Prey (2 page)

Published by

Dreamspinner Press

4760 Preston Road

Suite 244-149

Frisco, TX 75034

http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Infected: Prey

Copyright © 2010 by Andrea Speed

Cover Art by Anne Cain [email protected]

Cover Design by Mara McKennen

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press, 4760 Preston Road, Suite 244-149, Frisco, TX 75034

http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/

ISBN: 978-1-61581-467-1

Printed in the United States of America

First Edition

June, 2010

eBook edition available

Thanks to Ruth, Craig, Taryn, Mom, Corinna, Semesta Samudra, Dyaname Carmen, and all the good folks at Comixtreme.

Infected: Prey

1

1

Welcome to the Jungle

HE was on his third beer of the evening when he thought he heard a noise in the backyard.

Hank DeSilvo scowled and looked out the window over the kitchen sink full of dirty dishes. He could see nothing but darkness, and maybe a bit of reflected light from the television. This was probably a bad time to remember the back porch light had blown out two days ago, and he’d forgotten to replace it.

Not that it mattered. The only light currently in the house was coming from the television, and as long as he ignored it, he developed enough night vision to make out a shape moving in the back garden. Or was it the wind moving a shrub? Kind of hard to say.

He slammed his can down with an annoyed grunt. It was probably the Hindle’s stupid ass dog again, shitting all over the place and tearing through his garbage. He hated that fucking thing, some ugly Rottweiler mix that they insisted was a “friendly” dog, and yet it always had a look in its flat, black eyes that was just this side of rabid. They never leashed the damn thing either, and apparently his yard destruction was “cute.” He was just about out of this fucking place and that damn thing had to make a final appearance. And it was final all right; he was going to make damn sure of that.

He went back to the living room, glancing at the game as he walked past—it was a fucking damn boring game anyway—and got his shotgun from the cabinet. It was illegal as all hell, a sawed-off thirty ought six with the barrels cut so short you could have stowed it under a jacket, but the barrels had been filed down expertly; it wasn’t just the rough work of a desperate amateur but the sign of a pro. Which was why, when they’d searched the drug mule’s truck and he’d found it wedged under the front seat, he hid it in his trunk and didn’t report finding it. It wouldn’t have added that much to the mule’s sentence; he already had enough rock in his 2

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glove compartment to put him away for the rest of his pointless life, especially if it was his “third strike” (and it was, no surprise there), and he doubted the guy was so stupid that he’d actually ask why he wasn’t charged with owning an illegally modified weapon. Yeah, he was dumb; you had to be dumb if you were speeding and had a few thousand in rock in the car, as well as being obviously stoned yourself. But asking after that was a special kind of stupid, the kind only politicians and people on reality television ever seemed to crest.

He cracked open the gun and made sure he had some shells loaded in it before snapping it shut again with a sharp flick of his wrist. Man that felt good. This was a real man’s weapon, made him feel a foot taller and made of pure muscle, and he knew why that meth fuckhead was carrying it around with him. A weapon like this was a real god-killer; it made you feel invincible.

It was pure overkill, of course. The Hindle’s dog was fairly big, and yet one shot from this gun would rip it in half clean down the middle, as well as make a boom loud enough to set off every car alarm on the block.

But what the fuck did he care? He was an ex-cop; he’d say the dog charged him, and on his property he could shoot the fucking thing if he wanted. He’d swap out the sawed-off for his Remington before they arrived. Ballistics wouldn’t match, but by the time they proved that, he’d be long gone. Good-bye shit-hole city, hello tropical paradise. It was just a shame that it took him this long to collect.

He stood at the back door for a moment, cradling the shotgun gently, and let his eyes get adjusted to the dark before going out onto the concrete patio. He had a mini Maglite with him with a red lens over the bulb, so if there was something he needed to see he could twist it on without losing his night vision. Not that he needed to make a direct hit; even if he just winged the dog, he’d probably rip half its face off, maybe a leg.

First step off the patio his foot squelched in something; it felt too liquid to be shit, but the smell that hit him was meaty, redolent of shit and offal and God knew what else. Had that fucking dog already strewn his garbage about? Goddamn it.

Holding the shotgun in one arm, he turned on the flashlight and looked down at what he’d stepped in.

At first it looked like a puddle, which didn’t make sense since it hadn’t rained in a week, and the thought that it was dog piss was Infected: Prey

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dismissed since it was dark, and dog piss wasn’t usually black. Or was that red-black? Swinging the light outwards, he saw greasy, ropey strands that couldn’t have come from his garbage can, and then a big hunk of raw, bloody meat like a lamb shank … only it was too long and thin to be a shank, too dark, and ended in a paw.

It was a Rottweiler leg.

Someone—
something
—had dismembered the Hindle’s psychotic dog and spread about a third of it all over his backyard. He saw the leg, which was the biggest piece, an assortment of internal organs, loops of intestines laid out like fallen party streamers, and lots of blood. But where was the other two thirds of the dog?

The hair stood up on the back of his neck, and he knew he had to get the fuck inside now. But as he turned, shotgun at the ready and braced against his hip, he saw the flash of white teeth in the dim moonlight, and his brain sent out the impulse to pull the trigger.

He didn’t have time to wonder why it never happened as the teeth ripped open his throat.

ACCORDING to the movies and several TV shows of questionable reputation, being a private detective was a thrilling occupation, or at least a somewhat exotic one. Roan wondered if that was ever true.

Right now he was just awash in the exotic drama. He was seeing the sunrise coming up over the freeway as he fought off yet another yawn, and forced himself to gulp the horrible transmission fluid that the 7-Eleven laughingly called coffee in the hopes of staying awake long enough to get home. He hated living so far out in the middle of nowhere, but it was for the best for several reasons. He liked his privacy; in fact, he required it. So did Paris.

And he was coming back from his exotic case du jour, namely taking photos of a man meeting his mistress at a fleabag no-tell motel, getting enough pics of them in compromising positions (it was nice of them to go to a sleazy motel with few good photo angles and then fuck in the car) that his client was sure to have grounds for voiding their pre-nup. She’d clean up big-time in divorce court, and he’d still get nothing more than his measly hourly fee and applicable expenses. It was so much glamour he 4

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could hardly stand it. Just add a breakfast burrito and a bad case of hemorrhoids, and boy howdy, there was the dream. Raymond Chandler, eat your heart out!

He supposed he shouldn’t complain, because at least he got out in the field, even if it was in the side of town where burning cars on the side of the road had become a point of interest in the tourism brochures. Most of the work he did was background checks and credit checks, all easily done from his computer at home or in the office, and the occasional missing persons case or what Paris liked to call the “Springer cases”