Hunger Chronicles (Book 1): Life Bites (8 page)

The opportunity never arises. The streets are as dead as they were at the beginning. If I weren’t so desperate for a lone zombie to snack on, I’d find this hopeful. The apocalypse of the zombie apocalypse. They will die. Starvation will get a species every time.

Three blocks from the highway we catch up to Convict, Brian, and three other bedraggled looking men who can only be what’s left of Rodriquez’s team. They are covered in grime, bloodstains, and obviously fatigued. Of course, I don’t look much better. Which is why, as we draw near, Rodriguez and his men all jerk to full attention, lifting their guns. I stop where I am, hand on my hip. Yeah, yeah. Look like crap. And not knowing who and what I am, the newcomers think I’m about to go loco and start biting teammates.

And they’re not right, Eva?
My stomach grumbles at me.

“Hold your fire,” Convict orders. “She’s immune.”

“You shitting me?” the man I assume is Rodriguez—he’s the only Hispanic in the group—asks incredulously.

Convict sighs. “Men, meet our resident vampire. She feeds off zombies though, not humans.”

“Or so she claims.” This comes from Brian. Should have known the man wouldn’t be one to sing my praises. Frankly, I’m surprised Convict did. Then again, as John had said, I do make Convict’s team look good—when I’m not falling on my face and getting my butt kicked.

John steps ahead of me, showing his trust by giving me perfect exposure to his unprotected back. I’m touched, even if my canines do throb.

“I recommend we get moving, sir. We lost them, but with all the noise we’ve made, I won’t be surprised if more come out of the woodwork.”

John’s logic amazes again. More amazing is his ability to keep things on track without actually challenging Convict’s authority.

A nod from Convict has us moving again. Brian waits for me to come abreast of him before he starts walking.

“Didn’t get your snack, little girl?” he asks, his eyes raking over my wounds.

“No. And I’m not a little girl.”

“How long ago were you turned?”

“A year and a half.”

Which makes me eighteen and a half. Kind of. I still haven’t figured that one out. Do birthdays count when you’re undead?

“Just a baby then.” His eyes narrow, his lips thinning to the point of nonexistent. “Pretty good control for a baby. Must have been a damn powerful vampire who turned you.”

His words bring a flash of memory. A dark sweep of hair, killer eyes to match a lethal smile… literally.

I curl my lip as I brush by Brian to catch up to John and Convict. I don’t want to think about the vampire who turned me or analyze why just that brief flash of memory has my chest tightening in a painful clench and my limbs threatening to freeze up for an altogether different reason than starvation. I
am
in control. . Out here I am my own person—or vampire as the case may be. Back at the hive—well, Brian is right. The vampire who turned me is powerful. That makes me powerful too, though not powerful enough to be anything more than a slave to him and his queen.

We walk the streets at a brisk pace, meeting no opposition. Where is a lone zombie when I need it? My teammates are not going to be happy if I ask them to hang at the Humvee while I track down a snack.

I’m gnawing on my lip and almost miss the soft shuffle of sound from around the next corner. Is that? Yes! A heartbeat. I break into a jog just as the zombie stumbles around the grimy building. A threadbare suit hangs off an emaciated frame, the listless eyes are vacant as it stares at us—uh, hello, prey—and the hollow planes of its cheeks give little hope of a tummy filling meal. Still, beggars can’t be choosers as my father would say.

Before anyone else can react, John cuts it down at the knees, sending the zombie to the pavement in a pool of blood. It makes a pitiful sound like a moan. Five other guns lift up.

Hell no. “Hold your fire!” I yell, jumping forward.

Convict glares at me.

“I need to feed.”

“No way. Nuh uh,” Convict says, his voice rising with each word until spittle starts to fly from his mouth. “You are not going to bite that sucker in front of me.”

“Then I suggest you turn around,” I say, brushing by him. Not like I have a choice. Not like I want this any more than he does.

“Private Harper!” A gun ratchets behind me. The skin on my back twitches. And then Convict delivers in a deadly calm voice, “Do it and you’ll be off my team, as in O-F-F.”

I hesitate, my feet sticking to the blood-stained asphalt before the zombie that is bleeding out. I don’t think Convict will really kill me. Leave me behind maybe, but not kill me. Still, his words strike closer to home than any well placed bullet ever could. The desire to fit in, to please, is almost as strong as my instinct to leap onto the fallen zombie and suck the blood down my throat before the rest of it drains onto the pavement.

My stomach rumbles. The clawing hunger tearing a path past my esophagus and threatening that place that holds that last bit of humanity. Nope, no contest.

I reach down and grab up the writhing zombie. There are some things in this world worth dying for, but popularity is not one of them.

8.

Then…

My phone vibrated across the Formica table of the food court, making me jump so high I practically dropped the fry I’d been about to stuff into my mouth. With an I-can’t-believe-you glare at my companion across the table, I snatched the antiquated Motorola up and keyed through screen after screen to retrieve the text.

OMG!

I knew, of course, who the message was from. Carrie. Best friend and confident since sixth grade. We’d been two misfits who’d hit it off at our first awkward lunch period together. She’d been as hopelessly shy as I, until she got her first cell phone. Now Carrie couldn’t stop talking—as long as it was via a keypad—or touch screen. I tried not to be but I was extremely jealous of her pretty new iPhone.

I considered ignoring the text, but one glance across the table had me deciding to play along. I rubbed my greasy hand off on my napkin and typed back. ? Short messages. That was all I could handle on my phone. Took too long to key through all the letters and pick out the right one.

Five seconds later my phone was buzzing again. Damn that girl was fast.

I candy. My high noon.

I started to crane my head to see behind me and was rewarded with a kick in the shin. “Ow! What was that—”

I glared at the girl sitting across from me and closed my mouth. There was nothing like Carrie’s glare to suck the insubordination out of you. I envisioned her as a drill sergeant someday—as long as she could find and download a mean-ass ring-tone ending in “Do we have an understanding, soldier?”

Her fingers frantically flew over the touch-screen of her iPhone causing mine to vibrate again: Don’t B a doof.

I rolled my eyes, painfully and slowly texting her back. How do I tell if hot, if cant look?

Can’t look. He’s looking @ U!

I swiveled my head around. Of course I had to look now. We Harpers were the epitome of obstinate. Or maybe that’s senseless. Hmm. Didn’t know and didn’t care, I still had to look.

Across from me Carrie groaned. “You are such a dweeb. That’s not how you play it cool.”

Yeah. And Carrie knew all about cool. Not. This was the girl who, last summer, picked the state-of-the-art computer over an all-expense-paid-trip to Europe that her absent CEO dad offered as a forgive-me-for-divorcing-your-mom bribe.

My gaze landed on the guy leaning against one of the tiled pillars behind us. Holy crap. Carrie was right, on both accounts: he was totally eye candy and he was so looking at me. Which was totally weird, I mean, why would a guy like that be looking at me? I was shy, skinny, short and he, well, was not. His head topped the blue swath of tiles that I knew for a fact were a good foot over my own short five-foot-two height. His pose was casual confident. Well-muscled arms folded across his black t-shirt clad chest. A really nice chest, with broad shoulders that leaned down into the trim cut of his vintage jeans.

A runner, maybe, or basketball. I didn’t peg him for football, but basketball was big around here and would lend to that kind of tall, lean build. Yet I couldn’t see him as being from any of the nearby school districts. If he was on one of the athletic teams that Flagstaff High went up against, I should have recognized him. I’d certainly gone to enough games while crushing over Kyle. I was still smarting over that. Practically a year wasted sitting in the stands going all dewy-eyed over the Flagstaff’s star player.

Never again.

I tried to drag my gaze away, but couldn’t seem to take my eyes off Mr. Candy. There was something about him, something I thought I should recognize. I still didn’t think I’d seen him at any of the athletic gatherings, but maybe I’d seen him somewhere else. It might not even have had anything to do with high school. This guy looked old enough to maybe even be in college. He also had that dark brooding thing going for him; the dark hair that skimmed his well-defined jaw line, the heavy brow that shadowed his eyes.

Eyes that were currently, and implausibly, boring into mine.

And I still couldn’t look away. Something about his gaze held me pinned like a butterfly in a display frame. Which is what I probably looked like in my tie-dye t-shirt, high-tops, gopped on eyeliner, and frizzy hair.

Damn dress rehearsals. And damn me for not having insisted on going home to change before letting Carrie drag me to the mall.

I blushed, spinning forward again just as my phone vibrated. This time it was with great relief that I had something to do other than contemplate my complete and utter humiliation. I mean, yeah, he’d been staring—probably blindsided by my outfit—but I’d been staring right back and been totally enthralled by what I’d seen. I punched through the buttons, my fingers fumbling on the keys so it took me a while to pull up Carrie’s text.

Isn’t he 2 die 4?

Well yeah. If you meant die of a broken heart. He had untouchable written all over him. Way out of my league. You get passed up in favor of the big-boobed cheerleader enough and you learned. Carrie tended to be more optimistic than I, though, so I knew it was going to take some nipping in the bud to get her to knock it off.

“No, what is to die for is my outfit.” I plucked at the multi-colored T. “Killer, isn’t it?”

This received another glare and twenty seconds later, a buzz.

U r so annoying. He’s looking right @ u!

I snorted. “Yeah. He’s probably blindsided by all the colors.”

She rolled her eyes, leaning urgently across the table. “Stop it. You look awesome. Anyone with half a brain would get that you are practicing for the Footloose Musical. The posters are plastered all over town.” She waved her hand around to indicate the large food court we sat in. “Even here.”

I frowned down at my half-eaten fries. Maybe she was right. There were posters plastered all over the place. Carrie, along with the rest of the art department, had made sure of that. She’d been almost as proud as my mom when I got a part in the musical. Even if it was just a bit part. Still, posters aside, it didn’t do anything to negate the fact that Mr. Candy was obviously playing some sort of game. I wasn’t ugly. But nor was I beauty pageant material. More girl-next-door. If a guy like Mr. Candy was interested in me it was for one reason and one reason alone: Sex. Thank you, Kyle, for teaching me that.

As if I were some sort of masochist, I found myself glancing over my shoulder again, only he wasn’t there anymore. I tried to ignore the sinking feeling in my chest, the one that felt suspiciously like disappointment. Idiot.

I looked back across the table to say I told you so to Carrie and caught her wide grin. Oh crap. That wasn’t good. Carrie only smiled like that when she was up to something. Something bad.

Someone slid into the seat beside me.

“Can I join you?” A deep baritone voice drawled, even as a long tapered hand shot out to grab one of my fries. Like he already had rights to my fries. Jerk.

“No.” I snatched my container of fries up, shifting them to the other side of my tray. He may have been cute—all right, hot—but he obviously thought he was all that and more.

Carrie kicked my shin again. I yelped.

“Of course you can join us,” Carrie said, plastering on a beamy smile that was worthy of an Oscar. Huh, why hadn’t
she
tried out for the musical?

Carrie went on, her voice all sorts of bubbly and sweet. “My name is Carrie and this is my friend Eva.” She leaned in closer over the table towards Mr. Candy, lowering her voice into a conspirator’s whisper. “You’re going to have to excuse her. She didn’t want to come here after her dress rehearsal, but I dragged her along.”

My mouth dropped open, staring at the two-headed monster who’d replaced my best friend. Not only was she betraying me, but she was talking—coherently. I was the only one Carrie could talk to without stuttering. Well me and this really repressed guy who’d recently joined her art club. Carrie turned into Chatty Cathy whenever he was around. Something about flowers flourishing in the desert or something.

“My name is Raoul,” Mr. Candy said, his deep timber voice dragging the R and rolling the L in a way that was oh so French and oh so sexy.

I scoffed. Probably part of the charming act he used to get high-school virgins to give up the cherry-topped sundae.

He turned his gaze on me. “Eva. That’s a beautiful name. And very fitting.”

I didn’t really hear what he said. I was too busy staring. His eyes were blue. An icy-pale blue that made me think of a Siberian Husky, or a Caribbean sea frozen over. And they were pinned on me again. I rubbed my sweaty palms on my jeans, taking a hard swallow to void my mouth of pooling saliva. Crap. What was wrong with me? I really didn’t like my body’s betrayal. Raoul wasn’t doing anything and I was all but hyperventilating. Which meant, of course, that I had to say something snide.

“Raoul. Sounds French. And perfect for a French fry thief.” Okay, maybe not my wittiest comeback ever, but at least I let him know that I wasn’t going to do the gooey-eyed drooling thing over him.