by Tes Hilaire
“Here we go, then.” John pushes up off the low wall into a crouch.
The answer is yes, it is possible to move slower than turtle. It’s called snail speed. Ah! I can’t take much more of this. My legs can’t take much more of this. My stomach can’t take much more of this. I glare at John’s back as I crouch-walk behind him, seriously considering biting him just to let him know how much he’s ticking me off. We’re supposed to draw the zombie’s attention, not sneak by them.
Yes, but not until you’ve hit that next intersection, Eva.
I curl my lip at my conscience, drat her, and rope in my impatience by imagining how awesome it’s going to be to sink my fangs into one of those zombies up ahead. We’re almost to the corner when the first zombie raises its head, cracked lips gaping, decaying nostrils flaring as it tries to scent the air. I can’t help but cringe at the sight of the thing. It no longer resembles anything remotely human, the advance of decay and obvious starvation twisting it beyond monster and far into the realm of nightmares. My stomach twists again, but for a different reason this time. I don’t think I can do it. I don’t think I can feed off that thing.
I frantically scan the rest of the nearby creatures. Most are in similar condition to this one, but there are a few whose flesh hasn’t started showing visible signs of decay. Thank God.
John’s hand swipes out to the side. We pause. The zombie takes a lurching step in our direction. John gestures to me and cuts his hand down the road. Got it. Run. Finally!
I lurch up, striking out across the corner of the intersection and south on H street. As eager as I was for this moment, I’m finding it difficult to run on legs that feel like cheap dollar-store bendable straws stuffed in a thick shake. I hit an uneven edge of pavement, my ankle twisting. Pavement flies up to meet me and, for a couple strides, I resort to a knuckle-aided run that would have made our furry ancestors proud.
Holy crap I need to feed.
Behind me I can hear the pounding stride of boot falls and the quick retort of John’s rifle as he lays down cover fire on the run. John’s rifle goes silent as he concentrates on running rather than fighting. The fall of zombies doesn’t end though. Convict and Brian have taken over.
Around the corner of the hotel stumbles another zombie. I instinctively raise my gun, before lowering it. This zombie looks half-way human. I glance at the pack half-running, half-staggering at us from behind. Plenty of time. I make a beeline for the zombie, only to watch its head explode as a slug blasts through it.
I glance up at the roof to the bastard who’s just stolen my dinner out from under me. My jaw drops open as Brian gives me a cocky salute and shifts his sight back to the mob racing up behind us.
“Eva! Get your ass in gear.”
John’s sharp command as he bolts by jerks me back into reality. The zombies are closing in and there are too many of them to hope for a light snack. Unless I want to be the snack.
Ignoring my growling stomach and screaming limbs, I run after John. Behind us, more and more zombies fall, their rotting bodies hitting the pavement with heavy thuds as Brian and Convict’s aim holds true. It ticks me off. At the rate they’re going there won’t be a zombie left for me. Okay, maybe I’m being unreasonable. I doubt either of them sees it as denying me my meal, rather laying down cover for their teammates. I can admit this, but they could go to the devil if they expect me to be grateful.
All too soon there are less muffled plops. We’re beginning to outrun the rifle’s ranges. Ahead of me, John spins around and drops into a one-legged kneel. He lifts his gun, takes aim and squeezes off a half-dozen rounds. Behind me more bodies fall.
I hesitate when I reach him, but a quick shake of his head gets his message across. Keep going. John wants to tag team.
I race down another half block then spin and drop. “Go!”
I needn’t have yelled. John is already up and running. Good thing too, these zombies are desperate and determined. Either that or we have some regular athletes in the group. Damn they’re fast.
I wait for them to get a bit closer, then start dropping them with my Glock. It about kills me to pop off the frontrunner when letting the creature get close would coincide with my desire to get one alone and feed from it, but it’s not just me I have to worry about.
John and I work another five blocks like this, then make a sprint down a cross street, turn right, then left, then left again. The number of followers is dwindling rapidly. Partly because we’ve killed a good number, partly because the lazier of their companions are stopping to scavenge from the dead, and partly because we’ve just plain outrun them. I don’t know what I was expecting, but I’m disappointed when the erratic path we lay seems to work. Ten blocks from the hotel and there isn’t a single zombie on our tail.
I stumble to a stop, laying my elbows on my thighs as I clamp my hands around my pounding head.
“No stopping.” John grabs my upper arm and drags me down another one-way side-road.
I groan, but drag my feet after him. I’ve stopped paying attention to street signs, but I can tell John is trying to work us back north toward the highway. I can only hope I find a lone zombie between here and there. I can’t go back to the base without feeding.
As if in answer to a prayer, a pair of zombies lunge out from the shadows between two buildings to my left. I spin, my Glock rising in an arc as I aim for the nearer of the two. The other, well, I have plans for that one. Only it’s not meant to be. My gun clicks. No ammo.
Brilliant, Eva. How could you have missed that?
I step back to give myself more room to fight but my foot catches in a pothole and I go down, wind-milling. My head cracks on the pavement, stars flashing before my eyes. Before I know it, biting pain sinks into one of my legs, followed by a violent jerk of my gun arm and a searing snap of agony as the bone breaks.
I scream, grabbing for my knife with my good hand. The blade whistles out of its sheath in an upward arc as I stab for the creature that’s attacking the flesh of my thigh with zealous need. The blade sinks home into the base of its skull just as four rounds are popped off nearby. The zombies fall, both the one attacking my leg and the one trying to drag me by my dangling arm away from its companion. And I lay injured and starving. So not a good combination.
I whimper, yanking the knife out of the creature. I barely get it sheathed before hands are grabbing me under my armpits, yanking me out from under the heavy weight of the dead zombie, and spinning me around.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” John demands, his face flushed and neck corded with anger.
I pant through the pain. Not sure what hurts more, the injuries that are not going to heal anytime soon, or the squelching of my humanity by the instinct that is screaming at me to lunge forward and sink my teeth into John’s neck.
I clamp my teeth together, jerking my gaze away from his pulse and meet his gaze. I need to look into his eyes, see the human in him. “I need to feed.”
His gaze cuts to the dead zombies on the ground. There is no life in either of their eyes, John’s double taps having eradicated it.
“Fresh blood. Need them to be alive.” Or at least alive when the blood is drawn. I’d managed to find a hospital filled with pints of blood once. I’d lived off them for over a week before the supply I’d confiscated ran out. But something about the suction action of drawing blood from a collapsed artery destroys whatever it is I need.
Hemolysis. That’s the word. Both my dad and my biology teacher would be bawling right now.
John yanks his hands back. “Then fucking grab a snack, because I can’t keep saving your ass and keep mine out of the fire, too.”
Wow. I don’t know why that hurts, but it does, even if it does make sense. It’s a dog eat dog world out here, each man—or woman—has got to take care of themselves first.
Even as I think this, John belies this belief by yanking a strip off the bottom of his T-shirt and kneeling down to wrap it around my gushing thigh.
“I w
as trying to but I tripped.”
“Then stop tripping.” He yanks the knot tight, causing me to wince. He stands back up, eyeing my dangling arm. With a sigh, he rips another couple strips off and works them into a makeshift sling. “You’re a mess.”
“Thanks.” Even I’m not sure if I’m being sarcastic or honestly thanking him for saving my butt. He seems to decide on the latter because he nods, grumbling a, “You’re welcome.”
I look back down at the dead zombies, my fangs cutting into my gums. So close.
“Next zombie we see, I’ll only shoot out the knees, promise.”
I blink up at him. This from the guy who isn’t going to save my ass anymore? “You’re a weird one.”
“I know.” He jerks his head up the street. “Come on. We need to move. I don’t trust Brice not to take off if we’re not back at the Humvee when he gets there.”
7.
John sets a grueling pace that has my entire body screaming. I know we have to though; John’s admission that our leader is no hero is like a fire licking at my heels. Yup, if it’s Convict’s ass or ours he’ll have no qualms leaving us. Which means we not only have to make up the dozen or more blocks we’ve traveled southward, but we need to overtake them in the last ten to the highway. Oh, and catch me a snack. Still need to do that.
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-ton
e 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.