The New Hunger by Isaac Marion Page A

might be able to finally lose their stalkers. Except that despite being slow, the Dead have two big advantages: they can smell the Living from half a mile away, and they never have to stop. Nora realizes that sooner or later, she will have to deal with them.
    “What about there?” Addis says, stopping to look at a relatively modest two-story estate. The place is an odd study in contrasts. It’s an elegant, old-fashioned building, rustic red brick with white window frames and knob-topped railings on its second-floor balcony, but it has the security measures of an inner-city bank branch. Thick, wrought-iron bars on all the windows, cameras on every door, and a tall iron fence around the whole yard. The fence isn’t much help due to the front gate lying flat on the ground, but still…
    “Let’s take a look,” Nora says.
    She pulls out her flashlight and her hatchet. Addis eft/punddoes the same. They begin with a quick circuit of the yard, checking the window bars, checking the doors. All intact, all locked. A Maserati convertible covered in dried blood and claw marks is the only thing out of the ordinary. In fact, the yard is oddly well-kept, the shrubberies still in neat rows, the lawn weedy but not wild.
    “All clear,” Addis says in cop-voice.
    “These window bars are pretty wide. Think you could fit?”
    He tests his head against the bars. Pushing his ears flat, he could probably squeeze through. “Want me to break in?” he asks, smiling deviously. He might make a better robber than cop.
    “Let’s check the rest of the doors first.”
    They come back around to the front. Nora is surprised to find the front door—a huge, solid oak slab with reinforced hinges—unlocked. Slightly ajar. They step inside. Nora locks it behind them and clicks on her flashlight. The interior is no less luxurious than she expected. The usual exotic hardwoods and leather, paintings by real artists hanging casually in the hall like it’s no big deal.
    “God,” Nora whispers, aiming her flashlight at a messy, intricate collage. “That’s a Rauschenberg.”
    “It’s way too big,” Addis says in a tone that means Don’t even think about it. He remembers when the family stopped at a museum to search for weapons on dead security guards and Nora stuffed the Geo full of Picassos. He remembers when some thugs stole the car and they had to continue on foot, and she made him put all her clothes in his bag so she’d have room for some rolled-up Dali canvases. He doesn’t have to worry anymore. She’s much more practical these days.
    They begin to explore the house. The white circles of their flashlights roam the walls like infant ghosts. Nora flicks a light switch and is surprised to see a chandelier blaze to life. She quickly switches it off.
    “Why’d you turn it off?” Addis says.
    “You know why.”
    Addis sighs. They step quietly down the hall and into the dining room. “What’s that smell?” he asks, wrinkling his nose.
    Nora sniffs. “Burnt plastic?” She starts to move toward the kitchen to investigate and Addis yelps, so sudden and sharp Nora almost drops her flashlight. She dashes to his side, hatchet raised. His light is creeping slowly over the faces of three corpses. Old corpses. Skeletons. No flesh but a few leathery ligaments clinging to the joints. Even their clothes have disintegrated. They recline peacefully in the living room, an adult in the easy chair and two smaller ones on the couch, their lipless mouths locked in that insane snarl that lurks behind every smile.
    Addis pulls his light away and the grim tableau disappears into the shadows. He is breathing a lot harder than Nora.
    “Come on,” she says. “Let’s check upstairs.”
    The top floor is just two children’s bedrooms, a bathroom, and the balcony. Empty, dusty, silent.
    “All clear?” Nora asks, but Addis doesn’t confirm.
    “Can we stay up here?” he says quietly. “We don’t have to go downstairs again do we?”
    “Not if we’re