The Hungry (2 page)

I encourage you to turn the page and find out.

Joe McKinney

San Antonio, Texas

August 18, 2011

PROLOGUE

The hoarse bellowing echoed down the polished tile corridors, bounced off metal doors and crawled through the pipes and air ducts. Tense soldiers both one floor above and below exchanged covert glances. Everyone within earshot knew something had spun out of control. The troops had seen the bloody rags and shards of broken glass in sealed plastic bins with red HAZMAT warnings. They'd seen the stricken men and women on gurneys and in cages. They were ordered to forget, and they tried their best, drowning their growing panic in every bar within driving distance. They knew of the evil, but had never spoken of it aloud.

"Hold him, damn it!"

Taylor and Sheppard glanced at each other. Their wide eyes passed a silent message:
Who's he kidding? This motherfucker wants to kill us!

"Yes, sir!"

Sergeant Luke Taylor was red-faced, squat and buff. His partner Karl Sheppard inches taller, with a movie star face and gentle eyes. They'd worked together for months. The duo carefully approached the heavily tattooed subject. The man was stripped naked, his gym rat muscles strained to the breaking point. He reeked of sweat and fear. Taser leads protruded from his abdomen, their charge uselessly spent. The repeated shocks had only made the prisoner more enraged. Crouching in the corner, fists clenched, penis aggressively erect, he roared with a drug-induced fury. This one was clearly far more dangerous than the two highly trained soldiers who approached him.

"Come on, dude," said Sheppard softly, soothingly. He used his warm eyes to calm the situation. "Everything is going to be all right." Holding an MP baton loosely at his side, Sheppard waved a chocolate bar in his right hand, thus distracting the subject just enough to give Taylor an opportunity to get closer. The tattooed man's head snapped up warily. He focused attention on the food. He bared his teeth, snarling like a cornered tiger, but reached out for the candy.

It was enough of an opening. Taylor managed to get one gloved hand on the subject's bicep, the other on his wrist. Taylor wrenched the patient's arm behind him. The tattooed man lashed out with a left hook that missed its mark and glanced harmlessly off Taylor's helmet. Reluctantly, Sheppard slammed his baton down on the subject's head. It was a blow that should have knocked him out cold, but it merely startled the naked man. Taylor managed to wrestle the subject to the ground then seized his hands with the flex cuffs. Sheppard sat on the tattooed man's thighs and tied his ankles together. The two soldiers sat back, panting with exertion and heightened anxiety.

"You okay, bro?" Sheppard sounded concerned. Taylor seemed out of sync and tired. That could make a bad situation even more dangerous. Taylor shrugged and nodded. Sheppard knew he was lying. The prisoner beneath them continued to writhe and scream.

"Pick him up," said their team leader, Lt. Albert—ramrod stiff and buzz cut. "Put him back on the table and secure his ass."

Together, Taylor and Sheppard heaved the struggling subject to his feet. They dragged him to the stainless steel exam table. Taylor dumped him unceremoniously on the cold metal. Working quickly, Sheppard and Taylor restrained him with large belts that stretched across the man's body, preventing him from moving more than a few inches in any direction. Just as efficiently, the two soldiers wired the patient for EKG and pulse-ox. His graphs were through the roof. The tattooed man screamed again, in anger more than pain. He struggled against his restraints.

"Shut him up," ordered Lt. Albert. He was a medical man gone wild. Men said Albert had once been a major. Rumor had it that he'd gotten busted down for multiple ethics violations. Others said he'd been screwing another officer's wife while his friend was away in combat. He'd fought his way back up the line by kissing ass and cutting corners. He was a screw-up and it showed.

Taylor opened a refrigerated cabinet, withdrew a syringe. The needle was long and wicked. The screaming man saw it and jerked against the restraints. Sheppard stroked the patient's forehead, tried to catch his eyes to soothe him. Taylor didn't hesitate. He expertly injected the struggling man with the needle. A moment later, the good shit hit. The patient quieted down. He stared back at Sheppard with something like gratitude. The team leader approached the subject with a glowing UV lamp. Everywhere the light touched, the man's skin now fluoresced a garish green. The team leader shark-smiled, a rare event. Albert actually seemed to relax.

"I thought it was supposed to take weeks before GFP became integrated into his entire system." Sheppard was fascinated. He wiped his face on a towel. He and Taylor were both still breathless from the fight. Taylor leaned against the wall, whipped.

"Well evidently it works faster than we thought." Lt. Albert turned to Sheppard. "Make a note of this."

Sheppard thought,
Like you can't make your own God-damned notes, you arrogant piece of shit?
But Sheppard did as he was told.

Lt. Albert glanced at the clock. "And call it two hours, forty-three minutes from introduction of serum Two-Six-Alpha."

"Yes, sir," Sheppard said. He carefully entered the notes on the electronic tablet that was linked to the facility's computer system. The mainframe had to be updated regularly, and so did the brass. Sheppard felt better that the subject was sedated and no longer violent. He looked up. Taylor was sweating and visibly shaking.

"You okay, man?" asked Sheppard quietly, as Albert continued to examine the subject with the UV.

Taylor glared at his partner. He shook his head almost imperceptibly.
Drop it,
his expression said.
Don't give that fucker an inch.

Lt. Albert pulled a small, hand-held voice recorder from the pocket of his spotless white coat. "Subject Romeo-Two appears to have complete integration of green fluorescent protein system-wide. Showing signs of extreme aggressiveness, as predicted. No other side effects observed. Proceeding with second phase…" The team leader approached the refrigerator. He withdrew a small vial. He hunted for a sterile syringe, filled it, and approached the drugged, busily tattooed man, who followed his every step with wary eyes.

Lt. Albert found a bulging vein in subject Romeo-Two's arm. He smoothly inserted the tip of the needle. He pressed the plunger and the clear, cold liquid coursed into the man's blood. Sheppard winced in sympathy.
Poor bastard.
Their brief respite was over.

The tattooed subject's eyes became wide and wild. Searing pain blossomed from his arm into his torso and up into his brain. He began to convulse and choke, urine went spraying. He gasped, big fists clenching, hairy chest heaving. The EKG spiked. Machines beeped in alarm.

"Sir, he's going into cardiac arrest..." shouted Sheppard. He started for the pads.

"Shut up," ordered the lieutenant. "Stay where you are." Albert was angry at his own stupidity. He reached for a long, thin packet, stripped it open and tapped the air out of the tip of another large bore needle. Sheppard watched helplessly as Albert raised it like a weapon, plunged it deep into the dying man's chest.

Every muscle in the man's body clenched, his bloodshot eyes bulged wide. He released one final shriek. His bowels voided, and his sweaty body collapsed like wet clothing. A stench filled the room. The men stood still for a long beat, absorbing the eerie presence of death.

Taylor and Sheppard, standing to the side, watched as the EKG flatlined. Sheppard said, "Sir, we shouldn't have..."

"Shut the fuck up, Sheppard." The leader paced the room, mumbling. He stopped. Lt. Albert turned to the two men. "I want every drop of serum Two-Six-Alpha back. Clean this corpse like a crime scene. Do whatever it takes, for however long it takes. Cut him up and squeeze him like a lemon. Do it now, people, and report to me when you've finished." He palmed the door open and strode out. The metal panel closed behind him with a clang.

Taylor and Sheppard looked at each other. Taylor's face collapsed. He was a mess. He turned toward the wall, bent at the waist like a paper clip and vomited violently into a trash can. Sheppard touched his friend's shoulder.

"You all right, man?"

"I'm fine." Taylor pinched his nose to cover the stench of feces, opened his mouth wide and took a few deep breaths. He regained control of himself. "I want to get the hell out of here as soon as humanly possible. Let's get this over with."

"I hear you."

The two soldiers left the body of the tattooed man in the stainless steel examination room. They walked down the hall to the locker room and got out of their military gear. They hung their uniforms carefully and changed into pale green medical scrubs. Sheppard studied his partner. Taylor's hands continued to shake. He seemed pink-cheeked yet way too pale. Something was definitely wrong. Sheppard watched closely as Taylor led the way back into the hall. Outside the room, they both inserted Vicks-scented cotton sticks into their nostrils. Exchanged nods. Sheppard opened the door and entered first, walked to the far side of the metal table. Together they returned to the dead test subject. They stood by the table. Taylor rolled a metal tray over to the corpse. He laid out scalpels, a bone saw and a variety of plastic and metal containers.

"Seriously, Luke, you look like shit. Just what the fuck is going on with you?"

"Nothing," said Taylor. "Just kind of a bad trip. I'll be fine."

Sheppard stopped short. "Shit. You telling me you came on duty roasted
again
? No wonder you were so slow. You keep doing this, you're going to get one of us killed—or get yourself court-martialed. Hell, maybe both of us because I helped cover things up. Man, we're in deep here. These bastards, they will have your balls on a plate if they find out you're high."

"Nobody is going to find out," insisted Taylor. "Come on, let's get this done."

They released the restraints from the tattooed man. Sheppard expertly cleaned up and disposed of the feces. He positioned the corpse. They began the autopsy and tissue recovery. As Taylor began the Y-incision, his hands appeared steadier. He spread the skin apart. Sheppard produced the bone saw and began cutting through the ribs. The thin howling filled the room.

"Word is we got a drug screening coming up this Friday." Sheppard said it casually.

"Oh, God." Taylor stepped back. "You have to help me. Get me some of that blocking agent again. I can't fail that test."

"Man, I'm so disappointed in you," Sheppard said. He worked and spoke without looking up. Cut through tissue and removed the gall bladder. "I really thought you quit doing that shit."

"I'm trying, bro."

Sheppard efficiently severed the windpipe to get better access to the subject's lungs. The tissue seemed normal, no trace of greenish residue. Sheppard typed some curt notes with a stylus gripped in his gloved fingers. He returned to work. Even through the nose filters the corpse had begun to stink in an odd way. The man reeked of something not quite normal, probably a scent related to the virus they'd injected.
Poor son of a bitch.

"I met this girl," said Taylor quietly.

Sheppard barked a short, loud laugh. "Another one?"

"No, you don't understand. She's amazing. She's..."

"Let me guess. A stripper." Sheppard rolled his eyes.

"It's not like the last time," insisted Taylor. He removed the left lung. He deposited it in a metal tray with a slimy plopping sound. Taylor paused dramatically. "Dude, she really loves me."

Sheppard shook his head. "I'm sure she does."

"So, you going to help me out with this drug screening?"

"I don't see why I should," Sheppard said, honestly. "I've cut you way too much slack already."

Before Taylor could reply, the intercom on the wall screeched. "Sheppard, report to my office on the double."

"Oh, great." Sheppard stripped the gloves from his hands. "You going to be all right without me?"

"Fine," Taylor said. He was going for drama, always the spoiled child. Sheppard felt himself weaken. Maybe he should help one last time, give the kid a chance to clean up. Maybe? Taylor started working on the right lung.

Sheppard hesitated, standing in the doorway. He watched his friend work for a moment.
Nice guy, big-assed problem.
Sheppard sighed. He palmed the door and stepped into the hallway.

Taylor continued working alone. While removing and bagging organs, he tried not to think of the new girlfriend. He tried not to think of her long legs, her large, perfectly formed breasts and that tight, shaved pussy. Taylor pulled the right lung from the body, noticed some oddly discolored patches in the wet tissue. He felt a tiny flicker of alarm.
Not my problem.
Why write it down? Taylor figured pathology would notice anyway. He didn't want to have to think, much less try to be precise. His mind was on getting out of the lab and seeing Summer again. Getting well and truly laid. He placed the misshapen lung next to its healthier mate. He sealed the clear plastic containers.
Time to get to the heart of the problem...
Taylor turned back to the body briskly, scalpel up, already preparing to sever the aorta.

The metal table was empty. Taylor closed and opened his eyes again. Nothing there, except for some odd fluids and a few chunks of discolored tissue.

The fuck?

Taylor felt the flesh on his neck tighten. He spun around, the scalpel now held loosely in his right hand.

The tattooed man stood over him, those wide eyes clouded, yellow teeth bared, hands reaching out. He grabbed Taylor by the left arm, jerked it towards him. His lips snarled. Those vacant orbs rolled back in his head like the eyes of a feeding shark.

He bit deeply into Taylor's flesh.

"Son of a three-toed motherfucker!" shrieked Taylor. Without thinking, he drove the scalpel blade deep through the man's eye, into his brain. Just like that, it was over. The tattooed subject dropped heavily to the floor. Shit, now he had to be even deader than before.