The Living Hunger

by Dennis F. Larsen

  Although he was a large, square-shouldered farm boy, there was a sensitive side to Farrell that few saw but loved. He was kind and gentle with his siblings, going out of his way to help where he could. He took his younger brother, Rodney, under his wing, showing him the ropes at school and in the community. There was nothing that he wouldn’t do for the people he loved and so it seemed natural at the beginning of the worldwide conflict that he stood at the front of the enlistment line, desirous to serve his country and protect its values. The tears shed around the family dinner table the night before he reported for active duty were heartfelt and many. The farm would suffer in his absence but his sisters and parents understood the sacrifices that had to be made to preserve themselves and their freedoms. Rod, too young to enlist, would stay at home, doing the work of three men, while Farrell and his older brother, Shirt (a more masculine moniker than his real name Shirley) would travel abroad to put their mark on history.

  Farrell’s leadership skills were self evident and with the escalation and casualties mounting at a phenomenal rate, his rank jumped from level to level much faster than expected and at 20, he found himself a Sergeant in the US Army, responsible for tank repair on the battlefields of Southeast Asia. North Korea, one of the early protagonists, had withheld the use of nuclear and biological weapons on their own soil and that of their neighbors to the south. The dictatorship opted to invade and consume South Korea using conventional warfare, a strategic decision that may have saved Farrell’s life. Tens of thousands of dedicated, indoctrinated North Korean regulars had streamed across the border in the early days of the conflict. It was only by the grace of God and the stubborn defenses of the South Koreans, supported by US air power and several battalions of M1 tanks, that they had been able to keep the country from being overrun.

  It was on those bloody battlefields that Farrell had learned who he truly was and what mettle he was made of. The winds of war had bent and twisted his perception of mankind but not his stature as a man or his love of family and freedom. Reports, the world over, spoke of massive casualties as nation battled nation, first with nuclear arsenals and then, fearing the annihilation of the planet, the remaining leaders had sent their units into the fight armed with limited chemical and biological weapons, as well as the old standbys. The men of the 8th Armored Division, Lightning Strike, held onto the belief that they would survive and their families, as well. For most, it had been a dream and a fading hope that would not be realized.

  The story of Farrell’s return home was a long and complicated one. It was clear to all those serving in the armed forces, regardless of the emblem on their flag, that once the major population centers and governments were wiped out, there was no further need to fight for political will, economic supremacy or world domination. The only thing that mattered, to most, was brother for brother and friend for friend. They made it through each day with a vision of getting back to the ones they loved. This was not an easy task with everyone on the planet packing a weapon: biological, nuclear and chemical contaminants and residue were everywhere. People were succumbing and dying by the millions. Those with compromised immune systems stood no chance at all. Even the healthy were struggling to make it day to day. Those that had gone underground were the only potential winners in a world gone crazy. For many the shock, which resulted from the raw awakening to their new surroundings, was more than they could take and mass suicides were not uncommon.

  The smell of burning tires wafted past Farrell as he carefully overlooked the array of defensive structures laid before him. The school, now a compound, was ringed with fencing barbed wire, 50 gallon drums and other jerry-rigged devices that would deter unwanted human parasites from advancing beyond their welcome. The drums were of Farrell’s own make and construction. In Asia they’d used half-filled gasoline drums as incendiaries to shock and send panic into the advancing communist lines. Nothing demoralized a soldier more quickly than watching his best friend go up in flames and melt before him. Petroleum was far too precious to waste in such a fashion now but with farms stretching out forever in every direction, fertilizer was not in short supply and provided the explosive punch the band of survivors needed to protect their perimeter. Months ago, shortly after it became obvious that families would not be safe living on their own, Farrell and others had brought the stragglers together under this umbrella of safety and freedom. Unwelcomed individuals were sent on their way with a small bag of food and a sincere good luck but it ended there. Assault teams had been organized in those days to scour the countryside, rounding up and retrieving valued goods, including the fertilizer used in the inferno drums. The teams tried desperately to maintain some degree of order in a lawless land.

  The school’s defenses were reminiscent of the firebases established in the remote areas of Vietnam during that conflict some 60 years before. Bear River High School sat in the middle of a secured land. Its three-story stature provided ample sight lines for a heavy weapon mounted on the rooftop. Behind the school, where the football field and baseball diamond once welcomed the cheers and shouts from excited fans, rows of struggling crops now grew. The school itself was divided up into sections; some rooms used as housing units, others for meeting and organizational demands and yet others for storage of the supplies, so needed and necessary. The huge kitchen facility and cafeteria were used for their intended purposes and the gymnasium for physical activity, hand to hand combat instruction and the occasional basketball game, which, depending upon the day, didn’t look all that different from the hand to hand combat exercises.

  The parking lot was across the street from the symbolic bear but was still contained within the ringed barbed wire perimeter. A concrete barrier had been constructed around the circumference of the lot, preventing the vehicles from being driven in or out without passing by a checkpoint that was manned 24 hours a day. The cement blocks were patrolled constantly by armed guards, some as young as 14 years, watching for those that would pilfer the resources they’d worked so hard to accumulate.

  All in all, the society they had created over the past two years was workable. It was far from perfect but it worked for the little band of post war veterans and civilians who worked together for a common cause: survival for now and perhaps something more meaningful in the not so distant future, God willing.

  Farrell took another drag on the cigarette smoldering in his left hand, dropped the butt to his feet and ground the burning embers into a fine powder on the steps. Not the sole leader of the group but head of security and military styled operations, the tank mechanic turned community commando, looked about for his little brother, Rod.

  “Hey Dallas, you seen Rod this morning?” he called from his perch on the steps.

  Dallas, a cowboy with a belly as big as his heart, brought the strawberry roan he was riding to a stop near the bear, pulled his well-worn Stetson from his head and squinted into the sun before he delivered his answer. “He pulled out ‘bout 20 minutes ago with three other fellers, said they was gonna ride up through Star Valley and see if any survivors were out that way.”

  “Did you see if they were properly armed?”

  “Oh, yeah! Ain’t nobody better mess with them boys. They’s ready to deliver a right good ass whoopin’ if needs be. I wouldn’t worry too much about ‘em. You taught Rod right, he’ll be okay.”

  “When they get back tell Rod I want to see him. I want to run out by our old place and do some looking around later today. Just can’t beat this feeling that my sisters and Mom and Dad are out there somewhere. Don’t know where else to start but there. Anyway, keep a look out and stay to the assignment sheet I posted yesterday.” Farrell issued the instruction, then turned back into the building, making his rounds of the security posts like he did every morning before he made his way to the cafeteria and breakfast.

  Sitting by himself near the windows overlooking the crops and relocated farm equipment, he could see a number of women with water containers in hand, making their way to the most popular place in the c
ompound, ‘The Well of Life’. Without this hastily drilled well, right in the middle of what was once the pitcher’s mound, there would be little chance of survival. Most external water sources were contaminated and the underground water, reached at a depth of 70 feet, was not without its problems but it wouldn’t kill you either. Farrell smiled as he watched a small, darkly tanned little girl run past her mother to push a smaller sibling, calling out, “You’re it!” Sergeant Jenson’s thoughts lingered on a view of his probable future, somewhat dark and bleak, but he also hoped that one day he’d be blessed with a family of his own. Such a thought, for now, seemed virtually impossible, however, a small part of him held out hope, even for the impossible.

  Chapter 4

  “Rod, what in the world do you think you were doing this morning?” Farrell asked, trying to hold back the frustration he was feeling with his younger brother.

  “I was just . . . ”

  “I’m not done here,” the older of the two asserted.

  “Yeah, but I was just . . . ”

  “Hold on a minute. I didn’t come half way around the world to find you, just to have you get shot by some drifter with an itchy trigger finger. Rod, all we’ve got is each other. You’ve got to promise me that there will be no more cowboy stunts. Dad would kick my butt if I let anything happen to you and I can’t even imagine what Mom would do.” A shiver ran through the large man, causing his shoulders to shudder, as he thought of the likely reactions from his parents. “Alright, now that I’ve got your attention; what did you find this morning?”

  The two sat in the cab of a tan and brown Ford pickup as they drove across the valley floor to the location they’d once called ‘home’. Farrell drove, as he always did when the two were together, while Rod sat in the passenger seat nodding his head in agreement each time his older brother made a point. Rod had no doubts that Farrell had his best interests in mind but it was disheartening that Farrell didn’t recognize that he’d grown to be a man since he and Shirt had gone off to war. At least, he saw it that way.

  “We uh, well, we uh . . . ” He sat silent for a moment collecting his thoughts before he proceeded. Trying to prove himself to his more popular and self-assured older brother was never easy and now that life had dealt them such a lousy hand, it was no easier. “I was just trying to help,” he finally uttered, his narrow shoulders sagging in the process.

  “I know you were, and don’t get me wrong, I appreciate you trying but it would kill me if anything happened to you, little brother. You have to know that. We’re going to get through this and find the rest of our family but I can’t do it without you. Okay?”

  “Yeah, I know. I know. Sometimes I just feel kind of helpless, like I’m second best. If I could just do something meaningful for the group, I’d win their respect, much like what they give you.” Rod said, looking down into his lap and wringing his hands gently.

  “Don’t say that! I might have ‘em fooled with my big talk and war stories but I’d give anything to have your faith and inner strength. You’re my best friend, always have been, from the time we were little kids running around the barn throwing dirt clods at each other.” Farrell reached over and grabbed Rod’s knee and squeezed it as only a brother can. “She’d be so proud of you. I know she would. Mom and Dad both would be thrilled at the man you’ve become.” He paused briefly, thinking of his parents and the emptiness he felt in their absence. “You don’t have to prove yourself to anybody, least of all me. I know who you are and what you’re capable of and that’s why I can’t have anything happen to you. Not just for my sake but for the sake of everybody else back at the school.”

  A handful of tears flowed from Rod’s eyes, down his nose, that then dripped off the tip and splashed on his clasped hands. However, they did not wash away the guilt that he felt. “I miss them. God only knows how much. You can’t believe how many nights I’ve laid awake trying to figure out what happened to them. I can’t help but think that it’s somehow my fault. They relied on me and I let them down.” He sat stoically; resisting the urge to bury his face in his hands and sob, but he knew the Jenson men didn’t do such things. He would reserve that for the dark nights in his room, when only the mice and heaven could hear him.

  “Don’t do that to yourself. It’s no more your fault than mine. Just happens to be the way things went. We have to hope that they’re still alive and holed up someplace just like us.” Farrell took his hand from Rod’s knee and laid it atop the Chinese-made machine gun that rested on the seat between the two men.

  The brothers said nothing for a time. As the driver, Farrell navigated the route, dodging potholes and deserted rusted-out vehicles on the way through the countryside; a cross hatch of dirt and paved streets that he knew as well as anyone. These were the same roads that they’d raced as kids after pushing their parents’ new Dodge from the shed, firing it up and heading out for a night of fun and frolic, with no one being the wiser. Both men were adrift in their own thoughts, thinking of lost family and friends and the dramatic shift their lives had taken in just five short years. The world was a much different place than either man had ever imagined and without saying, they both knew in their hearts that the worst still lay ahead.

  Rod finally spoke, breaking the uncomfortable silence between them, “Found some good people out in Star Valley this morning.”

  “Is that right? Why didn’t they come back with you?”

  “Said they were happy where they were at. Had a ranch they were using as a home and base. I think there were about 30 of them from what we could see. They were pretty skittish; trusted us about as much as we did them. I could tell they didn’t want to give too much away but I think they had some livestock that had managed to survive and I could see some older kids peeking out from behind their barn. The leader was a churchy kind of guy. They were good folks though; could tell right away that they wouldn’t be a threat to us. We made sure they understood that they were welcome to join us, now or later. They said they’d think about it. The leader, Curtis something, said there were no other survivors out their way. They’d roamed the entire county; knew where most of the homes were and they were all that was left. He also indicated that they don’t see much in the way of scavengers. Guess they’re just too far off the beaten paths. Anyway, that’s kind of all we came up with.”

  “Well, that’s good to know. That’s a lot of ground we don’t have to worry about and we could use somebody out that way that we can trust. Do they have any communication devices?” Farrell inquired.

  “They’ve got their cell phones, like everybody else, which are useless now, but they’ve also got a couple CB radios that they use to communicate back and forth on the ranch. I expect we could listen in and find them if we wanted to.”

  “No HAM radio? What about power?”

  “If they’ve got a radio, they didn’t tell us,” Rod said, shifting his position to take a look out the back of the pickup, making sure that they were not being followed. All appeared to be clear and he breathed a sigh of relief. He never went looking for trouble but when he was with Farrell, trouble always seemed to find him. “They do have power though, I could hear the generator once they let us close enough to talk with them. I’m pretty sure they know what they’re doing. Oh, and their crops look about like ours, too small and not very healthy.”

  “Anything else I need to know?”

  “Oh, almost forgot. We stopped at a farmhouse just up on the ridge that overlooks the river bottoms. You know, the one that sits just above where we used to pheasant hunt; big white house with the oaks on every side? Farm equipment and house had been stripped. A couple of graves were in the field right next to the house. Must have been the owners. But get this; while we were just kind of looking around, Matt noticed something unusual about the grave markers. The two were side by side with wooden crosses; one furthest from the house was normal with squared off ends but the other one was sharpened like a stake or a direction flag. You know, like you’d see on a signpost. Anyway, Matt
looked a little closer and saw some fine scratches carved into the backside of the marker that read, ‘Help Yourself’.”

  “What’s that about?” Farrell questioned.

  “Weird, huh. We started looking and sure enough that grave marker was pointed at the back steps of the old house. Some twisted up thorny, sticker bushes had overgrown the steps, so we cut them away and there was a small door underneath the steps that led to a food storage area. You wouldn’t believe how much stuff was in there. Some of it had gone bad but there was still some good canned and bottled goods; wheat, sugar and even some canned cocoa for hot chocolate. Can you believe that? We brought what we could back with us and covered up the hiding place so we can make another run in a day or two. It’ll be nice to have something different to eat for a change. I’m sure gettin’ sick of rice and beans.”

  “Amen, brother. I’m with you there. They must’ve had family that buried ‘em, but I wonder why they didn’t take the stores.”

  “Heaven only knows, but what a blessing for us,” Rod said.

  Miles stretched out behind them as they made their way along country turnpikes, past overgrown fields, each looking the same: congested with weeds and untamed plant life. Before them the old sugar beet factory, where they’d worked as young teens, still stood tall. Its large, columnar silos reaching upward, the signs of age and lack of maintenance taking their toll. Streaks of rust discolored the grey exterior, adding hues of orange and brown to the decaying surface. Vines and weeds grew at the base of the structures, reaching upward in a somewhat beautiful array of greenery, masking the rot that surely must exist.

  Rod searched his memory for any clue that would help them find the remnant of their family. The year after Farrell and Shirt had shipped out, the war had come to their part of the country. The nation’s largest supplier of rocket boosters was located just over the mountain range from their little farm, nestled in the protective arms of the Rocky Mountains. For nations with ballistic capability these manufacturing and assembly sites were critical to the ongoing effort to protect their worldwide interests and citizens. Minuteman launch sites were also spread into the furthest reaches of the county, manned by military personnel. Several had been used to launch nuclear warheads against the more aggressive combatants in retaliation for similar atomic explosions, wiping out many of the nation’s largest cities on the US mainland.