The Lasting
Hunger
Post-Apocalyptic Sequel
to
The Living Hunger
by
Dennis F. Larsen
COPYRIGHT
The Lasting Hunger
First Edition
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2016 by Dennis F. Larsen
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
For information address:
Dr. Dennis F. Larsen
Edmonton, Alberta, Canada
ISBN: 978-0-9918431-8-3
Cover Design by Sean Strong
Also by Dennis F. Larsen
With Cruel Intent
(Released January 8, 2013)
The Living Hunger (Book One)
(Released June 30, 2013)
The Raven Falconer Chronicles
(Released April 28, 2014)
Dedicated to the life and memory of
Jeffery Wayne “Boob” Ellis
(11 October 1959 to 29 December 1987)
“For if thou altogether holdest thy peace at this time…thou and thy father’s house shall be destroyed: and who knoweth whether thou art come to the kingdom for such a time as this?”
– Bible, Esther 4:14
Introduction
Rain, no more than a tepid drizzle, tapped lightly on a single pane of glass just over the young boy’s head. The gentle noise, rhythmic in its persistent cadence, didn’t appear to bother the lad, who was eagerly engaged in a task that held him spellbound. Jeff loved the thrill of putting images, captured in his mind, on paper. Today was no different, except that the subject was one he’d never seen, but longed to know.
The lead looped and whirled over the page, etching and shading as it left a distinctive, charcoal impression in its wake. Periodically the boy stopped, lifted his head and scanned the walls, looking for some unknown quality he so desperately wanted to include in his masterpiece.
His blue eyes darted from one thumbtacked picture to the next, each unique in subject and quality, as they recorded brief moments from his life. Boob, as Rod liked to call him, smiled at the stick figures and oddly drawn faces and places. Each sketch, from crayon to pastels, reached out and touched his senses – some joyful, while others invoked despair that only a child can feel. He looked back at the emerging portrait before him and felt neither happy nor sad…just wishful.
The boy was quite sure he’d captured the wavy locks, which swept back from forehead to crown, and the nose was perhaps a bit small but it was straight, narrow, and true. It was the eyes that were giving him such a fit. They were lifeless…no gleam, no light, and no mirth that his parents had so often described to him. The pencil renewed its assault on the paper, this time fashioning a brilliant, toothy grin that somehow seemed to bring to the eyes a spirit of their own.
He’d done it – the magic was in the smile. He laid the pencil aside and picked up the skillfully drawn rendition of his father and hurried from the room. “Mom…Mom…is this him…is this my dad?”
* * *
Allison leaned heavily against a peeling window frame; her eyes diverted to a narrow patch of sod a few stories below. Her husband, Rod Jenson, twirled around in a circle holding a ten-foot length of rope, to which a leather baseball had been drilled, threaded, and attached at the other end. She watched him spin, angling his extended arm up and down, making the ball bob and weave through Jeff’s imaginary strike zone.
“Come on, Dad, slow it down a little bit,” Jeff shouted. He stood with his feet apart, back bent slightly at the waist, and shoulders squared. A wooden Louisville Slugger jutted from his fists as he stood just outside the ball’s orbiting path. The boy, now nearly nine, studied the arc intently, wanting to swing only when he knew it was right.
Rod, who had stopped turning himself in circles to avoid vomiting, whipped the rope over his head and around his shoulders, making the baseball rise and descend with each full rotation. “Is it going to be soon?” Rod joked. The boy neither laughed nor replied, but rather intensified his eye on the ball. Now, his mind suddenly shouted, causing him to step forward with his left foot and swing with his might.
The bat connected with a thunderous CRACK, reversing the ball’s orbit and nearly wrenching the rope from between Rod’s hands.
“Good one,” Rod shouted. “Now give it a try left-handed.”
Jeff did as he was told and switched the bat to his opposite shoulder, squaring his stance to face the ball from the other direction. A moment later he sent the ball back on its previous course and assumed a right-handed batter’s stance. The game went on for several minutes as Allison watched from above. She loved these quiet moments when the world was hers for the viewing…and storing.
At times she felt almost guilty; enjoying the childhood of a boy who had been granted life by another…her dear friend, Elva. That was many years ago and she’d banked a thousand memories to share with her departed friend when they would one day be reunited. Oh, how she loved her little family and the closeness they shared. Jeff was growing day-by-day, and she could already see a vision of the man he would soon become.
THWACK…the sound pulled Allison from her thoughts and drew her eyes back to the players below. Rod now sat on his haunches, rubbing his hands, while Jeff pointed across the field where the ball, with rope in tow, was clearing an adjacent building.
“Wooo…whooo…” he shouted. “Home run!”
* * *
The whine of a pair of screaming motorcycle engines slowly faded from The Quad, where Jeff and his friend, Dude, had circled the infield…yet again.
“How many times will they do that?” Allison asked, taking her hands away from her ears.
“Most likely ’til they run out of gas,” Rod replied.
“Seriously?”
The bikes had been gifts to the twelve-year-olds the prior morning, and they’d practiced ever since. Jeff was certainly growing, trading some of the childish things of his youth for more mature adventures. As well, his nickname Boo Boo was almost exclusively dropped and Boob took its place.
The high-pitched squeal of the motors echoed off university buildings, as the boys raced down decaying sidewalks and over obstacles they’d put up the night before. They played a loose game of follow-the-leader, each pressing the other in an effort to assume the lead.
Minutes later, the noise escalated once again, reminding everyone within earshot of the rider’s impending return.
“How many days will this go on? They can’t keep it up for weeks…can they?” Dude’s mother chimed in, hoping someone in the growing circle of observers would have a swift but acceptable answer. The middle-aged, gaunt woman was not feeble, not in the traditional sense, but she was of diminished capacity. Her skin clung to calcium-starved bones and malnourished muscles, yielding the appearance of one barely clinging to life, yet there was a vitality about her, which was surprising and fresh. Over time, the lack of critical nutrients had fostered an impaired immune system, causing her to catch everything. Every cold, flu, scratch, or hint of disease, forced her into the waiting care of Dr. Remy Reynolds. The noise today seemed to be bothering her more than usual – perhaps the result of an impending inner-ear infection.
Cory, with Clayton close behind, took a step closer to answer her question. “We need them to be proficient, Ma’am. We’re working on getting motorcycles for all The Normals.” Cory looked over his shoulder and received a supportive wink from his friend. The pair, though mat
ured by the years, were still attached at the hips and more than a little unpredictable.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” she replied, lifting her hands to cover her ears.
“Well, sure. We need them to have a way to get around and this will teach them some skills. By the time we’re done with them, they’ll make one heck of a fighting force,” Cory answered.
Dude’s mother lifted the corners of her mouth in an obvious feigned grin and nodded her understanding.
“Besides,” Rod said, wrapping his arm around the woman’s shoulder, “have you ever seen those boys smile like that?” He pointed at the approaching duo, whose hair was swept back, eyes tearing, and grins stretching from ear-to-ear. “They’re having the time of their lives.”
“Yeah, but the noise, Rod,” Allison said, coming to her friend’s assistance.
“All right…give ’em the rest of the day and I’ll keep them busy tomorrow so they don’t have as much time to ride.”
A few minutes later, the boys skidded around the nearest corner and brought their motorcycles to an abrupt halt near the crowd.
“That was awesome!” Jeff screamed, above his engine’s roar.
“Right on! Let’s do it again,” Dude shrieked enthusiastically, his voice cracking in the process.
“Boys…hey boys…let’s give it a rest for a bit,” Allison said, stepping close enough to hit the kill switch on Boob’s handlebars. She was quickly followed by Dude’s mother, who did the same.
“Ah, mom,” Jeff groaned, while wiping the dirt and tears from his face.
“You’ve been at it long enough today. Surely there’s something more constructive you could be doing.”
Cory and Clayton stood a short distance away, talking in hushed tones. They went back and forth, each using their hands to emphasize points in their conversation. When it was finally clear they had come to a consensus, they approached Rod and the women.
“We’ve got an idea…” Cory began.
“A really cool idea,” Clayton said, finishing his friend’s thought. The taller of the two friends still sported a mass of brown curls, which had thinned slightly but he otherwise was the same giddy self he had always been. Age hadn’t touched him the way it had some of the others; his hollow cheeks and angular jaw had been genetically passed and not nutritionally stunted.
“And what’s that?” Rod asked, not certain he was ready for anything Cory and Clayton had dreamt up on the spur of the moment.
Cory sensed the mild apprehension on Rod’s face and interjected with, “Come on, not all our ideas are idiotic. Remember last year when we wanted to dig that…”
“Okay, I’ll concede that one,” Rod said, hoping their latest brainchild was equally as brilliant.
“So, as I was saying,” Clayton continued. “We don’t use the old stadium anymore. Right?”
“Well, for the most part, that’s correct,” Rod concurred.
“Great. So…so, what if we turn it into a bike-riding park? You know…like a training ground for The Normals to hone their skills and learn to ride.”
Rod looked at Allison and Dude’s mother for approval. The distance to the old football field was a bit beyond their comfort zone, but close enough they could be supervised and protected.
“I like it,” Allison said. “It will certainly be much quieter.”
“Amen,” Dude’s mother invoked.
For a second, Rod walked a slow circle around the two bikers, almost as if he were inspecting them. “I don’t know…there might be security issues, and…”
“Oh, come on, Dad,” Jeff pleaded. “It’s a great idea. We…I mean, me and the rest of The Normals will help build it. Right Dude?”
“You bet. It’ll give us something to do and we’ll stay out of everyone’s hair. It’s a perfect plan,” Dude agreed, still smiling from the exhilaration granted by the noisy gift. Jeff’s best friend was not quite as tall as the other male Normals and was comparatively thin, but he was fleet of foot and reliable. The boy looked much like his mother; a narrow, slightly-bent nose and hazel eyes that radiated warmth when his mop of brown, shaggy hair was not hiding them. While waiting for the adults to make a final decision, he swept a grimy hand to his forehead and worked his fingers through snarled bangs to clear his view.
“Listen Rod, you know these kids are almost as much a part of our family as they are yours. They’re our little brothers and sisters…we won’t let anything happen to them. That’s a promise from me and Clayton,” Cory offered, in as sincere an expression as he was capable of making.
“It might…well, all right. Take a handful of security personnel and scope it out. Report back to me and Clark later today and we’ll go from there. It might not be a bad idea after all. These kids will soon be big enough to take care of themselves and we could use their help from time to time.” Rod gently smacked both boys across the back of their heads and gave Cory and Clayton thumbs up.
“Sweet,” Jeff exclaimed. “One more time around The Quad?” he asked, knowing his bold smile could not be refused.
* * *
An automatic rifle’s faint echo rolled up the canyon and over the university’s enduring campus. Instantly recognizing the rumble of a distant battle, Rod dragged himself from a peaceful dream to the harsh reality of their existence. He rubbed his eyes and tried to free himself from Allison’s cocoon-like embrace.
“Allison, come on, Hon, I’ve got to get up.” He gently peeled her weight from his chest and legs and rolled away. Once unencumbered, he slipped from beneath the worn sheet and kissed her furrowed brow.
“What…what do you think it is?” she questioned, trying to rouse her senses and clear her head. Allison, now approaching forty, had grown accustom to these unforeseen threats, which always seemed to come in the earliest of hours and bleakest of nights. However, the associated, nagging fear was ever present and crippling.
“Who knows, but it’s not close – not yet,” Rod replied. He sat at the edge of their bed and pulled a thick pair of socks over his pale feet. Dark denim jeans quickly followed the footwear: the dense, Levi fabric almost scratching his skin as he yanked them abruptly to his waist. A tight-fitting T-shirt hugged his chest, with shadows etching his thinning upper-body strength. Life had not been easy for the farmer-turned-security specialist. He had given of himself in every way imaginable, trying desperately to fill the void left by the death of his older brother, Farrell. By all accounts, the two men had been inseparable, until a Harvester’s bullet cleaved their earthly connection. That tragic day was years ago, but never very far from Rod’s uppermost thoughts and his wife knew it.
Allison sat up, wrapped the sheet around her torso, and looked into a corner of the room reserved for a unique, Chinese-made machine gun. The deadly weapon leaned against the wall, a drum of ammo fit tightly into its belly. “Will you be taking Farrell’s rifle?” she asked, pointing across the dimly lit room.
Even though the setting was shadowed, Rod couldn’t help but appreciate his wife’s timeless beauty and her concern for his wellbeing. “Not this morning,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m running low on ammo and I’d like to save what’s left for Jeff.” Rod fastened a leather holster around his waist but continued to look at his mate. “He’s…”
“What?” Allison quipped. “Headstrong?”
“Yeah, that too, but he’s anxious. Anxious to grow up.”
Allison whispered her agreement while watching Rod load his M-16. “He’s more like you than you think.” For a second she sat silent – reflective, and then swept a stray swirl of red hair from her face. “Sure, he’s bullheaded, just like Farrell, but he’s got your tender side…and I love that. Speaking of the boy, I wonder why Boob…” Her question was answered before she could finish the thought as a rapid series of knocks seismically bounced around the room. Seconds later, a thick-chested boy of 14 swung the door wide and bolted into the room.
The husky youngster dashed to Rod, nearly knocking him over. “Dad, is it Harvesters?”<
br />
“I don’t know, Son, but I’ll need you to take care of your mom,” Rod said, nodding toward the bed.
“Sure. What can we do?”
“Jeff, cut your dad some slack and come over here,” Allison encouraged. She welcomed the teenager with a brisk tussle of his fine, yellow hair, before locking him in a playful headlock. The two wrestled for a minute, easing the tension that always came with these dangerous mornings.
Rod stopped only briefly to take in the banter but his thoughts were elsewhere. This morning was like hundreds, if not thousands of others: the sounds of desperate men and women battling for survival. He was growing weary of the endless onslaught of evil that knocked at their door, and today, more than most, his countenance mirrored a growing exhaustion. Suddenly a staccato of heavy weapon’s fire, punctuated by a series of concussive blasts, accelerated his actions and reminded him of his duty.
Across The Ward’s compound the distant melee’s din awoke, and then shook, dozens of security personnel from the relative warmth of their beds. Without thinking, and acting on adrenalin-stoked instinct alone, guards secured their weapons and bolted to emergency posts surrounding The Alamo’s perimeter.
Allison watched Rod hurriedly gather his flack jacket and shell belt as she grappled with the teenager in her arms. He was strong, more than what she expected a boy of his age to be, and she could see the proverbial writing on the wall – the child “born of such great sorrow” would not be hers for long. He, and a limited number of miraculous births, were a gift, a desperate hope for the survival of all mankind. She found herself staring across the room, the idea of losing him suddenly pulling at her heartstrings.
“You okay?” Rod asked, leaning over the bed to kiss Allison’s forehead.
“Yeah, fine. You be careful,” she said.
The Lasting Hunger Page 1
