The Living Hunger

by Dennis F. Larsen

  Remy, now 33, was of average build, with dark brown hair that he wore with youthful bangs and a part down the left side of his head. His eyes, from a distance, appeared to be dark but upon closer inspection it was apparent they were amber colored with small, dark freckle-like spots scattered across both irises. These flecks optically coalesced to appear darker, hiding the amber from view. The intelligent, well-spoken man was not strikingly handsome nor was he homely. He was just average with a narrow nose and small thin lips but with strong hands and long, spindly fingers that led most to believe that he was a pianist, rather than a healer.

  Sitting in the corner of the room, taking in the joyful news but not actively participating, was Boyd Bubley. If there ever was a time when a person’s last name could have been more inappropriately bestowed, it was now, and with Boyd. He’d lived long enough and seen enough hatred and killing for ten lifetimes and the ugliness had taken its toll. A 30-year retiree from the Marine Corp, serving in Iraq, Afghanistan and numerous other theaters of war had done nothing to soften the old bird-colonel, but rather had honed his persona to be just as hard and direct as a man can be. Colonel Bubley was the go-to-guy for The Ward, assuming all responsibilities for the safety of the members, not because he had been assigned or even asked but because he was the only one who could. He’d stepped up to the challenge and had done a remarkable job of banding the group together, training those that were trainable, and issuing commands to civilians as if they were under his direct military command. Most, especially the thirty and older crowd, appreciated his forthrightness but some among their 200 had not necessarily signed on for boot camp, as it were.

  Boyd was not quite sure what he thought of the Bear River Group. Eyeing them closely over the past few days had eased his fears some, but he would continue to monitor them firsthand until his gut told him otherwise. He already sensed a possible power struggle with this newcomer, Farrell. The Sergeant was charismatic, handsome, easy to fetch a smile; pretty much everything that he was not, but he also found himself unable to dislike him either. The two had shared a coffee earlier in the day, told war stories and talked about their vision of the future for themselves and the people that their lives affected. The Colonel had no family to speak of. His wife had passed away while he was serving in Afghanistan, and he’d never been home long enough to have any children. He’d lived for the military and once retired, lived for the occasional golf game, hunting trip, and ‘peace and quiet’. He now lived for the good people of The Ward, sacrificing his time, sleep and even his blood on their behalf.

  Farrell respected the old veteran and told him so, expressing gratitude and a desire to assimilate their numbers into the ranks of The Ward, at least for now. The Sergeant offered his own talents and those of his group to assist and strengthen The Ward, possibly boosting the valley’s security.

  Clark hurriedly stepped through the door, interrupting the friendly banter within the room. A young man carrying an assault rifle slid in behind him, his face tense with worry. “Boyd, one of our sentries is missing,” he said, keeping his voice down as not to disturb the group gathered around Rod’s bed. “We’ve looked everywhere and no one’s seen him since he left his post early this morning.”

  “Who is it?” Boyd asked, lifting his large frame from the corner chair, while running a hand over his thinning comb-over, which he normally had hidden under a marine emblazoned baseball hat.

  “David,” the younger man said. ”He was with me until our shift ended around 4:00 a.m. We walked part way back to our rooms before he said he was thirsty and wanted to get a drink. I went to bed and figured I’d see him this morning but his bed hasn’t been slept in, and there’s no sign of him.”

  “Any chance he just took off? Has anyone from the other guard stations seen him?” Boyd asked.

  “We’ve talked with them all and they report the same, nobody’s seen him and I doubt he’s left the compound. We even did a walk around to see if there was any torn cloth or blood on the wire. There was none,” Clark noted, nervously shifting his weight from one foot, then back to the other.

  Farrell had been listening to the chatter coming from the corner but didn’t offer any assistance, at least not yet. For the moment he was content to have someone else carry the burden of security, especially while Rod was still on the mend. However, Mel could not help herself and stepped away from the bed, joining Boyd and the others. “You’ve got a missing individual?” she asked.

  “We sure . . . ” Clark began but was cut off by the old marine.

  “Yes, but it’s nothing that we want to worry you with. It’s not too unusual. We’ll probably find him shacked up with one of the young ladies or asleep in the library,” he said, excusing Mel before she even had a chance to volunteer her services.

  “I’m a pretty fair tracker, perhaps . . . ” Again he interjected his thought before the speaker could finish.

  “We’ll certainly keep that in mind, Miss. I’ll have Clark here round you up if there’s a need, but thanks for the offer,” he concluded, taking Clark by the elbow and leading him out of the room; the young, armed man followed closely behind.

  “Boyd, don’t you think we could use her help?” Clark asked, once the door had closed behind the three of them.

  “Doesn’t it strike you as odd that we’ve gone, how long . . . two years, without anybody suddenly vanishing, and then this group shows up and we’re missing a man? I won’t be seeking their help, especially if we find out that they are the problem.”

  “I see your point but they seem like good people and Mel there is ex-military,” Clark offered, being careful not to step on Bubley’s toes.

  “Well, let’s handle this on our own. Clark, you take half a dozen guys and search the north half of the campus; every room, every nook and cranny. You got that?” the Colonel said, sternly.

  “Sure, and I’m guessing you’ll do the southern half?”

  “Exactly. Radio me if anything turns up,” he said, nodding at the pair before moving quickly away, exhibiting a little hop-skip to his stride; thanks to a metal rod inserted into his right leg, courtesy of a Taliban sniper.

  As the men met outside the infirmary’s door, Mel talked briefly with Farrell, then excused herself to find Godfrey and discuss the valuable cargo, which the group had yet to reveal to The Ward. Over the past few days she had carefully and very secretly sought the remaining members of her company who were interested in the injection, and given them the same. Godfrey had assured her that the dosage was, one per person, per lifetime, leaving them with approximately 100 unused vials. None of the recipients had shown any adverse side effects but only a week had passed since she first injected Elva and the other women.

  The chemist had been busying himself on the campus, much like a child in a candy store, finding equipment, chemicals and other items that he felt he could use to duplicate the valuable liquid’s chemical compound. With the help of Farrell and Mel, he had convinced Boyd to let him fashion a viable laboratory under the guise of assisting Dr. Reynolds with formulations and treatments. Fortunately the chemistry building was included within the secured, fenced-in area The Ward had established early on. Other buildings included Old Main, which had been the headquarters for the school’s administration but now housed the majority of the security personnel, as well as documents and other important items the group had slowly been collecting from the surrounding city. Across from Old Main, the University Library stood as it always had, the center of activity for the school and now the community. Row after row of books, newspapers and data had been preserved for future generations, if there were to be any. The Quad, a large grassy area, 200 feet square, lay between Old Main on the west and the library to the east. North of the grassed expanse, an old historic-looking building, primarily used for classrooms, had been converted for housing, with ‘The Hub’ to its west: a two-storey modernized building hosting a cafeteria and storage for The Ward.

  For some time, at the end of the war and the fall of the organiz
ed militaries, the people of Cache Valley had done their best to live life as normally as they were able, staying in their homes, cleaning up their neighborhoods, and burying the dead. This lasted for a year until nameless scavengers began to prey on the weak, raping and occasionally killing to satisfy their own grotesque needs. It had not taken Boyd, or others like him, long to recognize the need for a centralized safety net. The University had proven to be perfect, sitting on the highest ground in the city at the mouth of the canyon. Old Main had three large turrets that lifted well above the skyline, providing a view of the entire valley and the surrounding structures. Boyd said it looked like it had been built with a military defense in mind. Surrounding the grounds that The Ward had secured and partitioned off, there was a quickly sloping grade of red clay that previously had been well-manicured lawns and majestic trees. The trees still stood offering some beauty to the grounds but little else grew beyond the reach of the compound. The southern exposure of the campus dropped off very quickly to a highway below and beyond that, empty houses.

  The Ward’s food supply, in large part, had been provided by the LDS Church, which had a large cannery and welfare storage facility in the north end of the valley. The survivors had systematically moved dozens of pallets of food-stores to The Hub, filling rooms with wheat, rice, beans, and thousands of pounds of non-perishable items. The abundance had kept their bellies full and their strength up, however, they were suffering the same problems that the rest of the population was experiencing: non-viable births and depleting vitamin levels resulting in immune system deficiencies, night blindness and death among the less hearty.

  “Hey Mel,” yelled Remy, as he chased after the medic, hoping to ask her a few questions about her group’s general health. “Do you mind if I walk with you for a minute?” he asked.

  “Sure, no problem. What’s on your mind?”

  “I just have some questions about your people. You know, the Bear River people,” he said, finding it difficult to keep up with the well-toned, native woman.

  “What about them?”

  “I can’t help but notice that they are, in general, in better shape than most of The Ward. Can you account for that? Our diet here is actually pretty outstanding, except for the lack of meat proteins, but we’ve got plenty of beans and other high protein items to compensate. There’s no doubt we’re having a hard time squeezing the vitamins from our food intake but we’re supplementing like crazy with oral vitamin tablets. So tell me, what’s your secret?”

  “Liver,” she said, not speaking further or elaborating beyond the single word.

  “Liver?”

  “Yeah, liver. We figured out, some time ago, that we were severely lacking Vitamin A so we did the same thing you’ve been doing, overloading on the orals with no help. I was so night-blind that I was running into things in dim lighting, and I wasn’t alone. We tried increased plant intake with the same result and finally switched gears and started eating more red meat, especially the liver. I don’t need to tell you how vitamin rich a healthy liver is. We had almost overnight success, my vision started to come back, as well as everyone else’s who was eating more liver.”

  “Okay, but where are you getting it? We’ve got a couple of cows but they’re more valuable to us alive.”

  “Hunting. We’ve been sending out hunting parties but the game is getting harder and harder to find. I don’t know what their reproductive situation is but if it’s anything like ours, we’re in trouble. You guys have not been hunting?” she asked.

  “Not that I’m aware but I’ll suggest it right away.”

  “I think that’s worthwhile but you should know that our bodies aren’t storing vitamins the way they should be. I mean, once your liver’s topped up it should take about a year to be depleted. I’d say we’re getting just a few weeks, maybe months, depending upon the individual’s metabolism.”

  “You know Mel, we had a guy through here a month or two ago that said some place in Colorado had a wonder drug that was supposed to solve all these ills. You hear anything about that?”

  “Ah . . . well, we did get some info on that. Did you do anything with the information?”

  Remy suddenly stopped and grasped for Mel’s arm. “Hold up a second. I probably shouldn’t tell you this but we had some guys volunteer to see what that was all about. They left here weeks ago and we haven’t heard anything from them since. Another group wants to try but Boyd’s too leery, wants some kind of proof that it would be worthwhile. Personally, I think we’re all just slowly dying, some faster than others, depending upon their general health but there’s no doubt we are all dying a little bit every day.” Remy paused, thinking about what he had just said. “That didn’t come out quite right but you know what I mean, right?”

  Mel nodded, “Yeah, we’ve had a few people die from minor infections that should have responded to typical antibiotic therapy.”

  “Us too. Everyone keeps looking at me like I don’t have a clue what I’m doing, but with our supplies running low, I just don’t know where to turn. I wish there were some answers.”

  “I hear ya,” she said, wanting desperately to fill him in completely about Godfrey and the medication, including the extra vials, but she just couldn’t bring herself to do it without the prior approval of Farrell and Gary. “Listen Remy, if I think of anything else, I’ll let you know.”

  “Thanks, I’d appreciate that. Did you know I’m going to take a look at Len this afternoon? Little guys got a cold or respiratory infection that won’t clear.”

  “I’m aware. I hope there’s something you can do for him,” she said, turning on her heels and waving a quick goodbye as she anxiously looked for Godfrey, her emotions running high in hopes that he had some good news for her and The Ward.

  Chapter 36

  The surviving members of the Bear River Community were temporarily housed in what used to be the university’s bookstore. Shelving units had been converted into supports for mattresses, and blankets, hung over display units, were used to partition the indoor refugee camp, providing some, but little, privacy. Generators hummed in a nearby building’s basement, providing light and some comforts, but they were encouraged to keep the energy consumption to a minimum. The three chiefs were granted somewhat more upscale accommodations, taking the three offices that once managed the bookstore’s operations. These rooms were located at the back of the spacious sales-floor, each having their own lockable door and vertical blinds that could be closed as needed.

  Farrell, always the realist, felt the need for an armed guard monitoring the entrance into the shared living space, therefore, a rotation of four hour shifts was developed with each person responsible for the safety of those present, their weapons fully loaded at all times.

  Earlier in the day, Mel had found Godfrey and discussed the possibility of fabricating the medication on site, but was discouraged by what she had learned. He believed most of the raw materials and compounds could be sourced locally but the ability to keep the tolerances and strict manufacturing guidelines in check, were questionable. At the lab where he had previously worked, computers did most of the actual synthesis, but here, it would all have to be done manually. He was no magician, understanding that the precision of the final product had to be absolutely flawless to yield the desired results, and without more advanced hardware it did not seem possible. The Englishman had sensed the utter disappointment on the medic’s face and proposed a trial run. He didn’t think he would end up killing anyone with the compound but he would also not be the first one to try it. If volunteers could be found, he would be game.

  Mel had taken the information back to the other chiefs, discussed it and agreed to let Godfrey work his magic, under the pretence that he was experimenting with some possibilities and not working from a previous formula. The sealed vials were kept in Mel’s room, locked and under constant care, until such time they felt they could release the information to The Ward.

  Farrell had run into Clark later in the day just as t
he sentries were switching shifts and the sun was going down. Clark had been instructed not to speak of the missing man with anyone but felt comfortable letting Farrell know that they had not found him. They intended to expand their search and involve more members but Boyd was prohibiting having any of the newcomers help. The restructured search parties would regroup at sunrise and begin the search anew. The Bear River Security Chief had reiterated his desire to help, offering the services of their entire group, which Clark appreciated but turned down, nonetheless.

  At 1:00 a.m. Clayton had just finished his four hours as the lone security guard and was sitting on a mattress across from Cory, removing his boots and stretching his feet, when he noticed Major Mel moving quietly through the crowded room, her face intense and painted black. “Cory, wakeup man,” he whispered, very close to his friend’s ear, after covering the few feet that separated them.

  “Clayton, I don’t have guard duty until five. What time is it?” Cory said, rubbing his eyes, trying to adjust to the room’s dim lighting.

  “Be quiet! I just saw Mel leave with her face painted black. What do you think is up?” Clayton again spoke in a very hushed tone.

  “Sounds like she’s going hunting. She alone?” Cory said, reaching for his shoes, his pants and sweatshirt already on.

  “Yeah. Why you already dressed?”

  “So I don’t have to sleep with one eye open and my butt against the wall.”

  “What?”

  “Never mind; just saves me time when I have to get up for guard duty. Let’s see what she’s up to. Maybe she needs some help,” Cory said, already moving toward the exit.

  At the doorway, a female guard had her small MP5 submachine gun laid out in parts on a towel in front of her. She had just begun a meticulous cleaning of the weapon when Cory and Clayton tried to pass by. “Where do you two think you’re going?” she asked.