Prologue
He’s full, but the Hunger remains. Always. The need to gorge, as sharp and primal as fear. A rampant desire that only the threat of sickness can sate.
He’s sick all right. Will he remember this when he wakes up in the morning, or just know from the scales of blood crusted around his mouth that he feasted like a king?
He hovers over the body laid out on the floor in an expanding pool of inky red: the splayed limbs, the naked chest pocked with meaty divots, the charcoal gaze slanting out of the broken head.
If you didn’t know better, you might think the man was contemplating the popcorn ceiling, wondering what it would cost to hire someone to bring it up-to-date.
The eater lowers himself to the carcass and inhales. The lingering body odor strengthens his Hunger. His lips part, baring slick, ready teeth.
The muscled shoulder, gym-honed as if for this purpose, puts up a fight against his bite and comes away with a ragged, snapping tear.
He chucks it back, champing like a dog with a chicken wing, mashes the sinew between his molars. There’s not much flavor—bland and easy, slightly sweet. The coppery tang of its juices overwhelms.
They dribble down his chin, tickling, staining his shirt. Dragging a hand across his mouth, he leaves a glistening red smear.
He gets up to grab a napkin from the kitchen. Paper towel, something. Despite what they say, he’s no animal. At least no more than anyone else.
Everybody has to eat.
Some bodies are just a little bit hungrier.