The Hunger's Howl

by A. D. Popovich

  “You’d think they’d wait until morning to cross the river,” Luther contemplated.

  “Unless—” Justin started.

  “Yup, unless they’re in a hurry,” Luther answered.

  The boat struggled with the river’s currents. Meanwhile, the westbank was abuzz with men unloading bulky items from the semi.

  “Looks to me they intend on building a mobile bridge like the military does in a combat zone,” Dean uttered.

  “Insta-bridge. Awesome.” Justin waved frantically to the men in the boat. “Hello!”

  One of the men waved casually.

  “Call me paranoid, but something’s not right,” Dean rattled.

  Dean was always worried about something. No wonder he had heart issues. “Guys, where are you from?” Justin greeted as they made it to shore.

  The crew ignored him and uncoiled thick cables from huge spools. Finally, one of the men came up to the three of them. The man put a hand-held radio in his pocket. “Jackson, here.”

  Dean took over. “This is Luther and Justin. I’m Dean. What’s all this about?” Dean inquired.

  “Got a convoy of immigrants pulling an all-nighter. We’ve got to slap this bridge together by morning,” Jackson said, watching the men at work.

  “You’re with the immigrants?” Dean sounded confused.

  “Not exactly,” Jackson said vaguely. A voice screeched over the radio. He held up his hand, pausing the conversation.

  “The currents are too strong for the cables,” a garbled voice shouted.

  “What? Don’t give me that bullshit. Make it work. That’s why I pay you the big bucks,” Jackson blared into the radio.

  “Don’t you hate it when you hire someone to do a job, and they act like they’re doing you a favor?” Jackson spewed.

  “Afraid you lost me,” Dean said.

  “We’re the Bridge Makers otherwise known as the infamous Toll Takers,” he bragged.

  “Toll?” Justin grimaced.

  “Have to make a living somehow.”

  “Sounds like another way to profit on the misfortunate,” Dean countered.

  “More like an opportunist. In times like these, you’ve got to think outside of the box. Or bridge?” Jackson chuckled at his stupid joke.

  “Speakin’ of bridges, what’d you reckon happened to this bridge?” Dean asked.

  “Well, we can’t build it if it already exists. You catch my drift?” Jackson said with a slick smile.

  “Whut? You build bridges, then demolish them?” Luther joined in.

  “Can’t get anything past you?” Jackson snarked. “So, where’d you cross? I need to blast my competition.”

  “Actually, we’re heading west,” Justin said.

  “Surely, you jest.”

  “We’re going west, and you can’t stop us,” Justin announced boldly. Dean gave him the look. Oops, that was so uncool.

  “You gotta pay either way if you wanna cross one of my bridges.” Jackson rubbed his fingers together. “A heads up. See the semi? Take a good look at it. When the hella-horde reaches it, this bridge is going down. No matter what.”

  Dean, Luther, and Justin looked at each other. “Hella-horde?” Dean’s voice quivered.

  “We’ve been staying a good forty-eight hours ahead of it for several days. But, the immigrants and their livestock have to rest some time. The horde—not so much. Not when they smell human-flesh. That’s why we’re bustin’ butt.”

  Jackson’s radio squawked. “There in a sec. I’m warning these newbies of the shitstorm about to go down.” Jackson turned back to them. “So, you want to cross my bridge or what? I’ll give you the ‘three for the price of one’ special since you’re going the wrong way. Ten ounces of gold.”

  “Are you for real?” Justin scoffed. “Who’d pay that?”

  “Hey, with a horde riding your ass, you’d pay it. Trust me.” Jackson glanced at his watch.

  “We’ll consider your generous offer,” Dean zinged in the most sarcastic tone Justin had ever heard from Dean.

  “That’s what I thought.” Jackson walked to the westbank where the first sections had already been erected.

  “This is insane,” Justin said in disbelief.

  “Luther, hate to ask. You don’t happen to have an extra, say, ten ounces of gold in Rolexes?” Dean asked.

  Luther gave Dean an adamant shake of the head. “Not for that son of a bitch.”

  The three of them sat in lawn chairs near the edge of the river like a bunch of seniors at an old folks home and watched the bridge manifest under the glaring lights. Meanwhile, Justin started thinking of his own plan. What if he BSed his way across all nonchalant like, saying he was doing a favor for Jackson? Or, he could wait on the east side and search each wagon. The latter sounded like a better idea.

  ***

  Justin woke up in the lawn chair with a blanket draped over him. He’d been there all night. The aroma of—coffee? The thought of coffee had him hyped. Luther waved a steaming hot mug under his nose.

  Justin reached for the mug. “Dude, we’ve been out of coffee for weeks.”

  “Bummed it off one of the bridge builders,” Luther said, beaming his super white teeth.

  “Awesome.” Justin slurped the hot mug and stretched his cramped muscles. His body snapped into alert mode.

  “Well, I’ll be dern. I do believe we’ve got company,” Dean announced, peering through the Bushnells.

  “Already?” Justin jumped to his feet.

  “Yup,” Luther agreed.

  A mass of wagons approached amongst pluming dust clouds.

  “Justin, this just might be your lucky day!” Dean whooped and slapped his knee.

  Justin scrambled about. “Wait, I need my cool T-shirt. You know, The Nightmare Before Christmas one. It’s Ella’s favorite.” He’d been saving the shirt for the special occasion. “Dude, are you wearing that?” Justin pointed to Luther’s flaming pink flamingos riding spaceships shirt. He had a thing for uber-ugly Hawaiian shirts.

  “Don’t be messin’ with my mojo. Besides, she can’t miss us,” Luther said while Justin dumped his pack into the front seat, searching for the shirt.

  “Found it!” Justin announced.

  “There is a God!” Luther ribbed back.

  Dean stirred a pot over the Coleman stove. “Now before you get all riled up, might as well eat.” Dean handed him a bowl of oatmeal.

  Justin slipped the shirt on between bites of oatmeal and watched the approaching wagons. A group of Jackson’s men stopped the first set of immigrants at the semi, which looked like their version of a toll plaza, complete with armed guards.

  “This is the tricky part,” Luther said, binoculars glued to his face.

  “How do you know?” Justin asked.

  “The homie I got the coffee from said this is where things get dicey. Desperate people come all this way to find out they’ve got to shell out gold to cross the bridge.”

  “What if they don’t have gold?” Justin worried.

  “Most do,” Luther said.

  “Ye-ah, what if they don’t!” Justin was super pissed.

  “Tough shit. Jackson plays hardball. He’s a mean mutha. From what my homie said, no one messes with Jackson and lives to tell.”

  The coffee and oatmeal he’d just scarfed clumped in his stomach. What if Father Jacob didn’t have any gold?

  Dean must have noticed his angst. “Don’t you worry, son. Things have a way of working out in the long run. However, it’s worth sayin’ . . . we might not find Ella today.”

  Justin simply nodded. He wasn’t ready to start bumming.

  “While Jackson and his gang sort out their business, might as well pack it up,” Dean said, breaking down the camping stove.

  “We need to be ready for a fast getaway with the horde on the move,” Luther reminded.

  Justin didn’t care about a stupid horde. “And go where?” Justin asked, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

  “Truth i
s, there’s been another change of plans,” Dean announced.

  “You guys made plans without me, again?” Justin rolled his eyes.

  Dean shot a glance at Luther. “We agreed to wait it out—see if Ella’s among them. And, if not—”

  Justin stood up quickly, knocking over the chair. His jaw clenched so tightly, his teeth hurt.

  Luther took over. “I talked to my homie. He told me where we can cross the river. All we need to do is follow the river south another twenty miles where the river forks into two shallow tributaries.”

  “Then why don’t all these people do it?” Justin asked in frustration.

  “Apparently, they don’t know about it.” Luther shrugged.

  “Thing is, it’s dangerous for the wagons to cross the river, on the account they could break an axle or lose a wheel. The Trav should make it just fine,” Dean said proudly, slapping the hood of the vehicle.

  “We’re running on fumes.” Justin was confused.

  Luther strutted over to a tarp of supplies next to the Trav, and then he whipped off the tarp like a mad magician. “Shazam!”

  “Sweeeet! Where’d you get gas?” Justin was amazed.

  “Jackson’s entourage travels with a fuel truck. It arrived in the wee hours of the morning while you were getting your beauty sleep. So, yeah, I be bad. Traded a few watches, and they refueled our jerrycans,” Luther exclaimed.

  “Thought you didn’t have any more Rolexes,” Justin started.

  “Not for that scammer,” Luther said.

  “The fuel buys us more time to search for Ella. And that my son, is the change of plan.” Dean smiled.

  “Awesome!” Justin was relieved, but the pit of his stomach churned. What if he didn’t find Ella today?

  “So, stop your mopin’ around and help us get the Trav loaded,” Dean said, rolling up his sleeping bag.

  Justin was spritzing the Trav’s windows with Windex when the first wagon finally approached the bridge. He threw the bottle up in the air, letting it land in the sand. He dashed to the west end of the bridge where several of Jackson’s men stood guard. Justin watched in a state of panicked-anticipation as the floating bridge rippled under the weight of the two-oxen pulled wagon. For some reason, the oxen stopped on the bridge and refused to budge.

  “Come on, come on,” Justin found himself cheering on the huge, mangy oxen. They were obviously freaked. A man jumped out of the wagon’s front seat and hurried to the oxen. Finally, the man led them across the bridge.

  The moment they crossed the bridge, Justin ran to the wagon. “Excuse me,” Justin said to the dust-covered man in overalls, “is there an Ella traveling with you?” The man looked at him like he was a street beggar or something.

  “Ain’t no women on my wagon.”

  “Do you know Father Jacob?” Justin asked.

  “Nope,” the man hopped back in the front seat of the wagon. He cracked the whip. The oxen jerked the wagon forward. And he left a cloud of dust in his wake.

  Dean scurried to Justin. “What’d he say?”

  Justin shook his head. He glowered, waiting for the next wagon.

  After the next wagon made it across, it pulled over to the side of the river. Justin was there at the same time several people jumped out the back of the wagon. “Hello,” Justin greeted the two men driving the wagon.

  “Hello back.” The man wearing a blue jean jacket and jeans hopped to the ground. “How long of a ride to the trading post?”

  “About a day’s ride, depending on how tired your horses are. They sell food and supplies,” Dean said to the weary men.

  “That’s what I hear.” The man walked around his wagon, checking the wheels. “I’ve got eight wagons in my group, so I’ll be waiting for the rest of my caravan to cross if you don’t mind?” The man looked at Dean as if asking for permission. “How much do you charge to wait here?”

  “Not a penny,” Dean reassured.

  “Talk about price gouging. What these shysters charge to cross their sorry excuse of a bridge is criminal,” the man remarked.

  “Downright criminal,” Dean agreed.

  “You with Jackson’s men?”

  “Heck no. We’re going west.” Unless we find Ella, Justin reminded himself. Suddenly he was overwhelmed with doubt.

  “Why on earth do you want to go west? It’s one hellacious zombie ghetto. And they’re getting hungrier and meaner.” The man looked nervously back across the river.

  “How’s that?” Dean asked.

  “We started off with over twenty wagons.” He looked away. “We’re down to eight if that tells you anything.”

  Justin let Dean take over the conversation. “Thing is, we lost one of our own. You all don’t happen to know a young woman who goes by the name of Ella?”

  “No sir, it doesn’t ring a bell. Only three of our women survived the trip.”

  “How about Father Jacob?” Dean continued.

  “Sorry, haven’t heard of him. Don’t bother going west. Pardon me; I’ve got a wheel to change before the rest of my party crosses.” Their conversation ended abruptly.

  Dean gave Justin a worried look and then joined Luther by the Trav. Justin knew he was running out of time to find Ella. By lunch, he was ready to jump out of his skin. It took fifteen to twenty minutes for each wagon to cross. And every time he tried to sneak past the two men guarding the east end of the bridge, they shook their heads, scolding him like a guilty teenager. At this rate, it would take days for everyone to cross. Still, Justin kept at it, asking each set of immigrants after they crossed. Luther had set up the camping stove again and was making an early dinner, but Justin stayed by the bridge.

  “What the heck?” Justin moaned. The next set of bridge crossers—cows. Justin yelled to the guards. “Really, cows? What about the people?” Justin shrieked.

  “Money talks. Better clear the area. A herd of cattle can be unpredictable,” one of Jackson’s men said.

  Justin scrambled back to Dean and Luther. Luther handed him a bowl of chili beans.

  “Sit a spell,” Dean said, pulling up a lawn chair for him.

  “Sheena said cattlemen sell herds to Boom Town,” Luther joined in. “Marauders don’t waste their time with cattle. Too much work. Most herds don’t survive the trip. If they make it to Boom Town, they’ll hit the jackpot.”

  “Texas practically owns the cattle industry,” Justin raved on, although he didn’t know anything about cows.

  “According to Sheena, nothing leaves Texas ’cept Enforcers. There’s a new catchphrase: What comes from Texas, stays in Texas,” Luther said.

  Justin sulked in his chair. “This is taking for-ev-er.”

  By sunset, the halogen lights flashed on. “I counted over fifty wagons. Looks like they’ll be crossin’ all night. How about we take two hours shifts?” Dean said.

  “Am I the only one worried about the horde Jackson mentioned?” Luther reminded, eyeballing the place.

  “Dude, we can outrun them in the Trav, no problem,” Justin said.

  “Reckon so. I’ll take the first watch,” Dean offered. “Justin, try to get some sleep.”

  Justin moped to the back of the Trav. He was so disappointed he wanted to scream. Unable to sleep, he tossed and turned unable to calm his nerves. What the heck’s wrong with me. He was having a panic attack. The kind his mother used to have when she went on a job interview. Mom, Dad, I wish you were here. He decided it was time to dream about his parents. The past few days, Ella’s face had become harder and harder to find in his sleep as if she were a figment of his imagination.

  ***

  Justin woke up in a cold-and-hot sweat. Nightmares of ferocious Zs taunted him. Uh, is that the Hunger’s Howl? Someone banged on the back of the Trav, scaring the crap out of him. He jumped up, smacking his head on the ceiling.

  The rear door popped open. “Trouble!” Luther yelled.

  Still dazed, Justin clambered out of the sleeper. Dean and Luther scrambled with the remaining jerrycans, stori
ng them on the backseat’s floorboard since the Trav’s top rack was fully loaded.

  “Last one,” Dean yelled to Luther.

  “Time to jet!” Luther yelled.

  What’s everyone freaking out about? Then he heard gunfire. Justin grabbed the binoculars. Blurry eyed, he zoomed in on the bridge, blinded by the brilliant halogen lights. Screaming rippled across the river into his ears as if the screams were trapped inside his head. A machine gun? Justin spotted it mounted to one of the big trucks. A truck took off southbound. A spray of bullets hit the camping stove and lawn chairs. Luther and Dean hit the dirt. He followed suit.

  Another one of Jackson’s trucks sped off, horn blaring. Then the truck with the machine gun left. Then he saw what everyone was running from. Holy shit! The hella-horde. It rampaged through the immigrants’ camp, where they waited to cross the bridge. Wagons, cattle, and people on foot and horseback raced for the bridge.

  “Justin, get your ass inside!” It was Luther.

  But Justin couldn’t move. He stood awe-struck, wondering how in the heck all these people were crossing at the same time. The guards had gone. All of Jackson’s trucks had split except for the semi and the fuel truck.

  “Justin—”

  He heard his name under the gunfire, screams, and horrific howls. He couldn’t stop staring in the shock-and-awe moment when a mass of wagons rushed the river. Not stopping. They splashed into the river. The horses fought the current and lost, drifting sideways in the water. People jumped into the river, floundering in its currents. Wagons toppled over, sinking, taking the horses with them. Cows joined in, plopping into the cold water. The fuel truck plowed through the mass of people swarming across the bridge. A few saw it in time and jumped into the river of littered bodies. Dead or alive? Someone shot out the halogen lights.

  Justin dashed to the Trav. “Turn on the headlights,” he yelled over the screaming. He caught a glimpse of Dean in the driver’s seat. The headlights flashed on, nearly blinding him. Luther was on top of the Trav’s hood with a scoped rifle, scanning the area.

  Justin ran to the edge of the river where several people had surprisingly swum across. He helped a man to the shore. He darted over to another person, a woman, her wet clothes clinging to her body. It wasn’t Ella. Then he darted to the next person and the next.