The Walking Dead

The flame wavered and was gone. She groped across the floor and crawled over the rumpled roll of the carpet, smelt it and gagged. Her fingers touched him. He flinched from her. It must be done or the weakness would overwhelm him.

It was where Faria had never been before, and she thought neither had he.

Her fingers were on his face, then caught at the back of his neck and she eased a knee over his legs. He did not struggle against her. She kissed him, his mouth against hers, his lips moist against hers. She pushed her tongue on to his teeth, forced his mouth wider. Her tongue licked the inside of him and she tasted the food she had brought back with the bucket. She wriggled tighter against him.

If it were not done, in the morning he might turn, or freeze, or run. It was to strengthen him.

Her hands came from his neck and slid down his body, so slight and frail, and across the bones that made the cage of his ribs, and came to his belt. She unfastened the belt, then the upper button of his trousers and drew down the zip. Her hands climbed again. She pulled the jersey off him and the shirt. She had to lift each arm because he did not help her. It was done so slowly, but the layers came off and then she could touch the expanse of the skin, and she sensed his heart pounding. She used her nails to make patterns on his now hairless chest — the same patterns that had been made on her skin by the man, and into the navel, as the man had done. She had said then: It is never the leaders who make the sacrifice. Had said in anger: He is the one with true courage. Her breath came faster, as the man had made it.

She broke the patterns. Faria took his hands and guided them under her upper clothing to her breasts. She bared herself and led his hands to the fastening clips on her back. He did not know how to do it. There were girls, white girls, on the streets near to the Dallow Road, not aged fifteen, who knew how to undress for a few seconds of writhing, and boys from near to the Dallow Road, not yet at their fifteenth birthday, who could have stripped her and unfastened each clip and each stud within moments…and she was twenty-four and the boy, she thought, was past twenty…and neither of them knew how. So they learned.

They learned. Her purpose in learning was that he would walk better in the morning — not stop, not cringe, not reject what was asked of him…They fumbled, the one as inexpert as the other.

Clothing was taken off, dumped beside them. Her weight on her knees, her hips rose so that he could ease down her jeans, then her knickers. She took him in her hands, stroked him, felt the hardness grow, then pulled down his trousers. He was so hesitant, but so gentle. She guided him, placed him at the lips, then thrust down on to him. He gasped. He had his hands up now, on her small, shallow breasts, and they found the nipples and squeezed softly. He was deep in her and moved slowly under her. She felt the confidence, his and hers. She thought he moved slowly so as he might prolong the glory of it, make it last. She squirmed to tighten her muscles on him…It could not last for ever, not beyond the morning. He spoke words — little guttural cries — in a language she did hot understand. She panted louder, abandoned the shyness that had been drilled into her youth, gasped and yelled. He drove up into her, heaved her body UP, and she felt the strength, knew she had given it to him. At the end there was a shout. Faria could not have said if it was his or hers. Then a long sigh, hers and his.

She held him close. She felt his hands locked round her back. His sweat was slick on her body, and hers on his.