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
