Fight the Hunger: A Hunger Driven Novel

by William Allen

  Ending the argument prematurely, I killed the engine, left the keys in the ignition, and stepped out of the truck. Ken squawked, but by then it was too late.

  “Hello the truck,” I called out as I approached, stepping over torn and gore-splattered corpses as I went.

  “Hello to you, stranger,” came the reply, and the front driver’s side door popped open as a large man in bulky body armor stepped down from the truck’s cab. In the background, I saw a smaller, slimmer shape slip over into the driver’s seat.

  “Sorry about the shooting,” I said, forcing a grin. “Up ahead you guys were going to run into trouble.”

  “That’s what your friend on the radio said. I didn’t really understand what he was saying though. Fifty thousand? Seriously?”

  I could hear the doubt in the big man’s voice. He was wearing the same kind of cobbled together armor we usually wore when clearing houses. A heavy winter biking jacket, thick but loose down-filled pants and what looked like Kevlar gloves. No helmet, but I figured that was back in the truck cab.

  I nodded, and I felt the grin fall off my face. “Yeah, about that. Horde’s migrating. We clocked the tail end coming through about half an hour before you guys.”

  Hearing the hiss, I spun and drew, putting a suppressed round through the head of a crawler coming up from our side of the parked trucks. He was about ten yards away and dragging along on one well-chewed arm stump. The small bullet struck just above the brow line and the thing’s filthy head snapped back with a spray of blackish blood and gore.

  The large stranger took a sudden step back, tracked the line of my drawn pistol, and I could see the telltale whisker of the microphone along his jawline as he announced casually, “All clear.”

  “Sorry about that,” I said as I reholstered the pistol. I wore the weapon on a modified hip rig, the end cut out to allow the threaded suppressor to fit. “Just reflex when I hear the sound.”

  That got an understanding nod in return. “So you guys are working with the local National Guard unit? That’s what your friend said.”

  “Yessir. That is Kenneth, and I’m Brad. We do odd jobs and such for the Guard. They helped stabilize the town and welcomed in a lot of survivors after, well, you know. Some of us do volunteer work to contribute our share to the community.”

  “Mike,” the man said in return by way of introduction. “We haven’t seen much of anybody in authority after the first few days of this.”

  I could hear the bitterness in the man’s voice. Yes, the powers that be had abandoned them and their families to live or die. It was that second one, mostly. I decided to do what I could to diffuse the situation. No sense in him holding too big of a grudge that way.

  “Well, these guys stayed on the job. Those that survived. The biggest chunk of the Guard in Livingston were dispatched by the governor to help out at the prisons in Huntsville. Reinforce the guards and secure the facilities. That kind of stuff.”

  “Yeah? How’d that work out for them?” I could tell I had Mike’s attention with this statement.

  “From what I heard, they lost about half their force, trying to do the right thing. Most of the inmates went zombie, of course. Hard to prevent when a quarter of the population turns cannibal and eats the rest.”

  “Should have just burned the places down.”

  “That’s what they ended up doing. The losses came trying to get the prisoners in isolation and some of the prison guards out. They also managed to extract several nurses from a clinic inside one of the units, but mostly those NG guys just got swarmed.”

  I’d gotten the story firsthand from some of Northcutt’s men. After they’d had way too much to drink. To hear them tell it, the colonel was right in there in the thick of the fighting, and he was the one to make the call to burn the prisons. Purged them with fire, he did.

  “I’ll bet that is some story,” Mike said, and he seemed to relax a bit.

  I just grunted. I wasn’t loving this little pow-pow out in the wide open spaces, and I was in a hurry to get moving.

  “Look, whatever you folks decide to do, as long as it didn’t involve hurting me and mine, that’s entirely up to you. We just didn’t want to see you all run into the backside of that horde. I have to warn you, though, we figure the bridge up ahead”—I pointed with my thumb over my shoulder—“will not be there much longer. Even if it weren’t for the horde, they were getting it rigged to blow.”

  “So that’s it? No recruiting speech? Nothing about either joining your group or avoiding the area? Aren’t you curious about where we are coming from, or what we have seen?” Mike seemed equal parts shocked and amused by my attitude.

  “Mister, we’ve all seen a world of hurt out there. I make it a point not to hear people’s stories. There’s terrible things going on everywhere. I don’t need any more nightmares,” I said, just telling the truth.

  “Livingston is pretty stable at the moment,” I said, continuing. “But it is not a free ride. Folks who are willing to work together, and pull their own weight, can find a place. That’s why your group came this way, right? Because of the radio broadcasts?”

  I could tell from his expression that Mike didn’t know what I was talking about. With a sigh, I continued. “There’s a broadcast—88.7 FM and 680 AM. It explains a little about the Livingston Safe Zone. You might want to tune in and judge for yourselves. I figured that was why you folks were headed this way.”

  Mike shook his head. “We just took 105 East to hit what was left of Cleveland, and got on 59, headed north. When we saw the zombies were starting to change, we knew we couldn’t stay so close to the city. Our group got the trucks ready and loaded just in time. They were about to push down the walls, and we were running low …”

  He stopped himself and looked up with a shocked look. I just nodded. They were almost out of ammunition. Something you never, ever admitted to in polite, post-apocalyptic conversation.

  “Do you know the back way around the lake?” I asked, more to fill the silence than anything else. “You can go back a few miles and cut over on this farm-to-market road, I don’t remember the name, and make your way around to the west. Eventually you will run into Highway 190 that route.”

  Mike shook his head. “I’ve never been up this way, really. My people are from down around Corpus Christi, and I just moved to Houston a few months before the Outbreak. For work. I can read a map, of course, but I don’t know these back ways.”

  “Anybody else in your outfit from around here?”

  Mike shook his head.

  I heard more gunshots and realized we’d been standing around too long. A quick glance around confirmed my suspicion. We were attracting attention. I made a quick decision and hoped I wouldn’t regret it. Motioning for Mike to follow, I stepped over to my truck and waited for Ken to crack the door.

  “Ken, can you lead this group back to Livingston? Take the roads through Coldspring? I know that route has been cleared.”

  “Sure thing, boss. But where are you going to be?”

  I caught Mike’s eye and gave him a steady look. “I think I need to be riding with our new friends. I imagine they are a little hesitant to follow a group of strangers into the woods. I would, in their place.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The ride started off a little awkward. I’m sure Mike didn’t like having me sitting in the passenger seat of his truck, but then I didn’t like the idea of his sister sitting behind me with a pistol pointed at my head.

  “I hope you have that thing on safe,” I’d said testily as I glanced over my shoulder. Okay, maybe not pointed at my head but certainly in my general direction.

  “It’s a Glock,” she replied with a tight grin. “No safety other than in the trigger. You play nice, and I’ll keep my finger off the trigger.”

  Well, that was comforting. At least the young lady knew her firearms. So if she shot me, it would likely be on purpose instead of by accident.

  The next few minutes were occupied with getting the
convoy turned around and headed back south a few exits before turning west. From the way Mike handled the truck, I could see he was adequate at the job, but only that.

  “Not a truck driver before all this?”

  Mike laughed shortly. “Not hardly. I worked for a lumber company before all this started. Like I said, just moved up from Corpus six months before. I drove a delivery truck some, but nothing like this. What about you?”

  “Accountant. Now, Ken out there, he really was a big rig driver. Him and his wife, Patty, drove team.”

  “How’d you guys meet up? And why did he call you ‘boss’?” Mike asked as he worked to shift up the gears.

  I allowed myself a little grin. Fake, but somehow real too. The more I was around Mike and his unnamed sister, the better I felt about them. If the rest of their crew was the same, then maybe they would be an asset to the growing community.

  “I met Ken and Patty just a few days after the First Wave. Actually, I think it was just north of Kingwood. Standing on top of their truck, if I remember correctly, and facing down about a dozen zeds with only a tire whacker and an empty revolver. As for the boss thing, well, jobs aren’t what they used to be. We work together and have a little place just outside the Safe Zone. The folks there reckon me as their leader, which is really funny because I’m not much of a people person.”

  The unnamed young lady in the back seat seemed frustrated by my answer as she snapped at me. “So how do you support your group? Looting?”

  “We call it salvage, and Ken does a little of that. His pre-shit storm skills are still needed in this new world. He drives tanker trucks when they suck the fuel depots empty, among other things. He’s also one heck of a mechanic and could have made a living as a welder. My skills, not so much in demand these days. Not much call for Excel spreadsheets or Accounts Receivable. I do other things instead.”

  The woman snorted. “Yeah, like play zombie bait in ghost towns for the Guard.”

  “Actually, I do a little of that, but this was just something to get us out of the house.”

  Mike seemed to actually be paying attention to the conversation, so after thirty seconds of silence he picked up when I stopped talking.

  “So what exactly do you do, Brad?”

  “You’ve had to kill them, right? Put them down? The zombies, I mean.”

  “Well, of course. I’m still breathing and all. Everybody has had to do it at least once or twice.”

  I gave a little sigh of relief. I know I’d capped that crawler in front of these folks, but I wanted to get more confirmation before I said anything else.

  “Well, that’s what I do. Putting the dead back down. The Livingston Safe Zone is the biggest in our area, but we have a few others nearby. In order to take that living space, the Guard and the civilian militia had to clear a lot of houses. But, before they can do that, the streets need a rough clearance. That’s my job. Rough clearance.”

  The silence seemed to stretch on for nearly a minute before the young lady seated behind me leaned over to whisper in my ear. “Bull. Shit.”

  I shrugged. I didn’t care what the girl thought. Hell, I was just making conversation. I wouldn’t talk about our enclave at Pederson, or the manning strength of the Guard or the militia, but this was something I felt I could share. Just idle chitchat.

  Instead of letting himself get drawn further into the conversation, Mike leaned forward and touched the radio. He set the dial to scan, and I could tell he was on AM when the voice started.

  Mickey Clayton used to be a real disc jockey at the country music station in town, and he was now the Voice of the Zone, as we called him. There was an informational packet he’d recorded for evening hours but nine am to five pm, he worked a live show out of the makeshift studio the Guard helped him set up in an old warehouse. They’d packed up everything Mickey wanted and moved it safely behind the walls.

  Mickey made up his own playlist, heavy on the likes of vintage Randy Travis, George Strait, Hank Williams, Jr., and even a little Dolly Parton, with some of the newer acts sprinkled in as well. In between tracks, he gave out bits of the local news but very generic stuff.

  The DJ had been stuck in his old apartment in downtown Livingston for a whole month before the Guard could get him extracted, and he was most appreciative of the efforts in getting him free. I knew the story, and I also knew that Mickey didn’t want to say anything on the radio that might be used against his community by outsiders.

  “Son of a bitch. He really is on the air.” Mike paused, listening, then continued. “He says a lot without saying much,” Mike concluded, and I laughed.

  “Mickey knows all about operational security, even while getting the word out about Livingston. While you guys have been forted up, have you run across any live folks misbehaving?”

  “Hell, they are more dangerous than the corpses,” Mike muttered, then he nodded, getting it.

  “What does that mean?” the sister asked. She sounded a bit agitated, and Mike moved his right hand off the wheel to reach back. I worried at first but saw how slowly he moved and then how the girl took his big gloved hand in hers.

  “It means that we’ve had our own share of bullies and bandits come through town. That’s why we were a little nervous meeting you guys at first,” I answered.

  “How have you handled them so far?” Mike asked carefully, his voice neutral. “And how did you know they were up to no good?”

  I paused, wondering how to explain. “All right, let me try it this way. Remember what I said about my job? Rough clearance? Well, I was set up over in Jasper a little over a week ago, clearing the town,” I started, and I heard the young woman mutter under her breath.

  “Heather,” Mike growled, “that’s enough. Let the man talk.”

  “Maybe you can explain what you mean by clearing the town first,” Heather suggested, and I thought that was a good place to begin.

  “All right, remember when I just asked if you two have ever killed any zombies? Well, like I said, that is what I do. Pick an elevated position, like say the roof of a store or a bank building, and start shooting.”

  “But how many shooters go with you? And how many do you kill?” Mike asked.

  “Oh, it’s just me. Sometimes I take someone to help me reload, but the last few times have been solo. As for how many, I’m not sure. I think Jasper ended up at over six or eight thousand before I was finished. I got sidetracked and didn’t keep a good count. You can ask one of the Guardsmen if you want. They took care of the cleanup. I just put down the dead.”

  “That must have taken a long time,” Mike finally managed to say, and I knew he was doing the math in his head.

  “Yeah, literally days. The thing is, a stable shooting platform, plenty of ammo, and the ability turn to off a part of your brain for hours at a time are all you need.”

  “Okay, but what does this have to do with bad guys?” Heather asked.

  “Not much really, but you asked,” I said breezily, but then I got down to the carload of desperate women who showed up in Jasper just as I was getting close to finishing my job there. Neither had much to say as I related that portion of the tale. I mentioned no names and glossed over the details, but I figure they understood the main points.

  When I was finished, I could tell the pair sitting with me in the cab of that truck were feeling a little better about continuing to follow Ken’s tail lights into the afternoon sunlight.

  “Why don’t you take Ken with you?” Heather eventually asked.

  “I don’t want to take him away from our home for that long. Sometimes I’m out there three or four days, camped out on a rooftop. I want Ken where he can help his wife and the others watch our settlement. Like your brother said, Heather, the living are more dangerous than the corpses. I absolutely agree.”

  The conversation stopped as Ken turned off on a series of smaller tributary roads. Some wrecks but nothing too difficult, as our road crews already covered this section of county roads.

  “Jus
t makes me glad we tried north instead of east,” Mike finally said, “and I cannot believe we never thought to check the freaking radios! I mean, after the first few weeks, we just never heard anything.”

  I waved the idea off. “Jeez, Mike, nobody much thought about it. The broadcasts bring in a few ever since he started last month, but mainly it is for us. A bit of a morale boost, you know.”

  “Sounds like you guys really have it together. How many in all?” Mike asked, but I just shook my head.

  “I don’t know the exact figure and that’s something the orientation folks can tell you if you decide to stick around.”

  “Is that even an option? Surely your Safe Zone must have an upper limit of how many people a few squads of National Guard can protect. I wouldn’t want to get our people too invested in the idea yet.”

  “If you guys aren’t raiders or monsters, they will let you in. Like I said, those that pull their weight are always welcomed. And you can leave whenever you want. Most folks do stick around once they get the full introduction, though.”

  “So you were worried we might not be good people, but you came with us anyway?” Heather asked, her voice puzzled.

  “That was Ken,” I answered truthfully. No sense in lying now. “He is a good man, and a good friend.”

  “What about you?” Mike asked.

  “I didn’t want to take the risk.”

  “What changed your mind?” Heather asked this time.

  “When Ken said he was going to show you guys the best way to go. Like I said, Ken’s got a wife. I hate to say it, but I suck as a hostage. Nobody cares enough to pay a ransom, and I’ve got no family.”

  “Honestly, we were just as scared of you guys as you were of us,” Mike announced. “But you are mistaken. I think you have a family, and your friend Ken is a part of it.”

  “Maybe so,” I said without agreement. Ken and Patty might be like family, but like wasn’t the same. I had no family left, no anchor. Roxy, Ken, and Patty were my sort-of family, and the three of them were really the only reason I still got up in the morning. Well, and for those darned kids.