Chicago Undead (Books 3-4): Encounters by Weaver Shawn

Author:Weaver, Shawn [Weaver, Shawn]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
Tags: Zombies
Published: 2017-12-31T05:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The buzzing in the back of my skull suddenly rises. I feel a growl rip from my throat. Pushing my hands underneath the gurney. I flip it over as if it weighed nothing. A resounding boom echoes through the enclosed space as stainless-steel made contact with cold tiles.

I turn towards the other gurney. With my feet still encased in the bag, I shuffle across the room. The body under the sheet is calling me. Begging for me to take a bite. I find the idea revolting. But something deep inside is driving me to do it.

As I reach the gurney, one foot comes free of the bag. I grab the sheet and pull it off the body, dropping it to the floor. A woman in her mid-forties lays before me. Naked as the day she was born. Short blonde hair, pale skin, and no outward signs of injury except for the Y shaped incision across her chest, coarsely stitched shut after her autopsy.

As I look at the body, my hunger grows. Pulsing, urging me on. Without realizing what I am doing. I open my jaw and lean forward. The need to sink my teeth into her flesh rises. Suddenly I stop, as something deep inside tells me that she can no longer satisfy the hunger. She’s dead. Not the dead that I have become. But the lucky dead who will not rise, and feed on the flesh of the living.

The sane part of my mind doesn’t want to feed. I’m not a monster like you see in movies. Then again, I feel like the kid who robbed me this morning, an addict. A junkie who needs a fix. Only mine isn’t drugs, it’s warm, living, flesh.

With a growl, I push the gurney away. It rolls a few feet to the right, striking the wall.

I know there are others here. The goth girl, the jock who trying to impress her, and the man with the horn-rimmed glasses. But where. My mind is clouding. The bees are pushing rational thought down. Letting the monster take over.

Stepping out of the body bag, I move to the door. I push against it, but it doesn’t budge. I try the knob. My fingers won’t grasp it. I’m trapped in this room. Unable to feed my desire.

Leaning against the door. I bounce my head off of it. The action of knocking my head against the white painted wood, drives the cloud back. Slowly turning, I look over the room and see the other door.

Shuffling across the room, I expect to have the same outcome I had with the other door. Leaving me trapped. Waiting for dinner to walk in. But to my surprise as I lean against the door, it yields under my weight.

I step into a hallway that stretches a few yards on my right. While down the hall to my left stands double doors and an elevator directly across from them. At the end of the hall, a stairwell leads to a lower floor.

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