Hunger Chronicles (Book 1): Life Bites (4 page)

We make it to the mess hall. One glance and I can tell Juanita is straining at the bit, dancing from one foot to the other. “We splitting up again?”

Convict looks at his group, his eyes falling heavy on Herb, Roy, and finally me. I get the impression I’ve been lumped in with the pair of cowardly lions on his trust scale. “You can really sense their heartbeats?”

“I wouldn’t be a very good vampire if I couldn’t.”

His mouth purses. “We stick together. John and Eva at point.”

And four muzzles at my back. Nice.

Juanita spins on Convict. “But it will be faster if we split up.”

Convict’s back stiffens. “If she really can do what she says she can do, then we can practically skip through these halls. Right?”

“I can do it,” I assure them, mostly for Juanita’s sake. There is definitely someone down here that she’s worried about.

“Let’s go then.” John steps over the newest addition to the zombie morgue and enters the west hall. I scramble to follow. For someone who seems so methodical, he can sure move fast when he wants.

I move out behind him, all but clipping his heels. “Hey, want to slow down a touch? Hard to hear over all the stomping and heavy breathing you guys are making.”

He throws me a look but tempers his pace. I need not have worried. There are only six heartbeats here and they belong to us—yes, my heart does pump blood, silly misconception, that. A hundred feet and a corner later, I know why. The hall before us is filled with half-gnawed bodies and piles of dead zombies. Gashed throats, bloody eye-sockets. Someone has already been fighting the good fight. Impressive, given all they would’ve had on them was their standard issue K-bar. Guns get checked at the door. There’s not enough to go around, so the only peeps who have them are those assigned to a mission or those, like me, who brought theirs from home and had the balls to say no when the goons at the doors wanted to commandeer them as hostess gifts. If there had been a few ballsier gun smugglers living here, this situation might not have been as bad as it is. One gun, in the right hands, could have stopped a handful of zombies in their tracks. But with only a knife to work with? Yeah.

“Anything?” Convict pipes up from behind us.

“Only living thing in this section is us. Least so far.”

Convict grunts but doesn’t order us around. We’ve been twisting and turning, running a zigzag pattern so as to pass every room in this section. The schematics had shown a tightly packed block of living quarters laid out on a grid of hallways. Though there are a lot of rooms, we have to be nearing the end. It’s just when I think this that the first thud-thud of another heartbeat breaks into the rhythm of our little group.

I hold up my hand. Everyone stops, including John who seems preternaturally aware of everything, even though, being ahead of me, he couldn’t have seen my signal.

“You got something?” Juanita asks, her voice pitched high and reedy.

I shake my head, stepping past John as I try to sort out the faint life-pulses from our own. “Seven heartbeats ahead. One close, the other six behind a door or a wall.”

“Let’s do this then.” John cocks his gun, edging me out as he resumes his position of point and disappears around the corner. I curl my lip but follow, Juanita brushing my side in her eagerness.

John’s stopped just beyond the turn. I follow his gaze down the short hall, past the pile of zombies, past the stack of metal chairs, to the man standing at the end. Beneath the strobe of the red emergency light, I can’t make out much more than that he’s tall, bald, and broad. And, oh yeah, he has a blood-stained knife in his trembling hand.

“Damon!” Juanita lunges forward. Belatedly I reach for her, but miss. John doesn’t, snatching her in mid-air as she leaps over the first dead zombie. She screams, thrashing against his iron hold.

“Brice!” John yells.

Convict brushes by me, taking the hysterical Juanita from John’s arms.

“It’s okay, Nita. John’s just going to check things out.” Convict’s tenderness has my brow rising, but I don’t contemplate it for long, my attention back on John as he assesses the man who’s cracked Juanita’s tough-bitch shell.

John takes a deep breath, his brow drooping to shadow his eyes. Lifting his gun to ready, he takes one well-placed step after another down the hall.

“What you got in there?” John stops just this side of the barrier of chairs, nodding toward the door Damon is guarding.

Heartbeats pass as Damon shifts his gaze from John, to the door behind him, to the floor littered with zombies, then back to John. “Six survivors. They’re twitchy, so make sure you let them know who you are before you try and go in.”

“And you’re not in there with them, because?”

“Someone had to hold the line.” Damon glances down at his sleeve. The material is suspiciously dark and clingy—as if coated with blood.

John pulls something from his belt. A click and a small flashlight flickers on. He lifts it, flashing the beam in first one eye then another. “Ah fuck, Damon.”

Hell. The S-strain strikes again.

Juanita screams and about tears her arm off trying to rip free of Convict’s hold. I step up, wrapping my hand around her other arm. I have to clamp down hard on her, bruising skin. She’s tougher than even I imagined, though not tough enough for this. Tears are streaming down her face. Coward that I am, I look away. Too bad there is nowhere to look other than back down the hall.

Damon is staring at Juanita. He swallows, pulling something from his pocket and reaching over the chairs, deposits it in John’s hand. “Keep an eye on her for me, will ya? Don’t let her do anything stupid.”

John’s gaze cuts back to Juanita. “I’ll do my best.”

Damon nods. “It’s been a pleasure, man.”

“Ditto.”

“Do it,” Damon says, closing his eyes.

John hesitates less than a fraction of a second before he steps back, lifting his gun. Juanita makes a choked cry. Convict sucks in a breath. And I? I’m a terrible person, because as John’s finger dances twice across the trigger, all I can think is: What a waste of perfectly good blood.

4.

I sit in the hard metal chair, picking the blood from under my fingernails as Convict drones on, briefing Marine on the events that occurred down on B-level. I’d stopped listening five minutes ago. After the first extravagant tale of Convict’s heroics jerked my head up and around to John—the only other team member in the room—and saw that he wasn’t going to debunk our “fearless” leader, I’d lost interest.

Damon dead. Juanita in medical, heavily sedated and under suicide watch. And only eleven survivors to show for our efforts. There were six in the room Damon protected, the other five we found scattered in various hiding places as John, Convict, and I cleaned out the second wing. Herb and Roy had been all too glad to skip out early to bring Juanita and the first batch of survivors up to medical. Fine by me. Without the dimwitted duo, our sweep through the rest of B-level was quick, lethal, and without any self-serving BS. Well,… my gaze drifts to Bubble-head Brice, unless you include taking sole credit for the efficient clean-up self-serving.

Marine must have seen through Convict because he finally cuts Brice’s debriefing off. “Very good. I’ll expect a written report by end of day.” Marine’s gaze travels to John. “And you can tell Juanita that an entry telling of Damon’s heroics will go in the chronicle.”

John dips his head. “Thank you, sir.”

“Dismissed.”

An entry in a journal that may or may not survive the zombie wars seems a faint memorial to me, but it’s not my place to say, so I push up off my chair, the metal gritting against the concrete flooring.

“Eva. Can you stay for a moment?” Marine’s question is more of a command than a request. I wait for John and Convict to leave the room. As they pass, John gives me what might be construed as a sympathetic look—on a poker player—and Convict eyes me balefully, a warning in his gaze. I smile, showing fang.

“Did you get a chance to grab some, uh, dinner?” Marine asks as soon as the door closes behind the now pale-faced Brice.

I turn back to him, hands folded in front of me in a show of docility that both of us know is false. “A light snack, sir.”

“Ah.” He nods, his brow crinkling. “I have a group out now. I can see about having them trap one and bring it in.”

I shake my head. “That’s not very sporting, sir.” Not to mention dangerous for the soldiers asked to bring the zombie in alive. “I’ve gone longer without. If you can get me on a night-time mission in the next couple days, it should suffice.”

He studies me for a long time, his eyes traveling over the holey shirt and then the head wound that is being stubbornly slow in its healing.

“They’re nothing, sir.”

“They are something. They’re evidence that I was an idiot not to disclose your… a… nature to the group I assigned you to.”

I appreciate the implied apology, but, “We discussed that beforehand. We both decided it would be best if my vampire status was not made common knowledge.”

“And that worked out so well.” He blows out an exasperated breath, planting his hands on his hips. “Done is done. I’m going to have to make an official statement and I can guarantee there will be some here who won’t be thrilled with your presence.”

“Don’t worry. I’m not expecting a room full of welcome baskets. I just want a place to sleep during the day.”

The corners of his eyes wrinkle up in his version of a smile. “And access to an endless supply of zombies.”

“That too.”

“All right. But keep your doors locked when you’re in your room. And try not to kill my men if they decide to file their complaints in physical ways rather than talking to me.”

“I didn’t kill Roy, did I?”

“Which still amazes me. I want to kill Roy.”

I smile at the moment of camaraderie. Almost a week of nighttime travel from the dive Marine had recruited me at to this base has given me insight into the man leading this rag-tag militia. Dependable in a kick ass kind of way, somewhat desperate—had to be to have recruited me—and determined to win, no matter the cost. He is a marine to his core. But he’s also a man, one who becomes tired and exasperated just like everyone else. And right now I can tell he is worried over his decision to bring me here. As much as he may want to, he won’t kill Roy. Now more than ever, Marine needs every man he can get, and for that reason he won’t want me killing Roy either. Or anyone else under his command.

“It’s okay, sir. I promise to play nice. They’ll get used to me.”

He blows out a deep breath, shuffling his papers together and gathering them up. “I hope you’re right.”

Taking that as a dismissal, albeit, not an encouraging one, I leave the room. John is waiting in the hall, feet crossed as he leans against the white-washed cement. I hide my surprise, tipping my head in acknowledgement.

“Get everything straightened out?” he asks.

“Straightened out?”

“It was killing you to sit there while Brice spun his tall tale.”

“Fairy tale, more like.”

John’s lip quirks up at the side as he nods. Wow, he does know how to smile… kinda.

“Nothing like that,” I say as I start down the hall. John falls into step beside me. “Marine, um, the commander was just wondering how I was fitting in.”

“And the bloody clothes didn’t tip him off?”

“He’s half thankful, half disappointed I didn’t kill Roy.”

“Understandable. Everyone wants to kill Roy.”

I do an unladylike snort in response. I have a feeling Roy and I might end up having that in common. Marine is right. My being a vampire is going to cause issues. Which really bites. I don’t relish the thought of being back on the surface scrounging for wandering zombies and begging sanctuary from the desert wildlife that guard their dens.

And then there is the whole having run away from the hive thing. I go back out there, wandering around, and there is a very good chance I’ll eventually cross another vampire’s path. And if that happens…well, I could bet my Queen would hear of it. And the prospect of that is enough for me to do just about anything to stay hidden down here. Even biting my tongue, and playing nice.

We reach the end of the hall where the lifts are. I press the down button and wait. John is silent beside me and no diversion to the uneasy path my thoughts are trekking. Overreacting. Chances are slim that the queen would waste the energy to cross territorial boundaries to hunt me down, and I’d crossed at least two. No, my queen may have wanted my heart carved out of my chest, skewered with a stake, and then roasted over open flame, but she was also the type of queen who wouldn’t want to owe another hive ruler any sort of debt.

The lift finally arrives. I roll my shoulders, shrugging off the worries I can do nothing about and follow John inside. He presses the button for A-level. My floor too.

“Want to get some grub?” John asks as the lift starts its slow decent.

I turn to look at him, trying to figure out his game. Is he asking because he wants to quiz me more or is this some sort of misplaced idea of getting-to-know one’s teammate?

“I’m a vampire.”

“I’m not up on my research. Do vampires eat or not?”

I narrow my eyes. At some point he’d gotten a chance to wash the paint off his face. He’d also deposited his guns back in the locker room. I realize he’s younger than I’d originally pegged him. The weapons, the grim scowl, and the camouflage clothing had made him fade into the background. But now I can see that his eyes, really nice eyes actually, have no lines around them, and that his jaw is not just firm, but smooth.

Nineteen? Twenty? Certainly not much older than that…which makes him, at most, a few years older than me, yet too old to actually be interested in my never-going-to-grow-a-real-chest self.

Alarms go off. Shields go up. I barely resist the urge to fold my arms across my barely a blimp on the radar boobs. “What gives?”

He shakes his head, obviously confused.

“Why do you want to hang with me?”

“Is there a reason I shouldn’t?”

My jaw drops open. I don’t bother to repeat the I’m-a-vampire line. If he didn’t get it the first time, there’s no hope for him. The door opens, revealing another hall like the one below us on B-level, only this one is well lit and now has two soldiers with guns guarding the door to the mess hall at the end. Marine isn’t taking any more chances.