Waking Lazarus Read Free Page A

long time ago, in the early stages of becoming . But not now.
    The stalking. That’s what brought the sweet taste of anticipation to the Hunter’s tongue, what made the back of his head crackle and spark. When hunting, he was quiet and careful, almost invisible. Definitely scentless. The trick was to never let the Quarry smell excitement. Before he started, he always rubbed dirt—dark, loamy dirt was best—on his exposed skin to mask the scent of excitement. If he didn’t, the strong, citrus smell of his excitement would overpower carefully laid plans, alerting the Quarry.
    The Hunter didn’t look around, concentrating only on the immediate tasks. Wandering gazes invited suspicion, and suspicion made people notice. This didn’t really matter, though, because no one would recognize him. When he was the Hunter, he walked with a practiced limp. He gained forty pounds, thanks to a padded body suit. He even cocked his head to the side and imagined himself as a hunchback. That was all his Quarry would ever see: the Hunter, not the Normal. They were two separate figures, two separate lives.
    The Hunter opened the front door of the car, slid into the seat, and sat motionless. Killing. Killing was too messy, making the Hunter feel hollow. The way he had felt after breaking toys as a child. He always regretted breaking the toys, making them worthless bits from the past. But even worse, he hated ruining the future: a broken toy was useless, empty.
    The Hunter sighed and retrieved a cigarette from the pack on the car’s dash. He didn’t smoke, not when he was the Normal. But he was careful to do so when the Hunter, to do everything differently.
    He inhaled the dry, crisp tang of the tobacco and let a tendril of smoke slide from his lips, wondering if there might be someone like-minded wandering the streets out there. An opposite doppelganger who loved the actual kill, for instance. Maybe, if he could find such a being, they could complement each other, work together, confide. Perhaps, here on God’s green earth, he wasn’t the only one who had become .
    He stubbed out the cigarette after just a few puffs, stubbing out thoughts of similar beings along with it. Of course there were no others. He was special, a unique creation all his own.
    He looked at the watch on his wrist, watching as the analog second hand ticked its way around the face. Time to lock up the Quarry.
    Two smells always comforted the Hunter: root cellars and burlap. They made him think of his father, a worthless drunk who had riddled his liver with cirrhosis by age fifty. In fact, drinking was one of two things his father had seemed to do well. That, and gardening.
    When the Hunter had been a child, he had figured gardening must be easy. Had to be for his dad to be so good at it. But he only had to try gardening once to figure out the task was considerably more difficult than hoisting a bottle of Aces High whiskey.
    He had planted carrots, corn, and potatoes. Then the weeds took over. No matter what he did, the weeds infested his small garden patch, mostly a low-growing viny thing that sprouted white flowers. And the more he hoed, the more he dropped to his knees and yanked vines, the more he sprayed the leaves of the weeds with chemicals, the more the weeds laughed in his face, taunting him.
    A mason jar of gasoline and a match had solved the weed problem permanently. True, that meant torching the corn and carrots, but such was a small sacrifice to watch the weeds shrivel and burn. The weeds didn’t laugh then. They screamed. A beautiful, vibrant, orange-colored scream filled with flecks of purple.
    His father’s penchant for gardening, almost as strong as his penchant for cheap whiskey, meant they had to store vegetables. Every autumn was spent canning the garden’s bounty: beans, pickles, carrots, beets. For three solid weeks their home was filled with the low, chattering whistle of a pressure canner. Somewhere underneath that shriek, if you listened