The Living Hunger

by Dennis F. Larsen

  The Living Hunger

  A Post-Apocalyptic Novel

  by

  Dennis F. Larsen

  Book One in ‘The Living Hunger’ Series

  COPYRIGHT

  The Living Hunger

  First Edition

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2013 by Dennis F. Larsen

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  For information address:

  Dr. Dennis F. Larsen

  Edmonton, Alberta, Canada

  ISBN: 978-0-9918431-1-4

  larsennovels@gmail.com

  Cover Design by Sean Strong for curtisANDstrong

  Also by Dennis F. Larsen

  With Cruel Intent

  (Released January 8, 2013)

  Dad, this one's for you.

  In Loving Memory,

  John Farrell Larsen

  (08/31/1931 to 08/21/2006)

  “Mankind must put an end to war before war puts an end to mankind.”

  ---John F. Kennedy

  In the Year 2020

  Prologue

  Elva Allen was no stranger to sacrifice and difficult times. At 16, she found herself living in humble circumstances with her mother and only surviving sibling, Len. They had turned a dugout root cellar into a home of sorts, with running water, heat and many of the comforts they enjoyed above ground but with much less chance of threat. Her father had chosen the unlikely earthen storage as their new home, based on several rationales, the greatest of which was safety. Who would bother to search a property with a demolished home scattered across a barren foundation? Originally the obliterated farmhouse had been their neighbor’s, with the Allen home just down the street. Houses were routinely ransacked and searched for supplies by wanderers and vermin that roamed the land, surviving on what they could steal or take, including women.

  The beginning of the end, at least for Elva, began, when at 14 years of age, her courageous father was murdered defending his family from a merciless scavenger, who had come upon the struggling family. Even though nearly two extraordinarily brutal years had passed since that fateful day, she remembered it like it was yesterday. In such a short period of time, one does not often forget the death of a loving parent or the taking of another’s life, regardless of their depth of depravity.

  The young woman relived that horrifying day over and over again, almost driving her to madness. The images came in her dreams and daytime stares, those mind-numbing hours and minutes when nothing could be done, forcing her thoughts to wander, as the frightening movie reel played through her head. Her mother, a strong-willed woman of pioneer stock, warned Elva that no good would come from fostering the cruel events, but it was to no avail. The memory worked on its own timetable, with each occurrence recalling more blood, pain and terror.

  Life, if one could call it that, was difficult for the Allen family but they were not alone; thousands were displaced, homeless and forsaken. Goodness and hope lived on but an all-consuming, festering evil was permeating the land, swallowing up and devouring the honorable as it spread.

  Chapter 1

  The day had begun like most, despair trumping hope in a world of chaos, thrown to the wolves. The Allens’ daytime hours were spent in seclusion, hiding from the bands of outlaws that roamed the landscape in search of food, weapons and women. Small groups of good folk had banded together to defend themselves against such filth, but Elva’s parents had not been fortunate enough to make it to their lines before a precarious ‘no man’s land’ was demarcated. So, for them, the decision of survival had already been made. They passed each day hoping and hiding in the depths of the dugout cellar and each night scouring the nearby fields for unfound potatoes and sugar beets -- ‘the gems of life’ -- as her father called them.

  On this particular morning, Elva was in charge of her younger brother, Len. Not a difficult task, when engaged and interested in the assignment, but monumental after the millionth time of watching the youngster race around the barn, pretending to be a cowboy rounding up the herd. He was not particularly bad, just full of energy. He knew he had to be quiet, under threat of confinement in the dugout for days on end, but he was a little boy who, even with very little to eat, needed to run and play. Earlier in the morning, their father had risked the ever-present danger of discovery, when a cloudburst had saturated the local fields making the ground much easier to turn and tubers more freely extracted. From his vantage point in a large, weed-overgrown field a few blocks away, he kept one eye on the ground and the other scanning the horizon for threats.

  The noonday sky was fresh and clean following the thundershower, no clouds to obscure one’s vision; the heat from the sun drying the ground quickly, sending a mist of evaporating moisture over the landscape. Elva’s father worked quickly, filling a small sack with earthen gems, the safety of his family foremost on his mind. Once satisfied with the haul, he turned his attention to home and the needs of his wife and two children. Squatting and moving from fence post to weed thicket, he maneuvered the distance between the field and the dugout shelter. It had been days since they’d seen or heard anyone moving along the deserted roads that crisscrossed the once bristling farm community but this day, in the distance, he could hear the sound of a Harley. The unmistakable roar of the v-engine was rolling quickly in his direction. He knelt several hundred yards from the safety of the shelter to observe where the stranger was coming from and where he would go.

  It was then that he noticed it: a pillar of dust, rising ever so slightly into the air above the structure where his young son was romping around. It looked like a neon sign in the clarity of the sky, pointing directly at the shelter. He could not move quickly enough. Dropping the bag of potatoes, he felt for the small spade that had assisted him in his quest and dashed for home. The rider rolled into the lane adjacent to the foundation of the demolished farmhouse as Elva’s father jumped a fence dividing the neighboring yard. There was no time for thought, no time to plan. Action, fast and simple, would have to do.

  “Dad!” He heard it only once, loud and clear, coming from the hysterical lips of his daughter, Elva.

  “I’m coming, I’m coming!” he cried to himself, not wanting to give away his position to the intruder.

  Reaching the outhouse that stood at the edge of the property, the winded but adrenalin-enraged father surveyed the scene that lay before him. A greasy, tattoo-covered fiend stood at the opening of the shed, an antiquated German Luger pointed in the direction of, what must be, his two children. Between his position and the shed the small rise of the root cellar could be seen. The opening and narrow stairs into the belly of the shelter pointed away from the scrounger. It was there that Elva’s mother, Rose, caught her husband’s eye, as she knelt with an old Winchester clutched firmly in her trembling hands. He motioned for her to stay put, which she acknowledged with a fright-filled nod.

  Elva held her brother close, he standing in front of her, his head at the level of her abdomen, with her arms around his neck and hands pulling him close. The biker had caught them by surprise, throwing the doors of the barn open, enforcing his will with the handgun before they had a chance to escape. Elva shuddered as a vulgar stream of foul invective proceeded forth from the mouth of the villain.

  “So, sweet thing, where’s your mommy and daddy? Not very smart of them to leave such a tasty little morsel like yourself unprotected,” he said sarcastically, licking his lips and blowing a mocking kiss in her direction.

  Her younger
brother turned and buried his face in the thinning fabric of her shirt, tears streaming down his cheeks, washing a path of clean skin in their wake. She said nothing, madly looking for an opportunity for flight or rescue. The inside of the barn was mostly barren. Some empty gunnysacks hung from one wall and a decaying pile of straw sat in the corner to Elva’s left, out of the intruder’s sight. An old pitchfork extended from the mass, the handle gray and weatherworn but still functional.

  “Don’t you speak? You’re being smart not to scream but don’t try anything clever. Do you hear me?” There was a brief pause as Elva considered responding but the delay irritated the raider. “Do you hear me?” he shouted, thrusting the gun in her direction. “I won’t hesitate to slit your little brother’s throat and make you watch!”

  She was too scared to speak but managed a slow blink in the affirmative, knowing that Len’s life was solely in her hands. Looking at the biker, she tried desperately to delay him, hoping that her father or mother would soon intervene and save them. He’d rolled up so quickly that she’d dared not make a run for the safety of the cellar but had hoped that he would simply pass them by. Elva had no idea that the plume of dust, lazily circling above them, had drawn the hunter to his prey.

  The biker was thin and gaunt with a stench that easily drifted to the sensitive nasal membranes of the youth. A stained bandana covered long, black locks that extended over his ears, curling slightly at the ends. Flecks of dust and dirt from the road camouflaged his face but it could not hide the mass of pimples and whiteheads that had scarred his sunbaked skin. He looked to be fifty but was, most likely, no more than thirty. Sunglasses blocked his searching eyes from her gaze but she instinctively knew he was sizing her up for more than just a chat.

  I’ve got to buy some time, ran over and over again through her mind as she waited for her parents to respond.

  His slimy, yellow teeth were permanently etched into her memory as he ordered Elva and her brother to leave the safety of the barn and join him where the sunlight was streaming down. Reluctantly she started to obey, when she heard the booming voice of her father coming from the direction of the outhouse.

  “Hey fella, what are you doing there? Let those kids be!”

  Her father was not highly educated, but was a man of principle and courage. They had survived as long as they had because of his leadership and love of family.

  “Back off, Pops! I’ll soon be on my way once I’ve had what I came for,” he said, swinging the gun away from Elva and Len, leveling it at the head of their father.

  “And what might that be? We’d be happy to share some beets with you if you’ll be on your way, mister,” her father said, still walking toward the assailant, the small, sharp shovel wedged into the back of his jeans.

  “I guess I’ll take whatever I want. I don’t need you to share anything with me. By virtue of this gun, I’m gonna first have a taste of this sweet little girl of yours, then I’ll load up my bike with as much food as I can carry. By then, if you’re good and mind your manners, I just might let the rest of you live. How’s that sound?” he said, moving the barrel of the Luger from side-to-side, adding emphasis to his statements.

  “Well, you know I can’t let you do that.”

  “Just how you gonna stop me?” the creep said, lowering the weapon and firing a shot at the feet of the advancing man, stopping him cold.

  “Listen, nobody has to get hurt here today. Be reasonable, we’re trying to get by just like you. We live hand to mouth but we can help you, if you’ll let us.” He again began his slow march toward the biker.

  “I don’t need your help. I take what I need and the only one getting hurt here today is going to be you!” he barked, bringing the pistol in line with John Allen’s chest. His finger tightened on the trigger, taking the slack from the pull, when Rose’s shrill scream startled the duelists.

  “I’ll be damned if you are going to hurt anyone in my family today,” she yelled, as she swung the heavy barreled Winchester to her shoulder, just above the rise of the earthen hill where she stood. She naturally sucked the butt of the rifle into place, dropped her cheek to the smooth, worn stock and drew a bead on the man holding the gun. She did not hesitate nor waver in her defense of her husband and children; rather, she squeezed the trigger with all the confidence she could muster, sending the 130-grain bullet at the intruder.

  In the confusion that arose from the introduction of a new player into their deadly dance, the bandana-clad scum dropped his shoulder in the same instant that the sound of the gunshot could be heard. The bullet whistled through the air, narrowly missing his head but snagging his left ear and ripping it off. The slug continued in its flight, leaving the remnant of a mangled ear in the mud. John, seizing the moment, charged the wounded man, the sharpened spade in his hand, held high, ready to strike a deadly blow.

  “Run Len, run! Get out of here, go, go!” Elva shouted at her little brother, pushing him in the direction of a small gap in the wooden slats at the back of the barn. The scene at the opening of the barn was one dimensional from her perspective. She could hear her mother and father but could not see either of them. She did see her mother’s bullet take the biker’s ear off and saw him stagger to regain his balance, but did not hear the follow-up shot that she knew should be forthcoming. Fear and raw emotion drove her to the pile of putrid straw in the corner. She withdrew the rusted pitchfork from the yellowing decay and ran for the opening and the sunlight.

  The panicked wife, standing with the smoking gun in both hands, struggled with the weapon, trying to clear the breech of the spent cartridge. Her husband’s life hung in the balance as she worked to ratchet another live round into the chamber. Milliseconds seemed like minutes as she fought with the lever of the old weapon, unable to free the brass jacket from the vice-like grip of the mechanical action. She looked up, horror written across her face as the chaotic scene unfolded in slow motion before her.

  “Nooooo!” she bellowed.

  Her husband let out a war cry above the sound of the screaming woman. The bleeding, one-eared brute regained his composure long enough to swing the Luger back at the charging, wild-eyed man and pulled the trigger three times in quick succession. Each slug slowed the determined father but did not stop him completely, as he continued his valiant rush toward the killer. Finally stumbling, he slumped to the earth, his will unchanged but body powerless to move on.

  From within the barn, Elva could see the German-made pistol eject shell after shell, the spent casings flipping through the air and tumbling to the ground. Each shell’s impact burned in her ears. The sound of the explosive rounds and the thud as the lead slammed into her father, forcing the wind from his lungs and the life from his body, sickened her. The young woman stampeded forward, the tines of the fork extended before her, dipping right and left as it swayed with each of her steps. The blindsided attack caught the shooter off guard, giving him no time to pivot the handgun and take out his next attacker. The pitchfork did its work quickly and cleanly, all four sharpened points pushing up just below his ribs, thrusting through the biker’s diaphragm, puncturing his heart before exiting below his shoulder blades. Before he hit the ground another concussion was heard, this one from the now functioning lever action. The spinning lead found its mark, cutting a hole in his tattooed neck below the chin and severing the biker’s spinal column, almost completely decapitating the assailant in the process. There was no doubt when he hit the ground that he was, indeed, dead.

  By the time the two women cleared their hands of the weapons and ran to him, their father and husband knelt in the dirt, too proud to drop to the ground. When they reached his side, he was thus postured, his chin against his chest, tears dripping and splashing into a pool of blood slowly growing around him. An unquenchable weeping and wailing marked the sadness of the day. His last earthly deed was to pull the women to him, kissing each on the lips, stroking the hair from their faces as he desperately tried to express his love for those that he would be leaving behind. T
he whooshing sound of air being sucked in and out of the wounds in his chest echoed in Elva’s ears, as she was caught up in that moment of death.

  “I love you all,” he managed to get out, in-between spitting great globs of blood to the ground. “I’ll be waiting for you,” he said, staring into the eyes of his wife, his bloodied hands staining her delicate cheeks.

  That was the last thing Elva ever heard her father say and she knew it was true. She grew up a lot that day, squatting in the blood soaked earth, holding the head of her dying father. She would remember everything: the smells, the sounds, and the emotions. In the years to come, it would be the empty stare from her dead father’s eyes, that she’d tried repeatedly to close after he’d sailed to heaven, which would fill her thoughts and fuel the most horrific of dreams.

  Chapter 2

  “Jarkowski, shut up and pass that bottle over here, you moron,” Farrell said, unwinding his arms from around his torso just long enough to take the whiskey bottle from his Polish friend, knocking back two swallows that burned all the way down. “Now, that’s what I needed. Can you believe how cold it is? My nuts have crawled so far up inside me, I may never see ‘em again.”

  “That’d be a shame; half the hookers in Seoul would be out of work. Do you want me to see if I’ve got an extra sock you can stuff ‘em into?” Jarkowski asked, taking the bottle back and draining another couple of mouthfuls of the quickly vanishing liquor.

  “Only if you’ve got really big feet,” the farm boy joked.

  The men had stopped long enough to warm their bellies with ‘distilled radiator fluid’ before moving further north into the Korean no man’s land and enemy territory. The clash earlier in the day had pushed the communists back but their determined foes present position was yet unknown.