It's been a minute! A few years of writer's block on how to finish stories will do that.
I've written an (at least) three-part post-apocalyptic survival story with lesbian and futanari-on-female (and a tiny bit of futanari-on-male) sex, feminization and a little bit of butt stuff. (Okay a lot of butt stuff).
Also some transformation (to a human cow/hucow) and lactation stuff in later chapters, because why not.
When the shit hit the fan, I fled from the city into the suburbs and found a place to hide. I'd been hiding since then. I saw the murders in the street, heard the radio warnings and the explosions, but I didn't feel any desire to go outside of the neighborhood that I had holed up in and find out if whatever was happening was over. I've been in the basement of 1328 Golden Drive (in swanky West Fairland) for six months now. I didn't know the owners (the Markhams), but they were the lucky ones who had left the doors open and no corpses in the house. The whole neighborhood had been abandoned in the trouble. These one-percenters and nearly one-percenters were probably somewhere remote, waiting it out.
The radio said that there was some sort of viral pandemic that was affecting mostly men, making over 95% of them irrationally homicidal, suicidal or both. There were no answers to the important questions of 'how had it started?' or 'where did it start?' The infected men set off bombs, regular and worse, destroying infrastructure and at least three major cities. For the last few weeks, the radio had been saying that the surviving afflicted men had banded together and were now, for lack of a better description, raping and pillaging the countryside.
I'd felt no symptoms so I laid low and waited.
The power had been spotty here in West Fairland, the internet as well. I could charge my phone but I couldn't watch anything. Websites more complex than wikipedia had stopped working and I had nobody to call. I was an only child and my parents and I weren't on the best of terms to start with and I'm pretty sure that my dad's first victim was my mom. Neither phone had picked up when I called to check on them.
The Event had started sometime either on the 2nd or 3rd of May and now it that it was the week after Thanksgiving, it was starting to get really cold. The solar power system at ol' 1328 couldn't keep the heat on but for a few hours during the day, so I gathered blankets and set up a mattress in the utility closet in the basement.
I had scavenged every can and packet of long-life food from the neighborhood, moving at night whenever possible and had them concealed in moving boxes and inside of the washer-dryer closet. I was set until at least next summer if not through next winter (depending on how I rationed my calories).
I woke up as usual around 3pm in the afternoon (on the 29th of November) and ate a bowl of dry oat cereal, trying to connect to anywhere left on the internet with a book to read on my phone. I'd just settled on rereading a Sherlock Holmes story when I heard the gunshots. Two quick cracks, like a hunting rifle, then a burst of small caliber fire like an Uzi. A moment later I heard a crash very nearby and the sound of bricks and debris falling. Whoever it was had hit a house with a car. A car door opened with a loud cruch and creak, followed by a string of profanity from an enraged male voice.
My blood froze.
Whoever he was, he was shouting something about 'fucking cunts' and opened fire, the staccato clap of an assault rifle, cut suddenly short by another crisp shot from the hunting rifle, followed by silence.
I listened, terrified. Whoever had won, they had ambushed the cunt-shouter and were alive when he died. I could probably handle a lone asshole with a gun, but I thought there was at least one. The moments dragged as I waited until I head a crash upstairs and a woman's voice in hushed tones.
'She's bleeding bad,' A young woman's voice pointed out.
'Thanks for the update on the obvious, Clara,' a husky, confident woman's voice replied. 'Grab whatever rags you can find and put pressure on both sides. I'm going to look for a first aid kit. If we get the bleeding stopped and the entry and exit wound cleaned, she will make it back to the base.'
'O-okay, yes, Mistress,' the younger voice said.
Mistress? I thought. I heard the basement door open and heavy, fast steps coming down. The lights came on in the main part of the basement and I heard her going through everything.
'Who the fuck keeps cans in moving boxes?' I heard her say out loud. Then there was a long pause.
'Clara?' she shouted, 'There's someone here.' There was a pause, I assume for her to pull out whichever gun she was using and then she said quietly, 'If you're a woman, you're safe. We won't hurt you, even if you're changed.'
Changed? What the fuck does that mean?
'If you're a man and haven't attacked me, you're still infected, but I can help you. I can save you.'
I froze for a moment, then moved over into the darker part of the utility closet as silently as I possibly could.
It wasn't silent enough. I heard her open the door and saw a light sweep across me. I turned and she shouted, 'Male, no symptoms.'
A distant voice shouted back, 'thank fuck for that.'
'What's your name?' she asked me.
'Mark'
'Mark, I'm Lena. Clara is upstairs. You've been listening. Our friend Dahlia is hurt. Do you know any first aid?'
'Yes. I'm a, err, I was a vet.'
'I'm guessing you have the first aid kit from every house within earshot, don't you? Along with all of the meds?'
I smiled, 'yes, let me get them for you.' I grabbed a pair of laptop bags that I had turned into first-aid kits and moved to hand them to her.
'Stand up and follow me. If you make a move for a weapon or towards me or Clara, I will do some DIY hole additions for you.'
'Understood. I haven't felt any tendency towards rage or crazy at all, though.'
'Don't care, what I said still stands.' She leveled a very professional-looking submachine gun at me. It had a light on the side along with a little scope on the top and all kinds of useful handles in useful places.
I carried the bags up into the kitchen, where there was blood everywhere. A woman, obviously Clara, was holding a dish rag onto another woman (Dahlia) on the table. She had a through-and-through gunshot wound on her chest and almost certainly a perforated lung. I quickly stepped forward and put my head to her chest.
'Oh Shit!' Clara shouted and shakily leveled a very big (especially compared to her) hunting rifle at me.
'He's going to help her,' Lena stated.
'If he does anything,'
Lena finished her sentence, 'the last thing he will see is his brains exiting his face.'
I couldn't hear any fluid in her lungs. I moved again and listened. I took out a stethoscope and listened to her side and back.
'This is insane. It went through, but seems to have missed the lungs or only nicked them. She's still bleeding bad, but I can stop that.' I started to pack her wounds, both entry and exit, using some military-grade bandages I found in someone's garage. Clara kept the rifle pointed at me the entire time. When it was done, I put a bandage over both holes and taped them down.
'No stitches?' Lena asked me.
I turned to look at her and now that the adrenaline had cleared out of me some, I realized she was at least an inch or two taller than me, maybe even 6'3. She was muscular and busty at the same time, a rare combination and carried herself like a professional athlete.
'Were you, like, an olympic swimmer? Basketball player?'
'Neither. I, um, recently got in shape,' she glanced at Clara, who flushed when she made eye contact. She quickly went back to the previous conversation, 'No stitches?'
'No, not today. Not until tomorrow or the day after, probably. Lets let her insides heal up a little and I'll change the packing tonight or tomorrow, then close it up.'
