Dead Hunger VI_The Gathering Storm

by Eric A. Shelman

I didn’t even know if the winch would work if I needed it to, and damned if I wasn’t afraid to even try it for fear the surge of power would burn something else up.

  Beyond the pile of debris was the raging Catawba. What was likely once an easy-flowing tributary was gone, replaced by a wildly churning river that overflowed its banks, eating away the sandy soil that once provided the ground support and nourishment of the foliage that grew alongside it.

  Now, even as we watched, the massive blasts of wind bent the flooded trees in half until they couldn’t take another foot-pound of pressure, forcing their root systems to burst from the earth like long hibernating subterranean creatures ready for their time in the light of day.

  As we stared upstream, we watched as at least forty trees were uprooted and swallowed by the angry, flowing water. These weren’t saplings by any stretch. They were, in some cases, enormous oaks and pines that might have been over a hundred years old.

  As I stared for that moment at the devastation caused by the angry waterway, I decided that the Catawba River was the equivalent of a man, once calm and friendly, now transformed into a flesh-eating monster that recognized neither friend nor foe. All things in its path were to be destroyed.

  As frightening as it looked, there was good news. The bridge appeared solid, and it was high enough that the river was passing under, rather than over it. There was still a problem, though.

  “Holy fuck,” I said, stopping the Land Cruiser just before the solid, gravel bed upon which I drove became the actual bridge.

  “So we’re not the first to get this idea,” said Punch.

  The bridge, as near as Punch could tell from the scale on the map, was 1,100 feet across. While it looked to be only five feet wide to my cynical eye, it was likely more like 10’ or 12’. There weren’t any side rails though, so if the gusting wind decided to turn extra nasty – even for a second or two – we could be blown into the churning current below.

  If the fall didn’t kill us, we’d drown for sure.

  At what appeared to be near the center point of the span, an old rusted out Volkswagen Beetle hung precariously off the east side of the tracks, clinging to its present altitude only by the right rear tire. The driver’s door hung open, flapping with the breeze and shaking the old VW. Being hooked on the edge of the track bed like it was, I couldn’t for the life of me figure out what held it there in the throes of the storm.

  “Wonder when they tried to cross,” said Punch. “Thing looks like it’s been there a while.”

  “It’s gotta be caught good,” I said. “Wonder if he tried to drive with his tires right on the rails.”

  “Wheelbase is about right, but that’s fuckin’ crazy,” said Punch. “Especially if he tried it during this storm.”

  “With that driver’s door open,” I said. “I’m bettin’ whoever it was dropped into the river. I don’t see a way they crawled over the top of the car. That wheel would’ve slipped right over the rail for sure, gettin’ jostled like that.”

  “Either way, their nightmare’s over,” said Punch. “As for the car, I’m guessin’ we can nudge it off the bridge pretty easily with that cowcatcher of yours.”

  I looked at Punch and took another hit off my smoke. “Buddy, I was hoping you wouldn’t say that. It’s gonna be tough enough just drivin’ over that sucker in this weather.”

  “There’s no other way, Flex,” he said.

  “I know that shit,” I said. “Doesn’t mean I wanna hear it.”

  “I’ll drive if you want,” said Punch. “Drove a few Hummers in my day, and if anything is as distracting as this hurricane, it’s artillery fire comin’ at you from all directions.”

  I took a deep breath. I trusted the guy and I had no illusions that he’d volunteer for something he didn’t feel equipped to do. I turned to him.

  “I got two things to tell you, Punch,” I said. “Number one, thanks for your service to the United States of America, no matter what it’s become since.”

  “No need to thank me,” said Punch. “I did it as much for me and my family as for you and yours. Plus, I made a lot of good friends in the Corps.” He slapped my arm. “But thanks anyway. What’s the second thing?”

  I looked out at the bridge again, then back to Punch. “If you were just bein’ nice about drivin’, you’re screwed, because you’re hired,” I said. “In a minute.”

  I put the truck in gear again and eased forward, bouncing over the wooden cross ties as we drew closer to where the bridge span actually began.

  “Holy shit,” said Punch.

  “Holy fuck,” I said.

  It was hard to tell from inside the cab and through the shower, but it appeared there were three or four skeletons on the tracks ahead. In the center of the tracks appeared to be something that looked like the handle of a gardening tool.

  “Deadheads or live ones when they died?” asked Punch.

  “Who knows?” I said. “Dead now. Ain’t comin’ back.”

  I sighed and tried to shake off a dizzy spell that washed over me outta nowhere. “Slide on over,” I finally said.

  If he responded, it was drowned out by the storm as I opened my door and climbed out, maneuvering my way carefully around the front of the SUV. I checked the condition of the pilot and even reached down to jerk it back and forth a few times, just to be sure it wasn’t jimmied loose during our earlier escapades.

  I was putting off the inevitable, which surprised me. Did I really want to stand outside in the driving rain and wind of a Cat 5 storm rather than address a pile of bones just behind me?

  Seemed that way. Somehow, when they were just bones, you didn’t know whether they were zombies or the victims thereof.

  It was time to say fuck it. I turned around and looked at the almost intact skeletons. The arms on all of them had been broken, as were a couple of the legs. While not completely crushed, dark holes appeared in all the wrong places in all of their skulls, indicating they might have been taken out by the driver of that dangling VW. The bastard’s last gift to us.

  Not a shred of clothing clung to any of them; I wondered how they had come to be there on the tracks. Clearly, none had been hit by a train, or their bodies would’ve been kindling.

  Four quick gusts that had to have exceeded one hundred miles per hour slammed me, throwing me off balance. I staggered off the tracks briefly, whirled my arms to regain my balance, and ducked into the wind as I pushed back to the tracks where the bodies lay.

  I kicked and stomped on the bones until they were out of the way or flat enough to go beneath the truck, making sure nothing sharp lay in the path of the tires. The wind kept up its intensity and I ducked to avoid a flying piece of plastic from somewhere or other.

  The bones were cleared. I saw the handle of the tool I’d seen from the cab and pulled it out of the ground.

  A skull was stuck on the blade. It was, indeed, a sickle. I tossed it aside, got back in the Toyota and slammed the door. “Go for it McQueen.”

  “What?” he asked.

  “The actor, Steve McQueen? Le Mans? Great driver? Any of this ringing a bell?”

  “You seem like a good guy Flex, but I guess it’s time to remind you that you’ve got like fifteen years on me. I’m guessin’ this guy’s dead?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Shut the fuck up and drive.”

  He drove. I lit another smoke. This shit could be nerve-racking.

  *****

  Chapter Thirteen

  As Hemp hit the top of the steps, he stopped and clung to a fallen roof truss, turning in all directions as his hair whipped across his eyes. After a moment, he stepped over the broken door and leaned against a low wall that still stood, continuing to scan the area for dangers, both of the flying and biting type, I was sure.

  He turned back toward us. “All of you, but especially Trina and Taylor – watch for exposed nails and other things that can hurt you. It’s very windy up here, so also watch for flying debris, okay?”

  The girls both answered hi
m in the affirmative. All of us nodded automatically.

  As I watched from near the end of our little chain of humanity, he raised his weapon quickly and fired. He then looked down to his left and fired twice more. After two more scans of the area, he turned toward us and waved us forward. “Come on now. Hurry, but as I said, be watchful, both at ground and eye level.”

  Even Nelson, who wasn’t a fan of guns, had a 9mm in his hand. Hemp may have decided he’d handle anything that got in our way, but several of us were ready to back him up just in case.

  “Come on!” Hemp shouted. “Clear for now!”

  We all continued our upward trek now, and in probably less than two minutes we were all back on the main floor of the house.

  I hadn’t expected what we found outside that basement door, even though I’d seen part of the destruction myself prior to making my way to safety. I’m not sure why. I think when you live in Florida you begin to believe that no hurricane can faze you, having seen and experienced so many.

  As if by a miracle, the only walls remaining were the one in which the door to the basement had been mounted and the wall connecting to it, which served as the wall to the third bedroom. Everything else was ripped away and in splinters. The rain was now torrential, and being heard over the cacophony was not an easy task.

  “Trina! Taylor! Watch where you step!” I shouted ahead, unsure if they could hear me at all. The roar of the wind and the rain as it bounced off a hundred different surfaces of the ripped-apart house created a white noise of sound that kept nerves on end and drowned out one’s own thoughts. Still, I called out again: “Make sure you have a solid surface with no nails sticking up to step on before you take the step!”

  I thought I saw Trina nodding up ahead, but heard no reply.

  “Red-eye!” shouted someone. “At 9:00!”

  Again, the thunderous wind and the reverberation of debris scraping and rolling over other debris was so loud that the voice could’ve been either a man or woman, or perhaps two people at once. I could no longer see Hemp, for the human chain had now curved around a pile of downed ceiling joists and flapping insulation that snapped like a giant whip in the wind. I did, however, hear the familiar sound of his Heckler & Koch snap out a three-round burst to accompany the wall of noise that surrounded us.

  I hoped he had hit his target. He didn’t fire again so I made my assumptions.

  Bug and Isis walked ahead of me, and he had the strange little girl tucked so completely into him that I could not see her at all.

  But I heard her. The sound chilled me, and her words came before I saw the alarm she meant to send up.

  “Mothers, mothers, coming,” she said from beneath her cover. Her voice was as clear in my head as though it was a thought from my own mind, and I saw that the moment I heard it, everyone looked around nervously.

  Perhaps she had projected it to us all, for I saw Dave, hauling Charlie in his arms, suddenly turn his head from side to side, then look behind him. It had been a warning, we soon learned, for I felt a presence to my left, and just as I turned my head, a blonde-haired red-eye stood just feet away from me, as though she had simply materialized there. In reality, she had probably been lying flat as the boys had said they had been, but she must’ve popped up like a goddamned jack-in-the-box.

  She surged toward me as though the wind had no effect on her; I swore her eyes focused on my son, clutched in my arms, rather than on me, and I had a feeling of protectiveness wash over me that should’ve told any zombie with even the remotest of telepathic powers that I, Gem Cardoza, was a dangerous weapon to be feared.

  With or without my gun.

  With her red eyes flashing and her horrid mouth opened in a toothy maw, she advanced. Her guttural groans intensified as she grew to within a foot of me and little Flexy. I raised my right hand, held the 9mm pistol six inches from her face and fired in one motion, blasting her features into fleshy slivers of skin. The black-red blood spatter was immediately pelted down by the rain and washed away in rivulets through the rubble beneath our feet as her body collapsed among the timbers and shingles.

  I quickly turned back to see Lola nod at me just before she whirled around to fire on another zombie that appeared seconds later – after she turned.

  I knew then that Lola not only drew them – perhaps on a lesser scale than did Isis – but she sensed them, too. How similar it all was to Isis, I didn’t know. I did get the distinct impression that Lola was an unwitting participant in this ability; that she was as surprised at her telepathic early warning system as any of us would be had we suddenly learned we had the power of X-ray vision.

  We had cleared the chimney and followed the path of least rubble scouted by Dave, Nelson and Bug on their run outside, but the storm was at full force and our way forward was fluid and changing. Isis began again.

  “Hungerers!” she shouted.

  I spun around, holding little Flexy tighter in my arms, and saw three zombies advancing behind Lola. These were not red-eyes, for they were male, but since we were all on WAT-5, I knew they were being guided to us. Where the crimson-eyed, director bitch currently was, I didn’t know.

  Each of the rotting creatures supported themselves by clinging to some piece of fallen debris or other, but none lost their footing. They gripped their various handholds and drew closer, step by ragged step.

  I opened my mouth to warn her of the rotters closing in, but before I could say a word, she either read my eyes or my mind, for she turned and stopped, the long-bladed knife clutched in her left hand.

  One was around three feet to her left. The second one was directly in front of her now that she had turned, maybe two feet away, and the last was just off her right shoulder about four feet.

  Lola also held the gun, but to my surprise she holstered that weapon and stood there as though waiting.

  The one that was closest reached her and Lola’s arm shot out like a piston, smacking him in the chest and knocking him back two feet. He staggered, amazingly caught his balance, and was now even with the other two abnormals.

  I watched her, this girl I hadn’t know for a full two days. She stood there, soaked to the bone like all of us, her hair hanging down in strings, waiting. Her back was to me, but even from my vantage point she looked like a warrior, as though she should have been in the movie 300, fighting to the death alongside King Leonidas.

  They were two feet away when Lola, holding the knife as though she were shaking hands, drew her right arm back over her left shoulder, the gleaming, steel blade by her left ear, poised to strike. Again, she waited. I couldn’t move – wouldn’t move – because if anything went wrong, I would hold Flexy with one arm and blow their heads off with my Glock.

  It wasn’t necessary.

  With a smooth strike from left to right, she leaned toward them and drew the blade swiftly across their necks, tearing them open and releasing three simultaneous gushes of fetid gore. Nearly as fast as she had opened their throats, she revised her grip on the knife and brought it down into the skull of the one on the right, the center and the left.

  A sudden gust of wind blew the wasted bodies of the now dead creatures into a pile of bloody remains. Lola stood still, only the wind nudging her side to side, watching them. When she was satisfied, she turned and caught my eye. She wasn’t even winded. When she reached me, she smiled. I had no words. We moved to catch up with the group, who had seen none of it.

  “Mothers,” said the toddler in Bug’s arms again. While Hemp could not have heard it from where he walked, even he turned at her spoken word.

  It became clear to me that there was more to Isis’ abilities than an uncanny mastery of speech and a connection with the zombies themselves. She could, if desired, transmit her thoughts to any of us.

  Then my mind went to the more important issue for the moment: Where? I thought. Where are the mothers?

  “Mothers! Charlie!” shouted Isis, but it came from within my head as though I were experiencing some virtual reality that could not
exist and from which I could not extricate myself.

  As before, I heard her little voice, but didn’t hear it. I looked at Charlie, her left arm around Dave’s neck, his arms supporting her, and witnessed something happen that would set off a chain of unavoidable events that even our resident clairvoyants were powerless to stop.

  Dave Gammon’s left foot plunged through a roofing shingle that had nothing beneath it providing support. Ten or so inches of his leg was in a hole of some sort and as he stumbled forward, he threw his right leg forward so that Charlie would not fall on the nail-riddled and razor sharp tin flashing interspersed among the wreckage of the house.

  It seemed to happen in slow motion and none of us could do anything to keep them from going down.

  Charlie had curled her left arm tighter around his neck and threw her right hand out in an attempt to brace herself for the fall. To his credit, Dave only gripped her more tightly, and the trick with his leg did effectively break her fall, but in the end, Charlie was on her back on top of Dave, whose left leg was bent behind him and his right extended out from beneath Charlie.

  Hemp apparently sensed something behind him wasn’t right, because he turned to see his wife and friend in a heap among the rubble.

  He screamed, “Charlie!” and though he was at the head of the pack, he dropped his weapon to free his hands and ran back toward us.

  Something stopped him midway. His right leg flew backward and he fell face down among the debris. He grunted as he landed and did not move immediately, except for his right leg, which he jerked hard, but could not seem to free.

  “Something’s got my ankle! he screamed, and Nelson took action. “Hang in there, professor!” he yelled, and took three leaps over the piles of shingles, wood and tin to reach him. He looked down.

  “It’s a zombie hand dude!” he shouted. “Reaching up from under all this shit!” Nelson’s eyes darted back and forth, searching the pile. In a moment he found what he was looking for, because he reached down and pulled a long piece of conduit from the mess at his feet, the electrical wires streaming from its end.