Eight
The voice of their new father said to them Go. Feed, and they did as they were told. They crept through the tunnel one after another. The father stayed behind. Once they returned, he would feed off of them. Being newborns, they did not understand this. Some of them wanted to stay behind, but they knew better than to question the new father’s voice when it appeared in their heads.
Their movements were quick, almost feral. The close walls bothered none of them. Compared to the twisting hunger in their bellies, the tight confines were a mercy. Some of them mewled like infants as they made their way through the hot tunnel. Others growled or merely rasped air past their teeth, breathing not because they needed to but out of habit.
The one out front had a vague memory of a name. Randy. Had it been his? It no longer mattered. He had no need for such a thing now. His only need was food. The new father hadn’t allowed him to feed yet, and his belly nearly screamed through the skin that had already grown pale and drawn over his ribs. His arms and legs pumped forward with mad determination, and the scent of blood and meat that crept through the thick earth did not help matters. The thought of the crimson liquid sent his mouth watering. If the new father hadn’t told him to go up tonight, he would have gone mad.
Another of the newborns whimpered behind him. He could not remember this one’s name, not that he cared. He knew only that the creature desired blood just as strongly as he did, for this one had been with the new father just as long as he had. Together, they had both scrambled for the tunnel first, fighting off the others. They needed food so badly, they would have gladly ripped the others to shreds if it meant they could find sustenance faster.
A faint wisp of cool air touched his face, and his movements quickened. Within seconds, he crouched near the tunnel’s end. The blood smelled much stronger here, so thick he thought he might grab it with his claw-like hands. He wanted to leap out and search for the needed fluid, but he knew he must wait a few moments for the sun to drop from the sky. There might not be danger of the hated light past the tunnel, but he could not remember with any certainty.
So he waited, as did the rest. They did their best to silence their cries of anguished hunger, but tiny sounds of sorrow and want still escaped them. Time appeared to slow and stop around them, a sensation they’d experienced more than once in the past few days. Eventually, the world caught up with itself. All at once, he knew the sun was gone. His body sensed it, felt it. Reaching out, he knocked aside the boxes that concealed the tunnel’s entrance. The blood aroma wrapped around him, penetrating him, and he hissed roughly before scrambling out of the hole and into the small room. The rest came behind him, but he was out of the room before they made it to their feet. Hearing their breath behind him, he made his way down the dark halls he could almost remember from another life. He followed the blood.
The time to feed had come.
Nine
Maggot watched the sun drop below the bottom edge of the infirmary’s windows, and he felt his skin tighten with fear. They had given him something to make him sleep when he’d arrived in the hospital, but the chalky pills had worn off hours ago, and now all he had left was the mounting feeling of terror in his heart. He began to whimper as he fought to keep a scream from breaking free of his throat. It would be coming soon, looking to finish him off. Whatever had killed Dr. Wilson and the rest would not let him survive. Father Albright had been his only hope, and now that hope was gone. One way or another, he was going to die tonight.
Maggot thrashed his head from side to side and struggled against the binds the nurses had placed on his wrists and ankles. To keep you from hurting yourself, they had told him in voices both urgent and distant. But the straps would not keep him safe from whatever was out there. Whatever had turned Burnham bad would not care about his wrists and ankles. It would kill the rest of him without a thought.
“Yo, Maggot. Calm the fuck down, man!”
The whispered command came from the big man they called Tree. Tree occupied the bed next to his, and had complained long and loud when the nurses had placed them next to each other. “Keep that goddamn freak away from me!” the giant had yelled, but the nurses ignored him. Long ago, the man had threatened to kill Maggot when he’d accidentally laughed at the giant’s name.
“I’m serious! Stop fuckin’ moving! You spookin’ me out!”
“It wants to kill me!” Maggot replied through grit teeth. “It will be here soon.”
“What?” Tree asked. “What’s gonna be here soon?”
“The bad thing. The killing thing!”
“What the fuck is the killin’ thing? You seen it?”
Maggot fell back against his sweat—soaked mattress. His chest heaved as he continued to worry at his binds. He turned to face Tree. “I saw what it did to Dr. Wilson, to one of the guards. It kills. It can rip a person apart!”
The giant leaned over the side of his bed, trying to get closer. His voice came softer, but more anxious.
“Yo, Maggot. I think I mighta heard it before.”
“Yes?”
“Don’t know for sure. Somethin’ hissing last night, maybe out in the hall.”
“Did it come in?”
“Don’t know. I acted like I was asleep.”
Maggot tugged against his binds some more. They refused to loosen. He wondered if he could bite through them. “It wants to kill me,” he said. “It is mad it did not get me the first time.”
“You crazy.”
“I am not!”
“Don’t gimme that shit, Maggot. You a strange fuck, and everybody knows it.”
The big man looked around. Maggot followed his eyes. An office near the door housed the lone nurse that kept watch over the infirmary at night. A pair of double doors stood nearby, and another pair stood at the opposite end of the infirmary. Four other beds held patients, each in need of various degrees of care. All of them were asleep now, however, and the nurse was out of sight and most likely out of earshot.
Tree turned back to him.
“The fact you so scared don’t matter dick to me. It wants to kill you and that’s all, that’s cool with me. Ask me, though, it just wants to kill. It don’t care who.”
“I do not want to die.”
He snapped his head toward the entranceway opposite the nurse’s station. Something had brushed against the doors, creating a small percussive noise they would not have even heard had they been asleep.
Slowly, Maggot turned away from the door, back to Tree. He saw the sharp shine of fear in the giant’s eyes, heard the quickened breath, and he knew he was not alone in his terror.
Behind him, he heard the dry whisper of the doors swinging open on their hinges.
Something hissed.
***
Hall’s eyes snapped open when he heard someone draw the bolt to his cell door. He had barely slept in the past two nights, and he couldn’t remember falling asleep on this one. Being torn from what little slumber he’d received was worse than rotting in solitary. The thought rushed from his head, however, as the door began to swing wide, its hinges groaning. He leapt off of his bunk and moved to the rear wall, pressing his back against it. Cold stones bit into his bare skin, bringing him to full attention, and he sucked in a sharp breath. It tasted clear, clean, and he almost sighed. That thing hadn’t returned. At least he had some luck on his side.
Shaw stepped through the door and into the cramped cell. “Little jumpy, aren’t you Hall?”
“Fuck yeah, I am. You’d be too, you been through this shit.”
“Right. The sole survivor of the great solitary wing massacre. Hope you appreciate how fortunate you are.”
“I’d appreciate a whole lot more, if I wasn’t stuck in this fuckin’ sweathole. Now why don’t you fuck off and get outta a brutha’s face?”
Shaw held up a hand. “Chill, Hall. I’m trying to be friendly, here.”
“You really want to be friendly, you keep this bitch secure while I get some fuckin’ sleep.”
Shaw ran a hand through his blond hair. A smile crossed his face and then faded. “That’s not exactly what I had in mind.”
Hall felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand at attention. Something bad was happening here, something seriously fucked. He wanted to think the past couple of nights had just made him paranoid, but he knew better. The look on the guard’s face told him everything he needed to know. Now, he just had to figure out what the fuck he was going to do about it.
“Yeah?” he asked. “You wanna spit it out then, Shaw? I don’t like waitin’ on your ass. I’d rather just get this shit over with.”
The guard smiled. “Right. Last thing we want is to make some worthless, murdering nigger like you wait.”
So that was it. This must be Sweeny’s play. Hall stepped away from the wall and drew himself up to his full height. It still left him two inches shorter than Shaw, but the idea was to look big, show no fear. He knew how to do that, had been doing it half his life.
“So, you one of those cracka’s, huh? Well, roll up, if you gonna. Don’t stand there like no pussy. Roll the fuck up!”
Shaw began to chuckle. “Oh, you’re a tough one, aren’t you?” He reached around to his back pocket and pulled out some object. When he pressed a button and a blade sprang into place, Hall realized exactly what the object was. A switchblade.
“You Nazi fucks don’t ever fight fair, d’ya?”
“What’s fair, you goddamn coon? A drive-by?”
“Fuck you!”
The guard dove forward, jabbing with the switchblade, and Hall bolted to the side. He threw a right cross, swinging with everything he had, but Shaw was too fast, and the blow only grazed the top of his skull. The two backed off a step and sneered at each other.
“Fast little nigger.”
“You gonna learn I’m hard, too.”
“Let’s see!”
Hall swung his arm, sending the knife slashing from left to right, and Hall lurched backward. The blade passed by him harmlessly, but his balance shifted too far back. The world tilted away beneath him, and he fought the urge to pinwheel his arms. Instead, he waited for Shaw to charge, then he grabbed the guard with both hands and pulled himself in close. Shaw tried to jerk away, and the movement righted him. He sized the Nazi up before slamming his forehead down against the bridge of his nose. A satisfying crunch of cartilage filled the tiny cell, followed by the even more satisfying sound of Shaw crying out in pain. He shoved the guard against the wall and took a good look at him.
Blood poured down the Aryan’s face. His eyes were all but shut, pain stitched across his features. He held onto the knife, but it hung at his side, all but useless.
Hall closed in, pistoning a fist into the Aryan’s gut. Shaw’s breath whooshed out, and Hall never let him take in another one. He slammed a fist into the guard’s jaw, and the man slumped against the wall, moaning.
“That’s right, you little Nazi bitch. Y’all shoulda learned that lesson way back when I got thrown in this little shithole. Tell you what, cracka. I’m gonna drag yo ass out into the middle of Unit B and kill you right where yo boss Sweeny can watch. That sound like fun to you?”
“Fuck you,” Shaw replied through a mouthful of blood.
“Fuck me? Naw, man, you got this shit all backward. You the one that’s fucked! You, bitch! And I’m the great big jungle nigga’s gonna fuck you!”
The scream came without warning. It just exploded from Shaw’s mouth and caught Hall off guard, shocking him so much he didn’t even move when the guard bolted forward. He didn’t even feel the blade slide between his ribs until it was ripped free again, grazing one of the bones.
Hall gasped and staggered backward. He pressed a hand to the pain in his side and felt something warm and wet. When he pulled the hand away, his palm was warm and wet, soaked with blood. The red looked black in the dim light. Hall stared at it for what felt like forever. It just seemed so alien, so wrong. This was bullshit. He wasn’t gonna go out like this. Shit, he was supposed to be bigger than that, tougher. A fucking rock.
He fell to his knees.
Shaw stood over him.
“Who’s fucking who now?”
He eyed the guard, but the lights seemed to be growing dimmer still. A soft blackness crept in from the edges of his vision. Shaw reached back, preparing the knife.
“Gonna open that coon throat real nice.”
The words seemed impossibly far away. Hall felt suddenly tired, suddenly cold. He closed his eyes, unable to care.
And then Shaw screamed again.
***
“Close yo eyes, Maggot. Act like you’re asleep.”
“I....”
“Do it!”
Maggot clamped his eyes shut hard. His hands lay curled into tight fists against his sides, and he felt his entire body tremble. He could hear the door swing open, could hear cautious footsteps enter the room. The killing thing was here. It would not be satisfied with finding him asleep, no matter how urgently Tree whispered for him to act that way.
But maybe he could play dead.
He had done it before. As a matter of fact, he had done it many times. Every time Benning or Officer Nicholas or any of the countless others had raped him or beat him or pissed on him. Each time, he had gone limp, riding the ordeal out until it was finished. Evan before arriving at Burnham, he had played dead, had gone limp and almost comatose since he could remember anything. He could do it now. It had saved his life before, and it just might save his life again.
Slowly, he forced himself to relax, starting at his toes, rolling up to his knees, his thighs, over his waist and stomach to his chest, his shoulders, and then up to his face and down to his hands. He drew his thoughts and sensations into the center of himself and held them there, safe. Soon he lay perfectly still, his hands relaxed on the sheet beside him.
Somewhere far away, he heard Tree’s breath come in frightened rasps. The big man was not so good at following his own advice. From another direction came the footsteps. They shuffled over the tile floor, slow and careful, coming closer. Were they headed for him? He could not tell, and he dared not open his eyes to check. That would give him away, and the killing thing would rip him apart just like it had the guard.
The footsteps paused for a moment, a long stretch of time in which Maggot did not so much as breathe. He lay perfectly still, perfectly silent, and stretched his senses out for any sign of movement. There was only Tree’s rapid, shallow breaths and the deep, calm breathing of the other patients. They were still asleep, and that meant they did not stand a chance. Lying in their beds, maybe dreaming, they did not even know the killing thing was about to murder them. He envied their ignorance. Perhaps they would die without fear.
Slowly, the smell touched his nostrils, crawled inside and took root. That bad meat smell, like a dead dog on a hot summer day. He remembered the smell from a long time ago, and this was so similar he almost felt like a child again. The scent tickled the inside of his nose even as it reached down his throat to grab his belly and twist. A wave of nausea fell over him, and he quickly bundled it up and sent it to his center before he could grimace or groan or roll over onto his side and vomit.
Tree let out a muted cough. The big man could not pull the sick feelings in deep. He could not play dead. Maggot heard the footsteps approach, heard something sniff at the air between hissing breaths. The smell grew stronger, thick and meaty and rancid. Around him, the air thickened and grew warm.
The breaths grew louder, and he knew the killing thing was at the foot of his bed. It halted there, waiting, and Maggot prayed he could remain still, remain calm and dead-looking. It was his only chance.
Cold, dry fingers caressed the skin of his foot. He tried to draw the sensation deep so he could ignore it, but the chill of the killing thing’s flesh against his own curled his toes. Hands like ice water wrapped around his feet. Maggot fought the urge to gasp, to open his eyes, but the hands were so cold! His lungs began to expand, preparing to take i
n the great gulp of air that would be his last. Tears filled his eyes.
The scream escaped his center and raced toward his mouth. He bit down on it, but it fought back, wanting so desperately to get out that it clawed at the back of his teeth. The rot smell stabbed at him as the hands slid up his ankles.
His lips parted. A sharp, almost pleased, rasp from the killing thing, and Maggot felt his scream begin to tear loose.
And then Tree lurched to the side and puked all over the floor.
***
That familiar smell hit Hall in the same instant his eyes flew open. The stink of rot and earth stole his breath and left him gasping. He fell backward--looking up and trying to draw breath to scream--and suddenly wished Shaw had managed to kill him on the first try.
It was Dunlap, the previous solitary guard, but his features had grown monstrous and drawn, the skin of his face waxy and pale and dirty.
The guard looked like the thing Hall had seen two nights before.
Dunlap had a hand over Shaw’s head, and Hall noticed the dead guard’s fingers had grown into claws that tore at the Aryan’s scalp. The other hand ripped at Shaw’s shirt, rending the flesh beneath. As Hall watched, Dunlap opened his mouth to expose two rows of jagged, glittering teeth. Shaw let out another scream, this one of pure terror and agony, and then Dunlap bit down into the man’s neck, the teeth making a horrible sound as they shredded flesh.
Dunlap wrench his head back, and Hall heard the chords in Shaw’s already bleeding neck tear. The monstrous guard strained against the tendons and muscle, head twisting back and forth, and then finally jerked free. Hall saw an instant’s worth of ruined flesh, and then a gout of arterial blood surged from the wound. He let out another scream. Shaw tried to raise a hand to the hole in his throat, but then Dunlap pressed his lips to the wound. Shaw’s body went rigid with pain, and Dunlap seemed to curl around him, arms and legs constricting as he drew the dying man closer. Hall saw blood wash down Dunlap’s and chin, staining his filth-smeared uniform. He’d forgotten about his own wound, about his own blood running down his side. His mind couldn’t seem to work past the terrible, bizarre thing in front of him. Hell, he didn’t even realize he had stopped screaming.
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