Its eyes are entirely black, no whites to be seen, and its teeth are long and serrated, pushing against its lower lip. Its flesh would likely be sliced open by its own teeth if it weren’t bulletproof.
A shiver rolls through me, and it seems to then carry on into Ellis. Side by side, we share in a deeper understanding of what’s staring us in the face.
Then, without taking its eyes off us, it gives another rumble, low and deep. It doesn’t seem to need to open its mouth; it’s not a roar or a howl. But it’s some kind of… communication. And then I hear a second pitch, slightly higher. It’s almost like a harmony to the first. A cold fist of dread squeezes at my chest.
“Close the hatch,” I sputter.
“What? Why, is something—”
“Close the hatch!” I shout and slam my hand down over the switch.
The hatch is closing too slowly, and I urge it to hurry. It’s getting darker outside, and that can only mean one thing.
“There are more of them,” Ellis says through clenched teeth.
“Exactly,” I gasp. We hold our breaths, eyes fixed on the hatch above. It’s almost closed, the gap now just inches wide. I see a brief flash of movement—
And then I breathe out a sigh of relief as the hatch closes with a clang.
“That was too close,” I say, slumping against the door. My knees threaten to give way, and so does my bladder.
“What would they have done?” Ellis asks me, and I find that I don’t have an answer for him.
“I don’t know,” I say reluctantly with a weak shrug. “Rescue him, maybe?”
“But… that Shredder was Dan.”
“Uh huh.”
Ellis’s eyes widen just a little. “Think of everything Dan knew. What would the Shredders do with that kind of information?”
We let that sink in for just a moment. I give my head a shake; I can’t think about this right now. The day has already carried too much weight for a mere 24 hours. I need to get some sleep and try again tomorrow.
Ellis and I say a brief farewell and I head for my compound apartment, when I hear a throaty chuckle. “You can’t stop us,” the voice says from the speaker beside the Shredder’s door. “We’re coming from you. And when we get you, we will sink our claws and teeth into your soft flesh, and drink your bodies dry.” Its threats spew on without mercy.
“Without a connection to its human life, we have no leverage. It can’t be controlled,” Ellis says behind me.
“I know,” I say, and walk away without another word. We both know that a weapon that can’t be controlled is nothing more than a dangerous liability. But which one of us is going to break the news to Howell?
His pet needs to be put down.
18
Lori
I’m in shock. I must be. It’s the only explanation for this hallucination. An elevator, fully functional, outside of the compound. We stand, shoulder to shoulder, staring at our reflections on the elevator doors. We look bizarrely composed. And I don’t just mean calm. I mean, just crawled out of bed after a 12-hour snooze, with tousled hair and rosy cheeks, well-rested and loose. With my red-sequined dress hanging to the floor, I could be coming home late after a night on the town. Except that my throat is still raw from screaming, and I can feel a bead of sweat dripping down my back. But it all just feels so… unreal.
When I see Brent’s reflection gulp, I realize that the doors have been polished to a brilliant shine; in fact, every surface in this small box gleams. It makes the claw marks along the door's seam stand out in sharp contrast.
Then the music starts. And it’s awful. The military doesn’t play a lot of music, the fun-loving bunch that they are, but even with my limited scope of reference, I’m fairly certain that this is bad. It’s not even music. It’s… like the sound that turkeys make during mating season.
"Oh god, the musak," my dad moans, thumping his head against the back of the elevator. “Just when I thought I missed everything about the world before.”
Maybe not a hallucination, then, if I'm not the only one experiencing this new level of bizarre torture.
The small number 4 above the door lights up, and a soft ding alerts us that we have reached our final destination, wherever that may be.
The doors finally open in a gentle slide and we all release a collective gasp. “No. Way.”
“Way,” says Brent, in complete awe.
My face warms in the electric glow, nearly as bright as the sun itself; it's an open space, much like the department store downstairs, but there are dozens of lamps spread out across every inch of the vast space, and each one of them is blazing. The musak follows us as we step out of the elevator, leaving the relative safety that only a metal box can provide.
I feel exposed, and startle as the metal doors thunk closed behind us.
I quickly spin back around, halfway expecting to get ambushed by more of those monsters. The rational part of my brain explains, in a slow voice to be sure that I can follow along, that those creatures lurking in the dark parking garage didn’t look advanced enough to flip a light switch, let alone furnish this place. But then again, the rational part of my brain is also balking at the idea of those monsters even existing on this earth.
Because furnished it is! Brent lets out a low whistle. “Check it out! This place is lit!”
“Kinda hard to miss it, Brent. I may be blinded for life.” My heart just isn’t in my sarcasm. I’m just too baffled. Amongst the lamps are random pieces of furniture. There’s a garish red plaid couch, and a pair of floral armchairs with matching footrests, spread out on an electric-orange shag carpet. There’s a wooden wardrobe, probably filled with fine china, and in the center of the seating area is a large, oval coffee table covered with plates. Is that food?
I can’t stop myself. I take a step forward.
“Lori.” Dad puts a hand on my arm, his voice firm, leaving no room for argument. “Let me go first.”
“Seriously?" I scoff, pulling my arm from his grasp. Indignation flares, and I can't control myself as I snap, "You let me lead you guys through a dark parking garage full of giant rabid lizards, but I can’t take a step into a well-lit living room?” Because that’s the only thing this could possibly be, someone's living room.
I take pleasure in the fact that he seems speechless. And before he has a chance to argue, I turn back to the living room and march forward. After about three steps, my brain starts cycling through all the things that could go wrong, and I am seriously regretting my decision. But once you’ve made a dramatic move like that, you can’t just stop and say, ‘You're right, my bad.’ That’s just plain embarrassing. So I stomp across that shag carpet like a girl on a mission to make a point.
I slow as I close in on the couch. There’s a small plastic tag attached to one corner: SALE! ONLY $99.99! I look over at the chairs and they sport similar tags.
My eyes drift over to the coffee table and the plates on display. My mouth begins to water when I see what’s on them. Pickles, olives, beans and — the piece de resistance — peaches. How sure am I that this isn’t a hallucination, again?
“What’s going on?” I say slowly, but I don’t actually expect anyone to answer me.
“Me! I’m what’s going on!” A man leaps out from the wardrobe, his arms splayed wide. “Surprise!”
I can’t stop the scream from erupting, and before I can register that the stranger has started screaming right along with me, my fist has involuntarily lashed out and punched him in the nose. He reaches up to hold his face just as Dad runs up and tackles him.
“I didn’t mean any harm,” Bob sulks.
“And I am sorry for taking you down like that.” Dad’s apology is a little strained. He probably meant the first apology, but Bob has been laying the guilt on pretty thick for the past ten minutes. There’s only so much apologizing you can do before you want to take the guy out again, just to make him shut up.
Bobby Braun, the stranger from the wardrobe, has turned out to be a mostly
harmless hermit. Although, in my opinion, the jury’s still out about the harmless part. I mean, he was the one responsible for nearly roasting us alive with his tripwire downstairs.
On the other hand, though, he’s been pretty much kissing our boots since we stepped off the elevator, offering us clean drinking water and fresh bandages for our injuries. It appears that he’s a little starved for attention. What he’s not starved on? Food. He seems to be swimming in canned goods and, luckily for us, has more than enough to go around. We’re picking at the finger food on the table, and he’s got noodles cooking on a portable camp stove. It may not be a four-star restaurant, but certainly gourmet compared to the slop they force-fed us at the compound.
Bob, himself, is just as eclectic as the meal plan and his choice of decor. It's impossible to guess his age; he could be anywhere between 20 and 50, his skin having obviously come into contact with the sun a few times, lending it a leathery texture. His hair, wiry and almost as red as the couch, is a genetic wonder, and I can’t decide if it was intentionally styled to stand on end like that. He’s weighed down with at least six layers of clothing, including tie and suit jacket. It’s not like it’s cold in here and he needs the extra warmth. In fact, he’s flushed and sweaty, and has trouble even bending his knees and elbows because of the thick fabric. The price we pay for fashion, I suppose. He seemed to approve of my own accidental fashion statement, and declared that I was ‘perfectly attired for such an auspicious occasion.’ Whatever that means.
Bob heaves a dramatic sigh, drawn out for maximum guilt. “I’m just saying, I may have permanent damage to my back. It’s not like I can just go down to the chiropractor for an adjustment.” He makes a point of trying, and failing, to reach around to rub his own back. “Maybe one of you could…?”
Dad’s sigh is a brief huff compared to Bob’s, but conveys his irritation perfectly. “Look, Bob…”
Brent takes a step between them, tactfully breaking off their imminent fist fight. “Am I the only one here who’s still confused?” I’m not sure if he’s just trying to distract them, or if he legitimately doesn’t get what’s going on.
Either way, it’s an effective tactic. Bob’s eyes light up at the chance to talk to someone, anyone. He’s barely shut up since his sudden appearance from the wardrobe. “Of course! Please, tell me what questions I can answer for you!” He perches himself on the edge of an armchair, practically quivering with excitement. He flaps his hands at the armchair to his right, exclaiming, “Sit! Sit!”
Brent reluctantly settles into the chair. “Umm…” There’s an awkward pause as he tries to think of something to say, and it looks like the wait may be too much for Bob. He’s wringing his hands, and his gaze is so hyper-focused on Brent it’s as though he’s trying to memorize his features. Either that or burn a hole through him with his laser eyes. Activating in 3… 2… 1…
“The fire?" Brent says at last, causing Bob's head to nod vigorously. "You told us it’s your security system, but you didn’t explain who you’re trying to protect yourself from.” Brent looks proud of himself. He’s distracting Bob from his steady stream of complaining at the same time as getting some genuine information. "I mean, you seem very welcoming to us."
“Seriously?” Bob isn’t nearly as impressed with his lame question. “Isn’t it obvious? The very same taintfangs I just saved you from.”
Say what now? I hold my hand up to stop them from continuing. There is zero chance of me letting this one slip past. “I’m sorry… did you just say… taintfangs?”
Bob just shrugs. “Sure. What else am I supposed to call them?”
“I think the answer to that is ‘anything else.’ When the word taint is involved, things can only go downhill.” I wave a hand at them to continue their discussion, but not before making a mental note to come up with a better name for the creatures. Raptor Trackers? Death Munchers? Scariest-Beasts-Known-To-Man? Okay, so I guess it’s a work in progress.
Bob stutters for a minute. Looks like I broke his stride and now he’s caving into himself as though he’s going to start wallowing again. Brent’s quick with the next question, though he’s laying on the enthusiasm a little thick. “Yeah, how about that elevator! How did you get it working?”
Bob looks like he wants to keep sulking, but he can’t resist the temptation of a good bragging session. He puffs up his chest. “Well, it just so happens, I was an engineer before all the shit hit the fan.”
“Wow! Is that right? Sounds really important!” Brent’s smile is disturbing; all teeth, like a plastic predator. I catch his eye and give my head a small shake. He lets it droop a little, until it reaches a more respectable level that only makes him look like a mild-mannered psychopath.
Bob’s already nodding his head. “It’s even more important now. The world needs engineers to get things up and running again.”
I’m startled when my dad speaks. He’s been trying to keep quiet, since his and Bob's personalities seem to clash. “Do you really think that we can get the world back?”
A pause. “Of course I believe it.” Yeah, Bob’s not a very good liar. “We just need to get all the survivors rounded up together.”
“I’m not sure that’s such a good idea,” my dad says, and I'm sure he's thinking back to the compound we just escaped from.
Bob bristles at my dad’s tone. “Why in the hell would you say something like that?! I’ve been alone this whole damn time, and look how well I’ve done! Imagine what I could do with a few extra pairs of hands!”
Dad puts up his hands, placating. “I’m not trying to argue with you. It’s just… we’ve got some experience with other survivors.” He picks at a loose thread from a couch cushion before continuing. “We were in a military compound until yesterday.”
“Ooh, swanky,” Bob warbles, with an exaggerated head bobble. “I bet you had hot meals, three times a day. Probably hot showers, too. And you likely never had to deal with any...” —he looks at me— “...creatures.”
“Yeah, but it didn’t come without a price,” Dad snaps. He casts his eyes between me and Brent, weighing his next words. “There were some… questionable choices being made.” What does that even mean? “In the end, it came down to what I could live with. When you’re not even able to look your own children in the eye, something needs to give.”
“Like what, Dad?” My chest feels tight; I feel like maybe I’ve known all along, these decisions he’s talking about. All the times Mom begged him to quit, the nights I woke up to hear them fighting. Even after Mom's death when I had to move to the women’s dorms, I may not have had the same contact with my family, but I still watched my dad disappearing into unmarked doors, doing who knows what. And over the years, his shoulders sagged deeper, his eyes more downcast. Whatever they made him do, it broke him. “You know what? Scratch that. I don’t want to know.”
“Hear, hear!” Bob lifts his glass in a toast. The rest of us are silent, but that doesn’t seem to bother him. He gets up to take care of the pasta, and I watch with mild interest as he mixes in a packet of powder.
“You can’t be serious, Bob,” I scoff.
“What?” He seems genuinely flabbergasted at my repulsion, as he hands me a bowl of neon-orange noodles. They almost match the shag rug!
I stab a fork into the starchy mass of noodles, and brandish a congealed blob at him like a weapon. “You can’t really expect me to believe that you aren’t trying to poison me.”
“Are you kidding me? You guys are the most fun I’ve had in years!” Bob shoves bowls into Dad’s and Brent’s hands, and then sits back down with his own dinner. He stretches over and dims the lamp beside him. “Mood lighting,” he says, with a wink. I don’t have the heart to point out that the rest of the 27 lamps are still at full brilliance. No need to burst his bubble.
Brent lifts his fork to his mouth, only to get pelted with a pickle. “Hey!” Bob barks, his light mood of a second ago completely wiped from his face. “Were you raised in a barn? You have to give t
hanks for the food that you are about to receive.”
He clears his throat, straightens out his three shirts, and bows his head in supplication. “Dear Lord, we thank you for providing us with the sustenance we need to survive in this difficult time. We understand the need to cleanse the earth of the non-believers, those not deserving of your love, and we rejoice in your decision.
“And I also know that my daughter Kelly is the most deserving of us all, so please, Lord, may you find it in your heart to return her to me. Amen.”
Bob digs into his meal. “Eat up,” he encourages, when he notices that we’re still watching him. “What’s the matter? Waiting to see if I get sick?” He gives me a friendly nod, but I’m not feeling too friendly towards him at this very minute. His prayer made it sound like he almost approved of the whole apocalypse thing happening out there. I can almost imagine him standing on a street corner, ringing a bell and wearing a giant sign that says: “The End is Near!”
Hidden amongst all the wariness, however, I’m also warring with a serious case of curiosity. “Bob, I’m sorry, I don’t mean to pry, but…” I already regret the words coming out of my mouth, but I can’t seem to stop them. “What happened to your daughter?”
Bob’s fork pauses in mid-air, then he slowly lowers it back to his bowl and slides the food across the table. I guess I just ruined his appetite. “You don’t have to apologize for pryin’, girl. My daughter, Kelly, she’s the brightest girl, and no matter where she is right now, I know she’ll get back to me. See, we got split up, a while back now. Hard to tell how much time has passed; I stopped counting when I reached the first year.”
“I really am sorry, Bob,” I say softly, though I’m sure no amount of apology can help in this case. His heart must be shattered.
Prey (The Shade Chronicles Book 1) Page 14