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Goat couldn’t take his eyes off of Homer Gibbon.
The man was huge, powerful, covered in blood, and …
And he was a monster.
An actual monster.
Something the world had never seen before.
Dead and yet not dead. Infected with the Lucifer 113 plague and yet still capable of thought—though whether that was “rational” thought was up for debate in Goat’s mind. A man who had been the nation’s most notorious serial killer—up there with legendary murderers like Ed Gein, Albert Fish, Saint John, and Ted Bundy—and who had been tried, convicted, and executed.
And who was now what, exactly?
Was he a victim of Dr. Volker’s insane desire to punish criminals of this kind? Yes.
Was he the brutal and sadistic maniac who slaughtered __ __ people and deserved the punishment given him? Absolutely.
Was he patient zero of a new plague, something that, should it be allowed to spread, could become an unstoppable pandemic?
Yes.
God almighty, thought Goat. He felt like fireworks were exploding inside his head. Everything was too bright, too loud, too massively wrong. And all of these thoughts tumbled through his brain in a burning moment.
Homer was still speaking, but his smile had dimmed. “You listening to me, boy? You’d better be ’cause it looks like you’re ankle deep in shit right about now. Tell me I’m wrong. No? Nothing? But I got your attention, right? Give me a nod or something, boy.”
Goat nodded.
“Good boy,” said Homer, his grin returning. A few of the other dead were starting to rise. “We ain’t got no time at all, so how about we cut the shit and get to it?”
Goat found himself nodding again, though he had no idea what the “it” was Homer wanted to get to.
The twitching woman rolled over onto hands and knees and began to rise. Homer took two short steps closer and snapped his foot out in a powerful kick that sent her sprawling into the path of two other dead who had managed to get to their feet. The three of them collapsed into a hissing tangle of arms and legs.
Homer snorted, amused by it. But at the same time he seemed momentarily uncertain as he watched his clumsy victims.
“Shi-i-i-i-i-i-it,” he breathed, drawing it out. Then he blinked and turned back to Goat. “Okay, boy, here’s the deal. I’m going to get my ass out of here before this becomes a buffet. I don’t think these fuckers will hurt me—not with the Black Eye open inside my mind—but they’ll definitely go ass-wild on you. You’re a bag of bones, but I’ll bet there’s some tasty meat on you, yes, sir.”
Goat felt blood drain from his face.
“But I think I’d rather let you keep sucking air. For a while, anyway. You game with that?”
The sound that escaped Goat’s throat might have been a yes, but it sounded like a mouse’s squeak.
Homer took it as assent, though, and he nodded. “So, here’s the deal. You come with me. You do what reporters do. Interview me, whatever. You do that for me, you tell my story, my side of it, you let the Red Mouth speak through me and you write down every word and then pretty it up some for the newspapers. What do they call it? Edit it? Rewrite it? Whatever. You do that, and you play fair with me while you’re doing it, you make sure to tell the whole truth, and you might just walk away from this. How’s that sound?”
The dead were getting up now. The three who’d fallen and others. Goat didn’t know how many people had been in the Starbucks when Homer came in. Fourteen, give or take? Some of them were hurt but not dead, vi
ctims of Homer’s rage. Shattered bodies, torn limbs, bitten flesh. No one was whole. No one was uninfected.
Except him.
The moans of the newly resurrected dead filled the store.
“Think quick, son,” said Homer. “Big ol’ fucking clock ticking right here.”
Goat tried to answer, squeaked again, coughed his throat clear and forced out a reply. “You promise you won’t hurt me?”
He hated how weak and small and terrified his voice sounded.
