The Living Hunger

by Dennis F. Larsen

  “Yup, I believe you’re right. Fitting really, a proper end to such a vile waste of blood and bone,” Clark added, dropping one foot ahead of the other, being careful not to disturb Mother Nature’s finest work.

  The back of Farrell’s pickup acted as a hearse for the dead, two fine men taken in a senseless struggle for power and human flesh. The twenty-minute drive was quiet, neither man able to come to terms with their emotions. Rod struggled with the death of his brother, the guilt already eating at his soul and the killing of Bullock taking him to a place where he never expected to go.

  They told Godfrey about the firefight and the deaths, but had asked that Elva be kept in the dark until Rod could deliver the news himself. He ran the words through his mind but none touched the depths of his despair or the anguish he knew would consume Farrell’s little Elva. Rod finally resigned himself to speak only the words that he knew Farrell would whisper in his ear, once he held her hand and looked into her eyes.

  Chapter 52

  The mood in the Jensons’ room was somber. Cory had helped to clean up most of the blood that had spilled from Elva during the early hours of the birthing process; the woman’s blood pressure so low now that the flow had slowed to a trickle. Elva’s friends had done their best, seeing to her comforts and carefully moving her to a bed. Allison helped her failing friend hold the child tenderly in her arms. The newborn sucked on his mother’s knuckle while she whispered quietly into his delicate, little ear.

  “Jeffrey Jenson, that’s your name,” she spoke haltingly, each word draining and withering her strength, but she pushed on. “Your namesake would be so happy today. You wear his name proudly.”

  Compassionately, Allison routinely mopped at Elva’s forehead with a cool cloth. “You should save your strength,” she said, hoping that Farrell would charge into the room at any minute.

  “Do you think Farrell knows? Do you think he’s on his way?” she asked, kissing her baby gently on the nose.

  “I’m sure he does. Hold on, please just reserve your energy until he gets here,” Remy said, watching over her.

  “Jeff is what he’ll call you. You’re gonna love your dad, just like I do. He’ll take good care of you.” She stopped and looked into Allison’s face, a look of query in her eyes. “With your help?” she asked.

  “I’ll be there for them Elva. Rod and I will make sure he grows to be the man you want him to be. You’re family. You’re my sister. I’d trade places with you right now if it were possible. I hope you know that.” A renewed flow of tears dripped from her chin, wetting the blanket that wound the baby and his mother together.

  “Yes, I do. He’ll . . . be in good hands. I’m sure of that.”

  Cory sat in the other room, gently rocking to and fro, listening to the words being spoken a short distance away but out of his sight. He had tried to stay with the group crowded around the bed, but the emotions were greater than he could endure. He retreated to the rocker and found comfort in the peaceful back and forth motion it provided. His chin twitched uncontrollably as he fought back the tears, squeezing his lids tight and losing the battle against a torrent of emotions that were crushing his chest.

  Minutes passed with Elva cuddling her first-born son, her friends and supporters looking on. The color in her face had turned from pale to white and was now descending into the realm of gray and death-like. ”Remy, I’m cold,” she said, her hand slipping from Jeffrey’s face, resting lifelessly against her chest. ”It’s happening Allison, I can feel my mom and daddy calling me home.”

  “No, Elva, please no!” she cried.

  Two men suddenly entered the little apartment, Godfrey leading the way with Clayton trailing at his heels. They walked into the bedroom and were acknowledged by all, including Elva, who whispered, “Farrell?”

  “He’s on his way, Elva. He’s coming,” Clayton lied, arching a brow at Remy and Allison.

  The pair could tell the young man had been crying and was more upset than he was letting on. Remy motioned for Godfrey to join him in the hallway, outside of Elva’s hearing. ”He’s not coming, is he?” Remy asked.

  “No, he’s not. They got ambushed while hunting - Farrell and Roger are dead.”

  Remy dropped to a knee, supporting his head with one hand as his arm pressed into his thigh. “That little boy . . . ” he said, the words lodging in his throat. “He’ll never know them.”

  Godfrey struggled for the words, knowing there must be an answer, somewhere, for such an unlikely tragedy. “He’ll learn to love them through us.” Remy raised his head, waiting for the Englishman to explain himself further. “They will live through us. In the stories we’ll tell and the memories we’ll share, their little boy will love them the same way we all do.” Remy was a bit taken back by the scientist’s insight but knew the things he said were true. Jeffrey would learn to love and appreciate his parents as they honored his mother’s dying wishes.

  Inside, Cory had leapt from the rocker when Godfrey and Clayton entered the room, anticipating it would be Farrell and Rod. When it was not, he edged to the doorway, making it easier for him to make out what was being said. Clayton noted his friend as Godfrey and Dr. Reynolds walked into the hallway; he went to Cory with his arms outstretched and tears running down his cheeks.

  “Is she . . . ” Cory asked, unable to complete the thought.

  “No,” came the answer in a high-pitched but quietly uttered reply. “Cory.” He paused for much too long, causing his friend to question him further.

  “What Clayton? What is it?”

  “It’s Farrell and Roger. They’re . . . they’re gone. Had a shootout with a bunch of Bullock’s men and they didn’t make it.” Clayton had scarcely sent the words from his lips when Cory collapsed, dropping dead away and into his friend’s arms, who held him close and gently sat him back in the rocker.

  “What’s wrong?” The call came from the bedroom as Allison heard the commotion but not the dialogue.

  “Cory -- he’s passed out, but he’ll be okay. I’ll stay with him,” Clayton replied.

  Allison’s attention returned to Elva, as well as Remy and Godfrey’s, as they joined the ladies at the bedside. “Allison, I can’t wait. The call is too strong. Take my boy. Let him know . . . ” She clutched at her chest as the pangs of her stuttering and slowing heart took her breath away. Inhaling as deeply as she was able, she completed her thought. “Tell him . . . how much his mommy loved him.” Again she inhaled, as she was able, giving her last earthly commands. “Kiss Farrell for me. I need . . . need him to know . . . ” She paused, her chest rising only very slightly with each constrained intake of air. “I love . . . he made me . . . so happy.”

  Her voice trailed off into nothingness. Elva Allen Jenson died with her eyes open, beholding her best friend embracing her beautiful baby boy and a room full of friends, including Clayton and Cory, who entered just as she gave up the ghost. Weeping and a soul-wrenching sadness spread from the room to the hallway and around the campus as the story of Elva and Farrell reached every ear and touched every heart.

  * * *

  On a straight stretch of highway 12 miles from the dying woman’s crowded room, Clark held the accelerator to the floorboard of the old pickup, driving at a reckless speed to reach the beloved Elva before she was taken from them. Ahead, a shabbily dressed figure stood against the backdrop of the southern security post. Moments before, Rod had spoken to the guards, clearing the way for their entry without stopping. As they slowed to pass the checkpoint, the guards waving them through, the filthy, longhaired outcast stepped into the road, blocking their way. He extended a wooden staff before him like a blocker, which he swung at the security people when they tried to move him.

  “Crazy . . . What’s he doing? Get out of the way!” Clark yelled, knowing that Rod was the only one capable of hearing him.

  “Hold up, Clark. We better see what this old timer wants before we end up killing him,” Rod said, the compassion, which marked his character, returning to his vo
ice after the horrific day he’d had. The truck slowed from a weaving thunderbolt to a crawl, and finally came to a stop directly in front of the ancient looking vagrant.

  He moved with more speed than either man thought possible, his stench reaching Rod’s passenger window before he did. His sunbaked skin hung from his frame like an old set of drapes, too many folds and tufts to count. Sliding a hand into the open window, the decrepit wanderer clutched the frame for support while leaning on his staff. Yellowed nails extended well beyond his fingertips, curling oddly at the ends. Though freakish to behold, there was something peaceful and calming about his presence. Before he spoke he looked into the bed of the truck and let out a long, deep moan when he saw the bodies lying there. His head sagged and it was obvious he would have fallen had it not been for the wooden shaft.

  “What is it? What do you want?” Clark shouted.

  The wanderer lifted his head and with despair taking the twinkle from his deep-set eyes, he said, “Is there . . . a child?”

  “What did you say?” Rod asked.

  He spoke again, this time raising himself as if strengthened from some invisible outside force. The words flowed smoothly: echoing a rich, soothing timbre, which originated somewhere deep in his boney chest. “Is there a child born of this great sorrow? I must see the boy – take me to him.”

  Epilogue

  Difficult days, then months, and years passed, the heartache ever present from the loss of loved ones so respected and dear. Many a moment had been spent standing at the row of fallen friends, each memorialized in their own unique way. Farrell and Elva lay together, a large stone replacing the wooden marker that had been used shortly after they were laid to rest. Rod had labored for weeks, chiseling and preparing the marble before erecting it as a permanent tribute to those he cherished. An old pair of saddlebags, though weatherworn and rough, rested across the shoulder of the stone, a constant reminder of the generations that had gone on before. Etched into the rear of the gravestone, meticulous and exact, were the words; ‘Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends’.

  Cory finally convinced Christine’s father to unite them in matrimony. His days were filled with work, building and organizing a better society, but he managed to find time to ruffle Clayton’s feathers as often as he was able. The friends helped to fill some very big shoes, left by the absence of two great, unselfish men: Farrell and Roger.

  Boyd continued to act as The Ward’s security officer, with Rod as his right and Clark as his left hand. The two survivors of the Sherwood Hills’ Battle, as the clash had been coined, grew to be the closest of friends, their struggle on the mountain forging their hearts and souls together like nothing else on earth can. Their primary responsibility fell within the narrow, fence-lined borders of The Alamo. Their friends and the people at large had taken to calling both men Chief, an honor, which they held with great esteem. The Ward grew in size and scope as other lovers of freedom were drawn to them with tales of safety and success. Gary, through a democratically run election, was voted President of The Ward; acting with pure interests to rebuild what was once a beautiful, thriving Cache Valley. Cory’s father-in-law, Jacob Freeman, continued to be the spiritual leader of the community, extending his reach to any and all who longed for peace and a greater understanding of life’s purpose.

  Jeffrey Rodney Jenson, a toddler of three, loved spending time with his godparents; he’d known no other. The child loved the tales of bravery and daring he’d so often heard about his biological parents. They stood very tall in the youngster’s estimation and he had learned to love them. Rod and Allison savored watching the transformation from baby, to toddler, to little boy. Long ago, he’d lost the dark curls, they were more blond and wavy now as they covered his ears and flipped up like a ducktail in the back. The child was bright, filled with an eagerness to learn and understand the world around him. He called Allison, Mom, an endearment that brought back a landslide of memories but she loved it nonetheless. She spent every waking minute seeing to his needs; comforting, loving and teaching the little lad everything he would need to succeed, both as an individual and a survivor. Rod called his adopted buddy Booboo or Boob, for short. When the stout and thick, bantam-sized baby had first learned to walk, he often found his knees scraped or bottom bruised, and learned the word booboo in the process. The nickname stuck and few called him Jeffrey besides Allison and some of the older members of The Ward.

  Booboo had a special place at The Alamo. He was the first born of several that were the result of the marvelous, life-giving elixir, which enabled pregnancy and a normal birth. Dr. Remy Reynolds rarely practiced the specialty he’d been trained to perform but was quickly perfecting his craft as an obstetrician and pediatrician. Sadly, Godfrey Whitcomb had been unable to repeat the formula but it didn’t stop him from trying. He longed to return to the lab where the work had first begun, to retrieve the necessary equipment and documentation, which would cap the research he’d so tirelessly pursued these past three years. Unbeknownst to the Cache Valley community the Colorado Lab, BioChem, was still operational, at least somewhat, following the takeover and control by a group of soulless killers, now turned Harvesters.

  Damaged and lost equipment and a slave-force of uncooperative scientists kept the laboratory from delivering any viable product beyond that which Godfrey had spirited away so many months before. That which they did now was nothing more than placebo, keeping the Harvesters off their backs, but the survivors of the violent acquisition were biding their time, strategically keeping the useable product just out of reach. However, their previous efforts had not been in vain as a generation of three-year-olds was rising up all over the West with normal healthy organs.

  The wise and prudent saw a genesis for the species, while the Harvesters saw potential for a breeding population to keep them alive. Both communities would inevitably clash in an epic battle for control of these precious souls; a conflict foreseen by an aging visionary, huddled near a meager fire, a meal of squirrel and river water to sustain him, as his mind was opened to a greater day. The victory would hinge on the leadership of one man, a baby he’d once held, and who was the gift of a passing mother and father, to a world to come.

  The End

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The Living Hunger began as a casual conversation with my wife, Holly Larsen, which took root and grew into an adventure for both of us. I cannot express in words alone my heartfelt thanks for the hours and hours that she pored into this project. She is my inspiration, my sounding board and my friend. I would also like to thank some special friends and family who assisted in the editing and polishing of this novel: Cori Smelker, Danielle Reay, Heather McMullin, Kelsey Chenuz and Mikk Williamson. Their direction and special skills honed the manuscript into something that I am so pleased to share with the public.

  I would also like to acknowledge Sean Strong, the cover designer, who's been able to tap into my mind and extract exactly what I foresee in a final product. His creativity is much appreciated and deserving of our praise.

  Thank you, the reader, for taking the time to share this experience with us. I hope you connected with the characters and story and enjoyed reading it as much as we did creating it. Look for Book Two of The Living Hunger Series in December 2013. If you have enjoyed this novel, please take a moment to post a review on Amazon.