Master PC: Aftermath

by Lancebreaker

Reality never set back in. Restless mobs flooded over every major city throughout the world. Shambling hoards of men and women that no family ever had a chance to bury or mourn. Rotting flesh was the new fashion and it knew no political or socioeconomic boundaries. The passionless eyes of the rioters glowed in the flames of the cities burning down all around them.

Life became a constant struggle to find the food, shelter, and water that grew increasingly more difficult to find, though it was not survival. Survival implies an end, the ability to make it through some trial.

The trial was over, judgment made, and this was the sentence: Purgatory. Life, in a mockery of hell. No demons or overlords, just the forsaken and the soulless. There was no redemption, neither for the living nor the dead. The siren song of breathless moans deafened the mind, and after time the survivors began to just give up, give in, and join the masses.

Farber awoke, startled from one nightmare into another. It was still as dark outside as when he had drifted off to sleep. A cold breeze whisked across the rooftop, chilling him down to the bone. He could hear the listless moans of his captors riding on the wind.

He had single handedly cleared the entire building. Searched every nook and cranny from the ground floor to the roof, then closed, locked, and barricaded the roof’s only access door. Even with all his precaution he would have given anything to feel safe and warm. Instinctively, he checked his equipment.

Farber had once had some of that security, but when his arm never clotted, he became a liability, a marked man even beyond the amputation. Now he was a castaway, left to his own devices to try and survive. His left arm still bore the original tourniquet. Now black and infected, the gangrenous limb wouldn’t have a chance to kill him at the rate his health was failing.

He had failed. He understood that no friend as close as his could have turned a weapon on him in cold blood. No, despite his pleading, his friends had sent him to die a lonely and horrific death instead.

Rain began to patter across the rooftop, the storm clouds riding on a dead cold wind.


Startled, he turned in time only to see what he soon felt, the gaping maw of a rotting corpse. He kicked back the rapacious corpse, giving up a pound of his flesh as it sprawled awkwardly to the ground. Then without even thinking, he raised his machete high in an attempt to unseal his grim fate.

He understood that to keep the infection from reaching his heart he would have to sever his own arm, dispatch with the walker, and stop the bleeding of his brachial artery. All just to stand a one in ten chance of not succumbing to the catastrophic plague. And once the sickness took hold...

Farber’s eyes fluttered open to another grim dawn, and probably his last. He had fallen asleep again, though had not expected to wake. Each ray of the morning sun glistening off the cityscape splintered migraine level pain into his skull. He cringed, both in pain and in the understanding that soon he would avoid light all together, creeping in shadows and sulking in his undeath. It was only four blocks to the closest pharmacy and the unbearable pain made thinking a burden, it was time for action. He couldn’t fathom what he had to lose.

He pulled the hood of his poncho deep over his brow and began to kick down the barricade that he had constructed. He held in his hand a little Ruger, a.22 caliber rimfire pistol fitted with a hefty silencer. He’d chosen the Ruger for the availability of ammo and the fact that a .22, once entering the skull, lacks the punch to come out the other side. Instead, the slug would bounce around inside the skull, scrambling the brain.

When he finally reached the front doors he knew that he had made a mistake. Though dawn may have broken across the rooftops, the towering buildings still cast dark shadows of night across the narrow city streets, the dim light offering little over the darkness of the witching hour.

Haste, complacency, pain, these were his killers. He should have waited into the afternoon for the sun to clear his path. Though the worst thing he could do now was retrace his steps. You never knew what might have caught your movement out of the corner of its eye and now crept around in the darkness, trying to catch a bite to eat. No, he would move out as planned.

Slowly he crept out onto the street, hugging the crumbling brick wall of the building for safety. The morning was chill, or maybe his body was slowly shutting down, perhaps both. He moved from shadow to shadow, stopping periodically to see if he was being followed, scouting for his next hiding position.

He had moved two blocks without a hitch and before heard it, the slow, telltale grinding of a lifeless shuffle, some limb being scraped across the pavement, a death knell. One of them he could have handled, but it was never just one, and sure enough he saw the second one crawling out of a dark alleyway, trying to see what had caught the other’s attention. There would be others.

He could slink back into the alley behind him, but he didn’t know where it led, and at this juncture a dead end was just that. He shot back a glance, but it was too dark to see much of anything. He stepped into the unknown, keeping his lame shoulder to the wall as he crept backwards into the dark passage. He was fifty feet back when the first shambler rounded the corner. A streetwalker from another life, he could still see a sort of tragic beauty behind the defacing effects of death.

The thing fixed her unearthly gaze on him and quickened its uneven steps into the alley. Farber turned to run, though as he did he struck something in the dark and pain surged through his tainted stub and into his body. He staggered, instinctively relinquishing his grip on the Ruger to steady himself against the onrushing concrete.

It was then, with his head hung low, that he saw the sliver of light beneath the heavy fire door. Lifting his gaze he saw what his arm had struck wedged into the door jam of the fire door, a broom handle which held the door slightly ajar. Summoning the last of his strength, he pulled the handle, swinging the door open, and leapt forward through the door as it slammed shut behind him.

He found himself lying at the bottom of a stairwell. The light that he had seen was from a ceiling lamp hanging from an orange power cord from the railing above. The orange cord wound down the central support column to a generator that grumbled from beneath the staircase. Also plugged into the generator was a power strip from which sprung five other cords. One lead to a microwave, another to a mini-fridge, and two others led to a television and DVD player. The last cord stretched across the room to a laptop which was sitting open next to a bare mattress across the room. However nothing held his interest more than the medicine bottles atop the refrigerator.

He crawled across the floor to the fridge, staring at the prescription bottles, glancing quickly over the labels before picking his poison. Uncapping one, he dumped the contents into his mouth and swallowed them dry, gagging on what he couldn’t swallow. Then he just lay there on the floor, foaming at the mouth, waiting for the drugs to have their way with him.

It was then that he had a moment of clarity, his pain ceased, though suddenly he grew very tired. He stood and stumbled across the room, deciding to sleep for one last time on a real mattress, though lost his balance mid-step. His world spun towards the concrete wall, which met his face with solid indifference. He could sense the teeth dislodge from his mouth, but felt nothing. He collapsed onto the mattress, laughing uncontrollably. It stopped being funny when he became violently ill. To keep his mind off the severe nausea he turned his attention to the portable computer.

Fish swam in the virtual fish tank back and forth across the glowing screen. He had always hated that screensaver, nearly as much as he loathed the inane flying toasters, tapping the mouse pad to rid himself of the virtual nuisance. Appearing in its place was a login screen with textboxes marked for both a master’s name and a password. Also, below the textboxes there was a new user option.

After clicking the new user option the screen prompted him for the name of the new master. Unable to think of some clever username, he used his own name, Johnny Farber, and his usual password, lancebreaker.

A few quick loading sequences flashed across the screen before he was greeted with “Welcome to the Master Command Center where the Master allows you to become a virtual god to the people around you. Now you possess the power to bend their reality to your specifications. You are the Master’s Representative.” When he had had sufficient time to read the screen it changed once again, now prompting him for a subject’s name. Again, into the textbox he typed his own name and hit enter.

The computer sprang to life as several windows filled the screen, the most prominent of which was a three dimensional rendering of Farber. The rendering had every detail of his body, all the way down to the bloody nub he had for an arm. He looked up from the screen, scanning the room as his mind reeled in paranoia, thinking perhaps that this was some elaborate hoax. His head spun, though whether from the drugs or the fact that his mind was blown, he did not know.

Curiosity drew Farber’s attention back to the screen which held a variety of options. Too exhausted at this point to read them all, he focused on one particular window that seemed to be for making physical changes. Too separated from reality to care, he selected the box and slowly began to type on the keyboard, “A body strong enough to fight off any ailment that...” Before he could finish typing he slumped, unconscious, forward onto the laptop.

Farber awoke. A choir of naked women was aglow in the ambient light of the clouds around him. The gathering was composed of every woman he had ever held in carnal fascination. Impish grins abounded and he found that his cock, now rising to the occasion, was being suckled by a red-headed senior that he remembered from his freshman year of high school.

Now she was so much younger than Farber was, appearing almost innocent in her lewd embrace, though her adept tongue betrayed her innocence with its expertise, as he soon found himself on the brink of orgasm. With masterful skill she teased his libido, never letting the fellatio culminate in ejaculation. Instead, her mouth was replaced by the sopping wet cunt of one of his favorite pornstars.

The blonde bombshell bounced up and down on Farber’s cock like she was fucking a bronco bull, her ample breasts mocking gravity in their perfection. She possessed the vigor of a young nymph, and fucked him harder than he had ever been ridden before. Just then, several lusty swimsuit and lingerie models joined the happy throng, finding what skin they could to lick, rub, and fondle.

Farber had closed his eyes to revel in the sensory overload, when the rhythm of the fucking suddenly changed. He opened his eyes to see his older sister just as she had looked when he had accidentally walked in on her while she was in the shower when he was fifteen, complete with glistening droplets of water on her flawless skin.

Once, Farber had checked her bra to know that the tits jostling up and down in front of him were the finest pair of twin double-D’s he had ever laid eyes on. Her unbelievably tight, unshaven snatch tickled his shaft as she slowly rode up and down on his aching cock, until finally he was unable to hold back any longer. Eyes closed in ecstasy, he shot load, after incestuous load, of cum into his sister’s newly deflowered pussy.

When he opened his eyes again it was no long his sister resting atop his hips, but the undead prostitute whose corpse had chased him down the alleyway. Its eyes startled open, the mottled green eyes locking on him. Then she lunged, wide mouthed, for his jugular.