Voracious (8 page)

Brian’s neck snapped cleanly when his head smacked the dashboard, and he was simply gone.

12 

Wednesday, 9:37 a.m.

Officer Angel Velasquez blinked several times, trying to clear the fog from his head. He wiped what he thought was sweat from his eyes and his hand came away red. He was bleeding, a head wound. Blood poured down his face from a gash that looked like his forehead had grown a vagina and it was that time of the month. Instead of fear, he felt anger. “That sonovabitch pulled out right in front of me!”

He opened the car door and staggered out of his vehicle, almost stepping out into traffic. It wouldn’t have mattered; traffic was at a standstill. The police cruiser was smashed. The bumper was completely crushed, and the hood had folded up like an accordion. The big, black Yukon that had crashed into him didn’t look too bad except for the bumper, which was hanging off, and the huge dent in the hatch. The guy behind the wheel, however, wasn’t moving.

Angel rolled his eyes.
Oh, great. He’s probably going to try to sue me. And because I rear-ended him, he’ll probably win. Fuck my life.

But as he got closer and noticed the man’s bleeding head tilted at an odd angle, he was pretty sure the guy was dead.

Damn
.

He flagged down the ambulance that was racing up behind him. It was en route to the same accident Angel had been en route toward before he’d struck the Kamikaze commuter, but Officer Velasquez suspected this was more urgent than some obese housewife faking whiplash for insurance money.

The ambulance stopped in back of his cruiser, and two EMTs jumped out. One was a huge black guy who looked like he should have been chasing a quarterback across a football field, and the other was a mousy little white woman with brown hair who had all the markings of a meth addict, right down to the rotting teeth and acne scars.

“The driver looks like he needs help. He don’t look so good. I think he might be dead. His head might have hit the steering wheel or something.”

“Are you okay? Your head’s bleeding. Why don’t you go back to the ambulance and sit down, okay?” the mousy little meth addict said. Her breath was rancid, like she’d been on a strict diet of Twinkies and road kill.

“No, I’m okay. You just take care of that guy up there.” Angel leaned against the cruiser while the EMTs jogged over to the vehicle and went to work. It was hot as hell out, at least one hundred degrees with 60 percent humidity. Too fucking hot to be screwing around in traffic.

The EMTs were fast and efficient. They already had the guy out of the Yukon and onto the gurney and were frantically administering CPR as they raced him back to the ambulance.

“Is he gonna make it?” Angel asked as they passed him.

The big linebacker of an ambulance driver looked at him and shook his head. “At least he was an organ donor,” he said, handing Angel the guy’s wallet.

Angel flipped it open.

Brian Wubbenna, Austin, Texas, age thirty-seven. In the bottom corner was a little red heart designating him as an organ donor.
Damn. Thirty-seven was too damn young to die. What the fuck was this guy thinking pulling out in front of me like that? At least his organs will do some good. Maybe save some other poor bastard’s life.

13

Wednesday, 9:52 a.m.

“We’ve got a donor! There was an accident on I-35 this morning. The guy died instantly. His heart is in excellent condition. They’re rushing it over to us now. We need to get you prepped for immediate surgery.”

Anthony Berkley had been born with a congenital heart valve defect. He had his first heart attack in the middle of a college basketball game while charging up the court for a lay-up. Since then, he’d had two more and was informed he’d be dead in a year unless he received a transplant. He was only twenty-two, six foot eight, 265 pounds, good-looking, clean-cut, had his entire life ahead of him, but his failing heart made him doubt if that life would account for more than twenty-four years. He was on the top of the donors’ list, but that didn’t mean a damn thing if they couldn’t find him a heart, and it had begun to look like that would never happen. Anthony had already given up hope when the doctor came in with the good news.

“Who was he? The donor, I mean?”

“He HeHHe was thirty-seven years old and in good physical condition. Not an ounce of excess body fat on this guy from what they tell me. You lucked out.”

***

Wednesday, 10:31 a.m.

Nurses surrounded Anthony, shaving his chest and washing it with a special antiseptic cleaning solution. The anesthesiologist attached heart and blood pressure monitors to his arms, head, and ribs and then began an IV fentanyl drip.

“Okay, I need you to count backwards from fifty,” the doctor said.

“Fifty, forty-nine, forty-eight, forty-seven…”

He was unconscious before he could get to forty-six.

***

Wednesday, 5:40 p.m.

Anthony woke from surgery in recovery, and for the first time in months he didn’t feel out of breath. He was woozy from the drugs and his throat felt dry and scratchy from the air tube they’d shoved down his throat during the procedure, but other than that, he felt pretty damn good.

“How are you feeling?”

“Pretty good. My throat hurts. Did everything go okay?”

The doctor nodded. “It went perfectly. The sore throat is normal. The nurse will bring you something to drink.”

“No ice cream? I thought you were supposed to get ice cream after surgery.”

“If you like,” the doctor answered, still studying Anthony’s chart, checking the EKG.

“I think I do. I’m hungry as hell for some reason.”

“That’s normal after surgery. You’ve essentially been fasting for twenty-four hours.”

Anthony put his hand over the sutures in his chest. “It feels funny. Like it’s about to beat right out of my chest.”

The doctor nodded. “That’s normal too. Because the nerves leading to the heart are cut during the operation, your new heart beats faster than a normal heart, about a hundred to a hundred and ten beats per minute compared to about seventy beats per minute for a normal healthy heart.”

Anthony rubbed the bandages around his chest and took a deep breath. There was a hint of panic in his eyes. “It feels like thunder.”

“You’ll get used to it.”

***

Saturday, 6:06 a.m.

The hunger woke Anthony from a sound sleep. His belly was on fire. His appetite had steadily increased since the surgery. The room was dark and deathly quiet except for the blinking lights and the whir and hum of the monitoring equipment. He groped for the nurse’s call button and rang it.

The night nurse hadn’t left for the day yet. She walked into the room followed by the day nurse. She did a reasonably good job of masking her annoyance.

“Yes?”

“I’m starving! I need something to eat.”

“We’ll be serving breakfast in a few hours. You just hold tight.”

“No! I need to eat now!”

Over the past three days, he’d had countless X-rays and blood tests and been pumped full of anti-rejection medications. Through it all, he could think of nothing but the next meal. Last night, his mother brought him a grilled chicken sandwich from some healthy restaurant downtown and some baked fries. He’d scarfed it down and then begged her for a couple of cheeseburgers.

“The doctor said you have to keep your weight down or you might put too much strain on your new heart,” his mother said.

“Do I look like I’m gaining weight?” Anthony asked.

His mother, a young thirty-eight-year-old who’d given birth to Anthony at the tender age of sixteen, shook her head. Anthony appeared withered and shrunken, even more sickly than he had before receiving the new heart. It was understandable after such an arduous surgery, but he seemed to be getting worse, not better. He was concerned that his body may be rejecting the new heart.

The bones in Anthony’s face were prominent. It looked like a skull with skin pulled tight around it. Like the face of a mummy. His ribcage protruded through his skin. Before he’d been admitted to the hospital, before the life-saving surgery, he’d been muscular and robust. He had looked very much like the NBA player he’d once dreamt of becoming. Now he was an emaciated shadow of his former self.

His mother smiled, trying hard to keep up the appearance of optimism, but Anthony could see the concern on her face. He knew he looked like shit.

“You’re right. I’m sorry. Whatever you like.”

She’d brought him three cheeseburgers, fries, and a milkshake. He scarfed down the food without tasting it and then fell asleep. The fire in his belly had been temporarily assuaged.

Now he was awake again, and his mother was nowhere to be found. His appetite had increased exponentially since his last meal. It felt like he hadn’t eaten for weeks.

Anthony pulled the IV tube from his wrist and pulled off the EKG lead wires. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and began to stand. “Something’s wrong. I’m starving! I need food!”

The nurse was young and pretty, though several pounds overweight. Not obese, but pleasantly plump. She had a wide flat ass, huge hips, and large breasts supported by a belly that was only slightly smaller. She wasn’t the type of girl a guy like him would ever call girlfriend, at least not publicly. She was the type of girl you banged on the side because she was more sexually adventurous than your real girlfriend, your showpiece. She was what his friends called a “Moped”-fun to ride, but you wouldn’t want anyone to see you with it.

She panicked as Anthony pushed his way past her. His elbow brushed against her chest, and Anthony was surprised to find his appetite respond to the contact. He began salivating. He looked at her, drooling.

She backed up, covering her mouth, looking horrified. “Sir! You need to stay calm. You need to keep your IV in.”

He was surprised by how strong he felt. Despite his nagging hunger, he didn’t feel weak or dizzy, the way he usually felt when he hadn’t eaten. But he had eaten and eaten well. He must have consumed more than ten thousand calories yesterday.

What the fuck is wrong with me?
he wondered.

Something was definitely wrong with his mouth. His teeth felt all wrong. Longer. Sharper. He dragged his tongue over his canines and tasted his own blood as the sharp points sliced through his taste buds. Something wasn’t right. He wondered if they’d given him a heart from a werewolf or something. Maybe they’d used him in some sort of experiment?

The nurse ran to the door and called for an orderly while Anthony shambled past her, heading for where? He wasn’t sure. The cafeteria maybe? All he knew was there was food somewhere in the hospital, and he needed to find it before he died of starvation.

Something’s not right. I just ate. Why am I so hungry?

He approached the nurses’ station and could smell potato chips and candy. No wonder all the nurses in this hospital were overweight. He walked behind the counter and pushed the middle-aged Latina manning the station aside as she tried to prevent him from entering.

“You’re not allowed back here. Oof!”

Anthony shoved her to the floor and wrenched open a desk drawer. Inside was a half-eaten bag of barbecue potato chips and several candy bars and meal replacement bars along with a bag of sunflower seeds. He opened the packages one by one and shoved the bars into his mouth whole, chewing and swallowing rapidly. He turned up the bag of sunflower seeds and poured its contents into his mouth, eating them, shells and all.

“Okay, son. Time to go back to your room.”

The orderly was wide and doughy, like the nurses. He was shorter than Anthony by at least five inches and looked like he hadn’t seen a gym in years. Another orderly approached. This guy was under six feet, Latino, with tattoos peeking out from beneath his hospital scrubs. He had a shaved head, muscular arms, and looked like he was probably a bad-ass when he wasn’t changing bedpans. He was the one who made the mistake of grabbing Anthony.

Some instinct took over, something dark and primal, feral, that had been hiding deep inside Anthony. Deep in his genetic memory, from his Neanderthal, evolutionary past. He bared his teeth, and before the man could react, Anthony lunged for his throat and sank his teeth into the man’s trachea. He bit down, crushing the orderly’s windpipe. A whistling sound, like a broken flute, whined from the bleeding hole where Anthony’s iron-tipped fangs had pierced his voice box. With a jerk of his head, Anthony tore out the man’s throat. The muscular orderly with the gangland tattoos fell to the hospital floor, painting everyone red with the arterial spray spurting from his brutally savaged throat. He clamped both hands around his neck in an attempt to stop the flow of blood.

“Oh, my God! What the hell did you do to him? Call security!” the nurse yelled, and the other orderly leapt into action.

He shoved Anthony backward, away from his fallen partner, and snatched up a phone.

“I need security up here right away! A patient just attacked one of the staff!”

The nurse knelt down, began applying pressure to the wound, and ordered the orderly to get her some towels and bandages.

Anthony stood above them, slowly chewing the large hunk of flesh he’d torn from the man’s throat. It felt good going down. He could feel it soothing his hunger pains, but only slightly. He needed more.

More nurses and a couple of doctors arrived. They lifted the orderly onto a gurney and whisked him away down the hall before Anthony could take another bite out of him. Security arrived too. They surrounded him with their hands on their guns. There were two uniformed police officers in addition to five armed security guards.

“Get on the ground! Now!” barked one of the cops, a balding, middle-aged man with an athletic build and a nervous, twitchy manner. He seemed ill-suited to the job. He had more of a professorial air about him than one of law enforcement. He held a taser in one hand and pepper spray in the other.