Dead Hunger VI_The Gathering Storm

by Eric A. Shelman

  “One more thing first,” I said. “Top off.”

  “Hell yes,” said Punch. “That way we can leave the cans here and pick ‘em up on the way back. We’ll need to fill ‘em again, right?”

  “They are stinkin’ up the car,” I said. “Works for me.”

  We got busy and soon, gas was running down the side of the Land Cruiser. We stacked the empty cans behind the SUV.

  “Give us a reason to come back,” said Punch, eyeing the GTO.

  I pointed to the hand air pump hanging on the back wall. “That’s for the tires. Jumper cables are hanging right beside ‘em, so you’ll have your GTO, brother.”

  Punch smiled as he unlatched the chain and rolled the bay door up. “Don’t worry about shit like that, Flex. Let’s save your boy.”

  I liked Punch a lot. A whole lot. We left the garage feeling a little – not a lot – safer than before.

  *****

  I stayed in bed long past waking. I missed Flex and I worried about him. I knew better, but I still couldn’t help it. While our situation was far better than most of the world’s – I mean, we did have WAT-5 and urushiol – anyone could still be caught by surprise, and that included my husband.

  It was of much greater concern considering what we knew about the red-eyes; their intelligence, their speed and strength, and their ability to hear. It was something we still forgot about now and then.

  Sure. Most pregnant women couldn’t leap over things or drop to the floor and spider-crawl like a … well, like a fucking spider.

  With an announced “Fuck it,” I got out of bed and went to the window. There hadn’t been another band of storms through the night – none that had awakened me, anyway. As I scanned the horizon, I saw the southeastern sky was as black as hell and the trees for as far as I could see were taking a beating from the now strong, steady wind.

  It was moving in for the kill now.

  I padded to the closet and pulled one of Flex’s shirts from a hanger. It was a long-sleeved, faded blue, chambray shirt with worn elbows that looked like something a real man would wear, like Timothy Olyphant or Sam Elliot.

  It screamed, Flex Sheridan: Badass Son-of-a-motherfucker.

  I thought about that and smiled. It was true, right? We were all the sons or daughters of motherfuckers.

  I shook off the morning mind-wandering and pulled on some jean shorts. I buttoned them, zipped the fly, and realized they could nearly slip off over my hips.

  I’d lost weight since having Flexy. More than just the baby weight, too. The zombie apocalypse was the best diet known to mankind.

  Coffee. It was all I needed. And a donut, but I hadn’t had one of them in so long, I can’t tell you. I slid my feet into some Dearfoams and went into the kitchen.

  This was a big house, and I was damned glad of it. It was also one of the newer homes in close cluster that we had chosen to live in, so Hemp and I had agreed last night that if the storm hadn’t hit by the morning, everybody should grab what was important to them and get their asses to our place.

  “It’s close now,” said Hemp. I hadn’t seen him standing by the sliding glass door. We hadn’t boarded that one, because it was already hurricane glass. We assumed the owners of the home hadn’t wanted to be left completely in the dark in the event they needed to board up.

  “Coffee, Hemp?”

  “Sure,” he said. “I’m off the tea. Really starting to enjoy coffee.”

  “Puts hair on your chest,” I said. “Wanna see?”

  Hemp laughed and walked to the kitchen. He sat on the stool and folded his arms on the granite counter. “I’ll pass, Gem. It’ll ruin my fantasy.”

  “What fucking fantasy is that?” came Charlie’s voice. We turned, and she was smiling as she walked into the room. “And I better be in it,” she added.

  “Not this time, girl. I offered to show Hemp my chest.”

  Charlie stood stock still, her hands down by her sides. “One nip slip and I will kill you.”

  I undid my top button and looked from Hemp to Charlie. Then another. The shirt began to fall open as I undid the next to last button.

  Nobody said a word. I pulled open my shirt and curled my fingers beneath my bra.

  Up it went and out came the girls.

  “For fuck’s sake, Gem!” said Hemp, and I thought he was going to fall off his chair. He turned quickly away and started laughing so hard I thought he’d have a heart attack.

  Charlie was doubled over, laughing with him and I quickly lowered my bra and buttoned up again.

  “I told myself that if the coffee was done before I finished unbuttoning that I wouldn’t go through with it,” I said. “Okay, Charlie. Go ahead and kill me.”

  “I can’t,” she said. “Not while I’m laughing.”

  “I’ll never respect you again,” I said.

  “Well,” said Charlie, still laughing, “you’ve got my fucking respect, I can tell you that. Plus, it wasn’t even what you did. I hope you were looking at my husband’s face!”

  “I know,” I said. “It’s still red.”

  Hemp said, “Is it safe to turn around?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Thought we could use some laughs this morning.”

  “Just so you know I wasn’t laughing at you,” said Hemp. “I was laughing with you.”

  “Hell yes, you were,” I said. “I’m the best prop comedian for miles around.”

  “The props being your tits,” said Charlie.

  “I travel light … sort of,” I said.

  “Got enough in that pot for me?” asked Charlie.

  The wind hit the house hard, and we heard an exterior wall somewhere audibly groan.

  “I need to go out and see what we’re looking at,” said Hemp. “After a cup. For now, let’s radio everyone and tell them to get over here. I’m fairly certain today is the day.”

  I poured his coffee black and slid it over to him. He opened up the sugar bowl and put four spoonfuls in, stirring it.

  “Yeah. You love coffee,” I said.

  “I like it a certain way,” said Hemp, smugly. He took a sip. “Ah, excellent.”

  “We’ve got fresh eggs, but someone’s going to have to go out and get them,” said Charlie.

  “Not anymore,” I said. “Dave moved the coop onto the porch last night. With the top on the coop, the chickens are safe from rotters but hurricane force winds would whirl them around in there like a Mixmaster.”

  “I’ll go harvest them,” said Hemp. “I need to walk off this erection anyway.”

  Charlie leaned over and pinched his arm hard, and he laughed through his grimace. She really got him.

  He opened the slider and went out.

  “This your first hurricane?” I asked, pouring her cup and sliding it in front of her. I slid the Coffee Mate and sugar over, too.

  She shook her head as she doctored her brew. “Nope. I was in one years ago when I was visiting New Orleans. Nothing like Katrina, though.”

  “I’m an old hand at them,” I said. “Spent my entire life in Florida. This is the most I’ve seen of the rest of the country since I was born.”

  “Traveling is overrated,” said Charlie. “All you gotta remember is that square states are boring. Stick to the edges as far as the USA goes. Way more fun stuff happens at the edges, at least according to TMZ.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” I said.

  “Let’s radio everyone and make Hemp scramble the eggs,” said Charlie. “We’ll let the girls sleep for now.”

  “Perfect,” I said.

  There was no need to awaken anyone, though. Everyone was up and concern about the storm was high on everyone’s list. They had all agreed to drive in their heaviest vehicles and even Nelson decided to leave the scooter in his garage.

  We brought chairs in the living room from all over. The house was warm because we had the doors and windows all closed, but Hemp had filled the multiple generators the night before, so we had juice to run the ceiling fans, which helped.
>
  Nelson and Rachel sat beside one another on the couch, and Dave and Serena had taken two chairs across from them. We’d brought a playpen out for Flexy, and Isis asked to be put inside, so in she went.

  And when I say she asked, that is exactly what she did. So weird. Hard to get used to.

  “Lots of rotters out there,” said Nelson. “Dudes are funny, though. They were all blown up against stuff. Having a hard time maneuvering in fifty mile per hour winds.”

  “Anyone done a porch sweep in a while?” asked Scofield.

  Doc Jim Scofield did not kill a lot of zombies. He was proficient with a gun, but the prescription for his glasses was outdated before the zombie apocalypse struck, and he said they were almost worthless. They had to be close range, and he preferred to leave the gun-toting to those with better vision.

  “You guys all came in the back, right?” asked Gem.

  Everyone nodded.

  “Then it’s been all night,” I said. “Dave? Serena?”

  “I’m good,” said Dave. “But Gem?”

  I turned. “Yeah, Dave?”

  “What we talked about last night. Being quieter. Where are the machetes?”

  “Right outside the door on the right. We cut slots in the decking to slide the blades into, so just the handles are sticking up.”

  “I’ll come,” said Nelson. “I’ll use some stars. It’s been a while.”

  Dave, Serena and Nelson got up. Nelson got his pack and pulled out a handful of throwing stars.

  “Gem, you got a little bucket in here somewhere?”

  “What for?”

  “Rinse bucket for my stars,” he said. “I plan to re-use them, and I’ll need to swish ‘em around.”

  I gave him one and dumped some of my cleaning water in it. Not potable. That was precious.

  Bug sat at the other end of the loveseat, and hadn’t said a word that morning. His eyes moved from one of us to the other, but he just observed. I thought about his time alone, just him and Isis, for almost a year.

  I suppose it would still be better than Tom Hanks’ situation in the movie Castaway, and way better than solitary confinement at a prison.

  Still, I was sure it affected Bug.

  “You hungry, Bug?” I asked. “Hemp’s getting eggs.”

  As if on cue, Hemp came in with the basket brimming with eggs. “There’s a good amount this morning,” said Hemp. “All this wind must be forcing their production.”

  “If they were fucking smart, they’d keep them inside for the extra weight,” I said.

  Nelson, Dave and Serena were at the door, ready to open it. “Wait!” I shouted.

  They all turned. “What’s up, dude?” said Nelson.

  “Photographic memory aside, dude,” I said, “you better remember to take the WAT-5 before you go out there. No chances, guys.”

  “Gem, you’re so far behind,” said Nelson. “We already did the old take and wake, right over there on the couch. Serena woke us up. We’re dialed in, mamasita!”

  “Hey!” I said.

  Nelson stopped again. “Yeah?”

  “You know that’s Latin-American slang for hottie, right?”

  “Of course,” said Nelson, smiling and poking a finger at his temple. “Photographic memory, remember?”

  They went outside. They were murderously quiet, and came back inside half an hour later.

  They had taken out twenty-six of them.

  It was more walkers than we’d seen since we moved to Whitmire, South Carolina.

  I wished Flex was back as the wind outside howled like a ghostly, distant wolf pack.

  *****

  Chapter Eight

  The ghouls were everywhere. Punch’s eyes darted from side-to-side, just like mine.

  The creatures fought the wind but they were ill-equipped for such tactics, their body weight too low and their coordination and brainpower too long gone to figure out how to lean into a strong wind like the one that dominated them.

  The wind buffeted the Land Cruiser and large drops of rain began to fall then, pelting the vehicle. I turned on the windshield wipers, but even at full speed the rain was winning the battle.

  “Flex, you need to go right, but fuck if I can tell if it’s clear. Damned rain!”

  He was right. I could see maybe five feet out of the passenger side window, and not much more through the windshield.

  “This shit is exactly why we’ve tried to avoid big cities,” I said.

  “Hell yes,” he said. “More people, more of them.”

  “It’s always been my philosophy,” I said. “No choice this time. Damn, I’m glad we fixed the window.”

  “I’m glad we got rid of the gas cans,” said Punch. “Now I can breathe.”

  I backed up and saw what looked like an opening between a fire hydrant and a motorcycle lying on its side.

  “Should be enough room to skirt through,” I said, and turned the steering wheel left. I drove slowly and tried to run over the curb, but the damned cowcatcher was too low to the ground. “Shit,” I said.

  “Try more of an angle, Flex,” said Punch.

  “Right,” I said. I backed up, hit something that I was pretty sure was an unlucky rotter that had been blown to the wrong place at the exact wrong time, and threw it back into drive. I cranked the wheel hard, increasing the angle of my tires to the curb. This time, the pointed front of the pilot moved alongside the curb, allowing my front left tire to roll up. Once I achieved that, I was able to squeeze through the two fixed objects.

  “I’m tryin’ to avoid having to get out and winch,” I said. “We’ll be soaked to the bone.”

  Fifteen to twenty of the staggering dead had obviously seen the movement of our vehicle and were now doing their best to work their way toward the big Toyota, but I plowed right through the most industrious of them. I was moving slowly enough that the cow catcher worked as intended. The roar of the storm outside spared us the squishy impact sounds as the angled, steel appendage snapped their brittle ankles, threw their knees into the grid, then easily flipped their battered bodies to the side and out of our path.

  We’d likely have to remove some arms and legs from the angled grid work before we headed back. Yeah, it was the optimist in me; I planned to get back home and I didn’t want to arrive there with rancid body parts dangling off the front of the SUV.

  “Thing works like a charm, Flex,” said Punch. “Your buddy Hemp’s idea?”

  I smiled, mostly because the thing did work great, and the truth was, I’d forgotten who thought of it.

  “Let’s just assume it was Hemp, ‘cause I don’t really recall,” I said. “But it sure works like somethin’ he came up with.”

  We drove slowly out of necessity, making our way up Kenilworth Avenue. The wind slammed us again and the rain sheeted sideways, rendering the wipers pointless for a few, brief seconds.

  I hit the brakes hard and stopped the truck. It was better to wait than to run headlong into something bigger than us. A tank, maybe. We hadn’t seen any signs of military since this shit started, but we hadn’t been in the most likely places they would focus.

  I looked at Punch. “We wait, I guess,” I said. “Until we can see somethin’.”

  We waited, staring at the sheeting water. The wind shifted suddenly and then it seemed to be blowing the rain forward, away from our windshield.

  We could see again. What we saw wasn’t encouraging.

  The roadway heading left was a mess of crashed cars that looked like someone had set them aflame. Doors hung open and the paint was burned away on six or seven vehicles. No way through.

  “Can’t go straight, either,” said Punch, pointing. “Wow. That must’ve happened a while ago.”

  In the middle of Kenilworth, just past Harding Place, the fuselage of a Medevac helicopter lay in chunks and pieces, all as burned as the car. Around it, several destroyed cars, including a police cruiser, sat forever idle as though in a graveyard of devastation.

  Weeds had begun to sp
ring up from cracks in the street, and it just felt to me like we were both starring in some end of the world flick where a director would scream, “Cut!” and praise the special effects team’s talents.

  I stared, frustrated, then remembered something. I was tense. I was tired. I flipped down the sun visor and a pack of Marlboro reds dropped into my lap. “Right the fuck now I can use one of these,” I said.

  “Shit,” said Punch. “I don’t think I’ve had a smoke in six months. Pony up.”

  I gave him one. “There’s a lighter in the glove box,” I said.

  Punch opened the glove box, shifted around several boxes of 9mm rounds and found the Bic. He struck it and lit his, then gave the lighter to me. I lit mine, stared out at the melee through the downpour and inhaled deeply.

  “We needed to turn left here, on Harding Place” said Punch, wiping again at the condensation collecting on the inside of the window.

  “Any other way around?” I asked.

  Punch held the map up, and ran his finger along it. “Yeah, yeah. Just turn right here. Up a block and we can try to get around this mess.”

  Out of nowhere a bolt of lightning struck so close to us we both covered our heads and ducked. Seconds later, a crack sounded, loud enough to be heard over the downpour. We both looked over to see a huge oak tree aflame, twenty feet to our right, on the corner of Harding Place and Kenilworth. The leaping flames fought the rain even as they were fueled by wind, and I saw the ancient tree was almost split clear down the middle.

  The weight of the upper boughs strained the intact trunk of the tree, and it remained upright for the moment, even as we smelled the sharp odor of ozone leak in through the Land Cruiser’s air vents.

  As we watched, the massive tree trunk began to split in two as the behemoth oak started its slow fall in two directions.

  “Flex, go!” shouted Punch. “That tree’s gonna block Harding. Now!”

  I could still see well enough to follow his instructions, and I laid my foot on the gas, simultaneously spinning the steering wheel hard to the right. The tires lost traction, then gripped, jettisoning us onto Harding and directly into another wasted biter, who rolled up the cowcatcher and onto the hood before being thrown off to the side as the Land Cruiser fishtailed. We were still beside the falling tree and needed a few more crucial feet before we’d be in the clear.