BUKKAKE GIRLS VERSUS ZOMBIES Cameron Scott Kirk
A HUNDRED MEN WAITED nervously, each man naked under a flimsy white bathrobe.
My feet were freezing against the chilled wooden floor of the studio, which resembled a high school gymnasium without the equipment. The air conditioners were humming, but that did little to warm my toes. Filming would commence shortly, and we were expected to perform, but if there’s one thing that kills sexual arousal in a man, it’s cold feet. I had a mind to have a word with the director’s assistant, a prim and proper woman of five feet nothing wearing a corporate suit and skirt and holding a clipboard. Mino Masumi was an attractive woman, if overly officious. The floor should be carpeted. That’s what I would have said if I’d had the nerve to approach the petite corporate samurai. But no one was going to roll out a carpet for us men at this late hour, so I bit my tongue.
Masumi san cleared her throat, and one hundred men shuffled closer to catch her words. ‘Welcome, most honoured guests. I am humbled by your presence. I hope you have slept well and eaten heartily, for, as per your contract, if you are unable to produce ejaculate, you will not be paid. Such failure will bring dishonour to your wives, girlfriends and your ancestors.’ A deathly silence settled on the cavernous room. Many were probably wondering if they could come when it mattered. I had no such doubts. Every time I was required to empty my balls on a woman’s face, I only had to picture my traitorous ex-wife on her knees before me, the goddamned fucking bitch. I’m sorry. Excuse me, please. That was an inappropriate outburst. Masumi san glanced at a clock on the wall. ‘We have less than fifteen minutes before we begin. Gentlemen, I wish you the best of luck and prepare to get naked.’
The large room in which we stood was on the forty-fifth floor. There were no windows by which one could catch a view of downtown Osaka. Cameras, lights and microphones had been positioned in several locations. An elevator at one end served as private transport to the higher levels of the building. An old-fashioned indicator above the elevator pinged, and the numbers counted down, signifying the arrival of the stars of the show. When the elevator door opened, every man in the room stared.
The three women that glided out of the elevator were stunning. One of them wore a red silk robe, the second a blue and the third a green. Judging from the beauty of all three, this was going to be a high-quality production. Behind the women, a short, round man in superfluous sunglasses and a black William Fioravanti suit sauntered into the studio: Director Katsuo, the great artist who painted in semen.
Had there been no order in which we approached the three women, chaos would have erupted as men jostled for position and the right to ejaculate first on the face of a goddess. But order we had. I was number nine, a position of relatively high esteem—a top ten finisher. Please excuse my pride. My age and ordinary looks did not count against me in such circumstances, for my own face would never appear on film.
Five minutes now until the production began. Numbers one to three began to touch themselves beneath their plain, white bathrobes in preparation. But then, a disturbance from behind me. I turned to see a fight break out among the extras in the back of the studio. No, not between the extras. It appeared that several fully clothed men had entered the studio and were now attacking my colleagues. Shouts of anger and screams of pain. I did not understand what was happening.
Masumi san, taking control, stepped forward and demanded a stop to the violence. For a moment, her authoritative command settled the fracas, but then a man stepped through the throng of panicked extras and lunged for her. Not six feet from me, I witnessed a crazed individual clamp his teeth around Masumi san’s throat and tear her windpipe out. She dropped gurgling to the cold hard floor. The murderer, his eyes wide with violent lust, offered me a bloodied, feral grin.
I shrieked as the man came at me. Fortunately, a colleague stumbled between us and became the victim instead. I ran for the elevator. The three girls and Director Katsuo had got there before anyone else. The elevator door closed a split second before I reached it.
Darkness descended upon the studio with a crashing of broken glass. I lay on the floor and covered my head with my hands, waiting for a painful death. The snarling grunts of the assailants and the screams of my dying coworkers were terrible to hear, the one feeding on the other. I played dead and the horrific noises slowly diminished. In this new, dreadful silence, I could hear shuffling footsteps. A scream punctuated the room as the creatures discovered warm flesh among the corpses, someone playing dead just like I was. Oh God, they were sniffing out the living. They were going to find me.
Something pinged, and a light fell upon me: the elevator door opened, revealing an empty car. Slowly, slowly I dragged myself into the car, barely willing to open my eyes for fear of what I may see. As I reached up to close the door, I heard a whisper.
‘Please, wait.’ Out of the darkness and into the light crawled a naked man, one of the extras. He reached out to me. I hesitated, my hand hovering over the close button. Behind him loomed several shapes, eyes insanely wide and mouths stretched open in lustful hunger, bearing down on the naked man, alerted by the light and movement.
To my dishonour, I closed the door as the terrible creatures fell upon the poor fellow. Please forgive me my cowardice, for I cannot forgive myself.
Alone and terrified, I stumbled from the elevator five numbers above the killing floor, the machine having reached its maximal level. The floor here was even colder than that of the studio below, a polished marble that made my feet ache. I came to a door. My first instinct was to open it and rush inside, but I knocked in case I had arrived at a private residence. One must maintain etiquette, even in such apocalyptic circumstances.
A voice buzzed through the intercom. ‘Fuck off.’ Decorum gave way to panic, and I grasped the door handle and turned it. Locked.
‘Please. I am an actor from the production downstairs. Please, let me in before…’ I glanced at the elevator. To my horror, the car was gone, the numbers indicating that it had once again returned to the studio below. God only knew what it would disgorge on its return journey, ‘before they come. Please.’
‘Actor?’ The voice crackled. ‘I don’t hire actors. I hire men to come on women’s faces. Get the fuck away from my door.’
‘Please, honoured director. I have nowhere to go.’
‘How do I know you’re not one of those things?’ The elevator pinged as it ascended. Three floors away.
I heard voices behind that of the director. Female voices. One of them used the word zombie. The elevator pinged to a halt and the door slowly opened. Three shambling figures, heads at bizarre angles shuffled out of the car and began to lope towards me. Zombies.
‘Aiyee, they’re coming. I beg you.’
‘God damn it. Alright, alright.’ Director Katsuo spoke not to me but to the women inside with him. The door opened, and I fell forwards onto my face. The door closed with a hiss and I lay there panting on the floor of the apartment.
‘Who the hell are you?’ he demanded. The zombies were pounding and scratching on the door, but it caused barely a tremor in the thick steel. I was safe.
‘I am Yoshi Ota. One of the…’ I caught my breath and stood, ‘extras from downstairs.’
‘How many of those things are there? What’s happening out there?’
‘I do not know, honoured director.’
‘It’s the end of the world.’ It was the woman in the red silk robe who had spoken. She stood at the floor-to-ceiling window, gazing out over the city. I joined her and gasped at the scene below. Smoke curled upward in plumes in various locations in the city. Osaka Castle and its surrounds appeared to be on fire. People ran in streams while jerky, absurdly quick figures ran among them, bringing some of the runners to ground, like African wild dogs hunting gazelle.
It was happening everywhere.
Directo Katsuo was having difficulty accepting this new reality. ‘A temporary madness,’ he said. ‘This … this will pass. We just stay inside until it does. It’s a virus, perhaps. The police will be here soon.’ Katsuo sat down behind his desk, a Parnian ebony worth at least ten thousand dollars, and removed a bottle of Yamazaki Mizunara eighteen-year-old single-malt whisky—worth almost as much—and a pistol from a drawer.
In contrast to the director, the woman in red beside me appeared unfazed. She was taller than I, her long black hair tied back in a ponytail. Her nose was high at the bridge, which, combined with her height, gave her a regal air.
‘The police will not come,’ she said. ‘All of this,’ she waved a hand over the city and then around the apartment, ‘shall be washed away. We live in a new world.’ The director ignored her, placed the pistol on the desk and opened the whiskey.
‘What is your name?’ I asked the tall woman.
‘I am Sin,’ she said. For a moment, I thought I had misheard. What kind of woman is given the birthname Sin? I shrugged it off as a stage name, or perhaps an unwillingness to disclose personal information. The women in blue and green were talking together on a Plume Blanche Diamond Encrusted sofa. I wondered if their working names were as strange.
Sin walked away into the open-plan kitchen and rummaged through some drawers. A moment later, she walked back into the main living area carrying a Sugimoto White Steel cleaver in her hand. The blade measured two hundred and twenty millimetres and sported a weighted handle for additional striking power.
Katsuo took a swig straight from the whiskey bottle and frowned. ‘What are you doing with that?’
‘Preparing.’
‘For what? Dinner?’ Sin rested the cleaver on one end of the sofa and the director winced. ‘Please be careful. That is a high-quality cooking utensil, extremely sharp. You’ll cut the leather.’
‘Hardly matters about the leather now,’ Sin said.
‘What do you mean it doesn’t matter? This is a passing wave of madness. Things will be back to normal as soon as the police arrive. I’d like my sofa intact when that happens.’
‘We can’t stay here,’ Sin said. ‘There is no food in your kitchen.’
‘Perhaps I can order something,’ Katsuo said. ‘There’s a wonderful Italian pizza restaurant just around the corner.’ The suggestion was absurd, and the director looked sheepish after making it. ‘Alright. But we can’t leave until those things downstairs have gone. The main elevator is on the far side of the studio.’
Sin exchanged murmured words with the other two women and they all disappeared into a walk-in closet at the end of the suite. When they emerged a few minutes later, they had changed into what I assumed to be their civilian clothing. Sin wore a thin black sweater and loose grey trousers. The second woman, her hair dyed blonde above a pale face and eyes darkened with makeup, wore a tan top exposing a series of twisting dragon tattoos on her shoulders and midriff. Her blue jeans completed the modern gyaru style. The third woman wore a checked skirt and a white blouse, the overall outfit resembling a high school uniform. In that moment I could not help but wonder at her age.
I noted with envy the comfortable footwear of all three, trainers of one kind or another. Whatever was about to happen, it appeared that the ladies expected to do some running. And what of myself? I was barefoot and practically naked. I needed to get out of the flimsy bathrobe and into something a little more appropriate for the end of the world.
Before I could ask Director Katsuo for a change of clothing, he punched a series of numbers into a mobile phone and held it to his ear. Manners dictate that one should wait until a call is completed. Thus, I remained silent.
‘Hello? Hidetaki, thank God you picked up. Listen, we were … What? Yes, yes, I understand. No ... wait… no, please. You have to … but I’m dead if you don’t come.’ The director swallowed and said nothing for a moment as he listened to the voice on the other end. ‘Yes, alright. Okay. Yes, yes ... yes, that is acceptable.’ Katsuo hung up and ran his hand through his thinning hair. ‘I have friends. They are sending a van to pick us up, but we must get to the basement car park at six o’clock, or they’ll leave without us.’ Katsuo glanced at his Ballon Bleu de Cartier Automatic 36mm 18-karat rose gold and diamond wristwatch. ‘That’s in fifty-five minutes.’
‘Can you handle a weapon?’ I turned at the question. The gyaru woman was standing staring at me with her eyes burning brightly behind the dark makeup.
‘What kind of weapon?’
‘Any kind of weapon. My name is Dragon.’ I could not help but stare at the dragon tattoos on her exposed flesh at shoulder and midriff. My gaze was no doubt unseemly, but Dragon, as she called herself, did not seem to take offence.
‘Your name … is that because of…?’
‘My tattoos?’ She smiled. ‘It’s the other way around. My name came first.’
‘I’m homeless,’ I blurted. ‘I have no job and my wife divorced me.’ I don’t know why I said it.
Dragon nodded, not unsympathetically. ‘Did you come for the sex or the money?’
‘Both.’ I almost laughed out loud at the pathetic nature of my own existence. Please excuse my self-pity.
A clinking sound. Director Katsuo was attempting to load the pistol but had fumbled the magazine to the floor. Dragon moved quickly to snatch it up. She held her hand out expectantly and the rotund director stared at her for a moment before placing the pistol in her palm. In a series of blindingly quick movements, Dragon inserted the magazine into the weapon, cocked it, flicked on what I assume to be the safety and said,
‘I’ll take this.’
Director Katsuo blinked several times before shrugging. ‘I don’t know how to use the damn thing, anyway.’ He took another swig of whiskey.
‘Ota san,’ Dragon said, putting the gun into the waist of her jeans. ‘Get a knife from the kitchen. Or perhaps that.’ I followed her pointing finger to the wall, where a baseball bat rested on hooks. I nodded and was about to grab it when Director Katsuo gave a warning shout.
‘Hey, that’s a Ty Cobb original. Don’t touch it. That’s worth more than your lives.’
I shied away but Dragon, a look of disgust on her pale face, grabbed the bat and thrust it into my hands. ‘Let’s just hope,’ she said with a dark-eyed wink, ‘there’s still some hitting left in this thing.’
Director’s Katsuo’s protestations were cut off by a series of tones coming faintly through the air, followed by a low buzz. Katsuo eyed the front door in confusion and fear. ‘Shit. That was a failed attempt at the pass code. Someone or something is attempting to get inside.’ The door gave another low buzz to indicate the second attempt had failed. Katsuo opened a laptop on his desk and clicked on his security camera. His jaw dropped in horror. ‘Oh, hell.’
We all looked over his shoulder. A woman, her skin ashen, her throat a tattered mess of hanging flesh, was attempting to open the door by entering the code. Several zombies stood patiently at her back: it was Masumi san vacantly poking at the keypad.
‘Does she know the code?’ Sin asked.
‘Yes, of course. She is my personal assistant. But she’s ... a zombie, that’s what you said, wasn’t it? A zombie? Surely, she would not retain the code in her brain, not in its current state. Surely.’ Katsuo frowned and then looked up in alarm. ‘Bolt the door! Bolt the door from the inside!’ Sin sprinted across the room, her shoes squeaking on the exotic hardwood floor but before she got to it, the door opened.
Masumi san lurched into the suite, several snarling zombies right behind her. Sin splayed her feet in a combative stance, cleaver held high. The woman in the high school outfit grabbed the bottle of Yamazaki whisky from Katsuo as he screamed.
Masumi san stopped, scanned the room with her dead eyes, her tongue visibly squirming in the gash in her open throat. A large zombie in an unkempt business suit shambled past her and lurched at Sin, who buried the Sugimoto White Steel cleaver between its eyes. The creature staggered backwards and fell, tripping another zombie behind it. Sin brought her cleaver down and hacked at their necks, decapitating them both.
Masumi san laid eyes on Director Katsuo and gave a shrill whistle in her throat. She went straight for her employer, a feral snarl on her ashen, bloodless face. Katsuo squealed, but before Masumi san could get her hands on him, the woman in the school uniform smashed her in the face with the whiskey bottle, knocking the director’s personal assistant to the floor.
Sin backed away as three more zombies stalked her. She swung her cleaver in wide arcs, and the creatures had the good sense to stay out of range. Suddenly, a zombie’s head exploded. Dragon took aim and shot another in the temple and it collapsed to the floor. The third zombie gurgled and grunted and grabbed for Sin. Dragon couldn’t get a clear shot, but the actress in the high school uniform leaped through the air and clubbed the zombie in the head with the Yamazaki single-malt. The monster stumbled and fell. Sin finished the job by beheading the creature with the Sugimoto cleaver.
Masumi san was making attempts to stand when Dragon put a bullet into her brain. It was over. I had stood there the whole time, frozen in fear, the baseball bat useless in my hands. The woman in the high school uniform patted me on the shoulder in a gesture of commiseration. She may have sensed my shame at my inability to react.
‘My name is Bone,’ she said. ‘Say one thing about us Japanese,’ she held up the blood-flecked Yamazaki eighteen-year-old single malt and grinned, ‘say we make a good whisky. I was the captain of my high school baseball team. Can we swap, honey?’ I could barely summon the wit to nod. Bone, another odd name but on a day such as today perhaps not out of place, gently pried the baseball bat from my trembling fingers and placed the Yamazaki in its stead. ‘Have a drink, honey. You look like you need one.’
Director Katsuo, white-faced, sat down on the Plume Blanche Blood Encrusted sofa and stared at his personal assistant’s exploded head as it spilled brains and ichor onto a century-old Navajo floor rug.
I approached the door and scanned the hallway outside. It was empty, the elevator standing open at one end. An electric light buzzed above me. Darkness flickered on and off, as if the electricity to the building was in its death throes. Perhaps the entire world was in its death throes. Something brushed past me and I flinched, suppressing a scream. It was only Sin stepping out into the hallway, still brandishing the Sugimoto cleaver. Dragon joined her, the pistol at the ready. Bone completed the threesome, the vintage baseball bat looking at home in her manicured hands.
Sin, Dragon and Bone. If not for them, I would be dead, or worse: a zombie.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ Director Katsuo spat as he joined us outside. ‘We have to get back inside and bolt the door.’
‘What we must do,’ Sin said, ‘is get out of here. Out of the city.’
‘Hidetaki is sending a man. We hole up inside until he has arrived. We still have forty minutes.’
Sin shook her head, her ponytail coming to rest on the black sweater at the shoulder. ‘We’re taking the stairs. We go now or we won’t make it.’
‘The stairs?’ The director spluttered. ‘The stairs? Why would we take the stairs?’
‘Because that,’ Sin pointed to the elevator, ‘is a death trap. At least on the stairs we’ll see what’s coming.’
‘I am the director. You are merely… actresses,’ Katsuo said the word with disdain. ‘It is my contact that will see us out of here alive. You will do as I say. We wait another half hour and then take the elevator.’
Dragon stepped up into the director’s face and I could swear that her dragon tattoos moved and hissed at Katsuo. ‘Your Yakuza friends,’ she said, her eyes narrowed beneath the dark makeup, ‘cannot help you now, fat man.’
Katsuo lost some of his bluster. When Sin, Dragon and Bone moved down the hallway and pushed open the door to the stairwell, the director cursed and grabbed the whiskey from my hand. He took a swig and grumbled some more. I was already following the women. I did not have to look around to know the director skulked after us.
I still wore only the flimsy, bloodstained bathrobe. I had managed to find a pair of slippers in the suite above, but they provided scant warmth against the chill of the stairwell. The director, meanwhile, was complaining of overheating in his William Fioravanti suit. The lights in the stairwell flickered. I prayed they would not give up the fight and leave us in complete darkness.
A door opened and closed somewhere far below us with a violent banging that echoed up the stairwell. We stopped and listened. Nothing, not even a draught. The vortex in which we descended was as still, quiet and cold as the inside of a coffin. I could hear Director Katsuo’s Ballon Bleu de Cartier Automatic 36mm 18-karat rose gold and diamond wristwatch ticking in the silence, measuring off each second of our lives. Time was running out. We must reach the basement carpark or find ourselves with no escape. Sin took a tentative step, and then we were on our way once more.
We had reached the tenth floor when we came upon a body sprawled face down on the landing tread. In the flickering of the electric lights, the figure—a man in a blue cleaner’s outfit—appeared unharmed. There were no apparent scratches or bite marks on his back, but who knew what violence had been done to the front of the fellow? I suggested we turn him over, but the director demurred forcefully.
‘Are you fucking crazy? If he’s not dead, he’ll turn into a zombie. Keep going. We have ten minutes to reach the carpark. My friends are not the types to wait.’
Sin took the risk of squatting and putting her fingers to the man’s neck. ‘No pulse,’ she said.
‘I told you,’ Katsuo said. ‘Move on.’
We all stepped cautiously around the poor cleaner. None of us knew if his death was permanent. From what I could tell, certain people simply died whereas others were resurrected as zombies. I saw no logical reason as to why this may be. I offered a blessing to the dead man. His life had been one of servitude to the elite. I hope he’d managed to grasp some kind of pleasure in his time on earth.
We descended until we reached basement sub-level two. The director grabbed my shoulder, and I stopped. ‘Wait,’ he whispered in my ear. ‘Slut-flesh. I think those monsters out there can smell horny women. Let the models... actresses, whatever, go first. If they cross safely, we follow.’
To my shame, I stayed back with the director as the three women pushed through the door to the basement. It was dark, electricity was failing around Osaka city, only emergency lighting along the walkway between parked cars allowed for any kind of navigation.
There were no zombies, and I breathed easier. The director and I followed. By the dim emergency strips, I could make out the bodies of the dead, those killed in the act of fleeing. When I saw the legs of a child sticking out of the back seat of a car, I turned away in sadness. I had long ago lost any empathy for a society that had first lost empathy for me, a society that made me jobless after years of loyal service, made me homeless and alone. But the children, the children were best left out of it.
‘There,’ Katsuo whispered. He pointed towards a black van, engine purring, waiting in a patch of light near the exit ramp. ‘I recognise the vehicle. That’s our ride.’
We had only thirty yards to cover. Thirty more yards and we would be safe. In the movies this was always the most dangerous moment: just when the day appears saved, a final tragedy. Director Katsuo and I huddled together behind Sin, Dragon and Bone. The door of the van was open, the safety of the interior only twenty yards away now. I cringed, awaiting the inevitable howling lunge out of the darkness. But no surprise attack came. Director Katsuo scrambled inside the van, and we followed.
‘Go, go, go!’ Katsuo hissed. The driver was a heavy-set man with a speckled grey crewcut. He was tuning the dial on the radio, getting only static. ‘Get us the hell out of here!’ The man turned his pale, slack-jawed face. He reached over and pulled Katsuo by his hair into the front seat.
Katsuo shrieked as the driver bit into his face.
‘Fuuuck!’ I jumped out of the van. Neither Sin nor Bone could get a clean hit on the driver because of the high head rest. Katsuo squealed and thrashed but the driver held him down and ate chunks out of his throat, biting, snapping, snarling. Dragon opened the driver’s door and jumped back as the driver lunged for her. She blew his head apart with two expertly directed bullets. The gun clicked. Empty.
Katsuo fell from the van, clutching at his throat. Alerted by the director’s screams, more of the creatures ran down the exit ramp towards us. Katsuo burbled something as blood pumped from his neck. Bone jumped into the driver’s seat. Dragon leaped into the vehicle and slammed the door shut. I glanced out the window at Director Katsuo lying on the ground, one hand raised weakly in supplication, the other clamped futilely at his throat.
Bone gunned the engine and ran down several zombies as the van screeched up to the first level and out onto the streets of Osaka. I bounced around in the back seat, shivering from fear and cold. Through the darkened windows of the van, chaos reigned in the streets: the sprawled dead and the shambling living-dead. Zombies here and there left off their feeding and lumbered with outstretched arms towards the van, but Bone expertly navigated all obstacles.
Sin and Dragon slipped into the front seat beside Bone, leaving me alone in the back. I didn’t know where we were going; perhaps it didn’t matter. With these three women at the wheel, I still had a chance.
Perhaps the world still had a chance. |
