Free Blood on the Floor: An Undead Adventure by RR Haywood

pulled back to show teeth ready to snap shut and bite through flesh. He snarls, growls and hunts the smells. To the far end and behind the last desk he stares down at the soiled panties with a hundred images pulsing through his mind one after the other. Memories that try and take grip to hold fast to be seen before they are pushed away by the infection that pumps him up with more rage giving chemicals.
    He knows only fury now. He is consumed with the hunt. He will seek the prey and take it. He will kill it and destroy it. It will be torn apart for the simple audacity of trying to get away from him.
    He goes back down the room. His feet sloshing on the water soaked carpet. The horde get through the doors and surge into the corridor, following the scent of blood into the office. He barges through them. Heedless they are his own kin folk for he knows only rage now. He shoulders them aside with ease and they scurry round his form to find the jeans and soiled knickers.
    In the corridor he starts walking towards the end. His head twisting side to side in a physiological response to the hormonal rampage underway in his system. Every muscle strains, bulging to push the veins out through his skin. The injuries to his throat look worse as his skin mottles with a mottled crimson flush brought on by his heart jack hammering in his chest.
    The others pile out behind him to charge across the corridor into the other rooms as they start the search for the one they know must be here.
    He goes down to the end. His eyes flickering with intelligence that gets suppressed but within those flashes of intelligence he sees the wet foot prints tracking down the middle of the tiled floor. He stops at the last door and inhales. She is in there. He knows this. The infection knows this. He is the predator. She is the prey. She is a host to be taken. He will take her.
    It’s done. Over. His immense strength explodes the door in one single blow that sends it flying across the room to smash into the wall at the other end. He charges in as she turns from the window. A thought crosses her mind to throw herself out and thereby have the dignity of choosing her own demise but in that second she catches sight of him in the moonlight. The first clear view of the man and she freezes in complete shock, her mouth dropping open. That second is all he needs and he’s there, ripping her off her feet through the air to land heavy on the solid wooden desk. She feels the monstrous strength in him and the ease in which she is lifted so high only to be brought down so easily.
    He rages and snarls. The victory is his. He tries to howl but the awful injuries to his throat make the sound come out warped and low. He smashes his fists down onto the desk either side of his head. She screams and covers her face, bringing her bare legs up to try and kick into his body but the man is solid muscle. She kicks harder and starts hitting. Refusing to go out without fighting for every second of her life. He rages, pumped too far, too much and too full of snarling fury.
    Another one runs in behind him. The father of the two children taken just hours before. The man turns and sends him spinning away with one arm lashing out. Heather doesn’t see it but only the huge man blocking her from getting off the desk. She kicks into his groin, into his stomach and reaches up to grip the ragged flesh of his already damaged throat. He pays no heed but turns back to her with those awful red bloodshot eyes showing intelligence then wild animalistic hunger then back to intelligence. The images and memories pulse harder through his mind. The infection tries to rid them. To kill them and increase the chemical dump. He has the urge to bite. Bite then. He has the urge to rake and tear flesh. Do it. He sees a dog, a woman, a van a poster for a movie. He snarls and beats down with hard fists that fracture the wooden top of the desk. She screams louder, once more curling up in instinct to avoid the blows.