Hunger Chronicles (Book 1): Life Bites (16 page)

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 kiss. 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.”

Nope, didn’t want to think about that. So I tuned him out, shoved my apple into my mouth as I jumped up, and grabbed my backpack from the corner. Quizzes, a track meet, and boys. I definitely had enough on my plate besides the impending end of the world.

16.

Most decidedly uncomfortable.

I squirm in my harness, trying to keep my gaze on a point somewhere between Rodriguez’s and Matt’s head. I can be polite at least, even if no one else here can. I swear, sometimes I think I’m the only person whose parents taught them that staring is rude.
Everyone
is staring at me. Well, everyone except Herbie, who is flying the helicopter, and Convict sitting beside him. But the other sets of eyes appear to be glued to my forehead. Probably trying to drill holes in it.

I am persona non grata and it’s decidedly unfair. Hadn’t I been the one to get them out of there? Okay, so my trick is kind of freaky. Still, I wouldn’t give it end of the world status. Certainly not when compared to the zombie outbreak. And not compared to the visions my hive queen has of the future either. Hives, really. With a queen bee, working bees, and a boat load of honey for their continued consumption. Only in this case the honey is the humans they’ve collected and are raising in captivity. Whoops, silly me, safety. Raising in
safety
.

I should tell my team. After what we’ve seen at Nellis, I realize the danger is closer than I once believed. I
would
tell them too, but I’m betting I won’t get any brownie points for it if I do. Nope. Either Convict or Brian will come up with some lame theory about me infiltrating the base to gain information. A spy in their midst, which is a theory that could well have me flying home… without the benefit of this helicopter. Yeah, let’s avoid that, shall we?

Juanita makes an uncomfortable sounding grunt. I look to where she is strapped to the gurney, leg braced. She gives me a faint smile and a wink. Then she reaches out and slaps Roy on his knee. “Get over it, boys. You wanted a way out of there? That was it.”

I appreciate her support but know it’s not going to work. Even John has mustered enough of an expression to look uneasy, his gaze flitting between me, the others, then out the front windows. He can’t wait to get back to base and out of my presence. Which hurts. Stupid me. Guess I thought our relationship had made it to some sort of happy teammate/companion level.

At least Juanita seems cool with my current freak-hood status. And that’s so reassuring, coming from the woman who seems to want to die in a blaze of glory.

I sigh, focusing on my hands and the dried blood under my nails. Juanita’s. I set to picking it out, wiping it off on my pants. I don’t know how long I manage to occupy myself with this task when the helicopter gives a great lurch to the side, the propellers making a strange whine before settling back in their reassuring air-chopping rhythm.

“What was that?” John demands, his voice strangely croak-like, as if he’s injured his larynx at some point.

Herbie answers over the intercom. “Sorry people. Wind is picking up. Might get worse too so hold tight.”

John leans his head back against the thin black padding, closing his eyes. I watch in fascination as he makes an effort to take deep steadying breaths. What’s this? Does John not like to fly? The notion sets me on edge. John is solid, steady. Even when he’s agitated or angry he’s able to keep it together. But he’s been decidedly “off” since the moment we found out we were being sent on this mission.

I’m not the only one who seems concerned by John’s anxiety levels; Convict twists around in his seat, looking back at John. “We’re half-way home, John. We’ll be back before breakfast.”

“That’s fine, sir.”

With a nod, Convict turns back to the front.

What’s up with that? Why would John be worried about the time? Now that I think about it, he had grilled Marine pretty hard about the timeline for this “quick” intel mission. At the time I figured he was asking because of me and the whole nighttime mission thing, but with the way he’s been unable to even look me straight in the eyes on this ride back, I’m thinking his apprehension is not for me. Or if it was, that was before the whole mind-control thing.

I decide my earlier assessment must have been right. John wants to get out of this flying death trap and away from me. Well that’s just fine. Soon as we get back to base I’ll make sure to stay well out of his way. Maybe I’ll even do us both a favor and ask for that transfer to Rodriguez’s team. I think it’s obvious there is no way Convict is ever going to get used to me and the whole feeding thing, and with Juanita out of commission for the foreseeable future, Brian still on the hunt, and John’s obvious abandonment… well, even the dense girl can tell when she’s not wanted.

The helicopter lurches to the side again. Herbie swears, jerking the controls. We twist back the other way, nose dipping. Ah, hell. I knew this was just a flying coffin.

Sixty heart-hammering seconds later, Herbie manages to get us leveled out again. We’re still being buffeted around, but at least we aren’t trying to do any more nosedives into the desert below.

I slowly get my breathing under control. Then, and only then, do I work on prying my bloodless fingers from my shoulder harness.

“Wild,” Juanita says from the stretcher that has slid across the floor and up against Rodriguez’s, Matt’s, and John’s boots. I think she’s truly crazy, until I see that she is paler than death and that her brow is beaded in sweat.

“Can someone get that rope so we can tie the stretcher down?” I call to the back. Brian is the closest. He hits his safety release and lurches up on unsteady feet. He opens one of the upper cabinets and pulls out the rope, shuts it again as he tosses the length of coiled rope in my direction, and then sits back down, strapping back in.

Figures. I snatch the rope, glaring down at the tight cotton. The helicopter is just big enough and wide enough that I can’t bend over and work with the other peeps to strap the stretcher down. I’m going to have to rig it to one of the safety hooks near the door, through her stretcher, to the other door to securely anchor her. Which means getting out of my safety harness.

“I’ll help,” Blaine offers from beside me.

I shake my head. “I got it.” Probably have the steadiest feet here. I guess that’s one good thing about my new nature: I am no longer a complete klutz.

Grumbling, I pop the safety buckle and slide off the bench. I’m not too proud to crawl and this is how I make my way over to the safety clip by the door on my side of the helicopter. Using one of the nifty knots my dad taught me, I secure the first end and then scoot-shuffle back over to Juanita, the helicopter dancing and lurching the whole time.

The stretcher is one of those standard plastic ones with long handholds along the sides. I figure I can loop the rope through the ones near her feet and secure it to the other door. Then, with the leftover rope, I’ll string it through the ones near her head and somehow loop it around my own harness. Or maybe hold it. I should be strong enough to do that.

I’ve gotten the rope through the two holes on the stretcher and am trying to get the excess through the other safety clip on the other door when the helicopter starts on a sideways rolling wave glide. We crest and dip, crest and dip, my stomach enough off-sync to make me want to barf, and since Juanita isn’t latched down yet in the front, she goes for a back-and-forth sliding roller-coaster ride across the floor.

“I got her.” John pops off his harness, and with one hand secure on the nylon straps he’s just forgone, reaches for the top of the stretcher to steady her.

A howling wind buffets us from the front. Everything shifts. John’s grab for the stretcher misses and he ends up clinging to his shoulder harness as the nose jerks up. Juanita and her stretcher bang into me. My hand slips completely off the rope. I swear, trying to keep the stretcher steady as I grab for the dangling end. The helicopter reverses direction again and Juanita and I are tumbling back toward John. Only someone grabs the back of my cargo pants and holds on, which is quite a feat given I’m hanging onto all the weight of Juanita’s stretcher as well and we keep on dipping down, then up, then down.

The helicopter levels out for a moment. I sit up, swatting at the steadying hand. It is Brian. I hate being grateful to him.

“Christ, Herbie, can’t you keep us steady for one effing minute?” John swears, grabbing for the stretcher again.

There is no answer, only another tummy tumbling twist and dip. And then Herbie answers, his voice amazingly calm for the man who likes to run from danger. “Sorry, people, but I suggest you get a handhold somewhere. We’re going down.”

17.

I’ve never crash landed before. Never want to try it again. Though, I do have to give Herbie mucho credit here. He somehow pulled it off. All those times when he was a smart-mouth or a chicken-shit or merely a plain old dick are forgiven. The baldheaded NASCAR driver has just saved our lives. Even if we are stranded out here in the middle of nowhere.

Herbie’s still sitting in the cockpit petting his controls like a depression-age grandmother about to sell off her stuff, but then he sighs, shaking his head as he squeezes through into the back bed of the helicopter.

“So which of you is the bad luck charm?” he yells over the howling wind.

No one responds, ignoring him in lieu of gathering up the equipment needed for our trek. There has been a lot of debating on whether to hang tight and wait out the winds and/or hope for a miraculous rescue, or strike out for an abandoned military storage facility that is supposedly located nearby. With day coming and the soaring temperatures that can be expected here in the middle of the Mohave Desert, it’s a pretty easy choice. Besides, the Santa Ana winds that are the cause of our grounding can last for days, sometimes weeks on end. Our best hope is that the facility, though abandoned, has a working vehicle left to confiscate so we can drive back to our base.

If we’re lucky, we’ll be home by bedtime. Of course, in order to make this goal, we’re going to be traveling during the day. Yeah. But everyone, especially John and Convict, seem adamant that we have to get back ASAP. And who am I, the freaky, mind-controlling blood-sucking vampire-tag-o-long, to argue?

I ignore the blistering hot wind that carries the desert grit and sand in through the open helicopter door and look at the sky. It’s those murky pre-dawn hours that are marked with a general irrevocable lightening of the world. Only it’s still dark. The winds have brought in with them a nice thick bank of swiftly moving clouds that I hope—
please, please, please
—will last through our travels.