Hunger Driven (Book 2): Fight the Hunger

by Allen, William

Captain Shurman was pissed. I knew he would be. Guy is a prick with legs, a real evolutionary marvel. That I say things like that out loud may have something to do with why the arrogant asshole didn’t like me. This time, I managed to save a carload of survivors and hold off a hostile invasion by the Mexican Mafia all by my lonesome. Did I get a medal? A Scooby Snack? Or even a pat on the back? Nooooo.

  Instead, I got held for forty-eight hours while the Guard poured into Jasper and began setting up defensive positions. I got grilled by the captain and accused of murdering those poor, innocent little lambs who were just seeking sanctuary. Ironically, the captain had me held in a classroom at the high school, the one I’d indirectly helped liberate.

  Even Shurman didn’t really buy it. I could tell, from the way he would give me one of those shit-eating little grins of his. Oh, I’d killed them all right. When they tried to reclaim their escaped slaves. Even in these troubled times, we don’t do slavery. But he knew all that already. He just claimed he had procedures to follow. Seriously, in the ZA?

  The ZA. Zombie Apocalypse. The idea used to be a joke, like “the Martians are coming,” or competitive eating as a real sport, but we stopped laughing real quick when a quarter of the population turned into flesh-crazed monsters almost overnight. No one was spared that horror.

  Captain Shurman’s men treated me right, and I could tell most of them even thought the captain was being a dick. They followed him and respected his military leadership, I guess, but the ones I regularly interacted with just tried to ignore his sarcasm and get the job done. Hell, the ones guarding me ended up getting me into their floating poker game after the good captain was down for the night. In response, I made sure and lose more hands than I won. That way, I figured, I’d get an invite back next time.

  Of course, when Colonel Northcutt got on the radio and asked when I was expected back at headquarters for my next mission briefing, Captain Shurman reluctantly cut me loose. And I was free to go loot to my heart’s content on my way out of town.

  I hit the pawnshop first. The place was filthy and smelled bad, and that was what I remembered from my only prior visit way back before the First Wave. Time had not improved the ambience, but luckily no zombies remained inside. I took the back door off using my truck’s winch, and the noise did attract a few crawlers. I dispatched them quickly with the suppressed .22 pistol and got busy.

  The town had been certified as rough cleared, which meant I drew in all the mobile dead I could from those out on the streets and shot them in the head. That did not mean the town was cleared by any stretch. Just the horde was gone. Stragglers would still find a way to bust out a window or tumble down a flight of stairs and wander outside. This town would continue to be a hazard until the National Guard could cut loose enough men to go house-to-house, and then erect a series of barricades to isolate the intended Safe Zone area within the city limits. Already, the front-end loaders and dump trucks were busy, working to clear away the massive piles of dead I’d left littering the parking lot and highway around the Family Dollar.

  Now that the dead were dead once again, the “natural” decay was returning with a vengeance and wild dogs were already beginning to gorge. Soldiers had orders to shoot the dogs as a threat to future settlers, but the birds were another matter. This pile would no doubt be considered a feast for buzzards until the flames from the burning pits purified the rotting corpses.

  Safe Zone status was still a long way in the future for Jasper. In the meantime, I would extract what I needed and then haul my load back to the compound. The pawnshop was loaded with useless crap I did not need. After clearing the space from top to bottom, I set up my battery-powered lanterns and got to work.

  Musical instruments, pass. Outdated computer monitors, towers, and accessories, pass. Old videos, CDs, and computer games, pass. Chainsaws and assorted gear, pass. Except for the Kevlar pants and gloves, which would go in the communal kitty for salvage workers. Zombies had a hard time biting through that kind of gear, so demand remained high. Just because I made fun of those lunatics didn’t mean I wanted them eaten. I already had sets for everybody at the compound and a few spares, so I could afford to be generous.

  Then I hit the real reason for my visit. The ammunition shelves looked well picked over, but not for what I wanted. All the 5.56mm looked to be gone, as did the “Russian surplus” 7.62x39 and the cheaper brands of .308 Winchester. No surprise, as these calibers did not stay long, even at the inflated prices here. The match grade .308 remained, as did the higher-priced 30-06 hunting ammo, and of course, the 22 Long Rifle cartridges that the owner had jacked up to three times the Walmart price remained on the shelf. I filled up six totes with the ammo, even grabbing the 40 S&W, though I didn’t use it myself. Somebody always wanted that stuff.

  I rolled those six boxes out in two trips and had to kill three walkers approaching the truck from somewhere in the city on the first load. From the black goo oozing from fresh scrapes and abrasions, I would guess they were more escapees. I put each one down with the suppressed .22 pistol and left the bodies where they sprawled on the asphalt. I could still roll the dolly out after all, and I wasn’t responsible for cleaning up this mess. Not my job.

  On my second load, I accidentally rammed a fast mover as it reached the rear door the same time I did. That got the old heart pounding as the creature collided with the front of the dolly and tried, desperately, to overtop the boxes and get at me. I let go of the metal handle, drew my pistol, and pumped three rounds directly into its skull from less than two feet away. This time, the blood was a mixture of black and red, and I suddenly wanted to throw up.

  This guy was a fresh turn, and every time I ran into one recently, I felt my stomach churn. This was someone who held out all this time, only to succumb to a bite within the last day or so. Here was the shell of someone who had somehow managed to survive in this town at the same time I was here. Likely, I would never know the reason for his turning, but it still bothered me on a level I refused to recognize. This was different than the bulk of the zed population, because I could still see the red mixed in his blood. I wanted to hit something but forced my frustration back in its box. Later, I swore.

  Once I had the ammo I wanted loaded, I went back in and sorted through the firearms on display. The owner ran a thick cable lock through the trigger guards of these rifles and I had some really good bolt cutters. A little strain, and bingo, the cable parted.

  This guy had a thriving business selling cheap AK knockoffs, but a few of the American-made ones I knew functioned okay. Not that accurate, but they would easily put down a zed at twenty yards and do it consistently—even if you dropped that rifle in a swamp and didn’t have time to clean it. I boxed up a half dozen of these and all the magazines I could find. Even though the store only had a few boxes of the 7.62x39 ammo, I had a whole storage unit of it back at the compound.

  Then I went through the .22 rifles, picking up three of the Ruger 10/22s I favored. One had been tricked out, Mall Ninja style, as a fake AR-15, but I took it anyway. Despite the furniture, the internals remained the same. Using the dolly again, I loaded up my purchases and headed for the back room.

  The big standing safe nestled in the back corner of the room looked impressive, and I knew it would take forever to penetrate that sucker. Maybe with something like an arc lance, which would also most likely scorch whatever the owner was holding in there. Fortunately, I’d grudgingly learned a bit in the salvage business, despite my aversion to the trade, so I knew the combination would be around somewhere.

  I spent twenty minutes searching, the whole time watching the door with one eye and expecting more visitors. Finally, I found a tiny strip of tape affixed to the underside of one of the desk drawers and knew this was the key I needed. I finally secured the door, ramming a chair under the knob as well as setting the deadbolt. I should have done from the beginning, but I guess I was stubborn that way. Either that, or my reluctance to block myself into a windowless room with no other exits.

/>   If I started getting drifters into the store, it would be easier to gauge when the heat was too much. I could fight my way out through five or six zombies, no trouble, but a hundred of them stacked up on the door would be a death sentence. Like dogpiling a Hummer, the dead could afford to wait for their prey to get hungry. Their hunger never stopped.

  Once I got the massive door open, I was surprised at what I found. Weapons for sure, including what looked like a pristine SCAR 17 and a National Match M1A rifle with a Nightforce NXS scope. Sweet. Both rifles were chambered in 7.62x51, or what is sometimes referred to as 7.62 NATO. They would be making the trip with me. I also found a boxed Kimber 1911 in .45 ACP, which is also a big ticket item but not something I would use. I went ahead and took it, thinking it might make a nice Christmas gift.

  No, what was puzzling were the two short stacks of bagged comics and the six boxes of plastic ponies. What? Looking at the covers of the comic books I saw they were all old, like from the 1940s and 1950s old. The ten-cent price was a dead giveaway to the vintage of these books, as was the gorgeous cover art. I decided to leave these for future historians to find, but I took the toys. I figured the kids at the compound could play with them, if nothing else.

  In addition to a bagged cash and check deposit bound to a no-longer-existent bank, I also found a separate bag, heavy with coins. I barely peeked in the coin bag but saw a flash of gold. Dumping the useless cash out in the floor of the safe, I stuffed what I estimated to be ten pounds of gold and silver coins into the heavy canvas sack, then stacked the toys on top.

  Cash had no value in the new world, but I’d heard on the radio that some other places were also taking gold and silver coins. Probably at a discounted rate, I figured, but I decided they might make a nice investment for my future retirement plans. Hey, this was my pay for rough clearing the town, not loot. Not exactly. The precious metals would be the equivalent of contributing to my now-defunct 401(k). I liked to pretend sometimes that I might live long enough to retire. For Livingston, we already used the coins to a limited extent. Again, ahead of the curve.

  Back in the truck, I hustled over to the little gun shop and found the place cleaned out. That actually made me feel pretty good, because the way the work was done made me think the owner did the job. Maybe he was out there still, holding his own in a cabin up on the lake. I did find a few cans of black powder, a few more of the modern smokeless powder, and a bag of 12-gauge hulls that fell down behind a shelf. With my reloading gear at home, I was feeling pretty good about my haul.

  Just as I was closing the front door of the shop, I heard my radio crackle. I hardly ever turned the thing on, but with troops in the area, I tried to remember to at least listen in on the jargon-filled conversations. This time I had no trouble understanding the call. The barricade south of town was being overrun by a horde of zombies. See, just saying it still makes me shake my head at the absurdity of it all.

  I jumped in my truck and pointed the nose in the right direction. Whether their CO was a douchbag or not, and he was, these soldiers were what kept us safe and orderly. I would help out if I could.

  In this new world, I wasn’t good for much else but killing zombies.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Believe it or not, the most useful military vehicle in the Zombie Apocalypse turned out to be the humble five-ton truck and its larger cousins. Not the M-1 Abrams tank, or the Bradley Fighting Vehicle, or those cool-looking Strykers. They all had their place, and I personally thought the RG-33 MRAPs were really useful, too, but the five tons had several advantages. High ground clearance, a robust, easily repaired diesel engine, and the ability to mount weapons and carry cargo. In the words of my long dead high school football coach, the trucks were mobile, agile, and hostile. Okay, maybe not that agile, but still better than trying to fight zombies from the ground.

  Tracked vehicles, like the tanks and Bradleys, could deliver a big dose of ordinance and grind up a lot of zeds, until they threw a tread, and then they became zombie lunch pails. The stinking dead couldn’t get in to eat the crews, but the crews only had so much food and water before they had to try a breakout. And zombies, while not smart or especially fast, had the patience of the dead. They could stand to wait days or weeks for a meal. Humans, not so much.

  Humvees and Strykers also provided great mobile gun platforms, but Humvees could be buried in a dogpile of the zombies. Strykers, I was informed, didn’t have as much internal storage space as you would think, and their diesel engines drank a lot more fuel than the trucks. I listened to all the debates, usually accompanied by a splash of alcohol and a veil of cigarette smoke, in the private parties or heavily regulated bars in the zones. “Heavily regulated” meant no over-serving since dead drunks just end up dead if they got called out unexpectedly to deal with a breach or sudden outbreak. Rare, but I understand it happened in the early days.

  In any event, I passed a couple of armored five tons on the way to the half-built barricade south of town. The big trucks were surprisingly speedy for their size, but this puppy could move when I dropped the hammer. My speed was an insane-for-these-conditions eighty-five miles per hour before I had to start slowing for the stop. Ahead I could see the barricade did stretch all the way across the small bridge, but workers had been laboring over getting the second and third fallback positions prepared. Now they were just fighting to stay alive.

  I heard the shots well before reaching the fortifications, which was a bad sign. That meant LOTS of shooting, since my truck’s engine would usually drown out gunfire at that range. They must have already gone to the machine guns before making the call. Crap. So not good.

  Slowing the big truck to a stop, I paused just long enough to grab two of my little rifles and a bandolier bag full of loaded magazines. I had a couple of the Rugers lined up on the seat, just in case I ran across a swarm of deadheads. Sounded like I might need them now.

  I hustled around the parked five-ton truck already in place and then the scattering of tractors and cargo handlers used to move the long trailers. I heard the Army tried using things they called HESCO barriers, but the dead tended to pile up and overtop them, so some zombie-savvy engineer decided to use containers.

  Specifically, those forty- and fifty-three-foot-long metal cargo containers used to haul freight and everything else in the world. Our National Guard soldiers found hundreds of the cargo containers scattered around the various truck stops and trucking companies. They would hook up the flatbed trucks loaded with full cargo containers and haul them back to a safe zone, where the cargo would be unloaded and the containers would be reused.

  The military preferred the nine-foot, six-inch-tall by fifty-three feet long containers, but used others to fill in space as needed. Stacked two high, these containers offered a good elevation and allowed for plenty of square footage for security teams to spread out and erect tents and store supplies. Leaving Houston, we’d picked up a husband and wife truck-driving team who’d managed to scramble up on top of their trailer loaded with one of these containers. Ken and Patty Satterwhite might have stayed up there except for—again—a lack of food and water.

  I still couldn’t see what the soldiers were shooting at until I mounted one of the ladders leaning against the side of the stack and climbed up. The first thing I noticed was a squad of soldiers standing near the lip of the container, shooting down, all firing their rifles and carbines on automatic, which was almost unheard of in this day and age. Sitting just back and to the side, I saw a young soldier replacing the drum for one of those M-249 light machine guns. They fire the same 5.56x45 round as the M-16s and M4s, but can zip through a linked drum in nothing flat.

  I saw Sergeant Herndon standing with another young soldier, and I could tell Herndon was using the radio. Easing over closer to the side of the container, I got my first glimpse of the cause for all this fuss. Oh, lord, I thought, that is an assload of pissed-off zombies down there.

  What was so disturbing was not the Devil’s own mosh pit below, which was sta
cking up with a variety of dead and not-quite-dead-yet zombies, but the scene in the near distance. The road was packed with the hungry dead, stretching back for hundreds of yards, and I could see more throngs of the dead approaching at nearly a trot. Tens of thousands, I estimated. More than this outpost was ever designed to handle.

  Yes, the barrier of metal intermodal containers was strong, and since the Army also filled each with loose dirt before mounting them on the wall, they were no doubt heavy, too. The question was, were they heavy enough?

  The cargo containers featured a locking system to secure the units, but I was worried the combined weight might tip the whole thing over. Then of course there was the left side of the line, where a stack of forty-foot containers finished off the blockade but had to be positioned at a slight angle to do the job and fit flush against the bridge abutment. These containers were smaller, lighter, and connected to the rest of the stack with welded tie-ins only. That would be the first point of failure, I deduced. You didn’t have to be Sherlock to figure out some things.

  Setting down the bandolier and my second rifle, I went prone on the corrugated metal and shouldered the little Ruger. Peering through the low magnification scope, I noted these zombies generally looked more weathered than most, their skin taking on that leathery consistency you saw with the early turns or the First Wave. I filed that tidbit away for later consideration.

  Taking a second to make sure my hearing protection was indeed set over my ears, I started popping zombies. Unlike the soldiers, who were shooting almost straight down into the mess, I aimed for a point about fifty yards back and started dropping the hungry bastards in rows, trying to break up the pressure. These zombies were pressed so tightly together I didn’t have to look for clumps or even pods to concentrate on since they were packed cheek-to-jowl.

  I don’t think I missed a shot in that first magazine, or in the second. This was the easiest way to do the job because the tightly packed mob meant there was little in the way of movement side to side. I missed one on my third magazine to the inevitable stumble, but still managed to carve out a little mound of deader dead folks in the horde. That would cause more stumbles, but the tradeoff was a small break in the mass pressing up against the metal sides of the barrier.