and I felt a powerful urge to hunt him down, to hurt him, to make him—
I shook my head. Better to make the best use of it, get the hell out of here while I have the chance. I crossed the room and turned the doorknob.
It opened.
The hallway was dark, the overhead lights off. My first step touched something lying on the ground, something metal, and I withdrew. Goddamn it. Don’t want to let the whole place know I’m out and about. Wish I could…
Wish I could see.
This time, I could feel the blood rushing into my eyes. The muscles contracted, relaxed, and the hallway burst into a rainbow of colors before settling into a cross between nightvision goggles and infrared. I could see tracks on the floor—old footprints, the signs of feet being dragged through the dust. Every object was clear, but I could see more than just the detritus in the hall—I could make out disturbances in the air, temperature differences before I ever reached them.
I passed a discarded gurney. This was a hospital, or a clinic. My footsteps were quiet, and I was careful to avoid stepping on any of the bedpans, old needles, or metal. My muscles and eyes were aching from the exertion of my new power, but I pressed on.
I moved into a T-intersection; the remnants of an EXIT sign caught my eye to my left, about a hundred fifty feet down. I turned, my pace quickening. The door grew larger in my vision, bobbing up and down as I approached.
There was a water fountain in the room to my left.
I couldn’t see it, but I could hear it, the water humming, waiting for me. The desert that was my mouth burned more than my eyes.
I was very thirsty.
Just go. You’re almost out.
I turned left and pushed the door open. There it was, chrome and silver, and I knelt down and lapped up the water as it poured out of the spout. More and more I drank, but it wasn’t enough.
Then I smelled it. Smelled copper, smelled iron.
Smelled blood.
There was another door into the next room. I could see the same kind of tracks that I had noticed before, telltale signs that a person had been brought in here.
What are you doing? My mind seemed disconnected from my body again, a mere observer as it watched me reaching for the knob. You need to get the hell out of here before he finds you!
The door swung on its hinges. My lips moved.
“Suzie.”
It was like looking into a nightmare. Suzie was trapped on a bed, the same way I had been. Her modesty had been preserved, if barely, but she was chained down. She was crying, and I could see that her arm was sliced open as mine had been.
That’s where the blood smell was coming from.
She hadn’t seen me—the light in front of her face was too bright—and she blinked several times after I switched it off as her eyes adjusted.
“Clint?” She looked me up and down, shook her head, looked again. “Is that you? My God! Help me!” She rattled the cuffs. “He…he cut my arm open! He’s doing some kind of experiments! We have to get out of here!”
“I know.” My eyes hadn’t left the bloody, gaping wound, and my hands reached out for the cuff. “I’ll…I’ll just…”
Instead of breaking through the chain, my hands pulled the rest of me forward, toward her arm. The smell of Suzie’s blood was intoxicating, drawing me in, holding me there. I took deep breaths through my nose, savoring the smell and watching the artery throb even as my mind screamed at me.
“Clint, what are you doing?” Panic was evident in her voice; I could hear her heartbeat hammering against her ribs. “Help me get out!”
“I will…I will…” I didn’t move. My ears followed the flow of blood through her arteries into her arm, then back through her veins. The nuances thrilled my senses; the opening and closing of the valves, the rushing cascade from the heart and the gentler flow inward.
“Clint, help me!”
There were two arteries in her forearm. They were covered by thin layers of fat and muscle tissue, pulsating in time with her heart. I leaned even closer. My mouth felt full of saliva, almost pressing against my lips.
I opened my mouth.
“Clint? Wh—“
Suzie screamed when my teeth cut through her blood vessel. Salty liquid flooded my mouth, and I drank, gulped, swallowed every drop I could. The mewling part of my mind that begged me to stop faded away under the sheer power of Suzie’s blood on my tongue. I could hear the rattling of the cuffs as she thrashed and screamed, trying to escape…but it didn’t last long. Soon, she lay silent and the flow had faltered, from a waterfall to a slow-moving stream.
The power flooded me. I could feel it waiting for my call, feel it sharpening my senses—my hearing, smell, and vision all five times as acute as before. The fatigue and burning I had felt was gone, replaced only by the heady sensation of absolute strength.
I stood and looked at my fiancée. Her face was a mask of horror, her eyes wide, her lips drawn back, and I could imagine how terrified she must have been, to have thought she was saved and then to be betrayed.
And I didn’t care. No emotion stirred in my heart, no sympathy. I was watching a bad movie with poorly-made characters and I didn’t give a damn about them anymore.
Slow applause from behind me.
“Congratulations, Mr. Foster.” My tormentor’s voice rang out in the room, dancing in my new ears. “You have demonstrated the exact—“
In a flash, I was on him, smashing his head into the wall, tearing into his neck with my teeth, ripping his throat open like a wild beast. I no longer cared that this man had captured me, imprisoned me, and experimented on me.
He was food.
I need more! Thick and heavy, it filled my veins, pulsed through my heart in hot bursts, thrummed through my eyes and my ears and my muscles. My fingers dug into his flesh, splitting skin. I need more.
Seconds later, I stood again, alone in the room with only two corpses for company. My mind was sharp and clear. I balled up my fists, felt the muscles, felt my new strength.
“Survival of the fittest.” I turned my senses outward. About two hundred yards south, I could hear branches cracking, mud sloshing in boots, radio callsigns.
A search party. Probably looking for me, or her, or both.
I smiled.
I was still so very thirsty
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jason Patrick Crawford is a father of three rambunctious boys and has been happily married for over ten years. He lives in sunny California, where he constantly laments the lack of rain. He welcomes your feedback and hopes you will take the time to review this story. Thank you for reading!
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MORE FROM JASON P. CRAWFORD
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