Dead Hunger VII_The Reign of Isis

by Eric A. Shelman

  Megan lowered her hand. “We knew they were not like us,” she said. “You said they are dead.”

  “They are,” said Isis. “A disease has taken over the planet upon which we live and killed 90% of us. Other factors have come into play that allow us to exist.”

  “And the dead ones, too,” said Max. “But you’ve got it wrong if you think your purpose is to help them. As far as Isis and I know, we’re here to rid the world of them.”

  “Have you been caged from birth?” asked Isis.

  “Confined?” asked Alyssa.

  “Yes, confined.”

  Alyssa nodded. “This is our home now, but it is the same as in the past.”

  “This is no home,” said Isis. “Alyssa, Megan, Beauty,” she said. “Where we came from, people speak in soft tones to one another. They take care of each other and they love their neighbors. They build things and create things; they plant gardens and grow food. Nobody is killed unless they come with the intention of killing us. We live in peace.”

  “Peace,” repeated Megan, as if the word held no meaning. “Why have you come?”

  “Our reasons have changed,” said Max. “Now that we’ve discovered you.”

  Isis looked at Max and smiled. It was something none of the three had yet done. Isis wondered if any of them had the capacity for a smile. Even babies knew how to smile; it was a natural response to joy.

  Isis considered if they had ever known joy. Something struck her. “Megan, Alyssa and Beauty,” she said, “You said the signs said Great Bend. So you know how to read.”

  The three nodded. “The great matriarchs shared their knowledge.”

  “The great matriarchs?”

  “They were Maria and Sofia. They are no more.”

  “Did Maestro kill them?”

  The three nodded. “It was a terrible moment of pain for all of us.”

  Isis looked at Max. “I know what we need to do.” She looked back at the three special girls. “If I bring you a document, will you promise to read it?”

  “If we can do so without being observed,” she said.

  “It will not take you long,” said Isis.

  A loud crash came from the north. The three Hybrids in the enclosure turned and bolted back to the east side of the cage, never once looking back.

  Max and Isis ran into the night, the tall brush whipping at their arms and faces as they sped toward the holding pen where the blaring emotions of the Mothers and Hungerers drowned out their very thoughts.

  *****

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The moment the first Mother went down, Flex had known there would be no other option than to eradicate as many of them as possible in order to save themselves.

  Even then, it was hopeless.

  After killing the first two Mothers, they had done what Gem had suggested. The eight of them, their backs to the fence, used their guns sparingly, for almost none of them were suppressed, and each shot was another invitation to the party.

  Maestro was likely on his way there now.

  Three came at Trina and Taylor, and they quickly evaluated their enemy. All Hungerers. Quick shots of urushiol and they were hissing, melting piles of bloody goo.

  The Mothers were fast, though, and when they came in, it was nearly impossible to react quickly enough with the muck building at their feet. It was quickly becoming as slippery as an ice rink, and there were so many heading toward them from all points within the cage that it was all they could do to intercept each one.

  Taylor was a machine, her urushiol bottle in her left hand and her knife, which she kept re-dipping into the sheath as they all did, flew with expert precision. She had worked with Lola extensively, and she was the best among them with a blade.

  Trina held her own, but Gem kept her eye out for her. Flex had seen Gem take out at least three that Trina had never seen coming.

  Flex had counted his shots; he was down to one round left and in the melee they were in the middle of, he could not occupy both hands long enough to lift his tattered shirt and unzip the pouch holding his other ammo.

  They were not minutes from dead; they were seconds away.

  An engine noise sounded in the distance. It emerged like a guttural growl, and it grew louder as the seconds passed. Flex fought the urge to turn and look, but instead he kept on fighting, hoping the sound he heard was Max or Isis, coming to work their magic on the crew of rotters and Mothers.

  The roar then became so loud that Flex had to look. When he glanced over his left shoulder to see where the noise originated, he still had no clue. An eight foot swath of grass was bending forward as though it were being blown flat by a great wind, but the air was still.

  As the bright red Jeep rocketed out of the tall weeds and smashed headlong into the fence, they all watched in awe as the Cherokee, all four tires spinning, crashed through the fence, plowing over dozens of the zombies before turning hard right and making a deadly U-turn.

  The front bumper was forged of massive, black steel tubes, and as it met the fragile bodies of the Hungerers, their brittle bones crushed and their heads popped like gore-filled water balloons, stilling them for the last time.

  Then Flex looked up to see the driver’s face. Nelson Moore’s eyes shone wide as he headed back, honking his horn and flashing his lights. He held something in his hand and the next thing they knew, his amplified voice boomed out over the walking dead crowd.

  “Dudes, get through the hole in the fence, now! Run!”

  With that, Nelson cranked the wheel again, driving parallel to Flex and his family, the knobby tires plowing through the emaciated bodies of the Hungerers and Mothers, his tires alternately gaining and losing purchase with the concrete through the massive bloodletting.

  When the Jeep reached the north fence, the engine accelerated again and Nelson drove without letting up. The upright fence posts dislodged, throwing the fence down flat into the weeds beyond.

  “C’mon, everyone!” screamed Gem, and Flex struggled to hop toward the first hole Nelson had poked through the east fence. As he reached down to straighten his foot enough to take another step, he felt himself being lifted off his feet.

  To his shock and surprise, he was over Punch’s shoulder; the former U.S. Marine grunted as he ran toward the hole while Flex pushed up to maintain his view of the oncoming horde.

  Flex had his knife in his hand and jabbed at two Mothers closing in on them from the west. He slashed the blade horizontally across both of their eerily calm faces and the effect was immediate; the facial features melted into one another, the formerly vibrant, pregnant women, long since dead and now appearing like wax figures that had been moved too close to a fireplace.

  As Flex watched them fall, he saw the edge of the fence pass his eyes. Once through, Punch kept running.

  A cacophony of gunshots erupted from the south, and Punch dove to the ground, covered by the tall grass.

  “Down! Down!” yelled Punch, and Flex knew why. The gunfire was from automatics, and there were a shitload of them.

  “Is everyone here?” asked Flex. “Punch, man, you gotta find them. Do you see them?”

  Flex saw Punch stand up for a moment. Another barrage of gunfire sounded and he dropped back down. “They’re not in the pen, brother. They’re out. I’m not sure where.”

  Flex heard the sound of the Jeep’s engine winding out, and said, “What is that? Is Nelson in trouble?”

  “I can’t lift my head right now, Flex,” he said, breathing hard. “I need to keep it.”

  “Fuck!” yelled Flex. He sat up in the grass and pulled off his shirt, popping the buttons that flew away and disappeared around him.

  He quickly tore the ragged shirt in two and positioned his foot on the ground. Getting to one knee, he put some weight on the foot and grimaced. Once in position, he reached down and began wrapping his ankle as tightly as he could.

  “Punch, man,” he said. “I need you to pull on this as tight as you can and knot it. Can you do that?”

/>   “Sure, buddy, but those freaks are coming through the fence. I need to …”

  He stopped talking. “Wait,” he said. “What the fuck?”

  “What is it?” asked Flex, holding the two ends of the shirt taut.

  “They stopped,” he said. “They’re just standing there now.

  “Hurry, Punch,” said Flex. “My ankle, man.”

  Punch reached down and pulled the ends tight. He looked at Flex. “Good?”

  Flex nodded quickly.

  Punch tied it off. The minute it was done, Flex stood in a crouch, testing it with weight.

  “Think it’s a sprain,” he said. “Fuckin’ numb.”

  “That’s called radiculopathy,” said Hemp, who poked his face through the brush, just two feet away from where Punch and Flex sat. “You okay, old man?” he asked.

  “Where is everyone else?” asked Flex, his face panicked. He did not need a mirror to see this. He felt it in every muscle. These people were his entire reason for living.

  “Right behind me,” said Hemp. “We’re all safe.”

  Flex realized the Jeep’s engine had fallen silent.

  “Where’s Nel?” he asked.

  The answer came very quickly.

  “Stand up!” came a voice. “Stand up and drop your weapons. Otherwise, I’ll kill this fool and then I’ll kill all of you anyway.”

  Punch peered through the brush and dropped back down. “Oh, fuck,” he breathed. “He’s got Nel.”

  *****

  Isis and Max waited across the street out of view. They had arrived in time to see the Jeep crash through the fence and begin to plow down the Mothers and Hungerers.

  The throes of death, when experienced by the undead, was an extraordinary sound. The shrieks were not of terror but of pure pain, not experienced in an oral sense.

  It was not pain in the traditional sense; the Mothers and Hungerers projected their dying agony as frustration for no longer being able to consume flesh and satisfy their insatiable appetites. They did not know that beyond this supernatural life they lived was peace, silence and pure darkness.

  They also did not know that finally, their red and pink eyes would fade and silence would overtake them, allowing their bodies to dissolve to dust as they should have done so long ago.

  Soon it was over and Isis knew the creatures in the cage had fallen back under the control of the Hybrids and Mothers. A man, pulling Nelson by the length of his hair balled in his fist, a large caliber handgun to his head, stood among the remaining Mothers and Hungerers. There were still well over a thousand of them left alive, as far as Isis could tell.

  “Isis,” said Max. “Should we intervene?”

  “There are two many of them,” she said, indicating toward the Hybrids.

  Max turned his head and saw them there. They had moved into the street, now standing against the south fence by the original entry gate, staring into the cage.

  These were not the Hybrids Max and Isis had met; they still wore their orange jumpsuits with the DOC stenciling on the backs, and each was still chained to the other, as they likely always were.

  Their words were clear in the heads of Max and Isis. Calm. Stay. Remain still.

  Words for us; abstract, decipherable commands for the walking dead.

  Still, the command issued by the captive Hybrids was as clear to Isis as it was to them. She may as well have issued it herself.

  “Come out now,” shouted Maestro again. “I’ll count to three. Surely you know how fast that goes.”

  He did not wait. “One!” he called. “Two!”

  He drew back the hammer and smiled.

  “Wait!” shouted Hemp, rising from the weeds to the right of the destroyed pen.

  “Ah, there you are. Where are the rest of you?”

  “C’mon guys,” said Hemp. “We’ve nowhere to go. Flex can’t run on that ankle. We’d best surrender.”

  “You’re a smart man,” said Maestro. “Hurry and get into the street. All of you.”

  The man was of medium height and was again shirtless. The demonic facial ink, which may or may not have been a tattoo, made him appear to be more of a Joker from a deck of cards, but it was clear his intention had been to make his face appear as a skull. From a distance, he had achieved that effect.

  The tuxedo drawn or tattooed on him gave him the appearance of an evil symphony conductor; it adorned his entire abdomen, the character’s sleeves extending all the way to Maestro’s wrists.

  Appearing from the tall grass of the field, Gem stepped into the street first, grass and weeds sticking from her hair, her undead makeup now mussed and running. She wore no backpack.

  Gem stopped and reached her hand behind her, and Trina clasped it, emerging with Taylor stepping out behind her. Next came Dave, Hemp, Flex and Punch. All without backpacks. Isis breathed a sigh of relief.

  Acknowledging it, Max said, “Me, too. If they’re alive, we can save them.”

  “Wait,” said Isis. “Where is Charlie?”

  They watched the field. Hemp’s eyes remained there, too. His expression was one of anguish as he waited, but she did not appear. He suddenly averted his gaze from the weeds and looked again at the line of gunmen facing them. Isis knew immediately why. He did not want to draw their attention to the fact that one or more of their group might be missing.

  “How many of there were you?” asked one of the men wielding the guns. He was short; maybe just over five and a half feet tall. He wore a baseball cap low over his eyes and wore camouflage pants of some kind.

  “Eight,” answered Hemp, louder than necessary. “There are eight of us.”

  “He’s protecting Charlie,” said Max. “We need to find her, Isis. Like quick. Are you sure we can’t do something? Get everyone out of here?”

  Isis shook her head. “We proved that if not fighting these other Hybrids we can control this number of Mothers, but we’ll never be able to wrest control from them. Too many of them and I’m not sure we’re strong enough for that.”

  “Bullshit,” said Max. “My dad’s over there and my mom’s missing. That makes me feel pretty goddamned strong.”

  Isis only nodded. It was true. Being Hybrids and wanting to learn more about their abilities, she and Max had often slipped away to privately experiment with several variables. Often, without advance warning, they would lead one another to believe the other was in mortal danger. This could only be achieved by closing their mental shade and involving a third person to convey the situation to the other, at which time a certain adrenaline kicked in, but ultimately, it was far more powerful than adrenaline.

  It was adrenaline on steroids.

  Everything increased. Distance of telepathic control; detail of control. Perhaps most important of their discoveries was an ability, when under tremendous tension and stress, to take distant, physical control over not only animate objects, but inanimate objects.

  They had not perfected this with any consistency, though. There had only been a couple of times when Max had thoroughly and completely convinced Isis he was about to die, and what happened next was something they both swore to secrecy.

  They feared it would be too much for the people of Kingman. They could be ostracized, and they loved their home far too much for that.

  Maestro walked nonchalantly through the idle zombies, toward the fence, which his guards had now rolled open. He carefully stepped over the carcasses of the elderly and juvenile bodies that lay strewn all around, and he was sure to keep his hand firmly looped around Nelson’s hair, his gun pointed at the blonde man’s thin abdomen.

  Isis wondered if Nelson would Subdudo him.

  It would be a mistake. She wished she could reach him.

  When the shirtless man reached the street, he walked casually toward the group of strangers, pulling Nelson along behind him.

  Isis watched intently. Her eye was on the gun barrel. When he reached them, he stopped five feet back and jerked Nelson forward, essentially tossing him back to his own.
>
  Max quickly withdrew his crossbow and raised it to his eye.

  At that moment, Maestro thrust his arm forward and snatched Trina by the wrist, yanking her toward him. She let loose a scream, then anger flooded over her face and she said, “I’ll kill you, you smelly fuck.”

  “Not right now, you won’t,” he said, his arm hooked around her neck and his breath in her face.

  Isis fought the urge to unleash everything she had, but it was just too risky with the powers of the other Hybrids unfamiliar to her.

  Flex, his face red with anger, tried to make a move forward, but his ankle gave way and he fell to one knee, grunting in frustration.

  He looked up, his nostrils flaring as he stared at the man holding the niece he had raised like a daughter. “You fucking hurt that girl and I’ll cut you into a goddamned thousand pieces,” he growled.

  “And if there’s anything still big enough left,” said Gem, “I’ll slice it in half again.”

  The man laughed and said, “Oh, I see! You’re a couple of badasses, huh?” He pointed directly at Gem. “You clearly don’t know me very well. One more word and I’ll slice off her head while you watch.”

  He withdrew a knife with a long, curved blade.

  Isis saw Gem’s eyes soften before she lowered them and choked back her anger for Trina’s sake.

  Maestro then reached in and snatched Taylor’s arm, pulling them both in tight to him, one arm wrapped around both their necks now, his large pistol in position to kill one or both of them.

  “This is in case you have anyone else waiting to shoot me from a distance.”

  “We don’t,” snarled Gem. “But don’t worry about that. You’ve got enough trouble right here.”

  “Gem,” said Flex. “It’s okay.”

  Max lowered his crossbow. Isis nodded. “Our time will come,” she said.

  Maestro said, “You are a definite interruption to my regular routine, but you’re pretty interesting, dressed like my Hungerers.” He laughed aloud and added, “Let’s get somewhere more comfortable, then we’ll find out where you’re from. It might be a place I’d like to visit someday.”