Read Online Don't Kill the Messenger by Eileen Rendahl - Free Book Online Page A

gangbanger’s arm and pulled it literally out of its socket. I fought back my gag reflex as the creature began to feast on the limb and the Norteño reeled away, shrieking. A gunshot went off. I don’t know who fired it or where it hit. I do know that the hopping things kept advancing. Not one of them even paused. Another Norteño fell as one of the creatures bit into him.
     
The creatures kept advancing, kept grabbing young men and, in some cases, literally pulling them apart like overcooked chicken and feasting on them. I fought the wave of nausea that threatened to sweep me away.
     
Through it all, I thought I heard bells ringing.
     
For a few seconds, I didn’t move. I don’t think I could move. It was too shocking, too difficult for my brain to process what I was seeing. Two of the things converged on one young man and pulled him apart like a wishbone. Tendons stretched between them until they snapped. The air was ripped by the young man’s screams. I had never seen anything like it, not even in my worst nightmares, and I’ve had some doozies.
     
It took me a few seconds more to come up with a plan. I’d passed a convenience store a few blocks back. Apparently, it was my day to appreciate 7-Elevens. There would be a pay phone. I’d call the cops. No way was I using my cell phone. No way did I want anyone to trace anything that had happened here tonight back to me. A nice anonymous pay phone would be just the ticket.
     
I whipped the Buick around as well as anyone can whip around a Buick, headed back to the 7-Eleven and made the call. I didn’t stay to see if they’d come. I didn’t wait to see what would happen if they did. I’d seen enough for one night. I didn’t want to see anything more.
     
I drove back up I-5 to Richards, careful not to exceed the socially acceptable five to seven miles over the speed limit. I didn’t need any more drama tonight. I’d had plenty. I was going to head home, make myself some hot chocolate, possibly with a healthy dose of Baileys in it and then crawl into my cozy bed and sleep, sleep, sleep. At least until a little before nine on Saturday morning, when I needed to be back at the dojo for another Little Dragons class.
     
Right now, the idea of being around all that fresh-faced innocence was helping me put one foot in front of the other. I did not luck out with parking and ended up two blocks away from the apartment. The walk was good for me, though. It gave me a few minutes to clear my head a bit. The Delta breeze had picked up more and the night had cooled. The air felt good against the hot skin of my face and made me a little less nauseous. What had those things been? I’d never seen anything like them. The ferocity of their attack made werewolves bringing down game look like kids playing ring-around-the-rosy—and, incidentally, that whole thing about ring-around-the-rosy being a rhyme about the plague? Total nonsense. Look it up.
     
I set my alarm for seven A.M. That would give me time for a shower and a leisurely cup of coffee—or as leisurely as a cup of coffee can be when you’re being nagged about it while you drink it—before I had to face my Saturday morning Little Dragons. Unfortunately, it wasn’t as easy as that.
     
Every time I shut my eyes, the scene at the park replayed itself against the backdrop of my bloodred eyelids. All I could see were things that hopped, that looked like ridiculous characters from a B movie ripping apart young flesh and feasting on it. Young men screaming for mercy in Spanish. Others just screaming as blood gushed from ripped skin and places where limbs should still be attached. When I did finally fall asleep, I dreamt that I was sitting in the middle of the emergency room with battered, bleeding body parts surrounding me like piles of dirty laundry.
     
I opened my eyes from one dream to find none other than Alexander Bledsoe sitting in the corner of my room.
     
“How did you get in here?” I croaked. I knew I