Dead Hunger VII_The Reign of Isis

by Eric A. Shelman

  They moved aside as Punch accelerated, the scoop four feet off the ground.

  He drove straight toward the fence to the west of the maze at full speed.

  *****

  Maestro had taken a different route on his original run to Hoisington, all those years ago. Now he had his sights set on Kingman, Kansas. It was a town he had missed on his trek north.

  “How far are we from Kingman?” he asked. “Damned roads are getting worse by the month.”

  The driver had gotten little sleep the previous night. Maestro had been pacing all night, issuing commands. This ramped up when he discovered the contents of his jail had gone from his prisoners to his two guards.

  There was only one way that could have happened; they had more friends in the city, as he had assumed from the start.

  “Got about thirty miles to go,” said Jerry Lee. The cage trailers were narrow and tall, so had to be pulled with care. Unlike a train, there were no tracks to keep everything in line. A deep pothole – of which there were many these days – could send one trailer toppling onto its side, taking the others with it. With all the grass and weeds growing up through the streets, Maestro knew he would need his patience for his driver had to be watchful.

  “At this pace it’ll take us two more hours,” said Jerry Lee. He scratched his rough beard and blinked his eyes. “I miss coffee.”

  “From what they told Omega, they’ve got quite a setup down there,” said Maestro. “Once we’re through with them, I’m sure you can get whatever you want.”

  The driver nodded, but did not answer. Maestro did not expect it. He and all of Maestro’s men knew he was a man who conversed on his own terms and who did not appreciate idle chatter.

  “Speed it up.”

  “Maestro, the –”

  “Speed it up!” he shouted. “There was something about those folks. I’d have rather killed them before we started out, but they’re probably dead by now anyway.”

  “I don’t know, boss,” said Jerry Lee. “They survived this long.”

  Maestro punched Jerry Lee hard in the side of his face, his head slamming against the side window as Maestro grabbed the steering wheel to steady the tractor-trailer rig.

  “Control this fucking vehicle!” shouted Maestro, and Jerry Lee, his face red and already swelling, gripped the steering wheel hard as he worked his jaw back and forth with tears running from his eyes.

  Maestro saw a sign ahead. It said, Kingman – 25.

  *****

  As Gem felt her body jerked forward, unable to defend herself, she thought, Is it something she’s doing to me, or have I frozen up? Have I given up?

  She did not know the answer. A moment later, it didn’t matter.

  “Gem!” shouted Dave.

  His arm arced down and his knife blade rammed into the Mother’s head all the way to the hilt.

  The moment the steel penetrated the Mother’s brain, Gem collapsed, her muscles suddenly free, and her mind not yet ready to take control of them again.

  As she stared upward, she saw Dave pull his blade forward, the sharp edge cutting through skin and skull, cutting clean down to the Mother’s eye socket. He then pushed the blade backward, sending the now dying zombie falling away from them.

  As she crumpled backward, Dave held onto his blade, withdrawing it.

  He reached for Gem and pulled her from the sticky pool of biological juices, holding her up by the shoulders.

  As she stared at him, still dazed, Dave said, “Hold on, Gem! Watch out!”

  To their right, the engine noises peaked as the fence beside them bent sharply outward, pulling the maze hard to their left, all of the steel uprights and barriers moving with it.

  As Gem fell again, she saw everyone within the maze had been knocked to the ground as well. Clinging to Dave, they both managed to scramble back to their feet.

  “Everybody, stay clear of the uprights!” shouted someone. Gem realized it was Punch’s voice, and she turned to see him driving a backhoe of some kind toward the maze.

  He lowered the bucket and tried to wedge it beneath the steel beam at the base of the barriers, but the machine revved, the bucket lifted, and skipped out, jerking away. The gap between the lower beam and the concrete to which it was bolted was too narrow for the thick scoop to wedge beneath it.

  Gem realized she and her friends could not move forward, nor could they move back. More zombies poured in, and ahead of them were piles of bodies, writhing and scratching.

  Suddenly, without warning, there was a smell in the air. It was hot, industrial and familiar, but Gem could not place it.

  “Gem!” said Dave. “Move your feet!”

  Gem looked down and saw why. The steel base of the fence now glowed red hot, and as she watched in amazement, the entire maze lifted skyward.

  “What the hell is happening!” shouted Taylor, clutching at Charlie, who also stared at the eerily floating maze, the bottom crossbeam now so hot that molten steel dripped between them, hissing as it met the cooler slime.

  In a flash, the entire, hovering maze shot to the north. Gem could not help but watch it fly away, as if it were the house in The Wizard of Oz, swept up by a tornado and carried to the wind.

  Only it was windless, and the maze was not aerodynamic.

  The mass of steel walls slammed hard into the old auto parts store roof as welds snapped, creating dozens of twisted, steel pieces. Soon, the still red hot steel caught the structure on fire.

  Gem turned back.

  “Gem, Dave!” shouted Hemp. “Come on, now!”

  Gem looked, and saw everyone else but she and Dave stood in the street, their weapons at ready, but out of immediate danger as no Mothers were closing in on them.

  “C’mon, Gem,” said Dave, pulling her by the arm. She staggered along behind him, realizing she was walking atop melting meat and bone with bare feet. Her canvas shoes had become the victims of the gelatinous pool that had formed beneath them, sucked off during desperate steps taken of which she had no memory.

  Gem reached the others and fell into Trina’s open arms. “It’s okay, mom,” she whispered.

  Gem turned. “Flex,” she said, her heart ramping up as the thought hit her. “Where’s Flex!”

  “He’s right there, mom,” said Trina, pointing.

  Then she saw him. He was behind several of the rotters, standing with a girl in an orange jumpsuit. Max and Isis were with him, and the four of them pushed through the dozens and dozens of remaining rotters as they worked their way through the sticky gunk, now spreading out and becoming easier to walk through by the second. The walls of the maze had allowed it to build up quickly.

  Nelson emerged from behind them, and with his slight build and lanky body, he leapt like a gazelle over the cesspool of melted bodies, reaching them before the others.

  He panted as he said, “Dudes, I could use a huge bowl right now!”

  Gem looked at him and a smile found her lips. Slime coated his hair and his gaunt face held what some might consider a blank expression. Gem knew better.

  Her eyes moving between him and her husband, she said, “Nel, I’m glad you’re okay.”

  “You too, Gem. You see what that Maga did with Max and Isis?”

  “That was them?”

  Nelson didn’t have time to answer. Flex reached Gem and pulled her into his arms, holding her to him.

  “Babe, are you alright?” he asked.

  She shook her head. Words would not come. Flex put his hand on the back of her head and held her to his chest.

  As she allowed Flex to hold her, she heard Hemp say, “Max, Isis. Was that you? With the maze?”

  “Let’s go,” said Taylor. “And please allow me to say thank you again for WAT-5, dad.”

  Everyone stared at the receding horde for a few seconds. They stood just thirty feet south of the space the maze once occupied, smack in the middle of Highway 281. They all seemed to stare toward Hoisington, the zombies mulling aimlessly about, spreading out. Some of them w
andered north. The burning buildings around them had begun to blaze with intensity now, shooting wild flames high overhead.

  “Start walking, everyone,” said Hemp, his arm around Charlie. She had her crossbow on her back and her pistol swung freely by her side.

  The crowd began trudging slowly down the middle of the highway. Gem’s feet were tender, having been softened by comfortable shoes for so long.

  “I might have you carry me in a bit,” she said to Flex.

  “Fuck that,” he said. “You can ride in Punch’s Tonka Truck.”

  She was confused for a moment, but realized the droning sound that she had vaguely associated with the general environment was, indeed, a diesel engine running.

  The backhoe was twenty feet behind them, and Punch sat atop it, eyeing the road ahead of them from his vantage point.

  “Awesome,” she said.

  Flex waved Punch down and he accelerated, pulling up beside them.

  “Tank’s full on this thing,” said Punch. “Guess Maestro liked building shit.”

  “Or tearing shit up,” said Flex. “Buddy, my girl needs a ride,” he said. “Maybe a couple of these others, too.”

  Punch gave her a hand, and she hopped up, sitting sideways on the seat as she stared back at the devastation in Hoisington, Kansas.

  He ground it into gear and the backhoe jerked forward. The auto parts store had ignited several stacks of tires between that building and a shop whose sign identified it as Willie’s Tire Service. Gem could see a third building now catching.

  The smell of pungent rubber filled the air, blending with the rotten smell of decay to create something Gem had never experienced before, and did not want to partake in for long.

  “Why aren’t they coming after us?” asked Taylor. “Even on WAT-5, they follow moving stuff.”

  “Ask Beauty,” said Max. “Pretty sure she’s got something to do with it.”

  “Can you turn this thing off a sec?” asked Gem. “I need to hear this.”

  “Sure,” said Punch. He cut the engine. Silence engulfed them.

  The former Maga 7 spoke, known to Gem and the others as Beauty: “They have been so long conditioned to following the commands of the Mothers that they no longer have the instincts to feed on their own.”

  Hemp released Charlie’s hand and walked toward Beauty. He stopped and touched her arm. “You are Beauty?”

  “I am,” she said, her intense, green eyes meeting his directly.

  “You say they’ve been conditioned?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “By the Mothers.”

  “The Magas have commanded the Mothers and they have commanded the Hungerers,” said Beauty. “Without the guidance of the Mothers, they walk without purpose.”

  “In the pen,” said Hemp, “had we not been on WAT-5, would they have attacked?”

  “In such close proximity, I would imagine their hunger would overtake them in time,” said Beauty.

  “But in the open,” said Hemp. “Without humans so near them. Will they eventually follow their instincts to feed again?” asked Hemp.

  “Yes,” she said. “They are starved, having fed not by their will, but only at the Mothers’, and only at our command.”

  “How soon?” asked Hemp. “How long before their hunger drives them toward food again?”

  “Hours,” she said. “Not long.”

  “How can she know that?” asked Punch.

  Beauty looked at Punch. “It is among the things I have always known.”

  “Can you call them?” asked Hemp. “The Hungerers?”

  “Not as the Mothers can,” she said. “Mine is a manipulation of matter. Like your Isis and Max, I can manipulate them only as we manipulated the maze. Forcing matter to move with great mental concentration, but only when they are visible to us.”

  “So you need line-of-sight,” said Hemp.

  “Exactly,” said Beauty.

  “Yeah, dude, that was amazing!” said Nelson. “I saw you guys holding hands, but I had no freakin’ idea the whole maze was gonna fly into the air!”

  Gem smiled. Nelson had found his pipe. He looked happy. Tired and happy.

  “So when you manipulate the Hungerers, it’s like moving an inanimate object,” said Hemp. “And the Mothers? How is that different?”

  “The Mothers is a connection with the encephalon.”

  “With the brain?” asked Hemp.

  “Of course,” said Beauty. “We can draw them to us or repel them, but we cannot send them in a particular direction.”

  “But you can command them to send the Hungerers in a … particular direction?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I believe I understand what you are asking, and yes. I believe that is true.”

  “Are there more Mothers?” he asked.

  “They number eighty-four.”

  “I was going to ask if that includes the eight or so we killed here, but with those kinds of numbers, I guess it doesn’t matter much,” said Gem.

  “They are all with Maestro,” said Beauty. “With them are 1,762 Hungerers and thirty-seven Maga.”

  “The fuck you say?” said Flex.

  “What happened to Alpha and Omega?” asked Charlie, moving beside Hemp. “Are they with him?”

  “Alyssa,” Beauty said, with true reverence in her voice. “Not Alpha. Alpha is not a name. It is not a person. Alyssa is the name given her by Isis.”

  At that moment, a light breeze touched Gem’s skin. The crackling sound of the fire was carried north, away from them, and the silence that ensued allowed her to hear every word Beauty said.

  The young Maga turned her eyes toward the sky, the stars shining brightly in a world no longer generating pollution, and with no bright, city lights to diminish their brilliance.

  “Alyssa was my mother, and she is dead,” whispered Beauty. “She was murdered by Maestro, as her own mother, who was my grandmother, was murdered so long ago. He took her life while he tortured her to learn of your city, Kingman. Our other matriarch, once Omega, now Megan, remains alive.”

  “Why didn’t she turn you in?” asked Flex. “and Megan?”

  “Because the words of freedom shared with us could be understood, even by those in captivity,” said Beauty. “She wanted that for me. For all of us.”

  Charlie threw her arms around Beauty and held her. The girl’s arms hung limply at her side, but she did not pull away.

  “Your mother was brave,” said Charlie. “This Maestro is a sadistic killer. We’ll make sure you know freedom.”

  Beauty nodded. “Alyssa fought the pain as long as she could before telling him.”

  Hemp nodded. “We’re so sorry, Beauty. I cannot express how much. Now please, tell us. When did they leave here?”

  “Eighty-seven minutes ago,” she said.

  “Punch, start this thing up and move,” said Gem. “Everyone, climb in the bucket, get the hell up here, ride a fender. We need to get our asses to the vehicles and we need to do it now.”

  Everyone scrambled to find a seat. Punch jumped down to the floor and found something. “Flex, you’re back there,” he said. “Is there a tray of tools or something back there?”

  “Yeah, right behind your seat. Whatcha lookin’ for?”

  “Big screwdriver. Flat or Phillips, doesn’t matter.”

  “Flat then,” said Flex, handing it to him.

  Punch jammed it beneath the accelerator pedal and pried, his face wrinkled up. Something snapped, and he reached down, picked a piece of metal up, and tossed it into the street.

  “Governor,” he said. “We don’t need no stinking governor.”

  He eased into it, but now the machine really moved. They burned up the almost ten miles in less than twenty-six minutes.

  *****

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The train of vehicles consisted of two forty-foot trailers, each towing a thirty-foot cage car – the original circus cars that Maestro had acquired in Texas, and the lead vehicle, in which Maestr
o rode. Behind them, they towed the largest, most heavily stocked trailer.

  Maestro closed his eyes and put another garlic tablet in his mouth, his face distorted as he chewed it up and swallowed. He followed it with a quick swig of water from his canteen.

  He was not sure whether the intruders had lied about garlic providing protection, but there was no harm in taking the supplement. It may not help, but it would not hurt him, either.

  Maestro took a deep breath and unbuttoned his shirt, slipping it off his shoulders. It was a part of his ritual.

  His arms lifted into the air, his hands directing an unseen orchestra, he smiled.

  He reached up and flipped the sun visor down, pleased that there was a mirror there. He moved it so that he could see his face and chest, where he saw the skeletal face of his symphony conductor, head raised, arms guiding each rise and fall of a requiem of death that he, and only he, would know.

  He had written the aria in his mind; it was filled with great crescendos and soft, brooding cellos, and there was not a doubt in his mind that he would one day force someone to learn it note for note and play it for him, flawlessly.

  “Everyone will hear it soon enough,” he said aloud.

  The driver drove on in silence.

  “Stop the truck,” he said, turning off the music in his mind and lowering his arms. He slipped back into the shirt and reluctantly buttoned it.

  Jerry Lee put his foot on the brake and Maestro closed his eyes again. He could already smell the coppery scent of blood in the air; hear the screams of the dying citizens of Kingman, Kansas; the slurps of the Hungerers feeding.

  The Mothers would eat the babies. He loved seeing that. He would have the Magas command it.

  “Feed the Magas,” said Maestro. “They’re going to need strength. There are many people in Kingman, or so I’m led to believe.”

  “We really do need radios,” said Jerry Lee, opening his door. “We wouldn’t even have to get out of the truck.”

  “I’ve told you a thousand times,” said Maestro. “I don’t trust you to keep quiet. I don’t like people to expect our arrival.”