Suffer the Children (41 page)

David squeezed the trigger.

The roar filled the room, making them all jump. David opened his eyes. Through an acrid puff of smoke, he saw Doug pat his chest, looking for a wound, while Joan Cooper screamed.

He lowered the gun and gaped in disbelief. Had he missed from just five feet away?

Doug turned. “Joanie, are you okay?” He laughed. “Holy shit, doc, you scared the living shit—”

David stepped forward to close the distance and squeezed the trigger again. The gun kicked in his hand with an electrifying bang and flash of light.

The first slug punched a red smoking hole in Doug Cooper’s chest. The second shattered his skull, spraying blood and bone onto the man’s screaming wife.

Doug grinned as his body crumpled to the floor, his brains spilling onto David’s Persian rug. With humor or relief, they’d never know.

44 days after Resurrection

Rich red blood pooled thickly around Doug Cooper’s shattered head, Joan was screaming to wake the dead, and all Ramona could think was,
It’s going to waste
.

This wasn’t crazy. This was survival.

The difference lay in one’s priorities.

Yes, a man had been murdered in front of her, and that was upsetting.

If she indulged the horror she felt looking at his corpse, however,
she couldn’t save Josh. Rather than get upset, she brushed those feelings aside and focused on how much blood she could harvest from Doug’s body.

If only she could get at it.

The doctor raised his gun with his shaky hand and shouted at her to leave. At his feet, Nadine pointlessly checked Doug’s vital signs; the man was obviously dead. Joan, splattered with Doug’s blood and bits of brain, wouldn’t stop screaming.

They needed to harvest the body fast. The blood was already clotting.

“Out!” the doctor was shouting. Nadine scooped up Doug’s crowbar and stood at her husband’s side, quaking in her slippers.

Ramona looked at her. “We need the blood.
Josh
needs it.”

Nadine said, “David—”

“No,” said David.

“But—”

“I told them to get out, and they’re getting out. They can take the body with them.”

“We’ll never get it home in time,” Ramona said. “We need tools to collect the blood. Right, Joan? You have nothing in your car we could use to harvest it.”

Joan had stopped screaming. She breathed in short little hiccups and stared down at the body.

The doctor stepped closer with the gun aimed at Ramona’s face. “I don’t care what you people do. You’re not my problem. I just want you the fuck out of my house before I shoot all of—”

He dropped to the floor with an explosive grunt.

Nadine stood over him. The crowbar looked large and heavy in her hands. Her husband writhed next to Doug on the Persian rug. He grimaced at the pain in his leg while he pointed the gun at his wife.

“Why?” he cried.

“The children,” she said. She brought the crowbar down against his forearm.

He screamed and rolled. He pointed the gun, still held in his good hand, at her again. He didn’t shoot. He couldn’t, or wouldn’t.

“Please don’t do this,” he begged.

She hit him again. “I’m sorry, David.” He lay groaning in a fetal ball. “I’m so sorry.”

Ramona had already gone into the kitchen and found what she needed to collect the blood. She was an expert at this by now. Time was critical; she moved quickly and harvested her first pint with ease.

“Stop it!” Joan screamed at them.

Ramona paused long enough to glimpse Joan standing with her fists clenched. Then she returned to work. “You promised me a pint, and I intend to collect. You should be helping me. This blood could keep our kids alive for hours.”

“Stop defiling his body!”

She sighed. There were too many distractions here. She needed to simplify things. She picked up the gun from the floor. “Sorry, Joan,” she said. “This is survival.”

Joan was already running for the door.

The gun recoiled with a powerful boom. She leveled it for a second shot, but Joan Cooper was gone.

Her ride had just left, but no matter.

She turned toward Nadine and David and thought,
I’m rich
.

44 days after Resurrection

Joan unclipped the handle of her purse and tied it below her knee as a tourniquet. She pressed handfuls of snow against the jagged holes in her leg to staunch the flow of blood.

Aw, fuck.
The pain was incredible. Blinding, heart-stopping pain.

The bullet had ripped through her calf as she ran out the door. She’d stumbled off the porch into the bushes, certain Ramona was one step behind her with the gun. She fled into the dark next to the house until her leg gave out beneath her, and she fell hard.

She cried out as a gunshot boomed in the house, accompanied by a flash of light in the window over her head.

BANG.

BANG.

BANG.

Then nothing except the ringing in her ears.

Joan wept for the doctor and his wife. For Doug, most of all.

A pale little face appeared in one of the dark windows of the house next door. Joan looked back in horror as two more appeared. The children pressed their tiny hands against the glass. They stared at her leg with gleaming eyes.

Oh God, no.

She needed to get out of here fast.

Joan gritted her teeth and got back onto her feet, using the wall for support. Then she began hopping one step at a time toward her car.

She heard crunching and slurping noises behind and craned her neck.

The neighbors’ children had left their house and were following her blood trail, shoveling handfuls of red snow into their mouths.

They were gaining on her.

She hopped again. And again. Then spared another glance.

The children were even closer. They were on all fours now, biting at the snow.

Joan hopped again. This time, her good leg gave out from exhaustion and dumped her onto the ground. She began to crawl. Teeth clicked behind her.

She reached the car with a cry of relief. She climbed inside and sat gasping behind the wheel. In her mind’s eye, she saw the side of Doug’s head explode in tiny red fragments. She couldn’t believe he was dead.

“Oh, Doug,” she sobbed. “Oh, my poor man.”

She screamed as the children slapped their hands against the windows. They pressed their faces against the glass, nostrils flaring. They could smell her. Their breath fogged the windows.

“Go away,” Joan hissed. “Leave me alone!”

She started the SUV and backed out of the driveway.

A dark shape appeared in the living room window and waved as she drove off.

Her body knew the way home. The road appeared to move, not her. By the time she recognized her house, she felt as if she were floating. She hopped toward the front door until she fell hard and writhed on the ground in piercing agony. Again, she crawled.

Again, she made it.

Joan dragged herself into the kitchen and sat on the floor with her back against a set of drawers. The pain in her leg had dulled to a steady, throbbing ache. A massive headache bloomed behind her eyes. Every muscle in her body felt stiff and disjointed. The house stood dark and empty. This was home, yet without her family, it didn’t feel like it. It was just a big empty space without Doug and Nate and Megan to fill it up. She shook off these thoughts. If she wanted to live, she had to get help. Her leg was still bleeding. She wrapped her leg in dish towels and held them tight.

Her phone was in the pocket of her jeans. She took it out and stared at it. If she called the paramedics, they’d bleed her to death. She couldn’t trust the police. She couldn’t trust any of her friends. She decided to call the only people she could still trust.

Her mother’s voice: “Yes?”

“Oh, Mom.” She covered her face with her hand and sobbed. “Thank God.”

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s so good to hear your voice, Mom.”

“Did something happen, Joanie?”

“I need help. Doug’s
dead
. He’s dead, and I’m hurt bad.”

Mom gasped. “Where are you?”

“I’m home.”

Mom asked her a question, but Joan didn’t pay attention. She’d heard a familiar creak.

The door to the garage had opened. Somebody was in the house.

“Joanie? Joanie, are you there? Please!”

She heard the patter of little feet in the dark living room.

“Stay there. We’re coming to get you!”

Joan whispered, “I love you, Mom.”

“Joanie? Joanie? Oh my God, Joanie—”

She dropped the phone on the floor as Nate and Megan entered the kitchen. They looked ghastly in the bright light. Gray-faced and stiff, they walked in short, jerky steps. She watched them come with a mix of love and dread.

They were on their feet. Without blood.

Just as they had that first night they’d come back.

It was another miracle. Maybe this was the end. The final change Nadine had promised.

The children stopped. They stared at her with dull, unblinking expressions.

Joan held out her arms to hug them. She’d lost the only man she’d ever truly loved, but she wasn’t alone. She still had her children. Her sweet, beautiful, perfect children.

Nate fell to his knees and hugged his mother. He felt cold. Joan closed her eyes.
I’m so happy to see you again
.

Most people didn’t understand how strongly mothers felt toward their children from the moment they were born. That this screaming thing in your arms was your entire reason for being. That you would do anything to make it happy. That you would fight, kill, die.

Who could understand the devotion, the constant pain, the sleepless nights, the endless worry? Love given freely, without conditions?

It’s not crazy
, she thought.
It’s survival.
Ramona was right about that at least
.

Joan’s leg twitched and began to sting.

She opened her eyes and gasped. Megan was sucking at her wound. Her face ballooned like a feeding tick.

Nate growled and pushed her away. Megan rolled onto the floor, her teeth clicking.

It was his turn to feed.

Joan watched her boy suck her blood. Her heart raced. Her vision flared with colorful stars. Death felt close.

That’s enough.
She reached out her hand to push him away.

And stroked his hair instead.

“My beautiful boy . . .”

You were right, Doug. They’re still ours.

Darkness swirled at the edges of her vision. It didn’t hurt anymore.

Eat, Nate.

Grow up big and strong.

One day, you’re going to be a—

Midnight

They slept during the day.

At night, they came out to feed.

The gunshots ended. The Boy heard a scream. Screaming used to scare him. Now screams meant food. And getting more food was all that mattered. Survival.

He led his pack toward the sound. The little tribe of children tramped down the middle of the road swinging their weapons. Hockey sticks, rolling pins, knives. The streetlights showed them the way.

The houses flanking the street stood dark and still. The foodpeople locked them up good and tight at night. For a time, the pack had enjoyed a routine. They’d break into a house, feed, and build a nest. Then sleep in a pile until the sun fell and the hunger woke them.

As food became scarce, however, the hazards grew.

Back in the beginning, many of the grown-ups had given themselves to the children, just as the Boy’s own mother had.

Those early days of easy pickings had long passed.

Now the foodpeople killed the children on sight. The grown-ups hunted during the day, but the night belonged to the children.

In the beginning, their little tribe had consisted only of the Boy and Sister. Over time, he’d accepted new members to add to his strength. The others helped him overpower the bigger grown-ups, and in return, he kept them fed. The pack was always losing members and recruiting new ones. Right now, it numbered eight.

The screams stopped, but no matter; they’d found the house. A dying woman with long red hair lay on the living room floor, surrounded by children writhing against one another as each sought the best place to feed. They’d torn off her clothes and latched on to every inch of exposed skin with their mouths. She’d fought back. The dead bodies of children littered the room, and she still gripped a gun in her hand.

The pack was too late; these children had already sucked her dry.

The Boy whistled. The pack attacked the others with their weapons. The children weren’t alive in a human sense, but they could be killed. The little skulls broke open one by one, exposing the insides to air and light and death. This done, the pack burrowed their faces deep into the swollen bellies to drink the sour-tasting, half-digested food.

After he fed, the Boy picked the gun from the woman’s hand. He held it high to display its power while his pack hooted with red-stained grins.

In the basement, the Boy and Sister discovered a small boy sniffing and clawing at a locked door. They knew the boy from the time before and let him join the pack. Together, they forced the door open. It was full of corpses, but none worth eating. The Boy pulled a black leather jacket off one of the bodies. He thought he looked pretty cool in it.

The others piled blankets and cushions in the middle of the living room floor. The Boy wanted them all to get out of here. This was a bad place. They were fed and sleepy and didn’t want to leave, but he kicked at them until they returned, growling, to their feet. This done, he led them back out into the cold night.

Scores of children waited for them in the warm glow of the streetlights.

The others had been looking for him a long time. He and his pack
were the only children he knew of who fed upon their own kind. Tonight, they would make him and his friends pay. There would be no discussion, no trial. They were going to tear him to shreds.