloth, a smattering of pink soaked into the white fabric. He blinked at it, and looked up at the girl, comprehension dawning. "Oh, fuck," he muttered, and rinsed the towel out thoroughly. "I'm...sorry," he muttered, and went about cleaning the rest of her, across her hips and down her legs, leaving nothing but the bottoms of her feet.

Finally, he was done, at least mostly. Except for her hair. He stood up, his arousal flaring again - his erection had never flagged, the entire time that he had been washing her, touching her - face it, Ty he told himself. Feeling her up. Molesting her. Somewhat conflicted, he stepped up to her, looking into those wide, staring blue eyes. "Amanda," he said, firmly, "...or whatever your name is. If you can hear me in there - if you don't want me touching you, tell me, somehow. Rap your head on the shelves, or blink twice, or...something. If you really don't want me to, then tell me, and I won't."

He waited, searching her eyes, seeing no flicker of comprehension there that he could make out. He waited longer, giving her a chance, giving her the opportunity to display some autonomy, any spark of personality...and then gave up. "Okay, then," he said, nodding, and stepped forward again, reaching into his pants and freeing his hard cock. "You can be my...doll, then," he decided, and rubbed the tip of his cock along the flat plane of her little belly, groaning softly. Her skin, washed and clean, was still soft despite her condition, and he freely dragged the sensitive head of his stiff cock along her firm abs, his other hand coming up to cup her breast, fondling and squeezing the firmness of her flesh as he pleasured himself against her body.

"Fuck, Amanda," he groaned, his hips thrusting, sliding his hard shaft along her stomach, pumping through his hand, the flared tip dribbling thin precum onto her skin. Squeezing her breast, he moved his hand, pinching down on her nipple, with more force then he ever would have dared do to a real girl with a personality. Pumping his cock through his fist, faster, his hips pounding an imaginary pussy, he grunted, groaning, and lowered his head, watching her breasts quiver just slightly with her breath and his thrusting against her body. "Gonna...cum," he panted, and then groaned long and loud as hard, heated jets of semen shot from his cock in long, thick ropes, painting the girl's skin with sticky cum.

He used his grip on her breast to support himself, leaning into her taut body for a moment, breathing heavily. His cock still hard, but wilting, he lifted his head, and looked into her eyes once more, searching for something - anything - that he might connect with. But...nothing. No one home. "Right," he said softly, disappointment in his voice, tucking himself back into his pants and buttoning up. He crouched down, taking up the washcloth again and wiped the evidence of his orgasm off her belly.

He backed away, once he'd cleaned her off, and looked her over, tossing the washcloth into the filthy water. The lethargy of post-orgasm exhaustion threatened to take hold of him, but he fought if off, taking up a fresh bottle of water and an energy bar, forcing himself to consume both to get his energy back. He wasn't about to repeat his previous mistake of falling asleep while the creature - the girl, his mind insisted - was not absolutely secure.

He checked her restraints, and nodded to himself, satisfied that she was unable to go anywhere. "Gonna have to think of a better way, if I'm going to keep you," he murmured to her, not recieving, nor expecting, an answer of any real consequence. "Guess I'll log everything in while I think it over." Leaving her where she was for the moment, he turned back to his haul, unpacking all his purloined supplies, and started to stow everything in a proper place.

All the guns were unloaded, cleaned, carefully put away and catalogued on a slate chalkboard he kept near the gun locker. A total of 5 rifles - 3 bolt-action hunters and 2 'assault' style - were unloaded, and set standing up on their butts in a rack, along with the pair of 12-guage shotguns he'd won from the most recent treasure trove. 8 pistols - 2 revolvers and half a dozen automatics - were similarly unloaded and tucked into the gun locker. His ammunition - about 300 rounds, total, in various pistol, rifle and shotgun varities - were separated neatly in stacks according to caliber next to the gun manuals and cleaning kits. He really wanted a crossbow - they were nearly silent and not very prone to malfunction, as far as he knew, but so far, he'd not been lucky enough to find one.

The camp stove, water purification tablets and rations were carefully inventoried in his 'kitchen' area, along with the starter logs and stove-fuel. Hunting knives, fishing rods with hooks and lures - all set in a chest near the entrance to his bunker, stowed to make sure any of it would be easily accessible. Once he'd made sure to square away all his booty, he walked back over to where 'Amanda' was tied to the metal rack, dragging a folding lawn chair up in front of where she was restrained, and sat down, sighing softly, looking her over. Still nothing, no idea of what to do with her.

The smart idea, he knew, was to simply end her now. Maybe lace a tin of canned meat with some sort of poison, or fetch her a sharp strike on the back of the skull with a heavy hammer. But...he felt invested, now that he'd caught her, cleaned her up, now that he'd been with her, at least in a manner of speaking, and the idea of just sacrificing her in the interest of his own safety wasn't sitting very well on his conscience. Hell, who knew? Maybe, after some period of time, the virus or bacteria or whatever it was that caused people to turn into dangerously aggressive savage cannibals would eventually work its way out of her system, and then she'd be...normal, again.

WIshful thinking, Ty, he admitted to himself, looking the zombie over. His eyes kept returning to her round, firm breasts, the tidy little cleft between her thighs, the flat, smooth plane of her belly. She's not coming back. You know this.

"I know, I know," he voiced, still looking at her, propping his elbow on the arm of the canvas chair and resting his chin in his hand. "Amanda, lover...what am I going to do with you?"