The Hunger (Book 1): Devoured (7 page)

“No shit.”

Lance went the other direction, fighting the curiosity that urged him to see what was waiting in that room. He followed exit signs that led them down the next hallway.

He slid to a stop in another lobby, standing across from three soldiers posted in front of the crosswalk to the parking garage.

Their rifles were already pointed in his direction when he rounded the corner.

“Freeze!” one of them shouted.

Lance raised his hands as Don and Liz caught up. He looked back toward the hallway to his left, wondering if he could make it there before they shot him. He could still see the trail of blood, though it was fifty yards away.

“What are you doing out of your rooms?”

“Those things are escaping!” Lance considered making a break for it, but he feared Liz and Don wouldn’t be fast enough to follow. “We’re getting the hell out of here! I would suggest you do the same.”

“Shut up! You aren’t—”

One of the inhuman shrieks cut the soldier off.

Lance peered down the hall again.

An arm reached through the door of the room with the blood streaks, hidden in shadow from the broken light above it. The knuckles smacked against the floor, forearm muscles flaring.

Thunder pounded in Lance’s ears as his heart kicked into overdrive.

A head appeared, mostly bald and gray, eyes gone. The body followed, bent over at the waist. The creature walked on all fours, its musculature straining inside of thinned skin. Blood dripped from long, sharp teeth.

Lance realized that he thought of the sick person as an
it
instead of a
man
.

“Holy shit.” Lance watched as it lumbered forward, sniffing at the air.

“What?” Don craned his neck to see around Lance. “Fuck me!”

Liz screamed when she saw it and sprinted toward the soldiers. “One of them is right there!”

Lance flinched, waiting for a hail of bullets to turn him into Swiss cheese.

“Stop! Lady, stay right there!”

“Fuck you! There’s a goddamn monster chasing us!” Liz ran to the right of the shocked soldiers, crouching behind a beige couch. “Shoot it!”

Lance watched the deformed human in the hallway. He didn’t understand how a body could mutate so quickly. He was far removed from his college biology classes, but he knew that what stood before him should have been impossible.

The whole thing felt like a science fiction novel.

It sniffed the ground, breaths so forceful that the blood on the floor spread under the pressure. Its shoulders jerked up, head cocking to the side.

Its mouth distended as it shrieked again.

Pain stabbed at Lance’s ears and he had to cup them to block out the sound.

The creature sprang forward, its torso lifting as it ran on its hind legs, its knuckles a foot from the ground.

Orders from the soldiers were nothing more than background noise as Lance shoved Don into the lobby.

“Go!”

They ran to the couch, kneeling beside Liz, breaths ragged, panic interjecting into every thought.

Lance stared at the flimsy couch and prayed that the soldiers were good shots. Fabric and particleboard weren’t going to save them from the horror coming down the hallway.

––––––––

I
t came for them.

A freight train of rage and hunger.

It burst into the lobby, too fast to make the turn, and skidded into the wall, its pursuit barely slowing.

The soldiers unloaded in its direction, fingers pumping the triggers of their rifles, spraying bullets in wild arcs. They cried out in panic, years of training forgotten in a flash of terror.

The mutated man jumped away from the wall, landing on all fours, and charged forward.

Bullets chipped the floor and walls, fragments of construction churning to dust in the air.

They hit everything but their intended target.

It lunged at them, maw distending.

The soldiers’ guns clicked empty.

The creature plowed into the first man, its meat hooks for hands snapping onto his shoulders. It tore at his uniform as they fell to the ground, the beast landing on top. Layers of camouflage and flesh shredded in a blur of green and crimson.

The man screamed as it bit down on his neck, tearing muscle and sinew. The second soldier, taller and thicker, reared back and swung the stock of his M16, connecting with the back of its head.

It fell sideways, landing on its hands and knees, head snapping around.

“No, wait!” The soldier took a half step back before it pounced on him. His body turned to an oozing, limp pile in seconds.

The third soldier jammed another clip home, screaming wildly as he lifted the rifle to his shoulder.

He never got a shot off. It clawed at his legs, gouging wide canyons in his quads. He fell to the ground, his finger jerking the trigger in spasms, punching holes in the ceiling.

It bit into his neck as it had the first man, gnawing at and drinking from his carotid artery.

Lance stared into the dying man’s eyes from behind the couch. Don and Liz ducked behind the furniture, arms wrapped around their heads. Liz clapped a hand over her mouth as a loud sob escaped her.

It kept drinking, not hearing her cries.

Lance watched as it fed on the three men, moving back and forth between the bodies. It took a bite out of one before going to the next, as if it was trying to decide which to feast upon first.

The sight stretched Lance’s mind to its limit. People weren’t meant to see such things. His stomach twisted, wanting to spill its contents. He struggled to keep his emotions in check, knowing that his survival depended on staying as calm as possible.

Burnt gunpowder stung at Lance’s eyes as he slowly lowered himself behind the couch, kneeling in front of Liz. She looked at him from watery, red eyes. He pointed at his chest and then at the other side of the couch, needing her to understand what he was about to do.

They couldn’t get out of the lobby alive—not with that thing right there. It was fast and strong, taking out three armed soldiers at the same time. They had no hope of outrunning it.

Their only chance was the loaded M16 still clutched in the dead man’s hand. Lance hadn’t fired a gun since he was a teenager, and had never even held an assault rifle, but he didn’t see any other choice. That weapon was the key to their survival. Without it, they would be the next course.

Liz cocked her head at his pantomime.

He went through it again, this time mimicking a gun with his hand.

Her eyes grew large and she mouthed ‘no’ at him, grabbing his wrist. He nodded his head, pulling his arm away. They were out of options.

He peered around the edge of the couch.
It
worked on the abdomen of the furthest soldier.

Lance felt his gorge rise again and had to pause, holding a fist to his mouth. Now wasn’t the time to puke—that would come later. After he regained his composure, he inched into the open, carefully planting each foot to maintain silence.

His adrenaline spiked, his system running all out. The sights and smells of the bodies assaulted his senses, threatening his already thinned grip on sanity.

The creature’s jaw stopped working. Its ear, elongated and wider than a normal human’s, twitched.

Lance froze, holding his breath, sweat stinging his eyes.

Its head cocked to the side, perforated nose sniffing.

Lance waited. His head swam from lack of oxygen, his lungs wanting to burst. He didn’t dare move, despite the creature not having eyes, for fear it could sense him somehow.

It continued testing the air and Lance couldn’t take it anymore. The air burst from his lungs as he lunged for the gun.

He stretched out, his fingers touching the barrel of the rifle as the beast reacted.

It leapt in the air, clearing five or six feet in the blink of an eye. Its banshee wail smothered the sound of Lance bellowing incoherently.

The dead soldier’s hand still clutched the trigger guard. Lance yanked it free, focusing on swinging the rifle around, refusing to look at the death flying through the air at him.

There was no time to aim—he slammed the stock into his hip and yanked on the trigger. The concussive blows of the three-round burst knocked him backward, the end of the barrel angling toward the ceiling.

It flew at him, arms spread out, snarling and wailing.

The bullets punctured its chest and neck, peppering it in red splotches.

Lance grunted as it landed on him, its torso oozing, limbs twitching. He squeezed the trigger again, three more bullets punching through, instinct taking over his actions.

Its jaws clenched and relaxed twice more before it went still. The holes in its chest whistled as it exhaled its last breath.

After staring at the ceiling for several seconds, Lance fought to push it off him, but found its weight too much. “Need a little help here.” His voice quavered.

Concentrating on one task at a time helped him remain calm. Get free. Check for wounds. Make sure everyone is OK. To stand back and think about the implications of what just happened would have broken him.

Don’s head poked out from behind the couch, his eyes wide. “Is it dead?”

“I think so. It’s kind of crushing me though.”

“Are you sure it’s not playing possum?” Don took a tentative step out.

Lance’s hands shook as the adrenaline dumped from his body. His mind finally began to process the stupidity of what he’d just done, even as he fought to purge the thoughts. He’d killed a diseased monster that had been a man two days ago, watched as it consumed soldiers as if they were a three-course meal.

He closed his eyes and tried to clear his thoughts. “If it’s playing possum, then we’re all fucked.”

Don inched over, tiptoeing as if he was afraid of waking it up.

“It’s hard to breathe under here,” Lance said. “Hurry up.”

It reeked too. The smell reminded him of old meat left in the refrigerator too long.

They counted to three and shoved the muscular carcass to the side. Don dry heaved as he touched the slimy skin and recoiled, wiping his hands on his pricey jacket. “Oh god.”

Liz took cautious steps over to them as Lance got back to his feet. She stared down at the dead body. Her eyes blinked slowly, as if she expected the thing to disappear each time she opened them again.

More shots echoed overhead as a gunfight raged on the floor above.

“The hospital is FUBAR.” Lance pawed at the blood staining his shirt, the doctor’s admonition about staying away from the bodily fluids of the infected hitting home. “If we can get through the parking garage, we might be able to get to Liz’s car.”

Neither Liz nor Don responded. Don put a hand on Liz’s shoulder. “Are you OK?”

“That’s a stupid question. Look at this! How could anyone be OK at a time like this?”

Lance watched them, hating that another man could comfort his wife better than he could. “Is anyone listening to me?”

“I hear you,” Don said, though he continued to look at Liz. “But I want to make sure Liz is still with us.” He stepped closer to her.

Suspicion settled in the pit of Lance’s stomach. Was Don making a pass at his wife, right in front of him? At a time like this? There was a dead monster on the floor.

“Just get me out of here.” Liz continued to stare at the diseased man. “And what is FUBAR?”

“Fucked up beyond all recognition.” Lance grabbed an extra ammunition clip from one of the soldier’s bodies, gritting his teeth, pretending he couldn’t see the vacant stare in the dead man’s eyes. The idea that he would steal bullets from a corpse would have been asinine only yesterday. Now it was just the next logical step in survival.

He handed the clip to Don because his hospital gown wasn’t exactly utilitarian. “Stay close and keep quiet.”

They stepped over the bodies and moved to the row of glass doors that led to the garage. The automatic sensors didn’t work, so they pried them open. Lance stood between the doors, keeping them from closing, as Don and Liz ducked under his arm and stepped through.

Frightened screams came from behind them. Lance held his position, squinting through the lobby, waiting for movement of some kind.

“What are you doing?” Don asked.

“Someone’s screaming back there.”

“I hear them, but what are
you
doing? You said it yourself—we need to get out of here.”

Lance bit back a snarky comment. “You wouldn’t want me to leave you here, so shut up for a second.”

They listened, every breath that escaped them thunderous in the silence.

An infant cried out.

Lance turned back to Don, handing over the rifle. “Here. I’ll meet you guys on the first floor, by the exit. Don’t let any of the soldiers see you. I can’t tell if they’re on our side or not.”

Don looked at the gun like it might bite him. “I don’t know how to use this thing.”

“You see the barrel with the hole in it? That’s the dangerous end. Point and pull the trigger. Be judicious with your shots, or you’ll blow through all of your ammo.”

“What are you doing?” Liz asked. “Please tell me you aren’t going back in there.”

“I am. Just meet me down by the exit.”

“Lance Arthur York, you will
not
—”

Lance stepped backward into the lobby, letting the doors slide shut, cutting her off. Her mouth continued to work on the other side of the glass, but her words were muffled and unintelligible. Lance didn’t even try to hide the grin that spread across his face.

She didn’t use his full name often, saving it for when she needed to give him a massive raft of shit. The last thing he wanted to hear just then was a lecture. He gave them a wave and pointed into the overpass beyond, mouthing ‘go’.

After grabbing another rifle from the floor, and a clip from the partially devoured soldier, Lance plodded his way across the lobby, summoning what little courage he could. His body was on sensory overload, the violence and mutation surrounding him assaulting his mind like a night terror.

The baby wailed again as he approached the intersection of the hallways. A woman tried to hush the child, the cries muffling as if by hand or pacifier.