Someone ran into me. It was Owen’s private investigator, Coughlin.
He pushed me away. “What the hell’s going on?”
Spencer let out a guttural moan, and Coughlin turned toward the lab. His eyes widened, and a confused, horrified look spread across his face.
Spencer stumbled out of the doorway.
Coughlin fumbled with his jacket and managed to retrieve a small pistol. The gun popped, but Spencer was already on top of him. Coughlin screamed as Spencer sank his teeth into his face. Blood poured down his neck as his flesh was ripped away. The gun fired again. Spencer jerked as the shots entered his belly, but they did nothing to deter him. Coughlin twisted his head to look at me. His face was contorted in agony.
Spencer pulled back his head and tore another chunk of skin from Coughlin’s cheek. Still screaming, Coughlin lifted his gun toward Spencer’s head. The creature turned and clamped his teeth down on Coughlin’s wrist. The gun went off, but the bullet flew wide. Spencer tightened his grip. Bone cracked, and the gun fell to the floor.
I turned and ran.
Chapter 12
Escape
The security guard, Barker, was standing at the end of the corridor. He had some sort of Taser in his hand. His mouth opened and closed as he tried to find words. The Taser fell from his hand. He backed out of the corridor.
There was no sign of him when I reached the lobby, but there were dozens of other workers scrambling to get out of the building. The air was filled with rumors of everything from a police raid to a terrorist attack. A police car was visible outside the building, red and blue lights still flashing.
A young police officer stood just inside the main entrance, ushering people out. “Take it easy; no need to panic.”
A hand grabbed my shoulder. I twisted, ready to fight off Spencer, but it was Akimoto.
“Whoa! Whoa! Edward, it’s me.”
“Sorry, I—”
“I heard Owen’s dead?” He sounded on the edge of panic.
I nodded.
“Oh my God.” He ran his fingers through his hair, a stricken look on his face.
Somewhere in the building, a woman screamed. A murmur of alarm spread through the lobby, and the crowd surged toward the door.
I pulled myself free of Akimoto’s grip and merged into the crowd. The flow of people pushed me toward the main entrance, but my destination was on the opposite side of the lobby. I let the crowd carry me but angled myself through the press of people.
A white-haired man I recognized from the accounting department on the fourth floor glared at me as I squeezed past him and out into open space. I muttered an apology and then hurried across the lobby to a narrow door.
It opened up on a maintenance corridor. I checked the lobby, but no one was taking any notice of me. They were all too intent on getting away from a disturbance near the door that led toward the lab.
I hurried down the corridor and out into the visitors’ car park at the side of the building. An ambulance sped past, and I lowered my head. I considered just running. The police would have questions, and I couldn’t afford to be around when they started asking them. I got as far as taking a few steps toward the fence around the car park before I stopped. My tool kit was still in the trunk of my car. I couldn’t leave it behind.
The main elevator to the parking garage would be locked down by now, but there was an emergency staircase in the far corner of the outdoor car park. If I could make it to that, maybe I could get to my car before the police.
It looked like most of the people working at HNR were outside the building. They’d congregated fifty or sixty feet away from the entrance. I could see Doctor Hart standing with a middle-aged man with long, graying hair. She leaned in close to him and said something. He nodded.
There were two police cars now, and I could see the young policeman I’d seen inside shaking his head as he conferred with a much older man beside one of the vehicles. An ambulance was parked nearby, and one of the cashiers from the company canteen was sitting on the step at the back. Tears streamed down her face.
The main entrance opened, and a man ran out. He was holding his arm, and his jacket sleeve was stained red. A paramedic rushed forward, wrapped his arm around the man’s shoulder and began guiding him toward the ambulance.
A police officer saw me and called out. I raised my hand in acknowledgment. The officer kept watching me. I veered toward the crowd. Hopefully, that would convince him I was complying and I could slip away to get to my car.
The lab door opened again. This time, it was Spencer that came out.
The lower half of his face and his shirt were soaked in blood and thick gobbets of flesh. He flinched at the sunlight and lowered his head. Then he walked toward the crowd of people.
A paramedic carrying a first aid kit ran from the ambulance. He got to within a few feet of Spencer before he stopped. A puzzled look came over him. He ducked down in an attempt to see Spencer’s face. When he did, his puzzled look turned to horror.
The paramedic almost got away.
Spencer lunged forward. His fingers locked around the man’s forearm. The paramedic swung the medical kit, and it caught the side of Spencer’s head. The blow opened up a deep gash. Black blood arced through the air. The woman sitting at the back of the ambulance let out a piercing scream.
Spencer pulled the paramedic toward him. The man stumbled, and the movement brought his face within biting distance of Spencer, who clamped his teeth down on the ridge of the paramedic’s left eye.
The man’s screams ignited panic in the crowd. A few people scattered. The others backed away, screaming and pointing in horror. The paramedic fell to his knees, but Spencer stayed standing. Fresh blood dripped from his chin.
One of the police officers advanced toward Spencer with his gun drawn. “Down on the ground, now!”
The paramedic lay at Spencer’s feet, clutching the mangled remains of his face and screaming. Spencer took two uneven steps toward the police officer.
“Last warning, asshole. Get down on the ground.”
Spencer opened his mouth and let out a low moan. It was a pitiful, almost mournful sound.
The police officer fired. Three shots slammed into Spencer’s chest. He bucked and twisted but didn’t go down. Shock registered on the policeman’s face, then he fired four more rounds. One went wide, another clipped the side of Spencer’s head. His mouth twisted into a sneer. He moaned again, but this time the noise was more angry than pitiful.
Spencer took two more lumbering steps toward the police officer. The man lifted a microphone attached to his shoulder and said something into it, then exchanged his gun for a baton.
He swung it at Spencer’s head.
The crack was clearly audible, even where I was standing. The blow sent Spencer staggering. Somehow, he stayed on his feet. The police officer slammed the baton into the back of Spencer’s leg. It buckled, and Spencer went down to his knees. He raised his arms as though trying to embrace the police officer.
The officer lifted the baton. Spencer tried to get to his feet again, but his injured knee gave way, and he fell forward onto his face. Seeing his chance, the officer leaped on top of Spencer. He pinned his arms behind his back and tried to tie them with a set of plastic cuffs.
Spencer bucked and twisted, snarled and spat. He arched his back. The officer lost his balance and fell forward. His hand landed beside Spencer’s head, and he snapped at it.
The officer pulled away, but not before Spencer’s teeth scraped across the back of his hand. The officer yelled and brought his baton down on the back of Spencer’s head. Dark blood sprayed across the asphalt. The officer hit him again, and he fell forward and stopped struggling.
The police officer looked at his hand and winced. Then he twisted Spencer’s arms behind him and wrapped the plastic tie around his wrists. Spencer raised his head again, but his movements were sluggish. The officer stood, putting all his weight on Spencer’s back as he did so. He looked at his han
d and swore, then kicked Spencer in the ribs.
With the threat apparently neutralized, a quiet murmur spread through the crowd. Dazed faces looked at each other for some indication of what they should be doing. Several people were openly weeping, and a young man stood off to one side, hunched over and vomiting.
I could see another police car approaching with an ambulance close behind. The initial panic was subsiding, and the police officers were corralling the crowd. No one was being allowed to leave. I backed toward the building. There was no way for me to get to the parking garage without attracting attention, but for the time being most of their focus was on the crowd.
I ducked out of sight around the corner and then made my way back along the building. I reached a covered side entrance just as the police car and ambulance sped past. If they saw me, they didn’t slow. A fence ran along behind the lab to separate our building from the rest of the industrial park. Signs warning that the area was patrolled by guards and their dogs hung from the chain-link every thirty feet or so.
There was no time to look for an opening in the fence. After a quick check to make sure none of the fabled guards were in sight, I scrambled up and over the fence. I crossed the road immediately, then took the first side street I could. Behind me, one of the ambulances raced away, sirens wailing.
Chapter 13
Suspicions
I headed to the nearest mall—a concrete monstrosity that had been built thirty years earlier and wouldn’t have looked out of place in communist Russia. When I arrived, it had only been open half an hour, but there were already dozens of people working their way from store to store. I didn’t have a plan yet, but I knew the attack at the lab was an opportunity—if I could stay off the police’s radar.
I ambled through the mall, staring into windows and trying to look natural. It felt wrong. I was wearing a disguise, a meat suit, and I was convinced anyone who looked at me would see right through it to the shadow within.
A young woman pushing a baby in a stroller looked at me. She frowned and directed the stroller away. Heat rose in my cheeks.
A man in torn jeans and a heavy-metal T-shirt saw me and snorted. “Dude!”
There was a menswear store nearby, and I caught sight of myself in a mirror as I passed. Dark blood was spattered across my cheek. There was more on my shirt.
Cursing my stupidity, I lowered my head and made my way to the washrooms. An old Chinese man held the door open for me, but he was so stooped he couldn’t have seen much above my knees.
My heart sank when I entered the gleaming, halogen-soaked washroom. A security guard stood at a hand dryer. He was young, with a light dusting of fine hair on his chin. His eyes narrowed with suspicion when he saw me. I smiled, gave him a what are you going to do? look and went to the nearest sink.
The faucet was controlled by an automatic sensor. It took me a few seconds to get it to work, but eventually I managed to extract enough water to wet my face. I rubbed at the blood on my cheek and forced myself not to look at the security guard in the mirror.
The drone of the hand dryer faded away. Footsteps traveled across the room, but I didn’t hear the door open. When I’d managed to clean off most of the blood and turned toward the dryer, the guard was standing beside the door. He was watching me.
“You okay, sir?”
I waved away his concerns. “Yeah, just a nosebleed. I get them all the time.”
The guard raised his eyebrows, but he was nodding. “You should really get that checked out. Friend of mine kept getting nosebleeds. Turned out he had some sort of tumor. Nearly killed him.”
“I’ll do that, thanks.”
I stuck my hands under the dryer. It rattled to life. I turned my back on the guard and hoped the noise would discourage him from further conversation.
Words formed in the motor’s whine—the shadow whispering in my ears. The guard might be young, but he’d remember me. I needed to deal with him. I needed to make him my next subject. That way, I could sate the shadow and cover my tracks. He wouldn’t be expecting it. I could drag him into a stall and—
I took a deep breath, counted to four, then let it out again. I needed to get control of myself. The guard was still watching. I took another deep breath. He was my priority. I didn’t have my tools, but if he was still there when I’d dried my hands, I’d kill him.
I extended the drying process for as long as I dared. When I turned back, the security guard was gone. I willed the shadow to be quiet. It rewarded my efforts by reminding me that I’d left my tool kit in the car. If Coughlin had told anyone about me visiting Spencer, the police would be looking for me. If they searched the parking garage…
The world tilted on its axis again. I had to press my hand against the wall to steady myself. I squeezed my eyes shut. There was nothing I could do at the moment. The lab would be crawling with police trying to find out just what had caused Spencer to start attacking people. I’d have to go back later to get them.
I checked myself in the mirror on the way out of the washroom. There was still blood on my shirt, but at least now I didn’t look like I’d murdered someone.
Back in the mall, I debated buying a new shirt. People weren’t paying any attention to me, but I still felt self-conscious. To me, the blood positively screamed killer. Anything that made me memorable was a bad thing.
In the end, I picked the cheapest-looking store and bought a plain blue hoodie. A security camera gazed down on me from behind the checkout, but there was nothing I could do about that. I paid cash and hoped it would be enough to prevent the police from tracking me to the mall.
As soon as I was outside the store, I pulled the tag from the hoodie and slipped it on, then headed toward the food court. It was early and half of the restaurants were closed, but a few were serving breakfast, and some early risers sat at nearby tables.
I bought a uniformly beige “value breakfast” from a burger chain and sat down opposite a large TV screen. The weather presenter was predicting a cool but dry day. When she’d finished, the image cut to a shot of the Hunter Neurologics building.
My heart sped up. I couldn’t help but glance round, convinced that everyone in the food court was about to connect me to the breaking news playing out on screen.
It was a local channel, and the two anchors’ excitement at the news’ bizarre nature was palpable. They described the morning’s events in almost breathless tones.
So far, it wasn’t clear exactly what had happened, but reports suggested that “a currently unidentified male had entered Hunter Neurologics and attacked several of the employees.” The exact details of the violence weren’t clear. Eyewitness comments suggested that he’d bitten several members of the staff and a police officer trying to restrain him.
The female anchor explained that the officer had fired on the man. The shots had little effect, suggesting that he had been wearing a bulletproof jacket and leading to speculation that this was some sort of terrorist attack. Several people had been injured, perhaps as many as ten, and victims were being treated at a nearby hospital.
After a warning that the images they were about to show were disturbing, the newscast cut to a blurry, unsteady cell phone video filmed by someone in the crowd outside the lab.
It showed Spencer advancing toward the police officer, dark bloodstains covering his shirt. The paramedic’s body was clearly visible. The police officer fired, and the shots elicited gasps from the crowd. The sound was repeated when the officer hit Spencer with the baton. Someone called out “Christ!” and then the screen cut back to the studio.
The anchors continued talking, but there was little real information. Their speculation veered from the plausible—mental illness—to the bizarre suggestion it was a rabies outbreak. None of it reflected reality. The closest they came was a brief mention of HNR’s controversial research as a possible motive for the attack. There was no mention of Spencer and certainly none of me.
I picked at my breakfast. My stomach was knotted tight. I co
uldn’t pull myself away from the images on the television. Every time they cut back from commercials, my nerves tightened expectantly. But beneath it all, I could feel the shadow, and the sensation that I wasn’t alone brought me an odd kind of comfort.
As a child, I’d quickly learned that I had a close bond with a part of my psyche that everyone else seemed intent on repressing. Now, with my life unraveling around me, that bond seemed ever more precious.
A change in the anchor’s tone caught my attention. An interview with an expert on “psychotropic terrorism” had been interrupted by reports of a new outbreak of violence—this time at the hospital where the victims from the Hunter Neurologics incident had been taken. Several patients had been attacked. One person was rumored to have been killed, possibly by a police officer. There were scant details, but that didn’t prevent the anchors from leaping off into fresh conspiracy theories.
The security guard from the washroom walked across the food court. He seemed to be relaxed and paying little attention to the people around him, but twenty years of avoiding detection by authority figures had taught me to recognize when people were merely feigning disinterest. His eyes were taking in everything going on, including the events unfolding on the television screen.
He saw me and nodded a greeting. I returned the gesture then spooned a forkful of lukewarm scrambled eggs into my mouth. The guard continued past without speaking, but the fact that he recognized me was bad news.
When the initial confusion was over, the police would start wondering where that last Hunter Neurologics employee had gotten to. A security guard, young but eager, would be first in line with information that might help. And when the media finally got hold of the details of what we’d been doing behind those walls, everyone would be looking for me.
I washed down the dreary eggs with some coffee then hacked off a piece of bacon and ate that while I worked out my next step.
Serial Killer Z:Infection Page 6