“You know me,” Rod responded, winking at his boy.
“Exactly! That’s why I said it,” Allison confirmed. Rod smiled but did not reply. At the door he turned and issued a parting order. “Jeff, do what your mom says. We might need your help over at Old Main. Get dressed and ready.”
“Thanks Dad, you know I will,” Boob responded, happy to be treated like one of the security detail that answered to Rod’s command. Years ago, his birthfather shouldered the same responsibility and Jeff believed one day the job would be his. “Come on Mom, the other kids might need our help.”
“Hey Hon, sounds like you’ve got your orders,” Rod said, as he hustled from the room and closed the door behind him.
Allison waved and did her best to hide the worry that consumed her each time Rod met the challenge of his calling. Bring him back, she thought, knowing days like today would continue to be more the norm than the exception. “Okay, get dressed and we’ll round up your friends.”
Jeff walked to the machine gun and hefted its weight. “Can I take this with me? We might need it.”
“How about you grab your shotgun instead…just in case.”
“Right on,” Jeff shouted, as he dashed from the room.
Allison reflected on the exchange briefly, wondering if, and when such a day of battle would come. The proud woman had always imagined herself as a lioness protecting her young, expecting evil would have to move heaven and earth to snatch Jeff from her. She’d made a promise, long ago, to a dying friend and she held that vow sacred. However, villains, vile and wicked, walked the land and she was not immune to stories of slaughter and gore that preceded them. Knowing this, Allison was confident she and Rod had taught Elva’s son well, but would that knowledge be enough? The lad was resourceful, able-bodied and eager to choose the right. He’ll survive, she thought, well beyond Rod and I – he will live to be a blessing to all who know him.
Chapter 1
(Two Years Later)
North of The Quad where Farrell, Elva and other patriots lay in lifeless slumber, a ball diamond sat dormant. Cory had gotten up early, revved his riding mower to life and driven through a single security checkpoint to the makeshift field. He had fought hard to keep Allison’s Growers from annexing his little piece of heaven and took pride in keeping it properly groomed and maintained – at least, as much as he was able. This year, the summer’s hot sun had been a particular challenge, searing the struggling sod and leaving spots of dying, yellow grass where he envisioned lush growth. Rain had been scarce and what little irrigation he managed to steer his way was only keeping the infield watered and green. Without vocalizing his personal motives, he recognized the petty obsession as his link to the past – to him it was beautiful, and a much needed distraction.
At the security post he’d been given the same warning he got each time he ignored their concern and ventured beyond the wire. We can’t guarantee your safety if you voluntarily travel beyond this point. The words ran through his mind as the Toro’s engine rumbled and chugged him closer to the grassy field. Out of habit, he stopped when the guard’s position was no longer in sight and stepped from the mower. He pulled a brown, leather pair of gloves from his rear pocket and inspected them before sliding them over his calloused hands. The palm of each was worn black with sweat and grime from long days of toil around The Alamo. A passing smile lightened his face as he turned his right hand over and then back, appreciating the stitching and alterations that had gone into making the glove fit snuggly over his shortened digits. The loss had done little to slow the young man down, except for crippling his curve and slider when pitching from the mound.
A grass-stained satchel vibrated against the back of the machine’s seat. Cory reached in, pushed a water bottle aside and retrieved a heavy set of binoculars from the pouch. He lifted the oculars to his green eyes, squinting until he was fully adapted to the view. From his vantage point he could see over the flattened field, once an intramural playground for students and wannabe athletes. To the east, unused university buildings blocked the rising sun, shading and cooling the morning air. The darkly tanned ‘gardener’ swung the field glasses to the north and surveyed beyond the ball field, taking in the dilapidated football stadium and row after row of apartment buildings that tiered the sloping roads to the west. Nothing, he thought, sweeping a few locks of sun-bleached blond hair from his forehead.
Slipping the binoculars back into the frayed satchel, Cory shifted the pistol at his hip and mounted the mower once again. Within minutes he had dropped the blade three inches from the ground and was smoothly trimming the grass to an appropriate length. The smell of fresh clippings sent him back in time: his father endlessly lobbing baseballs into the young boy’s strike zone as he pelted them into the outfield. It was a gift he’d acquired almost before he could walk and his parents had delighted in tossing plastic whiffle balls at the toddler for him to smack with an oversized, Flintstone-type bat. So much time had passed since then that the images were beginning to fade. Dates had long since been forgotten, except for his birth and the deaths of his closest friends.
That morning, Christine had tried to sleep as he stumbled around their little apartment, ultimately knocking a dirty bowl and cup to the floor, before finally using a flashlight to see his way. “Sorry,” he’d whispered.
Rolling to her side she replied in a sleepy slur, already knowing what the answer would be, “When are you going to give this up?”.
“Never,” he’d quickly replied, before kissing her full lips and tiptoeing away.
Unwilling to give up quite yet, Christine brushed aside matted locks of sandy blonde hair, revealing a tired but beautiful face. She had aged much better than most, blessed genetics giving way to lovely skin and a strong, womanly body. She purred and lifted the covers, enticing him back between the sheets.
Cory paused and considered the invitation for a moment, his desires nearly giving in to his sense of duty. Christine was Cory’s light in darkness, the scratch to his itch, but this morning his connection to yesteryear awaited him…and he could not be late.
“Sorry,” he pleaded again. “I’ll be back before you know it.”
He thought of her now as he completed the first pass around the immense field and began to bisect the withering expanse from one corner to the other. This was not a fast job, not by any stretch, but he relished the experience. The time was his to ponder, to reflect, and some days to scheme. Today, he dreamed of a family, one he could call his own. He was close to many of the kids Jeff’s age, but he longed for a relationship like the one he’d had with his father. One day, he thought. Some day things will change and I’ll be a dad, but when? Heaven only knew he and Christine had tried – to the point of exhaustion they’d tried – but to no avail.
However, Godfrey, the resident scientist, Englishman, and hope of any reproductive future, had all but given up. Years had passed – failure after failure had eaten away any prayer of success, and as of late, he’d given himself to spending his intellectual energies accomplishing things that were feasible, but no less important. Just the week before he’d repaired one of the compound’s generators, bringing the old unit to life with a mishmash of electrical wizardry that only he could understand…but it worked.
At the end of the first long, horizontal pass, Cory wheeled the unit around and started back along the same route, spitting shards of grass, dirt and weeds in his wake. He repeated the same at the other end and was about half way back when something unexpected caught his attention: a spinning, white golf ball bounced at the side of the moving tractor and rolled to a stop. Before Cory could turn and see where the object had come from, another Titleist ricocheted off the Toro’s platform, nearly striking Cory in the knee. “Who the hell!” he yelled, knowing the answer without having to visually confirm his suspicion. Clayton. A second later, a third, equally hard hit ball, arched high over the mower and plummeted to earth, bouncing in the dry stubble before coming to a stop directly in the blade’s path. Cory chuck
led a sinister, Grinchy laugh, as pieces of rubber, plastic and coiled-bands shot from underneath the churning trimmer. “Jerk,” he said aloud.
Finally out of range, Cory unlashed an AK-47 he had tied to the mower and laid it across his lap. This will give him something to think about. The Toro started another perfectly angled strip back in the direction in which it had come. This time, standing near home plate, a tall, lanky character held his hand over his eyes, shielding his view from the rising sun. Over the past few years, twisted curls of dense brown hair had given way to a short cropped style that complimented the slender man’s face. Clayton had matured – filled out, but he was still a playful thorn in his friend’s side.
When Cory was about 160 yards away, Clayton addressed yet another dimpled missile and swung through with his eight iron. The joker watched the ball climb rapidly into the morning sky, before reaching its zenith and tumbling back to earth. It bounced shy of the charging mower but not being dissuaded, he pounded a fifth ball skyward, feeling this was the one.
With great anticipation he looked at Cory, hoping for a ‘strike’ but it would not be – not today. Suddenly the miniature tractor stopped and Cory jumped from the seat. He looked up, catching a quick view of the sailing orb before he leveled the rifle at Clayton. For a split second he debated firing off a few rounds, but did not. However, staring down the barrel had sent Clayton to the ground, tripping over and ultimately planting the golf club firmly in his groin. He did not look up smiling. Cory, on the other hand, was more than amused as he spun the AK around, took the barrel and wooden forend in his hands and waited for the ball to arrive. The sphere descended a moment later, arching like a softball that he immediately crushed back in the direction it had come – the rifle’s heavy wooden stock catching the ball flush and sending a loud ‘CRACK’ after it. “How’s that, Clayton?” he screamed, jumping back into the seat and gunning the engine ahead.
Clayton stood, swallowed his pride, brushed off his jeans, and jogged a few yards to meet his friend. “Heck of a swing out there,” he yelled, above the sound of the mower.
“You trying to kill me?” Cory yammered back, pushing the mower to finish the pass before he powered it down. Clayton playfully jumped aside to avoid being consumed by the marauding beast, spearing Cory in the side with the eight iron as he passed. When the engine finally wound down and silence prevailed, the two started in, as they always did. Clayton was first to throw a verbal punch, sarcastically complimenting Cory’s abilities. “I’m glad to see you can hit something with that rifle,” he chided.
“Very funny,” Cory replied, noting his friend was walking with an odd, hunched over stride. “You take one in the nuts?”
“Nope, I’m good – just a little stiff this morning,” Clayton lied.
“Uh huh, I see,” Cory said, assessing his friend’s condition. “I’d diagnose a self-inflicted groin shot – but I’m no doctor. Do I need to take you back to the infirmary? Might be the only way you get a woman to check you out.”
“Oh, nice one. You’re in fine form this morning,” Clayton retorted, nervously trying to draw attention away from his injury.
“Why shouldn’t I be? It’s game day. Will you be able to play or will we have to sideline you with…ah, unexplained injuries?”
“No way! I’ll be fine. Actually makes things a little fairer. I mean, you with your handicap and all,” Clayton said, nodding toward Cory’s right hand, which had missing fingers from his encounter with the assassin, Solomon.
“Oooo…you wish. Maybe we should sub you in as a ball boy for the day. Jeff can take your spot – he hits better than you anyway.”
Clayton was silent for a moment, trying to come up with a zinger but he knew what had been said was true – the kid could hit better than him. “Okay, you win. I give. Get the rest of the mowing done and I’ll sit here and tend to my broken ego.”
Cory turned to walk away, but Clayton wasn’t quite finished. He pranced forward, slipped the heavy, wedged end of the club between Cory’s legs and lifted up and back in one smooth motion. The weighted head caught Cory flush in the balls, dropping him to his knees. Clayton bent his tall, angular frame at the waist and burst into a torrent of loud guffaws and snort-like laughs. He danced an awkward ring around his fallen comrade, his laughter building as he jitterbugged.
“Clayton, grab my rifle,” Cory screamed in an unusual high-pitched shriek.
“No frickin’ way, Man.”
“I knew it. I just knew it,” Cory grunted.
“What’s that, Cor?”
“So many opportunities – so many chances, and what do I do?” Cory asked himself, doing his best not to puke up what little food was sitting on his belly.
“What you talkin’ about?”
“You! I should have fragged your ass long ago, but noooo. It’s my nature. I’m always looking out for you, being so kind and this is how you repay me.”
The remark started Clayton anew with a string of snorts and laughs. “Kind? Like last week when you tripped me into that latrine?”
“Oh yeah, that was sweet.” The image of Clayton floundering in the mess somehow seemed to ease Cory’s pain.
“Sweet? You about killed me.”
“You were never in any danger, but I do sense a bit…” Cory said, pausing briefly to sniff the wind. “What is that? Can’t quite put my finger on it, but smells like…crap. That’s it. You still smell like crap, Clay.”
Clayton lifted his arm and smelled his pit, suddenly realizing Cory had suckered him again. “I do…I mean, I don’t either.” The pair finally gave in and called a truce. Clayton reached out and helped Cory to his feet and they embraced. Not a warm, affectionate hug but a quick collision of chests, followed by two quick slaps on the their respective backs.
“Mornin’ Bro,” Cory said, shifting his weight to realign his package.
“Yeah, same to you. Pretty morning.”
“That it is. It’s going to be a fine day.”
Chapter 2
Situated 100 miles north of C&C’s morning banter, Juanita Williams struggled to meet the day with any degree of pleasantness. She’d slept badly, running from one fitful dream to the next. As of late, the faces of too many unnamed strangers demanded her nighttime hours: chasing, hunting, and then slaughtering her whole. Exhausted, she reached for a small towel and wiped the sweat from the hollow of her neck – Miserable…and already hot.
“Prime of my life,” she grunted, as a hot flash swept over her, heating and further irritating the 50ish woman. “Annie. Annie, get in here,” she ordered.
A petite, and likely once-pretty woman in an adjacent room, immediately recognized the deep, raspy voice and replied, “Coming. I’m coming – give me a sec.”
Annie or was it Annette? She couldn’t quite remember, but regardless, she knew it was time to get going or pay the consequences. Since the death of her husband, Ethan, and the disbanding of Don’s community following his demise, she had wandered, scavenging to stay alive. She could no longer remember most things from her past, the years and lack of proper nourishment had taken a terrible toll on the unfortunate woman and her mind was troubled. However, her life had taken a favorable turn for the better when Harvesters, one of whom she knew, had captured her. He had convinced his companions to spare her life, after all there was virtually no meat on her bones and she could serve them better in other ways.
Fortunately, when the Harvesters had shown off their newfound prize, Lady Williams had been merciful and given her a house job. Something had sparked an immediate recognition, the new recruit reminding Juanita of a sister, long since passed and almost forgotten. Doing much better now that Juanita had taken her in, Annie understood one overriding commandment: ‘Do or die’. Annie had served her well these past few months. Their relationship was odd, never friendly, but comfortably strained.
This morning Annie did what she did each day upon rising. She fetched water from a rain barrel just outside the back door, retrieved a fresh towel from t
he clothesline and hurried to her master’s chambers.
“What took you? I’m dying in here. Sweats are coming every five minutes and you’re off doing…heaven only knows what, instead of getting me cleaned up. There seemed to be something from Juanita’s upbringing that spoke to her soul and fed her need to play the ‘evil stepsister’ – and she liked it. She couldn’t quite place her finger on it, but perhaps it was the fact that her older sister had always been the pretty one, the talented one, and the one most loved. Her sister had been peppered with all the boy’s attention, which left her to tend for the animals and do the chores, but she’d been the sister to survive. Against all odds, she’d managed to carry on, not only surviving but also rising to the top of a community of vagabonds, cutthroats, and Harvesters, who looked to her for leadership. The arrangement was not ideal, nor was it what she ultimately wanted, but for now, it was working nicely.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t think you’d be up this early. Bad dreams again?” Annie sincerely asked.
“Yup. It’s never a tall, handsome cowboy sweeping me off my feet, but a steady stream of losers wanting a piece of me. You read anything into that?” she asked, curious if ‘Cinderella’ would dare voice an opinion.
“Oh, I couldn’t say. I don’t know much about reading dreams and such. I’m not even sure I dream anymore. Seems I just drop off and come to – nothing in between.”
“Well, isn’t that sad, in a way,” Juanita noted, almost letting herself feel a bit of compassion. “Come on, get me cleaned up. I’ve got people to see and butts to kick this morning.”
“Yes, Ma’am,” Annie replied, as she pulled Juanita’s graying strands of thickly matted hair from off her neck. She plunged the clean towel into the cool rainwater and wiped it across the exposed skin. The cold touch of the cloth sent a shiver over Juanita and she grinned but remained silent. The fabric continued on its predetermined course over her aging skin, wiping and cleansing as it went. “Speed it up, Annie. I don’t have all morning. Get my pits and crotch and call it good,” she ordered, standing with her feet apart and hands held high over her head.
The Lasting Hunger Page 2
