As his body moved toward the noise, it passed another body that lay unmoving in the mud. The whole top of its head was missing. Blown away by a shotgun blast.
And then Lee Hartnup understood. It was the brain.
Yes … yes … yes … yes … yes … whispered his own inner voice.
It did not answer the questions of why and what, but it gave Hartnup a shred of insight. The brain. The motor cortex and the nerve conduction of the spinal cord. Even a stolen body needed that much. Maybe only that much. Rudimentary control and nerve signals. To stand, to walk. To grab and bite. To chew.
Destroy the brain and you stop the monster.
That would be perfect. Not merely hollow … but empty.
God, he pleaded, let someone shoot me! Please, God, let someone blow my head off and kill me!
It was the strangest thought that had ever flown through his brain, but also the sanest. And it was his truest prayer.
Unless.
Unless …
What if destroying the body did not turn off all of his own lights? What if he remained, lost in the darkness of a dead and decaying body?
Would that be worse?
No, he told himself. If my body is dead I can’t hurt anyone else.
The car rounded the bend. State troopers.
The crowd of things moaned almost as one, their cries rising in intensity now, louder than the downpour. The cruiser slewed sideways as the driver kicked down on
the brakes; gravel and mud showered the dead things that staggered toward it. None of them fell, none of them stopped.
The doors opened and two troopers stepped out, guns in their hands, their faces almost as blank as the things that approached them.
Hartnup heard one of them yell. “What the Christ—”
And then the creatures were upon them.
The troopers yelled warnings. Over and over again. They leveled their weapons. Hartnup waited for the shots, needing to see the bullets punch through skull and brain, needing to see one of the monsters fall. His own body moved forward on stiff legs, hands reaching for the distant flesh; hunger swelling like a scream inside his body.
Then the troopers were gone beneath a mountain of white limbs and red mouths.
Please … no! Hartnup pleaded. Please, for the love of God, no!
You haven’t killed me yet.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
GREEN GATES 55-PLUS COMMUNITY
“Wait,” said Trout as he leapt to his feet. “What? Homer Gibbon is alive?”
Tears rolled down Dr. Volker’s face as he nodded. He pulled a handkerchief and pressed it against his eyes. His body trembled with quiet sobs.
Goat sat in open-mouthed shock.
“No, no, no, goddamn it,” Trout shouted as he strode over to the doctor, looming above him with balled fists. “You fucking tell me what you mean? How the hell did Homer Gibbon speak to you on the goddamn phone? He’s dead! I saw him die. I saw you pump that shit into his veins and I saw the machines flatline. I watched you execute him, for Christ’s sake. ”
When Volker only shook his head, Trout snarled, “You gave him that stuff, didn’t you? Didn’t you?”