The Hunger (Book 2): Consumed (14 page)

“I want to know who I’m about to kill.”

“Fuck you.”

Lance walked in front of the guards, relishing the weight of the pistol in his right hand and the bat in his left.  He held justice and vengeance in both of his fists.

Without another word, Lance kicked the scarred man in the stomach as hard as he could.  The man fell to his knees, the air exploding from his lungs.  Lance kicked him again, this time in the ribs, sending him over the edge of the pit.

The man fell the full ten feet, landing on the packed dirt with bone-jarring thud.

A shriek came from the nearest infected a second later.

“No,” Lance said.  “Fuck
you
.”

The daywalkers spun around, the clumsiness of the first few days of the infection gone.  They moved with speed and developing grace.

Lance aimed the pistol at the other guard.  A voice in the back of his mind told him not to shoot, that the gunshot would attract others from the camp.

He ignored it.

His finger squeezed the trigger as he sighted the man’s chest.

Hands shoved at his back, sending him careening toward the pit.

Lance’s arms pinwheeled as he tried to shift his trajectory.  His feet skidded at the edge of the hole, the ground under his toes crumbling away.

He fell sideways, dropping the pistol into the hole, his free hand tearing at the edge of the pit for a hold.  It didn’t find any.

As he tumbled over the side, he saw Nikola standing there with his arms up.  He’d pushed Lance to the daywalkers.

And then he was freefalling.  Though he only fell ten feet, it felt like he was in the air for an eternity.

He fell flat on his back, his head bouncing off the packed dirt.  His vision blurred as he looked around, trying to get his bearings.  Something landed right beside his cheek.

Lance sat up, shaking his head.

The baseball bat rested beside him, the nails stuck in the dirt.  It had missed his head by a matter of inches.

The man he’d kicked into the pit fought the daywalkers that surrounded him.  He threw a wild punch at something that used to be a woman.  It wore coveralls with the name Terri on the breast.

The punch connected with its throat.

It stumbled away, gags escaping its chomping jaws.

Two others descended on him, splayed fingers tearing at his exposed forearms and the front of his shirt.  Their fingernails scraped his skin, bringing a line of blood to the surface.

He screamed again and shoved them away.

The creature formerly known as Terri lunged forward, mouth opening unnaturally wide, and clamped down onto his neck.  Its jaw muscles flexed as it clenched.

“I’m bit!  Fucker bit me!”  He shoved it away before falling backward, landing on his ass.

Two of the daywalkers swiveled around, shrieking in Lance’s direction.  They scrambled toward him then, hunching at the waist.

Lance scrambled to his feet, his equilibrium still off from the fall.

He tore the baseball bat from the ground.

The first infected descended on him.  It leaped forward, muscular arms reaching for his face.

Lance swung the bat overhead and brought it down like a lumberjack.

The nails punctured the daywalkers skull, driving deep until the bat thunked off the top of its head. Its body crashed to the dirt in a jangle of limbs.

Lance yanked on the bat, pulling the nails free.

The second creature grabbed hold of him, wrapping its hands around the back of his neck.  It pulled him toward its gnashing teeth.

Terror twisted Lance’s stomach as he fought against the abomination.  He shoved his forearm under its chin, pushing against its throat.

Its arms flexed as it pulled, inching his face closer.

Lance screamed as he shoved against it.  Its breathing became labored as he pinched its windpipe closed with his forearm.  A rancid, rotten stench came from its mouth, blowing across Lance’s face.

He swung the bat as best he could with his limited range of motion.

The nails punctured its cheek.  One of the rusted pieces poked into its open mouth, visible between its teeth.

A cry rose in Lance’s throat as he finally tore himself from its grasp.  He jerked the bat clear again and swung it as hard as he could.

It thudded against the daywalkers chest.  The nails tore at its exposed skin, shredding and puncturing.

It fell backward in the dirt, landing on its side.

Lance brought the bat down again, feeling the reverberation from the impact travel into his shoulders.

Another blow ended the fight.

Spinning around, Lance caught sight of a third daywalker sprinting toward him.  It was bigger than the rest, its broad, muscular shoulders filling out a black suit.

He sidestepped, letting it trip over one of the bodies on the ground.  With a quick strike, he planted the nails into the side of its head.

Something about the daywalker’s face grabbed his attention.  He took a closer look at it as he pulled the bat free.  Tufts of auburn hair protruded randomly from its balding head.  Its lips were turned up a snarl that somewhat resembled a smile.

A familiar smile.  A smile that Lance hated more than any other.

“Don?”  Lance stumbled back at the realization of who the infected man before him was.  “Don!”

His wife’s lover lay before him, a broken man who died as a mindless cannibal.

“Fucking bite me, will you?  Fuck you!”

Lance turned to see the scarred man stabbing one of the infected with a jagged piece of bone.  It looked like a femur to Lance.

The last of the daywalkers lay in the dirt, its head crushed.

The man stopped stabbing at the body and turned to Lance.  His shoulders heaved from deep breaths.

“I’m fucking bit because of you!”

Lance looked around, searching for his .44.  He didn’t see it.

“Good.”  Lance squared off in front of the man, holding the bat out in front of him.

The man stood, holding the broken piece of bone by his waist like a knife.

They stared at each other like a couple of gunslingers in the old west.

“Shoot him!”  The man looked above Lance, at the others standing outside the pit.

“Screw that—I wanna watch this!”

Lance didn’t dare take his eyes off the man in front of him.  Blood seeped from the bite mark on his neck.

“Goddamn it, Mullins!  Shoot this piece of shit and pull me outta here!”

“Can’t do that.”

“Stop screwing around!”

“You’re bit.  I can’t let you out.  You know the rules, Hutchinson.”

Panic touched the man’s eyes.  His chest rose and fell quickly.  He looked down at Lance, his cheek twitching.  “You killed me.”

“I haven’t yet, give me a second.”  Lance stepped forward, keeping the bat raised to help gauge the distance between them.

The fear he felt on the boat with the knife pressed against his neck urged Lance on.  Fueled his anger.  This man had come into his home and destroyed it.  He’d tried to murder his friends.

Lance intended to repay the favor.

He charged forward, swinging the bat.

Hutchinson tried to spin out of the way.  He rolled his shoulder up, like a boxer slipping an incoming punch.

The bat smashed into his shoulder.  The nails sank in, getting caught in muscle.

A bellow escaped the man as he staggered backward.

The sudden movement caught Lance off guard, yanking the bat from his grip.

Blood coursed down Hutchinson’s arm as it hung limply at his side.  He stared down at the bat sticking out from his shoulder at a ninety-degree angle.  He snarled at Lance and threw the bone shard at him.

Lance dove to the side, landing on one of the bodies.  His hands slid in an expanding puddle of blood on the ground.  The shard flew past him, the sharp end embedding in the wall of the pit.

Hutchinson grabbed the middle of the bat and pulled.  His face reddened as he slowly dislodged the nails from his shoulder.

A cry escaped his lips as he finally jerked it free.

Lance scrambled to his feet and sprinted across the gap between them.  He speared the man like a linebacker, doubling him over at the waist.

They crashed to the ground, Lance’s shoulder driving into the man’s ribs.

The bat fell from his grip, sticking into the dirt again.

Lance scrambled to his knees and threw a wild punch.

Hutchinson twisted to his right and dodged the blow.  The momentum from the missed swing threw Lance off balance and he landed on top of the man again.

He drove his forearm into Hutchinson’s face, smashing his nose.

With his good arm, the man grabbed Lance’s wrist, holding it in place.  His mouth snapped forward, his teeth latching onto Lance’s forearm.  He clenched down, blood staining his tobacco-yellowed teeth.

Lance howled and jerked his arm free.  He saw the bloody teeth marks on skin and felt panic grab hold of him.

An infected man had bit him.

“What’s the matter?”  Hutchinson asked with a scarlet grin.  “Don’t like the death sentence I just gave you?”

He kicked Lance in the chest, knocking him backward.

They got to their feet at the same time, standing before each other, fists raised protectively.

Lance saw red.

He swung at the man’s face, screaming wildly as he connected with the side of his head.  He swung again and again, overwhelming Hutchinson’s one-handed defense.

His knuckles split from the blows, mixing blood and sweat and dirt.

The man’s nose skewed sideways with a crunch.  He choked as blood ran down his throat.  He backed up, his good hand raised in front of him as he tried to ward off the punches.

He tripped over the body of the infected he had stabbed with the bone and tumbled backward.

Hutchinson grunted as he landed on his back.  His eyes and mouth widened as he stared at Lance.

Lance balled his fists again, intent on beating the man to death, when he noticed the handle of the bat sticking out from underneath Hutchinson.

He’d landed on the nails.

Lance stepped in front of him and glared down at the dying man.  He watched as his eyes glassed over.  Hutchinson’s chest hitched twice more and then he was still.

The nails must have punctured his heart.

Someone hooted from behind Lance.

He spun on his heels, instinctively raising his fists again.

Nikola and Mullins stood at the edge of the pit.

“Now that’s what I call a fight!” Mullins clapped his hands together and whistled.

Lance flexed his wounded forearm, feeling the bite marks in his skin.  He sneered up at the men.

“Why don’t you two chicken shits come down here for round two?”

“I think I’ll pass,” Mullins said.  “What kind of idiot gets in a fist fight when he has one of these?”  He lifted the sling from his shoulder and grabbed the stock of the rifle.

Working the bolt action, he jammed the butt into his shoulder.

The barrel centered on Lance.

“Say goodnight, tough guy.”

––––––––

“H
old your fire!”

Lance stood in the middle of the pit and scowled at Nikola.  He’d thought the man would have been on his side because of the way he’d been treated.

But Cass had warned him—people follow those in power.  Those who can give them some kind of protection.  Right now, that wasn’t Lance.  Even still, he stared the man down.

Nikola didn’t hold the look.  He inspected the edge of the pit, as if it was something of great interest.

Tony appeared before the large hole, smiling down at Lance.

“Well, look who it is.  Hello, Lance.”

Lance didn’t respond.

“I was under the impression that you were dead.”

“Guess not.”

“I’ll have to speak with those who lied.”  Tony looked at Mullins.  “Get him out of there and bring him to the cabin.”

“He’s bit,” Mullins said.  “Why not just shoot him here?”

Tony glowered at him.

“Sorry, boss.  I’ll get him out.”

Tony walked away from the pit, disappearing from Lance’s line of sight.

The bite on Lance’s forearm ached.  He tried not to look at it again.  The dread of what he would become gnawed at his thoughts, threatening to make him lose his composure.  To have fought against the infected for so long only to become one of them made him question what he’d been struggling for in the first place.

Why had he fought from the beginning only to succumb to the Xavier virus just as everyone else had?  His fate was inevitable.

He shoved the thoughts away, knowing that they wouldn’t help him now.  He still needed to help Eifort and Brown.  And Cass was still out there somewhere.

He had to fight for her.

Lance walked across the blood-soaked ground, stepping over the bodies of the dead.  He stopped in front of Don and dropped to a knee.  The tailored suit that Lance had first seen him wearing was still in place, though it was filthy and torn.

It had been weeks since he’d seen Liz and Don—why was he still wearing the same suit?  Lance rubbed his jaw as he remembered his last encounter with his wife’s lover.  He’d planned on getting a little revenge if he ever met Don again, but he never wanted something like this.

“Where’s Liz?” Lance asked the body.  “Is she still alive?”

“I don’t think he can hear you, Mr. Tough Guy.”  Mullins stepped in front of Lance and tossed a pair of handcuffs down to him.  “Put these on.”

“Fuck you.”

Mullins sighed.  “Put these on, or we’ll shoot your friends.”

Lance kept his face calm.  “I don’t know anyone here.”

“Enough with the games.  I was there when we picked up your friends.  The doctor is being a real pain in the ass.  Put those on and come up here, or I’ll bend a few of his fingers in the wrong direction.”

Lance considered his options for a moment before realizing he didn’t have any.  He could only hope that Cass would do something before they got him back to the cabin.  There were too many men back there for her to overcome.

He put the cuffs on and stood at the dirt wall, looking up at Nikola and Mullins.  They reached down and hauled him out of the pit.  For a second or two, Lance considered shoving one of them into the hole and fighting the other, until he spotted three more guards walking down the path.