The Hunger

by Whitley Strieber

  His eyes opened almost of their own accord. Other faces had been about to replace Miriam’s.

  The sound of a raging crowd evaporated into the soft morning air. Where, after all, do the dead go? Nowhere, as Miriam said — or is there a world beyond life, a world of retribution?

  “You can’t blame me,” he growled.

  He was surprised to hear a voice answer.“I’m not! You can’t help it if they forgot!” Alice.

  John turned his head. She stood frowning, her violin case in her hand. She was here for her music lesson. Her odor, rich beyond description, poured into the room. “Good morning,” John said as he clambered to a sitting position on the side of the daybed.

  “I do music with the Blaylocks at ten. But they’re gone.”

  She did not recognize him.

  “Yes, yes — they had some kind of a bank meeting. They told me — told me to tell you.”

  “You must be the Vienna Philharmonic musician. My dad told me about you.”

  He got to his feet, went to her, bowed. He dared not touch her, dared not even brush his hand against her. The hunger had become an inferno the instant he had caught scent of her. He had never experienced so much concentrated need, had never wanted anything so badly.

  “Are you a regular with the Vienna Philharmonic?”

  “Yes.” His hands shook, he clutched them together to keep from grabbing her.

  “What’s your instrument?”

  Careful here. He couldn’t say cello because she might ask him to play. It was completely beyond his capacity in this condition. “I play — french horn.” There, that was good.

  “Heck, I was hoping you were strings.” She looked at him with her soft, intense eyes. “Strings are a lot of fun. They’re hard, though. Do you have your horn?”

  “No — no, I prefer it does not travel. The tone, you know.”

  She glanced away. “Are you all right?” she asked in a small voice.

  “Of course,” he said. But he did not feel all right, he felt like splitting her in two.

  “You look so old.” Her voice was low and hesitant. The knuckles of the hand gripping the violin case were white.

  John tried to lick his lips, realized that they were stretched dry. The faces of other children swam into his memory. Miriam had insisted he take them when he was a beginner because they were easier. In those days homeless, unknown children were commonplace.

  Taking human life had slowly lost its significance for him. He no longer remembered the number of murders he had committed. She had sucked every cell of humanity out of him and left him as he was today, at the end of his life with this to face.

  “Have a seat,” he heard his voice say, “we’ll talk music until they get back.”

  His hand touched the scalpel in his pocket the instant she accepted his invitation and came through the door.

  That was all he needed, he was on her. Screams exploded from her, echoing flatly through the house. Her lithe body writhed, her hands tore at him, she slapped at the cracked skin of his face.

  He pulled at the scalpel, twisting her hair in one hand, yanking her along the floor. Her arms windmilled, her feet scraped and banged. Her screams were high pitched, frantic, incredibly loud.

  The damn scalpel wouldn’t come out of his pocket.

  She managed to bite his arm, her teeth crunching out a half-moon-shaped hole in the loose skin.

  Her eyes rolled when she saw the damage she had done. A column of black vomit shot from her mouth, splattering on the floor. She threw herself back and skittered along, trying to reach the door. He leaped at her, finally ripping the scalpel from his pocket. Everything except the hunger disappeared from his consciousness. His mouth opened, he could already taste her. It took all of his strength not to gnash his teeth like a famished dog. She was on her back, pushing herself away with her feet. He grabbed her ankle, held it with all the strength he could find. She sat forward and began batting at his hand.

  He drove the scalpel down behind her collarbone. The pain threw her head back and made her shriek wildly. Then he was lying on top of her. Her breath rushed out of her lungs with a whoosh. She lay jerking in shock, her tongue lolling, eyes growing filmy.

  With his mouth wide he covered the wound. He probed with his tongue. It hurt, it always did. Unlike Miriam’s, his soft human tongue was not adapted to this.

  After what seemed an endless amount of probing, the blood burst from the vein, filling him at last. He sucked hard, lingering until the last drop. Only when there was nothing left but a dry rattling did he stop. His body felt loose and easy now, his mind was clearing. It was like waking up from a nightmare, or like the time as a boy when lost on the dark North Yorks Moors he had finally discovered a familiar path. He sighed deeply, then washed out his mouth with a glass of Madeira from the library stock. The wine seemed to contain a million delicious flavors, and he sensed each one individually. It was so beautiful he wept. His hands went to his face, feeling the softening skin and the warmth. He lay back on the daybed again and shut his eyes. The wine had been a fitting complement. Unlike other food, alcohol remained delicious to him. He tried to relax, savoring the immense relief.

  Alice, as serene as a goddess, appeared behind his closed eyes.

  It was so real that he shouted. He jumped up from the daybed. A sweet scent filled the room. It was every beautiful memory he had ever known, every kind voice, every loving touch.

  He remembered when he was fourteen, waking on a summer’s morning at Hadley House, knowing that he would meet Priscilla on the other side of the lake as soon as she had served morning tea to himself and his parents.

  He remembered the humid woods, the swans in the lake and wildflowers. There was a hurting, queasy tickle when she touched him. By now she was dust beyond dust.

  He sat down beside the rumpled clothes that hid the remains of Alice Cavender. The perfume was strongest here, it must have been something she was wearing. Gently, he touched the red T-shirt with its decal of Beethoven.

  The perfume faded as quickly as a departed mood of love. It left him feeling as if he were already dead. He sighed. There was an ugly chore just ahead that wouldn’t wait. If Miriam found any evidence of whom he had taken — he couldn’t allow that.

  He forced himself to pick up the little bundle and carry it down to the basement.

  Miriam had walked the streets, sorrowing at the ugliness of what John had become. Despite her caution he had nearly . . . she couldn’t even think about it. She was going to have to capture him soon. As soon as she dared. Even with his present weakness he was still too strong.

  She returned home after an hour, unwilling to expose herself more than necessary to the random accidents of the city streets. When she turned the corner onto Sutton Place she stopped in surprise and stared. There was smoke rising in a thin trail from her chimney. John was burning evidence, and in broad daylight. The fool must have hunted right in this neighborhood, he hadn’t had time to go farther away. No doubt he had taken some local child.

  Toward the end they always lost all caution. She wanted to be angry at him, but she pitied his desperation too much. She ought to count herself lucky that he bothered to destroy his evidence at all.

  Although she did not relish the prospect of confronting him, she was going to have to re-enter the house. It was hers, after all. And it was a safe place to Sleep. Somehow, John would have to be restrained. She could not allow him the freedom of house and streets much longer.

  She marched up the front steps and went in. The rumble of the furnace was audible. The poor man. At least it told her his whereabouts. The high-pressure gas lines that fed the thing couldn’t be left unattended.

  She paused in the hall, savoring for a moment the peace and life of her house. To her it was like a well-rooted rose bush, lively and enduring. Soon it would contain a new voice, that of Alice, light and golden. Miriam’s tiny infirmary was prepared for the transfusions. The approach to Dr. Roberts had begun. The good doctor herself wou
ld in the end be Miriam’s assistant. For an instant her mind remembered John as he had been and she experienced a quick sinking of the heart. But she pushed it aside.

  She began to move toward the library. The pomander was too sweet, it was getting rotten. And the ceiling needed some plaster work; the house had settled a little recently. She had to prune her roses. It would soon be a necessity as well as a pleasure. And she was crying all over the hall rug. There was no use trying to stifle her feelings. Her despair broke through in a torrent.

  John, you loved me.

  You loved even the sound of my name.

  He had been so happy with her, always laughing, always full of delight. She sank into a side chair and rested her chin in her hands, shut her eyes tight against the tears. She wanted so for him to hold her once again. She had been his prize, his adored one. In the end that was all that mattered, that was life itself, to be needed.

  His aging was so ugly, she couldn’t remember that the others had been that ugly.

  There had been such good times.

  The night she first met him, for example. She had only recently returned to England. She hadn’t seen one of her own kind in twenty-five years. In those days she still hoped that they had migrated to America, seeking a less organized community. She was miserable with loneliness, an unwanted creature in a world she could not love.

  That night it had been cold, the rain pounding and the wind blowing. She was toying with Lord Hadley, a foolish old man. His estates were vast and full of itinerant workers and others of the dispossessed. She longed for the freedom to roam unhindered in such lands. She had accepted his invitation gladly. And this glorious young man had appeared at dinner. He had about him all the important signs: the arrogance, the determination, the intelligence. A predator.

  She had drawn him to her feet that very night, to teach the poor inexperienced thing a few secrets. The rich hunting of the estate could wait now that she had the opportunity to possess its heir.

  She had taken rooms in the town of Hadley and visited him each night. Two weeks later she had started his infusions. If only she had known then how weak he really was; he had been intended to last the longest. Look at him now.

  In those days she used india-rubber tubing and the hollow needles made for glassblowers. It was a great advance over the past method, in which she simply used her mouth and hoped for the best. Although she knew nothing of immunology then and would never have thought to test him for tissue rejection, John had not died. His wound had become infected, but that always happened. He had gone pale, but they did that too. Unlike so many, he survived. Together they had depopulated Hadley. The old Lord had hung himself. The estate had reverted to the wild.

  He was a delighted child in those days. They went to London to join the bright social whirl of the declining Regency. God, how times had changed.

  John. She remembered the time he had burst in on her disguised as a policeman. And the time he had chosen their victims in Glasgow and the next morning she discovered it was the Lord Mayor and his wife.

  They used to ride to hounds. He had taught her that there was a thrill in challenging fear. She had accepted a little bit of the lesson to please him. How fine he had looked mounted, his boots gleaming in the morning sun. She remembered the mad dash of the horses, the smells and the noise and even the unaccustomed sweetness of danger. He had once leaped onto her horse at full gallop and tumbled them both off into a ditch — and made love to her with the bracken bobbing about their thighs and the huntsman’s horn echoing in the distance.

  She sighed and tried again to forget. Nostalgia was useless — she had to get down to that basement and deal with the poor man.

  4

  TOM SAT IN HIS OFFICE in the gathering dark. Although it was late he was crackling with energy. Hutch had just turned down Sarah’s application for a funding review. Even better, he had ordered the project closed down, its records sealed.

  Battle was joined. Tom could now challenge Hutch directly by demanding a Board of Directors’ meeting himself. If Hutch was reversed it would break the old man’s authority. Tom could then move in on him, shoulder him aside. Welcome to the next Director of Sleep Research.

  He took out a cigar and held it between his lips, then put it away. One a day was his limit. If he smoked this one he would break that limit and force himself to confront his own iron rule: smoke two and go without any for a week.

  He saw a shadow appear on the frosted glass of his door. The knob rattled. “When’s the review?” Sarah asked as she entered. “We’re ready to go.”

  “Not tonight. The board goes home early.”

  “Board? You mean the Board of Directors — of the Center? I thought we were dealing with the Budget Committee.”

  “We’re not. Hutch blocked a committee review. I’m left with no alternative but to go to the board itself.”

  “I’m not prepared for that.”

  “Don’t quaver so when you talk, my dear. You’re prepared — brilliantly so, knowing you. And you can prepare me.”

  “I’ve never even seen the board.”

  “I have. They’re formidable as hell. Exactly what you’d expect of three world-class tycoons, a retired governor and two Nobel prize winners.” He smiled. “Pardon my intimidation. I’m just challenging you to do better than your best. Give me what I need to impress the hell out of them.”

  “Yes, sir.” She snapped off a ragged salute.“Shall I get a new dress? A permanent?”

  “You just get the data. I’ll confront them alone.”

  “Thank God!”

  “Confidence.” He leaned back, being careful not to allow the old chair to fall off its base. It was going to be quite a pleasure, and a deserved one, to allocate himself some decent furniture. Part of Hutch’s psychology was to make sure he had the worst office, the most decrepit furniture in the whole clinic. Transient interns rated better space.

  “You seem curiously happy.”

  “I should be. I think this might get me the directorship. If the board starts dictating policy to Hutch, he’ll have to go. There’s already board sentiment to that effect, I suspect.”

  “Tom, you’re using me again.”

  “You’re useful, lover.”

  She laughed, shook her head. Tom disliked the moral tone of her position. Operating to mutual benefit wasn’t using somebody, not in the way she meant. “I’m saving your career.”

  “To further your own.”

  That was unfair. He felt wronged. “I’m getting what we both want, Sarah. That’s all that’s important.”

  Her eyes were closed, she looked pained. “It’s just that I don’t like this side of you. It scares me. I don’t like to think you walk over people.”

  “Then delude yourself. I don’t mind.”

  “Tom, I guess what scares me is that I love you so much. I feel so vulnerable.”

  He wanted to hold her, to somehow reassure her. They sat silently, the space between them making movement seem impossible.

  “What if you fail?” she asked in a flat voice.

  “Now who’s the betrayer?”

  Her hand went to the desk between them. She must want him to hold it, he could see the sparkle of tears in her eyes. “We both have a lot to lose,” she said. “You’re making this thing into a life-or-death crisis.”

  “It’s been that all along. I’m just trying to use it to our advantage.”

  “That’s what I hate about you! You use everything. Me. Even yourself. Sometimes I see you as so — so dark and frightening. You’re somebody I don’t know, somebody who would do anything — too much — to get what he wanted.”

  They had often had versions of this conversation. Originally, Tom had dismissed it as the histrionics of an insecure woman but recently had begun to suspect that it was more deeply felt than that. Sarah’s insecurities did not extend to her career, despite its precariousness. Tom wondered how long they would last as a couple. Would she leave him over such an issue? He reached out and t
ook the hand. He knew that she was waiting, but for what he was not quite certain. Probably she wanted him to protest, to deny the truth of what she had said. It was like Sarah to see a truth and try to enforce a more palatable illusion in its stead.

  “It’s the way I am,” Tom said. “I won’t deny it. I want his job. It’s that simple. I’m better qualified. And I’ll get it too. He won’t be able to stop me.” Saying the words offered him a satisfactory illusion of confidence. Actually, what he was conscious of was fear. He might get himself fired or, worse, might end up stripped of all power, condemned to be Hutch’s batboy until the old man died.

  “Let’s go someplace and drink. It’s that time.”

  “This is you talking? Leaving the lab at seven P.M.? Maybe you have given up.”

  “They’re running statistics on the changes in Methuselah’s blood composition. There’s nothing for me to do.”

  “You have computer access? I thought that’d be cut off by now.”

  “Charlie broke the codes. We’re patched in through his home computer.”

  Tom smiled. You couldn’t help but be proud to work with people such as Sarah and her group. She wasn’t one to be stopped by something as minor as having her budget cut and the door slammed in her face.“How can you get the memory space? Won’t the computer alert the Programming Group?”

  “It’s an assembly from dozens of different files. A little here, a little there. Not enough to notice — from any one file.”

  “How much space do you have?”

  “Ten thousand K.”

  He burst out laughing. It took a supplementary request to the Programming Group, six weeks’ wait and a special budget allocation to exceed 500 K. So much for bureaucracy! “How is this getting billed, for the love of God?”

  “It’s going on Hutch’s personal account. The effective cost is eighteen hundred dollars an hour.”