Dead Hunger VII_The Reign of Isis

by Eric A. Shelman

  “They came for us,” said Gem.

  “They did. In numbers,” said Max.

  “Fucknuts,” said Gem.

  “Second that,” said Flex.

  *****

  Flex figured that Max and Isis had sensed the three needed to have a conversation, so they left.

  “They’re not equipped for that yet,” said Gem. “Trini’s just 21 years old.”

  “She’s tougher than you were at that age,” said Flex.

  Gem stared at him. “You really believe I can stand behind that fence and watch them leave?”

  Flex shook his head. “Hemp, what do you think, man?”

  “Try and stop them is what I think,” said Hemp. “Compared to us, she is a goddess and he is a god, guys. We must defer to them, despite their tender years.”

  The door came open and Charlie came striding in with several mesh bags in her hands. She placed them on the floor and ran to Hemp, plopping down on his lap. He winced and groaned, but she kissed him before he could complain.

  “Who’s a goddess? You talking about me again?” she asked, looking at Gem.

  “You know it, sweetie,” said Gem. “Get what you went out for?”

  “Rabbits,” said Charlie. “Love beef, but it’s a nice change.”

  “Trina and Tay got them?” asked Gem.

  “I got two, they got six between them.”

  “You’ve taught them well, master,” said Flex.

  “Uh, that would be mistress, but it carries too many other connotations.”

  Gem’s face turned serious. “Did the girls share anything with you?” she asked.

  Charlie’s face scrunched. “No. Like what?”

  “Holy shit, here it comes,” said Flex.

  They told her what Max and Isis were planning to do and she dropped into the chair beside Gem, her mouth hanging open.

  “They’ve been calling them to the pit for two days and they didn’t get a single one?” she asked.

  “That’s what they said,” answered Hemp. “Never happened before.”

  The pit was Hemp’s design, but Max and Isis contributed greatly to the functionality. It took two years to build, but when completed, was the greatest mass zombie killing system anybody had ever seen.

  The pit was a hundred and twenty feet in diameter; a perfect circle. It was only five feet deep, but a five-foot chain link fence encircled it. When you stood inside the pit – which was a risky place to stand – the fence was essentially ten feet, so it was enough.

  More chain link fencing covered the top of the pit, making it essentially a cage, and winding through this fencing, in approximate one-foot rows, was heavy plastic tubing with fine spray water nozzles spaced every twenty inches, connected to large tanks of the deadly urushiol blend.

  This took care of the Hungerers, as Max and Isis – and now, many of the citizens of Kingman – called the creatures.

  To this liquid blend, Hemp had added the necessary ratio of estrogen blocking agent to neutralize and kill the Mothers as well.

  Two large storage tanks were mounted on welded steel towers eight feet tall. These were sealed, stainless steel tanks, and were pressurized by solar panel-charged batteries and two twelve-volt compressors.

  The pressure was constant and one-way valves prevented the leakage when the system’s motors were not running, maintaining pressure. When a sensor detected it had dropped below a designated threshold, the motors would come on and recharge the system where it needed to be.

  No zombie-killing pit would be complete without a backup system. Buried in the floor of the pit were over a thousand fully sealed hydraulic cylinders with 48” stainless steel, sharpened shafts that shot out of the ground at strategically calculated angles.

  All of this ran off a small diesel generator powering a hydraulic pump and motor combo.

  If the zombies were on their feet when the shafts extended, it would break their legs or knock them over. After the rotters were down, the second shaft extension usually rammed straight through their skulls, killing them.

  The most they ever needed – during quality testing – was four shaft extensions to kill all the occupants of the pit.

  Afterward, they would burn them in place using an accelerant, and roll the bulldozer in to clean out the remains.

  The pit was strategically located and three fully cleared entry paths led from the main highway directly to the pit. The gates leading into the pit were spring loaded so that only one, skinny rotter could lean on it and it would swing inward, but once in, it would spring closed, trapping them.

  It was an old idea, but it worked well. Zombies didn’t get the whole pull, don’t push thing very well – even the red-eyes.

  Because Max and Isis could draw the rotters to a very specific location, it was their idea to construct a catwalk over the pit’s cage where two chairs were placed.

  Not thrones, or anything so dramatic. Just two, stackable, resin chairs.

  Despite being a mere infant at the time, Isis had very clear memories of dangling below the helicopter with Rachel at the controls. She also remembered how the zombies were mindlessly drawn to her even then.

  The kids could sense when the rotters were near, so when it was almost time, they would access the catwalk via an attached, exterior ladder and take their seats.

  Once inside the pit, the area of the cage directly below Max and Isis was as close as they could get to the two.

  In they pushed, their emaciated bodies adorned in filthy, bloody clothing, their skin pocked and shredded, their eyes red or pink. Their never-ending hunger drew them forward, unable to resist.

  They pushed toward the center of the pit to be close to their children, Max and Isis.

  Charlie stood and folded her arms. “Details,” she said.

  “I might as well cut to the chase,” said Gem. “They’re taking Trina and Taylor.”

  “My fuckin’ ass they are,” said Charlie. “Not Max, not Trina and Taylor, and not without me.”

  Flex, Gem and Hemp stared at Charlie. Her response could have been scripted, and she played the part perfectly.

  “Well, sister,” said Gem. “When I get Flexy squared away, I’m booking my tickets, too.”

  “You mean our son, right?” asked Flex. “Because there’s no way I’m letting you go without me.”

  Hemp stood, shaking his head. “Guys, there’s no way they’ll allow it. If you tell them you intend to go, they’ll slip away in the night. I think we know them that well.”

  “Then we don’t tell them,” said Charlie. “We just follow them.”

  “I swore I’d never say this,” said Flex, “but I’m gettin’ too old for this shit.”

  “Yeah,” said Gem. “Like ten years ago.”

  “Let’s get home,” said Flex. “We need to start acting like this is okay with us if we’re going. Plus we need to pack our shit in secret.”

  Gem smiled. “I’m kind of excited. We’ve been living the domestic life for a while now.”

  As they all headed for the door, Hemp added, “We’re all probably a bit rusty. That said, I’m kind of looking forward to spending some time on the road, just the four of us again.”

  *****

  CHAPTER TWO

  The sun sank below the horizon and shadows fell over the kitchen and family room of the small house in which Flex, Gem, Trina, and Flex Jr. lived.

  Flex opened the back door and gave the magnetic motor a spin, closing the magnets around it. It silently wound up to speed.

  Flex had coupled the electricity-free motor to a small generator, the wires from which were channeled into the house, to a portable electrical outlet. Into this, they had plugged a lamp.

  Back inside, Flex turned the switch and the table lamp illuminated the room. It didn’t burn at full wattage, but it was light. He and Hemp were hoping to build one large enough to power the equipment at the pit. Fuel was becoming more and more unreliable, no matter their efforts.

  Flex Sheridan Jr. sat at the gla
ss top table and worked on a pencil sketch by the meager light.

  “Let me see that,” said Gem, sliding her chair closer to his.

  “It’s not done yet,” objected her son. “Later. Maybe.”

  “Maybe? I’ll have you know you got all your artistic skill from these loins,” she said. “That guy over there can’t draw stick people.”

  “I get that,” said Flex Jr., smiling.

  “If I had a leg to stand on I’d argue just on principal,” said Flex. “Talkin’ about me like I’m not here.” He pretend pouted.

  “We really never mentioned you,” said Gem.

  “Insult by omission,” he said. “Even worse.”

  How’s the math coming?” asked Gem, sitting back.

  “Already done and it was a breeze,” said Flex Jr. “Uncle Hemp helped me a couple of weeks ago. I shoulda asked him sooner.”

  “He’s got a way of explaining things,” said Gem, rubbing his arm. “Way more patient than me.”

  The thirteen-year-old smiled and shook his head. “Yeah. They’d put me on the short bus if I counted on your math skills.”

  Gem slapped him playfully in the back of the head. “You don’t even know what that means,” she said, smiling.

  “Ha!” said Flex, a big smile on his face. “Shit comes back pretty fast, doesn’t it mama?”

  “Don’t be a dick,” she said, reaching out and snatching Flex Jr.’s sketch pad and flipping the cover over. She raised her eyebrows. “Is that … Isis?” she asked.

  “Give it back, mom,” he said, his face blushing red.

  “She’s a bit your senior,” said Flex. “And while I think you’ll get taller yet, she might have an inch or two to go yet, too.”

  “I’m good with tall chicks,” he shot back. “And she likes me. I mean, what’s not to like?”

  Flex looked at his son. He was pretty tall for his age at 5’8”, and Flex was pretty sure he’d top 6’ one way or the other. Maybe more. He had dark brown hair and brown eyes, Gem’s Latin heritage taking over there.

  “The sketch is awesome, kiddo,” said Gem. “I mean … really good.” She held it up for Flex to see. “Hey,” she said, getting his attention.

  Flex turned to look, but his son grabbed it and put it back on the table. “When it’s done you can frame the damned thing,” he said, smiling. Then: “Mom, when can we go out on a run? It’s been like a month.”

  A run is what Flex Jr. called a zombie hunt. He hadn’t had any close calls since he was around eight years old and he often went out on killing runs with other boys and girls in the community, but Gem was always nervous about it, and he had to get permission. She hadn’t given it in a long time.

  “Soon,” she said. “You done with your homework, then? We need to talk.”

  He rolled his eyes. “What the hell did I do now?”

  Flex leaned against the counter and laughed. “You remind me of me,” he said. “Jesus, Flexy. Fuckin’ uncanny.”

  “I know,” said Gem. “He’s like a miniature version of you when I first started dating you. Single-minded.”

  “Oh, yeah?” asked Flex Jr. “What was his obsession?”

  “Me, of course,” said Gem.

  “Still is, as far as I can tell,” said their son, smiling. “So I’ll let it go for now but I wanna go out. I’m gonna lose my knife skills.”

  Against Gem’s better judgment, Flex Jr. had become enthralled by Lola’s abilities with knives. She seemed to enjoy using them as her primary weapons when trouble – zombie trouble – presented itself.

  Nelson acquired some throwing knives, and when Flex Jr. put all that together in his head, he became a lean, mean, zombie-killing machine. He wore a narrow nylon belt with pockets all the way around. It held thirty throwing knives, all 9” long and made of stainless steel.

  “Like I said, Flexy,” said Gem. “We’ll get you out there before too much longer. Let’s let Max and Isis get them closer and you can put together a welcoming party.”

  “Sweet,” he said. “What do you want to talk about?” With one hand he tucked his hair, which he had chosen to grow long from age ten, behind his right ear. It was as straight as that of any red-eye, and down to his shoulder blades.

  Flex came in and sat down. “It’s about your sister.”

  “Trini? What’s up with her?”

  “It also involves Max and Isis,” said Gem.

  Now suddenly, Flex Jr. looked concerned. “What?”

  Gem looked at Flex, who gave her a quick nod. She went on: “They said they need to go,” she said. “Maybe head something off at the pass.”

  “What do you mean by that?” asked Flex Jr.

  “They’re sensing something strange out there,” said Flex. “Big numbers of infecteds that don’t come when they’re called.”

  “How far away?”

  “I think they know direction but not necessarily distance,” said Gem. “But they also have a proposal to make. I think I’ll let you hear that from them. And no, it doesn’t involve taking you with.”

  “Shit,” said Flex Jr. “How long are they gonna be gone?” he asked.

  “Let’s see if they even leave,” said Gem. “Maybe something will change before then. We’re not even sure of their timeline.”

  “They acted like it was pretty dire,” said Flex. “And to be honest, I’d rather not take chances. If there’s something brewing out there, better we get ahead of it.”

  “We?” asked Flex Jr. “What, you’re going?”

  This time Flex looked at Gem and she shrugged.

  “Your mom won’t let Trina go alone,” she said.

  “So you’re both going,” said Flex Jr.

  He was pissed and Flex knew it. Like father, like son. “Buddy, you know we can’t sit back and –”

  Flex Jr. suddenly stood and went to the sofa, retrieving his crossbow. Walking toward them and loading a bolt at the same time, he turned and fired into the door. The bolt embedded itself just above the peephole. In four seconds he had another bolt loaded and fired, and this one embedded just below the peephole. The next two shots fired took care of both sides. Perfect formation.

  Flex Jr. looked at them. “Sorry about the door, but you guys know I’m easily as good as either of you. And I can outrun you both.”

  “You’re gonna need those fuckin’ skills for trashing the door,” said Flex, pushing off the counter and going after his son.

  “Good luck!” shouted Flex Jr., barely dodging Flex’s outstretched arm.

  He was at the door and twisting out two of the bolts before Flex got to him. He ducked out of the way and was back at the table before his dad could make the turn.

  “If you’re going, I’m going,” he said. “We’ll call it a family outing.”

  Gem looked at Flex. There was a bemused smile on her face. “What the fuck’s with this kid, anyway?” she said, shaking her head. “Babe, we really have to rethink our parenting skills.”

  “No shit,” he laughed. “Kid’s outta control.”

  Flex Jr. was smiling, too, staring at his out-of-breath father.

  Flex leaned on a chair and looked at his son. He attempted his angriest face but knew he wasn’t quite pulling it off. “Fix that damned door. Wood putty, sandpaper. a coat of paint – you’re an artist – figure it out. Then I’ll think about it.”

  “Cool, I’m goin’,” said Flex Jr. “Thanks mom. Thanks, dad. This is gonna be fun.”

  *****

  The three sisters, Vikki, Victoria and Kimberly sat in the front row of the town square meeting area, and at present Hemp, Isis, and Max stood on the stage, waiting for the crowd to settle in.

  There was a posting area in the square telling people what was going on, and people usually checked it a couple of times a day.

  Word spread fast and most everyone was there. There wasn’t any sort of roll call taken, but it didn’t matter. If someone missed a meeting, word of mouth filled them in shortly after.

  About a year after clearing
Kingman, it became clear that with the growing numbers of uninfecteds coming to town, all with various skills, that a centrally located meeting place was necessary. The town square of Kingman was perfect; nobody really drove around town, choosing bicycles and motorcycles instead of cars, so it wasn’t a problem blocking the roadway.

  They built a small, three-foot high stage and a series of simple, straight benches. There were only twenty rows, forty feet long, which would accommodate a little over 500 people comfortably.

  There was room for more, and judging by the number of residents standing up, it was time to get them built.

  Hemp turned on an amplifier connected to a power inverter mounted on a rolling cart with several batteries.

  Flex and Gem sat beside the sisters, and Flex Jr. was on his other side with Trina and Taylor. Beside Taylor was Charlie, who wore a shirt that said, “God Bless America. Except California. Fuck California.”

  On her other side was Dave and Serena Gammon and Doctor Jim Scofield.

  “Thank you for coming today,” said Hemp. “Nice day, right?”

  The crowd seemed to agree and murmured in the affirmative.

  “I’ll just let you hear the subject of this meeting from Max and Isis. For those of you who have only been here a short time, Max is my son, and he is unique in that he and Isis both had an identical experience before they were born that made them a bit … let’s say, special.” He gave his microphone to Max and nodded. Isis already held hers. Hemp climbed down the steps and took his seat.

  Isis stepped forward. “Hello, everyone.”

  More murmurs followed. Friendly and jovial.

  “What I have to speak with you about might be controversial. It involves volunteers, but these will be extraordinary people. Not to say that you aren’t all extraordinary, but this could be considered a sacrifice to some. At least until we explain it.”

  Max stepped forward. “I’m Max Chatsworth,” he said. “And most of you know that Isis and I share some abilities that make us different. What makes us different also keeps all of us safer than we would be otherwise.”