Adrift 2: Sundown by K.R. Griffiths

symptoms beginning to kick in.
    That had to be it.
    He squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep breath.
    When he reopened them, the bodies were still there. It was like a scene from a damn zombie movie. Sam couldn’t even begin to understand what had torn the homeless people apart, but he didn’t need to. This was not a place to hang around asking questions.
    He glanced around, feeling his skin prickle. His eyes hadn’t deceived him: he was definitely alone. The building in front of him was no more than a shell; he could clearly see that it was empty.
    He struggled to his feet, choking back the urge to retch again when he saw a severed head staring right at him, the skin flayed away to reveal the muscle and tendon beneath, and he recognised the wispy white hair, now matted and darkened by streaks of gore.
    It looked like Brain Damage-guy was smiling at him, his ruined face split in a horrific grin, but the worst part was the eyes, oh dear, sweet Jesus, his eyes…
    Sam had never seen eyes so wide, so marked by naked terror. Brain Damage-guy had been so scared when he died that it looked like his face hadn’t even been capable of registering the pain.
    Sam turned to run for the distant supermarket.
    And suddenly his legs just…refused to move.
    You can still get what you came for .
    The voice of his addiction, unspooling in his mind. Crooning a siren’s song that he was powerless to resist.
    He turned back to face the atrocity, gritting his teeth and biting back the urge to retch again.
    Brain Damage-guy’s head is there . So where are his legs? Where are his pockets?
    Sam saw a lot of legs tangled on the ground, and the prospect of rifling through clothes caked in human offal made his stomach twist. Some distant alarm began to sound in his head, like his soul was shrieking at him not to allow himself to sink to this new low. That it would lead only to darkness.
    I could just check a couple of bodies.
    He scanned the hideous mess.
    Maybe the ones to the right, which looked almost intact. Even if none of those limbs belonged to Brain Damage-guy, there was still a chance he’d find something. Perhaps some meth. Hell, even some fucking weed would take the jagged edge off the sickness he felt growing inside him.
    No one will know . Just check their pockets and get the hell out of here. Two minutes, tops.
    For a moment, he felt like he couldn’t move, torn between the almost overwhelming desire to run from the horror under the bridge and the surging narcotic need lighting him up like a cigarette; burning through him steadily.
    If there was a bag of Brain Damage just… sitting there , it would be a criminal waste to leave it. It’s not like the poor bastards torn apart in the shadows needed it, and when the police discovered the carnage, they would destroy any drugs they found without a second thought. Or ‘confiscate’ them as ‘evidence.’
    Sam shot another glance at the distant supermarket.
    If you’re going to do it, do it now, you idiot. Don’t just stand here gawping. Waiting to get caught.
    He took an uncertain step toward the nearest body.
    Tried to visualise himself actually rooting around in the wet remains. What kind of person could fumble around the exposed innards of other human beings? How low could a person possibly sink in their need for a fix?
    He tried to picture himself doing what he knew he should do; running as fast as he could. Never looking back.
    Pictured a fat bag of powder instead.
    And suddenly he was walking forward quickly on autopilot, the decision taken. The addiction won. It always did.
    The bridge was high, the underside laced by struts. The walls offered a series of alcoves - prime real estate for the homeless people who sheltered there overnight. Those were always the first spots to be taken. Sam studied them cautiously as he moved, imagining that some demented killer was lurking there in the shadows, impossible for him to see.
    Watching him approach.
    There was no movement, of