Alice Henderson - Voracious

At that, the cop leaped to his feet, pivoting angrily.

As the Sickle Moon Killer steadily advanced on Madeline with the flaying knife, the cop unholstered his gun and aimed. A series of deafening shots rang out in the small confines of the car. Madeline clasped her hands to her ears as blood exploded from MacCready’s chest in four places, raining over the white plastic seats.

A surprised look spread over his face, and he paused, the knife sliding from his hand. It clattered on the floor, and Madeline stepped forward quickly and kicked it away. MacCready swayed, opening his mouth. Blood spilled out, bubbling on his lips as he tried to suck in a breath. Then he crashed forward to his knees, looked up at her angrily, and crumpled face-first onto the floor. He lay there for several long, agonizing moments, trying to draw in breath, the blood seeping across the floor as it spilled from his mouth and chest. His back spasmed, arcing backward at an awkward angle. Then he went still.

Madeline crept forward. Kicked his arm. No reaction.

The surprised eyes still stared, glistening and wet.

The train’s EMT stabilized the cop, then attended to the three Samaritans, the last of whom had just dragged himself up from the snack bar below. The EMT gestured to the wounded officer and the woman with the sliced artery, and said to the young cop, “We’re going to have to get these people to a hospital in Whitefish.” The officer didn’t answer right away. He just stared at the fallen body of MacCready, gun still drawn. Crinkly eyes that looked like he’d known a lot of laughter in his time now looked gaunt and gray. At last he lowered the gun, put it in his holster, and turned back to his partner.

Madeline looked back at MacCready’s body. As she watched, the eyes began to film over. He was dead.

George rushed to her side, placing a hand on her shoulder. She couldn’t look away from the body. All the years she’d lived in terror, the never-ending flashbacks. She didn’t think they’d go away now. She thought they’d get worse. Now the killer truly was free to roam anywhere, no longer confined to a body. His ghost would haunt her forever.

George’s fingers squeezed her shoulder.

She jumped and spun around, flinging off his hand.

“It’s okay, Mad. It’s over.”

She looked into his dark brown eyes. “It’s far from over,” she said. “What did you mean, I didn’t say good-bye?”

“You just left. I thought when I didn’t show up at the diner you’d at least stop by.”

Her brow creased in confusion. “Didn’t show up? But you were there. We had a long talk.”

George took a step back. “What? No, I wasn’t. I got jumped on the way.” He pointed to the underside of his chin. “See this bruise? This crazy guy beat me up! Didn’t even take anything. Just beat me up for the hell of it.”

She stared at him in shock, looking again at the fading bruise under his chin. “You really weren’t there?”

She thought of how alluring George had looked that night, when he never had before. How attracted she’d been. She took him in now. It was the same George she’d known for seven months-nothing strangely attractive about him at all now-and it hit her. Pheromones. It was pheromones that night. So Stefan had jumped George and replaced him for one night, in order to learn Madeline’s route through the desolate backcountry. But she had to be sure. “If this is true, then why have you always been so evasive about your past? And don’t give me that crap about being a bookkeeper.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Just answer the damn question,” she demanded.

He looked down, ashamed. “I’m afraid you won’t feel the same way about me anymore if you know.”

“Just tell me.”

He exhaled sharply. “I was in prison. Okay? I got involved with these guys who held up a gas station in Billings. But it was a long time ago, and I’ve really changed my life around now. Going to college. Moving to a new town. Meeting you.”

She couldn’t believe it. The answer wasn’t at all what she’d expected. “Let me see your head.”

Dutifully he peeled off one corner of the bandage, and she peered closely. A dark, painful-looking bruise surrounded a tear in the skin. It was a regular, human-looking wound.

She threw her arms around him. “George! You’re you! You’re human!”

He patted her back, trying to keep her at a distance, still distrustful. “Great news. I’m human. What a relief.” Then he pulled back and looked at her in bewilderment.

“I’ll explain everything when we get home,” she said, glancing around the train car. Behind them, the EMT applied a tourniquet to the woman’s arm and helped her and the chest-sliced victim out of the observation car. The last Samaritan remained with the injured cop, holding his hand.

At her feet, the Sickle Moon Killer’s blood spread widely, dripping now into the stairwell leading down to the snack bar. An announcer stated that the train would be arriving in Whitefish in fifteen minutes.

A hand closed around her boot.

With a shriek she looked down, trying to jerk her foot away. The Sickle Moon Killer’s eyes were no longer filmed over but gleamed red, luminescent disks housing no pupils. MacCready lifted his head, mouth opening to reveal rows of hideously pointed teeth.

She tried to kick the hand away, but it held fast, the other hand reaching up to grab her leg. Pale, white skin gave way to inky black sharkskin, graying brown hair vanished into shadow, and the creature rose to his feet, sliding toward her in the blood.

Releasing his grip on her, he tore away the hunting coveralls, emerging like a hideous black insect climbing from a camouflaged cocoon. A sharp gasp issued from the man sitting with the injured cop. Madeline glanced over there. He sat staring with horror at the creature, the same way she had that first night on the mountain.

“Madeline,” George said in alarm.

“George, get the hell out of here.”

“What?”

“Just get the hell out! He’ll kill you!”

“That’s right,” said the creature, nodding at George. The coveralls fell in a heap at Stefan’s feet, and he kicked them away. He extended his left arm, and the black glowed brightly to become gleaming silver, the hand sharpening into a point, fingers vanishing. The spike. She remembered the devastation on the guys in the campground. Turning, she shoved George away violently. He stumbled over the edge of one bank of chairs and fell on his back.

“Get out!” she screamed at him.

Then turning, she tackled the creature.

MADELINEdidn’t think the creature would risk stabbing her with the spike. Her flesh would bubble and dissolve, be reduced to ashes. Nothing left to eat. Until he tore out her throat or heart, she was safe.

She slammed into him, knocking him off balance. He sprawled on his back in the center aisle, and she landed roughly on top of him, straddling his body. With both hands she grabbed the shimmering spike and aimed it at his stomach. Then with all her weight she jumped up and landed on his upper arm, trying to drive the blade into his own body. But the minute it connected with his abdomen, the spike reduced itself to a hand again, the palm falling flat on the belly.

She grunted in frustration, bringing her fists down hard on his solar plexus. He groaned, deflecting the blows and knocking her to the side.

Behind her, George got to his feet. He rushed forward, grabbing Stefan’s legs. She slid to one side and seized his hands. He tried to twist them free, but sheer rage gave her tremendous power, and she held fast.

Kicking his legs out, he tried to throw George off, but her friend wouldn’t let go, even when he fell to the floor, banging his knee harshly on one of the seats.