The Dead Hunger Series: Books 1 through 5 (96 page)

“What’s done cannot be undone,” said Dave.  “I stand behind every bad awkward moment joke I’ve ever told.”

“I’m gonna miss your ass when you go,” said Flex.  “Hell, maybe we’ll go with you.”

“Nah,” said Dave.  “I don’t need any amateurs with us, slowing us down.”

“Yeah.  I get it.”

Flex hit the I-293 and headed south, blowing through the toll booth.

“You’re going to get dinged.  That ticket’s coming in the mail,” said Hemp.

“I’ll hold my breath,” said Flex.  “Should only be about ten miles up now.  Weapons all set?”

“Yes, but with the WAT-5, we might not even need them,” said Hemp.

“You know our philosophy, my friend,” Flex said.  “No zombie left alive.”

“Leave the ones behind bars,” said Hemp.  “They’re not going anywhere, and I might be able to use them later.  I’m not done experimenting – not even close.”

Seven minutes later they pulled up to the prison gate.  It was already open.

Hemp did have to pick the lock leading into the main building, and when they stepped inside, it was like a goddamned zoo designed by the sickest bastard who ever lived.

And it smelled even worse.  All three of the men tossed their breakfasts simultaneously.

Pop Tarts on the right.  Omelets on the left.  They wiped their mouths and stood very still, guns in hand, waiting for the zombies to walk right by them.

*****

Gem had kept her promise to herself.  At sixty yards, all of her fired bolts were flying true and penetrating the distant target within an inch of the bulls eye.

“You’ll get better,” said Charlie.  “This one is so much better than the old one I had.  No sight, nothing.  But to tell you the truth, I might have been a bit better with it because I’d used it for so long.  This one has way better range, but takes some getting used to.”

They turned to watch as
Taylor finished loading her .38 Special.  She wanted to use the 9mm, but they held magazines, and neither hers nor Trina’s fingers could yet push the rounds into the mag.  So they were content to use revolvers, which they could easily empty and reload.

And both of them were damned fast. 

Taylor raised her weapon, sited the target, around ten feet away, and fired five times in rapid succession.  Her pattern was about ten inches, and they were all surrounding the bulls eye, with three of them within one inch.

“Holy shit!” said Charlie.  “
Tay, that’s awesome!”

Taylor
turned and smiled.  “Thanks, Charlie.” 

Taylor
had cut her own bangs about a week earlier, and at first they looked pretty bad, but now had grown in.

Gem was glad.  She used to be given haircuts at home as a girl, and she never failed to think that her mother should be banned from ever holding scissors again. 

“Practice makes perfect,” she said.  “I wonder if Jimmy can shoot as good as me.”

“Don’t dare tell him we’re letting you use a .38,” said Gem.  “We’re in trouble enough trying to defend Trina.”

“Mum’s the word,” said Charlie.  “Right?”

“You want me to lie?” asked
Taylor, mortified.

“Hell yes,” said Serena.  “White lie.  Lets you keep shooting the .38.  Is it worth it?”

“Oh, yes,” said Taylor.  “I’ll just say it was a .22.”

“Perfect,” said Gem.  “See, Charlie?  We’re going to be wonderful parents.”

Both Trina and Taylor turned and said at the same time, “You already are.”

Gem flushed.

Then she shit.  Not literally, even though the pregnancy had been doing some weird stuff to her lately.

“Girls,” she said.  “Serena, Charlie.  Grab the guns and get to the car.  Serena, just go.”

“Wh– ,” Charlie began to ask, but stopped.

Because it was obvious.  In the clear, winter air, the sun shining down on the distant woods beyond, figures were emerging from the forest.

Chills ran down Gem’s body, from head to toe. 

“Gem,” Charlie whispered.  “How many, you think?”

“Hundreds,” she replied.  “Or more.”

“Girls, now!  In the car!” Gem shouted.

Gem stood and watched as more and more emerged.  Where had they come from?  So many of them.

“You too, mommy!” shouted Trina.  “C’mon!”

“We can’t kill them all,” said Charlie.  “We need to tell Kev.  Now.”

“Goes against everything we’ve done so far.  Shit!  I hate running.”

“Could be ratz among them,” said Serena.  “You couldn’t see them from here.  Let’s go, guys.”  She mounted her bike and pulled her helmet on, firing the engine.

Gem turned, unclipping her radio and pressing the button.  As she got into the car, she said, “Kev, if you can hear me, we’ve got a problem.”

*****

Chapter Two

Flex, Hemp and Dave stood stock still.

Bodies were strewn everywhere.  In Concord, most of the dead, either zombie or human, had been disposed of; Kev and company had firebombed the hospital because it had been so overrun, and in retrospect, to burn it down had been a horrible idea.  People do dumb things when under insane stress, and the zombie apocalypse qualified as a major source of tension and confusion.  All those medical supplies gone, along with the equipment that Hemp could’ve used.

Flex scanned the room.  The few creatures shuffling around in the prison lobby had noticed the men’s movement when they walked in.  The WAT-5 kept them from smelling their flesh and tissue, but the zombies still seemed to associate movement with possible food, so that initial moment when they turned their faces in your direction and even
moved
toward you could be nerve-racking.  Hemp had noticed and commented in the past that the creatures, when in a group, constantly turned to glance at one another; even more so when actual food was in the vicinity.

As if to ask themselves,
Which of you is making my mouth water?

But if there was ultimately no enticing attraction, they simply went about their endless, shambling ways.

Still, it was wise to be keenly aware of their zombie eyes and direction of movement, just in case despite the WAT-5, their instincts to devour living flesh told them to attack you and consume yours.

Flex, Hemp and Dave stood still, their guns poised to fire, awaiting confirmation that they were not on the menu today.

With his Glock in one hand and his noise-suppressed Walther in his other, Dave said, “I hate this part.  It’s unnerving.”

“You ain’t alone,” said Flex.”

A female guard, fully complemented with side arm and badge, a bullet hole in the side of her cheek and an eye that dangled from a few dark, dead tendrils, moved between Flex and Dave.

“Easy, sister,” Flex said, his voice low and unwavering.  “Hemp?”

“Yes, sir,” Hemp replied.

“You gonna want this one?”

Hemp turned his head and examined the guard.  “No.  She’s too damaged.”

“Good,” said Flex.  “Take a step back, Dave, would you?”

“My pleasure.”  Before moving, Dave reached down, unsnapped the guard’s holster and pulled the gun out, turning it over in his hand.  “Not bad.  Glock 22.”

“Nice weapon,” said Hemp.  “They use them because of the easy trigger pull.”

“Hmm,” said Dave.  “Try this, Flex?”  He held the gun out to Flex.

Flex shrugged.  “Sure, why not?”  He took the pistol.

Dave took his two steps back.

The guard turned toward Flex.  He calmly raised the gun, placed it to her forehead, and fired.  As he did so, he turned his body away, and as the explosion echoed off the concrete walls, Flex felt a spray of something hit his shoulder and side. 

Then a thud, followed by the renewed reek.

Flex coughed and gave the gun back to Dave, who now stared down at the expired guard-zombie as he took it. 

“They smell worse and worse as time goes on,” said Flex.

“Maybe, but the good news is there’s no vapor on these,” said Dave.

“There wouldn’t be,” said Hemp.  “I imagine they haven’t eaten since these guys were consumed.”

Hemp motioned to the skeletal remains of what had to have been uninfecteds.

“Let’s try to find someplace less disgusting,” said Flex.  They have to all be alive in the cells, right?”

“Not necessarily.  If they share a cell, one could have turned, the other not.  Food for a while, then carcass.”

“Lovely,” said Dave.

“Sooner we have her, the sooner we’re out of here.  The men’s prison ought to be interesting,” said Hemp.

A ring of keys hung from a clip on the belt of the guard Flex had just re-killed.  He bent down and unsnapped it, throwing it to Hemp.

“You’re a lock guy.  Figure out which key to get us into the cell block area.”

“Get handcuffs too, Flex,” said Dave.

“Excellent idea,” said Hemp.

“And,” Dave added, “If it’s like most prison movies I’ve watched, it’ll be an old, rusty skeleton key.”

Hemp flipped a key out of the thirty or so on the ring.  “Settle for a bright chrome, slotted key?”

“Long as it opens the cells, sure," said Dave.  "It's kinda what I had in mind, just newer."

"It's that awkward moment when you're full of shit and everyone knows it," said Flex, laughing.

Dave shrugged, smiling.  "Caught."

Flex didn't laugh again for hours.

After some deliberation as to which way to the main cell block, Hemp pulled open the door that appeared most fortified.  When it swung open, it was apparent they had chosen correctly.

“Cell block A, B or C?” asked Dave.

“C for Charlie,” said Hemp.

Dave nodded.  “I’m good with that,” he said.

The men moved toward the door marked C Block. The same key opened that door, and as they walked inside, they all drew back at once.

The stench was putrid.  Flex was the first to switch on his headlamp, and Dave and Hemp followed suit.

“What the fuck died in here?” Flex asked.

“Pretty much everything,” said Dave. 

An eerie sight.  Two levels of cells, all on the left side.  Exposed pipes along the ceiling.  Pitch black, aside from the shine of their headlamp beams.

The stench was horrific, and moaning could be heard like a constantly changing note, higher, lower, louder and softer.

Flex was sick of it already, but he knew in his heart that he’d be dealing with this crap for rest of his life.  There were too many of the creatures, and with no government or military help, it would be up to the survivors to win or lose the battle against them.

He sighed and waved a hand forward.  “After you, Mr. Gammon.”

“Yeah, thanks, Flex.”

Dave walked in, his PPKs holstered, the AK-47 now in his hands, a long, curved magazine jutting from the bottom.  30 rounds.

“Here, zombie, zombie, zombie.”

They didn’t have to go far.  All of the lower cells were occupied.

In this prison, they made the women wear the standard, horizontal-striped prison garb.  They were similar to hospital scrubs, but nobody would voluntarily choose this pattern.

Flex led the way deeper into the block.  He looked into the cells, still amazed at the effect of the WAT-5.  While the zombies inside noticed their movement, they had been starved for so long they had no vapor with which to try to subdue their visitors, and that allowed them the time to stand and observe.

The first woman was unrecognizable as such.  Her hair had once been long and blonde, but now lay in wisps and strands – some still connected to chunks of torn-out scalp – around the concrete cell floor.  She paced to the bars and stared out at the men, her eyes deader than dead, not even the vaporous glow giving them life. 

Raising her arms and clutching at the bars, Flex almost felt like she was aware of them.

Her top had been long torn away.  Nothing remained except the tattered bottoms.  Her feet were bare, the toenails missing, the feet almost black. 

Flex turned to Hemp.  “Man, why don’t they just deteriorate and rot into nothing?”

“I don’t think it would help if we knew,” replied Hemp.  “I’ve never really gotten into any serious testing, aside from what I did with Jamie, and I was pretty careful with her.”

“And the two in the steel supply building.  Don’t forget them,” said Flex.  “I know you didn’t do much besides learn about urushiol from them, but Jesus Christ, that was a great discovery.”

Urushiol is the component in poison ivy that causes the terrible, itching rash on the epidermis of  90% of people who come in direct contact with it.  The oil itself, when extracted and blended so that it can be sprayed or misted, also melted zombies where they stood, even in the smallest quantities. 

“I know you’ve put all the equipment together and built it, but you need to get back into that lab, Hemp,” said Dave.  “If anyone can figure this crap out, you can.”

Flex turned his gaze back to the female creature in the cell, who stood still, staring straight out.  He swore her eyes were boring into his own.  He pulled his gun from his drop holster and turned to Hemp.  “You don’t want her, do you?”

“No, but wait.”

Flex loved his K7, but with the WAT-5 there was no sense in being burdened with a weapon that took two hands.  They had come here for zombies, and at least one would need to be herded out of here.

Flex held the gun but didn’t shoot.  “Wait for what?”

“You want to destroy your eardrums?” Hemp asked.  “The acoustics in here aren’t designed for gunshots.”

“Good call,” said Dave.  “Just a tin cup dragging across the bars would echo like hell.”

Flex nudged him.  “Okay, so I revise what I said earlier.  You watch too many prison movies from the 1950s.”

“Laugh if you will,” said Dave, withdrawing a gun from his left leg drop holster.  “But remember this baby?  My PPK’s got a silencer.  A little souvenir I got when Charlie and I were crashing stores looking for Hemp.”

“Shit, I almost forgot about that,” said Flex.  “Remind me to get one of those.  Fuckin’ Bond gun.”

Dave twitched his eyebrows up and down like Groucho Marx, his hand miming an invisible cigar.  “Exactly.”

Hemp passed each man a cellophane package with foam earplugs.  “Use them anyway, because we’re not all suppressed.  Stuff them in deep.  Then fire away, but don’t miss.  A ricochet could be deadly.”

“Fuck it,” said Flex.  “Let’s get what we need and we can put ‘em down on the way out.”  He holstered his pistol.

The zombie moved forward, toward the bars.  Flex stepped away, a bit startled.  He’d only been four feet from the cage, but hadn’t noticed her move away in the first place.

“What was that?” asked Hemp.

“She freaked me out a bit, that’s all,” said Flex.

“No.  Pull your gun out again.”

“Huh?”

“I got it.”  Hemp walked and stood in front of the female zombie who was once a blond, and whose brown eyes still held their color.  He pulled out his sidearm.

Her head dropped and she staggered back, away from the bars.

“This is a sign of awareness,” said Hemp.

“What the hell are you talking about?” asked Dave.

Hemp’s voice and annunciation grew sharp and staccato when he got excited.  Flex could hear it now.

“Flex, remember back at your house when I hooked up the EEG to Jamie?  The experiment where we watched the brain activity?  They recognized things that could harm them.”

“They didn’t actually react to it though,” said Flex.  “Right?  I mean, the EEG showed some intensified brain activity, but you couldn’t tell by looking.”

“Who could tell then?” asked Hemp.  “We had to strap them down, subdue them.  There was no way to know how they would react physically.  I just realized, guys, that these are the first experiences we’re having with them without either containment or restraints.”

“Like seeing them in their natural habitat, huh?” said Dave, as he walked to the next cell.  An older zombie occupied that one, and when she saw his movement, she came forward, toward Dave.  Flex followed and watched. 

Dave withdrew his PPK and held it out.

Nothing.  The creature stared at him, no gnashing, no fear.

“What the fuck?” asked Dave.

“This actually explains a lot,” said Hemp.

“Well, I sure as fuck wish you’d explain it to me,” said Flex.

Hemp smiled.  It wasn’t exactly rare, because Hemp was a very jovial man at times, but in serious or tense situations, a Hemp smile was infectious and welcomed. 

“Dude,
tell
us,” said Dave.

“The flanking they were doing at the church in
Alabama.  Where we found you, Dave.”

“Flanking?”

“Yes.  They have awareness.  I knew it, but hadn’t had any way to really research it without being in imminent danger.  Go to the next cell.  Try it again.”

Flex walked briskly to the next cell and looked inside.  “Empty,” he said.

“No, it’s not,” said Hemp.  “Look.”  He pointed to the corner, shining his light there.

“She doesn’t look as bad as the others,” said Dave.  “Her arms don’t look as trashed.  Almost like live skin.”

She sat on the floor, her back resting against the wall.

“It just dawned on me,” said Hemp.  “God, I’m daft!”

“Hey, hey.  Don’t beat yourself up.  Beat me up or something, because again, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Flex.

“Me neither,” said Dave.  “And I consider myself pretty sharp.”