“My God,” Violet said, staring at the fallen man.
“He’ll survive,” Jennie said, grabbing the fallen man’s arms. “As long as we don’t run him over with his California surfer van.”
Wet hair veiling her eyes, Jennie dragged the homeowner off to the side of the driveway. Malcolm reached for Violet’s hand. They were all in shock, but he thought hers ran deepest, so he was relieved when she took his hand.
They ran for the minibus together.
“What now?” she said.
“Distance,” Malcolm replied, stolen shotgun heavy in his grip. “We get some distance, and we can talk about it then. When we can breathe.”
The minibus had been running the whole time, engine purring contentedly.
“I’m riding in front with you,” Violet said.
“That’s where I want you.”
They would be okay. He told himself that and tried to believe it.
The fire truck hadn’t gone half a mile when they heard it crash. A loud horn preceded that, blaring, and then the sound of tires. The lights were flashing, and the nearest streetlamp gave enough illumination that they saw it skid sideways and tip over, metal grinding on the road.
It went quiet for several seconds. Malcolm, Violet, and Jennie stood by the Volkswagen and stared down the street. Voicesshouted, perhaps firefighters trying to determine who had been hurt, or if anyone had been killed.
The streetlamp nearest to them went dark. Malcolm noticed all the others beyond that one had also gone out.
Another popped, closer to the Victorian. Then the next winked out, and the next, and soon they were all dark. Only the lights of the overturned fire truck provided any illumination, a hellish, flickering red.
Amid those flashing crimson lights, men began to scream.
25
Elias thought this must be how a snake felt after molting its old skin. Little slivers of the old Elias remained like stringy bits of meat stuck in his teeth, but the rest had been cast aside. Or perhaps swallowed and digested.
The fire truck rumbled along the road. The rain had begun to taper off. At the wheel, Alfie Hannigan continued to sing. The little boy, Benjy, sat between them. Neither of them attempted to speak to him, which was best, because Elias might have screamed or killed one or both of them, and Root would have been furious. The itch to kill made his skin crawl, inside and out, like there were insects in his guts and in his flesh. In any nightclub, when performers sang a song he particularly liked, Elias wanted to join them. The urge to open his mouth and join the music had always been there, but he’d kept that secret because he knew his singing voice was akin to the cries of a sheep being slaughtered. The need to kill felt something like that, a profound yearning, every muscle in his body aching for it. But unlike his desire to be part of the music, this was something he knew his body could do. Rip flesh, claw throats, drink blood, break bones.
He shuddered with the delicious thought of it. The old Elias continued to shrink within him, numb with shock and grief, and the pain in his bones kept worsening.
What am I now?The question might have been prompted by the old Elias, but the creature he’d become also wanted to know.
“Creature,” he whispered, echoing his thoughts. The word feltright. As he spoke, he tasted the drying blood on his lips and shivered.
The fire truck’s headlights illuminated the road ahead, scattered with at least four bodies. Alfie didn’t slow down. The fire truck’s wheels bumped right over the corpses, and Elias wondered how they died.
Half a mile farther along, around a corner, they came upon more bodies. A figure crouched over one of them, digging hands into the dead man’s cracked-open chest and painting its face with viscera. It was the monster Root had sent ahead of them with orders to bring Maggie’s head.
The fire truck came to a shuddering halt. Alfie waited, face blank. No words had been spoken, but it seemed he had new instructions.
“Fight the need, you fool!” Root shouted from the roof of the fire truck. “Stop that!”
The creature hissed at him but dragged itself away from the corpse and took to the sky again. Elias trembled with envy. He pressed his face against the window like a dog panting to get outside, staring at the dead people, wishing it had been his hands dug into their chests, his mouth tearing at their necks.
A tiny shudder of revulsion passed through him.
What am I? What the hell am I?
But he knew. He’d known when Root had first attacked him on the way to the train station in Buffalo. He’d known the moment Root had sunk its teeth into his throat. And if not then, he’d certainly known when he’d died and then opened his eyes again.
The urge made him tense. His toes curled. His fingers clenched.
