The Hunger Read online

  They took a right and headed down the dark, grassy area towards a bunch of trees that circled a pond. He knew this place. He’d been here before—yes, that was it. People came down here to fuck. Wait, did this mean… Did she want him to fuck her? Should he ask? Did she know about his infection?

  Rebecca or Rachel?

  Just go with the flow. Go with it.

  Rebecca stopped when they reached some grass and were sheltered by a tall tree. She turned around to look at Jonny, and smiled at him with that smile and those eyes that told him everything he needed to know. Answered all his questions—except the name one. The light from the moon shimmered in the deep, black pond a few hundred feet down the hill. On the street behind them, Jonny could hear voices. Muffled voices. Distant voices.

  But all that really mattered was Rebecca, right here, right now.

  She said something he couldn’t understand but it didn’t matter because she was speaking another language as she slipped her tight blue jeans down to her knees then pulled her purple panties down so she was all on show, so plump and so ready for him.

  He felt himself getting hard. He felt that hunger growing inside him too. That hunger that made him want to eat, run, drink, do drugs, and now fuck. Maybe that’s what it was. Maybe he just needed a good shag. Maybe it would relieve him.

  Then again, he wasn’t sure he wanted it to go away. He liked the hunger. It made him feel alive again.

  Rebecca sat in the grass and opened her legs and before Jonny knew it he was pressed up to her, pushing his dick inside her and she was moaning in his ear, her breath clouding in the cold January air, but her skin so warm, so fresh, so delicious.

  He closed his eyes and held her tighter. The hunger was flaring. He felt like he was on fire. A burning sensation running right the way through his body. Or was it a coldness? Fuck, it didn’t matter. He moved harder, fucking her harder and harder and harder.

  She started to moan louder. Her fingernails scraped his back and that just made the hunger grow and he bit her on the neck, nibbled at her ear and her cheek and she seemed to moan even louder so he kept on doing this, kept on doing it as the hunger grew and grew and he fucked her harder.

  He could feel himself getting close. Amazing he hadn’t already gone off after all this time. But this, this was different. He held her down and she smiled and moaned and let him go deeper and deeper, her eyes rolling back in her head and her moans turning to little yelps so that somebody on the road would definitely hear them and that just turned him on and clearly turned her on so much.

  He clenched his eyelids together again. The hunger was at bursting point now. He felt like he had when he’d poured all of that meat onto the plate, wolfing it down without even realising.

  And then the little yelps disappeared and there was a shouting as the warmth surrounded him. The warmth filled up his hunger. He felt the warmth dripping through his body. The feeling was indescribable. Like the perfect tonic for the hunger, dripping and pouring down his throat, hitting the spot and cooling it over, freezing it, a climax on levels he’d never experienced before.

  He opened his eyes but he couldn’t see. Not really, anyway. He couldn’t hear or feel for that matter, either. It wasn’t a blackness, more a sheer nothingness. An emptiness. Complete and utter bliss.

  He felt some of the warmth dripping down his chin as he leaned back into the nothingness and let the hunger recede.

  The moonlight glimmered on the static pond.

  Donna wasn’t sure how long exactly she’d been strapped to that Quarantine Zone bed, but she hadn’t seen anybody for quite some time, she knew that.

  She tried to arch herself upwards but her neck was stiff. The lighting was the same as ever—bright, white, lifeless. She couldn’t tell whether it was day or night—there was no knowing in here, especially strapped down with no watch, not to mention the fact that she already felt knackered, screwing her body clock.

  Not that the time mattered, not really. All that mattered was that she got something to eat. Soon.

  The cold, numb sensation had developed into pure hunger now. Hunger like she’d never experienced it before. She could hear her stomach constantly rumbling, crying out for something to eat. And not just a snack, either—a huge dish of meat. Succulent, juicy meat. She could eat an animal live, she was that hungry.

  She kept her teeth clenched against her tongue. The more she moved it around her mouth, the more it frustrated her, because it really felt like an actual slab of tender meat in there. She could taste the metal from it, too, which meant she must’ve bitten it quite hard again. She couldn’t help herself. Nothing was curing the emptiness. Nothing was stopping the hunger.

  She heard a door open somewhere near by, then footsteps heading in her direction. She thought about shouting, but her throat felt like it had completely swollen now. The only thing that eased it slightly was the blood from her tongue; the loose flesh from her chewed tongue, dripping down her throat.

  The curtain twitched, and in stepped Mr. Belmont and the masked doctor from earlier. Mr Belmont was dressed in a clear plastic coat, as if he were wrapped in shrink-wrap. He had white gloves on, and he too was wearing a protective mask over his mouth.

  “Mrs. Carter,” he said.

  Donna turned her head to the side. The last thing she needed right now was another science lesson from Mr. Belmont. She knew what he was up to. The doctor had all but said it earlier. The increased CD4 counts as a result of Sarah Appleton’s rat experiment—it was happening to her. She was a prized asset. A test subject with no authority and in no position to argue otherwise.

  Mr. Belmont sat down on a green plastic chair where Donna was looking.

  “I apologise for the inconvenience of all this,” he said. “I… I am truly sorry, really. But I figure Doctor Ermenstein has filled you in on your… your situation, anyway.”

  Doctor Ermenstein. So that was his name. She’d heard things about him before—Demon Doctor, some of the labcoats nicknamed him. He was good at what he did, apparently.

  What he did was handle volatile, delicate medical situations.

  “I’m going to level with you, Mrs. Carter.” Mr. Belmont lowered his protective mask, which earned him a stern glare from Doctor Ermenstein. “You’ve been infected with what we’re now officially referring to as the Turnstone formula. Just a codename—you know how it works. Now, this Turnstone formula is indeed the formula that Miss Appleton concocted and tested on that poor little rat. The formula that, according to Miss Appleton’s email, caused a rapid increase in the rat’s CD4 count.”

  Mr. Belmont crossed one leg over the other, then continued, like a lecturer speaking to a waiting audience.

  “As you’ll probably be aware, CD4 cells are white blood cells. Also known as ‘helper cells,’ because they are responsible for sending the warning signals to other types of cells, including the CD8 killer cells. A double team effort, if you will. CD4 reports to CD8, CD8 blasts the infection or virus into oblivion.

  “Now it doesn’t take a genius to realise what goes wrong in HIV patients. HIV causes a depletion in CD4, therefore these little armies of CD8 are left clueless as to the source of attack. Little fucker viruses sneak in through the back door, little terrorist bombers. Now, Sarah Appleton thought she’d found a way to increase CD4 cells in HIV sufferers. And looking at your CD4 count results, which are getting higher and higher, this formula works even in non-HIV sufferers. But hey—this is only helpful to HIV sufferers, right? After all, a bunch of extra CD4 messengers is only useful when you’ve got just as many CD8 attackers on guard, too. Right?”

  Mr. Belmont went quiet. He smiled at Donna, then looked at Doctor Ermenstein, as if he was an audience member all of a sudden.

  “When we checked the results of Sarah’s rat,” Doctor Ermenstein said, still faceless, still unidentifiable, “we were only looking at the CD4 levels, because y’know, that’s what she’d told us she’d discovered. And the CD4 levels had dropped. But it was when I looked later t
hat I realised we were looking in the wrong place. The complete wrong place.”

  “It’s the CD8 too, Mrs. Carter,” Mr. Belmont said, unable to hold back his widening grin. “The CD8 levels are growing, too. Or rather, this formula has turned our little white blood cells into multi-taskers. CD4 cells can act as CD8 cells, and vice versa. An army of multiple talents. So just imagine how important this could be to the planet. Just… just imagine, for a moment. We can add years of life expectancy not just for people with HIV, but for people in general. We can give this formula to the old—help them fight off infection and viruses. We can send this stuff out to Africa and single-handedly save the place in a day or two. And just think of the plaudits. The profits. Sarah Appleton is a genius. All this time, and she’s a frigging genius.”

  The room went silent again. Mr. Belmont was still smiling to himself. Doctor Ermenstein had his head down, and was staring at his feet. Donna couldn’t quite comprehend the magnitude of the things they were telling her. They hadn’t found a cure to HIV, they’d found a cure to… to mortality. A miracle drug. The financial boost that TCorps needed. The boost that the entire world needed.

  “Only there’s one thing,” Mr. Belmont said. He surprised Donna. His face was serious now, and his eyes were staring into hers. “Just one slight hitch that no doubt we’ll come to understand. Which is why you’re so important to us, Mrs. Carter. More important than anyone or anything.”

  Donna looked from Mr. Belmont to Doctor Ermenstein. She wanted to ask them “What?” but she just didn’t have the energy to do so. She needed sleep. Food.

  Meat.

  Doctor Ermenstein cleared his throat. “There seems to be some correlation between… well, violence, and the fluctuation of the CD4/CD8 cells. It seems that the CD4 cells keep on multiplying and multiplying until they are… satisfied. And that satisfaction causes a temporary boost in CD8. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen, or even believed possible, but that’s science for you.” The momentary enthusiasm dropped from his face. “But, erm, yeah. This… this violence. It’s a problem.”

  Donna wasn’t sure what Doctor Ermenstein was talking about. The way he said “violence,” and looked at her and at Mr. Belmont with those gloomy eyes. What violence? What were they talking about?

  “Donna, do you remember anything about your trip down here to Quarantine?”

  At first, Donna was more surprised that Mr. Belmont had addressed her by her first name. But then she started to go over the events in her mind. Flappy Bird. Falling to her knees. The blood on the floor outside of her office. Must’ve been from her tongue. Had to be.

  She shook her head and managed a raspy, “No.”

  Mr. Belmont sighed and looked at Doctor Ermenstein. Something wasn’t right. This “violence” they spoke of. Had something happened to her? What did they mean?

  Doctor Ermenstein opened up a blue folder and held a picture up. Donna struggled to focus at first, her eyes still tender, as she stared at the image. It took her a few moments to realise what she was looking at; what she was seeing.

  It was a security guard. She recognised his face—Adam, she thought his name was. Bald head. Chubby, dark-skinned cheeks.

  But it was the bite marks on his neck that stood out more than anything. The bloody chunks of flesh that were missing, as if he’d been attacked by a wild animal.

  “What… What happ…ened?” Donna said, her voice croaky, gradually returning.

  Doctor Ermenstein kept the picture opposite Donna.

  “You did this, Mrs. Carter,” Mr. Belmont said. “You did this.”

  Donna stared at the bloody wounds on Adam the security guard’s neck, and although she didn’t understand what Mr. Belmont was saying—although she didn’t believe it was possible she’d been responsible for something like this—she couldn’t help but notice the churn of hunger at the pit of her stomach.

  16.

  Jonny woke up with a strong metallic taste at the back of his throat.

  He didn’t even acknowledge his existence for a few moments, maybe longer. He just lay there, eyes closed, staring into nothingness. Slowly though, one by one, his senses returned to their usual sharpness. First it was the metallic taste in his mouth. The kind of taste he got when he’d had a nosebleed and been leaning back, the blood dripping and congealing at the back of his throat.

  Then he felt the icy coldness on his arms. A wave of coldness completely drowned him, forcing his heavy eyelids open. Where was he? Fuck—who was he?

  He looked around, his vision blurred with congealed gunk, his head aching with the light. No wonder he’d felt cold—he was outside. Trees swayed in the strong wind, as cars on the road up ahead drove past, pipping their horns as the traffic backed up. Shit. He must’ve stayed out here all last night. He must’ve been so pissed he’d wandered out here and slept in the fucking woods.

  He leaned forward to push himself up. He really needed to get back home and get some proper sleep in his bed. He felt sickly, really sickly, and he couldn’t have slept well last night. He buttoned up the top few buttons of his half-open shirt and moved further onto his feet.

  That was when he saw the blood.

  In the soft, leaf-covered ground below him, specks of blood. Little droplets in a pattern running up to him, and underneath him. Shit. Had he fallen over or something? He rubbed his hand through his hair. He couldn’t tell whether he’d banged his head or anything because his head was throbbing enough as it was.

  He stepped away from the specks of blood and followed the trail with his eyes. It seemed to run behind him somewhere. He tried to piece last night together. He remembered coming outside now. Wait—hadn’t he come outside with somebody? Wasn’t it…

  His thoughts trailed off when he saw the spot where the blood ended. Before it ended, it thickened; it grew from a little trail of blood to a large pool.

  And sitting atop it was Rebecca Hemmingway. Completely still.

  Jonny stared at her. The sound of the traffic behind him vanished into nothingness. The strong wind that sent goosepimples across his skin lost its effect, as if his presence in the moment had left him void of any sort of legitimate response. He tried to focus. Tried to understand. Tried to make sense of it in his head. This had to be some sort of joke. Some sort of sick joke. It had to be.

  Rebecca was sitting back against a tree. Her eyes were glazed over, half-closed. Her jeans and underwear were pulled down so that she was all on show, her legs pale and bruised.

  And on her neck, there was a huge, bloody chunk of flesh missing, tendons spewing out, blood coating her white t-shirt.

  Jonny stumbled backwards. His heart pounded. His throat went dry and he just wanted to run away; run back home and pretend he hadn’t seen anything. Fuck. What had happened to her? What would do something like that? Leave her in that way? He had to get to Anita’s. Her place wasn’t far from here—he had to tell her.

  As he turned around, the image of Rebecca’s stone-dead body propped up against that tree fresh in his mind, he tasted the metallic tang again. The first thing he’d noticed when he’d woken up. He realised there was something wedged between his teeth. Something like food. Meat.

  Lifting his shaking hand to his mouth, he dabbed his index finger inside and plucked at the foreign object. As he did, the metallic tang intensified. He picked the food free and pulled his finger out of his mouth.

  His body seized up.

  His index finger was covered in diluted, saliva-drenched blood. Blood that he realised now was not coming from him, because of the object on the end of his finger.

  A piece of pink flesh. Just as pink as the exposed flesh on Rebecca’s neck.

  He fell to the ground and held his head in his hands, unable to stop himself. Piece by piece, little fragments of yesterday were coming back together. Coming down here with Rebecca. Making love to her. Then the hunger… that emptiness inside him that he’d felt all day. The emptiness that had made him eat all the food at home; that had made him run for hours and h
ours; that had made him drink and drink and drink. He remembered that emptiness reaching a peak while he was fucking Rebecca.

  Then he remembered the warm liquid seeping down his throat, the emptiness subsiding, and then blissful nothing.

  He lifted his head from his hands and looked back at Rebecca. Her blonde hair, as lifeless as a Barbie doll’s, blew in the breeze. The rest of her was still and solid, almost as if she was a part of this woods. He looked at her, and he understood now. Fuck—not “understood.” That wasn’t the right word for it. But he knew what was happening now. What had happened.

  He’d killed her. For some reason, he’d been so off his face that he’d… he’d savaged her. Fuck. No. He was not capable of this. He was never a violent guy—he was a fucking coward, for one. He once tried to strike up a bond with a house burglar by offering them all of his electronic items so long as they didn’t hurt him. The burglar obliged.

  A knot tightened in his stomach. His hands shook, and his mind stirred. Maybe he wasn’t capable of this, but maybe it was. Whatever it was. That thing inside him. He felt it now. Felt its presence, worming its way around his body. There was something inside him and it was taking over. Something other than the HIV. Something much more dangerous.

  A car pipped its horn behind him. He swung his head around and looked up at the hill. Shit. Just the traffic. He just had to keep his cool and work out what the hell he was going to do here. Because there was no running away now. He was in this. He was right in this. He had to decide what he was going to do. What was the best course of action. He’d go to the police, yes. He’d turn himself in. Spend thirty years in a cell for murder. Fuck. He wouldn’t survive in there. He wouldn’t cope.