The Dead Hunger Series: Books 1 through 5 (52 page)

“I fucking agree,” I said, panting.  “I’m going to Trina.”

I ran to the truck and opened the door.  Trina reached for me.  “Baby, stay put just a few more minutes.  I’ll be back.  I love you, baby girl.”

Her desperate face tore my heart wide open.  I closed the door and ran back to help them load the stuff inside the trailer.

Suddenly, Hemp snapped his fingers.  He reached into the trailer and pulled out a large knife from the closest drawer.

“That one’s a digger,” he said, pointing at one of the bodies still squirming on the ground.  “And he looks like he was buried quite a long time ago.”

“So what?” asked Flex.

Hemp said nothing.  He walked to the head, severed with the blade still jutting out of a portion of its ragged neck, and stomped his foot on the side of it.  He jabbed his knife into the skull and pried.

Even Charlie turned away for a moment, nearly retching.

With a sawing-prying motion, he removed the cap from the skull and flipped the head upright.  With his huge, razor-sharp knife, Hemp dug inside until a small, round chunk popped out and rolled onto the concrete parking lot.

He then poked the blade tip into the thing and carried it over to us.  He didn’t even have any blood on his hands.

“This,” he said, “is how much brain they can have left and still come back.”

It was slightly smaller than a golf ball.

“That sucks,” I said.

“Yes,” he replied.  “It really does.  Now let’s get these winches installed.  Charlie, you okay?”

“Dude,” she said.  “I don’t know where you got those balls of yours, but you keep surprising me.”

Hemp shrugged.  “It’s the British stiff upper lip,” he said, smiling.  “I approach these things from a scientific perspective.”

“No criticism,” she said.  “You just grossed me out, but I still dig the shit out of you.”

*****

I sat in the car with Trina while Flex and Hemp, with Charlie’s help, installed the 10,000 lb winches to the front of the mobile lab and the Silverado.

It wasn’t easy with our cow pushers, but Hemp ended up mounting the winches behind each pusher and the cable ran through the grid.  When not in use, the hook clipped onto the pusher itself.

Flex ran the power cable to the batteries of the vehicles and secured them to the battery terminals.

The process took nearly an hour and a half, but time taken now could save our asses later, we knew.

Trina trembled in my arms, and I wondered to myself how much more this little girl could take.  In her seven years she’d seen more horror than any soldier in any war throughout history.  Maybe all the soldiers combined.

While I comforted my little girl, Cynthia got Bunsen cleaned up using some old towels from the RV storage.  When that was done, she leashed up all the pups and she and Charlie got them out.  Charlie had three leashes in one hand and had opted for the Glock in the other.  She never stopped scanning the surrounding area while the pups did their business. 

Those goofy fur balls were, of course, entirely oblivious to the craziness we’d just gone through.  I wished that I was as oblivious.  I still wish that everyday.  I wish we all were.

We got back on the road.  There would be no more stops from here on out unless for fuel or rest.

CHAPTER TWENTY

We were just outside of Knoxville, a four-hour run, when we had to break, pee, stretch our legs, and figure out how much further we’d be going that day.  We got off at an exit that said there was a Denny’s somewhere. 

Now, we weren’t delirious enough to believe we’d actually be getting a Grand Slam Special, and the flies in that place had to be worse than the most ill-kept porta potty you’d come across.

A large pack of dogs caught our attention immediately.  There were several breeds represented, but not surprisingly, a Great Pyrenees was not among them.  They looked at our vehicles slowly passing by, but made no effort to turn around and pursue our caravan.

The 75 had been straightforward and pretty wide open since we’d gotten on it, relatively speaking.  It was my guess that either we weren’t heading in the direction of the general fleeing population, or this thing had started so early in the morning that most infecteds were zombiefied before they had a chance to head to church.

With Flex driving and me writing, I’d completely caught up with this chronicle.  When I’m done with my portion, Hemp’s going to begin his.  We’re doing it this way because we want you to learn who all of us are, how we got where we got, and what our stories were before we became a family.  Nobody can tell Flex’s like him, and you’ve probably guessed by now that nobody except Flex knew much of my story before I shared it with you.

Talking about my aunt and uncle sends me to tears, so when I think about them, I keep it tucked inside until I’m lying beside Flexy at night, and that’s when I let my fears out and my tears flow. 

So this last bit is my burden and my privilege to share with you.  It’s got its ups and downs.  But it’s part of my chronicle, so this is what happened after the dog pack.

We found a gas station that had diesel, and we were desperately in need of fuel for all the vehicles.  After checking to be sure the coast was clear of zombies, Flex found the dip stick for the in-ground gas reservoirs and found them to be three-quarters full. 

And finally . . . finally we were able to use our hand pump, and it worked like a goddamned charm.  The diesel tank was a bit lower and getting the pump to initially prime wasn’t a breeze, but we were able to get the flow going and the motor home back to full.  We even filled his spare jerry cans with diesel, as it might be a tad more difficult to find down the road.

It was Flex who saw them first, but it was also the moment that we actually began to fulfill the mission we had set out on when we abandoned our safe haven.

“Gem, look!” he shouted, hitting the brakes.

He was on the radio immediately.  “Stop, Hemp.  You too, Cyn.”

We were heading back toward the onramp, but the road coming out of the Mobil station had been blocked with three overturned cars.  We had to detour on a side road, which brought us by a small Baptist church that looked like it had been built for a movie set.  It was the perfect wood frame gem that appeared to have been around for at least 70 or 80 years, with a nice metal cross on top.  Down the roof ridge was a weather vane complete with rooster.

The white paint was peeling, and the dark wood door stood open.

Because a zombie was dragging a man outside to the porch.

“Jesus, Flex!” I said.  “There’s more over there!”

Bodies were stacked against the lower church steps.  I couldn’t make out how many.  I’m not sure how I missed them when I first glanced at the church, but it’s probably because it was the last thing I expected to see.

“I’d guess they’re gassing them,” said Flex.  “Babe, we have to stop it.”

“No shit,” I said, taking the radio from him.  “Hemp, turn into this gravel turnout, then flip it around.  Then look at the front of the church porch and I don’t need to say any more.  Cyn, you, too.  Follow Hemp and stay in the car.  We’ll bring Trina over.”

We swung the vehicles around and pulled to within about fifty yards of the church.  The ground was level, and if they noticed us, they didn’t show any signs of it.

“Everyone get a fire extinguisher,” said Hemp.  “We’re going to have ourselves a mass extermination.”

I looked at Flex.  “I almost forgot they do this,” I said.  “I mean, I didn’t forget about the vapor.  I forgot they coordinate.”

Flex looked at me and took my hand.  “We only told Hemp about it.  Once he sees it he might have a better understanding of what we were talking about.  Maybe he’ll read something about their behavior that we didn’t.”

“Ready?”

“No.  But let’s go anyway,” he said.

We met the others outside, put Trina in the Ford with Cynthia and Taylor, told them to lock it tight, and keep the canister ready in case the impossible happened.

We’d driven past the weather that had been brewing further south, and while the sky was overcast, no rain had hindered our progress.  There was a light breeze blowing, and we were upwind.

The first of the zombies saw us.  It was a male, and he turned to stare.  The front of his ragged tee shirt was coated with blood, with much of the rest of it stained from past meals.  Of that I had no doubt.

We continued forward, walking slowly toward the church, now less than forty yards away.  The zombie maintained his grip on the shoulders of the man he was carrying out of the old church.  Its victim wore the clothing of a minister.  The dark suit, the clerical collar.  His body was limp, clearly dead weight.

“I wonder how long they’ve been out,” I said.

“Probably not long,” answered Hemp.

We drew closer, and another infected came through the door pulling a woman in blue jeans and a red and white blouse.  He, too, stopped when he saw us.

“This is strange,” said Hemp.  “I’m guessing they’re trying to determine whether these cylinders pose a threat.”

“Do you think this is retained memory?” Flex asked.  “They know what guns look like, but can’t figure these things out?”

“Wait,” I said.  “There’s another.”

But it wasn’t one.  Instead, it was one after another, and now six more victims were on the wooden deck of the church.  The abnormals who just came out dragged their victims toward the growing human pile, ignoring the others who watched us.  When one of them dropped a boy of around ten years old on top of the stack, the youngster’s body rolled down the side, landing face up in the grass.

“Fuck this,” said Charlie.  “Time for a goddamned zombie bath in our essential oils.”

We started toward them, walking at speed.  The beautiful part of this new weapon was we could use it without fear of harming living humans.  If Hemp was right, the urushiol wouldn’t cause either rashes or blistering; a complete lack of collateral damage. 

“Run?” asked Hemp.

“Run,” said Flex.

We took off, legs pumping, each of us with one hand on the hose and the other on the valve handle.

The zombies visibly changed; they knew somehow that our increased speed meant danger, and the vapor began pumping in crimson clouds from their eyes, even as they moved away from the porch and toward us.  They clearly didn’t comprehend the fire extinguishers were weapons the way they had instinctively related firearms to a threat to their safety in Hemp’s earlier testing.  With no ability to communicate this from one brain eater to another – at least not that we knew of – this was something these fucks would be learning moments before their own rotting brains dissolved.

Flex, despite his fresh bullet wound, reached the group first, stopping ten feet short and spraying six of the infecteds.  The vapor was as thick as fog, so after he saturated their rotting heads, we all pulled back to watch them disintegrate, also giving the vapor time to clear.  No weapon, no matter how effective, would save us if we weren’t conscious to administer it.

When the vapor had cleared, Charlie resumed her attack, leaping over the sludge that had been the zombie’s brains, straight through the church doors.

Hemp knelt down beside the victims, focusing first on the boy. 

“You got this, Hemp?”

“I do,” he said.  “Call out if you need help in there.”

I ran after Charlie with Flex right behind me.

Once inside, we all slammed on the brakes.

The scene before us was one of complete horror.  At the front of the church behind the altar and everywhere around it, bodies lay torn open in various positions.  Four bodies were splayed out on the steps leading up to the altar, each with two creatures hunched over them, slurping and chewing mouthfuls of arteries, organs and other unidentifiable innards.

Another ten or so men and women were laid out before the church’s meager altar, presented like morbid dinner platters for the undead, with their skulls cracked open and chests torn into in ways that only starving creatures with single-minded hunger could devise.  Other diggers and rotters worried these corpses with teeth and shredding fingernails, and I cringed as I stared at them, unable to turn away.  The fact that they
were
corpses now was the only saving grace.  Grateful corpses.  Grateful the pain and terror was past.

Later, when it was all over and we’d had time to put the actual memory of this day somewhere in our memory banks where it wouldn’t fuck with us so much during the long, sleepless nights, I talked to the others about that reek.. 

We all agreed.  It was the worst stench any of us had ever experienced.  It was like a blend of moldy dirt, two-day old road kill and shit.  Throw in puke and that nasty taste you get from acid reflux, and I might have come close to describing what it was like.  I hope you don’t know what that smells like.  If you don’t, it means you’re not subjected to that aroma anymore, and it’s over.  And while it’s not the worst of it – clearly getting your brains and flesh eaten is the worst of it – it’s a precursor to that end.

So while the permeating scent was literally intolerable, we had to face the task at hand and get it done.

We choked back the puke that inevitably rose up in our throats and we fought through. 

I’d been checking the main room between horrified stares at the zombies, and the many rows of wooden, bench pews were empty.  Blood stains were prevalent on many of them, but nobody occupied them.

The three of us stood in the center aisle next to the fourth pew from the rear.

One of the zombies raised his face toward us.

And then another.  Then three more.

They got to their feet with less difficulty that I would’ve expected, and within three minutes, all thirty or more of them stood and stared toward us.

A zinger ran from the back of my skull right down my spine.  I think it hit my butt crack and kept on going.

I peed my pants.  Not much, but a little.  I didn’t say anything then or later about it.

I was frightened to death.  I didn’t share that either,  except with Flex.

  The creatures started moving very slowly toward us, as though evaluating.  Maybe they had thought everyone was neutralized by their vapor, and some sort of confusion set in.  Of the thirty or so, most appeared to be well-fed and strong, while others might have just crawled out of their graves.  It was a fucked up blend of the old, the older, the fucking deteriorated, and the somewhat newer.  But whether extremely decayed or just freshly dead, all of them were just as gore-splattered as the dead walker we’d first seen on the porch of the church. 

And if we had our way, they’d all be the same.  Dead as shit and gone from this world forever.  I again thanked God for all those families of the dead who had opted for embalming.  It was truly the determining factor with regard to eternal rest. 

The creatures showed no indication of inter-communication, yet somehow they seemed to split almost evenly with two thirds of them making their way down each of the outside aisles, and the remaining third coming down the center.  They staggered, shambled, and in come cases walked unsteadily but briskly.

We’d stopped to determine their strategy.

Strategy.
  The mere idea was absurd and unimaginable. 

Flex looked at me and Charlie.

“Are they flanking us?” Flex asked.

“If that means the bastards are trying to box us in from three sides, then yep,” said Charlie.  “I’d say they’re flanking us.”

Flex clicked his radio.  “Hemp, come in here.  I need you to see this behavior.”

“Just a second, Flex.”

“We don’t have a second, Hemp.  In a second we’re going to have to douse them.”

“I’ll be right there.”

We turned around to see Hemp poke his head in. 

“Hey!” he yelled.

“About a third of them seemed to have heard him.  The others continued their move to surround us.

“Some have intact eardrums,” said Hemp.  “Not sure why, but I suspected that was the case.”

The ones that heard him cut off their former path and moved toward the entry where Hemp stood with his canister of urushiol.

“I miss my fucking crossbow,” said Charlie.  “This shit’s like cheating.”

“I know what you mean,” I said.  “But just think.  We can kill them all and the only damage to this old church’ll be a pool of muck to clean up.  By the time anyone can think straight enough to consider organized religion, they can just scrape the dried shit off the floorboards and start praying.”