Blood Born

by Matthew Warner

  “Casualties?”

  “Yeah, a whole bunch of them. Some younger ones are on the move, too. They’re eating everything.”

  “Holy shit.”

  “Are you ready to report? They’re evacuating all the shelters. Helicopters are flying in from a bunch of different army bases.”

  Randall grabbed another glazed doughnut. “Let’s go.”

  Adams followed her back to her cot, where she’d left her gear. She gestured to the Hyundai’s key ring. “Let’s take your civvie car. All the cruisers are checked out, and I don’t want to bus in with the G.I. Joes.”

  Randall grabbed the keys and led the way to the parking lot. “Any particular reason why not? Not that I’m a fan of the feds or anything.”

  “I just want to make sure we go to the Camelot school in Annandale. I saw a list of the people sheltering there. Your gal Margaret Connolly’s been there since Tuesday.”

  Randall gaped back over her shoulder. “You’re kidding.”

  “No, but we better hurry. That place is gonna be empty in another hour.”

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  The Seventies reject gave Margaret one final sneer. “All right, folks. You heard him. Let’s go.”

  A sob rose in Margaret’s throat as she followed everyone into the hallway, some of them carrying bags. She didn’t want to leave the area without her daughter. It felt like she was abandoning her.

  A small consolation was that once they were lined up against the wall, with armed soldiers around them, the Seventies reject wasn’t in charge anymore. Jarhead With Bars stood at parade rest with his hands behind his back. He had a strange expression on face. “Okay, people, here’s the deal. The roof apparently isn’t designed to withstand the weight of a helicopter.”

  He cleared his throat and glanced at the floor—and then Margaret deciphered the look on his face. Embarrassment. What the hell happened to the roof?

  “The chopper is expected back in zero-niner minutes. At that time, you will proceed under armed escort to the new L-Z on the school blacktop. Any questions? Follow me.”

  They followed him down hallways through the school, moving so fast they were almost running. Margaret glanced into the empty classrooms they passed, part of her expecting to see summer school in session. The kids and teachers weren’t here, and all of these fine facilities were going to waste. Strange, but this sight filled her with more sadness than the dead bodies and broken-in houses of a few days ago.

  They arrived at an exterior door, where the soldier stopped to speak into his walkie-talkie. Margaret looked past him and saw what he’d referred to as the school blacktop: a large, asphalted lot with marked-off basketball courts and fitness areas. Beyond the blacktop stood swing sets, pull-up bars, and a giant metal spider for climbing.

  JWB clipped his radio back onto his belt and faced them. “All right, straight ahead on the opposite corner of the blacktop is an L-Z we’ve marked off with an ‘X’. The chopper’s gonna land there in one minute. Beside the L-Z is a fence with a man standing next to it. You will proceed out this door and run as fast as you can to him. Don’t waste time looking around you. Just concentrate on that fence. Rest assured there’s armed soldiers at all four corners of the blacktop, covering you. It’s important you follow these directions and waste no time out there. This area’s grown much more dangerous over the past couple days. Questions? Good.” He opened the door and stood aside. “Now go on! Run run run run!”

  Group Bravo barreled out the door in a state of panic. ‘Much more dangerous’? ‘Don’t look around you’? What?

  With Seventies-reject man in the lead—he wouldn’t be deprived of his last chance at authority—they quickly located the fence with the man standing beside it. Except he wasn’t standing. He was down on one knee and seemingly aiming his rifle at the group, which still ran straight at him. The black-and-green helicopter was a hundred feet overhead, descending in a roar of whirring blades.

  Margaret ran for the fence and the soldier there, passing over areas marked off for the fifty-yard dash and standing long jump. She glanced around just enough to see more soldiers with guns scattered around the blacktop.

  She tripped on a chunk of loose pavement. She caught herself from falling—but the scared teenager also tripped and did fall. Margaret tried to go back to help her—and was smashed into from behind by the mother of the Hispanic family. Margaret screamed, pain ripping through her as the two of them went down in a heap.

  “Ow, watch where you’re—”

  “No no—get up, get up!” The woman nearly tore off Margaret’s blouse in an effort to haul her to her feet. “Run!”

  I’ve had enough of this, Margaret thought. “Calm down! We’ll be okay! Just slow down and—”

  “No! Run!”

  Then she saw it, over in the flowerbed on her right. A soldier lay there covered in dirt and blood. Fresh gashes had been torn into his abdomen, carving him open. Margaret didn’t understand. Was this old, new? “What?”

  Something launched itself from the bushes onto the teenaged girl who’d tripped. It moved so fast that at first Margaret didn’t realize what it was. When she did, she started screaming.

  The bigfoot had already torn off the girl’s jeans by the time Margaret could scramble to her feet.

  Gunfire erupted in the air around her, and the bigfoot jerked as if stung by a bee. More gunshots, and red spots blossomed on its shoulder and head. The monster slumped onto its side. The screaming girl lay there with her pants and underwear hanging off of one ankle.

  Margaret ran to her and tried to pull her up. “Come on!”

  There was more screaming over the sounds of gunfire and the helicopter—then a swarm of bigfoots charged in from the woods and parking lot. Margaret saw big ones and little ones. The little ones ran on all fours, their tails wagging. They tackled the soldiers and the men of Group Bravo. The adults singled out the two wives of the group and bit their necks, tasting them for fertility.

  The teenager tripped on her loose pant leg as Margaret pulled her toward the helicopter landing zone. “Come on!”

  But then the helicopter—which had not yet touched down—abruptly leaned forward as its blades sped up. It was leaving.

  “No!”

  The teenager’s arm jerked out of Margaret’s grasp. She turned to see an adult bigfoot pulling the girl away. It was already biting her neck. The teenager screamed as she pinwheeled her bare legs.

  The gunfire had stopped by now. The helicopter noise grew fainter. The Seventies reject, a dozen yards to her left, shrieked as a youngster with large white canines fastened its jaws around his thigh.

  Margaret cast one last look at the girl—I can’t help her, God forgive me—before allowing panic to take over. She broke for the woods, running for her life.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  Randall heard the chatter of automatic gunfire as soon as they parked by the school’s front entrance. She used her portable radio to call in their location and the situation before they exited the car with guns drawn.

  The noises came from the asphalted recreation area around the side, so they headed there. Randall led the way as they ran in a crouch. She belatedly realized their posture was stupid—it wasn’t like the bigfoots would shoot back—but old habits died hard.

  A streak of brown fur crossed in front of them. It was a juvenile bigfoot about as large as a small tiger and four times as fast.

  “Got it!” Randall said, and squeezed off a shot.

  But she didn’t get it. The animal leapt at least ten feet into the air—reminding her of Nick Schaefer’s performance—and hurdled a chain link fence like it was only a fallen log.

  The two women stopped and aimed around the corner of the building. Randall knelt on one knee, and Adams stood behind her. They paused for the briefest of moments—although it felt like hours—to assess the situation. Randall was stunned by what she saw.

  The elementary school’s play area was a battlefield. Dead soldiers, civilians, and UPAs lay h
elter skelter in tangled masses of limbs and blood. Gunfire whisked out of the treeline from an unseen soldier to shatter a row of windows. A teenaged girl, naked from the waist down and with her shirt torn away from one shoulder to expose her bra, screamed and ran toward the school’s side entrance. She was tackled by the juvenile bigfoot who’d jumped the fence.

  Randall yelled as she opened fire, hitting the animal in the leg. It fell off the girl, taking away a stringy ribbon of her skin along with it, then it immediately bounced back onto its feet. PFC Adams finished the job by emptying her gun into it at center mass.

  More bigfoots were circulating the area, but as the two police officers converged along with a platoon of commandoes that seemingly came from nowhere, the animals scattered into the surrounding neighborhood. The commandoes split into smaller groups and sprinted after them.

  It was another ten minutes before Randall learned from soldiers inside the building that Margaret Connolly had been among the group of ambushed evacuees. Five minutes after that, she completed her check of the dead and determined that Margaret wasn’t among them.

  Which meant . . .

  “Oh my god.”

  In vain, Randall tried to see through the trees.

  Chapter 18

  Margaret didn’t know if a bigfoot was chasing her as she left the school’s blacktop for the woods, but she didn’t dare look over her shoulder. Instead, she concentrated on running as fast as she could. She passed the remains of a soldier with his throat ripped open.

  Her breathing tore at her own throat, and her body was aching. She couldn’t control her panic. If anything, it worsened as she was sure a baby bigfoot was nipping at her heels. Recklessly, she dashed between trees and shielded her face as she plowed through undergrowth. She stumbled over fallen logs and just barely maintained her balance.

  She heard gunfire behind her, and screaming—oh God the screaming. She saw the teenaged girl’s face in her mind, the one she tried to help before the adult animal pulled her away.

  I panicked, and she’s going to die because of me. I could’ve stayed and helped her more—I should’ve done something. I would’ve done more if she was Daniella, and that’s not fair to that girl.

  A sob rose in her throat as she kept running.

  The trees cleared as she entered someone’s back lawn. A white house stood before her. It was an old one with two chimneys, a porch, and enough forested land that its neighbors were hardly visible. Its windows were dark, and there weren’t any cars in the driveway. Margaret ran to it anyway and yanked open its farmer-style, metal-and-glass storm door.

  The front door was unlocked. She shoved it open.

  She thought she heard approaching footsteps from behind. She tried not to scream as she slipped inside and slammed the door shut behind her.

  A breathless moment passed until she was sure nothing had chased her. She didn’t hear any more footsteps. No breathing or scratching sounds came from the outside. She was safe, or at least—

  The old man in the rocking chair. By the darkened fireplace. Head tilted to the side. He was staring at her.

  But his throat had been torn out. His face was white, and the place stank of blood and decay. It must have happened a while ago. Hopefully the attacker had left. The window behind him was shattered. The only sound was a ticking grandfather clock.

  She ran from the room. Got to hide.

  A stairway descended from the kitchen into darkness. Margaret careened into the stairwell and slammed the door behind her. She emerged in a basement lit only by a small window near the ceiling.

  It was crammed full of shelves and lawn equipment and a rusty bike. She sat down in a corner behind the furnace. She hugged her knees to her chest.

  They killed that girl, and I could’ve helped her. Oh, Daniella, my baby.

  Tomorrow would be one week.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  No more than a minute after Margaret found her hiding place in the old house’s basement, she heard a crash and a series of footsteps upstairs. She watched the ceiling, trying not to move or make a sound—trying not to breathe—as the footsteps creaked to and fro above her head. Snuffling sounds moved across the base of the closed door at the head of the stairwell. She couldn’t tell if they knew she was down here. Thank God they didn’t know how to turn doorknobs.

  The footsteps and sniffing went on and on. She wished this place had a back door so she could escape. But the stairwell was her only exit, and right now, danger lay in that direction. Fee fi fo fum, I smell the blood of an Englishman.

  This went on for literally—she checked her wristwatch—an entire hour. Finally, the sounds stopped, but she waited another half hour before daring to move. By that time, she was numb with fear and spent adrenaline. Nothing felt real anymore.

  Slowly, careful not to make a sound, she stood up from her place behind the furnace. Her muscles ached and her joints popped as she moved, and she tried not to gasp in pain. She crept to the base of the stairs, and there she paused to listen.

  Chewing sounds.

  Oh God, they’re eating those bodies.

  She hurried back to her hiding spot and sat down.

  She waited the rest of the morning and partway into the afternoon. How ironic, she thought. Monsters are supposed to live in the basement, while people are supposed to be upstairs.

  No more footsteps came, but she wasn’t about to poke her head out of her hiding place until she was sure the house was empty. Her own hunger pangs grew until she was sure she would pass out, but still she waited and listened.

  She also did a lot of thinking. If I find Daniella and can save her, I’ll never let another day go by when I don’t tell her I love her. I’ll be there for her. I’ll . . . I’ll quit my job if I have to. No more late nights at the office. The job isn’t as important as her. We’ll move to someplace smaller, slower. Safer. I’ll retire, maybe volunteer time as a school nurse.

  If. If I find her. If I can save her.

  At three p.m., the ceiling creaked as something moved upstairs. Margaret waited for it to continue—a rapid squeak squeak squeak of footsteps heading for the door—but there was nothing. A minute passed, and a rhythmic rumbling began that she couldn’t interpret. She stood up again and crept to the stairs to listen.

  Purring. It sounded like a lion. That, or it was snoring, she couldn’t tell. Dammit, when was it going to leave?

  Well, at least there was some consolation: it only sounded like there was one of them. Even so, there was no leaving here—no foraging for food, no renewing the search for Daniella—until the animal tired of this place. She hoped they weren’t going to turn this house into one of those birthing nests for kidnapped rape victims, because then she might never have the opportunity to slip away.

  Margaret sighed in exasperation—and immediately caught herself. That was too loud.

  The purring upstairs stopped.

  She held her breath. Waited for the sniffing to begin again. Maybe this time, the creature would follow it up by breaking down the door to the basement.

  The purring restarted. Margaret slumped with relief.

  Being on edge for so many hours took its toll. At last, as she sat huddled in the corner, hugging her legs and resting her head on her knees, she fell asleep.

  When she awoke, the basement was dark. She poked her head out from behind the furnace far enough to see the skinny window near the ceiling. It looked gray. She checked her watch. Early evening. God, she was hungry, and the lack of food was making her so lethargic, so drowsy. She nodded off once more.

  This time, she awoke with a start. Something had crashed upstairs. There were more eating sounds. She tried not to cry.

  Tomorrow. I have until tomorrow to find her.

  When she awoke again, the basement was lit with morning light, and the upstairs was utterly quiet. Her stomach was a burning hole of hunger.

  Have to get up. C’mon, old lady. Daniella’s depending on you.

  Taking shallow breaths and trying to mov
e without sound, Margaret climbed the basement stairs. Still no noise came from upstairs. No purring, sleeping, or eating sounds. No footsteps. But it was too hard to hear anything over her own heartbeats.

  I’m going to throw up.

  When she grasped the doorknob at the head of the stairs, it was too late to turn back. She decided to go through the door regardless of whether she was alone. She couldn’t stay in that basement forever. She would starve, and Daniella would be left alone to die a horrible death.

  The stairwell door swung open on silent hinges. She scanned for the creatures. Nothing.

  But the smell was worse. What had they been doing up here?

  She threaded her way through the kitchen and toward the front door. Still there was no sound. When she passed the threshold of the main room where she’d seen the old man in the rocking chair, she didn’t dare to look. Couldn’t.

  Almost to the front door now. Just a few steps farther. There weren’t any bigfoots in the house now, she was sure of it. There probably weren’t any immediately outside. She’d be home-free.

  But there was something horribly wrong about the room to her right, where the old dead man in the rocker was. She saw it out of the corner of her vision, an insubstantial mass of dark colors. Disruption. Something that was just . . .

  An object sat beside the front door—a pair of shoes or a pillow. Margaret stepped around it as she grasped the knob and pulled.

  It was the old man’s head. The corner of his mouth had been ripped open. Margaret whimpered as she yanked open the door and fled outside.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  The bigfoot Daniella had named Whitey, for the white patch of fur on his chest, awakened her when he entered the room and stepped over her.

  Daniella tried to remember how many times he’d been here. He only seemed to come back once a day to check his victims. Five times? Six? How many more days did she have until she gave birth and wound up like that poor woman who died across the room from her, eaten by her own baby?