I turn, leaving the old lady to eat her fill. Caught between the tile and the door. My intestine tears as I push back through the door.
Now unburdened. I force myself to my feet. Leaning against the wall, I limp in the direction that the kids had fled. With every step the buzzing returns. As the bees get louder, clear thought is pushed back.
A cry escapes my throat. A last call for help. But I’m sure that what the kids hear are as mutilated as I look.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
I turn into a short hall leading to a white metal door with the word Crematorium painted in large black letters across the center. On the other side of the door, I hear frightened, muffled, voices.
‘Help me!’ I cry. But it only comes out as a garbled moan.
Slapping the door with the open palm of my hand. The girl inside screams in response.
Down the hall, I hear a body tumbling down the stairs. A deep male voice, filled with concern, follows. The buzzing in my brain prevents me from understanding what was being said. But the urge to feed pulls me back down the hall.
I take a step, and the skin holding my ankle together finally gives. I crash against the wall, sliding down to the floor. I can see bone poking through the ragged tear. My foot is useless, but it doesn’t hurt as I know it should.
A smell hits me. I’m not sure what it is. But it pulls at my mind. Crawling forward, I come around the corner to see a body laying at the bottom of the stairs.
A man comes down the stairs in a hurry. His attention focused on the man lying on the floor. I can hear concern in his voice, even though I cannot understand what he is saying.
I need to get to my feet before he knows that I’m here. Slowly, I push myself to my knees. Then to my feet. My broken ankle makes it impossible to stand upright, so I lean against the wall.
As I start down the hall. The dead man lying on the floor moves. Surprised by the sudden movement, the other man grabs his shoulders trying to control him.
The door on the end of the hall opens, and the man who had his nose buried in a file folder, appears. Not noticing me, he rushes down the hall. Intentions to help go awry, as the dead man flings the older gentleman off, and he lunges forward. In a devastating bite, he tears into the young mans outstretched hand.
Landing hard against the wall. The older man crashes to the floor. Without a moment’s hesitation, he gets to his feet and immediately starts to force the dead man down to the floor.
Hungrily, I move down the hall. Without knowing it, I brush against the button for the elevator. As I come across the door, it slides open. Unbalanced, I fall in and before I can get up, the door promptly closes. Set to automatically rise to the next floor, it goes into motion.
By the time the elevator reaches the first floor, I’m on my feet. The bell dings, and the door opens, revealing the hallway leading to the loading docks.
The smell of the living pulls me out. I stagger into the hall. Stepping on my intestine as the door begins to shut again. As best as I can. I try to get out of the way. But I don’t have the coordination that I did when alive.
The door grabs my intestine, grinding it into the tracks. The elevator starts for the second floor, and I feel what intestine I have left being dragged up the shaft.
My intestine goes taunt, and my stomach tares. Stomach acid spills out of the ragged hole. Leaving a trail of gore up the door.
I hear the sharp burst from a car horn and turn towards the dock. I don’t think. My body automatically staggers forward, and I push through the door. On the loading dock, the sun hits my face. But I can’t feel its warm embrace.
Another blat from a car horn brings my attention towards the road on the other side of the chain-link fence that encloses the backlot. Smoke pouring from its tail pipe, a car races down the street. Loud music blares from open windows as if nothing is wrong with the world.
A scream rips through the sky. I’m not sure where the sound is coming from. But my head automatically snaps to the north.
I head down the ramp and across the blacktop. Leaving a trail of blood behind as I reach the gate in the back. My humanity is now at the precipice; I don’t know how much longer I will be myself instead of this monster that is taking over. Now all I want to do is feed.
Power surges as a transformer down the street blows in a blinding flash of light and a shower of sparks.
Beside me, the lock on the gate disengages as the power fails across the block. Alarms go off in nearby businesses as backup power supplies come online.
I push against the gate. It rolls back a foot and a half, then sticks. I look at the gap. There’s just enough room for me to slip through. I put my back to the post and try to pry my way out of the lot. The locking mechanism snags just under my ribcage.
Going twice the speed limit, a small beat up Toyota passes me. In the split second that it takes for the car to drive by. I see the frightened face of the driver. Tears are streaming down her cheeks, surrounded by a pile of dishwater blonde hair held up by hurriedly placed clips.
Seeing me, her eyes pull away from the road, and she screams. Her foot slips off the gas, and slams onto the break. Losing control, the car swerves, popping over the curb, and across the sidewalk. Chain-link crumples under the weight of the car as it comes to a jolting stop against a black BMW parked in a nearby stall. The woman’s head makes contact with the steering wheel, stunning her.
The jolt knocks me free from the lock. I hear a rib crack, and what air is left in my lungs seeps from a small gash. Crashing to the sidewalk, I get a face full of grit.
With smoke billowing under the crumpled hood of the car, the woman comes too. She’s trapped in her seat from the gearshift which had twisted on impact, lancing into her thigh.
Struggling in her seat, she screams for help. Her voice cuts into my skull. Making the buzzing grow until everything drops away, and all I can see is my next meal. With every step, I feel the bees crawling over my brain. Their feet pounding on nerve endings. And I know, when I taste her flesh, all the buzzing will stop.
I reach the car. Looking through the passenger window. I see the woman frantically trying to claw her way free. She opens the driver side door, and falls partially out, striking a shoulder against the sidewalk. But the gearshift is still holding her against the seat. A wail of pain rips from her throat as muscle tears, blood spurting from the wound.
Slapping the passenger window, I press my face against the glass.
What’s left of my rational mind screams, ‘What the fuck are you doing?’ But the monster inside won’t stop. I chew at the glass, trying to eat my way through. My hand hits the door handle.
I shove my hand behind the curved handle. Using my other hand, I pound on the button. I feel bones crack as the button moves, and the door pops open.
I fight to open the door. It’s heavy, and it’s not helping that I can’t keep upright on my mashed ankle. I shove my broken fingers around the doorframe, and then my arm. The door bounces against my shoulder, and the hard edge jabs me right behind the ear, cutting deep. But I don’t feel a thing as I push the door all the way open.
From the corner of her eye, the woman sees movement. At first, she thinks help is here. But when she gets a good look at my face. She goes into hysterics, screaming, and beating at her leg to get free.
I fall into the car. Coming across the passenger seat, my feet leave the ground. With no weight to keep the door open, it swings shut, catching my broken ankle. I strike my chest on the bent gearshift. The woman screams again as the metal rod moves deeper into her leg. My head bounces off her hip, and I feel her fists start to pound against me.
My jaw snaps at her. But it’s not her fingers that I want to chew on. What I want, what I need, is resting in her skull. I’m stuck fast, and to get to her brain I need her back in the car.
I grab at the T-shirt she’s wearing. My fingers won’t to cooperate. They tangle in the cloth, and the strap of her bra. Pulling my hands back. I strain forward, opening my mouth.
With her face now mere inches away. She twists to get away. But I’m too tangled in her shirt.
She slams the palm of her hand against my forehead. Teeth snapping, I try to bite at her wrists.
A strong sounding, ‘Wumph,’ comes from the engine, and acid-black smoke billows from under the dash. The woman starts to choke on it. Her breathing quickly turning ragged, and she begins the fight to either breathe, or get away from me.
There’s a crackle of heat. I don’t feel it. But she does, as a burst of yellow flame reaches under the dash, biting at her ankles.
Pressing one hand against my forehead. She begins to frantically slap with the other at the cuffs of her jeans as they begin to smolder.
My skin starts to sizzle as flames begin to devour my bloodstained clothing.
Thick black smoke pours from the motor, and the woman succumbs to it as her lungs burn. No longer able to find the strength to keep me at bay. Her hand slips from my forehead.
As she passes out. I pull her close. Her hair falling over my face. If I were still alive, I would have been thrilled by her closeness. Instead, my hunger grows. I open my jaws and dig into her skull.
Before I finally get the relief that I can only have by devouring her flesh. The gas in the car finally ignites in a booming shockwave that blows all the windows out. The passenger door burst outward. Taking my legs with it. Flames, and bits of the dashboard, bite into me.
As my brain begins to boil. I find that my hands are empty. Taking the brunt of the explosion. The woman had disintegrated in the blast. Leaving me to hold a framework of bones, chard flesh, and ragged bits of clothing.
The buzzing grows as I bite down on her chard bits. Then all is gone. The world goes black, and I am cast in a void never getting to taste the one thing that the living dead needs to survive.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Rushing along the loading dock, Mr. Briggs pushed his way through the double doors. Sensors caught his movement, and the florescent lights buzzed to life. Streaks of blood marred the walls stretching down the hallway towards the stairs.
Concern for his grandson’s welfare rose in his chest. It was clear that Brice needed help. But a voice in the back of his mind screamed that his grandson was gone. He had no pulse. His heart was no longer beating. Then again, he could have made a mistake in his rush to help and now Brice was wandering around here somewhere, needing help.
A woman’s scream drifted up from the stairs. Mr. Briggs did not recognize the voice as being either Jennifer, or Samantha. So, it could only belong to one of the girls on the school tour.
The sound of someone tumbling down the stairs set Mr. Briggs in motion. He dashed down the hall, skidding to a stop at the top step. The soles of his shoes slid on a smear of blood, making him grab for the wall so he did not fall down the stairwell.
Looking down the steps, Mr. Briggs saw a streak of blood stretching down the steps. Another long splash of red lined the wall just below the railing. At the bottom of the steps Brice lay on a short landing.
Mr. Briggs watched as his grandson slowly moved an arm, and shook his head as if he had just knocked himself for a loop.
“Brice don’t move!” Mr. Briggs cautioned, as he started down the steps, trying not to step in the wandering spill of blood.
As he reached the mid-point in the stairwell. Brice rolled off the landing, down the last few steps to the hallway.
“Brice, stop!” Mr. Briggs said, taking the last half of the stairwell in three strides.
Brice lay unmoving on the cold floor as Mr. Briggs dropped to his knees as he came off the last step. Taking his grandson by the shoulders, he caught sight of a dark figure standing down the hallway near the crematorium.
A pain filled gasp came from Brice as he tried to move. Knowing that Brice would only injure himself further if he tried to get up, Mr. Briggs forced his grandson back down to the tiles. “Stay still,”
“Somebody help!” Mr. Briggs called out, keeping a firm grip on Brice as he started to struggle. For being injured, his grandson’s strength had not diminished.
The door to the embalming room opened and Ashley Price stepped out. Seeing his employer perched over his grandson. Ashley questioned, “Mr. Briggs?”
“Help me,” Mr. Briggs struggled to say, as Brice began to thrash his head about, letting out a gurgling growl.
Ashley rushed down the hall. “Is he having a seizure?”
“He’s delirious,” Mr. Briggs replied, struggling to keep Brice on the floor.
Dropping to his knees, Ashley grabbed one of Brice’s thrashing arms. Twisting his head, Brice opened his mouth and snapped at Ashley. Missing his hand by a fraction of an inch. With a yelp, Ashley jumped back letting go of Brice’s arm.
“Hold his arms!” Mr. Briggs demanded.
With shaky hands, Ashley moved back to grab Brice. “Brice, it’s me Ashley. Calm down.”
Struggling, Mr. Briggs lost grip on Brice’s shoulders. Quickly his grandson came up on his knees, knocking his grandfather against the wall.
Lunging forward, Brice wrapped a hand around Ashley’s throat. While the other slid inside his jacket catching just under his armpit.
Slapping a hand against Brice’s forehead. Ashley tried to keep his co-worker away. Brice twisted his head to the left, Ashley’s hand slipped allowing Brice to bite down on the soft pad just below Ashley’s thumb. Flesh ripped, tendons popped, and muscle pealed from bone. Blood squirted from severed veins as Brice tore a mouthful away.
Stunned, the salesman fell back against the wall.
Mr. Briggs landed a forearm across the back of Brice’s head. The chunk of Ashley’s hand popped from his grandson’s mouth as he crashed to the floor. Sure that the blow would have knocked his grandson out. Mr. Briggs was shocked to see Brice started to climb up Ashley’s legs. Frozen in fear, Ashley could only watch as Brice grabbed his damaged hand and began to gnaw on it.
Grabbing a handful of Brice’s hair. Mr. Briggs rose to his feet trying to pull Brice off of the injured salesman. His grandson was stronger than he seemed. Making Mr. Briggs pull with all of his strength.
Ashley’s hand still trapped between his teeth. Brice’s head bent backwards, tendons stretching. Eyes meeting, Brice did not show any signs that he recognized his grandfather, or that he was going to stop his mad attack.
With a wet slurp, Ashley’s hand slipped out of Brice’s mouth. Blood poured from the ravaged hand as Ashley fainted, slumping down the wall to the floor.
“Damn it Brice, stop!!” Mr. Briggs shouted, as his grandson twisted back and forth.
It was clear that he was not going to stop. Bloodlust was written across his face. Knowing that he had to immobilize Brice. Mr. Briggs put a knee into the center of his back, driving him to the floor.
Brice continued to fight as Mr. Briggs drove his grandson’s head into the tiles. Sounding like a coconut cracking, a bloom of blood appeared under Brice’s head spreading across the cold tiles. On the third strike, Brice stopped fighting and his hands dropped to the floor.
For a long moment, Mr. Briggs held Brice against the floor. Ready to slam his head again if needed.
Getting to his feet, Mr. Briggs felt his heart pounding in his chest. Looking at his still grandson, he had no idea why he would act this way. Some kind of drug must have overtaken his senses, driving him mad.
“Ashley?” Mr. Briggs said, stepping over Brice.
Kneeling, he patted the salesman’s cheek to get him to come around. His skin was ashen colored, and it was hard to tell just how much blood he had lost for the growing pool on between them was a mix of Ashley’s and what was seeping from Brice’s skull.
Knowing that he had to get medical attention for Ashley. Mr. Briggs reached under the salesman’s arms and hefted him up. He
did his best to half carry, half drag, the young man back to the embalming room. Blood trailing behind them, Mr. Briggs pushed his way into the dark room.
“Almost there,” Mr. Briggs grunted, trying his best to hold onto Ashley.
The door swung shut and after six struggling steps, they bounced up against the stainless-steel embalming table.
“Up we go,” Mr. Briggs said, straining to push Ashley onto the table.
Collapsing across the table, Ashley’s head and left arm hung over the side of the table as Mr. Briggs tried to center him.
White cupboards lined the wall, holding all of the equipment needed of embalming. Knowing the layout by heart, Mr. Briggs walked to the first cupboard and took a white towel from a stack of six. Leaving the door open, he pulled opened the second drawer to his right, and took out a pair of blunt nose scissors from a tray holding many more. Snipping the edge of the towel, he ripped a three-inch-wide strip from the rest.
Tucking the towel under his arm. Mr. Briggs moved back to the table. Taking Ashley’s ravaged hand, he wrapped the makeshift bandage around it. Tying it tight, he lay Ashley’s hand across his chest, then took his other hand and laid it on top to keep the injured hand in place.
He then walked across the room to Raymond’s office. Grabbing the phone off of the desk, he punched in 911. The line rang twice, then clicked over to the automated system. As the mechanically reproduced voice came on, Mr. Briggs slammed the handset back onto its lever, disconnecting the call.
Frustrated, he turned back to the embalming room. Taking a step towards the door, he stopped as he saw Brice leaning over Ashley’s body. His grandson’s face buried deep into the salesman’s throat. Blood rolled across the table, spilling into the trough around the edges of the table.
Oblivious to his grandfather’s presence. Brice ripped chunks of Ashley’s esophagus away. Chewing greedily, he went in for more.
Taking a step back, Mr. Briggs closed the office door. Moving around the desk, he pushed it across the room blocking the door. He knew that if Brice wanted in, there would be no stopping him. But it would take some effort to do so.
Chicago Undead (Books 3-4): Encounters Page 8