Dead Sesons: Prologue

[Morris, IL/Sep. 23rd/2335 hrs.]

”Oh, god! Oh, fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck!”

It was all he could get out. His mind screamed for him to do one of a thousand things—call his dad, haul ass to the hospital, open the door and shove her into the mud and pretend nothing happened—but all he could do was sit and swear. Staring down at Heather’s unmoving body, Shane took in all the details at once; her plaid skirt hiked up to her hips displaying the white Hello Kitty panties he’d soiled upon his exit, her white button-down shirt held closed by only one button and pushed to either side so that he could still see her pale breasts beneath the bra he’d pushed up and out of the way, the mark he’d left on her neck which was now turning a deep shade of purple against the rapidly fading color of her skin and, worst of all, her short blonde hair matted to one side and shining a sickening black in the light cast by the dash of his 2006 Mustang.

”Jesus, Heather! Wake up! Oh, fuck! Oh, fuck me!”

That last exclamation brought everything that had happened in the last half-hour flooding back into Shane’s brain like bucket of ice water. And, to his surprise, it snapped him out of his shock and put everything into perspective for him. This wasn’t a problem. Hell, it wasn’t even his fault! Heather did this to herself. Yeah. Everything had been going fine until the stupid bitch actually kneed him in the balls.

Shane sat back in his seat and gripped the steering wheel with both hands and allowed himself a second to calm down and think. The night had started out great. The football game was awesome; the Redskins had won the Homecoming Game against their rivals, the Minooka Indians—how two teams from towns that nearly shared the same land and were comprised of kids who hung out and partied together could be such bitter rivals he’d never figured out, but it was Senior year and they’d kicked the shit out of them so, really, who cared—and Heather had been waiting outside the locker room with a smile and a promise of a celebration. They’d left the high school and stopped at Dave's Dogs before driving out to the spot he’d brought all his girlfriends since he’d started having sex; it was nothing more than an access drive for one of the farmer’s cornfields just south of Equistar, the local chemical plant. They’d finished their dogs and Shane talked about the game while The Plain White Tees played in the background; he knew Heather didn’t really care about football and only pretended to be interested whenever he talked about it but she had great tits for a Junior and she could suck the chrome off a trailer hitch so he let her lack of interest slide.

The second he swallowed the last sip of his coke, Heather was on him like a cat in heat, her breath hot and rapid as she shoved her tongue in his throat and clawed at his back. She’d worn the plaid skirt, Shane was sure, because it had those folds—what did the fags call them…it rhymed with cleats, he knew—that made it easy for her to spread her legs, which she did now; grinding her pussy against the fast-growing bulge in his pants as he worked frustratingly to get those fucking buttons undone. By the time he had them down enough to get at her tits, Heather was already sliding his cock into her. No matter how many times he did this with however many girls he’d get at before he was too old to get it up, Shane would never get tired of that feeling, and Heather was a pro; she knew exactly how to get him going and did that now. As she began rocking her hips against his, Shane had shoved her bra up and those wonderful breasts—the reason he’d agreed to date her in the first place—spilled out and practically begged him to suck on them; and suck he did.

”Fuck me, baby,” she’d moaned. “Jesus Christ, fuck me!”

Never being one to disappoint the ladies, Shane had wrapped his arm around Heather’s waist and rolled her over onto her back in the passenger seat; he wasn’t sure she was comfortable—was pretty sure she couldn’t be—but she wasn’t complaining so why let it slow him down? She curled one leg between the two front seats and slid one onto the dashboard, creating a loud scraping sound that nearly killed his hard-on.

”Holy shit, Heather,” he snapped, “Watch the fucking dash, huh? My dad’ll castrate my ass if you fuck up this car!”

”You don’t start worrying about making me cum, you won’t need it anyway.”

”Oh, yeah, bitch?”

”Yeah, baby.”

And, with that, Shane was off. She’d wanted to be fucked and fucked she got. Shane had given her all he had.

For about forty-five seconds.

Maybe it had been the excitement of the game, or the way she’d come at him, or the fact that they hadn’t fucked in a little over a week—periods were God’s way of letting men know who was in control—but whatever it was, Shane was unable to prevent himself from reaching climax within six thrusts. And, to make matters worse, he hadn’t been ready for it and the surprise caused him to cum before he could get all the way out; he was positive most had been inside, because what little made it onto her panties was barely enough to fill a thimble.

”Ugh-uuungh…fuck!” Shane was never the romantic type.

Heather must have felt him cum, too, because she shot out from under him in a heartbeat. “No, fucking way, Shane! Did you just—“ she reached down and felt herself and the semen now leaking from her. “Oh, shit! What the fuck, Shane?!”

Shane hadn’t really been paying attention to what she was saying. He didn’t care. He had just had a good orgasm and he was still hard—had to be the game—and wanted more. Without saying anything, he started across the car, reaching out and pawing at one of Heather’s tits, his dick in the other hand like a sword—well, a short sword, anyway.

He never made it to her, though. Something shifted in her face as he grabbed at her and the world went white with pain as her knee shot up and struck him in the crotch so hard he could have sworn he heard a popping sound.

”Aaaargh, fuck!”

Even now, Shane couldn’t remember the exact series of events; he didn’t know why she had those marks on her neck. However, what he did remember was the wet smacking sound Heather’s head made when it bounced off the doorframe and thudded to a rest against the door itself. And that’s when the world had gone crazy. He shook her a few times and had even slapped her to try and get her to wake up. But, for all intents and purposes, Heather was as good as gone.

”God dammit,” he yelled, to no one in particular. “There goes my fuckin’ scholarship!”

He forced himself to look at her again. She didn’t look too bad, actually. He could fix this. He could clean her up, call his dad and tell him they’d been in an accident. Yeah. Yeah! He could drive the ‘stang into a pole or tree or something and what the hell? He had full coverage and airbags. He’d be fine. Probably wouldn’t even miss the first playoff game.

”Yeah,” he said aloud. “They’ll even feel sympathetic for me. Man, I’ll get so much pussy it’ll be ridiculous.”

He turned and laughed at her, not sure why he felt like crying. “Hah! It’s your fault this happened and I’m even gonna get a new car. What’ya think of that, bitch?”

He wiped away a stray tear—why the fuck was he crying—and set about the business of cleaning her up; it wouldn’t do to have is gizz all over her panties when the cops came. He sat up a bit in his seat and put his now-limp penis back into his pants and zipped up before reaching into the backseat and grabbing his duffle bag. He always kept workout supplies in the maroon-and-gold bag and that meant there would be a towel he could use. It sucked that he’d have to ruin a perfectly good towel with his cum and the blood of a whore, but what could you do, right?

With towel in hand, Shane tossed the bag back into the seat behind him and leaned over the middle, between Heather’s legs again and paused as his eyes fell once more on those perfect breasts and her still-dripping cunt. Fuck, if it didn’t look like she was just sleeping. He could even still smell the salty-sweet aroma of sweat mixed with the slightly pungent odor of her crotch and he’d be damned if his dick wasn’t starting to get hard again.

”What the hell,” he said as he slid his hand out and over her cooling breast, pinching the nipple between his fingers with a grin. His eyes rolled shut and he felt his heart speed up a little. And his dick was definitely hard again. But, just as he was unconsciously unzipping his pants, not even fully aware that he was probably about to do something he’d never have even joked about doing, something happened that his fragile mind was not even close to prepared for.

Heather moved.

”Aaaah, what the fuck?!”

It had only been a twitch and, if he had ever paid attention to more than Ms. Riely’s tight ass in Biology class, he might have even been able to write if off as nothing more than a muscle spasm caused by a random synapses firing in a dying brain. Or, if he had been in anything even remotely resembling a normal frame of mind, he might have been able to talk himself into believing it was nothing more than his guilt and imagination ganging up on him. However, by the time Shane had realized that he was now on the other side of the car again, his cock still in hand but as limp as a wet noodle, it was too late for him to think anything.

Heather, her head still leaking crimson syrup, sat straight up in the seat and began looking around the car, her eyes—no longer the icy-blue Shane remembered, but a freakish milky white-and-black—not really focusing on anything in particular; like the drunk girl at a party who wakes up from passing out in the center of the room. Even Shane, who was, himself, on the verge of a nervous breakdown, could tell there was something just wrong about the way she looked. But, even though the still-sane part of his mind was screaming for him to get the fuck out of the car, he grasped onto a fleeting hope that she had only been knocked out and would only need a shower and an icepack.

”H-heather?” Shane’s voice was barely louder than the melodic vocals emanating from the speakers. But it was enough. Heather’s unfocused gaze suddenly had something to focus on and focus they did.

On Shane.

In the blink of an eye, Heather went from looking like a confused party girl to an animal—a hungry animal. And, in the time it took Shane to process this analogy, she was across the seats and on top of him again, this time, though, his dick stayed flaccid. Her nails ripped at the skin on his face and then at the back of his neck and shoulders. She was moving so fast and with such ferocity that Shane was hard-pressed to distinguish between her body and his, between the loose clothe of her shirt and the matted mass of her hair, between the cooling fluid of her blood and the now-flowing warmth of his. He screamed as he struggled to push her back, trying to figure out why she would be this pissed about a bumped head and the possibility of an inevitable abortion. His fists connected again and again, at one point he was sure he felt the cartilage in her nose snap, and still she kept coming.

Finally he managed to get a grip on her hair and neck and managed to push back a few inches. However, he was fighting against an incredible—an impossible--amount of strength and she had inflicted enough damage in her initial pounce that he was having a hard time focusing. Already he felt his own strength waning, already she was inching her way toward him, her mouth open in a snarl that was the furthest thing from human a person could get.

”Heather…p-please…I’m sorry…”

Then he felt the patch of hair he had a handful of tear loose and she darted forward with the speed of a starving lion. Shane felt fire in his neck as her teeth came together beneath a mouthful of his flesh and, as she ripped it free and his chest and back were washed with the thick, warm fluid of his own death, Shane’s eyes fell on Heather’s breasts.

Those perfect breasts.

They were the reason he started dating her in the first place…