The Living Hunger

by Dennis F. Larsen

  “Okay boys, keep your heads down, this might get ugly,” Farrell said, above the chaotic sounds of the battle. The vet took the first large shell and slammed the bottom of it abruptly against the side of a metal drum; he then threw the explosive warhead as hard as he could toward the sedan. The mortar wobbled in the air, landed just before the car, detonated and flipped the car into the air and onto the few remaining attackers. They were finally silenced. The event must have created a bit of panic among those behind the fence, as the fire from that location increased significantly.

  Farrell reached for the second warhead and was about to let it fly when Cory screamed out, “Farrell!” From his point of view the young man could see a grenade, originating from behind the wall, being lofted high into the air but angled perfectly for the bunker and the two unsuspecting men. Without thinking, acting on impulse alone, Cory left the safety of his bunker and raced for the other side of the road. He ran with his head up, never taking his eyes off the small pineapple-shaped device; just as he’d done a thousand times before playing baseball near his home. Bullets flew past his shoulders and head, the sounds of Clayton yelling at him muffled by his own concentration. Farrell and Godfrey turned just as they understood what was happening, Clayton’s panicked voice calling them to attention. At the rear of the bunker and only a few feet away from his friends, Cory leapt from the ground, stretched his left hand high into the air, imagining a ball glove there and snagged the grenade. Before he could make his landing and get rid of the grenade, a small caliber slug ripped through his abdomen and dropped him to his knees. He looked into the back of the bunker; a fearful expression of surprise written across his often-grinning face, and then did what he could do without thinking or looking. The grenade passed gracefully through the air from his glove hand to his throwing hand, and was then cast aloft, back in the direction from which it had come. The grenade exploded between the two camps, not hurting anyone but detonating safely away from the Bear River few.

  Cory keeled over backwards, grasping at the pain in his side. A second later, Clayton was leaning over him calling his name. Above it all, Cory heard Farrell yell out, “Fire in the hole,” as he lofted the second large round over the fence and into the yard filled with Bullock’s men. The detonation was earth moving, fragments from the rock wall exploded and sent small shards over the protective bunker, showering Clayton and Cory with chips. Clayton did his best to shield his friend from the fallout as Farrell rose to his feet, followed by Godfrey. The two men, saved by Cory’s catch and throw, took advantage of the initial shock of the large explosion and walked around the bunker and into the open. The area was now silent except for the moans coming from behind the rock fence. A few dying and wounded littered the ground. One made an attempt to raise his weapon but Farrell silenced him quickly with a burst from the assault rifle.

  “Farrell, look! A couple are getting away,” Godfrey said, pointing at a man and a woman running as fast as they could, jumping fences and debris as they went, scrambling to get away with their lives. At least they would have that, but little else as they would no longer be welcome into Don’s warm but evil embrace.

  “Let ‘em go. Don’t suspect they’ll be back.”

  The two returned to C&C, finding Cory up on both elbows and Clayton inspecting the ‘through and through’ bullet wound which penetrated his friend’s left side, leaving both a small entrance and exit wound. The bullet struck no vitals and in fact was barely bleeding. Clayton, though concerned, could not help himself from poking fun at his heroic friend.

  “You think you’re Willie Mays or something? Don’t you know you’re white, boy?” The two shared a knowing smile as Farrell dropped to a knee and reached for Cory’s hand.

  “Wish we had time to relive your bravery but we’re still in a fight. Clayton, get yer .270 up on the rooftop and see what you can do from there. I’m gonna head south and see what’s going on. Godfrey, stay here and keep an eye on the post and Cory. I’ll send Mel when we can spare her,” Farrell issued the order, and then looked Cory in the eyes. “Great catch, Cory. I owe you big time!”

  Godfrey helped Cory to his feet and found a comfortable place for him to rest, while the others headed back into the fight. “Pip, pip, Whitcomb, jolly good of you to help us out,” Cory said, doubling over in pain as he laughed at his stupid remark. Godfrey wasn’t quite sure if he should be offended or not, but for now, he’d put up with just about anything the cheeky fellow had to say.

  * * *

  At the same time that the fight for the northern rim was being waged and won, the defenders to the west were fighting an equally intense war. As with the other positions, the claymores had proven effective, slowing down the marauding attackers but not stopping them entirely. Roger pressed his advantage in men and fire power, cautiously limping them forward, jumping from one fence line to the next, bringing a hail of lead and copper to dwell on the little outpost that protected Rod, Allison and two others.

  Within the first few minutes of the fight, Rod could no longer tell his friend that he had not shot another human being. It had passed with little conscious thought or effort. With bullets crashing into wood and flesh there was no time to consider the lofty consequences of one’s actions. He simply brought the gun to bear on another who would gladly take his life, pulled the trigger and watched the man stumble and fall in a pool of his own blood. It had not happened once, but numerous times, over the past twenty minutes. Allison thought she had what it would take to fight for her life but when the noise, the bullets and the blood started flying, it was overwhelming for the woman.

  “Gary, Farrell, we can’t hold!” Rod had yelled into the walkie-talkie, after the second of his men took a head wound and fell to the back of the fortified installation. Farrell answered from his truck as Gary watched from the top of the school. “Rod, fall back to the gym. Get out of there now!” The chiefs knew they were stretched too thin and every possible fighter was in place. It was at that moment when the western flank would have fallen that Gary saw Allan, wrapped in a towel, rush the barricade and his friends.

  “Wait a minute Farrell! I can see . . . Well, I’ll be . . . ” Gary said, surprised with the sudden turn of events.

  “What is it?” Farrell asked.

  “Allan. It’s Allan! The big lug just ran out of the school carrying the Browning. Looks like he’s headed to Rod and Allison’s position. He’s got some kind of a towel, or something, wrapped around his waist, like a loincloth. Craziest thing I’ve ever seen!”

  “Good, good boy! I’m headed to the south side. Keep me posted.”

  “Allison, we can’t hold! Get back to the school and I’ll follow!” Rod shouted.

  “I’m not leaving you! If we die, we die together!”

  Rod fired the last burst from his assault rifle and then dropped to his bride’s side. “That’s the last of my ammo; we’ll be overrun in seconds. Get out of here! It’s not a request,” he yelled, grabbing her by the arm and throwing her out the back of the bunker. The Jenson brother pulled his 9mm automatic from his hip holster and stepped to the side of the bunker, protecting his wife as she surged toward the school. Shells converged on the smaller man as he selected his targets and backpedalled slowly, hoping Allison was getting the time she needed to flee. The sound of his pistol gave her comfort as she ran ahead, then suddenly they stopped. She dropped to her knees and turned to see Rod, face first in the mud with men advancing toward him.

  “No! No!” she screamed, a sudden burst of tears clouding her vision. Without thought for her own safety, she struggled to free the 9mm from her waist and flew back down the slope that led to Rod. Firing into the ranks of the advancing assailants, she arrived at the side of her downed husband. She rolled him over and looked for any spark of life coming from his eyes. He smiled at the beautiful woman he called his own and winked at her, whispering ever so slightly, “I . . . love you.” She laid him back into the mud and leaned over his frame, protecting him while firing her pistol repeatedly into
the few who had not given up the fight.

  When her clip was empty she tossed the gun aside and reached for Rod’s, pulled it from the mud and continued her one-woman barrage. Suddenly, Allison heard the distinct chugging of a large machine gun coming from behind her. She whipped her head around to see Allan charging down the slope, a belt of ammo wrapped around his torso and the heavy machine gun firing as he rushed their position. She grinned, a sudden warmth enveloping her, knowing that their guardian had been sent. The big man moved forward, shooting a steady stream of bullets into the advancing men, slowing them and sending some back from whence they came.

  Roger watched in amazement as some of his brave warriors turned and ran, screaming from the scene. A man dressed in a towel stood before a pair clinging to one another in the mud of the battlefield. Astonished, Roger lowered his own weapon and was turning to leave the battle, and the life he’d found in Utah, but was startled to hear the sound of a gun firing near him. He spun to see one of his remaining men, a crazed warrior, charge the big man and the couple he protected.

  Allan stood his ground, the barrel of the gun burning into his arm but not flinching from his responsibility to protect his friends. From his position he could see the battle was all but won, when from out of nowhere, a man charged their position from his left. Before he had time to swing the gun and take the attacker down, three well-placed shots hit the gentle giant in the chest, dropping him to his knees, silencing the Browning machine gun. Allan collapsed, falling forward on top of the gun, leaving nothing between Allison and the killer.

  Recognizing his advantage, the Harvester walked the short distance to Allison. She spread herself over Rod and did not plead for her life, but rather, looked into the eyes of the man and glared her defiance. A shot rang out and she closed her eyes to accept the inevitable, but death did not come. Instead, the assailant toppled over, a fresh exit wound in his forehead. Behind him, a man that Allison didn’t recognize, slid his pistol back into his holster, turned and left the battlefield. She fell into Rod, covering his face with the warmth of her tears.

  For Roger, the battle for Bear River was over. He had a new vision of who he was and the man he could become. It would require leaving this life behind and starting the search anew. He climbed into the only running vehicle and drove away from the scene, leaving behind him the ruthless, the barbaric, and the evil.

  Chapter 26

  By the time the Sergeant was able to drive the short distance to the southern security post, it was too late. Through the windshield, he could see Mel and a lone survivor running across the stubble-covered field that separated the school from the perimeter. The two were periodically stopping, to return fire, before turning and running for their lives. Farrell could see a host of men taking up firing positions in the once held, Bear River defensive structure. He stomped on the accelerator, pushing the truck to its limits, shooting a rooster tail of mud from behind the roaring vehicle. Once he was close enough to pick up the two desperate runners, he blocked their bodies with the beefed-up truck and hurriedly motioned for them to jump in. Mel climbed into the cab while the middle-aged man rolled into the bed, giving Farrell a thumbs up when he was ready to move out. Looking to his left, Farrell could see that the line of advancing men had left the safety of the bunker and were moving cautiously into the field, firing wildly, with some rounds crashing into the body of the big truck. Without anyone in the Ford firing a shot, a man surging ahead of the advancing party dropped, taking a round to the head. Then another fell nearby, hit squarely in the throat by a high velocity round. This was enough to send the men scrambling back to the bunker for cover.

  “That’s gotta be Clayton,” Farrell said, looking over at the weary warrior now seated next to him.

  “Thankfully,” Mel said, wiping the sweat from her brow, while looking out the window at the effect their sniper was having on the attacking force. ”Get us out of here!” she stressed, as a bullet hit the driver’s window, not penetrating, but spider-webbing the polycarbonate glass.

  “You all that’s left?” Farrell asked, not wanting to believe that everyone else had been killed.

  “Yes, now move, move, move!” she shouted, as the volume of shells hitting the truck increased.

  Farrell crushed the pedal again, spinning the back end around and spewing mud everywhere. “Call in to Gary, he should be in the ‘nest’ by now. Have him blow the southern barrels.”

  “You sure about that?” she asked.

  “It’s our only hope of slowing them down. Do it! Do it now!” he exclaimed, while taking more rounds as they sped toward the protection of the school.

  “Gary, you there? It’s Mel. You seeing this?”

  “Yeah, Clayton and I are on the roof. We were able to see you bug out. You two the only ones?” He too was disheartened by the loss of life.

  “Yes. Listen, Farrell wants you to blow the barrels on the southern perimeter. We need it done now. There are too many of them. Hurry Gary!”

  The Community Chief did not take the time to reply as he moved to the panel of switches and wires that Farrell had created some time ago, for just such a purpose. It had been months since he’d looked into the panel but the labeling was still visible. A main switch had to be activated to bring power to the unit, which he immediately spun with a flick of his wrist. A few lights flickered on the exposed panel, providing a glimmer of hope to the electronically challenged leader. A series of toggle switches were arrayed on the panel, four rows of four, each with a rudimentary label indicating which controlled the north, south, east and west explosive barrels. Gary reached for the row assigned to ‘south’ and flicked the first switch. There was no response. His heart sank as he toggled the switch a couple more times with no resulting explosions. He then turned his attention to the main power switch and tripped it again; lights flashed and power appeared to be flowing. What’s the problem . . . he thought, clicking all four of the southern switches at the same time, which then produced the sound he had been waiting to hear.

  A quarter of a mile away the jaws of hell opened and devoured most of Jimmy’s men. The lethal mixture of fertilizer and chemicals erupted in a colossal display of explosive power, lifting men, metal, and dirt over a hundred feet into the air. The shock wave blew out the windows on the southern exposure of the school and nearby homes. Men who, moments before were using the drums for protection, were consumed in the blink of an eye, vaporized and returned to the dust of the earth. The fallen Bear Riverites were consumed with them, as well. The Sergeant’s truck, with the escaping trio, was blown sideways as it reached the blacktop at the southeast corner of the school. The fighter riding in the bed of the pickup did not get away unscathed. Both eardrums ruptured from the extreme concussion of the blast, rendering him almost deaf but still alive. The rear window of the hastily retreating truck caved but did not break. A shower of debris littered the field they left in their wake. A few survived, including Jimmy, who watched the destruction from the safety of a home located a block away. His hate for Farrell and the people of Bear River was bitter, which prompted him to lead his band of eager assailants but he was not stupid and led from the rear, giving him another day to fight.

  “Don? Don, you there?” Jimmy asked, moving from backyard to backyard trying to reach the safety of the Subway shop without being detected. He ran on, finally stopping long enough to catch his breath and cautiously walked to the main road. The unit leader was pleased to see that he was not alone as three others emerged from backyards and houses to join him in the street, each packing their weapon, some bleeding and dazed.

  “We just got our butts handed to us, Jimmy,” an enraged Bullock follower concluded.

  “You’re not telling me anything I don’t already know. Bullock’s not answering. Don’t know if he’s dead or not,” Jimmy informed the motley crew. “Let’s get back to the sub shop and decide what we do now.”

  “I ain’t goin’ back up ‘ere!” the oldest of the survivors yelled, not realizing he was speaking
much louder than he needed to. He had been fairly close to the blast when it had gone off, but was saved by a sturdy fence that also endured the explosion. The aging man had determined that the fight was no longer his, only moments before the barrels had gone up in a ball of fire. He now recognized that the few steps he’d put between him and the Bear River battle were all that saved his life. “Uh-uh, I ain’t gonna harm them people no more! If Don wants ‘em dead, he can do the killin’,” he said, shaking his head, while opening his mouth as wide as he could in an attempt to restore a balance with his inner ear and his hearing.

  “What was that?” Burst forth from the device Jimmy had clipped to his left shoulder, the speaker’s high-pitched nasal tone belonging to none other than Don Bullock.

  “You alive? Thought maybe we’d lost you,” the squad leader replied.

  “You bet I’m alive, gonna take more than a bunch of farmers to finish me off. What happened there a minute ago? Sounded like the whole place went up.”

  “Well, I’ll tell ya what. We just got our butts kicked! That ring of barrels you thought were filled with sand, are actually filled with some sort of explosives. That little bit of information would of come in handy!” Jimmy wanted to be more forceful in expressing the inept way in which Don had handled the assault but he knew any criticism might likely result in his death.

  “Explosives? He’s a tricky piece of work! Anybody get Farrell or the medication?” Don asked.

  “Not from my group. Only four of us left, or six, if you count the women we left behind. We never even got close to the school but I can’t speak for any of the other units. Where are you? I thought you were going to hit them with a second wave of attacks, once we softened them up.”

  “That was the plan but we took some mortar rounds and had to reposition the reserve units. I’m just trying to decide how we proceed now that so many have been killed,” Don said, far more unsure than he had been earlier in the day, when he estimated the whole battle would be over within minutes. “You have no idea who’s still fighting, or how many are still alive?”