The Hand That Feeds: A Horror Novel (22 page)

“How could you?” he asked.

John didn’t have an answer. He figured whether he spoke or not, he was a dead man.

“It’s the hard times that make the man,” Mr. Davis
said. “What kind of monsters are we if we turn on one another?”

John felt like the old man
was reading him his last rites.

Mr. Davis raised the pistol and pointed the barrel at John’s
forehead. “You come in my home and attack my family. There’s no place in this world for a man the likes of you.”

John closed his eyes
, but the next sound he heard wasn’t what he expected. In her unmistakable tone, Angela’s impatient voice filled the hall, carrying up the stairs.

“
What’s taking you so long?”

The slight hesitation was all John needed. Mr. Davis glanced back at the stairs and received a fis
t to the face for his trouble. The old man’s nose crushed against his cheek as a splatter of blood covered his face. John grabbed the gun and pushed Mr. Davis to the ground. The two men wrestled for control of the weapon, knowing either one of them would be dead if they lost the fight.

The wrestling matched rolled across the hall. John slammed Mr. Davis against the wall several times
, but the old man never gave up. For his own brand of attack, Mr. Davis kicked John in the shins every chance he got, even once managing a knee to the groin. John felt his shoulder roll over the shotgun and he decided to make a move. In one quick motion, he let go of the pistol, grabbed a hold of the shotgun and got up to his feet. Mr. Davis was still on the ground when John brought the shotgun down over his head like an axe. The first swing missed as he rolled out of the way, but as he tried to aim the pistol up at John, he left himself vulnerable. The second swing of the shotgun hit Mr. Davis on his forearm and the bones cracked at the moment of impact.

Mr. Davis screamed
, but kept a hold of the pistol in his good hand. John brought the shotgun around for another swing as the revolver went off. In the dim light of the hallway, the shot lit up like an explosion for a brief second, then died away as quick. John froze in place, the shotgun over his shoulder. He’d felt the burn in his side and knew he was hit, but didn’t know how bad.

Mr. Davis was up on one knee, cradling his broken arm and trying to keep the pistol aimed at John.
Silence filled the hall as John backed away. The pain in his side intensified and part of him thought he was done for. He reached the top of the stairs before Mr. Davis moved again. He let the shotgun go and heard it topple end over end down the stairs behind him. Mr. Davis took aim, but before he could squeeze off the finishing round, John felt his feet slide out from under him.

John
yelled every time his body slammed into a stair. He came out of a roll and landed at the bottom of the staircase lying flat on his back. His vision blurred, but he could see Angela near him. She had a hold of the mop pole and leash contraption attached to Alex and for the moment, appeared genuinely concerned for her husband. The sentiment didn’t last long.

“So get back up there,” she said.

It took a moment, but John discovered he wasn’t about to die. There was very little blood on his side and he figured he’d escaped with a flesh wound. He got to his feet, ignoring Angela as best he could. She was carrying on about Alex’s needs when he decided he’d had enough. He found the shotgun near the bottom of the stairs and made sure Mr. Davis wasn’t following him down, and then turned and aimed the barrel at Angela.

“Go get in the truck.”

Angela’s eyes widened more than he thought possible. John knew the gun wasn’t loaded, but he also knew Angela had no idea. Her tone changed sharply.

“
But, baby?”

He
thought how bizarre it was that pointing a gun at her face had become an acceptable option during a domestic dispute. He held a single finger up as a point of emphasis.

“Get…in…the…truck.”

She pouted and stomped a foot, but did as she was told. A combination of pushing on the pole forced against the back of Alex’s head and pulling on the leash around his throat maneuvered the staggering boy out the front door. His grossly decomposing face locked in a long moan as he passed his father. John took one last look at the dark and empty staircase, and then followed them out.

23

Angela sat silent in the passenger seat of the beat up camper truck. John had been stern with her and she’d turned to the silent treatment to make him feel bad. The old trick wasn’t going to work. He wanted to scream at her, but he kept his eyes focused on the road. The turn off to their house was close and he didn’t want to miss it.

He didn’t
need her to tell him that Alex still needed to eat. Whatever kept the boy’s body going was losing its strength and only the refreshment of fresh tissue would give him what he needed. Angela crossed her arms and looked coldly at her husband. John glanced at her, but did not respond. It was another ten minutes before she gave up the attitude and took a different approach.

“I’m sorry for yelling at you,” she
said, then slid across the seat and pulled close to him. Her hand found its way to the inside of his thigh. “I get so crazy sometimes. I know you’re trying to help, but now what are we going to do?”

John was surprised at how quickly she’d gone back to the Angela he
loved. Her voice was soft and in some way arousing. His mind shifted, feeling sorry for snapping at her. He was just as concerned for their son.

“I’m trying to figure that out,” he said. “I know he has to eat, so don’t say it.”

They sat in silence the rest of the way home. The truck turned on to the long drive way and John felt relieved. Some part of him expected the government to be waiting at his doorstep with guns at the ready. The house was cloaked in darkness, but the door off the side of the house was open.

The truck came to a stop and Angela slid across the seat and popped open the door without a word. She walked to the rear of the camper and began fiddling with the door. John didn’t help. He got
out, stood at the open doorway, and listened for anything out of the ordinary. Angela managed to get Alex out of the camper and used the pole and leash devise to get him in the house. John watched his son cross the living room and could barely stand what he saw. The boy stared at his father with lifeless eyes until he was forced down the hall.

“We’re going to have to get out of here,” John said when Angela returned to the living room. “He’s never going to be safe here.”

“We can hide here,” she said as she sat down on the couch. “We’ll close the drapes and lock ourselves in.”

John shook his head,
“Won’t work.” He sat down beside her. “You haven’t seen what I saw the last few days. This thing is out of control. The government is going to have to do something.”

“
You think they’ll come after Alex?”

“Yes.”

Angela laid her head on his shoulder. “You have to protect us.”

“I’ve bee
n thinking about this for a while.” He looked out the front window at the moonlit yard, “the old hunting trail.”

“
What about it?”

“I’ve taken that road north for hours. I bet we could get into Nebraska before we
crossed a highway.”

“
But John…”

“I know,
” he looked back at her, “he’s got to eat.” The camper would provide the perfect transportation and if his estimation about the hunting trail was correct, they might actually get away. However, he didn’t know how he was going to get Alex fed soon enough to keep him moving. Angela’s mood could go downhill quickly, so he refocused her attention. “I want you to go to the bedroom.” He stood up with her in the center of the living room. “Pack a bag for me and you. Take only what we need.” Before she could question him, he spun her around and pushed her off toward the hall.

John headed for the kitchen and started fixing sandwiches for the trip. He didn’t know how long it would be before they got to safety and he wasn’t ready to try and figure out what he was going to feed to
Alex. Peanut butter was the only thing left in the cupboard. He made four sandwiches before he realized the rest of the house was silent. Something about the stillness scared him. He poked his head out into the living room, but saw nothing. The only light on in the house was over the dining room table.

He
approached the hall still holding on to the butter knife he’d used to make the sandwiches. His concern heightened when he realized Angela hadn’t turned on the bedroom light. He reached the corner of the hall and peered into the bedroom. Moonlight from the window outlined Angela sitting on the end of the bed.

“What’s a matter?” he asked
, but she didn’t respond. “You okay?”

He neared the door
and picked up on her whimpering cry. John reached the opened doorway and flicked on the bedroom light. Angela was staring at the floor, tears running down her cheeks. It wasn’t until he was a few feet away that he realized she was holding a screwdriver.

“Hey?”

Angela didn’t answer.

“What’s the matter?”

She looked up at him. Her eyes were distant and somehow darker.

John took a step back. “
I was thinking we might leave in the morning. We could use the sleep.” He looked over at the clock on the dresser. “It’s only a couple of hours, but we can still get out of here before the sun comes up.”

Her
eyes focused on him as if seeing him for the first time. “He’s going to have to eat, John.”

“I thought I…” his voice trailed
off.

She
shifted her weight forward, but didn’t stand up. “Families sacrifice all the time,” she said. “It’s a part of being a good parent.”

John took another step
back. “I know that.”

“Then you know one of us has to make a sacrifice.”

He wasn’t sure if it was a question or a statement.

“How do we decide who has to make it?” Angela asked.

John wasn’t one hundred percent sure what she was asking, but he had a growing notion. He backed away and felt his heel hit the door. He keyed on the screwdriver in her hand and readied himself.

“We haven’t gotten to that yet,
” he said.

Angela’s eyes narrowed. “I thought you said you would do anything for this family.”

John hesitated. “I will.”

“Good.”

There was a long tense moment of silence then Angela got to her feet. “What do you want me to do?” she asked.

John kept his eyes on the screw
driver. “I asked you to pack a few bags. Chances are we won’t be coming back.” She took a step toward him and he fought the urge to run. “We can still leave tonight if you think it’s best.” A bead of sweat rolled down from his forehead to his cheek.

“What about getting some sleep?”
she asked. “Don’t you need the rest?”

“That was more for you.”

“I can watch the house while you sleep,” she said.

“I’m fine.
”

Angela
went silent, eyeing John as she adjusted her grip on the screwdriver. Her shoulders tensed and she widened her stance. John considered making a preemptive move, but as he did, a set of headlights flashed through the bedroom. Angela spun around and ran to the window.

“What was that?”
she asked.

John ran after her. “Don’t open the drapes.”

They looked out through a small slit between the drapes at a lone vehicle. It pulled off the main road onto the driveway and then stopped before continuing up to the house. The headlights switched off.

“That can’t be good,” John said.

“What do they want?”

John headed
for the hall. “I don’t know, but this may solve our feeding problem.”

He ran to the kitchen, doing his best to
avoid the light over the dining room table, and found a steak knife in the drawer by the sink. He slid his face along the kitchen doorway, focusing on the front bay window. The car was facing the house at the end of the driveway, but had not moved. Angela was standing at the end of the hall looking across the dining room at him. He could see fear in her eyes, something far different from what he’d seen only moments before in the bedroom. He motioned for her to stay still, got down on his hands and knees, and crawled into the living room.

He pas
sed the couch and fell prone as the headlights came on. He crawled forward, this time on his stomach, reaching the bay window. He laid the knife down on the carpet and pushed his back against the wall adjacent to the window. Time passed slowly, but he didn’t move. To his surprise, Angela stayed put.

Several minutes passed before the
headlights turned off again. John took the opportunity to get a better look. He moved his face along the window seal until he could see the front yard. The car was perfectly silhouetted at the end of the driveway and he counted three figures sitting within. The two figures in the front seat were having a heated discussion while another sat quietly in the backseat.

“Who is it?”

John’s head snapped back. He turned around and found Angela poking out from behind the couch.

“How am I supposed to know?”

“What are they doing?” she asked.

He
turned his attention back on the car. “Looks like they’re talking,” he said.

“That’s it?”

“You’re welcome to go out and ask them.”

Angela didn’t respond.

John watched the car as the argument inside continued until the driver’s side door opened and someone got out. The passengers soon followed and all three met at the rear of the vehicle. The trunk popped open and John lost sight of them. “I think they’re coming,” he said, spinning around. His mind filled with panic as he looked up at the door. The main entrance was locked, but a scan of the door to the carport revealed it was still open. “Quick.”

Angela crawled over as fast as she could
move, slammed it closed, and locked it. John turned back to the driveway and watched all three figures look out from around the trunk.

“Damn it, they heard you.”

She crawled back behind the couch. “Sorry.”

The trunk shut and
the figures walked toward the house shoulder to shoulder, each wearing suits covering their entire body.

“They are definitely coming.”

John pushed away from the window and crawled across the floor. He found himself on his hands and knees behind the couch staring at Angela. He moved around her so he could get a better look at the front door. A loan shadow passed in front of the bay window followed soon after by a knock at the door.

“Are we going to answer it?” Angela
asked.

“Are you serious?”

“What if they’re part of the government response?”

“Of course they’re part of the government response,” John
said. “You want to let them in to inspect the house?”

Angela’s stare hardened. “We need them
, John.”

He knew she wasn’t referring to their support. “I s
aw three of them,” he said. “We can’t let anyone get away.” He didn’t wait for a response. He crawled into the hall and into the bathroom. There was another knock at the door, this time with force. John unlocked the bathroom window and tried to push it open quietly. He poked his head out and scanned the backyard.

“What am I supposed to do?”

Angela’s sudden question caused him to slam his head against the windowsill. He rubbed it and tried not to scream. “Just hide.” He stepped up on the edge of the tub as the first words came from the new arrivals.

“We would like to have a word with you.” The man
’s voice was muffled through the door, but loud enough so John could hear it from the back of the house. “We represent the Federal Emergency Management Agency.”

John got half
of his body out through the window and tossed the knife into the grass. He reached for the ground and dropped down the rest of the way. A moment later, he was kneeling in the grass with the knife in hand. The sound of intentionally light footsteps came from the carport side of the house and he realized why he’d seen only one figure pass in front of the bay window. He ran around to the far side of the house and stopped at the doors to the storm cellar. He couldn’t hear footsteps, but the new, demanding voice of the man at the front door echoed around the property.

“We’re not going to leave,” he said. “Open the door.
We just want to talk with you for a few minutes.”

John moved to the edge of the house
, crouched down as low as he could and leaned out. The front porch light was out, but he could clearly see the lone figure. He was wearing a hazmat suit, like something John had seen on television. His head was covered and there was a clear material over his face that allowed him to see. John moved around the corner of the house and kept the front hedgerow between him and the lone figure. The man pounded on the door with his fist, and then leaned back to look at the darkness under the carport on the opposite side of the house.

“Try the side door,” the man said.

John saw someone move from within the carport that he hadn’t seen a moment before. The figured disappeared, leaving John’s focus on the man at the front door. John knew there were at least three of them and his only chance was to take them on one at a time. The banging on the door under the carport was clear and so was the response.