The Living Hunger

by Dennis F. Larsen

  Gary drove the diesel, situated toward the rear of the convoy, carrying a pile of their loved ones in the back, their sacrifice forever etched into their hearts and minds as they left Bear River High. Godfrey rode with him, a crate of medical vials on the seat between them: the fruits of a hard fought battle and the currency of the future. Clayton and a bandaged Cory brought up the rear, the heavy machine gun taken from Allan’s arms now mounted in the back of the jeep, a blood stained belt of ammo dangling from its side.

  Chapter 28

  The afternoon sun was casting long, eastern-stretched shadows by the time Bullock’s reinforcements made the 20-mile trip, joining the others who were milling about in front of the old Subway shop. Jimmy and Don looked over a rudimentary style map, laying out the school, the fortifications and where they would push through the defenses with their superior force.

  “They’ve had plenty of time to rebuild the southern perimeter. We should’ve moved on them without waiting for the others,” Jimmy said, upset that they might be going up against stiff resistance again, due to Don’s inept military planning.

  “Won’t matter. With 60 of us, there’s no way they’ll be able to keep us out. I’m sending Vinny in with a truck to run the barricade, just in case there are more of those blasted barrels. The crazy bugger is actually excited. We’ll follow behind. Everybody stays in the trucks until we get to the school, and then we’ll flood the hallways and take what we want. Half will peel off to the front and half to the back. Remember, no male survivors but Jenson!” Don said.

  “Okay, that’ll put six vehicles on either side. I’ll take the back if you want the front,” Jimmy confirmed.

  “Right, let’s do this. I hate to move out without Solomon. No sign of him yet?” Don asked, a true, yet minimal degree of concern in his voice.

  “Nope, nothing yet. A couple of the boys checked out your demolished jeep and the collapsed elevator but no sign of him. Don’t know if he walked away or Farrell got his hands on him. Maybe he’ll show up after this is all over.”

  “Well, we can’t wait on him. There’s killin’ that needs to be done!” Don stood before the congregation of misfits and issued the same instructions he had a short time before, reminding the attackers of their obligations and goals. The throng of men, with a few women interspersed, shouted their approval, thrusting their weapons in the air and pounding their chests. “Mount up!” he ordered.

  The string of pickups, military trucks and converted cars picked up speed as they rushed the southern side of the school. Vinny led the way, his right foot mashed to the floorboard of the 1999 Chevy half-ton, the roar of the engine muffled by the sound of 11 others surging forward, hot on his tail. As they neared the school, the others dropped back in anticipation of Jimmy getting blown to smithereens. Surprisingly, the lead truck burst through the scattered debris from the previous explosion without setting off a similar event, the others accelerated and branched off, half to the front and half to the rear of the school.

  Men jumped from cars and trucks alike, racing for the doors of the school, providing a safe corridor for their leader to pass through. Don, once free from the confines of his truck’s cab, ambled up to the bear that stood as a defiant emblem of the people who had resisted his pervasive charm. The big man struggled with the zipper of his oversized pants, unable to see what he was doing and manipulated the opening from memory and feel alone. When he could feel the cold breeze against his member, he knew he was free and proceeded to relieve himself on the head of the iconic statue. Cheers erupted from his crew, but conquering heroes they were not. No shots were fired but for the idiot who took his foot off with a sawed off shotgun when it discharged as he leapt from the back of a truck. A friend had run a makeshift tourniquet around his lower leg and pushed him back into the truck’s bed, before charging into the school in search of his share of liver and women.

  Section leaders approached the big man now sitting on the bear’s back, a tightly rolled cigar held between his teeth as a curl of smoke wafted lazily into the afternoon sky. The reports were all the same. No Bear River dead, no medical vials and no resistance.

  Jimmy approached the bloated leader. “The boys are pretty upset that there’s nobody here and the only bodies lying about are our own. What do you want us to do with ‘em? Bury them?”

  Don ran his tongue over the butt of the cigar, allowing the juices to tantalize his taste buds before he removed the stogie from his lips and spat a brown glob of saliva to the ground, barely missing Jimmy’s foot. “Will you have a problem with harvesting the livers from our own?” he asked, testing the waters of such a vile act. To date, the group had only been brutal enough to remove the organs from enemies, drifters, or those foolish enough to enter their domain without Bullock’s permission. The necessary tissue was removed and consumed by those in the hierarchy of Don’s leadership. Others took part as well, forming a secret society of ‘the willing’, or Harvesters, in a taboo despised by the world, but embraced by those amenable to any act which would assure their survival.

  Jimmy shrugged his shoulders, unsure of his own feelings, and thought for a few seconds before speaking. “I guess we do what we gotta do. I don’t know how else we’ll keep up with our needs, especially if we can’t find the medication from that lab in Colorado.”

  “There’s not going to be any vaccine, Jimmy. Farrell and company would have made sure of that. Find a few of the boys that are up to doing the harvesting and set them to work on the corpses. No sense taking anything but the livers for now. I’m sure we’ll find food stores somewhere in the school, so have some others search the rooms and load up anything of value. I’m going to take a couple of the trucks and some men and see if we can determine where they went. Turns out Farrell is smarter than he is brave.”

  “Will do. We meeting you back here or down south?” Jimmy inquired.

  “Oh, won’t take you long to finish up here. Strip the place bare and we’ll meet you back at base. Looks like liver’s on the menu after all.”

  Don rounded up twelve of his best shots, loaded them up in four of the faster vehicles and headed north, knowing that Farrell wouldn’t chance a run directly east, where the spearhead of the previous assault had originated. Going south would be foolish, right into the mouth of the lion? Don thought not. He’s going to run north and just keep going, until he figures he’s out of harm’s way, or pivot east, and take the one road that leads over the mountain and into the adjacent valley, Don thought. He ran the possible routes through his mind and decided to divide his force and send some east, while he and the remaining men pushed further north in search of the retreating Bear Riverites. His money was on Cache Valley, but he was in no mood for another run-in with Farrell and his sneaky tactics. He’d have someone else risk their life to confirm his suspicions.

  Chapter 29

  The Bear River convoy moved steadily away from the life they’d known and created for themselves within the confines of a barricaded compound, complete with a healthy food supply, a reliable well, and what they thought was adequate security. Few looked back, knowing that to stay would mean death or enslavement but what lay before them, no one knew. The chiefs had discussed such an evacuation plan long before today, ruling out some destinations, while questioning others. Cache Valley had been the prime target for a quick migration, especially now that Rod had surveyed Star Valley to the west, and ruled it out. Over the past four years the little community had virtually no contact with the survivors hunkered down in the rich valley to their east. The occasional word would come their way, as drifters passed from one location to the next, but there had been no direct talks or communications. Farrell and company were not quite sure what type of reception they might receive but were hoping for the best.

  “Mel, how they doing back there?” Farrell asked, over his communication device, speaking to the medic, who was trying to keep warm while looking after the wounded men.

  “They’re both out but alive. We’ll need to stop someplace pretty
quick so I can get a better look at them. They won’t survive a two hour drive over a mountain, unless they get more treatment than what we’ve given them.”

  “Gotcha! There’s only one road that’ll take us through the pass. Don will know that, as well, but I don’t think we have a choice. In a mile or so I’ll get us headed that way, should be a truck stop at the base of the mountain you can use and it should be defendable.”

  “That sounds good. Do you have any idea what to expect once we cross over?” Mel asked.

  “All indications are that the people are friendly but leery of strangers, much like we’ve been, so I expect we’ll be okay once they recognize the trouble we’ve had. Got to be better than the other alternatives, although going north would be fairly safe but too much space, with not enough around to sustain a group this big. I still think Cache Valley is our best bet. There might even be some family we’re not aware of mixed in with the people where we’re headed. I’ll give you a head’s up when we’re getting close.”

  “Thanks, Allison could use a break as well, she’s had a miserable day,” Mel said, looking at the young woman snuggled up against Rod, her left arm and leg wrapped around him, keeping him warm and out of the cold wind.

  “Farrell,” Gary interjected. “Should we all stop or would it be wise to have a group scout ahead for signs of trouble?”

  “It’s a thought but I’m more concerned about what we’ve got comin’ up behind us, rather than anything that lies ahead. Better stay together, at least until we see how Mel makes out with Rod and Allan. In a few hours it’ll be dark, hopefully Don will call it quits for the day. He should be busy stealing everything we’ve collected. Who knows? Maybe he won’t come this way at all.” The minute the words left his lips, Farrell knew it was more than just wishful thinking. It sounded more like an outright lie. Don would be coming, he was sure of that. Much like the Koreans had been years before, they were driven to impose their will on neighbors and foes alike. Too bad I don’t have a tank this time. Once again, wishful thinking at its best.

  C&C brought up the rear, keeping an eye behind them for movement or headlights. It would be dark before long, making their job much easier but the day’s events were starting to take their toll on the injured and confused Cory. “Clayton, dude, what was that the Major gave me? It’s making me see things,” Cory said, waving at some unseen objects before him in the front of the jeep.

  “What are you doing?” Clayton asked, looking at the odd antics of his friend. “She gave you a little bit of morphine. Said it’d help you get through the day and take the ache out of your side. You’re pretty lucky, man; she said it looked like a .32 or 9 mil that hit ya. Anything bigger and we’d have picked you up with a scoop shovel after that grenade went off.”

  “Did you see that move? Best catch and throw I’ve ever made!” Cory said excitedly. “Hey, but next time remind me just to roll over and cover my ears,” he continued jokingly. Again Cory reached for something in the air, swatting at the invisible pest.

  “What are you doing? You’re really starting to creep me out. Just stop it.”

  “Don’t you see ‘em? They’re all over in here!”

  “What are all over in here? There’s just you and me!” Clayton confirmed.

  “Clayton, the little red spiders. They’re crawling all over and drifting through the air. Crap, I hate spiders!”

  “Got to be the morphine, Cory. Sit back and close your eyes. If I need your help I’ll let you know but stop talking about it. You’re making me feel like I got bugs crawling all over me.”

  Cory leaned back and closed his eyes, his mind floating from one bizarre thought to the next. The little procession wound its way north away from the school before turning abruptly east to the mountains and Cache Valley. Cory suddenly sat up and stared into the back of the jeep, a wild look glazed over his eyes. “Clayton, Clayton! What’s Nicolas Cage doing in the back?”

  A short time later and without interruptions the group rolled into a large, abandoned truck stop. The station had once serviced a vast number of semis and trailers that traveled north along the mountain front. The thriving gas station and restaurant had all but shut down once the interstate was completed 20 years prior, pushing the big rigs down a modernized freeway, practically killing the locally owned shop in the process. The farmers and ranchers had done their best, providing some patronage for the withering business, but the war had finally closed it for good. Boards now covered the broken windows, a sign, hanging from a single chain, swung back and forth, a testament to better days. A wind swirled down the mountain, bending the trees in a uniform angle away from the canyon’s mouth; too many years of fighting against the unrelenting force of nature showing in their trunks and branches.

  Farrell’s truck was the first to come to a stop. He called out to Cory and Clayton before he exited the cab. “Boys, hold back a piece and cover the rear ‘til we see what we got here. A quarter mile should do it and holler out if you spot anything.”

  “Got it Sarge,” Clayton called back, poking Cory in the side to get his attention. “You hear that? Can you handle the Browning if we need it?”

  “Why? You don’t trust that Mr. Cage can deal with it?” Cory asked wryly.

  “Get up there and keep your eyes peeled for Bullock. Shouldn’t be too hard to spot, just look for the blimp driving a tiny vehicle,” Clayton said, kind of enjoying being the one in charge for a change.

  Farrell moved cautiously to the front door of the station, his assault rifle in hand and one of the younger men providing backup. There would be no need to break-in; a crow bar had done that job some time ago, the rusted instrument partially buried in the dirt nearby. The Sergeant motioned for the fellow to close the gap between them but to follow him quietly with his gun at the ready. Alex, a shaggy haired man in his early 20’s, slowly pulled back the bolt of his rifle and inspected the chamber for a round. A gleam of brass glinted before his eyes, giving him all the information he needed to proceed.

  Passing through the entrance and into the building brought an immediate foulness and overwhelming fetor to both men’s nostrils. The younger man recoiled, bending over and emptying the contents of his stomach on an old candy machine. “Nice,” Farrell said, looking over at his companion, happy that he had at least missed expelling his guts all over him.

  “What is that?” Alex asked, wiping the excess vomit away from his lips with the back of his jacket’s sleeve.

  “Smells like something’s dead in here,” he emphasized in a whisper.

  The area where they stood was the dividing point between the gas station portion of the business and the eatery; a hallway connected the two, a pair of bathrooms before them and no one in sight. “Let’s check here first,” Farrell said, pointing his weapon to the left at a large glass counter that was still, mostly intact. The two carefully but efficiently went through the store, long since emptied by looters. It was clear. No dead bodies but disappointingly nothing of value either. The two slid from the store through the narrow hallway and into the eatery, the smell so thick they could taste it. Farrell reached for a handkerchief that he kept in his rear pocket, covering his nose long enough to get a breath before plunging onward.

  A row of booths lined the wall dead ahead. Stray rays of light punched through the slats of wood that protected the deserted business, cascading over the Formica tables and red padded chairs. The Sergeant pressed his back against a wall to their left, in preparation of swinging into the room for a closer look. Before doing so, he leaned ever so slightly past the corner to peek into the dining room. His head snapped back, a look of bewilderment and surprise on his face. He nodded to his now trembling backup, lifting one finger in the air, then pointing with the same finger in the direction of the back of the diner. “I’ll go first. Stay close. We got one guy at a table near the back,” he spoke, moving his mouth but not uttering a sound.

  Farrell, lifting three fingers into the air, counted them down by closing them, one by one, until he ha
d a fist, at which point they rushed into the room. They leveled their rifles at the old man seated in a booth, his head hung low over the table. The two armed men reluctantly approached the vagrant, sights fixed on his chest and head should he make a move they found threatening. He did not; rather he moved with the speed of a turtle, slowly bringing his head around on a pencil-thin neck to look at the men interrupting his afternoon meal: a bag of chips and a nasty looking glass of water. He said nothing, in fact, did not even acknowledge the men were present but returned his attention to the chips, lifting a salty morsel to his wind-cracked lips with a hand that looked like it had not been washed in days. A row of long, yellow nails, which were freakishly curled under, highlighted his gnarled phalanges.

  Although the vagrant was poorly dressed, filthy and foul smelling, he was not the source of the horrific smell that permeated the surroundings. Satisfied that the old man was not a threat, Farrell swept through the remainder of the restaurant while his second watched for trouble. In a room just off the kitchen and very near the booth where the wanderer sat, a corpse lay rotting. The room acted as a cold storage in years past, but now only a smattering of food remnants, covered in dense black mold and decay, lay on the floor and random shelves.

  Poor wretch must have been hungry enough to poison himself, the Sergeant thought, as he closed the door and put it from his mind.

  Entering the booth lined room; Farrell grabbed Alex by the arm and guided them both from the homeless drifter. “Get Mel and have them transport Rod and Allan in here. We’ll use the other side; at least we can breath over there. I don’t see that we’ll need to move this old feller, unless he gives us some trouble. Drag a couple of these tables over so she can use them for operating, if that’s what she has in mind. Have Gary grab whatever she’s gonna need, fresh water, towels. You know what kind of stuff I’m talking about.”