The Hunger (Book 2): Consumed (9 page)

“He’s Ralph’s right-hand man.  His enforcer or bodyguard or something like that.  He’s a mean son of a bitch.  Wanted to kill me for no reason at all.”

“Great.”

“This is them?” Tony asked the man who destroyed the Duchess.

“Half of ‘em.”

Tony stepped in front of Brown, stopping inches from his face.  Ralph’s bodyguard was shorter, but significantly stockier than the doctor was.  “Where’s the rest of your group?  Where’s Lance and that blonde bitch?”

Though they were at least thirty yards away, Lance could see Brown’s throat work.

“Dead,” he said.

Tony’s right fist fired like a piston, driving into Brown’s stomach.

The doc doubled over and fell to a knee, his mouth gaping as he tried to suck in air.  Eifort knelt beside him, putting a hand to his back.  She looked up at Tony in open contempt.

“You fuck!”

“Where’s Lance?”

“He already told you!  They’re dead!”

Tony stared down at her for a full five seconds.  “Last chance.”  He pulled a silver pistol from a holster on his hip.  “Where’s Lance?”

Lance felt his bladder tighten.  He couldn’t stand there and watch them be executed because he was too afraid to go out and face the men who had tried to kill him four separate times.  He thought that walking outside would likely mean his death, but he
knew
that Eifort was about to be shot.

He turned toward the door when he heard Eifort again.

“We buried them over there!”

Cass grabbed Lance’s shirt and pulled him back to the window again.  “Clever girl.”

Eifort pointed to the mounds of dirt by the tire swing.

“Check it out,” Tony said over his shoulder.

Two men broke away from the group and trotted over to the graves, kicking around them as if they wanted to uncover the bodies.  “Looks like two people were buried here, boss.  Probably a day or two ago, judging by the dirt.  Looks fresh.”

Tony tapped the barrel of the pistol against his leg for several seconds as he stared into Eifort’s defiant face.

As his breathing became less labored, Brown stood back up.  He grabbed Eifort’s hand in his.

“What killed them?” Tony asked.

“They were bit,” Brown said.  “They shot themselves.”

More silence from Tony as he looked around the large fields, his eyes settling upon the farmhouse.  “How long have you been here?”

“Since your man there sank our boat.  Three days or so.”

“Pretty nice place here.”  Tony holstered his pistol.  “Too bad for you that we happened to drive by.”

Brown’s jaw clenched.  “Why are you doing this to us?  We have no issue with you.  Leave us be!”

“You shouldn’t have taken up company with that fuck, Lance.  Ralph has... had... a score to settle with him.”

“We don’t know anything about that.  I don’t even know who this Ralph guy is.”

Tony nodded at some of his men.  “Tie ‘em up.”  He leaned close to Brown.  “You shouldn’t have killed our man at the stadiums and stolen his boat.  The boss didn’t appreciate that.”

“But he killed all of those—”

Tony smashed his forehead into Brown’s nose in a vicious head butt that staggered the taller physician.  Before Eifort could respond, Tony backhanded her in the face, sending her to the ground.

“Put them in the back.”  He pointed at a short, younger man wearing a Pirates baseball cap.  “Go tell the boss that we have a surprise for him. 
Don’t
tell him about Lance.  He’s gonna be pissed over that.”

The men did as they were told, dragging Eifort and Brown to a beige Toyota.  They bound their hands behind them and stuffed oily rags into their mouths.

“Bastards.” Lance balled his hands into tight fists, his fingernails biting into his palms.

Tony turned toward the house, squinting against the rising sun.  He spat a wad of tobacco into the driveway.

“Search the house.  Make sure those two weren’t lying.”  He turned to two middle-aged men, each adorned in camouflage pants and soiled shirts.  “Torch the place when you’re done, just in case.  Stay here until it’s burned up good and then catch up to us.  Boss wants me at the compound in a bit.”

The two men walked up to him, each giving improper salutes.  The older of the two, and slightly less fat, grabbed the stock of a rifle slung over his shoulder.  “Yes sir.”

“If you fuck this up somehow, don’t bother coming back.  I’ll kill you myself.  Slowly.”

“We won’t.”

“One of you drive the Chevy back as well.  Strip the other two for parts.”  Tony gave them a nod before climbing back in his truck.

The vehicles swung around, driving through the lawn, tearing up the grass.  They drove up the driveway and pulled back into their places in the motorcade.  The roar of dozens of engines firing at the same time filled the morning.

They started to pull away when Lance turned his attention back to the two remaining men.  They stood by their rusted-out truck, watching as their cohorts drove away.

Lance was transfixed by the amount of vehicles driving past the farm.  They had at least twenty of the liquid tankers and another hundred or more civilian trucks.  How many people were in the group, he couldn’t guess.

“Christ, they’re growing.”  Cass turned away from the window and pulled two drawers out from under the counter.

“Who would follow these assholes?”

“Frightened people.  Those are men of strength in a time of fear.”  She found a long butcher’s knife in the third drawer and pulled it out.  “People are willing to go along with a lot if it means they’ll be safe.”

The men in front of the house readied their guns.  They padded through the grass as they approached the door.  One of them broke off, walking around the side of the home.

Lance slid away from the window, not wanting the men to spot him.  He freed the pistol from his waistband.  “I’ll take them out when they come in.”

“If you shoot that bazooka, the others will hear and come back.”

“They could hear it from the road?”

“Maybe, I don’t know.  That thing is going to be ridiculously loud.  We shouldn’t risk it.”

He frowned.  “We need to hide then.  I think one of them is going around the back.”

“Follow me.”  Cass hunkered low and retreated from the kitchen.

They sneaked through the living room as the screen door in the front banged closed.  Heavy boots thudded on the hardwood floors.  A gruff voice bounced across the hard surfaces of the house as the first man began his search.

Cass led Lance to the back of the house and eased the basement door open.

He carefully closed the door behind them, praying the hinges wouldn’t squeak.  The basement was pitch black as they descended old, rotting steps that led to a dirt floor.

A small flame flicked into life from a Zippo held in Cass’ hand.

“Where do you keep that?” Lance whispered.  She didn’t have any pockets that he could see.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“Hell yeah, I would.”

“Now isn’t the time, dumbass.”

She maneuvered around boxes and plastic containers and canned goods.  The basement was stuffed with junk. Narrow paths carved between leaning piles of hoarded goods.

At the back of the dank, filthy space, Cass stopped in front of a white door.  She grabbed a rusted latch and pulled it open, wincing as it creaked.

She leaned close to Lance, whispering in his ear.  “There aren’t any lights in here.  If we hide in the corners, they probably won’t find us.”

Black covered every surface of the room.  Lance followed her inside, feeling the rocky floor shift with each step.

“What is this?”

“It’s a coal bin.  The old couple must have heated their home with it.  I found it yesterday when I came down here looking for more soup.”  She held the lighter higher, letting the soft glow spread through most of the small area.  “Over here.”

Lance lowered down to his haunches in the back corner, waiting for the coal under him to settle.  Cass went back to the door and leaned against the wall beside it.  She flipped the lighter closed, drowning them in shadow.

“What are you doing?” Lance asked.

“If one of them comes inside, I’m going to stab him.”

“I should be the one who—”

“Now isn’t the time for chauvinism.”

Lance swallowed his retort as he heard the door to the basement open.  Sweat formed on his stubble-covered upper lip as he waited, listening intently as boots descended the stairs.

A flashlight clicked on.

Wisps of light outlined the door to the coal bin

One of the men clumsily worked his way around the basement.

He cursed as he knocked over something that tinkled like glass.

“Goddamn pigsty down here,” he grumbled.

The footfalls neared the door to the coal bin.  Lance’s heart thundered in his chest.  He wanted to shift his weight, hoping to get in a better position to spring if the door opened, but he feared the coal would shift underneath his feet, giving away their hiding place.

The latch shifted in the door.

It pulled open, the silhouette of one of the men appearing.

Lance held his breath.  His legs ached as he crouched in the corner.

“This is a goddamn waste of time.”  The door slammed shut.  The man griped to himself as he stumbled through the basement and plodded up the stairs.

Lance sighed as he stood up, his knees popping in protest.

The lighter flicked alive again.

“That was too close,” Lance whispered.

“No shit.  We need to get upstairs.  That Tony guy told them to burn the place.”

They went back to the main room of the basement.  Muffled voices came from overhead as they climbed over boxes labeled ‘Christmas Decorations’.

Cass stopped at the stairs, listening to the men complain to one another about being left behind.  She ascended the creaky steps when they heard the screen door slam shut in the front of the house.

They knelt by the back door, peeking around the frame.  Coal dust fell from their shoes, leaving a trail of black footprints behind them.  Lance fought against a sneeze as he breathed in the fine powder.

One of the men was walking across the back lawn, heading for the nearest barn.  A shotgun hung by his side.

Cass motioned for Lance to follow her.  He stayed low, keeping his head below the windowsills as he trailed close behind.  She led him to the room with the now-empty gun racks.

“Eifort took the guns,” Lance said.  “Except this one.”  He held the pistol up.

He chanced a look through one of the windows, angling so he could see the road.  The last of the motorcade disappeared around a bend several hundred yards away.

“They’re probably far enough away that I can use this now, right?”

“Maybe.”

“Damn it, Cass!  What do you want me to do?  Run out there with my dukes up?  Challenge them mano-a-mano?”

The screen door in the front banged again.

Lance froze, locking his eyes on Cass.

Footsteps clomped through the kitchen.

Cass motioned for Lance to go into the living room, moving in the opposite direction of the man.  He nodded and crawled away, stopping by the door that led into the kitchen.

When he was sure it was clear, he turned back to signal Cass, but she wasn’t there.

He wanted to whisper her name, but he didn’t dare make a sound.  Should he go back the way he came, or circle around behind the man?

Shit.

Lance slid into the kitchen, crouched down, walking on the balls of his feet.  He was going to use the gun, whether Cass liked it or not.  They couldn’t keep wasting time with this cloak and dagger stuff.

A floorboard creaked under foot as he approached the next door.  He paused, holding his breath again, listening for the man’s footsteps.  After fifteen seconds, he resumed his search.

Pain exploded in his temple.

Flash bulbs filled his vision, blinding him as he crashed backward.  His shoulder struck the edge of the kitchen table, his left arm going numb.  The pistol flew from his grip, sliding into the corner of the room.

He shook his head, clearing his eyes.

One of the men stood before him, rifle raised.  He aimed at Lance’s head.

Lance dodged to his right, bracing for the impact of the bullet.  The gun roared behind him as he rolled to his stomach.

Linoleum and wood splinters popped from the floor, inches from his face.

He jumped to his feet and spun around as the man worked the bolt action on his rifle.  He lunged at the camouflaged Minuteman, driving him into the next room.

They crashed into the piano. Tones sounded from inside the old instrument.

Lance grabbed the rifle with both hands, wrestling the end of the barrel away from his face as the gun barked again.

High-pitched ringing filled his ears.  He gritted his teeth and stared into the eyes of the man before him.

A knee landed flush against his balls.  Air whooshed from his lungs as his legs turned to rubber.

With what little strength remained, Lance reared back and drove the stalk of the rifle into the man’s face.

Broken teeth and drops of blood fell to the floor.

“Mah mouf!  Mah fookin’ teef!”  Blood poured over his bottom lip, bathing his shirt and the rifle in crimson.  He drove his knee forward again, catching Lance in the groin a second time.

The last of Lance’s will evaporated with the blow.  He crumpled backward, curling onto his side, dry heaves racking his body.

A glob of blood with specks of white hit the floor as the man spit several times, clearing his mouth. “Ahh!  Mah teef!”

He raised the rifle, aiming at Lance’s face again.

Lance watched helplessly as the man’s finger moved to the trigger.

Something twanged from the rear of the room.  Even in his pain and fear, Lance wondered what made a sound like that.

The man’s soiled shirt tented at his chest.  He lowered the gun, dropping it to the floor.  His legs wobbled as he took a queer step forward before collapsing face first to the hardwood.

An arrow stuck from the middle of his back, the feathered end fluttering from the fall.

Cass stood by the back door, a bow held out in front of her.