The Hunger's Howl

by A. D. Popovich

  ONLY THE DEAD DON’T DIE

  Book 2

  The hunger’s howl

  Copyright © May 2018 by A.D. Popovich

  All Rights Reserved

  First Edition 2018

  License Notes

  This book or any portion of this publication may not be reproduced or used in any manner without prior written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations in a book review. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living, dead or undead), business establishments or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This book is dedicated to my best friend—my wonderful husband.

  . . . Thank you for loving me . . .

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 1

  Scarlett Lewis huddled as small as she could amongst an overgrown-alcove of scrub oaks alongside the Moke River. The floundering fish she had just hooked threatened to give away her well-hidden fishing spot. Quickly, she snipped the fishing line with her pocket knife. She peered between autumn’s browning leaves, wincing as the fishing line slithered across the riverbank and disappeared into the river along with her fish.

  She backed farther into the scrub oaks. Apparently, the three approaching men didn’t notice the fishing line. They continued trekking along the riverbank, engrossed in boisterous banter unaware of her presence. Since September’s apple harvest, the Ravers had stopped their daily river patrols. She had hiked to the rural town last week, relieved to find it deserted except for the handful of Ravers parading down Main Street in Mad Max attire like they owned the entire town, all three stop signs of it. She had assumed they were done with her side of the forest until next harvest season.

  Her shallow breaths quickened, waiting for the three men to jaunt by. The men stopped a few yards away, close enough for her to smell the cigarettes they lit. Was it close enough to smell her garlic-glazed skin? Garlic, she had learned, disguised her human scent, outwitting the creepers roaming the forest.

  Go! She screamed in her mind, urging the men to leave as if she had special powers. After the Ravers’ arrival last spring, her forest was no longer the safe haven it had been.

  “You hear that?” the bald man asked, looking down the barrel of an automatic weapon, jerking it from side to side.

  Scarlett’s heart shuddered.

  “What d’ya know. Fish. We ought to send Bucky’s team on a fishing expedition,” the taller man said after another splash.

  The bald man pointed his gun toward the ground. “When is fishin’ season?”

  “Anytime you want. It’s not like you have to worry about the fish police,” the taller man sniped.

  “Better not let R find out, or you’ll lose a stripe,” the bald man warned. “This area ain’t secured. R made it clear. Our sorry excuse for a militia has to hold the town and the roads. We don’t have enough manpower to secure the orchards, river, and forest.”

  “What d‘ya call this?” A voice bickered back.

  “Reconnoitering, dumb ass. Looking for signs of intelligent life, not fish. So far, I don’t see none—intelligent life, that is,” the bald man snapped.

  “Whatever.” The taller man grunted. “I’m not worried about R. Hell. He’s not due back ’til winter. Plenty of time to do me some fishing.”

  “Never underestimate R,” the bald man whispered. “When R brings back reinforcements, we’ll frickin’ own every orchard in this shitty valley. Ain’t nobody gonna mess with us. No rebels. No freaks.”

  What? More Ravers? Scarlett recalled Zac’s warning. Ravers were like some End-of-the-World militia, zealously following the orders of R, their ruthless leader. Ravers were brutal and merciless, marauding towns for supplies and weapons, recruiting the strong survivors or slaughtering them if they stood in their way. And even more alarming, they kidnapped all the women. Period, end of story.

  “Brown-noser,” one of the men accused.

  “Hey, gotta play the game. Rather be a brown-noser than a freak,” the bald man said.

  “I’m thinkin’ it’s Chinook salmon season. Hot damn! Fresh salmon,” the taller man exclaimed.

  The men argued over their fishing plans. They were dressed in military fatigues with automatic weapons strapped over their shoulders, maybe AK-47s. She didn’t know much about guns. The bald man had sounded nervous just saying R’s name. A rash of goosebumps prickled in warning. Scarlett huddled smaller still. She couldn’t take on three men with automatic weapons. And, she couldn’t make a run for it without them seeing her. She chanted silently for them to leave.

  “Keep me out of it. I’m not losing this hard-earned stripe for some smelly fish,” the bald man said, pointing to the sergeant stripe on his jacket sleeve.

  “I swear I smell my grandmother’s chicken. Boy howdy, did I ever tell you that woman could cook? She smothered everything in garlic. She could make a roadkill armadillo taste like roasted chicken,” the shorter man bragged.

  The bald man turned in her direction. She trembled, fingering the trigger of her 9mm. The man eyed the area beyond her, not noticing her hidden alcove.

  “You think everything tastes like roasted chicken,” one of the men ribbed.

  The shorter man turned in her direction, sniffing. “I do believe I smell it.”

  A fish plopped in the river. The men turned back toward the river.

  “That’s it. I’m gettin’ a fishing reel,” the taller man announced.

  Had Scarlett been too optimistic, thinking it was safe to fish again? Their bug out was loaded with cans of Spam; however, Twila had insisted she was allergic to meat, something Scarlett wasn’t sure she believed. A vegetarian diet was unrealistic, if not impossible. Try explaining that to a seven-year-old child.

  So, Scarlett played along with Twila’s irrational requests. She felt bad for the little girl. Survival was already difficult enough with creepers lurking the woods, Ravers ravaging the towns, and desperate survivalist groups laying claims to whatever they could get their hands on. It was like the Dark Ages all over again. Survival was a daily struggle.

  After what seemed like hours, the three men continued their patrol along the riverbank. Next time, I’d better stop fishing by 8 a.m. She quickly and quietly gathered her gear and left for the bug out, which they called their treehouse. With only one fish in her net, it was hardly worth the trouble. Still, it would last Twila several days. One day, Twila would have to give up the preposterous notion of being a vegetarian. Luckily for Twila, not today.

  Scarlett crept to their hidden bugged-out treehouse nestled high in an enormous oak tree
inundated with ivy vines. When she neared their home, she knelt and waited several minutes, scouting the area, making sure it was clear of creepers and people. When she was confident she hadn’t been followed, she entered the ring of evergreen bushes surrounding the tree.

  She parted the dangling ivy vines until she found the column of spikes protruding from the tree. Quickly climbing to the first level, she opened the hatch to the plastic-like capsule’s lowest level, which was used as a storage room. She left the fish there in a bucket of water. She’d go back to the river to clean it later.

  Scarlett climbed the ladder to the next level, entering the kitchen and dining area. “Oops.” Twila was in the middle of one of her tea parties. Twila ignored her, immersed with her make-believe guests. The plastic kitchenette table was covered with a pink bedsheet. Twila’s prized possession, a Beauty and The Beast tea party set, adorned the table and was the apparent topic of discussion while Twila served everyone but Scarlett a cup of tea.

  Chapter 2

  Dean Wormer sat at the maintenance room’s workbench, sorting through a galvanized bucket chock-full of various screws, nuts, bolts, and whatnot. Never know, one of these inconsequential items might save our lives one day. At least that’s what he told himself as he began the mundane yet cathartic task.

  Luther Jones and Justin Chen had left the resort at the crack of dawn on a supply run at the southern end of Reno. They weren’t expected back until late afternoon, leaving him and Ella to run the place. Although, Ella hadn’t been much company lately. She’d been under the weather this past week. The mood at the resort had been downright gloomy without her sweet smile brightening the place. Hope she doesn’t have the flu. The thought caused his throat to tighten. Ever since the Super Summer flu, the world had gone batshit.

  “I’ll be dern, I do believe this here’s a square-headed nail,” Dean said aloud. He rolled it in his fingertips. “Definitely made of iron. It must be a hun-erd and fifty years old.” Suddenly, he didn’t feel so old.

  A mess of screeching static caught him off-guard. He dropped his precious find into the bucket. The ham radio buzzed, demanding attention.

  Screeching . . .

  “Anybody out there?”

  More static. Dean fiddled with the knobs until the channel came in clearer.

  “SOS! I repeat, SOS,” an unknown voice shouted.

  Dean grabbed the mic. “What’s your location?”

  A woman’s scream chilled him to the bone. “There’s too many! Whoever’s listening out there. Help!” The scream nearly ruptured his eardrums.

  Dean tried again. “Hear you loud and clear. What’s your location?”

  “A Chevron,” the woman panted. “West of Reno.”

  The conversation stopped, but her screaming didn’t, vibrating the speaker like a lowrider with the treble stuck on full blast. Dean figured they were fighting off a mob of dead-heads. If the horde had breached their building, those poor folks were goners.

  Dean geared-up in sixty seconds flat and then dashed out the resort’s front entrance. He hadn’t bothered to tell Ella since she’d been sleeping the day away. The problem was, there were several Chevrons west of Reno, but only one he’d venture to without any backup.

  Minutes later, he pulled the Jeep around the back of the Chevron and then waited, looking for signs of roving dead-heads. The place appeared deserted. The second-thought shivers took over. A smart man didn’t venture into the dead-head-infected world without someone to watch his back. Still, he couldn’t ignore the woman’s desperate plea for help. Truth be known, he’d always been a sucker for a damsel in distress. He grabbed the crowbar sitting next to him on the front seat and reluctantly hopped out of the Jeep. “Better not be an ambush,” he muttered under his breath. Too damned quiet.

  Dean crept to the back entrance. The door was locked. He made his way to the side of the building and pressed his face against the window. No sign of anyone. He tried the station’s front entrance; it swung open. With his crowbar ready for a swift one-swing kill, he searched the Chevron’s convenience store. Empty. The restrooms were empty, too. Wrong Chevron. Too bad. We could use a few more hands at the resort. More than that, it was another person he hadn’t been able to save.

  While I’m at it, might as well shake down the joint. The place had already been ransacked. Nonetheless, he scrounged for items most people overlooked. He grabbed the first-aid kit behind the register and then grabbed a fire extinguisher. For the hell of it, he snagged a package of Gummi Bears he happened to spot on the floor, half-way under a shelf. Ella loved that crap. His best find of the day was an unexpired package of Slim Jims tucked inside the bottom desk drawer in the manager’s office. Luther’s gonna love this. His two-minute shopping spree was up. Time to get out of Dodge.

  A rankish odor, the internal smell of the eternally rotting dead gave their presence away. He spotted the small mob of dead-heads through the glass door. He snuck out the back. When he started the Jeep, they juddered eagerly for him in their tattered, blood-stained clothing. Their rotting, reddish-green blotched skin and bloated bulbous brains got his gut wrenching in revulsion. How long could these things go on? You’d think they would’ve collapsed from malnutrition by now.

  The next Chevron he knew of was twenty miles or so east. Too close to Reno. He wouldn’t risk it on his own. With a heavy heart, Dean headed back toward the resort, disappointed in himself for not finding the survivors in their time of need. Based on the sporadic radio chatter on the ham radio, there were plenty of survivors out there, living in small enclaves. From what he’d seen, the small groups of two or three didn’t make it for long. For Justin and Ella’s sake, he felt the urgency to join a larger group. More people made supply runs safer, not to mention they could have a 24-7 security system in place. And there was the plain simple fact humans needed companionship. Although before the Super Summer flu, he had considered himself a bona fide hermit—by fate, not choice.

  Nevertheless, Dean had accepted his newfound purpose in this hellish freak-show of a world: keeping the peace, keeping the resort livable, and keeping them safe. He had more items written on his neverending “to do list” than an old man like himself could possibly finish. He liked it that way. Busy. An idle mind and idle hands got him thinking too much about . . . regrets. Regrets were the one thing he had plenty of.

  After his beloved wife, Mary, had succumbed to cancer, and after his only child had joined up with the Army, he’d been left with only memories and loneliness. Dean had spent most of his pre-Super Summer flu days fishing or tinkering around on the Twinkle Me Mary, the Glaston boat he had refurbished at his remote cabin in Winters, California. Not a day went by without thinking about Mary and Kyle. How he longed for the way things used to be.

  Just before the Army had sent Kyle off to Afghanistan, they’d had a falling out. In the back of his mind, Dean liked to believe Kyle had survived the flu outbreak and was riding it out bunkered in tight with plenty of supplies. Well, a man had to hope, or what was the point of it all?

  Since their arrival last winter, life at the resort felt like family with lovely Ella and her fabulous cooking, zany Justin providing plenty of laughs, and good ol’ Luther’s companionship. Almost. Though, Dean still had his ghosts to deal with. To this day, vivid visions of Scarlett, the aquamarine-eyed, dark-haired beauty troubled his dreams.

  He’d never forgiven himself for leaving the Vacaville hotel last winter. The hotel the Stockton Boys had burnt to the ground, kidnapping Scarlett, Ella, and Justin. He hadn’t seen Scarlett since. According to Paxton, she’d been infected with the deadly disease that turned people into flesh-eating creatures, ravaging the earth in their tireless quest for food. He sighed, his breath heavy and remorseful. At the very least, he should have been there to put an end to her misery.

  Dean pulled into the secluded ski resort located on the western side of the Nevada Stateline. They occupied the main building’s luxury suites since it also gave them access to the restaurant, laundry faci
lities, and gym. He had managed to MacGyver the place to generator power. Finding the fuel was another matter. An inexplicable notion forewarned they’d outstayed their welcome. Perhaps he didn’t like the resort for the same reasons Ella and Justin did; it was too small and cozy. All the while, the two lovebirds seemed to be living in their own dream world, pretending everything was A-OK. But, one day they’d run out of supplies or worse.

  Dean tapped on Ella’s door. “Need anything?”

  “Sleep,” a groggy voice mumbled.

  Dean had made it a habit of teaching Justin everything he knew about running the place, knowing full well Justin only humored him. Didn’t the kid understand Dean’s days were numbered? He was pushing sixty-five. His old ticker couldn’t handle much more of this vile world. He thanked his lucky stars Luther had a good head on his shoulders. But Luther didn’t always speak his mind, and sometimes he got the feeling he was getting antsy as well.

  A vehicle approached the resort’s front gate. Looks like Justin and Luther are back. He grabbed his crowbar and met them in the parking lot. Dean had intended to tell them about the distress call. The thing was, it would be dark before they could get back out there. Justin and Luther would want to go. It was foolhardy galivanting around in the dark with a horde on the loose. If something were to happen to them, who’d take care of sweet, little Ella? So, as bad as Dean felt about the woman and her friends, he had to think of his people first and utmost.

  “Dude, we found propane!” Justin shouted. The nimble young man hopped out of the truck.

  “A truckload of it! We just need to get the propane truck running, and we’ll drive it here,” Luther said, grabbing boxes of supplies from the back of the truck. “Lots of goodies.” Luther gleamed, showing off his pearly whites.

  Propane was more than Dean had hoped for. “We can get the furnace up and running,” he said with a note of excitement. It was one less thing to worry about.

  “How’s Ella?” Justin asked anxiously as he unloaded the bed of the pickup.

  “Still sleeping,” Dean said.