Clay sank into a pew. He remembered the world disappearing when the voices invaded his mind. He wondered just how much he could take before he lost complete control.
“I’m not sure, Lane,” Clay answered, his heart heavy. “I’m not sure I can trust myself much longer. I don’t know if—if I’m dangerous. If any of us are safe now.”
Chapter 46
Jacobs led Clay toward the front to join Lane, Marcia, and Jacobs. Clay imagined he could hear them saying, “Should we really trust this guy to be our leader? He’s either going crazy, or he’s being taken over by them.”
“When did you first notice these voices?” Jacobs asked. “And why didn’t you say something?”
Clay remembered back to the first inkling of them in his mind. Scratching at the bandage on his face, he muttered, “I guess the hotel. But they’ve gotten stronger since we’ve been on the road.”
“Stronger in what way?” Marcia asked.
“Back at that rest area,” Clay began. “I was waiting for Maia. I heard them—an entire horde of crazed in the men’s restroom. I heard their wails, their screams of pain. You know, not just the way they communicate now. Not the screeching. It was like there were real thoughts there.”
“So you felt connected to them?” Lane asked. “And when I used the device?”
“The voices went away,” Clay affirmed.
The three scientists exchanged glances, disturbed. Daniels joined them. He appeared to be nervous. He wiped sweat from his forehead. “This is bad. Really fucking nasty,” he muttered to himself. Clay half-wondered if Daniels thought the best idea was to put a bullet in his brain. Get it over with, then and there. Get it over with, before he gave in to them.
“This is fascinating,” Jacobs muttered.
“But why? Why start now?” Clay asked. “I mean, why didn’t I have the voices in my head back in Dearing, or Carterville for that matter? I’ve been infected this entire time. It doesn’t make sense.”
Marcia turned away and reached into her pocket. She drew out a pack of cigarettes—a practiced motion Clay hadn’t seen in what felt like years. Without an apology, she lit up. She was a portrait of beauty—blonde hair, an impenetrable stare. And as she smoked, she gave the only answer any of them could think of.
“Must be this fucking general,” she blew out a cloud of smoke. “He’s got the device, doesn’t he? And you’re getting closer to him all the time. If he’s trying to control the crazed, chances are, since you’re infected, he’s getting to you, too.”
Lane and Jacobs both nodded, as if this added up in their minds. Rage spun within Clay, making him see red. He imagined the general up north, tapping his device’s buttons—and making Clay a monster.
“Is that really possible?” Clay asked. “All the way from there?”
Marcia continued to smoke, her face tense despite the nicotine. “Well, he probably amplified the output. He thinks he’s ruling of the world, so I can’t imagine why he wouldn’t want to control all of them from where ever he happens to be. But, Clay …”
Marcia dropped her half-smoked cigarette, crushing it out with her foot. Clay could smell the nicotine on her.
“Clay, there’s a good chance you’ll continue to experience these—erm—episodes, forever,” she said.
“Unless we can get up there. Unless we can stop him,” Daniels insisted.
For the first time, Clay felt a flicker of hope. He sensed that they were beginning to come to terms with the need to go after the general. He would have his vengeance. He rose and said—in no uncertain terms, “You agree, then. We absolutely have to go to Earlton. We have to stop him—”
In the silence that followed, Clay thought he had won. Then, in the distance, an incredible boom, an explosion, rocked the town, shaking the church. Clay felt it in his bones. Everyone turned toward the stained-glass windows, at Jesus on the cross, the many shepherds, their sheep.
And they waited, knowing all too well devastation was upon them.
Chapter 47
The shockwave blew the stained-glass into the church. Shards exploded inward, potentially deadly collateral damage. Several people screamed. Maia ran straight to Clay and pressed her face into his chest. Clay felt her rabbit-like heartbeats and held her close for protection.
Clay called, “Is everyone all right?”
Weak replies filtered back to him as everyone pulled themselves together. Glass fragments blanketed the church, colorful missiles that miraculously killed no one. Feeling his throat clench, he called, “Alayna! Where’s Brandon?”
Overhead, a megaphone squawked on.
“CLAY! It’s Brandon. Up in the bell tower. We’ve got trouble coming at us fast!”
“What’s happening?” Clay yelled.
“The force field just went down!” Brandon called back. “And we’ve got a pack of them coming on strong.”
“Shit,” Clay muttered. His thoughts raced and his brain mapped out what he’d seen of the square outside, trying to plot a safe zone. It was clear they couldn’t gather everything they needed from the bus—the supplies, the gas, the people—before the attack. “Brandon, get your ass down here!” he called. “And let’s head to the police station! Across the square!”
As if on cue, the voices battered him once more. Trying to control them, he took Maia’s hand and drew his gun. Brandon flung himself down the final flight of stairs, pulling his own gun. Everyone who could handle one had weapons ready, and they raced toward the door and out into the sunlight.
At the far edge of the square, Clay could see a pack of sixty or seventy crazed. Their arms flailed as they sped forward, and their calls were wild and guttural. Even as they cried out, Clay could feel their very real thoughts crowding his own.
HUNGRY! EAT! RUN! BLEED!
“We have to go!” Clay said, starting across the square. He pointed his gun at the crazed, moving as fast as a team of horses, and dropped one, then another. They fell forward, their blood splattering across the ground. The rest of the horde trampled the bodies, indifferent. They were no longer human; they had no empathy.
Behind him, Alayna fired at targets of her own among the monsters. Daniels, Brandon, and even Lane were next. Quintin and Sherman were last, protecting everyone else and making sure no one was left behind.
HUNGRY! FLESH! MUST … EAT …
Trying to remain in this reality, rather than fall into theirs, Clay tried to push the crazeds’ thoughts out of his mind. “NO!” he thought, concentrating. “KEEP AWAY. STAY OUT!”
As he pushed their chaotic, stirring, murderous thoughts away, the crazed slowed down. No longer a galloping herd, their movements resembled an undead pub crawl. Shocked, Clay gaped at the drunk-appearing, sloppy crazed, shambling now. Lane scrambled up beside him, breathing hard. Her eyes were wide.
“Do you see that?” She was stunned. “They’re slowing down! Clay—what are you thinking about? Is it you? Are you doing something?”
Clay kept his eyes on the crazed, still concentrating. But he allowed her a small nod. Lane smacked her hands together and laughed.
“YES! Keep it up, Clay. You can control them! You’re buying us time. We’re going to make it!” Lane cried.
Clay slowed to a walk, still staring at the crazed. His crew continued to shoot them down, on their way across the square. It was an oddly beautiful moment. Clay had complete control. From the corner of his eye, he saw his people make it to the station, Daniels and Brandon taking sentry positions outside. To his right, Hank and Walt were side-by-side, their rifles lifted. Walt still limped; not fully recovered. But his eyes glittered with anger and concentration, keeping him in Hank’s shadow.
“OH SHIT!” Hank cried, pointing beyond the sea of crazed. “Is that—is that who I think it is?”
Clay turned to see a veritable fleet of large, roaring trucks. One of them was honking its horn spastically. Clay went cold. He recognized the vehicles.
It was Malcolm. Malcolm had found them.
Clay shov
ed Maia toward the police station, screaming, “MAIA! RUN!” Maia did as she was told, Alayna hot on her heels. In all the commotion, Clay lost his footing and his concentration slipped. The crazed sped up—their strides grew longer, and their lips smacked hungrily.
He'd lost control of them.
The crazed were upon them. Hank leaped back, unknowingly leaving Walt in their path. Without hesitation, one of them pounced, sinking its teeth into Walt’s upper arm, ripping into his flesh. Clay felt a surge of adrenaline, of joy.
FINALLY. FLESH. YES. FEEEEED!
Clay watched on with a mixture of conflicting emotion: fear and anger blended with glee; Walt fell to his knees, howling. Hank let several bullets fly, but it was too late. Walt was on his back, gripping his arm, screaming as the crazed began to feast on him. Hank screamed, turned toward the station and ran.
“FUCKKK!!” Hank cried. “GO! GO! GO! THEY GOT HIM! THEY GOT HIM!”
Chapter 48
Clay stood outside of the police station, Lane beside him. Less than a quarter-mile away, Malcolm’s caravan was inbound—their vehicles near military caliber, and thus protected from the crazed that they were driving forward.
Clay and Lane continued to take down the crazed closer to their proximity. Clay with lead and the smell of cordite, Lane with the push of a button, knocking down ten, fifteen, at a time, depending on where she pointed the device.
“They’re still coming. Look—” Lane pointed. “Just behind Malcolm. Can you feel them? Their thoughts?”
Clay could. But he couldn’t control them—not anymore. Not with so many. His brain was stretched thin from the struggle with the voices. He could still see Walt’s body—what was left of it. In the distance, more voices, more words, were streaming into his head.
FEED. FEED US. FLESH.
Then the bullets came. They ricocheted off bricks of the station, one just missing Clay’s ear. He grabbed Lane’s shirt and dragged her back behind the pillars for cover. There was no mistaking Lane and Clay were the targets, rather than the crazed.
“They’re monsters!” Lane cried. “Can’t they see—why won’t they help us?”
This was a predicament. All of Malcolm’s men—in armored cars, no less, on one side and all the crazed approaching from, well everywhere, Clay knew it was over. For now, at least. He dropped his rifle to the ground. He’d never been the type of man to surrender. But he had to do the best thing to save his people. To protect Maia.
“What the hell are you doing?” Lane asked hysterically. “What—”
But Clay raised his hands and stepped out from behind the pillars even as the last of the bullets spun around him. He felt like Jesus on the cross—trading himself for everyone else. At Malcolm’s mercy.
Lane raised her arms and set the device at her feet. They waited together at the top of the steps. Seconds later, Malcolm’s trucks halted ten feet or so from the station, with the sunlight glittering across their windows. Silence fell around them. Clay waited, apprehensive, knowing that any second, one of Malcolm’s guns could blast through them both.
The passenger side door of the biggest truck opened. A single, dark green boot dropped to the pavement, between two of the crazed. Malcolm. Standing tall, his shoulders broad and thickly bearded. He stared directly at Clay, a slight smirk on his face. He kicked at the crazed, nearly booting Walt, and started toward the station. Several of his men followed, rifles in hand.
“Well, well. I bet you didn’t expect me so soon, did you, Clay?” He drank in Lane’s curves with his eyes, then turned his attention back to Clay. Behind the armored cars, the crazed were coming up fast—a river of the damned behind a dam.
Clay refused to be afraid of this man. “I don’t know what you’re here for, Malcolm. I wouldn’t even guess,” he said.
Malcolm chuckled. A few of his men turned toward the crazed and began to spray them with bullets. But more and more of the crazed streamed into the square from every direction. More of Malcolm’s men began to fight, slaughtering the crazed wholesale.
“I reckon we should talk inside,” Clay said.
“Is that so?” Malcolm asked, almost seeming to dare Clay to do something wild. To challenge him.
But most of the crazed had been slaughtered.
“Because I think we’ll probably be all right without that talk,” Malcolm said, crossing his hands over his chest.
A lone crazed burst from between buildings, charging one of Malcolm’s men. The man dropped his weapon and let out a wild, guttural scream. Even from fifteen feet away, Clay could see the whites of his eyes.
Without hesitation, Lane grabbed the device, and in a smooth motion, dropped the crazed. Malcolm’s man huffed, still wailing, looking down at his arms, his legs. He seemed to be checking for injuries.
Malcolm raised an eyebrow and said, “Well, well. What’s that you have there?”
Lane didn’t bother to reply.
Malcolm cackled. “Cat got your tongue, don’t it, girly?” In three quick strides, he clambered up the steps and lumbered up to Lane. He held out his hand. “Come on now, hand it over. That magic wand of yours. This world is just one surprise after another, isn’t it?”
Chapter 49
I’m not alone. I’m surrounded by those like me … of them—hungry, my tongue lashes out, searching for something. Anything to taste—to bite. Around me, the others’ eyes are wide and bulging. Big, purple drops of blood fall to their necks, their chests. I reach out—I can’t control my hands, can’t grip—I want to grab them. To take them. But as my tongue grazes skin, I taste nothing but bitterness. Sour. SOUR.
They won’t satisfy this hunger. They’re not what I need. And yet—they’re here. And I want them. I want them more than I can—
Aaaaah!
I scream inside my head, but my voice is unheard.
The pain is unbearable. Like light searing my eyes. I blink into it, my mouth still open, my tongue still lolling. I hear muffled voices, screaming. I need to reach it. My legs are sluggish, but they carry me forward. The world spins; the horizon shifts back and forth.
Them, those around me: they reach for me. Rotting nails dig into my skin. They sniff at my arms and lean forward, trying to sink their teeth into my torso. But I swing at them with my elbows. Blood oozes from my eyes, and I feel—I feel—RAGE. HUNGER.
I am spinning, I am wild, I am inhuman I am inhumane. Nothing is right. Everything is HUNGER. I NEED FLESH!
Chapter 50
Clay, Lane, and now Daniels faced off against Malcolm and two of his men just inside the station. Lane still held the device, though the crazed seemed at bay for the moment. Her eyes were dark, searing into Malcolm. Clay knew that if she’d had a rifle, Malcolm would be a corpse.
Clay recognized that they were in trouble. If they shot, Malcolm’s men would return fire. And there were more of Malcolm’s men still in the trucks. Waiting for something to go wrong.
Outside, the crazed continued to filter into the square while Clay struggled against the constant awareness of rage and hunger, coming in from the monsters. He focused on Malcolm, trying to direct this rage.
“Look at you, Clayster. You look like you’re about to explode,” Malcolm said with a titter. “It’s a real joy to see the man who got the drop on me looking so nervous. Isn’t it, men?”
His two accomplices chuckled obligingly. All three were at least six feet tall, Malcolm’s men in the 250-pound range. Daniels, Quintin, and Sherman could probably have taken them in a fight, but it wouldn’t have done any good.
“Get their weapons. I’m tired of feeling like we’re about to duel,” Malcolm snapped.
Malcolm’s lackeys relieved them of their guns. All that remained was the device, still in Lane’s hand.
“All right. Now that that’s over, we can get on to the comedy portion of the evening,” Malcolm said snidely. “Tell me, Clay. What’s more amusing to you? Is it that you didn’t kill me when you had the chance? Or is it that nothing really matters, now that I ha
ve the tables turned? Such a useless, meaningless thing, this life. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Clay’s brain pulsed with anger. He took a small step forward, his hands clenching into fists. “I should have let Sam murder you where you stood.”
“Ha. Old Sam, wanting to kill me. Now, that was a trip, wasn’t it?” Malcolm said, seeming genuinely cheerful. “You should have seen her in bed. Quite feisty.”
Malcolm’s men cackled again, as if they were all in some kind of melodrama in the afterlife.
“But really, Clay, I need to thank you for that. For saving my life. I mean, if you hadn’t insisted on letting me live, we wouldn’t be having this talk right now. And I, for one, am really enjoying this conversation. I think our little girl here is enjoying it, too. Aren’t you?” Malcolm leered at Lane.
“Leave her alone. She’s doing what you asked her to do,” Clay said. “Jesus, can’t you just—”
“What’s your name, baby?” Malcolm asked. Clay could smell his foul breath. “What should I call you? A pet name?”
“Fuck off,” Lane said.
Malcolm tilted his head back and laughed. “Jesus, she’s good. She’s way too good.”
“What the hell do you want?” Clay barked. “We’ve given you our weapons. We don’t have anything else.”
Malcolm’s smile widened. After a long, dramatic pause, he reached for Lane’s hands. But instead of touching her, he pulled the device up to his chest. “Isn’t it obvious, Mr. Sheriff? This thing right here. It has everything I’m looking for.”
Malcolm inspected it: the buttons, the gleaming metal. He sniffed and turned with a surprise. Alex—scrawny, skeletal Alex, stood in the crowd, his thin arms crossed over his chest. The two—father and son—held one another’s gaze for a long moment, until Malcolm began to chuckle.
“This must be it, isn’t it, Alex?” Malcolm said. Clay realized then that Alex looked far more like his father than he’d thought. They had the same leering stare. “Tell me this is it, Alex. Tell me.”
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