The Hunger (Book 5): Decayed

by Brant, Jason

  “What does it matter?” King grimaced and grunted as he got to his feet. His face was a twisted ruin of blood and popped stitches. “Higgins will bring that entire building down before you can get there. During her last moments, Snow will regret the day she let you into The Light.”

  Cass lifted her rifle to swing at King’s head.

  “Don’t,” Doc Brown said as he finally caught up to them. “We can’t hurt unarmed people. No matter what they did.”

  “So we just let them stonewall us while Higgins goes to kill our children?” Cass jabbed a finger at Brown. “I won’t stand here and let him toy with us. We don’t have time for his games.”

  “It’s already too late.” King laughed. “Your families are dead. Your friends are—”

  Lance pistol-whipped him in the side of the head before he realized what he was doing. Hitting him both sickened and delighted Lance. The mixture of emotions was unsettling.

  Yet thrilling.

  If they somehow survived their current predicament, he planned to ask around The Light if a therapist lived there. He’d need a lot of extended sessions to get his head straight again.

  King slumped to the back bumper of the van, blood running from a fresh cut on his temple. The blow hadn’t knocked him out, but he was loopy and unresponsive as he stared off into space.

  Eifort jammed the muzzle of her rifle against the back of the guard’s head. “Last chance, shithead. Did you drive here or not?”

  The guard finally peeled his eyes from the dead body of his friend. Tears ran down his cheeks. His hands trembled. “There’s a pickup truck around the corner. King has the keys.”

  Tossing her gun to the street, Cass dug into King’s pockets. He didn’t seem to notice the invasion as he swayed from side to side like a drunk.

  “He kept us safe,” the brunette said. “We had food and water and a safe place to sleep. He promised he’d take care of us as long as we did whatever he said.”

  “And he did,” a short blonde said from behind her. “Everything was fine until you showed up.”

  “Showed up?” Lance asked, dumbfounded. “Showed up? We were kidnapped. You assholes bought us like livestock to feed to the Vladdies.”

  “Everyone, calm down.” Doc Brown lowered his gun. “Enough people have died today. We don’t need to lose anyone else.”

  “We should kill them all.” Cass fished a set of keys from King’s front pocket. “What’s the alternative? Let them go so they can do this to someone else?”

  “Please don’t hurt us,” the brunette whined. “We promise not to ever listen to him again! Cross my heart and hope to die.”

  “We’ll take them with us,” Brown said.

  “There’s no time for that, Doc.” Lance felt himself being pulled in all directions. He didn’t have it in him to kill people in cold blood, but if anyone ever deserved death, it was the freaks before them.

  Brown frowned as he scanned the group of cultists. He strode over to King and glanced in the duffel bag in the back of the van. Pulling out a handful of zip ties, he held them up. “We’ll tie their wrists together with these and lock them up in the back of the van. King will ride with us. We’ll come back for them later.”

  It took Lance a moment to understand how there just happened to be zip ties in that bag before he realized it was the Bandits’ vehicle. Those assholes kidnapped people all the time. It shouldn’t have surprised him that they had a kit full of abducting gear at the ready.

  “You can’t lock us in there!” The man started to get up, but stopped when Eifort jabbed him in the ear with her rifle. “What if Higgins kills you? Who will let us out?”

  “No one,” Eifort said. “And you’ll deserve it.”

  “Guess you better hope we don’t die then.” Lance nodded at the doc. “I like it. Cuff the pizza king here, and let’s get moving.”

  While Doc Brown secured King’s hands behind his back, Lance and Cass prodded the others into the van. They forced them to the other end of the space, against the far wall, while Eifort tossed the kidnapper’s kit and a few other bags out of the vehicle.

  The tall woman begged and pleaded the entire the time.

  Lance ignored her.

  Though it only took a few moments to get everyone moved around, Lance worried about the time they wasted. Every second they spent with those idiots gave Higgins a bigger head start.

  He felt like vomiting as he thought about it. “We gotta move.”

  Cass dug through one of the bags until she found a spare magazine for her rifle. She jammed it home. An extra mag went into her waistband, the black bottom jutting a few inches above her belt. “Let’s go.”

  Eifort slammed down the sliding door of the van. Checked that it was locked. The handle didn’t move at all. King’s harem continued keening inside. No one listened.

  Grabbing King by the wrist, Lance shoved him after Cass. “Move your ass.”

  “You’ll regret this,” King mumbled, his voice slurred.

  “I already do.”

  28

  Greg snapped awake when a firefight broke out nearby. He blinked several times as he took in the hazy world surrounding him. Uncontrollable shivers shook his entire body, jostling his injured shoulder. His hands shook in his lap, frozen fingers dancing. Each breath produced a small vapor cloud.

  It took him a moment to recognize his whereabouts.

  He sat in the front seat of a cartoonishly small car parked beside a department store. The windows were fogged, limiting his view outside. When he’d tried to follow Lance and Cass, exhaustion had sapped his strength. He’d lost track after a few minutes and had picked streets at random, hoping he was still moving in the right direction.

  Before long, he could barely stand. Promising himself he would only rest for a few seconds, he searched for a comfortable place to hole up. Most of the abandoned vehicles around him were missing their windows. The dropping temperature made it too risky to sleep in the elements.

  Between the chill in the air and the amount of blood he’d lost, he was afraid he might freeze to death. His skin had already turned an alarming shade of purple.

  He’d considered crawling into one of the buildings, but he wanted to stay in the street in case someone else walked by. By the time he’d found an unlocked vehicle with intact windows, he could barely lift his feet enough to move. His hands had gone numb, causing him to fumble with the door handle for a while before he managed to get it open and crawl inside.

  Within seconds of flopping into the seat, he’d passed out.

  He had no concept of how long he’d slept. It could have been a several minutes or a few hours.

  Another gunshot rang out from somewhere ahead.

  Greg hissed as he pulled at the handle and pushed the door open. His body had stiffened. Every movement hurt like hell as he climbed out of the car. A brown stain covered the back of the seat he’d slept in.

  Checking his wound, he noticed his shoulder had finally stopped bleeding. That had only taken most of the day. He wanted to roll the joint around, see how stiff it was, but feared breaking the scab that had formed over the bullet hole.

  Stepping into the street, he carefully eased the door closed, not wanting to make any sound. He stood by the car for a while, listening. At first, all was quiet.

  And then a barrage of gunfire lit up the city, thundering through the streets. The shots were loud, but not earsplitting. Greg guessed he was a few blocks away, but probably not much more than that.

  The dead city made it difficult to judge distance. When he’d lived in Pittsburgh, the bustle of traffic and boats and commerce filled the air. He’d lived with that his whole life, and he’d adapted to the noise of urban life.

  But the quiet desolation of Baltimore played tricks on his mind.

  During a pause between shots, he thought he heard some kind of a buzzing sound. It reminded him of a hive of wasps he’d thrown a rock at when he was a kid. A cloud of pissed-off insects had chased him for several block
s, their tiny wings droning by his ears.

  The sound he heard now was kind of like that.

  He looked around, expecting to see a swarm of wasps descending upon him.

  Didn’t see any dark clouds approaching.

  The buzz swooped closer.

  Greg looked straight up.

  Spotted something zooming by overhead.

  The object banked hard to the left, disappearing over a building. It was a drone. After a few seconds of confused contemplation, Greg realized Paul was using the toy he’d brought him earlier that day.

  That made him feel a little less worthless.

  At least for a short time.

  “What’s that doing all the way out here?” Greg asked aloud, then cringed.

  How many times was he going to do that?

  Eventually, his constant outer monologues would get him killed.

  The drone reappeared, rising high into the air. It hovered a block or two away, swaying in the wind, barely visible through the falling sleet.

  When it didn’t move after several seconds, Greg wondered if Paul had spotted something of interest. When the gunfire resumed, he finally realized the drone was probably capturing a battle.

  And if there was another firefight, then Cass and Lance might be involved.

  Greg shambled in the drone’s direction, trying his best to ignore the red-hot poker jabbing at his shoulder with every step. He’d never felt so much pain in his entire life. Every part of him wanted to give up, to head back to The Light and beg Doc Brown for the best painkillers he had.

  But he had to push through the misery.

  His friends needed him now more than ever.

  Plus, he had a score to settle for Adam. If there was gunfire ahead, then it was probably the Bandits. Sweet revenge beckoned him.

  When he crossed an intersection, heading down the next block, he lost sight of the drone behind a tall building. The thunderous firefight guided him the rest of the way.

  Greg shambled down the next street like a zombie, already feeling his strength dissipating. Another break would be in order before too long. He had no idea how he could fight the Bandits in his current condition. At the rate his endurance was depleting, he doubted he could even fire a gun effectively.

  Not that he was a great shot anyway.

  Pausing to catch his breath, he leaned against a tree jutting from a patch of earth in the sidewalk. Big deep breaths hurt his shoulder, but it helped clear his head. He searched the sky for the drone, finally spotting it again.

  It hovered a block away, lower this time.

  Greg pushed off the tree, hustled in that direction.

  The volume of the battle increased as he approached the corner of a bakery. The windows were smashed out, the inside of the building ransacked. The only clue to it being a bakery was a sign hanging above the front door that read Paul’s Donut Heaven. A huge oven sat behind a counter inside, the door torn off, exposing bent trays and racks.

  Greg would have killed for a glazed donut.

  As he rounded the corner of the bakery, he spotted the Bandits’ van parked in the middle of the road. He stopped in his tracks at least fifty yards away from it. The back of the van was pointed in his direction, the sliding door open.

  He was rooted on the sidewalk, unsure of what to do.

  On the other side of the van, Higgins punched Cass in the side of the head. Lance roared, leaping forward with a bottle in his hand.

  Fighting his first inclination to run over and help them, knowing he was basically worthless just then, Greg tried to take in the entire scene. Cowering by the vehicle were Magnus King and his weird sex-cult followers. Armed guards stood atop buildings and around the van.

  One of the guards positioned on a rooftop took a bullet to the chest. He toppled over, disappearing from view.

  Greg returned his attention to Lance and Cass. They were preoccupied with Higgins, so someone else had taken out the guard. Greg felt a root of hope take hold at the realization. He might have a little help trying to spring his friends free.

  And then one of the Bandits by the van glanced over his shoulder and spotted Greg.

  They stared at each other for a beat.

  Greg tried to sprint the way he’d come, but his body didn’t respond in time. He made it two steps before something punched him hard in the lower back.

  His balance shifted.

  Legs refused to hold his weight.

  He staggered around the corner, putting one hand on the building to keep from pitching forward. His left leg stopped cooperating a few steps later. Reaching the front door, he grabbed the handle and leaned against it, trying to catch his breath.

  What the hell hit me?

  Something was wrong with his chest.

  Couldn’t get a good lungful of air.

  A stinging sensation stabbed at his back.

  Blood filled the seat of his pants, flowing down his leg.

  The door was stuck. He tore at it with what little strength he could muster, finally yanking it open. Dragging his leg behind him, Greg pulled himself inside. When he was halfway through the small space leading to the counter, he finally realized what had happened.

  The Bandit had shot him.

  There was pain, but it didn’t hurt as much as he expected.

  It burned more than anything, though the feeling was distant, muted.

  Greg staggered behind the destroyed counter, hand raking across a dead cash register. His bad leg dragged debris along with it. An illegible flier was stuck to his shoe, the paper beige from time and weather. As he reached the oven, he collapsed in front of it, landing on his chest.

  Tried to roll over.

  Couldn’t.

  So tired.

  Eyelids heavy.

  Shadows closed in, beckoning him to join them in the dark.

  Couldn’t breathe.

  Couldn’t.

  Breathe.

  Greg let his eyes close, succumbing to the darkness.

  29

  Brandon exited the stairs in a hurry, knowing he had to haul ass if he wanted to catch up to Megan. She was in great shape, and her chest didn’t look like Freddy Krueger had taken a whack at it. Combined with her head start, Brandon knew he would struggle just to maintain her pace, let alone catch her.

  Entering the floor with Emily’s office at the other end, he headed for the elevator. A soft, repeated bell tolled ahead. It was the sound the elevator made when it reached its destination.

  Brandon slowed as the doors came into view.

  They stood ajar.

  The bell kept ringing.

  Someone had jammed a long box between the doors, keeping them from closing.

  “What the hell?” he whispered.

  Glancing behind him, over the rows and piles of supplies covering much of the floor, he saw that Emily’s office door was closed. That wasn’t uncommon, so he didn’t pay it any mind.

  Until he noticed a few supplies, which were normally boxed and piled to keep things orderly, were cast about haphazardly. A tower of paper towels was knocked over. Boxes of canned goods had the tops torn off.

  An assortment of pistols, which were kept in a series of rugged plastic bins, were spread out on the floor, as if someone had tossed them aside as they rummaged through the containers.

  “What the hell?” Brandon took a few cautious steps toward the mess, trying to understand why someone would screw up their inventory system in such a way.

  Things had gone awry after the attacks that morning, and people were running around the building in confusion and fear, but most of the residents of The Light held Emily in high esteem. They wouldn’t do anything she would see as disrespectful or careless.

  Throwing guns all over the place qualified as both in Brandon’s eyes. As he approached the plastic bins, he noticed a box of gun magazines had also been rummaged through. A few weeks ago, he’d helped fill that exact container with mags he’d scavenged from throughout the city.

  It was a mind-numbi
ng task he’d hated because they loaded each magazine with the proper ammunition before tossing it inside. His fingers had been swollen and bruised by the time they’d finished.

  Emily had explained the importance of the task, because she said they’d never know when an emergency might require a significant amount of ammunition. That made sense, especially after the events of the morning, but it hadn’t made the job suck any less.

  He’d rather have played Contra on his Nintendo.

  God, that game was fun.

  Ancient, but fun.

  Some old timer living on the floor below him had recommended it a few months ago. Brandon had begrudgingly tried it out, even though the Nintendo system he played it on appeared to be from the Stone Age. The game was freaking amazing. The old dude who’d told him about it had even showed him how to beat the tougher levels he just couldn’t finish.

  The fact someone that advanced in age was still good at games had blown Brandon’s mind, too. Elderly folks usually couldn’t turn a gaming console on, let alone master something as tough as Contra.

  If he had to guess, the guy must have been pushing forty. Maybe even forty-five. The dude was ancient.

  Brandon kicked a few magazines out of the way as he hurried down the aisle leading to Emily’s office. He figured he should check on her, see if she knew why someone had screwed everything up out there. Maybe she had an explanation for the blocked elevator.

  Glancing around at the guns, he couldn’t tell if any were missing or not. Someone had definitely taken several magazines, though. Each of the ammunition boxes had been stuffed to the max.

  Halfway across the floor, he paused, spotted something in the middle of the aisle.

  A pair of glasses, the lenses cracked, metal bent, rested a few inches from his shoes. He bent to pick them up. They belonged to Becky. Brandon had never seen Emily’s right-hand woman without them before, and he was fairly certain she was almost blind.

  Though he didn’t wear glasses himself, he couldn’t imagine someone who needed them as much as she did would just leave them on the floor, broken or not. He spent a few seconds trying to fold them up so he could stick them in his pocket, but they were too damaged. It took some careful twisting, but he managed to straighten them a bit.