The Living Hunger

by Dennis F. Larsen

  “What can we do?” Clayton asked, walking to the side of his friend and ‘boss’, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder.

  “Get some sleep. You’re no good to me if you can’t think or shoot straight.”

  “Okay, but I got to go to church before that happens,” Cory said.

  “I don’t think it’s wise to have church services today boys. Cory, get down to the Bishop’s place and let him know what’s happened and have him cancel the meetings. If he gives you a hard time let him know that it’s not a request!”

  “Gotcha.”

  The two departed the office, Clayton headed to a warm bed and Cory to Jacob Freeman’s quarters. The Bishop’s welcome was pleasant; he stood at the door, a lightly pressed, well-worn suit hung from his frame. He held his scriptures in his hands, as if he were ready to leave for the chapel. Cory casually dipped and then lifted himself onto his tiptoes to try and get a view of the young lady, thinking that the Bishop wouldn’t notice.

  “Young man, is there something further I can help you with?” Jacob asked, watching the boy’s silly antics as he tried to check out his daughter.

  “No, no thanks. So can I tell Farrell that you’re okay with not having church today?” Cory asked.

  “If he thinks that’s best, I’ll go by his judgment,” the Bishop confirmed.

  “Great. I’ll pass the word around before I turn in.”

  “That would be much appreciated, and let those who are interested know that I will be providing the sacrament in the library at noon. I feel it’s important that we partake of the Lord’s bread and water, if nothing else, on this particular Sunday.”

  “I will. The Chief shouldn’t have a problem with that.” Cory turned and walked away, exiting the building and making his way toward the housing units. Reaching the doors of the Hub, the sound of a door closing across the way caught his attention and he turned to see the Bishop leave their building and walk east, away from the campus.

  “What the heck?” Cory said aloud, watching Freeman move toward the eastern security post. “Where does he think he’s going?” Cory continued to monitor the Bishop until he reached the checkpoint. Body language told him that a heated discussion was taking place that ended with Jacob leaving the security of the compound and heading down the street. “Farrell’s gonna be ticked,” Cory said, wondering what he should do next and ultimately deciding to report the incident to the Security Chief. He left the Hub’s doorway and bolted toward Old Main, arriving at the entrance just as he heard another heavy door slamming shut across campus. He saw Christine Freeman, dressed in her Sunday best, sprinting for the same checkpoint her father had passed through only moments before. What in the world are they doing? Cory debated his options for only a second before he charged down the steps, taking them two at a time and hit the green grass of The Quad running.

  By the time he got to the security post, Christine had passed through and was racing to catch up to her father standing in the middle of the road a block and a half away.

  “What’s going on? Why didn’t you guys stop them?” an angry Cory shouted, his face red and flushed.

  The larger of the two took a couple of quick steps, placing him squarely in Cory’s personal space and yelled into the smaller man’s face. “We tried. He said he had to get to the chapel right away and quoted some stuff about it being a free country. Anyway, we let him go. Said he’d be back in just a couple of minutes.”

  Cory took a step back and wiped the guard’s spittle from his face and lashed out, undeterred by the other man’s size. “And his daughter?” he screamed, leaning in and deliberately sending a smattering of his saliva into the guard’s face.

  “Listen hotshot, if you want to stop them, be my guest. We’re following protocol and not leaving our post because the Bishop and his daughter want to take a Sunday stroll.” The man, not anyone Cory was intimately familiar with, shoved at Cory, ending the conversation and returning to the sandbagged emplacement.

  Cory looked at the pair now walking arm in arm down the street and tried to get their attention with a yell. They momentarily stopped and Christine shot a glance over her shoulder that spoke to Cory’s heart, overriding his common sense and propelling him forward. “Farrell’s going to kill me,” he said under his breath, as he felt for the weapon at his side and started to run the 200 yards needed to catch up to the Freemans.

  When he knew they’d be able to hear him, he shouted for them to stop. Seconds later he stood before them, sucking air while trying to speak. “What the . . . I thought you . . . (taking another big gulp of air) thought you were okay with not having church?”

  “I am, but I need to gather the items for the sacrament. I’ve walked this road almost every day for a few years with no trouble. I don’t think I’m in any particular danger this morning. Do you?”

  “Yes! Solomon just killed a couple more of The Ward this morning,” he half shouted into the older man’s face.

  “All the more reason that we’ll need to partake of the sacrament and sanctify ourselves further,” the Bishop assured the pleading youth.

  “And you, why are you here?” he said, taking Christine by the elbow and turning her to face him directly.

  “He forgot the keys. I didn’t want him to have to walk all the way back so I ran them to him. I’m sorry - did I break some security rule or something?” she said, going out of her way to grin and flirt ever so slightly.

  “No, I guess you . . . No, now wait a minute. Yeah, you both are going to get me in big trouble with Farrell and Bubley.”

  “Listen Cory, it is Cory?” Jacob said, watching as Cory confirmed his question with a subtle nod. “I’ll take full responsibility for my actions. We’ve only got to go a short ways. If you’re so concerned, just stay with us and we’ll be back at the campus in no time.”

  “Well yeah, guess I could but Farrell’s going to be right upset if you get hurt,” Cory said, taking a brief second to look away from the clergyman and into the blue eyes of his stunning, blonde-haired daughter. She was captivating and he had a difficult time remembering where he was in the conversation. Her smile pulled him in and made him forget everything he’d been taught about security and protocol.

  “You can let Farrell know that you tried to stop me but I was immovable in my resolve,” Bishop Freeman asserted.

  “Well, I just might do that,” the young man said, again nervously feeling at his side for the only weapon he had at his disposal.

  Cory warily scanned the surroundings as they started on their way. He tried to stay focused on keeping them safe, knowing there would be no safety for him once he returned to the compound and Farrell’s wrath.

  As they angled away from the main road, Cory glanced over his shoulder, realizing they would be out of the sentry’s line of sight for a few minutes. The self-imposed bodyguard breathed a heavy sigh of relief when they reached the church and were safely inside, locking the door behind them. Cory waited while Jacob and Christine rounded up the few items they needed and then exited the building.

  “It really is sweet of you to help us,” she said, smiling broadly at the infatuated boy.

  The three walked down the sidewalk leading back to the roadway, their backs to the east. Cory removed his hand from the grip of his handgun, using it to emphasize the point he was trying to make.

  “Oh, I guess it’s not a problem as long as Farrell doesn’t find out, but I’ll be glad when we’re back on campus.” Cory said, being distracted for only a second or two but long enough for Solomon to burst from his hiding place and sweep into action.

  He ran from around the corner of the chapel, a silent scream playing in his head as he lifted the knife, his bare feet noiseless on the springtime sod. Rushing the trio, the morning sun cast his shadow to the west, very long and slender, stretching out more than double his actual height. Cory saw the shadow pass over Christine’s shoulder, the distinct image of a knife at the end of an arm, followed by a head and shoulders. Instinctively, he reached
for the girls arm and yanked her aside, sending her sprawling to the ground. She wheeled over a couple of times before coming to a stop.

  Her father, perplexed by what had just happened, turned in time to see the blade descend. He reflexively lifted his arm to block the knife, saving his life but not stopping the blade from penetrating his forearm, breaking a bone in the process. Solomon ripped the bayonet from Jacob’s arm, kicking him in the groin as he did so, sending the Bishop to his knees, blood spewing from his arm with each contraction of his heart.

  In a state of panic Cory fumbled with his holster, the leather unwilling to release the instrument of their salvation. Solomon’s long legs quickly carried him the few feet needed to complete his obsession driven death-dance with the spoiler of his fun. Cory swung in a feeble attempt to ward off the attacker. Solomon easily sidestepped the punch and lifted his blade to finish the deed. Without warning a slug skipped across the concrete at Solomon’s feet, which was followed by a very distant, muffled rifle blast. Startled momentarily he looked up but could see no one coming, no shooter within sight. Again, he advanced toward Cory, who had managed to clear his holster and raise the gun only to have Solomon slash at the weapon, removing Cory’s little finger and a portion of the next. The digits flew skyward while the gun clattered to the concrete, bouncing askew before coming to rest in the short, brown grass.

  Half a mile away, a troubled Kirk was sitting in the northern most tower of Old Main. He had spent the last few hours of early, morning light browsing the surroundings with his scope in hopes of catching a view of the ghost-like killer. Minutes before, he had picked up the two walking to the chapel, who were quickly joined by a third. It had been of some interest but he gave it very little thought when he saw them safely arrive at the church and escape his view. He wheeled about doing a full 360 of the area of concern and found nothing, until he returned to the street directly in front of the house of worship where a hand-to-hand battle ensued. The combatants were caught in a life and death struggle, the Bishop and Christine already losers in the initial violent seconds. Kirk acted on his gut impulse, making the rash decision that there was no time to seek help.

  The marksman fought with the sunlight glaring through the scope’s opening, testing his skills like they’d never been before. Too much risk, too much movement! flashed through his mind. He’d seen the Bishop go down, his daughter already sprawled out on the ground. He fired a quick shot as he saw the killer lunge at Cory. The expected drop of the assailant passed without incident, heightening his anxiety and pushing him to further action. Frantically bolting another round into place, he squinted through the scope for a better shot.

  On the distant street below Cory took up a fighter’s stance, bringing a smile to the attacker’s face. Solomon admired a man of courage. Killing such a man would bring him greater respect and accolades, if only in his own mind. Solomon swung the long blade, causing Cory to twist and evade.

  “Good,” Solomon said, his appearance suddenly having an impact on the spirited youth: the dried blood from his morning’s work covering his face and hands.

  “Christine! Run, get out of here!” Cory yelled at the petrified girl, who finally made an effort to get up, but rather than running away she went to her father and offered her assistance.

  Solomon ignored the Bishop and his daughter, knowing the real fight was with the boy, once that was settled he’d have time to deal with the pair. Another slug passed overhead, the whistle of the lead parting the air but making no contact. The hissing of the shell gave the Harvester pause, but not for long, as he renewed his attack on the less skilled but highly determined Cory. Screaming a maniacal, piercing war cry, Solomon charged the defender, toppling the two of them to the ground with Solomon coming up on top of the lighter man.

  Cory held Solomon’s wrist with both hands but the blade slowly tipped downward toward his heart. The killer used his leverage and weight to force the knife ever closer to his goal. He whipped his head around, only briefly, to see the Bishop staggering to his feet with the help of his child, both now covered in blood as the artery bled him out quickly. The African pressed his advantage, needing to end the conflict now, when a high velocity, metal-jacketed bullet rocketed through the air from the tower to the scene, skipping across the assassin’s cheek and taking off his left earlobe.

  For a split second he forgot who he was and why he was there. The blood poured from the wound opened up by the 150-grain bullet. Cory bucked and tried to push the blood-covered man off him, sending them into a roll, the bayonet pitching away from the two and into the dirt. Both men fought to get to their feet. Solomon managed to gain his footing ahead of Cory and dashed for the knife. Securing it, he spun back to finish off the smaller man but felt the burning of something hot sear into his side. The momentum of the object knocked him sideways and away from Cory. A second later another slug was fired into his chest, then a third and a forth, dropping the assailant to his knees just in time to see the taker of his life.

  Christine Freeman stood trembling before him, her dress covered in blood and Cory’s 9mm swaying in her outstretched hand. Before Solomon passed fully through death’s door, he saw Cory take the gun from the girl’s hand, firing a final round directly between his eyes, silencing his evil forever.

  Chapter 44

  The death of the African assassin brought with it a degree of peace and calm, which The Ward had longed for. Months passed since that horrific day. The world had cleansed itself with a wonderfully wet spring, bringing new life and growth to the mountains around their campus home. Rod and Cory recuperated fully from their injuries, each enjoying the companionship of a good woman; Cory or ‘Stubby’, as Clayton had taken to calling him, would forever be indebted to the girl of his dreams. Bishop Freeman suspected that one day he’d be uniting his daughter to the heroic young man, but for now, she was still his little girl and a proper courtship was watched carefully, not only by her father but by the community at large.

  Elva managed to retain her sanity through weeks of morning sickness, her weight dropping well below what Dr. Reynolds considered safe. She was cheerful with a smile on her face by day, trying to hide the fear and anxiety she experienced at night. Farrell had been there for her through those trying months, holding back her hair as she vomited until nothing more would come. He often whispered to her, holding a cold compress against the back of her neck, willing her to get better and hoping they’d be blessed with a normal, healthy child.

  Mrs. Jenson was not the only member of The Ward, as the entire group now called themselves, to be struggling with the difficulties of pregnancy. The week that culminated with the death of Solomon, Dr. Remy Reynolds had provided the experimental drug to dozens of the community, several of whom were now expecting. The collection of women had formed a support group that met a few times a week to share the joys and pains of their experiences. Allison led the group, having a unique perspective on a post-apocalyptic pregnancy but she, herself, had not been able to conceive, even though they had been trying.

  Godfrey, working with Remy, had been unsuccessful in duplicating the formula, but the Englishman soldiered on, undeterred by the failures and bolstered by the increase in pregnancies. The two dedicated scientists, along with a member of the community with medical lab experience, had begun doing blood tests on every member of The Ward to determine the blood sugar and vitamin nutrient levels. Initially it appeared as if the injection had been an overwhelming success. Post injection recipients experienced a sudden peak in all nutrients, including retinol, a derivative of Vitamin A, converted to the body’s usable form. However, as they studied the first members injected, they saw the elevations diminish and drop to almost pre-injection levels within a few months.

  Remy had experimented with a plethora of oral supplements without success. Vitamin A levels were only maintained with oral ingestion of animal tissue rich in Vitamin A, liver being the most sought after, followed by eggs. This was not to say that the intake of a balanced diet had no impact.
On the contrary, the supplements and plant solubles were keeping them alive but in some cases, just barely. Remy, of all the residents of The Alamo, was kept the busiest. The infirmary was never at a stand still. Whether work related injuries or illnesses brought about by a weakened immune system, Remy was the only one capable of providing the needed care. As with everyone within the community, he missed the Major terribly.

  Although most of The Ward members were doing well on the new diet, there were still those who could not be helped, Len being one of them. The poor little guy had never fully regained his strength following the departure from Bear River. Dr. Reynolds had done everything within his power to treat his youngest patient, but he found himself out of his depth and scope. When Mel had been so abruptly taken from them, Len took it far worse than anyone could have imagined. With his will to battle on in full retreat, having those he loved taken from him was too much. Remy suspected there was much more to the infirmity than he could confirm. Len was receiving more supplements and fresh liver than anyone else, but his decline was much too fast for a typical deficiency concern. Everyone had sacrificed in an effort to help the little lad recuperate, but it would not be so. In his mind, the doctor was sure that Len eventually succumbed to a blood disorder or leukemia. Regardless of the cause, the boy’s death had been heart wrenching for the community, who rallied around Mrs. Allen and Elva, offering their love and support.

  The loss of her only surviving son was the last thread in the grieving mother’s veil of understanding. A foreboding melancholy overtook the woman’s mind as she spun deeper and deeper into depression and finally madness. The good people of The Alamo looked after her needs and her safety, until one day, she vanished. Every effort was exhausted in the search for the wandering moonstruck, but no sign could be found and she was presumed dead. The zealots, of whom there were a few, recorded that she was taken into heaven after suffering more than any woman had the will to endure. Though few believed it, the story was told, the mysticism grew and a legend was born.