The Living Hunger

by Dennis F. Larsen

  “Listen Allison, look at me . . . look at me. Come on Allison, it’s me, Mel. Can you hear me, Allison?”

  The look of sheer panic and terror slowly withdrew from the young woman’s eyes as she relaxed the back muscles that had instinctively tried to help her escape. She nodded in acknowledgement of the things that Mel was saying, “Yeah, yeah, I know who you are.” She laid her head back, feeling the pressure being applied to her shoulders from someone behind her. Relaxing somewhat, she finally put her head on the pillow beneath her and looked into the eyes of the man standing over her. A smile crossed her face and she reached with her right hand to grasp Rod’s wrist, squeezing it with a knowing tension.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” she whispered.

  “Me too,” he replied, leaning close to her ear. “Mel’s going to take good care of you. Don’t you worry.”

  “What happened? Last thing I remember was my water breaking.” Then it suddenly dawned on her, “My baby, what about my baby?” she asked, again trying to bolt from the table.

  “Allison, settle down! Your baby is fine, strong heart beat and nothing seems amiss. Hold still a minute, I need to see how dilated you are. This might hurt a little bit, just lay back and relax.” The pregnant woman suddenly felt a great deal of pressure as the medic forced her lubricated, gloved hand into her vagina. The intense sensation lasted only a moment before it was gone and Mel was twisting the glove from her hand and tossing it into a nearby garbage receptacle. “Well, ladies and gentlemen, this little event is happening pretty quick.”

  “What do you mean, pretty quick?” Allison asked, her voice tense with concern and confusion.

  “You’re dilated to about an eight and the baby is down with his head in the birth canal,” Mel explained.

  “Eight? What does that have to do with anything? Eight what?” Rod inquired, still holding his friend’s shoulders firmly.

  Mel looked at the youngest Jenson brother and grinned. “I just love how country you are, Rod. It means that her cervix has stretched to about eight centimeters, when she gets to ten the baby will be able to start through the birth canal and into the light.”

  The color in Rod’s cheeks instantly vanished causing him to swoon under the pressure of his assignment.

  “Rod, sit down!” Mel shouted. “Get your head between your legs. I don’t need two patients to look after.”

  “Yeah, I got it,” he said, moving away from the table to a chair positioned at a desk in the corner of the room. Sweat collected along his brow as a rush of cold swept from his feet to his head. “I’ll be okay. I’m starting to feel better already. Just needed a few good breaths.”

  “Stay put until I need you. Allison, you feeling any pain or pressure?”

  “I feel like I have to have a bowel movement,” she said, embarrassed at the confession.

  “That’s fine. That’s normal. I think you should . . . ” Mel was cut off as Allison reached for the medic’s arm, squeezing it with the grip of a professional wrestler. “I didn’t see that coming,” Mel said, watching the woman experience her first conscious labor contraction. “It will pass Allison, just breathe, and breathe . . . Damn it, Allison, breathe, don’t hold your breath! It will help the pain pass if you breathe, come on, follow me,” she said, exaggerating her own breathing pattern so the patient could follow along. “That’s it, much better. Keep it going until it passes. Good.”

  The time between contractions shortened over the next 90 minutes, with Rod now positioned at Allison’s head, and Mel intently monitoring the events taking place between the woman’s outstretched knees. Mel had some concerns that she dared not express to the young mother. A trickle of blood that had started with the first violent contraction had increased to a steady stream of almost orange blood, dropping from the woman’s buttocks and collecting on a white sheet covering the floor beneath her. Allison’s contractions seemed more intense than any woman’s she’d seen before. Could be a variation of normal but something told her it was not, and then there was the smell. She could see Rod already wincing and trying to hold his breath without offending Allison, but it was strong and not the typical odor associated with a normal delivery. Yet the heartbeat seemed strong and with no way of monitoring other vital signs, Mel had to assume that all would be well.

  Two hours after they had arrived in the would-be delivery room, Mel announced that the child’s head had crowned and that a scalp covered with thick, black hair was visible. “This is the tricky part, Allison. On your next contraction I want you to push but hold back, don’t give me a full push, but slow it down. Can you do that?”

  “I don’t know, I think so,” she managed to get out, exhaustion overtaking her, the look of a well-fought battle showing across her pretty face.

  “I know you can. Okay, let’s get this done. Rod, I’ll need you to help me cut the cord. When I’ve got the baby, go over on the desk there and grab a pair of scissors from the autoclave.”

  “You got it - that tan colored thing over there, right?”

  “That’s correct, but wait until the baby is fully here,” she confirmed.

  “Okay, Major.”

  “I can feel it coming, I need to push. I need to puuuusssshhh!” Allison grunted.

  “Okay, give me a little bit but stop when I tell you. He’s coming Allison. He’s coming. Okay, stop, STOP! Don’t push! Don’t push! Rod, get me the scissors!”

  “But I thought you said not to get them until the baby was fully . . . ”

  “Get me the scissors! Get me the scissors, now!” she barked.

  He moved like greased lightning across the room, returning with the scissors before she could shout another command.

  “What’s wrong, what’s wrong with my baby?” Allison questioned, a surge of tears instantly forming.

  “Everything is fine. Just don’t push,” Mel offered words of comfort and encouragement, as she carefully cut the umbilical cord that was wound around the little baby Harper’s neck. Once clear, she noted, however, that all was not well but there was no time for that now. She needed to get the baby the rest of the way out of the birth canal and into something warm. “Okay Allison, the cord was around the little guy’s neck but I’ve cut it, so we’re clear.” She hadn’t noticed but Rod was again sitting in the chair across the room with his head between his knees. She didn’t bother to say anything, anticipating that she could handle the rest of the birth on her own. “One more big push, come on, that’s it.”

  The sound of an exhausted effort came from the head of the table but Allison managed to push the remaining shoulders, torso and finally buttocks and legs from within her womb, to the arms of the waiting Marine. Mel quickly moved the baby away from the table and wrapped him in a blanket. She then took an instrument that looked like a turkey baster, and stuffed it into the child’s mouth and nose, suctioning mucous and debris from the baby’s airway. Looking into the somewhat disfigured face of the child; she spoke calmly but with passion, “Breathe! Come on, breathe little guy.” Half of her wanted the child to survive, offering some hope in a future beyond their own but the other half spoke more out of compassion and the hardship that would befall such a child.

  “Is he okay? It’s a boy?” Allison asked from across the room.

  “Yeah, a boy, Allison. Lots of thick, black hair, like his Daddy. He’d be real proud.” Mel tried to hide the facts that she knew would bring heartache and more pain for the new, young mother.

  “Can I hold him?”

  “Sure, just give me a minute to get his breathing going. Having some trouble with the airway, but he’s coming around.”

  Mel looked into the face of a child that she knew, deep down, was not meant long for this world. Perhaps this was a message of things to come for the human race or just a sign of what man can do when power is the ultimate prize. The child was quite yellow-skinned with a fine white coating of sticky discharge. The fetus was fully developed but the fingers and toes were webbed together with no distinct separation of the dig
its. She tried again to elicit a full breath from the child but could only manage a faint sucking sound of air moving back and forth from the baby’s mouth and nose. Mel had seen similar births while serving in Africa, but nothing this extreme. Excessive malnutrition and vitamin deficiency were common there, resulting in low birth weight babies and birth defects; however, she was not prepared for the look that greeted her in the face of this child. The baby’s eyes were so large, overgrown and opaque that the lids could not contain the organ. They protruded from the sockets, stretching the lids apart, a dense, skin-like growth taking the place of what should be healthy, clear corneas. Blood vessels and fine hairs streaked across the front of the eyes, extending from the pinkish caruncle in the corner to the outer canthus of each. There was no doubt that Allison’s baby boy was absolutely blind.

  Mel continued to try and save the child, working feverishly to clear the remainder of the fluid from his mouth and nose, but only managing to obtain a few meager coughs of air and life. She knew it was a losing battle. The child’s lungs were underdeveloped and he would not last the hour. The Major looked back across the room to see Rod whispering quietly to the young mother. A gentle hand cupping her chin and cheek as he spoke closely to her, friend to friend, telling her that everything would be all right. The events unfolding with the medic in the corner had not gone unseen. Rod was perhaps naive but he was not stupid. Wrapping the child up as best she could, she presented the little one to Allison, speaking to her before handing the child to her waiting arms.

  “Allison, it breaks my heart to tell you this, but your baby has serious problems.” The words felt lodged in her throat as she battled to get them out. Tears filled her eyes as she tried to complete her thought. The death of this child would be a blow to the entire community, but she could not imagine what it would do to this woman, who had already endured so much.

  Tears filled Allison’s eyes, the unspoken words telling the story of her little boy. “He’s not going to make it, is he?” she asserted, as bravely as she could. Tears splashed on her forehead from above, as Rod could no longer hold back the flood of emotion that was engulfing him.

  “No, he’s not. His little lungs just aren’t developed enough. He can’t breathe on his own and we don’t have anything here that we can use to keep him alive. There’s one more thing that you need to know before I give him to you. He’s beautiful in his own way but his eyes; his eyes are deformed. I can’t tell you why but I think God knew he’d be taking this little one back, sooner than we’d like.” She gently laid the baby into the outstretched arms of Allison, allowing the mother to hold the child for the first and only time. The baby felt the beat of her heart, as his face was washed clean with the tears that flowed freely from her eyes. In him, she saw no disfiguration, nothing ugly but rather the face of an angel come to grace her life, if only for a moment.

  “Brent, that’s your name - Brent Harper Jr.” She held him close and rocked him back and forth on her chest, listening to the tiny gasps for breath until they faded away and ceased. She was cried out, she could give no more. God had given and now he had taken away, again. Allison was not bitter, but deeply saddened for the loss of the only connection she could, or ever would have with her departed husband. She missed him so much and wanted to have a little boy that she could tell stories to about how wonderful his father had been, but it was not to be. Minutes passed without anyone in the room saying a word. She held the baby, kissing his forehead and calling his name, telling him stories of his father’s glory days and the love they had shared. She was sure the words were reaching outside those in the room and ascending beyond her earthly plain, touching the ears of many who had passed on before their time; her parents, siblings and husband. She would continue to live and fight, not only for herself, but also for the little one who had given her an opportunity to feel the amazing gift of life. She would never forget these last few hours or the incredible change they had wrought on her soul. She was a changed woman from this time forth and she could not deny it.

  Without warning and out of the blue a high-pitched squeal broke the silence, bringing the tear-stained trio back to reality and the emergency warning that had started hours before. “Intruders approaching the East gate. This is not a drill. Full battle preparedness people! Farrell, take an escort out and see what they want,” came the voice over the intercom system.

  Chapter 8

  The late afternoon sun will work to our advantage, Farrell thought. He stood on the roof of the old high school, with the sun at his back, looking at the three vehicles lined up and headed their way. He could see the lead pickup, a white Dodge with what appeared to be a gun mounted on a tripod in the back and a man holding the weapon in an obvious show of force. Behind the pickup, a modified jeep trailed several car-lengths back. ”Smart,” he said, not thinking he had said it aloud.

  “What’s that, sir?” Allan asked, his eyes glued to the binoculars held to his face.

  “Oh, I was just thinking out loud. See how that jeep is following the truck? It’s back far enough that if we were to take it out with a rocket, he’d have time to avert and get away without taking any shrapnel from the truck. I’d bet the leader of this little expedition is riding shotgun in that one,” Farrell informed the younger man.

  “Gotcha, makes sense,” Allan concluded, taking special note of the distance and observation the Security Chief had made. ”What’s the deal with the third one? Looks like a real army truck.”

  “It is. I expect there’s about a dozen guys in there all hunkered down with automatic weapons ready to spill into our perimeter if we give them a reason to.”

  “That doesn’t sound good!” the surprised farmer responded. His lack of combat experience showed on his face and in his manner, as he dropped the binoculars around his neck and assured himself with the touch of his hand that the pistol at his side was still there.

  “Well, my boy, it does not but we’ve got a few tricks of our own to play, should it come to that. Hold this position and keep me informed with the walkie-talkie you’ve got there. You see anything from this vantage point that I can’t see from ground level, you let me know ‘PDQ’.” The Sergeant calmly issued the order, making direct eye contact and smiling at the unsettled young man.

  “PDQ, sir?”

  “Pretty damn quick, Allan. I’ll want that intel sooner than later. You got that?”

  “Yes, sir! I’ll keep you posted like my life depended upon it.”

  “It just might, Allan.”

  “Why’d they wait so long to come on in? They’ve been sitting out there for a couple of hours.” Allan spoke without removing his eyes from the optical aid, knowing that Farrell would surely have a logical answer.

  “Recon. They’ve been giving us a good look-over from a distance before testing our resolve up close.” Sergeant Jenson tried to predetermine the intruder’s intentions, as he ran the scenario through his mind, wondering what he would do if the tables were turned.

  Farrell had grown rather attached to the young man and requested that he assist him when Rod was not available. Allan Ray was a mammoth of a man. He stood six foot four and weighed 290 pounds but was as intimidating as a teddy bear, unless you riled him beyond what he was willing to put up with, and then watch out. A Cougars baseball hat or t-shirt was always part of his ensemble, in addition to baggy jeans and worn out cowboy boots. Allan liked his blond hair cropped short and he shaved every day, even if he had to do it dry. The young ladies in the community found Allan attractive with his piercing blue eyes, but he was so non-threatening that he seemed like a big brother to all of them. It didn’t bother him much, as he was liked by all and welcomed into any conversation.

  The young man, the only survivor of his family, had worked doing odd jobs, wandering the landscape until finding a place for himself in the security of the school. He looked as if he could play the entire left offensive line of any high school team and, in fact, had excelled at football, hoping to make a career of it before illness and
an unfortunate farming accident took his family, forcing him to fend for himself. Being eager to learn, he followed Sergeant Jenson around like a gosling, imprinting himself on the slightly older veteran. He was ‘green’ but understood that his future survival would, perhaps, depend upon what he could learn from the seasoned professional and the other hardened survivors brought together by divine providence, or in his case, sheer luck.

  The two watched carefully as the three unknown but heavily armed vehicles moved down the road parallel to the school, just over a mile away. An intersection would change their direction westbound and roll them right up to the guarded and barb wired command post, which was the first line of defense on the school’s eastern side. In the three years that the school had been theirs, this was the first time that an armed posse had made such a blatant show of force. They had seen their share of the wandering, lost and dying, but most were good people needing a meal and a helping hand. Those that were genuine and sincere often stayed on, giving of themselves in the growth of the small community. Individuals with any hint of deceit, malice or questionable character were watched closely, given what the group could spare and then sent on their way. Heartless, thought some, but the final decisions in all matters were left to the governing three chiefs: Farrell as security, Mel as medical, and Gary Merrill as Community Chief.

  They used a crude but effective method of voting, without any finger pointing or accusing following the vote. It was rare that the result was not unanimous, especially when it came to expelling people from the group. Each of the chiefs held two identical playing cards, same face and backing: an ace and a joker. A displayed joker was a vote to invite the newcomer to pack their things and be on their way; an ace on the other hand, was a welcome and invitation to join the Bear River Community. Each of the three participants would play their card, giving it to a fourth party of random choosing, who would then shuffle the three cards and deliver the results. It was never easy to issue the request for the wanderer to leave the safety of the school, which is why the assignment, most often, fell to Sergeant Jenson. It was a task he did not enjoy but one which had to be done. The faces of the rejected often haunted his fitful dreams and lonely hours.