The Hungry (Book 3): At the End of the World

Apart from the dead guy, the campsite looked deserted.

Red Blake stayed hidden in the long, cool shadows that sloped gently down from the stand of dark green mountain pines. He was crouched low, legs trembling, mouth gone dry, and body tense from
waiting for something to
happen.
Nothing did. The dead body still had a whirling tornado of hungry insects dancing over it, feeding greedily on the blood and guts. The corpse hadn’t moved, but that didn’t prove anything. Nowadays, at least according to the news, you had to wonder if the bastard would suddenly get up again and dance an Irish jig. The shit you heard on the short wave was pretty gruesome. Red sure as hell didn’t want to become a corpse himself, upright or otherwise.

A light breeze rustled through the trees. Twenty feet over Red’s head a woodpecker knocked as cautiously as a Bible salesman. The wind caressed his face but it also brought the pungent odor of the dead guy. More flies swooped down but no buzzards. Apparently there were no other scavengers of any kind in the area. That fact seemed weird, off somehow, so Red continued to wait. He studied the clearing, the tempting backpack, the long flat tongue of a sleeping bag, and the slightly tattered one-man tent. He needed gear to get through the winter, so Red knew he was going to have to chance it sooner or later. There was just too much at stake.

When absolutely nothing continued to not happen for about ten more minutes, Red figured it was time to move. Maybe now or never. He licked his lips and eased into a standing position. His knees popped. His stomach growled. His legs were cramping and his head felt dizzy from dehydration.

The guy was dead, whatever dead actually meant these days. Red checked the bullets in his revolver. He studied the body one last time, squinting as the low sun broke through the trees. Red considered shooting it in the head for good measure, just to make damned sure, but the ammo was part of his problem. He only had nine rounds left for the little .22 revolver—six in the cylinder and three in his pocket. Besides, guns make noise, and that might bring strangers. People who’d rip him off for the camping gear. This was his find, no one else’s.

Red needed a gun with him. He craved its weight, its feeling of power. He could see the dead man’s rifle from where he stood in the trees, lying next to the backpack, taunting him like one of those Internet girls spreading her legs. Man, Red sure could use that rifle, especially if it was fully loaded. There was some other shiny stuff down there in that backpack, maybe some cans of food he could eat. And a canteen was next to it, and one of those GPS things. The dead guy had scored some really nice equipment—the tent was a bit worn, but everything else seemed new.

The wind moved the tent flap, briefly showing the inside. Red wasn’t sure, but thought he’d spotted some actual cooking equipment—probably looted from one of those sporting goods stores down in the flatlands. Meanwhile, the guy remained still. Maybe he was just plain dead after all. The flies continued to swoop and swirl. The situation seemed perfect. But what the fuck was this guy doing way out here, and why was he dead? Who—or what—had killed him? In a way, all of that was only a tiny bit interesting to Red. What was far more interesting was Red’s continued survival out here alone in the Rockies with winter on the rise. He’d flat out die without more supplies. There it was in a nutshell.

Red moved out of the trees, careful not to crunch down on any pine cones and make too much noise. He almost felt a bit silly working at being so quiet, after all the guy was dead as Lincoln’s pecker, but Red still didn’t trust that there was no one around, and sure didn’t want to end up like this poor fuck. He moved down the slope, through the dried pine needles and branches, always stepping carefully. He held the revolver in his hand, which shook more than Red would have admitted to any other human being. He was scared to the bone. The woodpecker knocked again then went still. Something small rustled by under the blanket of the forest floor off to his left, making Red jump.

Red approached the campsite, with that rotten smell growing worse as he moved closer. Red had always considered himself pretty much a badass and ready for anything, but since the world just up and went to hell, he’d been in a constant state of terror. He’d learned deep in his heart that his tough personality was all bravado and bullshit.

Almost there.
Red swallowed.
That smell.
It took everything he had not to lose his meager lunch right on the spot.
Let’s get this over with…

The corpse was disgusting. As Red got closer, he could see why there were no larger scavengers around. They’d already dined and cut out on the check. There was a big hole where this guy’s guts were supposed to be, and long ropes of fly-coated intestines lay about him. His throat had been torn out all the way back to the spine, and his legs had large chunks of meat missing. The right eye had been pecked out. This corpse had probably been set upon by a pack of wolves during the night. So why wasn’t the rest of his gear torn to shreds?

Red relaxed a bit. Despite what you heard about zombies out there, this kind of dead was
dead.
Meaning that considering the condition the camper was in, the chances of him getting up again and giving Red any shit were slim to none. Besides, he could handle whatever came along. He’d have to. Supposedly, the creatures were almost always mindless and hungry and you could take them out pretty easily with one good head shot. That’s what people said, anyway.

Red shivered. The wind sent a chill up his neck. The nasty odor drifted away, as if surfing an unseen current.

Red went wide around the corpse to the other side of the camp and checked the man’s rifle. Empty.
Fuck.
He’d had such high hopes. Maybe there was some ammo in the backpack. Red went down on one knee, his back to the tent. He went through the backpack. No ammo there, but he saw some warm clothes, a compass, best of all some dried food—unopened and fresh. The discovery made Red’s mouth water despite the stench of the rotting corpse. Red grinned. A canteen sat up next to the backpack, and Red took a long, grateful drink of clean water. There was also a big-assed Bowie knife with a belt sheath, clean and razor sharp, laying on the pine needles nearby. Red admired his reflection in the blade. He didn’t look so good—face and neck dirty and sunburned, beard growing but never growing in completely—but at least he was still on the right side of dirt. Every day was a victory.

The pack was half empty. There was a map, but it wasn’t for this part of the mountain. Hell, it wasn’t even for this part of Colorado. Considering how far he was from anything on the map, the poor bastard who’d died had probably been hopelessly lost by the time he’d made it all the way up here. Maybe he’d run from the edge of Nevada when the bombs had gone off. The bombs the government said were supposed to have killed the zombies, which just goes to show you how much good the government was at anything but wasting money.
Morons.

Well, this guy’s loss was Red’s gain. He opened a package of dried something, peaches maybe, and began to eat. The nausea began to subside. The wind stayed in his favor, taking the stench south.

“Thanks, bud.” Red tipped his hat to the dead guy. “Much obliged.”

He savored the sweet taste for a moment, and then began stuffing everything back into the backpack. It was time to go. When he had it all back together, he peeked inside the tent. Sure enough, there was a small cooking stove and a long, black flashlight. Red checked the flashlight, and there was still a charge. Also an expensive-looking sleeping bag and a packing sack for the tent. He’d struck gold, but it was a lot to carry. After considering the situation, Red decided that he didn’t really need anything in there but the flashlight—it was going to be dark soon, after all. He already had a shelter and bedding set up a mile or so away to the east, up the mountain. The warm clothes he’d found in the backpack would be all he needed to get through the cold and snow that was on the way. And the new knife was a real find.

Red heard a rustling sound behind him. Startled, he pulled his head out of the tent and spun around, revolver in hand. He scanned the clearing. The dead guy continued to lie there and collect flies. The wind blew cold and sharp. The flies rotated position and settled back down to eat. And then he heard it again, a crunch of some kind.

Whatever Red had heard, it was coming from somewhere else. Someone or something was out there, in the pines, watching. Red stood, scanning the looming trees. Nothing moved. He felt like a man on the wrong end of a sniper scope. It was more than time to leave. Red picked up the backpack, testing its weight, and slung it over his shoulder.

He heard a kind of snapping sound. This time it came from right behind him. He turned, but the weight of the backpack overbalanced him, and he kept on turning, spinning like a kid’s top. Time slowed down as he struggled to remain standing. Almost expecting it, Red rotated just far enough to see that the dead guy was standing up right there behind him now, with a few strands of gut hanging out. The swarm of flies was gone, disturbed by the reanimation of the body. The man’s white teeth were exposed in a hideous grin. He made a horrible noise,
unh hunh huh…

Red lost it like a third-grade girl at a tarantula farm. He brought the revolver up and unloaded it into the upright corpse, which was now clumsily shambling his way, rotting arms reaching out. He had aimed low from the hip and fired. With each recoil his poor aim climbed higher, striking the corpse a little further up until finally the last shot caught the dead guy right in the forehead. The small caliber round entered the thing’s skull and probably rattled around a little, but it somehow did the job. The corpse dropped like a pile of rags.
So it’s true, they’re just dumb and hungry and you take ‘em out through the brain.

“Yeah,” Red cheered and danced around. “Fuck you, you gutted out, stinky pile of bear shit. Who’s the man? Huh? Who’s the man?”

Red was proud of himself because he’d never had the courage to shoot a person, not even when shit-faced drunk. Oh, he’d thought about it many times, but now it had happened. It didn’t feel so bad. Now he could tell his buddies—the same ones who dared him to go out into the wilderness to “man up”—that he had put some motherfucker down. No need to relate that he had already been dead. He’d leave that part out.

Red opened the cylinder of his revolver and ejected the spent shells. His heart was hammering in his skinny chest. He reached into his pocket, and his face fell. He only had the three shots left. Not good. He pulled them out, and inserted the first one into the chamber.

Something tugged on the backpack, tipping Red over, spilling the precious bullets out on the chilly ground. The thin shell of frost cracked under him. He fell on his ass, and the wind was knocked out of his lungs. He opened his eyes, and looked up at a pair of legs. Rotting, torn, bloody human legs.

Red screamed again, high and shrill. He reached for the revolver, but there was now a foot resting on it, holding it down. Well, most of a foot, since the toes had been chewed off by some forest scavenger.

Two more fucking zombies had moved it while he’d killed the third. He’d been tricked. How had that happened? They were supposed to be mindless. Had they somehow set a trap?

Red’s head spun from one walking corpse to the other. A man and woman, both wearing hiking clothes. The woman’s pants were missing, distracting him in a way he didn’t want to contemplate. The two zombies closed in. Red reached for the Bowie knife and flicked it, throwing the sheath into the face of the man. Puzzled, the zombie stepped back.

“C-c-come on, dickhead,” Red stammered with false bravado. “I got something here for you.” He slipped out of the backpack’s strap and scrambled to his feet. He wondered if he would have the strength to drive the Bowie knife through the man’s head. He’d have to try. The woman tried to grab him but Red danced away.

He faced the man—the woman was still behind him—and swung the knife, oblivious to the fact that he had pissed himself.

“Come on!” Red screamed, desperately looking around for an escape route. He knew he wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed, but Red quickly realized that even though the zombies had managed to surround him, there was a slight gap between them. So if he jumped to the left, he could still get away.

Red pushed off with his right leg, propelling himself sideways. Free!

He ran right into another zombie.

Red slashed at it, but it already had him in a lover’s embrace. This new zombie was a big white guy wearing a Teamster’s hat and a blue work shirt that said HARVEY. Its right cheek was missing. The thing had zoo breath beyond belief. Red puked as he tried to protest and thrashed around but this one was huge and strong and hungry. It held him by the shoulders and bit down hard on his nose. The pain was excruciating.

Again, Red screamed. He was blinded by a pain worse than anything his piece-of-shit old man ever dealt out with a belt or a switch. Red pulled away, leaving part of his nose behind, and made a run for it, but by then the other two zombies were already on top of him. One bit him on the hand, and Red dropped the knife. A weird numbness was beginning to overtake him, as if the things had some kind of venom inside. The dead woman leaned forward and brought her face up to his, as if she were offering Red a macabre kiss. She bit down and tore off his lower lip.

By this point, though his body was still screaming and writhing, Red could hardly feel the pain. A cold, pulsating sensation had traveled from the bites into the core of his consciousness. He could feel himself slipping away. He wished he could tell somebody. He wanted to let the world know that they weren’t so stupid after all. He could almost hear them in the back of his brain, communicating, making that awful sound.