The Living Hunger

by Dennis F. Larsen

  There was no response. No sound but the faint rustle of leaves and branches rubbing against each other in the very faint afternoon breeze, which helped to dry the sweat that was forming on the Jenson boy’s exposed skin. Again, the older brother, hollered out a similar request with no result.

  “Well, we certainly can’t search every field. You got any ideas?” he asked Rod.

  “I think if they could hear us they’d show themselves. Surely they know who we are.” Rod turned to face the field to the north and imitated Farrell by using his hand to extend the sound of his voice and screamed, “Mrs. Allen, this is Rod Jenson. We won’t hurt you; we’ve got food and shelter and can take you with us but you need to let us know where you are!”

  The two stood looking into the flat land that extended for miles without the slightest indication that anyone had heard their pleas.

  “Okay, good enough for me. Let’s take a few minutes and see if there’s anything left around here that would help us find Mom and Dad,” Farrell finally said, reluctant to give up the call for the Allen family.

  “Alright, I’ll take the stuff to the south if you want to do the area from here to the north.”

  “Sounds good,” Farrell concurred.

  The brothers carefully and methodically looked in every nook and cranny, under every bush and littered piece of debris that was now the remnant of their childhood home. They found nothing that would offer them any hope of knowing where their parents had gone. It was quite clear that the family occupying the cellar, or others trying to survive, had already sourced anything of value. In the barn, hanging from an old rusted nail, a set of leather saddlebags dangled, the white stitching around the edge of the bags yellowed with age and exposure. The red stain of the leather had turned orange, but it was apparent to Farrell that they were the very saddlebags he had made for his father his freshman year at Bear River High School. They had been a special Christmas present for his father that year.

  Farrell used the assault rifle as an extension to his arm and lifted the old gift from the nail and lowered it to his outstretched hand. The leather was dry and rough, too many days in the heat of the barn and the cold of winter; however, clutching the aging bags to his chest brought back a flood of memories. The look in his father’s eyes when he’d seen the work of his son’s hands was priceless. The saddlebags were not fancy, no special etching into the leather but yet they had been made with loving care and an eye for detail. The son brought the leather to his nose hoping to draw the unmistakable scent of his father’s Mennen aftershave, but was greeted with the smell of horse sweat and cow dung.

  Rod walked into the barn just as Farrell removed the satchel from his face. “Find something?”

  “Yeah, but nothing that will help us find ‘em. You?”

  “No, this place has been picked pretty clean. What you got there?”

  “Found the saddlebags I made for Dad, at Christmastime, about nine years ago. Reckon I’m gonna keep ‘em. Might be the only thing we ever have that belonged to him,” he said sadly, holding the bags under his arm and close to his heart.

  Rod closed the short distance between the two and ran his hand through his brother’s hair before pulling Farrell’s head down low enough that their foreheads touched. “I love you Farrell. One day we’ll find them.” The brothers stood silent for a moment, looking from the entrance to the barn and over the yard and foundation. It had been their retreat from the world, but was now destroyed and void of anything but the land itself.

  “You ready to go?” Farrell asked.

  “Yeah, might as well. We don’t want to be out here after sunset. Hey, before we leave can I have a go with that gun of yours? You’ve been promising me that you’d teach me how to use it. There isn’t anybody around. Let me shoot it.”

  Farrell thought better of it, the waste of ammunition was difficult for him to mentally justify, but it had been well over a year since he’d fired the weapon, so he found himself saying, “Well, okay, guess it won’t hurt if we shoot the daylights out of something. You got a target in mind?”

  “There’s that old gas can over there,” Rod said, already moving to fetch it.

  Upon returning, Farrell motioned for him to place it about 50 feet into the field where a ditch bank could act as a backstop. No sense spraying lead beyond where they could see them land. With the rusted old can sitting on a couple of rocks, Sergeant Jenson started into the safety routine he always used when teaching a raw recruit how to handle a gun.

  “Okay, enough with the horse crap; just show me how the safety works and the auto select switch. I think I can handle it from there.”

  “Alright wise guy but let me tell you, this baby kicks like a bull; nothing like that tinker toy of yours.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Okay, stand back a bit so I can see what this thing can do.”

  Farrell backed away, holding the AR-15 cradled through both arms and his index fingers pressed into his ear canals on either side of his head. “Alright big guy, let ‘er rip.”

  Rod brought the heavier, Type 81 MGS light machine gun to his shoulder, being careful to pull it tight against the muscle. He’d fired enough guns to know that a nasty bruise would develop if the butt were held away when firing. It felt much different than his short stocked American-made assault rifle but he liked the balance and sighting mechanism. Resting his cheek along the black stock and lining the sights on the gas can, he slowly took the slack from the trigger and squeezed off the first burst. The rifle spat out six rounds before Rod had time to release his pressure on the trigger. A line of slugs danced their way across the field, past the can and into the dirt backdrop.

  “Nice shooting, Ace!” the instructor said, laughing. “It pulls up and right a little bit but you’ve got to hang onto her. It’s firing a bigger shell than you’re used to. Give it another try but hold the forend down this time.”

  Rod nodded his understanding, taking aim again and holding the trigger back, spitting round after round through the barrel and into the field. Brass casings tumbled through the air in an almost ballet like performance. The blast from the gun was much louder than expected, and the kick moved him back a half step before he leaned in and forced the weapon’s front end down, and into the target. The first dozen shells littered the ground around the can but once he was stable, a steady line of dirt explosions led to the can, which sailed into the air when a big slug caught it near the bottom rim, forcing it upward.

  “Whoo-hoo, take that!” Rod yelled, speaking much louder than he needed to after the percussion of the rifle temporarily deafened him.

  “Good shootin’ there, little bro. Now that you got the hang of it, finish ‘er off.”

  “Whatever you say, Sarge.”

  The perforated gas can now rested at the base of the irrigation ditch, providing a two-foot sloping shield against the shells. The gunner lifted the weapon back to his shoulder and braced himself, before pulling the trigger back, unleashing a full automatic volley of lead into the can and dirt. The smell of gunpowder filled the air as each high velocity round exploded in the chamber, launching another spiraling slug toward the target. The can suddenly bounced up the slope of the ditch and rested on the rim. Rod kept the trigger pulled, slugs ripping into the dirt near the top, until a pair of waving arms appeared a few feet to the left of the can, followed by the hysterical screaming of a woman, Mrs. Allen.

  “Stop firing! Stop firing, for heaven’s sake - stop firing!” she yelled, waving her arms and jumping up and down.

  Rod released the tension on the trigger and dropped the muzzle to his feet.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Farrell said, removing his fingers from his ears, taking a couple of steps toward the distraught woman. “Mrs. Allen?”

  “Yes, yes, I’m Rose Allen. Please no more shooting, we’re coming out.”

  A moment later, two children joined their mother in the ditch, the dirt mound blocking their legs from view. However, it was apparent they were malnourished and in need of a change
of clothes. Auburn hair hung to the mother’s shoulders, clean but poorly shaped. Her face was slender, matching an aquiline nose that turned slightly to the left at the tip. Freckles and scattered age spots covered her face and hands, telling a tale of long days and nights searching for food. Rose Allen was a pretty woman but the brothers could tell she’d been beat down and was just hanging on. All three stood like POW’s with their arms in the air. The tremor in their legs and arms were noticeable, even from a distance. In the irrigation ditch at their feet, a heavy rifle lay with the hammer cocked, ready to be fired.

  Rod looked at Farrell and shrugged his shoulders. “What are they doing?”

  “Mrs. Allen! Rose, put your hands down. There’s no need for that. You’re not our prisoners but our friends,” Farrell assured them.

  The woman lowered her arms then dropped to her knees, cupping her face with her trembling hands. The children cautiously joined her, lowering themselves along side her, collectively sobbing along with their surviving parent. Years of emotional stress and physical hardship flowed from their eyes as they wept in unison. The brothers jogged the short distance to the trio; Rod knelt in the dirt taking the family in his arms and pulling them to him. Farrell stood over the group, fighting back the tears that threatened to break the dam that he’d built over the past two years. He had hoped that the reunion today would be with his parents but finding some old neighbors, who desperately needed some help, was a close second.

  “I remember you boys,” she got out between sobs. “We were so scared! I’m so sorry, but we don’t know whom to trust. Everybody just wants something. The last scumbag that was here took my husband and I couldn’t risk that happening to my children.”

  “We’re only here to help, Rose. Let’s get your stuff and get you back to a warm bed and a decent meal,” Rod said.

  “Food, real food?” the young boy excitedly asked.

  “You know it, little man,” Farrell said, dropping to a knee and extending his hand to his newfound friend. “And who is this?” he said, nodding toward the cute young lady hugging her mother, keeping her close.

  “That’s my sister, Elva. She’s the bossy one!”

  “Oh, I see,” Farrell said, flashing his Hollywood smile at Elva and winking at the bashful girl. “How ‘bout you? You ready for a warm meal and a proper shower?” He’d finally said something that was meaningful to the emerging woman.

  “A shower? A warm shower? You are kidding, right? Oh, my gosh, I would give my right arm for a nice, hot shower. With tears streaming down her face she held tightly to her mother but addressed the brothers. “Thank you so much, thank you! You don’t know how hard this has been. I’ve been praying that someone would come; you guys are angels.” She reluctantly pulled away from her mother and extended her hand to Farrell, hers vanishing as he wrapped his hand around hers. “I knew somebody would come for us. I just knew it!”

  “We’re glad to help,” the older Jenson confirmed. Farrell hesitated to burden the emotionally drained Rose, but his need to know forced him to inquire. “Mrs. Allen, you don’t know what happened to our family, do you?” He looked closely for any sign of hope, anticipating a further reward to their day’s searching. It would not be. Rose lifted her chin slightly from her chest and with a vacant look of gloom, shook her head from side to side without speaking. Rod and Farrell could only suppose what she had meant but left the matter for another time and place.

  “Rose, you ready . . . ” Rose Allen got up and moved away from the small group before Rod could finish his question. She walked slowly, her arms hanging limply at her sides, until she arrived at her husband’s gravesite where she knelt near the homemade marker. The brothers could only imagine what she was feeling but they could see that she was sobbing. Her head bounced slightly and her frame shook with the spasms of her soul as she extended her hands to the soil covering John Allen’s remains. She openly wept, releasing a wash of pent up fears and frustrations.

  Elva ran to her mother and wrapped her arms around her, hugged her back and whispered into her ear, “Come on Momma.” Rose covered her daughter’s hands with hers and inhaled deeply, trying so hard to control her emotions.

  “I don’t know if I can . . . ” Her words trailed off as the thought of leaving overtook her. In the recesses of her mind she somehow imagined the memories of her husband remaining behind with his earthly vessel.

  Elva held her all the tighter and rocked her gently while lying her cheek against her mother’s shoulder blade. “Daddy sent these boys. I know he did.” She spoke with conviction beyond her years, a testament born within her heart. “We can put this place behind us now. Come on, let’s go.”

  Chapter 6

  Dozens of fluorescent lights hummed and flickered in the adjacent hallway, creating white noise for the sleeping survivors. A large classroom had been partitioned into cubicles of living space. The Allen family occupied an enclosed area large enough for three comfortable twin beds, a desk where studies could be done and an old rocking chair that Farrell had specifically rounded up for Rose. From a clothes line, hastily strung from the window to the top of an old chalkboard, hung the family's only temporal belongings. The room itself was dark, but for a narrow channel of light that beamed from the hallway through the open door and into the dorm's common living room. Rose Allen sat in the rocker, rolling her right foot from heel to toe, gently and quietly propelling the chair. Old habits died hard for the middle-aged woman as she watched her children slumber, stroking the rifle’s smoothed walnut stock that rested across her lap. Even though their new surroundings were wonderful in comparison to their previous abode, she could not relinquish the security of her only living children to anyone other than herself. These late night hours passed slowly, painfully so. The images of her life, so different from what she’d envisioned, seamlessly flashed from one brief memory to the next. Minutes and then hours would pass before fatigue triumphed over will and she could sleep, the old wooden chair acting as her bed more often than not.

  Seven months had passed since the Allen family had been warmly welcomed into the Bear River Community. Friendships had been established quickly and easily, many sharing common interests and stories of survival, which had a way of binding the members together in a common, worthwhile cause -- their very lives. Mrs. Allen had been so grateful to the Jenson brothers, finding her family and rescuing them from their pioneer-like existence. She often thought of the trials and the loss of her husband. The memories, though tragic, also had moments of laughter and joy. Huddled together for hours, that led to days and then months, taught the Allen family to rely on one another, building bonds of love and trust that Rose knew would stand against any earthly test. However, Mrs. Allen was quite sure that her little family had endured their share of trials and had often expressed such, in long, drawn out prayers that seemed to bring a degree of peace to her soul.

  In the months since they had joined the group she had watched Elva flourish into a beautiful young woman. She was still the bright, caring child she had always been, but in large part, Elva was able to put the troubles of the past behind her and look to the future, something with which Rose struggled.

  The Allen girl was beautiful with rich, brown hair, streaked with sun-bleached strands, highlighting the natural olive hue of her skin, and eyes so dark that the pupils were almost indistinguishable. Her lips were full and inviting with a hint of a pout that she could conjure at will. The girl’s cheekbones were perfectly set into a face that needed no makeup to accentuate the angles and lines that naturally told the story of her God-given beauty.

  Elva’s features were admired and talked about throughout the small community. The young men especially, just couldn’t help themselves, but everyone loved her for who she was and not what she looked like. She had a heart of gold, without an ounce of selfishness within her. Her parents had taught her the value of service to God and man and she kept the two great commandments: to love God and to love her neighbor. People were pulled to her personality,
not just her beauty, which brought joy to her mother, knowing that her husband would be proud as well.

  Her daughter's affections for the older Farrell gave the mother pause, he’d seen too much and weathered too many storms to be unchanged and unfettered by the vast evil of the world. However, she trusted the Sergeant more than he knew, which is the way she liked it. Rose perceived him as a strong leader of men and questioned whether he could be the tender, thoughtful man that she knew her daughter would need in a spouse. She had watched the two carefully as their covert romance grew. Elva had forgotten that her mother had once been young and the small white lies that led to ‘random encounters’ between the two were not fooling anyone. Rose Allen did know one thing, which in her mind outweighed all the possible negatives, including their age difference -- as long as Farrell was alive, Elva would always be safe. Time and time again she had seen the big Sergeant give of himself in defense of the community. She loved that about him, although she would likely keep it to herself. That particular trait she knew well. Her departed husband, John Allen, shared the same quality she now saw in Farrell. Such men did not know what made them do the things they did or speak of it in boastful tones, but their actions were born of an innate gift. It was their nature, lifting the low to a higher station and protecting the weak from the oppressive. In her mind’s eye she suspected Elva would one day sit alone, looking over her own children, while her husband laid in an earthen tomb, taken before his time by evil men.