Dead Hunger VII_The Reign of Isis

by Eric A. Shelman

  “None. Now hurry,” said Hemp. “Everyone take these red-eye wafers. Men and women alike. I don’t know that they’ll do the men any good but they can’t hurt, and we can’t afford to take any chances with this level of immersion into their vapor.”

  They all choked them down and chased it with bottled water.

  Hemp led the way through the grass to the fence and clipped through it.

  Trina and Taylor were the first to slip into the red mist.

  Everyone else followed. Flex brought up the rear, his eyes on the concession stand. Just as he crouched to make his move, he saw Isis and Max slip out of the east side door and make their way into the grass.

  The plan was in motion.

  The question was whether it was a plan or a suicide mission. It was a question Flex could not shake as he lay beneath the eerie, red vapor, feeling the flaking skin of monsters just inches away.

  *****

  CHAPTER NINE

  “We need to go back,” said Isis, nodding toward the concession stand.

  “We just left,” said Max.

  “Max, I’ll explain in a second,” said Isis.

  They crouched low and ducked back into the concession stand’s rear access door.

  “Aren’t we going in?” asked Max, his voice low and his eyes on the wispy vapor licking the air above the football field.

  “I changed my mind,” said Isis. “We don’t know what’s about to happen, but we can observe better from here than anywhere else. The others are committed and surrounded, so we shouldn’t put ourselves at risk … yet.”

  “Yeah, but that’s the point, Isis,” pleaded Max. “My parents are under that stuff and we don’t know what’s going to happen. They could be killed.”

  Isis shook her head and looked at Max. “I don’t think that’s part of Maestro’s plan,” she said. “If Great Bend is any indicator, this man is about power. To destroy them would be to destroy his army.”

  As Isis and Max looked on, dark sunglasses covering their glowing, red eyes, an unheard command appeared to have been issued. Fifty yards away on the sideline in front of the stone building on the south side of the field, the group of men and women with guns began to disburse.

  Behind them emerged what appeared to be twelve women; all of them wearing shackles and wrist irons, one linked to the other in two groups of six. Their eyes were red points.

  Isis stared at them. She felt them in her mind, but they were not probing or inquiring. She merely felt their presence, for their shades were drawn; no commands were being issued.

  These women were Hybrids; Isis could see it clearly from her distant location. It was because of another of Isis’ powers.

  Isis had discovered many things about herself over the years that had at once surprised her and answered many questions she had been accumulating since childhood. She often thought of the age-old question of humankind, Why are we here?

  She had never gained any knowledge that equipped her to answer that question, but she often wondered if her special abilities were given to her by a supreme being that recognized that without her and others like her, this human experiment would end in short order.

  Max’s powers, while often formidable, were not as diverse as her own; she had always assumed it was due to his gender.

  There were other things, too. As an eight and nine-year-old at the gun range in Kingman, Isis had often wondered why she was such a better shot than anybody else, no matter which weapon she used.

  She appealed to Hemp, who took her to the only ophthalmologist in town, Ken Applebaum. He quickly discovered something about her, and immediately brought Max in for testing, too.

  Her eyesight was closer to that of an eagle than a human. Max’s eyesight was the same. Beyond that, their eye-hand coordination was off the charts.

  It was just one more thing that made them different from everybody else. They possessed advanced size, strength, no need for sleep and they were highly intelligent. Just when you thought all the differences were named, it was like a late-night infomercial: But WAIT! There’s more! Now with Eaglevision!

  Yes, at times the jealousy from others their age in Kingman could be difficult. Isis’ physical appearance also caused problems, but mostly from those who did not know her from infancy. Older men approached her and flirted. They had no way of knowing she was so young, but that was another point of confusion and struggle for her.

  She was not young and she knew it. While she realized that it was difficult for people she had known all her life to think of her as more than a fourteen-year-old girl, inside she knew what was really happening to her and Max.

  They were aging at a rate perhaps twice that of regular human beings. She was fourteen actual years old, but appeared closer to twenty-eight. More than mere numbers, she felt like an adult; not a child.

  While Max Chatsworth had experienced an accelerated growth rate too, he still had a boyish face that made him look younger. He did not appear thirteen by any stretch of the imagination, but nor did he look twenty-six. He came somewhere in the middle, around twenty-one or so. The full beard had a lot to do with it, too.

  The internal struggles she and Max experienced accounted for her hesitation to advise the elders of Kingman of the need to create more Hybrids. Of course it was a sacrifice for the parents and the children to be born, but having read the entire encyclopedia, Isis knew well that throughout the world’s history, men and women had made sacrifices for the lives of others.

  Now, as Max and Isis stared across the field, she said, “Their eyes, Max.”

  “Yeah,” said Max. “They’re Hybrids like us.”

  “Still not sure I like that term,” said Isis.

  “We’re a blend, Isis,” said Max. “I don’t know what else works.”

  “I know,” she said. Then: “Look. Something’s happening.”

  As they looked on, the gun-wielding men and women broke into two groups and headed east and west, following the field’s edge. They walked along the outside of the perimeter fence, their guns slung over their shoulders. These were machine guns, similar to those carried by Flex, Hemp and many others in Kingman – but not unless going on a supply run.

  While there were centralized stashes of available community weapons in Kingman in case of emergency, there was no need to carry them while going about one’s daily routine. The only open paths into the town led directly into the pit, and from there, no exit was possible.

  “Max,” said Isis. “If they notice where your dad cut the fence, they could be in trouble.”

  “Shit,” said Max. “I didn’t think about that.”

  They watched in silence as the armed patrol passed in front of the concession stand. They were nearly all the way around now, and were approaching the stack of football sleds.

  Isis held her breath. It was something she could do for up to ten minutes; another of her self-discoveries.

  “They’re staring at the benches,” said Isis. “Good.”

  The eyes of the men and women were, without exception, fixed on the man standing in the center of the sideline area near the team benches, the bleachers stretching high above their heads.

  The thrum from the field, like an enormous, low-toned tuning fork, vibrated the very walls of the concession building, and at first, Isis wondered if the mortar would begin to dissolve from the reverberation.

  A thought occurred to her. She whispered, “Max, on three, I want you to command the Mothers to stop the vibration.”

  “Will they know where we are?” he asked, looking at her in the darkness of the structure’s interior. They could see one another clearly despite the gloom; it went along with the excellent vision. Night vision goggles would be wasted on either of them.

  “They won’t be able to locate us. Quickly, Max. Now.”

  The word that Isis and Max projected into the minds of the Mothers that emitted the vapor floating above the field was silence.

  Silence … silence … silence.

  Isis’ co
mmand combined with Max’s as they projected it outward, their two, individual thoughts fusing together as one to create a powerful directive.

  Instantly the vibration ceased. It did not taper off or slowly dissipate; it stopped as if an organist removed his finger from the low G key.

  “Okay,” said Isis. “Release.”

  The pulsation rose in volume again, but not before everyone standing around the field looked at one another in apparent confusion.

  “At least we can still control them when these Hybrids aren’t,” whispered Isis. “That’s good.”

  “Shh,” said Max. “I’m not sure if we’re in the clear yet.”

  The man stepped forward and stood almost at the fence, the gunmen on either side of him. His hair was dark and wild and his face appeared to be white and sunken, an eerie impression of a skull.

  He wore a pair of blue jeans and a brown pullover shirt. He also wore a pair of drop holsters, each with a pearl-handled gun tucked inside.

  The man reached behind his head and pulled the shirt off. Something – a tattoo of some kind – emblazoned his chest, abdomen and arms. Isis could see, but not clearly enough to identify the exact image inked there, but as she looked, it appeared he was wearing a tuxedo of some kind.

  Maestro raised his arms and in his right hand was a long whip. He snapped it in the air over the chained women and girls; in response, they moved forward to stand beside him, stretched out to the length of their chains.

  Their eyes grew more intense. The red practically pulsated in their pupils like the droning that came from the Mothers.

  “Max,” said Isis. “Look. The vapor.”

  Slowly, inch-by-inch, the red, almost solid-looking fog that had coated the field began to dissolve. It sank lower and lower to the field until the many bodies beneath it came into view.

  “My God,” whispered Max. “Isis. There are … well over a thousand here. Maybe double that.”

  “Indeed, there are,” she said. “He did not need all of them in Great Bend.”

  “Half could have wiped out that town,” said Max. “I can’t believe Irene Danner survived.”

  “Had a Mother been in that house, she would be dead,” said Isis. “Shh. Watch.”

  The remaining red mist sank into the brown grass as water might drain into a sinkhole. It was just gone.

  Isis’ eyes moved to her family. All of them had worked their way into spots very near one another, having slid into the mix after the fact. She located all of them except for Nelson.

  Their eyes went back to the row of Hybrids beside the man who called himself Maestro. Again, the man held out his arms and made an upward gesture with just his fingertips.

  Inexplicably, music began to play.

  Isis had never heard the piece, but she placed the notes and knew without a moment’s hesitation that the piece was O Fortuna. It was a dark, Medieval Latin Goliardic poem put to music by German composer, Carl Orff in the mid-1930s.

  Rising up slightly higher, she saw the vehicle from whose speakers the music blared. The pickup truck had a metal cage surrounding the bed. It reversed to where Maestro stood, pulling to within three feet of him before stopping. A man got out of the passenger side, opened the rear gate and placed a compact stairway behind Maestro. He turned and mounted the steps into the truck.

  He then turned to face the crowd of Mothers and Hungerers. He raised his arms and Isis knew immediately what the artwork on his front side was.

  It was a demonic orchestra conductor, the man similar in appearance to Maestro, but wearing a tuxedo and more evil looking than any man could be without extensive plastic surgery designed for that sole purpose.

  “Magas, all present!” he called, his hands holding invisible batons as he conducted his symphony of the undead.

  “Return these Mothers and Hungerers, now replenished, to their enclosure! There they will feed!”

  The truck pulled smoothly away, driving very slowly. The Magas walked behind, all of them single file, all staring upward at Maestro.

  Isis was certain that if they did not keep their eyes on him, he would make them pay.

  Suddenly the truck stopped and the music increased in volume. The captive Magas behind the vehicle rotated again so that they were facing the field before turning their heads from side-to-side, their eyes burning like tiny, red planets within their sockets. With their arms thrust straight down and their hands clenched into fists, they clearly issued the instructed command.

  All of the figures that had been lying on the field got to their feet as one.

  Flex, Gem and the others, while not in absolute lockstep, were smooth enough that the fact they were mimicking the others should not be readily observable by any of Maestro’s people.

  Still, Isis only took her eyes from them when she felt it was important to observe either Maestro or the Mothers.

  *****

  Flex stood when he felt the others around him shifting into position. Somehow, even with a gunman just ten feet to his right, he was able to keep his composure.

  The music was clear and intense. A man in the back of a pickup was orchestrating everything.

  Gem was just in front of him. He could no more speak to her here than he could call a strategy meeting. For that reason, he hoped Isis had some idea of what she was doing.

  Just a plan. Not too much to ask. Of course, even without a plan, Isis was one of the best improvisers he had ever known. She had been instrumental in the design of the pit, and it worked flawlessly.

  They were now on their feet, facing north. As if they were one organism, the tightly packed bodies on the field turned counter-clockwise and now stood facing west. For the first sustained amount of time, the crowd in front of him shifted so that he could see the shadowy figure of Maestro, his arms moving with precision in time with the symphony. Flex recognized it, but did not know the name.

  He thought it was what the Anaheim Ducks hockey team played when their mascot, Wild Wing, flew into the arena at the beginning of each game.

  Flex could not see his face from this distance, and the pink eye drops did not lend to better vision at all. It did, in fact, cloud it somewhat.

  Maestro’s gun-toting guards pulled open a gate directly ahead of the horde and the truck rolled through, maintaining a steady speed that could be matched by the shambling creatures. The hundreds and hundreds of reanimated corpses moved toward it like an avalanche flowing down a mountainside. Flex and the others matched steps as everyone shuffled toward the exit.

  Gem slid in beside him as he walked, jostled by the undead creatures around them, the crowd so tight he could hardly get a breath.

  He wanted to soothe Gem, but despite the cover of the loud music, he dared not speak. He saw Trina off to his right, and Taylor was just behind her. Gammon and Punch were off to his left, and Hemp and Charlie were right behind him.

  Nelson was nowhere in sight. Where the hell was he?

  Then Flex realized that Max and Isis were not there, either. They surely would have been close to the rest of the group. Flex had neither seen nor heard any commotion, so it was not likely they’d been caught. Maybe they had come up with some other plan.

  Flex was halfway across the field with the others and found himself hoping that their ability to think and strategize would be enough to get them out of whatever it was they had voluntarily gotten themselves into. Time would tell.

  He felt Gem’s hand brush his, and he fought the urge to squeeze it and hold onto her as they approached the opening in the fence.

  He and Gem slid through the gate opening, and he felt the eyes of the armed men on either side of him. They did not look twice at him, and he moved through, unmolested.

  He made some observations as he walked; these creatures were intact. None was missing limbs or eyes, and the emaciated, tattered diggers were completely missing from the equation. It was unusual. The diggers were always there in smaller numbers than the ones who had changed while alive, but there nonetheless.

  N
ot here. Not one that Flex could see. It was actually a good thing. Flex was well fed, as were most others in Kingman. They worked hard in this post-apocalyptic world, so burned off many calories, but aside from their elaborate disguises, the red-eye drops and the WAT-5, physically they did not draw attention, particularly through the loose, rancid clothing.

  While the diggers were non-existent, Flex had spotted six red-eyes in close proximity to him, which meant that there were a lot more. The field had been full in his estimation, which meant that if he saw six just around them, there had to be hundreds of the powerful, pregnant females here.

  They now moved into the street, the crowd of dead people spreading out to fill the available space. On the outside of the group walked the armed men and women. They did not appear frightened in any way.

  Flex wondered at this arrangement. How the Hybrids controlled the Mothers and Hungerers, if that is what was going on here.

  The main question pounded his brain again: Where the hell were Max and Isis?

  He suddenly wished none of them had come here. It all seemed like a huge mistake. Thoughts of his dead son flooded back to him, and now he wondered if he had not just sacrificed the people he loved most in the world in a display of overconfidence.

  As these thoughts filled his mind, he felt Gem’s hand touch, then grip and squeeze his fingers. She released them quickly, but he glanced over at her and met her eyes. The briefest of glimpses allowed her reassuring look and slight smile to calm him some.

  Flex shook off the doubt. Nobody got Gem – or anybody else he knew for that matter – into situations. None of his friends and family was without great intelligence and the ability to decide if they wanted to do something or not. Nobody else called the shots for them.

  It was called freedom and freewill; something that perhaps only one person in Hoisington had: Maestro. The Master.

  Considering the group of brave men and women around him, Flex decided that among this giant crowd of bodies moving through the town of Hoisington, Kansas, he and the ten or so others with him were the force to be reckoned with.