The parasite wanted that, for, in such a battle, it would win everytime. Perhaps it could not fight his hatred, but it could fight anything else he had to offer.
The knife went in, scraped against a rib.
Steve yelled hoarsely, drenched every atom of his soul in hatred. Slowly, he withdrew the knife, watched bright red blood well up after it.
Something tugged at his mind, slipped away—first scalding, then wet. It oozed out, and pain blurred Steve's vision as he tumbled to the floor again.
When he got up moments later and managed to staunch the flow of blood, he knew the parasite had perished.
Barely sixty of them met near the city gate—grim and weary, most of them with fresh wounds. Steve's joy was an emotion the dead parasite would have loved to share when he saw Teejay among the sixty. Kevin was there too, and Steiner. Surprisingly, Schuyler Barling seemed more sprightly than the rest.
"LeClarc?" Steve demanded.
"He was the first," said Kevin. "Stronger control, perhaps. He's among those who could not make it."
"Maybe they're still alive."