by Tes Hilaire
I sigh, gazing one last time on my lost meal. “Yeah, you killed it all right.”
“Should we check out the next warehouse? See if there are more?”
There isn’t. Not in the next few at least. If there had been they’d be making a b-line for us right about now. Nothing could have slept through all that racket and since I can’t sense them…
“Let’s check out this one first. There might be something useful in here.”
Without bothering to see if Roy follows, I march down the aisle created by the stacked crates. I’m looking for a crowbar, or something else that can be used to pry the lid off without scratching up my hands—already dehydrated, don’t need to add blood loss to the list—when there is a break in the wall of crates. I stare, blinking rapidly. And there it is, in this very first warehouse: A convoy truck. Eureka.
Smiling, I turn back to Roy. He’s standing two feet back from his last kill, staring down at the body with a goofy grin on his face and still muttering “I did it” to himself.
I roll my eyes. “Yes, Roy, you did. Now quit patting yourself on the back. We need to go find the others and tell them that we’ve found ourselves a ride.”
He looks up. “Really?”
“Really.”
We don’t have to go far. Convict and John are literally just outside the door, guns raised and ready.
“What was all that gunfire?” Convict demands.
“I did it! I killed a zombie!” Roy announces happily. He really does look young when he’s this jubilant.
John’s brow flies up before he manages to shutter his face again. Still, I think there’s a bit of amusement as he meets my gaze.
I step aside, gesturing toward the zombies on the floor. “Roy was target practicing. He made two of the three kills.” I can afford him this moment. Yeah, he wasn’t supposed to kill the third zombie, but again, that bouncing puppy dog thing he’s doing is just too darn cute to squash.
Convict blinks. “And you’re still whole?”
I narrow my eyes, glaring at him. “Whole and alive. And bearing good tidings.”
“Good what?”
Guess not everyone had a dad that liked old sayings. “Good news.” I jerk my thumb over my shoulder. “There’s a convoy truck in here. Looks to be in pretty good shape too.”
He frowns, clicking on his flashlight as he stalks into the warehouse. It’s not until he’s moved through the crates to confirm my find that he says anything.
“John?”
John, who’s sucked in both lips as he examines the Swiss cheese zombie on the floor, lifts his head. “Yes sir?”
“Get the others. We’ve found our ride home.”
19.
Pretty good shape turns out to be a purely visual assessment. The truth is that the bucket of bolts hasn’t been driven in at least a year and a half, probably far longer, and is at least twenty years older than that. It also doesn’t seem inclined to come out of retirement to perform any sort of tricks—like starting—for us either. After the first half hour of listening to Herbie grumble and swear, Brice, frustrated, orders the search to resume. I go with John this time and we make short work of the rest of the warehouses—and the dozen or so zombies we find hiding inside. There are no other vehicles. Figures.
“Do you think this means that those bunkers are empty?” I say to John as we fight through the perpetual sandstorm back to tell Convict the bad news. The zombies we came across haven’t exactly been full of life and frankly they’re far fewer than I would’ve expected if the “colossal” underground bunker that’s supposedly beneath us was full when the virus hit.
John shakes his head. “Hard to know for sure without checking. If it’s anything like ours, which from what Convict has told me it is, there’s an underground tunnel that pops out somewhere else. They either took the vehicles from down there and took off, or there are a bunch of zombies between us and that possible mode of escape.”
“Do you want to check?” I ask almost eagerly. I’d managed a brief snack, with John’s help—i.e. he hadn’t kill everything in sight—but I’d only gotten a couple swallows before the creatures advanced rate of decay had had me tossing it away, gagging. Maybe the ones below deck will have had more pickings and will have a healthier glow.
“And risk waking up whatever might be down there?”
I shrug. “Now or later.”
His hands grip reflexively on his gun. “Herbie will get the truck running. If we leave in the next hour or two, we might even make it to base before…”
He trails off. And not because he’d gotten a mouthful of grit. I pounce. “Before what? What is this timeline that you and Convict seem to be obsessed with?”
He shakes his head, closing down. “Nothing. The commander will be anxious for Intel and we don’t want him to waste more time and men on a fruitless rescue mission, now do we?”
And that’s the end of the discussion. John quickens his pace and I have to scramble to keep up.
We make it back to the warehouse where the others are without incident. Convict looks over at us but our expressions must say it all because he sighs, moving back to Herbie who’s buried under the truck changing out the oil or something.
“How much longer?” he asks the pair of boots.
“I have no fucking idea. I want to see how this works before I hazard a guess.”
Convict glowers, but moves away without comment toward the far side of the warehouse were the others are sitting around shooting the breeze. It’s not like there is anything else to do while they wait. Convict stops halfway there and looks back at me. He seems undecided about something, but eventually crosses over, stopping in front of me with his feet planted wide and his arms folded.
“So you want to tell me about what happened at Nellis?”
John unobtrusively moves off to join the others. I glare after him. Traitor.
“Sir?” I ask, stalling. Besides, I’m not completely sure what he means. It is possible he’s asking about what I did there at the end with the zombie/bait thing… …yeah.
“Yes, Private Harper. I’m asking for your theory about what happened at Nellis. I’ve heard Brian’s and John’s and Rodriguez’s. Now I’m asking for yours.”
“Seemed pretty obvious to me.” I tap the side of my neck with two fingers, reminding him of the holes we saw. I know I’m being a smart mouth, but I really don’t care. He’s pissing me off. Even criminals are given a right to a fair trial before being found guilty. And my only criminal activity is a guilt borne of association. Unless…God, what if Nellis was attacked simply because I’d traversed too close during my flight from the hive?
His eyes narrow. “Do you know how many civilians lived there?”
I hesitate, not sure I want to know the answer to that, but I have no other recourse than to shake my head.
“Last count was over five thousand.”
I all but stagger back. The number is mind blowing. The hive couldn’t possibly have harvested that many civilians on their own, which meant—a brutal image of the shredded bodies flash through my head—they had help.
I shift uneasily, not sure what to think. Since when did vampires make alliances? And with whom?
Or what, Eva. The question is with what.
“I’m sure a good number of them are still alive,” I muse aloud. At least I hope. I mean, yeah, it’s not an existence I’d wish on anyone, but at least if they’re alive, there’s hope. And God knows we need all the hope we can get right about now.
“What did you say? They’re alive?”
Convict’s question catches me off guard so I nod, answering automatically. “Past gaining control of the base, there would be no reason to kill the humans living there and every reason to keep them alive. At least…” I think again of the other mutilated bodies. What could have taken them out? The sheer level of violence, the obvious joy whoever it was took in it… Would they have allowed the vampires to harvest the flock?
“At least what?”
>
I shake my head. “Nothing. It just didn’t seem like a normal harvesting.”
His eyes narrow. “Harvesting? Like crops?”
I look up at him, see the mottled red splotches across his face and truly register for the first time all I’ve said aloud.
Oh crap. I hadn’t wanted to get into this with Convict. I’d planned to wait until I was back at base and could tell the commander directly. Marine might decide to kick me out, but I think he, at least, would let me keep my knife and Glock as he pushed me out the door. Somehow I doubt Convict will.
I swallow hard, thinking of my long, lonely walk across the blazing desert less than a month ago. The first week had been a race of pure panic; looking over my shoulder, my path erratic and unplanned. After I’d been relatively sure I was safe, I’d drifted, the only break the occasional pocket-cell community whose resident’s tended to follow a shot-first method of welcoming strangers. I’d been so relieved when I’d stumbled across Marine’s path. I’d found an escape and a purpose all rolled into one. Looks like I am about to be back where I started. Running. Searching.
Oh well. I’d done it then and can do it again. But at least before Convict chases me off, I can do this. I can tell them the truth. I can give them a chance.
I steel myself, lifting my chin and say, “Like food. See if the human race dies out, the vampires die also. No sense killing you all off when they need your blood. And the perfect way to assure that is to keep you safe—and under their control. You’re cattle to them, Brice. Nothing less, nothing more.”
20.
An hour later I am still sitting in my self-imposed circle of isolation in the far corner of the warehouse. Convict hasn’t kicked me out, yet, but I’m not putting it past him to leave me behind when the time comes. He’s not happy with me right now. No, that’s not true. He’s not happy with the answers I gave.
He’d immediately dove into a series of questions: “How many groups of vampires are doing this?” As far as I know? All of them. “How large are these ‘herds’ of cattle?” As large as they think they can handle. “Is it possible to fight the vampires?” Didn’t you see Nellis? A scowl, then “Is it possible to sneak in and free the hostages somehow?” No. “Why the hell not?” Because they don’t want to be free.
That was the one that had done it. No one wants to think that if they’re captured, that they’ll come to love and admire their captors. Stockholm Syndrome to the extreme. When your captors have the ability to twist your thoughts around in your head, blind devotion is just a bite away.
Dully, I register that someone is coming over to me. The grit on the cement floor grinds beneath a pair of dark boots, making me cringe until the person spins around and plunks down beside me. Blaine.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” I reply, disinterested. Hasn’t he gotten the memo that I am persona non grata by now?
“Looked like a pretty intense conversation you and Brice were having.”
I nod.
“Brice got pretty loud there at the end.”
I nod again. Yes he had; his voice ringing angrily around the inside of the warehouse as he basically swore me out.
“So they really won’t want to be freed?”
I shake my head.
“Why not?”
I sigh, forcing myself to be patient. Just because Convict had been loud, didn’t mean I had been. Nope, I’d taken my verbal whipping like a good repentant dog. I’m not sure I’m proud or disgusted with myself for that.
Blaine is still waiting for an answer so I try to explain it to him succinctly. “Because, once they’ve been bitten, they’ll be completely malleable to their master’s will. Bite them twice and they’ll want to do it. Bite them again and you have a love sick lamb.”
He whistles. “Really?”
I nod, my tummy turning in disgust as I think of the lamb I’d been forced to feed from after the change. Even as my beast had greedily lapped away her life, she’d cried tears of joy. It wasn’t me who’d killed her though, but rather the queen. Another disciplinary action for me. I’d taken too much interest in the lamb I’d almost killed and the queen figured, correctly, that one of the best ways to hurt me was to take the life of the lamb that I’d become determined to save.
Blaine jiggles a bit beside me as he shifts around, boots dragging across the grit as he bends his knees and plants his feet shoulder width apart. “So, how long does it take to be turned, or do you say converted?”
I swivel to look at him, my brow crunching up in puzzlement. Isn’t he listening? “They’re not going to turn them.”
“Who?”
“The hostages. They won’t turn them.” Least not all of them. Maybe a special one or two, but that wouldn’t happen right away. The Queen Bee is highly selective and tends to get miffed if her underlings turn a human without her permission. I should know.
“What will they do with them, then?”
I hold his gaze. Hadn’t we already covered this part? “Feed from them.”
He is quiet for a bit, his right index finger tapping the top of his right knee. Eventually he looks over at me again. “They really won’t turn any of them?”
“It’s unlikely.”
“But if they did, how long would the conversion take?”
I shift, crossing my legs to take some of the pressure off my tail bone and end up sacrificing my hip bones instead. “Depends on the vampire who turns them. How powerful the vampire is and the potential of the one who’s being turned.”
“So the more powerful…”
“The quicker it is. No less intense though. And there is a good chance the biteé will die.” I frown, narrowing my gaze on him. This is more than him being curious, or dense either. This fishing trip has a purpose. Wish I knew what it is. “Why are you asking? Did you know someone at the base?”
He shakes his head. “It just seems like quite the edge to have. I mean, you’re fast and strong and you can’t be zombified.” He cracks a smile at this. “And that trick you do with the mind control bit.” He whistles.
My blood runs cold as an insane idea pops into my head, or rather a crazy idea of what his crazy idea might be. “Not every vampire can do the mind control bit on the zombies.”
“How many?”
“Only me. I’m the only one who can control them. Or feed from them.”
He looks taken aback by this. Obviously this hasn’t occurred to him. “Really?”
I nod.
“How come?”
“I don’t know. It’s just the way I am.”
“Huh.” He tucks his tongue into his cheek. “But if you were to turn someone, say me, then they could—”
And there it is. Crap and hell “No.”
“No? As in they wouldn’t be able to do the zombie thing like you do?”
“No. I don’t know and no, I’m not going to turn you.”
“Why not? I mean if I wanted it and it could mean—”
“No!” I jump up abruptly, bolting for… nowhere, crap. We’re stuck in this warehouse and Blaine will just follow me. I run my hand through my hair, trying to think of something I can say that will knock some reason into his head.
He stands, his jaw tight as he stares at me, a look of determination in his brown eyes. He is serious. He can’t be serious. He has no idea what he is asking. No idea the effect it would have on him. Or me.
He reaches out, snagging my other hand in his. “Eva, I really want this. The things you can do are beyond amazing. If there were more soldiers who could do that, well, think about it. We could win this war. And we could free those “herds” of captives too, couldn’t we?”
I’m shaking my head. It wouldn’t work like that. I’m weird. The freak. There’s no one like me. No one who gets me.
As if he senses my weakness he shifts in closer, his voice low and husky as he speaks. “I know what you’re thinking, that maybe I won’t be able to handle it. That the instincts will be too much. But Eva, they won’t be. Not with you t
here to help me. And you will help me, won’t you?”
“I can’t.” Doesn’t he see? I am a monster, hanging by fang and nail to some small shred of my stolen humanity. I won’t lose that last little bit by turning him into a monster too.
I try to pull away, but he holds firm, his hand clenching down desperately around my own.
“Eva, aren’t you tired of being alone?”
I blink, looking at him. Tired of being alone? God yes. But I’d rather Brian stake me then bring someone else into this hell I’m living in. It’s just as obvious by the intensity in Blaine’s gaze that I’m not going to be able to convince him of that. It’s this sinking realization and this alone that convinces me Convict is right: I don’t belong here. I don’t deserve to be part of his team. I’m a threat. A cancerous tumor that needs to be eradicated. I should never have come.
Selfish, greedy, thoughtless.
“Leave her alone, Blaine.” John’s voice, deadly and low, interrupts my spiral of self-recrimination.
Blaine doesn’t even shift his head, but his jaw tightens, the muscle rolling. “This is none of your business, John.”
“Probably not, but it’s Eva’s business whom she wants to talk to and I believe she was leaving when you grabbed her.”
Blaine looks down at his hand; sees how tight he has mine clenched. Not that it hurts, but it gives away his loss of control. He immediately lets go, an apology on his lips which I wave away.
“It’s okay. Things have been pretty intense. I think we all need some time alone.” I stress the word alone, letting him know this is my answer. Alone is the only way for me.
Blaine grumbles but backs off, eyeing me with a look that says we’ll take up this conversation later. No we won’t. Even if Convict doesn’t kick me out, I’ll be leaving as soon as we get back to the base and I can give my explanations to Marine. He deserves that at least.
John shifts in beside me, bringing my attention back to the clear and present. “Not that I need to worry about your hand, but…”