The Lasting Hunger

by Dennis Larsen

  Some of those hewn down by the blast and flying debris lay dead, their clothing shredded and burning, while others writhed on the ground, twitching uncontrollably or rolling to extinguish lapping flames. A solitary female, who had miraculously survived the explosion unharmed, darted from one colleague to the next trying to assist.

  From both sides of the road, Niel’s teams opened up. Their concentrated, small-arms fire cut into the two remaining trucks, slaughtering some before they could bring their arms to bear. For a full thirty seconds they rained terror and lead down on Kim’s men, annihilating those that were foolish enough to rear their heads and striking fear into the rest.

  Then, as quickly as it had started, the gunfire ceased and the scene calmed. Flames crackled and metal creaked against the gasoline-stoked inferno. The second of the primed cars remained relatively unscathed…but not for long, as its shirt-stuffed tank eventually transferred flame to fuel and it ignited in a second spectacular explosion. Juanita’s panicked militia darted here and there, scrambling for shelter, their actions driven by hysteria and confusion.

  Those with the forethought to defend themselves, fired into empty buildings and deserted positions. From thirty yards beyond the burning cars, a lone, wounded figure crawled from the driver’s window of the first truck’s wreckage. Kim sat on his haunches and inspected the battlefield. They had been crushed – in a matter of seconds they had been brutalized and mauled; nevertheless, they still had some fight in them.

  He wobbled to his feet and tried to holler above the chaotic melee of men and cacophony of discharging weapons. It was clear whoever executed the ambush had won the skirmish and were gone. Kim waded into the hapless scene, his stomach instantly retching at the sight of so many dismembered, bleeding out, and burning fighters.

  When he came to himself, he called his men and women to him. “Drag the wounded to shelter – we’ll come for them later. Everybody else saddle up – they can’t be far.”

  Moans, and a series of whimpering complaints, caught Kim’s attention and he fired a single gunshot straight into the air. “Perhaps you didn’t hear me,” he screamed. “Get ready to re-engage – NOW!”

  A block away, Niel and Scotty huddled at the rear of an old church building. They greeted each new arrival with grateful appreciation. Scotty counted heads, relieved when they were all accounted for.

  “Dumb luck,” Niel asserted.

  “No…brilliant plan,” Scotty disagreed.

  “Perhaps, but what now?” Niel asked, looking to his friends for suggestions.

  “We do it again,” Scotty finally piped in.

  Smiles swept from one sweaty face to the next, as they prepared to do just that.

  Chapter 49

  The militia that had headed south eased to a stop several blocks from their intended target. Pete sat in the lead vehicle; a modified Humvee with the doors removed and a military issue SAW (Squad Automatic Weapon) mounted on the roll bar. The gun had been stripped from a National Guard unit about the same time Juanita acquired the Bradley. A large box of linked ammunition hung from the weapon’s underbelly and a squatty soldier, with a shaved head, stood behind it.

  “I don’t like it,” Pete grumbled. “Doesn’t feel right.”

  “You think they know we’re coming?” the driver asked.

  “Most likely. There’s been enough gunfire throughout the valley…they must know something’s up,” Pete replied, thoughtfully. Stepping from the Humvee, he stroked the week-old stubble at his chin and considered their next move. The outline of the security post lay straight ahead. He squinted to make out movement, shapes, anything that would give him an advantage. Turning quickly, he strode to the three trailing vehicles. At each he gave instructions to dismount and move ahead on foot.

  “Move out and stay sharp,” he ordered, returning to the Humvee, which then slowly crept forward.

  All eyes were on the houses lining the street. The machine gunner pivoted the SAW back and forth, his shoulder pressed heavily into the gun’s stock. He slowly sucked wind into his lungs through an open mouth, only to exhale it in quick, forceful blasts. The rhythm so annoyed Pete that he finally grasped the gunner’s leg and told him to stop.

  Troopers split off and began clearing houses on either side of the roadway. The Humvee kept pace, stopping to provide cover for those on the ground. Building-by-building they secured the street, all the while creeping closer to their objective. The first block proved to be clear and uneventful. Pete thought perhaps he had been wrong, but the nagging feeling in his gut was still very much alive.

  At the next intersection, the layout turned from residential to commercial. An old gas station sat dormant, its merchandise and fuel only a distant memory. Dust swirled around a trio of rusting pumps and old cars sat up on blocks. Pete signaled his men to advance cautiously; those on the left were to search the station while those on the right checked out a dilapidated, single-story motel.

  From the Humvee, which was parked in the center of the intersection, Pete waited for what he sensed was coming. As the left-leaning squad neared the gas station, a torrent of accurate gunfire burst from the station’s rooftop. Several of Pete’s people went down in the first hail of bullets, but the remainder returned fire instinctively and ran for cover. The SAW gunner swiveled the machine gun sharply to his left and opened up on the station. The steady stream of 5.56 ammo cut into the building’s facade, easily ripping through plaster and splintering wood.

  On the station’s rooftop a husband and wife, the survivalists, each took several rounds, dropping them away from the roof’s edge. He was hit across the abdomen but was still able to crawl. She was less fortunate, taking a barrage of shells to her legs and pelvis, immobilizing her where she lay. Blood dripped from the corners of her mouth as she tried to convey the last of her earthly thoughts.

  She sputtered, her chest heaving in one final attempt to say, “I love you,” and then she was gone. The man dragged himself to her and laid his head against hers. Seconds later, a wild-eyed woman burst upon the scene. She wore loose fitting fatigues, tightly laced boots and her hair was shaved to produce a streaming Mohawk that reached to her waist.

  Bounding to the couple, she leveled her weapon at their heads but did not immediately pull the trigger. She paused, held her breath, and for a moment she felt their pain and their loss. Kicking a nearby weapon aside, Juanita’s recruit knelt and touched the woman’s face. There was no response. She did the same to the male, who immediately opened his eyes when he felt her touch.

  Reflexively she withdrew her hand, jumped back, and grasped at her weapon. Their eyes locked over the length of the barrel and he tried to speak. Foamy, pink blood spilled over his tongue and ran down his chin and neck. Though the words were slurred and nearly inaudible, the woman understood his pleas for help. Certain he was no threat; she once again lowered the gun and knelt at his side.

  Slowly he tried to speak, but could not. Spit gurgled in the back of his throat and she helped him tip his head to clear the mass. Finally able to whisper, he said, “Finish me.”

  For an instant she imagined her siblings and where they might be. They would be about the same age as the couple before her, but she’d not seen them in years. In all likelihood they were dust, just like everyone else who had ever meant anything to her. Taking the dying man’s hand she squeezed it once and laid it upon his chest.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, turning to walk away. His sobs were weak but lasting, as she hustled away to rejoin the fight. She no longer had the luxury of feeling or caring. Her emotions had been useless baggage, left at the train station of life too long ago to remember, and too far away to retrieve.

  Gunfire and similar scenes played out all the way down the street. Retreating Ward members fought with their last breaths to slow the advancing force, but in the end Juanita’s followers were triumphant. Of The Ward, eight members lay dead or dying. Pete’s group had fared no better, losing ten, including a dark haired woman with an unusual Mohawk.
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  For the survivors, the day was not yet done. There would be more pain, more death, and more soul-searching wonder.

  Pete mounted his troops, after stripping the corpses of their valuables, weapons, and water. Engines roared to life, as the small convoy rushed from the carnage to rejoin Williams and what was left of her army. Little did Pete know, Kim was among the dead, as well as every member of his unit. Scotty and Niel had seen to their demise and were now cruising eastward through the city, desperately trying to reach The Alamo before it was too late.

  Chapter 50

  The traitor’s bullet spun through the air, reaching its target before the rifle’s report sounded at the barricade. Dude went down hard; the slug tossing his thin body like a discarded ragdoll to the ground. The scene was suddenly shrouded in silence, at least for Jeff, who dropped to his friend’s side and covered his body with his own. He looked to where the bullet must have originated and pointed, willing the destruction of whomever was there.

  Suddenly, as if the sniper’s bullet had been fired from a starter’s pistol, renewed gunfire rang out from positions to the east and west. However, the clatter did not deter Cory from springing into action. In an instant, he was beside Jeff, kneeling to protect his friends. He scanned the opposing buildings, looking for any sign; any hint of the assassin…but there was none. “How bad?” Cory yelled.

  “I don’t know. Dude…Dude… can you hear me?” Jeff shouted.

  Panicked seconds later, Holly was there, wailing in high-pitched cries of despair. “No…no…Dude…please, no.”

  Dude was motionless, his back to the earth, while a pool of blood formed beneath him. Boob ripped at his friend’s shell-vest and shirt, peeling them back to reveal a small entrance wound below Dude’s right nipple. Frothy blood wheezed from the hole, creating a sucking sound with each subtle rise of the boy’s chest.

  “He’s alive,” Jeff gratefully exclaimed, looking to see if there were any other wounds.

  “Where’s he hit?” Cory called, still shielding their location.

  “His chest…his right side,” Jeff replied.

  “Through and through?” Cory asked.

  “Looks like it.”

  “Rip up his shirt and pack the wound. You’ll need to stop the blood as best you can before he’s moved,” Cory further instructed. Jeff quickly did as he was told, fighting against impossible odds to save Dude’s life.

  Holly scooped Dude’s head into her lap, her tears splashing dirt from his face. “Dude, don’t…don’t die. Don’t you leave me…you hear me.”

  Slowly Dude’s eyes opened, as if an angel’s voice had summoned him from the dead and he tried to speak. A string of incoherent, breathy cries trickled from his lips, quickly followed by a trail of blood-laced sputum.

  “What’s he saying?” Jeff asked, lowering himself to his friend’s lips.

  “I’m not sure, but we’ve got to get him to Remy,” Holly said, pleadingly.

  A moment later, Rod was there, his hand on Jeff’s shoulder. “Come on, Son. We’re ready to blow the barricade. Get your friend to the infirmary.”

  “Holly, get your bike,” Jeff said, shifting his weight to pull Dude from the ground. Rod reached in to assist but was stopped when Boob bawled, “I’ve got him. I got him. Holly, get your bike…now!”

  Rod nodded to Holly, and she scooted away. Thereafter, Jeff hefted Dude into his arms and straddled the rear of the motorcycle. It was a tight fit, but with Holly practically sitting atop the gas tank, the bike served as a fast and effective ambulance.

  “He’ll make it, Boob,” Cory called after them. “I promise.”

  As the whine of Holly’s engine faded, the rise of another, more ominous noise, reared itself in the form of a roaring, thunderous charge, forcing Rod and Cory back to the barricade.

  “I knew it,” Rod shrieked.

  “Everybody away. Get back…get back,” Cory barked, straining the limits of his vocal cords. The others withdrew from the barricade and ran for their lives, but Cory did the opposite; climbing the oil-soaked bags to fire at the oncoming driver. Lifting his weapon to avoid an ill-fated strike with a muzzle flash, he emptied his rifle at the marauding truck. Shot after shot rang out, drawing incoming rounds from the Harvesters, but none scored.

  Seconds later the huge truck, sporting a mounted snow blade, plowed into the center of the barricade, sending Cory and debris flying. The truck’s engine howled and screamed before it cranked a final time and groaned to silence. Rod rushed to the vehicle’s cab and emptied a clip into the space. Blood and gore painted the truck’s interior a ghastly hue of crimson death. Precisely the ending Finn had envisioned for Marty and his singularly brutish companion, who had survived the collision but were no match for Rod’s deluge of lead.

  Standing on the truck’s running rail and looking through the breach, Rod witnessed a swarm of Harvesters mounting a charge. Dozens of men and women flooded the street, scurrying to fill the void before The Ward could push them back. Jumping down, Rod darted for Cory. Though dazed and still trying to clear the cobwebs, he understood the gravity of their situation.

  “Time to go, Cory,” Rod hastily grunted, as he pulled him to his feet and they ambled away. Stopping a short distance from the barricade, Rod slipped Farrell’s silver lighter from his pocket, snapped it open, and rolled the flint. Fire immediately bounced from the wick, as Rod hurled it at the bags.

  Blue flames swirled with a mix of red and yellows, which spontaneously swept from one end of the barricade to the other, instantly engulfing everything in the midst. Half-full barrels of gasoline erupted in a 30-foot wall of blazing petrol, which had the desired effect of keeping their attackers at bay. Albeit Finn’s men, who had begun ascending the structure, were immediately enveloped and consumed, having nowhere to turn.

  “That’ll hold ’em for a minute, but it won’t be long before they find another way in. Can you run?” Rod asked, already moving forward.

  “You know it,” Cory blared, passing Rod with a few long strides.

  The men ran full out, never bothering to look back at the result of their bonfire.

  “Cor, strengthen the northeast wall. Hold them for as long as you can, and then fall back to the library and Old Main. I’ll do the same to the west.”

  Pausing for a moment, Rod clutched at Cory’s elbow and his tone changed. “You have to do me a favor.”

  “Anything…you know that,” Cory responded.

  “See to The Normals. I don’t know who we’ve got left but look after my boy.”

  “No problem,” Cory replied, anticipating that was all that needed to be said.

  “Cor, I mean it. You can’t leave his side. So, if they have to escape The Alamo, I need you and Christine to go with them. They’ll need some guidance…”

  “Rod, you’re talking crazy. We’ll survive this bunch the way we have all the rest. You’ll be around…”

  “Maybe,” Rod said, interjecting a final thought before they parted, “but just in case, you’ve got to give me your word.”

  Cory paused before nodding his understanding, thus accepting Rod’s terms. “You know I will. Be safe,” he shouted, as he peeled away and ran to the sound of gunfire.

  Rod did the same, veering west to sprint for another doomed barricade. In his mind, he knew Old Main would be their last stand. He could picture it now, fleeing Ward members rushing for an uncertain safety, while Harvesters were not far behind. Their only hope would ultimately rest with Clark and what remained of The Ward’s resolve.

  * * *

  Out of Rod’s view, a humiliated Finn stomped and shouted orders to a confused rabble. In time they would come to themselves and understand his words – “Half of you with me to the east, the rest of you to the west. Kill them…kill them all!”

  Chapter 51

  Dark smoke, rising in great plumes near the old campus, was not well received by Niel and his small squad. They had been fortunate, losing only one soldier while using their knowledge of streets
and structures to vanquish their foe. Yet now, racing against time and unforeseen obstacles, they made haste for the sanctuary of The Alamo and their defending friends.

  What should have been an easy, straight shot to the campus was hampered at every intersection by the prospect of another encounter with the enemy’s armored vehicle. Together, crouched around the perimeter of the truck’s bed, the dangerously weary group of soldiers held their breath at each corner. The truck would slow, creep forward, and when they were convinced it was clear, Niel would slam the accelerator to the floor and race for the next crossing. They had been at it for far too long, each mile taking its toll in bruised ribs and soaring anxiety.

  The smoke’s appearance on the horizon was greeted with painful shouts of instant despair. In the cab, Niel and Scotty were the first to detect the billowing columns. “This is crap,” Niel exclaimed. “Tell them to hold on.”

  To those riding in the rear, Scotty offered a quick command of caution as Niel plunged the truck through the remaining intersections without letting up on the gas. Cracking, concrete gutters bounced and nearly extricated them all, but they somehow managed to hold on. A block west of what was once a prestigious Mormon Temple, Scotty spotted Juanita and her troops.

  “Niel, it’s them. They’re gathering at the temple.”

  “Just perfect,” Niel responded, sarcastically. “Could you tell how many?”

  “No…you’re driving too fast. Should we loop around to get a better look?”

  For an instant, Niel pulled his foot from the pedal and considered the query. “Do you think they saw us?”

  “It’s likely…we’re making enough noise to wake the dead.”

  “Then screw it,” Niel replied, hammering the accelerator back to the floor. “Hold on,” he yelled, for a final time.

  The last, few blocks passed in seconds. At the bottom of a steep incline west of Old Main, Niel hung a quick left and roared down a shadowed roadway that led to a security checkpoint and home. Warm, thankful cries welcomed the ‘cavalry’, as the gate swung wide and the truck rolled in. The faces of frightened men and women lined the narrow street, which lead to a parking lot where Clark stood with his arms crossed over his heaving chest. From the bell tower he had watched their progress and was anxious to hear their report.