Hunger Chronicles (Book 1): Life Bites

by Tes Hilaire

  All that blood.

  “What is it?” John asks.

  I jerk my gaze away from the slick red fluid and look up at him. He’s eyeing me from under furrowed brows. Probably thinks I’m about to lose it and start lapping up all the pretty red liquid. Sad thing is he’s not far from the truth.

  “The um, wound. My saliva. I can’t do anything about the break, but it will help get the tissue healing if my saliva touches it.”

  His eyes narrow. “You mean feed from her?”

  I shake my head. I don’t dare. It’s been long enough that I feel the slice of hunger in my belly. If I lap up her blood I will want more. And she can’t afford more. Besides, I don’t feed from humans. Everyone keeps on conveniently forgetting that.

  “No, I can just…” I hock up what my old peers would so affectionately call a loogey and spit it into my palm, holding it over her leg. “And then…” I make a slight tipping gesture. My gaze travels to Juanita. “But only if…”

  “Will it turn her?”

  I shake my head. It’s still vampire cooties though.

  “Do it,” she pants out from between clenched teeth.

  So I do. And then I do it again, until Convict barks out another, “NOW, people!”

  John quickly wraps the belt around the splint.

  “Deep breath,” he warns, then is wrapping his arms around Juanita and tossing her over his shoulder. She doesn’t scream this time, but she’s distinctively green.

  “Ready!” John yells out, already heading for the end of the alley that isn’t pouring out zombies.

  “Let’s go, let’s go!” Convict commands.

  There is a heavy barrage of cover fire, and then it cuts off as the rest of the team use the brief break to make a run for it. John is fast, even with Juanita on his back, and manages to keep up as we weave our way between the buildings—stopping occasionally to pick off the faster zombies that have managed to follow us—and then hop into another alley that runs between a grouping of storage sheds.

  I realize these are the aircraft sheds I’d seen when we landed. Through our convoluted path, we’ve made it back to the airfield. Now we just have to hope the field isn’t swarmed with zombies.

  We cut through a pair of sheds, following the cracked pavement that spills out onto the airfield. At first I think my prayers have been answered. The sketch of dirt and pavement is pretty much empty, except for a few stragglers following the scent trail of sweaty man-flesh toward the command building. But then I look at the helicopter. Sniffing around both the outside and inside are over a dozen zombies, their shuffling forms mere silhouettes in the moonlight.

  “Shit,” John grumbles, awkwardly scooting Juanita and himself back around behind the edge of the shed.

  Exactly my sentiment.

  “What is it?” Convict calls from the back of the group.

  “Zombies in the helicopter,” John calls back, carefully lowering Juanita to the ground.

  Convict goes on a longer string of curses, motioning for Matt, Blaine, and Brian to follow him back to the other end of the shed, presumably to hold off the stragglers.

  I stuff my Glock back in my pants. Firepower isn’t going to help with this problem. If we were to go in, guns blazing, we’d risk shooting something vital in the helicopter. That leaves two options, a good old fashion hand-to-knife battle, or diversion. The question is, what to use for the latter.

  My gaze falls on Juanita’s drawn face. Despite the sheen of clammy sweat clinging to her pale skin, she’s staring at the zombie’s shuffling across the field, hate boiling in her eyes. It’s a good thing we are downwind, otherwise the buckets of blood she poured out over her clothing would be drawing those zombies to us like a beacon.

  I suck in a breath, my heart tapping out an energetic riff in my chest. “Juanita, can I borrow your pant leg?”

  Her brow draws up in confusion, but she gives me the go ahead. Carefully I use my knife to slice the pant away just below the belt we used to tie down the splint. And there I have it: my bait. Kind of.

  I fling the soppy fabric over my shoulder, twisting my knife around so it lies against my forearm. A quick peel and I have my watch off and am reattaching it over the blade. I may not have a use for it right now, but I sure as hell am not going to leave the knife behind.

  “What are you doing?” John asks.

  “Getting ready.”

  “For what?”

  “You’ll see.”

  His mouth thins.

  I turn around and come face-to-face with Rodriguez.

  “Got a plan?” he asks.

  “I do, I just need…”

  I crane my head around him to see the others at the other end of the sheds. I brush by him, heading to Blaine. Tucked into the end of the line, he’s merely the back up for the others picking off the zombies coming up on our tail. He glances over his shoulder, then turns to watch my approach with a curious lift to his brow.

  “I need your shirt,” I tell him.

  His mouth splits into a grin, his eyes trailing over me from head to toe and back again. He leans in close, whispering. “Not that I have anything against getting naked for you, sweetheart, but do you think this is the time or place?”

  I huff out an exasperated breath. “Your shirt, please.”

  He shrugs, pulling off his long-sleeved fatigues. I shake my head, pointing to his undershirt. “That one.”

  His grin widens but he obliges without comment. As soon as it’s in my hands I’m ducking by him, muttering a “thanks” over my shoulder as I slide up behind Convict as he presides over Matt and Brian who are kneeling at the back edge of the shed, guns raised.

  “Can you boys hold the fort for a second?”

  Brian glares at me. “Do we have a choice?”

  “Nope.”

  Convict takes a better look at me, sees Blaine’s shirt and Juanita’s blood stained pant leg draped over my shoulders. His eyes narrow. “What are you up to?”

  I ignore him, addressing Brian. “When the next group of zombies comes around the corner, try and let one through for me.”

  “You’re shitting me, right?” Convict gives a sharp shake of his head. “You want to feed you do it on your own time. I’m not running a kitchen here. I’m telling you, Harper, you’re about this close to—”

  I figure I’m not going to like the end of that sentence so I cut him off. “Do you want to get into that helicopter or not?”

  He clenches his jaw, tipping his head in a grudging nod.

  “Then let me do my thing, okay?”

  Silence is my only answer. I take it as a go ahead.

  I crouch beside Matt, waiting for my opportunity. Doesn’t take long. The next group of zombies that come around the corner is a grouping of three. Matt and Brian both take out one each, leaving the third stumbling along. I wait to make sure no more buddies pop out immediately. I want enough time to get a true connection and that takes a few seconds of uninterrupted time. Five seconds pass. The zombie is only fifteen yards away. Perfect.

  I tap Matt on the shoulder. Both he and Brian look up at me. I lock eyes with the mountain man. “You can shoot the next batch, but even after I’m done, don’t shoot this one, okay?”

  “You got it, fangs.”

  I dash off, a faint itch between my shoulder blades. Maybe I should have told him not to shoot me either.

  I don’t dwell, instead focusing my attention on the zombie. It’s seen me, and is homing in. I take a few steps to the side, it shifts to follow. There. Now Brian and Matt can kill any buddies that come along without hitting us, which is a good thing as I can sense a large grouping coming up on the bend.

  I want it even further away so I take a step back, and then another until we are passing by the sheds the team is hiding between. Three more steps. Two. Its mouth yawns open, its arms outstretched to grab me. I don’t want to, but I force myself to lock gazes with it. For some reason I need this: eye contact. Maybe if I were an older vampire and more comfortable with m
y abilities I’d be able to do this without the face-to-face intimacy, but I’m not, and I can’t. I also need its blood.

  As it lunges for me, I skirt to the side so it doesn’t get a good hold. I do though, one hand wrapped around its neck, the other on the base of its arm just above the wrist. A frustrated growl of air rolls in the back of its throat, unfulfilled due to the constricted airway beneath my clenched hand. I feel the untrimmed nails of its free hand digging into my shoulder but ignore it as I slowly force the arm I’m holding up to my mouth. The pulse of its wrist bumps beneath my lips which have gone plump in anticipation. I choke back my own revulsion at my body’s natural reaction to the thought of feeding.

  I don’t want this. But I need this. As does my team.

  So I stare into the fever bright eyes and bite.

  It screams. Not aloud, but in its head. I want to scream too but I can’t. First off I’m busy sucking down its blood, the hot fluid pooling like liquid gold in my stomach—precious and nauseating at the same time—and secondly because I need to be the stronger one here. Its human mind is already buried beneath the hollow hunger that drives the zombie, but it still takes finesse to suppress those instincts long enough to implant my influence over it.

  I continue to stare into its eyes, my throat working as I form the connection I need. Hunger. It’s the one thing we both have in common and it’s this I use to make the first link. It’s a life-giving drive that all life forms feel, but none more so than monsters like me and the creature I’m currently feeding from. I use its hunger, replacing it with my own need. Soon the line between it and I is almost indistinguishable. All this time I feed—gaining strength, weakening my prey—the hunger begins to ease, the zombie’s need shifts to sleep. So weak, so tired. Its nails slip out of my skin, its hand falls.

  I extract my fangs, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. The zombie stands placidly before me, its eyes glazed as it stares back into mine. It’s so docile now it only remains a matter of giving the zombie its instructions.

  I do this, tying Juanita’s pant leg around its upper arm and pulling the t-shirt over its head to lie like a thick lei around its neck.

  With a last bit of reinforcement, I send the zombie up a parallel alley a few sheds down. It shuffles along, mind blank save for the new purpose I’ve given it. Go. Walk until your feet hurt. Good. All it has to do is get upwind of the helicopter. A whiff of Juanita’s blood and Blaine’s sweaty tee and viola! Empty helicopter.

  Confident my plan is well in action, I turn around and skirt back to the shed my team is stuffed between and the two men posed at the edge who are holding the now steady stream of zombies back.

  “It’s me,” I announce as I come up behind Brian and Matt. Wouldn’t do to have one of them swivel around and pop me one.

  Brian looks over his shoulder, cranes his head around me. “Where’s your dinner?”

  “Off on an errand. You seem pretty busy here.”

  “Yeah.” He slams another magazine into his rifle, mows down another half-dozen zombies. They fall, but I note we are losing ground. The horde has caught up. Two, three more show up for every one that falls.

  Convict shifts his back further into the shadow of the shed, giving me room so he can face me without sticking his neck out into the danger zone. “So what’s your brilliant plan, Harper?”

  Just then John calls from the other end. “Brice?”

  Convict twists his head. “What?”

  “I think we can go now.”

  Convict blinks, looking at me. I gesture down the path between the sheds. “After you.”

  There is a lot of shuffling as my companions make their way to the end. Matt gives up his post first. I look at Brian who jerks his head after the others. “Ladies first.”

  Fine. I slip across the pavement, hugging the building. There is another short burst as Brian lays down a last bit of cover fire and then his hand is on my back pushing me along. Not that I can go faster, there is a pile up at the other end as the line has come to a halt.

  “What’s the hold up?” Convict demands, his aggravation obvious.

  The men shift, popping out into the field practically at once. I have to smile as I take in the situation. The helicopter is empty, and there, a dot on the far side of the airstrip is my zombie. He’s still walking, only now there are a good twenty other zombies running after him.

  “Holy shit.” Convict spins on me. “What the hell is that?”

  I open my mouth to explain but--

  “That’s just freaky,” Herbie puts in.

  Rodriguez shakes his head. “No, that’s just….”

  “… the end of the world as we know it,” says Brian, his eyes hard as he turns his gaze on me.

  15.

  Then…

  I skipped down the stairs, each squeak of my new converse sneakers on the oak like a poke of guilt. The runner was out being cleaned; necessary after I’d dropped a mostly full can of soda down the stairs the other day. No soda in my room. Now I knew why.

  Chalking it up to one of those life-lessons my dad raved about, I grabbed onto the newel post at the bottom, hopping and spinning around the base of the stairs to head back to the kitchen at the back of the house. Mom had been up for a while cooking. From the warm air that blasted me in the face as I crossed the threshold, I caught the scent of recently squeezed oranges, newly baked cinnamon raisin bread—my favorite—and eggs, and greasy bacon. Yuck.

  My mom spun around, her spatula in hand as she perused my outfit. “Hi, honey. You look nice today.”

  I looked down at the jeans and t-shirt I’d picked out. Not far from my usual fair, but the shirt was one I’d never worn before and the jeans a worn vintage denim that Carrie had helped me pick out yesterday after school. Carrie’s flair for anything artistic had extended into fashion. I’m still not sure what had possessed me to cough out the sixty-some bucks for the new jeans, but I had to admit they made me look good. Overnight, it seemed, some curves had sprouted. I wondered if mom had noticed.

  “Thanks.” I quickly turned to hide the blush I could feel creeping into my cheeks and made a break for the table. Dad was already there, sipping his orange juice as he simultaneously read the paper and kept an eye on the news headlines that flashed across the TV.

  I sat down beside him and grabbed up a slice of the still warm bread, popping it in my mouth sans butter. It wasn’t that I needed to watch my weight—I was the type of girl who could eat a gallon of ice cream and still be gangly—but because I was trying out being a vegan. It seemed the natural progression from vegetarian. Though I had to admit that bread, baked minus the milk and eggs, just wasn’t as good.

  I picked apart the remainder of my slice, no longer hungry. Which wasn’t good. I needed to eat more not less if I wanted to keep my newfound curves. Granola and soy milk? Maybe I should ask mom to pick some up for me.

  The last bit of bread collapsed under my fingers, raining down onto my clothes. I absently wiped the crumbs off to Shaggy who was sniffling around under the table, but found myself fingering the thin material of my shirt. It was another Carrie-aided purchase, though this one was from last summer. I’d yet to wear it, thinking the neckline too low and the material too see-through. I’d solved the later with a tank top underneath, but the tank top itself was low and yup, if I looked hard, there was cleavage there. I guess I was finally developing some tits. Kyle had certainly seemed interested in checking them out at least, and Raoul…

  Well, I wasn’t sure what to make of Raoul and his interest in me. I still suspected he was after one thing and one thing only, but he had been a perfect gentleman both during and after our kiss the other day. He hadn’t even tried to make it to second base and the only place his gaze had rested was my face. Was that his angle? To lure me in with a false sense of security?

  My stomach got queasy just thinking it. That kiss had been amazing. Enough so that I doubted I would have had any objection to second, or third base. Heck, that had been a home-run kind of k
iss. And he hadn’t asked for anything other than if I’d allow him to see me again.

  I couldn’t wait. I only wish he’d told me when this “seeing” might happen. Prom was coming up and maybe… just maybe…

  “Damn idiots.” My father’s voice broke into my happy teenage angst bubble. Shaggy whined, slinking into a crouch by my feet.

  I blinked, looking across the table as I gave a reassuring pat to Shaggy’s head. Dad’s gaze was glued to the TV screen and another report about the viral outbreak that had occurred down in South America.

  “What are you going on about now?” My mother breezed in, absently kissing my temple as she set an apple in front of me, and my dad’s piled plate of eggs and bacon before him.

  I shook my head, staring at the congealing butter and grease. Sometimes I thought my mom was trying to kill my dad, but then I would remember how much they loved each other. Killing through kindness maybe?

  “That!” My father gestured angrily at the TV. “It’s a pandemic and they’re doing little-to-nothing to control it!”

  “They’re trying to help those poor people,” mom said as she drained the grease from her pan into a jar that was already filled with layers of scummy-white fat.

  “Masks and biohazard signs aren’t going to do anything. Like rabid dogs. Put ‘em down.”

  My hand tightened in Shaggy’s fur, hoping to heck English really was beyond his grasp.

  “Charles!” Mom chided, sparing her own glance for Shaggy, yet she set the pot down and turned around fully to watch the news. My gaze followed to the man strapped down on a gurney, snapping at anyone who came near. Rabid dog seemed about right. I shuddered, looking away. I didn’t like to obsess over the things on the news. All it succeeded in doing was freaking me out. And really, when it came down to it, what could I do? Nope, I liked to keep my crusades closer to home. I gave one last scratch behind Shaggy’s ear. At least then I could make a difference.

  “I’m telling you, Jen,” my dad went on, breaking through my determination to ignore the unpleasant. “It’s the end of the world as we know it.”