Prey (The Shade Chronicles Book 1)

by T. K. Bradley

  Prey

  The Shade Chronicles

  T.K. Bradley

  Contents

  Also by T.K. Bradley

  1. Lori

  2. Lori

  3. Kenzo

  4. Lori

  5. Kenzo

  6. Lori

  7. Kenzo

  8. Lori

  9. Lori

  10. Lori

  11. Lori

  12. Lori

  13. Kenzo

  14. Lori

  15. Lori

  16. Lori

  17. Kenzo

  18. Lori

  19. Lori

  20. Lori

  21. Lori

  22. Kenzo

  23. Lori

  24. Lori

  25. Kenzo

  26. Lori

  27. Lori

  28. Lori

  29. Kenzo

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Also by T.K. Bradley

  Prey

  Shade: Stories from a Scorched Earth

  Predator

  Prey, copyright © 2020

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

  may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

  without the express written permission of the author

  except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover by EmCat Designs

  1

  Lori

  “Take my hand,” she whispers. “I’ll tell you a story.”

  I stare at the skeletal claw, with its papery flesh, lying inert on the white sheet. I try not to compare it to the strong, tanned farmer’s hand it once was. I lift it, weightless and freezing, from the bed and wrap my fingers around it. Gently, like I’m handling eggshells. I hold back a shiver.

  The look in her eyes says I haven’t disguised my disgust, my disbelief. I’m not fooling anyone, but at least I’m here, and that’s more than I can say for my brother Brent or my father. I avert my eyes and swallow thickly.

  I don't want to hear her stories right now. Not about sandy beaches and blue-green oceans. Not about high mountain peaks and an endless clear sky. I don't even want to hear about rain showers and snowstorms. Not when there's no chance of ever experiencing them again. She might as well be telling fairy tales.

  “How about I read to you instead, Mom?” Mom. My mommy.

  She murmurs indistinctly. Her sunken eyes are already closing, and I watch her chest rise and fall evenly to ensure that it won’t be for the last time. I set the book back on the bedside table; we’ll never finish it before Mom… leaves…

  I tiptoe out of the room. “Lori?” she groans.

  “Yes, Mom? What do you need?”

  Her breath rattles in her chest as she pushes the words out. “Dr. Kimura?”

  “Sure. I’ll send him right in. See you later?” She doesn’t respond, already sinking into a fevered sleep. “Love you.”

  Mom’s room isn’t much. I suspect it used to be the janitor’s closet, and I vaguely wonder where they put all the brooms now that Mom is taking up all this precious space. At least it’s better than what most get. I mean, it’s private. Four walls and a bed. Stepping out, the dim hallway feels cavernous in comparison.

  Down the hall is the hospital, or at least what passes for one around here. They used to have whole buildings designated to healing the sick, but it’s nearly impossible to remember. This is just one long room, lined on both sides with cots. There are only two patients in here at the moment, both scavengers, which means it’s a good day. They’re hooked up to IVs, heavily drugged, no doubt. Painkillers, one ration we always seem to need. I try not to glance at their pus-soaked bandages as I walk through the hospital to Dr. Kimura’s office at the back.

  He’s hunched over his desk but glances up when I knock softly and shuffles his papers out of the way. “Sorry to bother you, Dr. Kimura,” I whisper, even though I’m sure nothing could wake up those patients out there.

  “No bother, Lori. Never a bother. And please, I’ve asked you to call me Kenzo. We’ve certainly known each other long enough.” Kenzo has been the compound doctor for years, treating our malnutrition and scraped knees, even though he isn’t old enough to have graduated medical school pre-compound. He’s just the best of what we have to choose from. Lately, since my mother got sick, we’ve grown closer than just the standard doctor/patient relationship. We shared a brief moment of... closeness last Christmas, and now he looks at me with far too much tenderness. I have to tread lightly. He gestures for me to take a seat across from him, but I opt to stand; I’m not staying long. “How’s your mother doing today?”

  “Isn’t that my line?” I scoff, and instantly feel guilty for my attitude. “If you don’t know how your patient is doing, then we’re worse off than I thought.” I can’t keep the bitterness from my voice, and he flinches.

  He huffs a sigh. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

  “I know.” A painful pause stretches between us, broken only by beeping medical equipment. “She’s asked for you… Kenzo.”

  He acknowledges my peace offering with a small nod, then turns to his locked cabinet to grab an ampule of morphine and a sterile syringe pack. Nothing to do now but keep her comfortable.

  “Will you send for me if…?” No need to finish the sentence, Kenzo knows what I’m saying.

  “Of course. I’ll page all three of you.” He means my dad and brother. I wonder if they’ll even bother to show up to say goodbye when the time comes. Kenzo gives a sad smile and throws me a mournful glance before leaving the room.

  The hospital always smells acrid, like burn ointment and urine, which is probably exactly what causes the stench. Dr. Kimura—Kenzo—his office always smells like cinnamon, and I take a deep breath of it, trying to hold it in my lungs as I plow back out through the hospital with my head down.

  I contemplate my situation while heading to work at the garage. My mom… she’s going to die. There’s nothing any of us can do about it. Not me, not the doctor. Not even my dad, even though it used to feel like he could fix anything.

  There might have been a point in time when treatment was an option, but we’ve been down here too long. We’re getting weaker by the day, living off of vitamins and protein supplements. It’s not natural. We need sunshine and fresh air, meat and vegetables. We need to live, not just exist.

  My ill-fitting work boots echo off the metal floors as I wind my way through the maze of hallways. Turn right, two lefts, another right. The halls all look exactly the same, with their grey metal paneling and nondescript doors. It’s amazing we don’t all spend our days wandering the halls, lost.

  When I’m almost at the garage, I’m intercepted by a guard, faceless behind his tinted visor, barring my path with the butt of his rifle. “You’ll have to take a detour, Ms. Fisher. We’re disinfecting.”

  “Seriously?” I groan. I’m already running late after visiting with Mom. “I don’t have time for this.”

  “Well, if you want, you can always stay here with me instead. I have the authority to call ahead and get you dismissed from work duty for the day. It won’t cost you much.”

  I can’t see his expression behind his visor, but if his lewd hand gesture is any indication, I’m better off not knowing.

  I shove my middle finger against his visor, provoking his muffled guffaw, and turn on my heel, heading back the way I came. I guess I’ll just have to take the long route.

  By the time I get to the garage, I’m way past late. I’m lucky that my boss isn’t a total asshole, like some of the others I’ve worked for. Jose is approaching his golden years, and because of his important position in the community, he’s offered
a certain amount of slack. More slack equals less stress. I’ve even heard the guy whistle while working on the trucks. The dude is laid back.

  “Sorry I’m late, boss man.” I’m ready with my explanation, but he waves it away.

  “No apology needed, Lori. How’s your mom?”

  I wonder if he knows how sick I am of hearing that question. “She’s hanging in there.” My standard response. People don’t actually care how she’s doing. They don’t want me to go into the gory details about how she’s wasting away while we all watch helplessly. They don’t want to hear about how her teeth have started rotting out of her skull, or how she throws up any food she eats. They’re just being polite. So I give them the polite answer.

  “Are you ready to get to work?” Jose asks.

  “You know it.” Working in the garage is the best work assignment I’ve had. I’ve been working in the garage for three years so far, and will likely stay permanently now that I’m trained. We all spend our teen years being cycled through the duty roster until we find a good fit. Latrine duty is by far the worst because it always smells like… well, latrines. Can you imagine being the poor schmuck who gets pegged with latrine duty for life? If you’re lucky, you get assigned to the laundry rotation before working latrines, because the bleach will eventually sear the inside of your nostrils, and then you can’t smell anything. Kitchen duty isn’t too bad, except for the beast of a drill sergeant running the place. She actually smacks you with a wooden spoon if you add too much salt. “Rations! That’ll come out of your pay!” she’s always bellowing. Joke’s on her, we don’t get paid. The whole place smells like burned protein mush, but if you have quick fingers, you can snag the occasional snack when the Beast isn’t looking. If you like snacking on protein mush, that is.

  The garage, however, smells like grease and fuel, like rust and metal. And on a good day, when the scavengers return from a trip, you can catch a whiff of real, bona fide air.

  Today is going to be one of those good days.

  “Why don’t you get started on sorting that bucket of bolts,” Jose says, pointing to a literal bucket full of assorted screws and nails. “And when you’re finished, you can get started on that bucket of bolts.” This time he points to a rusted truck chassis.

  I give a small smile; one of the few I haven’t had to force lately. The truck really is a lost cause, but Jose lets me tinker around with it. It brings peace to my tangled mind. On a normal day, we split our time between tuning the trucks, repairing any small appliances brought in, and sorting through the various pieces of scrap that get hauled in from supply missions. Today, however, we’re just killing time until the ground crew comes back in. They left early, at first light, to maximize their time. They would’ve had to hole up somewhere for the hottest hours in the middle of the day, and they won’t be back until just before sundown.

  As long as everything goes according to plan, that is.

  I sit down on my rickety stool and run my hand through the bucket’s contents. I finger the pieces of steel, leftovers of a land long dead. Their points haven’t dulled, their grooves just as sharp as they ever were, ready to be used again. I wish I were as strong as these scraps, able to withstand the wear of time and trial. I squeeze a fistful and let the sharp bits of metal bite into the skin of my palm. Not hard enough to break the skin, but enough to remind me of where I am and what my purpose is.

  Because without a purpose, my life here is forfeit.

  Just like my mom’s.

  I get to work putting finishing nails in one bin, roofing nails in another. Screws sorted by size and by head. I can’t keep the smirk from my face while I contemplate all the sexual innuendo contained in this bucket.

  Jose glances over, and I swear he knows what I’m thinking. I straighten my expression, but he still gives me a strange look. Time to change the subject.

  “Do you think they’ll bring back anything useful today?” I ask Jose.

  He takes his hands out of the inner workings of a fried microwave and smooths back his greying hair. “I’m not sure, cariño. The pickings are slim around here. We’ve scoured all the local shops, so they were going to go a bit farther out today. But if this keeps up, they may have to go for more than one day.”

  “More than one day? But that’s...” I start.

  “Suicide?” Jose finishes for me.

  “I was going to say unheard of.”

  Jose continues like I hadn’t spoken. “Trust me, they’ve thought about any other possible options, but the truth is, there’s just nothing left. And without the supplies they bring in, I’m not sure how long we will last. This place wasn’t designed to be in use this long.”

  I finger the worn fabric of my coveralls. Most of the compound members dress in scrubs, since they stumbled on a medical clothing warehouse about a year ago. I, however, have the privilege to wear denim coveralls because the grease and oil would destroy the softer cotton scrubs right quick. What else will we have to eventually live without, besides clothing? Tools and building supplies, and the all-important fuel. Even the occasional dry or canned goods, now well past their expiration dates but edible nonetheless.

  My shoulders sag as I think about Trey being gone for days at a time. I wouldn’t call Trey the love of my life, exactly. He’s more like a distraction. I try my best not to claw the eyes out of all the women who ogle him, while simultaneously trying to keep him from ogling them back. It’s a full-time job, and I’ve got nothing but time.

  Trey is one of the elite around here. One of the untouchables. Only the strongest of our community are hand-picked to be a scavenger. It’s a dangerous job, but the perks far outweigh the risks. Sure, you have to withstand unbearably high temperatures out there, and you may end up with third-degree burns if you’re not careful, but within these walls, you live like royalty. You get the plushest bed to get a good night’s rest. You get actual meat instead of the bland and squishy protein meal the rest of us have to choke down. My family lives pretty well because of my mom’s important role in food production, but the scavengers are a level above us all, second only to the bigwigs who run this place.

  Jose heaves a bone-weary sigh. “They want to take our supplies,” he says, gesturing to our meager stockpile of scrap metal, “to build some kind of reinforced bunker.”

  “A bunker,” I repeat, confused. “Why would they need a bunker? It’s not like they have to worry about the sun at night. In fact, why don’t they do all their scavenging at night, rather than risk the burns during the hottest part of the day?”

  “Lori,” Jose says with a sigh, almost disappointed with me. “Don’t pretend you haven’t heard the rumors.” I look up to meet his eyes. He’s dead serious.

  I try to laugh off the heaviness in the room, but it comes out as a weak chuckle, thin and watery. I know what he’s talking about. “The rumors are ridiculous, boss man. They’re fairy tales, like the troll under the bridge, or the witch that fattens up children to eat for dinner. They’re meant to scare little kids into behaving, to keep them inside where it’s safe. You don’t seriously believe them, do you?” But I can tell by his rigid stance that he does.

  “Fairy tales often contain a grain of truth; a truth that is too dark to tell our children but must be remembered nonetheless.” Suddenly my easygoing boss has become Nostradamus, minus the beard, prophesying our demise.

  “Okay, seriously dude, you’re freaking me out.”

  “Good. You should be freaked.”

  Jose is nowhere near the top of the command chain, but he still hears things. His direct boss, Magnus, is known for his loose lips when he’s had a drink or two. Jose doesn’t often let the gossip trickle down to my level, so it really means something when he lets something slip. And now I’m not sure whether I want to know more… or less. Unfortunately, that bell can’t be unrung. I can already feel my curiosity itching under my skin.

  A chill settles over me. And it lingers through the rest of the day. Jose doesn’t say much after he dropped his
boogeyman bomb. He retreated into his office, keeping a wary eye on the garage door. Several times I caught him testing the radio to make sure it was still working. Was he expecting the crew to run into problems out there? Does he know something I don’t? I don’t think I’ve ever seen him this unsettled.

  After lunch — protein paste sandwiches and a couple wrinkly tomatoes I snuck from the garden — I grab some tools and get working on my special project, aka “total waste of my time.”

  It’s essentially just an old truck frame that I’m reinforcing with sheets of steel. I’m hoping that it will one day have the approximate strength of a Medieval battering ram. I have glorious daydreams of it plowing through the streets, pushing aside all the rusted wrecks left behind during the city’s “great escape.” Most of the city’s population was evacuated by the military to safe compounds like this one, and everyone just left their cars in giant traffic jams as far as the eye can see. A whole ocean of metal, just ripe for the taking. Or so Trey tells me. I have a hard time buying all his far-fetched tales of the world outside.

  Trey might not be the sharpest nail in the scrap-metal bucket, but what he lacks in brains, he makes up for in hot air. That’s one thing Trey is full of. Stories. He always has time for his adoring fans. Too much, in some cases. We’ve all heard the rumors about the fairy-tale monsters. It’s the exact kind of story he loves; one where he can be the hero protecting us weaker folk from the big bad.