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tipped the coffin off the table. As it hit the floor, he fell out of it and rolled. He landed on his stomach, and, raising his head, found he could slither forward, inch by inch. Only a few feet away, he could see Chloe on her back, her head turned his way but her eyes unfocused. Then her eyes cleared, and they filled with hatred as she saw him. She started to rise to her knees.
    Thinking about it later, he wasn’t sure how he’d managed it, but somehow, he slithered over to her and sank his teeth deep into her left ankle. The bones split and the foot fell away. As she screamed, he turned his head and sank his fangs into her right ankle, and bit that foot off, too.
    Even without feet, Chloe tried to stand, but she immediately fell again, her head hitting the edge of the table as she went down. She lay moaning, half dazed. Fitzsimmons wriggled his way toward her throat, the new blood and meat giving him renewed energy. He reached her throat as she regained consciousness. Her eyes flared with hatred and pain, and then, as he latched onto her open wound, he saw fear in them.
    He bit down again and again, finally reaching her spine, which he snapped.
    She stopped moving.
    He lay silent, luxuriating in the feeling of both his body and his hate being fed.
    Then he ate the rest of her.
     
    #
     
    Fitzsimmons could feel new arms beginning to sprout, but it was happening slowly. His legs were coming back even more slowly. He had consumed all of Chloe, and had even broken her bones and sucked the marrow. Now he was contemplating trying to eat her bones, though he wasn’t sure how much good that would do.
    It had been two days since he’d killed her. He wasn’t sure how much longer he had before they came to check on her.
    After three days, he had four stumps, with which he could maneuver himself around the room. He reached the door, and to his surprise, found it was locked. Why would they lock it? he wondered. But Peterson had always been a careful bastard.
    He positioned himself near the door and waited.
    That afternoon, he heard the lock begin to turn. One of Peterson’s bodyguards came in. He was looking at some paperwork he had in one hand and holding a tape recorder in the other. He was relaxed, and obviously unaware that Chloe was missing.
    Before the bodyguard had gone two steps, Fitzsimmons had his fangs sunk into the man’s shins and was tearing at the tendons. The guard stumbled and fell.
    If anything, he was easier to kill than Chloe had been. He lay screaming, his hands clutching his legs, as Fitzsimmons scrambled like a crab toward his throat. At the last minute, the guard threw up his hands, but it was too late. Fitzsimmons had him by the throat and was tearing away, gulping down the meat of his neck and face. The frenzied screaming turned into gurgle, lost volume, and then stopped altogether.
    It took another day to completely consume the guard. Since this latest victim had obviously been sent on a task, Fitzsimmons doubted he had much time left. His arms and legs continued to grow, but far too slowly.
    He decided to commence his escape even though he wasn’t yet fully reformed. He had short, stubby hands with tiny fingers and the beginnings of thumbs, so he was able to grasp the guard’s keys in one hand and hold the trigger of the gun with the other. He probably wasn’t going to be able to use either, but if he could somehow manage to find one more victim, he was certain that his healing would be complete.
    Just one more meal.
    Fitzsimmons reached the end of the hallway. The door there was unlocked, too. He opened it a couple of inches and looked out.
    He tried to slam the door closed again, but it sprang open, pushing him back into the hallway. He landed on his back, and struggled to turn onto his side and get back onto his stumps.
    “Impressive,” he heard Peterson’s voice say. “We’ve had cameras and microphones on you the entire time, but I needed to see it with my own eyes.”
    Fitz’s nemesis