Hungry Series: Tomes 1 & 2

by Tide, Lawrence Herbert

  The little red-haired girl looked at her in a strange way and then took a peek at the sleeve of her dress, stained with her mother’s blood.

  Then, without any further hesitation, she exclaimed, "My name is Red!"

  On her face, traces of emotion instantly disappeared, and she became as emotionless as Mei’s father.

  Surprised, the woman’s grin faded away.

  ***

  Discovery

  Red awakened brutally, in a kind of shock.

  Vague images of her nightmare rose, at the bounds of her consciousness. Images bathed in bloody colors, the family car burning, with her father shouting inside it, her mother falling toward the ground while shrieking, her arms stretched toward her.

  She sat up in her bed, looking at the wall of the bedroom which was in front of her, and sighed. It wasn't a bad dream, it was the plain, the terrible reality.

  The yellow curtains of the unique window of the small, but comfortable bedroom, bathed it in a golden light. It also proved that it was day.

  She got out of her bed, a comfortable futon, and pulled on Japanese flip-flops. She then stood up, wearing pajamas that were a bit too big which had been offered to her, like the flip-flops. Hesitant, she opened the bedroom's door, going into the apartment's corridor.

  It was an illuminated corridor. This stressed her, making her heart beat faster.

  This apartment, located on the first floor of the building, had its windows and curtains open, something she felt as being strange. Strange and, for her, viscerally speaking, dangerous. During the last three years, she had only lived in places, with her parents, where windows and curtains had to be closed.

  That way, day or night, they could not be seen by wandering living dead, which were attracted like mosquitos by every source of artificial light. They were conscious, as far as their distorted and messed up minds could be conscious about anything, that where there was such a light, there were humans to consume.

  And God knows...

  Or since he clearly had forgotten people, Satan knows, that during these hard times, the zombies had stolen from the mosquitos their title. Mosquitos had, during centuries, the title of being the most dangerous animals in the world, since they killed millions of people, each year, by transmitting diseases from one human to another.

  During half of her childhood, she had been hiding with her parents in many abandoned apartments and houses. They never stayed in these places for very long durations because, sooner or later, two things forced them to move.

  The lack of food and the living dead.

  The quantity of food her father had found, while exploring, a shotgun in hand, abandoned apartments and houses, determined the duration of their residence.

  Almost everything they found was stale, often years beyond its best, but for the moment, it wasn’t a problem; it was because – or thanks to – of all the chemical additives that the food manufacturers put in the tin cans. The food remained edible and, generally, didn’t make them sick. And even when they had found decaying meat, sometimes, she had, like her parents, been able to forget the rotten smell and taste.

  She preferred that to going hungry.

  They had then become used to closing the curtains or, if they couldn’t find any in some rare cases, they taped bedspreads or old blankets on the windows. That way, zombies couldn’t see them inside, and especially couldn’t be attracted by lights of human origin.

  That way, they were quiet… at least for a little while.

  Sooner or later, these creatures, which had an avid and never-ending interest in living flesh, came wandering around their location. It was as if, even without seeing them, they were attracted. There were only a few the first days, but progressively, entire populations of these marauders arrived.

  And then arrived a moment when Red and her family understood that they had to flee, and flee fast. They gathered all the food they could and watched their car.

  When they observed an important decline of the density of zombie groups around the vehicle, they ran to it with bags containing food.

  Red stopped walking in the corridor, bad memories flooding her mind.

  Her parents, especially her mother, had become excellent marksmen. They had become experts in the art of exploding a head with a minimum of precious bullet, and of driving economically, gas, when it could be found, becoming scarcer.

  Too young to bear any weapon, the little girl had become a great sprinter. In the course of time, habits becoming natural, it had almost become a game for her to zigzag between zombies while running to the car.

  After both her parents had strategically disposed of the nearest ones, they entered the vehicle in a rush. Then, always, her parents had to drive through a mass of living dead which were hustled like big and ugly rag dolls. The difference with real dolls was that, afterwards, when her family looked back, the things always got back on their feet, beginning to pursue them again.

  And the living dead were always, always beaten at this game.

  Until…

  Until what had happened… the burning car and the shriek of her mother, all this obscured her mind, immersing it in dark thoughts. She shook her head violently, chasing the painful memories. She felt that her breath was almost blocked. She sighed heavily, trying to catch her breath.

  After a few minutes in the deserted corridor, she became quiet again, silence coming back.

  Not complete silence.

  There was something. She listened, and recognized shouting in the distance, along with strange sounds. She continued to walk and reached the end of the corridor. She recognized the entrance hall and, nearby, the kitchen. She smiled; she had been given a wonderful meal there, the previous night, before being brought to the bedroom. But there was also a closed door, to which she had not given sufficient attention, having been so tired.

  Had the shouting come from behind this door, or did it come from outside?

  No shouts anymore, but faint sounds of wood being hit. She was beginning to ask questions. Am I going mad?

  A sudden shriek made her shiver.

  Again the strange wood sounds, but this time, she was sure, it had come up from behind the mysterious door. She pushed the door and it didn’t move. Looking more closely, she understood that it was a sliding door.

  She slid it and entered another world.

  Two people were violently fighting on a huge carpet, beating each other with thick, strange sticks. She saw that they were wearing some kind of helmet with a grid that protected their faces.

  They suddenly stopped fighting and became immobile. They were standing in front of each other, with not a trace of movement, like a couple of statues, taking cover behind their sticks. These seemed to be extending from big handles, held with both hands. They slowly turned around each other, observing each other.

  They were playing cat and mouse, but she was unable to guess who was the cat.

  They were wearing a kind of long, thick and black dress, clearly a protective suit. Only their bare feet were visible on the carpet, but barely seen, because the protagonists were wearing big trouser-skirts. Their feet moved slowly, while they continued to observe each other.

  Red was fascinated by their slow, feline movements.

  These two fighters, the big one and the other, smaller and thinner one, were really like two black panthers. They were measuring each other, ready to exploit any of their opponent’s weakness, or lack of attention.

  The biggest emitted a male shout and hit the top of the mask of the other, who reacted simultaneously. The smaller hit the taller in the stomach with a slicing movement while shouting with a female voice.

  The biggest fighter who was facing Red shouted something in Japanese and they both stopped again. They brought back their sticks in front of them, in a protective guard, and then remained immobile. They then bowed almost in unison, and the big one facing Red lifted his helmet with one hand.

  She recognized the old Asian man with the shy smile who had saved her, and
remembered that he had said, last night, that his first name was Hiroto. The smaller fighter who was facing him turned around and lifted the mask too, and Red recognized Mei, whose smile was much warmer.

  The little red-haired girl already loved the young Japanese woman and her father, despite the fact that he was more reserve, but finally affectionate. She felt the gaze of many eyes and, turning her head in all directions, had a shock.

  Dozens of people were watching her.

  Young adults, teenagers, children of both sexes, of all races. They were all wearing kimonos, and were sitting on the right side of the room, illuminated by fluorescent lights on the ceiling. They were sitting, legs crossed, on the huge carpet, which, she now understood, was made up from many much smaller carpets. And all these people were scrutinizing her, making her feel uncomfortable.

  “Red,” Mei said while walking toward her in her strange garment, “You’re awake. Good morning. Did you sleep well?”

  “Yes, thank you, I slept well on the fu… what do you call it again?”

  “A futon. It’s a Japanese bed.”

  “Oh, yes. Very practical with those big storage drawers under the bed.”

  “Yes, you’re right,” the young woman answered, her smile becoming even larger.

  Red had the impression that this woman, who seemed to be in her twenties, perhaps thirties, was really very happy to see her, and she felt the same about her.

  “Mei, the salute!” the rude voice of her father made Red shiver.

  “Just a minute,” Mei said, and turning around she joined her father, who had faced the group, and stood near him. They both removed their protection covers and deposited them on the mattress, with their helmets, before kneeling.

  And then, after Hiroto had said something in Japanese, he leaned forward, putting his hands on the mattress and touching the surface with his forefront. He was imitated by Mei and the whole group. Hiroto stood up and everyone imitated him once again, and answered to his last bow, after which he walked with Mei toward Red.

  “Good morning… Red,” he said, pronouncing with a kind of hesitation the only name she had agreed to tell them, almost in a disgusted way. Ever since he had discovered her when he had arrived to save her, he had been intrigued by the strange behavior of the child. But he also had admitted to his daughter that, after the nightmare she had gone through, it was normal for her to be in a shock, and they both hoped that, one day, she would tell them her real first and last names. He knew that no identity card survived the flames of her family’s car, and that those on her mother’s body had been torn in pieces like her clothes during the horrible feast.

  But was it so important to know who she was? What was important was that she was a living human being, a child who deserved protection, like all the others who had come to the Community.

  After all, when she wasn’t in one of her strange, introvert moods, she was a very cheerful and affectionate little girl who delighted his daughter. And, last but not least, she had awakened the goodness which was within him, carefully hidden under his seemingly indestructible carapace of samurai.

  “Until we find her a family in the Community, she can live in our house,” he had said to Mei, who was actually thrilled. But if she was allowed to live with them, she would have to follow their household rules.

  He cleared his throat and, looking at the group of students, said to them, “The special attack-defense demonstration is finished. We will go into more detail during our next course.” He said a Japanese word and leaned forward to salute them, making them all bend in return.

  The practitioners then quit the room, not without having a look at the small red-haired girl - who remained standing, clearly intrigued.

  When the child was at last alone with the father and daughter, he continued with a harsh voice, “Red, you must ask permission before being permitted to enter the dojo during training… and follow its regulations.”

  Red nodded in the affirmative with enthusiasm and remained silent, remaining attentive.

  Keeping a straight face, the old man smiled to himself and continued, “First thing, you must be bare foot when you’re on the tatami.”

  “The ta… ta-mi?” the child asked, watching her own feet in the flip-flops.

  “Yes… the mattress, if you wish to call it that,” intervened Mei with a softer tone.

  Now that Red was conscious that flip-flaps she was wearing were messing up the tatami, she blushed with shame and stuttered, “Excuse me.”

  “You don’t have to excuse yourself, since I hadn’t warned you,” answered the Asian man, nodding. He had appreciated the authentic regret showed by the child, and that even made him smile a little. He continued, “We thought you wouldn’t get up so early, especially, after last night.”

  He stopped speaking, his great warrior’s peripheral vision having permitted him to sense Mei watching him reproachfully, despite her having a lot of respect for him. And he well understood why. With these words, he risked bringing back bad memories in Red’s mind. He decided to remain silent now.

  Mei asked Red, wanting to bring her out of her worries, “Would you want to visit the Community with me?”

  “I’d love that,” the girl answered, cheering up, “but before we do, could you explain to me what you were both doing?”

  “We were practicing Kenjutsu,” Mei answered, a much warmer smile on her face than on her father’s.

  “Ken… jutsu?”

  “Yes,” intervened Hiroto, “It's an ancestral Martial Art which was passed on to me by my father, who learned it from his father, and so on, since medieval Japan… I come from a family of Samurais.”

  He stopped speaking a few seconds, seeing that the girl was hanging on every one of his words, fascination apparent in her big green eyes. An amused smile on his lips, he resumed, “Some people in the Community say that, compared to guns, it’s an outdated fighting art, and that I should stop wasting my time, and the precious time of my students.”

  “I love it!” answered Red, clearly thrilled.

  “It’s taught to students who deserve it… If you want to practice it one day, you must study before, in my school, Jiu-Jitsu. It’s a Martial Art which is practiced with bare hands and barefoot.”

  Watching him intensely while having heard these words, the red-haired girl remained silent and a strong willingness visible in her gaze.

  ***

  Blame

  “We can’t continue like this!” said Joshua Adams, banging his fist on the table. He had taken the risk to stain with coffee his impeccable white suit, the concussion having almost knocked down the cup which was on his luxurious wooden desk.

  Bo, the blond man who had driven the van, and Johnny Jackson were standing in front of the desk of the old Caucasian man, the two young men being rather sheepish.

  “You wasted loads of precious ammunition, and you did all of that to save only a kid!”

  Bo’s face grew red with anger and he answered, “Everyone deserves to be saved, that’s what you said in your last speech before the elections, do you remember?”

  The old man glared at him and controlled himself, before saying, quieter, and watching him with an indulgent gaze, “Of course… You’re right, I remember, you know… but what I see is that our ammunition diminishes each day, and the future isn’t so far when we won’t be able to push back the zombies. They come toward the Community and its surroundings, more and more numerous, like bees attracted by flowers!”

  “But we were only a small group, and we’ve used our munitions sparingly!” Bo shouted painfully, the words of the old man already making him feel depressed.

  “Not enough,” the technocrat answered, resuming, “One day, when our guns are useless, no one will be able to go outside without being torn to pieces by the crowds of living dead accumulating around us… and even the Community, with its closed system recycling all its resources, has its limits. It won’t be able to survive indefinitely without new food, water, equipment entering it, fr
om time to time.”

  He stopped speaking, and he saw with satisfaction that the two young men were impatient to hear what he wanted to tell them. He continued, “We will then all be trapped here, with the choice between dying slowly of thirst and famine, and dying quickly outside, at the hands of hordes of undead.”

  “That’s not what you said to your future citizens,” Johnny said to him, watching him with a hard look.

  “There’s really no hope?” asked Bo, clearly skeptical.

  Adams sighed and, smiling wryly at him, said, more quietly, “Of course, things aren’t so nightmarish for the moment. The people who come from outside to find shelter here, often bring some food, guns and ammunition, things which replenish our reserves a bit, but the accounts show that, in the long run, we lose more than we gain.”

  He sighed again after looking at the sadness of his young interlocutors and continued, “Let’s say that my great financial background makes me view things in a pessimistic way,” and he added, with a lower voice, “But there's something which brings optimism, the arrival of this mysterious little red-haired girl means also that our genetic pool is expanded, and that consanguinity inside the Community will perhaps be avoided.”

  The two men in front of him scowled at him and then looked at each other.

  Johnny Jackson leaned forward and slapped his open hands on the table of the administrator who shivered because of the surprise. Looking him straight in the eye, the young black man shouted, “Let’s speak about something else... why is my father in prison?”

  “He’s not in prison,” the old man said, showing him his open hands as if it could calm him, “He only remains under observation.”

  “He’s behind bars, he’s become a guinea pig for your scientist, your Doctor Mengele that you call a physician!”

  “You know what will happen to him, if the virus injected in his organism by the bite finishes its work.” Adams retorted, adding, “His only chance is to be cured by the modified virus developed by Professor Harding. If the cure doesn’t work…”