Dead Hunger | Book 10 | The Remnants

by Shelman, Eric A.

  “Any ideas?” Punch said, his voice nearly inaudible.

  “I clicked twice,” she breathed.

  Punch nodded.

  “I’m worried what happens when they –”

  She stopped speaking. The blood-covered rotters stood from the hollowed-out carcass of the ravaged hog and moved toward the Red-Eye.

  The powerful female walked toward the base of the tree in which Punch and Charlie were stranded, so close they could no longer see her without standing up and peering over the edge of the rail.

  Suddenly, there was movement and noise. Lots of it. The moans and grunts took on a new excitability, as though they had homed in on a new food source.

  “What’s going on?” asked Punch. Charlie stood on the side where the ladder led up to the platform.

  “Fuck this,” said Charlie. She didn’t whisper. She stood up, swung her crossbow over the edge and looked down.

  They were swarming the ladder. Some were actually pulling themselves up.

  “Jesus!” said Charlie. “Punch, start shooting!”

  Punch swung his .30-06 Springfield around, eyed the scope and fired. Again. Again.

  He was taking them down, their heads exploding, splashing their rancid blood down onto the creatures coming up behind them. Much of the horde was visible, as they could not all take to the ladder for their sheer numbers. The Red-Eye was not in view, so Punch focused on the masses.

  “They’re halfway up!” shouted Charlie, leaning hard over the edge, firing each bolt from the crossbow straight down. The arrows were finding home, burying themselves deep into the skulls of the scramblers.

  Somehow, their bony fingers still found purchase on the next rung, feet planting against heads of those below them, clutching to the lower rungs.

  They were making their way up! Charlie fired and reloaded with incredible speed, but she was losing the battle.

  After depleting her arrows, she dropped the bow and pulled her pistol, taking out five of the climbers in a spray of black goo, who then fell atop the others, dropping them all to the forest floor again.

  A temporary reprieve.

  The Red-Eye screeched, and the sound echoed through the forest around them.

  “Is she calling more?” asked Punch.

  “I don’t know!” said Charlie. “Is there any way out?” She turned to look at the other nearby trees to see if they had any option to climb onto extending branches, thereby concealing themselves at least a little from the horde below.

  There was nothing. The closest branch would require a leap of ten feet, and it was higher than the platform. That idea was relegated to the trash heap of lost causes.

  A hand clutched at the base of the railing, and Charlie kicked and stomped it with her boot, snapping the bones. It fell away, but two more were right behind it.

  A noise came from overhead. A buzzing. They both looked up. The drone slid from east to west across the starlit sky.

  “It’s Charlie’s Pride!” shouted Charlie, as the drone came into view. “Wave your arms!”

  Punch and Charlie frantically waved their weapons in the air, and now Charlie abandoned radio silence. She hadn’t even thought about the radio since the battle began.

  Pressing the button, she said, “Baby, you’re here!”

  Hemp came back. “Yes, but I can’t talk to you and control this drone. I have a plan, but I have to find the right position first. I’ll only have one shot at it.”

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  Nothing came back.

  “He’s got a plan!” shouted Charlie. “Keep shooting!”

  They did. The Red-Eye had moved back to the clearing in front of them, presumably to get a clear view of the platform, and of Punch and Charlie. As Punch raised his weapon to fire down on her, she leapt toward the tree and disappeared from view as an explosion came from overhead.

  The fine mist that rained down amidst the chunks of plastic and metal from the disintegrated drone contained a higher-than-necessary concentration of urushiol.

  The fine droplets covered a wide range, including the area around the tree in which they were trapped.

  “I’ll be goddamn damned!” shouted Charlie. “He made it rain urushiol!”

  The mist had yet to settle on the creatures, but it had now reached the platform, and Charlie held up her palms to feel the cool, hopefully life-saving mist.

  A vibration came from the base of the platform. Punch and Charlie both looked down at the same time to see the Red-Eye’s face, just two feet below them, her hands clutching the front rail of the platform.

  “Jesus!” shouted Punch, kicking outward, the boot impacting her face. Her head shot back, but she did not let go.

  Looking up, the urushiol mist settled onto her forehead, cheeks, and face, raining down into her eyes and her open, masticating mouth.

  She shrieked again, but it did nothing to change the fate of the zombies below, far more susceptible to the effects of the urushiol than the female. They were no longer making progress up the ladder but were melting into a flowing goop that ran down the rungs to the ground.

  The Red-Eye clung to the railing, refusing to let go. Her face had melted like the wax of many candles, blending together into a muddled stream that no longer looked like a face.

  Punch swung the .30-06 around and jammed the barrel into the slime. “Oorah, bitch,” he said. When he pulled the trigger, her mucked-up head detonated as she flew from the platform and plummeted to the forest floor.

  She didn’t move.

  Punch and Charlie fell back into the chairs on the platform, breathing hard. Charlie keyed the radio.

  “Hemp, baby?”

  “Charlie, are you okay? Did it work?”

  “It worked!” she said. “We’re in the deer stand near the water’s edge. How did you find us?”

  “Punch left a note,” said Hemp. “Not exact coordinates by a long shot, but I knew approximately where you’d be.”

  Charlie reached over to hit Punch in the arm. “You dick! If I’d have known that I wouldn’t have been worried!”

  “You never asked, if you wanna be fair. Plus, we had ‘em.”

  “We didn’t have them,” said Charlie. She leaned to her left. “I want to climb down, but those rungs are slippery with zombie blood.”

  “Nice bed of leaves and zombie bodies down there,” said Punch. “You fall, you’ll have a good cushion.”

  Through Hemp’s heroics and their efforts, they had killed the entire horde, including the Red-Eye.

  After another ten minutes, Charlie and Punch had both feet planted on terra firma.

  They took selective steps between the dozens of corpses and made their way out of the woods.

  Hemp met them at the trailhead. Charlie rode with him as he followed Punch back home.

  *****

  Max drove his Blazer, their bundled Red-Eye strapped to the top, as the old, reliable beast lumbered its way toward Lula, Georgia.

  “I changed my mind,” said Gem. “I’m beside myself with this shit. Hemp needs to record some new broadcasts and put them on a loop. Let everyone who hears it know what’s going on.”

  “I’m sure he’s already thinkin’ about that,” said Flex. “One thing I can tell you. We’re not abandoning Lula again.”

  “Oh, shit,” said Max, hitting the brakes.

  Gem and Flex leaned forward from the back seat. “Jesus, I just wanted an easy trip back home!” said Gem.

  The advancing horde could not have been all they had seen at the hot springs; there were only forty or so, and somewhere in the mix, no doubt, there was another Red-Eye directing them.

  “She’s beckoning to them,” said Isis. “I’ve felt it since we passed that GMC dealership.”

  Max didn’t say another word. He threw the Blazer into reverse and turned in his seat, running backwards fast. When he reached a turnout, he swung the rear of the SUV into the driveway and threw it park.

  The horde slowly advanced.

&nb
sp; “What are you doing?”

  “I have an idea.”

  “Well, you better do whatever it is you’re thinkin’, and fast!” said Flex.

  He reached into the console and withdrew a WAT-5 wafer. “Uncle Flex, give me your knife. Hurry.”

  Flex slipped it out of his sheath. “Here. What are you up to? Need some help?”

  “Yeah, c’mon. Now!” The horde was making its way toward them steadily, seeming now to pick up speed.

  “It’s getting more intense!” said Isis. “Max, go!”

  Flex jumped out of the back seat. “What’s up, Max?”

  “Help me,” he said, standing on the narrow running board of the truck, reaching over the bundled Red-Eye. “Her head is forward, right?”

  “Yeah,” said Flex. “What are you doing?”

  He cut through the plastic wrap and began peeling away the layers. As he cut each new layer with tiny slices, Flex pulled it away. Then it struck him.

  “You’re gonna force feed her a WAT-5?”

  “We’ve never tried it! Flex it knocks us out – it might work for her!”

  Flex had never thought about that. Isis and Max were unique; they didn’t sleep. It was part of what they evolved into inside their mothers’ wombs.

  As the last layer came away, the female shrieked.

  Everyone instinctively looked up the street. If zombies could run, these were doing it. Staggering, stumbling, but moving twice as fast.

  Her mouth open, Max dropped the wafer into her gaping orifice and slammed his palm against her open jaw, clamping her mouth closed.

  The preternatural scream cut off; her eyes went wide. The red intensified until it was almost a light of its own, casting red glows on the faces of the pair looking on.

  “I don’t think it’s working!” said Flex.

  But then it did. Her eyes closed.

  “What happened?” called Isis from the car.

  “It stopped,” said Max. “It was in my head too, but I didn’t figure out it was her. I thought it was from … I don’t know. But damn! This is good news! She’s out.”

  “Then get your asses back in the car and let’s push through these fucks!” said Gem.

  Flex and Max jumped back into the truck. Max dropped the transmission into drive and cranked it hard left, toward the horde.

  The Blazer wasn’t fortified; they had gotten it after the apocalypse seemingly ended. It was a tough truck built in the 1980s, though, and if any vehicle could do it, this one could.

  They hoped.

  “Just go slow. Gem, Isis, guns ready.”

  “I have one more trick up my sleeve,” said Max. “Urushiol in the windshield washer.”

  They drew to within five feet. Max eased his foot onto the gas pedal. He angled hard toward the east side of the street, causing the rotters within range to meet the side of the car. When he reached it, he turned the wheel right and slalomed toward the opposite side of the road, pushing more aside.

  They were in the middle now, and hands clawed and slapped at the windows as Max pulled the washer lever, and the tiny pump motors began whirring.

  The urushiol blend was thin enough to mist, and it sprayed out in both directions as they had turned the nozzles when Max and Hemp had filled the reservoir with the blend. The zombies that had climbed onto the hood lost hands and arms, sliding off and slopping to the pavement.

  “I see a gap!” said Max, now abandoning his side-to-side angles and plowing straight through. He had increased his speed to 25 miles per hour now, and the large body of the truck proved its mettle.

  “A few more yards!” he called. As many of them fell and slid away, some got caught beneath their wheels, dead human speed bumps rolling and clumping, then spitting free and melting on the asphalt behind the truck.

  Max floored it and everybody stared ahead at the lone Red-Eye standing in the center of the road. Her eyes blazed, and she let out an ear-shattering scream they heard from within the cabin as though all the windows were down.

  Max plowed into her, the Blazer folding her over at the waist, her head slamming into the hood ornament, snapping it off. As the truck continued forward, she was whipped backwards to the pavement and they rolled over her, gaining full speed after her emaciated body cleared the wheels.

  “Jesus!” shouted Gem, nearly breathless. “Good job, Maxy!” The highway was open ahead. Everyone’s hearts began to settle. Taking a deep breath, Gem let it out slowly.

  Flex took her by the hand. “You okay?”

  Closing her eyes, she nodded. “I am. For now. I don’t know about tomorrow.”

  Isis turned and reached back, placing her hand atop Flex and Gem’s. “None of us do, Aunt Gem. Like before, we’ll figure out how to get through this.”

  *****

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  The old farmhouse was overgrown but the structure had been painted so many times over its lifetime, the many layers of oil-based paint seemed to hold it together.

  It was a faded and cracked yellow exterior, and while weeds and grass grew through every crack in the walkway leading to the door, it was still easy to discern through the much thicker grass bordering it, that it was likely once a well-tended yard and garden.

  “God almighty, this old man’s tired,” said Scofield. “Even this .22 is weighing me down.”

  “Let’s get inside and grab some Zs,” said Jim. “I’ve got the single-burner in my bag and some cans of chili.”

  “Just need some cheese and onions to top it off,” said Scofield.

  “We’ll have to rely on Dennison’s for all the ingredients.”

  The building was two-story but didn’t look all that big. The swath cut by the tornado appeared to have barely skirted around the structure, and its path of devastation was clear. The twister that had torn up the town of Miller and everything leading up to it had been enormous.

  To be safe, Cole knocked hard on the door, waiting a moment.

  “Decorum,” said Scofield. “In short supply these days.”

  “Just an old habit,” said Cole. He tried the knob and it turned.

  They walked in to find the house had been tossed by somebody over the years. Every drawer and closet door inside was open. There were clothes strewn all over the floor, and mice skittered away as they walked through the rooms, guns at the ready.

  “Upstairs, I think,” said Scofield. “Much as I don’t want to take the stairs.”

  “Good idea,” said Cole, peering up the staircase. “Door at the top’s closed. Maybe that’s a sign it’s still in good shape.”

  Leading, Jim Cole mounted the steps and reached the top landing. Three other doors stood open. Only the one at the very top was closed.

  Jim put his hand on it. He looked at Scofield. “This thing feels like metal.” He knocked on it.

  It rang back. Like a dungeon door. There were dents in the door like somebody had tried to kick it in, but the steel held.

  “Now’s my chance to try this lock pick set. Hemp taught me how to do this a long time ago. Hope I didn’t forget how.”

  “Probably just like riding a bicycle,” said Scofield.

  Putting his pack down, Cole dug into a side pocket and slid out the kit. He knelt down and placed it on the floor, unzipping it. Looking back up, he analyzed the lock.

  “Okay, these should do it.”

  *****

  Jim Scofield had fallen asleep, leaning against the upper railing. His spine centered between two of the vertical spindles kept him upright as his not-so-soft snores broke the silence of the house.

  It had been an hour and ten minutes since Jim started messing with the lock, trying to crack it. His fingers were sore. He was about to give up, but like trying to start a fire, the next time could be the time.

  And … it was. When he heard the lock click, then turn, he laughed out loud.

  Scofield startled behind him, jerking hard and putting both palms on the ground as though he intended to stand up quickly. In the end, he just stared
at Jim. “Got it?”

  “Yeah, finally.”

  “How long was I sleepin’?”

  “Fifteen minutes or so. Come on.”

  Jim held out a hand and Scofield took it and got to his feet.

  “You good?”

  “Yep,” said Scofield. “Bones are just a bit creakier than in days past.”

  Cole pushed the door open and stopped in his tracks. “What the fuck?”

  “Kinky farmhouse,” said Scofield, looking around. “Is that a swing?”

  “Yep,” said Cole. “Complete with stirrups.”

  “What the hell is that contraption?”

  “Beats me,” said Cole. “In fact, I’m pretty sure that’s what it’s for.”

  Scofield laughed, then looked up. The entire ceiling consisted of mirrored panels.

  The room was pristine, though. Despite its kinkiness, it was apparently hermetically sealed and soundproof.

  “Don’t sit over there,” said Scofield. “That chair’s got a dick in the middle of it.”

  “Thanks for the heads up.”

  It was not just one room; it was actually a suite of three rooms. In the adjacent room sat a jacuzzi tub, two full skeletons, the bones nearly dust, lay jumbled in the bottom.

  “Hope they had a good last day,” said Jim Scofield. “Got wiped out after a good fuck on the swing, then took a little hot tub.”

  Cole looked at him and laughed. “Jeez, I love you Doc.”

  “Don’t get any ideas,” said Scofield. “I’m old enough to be your granddad.”

  “I’m a taco man,” said Cole. “I try to avoid beans and franks.”

  “You ain’t alone,” said Scofield. He walked over to the swing. “I couldn’t even figure out how to get in that thing, much less sleep in it.”

  “It’s not for sleeping. Looking at it, it’d probably cut off your circulation, anyway. Luckily, there are some more standard accommodations.”

  There was a massage table in one corner, and it was a big, plush one. The place where a customer – or participant – would put their face had a removable insert that was still in place.