The Hunger (Book 5): Decayed

by Brant, Jason

  “Great.”

  “No one told you to talk.” Earl’s voice came from just behind him, close enough that Lance could feel his warm breath. He smelled cigarettes.

  For a second, Lance considered throwing an elbow at Earl’s face, but decided against it. If Cass hadn’t seen Greg, or whoever it was following them, then attempting to disarm Earl and shoot their way out of there would have been their best bet.

  But now they had another chance, small as it might be.

  They rounded the corner of the bookshop, pausing when they took in the scene before them. The Bandits’ moving van was parked in the middle of the street, a handful of men surrounding it. Higgins sat on the back bumper, lighting a cigar. A half-empty bottle of whiskey set on the bumper to his right.

  Magnus King stood beside him, his hands animated in wild arcs as he jabbered at Higgins. A long bandage covered one of his cheeks, a red splotch soaked through it.

  King’s harem of moronic women waited a few feet away, huddled together in the cold, shivering and whispering to one another. The men of the weird sex cult sat on a curb behind them, arms wrapped around their knees, looking cold and miserable.

  None of King’s people were armed, though all of Higgins’ men had at least a pistol on them. Most carried a rifle or shotgun of some kind. Two smirked as they took in Lance and Cass, their glee evident as they whistled and catcalled.

  Higgins held up a hand to silence King when he spotted them. Pushing away from the bumper, he stood, puffing smoke through his nostrils.

  Lance wondered why so many assholes liked cigars.

  Was that a thing?

  Maybe he should start smoking them, too, just to look tougher.

  “There’s my girl,” Higgins said around the cigar.

  When King spotted them, his face reddened. What was visible of it, anyway. He jabbed a finger at Lance, his chest heaving. “There he is! That’s the bastard who cut up my face! He caused this whole goddamn mess!”

  “Hey there, Pacino,” Lance said. “How’s your cheek?”

  Higgins and King glanced at each other, confusion wrinkling their foreheads.

  “Pacino?” Cass asked Lance from the side of her mouth. She didn’t peel her hate-filled gaze from Higgins.

  “You know, like Scarface. Pacino was Scarface, so…” Lance eyed everyone. “No? Really? None of you have seen Scarface? You’re criminals, right? Isn’t Scarface a guidebook for you people?”

  “This is your husband?” Higgins asked Cass. “I expected someone bigger, more manly. Seems like a pussy.”

  Cass didn’t respond, just bored holes in him with her eyes.

  “It’s been a long day,” Lance said, as if Higgins hadn’t spoken. “I’m under a lot of stress, so my game is a little off. You can’t put this one on me, though. How am I supposed to know you people never had basic cable?” He winked at King. “Don’t worry, I’ll work up some better insults for you soon.”

  “You think this is funny?” King shot past Higgins, knocking him a step sideways with his shoulder. He rushed toward Lance. “You ruined everything for me!”

  Lance saw the punch coming right away as King rushed him. When he tried to slide away from it, his knee buckled. As his leg crumbled under him, he incidentally lessened most of the force of the blow. King’s knuckles clanged off the side of his head, sparking flashes in his mind.

  The concrete hurt worse than the punch as he fell on his hip.

  A kick that landed flush in his ribs hurt even worse.

  Lance turtled up, the second soccer kick catching him in the upper arm.

  Screaming something as vulgar as it was high-pitched, Cass swarmed King. Her fingers raked at his face, digging at his eyes and tearing at his wounded cheek.

  A shrill cry escaped King as he backed away from her.

  The bandage ripped part way down his cheek, fresh blood spilling from a poorly stitched cut.

  Higgins laughed behind him, leaning back and holding a hand to his belly.

  The other Bandits followed suit.

  King stumbled farther away, throwing his hands around in wild, looping punches. Though drunken bar fighters had better technique, one of the strikes caught Cass on the chin.

  Her legs wobbled, attack faltering.

  Higgins’ laughing cut off.

  In two steps, he was on King, grabbing him by the shoulders and chucking him to the street with ease. The tubby cult leader went sprawling to the concrete, still mewling about his face. Part of the bandage was still attached to his chin, the rest of it flapping against his neck.

  “No one touches her but me,” Higgins roared as he pointed down at King. “You can have the husband, but she’s mine.”

  King’s blubbering stopped a moment later as he managed to sit up. His over-sexed groupies surrounded him a moment later, rubbing his shoulders and back. The women whispered in his ears, kissed his cheeks. He brushed them away as he reaffixed the bandage.

  Higgins’ men kept laughing.

  Cass regained her balance, stood as erect as her back would allow. She dusted her hands off as if she’d just finished some light work.

  “You look more like a jester than a king.” Lance grunted as he got to his knees. His busted joint felt a little better, though he doubted he could outrun a turtle anytime soon. He watched Cass as she backed toward him, keeping her eyes on Higgins. “Was that insult any better?”

  She shrugged. “A little. You could have come up with something a bit meaner than a jester.”

  “Honestly,” Higgins said as he regained his composure. “Is this really your husband? I guess we know who wears the pants in your family.”

  “That might be insulting if it wasn’t true.” Lance managed to stand, not wanting to show more weakness than he already had. “Typically, I manage to pull my weight with jokes and witticisms, but I’m really striking out right now.”

  Higgins walked back to the van.

  Grabbed the whiskey.

  Took a long pull.

  Offered it to Lance.

  “No thanks.” Lance waved the bottle away. “I’ve tried to avoid getting blind-stinking drunk since monsters took over the planet.”

  Higgins grunted. “That’s what I expected.”

  “I’ll take some,” Cass said.

  “No, you won’t.” Higgins put the bottle back. “You’re going to feel every little thing I do to you. We can’t have booze numbing any of that.”

  “If you touch me, you’ll end up just like your little dipshit friend Wayne.”

  Anger flashed in Higgins’ eyes at the mention of his deceased minion. He regained his composure a moment later, smiling. “I wish I’d met you a few years ago. We could have had some good times, you and me.”

  “You couldn’t hang with me.”

  “But this little worm can?” Higgins gestured to Lance, laughing again. “Girlie, you have no idea what’s coming to you. I warned you what would happen if you crossed me. Not only did you fuck up my shipment to Valerie, but you also killed one of my men.”

  “We killed a lot more than one.” Cass waved her arm around the street, pointing at the few guards remaining by the truck. “It’s looking a little sparse around here. Some of your flunkies haven’t made it back yet, have they?”

  The humor slid from Higgins’ face. “Guess that explains why Joe Bob and the others haven’t responded to us in a while.”

  “Wonder what happened to them?” Cass drummed her fingers on her chin. “Oh yeah, now I remember. They’re dead.”

  Realizing his wife was a better shit talker than he was bummed Lance out. She kept showing him up at his own game. His ego didn’t appreciate it.

  “To be fair, I killed most of them.” Lance limped to Cass, put an arm around her waist. “I was really disappointed to find out Joe Bob wasn’t Joe Bob Briggs. Always wanted to meet that guy.”

  “Who?” Higgins asked.

  “Oh, God.” Cass rolled her eyes. “Not this crap again.”

  “Enough!” Magn
us King pulled himself up with the help of his harem. “I’m here for the maggot that wriggles and dances, not the pathetic banter from the weak masses.”

  “There’s that flowery language I missed. You even threw a little rhyme in there.” Lance made a gun with his fingers, took a pretend shot at King. “Give me some more.”

  “Your mirth will wilt under the rage of the king. You know nothing of his power and glory.” King’s face grew even redder as he got going. “He’ll tear you asunder and—”

  “Oh, shut up already.” Sighing, Higgins took another swig of booze. “You were a fucking pizza delivery boy. Stop pretending like you’re some kind of world conqueror.”

  “My manipulation of the old world with its inferior means of—”

  “I said shut up. You can spew your horseshit to those skanks when you’re at your stupid little camp. But when you’re here with me, you’ll keep it to yourself.”

  King’s mouth opened, but he seemed to think better it. He turned back to his followers and spoke in hushed tones, though he kept glancing at Lance.

  “He said the king. Is he talking in the third person now?” Lance asked.

  Higgins took in Lance for a second, inspecting him from head to toe. “You really don’t know anything at all, do you?”

  “I’ve been a beach bum for the past few years.” Lance shook his head, letting his long, wet hair fling around. “In case you can’t tell by my glorious locks.”

  “He doesn’t shut up, does he?” Higgins asked Cass.

  “Never.”

  “Well, he’ll be Magnus King Dipshit’s problem soon.” Higgins puffed on his cigar, staring at Cass for a few seconds. When he spoke, it was directed at Lance, though he maintained eye contact with Cass. “He’s talking about The Demon King. Everyone around here pisses their pants over a goddamn talking demon like it’s the end of the world.”

  Lance feigned disinterest.

  He’d expected Higgins to say that King was just talking about himself, not a demon. Now there were two Kings? One was annoying enough, but now he had to deal with two. And now everyone was referring to both as King. That was confusing and annoying.

  “You’re talking about the Vla… err… demon that I cut up a few days ago?” Lance ran a hand over his scalp, pulling his hair out of his face. “It hissed something about wanting to eat me.”

  “That would be the one.”

  “You’re calling him The Demon King now? Sounds a little melodramatic.”

  “I agree.” Higgins shrugged. “Everyone is prancing around, crying about it as if the damned thing is smart enough to do anything we outta worry about.”

  “He already has!” King whirled around. Jabbed a finger at Higgins. “The Demon King has united the clans! He’s prepared them for the perils of the sun, guided them into the light, circumvented the defenses of men, and struck deals with those of us who realize the import of the God King. Through his glory, he spares us for our sacrifices and grants us—”

  Higgins spun on his heel, then clobbered King with a hook to the jaw.

  The former pizza boy collapsed in a jumble of limbs, his eyes rolling to their whites. His followers caught him by the shoulders before his head bounced off the street. He blinked several times before he seemed to snap back to consciousness.

  Blood poured from his gaping mouth.

  The bandage on his cheek soaked through, maroon and sopping.

  He shrank against his flunkies as Higgins took a step toward him.

  “Last chance, bitch boy. Speak again and I’ll have Earl cut your tongue out and wear it around his neck like fucking dog tags. Got me?” Higgins took a long drawl on his cigar as he squinted at King, waiting for an answer.

  “Yes,” King whispered.

  “Yes, what?”

  “Yes, I got you.”

  Even though Lance knew they were up shit creek without a paddle, he enjoyed watching King get his comeuppance. He wished it came from someone with a little more morality than a serial killer, but he enjoyed it, nonetheless. If he could watch King get the hell beat out of him every day, he’d make sure to bring some popcorn.

  Satisfied, Higgins turned to them. “I think we’re done with story time.” He nodded at Lance. “Give him to the pizza boy so they can sacrifice him to the talking demon.” Higgins grinned at Cass. “But I want you to know something, buddy. I’m going to rape your wife. Again and again and again. I’m going to fuck her until she begs me to kill her. And then, maybe I will. Maybe I won’t. Maybe I’ll just keep on giving it to her.”

  Lance watched as Earl moved to his left. The other guards closed in, cutting off any possible angle of escape. Even if he’d drawn up some master plan, which he hadn’t, he had zero chance of executing it. He thought of Greg somewhere behind him, hoping the goofy guy had a genius idea for rescuing them. They would be better off if the man Cass had seen was Emmett, but not by a lot. The guy couldn’t fight his way out of a paper bag.

  Listening to Higgins’ machinations about Cass had Lance’s blood boiling. The impulse to attack the Bandit leader almost had him sprinting, more like hobbling, across the distance between them. He tried to fight the urge, to be rational, but struggled.

  They were surrounded.

  Their odds of escaping were zero.

  But he wanted to lunge at Higgins. Use his last few moments to bludgeon the asshole to death.

  Instead, he said, “I’ll take a hit off that bottle now.”

  Higgins finally wrenched his attention from Cass. “Sure. Least I can do.”

  He tossed the whiskey.

  Lance caught it with both hands.

  Swallowed a big mouthful.

  Coughed at the burn.

  Higgins roared with laughter.

  The other Bandits joined in.

  Lance wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  Gripped the neck of the bottle, ready to swing it.

  A rifle barked from behind them, cutting off the laughter. King and his followers flinched, heads swinging around in fear as they searched for the source.

  Lance and Cass lunged at Higgins in unison, charging him with all the speed their battered bodies could muster. The leader of the Bandits didn’t retreat, but grinned and exhaled a long plume of smoke.

  25

  Brandon had watched from the roof as Megan sprinted away from The Light, plunging through the sleet and freezing rain. He’d leaned over the railing, squinting against the inclement weather to keep an eye on her as best he could. How long ago had she left? The dark clouds overhead made it difficult for him to judge time.

  The Wildman cursed from a few feet away as he exchanged the batteries in the drone. The tiny aircraft had barely made it back to them before it ran out of juice. It had wobbled in the air during its landing descent, forcing The Wildman to grab for it before the battery kicked the bucket.

  For his efforts, he’d taken several propellers to his fingers.

  There wasn’t any blood, but a lot of swearing and whining had followed.

  At the sight of her husband, Megan had lost her composure. She’d started for the stairs, only to be stopped by Brandon as he tried to talk sense into her. He’d argued she should stay behind for her kids, that at least one of their parents had to do the sensible thing and remain at The Light.

  The Wildman backed him, imploring Megan to stay with them.

  She’d said they were right. That was the sensible thing to do.

  Then she’d headed for the stairs anyway, yelling that sensibility could be damned. She had to save her husband.

  Brandon knew better than to try to physically restrain her.

  Megan could have kicked his ass all over the roof without breaking a sweat.

  With a rifle in her hands and a sidearm on her hip, she raced toward the street they’d seen the doctor on. She moved with the urgency of a panicked wife, afraid she might not see her husband again.

  Watching Megan race away from The Light unsettled Brandon. No one went with her, backed her
up. Just days ago, Brandon had scavenged through the city for supplies with little worry. The Bandits were always a threat, but their presence never caused him much anxiety. He knew he could outrun them if they ever tried to snag him.

  But now things were different.

  The Bandits’ goal wasn’t kidnapping, but murder.

  Bullets and bombs were the order of the day.

  Fast as he was, Brandon couldn’t outrun those.

  Seeing a woman he’d grown to respect running toward that danger alone made him feel like a coward. He considered chasing after her, but thought of Charlie, of the others in The Light who needed him. The building had descended into chaos, the survivors needing as much help as they could get.

  If he followed Megan, he’d have to abandon them.

  “Someone should go with her,” Brandon said as he watched her put distance between them. “Going alone is crazy.”

  “It’s crazy all right.” The Wildman grunted as he snapped a fresh battery into the drone. “Told her not to do it. But love makes yinz do stupid shit.”

  “Aren’t you worried about her?” Brandon asked. “Isn’t she your friend?”

  “She is.” The Wildman finally stopped fussing with the drone. “And so are the others out there. Why do you think I’m up here freezing my nuts off in this stupid weather?”

  “Wouldn’t we be more helpful out there with them instead of back here just watching?” Brandon knelt beside the drone and flicked one of the propellers with his finger, watching it spin around. “Letting her run out there alone doesn’t feel right.”

  “Kid, I’m intel, not operations.”

  “I don’t even know what that means.”

  “It means I ain’t a fighter. Sure, I’ll get my hands dirty if I gotta, but I try to stay clear of the muck. Keeps me alive.” The Wildman wiped some accumulating ice off the top of the drone, then cleared the lens with his sleeve. “‘Sides, they can’t fight their best without information, right? I give that to ‘em. Gonna do it right now by leading her to the doc with this here drone.”

  Brandon chewed on his lip.

  He understood what The Wildman was saying, but it didn’t make him feel any better. As Megan had run to the stairs, The Wildman had told her to look for the drone, that he would lead her to Doctor Brown as best he could.