His fear grows and festers like a wound left untreated with the panic that adds a new scent to the air. The first group reaches him, dislodging the arm that was holding the object that took two from us. The screams renew with such a volume that all self-restraint is lost. It is stripped from us with such force that not even the nagging whispers we once held can echo over the need. This need that we can no longer fight, but are slaves to and we obey.
With one mind. With one purpose. With one thought. We obey. They fall before us, under us, all around us with our attacks, like fragile toys to a toddler. Sweet syrup sprays against walls. It arches, forming fine modern art before streaking its way back to the ground. It paints the floor from our preys’ deaths with each heart that slows under our hungry mouths and brutal hands. We claim this room with our new signatures and when the screaming finally stops, the bliss begins. Mindless, peaceful bliss.
CHAPTER 9
With the pain now a dull throb, I follow those that a part of me remembers around the room. Sounds flash like lightening when a part of me that I no longer enable recognizes faces or patterns worn around me. The same flash of recognition sparks on faces as I walk by. There is no emotion tied to the responses. Just the fact that they are there. I hold no remorse for the one who belongs to the sound of April, who lies as still as the discarded prey now on the painted floor. I hold no joy for the boy that walks beside me even if his blue cloth streak on his arm spurs the whispers again. We walk together not out of a bond of emotions, but for protection with exploration.
A part of us knows, even with the sheer number of us now roaming, that we are the enemy. We are the enemy to those that screamed at the sight of us, providing us with clues that we have stored for future use and for our survival. There is something that sets us apart from those that look like us, but fear us. A something that causes them to fight us with more than just the need for their own survival. They are more than just food for us and we are more than just death for them.
We explore, as a group, the new pluses and minuses of our bodies. For some of us, movements are slower. Legs slide, more than glide, across the floor with the new language our brains speak. Some move like shadows, creeping with ease and high anxieties. Eyes either stare ahead or continue to scan for movements around them. There seems to be a defining difference in us. As if some have lost a “spark” or never contained it to begin with and now it is only more obvious.
Those without “the spark” are quickly left behind in their own groups. They are ignored by those of us who see them as a “weak link”, making them a future threat. A few of the most obvious “weak links” are brutally taken down by the shadows.
There is no tasting of their flesh or exploitation of their deaths. They are ended abruptly and suddenly without so much as a pause of a thought to the action. I feel no remorse for them either.
My body responds well to my thoughts. My fingers tear when I need them to, reaching the depths of the hot, hidden meat encased in the fragile bones of my prey. My teeth clamp and shred flesh and muscles alike, like candy flavored wrappings. The only difference between those that walk with me in this new style of exploration and myself is the foot that hinders me.
It falters with my full weight, forcing me to move with more effort when stalking. There is a whisper from the dark corner of my mind with a reason for it, but it never fully reaches me. I don’t really need it to. There is no pain connected to the failing body part and I have adapted with the loss of limb. I have learned how to deal with the limitations placed on that side of my body and it is no more of a detour to death than a moment of time is to a life.
With our hungers now fed, most of us have stopped our motions and explorations. We rest, letting our minds shut down in some basic understanding of how to store the fuel to power our bodies that is being converted. My mind doesn’t so much as wander but becomes mute.
I am still aware of those around me. I am just not invested in their activities anymore. There is no need for me to fill the time. I simply wait for whatever may be next like a bird in a cage with a blanket thrown over it to sleep.
CHAPTER 10
How long I have stood here in my muted existence, I don’t know. I hold no value in time or have anything to associate with its passing. All that marks the span of time now is the moments between bliss and pain and the pain is building.
It snakes into my awareness, stirring my mind into a higher level of “awake”. The blanket is being drawn away slowly like a parting curtain on a stage show. The actors are coming into focus and they are feeling the same stirrings as me. The hunger is back and it brings suffering.
The pain is a sharp twisting of pangs like contorting muscle cramps. The cramps clench and spread through my body before releasing me from their grasps, only to clamp down again. Each clamp tightens deeper into me. With each retreat of the clenching that rolls over me, pain and anger expand in the space left.
A nagging need to destroy something filters through every thought. The only way to ease this torment is to feed. I have to fill my mouth and throat with the death of something. Something that is warm and flowing hotly down my throat. I must take life into me to fuel my own. It is not a matter of enjoyment of the act just the satisfaction of the result.
My eyes scan the room with my body still locked tight from movement. I don’t want to startle any prey that may be near me with a sudden movement. It is better to stay frozen, moving only my eyes until I find what my body is desiring. This makes sense to some part of me that I have never known. This scares the part of me that is still trying to call out in despair over what I am learning.
A few have fallen on the broken shells that still hold warmth in their depths. The blood is thick and dark. I know this means there is not enough warmth to entice me to join them. Their torment is greater than mine. I have not sunk to their depths of desperation yet, reducing me to their needs. I haven’t yet, but with each mounting cramp, I may still.
With nothing to spook by my presence, my mind releases my body from its cage. Like an ocean wave, we being to walk again with some hope of finding something to hunt. We are less animated now with less fuel for our bodies.
The weaker ones drag along red walls coated like a candy apple, smearing the sweet icing with their bodies. The “shadows” are still, watching us with eyes that catalog every one of our movements. Even to me, their actions send a warning of apprehension for reasons I can’t label. It is enough for me to navigate my path further from them and their motives of survival of the fittest.
A whimpering of a sound comes to me as I pass one huddled over a carcass. She is pulling thick meat from deep inside the cage of bones that causes a wet sloshing sound. There is something about the shading of the shirt she wears that pulls my eyes and a soft caress of a whisper.
Charlotte I hear from a hidden collection of knowledge.
Charlotte and Schinder it displays for me in meaningless sounds.
Charlotte feeds with desperation and almost mewing sounds. Her needs are overriding what our minds understand. There is no life to feed from left to this cold casing. The blood is already a thick black shading, not the red shade of warmth that fresh prey holds. The darker the blood, the colder the meat. The blood must be red. It just has to be.
My body locks with a clue of something new being near. Something that I was not aware of just moments ago has pulled us all into a hunting stance. Our eyes scan the area while our bodies remain still, afraid of missing a chance to feed. It is a soft sound. A gentle sound that opens up a memory for me. It is not so much a memory as a clue to guide my hunt. It is a hint helping me locate my prey. A simple picture of something that is linked to the sound and I know where to find it.
In unison, our eyes swing to the metal doors of the room. Doors that we have forgotten about without the need to open them. Until now that is. Now, standing there in the small gap of space is prey. Prey that stares back at us with
the same surprise we have. It is shocked to find so many of us watching it and we are shocked by the discovery of an exit. An exit that may lead us to more food and greater bliss. It is a way out of this prison and into the world beyond.
Once again, we are a sea of destruction. The “shadows” are the first to move like foam of a wave that hits the beach first. We are the crest that follows, with great force, directly behind. Behind us, are the weaker ones, but all together we form an army of hunger and dark desires that propels us forward into the madness that now overtakes us.
There are two that rush from us. One younger, of our ages, sun spun blonde hair and delicate ivory skin that turns my mouth into a wet cavern of desires. The other is the very meaning of her opposite. She is older and of dark hair and fills my senses with an imagined taste of smoky spices. The second one is shouting sounds of fear that spur my hunger into a dark void of a frenzy but the blonde has stopped moving a few feet from behind the door.
The space left by the open doors is small and confined. It is a narrow mouth of escape until its imaginary jaws are worked open from the sheer force of our numbers. I hear our bodies expressing our excitement with attempts of vocal exclamations but it is disjointed and muddled. It is nothing as eloquent as the sounds that my mind associates with the ones I hold recognition for, nor is it as punctuating as the sounds coming from ahead of us. It is an almost mockery of an attempt to communicate, but it frees the pent up aggression just the same. The sounds also seem to stir a deep level of panic in our prey. Panic that will pump through the heated blood, giving the meat an added flavor for us to enjoy. All we must do is reach the meat.
The blonde is no longer responding to the sounds from the older brunette. She is planted to the spot in the hallway that is losing the distance between us. Her head is turned away from her impending doom, yet it does not lessen our hunger for her. She might not be fueling my excitement, but she will be fuel nonetheless.
Another memory comes to mind, but the hunger pushes it away before I can take real notice. The boy that now comes into view, his spark I can’t extinguish. It is more than just sounds that trigger this spark. I have knowledge of him. Almost moments of images that try to piece themselves together in my mind.
Conroy. He is Conroy, a sound I know. A sound that links the rest of them together.
Conroy. Ashley. Helena. These are the three before me now. Three that belong to another time and another life.
It stirs my curiosity at seeing him before me now and yet back then at the same time in my mind. Unfortunately, the curiosity does not match the level of interest I hold to reach the bliss again. The bliss that is the only way for me to remove the feelings of my pain and fulfill the cravings that propel my actions. Curiosity that is easily forgotten as he sinks back to only being food. He, like the other two, is only a way to stop the torment.
The first wave has reached the first target. The screams that fill the air around me are not hers, but those of the other. The brunette, Helena, screams with a raw emotion as we overtake our meal.
We tear into her so fast with our greed that there is no time for any screams from Ashley beneath our flesh-raping hands and the tearing of tiny, pointed teeth. It is a total destruction to her body with so many of us competing to gather even the smallest of handfuls. The fragile casing is torn asunder, coating the walls with our greed.
Soon, just as every time before, our new toy breaks under our enjoyment and the red turns black, the meat turns cold, and my interest is no longer on being a competitor for one, but the chance to dine on a whole. A whole that is now running away.
CHAPTER 11
I am no longer curious about the knowledge of past interactions with the boy or his sisters. I don’t care how I hold such images of him. All I want to know right now is how his flesh feels under my fingers when I pull it apart. I want to know the heat of the temperature his heart beats and the rhythm of how it pumps. My curiosity is now over his soft candy center and his sweet liquid filling.
Which flavor will his fear give it?
Will it be a thrilling amber spice with an exotic tingle? Will it pour hotter and faster from him with the increased beating of his heart? Or will it hold hints of garlic and spices from the earth, catering to a more basic nature? All I have to do is find him to find all of these answers and perhaps even more.
I separate from the sea like a lone ripple, casting myself outwards of the inner circle. My mind has already crawled back inside a crate, locking the pain away so that I may focus on the hunt. A “shadow’s” eyes watch me while his hands work independent from his attention. They seem to automatically know where to reach, bringing cupped handfuls to his mouth without any need for coaching from his senses. I adjust my path so that I am not in the reach of those all knowing hands. Only once his eyes have reached the extent of their range does my mind ease down and truly focus on finding my answers. The answers a little boy holds buried inside him like a treasured secret.
Their retreat echoes off the plaster walls making the source difficult to locate with so many returns of the vibrations. The brunette’s path is easier to follow. As if she has left me a trail of clues, I can smell the smoke that clings to her, giving me a hint of her flavoring. Like a seductress wears perfume to lure her victims to her, this one is wearing the scent to become a victim. My mind projects a path for me to take and I follow it. Life is no longer about the many questions or the over thinking of actions. I just do. If I am well fed, I rest. If something hurts, I feed it. If something moves, I kill it. Any deeper needs than that, I have none.
The pain is building to a blinding pressure of sharp stabbing and tearing. Each cramp feels to be shredding a thick piece of me, as if I should be leaving parts behind me as I travel. My body slows from the agony it causes even as my mind presses me forward. This new part of me knows something that I do not being so lost in this haze of pain. I am about to discover my answers.
“Margaret?” It is a small voice. An almost whisper with fear holding the volume at bay. My body reacts the way it has become trained to do.
I become immobile, only my eyes roll slowly to the source of the sound, keeping my motions from giving away my intentions. My foot even pauses in mid-step, waiting to see if the sound will repeat itself.
“Margaret?” It comes again, a little bolder this time, lured into the safety net of my inactions. I softly reposition myself to pivot in his direction, stalking the sound of him so that I will be ready for any attempt of escape again. My body pulls into itself, hiding the truth of me and the threat of the danger I present. My hair sways even with the effort of looking harmless, adding its own illusion of safety to my performance.
The brunette, once again, ruins our game. I hear her voice hiss a warning to him. It will pull him from me and I will lose my chance. My body clenches with the anger over her actions and the pain of my hunger. I won’t lose him again, and if she gets in the way, then she too can feed my suffering.
His head turns away as mine turns, too. It is a perfect moment in time for a hunter and its prey, keeping the prey safe and secure in its little trap of peace. He is only a few wide steps from me. I can smell his soft flesh. It floats to me with a trail of mouth-watering aroma blended together with the smell of him and the smell of his clothing. Hunger combats my mind’s calm, rational plan for his murder. It flashes pictures inside my head of how to proceed. It shows me how to obtain my goals and I obey. I have no deeper needs than that.
My fingers tighten and hook into the perfect tearing weapons to shred his flesh. My body becomes motivated and pitches forward, forgetting my unresponsive leg for a brief moment. A moment that motivates her with needs of her own. We are both in a race to reach the boy for different reasons. I want his death. She wants his life. For one to become the winner, the other has to become the loser.
He never saw me. Nor did he feel the mere space of air that my hand missed him, but she did. Her panic is
a musky perfume with her smoky under tones. She might not be the seductress she intended, but she seduces my senses all the same. I am so impassioned by her scent, and what it whispers to my tongue, that I do not grow angry when she steals him from me. It only adds to the game now. I originally set out to find him, now my mouth is watering for her.
I do not run after them as I watch her run from me. I smile to the boy that now stares at me over her shoulder, letting him know that I am coming. His wide eyes know that I am coming.
Run if you like, but I am coming.
She slips rounding the first corner and I know she will not get far.
Run. Run as fast as you can. Tire yourself out. Find a spot to hide, thinking you are safe from me and from your death. My body does not need to rest or recover. I will not grow tired. I will find you. So run, run until your heart gives out, because I am coming.
CHAPTER 12
It didn’t take long for the others to catch up to me. The “shadows” crept into the space with silent movements and watching eyes. Their eyes being the only acknowledgment of me with their slow stare and a general assessment of my actions. They are aware that while they hung back for one, I was hunting two. With what part of me accepts as respect, they do not pass my steady pace as they easily could. Instead, we keep the pace of the group with eye contact and silent communication as we continue in our hunt.
The dark part of me that enjoys the sensation of fear in my victims, knows that the same sensation could be used against me if I allow those now crowded around me to sense it. A blank resolve to stay calm settles over me because no one understands the hunt better than the hunters.
Her scent is easy to follow. It is as if it tugs on me to come forward with ghostly fingers, leading me straight to her death. Half of me is elated with how easy this is proving to be. Another half of myself is disappointed in the simple foundation of the game. For it to end in such an uneventful trend, yet again, leaves me feeling robbed of a victory that I do not understand.
The Risen (Book 2): Margaret Page 5