Hunger Chronicles (Book 1): Life Bites (6 page)

“What happened then?” I ask.

“We don’t know. Their radio went out at that point.”

“What makes you think they’re still alive?”

“The communication cut off seems to be of a technical nature, not, well...”

I nod, but I’m thinking that it seems slim. Still, I have to admire the man for not calling his soldiers a lost cause. “So what’s the strategy?”

“Rodriguez was in charge of the mission. Depending on circumstances and how much they were being pressured, he’d either hole up and wait until an extraction was possible or he’d confiscate a vehicle and attempt to get out of Dodge on their own.”

He lays his finger on the point where the police station is. “If they grabbed a ride here, they would most likely head up H Street to 23
^rd
where they’d head for Route 178. If we’re lucky, they’re halfway back to base by now and you’ll meet up with them on the road.”

Convict’s brow furrowed, shaking his head. “Route 178 brings them way north.”

“It does, but I know Rodriguez. He’d want to find the fastest route out of any populated area and then use the back roads to make it down to 58.”

The scruffy soldier who’d helped escort me up leans over the map. “I’m betting all the downtown streets are filled with abandoned cars. He would need a tank to get through that.”

“Or a swat van,” Herbie offers.

“Maybe,” Convict concurs, though he, like me, doesn’t seem convinced.

“Or they could have picked up a car closer to the highway,” I suggest.

Marine shakes his head. “Rodriquez would hole up rather than risk a dozen city blocks.”

“So he’s either halfway home by now, or holed up in that police station making his last stand.” Convict makes a sound like a scoff. “How in the hell are we supposed to get to them if they’re stuck that deep in?”

“Hopefully you can get pretty close in the Humvee. If the roads are blocked, you’ll just have to go in on foot.”

“Great. Wonderful.”

I find myself silently echoing Convict’s sentiment. Only my internal voice isn’t weighted down by saccharine sarcasm, just pooling saliva. I’m going into a zombie zone. Payday has come.

“If they’re holed up, then most likely they have quite a crowd by now.” Marine shifts his attention to John, then me. “No heroics. If you can clear a path to get them out, great. If not, then it’s going to be Brice’s call whether you fall back completely or try to employ a Bert strategy.”

“Oh, yeah, what fun. I just love playing bait.”

I blink at Convict. Bait? That doesn’t sound nearly so fun. Nor does it sound all that sane either. I turn back to Marine. “Bait?”

“Bert,” Marine corrects.

Convict snorts, but doesn’t contradict him this time.

Neither of our fearless leaders seems willing to offer an explanation, so I turn to John. He glances at Marine, who nods.

John clears his throat. “One of our best team leads for rescue missions was named Bert. He developed a double team strategy that allows the threat to be drawn away from a group of holed up civilians while the second team rescues them.”

“Yup. Strategy BERT:
Bumble
into a known zombie zone,
Entice
them with the lure of fresh flesh, then
Run
like hell and
Try
not to get yourself killed in the process,” Herbie puts in, emphasizing the pertinent words for the acronym.

On second thought, let’s skip that. I’m all for hunting down some zombies, but if I wanted to volunteer for suicide, I could have just stayed with the hive.

“There’s more to it than that.” The muscle-bound soldier who’d been hanging in the background finally speaks up. “The goal is to lure them into a trap along with the simultaneous rescue of the civilians.”

Convict turns to him, disgust clearly written on his face. “And it worked so well for good ole Bert.”

“Enough.” Marine ends the discussion, drawing all eyes back to him. “Your team isn’t large enough to pull off a true Bert, but you still might be able to draw their attention away so the other team can slip out. Regardless, those are all decisions for when you’ve arrived and assessed the situation.” His face darkens. I can imagine what he’s thinking. A smart commander would probably pull the plug on the lost men without sending us in. Either there is something important about this team and the mission they were on, or something else is going on here. Maybe it’s pure guilt, maybe not. Regardless, Marine’s is a job I don’t envy. The weight of having to send men and women to their probable deaths would crush me. Though, perhaps, no more than the weight of allowing mankind to die off under the zombie onslaught.

Marine lifts his head, meeting each and every one of our gazes. “No heroics. If an extraction is possible, go for it. If not, then I don’t want you engaging. Pull back and come home. Got it?”

6.

Pull back? No way. Whether the extraction is possible or not, I’m not pulling back. It’s not because I’m a hero either. I stare down at the hands that are shaking in my lap and then carefully stuff them beneath my thighs, hoping that the others in the armor-clad Humvee haven’t noticed or will have attributed the shakes to nerves.

What I am is a junkie coming off a high. Almost a week without a real meal. My vampire physiology is doing what vampire physiology does and breaking down my blood for my enhanced functions faster than my still human bone marrow can replace it. If I don’t find a donor soon, I’ll be a walking corpse—literally. But first comes the mindless, blood-crazed animal stage. I’ve hit that level of hunger once before and plan to never repeat the experience. Rather be staked than repeat the experience.

Be careful what you wish for, Eva girl
, one of my dad’s mottos echoes in my head. Understandable. All it takes is a quick glance around the dim interior to show me five possible volunteers. Sitting in the passenger seat is Convict. Next to him, Herbie who—who knew?—is some kind of crazy NASCAR driver. Here in the back is John along with the muscle-bound replacement for Roy, who I’ve learned is named Adam, and Brian—the ammo-drenched scruffy who is currently sharpening his knife. Nice.

Neither Convict nor Herbie worry me all that much and John and I seem to have some sort of weird teammate bond going on, but the other two are wildcards as far as I’m concerned. Muscle-bound Adam is obviously military. He wears his fatigues with the type of ease that only hours of sweating and grunting in them during basic training could ever have accustomed a man. Brian, I’ve concluded, isn’t Army, or Navy, or Marines—no, nothing military about the scruffy mountain man—but there is no doubt he’s something else just as intense. It doesn’t sit well with me, the not knowing.

I clear my throat, leaning across the interior to be heard over the high whine of the straining engine.

“So…what were you before?” I ask Brian. No explanation is needed on what before means. There isn’t a single human who doesn’t define their life by it: The day the zombies came.

The knife caresses the stone in one last long earsplitting grind. Brian stuffs the knife back in its sheath, then turns his head toward me, his ice-chip eyes locking on the freckles across my nose before sliding up to meet my gaze. “A hunter.”

“Ah.” I can see it. This man would be totally in his game tracking down, killing, and gutting open helpless little Bambies. I try not to judge him—who am I to talk?—but the tree-hugging, PETA-sympathizer teenager I’d been thins her lips in disapproval.

“Vampire hunter,” he expounds.

I blink, half expecting him to erupt in a ground shaking belly-laugh. I mean, vampire hunter? Come on. Before the apocalypse, the vampire population laid real low. Only people who believed we were real were Goth-freak teens—who would believe them?—and our victims—who didn’t tell. Even if somehow this man had been in the occupation of staking my ancestors, then I still don’t get why he’d agree to be on a team with a vampire unless… Oh crap.

His gaze remains hard on mine. No joke. Okay then. I swallow hard, fisting the hand that wants to reach up and cover my throat. Brian’s lips part, cigar-stained teeth flashing as he gives me the first real smile of the night.

“This is as far as we go,” Convict announces as Herbie eases up on the gas.

Thank God. I can’t imagine continuing on with that conversation. Holy hell. I have the kick-ass steroid version of Buffy on my team. Can we say sucks?

The Humvee lumbers to a halt, and I push my personal drama backstage to the one we’re about to walk into. Weapons, set aside for comfort, are grabbed up as peeps scoot closer to the door. Someone taps me on the shoulder. I spin around and come face to face with John’s war-painted features.

“Stick close to me.” His gaze drifts to where Brian is tossing another ammo belt over his shoulder.

I find this to be a good idea. I nod. “Like white on rice.”

This earns me a flicker of a smile. There and gone again before I can be sure there’d been emotion enough to produce one. I’m still trying to decide whether I was imagining things when Convict gives the command to move out.

Brian and Adam exit first, then John and I. Lastly, Convict and Herbie pop out of the front cab. I take a look around. Brian was right; the streets are littered with abandoned cars. We hadn’t even made it down the exit ramp of 178 and the roads are impassable.

The skin around Convict’s nose draws tight as his gaze sweeps across our surroundings. “Herb, you and Adam stay here and guard our ride.”

Herbie’s lips part into a kid-in-the-candy-store smile. “No problem, Chief-o.”

Convict gives Herbie a glare but doesn’t say anything as he signals the rest of us to move out. We start our descent into hell, slinking down the on ramp between the abandoned cars, the glass from smashed windshields crunching under our boots. It’s something out of a doomsday movie: burnt-out buildings, the wind blowing small clouds of litter down the abandoned streets…skeletons. Too bad we can’t click the remote and change the channel.

The ramp narrows as we approach the bottom and are funneled into a bottleneck of crashed cars. Convict gestures, electing John and me for point. I’m going to assume that’s because John’s a suicidal yes-man and I’m a walking zombie-sensor, not because Brice wants Brian to be able to mow me down at a moment’s notice. A vampire hunter? What is Marine thinking putting us on the same team?

“You awake back there?” John asks calmly from over his shoulder.

I blink, realizing I’ve let my gun drop low and am a good car crash behind him. Wow. Smack me upside the head. I normally am not so brain-foggy that I can’t think and hunt at the same time. My hunger is taking its toll and in more than one way. Every step brings along an ache in my thighs and a wobble to my knees. Dehydrated, anemic. Yup, I’m going to have to attend to my needs sooner rather than later. It’s a short hop from hungry to desperate.

Only problem is the pond seems to be empty. Here we are, four perfectly good hunks of flesh walking into downtown Bakersfield, and nary a zombie in sight. I can’t sense any either. I mean, WTF? Have they all killed each other off?

I swipe a hand across my throbbing temple, reposition my clammy palm on the grip of my Glock and pick up the pace. My blood pumps like lead through my body, but I manage to stay abreast of John this time.

We make our way over to Chester Ave and then start heading down, the empty storefronts yawning at us indifferently with their jagged glass teeth. The entire city is eerily quiet. Nobody home—least no live bodies. There are a fair number of skeletal remains that we have to step over, both human and animal. As far as a zombie is concerned fresh human flesh is best, but in a pinch Fido will do, or even Rocso the rat. There isn’t even a song bird to break the silence. Eggs, I guess, are a step up from gnawing on each other.

“Freaky,” Brian mutters from a few yards behind. “Where are they?”

“Dead, dying, or killing one another off,” John replies.

Or out hunting for Rodriguez and his team. But that goes without saying so I keep my mouth shut and press on.

We walk another block before the first signs of life hit my senses. A gentle thrum of heartbeats, too many to distinguish just one.

I hold up my hand. John draws up, looking at me with a question in his eyes.

“What is it?” Convict asks as he comes up alongside.

I jerk my head to a service street that leads west. “They’re that way.”

His heart starts hammering, the stink of fear-induced adrenaline leaking out through his pores. “How close?”

“At least a couple blocks.”

“How many?”

I should have anticipated that question. “Too many to count. Hundred, two. Not sure.”

There is a string of curses, then, “Okay, let’s go, but slow now.”

Slower than we’ve been going? A turtle could move faster. John shifts into low gear, each footfall silent as a ninja in a vacuum. His patience astounds me. Maybe I’d have some too if my stomach wasn’t gnawing on my spine.

The service street ends on another north-south running side street. John glances at me. I nod to the left and we turn south. Halfway to the next intersection we begin to hear the low grumble of gathering zombies. My heartbeat skips, saliva pooling in my mouth. Though I try to rein myself in, my footfalls elongate and I end up kicking a flattened soda can across the pavement. I cringe, and then cringe again when John clamps a hand on my arm, his look lethal as he firmly places me an arm length behind him.

We begin edging forward. I think I’m going to die of impatience, or at least starvation, when we finally reach the next cross street. John’s hand snaps up and he settles down behind a brick sidewalk planter, his gun resting on the rim. I edge up behind him, my attention fixed on the shuffle of movement around the intersection to the west.

Zombie central, indeed. There is a zombie block party that wraps around three rundown buildings, the center of which is an old movie theatre that the thickest congregation of zombies seems to want admittance into.

“I’m betting I know where our friends are holed up,” Brian whispers as he settles into a crouch behind me. I squirm at the closeness of his presence.