The leather of Ricky’s motorcycle gloves skids along the wall. He pushes, feels for the one brick that will give enough for him to pull a few out, just enough for him to slip in through. Spotlights flash in his peripheral. Chris is so backed up to him he can feel his body there, his bag resting against Ricky’s leg.
“This place is fucking crawling,” Chris hisses, words muffled in his gas mask, as Ricky knocks the heel of his palm into a few bricks, finally finding the one that gives.
“Got it -- give me a lift,” Ricky says back, his voice low, pushing bricks into the building. The stink of rot hits Ricky instantly. Chris turns around, puts his leg out so Ricky can plant a boot on his thigh, helps him climb up enough to slide in through the hole, which he can just barely get through. He’s putting the bricks back into their place before Chris even runs off to the other side of the mausoleum.
Ricky pulls his N95 up over his nose, steps over a few bodies. They’d scouted out this mausoleum in the daytime, found a weak spot in the wall, and planned to bring a full arsenal to capitalize as much as they could. If this one’s untapped, they can get a hell of a lot of Z here, and if they can hide Ricky’s entry from the GENcops long enough, it could be a longer term source. Ricky goes up the steps to the door of the mausoleum, cracks it open. Chris is already there, pushes his way in, pulls up his gas mask as Ricky latches the door shut again. They shouldn’t be caught in here -- if there’s no visible forced entry point there’s no way any GENcops should know they’re even here.
“Holy shit,” Chris says. “You weren’t kidding.”
The mausoleum is so cavernous it doesn’t even feel like a mausoleum. Mass graves like this are never nice. Bodies unceremoniously piled on top of each other. Gives Ricky the creeps. At least proper grave robbing involved one preserved body at a time. Not thousands of them in various states of decay.
“Damn. Repo man got to this one,” Chris observes, nudging an eviscerated corpse with his boot. “That’s a clean job.”
“Won’t catch me feeling bad for them,” Ricky says, grabbing for Chris’s bag. “Give me my kit, dude, let’s get this shit over with, this place stinks--”
“You’re such a fucking baby,” Chris says, pulling out two leather cases with zipper closures, shoving one into Ricky’s hands. “This one doesn’t even smell as bad as the last one.” Ricky narrows his eyes at him over the nose of his mask.
“Maybe you’re just more desensitized to corpse stench than I am,” Ricky says, but he unzips his kit and gets to work anyway. Puts an empty vial into the metal syringe and picks a first volunteer. Ricky kneels on the floor next to the body, forces the needle up its nose quick and hard. Feels the sinus bones snap. As he pulls back on the plunger, the vial fills, glowing blue enough it illuminates his hands. Pops the vial out. Drops it back into his kit. Replaces it with a new one. Next corpse, rinse, repeat. Mostly former repo man patients. Ricky can hear the sirens outside in the graveyard still, the generic Geneco voice warning that grave robbers will be executed on sight.
Chris is whistling a Blind Mag song from somewhere behind him as they work. Ricky’s halfway through his vials when Chris goes silent suddenly, then that whistle turns into a low one of appreciation. Ricky whips his head around and sees Chris pulling a body out of the pile. Ah, shit.
“Well hello,” Chris says to her, brushing his fingers through her hair, matted with dried blood. She’s still mostly clothed, save for where she clearly had something repossessed, and her top is split right down the front. “What brings you here?”
“Chris,” Ricky says, already exhausted. Not this shit again.
“Rick, dude,” Chris says, gesturing to the corpse. “Look at her.”
“I told you the last half a dozen times,” Ricky says, “I tend to prefer people with pulses.”
“Okay but c’mon,” Chris says. “You can tell she was hot when she was alive, too, right? You’re not too boring to have an imagination, are you?”
“Fuck’s sake,” Ricky says, adjusting the metal strip keeping his mask flush with the bridge of his nose. “You’re gross, dude.”
“You’re a fuckin’ killjoy, man,” Chris says. He rips her blouse open the rest of the way, pushes it back off her shoulders. Her brown skin is tinged grey, mottled red. Chris grabs one of her tits, squeezes. “Oh, shit. She’s not even all the way cold yet--”
“Chris,” Ricky says, averting his eyes, because Chris feeling up a corpse when her chest is fully split wide the fuck open is an extremely jarring image, “please tell me you’re not gonna fuck her.”
“Would I lie to you, Rick?” Chris asks, throwing him a look over his shoulder. Ricky sighs.
“I don’t get you,” Ricky says. He turns back to grab the next body, load his syringe with another empty vial--
“Shit, fuckin’--” Chris says, and Ricky hears the distinct sound of skin on skin where Chris is clearly wrangling her into place. “Fucking goddamn repo nearly took her whole head off. Slit her throat down to the spine.”
“That’s what repos do,” Ricky says idly, as he smacks the heel of his hand into the base of the syringe, the crunch of bones breaking.
“Rick, can--” Chris starts, and Ricky’s pulling the plunger out and stops halfway. “Can you like. Hold her leg for me?”
“What the fuck is wrong with you,” Ricky says, glaring over at him. “I already dislocated a hip when you wanted to fuck a girl in full on rigor mortis. Have I not done enough for you.”
“Rick,” Chris whines. “Please. I’ll share.” Ricky sighs.
“I’m not fucking the corpse,” Ricky says firmly.
“She has two more holes, bud,” Chris says. “I mean, maybe three if you count where you could stick it in down her neck hole--”
“Oh my god,” Ricky says. “No. I will graverob and sell illegal zydrate and capitalize off the corpse by stealing its brain juice but I draw the line at necrophilia.”
“Can you just please hold her leg and make sure her head doesn’t come off the rest of the way?” Chris asks, and Ricky looks over at him. Looks at the body whose skirt he has hiked up already. Ricky sighs, fills the vial the rest of the way.
“You fucking owe me big time for this,” Ricky says, dropping the vial in with the rest. He leaves the syringe and steps over a body to get to where Chris is.
“You’re the fucking best,” Chris says. “Promise I’ll take you to one of the clubs downtown and find you somebody living to f--”
“Shut up,” Ricky says, sidling up next to him. He has to lean into the pile of bodies, puts his hand behind her head. Ricky can now see her black lipstick is still there, streaked eye makeup. She’s definitely Chris’s type. Y’know. Pretty girl with no pulse.
(It’s not that Chris doesn’t also hook up with the living. He just. Has been known to get so distracted by cute dead girls that he has to take a recreational break from collecting zydrate and that means Ricky has to pick up his slack. Which is more annoying than anything. It’s not that much more morally questionable than what they’re already doing, Ricky figures.)
“Here, hold this leg,” Chris says, and Ricky brings his hand down to hook behind her knee. “Fuck yeah,” Chris says, unbuckling his belt, then unbuckling another belt.
“Is wearing four belts strictly necessary?” Ricky asks.
“Hey, shut up,” Chris says. “Maybe you don’t care what your corpse looks like if we get spotted and executed and thrown in here but I fuckin’ do.” He peels his latex pants down. No underwear. Figures. “Besides. I don’t need you to commentate.”
“Yeah, whatever,” Ricky mumbles. Watches as Chris spits on his cock, slicks it over. He and Ricky have hooked up before, mostly while either high on the glow or on the run together, between cities. Ricky will admit he’s not as upset about this whole vantage point as he thought he’d be. Chris hooks his thumb under the girl’s panties, pulls them to the side, spits on her cunt, thumbs it into her. He turns his hand a little and Ricky can hear the slide of his fingers in her. He averts his gaze, looks back over at his kit, vials glowing luminescent blue even through the fabric of his bag. It’s nothing he hasn’t seen before but it somehow feels intrusive to watch. Especially this close.
“Fuck,” Chris moans, and Ricky knows he’s inside her. He spares a glance down at where his hips are slotted up against hers, the spider web tattoo on his stomach visible where he’s pulling his shirt up out of the way. Ricky bites his lips together, chews at one of the rings in them. At least that’s hidden by his mask. Chris fucks into her, blood smearing his hand when he grabs at her exposed ribs for some leverage. That should disgust him more than it does. He pulls her down closer, braces the other hand on Ricky’s knee. Oh. Chris makes a noise low in his chest, fingers digging into Ricky’s thigh. Ricky puts his hand on Chris’s and Chris turns his face up at him, close enough Ricky could reach to push his hair back out of his eyes. Could. Chris is fucking the corpse but he’s looking right at Ricky, craning his neck up like he wants to kiss him.
“Hi,” Ricky says, his voice quiet. Chris huffs a laugh, smiles, stills inside the girl’s body.
“You should take your mask off,” Chris says. His voice is thin, turned on.
“Why?” Ricky asks.
“Cuz,” Chris says. “I wanna make out with you. Jeez.”
“I thought she was the main attraction here,” Ricky remarks.
“If I wanted to make out with something that did nothing back I’d make out with my fist,” Chris says. Which. That makes sense.
“Alright,” Ricky says, grabbing his N95 by the bridge of the nose and pulling it down around his neck. “You owe me even more now though.”
“Deal,” Chris says, and Ricky brings his hands to Chris’s face and kisses him, open mouthed and needier than he expected to be. Somewhere in his head Ricky’s trying to reason with himself, tell himself it’s not the necrophilia that has him going right now, it’s the Chris being super hot and he is also happening to be committing necrophilia. Big difference. Chris moans into Ricky’s mouth, and Ricky leans in closer, fingers in his hair, and he can feel Chris is moving again. Feels the corpse under them move with him. Ricky’s up onto his knees and Chris licks at the blackline rings in his lip, grins when the hand on his thigh slides up enough to find Ricky’s hard as fuck in his pants. “I thought you weren’t into corpse fucking,” Chris quips, grabbing onto his dick proper. Ricky hisses.
“I’m not,” he grits out, but he’s practically tearing open the fly of his leather pants. “We can unpack this later when we’re not in the middle of grave robbing--”
“Fine, fuck,” Chris mumbles, his fingers pulling at Ricky’s underwear so he can get his hand around his cock. Ricky swears under his breath, his forehead still mashed against Chris’s. He puts his hand over Chris’s on his dick, sort of weaving their fingers together, and he bucks up into it. “Jesus, Rick--”
“Shut up,” Ricky says, between open mouthed kisses. “Keep going.” Chris nods quickly and adjusts his weight a little, brings his bloodied hand to grab onto the body’s hip, winding his fingers up in her skirt. Ricky looks down and now he can really see it, where Chris’s cock is disappearing inside of her and then reappearing in her guts where she’s been slit open all the way down to her pubic bone, and Ricky sort of huffs in disbelief. “God. That’s fucked up.” Chris kind of laughs, but he’s focused on fucking her.
“You sure you don’t wanna stick it in her mouth so it comes out her throat?” he asks, mostly joking, and Ricky groans at him.
“I’m positive, Christ--” he says, and he kisses Chris again before he can say anything else that’s gross. Ricky’s mostly just guiding his hand on his cock and Chris is letting him do it, not coordinated enough to chase his own orgasm and get Ricky off at the same time. He keeps whimpering into Ricky’s mouth while they’re kissing, and Ricky keens back at him, leaking over their fingers. Chris brings his other hand up and Ricky feels his fingers stick to his jaw with blood, and he turns into his palm, laves his tongue between his fingers.
“And you wanna call me gross,” Chris jokes, but he slips his fingers into Ricky’s mouth before he can tell him to shut up again. He sucks on them, spit tinged red when he drools a little. He pauses to spit on his cock again, slicking their fingers a little, and the slide feels fucking good. Ricky moans through gritted teeth and Chris shoves his fingers back into his mouth. “Fuck, you look fucking hot--”
“Yeah?” Ricky asks, around Chris’s fingers. Chris wipes pink spit across his cheek, grabs onto his jaw. “Speak for your fuckin’ self. Your fuckin’ face--”
“You like watching me fuck her?” Chris asks, breathless, really fucking into her now. Ricky looks down again at her, where her cunt is spread open around Chris’s cock, and he keens, nods in Chris’s grip.
“Yeah,” Ricky pants, their fingers wound together as he jerks himself faster, harder, rutting into Chris’s hand. “Fuck. Fuck.”
“C’mere,” Chris says, stills inside her to focus on Ricky, and Ricky lets go to let him take over, grabs onto the lapel of Chris’s jacket to stay upright. He doesn’t even feel the sting where the point of one of his pins is digging into his palm, just the practically blinding drag of Chris’s fist, sticky with blood and spit. Ricky feels it coming fast, his mouth hung open, forehead against Chris’s as Chris urges him on, his voice soft. “Yeah, c’mon, come for me -- come on her tits -- you’re so fucking hot--”
“Fuck,” Ricky chokes out, his voice breaking as he comes, spills over Chris’s fingers and onto the body under him, Chris’s face so close to his it’s blurry. He ruts up hard into Chris’s grip as he wrings it out of him, sucks kisses at the corner of Ricky’s open mouth, and Ricky sobs dryly, almost dizzy with the intensity of it. Chris brings his hand up and Ricky grabs his wrist, sucks the come off his fingers.
“Jesus Christ,” Chris mumbles, letting Ricky lick between his fingers, and Ricky feels it when he starts back up again, rough and quick like he’s nearing his end. Ricky watches in a haze as Chris fucks her, pulling her down onto his cock as much as he’s dicking up into her, and for a split second Ricky thinks about reaching down to touch him when the head of his cock appears through her guts. He’s still got Chris’s fingers in his mouth when Chris comes, the moan breaking in his throat. When Ricky looks, there’s streaks of white through the pooled blood left in her open empty abdominal cavity.
Ricky sort of ends up falling off the pile of bodies and rolling onto the floor on account of his legs don’t work again yet. He lays there on the concrete, trying not to think too hard about whatever the fuck he just participated in. After a moment, he does his pants back up, sits upright again, and Chris is still laying with the girl, murmuring against her cheek.
“Hope it was as good for you as it was for us,” Chris is mumbling. He’s still got his pants around his thighs, his whole ass out. Chris kisses her cheek before he gets up. Ricky needs a cigarette.
“At least let me get my last empty vial from her before we get out of here,” Ricky says. Chris offers his hand, the one less covered in dried blood and come. He takes it, lets Chris pull him up off the floor.
“Yeah, sure,” Chris says. Ricky gathers his kit back up and hears the plasticky crinkle of latex as Chris fixes his pants, tucks himself again. When Ricky walks back to her body is when he notices he actually did come on one of her tits. Oof. He aligns the needle up her nose, smacks it with his fist to break bone. “I might come back for her again before we skip town,” Chris adds. “She’s still got a few days in her.” Ricky pushes aside the mental image of her rotting out from under Chris as he pulls the plunger, lets the vial fill with the glow.
“Could you at least cover her up, then?” Ricky asks. He plucks the syringe out.
“You are such a fucking softie,” Chris says. Ricky ignores him, just starts packing up his kit. But when he turns around, Chris has found a scrap of a tarp to put over her. Ricky stands, pulls his mask back up over his face. “Hey.” Ricky looks. Chris is holding a pair of glowing blue vials. “Saved two for us later.” Ricky grins.
“Good, cuz you owe me,” he says, and they leave out the front door under the cover of dawn breaking. No GENcops after dawn. They walk hand in hand to their usual alley to catch the morning’s share of surgery junkies waiting for them to give them their fix.