The Hunger Chronicles: A collection of shorts
Page 7
And there he is. Still dressed in his fatigues, he looks like any other soldier—buzz cut, chiseled features, sculpted muscles—but for the bloody chin… and the eyes. I hate their eyes. Some people say a zombie’s eyes are blank, devoid of all human emotion. The unresponsive pupils, the way they stare at a victim without seeing. I disagree. What I see when I look into them is a fixed madness. As if the person within is merely trapped. I almost believe that if I could delve deep enough into their brain, I could actually find the secret compartment their real self has been stuffed away within.
I see that now on this man. The crazed look that says he’s about to eat me… but somewhere deep inside he’ll be screaming the whole time.
Me first.
I reach out, grab his arm. Next second I have it behind his back, twisting it in such a way that he either needs to fall to his knees or let me break it. Only problem is that zombies don’t really seem to care about pain. The arm snaps out of joint, dangling uselessly in my grip. Sucks. As does the fact that the zombie is now able to twist back around. It rumbles an inhuman growl, its jaw spread wide as it lunges for me. I know I can get out of range, but my stomach has other ideas and I go for a flip move instead. It works. The zombie ends up on the floor before me, but not before his teeth graze the length of my arm.
“Ouch! Dang it.” Ticked off that I let it have a nibble, I yank the zombie back up and bite into the rotting flesh of its neck, sucking down a long swallow—Halleluiah, my hollow stomach rejoices—right as someone begins to scream. Roy. Must have followed after all.
Crapola. This isn’t good. Just what were you doing with that zombie, Eva?
I toss the zombie aside, reaching for my Glock to perform the double tap, when behind me explodes an eardrum crushing series of reports. Slicing agony slaps into my back, sending me to the floor.
Frig. A-hole is shooting at me.
I roll, pulling my legs under me and lifting into a braced crouch. Stabbing pain erupts along my temple, sending me to my butt. And now I’m going to have a massive headache.
My furious gaze hones in on the beak-nosed guy who is still screaming as he shakily attempts to reload his weapon. Of course I pulled the short straw and got the twitchy one, the one prone to muttering to himself and sweating bullets at any slight noise.
“Really, Roy. You can stop that now.”
Booted feet thud in the hall, coming closer. Convict and John appear, skidding to a halt as they see my trickling head wound. Thankfully it’s just a graze. Otherwise I’d be out cold. ‘Course, if I were out cold they’d probably just leave me for dead and then I wouldn’t have to deal with Roy’s hysterics.
“Fuck. Oh fuck! I can’t kill her!” Roy exclaims, his hands shaking as he attempts to jam in a new magazine.
Three sets of eyes now. Widen. Three guns. Lift.
“Go ahead, boys,” I say, curling my lips back to expose my pointy little fangs. “Just remember I told you it was a waste of ammo. ‘Cause you can’t kill what’s already dead.”
About the Author
Daphne award-winning author Tes Hilaire started creating whole new worlds to escape Upstate New York’s harsh winters before finally fleeing to sultry North Carolina. Her stories are edgy, exciting, and bring a hint of dark fantasy to all she writes. And no one ever has to shovel snow. For more visit TesHilaire.com.
If you remember nothing else, remember this…
The nightmare is here. There is no way out. Even death isn’t an escape because it is death. And chances are it’s already taken everyone you know.
…You’re on your own.
Just because the face is familiar doesn’t mean they won’t kill you. Hiding won’t help. And it’s past time to run. They’re already here. And hunger is the only thing they feel.
Table of Contents
Copyright Information
Other Books
Dedication
Imminent Contact
End of the Rope
Two's Company
The Fittest
Sneak Peak at Life Bites
Chapter One (Life Bites)
About the Author
Back Cover Blurb