Read Hunger (The Hunger Series Book 1) for Free Online Page B

nearly forgotten sound from the past. And the air... It was intoxicating. He hadn’t realized just how bad the house smelled—of rot, dirt and body odor—until that moment.
    But none of these stimuli distracted him. He swept the shotgun from side to side, searching for a target, but finding nothing. Jakob’s footfalls on the porch alerted Peter to his son’s approach. “Get back inside.”
    “But I don’t see anything,” the boy argued.
    “That’s the problem.” Peter motioned to the left and right. “Could be just below our line of sight.” He motioned his head up to the farmer’s porch ceiling. “Or above us.”
    “Above us? Could people really—”
    Peter held his open palm up to Jakob, silencing him. His son was right—people couldn’t get on the roof that fast—but they might not be dealing with a person. Then again... What kind of predator knocks on doors? The human kind. Unaltered person or not, that didn’t make them safe. He was about to send Jakob back in, but he realized that might start an argument, which would distract and endanger both of them. So he just glanced back to make sure Jakob had his weapon at the ready and pointed in the right direction, which was anywhere but toward Peter. He was surprised and impressed to find his son wielding the weapon in a two hand grip, finger on the trigger, but with the barrel pointed down and away. With nothing to aim at, the boy was keeping the weapon at the ready, but in a safe position.
    “Take the right side,” Peter said. “I’ll clear the left.”
    When Jakob stepped next to him, they took the three stairs to the flat concrete barrier and swept their weapons in opposite directions. With nothing ahead of him, Peter asked, “Anything?”
    “Clear,” Jakob said.
    “Check the far end and then meet back—”
    A dry rustle of wheat snapped Peter’s attention back to the slit of an opening, fifty feet away. Whatever had knocked on the door had apparently retreated back to the field. Assuming it was alone. He took a step forward. “Watch our six. Anything moves, it’s not friendly. Pull the trigger and talk when it’s dead.”
    He hated talking to his son in such blunt terms, but this was life or death. They’d been sheltered for so long, any sugar coating could get them both killed. And while he had trained Jakob to fight, it was against another person, and didn’t involved guns. It became clear to him, as he stepped further toward the darkness at the edge of the flood light’s reach, that he would have to step up his son’s training, holding nothing back.
    If they survived the night.
    Peter stopped, looking down the barrel of his shotgun. “Show yourself.”
    Wheat stalks rustled as a wind carrying the scent of flowers wafted over the field. Peter couldn’t help but breathe more deeply. The air invigorated him. And a week later, when the wheat released its seeds to the breeze, the air outside the house would seal their fate. Opening the front door as briefly as they... Did they close the door behind them? Was it locked? He couldn’t stop himself from looking. The door was shut, which was good. But was it locked? If so, it wouldn’t be the deadbolt. They could break back in without damaging the door.
    Attention back on the field, Peter shouted, “I’ve got nine shots. If you’re not out here in five seconds, I’m going to fire a spread into the field. At this range, some of the buckshot will find you. Five!”
    “Don’t shoot.”
    The voice was raw. Feminine. And weak. Hardly threatening, but it could be a ruse.
    “Step out,” Peter said. “Slowly.”
    A figure limped out of the field. If this was the woman who spoke, he couldn’t tell. The figure was clad in a black cloak coated with vegetation, like a homemade ghillie suit, the preferred camouflage of snipers. The figure carried a large, black duffle bag, similarly camouflaged. Whatever was in there, it was heavy, weighing the figure down.
    “Hands,” Peter said.
    “Too