Dead Hunger VII_The Reign of Isis

by Eric A. Shelman

  Flex dropped down into a crouch and started pushing through the abnormals toward the wall, turning his shoulders to maintain as narrow a mass as possible. He wanted to get eyes on her.

  Sensing the wall was nearing, he pushed to the front and saw her legs. Gray but smooth, less pocked and trashed than the others. She stood perfectly still while the rest pushed against one another, unable to simply stand immobile, something within them forcing them to be moving, always moving, like a shark seeking prey in the ocean’s depths.

  The bodies pressed in on him and Flex felt a sort of panic washing over him. It took him by surprise.

  A premonition? No matter, he needed relief. Flex found he could hardly breathe in the dense crowd, and he raised his knife, sliding it easily into the skulls of the three closest to him. They collapsed to the floor and he turned back to his prey.

  She was gone. His eyes searched, but only legs covered in tattered clothing shuffled around him.

  A sense of panic overtook him. Where was she?

  He heard running. Feet slamming pavement. Shoed feet. Not her. The others didn’t run, so who was it?

  “She’s gone!” he shouted, now pushing himself back through the dispersing infecteds. They were moving off to the sides now as though without direction. Flex leapt over one body and tripped on the next, dropping him to the ground hard.

  “Flex!” It was Gem. The breath had gotten knocked out of him and he couldn’t answer, but she didn’t wait. “Where’s Flexy? Where is he?”

  “I’m here, mom!” shouted their son, and hearing his voice, Flex could not have been happier. He pushed himself back to his feet, felt a sharp pain in his sciatica, and straightened up slowly. When he did, he saw his son standing atop a table saw twenty feet behind them.

  Nelson ran up beside Flex. “Dude, you okay?”

  “I’m good, man. But –”

  Nelson didn’t wait to hear the rest. He interrupted Flex and yelled, “Flexy, bro! Get over here! You know never to leave the group, kid!”

  Gem was deep in the group, still taking them out, but seconds later she emerged. “Now, Flex Sheridan Jr.! Hurry!” she shouted.

  He wasn’t looking at his mother or his father. He pointed. “I saw her over there! The one from outside!”

  “Fuck this,” said Flex, running toward him. Gem, Charlie and Nelson followed. When he was just ten feet away, Flex saw his son raise the crossbow, his eyes wide. He was aiming low. Way too low.

  He fired, but the creature was in mid air and landed on top of him, knocking him backward flat on the piece of machinery.

  Things moved into slow motion for Flex. He now felt like he was running through molasses, unable to get to his boy. The creature’s silken hair floated down over her face as she buried her mouth into his son’s neck.

  “Aghhhhhhhhhh!” shouted Flex, on her before he even realized he’d reached them, and with both arms he tore her away from his son and threw her emaciated body into a large drill press next to the table saw.

  Flex no longer saw or heard anything that went on. He looked at his bloodied, teenaged son, just about to turn fourteen years old, and realized the worst.

  Gem’s cries brought Flex out of his dumb stupor, as she dropped down atop him and tried to lift his shoulders. His eyes were open, staring into hers, and Flex crawled up to be beside her.

  Flex Jr.’s neck was ripped open, and blood gushed from his jugular vein. Flex instinctively slapped his hand over it, stopping the flow.

  “Mom …” his voice bubbled from his mouth. “Dad,” he managed. “I’m . . . I’m sorry … I fucked up.”

  Flex pulled a bottle of urushiol blend from his jacket pocket and poured it over the boy’s neck and his hand, and said, “Hang on, son. Hold on, kid. We’ll get you to the car and back to Hemp and Doc Scofield. Just hold on, Flex.”

  “I didn’t want … to kill her,” he said, barely understandable now. “In her legs …”

  His voice drifted into silence.

  Flex shook his shoulders even as he eyed the mortal injury. “Flex, son. Hang on for us, buddy.”

  Gem whispered, “Oh, Flex,” and dropped her head onto her son’s chest, crying. “Look … beneath him.”

  Flex leaned over to look under his son’s body. The sixteen-inch circular table saw blade was embedded in Flex Jr.’s back.

  “God! Oh, God!” cried Gem, and this time Charlie came running from across the warehouse. She climbed up beside them and screamed. Her scream became one long shriek, and the shriek turned into sobs.

  “Oh, my God, Gem, Flex,” she managed. “Oh, my God, not our Flexy.” Her face contorted as she stared at the boy Flex knew she loved like her own son.

  He was gone. His eyes remained wide open, revealing the brown eyes Gem had given him. His pupils were saucers, and Gem’s body heaved with shuddering sobs as she seemed to lose all strength.

  She let go of her son and her body slid down the dead boy’s legs, off the machine and to the floor.

  “I want to kill her,” said Nelson, from behind them.

  Flex looked over to see the red-eye in cuffs, Nelson holding her by the back of her neck, his eyes pouring tears as he stared at Flex Sheridan Jr., dead on the machine.

  Flex looked at her legs. Flexy had done what he tried to do, only it was too late by the time he fired.

  His intention had been to fire a single bolt through both of her legs so that she could no longer walk. Now, as Flex looked at the creature that had ended his son’s life, the broken arrow jutted from both legs, just above the knee.

  His aim had been true. His last shot was on target.

  Too late to save his life.

  *****

  Flex had no idea how long they sat there in silence. The captive red-eye was still alive only because Gem had withdrawn into herself and wasn’t really there at that moment. Flex had removed their son from the saw blade and rested him in her lap, and she cradled the dead boy, her tears of pain and sorrow running nonstop.

  Flex felt dead inside. As dead and useless as any of the creatures they hunted every day. Nelson and Charlie had taken out their aggressions by killing every remaining rotter in the building, and now the rancid, stinking bodies lay strewn all around them.

  Nelson had cuffed the red-eye to one of the machines. Once in a while, Gem’s eyes would focus on her and a look of malice would emerge through her tremendous sadness.

  Then it would be gone, Flex thought, possibly with the realization that they had come hunting for her, as a matter of fact.

  Flex knew the reason they took all the precautions they did – the WAT-5, the urushiol, the other weapons – was because this was a potentially deadly mission; capturing red-eyes.

  They had lost others since coming to Kingman. Flex never imagined losing his son, or what it would feel like, except in the most abstract terms, and only briefly.

  Flex’s mind flashed back, as he had at least once every two minutes, to what had happened, second-by-second. Why had he ducked into the crowd? Why had he gotten suddenly claustrophobic and taken his eyes off her?

  He knew in his heart it was his fault, but if he told Gem that, she would not forgive him.

  He pushed himself to his feet, walked over to Gem and bent down to scoop his dead son into his arms.

  He started walking toward the door. Without looking back, he said, “It’s gonna be dark soon. Let’s get this bitch back to Kingman.”

  “She rides in the trunk or I’ll kill her,” said Gem, her face a mask of death.

  Nobody answered her.

  *****

  Charlie drove the Crown Vic back to Kingman. Nelson rode up front with her, and Flex sat in the back seat with Gem and the body of their son, whom she cradled in her arms. Flex found himself stroking his cold hand.

  At one point, about two miles from the gates of town, Gem leaned over and rested her head on Flex’s shoulder. Her tears came again and he found his matched those of the woman he loved more than any before her.

  Flex silent
ly gave thanks that Gem still wanted to touch him at all.

  Flex looked up as the guards rolled open the gate and waved them in, and their faces turned somber when they looked into the car and saw the sadness in his and Gem’s eyes, and their mortally wounded son in their laps.

  “Pull it as close to the house as you can,” said Flex, as they neared home.

  “I will,” said Charlie.

  As the car came to a stop, Flex felt something move. His son’s hand. It twitched.

  His heart raced. “Flexy? Flexy, are you … son!”

  Flex threw open the door and looked up to see the hope in Gem’s eyes, and he reached in and pulled his son into his arms, got him out, and rested him on the ground on his back.

  Now all of his limbs were moving. Flex put his hands on his boy’s face as Gem dropped down beside him, and with his thumbs, he raised Flex Jr.’s eyelids.

  Pinkish white nothingness stared back.

  The boy growled.

  “Oh, God, no!” screamed Gem. “We let this happen, Flex! Oh, my God! We let this happen to him! Stop it! Stop it!”

  She stood and ran toward the house. She reached the door and struggled with the knob, finally getting it, and charging inside, letting it slam against the wall.

  Flex looked down in horror at his reanimated son, his teeth gnashing, his throat gurgling.

  Nelson dropped down and pushed Flex away, his strength surprising Flex. Flex fell back and pressed his fists to his temples and stared at the sky. A scream erupted from him, and he let it come. He was screaming at the world, at the red-eyes, at God, at anyone who would listen.

  The next thing Flex felt were Nelson’s hands on his shoulders, pulling him up off the ground. He swiped at his eyes and looked at his son’s body, lying supine.

  A narrow, black-red wound adorned Flex Jr.’s forehead just at the hairline. He lay still; at peace.

  The worst day of Flex Sheridan’s life had arrived.

  He got off the ground and dragged himself into the house with no idea how he would continue on.

  *****

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Gem was in their bedroom lying down. When Flex walked up and stood in the doorway, watching her, he heard her sobs grow more pronounced.

  “Flex,” her weak voice came. “Tell me it was a bad dream. Please tell me it didn’t really happen.”

  Flex broke down, his eyes flooding with tears, and he staggered to the bed and sat on the edge. His body shuddered with grief, and Gem’s cries were masked by his own.

  He didn’t know how much time had passed; whether it was ten minutes or two hours, but eventually he felt a hand on his back. He started, then turned to see Gem sitting up behind him.

  His eyes met hers, and her sadness at first consumed him. For a brief, fleeting moment, Flex felt as though he could remember every detail of every second they had ever spent together.

  Each second was important, not to be forgotten. Seeing her there at Jamie’s house when the world seemed to have gone haywire. Embracing her after burying little Jesse. The two of them, finding Hemp in that jail cell, and again, Flex and Gem, the indomitable pair, finding Charlie in that hospital storage closet.

  Making love, conceiving Flex Jr. Watching her give birth to him and later, dancing with him in her arms to Elton John’s Can You Feel the Love Tonight.

  He leaned back and rested his head in her lap, and she leaned forward and put her cheek to his, her hair draping down over his face; the two of them hiding away from the rest of the world.

  Exhaustion must have taken them both, for when Flex awoke, it was three hours later. Gem still slept, and he touched her gently, wanting to let her sleep, but needing to have her with him.

  She did not awaken and he saw her cheeks were wet. She had not forgotten her sorrow in her dreams; still, she cried. Flex eased himself off the bed, unfolded a light blanket, and covered his wife.

  He left the room.

  Hemp and Charlie awaited him in the living room. When he walked in, Hemp stood and hurried to him, hugging him.

  “I’m so, so sorry, Flex.” It was all he could get out before he, too, broke down. Still, through his unabashed tears, he managed, “I couldn’t have asked for a more loving Godson, Flex. I loved him as my own.”

  Flex held onto Hemp, hugging him tightly. This was his best friend in the world besides Gem, and their shared sorrow seemed to drain some of his away.

  “I can’t believe it, Hemp,” he said. “I saw him there, and then she was there, and it was –”

  “It was nobody’s fault,” said Hemp, interrupting him. “Please don’t carry this on your shoulders.”

  “God, Hemp!” he said. “How can I not carry it? I was there! He wasn’t even fourteen! I’m his father and I should have kept my eye on him!”

  Hemp took him by the shoulders and Flex’s tears erupted again. “And he knew how to use that crossbow, and he was expert with a blade, too,” said Hemp. “Flexy was an excellent fighter and he gave you no reason to believe he couldn’t defend himself, Flex. You and Gem taught him well, and he had been doing it for years, Flex. For years he has defended not only himself, but many, many others in Kingman.”

  Flex nodded and said nothing. He looked up from the floor and swiped his eyes, and noticed Charlie standing beside them, her eyes red and swollen.

  “You told him you loved him every day, Flex,” she said. “I know, because I heard you say it. Gem, too. He grew up and had more love in his life and in his heart than any fourteen-year-old, or twenty-year-old, or even any sixty-year-old. You let him know what love was, and he shared that with all of us.”

  Hemp slipped away and Charlie embraced Flex. He realized his tears had stopped. He took a deep breath and exhaled, managing a very weak, insincere smile.

  “Where’s Trina?” he asked. “And Tay and Max. I have to tell ‘em before it gets to them some other way. Did you put his body somewhere?”

  “He’s in my lab,” said Hemp. “Nel wrapped him and drove him over in the car. Nobody saw.”

  His face was strange, though. Flex saw something behind his eyes.

  “What is it?” he asked, looking at Charlie, who held the same expression as her husband.

  “Flex,” Charlie said. “I don’t know how to tell you this.”

  Flex shook his head. “There’s nothing you can tell me that’s any worse than what I’ve just been through, so just say it.”

  “Trina’s gone,” said Charlie. “She went with Max, Isis and Taylor.”

  It seemed as if every ounce of blood in Flex’s body rushed to his face, and he felt the pressure and the redness all at once. It was like his head was on the brink of exploding.

  “When? Where did they go?” he asked.

  “They didn’t tell anyone, Flex. They –”

  “They what? Did they go on a supply run or did they … did they … did they go to find the ones they’ve been calling?”

  Charlie nodded. “We left here and searched for them in town, but when we couldn’t find them, we came back here and checked her room.”

  “We found this note on the dresser, Flex,” said Hemp, pulling a piece of paper from his pocket. “You’d have been in no condition to deal with it then, and I’m not sure you are now.”

  “Give it to me,” said Flex.

  Hemp did, and Flex wiped at his blurred eyes, blinked them twice to clear his vision, and looked at it.

  The note was in Trina’s bad cursive writing. It read:

  Mom and Dad.

  We left while you were away because we didn’t want you to change your mind and tell us no. Max and Isis said this is important. We’ll be safe. I love you both. Love, Trini.

  Flex paced back and forth, staring at them. “Hemp, where were you? Who else knew about this? Jesus, what time did they go, does anybody know?”

  “I was at my lab preparing for the red-eye you were going to bring back, and I haven’t seen Trina all day, so I have no idea when they left.”

  “What vehicle di
d they take?”

  “Isis’ H3 is missing,” said Charlie.

  “Goddamnit!” shouted Flex, slamming his fists down on a table.

  Isis, while only 14 years of age, did not look so. She was over six feet tall and usually kept her hair pulled back in a long, blonde ponytail. She was as developed as any 28-year-old, revealing to all that it was not only her mind that had been affected by the red-eye vapor.

  All of this hadn’t been easy on Bug. He was constantly trying to push young men away from Isis, but there wasn’t an issue there; Isis could handle herself.

  “Flex, we’ve readied Gem’s car,” said Hemp. “It’s got a trunk full of ammo, and by that, I’m sure you know I mean all types.”

  Charlie jumped in. “Nelson, Dave and Punch want to go with us, so they got Punch’s car loaded up.”

  “What about Serena?” asked Hemp.

  “She’s staying here with Ben,” said Charlie. “I don’t blame her. If Max and Tay were here, I wouldn’t be going anywhere either, and I’d do what I could to make Gem stay.”

  Ben was Dave and Serena’s son, who was just about to turn 13 years old. He was a nice, quiet kid who had known the difference between an abnormal and a living human being since he was a year old. Flex could not help but think of his son when he thought of Ben; even though Ben was a bit younger than Flexy, he had been the best friend to Flex and Gem’s son that Max could not be.

  The thought made Flex consider, for the first time, the downside to creating more humans like Max and Isis; Max had matured so fast that while it was clear he was fond of Flex Jr., their interests could not have been more different. While Flexy was asking his dad if they could pick up some comic books at a drug store, Max exercised his telepathic abilities in order to annihilate more of the walking dead.

  Isis and Max’s lives would always be more serious; more purposeful, in a way. There had been no time or desire for typical childhood interests like puzzles, dodge ball and hopscotch.