Dead Hunger VI_The Gathering Storm

by Eric A. Shelman

  I didn’t answer him. I was already in mid jump to avoid any more low rounds. Once clear of the door, I curled my fingers around it and pulled it hard against the crazy, buffeting wind until it reached the point that the force of the wind slammed it shut. Behind it was another young man – this one slightly older than the other one. He was on the ground, his forehead emblazoned with an angry, red welt, no doubt from where the flying door had smacked him moments earlier.

  I dropped a knee onto his chest and ripped the rifle from his grip. I was lucky the son of a bitch hadn’t connected with his blind shot, or I’d be lame, the bones in my ankle shattered beyond repair.

  I tossed the gun beneath my truck and grabbed the kid by the coat. Adrenaline drove me, but that wasn’t all. There were four zombies moving along the wall – sliding toward me sideways along the exterior painted concrete, occasionally being caught by the wind, but always managing to suck up to the solid surface again and gain one more step toward us.

  I knew it wasn’t me that drew them; it was this guy and what had to be his brother, from their similar features. I was on WAT-5, but these mugs were about as fragrant as the walking dead could hope for.

  Once I had him in position in front of the door, I pulled it open and planted my foot behind it to avoid the full tilt slam against the wall. “Crawl your ass inside!” I shouted over the roar of pounding rain, the water running down my face, the wind pelting my eyes with rain so that I was far less a threat than either of the strangers knew. I was operating on instinct and hoping for luck.

  The young man crawled like he was playing a game of speed Twister. Right hand to red, left hand to yellow, right knee to green, left knee to blue.

  In the end, he fell on top of the other guy, rolled onto his back and stared up at me in horror as I closed the door and turned my Glock on both of them again.

  It wasn’t necessary. Punch was already training his shotgun on them, and they weren’t moving a muscle.

  “These boys from Buckfield?” I asked Punch.

  Punch shook his head. “Nope,” he said. “Never seen ‘em before, plus they’re too young. Buckfield guys are all thirty plus.”

  I looked up the hall and saw two men approaching. Both were armed with rifles of some sort, and neither appeared to have seen us yet.

  Making eye contact with Punch, I raised my chin slightly, moving my eyebrows. Universal sign for Some motherfucker’s behind you.

  Punch swung his tactical shotgun with the huge drum of shells around and held his fire. The men stopped, their guns raised. Neither fired.

  “We don’t want to hurt ‘em,” I called. “Was that you who shot up the hall full of infecteds?”

  The men, just silhouettes from where we stood, backlit from the gloomy daylight of the reception area, didn’t respond to my question. They turned toward one another and said something that we couldn’t hear.

  Then one of the men said, “Those are my boys there. They okay?”

  “Answer my question first,” I said. “Did you kill the zombies in the hall?”

  “Yeah, that was us.”

  “Lower your weapons,” said Punch.

  “Not gonna happen,” said the one on the left.

  If we were in a goddamned movie, I’d have pointed the Glock at either one of the boys and said something extraordinarily threatening. That ain’t me. I always try to get things done with convincing rather than threats, but after what happened in Buckfield, I wasn’t about to take any chances that my mistake would leave my son and Trina fatherless.

  “I can understand that,” I said. “It’s a tough world out there. We’re just here for medicine. That’s my truck out there.”

  “Not anymore,” said the guy on the right.

  “You’re gonna get on his bad side if you start getting’ possessive over his truck,” said Punch. “Just a warning.”

  “Fuck these guys, Todd!” shouted the second man, raising his rifle barrel.

  Now if I were called on to list the top ten stupidest moves I’ve ever seen anyone make, that guy would’ve made the top three. Possibly right between freshman Joey Evans copping a feel on Angie Murray on the bus, who happened to be the girlfriend of the senior star tackle at my high school, and those dumbfuck predators I saw on that news show who show up at the homes of minor girls with six packs of beer, only to try to explain it to the show’s host.

  I don’t know whether Punch and I fired at the same time or not, but I do know the fuckwad at the other end of the twenty-five yard long hallway never got a shot off before his feet lifted off the ground and he flew backward through the air.

  My Daewoo was up and the trigger pulled while that prick was still swinging his barrel around. It was only then that I realized that it was still on single shot mode, and I suppose, in retrospect, it was a good thing. Still, I’m pretty sure I got that round off before Punch fired two blasts from his shotgun, causing the guy named Todd to flop to the linoleum floor like a rag doll. As for his buddy, he ejected into the reception area. the glass behind him shattering with ear-splitting efficiency, clearing his flight path.

  I didn’t fire again. I looked down to see both boys’ frightened faces staring the length of the long corridor toward their father. He had been the man standing on the left. Todd.

  “Punch, go check on ‘em,” I said. “I got these guys.”

  Punch walked toward me, leaned in and whispered, “Just birdshot, buddy. I didn’t want to kill them.” He turned and started down, his shotgun held out in front of him, and I looked down at the kids.

  I wasn’t sure how to feel. I was pretty sure that I’d hit Todd’s friend square in the chest with the round from the K7.

  I knelt down and said, “This isn’t what we do. Your dad was bein’ reasonable, as far as I can tell. Who’s the other guy?”

  “He’s our uncle,” said the older of the two young men.

  “You two can stand up,” I said.

  They slowly got to their feet.

  I watched them. “Any more weapons on you?” I asked.

  Both guys shook their heads.

  “Dad says we suck with pistols,” said the thin, dark-haired one. He could not have been more than nineteen years old. He wore a hat with the Bose insignia on it, his jet black hair sticking out from underneath. He was about 5’-10” tall and wore a blue jean jacket over a black tee shirt, with Levis. His tee-shirt also had the word Bose printed in the center. Kid must have been an audiophile back in the days when music became a young adult’s entire focus.

  “You suck,” said the taller, thicker one. “He won’t let me have a pistol because he thinks you’d be upset.”

  He was clearly older than the other kid by at least two years. Other than that, they looked almost the same, but the older guy looked more road-worn. His hair was down past his shoulders and he had a good sized bruise on his right cheek and what looked like a bullet graze scar on his neck. Could’ve been anything, I suppose, but I tend to imagine the worst.

  “Your daddy’s right,” I said. “Handguns take a lot of practice. How many of you were inside?”

  “Just my daddy and uncle,” said the young man.

  “They’re both breathing,” said Punch.

  “Come with me,” I said, standing aside and motioning them down the hall toward Punch and the two downed men. They walked ahead, and as they got closer, they walked faster. As they approached the two men, one of them struggled to sit up, leaning against the wall.

  “Joey, Benny,” he managed, his voice strained.

  “Dad!” the boys shouted at once,

  “I knew that vest would come in handy, dad!” said the younger of the two.

  My light hit the man’s face, and I saw the red rash all over it.

  “Birdshot’s not lethal from that distance, but it can sure put a good rash on you, and fuck your vision,” said Punch. “I like a bit of scatter in between kill rounds.” He looked down at the man and said, “What’s your name, man?”

  “Todd Chambers,”
he said, blinking his eyes.

  “Todd, can you see?” asked Punch.

  “Lucky I closed my eyes just before you fired,” he said.

  “You’re lucky I fired both shots high on purpose,” said Punch. “I’m only into killin’ what’s already dead these days. Your brother here blew it.”

  “Brother-in-law,” he said. “Hey, Cole,” he said, slapping the other man on the arm. Cole didn’t respond. Todd’s expression changed and he leaned over and shook the man, but he still didn’t move.

  Punch lifted the man’s head and listened. “Shit, Flex,” he said. “He’s not breathing.” He put his fingers to the unconscious stranger’s neck. “No pulse.”

  Punch quickly slid his gun out of reach of Joey and Benny, rolled the man onto his back and ripped open his light jacket.

  “He’s got on a ballistic vest, too,” said Punch, reaching down. He dug at something with his fingers, then tossed me the piece of lead. “Dead center. Nice shootin’ for a machine gun.”

  “I’ve had some practice,” I said.

  “Is he okay?” shouted the younger son.

  Punch didn’t answer. He straddled him and began performing CPR. He pumped his chest several times, listened for breathing, and pumped some more.

  I was starting to lose hope. Punch was approaching one minute of CPR when the man suddenly gasped and his eyes went wide.

  “Uncle Cole!” shouted Joey, a smile spreading over his face. “Uncle Cole, you’re okay!”

  The man hyperventilated, but Punch got him into a sitting position and supported him there. “How you doin’, Cole?”

  He looked at us. “I didn’t mean …”

  “Doesn’t matter,” I said. “We do a lot of shit we don’t mean out here.”

  The man nodded and breathed in an out, taking shallow gulps of air.

  “What did you come here for?” I asked.

  “Looking for the pharmacy,” said Todd.

  “Did you find it?” I asked.

  Todd shook his head. “Nah. Storm started sounding worse, and we figured we had the wrong building anyway. Plus, when we saw that ton of zombies, we kinda lost our resolve. Figured we’d come back with more guys later.”

  “Who’s sick?” asked Punch.

  “Nobody we know,” he said. “Doctor Perry said people were bound to get hurt in the storm, and he needed more antibiotics and pain meds. There are closer pharmacies, but he cleaned them out already. He’s been here, but just to save what he thought was critical.”

  That explained to me why he’d taken the antitoxin and other vaccines. I owed the guy a debt – if he was willing to share it as needed. I didn’t see any other reason he’d take it, and it all might be an exercise in futility anyway, depending on how long this went on. With new babies being born and no vaccinations being administered to them, our world could revert back to the days of the black plague, I imagined.

  “Why not wait until after the storm passes?” asked Punch.

  “We were going stir crazy,” said Todd. “Been afraid to go anywhere for the last day waiting for this damned storm or hurricane or whatever it is,” said Todd.

  As if on queue, the door at the end of the hall slammed twice hard, then flew all the way open.

  “It’s getting worse by the minute,” I said. “Let’s get Cole on his feet. We need to get where Perry is. He’s got what we came here for.”

  “What’s that?” asked Todd.

  “I’d rather hold that info until we see him,” I said. “Don’t worry, we won’t take it all.”

  “I don’t want to take these guys there,” said Cole, still trying to catch his breath. “I don’t trust them.”

  “Not your call,” I said. “We’ve got his address and we’ll take your weapons if you get shitty.”

  “Uncle Cole, shut up!” shouted Joey. “We won’t make it back without our guns!”

  “They’re not taking our guns and we’re taking them to Perry,” said Todd. “Cole, it’s time to quit being an asshole and try getting along. Jesus, man. How many lessons are you going to have to learn?”

  “Can you get up?” asked Punch, holding Cole’s shoulder.

  Cole did his best to jerk his shoulder from Punch’s grasp and grimaced as he got to his feet with some difficulty. I imagined he was going to be nursing a hell of a bruise underneath that vest by the next day.

  “We’re not your enemy,” I said.

  Just then, the door that had been slamming against the wall over and over stopped. The wind still howled, and the light from the open door still illuminated the hallway. I turned to see what had changed.

  We all turned.

  A red-eyed female stood in the center of the doorway, my truck and blowing debris visible behind her. She clung to both sides of the frame, stilling the door, her hair whipping upward. Her red eyes did not waver from us; sizing us up.

  I swung my Daewoo toward her but the moment I began to move, she released the door frame and was gone. I got a chill.

  I turned back to our new acquaintance. “Did you see that, Cole?” I emphasized my next words with jabs of my finger toward the now empty space. “That thing with the red eyes?”

  He nodded slowly, his eyes darting between me and where I pointed.

  “If you want to be around for your nephews here,” I said, “you better remember your enemy’s out there, buddy. Me and Punch here just might be the best friends you meet all day.”

  *****

  I was completely drenched, and I might have been crying. I don’t remember. Occasionally, I screamed, “I’m okay! I’m okay! Hold on!”

  I did it for everyone in the basement and for me in equal parts. Knowing they were down there, just yards away, gave me comfort. I also recognized that if they knew I was alive, it would give them the same peace that I so desperately needed.

  As I formulated my plan, I talked to Flex. I knew he couldn’t hear me, but that made me feel better, too.

  Quick scans of the room. Glock unsnapped and ready. I’d need all the rounds in my Uzi to execute the task at hand.

  The beam had fallen against the entrance to the basement and slid down to within two feet of the base of the door. Had it not been twenty or more feet long, I might have attempted to move it myself, but looking at the amount of crap stacked on top of it, it would be more wasted effort.

  I pounded on the door and put my ear to it. The wind and rain was so loud, it was nearly impossible to hear anything from below, but if someone came up the stairs, I might be able to be heard.

  I heard a double slap on the door, and a muffled, “Gem?”

  “Yes!” I called. “I’m going to be firing my gun! Don’t worry, okay? I’m okay!”

  “Okay,” the voice came, and I knew it was Hemp. I wanted to hug that scientist and only let go when I heard Flex call my name.

  I looked at the ceiling beam again. I didn’t know the fucker was hardwood, softwood, Douglas fir or some kind of pine. I knew it was blocking the door that would lead me not only to safety, but to my family, and that was enough.

  I raised my Uzi and pointed it at the lower corner of the beam, about two feet away from where it pressed against the door. If I was successful, I needed room to swing it open.

  I fired a three-round burst, my eyes closed. I knew that wouldn’t prevent a ricochet from blowing a hole in my face, but it made me feel better, just like my periodic shout outs to my friends in the dungeon.

  I opened my eyes and saw severe chunks blown out of the wood. This was it. Aim carefully, chip away.

  I saw it once on the TV show, Myth Busters. It’s actually how I thought of it. They used a Gatling Gun on the show, but this was a smaller beam than the tree they cut in half with their gun.

  I put the Uzi on full auto and eyed my pattern. I would just move inward slowly and see what I had. I could always adjust, and could probably find more ammo if necessary.

  I fired, holding down the trigger until the gun fell silent. I opened my eyes, and let out a “Woo hoo!�
�

  I was a quarter of the way through. I was so encouraged, I ejected the empty magazine and slammed in the new one. This time I wanted to see.

  I chambered the first round and took aim. I stood back a foot and a half more and let the rounds fly, this time watching where the devastation was taking place. With that spent magazine, I was nearing the halfway point.

  I stood back and kicked at the timber, once. Twice.

  Okay. My foot hurt, and I felt stupid. Did I really think I cold kick the equivalent of an oversized 2X4 in half?

  I heard the sound of brass clicking against brass behind me. At the same time, I heard a tiny, mature voice in my head say, “A mother is here.”

  I reached for my Glock and spun around, and there she was, another red-eye, just three feet behind me.

  I fired two into her right leg as I lifted the weapon, and by the time she started to crumple, her head came down to meet my line of fire. I blasted her almost right between the eyes and watched her body flop harmlessly away, coming to rest on top of the now useless flat screen television that had blown off its wall mounts.

  I scanned the room again, thinking, “Thank you, Isis.”

  I heard nothing in return, but I felt her there, as though she nodded. I’d hate to play that Simon memory game with that kid. Her or Nelson. Fuck, even Hemp. All too smart for me.

  Well, I had my little genius, telepathic baby alarm, and I had spent brass all around my feet, so I felt generally comfortable continuing with the blasting. I reloaded the Uzi again and continued chewing up wood.

  When I had spent all five magazines, there might have only been a half inch of wood left to break. A smile came across my face and I must have looked like a real idiot there, brass and sawdust at my feet and hair that had to look like a string mop.

  My ankle hurt like hell, because I’d obviously forgotten about it when I’d tried to break the board earlier. But staring at the piece of wood in front of me, I knew I wouldn’t need a goddamned Anthony Robbins personal fucking power course to snap it.

  I stepped up onto the board and gripped the knob of the basement door. I jumped.