Dead Hunger VII_The Reign of Isis

by Eric A. Shelman

  Gem drove. Flex rode shotgun, Flex Jr. was in the back seat, and Charlie and Nelson tucked in beside him.

  “I can use my original Subdudo if you need me to,” said Nelson. “If you want one unhurt.”

  “We’ll play it by ear,” said Flex. “Depends on the situation.”

  “Luke asked me if we could stop by the bicycle shop on Trafalgar Street and grab him a mountain bike,” said Flex Jr.

  “My mechanic?” asked Gem.

  “He does work for other people,” said Flex.

  “Somebody’s jealous,” said Gem, smiling. “He thinks Luke would rotate my tires anytime for free.”

  “Don’t even start, you two,” said Flex Jr. “It’s disgusting.”

  They drove into Wichita and the difference between Kingman and the larger city to the east was instantly apparent.

  “Look at ‘em all,” said Flex Jr., smiling.

  “Exactly,” said Charlie. “You can sure tell Max and Isis keep their shades drawn.”

  In the streets, wandering without purpose or focus, were abnormals by the score. Clearly the red-eyes in the city were not taking control of these inferior creatures, for they sensed no pull from Max and Isis toward Kingman. The gifted kids had once described what they did in their minds to stop the siren call to the zombies as drawing the shades. It was some sort of mental gate that they could close off, preventing the red-eyes from knowing where they were. It was a process they were incapable of as infants, which is why their very existence was so dangerous to their parents and guardians in those early months.

  If the pregnant volunteers went through with their commitment, Flex wondered how they would deal with it again. It was similar to having full-grown kids attending college, then having brand new babies all over again. Only worse. Way worse.

  All of the issues that hadn’t been dealt with in so many years would be back in the forefront. The difference being, it was far more serious and the potential for disaster was monumentally greater with the number of residents in Kingman.

  On the plus side, this time they would have Max and Isis, who would be pulling and pushing the Mothers and Hungerers as they willed. This time, it would not just be a bunch of newbie uninfecteds trying to figure out why there were hundreds of zombies at the door, as Bug had experienced in his fortified bunker.

  Flex Jr. leaned toward his side window, scanning the street for their target. “Just a buncha pink eyes, damnit!” he said, frustrated.

  “It’s not like they just step out and say hey,” said Gem. “Unless they’ve got a goal, they stay out of sight for the most part.”

  “Checking buildings would take too long,” said Flex. “We might have to wait until dark. They can’t hide their shining eyes.”

  “You can’t hide, your shining eyes,” sang Gem, to the tune of the Eagles’ Lyin’ Eyes.

  As she cruised down the street, easing the car into the oncoming lanes to skirt around vehicles, Flex picked it up.

  “And your silky straight hair is a thin disguise,” he sang.

  “Seems by now,” sang Flex Jr., “your rotten brain would realize.”

  “I think Red Angel Dragnet is a better song to parody,” said Charlie. “The Clash.”

  Nelson spoke up. “We are kinda setting up a dragnet, huh? But still, there ain’t no way to hide your stonedy red eyes,” finished Nelson.

  Gem laughed. “Stonedy? We makin’ up words now, are we Nel?”

  “Ha ha, Gem. I make lots of stuff up, right?” said Nelson. “Subdudo, stuff like that. I suppose I coulda just said stony, but they look stoned, right? So they’re stonedy lookin’.”

  Flex had a smile on his face that he could not wipe out, but a second later, it disappeared on its own. “Hey, Gem. Stop the car.”

  She applied the brakes and the Ford rolled to a stop.

  “See? On the corner up ahead there. Against that low wall.”

  They all craned their necks to see. “I don’t see what you’re talking about, babe.”

  “I do,” said Nelson. “Look lower. She’s sitting down.”

  “I see her now,” said Gem and Flex Jr. at the same time.

  The creature sat, her straight, brown hair falling over her face, obscuring her features, including her eyes. In the daylight, it was not possible to see whether they were red, but if she were alive, the Hungerers on the street would be piled on top of her, tearing at her flesh.

  This was no live girl.

  “Did she move?” asked Gem.

  “I thought I saw her head move,” said Flex. “Just slightly.”

  “Look,” said Charlie. “Look at them.”

  As the group looked on, the tattered rotters once scattered around the streets began moving toward the seated girl. Initially, it was imperceptible, but as they drew closer to her, it was clear what was happening.

  They were moving in – likely at her call – to shield her.

  “How many?” asked Flex Jr. “If we hurry we can take them.”

  “There’s more than … fifteen, I’d say,” said Gem. “But we don’t know how many are just around that corner behind her, either.”

  “We’re on WAT-5, guys,” said Charlie. “Let’s move before it’s too late.”

  “Plow through ‘em, mom,” said Flex Jr.

  “What?” she asked, looking at her son.

  “You’ve got the cowcatcher, mom! Floor it and clear them out. We’ll chase her down.”

  Gem didn’t wait for consensus. She put her foot to the floor and everyone held on.

  The Crown Vic’s engine roared as the tires spun, then gained traction. The Ford shot forward, closing the gap between the group of rotters, their controlling Mother, and the fortified vehicle.

  Suddenly the ragtag cluster of walking dead rotters tightened and began moving away from the street. Before the Crown Vic reached the group, they had moved several feet to the west, showing that the piece of sidewalk where they first spotted the Mother was now vacant.

  She was in their midst; being protected by her decaying puppets as they clustered around her.

  “Jump the curb!” shouted Nelson. “Gem, it’s the only way you’ll stop them!”

  “Jesus Christ,” she muttered. “If I fuck the rims, we’re done!”

  “There!” shouted Flex, pointing. “There’s a handicap ramp cut in. Aim for that!”

  Gem readjusted and hit the gas again. Now just thirty yards from the tattered group, the Crown Vic hit the ramp and drove up onto the narrow sidewalk, barely missing a traffic signal stanchion.

  Flex saw the side of the building just inches from his door and slid down the window, pulling the side mirror in. The window went up just as the cowcatcher slammed into the first several of the many bodies.

  The angled, steel grid caught five abnormals and threw them hard into the wall of the building, their bodies tearing in two at the waist as they were twisted apart like human-sized Twizzlers, leaving black-red spatter smears behind as they flopped to the ground, their faces still hungry; mouths still gnashing.

  Gem spun the wheel to the left and tried to take out another seven rotters, now rounding the corner, clearly following their mistress.

  The Ford caught three of them, but at thirty miles per hour, Gem was unable to crank the wheel right, and the rest of the group slid around the corner as she jumped the far curb. Straight ahead of her was a crashed Smart Car that the Crown Victoria hit head on, the cowcatcher lifting the small car’s front end up and flipping it over. When it landed, it spun like a giant, metal dreidel.

  Gem cranked right and the Crown Vic’s rear end slammed into the spinning Smart Car again, doubling its speed.

  “Notes to self, dude!” shouted Nelson. “Don’t buy a Smart Car, and don’t ride with Gem anymore!”

  “Don’t be a pussy, Nelson!” shouted Gem, flooring the Ford. The rotters ahead pushed into a shattered set of double glass doors, and Gem reached it and slammed on her brakes, throwing the car in park.

  “Whoa, mom!” shouted
Flex Jr., a huge smile on his face. “Wow!”

  Gem looked back and gave him a quick smile. “I can only do this because of the ballistic steel,” she said. “Don’t get any ideas or I’ll cut you off before you ever get your license. Grab your crossbow.”

  “Fuckin’ A!” he said, checking his watch. “We got like four and a half more hours of WAT-5. We should stick around here and put it to use.”

  “First off, remember it doesn’t work perfectly on the red-eyes, buddy,’ said Flex. “If you act differently than the regular horde, she’s gonna figure you out.”

  “And don’t let her see your weapon,” said Charlie. “She’ll recognize it and by association, she’ll know you’re not one of them.”

  “Got the eye drops, Gem?” asked Flex.

  Gem reached into a vest pocket. She withdrew a small, plastic tube and pinched it hard between her fingers. It cracked, and she shook it.

  She then unscrewed the cap, tilted her head back and applied one drop of the glowing, pink liquid to each eye.

  She kept her eyes closed for a moment, and when she opened them, her eyes were luminescent pink.

  “I’m a zombie,” she said. “Want your brains.”

  “Freaky,” said Flex. “Never get used to that.”

  Two years after they moved to Kingman, Hemp figured out that part of the recognition factor for the red-eyes was the fact that the eyes of the uninfecteds did not glow. It was, to the smarter females, as obvious as if you were missing your entire head. It was far more difficult for them to identify you as human if you had the same glowing pink eyes as the masses.

  Hemp experimented with various components until he came up with the right color with a chemiluminescence that would work for around an hour.

  Everyone else doctored their eyes and Gem tossed the container into the street, a tiny trail of glowing pink streaking behind it.

  The container it came in had two small compartments, and just like a glow stick, it lasted as long as it lasted and the container could not be re-sealed. After the first use, you just tossed it.

  Gem pulled Queenie, her Uzi, from the car and slung it on her back. She kept a Ruger .380 in her hand, and the gun was almost small enough that it couldn’t be seen from just a few feet away.

  “Keep that crossbow down, Flexy,” she said. “Until you see a clear shot where she’s not looking at you, I want that behind your back. All these precautions won’t mean shit if she sees your weapon.”

  “You know I know all this, mom, right?”

  “Repetition, kid,” said Charlie. “Right? What do I always tell you? We gotta drill this shit into your head while you still think you know everything. I guess maybe we figure if you hear it enough, you’ll begin to think it’s your idea and you’ll actually do it.”

  “Ha ha,” he said. “Your psychology won’t work on me.”

  “Meanwhile, the crossbow’s on your back, so whatever,” said Charlie, smiling. “Use a knife anyway. Got that, everyone?”

  “She’s right,” said Gem. “Bring your guns but have knives ready. Red-eye hears a shot and you can kiss her goodbye.”

  “Blah,” said Flex Jr. “Nelson can kiss her.”

  “Stars for me, bra,” said Nelson, ignoring the remark.

  “Me and Nelson in front,” said Flex. “Then Flex Jr., then you guys,” he said, indicating to Gem and Charlie.

  “It’s a trade off,” said Charlie. “Next time I lead in.”

  “No argument,” said Flex. “Now zip it, everyone.” He moved through the door. The room was only lit by ambient daylight streaming through the shattered glass doors, and there were tons of dark shadows just beyond where the light reached.

  The room just inside appeared to be vacant, so the red-eye had clearly led her minions deeper into the building. From the outside it appeared to be a single story, but could have a low-ceilinged storage area above.

  Flex instinctively knew they had brought too many people with them; they only needed him and either Gem or Nelson, but much of the reason he’d agreed to the large party was in deference to the need to get the hell out of Kingman once in a while, even if it was dangerous elsewhere.

  It was easy to get lackadaisical after surviving a world occupied by the walking dead for nearly fifteen years, but it only took one dumb move to end your life. He and Gem had already made those moves and survived – not in any small part due to Hemp – but Flex didn’t like risking his son. He was as adept at killing zombies as a 2011 kid his age was at working their way through Mortal Kombat, but the stakes were so much higher here.

  They moved in and came across a large, curved reception desk. On the front it said, “Preston Manufacturing,” with a drawing of what looked like a rake.

  Flex knew the name. They made gardening tools, both hand and machine. The buildings were all connected on the street, so you could not really judge the size of a building or company until you got inside.

  He waved them forward, leaning to look over the counter. A fully decomposed body lay on the floor behind the desk, the clothing torn to shreds all around it, and Flex instantly knew the woman to whom the sling back high heels belonged did not die of natural causes.

  His Bowie knife in his right hand, Flex moved toward a door on the right behind the desk. He motioned Flex Jr. to stay with him and the girls to approach an identical door on the same wall but twenty feet to his left.

  The light was fading more as they moved deeper inside. He could still see Gem’s glowing eyes, and he knew she could see his, so he nodded and pushed the door. It swung in, and he saw that Gem and Charlie’s did, too.

  As they entered what was a large factory floor, Flex could see rows of equipment. The ceiling of the room was dotted with filthy skylights that still allowed enough filtered sunlight in to make the room visible.

  Flex recognized the two machines nearest to him as wood lathes, and because a shovel handle was still mounted in the machine, he knew it was for their manufacture.

  His eyes fell to the wall where there were rows of bins containing stacks of shovels and rakes, hoes and edgers, post-hole diggers, spades and every other wood or fiberglass-handled gardening tool you could ask for.

  “Stop and listen,” whispered Flex. “These things aren’t good at being quiet.”

  They stood for nearly a full minute before the first sound came. Everyone’s head jerked toward the far left rear of the room as they faced it. Now Gem led the way, right down the middle. She instinctively ducked alongside the machines as she walked.

  When she tripped and staggered forward hard, her right leg bent at an awkward angle, Flex was sure she was going to face plant.

  Somehow, Gem threw her left leg beneath her and stopped the inevitable fall. She looked back and everyone saw what she’d tripped on.

  A bag of bones with a bashed in skull.

  Despite this, the room did not smell of decay; it smelled instead of dust and old grease.

  Flex came up beside Gem and now Nelson, Charlie and Flex Jr. followed behind. Each held their blades and Nelson had his stars.

  As they reached the back of the building, the rotters stood nearly motionless. Instinctively, the five visitors began a slow, shuffling walk. It was how they completed the masquerade. WAT-5 and pink eyes, with a bit of shambling to top off the ruse.

  Flex turned and waved everyone close to him. They complied and he whispered, “Just push your way into the crowd, nice and easy. She’s in there somewhere. Just gotta get through the bodyguards.” He looked at his son and whispered, “You sure you’re ready for this, buddy? You’re more of a long-distance zombie killer, right?”

  “I can do it, dad.”

  “Remember,” said Flex. “Knife under the chin and deep into the temporal lobe, or in the soft spot at the base of the back of their skulls, straight into the cerebellum. One by one we’ll drop them until she’s exposed.” He looked at Gem, Charlie and Nelson. “Clear?”

  They all nodded, and Nelson said, “Dude, you’ve been brushing up on y
our brain parts. Very good.”

  “Thanks, Nel,” said Flex. “Gem, you got the cuffs?”

  “The fur-lined or the others?” she asked, holding them up.

  “Very funny,” said Flex. “I hope we’re approaching this with the seriousness it deserves.”

  “Holy fuck,” said Charlie. “Flex, you know we never approach anything with the seriousness it deserves. And yet … here we are.”

  “Touché,” he said. “Let’s get this done.”

  They moved in to execute their plan.

  *****

  They spread out enough to each have their own working area. Now there were no fewer than twenty rotters between where they believed the red-eye to be and where they stood.

  Flex moved in, pulled the shoulder of a female backward and slid his long, curved blade into her brain. He was shocked how easily it went in, and poked through the top of her head. She slumped to the ground.

  As he approached another, he saw Gem take her first. They had seen it a number of times and it was heartbreaking. The boy could have been no more than thirteen; about their son’s age. His hair was wispy and as thin as a duckling’s feathers.

  The former boy’s nose was missing, as was his left ear, the rotting canal exposed. Gem made quick work of him, sliding the knife beneath his chin and lowering him to the floor slowly by holding onto his deteriorating shirt as he fell.

  A heart the size of Texas beat inside that woman, and Flex remembered again how much he loved her.

  Nelson used two quick Subdudo moves on another male and as his legs buckled, his head fell onto Nelson’s blade, which he held straight up at his waist.

  Flex Jr. was focused. He had already taken out a petite female in a gore-stained bathrobe, only he jammed his knife straight through the back of her skull and into what Flex figured was the parietal lobe.

  To each his own. If he was comfortable with that method, Flex was good with it.

  Meanwhile, Charlie was about to take down her fourth. She was no-nonsense about it, approaching, jamming, twisting and extracting. She also gave them a little toss behind her when she was done so they wouldn’t clog up her forward movement.