Johnny Wraith Stories

Falling Ill

I remember watching the mayhem on Fox News, night after night for at least 6 months. Finally, nobody cared about suicide bombers, missing teenage girls, O.J. Simpson's new book, homosexual marriage, whether Christmas should be replaced with Kwanzaa, how many 13-year-old brides were being forced into polygamous marriages with gray-haired Mormon sect prophets, or bi-partisan politics. Still, the 24-7 news on The Disease didn't seem to change much in quality from its previous coverage of the Iraq war, with the exception that now the entire world was a war zone. Violence, death, decay, mayhem, suicide, explosions, machine gun fire, blaring sirens, the ground shaking, thunder, coughing, puking, summary execution of the ill by men in white suits, rape, torture, roaring attack jets overhead, piles of rotting corpses on every street... It even came to our neighborhoods in the suburbs. The only hope was that the mounting death toll would finally lead to silence. We weren't even safe in our houses, from either The Disease or from our fellow man.

I just sat there on the couch the whole time, from the day The Disease broke out, in front of the television, not daring to leave the house but for once or twice. I just up and quit my job as soon as the first outbreak arrived in Tucson, or rather, I quit showing up at work and didn't call in to say why. I figured going to work was a sure way to catch The Disease fast and die quickly. From the look of things, I'd eventually fall ill and be gone in 72 hours anyway, but every second was precious, even if I was hiding in my house, alone, as the impending doom ticked closer. So, I just didn't answer the phone whenever it rang. It could have been the office. The calls stopped after a few weeks anyway.

During those days, I always kept my Ruger P345 pistol within arm's reach on the coffee table, loaded with hollow points, and my trusty, SKS Chinese assault rifle, with fixed bayonet leaning by the couch and ready. To kill the boredom, I worked out with my weights in the garage about 3 hours each morning. After a few months, I was bench pressing 315lbs for 12 reps, squatting with 500lbs and still getting stronger. The progress was miraculous. At 37, I quickly surpassed the strength I'd had in my early 20s. My muscles started bulging out of my shirts, and the pot belly melted away. I even strung up the old punching bag and started banging at it for hours at a time, only stopping when I couldn't throw another jab or my knuckles opened up and bled. Luckily, I had plenty to eat and drink because over the previous year, I'd stocked up with 1000s of cans of Hormel Chili with Meat Sauce, over 500 5 liter boxes of Franzia Merlot, and about 50 1 gallon jugs of water (There is a peculiar story about why I gathered this tremendous hoard together during the year before The Disease broke out. I'll tell it in a bit). This stockpile occupied the entire dining room, and it served as a buffer against any bullets flying through the boarded-up bay window facing the street. In fact, a few times flying bullets popped a few wine kegs and ruined a couple good cans of chili. It wasn't a big deal compared to the ruckus outside: the screaming, gunfire, evil laughter, cars peeling out and roaring down the street. And there was no safety from it all. After a while, the ambulances and cop cars, the sirens, the rescues, quit coming. The electricity started going out more and more, as did the television broadcasts. The last word I heard on the news was that an estimated 30 million were dying each day throughout the world. Finally all the lights went out for good, as did the telephones. The faucets quit flowing.

I counted each day I didn't fall ill, or die in a gunfight, a blessing. It helped to drink 3 liters of wine each night, well, and a few during the daytime too, but never before a workout. Doing so allowed me to stay numb, to sleep, to stop worrying about when bandits would break in and cough on me, steal my chili, fill me with bullets, slit my throat, or hold me down and fuck me in the ass. Only one time was there an attempted break-in, and it was during broad daylight. I was fortunate to be fitting a sling on my SKS when the burglar put a crow bar to the front door and tried to pry the lock. You should have seen the look on his face when I slammed the door open, charged, and put my bayonet through his stomach. I didn't want to waste ammo. Besides, I was drunk and not thinking of taking the safest course of action. The poor bastard probably thought the house was vacant. After all, most houses were empty of living bodies by then. Hanging that burglar's corpse by the neck from the roof of my house, and splitting open his belly to allow the intestines to hang out, must have worked as an appropriate deterrent. There were no more break-ins, though the commotion continued outside.

The burglar was the second man I'd killed with my SKS. The first time was from about 50 feet. Two of the few neighbors I had left, of the several hundred originally in the neighborhood, were wrestling in the street right in front of my house. Her skirt and panties were torn off, her legs kicking, her mouth howling. His pants were down to his ankles and he was fighting to put it in. Before The Disease, he'd been a second grade teacher, and she'd been a freshman in college, on an art scholarship. His name was Mr. Simmons, and she was called Grace. I'd never gotten to know either of them beyond small talk on the sidewalk, while walking my recently deceased dog Digger (he'd died of old age the year before, and it had been a traumatic loss for me - I haven't been the same since). So, upon witnessing this scene of attempted rape through a peek-hole in the boarded bay window (I was feeling like a humanitarian that day), I casually walked outside with weapon in hand, took time with my aim, and shot Mr. Simmons through the back of the head.  

When Grace quit kicking and calmed down, she spit on the ground and complained, "I think some pieces of skull and brains got in my mouth."

"Sorry for helping."

"No, no... um... that's not what I meant... Thank you," said the trembling girl.

"Let's get you cleaned up."

"Aren't we going to call the police?"

"My phone isn't working. Is yours?"

"No."

"Plus, I haven't seen any cops or heard any sirens lately."

"Me either."

"Alright, let's go wash you off."

"But... But...What about him?" she asked, pointing a shaking finger at the body lying next to her.

"We'll leave him there. He's far enough away from the house to avoid the stink."

"That isn't humane."

"Nor is what he tried to do to you."

"I guess..." She muttered, then dropped her head to her bare, bloodied knees. She began whimpering. Tears rolled down her shins to her dirty ankles.

I touched her shoulder. She flinched and jolted to her feet.

"Are YOU going to rape me now?"

I did have a hard on, and the thought of taking some pussy had crossed my mind, but I answered, "No, we're just going to clean you up, feed you some chili and wine, and send you on your way."

More tears welled in Grace's eyes. "But Johnny, I don't have anywhere to go!"

"Neither do I, but I only have enough provisions to last a few days."

"If you let me stay with you, you can do whatever you want to me."

"In that case, we have a deal."

It seemed the bargain of a lifetime, getting all the action I wanted from a hot 19-year-old babe with a tight pussy. But, I only nailed her about 3 dozen times the first week she stayed with me. Her resentment of my affection was too much for me to handle, even though she never complained, and her legs always spread easily. I could see it in her unsmiling face and dull eyes. It was obvious from the way she just laid there limp, looking off to the side as I stabbed it in and out. So, to avoid the guilt, I quit her and got back to my hand, polishing one off each night before I retired to bed. Unfortunately, Grace didn't live long, but it was probably the best for both of us. She didn't love me, so I couldn't love her. Before she fell ill, all she did was sit on the couch crying, day and night. Plus she drank a lot of my water, though luckily she refused to touch any wine. She got sick of chili, began starving and losing weight, after only a few days with me. I was worried when she first started coughing, but I couldn't bring myself to throw her out of the house. I took my chances by quarantining her to the guest bedroom, keeping my mouth covered with a handkerchief, and not touching my face. Besides, only 3 days after the sickness appeared, I was carrying Grace to the backyard and burying her next to Digger. That poor girl's body was so emaciated and skeletal it couldn't have weighted more than 70lbs. As I dug her grave, I cried. I didn't cry for her. I cried because I felt sadness over feeling nothing for her. What had I become?

You probably wonder how I ended up with such a stockpile of chili and wine, how I'd been so lucky to prepare for The Disease even before any of us knew it was coming. That is a strange story, a fortuitous one. One night, a year before The Disease broke out, I had a dream. It seemed like I was awake, but I couldn't have been. There was a flash of white light. It was so bright it woke me and blinded me for several seconds. When my sight returned, standing at the side of my bed was a tall woman and the glow from her body lit up the room. She must have been 6'4", slender with sinuous muscle, and a pair of remarkable, bare tits. Never had I witnessed such beauty! All she wore was a golden circlet, wrist and ankle bracelets, and a single fig leaf.

"Johnny my love," she spoke with melody. Her very words were music.

I blinked a few times, rubbed my eyes with my fists and looked again. She was still there. "Er... yes?" 

She sat down on the bed, and before I knew it, I was lying in her arms like a child, her breasts my pillows, my wanton eyes staring up into hers. A strange electric feeling, a warmth, an incredible peace I cannot otherwise describe, filled my body, my thoughts, my soul.

"You shall partake of me tonight, and I shall be with you, always," she softly sang her whispered words as she stroked my head.

With wide eyes and paralyzed, I could only nod in agreement.

"You are to buy and store as much food and wine as you can in the coming year."

I nodded again.

"Tonight I will make you mine forever."

"Wh... wha... who are you?"

"Vina."

And with that, my lips were sealed and I could ask no more. Like a coddled babe in a loving mother's arms, I took to her offered nipples and filled my belly with wine from them. It flowed from her generous breasts straight into me. My every nerve and pore vibrated with inexplicable, holy ecstasy.  She hummed with pleasure and gripped me tightly as I partook. Finally, I passed out from intoxication and loss of breath.  The next morning, I awoke without a hangover, went immediately to Costco, and bought a carload of canned Hormel Chili with Meat Sauce and 20 5 liter boxes of Franzia Merlot. I made trip after trip, every weekend, until my dining room could hold no more. The cashiers always looked at me funny or smirked at me. 

Vina has been with me since her first visit, and she is always on my mind. Because I am devoted to her, I will never have a wife or companion (though She does not protest my partaking of mortal flesh when my appetite requires). I don't expect you to understand or to believe what I say of Her, and I don't blame you. I too was once a skeptic of the divine. I will only say that you are able to read my words now because She watches over me.  I am her blessed servant.

Several weeks after burying Grace, I stepped outside to look around. It seemed the commotion had just stopped. No gunfire, roaring engines, signs of disorder, screaming... There was a slight wind - a gentle breeze, sunshine, a blue sky with a full moon in the daylight overhead. The colorful desert flowers were growing abundantly in the unkempt rock lawns, along with the weeds. There were no signs of human life, though a few dried and skeletal bodies were lying around the neighborhood on the sidewalks, in a few yards, or still sitting in idle cars parked in driveways or stopped dead in the middle of the street. The Arizona desert sun was keen at drying corpses, turning them into leather and bone in just a few weeks. While looking around, and enjoying the peaceful day, a weathered flyer tumbled too my feet. I picked it up and read it. It gave several hints, from Dr. Allen Tsunagnami, on avoiding The Disease:

"

• Avoid contact with infected persons
• Don't touch your face with your hands
• Wash your hands frequently
• Drink plenty of fluids
• Sleep at least 8 hours a day
• Avoid drugs and alcohol"

"Shit!" I said aloud, "AVOID ALCOHOL?"

I threw down the flyer and stormed back into the house. Though abstaining from my stockpile of wine was an unpleasant thought, I decided then and there to quit drinking. I had to do what it took to survive, even if it meant no booze as the pamphlet said. The Disease could still be in the air, so I wanted the strongest immune system possible.

So, I began drinking water and only water. And wouldn't you know it? Just a week later I awoke in the morning with a cough. "Fuck!" I knew I was dead. 72 hours and counting. I remember looking at my watch, Tuesday, June 11, at 7:00 am was the first time I had an undeniable coughing fit.  By midnight of June 11, my nose was bleeding. 9:00 am, June 12, I was leaning over the toilet bowl, dry heaving and spitting. The evening of June 12, I could barely stand and couldn't hold any water down. I could just lie on the couch and wait. That night, I accidentally shit in my pants. The diarrhea soaked through, into the cushions, and ran down my legs into my tennis shoes. I didn't care. I wanted to die. I was too weak to cough up any more of the phlegm that was choking my throat. I was nearly blind my eyes were so dry, and my lips were cracked open and scabbed with blood. By the morning of the 13^th, I was lying on the floor of the living room, soaked and dried in piss, shit and puke, desiring death.

"Vina," I pitifully gagged. "Let me die."

It was then I heard a girl's giggle. And She spoke: "Johnny," Her teasing voice whispered, "You silly boy, don't you like my milk?"

How stupid could I have been? It was the wine that had kept me healthy and free of The Disease! I hadn't caught it until turning to water after reading that damned medical brochure. I was immediately bestowed with a second wind and began crawling for the dining room where the provisions were kept. It took all my strength and two hours to clamber 10 feet, pull a box of Franzia from the stacked supplies, peel back a cardboard square and pluck out the stopper. How the wine flowed into my desperate mouth! As I was guzzling down, I lost consciousness and found myself once more partaking of the sweet milk of Goddess Vina. Taking to her abundant breasts, love, and warmth as her sweet voice hummed with heavenly pleasure. I cannot describe the comfort of her enveloping embrace.

The next morning I awoke and was completely cured. My full strength returned. I had suffered The Disease and survived it, and from all accounts I had heard, no one had ever survived it before.