The Dead Hunger Series: Books 1 through 5 (23 page)

My eyes glanced at the sky, and for just a brief moment, I prayed that the guardian angels that were once my Jesse and Jamie – the ones we promised Trina were there – really existed, that they were really looking down on us, and that they were truly guarding us.

All of us.

A new chapter of our war with the
walking dead had begun.

The End Of The Beginning

Stay Tuned For Dead Hunger: Book 2

Gem’s Chronicle

BOOK TWO OF THE DEAD HUNGER SERIES

Dead Hunger II

The Gem Cardoza Chronicle

A Flex Sheridan Adventure

By Eric A. Shelman

Dead Hunger II: The Gem Cardoza Chronicle

is a work of fiction by

Eric A. Shelman

All characters contained herein are fictional, and all similarities to actual persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental.

No portion of this text cannot be copied or duplicated without author or publisher written permission, except for use in professional reviews.

©2012 Dolphin Moon Publishing

ISBN 978-0-9849255-5-1

Cover Art By Gary McCluskey

PROLOGUE

My name is Gem Cardoza.  I’m 33 years old, which is the first thing I noticed that Flex left out of his chronicle when I went to read it.  I don’t think he’s embarrassed about being twelve years older than me.  It’s not like he’s 25 and I’m 13, so it’s all perfectly legal.

Not that legal vs. not legal means shit anymore, because it doesn’t.

Anyway, it’s been a while since Flex finished his record of what we went through then and a lot has happened over the last few months.

Flex doesn’t talk much about his life before the world changed, and I guess there was more on his mind
when he wrote his part of this.  Hell, on all our minds, for that matter.  Zombies rule the streets, and some disturbing things – yes, even more disturbing than he told you – have transpired since the last entry.

But some really great things have happened, too.

Back then, we’d just finished our burial ceremony for his sister and niece.  Perhaps we should’ve included Trina’s father, Jack, in our ceremony, but we hadn’t really talked to Trina about the fact that he was dead yet.  It didn’t matter.  She stood there and watched her mother eating him, so in her little mind, she knew.  It was, I suppose, some fucked up shit that we didn’t want to reintroduce to her memory.  She seemed to have blocked it out, and in time, we knew she’d begin to talk about him again.

So I’ll tell you a bit about my trip from
Miami to Gainesville where I found the love of my life again at a time when I needed to have him by my side the most.

You know how
when you’re with someone and things are so good you just keep wondering when the universe is going to jam a knife in it and rip it apart?  That’s what was going through my mind when I was with Flex the first time. 

Everything inside me was telling me he was the man of my fucking
dreams, but because of all the messed up relationships I’d had before then, I had this self-fulfilling prophecy running through my head that it couldn’t last.  I often do that – head that shit off at the pass, knowing it will self-destruct on its own eventually, so I beat fate to the punch.

Stupid.  I know.  Being with Flex again was like standing
on an ice flow and having a heating blanket thrown over me.  When I got to his sister’s house in Gainesville after the horror I’d experienced in Miami and on my drive north, seeing him was just like that.

And when he put his arms around me there, with little Jesse lying in that grave beside us,  I knew at that moment  it was the only place I wanted to be, and I also knew I’d never doubt the wisdom of the powers that brought us together for the second time.

But that was then.  Let me tell you what happened to bring me there, and then we’ll move forward with what’s happened since Flex, looking truly frightened for the first time I remember, opened the door to his house and told us to stay put.

I went to the window and watched these two men that I cared for deeply running toward the forest, and my heart pounded like a jackhammer.  My breath was caught in my chest; I couldn’t draw in or exhale.  I remember looking at Charlie and Trina, seeing the fear on Charlie’s face and the confusion in my darling Trina’s eyes.

And I knew for certain we would not do what Flex had told us to do.

Like he
really
thought we would.

CHAPTER ONE

Gem Cardoza’s
Chronicle

I woke up that Sunday morning in my Uncle Rogelio’s house in Miami.  I had a small apartment nearby and if I didn’t have plans, he and my Aunt Ana often invited me over for dinner and to sit with them afterward by a fire pit in the back yard while he played guitar, knocked back a few tequila shots and sang songs.  He preferred Roy Orbison and even played a lot of Beatles songs.  That was a beautiful time.  I loved both of them with every ounce of my being.  My aunt didn’t sing, but she would take this old tambourine and smile as she shook it to the beat of the music, and Uncle Rogelio and I knew all the words to every song he played.  We stayed up past 1:00 that morning.

So what happened to him happened fast.

I was jolted awake at 9:00 in the morning.  I normally get up by 7:00, but with the tequila running through my system, I was down for the count.  Anyway, I didn’t awaken to the usual odors of breakfast cooking; pork sausages, eggs, the spices my uncle used to cook meals – pretty much every meal.

I awoke to screams.  My aunt’s screams.  And growls that sent chills down my spine.

I jumped out of bed and threw on my jeans.  I was in the back corner bedroom, and the master bedroom where my aunt and uncle slept was in the front, off the living room.  The screams were piercing, as though they came from just outside my door.

I slept in my bra and underwear when I stayed over, and I didn’t even try to take the time to put a top on.  Once I pulled my jeans on, I yanked the door open and ran toward their bedroom.

I’d never been more frightened than I was at that moment.  I was sure some gang bangers had broken in and were killing them both, but I didn’t stop to think about my own safety. 

The first thing I noticed was that the door
to their bedroom was open.  They always slept with it closed.  When I reached the doorway I stopped short and stared, my adrenaline pumping through my veins.  I saw my beautiful Uncle Rogelio on top of my wonderful Aunt Ana.  No.  I didn’t walk in on a sexual romp.  I wish I had.

He was biting her.  No.  He was clawing at her skin and tearing into her face with his teeth.  He didn’t look up at me.

I screamed, “Uncle Rogelio, my God, what are you doing?  Get off her!” 

I staggered to the bed, still wiping the sleep from my puffy eyes, and pushed him, and I realized it was the first time he noticed I was there.
  And then I saw his face clearly.  His eyes were blank, yet determined.  He couldn’t take them off my aunt, who had now fallen unconscious.  I could still see her chest rising and falling there in my stupor, and then he was on her again, his hands ripping at her hair, his mouth buried in her face, chewing and trying to tear her scalp from her head.

I know now that he was trying to get at what lay beneath her skin.  His skin had chafed, his color gone.  He was more like a wild animal than any wild animal I’d ever laid eyes on.

I ran back into the guest bedroom.  There was an old, beat up wooden baseball bat there, and I grabbed it and ran full speed back to my aunt and uncle’s bedroom.  Uncle Rogelio was on top of her again, doing that horrible thing to my aunt, only now he’d broken through and was tearing at her flesh with abandon.  I raised the bat over my head, my arms shaking, and I brought it down with all my might, slamming it into his back, but still he raged, growling, biting and killing my beloved aunt.

But at that point I was sure she was already dea
d.  She was sixty-two years old and had heart problems, and I hoped to God it had seized and allowed her solace from this horror.

The repeated impact of the bat eventually got his attention, and his arm came up fast, his blue-black fingers snatching it from my grasp.  With a primal, guttural scream, he flung it away and it smashed into and through the window.  His eyes no longer saw me, his niece. 
They saw an enemy.

And I was. 
Now I was.

But I ran then, and I was faster than this thing.  My purse was on the dining table and I hooked my arm through the strap – my keys were there, and I had to have it to escape.  I ran into the other spare bedroom and slammed the door just as he came up behind me, and as I held the door closed, I worked to fumble the lock into the STAY THE FUCK OUT! position.

I got it.  My heart pounded, even as what used to be my sweet, guitar-playing Uncle Rogelio pounded on the door, scratched on the door, and for all I knew, bit the door.

Uncle
Rogelio had come home one day with an Uzi machine gun he’d won playing poker with his buddies.  I knew he kept it in here, which is why I locked myself in this particular room.  He’d showed me how to use it, much to the chagrin of my aunt, who was not happy at all about it.  But we had fun, loading it up and shooting the shit out of a variety of cans, bottles, and other makeshift targets.  He told her he kept it because the area in which they lived wasn’t getting any safer, but he had a little Smith & Wesson .38, so I knew he kept the machine gun because he thought it was as cool as I did – plus he liked to show it off to his friends.

With the pounding growing in intensity, I opened the closet door and grabbed the gun.  I found the ammo for it and loaded the magazine with utterly shaking fingers.  It took me too long, and the door jamb was beginning to splinter at the knob latch.

When it was loaded, I stood there, pointing the gun at the door.  I don’t know what I was thinking then.  I knew in my heart I couldn’t shoot him, no matter what he’d become.  I believed he was sick – which in a way, I suppose he was – or is.  But I could not bring myself to fire lead into the man that had, in many ways, raised me. 

So I turned and grabbed the metal box containing the remaining ammunition for the Uzi, and I ran to the window, slid it up fast and threw the gun
and metal ammo box out. 

O
ne last glance at the door allowed me to see it finally give way.  As it flung open and the thing that used to be my uncle staggered into the room, I dove through that window, grabbed the gun and box from the grass, my purse barely staying on my arm, and ran to my car. 

As I rounded the corner of the house toward the driveway, I saw my uncle come throug
h the window, falling face down and scrambling back to his feet.  And when I turned back to the driveway, I saw eight or nine more men and women, all just like him, staggering around in the street beyond the drive.

Fishing around in the purse, my fingers curled around the keys and I hit the unlock button and ran full speed to the car.  I saw some of the street creatures notice me, and almost as a unit they turned in my direction

Pulling the door open, I jumped in, tossed the gun and ammo on the passenger side and slammed the door and the key into the ignition almost simultaneously.  I fired the engine and threw the car into reverse, hitting the gas.

Uncle
Rogelio had reached the car and now pressed himself against the driver’s side window, and as I jammed my foot on the gas pedal, reversing out of the driveway, he spun off the car and fell.  I felt an impact in the rear and realized someone or something had been behind my car.  I kept going.  I felt my tires grab, and then the rear of the car lurched up and over, followed by my front tires.

It was a woman in a robe, and I hadn’t killed her.  I think her leg and an arm were broken, but she couldn’t take her eyes off me.  She was as infected as my
uncle.  I squeezed my eyes closed and hit the street, jammed the car into first gear, released the clutch and floored it.

I never looked back.  I didn’t need to.  These things were everywhere.  And at that moment only one thought entered my mind.

Get to Flex.  Find Flex.

I’d filled the car the night before I got to my aunt and uncle’s house, so I had plenty of fuel to put a few hundred miles between me and whatever was happening in south Florida, so I avoided the creatures as best I could, positioned the Uzi in the seat for easy access, and headed toward I95.

I sobbed as I drove.  I couldn’t help myself.  Ten minutes after leaving that fucking horrible scene, it all slammed into my brain like a runaway freight train.  My uncle, for all intents and purposes, was dead.  So was my aunt.  My parents had died years before in a tragic auto accident, and I was alone now.  I had no kids – and to be frank, I was glad.  Whatever had happened was too horrible for a child.  And so I cried for what must have been a hundred miles, until I was empty and all fluids were drained from my body.

My brain churned wildly.  Why was Flex so heavy on my mind?  Why did I feel such a need to find him?  I’d left him. He probably wanted nothing to do with me.  And yet, he was all I could think of.  His sister Jamie would be able to tell me if he was still in
Georgia, but I had no way of knowing who had succumbed to the outbreak, or whatever it was.  Maybe Flex.  Maybe his entire family.  Why was I spared?  Or was I?  Would I soon forget who I was and join these lunatics that were once friends and neighbors, family and loved ones?

My world had flipped.  I was close to flipping out.  I drove with the pedal to the floor
whenever open roadway lay ahead through the living and dead bodies – and perhaps some that fell into neither category – and crashed cars.  At least it was morning, and there were hours of daylight remaining.  I knew I might have to stop for fuel, and that didn’t comfort me. 

I pressed on, one eye on the road and the other on my Uzi – just to make sure it was still there.

*****

I drove my new Camaro as fast as it would go whenever I could.  The car handled well, crouched low to the ground and allowed me to make good time.  I’d gotten the 3.6 liter V6 engine because I didn’t want to pay for the fuel for the bigger V8, but it still punched out 323 horsepower, and that turned out to be plenty.

With a 19 gallon fuel tank capacity and a full tank, I didn’t have to stop for gas at all.  It was around 340 miles to Jamie and Jack’s house, and despite the way I was driving and all the stopping and pulling around crashed and stalled out cars, I still had just under a quarter tank when I pulled into their driveway and saw Flex’s Suburban.

But I did have to stop to pee.  And that was where the goddamned shit hit the fan, and there is NO pun intended.

When I got up near Fort Pierce, I was squeezing my legs together, and even with what was happening, I couldn’t think of anything else.  I’d jumped out of bed and begun the craziness that would continue until we either killed all these things or died ourselves, and hitting the bathroom was not on my to-do list.

So, with my Uncle’s Uzi by my side, I had to pull off.  I may be a force to be reckoned with, but I’m also a girl in more ways, and I don’t like the crouch.  I wanted to find somewhere with walls.  A porta-potty would be fine, but construction had dried up since the real estate bust, and they didn’t appear on every street corner as they once did, so I hit the off ramp and made my first mistake as I pulled into a Texaco station.

I saw several bodies as I got off the ramp, and a couple of the crazies staggering around, others feeding on the aforementioned bodies.  I actually threw up in my car at the sight of it, and the full body shakes overtook me then, too.  I hadn’t eaten and I only had about a half a bottle of water in my car, which I’d downed in the first fifty miles.

As I drove past, pressing the gas pedal a bit more firmly, my mind whirled with all that had already happened and the anticipation of what would happen; whether or not I’d find Flex, and whether or not he’d try to eat me.

And I don’t mean that in a good way.

So I double-checked the Uzi to make sure it was in good working order, then looked in all directions, motor still running.  Nobody in sight.  Good.  I eased the door open and stepped out, brushed the vomit from my chest – I still didn’t have a top on.  It was at my aunt and uncle’s house, so there I was in my jeans and a bra, the Uzi strap over my shoulder and looking like a mess.

I cursed tequila then, and not for the first time.

There was a mini-mart and a garage attached to the gas station, and the door to the market was unlocked.  I went in and froze in my tracks.  The little brass bell tinkled as I opened the door, sounding more like a fucking gong in my mind as I watched this
thing
in the shape of a man turn his face toward me from his position on all fours.

He wore typical mechanic’s garb, the navy blue polyester pants and the lighter blue mechanic’s shirt, and he had the name ‘Jason’ embroidered on his name badge.

He’d been crouched over a dead man, and I do not use that term loosely in any fucking way, shape or form.  The shredded condition of the body indicated he’d been eaten by more than one of the zombies; there was almost no flesh left on his body, and his skull had been split open and ravaged.  The only way I could even tell it was a man was from the dress shoes, standard patent leather oxfords.  Everything else was so horrendously ripped apart and smeared with blood that it wasn’t even visible beneath the gore.

The floor was smeared and splattered with chunks of the same innards that covered the dead man’s clothing, and I think only my eyeballs didn’t erupt into gooseflesh when that thing that had been feasting on the corpse turned its face up to stare at me.