The Living Hunger

by Dennis F. Larsen

  Boyd had taken the reins following Farrell’s impassioned speech, offering The Ward’s more advanced security personnel for the impending search and destroy mission. Security details had been doubled both night and day since the killing. In roving shifts of two, men and women were monitoring the grounds and fences on a regular basis. Entry points were manned around the clock and teams armed with high-powered, scoped rifles lived in Old Main’s towers, searching the streets and surrounding houses for the African. Boyd had issued a ‘shoot on sight’ order, confirmed by the entire council, with even Jacob reluctantly offering his support.

  At the tail end of the meeting Gary had dropped a bomb on The Ward. “I have thought long and hard about what I have to tell you. I hope you can understand and work with us on where we go from here but I’m sure this is what Mel would have wanted me to do. I can think of no better way to say this other than to just be forthright and lay it out there for you. We . . . we have the medication developed by the Denver lab.”

  “You have what?” Boyd had shouted, not so much in anger but in utter surprise. “Why are we now just hearing about this?”

  “What a blessing! I can’t help but believe this is an answer to all our prayers,” the Bishop offered before Gary could reply to Boyd’s questions, his supporters in the room nodding their heads in agreement.

  “Now don’t get too carried away in your excitement. We do have a problem, which is why we haven’t mentioned this until now,” Gary had explained.

  “What kind of problem?” Clark had asked.

  “We don’t have enough for everyone,” he’d confirmed. “The members of our group that want it, have had it, leaving about 100 unused vials. We’ve had no adverse reactions but we don’t have any supporting evidence that it helps either. The only clinical observation that Mel was able to make, prior to her death, was that Len, the little boy in our group who’s been quite ill, has improved somewhat since he received the medication. Godfrey had hoped that he might be able to synthesize a duplicate but he believes it’s a long shot at this point. However, he is trying and will keep us posted. When deciding who should get the injection, let me tell you what we did. The purpose of the medication is to reset one’s system, allowing the absorption of critical vitamins, especially Vitamin A. Farrell, correct me if I get off track here,” Gary had said.

  “You bet. So far you’re right on.”

  “Okay, Godfrey’s group figured out that the agent they used to ‘scrub’ the air and make it breathable and safe, adversely affected everyone’s intestinal system, limiting the type and amount of soluble vitamins that can pass the barriers for absorption. When our livers functioned as they should we could store up to a year’s worth of Vitamin A.” Gary had gone on to explain the nature of Vitamin A and its impact on the immune and reproductive systems. Members of The Ward readily agreed that many of their community were exhibiting signs of vitamin deficiency, including night blindness and prolonged illness from common maladies. It was also common knowledge that a viable birth had not been seen for years and pregnancies, in general, were rare.

  “Mel had said something about this Solomon guy eating David’s liver. Is that why? Is it because of the whole vitamin thing?” Boyd had asked.

  “Absolutely. Mel filled me in a little bit about this a few days ago,” Dr. Reynolds confirmed. “The highest level of Vitamin A, for any of us right now, is liver. Preferably not human, but animal liver is what Mel said has worked for the Bear River people. Plant retinol is not sufficient to maintain the levels we need for reproduction and immunity from common bugs. She suggested we start hunting more and I was planning on addressing that with you, but her death side-railed all that, until now.”

  The council debated and discussed the issues for quite some time, finally deciding to make the last of the vials available to all women of birthing years and their partners, and the remainder would be given out based on a lottery. Drawing numbers from a hat would be about as fancy as was needed. Dr. Reynolds was given the responsibility of injecting the chosen lot, while Farrell had been given the duty of finding and killing Solomon.

  Chapter 40

  A thinning morning fog hung loosely in the air that was dissipating rapidly as the warmth of the sun heated the moisture and sent it skyward. A collection of men milled about, drinking their morning coffee and hot chocolate just outside Old Main. To the casual spectator it was obvious they were not preparing for a picnic. Each man carried multiple weapons and enough ammunition to start a small revolution. The theme for the day would be ‘terminate with extreme prejudice’.

  “Okay Farrell, where do we start?” Cory asked, looking like he was literally chomping at the bit with a large wad of stale chewing gum rolled up in his cheek.

  Following a quick briefing, Farrell and C&C had split off from the other search party of three, which consisted of Roger, Clark and Boyd. Starting from the point where David had been found, each group wrapped respectively west and east around the perimeter of the school looking for signs of the perpetrator’s location.

  “Farrell, look at this,” Clayton said excitedly, holding up a spent shell casing, the brass of which reflected the mid-morning sun directly into Cory’s eyes.

  “Thanks Clayton. Right into my eyes!”

  “You’re welcome,” Clayton snickered, trying desperately to get the lighting just right again to give Cory another blast.

  “What’ve you got there?” Farrell asked, striding quickly to the young men’s position. Inspecting the spent round, he hummed a bit, then said, “Yup, thought so.”

  “Yup, what?” Cory asked, taking the casing from Farrell and giving it a good look.

  “AK-47. That’s what Solomon used to kill Mel. Very distinctive sound with plenty of firepower,” the Sergeant replied, looking down at the ground for any other signs of the killer. “There’s another one, and there, looks like some 9 millimeters. You shoot any shells around here the other night?” he asked, speaking to Cory.

  “Probably, it was dark enough that I can’t be sure, but I don’t know whose else’s those would be. Me and Mel were both firing our handguns.”

  “Cory take us to the spot where you last saw him before you went back to the lot. Keep your eyes open for blood trails. Maybe one of you got lucky and nicked him.”

  The three worked their way down the sloping grade that led to a small subdivision, watching and hoping for the telltale sign of arterial blood spatter. Solomon’s trail formed from the previous chase had not been difficult to follow. Barefooted, he had left a well-formed series of prints in the moist spring soil and sod, but there was no red and nothing else that pointed to the assassin’s whereabouts.

  “Looks like our trail’s run cold, boys,” Farrell said, standing in the road just in front of the last place they’d spotted his prints. “He probably got dressed here, put some shoes on and then used the pavement to get to wherever it is he’s hangin’ out,” he said, muttering a few choice slangs that C&C had never even heard before. “Spread out and let’s walk down this way for a piece, then double back up the hill to the school. We know he’s been able to watch us from somewhere close, so let’s search the buildings that are across the street from the compound.”

  “Sounds like a plan, Chief,” Clayton said, pulling his pistol to prepare for the walk back to the school.

  “Let me remind both of you -- this Solomon is a gifted shot. He will not hesitate to kill one, or all of us, if he gets the chance. If you see him, don’t over think it. You start laying down lead. You understand?” Farrell asked.

  “Sure Sarge,” Clayton replied, as both young men nodded their understanding.

  “Cory, keep it quiet. Enough said?” the Sergeant confirmed.

  “Got it, but what . . . ”

  “But nothing, let’s keep it tight and cover for one another. Take the shots as they come, but . . . just don’t shoot me.”

  “Clayton, who started that ‘don’t shoot me’ stuff? If I ever find out, I’m gonna shoot ‘em,” Cory sa
id, grinning at Farrell as they prepared to move out.

  The three men advanced from house to house, watching their angles and looking for movement or signs of the killer. They developed a pattern, which worked well for the small platoon with Farrell always taking the greatest risks. The work was slow but methodical as each house was swept for signs and ruled out as Solomon’s hiding place. Farrell noted that Cory and Clayton had grown and matured since their first run-in with Bullock. Cory was far more focused and Clayton was becoming his own man, although it was still quite obvious to their older friend that they were still C&C, fused like no other friendship he’d ever known. The death of Mel had affected everyone but perhaps the young pair, more than most, as they were there and played a tragic role in the night’s events.

  Battle, as Farrell knew all too well, redefines who you are. Giving the warrior an edge, sometimes to the betterment of his soul but more often sending the taker of lives into a realm of tortured dreams and never-ending guilt. For now, they each dealt with the trials of their existence in their own way and in their own time. C&C used humor to buffer the pain but the Sergeant could see adversity gradually hardening their fighting spirits and sculpting the men they would become. He was proud to serve alongside them both.

  Near the end of the last row of houses, before they turned up the hill and headed back toward campus, Farrell spotted something unusual. A house with an extensive porch was tainted, a large, reddish-brown stain running from the sidewalk up the few steps and stopping in a thick, dried mess on the porch itself. Farrell motioned, using hand signals only, for the young men to veer respectively right and left to secure the entrance of the home. The Sergeant worked his way to the bloodied porch, swinging his assault rifle from window to window as he hustled between random pieces of cover.

  Cory moved into position, his pistol held away from his body at arm’s length, bringing the sights into alignment with his eye. He’d not bothered to unwrap the AR-15 from around his body but as he approached the side of the house he wished he had. Bloody entrails were piled near the porch as if they had been casually dropped over the railing and left to rot at the side of the once beautiful little home.

  Farrell cautiously moved to the steps, noting how quiet Cory had become. A wild look in the young man’s eyes alerted the Chief as Cory pointed to something just out of the Sergeant’s view. The stain on the steps was muddied but dried, a series of hairs glued to the porch’s surface in the dried blood. Cory and Clayton walked the length of the house’s sides but found nothing else unusual, then joined Farrell on the porch.

  “I’d say Solomon found himself something to eat,” Farrell said.

  “Something or someone?” Clayton asked.

  “Good point, Clayton. I think you should go first,” Cory quickly pointed out, moving out of the way so that Clayton could have a clear entrance into the home.

  “Neither one of you is going first. I’ll go in but you two cover my butt and don’t shoot me!” Farrell warned them.

  The pair winced but remained silent, Cory biting his tongue to keep from issuing a sarcastic reply.

  “Alright Cory, follow me in and go left. Clayton, go right.”

  The door was unlocked, allowing the three-man party easy access. As they threw the door open a bonfire-like smell greeted them but did not slow them down. Cory peeled off to the left, sweeping through the kitchen and family room, meeting Clayton who had cleared the den and a bathroom. The two waited for Farrell to return from the upstairs where he had charged, after making sure the living room was uninhabited.

  “You okay up there, Farrell?” Cory yelled from the living room, where a fire had previously been built in the middle of the tiled floor. The ashes, now cold, had in recent days burned red-hot, long enough for someone, likely Solomon, to cook a meal of fresh meat.

  “Yeah, fine. Just taking a look around. Looks like he must have slept here at least once. There are some bones up here but no Solomon. I’m coming down!” Farrell paused for a moment then finished his thought, “Don’t shoot me!”

  “Very funny!” C&C said at the same time, while holstering their weapons.

  “Why is it that everybody keeps telling us that? Clayton, you remember ever shooting anybody we weren’t supposed to?”

  “No I don’t, but I could be wrong,” the taller half of C&C replied.

  Once reunited on the lower level, the three looked for signs of the killer’s latest victim. A window had been broken out in the corner of the room, obviously meant to vent the smoke and fumes from such a contained fire. One wall, now black with soot, still had pictures of the former owners; a middle-aged couple with twin girls, all smiles and full of hope for a bright future. There had been no living signs of the family anywhere in the home. Under the broken-out window a hastily rolled up rug had the appearance of a python, with something recently ingested stuck halfway down its length.

  “What do you think it is, Farrell?” Clayton asked.

  “I don’t know, but we better find out,” he said, directing Cory to unwind the snake in order to set the victim free.

  Cory gingerly stepped over the rug, placing himself directly in the middle, the lump rising to his knees. He grasped the loose, thick edge of the tightly wound material, bent his knees for better leverage and winked at Clayton before he stood. The rug and its contents unraveled, the central mass spinning across the floor aimed at his gangly friend. The higher Cory pulled, the faster the rug spun, finally reaching its end and regurgitating the contents. A head rolled across the last few feet of floor toward Clayton, the tongue’s rigor mortis forcing the awkward mass to roll, and then bounce, before it careened into his boot. “Strike!” Cory called out as the coyote’s head slammed into his friend. Clayton tried to jump over the grotesque ‘bowling ball’ but did not succeed. Instead he tripped himself up, landing with a loud thud, his butt squarely on top of the furry head.

  “You knew that was going to happen!” Clayton shouted at Cory, who was unable to contain the laughter that burst forth from his lips.

  “Priceless. Wish I had a camera. You watching that head coming right at ya - awesome. Let’s do it again!” Cory managed to get out between deep breaths as he laughed at his best friend’s antics. “Didn’t you recognize the fur in the blood on the steps?”

  “If you two don’t beat all! Here we are hunting perhaps the most dangerous man we’ve ever encountered and you find some way for one of you to fart, fumble, and fall down. It’s a mystery to me that either one of you can manage to keep your head attached to your body. But Clayton, that was pretty funny,” Farrell said, sharing a quick laugh with his younger buddies.

  Across the campus and on the other side of the library, beyond the fenced barrier, the other search party was having less luck than Farrell and his crew. They had been in and out of every building with no sign of the African. The chapel where the community held their church services was a couple of blocks beyond the barrier but Jacob felt, as he still did, that the meetings needed to be held in a house dedicated to the Lord. Boyd sent his team around the large building, checking the doors and windows, assuring the more than cautious Bubley that the structure was still secure. Several hours into the extensive search, the Colonel called it quits and brought his team back to the campus where they eagerly awaited the other squad’s return.

  Farrell and company worked their way back, carefully inspecting each home and property within a one-block radius of the western side of the campus. They found nothing that would direct them to the killer’s lair as they returned to their new home. On the stretch of road that was just west of the perimeter, two large buildings stood, neither of which had been searched, at least not recently. The Sergeant took his two friends and explored an institute building; desks scattered in every room, books of worship, some torn, but most stacked neatly ready for the next wave of curious readers. They found nothing of interest, prompting them to move on to the sorority house nearby.

  With weapons drawn and ready, the men went through the sa
me routine, Cory to the left, Clayton to the right and Farrell up the middle. The lower level of the house was cleared, leading them to the upper floors. As they approached one of the upper rooms an overwhelming stench wafted from the door’s entrance and over the trio.

  “Gross! It smells like crap up here,” Cory said, reaching up and holding his nose closed with one hand while managing his weapon with the other.

  “Steady boys,” Farrell said, easing them toward the room in question.

  At the doorframe the Chief whipped his head around the wooden juncture, peering into the room and finding it empty. A single chair had been pulled close to a window that faced the campus; a pile of opened wrappers littered the floor around the base of the chair. Scratched into the wall next to the window was a rough but recognizable replica of the campus’ layout, including security points with stick soldiers manning each post. A horde of flies buzzed in the air, filling the room and collecting on the window, many of them with stale fecal matter clinging to the fine hairs that covered their tiny legs. The insects collected the repulsive material from a large, maggot-covered pile of human feces in the back corner of the room.

  “Our man’s been here,” Farrell said, standing at the window, noting the view the assassin had enjoyed. “He’s had his eye on us for days, knows our routines, who comes and who goes. If he had a better long range weapon he could have just sat up here and picked us off!” The anger and volume of the Chief’s voice was on the rise. “He’s got to know that we’re actively searching for him and he likely won’t use the same places. Heaven knows I wouldn’t. The smell in here is unbearable. Come on, let’s get out of here,” he said.

  The three headed for the door but Farrell suddenly stopped, handed his rifle to Cory and returned to the window where he picked up the chair, spun it around like he was participating in an Olympics’ hammer throw competition and threw it out the window and into the street below.