The Lasting Hunger

by Dennis Larsen

  “Your visit…your visit didn’t sit right with me – filthy traitor!”

  “Who knows?”

  “Everyone…they all know. They’ll all be…”

  “Liar,” the mole whispered, bringing his mouth very close to Kirk’s ear. “Then why are you alone?” He thought for a second and then it dawned on him. “You wanted to be a hero,” he said, almost laughing. “You wanted to rat me out on your own. Wrong move and it’s killed you.”

  A distant alarm sounded over the hill’s crest, halting the deadly discussion.

  “Sounds like your time’s up. Any last words?” he asked, taking pleasure in the moment.

  “You’ll pay, as God is my witness, you’ll…”

  He’d heard enough and in one swift motion withdrew the blade and raked it across Kirk’s neck, nearly severing his head. Blood gushed and sprayed in a gruesome cascade for seconds until his life’s essence was spent, creating a virtual river of gore.

  The mole was off and sprinting before the first, red geyser shot skyward – seconds were critical, as he made his way through alleys and fences to safety. A commotion of lights, sounds, and security people greeted him on campus. He laid low, biding his time and taking advantage of the confusion. Before long, he stood in Old Main’s turret overlooking the frantic scene below, fulfilling his emergency assignment with none being the wiser.

  One week, one week of hell to rain down on The Ward.

  Chapter 20

  The valley’s dust swirled in cough-wrenching plumes as Ben and company hurried along in a reckless bid to save Brandi’s life. The young, semi-conscious girl bounced in a makeshift, two-man cradle, formed between her father and Raymond.

  “Keep moving…please, everyone keep moving,” Ben shouted, not taking the time or energy to look behind him.

  “To where?” someone yelled, from the back of the strung-out party.

  Lena, who was right on her husband’s heels, stopped long enough to cast a wicked glare over her shoulder. “Just keep up,” she scolded. “We’ve no other choice.”

  The troop hustled on, laden with water-filled canisters and nothing else. The ‘canteens’ constantly slapped against their bellies or hips, acting as a frequent reminder that they would not die today – at least, not of thirst. Their small food supply was only a memory; one that did little to feed the stabbing pangs of hunger each survivor was bravely enduring.

  Suddenly, from the middle of the procession, a struggling Normal began to sing. He uttered the words faintly to himself, not wanting to draw any undo attention but before long the lyrics were recognized and his friends joined in. When they had quietly finished the first verse, they started again, adding volume and desire to the lyrics:

  “Come, come, ye Saints, no toil nor labor fear;

  But with joy wend your way.

  Though hard to you this journey may appear,

  Grace shall be as your day.”

  The revitalized chorus continued to sing, forgetting for a time their circumstances or the dangers they faced. The words, sung by pioneer ancestors, strengthened their worn-out muscles and filled their chests with renewed hope. We can do this, they thought, raising their voices high to the heavens.

  Ben was about to caution and quiet the singers for fear of detection, but thought better of it. The song’s message seemed to be all that was pushing them forward, lifting their spirits above the pain, hunger, and fatigue.

  “Look! Ahead…there’s a farm,” Lena exclaimed, above the choir’s melody.

  “Where?” Brandi questioned. She lifted her head to see a weathered, old farm complex, with silos and a large farmhouse nestled amongst a group of half-dead spruce trees. “Daddy, will there be help?” she asked, letting her head sag, once again, against Ben’s heaving chest.

  “I hope so, Sweety. I surely hope so,” he replied, renewing a pace that seemed impossible, given all they’d been through.

  “Maybe someone’s there,” Lena suggested. However, as they closed the distance, hastily dodging low-lying brush and strewn, windblown debris, it became apparent the farm was deserted. A shabby, rusted-out pickup sat on the drive, covered in powder-like soil, which obscured the vehicle’s actual color. The tires were cracked and flat, except for one that amazingly had a few pounds of pressure swelling the rubber. They skirted the truck and walked on, their voices subdued and senses alert to possible threats.

  “Looks like nobody’s home,” Raymond said, nodding his head toward the house.

  “I think you’re right. Let’s set her down and take a look around,” Ben replied. The two men slowly unwound their arms and placed Brandi on the bed of the decrepit, old Ford. Their arms instantly felt light, tingling as a surge of blood reached their extremities. “Let’s try the house first. Lena, stay with Brandi while we check things out,” he advised, directing two other adults to inspect the barn. Ben had a sickening feeling their search would turn up little more than rat droppings and filth, which, considering some of the alternatives, was not all bad.

  The yellow-bricked home had seen better times, but like so many across the wasteland, it housed a ghostly remembrance of a family taken too soon. A sprawling, wraparound deck was nearly stripped of paint; harboring bits of white that clung to the cracking cedar, giving a clue to the home’s original appearance. A dense layer of dust covered everything like an early snowfall, assuring the intruders that no one had climbed the stairs in the past few weeks, if not years.

  Raymond and Ben looked about for weapons before breaching the front door. They settled on ripping a few 2x2’s from the porch’s rail and held them at the ready. They found the door unlocked and slowly swung it inward. It creaked and ground to a stop, but not before a gap was created, wide enough for both men to maneuver.

  “Be careful,” Lena called, from behind them. “Holler if you need help.”

  Ben nodded his understanding but did not take his eyes from the entryway. “Ray, I don’t think we’ll find anybody home, but if somebody starts shooting it up, get back out here and take my family to safety. I’ll stay and see what I can do.”

  “But…” Ray began, before being shutdown with a stern look from Ben. “Well, if that’s the way ya want it,” he concluded.

  The two men squeezed through the narrow opening and disappeared from view. The collection of Normals and adults anxiously waited, hopeful the search would turn up something fruitful. Lena withdrew her attention, for a moment, to inspect her daughters wound. She poured water from one of the canisters over the bulging, red puncture marks and wrapped the girl’s leg with cloth.

  “It’ll be fine. Don’t worry,” she said, biting her lip to keep from crying. She was not one to lie, especially to her daughter, but what else could she do. She knew, as well as Ben, and possibly Brandi, that there was little hope and perhaps even less time before tragedy would strike…again.

  Through the open door, the subtle sounds of men sweeping from room-to-room could be heard, followed suddenly by the clomping of shoes up a stairway. A minute later, everyone’s attention was drawn upward by Ben tapping on an upstairs’ window. He waved them in, eager and excited for everyone to appreciate their discovery.

  Once inside, the band scurried about, mostly looking for food, except for Lena and Ben, who searched for a miracle…anything medicinal that would slow the venom and save Brandi’s life. The quest continued: every nook, shelf and out-of-the-way place was inspected until Ben heard the front door slam close. Startled, he bounded to the entry to find his friends who had searched the barn. “What’d ya find?” he questioned.

  A short, stocky woman shook her head glumly and responded they had found nothing of value, and no sign of the owners. “It would appear they’ve been gone for some time,” she surmised. “There’s a couple of graves behind the barn, but no telling when they were dug. The markers are unreadable. How ’bout you? Did you turn up anything?” she asked.

  Ben sadly reported they had not but encouraged them to join the hunt. Brandi watched from the comfort of
a tattered couch, her head elevated and leg extended to the floor. “What’s gonna happen, Dad?” she asked, trying in vain to hold back a tidal wave of emotions. A few tears broke over the dike and spilled down her dirty cheeks.

  The tender, simple question implied far more than what was said, and Ben knew it. He found his way to her and kissed her forehead gently, sensing a rise in her temperature. “We didn’t escape that murderous wench and come this far to have you…” He cut himself off before prophetically issuing the girl’s death warrant. “Well, I’ve got faith you’ll be fine. God will provide…He will. He has to.”

  Suddenly a man screamed from the basement, his words echoing throughout the house. “Bijimeny, I got it! I got it!”

  “What’s he on about?” Ben yipped, before dashing to the top of the lower stairs. From the darkness below, a shadowy figure bumped his way through the clutter and lurched up the steps, his only eye bright with excitement.

  “The mice got the rest but I found it. I got the fix!” he exclaimed.

  “Ray, slow down. What’ve you found?” Ben prodded, catching the sight of Lena and a few others running to see what had caused such a commotion.

  The old timer held something tightly, as he tried to explain. “Downstairs…I mean, under the stairs, I found it.”

  “What?” Lena shouted.

  “A kit. A rescue kit of some sort – mice got the goodies, and the flashlights are dead, but there it was…plain as day. It’s a little beat up but maybe it’s still good,” he gushed, breathlessly.

  “What’s still good, Man?” Ben asked, raising his voice to match Ray’s.

  “This,” he answered, opening his hand to reveal the rusted, but still intact, metal packaging of a snakebite kit.

  Lena rushed forward and hugged the scruffy, old goat, while Ben snatched the prize from his hand. “It’s a sign,” Ray shouted. “An angel has led us.” The words sunk deep into Ben’s heart but he did not reply. There was no time – even now it was maybe too late.

  Chapter 21

  In the morning following Kirk’s brutal murder, Clark knelt at the grisly scene…alone. His cousin’s body had been retrieved hours before, shortly after security personnel found his bled out, lifeless corpse. A remaining trail of carnage left no doubt the assault had been swift, vicious and unrestrained.

  “Why?” Clark asked. “I just don’t get it.”

  From behind, a gentle voice answered, startling Clark, who had not heard the approaching footsteps. “Duty…honor…any number of unknown reasons – at least, that’s what we have to believe,” Allison replied. Rod and his wife neared their grieving friend, hoping to understand what Kirk’s death meant for The Ward.

  “I guess,” Clark agreed, choosing to keep any further thoughts to himself. The rough defender of The Alamo could not remember a time when his emotions had been so sorely tried. Kirk was his last blood relative – the rest were gone – all taken, but none like this. He’d been among the first responders, flabbergasted to discover one of their own beyond the security perimeter, and even more surprised to find it to be one of their inner circle, his cousin…his friend.

  The couple watched in silence as Clark ground a bleach-soaked cloth against the pavement, which lathered pink against his touch. “It has to be done. You know, before the sun bakes it into the pores.”

  Allison stooped and placed her hand over his and spoke, “Let me do that for you, Clark. There’s no reason you should have to…”

  “No…Allison. No, but thanks. I want to…I need to.”

  “As you wish,” she replied, removing her hand but not standing.

  “He was a good man,” Clark asserted, a few tears now dropping freely from his chin and mixing with the reddened slurry.

  “That he was,” Rod agreed. “He’ll be missed.” Allison nodded her agreement, placing her hand gently on Clark’s trembling shoulder.

  He continued to rub at the morbid stain far longer than necessary. However, the act was cleansing…healing. Between moments of still reflection and muted sobs, Clark recounted stories of growing up with his cousin: their days on the family farm and their survival through the worst of those early years. “He always wanted to help. He was never one to seek out a fight but was ready…” The security chief choked on the words, a realization hitting him anew – Kirk was truly gone. “I can’t have this,” he said, rinsing the tattered rag again, only to sweep it back and forth over the ever-widening bloodstained ring.

  “What’s that, Clark?” Rod asked.

  “This reminder – every day staring me in the face. I can’t have it telling me I failed to keep him safe.”

  “What kind of talk is that? Kirk’s death is no more your fault than it is Allison’s or anybody else’s. As for the spot, it will fade, but it’s his memory we need to cherish…to hold dear.”

  “I know…but it’s hard. I’m sick of the killin’, the sleepless nights, the wondering about our next meal.” Clark finally stopped scouring the uneven asphalt and looked Allison in the eyes. “I’m tired, Allison, just bone tired.”

  She pulled him to her, and they wept. Rod looked on, his emotions rendering him speechless. His thoughts were drawn to his brother, Roger, and others who had fallen, but were not forgotten. “We can’t give up,” he softly whispered. The statement brought no immediate response, but it did slow his friends’ lingering whimpers. “We have to try. Can you imagine if we don’t?”

  For a second a grim picture formed in his mind, hushing his words. The horrid display congealed, rendering a possible future for his people; their lives slaughtered for the amusement of the disturbed and evil. Rod pulled himself together and completed his thought. “What prospects can we offer? Can we even promise a tomorrow? I can already see the writing on the proverbial wall. They’ll kill every last one of us and take The Normals. We can’t just roll over and give in to these murderous heathens.”

  “Rod, don’t you think I know that? If I could get my hands on ’em, I’d take every last one of them and string ’em up by their nuts and order target practice, but…”

  “But, what?” Allison asked.

  “But they just keep coming. For every one we kill, two more take their place. Where are the good people? Where are the humane, the caring, and the sincere? Surely, we’re not alone?”

  “We’re not,” Allison chimed in. “Look at us: two communities thrown together by random circumstances and we’ve done alright. It’s not perfect but we have a life…we have each other.”

  “Listen, you two, don’t get me wrong. I said I was tired, not whipped. I’m gonna find who did this to my cousin and there’ll be hell to pay. You can bank on it.” The thought of Kirk’s final seconds and his unheard cries suddenly turned Clark’s sadness to rage. He stood, slammed the wet rag deliberately to the ground and offered to raise Allison from her crouched position.

  “Of that, I have no doubt,” Rod replied, grateful his friend’s fighting spirit was shining through their tremendous loss.

  “I’m lead on this, Rod,” Clark said, curtly.

  “Of course. Tell me what I can do to help,” his friend replied, “but it need not be…”

  “Unfortunately it does. We have to start now, while the trail is fresh and the killer has blood on his hands,” Clark demanded. “There’s too many questions…too many loose ends. I’ve a nagging feeling their connected…somehow, somewhere they’re connected.”

  “What…who’s connected?” Allison asked.

  “Bubley and Kirk. When was the last time we lost two members of the council to such unusual circumstances?”

  “Never,” Allison answered.

  “So you think someone…one of our own did this?” Rod questioned, assuming a Harvester probing their defenses had brought about the death. He discussed the possibility with his friends, tossing ideas and theories about while the sun climbed high against a backwash of brilliant blue.

  On campus, news of the murder spread from wagging tongues to eager ears, faster than any mail servi
ce. A macabre sense of interest and fear gripped the little community, causing many to question their safety and their neighbor’s intentions. For most, they lived among people they loved and trusted. To imagine one as a killer was almost beyond belief, but like a plague, rumors spread, even as Clark, Rod and Allison discussed the possibilities.

  However, the friends were not the only ones intimately connected to, and interested in the butchering of the sharpshooter. High above the rest, he watched. A rifle held firmly against his shoulder and his eye glued to the scope’s reticle. He danced the crosshairs from Clark’s forehead to Allison’s breast, just over her heart. Grinning, he briefly considered pulling the trigger. The shock would almost be worth the risk, but not yet, he cautioned. After all, time was on his side. He knew The Ward’s destruction was imminent and he was more than happy to wait. He’d perform, dance to their tune a few more days, all the while plotting and preparing. In less than a week he’d be reunited with the woman who allowed light into his dark, meager existence. His heart thumped against his chest; the idea of being in her presence, and pleasing her with his devotion, was overwhelming. Patience, he thought. Soon enough…soon enough.

  Chapter 22

  Black smoke billowed from the rear of a supercharged, diesel engine as it vibrated and shook to life. It had been weeks since the 600-horsepower motor had been run, creating a bit more work for Smitty, but it wasn’t anything he couldn’t handle. Turning wrenches had earned him a special spot in Juanita’s hierarchy, but he feared her, all the same. He wiped his hands with a grimy rag and muttered to himself, while circling the Bradley Fighting Vehicle.

  Years ago, a band of wayward Guardsman had tried to transport the war-machine from Colorado to Oregon, not understanding Lady Williams stood in their path. Negotiations for the fine piece of military hardware had been settled with few words…and then a single bullet.