CHAPTER THREE – ENDEMIC
Meanwhile Emma and Nicky had returned to the luxurious sofas in the club. There were no men available to chat to and ask if they wanted dances, so they had to wait for anyone coming in. They looked around the club bitterly, bitchily noting that young Tanya and her friend Mel had joined two wealthy-looking middle-aged men in suits – the prize catch of the night so far. And those two bitches had of course gone straight in for them! They exchanged contemptuous glances at the girls, at how they laughed at whatever the men were saying with such transparent insincerity, how they flattered them and made them believe that they were really, really interesting. They both seethed with fervid hostility, necks straining with tension, foreheads marked with a throbbing vein. Bitches. They eyed the rest of the club with baleful glances. Slim pickings – a group of students celebrating a birthday, a pair of men in their twenties sitting with their pints and looking about the club embarrassed, and a few older, desperate men dressed too cheaply to worth bothering about. And they had all already been taken, anyway. All of the dancers paid to work there, so lucrative was it, but they had to make their time worthwhile. Emma and Nicky knew that, and their frustration grew and grew as they saw the other dancers work the room successfully – frustration growing into anger, anger into seething rage, and rage into…
Fortunately some young men came into the club, which prevented Emma and Nicky from brooding over such unpleasant thoughts. A small group of students, just, but it was better than nothing. They grinned malevolently, as though thinking the same evil thoughts, and went to join them.
Emma quickly sweet-talked one of the students into going for a dance. He was a slender nineteen year-old who had read far more than he had experienced, with blonde hair childishly centre-parted and glasses too large for his face. He followed behind Emma, like a nervous, hopeful Andrex puppy being taken somewhere he didn’t know by a master it didn’t quite trust.
Inside the booth, once he’d paid her, she started to laugh inwardly as he tried to engage her in smalltalk, telling her his name was Chris, saying what subject he studied and asking her name. She put a finger over his lips and sat him down on the chair. She started to dance, pouting, thrusting and bending over, drinking in Chris’ rapt, utterly aroused, gaze. Her lip curled in contempt, even as she faced him, pulled off her top and let her skirt fall.
“You like that?” she asked, clutching her skimpy knickers at her hips.
“Yes…” he sighed.
She slowly, teasingly, almost sadistically, peeled her pants off, and then lay on the ground, legs akimbo and pointing down her stomach to her neatly-trimmed pubic hair. “Phwoah…” Chris panted excitedly. Emma grinned, despising Chris yet loving his appreciation, and stood up, running her hands over her breasts and plucking at her nipples to arouse them. By now Chris would gladly have spent his entire life savings on her, but for once Emma wasn’t interested in money. She sat over him, naked as the day she was born, and started nibbling gently on his neck. He moaned in absolute rapture, and started pitifully thrusting his crotch upwards. She started gnawing harder and harder, encouraged by his utter enrapture, until he began to experience acute pain and start to wriggle away from her. Undeterred, she thrust her oddly-sharper teeth into his neck, drawing warm, salty blood. Chris squealed like a gelded pig and pushed her off.
“What’s the heck are you doing?” he asked, in injured tones; he had been so enjoying that. He clasped his hand to his neck.
Emma stood there, chest heaving slightly. What had that been about? She customarily felt contemptuous of her customers; it was one way to keep her distance from them mentally, as well as preventing her job from getting to her. But that was ridiculous – she’d felt like tearing a strip from the boy. “I’m sorry,” she said stumblingly. “I don’t know what I was doing there. Do you want me to finish?”
Noticing that he was bleeding, and in fact bleeding quite heavily, Chris’ wounded pride turned into genuine fear. “No way! You’re off your head.” He walked manfully past her, erection thankfully deflating, into the club. David, patrolling, noted the injury and assumed that he had been in some kind of scrap with Emma in the booth, and rushed over to him.
“Right mate! I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
Chris looked at the beefy, stern face, insulted and injured. “What?! I’ve just been assaulted in there and I’m getting chucked out?”
David felt a blazing desire to stomp the irritating little pipsqueak but restrained himself. “Sorry, sir,” he said, “but it looks like you’ve been in an altercation, and I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
“But it was her!” Chris protested. “She bit me! Look,” he said, proffering his neck, with the evil-looking gouge.
David, however, could feel nothing but utter contempt for the gobshite standing in front of him and whining about being touched by one of the dancers. Typical fucking students, he thought; never happy, always wanting more. He turned Chris round, whipped his left arm savagely up his own back and marched him forwards to the club door. He nodded to Barry. “This little prick’s been thrown out. Make sure he doesn’t get back in.” Barry grunted in affirmation, as David headed back inside to check on Emma.
Inside, Emma was back on one of the couches, awaiting a customer. She gave David a toothy smile as he approached, and explained that she’d had to defend herself against unwanted advances. “You saw what kind of guy he was,” she said. “They always think they can get away with things, those little pricks,” she added, sadistic distaste souring her expression.
“That’s what I thought,” David agreed. “Little tosser. Ah well, if I seem him again, he’d dead meat.”
“Not if I get there first,” Emma added.
The evening wore on. Men came and went, the dancers danced, money and the illusion of sex and power were traded. At one point, Emma and Nicky were sitting together on a sofa, waiting for the next catch of the evening. Four men, carrying themselves with the aura of money and power, came into the club. David, behind them on the door, gave a wink to Emma, indicating their entry. She looked over at them as they self-assuredly prowled their way through the club, and licked her top lip suggestively. Once they returned from buying drinks at the bar, they looked in her direction. Both Emma and Nicky were looking over at them, bidding them to join them. That was all the invitation they needed. They walked over, unknowingly, to their doom.
*
Jan Langhaard and Gert Riseth were executives with NorOil, a supply-chain company which provided the nascent Norwegian oil industry with infrastructure and labour, and had grown rapidly under the owner and founder, Stig Byornebye. As the corporation had grown, Stig had had to expand not only the company but the board too, recruiting men with the expertise which he required. The oil platforms which poured in wealth for Norway (and for Stig) were situated amidst the bible-black and artery-freezing cold of the North Sea and Atlantic Oceans, inhospitable places toiled through only by the hardiest of ice-breaker ships or Russian submarines on the grimmest of expeditions. Now those oil platforms were home to dozens of men striving to extract the mineral wealth secreted beneath the oceans, and battered by howling, furious winds and raging oceans driven on by enormously powerful waves. They had to be strong. Jan Langhaard and Gert Riseth were engineers to trade, and with considerable experience in the oil industry already were perfect matches for NorOil, both commencing employment around the same time, as Stig expansion plans came to bountiful fruition.
Amongst their various tasks, Jan and Gert were required to liaise with similar companies in Aberdeen. As the oil capital of Europe (as it frequently reminded itself and all who visited), there was substantial expertise in Aberdeen in the unceasing developments of the industry. They visited twice a year, making contacts and keeping NorOil abreast of developments, Stig aware that competitiveness was based on more than price, that the pitiless oceans required the best technologies.
Although he had run the company as a fiefdom, as he reached his venerable seventies, Stig had started eased off his control of NorOil and increasingly leaned on his executives.
Opportunities for abusing travel claims and the like had started to appear, and while Jan and Gert were very well paid by Norwegian standards, the exorbitant tax rate they were subjected to left them far behind financially in comparison to their Aberdonian counterparts. True, they were surprised and disgusted that there were actually beggars in the seemingly-wealthy streets of Aberdeen, pleading for pennies alongside cash machines. But seeing the conspicuous wealth of Queens Road (the main financial and corporate area) was similarly unusual, after the homogeneity and social consciousness of Oslo. They returned home, envious and oddly ashamed of their lack of Ferraris and Ralph Lauren clothes. What they had suddenly seemed shabby, backward. Thus they began to fly aboard with the budget airlines rather than British Airways, pocketing the difference, and numerous other scams. Stig was too trusting to ask for receipts, and they knew that others in the company were up to similar entrepreneurial activities.
In Aberdeen, one main business NorOil dealt with was AberTech, a logistics company. Jan and Gert had made good contacts with two of the executives, Jim Moir and Kenny McStay, and there had grown up a tradition them exchanging corporate
entertainment twice annually. Both companies had a substantial fund for corporate entertainment, the better to smooth the wheels of business, and so when in Aberdeen they celebrated their outstanding business acumen with the rewards they felt they deserved. They pushed the envelope, thought outside the box and prevented the boiling of frogs, while keeping time for blue sky thinking: it was only right that they received pay rises several times the rate of the junior employees and received privileged perks.
So in a small, exclusive French restaurant on Queens Road that balmy July evening, all four men had treated themselves to the finest food that their companies could afford – amouse-bouche, homard bleu, suc lie de truffe noire et basilic pile, chicken breast demi-deuil, truffles in a crsip green salad, coupe glacee with liquid chocolate and brioche to dip in, all washed down with several bottles of Louis Roederer champagne and large Remy Martin cognacs.
“Well gentlemen,” Kenny said, immense feline satisfaction coursing through his well-fed face, “That was one superb meal.”
“Yes, excellent,” said Gert in his accented but excellent English, lighting up a Cuban cigar.
“Now what do we do?” asked Jan, leaning back on his chair and feeling his stomach strain over the top of his suit trousers.
Kenny and Jim looked at each other, Jim raising an eyebrow. “A good question!” he asked. “And I think I can answer that…” he said, lingering over the words like a ham actor.
The Norwegians were intrigued, as Jim intended, although he noted that their poker faces were good enough to convey merely a polite interest.
“Yes?” said Jan.
“Now am I right in guessing that you both like good-looking ladies?”
“Pretty girls, we like, yes.”
“Right. Okay.” Jim continued. Well, how does going somewhere there will be lots of pretty girls – and all of them available?”
Visions of a seedy brothel or motels and callgirls made Jan and Gert feel dubious; they had wives at home, and this was not the sort of thing they were after. Kenny drank in their concern and laughed uproariously.
“Got you worried there!” he chuckled. “No, really, what we’re talking about is some traditional corporate entertainment. The two of you are our guests and we’d like to show you the best Aberdeen has to offer. A strictly “look but don’t touch” affair, if you catch my drift.”
They got the idea. A Razor mobile summoned a taxi, which arrived promptly and took the four men to Private Eyes… and their deaths.
Once in the club, ushered in by a deferential doorman, Jim quickly made the arrangements, handing over the corporate credit card. Two dancers led all four of them through to a private room, which had a number of soft chairs at one end, soft lighting and mirrored walls, locking the door discreetly behind them. Emma and Nicky gestured the men onto the chairs, and began to perform a dance for them. They writhed over and undressed each other, licking their lips lasciviously, running their hands eclectically over each others svelte bodies, miming sexual activity with the convincingness of a British soft-porn film. The men were delighted, and cheered and wolf-whistled appreciatively, drinking in the willingness of the dancers to perform for them. What power they had!
But, as Jim had requested, the tables could be turned. Emma took Jan out onto the floor and began teasing him, Nicky doing similarly with Gert, making him kneel down in front of her as she thrust her crotch at him, or bent over and thrust her fulsome buttocks in his face. Jim and Kenny laughed and cheered enthusiastically, calling out, “Go on son! Give her one for me!” Then the dancers put the reluctant men onto all fours and began to ride them like recalcitrant horses, bucking up and down on them like cowboys on amphetamines. “Ride him! Ride him like the bitch he is!” Kenny called out, while Jim sat back appreciatively, enjoying his handiwork, as the dancers humiliated their friends under the guise of comedy.
Emma and Nicky had been undergoing powerful transformations during the course of the night. The deadly pestilential zombie-disease which Alan had incubated on his way back from Africa had mutated, adapting to its human environment with startling rapidity. Deadlier than AIDS, as contagious as the common cold, it destroyed the mind of any who contracted it, rendering them rabid demonic zombies which would stop at nothing to find and consume human flesh. The sadistic instincts of the flesh-eating monkeys had increased exponentially when combined with the aggression and strength of the human. Infected some time ago, the disease had spread from Emma and Nicky, through the soft drinks they had consumed, through the girl on the bar, and from there through half of the people – dancers, staff and customers – all incubating, waiting on some unforeseen signal to spring forward and destroy its carrier. Emma and Nicky, as the longest carriers, had been teetering on the brink of mental breakdown, almost entirely in thrall to the plague engulfing their waking minds. All they needed was a slight nudge, and now, with those men in their absolute power, they were utterly consumed by the raging desire to kill and devour which exploded through them, like detonations of impending death.
The men knew nothing of this. The dancers seemed to happy enough complying with what they had asked for, and in fact looked remarkably into what they were doing. After riding on Gert and Jan, they dismounted and took things a step further. Emma took Jan’s belt off and fastened it around his neck, slapping him on the ass and treating him like a dog. He was inwardly overcoming his discomfort and enjoying the comedy of the evening, and so he obliged by shuffling round the room on all fours, as Emma kept up a steady stream of orders, saying “Walk, doggy! Whoa, doggy!”, pulling back on the belt when he strayed too far. Meanwhile, Nicky took Gert into the middle of the floor and made him lie on his back. She straddled him at his stomach and began thrusting her crotch up and down on him, miming fucking him. Jim and Kenny were utterly delighted, almost astounded at this development, and cheered all the louder, shrilly wolf-whistling and stamping their feet on the wooden floor. “Good doggy!” Kenny shouted, “Who’s a good boy?”
At this point the virus turned on Nicky and Emma. Nicky moved her body further up on Gert, until her vagina was directly over his face. She thrust it down savagely over his mouth, pushing down with all her might. She felt his tongue probing upwards, attempting to lick her cunt, a pitiful worm striving to pleasure her. Kenny applauded, gesturing at Jim what was happening. “Go on son,” he shouted, “Lick her out! That’s it quine, sit on his face!” They stamped their feet and applauded like Jerry Springer audience members. Nicky bore down on him like a seagull on a discarded Big Mac, squeezing the air out of him and preventing any entering. Quickly Gert realized he couldn’t breathe and started to struggle, writhing and trying to push her off – to no avail, as she thrust down on him with all her might. She looked up briefly at Emma, seeing her pulling the belt tighter and tighter, holding onto Jan’s shoulder and pulling it close with superhuman, demonic strength, as Jan tried to wedge his fingers under the belt as it bit unforgivingly into his soft jowelly neck. “Go on Gert!”, Kenny cried. “You can’t let her get the better of you!” Nicky grinned evilly as Gert’s tongue began to wither, his struggle yielding to tormented, eye-bulging failure, as he died, tormented and asphyxiated by her deadly vagina.
In the soft, half-light of the room, and within the hazy fugue of mild intoxication, Jim and Kenny both realized, almost simultaneously what was happening – the girls weren’t pretending to torture Gert and Jan, they were really doing it! The strippers were killing them! They stood up quickly, ready to step in and save their Nordic friends. “Let him go!” Kenny called, “Now!” Emma let the belt go, Jan falling dead to the floor, as Nicky dismounted the prostrate Gert, and turned to face their challengers. Only now, in the light of the red bulbs, did the men notice how the dancers’ faces had changed – enormous teeth bursting from their mouths with seemingly deadly intent, fingernails more like huge cruel talons, eyes red and bulging from faces that were almost entirely vein-ridden, whilst ominous green goo ran from their lips, as though they were salivating excitedly at the murderous thoughts which their expressions conveyed. The men turned and fled, making it to the only door but finding the door locked. They pounded in a frenzied panic on the door, as the demonic zombie lesbian flesh-eaters approached them slowly, intently, almost savouring the fear and horror written in livid expressions upon their gibbering, pleading faces.
“PLEASE!” Jim screamed as he battered the door with all his might. The door was insulated to prevent any noisy raucousness seeping into the club, and only a mild thumping could be heard. David, patrolling the club, heard the thump like a dog hearing a dog-whistle – it was a sign. The zombie virus neared deadly fruition with him, and all the other hosts. Emma and Nicky lunged towards the cowering men, and thrust their deadly talons into the fleshy necks. Huge arcs of blood pulsed out past their fingers, burst arties flooding the room with blood, ghastly gargling sounds replacing dying screams and shrieks. Jim and Kenny twitched and jerked spasmodically, hands desperately trying to piece their bodies back together, but only falling to the floor, where large pools of blood formed, shining darkly in the dim red lighting.
The zombie lesbian flesh-eaters howled a triumphant scream, a horrifying, blood-curdling banshee-howl. They had tasted blood, and, their appetites merely whetted, now they craved to pursue further carnage, death and destruction. All within the club heard the call…
