Dead Hunger VI_The Gathering Storm

by Eric A. Shelman

  We looked back and saw the men on the motorcycles had stopped and now had binoculars to their eyes. They propped their bikes, their feet on the ground. I guessed they were waiting for us to become a meal to their blockaded horde of abnormals.

  Punch’s mouth was fixed in a grimace as he fought the pain from his bullet wound. He eyed the creatures on all sides of him, but when they bumped him, they kept milling around.

  He doubled over and lost his lunch. I walked over to him, pushing through the horrid-looking crowd.

  “So this is what Woodstock must have been like, you think?” I said.

  He looked up at me, then glanced at our pursuers, who weren’t that anymore. Now they were gawkers. I could see all their mouths open, and none took any pot shots at us.

  “Yeah,” said Punch. “I’d have probably been puking there, too. I take it you’ve got another plan?”

  “Come with me.” We pushed our way slowly to the barriers and I reached down to pull on one of them. It didn’t move much, but felt as though it shifted. I gave it a strong pull, and it slid toward me. Then I threw my hip against it like a hockey player checking a winger at center ice.

  It moved a foot. The fucking things were empty. This was enough to stop the rotters, and create the illusion of an impassable barrier, but that was it. I looked at Punch.

  “Let’s blow through this, then,” I said.

  Suddenly an engine revved in the distance, and from the tall brush on the side of the road, a massive, sand-colored vehicle burst into view, its enormous front knobby tires bouncing onto the pavement and heading straight into the crowd of biters.

  “Run!” shouted Punch, and I did. He was military, so he likely knew the capabilities of such a vehicle, whereas I didn’t know shit from Shine-Ola aside from what I’d learned about automatic weapons.

  The huge truck plowed over three or four zombies and pushed the others into the crowd. Before long, a pile of writhing, undead men, women and children were stuffed under the front of the vehicle, their bodies being torn apart by the truck as they twisted and scraped along the asphalt.

  We were still separated from the killing machine by twenty or so zombies who had not yet been flattened.

  “No doubt that’s Krauss,” said Punch, his breath coming in short puffs. “It’s a transport vehicle, not combat, Flex. With the three guys back there and the ones we’ve taken out, there’s no way he’s got anyone else in there.”

  So if he couldn’t fire at us, Krauss was using the truck to crush us. We stayed low, hiding behind all the upright rotters. “So what now?” I asked.

  “He can’t turn too sharp!” said Punch. “Duck and run back toward him! If I can get underneath it I know where it’s vulnerable!”

  “Underneath it?” I asked, but followed him anyway. There were still rotters between us and the three men, who were closer, but not within accurate range with their weapons. We pushed back toward the vehicle, which had now plowed over at least fifteen more walkers, but had clearly lost track of us.

  “Can you do it?” I asked. “Punch, you’ve got a bullet wound, man!”

  He didn’t listen. He held his sawed-off and drew up alongside the heavy vehicle. The wheelbase was significant and now that Krauss was driving it through the pile of bodies, it was moving pretty slowly.

  Like a thirteen-year-old girl gauging a skip rope held by two of her friends before leaping in for a round of Red Rover, he dove between the mammoth tires and rolled onto his back among the smashed zombie bodies.

  I couldn’t watch the rest because now the other three men were all firing at me.

  I dropped to the ground and rolled, tattered feet hitting me in the head, along with feet sheathed in ragged, deteriorating tennis shoes and boots. I pushed myself into position on my stomach, raised my weapon and started unloading back toward the men.

  I heard three shotgun blasts in rapid succession, and the truck exploded as it rolled over the last cluster of zombies it had crushed beneath its wheels.

  The huge truck, now billowing smoke and flame, continued its trek forward, but stopped when it knocked down three more rotters who ended up as human wheel chocks. The engine sputtered as the fire consumed it.

  I scrambled back to my feet, slung my weapon over my good shoulder and grabbed a rotter by each arm, keeping him between me and the other four men as I walked him sideways back toward the area behind the burning vehicle.

  There was Punch, lying on his back, staring up at me.

  The dead zombies with destroyed faces and features lay all around and beneath him. One or two were in the last throes of gnashing before the deadlight went completely out of their eyes. As individuals they were disgusting; lying in piles with their dead brothers and sisters, they were a downright horrifying sight.

  “Do yourself a favor and don’t turn your head,” I said, holding out a hand to him. The head of the zombie whose arm I clutched onto exploded, splashing my face with his putrid death-blood. The round whistled just about five inches over my head.

  I pushed the collapsing body away and dropped down, simultaneously locating and grabbing the pant leg of another zombie that I pulled toward me, forcing him between us and our attackers.

  “You okay, man? Good fuckin’ job on that truck!”

  “I’m fine,” he said. “And yeah, I knew the right spot where the fuel tank is exposed. The fire from the barrel ignited it more than the shell. Give me a hand. My stomach muscles are screaming.”

  “Gunshots’ll do that shit,” I said. I gave him a hand and pulled him up. Once he was in a sitting position, he was able to get to his feet.

  A hatch on top of the truck that had tried to run us down opened, and a man scrambled out. The gunfire started again from our north and Punch and I crouched behind any zombie we could find and circled around the backside of the vehicle.

  Rather, I did that. Punch walked brazenly toward the man who had fallen to the asphalt. He had thrown his weapon to the ground to free his hands while he exited the vehicle from the top, but before he was able to get to it, Punch reached him and kicked him in the face – hard.

  I skirted to the left and started firing on the other men. At least one of my rounds connected; a true, red mist of blood sprayed into the air behind his head and he went down, flipping backward off his motorcycle.

  The man without a motorcycle ran into the forest that bordered the roadway, and the other guy fired up his bike and rode fast in the opposite direction.

  “Clear, Punch!” I shouted.

  Punch drew his leg back and kicked the man in the face again. Then he moved forward planted his boot a third time.

  “Krauss, you piece of shit,” he said. “There won’t be an inspirational speech this time.”

  “You fucked us, you prick,” the man gurgled through his blood-filled mouth. His hair was spiked gray, and he stared up at Punch with steel blue eyes, filled with hatred.

  “Well, here’s your final fucking,” said Punch. He put the shotgun in the man’s mouth and fired.

  The blood hit the pavement like a well-aimed paintball splattering its intended target. Afterward, Punch turned toward me. His eyes revealed no regret or sadness.

  The rotters, apparently feeling the vibration from the explosion, turned toward Krauss’s body. They instantly crowded around and fell upon the man’s corpse, ripping into him with the intensity of wild animals. Is seconds the bullet wound to his head became an access panel to his brain, and the rest had his abdomen opened in mere seconds, pulling out intestines and other innards, stuffing their horrid mouths with the entrails. I turned away. I’d seen far too much of it already.

  We stepped back. Punch watched the feeding frenzy for a moment, then looked at me. “Sorry, Flex. No redemption for a son-of-a-bitch like that.”

  “No need to apologize,” I said. “People who use a catastrophe like this to gain power can’t change. Now get back in that purple beast. I need to get home.”

  “Roger that,” he said. We glanced once more up the
street, but the other men apparently weren’t very inspired now that their leader was zombie food.

  We got back in our vehicles and cranked them around. There was still room on one side of the disabled, burning military transport, but the pile of bodies in front of it made that path impassable. I used the cow catcher to strategically nudge the piles of bodies to either side until we could work our way to the barrier.

  The blockade was easily pushed aside. When we got back to the bridge, we stopped and waited for Cara’s group to find us. I wanted to give her the antitoxin before heading back home.

  I didn’t want to come back to Buckfield – or anywhere near it.

  *****

  Chapter Fifteen

  The low hum was intense, like an enormous, deep-toned tuning fork. It was interrupting my thoughts and convincing me that if it did not cease soon, I would literally go insane. I worried for Flexy and checked repeatedly to be sure the soft foam ear plugs – torn in thirds to fit into his tiny ears – were in snugly.

  I couldn’t wear the plugs for fear of missing something crucially important. The sound emitting from the red-eyes was grating and purposeful; it rooted its way deep into my brain and the drone absorbed through my very skin and rattled the bones within.

  Charlie was so annoyed, she even asked that Lola turn up a Billy Joel CD almost to full blast just to try to escape it. It didn’t help.

  Serena stood and went to look out the window. “The window’s loose in its frame,” she said. “Wasn’t like that half an hour ago.”

  “Why?” asked Rachel, walking over to where Serena stood. She moved it, and I could see it shifting from the other side of the lab.

  Hemp spoke. “We encountered this in Concord. If you’ll recall, the same thing happened at Three Sisters Bar. The red-eyes were essentially dissolving the mortar through some sort of coordinated vibration.”

  “Shit,” said Dave. “Not good.”

  “They’re trying again,” Hemp said. “Only this is a bit different. Essentially, there’s a gel coated, fiberglass exterior shell on this lab, and the plastic sheathing that you see on the inside. Unfortunately, all they have to disintegrate is the foam between the two, and it significantly weakens the structural integrity, making us vulnerable.”

  “Didn’t you tell us they started to use the same trick when you had them trapped inside the Concord State House basement?” asked Dave.

  “Exactly,” said Hemp. “And they are likely the same group that went from there to Three Sisters. It appears to be an instinctive ability.”

  “How many goddamned tricks do these bitches have?” I asked.

  “Do you feel something?” Rachel asked.

  “What?” asked Charlie. We all looked around.

  “I do,” said Serena. “It feels like the trailer’s moving,” she said.

  “Moving, moving, or just being knocked around by the wind?” asked Lola.

  Nelson got up and went to the window. Bug followed. “Bummer,” said Nelson, continuing to stare through the glass. “They’re taking advantage of the improving weather.”

  “Must be a couple hundred out there,” said Bug.

  Hemp moved to the door and pulled back the curtain there to peer through. He looked for a moment in silence and said, “I can’t even see the red-eyes. I think they’re hiding behind the others, putting only the males at risk.”

  “Typical chicks,” said Dave. Serena smacked him on the arm.

  “I agree with Bug,” said Hemp. “There are at least two hundred out there now. We can’t open the door at all at this point. If we do, and they gain a handhold, we could quickly be overrun.”

  “Guys,” said Bug. “There’s gotta be a way for us to get the hell away from ‘em. If we put our heads together, we can think of something. I can assure you we never thought we’d get out of my place in California, either. What are our options, Hemp?”

  “As I recall, you had WAT-5 in California, too,” said Hemp. “Unfortunately, we don’t have that advantage.”

  “Give the baby,” said Charlie.

  I jerked my head around to look at her. She sat up in her birthing chair, her expression one of horror. The color had drained from her face, and when our eyes met, she broke down into tears.

  I went to her and put my arms around her, holding her tight. “Charlie, don’t worry. Was that them?”

  I felt her nod, because I wasn’t ready to let her go yet.

  “Did you feel the urge to do anything?”

  Hemp rushed to her other side. In the midst of her tears, she had another contraction that lasted about a minute. We waited for her to get past it.

  “No,” said Charlie. “I didn’t want to do anything. I just felt like this … this buzzing in my head. Not like words or anything. But the next thing I knew, the words were coming out of my mouth.”

  “Which baby do they want?” I asked. “Can you tell whether it’s Isis or yours?”

  Charlie shook her head. Hemp squeezed her hand. “Sweetheart,” he said. “We’re going to keep a close eye on you. Please stay in this chair for now, okay? If you get up, we’re going to have to put you back in it and restrain you. You understand, right?”

  Charlie looked at Hemp, who had tears in his eyes. Relationships were hard enough without having to tie down those you love and hope they understood the reasons for it.

  “Hemp, it’s not like this is the first time we’ve played with restraints,” she said.

  I wonder even now what the zombies and red-eyes thought of the laughter that came from the inside of what should have been to their minds, a doomed vehicle filled with doomed souls.

  But laugh we did. If her son would’ve been born at that moment, I’m pretty sure he’d have been born laughing.

  “I’ve got an idea,” said Rachel, after our laughter subsided.

  She looked up. Above her head was a crank-open ceiling vent that was around 14” x 14”. “I can fit through there.”

  Hemp looked at her and back at the vent. “Rachel, you’re small, but that vent is just over a foot square.”

  “I won’t be able to do it with any clothes on,” she said.

  “Woah, Rach,” said Nelson. “You can’t go outside naked, babe.”

  “It’s not like we’ve got neighbors to worry about,” I said. “It’s what she does once she gets out that’s the question. Rachel, have you got a plan?”

  She looked around. “I’m open to suggestion.”

  Remembering what they did in California, and knowing what inspired the red-eyes to move their horde our way, I said what nobody else dared say.

  “Isis will fit through that hole, too.”

  “No fuckin’ way,” said Bug. “She’s been through enough.” I could tell by his expression that he was dead serious.

  “Bug,” I said, “we’d have to have a good plan before anything like that happens. Like the one you had in California.”

  “That was a crazy plan that happened to work. Even then my baby girl almost got eaten by one of them red-eyed bitches. I’m afraid I’m gonna have to say no way, José this time.”

  I didn’t blame him, but it didn’t leave me with any other ideas. “Anybody else?” I said. “Ideas?”

  “Oh, God,’ said Charlie, and this time she doubled over good. Scofield went to her and said, “No time like the present,” he said. “I’ve been timing your contractions, and if you’re not there now, you’re damned close.”

  He moved between her legs again and positioned the sheet to protect her modesty. After snapping on another pair of gloves, he reached in, moved his hand around a bit, and withdrew it again, nodding.

  “You’re at ten centimeters, my dear Charlie,” he said. “I can confidently predict you’ll be a mama soon.”

  The sounds from outside the mobile lab increased. I ran to the window behind the stainless steel counter and drew back the curtains and lifted the blackout shade.

  My car was visible, but just barely. The male rotters stood on top of the hood and trunk.
They hadn’t made it to the very top of the car where the AK-47 was mounted, but every small gap between the car and the mobile lab was jammed with rotters.

  I raised my eyes. Red spots stared at me from beyond the Crown Victoria. They were side-by-side, about an arm’s length apart. Between them and us were dozens and dozens of the dumber male variety, as well as young children and old men and women, but they pushed into one another as they pushed toward the mobile lab.

  It was like watching a slow motion, human stampede that had hit a wall. Like mindless animatrons with no freewill of their own, and no reverse switch when the path forward became impassable.

  The vibration had not stopped since it began, and I reached up to push gently on the wall around the window.

  No resistance. My fingers pushed through until I could feel the interior paneling touch the exterior sheathing. All of the foam insulation that had once provided the center layer was gone, disintegrated.

  I turned around. “Charlie, hurry the fuck up and deliver that baby. I need you recovering already. Guys, we need to take action now. Sitting here is stupid. Rachel, if you have even half a plan, I suggest we get started.”

  She nodded. “Get me through there, then,” she said. “Urushiol-soaked bullets, blow darts, whatever. You guys just be thinking of something I can hit them with and I will.”

  *****

  We stopped the two vehicles before the bridge, but nobody came out to greet us as they had when Tony Mallette and I were on our way north. It had been pretty instantaneous on our way out, and Cara and her clan would surely recognize us. After all, there weren’t a ton of Land Cruisers with top-mount AK-47s.

  I heard Punch’s voice through the handheld radio on my seat. “Wanna get out and have a look?” he asked.

  I picked up the radio. “Yeah,” I said. “I know where their main group was hanging out last time.”