The Hive: Season 3: The Hive

By James Noll

In The Hive: Season 3, Amanda emerges from the brutal winter to find herself stripped of everything she held dear. Her home is gone, her friends lost to the unforgiving cold, and the world she once knew lies shattered around her. Yet amidst the ruins, one familiar face remains: Timmy Carter, a steadfast companion in a world gone mad.

 

As spring breathes new life into the desolate landscape, Amanda discovers that the season brings with it a fresh wave of terrors. From elusive crypto-monsters lurking in the shadows to eerie melonhead kids haunting the abandoned streets, every corner holds a new nightmare. But the greatest threat of all looms on the horizon: the return of The Hive.

 

With their resurgence, Amanda realizes that survival will require more than just her own strength - she'll need allies, now more than ever. In a desperate bid for survival, Amanda must navigate treacherous terrain, confront sinister forces, and confront her own inner demons. The fate of humanity hangs in the balance. Will Amanda find the strength to endure, or will she succumb to the relentless onslaught of the Hive?

 

The Hive: Season 3 is a heart-pounding tale of resilience, sacrifice, and the enduring power of hope in the face of unimaginable horror.

 

 

BONUS STORIES INCLUDED!

• Language: English
• Publisher: PULP
• Release date: Oct 21, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386418924

James Noll

James Noll has worked as a sandwich maker, a yogurt dispenser, a day care provider, a video store clerk, a day care provider (again), a summer camp counselor, a waiter, a prep. cook, a sandwich maker (again), a line cook, a security guard, a line cook (again), a waiter (again), a bartender, a librarian, and a teacher. Somewhere in there he played drums in punk rock bands, recorded several albums, and wrote dozens of short stories and a handful of novels.

Book preview

unDEFEATED

Daddy, like most men of his generation, loved football. In the fall, he went to every Spotsy home game on Friday, watched a few college games on Saturday, and settled in every Sunday for a few hours to curse and fume at the Redskins. He loved it so much that he even played it in high school, a fact he liked to remind me of. Frequently. He really liked to bring it up whenever he watched my soccer or field hockey games, which was pretty much every time I had a soccer or field hockey game.

It's like Coach used to tell me all the time. 'Jett! You need to be more aggressive!'.

Is this the time you made that one interception or the time you blew your coverage during the playoffs?

You can be as smart-alecky as you want, little girl, but I know what I'm talking about. I was the—

I joined in to finish the sentence with him.

—starting linebacker for the Spotsylvania Knights three years running.

Haha, 'Manda. You can make fun of me all you want, but we—

Won states two years running.

He usually fell silent after that, and I'd have to spend the rest of the day being extra nice to him. Sometimes it worked, but Daddy could be prickly, so if it didn't, the best course of action was complete avoidance. You might call that cowardly, but I call it smart. Time heals everything, from fist fights to murder, and hurt feelings ain't no different. And I definitely was not a coward. I wasn't weak or shy out on the field. I played my position, I did my job, and I never got angry, even if we were losing bad, even if the other team played dirty.

The one time I expressed something close to poor sportsmanship (we lost a soccer game to a team that liked to cheat and get physical for no reason, then complain about it, and I refused to shake their hands afterward), Daddy chewed me out when we got back in the truck.

But Daddy, they were throwing elbows and kicking our knees.

I don't care 'Manda. Learn from it and figure out how to beat them next time.

That ain't right. Why should I take the high road when they obviously can't?

Because it's not what we do. They want to act like jerks, let 'em. But I'll be a monkey if I'm going to let my own daughter do the same.

When it came to that particular subject, it didn't get any better between us the next season. That was the year I turned thirteen and started eighth grade. The trials and tribulations of The Sexy Seven were two years behind me, and I, along with the rest of the school, had moved well past them sorry little witches. Oh, there were still cliques and cabals. Our school was firmly stratified into a dozen different categories. Of course, there were the conventional striations. Jocks. Goths. Nerds. Losers. Pretty People. But as we grew up and took on more interests, even those time-tested groups began to cleave. Some of the Jocks were also smart. Some of the Pretty People were also Goths. It was downright confusing to most of the adults in our world, but the kids knew what was going on.

As for me, I staked my flag firmly with the Soccer Girls. We were a lively bunch. Maybe we weren't the most academic, and maybe we weren't the best looking, but we stuck to each other as tight as ticks, from the sleekest striker to the brawniest back. Nobody messed with us, not even the remnants of The Sexy Seven (now pared down to the Sexy Three).

It was all because of our coach, Wendy Wulfang. (We all called her Windy behind her back, not because she liked to talk or even because she was out of shape (she wasn't) but because we were kids and we couldn't come up with nothing better.) Windy Wulfang was the exact opposite of my Daddy in every way possible. Actually, that's not completely true. They were both about six feet tall and weighed somewhere between two twenty and two thirty-five. After that, the similarities stopped. Where Daddy was quiet and reserved, Coach Wulfang was loud and brash. Where Daddy avoided conflict like the plague, Coach Wulfang didn't just invite it, she created it. And where Daddy's view on competition was play fair, play good, and respect your opponent, Coach Wulfang's was win at all costs. It was a dichotomy that led to some pretty tense situations, and not just between Daddy and Coach Wulfang.

To Daddy's credit, after one particularly heated discussion in which he finally had enough and confronted her on the wiseness of her decision to have me take out their lead defender, an action that got me red-carded, he dropped the whole thing. I remember the conversation well. He was driving me back from the game, one hand on the wheel, the other picking at his lip. He wouldn't talk to me or look at me, and when I turned the radio on, he reached over and turned it off.

Daddy, are you mad at me? I asked.

I actually saw him decide to pull himself together. He took a breath and let it go. Then he cleared his throat.

No, 'Manda. I ain't mad at you. I don't like what happened out there on that field, though.

I get that.

Are you okay with it?

It took me a bit of figuring, but eventually I said, Yeah. Yeah, I am.

You don't think that was the least bit uncalled-for?

It's a part of the game. That's what you've always told me. Someone tries to take me out, tough. Shut up and do your job, right?

That quieted him down. We came to a stop sign, and he sat there for a while. The turn signal ticked and tocked.

'Manda, you might've wrecked that girl's knee.

I know, Daddy. I don't feel good about that part.

Do you feel good about any of this stuff?

What stuff?

Soccer. This year. Your coach.

I didn't even hesitate.

We're undefeated.

Undefeated was the exact opposite of the way I felt the month after them hive balls destroyed my house, my farm, and everything and everybody I had left in the world. Barring Timmy Carter, of course. To be honest, I don't know exactly how I felt other than angry. And that anger boiled up inside me day in and day out, hotter than the summer sun, and that year was one of the hottest I'd ever experienced.

It's not healthy to hold on to all that hate, Amanda, Timmy Carter said.

I don't care.

I don't think you know what you're talking about.

Maybe I don't, Timmy Carter. But maybe you don't, neither.

Okay.

Do me a favor, huh? Timmy Carter looked at me, waiting for what I was going to say. Almost made me feel bad. Keep your mouth shut, okay?

What?

Unless you want to talk about killing Macks or burning Hives, there ain't nothing for us to say to each other.

I shouldn't have been so nasty to him. He'd stuck by me through nearly everything so far. It wasn't like he hadn't suffered a loss. We never did find Frankie. But I was still a teenager, and I was immature, and I felt like my pain was the only thing that mattered. Worse thing was that I knew I was acting selfish, knew I was wrong, and I wasn't particularly proud of that, so I tried to overcome it the only way I knew how. Revenge. I was going to kill The Girl, and I was going to make sure it hurt.

The one miraculous thing about the destruction of my family house was the fact that the gun safe didn't fly away. Daddy'd anchored it into one of the metal support beams which itself was anchored into the concrete foundation. Sure it bent backward, but it remained intact. That's good old American construction values right there.

All of Daddy's guns were in perfect condition, too. Timmy Carter and I had a devil of a time taking the bolts out and moving the safe into the hole that used to be the cellar, but we managed. That's where we camped out. Put a tarp up to keep out the weather, gathered what cans we could find, and made due. At night, we hugged our guns and hoped for the best. During the day, we did us some hive hunting. Would've made Daddy proud, dedicated, as he was, to recycling and hunting and all.

I've talked about Virginia weather before, how we could see all four seasons (with all their subtleties and quirks) in a day, usually in spring and fall. But summer in the state that kills tyrants could be downright oppressive. I know, I know. My lone star brothers and sisters might have a bone to pick about that particular complaint (not to mention my creole, dixie, and sooner relatives), but that's like making fun of Californians for freaking out during a cyclone. Weather is relative. We're used to what we're used to.

The morning we set out to kill The Girl and all them was one of the hottest, most humid mornings I could ever remember. The night hadn't been all that much better, but at least the sun wasn't out. Once the old girl peeked over the tops of the trees and spread herself over the earth, our tarp caught the brunt of it, and sleep, as elusive as it was before, was more than an impossibility.

We set about the makeshift camp, quietly getting ready for the mission. I boiled some water from the stream for our coffee, and Timmy Carter broke out the fancy stuff for breakfast: SPAM and peaches in syrup, both of them straight from the can. We ate and pondered. I started to feel bad about how I'd treated Timmy Carter the day before, so I said, Timmy Carter?

Yeah.

I'm sorry about what I said.

What'd you say?

About not talking to me unless we were talking about killing. He did his silent thing, as he was wont. You're right. I'm angry. But it feels good right now. I think I need to use it.

I get it.

I knew you would.

He up-ended his can of peaches and drank the syrup, and when he was done, he put the can in the crate we were filling up with the empties. Then he said, You mind if I give you some advice?

As long as it's good advice.

Hate's a powerful engine, 'Manda. You let it burn too long, it'll blow you out.

I didn't have anything to say to that. I wasn't ready.

We geared up, strapping as many weapons as we could to our arms and legs. I took my Magnum and Daddy's Bowie knife, of course, as well as one of his hunting rifles. Timmy Carter took a shotgun, a Glock, and a machete. I watched him strapping all of that firepower to his body, wondering how it'd turn out if we actually ran into something that needed that many bullets to put it down. Not that it mattered. We were low on ammo. Gun's useless without it. Maybe that's why he took the machete. He climbed out of the foundation pit and reached down to pull me up.

You sure you want to do this? he asked.

Yeah, Timmy Carter. I think I told you enough times.

You didn't exactly have a positive experience there.

Listen, I appreciate you being concerned for my well-being, but there ain't no need for you to protect me. You're not my daddy, you're not my husband, and even if you was, I'd still tell you to back off.

That's not what I meant.

Would you have asked me that if I was a man?

Amanda, you need to back off.

Then don't—

There's no reason to do this. Why can't you just let it alone?

It ain't only about her. You remember what we ate for breakfast this morning right? And for dinner last night?

Yeah, but—

We're out of food. The Food Bank is empty. This is the only place I know that might have something.

How can you be sure?

I ain't, but you saw the place. It's got plenty of land, and solar power, and greenhouses. There's bound to be something there we can use.

Okay.

Okay? That it? No more arguing? No more lecturing. No more asking me if I'm sure I want to do this?

Okay is okay.

Well, okay, then.

We filled our canteens from the boiled water left over from breakfast, then headed south, following the creek that paralleled Brock Road. After about two miles, we turned east. It was going to be a long hike. And hot. I'd sweated through my clothes by mid-morning.

The woods were thick and lush already, reminding me of mid-summer even though it wasn't even close to mid-summer yet. And things were crashing around in the brush that were bigger than what I normally heard crashing around in there. I wasn't no expert on nature, but I seen me an episode of National Geographic or two, and I swear at one point I heard a heavy huffing, like the sound a gorilla made, and if you don't know anything about gorillas and Spotsylvania County, Virginia, the Piedmont area is not their native habitat. Seconds later, I caught a glimpse of the rear end of a kangaroo bouncing away, leaping through the bush like a, well, like a kangaroo, which was a bit of a shock as kangaroos were also not native to this place.

Timmy Carter. Did you—

Yeah, I saw it.

He slapped the back of his neck, grimacing, and when he pulled his hand away, it was covered in green gook and his own red blood, and the insect, or whatever it was that bit him, was crushed in his palm. Timmy Carter had himself a lot of palm, too, and that bug was squished all over it.

That don't look like no mosquito I ever seen, I said.

No kidding.

Is that fur?

I think so.

He wiped his hand off on a tree.

Let's get out of the woods, huh?

We double-timed it as best we could, but it was pretty hard to march and keep an ear out for weird creatures at the same time. Timmy Carter took