Dead Hunger_The Cleansing

by Eric A. Shelman

  “Then we bring ‘em back over here to get back in the tunnels,” said Flex. “C’mon. Tay, if you got more of those granola bars, everyone’s gonna need their strength because we’re going balls out on the way back.”

  “It’s probably just going to be my tits out,” said Charlie. “But I’ll warn you – they don’t look as good as they did back when this shit all started.”

  *****

  Punch stood outside the door marked 1 and said, “When I push this door open, you guys be ready. It was packed when we got it closed.”

  “Does anyone have any WAT-5 left?” asked Taylor.

  Everyone shook their heads.

  “That sucks, but it seems pretty quiet now,” said Dave, leaning in to put his ear against the door.

  “And they’re not exactly stealth,” said Flex. “So quiet’s a good sign. Let’s take the chance. Everyone, weapons ready.”

  Charlie held her crossbow, the mounted bolt pointed toward the floor. Everyone else used proper muzzle control as well.

  “I haven’t heard any chatter in my head,” said Lola. “Not in hours. Early this morning when the Hybrids were hearing the screaming, so did I. Once that initial outburst died down, nothing.”

  “They were likely exhibiting some sort of excitement at having breached our perimeter,” said Hemp. “They sensed that food was near. Like a warrior cry.”

  Charlie touched Lola on the shoulder. “So if they were that close – like on the other side of that door – you’d normally hear their … what, commands?” asked Charlie.

  “Yeah,” said Lola. “They’d sense me and try to command me. It never worked because of the wafers I took when you guys found me, but they sure did try.”

  “Well, then,” said Punch. “Here goes nothin’.” He pulled the door open. The lobby of the bank was dark but empty. Night had fallen completely.

  He stepped through, his Saiga muzzle leading the way. Flex followed him inside, and the rest of the group eased in behind them.

  “Guess they had an appointment?” said Trina.

  “I know exactly where they went, dude,” said Nelson.

  “So do I,” said Flex. He ran toward the entry door and pushed it open. The horde moving south through the city streets paid them no attention. They had clustered on the west side of the brick cobblestone roadway, leaving the path north open for Flex and his group.

  “C’mon. Follow me and keep up!” he whispered. “If they come at you, use knives so we don’t draw any more Mothers than necessary.” The regular rotters were almost completely deaf, so he didn’t worry about them. The Mothers could hear a pin drop. Hemp’s past experiments had shown preserved eardrums and canals, too.

  At his word, everyone unsheathed their knives except Charlie. Her fingers curled tighter around the Parker.

  They ran northbound along the west sidewalk, keeping close to the buildings.

  “There!” whispered Nel, as the clinic came into view. “Shit, these rotten dudes and dudettes didn’t get the memo.”

  They stopped and stared at the building. Lola threw her hands over her ears. “Now this bunch is shrieking,” she said. “Really screeching. Something is … well, driving them nuts, for lack of a better term.”

  “How many are Mothers?” asked Hemp. “Lola, do you get any feel at all?”

  “I can’t tell that,” she said. “Only when they notice me and start to try to control me. I can sometimes tell how many then, because they all try and they’re all just a bit different – like a fingerprint on my brain.”

  “How many are there?” asked Dave Gammon. “Looks like close to a hundred.”

  “And that’s just how many we can see,” said Taylor. “They have the place surrounded, I’m guessing.”

  The visible rotters stood facing the building, all of them clawing at the walls with their fingers, as though they intended to whittle away the exterior and get to the bounty inside.

  “No more Zappa playing, either,” said Charlie. “Wonder why.”

  “Power problem, maybe,” said Hemp. “Lola, would you feel comfortable moving in close enough that they will notice you?”

  “Hell with that,” she said. “I can get their attention from across the street, but I’ll need a volunteer to go with me.”

  “I’m in,” said Dave. “Where to?”

  “The building just across the street. I’ve been up on that roof before. Once I get up there, I’ll just call them.”

  “Do you still have the ability?” asked Hemp. “Remember, the diminished gas.”

  “Are my eyes still red?” asked Lola.

  Nelson nodded. “Not as much as before, but yeah. Still red.”

  “Come on, Davey.” She ran.

  Dave jogged after her.

  “She never even asked me,” said Punch, his shoulders hunched.

  “Nah, that’s good,” said Flex. “You ain’t getting’ any younger, and Davey’s got a couple of granola bars worth of energy to burn anyway.”

  *****

  At the next junction, the water channel split off, too. The straighter of the channels led down the tunnel they did not choose, so the majority of floating rotters were washed off to the right as the group all headed down the left passageway.

  “Torches!” said Colton excitedly, jumping up to dislodge one. He inspected it. “Cool! Wonder if it’ll light.” He ran along beside Gem with the torch gripped in his hands.

  Gem’s Uzi played knick-knack on her rib with each step she took. She fought her pained expression for Colton’s benefit. “That’s pretty cool, dude,” she winced.

  “Got a lighter, Gemmy?” he asked.

  Without thinking, she pulled the baggie from her pocket and gave it to him. Inside was her lighter and extra rechargeable batteries for her headlamp, which was growing dim.

  She pulled her headlamp off. “Here. When you get your torch lit, see if you can put fresh batteries in this.”

  “If I get this lit, you won’t need it. I’ll get more torches and light them with this one.”

  Sure enough, when he touched the flame to the torch, it caught. In moments the tightly wound oily rags burned brighter at the end of the tapered wood handle.

  Isis turned around. When she saw the torch, she reached up and grabbed one and gave it to Max. She took another for herself.

  Colton ran ahead and lit both torches for them.

  “Thank you, Colton,” said Isis, giving him a smile. “This is a good idea. Good defense against Mothers and Hungerers, too.”

  “Works better if they’re not all wet,” said Max. “Their clothes are so rotted they usually go up like tissue.”

  “Right in their damned eyes,” said Colton. “That’s where I’d jam it.”

  “Well, you’re sportin’ that gun in your waistband like a gangster,” said Max. “Remember you got that for backup if things get sketchy.”

  “I will,” said Colton, patting the butt of the gun with his free hand. “I have the safety on.”

  “I figured,” said Max. “Flex and Gem taught you right.”

  He smiled and fell back again, where Gem tousled his hair. “You were absolutely correct, Colt.”

  “How?” he asked.

  “I don’t need my lamp. Keep my batteries dry, though.”

  Several others grabbed torches as they moved through the tunnel. Occasionally a rotter would surface from the trough beside them, stagger and fall again. The bottom was very slippery, and apparently, it was not getting any better downstream.

  Everyone was sure to stay well clear of the edges to avoid what had happened to Melissa Kendrick, and so far, nobody else had been killed. Several rotters had washed by, on their way to God knew where.

  Wherever it was, Gem wanted them to keep on going.

  Her mind fell to Flex, Hemp, Charlie and the others. They were an extension of her, and when they were gone, she couldn’t help but feel somewhat alone, even when surrounded by others.

  She glanced again at Colton and her inner thought buried
her for a moment in guilt. No. She did not love him like she had loved her own son, but she believed it was possible, in time. She and Flex would teach him well. Maybe one day they could both forget they had witnessed his real mother turn into a monster before their eyes.

  *****

  Flex and the others waited across the street from the clinic, standing motionless and flat against the storefronts as they looked on.

  As they watched the scraping rotters focus on the small medical facility, Flex looked up and to his left to see Dave and Lola emerge and stand on the edge of the roof. “There they are,” he said. “Anytime, Lola.”

  Everyone looked up. Lola stood with her hands by her sides, balled into fists. She stared.

  Flex turned back to the clinic and saw something changing. A Mother came into view, her distended belly obvious even from that distance. She emerged from the group of clawing Hungerers and stood alone. In a moment, another joined her. Then another.

  “It’s working,” whispered Charlie. “And look. The others aren’t clawing anymore.”

  “That’s because the hands are like tools, and without meat in front of them, they must be told what to do. The Mothers –”

  Hemp stopped short. Another two Mothers emerged. Now five of them stood stock still, staring up at Lola across the street.

  Charlie raised her crossbow and took aim. Flex watched her. There was at least sixty feet between her and the nearest Mother.

  The sound of the bolt ejecting from the bow came, but Flex never saw the arrow fly. He did see the farthest Mother teeter, then stagger forward.

  She had a bolt through her neck.

  “You missed, babe,” said Nelson.

  “Intentional, sweetie,” said Charlie. “EB-tipped.”

  “Ah, my bad,” said Nelson.

  They watched as the Mother’s head wobbled from side-to-side, then turned 180 degrees and slid from her neck. Flex heard the splat! sound from where he stood.

  The Mother then dropped to the street as her decomposition progressed at speed. Soon, the clothing she had been wearing – a poodle skirt of some kind, with a filthy, white blouse – sank until it was almost flat, briefly held an air pocket, then flattened out over the muck.

  The others did not look at her while she died, but nor did they look at Charlie. Their eyes remained on Lola, but they did not move a muscle. Their hair blew slightly in the wind and their fading eyes still stared, but as the hour grew later and the sky grew darker, they were becoming harder to discern from the crowd beyond.

  Hemp pulled his radio out and keyed the transmit button twice.

  “She’s calling them, but they’re just staring,” said Dave in response.

  “How is she doing?” asked Hemp. “Is she still capable of keeping it up?”

  “She’s tired,” said Dave. “but she’s not giving up.”

  “Of course she’s not,” said Punch. “She never does.”

  “Want me to take out another? All of them?” asked Charlie.

  The horde, as though by command, moved back against the building and resumed their scraping and clawing. The Mothers stepped backward and sank back into the shambling crowd of Hungerers.

  Hemp pressed the button. “Guys, we can’t wait anymore. Climb down from there and move in. Knives unless you get into trouble, then guns. Let’s get them out of there.”

  Flex glanced quickly at Trina and Taylor, confirmed both of them had long-bladed knives in their hands, and saw that Nelson held some nunchucks he hadn’t seen before.

  “Once you see those guys hit the sidewalk, let’s go,” said Flex.

  “There they are!” said Taylor.

  “Be goddamned careful,” said Flex. “Let’s go!”

  They spread out and ran toward the horde surrounding the clinic.

  *****

  Nelson was a madman. Flex had run farther than the others, approaching the building at the northwest corner. The crowd was thicker there, and many of the rotters could not push through to get to the building.

  A couple of years earlier, Flex had found a trench knife in an army surplus store. It featured a double-sided, 18-inch blade sharpened to a razor’s edge. The grip had built-in knuckle duster, which could be used as brass knuckles.

  He raised it high as he approached the first rotter. Clasping his left hand over his right, he jammed the blade through the eye of the first rotter that turned toward him.

  With a quick twist, he yanked it back out. The abnormal fell away and Flex stepped back two steps in preparation for the onslaught.

  Come they did, but not with much fervor. Their gnashing was almost silent now, and Flex began one-handing the knife, jamming it into the soft area beneath the chin and up into their tiny, rotted brains.

  The sounds of plunging knives and grunts began to fade into the background as Flex got into his killing groove.

  Something touched his shoulder and he spun around to see a Mother behind him. Staggering backward in surprise, he tripped over the emaciated body of another of his kills and she moved in fast.

  Rather than come straight at him, she sidestepped around him as though intending to come at him from behind.

  “Flex! Roll to your right, now!” shouted Charlie, and he didn’t think. He laid the blade flat and rolled three times to his right. As his face turned up for the second time, he saw one of Charlie’s bolts pierce her neck.

  Flex scrambled back to his feet and looked at Charlie. “EB?”

  “No!” she said.

  Flex readied his blade again and moved in. The black-red blood oozed down her chest as he rushed her and swung the blade across her neck, slicing it cleanly.

  Her head did not droop. He thrust the blade again, into her churning stomach, and twisted it.

  She fell to her knees. The creature was in a red maternity blouse and what had to be stretch jeans. Teetering there for just a moment, she turned her face to Flex, who now stood over her.

  He knew he was violating his own mandate that they hurry. They could find other Mothers and experiment in the course of their travels back to the others, but the fact that these monsters became briefly aware – if even for a split second – haunted him.

  To awaken and not know who you were – much less what you were – would be frightening in itself.

  Keeping beyond her reach, he glanced to see that Charlie was already battling other creatures, her assistance provided and over with. The rest was up to Flex, and after what had happened to his son and so many others, he didn’t like to take too many chances with the Red-Eyes.

  “Here’s one more,” said Flex. “Got anything to say?” He jammed the blade into the place her heart would be.

  She folded backward over her knees, her arms out to her sides. Her mouth opened and closed.

  “Flex!” someone called. A man. He wasn’t sure who it was. Flex moved over her and stood on her hands. Crouching down, he stared at her.

  “Pain … call 911 …” she uttered. As the words came out, both of her now almost white eyes went wide.

  Then, nothing. A chill shot down Flex’s neck.

  He shook it off and pushed himself to his feet, turning back toward the building. He returned to killing mode.

  As Flex dispatched the last rotter on the north side of the building, he moved south and saw Nelson. The longhaired gray-blonde man had mastered the nunchucks as well, and they moved so fast in his capable hands that Flex could not follow their flight.

  He found himself stabbing rotters as they approached, his eyes always turning back to Nelson, who wasn’t even breathing hard.

  Changing swiftly from hand-to-hand, Nelson cracked skulls, collapsed brain cavities, and obliterated facial features as the creatures spun away under his relentless attack. Blood and chunks of gore flew as the tornado that was Nelson Moore worked his way through the crowd of unfortunate rotters.

  The weapon was not made of wood as many Flex had seen before; the shafts at each end of the chain appeared to be made of solid, stainless steel, and the
weight was devastating to zombie skulls and brains.

  Both men worked their way to the south wall where they saw Trina and Taylor, along with Punch. Punch used only his Marine issue combat knife, and he used it with high efficiency. Piles of rotters lay around the three, and Flex saw that some were Mothers, but most were Hungerers.

  Taylor carried a sharpened piece of rebar that Hemp had fitted with a comfortable leather grip and a heel guard. She used it in several ways, but it appeared to Flex that her standard practice was to swing it sideways, stun the zombies, then as they were recomposing themselves to resume their attack, she would jam it in their eye sockets and crank it hard toward the nose.

  This method essentially cracked their faces open like eggshells. If they didn’t die, they’d sure have a helluva time seeing anything.

  “We’re almost there,” breathed Flex, the very act burning his lungs. He moved in and worked alongside the others to finish them off.

  Lola was amazing. She had a knife in each hand. They weren’t very long, but she had a method that was beyond question. She would approach the zombie, plant her boot in its midsection, and as it fell, she would be on top of it, her knees pinning the arms. Using both hands, she would jam the blades into each ear.

  Flex swore he could hear the blades meeting in the middle with the scrape of metal on metal.

  Flex counted. Six more. No more coming. The entire group that had been moving down Main Street was about an eighth mile away. Some stragglers teetered around in the street, but they appeared to have no destination, either instinctive or inserted by the Mothers, in their rotted minds.

  They weren’t a threat for the moment.

  He turned toward the clinic and yelled, “C’mon, help me move these damned bodies!”

  Keeping his voice down was no longer a necessity; the Mothers that seemed to have been pushing the Hungerers forth had all died or moved on to another destination that haunted Flex even more.