The Hunger (Book 1): Devoured by Jason Brant

and knew what would happen next. He got up and rushed away as fast as his bare feet would allow, ignoring the angry taunts and muted bludgeoning that came from behind him.
    More of the infected wandered ahead, but their madness was more advanced, any aggressors not daring to go near such insanity. They stumbled through the streets, mostly ignoring everyone. A few gave chase to the slower, fatter populace of the ‘Burgh.
    One woman stood out among the rest. The shade of her skin neared translucence, her skeletal system already deforming. Lance never saw the front of her, but he knew that her eyes were shriveled, her face full of veins. The murderous desire had already begun to overtake her.
    Lance took a different street, knowing that the detour would cost him precious time, but he dared not go near the woman. The alleys had less people, though the fear of being caught in one with an infected person kept him from using them.
    He couldn’t outrun anyone if cornered, so he chose his path carefully. The bleeding from his foot slowed as he went, his trail less obvious.
    The pain never lessened.
    Though he saw several beatings and heard dozens more, Lance never saw a police officer or EMT. He lost count of how many of the banshee-like screams he heard come from apartment buildings and businesses.
    The sun neared the horizon by the time he stumbled onto his block and caught sight of his aging building. As the streets darkened, more of the sick appeared, their movements more fluid, the sluggishness he’d seen earlier gone.
    Lance whispered a tiny prayer as he painstakingly climbed the stairs to his apartment, glad that he’d made it home before dark. Something about the night attracted them, and he didn’t want to be around when they took control of the streets.

Chapter 9
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    S team clouded the mirror, the bathroom fan unable to keep up.
    Lance stared at the tub of hot water, working up the courage to step in. He grabbed a towel from the rack beside the door and squeezed it in his hands, hoping to channel some of his oncoming anguish into it.
    He sat on the edge of the tub and slowly lowered his uninjured foot into it, hissing at the heat. The toll of walking on the streets in his bare feet was greater than he realized. The agony of every abrasion and knick intensified as he held the foot there, gritting his teeth and squeezing the towel.
    After an excruciating half a minute, the pain ebbed.
    “And that was the good foot,” Lance muttered to the empty room.
    He lowered the rest of his body, minus his sliced foot, into the water at a snail’s pace. The heat warmed him immediately, attacking the soreness in his ribs and shoulder. It had been years since he’d taken a bath, and at that moment, he couldn’t figure out why.
    His left foot hovered above the surface as he submerged himself up to the neck. The impending pain hung over him, making his face pinch in on itself as he gathered what little willpower remained.
    Taking a deep breath, he dunked his foot and squeezed the towel as if he wanted to murder it. He bit back a scream, thumping his left hand on the outside of the tub. The end of the balled-up towel went between his teeth and he hyperventilated against it. It took everything he had to keep his foot submerged.
    The misery eased fractionally, giving him only the slightest relief.
    The bottoms of his feet had blackened with filth from the walk. He desperately wanted to avoid infection, realizing that a trip to his general practitioner probably wouldn’t happen again in the next millennia.
    The worst part remained.
    He scooted forward, his shoulders coming out of the water, and pulled his foot toward his face. The wound was dirty, but didn’t appear particularly deep. It was just enough to hurt like hell.
    Lance never liked having his feet messed with or tickled, so having a piece of a glass stab into his arch came straight out of a nightmare.
    The next twenty minutes consisted of swearing,