The Hunger (Book 1): Devoured (14 page)

Still, he would give it a shot if he actually knew how to ride one.

By noon, the looters came out in full force. Lance shook his head as he saw people carrying TVs and grabbing iPads from stores.

The world is ending and idiots are still worried about playing their Xbox on a 60-inch smart TV.

How long would it be until people realized that anything beyond bullets and food was just dead weight?

Lance paused at another intersection. The traffic light clicked above him, uselessly going through its progressions. Birds perched atop empty cars. A young couple carried a child of five or six past him, watching him with cautious eyes.

Two fast food restaurants on the left had people shuffling in and out, the sidewalk congested by a small crowd. Lance wondered who was in there frying the food. Shuttered businesses lined the street to the right. A used car lot was ahead, some of the vehicles damaged.

He kept going straight, walking down the center of the road to avoid people who came out of random buildings. Those who noticed his gun gave him a wide berth.

A large gathering of survivors clogged the road ahead. Lance moved to the sidewalk, wanting to listen in on what a man in the center of the group shouted.

“If we stick together, we can fight them off!” The man, gray-bearded and crow-eyed, stood on a milk crate, waving his arms toward the crowd. “We need to take over this building here!” He pointed to a swanky complex to his right. “If we get a gun in each apartment and post guards at every entrance, we can stay alive!”

Lance grunted.

“They come at night, so we need to rest in the morning and scavenge in the afternoon!”

The crowd nodded and shouted the occasional ‘hell yeah’.

Lance continued on, knowing these people wouldn’t make it through the night. He envisioned them lighting up the building like a Christmas tree, thinking it would help them see the horrors lurking in the night.

All they would do is draw them in like moths to a flame.

The afternoon went by too quickly. Lance checked his watch obsessively.

He needed a secure place to hole up for the night.

Dozens more of the infected came out as the day progressed, their numbers growing at an alarming rate. Most of them had deep gouges in their arms, or bite marks on their torsos. Lance diverted his path every time he encountered one, leaving the killing to the tough guys that seemed to be coming out of the woodwork.

Shortly after four, Lance passed an Italian restaurant. He paused, mid-step, staring at himself in the reflection of the unbroken front window. “Ottaggio’s, eh?” Lance asked himself. “I wonder if you have a decent walk-in freezer, Ottaggio?”

The front door was locked and he hesitated when he went to smash the small window in it. The more inconspicuous the place appeared, the less likely someone would come in looking to steal his stuff. He walked around to the side, his limp worsening from the long day’s walk.

A small window nestled six feet above the ground toward the back of the building. Lance grabbed a metal garbage can and flipped it over, rocking it side to side to ensure it was steady. He stepped on the can, hoping it wouldn’t fall over, and peered into the window.

Inside was a vacant kitchen, stainless surfaces everywhere. Large burners and doublewide refrigerators lined the right wall. Metal counters and a long, slender window were on the left. The dishwasher and sink sat just below the window.

He broke the glass pane with the butt of his shotgun, grimacing as the sound reverberated down the alley. Two men walked by the entrance of the restaurant, but neither looked over at Lance. He let out a sigh of relief, glad that he didn’t draw any attention to himself. The stock of the gun brushed away the remaining pieces of jagged glass as he cleared the small space as best he could.

Tossing his backpack and gun inside, Lance wormed his way into the window, grunting and huffing as the sill pushed against his sore ribs. He squirmed until his waist rested on the wood, placing his hands on the cold metal sink, hoping to lower himself enough to get his feet through.

A gunshot cracked outside.

Lance flinched, his hands slipping on the steel surface, and plunged inside. He rolled at the last second, shoulder crashing against the sink, arms instinctively protecting his head. His ass landed on unwashed dishes, his back bending the slender faucet arm at a ninety-degree angle.

“Well, that sucked.”

Though his shoulder cried out from hitting the edge of the sink, he started to laugh. After everything that happened over the past few days, he never could have imagined that this is how he would have wound up—crammed in a sink at an Italian restaurant.

He laughed harder as he imagined how silly he must look. Tears ran down his cheeks as he howled, trying to push himself out of the basin, but failing because his continuing chuckles zapped his strength.

Only the darkening sky sobered him.

After climbing out of the sink, and rattling too many dishes in the process, he slung his pack over his shoulder and grabbed the shotgun, finger caressing the trigger. He left the lights off as he shuffled through the place, making sure no one else decided to squat there.

The dining room was split in two parts, one with a bar and smaller bistro tables, and the other for formal dining. The restrooms sat in the middle of a short hallway that led into another kitchenette space. Lance hadn’t worked in a restaurant since high school, but this looked like a kitchen prep area.

Cutting boards and knives covered the counters. Italian bread, wrapped in plastic, filled shelves. On the other side of the kitchen stood a metal door with a lever-handle on it.

Lance smiled. “Ka-ching.”

The door clicked as he pulled the handle, sliding it open. Darkness lay beyond. He found the light switch on the outside of the freezer and flipped it up. The overhead bulb flickered to life, a dull yellow filling shelves and crates.

Empty meat hooks hung in the back of the room. Most of the food was gone, likely taken by the owners when the plague hit.

“Shit.” Lance pursed his lips. He would have enjoyed cooking some beef in the morning.

The temperature inside was the same as the restaurant. He supposed the owners turned the freezer off to save on their electric bill, in case this whole end-of-the-world thing blew over.

Walking inside, Lance pounded on the walls, listening to thuds, trying to gauge how thick they were. A vent in the top of the freezer had a diameter of only four or five inches, not enough for anything to climb through. He hoped that would give him a solid supply of air through the night.

The door was six-inches thick, the outside made with metal of questionable strength. Lance rapped his knuckles on it, wincing at the hollow quality of it. He knew it wasn’t solid steel, but probably only had some kind of insulation in between the sides. The hinges held strong when he pulled on the top of the door, not giving at all.

Locks on both the inside and outside handles lifted his spirits a bit. At least they wouldn’t be able to just open the door.

The thought gave him pause—how intelligent were these things? They’d been human only a few days ago, but their behavior closely mirrored a wild animal.

With rabies.

Even still, did any problem-solving ability linger? Could they use the simplest of tools, like a door handle or a hammer?

Lance dropped his bag to the floor of the freezer and ventured back to the kitchen prep area. By the entrance, he found a smaller area with timecards and cash registers. Stacks of folded, white tablecloths sat upon several shelves. He loaded his arms with them and went back to the freezer, laying them on the floor to soften the surface. After two more trips, he had decent bedding.

The front of the restaurant grew darker by the large window and glass door. Dusk drew near. People fled the street, running inside apartment buildings and a 24-Hour Copy store. Lance flipped tables and placed them against the door and in front of the window, hoping to block any light that might shine out.

Tomorrow he would spend more time shoring the place up, but for now, he had to hurry. He found several serving trays in the kitchen, which he tried to use to block the window he’d climbed through. They were too small, wanting to fall through into the alley.

He ran back to the prep room and grabbed loaves of bread from the racks, racing to the kitchen and stacking them in the broken window. This was probably moronic, but he felt better knowing that something couldn’t see in if it just ran by.

A security light above a door on the other side of the alley flashed on as he stuffed the last loaf in.

The wail of the hungry echoed through the streets.

On his way back to the freezer, Lance grabbed another loaf of bread, a butter knife, and several small packets of jelly. A large box of candles sat beside the cash register and he took two, snagging a lighter from the counter.

Gunshots in the street rattled the windows out front. Lance paused, listening.

Screams of suffering followed.

Lance pulled the freezer door shut, securing it from the inside by sliding a pin down through the lock. He left the light off so he could sleep.

He lit the candles and placed them by his makeshift bed. Jelly spread across bread, washed down by bottled water, comprised his dinner.

He sat in the semi-darkness, slowly chewing his food and listening to the muffled sounds of the massacre outside.

––––––––

L
ance peered over the tables, through the front window.

The morning brought blood. The sidewalks ran red with it.

Dozens of the newly infected roamed the street, muttering to themselves. Others, more advanced in the stages of madness, stared out of sightless, shriveled eyes.

Only a few normal people dared to run past the window. Those who did drew attention to themselves, chased by the blind, insane hunger of the Xavier virus.

Desperation washed over Lance as he observed the destruction of Pittsburgh.

The unwinding of civilization.

Soon, the infected would outnumber the survivors. When that happened, it was over.

The end of it all.

Lance ran his hands through his sweaty hair, wondering if the end had already come and he just wasn’t willing to accept it.

He quietly stacked more tables atop the others by the door and windows, blocking the rest of the view to the outside.

By the bar, he spotted a television mounted above a long mirror. He switched it on and then rummaged through the built-in refrigerator under the granite bar top. Oranges and limes, bagged and sealed, were on the top shelf above bottled beer and Red Bull. Bags of pretzels rested beside the fridge.

Lance grabbed handfuls of the food and moved to the other side of the bar, sitting on a stool. His back was still tight from sleeping on the hard floor of the freezer. The tablecloths softened his bedding a bit, but it was a far cry from a mattress or even a couch.

Warnings scrolled across a static background on the television.

Most of the channels had similar programmed images. He finally found a local station that broadcasted a live feed. WTAE was on the air, a fair-haired woman standing in front of the camera, speaking from printed papers.

Lance peeled an orange and sipped on a Red Bull.

“
...spreading at an alarming rate. Most of our crew is gone. Only Jim, an intern here at WTAE, and I remain. We’ve locked ourselves in the studio and we’re going to continue broadcasting as long as possible. Internet access is still up, so we’re pulling reports from the BBC and Al-Jazeera as best we can.
”

Their bravery impressed Lance. He tipped his high-octane drink at the screen.

“
The death toll is off the charts. In the United States alone, it’s expected to be in the millions. The hundreds of millions. Satellite feeds of New York and Los Angeles show hundreds of thousands of infected loitering in the streets and filling the highways. The military has been overrun in most areas. They’ve managed to retreat in only a few others. President Adams flew to Paris overnight...
”

Lance glowered at the television. “Must be nice to have a private escort of Marines flying you around when the shit hits the fan. Fucking coward.”

“
Our studio here isn’t actually in the city of Pittsburgh, but adjacent to it. We can tell you with full confidence that the Xavier virus has spread well beyond the city limits. Wilkinsburg, where we’re located, is decimated. The city itself is in ruins. Large towers of smoke are rising above the skyline. It looks like there are at least a dozen fires burning, maybe more. We haven’t gotten word from anyone about the military’s containment plans around the city, so we don’t know if they’re still there or not. If anyone watching has information they can share, please call us now.
”

A phone number appeared on the screen a few minutes later, clumsily fixed over the broadcaster’s face.

“I guess Jim the intern doesn’t have the hang of the switchboard yet,” Lance said. He devoured two oranges in rapid succession. Leaning over the bar, he pulled another Red Bull from the fridge. Several nights of restless sleep left him exhausted, the caffeine giving him a much needed perk.

Something hit the front window. Lance flinched, spilling his drink on his shirt.

He sat on his stool, silent, jaw clenched, angry with himself for not bringing the shotgun from the freezer.

After thirty seconds, he slid from the seat and quickly retrieved his weapon, leaning it against the bar beside him.

Turning his attention back to the television, Lance tore open a bag of pretzels and watched.

The woman on screen stared off to her left, nodding her head and jotting a few notes. She turned back to the camera.

“
We’re getting phone calls from viewers now. Most of the checkpoints outside of the city have been overrun. We just received word that the main hub at Heinz Field is still operational, though they’re overflowing with people trying to flee the city. If you can get there, it might be your best hope. Several callers have reported seeing helicopters throughout the night and several convoys of troops engaging the infected.
”