Warren Murphy - Unnatural Selection

"Down," the woman snarled suddenly. She sounded like an obedience trainer scolding a bad dog. "Helen already called to tell me you were quitting, Burt," Owen said from behind, his voice a quiet growl. "It came as quite a shock. I've got one for you, too."

"No," the woman commanded, taking a step for Owen.

Too late.

Burt felt someone grab him from behind.

Owen. Owen had gone crazy. Selling the business without telling Burt, dragging strangers in off the street and now assaulting Burt in his own offices. That was it. To hell with it all. Burt was going to quit already, but now he'd do it with a song in his heart and not look back.

Burt had played high-school and college football. He still outweighed Owen. He'd flip his demented expartner to the floor and then leave Lubec Springs for good.

Burt intended to tell Owen all this. But then a funny thing happened. He suddenly couldn't speak. He felt pressure on his throat. Felt a sudden jerk and twist of sharp pain. Pain far worse than his ulcer. Pain more excruciating than anything he had ever felt before.

Burt gasped. Bubbles came. Red and frothy.

Burt staggered back, grabbing at his throat. His hands clutched a glistening hole. And then Burt Solare saw the ragged remnants of his torn-out throat. They were dangling from the blood-streaked mouth of Owen Grude.

Burt tried to run. The other two men were on him. With hands and teeth they attacked Burt's soft belly. Screaming silently, he hit the wall and fell to the floor. They came in a pack. He tried to knock them off. His weak blows scarcely registered.

When he glanced up in horror, he found that one man's face had disappeared inside his abdomen. He reappeared an instant later, sharp teeth dragging a bundle of glistening viscera.

With a tip of his head and a few quick gulps, the man slurped up the ulcerous part of Burt's intestine like a string of bloody spaghetti.

Another shadow. A face frowning deep disapproval.

The woman. Burt saw her through his pinwheeling gaze. Pouncing, she fell in among the men, grabbing shoulders and arms, flinging them away. For someone so small and graceful, she was inordinately strong. When she gripped Owen by the back of the neck and yanked, Owen became airborne. He soared across the office, slamming hard against the wall. The particleboard buckled beneath him.

With uncharacteristic delicacy, Owen righted himself as he dropped to the floor. Flipping, he landed silently on the rug. His face was enraged, yet he made no move on the woman. The other men prowled near him.

"Stay," she commanded firmly to all three. Although they clearly didn't want to obey, the three men stayed back. Blood and saliva drooled from their open mouths.

Burt lay in a bloody heap, weak hands clutching belly and throat. The rug was stained red. Every thready heartbeat sent more blood gurgling from his open wounds.

The woman crouched beside him. Her nose crinkled unhappily as she studied his wounds.

She had stopped them. Maybe she could save him. If she called the police, the hospital. Burt pleaded with his eyes.

Her mouth thinned. "He's too far gone," she announced.

No! Burt wanted to shout. Call 911! Help me!

Did she hear his unspoken plea? The woman turned her attention back to his gaping stomach wound. Yes, I'm alive. I'm fighting to live. Save me!

She reached for him. Did she know first aid? And then the horror returned full-blown.

Hands thrust inside his ripped-open belly. Grabbing either side of his rib cage, the woman twisted.

Burt heard his sternum crack.

Baring fangs, the woman proceeded to stuff her face deep into his exposed chest cavity. With a lick and a snap, fangs pierced the left ventricle of his feebly beating heart.

And in that instant of horrific pain, Burt Solare had an epiphany. The blinding realization came clear as glass in that last moment of his weak, frail mortality. Maybe I should have stayed in advertising.

WHEN SHE WAS THROUGH feeding, she allowed the males to eat. They chewed greedily, Owen more than the others. This was his first. The hunger was strongest the first time.

When the males finally finished, she was lying on Owen Grude's desk, her rough pink tongue licking gently at the last hints of sticky blood on her long fingers.

They padded over to her, faces smeared red from their feast. The two males yawned contentedly. Owen Grude mewled apologetically. She continued to lick her fingers.

"You behaved recklessly," she said, not looking up.

"I couldn't resist."

She turned her eyes lazily, fixing him with a glare. "A word from the wise. Next time? Resist."

The threat was clear. Owen nodded obediently. Pulling herself to a squatting position, she looked at the other two. "He has a mate," she said, nodding to the half-eaten carcass of Burt Solare. "Kill her." No more instruction was needed. With barely a sound, they slipped from the office.

Pushing from her haunches, she bounded to the floor. Her bare soles touched silently.

"Show me the bottling plant," she commanded, prowling past Owen.

He hesitated. "What about him?" he asked, lingering near the desk. He nodded to the body of his partner. Burt's glassy eyes stared up vacantly in death.

She paused. "Oh, do you want a human funeral for your dear, dear friend?" she asked with mock sympathy.

"No, of course not," Owen said. "I don't see him as I did. He used to be important to me. Now he's just-"

"A meal?"

Owen nodded. "I'm just afraid someone might find him."

She padded up to Owen, pressing a firm hand on his shoulder. She growled. Flecks of red gristle clung to the spaces between her flawless white teeth.

"Don't try to think too hard. Now, we have a lot of work to do. The fun is just beginning."

With catlike grace, Dr. Judith White prowled out the office door.

Chapter 2

His name was Remo and it wasn't that he didn't want to squash a few more cockroaches. His only problem was the wrong man was asking him to do the squashing.

"Let me talk to Smith," Remo said.

"Dr. Smith isn't here," Mark Howard explained. Howard was assistant director of CURE, the supersecret organization for which Remo worked as enforcement arm. That is, on those days Remo was actually working. At the moment, as Remo stood on the sidewalk in Little Rock cradling the pay phone between ear and shoulder, it wasn't one of those days. "No offense, Junior," Remo said to Howard, "but I don't scrunch cockroaches for you. Put Daddy on the phone."

A few students from nearby Philander Smith College strolled down the sidewalk chatting loudly. Like most college students of the past forty years, these seemed to have an abundance of loud opinions and a lack of actual textbooks. Remo watched them as they walked through the historic Quapaw Quarter of the city's downtown.

On the phone there came an exasperated exhale.

"Remo, you know Dr. Smith leaves the office at five on Tuesdays and Thursdays now," Mark Howard replied, his youthful voice straining to be patient. "He said you can talk to me."

"Talk to, yes. Take orders from, no. You want to talk about the weather?"

"No."

"See you in the funny papers." Remo hung up the phone.

The receiver rang the instant he broke the connection. Remo had to hand it to Mark Howard; the young man was quick on the ol' keyboard. He picked up the phone.

"Joe's Porn Palace. You can't spell coitus without us."

Howard's voice was growing irked. "Remo, please."

"Sorry," Remo said sweetly. "Still not the right guy for me." He hung up once more.

This time the pay phone fell silent.

While he waited, Remo whiled away the minutes counting the birds that flew overhead. He was up to thirty-one when the phone finally rang again. He scooped up the receiver.

"Hi, Smitty," he announced.