Whiteout (Book 5): The Feeding Read online

  The Feeding

  Whiteout #5

  Flint Maxwell

  Copyright © 2020 by Flint Maxwell

  Cover Design © 2020 by Carmen DeVeau

  Edited by Sonya Bateman

  Special thanks to Sabrina Roote

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permissions email: [email protected]

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The author greatly appreciates you taking the time to read his work.

  To, you, the reader,

  Thank you so much

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  “Listen to them—the children of the night. What music they make!”

  ― Bram Stoker, Dracula

  1

  Introductions

  I missed the birds.

  After the blizzards began and darkness fell over the world, I only remember hearing two things: the wind and the monsters. Not a moment passed when I wouldn’t have given just about anything to wake to a snippet of birdsong in the morning.

  The birds were gone, though—dead, most likely—and so was the rest of the old world. Except for us, the few people left to roam this snowy purgatory in constant fear.

  Hell, when I think about it, maybe the dead really were the lucky ones.

  Let me preface this by saying I am not perfect.

  It’s true, I make mistakes. You have to understand that. Sometimes I mix up names, places, and faces. When I tell you of the incidents we went through, you must remember I am recounting them through my own personal filter, and that filter is not always correct.

  My memories are not infallible. I am only human.

  The events covered in these accounts were enough to drive anyone insane. Each day was filled with new horrors, and rarely did I feel comfortable or safe, if at all—even while behind the walls of the City of Light. Survival was the goal, not keeping the details straight, although I do try to keep them as straight as possible.

  Just know I would never outright lie to you. I’ve read a lot of books since the snow and the monsters stole our world. You have to pass the time somehow, right? I even joined a book club in the City, and it was here where I first learned of the term unreliable narrator.

  Now, I am not that. I believe, for the most part, that I am reliable, and any unreliability you may stumble upon within these retellings is accidental. For that, I apologize from the bottom of my heart. I hope you understand.

  With that said, let us begin.

  When we moved into our barracks, Nick Rider, the head honcho in the City, appointed a guy named Lee as our tour guide. He was short, skinny, and smelled like cigarettes. The sound of his voice reminded me of a drugged-out Kermit the Frog. He walked Stone, Eleanor, Chewy, and me to the west end barracks. Mia wasn’t with us; she was still recuperating in her hospital room with the baby.

  The barracks weren’t much in the way of comfort, style, or privacy, but they had beds, a kitchen, and two working showers and toilets. Most importantly, they were heated. Compared to the places we’d been staying over the last months, this place was practically a palace.

  On the left-hand wall were bunks. Between each pair stood flimsy partitions with low doors. I walked through one and had to duck my head. It smelled clean, like bleach, and the floors shined brighter than the dim lights above.

  “Ya’ll gonna have to share,” Lee said. “I hope ya don’t mind.”

  “Not at all,” I said.

  “I know it ain’t exactly the Taj Mahal—”

  “Are you joking?” Stone interrupted. “What is this dude talking about? This place is the bomb! ” He crutched toward the nearest bunk, plopped down, threw himself against the mattress, and kicked his feet up. I hadn’t seen him look so relaxed since him, Jonas, and I were lounging near Prism Lake with cold beers in our hands.

  “It’s better than out there, your damn right,” Lee agreed.

  Stone laced his fingers together and put his hands behind his head before letting out a large sigh. A surprising reaction, if you ask me. The house he had lived in before the end of the world was basically a mini-mansion, and when on business trips, he never stayed in anything less than a five-star hotel. I guess almost freezing to death every night in random buildings has a way of humbling you.

  Lee pointed behind me. “Bathroom works too. Kitchen’s on the other end. Got a microwave, a fridge, and a sink for your dishes. Water comes out a bit slow, and it’ll take about a month to get warm, but it’s better than no water at all. Besides, we eat most of our meals together in the hub.”

  “The hub?” Ell repeated.

  “Yup. The gym, I guess. Breakfast starts at eight, lunch at eleven, and dinner at five. The head cook and her helpers on staff”—Lee smacked his lips a couple times—“are top notch, believe it or not. Wait until you get a taste of Debbie’s Mexican lasagna.”

  “Debbie’s Mexican lasagna?” Stone repeated. “Is that innuendo?”

  “Stone,” Ell warned.

  He chuckled and rolled his eyes.

  Ignoring this exchange, Lee went on. “It’ll knock ya off your feet.” Then his face turned serious. “Like I said, it ain’t the best place on earth, but give it a chance and you’ll be calling it home soon enough.”

  “It’s so much better than where we’ve been staying,” Eleanor said. “So much better.”

  “Yeah,” I agreed. “You ever try sleeping a few hours in a dentist’s chair without laughing gas?”

  Lee’s lips lifted into a smile. “Can’t say I have, compadre. And don’t exactly want to either. Anyway, I’m glad ya’ll like it. When the…incident happened, we had to repurpose some of these buildings for us civvies. This and the one just across the way housed the soldiers before it housed us.”

  “Where did the regular folk stay?” I asked.

  “East end.” Lee nodded his head to the right. “That whole side was houses. Nice places too. But we had to shut it down. Buildings took too much damage. Shitty weather and less people made sure we ain’t ever gonna get ‘em up to code again. It was safer to just move here and close off the entire east side.”

  I shook my head. “That’s too bad.”

  “It is.” Lee walked toward the door, turned, and flashed a grin. “But we get by, don’t we?” With a thumbs-up, he added, “I’ll see y’all at dinner. Oh, and if Nick asks, tell him I was a helluva tour guide.”

  Mia left the comforts of her hospital bed and moved into our barracks. We had almost an entire floor to ourselves. Nick Rider said that before the captured wraith escaped and sparked a massacre within the City’s walls, the population was pushing capacity. Not so much anymore. And although lights illuminated most of the City, a darkness continued to hang around the heads of the people who remained.

  I felt for them, but I couldn’t understand their grief, just like they couldn’t understand the grief I felt for losing Jonas, Helga, and Mikey. Some of the people were as cold to us newcomers as the snow outside. I understood that too. Of the near seventy-five who lived here, a few were bound to be wary of us. Most, however, treated us with respect and kindness. I eventually came to consider many as family, which was why losing them hurt so badly.

  Still, besides Nina Hart and Ni
ck Rider, our initial meetings with some of the City’s inhabitants weren’t anything to write home about. Polite waves, courteous head nods, more than a few “Hi, how’s it going?” encounters followed by: “Good, good, nice to have you here” replies.

  I really couldn’t complain. Before the end of the world, I was mostly a guy who kept to himself, and though I longed for human interaction for most of my journey to the City, when I got there, I ended up exhausted during our first few weeks. All I wanted to do was lie in bed and recover from the mental and physical torment I’d experienced, and for a good portion of that time that was exactly what I did—what we all did.

  We left the barracks to eat two to three times a day—good food, mind you, actual sustenance—and we explored the place, and we dropped in on one or two of the nightly movies they played in the hub’s entertainment rooms (Iron Man and 50 First Dates).

  But other than that, we slept.

  One night, Mia walked into mine and Ell’s room with Monica all bundled up and against her chest. The baby was fast asleep. Mia wore a big grin on her face as well as a heavy knitted sweater and a pair of jeans. The heat in the barracks allowed us to downgrade our extreme winter clothes to almost fall clothes—which, believe it or not, took some getting used to.

  “What are you smiling about?” Ell asked.

  “I just saw a calendar in Nina’s room. She’s been crossing off the days with a big purple marker, and you know what today is?”

  Ell looked up at the ceiling, thinking; I shook my head. I had stopped keeping track of the date as soon as the sun stopped making regular appearances. Wasn’t much to look forward to, but then again, I’ve never been good with dates. Depending on how sharp I felt on a particular day, I may or may not be able to tell you mine or a relative’s birthday or an anniversary or anything like that.

  There were only a few dates I could tell you with one-hundred percent certainty: July 4th, Christmas, and when the Cleveland Cavaliers won their lone NBA title (June 19th, 2016, for those not familiar).

  Mia waited another moment. Ell finally shook her head and said, “I know it’s a Sunday. I only know that because Sundays are very glum. They always have been, even during the end of the world.”

  I chuckled. She wasn’t wrong there.

  “It is a Sunday,” Mia agreed. “Sunday, October 11th.”

  I racked my brain, trying to find meaning behind this date. Of course, I found none.

  Mia’s grin stretched wider; she was all teeth. “It’s my birthday!”

  I shot up from the bed and grinned myself. “What? No way! Happy birthday!” I went in for a hug despite Mia being vehemently against hugs. But, realizing there was no stopping me, she waved the white flag.

  Ell took the opportunity to do the same. “How old?”

  “A lady never tells. And you shouldn’t ask either.”

  “Girlllllll, what, it’s your birthday? We need to celebrate!” Ell turned toward me. “Think you can get Nick to unlock the liquor cabinet for us—wait, are you old enough to drink?”

  “Does it matter?” Mia answered. “No one’s gonna arrest me or anything like that.”

  “I guess you’re right.” Ell’s eyebrows climbed her forehead. “Grady? Booze?”

  “I can try, but I don’t know why you’re asking me.” I looked at Mia. “Forget your age. Can you drink, you know, with…?” I tapped my chest.

  Mia arched an eyebrow. “What?”

  “That’s Grady’s subtle way of asking if you’re breastfeeding,” Ell said. “And no, Grady, she’s not. Monica’s on formula.”

  “Yep, my ol’ fun bags ain't working like they should.”

  “Jesus. Please don’t call them that,” I said.

  “All right, the boob conversation is officially over.” Ell patted my shoulder. “Just see if you can get something for us to drink, babe. Nick seems to like you.”

  I shrugged. “Well, what’s not to like?”

  “Should we answer that honestly…or no?” Mia said in her usual deadpan tone. But instead of letting the insult linger, she winked to let me know she was joking. Hey, maybe she actually was growing up.

  My reply was to hold up a pinky, our new G-rated version of the middle finger.

  Mia gasped, albeit unconvincingly, and returned the gesture. This got us laughing again. I know seeing a couple of dweebs flashing their pinkies at one another may be confusing to most, but this was kind of an inside joke between us all—and stupid or not, we needed inside jokes.

  When Monica entered this world, Mia enacted a new rule concerning our frequent use of vulgarity. We were not allowed to curse or flip each other off or make any other obscene gestures so long as Monica was in the vicinity. Her innocent ears and eyes were too pure.

  You’d think Mia would’ve had the toughest time cleaning up her act, but to our surprise, that wasn’t the case. Mia transformed from a drunken sailor to the female version of Mr. Rogers.

  Stone and I were the ones who had trouble, and Ell even slipped up a few times. I guess I never realized how much I swore before being around a baby. The whole ordeal really opened my eyes to how much my vocabulary needed expanding.

  Frowning, Mia said, “I’ve been drinking since I was about eight, Ell.”

  “It’s only your…whatever age birthday once, right?” I said.

  “True,” Ell said. “That’s a good point…” She clapped her hands and rubbed them together. You could see it on her face: the scheming had begun. Skipping, she left the room, and I looked at Mia and mouthed sorry.

  “She’s gonna throw me a party, isn’t she?”

  I nodded. “Think so.”

  Mia hung her head. “Shit.”

  “Hey, you swore.” I held out my hand. “Pay up.”

  She slapped my palm, grinning. “C’mon, Grady, it’s my birthday.”

  The party wasn’t really a party. Not at first, anyway. We had it in one of the entertainment rooms, which were located in the “hub,” as the people here called it. It was a fitting name because this building stood smack-dab in the middle of the City. The City had been part of the nearest town’s—New Hill’s—expansion. Construction crews worked around the clock to build a man-made lake, a new housing development, and a recreation center (the hub). Then things got bad, and the crumbling government passed over leadership to the U.S. military. Efficiently as ever, they repurposed the whole area into a refugee camp.

  Nick Rider told me they certainly had their work cut out for them. He’d been here from the beginning, having grown up just down the road. Other towns were evacuated, his included, and he sat front row while soldiers erected high fences all around the block, lit up the lantern in the lighthouse, and cleared as much snow as possible in order to build a covered walkway tunnel system.

  Now, with less manpower, keeping the uncovered walkways cleared was nearly impossible, but the enclosed ones—these “tunnels”—helped keep us safe. You could move from one end of the City to the other without feeling so much as a gust of wind or seeing a snowflake. It was kind of like a cheaper version of Minneapolis’s Skyway System.

  The gymnasium really was the “hub” of the compound. The tunnels encircled it with the entrances to the other buildings at each junction. These buildings were the barracks, a hospital—which housed the holding cells beneath (I knew this all too well) —and a kitchen/cafeteria. Most everything else was in the hub. There you had an auditorium, a library, two entertainment rooms with projectors, a small basketball court sans three-point lines, and an exercise area with a few sets of free weights, treadmills, bikes, and elliptical machines.

  Most people spent a lot of time here, for good reason. As the weeks went on, I became one of those people. We slept in our barracks and ate in the cafeteria, yeah, but all of our free time, when we were not working, that is (the jobs came later), was spent in the hub.

  There was only one place I never visited while living in the City, and that was Berretti’s lab. I asked Nick Rider about it once during those early d
ays. We were standing just outside the lab’s door.

  “He pretty much lives down there,” Nick said, nodding to the door. It was made of foot-thick steel. A heavy crossbar lock fell across it, and beneath the crossbar was a wheel-style handle you’d see on a bank vault. AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY was written on it in large red letters. The locks looked like new additions. They probably came to be after the incident.

  “Who’s authorized personnel?” Eleanor asked Nick.

  Nick shrugged. “Pretty much Berretti and a couple of his assistants. Used to be a lot more, but they’re gone now.”

  “Not you?” I said.

  “I’ve got the key code to the door, but I don’t like going down there.” His face turned grave. “Too many reminders of what happened. Like I said, it’s best to let John do his thing. Keep him on a short leash, but let him have some slack from time to time.”

  I didn’t like that, but on the day of Mia’s birthday, Berretti was the furthest thing from my mind. I linked up with Ell in the entertainment room after she’d told me to meet her there an hour prior. I intended to help her decorate and all that jazz, but when I opened the door, I realized there wasn’t much left for me to do.

  Gold streamers were hanging from the ceiling, waving lazily in the soft current of heat blowing from the register. Balloons lay on the floor. Not just a few—I counted at least two dozen in varying colors: red, blue, green, purple. In the far corner sat a small stereo. It was playing the Beatles. Songs from their album Revolver, if I remember correctly. Hell, there was even a collection of wrapped boxes stacked on a nearby table.

  My mouth fell open. I was speechless.

  Ell, standing on a chair and hanging a banner on the far wall that had HAPPY BIRTHDAY MIA!! written on it in big, permanent marker block letters, glanced over her shoulder.