Vampire Apocalypse: A World Torn Asunder (Book 1) by Derek Gunn Page A

inside, but had no choice but
to continue his forward shuffle. He passed the thralls while they
congratulated themselves and was sorely tempted to forget the
pretence and run screaming into the middle of the group, tearing
and punching his rage at these vile creatures.
    He ached to lash out and deliver
some of the same punishment to these inhuman monsters, but the
worthless gesture would only get him killed and dishonour Powell’s
sacrifice. Harris forced himself to look straight ahead and finally
reached the door. He exited and felt the sun on his face. For a
moment it felt like he had just walked from the bowels of Hell into
the cleansing rays of Heaven and he drew in a deep breath and
exhaled it slowly. God, that was far too close.
    He continued walking, forcing
himself to remain calm and keep his motion slow and relaxed, it was
still possible that the thralls could come after him. Finally, he
reached a small alley about two blocks from the clinic. He took his
time to cautiously look around before he slipped out of sight. Once
in the alley, his knees wobbled and he slumped against the wall.
Harris retched and his body convulsed with the relief and
frustration of the last hour.
    “Oh my God,” he muttered as he
grabbed at the wall to steady himself.
    He lost track of time as he let
his body slowly recover. His heart eventually stopped hammering,
his legs were finally able to support him without holding onto the
wall and he slowly began to recover from the rush of adrenaline
that had soaked his system.
    Finally he pushed himself away
from the wall and raised his sleeve. He peeled the flesh-coloured
pack off his arm and smiled grimly at the extra weight. He ripped a
hole in the pack and watched the serum drain out and pool on the
ground. After he finished he replaced the pack and left the
alley.
     
     

Chapter 4
    “We’re not ready!” Dan
Harrington shouted. He slapped his hand on the table to emphasize
the point.
    “We’ll never be ready at this
rate,” answered Harris. He rose from his chair and glared into
Harrington’s eyes. “We lost Powell today and damn near four others
at the clinic. Once they examine Powell you can be sure those
bloodsuckers will figure out how we’re getting around the serum’s
effect.” Harris sat back down wearily. “If we wait any longer,
it’ll be too late.”
    He looked around at the other
members of the committee. Twelve people, seven men and five women,
sat around a small table that occupied at least half the storeroom
they used for their meetings. The group met once a week in an
abandoned warehouse by the waterfront. The intention of these
meetings was ostensibly to discuss survival strategies, though
Harris was beginning to realise that the meetings had more to do
with lonely, scared people wanting to be with others than any grand
plan.
    The room was murky; the only
light they could afford was a cloaked lantern in the centre of the
table whose pale light valiantly kept the darkness at bay. The
stale, cloying smell of fish and diesel oil hung heavily in the
air.
    Harris returned his gaze to
Harrington. The stress of the last few weeks was beginning to show.
Harris took the time to really look at him and, for the first time,
noticed that the other man had lost quite a bit of weight. This
once virulent, powerful man, the former CEO of a major corporation,
seemed now to be shrinking. His shirt hung loosely on a frame that
had once bulged with hard muscle. His steel grey hair, worn in a
severe crew cut, had already begun to turn pure white. Harris could
see the frustration in Harrington’s face, and he worried about the
older man’s pasty complexion. Harrington had always been a tower of
strength for their motley band of survivors, but the stress of such
a responsibility was evident.
    Tyrone Johnson sat at
Harrington’s right hand, as always. Johnson was thirty-five, mostly
bald, and fervently loyal to Harrington. He was already half out of
his seat, his face flushed with