The Dead Hunger Series: Books 1 through 5 (36 page)

We fitted on our neck straps and got out of the car.  We all strapped on drop leg holsters to accommodate one gun per side, and slid our handguns of choice into them.  Suzi was slung over my shoulder and two 9mm Glocks kept my upper thighs warm and dangerous.

I think Flex might tell you my thighs could be dangerous anyway, but that’s pure speculation.  He’d always made it out alive – at least so far.

Flex chose a pair of Sig Sauer P250 .40 calibers, and Hemp had settled on a couple of Walther P99s, each carrying sixteen 9mm rounds.

Speaking of dangerous, we all looked pretty damned dangerous, which is exactly what we were.  Once everything was on and adjusted, we headed toward the door of the lab.

LMS Research Labs was located on the corner of the small cluster of stores, and was clearly set up to be inconspicuous.  Just small one-inch letters on the door stated its name, and the glass frontage was heavily tinted.

While Hemp and I kept our eyes out for visitors, both alive and those of the hungrier variety, Flex banged on the door. 

We had this practice because of the same reasons we’d done it at the gun store.  You never know where people are holing up, and we didn’t want to errantly shoot anyone who wasn’t a threat.  We also didn’t want to get shot as we stormed into a building that we hadn’t checked out thoroughly.

Flex’s knock went unanswered.  He tried the door, and to our surprise, it was unlocked.  He tapped me on the shoulder and waved me in.  I, in turn, tapped Hemp and we all went inside.  We had zero peripheral vision in these helmets, so it was important that we be aware of our surroundings.  We would normally call out as we entered a building to alert anyone inside of our presence, but the BSN headgear also prevented us from doing that with any effectiveness

So we made our way through each room stealthily, Uzi, Daewoo and Heckler & Koch held out to take out any freaks who might try to accost us.

None did.

Once we cleared the building, Hemp went back to the lobby and turned the deadbolt on the door.  He removed his helmet, and we followed suit, hitting the power buttons afterward to preserve the precious batteries.

“I need an air or gas analyzer,” said Hemp, his normally nice, blonde hair mussed like crazy from the helmet.  He swept it out of his eyes, and it fell right back down.

“Because this agency works directly with the CDC, they’ll have what we need.  I passed the main lab in the first room on the right.”

We followed Hemp in.  There was no sense in splitting up because only he would recognize what we needed, so we just tagged along behind him, our guns still at ready just in case.

Hemp stopped at one machine on a rolling cart. 

“Here,” he said.  “It’s perfect.  That laptop there,” he said, pointing at an IBM machine closed on the cart, “will have a full database of all known chemical compounds, as well as the settings to convert the machine for whatever analysis we need.  I’m hoping it has a setting for all of the above, since we don’t have any idea what we’re looking for.”

“It’s pretty big,” said Flex.  “Glad it’s on a cart.”

“We’ll have to take it off there to get it in the car,” I added.  “Is that all we need?”

Hemp took a slow walk around the lab.  He found some more small chemical sniffers like the ones we used to make our BSN devices and added them to the cart.  Three in all.

“Yep.  Let’s load it up.  Thank you, AirTech.  They’re making one of the most advanced machines in the world right now, and we’re going to have one.”

“Bitchen,” said Flex. 

Hemp stared at him.  “I still have no idea what that means,” he said, his British accent crisp.

“It’s the same as fuckin’ A,” I said.

“Or cool,” said Flex.

“Okay, got it,” said Hemp, laughing.  He was in a good mood now.   So was I, now that we had the machine he needed.

After loading up, the next stop would be the party store next door, then the art supply.  We’d found a Michael’s store that we would be able to get to taking the same route we’d taken on the way here with just a one-mile detour.

Okay.  I know what you are thinking.  I explained my need to express myself, and tried to make you understand that it’s not just about me.  I know who I am, and I know that without this outlet I might soon have gone off the deep end.

I can tell you that if we pulled up to the craft store and found it overrun with zombies that I’d be the first to say fuck it, and that would be very bad for me mentally.  When I’m not working or creating, guess where my mind goes?  Guess where everyone’s mind naturally turns in this time of flesh and brain-eating zombies walking the earth?

It goes to the flesh and brain-eating zombies, that’s where.  And that’s an awfully crappy and mentally draining place to exist.  It’s all about distractions and beauty.  Beauty has a way of bringing about peace of mind.  Distractions bring about diversion of thought.  I needed both.  So did everyone else.  Okay, everyone but Hemp, who thrived on the entire situation, much to the relief of all of us.  As long as he focused on this problem of the dead walking around hungry as hell, we knew progress was being made.

So it was my intention to create some beautiful fucking things for people to look at; things that did not exist within the steel supply building.  I wanted to create something to provide warmth and comfort.  I’d do some silly stuff for the kids and some thought-provoking work for the adults.

And for the wall in our room, I might just do a self-portrait of me and Flex.  It was already in my head and I just needed to get it onto canvas.

We stepped outside, rolling the cart with the machine on it to the Crown Vic.  I hit the unlock button and then popped the trunk.  The machine was maybe 20” x 30” and would fit in there just fine.

But as all three of us got to the sidewalk, something disturbing presented itself.

Or, in this case, presented themselves.

It was a man and a boy.  Rather, it used to be a man and a boy.  Now, effectively, they were more accurately described as a big zombie and a little zombie.

We stopped.  We’d put our helmets back on and gotten everything sealed up before we came outside, and when we saw them we all instinctively froze in our steps.

There was no increase in speed or change in their demeanor.  No moaning, gnashing or other evidence they recognized us for what we were to them.

I don’t need to say it.

The helmets prevented us from saying anything.  The brain-eaters drew closer.  They were within twenty-five feet of us now.

Hemp held his MP5 in his right hand.  With his left, held close to his body with the palm open and facing downward, he lowered it two inches. 

The instruction was clear to both me and Flex: Don’t move.

Fifteen feet.   Ten feet.  And then the two were right beside us.   I looked at them through my face shield and what my old country friend used to call
chillywivers
hit my neck and spine.

They were a father and son.  Despite the damage done to their faces, they looked like carbon copies of one another.  The shape of their noses, their eyes.  Even their mouths.

I wanted to cry then.  I didn’t want to kill them.

They drew up beside us, their eyes straight ahead.  Now I felt as though I could smell them.  They were literally no more than a foot or two from any one of us, and they didn’t seem to know what we were.

The man stopped, and the boy followed suit.  I could see, even through the tinted visor, the pink haze around their eyes, but they did not engage it.

And the boy looked up at me.  His 12-year-old face, because that’s what I guessed his age to be, was pocked and torn.  The skin had drawn, gone grey-white.  His chin and cheeks were stained with blood, and I didn’t want to think about whose it was.  I looked straight into those eyes and I started to cry.

Without turning my head, I looked at Flex.  He looked directly at the man – the father, I knew.  Dad was wearing camouflage clothing as was his son, and clearly they had been hunting when the outbreak hit them.  I thought just briefly about the strange fact that they were
still
hunting together; the prey had just drastically changed since they set out that long ago morning, probably bidding good-bye to the woman who was wife and mother to the pair.

And as suddenly as they stopped, they began walking again.  Not a change in speed or purpose. 

Just moving on.  Nothing to see here.

Nobody to
eat
here.

We stood stock still until they rounded the corner of the building about thirty yards down.  Then we rolled that machine off the low curb, almost toppling it from its cart, grabbed the device, the laptop and the other things Hemp had taken and put it in the trunk fast.  Flex slammed it closed, I left all my gear on including the Tivek and just jumped in the car with everyone else following suit.

Only when we were safely inside did we remove the BSN helmets and neck seal straps.  We both looked at Hemp and our shocked facial expressions – yes, even with the streaks from my tears still evident – turned to broad smiles.

“Fuck me,” said Flex.  “They work like a son-of-a-bitch!”

Hemp couldn’t speak.  He was smiling so big his mouth must have hurt. 

I reached around my seat and hooked a hand behind his head, pulled him forward and planted a big kiss on his forehead.

“They were father and son,” I said.  “Thanks for inventing a device that eliminated the need for me to shoot them.”

“I saw that too,” Hemp finally said.  “I didn’t really want to kill a father in front of his son either.  No matter what they’ve become.”

Flex looked at us both and nodded.  He didn’t speak.  I knew he felt the same.  Flexy has a big heart.  We don’t enjoy the killing, even while we know it’s necessary, and if those two had to die then somebody else could do it.

We decided to forgo the party store next door and just make one stop at Michael’s.  We’d still get there before passing the lake again, so we’d have our balloons and the ability to capture the samples of whatever was coming out of the earth.

I didn’t know what was worse; to know there was a zombie gas rising from the earth, or to have it all remain a mystery.

I just wasn’t sure which one would do more to dash the eternal hope to which we humans tend to cling.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

From the lab to the craft store we saw a few more rotters.  Three were in the parking lot of a gas station, and the movement of our car drew their gazes.  These appeared to be what Hemp called diggers.  The reanimated dead ones rather than those who’d become infected during life, died and turned.

We pulled into the Michael’s parking lot.  It was in a center with a grocery store, but our food stock was good.  Still, if there was an opportunity to get more, it’s not like it would go to waste.

There were probably fifty cars, all told, in the lot.  Some had crashed into others to remain that way forever, the doors open, skeletal remains hanging out of both driver and passenger doors.  The ravaged bodies were strewn everywhere, all of them badly decomposed or eaten away by the hundreds of vultures and clearly, the zombies who had attacked them before the flying predators got on the scene.

“Look,” said Hemp, pointing.  “It looks like that fellow tried to cage himself under that overturned shopping basket.”

Our eyes went to the man’s destroyed body, one foot still jammed in the part of the now overturned cart that most women keep their purses.  His arms were splayed open wide against the pavement, the hands completely gone, and one of the huge vultures was inside the cart picking away at the foot that hadn’t yet been completely devoured.

“Poor bastard,” I said.  I imagined him crawling under the cart, the ravenous, undead creatures swarming all around it, trying to overturn it and get at the frightened man within.  He would’ve instinctively put his fingers through the top – which was the bottom of the cart – pulling it downward with all his might to keep the zombies from flipping it over.

He didn’t count on them biting his fingers, chewing on the extremities until there was no way he could keep the downward pressure on his makeshift cage.  The moment he relented to the biting, it would’ve gotten immeasurably worse.

Fatally worse.

The other bodies strewn about the parking lot were in similar condition; in every case their heads had been cracked open and the gooey insides consumed.  All of this horror was not something we had to leave the car to observe; driving down one of the two passable rows and glancing left and right was all that was necessary.

“Look at this shit,” said Flex.  “I’ll never get used to it.”

“There must be two hundred vultures,” I said.  “What’s left to eat?”

As large as tom turkeys, they hopped here and there in groups of six to ten, picking violently at the remaining rotting flesh and meat.  They didn’t even react to the Crown Vic violating their space.

I wanted to shoot them, but ammunition should be saved for those who don’t wait for you to die before they eat you.

I pulled the Ford up on the sidewalk right beside the entry door of the craft store.  There would be no running across parking lots filled with vultures and death to get to our car.

“Okay, we’re getting in and out,” said Flex.  “Gem, I’ll go with you to help you carry your stuff, but just be ready.  I don’t even want to stay in there long enough to clear it – just be ready to shoot the shit out of anything that comes at you, get your stuff and we’re out.  Hemp?”

“Agreed.  No clearing, just shoot.”

“After you make sure it’s not us,” I added.

“Of course,” Hemp said.  “I’ve grown fond of you two.”

“We’ll be the only ones inside wearing helmets, so we’ll be easy to spot.”

We put on our gear and opened the car door.

Something caught my eye behind the glass of the adjacent grocery store.  Movement.

  I walked five steps until I was standing in front of the glass exterior wall where all the shopping carts were stored.

My own reflection obscured what I was trying to see at first, my image with the motorcycle helmet on prominent.  But in a moment my eyes focused beyond my reflection.

Faces stared back.  Dead faces.  Dozens of them, dead, hungry eyes looking through the glass at me.

I had a body flinch just then, and nearly jumped back three feet.  The guys noticed. 

Jeez, I guessed they noticed.

“Gem,” I barely heard Flex call through his helmet.  “What is it?”  Hemp stood beside him, already seeing what I’d seen.

I motioned with my hands.  The zombies inside were pressing against the glass, frantic to get at us, though I knew they couldn’t possibly smell us.  They must relate moving things with food, particularly when the moving thing was shaped like a human.

The doors were closed, the power off.  They were trapped inside with no thought process, no logic that could help them determine how to get the hell out.

I was happy for their predicament.  I wondered how many were inside Michael’s.

“There must be forty or fifty in there,” said Flex. 

“At least,” I said.

“Well, they’re locked in, babe.  Let’s get this thing done.”

Flex was right.  In and out.

“Thanks for indulging my emotional needs, guys,” I shouted so they could hear me.  “I’ll be quick.”

I took one more glance at what once would have been called humanity, the walking dead things that swarmed just behind the glass.  It seemed cruel to leave them trapped in there, but they couldn’t know anything anymore.  They couldn’t know cruelty from kindness, pain from pleasure.

They only knew insatiable hunger, and instinctively, what would cure it.

We went inside Michael’s with our guns ready.  I got to one of the checkout stands and grabbed three shopping bags.

Since all the stores in the chain were set up similarly, I knew where to go.  Flex stayed with me and Hemp searched for the party supply aisle to find his balloons.

Only seconds passed before I heard the first three-round burst from Hemp’s gun. 

“Hemp, you alright?” shouted Flex.  We remained still in order to hear him, but he answered right away.

“Yeah.  I’ve only seen the one so far.  That one’s done.  Keep your eyes open, guys.”

Of course we would.  The next burst startled me, but I kept my eyes on one end of the aisle and Flex watched the other.

I reached the oil paints, and after another glance down the aisle to make sure it was all clear, I swept a few dozen tubes of various color ranges into one of my bags.  Flex tapped my shoulder and I turned to see a shadow emerging at the end of the aisle closest to the front of the store.  As we watched the shadow grow larger, a tattered woman appeared at the end.  Daylight streamed in from the windows behind her, making her nothing more than a silhouette, but we could tell by her stance and movements that she was one of the infected.

She stopped and looked at us.  We remained still as we’d done outside the lab earlier.  She came down the aisle anyway, probably with no intentions other than to shuffle the aisles as she had likely done since becoming trapped in the store.

Flex shot her.  One quick burst and she was a mess of blood and gore, falling before she had taken her third step toward us.

We stared at her body for a moment, satisfied she was really dead.

“Get me as many of the 20 x 30 canvases as you can carry,” I shouted, and Flex moved further down the aisle to gather the items on my shopping list.

I grabbed two bottles of odorless solvent for brush cleaning and color thinning, along with several brushes of various sizes, bristle materials and rigidity.  Two more steps down the aisle and I reached the watercolor supplies.  Five packages of about twenty colors went into my bag.  Two thick packages of standard sized watercolor paper, and that part was done. 

Five more steps and I had the acrylics and some more media to paint on with them.  It was enough.  I could work some of the frustrations out of my system with what I had.

Another three-round burst came from the end of the row.  I looked toward the sound and saw Hemp running forward past the aisle, his gun blasting away.  He stopped so I could see him and looked at me.  He held his arms out as if to ask if I was finished yet, and I nodded at him.  He suddenly looked away again and withdrew one of his P99s from his drop leg holster.  Holding the gun straight out, he fired twice more at something out of my line of sight.

I heard another muffled thump from somewhere, so Hemp had undoubtedly hit his mark.   The professor then turned and ran down the aisle toward me.  I matched his speed, running ahead of him toward the door.  Flexy was leading, his hands filled with the large stretched canvases, and we hit the front doors at full tilt, pushing through them.  We opened the rear door of the Crown Vic and tossed all the shit in the back seat and got our asses back inside the car.

The door of the craft store had closed again, and two female zombies stood inside, clawing at the impenetrable glass frontage, unable to find the door we’d used to exit.  I was again thankful for what happened to their memories when they became afflicted.  Had they retained any of their former awareness, ladies like these could’ve found the door to Michael’s blindfolded and hogtied.  One wore a pink pant suit that was likely once very tight over a large ass and thighs, but that now sagged on her emaciated body like sheets over furniture in an old abandoned house.

I hit the door locks and we removed our BSN helmets, all staring at the storefront.  We could see all the faces from inside the grocery store pressed against the glass, and it was disturbing.  I fired the engine and gunned it.  The car dropped off the sidewalk with a thump and back in the parking lot, I swerved past the melee and we got back on the road home.

“We need to go back and kill them,” said Flex.  “I don’t like leaving that many alive. I don’t give a shit if they’re trapped or not.”

“Eradication,” said Hemp.  “It’s our duty to the world.”

I didn’t need to say anything about that.  We all knew it was true.

“Guys, I know this seemed dumb, so thanks for giving me this.  I promise this will make a difference to more than just me.”

Hemp leaned forward from the crowded back seat, his arm thrown over the canvases. 

“When you get a chance I’d like you to start laying out the schematic for my saw blade machine,” he said.  “So Gem, you’re going to need some of that poster board.”

“After you get the tests started on the gas,” I said.

“Needless to say,” said Hemp.  “Speaking of which, the lake’s right here.”

I eased the car onto the shoulder of the road and as far into the field adjacent to the lake as I could without getting into muddy earth.  The area was as deserted as it had been on our way out.  I popped the trunk and Hemp got out.  We had decided to skip the BSNs again for now.

Hemp pulled out the funnel and removed a balloon from the bag, stretched it several times and fitted it over the small end.

“Need to weaken the rubber,” said Hemp.  “Want to make sure it’s not fighting the gas pressure.”

Hemp walked to the edge of the water with me and Flex by his side.  He knelt down, his nose wrinkled from the stench of the dead fish, and pushed the bell side of the funnel down into the lake water about a foot.  In seconds the balloon stood straight up on the end and began to slowly inflate.  When it was about a two-inch diameter, it seemed to stall.  Hemp pushed the funnel straight down about another four inches, and the makeshift receptacle grew to six inches.

He looked at Flex.  “Grab the balloon and tie if off.  I want one more.”

Flex pulled the balloon off the end of the funnel, pinching it in his fingers.  He tied it off and walked it back to the car, placing it inside the trunk.

Flex repeated the process and soon had another balloon filled with the mysterious gas.  I tied this one off, and Hemp stood. 

“Done.  Let’s get back,” he said.  “This is a major discovery, Gem.  And a damned good idea to get the sample.”

As we walked back to the car, I said “Just one more reason nobody should be without a Hemphill Chatsworth of their own.”

We made it back to the steel supply and those we’d left behind were very happy to see us.  We’d been gone nearly two hours.

“Jesus, guys,” said Charlie.  “I was beginning to get worried.”

She wore a Pearl Jam t-shirt she’d gotten from somewhere or other, the collar and sleeves customized by her to look tattered and torn.  She knew her style and looked absolutely hot in it.  Hemp went up to her and took her cheeks in his palms, planting a kiss on her lips.  She kissed him back, pressed her head to his chest and pulled back.

“You guys get what you needed?” she asked.

“Everything,” said Hemp.

“Including my art stuff,” I said.  “You’re going to meet a new side of Gemmy pretty soon.”

“The old side’s pretty fucking nice, Gemmy,” said Trina, hugging my legs.  “You’re my new mommy.”  Her little face looked up at me, a big smile planted there.

Cynthia shook her head, but smiled.  She still didn’t like the cussing very much, but she never said anything.  She didn’t allow Taylor to talk that way, but with all that was going on, I wasn’t about to tell Trina she couldn’t express herself.

“And you’re my little fucking girl,” I said, scooping her up in my arms.  I looked into her eyes, nuzzled her neck with my nose, puffing air in and out to tickle her, and she threw her shoulders up, goosebumps forming where I’d worked my magic.