The voice sounded confident, aggressive; the voice of a man in a bar challenging another man to a fight.
Swishhh… swishhh… swishhh.
More noises. Feet moving, cellophane rattling, boxes falling. More than one man; maybe three, maybe four. Then, the sound of a low, deep growl.
Too deep to be human.
Sofia’s hands snapped out: she grabbed Cooper’s jacket, surprising him. He started to lean back, but she pulled him close.
“They’re going to find us,” she hissed. Her face was only inches from his, her skin red, the edges of her nose cracked and raw. “They’re going to find us. They’re going to kill us.”
“Be quiet,” he whispered back, trying to push her away. She was losing it. She was making too much noise. He had to get her out of there, had to get himself out of there.
“Sofia, let go of me!”
Out in the store, something hit hard against a shelf. The shelf must have tipped over, because it crashed onto the floor with a sound like a broken gong. Cooper heard people moving around, yelling at each other.
Sofia’s puffy eyes filled with tears. She mouthed two words, over and over:
Shoot them!
The noises in the store grew closer.
Cooper grabbed Sofia’s wrists, pulled at them, tried to tear her grip from his coat.
He mouthed back to her: Stop it! She resisted for a second, even sneered at him, but he got his feet under him, then leaned away until her hands finally snapped free.
Out in the store, another rack fell over, the sound punching through him, shaking his atoms, letting him know the cannibals were coming and this panicking woman was going to get him killed.
He leaned in again, pressed his lips against her ear.
“Calm the fuck down. Just stay quiet, they’ll leave, they’ll—”
He felt Sofia’s right hand on his hip, sliding around to his back…
The gun.
He leaned away hard, lost his balance. His ass hit the floor and he skidded into the heater, sending it clattering loudly into a wall.
Sofia scrambled to her feet. She tore off Jeff’s coat and reached for the door handle, her open, bloody shirt flaring out behind her.
Cooper pushed himself to his knees and dove — his fingertips closed on the shirttail, then slipped free. He landed on his stomach as she opened the door and hobbled out into the store.
He jumped to his feet, drew the pistol as he rushed after her, just in time to see Sofia trip over an overturned rack. Her face bounced hard off the metal shelves. Blood poured instantly from a long gash across her forehead.
The blow staggered her, took away whatever adrenaline-fueled energy reserve she’d found. She flopped to her back, the tilted rack beneath her, the top of her head on the tile floor, her legs dangling off what used to be the rack’s bottom.
She looked at him with glazed eyes.
But Cooper Mitchell didn’t really see Sofia. What he saw were the six people standing there, three on either side of her, all staring at him, all hunched forward in clear aggression.
The same people who had killed that woman in the street.
Killed her, and eaten her.
Six people… and by the revolving door, mostly hidden by the racks of merchandise, that hulking form Cooper had seen coming across the bridge, head still wrapped in the blue scarf.
Five bullets; he couldn’t get them all.
He was going to die.
They all held weapons: long knives, a fire axe, a machete, a tire iron. The woman in the blue snowsuit had a chrome-plated revolver in her left hand.
Cooper was too afraid to move. His pistol was pointed down… he had to raise it, had to do something…
The tall man in the red jacket took a small step forward, then stopped. The knife he’d used to kill the woman in the blouse caught the store’s fluorescent lights.
Clean. The blade is clean. He took the time to clean it…
The man stared at Cooper. He lowered the knife. The others stood still. They weren’t attacking.
Cooper looked at them. They looked at him, but they also looked at the gun in his hand.
“Help… me…”
The thin voice came from the floor, from Sofia. She weakly tried to roll to her stomach, but she didn’t have the energy to even lift her legs. Blood coursed down her face, made a puddle on the floor.
Six people, one thing, five bullets…
And then another memory rushed up: Chavo, back in the hotel… Chavo, trying to sniff, asking if Cooper was a friend… asking Cooper why he didn’t kill Sofia…
Seven of them, five bullets… I don’t want to die…
Cooper’s breath stopped. One thought overwhelmed him, one hope consuming every ounce of who he was.
He aimed his gun at Sofia’s face.
She saw it. She didn’t look dazed anymore. She lay inverted on top of a ruined rack of toothpaste and mouthwash. Her trembling lips formed the word please, but no sound came out.
I want to live… Sofia… I’m so sorry…
Cooper squeezed the trigger.
The gun leaped in his hand, rising up so fast it almost flew away. He blinked rapidly, the muzzle flash a strobe of green then red then white each time his eyes opened anew.
His vision mostly cleared. Glowing afterimages danced at the edges of his sight.
Sofia’s left leg trembled sickeningly. Her left hand made clutching motions, half closing, then half opening.
The bullet had punched a hole in the right cheekbone, spraying blood across the white tile floor behind her head.
She blinked… her eyes locked on him, narrowed with recognition and realization, then relaxed. Her head lolled back.
She stopped trembling.
The six people looked at him.
You had to do it you had to do it you coward you murderer say something or they’ll tear you apart you know what you have to say so say it say it now.
Cooper looked at each of them in turn, then he spoke: “She wasn’t a friend.”
The Tall Man nodded. The others smiled.
Seven of them and now only FOUR bullets…
Cooper fought the urge to turn and run. He knew he wouldn’t make it far. He didn’t know where the back door was, or if there was even a back door at all.
“She almost got me,” he said.
The Tall Man looked down at Sofia, then back. “Then why were you carrying her?”
Cooper held up the gun. “She had this against my neck. She was hurt. I knew if I could keep her from shooting me long enough, I’d have a chance. She was going to come out of the office and shoot you guys, so I had to make my move.”
The bulky man by the front door — the thing that was human and not human at the same time — walked forward. Seven feet tall, at least. In each hand it held some kind of long, white blade.
Do not run, they will kill you if you run…
It wore no shirt, leaving its pale yellow skin exposed — yellow, the color of pus, of coagulated grease. Whitish, black-rimmed rashes dotted its wide chest and bulging, bare arms. Thick fingers flexed, thin blood oozing from cracks and splits where fingernails had fallen off.
The white blades…
The thing wasn’t holding them at all. The blades protruded from behind each wrist, jutted out from torn yellow flesh… and they weren’t blades, they were bones: jagged, pale, as long as its forearm, wicked scythes tapering to hard, sharp points.