Dead Hunger VI_The Gathering Storm

by Eric A. Shelman

  “Close enough,” said one of the guards.

  Three men. One, a thin young man with a close, blonde crew-cut, couldn’t have been out of his twenties. He wore jeans and a tank-style, white tee shirt. I used to call them wife beater tee shirts.

  He was holding onto the barricade to keep it from blowing over, because the wind was now gusting so hard I could feel it against the Toyota even while we were sitting still. What looked like a pump-action, Mossberg tactical shotgun was strapped over his right shoulder, and he aimed it directly at me. If you’re wondering how I’d know a fuckin’ Mossberg from a Winchester, it’s because over a year had passed since humans became dinner, and I’d pretty much had an opportunity to own any weapon out there that you could carry without assistance.

  It was kind of funny anyway. If the guy would’ve fired it holding it that way, it would dislocate his shoulder and knock him on his ass. He’d have to let go of the barrier first, I was pretty sure.

  “We’re headed to the hospital in Charlotte,” said Tony. “Gotta get medication for my friend’s little boy. We came from the recreation area down by that big river.”

  “Nobody’s going through this way,” said the man in the middle. He was a black man with biceps as big as sewer drain pipes. I imagined him as a zombie and decided he would scare the hell out of me. He was 300 pounds if he was an ounce, and each hand looked like it could curl into a cantaloupe-sized fist.

  His cantaloupes were currently wrapped around what I recognized as a Parker Tornado. The crossbow was just like Charlie’s pride and joy. A clip held several additional bolts. In drop holsters on his thighs were two more handguns of some kind – I couldn’t tell what, but they were either .357s or .45s, from the size of the grips protruding from the sheathes.

  Big hands, big guns.

  “I understand security,” said Tony. “We’ve had our issues, too. But we’re cool with humans, bro. We only kill the zombies, man.”

  The behemoth black man spoke again, this time his voice so low his words were indecipherable from where I sat. Tony actually took three more steps toward him, cupping his hand against his ear. “Sorry, man,” he said. “I didn’t hear you.”

  Now the man forced the words out so loudly that even I could hear them. “Tell the asshole in the car to put his hands where we can see them and get out. Now. Three seconds.” He raised the crossbow and pointed it right at Tony’s head.

  “Ricky,” he said to the skinny one. “Get ready.”

  I heard that. My first thought was, Get ready for what?

  The third man, who stood taller than the others and had a thick, but muscular build, had a similar haircut to the younger one, but his hair was red and his jaw and neck were covered with rough stubble. He never raised his weapon, instead holding it pointed toward the ground, his eyes not on me, but on the other two.

  “Look,” said Tony, his hands still raised. “We got stuff to trade you to let us go through. Stuff you don’t have and you’ll never get without us.” Tony smiled big. He liked to use his smile. He’d paid a lot for it, I guessed.

  What happened next transpired as if in slow motion. I hadn’t seen it coming, and neither had Tony. At first, I wasn’t even sure it wasn’t an accident, it came so far out of the fuckin’ blue.

  From my seat in the Toyota, I heard the big man scream, “I said three fuckin’ seconds!” The crossbow bolt flew from the weapon and in under a half second had pierced and exited Tony Mallette’s head.

  It was a point-blank shot.

  As I watched in horror, Tony’s body teetered there for a moment, and he turned toward me, his eyes filled with what I can only describe as confusion. He pressed his upper teeth against his lower lip as if to say “Flex,” but the word never materialized – or if it did, I didn’t hear it.

  Tony was someone who helped others. He wasn’t aggressive or angry. He genuinely cared about people, and he would take any part of his day and give it to you. It’s who Tony … was.

  Because he was no more. His body crumpled to the ground.

  The man on the right acted next. He was fast, and if he had directed his aggression toward me, I wouldn’t be alive to tell you this story.

  Instead, as my hand reached for the trigger rope of the AK-47 on the roof of the Land Cruiser, he raised what looked like a shotgun with a drum magazine, blasting the giant with the crossbow in the face as the prick stood smiling, watching with utter pleasure as Tony Mallette lay sprawled the ground, the rain washing away his pooling blood.

  Like instant karma, the fat man’s facial features disintegrated before my eyes and what almost looked like a headless body dropped like the enormous sack of shit that he was.

  The sadistic brute must’ve thought one of his other pals would take me out, and the skinny guy on the left, still holding onto the wobbly barrier, did fire his shotgun in my direction. Fortunately for me, with only one hand on the pistol grip the barrel flew sharply upward, completely missing me and the Toyota. Hell, the kick might have broken his thumb, but that was about to be the least of his problems.

  He lost his balance, smacking into the barrier behind him before bouncing off of it and falling flat on his face.

  Pretty sure the third guy wasn’t going for me next, I corrected the AK’s position and fired on the skinny one scrambling to get back to his feet. I riddled his body with rounds as he twitched and jerked, red blood and flesh explosions shredding his body and turning his wife-beater tee shirt into a tattered, crimson mess.

  The other man lowered his weapon, but did not put it down. He raised his hands as he ran over to where Tony lay, motionless. He bent down and felt Tony for a pulse.

  I figure it was purely academic. Even I knew Tony was dead. I threw open the door, jumped out of the car and ran over to my friend’s body and pushed the man away from him. I lifted Tony’s head.

  Of course he was gone. His eyes were still open, the confused expression still fixed there. The wind blew harder, the new smattering of rain peppering us.

  “We gotta move,” said the third, and now only man. “I’m sorry about your friend, partner. I had no idea Clarence was gonna do that. No idea at all.”

  I couldn’t speak. I looked at Tony’s lifeless body and tears leaked from my eyes. “Open that rear hatch,” I said.

  The man didn’t argue. He ran to the back of the Toyota as I scooped Tony up. Adrenaline pumped through me, so I didn’t feel his weight at all as I lifted him and jogged him to the Land Cruiser. I crawled up inside and rested his body on his back, bent his knees up and closed the hatch.

  I knew I didn’t need to use any additional assurances that Tony would not reanimate, because the arrow that had killed him pierced his brain. It was news that Tony himself would welcome; he would not be coming back as one of the creatures he not only feared, but despised.

  “Take me with you, buddy,” said the stranger. “I’m not like them. I was as much a prisoner as you guys might have been.”

  “Why’d they give you a gun?” I asked.

  “Because I’m also a good actor. You learn stuff like that when you’re a captive in Afghanistan. Friend, we have to go. The gunfire’s gonna bring others. Now.”

  I made a snap judgment and nodded. “Get in,” I said. Another gust of wind blasted us and blew the barrier down flat as we jumped back inside the car.

  I fired the engine and dropped the truck into drive, cranking the wheels around the 300 pound speed bump in the middle of the road. I floored it and we started to put some distance between us and Buckfield, South Carolina.

  “I’m Frank Magee,” he said. “Folks call me Punch.”

  “Flex Sheridan,” I said. “And pardon me, but I don’t feel like talkin’ right now, if you don’t mind. I wanna find a place to bury my friend.”

  “I’d suggest you drive a few clicks first,” said Punch. “They’ll be coming after us. When they see me missing, they’ll think I planned it all along.”

  I felt a tremendous weight on my shoulders. With the firepo
wer I had available at my fingertips, I’d let Tony get murdered right in front of me. I didn’t respond to what Punch had said. He knew the occupants of Buckfield, and I had no doubt that he was right.

  I mourned Tony Mallette immediately. I had made fun of him. Sometimes I’d just barely tolerated him. But he saved our asses in Concord and I respected him. He may have stumbled into the rescue with no idea how dire our situation was, but he didn’t hightail it for the hills; he charged in like the fuckin’ cavalry and he did what had to be done.

  There weren’t a lot of men who operated on passion and instinct but he was one of them. I owed him more than what he’d just gotten.

  Every once in a while I felt a tear hit my thigh, only then realizing I was crying. Not just a little, but salty water running down my face in rivers.

  I wanted to see those bright, white teeth smiling at me again. I felt something happening at that thought.

  My sadness was already turning, changing.

  Into anger.

  The person who ordered such murderous action in Buckfield would pay. Anyone who supported it would pay.

  I had a feeling Punch would help if asked.

  He stared straight ahead as I drove. He gave me time.

  I needed it.

  *****

  Thunder and lightning lit up the black, swirling sky, darkened by yet another of the powerful outer bands of what appeared to be a hell of a hurricane. Hemp did have a wind gauge, and it had already measured gusts upwards of 50 miles per hour.

  These precursors to the main event didn’t mean the hurricane would be a killer, though. There had been plenty of hurricane seasons in Miami where we’d experienced intense outer bands that exceeded the power of the actual storm, having been ripped apart by wind shear in the Atlantic, miles before it reached land as nothing more than a Category 1 or a strong tropical storm.

  I’d spent many a night calming my Aunt Ana, even when I was scared shitless, too. I’m not sure she ever believed my bullshit anyway, but I guess it made me feel better.

  “Gem, how are you coming on the boards?” yelled Hemp over the wind’s din, he and Dave Gammon hauling more boards over to what had to be one of the last windows. He and Dave were getting them into position and tacking them in place, and I was following behind with Bug, holding them stable while he used self-tapping screws to secure them to the siding.

  “We’re almost there,” I said, my hair a stringy, wet mess and my clothing soaked through to my skin. “Ready, Bug.”

  He screwed in eight more screws and nodded. “Got it,” he said. “Good thing. The charge on this driver drill’s dying.”

  “Okay, let’s get the last window done and put this crap away and get inside,” I said. “Next time we get a break we’ll see what kinds of rotters we have to deal with and we’ll gather up anything else that could turn into projectiles.”

  “You let me, Dave and Hemp handle that,” Bug said. His hair was nearly as wet and tangled as mine, and I was certain Dave’s was in similar condition.

  I heard two distant blasts over the wind and jerked my head around in time to see two rotters toppling over as Serena threw her arm through the strap of her shotgun – her new weapon of choice. As wet as the rest of us, she jogged toward us from the field where we were innocently sinking our fence posts earlier in the day.

  “I wanted to haul the posts you guys didn’t plant to the burning pit,” she said. “But that was more involved than I thought through.”

  “We can get them later,” I said. “Thanks, Serena, but I recall someone – I think it was you – telling us you were pregnant, so you’re done.”

  “I think they’re okay,” she said, pointing to the field. “I laid out the baling wire and bundled them together. They should be heavy enough to be stable now.”

  Hemp walked up with Dave. Dave’s white tee shirt was see-through now.

  “Nice,” I said. “Davey, you look like the loser in a wet tee shirt contest.”

  Gammon laughed. “This calls for an awkward moment joke, but I’m too fucking tired to come up with one.” He looked at Serena. “What are you doing out here, babe?”

  “Helping,” she said. “I’m not that far along, so don’t give me any crap, okay?”

  “Wasn’t going to,” said Dave. “But we got it now. Go get dried off.”

  Hemp stared toward the field. “Serena, the bundles are an excellent idea, but when we get another break between bands, Dave and I will see if we can use the golf cart to push them together. That will ensure they don’t blow apart.”

  Serena pointed beyond the bundled posts. “More goddamned zombies,” she said. “Those look like diggers.”

  Bug shook his head. “We’re becomin’ a big problem for you guys.”

  “The storm might help us in that regard,” said Hemp. “They’re not all that heavy. If they take enough of a beating, they’ll be far easier to dispatch, lying on the ground.”

  “Give us a sec,” I said, nudging Bug. He followed, and we put another eight screws in the final window boards.

  By the time we got back to the front door, everyone else was inside. I pulled off my top and wrung out the water, and Bug gawked at me.

  “Jesus, woman,” he said. “You do understand I’ve been living in a concrete bunker for a year, right?”

  I laughed. “Oh shit, Bug,” I said. “I’m just an old married lady with kids now. You can do better.”

  “I’ll be sure not to tell Flex that,” he said, stepping in the house behind me. “Wonder how he’s doin’ out there anyway.”

  I didn’t answer immediately. I didn’t want to think about it, yet it was all I could think about. I knew they didn’t want me out there working on shoring up the windows either, but I had to do something to occupy my mind.

  Our timing sucked. I was glad as hell that Dave and Serena were back, and I welcomed all of our new friends and family. But with our fence unfinished, a baby named Isis drawing rotters from what was apparently miles around, and now this fucking hurricane, the last thing we needed was Diphtheria on top of it all.

  We knew how to kill the walking dead; how to terminate their dead hunger. We could barricade ourselves away during a storm, too. And I suppose on a normal day, a few-hour run to a hospital in North Carolina wouldn’t be the end of the world, either.

  Oh, shit. That kind of already happened, didn’t it?

  Anyway, all this shit at one time, and it suddenly posed what we might just call a problem.

  ******

  Everybody got into dry clothes. Dave had a bag with him, so Bug wore some of his stuff.

  The band passed in another twenty minutes, but not before some lightning struck some very nearby trees. Hemp warned us that fire wasn’t out of the question, either. Especially with the wind factor.

  “Is Doc Scofield at his place?” asked Charlie. “Maybe someone should check on them.”

  By them she meant Raylene and her very ill daughter, Gina.

  “I’ll radio him,” said Hemp, walking to the table and retrieving the radio. He pushed the button. “Jim, do you read? It’s Hemp.”

  The doctor wasn’t decrepit, but he didn’t move like we did, either. Hemp gave him some time. Sure enough, in another ten seconds we heard, “Yeah, this is Scofield. Hemp?”

  “Yes, it’s me,” he said. “How are Raylene and Gina making out in your guest house?”

  “I got ‘em settled in there good. I lit a few of the hurricane lanterns, so they’ve got light, and I gave them a thermos with fresh water.”

  “Good,” said Hemp. “And how are you, my friend?”

  “Not used to this shit is how I am,” he said. “What kinda storm are we talkin’ about, Professor?”

  “I’m 99% certain it’s a hurricane of some size,” said Hemp. “With no radar, we’ll have no idea until it’s on top of us.”

  “What the hell next?” asked Scofield. “If this is God’s work, we must’ve really screwed up at some point, eh?”

  “Let’s just
call her Mother Nature for now, Jim,” said Hemp. “No sense in assuming damnation first.”

  “Gotcha,” said Scofield. “I’m gonna stay here. This place has those old timey window shutters, so they’re all closed. So does the guest house, to match. Any prediction of when this sucker’s due to arrive?”

  “No way to tell,” said Hemp. “These storms can be hundreds of miles wide, and the outer bands can extend hundreds more. We may be talking sometime tomorrow evening. Even the day after.”

  “Well, I’m gonna have to take a shit before that,” said Jim. “It’s not all that easy for me anymore, but when I gotta go, I’m damned well not putting that off for anything. Even this.”

  “To each his own,” said Hemp, smiling. “That’s what the kids call … what is it, Charlie?”

  “TMI,” said Charlie, smiling. “Too much fucking information.”

  “I had the button pushed, Jim. I assume you heard.”

  “Nah,” said Jim. “Another of the benefits of gettin’ old. You miss half the insults.”

  “They love you, old man,” said Hemp. “Okay. Run over and check on our guests now and then, okay?”

  “If I’m not takin’ a crap, absolutely.”

  “Roger, out,” said Hemp, putting down the radio.

  Through the X boards on the front window, we saw a figure pass. Then another. When the wind died down, we heard the shuffle of feet on the porch.

  My heart leapt for a moment. I immediately thought it might be Flex.

  But it had just been three and a half hours since he left. It was over two hours each way, and that would be with ideal conditions.

  There wasn’t anything ideal about these conditions.

  “Bug,” I said. “I know we just met, but would you mind killing the zombies on the porch?”

  Bug sighed and stood, then stretched. “Sure,” he said. “It’s the least I can do for the peep show you gave me earlier.”

  “Fuck you,” I said. “You’re just like Dave.”

  “Nah,” said Bug. “He’s always been a very respectful twerp.”