Hunger Chronicles (Book 1): Life Bites (17 page)

Five minutes and we’re packed and ready to go. With a last look through the door to make sure the clouds haven’t instantly peeled back to reveal the fading night sky, I jump out and fall into step beside Juanita on her stretcher, which is being carried by Matt and Blaine. Juanita looks at me with concern, her lips parting, but I shake my head, fending off whatever she might be about to say.

The truth is a vamp
can
go out in the day. The whole see-the-sun, burst-into-flame thing is a total myth. That said it’s not exactly wise. See, it’s a dehydration thing. For a creature that lives off liquids, we seem to lose water awfully quickly. Expose us to sun and the moisture literally pours right off of us. We can get a little back through water, but the only way to keep from shriveling up and going into a state of mummydom is to be well hydrated beforehand, and keep well hydrated. Which means feeding. A lot.

I really, really hope that cloud bank holds.

It does. Hours later the only sign that true day has broken is the increasing heat level. It’s still a murky dark morning for the desert and I know this is an exception and not the rule. Somebody up there must like me. It’s as I think this that there is a crack in one of the clouds. Not quite all the way through, but enough to expose the shadowed disk of the sun.

Brain, who’s been stalking along in the front of the line, looks up, then over his shoulder at me, his lip curled back into a cruel smirk. “Just how powerful was that vampire who turned you, fangs?”

Even though it hurts my sensitive eyes to do so, I make a point of looking up into the sky, staring directly at the fuzzy globe of light trying to break its way through the clouds before I pin my gaze back on Brian. “Very.”

He grunts and faces forward once more. Point made. I don’t look at the sky again but stare down at the monotonous landscape of sand that continually shifts beneath my feet. We can’t be far now. An hour, maybe two. I can make that. Absently I reach up to wipe my forehead and come away with a layer of crusty salt. Um, not good. All of a sudden a wad of moist fabric is being shoved into my chest.

I look up at John. He’s stripped off his outer shirt and must have used his ration of water to wet it and is now holding it out to me.

“Wrap it around your head.”

I think of refusing—the jerk is one of the ones enforcing this daytime march on me, after all—but decide neither pride nor obstinacy are worth shriveling like a dried prune. I take the shirt, tugging it over my head like a hood, the base buttoned around my mouth like a scarf, and the tied-off sleeves that hold it all in place slapping against my back like a wet ponytail.

Another bonus of the turban, I’m no longer eating desert grit.

The sky lightens some more, the clouds thinning even as the wind settles to something short of sand blast. I look over at Juanita. She lost a lot of blood last night and I haven’t seen her take a single sip from the canteen that rests on the stretcher beside her.

“Drink,” I tell her, my voice muffled by the wet fabric.

She does, then holds the canteen out to me. I hesitate. The water will help a little, but not enough to make a real dent. Besides, I’m betting at least half, if not all the rest of the team members, might object to sharing one of their two canteens.

I shake my head, purposely putting a bit more distance between us by picking up my pace. Bad move. I trip over a rock planted in the sand, a desert shrub flying up to meet me. Except John is there, steadying me with his hand on my elbow. “You okay?”

Good question. There’s no doubt that even with his makeshift turban, I’m dehydrating quickly. I’m not at critical levels. The snack I had last night will keep me going as long as the cloud cover holds, but I’ll need to go out again soon for a pick-me-up snack.

I’ll deal with that later. Everything is always later. Have to take care of the here and now. And right now is putting one foot in front of the other as I fix my sights on the mirage of buildings that may or may not actually be there in the distance.

“I’m good,” I say.

“Almost there.”

“Halleluiah ,” I mutter inaudibly under my breath.

John’s lips twitch. My eyes narrow. I didn’t say it that loud. How did he hear me above the wind? He lets go of my elbow and we continue on, my questions shoved to the back of my mind as I strive toward the mirage that I’m sure now is not a mirage.

The buildings are there. A set of waffle-board warehouses lined up in parallel rows that stretch back too far on the horizon for me to see the end. All around them is one of those really high chain-link fences decorated both on the top and around the bottom edges with jagged razor wire. Under normal circumstances, I could probably jump it, but I wouldn’t want to try given my current state of dehydration. So it’s a good thing there’s a sturdy gate on this side of the perimeter and butting up against it is a lone, squat cement building.

I’m guessing the building, which is decorated with cameras instead of windows is both gatekeeper and office combined.

“Looks welcoming,” I say when we get closer and I start to notice that not only is there the slice-you-to-ribbons razor wire, but that there are remote rifles topping the fence at regular intervals. “Are those motion activated or does someone inside have to press a button?”

John’s jaw tenses as he studies the rifles. “I’m not sure it matters. I’m doubting the power is still on here and any battery back-ups would be drained by now.”

“You want to risk it?”

He shrugs, and with a glance at the sky says, “What choice do we have?”

Good point. It’s close to noon and the clouds, though still holding, are getting wispier. More importantly the temperature is rising, and despite the stiff wind we’re all, not just me, baking like a bunch of foil wrapped potatoes out here.

John and I aren’t the only ones who’ve noticed the remote rifles. At one point Brian stops, bending down to pick up a fist-sized stone. A few yards later he grabs another one. This one he chucks, lobbing it as far as he can toward the razor wire fencing. Maybe he was trying for a rifle, but it misses by a mile, falling a good twenty yards short of the fence. The rifle doesn’t move, though, so that’s a good sign.

Seeing that he has a good idea, Convict orders us all to grab some rocks and throw them at regular intervals.

I keep my eye on the ground, scooping up every appropriately sized stone I see. The Mojave Desert is actually littered with small rocks. Probably what keeps the sand from blowing into the sand dunes of the Sahara. Soon I have a good handful of half-inch to inch-size rocks. I jiggle them in my hand, thinking about my disastrous attempt to play softball one year—it’s all in the momentum and the angle of release, the coach kept telling me—then plant my feet and let ‘er rip.

The stones fly, shooting toward one of the rifles with a scary kind of force and accuracy that shocks me. Furthermore, it does what I’d hoped the rocks would do, which is spread out in a nice buckshot pattern as they near their target. One of the smaller stones ding off the top of the rifle, twisting it slightly off kilter, but the rest fly by with absolutely no response.

I put my hands on my hips, gnawing my lip. “I guess that means it’s probably not motion activated, right?”

John grunts, grabs up a much bigger stone, and winds up for his own throw. I figure it’s a waste. Brian is just now able to get a stone to clink off the bottom of the tall fence, how does John expect to be able to…

His stone flies straight and fast as an arrow, smacking dead on into the side of the off-kilter rifle. Man versus nature. The stone wins. The rifle is knocked right off its housing and falls with a sad little crunch onto the ground.

“Well, if it was working, it’s not now,” I say, tucking my tongue into my cheek.

John smiles then picks up another rock and hurls it at the next closest rifle. This one takes two tries, but it’s a goner too. Convict asks John to take out two more, just in case, which he does before we strike out for our last bit of the trek across the hard packed desert floor.

I look down.

“Rock.” Rodriguez explains from the other side of Juanita’s stretcher. “The sand just covers the tops and fills in the holes.”

As if I really care. I was only looking down because my legs are aching so bad. Long night, lots of jumping, and now this enforced trek during the day. Yeah, I’m going to be in need of a meal sooner rather than later.

We finally make it to the fence, and then stand there, hands on hips, looking stupid as we stare at the monstrous gate and the heavy duty mechanics that allow it to be opened and closed.

Bolts that drive into the ground, heavy gears. No open sesame is going to get those babies to slide open. I suppose I might be able to rip the industrial-strength chain-link off. Maybe.

As I contemplate my limb’s weak-as-a-newborn-filly feeling, Rodriguez steps forward, drawing a pair of bolt cutters from the pack he’d put together in the helicopter. “Thought these might come in handy,” he says as he makes the first snip.

Bless the man.

He makes a hole big enough for us to squeeze through. I’m the forth one through, after Brian, Rodriguez and John. We wait for the others, and then Rodriguez motions to the door of the cement building beside us which is hanging open in welcome. “So should we go in and say hello?”

For some reason this suggestion sets me on edge, a prickling sensation riding up my spine. So I’m surprised when Convict nods. “There might be a list or something of what’s in what warehouse. And besides, if we’re going to drive out of here, we’re going to want that gate open all the way.”

Good points. There are a lot of warehouses and a way to get out of here would be nice. Still… I look over at John. He’s scowling, staring at the gaping door.

“It’s going to be dark in there,” John points out. “And not everyone has night scopes.”

Ah, the limited pickings of a rag-tag militia.

Convict turns to Roy. “You grabbed those flashlights like I asked, kid?”

Roy nods, sliding his pack off his shoulder. He takes out four flashlights which Convict distributes. One for himself, one for Herbie, and two for Rodriguez who passes one to Blaine. I frown. Yeah, I don’t need one, and Matt and Brian both have night scopes, but what about John, his rifle doesn’t have one? Does this mean Convict isn’t going to send him in as the front sacrificial offering? And then I remember, this place is empty, cleared out at the beginning of the outbreak (storage facility or not, who’d survive out here in the desert?). All we’re doing is looking for information. That and a set of controls, which, come to think of it, unless they have some sort of mechanical override capability, won’t work with the power out. Brilliant.

“Let’s go,” he gestures to John.

John’s hands tense around his rifle, but he steps up to the door. I shift from one foot to the other as he pauses, then pushes it the rest of the way open. Next second he’s stopped again. His arm shooting out to keep Brian and me from stepping in behind him. “Wait.”

Yeah, I’ve always been so good with orders. I try and push past him into the yawning opening to see what the hold-up is, but get jostled as John tries to push us both back.

“Hey,” I start to object, but then stand there, mouth agape.

“Back up. Back up now!” John hisses.

“Why? What’s going on?” Convict squeezes in behind me, flashing his light over my head into the room, revealing what I already know is there. Dark black stains over the walls and floors, skeletal remains picked clean. I can’t believe I didn’t smell it but I guess my pure exhaustion and the dry desert air both had factors in that. That and the lack of flesh. No flesh to hold the bones together means no decay for the olfactory senses to pick up on.

Convict seems rooted in shock. “But this area was cleared out—”

“Before the virus got this far?” I ask. The answer is obvious: Not. Or maybe it was, but then other people took up residence—and died here.

“Holy crap.” Convict loses the sticky feet of shock quicker than lickity-split, his rifle coming up as he backs toward the door. “Everyone out. Now.”

I blink, a bit confused by the order. Yeah, it’s obvious the zombie virus hit here, but it’s just as obvious it was a while ago. And the few poor souls who were probably here when it hit look to be dead in this room.

John doesn’t seem to agree with me and grabs my arm. He shuffles me out in front of him then grabs the door and slams it closed. All it does is bounce on its hinges. The lock mechanics are as dead as the power.

“Roy! Lock down this door,” Convict orders. He’s obviously not thinking straight.

“There’s no power, Brice.” This comes from Rodriguez. And yeah, I really need to see about getting moved to this man’s team.

“Fuck.” Convict rubs his face, taking a deep breath. “Okay. It’s still day. We have a few hours. We’ll pair up and try to find a warehouse with a vehicle in it.”

“That could take a while,” John says, his voice is low, practically a growl.

Take a while? A few hours? I don’t get it. Other than the fact that everyone wants to get back to base ASAP, I don’t get what the rush is. “A few hours until what?”

No one answers me. Great.

“You know what this means, right?” This comes from John.

Convict rounds on him. “I’m not a fucking idiot.”

“Maybe someone wants to fill me in?” I ask. I get that the virus had hit here. I get that there might even be zombies alive still in some of the buildings that would become active come night. What I don’t get is why everyone is freaking. Even if there are a handful of zombies that managed to survive the blasted heat and slim pickings of the desert food pyramid, they aren’t going to be more than light exercise for our little group. Hell, John could handle them all on his own.

It’s not John, or Convict who answer. It’s Rodriguez. “This isn’t just a storage facility.”

I turn to look at him. “It’s not?”

“You know the underground bunkers where our base is located?”

“Yeah…” I say tentatively, not sure I’m liking where this is going.

“This one is bigger. Like LA to Palmdale kind of bigger.”