Frankenstorm: Survivors Read Online Free PDF

the shouting would go on. After some sounds of struggle, the chase continued, coming closer to Corcoran.
    He pressed himself against the wall again and stopped breathing as they came closer. They stopped and began fighting again, shouting about something that made no sense to Corcoran. They were right in front of him now, in the dark, hitting each other and shouting at each other like children, moving around as they struggled, until—
    —they slammed directly into Corcoran and he screamed.
    In a hoarse voice, a man said, “Hey, who’s this? Huh? Who’re you?”
    Corcoran slid along the wall to his left, trying to get away from them and move along, trying not to whimper, although small sounds were coming out of him involuntarily as he sidled along the wall. But they were aware of him now.
    Two hands slapped onto his body, groping for purchase until they clutched the front of his corduroy coat.
    “No,” Corcoran said in a high, breathy voice. “No, please, no.”
    “I got him!” the man shouted. “I got the son of a bitch! This is the cocksucker! He’s the one, I bet! Mother fucker !”
    The man slapped Corcoran’s face once, then again, repeatedly, back and forth, and Corcoran began sobbing as he slid down the wall, trying to block his attacker by lifting his arms.
    Another hand grabbed Corcoran’s hair and pulled him away from the wall, flinging him to the floor. Corcoran immediately began crawling on hands and knees, even though he was no longer sure in which direction he was going. He just wanted to get away.
    He crawled as fast as he could, nearly panting as he heard them closing in again.
    “Where the fuck you think you’re goin’, asshole?” one of them said as he jumped on Hal’s back, straddling him like a horse and flattening him to the floor. “Come on, boy, giddy up !” One hand grabbed Corcoran’s hair while the other hit him repeatedly about the neck and shoulders. “Come on, there, boy, whatcha waitin’ for, anyway?” the rider said.
    When the other man kicked Corcoran in the face, the world cartwheeled a few times and he found himself teetering on the edge of unconsciousness. Blood ran from a cut on his upper lip and dribbled over his mouth and chin.
    The rider got off of him and kicked him in the ribs. Both men were talking now, ranting about something Corcoran had done, or was going to do—none of it made any sense and he couldn’t follow it, anyway, because they were both kicking him now.
    He felt a final surge of fear and panic and he willed himself to move, to flee. With speed that surprised even him, Corcoran rose up on hands and knees, then screamed his rage as he began to hit back, flailing his arms indiscriminately, hitting and scratching as he got to his feet, then ran forward. He stumbled, but he kept running.
    They stayed with him. One of them shouted, “You wanna play, dickhead, huh? Is that it? You wanna play?”
    One of them tripped him and he fell hard. His chin hit the floor and started bleeding. Then both of them were on him, but they didn’t just hit him.
    Corcoran felt something hard and sharp pierce the flesh of his back just below his right shoulder blade. He let out a long scream of fear and pain that became words.
    “Help me somebody! Help! Please!”
    But that hard, sharp object stabbed into him again. And again.
    They laughed and cursed him as they rolled him over onto his back. One of them straddled his legs and began to stab him repeatedly in the abdomen and chest.
    Corcoran could not scream anymore. He could only make an involuntary grunting sound with each thrust of the weapon. He felt his blood leaking out of him, soaking into his clothes, warm against his skin.
    He wondered how all of this would be reported in the media just a couple of seconds before he died.

6
    Latrice’s right hand ached from pounding it on the steering wheel of her Highlander, but she was only vaguely aware of it. Her windshield wipers made rapid smacking sounds as they swept