Hunger Chronicles (Book 1): Life Bites (23 page)

Damn that was good. I want more.

I employ this strategy again and again. Dashing in, grabbing, drinking, killing, then skipping out of range again. I’m covered in their blood, but can’t seem to bring myself to care. Guess it’s a good thing Convict isn’t here to be horrified.

The thought of Convict is what does it; brings me out of the blood lust and back to my real purpose. I didn’t stay so I could hunt out from under Convict’s disapproving gaze. I’d stayed because Convict hadn’t stayed. Because Convict wasn’t willing to risk his life to rescue John. Maybe, in this world, I shouldn’t expect anything more. But for Convict’s sake, John better be alive, because if he isn’t…

I push the violent thought away, both surprised and sickened by the vehemence behind it. What did Convict do that any good team lead wouldn’t have done? He didn’t have the ability to indulge in a hopeless rescue mission. His objective was to get the intel on Nellis back to base and do it with as little loss of life as possible. John is the one who lost it and made himself a liability. I still can’t fathom why. Calm, steady John. What had set him off?

If you want to know something, Eva girl, you should ask.
My dad’s rumbling voice in my mind steadies me. My dad was a brilliant man. I can get all the answers I want, after I find John. But first…

I swing a bolt cutter half in a massive homerun swing, practically loping the head off a zombie who’s dared draw too close. I need to assess the situation, come up with a plan.

Between swings and thrusts, I glance over at the flattened gate. This seems to be where most of the zombies are coming from. There are a few trickling out from the cement bunker beside it, but it seems like the number that comes out of the building isn’t any greater than the number going in. Maybe Convict is wrong, maybe there isn’t an access ladder in there, and with the lifts not working, the only way up is through the tunnels and across the desert.

I need to check it out though. It’s where John would have tried to enter first. I’ll go there in a minute, but first my gun. It might be next to worthless now that it has no bullets, but I’m still not going to leave it behind.

24.

From behind another jumble of rocks and scrub brush, I watch the steady stream of zombies exiting from the mouth of the tunnel. Hundreds, perhaps, was an understatement. I must have counted almost a thousand so far, and they still come.

Crap, all of a sudden I’m wishing I’d gone in from above. But someone had blocked off the access ladder. When I’d slipped in between groupings of zombies and made it into the building far enough to find the access to maintain the lifts, I’d found the opening crammed full of metal chairs to make a latticework, a heavy metal filing cabinet to make it impassible, and that topped off with an upturned desk wedged into the opening to ensure that nothing from below could possibly push it out.

I’m sure it was probably a group of soldiers from the base, taking a last desperate measure against the outbreak that must have come from below, but I can’t help thinking of John and smile. Maybe he did it. It would be like him, to cut off this route of invasion in order to protect us before he went on the offensive.

But whether he had or not, he couldn’t have entered the lower levels through there either. Hence why I am here, weighing my options and finding them lacking. Going back and ripping off the barrier is one option, I suppose, but by now I’m honestly not sure whether there are more zombies up there or down here. Right now I have the advantage of being downwind. If I work my way back around to the other side of the tunnels in order to get back to the gate, then I’m going to lose that advantage and the zombies, who are currently sniffing around and snapping at each other in frustration, are going to be back snapping at my heels. Not what I want. But going in to the tunnels here?

I stare back at the tunnel entrance, my heart sinking as I realize that the last chance of rescue has just been scratched. There is no way I’m going to be able to take them all on. If John is in there, he’s either dead or as good as.

Just like mom and dad.

Something—a bit of sand maybe—gets stuck in my throat, causing my breath to hitch painfully. Seconds later my eyes are stinging, moisture pooling on the bottom lids. I brush the offensive moisture from my cheek as I glare at the stream of shuffling zombies. I can do this. I can go out there and lay a swath of destruction so large it will look like a bomb went off.

I clench the ends of my broken bolt cutters, imagining the satisfying crunch as they bash in the vile creatures’ brains. There is something distinctly satisfying about using them over my knife. It’s gruesome and messy and is the perfect outlet for this pulsing ball of hatred that’s bubbling up inside me. I might not be able to kill them all, but I can sure make a good dent—ha ha—in them.

I rise, employing the method of the gorilla’s ballerina walk—low to the ground, silent, and ready for action—I tippy-toe forward, my eyes pinned on a zombie that already has a bit of blood smeared across its chin. It could be from another zombie, hell, it could be from a rat, but it could also be from John.

That one goes first.

I’m halfway across the open expanse that will bring me to my victim, as well as exposing me to what, even for me, is a hopeless number of zombies, when something draws me up short.

Don’t do it, Eva girl. Your soldier wouldn’t want you to die too
.

I don’t know where this thought comes from, I mean, dad had never met John or said anything remotely like that, but it has me cursing under my breath, ‘cause his logic is, once again, infallible. What use am I to anyone dead? If dying here were worthwhile it would be one thing, but it’s not. Who am I saving other than a few desert rats?

Forcing my feet to turn around, I slip back up the path and then crouch down behind my scrub brush. My legs are trembling with the need to move, to act, but I make myself assess my options. A quick scan around the desert tells me they are few. There is not much here, but there are some sharp hills about a mile or so away. There could be a cave. Regardless, it’s my only hope unless the zombies go back underground and I can sneak into one of the warehouses.

Either way, I need to find somewhere to hide and find it soon. Morning can’t be that far off and courtesy of the glowing orb of the moon above, I know for a fact that there is no longer any cloud cover. Staying outside for a whole day of blaring hot desert sun is not an option.

Also not an option? Having company in my future hidey hole.

I peel off my makeshift turban, along with my outer shirt, and look for a likely candidate or two. For this my bait trick will work. I need a false trail, otherwise when I make it to those hills it’s going to be with the entire bunker full of zombies on my heels.

It doesn’t take long. There are enough stragglers that have moved away from the main line heading toward the flattened gate, that grabbing one for a few quick swallows and some eye-to-eye contact is not a real issue.

Two zombies and two army issue shirts later, I have my bait wandering off on opposing false trails. One to the south where the upwind breeze will catch its scent and bring it back and one toward the warehouses above. Divide and conquer baby. Most likely the others will go after the one at the warehouse first, but after that they’ll hopefully chase after the second. A few might pick up my real trail, but those, I figure, I can handle.

I strike out to the northwest and the bumps of rocky outcroppings in the distance. The closer I get the more I realize that these are more than bumps of rocks, they’re real hills, mountains even, with steep inclines and long valleys between them. They’re also further than I’d thought.

It seems like hours, but is probably actually only half of one, when I finally reach the entrance to the first valley. The change in terrain is noticeable and almost immediate. There must be a spring here or a natural basin of rocks beneath the sand that holds the moisture after the rare storm blows through because the ground is covered in patches of sparse, dry grass. Either way, it gives me hope for a cave.

I set to my search, exploring every shadowy boulder and behind every slight rise. Twice I find something that seems promising along a ridge of concave rock, but one will only keep me out of the sun for half the day and the other is filled with an endless supply of sand that seeps through a hole up top when I try and dig it out.

Time is running out.

Frustrated, I stumble away from the taunting bit of overhang. I’m partway across the valley and heading toward the next scraggly hill when my foot catches on a rock and sends me flying. I land with an umph and a groan in another pile of rocks, the palms of my hands cursing me out as they skid across said rocks.

Streambed. Dried up. My brain provides this information as I push up off my screaming hands and onto my butt. And there, towards the east, is the reason why it’s dried out.

I close my eyes, as if by doing so I can deny the existence of the lightening sky. I have no shirt and no turban. Just my torn and shredded cargo pants and tank top. I can turn around and try to get back to the warehouses and hope the zombies have gone below rather than taking up residence in the hot steel structures, or I can keep on looking for what is probably a non-existent cave. I’m just about to settle on option one when an inhuman growl rumbles across the dried out streambed.

My heart thumps in my chest and I look up, scanning the jagged rocks on the far bank. The growl had sounded like a dog. Or, more likely, a wolf or coyote. And if there is a wolf or a coyote around here, then that means there has to be a den. I can deal with a den. I know from experience that I’m not much bigger than a large curled up dog. I might have to dig it out a touch more to be comfy, but in a pinch, it will do. And this is definitely a pinch. Only, where is the…

Thu-thump, thu-thump, thu-thump.

At first I don’t see it, but then a slight bit of movement out of the corner of my left eye helps me zero in on the creature. Definitely a wolf. There is no way a coyote is that big. I can only make out the silvery-black fringe of fur around its head, the rest of its dark body lost in the shadows of the large boulder it’s crouched beside, but that head is huge. Heck, I didn’t think wolves could get that big.

Our gazes lock, the wolf lets out another low rumbling growl. It slinks forward out of the shadows, its lips curled back into a sharp-toothed snarl. Hungry wolf then. Not only hungry. This wolf has seen better days. Through the thick matted fur I can see the sunken-in contour of its ribs. Its back curves oddly too. Even with its hackles raised, the withers are too prominent and further back then they should be. As if its back had been broken once and fused together in a reverse arch.

“So I guess this means you’re not into sharing your space,” I say as I exchange one of my two halves of the bolt cutters for my knife instead. A long reach is important, and I can use the bolt cutter half like a short spear as well, but I want something sharp enough to cut through that hide if need be. And it’s certainly seeming like the need is there.

The wolf growls, padding further down into the dried out creek bed. At the same time there’s a shift in the wind and the acrid scent of decay hits me in the face like a sledgehammer. Crap, this is not the time for the zombies to have found my real trail.

I take a step back thinking maybe I can work my way out of the creek bed. If I’m going to fight—especially fight more than one creature at once—then I want more even footing. The wolf shifts, its head twisting to follow my movement. The moon flashes in its eyes. Its unresponsive eyes.

WTF? A wolf-zombie? Even as I think this, my brain denies the possibility. Animals can’t be contaminated by the Z-virus. Like me, they’re immune. There is no denying the creature stalking in a slow circle around me stinks of decay though—there are no other heartbeats in a quarter mile radius but our own—and its pupils, even now as its shifts around me, its gaze slipping between moonlight and shadows, they are still fully dilated.

This is not good. Not good at all.

25.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

A wolf-zombie. A huge one at that, with long sharp teeth and claws as long as my pinky finger. So this is how Little Red Riding Hood felt.

All of a sudden, taking on the thousand plus zombies back at the storage facility doesn’t seem like such a bad option. I think this is probably just a residual human fear of wild animals versus actual logic, but then it leaps. I barely manage to twist out of the way and am still recovering—damn rocky footing—when it spins around and is charging again.

Yeah, the zombies would be better. This thing is fast. Too fast. Can a wolf really be this fast?

It’s not appearances that are deceiving, Eva girl, it is assumptions.

I never understood that one, but whatever. There is no denying this wolf
is
effing fast.

I twist again, following through with my bolt cutter like it’s a bat and the hurtling wolf is a fast ball. I am not quite fast enough at maneuvering out of the way and its claws rake my left shoulder, even as the metal cracks into its haunches. We both howl, stumbling back to glare at each other warily.

It takes a step forward. Doesn’t even limp. Blood drips down my arm, coating my hand and the knife I’m holding. Guess we know who won that round.

“Are you sure we can’t talk about this?”

It answers by snarling and lunging forward. I raise the bolt cutter over my head, tightening my grip around my knife. Crack it over the head and then go in for the kill.

Only it doesn’t work that way. My arm is in mid-swing when it stands—stands!—on its back legs. I can’t change my trajectory fast enough and its sharp canines bite down into the flesh of my forearm. And then we’re falling, the wolf’s massive weight slamming me into the rocky ground. Something digs sharply into the base of my spine, and my breath whooshes out of me. I swing with my knife, but my injury makes my strike weak and it barely penetrates through the thick fur. I try again, thrusting blindly as it shakes and tears at my other arm. If I could just get my knife between its ribs…