“Shower tower. Shower tower.” The words became meaningless but the rhythm kept my mind off the buffet around me. Oh, hell. My body wasn’t ignoring it. Drool slipped from the side of my mouth. Are you kidding me? I wasn’t a mangy dog. I didn’t need to drool every time I got around something that smelled good.
The girl thrashed against the ropes, limiting my time to make it out. She’d break out fast, if I didn’t hurry. I wouldn’t be able to pile the bodies around her. She was strong and the gaping wounds didn’t seem to bother her, even as the rope rubbed into them.
Dominic was nowhere in sight.
The gasoline can waited by the door. I grabbed it, unscrewing the cap as I moved. I’d be damned – well, I already was, but – if she got out, it’d be a lot of work for me that I didn’t have the energy for. I wouldn’t make it through that smorgasbord again without a bite here or there. Hell, here and there.
Okay, I’m a bastard, but I had to steal a bite. I was starving and no one would know. The chunk of flesh I picked up from the ground was the size of a credit card. I popped it in my mouth and swallowed without chewing. The weight in my stomach seemed to release me from the twisting ache. I had a job to do.
Gas sloshed in the metal container. A whimper sounded from behind me and I paused. But it couldn’t be. Every person in that room was dead or about to be. There was nothing there.
The handle squeaked as I jerked it back and forth, dumping the contents on the remains. Maybe I’d mistaken the sound.
The girl froze and stared past my legs. I didn’t care. She was going to burn and I wasn’t getting trapped in there with her. I turned the can upside down and watched the gold-hued liquid mix with her blood-washed hair. Odd shaped chunks of scalp hung by millimeters of skin. Even with the gas soaking her body and clothes, she didn’t move from her pose. Staring behind me.
Another whimper. More definable. The girl jerked, gnashing her teeth near my knees but not aiming for me. More like instinct.
I stepped back, turning as I did so. Nothing moved.
Matches in hand, I fingered a sulfur-tipped stick. Three feet from her I slid the tip across the striking plate. Sparks and fffwwwt. The match lit.
In midstride I tossed it over my shoulder. There was no getting out of there alive – or dead – if you weren’t already headed out.
Heat – oh, glorious heat – stroked my back, my buttocks, my thighs, my neck. I continued to walk out, but I’ll admit I slowed down. I hadn’t been that warm in two weeks. Warm. Just baking.
The girl seemed to sigh behind me. Her wailing stopped.
At the half-wall I turned. She shrank into the fire as if she sought it. I wanted it, too. And jealousy ached in my torso. I wanted release. I wanted heat. I wanted to be free from this insatiable hunger.
Cold fingers wrapped around the outer portion of my forearm. And hell, I shrieked like a girl.
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Copyright © 2018 Bonnie R. Paulson/Captiva Publishing, LLC/B.R. Paulson
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