Dead Hunger VI_The Gathering Storm

by Eric A. Shelman

  Just as the cable slid over the top of the crowbar shaft, the old Beetle flipped over the edge of the suspended train track bed and plunged fifteen feet to the fast-flowing water below.

  We both watched as it bobbed away, reappearing three times before filling with water and sinking from view.

  The tracks ahead were now clear.

  I held up my hand and Punch gave me a nice high five. “Well, somethin’ worked out, my friend,” I said.

  “We might just be a good team,” said Punch.

  “Well, we’re all we got for now,” I said. “I’ll get out and feed that winch cable back in. Might get caught on the tracks.”

  “Good,” Punch said.

  I got out and was relieved to see the crowbar hadn’t gone over with the car. I retrieved that, then lifted the hook and signaled Punch to reel it back in.

  I walked it toward the truck and watched as it rolled up to the pilot, where I hooked it.

  Then I heard something over the roar of the storm’s wind and rain.

  Punch began honking the horn, long and loud and nonstop. I looked around me, trying to see what the hell he was doing.

  Then I saw it. A house.

  Punch honked. I stared, petrified.

  Then I ran. I don’t even remember worrying about the narrow path I had available to me to get back in the truck – I just got my ass in and slammed my hand on the dashboard and screamed “Go! Go!”

  Punch hit the gas hard and the Toyota jammed forward, jumping over the cross-ties now, probably rolling on the precariously high and narrow train bridge at fifteen miles per hour.

  The two-story house, projecting upward from the water no less than twenty feet high, was coming toward us, twisting and turning in the churning current, only marginally breaking up as it bobbed in the raging floodwaters, making a beeline toward our bridge.

  It would have to sink five more feet before we even stood a chance of it not smashing into the bridge itself, and it would have to completely disintegrate to avoid taking out at least two of the bridge supports.

  The end of the bridge was now about 400 feet ahead.

  The house was perhaps twice that distance from the bridge.

  “Jesus, Punch, faster, man! Faster!”

  He looked at the house, and back at the end of the bridge. “We ain’t gonna make it there before that fucker hits, Flex!” he shouted, and pressed the Land Cruiser’s accelerator firmly.

  There was no sense in being cautious. If that house hit the bridge before we were clear of it, we were done for.

  I hadn’t buckled in and I was bouncing all over the cab, scrambling for handholds to keep from racking my head on the AK47 mounted to the ceiling of the cab. The house was now within about seventy feet of the bridge. We still had what appeared to be a hundred feet or more to travel, only we weren’t going as fast as the house seemed to be.

  “It’s gonna hit, Punch!” I shouted. “Go, man! Fuck it! Give it all you got!”

  His sudden acceleration threw me back in my seat as the roar outside grew louder and I felt the truck jar hard to the left. I swore, looking at the twenty feet ahead of us that remained, that I could now see the tracks no longer straight ahead of us, but now angling diagonally in the direction of the current.

  The bridge was going to fall. The Toyota bounced over the tracks, eating up the remaining yards to the fixed, concrete side barriers, now ten feet away.

  I looked back, but saw nothing because of the solid rear window. Now the tracks upon which we drove angled sharply and we were suddenly driving uphill. Only two yards to go.

  As our front wheels hit the solid track bed, Punch smashed his foot on the gas pedal again and shot us up and over the edge, where bridge turned into terra firma again.

  Once back on the fixed tracks, Punch drove like a bat out of hell to the end and slammed on the brakes.

  I had to do it. I threw my door open and looked back.

  On the other side of the vehicle, Punch did the same. As we watched, the narrow train bridge, now collapsed in the middle, slowly dissolved into the churning water immediately disappearing below. The house had broken up into a million pieces that now covered the entire surface of the Catawba River.

  But we’d made it. As far as I knew it was our last major obstacle between me and my family.

  Other than Buckfield.

  It reminded me of another promise I’d made, and I intended to fulfill it. Cara was exposed to me, and I had been exposed to the little girl who had brought the Diphtheria. That meant any children with Cara were at risk, too.

  I decided we’d stop on the way. It was just south of Buckfield and if I didn’t give them what I’d promised, more people might die.

  *****

  We reached the gas station within a half hour after our ordeal on the bridge. In twenty minutes, we’d gotten the purple GTO started and both vehicles ready to roll homeward, all our gas cans back in the truck.

  The Pontiac’s battery didn’t have enough juice to fire the starter, so we had to use the jumper cables hanging on the wall. I took them with us just in case the battery didn’t charge or I had issues with the Land Cruiser.

  Punch followed me out of the yard. He had a handheld radio, and we agreed to communicate with one another on channel three.

  “You read, Punch?” I asked.

  “Roger,” he said. “Heading through Buckfield?”

  “Unless you know another way around,” I said.

  “I don’t.”

  “Buckfield it is, then,” I said. “Maybe the hurricane will distract ‘em enough so we can slide on through.”

  “It’s doubtful,” he said. “Make sure your roof-mounted AK has a full mag. One way or the other, we’ll get the meds to your folks.”

  I knew that. Never doubted it. That’s not how my mind works.

  *****

  “Gem, wake up,” the voice said.

  I heard the words, but did my best to ignore them. I didn’t even know how I’d gone to sleep, but there I was, reluctantly waking up. Rachel stood in front of me with Lola beside her.

  “The doctor needs to talk to you,” whispered Lola.

  I sat up, shaking away the cobwebs. “What’s wrong? Where’s Flexy?” I got on my feet.

  “Not back yet,” said Rachel.

  “No, not him,” I clarified. “My son.”

  “He’s with the doctor,” said Lola. Behind the front curtain. It’s what he wants to talk to you about.”

  I jumped to my feet and ran to the front of the lab where Doc Scofield had drawn the curtain across to separate the cockpit from the main cabin. He was sitting, holding Flexy in his arms, and he had a small oxygen bottle with a mask attached directly to it. It was currently over Flexy’s mouth and nose.

  “Jim, what’s wrong? Is he okay?” A million thoughts ran through my head, but none of them meant anything. My own thoughts were a blur and included Flex, my son and that little girl who had been so sick the day before.

  Jim looked up his eyes dead serious. “The Diphtheria, Gem,” he said. “The little guy’s having a bit of trouble breathing. It’s one of the symptoms.”

  “And where does this symptom stop?” I asked. “Can it get better?”

  Doc Scofield shook his head. “Without the antitoxin it only advances from here, Gem. Come here for a sec,” he said, withdrawing a small, LED flashlight from his shirt pocket. “He’s been yawning once every few minutes. It’s been a while, and I think he’s tired, but I need to keep oxygen flowing into him. I don’t really want to let him sleep right now.”

  Flexy opened his mouth in a big yawn, and the doctor said, “Okay, come down here and look.”

  I knelt down and he shone the light in Flexy’s open mouth. In the back of his throat was a scaly, dry area that looked like lizard skin. Fibrous and thick-looking. I knew from the girl who had brought the disease to us, Gina, that this was a symptom.

  “He’s having more trouble breathing with every minute that passes,” said Scofield. “His
airway’s not closed off yet, and I don’t think it will be soon, but if something doesn’t happen within the next eight hours or so, I’m afraid we may have to give this little guy a tracheotomy to keep oxygen movin’ to his brain.”

  “Jesus Christ, Jim!” I shouted. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

  “Gem, I –”

  I broke down into sobs, my sudden burst of anger now flooded with sorrow. The feeling that washed over me was completely foreign. It was the worst fear I’ve ever felt before, times a million. My baby boy was in danger of suffocating, and I was relying on my husband, who had left over a day ago for a destination that should’ve been a six-hour round trip at most, even in the storm.

  “I’m sorry, Gem,” said Scofield, rubbing a soothing hand on my back.

  I took his hand and squeezed it. “No, I’m sorry, but I’m freaking out right now. I’m thinking how I can get us into the goddamned Crown Vic and get to where Flex is with that antitoxin.”

  “Your son needs to stay here,” said Scofield. “Dry and safe with the available oxygen and other … things.”

  “Like a fucking scalpel to cut open his throat?” I asked.

  Scofield hesitated, then nodded. “We’re a long way from that, Gem,” he said. “Flex has a lot to deal with out there. Downed trees, stalled cars, flooding. I’m sure he’s doing the best he can. I expect he’s well on his way back, Gem. Probably any time now.”

  The good doctor was filling me full of bullshit and I knew it. I couldn’t begrudge him that, though. It was because he cared about me.

  Lola came over. “Anything I can do?”

  “I’d take you with me to find Flex if I thought Hemp would let me go.”

  “Gem,” said Lola, “Flex has got to be on his way back now. Going out there doesn’t make any sense.”

  “That’s what he said,” I said, nodding toward Scofield.

  “The storm seems as though it’s losing intensity,” said Hemp, walking up. “Either the eye is approaching or it missed us completely and we’re feeling the backside of it now.”

  “How’s he doing?” asked Rachel, approaching us.

  Doc Scofield gave Flexy over to me and I tucked him into my arm, holding the small oxygen container. After two breaths on his own, I put it over his nose and mouth and let him breathe deeply two or three times. “Let’s just say he’s been better,” I said. “I’m so fucking worried with Flex out there and now this.”

  “Jesus,” said Charlie, her eyes squeezed closed. “Wow.”

  “They’re coming faster,” said Jim Scofield. “Time to check you again.” He moved between her legs as he pulled another pair of gloves on, then lifted the sheet covering her.

  “Well, congratulate yourself, young lady,” he said, snapping off his gloves and dropping them into a stainless wastebasket. “You’re at seven centimeters. That’s very good. With your contractions seven minutes apart, we need to get you up and moving now to hurry this along.”

  “Good,” said Charlie. “I’ve been dying to stretch my legs.”

  Hemp kissed her on the cheek. “Well, then. Let’s get you up.” He leaned forward and she put her arms around his neck. He helped her remove her legs from the braces and swing them to the floor.

  “You good?” he asked.

  “Oh, yeah,” said Charlie. She walked immediately over to where the music selection was, the Sex Pistols CD having long since played itself out. After flipping through for a bit, she settled on Aerosmith’s Toys In The Attic CD. Seconds later, strains of the title track filled the room and anyone who slept was awake.

  That included Nelson, who came to life holding an air guitar, ala Joe Perry. “Right on, dude,” he said. “I dig old Aerosmith!”

  “Wasn’t my first choice,” said Charlie.

  “Did you have the baby dude?” asked Nelson, looking around the lab, as though the baby may have been tucked inside a drawer.

  “Look at my stomach, Nel,” said Charlie. “I’m –”

  She stopped talking and put her hand on her stomach as she leaned on the stainless steel counter. She squeezed her eyes closed, fighting the contraction.

  “Ah,” Nelson said. “Still preggers. Sorry.”

  “Not as sorry as I am,” she said.

  Rachel had plopped down beside Nelson. She was so small that when she drew her knees up to her chest, she looked absolutely tiny. She glared at Nelson and smacked his arm. “She’s stressing,” she said.

  Hemp rushed toward Charlie, but she held up her hand. “I’m fine, babe. Just another contraction. I promise not to fall.”

  “You were kind of lucky to have the zombie apocalypse come in advance of your kid,” said Dave. “Toughened you up but good.”

  “Hard getting used to those red eyes, though,” said Nelson.

  Rachel smacked his arm again.

  “One more time and you’re gonna meet Subdudo,” he said.

  She hit him again, smiling. He smiled back. Love might be ridiculous, but fear sucked and I had enough of that to go around.

  “You sure you’re alright?” asked Hemp again.

  Charlie nodded, and the contraction passed. She took a deep breath, then another. “Whew,” she said, looking flushed. “I gotta see this.”

  She walked into the bathroom and switched on the light. I heard her say, “Wow.” She stuck her head back out and she was looking straight at me. “These are some red eyes.”

  “Indeed,” I said.

  “Have I said anything yet that freaked anyone out?”

  Hemp looked at her. “No, Charlie. Why? Did you … hear something? Feel some Impulse?”

  “No … well, maybe.”

  “Mothers and Hungerers,” said Isis. “Near.”

  Bug went to her and knelt down. She had been clopping from one end of the lab to the other in her little shoes that looked unsuitable for walking, as most baby shoes were.

  I had an idea, remembering something she did earlier. I went back to the cockpit passenger chair, which had been rotated around to face the main cabin, and sat, Flexy in my arms. He had fallen asleep, but I was still able to use the oxygen on him.

  “Isis,” I said. “Come here, please?”

  Isis laughed and ran, utilizing the gait of a little toddler her age, tilting forward and back until you were certain she’d fall – only she never did.

  She got to me and immediately tried to crawl into the chair opposite me. She found she could not, and turned, her lower lip quivering, and her face extremely sad.

  It was a revelation to me. With all the abilities she had; all the telepathic powers and those of speech, too, she was still just a baby who cried when she was upset and frustrated.

  “Hold on, I gotcha,” said Lola, running up behind her and lifting her into the seat. Her frown immediately turned upside down and she smiled and clapped her hands.

  Then she looked at me and said, “Yes, Gem?”

  I’d almost forgotten what I called her for, but remembered a second later. I looked down at Flexy and back at her. She still smiled.

  “Isis,” I said, hesitating. I was afraid to ask her what I wanted to ask, because I feared her honesty. She would not lie to ease my mind. It wasn’t in her.

  “You want to know if I still hear Flex,” she said.

  “You are one scary little girl,” I said, before I realized I’d said it. “Oh, my God, Isis. I’m sorry. You’re not. You’re sweet.”

  “I understand,” she said. “I am different than you. But we are alike in some ways.”

  “Flex,” I said. “Do you still … feel him?”

  “He is well,” said Isis. “He is alone now.”

  “I thought you said he was with a man named Punch.”

  “He is no longer,” she said. “Punch is inside purple.”

  I looked at her. “Inside purple? Where is Flex?”

  “The same, only alone.”

  “Is he alive?”

  “He is,” said the little girl, trying to spin around in the chair but too sma
ll to manage more than a couple of inches in each direction.

  “Where is he, Isis? We need him now.”

  “The storm passes,” she said.

  “Do you even know what that is?” I asked, shaking my head.

  “All storms pass, Gemina,” she said. “Only the wind is left.” She said this as though distracted with the chair still, but I believed her – whatever she meant.

  “Will he … make it back to me?”

  “I don’t know, silly!” she said. “I see now, not next.” Then she turned again to her father. “Daddy! Meat?”

  I felt a tear roll down my cheek and I wasn’t sure why. Was it because she put my mind at ease that Flex was still alive? Or was it because I wasn’t sure if she couldn’t or wouldn’t tell me my husband’s fate?

  Trina and Taylor sat against the Plexiglas wall of the lab cage and shared iPod headphones. I’d pre-approved all the music on it and made sure it had the bubblegum artists that the younger kids loved; Miley Cyrus, Taylor Swift and Rhianna. I fully intended to scrub that shit from Trina’s little brain by the time she was twelve. Maybe sooner.

  I could tell by the way Bunsen kept pacing back and forth that she needed to go outside. She got Slider worked up, and they both paced back and forth, stopping by the door every once in a while.

  Nelson got to his feet and said, “Okay, if you’re not delivering this baby, dudette, then I’m taking those dogs outside for a pee and a poop.”

  “In good time,” said Charlie, plopping back into her special chair again. “Now would be a good time.”

  “A watched pot,” said Hemp.

  “Need backup?” asked Dave. “I’ll go with you. I think it’s time for a sweep anyway.”

  “Me, too,” said Lola. “I need to get some knife practice.”

  “Fuck it,” I said. “Serena, would you mind taking care of Flexy for a bit?”

  Serena grunted to her feet. She had been sitting for hours and I could see her muscles were stiff. “God, the accommodations, while life-saving, suck,” she said.

  “It wasn’t built for comfort, I’m afraid,” said Hemp. “Functionality was its purpose.”

  “Got a leash?” asked Nelson.