Dead Hunger VI_The Gathering Storm

by Eric A. Shelman

  “Babe, put Hemp on, please. Hurry.”

  I gave the radio to Hemp.

  “Yes, Flex,” he said. “Did you get the estrogen blockers I asked you for?”

  “I did, buddy. That’s why I’m still on this radio and not already on my way. What do you want me to do with it?”

  “We need a delivery system,” said Hemp. “Something that can disperse in a wide pattern, but penetrate deep into the skin when it hits.”

  “Got any ideas?” asked Flex.

  “Blow darts keep coming to mind, but it’s not like it’s a practical solution,” said Hemp. “Whatever you come up with Flex, it needs to completely coat the needle or whatever is used. I only tested the estrogen blocker once, but it worked like a charm.”

  “How much did you use?”

  “A lot. Probably more than I needed, but it ate her away like acid.”

  “What exactly is the situation there with the red-eyes, Hemp? Gem said the lab’s disintegrating. They doin’ that vibration crap?”

  I could hear that Flex had so many questions he could barely spit them out. Hemp took them in order.

  “As far as we can tell, if there was a red-eye within a hundred miles, she’s here. To your second question, yes.”

  “How’s that working on a Gel coat motor home?”

  “Flex, I don’t know. The foam insulation between the interior and exterior walls must have dissolved into particles.”

  The wall beside Hemp bent inward with the weight of the zombies outside. He leaned back against it and eyed me nervously. Then he said, “Everybody get up and go stand against the walls, front to back. Jim, you stay with Charlie.”

  “Jesus, Hemp. Fuck it,” said Flex. “I’ll be in range with the other radio within twenty minutes. I’ll tell you what we’ve come up with then.”

  “Gem!” shouted Lola, who had been holding Flexy and keeping the oxygen flowing into him. “Flexy’s in trouble, Gem. He can’t breathe.” Her eyes were filled with fear.

  I ran to her.

  Jim and Hemp were there in a flash. “His color’s not good,” Scofield said. “Gem, we can’t wait anymore.”

  “No, Jim,” I pleaded. “Are you sure?” But I looked at my son’s face, and it was turning blue.

  “We gotta do it now, Gem,” said Scofield. “Hemp, I’ll need your help.”

  “Everybody stay against the walls!” shouted Hemp. “And make sure your weapons are loaded and at hand!”

  From behind us, Charlie screamed. “Oh my God!”

  She had her eyes squeezed closed and her mouth in a grimace. She threw her head back and I could see her pushing.

  Charlie was giving birth at the entirely wrong moment.

  *****

  Chapter Sixteen

  I dropped the radio and charged out of the tent, almost barreling into Punch, who stood just outside.

  “Flex, I heard what your friend said. I might have an answer.”

  “Tell me while we run, man.”

  We took off down the path, eating up real estate with each leg extension and footfall. The vibration of our feet pounding the trail must have drawn rotters, for several of them emerged from the thick growth of trees on either side of the path.

  A quick shot from my Glock took some out, missed others. Punch used his multi-round shotgun on a few, blasting them back to hell.

  I didn’t have time to make sure any of them were dead. I ran full out, with Punch right beside me.

  I hit something with my toe and flew face first into the wet dirt and leaves with a thud. It knocked the wind out of me, and as I rolled onto my back to catch my breath, I saw a branch swing down, its sharpened spike biting only air.

  My momentum had saved me, and Punch must have cleared the trap. The tripwire had been all but invisible. Punch held a hand out to me, and I grunted back to my feet. After bending down to take two of the first deep breaths I could muster since my tumble, we ran again, this time keeping our eyes aimed at the ground.

  “Tell me about your idea, man,” I wheezed.

  “I have four boxes of Flechette Shells,” said Punch. “Total of 20 rounds. They used them during the Vietnam war to draw snipers out of trees. Called ‘em beehives, among other things.”

  “What’s different about ‘em?” I asked. The vehicles were in view now, and I ran faster.

  Punch kept up. “Flechettes are like little spears, but small. These rounds have like 20 or so inside. You want penetration, you got it. They even have little fins on the tail to make ‘em fly true, at about 2000 feet per second.”

  We reached the car, and since we still had to hash this shit out anyway, I caught my breath while Punch ran through the details.

  “Okay,” I said when he was finished. “So that fits the bill. Now I gotta figure out how to impregnate ‘em with the estrogen blocker.”

  “We can’t get the gunpowder wet, Flex,” said Punch. “But the flechettes are well above it, so if we were to dip them somehow, or inject the stuff into the end of the shell, that ought to do it.”

  “I got syringes,” he said. “The ones from the pharmacy and and more that Perry threw in the bag.”

  “Okay, okay,” said Punch. “So we maybe pop the needles off to make a bigger hole, and inject the stuff right into the shells.”

  I unlocked the SUV and opened the rear door to get to the bag of medications. After digging around in the bag for what felt like ten minutes, I finally dumped it inside the Toyota and sorted through the bottles.

  “Got ‘em,” I said. I popped the cap on one and tapped it into my hand. “Fuck!” I said.

  “Capsules,” said Punch. “We need to mix it with something. Something thick, like a gel.”

  “We’ll need to crush them, though,” I said. “These are like time-release beads or something.”

  “Anything will work. You got tools in here. Got a scraper or anything like a putty knife?”

  I looked around and found a flat file, about an inch wide and ten inches long. Punch grabbed it. “This’ll work. We’ll just crush it like a junkie breaking up meth rock.”

  We both jumped as lightning struck somewhere to the south of us, followed by a crack of thunder, almost right on top of it. The storm had appeared to pass, but now, as we looked up, more ominous clouds were rolling in.

  “Hurricane Georgie ain’t exhausted yet,” I said. “Okay, ideas. You said we need something like a gel.”

  “Yeah, something that will coat the flechettes,” said Punch.

  It hit me. “Fuckin-A,” I said, and ran around to the passenger side door. I opened it, reached inside and popped the glove box open. I pushed the Bushnells aside and pulled out a bottle of Aloe Vera after sun gel.

  I held it up. “Punch, this’ll work, right?”

  “Hell yes, it will. Get the syringes, man.”

  He reached into his cargo pants pocket and pulled out four five-round boxes of flechette .12 gauge shells, and dumped each box in the back of the truck. “Things are illegal in a bunch of states,” he said.

  Punch flipped the carpet away to reveal a hard, plastic surface, and I started breaking open the capsules and dumping them in a pile. Punch used the flat file to crush them into a fine powder. One side of the file was smoother than the other and didn’t take too much of the powder into its grooves.

  Another bolt of lightning hit a tree that could have been no more than a thousand feet away. As we watched, it caught fire and half of the tall pine split away, crashing to the ground. The strike and explosion had been simultaneous, telling us we needed to get our asses under cover and moving.

  “Let me know when to add the gel, man,” I said. “I only hope this shit doesn’t neutralize the chemical properties of the blocker.”

  “It’s our best shot,” said Punch. “Go ahead and put it in.”

  I squirted the gel on top of the now fine powder, and Punch found a small, straight stick on the ground to mix it together. The medication did dissolve into the gel, and soon it looked like it would be eno
ugh. I’d gone through two of the bottles containing thirty pills each.

  “Let’s get injecting,” he said. “But not too much. Just enough to coat the projectiles.”

  “Can you open them and re-close them?”

  “Of course I can,” said Punch. “I had lots of time on my hands when I wasn’t fighting for my life.”

  I could feel my wife and son’s lives slipping away as we prepared to save them.

  It was a horrible fear that I never want to experience again.

  *****

  “You’re crowning,” said Scofield. “Jesus, girl, you’re timing is impeccable. Can you do me a favor, Charlie, and not push? Just try to breathe deeply and don’t push for now, okay? Just until we take care of Flexy?”

  “I’ll try,” she breathed, and it was followed by a whimper as she tried to control her muscles.

  Trina and Taylor were terrified now. Their mostly organized world had deteriorated, and they weren’t handling it very well. I thought of what I could do to occupy them.

  “Girls, go to Charlie and I want each of you to take her by the hand and help her stay calm, okay?” I said. “Can you do that for me?”

  Charlie held out both of her hands and the girls went to her, their tears still coming, but now there was something to keep them occupied. Something important.

  “I’ve never done this,” said Hemp. “Doc, you’ll need to talk me through it.”

  “I can do it,” said Doc Scofield, eyeing Charlie. “You stay with your girl there, and I can do it. Gem, would you prefer to look somewhere else?”

  I was holding my son in my arms, pressing the oxygen tight against his face. His color was worsening, but his eyes were still open and bright. He would be crying at that moment, I knew, but he couldn’t get enough air in his lungs to do it.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” I said. “I’ll sit in the captain’s chair and hold him. Will that work?”

  “Sure, I just need him still,” said Scofield.

  I went to the captain’s chair and began spinning it around, but movement outside the windshield caught my eye.

  Red pinpoints danced as though floating through the air. The sun had sunken to dusk and they were clearly visible in the distance.

  I held my son more tightly as I finished turning the chair and prayed to myself.

  “Hemp, where are your scalpels?” asked Doc Scofield, snapping on a clean pair of nitrile gloves.

  “Second drawer from the left,” said Hemp, even as he ran to open it himself. He pulled out a small, plastic tray encased in a baggie and unzipped it, sliding it out. He held it out to Scofield, who took the scalpel from the tray.

  Hemp said, “It’s already sterilized and ready for use.”

  Jim came back to where I sat with my son and knelt down. “Tilt his head back, can you?” he asked.

  I did. Flexy didn’t even fight me. I could feel how weak he was.

  Hemp checked Charlie again, then went to the cupboard, which was now leaning sharply forward because the wall to which it was attached had lost its rigidity. He pulled out four towels and tried to close the door three times before abandoning the effort. The remaining towels fell out onto the floor.

  He spread one towel out on Flexy’s chest and the others he stacked on my leg, ready for Scofield should he need them.

  The doctor felt my son’s neck right in the center, where a man’s Adam’s apple would be. Then he ran his finger down another half inch. “This should be the sweet spot,” he said.

  “Should be?”

  “It’s an expression, Gem,” he said. “I actually showed up for med school the day they taught us this.”

  “Ha ha,” I said. “I’m freaked out enough.”

  The pounding outside grew more intense. The walls flexed in and out, and I started to smell something on fire outside. I guess the doctor could tell I was on the edge of losing it.

  He patted my shoulder and said, “Gem, I’m going to make a horizontal incision right here, about a half an inch wide and approximately a half inch deep – just enough to enter the airway. Then I’ll insert the pen and we’ll tape it all up securely. Can you handle it?”

  “You can handle it,” said Charlie. “Right everyone? She can handle it. If I can sit here with a half-birthed baby inside me, Gem can handle her little boy getting a tracheotomy.”

  I looked up at Charlie. “I didn’t know you realized this was going on,” I said.

  “Jesus, Gem,” said Charlie, looking exhausted, but smiling. “I’m fucking stoned, not stupid. We’re in a box the size of a school bus. He’ll be okay, sweetie. Isis practically said so.”

  I laughed, despite my terror. Charlie had a way of doing that to me. “Got it,” I said.

  Nelson said, “Right on, dude. You can handle it, Gemmy.”

  “Have you ever done this before, Jim?” I asked. I didn’t want to distract him; I wanted to make conversation and look anywhere except at the spot where there would soon be a hole in my son’s throat.

  But I knew the answer. Jim Scofield wasn’t an ER physician or an EMT. He was just a small town doctor who delivered a lot of babies.

  My son was a baby, so that was good. I held my breath anyway and nodded. I found I couldn’t find my own voice anymore, so I shut up.

  “Okay now, Gem,” said Scofield. “There’s gonna be a little blood, but it’ll seal up when we get the tube in his airway. Plus, he’s gonna cry because we don’t have any anesthesia, but I’ll make it as fast as I can, okay?”

  I nodded and looked Jim in the eyes. “Just go,” I said. “Be careful.”

  He nodded. Jim pressed the scalpel blade to my son’s neck and drew it straight and cleanly from left to right, his fingers steadying his hand against my son’s neck.

  It felt as though he were dragging the blade across my heart.

  As the blood flowed from the wound, Flexy struggled in my arms; I held him still.

  Hemp had taken apart a pen and cleaned the hollow tube with alcohol. He came over, took the scalpel from Scofield and gave him the pen.

  “Here goes nothin’,” said Jim.

  The pen had been a ball point retractable, but the cone-shaped end looked as though it would fit more easily than the old Bic pens you saw people use on television.

  The pen slid right in. Blood immediately sputtered out of the end, then there was none. I could hear my son’s breath, fast and free. His color began to improve immediately. Amazing.

  Hemp held out some cloth tape he tore off a roll and Scofield took it, taping it around the pen protruding from Flexy’s neck.

  When he was satisfied, he looked at me. “He looks good, Gem,” he said.

  “Thank you,” I said. “Now go take care of Charlie.”

  “What’s that smell?” asked Lola. She looked out the side window. “Jesus Christ! We’re on fucking fire!”

  “What?” said Bug, jumping up and running over. “Where the hell?”

  “That tree must’ve been struck by lightning,” said Lola, pointing out the window. “Big branch caught and dropped against the lab.” She practically pressed her face against the glass. “I can’t see what’s on fire, but it does smell like fiberglass or something.”

  Serena went over to where Lola looked out. “Yeah,” she said. “That’s plastic of some kind. Rachel, I know this is getting to be a habit, both in California and here, but we need you now. Can you get up there and douse the flames before we’re engulfed?”

  Bug looked out again. “One good thing is, the fire’s cleared the walkers away from this side, but that won’t do us any good if we –”

  He stopped talking, staring at Trina and Taylor, who were still holding Charlie’s hands and being brave. They stared at Bug, willing him to finish his sentence.

  “Give me a boost and start filling buckets,” Rachel said. “Bug, you’re a big guy. Dave, you get my other foot.”

  “These walls are ready to fall in,” said Dave. “Will this thing even support your weight?”

 
“It should,” said Hemp. “The exterior shell is pretty strong despite the fact that the overall structure is faltering. If the walls don’t shift sharply to one side or the other she should be fine.”

  “Should be fine?” asked Nelson. “I’m going with her.”

  “Let her get up there first to see how well it supports her,” said Hemp.

  Nelson shook his head and I didn’t remember seeing him that agitated. “Nel, once you get her up there, take another hit of weed. You need to be sedated.”

  I looked down at Flexy. He was still upset, but he was calming in my arms. I would not relinquish him to anyone else until my husband got back home.

  Bug had knocked the sky vent out and had ripped the flange piece off in two quick motions with his big hands. The pieces clattered to the floor and immediately, he said, “Come here and step up.”

  Rachel stripped off all but her bra and panties. No modesty, no hesitation.

  She shot me a quick glance and I nodded and mouthed the words, “Thank you.”

  “Let’s go,” said Bug.

  Rachel was used to taking orders. She did so immediately. Bug lifted her right foot and she fed her left arm and her head through the small, square hole. Once she pulled her right arm up and through, the rest was just Bug using brute strength to push her up and out.

  Nelson was there immediately, holding up a bucket of water. The ceiling of the mobile lab bent inward with her weight, but no splintering or cracking sounds interrupted all of us holding our collective breath.

  “I’m okay,” she said. Then: “Oh, my God.”

  “What?” asked Nelson.

  “Red dots everywhere,” she whispered. “Oh, my God.”

  “The fire,” said Bug. “Rachel.”

  She took the bucket of water from Nelson and we could see her walking across, each footfall bending the ceiling inward. She was a foot from the edge.

  I heard a hissing, which was a good sign. Seconds later she was back.

  “More,” she said. “Two or three more should do it.”

  “Push now, Charlie,” said Scofield, sitting again between Charlie’s legs. “Nice and steady, and don’t forget to breathe.”