Dead Hunger VI_The Gathering Storm

by Eric A. Shelman

  “Holy motherfucker,” said Buddy. “Cara, you seein’ this?”

  “Oh, yeah,” she said, looking at the bottle. “It’s like acid to them.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “The bad kind.” I watched as the destruction continued as I’d seen so many times before. The head fell away, dropping to the ground as it sizzled and popped while the body toppled sideways and continued to dissolve.

  “Saves on burnin’ ‘em,” said Buddy. “No cleanup.”

  “Long as you’re not on a marble floor,” I said. “but now I really gotta go. Get yourselves the plants I told you about. Poison sumac, too. Any one of ‘em will work.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Sheridan,” said Cara.

  “Flex, please,” I said. “He was a good guy and a better electrician than me, but Mr. Sheridan was my dad.”

  Cara nodded. I got back in the car and they parted, allowing us to pass. Tony and I both gave them a wave.

  “I’d give my left nut to hear the conversation that happens now,” I said.

  “Really?” said Tony, looking skeptical. “You really think it’s worth a nut?”

  I laughed. “It’s an expression, Tony.”

  “I know, but I can’t stand the thought of losin’ a nut. Hey, I’m hungry. Want some jerky?”

  We both ate jerky in silence. After I was done with my first piece, I said, “Tony, do me a favor. Look at that map and see if there’s a way around Buckfield.”

  *****

  Chapter Four

  I looked at the sky, standing alongside Hemp and Charlie. Dave had radioed from his house, having had a decent nap by then, to tell us he was on his way. When I told him what happened, he was pissed that Flex had left with Tony.

  But the weather felt ominous, and at present, another strong, mini-storm blasted the house and the porch where we stood. The clouds swirled at varying altitudes, and I swore I could see the counter-clockwise motion confirming my worst fears.

  Flex was out there with Tony. Driving in a hurricane was just fucking crazy.

  “It’s an outer band, guys,” I said. “I’ve seen enough to know.”

  I had experienced my share in Miami. My Aunt Ana and Uncle Rogelio always refused to evacuate, so I was tasked with going to their house to make sure their hurricane shutters were up and tight. My uncle would help, but in my heart, I would rather have piled them in my car and gotten them the hell out of there.

  The outer bands, far from the most powerful part of the storm, could reach for literally hundreds of miles as they swirled around the enormous formation of spinning air, some of the bands containing heavy rain, wind and lightning, and others just wind and rain. This was the former, and the lightning was intense, and it was close.

  “We didn’t get much of this shit back home,” said Charlie, holding her hair in one fist to keep it from whipping her in the face. “And you say this is nothing?”

  “Oh, it’s something,” I said. “It’s only nothing compared to the actual storm.”

  “We need to batten down the hatches,” yelled Hemp, over the cacophony of sound. “I don’t need any more convincing.”

  Bug came out behind them. “Jesus Christ,” he said. “Didn’t have this crap in Cali.” His hair was in a ponytail, so did not pose the problem Charlie’s did.

  “Judging from these precursors,” said Hemp, “It is more than a tropical storm. It’s impossible to say how large or how strong until it’s on top of us.”

  “I saw a barometer on the wall in that garage, didn’t I?” asked Charlie.

  “Broken,” said Hemp. “I’ve been meaning to make one, but I haven’t gotten around to it. I don’t have a baseline, so at this point it would only tell me what’s become obvious already.”

  “We’ll need to wait for this band to pass before we get on it,” I said. “And unceremonious is fine. We just need to get the boards up there, esthetics be damned.”

  “And what are we battening with?” asked Charlie.

  Hemp looked at Charlie, a crooked smile on his face. “You, my love, are not battening at all. We’ve got Dave and Serena on the way.”

  “Serena’s pregnant, too,” said Charlie.

  “Not as much as you, pumpkin,” I said. “And I mean that in the literal sense. Keep your ass inside and let us who can stand close to walls put up the boards.”

  “Okay,” said Charlie, sarcastic. “So what are you battening with?”

  “The stack of boards on the side of the house should work fine,” said Hemp. “One or two nailed over the exterior windows in a cross pattern, just to keep the major debris from breaking them.”

  “Hey, look,” said Bug, pointing.

  We all looked. A one-armed girl, devoid of clothing, walked toward us. Behind her was a woman. I was glad we were all on WAT-5.

  Bug removed his .45 caliber Colt Python from his side holster and stepped down off the porch.

  “Hold on,” I called. “They’re … well. Let me, Bug. If you don’t mind.”

  He looked at me. “Because they’re female?”

  “Maybe,” I said. “It’s nothing personal at all.”

  “Sure, Gem,” he said. “No offense taken. I’m gonna go in and check on Isis. I’m worried about that little girl.”

  “Your gun?” I asked. Mine was inside.

  He gave it to me. “All the cylinders are full,” he said.

  I tucked the gun into the front of my pants and stepped off the porch.

  “Be careful, Gem,” said Charlie.

  I nodded, but kept walking and didn’t answer. Some days I let this all get to me more than others. The red-eyes and I had something in common now. They were pregnant when they turned, through no fault of their own. Now they have extraordinary hunting abilities and the damned telepathy.

  Neither of these were red-eyes. Red-eyes had nice hair, and these two looked like they subscribed to the egg beater beauty techniques with the little remaining hair they had left.

  They would have walked right into me had I not reached out to take them each by an arm. The girl by the only one remaining, her left, and the woman by her right.

  It was impossible now to determine the age of the older one; she had been ravaged over the past year plus, and believe it or not, I sometimes felt guilty about being the one to end their journeys after such a successful run at the afterlife.

  They were like ants in an endless train of other ants. Their work was never finished. Not a moment of self-reflection and peace for them. Just endless hunger and walking, forever walking.

  The woman, who still had some wisps of grey hair on her head, indicating she was likely out of her mid-thirties when she was taken, wore only dark-stained blue jeans. By the pattern on the pocket, I knew they were Levis.

  One of her eye sockets was dark, the appendage missing. The other darted back and forth and past me, never stopping to focus in my direction long.

  Thank you WAT-5.

  The little girl was just that; a little girl. Her height told me she was no more than seven, and her tattered dress told me she had been at church – or perhaps in a casket – the Sunday this all began back in 2012. More of her hair remained, and I saw that it crawled with vermin of some kind, though what they chose to occupy their attention in the sparse tresses was beyond me.

  She did not belong to the woman. Judging from their clothing, they had been doing different things at the time.

  I walked forward and led them both to the edge of the road. I then stepped off the road into the grass, and led them over the rougher terrain. The trail I walked on turned left, and I walked them another thirty yards – not pushing them, mind you. Just easing them along.

  We reached the pit. There were already six or seven bodies in there from our encounters earlier in the day, and some still remained in our partially fenced field that still needed hauling here, to our burning pit.

  I heard Hemp call from the porch, but the wind effectively buffeted his words out of existence as far as I was concerned.

  I positioned
the two on the edge of the hole and released them. The entire walk had only been to save labor later, so don’t think I was on some kind of sensitivity mission. I learned my lesson once, and had a half a thumb to show for it.

  I held out my gun and fired into the forehead of the woman, whose one remaining eye had briefly changed before the back of her skull blew out. A gust of wind blew her horrid innards squarely back into my face and into my eyes.

  “Gem!” came the voice behind me, but I could not see. I wiped my eyes on my shoulder, trying to clear away the muck as I felt something grab hold of my right leg.

  I staggered and fell backward, landing hard. The wind rushed from my lungs and I tried to suck it back in, but no part of my respiratory system was ready to allow it.

  Then I saw what Hemp had been screaming about. The little girl snarled and growled, clawing at my leg with her one remaining hand, her teeth biting into the thick fabric of my jeans as she pinched me but good through the thick material. My eyes still stung and she was a blur of movement, so I jerked my legs and desperately swiped at my eyes to clear my vision.

  Unable to discourage the child zombie and still seeing blurry, ghost-like figures everywhere I looked, I pulled my left leg back and kicked the shit out of her head, but it only served to throw her momentarily onto her back and fuel her drive to get back to me. This time, she used her thrashed knees to push up toward my arms, her mouth stretched open wide to reveal, broken, jagged teeth that would, if clamped down in the right spot, be through my skin in a split-second.

  I sucked in my first breath as I saw Hemp rush by me out of the corner of my eye. Mid-stride he kicked the girl squarely in the head. With a wild grunt he dropped down and planted a hard knee in the middle of her chest, grabbed the pre-adolescent rotter with his bare hands and physically lifted her and threw her into the pit. When she landed, he swung his MP5 around and unloaded round after round into her face.

  I knew then – I think for the first time – that Hemp saw all of these monsters, old and young, for what they were now. He didn’t dwell on the fact that the zombie girl was once a little Trina. He only recognized that she had to die. Permanently.

  Breath finally flowing into my lungs, I scrambled back to my feet and wiped the last bit of muck from the older female from my eyes with the back of my hand. I put a hand on Hemp’s gun just as it fell silent, pushing the barrel downward. He didn’t stop firing because of me; it was only because he ran out of ammo.

  I looked at the child in the pit, atop the other decomposing bodies. Nothing had ever been deader than she was at that moment. If that makes any sense at all.

  “C’mon, Hemp,” I said. “She didn’t get through my pant leg.”

  The wind eased almost at once, and I glanced to our rear and saw the storm clouds moving away. For the moment.

  “You need to stay on top of your WAT-5,” Gem,” said Hemp. “Flex hasn’t been gone two hours and you’re nearly killed. I’m not certain if I was more afraid of losing you or facing him.”

  “At least you’re honest,” I said. “But I vote for the first one. You’d miss the fuck out of me.”

  Hemp shook his head and I hooked my arm around his as we walked back to the house. We mounted the steps to the porch.

  “You fuckup,’ said Charlie, smiling. “You okay?”

  “Stupid, but okay,” I said. “I kind of hoped you didn’t see any of that.”

  “Oh, I saw it all right,” said Charlie. “You’re just lucky Hemp figured out you were ready to expire on the WAT-5. He was running before you got in trouble.”

  “And you?”

  “He told me to sit the fuck down.”

  “He’s really come a long way, hasn’t he?” I said, smiling.

  “Don’t talk about me like I’m not here,” said Hemp, pulling me into the house.

  Charlie followed.

  *****

  Tony was looking at me like the world had come to an end. “Buddy, there’s no way around Buckfield,” he said. “No side roads, detours. Hell, there’s not even a hiking trail.”

  I’d been driving around 25 miles per hour while Tony figured things out. “I get the picture,” I said. “We might just have to talk our way through again.”

  “If we can, buddy. If we can.”

  “Maybe we just pour on the steam, no slowin’ down,” I suggested.

  “Roadblocks, man,” said Tony. “Bet your ass they’ll have ‘em.”

  “Yeah,” I said. I knew it before Tony said it, but a guy could dream, right? I wondered how many there were, what their armory situation was, and if they knew everyone in Cara and Buddy’s group. If they did, then they’d know we weren’t in it, and that could be a good thing.

  “I think the smartest move would be just ease in and walk softly,” I said. “But as they say, we’ll carry a big stick.”

  “We shoulda brought more urushiol for bribing the natives,” said Tony.

  I looked at him. “Tony. You might have hit on something.”

  Tony looked suddenly proud, but even more confused. “Like what?”

  “Well,” I said, “we have a shitload of WAT-5. More than we’ll likely need. We can do a little trade. Passage for invisibility.”

  Tony shook his head, his brows furrowed. “Aw, I don’t know, Flex. Nothin’ matches the value of WAT-5.”

  “Diphtheria antitoxin does,” I said. “To me.”

  “I know, I know,” said Tony. “I love that kid. I want him to be okay. But think of what you got there, Flex.”

  “He will be okay,” I said. “We’ll just have to go back to killin’ zombies the old-fashioned way if we run out.”

  “Did you hear what I said?” asked Tony.

  I did, and I thought I knew what he would be getting to, but I didn’t want to think about it. I answered him anyway. “I know what we got, and I know people would kill for it.”

  “Exactly,” said Tony, patting me on my shoulder. “They find out we have this stuff that makes you invisible to zombies, they decide they’re too lazy to make their own. Now we got a huge freakin’ target on our backs.”

  “It wouldn’t do much good to steal it from us,” I said. “If we refuse to make more, they’re screwed. They’d be better off learning how to produce it using the base mixture we have.”

  “Well,” said Tony. “In case you haven’t looked around in the last few years, people ain’t getting’ any smarter. It’s a risk, Flex. That’s all I’m sayin.” He looked at the road ahead, his brow furrowed in worry. “How far?”

  “Another mile or so we’ll be there,” I said.

  “I’ll do the talkin’ this time,” said Tony.

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah. See this face?”

  I looked at this salt and pepper, spiky hair and full beard and mustache, his gold chains and his shirt unbuttoned down to his naval.

  “Hey,” said Tony, his two fingers pointing to his eyes. “My eyes are up here.” He laughed.

  “I’m takin’ in the whole Tony, my friend,” I said.

  “Well,” he said, “this face can sink a thousand ships.”

  “Do you even know what that means?” I asked, laughing.

  “Not a fuckin’ clue,” he laughed. “But it’s a nice face, right?” His teeth blinded me.

  “Not bad, Tony. Okay, go ahead. You give it a shot. Remember to mention Diphtheria and women and kids. And don’t tell them where the hell we are. Just say a day’s drive, in the middle of nowhere.”

  “Got it.”

  We passed a sign that read “Welcome To Buckfield.” Someone had written at the bottom of it, “Now suck my dick!” in black spray paint.

  “Nice place,” said Tony.

  “You wanted to handle this one,” I said. “Hope you don’t have to suck anyone’s dick.”

  “Oh, now,” said Tony, shaking his head. “Now you’re an asshole.”

  *****

  I drove slowly. While the border of the town of Buckfield, South Carolina was marked with the s
ign, the town square didn’t appear for another mile.

  We saw the odd walker, but let them be for now. They were the problem of the inhabitants of Buckfield, and we didn’t want to draw attention by blasting either the AK on the roof or our other weapons.

  Main Street, a small town standard, had been marked through, and the words Zombie Road were written in white in the same crude writing as the suck my dick comment on the welcome sign.

  “Nice fuckin’ place,” I said, increasing my pressure on the accelerator. “I’d like to –”

  “I think I know what you were gonna say,” interrupted Tony. “Ain’t gonna happen.”

  Ahead of us was a barricade. The standard, white sawhorse style with red striped lines. Again, in the same spray painted scrawl, it said, “Stop, Asshole!”

  It wasn’t necessary. This asshole and the one in the passenger seat fully intended to stop.

  Three men stood up from the other side of the blockade and walked around to the front. All were armed, and nobody had baked goods. This wasn’t a welcoming party.

  I had begun to wish we’d brought the Crown Vic. The ballistic exterior of it would have been a real benefit right about then.

  I slowed the Land Cruiser and stopped. Déjà vu all over again. I looked at Tony. “Go on, buddy,” I said. “Got your pistol in your pants?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Under my shirt.”

  “I’d carry your MP5 out, then lay it on the ground like you’re putting down your weapons.”

  “Good,” said Tony. “No worries, Flex. I’ll handle it.”

  Tony stepped out of the car and waved a hand at them. I had my window down to hear what was exchanged.

  “Hey, guys,” said Tony, walking toward them his MP5 raised. He did what I had done. He stooped down and put the gun on the ground, then held up both open palms toward them.