The Hunger (Book 5): Decayed

by Brant, Jason

  Becky had always acted like an a-hole to Brandon. Actually, she acted that way to everyone, but he’d taken it personally. He always did what was asked, never complained, and if he were being honest, he was their best scavenger. No one else could deftly climb into high windows or scamper up rain gutters to access rooftops.

  Did Becky care?

  Not even a little bit.

  She always chewed him out over little things.

  Fred had whispered to him once that he thought Becky needed to get laid. Brandon didn’t know if some wiener would solve her attitude problem, so he tried to avoid her as best he could. Maybe if he gave her glasses back, she would be nice to him for a change.

  He assumed she would just yell and blame him for breaking them, but he figured it was worth a shot.

  After sliding them into his pocket, he moved to Emily’s office. He rapped on the door with his knuckles a few times. “Mrs. Snow?”

  No one responded.

  He knocked louder.

  Waited.

  Angled his ear to the door.

  “Mrs. Snow? Are you in there?”

  Nothing.

  He tried the doorknob.

  Locked.

  Something slicked his fingers.

  He glanced down.

  Blood covered his hand.

  “Oh crap.” Brandon frantically wiped the blood on his pant leg. It smeared around, staining the fabric. The blood was still warm.

  He hammered on the door with the bottom of his fist. “Is anyone in there? What’s going on?”

  The dead silence on the other side of the door freaked him out almost as much as the blood. He had no idea what to do. Should he run for help? Find Fred? But what if someone was injured inside? If he didn’t try to help them now, maybe they would bleed to death.

  He tried to rationalize the weird occurrences around him. Maybe Becky had lost her glasses while tending to the wounded in Emily’s office. He shook his head, knowing how stupid that theory was.

  It didn’t explain why someone propped the elevator doors open.

  Why ammo was missing.

  Something bad had happened.

  He could feel it in his gut.

  Brandon considered throwing his shoulder into the door to break it open, but thought that might screw his chest up. If he popped his stitches, he’d be in a world of pain. The last thing he wanted was Doctor Brown having to sew him back up.

  That had sucked nads the first time.

  Having it done all over again would be the worst thing ever.

  Kicking the door would hurt, but he didn’t think it would make his wounds bleed. He rapped on the door with his knuckles again, feeling around to see how sturdy the wood was.

  It wasn’t the cheapest stuff he’d ever seen, but it didn’t seem like a solid door either.

  Stepping back, he gave it a hard kick right in the middle.

  The reverberations that ran through his leg and up his back almost made him fall over. The door didn’t budge.

  “Ouch.” Brandon leaned on his other leg, shaking his foot around, hoping it would ease the pain. It didn’t work.

  He looked around, making sure no one had exited the stairwell and watched him kicking at Emily’s door like an idiot. They would definitely tattle on him, and if no one were actually hurt inside, he’d be in deep trouble.

  That would suck nads, too.

  A soft ping came from the elevator, its protestations continuing.

  He thought about some movie he’d watched a few weeks ago about Navy Seals, trying to remember how they’d blasted through a door during a rescue mission. It wasn’t real life, but he hoped they might have used real tactics during filming.

  The lead Seal, some dude named Huxx, kicked right beside the door handle. He’d blasted that sucker open with ease.

  Taking a deep breath, Brandon reared back and kicked beside the knob as hard as he could. The door flew open, catching him by surprise and throwing him off balance. He staggered inside, having to grab hold of the doorjamb to keep from falling over.

  Splinters of wood stuck to the carpet just inside the entrance.

  Brandon’s breath caught in his throat when he took in the state of the office. Chairs were knocked over. Emily’s desk was askew, resting at a weird angle instead of being directly in front of the door. The lamp and papers and pens she kept organized on the desk were scattered all over the floor. A picture of her deceased husband was knocked from the wall, the frame broken, glass cracked.

  Spattered blood coursed down the far wall, pooled on the floor.

  Brandon took a shaky step inside, watching his feet, not wanting to step on any evidence. It wasn’t like they could get a forensic team in there to collect DNA, but he didn’t want to track blood all over the place. The last thing he needed was someone blaming whatever happened on him because he’d left red footprints everywhere.

  Then he remembered the blood on his pants, recognizing the absurdity of sneaking around. Someone’s blood already covered the front of his pants. A few footprints wouldn’t make a difference.

  Moving closer to the desk, he glanced around like a nervous bird, head darting in all directions.

  A pair of bare legs stuck out from behind the desk. They glistened as if they were freshly shaved. A woman’s shoe was attached to one, but missing from the other.

  “Oh, crap.” Brandon stopped for a second, heart racing, hairs on the nape of his neck sticking straight out.

  The last thing he wanted to do was take a look at what waited on the other side of the desk. He was afraid of what he’d see, who he’d see. If Emily Snow was dead, then he had no idea how The Light would survive. She was the linchpin of the entire building. If she’d died, he feared the entire place would collapse like a house of cards.

  He inched closer, eyes glued to the legs. They didn’t move as he approached.

  “Hello? Can you hear me?” He reached the edge of the desk, paused to steel himself. Rising on his toes, he glanced over the corner.

  Becky Robinson lay flat on her back, open, vacant eyes staring at the ceiling. A mask of bruises and blood obscured most of her face, but Brandon recognized her. Remembering the glasses in his pocket, he wondered how he’d thought it could be anyone but her.

  A congealing puddle encircled her head, radiating out nearly two feet. Deep lacerations ran from the middle of her forehead into her hairline. The gruesome gashes made Brandon’s stomach heave. He had to look away while he collected himself.

  The stink in the back of the office made him even sicker. It reeked of blood and shit. Brandon gagged as he staggered away from the desk, almost tripping over a toppled chair. Pausing in the middle of the room, he leaned over, hands on his knees, and vomited.

  The image of her open eyes filled his head as he emptied his gut.

  When he finished, he wiped his mouth with the back of his forearm as he turned, gazing at her legs again. The severity of the situation settled in as he stared at the shoeless foot.

  She hadn’t fallen. Hadn’t cracked her head off the desk. Someone had brutally beaten her to death. They’d left her broken body, locked the door behind them. The murderer had taken a gun and a lot of ammo.

  They’d disabled the elevator for some reason. And then what? They’d taken the stairs? Where? Why? He couldn’t begin to wrap his head around what had happened, let alone guess at who had done it.

  Becky was nasty to a lot of people, but the idea of someone killing her because she’d been mean was preposterous. That would be the worst motive ever.

  A corded phone sat amidst a pile of papers and other items from Emily’s desk. The base was upside down, the coiled wire snaking to a headset two feet away. Brandon gave Becky’s body a wide birth as he circled around the office. He picked up the headset, put it against his ear.

  Before moving into The Light, he hadn’t seen a corded phone since he was a kid. Everyone had used cell phones before civilization went tits up.

  No sounds came from the headset, even
after he punched the little button on the base to hang up a few times. Though he hadn’t used one of the phones in The Light before, he knew Emily, Fred, and a few others used them as an intercom system.

  He wasn’t sure if there should be a dial tone or not.

  “Uhh, hello?” he said into the silent phone. “Can anyone hear me?”

  When no one responded, he hit the button labeled Fred on the dial pad.

  Nothing happened.

  He placed the base and headset on the desk, reeled in the telephone line with both hands. After pulling a few feet of cable, he spotted the frayed end of it dragging along the floor toward him. When it reached his hand, he lifted it in front of his face, inspected the damage.

  Someone had torn it right out of the wall. He glanced over the desk, careful not to look at Becky’s body again. A foot or so above the floor, he spotted an outlet for the telephone line.

  The plug was still attached to it, mangled cables sticking out the end.

  Brandon backed out of the office, eyes glancing around the room as if he expected the killer to hop out from behind a chair or end table. When his back hit the door, he jumped and spun around.

  The elevator continued complaining on the other end of the room.

  No one else was around.

  Jogging past the supplies, he pulled the box out from the elevator doors and watched them slide closed. He’d considered hopping in and going down, but was afraid the killer might have done something else to it. With his luck, it would decouple and fall down the shaft, killing him in the lobby.

  He ran to the stairs.

  Took them two at a time.

  When he reached the floor with the battery backup system for the building, he paused by the closed door. A smudge just above the handle had caught his eye. He ran past this floor all the time, rarely paying it any attention. He didn’t know much about the workings inside, and he would rather stay away from it for fear he might trip over a cable and screw everything up.

  Brandon squinted at the smudge. In the dim light of the hallway, it was difficult to tell what it was until he leaned closer.

  Blood.

  Brandon stared at it for several seconds, his brain cycling through options.

  A small window was set in the middle of the door, giving a glimpse of the dark room beyond. He stood on his toes to peer through the glass. Small lights flashed on the towers of batteries and whatever else ran the system inside.

  He didn’t see any sparks or smell any smoke.

  No one cried out from inside.

  Other than the blood, everything appeared normal.

  Brandon grabbed the handle, eased it down as carefully as he could. The door opened with a soft click, swinging into the stairwell. Warmth washed over him. The room’s temperature always hovered several degrees warmer than the rest of the building. Battery backups ran hot, apparently.

  Stepping inside, Brandon stopped in front of the door to let his eyes adjust to the dim light. Fans whirred. Lights flashed.

  Nothing appeared out of the ordinary.

  He considered turning around, taking the stairs again, thinking the smudge could have rubbed off the killer as he walked by the door. It didn’t mean he’d gone inside.

  That line of thinking went out the window when he spotted a bullet casing on the floor in front of a stack of batteries. He sucked in a panicked breath, held it. Listened for any kind of movement.

  Heard nothing.

  He had no idea what to do.

  Should he search the room?

  Flee down the stairs?

  Curl up in the corner and cry?

  Brandon knew he didn’t have time to stand around like a statue, contemplating his options. He decided to creep deeper into the room, placing each step with care to avoid making any noise. Racks of electrical components blocked his view of the back of the space.

  He slinked to the first tower, sneaked a glance around the corner.

  Fred leaned against the far wall, sitting on his ass, legs splayed out in front of him. His left eye was a ruin of gore. Splotches of blood and tissue painted the wall above him, streaming down to his body.

  A pistol rested on the floor, inches away from his open hand.

  Hysteria threatened to overwhelm Brandon as he stared at the body. Fred organized everyone. He was the head of security for The Light. He planned the patrols each night, ensured all the defenses were prepared and operational before sundown. All the spotlights and lanterns went through a check by Fred, or someone he appointed, every single day.

  The guards manning the building at night didn’t sneeze without his approval.

  Other than Emily, no one else was as important to The Light.

  And he was tough as hell.

  No one screwed with Fred.

  Brandon had talked to him a few times, but it was usually just in passing. The former police officer didn’t have a lot of patience for a young kid who spent his free time playing stupid games.

  If someone could kill him, then they could take out anyone.

  Brandon inched closer to the body, eyes dancing between the gun and the cavern that used to house Fred’s eye. He needed the pistol to defend himself. Why he hadn’t grabbed one upstairs, he didn’t know.

  The situation he’d bumbled into had his mind reeling.

  A stink wafted from the body when he stepped within ten feet of it. Pinching his nose, he willed himself to keep moving.

  Something slid along the floor to his right. He froze in midstride. Fear kept him from glancing in that direction, afraid of what he’d see. Or who he’d see.

  “Heard that, did you?” a man said from the shadows. “It’s hard to sneak around in here. Why are rooms full of computers always so dark? I never did understand that.”

  Brandon gulped.

  Slowly turned his head.

  Bill stood beside a tall column of whirring equipment. He blended in with the shadows, except when a tiny LED flashed on the side of the rack, illuminating his chest and chin.

  “Bill?” Brandon asked, bewildered. “What are you doing in here? Did you see what happened?”

  “See what happened?” Bill chuckled. “You really are a good kid, aren’t you? Way too innocent for what’s left of this world. That or you’re just stupid.”

  “I don’t understand what—”

  Brandon’s words caught in his throat when Bill stepped under a dim overhead light. A gun dangled from one of his hands. Blood dripped from the barrel.

  Smears covered his pants and shirt.

  Red speckles dotted his face.

  They stared at each other for what seemed like an eternity.

  The light above Bill cast shadows from his brow to his cheeks, hiding his eyes, casting an eerie pall over his face.

  “Why?” Brandon finally managed to ask. He was dumbfounded by the sight of the man who’d saved his life just a few days prior. Between his confusion and the way his pulse hammered incessantly in his ears, he thought he might be on the brink of a mental meltdown.

  “This is what I came here to do.” Bill looked down at the gun, then back at Brandon. “I want you to know that killing you won’t bring me any pleasure. I meant it when I said you’re a good kid.”

  Brandon gulped at the mention of his pending death. “But… why?”

  “Why? To tear this place down. Why else?”

  “Why help us escape from Valerie?” Brandon glanced at the blood-covered pistol, felt his stomach tense as he spotted a clump of hair caught on the hammer. “The demons almost killed you in the process.”

  “Sorry, kid. No time to talk. I have a lot of work to do before nightfall.” He checked his watch, a small light illuminating the face as he pressed a button on the side. “Oh, shit. Sundown is soon. Winter really snuck up on us this year.”

  The cavalier way Bill weaved the discussion between the weather and murder disturbed Brandon almost as much as seeing the body a few feet away.

  “Gotta get this over with.” Bill raised the pistol.r />
  Brandon cut to his right. Dove for a stack of batteries. The gun exploded, the blast deafening in the confined space.

  He landed hard on the floor, his stitches pulling taut as he rolled behind cover. A bullet ricocheted off the metal rack, inches from his head as he slid out of sight.

  “Nice move, kid.” Bill’s boots thunked on the floor as he stalked closer. “I thought you were going to stand there all petrified. Didn’t see that coming.”

  Ignoring the burning sensation in his chest, Brandon hopped to his feet and made for the door. He stayed low, knees and waist bent, using a series of equipment towers to obscure his escape.

  The exit to the stairs loomed ahead, an open space stretching before it. To escape the room, he’d have to break from cover, leave himself exposed for a handful of steps. Bill would have an easy shot for a moment.

  Even if he made it through the door, it wasn’t bulletproof, so he’d have to descend the first few stairs in a flash. As he took in the space before him, he didn’t know how he could pull it all off.

  “You’ve got some balls, kid. I’ll give you that.” Bill’s voice came from the opposite side of the rack Brandon hid behind. “Don’t make me chase you down. It’ll just piss me off, then I’ll have to—”

  Brandon burst from his hiding place, sprinting for the door. He tried to stay as compact as possible to minimize how big of a target he was. The way his arms pumped by his sides stretched the mending flesh of his chest to its limit.

  He reached full speed within three strides, crossing the uncovered gap faster than he’d expected. A glimmer of hope flashed in his mind.

  The pistol cracked when he was a step from the door, a hole punching in the plaster to his left. Two more shots rang out as Brandon rammed the door, throwing his shoulder against the panic bar in the middle of it.

  His momentum sent him tumbling into the stairwell as the door slammed open with such force it rebounded off the wall. His shoes slid across the dirty floor, arms pinwheeling to maintain his balance. The railing on the far wall saved him as he latched onto it with a death grip.