The Living Hunger

by Dennis F. Larsen

  The shaken man nodded his understanding but apparently didn’t move as fast as Farrell had intended, prompting the Security Chief to push him toward the doors. “Now man! My brother’s dying out there! Get a move on! Tell everybody to hustle. We may not have that much time.”

  Farrell returned his attention to the weary road warrior seated at the diner’s table. He’d seen similar over the years but never anything quite like this. Life had sucked him in, chewed him up and spat him back out, leaving a shell of a man but little else. The cruelty of men and the road were written into every wrinkle and scar etched into his weathered, old face. A well-worn and tattered sweater hung from his frame with the sleeves stretched out and holes large enough to put a fist through. A small, yellow tank top, turned black from bacteria and mold, barely covered his ribs. Baggy sweatpants, painted with mud, made an attempt at covering him from the waist down and a pair of dead squirrels dangled from a thin rope tied around his waist. Leather sandals held his feet flush with the floor, the nails, ground off from walking miles on coarse pavement, were comparable to those on his hands and stretched out from the ends of the open shoes.

  “You got a name, old timer?” Farrell asked, holding the hanky to his face.

  The walking corpse moved its head, bringing steel blue eyes to bear on the newcomer. His appearance, the closest to death that Farrell had ever seen from a body still upright and breathing, struck a chord of compassion with the veteran. The head, covered with long, mud crusted locks, shook slowly from side to side as he methodically munched on the chip in his mouth. “Hungry?” Farrell asked. A glimmer of hope washed over the man’s face. The whites of his eyes, turned yellow with jaundice, were now partially visible as he opened them as if to scream, Yes! The Chief retreated from the diner and ran to the vehicles, dodging those who were working feverishly to unload the necessary gear and men.

  “Gary, how’s Mel making out? Will she be ready to operate soon?” Farrell asked.

  “Shouldn’t be too much longer. I’m just trying to stay out of her way. I’ve checked on Allan and Rod, both still out but Allison’s optimistic. What’s the situation in there, Farrell?” Gary asked.

  “Oh, just an old guy about ready to die. Thought we could spare a meal. Anything I can do to speed things along?”

  “No, I think Mel has a pretty good handle on it and you can see how much help she’s got,” Gary said, sweeping his hands around the lot at the Bear Riverites hustling about with gear.

  Farrell rounded up some bread, cured ham and fresh water before returning to the old man. Moving with trepidation, Farrell brought the welcomed goods to the vagabond, laying them on the table, before stepping back and giving the old guy some space. The Chief watched in awe as the man bowed his head and whispered a quiet but heartfelt prayer. The Sergeant, as hard and gruff as he thought he was, could not fight back the wave of emotion that swept over him at that moment. He had expected the putrid figure to hastily grab and devour the food, but the opposite was taking place. Farrell watched the man slowly ingest the fresh food, letting it linger in his mouth before swallowing it down. He brought the bottle of water to his lips and drank slowly, with a degree of satisfaction that Farrell had never seen. Soon drops were landing on the table and Farrell brought forth the hanky to mop up what he thought was water spilling from the vessel. However, he soon realized the moisture was running from the man’s eyes, cleaning a path of dirt from his face, as they made their way to the table. At such close proximity, the fellow slowly reached for Farrell’s wrist and capturing it -- squeezed, speaking with a voice like the rush of a wind. “Thank . . . you.”

  Once the small but heavenly meal was completed, the old soul pushed himself unsteadily away from the table and to his feet. His withered hand pausing briefly on Farrell’s shoulder before he passed by and headed for the door. Suddenly he paused and turned, faced the Sergeant and spoke while looking, not at Farrell, but rather through him, “I have seen the end and now I have seen the new beginning. May God guide your steps and protect your way.” He said no more, but turned and shuffled out the door, not seeking or wanting any more assistance than what he had already received.

  Chapter 30

  Shouts echoed down the narrow hallway separating the two halves of the service center. The entry door opened and closed, time after time, as Mel’s helpers rushed items into the space. The underlying tension energized the atmosphere and set a mood that was near tactile.

  The Security Chief moved to the other side of the building, noting that space had been cleared and two tables were being wiped down with alcohol and clean towels. Mel was supervising the transformation from gas station to M.A.S.H. unit. She called out, ordering people here and there, reminding all that precious lives were at stake.

  “Farrell and Gary, get those men in here. I think we’re ready for them. They should already be on gurneys. I want Rod here,” the medic said, pointing to a table covered with a white sheet, “and Allan on this one. It seems to be a bit sturdier.”

  The two men wasted no time bounding for the exit and the waiting injured. In a matter of seconds, the wounded were lying on the tables having their clothing cut away and field dressings removed. Elva steered Allison away from the makeshift surgical suite and kept her busy preparing and delivering sandwiches to the hungry and tired. “Mel’s going to take real good care of him, Allison. She’s the best and Rod’s real strong. It’ll take more than a couple of bullets to drag him away from you. Believe me, everything is going to be all right,” Elva said, offering a steady stream of upbeat comments to assure Allison that all would be well.

  Farrell stood by, watching from a safe distance, not wanting to contaminate the work place but worried that he’d be too far away if a problem should arise. Gary placed his hand on the larger man’s shoulder, squeezing him gently before patting him and returning to the company of those trying to stay warm in the parking lot. “I’ll check on C&C. You want them to do anything different? Sun’s going down and it’ll be dark soon. Do they need to stay out there?” Gary asked, as he headed for the door.

  The Security Chief turned, a distant look in his eyes and replied, “See if they need somebody to spell them, if not, let them hang there for another little bit. Make sure Cory is okay. Mel said he should be fine until we get over the mountain, but see what you think.”

  “Will do. How you holding up? I know what kind of day this has been for you. Rod and Allan did a remarkable thing this afternoon. I hope they know how grateful everyone is to them,” Gary said, holding the door as he prepared to leave.

  “I’m sure they do in their own way, but I can’t help feeling that I should have been there. They needed me and I couldn’t get to them,” Farrell said, dropping his cleft chin to his chest, fighting back the swell of emotion that was teetering on the edge of his self-control.

  “You did more today than anyone could expect. You saved lives and we’ve never expected our security to be a one-man show. Those who gave their lives today did so because they believed in what we were building. They sacrificed so we could go on rebuilding a future. Don’t beat yourself up. We knew dark days would be ahead; just know that we, all of us, wouldn’t be alive tonight if it wasn’t for you and your tireless efforts. We owe you a big debt of gratitude, Farrell. Don’t forget that.”

  “Thanks Gary, it’s pretty hard to see the sunny side of a day from hell. I appreciate you trying to set me straight,” Farrell replied, offering Gary a quick two-finger salute at his cap as the Community Chief exited the building.

  Farrell strained to overhear the words that were being spoken in the nearby room. “Rose, could you put some pressure on the one there that won’t stop bleeding? He’s lost so much blood. The bullet may have penetrated through and struck an artery. This is much worse than I had anticipated.” He could hear Mel speaking in very controlled but concerned tones. Another woman stood at the end of the table holding Allan’s head steady, whispering words of encouragement to the semi-conscious man. Mel was fishing with
a long-nosed pair of surgical clamps for the first bullet lodged in his pectoral. The damage was substantial but not life threatening. His muscle wall was so dense that the bullet had been halted once it struck a rib. After a few minutes of pressing, twisting and feeling with the tip of the instrument she withdrew it, a metal jacketed slug in its jaws. “That’s one,” she said.

  “Farrell, can you wash up and help out with Rod for a minute? He’s doing well but if you could talk to him and keep him awake, it would be helpful, at least for now,” the medic instructed, knowing that Farrell was dying to get closer to his brother.

  “Sure, give me a second,” he responded, removing his military gear and moving to a bucket, where he washed and prepared to assist. Once ready, he quickly walked to his brother’s side and held his hand, his palm dwarfing Rod’s. For Farrell, the room suddenly became very quiet, the words being spoken and the actions in the room a thousand miles away as he looked at the pale, almost lifeless face of his younger brother. “Rod, Rod,” he spoke in a hushed tone. When there was no reply he knelt on the floor bringing his mouth very close to Rod’s ear, extending his right arm down the length of the table, keeping Rod’s hand in his. “Do you remember Mom’s sugar cookies? The way they’d smell when we’d get home from school. I can still hear her cussing and chasing us through the kitchen after we’d snuck a few. How ‘bout tubing down the irrigation ditch; remember how much fun that used to be? Rod, we still got lots more to do. You’ve got to hang in there. Who’s gonna be there to keep me out of trouble if you give up? There are too many people here that need you. Don’t you dare leave Allison and me. Do you hear me?” Farrell said, doing his best to lift Rod’s spirits and help him fight for his life.

  The big Sergeant kissed his brother on the ear, bent his head and offered a short but sincere prayer on behalf of his youngest sibling, offering his own life in exchange, if it were possible. As he spoke in the hushed, sacred communication with his maker, there was a sudden tightening at his hand. “Hey Farrell, don’t you have anything better to do?” Rod managed to say.

  “Not at the moment. How you doing?”

  “Good,” he said, coughing, prompting Farrell to restrain him and keep him from rolling off the table.

  “I can see how well you’re doing. You be ready for some pheasant hunting next week? I hear the birds in Cache Valley are twice as big as what we’ve been shooting,” Farrell joked.

  “Sure, can we take Elva with us? Way more fun when she goes,” Rod said, a little smile curling his lips.

  “You mean skunk woman? Yeah, I don’t know if we can talk her into another one of those outings or not, but I’ll sure try.”

  “Had the strangest dream. Saw Dad and Shirt, they were . . . ” Rod trailed off, the morphine starting to fade as the pain returned to his chest.

  Farrell comforted him, looking to Mel for guidance. “Farrell, you doing okay over there? I’m short on meds, so just try to keep him calm until we get finished up with Allan.”

  “How’s the big guy doing?” the Security Chief inquired.

  “He’s strong. Never seen anything like it. I managed to get the second slug but the third one is a problem. It’s too deep. I can’t stop the bleeding; an artery must be nicked or possibly his liver. I’ll need to open him up and I can’t do that here. Hell, I don’t know if I can do that anywhere. For now all I can do is pack this wound and see if the bleeding will stop. In a minute I want to trade you places. I’ll see to Rod while you keep an eye on Allan.”

  “Okay, you’re the boss.”

  Mel finished up with Allan, stitching and bandaging the two wounds from which she’d been able to extract the metal. The third continued to drop blood, even after she packed and bandaged the entrance wound as best she could. The two chiefs traded patients, placing Rod’s life squarely in the hands of a trained professional who more than anything, wanted to preserve his life. Farrell joined the woman assisting with Allan at the larger table, Allan’s chest lifting rhythmically up and down, periodically shuddering when the amount of oxygen was insufficient to feed his brain. The Chief held the over-sized cowboy’s hand, stroking the palm with his thumb, the extremity slowly but surely losing its warmth.

  “Mel, what’s happening?” he asked.

  “Hang tough Farrell, I’m almost done with Rod. I think he’s going to be okay. Some trauma but he’ll mend. Your little brother’s going to make it,” she replied.

  “Thanks Mel, you’ve been a godsend,” Farrell said, emotion breaking through his deep voice.

  Unexpectedly, Allan began to convulse, shaking uncontrollably, his eyes open but rolled back in his head with only the whites showing. “Mel, do something! Please help him!” Farrell called in a desperate cry for help. Mel rushed to Allan as Farrell held him, trying almost unsuccessfully to hold him to the table. The power in the farm boy was still very much evident, even in his death throes.

  “We’re losing him Farrell, too much blood loss, too much. He’s going into seizure. I was afraid this would happen,” she wailed.

  “Do something, for heaven’s sake. Do something,” Farrell screamed, feeling that his heart was being pulled from his chest.

  Mel reached for the last of her single dose morphine vials, broke off the protective cap and plunged the needle into Allan’s chest, dispensing the narcotic with a firm pinch of her fingers. Seconds later, the young man’s hulking physique lay still. Shallow, intermittent breaths replaced the steady breathing he’d had only moments before. His eyes, now clear and open, looked up at the ceiling overhead. Then, sensing his mentor nearby, he moved his gaze to fall upon Farrell’s saddened expression, moist for the anguish of his friend. The Chief took his hand, noting that Allan was trying to speak, and lowered his ear to the boy’s lips.

  “Did I . . . do good?” he asked, his voice all but non-existent.

  “Yes son, you surely did. I can’t tell you how proud I am of you. If I ever have a son, I hope he can be half the man you are. Words just aren’t enough . . . ” Overwhelmed with emotion Farrell was unable to complete his thought.

  “Rod . . . ” he said haltingly. “He . . . gonna make it?”

  Farrell was unable to speak but nodded in the affirmative.

  “Then it was . . . was . . .worth it.” He closed his eyes, another spasm taking control of his body momentarily, before he settled for a final time, his limbs going limp, a gurgle beginning in his throat that could not be cleared.

  The brokenhearted Security Chief bent close to his friend, kissed his cheek, and spoke into his ear, embracing him as he did, “Allan, thank you.”

  Allan responded with a wisp of the faintest smile and mouthed to his comrade, and those that stood nearby, tears dripping from their cheeks, “You . . . my . . . my . . . family.” With that, the strapping young man, with a big teddy bear of a heart, slipped from this life to the next, leaving behind a family of friends that would miss him more than he could have ever understood. His mission complete and his life sacrificed in the defense of others; it was a story that would be repeated often. A legend among men, a Goliath wrapped in a towel, toting a machine gun in defense of his friends and their freedom. Truly he was a giant in more ways than one.

  Farrell met Elva and Allison as he exited the building, the look in his eyes telling a story that neither woman wanted to hear.

  “Allan?” Elva managed to ask.

  Her husband, still unable to speak, nodded yes as he took her in his arms and wept. The loss of his friend hit him much harder than he had imagined it would. Allison left the couple to enter the ‘infirmary’, finding Mel covering Allan, as others prepared to transport Rod to the waiting vehicles. “How’d it go?” she asked, her speech slow and trembling.

  Mel responded, a sickness in her voice that Allison had only heard on one other occasion: the death of her infant. “Rod will do well, but we lost Allan. Couldn’t control the bleeding,” she said, shaking her head, assuming most of the blame for the young man’s death.

  “You did everything y
ou could under the circumstances. We all know that! Thanks for saving my Rod. I’ll forever be in your debt and Allan’s. I mean that,” Allison said, taking the medic in her arms and hugging her tightly.

  “Thanks Allison, now come on. We don’t have time to waste. Farrell wants to get back on the road A-SAP.”

  “What can I do to help?”

  The women rushed about cleaning up what needed to be taken with them, leaving the rest for the next scavengers who happened into the gas station. As the group prepared to roll, a call came forward from Cory and Clayton, still parked a portion of a mile down the road.

  “We got lights! Looks like two sets moving this way. Not too fast, they’re being real careful but they are definitely headed this way,” Clayton said, watching as Cory climbed into the rear of the jeep.

  “Okay, good time to leave. Everybody, listen up and stay tight! Stay on me and don’t use your lights. We’ll run on mine alone. Clayton, snug it up and keep that .30 cal pointed down the road behind us. They get too close, hit ‘em.”

  “Right Farrell, we’ll be right behind you,” Clayton confirmed, knowing in fact that they would not. The time spent sitting on the road, waiting and talking, had spelled out a greater purpose for the two young men, on this night of escape and elusion. They watched the convoy move out, heading down the road away from their position. The two looked somber but felt the action they were taking was for the greater good. So the buddies waited, guns at the ready and a fighting spirit in their hearts.

  Chapter 31

  ‘Welcome to Idaho’ read a rust-streaked sign mounted atop a pair of metal poles, pitted and weatherworn from years of neglect. Before passing the sign, two trucks rolled to a stop, the loose gravel crunching under the tires. Bullock motioned for the driver of the lead vehicle to pull to the shoulder, a sense of relief in his voice. His assumption, from what he could tell, had been correct; the Bear River refugees had traveled east.