Page 20 of His to Burn
I broke Jack’s gaze and looked toward the sound.
The…thing—that was the only word I could think of to describe what I saw—approaching us had the shape of a man.
It wore clothes, the familiar navy-blue canvas pants and white polo shirt still neatly pressed, even though it was covered in blood.
It had arms, legs, a head…
Was wearing the heavy black work boots that gave him two extra inches of height that he claimed even when he wasn’t wearing them.
It was Jorge.
“Jorge!” I called.
I barely had a chance to take in his milky-white eyes before Jackson was in motion.
The pipe swiped through the air, landingwith a savagecrunchthat made me worry that his arm would wrench out of its socket.
It didn’t, but the dullthudof the pipe against Jorge’s head left a deep indentation. He jerked from the force of the blow, but kept moving.
“Stop!” I yelled, reaching for Jack’s arm, which was poised to swing again.
He paused, then stilled me with a gaze that chilled me to my core.
Made it impossible for me to move.
All I could do was watch as Jack hit Jorge again.
This time skin and bone cracked and then exploded.
Pinkish-white flesh—Jorge’s brain—spilled out.
He stopped then, almost like someone had turned off the lights, and slumped down into a heap.
Dead.
Because Jack killed him.
“Jorge…” I whispered, my eyes cloudy with tears as I stared at the body of my friend, a nice man with a wife and four grandchildren that he doted on, the man who’dfinallyshared hisempanada recipe after years of nagging—who now lay a ravaged husk.
And I was trapped with the man who’d killed him.
Asia
“Move!” Jack said, his voice low, urgent.
I blinked, dazed as I stared up at him.
He pulled me to my feet and dragged me down the hall.
My feet moved on autopilot, but I heard something behind us, and looked back.
Saw shapes, and heard sounds like those that had been near the elevator.
It struck me then, those shapes looked like people.
But they weren’t human.
Not anymore.
