Date: Tue, 26 Jun 2007 04:19:09 -0300
From: Duran H. <dark_swan@hotmail.com>
Subject: The Bridge

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DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fiction. It contains scenes of a graphic
sexual nature between boys under the age of eighteen. It also contains
scenes of a cannibalistic nature. If this content offends you or causes you
discomfort, I strongly advise that you do not continue reading and hereby
waive myself of any responsibility for the consequences thereof.

If the content within this story is illegal in your jurisdiction, please
stop reading now.

Feel free to send any comments, questions or recommendations to Duran at
dark_swan@hotmail.com. Constructive criticism is appreciated.

This story is a potential work in progress. It will be continued based on
demand. If you wish for me to continue this story, send me an e-mail at the
address provided above.

If you have a request for a story that you would like me to write, or would
like to do a collaboration project, you can also send an e-mail outlining
your idea.

Thanks, and enjoy.

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-------------------- THE  BRIDGE --------------------
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They follow me.

I run as fast as my legs will carry me, my bare feet driven by an instinct
for survival. My palms sweat, my legs ache, my chest burns. Sweat pours
down my dirt-ridden forehead from my mop of dark brown hair. There is blood
on my face, on my arms. There is dirt, soot and ash everywhere, and the
ruins of what was once a great city, now long forgotten.

Forgotten only by some. Others call it home. Others like me.

I am covered only by the tattered rags that were once clothing. I assume
they were once clothing. I can only assume in this world. I can only
guess. I guess that the rags that cover the lower half of my body were once
shorts, and that which covers the top half was once a shirt. Perhaps they
were, and perhaps they were not. In this world, it doesn't matter.

All that matters is that I keep running. I can hear them behind me, yelling
and screaming. They are hunting me. They are looking for me. Them. The ones
who carry metal scraps as swords and spears, the ones who carry rubble and
brick to hurl at their prey. For I am prey.

There are the hunters in this world, and then there are the hunted.

I remember when I was once a hunter as they were. I remember my first
kill. I remember how sweet the flesh of that kill tasted, roasted over the
largest of flames I have seen in my day. If only I had known back then the
terror that is the life of the hunted. If only I could have seen the
truth. But that was then. This is now.

I run and I run. My speed is trained. My instincts are peerless. I can even
look at the wretched remains of the city.

I don't know what happened.

It's been this way as long as I can remember. As long as anyone can
remember. Once there were people, big people. And there were machines that
could travel along the ground on wheels, driven seemingly by magic. There
were towers as high as the sky itself. But now those towers have fallen,
the machines broken. The sky has been stained with the darkness of a foul
mistake.

And it is we, the children of the ruined city, who must live with the
consequences. We, among whom the elders live only for three decades. Such
an age seems old and decrepit to me, but I have heard stories of those who
were once older, who lived beyond even five decades. They were the ones of
a long time ago. There is a new way now. There are the hunters.

And the hunted.

I dive into a dark alley. I find a corpse amid a pile of rubble. A fresh
corpse, a victim of one of the day's quakes. I hide myself beneath the
corpse. The face is unrecognizable as human. The rubble covers me,
shielding even light from my hiding place. Perhaps now the hunters will not
find me.

I hear them approaching. I hear their yelling. A rite of passage. I
remember being among them, yelling as they do until my voice became
hoarse. Cries of anger, of the hunt, and cries of victory. Those were my
anthems. I lost myself to the passion and the fire. Now I find myself
fearing that which I used to be, and I wonder why.

I hear them approaching still. Then they are there. They are running, the
ground shaking beneath them, their voices reaching out to every corner of
the darkness. But they do not see me. They trample everything in their
path, fighting through the ruins as they see fit. They follow old paths,
create new ones. But they do not see me.

The noise they make dies into the distance. I allow myself to breathe once
more.

I wait for a few moments, ensuring that the scouts at the rear end of the
party have had ample time to fade away into the distance. I then push aside
the rubble under which I have concealed myself, and the corpse atop that. I
do not bother to brush the dust off of myself; dust can be the greatest
camouflage available in this world.

I stand. My feet are in pain, but they are callused and strong. Eight of my
thirteen years of life have been spent running on them. I look down upon
the corpse of the boy. He looks to have been a boy of about my years. I
crouch down next to him, smell him. He has not yet begun to decay. Perhaps
the rubble has preserved him. Perhaps not. I do not question the few
mercies I am granted in this forsaken place.

I tear off what is left of his clothing. I begin to pull him from the
rubble when I stop, and I turn. My keen senses have not failed me. There
are other boys emerging from the darkness. I steel myself, but then realize
that these are not hunters. Perhaps these are scavengers, or perhaps
nomads. Hunters need not hide their presence.

I turn away from them and continue extracting the boy from that which
killed him. I can hear them muttering behind me. 'He is a hunter,' they are
saying. 'He will call others. We will be hunted.'

I hear one boy approach me, and I can sense his hostile intent. He holds a
weapon of some sort. It is blunt, and scarcely threatening to a boy of my
upbringing. I pay him no heed until he charges toward me, his weapon
flailing in the air.

In a swift movement, I spin and reach up, halting the assault of the weapon
- a wooden club - with my forearms. I pull the club from his grasp and
deliver a swift kick to his stomach. He falls back, stumbling slightly
before collapsing to the ground.

I eye him warily, and then return to my business. I place the club on the
concrete before me, removing from my tattered garments an old box of
matches that I had procured earlier that day from a boy in desperate need
of shoes. I hadn't needed mine. My feet were strong enough without them. I
now have the means to start a fire, where he has none.

The boys behind me are still muttering. The one that attempted to attack me
has stood again. Nobody charges. They have learned their lesson.

Then I listen as one of them steps forward. 'You're... you're one of them,'
he says. His voice is deeper. He is a year my senior, as near as I can
guess.

I strike a match. 'Perhaps I was once. What's it to you?' I lay the match
upon the wood. It is dry, dry like the rest of this forsaken world. It
catches fire almost instantly.

The boy that attacked me steps forward again. He is younger than his
companion, perhaps two years younger than I am. 'That one's ours! He's in
our territory!'

I look from the corpse to him, and then back to the wood from which I have
begun to construct my fire. 'You nearly wasted him. I'm taking him for
myself. If this really was your territory, you'd have claimed him already.'

Several of the boys step forward, supporting their tribesman. I stand,
turning to face them and counting their numbers. There are six of them, and
I can tell from their scrawny bodies that they are scavengers. I crouch
slightly, flexing the muscles in my arms. If they want to challenge me for
the corpse's meat, so be it.

But they back away, and I stand upright once more. I scoff at them and turn
back to my prize. The fire burns brightly, and I add more wood from the
pile of rubble. The little fire soon grows, and I begin to roast the
corpse's flesh.

The older boy speaks again. 'Please,' he says. 'We haven't had any real
food for nearly a month. Please share yours with us.'

The desperation within this leader's voice is pitiful to me. I don't look
at him as I reply, focusing instead on what will be my meal. 'A true leader
would already have claimed him if he were so desperate for food. I see no
reason to share this with an irresponsible leader.'

'What can I offer you in exchange for food for us?'

I look at him piercingly. He is handsome. He has strong features, dark eyes
and dark hair. His weight and height are average. He will do.

I stand before them and remove the lower half of my garments. My hunter's
organ is open to the cool air. It begins to rise in anticipation of the
payment it is about to receive. It has soon swelled to its full five inches
of length. I stand patiently, awaiting the leader's decision.

He looks unsure, and looks to his tribe as if to ask their permission, or
else plead for an alternative. It is shameful to see a leader turn to his
subordinates in such a way, but I say nothing.

The boy comes to me, lowering himself to his dirt-ridden knees. My hips are
thrust forward and I await his mouth. He sinks over my pride, wrapping his
lips around its length and moving his head slowly up and down the shaft. I
lean my head back and enjoy the relief that has escaped me for so long. The
rest of his tribe stands and watches, eyeing the meal that they will soon
receive as it roasts over the fire and the aroma emanates from it.

It is evident that the leader has made payment to a hunter in this fashion
before. His tongue and lips move expertly over my organ, washing it
repeatedly and providing it with mock affection, false tenderness, expertly
crafted love. I can feel myself pulsing in his mouth, but my own lips
betray nothing of what I am feeling. I cannot show them any form of
weakness.

His head begins to sink and rise with increased speed. I can feel the
satisfaction I have wanted beginning to rise within me, the tension slowly
coming to a release as he continues to work faster. I lean my head forward
again, surveying the group of boys, and it is evident that I am the envy of
all those present. That is how it should be. I am pleased with myself.

The leader's hands reach behind me and hold my firm buttocks as he
manipulates my shaft. Whether or not this was intentional I do not know. I
allow him to move me back and forth with the rhythm as he continues to
fellate me. He knows that I am nearing my release, and as I clench my own
muscles, I can feel his hand clench upon them.

I let loose a solitary gasp of breath as I reach my orgasm, flooding the
scavenger's mouth with the hunter's seed. He begins to move his head away,
but I hold it in place. 'You'll drink it all,' I tell him. 'You said you
were hungry.'

He obediently suckles on my hunter's meat until he has swallowed every drop
of seed I have to offer him. He then stands, backing several steps away
from my person as I once again don my tattered garments. My cravings
satisfied, I nod to the leader, who then leads his tribe to the food I have
so graciously offered to share with him.

Perhaps I am no longer a hunter, but I am not a scavenger. I am still above
them, I still command them with the ease of a hunter, a warrior. They will
never be what I am. They will always be the pathetic wretches they are now,
feeding off of other boys' courtesy, as rare as it is.

I look around at the crumbling fixtures that were once the buildings of a
great civilization. The sky is dark. This place, this world, has been
cursed with a plague that cannot be seen. The plague pits boys against
other boys, forces the girls to satisfy them. Procreation, naturally, is
secondary to survival.

I look at the other boys, hungrily completing the task I had begun and
beginning to feast on the fresh corpse. A world where boys eat their own
kind... I wonder if this is what the men and women who created this
civilization would have pictured in its future. A world in which there are
those who hunt, and there are those who are hunted. A world that seemingly
has no place for those who rest in between.

What am I?

The bridge.

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