Dog Blood by David Moody Read Free Book Online Page A

you’d have been killed if you’d tried anything.”
    “It wasn’t worth the risk.”
    “Don’t blame you,” he says, leaning up against the side of the chemical storeroom and shielding his eyes from the climbing sun. “I’d probably have done the same.”
    “So what’s your point?”
    “The point is a Brute wouldn’t have held back. They can’t. They catch a scent of Unchanged and they’ll hunt them down and attack, no matter what the odds are.”
    “Bloody hell…”
    “Useful, though. They make good guard dogs! Always on the lookout. Just look at her.”
    He nods over in the direction of the woman tied up at the back of the killing chamber. She’s almost constantly straining against her shackles, trying to break free and go after the enemy she knows is still out there somewhere. I’m transfixed by her face, flushed red and full of rage, and yet, in a different light, she doesn’t look like a killer at all. When she relaxes, her features are surprisingly soft, gentle, and feminine.
    “She could just be someone’s mother.”
    “She was. Her name’s Pat. She had someone with her when we first found her, someone who knew her before the change. She was a teacher in an elementary school. Hard to believe, isn’t it? A well-respected pillar of society, cornerstone of the community, great with kids, wouldn’t hurt anyone… you get the picture.”
    “Incredible…”
    “My brother was a Brute,” he continues. “From sheet metal worker to a killer like that overnight.”
    “What happened to him?”
    “We lost him.”
    “Sorry, I…”
    “Oh, he’s not dead, I don’t think. When I say we lost him, I mean we lost him. Clever bastard slipped his chains and got away. Christ knows where he is now. Don’t suppose it matters as long as he’s still killing. Your friend in here, is he?”
    He slaps the wall of the chemical storeroom.
    “What?” I mumble, still thinking about this guy’s missing brother and forgetting what we came out here for. “Yeah, sorry. He’s in the back.”
    By the time we clear the doorway and are ready to move him out, Adam’s just about regained consciousness. He’s still in a bad way-pale, clammy, and barely able to move. We fashion a stretcher from wood stripped from the walls of the main building, and between us we carry him back to the others.

6
    MY NAME’S PRESTON,” A disarmingly confident, oily man says, grabbing my hand and shaking it vigorously. I already know I don’t like him. He’s too loud and in-your-face. He reminds me of the senior managers I used to despise at work; the higher up the corporate ladder they managed to climb, the more arrogant, obnoxious, and smarmy they became. He’s wearing a bizarre combination of military garb and civvies. His clothes make him look like someone’s dad going to a costume party as a World War II general.
    “Danny McCoyne.”
    “Good to meet you, Danny. You had some food?”
    “Yes, I-”
    “Excellent. Have you been introduced to anyone?”
    “I’ve met a few people. I don’t know if-”
    “Great,” he says, interrupting me again. Irritating little shit. Apparently he’s the self-appointed leader of this cell and I’ve been granted a personal audience (as, I’ve learned, are all new “recruits”). We’re sitting in the back of a beaten-up van, just him and me. The heat is suffocating. He’s propped the doors open.
    “Look, I-” I start to say.
    “So what have you been up to, Danny?” he asks, his hat trick of interruptions complete.
    “What?”
    “Since the war started. What have you been doing with yourself?”
    Is this a trick question? What does he think I’ve been doing? I’ve fought whenever I’ve been able, done all I can to get rid of the maximum number of Unchanged. Does this guy think I’m just some lazy shyster, hiding out here in the middle of nowhere, waiting for the war to end?
    “Fighting.”
    “Good. On your own?”
    “Generally traveling on my own, fighting with others