Dead Hunger

by Eric A. Shelman

  When I reached the back door, Monica was already inside. I saw the freak with the straight hair round the rear corner of the house, but I ran along the back wall closing all the blinds until it was basically dark in the kitchen and dining area. “We need to finish the window, Erica. Now.”

  “You’re bleeding,” said Erica, holding Monica’s arm. “Come here,” she said, leading her over to the counter where a roll of paper towels sat. Monica was shivering like it was twenty degrees inside. Erica pulled a length from the roll and quickly wrapped it around her bleeding arm. “Hold this. We’ll take care of you better when we’re done boarding the front window. Sit down at the table.”

  We ran back into the living room and quickly lifted the plywood. “Okay, raise it high, until the base is just above the level of the back of the couch,” I said.

  Erica raised her end. “Good?”

  I looked at what had to be ten arms reaching through six broken panes. “Now’s as good a time as any,” I said. “On three, just push straight back and watch that they don’t nick you.”

  “Okay. Count off,” she said.

  “One, two, three!” I said.

  We both pushed hard forward, and the protruding arms either bent down, up or sideways. “Back it off!” I shouted, “Then push right back, hard!”

  We did. This time, only one arm remained to block us from mounting the board flush. “It’s on my side. Leave yours where it is,” I said, struggling with the plywood sheet that felt heavier with each passing second.

  I drew my end back and slammed it repeatedly into the window and heard another pane break. “Shit!” I shouted.

  “Tony?” asked Erica. “Can you get it?”

  “One more try,” I said. “I’m getting tired. Try to start one nail, okay?”

  Erica had filled her pocket with the long nails. Her face strained, she held the plywood against the wall with one hand and got a nail, popping it between her lips. She then put the nail tip against the plywood near the top of the board and pulled the hammer from her waistband. She drew the head back and tapped twice hard.

  “Got it started,” she said. Now she put her left palm against the plywood and slammed the nail home.

  “Okay,” I said. “I need to get that cleaver. Hold this for a sec, okay?”

  “Hurry,” she said. “My arms are wasted.”

  I ran over and grabbed the cleaver I’d used earlier from the coffee table. When I got back to the window I said, “Okay, I think there’s only one. When I get into position, I’ll tell you to go. I want you to pivot it up like a foot. The nail should act like a hinge.”

  “Okay, hurry.”

  I stood there, the meat cleaver in my right hand. I held it so tight and I had so much adrenaline pumping through me I think I could have cut through a tree trunk. “Go!” I shouted.

  Erica pivoted the board upward and I took aim at the protruding arm that had just realized it was free. I slammed the cleaver in a direct hit. The black-red blood sprayed onto the couch as I dropped the cleaver and took the bottom corner of the plywood. It slammed home flush against the window.

  Using the hammer and nails I had taken, I secured the board to the wall, catching studs every time. From there, Erica and I stood on the sofa and hammered in nails every six inches.

  When we were done, she stared down at the mess of body parts on her sofa. “Oh, my God,” she whispered, moving closer to it.

  It looked to me like she was fighting her gag reflex, even as she forced herself to inspect one of the severed limbs more closely. “That’s a Stanley Cup ring. That’s Scott DeAndrea’s arm.”

  “Who?”

  “He’s the only ex-hockey player who retired to Shelburne, Tony,” she said. “He played with the Tampa Bay Lightning when they won the cup in 2004. It was his last year and he moved here.”

  “Shit. Did you know him?”

  “Yes,” said Erica. “He was a really nice guy. He volunteered with Seth and Bill coaching the soccer games for Shelburne High.”

  “I feel bad enough already,” I said. “Don’t tell me any more.”

  I figured if the guy got cured, he’d probably consider five for fighting to be a worthwhile penalty to take in return for me hacking off his arm.

  “What happens if they move to the other windows?” asked Erica.

  “You don’t have an endless supply of plywood,” I said. “But we could use two-by-fours to at least make it so they can’t squeeze through.”

  “Erica?” came Monica’s voice from the other room. It sounded strained. We both hurried in.

  “Hey, Monica,” she said, kneeling down beside her friend. Monica stared at her, her eyes bloodshot. She held her head in her hands.

  “Terrible headache,” she said. “I mean, like my brain’s about to explode.”

  Erica looked at me, worry in her eyes. “Let’s get you upstairs. You need to lie down.”

  Monica nodded and stood. As Erica walked her up, I called, “I’m grabbing more wood, Erica. I’ll get as many of the windows locked down as best I can. Hopefully the government will mobilize somebody over this way eventually.”

  “I haven’t even heard a siren,” she said, shaking her head. I watched as she disappeared upstairs.

  She was right. I hadn’t realized it. No noise came from outside the house except for the animalistic growls coming from what used to be people we once shopped and pumped gas with.

  I got to work.

  *****

  CHAPTER THREE

  I used every piece of wood I could find in the garage. I tried to block off all the most vulnerable windows but there wasn’t enough wood, so I muscled larger pieces of furniture in front of them; china cabinets, curios. By the time I was done, I watched dozens more of the mindless creatures surround the house.

  Exhausted, I fell into an overstuffed armchair for a good twenty minutes before finally dragging my ass upstairs.

  As I rounded the corner, I saw an open bedroom door on my left. Monica was lying on her back in the middle of the bed, and Erica sat beside her. Monica’s head was covered with what looked like a wet washcloth.

  Erica turned as I walked in and nodded to me. “Hey. Got it all secured down there?”

  “I kinda trashed your house. Broke some china.”

  Erica smiled. “It’s okay. I don’t have much need for it anyway. Thanks for all the hard work. I feel safer.”

  “Me, too. There’s a lot of them out there now. How is she?” I asked.

  “I’m not good,” said Monica, answering for herself.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “Did you take any aspirin or anything?”

  Monica nodded her head. “Yeah, but it still hurts. It’s throbbing.”

  “I put some antibiotic ointment on it, but she might need some actual antibiotics, which I’m fresh out of.”

  “Let’s let her rest,” I said. “I need to eat something, then I think we should try to get some rest ourselves.”

  Erica nodded. “Okay. Monica, we’re going to let you try to sleep. Need anything else?”

  “Got any horse tranquilizers?” she asked, trying to force a smile.

  “Xanax, maybe. Let me know if you think it would help.”

  She nodded and we left the room, closing the door behind us.

  “I think we’re better off upstairs,” I said. “Those things make me really nervous.” I pulled the gun from my waistband and popped the magazine. “There’s one chambered and six left in the magazine. You got any weapons?”

  “Two 12-gauge shotguns,” she said. “And we have tons of shells.”

  “Where are they?” I asked.

  “In a cabinet in the study. You’ve got that gun for now. We’ll eat and get them checked and loaded,” said Erica.

  She made some ham and cheese sandwiches and I ate two of them. She plated an extra one that she wrapped and put in the fridge.

  As we were about to get up, we heard distant gunfire.

  “What the hell? Is the cavalry finally comin
g?” I asked, standing and moving to the peep hole.

  The sound grew louder, but I couldn’t see anything as far away as the street. There didn’t look to be as many of the infected people near the front door though, so I had some view in that general direction. “They’re moving, whoever they are.”

  “God, let them round these sick people up,” said Erica. “I don’t like being afraid.”

  A vehicle came into view. It was hard to tell because the sun was down, with just the residual light filtering through the trees. It appeared to be a Jeep Wrangler with two guys in the front and one in the back. The sound of gunfire erupted again, and several holes appeared in the door just above my head, chunks of door blowing inward as I dropped to the floor and covered.

  “Down! Down!” I shouted, but as the words left my lips, I heard Erica cry out in pain. She didn’t so much drop as spin around and fall.

  “Erica, are you alright?” She had fallen in front of the couch, which blocked me from seeing her.

  “I don’t… think so,” she moaned.

  I crawled around the sofa and stopped beside her. The automatic gunfire peppered the front of the house with ear-shattering efficiency. Chunks of plywood and plaster flew over our heads, some raining down on top of us. Thumping sounds came from the front porch – probably from the people falling when they took rounds.

  Erica was on her back, and her shoulder was pouring blood. I pressed my hand to it and held it, even as she winced under my touch. “Can you move your arm?” I asked.

  She pivoted her left arm and I breathed a sigh of relief. “Good. Good,” I said. “Did it pop or anything?”

  “My arm?”

  “Bones. Anything feel dislocated or broken?”

  “No, but it stung bad when it hit me. Now it’s kind of numb.”

  “It’ll probably hurt again later,” I said. “I shot myself in the foot once, so I know.” I peeled back her blouse, exposing her wound. It wasn’t swelling, so it looked like an in-and-out shot that missed the bone.

  “Stay flat,” I whispered. I pressed my ear to the floor, also keeping as low as possible. In another thirty seconds, the engine of the Jeep revved, and the gunfire stopped. We listened to the sound of the engine recede to silence before I sat up and helped Erica into a sitting position. From there I got her to her feet.

  “You’re bleeding pretty good,” I said. “Let’s make more use of that first aid kit of yours. Upstairs.”

  “Tony, go see what’s happening out there. Check through a crack first, but if we can get out of here, maybe we should.”

  I shook my head. “Erica, I don’t know who that was just now, but they’re not military. It’s not like them to just fire at homes without knowing the potential for collateral damage. Like us.”

  “Maybe this is serious enough that they expect collateral damage.”

  “It’s serious,” I said. “Still, the military would probably use a loudspeaker to make announcements before firing into a private residence. Did you hear anything?”

  She shook her head with a wince.

  “Okay. Upstairs. I’ll come down and check the status of the porch later.”

  It was well after dark now. I helped her upstairs, got her into bed and cleaned her wound. Again, I thought of Linda beside me in that hospital room, all those months. I shook it off.

  Locating the exit wound, I was relieved there would be no need to search for the bullet. When I finished I taped both holes and wrapped it.

  She looked like a goddamned football player on her left side. I’m not much for bandages, but it would do the trick.

  “Rest. I’ll go outside and see what they left behind. You good?”

  “No,” she said, and the tears came. I watched them roll down her face and a moment later felt my own face getting wet. I wiped them away. I thought of Linda and the young cop who left us. I wondered if he was still alive.

  “Maybe this will be a short nightmare,” she whispered.

  “I hope so.”

  *****

  I grabbed an LED flashlight from a kitchen drawer and moved to the front door, my Sig Sauer in my hand. I looked at the gun in my hand for a moment, then tucked it into my waistband and retrieved my Benelli from the wall beside the front door. I checked it over. I’d forgotten to lower it to the floor when the rounds were shredding the front of the house, but it wasn’t damaged.

  I made sure a shell was chambered and checked the peephole.

  It was clear. I opened the door and turned on the flashlight.

  At my feet were torn bodies. I heard a sound coming from my right and pointed my light in the general direction. The beam fell on a woman’s head. It was connected to the neck still, but only by a thick flap of skin. It rested at a ninety-degree angle to her shoulders.

  Her eyes were locked on me; they were still glowing pink, but no vapor or mist or whatever it was came from them. Her teeth continued to grind and the guttural moans were constant. I tried to accept what I was seeing.

  The head was alive. I knew that nothing from the body had anything to do with it, it simply continued to go on.

  I felt the sandwiches coming up, but it was out of my control. I threw up on the mass of wrecked bodies and wiped my mouth on my sleeve. Too soon. I puked again, and again. When I was pretty certain I was finished, I stood up straight.

  Black spots invaded my vision. The world started spinning around me and I realized I was falling. My mind was intact enough to suddenly grasp that I would be landing atop the nasty, shredded meat that once made up Erica’s neighbors, so I threw my arm out and caught the doorframe with my hand. I remained vertical for the moment.

  I don’t know how long I stood there steadying myself on that wall, staring at the carnage.

  I couldn’t see all the way to the street, so there might have been others out there. I pulled out my Sig and pointed it at the twitching head. I fired, and the explosion rang out, echoing through the silent neighborhood. Black goo sprayed my leather boots.

  The mere action of firing the gun brought me a slight surge of adrenaline. My mind clicked once or twice, allowing me a thought.

  In Shelburne, Vermont, that sound should bring police in a flash. Firing guns within city limits was easy to hear a long way off, and it would always get the attention of the town’s citizens.

  I raised the gun and emptied the remainder of the magazine into the air. I wanted someone to come.

  Just not these things.

  I looked down again. The head was dead.

  *****

  I went back inside. I needed to get some rest, because despite my extended nap in the middle of the day, I was beginning to see double. I was dead tired.

  The gunfire had tattered and weakened the plywood. I didn’t trust it completely anymore. I needed a different plan to alert us if anything got in.

  Then I remembered a video that Linda had showed me on YouTube once. This kid played a trick on his buddy by putting all the pots and pans from his kitchen cupboards on the floor by his bed, and when he got up, he stumbled through them, making a racket.

  I went to the kitchen and got what I needed. I started by carrying them all to the top of the stairs, then put two or three of them on every step. I had to use some glasses, too. When I was done, I knew that none of those stumbling sickos would be able to sneak anywhere near us without us knowing about it.

  Monica’s door was closed when I walked by. I put my hand on the knob, but stopped. If she was finally sleeping, there was no sense in disturbing her. Let her get a good night’s sleep.

  I heard Erica’s soft snores, so I found the last empty bedroom, which was probably another guest room. Before stretching out on the bed, I walked to the window. It faced toward the side of the yard, so there wasn’t anything to see, as there was a distinct absence of light. The darkness out there somehow numbed my thoughts and gave me a sense of doom that I couldn’t explain.

  The power was still on, which I guess was a good sign. I shuffled back to the bed and saw
the television remote on the nightstand. I picked it up and hit the power button.

  For some reason, with everything being so hectic, I hadn’t even thought about it. Linda and I hardly ever watched TV at home, so it wasn’t second nature to turn it on. There wasn’t even a television in Erica’s living room, so I guessed she was pretty much the same.

  The screen lit up and Channel 3 was broadcasting. I knew they were a local channel out of Burlington, Vermont.

  The man onscreen wasn’t one of the regular anchors, at least not the ones I’d seen on billboards for WCAX. The first thing I noticed about him was that he was holding a microphone rather than using a clip-on, and his face was red. He had clearly been crying like I was earlier.

  I caught his broadcast in the middle of his sentence:

  “… mom, tell her I love her and to stay inside. We haven’t gotten any word that the government is putting together a plan, but nobody’s communicated with us for quite a while. If you are just tuning in, I’m Larry Peale. I’m only broadcasting now because I arrived at work about three o’clock this morning. Some of the staff got sick and went home, so it looked like they wouldn’t have enough people for the morning news broadcast at 6:00. If you’re watching this then you know it was a Sunday, so our staff was smaller anyway. Later on we just show reruns.”

  He was rambling. I wanted to know what he knew; I needed to know what was going on out there and what this disease was.

  “Anyway,” he continued, his eyes bloodshot and drooping, his brown hair mussed. “Frank Stafford, one of the engineers, was in the equipment room growling or moaning or something. I didn’t know at the time. Lisa Potter, our morning anchor, had been… I know I’m on TV now – or I think I’m still broadcasting – but she’d been ripped open and some guy I don’t know was over her, his hands inside her. I screamed at him that he couldn’t help her and that he needed to call 911. He turned toward me and I saw her insides hanging from his teeth, and her… intestines clutched in his fingers.”