The Dead Hunger Series: Books 1 through 5 (125 page)

The creature had been in there just about an hour.  He would leave it in its makeshift hyperbaric chamber – no matter what changes it ultimately exhibited – for the twenty-four hours he intended to leave Reeves in his chamber.  Hemp walked side-to-side in front of Blue Eyes. 

Her gaze did not follow him.  The head had been perfectly alive and very engaged with them prior to the addition of the oxygen-rich environment.  Now the bodiless rotter seemed to have either lost all ability to move its eyes to watch, or had lost all desire.

Hemp would know which one soon enough.  He had a hope for the outcome.   He reached for the bottle full of the vapor the infecteds had been basking in earlier that day at the auction building.

Was it really just a few hours ago?  Why did every minute pass like an hour, making it seem that an event that occurred a little while earlier feel as though days had gone by?

But Hemp knew the answer; with this new discovery – this new evolution of the females – time was of the essence.

He stood, holding the water bottle filled with crimson gas in his hands. 

“What you thinkin’, professor?” asked Scofield.  “I know when a mind is a thousand miles away.”

Hemp chuckled softly.  “Maybe only a few yards away,” he said.  “I need to combine this vapor with the reanimation component.”

“Have you got any?”

“Yes, of course.  In that small refrigerator – the one that must remain on at all times.”

Scofield opened it and looked inside.  “What’s it marked.”

“ZG,” said Hemp.  “Zombie Gas, for lack of a better term.”

“Got it,” said Scofield.  He closed the door and carried the vial to Hemp. 

Placing both bottles on the stainless work bench, Hemp slid the dome with Blue Eyes’ head off to the side.  Her eyes did not follow, her mouth did not gnash.

Hemp began to wonder if she was dead, or if she were playing some sort of trick.  The latter would have been unthinkable a few short days ago, but with recent discoveries, anything was possible.

Focus
, he thought.

“Doc,” said Hemp.  “Last time I did this alone.  I could use your help.”

“Sure, just name it,” said Scofield.

“I need two syringes from that drawer there,” he said, pointing.”  And bring that small bottle of oxygen on that shelf there just above it.”

“Got it.”

As Scofield gathered the requested items, Hemp took a sealed, glass jar with a bleeder valve at the top and another fitting designed to add gasses at its base.  He tore open the first syringe, poked it through the plastic of the water bottle, and withdrew the red vapor.  He injected the entire amount into the large glass container.

He followed with the ZG. 

As when Hemp had been imprisoned in Ryan Carville’s lab, he watched the battle taking place within the glass container, as though the two gasses clashed violently, but in silence.  The red vapor almost appeared dominant, surging forward and back, fighting an invisible opponent.  Hemp could see that minimal to no blending of the two components would occur without intervention, similar to his first experience with the two.

“Please roll over that tank of Liquid Nitrogen, Doctor.”

“Comin’ right up,” he said, rolling the small cart over.  “What gives?”

“When I created WAT-5, I blended the eye vapor with the earth vapor, or the zombie gas, and it reacted, once forced together.  I had to freeze them into a solid form, then mix them together.”

Hemp connected the liquid nitrogen to the beaker, and opened the valve slowly.  Before long, the swirling within the container ceased and the container looked empty.

Scofield looked at Hemp.  “Where the hell did it go?”

“If I’m correct, there will be a gel-like substance at the bottom of the container,” said Hemp. 

He peered inside.  Yes.  It was there.  This one was slightly pink.  Hemp hoped his ratios were adequate. 

Hemp pulled the container toward him and opened the top.  He set it aside, and using a small, rubber paddle-scoop, he scraped the ooze from the bottom of the glass beaker. 

“Pass me a slide,” he said, and Scofield did.  Hemp put a small bit on the glass, and it immediately grew to four times its size.

“What the hell?” said Scofield.  “What did that just do?”

Hemp looked at him.  “It’s why we need to keep the remainder cold.  It will continue to grow unchecked until below freezing.  But it doesn’t have to be liquid nitrogen cold as I initially suspected.  Just freezer cold.  Something we learned since the first time.”

Scofield shook his head. 

Hemp placed one sample in a larger container and dropped the remainder into a smaller, sealed bottle.  He then ran it outside, placing it just outside the back door.  It was just below freezing tonight, which should preserve the mixture fine and prevent it from endless regeneration and multiplication.

“Okay, ready for nothing?”

“Or anything,” said Scofield.  “I was watching that stuff when you were at the back door.  There’s twenty times as much now.”

“And forty, and eighty, and a thousand,” said Hemp.  “It would literally never stop, which makes production of the wafers much easier.”

“What’s next?” asked Scofield.

“We add the one component that protects us,” said Hemp.  “Urushiol.”

He took a glass bottle marked with milliliters and held it up.  He looked again down at the rapidly growing gel, which was now the size of a salad plate and growing.

“Here goes nothing,” said Hemp, turning the bottle over and squirting the pure urushiol oil onto the expanding mixture.

It instantly solidified into a hard, thin wafer.

“Oh, my God,” whispered Scofield.  “Amazing.”

“I thought so the first time I saw it,” said Hemp. 

The same process had taken place, but these wafers were red in color.  That was good.  Easy to distinguish from the others.

“
Are
they different?” asked Scofield.

“The vapor from this red batch comes from a particular group of females,” said Hemp.  “They exhibit completely different behavior from the others.  The regular wafers we produce come as a result of using the typical eye vapor in the formula.  That vapor, as you know by now, is what knocks you out.”

“I’m aware of that stuff,” said the doctor.

“Of course,” said Hemp.  “That standard version of eye vapor comes from what we would consider normal males and females.  It’s pink, not red or crimson, and the creatures with that vapor operate in a more mindless way; attacking aimlessly in a desperate attempt to get at their food source.  They exhibit no signs of vengeance, spite or logic.

Hemp held up the wafer.  He brought it to his nose and smelled it.

“You gonna try that?” asked Scofield.

Hemp shook his head.  “I need a female.  One in her reproductive years, and preferably another who is not.”

“Ask Kimberly,” said Scofield.  “She’s been a little down that she’s not being asked to go out on patrols.  She wants to do more, I think.”

“Is she in her fifties?”

“Think so.  Or thereabouts.”

“I’ll ask her,” said Hemp.  “Know any other young women in town? 

“Birthin’ years, but not pregnant, right?”

“No, I wouldn’t want to try this on a pregnant woman,” said Hemp.  “The WAT-5 is safe enough, but considering what this vapor does – or did to Lisa, anyway – I have no idea what effect it will have.  But yes, I will need to try it on a woman in her reproductive years.”

“I’d say just go out there and make an announcement.  Wanna try it now?”

“There’s no time like the present,” said Hemp. 

“Let’s go,” said Scofield.

*****

Flex led the way and Waylon Bell piloted Gem’s car close behind him.  Bell had watched closely when Flex showed West how to use the top-mount AK-47, so if he needed the gun, it would be available.  Luckily, the trunk of the Crown Vic was still stocked with ammo from their earlier, failed run to find Jimmy and Nikki.

“Stay close behind me,” said Flex into his radio.  “We haven’t been anywhere near here yet.”

“Gotcha,” said Bell.  “This thing’s got some kind of posi-traction,” he said.  “Sucker grips even in the snow.”

“That word takes me back,” said Flex, looking at West.  “But it makes sense.  That Ford was designed for all kinds of shit.  CDC advanced technology, I guess.  I’m slippin’ and slidin’ a bit, but I’m doing better than expected.”

“Why the hell didn’t they just go to a gun store?” asked West.

Flex shook his head and spun the wheel hard left after losing rear end traction again.

Eddie answered West’s question: “No way to go that way without going right by the State House and all the patrols.  Nobody was guarding near the prison.  Jimmy just thought that would be best.”

“Does Nikki have anything to say about anything?” asked West.  “I’ve met her a couple of times.  She seems to have a cool head.”

“She does, and yeah, Jimmy listens to her.  He was determined this time, though.  Said the prison guards had assault weapons and stuff.  He saw it a few months ago on a news show about Concord Prison.”

The ebony shape of the building loomed on the skyline, a darker shadow silhouetted against a flickering glow.

“What the hell?  Is that fire?” asked
Bell.

“Hell yes, it is,” said Flex.  “It’s the fuckin’ prison.”

“Jesus, do you think they’re in there?” asked Ian, his voice quivering.

“You said they were coming here, and unless this was from some natural source, they started it,” said West.

“Keep an eye out for Ratz and the other kind when we get out of the vehicles,” said Flex. 

He looked in the rear view mirror at Eddie.  “What were they driving, Eddie?”

“I think it’s called a Pinto.  Little two-door thing.  I’d never heard of one, but it was full of gas and the battery turned.”

“Ain’t that a piece of luck,” said Flex.  “Those fuckers didn’t run when they were new.”

“And you didn’t want to get in a rear ender with them,” said West.  “Exploding gas tanks.”

“I saw that Pinto last time I went by your place,” said Flex.  “I remember thinkin’ it probably didn’t run.  Didn’t know it was yours.  Dull yellow, right?”

“Exactly,” said Ian. 

Flex turned down an access road and the parking lot came into view.  Snow dusted most of the vehicles, so Flex scanned the parking lot for a car that wasn’t covered.

“I don’t see it anywhere,” said Flex.  He caught Ian’s eye in the mirror.  “What weapons did they take with?”

“Just a couple .22 caliber rifles and a couple of revolvers.  All we had.”

“The pistols hold a lot of rounds,” said Flex.  “Well-placed in the brain, they could hold off a few of ‘em for a while.  You know how full this prison was, West?”

“Maxed out,” he said.  “Discussions were underway to expand it or build a new one.”

“Shit,” said Flex.  “I still don’t see their car.  I’ll drive around.”

Flex drove the truck north, parallel with
State Street.  One of several small yards was visible in the distance, and several of the walking dead shamblers could be seen wandering aimlessly.  Any food available to them had long ago been exhausted.

The flames were licking the skyline, and Flex hoped there was a section of the prison as yet untouched by them, and that if they were in there, Jimmy and Nikki were in that wing.  The grass that wasn’t covered in snow was beginning to catch as the northerly breeze picked up.

Flex reached the eastern access road and turned right. 

And they saw it.  The melee. 

There must have been three hundred infecteds, all dressed in prison grey, trapped beside a tall fence, the top of which was curled with barbed wire.  And they were not merely fences, but cages, with heavy duty-steel tops enclosing them.  The top appeared to be an extruded metal – steel and strong.

“That is perfect,” said Flex.  “There are a shitload of biters, but they look to all be contained.”

“There’s the Pinto!” said Ian, his voice cracking.  “Jesus!”

Flex saw it at the same time and headed toward it.  When he got there, he threw the truck into park, unbuckled his seat belt and got out.  In two steps he nearly fell on his ass as he skimmed over a patch of black ice.  His arms windmilling, he caught himself, and forged on.

He knelt down and looked inside the car. 

The small ford was upside-down with both doors hanging open.  The front end was smashed, and there was a spider web crack on the driver’s side windshield, spattered with blood.

If Jimmy had been driving and intended to squeeze through the tangle of cars, there had been no way through; the vehicles were so clustered in the parking lot there was no way he could have threaded the needle, because the eye did not exist.

Had he been distracted?  By what? 

Flex walked back to his truck.  He could feel the heat from the soaring flames on the left side of his face.