Dead Hunger VI_The Gathering Storm

by Eric A. Shelman

  “She’s not going anywhere,” I said. “Lead the way.”

  Nelson opened the door and Bunsen ran by him, tossing him aside like a lanky, rag doll. He yelled “Hey!” and followed her.

  Two seconds later, before we had the chance to follow, he was scrambling back up the steps. “Bunsen!” he shouted. “Bunsen, get in here now!”

  To yell was so unlike Nelson. I ran to the door and looked out.

  Red-eyes stood in a line around the mobile lab. They were an arm’s length apart, almost perfectly spaced. To a number, they stared at the lab. None turned their heads to watch us.

  A low vibration began emitting from them.

  “Bunsen!” I yelled, and she came running. She bounded up the two retractable steps and was back inside. She was not wet.

  The rain had stopped, but another storm had gathered.

  *****

  About five miles outside of Buckfield I pulled the Toyota over. So far the electrical system, while far from perfect, wasn’t disabling the vehicle. In fact, a couple of the electronics had kicked back in.

  Unfortunately, one was the goddamned digital speedometer and I didn’t happen to give a shit how fast I was going. Not too many speeding tickets being handed out these days, and speed traps were all but ancient history. Punch pulled up beside me and hand-cranked his window down, a smile on his face.

  “I can’t even tell you how much I enjoy rolling a window down again,” said Punch. “Oh, yeah. Give me a smoke so I can flick my ashes out the wind wing.”

  “You must be thinkin’ that I pulled over for a reason, right?” I threw him a smoke.

  He reached down to the dash and looked back up at me. “Anyway, sorry. Just excited. Thanks for stopping to get it.”

  “We needed to get the gas cans and top the tank anyway,” I said. “My pleasure. Now we need a plan to get through Buckfield. I doubt they’ll just be hunkering down.”

  “On the bright side, they don’t necessarily know we’re comin’ back this way,” said Punch. “Nobody left alive to tell ‘em.”

  “Maybe,” I said. “But we need a good plan if you want to get this big, purple beauty past ‘em.” I reached out the window and patted his car.

  “Yeah, it’s not exactly camo, right?” he said.

  “Nope. You’re military. Any ideas?”

  “Nothing conventional,” he said. “But that cow catcher of yours has sparked a couple of ideas. It’s strong, bolted right to the frame. I was checkin’ it out at the garage.”

  “How many did you say there were in Buckfield?” I asked.

  “We killed some,” he said. “When they were chasin’ us. After we took out the two at the barricade, maybe seven or eight left – maybe more, if anyone else joined them.”

  “What would they do,” I asked, “when they found their guys? You know ‘em. How would they respond?”

  “They like retaliation, which is why they came after us.”

  “So no chance they’d just pack it in and lick their wounds?”

  Punch shook his head. “Not likely. We’re gonna be comin’ across where we ran ‘em off the road in about a mile. We can see how many bodies there are.”

  “Wouldn’t they just come and get them?” I asked.

  “You don’t know these guys,” said Punch. “Plus, they’d likely turn into fuckin’ zombies before they found them.”

  “Good point,” I said.

  “Anyway, as long as Erik Krauss is still alive, he’ll be on high alert for a day or two, come hell or high water. He’s never let an attack go unanswered.”

  “We met Cara and her people a few miles before we got to you,” I said. “Seem like good folks. Scared of Buckfield.”

  “I made myself useful by hunting and pulling guard duty,” said Punch. “Nobody ever came by but you, but Krauss insisted on the barricades. I can tell you he was looking for women.” Punch shook his head. “Anyway, they’re scared of Krauss,” he said. “And I can tell you he wouldn’t have put himself at risk by being in the group that came after us. He wasn’t there, I can guarantee it.”

  I looked up at the sky. The wind was still blowing good, but nowhere near hurricane force. The rain was just big drops but widely spaced. “Looks like the storm’s slidin’ by,” I said. “I’d almost prefer a full-blown hurricane for driving through there.”

  “Look,” he said. “Fuck what I said. I know the layout of the town. We can just get to within a mile and pull the cars off the road and cover them or something. Then we hike in and take ‘em out. Covert, nobody except them gets hurt.”

  I shook my head. “Too much time. I got a bad feelin’ and I need to get home. What was your other idea?”

  “You got a third-row seat in this thing?” he asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Removable?”

  “Retractable and removable,” I said.

  Punch nodded. “Okay. It’s a start. Got rope in that thing?”

  “Does Flex Sheridan have a ten inch cock?” I asked.

  “I have no idea,” said Punch.

  “Well, just assume I do, because we got rope.”

  “Well,” said Punch, smiling, “I hope you have more than ten inches of it, because we’re gonna need it.”

  *****

  It took us about a half an hour to figure it out. It wasn’t so much the plan, but how to execute it. It wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t great, either. Basically, we were turning the Land Cruiser into a makeshift tank, minus any of the proper armor.

  We had pulled all the shit out of the truck, removed the rear seat, then put everything but the rope back inside. Punch and I carried the seat around to the front of the SUV and opened it. We placed it over the windshield with the seatback leaning over the cab.

  Now just the narrow gap between the back and the seat provided the driver a clear view of the street. When we were satisfied in its positioning, we roped it in place.

  Punch yanked on it hard. It stayed put. “Okay,” he said. “Now for the floor mats. You got duct tape?”

  I’m sure the look I threw him was sarcastic, because he looked at me and shook his head, saying, “Forget it, man. I’ll just look.”

  I laughed. “Yeah, in the right side compartment in back. You won’t even have to take anything out. What are the floor mats and duct tape for?”

  “We tape them over the side windows. Back window’s already blacked out. When you drive this thing through, you’re gonna duck down as low as you can. If they shoot, they’re gonna be aiming for your head. It’s what I’d do.”

  “Sure you don’t wanna drive?” I asked. “I recall you telling me once that you were pretty good, remember? On the bridge?”

  “I have to drive the purple people eater, brother.”

  “I’m shittin’ you, Punch.”

  When we were done, we both stood back to examine our handiwork. We’d taped the floor mats on the inside of the glass to keep the remaining storm winds – that did have some significant gusts – from blowing them off before we even got to whatever blockade they’d set up.

  The Land Cruiser looked ridiculous and foolhardy, and like something you’d find on any street in Tijuana, Mexico. Only it’d be blowing black-blue smoke out the tailpipe.

  “Ready?” asked Punch.

  “No, but I need to get home, and I need this payload with me.”

  “Then we go,” said Punch.

  *****

  Punch positioned the GTO right behind me. While he didn’t want to fuck up his new ride, he was willing to use his horsepower to help me forward if the barriers were fortified. He hung his super shotgun out the window and he had the passenger side window down.

  For my part, I was ready at a moment’s notice to drop the Land Cruiser into low gear, 4-wheel drive for extra torque if necessary.

  We drove. A mile later, we saw the crashed cars from our trip out, but there was only one body with them. I didn’t know whether the others had reanimated or if the guy named Krauss had disposed of them.

&nbs
p; There were a few zombies around. Single stragglers. Hemp had figured out that if no distinct scent drew them, they just tended to wander along. If blood and flesh was near, they’d naturally congregate.

  Punch and I were on our last wafers. We weren’t food for the moment and I hadn’t seen a red-eye the whole way back.

  I hoped there wasn’t another reason for that, but I didn’t dwell on it, either.

  I got on my radio. “So, best approach. Wait until we see the whites of their eyes and punch it?”

  “Sounds like a plan, Flex,” he said. “But fuck waitin’ to see their eyes. Just wait until you see a gun. Then you get on that AK. Extra mags, buddy. On the seat?”

  “On the seat. You right behind me?” I couldn’t see shit from the damned floor mats over my windows.

  “Yep,” he said. “Duck down. Can you see okay?”

  I sank as low in the seat as I could. “It’s like Hemphill Chatsworth himself designed it,” I said.

  “You stalling again?”

  “You’re getting to know me,” I said. “Okay, let’s go.” I hit the gas and we drove. I kept my eyes peeled, and I had one hand on the AK’s firing handle. The GPS button was no longer necessary. The GPS satellites weren’t functioning any longer. I didn’t know why, only that we couldn’t get a signal any more. The GPS screen was just a gun sight for now.

  Then I remembered. Hemp had set the rear camera up to operate when the car wasn’t in reverse. I hit that button and saw the purple GTO behind me.

  I was within a quarter of a mile now, and I could see the barriers were back up. I couldn’t tell if there were more than before or if they were heavier duty, but either way I was going through them.

  Four men appeared behind the barriers and I saw guns in their hands.

  I reached up and gave the AK-47 a sight adjustment, aiming downward, and gave it a quick pull. Just so they knew that I wasn’t someone’s fuckin’ grandpa.

  Then I hit the gas. I brought it up to thirty, then forty. I was approaching the barrier and saw that they were the same ones the guys had set up before. Through a gap, I saw traffic cone orange, but taller.

  They had supported the back with those huge water drums. Fucking stupid, and fucking perfect. I was never worried about the barriers.

  I was now doing fifty miles per hour and their guns began to blaze. Sitting low in the seat, I saw the GTO no less than a foot off my rear bumper, keeping pace. I heard the shotgun from behind me, and a moment later, the guns from in front of me could be heard, only more of them.

  Explosions rang out one after the other. I reached up and yanked the AK’s rope and sprayed from left to right. Then I let go, quick-ejected the magazine and slammed another in. I was now fifty yards from the barricade.

  All four heads dropped when I fired, but now they reappeared. In my peripheral vision I saw the GTO swing off to the left and heard the explosion of his shotgun. How he held that sucker and fired straight ahead, I had no idea, but I hadn’t been in Afghanistan, so it wasn’t my field of expertise.

  The guy on the far left had a sudden headless problem. I saw the blood fly away and he dropped from view.

  I was reloaded and ready, and I was now just feet from the barrier. The men leapt out of the way as I barreled through, smashing into the thin plywood and tin, impacting the orange barrels, the water blasting into the air and being whipped into heavy drops and mist by the still high winds.

  Glass showered my face as the windshield exploded in front of me, a round clearly making its way past our makeshift armor. I felt rather than saw the round tear through the seat just to the right side of my head, which would have penetrated my shoulder had I not been practically reclining in my seat. My face stung from the glass fragments, but I floored the accelerator and pressed forward.

  I glanced at the rear camera and saw the purple GTO still on my tail, giving me inspiration. If these assholes hadn’t already done so, they’d likely take all of their frustrations out on Cara and her clan, and that wasn’t something I could live with.

  I grabbed the radio from the seat beside me and pressed the button. “Punch, in five seconds, drop off my tail and spin your car around!”

  He came right back. “I don’t see any of ‘em, Flex!”

  “No, but they’re there,” I said. “I’ll slide around to the right and you slide to the left. When we stop, open up with Tony’s gun.”

  My side passenger window blew out then, followed by my driver’s side window. I reached up and blindly spun the AK-47 around, emptying the magazine. The floor mat had a single bullet hole in its center, and as I shot a glance to my left, I saw where it had exited on my side.

  I was perhaps fifty yards past where the barrier had been set up when I saw the GTO drop back. I immediately slammed on my brakes and cranked the wheel hard right, fishtailing the rear of the SUV in a clockwise direction.

  I could no longer see the GTO, but the side of my car was now facing them, even though I could see nothing. I stayed low and reached up to eject the AK’s mag and slam another one in. I had the magazine almost locked when I heard shots and felt a stinging pain in my left arm. I felt the warm blood immediately.

  It had missed the bone, but the pain was intense. I completed the installation of the AK’s magazine and turned it, sitting way down, only my right arm reaching up to pull the rope trigger, my eyes on the GPS screen gun sight.

  A man emerged from my left and I swung the gun around. Before I could pull the trigger, I heard the boom of Punch’s shotgun and while it was in black and white, I saw the man’s chest explode as he flew backward off his feet.

  More rounds peppered my truck, and I prayed they wouldn’t penetrate the thin sheeting of its exterior and blow through my chest, neck or head.

  I fanned the AK again and gave the trigger quick pulls until I saw the GTO in my screen. There was Punch’s sawed-off shotgun barrel, out the window firing one shell after another.

  I didn’t know how many bad guys were left, but any remaining were probably more intent on taking out the driver of the more dangerous-looking vehicle – and that would definitely be me and the AK-47-equipped Land Cruiser.

  “Flex, go!” shouted Punch. I didn’t wait. I floored it and spun the wheel left, straightening back out on the road. I saw Punch behind me and breathed a sigh of relief.

  Up ahead about a quarter of a mile, I saw something that didn’t make sense. Another roadblock. But this one was crowded with people. The barrier itself appeared to run from several feet off the left side of the road to an equal distance off the right side. I recognized the dull, white lane dividers, typically used during construction. They were made of the heavy plastic and usually filled with sand or water. I didn’t know which it was in this case, but with all the people in front of it, I sure as hell wasn’t going to try to blow through it.

  I grabbed the radio. “Punch, get ready to stop. Another barrier.”

  “Can you run it?” he asked.

  “Not this time,” I said. “Oh, by the way. I’m shot.”

  I stopped the truck and spun the roof-mounted gun around to get a view of all sides. No men with guns came into my sights.

  I grabbed the Bushnells out of the glove box, wincing at the pain in my left arm as I leaned over. I opened the door and jumped out, my Daewoo K-7 in my hands, but giving me more trouble now that my left arm was trashed. I found I could hardly support the heavy barrel.

  Punch ran up to me, holding his side, blood leaking from an apparent wound. “You ain’t alone, brother,” he said. “I caught one, too.”

  “Jesus, Punch,” I said. “Serious?”

  He shook his head and lifted his shirt. The entry wound was on his left side. He had torn off a piece of his shirt and stuffed it in the hole. He turned and I saw the exit wound. Only slightly larger, but fairly clean. He held out another piece of cloth.

  “I couldn’t manage this one in the car, man. You mind?”

  I snatched the cloth from him and said, “Grit your teeth.”
>
  He did, and I quickly stuffed the cloth into the hole, leaving a strip hanging out like a human Molotov cocktail.

  He nodded and lowered his shirt. “Thanks. You got it in the arm? You okay?”

  “Better than you,” I said. I pointed. “Got company.”

  I held the binoculars up and panned the crowd from side to side. Not humans. Fuckin’ walkers. Like thirty of them.

  “Zombies,” I said. “They’re not the real problem. It’s the barriers.”

  “Got a plan?” he asked.

  “Yeah. Get back in your car and let’s go up there. We’ve got a trick that Krauss doesn’t know about.”

  At the mention of his name, we heard a gunshot behind us. We turned to see four men running toward us. They were still a good distance away.

  “Go!” I shouted, and Punch ran, holding his side. I hopped back inside the SUV and threw it in gear. I wasn’t cutting the motor since the electrical problem. Couldn’t chance it.

  I punched it and the GTO fell in beside me this time. We ate up the quarter mile and instinctively pulled the vehicles sideways, giving ourselves plenty of room to crank them back onto the roadway without backing up.

  The zombies came toward us, interested at the movement. I checked my watch. We had about two hours of WAT-5 left. I grabbed the radio again.

  “Come on, Punch. Get out.”

  “But … man, they’re everywhere.”

  “Not a problem for us,” I said. “Just watch for females and take any you see out just to be sure. If the others start coming at you, really look for females, only the red-eyed variety. You know the drill.”

  He was out and beside my truck. We’d left our pursuers a bit back, but now two of the men had mounted motorcycles and the other one was running toward us.

  “Quick, Punch! Into the middle!”

  We pushed our way into the center of the crowd of rotters, the smell assaulting me instantly. I had gotten used to wearing long sleeves, even in warm weather, to avoid the long, black fingernails a lot of the rotters had – because while fingernails don’t keep on growing after you die, the fingers shrivel beneath them, making it appear they do. Short story, they can scratch you good. Many of their nails had been pulled or rotted off, but it only takes one out of ten to scratch you.