When There's No More Room in Hell 2

by Luke Duffy

  Relax, he told himself, as he paced frantically. All they wanted was some of his stuff, blood and skin, then he was free to leave. Wait, the doctor didn’t mention the money. What if that was a lie. What if there was no money. What if this place was one big sex house and they were slowly dosing him so that he wouldn’t remember getting raped? No, he was being ridiculous. Damn it.

  Derek hit himself in the head again, but this time it did nothing to calm him down. Shit, what had they given him? Maybe they knew he was “unsteady” and gave him something to keep him crazy. Watch him suffer.

  He needed to get out of there, but if he showed them how upset he was, they might tie him up, or chain him down. Then he would be at their mercy.

  Derek bit through his lower lip in grinding pain. “You got to act natural,” he told himself.

  A knock sounded on the door, then Dr. Chan entered. “Okay, Mr. Mayfield—”

  Derek lunged at the tiny man, toppling him to the ground.

  Looking up, he saw that Chan wasn’t alone. He had a guard with him, a rather large man, who was dressed in black fatigues.

  As the guard rushed at him, Derek pushed himself up. They collided, but Derek managed to toss the man aside. The guy lost his balance and fell to the floor. Standing over Dr. Chan, Derek stomped the little man’s face, breaking his glasses and his nose. The big guy was getting up. Derek jumped over to him and landed with his feet on the man’s back, knocking him down again. He then lifted his right leg and stomped on the back of the big guy’s neck, over and over, like someone at a slam-dance concert. He was in a rage, wanting to kill. Within moments, Derek had turned the man’s spine into mush. Blood pooled around the guard’s face, his jaw broken, and offset. Pieces of teeth lay in the red liquid like tiny lifeboats at sea.

  Turning around, Derek saw Dr. Chan holding his nose and leaning against the doorframe. “You’re a tough little fucker, aren’t you?”

  Holding both arms out, shaking his head, Chan said, “no, no, no.” Blood covered the man’s face, his broken, twisted nose, still gushing like a burst water main. The little man turned to run, but Derek was on him in a second. He was suddenly hungry, starving in fact. Grabbing Chan’s head, he yanked it back, exposing Chan’s neck. Derek brought his face down and sunk his teeth into the scientist’s Adam’s apple, tearing it free. He tossed Chan’s body to the ground like the dead weight it was and chewed.

  As soon as he swallowed the meat, he wanted to throw up. Leaning over, Derek gagged, but nothing came up. Anger then coursed through him. What had these people done to him?

  He needed to escape.

  Turning back to the dead guard, Derek searched the corpse, finding a Taser strapped to his hip, a wallet with no cash, and attached to an extend-a-cord was the keycard Derek had seen numerous employees use to access doors. He unclipped the card, stuffed the Taser into the back of his pants, and left the room.

  He ran down the hall, the way he had originally come, and came to a locked door. Using the keycard, he swiped the piece of plastic through the card reader and heard the door unlock. He grabbed the handle and pulled the door open.

  Another hall lay before him and he didn’t hesitate to sprint down it, passing a large window. Men in lab coats and a single guard, dressed in the all too familiar black fatigues, were in the room. Immediately, an alarm sounded, but Derek didn’t think it was from anyone in the lab. He remembered seeing cameras in the corners of the hallways and in certain rooms. As he approached the elevator, he looked up and saw a camera with its cold eye staring at him.

  He pressed the button for the elevator and then thought for a moment; elevators were small, cramped. He didn’t like cramped spaces, especially when he was messed up in the head, which he clearly was now. Instead, he turned toward the exit leading to the stairwell, saw the card reader and used the keycard. The door unlocked and Derek pulled it open, ready to run up the stairs when a guard stepped forward and blocked his way.

  “And where do you think you’re going?” the man asked, holding a baton and smiling.

  Derek reached behind, pulled the Taser from his pants and shot the guard point blank. The guy went down fast, his body rigid and shaking. Unlike a stun gun, which only affects the part of the body it is exposed to, the Taser causes pain throughout the whole body, incapacitating the target completely.

  Derek dropped the Taser and ran up the metal set of stairs. His stomach pained him, almost as if he hadn’t eaten for days. He had known hunger; living on the streets had brought him that sensation plenty of times.

  Up and up he went. He was so caught up in trying to escape, he lost count of the flights. Had he climbed five or six? He wasn’t sure. Finally, he reached the top, coming to a small landing. Elevator doors sat to his right. On his left appeared to be a set of storm-cellar doors and another card reader was next to them. He knew he had reached the exit. Taking the keycard out, he swiped it through the card reader. A beep sounded, then the mechanics of working gears sounded and the doors were opening.

  Below, he heard the hustle of boots on the steel stairs as the guards were coming after him. Derek bolted up the steps and found himself outside and in the alley where he was first propositioned to work for the pharmaceutical company.

  Derek might have been outside, but he was far from free. The men were right behind him and a solid steel gate eight feet in height, topped with curling barbed wire, stood at the end of the alley. A sharp, stabbing pain erupted in Derek’s gut. He doubled over, thinking he had been shot, but when his hand came away from the area, it was clean. When the pain subsided, he stood. His abdomen was fine; it was just hunger that he was feeling.

  He took off running down the alley, hoping to reach the sidewalk, the public, before the men had a chance to capture him. He had no idea what those bastards did to him, but he’d fight it off like he’d fought off everything else in his life, well except for the drugs, which he could really use a hit of something strong right now.

  Without slowing, Derek jumped up, grabbed the top of the steel gate, and pulled himself up and over it, ripping his outfit and cutting himself as he did so.

  Standing on the busy sidewalk of Second Avenue bleeding, Derek watched as cars, mostly yellow cabs and delivery trucks, drove by. A few horns sounded when the car in the right lane didn’t move fast enough after the light had turned green. Derek had never been happier to hear the annoying sounds.

  Pedestrians walked around him as if he wasn’t there; just another homeless guy out and about. Nevertheless, he needed to get as far away from the area as possible. Those men might still be coming for him. And why wouldn’t they? Afraid of a scene? Although no longer the quintessential homeless man, he was still a homeless man, simply cleaned up a little and dressed in green overalls. If men in black fatigues grabbed him, who would care? Who would step in and do something? No one. He needed to keep moving. Then his stomach cramped up again, and he felt weak. About to fall forward, Derek grabbed onto a woman who was walking by him. She screamed and tried pushing him away, but anger coursed through him. It wasn’t right what he had gone through, and now this bitch was screaming at him, drawing attention to him. He grabbed her hand, brought it to his mouth and bit down. The woman howled in pain. She tried shaking Derek off, but he hung on like a dog that was playing tug-a-war with a knotted rope. Derek’s mouth flooded with the taste of iron as his teeth broke her skin.

  Something large and heavy hit Derek from behind, knocking the breath out of him. The woman’s hand slipped from his mouth. He tried lunging at her, but couldn’t. Someone was holding him. Fearing it was a guard, he threw his head back and felt something crunch under the impact; he wasn’t going back down there. A moment later, he was free.

  Turning around, he saw a man in a gray suit covering his nose with both hands, blood gushing from beneath them. A guard had not grabbed him, just a “good citizen” trying to help a woman in distress. Why had Derek attacked her? And why was he chewing the small amount of flesh in his mouth? Confused, he spit it out, h
is chin covered in glistening crimson.

  From his right, behind the steel gate, Derek heard men’s voices. Shit, the guards were coming. He was so tired, running out of energy, but he needed to get as far away as possible. Blend in with the crowds of people walking the city sidewalks. If the men in black got him back down in that place, he would be experimented on, and they would inject him with more of that crap again. Derek took off running toward 44th Street.

  He dodged citizens, most of them moving out of his way, reached the end of the block, and ran around the corner. He continued down 44th Street, running as if the Devil were after him. About halfway down the block, he looked over his shoulder to see if the guards were chasing him and didn’t see a rotund man emerge from a store. Derek collided hard with the man, sending them both to the ground. Face to face, like two lovers, Derek stared at the man’s puffy red lips—like gummy worms made of meat. He lowered his face to the plump tissue, bit down, grasping both of the man’s lips, and began to pull with the ferocity of a lion standing over its prey. The jelly-like flesh stretched as the man howled. Chunks of flesh came free with a suction cup sound. Blood gushed from the man’s face, running into his mouth and over his cheeks. It was wrong to do what he was doing, but he needed to eat. He was so damn hungry.

  People stood around, screaming and yelling for help. Derek seemed to come out of his frenzied state. Feeling weak and terrified, he jumped up, and a piece of lip was dangling from his mouth like a fisherman’s lure. Cell phones were pointed at him, recording his mug and the gruesome scene. He would be tonight’s headline on the news, the main story. Looking back the way he had come, Derek saw a large black shape cutting its way through the crowd. It was the men in black fatigues, the guards. Like one giant entity, they were coming for him. Spinning around, holding out his arms to part the surrounding crowd, Derek took off running down the street, listening to the cries of the man whose lips he had removed.

  Chapter 3

  “That’s the guy,” Jess shouted, leaning forward and pointing at the television screen.

  She and Jack had been lying on the couch, snuggled up like two high school sweethearts. Anger and fear now coursed through his veins at seeing the man’s face.

  His wife, Jessica, had been on her way back from the gym when a man attacked her, biting her on the hand. She had called the police, then Jack. Not wanting to wait for the authorities to arrive, Jack called back, telling the 911 operator that he was taking his wife to the emergency room. There, Jess was given an injection of wide-range spectrum antibiotics to potentially take care of any disease her attacker might’ve passed on to her.

  The police showed up and Jess gave her report of the attack. The police told her that the man was still at large, but that they were doing everything in their power to locate the individual and bring him in.

  Now, sitting on the couch, Jack listened as the anchorwoman told the tale about the man. His name was Derek Mayfield. He had been missing for over ten years and was wanted for questioning in the murder of his parents. Today, the man had appeared as if from out of nowhere on a city sidewalk on Second Avenue, between 43rd and 44th streets. From there, he went on a vicious rampage, biting and attacking people throughout the city. So far, two people were dead due to the injuries they sustained.

  “Oh my God,” Jess said, bringing her right hand to her mouth.

  “Come here,” Jack said gently, and pulled her back to him. He wrapped his arms around her and gave her a gentle squeeze.

  “I can’t believe he killed people,” Jess said, softly. “I could’ve been one of them.”

  “Well, you weren’t. It was just the wrong place at the wrong time. Same for those others. A matter of chance.”

  “But still, I could’ve been killed.”

  “Don’t think like that. You’re a tough cookie. No woman of mine is going to let some crazy-ass dude take her down.” He squeezed her again and kissed her neck.

  “Turn the channel; I don’t want to watch anymore.”

  Jack picked up the remote and turned to another station.

  “At least they got the guy; he won’t be hurting anyone else.”

  “What if he had AIDS? Or TB?”

  “The doctor told you the chances of him transmitting anything with such a small wound were basically zero. Plus, he gave you a shot to wipe out anything bad he might’ve had.”

  Jess sighed. “You’re right. I’m worrying for nothing.”

  “Hey, you had a tough day. Anyone, me included, would be nervous, on edge. But you’re fine and have nothing to worry about.”

  “I’m drained. I think seeing that newscast wiped me out.”

  “It’s been a long day so let’s go to bed.”

  The next morning, Jack awoke just after eight a.m. He turned to Jess. She was still sleeping, but she looked terrible. Her skin was pale and the area around her eyes was dark and sunken. Putting a hand to her forehead, Jack almost jumped. Jess was burning up. He quickly pulled the covers off. His wife’s nightgown was soaked with sweat. The doctor had said she might have a slight reaction to the antibiotics, but nothing like this.

  “Jess. Sweetie.” He tried shaking her gently, but she didn’t respond. Fear gripped his heart like a mother holding on to her child during a hurricane. He was finding it hard to breathe as panic overrode him. “Jess, please sweetie, wake up.”

  Jack picked up the house phone and dialed 9-1-1. He paced frantically as the phone rang and rang before someone finally answered.

  “9-1-1, please hold.”

  Hold? What the hell was that about? Not wanting to hang up, he pressed the speakerphone button and placed the phone down on the nightstand.

  He went back over to the bed and sat next to his wife. “Jess, Jess, please wake up.” He shook her gently and she started to come around.

  Her left eye opened; the right one remaining closed as if glued shut. She spoke with a raspy voice, almost a whisper. “Hurts. So much pain.”

  “I know, baby. I know. Help’s on the way.” He reached over and picked up the phone. “Come on, come on. Damn it.” He hung up and dialed again.

  “9-1-1, can you please hold?” a man’s voice said.

  “No, I can’t. Something’s wrong with my wife. She’s really sick. I think she’s dying.”

  “Sir, is there any way you can get your wife to a hospital?”

  “What? I don’t understand.”

  “Sir, the city’s experiencing a crisis right now and the wait for an ambulance could be upwards of an hour or more.”

  “Wha—what the hell are you talking about?”

  “Sir, I need you to remain calm. Can you get your wife to a hospital?”

  Jack couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Was he still asleep? Having a nightmare? His beautiful wife right beside him.

  “Sir, I have others on the line and I need to get to them too. Do you want me to send an ambulance or can you get your wife treatment?”

  “I’ll get her there,” he said, and hung up the phone.

  Rubbing a hand over his head, he turned to look at his wife. Her left eye was still open, but it didn’t look right; it wasn’t moving. She wasn’t moving.

  Frozen, struck with fear, he waited for the eye to do something. Anything. After a few moments of nothing, he came out of his petrified state and crawled onto the bed.

  “Jess?” he asked. “Jess?” He waved his hand in front of her face. No response. He felt her neck for a pulse, but couldn’t find one and wondered if it was because his hand was trembling too much.

  He rolled Jess on to her back, her body reacting like a rag doll, her arms flopping lifelessly at her sides. It felt as if his lungs had shut down; he couldn’t draw in a breath. Wrapping his arms around her, he pulled her to a seated position and hugged her close, rocking her limp body. “No, no, no, no,” he cried, and held her for a while.

  Jack laid her back down, supporting her lifeless head with his hand. He put his head to her chest and cried some more. Sitting up, he checked
for a pulse again. Nothing. His mind frantic, he bent over her mouth and performed CPR, something he should have tried earlier. Still nothing. Then chest compressions. Nothing. His wife was dead.

  Sitting up, sobbing, he repeated his wife’s name over and over, telling her how sorry he was. Then something moved against his leg. Startled, he stopped crying and wiped at his face. Jess opened both eyes as her body began stirring.

  “Jess?” he asked, hardly believing what he was seeing. “You’re alive.” He scooped her up and embraced her, never wanting to let her go again. “I thought I lost you.” He rocked her back and forth slowly, taking in every ounce of her. It was a miracle. Then the area between his shoulder and neck began to hurt. The pain was sharp. He adjusted himself, thinking maybe he pulled a muscle, but the pain persisted. He tried pushing his wife off, but couldn’t. What the hell was going on? He pushed harder and the pain in his shoulder area worsened. She was biting him. He cried out, half in pain, half in shock.

  “Jess, what are you doing?”

  When she didn’t respond, he shoved harder, finally pushing her off of him. She fell down onto the bed, mouth and chin covered in his blood; and she was chewing something. A piece of his shirt was showing from her mouth. She was eating the chunk she had taken from his shoulder.

  The fever had caused her to go crazy.

  “Hold on, baby,” he said, getting off the bed. “I’ll get some ice, we have to cool you—” He stopped himself when he looked into her eyes. There was nothing there. No recollection. She didn’t know him. They were dull, lifeless eyes. Standing up, he remembered: the bite from the man on the street. It must have something to do with what was happening to her. The deranged man passed something on to her. But what disease or virus could move so fast?