Rapture (unfinished failure)
Started off as a gorefest for Saturday's Judgment Day, got bored with killing people and just left it. It could have been something more had I had time to really work on it, but there's more important porn to be written at the moment.
Enjoy if you can!
***
5/17
It's dark and quiet up here in the attic, and that's where I stay. It's the only place left where I can be alone, though I know it's not where God wants me to be. Soon enough, that will change.
How late it is, though, I'm not sure. The moon gave up its vigil an hour or so ago, sinking behind the houses across my exurban street. Just starlight remains, shining its weak bluish self in through the one small window in the attic. Enough so I can see what not to run into or trip over. Enough so I can see the barrel of the Ruger LC9 clutched in my left paw. Safety on, of course. In my right paw is my Bible, though over the past few weeks I've opened it less and less. Since God gave me Sight, I've needed its reassuring words only sparingly.
Today is the day that the Lord has made. Let us rejoice and be glad in it. Today is the last. The rock will not hide them, the dead tree gives no shelter. Star Wormwood has blazed, and all the unbelievers will fall. And I will help. God has called me with the Sight, after all.
I let out a little bark of laughter, as much of a bark as a weasel can muster. I mustn't wake the others; they need to go in their sleep. Especially Jared. He can't know it was me, though he might find out once he gets to heaven and sits at the right hand of the Father.
You need to move, my son. Go out, and serve the Lord your God.
"Alright then," I murmur into the near-darkness. "Your will be done."
I make my way back down to my bedroom, skipping the stairs I know will creak under my weight, the Bible cradled under my arm so I can use the banister. The trappings of childhood still adorn the walls and shelves: posters of bands long forgotten, stuffed animals won at fairs or received at Christmas, drawers of knickknacks and useless detritus that do nothing more than bring back memories of a time without Sight. A blind, dumb time, ignorant of the true nature of people and hopeful of a bright future. If I had known the day of reckoning was to come so soon, I might have made better use of my time. Today, I can make up for that.
I fill my pockets with the usual--keys, wallet, cell phone--and shoulder my holster before putting on my jacket. Even this late in spring, it's still refreshingly cool, and I don't want to be uncomfortable while carrying out God's business. It's a small part, but one I will gladly play. Anything I can do to help him along on this last day. I turn off the desk lamp as I leave my bedroom for the last time. I can't take any of it with me, and the Sight is all I need anyway. It will carry me through.
The Bible stays on the banister at the top of the stairs while I enter my parents' bedroom. My father lies flat on his back, muzzle pointed toward the ceiling and snoring softly. My mother is turned away from him on her side, the sheet pulled back exposing part of her shoulder and the silk nightie she wears to bed.
I have seen how she wants me...the Sight has exposed her desire, though she hides it well. Dad no longer pleases her, because he is satisfied by the Asian women on the Internet and his trysts on Craigslist. He is doubtlessly carrying a disease, and Mom knows this. Yet I can give them credit for keeping the marriage together for Jared's sake. They hide their indiscretions so well! It's hard to believe they can sleep soundly, having the desires they do. What strong consciences.
I pad across the room and stand over my father. A sinner in pride; haughty he is, even in sleep. His chest rises and falls gently with his breath. I reach down between his legs and feel the turgid flesh there. Yes, dreaming of some Japanese Geisha whore or a Vietnamese brothel, back when he was in the service. You never thought it would catch up with you, did you?
My own flesh reacts, feeling my father's arousal in my fingers. I don't mind anymore; there is no question where I'm headed, and I've accepted the fact. Dad doesn't even stir, and that's good. Before I can ponder the question of pulling the sheet back and satisfying the curiosity I've had since childhood, God lifts my right arm and pulls my index finger back.
The sound is instant and deafening in this placid room. The gun flashes and recoils, sending a needle of pain up my arm to my shoulder, and I know that if I am to get through this day I will have to prepare for that. The scents of ozone and burning gunpowder hit my nose, followed by blood.
Dad has sprouted a hole in his left cheek. At least, I think it's a hole, because it's gushing blood down the side of his face and into the bedclothes. His muzzle has opened slightly, but no breath escapes. He's free. That was easy. God told me it would be. The me of a few weeks ago might have cried. I'm happy for him, down in hell already so he doesn't have to suffer up on this mortal plane.
Somehow, Mom hasn't woken up. I suppose it's something like any loud noise while you're asleep: some people will come awake instantly while it's too quick for others to notice. But Mom stirs, mumbling, reaching for her husband. She lays her arm over Dad's still chest while I cross to her side of the bed. She can't know. She can't suffer. I put the gun to the side of her head, but she turns again, forcing the gun down.
"H-honey?" she mumbles through sleep, rubbing her eyes. My erection is renewed. I take her arm and twist it around, pressing her paw to my fly. It throbs against her fingers, and I wonder what she would have done if I'd let her give into her fantasy. "What are you doing?" She says it slowly, drunkenly. Even with her dead husband next to her, she can still play dumb.
"I can't play with you, Mom," I say, watching her eyes widen. "It wouldn't make any difference. Dad's waiting for you."
"Wha-?" She doesn't have time to focus on the Ruger as I press it to her right eye and fire. The paw on my crotch grips me tight for a split second, and it is marvelous. Her head cocks backward, the impact flinging her back onto the pillows. A grotesque rose of blood, bone and brain appears on the wall behind her, dripping slowly down behind the headboard. Her remaining eye stares at the ceiling. She is free.
I drop her arm and undo my pants, taking my cock into my paw. It is wholly inappropriate to have to operate with such a distraction, so I take a minute to deal with it. After the release, my mind is clear and I take the gun back from the bed after wiping my seed onto the bed. It's Jared's turn.
Miraculously, he's slept through the whole scene, but it's not surprising because his room is at the end of the hall, a good distance from the master bedroom. He sleeps amid his own childhood trappings, different from my own but still just as valuable. There are also hand-me-downs from my room: the Angry Beavers pajamas he's wearing, for instance. If he only knew how many times I soiled them with my nocturnal emissions, I wonder what he would think. Perhaps he's doing the same. There's no helping it, I suppose. It won't matter soon, anyway.
I look down at him. He's a silent sleeper; not even his whiskers twitch. I try hard to See him, but nothing comes, and I'm grateful. So far, he's been the only one I haven't been able to See. He's destined for great things after today, but not on this earth. I am honored to send him on his way. God can come for the rest, but I want Jared to be the first.
Bending down to kiss his forehead, I smell the sweet smell of boyhood sweat. I forgot what that smelled like. Innocence and Irish Spring. He shakes his head slowly, licks his lips, and is still.
"Go with God, little brother." I aim the pistol.
"Hmm, love you, Jared," he says. He knows. That same flash-bang, but this time I close my eyes. I want to remember him as he was before his ascension. I wait until I can smell blood, then pull down the covers to expose his wrist. I hear the soft sound of flowing liquid, and presently the scent of urine joins the blood; his bladder has let go. Accidents don't matter to God, I think. It's not even you pissing anymore. The lack of a pulse confirms that his soul has been released, and I am filled with a feeling of such power that it almost makes me cry.
But not now. There is much work to do. Four bullets left in this clip, and more in the car.
The sky is just beginning to lighten in the east as I close the front door to my house for the last time. Pressing the button to unlock my car, I wonder how long it will take for someone to realize anything is amiss. It's a Saturday. No work, no school. There might be phone calls, but no one will notice until Monday, by which time everyone on earth will be in the same boat. But not my family, and especially not Jared. He will be with the Lord, and the rest will be left to toil aimlessly for five months until the destruction is complete. I doubt I will make it that far.
I pop the trunk and reach inside, feeling around for the zipper I can't see because the little light bulb is broken. My claws scrape along the nylon of my duffel until I hear jingling, and from there it's an easy task to unzip the bag and view its righteous contents: a sniper rifle with a silencer and magazine after magazine filled with .308 rounds and others with 9mm slugs for my pistol. I don't know what kind of rifle it is; the man out of whose trunk I bought it only said it was a deal and not to care. All the information has been filed off. I just care if it fires.
The duffel goes in the back seat, but I take three 9mm magazines and set them on the passenger seat next to me. That's twenty-one people, plus four in my gun, before I have to reach back. I turn the car on and silence the radio before fastening the seat belt, Safety First. Then I pull out into the night.
I realize I've forgotten the Bible in the house, but I can't go back there now. If I go back, I might start thinking about things. "You have persevered and have endured hardships for my name, and have not grown weary." Revelation 2:3. I know Revelation well.
Streetlights paint yellow stripes across my lap. I keep under the limit and under control. Anyone out driving at this time sticks out like a sore thumb, and I want the police to concentrate on the drunks and the bums and the whores instead of me, the Sighted, on my mission. I put my signal on and turn onto the freeway ramp, gaining speed.
Now that the trees have given way to open sky, I can see the first bits of morning creeping up past the horizon. Only now do I look at the clock in the car; it's 5:15am. The world is beginning to wake up for its last day of normal, sinful life.
I didn't ask for the Sight. Those given gifts from God rarely ask for them. Last year, in college, he began to change things in my head. It started as migraines, such a common terrestrial sign of trouble. I was worried, for a while, but Tylenol went a long way. So did Percocet, but once I started depending on the pills I had to throw them away. My head wasn't clear. That was right before my own personal revelation.
I was playing Halo 2 instead of doing homework. And then I noticed a black spot in the corner of my vision, growing fast. I had no time to pause the game before my jaw clenched shut and the right side of my body went numb, then jerked. Sometime during the seizure I fell on the floor, biting my tongue. I know that much because I woke up that way, my muzzle filled with the taste of blood. But I had been shown Everything, and suddenly none of it mattered.
There were so many colors, too many to even imagine, some of them not of this world. They were God's colors, meant for only him (and me) to see. He told me I was to receive a gift of Sight, and that I would know what to do with it. And, for one split second, I knew the sin of every human who had ever existed. My soul felt like it was on fire, being torn apart by the sorrow and suffering of so many billions of beings...and then it was gone.
The next day, I bought the pistol. I arranged for the purchase of the rifle soon after. I knew what God's plan was for me.
A horn jerks me back from my reverie. I turn the wheel, but not fast enough to avoid clipping the bumper of the little Miata I seem to have run up on. It swerves, but I pay it no mind until I remember that he could get my plates if I try to speed away. He might already have them. I slow down, and he slows with me, and we both pull onto the empty shoulder of the freeway.
His door opens before the Miata comes to a stop. He lifts himself out of the seat, and I am filled with a dread I haven't yet felt. I See him. I See his newsboy cap and silk vest and crisply pressed pants and then I see the sodomy he committed just an hour or so ago. This fox, this gay faggot fox, his tail pressed against his back while a fat otter fills him up with seed. Seed, meant for a woman, that will die in his sinful body instead of replenishing God's earth with children.
"Are you crazy?" the faggot fox yells at me. His lisp is poisonous.
"Crazy like a fox," I reply through my window. My soul is screaming; I want away. But my paw searches the passenger seat and finds the cool metal of the Ruger. The power flows through my arm and quiets the storm in my head.
"What? Shut the fuck up and come see what you did to my car."
"No."
"No?"
I look up at him, my expression still. I can almost feel an otter cock, slimy with fluid, worming its way under my tail. My erection is back, Satan's power radiating from this fox so much, it's a wonder he doesn't have horns.
"Do you believe in God?" I pull the gun into the light as I ask the question, and the fox's eyes go wide. He starts to back away.
"Fine, fine, I'm going..." His voice is high, like a woman's like a faggot's, and I can't stand it. He reaches for the handle of his door, but he's already been chosen. He'd be gone by the end of the day anyway. I'm giving him a head start.
It's easier for me to get out of my Probe than for him to squeeze his slinky form back into his roadster, and I'm pointing the barrel in through the window before he can get his paw on the gearshift. He starts to say something, probably "No," but his face disappears in the flashes. Four bullets and one empty clip later, there is no face left. Part of his upper muzzle is still attached, but the rest sits in the passenger seat beside him. One ear sits in his lap, overrun by a torrent of blood; his left eye just kind of flew somewhere. He slides slowly to one side, stopped by the armrest.
I let the empty clip slide down and onto the shoulder, its hard clank
Abort. This story is going NOWHERE. Have a fragment, people!