The Lasting Hunger

by Dennis Larsen

  He fell to the ground beside her and tightly drew her frame to his. Blood covered them both as she labored to speak his name. Rod pulled her close, silencing her struggle with his lips against hers. “I love you,” he said, whispering the words tenderly into her ear. At that moment he felt her go limp and knew she was dead. Wailing from the very depths of his soul, he cried and stood, cradling Allison in his arms. On shaking knees, he took two wobbly steps before a Harvester’s bullet found its mark.

  Rod fell, yet rose again to take another bullet in the back, ending his journey but not his legacy. From his vantage point, Clark swung the scope from Rod to Egan…who had vanished. In his place, a wash of Harvesters were pouring through the gap and flooding The Quad. “God help us,” Clark thundered, slamming the bolt forward to end another life.

  Chapter 59

  “Take up positions in the buildings. We can hold them in place and let Williams do the dirty work,” Finn yelled, standing just beyond The Ward’s line of sight. “They’ve retreated to that old building to the west – they’ll have no place to run.”

  The words came as welcome relief to a small cluster of Harvesters who had stayed close to Finn and not spearheaded their assault. They were exhausted, hungry, but oddly enough, not tired of killing. Thus far into the day’s campaign, Finn’s devotees had been shot up and dealt setback after setback, but their thirst for carnage was far from satiated. Murder was always welcome; especially up close, face-to-face encounters when the victim knew, without a doubt, they were about to die. These were the moments the Harvesters lived for…longed for…yet today, the thrill of a personal kill had eluded most of them.

  There had been a few mortally wounded and overlooked Ward members left behind in their panicked retreat, but they were dead anyway and proved to be of little sport. The acceptance of death was upon them, yielding no significant fulfillment in sealing their fate. However, every Harvester that stood before Finn knew the payoff was literally just around the corner, looming large to fill a craving that had been building for days. They would let Juanita’s militia destroy The Ward’s resistance and then they’d gladly sweep in to track down those clever enough to hide or feign death.

  Finn sensed what they were thinking…lusting…so he added a final thought, “Save the strong men, pretty women, and The Normals, but of the rest…have a field day.” A few crude shouts of exultation leapt from the crowd, which were only subdued when Finn motioned for restraint. “Pick your targets, conserve your ammo, and don’t be stupid.”

  “Hey Finn…yo, what do you want us to do with him?” a man questioned from the back of the restless mob. Those between Finn and the man parted to reveal their mole, wounded but still alive.

  “How bad’s he hurt?” Finn asked, loudly.

  “If it were me, I’d already be dead but he’s one tough mother.”

  Finn thought for a moment before issuing a reply, “He might prove useful, see what you can do to keep him alive. The rest of you savages get to it – first one to bring me a tasty, young Normal gets promoted.”

  “Boy or girl?” someone bellowed, causing the horde to laugh.

  “Does it matter?” Finn replied, knowing it would spark an even louder outburst. Again, he motioned for self-control and was heeded. “Okay, that’s it then…first The Ward…and then Juanita – move out!”

  * * *

  “What in the hell have they done?” Ms. Williams shouted, knowing there would be no one anxious to offer a reply. Stomping about in a not uncommon crazed fit, she fumed and cursed, her senses alive and piqued by burning chemical fumes and roasting bodies. “Another delay,” she grunted, while stopping to point at the smoldering BFV. “Their defenses are waning, let’s finish the job.”

  The woman recognized the sounds of gunfire coming from beyond her sight and assumed Pete and Finn had done their jobs. She, as well, was not without success, however, the loss of the Bradley was devastating. It had been her insurance; an extension of her own personal power…and now it was gone.

  “You,” she screamed, shaking her finger at a husky militiaman, “take six and work your way to the southern entrance. Hey, and you,” she shrieked, pointing at another, “do the same to the north. We’ve got to get inside and secure The Normals. We’re about there…cover one another and take them alive.”

  Men and women moved briskly away, shielding themselves from the sniper fire that was still coming from Old Main. Juanita’s forces had been mauled but they were still anxious to win the day. The thought of a final cure, a fix for their ailments, had more to do with them giving their all, than any allegiance to Williams or her vision of the future.

  In small groups of two or three, they fought to save themselves and their closest friends. They were cold-blooded but not inhumane, brutal but not bloodthirsty, and ferocious but with a meager sense of compassion. Unlike the Harvesters, they yearned for a return to ‘civilization’ and a semblance of humanity. Some wished for the things of their youth; home, family, and life. Still, it felt more like a dream than probable reality…except for this one chance…this hope of rejuvenation granted by a Normal. Fable? They suspected it to be so, but a fable worth dying for.

  Shouldering their courage, they attacked with rifles blazing, and when their shells were depleted they scoured bodies for more. In the final stages of the attack they could see the writing on the wall; it would be hand to hand and knife to throat. They encouraged one another and hoped for an end to the killing.

  * * *

  The death of Rod and Allison had practically wrenched Clark’s heart from his chest. In the seconds following the cruel scene, he had nearly lost all hope but at least he had taken their killer. The loss of his dearest friends had been a heavy price, but it was one they were willing to pay for family and freedom. From the tower he had dispatched as many assailants as he had bullets to fire, but they were spent, and so nearly was he.

  Rushing from one room to the next, Clark shouted to hold on; if for nothing more than to see The Normals away. In a room on the ground level, Clark encountered Lena, Brandi’s mother. The room was bullet riddled and quiet. The woman lay on her back near the window, her eyes shut and face spattered with blood. Clark stooped and placed a finger alongside her neck; the faintest of pulses greeted his touch but she failed to stir.

  “She’s safe,” he said, leaning to her ear. “They got away and she’ll have a good life.”

  Almost wishfully, Clark thought he saw her lips part and eyes move beneath her lids, yet whatever she wanted to say was taken with her, as she gasped and a final breath escaped her chest. Clark bent and kissed her forehead. They’re together, he thought, remembering Ben and his final minutes.

  Stepping into the hallway, he pulled his pistol and ran for the nearest door. “They’ll be inside soon! Form a barricade…every other person to the hall – we’ve got to make a stand!”

  * * *

  Beneath the library, in an old storage facility, Cory, Jeff and those trying to escape, hastily reloaded their weapons and gathered supplies from racks established for just such a purpose. Their motorcycles were lined up and directed at a large metal door that would easily be hoisted out of their way, but only when they were ready to depart.

  “Brandi, ride with me,” Holly said, indicating which bike was hers. “Grab an ammo belt – you’ll have to carry my rifle but I’m out of shells.”

  “Sure,” Brandi replied. The young woman had endured a lot the past few days, but she had not given up and was eager to survive. “Who is Grant? Will we be safe there?”

  “Well, he’s a different sort, but he’s the ‘man’, at least that’s what Dude says,” Holly replied. “Come on, get on behind me…and hold on tight.”

  A short distance away, Dude lay on the stretcher, his chest lifting in steady rhythms but his eyes remained unopened. “What of him?’ Godfrey asked. “We can’t very well take him on a stretcher.”

  “No, we can’t,” Jeff replied. “There’s some rope on one of the shelves – grab it and
tie him to me.”

  “Tie him to you? On the motorcycle…tie him to you?” Whitcomb queried, incredulously.

  “You have a better suggestion?” Boob retorted.

  “Well, I…ah…”

  “I thought not. I’ll climb aboard and you lash him to me. We’ve no other options.”

  Cory concurred and quickly helped Godfrey find the rope. The two men then lifted Dude to the bike and began the task of tying him to Jeff’s frame. Lengths of rope wound around their chests and stomachs and were cinched tight. Dude’s legs were then tied to a shock absorber on either side, but his arms and feet were allowed to dangle free.

  “It’s the best we can do. We’ve got to get rolling,” Cory confirmed.

  “Okay, have we got everything and everybody?” Jeff asked.

  “Yes. Christine and I’ll lead the way. Jeff, you follow us so the others can keep an eye on Dude,” Cory ordered, taking a moment to walk past all those that were mounted and ready to go. Walking by the scientist, Cory gave a final instruction, “Whitcomb, get the gate and then climb on with the last rider.”

  “Right – I’ve got it,” Godfrey replied. Reaching to the waist of his trousers, he exhaled loudly, comforted by the fact that his notebook was still there. “I guess we’re off then?”

  “We are. Keep your feet up and your eyes straight ahead,” Cory offered, as a final suggestion to one who had seen little time on a motorbike. Godfrey nodded his appreciation and began hoisting the door by means of a long chain that manipulated a pulley attached to the frame.

  “This is it, my friends,” Jeff shouted, above the noise of the starting engines. “We’ve practiced for this day and it’s here. Let’s make…” For an instant, Jeff’s words lodged in his throat, but he summoned the strength to spit them out, “Let’s make our parents proud.”

  Chapter 60

  Since the beginning of the End-of-Days, Hyrum, Utah had never seen so much angst or endured so much profanity. Grant had watched from afar, his field glasses allowing him little more than a view of smoke. When the skirmishes had consolidated at the university, he had driven to the southern outpost to witness the carnage firsthand. He was overcome with grief and anger, finding new friends slaughtered and the station destroyed. However, one thing was very clear – a lone man, who knew no fear, was no match for the evil that had fallen upon The Ward.

  Yet, as he turned away and drove to his home, he was ashamed. In his heart of hearts he knew the reason why, but it gave him little comfort. What would Rose do if he were gone? Would she lose track of time, eventually wasting away to nothing when the food ran out, or would she simply wander off, as before, and fall prey to some heinous predator? The sentiment constrained him, yet the inner pain was momentous.

  Listening to the battle ebb and rage, as it had all day, was the most difficult thing Grant had ever endured. The thought of Boob, Dude, and their friends being caught up in something so horrific brought tears to his eyes, and a scowl to Rose’s face. She wanted so much to make sense of Grant’s mood and the far-off sounds, but could not, until Grant boiled it down to a single concept – “Jeff’s in danger.”

  This she understood, which immediately troubled the old woman. “We can help?” she’d asked, forgetting the barbaric nature of man.

  “Perhaps, but not now…not yet.”

  For hours they had watched and patiently waited. The rumbling gunfire seemed to be without end. How would any one of them survive? Late in the afternoon Grant was finally overcome by guilt. It had churned a hole through his conscience, from which he would never recover…unless he entered the fray. Rose helped him mount a large, heavy rifle on a crossbar atop his old pickup. It was the most powerful thing in his arsenal, and even it seemed lacking when he considered where he was going.

  “I’d give anything for this to be a repeater,” Grant had mused, the words instantly confusing Rose.

  “Repeater?”

  “Machine gun,” Grant confirmed, while holding both hands up, his fingers shaped like tipped-over ‘L’s’, and mimicking the sound…Tat Tat Tat Tat Tat.

  Rose laughed and slapped at Grant’s hands. “Silly,” she said.

  “Stupid, you mean.”

  Finally satisfied he had the weaponry necessary to hold his own, Grant wrapped Rose in a bear-like hug and bid her goodbye. She clung to him, not wholly understanding his need to leave, but somehow in-tune with his will.

  “Soon,” she said, waving as he climbed into the back of the truck and loaded a magazine of .50 caliber shells into the oversized rifle. The act alone brought some degree of comfort but he knew it would not last.

  Seconds later he jumped from the bed and slipped behind the wheel. “Soon,” he replied, tipping his hat to his beloved Rose.

  The drive from Hyrum to Logan was a short one, oftentimes littered with small animals and the occasional deer, but not today. Thunder was in the air and even the rodents knew better than to make an appearance. Reaching the southern outpost for a second time, Grant was reminded why he had initially decided to remain aloof from the battle. Birds had found the site and were feverishly picking at the remains, which were already bloating under the sun’s beaming rays.

  This is crazy. I’m driving to my death, Grant thought, but he drove on, warily looking for anything, or anyone, that would challenge him. Not two blocks from the outpost Grant suddenly recognized the annoying sound of multiple small engines. They were revved tight and moving fast. He quickly pulled into a vacant driveway and waited for them to pass. He held his assault rifle against the seat with his right hand and gripped the steering wheel with his left, squeezing hard enough to turn his knuckles white.

  “What the hell am I doin’ out here?” he whispered. “What difference is one old man gonna make?”

  As he pondered the question and considered his fate, an answer came – all the difference. It was faint, almost indiscernible, perhaps conjured up by his thoughts and emotions, but it was an answer, nonetheless. In his mind he repeated the answer a few more times, and in that moment of rationalization and self-doubt his conviction found resolve.

  “Alright Pedoochie, now what are ya gonna do?” Just as he spoke, the first of a string of motorcycles sped by his position. He counted five, six, seven, eight…and some with double riders. He immediately recognized Cory in the lead, and then Jeff who was not far behind. “Well, I’ll be go to hell,” Grant exclaimed, dropping his foot on the accelerator and releasing his rifle.

  A few blocks later, he caught up to the retreating troop, and with horn blaring he brought them to a stop.

  “You scared the crap out of us, Grant,” Jeff yelled.

  “Sorry, it couldn’t be helped. My heavens, don’t tell me yer all that’s left,” Grant said, sadly.

  “Who knows,” Cory replied. “We had to get The Normals out – so here we are.”

  “Well, we need to get ya home,” Grant replied, taking a knife from his pocket to cut Dude loose. “Let’s get this boy in my truck before ya bounce him to death. Come on there, Brit, give me a hand.”

  “The names Godfrey.”

  “And what makes you so special to be tied up with this lot?”

  “I’m not special…not in the least. Believe me, I wanted to stay but…”

  “He’s our scientist…the one that’s going to save mankind,” Jeff noted.

  “I wish,” Whitcomb added.

  “Is mankind worth savin’?” Grant mumbled, hoping he had not been heard. “If we don’t get off this main road we might need someone to save us. Come on, I’ll lead the way. Those of you ridin’ shotgun, hop in the back. You, young lady with the bum leg, climb up front and help me with Dude.”

  “Yes Sir,” Brandi replied.

  Bent on avoiding any delays, Grant pushed the truck to its limits while periodically checking on those tailing him. He reached his arm across the young man at his side, helping to hold him in place. Grant was no doctor but he knew the boy was in rough shape. Sweat poured from his face and his color was ash
en and deathlike.

  “What happened up there?” Grant asked.

  “Juanita Williams is what happened,” Brandi replied.

  “Anybody else get away?”

  “No,” she shot back, the memory of her mother still too fresh to feel anything but sorrow.

  “How many were there?”

  “Hundreds…thousands…I don’t know. So many we couldn’t hold them off.”

  “It’s a damn shame. The Ward was the best chance this area’s ever gonna have to recover.”

  For a minute they sat in silence, the wheezing of Dude’s chest only overshadowed by the drone of speeding tires.

  “You some sort of hero?” Brandi finally asked.

  The question brought an immediate chuckle from Grant. “Hero? Now that’s somethin’ I’ve never been called. I wish I could say yes, but I’m afraid I’m just an old man with a knack for stayin’ alive. That’s ’bout the extent of my heroism and probably not the answer you were expecting.”

  “Nope. It’s not.”

  “But I will see to it that yer taken care of. I ain’t gonna let Williams, or any other fool, step on my property or take what’s mine. Trust me, Sweetie, you’ll be safe.”

  “I don’t know, but somehow…I believe you,” Brandi replied, touching Grant’s outstretched hand.

  He smiled and gave her a wink. “We’re ’bout there. We’ll need to get Dude to a bed. Can you help my woman look after him while I talk with Cory and Jeff? We’re gonna need some sorta plan.”

  “You can count on me,” Brandi replied.

  “I’ll bet I can. Thanks.”

  Fifteen minutes later Dude was tucked away in Grant’s fortress. His bandages had been changed and he was sleeping soundly. Rose hovered at his side, her instincts ignited by the boy’s suffering.