Devoured (The Hunger #1)

by Jason Brant

  It came for them.

  A freight train of rage and hunger.

  It burst into the lobby, too fast to make the turn, and skidded into the wall, its pursuit barely slowing.

  The soldiers unloaded in its direction, fingers pumping the triggers of their rifles, spraying bullets in wild arcs. They cried out in panic, years of training forgotten in a flash of terror.

  The mutated man jumped away from the wall, landing on all fours, and charged forward.

  Bullets chipped the floor and walls, fragments of construction churning to dust in the air.

  They hit everything but their intended target.

  It lunged at them, maw distending.

  The soldiers’ guns clicked empty.

  The creature plowed into the first man, its meat hooks for hands snapping onto his shoulders. It tore at his uniform as they fell to the ground, the beast landing on top. Layers of camouflage and flesh shredded in a blur of green and crimson.

  The man screamed as it bit down on his neck, tearing muscle and sinew. The second soldier, taller and thicker, reared back and swung the stock of his M16, connecting with the back of its head.

  It fell sideways, landing on its hands and knees, head snapping around.

  “No, wait!” The soldier took a half step back before it pounced on him. His body turned to an oozing, limp pile in seconds.

  The third soldier jammed another clip home, screaming wildly as he lifted the rifle to his shoulder.

  He never got a shot off. It clawed at his legs, gouging wide canyons in his quads. He fell to the ground, his finger jerking the trigger in spasms, punching holes in the ceiling.

  It bit into his neck as it had the first man, gnawing at and drinking from his carotid artery.

  Lance stared into the dying man’s eyes from behind the couch. Don and Liz ducked behind the furniture, arms wrapped around their heads. Liz clapped a hand over her mouth as a loud sob escaped her.

  It kept drinking, not hearing her cries.

  Lance watched as it fed on the three men, moving back and forth between the bodies. It took a bite out of one before going to the next, as if it was trying to decide which to feast upon first.

  The sight stretched Lance’s mind to its limit. People weren’t meant to see such things. His stomach twisted, wanting to spill its contents. He struggled to keep his emotions in check, knowing that his survival depended on staying as calm as possible.

  Burnt gunpowder stung at Lance’s eyes as he slowly lowered himself behind the couch, kneeling in front of Liz. She looked at him from watery, red eyes. He pointed at his chest and then at the other side of the couch, needing her to understand what he was about to do.

  They couldn’t get out of the lobby alive—not with that thing right there. It was fast and strong, taking out three armed soldiers at the same time. They had no hope of outrunning it.

  Their only chance was the loaded M16 still clutched in the dead man’s hand. Lance hadn’t fired a gun since he was a teenager, and had never even held an assault rifle, but he didn’t see any other choice. That weapon was the key to their survival. Without it, they would be the next course.

  Liz cocked her head at his pantomime.

  He went through it again, this time mimicking a gun with his hand.

  Her eyes grew large and she mouthed ‘no’ at him, grabbing his wrist. He nodded his head, pulling his arm away. They were out of options.

  He peered around the edge of the couch. It worked on the abdomen of the furthest soldier.

  Lance felt his gorge rise again and had to pause, holding a fist to his mouth. Now wasn’t the time to puke—that would come later. After he regained his composure, he inched into the open, carefully planting each foot to maintain silence.

  His adrenaline spiked, his system running all out. The sights and smells of the bodies assaulted his senses, threatening his already thinned grip on sanity.

  The creature’s jaw stopped working. Its ear, elongated and wider than a normal human’s, twitched.

  Lance froze, holding his breath, sweat stinging his eyes.

  Its head cocked to the side, perforated nose sniffing.

  Lance waited. His head swam from lack of oxygen, his lungs wanting to burst. He didn’t dare move, despite the creature not having eyes, for fear it could sense him somehow.

  It continued testing the air and Lance couldn’t take it anymore. The air burst from his lungs as he lunged for the gun.

  He stretched out, his fingers touching the barrel of the rifle as the beast reacted.

  It leapt in the air, clearing five or six feet in the blink of an eye. Its banshee wail smothered the sound of Lance bellowing incoherently.

  The dead soldier’s hand still clutched the trigger guard. Lance yanked it free, focusing on swinging the rifle around, refusing to look at the death flying through the air at him.

  There was no time to aim—he slammed the stock into his hip and yanked on the trigger. The concussive blows of the three-round burst knocked him backward, the end of the barrel angling toward the ceiling.

  It flew at him, arms spread out, snarling and wailing.

  The bullets punctured its chest and neck, peppering it in red splotches.

  Lance grunted as it landed on him, its torso oozing, limbs twitching. He squeezed the trigger again, three more bullets punching through, instinct taking over his actions.

  Its jaws clenched and relaxed twice more before it went still. The holes in its chest whistled as it exhaled its last breath.

  After staring at the ceiling for several seconds, Lance fought to push it off him, but found its weight too much. “Need a little help here.” His voice quavered.

  Concentrating on one task at a time helped him remain calm. Get free. Check for wounds. Make sure everyone is OK. To stand back and think about the implications of what just happened would have broken him.

  Don’s head poked out from behind the couch, his eyes wide. “Is it dead?”

  “I think so. It’s kind of crushing me though.”

  “Are you sure it’s not playing possum?” Don took a tentative step out.

  Lance’s hands shook as the adrenaline dumped from his body. His mind finally began to process the stupidity of what he’d just done, even as he fought to purge the thoughts. He’d killed a diseased monster that had been a man two days ago, watched as it consumed soldiers as if they were a three-course meal.

  He closed his eyes and tried to clear his thoughts. “If it’s playing possum, then we’re all fucked.”

  Don inched over, tiptoeing as if he was afraid of waking it up.

  “It’s hard to breathe under here,” Lance said. “Hurry up.”

  It reeked too. The smell reminded him of old meat left in the refrigerator too long.

  They counted to three and shoved the muscular carcass to the side. Don dry heaved as he touched the slimy skin and recoiled, wiping his hands on his pricey jacket. “Oh god.”

  Liz took cautious steps over to them as Lance got back to his feet. She stared down at the dead body. Her eyes blinked slowly, as if she expected the thing to disappear each time she opened them again.

  More shots echoed overhead as a gunfight raged on the floor above.

  “The hospital is FUBAR.” Lance pawed at the blood staining his shirt, the doctor’s admonition about staying away from the bodily fluids of the infected hitting home. “If we can get through the parking garage, we might be able to get to Liz’s car.”

  Neither Liz nor Don responded. Don put a hand on Liz’s shoulder. “Are you OK?”

  “That’s a stupid question. Look at this! How could anyone be OK at a time like this?”

  Lance watched them, hating that another man could comfort his wife better than he could. “Is anyone listening to me?”

  “I hear you,” Don said, though he continued to look at Liz. “But I want to make sure Liz is still with us.” He stepped closer to her.

  Suspicion settled in the pit of Lance’s stomach. Was Don making a pass at his wife
, right in front of him? At a time like this? There was a dead monster on the floor.

  “Just get me out of here.” Liz continued to stare at the diseased man. “And what is FUBAR?”

  “Fucked up beyond all recognition.” Lance grabbed an extra ammunition clip from one of the soldier’s bodies, gritting his teeth, pretending he couldn’t see the vacant stare in the dead man’s eyes. The idea that he would steal bullets from a corpse would have been asinine only yesterday. Now it was just the next logical step in survival.

  He handed the clip to Don because his hospital gown wasn’t exactly utilitarian. “Stay close and keep quiet.”

  They stepped over the bodies and moved to the row of glass doors that led to the garage. The automatic sensors didn’t work, so they pried them open. Lance stood between the doors, keeping them from closing, as Don and Liz ducked under his arm and stepped through.

  Frightened screams came from behind them. Lance held his position, squinting through the lobby, waiting for movement of some kind.

  “What are you doing?” Don asked.

  “Someone’s screaming back there.”

  “I hear them, but what are you doing? You said it yourself—we need to get out of here.”

  Lance bit back a snarky comment. “You wouldn’t want me to leave you here, so shut up for a second.”

  They listened, every breath that escaped them thunderous in the silence.

  An infant cried out.

  Lance turned back to Don, handing over the rifle. “Here. I’ll meet you guys on the first floor, by the exit. Don’t let any of the soldiers see you. I can’t tell if they’re on our side or not.”

  Don looked at the gun like it might bite him. “I don’t know how to use this thing.”

  “You see the barrel with the hole in it? That’s the dangerous end. Point and pull the trigger. Be judicious with your shots, or you’ll blow through all of your ammo.”

  “What are you doing?” Liz asked. “Please tell me you aren’t going back in there.”

  “I am. Just meet me down by the exit.”

  “Lance Arthur York, you will not—”

  Lance stepped backward into the lobby, letting the doors slide shut, cutting her off. Her mouth continued to work on the other side of the glass, but her words were muffled and unintelligible. Lance didn’t even try to hide the grin that spread across his face.

  She didn’t use his full name often, saving it for when she needed to give him a massive raft of shit. The last thing he wanted to hear just then was a lecture. He gave them a wave and pointed into the overpass beyond, mouthing ‘go’.

  After grabbing another rifle from the floor, and a clip from the partially devoured soldier, Lance plodded his way across the lobby, summoning what little courage he could. His body was on sensory overload, the violence and mutation surrounding him assaulting his mind like a night terror.

  The baby wailed again as he approached the intersection of the hallways. A woman tried to hush the child, the cries muffling as if by hand or pacifier.

  More gunfire rang out overhead.

  Lance flattened against the wall and peered around the corner. The hallway was empty, save the blood on the floor.

  What the hell am I doing? I’m no hero. Hell, I can’t even hold a job.

  The crying stopped as he moved into the hall, crouching low, staying close to the right side. He glanced in the first room, seeing nothing, and continued on.

  “Hello?” he whispered.

  No one answered.

  The next room was also empty, the bed knocked on its side, sheets strewn across the floor.

  Where did all the soldiers go?

  He crossed to the other side of the hall, stepping carefully so his bare feet wouldn’t slap at the floor. The light in the third room was turned off. Lance stood in the doorway for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness within.

  He started to move on when smothered sounds came from inside the darkened area. A couch on the other side of the room sat in front of the corner, a large gap behind it. He stepped inside, rifle raised, goose bumps prickling out on his arms, fear spiking.

  The sound came again, like someone struggling to breathe.

  Unable to force himself to go any further, Lance stopped by the bed. “Is someone in here? Behind the couch? I came to help.”

  A woman’s face inched up from behind the cushions, her brown hair disheveled and knotty. She peered at Lance from swollen, red, fearful eyes. “Who are you?”

  “Just someone trying to get the hell out of the hospital.”

  “Why do you have a machine gun?”

  He looked at the weapon in his hands. “I took it off one of the soldiers down the hall.”

  “You killed him?”

  “No, he was already dead.”

  “One of those things got him?”

  Lance nodded. “Yeah.” He gestured for her to come out. “I’ll take you to the parking garage—I have friends waiting out there for me.”

  She watched him for several seconds, appraising him. “Promise you won’t hurt us?”

  “If I wanted to hurt you, I would have done it already. What’s your name?”

  “Ashlee.”

  “What’s the baby’s name?”

  “Theodore.” She stood up then, a bundle of blankets held in her arms. Her hand covered the child’s mouth, his face contorted in anger.

  “Let’s get Teddy out of here. You can’t let him cry though, OK? If those things hear us…”

  Lance walked to the couch and pulled the end of it away from the wall, letting Ashlee slink around it. She wore a t-shirt and torn jeans. Her light brown hair rested on her shoulders, sweat wetting the roots. Lance couldn’t tell if she was even old enough to drink.

  The baby had no hair and large, pissed off eyes. Judging from the few extra pounds that Ashlee still carried around her hips and midsection, Theodore was little more than a newborn.

  She caught him looking down at her child and turned him away.

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” Lance said. “How old is he?”

  “Five weeks.”

  Shit.

  The idea of sneaking through the halls with such a young baby made Lance’s blood pressure spike.

  Pounding boots approached the door. Lance ducked behind the bed, pulling at Ashlee’s shoulder. She dropped down as a group of soldiers stormed by the door, not slowing to look in the room as they ran past.

  One of them said something about an evacuation.

  Lance wiped sweat from his eyes and stood up slowly, waiting until he couldn’t hear the men anymore. He went back to the door and made sure it was clear before motioning for her to follow him.

  He kept his thoughts to himself, not wanting to worry Ashlee any more than necessary, but his concern over the idea of an evacuation gnawed at him. If they were evacuating, why weren’t they checking the rooms for patients?

  They went back to the lobby, flinching every time a gun went off somewhere nearby. Sobs hitched Ashlee’s shoulders. Teddy cried against his mother’s hand.

  “Close your eyes,” Lance said as they walked past the reception desk.

  “What? Why?”

  “There are dead bodies by the doorway. You don’t want to see them, trust me.”

  She started to argue with him when she caught a glimpse of the dead creature on the floor. Her eyes slammed shut, face scrunched. “Don’t let me fall.”

  “I won’t.” He guided them around the deceased in a wide arc, avoiding congealing blood on the floor. The smell had worsened in the few minutes he was gone and the entire room reeked of spoiled meat.

  He angled her toward the doors, warning her not to turn around while he pried the exit open again. “Go through.”

  After she went by, Lance cast one last glimpse into the hospital, hoping he was making the right decision.

  Death held sway in the building—but what waited for them outside?

  Chapter 7