The door to the garage had opened. Somebody was in the house.
“Joanie? Joanie, are you there? Please!”
She heard the patter of little feet in the dark living room.
“Stay there. We’re coming to get you!”
Joan whispered, “I love you, Mom.”
“Joanie? Joanie? Oh my God, Joanie—”
She dropped the phone on the floor as Nate and Megan entered the kitchen. They looked ghastly in the bright light. Gray-faced and stiff, they walked in short, jerky steps. She watched them come with a mix of love and dread.
They were on their feet. Without blood.
Just as they had that first night they’d come back.
It was another miracle. Maybe this was the end. The final change Nadine had promised.
The children stopped. They stared at her with dull, unblinking expressions.
Joan held out her arms to hug them. She’d lost the only man she’d ever truly loved, but she wasn’t alone. She still had her children. Her sweet, beautiful, perfect children.
Nate fell to his knees and hugged his mother. He felt cold. Joan closed her eyes. I’m so happy to see you again.
Most people didn’t understand how strongly mothers felt toward their children from the moment they were born. That this screaming thing in your arms was your entire reason for being. That you would do anything to make it happy. That you would fight, kill, die.
Who could understand the devotion, the constant pain, the sleepless nights, the endless worry? Love given freely, without conditions?
It’s not crazy, she thought. It’s survival. Ramona was right about that at least.
Joan’s leg twitched and began to sting.
She opened her eyes and gasped. Megan was sucking at her wound. Her face ballooned like a feeding tick.
Nate growled and pushed her away. Megan rolled onto the floor, her teeth clicking.
It was his turn to feed.
Joan watched her boy suck her blood. Her heart raced. Her vision flared with colorful stars. Death felt close.
That’s enough. She reached out her hand to push him away.
And stroked his hair instead.
“My beautiful boy . . .”
You were right, Doug. They’re still ours.
Darkness swirled at the edges of her vision. It didn’t hurt anymore.
Eat, Nate.
Grow up big and strong.
One day, you’re going to be a—
Midnight
Herod
They slept during the day.
At night, they came out to feed.
The gunshots ended. The Boy heard a scream. Screaming used to scare him. Now screams meant food. And getting more food was all that mattered. Survival.
He led his pack toward the sound. The little tribe of children tramped down the middle of the road swinging their weapons. Hockey sticks, rolling pins, knives. The streetlights showed them the way.
The houses flanking the street stood dark and still. The foodpeople locked them up good and tight at night. For a time, the pack had enjoyed a routine. They’d break into a house, feed, and build a nest. Then sleep in a pile until the sun fell and the hunger woke them.
As food became scarce, however, the hazards grew.
Back in the beginning, many of the grown-ups had given themselves to the children, just as the Boy’s own mother had.
Those early days of easy pickings had long passed.
Now the foodpeople killed the children on sight. The grown-ups hunted during the day, but the night belonged to the children.
In the beginning, their little tribe had consisted only of the Boy and Sister. Over time, he’d accepted new members to add to his strength. The others helped him overpower the bigger grown-ups, and in return, he kept them fed. The pack was always losing members and recruiting new ones. Right now, it numbered eight.
The screams stopped, but no matter; they’d found the house. A dying woman with long red hair lay on the living room floor, surrounded by children writhing against one another as each sought the best place to feed. They’d torn off her clothes and latched on to every inch of exposed skin with their mouths. She’d fought back. The dead bodies of children littered the room, and she still gripped a gun in her hand.
The pack was too late; these children had already sucked her dry.
The Boy whistled. The pack attacked the others with their weapons. The children weren’t alive in a human sense, but they could be killed. The little skulls broke open one by one, exposing the insides to air and light and death. This done, the pack burrowed their faces deep into the swollen bellies to drink the sour-tasting, half-digested food.
After he fed, the Boy picked the gun from the woman’s hand. He held it high to display its power while his pack hooted with red-stained grins.
In the basement, the Boy and Sister discovered a small boy sniffing and clawing at a locked door. They knew the boy from the time before and let him join the pack. Together, they forced the door open. It was full of corpses, but none worth eating. The Boy pulled a black leather jacket off one of the bodies. He thought he looked pretty cool in it.
The others piled blankets and cushions in the middle of the living room floor. The Boy wanted them all to get out of here. This was a bad place. They were fed and sleepy and didn’t want to leave, but he kicked at them until they returned, growling, to their feet. This done, he led them back out into the cold night.
Scores of children waited for them in the warm glow of the streetlights.
The others had been looking for him a long time. He and his pack were the only children he knew of who fed upon their own kind. Tonight, they would make him and his friends pay. There would be no discussion, no trial. They were going to tear him to shreds.
The Boy grinned. They had to catch him first.
Catch me if you can!
He raised the gun and fired, the shot echoing over their heads, and ran with his pack at his heels. The howls of pursuit filled the air. His black leather jacket made him harder to see in the dark. Well fed, he ran faster than the rest. They scrambled through backyards and into the parking lot of a small office building. Beyond that, he led them into a park, still holding Sister’s hand. He needed to keep her safe. They’d disappear into the trees, go somewhere new, start over. The world was so big and full of choices.
Bright light burned into his eyes. He staggered to a halt.
Spotlights.
As his eyes adjusted, he saw grown-ups on two wooden towers connected by a chain-link fence topped with barbed wire. Beyond, houses. A fortified community. He’d seen them before.
Muzzle flashes burst in the dark. Gunfire roared.
The Boy’s tribe fell twitching into the snow around him. He froze, struck by an ancient memory of standing on a stage with other children, singing in front of a room full of grown-ups while his mom and dad watched. At the end, the grown-ups applauded and took pictures with their little cameras, which flashed and popped.
His mom and dad had loved him.
The Boy raced to the fence, flung his body against it, and held on. Sister followed. The other children forgot the feud. Dazzled by the prospect of a killing feast as rich as those of the old days, they surged at the fence.
The Boy shrugged off his leather jacket and draped it over the barbed wire. He waited for Sister to catch up.
She was laughing when the bullets sheared her off the fence.
The scent of so much warm food distracted him from his grief. The hunger overpowered everything.
He swung over the top and hit the ground hard, feeling little pain in his dead limbs. As he scrambled to his feet, he saw a teenage girl with a rifle sprinting toward safety. He raised his gun and fired until it emptied. The girl was down. He chased after to feed upon the arterial spray.
Behind, the other children swarmed over the wire, leaving a field of dead behind them. The grown-ups retreated, firing their guns. A howl went up. The children flooded the streets, hacking at
anything that moved. They pried the boards off the windows and crawled into the houses. The gunfire intensified. So did the screaming.
The Boy drank deep from his kill.
He cried while he fed. Not from sadness, but from joy.
A new world was just beginning, and it belonged to him.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Special thanks to Doree Anne, Peter Clines, Randy Heller, and Timothy Johnson for their valuable editing support and encouragement. I’m also thankful to Agnieszka Halas for providing some useful information about the effects of blood loss on the human body.
CRAIG DiLOUIE is the author of the zombie novels The Killing Floor, The Infection, and Tooth and Nail. Learn more and read his blog at www.craigdilouie.com.
FOR MORE ON THIS AUTHOR: authors.simonandschuster.com/Craig-DiLouie
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Gallery Books
A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright ©1996, 2004, 2007 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.
Copyright © 2014 by Craig DiLouie
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Gallery Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.
First Gallery Books trade paperback edition May 2014
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Interior design by Aline Pace
Cover design bu Anna Dorfman
Cover photograph by © Simon Bradfield/E+/Getty Images
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
DiLouie, Craig, 1967— Suffer the Children : a novel / Craig DiLouie. First Gallery Books trade paperback edition.
pages cm
1. Vampires—Fiction. I. Title
PS3604.I463S84 2014
813'.6—dc23
2014000930
ISBN 978-1-4767-3963-2
ISBN 978-1-4767-3964-9 (ebook)
CONTENTS
Epigraph
Part I: We All Fall Down
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Part II: Herod’s Syndrome
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Part III: The Long Good-bye
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Part IV: This is the Way the World Ends
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Midnight
Herod
Acknowledgments
About Craig DiLouie
Suffer the Children Page 33