Chapter 16
The fat man flipped as he fell, and his head struck the railing on the third floor with an awful, metallic clang, knocking the ball cap loose. The force of that impact projected him farther out into the room and amplified the speed of his flipping body, whipping him head over heels. His face dashed against the ground an instant before his heavy body, so that his head was wrenched backwards before being crushed beneath his shoulders, the impact shaking the floor beneath Shane’s feet. He lay motionless after landing.
Black Hoodie and the man in the blue v-neck were much lighter. V-neck came down flat on a conference table, his hands and knees hitting first, his face cracking into the wood an instant later. He was dragging himself off the table before Black Hoodie crashed down atop a plush leather chair.
After the initial shocked pause, Shane didn’t hesitate. He tightened his grip on Terrance’s ankles, and leaned forward into a sprint.
He didn’t make it three steps. There had been four voices moaning in the eerie chorus. The fourth voice belonged to the man in the polo shirt, who Shane had seen earlier that morning, in front of his computer on the second floor. Polo shirt came down from the landing just above Shane’s head, crashing bodily into Terrance’s uplifted legs.
The impact knocked Shane’s grip loose, and the man’s weight dropped onto his own legs, tumbling him forward in a sprawl. He got his hands in front of him in time to keep his face from hitting the floor, but a flash of sharp pain shot up his left arm from the wrist.
Shane rolled desperately, jamming his right hand—still bare since he’d lost that glove to White Shirt on the top floor—into his pocket for the lime knife. Polo Shirt had skidded on his face as he hit, raw rug-burns pinking his cheek. But his dead eyes showed no sign of pain, and his fingers clawed at Shane’s pant leg.
Shane’s right hand found the knife. He jerked it out of his pocket, pulled the sheath free, and bent forward to jam the knife into Polo Shirt’s wrist. The point of the blade slipped between a bone and tendon just behind the man’s thumb, opening the artery, hot blood spurting out over Shane’s bare hand. Shane twisted the blade and ripped downward, severing the tendons. The man’s fingers went limp.
The man grabbed at Shane’s leg with the other hand, but Shane kicked the hand away before he could catch hold. He scrambled out of reach and got to his feet. Polo Shirt planted his hands, trying to stand. Before he could, Shane stepped in and punted the man in the jaw with all of his strength. The man’s mouth smashed shut, white shards of teeth flying like sparks, and his head whipped back.
Before he got his hands beneath him again, Shane skirted around, grabbed his feet, and hauled him back away from Terrance. He dragged him a few yards out of the way, dropped him and ran back toward his coworker.
Terrance lay on the ground beside the cart base. As Shane came near, his urgency wavered toward despair. One of the cart wheels had broken off.
“Fuck,” Shane said.
He looked over his shoulder. Polo Shirt was only about twelve feet back, and he was already getting to his feet. V-Neck was another ten yards farther away, but he was lurching forward steadily, with Black Hoodie close on his heels. The Fat Man was the only one who hadn’t come through the fall in walking condition.
“Fuck,” Shane said again.
He moved to Terrance’s head, grabbed two fistfuls of his uniform, and started trying to drag him across the floor. The friction of the carpet against Terrance’s coveralls was too much—Shane’s fingers slipped loose, unable to keep their grip. Polo Shirt had already covered half the distance, he’d be there in another few seconds. Growing desperate, Shane hauled Terrance up to a sitting position, squatted behind him, and wrapped his arms around Terrance’s chest. He locked his fingers together, straightened his back, and heaved himself up to his feet. Terrance’s weight almost made him lose his balance, but he managed to keep from falling. As soon as he found his feet, he started stumbling backwards, Terrance’s heels dragging on the floor.
He made it about a dozen steps, his heart thundering, his lungs burning from the effort. Sharp pains sliced through his lower back, the edges of his vision started to dim. It took everything he had to keep his fingers—slippery from blood and sweat—clenched together. And all the while Polo Shirt followed after, moving almost as fast as Shane.
As Shane reached the mouth of the tunnel he lurched toward its side, thinking he’d use it to break his fall if he fainted. Instead, as he came near the metal ribbing that supported the first ring of light, Terrance reached out and hooked it with his fingers. That tiny resistance was all it took—Shane lost his grip, and he and Terrance slid to the floor.
“What the fuck, Terrance?” Shane said, gasping.
He grabbed the front of Terrance’s uniform with his hands, tried to lift him. But his fingers had gone weak, and his legs felt rubbery.
Shane glanced over his shoulder again. Polo Shirt was less than five feet away.
Shane looked back at Terrance, trying to think of a better way to lift him, a better place to grab hold.
And then he glanced at Terrance’s eyes. Sunken almost into his head, bloodshot to the point they’d passed from pink toward red, Terrance’s eyes held Shane’s with their intensity.
His beleaguered co-worker pulled in a laborious breath. “Go,” he said, the word adamant despite how quietly it was spoken.
Shane looked in Terrance’s eyes for a moment longer, startled by the resolve he saw there. And then he heard Polo Shirt’s moan in his ear, felt the man’s fingers brushing his shoulder.
He let go of Terrance’s coveralls, stumbled back away from him. Before he’d taken a third step, Polo Shirt knelt over Terrance and sank his teeth into the fallen man’s neck. There was a soft gurgling sound, red froth spilling over Polo Shirt’s lips. And then Polo Shirt raised his head, tearing out the front of Terrance’s throat.
Blood welled from the wound, spilling over the sides of Terrance’s neck. The smell hit Shane’s nose, sharp as metal.
He stumbled back another step, unable to look away. The man in the v-neck came up to Terrance, kneeling beside Polo Shirt like a fellow penitent in a church. V-neck reached forward with his hands, clawing at the coveralls and the skin beneath, ripping his way into Terrance’s belly. He sank his hands into the bloody mess and brought a clutch of guts up to his mouth, blood and viscera smearing his cheeks.
Shane’s head swam. Dots of light danced in his vision. He stumbled back from the horrible scene, his eyes filling with tears that made his vision blur. He vaguely saw that Black Hoodie had arrived, was dipping his head toward Terrance’s corpse like a third pig feasting at a trough. Shane wrenched his eyes away, turned and ran down the garishly-lit tunnel.