Dead Hunger VI_The Gathering Storm

by Eric A. Shelman

  As I took the steps two at a time, I screamed, “After all this shit, I’m not leaving them out there!”

  “Gem!” shouted Charlie, but I didn’t slow. I fumbled with the lock for a second, flung the door outward and flew out of the basement, slamming the door behind me, drowning out Trina and Taylor’s cries with the sounds of the terrible, storm of the apocalypse.

  Just as the door closed, I glanced toward the sliding door again, but it wasn’t necessary. The rear, left corner of the house began to crack, and I saw the wall moving, just in the breakfast nook off the kitchen.

  It seemed to sway back and forth for a moment, and I didn’t stay to see more. I ran into the rear hallway and charged into the bedroom. I immediately saw Bunsen, our canine matriarch, with not-so-little Slider tucked beside her, both their faces looking – if it’s at all possible – relieved that I was there.

  “Come here! Come on, guys!” I ran into the hallway, which was the age old, universal signal for Chase me, let’s play!

  I charged into the living room saw that the kitchen wall was beginning to suffer the same fate as the now ruptured missing nook wall. Relieved to hear barking behind me, I risked a turn of the head to see both pups on my heels. I ran to the door and flung it open, but it whipped out of my hands, throwing me to the side, where I hit the arm of a wooden chair and went tumbling, my back screaming with pain.

  I recovered enough to lift my head and see Bunsen and Slider charge through the basement door, and I have to admit I was relieved to see Dave Gammon standing outside the door, one hand holding it, and the other reaching out for me. I extended my hand to take it, but at that moment, the entire back wall disintegrated.

  The roof began to collapse. I put my hands down on the floor for leverage, screamed, “Get back inside, Dave!” and kicked at the door, pushing him back through and possibly down the steps, the door slamming hard in its frame.

  A huge timber fell from the ceiling and landed against the basement door. I cried then, thinking of my girls and my baby and my best friends down there.

  I was sure I was going to die. I’m not one to give up; that’s not me. But in that very moment, as debris flew all around me; so much that I couldn’t open my eyes for fear of having tiny pieces of wood and metal jammed into them, I didn’t see that anyone could survive what had to be coming next.

  Thinking of the ones I loved, I slid beneath the timber and felt around. Nothing. Something hit me about ten seconds later, and I grabbed it. It was one of the cushions from the loveseat. I wiggled my way completely beneath the timber now and stuffed the cushion over the top of my head and chest.

  Then I cried with joy and fear, as my mind danced crazily over a hundred different thoughts that came in rapid fire succession. The joy because I was still alive. The fear was because I didn’t know how long I would be able to have that thought.

  Of my thoughts, these were some: I didn’t regret saving Bunsen and Slider. They were two lives. I was only one. There was a lot of love down those steps for the girls and my son. Flex would be back to be his father. My mind kept going to Isis. Every other thought. Dave. Isis. Serena, Doc Scofield. Then Isis again.

  For some reason, Isis came to me again and again, amidst all these speedster thoughts. I heard her little voice inside my head, drifting to me from everywhere and nowhere at once, even through the raging storm’s din; the last words I remembered before everything went black.

  You will live, Gemina. Feel our love.

  *****

  The gunfire behind us had hopefully masked the noise of the door latching. It continued to erupt down the hallway, but the storm outside also added to the racket.

  We both put our baseball bats on the floor as we slid down into a seated position with our backs pressed against the steel entry door.

  “Could you tell how many there were?” I asked, breathing hard, trying to keep my voice low.

  Our headlamps were off and I could not see Punch, just inches away, through the pitch blackness of the room.

  “Nah, man. I just saw the light. I’m wonderin’ if it’s Buckfield guys.”

  “If it is, they know how to tail ‘cause I sure as hell didn’t see ‘em,’ I said. “Punch, turn your headlight to red and see if you can get a make on this room.”

  “Got it,” he said. Seconds later, the room illuminated in the soft glow as Punch faced the wall opposite the door.

  There was a counter with sliding glass windows, both closed. A closed door to the left of the window. Behind the glass a face watched us. I wondered how long the abnormal had been doing so. The creature was a near cadaver, its skin nearly peeled from its face, black stains all over the front of the smock that I realized would have had a red-black hue had the color of the light not cancelled it out.

  “He won’t be a problem,” I said. “Try that door, Punch.”

  Punch slid up the door into a standing position and listened for a moment before removing his weight from it. I planted my boots as best I could and pressed my back against it. I wished I weighed about three hundred more pounds.

  “Hurry, man,” I said.

  Punch moved toward the counter and rapped lightly on the glass. The creature behind it leaned toward him, but it was devoid of gnashing or snarling, because its ravaged brain obviously did not realize what we were.

  “This is thick, Flex,” said Punch.

  The gunfire stopped. Punch quickly tried the handle of the door leading to the pharmacy stockroom, but the lever did not pivot downward.

  Punch hurried back to the door and pressed his weight beside mine, flipping his light back off. “Fuckin’ locked, brother.”

  We waited. It was all we could do.

  I looked at the glow of my watch hands. Five minutes passed. No sounds.

  Another five slipped by, and I had to remind myself to breathe.

  Finally, I said, “Punch, with all those rotters, they couldn’t begin to think anybody was in there with ‘em. They’d assume we went another direction.”

  “But we melted a couple of the fuckers, Flex,” he said.

  “Yeah, but they don’t know about urushiol, and they don’t know what it does,” I said. “If they even noticed.”

  “They’ll still be lookin’ if they saw your truck,” said Punch. “Which I’m pretty sure they did, if it’s them.”

  “I’m so fuckin’ tired of losing my vehicles,” I said. “Anyway, let’s give this five more minutes, then we’re gettin’ through that door there.”

  No sound came, and after the five minutes, we gave it another three. I flipped on my own red light and looked down at the knob of the door we’d come in through. It was a key lock from the inside, too.

  “If I was Hemp, I’d reverse pick this bitch and lock the door,” I said. “Anyway, we’re gonna have to take a chance. They might not give up the search, but it’s a big hospital and that horde of zombies had to tell ‘em we didn’t come this way.”

  “We need to see if there’s a door out of that room,” said Punch. “An emergency exit, anything.”

  “We gotta get the fuck in there first,” I said. “Any ideas?”

  Punch knelt down in front of the door. “Flex, the deadbolt’s not flipped, so we only have to get by the knob lock.” He took off his headlamp and shone the red light between the jamb and the door slab. There was no guard plate in front of it. Punch looked back at me. “Cross your fingers, man.”

  Believe it or not, I did.

  Punch pulled a knife from his pocket. It was a Swiss Army Knife of the type I and every other boy between nine and twelve years old dreamed of owning.

  “Fuckin’ MacGyver?” I asked. “Thought you guys weren’t allowed to have knives in Buckfield.”

  “This one was a secret, and as you can see, not too effective to kill a man with. And as to whether I’m a MacGyver, no more than this Hemp friend of yours, I’m assuming,” he said. “Have you got a knife, Flex?”

  “I do,” I said, and extended my leg, reaching into my pocket. “
It’s not fancy, but it does in a pinch.” I gave it to him.

  He put the light back on his head and said, “I know it’s quiet, but see if you can lay down and block that crack beneath the door. I’m gonna need full light to see what I’m doin’.”

  I remained in a sitting position, but slid to the side of the door and extended my left leg, pressing it against the 36” wide gap. It would have to do. I bent my right leg, steadying myself, and raised my Daewoo toward the door, prepared to blow the fuck out of any unlucky prick who decided to search that particular room.

  “I’m ready, buddy,” I said. “Go.”

  Punch turned on the light to bright white and opened the longest blade on both of the knives.

  I couldn’t see what he was trying to do. We were vulnerable as I sat there, my back no longer pressing against the slab. Should anyone try the door now, I would kill them. I knew I could handle that. The rest depended on how many would come behind our first unlucky visitor.

  Through all of it, I had never forgotten the only goal was to get the Diphtheria antitoxin. Everything else could wait if necessary. I needed to save my son’s life and worry about protecting him from other stuff when I could.

  I heard a click and the door pushed inward. Punch turned to me and smiled. “I saved the lock, too. We can stick this rotter in the waiting room and lock the door behind us, buddy.”

  “Get your light, Punch,” I said. He turned it off and I grunted myself to my feet and followed him inside.

  “You wanna do it?” I asked Punch.

  “Do what?”

  “Lead this boy out the door.”

  “Punch shrugged. “Why not.”

  The creature stared at us, but he had likely been so hungry for so long that even without the WAT-5, he would not have been able to create any vapor. He did not even gnash. He looked at us like he was willing to go with whatever flow we set.

  Punch was not as gentle as me. He reached out and grabbed the thing by the arm and yanked the abnormal hard toward him.

  Only the thing did not move forward. Instead, the arm ripped easily from its socket with a sickening, squishy, sucking sound and Punch stood there holding it briefly, the tendrils hanging down from the black-dripping wound, before dropping it in horror.

  I laughed aloud, then choked it down. “Dude,” I said. “I’m sure that never happened in Afghanistan.”

  “You coulda said something,” said Punch, disgust on his face.”

  I smiled. “Easy, brother. Just guide him. He’ll move.”

  “Fuck that,” said Punch. He got behind the walker and pushed him hard. The thing staggered forward. I held the door and my new friend gave him another hard shove square in his back, ejecting him into the lobby. Then he turned around, looked down and gave the severed arm several kicks until it was through the door, too.

  He then closed it with more care than I knew he wanted to, just to be quiet. His expression was not one of joviality.

  “Ever take anger management courses?” I asked, still smiling. The one-armed monster milled back and forth in the outer lobby.

  “I’d just as soon take out my anger on them,” he said, nodding his head toward the thing.

  “Time to go shopping,” I said. “Hemp said there would be inventory sheets somewhere, and the drugs should be in alphabetical order.”

  “Pull out your list,” said Punch. “I’d give my left nut to be on our way back.”

  “Well,” I said, “I don’t know who the fuck would make that trade, but that fucker in the lobby might take you up on it.”

  We worked our way between the aisles and found a computer set up on a rear desk. Beside it was a long binder. I picked it up and looked over the pages.

  “Bingo,” I said. I flipped through until I was in the D section. I ran my eyes down the list until I saw what I wanted: Diphtheria Antitoxin. I slid my finger along the page and saw a number. It said 42. I hoped that was how many doses they had on hand.

  “Punch,” I said, “Check out the shelves. How are they organized?”

  Punch slid down an aisle and shone his light around. “Looks to be alphabetical,” he said.

  “Perfect. Find the D section,” I said.

  Punch moved to the second aisle and I walked up beside him. A cardboard bin was marked with DIPHTHERIA ANTITOXIN. I slid it out.

  There was no antitoxin inside. My heart nearly stopped. All this way, and the bin was empty.

  “Fucknuts!” I exclaimed, trying to suppress my anger and keep my voice low. I let the empty bin drop to the floor and something fluttered out of it, landing on the floor a foot away.

  “Fucknuts?” asked Punch. “What’s wrong? Nothin’ in there?”

  Shaking my head, I leaned down and picked up the item and held it in the beam of my headlight. It was a business card.

  “Just this,” I said. “Dr. John Perry.”

  “Just a card?”

  “Yep,” I said. “Maybe it’s a message.”

  “Anything on the back?”

  “I turned it over. There was handwriting there.

  Antitoxins and vaccines are safe.

  4301 Yancy Road. J.P., M.D.

  I looked at Punch. “Sounds like Doc Perry’s taken the stuff we need for safe keeping,” I said, relieved. “He didn’t list a city, so I assume that’s still Charlotte?”

  “I’m not from around here, but we’ll check the map,” said Punch. “His house, maybe?”

  “No clue,” I said. “He must be keepin’ the drugs under the right conditions.”

  “If he’s still alive,” said Punch. “Never know.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Who knows when he wrote this.”

  “Most likely when the drugs were viable,” said Punch.

  “We’ll know when we get there,” I said, pulling out the list Hemp had given me. I ran my eyes down the scrawled drug names, and saw several that I recognized as antibiotics and pain meds. He had a separate heading called ESTROGEN BLOCKERS, and a list of medications under that. I knew why, and I was excited that if we could deliver them, Hemp could start work on a new defensive weapon he’d been hoping to come up with. It was to defend against the red-eyes, and the idea was based on his final experiments in the Concord lab.

  I carefully tore the list in half and handed a piece to Punch. “See what you can find here,” I said. “I’ll get the other half, then we’ll see if we can get out of here undetected and hit Yancy Road.”

  “Good enough,” said Punch, turning immediately to conduct his search.

  I found a pair of canvas bags with handles and tossed one to Punch. He dropped what he’d already collected inside, and moved on down the aisle. It took us twenty minutes to fill Hemp’s prescription.

  Now it was time to get back to my truck and blow this popsicle stand.

  *****

  The pelting rain had awakened me, and as I opened my eyes into narrow slits, the huge droplets peppered my already blurry vision, making it even worse. I tried to lift my head and was able to do so, if only slightly. I looked to my right, only because it was less painful than turning left.

  The door was intact. The wall it was mounted in was intact.

  There was no longer a ceiling attached to the wall, though. Nor was there one over my head. I struggled to take in more.

  Above me, only sky. I wondered if Heaven still existed beyond the dark, swirling clouds, or if it ever had.

  I heard their voices somewhere around me then, and my heart and soul soared with joy. The sounds were muffled and almost inaudible, but they told me my family was alive! They were alive!

  I distinctively heard Hemp and Dave calling, and even Trina’s little voice came to me. I tried to draw in a large enough breath to call out, but even that hurt. I let it back out slowly, realizing I’d be lucky to emit a whimper, much less a shout. I moved my right hand and found it was free and mobile.

  I balled my hand into a fist and rapped on the floor with my knuckles. Once. Twice. A third time.

  A che
er erupted from below me, and I realized they had heard me and were celebrating. I tapped three more times, which was rewarded by three taps that vibrated on the hardwood beneath my back.

  I smiled and lay there, my eyes gaining focus, my neck beginning to loosen. I turned my head to the left.

  An enormous tree trunk lay over what was once a sliding door with impenetrable hurricane glass, extending over the now missing deck and into the forest beyond for perhaps a hundred feet or more. The tree had possibly existed longer than the United States of America herself.

  The roots faced me, a massive jumble of once subterranean vines whose ball extended from the floor all the way to where the ceiling had once been. The rain poured down atop it and the dirt ran in rivers from the twisted system of roots, flowing to the floor, only to be pounded aside by the rain from the hurricane.

  I was soaking wet, but I wasn’t cold. The wind howled outside and while it was nowhere near the speed of the tornado that had ripped the house apart, it seemed to be blowing stronger than before our home became more debris than safe haven.

  Either way, the sky overhead still appeared angry and occasionally an enormous crack and a flash of lightning would occur almost simultaneously, indicating the hurricane was either right on top of us or close to it.

  I prayed for Flex. With only a vague idea where he was and no idea of his well-being, I worried. He should have been there with me. Flex Sheridan would do anything for me, and he was the only man in the world to whom I would give up control, knowing he would protect me at all costs. Sure, I put on a show; I acted as though I were self-reliant and strong and I suppose I was, but since I met him, I’d never felt safer than I did in his presence.

  He was out there. We should have just taken our son and gone together, and at least then I would know I still had him.

  But on the other side, words spoken by Charlie back in that Concord bar retuned to my ears. It was when he was at the men’s prison with some other guys, zombies and ratz were on the move, and fire burned out of control. Flex had been gone for three hours or so when Charlie reminded me by saying, “Nothing brings out Super Flex better than him having somebody to watch out for.”