Hunger Driven (Book 2): Fight the Hunger

by Allen, William

  Stepping around the now still corpse, I felt my body sag with exhaustion and slung the rifle over my shoulder. My other shoulder carried the messenger bag, now considerably lighter as the few remaining reloaded magazines rattled inside. Other than that faint metallic clicking, the area was now eerily quiet. So much so that I wondered if my hearing had been damaged as well.

  Add it to the list, I thought with a sigh, and forced myself over to inspect the two corpses I’d clocked when I first arrived. The first died, again, of what looked like blunt force trauma to the head. Part of the skull appeared to have been caved in from repeated blows. That was harder than the movies made it look, I had learned.

  The second sported a cored out right eye, with the wound going all the way through to the brain. A small caliber pistol shot, I surmised, and from extremely close range judging from the powder tattoo around the entry wound. That meant somebody inside was packing more than a tire iron after all. So, I would need to brush up on my diplomatic skills.

  Using my hand to shield some of the early afternoon sun, I peered in through the glass window nearby, and spied a jumble of bamboo chairs and metal framed tables forming a crude barricade. Blocking my view, and maybe giving the women inside a few minutes of protection against a small pod surging against the weight.

  In their favor, I saw not one sign of recent habitation. Zombies were not primarily visual hunters, not with their messed up sight, but sometimes their eyes did register movement. No movement, no sound, and usually no more interest. That’s been the rule, and was one reason I was so shocked when the ghouls kept coming at me the other day. Almost none of them seemed capable of retaining even short-term memories of prey. If that was changing, we would suddenly have a whole lot more problems.

  And that would be a problem for tomorrow, and the tomorrows to come. Now I needed to do my bit here.

  The front door was barred from the inside, with what looked like a deadbolt engaged. I gave the frame a little shake and stepped back. I knocked, rapping out shave-and-a-haircut. Still no response.

  “Okay, ladies,” I said, loud enough my voice should carry inside, “my name is Brad and I am here to help. I work for the Texas Army National Guard as a civilian clearance specialist. I can provide directions and transportation assistance to the nearest Safe Zone if you are interested.”

  That was the standard spiel all of us learned to recite. “Us” meaning civilian contractors, or clearance specialists. That usually meant guys who could run dozers and such who were recruited to help pile up the bodies. Others did specific salvage work, like cleaning out hardware stores for electrical materials or the like. Most of them went armed but didn’t expect to run into trouble, living or dead. For the moment, I was the only one crazy enough to be doing these kinds of rough clearance jobs. Others had tried but for one reason or another never stuck around too long. Mainly because of the risks, or the smell. Or insufficiently crazy.

  I occasionally do see folks, but usually they just run away. Or shoot at me. I tried not to take it personally, but really, the living were more dangerous than the dead. You shoot at me, I will shoot back. And not with the 22 either.

  “How do we know you’re for real?”

  I forced myself not to react to the voice, which came from over my shoulder and to the left. She made her way up to me quietly, I’ll give her credit. She must have braved the back door and circled around the building.

  Holding up my hands slowly, I turned to show her my empty palms.

  “Ma’am, I have no reason to lie. I hope you didn’t mind me disposing of that biker trash but from what I’ve heard of the Tarantulas, they weren’t trying to sell you Amway. Or give you a parade escort, either.”

  “That was you? From where?”

  The woman’s voice held curiosity but her hands didn’t waver as she cradled the tiny pistol. The message was clear: she was willing to listen but her trust would be hard to earn. That was fine. I didn’t want or need her trust. I just needed to carry out the bare minimum of courtesy as required by the Guard. Help refugees find their way to a safe zone. I considered just handing her a map and walking away. I’d been three days or more without a shower, and over twenty-four hours without sleep. I’d never been much of a people person anyway, which was why numbers had appealed to me so much, even as a child. The Zombie Apocalypse just added to my natural inclination.

  “Top of the Dollar General, ma’am. That’s where I was set up for this rough clearance job. You just happened to drive through the tail end of this little project.”

  “No kidding? Clearing the town? Where is the rest of your team?”

  “Ma’am, you’re looking at it. Good help is hard to find these days so I am working solo at the moment.”

  Telling her this was a calculated risk. If I’d said my partner was covering her with a sniper rifle she might not make an untoward move, but then when I couldn’t produce the threatened backup she might have trouble believing anything else I said. Now, though, she knew I was alone and she could act with no restraint.

  I could tell she wasn’t expecting my answer. Her dark blue eyes seemed to cloud with confusion for a moment.

  “Seriously? Are you crazy? Nobody goes outside to take a leak by themselves. How can you help survivors if you’re working alone?”

  I gave her a tight smile that didn’t touch my eyes. I knew, because I’d practiced smiling in front of a mirror. After somehow surviving the First Wave, my lips could move to form the appearance but I no longer felt any emotion worth smiling over. I figured I was just broken inside, but Roxy said I was still healing.

  “I’m not here to help survivors, ma’am. My job is to eradicate the bulk of the dead inside the town, so a cleanup crew can come in and conduct a door-to-door fine clearance. That’s typically military, with some civilian augments as well.

  “However,” I continued, “in the event I do run into survivors, I am obliged to render certain basic assistance. It’s in the rules. But please, before I go any further, would you please lower your weapon? I don’t want to die with the stigma of being taken down with a Raven 25. Those things have a well-earned reputation for going off if you happen to sneeze.”

  That earned snort but the pistol dropped to a low ready position.

  “So says the man shooting a 22. Or is that a pellet gun?”

  I nodded, accepting her jab good naturedly.

  “The right tool for the job. Just like the 30-06 was the right tool for taking out those bikers. This little baby,” I briefly touched the sling on my shoulder, “features a light round, doesn’t usually overpenetrate, and it is easy to find more. I can carry five times as many rounds of 22LR as I can the 30-06 for the same weight.”

  “And so you…clear the area of infected and what?”

  Right there, she gave me the Look. That horrified, stricken look I get from some survivors when they realize what I really do. Exterminate the creatures that used to be their loved ones. Now, mindless, dead things that feed on the living, but still…

  “Lady, I’m just here to help make this place livable again. Plus, the Guard and the civilian survivors they support need the salvage available in the stores and private homes.”

  “But there’s hundreds of them. Thousands. People.”

  I shook my head sadly.

  “No, they used to be people. Now they’re just dead things that won’t lie down unless you put them there. Dead things that want to eat you.”

  I sighed. Her attitude was understandable, reasonable even, but also part of why we lost everything. I decided to change the subject.

  “Look, can we talk about this inside? I’d be glad to help get your group moving again, and even give you a map to point you in the right direction. Right now, though, we are kind of exposed standing out here.”

  The young lady nodded and carefully slipped the small pistol into a large side pocket on what I realized were scrub pants. Like they wear in hospitals.

  “Hey, is anybody going to come looking for you?
Or those four guys I killed?”

  She nodded, and looked away briefly. I took the opportunity to check her out more closely. She looked to be in her late twenties or early thirties, with dark blonde hair and a face that might have been attractive if not for the dark circles rimming her eyes. I wondered if she was sick, then worried she might be infected. But her eyes looked fine, other than a little bloodshot. I decided she was simply as exhausted as I felt. From her gaunt appearance, I figured food as well as sleep had been in short supply for quite some time. She was running on little more than determination and a big dash of desperation.

  “Oh, yes. There’s maybe two hundred left in the whole gang. The bikers are all insane, high all the time and just part of Arturo’s army. They do scouting runs and handle errands. The rest are as bad, or worse. Cartel guys, from the Mexican drug gangs. They run a big chunk of what’s left of Beaumont.”

  “But you seem sure they will come. Why is that?”

  “Because Arturo Sandoval is a hypochondriac and I am his last doctor. And I just ran off with six of his newest girls, all intended to go to his lieutenants as their wives. Really, their slaves.”

  I let out a low whistle, and then looked around guiltily to see if any of the few remaining crawlers were coming.

  “Good for you, Doc. And yeah, he’ll be sending more guys. My name’s Brad McCoy, and it’s nice to meet you.”

  When I stuck out my hand to shake, the doctor started to take my hand but looked more closely and scrutinized the gloves was I wearing.

  “I’m Kelly. Kelly Gooden. Just call me Kelly, or Doc. And, I’m sorry, but are you bleeding?”

  I looked down. The leather tip on the index finger did look a little darkened and I saw another bloody spot in the palm of my hand.

  “Yeah, that happens sometimes. It isn’t a bite or anything, but an occupational hazard.”

  Doctor Gooden gave me a funny look and said she’d fix me up if I had some medical supplies, explaining simply that most of hers went up in the car fire. Then, she turned and then knocked on the door, calling out, “Hey, this is Doc Kelly. We need to talk.”

  Doctor Gooden. Ah, Doc Gooden. The younger generation probably didn’t even get it, but apparently the young physician knew something of her baseball history. But she didn’t look anything like her namesake, and I resolved not to tease her about the name. I wasn’t feeling too playful anyway.

  CHAPTER SIX

  After she cleaned up my hands and said I was going to live, Kelly insisted on bringing me around to meet the rest of what she called “the girls”. On closer inspection I found out she really meant what she said. The oldest looked like she might be college aged, barely, and the youngest should still have been in pigtails, as my Daddy used to say. I couldn’t remember their names and I really didn’t want to hear their horror stories of captivity. We all had our stories, and I didn’t need to know any more about theirs. Cold, sure, but that was the new world. She tried to return my small medical kit but I told her to take it. I had a spare under the seat of the truck.

  After giving the gathered ladies my abbreviated introduction to the Safe Zones, I backed the Ford up to the rear of the restaurant and loaded them into the truck bed. The drive across the street came as a bit of a letdown, since I promised them transportation. I backed into the open service bay, then jumped out and lowered the door. I swept the offices and small attached warehouse and found nothing. The dead had already been cleared, but I wanted to make sure no new occupants had drifted in since my last visit.

  Once the girls were offloaded, I went through my stash in the metal tool box mounted on one side of the truck bed and found some MREs and a variety of snack foods for the hungry ladies. All I had for them to drink was water, but nobody complained.

  “Van’s out back,” I explained. “I stashed it here with some help a week ago when I came in to survey. I always have a backup plan.”

  Kelly nodded around the energy bar she’d stuffed in her face and fondled the AR-15 I’d traded to her for the Raven 25 caliber pistol. Only after she handed over the piece of junk did I realize she was out of rounds for the thing.

  “You know how to use that?” I asked, curious. She handled the adjustable stock Rock River model AR rifle with familiar hands. Not what I was expecting from a doctor.

  “Yeah. It’s coming back. Just what I remember from qualifying in Basic. I did four years in the Air Force right out of high school to help pay for college. Medical school piled on a bunch of debt, but I guess my lender will just have to suck it. Not going to be making any loan payments for a while.”

  “Yes, a lot of that going around. Like I said, there’s a van out back. Full tank of gas, prepped and ready to go. Don’t wreck it. It is just a loaner to get you where you need to be. Easy drive, straight through on 190 until you reach the first checkpoint. That is just this side of Woodville. There’s a Guard camp set up in the downtown area and I think they are using the county courthouse for staging. Anyway, get on the radio when you get about ten miles outside of town, let them know you are coming. They will take care of you from there.”

  “And where are you going to be in all this? I saw the streets outside. There’s got to be three, maybe four thousand dead infected out there. I think your job here is done.”

  “Yes. Closer to six or seven thousand, actually. Right around the Dollar General the bodies are pretty deep. There’s probably a couple hundred lurkers and crawlers scattered around town but I can get those later. In the meantime, I’m going to lay low and wait for Sandoval’s boys to show up.”

  Kelly gave me a look that spoke volumes. Mainly, that I was being a moron.

  “Not all of his men are as stupid as those bikers. I think he uses them as cannon fodder, but he has some men, his soldiers, and I think they really used to be soldiers in the Mexican Army. Heck, maybe in the American Army. If he sends them, you won’t stand a chance.”

  “Well, that depends. I’m not a soldier, just an exterminator. But I know we can’t let a shitbag like Sandoval take Jasper from us. Plus, this town is my home. Or at least, I grew up here. Damned if I’m going to let some drug thug take over. So, I need you to haul ass to Woodville and get in touch with Colonel William Northcutt. Tell him what you know, and that I’ll hold as long as I can.

  “Now, the commander in Woodville is an officer name Captain Shurman. I don’t want to prejudice you, but the guy’s a bit of an asshole.”

  Kelly actually managed a chuckle at that. I continued.

  “And, he doesn’t like me one bit. If he tries to give you the runaround, find Sergeant Lawrence. He’s a communications specialist, and he works for the Colonel, not Shurman.”

  As I finished my comments about Shurman, I saw Kelly stiffen. She didn’t need the extra stress I was placing on her, but people in Hell needed ice water. I waved to get her attention.

  “Kelly, Shurman is not going to harm a hair on your head. I don’t know what happened in Beaumont, and probably don’t want to know. Nothing like that is going on here, though. Northcutt is in charge under martial law, true, but he’s a good man. He’s been trying to knit things together here, and he is responsible for saving thousands of lives.”

  “Thousands? How many survivors are a part of these Safe Zones?”

  I shrugged, not really sure. I stayed away from the crowded camps and stuck close to the homestead.

  “Maybe ten thousand? I don’t have current numbers, but more people are drifting in every week. More often, now that we are expanding. Or maybe we are expanding because more survivors keep turning up.”

  Kelly goggled at the numbers, and confided she didn’t think there were five hundred survivors in the whole Golden Triangle area. I winced but the news wasn’t unexpected. Interstate 10 carried tens of thousands of infected, but unturned, victims from Houston to points all over the state. Beaumont was barely seventy miles away and nearly a straight shot on the interstate.

  I went on, needed to make my point.

  “The Captain do
esn’t like me and that’s all. Says I’m just a mercenary. Maybe he’s right. In fact, probably wouldn’t hurt your credibility with him if you complain about how mean I was to you. But, you have to convince the Colonel to send troops.”

  Doctor Gooden was exhausted but willing to answer my detailed questions about the force likely to be dispatched by the Mexican drug smuggler to recover his pet physician. He couldn’t send every gun thug under his command, since a large portion of them remained engaged with simply guarding their base, which was centered around the Christus St. Elizabeth Hospital.

  On the bad side, Sandoval managed to acquire several Humvees from the local Army Reserve base, but Doctor Gooden felt confident the heavy weapons for those vehicles, the machine guns normally mounted on the trucks, could not be located. Also, Sandoval had plenty of automatic weapons but a shortage of ammunition.

  For example, he had the guards at the hospital taking out zombies with spears, which while a good idea meant he was probably having to husband his ammo. Well, shooting zombies with fully automatic AK47s, or M4s for that matter, had proven to be a losing formula for armies around the world. A soldier might burn through an entire magazine and achieve one or two kills. So the other five or ten, or two hundred, zombies in the pod or horde would simply seep over a position and eat everyone trying to reload. I saw some pretty horrible videos on the internet before the whole thing crashed.

  “Get those girls somewhere safe. And get me some soldiers here.”

  Kelly finished eating her power bar and stood quickly, slinging the rifle. And before I knew what she was doing, the woman threw her arms around me in a hug that made my tired bones ache.

  “Just lay low, Mr. McCoy. Don’t get killed. I’ll get them to send you some help. Even if I have to lead them back myself.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Seized with an urgent need to move, Kelly chivvied up the girls under her care and was on the road within the hour. I watched them roll out with a sense of satisfaction. I was a miserable, sour old man, but I hoped my wife was looking down to see how I’d done right by these girls in need.