Prey (The Shade Chronicles Book 1)

by T. K. Bradley

"Holy shit!" Brent blurts past his labored breathing. "How did you know?"

  "I didn't," I tell him honestly. "But I did some math, and we've never seen more than three at once. I think they were just throwing rocks around down there to make us think there are more of them than there really are. I don't think they outnumber us, at least."

  "Thank God for small mercies," Dad mumbles as he lowers himself to the ground to rest.

  We don't have a ton of time, but enough to catch our breath. The air tastes of smoke, and when I look up into the bleached sky, my eyes are instantly brought to the thick column of smoke roiling into the cloudless sky above. I try not to think too hard about what part I played in the potential destruction of the entire city. Will the fire make its way as far as the compound? Would they see it coming and do something to stop its progress?

  I’ll just shovel it onto the steaming dumpster fire of guilt already eating me alive from within.

  I turn away, wiping at my eyes. “It’s from the smoke,” I mutter as my dad places a hand on my shoulder. I shake him off and turn away, checking the sun’s progress to gauge what time it is. Late morning, most likely. The sun is high enough to burn if we come into contact with it, so we'll have to play it safe and keep to the shadows, but it'll make travel difficult.

  Just as I'm starting to wonder how on earth we're going to make it anywhere safe by nightfall, I see it. And it's glorious.

  I don't say a word. I just point. Brent follows my finger and his jaw drops. "Is that what I think it is?"

  "Hells yeah it is!"

  Dad looks up from his spot on the ground, and I can see the same look of surprise and amazement that I feel mirrored on his face. There, sitting in front of us in the middle of this abandoned landscape, is a massive RV. Even at a glance, I can tell that it hasn't been here long, its red racing stripe not at all faded by exposure to the elements, and only a thin film of dust grazing its shiny paint. Where the hell did this thing come from? And while I would expect alarm bells to be ringing at its unguarded presence here, I find myself brushing any worries away. I refuse to be paranoid about the fact that it looks like the most obvious kind of trap ever. It's the cheese, and I guess that makes us the mice.

  I move to take a step towards it, but Dad is already pulling me back with a hand on my arm. "Haven't I taught you better than that?" he scoffs at my unbridled excitement. "What do you see?"

  I give an exaggerated sigh and scan our surroundings. "I see one set of footprints."

  "What about them?" he prompts again.

  I barely contain the whine that is just begging to be released. I feel like I'm a kid all over again, being schooled by my father. I force myself to analyze the whole scene. "I can still see the RV's tracks in the dust, and one set of footprints leads away from the driver's door." And that's when I see the second set. "There," I say, pointing. "There was a second person over by the rear of the vehicle, and they meet up over there," I say, leading my finger in the direction down the street.

  "The real question," interrupts Brent, "is why they abandoned their RV."

  Dad nods. "It's a fair question."

  "Maybe it had something to do with those." I nod at the misshapen marks in the dust on the other side of the RV. "I may not have gotten a good look at their feet, but I'm betting those are Ripper tracks."

  "It's a safe bet," Dad agrees, tugging at his hair. I can see he's getting frustrating. He may be feeling physically better, but his mind still isn't running on all cylinders. "Well, one thing is for certain. They've been gone long enough that I'd bet good money they're not coming back."

  And that right there is probably the best reason that the RV was abandoned. The people are likely dead, plain and simple. "So... they're not going to need it anymore?"

  "Damn straight," Brent says, picking up what I’m putting down, and this time when Dad reaches out to stop him, he's too slow. Brent swaggers up to the monstrously huge vehicle. Dad and I follow at a distance, but Brent doesn't wait for us to catch up before swinging the driver's door wide open. "Would you look at that? It's unlocked!"

  "Brent, don't—" Dad barks at Brent as he hops up into the cab behind the large steering wheel.

  "Ha!" Brent laughs, and we're both drawn forward to look at whatever is bringing the huge smile to his face. I feel like we haven't had reason to laugh for too long. Even long before we left the compound. Brent, however, looks genuinely pleased with himself.

  "What the hell is so funny?" I ask him, but my harsh words belie my actual mood as the corner of my own lips are turning up involuntarily. I can't help but join in his infectious grin.

  He holds one hand up, his index finger extended, and dangling from it is a set of keys. "They left the keys?" I say in utter disbelief.

  "Yep," he says, popping his P. "They practically giftwrapped it!"

  Dad is already shaking his head side to side. "No, this is all wrong," he groans. "Am I the only one feeling this?"

  "Feeing what, Dad? Paranoia?" I pull myself up beside Brent so I can lean into the cab. I look over the headrest and see the entire length of the vehicle is decked out in pointless glamour. Just like the exterior, the inside is also layered in a thin film of dust, but otherwise, it's an ideal escape vehicle. Windows are heavily tinted and covered with thick drapes; easier for you to sleep, I suppose, while lounging across your double bed in the private bedroom. I feel an intense wave of jealousy before I realize that this RV has just become ours. The jealousy quickly turns to pride.

  I turn back to Dad and say, as gently as possible to cushion the fact that both his children are ignoring his advice, "Don't look a gift horse in the mouth, Dad."

  He scoffs. "Sure, but imagine for a second that this is a Trojan horse."

  "You want to climb in and make sure there's nobody hiding in the cupboards?"

  He rubs a hand over his face, taking a deep breath. I recognize his giving-up face. He knows when he's beat, and quite honestly, there isn't any legitimate reason for him to fight against this. All signs point to this being a fantastic idea. Finally, when he's had enough of Brent and me staring at him, he says, "I'm driving."

  It's just as well, since Brent and I have never had driving lessons, and the one and only time I got behind the wheel of a vehicle, I just about smashed it into the front of a hotel. "I have no problem with you driving," I tell him, and his shoulders sag a little in relief.

  Brent vacates the driver's seat and moves into the back. I climb through as well to join him, and Dad pulls himself up and settles himself into the cushy seat. The leather upholstery groans as he wiggles down into it. He hesitates before closing the door, and when he finally slams it shut, we all hold our breaths, expecting something momentous to happen.

  When nothing does, Dad slides the keys into the ignition. "You know this might not even start, right? What if they abandoned it because they ran out of gas?"

  "Huh," I say. "I hadn't thought of that. I guess we all got a little overexcited. That's not a bad assumption, actually. I kinda feel stupid now."

  He turns the key with a flick of his wrist, and the engine, surprisingly, gives a brief sputter and then roars to life. All three of us have matching grins, and for just one second, we forget about all that we had to go through to get here. "I feel less stupid now," I say.

  "Me too," Dad agrees. "Well, let's do this."

  "Where are we going, Dad?" Brent asks. In our frantic dash to get away, we never did discuss Dad's grand scheme.

  "Greenhouses," he says simply, looking back over his shoulder at us.

  "Huh?" I say. "Greenhouses are made of glass. They are pretty much the worst possible place to hide. Did you forget the sun?" I say, pointing overhead. "Or that glass breaks? Not the best barrier against the monsters."

  I'm about ready to just drive forever into the sunset. Maybe we could find some island somewhere. I wonder if the monsters can swim...

  Dad interrupts my thoughts. "I'm not talking about living in greenhouses, I'm talking about grow lamps, specifically
."

  "We're going to grow something?" Brent asks, but I'm starting to put together a clue as to what Dad's talking about.

  "Simulated sunlight," I say, and Dad's eyes gleam.

  "Yes!" he says excitedly. "Greenhouses have grow lamps that can simulate sunlight through the winter when the days are short. Well, obviously heat isn’t the problem anymore, but if we can rig up some kind of generator or battery packs, maybe we can run the lamps during the night to keep the monsters at bay."

  And, as the constant bearer of bad news and pessimism—or as I like to call it, truth—I interrupt with my finger raised. "But..." I say, and Dad turns his attention on me, "we don't know for sure that simulated sunlight will have any effect on them. The flashlights were nothing more than a minor annoyance, and honestly, if someone shone a flashlight in my face, I would be annoyed too."

  "Well, yes, we'll need to run some experiments, obviously."

  "Obviously," parrots Brent. "You can count me out of those experiments, thank you very much. Nothing good can come from baiting those things just to run a few tests."

  Dad simply frowns at him but doesn't dispute what he said. "I'll be the first to admit that my plan isn't without holes, but do either of you have any better ideas?" When neither of us pipe up, he continues: "It's not like we have anything better to do."

  Fair enough. Let's throw ourselves headlong into danger because we have nothing better to do. Although, even standing still seems to be dangerous these days. "I'm in," I say, and give Dad an encouraging nod. "Let's see if we can find ourselves some greenhouses."

  Brent looks between our father and me, and blows out a sigh of defeat. "Fine. Sure. I guess I'm in too."

  "Right then," Dad says and straightens in his seat so that he's facing forward. "Tally-ho!"

  I groan at his enthusiasm. He throws the RV into gear and slams the gas pedal down. The RV gives a lurch, and then... nothing. Dad takes his foot off the pedal and the vehicle rocks back into place. "We're stuck," I say, stating the obvious. Did I mention I'm a realist?

  "Yes, I can see that," he says, and then gives the RV a little gas again, and again we move a small amount before we rock back into place. Dad looks into the side-view mirror. "I can't see anything blocking the wheels. Maybe there's just a rut in the concrete."

  "We got this," Brent says, giving my shoulder a nudge. "Don't we, sis?"

  "Uh, sure." I don't have quite the confidence as he does, but I've managed to do all right the past few days. So, sure, why not. We got this.

  Brent and I exit through the side door this time, rather than climbing over our dad's lap. The door gives a little squeak, and it feels loud in the relative quiet of the barren streetscape. My eyes scan our surroundings on their own accord; it's just automatic now, after a few days out here. It's quickly becoming habit to watch our backs at every turn, and I'm not sure if I'm happy or saddened by this. On the one hand, I'm glad that I don't have to concentrate so hard on it, reminding myself to check and recheck every shadow and every corner. But on the other hand, it really does mean that I'm giving into the pessimism. This is our lives now, and I'm accepting it. And that, in and of itself, is depressing.

  After having checked that the road is clear, Brent and I move to the rear of the RV. I crouch down to my hands and knees to peer under the vehicle, and, sure enough, Dad was right. We're in a rut. The rear of the RV is pressed flush against the building, and the foundation has started to sink over time, pulling the sidewalk with it. I can't imagine that these scavengers just abandoned their vehicle because it got a little stuck, though. Maybe Dad's right, maybe there's more to the story than meets the eye. Or maybe we're just ignoring the obvious signs of a trap because we see what we want to see.

  Ugh. Dad's paranoia is rubbing off on me. I shake it off and stand back up, brushing bits of crushed concrete from my knees. "I hope you're wearing your pushing clothes," I say to Brent.

  "I'm starting to feel like that's all I'm good for lately," he groans. "First washing machines, now an RV? It's like the world is specifically trying to find something bigger and heavier for me."

  "Careful, brother, I would hate to imagine what it comes up with next."

  He frowns and nods his head. "Right. I'll try to keep my mouth shut."

  "Good luck with that," I mutter under my breath, which earns me a poke.

  "Smartass," he says with a smirk. "Why don't you head around to the other side, and we'll each give a push at the same time as Dad giving it gas. I'm sure if we rock it back and forth, combining pushing with some revving, we could potentially get a little momentum built up."

  "Yeah, sure. Otherwise, we could try to build up under the wheels, maybe. Add some traction." It all seems like such a straightforward problem compared to everything we've dealt with lately. It's practically boring in comparison. I should also be careful what I wish for; things could most definitely get worse.

  I move around the RV, keeping one eye on the skyline. The sun is still safely below the roofline, but we don't have forever. I detail our plan to our dad on the way by, and he nods, ready to go along with it. If this goes smoothly—and I see no reason why it shouldn't—we’ll be on the road out of town within ten minutes. Part of me is eager to get moving, tired of standing still and achieving nothing. But I'm also wary of the unknown road that stretches before us. After living within the compound for years, with absolutely nothing unfamiliar ever happening, it's only natural that I should feel... out of my league.

  "Ready?" Brent calls around the RV.

  "Sure, why not?" I call back. I give Dad the thumbs-up by way of the rear-view mirror, and he returns the gesture and starts the engine. The smell of exhaust is overwhelming, placed right at the exhaust pipe as we are. I plant my feet with a wide stance and brace my back against the building behind me. The RV is so close to the building that it's almost impossible to get a good placement with my hands on the vehicle, but I shuffle in as close as I can get, and a door handle digs into my back. Small price to pay, I tell myself. I'll be sure to complain about it to Brent later, though. This was his suggestion, after all, so he should at least be the target of my complaints.

  I smirk to myself, thinking of all the bitching and moaning I'm going to do later, as Dad gives the vehicle a little gas. Brent and I time our push to coordinate, and slowly, with each rev of the engine, we get closer and closer to pushing the RV out of the rut. Each time, it rolls back into place, crunching against the bricks of the building, but as the momentum builds, the gap between the vehicle and the building grows. I can see Brent on the other side now, heaving against his side.

  One more rev, and the RV lurches forward. I can feel it, this is the one. Brent and I collectively give it our all, which, granted, may not be much. But it's enough. The huge vehicle slows as it reaches the top of the rut, and then accelerates over the edge and away from the building.

  "Whoop!" Brent cheers, giving a weak fist pump. My arms feel like jelly, but the sense of accomplishment is real. Dad brakes, stopping the vehicle a few yards away, and I push myself off the building and stagger forward. I plan on plopping myself down on the bed in the back and sleeping all the way to wherever the hell we end up.

  Brent looks back at me with a dopey grin, but his smile slips, slowly sliding into a look of horror. His eyes are focused back over my shoulder, on the building behind me. I turn, too slowly, to see what he sees, but I barely have time to register what's happening. The door handle that had been digging into my back just moments ago, is now swinging out, exposing the dark interior of the building.

  And snaking out from the darkness within is a hand, fingers tipped with black claws. The hand has wrapped around my forearm before I even have a chance to register surprise. A soft gasp escapes my lips, but then the pain begins, and I start to scream.

  I'm being pulled apart, fire burning through my veins. Every inch of me is in flames, flesh cut from my body in ribbons. I'm writhing, trying to escape from the agony, but knowing in my soul that the only escape is dea
th.

  "Lori?" Brent calls to me. His voice is distant, like from a great distance. Has the monster taken me into the building? Will it take its time devouring me? "Lori, are you okay? Can you hear me?"

  Slowly the world around me begins to coalesce into something more tangible. The pain slowly dissipates, leaving me tingling, right down to my fingertips. With the pain, goes the darkness, and light begins to penetrate back into my vision. Brent's face is swimming above me. "Brent?" I whisper, my throat raw as though I've been screaming.

  "Oh thank god," he mutters, burying his face into my shoulder. "I thought you were gone. I lost you..."

  "What are you talking about? What happened?" Now that the pain isn't front and center, the memory of it is fading into the background.

  "That... thing. It almost got you."

  "Why didn't it?" By all accounts, I should be dead if I went toe-to-toe with one of those things. Claw beats flesh every time.

  Brent gives a stilted chuckle. "Saved by the sun, yet again." He points up at the sky. "It had to reach out of the darkness to grab you, and the sun was high enough in the sky to give it a good burn." Brent wipes tears away from his cheeks, and I notice that he has blood on his hand.

  "Are you hurt?" I ask him, and the beginnings of awareness prickle at me, adrenaline beginning to flow through my veins once again, fueling me when I've got nothing left.

  "It's not my blood," he says, and I feel his hand in mine giving a gentle squeeze.

  From my position on the ground, I try to lift my head, and the world swirls around me. I lower my head and try, instead, to raise my arm. A sharp retort of pain lances up to my shoulder, but I keep pushing through the pain until I can see a blood-soaked cloth wrapped clumsily around my forearm. A memory of the clawed hand surfaces. I gasp and Brent's face crumples into a grimace.

  "Let's get you onto the RV," he says. "We can patch you up properly."

  "What happened?" Dad says, rushing up to us. The engine is still running, and the door is open wide. He simply jumped down from the driver's seat, abandoning our only hope of escape.