Prey (The Shade Chronicles Book 1)

by T. K. Bradley

  I trudge towards the other side of the room and see that one of the office doors is ajar. I make a beeline for it but stop a few feet short.

  She’s back.

  The woman’s voice seems less menacing now, more pleading. “You can’t just leave me here!” she hisses.

  “I’m not leaving you,” Bob insists, in a tone that suggests they’ve been having this discussion for a while. “I’ll be back in a day or two.”

  “No. You won’t. That world will chew you up and spit you out.” Cynical much?

  There is a clatter from the room, scuffling, a struggle of some kind. “Stop it!” Bob says, louder now. “You’re being ridiculous! I would never leave my baby girl behind, and you know it!”

  Now I’m seriously confused. Baby girl, like his daughter? Did he somehow find Kelly and not tell us? Or was she never missing in the first place? Or maybe he has a second daughter? I can’t blame him for keeping her hidden from us, strangers that we are.

  And somehow, I get it into my head that I need to tell him this. I need him to know that he can trust us. His daughter has nothing to fear. Hell, she can even come along, if that would set everyone at ease.

  I square my shoulders and push the door open. “Bob? Look, it’s okay, we’re…” I trail off, eyes scanning the room. Bob is standing, aghast, in the center of the small office. Unlike the rest of his penthouse, this room is sparsely furnished, just a small desk and chair. Nowhere for a woman to hide. And yet… she isn’t here. “Bob?” I say again, confused.

  Bob’s look of fear slowly morphs to suspicion, and then into rage. I’m already backing out of the room when he comes at me, stalking across the small room. “What on earth are you doing in here? Didn’t your daddy never teach you no manners?”

  “What? No, I—” I stutter, my heart pounding, adrenaline forcing the blood through my veins double-time. “Bob, I’m sorry! I-I didn’t mean to interrupt anything. Was that your daughter? Where did she go?” I step back, trying to keep some distance between us.

  Bob stops, and a look crosses his face, somewhere between confusion and grief. And then he crumples in on himself, slumping to the floor on his knees. When he starts sobbing, I can’t help but look over my shoulder, sure that someone is pranking me. What the hell is going on here? This guy’s mood swings are even worse than mine.

  I shake myself out of my stupor and kneel beside Bob. I hesitate before gently placing a hand on his shoulder. At the contact, he flings his arms around me, blubbering into my shoulder, his tears soaking through my shirt. I pat his back in the least condescending way I can manage. There, there. After a few minutes, his shuddering breaths slow and he stills, finally gaining control of himself.

  Once the crying has stopped, I almost regret the void it brings. Should I make him cry again, just to fill the silence?

  “My daughter is dead.” His voice is brittle, weakened and cracking. “She never would have left me, not without good reason.”

  I sit on the floor, stunned. Well, I guess he had considered the possibility of his daughter's death, no need to bring it up. But... I can't help but still be uncertain. "Where did she go?" I ask.

  I cringe as he blows his nose into his shirt cuff. "This was a couple years ago. We lived day to day, scrounging for scraps. There used to be more survivors back in the beginning, but there wasn’t enough food to go around. I raised her to be careful, to be smart. Then one day, she told me she met a guy out there, that he could get her some supplies from the government. I didn’t trust him, not one lick. I dunno if they were stolen, maybe. Anyway, she started bringin’ back cases of food. Then one day, she went out and just didn’t come back."

  "And you haven't heard from her since?" My mind is spinning. The government? As in, the compound? What would they have done if she had shown up on their doorstep?

  Bob shakes his head, eyes focused on his hands in his lap. He seems so... empty. Not at all like the bubbly Bob we've come to know and... well, tolerate.

  “You can't know for sure," I find myself saying. "Maybe she’s still out there, unable to come home?”

  Bob pats my hand, still resting on his shoulder, kindly. “You don’t need to patronize me, girl. We both know the truth of it.” He rises back up onto his feet, bringing me with him.

  “But, that woman—” I begin.

  “Isn’t real,” he finishes for me. “I was just tired of being alone. I figured a little bit of make believe wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

  “So, she’s… you?”

  “Me.”

  “I’m so confused,” I moan.

  “Can’t blame you for it. I’m just as confused and I’m the one who’s living this dual life.” He nods his head with all the grave seriousness of a complete wacko.

  “Right,” I say, because this is one of those moments where you feel the need to say something. Anything. And what else am I supposed to say? I need my dad. Now.

  Bob doesn’t scare me, not really. When I look at his disheveled form all I see is an overdressed broken man. I don’t know how to fix this. When I take a step away, intent on asking for Dad’s advice, Bob’s head snaps up. “Where do you think you’re going?” Which I suppose is a natural question, in normal circumstances, although perhaps a little rude. Except that, while Bob’s mouth is moving, the voice that utters those words is not his. It’s the same, high-pitched feminine voice I’ve heard planning our deaths.

  “Uhhh… I was just going to talk to my dad.” I expect him to smile his lopsided grin, and to demurely apologize for his oddities.

  “A likely story,” the Bob-woman says. “You’re probably planning on leaving without dear old Bob, am I right?”

  Was he… er, she… listening to us earlier? I'm frozen in indecision. "Didn't I hear you saying that you didn't want Bob to leave? That you wanted him to stay here with you?"

  "Don't try your bullshit with me, girlie," not-Bob's voice says in a high falsetto. "You would say anything, do anything, to save your family. We're not so different, you and I."

  I hop back away from Bob as he swings his arm out, making a grab for my shirt. "You mean psychotic? I'm just a woman trying to survive the apocalypse. What's your excuse?" I hiss back. Is this what Bob's daughter actually acted like? I wonder if he's ever thought about the fact that maybe he's better off without her.

  Bob's face crumples into a grotesque mask of anger. I'm just a second too late realizing what he's about to do. He crouches down and then bounds towards me, taking me out at the knees just as I turn to run. My body pitches forward and my chin hits the floor with a sickening crack. I can taste blood. No time to worry about my injuries; Bob is pulling himself along the floor and up my body. I squirm underneath him until I can flip myself around. He straddles my waist, his knees on either side of my body. I flail my arms around as he tries to pin them under his knees. "Bob! Stop!"

  "Leave my dad alone!" he shrieks, spittle dripping into my face. He gives up on trying to pin my arms and goes straight for my throat instead. His hands lock around my neck, clamping down tight.

  "B-Bob," I try to plead with him through my constricted throat. My head feels heavy, thick. My lungs are screaming for air, my vision darkening. "Kelly..."

  With that one word, the grip around my neck loosens marginally. I look up at Bob and see a look of clarity drift across his expression, confusion and regret.

  And then suddenly, he's gone. Air floods into my lungs in a rush. I turn my body to the side and cough, my bruised airway complaining at the abuse. Bob lies on the ground a few feet away, knocked out cold.

  "Are you okay?" Brent asks, hovering above me.

  I can't answer him, but I give a weak nod through the coughing fit. When I'm done, he lifts me up and brings me back to where our dad is resting. "I'll go take care of Bob," Brent says, leaving Dad and me in the bed.

  Dad and I stare at each other in silence for a moment. Neither of us are at our best, but I just hope that I can find the strength to get the medicine my dad needs. I've just now decide
d that staying here with Bob might not be the best option long-term.

  Wait... What did Brent mean when he said 'take care of Bob'? I can't imagine he meant that he would kill Bob. I don't think. Probably not.

  But what if he did? I try to adjust to this new way of thinking. Kill or be killed. I wonder if I'll ever be able to be as ruthless as the scavengers have had to be. As ruthless as Bob's alter-ego has become. As much as I hate to admit it, I can almost relate to Bob. Almost. He has been put in an impossible situation. Left alone for years, not knowing if his family is alive or dead—or anyone human, for that matter—clinging to the tattered remains of hope.

  And Brent might be killing him.

  I bound out of the bed and run after Brent, my legs like leftover oatmeal. "Brent! Wait!" My voice is barely more than a raspy whisper, my ruined voice box being pushed to its limit.

  Brent catches me just as I'm about to flop onto the floor. "Hey, where's the fire?" he says. He shouldn't joke when it's always a very real possibility.

  "Don't kill him," I whisper.

  "Kill him?!" he says, looking entirely insulted. "You thought I was going to kill him?"

  "Well, you said you were going to 'take care of him,'" I say with a shrug. It sounds ridiculous now that I'm repeating it.

  "What are we, the mob?" he scoffs. The corners of his mouth pull down into a frown. "I can't believe you think I'm capable of cold-blooded murder."

  "I'm sorry, I wasn't thinking straight." My apology, though it comes across as genuine enough, is still too little to assuage his hurt feelings. "So, how did you take care of Bob?"

  Brent shrugs and leads me to the office where I had found Bob/Kelly earlier. He opens the door and steps aside so I can see. Bob is still out cold, slumped against the back corner. His hands have been tied with a power cord, likely ripped from a lamp, and attached to the radiator. "He's not going anywhere anytime soon."

  "Brent?" I say after a pause.

  "Yeah?"

  "Thanks. I don't know what I would have done without if you hadn't—" My voice breaks and I swallow back my threatening tears.

  Brent puts a hand on my shoulder, and I spin around and fling myself into his arms for a hug. He stands frozen for a moment, then pulls me in tighter.

  Keeping our distance from each other isn't something you get used to. Humans naturally crave contact, but after so long, I was beginning to worry that it would never feel natural again. But with Brent's arms squeezing me tight, I realize how silly it was to worry about. I'm happens naturally, just as it should.

  Brent finally breaks the hug. "Come on, it's almost time to go."

  "Right," I agree. Dad's not going to get better on his own, and Bob's psychotic break hasn't changed anything. Except now we need to make the trip without his help. I hope his directions were at least accurate. Who knows how long Kelly has been sabotaging us from within. The thought of it sends a shiver of unease through me.

  We catch a few hours of restless sleep while we can. We need our energy for our dash to the hospital. Now that Bob has been... incapacitated, we're left in a bit of a jam. Not only are we short a guide who knows the terrain, but we're also short a vehicle. I have no clue where Bob stashed our truck. I assume it's in the garage somewhere, but we have no way of knowing exactly where, and we can't exactly go out and take a peek. Our available time window is small, and without a single second to waste, we'll just have to assume we're going for a walk.

  Our bags are packed, and sunrise is approaching. I check on Dad to make sure he's comfortable before we head out. His eyes are closed, and his breathing is getting labored. "Dad?" I call to him quietly.

  He opens his eyes and peers up at me. "Is it time?" he asks.

  He's calm. Almost too calm, if you ask me. I place a hand against his forehead and school my features. He already knows how sick he is, he doesn't need my panic. But he also doesn't need my lies, like those told to placate a child when a parent is trying to protect them from some invisible danger.

  Everything's going to be fine...

  "We won't be long," I tell him, straightening his sheets to keep my hands busy and to avoid meeting his gaze. I pull the blanket up to his chin, then fold it in under his arms. "There. All tucked."

  "I could still come with you," he says. As if to punctuate his point, he throws the covers back.

  "Hey! I just fixed those for you," I say with a pout, and he tsks.

  "Look, I know I'm weak, but I can still be useful."

  "Without the car, we may have to run, Dad. There could be monsters, or we could get burned. If we get stuck in a scenario like that, it would be a death sentence." I attempt to pull the blankets back over his body, but he swings his legs over the edge and sits up to put his feet on the floor.

  "Staying here could likewise be a death sentence." His face is set with grim determination. He's putting on his shoes before I can think to pull them away.

  I need Brent. If not to help convince him that this is lunacy, then perhaps to strong-arm him back into bed.

  Lucky for me, Brent appears at the curtain's edge. His weak smile evaporates as he takes in our father's current state. "What do you think you're doing?" he blurts out.

  "I'm coming with you," he states again for Brent's sake.

  "Like hell you are!" Brent tries to wrestle our dad back into the bed but gives up when he sees that one of them is going to end up hurt, and it will likely be Dad. "I need you here to keep an eye on Bob. He's probably going to end up hurting himself, or burning the building to the ground." At Dad's withering stare, he adds, "He may be one of the last survivors outside of the compound. Don't we owe it to humanity to keep him alive?"

  Dad pauses in his struggle, and I latch on to the thread of resistance that Brent has started. "Yes! Think of humanity!" I pipe up. Dad and Brent both look at me, eyebrows raised.

  Dad sighs, but he doesn't disagree. "Fine. At least let me see you guys off safely. Where is Bob, anyway?"

  "I've got him tied up in the office," Brent says, gesturing over his shoulder. I'll get him a drink and a snack before we go, but maybe just check on him later, make sure he doesn't need anything." Brent's smart, giving Dad a task to keep his mind off going with us. I can't imagine how hard it will be for him today, wondering if we'll ever be coming back.

  "I'll do it," I say. "I'll take care of Bob if you want to grab our bags. I'll meet you by the stairwell in five." I've had a chance to say my goodbyes. Brent deserves a few minutes of quiet with our dad.

  Brent sits on the edge of the bed while I sweep through the curtain. I trudge across to the office and find myself grumbling about how large the space is. Seriously? Not three days ago I was whining about how cramped our living space was, and now it's too much? God, I really am impossible to please, aren't I?

  "Bob?" I call, tapping on the door. I'm not sure exactly why I bother to knock, it's not like he could possibly be indecent. "Bob?" I call again, turning the key in the lock and pushing the door open slowly. "Ummm... shit."

  The corner of the room is empty. The power cord lies limp, dangling from the radiator, no Bob attached. I stand staring at the empty space for a moment, too stunned to move. The door was locked; where the hell did he go? I look behind the door, remembering all too clearly the way he popped out of the wardrobe at me when we first arrived. He does love his dramatic entrances. I then check under the desk—no Bob—but there really isn't anywhere else for someone to hide in this room.

  I spin around in circles in the middle of the room. Besides his discarded restraints, there is no sign that anyone was even here in the first place. And then I see it. There's a tiny sliver of early dawn light, cutting through the dim interior. I look to the window. Sure enough, the boards covering the window are loose. "Brent?" I call out the door.

  "What?" he calls back.

  "I think you'd better come and check this out."

  I play my fingers through the narrow strip of sunlight, testing the level of heat. It's warm, but nothing I can't handle. I slip m
y fingers into the gap and pull the boards back. They're loose, the nails once tacking it down now unfastened from the frame. I hear Brent come into the room behind me. "What is it? Bob giving you trouble?"

  "You could say that." I gesture to the loose boards.

  "Shit," he says. My exact thoughts.

  He joins me at the window, and together we peek out. The window opens onto the alley, and too conveniently, onto the fire escape we had once tried to climb. Brent sticks his head all the way out. "Anything?" I ask.

  "No," he says, giving his hair a frustrated tug. "Where do you think he went?"

  I debate my answer. "Well, I guess he could have gone down, but I don't see that as being a Bob move."

  "I agree," Brent says, nodding and stroking his chin in an exaggerated pensive look. I slap his hand down, and he continues, "Why would he leave his only guaranteed safety and supplies. Although, he knows where our truck is, so technically he could just drive away."

  "Sure, I guess. But where would he go? He never showed any interest in leaving." When we started talking about leaving, Bob had done everything he could to convince us to stay. Our trip to the hospital was just a day trip, but he genuinely seemed to want us to return here to him.

  "What about the compound? He might try to raid them?" Brent was just thinking out loud, putting voice to all the possibilities, but neither of us really thought it was likely.

  "We didn't tell him where it was. Plus, I'm fairly certain that the compound's security is tight enough to keep out Bob's wily stealth methods," I say. I really need to get a hold of my runaway sarcasm. It isn’t helping our situation. "Plus, keep in mind, it wasn't really Bob driving the body. What would Kelly do? That's the real question."

  "So I guess that just leaves one option." Brent and I lock eyes. "Revenge."

  Nothing good can come from this. I'm suddenly regretting tying Bob up, even though he was trying to strangle me. Part of me toys with the idea that maybe putting him down is the only sure way to keep him under control, but the thought sickens me. Who the hell have I become when murder is starting to look like a smart option?