It was almost two in the morning.
He'd been stranded on the edge of a skyscraper for almost an hour, planning to jump down. He couldn't. He was afraid of the fall, of the death-defying panic of falling.
He felt angry with himself. He couldn't even do that well. He smoked cigarette after cigarette until dizziness set in. "Maybe I'll fall at least," he thought. The smoke swirled in his head, making its way through his thoughts.
He had his reasons. The most important of them was boredom and a lack of purpose. He'd tried so many times to convince himself that purpose didn't exist, that he had to learn to live without it, but he couldn't. He constantly felt like he was wasting the time given to him by those around him on his own meaningless, spoiled-child life worries.
He tried to come down. Literally. But he couldn't either. The odd jobs he'd taken and his desperate attempts to finish his studies at the prestigious University of the Besieged City had ended in failure. All he could do was wait. For something. But nothing had arrived.
It had been thirty-four years since the Mutation. His parents had survived it, managed to get back on their feet and achieve something in life. It was natural, then, that he would achieve something too. He felt a pressure he didn't want to bear. He also didn't want to leave, to start over. He wanted to end it. Disappear. Jump.
But he couldn't.
He looked down once more. A crowd of corpses swarmed above him, creatures that, like another species, another, yet backward, stage of evolution, had invaded the happy human civilization, shattering its bright future. In reality, these creatures, symbols of the degradation of the human race, were very much alive. Too alive. Their dead, unintelligent gaze resembled only zombies from old movies. Furthermore, the brain damage caused by the Mutation had led to mental changes and limited physical abilities. They moved rather slowly, less agile than humans. Hence, they were called "the living dead." But reality was far from the movie.
This part of the city belonged to them. Why did he want to die there? He wasn't sure himself. He knew he'd be doing them a favor, practically "falling from the sky," throwing himself at the hungry creatures' feet. They had a hard time too. Winter never favored them, the animals were gone, the birds had flown away. And the living hadn't ventured into the Suicide Quarter for years. Yes, a very apt and fitting name.
There was another reason for his presence. His family would never look for him in this place. The authorities hadn't conducted a search, claiming it was too risky. Rightly so. Those who came here willingly wanted to die anyway. There was no point in endangering those who wanted to live for the sake of corrupt, jaded individuals with no will to live.
The authorities of the Besieged City had sealed off this district years ago, forbidding access to it. It was impossible to enter the District, and the corpses couldn't leave. That was how it was set up. The rest of the city lived at its own pace, convincing itself it was possible. The fortress created a semblance of normal existence, even though civilization seemed to have no future. Outside the city, there was only a forest—a forest of corpses. All attempts at colonization, to expand the city's territory, ended in further massacres of settlers. No one wanted to live on the outskirts. Except for the millions who had no other choice. This was how slums were created. This was how a third breed of evil, lost, destitute people arose. This was how the grapes of wrath grew.
His parents were Dutch. His mother was actually Polish. But that didn't matter now. Everyone spoke a single, universal language, the language of the besieged city-state. There were several such metropolises. Islands in a dead ocean. With a few, they maintained constant radio contact. Others were mere legends, marked on maps with a special color – green. The illusory color of hope.
Personally, he didn't believe anyone still lived there. Basically, it didn't matter to him. It didn't matter to Dorian Sayman.
He gazed thoughtfully into the tangle of "new ones," as they were affectionately called in propaganda films shown in cinemas. In fact, no others were being made. Hope sold best in these difficult times. The term "New Ones" suggested another species, a being to live alongside, with whom one might one day coexist. However, experience and years of research did not bode well for such a solution. A consistently high level of aggression, extremely low intelligence, a lifespan despite their obvious physical disabilities, and a high reproductive rate – all this offered no hope for symbiosis. It was impossible to communicate with them, to domesticate them – the only way to do it was to kill them. They organized themselves into small groups, searching for food, only to kill each other at the first victim they found. It was as if all their attempts to create the foundations of any kind of community had ended in failure. Apparently, they were still a long way from a social contract. Besides, they ate our people. They hunted us, in fact; we were their delicacy. That was what terrified them most. Their animalistic superiority over civilization. Our books and technology against their natural, animalistic will to survive and hunger.
Unfortunately, they reproduced. They fucked and gave birth like rabbits. Statistical data, certainly underestimated, indicated a ten percent increase in their population over twenty-five years. A lot. It seemed that humanity, with all its wisdom, knowledge, and achievements, would be condemned to second-tier status. We are no longer masters of the world, he thought. And that's what hurts us most. Hence the films about power, songs of hope, novels about returning to deserved world domination.
He'd had enough of this very noise. He'd had enough of people, of civilization, of humiliation, of constant illusions.
It didn't matter anyway. His penultimate cigarette was dying in his hand.
We're jumping, he decided, and once again that evening he leaned dangerously over the railing.
A tug on his hair pulled him back. He cried out in pain, the cigarette flying thirty stories down.
He fell to the ground and felt, more than heard, footsteps—all around him.
He whirled around in terror, his gaze sweeping across the square, but the darkness was illuminated only by the distant lights of the quiet, sad neighborhoods.
In the twilight, he could see the vast expanse of the roof. Flat and empty.
He took out his pistol, the latest technological achievement his father had provided him with—"just in case." He aimed it into the darkness, blindly aiming everywhere. He turned nervously to avoid being approached from behind.
But he felt the gun trembling in his hand. He slipped out of her, sweaty and cold. His grip wasn't secure. He knew that, he thought. His opponent must have sensed his fear. Uncertainty lurked in the boy's every nervous gesture.
Worse still, the opponent was gone. The square was empty. No sound, no movement. Far below, the animalistic sounds of corpses. They didn't usually go up to the rooftops. But someone had to be there. He grabbed him by the hair and threw him to the ground.
Cigarette smoke still swirled around his head. It distracted him, further sapping his confidence.
I have a gun, damn it... I have a gun!
"Show yourself, scum," he hissed through gritted teeth into the darkness, a sudden surge of questionable courage.
Still nothing.
Maybe it was behind him, hanging somewhere over the railing. He wanted to check. The knowledge that something might be right behind him terrified him. He'd often imagined the situation of facing the "new guy." Several times, he'd seen them from a distance of several meters. In high school, they often went on sadistic hunts – unarmed corpses, armed only with innate aggression, were a perfect way to vent youthful rage. They stopped when one of his friends lost an arm. He shot himself two days later. That was Dorian's last contact with these creatures, and now everything pointed to suicide being impossible.
He entered the District through the sewers. There was no one watching. Then, sneaking past abandoned shops, broken windows, and wrecked cars, he reached a ladder leading to the roof of one of the buildings. He was terrified of heights, but using the elevator was highly inadvisable. He consoled himself that if he fell, suicide would be out of the question. He even considered letting go of the ladder halfway up – it seemed pointless to climb up a tiring slope when it would end in a free fall anyway. But despite everything, he wanted to do it with class.
But this time was different. On the way to death, there would be fear, pain, blood, the torturer's furious growl, and the sound of the victim's veins bursting. But he tried not to think about it.
I'll kill one son of a bitch as a gift to my own fucked-up tribe. And then I'll give them my body. Not before.
Finally, he decided to look over the railing. He slowly started to turn when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw something.
It lay flat on the roof, flat. That's why he hadn't seen it before. He aimed, but the attacker began to rise. He had been exposed, yet he felt confident enough to stand and approach the boy. He could feel Dorian's fear, and that gave him confidence. He didn't know what a weapon was, couldn't know it killed from a distance.
There was something else. When the attacker stood up, the would-be suicider realized with disbelief that it was a woman. A female. Whatever.
"I'll kill you, bitch," he hissed.
But only a soft moan, almost a meow, answered him. The figure crouched and began to crawl across the cold rooftop. He thought he heard a soft chuckle.
Was she toying with me? Or perhaps she didn't really want to kill me.
He doubted it.
She was now less than two meters away. The Department could already see her clearly, in the light of the streetlamp. The city authorities kept the Suicide Quarter lit so that, by patrolling it from helicopters, they could study the habits of the dissidents. Sometimes poisoned meat was dropped, but they quickly learned not to eat it. The population of the Besieged City refused to consent to the bombing. Low effectiveness and heavy losses, and the hope of returning to one of the most beautiful districts, once and still one of the largest in the metropolis, prevented decisive action. There were sporadic gunfires, but they usually hid at the sound of approaching helicopters. There was no effective solution. Pat.
She stood up. Her gaze stunned him. Wild, yet somehow intelligent. Still, impenetrable. Large, blue eyes stared at him, and a smile appeared on her grimy face, the one she'd probably used to seduce dozens, hundreds of men, the wild inhabitants of the City. Her body was very young; he estimated her to be no more than sixteen, yet most girls of his species could envy her shape and firmness. Her animalism, her natural strength, manifested itself in every movement and the slightest gesture.
Yet he knew this was no longer his species. [He had heard stories of people capturing female "newcomers" and raping them. It seemed disgusting to him. Socially condemned, beneath human dignity. A damnable form of bestiality.] He felt the difference. It was hard to tell if it was more mental or physical, yet he was aware of how much separated this corpse from his own. Tens of thousands of years of development and physicality. He was weaker. Inferior. Less agile. Less—animalistic.
She wore ragged, tight shorts. They often wear "human" clothes. It was easier for them. Humanity wore mammoth skins, and they inherited Levi's and Benetton shirts, as it were.
She also wore a tight, torn blouse, caked with some kind of liquid. However, it only added to the charm of her perfect breasts.
She was barefoot. Blisters and calluses were visible on her feet; she'd probably spent her entire life like that. She must have belonged to the second generation, not those who had undergone the mutation, but their children. These were supposedly stronger, natural. Primordial.
What am I doing here? I was about to kill myself, and now I'm getting a hard-on at the sight of an animal.
The white skin of her legs, scabbed, scratched, and dirty, caught his eye. Her hair, matted in locks with months of grime, resembled dreadlocks. Yet her smile revealed the woman within.
If only you were a woman, he thought.
Nails. Long and dirty, yet probably razor-sharp.
He had to control himself. This animal wanted to kill him.
He gripped the gun more securely. He adjusted his finger, slowly pressing the trigger.
He aimed for her head. Between those enormous, wild eyes.
Then he understood.
I know I can't touch her. But she doesn't know I'm a stranger. She wants me to do to her what any member of her species would do to her.
There was no major deviation from normality in the world of the Besieged City. Such cases supposedly occurred, but they were associated with condemnation and harsh sentences from the Human Court, the second-highest authority in the city after the Party of Hope.
She began to snuggle against his legs. She was practiced at it. He thought she must be one of the local public servants.
She nestled between his legs. She rubbed her head against the visible bulge in his pants, slowly, then faster. She began to meow softly again.
No laws applied to him anymore.
It would be a beautiful end to my miserable existence. But could I fall so low?
Then he felt a new, previously unknown realm of existence opening up before him. He wanted to fall even lower, since nothing had meaning or value anymore; climbing was the same as hitting rock bottom. But on the way down, there was more to discover. He wanted to enter that animal, to lose the last vestiges of his humanity. Intercourse with her would be almost like death. A loss of self. Yet far more pleasurable. And then the jump. Another plunge.
The feeling was completely new to him, a little terrifying. Yet he couldn't resist. He liked it.
He bent down and grabbed her by the neck. Slowly, yet not very gently, he pulled her up. Their faces were now only a few centimeters apart. She was about twenty centimeters shorter than him.
He could smell her sweat. The scent of the forbidden city, with all its gutters, basements, and filth.
He'd never felt so immoral before. Yet that was precisely what drew him most, despite the fear he felt. The vision of never looking at his own reflection the same way again. A masochistic desire for humiliation he'd never hid before. Had it lingered within him for so long? No matter. He'd soon be jumping anyway. Maybe he'd even drag her down with him. He felt angry. Like never before. And he had no control over it.
Before, he'd had no value. He'd been on the sidelines. While everyone was building a new world, based on the hope and self-awareness of the species, he felt it was an illusion. He was paying for not trying to escape the humiliation they had all truly experienced. Besides, he simply didn't feel like it.
But now, from his lack of individual worth, a strange, previously nonexistent or unconscious growth was growing. A sore spot of disgusting rebellion. Not noble, not in the name of a higher cause. An element of denial appeared within him; he felt he was crossing a boundary that a normal person couldn't cross. His approaching death had given him a gift. A woman-shaped animal, a creature that would lead him down the path of damnation.
Now the gates of paradise were surely closed to me. But her wild body beckoned with an incredible openness.
Dorian's face twisted into a grimace that resembled a smile. The "girl" hesitated. Instinctively, she sensed the change.
But for him, there was no turning back.
He turned her around and pushed her against the railing. She offered no resistance, only mewed louder than before. He leaned her back against him, dangling her almost over the edge of the building. Below, a dozen figures circled aimlessly, their uneven, cadaverous gaits. Her movements were similar, but that mattered to him now. Everything that could now point to his disadvantage appealed to him, drawing him into the abyss of the forbidden and inhuman. Terrified, he submitted, yet simultaneously wanting it—desiring something anew.
He unbuttoned her shorts. The zipper was undone; she clearly hadn't yet mastered the art of fastening such complex devices.
Her shapely buttocks pressed against him. He sensed she enjoyed what they were both participating in as much as he did. But he possessed a consciousness that this creature, the most despised reflection of humanity, lacked.
He slid her pants down, revealing two round, perfectly firm buttocks. Somewhere beneath was a thick forest of dark, curly hair.
She spread her legs wide and arched her back toward him. He had the impression she had performed this movement hundreds of times. He wanted this, the pain of the fall, the death of his conscience—the guardian of his humanity.
The tension had to escape somewhere. He unzipped his pants, feeling her hot wetness.
He slid inside her slowly....
Just then he heard a terrifying roar behind him.
He turned, his pants down, staring into the darkness. This time, the enemy was visible. Three enormous corpses lunged at him with surprising agility. Despite this, they looked grotesque, trying to get to him as quickly as possible, overcoming their awkward gait and limited mobility. They walked as if limping, but at a quick pace, like something out of a black-and-white comedy.
He didn't even have time to zip up his pants. Meanwhile, the female pulled up hers and let out a terrified squeal.
He tried to ignore her.
The largest of the corpses held a massive axe in his hand. Even in the dim light, a dark, dried liquid could be seen on it. The look of fury on his face almost robbed Dorian of his composure.
He was utterly taken aback. Being attacked while sitting calmly on the roof was one thing, but engaging in forbidden sex was quite another.
The other two were charging at him with their bare hands, furiously slashing the air. All three were wearing work overalls, lopsided, torn, and worn, as if they hadn't taken them off in years. That was probably exactly what they were.
He fired, involuntarily stepping away from the female, wanting to keep everyone in sight, within firing range.
He missed, and the silenced weapon had no effect on the corpses.
He noticed two of them charging at him, while one moved toward the "girl," presumably to defend her from her alleged rapist.
He sensed this wasn't just about the female anymore. They knew. They realized he was a mortal enemy—a member of a species bent on their destruction. Yet it was difficult to detect any sign of intelligence in their gaze. He saw only fury, not human, but animal.
The corpse armed with an axe was closest. Three meters from the backsliding Dorian, he began a mighty swing. He wanted to split his opponent in half. Then, surely, eat him. The boy subconsciously sensed that the giant had eaten human flesh more than once.
At this distance, he couldn't miss.
A faint, short rustle could be heard, but it was drowned out by the animal's furious roar. The bullet shattered his head, tearing a huge, bloody hole in the back of his skull. The blood of the falling corpse drenched Dorian's skin, and the axe missed his temple by only a few centimeters.
The second Newcomer seemed to hesitate. He hesitated, and was a fraction of a second too late with his attack. His huge, filthy hand, equipped with long, sharp nails, missed the boy's shoulder by a good half a meter. He could have fired immediately, but the target was still moving.
He stepped back a few steps, watching the third attacker and the female out of the corner of his eye. He roared something at her and punched her in the stomach.
Meanwhile, his companion had regained his balance and, less than four meters away, faced Dorian, adopting a position seemingly intended to intimidate the man. His leaning posture, his leg muscles tensed beneath his too-small suit, seemed ready for a leap that a corpse couldn't make. He had no chance. He seemed to be stalling for time. His lowered head, his long, matted black hair, and the rage radiating from his wild eyes sent a cold shiver down the boy's spine. However, he kept his sights on the beast.
A growing dark pool of blood began to flood the feet of the still-living animal. He growled loudly.
However, the howl escaping from his throat abruptly ended as the furious creature's neck and head collapsed into a shapeless mass, falling with an unpleasant crack onto the cold surface of the roof, forming another pool of thick blood.
Dorian found it hard to believe what was happening to him. He fired slowly, deliberately, completely unfazed by the decaying bodies of his opponents. He didn't even feel nauseous. He methodically killed one by one. Now he had to tackle the third. Without lowering his weapon, he was surprised to find his hands trembling, leaving only a cold sweat.
A third male stood by the railings. But the boy was wrong. He had no intention of defending her. He beat her with his fists in a fury not usually seen in New Ones. He didn't want to simply kill her, as animals usually do. He must have instinctively known he was causing pain.
And yet, they have something of humanity in them, Dorian realized in horror, running up to the executioner.
The female's meowing turned into a piercing, pitiful whine as she took each blow. He struck her in the head, neck, and torso, crushing the delicate female with his large fists. The boy could no longer see her face, completely obscured by a dark curtain of blood, flowing down her light blouse and spraying both struggling bodies.
Dorian tried to tear his gaze away from what in his mind was already "the girl" and shift it to the male's target, but it was difficult. The hypnotic image of cruelty overwhelmed him, preventing him from moving.
The male's sweat-damp hair almost obscured his face, contorted with anger and aggression.
The girl fell limply to the ground. The beast, likely her mate, father, or some other kind of lord and master, tried to lift her.
Then Dorian shot. It hit her in the shoulder. The animal shook, but its roar remained unchanged. There was as much fury in it as pain.
It seemed it would charge at the boy. He had already taken the first step; they were moving toward each other. Dorian wanted to be closer. To look into the eyes that belonged to something worse than a predator, something worse than a human.
The young female remained motionless. Only a soft moan and rasping breath could be heard.
Her master stopped and looked at his prey. In the blink of an eye, he lifted her with one hand and pushed her against the railing.
The boy's weapon reacted immediately, but in the ensuing struggle, he struck the spinning animal in the back. The shot was a good one. Under normal circumstances, it would have been enough. But not now.
Dorian knew what his opponent intended. He fired again. A piece of skull vanished into thin air, but it was too late.
A massive hand, in a final impulse of iron determination, pushed the limp, terrified female over the railing.
First he fell, and a few seconds later the dull thud of her falling body could be heard, shattering against the cobblestones.
Dorian approached the railing, shivering. The warm summer night suddenly felt terribly cold.
A body lay on the street, twisted unnaturally. Streams of blood emanated from it in all directions, spreading across the asphalt like a spider's web.
A crowd gathered around the body, howling ominously. The corpses seemed as disoriented as the boy. One by one, they approached the body and carefully touched it. They checked if it was still alive, as if there was any chance of survival after a fall from a height of forty meters.
One got the impression they knew perfectly well who the dead "girl" was. Her young body must have been very popular with the locals. Several began to pull the corpse between them, growling as they did so. Apparently, many considered themselves her "masters." The females seemed to let out cries of satisfaction.
Finally, they dragged her by the arms across the asphalt, face down, just as she had fallen. He didn't know where they were dragging her.
Then some of them began to look up hostilely. They caught a glimpse of his face. From a distance, they couldn't make out who he was, but he knew they were about to climb to the roof, driven by a thirst for revenge.
He felt dizzy, and as his adrenaline levels plummeted, he felt faint. He checked his magazine, but there were only five bullets left in the chamber. Hand-to-hand combat was out of the question.
He couldn't escape the way he'd come. There was a definite possibility they'd never gotten inside the building. They certainly didn't know how to use the elevator. And even if they had, escaping by ladder was impossible.
He knew he had little time. There was no doubt they were coming for him. Yet he stood leaning against the railing, staring out at the distant neighborhoods where normal life went on. He'd never been so far from home and safety.
He was going to jump. That was why he'd come here. But not now. It couldn't end like this. He didn't want to kill himself by running away. But wasn't suicide an escape? Thoughts swirled frantically in his aching head; he could almost feel them crashing together.
He no longer knew if he still had the right to die. She had somehow saved his life, having previously given him a moment of unrequited pleasure. He remembered that animalistic meow. For a moment, he felt that state again, a terrifying liberation, the feeling of being completely alone in his fall and having nothing to lose. Did he still want to die as a free man? A certain dark side of his existence, deeply hidden until now, had surfaced. Darker and more terrifying than anything he had known before. Darker than that July night over the City of the Dead. Yet he felt a part of this night now. For the first time in a long time, he was a part of something. As if in death and fall, he had found himself.
Maybe it simply resides in some. Maybe this is just who I am. If only I could, I would squeeze into her wild body again... If only I could, I would smash those animals again, with the same composure and determination.
But when he remembered her body, blood gushing in all directions like a fountain, tears welled in his eyes.
He could almost feel a transformation taking place within him. Something was being born, wanting to continue killing, to continue to decline, to rediscover himself in the most magnificent corruption he had ever experienced. What was emerging within him now called for another night, a suddenly revealed darkness that yearned to survive and return to the Suicide Quarter, to teeter dangerously on the metaphysical border between death and life. Evil and good mingled in the surrounding scent of blood and the stench of freshly slain enemies.
Simultaneously, the values that had dominated his mind, guided him for over twenty years, were dying within him. His conscience, his sense of shame, his desire for humanity were dying.
He felt all the foundations of his existence vanishing, leaving a void. An abyss. All the warning signs and bars crumbling in his mind, allowing him to live again in cold indifference.
He didn't know what would happen next. He wasn't sure where he would go, where he would return. The tears cooling on his cheeks were tears of regret, a residual sense of guilt over the death of a related species, but they were also tears of fear and uncertainty. He no longer knew which face Dorian had.
He didn't have time for this. He heard dozens of bare feet climbing upward.
He ran to the elevator.
It was a flat hatch in the roof. He opened it with great difficulty, glancing back. They hadn't reached the roof yet. He knew it had been a considerable effort for them; it must have taken a lot for them to reach the very top of the building. They would be exhausted and weak. But they would still be angry, and there would be many of them. He might be able to knock a few down with his bare hands, maybe he could push them off the building on the ladder. But surely there would be more behind them. There was the elevator.
He stepped through the hatch, closing it behind him with a loud bang.
Darkness enveloped him, a complete lack of light. With a trembling hand, he pulled a lighter from his back pocket. A brief crack echoed off the walls of the deserted building, carrying the light with it.
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