Hunger Chronicles (Book 1): Life Bites

Life Bites

Tes Hilaire

The Hunger Chronicles Book One

Copyright © 2013 by Tes Hilaire

Cover design by Patricia Schmidt (Pickyme)

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from the author, Tes Hilaire.

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

Excerpt of Fifteen Forever copyright 2013 by Tes Hilaire

Books by Tes Hilaire

The Paladin Warrior Novels:

Deliver Me from Darkness

Deliver Me from Temptation

Deliver Me a Paladin for Christmas (A Paladin Warrior Short)

Prince of Shadows (Dec 2013)

Other Series:

The Hunger Chronicles: A collection of zombie shorts

Life Bites

Fifteen Forever (Aug 2013)

For my readers…thanks for taking a chance on me.

1.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

I cross my arms across my barely-there breasts, watching, through half-lidded eyes, the confrontation on the other side of the room. Barrel-chested ex-con is having a shouting match with muscle-heavy marine. Convict has age and girth on his side. Marine has pride and authority. Not because he used to be a marine, but because he’s clawed his way to leadership of this rag-tag militia.

“Look at her!” Convict gestures to me with an ink-stained arm. “Thing couldn’t squash a bug. My team will spend more time protecting her than following my orders. And that’s assuming I’m not too busy protecting her from them to give those orders! Do I need to remind you what the ratio of male to female is down here? I’ve been in prison, man. I can tell you right now this isn’t going to work. You should put her down on C-level where she belongs.”

I sigh. Doesn’t take a genius to figure out what C-level must be: The women and children’s ward. I’d known from the start my presence here wouldn’t exactly be welcome. But I’d figured those objections would come later. Yet Convict has taken one look at me, my spiky pixie-cut, my freckled nose, my twiggy arms and legs, and gone into an epileptic fit of nuh-uh’s and no-way’s. And he doesn’t even know what I am yet.
And won’t that be fun when he finds out.

I suppress the impish thought, concentrating on looking tough, mean, and indifferent. Tall order. Short stature aside, the truth is I do care. This is my out. I need the protection of this underground desert compound if I’m going to stay under the radar. I’d bucked the system too long, pissed off the Queen Bee, and after months of running and hiding from her wrath I’m definitely looking for a new place to hang my spurs.

Hang my spurs. I almost laugh aloud. It’s something my dad would have said. One of those quaint sayings he picked up from his father and seemed determined to pass down. I used to roll my eyes at them, now I find myself using them more and more, as if by doing so I can somehow cling to a part of
that
life. The one I had before all this went down. The one I still dream about after another shitty day.

Don’t think about it, Eva. Here and now. Past is the past. Take the tomorrows as they come.

Even though I know it breaks my don’t-care-about-anything persona, I can’t help but peek at the rest of the party in the room. There’s only one other female, a muscle-bound Hispanic who might have been pretty if not for the jagged scar running from one temple across her smashed nose to her jaw line on the other side. She holds herself with authority and I suspect she might have been a cop or something before. I’m not intimidated by authority, but I find this woman scary. And given the dismissive glance she gave me when I walked in, she’s not into any sort of chick bonding.

Besides her and Convict, the rest of the group look like frazzled out newbies who have more training in the gym or on X-box consoles than in real life. They come from all walks of life, brought together by a common enemy. Zombies. Death without death. I know all about both.

I turn my attention back to the debate that has lowered into hissed whispers and accusations. Convict has moved past the obvious complication my tits are going to cause and is now centering his argument around my lack thereof. In other words, he’s not going to be a babysitter. I find it hard not to scoff at this. They don’t realize it yet, but they need me as much as I need them. Theirs is a losing battle. Even if they do win this war, manage to eradicate the zombie threat, they’ll find there is a new war ready and waiting to be waged. And I, believe it or not, am their herald and their salvation all rolled into one.
If
I can gain their trust.

I glance at the ticking clock on the far wall of the bunker, then back at the other team members who have settled into various positions of repose. If their resigned faces are any indication, they expect this argument to go on for a while. They must be far more patient than I. Standing here twiddling my thumbs is not what I’ve signed on for. I push off the wall and clear my throat, drawing the attention of every eye in the room.

“With all due respect, sir,” I address Marine, knowing full well that to Convict it will be another insult on top of the one I’m about to deliver. “If your men are going to have such a hard time working with me, then maybe I should go in alone.”

“Alone?” Convict scoffs, not even glancing at me as he shakes his head.

I cross the room, planting my feet well within his personal space in a demand he look at me. Works. Hard brown eyes glare at me from under heavy brows. That’s nice. I’ve already been through far worse than what that look promises.

“I’ve been told you have men alive down there. Alive and uninfected. How much longer do you want to sit here and debate this? How much longer do you think those men have?”

***

So that’s how I find myself on this metal lift now, Glock in hand, my grandfather’s Sheriff Knife strapped to my thigh, and a wall of manly chests—yup, even the woman’s chest is manly—barring my view of anything. Talk about claustrophobic. Good thing I’m not.

I crane my neck upward, studying the profiles of my companions. There are six of us total. Convict seems to have the authority but Scarface She-Ra is a close, albeit silent, second in command. Then there is Roy. Besides me, he’s the youngest of the bunch. Former high school nerd, maybe college. He’s tall, scrawny and with a face like a parrot. He’s our tech guy, or so I’ve been told. With the way he’s frowning down at the gizmo in his hands, I have to wonder at his skill level. There is also the latecomer, John, who met us at the lift with the guns. Beneath the camouflage face-paint he’s just that, your typical John Doe. Not too tall, not too short. Not overly remarkable in anyway, well, other than the powerhouse of weapons he’s carrying. I feel way underdressed for this occasion standing next to him. Last, besides myself, is Herbie. A bit short. A bit of a pot belly. And practically bald. He likes to snap gum and throw me winks over his shoulder every few seconds. Creepy.

I edge closer to Scarface and receive a sharp look followed by a roll of the eyes. That’s fine. She can think I’m a wimp if she wants to. I don’t need her approval. I’ll get that soon enough.

We don’t really know what we’re going to find down here. Just that it’s bad. According to Marine, the first alarm indicating a possible breach went off almost twenty hours ago, during the middle of the night. Expecting the danger to come from topside, he’d started issuing orders to rouse the troops. Almost immediately it became apparent that was a mistake. Dazed and confused, the soldiers from B-level sprang from their beds, carelessly running into the halls… and into the waiting arms of their zombie companions.

The theory is one of the men had been bitten by a zombie infected with a less prevalent strains. The S-strain as it’s called. That particular twist of the virus can take up to thirty-six hours to completely manifest and the soldier either hadn’t realized the wound he’d received was an actual bite—it happens in fights, injuries you don’t know the source of when the adrenaline is pumping and the world is going to hell in a handbasket—or he was hoping against hope that he was somehow wrong, or somehow immune. Definitely some wishful thinking going on there. I haven’t met a human yet who is immune.

Anyway, said soldier then goes back to his quarters, crashes, and wakes up a zombie. Maybe there had already been some blood to blood transfer between him and his comrades when they were tidying up after the mission. Maybe they all decided to zone out, sharing a bowl of popcorn over a movie. Or maybe, after his nap, he shuffles into the cafeteria for a late night snack and, what do you know, starts gnawing on his friends. If that was the case, then I guess it took a while for what that meant to sink in as Marine said there had been at least a dozen fully transformed zombies roaming the halls when the alarm had finally been pulled.

Regardless, as soon as Marine realized the danger was coming from below and not topside, a full- fledged lockdown had been called for. Soon enough to save the other sub-levels, but not in time for the rest of the hundred soldiers who live and train on level B to get to safety.

That’s why we are headed down now. We have to get in, take out the infected, and see if anyone is holed up and waiting to be rescued.

I find myself tapping my foot impatiently. This is the slowest lift I’ve ever been on. And could the gray walls inching by be anymore drab?

Eventually, the lift stops, jerking to a halt before a set of heavy metal doors. Roy gets to work, plugging in his electronic doohickey to override the mandatory shut-down. The rest of us wait, guns raised and ready, eyes trained like watchdogs on the cut down the center of the metal.

“Got it,” Roy calls triumphantly. The crack splits open three inches, stops, then haltingly jerks another six before sticking again. Roy pouts. “Kind of.”

Convict grunts, his Harbinger tracing a frantic path up, down, back, forth, up again before his gaze locks at some point in the distance down the poorly lit hall.

Nobody home.

“This it?” I ask and receive an incredulous glare from Convict.

Okay, point for him. The flickering lights, the warbling alarm, the narrow hallway made even more eerie by its lack of occupants… not to mention the smell of blood. Yeah. This is it.

“Just wondering what we’re waiting for.” I try to cover, but not a single set of eyes seem convinced.

She-Ra takes pity on me though and leans in close, saying, “Brice likes to meditate before embarking on his ass-kicking routine. He’s very in touch with his feminine side.”

This receives a growl and a, “Shut up, Juanita,” from Convict, but he nudges the tip of his rifle against the stuck doors to see if they will budge. Nope. With another growl, he glances over his shoulder at John, jerking his head forward.

I wing my brow up as John brushes by me, stepping up to the plate. What is he, stupid? Doesn’t he know it’s always the minority character or the forgettable one who gets offed first in the horror flicks? And last I knew we’re living the biggest reality horror show of all time.

John must not have seen many horror movies. He squeezes through the slim opening, taking up position a half-dozen feet down the hall. Convict still seems reluctant to leave the relative safety of the lift. We wait. Ten seconds. Twenty.

Getting rather sick of this.

I start to push forward, but Juanita beats me to the punch, snapping out a chastising, “This isn’t a party, Brice. Don’t pay nothin’ to be fashionably late here.”

Convict glares at her, but stuffs himself through the opening and out into the flickering light of the hall, taking up post two feet back and opposite of John. All this time, John hasn’t moved an inch. Completely on task, almost scary in the intensity of his focus. Gotta admire his dedication, even if it is going to get him killed.

Juanita and I slide through next and move out, shoulder to, um, well her torso. Sucks being short. I can’t but hope this means we might have bonded though.

When we’re all out in the hall, Roy sets to work with his doohickey again. Moments later, the metal doors clang closed. Trapped.

You can tell I’m not the only one feeling this way. Beads of sweat have sprung out across Herbie’s brow and Roy’s parrot nose is twitching like it’s stuffed with gunpowder. Convict’s eyes are wandering like a tourist in Rome, and John, if possible, has gone even more deathly still. Only Juanita seems unaffected. I know I am. But in a different way. I’m energized. It’s been a bit since I last kicked zombie butt. Or fed. Damn I’m hungry.

“Okay. Let’s move out.”

Guess Convict has decided to stop sitting on his thumb. He starts forward, motioning with a quick jerk of his hand for John to flank him.