The Hunger (Book 5): Decayed

by Brant, Jason

  None of that would matter if they couldn’t stop Higgins.

  Cass propelled forward, bad leg dragging a furrow through the snow. It heaped around her foot, spilling along the sides. The trail snaking behind her was an odd mixture of footprints and a wide path.

  Higgins finally stopped shooting.

  The screams of torment melted into moans.

  Echoes of gunshots slowly died in the surrounding streets, leaving an eerie pall over the city.

  Megan reached the front of the building first, taking cover beside the gaping hole where the door had been. She glanced inside, motioned for her husband to join her. Emmett attempted to slide into position beside her, but slipped on the snow, landing flat on his back.

  His arms and legs splayed, positioning him on the sidewalk as if he wanted to make a snow angel. He stared into the heavens, big flakes landing on his cheeks. Normally, Cass would have laughed at such a sight.

  Instead, she held her breath until he managed to get to cover behind his wife.

  Lance took a position on the other side of the destroyed door, placing his back against one of the large windows. A metal plate was welded in place behind the glass, obscuring the view of the inside. He looked to his wife as she approached, held her gaze.

  Understanding passed between them. Their entire lives rested upon the next few moments. Their unrelenting day was about to reach its pinnacle.

  Cass finally caught up. Tried to push her husband out of the way. She wanted the better view of the lobby, but he held his ground.

  “Your back is too screwed,” Lance said. “I’ve got this one.”

  “No way. Not with my baby in there. I’m going to—”

  “You idiots are running right into a certain death!” King stopped in front of Lance, his chubby frame quivering as he heaved in big breaths. “Higgins will cut you down like wheat under the blade of—”

  Lance punched the blowhard in the bleeding, widening gash across his cheek.

  The cult leader stumbled back two steps before tripping, landing on his ass. He looked up through glassy eyes. Blood ran from his bandage.

  “Thank you.” Cass would have kissed Lance if not for the lead ball settling in her stomach, the murderous nutjobs around the corner.

  “Stay out here then,” Lance said to King. “And keep your mouth shut.”

  King blinked away tears. “Stupid fools.”

  Metal hinges squealed from inside the lobby.

  Lance peeked his head inside.

  Expecting him to tell her what he saw, Cass kept her attention on King. The former pizza boy rolled from side to side as he tried to get his feet under him. With his hands bound behind his back, he couldn’t quite get off his fat ass.

  Watching him flounder gave her great pleasure. The feeling was odd. Being so mean and petty didn’t seem right, but because it was aimed at King, she couldn’t help herself. Watching the fat little bastard squirm almost brought a grin to her face.

  Almost.

  Instead of reporting what he’d seen, Lance spun around the corner and started shooting. The motion was so quick, so unexpected, that Cass froze for a moment, unsure of what to do.

  Megan followed his lead, blasting with her rifle, striding through the wrecked door. Snapping out of her daze, Cass slinked through the opening as best she could. She wanted to crouch-walk forward, to minimize her profile, but her injuries didn’t allow her to bend at the waist.

  It took a moment for her eyes to adjust as she plunged into The Light. The welded plates around the lobby darkened the area. For some reason, no one had turned on the overhead lights.

  The APC had crashed into the far wall, the armored front embedded in the double doors of the elevator. It had driven far enough into the elevator shaft that the first two wheels had fallen over the edge, dangling over empty space.

  The back tires had lifted into the air, slowly spinning a foot above the floor.

  Higgins’ men were climbing out the rear of the vehicle from a hatch. Three were already firing at the wounded guards sprawled around the lobby. They shot in all directions, indiscriminately executing anyone they saw.

  Lance popped off three rapid-fire shots, each bouncing off the APC behind the Bandits.

  Megan dropped one with a handful of rounds to the chest.

  Returning fire as they fled around the sides of the vehicle, the Bandits shot blindly in their direction, peppering the floor and metal plates.

  With the hard surfaces of the lobby, the eruption of gunshots was deafening. Thunderous booms hammered Cass’ ears as she followed her husband deeper into the lobby. The percussion made her head hurt as if she’d squeezed into the front row of a rock concert with the volume cranked to eleven.

  Cass shot at a Bandit as he slid beside one of the massive tires of the APC. Her rounds hit the rubber, missing her target by inches. The man recoiled from the proximity of the shots, inching sideways until he was out of sight.

  With the bulk of the gang hiding on the other side of the vehicle, most of the shooting stopped. Tension filled the air as Cass waited for one to make a move. She’d shoot the first asshole who dared peek at them.

  Higgins appeared in the rear hatch, sticking his head out, a grin of madness beaming across his smug face. “Nice place you have here!”

  Then he shot Emmett in the chest.

  34

  The door squealed as it slid open. Brandon paused, wincing at the sound. He listened inside the stairwell for the clomping of Bill’s feet. He didn’t hear anything.

  Until the door to the roof clicked closed a floor above him.

  “Crap!” Brandon had hoped he was wrong about Bill going to the roof. If Bill hauled ass, he could shoot The Wildman before Brandon even had a chance to get up there.

  Brandon took the stairs in giant leaps, rounding the bend of the landing and flying up the last few. Wind howled outside the door, whistling under a gap just above the floor. The cold air ran up his pant leg as he stopped before the door, making him shiver.

  Brandon closed his eyes for a moment, asked himself what he was doing. The odds of him besting a killer like Bill were slim. To have a chance at stopping his rampage, Brandon needed assistance. Even if wanted to get help, Fred was slumped against the wall a few floors down with his brains splattered everywhere. The other guards were scattered about the building, most on the lower floors.

  If he wanted to save The Wildman, he had to do it on his own.

  When he eased the door open a few inches, snow blew inside. Brandon was shocked to see the giant flakes as they stuck to his shirt, melted on his hands. He knew it was getting late in the fall, but the snow was coming down like a New England storm in February.

  Wind whipped through the slit, forcing him to squint as he stuck his head outside.

  At first, he didn’t see anything.

  The solar panels already had a coating of ice and snow.

  An inch or more covered the roof.

  Brandon spotted Bill’s footprints leading away from the door, meandering between the banks of solar panels. He sneaked outside, careful to keep the latch from clicking shut behind him. Walking with quiet steps, he followed the footprints.

  The wind cut across the roof, blowing the snow into his face at sharp angles. Cold nibbled at his fingers, the tip of his nose. How far had the temperature fallen? Just a few days ago, he’d gone scavenging in a t-shirt.

  As he reached the first set of panels, Brandon crouched and glanced around the side. The footprints stretched away from him, cutting a straight path across the roof. None of the cabling or panels appeared damaged yet.

  Brandon followed the prints, doing his best to stay low and quiet.

  The banks of the solar array ended a dozen steps later, opening to the space where they’d set up the drone.

  Bill stood a few feet ahead, his pistol aimed at The Wildman’s back. Though only a short space separated them, The Wildman appeared oblivious to the shooter’s presence. He looked out over the city, holding a ha
nd in front of his face to shield his eyes from the snow.

  An engine’s rumble carried up from the street, barely audible over the wind.

  The Wildman raised his arms and waved them over his head.

  Bill raised his gun a few inches until it pointed at the back of The Wildman’s skull.

  Brandon lifted his own gun, aiming it at Bill. His finger grazed the trigger, then moved away. He couldn’t bring himself to shoot someone in the back, no matter what they’d done. Or were about to do. He just couldn’t do it.

  Breaking from his cover, Brandon sprinted for Bill. When he was less than five feet away, he did something he never thought he’d attempt again—a dropkick. He’d nailed one of the cultists at Magnus King’s camp a few days ago with the same move, sending him headfirst into a bonfire.

  That had mortified Brandon.

  He swore he’d never do something like that to another person again.

  And there he was, launching through the air, throwing both feet at the middle of Bill’s back. At least there wasn’t a massive fire he could kick him into. His footfalls caught Bill’s attention. His head snapped in Brandon’s direction just as the kick landed along his spine.

  Grunting, the big man staggered forward.

  A boom carried away on the wind as the gun went off.

  The bullet went high, passing over The Wildman’s head.

  Brandon’s gun was jarred from his grip as he fell to the roof.

  “Hunh?” The Wildman spun around, arms still in the air. “What in the Sam Hill is going—”

  When he spotted the gun in Bill’s hand, the way Brandon landed awkwardly on roof, he cut himself off. After taking stock of the situation for a split second, he charged at Bill, lowering his shoulder. He caught Bill in the sternum. Drove him back several steps.

  The larger guy regained his balance in a flash, doubling The Wildman over with a punch to the stomach. He brought the gun down with his other hand, cracking it off The Wildman’s back.

  Collapsing to his hands and knees, The Wildman struggled to breathe.

  Bill aimed at the crown of his head.

  Brandon jumped up, heaved all his bodyweight at the back of Bill’s legs with reckless abandon. His shoulder connected with the murderer’s knee, buckling it with an audible pop.

  Howling and cursing, Bill twisted sideways, shifting his weight to his good leg. He hopped toward the railing, trying to maintain his balance. “You little shit! You blew my knee out!”

  A massive barrage of gunfire erupted in the street.

  The three of them paused. In unison, they turned their heads in the direction of the shots. Massive thumps vibrated the building with each blast of what Brandon could only assume was a gigantic cannon.

  He’d never heard anything like it before.

  Glass shattered beneath them.

  The wind ferried screams into the evening.

  Bill leaned against the railing, trying to swivel around to aim at Brandon, but struggled to do so on one leg.

  The Wildman’s face, white from the cold and the blow to his stomach, twisted in rage. His legs wobbled as he stood, facing Bill. “Traitorous jagoff.”

  He charged Bill, grabbing at the arm holding the gun.

  Brandon joined the fight a second later, wrangling with Bill’s other arm. Even as he wrapped his hands around Bill’s wrist, he realized he couldn’t overpower him. The guy was too big and way too strong.

  The gun discharged again when The Wildman punched at Bill’s hand. A hunk of the railing tore away, the bullet bouncing off into the dying light. The stink of the spent round made Brandon’s nose tingle.

  Bill easily yanked his arm free from Brandon’s grip. He grabbed Brandon by the neck, his fingers digging into the flesh around his windpipe.

  Immense pain blotted out everything else.

  His throat closed.

  He batted at Bill’s hand with his fists, trying to break the death grip.

  Bill grinned at the pathetic blows.

  The Wildman slammed Bill’s other wrist off the railing twice until the gun finally slipped from his grasp. It fell to the roof, tumbling between their feet. The Wildman reached for the pistol.

  Walls of black closed in on Brandon.

  He felt himself sliding into darkness, his thoughts cloudy, his limbs weighted and slow. Knowing he was about to lose consciousness, he threw a wild kick at Bill’s crotch, but only managed to hit him in the upper thigh.

  Rather than fight The Wildman for the gun, Bill grabbed Brandon’s throat with his other hand. He squeezed with such force that Brandon thought his head might pop off.

  “Little bastard,” Bill screamed in his face.

  The pistol exploded beside them, a flash illuminating Bill’s furious features. All the hate and anger melted away from his face when the gun went off again.

  His grip eased, but didn’t release.

  Brandon teetered on the edge of oblivion, willing himself to hold on.

  Blood blossomed across Bill’s shirt, soaking through the fabric over his heart. He wobbled on his good leg, teetering back against the railing behind him. His upper body leaned backward, angling out over the edge of the building.

  His iron grip pulled Brandon closer.

  He toppled over the barrier, falling headfirst.

  Brandon’s feet lifted from the roof, dangling in the air. Bill’s hands squeezed his throat, refusing to loosen as he dragged Brandon over the railing with him. A sense of weightlessness tugged at Brandon’s stomach as he slid along the edge of the building, his head completely over the side.

  His arms and legs flailed around as he tried to hook on to anything to keep from entering a free fall. He managed to grasp the railing, holding on with all his strength. Bill’s weight yanked his hand free a moment later.

  “Kid!” The Wildman grabbed at Brandon’s shoulder, but he couldn’t hold on.

  Then they were in a free fall, Bill’s body completely clear of the building as he plummeted toward the ground.

  Brandon closed his eyes as he was pulled free of the railing.

  Gravity embraced him.

  35

  Eifort screamed as her husband staggered into her. The bullet caught Doc Brown dead center in his chest, exiting out the back in a plume of red. Confusion lines furrowed his brow, though no pain registered on his face.

  He managed two more steps before collapsing to his knees, falling to his side. His mouth opened and blood oozed out the corner, streaming to the floor.

  “No!” Lance emptied his magazine at Higgins, but he didn’t manage to hit anything. His aim was all over the place as he fired too quickly, panic overtaking him.

  Higgins hopped from the APC, shooting a rifle from his hip, laughing maniacally. Blood drenched his left side where a guard had shot him. The cool, calm demeanor he’d displayed a few days was gone, replaced by the insanity of a man possessed.

  Lance’s pistol clicked empty as he continued yanking the trigger. For a moment, he didn’t know what to do as he stopped to glare at his useless gun. Should he keep fighting or tend to the doc? Charge Higgins or duck behind cover? He cursed and tossed the gun aside, running for his wounded friend.

  Cass ceased firing as she followed Lance, shouting Emmett’s name.

  Only Eifort kept fighting.

  She went full auto with her weapon, screaming incoherently as she sent a barrage of bullets at the back of the APC. Two cut down a Bandit, tearing through his cheek and neck, splattering the armored plating behind him.

  Another round hit Higgins in the side, just below his ribs.

  The maniacal grin slid from his face as he looked down at the wound.

  Eifort’s mag ran dry.

  Higgins slapped a hand to the wound, lifted his head until his eyes locked on Eifort.

  She glared back.

  Lance grabbed Doc Brown’s arms and dragged him away from the main doors, stopping when they were behind a large reception desk. Tools used to affix the metal reinforcements around the
lobby stretched across the top. Wood and laminate made up most of the desk, which wouldn’t provide much cover from bullets.

  The shooting by the APC stopped. Higgins shouted orders at his men. Several laughed. One hooted in approval of whatever his boss had said.

  Lance situated Doc Brown on his back, knelt beside him. Blood ran everywhere, drenching their clothes. They’d left a streak of it along their floor where Lance had dragged him behind cover. The amount pooling under Brown was the most concerning.

  “Doc.” Lance tried to quarantine his terror, focus on helping Brown. “What do I do?”

  Cass dropped down, bumping against Lance. “How bad is it?”

  “I can’t tell.” Grabbing hold of the hole in Brown’s shirt where the bullet had entered, Lance tore it open.

  Blood splashed everywhere as the flaps of his shirt splattered against the floor.

  It gushed from the wound, pumping out at a rate that seemed impossible to Lance.

  Doc Brown’s eyes roamed around them until they settled on Eifort as she slid in beside them. His mouth opened to say something, but bloody spittle came out instead of words.

  “It’ll be okay, baby.” Eifort let out a broken sob when she saw the amount of blood pouring from his chest. “It’ll be okay.”

  Putting both his hands on the wound, Lance pressed down, hoping to staunch the flow. It oozed between his fingers, coursed over his knuckles. Dread overwhelmed him. “What do I do, Doc? What do I do?”

  Brown ignored him, holding his wife’s gaze. His reached out, took her hand in his. A small sound came out as he moved his lips again.

  Eifort leaned forward. Her tears fell onto his cheek. “What, baby?”

  “Finn. Pro… protect… Finn.”

  “I will. I will.” Eifort swallowed, a visible lump in her throat bobbing. “No one will hurt him.”

  “Doc. Tell me what to do!” Lance pressed harder on his friend’s chest, but the blood kept pumping out. Hopelessness overcame him as he watched the doc’s life drain out onto the floor.