The Lasting Hunger

by Dennis Larsen

  As he watched, he thought of his original reaction to the pair – just what we need, another Clayton and Cory – but he was less inclined to think that now. The years had molded C&C into fine men and leaders, even if they enjoyed getting under one another’s skin. The Mickelson brothers had proven to be the same, ruggedly traditional in their beliefs and committed to a new order, a new world.

  From just outside the conference room, the sound of footsteps drew his attention away from the brother’s antics. Without giving it any thought, the old marine placed his right hand on the pistol at his hip, and waited for his visitors. Seconds later, a guard stationed at the door ducked his head in and alerted Colonel Bubley.

  “Sir, the committee members have arrived.”

  “Send them in, Egan,” Boyd instructed the sentry, who nodded his understanding and closed the door after the crowd had entered.

  “Afternoon, Boyd,” Clark said, as he hustled into the room, followed by Cory, Dr. Reynolds, Godfrey, Kirk, Rod and Allison. Each of The Ward’s governing panel waved and offered a welcoming sign to Boyd as they slipped into the room, taking their seats at the extended conference table. Boyd counted, taking into account each of those attending.

  “Where’s your father-in-law, Cory?” the colonel asked, raising a slender cane to point at the young man.

  “I’m afraid Jacob wasn’t up to a meeting today. He said to extend his apologies.”

  Boyd lumbered to his seat at the head of the table. “That’s fine. Is there anything we can do for him?”

  “Pray. He says it’s the only thing that’s kept him alive this long,” Cory answered, looking into his hands.

  “We can do that,” Allison hastily concurred, brushing a lock of reddish hair from her freckled cheek. Sun and age had not diminished her beauty, but her perfect complexion had suffered their effects, planting small blemishes where once pristine, lily-white skin had endured.

  “He’ll appreciate that, Allison. I’ll let him know,” Cory replied.

  Bubley laid his staff upon the table and again addressed Cory. “I surely wish he were here – doesn’t make me feel quite so old when he helps out. Will you fill him in on our discussion?”

  “Sure, no problem.”

  “Before we get started, I must know. Who won the game?” Boyd asked, referring to the baseball event Cory had organized earlier in the day.

  “Colonel, there are no winners or losers. We just play for the fun of it,” Cory replied.

  “You mean the kids won,” Boyd surmised.

  “Exactly,” Allison offered, being quick to recognize the tremendous play of Jeff and his friends.

  “Yeah, yeah…the punks took us down but it was close,” Cory swiftly confirmed.

  “It was fun. You should have come, Boyd. I think you would have enjoyed it,” Clark interjected, leaning back and rubbing his hand over his close cropped, graying hair.

  “I’m too old and it’s too far. Maybe next time,” the veteran replied, knowing full well there would never be a day that he’d feel like venturing beyond The Alamo’s perimeter. The aging warrior held his cards pretty close to his chest, but he’d felt a change as of late, his body no longer responding as it once had and his senses were failing, especially his vision. He’d not mentioned it but he found himself hugging the walls and walking with a cane at night to avoid tripping or falling. The group around the table were his closest friends, whether they knew it or not, but he still refused to reach out for help or to explain his circumstances. He had spent the last sixteen years imparting a life’s worth of wisdom and he was confident they’d do well in his absence.

  “Well, let’s get this meeting under way. I’m somewhat hesitant to begin. It just doesn’t seem right, not having Gary here to lead these discussions,” a weary Bubley began.

  “Yup, Gary and his wife are missed, that’s for sure. I don’t think many of us would be here, at least from Bear River, if it weren’t for them,” Rod said, the words nearly lodging in his throat. “Still hard to believe they both went within a week of each other.” Rod looked into his hands, which were small compared to his brother’s but just as strong. The years had challenged Rod and kept him lean; still, the sun painted him bronze each summer, a witness to his farming heritage and youthful vigor. Brown, finely cropped hair receded slightly at his temples, giving the appearance of increased age, which he felt but did not boast.

  “A blessing, really,” Clark acknowledged. “At least the cancer was swift and somewhat merciful.”

  The committee agreed as Boyd looked away for a moment, grappling with his feelings, before he spoke quietly. “Bishop Freeman would normally offer a prayer. Rod would you do us the honors?” Boyd asked.

  “Certainly.” He bowed his head and with a humbled heart addressed the God he’d come to know in the darkest of trials and brightest of hopes. “Our Heavenly Father,” he whispered, expressing gratitude for loved ones, their homes and their lives. He similarly recognized some needs and asked for help to fulfill them, closing in the name of Christ. Years had passed and Christian worship was no longer practiced as it once was, however, faith and devotion were still very much a part of The Ward and many of the community held firm to their beliefs.

  “Thanks, Rod. Okay, let’s get a report and see where we stand,” Bubley said, pointing at a piece of paper on the table, which he expected Allison to use for notes. “Remy, let’s start with you.”

  Dr. Remy Reynolds was a shell of his former self. The years of caring for and watching too many of his patients slip away had prematurely grayed his hair and thinned his face. Swollen, dark circles underscored sleepless eyes that stared into the blackness at night and scoured books by day. He extended a white-coated tongue and attempted to moisten his parched lips before beginning. “All right, I don’t have a lot to say. I’ll just run down my list.” He pulled a piece of lined paper from his pocket and opened it carefully. “Let’s see – no pregnancies to speak of – no real news there, but also no deaths this past week. No wait, I take that back. We lost a pig to a coyote, if that counts.”

  “Clark, see about securing the area around the pens. There must be a better way to keep the predators out,” Boyd ordered.

  “Got it,” Clark replied, shifting uneasily in his seat from his pistol digging into his side.

  “Remy, you were saying.” Bubley turned his attention back to the doctor, expecting him to continue.

  “We’re kind of past flu season, which is good. It was a tough winter. We lost 23 people…” the doctor said, his voice cracking, as he had trouble finishing the thought. “That’s about 10% of our population. I know you can see what I’m seeing; dying, desperate, jaundiced faces all around. The vitamin deficiency is slowly killing us all. Pneumonia here, cancer there…even simple infections are taking their toll in what should be preventable deaths. I’m worried, really worried – our stockpile of medication is well beyond its shelf life and I’m afraid it may be nearly useless. Once they’re gone we’ll be hooped, with no way of synthesizing more. On this point I am truly sorry.”

  Allison spoke up, anxious to support her dear friend and boost his spirits. “Remy, we know you’re doing your best. We’d likely be far worse off without your near-heroic efforts.” She paused momentarily and caught his gaze. “We don’t say thank you enough.” He nodded and grinned his appreciation. “It seems we’re all hesitant to discuss this openly, but who is feeling differently now than they did five years ago, or even a year ago?” Allison asked. Hands slowly went up all around the table, Cory being the last to admit the change. “I thought so,” she said. “Remy is right. So what can be done?”

  All eyes suddenly turned to their chief scientist and resident nerd, Godfrey Whitcomb. He blushed slightly, color rising against his high cheekbones and feathered-gray hairline. He extended his long arms and straightened himself in his chair. “Yes, I guess it does fall to me,” he said, hesitantly. “I wish I had a brilliant spot of news to share with you, but sadly, I don’t. I’ve not entirely
given up on the formula to provide some viable births, but we’ve already seen that won’t solve our vitamin A problem. I would like to say thank you to Kirk and his sharpshooters. I know game is almost non-existent but they’ve somehow managed to keep some meat, and more importantly, liver coming in.”

  Kirk smiled, his oval face inundated with fractured lines near his eyes and mouth, which were more telling of his age than his thinning, blond hair. He tapped two, long fingers on the table in front of him, lost in thought, before the mention of his name brought him back. “Thanks Whitcomb, but I’m afraid Allison and her crew of amateur vets are providing most of the meat,” Kirk noted. “I don’t know how they’ve managed it but the pens need expanding again and I…”

  Cory suddenly interrupted, anxious to address the animal issue before he forgot. “Clayton says he’s happy to build more pens but we’ll need to expand either to The Quad or outside the perimeter fence.”

  “Your thoughts?” the colonel asked the group.

  Rod was the first to reply. “I’m not crazy about bringing animals into The Quad. It’s sacred ground, at least I feel that way.” Cory and Clark quickly agreed, ending the debate as far as the grassed burial site was concerned.

  “But can we keep them guarded and secure off site?” Allison asked.

  “Don’t think so,” Clark estimated, while fidgeting and finally standing to get the gun’s handle out of his fleshy side. “Tell me what you think of this,” he said, wandering to the windows to peer down at the frolicking brothers. “Bozo’s” he whispered, just quiet enough for the others to miss. “What if we cover the parking lot northeast of the library with dirt and straw and move some of the animals there? I know it’s not ideal but it’s manageable.”

  “Sounds like a plan to me,” Kirk agreed. “Boyd, we should take a vote. Seconds later the decision was ratified and they moved onto other matters.

  “Okay, let’s get back to Godfrey,” Bubley issued, sliding the cane to point at the lanky Englishman.

  “Yeah, Whitcomb, is there nothing that can be done?” Rod asked, leaning in to engage the scientist.

  Godfrey straightened his shoulders and forged ahead. “I know this is a difficult pill to swallow but we just don’t have the enzymatic activity we need to metabolize and utilize vitamin A. It’s slowly and deliberately killing us all. If not outright, it’s going to destroy our immune systems to the point a common cold puts us in the ground.” He stopped briefly, waiting for feedback. There was none. “As Remy’s already pointed out, it’s happening to you, me…everyone. It’s just a matter of time before we’re all sick, dying or dead.”

  “Except for the kids – The Normals,” Remy was quick to clarify. “Godfrey’s correct and I couldn’t agree with him more. Believe me, we’re trying. If you’ve been down to the lab recently you’ll see a number of projects on the go and we’re desperately trying to think outside the box, which brings me to one additional point,” Dr. Reynolds said.

  “And what’s that?” Boyd asked.

  “I’m somewhat reluctant to bring this forward but we’re at an impasse that gives us no choice. The kids – we need to test them.”

  There was a palpable shift in the room’s atmosphere as eyes darted around the table. Allison finally spoke up. “You mean use them as guinea pigs?” she asked.

  “Not in so many words but they’re the answer. They have to be. If we could create something from their system, a catalyst – for lack of a better word – to kick-start our deficient systems, it might…” His words trailed off to a faint whisper and then stopped. “I know it’s a long shot but theoretically it could work and Godfrey concurs. Right?” he asked, turning to face the Brit.

  “Yes, that is my assessment as well. I know we’ve looked at this in the past but we have some new ideas.”

  Allison unexpectedly slapped her palm down on the table. “Your new ideas don’t have anything to do with the nasty rumors we’ve all heard swirling around, do they? Systematically eating our children, and the world’s future, is ludicrous.”

  “I couldn’t agree more, Allison,” Dr. Reynolds confirmed. “Keeping that in mind, you have to see we have no choice but to explore the possibilities, unless you’re all willing to just lay down and die.”

  “Godfrey, Remy, you guys have to know our main objective is to protect The Normals. I have to hope we’re all on the same page,” Rod said sternly.

  “Everyone, we would never do anything to harm them. The idea of eating Normals to save us has no scientific backing to prove it. I’m quite positive the rumors are bunk,” the Brit assured them. “We’d start with basic blood work, and worse case scenario, we may need some biopsy samples, but (he was quick to interject) everything will be safe.”

  “Allison, what do you think?” Rod asked. “You’re more in touch with this stuff than the rest of us. Will the mothers and kids go for it?”

  The woman shifted in her chair and then stood without speaking. She walked around the table, obviously giving the decision a chance to sink in before she spoke. “I think…in fact, I know the kids will be all for it. They’ll see it as a way to help the community. On the other hand, you have to know how protective we are of these children. They’re all we have, but I’m inclined to agree with Remy and Godfrey. If they can synthesize something, anything that will boost everyone’s immune system, it’s worth a try.”

  “Can I have a vote?” Colonel Bubley asked. “Those in favor, show your hands.”

  Almost without delay all of the participants around the table raised their hands in unanimous support. “Looks like you’ve got your answer,” Boyd said, pointing at the pair of medically trained personnel. “Please work with Allison to inform the families and move ahead, but keep this body posted.”

  “Sure will,” Remy agreed.

  “Anything further from you two?” Boyd asked.

  The doctor and Godfrey shook their heads in unison and the reporting baton was passed to Rod, who was in charge of security and defenses beyond The Alamo’s immediate compound. He detailed the work being done around the city to fortify checkpoints and fallback positions, stressing the need for training every man, woman and child. Over the years that Rod had been assigned with security, they’d fought and won dozens of skirmishes. However, the victories had come with a cost in lives, resources and morale. They continued to monitor and staff three main outposts with machine gun positions and rotating sentry squads of three. No one moved in or out of the city without passing through these positions.

  Some years ago, a determined group of Harvesters had assaulted and taken one of the checkpoints, since then Rod had trained and instituted a Quick Deployment Team. The QDT were young, comparatively healthy men and women who knew how to handle themselves in a fight. They could respond at the drop of a hat, being led into the field by Clark or Rod, depending upon the time of day, each taking a twelve-hour rotating block of time. The method had proven valuable, rescuing sentries and beating back would-be assailants.

  Rod summed up his remarks by concluding, “We’ve got a brave bunch of people. They surprise me every day. However, I can’t help but feel, as the Harvesters and some of the gangs grow stronger, we’re taking it on the chin. We need more people. How or where we get them – I don’t know. I guess we just hope and pray that more groups will hear about our little valley and move heaven and hell to find us.”

  “Rod, thanks for your assessment. Clark, do you have anything to add in regards to The Alamo’s security?” Colonel Bubley asked.

  Clark, who was still standing, returned to his chair but did not sit. He bent over the back and used it to support his weight as he leaned in. “I’m concerned, just as Rod is, about our dwindling numbers. We’ve had some good people wander in but not enough. If we get hit by any kind of a sizable force I’m afraid we won’t last long.”

  “Well then, we’ll just have to make do with what and who we’ve got,” Boyd replied. “Is everyone aware and able to initiate a ‘retreat and hold’ maneuver to this b
uilding?” the commander asked, referring to Old Main.

  “Yes sir. We’ve practiced dozens of times and are prepared, but we could certainly use some heavier firepower. You know, like a bazooka or two,” Clark replied.

  “And I’d like a tank,” Cory suggested.

  “I’m afraid that’s wishful thinking, Cory. However, I do have an item or two that may interest the lot of you, security chaps,” Godfrey said, pulling a small section of pipe from his pocket. The cylinder was capped at either end with fencing material and a metal pin extended from one end, piercing the cap and metal tube.

  “Now, what have you got there?” Rod asked.

  “A homemade grenade. I call it ‘HIT’, short for high intensity thermite,” the scientist explained.

  Cory stood and joined Clark, who was moving to have a closer look. “What exactly does it do?” Cory asked.

  “I like to think it’s rather ingenious but also relatively simple…at least from a scientific perspective.” He held the small prototype up, holding one end while seizing the pin and pulling it free. Heads ducked as friends around the table were alarmed by his action. “Don’t worry,” he laughed. “This one’s not live. So, what you do is pull the pin, like I’ve just done, and then twist the cap a quarter of a turn clockwise…like so,” he said, turning the end piece to align two markings etched into the housing. “Okay, now you’ve got three seconds to get rid of it.”

  “Or what?” Cory said jokingly.

  “Or you lose the rest of your fingers…and a whole lot more,” Whitcomb said, a wry chuckle sneaking past his all-too serious lips.

  “Mr. Whitcomb what kind of punch will your HIT grenade give us?” Bubley asked, raising his walking stick enough to point at the handheld device.